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#sun-set motel
milo-is-rambling · 10 months
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I want a house or shed or general space where I can smoke weed and cigarettes inside and burn incense and spend all my time an arms length away from an ashtray and I want it now !!!!!
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mrs-illyrian-baby · 1 month
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5 Times There Was Only One Bed (and the one time there were two beds) | Bucky x Reader | One Shot - 4.7k
Whether it's on a mission, a work event or a holiday, your sleeping arrangements never seem to work out as planned. It doesn't really bother you until...it does. Confronted with a night sleeping apart, you and Bucky finally talk.
Warnings: 18+ for language, suggestive situations and sexism (but not from our Bucky he would never). Also rated F for fluffy and S for snuggling.
Written for the @bucks-and-noble Valentrope event - "there was only on bed" the reigning champion of tropes!
Divider by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources
Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Fics
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Your first mission with Bucky Barnes went really well, until it didn’t. 
After successfully destroying an underground Hydra base you’d returned to your transport in a less than desirable state. 
“Fuck, four flats.” You huffed, poking the tyre with the toe of your tactical boot. 
“Fuel line’s been cut.” Bucky muttered from the front, “lucky they didn’t torch it.” 
Bucky quietly rubbed a gloved hand over his face, before looking up at the admittedly stunning night sky, he seemed to study it for a moment before making a quarter turn to his left and climbing up a ridge of sandy rock. As if dazed you followed him. You could see for miles thanks to the glow of a full moon, the stars dense and glittering above you both. It was almost romantic, if you didn’t have blood on your cheek and an empty gun on your hip. 
Bucky still looked like he could sweep you off your feet though, with his structured tactical vest making his broad shoulders look even wider, his wind swept hair giving him the look of a romantic hero on the front of a paperback, especially with one foot perched on the outcrop of rock above you. 
“Let’s go.” He pointed towards a glow rising from beyond the horizon and you’d started walking, doing your best to keep up with his long strides. You could see the motel, how far could it really be.
As soon as you climbed down the motel vanished and the reality of your trek set in. 
Around hour two Bucky slowed his pace to allow you to catch up. He didn’t speak much, just what was necessary, and sometimes a hello when he saw you around the compound. But he struck you as shy, rather than cruel or rude. He had checked on you after the mission brief two days ago to make sure you were happy with the plans and, when you were left at the drop off zone, had given you a few of his spare rounds. 
You were starting to flag, your steps faltering in the dust and your fingers frozen. Without the sun the desert was so cold the tips of your ears felt like they’d fallen off. Bucky slowed too, cracking a heat pack and handing it over, swapping it for your pack. 
“Thank you,” you whispered, teeth chattering. 
He didn’t say anything, just gave you a tight smile and turned back towards the motel, growing closer with each step. 
Three hours after you’d discovered the flat tyre, you fell through the door of the dingy motel room, exhausted, cold and starving, only to be met with the sight of one queen size bed and a single chair by the window. 
“I’m gonna sleep,” you slurred, unable to manage more than zipping off your tactical vest. You fell onto your back and tried to toe off your boots but they were too tight. Your eyes slid shut and you felt the sensation of Bucky sitting on the other side of the thin mattress, making you roll towards him slightly. His weight shifted and settled, the warmth of his body behind yours comforting after everything you’d seen that evening. 
He smelt nice too, despite the blood and sweat and gunpowder, he smelt like sandalwood and the desert air. It was all you could think of as you drifted into a deep sleep, how much you wanted to press your face into his back and breathe him in. 
The  next morning you woke to find Bucky already showered and dressed, pushing his damp hair back from his face and brushing his teeth while he called Torres for new exit plans. 
Your boots and socks were off, arranged neatly by the door, a coffee steaming on the bedside table.
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Despite all the changes a new team had brought, Bucky liked working with you. You were quiet too and didn’t mind when he was silent for almost a whole mission. You were efficient and skilled, but empathetic, always stopping during the fall out to ensure the team were together and protecting civilians whenever you could. 
So it was no surprise to him when you offered to share the bed at the hotel. Sam and Joaquín had long since retired to their room, but you’d both stayed at the hotel bar, silently emptying a bottle of red wine while Bucky continued his 100 Books to Read Before You Die list and you scrolled through your phone, catching up on everything you’d missed during the five day - “phone’s off, and yes, I mean you Agent” - mission. 
As soon as you retired to the room you knew there’d been a mistake. 
“Ah, shit.” You’d dropped your bag to the floor by the door and Bucky had almost walked into your back, peering over your shoulder at the very neatly made double bed. The only bed. 
“Don’t worry, I’ll take the couch.” Bucky had sighed, resigned to a night of lumpy, uncomfortable sleep. 
“There isn’t one.” You pushed your bag further into the room with your foot and Bucky brushed past to survey the space.
“The floor then.” 
“Don’t be ridiculous.” 
“I’m not.” 
“You’re not sleeping on the floor, the bed’s big enough for two, we can share.” 
You’d said it with such easy grace that he’d felt almost insulted that his chivalrous offer was so easily deflected. Then you’d returned from the bathroom smelling like mint and almond oil, your loose pyjamas hanging off one shoulder and just like that, he gave in. 
By the time he’d change and brushed his teeth you were already asleep, holding a pillow close to your chest with your leg well over onto his side of the bed. Carefully he moved you back to your side and slid under the cool sheet next to you. 
He woke first the next morning to find you still attempting to occupy the majority of the bed, your face relaxed and mouth slightly open. Bucky indulged in a moment of quiet comfort before getting up. You wouldn’t want him staring at you, you’d be embarrassed that you were trying to cuddle him and it’d ruin the fragile bond you were forming with each mission. 
By 9am you were both making fun of Joaquín’s terrible hotel bookings over pancakes and coffee. 
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“Why can’t we just ask for directions?” 
“Are you seriously asking me that?” 
“Yes?” 
“Because we just crossed a border illegally, we have no papers, no passports, we’re lying low.” 
“They’re hardly going to ask to see our passports, Bucky.” You sighed, hitching your bag higher on your back. 
You’d been walking since 5am that morning, crossing through a forest trail to avoid borders and rendezvous with Torres in a village that should have been a few miles away so that you could evac together. 
5am seemed a long time ago now that the sun was setting. You’d stopped briefly to heat up a can of beans, a “late lunch, early dinner” Bucky had called it, smiling at you over the steaming mess tin you were sharing.
The scalding heat had dissipated now though and you were tired. The memory of his hand touching yours as you ate still lingering. 
“We’re not going to find him tonight, we should stop.” Bucky suggested, “I’ll find a good place to camp.” 
Suddenly you were grateful that Mr Overprepared had packed a tent. 
“Good idea.” You agreed, rubbing your hands together. 
“Well, I will be, you didn’t bring a tent, did you?” He said, walking deeper into the woods, running his foot over the ground, looking for somewhere flat. 
Your heart sank, he was right, you’d laughed at him when he’d attached it to his already full pack and he’d said you’d regret it, a teasing look in his eye. Well. You were regretting it. It had started raining a few minutes before, gentle rain drops that got heavy in each gap between the canopy. You had no doubt it’d be heavier soon though, and with the sun setting you didn’t relish the idea of being wet and cold out in the dark. 
Bucky stopped and turned, lowering his pack to the floor between two large trunked trees and those twinkling eyes made butterflies take flight in the pit of your stomach. A boyish grin crossed his face as he got to work. 
Ten minutes later and the tent was up, strung between the trees and extra protected with some fallen foliage. 
Bucky unlaced his boots and placed them between the inner and outer tent before climbing in, when you didn’t follow he poked his head back around the flap of the tent, patting the unrolled sleeping bag next to him. 
“C’mon, you really think I’d make you sleep out there?” He was almost laughing, and the sound was so welcome, so stupidly content despite your situation, you could barely stand it. 
You squeezed in, using the inner fleece layer from your coat as a blanket. Bucky lifted the side of his sleeping bag. 
“C’mon,” he mumbled, eyes already closed, when you hesitated he tugged you closer until you were tucked against his chest. He rearranged your coats on top of you both until you could feel your fingers again. “Warmer?” 
“Yeah, thanks, Bucky.”
He didn’t respond, his breathing heavy and even, beneath his sweater you could hear the steady thump of his heart as it lulled you to sleep in his arms. 
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Bucky hated these stupid events, he’d only been persuaded to come because you’d done those big round puppy dog eyes and said it’d be no fun without him. Joaquín had asked too and, although Sam had joked that it’d be more fun without ‘Mr Grumpy’, Bucky knew he’d only been teasing. 
But it was you that had convinced him. It was those eyes, the way your voice had gone up a little and you’d pouted in that silly way you did when Joaquín took the last doughnut at mission briefings. He couldn’t resist. And he had no idea what to do about it. 
Behind him he could hear another team talking about you, how they didn't understand why you were always working with ‘that asshole Barnes’ so much. 
In the anonymous dark they joked about you, about him, as if you were a reward for a guard dog. A babysitter for his more violent tendencies. Worse, disgusting, accusations about how you'd come by your place in the team. He suddenly missed his mother, she'd have washed their mouths out with soap.
He felt sick. 
Bucky took a long swig from his beer and chased it with a shot of whisky, anything to stop his teeth from grinding. 
They were wrong on so many counts. You were skilled and fearless, soft and fierce at all the right moments. But you didn't care about him, or Sam or Joaquín for that matter. Not in the vile, disrespectful way those men imagined. You didn’t men like them - him - messy, unpredictable, unstable. You didn’t really need anyone. 
But Bucky - he took another swig, trying to stop the swirling feeling in his chest - he cared for you. He couldn't stop thinking about you. And as angry as he was at what he heard, he was equally ashamed for wishing that you did want him. 
He’d been watching you dance with Joaquín and one of your other agent friends for more than an hour now. Your body swaying and rippling in time to the music, your dress ghosting over your hips in a way that made his mouth dry. It was one thing to work with you in army fatigues or go to meetings with you in your casual jeans - the stealth suit had been really pushing his patience recently so he didn't want to think about it - but he could at least keep himself under control while your skin was covered. Then you arrived wearing this dress. The neckline alone made him want to sink to his knees in front of you. 
Joaquín danced away with your friend, you winked at the lieutenant and smacked his ass as he passed - you were definitely drunk. 
Alone you swayed to the music, still in your own world.
“She’s so fucking drunk -” 
“Absolute embarrassment -” 
“Can’t believe they let her in -” 
Bucky slammed his drink down on the bar top and grabbed his leather jacket, stalking across the dancefloor like a shadow, the lights skimming over him. 
You were facing away from him and he couldn’t resist, his hands finding your waist so naturally, his body melting into yours, matching the slow roll of your hips so he could lean into your ear. 
“I think it’s time to go,” he whisper-shouted above the pounding music. 
“Bucky!” You exclaimed, completely ignoring his suggestion, “dance with me!” 
You span in his hands, leaning up and into him, your hands around his neck, twisting into his hair. The little tug you gave sent pleasure shooting down his spine. God he was weak, his body moved without his say so, slipping a leg between yours and - fuck - you were grinding against him. He was lost. 
The song ended, fading into the next as the lights flickered and he regained enough of his faculties to remember you were drunk, very drunk. 
“C’mon, doll, let’s go, I’ll get you some water-” 
“You still here, sweetheart? Don’t you think you’ve embarrassed yourself enough.” 
Was he still here? Fucking asshole. 
Bucky rounded on him, keeping you close with a hand around your waist. 
“You boys having a good night?” You grinned, unable to hear their cruel words over the music. 
You were just so - good, so kind, even when these pricks were trying to tear you down, your first instinct was to be friendly - he couldn’t stand it. 
“I said -” the agent grinned, dipping down, placing his hands on his knees and levelling his face with yours, that patronising glint in his eyes, “are you still fucking here you stupid bitch?” 
Bucky saw red, tucking you under his left arm, pushing you behind his back as he had so many times during missions, and smashing his right straight into the agent’s nose. 
“Didn’t your Ma teach you to speak to ladies with respect?” 
Blood dripped onto the dark dance floor, a circle forming as the other party goers backed away. 
Bucky gave the man one last disapproving look and then his attention was solely focussed on you, leading you out past the crowd until you were outside in the freezing air. He draped his jacket around your shoulders and watched as you snuggled inside. Was he dreaming or did you inhale deeply when he did it? 
“M’sorry, Buck.” You hiccupped, leaning into him, eyes half shut. 
He took your weight gladly, “s’okay, you didn’t do anything wrong, it was those idiots in there.” With staggering steps you made it to the next street over and Bucky said nothing as he unlocked the door. 
“Where are we?” You slurred, your ankles twisting in your heels with each step. 
“My place, I thought you could sober up here while I call you a cab to get you back to your hotel.” 
He settled you on the couch and tried to walk away, but there was a hand hooked in his belt loop. 
“F’got you live in Neewww York,” you closed your eyes, resting your head against his hip as you continued to mumble about ‘the big apple’, he willed himself to breath deeply, he was struggling to keep his body under control. 
“Yeah - what’s your hotel called?” 
“You called me ‘doll’,” you giggled, your fingers closing around his belt.
“I did, sorry, it just slipped out. Your hotel?” 
“Dun worry, I liked it - can I stay here? I sleep here.” You let go, only to curl up on the sofa, your dress sliding up your thighs. 
“Sure.” He sighed. 
Bucky scooped you up again and nudged the door to his bedroom open with his hip, the duvet was still rumpled from the night before. Another night of no sleep, at least it was because of you and not another nightmare. And now you were here, nose pressed into his chest, ready to sleep in his bed. 
“Okay, I’ll be out here if you need me, g’night.”
“Stay.” 
“I’ll be right outside if you need-” 
“Stay.” 
And it was those puppy dog eyes again, the pout, the voice, the hand on his belt. 
Even though he knew you’d sleep like a log, hogging his duvet and encroaching on his space, even though he knew you’d be embarrassed in the morning, probably hungover as hell. Even though, come the morning, he was right. He still had the best nights sleep he’d ever had since he bought the place. 
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You hadn’t been this relaxed in a long time, you were sure if you stood up you’d simply melt into a puddle. Sun warm skin, the buzz of a few too many afternoon beers in your system and the sound of laughter as Sam, Joaquín and Bucky continued to try and catch a single fish had lulled you into a half sleep, dozing on the deck of the Paul & Darlene 
“Hey, you want another beer, doll?” 
Bucky’s voice drifted over to you and you cracked one eye open. He’d unbuttoned his shirt half way down his chest, the white cotton sticking to his sweaty, sunkissed skin. He hadn’t been able to drop the nickname since he'd had to rescue you at the gala. Although you'd done your best to keep yourself away. The way his eyes burned into you when he turned your way, the memory of his body imprinted into yours, his leg pressing against you, the shadow of a hardness that made your mouth water. 
He'd been the perfect gentleman, of course. Had made sure you were safe and comfortable, even escorted you back to your hotel in the morning after a huge home cooked breakfast. 
He was a gent. And you were an embarrassment. It ate away at you until you couldn't even look at him. 
“Hmm?” 
“Beer?” He asked again, holding out the bottle, the cap already popped off. 
“Uh, yeah, thanks.” 
He flopped down beside you on the deck, the last of the day fading beyond the horizon and leaving you bobbing in the inky abyss where the sky met the water. 
“You feeling okay?” He took a swig and you watched the condensation on the bottle trickle over his fingers. 
“Oh, yeah, fine.”
“You look dazed, that's all, don't want you getting sunstroke on us.” 
Bucky looked genuinely concerned and you figured, from the sudden sick feeling inside, that maybe your heart had skipped a few beats or flipped over or something. 
“Uh -” Fuck, did he have to leave his shirt open like that? He asked a question, what was it? 
“Are you okay?” He used the back of his right hand and placed it against your forehead, “you feel really hot. Maybe you do have sun stroke.” 
“I’m fine, honestly.” You shrugged him off, but went looking for a bottle of water anyway. 
As the boat made its way back to the dock you watched the lights of Sarah’s house flicker on in the distance. Sam had invited the three of you to stay, taking up all of Sarah’s space and the room on the boat, while her and the boys went into the city for the night. It was a generous offer, one that you couldn’t say no to after months of hard work without a break. 
In the pitch dark you all stumbled back up the driveway, only to find Sarah on the porch. 
“Sarah -” Sam jogged to reach her first, concern written on his brow. 
“I’m alright, Sam, don’t fuss. It’s just Cass, ate too many beignets and threw up so I thought we should come home. He’s upstairs with AJ. Sorry we messed up your plans.”
Bucky took the suitcase from her hands, “it’s your home Sarah, you haven’t messed up anything.” 
She threw an arm around his shoulders and hugged him sideways, a familiar gesture you’d seen her make before, but for some reason your tummy twisted, jealousy stirring. 
“Means we’ll need some rooms back though, I know I said you could all stay but-” 
A chorus of voices filled the air, refusing to let Sarah apologise, before you started to get organised. 
“Well Cass needs his own bed, that’s a given.” You said, worried that the young boy might be ill as well as over excited about his food. 
“Of course,” Joaquín agreed. “Sarah, you’re obviously taking your room too. We wouldn’t ask you to give that up. I’ll go on the couch in the sitting room.” He smiled. 
You looked between your other two colleagues, but Bucky spoke first. 
“Well if Torres’ taking the couch I’m not going to argue, I’d rather be in a bed even if it is on a boat.” He ruffled Joaquín’s hair affectionately and the younger man shoved at him. 
Sam looked at you, “you can take my bed, if you want, I can change the sheets -” 
“I’ll sleep on other sofa -” 
“You’ll share with me, right doll?” 
The three of you spoke at once, and Sarah raised her eyebrows then her hands before opening the front door, “I’ll be in bed, you kids figure this out yourself.” 
“Bucky -” Sam started. 
“Sam - we’ve shared before,” there was a glimmer of hope that glowed inside of you when Bucky stepped closer, his shirt fluttering open again in the breeze, revealing his toned chest and that dusting of dark hair, creeping under the buckle of his jeans. “Besides, wouldn’t be the first time you’ve made us share, would it?” Bucky joked, nudging Sam as they went to collect more blankets and bedding, “what about that hotel-” 
His voice faded until all you could hear were the crickets in the distance, you’d forgotten about Joaquín until he walked past, turning backwards at the last moment so he could see you again, “if you don’t want to share with Barnes…” he let the offer hang in the air and you were torn.
Really, you should protest and ask for your own space. But then you’d missed the sound of his steady breathing beside you, the weight and warmth of him when he turned over into your space. In fact you’d missed him completely, even if you’d been avoiding him on purpose. 
Secretly you hoped the bedroom on the boat would be cooler now the sun had gone down, perhaps he’d hold you like he did while you were camping. 
Sam let you back onto the boat, making sure you had enough blankets for two distinct sleeping arrangements if you wanted. 
Bucky slid into the cool cotton sheets in only his boxers and, shyly, you followed. Expecting to sleep alone you’d packed shorts and a vest, revealing more than you really wanted to considering he clearly didn’t return your interest. 
Bucky kept politely to his side of the bed, his arms awkwardly stiff at his side when he turned away from you. Unable to stop yourself you turned too, watching the strong line of his back relax as his breathing evened out.
The boat bobbed gently, lulling you to sleep. You were vaguely aware of a strong arm tugging you closer, the smell of Bucky’s shampoo and sun cream and the weight of a bed rising to meet you. 
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Everything went perfectly, again, until it didn’t. 
Intelligence? Secured. Exit? Executed to perfection. Adrenaline fueled burger stop where Bucky wiped a drop of sauce from your lips exactly as you planned? Complete. Motel booking? Perfect?
You and Bucky stared at the two motel beds. 
In the entire time you’d been working together you’d never really managed it. There were either no rooms, the room was wrong or there was no room at all, just whatever you could find. And now there were two beds and you felt sick and your head hurt and after everything you’d seen and done today the last thing you wanted to do was sleep alone. 
“Doll?” Bucky placed a hand on the small of your back and reality came screeching to a halt around you. 
“Sorry, Buck, I must be really tired, I’m going to shower and get in bed. Do you mind if I go first?” You were already half to the bathroom, the zip down on your tac suit, were you imagining Bucky’s eyes dropping down to where your skin was revealed? 
“Of course, whatever you need, I’ll just be…here,”
After a perfunctory shower consisting of a dribble of hot water that quickly turned into a freezing cold torrent, you returned to the shared room. 
Bucky hurried past, his body brushing against yours in the doorway, firm and muscular, yet you knew that being held by him was soft and warm. You tried not to feel too sad that there’d be no excuse for getting close to him again for the rest of your trip. 
By the time he was finished you were tucked into bed, trying to read the paperback you’d found in the draw because the television signal was terrible. 
He stood in the window, a shadow against the light filtering in through the thin material of the curtains, ruffling his wet hair with a towel, his sweatpants so at odds with the man who’d been by your side just a few hours before. This was a rare sight, one you were privileged to see. 
Bucky tossed the towel onto the chair by the door and then sat on the end of the other bed, watching you read from the corner of his eye. You knew because the last three paragraphs had become a blur of words, your focus solely on Bucky. 
“Maybe we should go to sleep, we’ve got a long drive tomorrow.” 
“You’re right.” 
You both slid down into bed, separately, and you’d never felt so alone. 
In the darkness you could see the shape of him, facing the door with his hand tucked under his pillow, and somehow the darkness made you braver. 
“Would it be weird if I said I missed you?” You whispered. 
Bucky rolled over, but put his hand back under his pillow, no doubt he had something hidden under there, he usually did. 
“I miss you too.” 
You shuffled back, letting the sheets fall further down the bed, “I know you have your own space over there and you probably don’t want to be all cramped up with me, but if you wanted to share still -” 
Bucky was out of his bed before you could finish, slipping under the sheets. He’d taken off his sweatpants before getting into bed, his legs bed warm against your own and you bit your lip, trying to focus on his face and not on his almost naked body just inches away. 
“Hi.”
“Hi, doll.”
“You don’t have to keep calling me that.” 
“What if I want to?” 
He was so close, his breath minty when it ghosted over your lips, his nose touching yours, his long eyelashes making his crystal eyes look brighter. 
“What if I missed you being in my bed? What if I always want to share with you?” He reached his hand out, cupping your cheek. 
“You do?” 
And then his lips were on yours, so soft, his tongue slipping past yours as you gasped. One cool metal hand and one callused, drawing you closer, a leg between your thighs, your bodies rolling together and - “oh, Bucky.” You sighed into his mouth, letting him tug you into him. 
“I - I want that too -” you squeezed out between kisses, “I wanna always - always - be in your bed - I - I always hoped we had too.” 
“You did?” He pulled back, stroking a thumb down your cheek and over your kiss bitten lips. 
“Uh huh, I did,” 
“You been sabotaging us this whole time, baby?” He laughed, his eyes sparkling. 
“No,” you laughed too, turning your head to kiss the pad of his thumb, “maybe I should’ve though.” 
“Maybe,” his hand left your face to cup the back of your neck, drawing you down for another languid kiss. 
“How long?” 
“How long, what?” 
“How long have you wanted -” his question trailed off into another series of featherlight kisses. 
“Since, ugh - Utah?” You offered shyly, embarrassed to admit that you’d been head over heels from the start. 
With a groan he rolled you over, slipping his body between your open legs, his hips settling just right against your own. “Fuck,” he dropped his forehead to yours, “we could’ve been doing this the whole time.” He admitted, lifting his head to smile down at you. 
“Well then I guess we have some making up to do,” you linked your hands behind his head, tangling your fingers in his hair. 
“I guess we do, doll.” 
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ohisms · 3 months
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↪     𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 , updated .     (  a  collection  of  various  settings  meant  to  inspire  drabbles  or  be  used  as  prompts .   )
001.   the seaside ,  as the sun is setting .
002.   a cabin in the middle of the woods .
003.   a picket-fenced home in the suburbs .
004.   a dark bus stop lit only by street lights .
005.   a private jet miles high in the sky .
006.   a funhouse’s room of mirrors .
007.   an office building ,  bustling and busy .
008.   the back row of an empty movie theater .
009.   a run - down motel room .
010.   a loud house party on a suburban street .
011.   a university lecture hall during a class .
012.   the rooftop of a very tall building .
013.   a great ballroom during an elegant party .
014.   the back of a wailing ambulance .
015.   the wine cellar of a large mansion .
016.   behind the school’s gymnasium .
017.   a boisterous bonfire at the lakeside .
018.   an otherwise empty parking lot .
019.   the shady bar of a noisy , dark club .
020.  the grounds of an empty summer camp .
021.   a large hedge maze ,  easy to get lost in .
022.   a neglected or derelict treehouse .
023.   a spacious ,  light-filled meadow .
024.   an underground illegal fighting club .
025.   an abandoned scrapyard .
026.   a large penthouse overlooking the city .
027.    an apple orchard in the middle of spring .
028.   an empty playground with squeaky swings .
029.   an extravagant greenhouse .
030.   the base of a large waterfall .
031.    a spacious walk - in closet full of lovely clothes .
032.   a solemnly quiet hospital room .
033.   the dark depths of an abandoned mine .
034.   the deck of a fishing boat at night .
035.   the thick crowd of an audience at a show .
036.   a long ,  winding road .
037.   the scene of a violent crime .
038.   a fork in a hiking trail deep in the wilderness .
039.   a cramped dressing room .
040.   a dusty antiques shop full of relics .
041.   the street of an unfamiliar city at night .
042.   between the tall shelves of a thrifted book shop .
043.   a building abandoned during construction .
044.   a house without power or running water .
045.   a mysterious trail found in the woods .
046.   the back of a taxi stuck in traffic .
047.    the inside of an elevator that won’t move .
048.   fairgrounds during a large event  (or after hours) .
049.   a garden bountiful with flowers or produce .
050.   a childhood home or bedroom .
+   30  more  setting  prompts :    1 / 3 / 2024
051. the site of a horrible accident .
052. a closed pool , after everyone has left .
053. a home holding horrific memories .
054. by the side of a dangerously quick river .
055. a private hotel room .
056. a police station in the middle of the night .
057. a ferris wheel carriage under a sky of fireworks .
058. a lavish , invite - only party .
059. a public transit stop as rain is pouring down .
060. the back of a taxi going in the wrong direction .
061. the underworld .
062. a dusty , forgotten attic .
063. on the set of a television show or movie .
064. a lighthouse overlooking the raging sea .
065. in a post - apocalyptic bunker .
066. on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest coast .
067. on the rooftop of a perilously tall building .
068. a tent pitched in the middle of the woods .
069. a crowded stadium during a football game .
070. the morgue during an identification .
071. an otherwise empty library during a late study session .
072. a place that feels familiar , yet you've never been here before .
073. a long hallway that seems to stretch on forever .
074. a signpost at the start of a hiking trail .
075. a bar or tavern bustling with life .
076. the dance floor of a masquerade ball .
077. inside of a car parked in a secluded area .
078. at the edge of a cliff overlooking a large lake .
079. inside a very old house with very old haunts .
080. the antiseptic interior of a space station .
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angelprompts · 2 months
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send “🎲” (or "dice") for me to randomize the following settings and write you a starter set within whichever one we get ♡ happy developing ᵔᴗᵔ
*feel free to take or leave anything after the bolded words! i added them to help spark inspiration but you don't have to follow them as it's written
an art museum shortly before closing, there is no one else in the art exhibition except them
their teenage bedroom but the room is empty except for a few cardboard boxes full of their old things
an old church that has chipped wood and broken windows
an empty playground at night, one of street light's lightbulbs seems to be dying as it flickers across the street
stuck in an elevator, it's been almost an hour and there's still no sign that help is on the way
an 80s/90s themed mall where a few of the stores actually feature real clothes from that era
a cemetery at 3am sharp, the fog is making it hard to see even though they have flashlights
a picnic that's set up in the middle of a grassy field, the sun has just started to set
the beach on a sunny day, the sound of children laughing in the distance alongside the seagulls begging for food
a grocery store past midnight, the only other people in the store are the workers
an empty hallway of a hospital, it's dark outside and the overhead light in this hallway are dimmed
a grungy motel room in a motel that definitely has rats living in the walls
a college party in a fraternity / sorority house, the music is a tad too loud and they're running out of food
a dressing room full of performers after a big performance, there's a bouquet of flowers with a note attached laying on their vanity
an empty dressing room hours after a big performance, there's a bouquet of flowers with a note attached laying on their vanity
outside of a train station at midnight, the air is cold and there's a light drizzle
a crowded nightclub on new years eve, the countdown to midnight is just about to start
their dining room but there's a blizzard outside, nobody is getting in or out of the house for the next day or two
the waiting room of a detective's office in the early hours of the morning
beside a broken down vehicle on one of the back roads, you're an hour away from town and nobody ever uses the back roads anymore
the driver and passengers seats while driving for the past 2 hours, they're starting to think they may have taken a wrong turn
450 notes · View notes
meiieiri · 5 months
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water’s edge | 01
₊˚.༄ pairing: crown prince!gojo satoru x f!reader | setting: modern royal au
₊˚.༄ summary: in a world where titles define their fates, gojo satoru, the crown prince of japan, and his wife-to-be, face a tempestuous court of deception and schadenfreude. as they waltz on the edge of ruin, can their love endure the treacherous waters that threaten to pull them apart, or will the whims of the enigmatic chrysanthemum throne prove strong enough to drown them both?
₊˚.༄ author’s note: thank you so much to @angstbot2000, my awesome beta-reader for sitting through this 9.07k word count monstrosity of a first chapter! and with that, here we go~!
₊˚.༄ masterlist
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He was every bit the worldly man portrayed to be by the media and that alone is enough to terrify you, even as you sit about a full foot apart from him, feeling the pinprick of his ice-cold demeanor pierce your skin like a thousand needles.
“Your Highness, how have we never heard of your relationship with Ms. (Y/N) before unlike your previous ones?”, a correspondent from the NHK Broadcasting Corporation asks from the crowd of reporters, surprisingly at their most civil and dignified behavior before their future emperor and empress, literal gods in mortal form, embodiment of unadulterated divinity on earth in Japan’s distinct imperial past, one much different from today’s democratic and liberal political climate.
Gojo’s eye twitches at that.
It was a simple question, but it struck a nerve in him, angering him more than you ever could by merely existing. Though it was a valid inquiry, all of Satoru’s relationships have always been well-documented by the media, save for one. His supposed relationship with you.
You move to clutch his hand in an attempt to calm him down, having sensed his discomfort, but he only shrugs his hand away before you could even come within a quarter of an inch of touching him.
“My apologies, your Highness,” the reporter apologizes quickly when Satoru doesn’t answer right away, turning to the woman in charge of the press conference, situated by the podium displaying the seal of the imperial family. “Sorry, may I rephrase that?”
She turns to look at the prince, subtly asking for his permission. With a slight nod of his head, Satoru doles out his merciful forgiveness towards the reporter, keenly aware that it would only take him a second to have his staff contact the NHK Broadcasting Company and have them fire him before he could even return to the office.
“Thank you,” he bows gratefully. “Rephrasing my earlier question, would your Highness mind if you share a few words about how you and Ms. (Y/N) met?”
Satoru Gojo is a man who goes by many identities, as attested by tabloids and reputable newspapers alike; they agree on the fact that Satoru Gojo is a womanizer, a card shark, and the harbinger of disaster to the imperial family. He never sleeps with the same woman more than once, oftentimes leaving a poor naive girl entangled in a mess of sheets even before the morning sun filters through the motel’s bedroom windows. The crown prince isn’t entirely heartless though, he is quite known to leave a generous sum of money tucked neatly in a small envelope as a “thank you” gift to all the women he’s been with.
Not that it dulls the sting of humiliation, of course, it still hurts like hell to be treated as an expendable commodity that’s only good for a one night stand.
Funny how that grotesque description is starting to sound like you.
Another rumor about Satoru Gojo is that he’s a reckless card shark; one who goes to fine hotels during after-hours when the bar and lounge is reworked into a gambling den for the ultra rich and wealthy, closed to the unsuspecting plebeians, only frequented by those whose morals fall within the scope of gray and obsidian black. The young prince has been rumored to religiously go to these kinds of establishments to play high stakes poker games more often than he ever visits the family shrine where his ancestors are entombed in an uneasy eternal rest. The poor Emperor Meiji must be rolling in his grave seeing the imperial family’s impending doom at the hands of his great great grandson whose only real ambition in life is to waste it on the vulgar things that high society hedonistically craves.
One last thing to keep in mind about your fiancé is that he is a consummate actor, having honed the talent of keeping up appearances since his first public appearance as a child of only seven years old, alongside his mother and father during the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics which Tokyo had been selected to host earlier that year.
He squeezes your hand, despite rejecting the compassionate gesture earlier, and looks deep into your eyes with false fondness, fully aware that he was imagining the face of another in place of yours.
His nails bitterly dig into your skin as the cameras go off, capturing the tender moment between the two of you. To anyone outside the circle which you and Satoru unwillingly find each other entrapped in, the two of you were the quintessential picture-perfect couple, gazing at one another as if the world the two of you had found yourselves in would spiral out of its orbit had one of you dared to look away, The tabloids have even begun to call your unexpected engagement a modern-day fairytale unfolding before everyone’s eyes.
But that was just it, this entire arrangement — you and Satoru Gojo were nothing more than unwilling participants in a fabricated Cinderella story.
“Well, we met informally a few times before, during the national shamisen competition held in Kyoto two years ago and the awarding ceremony of our very own national artists where she received the title of ‘national treasure’ earlier last year–”
The many reporters scribble this information down on their bullet journals or tablets, hoping to piece together the exact timeline of this relationship. It is rather peculiar for the crown prince to suddenly reveal he is getting married, and to some mystery woman at that — not that the press was unfamiliar with you,with most of them being very much aware of your identity as a renowned traditional Japanese instrumentalist, but what eludes them is the manner in which you found yourself suddenly romantically involved with Prince Satoru Gojo of all people, whose affairs are heavily publicized by the media. The grotesque manner in which it is publicized is a different story.
“But we first met formally during His Majesty the Emperor’s silver jubilee. His Majesty is a benefactor to the Japan Arts Council and is a patron to many music conservatories in the country, and as such, is very interested in the fine arts. It just so happened that Ms. (Y/N) had been invited to play for us on the night of the Royal Gala.”
That was typical; the prince first meets the princess in a ball, looking upon her absolutely enthralled as she enters the ballroom, captivated like he was under some form of trance. His eyes would stay glued to her as she danced along to the crescendo of the string quartet, the hem of her gown fluttering about her form like a gentle stream of star-fall as she twirled gracefully under the bright chandelier lights. His lips would be parted, dazedly wondering who the girl could be and if they were ever fated to meet again.
But alas, one has to remind themselves that the age of dreaming of such hopelessly romantic nonsense, especially at twenty-three, is long over.
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FLASHBACK: His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee Gala
The Chrysanthemum Throne should have died the day the envoys of the late Emperor Shōwa, Foreign Minister Mamora Shigemitsu and General Yoshijiro Umezu, ascended the gangway of the USS Missouri to sign the unconditional surrender of the Japanese Empire to the allied forces that laid waste to the Japanese islands. With the allied powers marching onwards to the capital city of Tokyo, having left nothing in their wake but the ashes of an empire that had been brought to its knees by the fires of merciless destruction that rained from countless air raids, the narrative should have moved towards the abolishment of the entire imperial system and the immediate execution of the emperor. But in a bid to refashion the emperor as a symbol of continuity for Japan, General Douglas Macarthur’s decision to not hold Emperor Shōwa accountable for the war crimes committed in his name during the height of World War II allowed the last remnant of Japan’s imperial past to survive. Save for the removal of the emperor’s political power, the oldest monarchy in the world was left relatively unharmed.
Still, despite the fact that the imperial system had been effectively humbled after the war, this was not so evident as you walked through the imposing halls of the imperial palace.The Kita-Damari north lobby you passed through earlier gave an impression of uncontested refinement; the entire floor had been constructed from the most exquisite granite from Yamaguchi prefecture, and the walls embellished with cedar wood that can only be found in Kumamoto prefecture. If the lobby was meant to portray elegance, then, the Houmei-den State Banquet Hall exuded an air of absolute power that could make anyone tremble in the face of such magnificence; you could recognize the tapestry work of the legendary artist Gakuryo Nakamura as the main decoration piece for the walls, and even more rare stones and wood from Japan’s many prefectures serving as the foundation of the gargantuan hall.
It was half past nine when you accidentally locked eyes with the crown prince that night. This entire time, you’ve envisioned the imperial family as images on your phone screen. You didn’t think for one second that they could be real and that Satoru Gojo, the crown prince of your nation, despite all the disturbing rumors surrounding him these past few years, would be so ethereally beautiful, like he had been fashioned from pure celestial moonlight.
You avert your gaze immediately upon catching yourself staring at him, knowing you weren’t supposed to as part of royal protocol which you’d been thoroughly briefed on the moment you received the invitation to perform for the imperial family. You uneasily remove yourself from the hall in search of the lavatory to touch up your makeup when you come face-to-face with the empress who also excused herself from the festivities to get some air.
She doesn’t notice you at first as she continues to take a drag from her cigarette, staring blankly at the koi fish that swam about the courtyard garden’s pond. From afar, she looked to be an ordinary woman, not the untouchable monarch you thought she was alongside the rest of her family, her ivory hair was neatly pulled back into a tight bun, several crystal hair pieces dotting her silky locks. You quietly made your way towards the powder room, your pace slowing down as you inch closer to the empress not really knowing what to do.
Should you let her be while she’s having a moment to herself or do you intrude on the hallowed ground of her presence as protocol dictates with a low curtsy?
“Your Royal Highness,” you greet her, in a soft voice, stopping to curtsy as you pass by and she kindly hums in acknowledgement.
“Ms. (Y/N),” she turns to face you, discarding her half-finished cigarette in the jade ashtray. “Forgive me for smoking in front of you, do you mind?”
Secondhand smoke.
From that statement alone, though brief as it is, sheds light into the empress’s character as being empathetic, and compassionate. You shake your head, subconsciously playing with your clutch bag. “Thank you.” She reaches into her clutch bag again to pull out her pack, slotting a cigarette between her lips. “How are you enjoying the banquet so far? I hope it is to your liking.”
“I don’t think what I say should really matter. After all, I’m only a guest.” Your meek character causes the empress to let out the tiniest of laughs. A smile plays at your lips seeing her face morph into a soft chortle, her earlier troubles seemingly leaving her mind for a bit as she speaks with you. “But, in all seriousness, your Highness, I think the banquet is going well. Most of the other guests seem to feel the same way.”
The empress nods, relieved. “That’s good to hear, by the way, I hope your performance goes well,” she says. “His Majesty and I have been looking forward to it all evening.”
A blush paints your cheeks. As the only guest artist who will be playing a traditional Japanese instrument, the tsugaru shamisen, you were the odd one out among the other distinguished national artists who will be playing Western instruments such as the piano, the harp or the violin and many others. “That means a lot to me, your Highness, thank you,” you bow forty-five degrees.
“Well,” the empress says warmly, wrapping up the surprisingly refreshing conversation. “I wouldn’t want to keep you now, I’ll see you back inside,” she picks up her pearl-embellished clutch bag, and re-arranges her diamond tiara before excusing herself. As she makes her way back inside the reception hall to rejoin her family, she thinks back to the girl she just serendipitously met with a small smile on her face. Ms. (Y/N), she thinks to herself, recalling your name with a certain lightness in her heart.
Just then, her son, Satoru walks up to her, righting his lapel and the medal of the Supreme Order of the Chrysanthemum pinned to the left breast-pocket of his full royal uniform. “Mother,” he greets her formally, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. Gojo’s face falls when he sees his mother’s watchful eyes anxiously scouring the room for a particular person. “Mother, what is it?” he asks, concerned at her expression. Suddenly, his mother stiffens when she finds the exact person she is looking for, obvious displeasure painting her features.
Satoru tries to calm his mother down, his voice as soft as a feather’s touch, “Mother…” he trails off.
“You brought her here?” the empress whispers harshly, almost in disbelief that her son would be so insolent enough to do such a thing — by ‘such a thing’, she meant unscrupulously bringing along his Machiavellian Chief-of-Staff, Himiko Zenin, who seemed to relish in the attention being gallantly given to her by the many foreign heads of state in the banquet hall.
“And what is she wearing?”
Her face contorts into one of annoyance when she sees Himiko parading around the unmistakable Akoya pearl necklace only to be worn by members of the imperial family on her neck. The empress is not one to use unsavory words even for someone she dislikes with every fiber of her being, but she could not help but liken Himiko to a bitch brandishing a new expensive collar. She swears the sight alone is enough to make her vomit. “Is she a member of the imperial family now, Satoru, what on earth—!”
“She’s not hurting anybody,” Satoru’s eyes narrowed into slits at his mother’s reaction.
“She’s hurting you!” the empress hisses, begging her son to see reason. Satoru has been made well-aware of the fact that keeping Himiko around was not good for his public image, yet, he still insists on fanning the flames that could sooner devour his pipe dream of inheriting his father’s crown.
Satoru glares at his mother, before proceeding to spare his radiant Chief-of-Staff an amused glance, a sense of pride forming in his chest seeing her alluring charm at work as she mingles effortlessly with his father’s guests. He often argues that Himiko is the blueprint of the perfect future consort — she comes from the Zenin political clan that has made Tokyo its political stronghold since the 1970s, she is intelligent in all ways from being fluent in many languages to knowing the law from inside out, charming and charismatic, and most of all, easy on the eyes. A smirk forms on Gojo’s lips when he sees Himiko sharing a laugh with the wife of the Russian ambassador as if to prove his point.
“Let’s just go,” he ignores her pleas, gently pulling his distraught mother away to take their seats next to his father, nonchalantly condoning Himiko’s brazen-faced behavior.
As long as he was around, no one could harm her, not even the empress.
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“Acknowledging the representative correspondent from Nippon News Network, Mr. Nozomi. You may ask your question now,” the floor adjutant says into the microphone.
“Thank you,” Nozomi stands up, momentarily adjusting his press ID. He flips through his leatherbound notebook in search of the query he hastily wrote earlier. “This question is directed to Ms. (Y/N).” A spiteful quiet scoff escapes Satoru’s lips, sending waves of hurt in your chest. What could you possibly contribute to this already awkward conversation? And what did you even know about the imperial system’s traditions?
“Ms. (Y/N), I’d like to know your thoughts on marrying into the imperial family at this delicate time. As you probably know, many of our citizens are questioning the relevance of the imperial system now that our country has embraced democratic values over pro-imperialist ones, thus, leading to the formation of staunch anti-royalists groups. Do you believe that your marriage to Prince Satoru would bring about a positive change to Japan’s current political landscape?”
Your thoughts stutter. “Political…landscape?” you think aloud, and Satoru only smiles/smirks in cold amusement, taking a sip of his sparkling water and eyeing you from his peripheral, seeing you pathetically struggle to conjure up a coherent answer. You haven’t exactly gotten to learn about your duties yet as Gojo’s future wife and a future princess, and he was eager to see how you’ll worm your way out of this one. Of course you neither understood the intricacies of the world you were marrying into nor the unknown minefield you dared tread; most women who throw themselves at Gojo’s feet, kissing the soles of his shoes deplorably begging them to marry him, are like that — naive, unintelligent — he looks at your plain features again and rolls his eyes severely disappointed — and criminally boring to look at in comparison to the standard he has set.
“My apologies, Mr. Nozomi,” a soft smile graces Satoru’s lips when he hears her melodious voice cutting through the awkward tension in the air as you wrack your head for an answer. “But, it seems you’ve caught Ms. (Y/N) off guard there. Perhaps, you have another question that’s a bit…easier to understand? We are, after all, here to bear witness to an engagement, not a political fora.”
Himiko steps forward from her spot next to the member of the Imperial Household Agency who was facilitating this press conference, her dainty hands clasped in front of her in an immaculately proper posture befitting the crown prince’s Chief-of-Staff and his rightful future wife, or so Gojo thought. How he wished it had been her who sat next to him today, with the diamond encrusted engagement ring he reluctantly gave you adorning her ring finger instead. Gojo’s intrusive thoughts swarm in his mind as they tempt him to kiss her in front of all these cameras and single handedly destroy his engagement to you in a single, gut-wrenching blow. But he is quick to stop himself when he remembers his mother’s words earlier this morning.
“This is your last chance, Satoru. This is the last thing I can do to save you, please don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
At any point in time, he would have succumbed to his desire to expose his relationship with his beloved Chief-of-Staff, but this was a pivotal moment that could spell the end for him and his ambitions if he does so much as make a single move that could anger his father. And what’s worse was he might not be able to guarantee Himiko’s safety if that happens. Satoru, therefore, resigns himself to continue holding your hand, albeit reluctantly, his fingers finding the gaps of yours.
The reporter nods at Himiko’s backhanded request.
“My apologies, then,” he ratifies his question to make it more suitable for someone of your caliber. You couldn’t help but shrink into yourself, feeling that you are being patronized by everyone in this room — from your frigid fiancé to his Chief-of-Staff who was severely outclasses you in eloquence, refinement and sophistication and to all the members of the press that had been invited today whose reception to your engagement to the crown prince has been lukewarm at best. “My question then is—“
“—I am sorry for taking too long to answer your question, Mr. Nozomi.” Satoru’s eyes flicker over to yours, taken aback when you speak up. “I, unfortunately, am not yet that familiar with the current situation concerning these said groups, and,” you bite your lip, thinking of what to say next. “I don’t think I’m qualified enough to give an objective opinion on whether my marriage to his Highness will bring about a positive change to our nation.”
Gojo grimly scowls as he watches you make amends with your forthcoming destiny as his future wife, and heaven willing, empress of the nation.
“And I cannot promise that I will lead this country to greatness. I cannot grant laws to uphold and promote justice, I most certainly cannot lead our defense forces to defend our nation, but…”
You think back to why you came here in the first place, your heart pounds violently in your chest as adrenaline rushes through your entire body.
“But I can do this: I can dedicate my entire life to making this country a better place for our people, though, I still do not quite know the way. But I will most certainly do my utmost to try.”
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FLASHBACK: His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee Gala
You don’t know how they do it — standing in front of a multitude of people under the glare of the limelight, about a thousand pairs of eyes trained on you as if at that moment, you stood at the very center of the world without cracking. This was the life they were born into, a life that overflowed with the contrasting worlds of luxury and duty, power and powerlessness, indulgence and deprivation. The women of the imperial family were dressed in the most luxurious of gowns with hundreds of precious stones sewn onto the fabric, and the men wore their dignified navy uniforms. All of the people in the hall have gathered far and wide to bring good tidings to the emperor and his family, bringing gifts of jewels, national treasures, and promises of a stronger alliance with Japan. Yet, something felt off about them — their faces, although trained and poised to smile, were pictures of discomfort.
The white-haired prince you had locked eyes with earlier, the one who watched you intently throughout your performance as you skillfully struck the strings of your shamisen with the bachi producing a sound that resonates deep within the primal past of Japan, stared at you with an unreadable expression as he clapped his hands. You offer him the smallest of smiles to be polite just like you did with the empress earlier when you found her smoking outside the banquet hall, but he does not reciprocate the gesture, his eyes devoid of any warmth unlike his mother. Standing before the crowd of many world leaders and the imperial family, you bow reverently before your public, your shamisen strapped to your body, while your calloused fingers gripped the bachi of the instrument.
The crowd thundered with applause, most of the foreign dignitaries rising to their feet, giving you a standing ovation as you finished your piece. You bow again when the applause continues for another minute or so.
Satoru grimaces when he hears his father whisper to his mother. “Isn’t she amazing?” he marvels at your performance, showering you with more praise for that brief number than he ever gave his son for the majority of his life.
The empress senses Satoru’s growing ire, and nudges her son’s arm, consoling him despite their earlier disagreement about bringing Himiko to the gala. Satoru doesn’t know what to feel. Despite all his shortcomings and his active efforts to build an impenetrable steel wall between them, his mother still does everything in her power to meet him halfway. As his hand reaches to find his mother’s, however, he spots Himiko exiting the hall, stopping mid-way to stare at him with her irresistible fox-like eyes, tempting him to follow her like a siren beckoning an unfortunate sailor to surrender to the abyssal depths.
“Satoru,” his mother says under her breath, holding onto the belief that her son could muster up the willpower to resist Himiko’s whims. The emperor was about to give his courtesy address, and having the crown prince walk out at this moment would be severely inappropriate, not to mention, damaging to his already bad reputation. “Satoru, please.”
His father ascends the steps, each stride evoking a deep sadness and longing in Satoru. Somehow, the crown prince hones in on the clicking of his father’s shoes against the granite floor, the same ones he’d have to fill someday when his father grows weary of their ancestors’ throne. The speech is pretty uneventful with his father going on and on about preserving the peace and harmony of his reign, his so-called Reiwa era, and vowing to continue his public service, which he had begun as a young man in the august of his own father’s reign, until the twilight of his days.
Harmony, Gojo thinks bitterly, a sneer appearing on his face. What did his old man know of such a word when all he’s done, so far, is sow the seeds of discord in his family?
“On that note, I’d like to express my deepest gratitude to all of you, our dear guests and to my fellow fathers and mothers of your own respective nations, who have so kindly come here today to renew our vows of selfless service to our peoples. May we all be imbued with endless wisdom in our pursuit of the greater good.”
The cameras go off like little flashes of lightning spontaneously piercing the dark, moody space of the reception hall.
What a fucking joke, Satoru scoffs into his champagne, the golden liquid staining his throat and holding back words of contempt towards his father. What did his father know of being a father when he had spent his entire life tearing apart his own family in the name of the throne? What did he know of harmony when he had done nothing but sow discord in the imperial house?
The emperor gives a slight nod of acknowledgement to the gracious applause he receives, and promptly makes his way over to his family who are in the process of arranging themselves for an official picture in front of the late Emperor Taisho’s magnum opus, his calligraphy painting that read: 永遠の恵み (Eternal grace) which is the imperial family’s personal motto and central dogma, to commemorate this momentous occasion. Satoru stands next to his father, his breath shallow as if being anywhere near his father could suffocate him.
“I see you’re still acting like the petulant child you are,” his father spat having already spotted Satoru’s little plaything in the crowd earlier tonight, despite the well-rehearsed smile on his face as the official photographer snaps photos in quick succession.
The tongue that Gojo has been holding finally breaks free from the dam that’s been holding the waters of resentment from bursting forth. “And I see you’re still an ass.” Hopefully, the photographers couldn’t hear their tense conversation lest it be the cause of another scandal;, the rumor mill didn’t need any more ammunition for yet another mudslinging campaign against the imperial family.
Oh, but wouldn’t it be interesting if Satoru made a scene to ruin his father’s special day by lewdly kissing his Chief-of-Staff for the entire world to see?
As if sensing her forbidden lover’s thoughts, Himiko saunters over to the official photographer, putting on the air of a devoted servant of the crown prince, ever present within ten feet from her master, when just minutes prior, she acted like she could replace the empress herself.
“You insolent—“ his father grits his teeth at the sight of Satoru’s tramp, absolutely furious.
“Please stop,” the empress spoke under her breath, close to tears. Why is it that whenever their family is together, which is a rare occasion in itself, it always ends in such painful conflict?
“If only we had another son-” the emperor continued his tirade against his only living son, the only legitimate child that he had been blessed with after years of trying to produce an heir with his wife. But there was not a scintilla of anger in his voice; that had long passed when the empress had effectively quelled the fury in his heart with her broken plea, instead there is only longing for things that cannot be.“-if only…Suguru had been our boy, our prince-”
And just like that, something breaks inside Satoru akin to a glass goblet imploding when it hits the floor. It was almost as if his father wished that he had never been born.
…”Fuck this,” the white-haired prince moves to leave, but his mother’s delicate touch catches his arm.
“Satoru, my little light.”
Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat when his mother calls him by his old childhood nickname. Little light. That’s what they wanted him to be since the moment his cerulean eyes first opened as a baby who has been unwillingly burdened with the weight of centuries of tradition on him the minute he was conceived. His name had already been predetermined to mean ‘enlightenment’; everyone wanted him to be a light for the nation, a hope for the people. The imperial family may have been reduced to mere powerless symbols of the constitution, but they are the embodiment of their people’s hopes and dreams for a better Japan. It took twenty years for the emperor and empress to be blessed with their little light, but now, it seems that everything is growing disorientingly dimmer at such an accelerated pace.
But the empress will not just stand by and watch the light get extinguished. “Please don’t do this, we need you.”
Of course he always craved to be beloved by the people, to become their bonafide and benevolent prince. It had always been his dream to inherit his father’s crown, to fill the impossibly large shoes of his ancestors. But, what is truly his dream or was this a dream unjustly forced onto him?
The wind howls more violently and the final flicker of the imperial family’s light loses the battle, as the candle that had first been set alight by their forebears is now reduced to a pool of wax. Satoru’s eyebrows furrow, utterly spent from all of this, and yanks back his arm from his mother’s grasp.
“You need your prince…but when will you ever need your son?”
And with that, he leaves, his free hand ripping off the Medal of the Order of the Chrysanthemum once he is a good distance away from the gala’s venue. Himiko stays behind for a few minutes to make sure that she isn’t giving off the impression of being so eager to follow the prince and condone his tantrum. Instead, she stares directly at the empress, emerald and sapphire clashing violently with one another, as she wordlessly celebrates her victory.
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Mr. Nozomi, though known by his colleagues to be a no-nonsense kind of man, seems satisfied with your answer. It lacked some academic background, but it was a statement that was sure to bring comfort to the people. “Thank you, Ms. (Y/N). This is comforting to know,” the stout man with graying hair offers you a reassuring smile. It had been so long since many people, particularly and most especially in his age group, had ever had the honor of seeing such a warm-hearted future monarch whose words could almost easily calm others, and he dare say, even the violent Sea of Japan whose fury has long been felt in his freezing hometown of Hokkaido since time immemorial.
Satoru forces a smile at that, literally grinning and bearing it — by ‘it’, he meant your little display to outshine him, your future husband, the Crown.
“Any more questions?” the imperial house’s official speaker calls out as the room is filled with the sound of pen tips scratching on paper as the members of the press write down notes. This was going to be the wedding of the century, and they’d be damned if they couldn’t make a good story out of it. “None?”
“Actually, I have one.” Himiko gives the microphone to the correspondent from The Tokyo Times, the most reputable newspaper in the country. “I hope that this question doesn’t offend His Royal Highness, but if you may indulge me for a bit, don't you think the timing of this wedding is too sudden? I mean,” she clears her throat momentarily. “His Highness had only recently been allowed to appear before the public after he got arrested the other week, and now, he’s getting married.”
Just when you thought that the brutal questions would start to mellow out, one of the more hardened reporters all but crushes your remaining hope of this press conference ending on a good note.
All color drains from your face at that question. It was, indeed, warranted. If you had seen all this unfold before your very eyes, during your time as a commoner, the whole marriage would appear rushed, not to mention, fishy especially after the many Lesé-Majesté that had victimized the imperial family lately due to Gojo’s recent and very frequent scandals.
You look at your fiancé, heart pounding in your chest. What were you supposed to say to that? It’s not like you could be downright blunt about the whole reason why you’re getting married in the first place, that would only paint your soon-to-be husband’s family in a worse light; right now, people only challenge the relevance of the imperial family in a free democracy like Japan, you really don’t want to reach that point of no return when they start to despise the very notion of paying taxes to an institution that they feel is morally ambiguous.
Not to mention, such sentiment could put you and your fiancé in danger.
Satoru takes a deep breath through his nose, desperately calming himself before he says anything damning. How he wished he could have this petulant woman dragged out of there for such an offensive question but that would only prove her point.
Fortunately, Satoru is well-prepared for this, no matter how irritating his current predicament is. Having to be reminded of the greatest source of his humiliation is infuriating, but it could also provide him with the perfect opportunity to rewrite his public image and regain his footing in the act of succession currently being drafted by His Majesty, the Emperor.
All of a sudden, he rises to his full height, his hand not letting go of the sleeve of your white wool coat as he does. He casts you a disgusted look, seeing the expensive fabric hug your form; how is it even possible that you were wearing a high class outfit and still look like a cheap imitation of all the women he’s been with? He couldn’t begin to compare you to Himiko whose fashion sense and overall aura outshined yours; it would be like comparing rust to the Hope Diamond.
“Satoru, what are you doing?”
“Just follow my lead and drop that stupidly lost face you make all the time,” he hisses into your ear. “Now, stand up,” he commands, pretending to help you to your feet like the head-over-heels-in-love fiancé he’s meant to be and not the stone cold man whose last name will be the heaviest burden you’ll have to carry for the rest of your life. Well, by your life, you meant the snake pit that you now found yourself in with a fiancé who wishes you to fade from the fabric of existence and the prying eyes of the world keenly watching the drama that is yours and Satoru’s impending marriage.
Satoru smooths out any wrinkles on your dress before turning to the cameras. Gasps fill the room at what he does next. “Y-your Highness?” a journalist puts a hand over her mouth at the sight of the crown prince’s display of humble contrition: a bow, a plea for the forgiveness of his people. Following his lead, you also bow, your palms pressed against your thighs.
“I am sorry,” his tenor rings clear like the ringing of a shinto shrine’s suzu when a pilgrim first sets foot on the hallowed grounds of the temple. “As your prince, I understand that I have failed my family, His Imperial Majesty, the emperor, and Her Royal Highness, the empress. I have, in my recklessness, failed my ancestors, and the throne itself. But most of all, I, through my reckless actions, have failed each and every one of you who are probably watching this.”
Sincerity oozes out from each word, and you wonder, does Gojo actually mean any of this? Or was this another one of his well-rehearsed theatrics? And if this, his first public apology for all the atrocious things he’s done, is all conjured from the distorted playwright that is Prince Satoru Gojo, then, you could only pray that he takes pity on you and does not make an actress out of you.
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FLASHBACK: The Imperial Palace of Tokyo (An hour after His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee Gala)
Satoru painfully eyes his mother who earlier tonight had cruelly given him the false hope that she would always advocate for him only to avert her gaze, screwing her eyes shut as if by doing so — all of this — all the undue hurt that her son had caused the family would magically go away. “Mother.” Is she even qualified to still be called that when she has proved tonight that she would abandon her son in his time of need without a moment’s hesitation?
What his father says next is so hypocritical that it makes even hardened criminals look more honest and self-aware than him. “Don’t use that tone on her, don’t even dare.”
Satoru scoffs angrily, he can’t believe this. “I didn’t know you’ve recently decided to be a devoted husband now,” he snarls but his father doesn’t budge, he was not going to entertain his foolish son’s tantrums today. The emperor only pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily, desperately seeking out the reason he has been dealt the unfortunate hand of having such a heathenous son.
“I don’t even know what to say.” What can be said when face to face with such a vile predicament? Normally, his disagreements with Satoru would be tempered by his wife’s intervention, pleading with him to spare the heir to the throne of unforgiving punishments that brewed within a wrathful father’s mind; the last time was Satoru’s humiliating suspension from his public duties and the instance before that, a severe cut in his monthly salary as a public official funded personally by the people he blatantly betrays in his acts of wanton avarice. The difference between those times and this unfortunate situation is that in the past, one could still detect some semblance of remorse in Satoru’s demeanor.
All that is gone now. If one were to compare Satoru to a criminal, he is already a hardened one, desensitized to his wrongdoings.
The steel handcuffs which hugged the skin of Satoru’s wrists prove that, at this point in time, the heir to throne’s character was in serious jeopardy. “Your Majesty, you can reprimand your son however you’d like, but, please do not have him chained up like some animal.” She knows such a request is wrong. Like a dog released from a painful muzzle, Satoru would only grow more rabid with his actions. In the past, he was fueled by a desire for attention, now, after this night, he would be fueled by spite.
Other than the imperial family, three police officers who came from the Kabukichō district where Satoru had been reported to be physically assaulting a fellow gambler when a high stakes poker game had turned in favor of his opponent are in the room, witnessing all this happen with bated breath. It took at least five officers to pry Satoru off the bloodied middle aged man who had a foot in his grave by the time the crown prince was done obliterating his face, and another five to escort him into the police mobile.
All of this transpired on the night of the silver jubilee gala. Mere hours after Satoru took off.
A horrified silence had befallen the entire banquet hall when the news broke out, immediately going viral on every social media platform.
The emperor contemplates his wife’s words for but a passing moment when he decides otherwise, turning to the men in blue, his voice is authoritative and could make any devil tremble in their boots. “Thank you for reprimanding my son,” he sighs. “I can assure you that—“
The Tokyo metropolitan police officers alongside the imperial police await the decision of the emperor, but have already begun to pull out the keys to Satoru’s handcuffs thinking that His Majesty would have him released.
“—All charges pressed against Satoru Gojo will proceed accordingly and—“
And for once in his life, Satoru feels the unmistakable emotion — terror. “—What?” Satoru is livid at this point. “Father!”
He merely ignores Satoru, his eyes trained at the shocked faces of the many officers whose feet are still planted to the ground.
“—And that I will be allowing all concerned members of all law enforcement units who responded tonight to take him into custody until the date of his full criminal trial should any take place. As such, I now declare Satoru Gojo’s claim to the throne as null and void, and his title of crown prince forfeited in favor of his brother, Suguru Geto—“
It was at this time that Himiko once again barges in just as Satoru is being led away, surprisingly, she was now wearing her usual uniform of a black suit and pencil skirt. She immediately throws herself at the feet of the emperor. Where was the bravado she so proudly displayed at the jubilee gala by indirectly confronting the empress? Gone. Where were the pearls she had practically worn without authorization of the people who were permitted to wear them? Now replaced with her fake 12-karat gold necklace that she wore since childhood. “Your Majesty,” she kneels before him like her pleas would reach the emperor’s stony heart. “Please don’t do this—“
The emperor and empress angrily turn towards her, their eyes ablaze. What was she doing here? “I have half a mind to have you arrested too, Ms. Zenin!” the emperor growls. Himiko was there at the scene of the crime, after all, and having her arrested would greatly destabilize the hold she possessed on the imperial family through her illicit affair with the crown prince. “Now, drop it!” the emperor yells at the sputtering girl. “I have allowed you to lead my son astray for too long and now it is time for me, his father, to discipline him, unless, of course…you’re willing to take his punishment for him.”
“Yes,” Himiko nods frantically. “Please do whatever you want with me, I-I will gladly accept it all.”
“No!” Satoru resists against the officers, as the imperial guards begin to restrain Himiko who makes a pained sound when she, too, is given handcuffs of her own. “Don’t hurt her! Please don’t hurt her!” It was the plea of a being in love, seeing his lover take all his father’s bullets. “Father! I’m begging you—!”
“—And how long have you made the empress and I beg for you to straighten out your life?!”
“—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Satoru was exhibiting signs of mental distress at this point, his eyes brimming with tears like he were a child who had been told he was grounded. “Your Majesty,” he reverts to calling his father by his official title. “Please…please. Just let her go.”
How incredibly touching: two sworn lovers protecting one another to the bitter end, selflessly taking the fall for the other, shielding their beloved from any danger that might befall them. Only problem is…this toxic partnership between a prince whose life’s purpose is to stupidly follow his heart with gross disregard for those around him and a woman whose negative influence is demolishing her beloved’s reputation.
While the country is reeling from an economic recession, here Satoru and Himiko were indulging in yacht trips, while the impoverished scrounge for food in Tokyo’s many landfills, the crown prince and his girlfriend attended lavish state banquets left and right, while the homeless sleep under a resin-roofed bus stop at the height of winter, Satoru gifts countless of properties to Himiko as if one home couldn’t possibly be enough for the woman he so desperately loves.
“Satoru,” Himiko sniffles as she is slowly taken away, defiantly calling him by his name rather than his official title in front of Their Majesties. As if by doing so, that would help hers and Satoru’s case.
Gojo shakes his head furiously, his eyes welling up with tears. “Mother, please don’t do this.”
If this was going to be the end of them, then, Satoru hoped that his family would, at least, allow Himiko to return to being a private citizen, to walk away from all of this a free woman, free to live out the rest of her life away from the schadenfreude of the imperial court. Even if it meant never having to see her again, feel her warm touch against his skin the same way the sun bathes the earth in its resplendent glow, kiss her with the passion of someone who could have been a devoted husband to her had they been born in different circumstances, he will do anything. He would count the very stars in the sky if he could, die a thousand deaths if he must, if it meant allowing Himiko to be spared the pain of being branded as a criminal and placed behind bars.
“I’ll do anything, please just don’t hurt the woman I love.”
If only Satoru put more effort into earning the love of his people the same way he’s now willing to humbly bow his head to cossett the love of his life. Akiko Gojo gasps quietly when her prideful son falls to his knees in supplication. Suddenly, she is filled with memories of a younger Satoru who was once chastised by his courtiers for tripping on his own feet while he frolicked and played in the palace gardens, and how she didn’t think twice to comfortingly lift him into her arms while his retainer had been so content leaving him on the ground, his scraped knee ailing him as he struggled to stand up.
The empress’s feet seemed to have been possessed by a mind of their own, as she took one step forward, her sorrowful eyes trained on her crying son. “Satoru,” she gently crouches down next to him. “Oh, my little light,” she calls him by his childhood nickname. “Please don’t cry,” she weeps as she wipes his tears away with her thumbs. She shouldn’t be doing this, knowing that Satoru would only take advantage of the knowledge that she’s always going to be there for him regardless of what he does and what monster he becomes.
But seeing her child, her only boy, in the thralls of desolation is too much for her frail heart. So, she makes the choice for him, standing firm before her husband who has always taken the lead in their marriage. “Your Majesty, I beg you to not make a criminal out of Satoru, and reconsider restoring him to the succession. Please have mercy on your son.” His only legitimate heir. If Suguru were to inherit the throne, it would only throw their family into more chaos, and with the events of tonight, the imperial house could benefit from letting Satoru’s recent mishap die quietly. It would be disastrous for everyone if, on the anniversary of his father’s coronation, Satoru were to be unceremoniously thrown out of the palace.
“Akiko,” the emperor involuntarily utters his wife’s name, surprised at her sudden decision to stand up for their degenerate son.
From the moment the 2.3 pound Meiji tiara first touched her head, she relinquished all sense of self to the crown — her surname, her childish desires to lead a normal life, her civilian antics, everything — but now, here she stood before him, not as Empress Akiko but the liberal-minded woman that the emperor fell in love with as a young man. She may have given up everything to forge herself anew as empress of the country, but there is one thing that she has kept under lock and key so that the crown may never hope to steal it from her: her unconditional love for her son.
“Your Majesty,” she glances at Satoru’s kneeling form, her heart clenching in her chest. I’m sorry, my little light, she silently apologizes to her son, the last thing she wants is to seek the impossible from him, but if this was the only way that his future will be secured, then, she’ll just have to be the awful mother that Gojo thinks her to be. “I have a proposition for you.”
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A journalist looks up from his laptop, dumbfounded at what he’s witnessing. “…No way,” he says under his breath. It wasn’t everyday you see a monarch bow before his people begging to be pardoned, but then again, no other monarch in the world is more problematic than Satoru Gojo.
Satoru clutches the fabric of his slacks, his knuckles turning white as he does so. This was so humiliating for him, having to apologize to mere nobodies whose existence wouldn’t even make it to the footnotes of history books to be written a hundred years from now. “I know my words mean nothing after everything I’ve done and the people I hurt, but still, I am sorry,” Satoru utters the apology again as if by saying it a second time, it would hasten his godforsaken sentence that is to be locked in a vile marriage with you.
He’s made it clear earlier by his gestures that he wants nothing to do with you, but perhaps that was only because you hardly know one another, you don’t exactly run in the same circle as him, you don’t have the slightest connection to any political dynasty — not by affiliation, and most certainly not by blood — nor were you some heiress to some long standing conglomerate that the imperial family is closely acquainted with. Perhaps it was just that. All of this animosity stems from the disturbing fact that you couldn’t even call yourself friends now here you were betrothed to one another announcing your engagement to the world.
But, something doesn’t feel right.
Shouldn’t awkwardness between you and Satoru be the worst thing that could come from this shotgun arrangement? You understand that this situation is uncomfortable for him as much as it is terrifying for you but is this truly enough to warrant his hatred? It’s not like you actively volunteered for the part, after all, yet he acts as if you had been the prime instigator of this marriage. You find yourself caught between wanting to keep him at arms’ length to advocate for tense but peaceful silence in your marriage and wanting to become his true and altruistic wife to get to know him better but at the expense of your emotional well-being knowing that he’ll probably hurl new insults at you.
At this point, the former seems to be the safest option, but there is something so deeply intriguing and captivating in Satoru that you ignore all the warning signs altogether.
Satoru ends the press conference by re-announcing the date of the wedding which will take place next week. You follow him out of the hall, meekly walking three steps behind him. Suddenly, he stops in his tracks, burying his hands in his pocket, adopting a more casual posture. You expect him to berate you for some unknown faux pas you’ve committed during the press conference but instead, you are met with something else. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
He turns around to face you, he doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t look too invested in the conversation either. He just seemed indifferent. His eyes dart around the expanse of the corridor, someone could be listening in to this conversation — the palace has eyes and ears everywhere after all — he needs to temper his tongue lest he angers the emperor or the empress, despite every nerve in his body tempting him to spew more vitriol at you.
Waving a dismissive hand, you shake your head, instantly forgiving him earlier. “No, I must have overstepped my boundaries, I understand and I’m sorry.”
Gojo sighs heavily, offering you a small nod. “Let’s just forget about it,” he says. “It’s getting late,” he notes the time on his watch. “You should probably head home to rest.” That was…surprisingly kind of him.
“A-actually,” you unconsciously play with your engagement ring. “I wanted to ask if you were free tonight so we could…have dinner together.” The empress encouraged the both of you to get to know each other, after all. “I know it must be difficult being engaged to me when you don’t even know me.”
Satoru lets out a weak laugh. He wasn’t at all interested in getting to know you, frankly, he couldn’t give two shits, but it was amusing for him to see how delusional you are.
“I see,” he notes in a business-like manner. “Well, perhaps another time since I have an urgent appointment tonight and I’m already running late.” You can’t even pretend to not be disappointed when you’ve already taken the liberty of reserving seats for the two of you at a nearby restaurant you frequently visit. He plants a parting kiss on your cheek, but something about it feels so detached and hollow, but who were you to expect more when he didn’t harbor an ounce of affection for you? You nod against the kiss, curtsying as he walks away.
“What a day.” You discard the many hair pins that neatly gathered your hair into a half-updo, grimacing at the stickiness of your locks from the copious amount of hairspray that had been applied to it. Sighing, you get into your car, removing the standard four inch pumps you’ve been instructed to wear, as per the dress protocol set by the Imperial Household Agency for female members of the imperial family when they attend public events, in favor of your more laidback ballet flats.
As you drive out of the main compound of the palace, you are surprised to see Satoru, accompanied by what looks like eight bodyguards, hastily making his way to the official car used by the emperor. He waits as his chauffeur brings the car around, but for some reason, he does not look impatient for someone who is supposedly running late for an urgent appointment, he is leisurely tapping away on his phone. Suddenly, something catches you off guard. A boyish grin appears on Satoru’s face when he is approached by a figure that looks like a woman.
An awfully familiar one.
You don’t know if it must be the heat from your car’s air conditioning unit but — you feel your heart in your throat, no, to be accurate, you feel like you’ve been winded by a punch to the gut — you understand why she would be with him given her position and all, but why was Satoru draping his suit over his Chief-of-Staff’s narrow shoulders?
And…why is she kissing your fiancé’s cheek?
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water’s edge taglist: @dummyf @kentokaze @esthelily @mandysfanfics @strawberryjimin13 @mat71201 @snowprincesa1 @naturallyspontaneous @kooromin @gojoist @dcvilxswish @13-09-01 @peachipeachy @iluv-ace @sawendel @helloitsshitzulover @jjuniescuderia @ackermendick @starrylibras @timetobegone @heelariously @idktbhloley @jjuniescuderia
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ithebookhoarder · 3 months
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(BAU Headcanons) Spending a day off with your S.O.
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Aaron Hotchner
Ok. So. First of all... Aaron's casual wardrobe is sinful and I feel like I need to mention it when talking about days off. After all, he's not going to turn down the excuse not to wear a shirt and tie, knowing jeans and his usual polo shirts are better suited to both relaxing and possibly chasing after Jack.
If you two ever got a rare day off then he would do his best to make you breakfast in bed, knowing that having an excuse to stay in bed is a luxury.
If Jack is with you, and not at Jessica's, then you know Jack would be right next to him in the kitchen, begging to help. I mean, if you watch Bluey, picture the episode where Bingo is trying to make that omelette for Bandit on his birthday... that's basically the vibe here.
Hotch wouldn’t try to force you out of the house if you didn’t want to go, as he’s perfectly happy to stay in and play with you and Jack. After all, you have the most recent lego set, which you bought him for his birthday, to finish building.
"You up for that buddy? Six hands are better than four, after all."
Or, if you don't have the energy or patience, then you three can curl up on the sofa together and watch movies and the backlog of tv shows you’ve missed out on whilst you’ve been away working. 
Fun Fact: Aaron would rather die than admit to the rest of the BAU that you got him hooked on reality shows like The Real Housewives of Beverley Hills or Below Deck -but he is. He finds them fascinating case studies in human behaviour... or that's his excuse anyway when you call him out on it.
However, if you do want to actually leave the house and get outside then he’d be pretty relaxed about whatever it is you wanted to do, as long as you could all do it together. 
He'd also love it if you both got the chance to go for a run, enjoying the rare opportunity to race you through the nearby park. You can just soak in the sunshine and watch the other people as they make their way through the world, before grabbing a coffee on your way home.  
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David Rossi 
Rossi is a man who knows the value of creature comforts, as we've seen repeatedly in the show. You know this man enjoys having time off to indulge himself - and you too.
As soon as he knows he has the day off, you can bet he's driving you to the local farmer's market to buy all the ingredients needed for a home cooked feast. 
Despite promising to be there only an hour, you know he's the kind of person who would talk to each and every vendor, learning all their names and asking after their families as if they've been friends since birth.
You'd end up spending almost the entire morning - and part of the afternoon - shopping, sampling various treats and wares, and buying several bag's worth, before you're finally able to drag him back to the car.
As he's cooking, Rossi would definitely play his favourite records. He alternates between crooning along and telling you tidbits about the artists - and the many crazy memories he has about these records.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I first heard this? We were in this tiny little motel, in the middle of a horrific blizzard, and several whiskeys in..."
It's hard not to get distracted, drawn in as he pulls you close and starts dancing about the kitchen. You'd get so distracted that you almost let dinner spoil and only remember it's even there when you start to smell something burning.
"Ah! Merda!"
After dinner you know you'd end up outside on his patio, enjoying the view as the sun goes down, over a cocktail of his choosing.
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Derek Morgan
You know this eager beaver would not be spending a day off with you doing nothing or letting the day ‘go to waste’.
He’d be at your doorstep bright and early, looking unfairly energetic for someone who has been running on minimal sleep all week.
Thankfully, he brings coffee and breakfast with him which is his way of bribing you to get your ass up and out with him. 
As for the day itself, he’d either have the day planned to a ’t’ or he’d have nothing planned at all. 
“Relax, sweetness, we’re letting the day take us where it may. Enjoy the ride.” 
He'd love having a reason to take you to whatever property he's renovating, hoping to share his vision for the place and getting your opinion on it all.
He'd even let you have a swing or two with a sledgehammer if there's a dry-wall that needs taking down. It's a great stress-reliever for you both, and there's nothing like hammering along in the time to beat of whatever playlist he's chosen.
He'd also order you a pizza, or whatever take-out you fancied, as payment for all your hard work.
You know he'd also been keen to help you wash up later, running you both a hot bath to soak in as you actually have the time to enjoy it.
And just between us - he knows Hotch and Rossi would have his guts his they found out - but he may or may not have left your cellphones on the bed-side table just to ensure you get an hour of peace, undisturbed...
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Emily Prentiss
Ok. So. Emily loves having a day off almost as much as she enjoys working.
She doesn't require much in the way of plans. In fact, her ideal day off from the BAU involves you, a crossword puzzle, and your usual table by the window at the coffee shop around the corner.
It's right by the window, so you can bathe in the sun whilst you nurse your way through coffee after coffee.
The whole place reminds her of one similar that she spent her time in, in Paris. Just like then, she loves reading books, and completing the daily crossword with your help.
"Damn it. This is what time in Europe gets you - I forgot there's no 'u' in color. No wonder it wasn't fitting."
Emily also has a game she likes to play, watching the people around you, guessing what their stories are and imaging outlandish profiles for them all. It's a privilege to enjoy it when it's for entertainment and not out of a need to be aware of your surroundings or an ongoing threat assessment. 
Afterwards, you'd go for a stroll around the park and most likely visit the shops you rarely get a chance to.
You both spend ages going through the racks and modelling outfits for one another, knowing you need some new things to fill out your wardrobes other than work-attire. It's a like private treat for yourselves.
Once you're home again, I feel Emily would want to cook and would do a pretty good job when she has the energy. However, she is not above ordering takeout when you both can’t be bothered. 
After all, it gives you both more time together to lie in bed, with Sergio curled up between you, purring loudly as you take it in turns to pet him.
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JJ
Depending on when you two got together (before or after Will), she would love to have a chance for the both of you to spend the day with Henry.
You're her family and the most important thing in the world to her. It's why she can't stop beaming as you spend the afternoon at the park together, running rings around the place and clambering all over the playground.
"I swear this kid is faster than most of the Unsubs we chase - and more sneaky too."
JJ would bring all your favourite snacks with her so you can all lie out on the grass and feast once your energy levels drop. She doesn't even mention the sugar content or how many E-numbers there are. You all deserve a treat, Henry included, so she's willing to put her 'mom hat' aside for a minute.
I feel like she'd also try and put her mom hat aside so you two can have some time without a child in tow. She'd try and make a last minute arrangement to get a sitter so you two can have some 'adult' time.
This normally involves making a reservation at your favourite restaurant, and insisting on you both dressing fancy just for the fun of it.
After all, you never get to play at being grown ups and just enjoy wearing something because it looks nice and not because you can run around in the field in it.
"I've had these heels for years and I swear I've only got to wear them like three times - and this skirt! I love this skirt."
Once you get to the restaurant, you spend hours just talking, drinking, and eating before taking a stroll on the way home.
You then curl up in bed and fall asleep to the sound of the TV playing your favourite movies, safe and warm in each other's arms.
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Penelope Garcia 
This girl is the queen of relaxing. If she doesn’t have to be awake before noon then you can bet your ass she’ll be tucked up and toasty till 12:01. 
Once she's awake, however, she's a flustered mess, struggling to pick between her various plans for your time off together. There's just so much she wants to do with you and never enough time.
"What? I'm the queen of fun and I just want to make sure we make the most of our time together, sugar plum. I can't help it. I'm excited to have a day just you and me, not that I don't love the others too. I do, but you know, just having it be us is rare -"
You stop her rambling with a kiss, which of course makes her melt.
I feel like Penelope would always try and spend part of the day with you in the kitchen, baking a new recipe to take to work for the others to try.
She'd also love spending the day on the sofa with you, watching either a Rom-com or a Sci-fi marathon (depending on your moods).
Once the decision has been made, she'd insist on gathering supplies - AKA: onesies, takeout and face masks.
"It's the holy trinity of self-care," she explains, holding up your choices. "Now, do you want the tea-tree or coconut face mask?"
However, if you do feel like getting out of the house, then Penelope would take you on theatre trips - which are booked last minute but with amazing seats (courtesy of Penelope’s connections and slightly unorthodox know-how).
The others are still jealous after finding out she got you tickets to Hamilton, front row, with the original cast.
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Dr Spencer Reid
You know Spencer is the kind of person that has a list of things the size of his arm that he’d love to do with you on a rare day off. 
You’d probably have to negotiate with him to figure out which ones you could reasonably do in just 24 hours - and you try to find a balance between appeasing his interests and yours. 
For example, you don’t mind sitting through a Russian movie festival if afterwards he agrees to let you wander around your favourite bookshop and spend as long as you want exploring the shelves - without him critiquing or spoiling the endings before you even have a chance to read the blurb. 
If you also happened to let it slip that you'd never watched every single episode of Doctor Who that's ever been made, then you know your future days off will be spent marathoning on the couch. 
"I'm just saying that he's underrated as the Doctor as arguably the narratives of his episodes are far better developed and reflect the point of the show, which is that the Doctor isn't perfect but rather a time-travelling refugee who acts as a healer, counsellor, and protector of the universe. It's why he calls himself 'The Doctor' ..."
He always looks so adorable when he gets excited about something he loves. It's hard not to fall in love with him all over again.
Apart from watching TV, you both also love spending days off on that couch, curled up together, reading your way through the stack of books you both had in your never ending ‘TBR’ pile. 
Spencer would love listening to you discuss whatever you're reading, doing his best to memorise the characters, plots, and your thoughts on both. It's the least he can do when you listen so patiently every time he starts rambling on about whatever his latest hyper-fixation is.
"Can I... can I borrow that when you're finished? I'm now curious - just don't tell the others, ok?"
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moondirti · 1 year
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cigarettes out the window
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A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.
You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.
pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.
Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.
The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.
Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton. 
A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.
You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.
Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom. 
You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause. 
Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago. 
The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.
Instead, you light another.
The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing. 
The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings. 
You wish he’d hang around more. 
The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows. 
You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke. 
“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained. 
You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in. 
In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence. 
“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.” 
Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities. 
Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.
Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows. 
What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt? 
Go on then. Spit it out.
The target had pulled a knife out on your operative. 
A dead end. 
His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.
Dead ends, dead ends. 
He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried. 
There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas. 
You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight. 
You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still. 
You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore. 
He’s jus’ taking the piss. 
And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.
You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do. 
Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.
“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command? 
“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.” 
If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it. 
He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli. 
Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–
You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.
No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.
Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh. 
Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.
You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day. 
Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.
Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling. 
With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken. 
You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?” 
He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.
Right.
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Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze. 
Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room. 
“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.
“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.” 
“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”
You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.
You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.
Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor. 
You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.
Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?” 
Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.” 
You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts. 
Then –
“You don' drink?” 
It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested. 
“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”
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He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees. 
“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–
“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.
He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.
“More of a sesame guy, myself.” 
Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.
Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church. 
I’d murder for a whiskey. 
You mean scotch? 
I drink bourbon.
You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees. 
Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.
Problem, Scout? 
Negative, sir. 
He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did. 
Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water. 
It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid. 
There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.
“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.
“Can’t we send in an extraction team?” 
His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line. 
It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one. 
Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it. 
Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.
Your mother couldn’t have cared less. 
You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side. 
The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from,  too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you. 
You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.) 
Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise. 
The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it. 
But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.  
So–
“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile. 
“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.
All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.
This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.” 
And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?” 
The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning. 
You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon. 
You spit the first thing that comes to mind. 
“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.” 
And still with the revelation of what you just said. 
Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance. 
But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards. 
“Afraid she’s not my type.” 
And that’s all he gives you. 
A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin? 
Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.
But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead. 
Fuck. 
You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb. 
You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy. 
“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.” 
You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves.  You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.
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You: Ran out of shampoo. 
read at 3:25 am 
He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood. 
“Didn’ know what you liked.” 
You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart. 
“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient. 
In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin. 
You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes. 
It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush. 
He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red. 
You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant. 
Anxiolytic. 
Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache. 
You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.
Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him. 
Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now? 
No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud. 
You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks. 
Atta’ girl. 
Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars. 
He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)
Problem, Scout?
Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.
A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes. 
You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.
A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.
Simon.
“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door. 
Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp. 
“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder. 
You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.
You’ve been in here too long. 
“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.” 
Bloody hell.
You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart. 
They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.
Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.
Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once. 
Dead ends.
When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.
“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.” 
You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”
“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.
You’re left alone with him. 
There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.
“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin. 
“Alright?” 
Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be. 
“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal. 
“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.” 
“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums. 
“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.” 
You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.
“And when they do?” You ask. 
“We’ll be ready for them.” 
Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team. 
You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls. 
It’ll be hard not to miss it. 
You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.
But–
You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.
They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun. 
You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you. 
You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes. 
“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command. 
What did he mean by that? Bad timing? 
Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths. 
He can’t know. Can he? 
The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun. 
He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag. 
I’m good. 
You’re not. Drink. 
And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak. 
Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors. 
He doesn’t miss a thing. 
He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless. 
He draws a deep inhale. 
He knows. 
“Didn’t finish, pet?” 
Shit.
That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid. 
“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness. 
His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into. 
“Turn around. Face the window.” 
Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says.  Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.
But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.
You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.
A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour. 
As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms. 
“Keep an eye out. Got it?” 
Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.
You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine. 
But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant. 
It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.
He’d taken off his gloves. 
Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts. 
You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone. 
A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut. 
“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.
“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out
“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?” 
But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire. 
You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –
He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.
“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–” 
“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss. 
“We can be quick,” 
And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.” 
You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more. 
You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world. 
“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,” 
Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”
“M’already there.”   
And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper. 
But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.
This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs. 
Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.
But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust. 
Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street. 
“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.” 
He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone. 
“Lt… I think– I think I see something.” 
Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl. 
“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.
He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat. 
You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.
Why’s he so worried? 
It was only a shadow. 
Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it. 
A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour. 
You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss. 
And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures. 
But your name is not for nothing. 
Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green. 
You’re the reason we’re alive, kid. 
It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you. 
A red laser, pointed straight at your chest. 
Sniper. 
“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before. 
Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you. 
At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price. 
Never at you. 
“SCOUT.”
A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.
The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb. 
Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.
There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed. 
Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.
You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.
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Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat. 
You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back. 
It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash. 
A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns. 
She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.
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When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base. 
You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else. 
Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety. 
No, that’s not quite right. 
Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate? 
You need a cigarette.  
Not embraced. 
Your eyes fly open. 
Simon. 
“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”
The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers. 
A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead. 
You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.  
“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine. 
She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left. 
You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,
“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.
But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf. 
“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.” 
Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will. 
You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand. 
“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.” 
You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.
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Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.
It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages. 
Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.
Found him in the wreckage.
sent tuesday
Accompanied by a photo.
A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.
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You don’t see him for a month afterwards. 
The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus. 
Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.
Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.
You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here. 
Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe. 
Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.
Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like. 
As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.
You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind. 
Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out. 
It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.
You: finally out
[attached: current location] 
And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill. 
Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.
read at 9:03 pm
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Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway. 
You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach. 
Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him. 
You’re the one who invited him. And yet–
His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema. 
It all comes swarming back to you.
The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough. 
Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down. 
Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.
“How are you?” 
He takes a step forward. “Your head–” 
“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound. 
“And Johnny?” 
“Better than ever.”
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“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?” 
A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated. 
The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle. 
“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel. 
“Sent on some other mission, then?” 
“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde. 
You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches. 
You think you know why. 
“It’s not your fault, Lt.” 
His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you. 
Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.
“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.” 
The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness. 
Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.
Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you. 
That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that. 
When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.
But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks. 
Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon. 
That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity. 
He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.
“And you saved my life.” 
Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head. 
“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”
“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.” 
An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.
“Simon…” 
He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless. 
“I still–” 
His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls. 
“I know, pet. Me too.”
Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.
“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.
“I think I’ll be able to find it.” 
With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.
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“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.” 
An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles. 
“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-” 
He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.
But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.
“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low. 
Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava. 
Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask. 
“You’re quivering.” 
“Huh?” 
His thumb swipes over your hole. 
“Oh–” 
He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you. 
“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth. 
Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit. 
He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.
To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper. 
You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper. 
The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers. 
Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall. 
“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise. 
No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him. 
“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”
“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs. 
You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia. 
And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.
“Atta’ girl.”
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“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.
His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks. 
Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex. 
“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him. 
Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.” 
Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you. 
“Chocolate?” 
You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon. 
“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.” 
Simon drives himself deeper into you.
“There are sweeter things.”
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He’d named the kitten Tommy.
4K notes · View notes
fatecantstopme · 4 months
Text
This Isn't Real
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Pairing: Dean Winchester x plus size!reader
Summary: When you get kidnapped by a Djinn, Dean and Sam risk everything to save you.
Warnings: canon violence, talk of death, cursing. Shit ton of angst. Some fluff. SMUT, oral (F receiving), unprotected sex (P in V).
You woke up in an unfamiliar room as the sun began to peek through the curtains. Your eyes took a moment to adjust as you glanced around the room, desperately trying to remember where you were and how you got there.
Your mind flashed to a dark warehouse and vague memories of searching for something there, but the harder you tried to remember, the farther away those memories became.
You sat up with a groan and began to rub your temples. Where the hell am I?
You felt someone stir in the bed beside you and realized you weren't alone. You turned to look at the person, but you heard his voice before your brain could process what you were seeing.
"Hey baby, you okay?" he asked groggily.
"What?" you managed to croak out--shock settling into your bones as you stared at the man beside you.
He sat up, revealing his bare, toned, muscular chest. You looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. Why the fuck am I in bed with Dean Winchester?
He touched your cheek and turned your head towards him. "You okay? I heard you groan."
"I--um...I'm fine," you stuttered. "What, uh--what happened last night?"
He raised his eyebrows as he regarded you. "We came home from the party early because you were feeling a little...frisky."
"Party?" you asked in confusion.
"Damn, baby, how much did you have to drink?" he asked with a chuckle.
Your face must have show how deeply confused you were, because he seemed to take pity on you.
"It was Sam's birthday party, babe. Remember? We came home, had some damn incredible sex, and fell asleep. Any of this ringing a bell?"
"Sam's birthday?" you muttered, then belatedly yelled, "WE HAD SEX?"
Dean laughed. "Girl, you gotta lay off the whiskey sours. They're messing with your memory." He kissed you on your forehead before dragging himself out of bed.
You were now faced with a very naked Dean Winchester and you averted your gaze out of habit.
"I'm gonna take a shower. Wanna join me?" he asked with a smirk.
"I...uh--I...not right now."
He looked a little crestfallen, but he simply shrugged. "Suit yourself."
As soon as he'd entered the bathroom, you jumped out of bed and looked around the room. Something had to be going on. Something insane. This wasn't real life--it couldn't be.
You glanced down at yourself and realized you were completely naked. You quickly threw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt before continuing your search around the room.
You saw a couple framed pictures sitting on the bureau near the bathroom door. You picked one up and felt your jaw drop. It was you and Dean on a beach. You grabbed the second one and found it was also of you and Dean, only this time you were apparently in Paris. The third and final picture was, of course, of you and Dean. It looked like some kind of park and he was on his knee in front of you, holding a small blue box in his hand.
You glanced at your left hand in disbelief, but there it was--a very large, very beautiful diamond ring. "We're engaged?" you mumbled in shock.
You set the picture down and collapsed onto the bed. Your mind was reeling and you had absolutely no memory of any of this.
You knew Dean--you'd known him for years--but you were just friends. You hunted together. That was all. Sure, you'd always liked him more than you should have, but he didn't reciprocate it. You certainly didn't wake up in the same bed, and you definitely weren't engaged to him.
When you woke up yesterday, you'd been in a motel room with Sam and Dean...you were hunting something. You closed your eyes and desperately tried to remember what it was. It was almost as if something was blocking that specific memory--no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't grasp it.
Dean appeared from the bathroom, clad in nothing but a towel around his waist. He saw you sitting on the edge of the bed with your head in your hands. Concern knotted his eyebrows together and he immediately crossed the short distance between you.
"(Y/N/N)?" he asked softly when he reached your side.
You looked up at him and felt your heart skip a beat. He was beautiful and perfect...and it was downright offensive. How anyone could look that good was a mystery. An even bigger mystery was why in the hell he was engaged to you.
He knelt down in front of you and took your hands into his. You stared at them, feeling the warmth spread throughout your body.
"What's going on with you?" he asked gently.
Tears filled your eyes as you looked into his beautiful green ones. "I don't know where I am," you whispered. "I don't...I don't remember any of this. I--I don't think it's real."
Dean's face lit up in surprise. "What do you mean? Of course it's real." He squeezed your hands comfortingly. "Do you feel that, baby? I'm real and so are you."
"Then why can't I remember?"
He looked sad. "I don't know, sweetheart. Maybe you just need to give it a little time and then your memories will come back."
You shook your head. "I was in a motel yesterday. A motel with you and Sam. We were going hunting."
Dean looked confused. "Hunting? I've never been hunting and I'm pretty sure you haven't either. Are you sure that wasn't a dream?"
"It felt--real. It was real," you insisted.
"Okay," he said soothingly. "What makes you think that was real and this isn't?"
"I remember it," you whispered.
"And you don't remember our lives together," he finished softly.
You nodded.
He reached up and tucked a hair behind your ear. "I don't know why you can't remember, but I'll be damned if I don't help you figure it out."
He stood up. "Why don't we go see Sam? Maybe going to his house will jog your memory of last night?"
"Okay."
He grabbed your hand and helped you to your feet. "Let's get dressed, pretty girl. Everything's gonna be okay."
You nodded, feeling a little more confident that everything might really be okay.
**********
When Dean pulled up in front of Sam's house, you looked out the window, but didn't have any rush of memories. Nothing about it looked familiar.
Dean came around and opened the car door for you and took your hand as you stepped out. He watched your face for any sign of recognition, but he saw none.
"Come on, beautiful," he said gently, leading you to the front door.
A few moments after Dean rang the doorbell, Sam appeared at the door with a warm smile. "Hey guys! Come on in."
Dean led the way and you followed gratefully.
"So, uh...Dean mentioned you're having some memory problems?" Sam asked gently.
You nodded. "I--uh--I don't really remember much of anything really."
"Hmm," Sam hummed. "Sit. Let's talk."
You and Dean sat on the couch and Sam sat across from you on a chair. Dean explained the morning's events to his brother, while you sat quietly. There wasn't much more to say.
"So what do you remember?" Sam asked you.
"Hunting," you answered honestly. "I remember hunting with you and Dean. We've been doing it for years together."
"Hunting?" Sam asked in surprise. "We've never been hunting in our lives--and certainly not all together."
"Do you believe in ghosts?" you blurted.
Both men looked shocked. "I'm sorry, what?" Sam asked.
"Ghosts, goblins, ghouls, vampires, werewolves...all the things that go bump in the night. Do you believe in them?"
Sam and Dean exchanged worried looks. "No, (Y/N)...those are just stories," Dean said gently.
You sighed sadly. "That's what we hunt," you whispered so softly they almost didn't hear you.
"We hunt monsters?" Sam asked incredulously.
You just nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything else.
"Baby, that really does sound like a dream. An intense dream, perhaps, but a dream nonetheless," Dean said calmly.
"Then why does it feel so real?" you asked softly.
He looked sad. "I don't know, sweetheart. I really don't."
"What about right now?" Sam asked. "Does this feel real?"
You nodded.
"As real as hunting monsters?" he prodded.
You nodded again.
"Then why would you think this isn't real?"
"I guess I don't have a good answer for that," you admitted. "Hunting monsters does sound kinda crazy, doesn't it?"
Dean offered you a soft smile. "A little bit, baby. Especially for a lawyer, a mechanic, and a veterinarian."
Hearing the careers the three of you apparently had sparked another question in your mind. "Dean, how did we meet?"
"What?" he asked in surprise.
"How did we meet?"
"We met when Sam found that stray dog with the broken leg. He asked me to drive him to the nearest vet office...you happened to be the vet on duty that day."
You closed your eyes and tried desperately to remember meeting him, to no avail. You also couldn't remember veterinary school or even having a job at all.
"Hey, it's okay," Dean said sweetly, upon noticing your distress. "You don't have to remember right now."
Tears filled your eyes again, upset and ashamed at your inability to remember your life.
Dean wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. He kissed the top of your head and whispered, "Everything's okay, baby. I love you. You're safe."
You knew without a shadow of a doubt he was right about one thing--you were safe. You had never felt safer with anyone in your life than Dean Winchester and it didn't matter that you couldn't remember this reality...you still knew he would protect you with his life.
**********
Dean's POV:
It had been three hours since (Y/N) went missing and I was losing my mind. Sam and I had looked everywhere...we should have never let her wander off on her own.
My brother was clearly having similar thoughts as he said, "You shouldn't have let her go out there alone."
"Let her?" I asked in annoyance. "I didn't let her do anything. She got mad at me and stormed off. That's not my fault."
Sam glared at me. "You're the one who pissed her off and you didn't go after her."
I kicked a rock that was at my feet as hard as I could. I hated that he was right and I hated myself for upsetting her. I was terrified of what would happen if we didn't find her in time. "I know," I admitted softly.
Sam's expression softened. "We're gonna find her, Dean."
I looked up at him and sighed. "We've looked everywhere. It's like she just disappeared."
"She didn't just disappear. Something or someone took her."
"We've been in this town for 6 hours. It's not like we've pissed anyone off yet," I grumbled.
"Yeah, I know. Besides, (Y/N) could fight off most humans she came across..."
"She went looking for the Djinn, Sam. I just know it."
"Why would she do that on her own? She's not stupid."
I groaned loudly. "Because she had something to prove!"
"What are you talking about?"
"I was mad at her, okay? I was mad she was so reckless during our last hunt and I lashed out at her. I told her there was no way she could do this job without us, but we were perfectly capable of handling it on our own. I wanted her to stay at the motel while we took care of the Djinn."
"Dean, she saved your life!"
"I know!" I yelled. "I didn't ask her to do that! She could have died."
"That's the life, Dean. We all could die at any time."
I glared at him. "If she died saving me, I would never forgive myself. Never."
Sam sighed. He knew what I was trying to say without me having to say it. I wouldn't admit the truth and he knew it. "You should've known telling her she couldn't do something would make her want to do it."
I closed my eyes. "I'll regret it for the rest of my life, Sam."
Sam shook his head and opened the passenger door of the Impala. "You won't have to because we're going to find her."
I watched my brother get in the car and I took a deep breath. "I hope you're right," I whispered before getting into the car myself.
**********
It had been a couple days since you'd woken up in a strange place. You weren't sure why your memories were gone, but you'd started to feel comfortable. You'd settled easily into a routine, and those memories you'd had of hunting had begun to fade.
Dean had suggested you take some time off of work until you felt more comfortable...and perhaps your memories would return during that time. You'd taken his advice since you had zero memory of college and you didn't feel comfortable having animals' lives in your hands.
Dean had been the perfect boyfriend--fiancé. He was incredibly patient and sweet and it warmed your heart to know just how much he cared. Any time you forgot something that had happened, he would gently remind you about it without making you feel embarrassed or uncomfortable.
It surprised you to realize how deeply you cared for him--how much you truly loved him. He loved you, that much was clear, but you had yet to share those feelings with him. At least, not in your recollection.
You'd spent the day relaxing on your back deck with a good book. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt this happy. An hour before Dean would be home from work, you went inside and began preparing dinner. You wanted to make him something special as a thank you for being such a good partner.
You were standing in the kitchen finishing up dinner when Dean got home. He came into the room and inhaled deeply. "Smells amazing, babe. Whatcha making?"
You turned to him with a smile. "Lasagna."
He grinned. "I freaking love lasagna." He came over and kissed you softly. "And I love you."
You smiled warmly. "I love you too, Dean."
His beautiful green eyes lit up at your words. He stepped forward and pressed you up against the counter. His arms snaked around your waist and he kissed you deeply.
You squirmed a little when it became hard to breathe. Dean chuckled as he broke the kiss, allowing you to inhale rapidly.
"You're covered in grease and you're getting it on me," you teased. "Go shower and dinner will be ready by the time you're done."
He smiled and kissed you again. "Fine, fine. I'll shower." He stepped away from you and turned to go towards the bedroom.
"Oh, and Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"I've got a surprise for dessert. I think you're gonna like it."
He grinned ear to ear. "Is it you?" he teased.
"Dean Winchester!" you yelled with a laugh. You threw a hand towel at him and he ran from the room to escape, laughing all the way to the bathroom.
You rolled your eyes and went back to finishing dinner. You also pulled a pie out of the fridge and set it on the counter to finish defrosting. You'd gone to the store earlier that day and picked up an apple pie--Dean's favorite.
15 minutes later, Dean came into the kitchen looking refreshed and clean. You were setting the table, so you told him to have a seat and you'd bring out the lasagna.
"Do you want a beer?" you called from the kitchen.
"Water's fine, babe," he called back.
You froze for a moment. In all the time you'd known Dean, he had never turned down a beer...certainly not in favor of water. A voice in your head was screaming that something wasn't right, but you ignored it. You shook your head to clear your mind and quickly poured him a glass of water instead.
The two of you ate dinner, enjoying each other's company. You listened to Dean talk about his day and he asked about yours. It all felt very mundane...very domesticated.
You kept a smile on your face throughout dinner, even though something was bothering you. You couldn't help but feel like you were meant for something more--like your life had a different purpose. Maybe you were just in your head too much since you weren't working at the moment. That had to be it...
"Sweetheart?" Dean asked, interrupting your thoughts.
"Hmm?" you hummed in response.
"You okay?"
You smiled. "I'm fine, Dean. I was just lost in thought."
His eyes scanned your face for a few moments, but he eventually smiled. You were doing a good job of hiding your thoughts from him, but you weren't sure if that was a good thing.
Once dinner was done, you began to clean up. Dean insisted on helping, which you appreciated. You kept him busy with packing the lasagna away in leftover containers so he wouldn't notice the pie on the other counter.
"Ready for dessert?" you asked sweetly.
He smiled. "Sure, baby. What'd you make?"
"I bought it, but I think you'll still like it. Go sit back down and I'll bring it out."
He nodded and went back to the dining room.
You cut a generous slice of the pie for him and a much smaller piece for yourself. Pie had never been your favorite dessert, but Dean loved pie more than he loved anything in this world. You didn't mind having something that wasn't your first choice because you knew it would make him happy.
You came into the dining room and placed the large slice in front of him before sitting down with your own.
He was quiet for a moment and you felt that same voice creeping into your head again. "Dean? It's apple pie..."
"Yeah, thanks (Y/N/N). Kind of a big piece though, don't you think?"
The voice in your head got a little louder. "Sure, but you never turn down a big piece of pie. I've seen you eat an entire pie before." You chuckled at the memory...except Dean looked different in your mind. Rougher, but somehow happier.
"I suppose you're right. I can make some room in my stomach for it. I guess I'm just not the biggest fan of apple pie."
You froze and the voice began screaming at you. SOMETHING IS WRONG! "Apple pie is your favorite," you said quietly.
His face changed as he looked at you. He smiled warmly and said, "You're right. It is my favorite. Thank you for thinking of me."
Your heart was beating so quickly you thought it might actually explode. The man in front of you had gone from 'not the biggest fan of apple pie' to 'apple pie is my favorite' in the span of 30 seconds.
In that moment everything changed. It was no longer just a voice inside your head screaming at you to leave...you realized it was your voice.
"This isn't real," you whispered.
"What'd you say, sweetheart?"
You looked up at Dean--the man wearing Dean's face. "None of this is real." You stood up. "I'm sorry, but I have to go."
He sat there in shock as you rushed towards the door. You weren't exactly sure where you needed to go, but you had a feeling you would find it. You were out the door and running down the street before he even realized what had happened.
**********
Dean's POV:
"This is the last vacant warehouse in this godforsaken city and I swear to God if she's not here, I'm going to kill someone."
"Since I'm the only person here, maybe you don't kill anyone," Sam said calmly.
I glared at him, but didn't say anything. We'd been searching for hours and we hadn't found a damn thing. Not even a clue. This was a last ditch effort to find (Y/N) and I didn't know how I would handle it if she wasn't there. I wasn't sure I could handle it.
I parked the Impala a little ways away from the entrance to the warehouse, just in case the Djinn was there. I didn't want to tip it off. We grabbed our weapons from the trunk and headed inside.
We'd only been inside the building for a few minutes when I heard a sound that sent chills down my spine. It sounded like blood dripping and my only thought was of her before I took off running.
Had I been thinking rationally, I would have realized it was just the sound of water dripping onto the floor, but I was far past rational. There aren't many people in this world that I would die for, but (Y/N) was second on that list right after my brother. She didn't know it, but she meant the world to me. I had to find her--alive.
Sam grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. He gave me a look like I was being reckless, which I suppose I was. He pointed to a room up ahead that appeared to be dimly lit. He started walking towards it and gestured for me to follow.
The moment we turned that corner, my worst fears came to life. The only thing I saw was the woman I loved strung up from the ceiling by her wrists, feet barely touching the floor. She was extremely pale and I could see blood slowly draining from her body into an IV bag.
I moved towards her with a speed I didn't know I had. Terror filled my lungs as I reached for her, worried that I was too late. There was a lot of blood in that bag and I had no way of knowing how many had been filled already.
I touched her cheek with shaking hands and I whispered her name. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears as I begged her to wake up. I tried to feel for a pulse, but my hands were shaking too much to tell.
Sam came up beside me and pressed his fingers to her neck. I watched him in terrified silence, waiting for him to shatter my heart into a million pieces.
"She's alive," he whispered in relief.
My eyes widened in surprise and my heart practically flew out of my chest with joy. "We need to get her out of here," I whispered back as I unhooked the IV to stop the blood flow.
Suddenly, Sam went flying across the room and I turned around in surprise. I came face to face with the Djinn, who was reaching for me with blue electricity crackling from his fingertips. I ducked to avoid his hand and the fight began.
**********
You had no idea where you were going, but your feet were on a mission. You felt like you'd been walking for days, but in reality it had only been an hour or so. You belatedly realized you could have just stolen a car, but on the off chance you were wrong about all of this, you didn't want to commit a crime.
After almost two hours of walking, you found yourself standing in front of an old abandoned warehouse. Something about the imposing building felt strangely familiar, but you couldn't put your finger on why.
You entered the building cautiously, silently cursing yourself for not bringing anything that could be used as a weapon. You'd been so focused on getting away, that you hadn't done much--any--planning.
The building was dark and you didn't have a flashlight, but thankfully you'd had your phone in your pocket when you left the house, so you pulled it out to use the built in flashlight.
When you looked at the screen, you saw you had several missed calls and texts, mostly from Dean, but several from Sam as well. You ignored them both and turned on the flashlight.
You began to wander through the giant space, looking for something--anything--that felt out of place. It was a lot harder to find something when you had no idea what you were looking for.
After several minutes of wandering aimlessly, you noticed a room up ahead that appeared to be dimly lit. Well that's weird. You slowly made your way closer, trying to be as quiet as possible.
As you rounded the corner, everything changed. You nearly dropped your phone at the sight before you. You were hanging from the ceiling by your wrists, feet barely touching the ground, blood slowly filling an IV bag to your left.
In an instant, everything fell into place. Your memories--your real memories--flooded your mind. You remembered your argument with Dean and your foolish arrogance as you sought out the Djinn on your own. Clearly you'd been unsuccessful in your attempt to kill it--so here you were, trapped in a dream in your own mind while your body slowly died in the real world.
"(Y/N), stay," you heard Dean's voice say from behind you.
You turned to face him, knowing he wasn't real--he wasn't your Dean. "I can't...this isn't real."
"You're right. It's not. But it will feel real. You'll live out your whole life with me. We'll be happy and normal. Isn't that what you want?"
You thought about it for a moment. "No," you answered honestly. "I wasn't meant to be normal, to live a normal life. I'm a hunter...I save people. If that means I'll never be truly happy, if it means I'll die alone, then so be it. I can't stay here no matter how badly I want to...my real life is out there. The real you is out there."
"The real Dean doesn't love you the way I do."
Tears filled your eyes and you nodded. "I know...but at least he's real."
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, desperately trying to wake up.
In the distance, you heard a voice yell your name. You focused on the voice, but you couldn't figure out whose it was. The voice begged you to wake up, to fight..."come back to me," it pleaded.
You began to sink into darkness, unsure of whether you were about to wake up or die. In the moments before the darkness overtook you, you realized who the voice belonged to. "Dean..." you whispered.
Then, blackness.
**********
Dean's POV:
"Sam!" I yelled as my brother was once again tossed across the room. This Djinn was seriously starting to piss me off.
I knew I needed to get (Y/N) out of here, but I was a little preoccupied trying not to end up strung up beside her. I'd managed to disconnect the IV, so at least she wasn't losing blood anymore.
"Shit!" I yelled as I once again dodged the Djinn's hands.
Son of a bitch! I saw Sam's silver knife lying on the floor, a short distance away from me. I moved towards it quickly, grabbing it before the Djinn noticed.
The creature approached Sam, clearly about to zap his ass into dreamland. I rushed up behind it and stabbed it in the back, bringing it to its knees.
The Djinn seemed surprised and I smiled ruefully. "Lamb's blood and silver--lethal combination, you son of a bitch."
Sam started to pull himself off the floor, retrieving his knife from the dead Djinn's back. One glance at my brother told me he was fine, so my focus turned back to (Y/N).
I rushed over to her and held her up while Sam started to work on the chains tying her to the ceiling. "(Y/N)? Can you hear me?"
She didn't respond, not that I expected her to, but that didn't deter me. "Come on, (Y/N). I need you to wake up."
Sam finally got the chains removed from her wrists and she slumped into my arms. I sunk to the ground, holding her close, and continued to beg her to wake up. I knew I sounded pathetic, but I didn't give a damn.
"(Y/N), please. I know you're mad at me, but I need you to wake up. I need you to fight. Please." I laid my head against her forehead and I whispered so softly only she could hear, "Come back to me."
To my surprise, I heard her whisper, "Dean..."
My head shot up and Sam's eyes widened. (Y/N) didn't say another word, but I knew she was alive. I picked her up and carried her to the car, gently placing her in the backseat before speeding off like a bat out of hell.
I pulled into the nearest hospital in record time, throwing the car into park without a thought. I carefully pulled (Y/N) from the backseat and carried her into the ER.
Sam had gone ahead and gotten a nurse to get a gurney, which I placed her on gently. I watched as the nurses took her back to an exam room and I sent up a silent prayer that she would be okay.
**********
You awoke to the sound of beeping and it didn't take you long to realize you were in a hospital. With that realization came a flood of memories. You had no way of knowing how long had passed here in the real world, but for you it had been days.
You began to stir and you let out a groan as your eyes started to adjust to the brightness in the room.
"(Y/N)?"
You turned your head towards the source of the voice, but you couldn't quite make out the person's face.
"Hey," the voice said again. "You're okay. It's me."
Your eyes were still struggling to focus, but you recognized the voice. "Dean," you mumbled.
You didn't see it, but he smiled warmly. "I'm right here, sweetheart. You're okay."
Your body tensed slightly, unsure of how to feel. He didn't normally call you by any pet names and you suddenly feared you were back in the dream. "What happened?"
"You were captured by the Djinn. Sammy and I found you."
Your whole body relaxed and you let out a relieved sigh. Dean didn't understand why that would calm you, but he didn't question it.
"Thanks for saving me," you whispered. Your eyes finally focused on his face and you knew in your heart this was your Dean. He just looked different and your heart tightened at the sight of him.
"You don't have to thank me. It was my fault you ran off in the first place."
You shook your head. "I was an idiot."
"No you weren't. You could have taken him if you weren't distracted by my asshole comments."
Surprise lit up your face. "So you're admitting you were an asshole?"
He chuckled grimly. "It's a one-time deal, so don't get used to it."
You smiled. "I expect nothing less."
Dean shifted slightly, clearly wanting to say something, but he remained silent.
"What?"
He seemed to debate for a moment, but finally asked, "What did you dream about?"
You sighed. "It doesn't matter."
"Of course it does," he insisted. "The Djinn lets you live out your dream life...so what's your dream life, (Y/N)?"
"Technically, the Djinn grants you a wish and the life you see is based around that wish."
Dean rolled his eyes. "You're avoiding the question."
"It was my dream, Dean. You don't need to know about it." You spoke a little more harshly than you'd intended and you hated yourself a little for it. Especially when you saw Dean wince.
He quickly recovered and threw his hands in the air in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I won't press, I promise."
"Thanks."
"Let me go talk to the doctor and see when we can get you outta here, okay?"
It was like he knew exactly what you needed. It warmed your heart and broke it all at once. "Thanks, Dean."
"Sure, (Y/N/N)."
**********
"Will I ever not be tired?" you complained grumpily two days later.
Sam laughed from the small table across the room from the bed you were currently curled up in. "It'll just take a little time. You lost a lot of blood, so your iron levels are low. Be patient."
"I hate being patient," you grumbled.
Sam chuckled again. "You sound like Dean."
As if he'd been summoned, Dean himself walked through the motel room door. "Dinner is served!" he announced happily.
You sat up and started to get out of the bed, but Dean ran over to you. "You can eat in bed, (Y/N). You need your rest."
"I appreciate that, Dean, but you're smothering me. I'm tired of laying in this bed."
Sam laughed and Dean just shook his head. "Alright fine."
He helped you to the table and you sat down across from Sam. You were grateful for his help, even if you didn't want to admit it.
"I got you a burger," Dean began. "I wasn't sure if you'd be feeling up to eating one, but you could really use the energy."
You smiled warmly. "A burger sounds amazing, Dean."
He handed you your food and gave Sam his. He pulled out his own, then reached into the bag and pulled out a small item, which he handed to you. "They, uh...they had freshly baked brownies, so I got you one."
Your eyes lit up as you took the neatly wrapped brownie from him. "Thanks," you said softly.
"They're your favorite, right?" he asked.
He remembered. "Yeah. Especially with the--"
"--little chocolate chips," he finished for you.
You stared at him for a moment, a soft smile gracing your features. Your eyes began to water, so you looked down at your food to keep from embarrassing yourself. "This looks delicious."
The three of you ate your dinners in companionable silence. When you were finished, you got out of your chair and started to make your way back to the bed. You were still tired, but you felt stronger than you had in a few days.
Dean immediately jumped out of his seat to help you, but you gently told him you were okay. "I'm alright, Dean."
His hands seemed to twitch as he watched you walk away, clearly wanting to make sure you were okay. He didn't relax until you sat down on the bed and started to unwrap your brownie.
"She's strong," Sam said lowly.
Dean turned his attention to his brother. "I know. I just worry about her."
"You know I can hear you both, right?" you said from your bed.
Both men chuckled lightly.
"The room's small and voices carry," you teased.
"You're not wrong," Sam said as he got up with a stretch. "I actually think I'm gonna hit the bar. I could use a drink after the week we've had."
Sam looked pointedly at his brother, which didn't go unnoticed by you. You watched as some sort of nonverbal exchange happened between the two men.
"I'll be back later," Sam said, getting what appeared to be the final word in whatever discussion they had been having. He walked out the door with his jacket and Dean locked it behind him.
"Since when does Sam go to bars by himself?" you asked.
Dean shrugged, but didn't meet your gaze. "Guess he really needed that drink."
"Or he wants to get laid," you mumbled.
Dean groaned. "Gross."
You laughed. "He's not a monk, Dean."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I want to think about him getting jiggy with it."
"Did you just say 'getting jiggy with it'?"
"I was trying it out."
"Maybe don't," you said with a laugh.
He grinned and flopped down on the other bed. "I'll make a note of it."
The two of you fell into silence, but unlike during dinner, this one felt uncomfortable. The tension hung in the air and there was so much you wanted to say to him...and so much he wanted to say to you.
"Do you wanna watch TV?" you asked, breaking the silence.
"Not really."
"Okay."
The silence continued to drag on until Dean finally couldn't take it anymore. He sat up and looked at you, gaze seeming to bore into your soul. "Can I tell you something?"
"Sure."
"When you saved my life, I was pissed. Beyond pissed. I haven't been that angry in a long time. But it wasn't because I wanted to die or anything like that...I just didn't want you to. When that vampire sent you flying and I heard you hit the wall, I was terrified. More terrified than I've ever been before."
He took a slow breath before continuing. "Once the vampires were all dead and you started to get up, I felt relieved--you were okay. But then all I felt was rage. I was so angry with you for putting yourself in harm's way like that...for risking yourself to save me. I'm not entirely sure I deserve saving, but I do know if you had died to save me, I would have never forgiven myself."
You stared at him in silence, lips parted, eyes full of emotion. "Dean..."
He held his hand up to stop you. "That's why I yelled at you...that's why I said everything I said. I didn't--I didn't know how to explain what I was feeling, so I lashed out at you. You didn't deserve it and I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry, (Y/N)."
"I appreciate your apology," you said softly. "But I won't apologize for saving your life. If I'd let you die? I wouldn't have forgiven myself."
He looked a little surprised. "I didn't think about that."
"You never think you deserve saving. You don't think you deserve happiness or peace, a normal life--god forbid love... You think you're some kind of monster, but you're not, Dean. You're the best person I know. You're loyal to a fault, strong and brave, but also kind and gentle. No one hates you the way you hate yourself, Dean Winchester, and I'm tired of you projecting those feelings onto other people."
This was absolutely not the direction he'd imagined this conversation going...but here they were. "I don't know why you think that...you've seen me at my worst."
Your expression softened. "You're right. I have. But I've also seen you at your best--and that is a sight to behold. You're incredible, Dean...in all the ways that matter."
His eyes roamed your face searching for any sign of deception. When he saw none, he decided to seize the opportunity to ask you the only question he was dying to know the answer to..."What did you dream about?"
"What?"
"What did you dream about?" he asked again.
You inhaled sharply. It wasn't that you didn't want to tell him about the dream...about the life the two of you had shared...it was just that you were afraid. Afraid of how he would react, what he would think, what he would say...you weren't sure if you wanted to risk it.
You looked into his eyes for what felt like eternity. They seemed to swirl with emotion while silently begging you to tell him the truth.
You sighed. "I dreamed of a normal life...nice house, good job, friends, a fiancé...the whole nine yards."
His lips parted in surprise. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask, but he needed to know. "Fiancé?"
You nodded. "Yeah...I, uh--I was as surprised as you are."
"Is that what you want? A normal life with some random guy who doesn't really know you?"
"He wasn't some random guy," you admitted quietly.
"What?"
"In my dream...my fiancé was someone I know."
"Like in the real world?"
You nodded.
"Who?" Please don't be Sam. Please don't be Sam. Please don't be Sam.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to you or you wouldn't have dreamed it...the Djinn wouldn't have chosen him."
You hated that he was right and you didn't want to tell him. You were afraid it would ruin your relationship...you loved hunting with Sam and Dean. You loved traveling the country with them, hunting monsters, saving people, living in shitty motels...you loved it all, but most of all you loved Dean...and that was something you had never shared with anyone.
"It wasn't real," you whispered. "It was just a fantasy."
Dean decided to take a risk and he prayed he wouldn't regret it. "It doesn't have to be a fantasy."
"What?" you asked in surprise.
"If you tell him...maybe it can be real."
There was something in his eyes that gave you pause. After a few seconds, you realized it was fear. He was afraid of what you were going to say...and it gave you hope. Why would he be afraid of what you were going to say if he wasn't hoping it was him?
"It was you," you admitted quietly.
His lips parted and he inhaled deeply. "Me?"
You nodded slowly, suddenly unable to speak.
He stood up and crossed the short distance between you. He very gently pushed you back against the pillows and crawled on top of you, hovering mere inches from your face. "Do you love me?"
Your eyes widened in surprise. This was not at all how you imagined telling Dean how you feel, but you found yourself incapable of lying to him. "Yes," you breathed out.
"Say it," he whispered.
"I love you, Dean," you said softly.
He closed his eyes and laid his forehead against yours, his breathing labored and his hands shaking slightly. "(Y/N)..."
He stopped thinking then and let his body guide him. He'd loved you for so long--wanted you for even longer--and now he was finally going to have you. He pressed his lips against yours and kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips.
The kisses you'd shared with the fake Dean in your dreams were nothing compared to the real thing. Actual sparks flew, igniting a need for him deep within you. Your hands clung to his flannel shirt, pulling him even closer to you.
He moaned softly against your lips and you parted them to allow him entry. His tongue dominated yours in a passionate fight for power. His hands began to roam the soft curves of your body, eliciting low moans of desire from you.
"I don't remember a time when I didn't love you," he admitted against your lips. "I don't want to remember before."
Your heart seemed to sing at his words. Dean had always been a deeply emotional man--he felt things more strongly than anyone you'd ever known, but he bottled up his emotions and hid them from the rest of the world. Hearing him finally confess his deepest secret made you feel incredibly special.
"I love you so much, Dean Winchester. So, so much."
He smiled. "I love you more, (Y/N) (Y/L/N)."
He kissed you again and you melted into him. His hands continued to roam your body, and yours did the same to his. A passionate need for one another had been ignited within each of you and neither of you could deny it.
You began to peel off his clothing and he did the same to you. The idea of being completely naked with Dean would have normally terrified you, but you could feel the waves of love oozing from the man above you. You knew you weren't the kind of girl Dean normally brought home, but none of that mattered--not when you could feel the love he had for you.
By the time you were both naked, you were overwhelmed with the desire to feel him inside you. He, however, had other plans. He began to slowly work his way down your body, stopping to show your breasts some attention.
"You know, I always loved these," he mumbled as he nipped and sucked at your breasts, earning sweet moans from you.
He continued his journey down your stomach, placing kisses to the scars and stretch marks littering your skin. You felt worshipped in a way you'd never experienced before.
Finally, Dean landed right where you wanted him, but he didn't give into you easily. His lips kissed along your inner thighs, appreciating the soft skin, biting gently to see your reaction.
Your breathing was ragged and you began to beg him to do something, anything. "Dean please," you murmured. "Stop teasing."
He chuckled lightly, but he didn't deny your request. His lips pressed against your core and he pushed your legs as far apart as he could without hurting you. His tongue darted out and licked a stripe up your pussy.
He let out a deep growling sound and dove into you like a man starved. He dug his fingers into your hips as he tugged you closer to him, feasting on you like you were the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.
Your moans spurred him on, the sweet sounds like music to his ears. He could have happily stayed here between your legs until the end of time, but he had a feeling you would make him stop eventually.
Your fingers were interlaced in his hair and you were begging him not to stop. Not that he would have, but you didn't know that. "Dean...I'm so close."
He moaned in response, sending shivers of pleasure up your spine. His tongue focused its assault directly on your clit and you cried out. Your legs began to shake and he could feel you nearing the edge.
He sped up his ministrations, earning another cry from your lips. Your hips bucked slightly and he shifted his arm to hold you in place. "Oh god!" you yelled.
You tightened your grip on his hair as you felt the impact slam into you, orgasming with a cry of his name. He worked you through your high, only stopping when you squirmed out of his grasp.
"Dean," you murmured as he crawled back up towards your face.
He kissed you softly. "I wanna be inside you so badly, baby," he whispered into your ear.
"Please..."
"I don't have a condom," he said softly.
"I don't care. I want you, Dean. Please."
He could never deny you, especially when you begged him so prettily. He lined himself up with your entrance and sheathed himself inside you with one quick thrust.
You gasped his name and dug your fingers into his shoulder blades. The feeling of him filling you up was enough to push you closer to a second orgasm.
Your pussy gripped him like an iron vice and he had to take a deep breath to control himself. He hadn't felt like this since he was a teenager. He needed to get a grip or he was going to cum embarrassingly early.
Your hips shifted beneath him and he hissed softly. "Dean," you begged. "Move."
He started to move and the sounds of wet skin against skin began to fill the room. Those were soon overpowered by your moans and his low groans.
"Fuck, baby...feels so good," he whispered. "Such a sweet, tight, little pussy."
You moaned and your pussy clenched even tighter around him.
He groaned and his hips stuttered to a stop. "You gotta stop doing that baby, or I'm gonna cum."
You grinned wickedly. "Isn't that the point?"
He nipped at your neck playfully. "Not until I get another one from you."
He started to move again, which wiped the smirk from your face in an instant. You wrapped your legs tightly around him, effectively locking him into place inside you.
"Normally I'd have you in a hundred different positions," he muttered, "but I wanna see your face when you cum. I wanna watch my pretty girl fall apart because of me."
Your pussy clenched and you moaned softly in response.
"Yeah? You like that? You like that I wanna watch you?"
You nodded.
"Words, baby."
"Yes, Dean," you gasped.
"That's my good girl."
You practically preened at the praise and Dean made a mental note of it for later. For now, he was focusing on drawing another orgasm from you and staving off his own.
"You're so tight, sweet girl. Feels so good."
Your moans spurred him on, forcing him to keep up his pace. He pulled himself up slightly, tugging your hips with him, allowing him to reach your g-spot with each thrust.
You let out a cry a pleasure that he knew he would die to hear again. He closed his eyes for a moment as he sped up, desperately trying to keep himself from cumming before you did.
"That's it baby, I know you're close," he murmured.
"So close," you cried out.
"I know," he whispered. "I want you to cum for me, baby. Cover my cock with your sweet juices."
Your legs tightened around his hips and your nails dug deeper into his back. He watched your face as you began to shake--orgasm mere seconds away.
"Eyes on me, baby," he demanded.
Your eyes flew open and met his gaze. You gasped--the intensity of it all pushing you over the edge. You yelled his name as you came, explosions of light flashing behind your eyelids as they fluttered closed.
He watched your beautiful face as you rode out your high with him. He shifted focus to his own quickly impending orgasm. His breathing became more ragged and you opened your eyes to find his again.
"Feels so good, baby," you murmured.
His eyes locked onto yours and he panted heavily.
"I know you're close, handsome. I want you to fill me up."
His green eyes widened. "You sure?"
You nodded. "I need it, Dean. Please." You clenched down on his cock to emphasize your words.
That was all he needed in order to reach his peak. He moaned your name as he started to cum, whispering it into your skin like a chant as he emptied inside of you.
You held onto him tightly as he came down, his body shaking slightly from the intensity of his orgasm. He finally collapsed on top of you, unable to hold up his own weight.
You placed a soft kiss to his head and listened to his breathing begin to regulate.
Eventually, he rolled off of you, leaving you feeling strangely empty. He managed to drag himself off the bed with a murmured "I'll be right back."
You watched him walk to the bathroom, and for a moment you worried he'd regret it, but your fears were assuaged by his reappearance with a wet washcloth.
Your face must have betrayed your thoughts because he knelt before you and said, "I love you, (Y/N), with everything I have."
You smiled. "I love you too, Dean."
He returned your smile and began to carefully and gently clean you up with the washcloth. It was warm and it felt nice to be cared for like that.
Once he was finished, he threw the washcloth into the bathroom and crawled back onto the bed. He tugged you close to him and pulled the covers up over you when you started to shiver.
"Anyone ever tell you you're beautiful when you cum?" he asked softly.
You laughed lightly. "You would be the first."
He kissed your hair and tightened his grip on you. "I intend on being the last."
You turned your head to look at him and felt your heart melt a little. You didn't have a good response for that, so you simply kissed him, hoping your emotions were conveyed in the action.
He leaned into the kiss and whimpered slightly when your lips left his. You kissed him one more time and he let you pull away after several seconds.
"You should get some sleep," he murmured. "I'll keep you safe."
You knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would die to keep his word. You settled back against him, a silent response of trust and gratitude. He gave you a soft squeeze as you began to drift off to sleep.
This life might be hard...it might be full of pain and loss, but it was real. The man holding you in his arms was real. The love you felt for each other was real...and you wouldn't change any of it.
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emily-tumbles-on · 11 months
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Update on Motelgate:
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I 100% believe they WERE filming in the motel room, and here’s why: the cast is in costume, across the whole street/highway from the other filming location, the gas station, in broad daylight— The gas station was a night shoot. So if it were just a case of them setting up base camp (which is so extremely unlikely), the above BTS photo would not have daylight spilling in from the door behind them. And it would not make sense for them to just be kicking around waiting for the sun to set. They would have been on a schedule, and again, it simply doesn’t make sense for the cast to go all the way over from this location to another. It’s logistically nonsensical.
And here’s the thing: that photo was taken on a break, but we’ve seen that they set up games where they’re currently filming elsewhere:
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This was at the Byers’ house in Lenora. And again, they’re all in costume because they were currently filming there, just taking a break.
So yeah, I think it’s safe to say they were filming in that motel?
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ronearoundblindly · 15 days
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Hideout (4.2)
touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader
Horny Teen, part two (see previous or series)
Summary: A late-summer heat wave hits you and Steve hard.
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Warnings for smut (kinda unprotected sex, momentarily--guess that's dubcon to be safe--fingering, lots of foreplay things and dirty talk but Steve can't actually talk dirty, so...hot talk? IDK, gang, I 'bout died writing this. Prepare thy loins, babes). MINORS DNI. There is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this series is not for you! WC 3.1k
A/N: This part contains a cannibalized version of the original idea for this series, but since we've developed differently to this point, it is very different.
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He calls ahead. For the first time in a year of visiting, he calls ahead and knows you aren’t working the night he’ll be here.
You work in the garden as long as you can stand before hopping in a cool shower. You aren’t even wrapped in a towel when the trill of your room phone—extension 14, as Steve now knows it—blares through multiple closed doors.
He’s checked-in, and in Room Two, but no pressure, if you want, if you don’t have plans, he’s here. It is the most adorable and awkwardest conversation of all time. It also never gets old to hear him scramble for the simplest of sentiments.
Translation: I’m excited to see you.
Your heart soars then immediately stalls in the stifling weather.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” you chuckle.
Of course, he opens his arms for a bear hug the instant the door labeled ‘2’ swings wide. Steve has fewer troubles with platonic affection when alone, that’s for sure, but who could blame him? You’re elated he’s here under any circumstances.
Record-setting heat this late in the summer has left all the AC units taxed to the brink, running constantly, and even with the in-room thermostat set stupidly low, a tank top and shorts is too much.
This means another first: both of you, in bed, naked.
Nothing’s happened, mind, because the swelter of the day zapped energy out of every creature for miles and miles around. The ice machine can’t keep up with eight rooms and your family needing relief from the blaze. From the bright stripe of red across Steve’s cheeks and his earthy musk, he was outside plenty. He’s wiped, too.
You wonder absently when the last time he wore cologne was and what it smelled like. Perhaps he never used it. Perhaps he misses small luxuries more than he ever realized.
Steve looks on the brink of heat-stroke, so you inched yourself onto one side of the bed to start, thinking skin-to-skin contact might be unwelcome. You barely got your palms on the sheets before he pulled you to him. You did not fight it.
It’s meant to be a profound comfort—your weight atop him—and it is.
Your cheek settles on his chest, eyes watching through the sheer curtains as dusk takes over the sky, a happy man stretched like a cat beneath you, smiling, heart beat slowing in your ear. So strong, so steady, so secure.
He’s safe. He’s comfortable. That’s all that matters.
You peer up from your perch. The thin worry lines on his forehead have relaxed. He seems younger. Freedom looks good on Steve Rogers, just as good as it looks on Captain America, maybe better.
You fall asleep straddling his hips, one knee hitched so the crook of your ankle drapes his thigh, slowly pushed up and down by his deep breaths.
You’re drifting, rocked gently by powerful waves in the nothingness of your blank mind, free like him, blooming in the warmth of a bright sun embracing you.
The glow continues until Steve gently shakes you awake.
The room is pitch black, the lights of the parking lot too muted to pass through the gossamer layer over the window.
“You’re…you were squirming a lot. Thought you might be having a nightmare,” his rough timber booms close to your ear.
“No, I—“ you wipe at your face “—I don’t think I was dreaming.”
Steve’s not so relaxed under you now. His abs quake slightly, and those slow breaths have become stunted, shallow with control.
“Did you?” you ask, looking towards his face, useless in the dark but your drowsy brain hasn’t caught up yet.
There’s a shuffling noise above you.
“Is that a ‘yes?’ Did you have a nightmare? You alright?”
The shuffling repeats, accompanied by a strangled “yes,” and you lift your arm to brace on his chest. It unhooks your leg from his, and the hard length of his erection moves from its perch at your ass, nudging the joint of your hip and thigh from below.
“Not—not a nightmare,” he whispers. “Just ignore it.”
Steve’s voice is husky, his grip on the back of your knee tight and unyielding, keeping you from trapping him between your legs.
Your impulse is to soothe him, to tell him he is fine and it is okay to be turned on, generally, when naked and pressed to someone you find attractive—hell, you definitely are—but if he wants you to ignore it, if he’d rather not, if it’s too soon or too hot (metaphorically, physically) or just too much right now, then you respect that. None of this has ever been about making him feel like how he chooses to receive affection is wrong.
Without moving any limbs, your fingers retract and relax, a gentle, nailless scratch to his broad pec beneath your hand, and his cock twitches, tapping your leg.
“Sorry,” Steve huffs.
“Do you want me to get off of you?” You suppress the urge to make a minor edit in that statement because it’s very close to what you want to do.
The shuffling noise sounds different.
“No,” he says softly.
You slide your hand up his chest to his neck and around the back of his head, petting the corner of his bearded jaw just below his ear, careful to use as few muscles as possible.
His cock taps you again anyway. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
You ignore it, as asked, and continue scratching lightly at his scalp.
“Hey,” you start in the darkness, “is this comfortable?”
You run your fingertips over his features while he nods, following his jaw up and down. 
Unable to see, this paints the most vivid picture of Steve’s reactions. You feel the vibration of a hum through his cheek, the draw and release of his brow as you skate over his forehead. You hear his short chuckle when you brush ever-so-gently across his long lashes and boop his nose. Finally, you trace his open-mouth smile with the edge of your thumb, his ragged exhale rushing over your palm.
Tap.
“Sorry.”
“Comfy though?”
His voice is deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “Yeah.”
The drag of your fingers past the edge of bristly stubble and down his throat makes him shiver.
Twitch.
“Sorry.”
You flutter across his collarbone, wondering if that means he’s ticklish on more than just his sides.
“Comfy?”
He hums. You feel it rattle your cheek as much as you actually hear it in your ears.
You continue. His corded muscles giving only slightly to the pressure of your touch. His arm, his chest, down to the hand he keeps on your leg.
Several more breathy apologies sound above you. Steve’s other arm is draped over your waist, and with every pulse of need that betrays him, his grip tightens just a little. His fingers now dig into your soft flesh absently.
It’s hard to hide how desperate he’s made you, but the issue is mutual based on how his abs won’t stop tensing, searching for attention where he denies it. 
You flatten your hand to his chest and make to move.
“May I?”
Steve’s swallow is louder than the ‘okay’ he returns.
You are careful not to push him in any weird angles as you raise up to your knees and straddle him, pinning his erection beneath you, not directly between your folds but nestled at the apex of your legs, just so he won’t have to worry about every involuntary poke. 
With such fresh contact, he clenches his ass hard in response, lifting your whole weight completely before he settles again. The surge of heat to your core has you biting your lip to muffle a moan.
“Comfy?” you rasp at the same moment Steve offers a strangled “sorry.”
The low, constant whine of the air conditioner fills the hollow space around your cocoon of anticipation.
“New plan,” you laugh, relaxing your fingers to splay across his warm skin, “both of us stop doing that, huh? You have nothing to be sorry for, and I’ll trust you to tell me if you aren’t comfortable.”
“So…” Steve shuffles on the sheets, but whatever he moves doesn’t affect your position. “Can I touch you?”
You bite your lip harder before answering, your voice dropping to a sweet reassurance. “Yes. Of course you can, Stevie.”
You keep your pets of his chest and arms light, trying not to tickle him. He’s always so hesitant; you’re worried the tiniest misstep will send him back into his head—not in a good way.
The silence now feels purposeful, dense with possibility, and then rough fingertips land like a foreign explorer who’s braved months at sea solely to experience this moment.
A calculated inhale and exhale rock your pelvis, a wave of nerves foaming in your gut.
He starts innocently enough, mapping your thighs, muttering something about how soft they are, but you don’t dare lean to hear him better. No sudden movements. None. Even though your skin lights up as explosive as those 4th of July fireworks you missed.
Since there’s nothing to see in the room, you feel everything.
He keeps to the periphery of you at first, abandoning your legs to brush the same arms touching him, running fingers together, separating them just as quickly, caressing your palms gently, and dragging his short nails up your wrists without pressure.
You stiffen in pleasure, fighting not to shrink away from the purest intimacy you’ve ever experienced.
His long arms reach the curve of your shoulders, flit across your collarbone, and you’re doing your damndest to keep it together, leaning your head back in lieu of talking.
Don’t scare him.
It can’t last; you’re only human.
Steve’s hands slowly descend over your breasts, middle fingers catching your peaking nipples, and a lewd and aching cry tumbles from your bitten lips.
The force of it surprises you, but more surprising still is him, unfazed, encouraged to linger.
In that low timber, he growls.
“You like that… Knew you would.”
Your body throbs, pulsing with need and emptiness.
That means he thinks of you. He’s imagined this. He’s wanted this.
Stunning electricity shoots through your body as he pinches and twists, squeezes and kneads. Nothing too harsh, but he’s highly motivated when you purr and gasp atop him.
What else does he think about doing? How long has he fantasized? Is this as good as his imagination?
Yours aren’t the only noises now. He sounds tortured with little pleas and whimpers escaping before each guttural moan.
Arousal pools at your folds, and without realizing you started to move, the shy momentum of your hips has nudged his length to lay flush with your dripping center. His tip glides over your clit.
Again and again.
Again and again.
A hot pressure builds in you, faster than ever, kerosene dumped on your wet-dreams and burned to life, a spell manifest in the night.
Steve shakes beneath the palms you brace flat on his chest, the heels digging into his diaphragm.
He moves to grip your thighs hard.
Fire spreads beneath your skin as you two pant and gasp, his whole cock slick and slotted so close to where you truly long for him.
“Wait,” Steve groans, but you can’t understand.
No one could imagine how good this feels, how much you need this, how—
He sits up to stop you, accidentally notching himself at your entrance, your residual motion sliding the thick head of him past the that first, tight ring.
Steve’s lusty moan is barely eclipsed by your own, and you’re too close to halt sheathing him within you, arms instinctively wrapping his shoulders. Desire winds the coil in your belly too taut, the thought of losing this climax unbearable.
“N-uhhh god—“
He’s too sensitive though. He flips you both so your back crashes to the soft sheets and digs his grip into your side, his other hand thumping to anchor on the headboard. Steve sucks air through his teeth like he’s afraid the faintest smell of sex will set him off.
“Don—don’t move,” he orders in thick command.
It makes things worse.
You’re so close, vaulting off the ground and suspended by legs clamped around his waist, dangling on the precipice of ecstasy. You whine and clench, totally unable to control yourself, your nails digging into his back.
Steve cries out, choked at the hilt by your desperation and lost to his own finish.
His hand races from your side to your ass. He pulls out of you only to slot himself there and thrust his cock between your cheeks, cum shooting on the sheets below.
Mindlessly, you ride the cut of his abs, his course pubic hair adding almost enough friction to keep ascending toward your own end, but the void left behind is too consuming. The fire sputters and dims.
Steve buries his face in your neck, breath cooling the sweat lining your skin as he curls away from you, overwhelmed.
“Swear I was gonna wait,” he confesses to the tender spot behind your ear. “I swear.”
“Please,” you croak, tears prickling your eyes in lament for your ruined orgasm.
“Was gonna be better. Swear I’ll do better for you.”
You grope and claw at those thick arms which hold all but his face far away. “Please,” you beg pathetically, “fucking touch me, please.”
A drawn out grunt vibrates the column of your throat.
“Y’shouldn’t have ta beg...”
He shifts to his forearm, caging you in as you plead over and over. He kneels to hover, and your thighs weakly squeeze at his own to emphasize what you need.
“Sounds so pretty when you do…”
Something between a screech and a snarl erupts from your chest.
Steve shushes you, smoothing a big hand across your damp cheek, and quietly, he commands you, “show me what to do.”
Your quivering hold guides him by the wrist down your body. Words to instruct him won’t form in your sex-steeped brain. As luck would have it, he doesn’t need specifics.
“Next time I’ll taste you.” One finger teases your folds in search of his entrance. “Next time you’ll have to beg me to stop.” Two fingers drive forward, displacing a gush of your shared juices. “So wet,” he groans, agonized to silence when you jerk his hand to thrust faster.
“More.” 
He sets a loving and delicate pace, the heel of his palm working your clit. 
Too delicate.
“More,” you gasp.
He obliges, muttering how good he’ll be to you from now on. You’ll always be first. He promises.
The fire takes over again.
“More, Stevie. Please.”
You grind down on him to prove your point, and he marvels that this isn’t too rough for you.
Each strangled breath ties your moans together in a crescendo worthy of Carnegie Hall.
“God,” he rumbles by your ear again, “I know that sound. You’re close, aren’t you?”
Steve’s pumping fingers bully your body farther and farther up the bed, using only a taste of his real strength.
Your chant of ‘yes’ catches in your taxed lungs. He doesn’t need an answer though.
The super-stretched band snaps, a plateau of peace and weightlessness tipped at the vertex until—crash—nerves are razed all along you like a carpet-bombed battlefield.
“Uhnn, is that what you’re gonna feel like around me?” He sighs at the thought and stills his hand just to commit the ripple to memory. “How’m I s’pose to last?”
You slap a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to hold in your yelp of relief.
That mouth…that fucking mouth of his is a weapon all its own.
Tiny explosions wreak havoc on you, body and soul, as his fingers greedily coax you to keep coming—just a little more—just for him—one last rush—give him everything.
His lips open in your palm, but you grip his face harder.
You can’t. You can’t listen right now. You can’t hear one more dangerously sexy, completely innocent thing fall from his beautiful mouth.
Steve lets his hand go lax but doesn’t take it away from your clenched and spasming thighs.
He tries to speak again then gives up, waiting.
Finally, before you can collapse boneless to the bed, he hooks his arm behind your leg so you don’t land on the cold, cum-stained sheets.
He shakes off your forgotten grip of his jaw.
“Tops?” he whispers, patience personified in the long pause before you hum acknowledgment. “Can I kiss you?”
That fucking mouth…
There’s barely enough breath in you to make a sound, but the instant the ‘ye—’ forms in the back of your throat, Steve’s lips are on yours.
It's your first real kiss, of all the ways, after all this time, following all that.
You’d laugh if you weren’t smiling, suffocating in the gentle press that becomes deep and adoring. He kisses you thoroughly after each frantic gasp for air, savoring you, even in the reckless passion of the moment.
Steve rolls to lay you atop him again, more intimately than before. He keeps his face close, sharing breath even in the heat and stench of sex in the room, your wetness now smeared from his navel to his knee.
Turns out, he is a very good kisser, focusing on the act of physical connection. Not only do your lips touch, but he likes to nudge you into whatever minutely different position with his nose. He likes to nuzzle his beard on your sensitive skin until you giggle and squirm. He relishes you like you relish him. 
He whispers things too soft to make out at first. It takes him a while to find his voice, to push past his insecurities, to find his confidence, but eventually, you hear it.
He mumbles how he should have been better, more prepared.
You weave all your fingers through his hair, propped on his chest by your elbows, smiling so he’ll be able to tell in your tone.
“Take the win, Cap.” 
You freeze.
You’ve never called him that, and Steve stays silent for an excruciating beat.
“Sorry,” you offer in the dark, air conditioner churning out sobering drafts of reality.
Steve runs his knuckles gently in patterns across your bare back. There’s a short huff and an amused snort, you mind scrambling to plan some explanation as to why you’d haul the drama of out there into his safe space.
He guides you to settle against him again, tucking you into his strong hold with his chin resting on your forehead.
After what feels like an eternity, he simply asks, “comfy?”
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A/N: In case you were wondering...
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[Next part: Desperate Man]
[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]
@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @mrsevans90 @lemonadygirl
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fukcnoplease · 5 days
Text
Things always go wrong Pt2 :0
Pt1 Pt3
Dani roused from her sleep to see forests rushing passed and the sun beginning to dip behind them. The world was bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun and she basked in its beauty. This was why she loved traveling. The beauty, the freedom, the fun.
She turned to Danny to see none of those things. He was gaunt and rigid. Eyes pinned to the road in tense silence as they drove way too many miles over the speed limit. 
“Did you die die?” Dani asked, poking his cheek. He felt clammy. That probably wasn't good. Dani didn't feel great either. Tired and saggy, like all her muscles had deflated.
Danny just grunted in response. That was VERY not good. No Danny banter meant Danny really HAD died.
“So is this a drive to heaven or to hell?” She asked. Danny snorted. That was a good sign.
“Gotham.” He grumbled. It sounded forced, like it hurt to say. Dani frowned.
“So hell it is. Why are we going there?” Danny remained silent and his face fell into a scowl. “You’re doing a pretty good Batman impression but that doesnt tell me why we are going to meet him.”
“We are not meeting batman. We are going to Jazz” Danny said.
“Ooh, better than batman!” Dani playfully punched her arms in the air and Danny winced. Dani noticed but didn’t comment as she went to grab his phone. It was cracked slightly and was full of messages and calls from Sam and Tucker. Notably, it didn't have any directions pulled up.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Danni asked. Danny moved for the first time, shifting uncomfortably.
“...No.” He muttered as he kept his eyes on the road. Dani rolled her eyes at him and started looking through his phone, she had learned his password ages ago and as much as he threatened to change it on her, he never did. Though that might have been more forgetfulness than endearment but Dani would interpret it as she wished.
“You are so bad at road trips.” She said as she connected his phone to the aux cord and pulled up directions to Gotham. They still had almost nine hours to drive and the sun was only getting lower. “There is a rest stop about an hour from here. We can rest there for the night.”
Danny didn't look too pleased at the idea but he knew they didn't have any money for a motel and he couldn't drive the entire night. He didn't want to stop driving so soon though. Moving helped dull the pain.
“Are there any further rest stops?”
“Hmm… Theres one about three hours from us?and then another at the six hour mark. We could stop there for lunch tomorrow.” Dani said. Danny grumbled but nodded. He didn't want to stop at all tomorrow. Stopping for the night felt like too much, let alone pausing midway through the drive tomorrow.
The rest of the drive was Dani playing music and chatting away. Chipping away at Danny’s panicked and suffering walls until he finally relaxed into their usual banter. She played eye-spy and when she got bored of that she played twenty questions. When Danny chose a water bear as his animal she gave up on that too. They devolved into silly arguments about how water bears shouldn't be allowed or how it wasn't fair that Dani kept picking things Danny couldn't see in eye-spy. 
As the sky darkened and the car’s headlights came on they fell into an easy silence. Danny still hurt but it was better and Dani’s core was humming comfort at him which helped.
Dani was half asleep when they pulled into the rest stop. The lights still on but the cafes and restaurants, closed or closing. She woke up fully when Danny moved to look through the back seat. Shuffling through whatever he had thrown back there and forgotten about. 
Gloves, a box of tissues, an empty tote bag and an old backpack he used before he bought a new one. It had a gum packet in it and a pen but nothing else. Groaning, he went and opened the trunk, a black scorch mark from where it had been hit earlier that day. He had camping gear for when he went stargazing. A tent, blankets, portable stove and a lighter, gas for the stove, a pocket knife, a mess kit. He was rummaging through when Dani popped up beside him.
“You got twenty dollars in your phone case.” She said and Danny jerked up hitting his head on the trunk door. He rubbed his head and whacked Dani’s shoulder while she laughed, he was smiling but he wouldn't admit it.
He grabbed his phone from the car and Dani closed the trunk, whistling at the damage.
“Who did that?” She asked, eyeing the marks on the car.
“Some fruitloops after a kidnapped ghost.” Danny said.
“Kidnapped? Me? How awful.” She said, putting her hand up and pretending to swoon.
“You’re right. The poor kidnappers.” Danny laughed and Dani rolled her eyes. She punched him in the side playfully and he hissed in pain. 
They both paused and Dani poked his side and he winced.
“Are you ok?” She asked. He hasn't seemed that injured when he was driving.
“Yeah, just a bit tender.” Danny joked. Dani stared at him, waiting for a better answer than that and Danny sighed. “Leaving Amity was harder than I thought it would be.” Dani still didn't really understand but Danny looked like he would rather be sick than answer her and she really didn't want him to be sick in front of her. 
“Do you want to get food?” she asked and Danny gave her a thankful smile before nodding. 
They grabbed a snack each, bbq chips and oreos,  and a bottle of water to share. Dani nicked a portable charger and some jerky while Danny was in the bathroom and then they headed back out to the door. When they were back in the car Dani pulled out the portable charger and plugged in Danny’s phone.
“Where did you get that?” He asked, eyeing it incredulously. It definitely didn't look under twelve dollars and thats all they had left after the snacks.
“Same place we got the rest of this stuff.” She said dropping the rest of the snacks and jerky between them. Danny noted the extra snack but just rolled his eyes. They ate but Danny kept the jerky for the next day and then he pulled out the blankets from his trunk. 
Snuggled up, with their cores harmonizing, they fell asleep. 
The car shook and a bang followed by the crunching and scraping of metal woke them up. Danny shot up, the sky just starting to lighten, face meeting with the barrel of an anti-ecto gun. He lunged to the side. The headrest of his seat was evaporated and Dani sent out her own ecto blast. The attacker was forced back into the white van that was ramming them and they could hear some colourful words through their panic. Danny jammed the key into the ignition and turned it, the engine roaring to life. Shrieking metal filled their ears as the forced the vehicles apart and booked it out of the parking lot. The road bumps sending pieces of glass flying as Danny realized his window had been smashed during the attack. The back seat window seemed cracked but still intact and the windscreen had a spider web fracture but was holding up. His core shuddered at the damage but the pain was overridden by the need to protect Dani. 
He glanced over and saw a very shellshocked young ghost shaking in the passenger seat. She probably used too much ectoplasm in that blast. Neither of them were recovered enough and even with harmonizing he wasn't sure they would be able to recover enough to take another attack. He shook his head and focused on driving.
It took some maneuvers and some, maybe a lot, of speeding to lose the GIW but they managed. Dani pulled up directions and turned on whatever music she could find.
They spent the next few hours staring out their respective windows. Dani didn't like it. She didn't like the silence or the stress or the way her body shook in fear and exhaustion. Road Trips were supposed to be fun.
Danny didn't speak. His core was barely humming, barely responding to her, as they drove. It wasn't until the low gas symbol popped up on the dash that he said anything and of course it was just another curse. Dani was getting fed up with Danny’s shrinking vocabulary. 
She didn't say anything as she added a new stop to the directions, the closest gas station. Maybe a part of her was hoping her grumpiness would get Danny to snap out of whatever grump he was experiencing. Probably not a reasonable or healthy way to handle the situation, if you asked someone like Jazz, but Dani didn't ask Jazz. 
Danny didn't seem to notice though. He pulled into the gas station and turned off the car. His core buzzing with panic as he set up the gas pump and slumped against the car with a groan of pain. Dani frowned and poked her head out of the car. He looked pale, too pale. They were in their human forms, he shouldn't be that pale. At least she didn't think so. Though maybe she wasn't an expert on normal human medicine.
The gas pump beeped and Danny dragged himself up to remove the pump and go into the gas station. Dani suddenly worried about how they would pay, they had filled the tank up to full and that couldn't be cheap. 
Danny stumbled and fell into someone by the gas station entrance, a big guy with tattoos in a tank top, jeans and were those cowboy boots? Danny apologized and the guy shoved him, making him stumble again. Dani almost flew out of the car at him before she noticed a flash of dark leather in Danny’s hand.
No way.
The big tough guy waved him off and went back to smoking as Danny went inside and paid with a wallet he had most definitely not had five minutes ago. Danni stared at her basically brother, slacked jawed, as he casually dropped the wallet back into the guys pocket with some intangibility and then hurriedly slipped back into the car. His face was hard and he glared forward as he started the car.
“Did you just-?” Dani started, her excitement at her brother's newfound skills making her bounce in her seat. 
“No. Dont. Talk about it.” He cut her off, jaw set. She stilled in her seat and went back to pouting. When she vibrated her core at him he didn't even respond. She felt her core freeze at the lack of reaction and she tried again. There was a thump of something and Danny grunted but that was it. That was all that she got. Dread curled in her stomach as she stared at the road in front of her. 
They drove on and Dani didn't even mention the second rest stop they were supposed to stop at and Danny didn't either. There wasn't even music and the silence was only occasionally broken by a pained breath from Danny or an attempted hum from Dani’s core. It was a painful drive and Dani tried to sleep to help time passed. It worked partially, she slept fitfully for about twenty minutes each rest but it helped her heal. By the time they had found themselves in the midmorning traffic into Gotham she was feeling much more herself.
Danny looked worse and his arm trembled from being kept in a tense position for so long. A thin sheen of sweat covered him and Dani opened to her mouth to say something only to slam it shut at the waves of panic suddenly rolling off Danny. 
The car had rolled to a stop as the traffic came to a standstill. Thankfully they were in the slowest lane and there was a hard shoulder on their right but it did little to comfort Danny’s mounting panic. He didn't want to stay still, he couldn't, they were in danger and needed to keep moving. 
“Hey, are you-” Dani was interrupted by an explosion. They both spun to see billows of smoke about twenty cars back and a familiar white van barreling down the hard shoulder. Danny sucked in a breath of air and hit the gas as he swerved into the hard shoulder himself. He pressed on the gas as they went, coming up on a motorcycle attempting to skip traffic. Dani reached over Danny’s shaking arms and slammed on the horn as they gained on the man in red. He glanced back and barely managed to crash out of the way before they ran him down. As they zoomed passed the poor guy Dani looked out her window to give him an apologetic wave. His helmet was weirder when she saw it close up, less like a motorcycle helmet and more like a mask but for his whole head. She gave him a wave and he stared after them. The white van careening after them and obstructing her view. 
Danny followed the hard shoulder until it turned to grass and he kept going. The grass turned into a ditch and he grit his teeth as he maneuvered his beloved car to keep going. Thankfully the car, even turned at an almost forty five degree angle still kept going, if only slower than he would have liked. The white van on the other hand, hit the ditch and flipped, crashing to a halt behind them. Dani watched people crawl out of the van and try to chase after them but even going slowly their car was still faster. Though a lucky shot shattered the back window.
They pulled the car back into traffic, receiving honks and rude gestures before they went deeper into the murky city. It was only another few minutes of driving before Danny found an empty, unkempt parking lot to stop in. He shot out of the car and ripped the back seat door off its hinges trying to get the backpack he had back there. Dani grabbed his phone, the leftover cash, portable charger, and jerky before joining him behind the car as he stuffed his knife, lighter and a blanket into his bag. She offered her stuff and he opened the bag for her. As soon as everything was in he zipped it shut and went to pick Dani up.
“Woah! No! You’re not carrying me. I can walk just fine.” She said, glaring at Danny as he looked back at her. His eyes didn't seem totally focused and she grabbed his hand instead. “If you need to hold on to me so bad you can hold this. Now lets go.” And she was off, dragging a clearly not ok Danny behind her. 
Did she know where she was going? No, but she would figure it out. Unlike Danny, she was used to finding places to sleep in unfriendly and unfamiliar cities. She could recognize safe places to stay. At least she was pretty sure she could.
~~
Gonna try and figure out how to do the Pt1 Pt2 links I actually have like four chapters(?) written cause i got sucked in last night
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beforeimdeceased · 8 months
Text
🌴 YOU CAN WHISTLE FOR IT 🍦
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content: nsfw content, mdni. guys i do NOT condone cheating this is a fanfic pls don’t beat me up 😔 i’ll delete it if you want…felt like giving abby a little love & was listening to my fav unreleased lana and my brain started braining so! enjoy i swear i’ll shut up now. feedback, likes, reblogs, comments, and asks greatly appreciated!
🏩 ‧₊˚✩彡
maybe it was her raspy laugh or the cadence in her voice. perhaps it was the way her eyes always focused on you amidst a crowded room. you could even say you were using her for her mechanic skills, but you couldn’t shake being with abagail anderson.
cigarette between her teeth, braid hanging low, and her muscles glistening in the sun was all you could think about for days after she’d moved in. she was very very hot, and very very married.
her and her lady had found themselves with a preference for the simple suburban life after eloping. packed everything up and moved to the outskirts, right next door to you.
before your sultry nights of passion at a hush hush hotel down the road and out of town, you’d gotten along well with the family in a neighborly manner.
a hello every morning and a smile while taking the garbage out, coupled with a “this weather, right?” had rendered you acquaintances. at least in your head. unfortunately, everything went belly up one rainy friday night.
abby, drenched from head to toe had found herself at your door. it had rained down on her so hard that the water was pooling inside her shoes. everytime she blinked her eyes became wet and salty and her only asylum was found on your porch.
you anwser the door in a rush after hearing three loud and heavy handed knocks. who could’ve possibly wanted anything at this time with the weather like this?
well, it was none other than abby who’d looked like a wounded dog. the prettiest puppy eyes you’d ever seen flashed at you once and she was ushered to your bathroom for a warm shower.
when she got out, you gave her some clothes your brother had left on one of his visits. unfortunately, all of your shirts and pants were too small for her muscles. she was more than happy with anything you gave her, though.
“thanks hun.” is a toothy smile. and “what are you cooking?” is full of innuendo and “i think you’re pretty too.” leads you to your doom. sat on the counter with the blonde’s head between your thighs and a pussy drunk laugh vibrating against your core making her tongue hurt so good in all the right places.
maybe her hands and her voice and all of her sweet words was what made you meet her at a motel on a rainy saturday night, reminiscent of your first time. matching set scattered across the floor, her mouth tattooing hickies down your neck, and her hands grappling at you like you’ll run away. there will be a bruise in the morning that your manager is going to ask about but you don’t care. you can’t care right now.
she is everything but escapable. lustrous, confident, and incredibly easy on the eyes. she knows how to show a woman a good time. you were yet to be sure if you were fortunate that the woman is you. oh, and her wife.
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strang3lov3 · 9 months
Note
Congratulations on 2K!!! You are amazing and you deserve all of the love!!!💜💜 I am so happy I found your account!
I have a joel request hehe😉
Reader is sleeping next to joel and she starts having a wet dream about him. He hears her and makes her dream come to life. ( basically any kind of somnophilia with Joel makes me feral)
love u bye
thank you non! love this idea. i really appreciate your support, i hope you enjoy this smutty little story
Sleeping Beauty
Joel Miller x Reader
Warnings: soft dom! joel, smut, one bed!, oral f receiving, rough smut, unprotected piv, dubcon (somnophilia), very loosely proofread
Word Count: 2.3k
A/N: my first kinda drabble for my 2k follower celebration! woohoo! if you have any requests, please feel free to send em! doing this all week to celebrate all of my lovely readers and supporters
dont forget to leave me a comment or reblog if you enjoyed! i love you all!
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“Fuck, Joel,” you moan into the pillows. His head is between your thighs, devouring you with unmatched power and intensity. He’s taking his time with you, fucking you slowly with his mouth, watching you melt into a puddle as his tongue disappears further and further into your wet heat. 
“Taste so good f’me, sugar. So fuckin’ good,” he pulls away for a second to kiss his sweet praises into your thigh. You whine at the loss, grasping at his salt and pepper curls. You’re a mess beneath him, the hot skin of your thighs trembling and glimmering with a mixture of your juices. His sweat, your sweat. Your sweet arousal, his spit. 
“Please, don’t stop. Need you-need your tongue,”
“Impatient, are we?” he teases. “You take what I give you, baby.”
“Stop it,” Joel scolds you through a whisper-yell. He’s regretting his choice to share a bed with you. Your wiggling and rustling is relentless.
You, Joel, and Ellie all stopped in an abandoned motel to get some sleep. Most of the rooms were filled with rubble or water damage, except for two. Ellie had already claimed the single room, leaving you and Joel to share the other. It held two beds, both you and Joel each picking one. No problem, right?
Wrong. 
It was the dead of winter, and Ellie was freezing in her room. So she did what any asshole teenage menace would do, and stole your blanket. 
“Ellie!” you hissed. “Give that back!” 
“No. I’m cold,” 
“So what am I supposed to do, then?”
“Just snuggle Joel,” Ellie smirked as if she were concocting a diabolical plan and then watching it come to life. 
Your cheeks went bright red as Joel looked to you, then to Ellie. “Ellie,” he grumbled sternly. “Give it–”
“Have fun snuggling!” She chirped as she ran out the door and shut it behind her, your blanket in her hands. 
You shivered a bit, staring sadly at your measly sheet on the bed. There was no way in hell Joel would ever let you–
“Go on, get in,” he motioned towards the bed with an impatient and annoyed expression painting his features. “I ain’t snugglin’ ya.”
“Yeah, I’m not either,” you spoke through a yawn, trying to mask your excitedness. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t wanted this. The sun was just about to set, the last sliver of orange daylight seeping in through the windows quickly disappearing. You situated yourself in the bed, Joel following suit. He was stiff as a board next to you, as far on his side of the bed as he could be without falling off the edge. 
You couldn’t get to sleep. Neither could he. In truth, you were both too cold to even get tired. You lay shivering, curling your freezing toes and fingers into yourself, tucking into a ball to conserve heat. 
He must have been cold too, because the next thing you knew, Joel wrapped his body around yours. His soft tummy pressed into your back, his strong arm wrapped around your torso and held you close. “Don’t tell Ellie,” he grumbled.
You fell asleep within minutes.  
Joel, on the other hand, did not. He laid next to you as you wiggled against him, your ass grinding on his cock as you tried to get closer and closer to his body’s warmth. His cock was growing harder with each wiggle of your hips. 
“God bless it, quit your squirmin’,” he hisses. “Movin’ too damn much.”
You make a noise, somewhere in between an exhale and a moan. You wiggle your hips again, wrapping your arms around his. 
He says your name, scolding you. But you don’t hear, you’re off in your own head dreaming your limbs intertwined with Joel’s, his tongue and fingers pulling whimpers and cries from your body.
“Joel,” you whisper, flipping over and pulling him close. You nuzzle your head into his neck and pull one of his legs between your thighs, unconsciously squeezing and grinding on him. 
“Hush,” he quiets you in annoyance. “You’re driving me up a fuckin’ wall, honey.”
Joel adjusts in your embrace, his thigh pressing into your pussy. “Just like that,” you gasp. 
“Huh?”
“Oh, Joel,” you breathe, your hot breath tickling his neck. You kiss and nip at his skin, pull him closer. “Need you, your tongue,” And then, 
Oh. 
Oh. 
You’re dreaming, he realizes. And not just dreaming, you’re grinding yourself on him, whispering his name, begging for his tongue. His cock is straining against his jeans, begging for release. 
He knows it’s wrong, he should wake you up. But the thought of tasting your sweet pussy…
“Please,” you beg. 
“I’ll take care of you sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he whispers as he unbuttons your pants and pulls them down in one swift motion, along with your panties. He situates himself between your legs and quickly stuffs your panties into his jacket pocket, before dipping one of his thick fingers into your dripping cunt. “Fuckin’ drippin’ for me, honey. Need my tongue, s’that right?”
You only mumble in response, your legs spreading wider for him. You grasp at his shoulders, his hair, anything to pull him where you need him most. 
Joel pulls you close to him, pressing sloppy wet kisses first to your thighs and then to your cunt. He dips his tongue between your lips, letting the sweet and musky taste of your slick cover his tongue.
“Taste so fuckin’ good, honey. Love this pussy,”
You whine softly, bucking your hips into his mouth as his tongue explores every inch of your velvet soft folds. He loves how you taste, how you unravel underneath him. The way you pull him closer, desperately chasing your high. Your soft whimpers and cries.
Joel looks up at you for a second, your brows are knit together and your closed eyes are fluttering. He pushes two thick fingers deep inside your hole, fingertips petting that spongy spot inside you. He wraps his lips around your swollen clit, tongue teasing the sensitive bud. You melt in his mouth, and in moments you’re coming on his tongue, your wetness flooding his mouth and dripping into his hand.
You awaken with your orgasm, your eyes widening when you realize Joel’s between your legs, kissing and nipping at your thighs, licking up the mess you’ve made in your slumber. You open your mouth in shock, Joel quickly covers it with his hand. You can smell your arousal on his fingers. 
“There she is, sleepin’ beauty,” he smirks proudly. “You know, all y’had to do was ask if you wanted me to make you come, honey.”
Your cheeks heat in embarrassment, you quickly try to shut your legs closed. Joel catches your movement and holds them open, his fingers digging into your thigh a little too painfully. 
“Joel,” you start, your voice small. You struggle against him, trying to hide your most intimate area. Not that it matters, Joel was already tongue deep inside you. 
“Don’t hide from me now, honey. I know you’ve been dreamin’ about me,”
You freeze, unsure of what to say, what to do. Maybe you’re still dreaming, you hope. 
“M’not tryna embarrass you, sweetheart. It’s natural,” he coos, his fingers walking up your thighs and just before your pussy, he’s playing with your tuft of curls. “Poor thing, s’that why I hear you cryin’ for me late at night? Been havin’ dirty dreams about me?” 
You whimper, nodding furiously. 
“What do ya dream about, sweet girl?”
You shift a little, his pointer finger tracing lazy circles into your clit. If you weren’t so worked up, you’d be humiliated by the situation. You should be humiliated. 
“You,” you whine. 
“Me how?”
You groan in irritation. “Fuck, your tongue. Your cock. All of you,” you whisper.
“Mhm. And what am I doin’ to you?”
“You, you kiss me. And you f-fuck me,” you admit. You’re bucking your hips into him, needing more than loose circles on your clit. 
“Makin’ me blush,” Joel teases you. It’s dark, but you can see the mischievous glint in his dark eyes. You feel him smirk against your quivering thighs. “I like that you’ve been thinkin’ about me like this. How long?”
You moan, unable to form words. Your chest is heaving up and down in anticipation, your heartbeat like thunder in your ears.  “Fuck, I dunno. Forever,”
“Forever?” Joel asks, his voice feigning sincerity. “That’s an awful long time. You think about me when you touch yourself?”
“Joel,” you exhale, swallowing thickly.
“Do you?”
“Every time,” you rasp. 
“Shoot, poor thing. Just need a real man to fuck you, don’t you? You don’t know what you’re doin’ with all this,” he pushes his fingers back inside you, punching his fingers up at a tantalizingly slow pace. “I can take care of you, fuck ya real nice. Just say the magic word.”
“God, yes. I need you, Joel,” you breathe, your voice hungry and desperate. You’re pushing your hips further into him, begging him to give you more. 
“Magic word, baby. Where are your manners?”
You’re growing increasingly frustrated, tears filling in your eyes and threatening to fall down your cheeks. 
“Say please,” he instructs you, stopping his motions inside of you. “Say ‘Please, Joel. Please fuck me’,”
“Please fuck me, Joel,” you repeat, loudly. You can’t take it anymore, you need him with every fiber of your being.
“Shh,” he hushes you. “Wasn’t so hard, hm?”
You shake your head no and he pulls back, pulling his cock out of his jeans. He flips you over on your tummy, shoves your chest down with his hand and pulls your ass up. Using one hand, he caresses the soft and wet skin of your pussy. With the other, his thumb, pointer, and middle fingers loosely holding his stiff member, he notches his tip in your leaking hole, then pushes into you unceremoniously. Hard and fast and hitting you deep inside, just how you’ve dreamed. The stretch hurts you, but you don’t care. You love it. 
“Fuck, thank you,” you cry. “Thank you, thank you!”
“Such a good girl for me, usin’ your manners. Gonna take real good care of this pussy for ya,” Joel promises you. He’s hovering above you, hiking your shirt up your chest to pinch and twist at your hardened nipples. You gasp at his touch, arching your back into him. 
You’re at a loss for words, in disbelief this is even happening. Your heart jumped at the idea of snuggling Joel just hours ago, and now he’s behind you, inside of you, fucking you like you always fantasized.
The bed squeaks and creaks with every powerful thrust he delivers you. He’s so raw, radiating power and pure sex above you. 
“Fuck, you needed this, know you did,” he whispers. “You love this cock, don’t you?”
“Yes, Joel. S’perfect, you’re perfect,” You love the way he’s fucking you, how deep and hard he thrusts into you. You wish you could see him, his face contorted in pleasure, furrowed brow. 
He’s grunting behind you, letting out a moan every so often. He inhales through his teeth, you feel his balls slapping against your pussy. A deliciously sinful feeling.
You’re a mess. A complete and utter mess. Hair tangled, back arched. Whimpers and cries falling off of your tongue. Joel loves you like this, you’re his. All his. 
“You think about coming on this cock? Hm?” he asks you through exhales. When you don’t answer, he slaps your ass lightly. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes, please. Need to come, need you,”
“Keep makin’ those pretty noises for me,” he commands. “Wanna hear you cryin’ for me, just like you always do.”
“Please, please, need you to make me come, need to come,” you’re frantic, chasing your high. 
“Say my name, darlin’. Ask me nice,” You wonder how Joel can stay so composed, so demanding. Your head is nothing but fog, but it seems he’s calculated every last detail about tonight. You’re his, you’re going to do what he wants, how he wants. “Come on now.”
“Please make me come, Joel. Please,” 
“There’s my girl. So fuckin’ good to me, honey,” Joel wraps an arm around you, fingers quickly finding your clit. A few tight circles is all it takes before you’re whimpering, quivering, crying out in ecstasy. Joel forces you up, your back pressing into his firm torso. With one hand between your thighs, he covers your mouth with the other to muffle your filthy noises. 
Joel fucks you for a few moments longer, his thrusts are sloppy and feverish. With one, two, three deep and hard movements, he spills into you. His moans are choked and his voice gravelly as he paints your insides with ropes and ropes of his hot seed. He pulls out of you quickly, dragging you down with him on the bed. 
Both of you panting, he hovers over you to kiss your forehead, then your cheeks, the tip of your nose and your chin, then finally, your lips. 
“What was that for?” you ask. His kisses are so tender, a stark juxtaposition to the way he just mercilessly fucked you. 
“Said you dream of kissin’ me,” he mumbles plainly, like the answer is oh so obvious. He pulls you into his embrace, still trying to catch his breath. 
“Oh,” is all you mumble. Your head is spinning, still trying to process tonight’s events. 
“Sweet dreams, sleepin’ beauty. Wake me up if you need anything,” he whispers, giving you one last kiss on your cheek. “Anything.” he reiterates, pinching your ass. You smirk to yourself, you know what he means.
tags: @swiftispunk @rosaliedepp @pedrotonin @kittenlittle24 @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @brittmb115 @bigboiseason123 @laysmt @guiltgoreglory @aubreysylvain @leeeesahhh @oliveg95 @ifall4dilfs @alloftheboysivelovedbefore @harriedandharassed @vickie5546 @louisxosblog @southernbe @ravenouswild @luvrking @r02eg0ld @amythenortherner @walkintheprk @zpandaqueen @silkiers @angel-with-a-heart @kdogreads @boofy1998 @theoremrobin @ihatespoilers @2valentines @happy--birthday--kiddo @elissaa @paleidiot @brie-annwyl @str84pedro @sesigsss @bigcreatorwombatdreamer@palomaluvsdilfs @kyloispunk @tiredbuthappy @yuk-for-president @jazzy-music-cat @anoverhwhelmingdin @dontatmethebeasts @venus122idkpleaze @nopealoupe @blackvelveteen1339 @monboudoir @darleneslane @bbyanarchist @spideysimpossiblegirl
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ohisms · 2 years
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↪     𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺     (   a  collection  of  various  settings  meant  to  inspire  drabbles  or  be  used  as  prompts .   will be updated .   )
001.   the seaside ,  as the sun is setting .
002.   a cabin in the middle of the woods .
003.   a picket-fenced home in the suburbs .
004.   a dark bus stop lit only by street lights .
005.   a private jet miles high in the sky .
006.   a funhouse’s room of mirrors .
007.   an office building ,  bustling and busy .
008.   the back row of an empty movie theater .
009.   a run-down (or abandoned) motel room .
010.   a loud house party on a suburban street .
011.   a university lecture hall during a class .
012.   the rooftop of a very tall building .
013.   a great ballroom during an elegant party .
014.   the back of a wailing ambulance .
015.   the wine cellar of a large mansion .
016.   behind the school’s gymnasium .
017.   a bonfire in the middle of the woods .
018.   an otherwise empty parking lot .
019.   the bar of a loud ,  dark club .
020.   an empty summer camp .
021.   a large hedge maze ,  easy to get lost in .
022.   a neglected or derelict treehouse .
023.   a spacious ,  light-filled meadow .
024.   an underground / illegal fighting club .
025.   an abandoned scrapyard .
026.   a large penthouse overlooking the city .
027.   an apple orchard in the middle of spring .
028.   an empty playground with squeaky swings .
029.   an extravagant greenhouse .
030.   the base of a large waterfall .
031.   a spacious walk - in closet full of lovely clothes .
032.   a quiet hospital room .
033.   the dark depths of an abandoned mine .
034.   the deck of a fishing boat at night .
035.   the thick crowd of an audience at a show .
036.   a long ,  winding road .
037.   the site of a car accident .
038.   a hiking trail in the mountains .
039.   a cramped dressing room .
040.   a dusty antiques shop full of relics .
041.   the street of an unfamiliar city at night .
042.   between the tall shelves of a thrifted book shop .
043.   a building abandoned during construction .
044.   a house without power or running water .
045.   a mysterious trail found in the woods .
046.   the back of a taxi stuck in traffic .
047.   the inside of an elevator that won’t move .
048.   fairgrounds during a large event  (or after hours) .
049.   a garden bountiful with flowers or produce .
050.   a childhood home or bedroom .
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beansandsprouts · 3 months
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Not as Bullshit as I Thought
Summary: World where your soulmates first name is written on your right arm in their handwriting. Dean however thinks the whole concept is ridiculous. That is until he actually meets his soulmate.
Warnings: cursing (duh), brief mention of violence
Dean hated the concept of having a soulmate. With how much Chuck had fucked up the world he found it ridiculous that he'd somehow be able to decide that two people were perfect for each other. The idea was obscene, so he'd made the effort to always cover that name scrawled on his arm. He never went looking for you.
You felt much the same. A soulmate seemed like a stupid concept. There was no way in hell there was another person out there who was absolutely perfect for you. You didn't bother covering your mark, but you also never made any effort to find this mysterious "Dean."
Dean was hunting a vampire that had been terrorizing a small town. He'd already questioned the victim's partners, friends, and anyone else of interest. And he'd managed to figure out where this vamp could possibly be hiding.
He was coming back to his motel room after a late lunch to change out of his fed suit and into proper hunting clothes, and you were doing the same. You didn't see him but boy did he see you.
It was like you hit him with a truck. He froze in place as he watched you get out of your classic Ford Landau, your suit fit you perfectly. He felt like he'd never seen a woman so beautiful. The curve of your jaw and shape of your lips. It made his heart pound. He watched as you walked to your motel room door, swiftly unlocking it and stepping inside.
The moment you were out of sight he shook himself from his stupor. You were definitely hot, but right now wasn't the time to get distracted. He had a hunt to finish.
He prepped his gear and waited til the sun began to set, when he got back outside your car was gone. He didn't think anything of it, assuming you'd gone out for dinner. Maybe you were a business woman. He grinned at the thought, he liked the idea of someone as gorgeous as you being in power.
He drove to the abandoned cabin a few miles out of town, parking a little ways away so he could take them by surprise. He crept through the woods, machete in hand. But as he got closer to the cabin he heard the sounds of crashing and yelling.
Dean took off running toward the cabin, had the vamp already grabbed another victim? And they weren't dead yet.
He burst through the door in time to see you kick the vamp in the chest, causing it to stumble back. You were baring your teeth and there was a feral look in your eyes as you swiftly brought your machete down to behead the monster.
You looked over at Dean with blood sprayed over your face. You glanced him up and down, a slight smirk on your face.
"Seems like I beat you to it."
Dean stared at you in surprise for a moment, that bloodthirstiness he'd seen in you just two seconds ago had left him feeling things he'd never felt. He cleared his throat.
"Guess so."
You chuckled and wiped the blood on your face.
"I'm y/n. Nice to meet you."
Dean froze the moment you spoke your name. There was absolutely no way it was really you. But at the same time, he'd met others with that same name and never had he felt the way he was now. He stared at you, jaw dropped.
"Uh..hello?" You looked at him slightly amused.
"Dean." His voice was rough and gravelly.
Your eyes widened. The moment you'd seen him you knew there was something off. But you hadn't been expecting this.
"You're fucking with me."
"Afraid not."
The two of you stood there staring for a moment, unsure of how to go about this.
"Let...let me see your mark. Maybe it's a different y/n for you and a different Dean for me." Your voice sounded desperate. You really didn't want to be stuck with a soulmate.
Dean stepped forward and rolled up his sleeve, exposing his soulmate mark. Sure enough it was your name, in your handwriting. He looked at yours too. The both of you sighed.
"Damnit." He grumbled.
"You're telling me."
You both stood there in silence, just staring at the others mark. Neither of you had expected this. Neither of you wanted this. Yet here you were. Seems the universe ensured you'd at least meet each other.
"So...what do we do from here?" You asked and looked up at him.
He really was attractive. A strong jaw, defined lips that looked incredibly kissable, and pretty green eyes. You hadn't met a guy this hot in...well ever really.
"Hell if I know. I didn't mean to ever meet you. Never believed in this whole soulmate bullshit." He grumbled as he made eye contact with you.
"Yeah me neither."
You two stared at each other for a few moments before you sighed.
"I don't expect anything from you but I think at the very least I should treat you to dinner. For hijacking your hunt and all." A small smile tugged at your lips.
He couldn't help but chuckle at that and nodded I'm agreement, "I could get behind a free meal."
The two of you walked to your respective cars to meet at a diner back in town, you'd wiped your face off with a towel and changed into a new shirt before driving off.
When you got to the diner he was leaning against his car, arms crossed, waiting for you. His eyes grazed over your car as you pulled up.
"You've got a sweet ride." He says as you get out.
"You do too. 67?"
"Yes ma'am." He couldn't help but grin.
"Dinner time?" You gestured to the doors of the diner and he nodded, following you inside.
The two of you sat down at a booth, ordering some food before awkwardly sitting there.
"So...Dean Winchester I'm assuming?"
He chuckled, "Yep. And you're also a hunter."
"Sure am."
"How long you been doing the job?" He was genuinely curious.
"Since I was a kid. My parents were hunters."
He nodded, that explained why you took down that vamp on your own so easily.
There was another few moments of uncomfortable small talk until the conversation started flowing. It felt natural. Easy. Right.
Dean had the ability to make you laugh like no one else had. And your giggle and smile made his heart flutter for the first time in his life. He was having a hard time not immediately falling for you. He kept trying to remind himself that the concept of soulmates was absurd, but it was hard to believe that when sitting in that crappy diner with you felt like home. He couldn't remember feeling this comfortable with anyone. He found himself hoping you were also feeling this connection.
Eventually it had gotten late, you had both long finished your food and had been talking until closing. Eventually he walked you to your car.
"You goin back to your motel?"
"Nah, I'm taking off. Got a new case."
He seemed disappointed by your answer, but nodded.
"I could give you my number? Maybe we can meet up again after." You offered a shy smile.
"That'd be great." He had a huge grin as he offered up his phone.
You type your number in and sent yourself a text before handing it back.
"Got it. I'll uh...see you around, soulmate." You grinned back at him.
"Yeah, I'll see you."
The two of you stood staring at each other for a moment, neither wanted to leave. Dean took a hesitant step closer, you were mere inches from each other now. You felt your heart pounding. You'd never felt so at ease around someone.
"Could I...could I um..." Dean's tone was nervous, wanting to ask that question but not really sure if he should.
"Could you what?" You teased and chuckled as Dean's cheeks flushed red.
"Ah damnit nevermind." He grumbled and looked away.
You smiled and reached up to cup his cheek and turn his face to you.
"Yes. You can."
Dean's face lit up and his hands moved to your waist as he leaned in to gently press his lips to yours. He kissed you tenderly, enjoying the feeling of your lips on his. It gave him butterflies. It didn't take long for you to part your lips and he slipped his tongue into your mouth with a groan.
He wrapped an arm around your waist and raised his other hand to run his fingers through your hair, the action had you melting.
The jingle of the diner door opening as the staff left finally made you pull apart. You looked back at each other as a waitress shot you an amused glance and couldn't help but laugh.
"Maybe this soulmate stuff isn't as bullshit as I thought." He chuckled.
"I was gonna say the same."
You stood there in each other's arms for a moment before you leaned up to press a quick kiss to his lips again and stepped back.
"I've gotta get going, but I'll talk to you soon Dean."
"Drive safe sweetheart." He said with a soft smile, hands stuff in his pockets while he watched you get in your car.
"Will do." You blew him a kiss as you backed up and pulled out of the parking lot.
Dean watched you leave with a goofy grin on his face. Maybe this soulmate thing wasn't so bad. After all, he seemed to have gotten a pretty damn good one.
-----------------------------------------
I'm so rusty with writing so I'm sorry if it's not as well done as previous stuff. I'm excited to get back into writing though! I didn't realize how much I'd missed it :]
Shoot me a message if you have any requests!
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Desert Hills Motel ✩ James Hetfield (18+)
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for @30-3am ♡
The Tulsan heat beats down on you as you carry your bags toward the small and now overpacked motel's parking lot. Cars pile up and create a combined cacophony of overused horns and shouts, as a tour bus haphazardly pulls in and loudly shudders to an abrupt stop. Sweat trickles down the pulse points on the sides of your neck, causing your expression to set in a grimace as your arms begin to ache from the weight of your toiletries and exertion. Your curiosity gets the best of you as you spot a large crowd of teens and young women around your age, barrel their way into the cramped crowd in front of the already rented rooms.
"Can you believe they're actually here in Oklahoma?" A girl beams, causing the cluster of people around her to relay the same sentiment and start to talk over each other.
"I didn't think they'd be touring so heavily, especially after what happened only a few years ago." You hear someone exclaim as an elbow roughly bumps into yours, causing you to instinctively grip harder onto the ears of the plastic bags in your hands. Uneasiness begins to pulse through you as the chatter surrounding you suddenly turns into a bellowing pit of screams. Your eyes try to erratically search for the number matching the crumpled keycard in your trembling palm over the tall figures in front of you, but to no avail. The numbers were completely out of your line of sight. Hesitantly shouldering your way past one of the men blocking your view, newfound hope begins to bloom in your chest as a small passageway slowly makes itself in the middle of the crowd.
Leaning forward on the tips of your boots, you lift yourself up to take advantage of the few extra inches of height your fmb's give you, before letting out a chattering exhale as you see the sliver of the exit turn into a full-blown path. Raising your arms to allow the bagged items to shuffle themselves from your wrists down to your elbows, you try to make yourself as small as possible as you duck under the unceremonious, shoving hands.
Biting back a wince as a hand nearly makes contact with your sweat laden and rosy cheek, you nearly trip over your feet in haste as you move forward.
"Here they come, here they come!" A voice shouts right next to your left ear, causing you to lose momentum and pause right in the middle of the open area. Letting out a curse as you see a small group of various and differently dressed men steadily make their way through the crowd and near where you stood frozen, you force yourself to trudge forward, before making the choice to unsteadily run forward in between the divided two parts of the hotel, before stopping to finally relax in front of a dilapidated ice box. Momentarily closing your eyes and placing one of your bags onto the ground, you roll your aching wrists to try and relieve some tension as you take in the cold gust of air cascading itself from the machine in front of you. Squeezing your shoulder blades together and shakily inhaling a much-needed breath, you bask in the now muted sounds of the once overstimulating screams and welcome in the hum of the refrigeration unit.
"Feels nice, doesn't it?" An easygoing tone asks you, causing your eyes to snap open and squint up blearily at the man before you, the sun making your eyebrows furrow. Lifting your free hand up to create a makeshift visor to protect you from the unrelenting beams, you feel yourself begin to fluster as a handsome man in a cowboy hat fully comes into view. "Bet you don't get too many cool days around here." He makes sure to maintain eye contact with you as he stands his guitar case on the brick wall next to him. Your eyes widen in realization as you take in his appearance. Dirty blonde hair rests against his broad shoulders and cascades down his strong neck, where a necklaced worn and signed pick lays against a barely covered chest, his light colored and sparse chest hair peeking out from under his stretched-out v neck t-shirt. Tight black jeans encapsulate every divot in his seemingly never-ending long legs, and finally, a black pair of cowboy boots that almost entirely match your own, except for in color and their lack of heel. And although his outfit screamed southern boy, you knew he was anything but. This man's aura screamed he was a star and was meant to be one. Of course, he'd be part of the band everyone was currently losing their minds over.
"You seem like you'd fit right in, attire and all." You drawl out sheepishly, the smile you get back in response pulling you in and withdrawing out the rest of the uneasiness from your body.
"A southern bell, huh? Guess we chose the right hotel after all." James muses, before beckoning his head toward the barely lit neon green cactus sign. Unable to hide your grin, you look to the side to catch your bearings, before meeting his bright blue eyes once again.
"Your type of music not too welcomed around here?" You implore, the tips of your boots nearly caressing his as he places himself closer to the only source of cool air.
"With the way everyone reacted to us settling down in town, you'd think otherwise, doll." Cheeks blazing from the endearing term, you purse your lips, before watching him lick his own in response. "With the way everyone's reacted to y'all settling down, I know your group isn't something we usually see," Bracketing in your plush bottom lip before releasing it slowly, you airily breathe out as the tall man in front of you watches your chest rise and fall, the already charged air around the two of you starting to feel fervid. "You ain't no Fleetwood Mac, especially with the cool looking guy in the Marilyn tee."
"You telling me I couldn't pass as the second cousin of John McVie?" James huffs out, his faux angry expression causing a grin to fully envelop your face.
"Absolutely not. Not even close." You respond through laughter, before bending down to pick up your overfilled bag. James quickly meets you halfway, his hand encircling around your wrist, before delicately gliding his ringed fingers down to yours and removing the bagged items from your grasp.
"Here, let me." He insists. "Which room is yours?"
"We don't even know each other's first names yet and you're already asking me for my room number?" You raise an eyebrow as he struggles for a rebuttal, the slip in his confident disposition making your lips twitch impossibly higher.
"James." He mutters, shaking his head at himself before grinning in disbelief. "What is it?" You ask, confusion painting your features as he laughs instead of answering. "Nothing you need to stress over, bell. Now how about you show me where your room is, before we both pass out from this heat and my bandmates order a search and rescue?"
"Your band! Oh God, do you think they're doing okay?" Head turning to readjust your view toward the crowd only a few handfuls of yards away, your eyes quickly latch onto three other outstanding men in the still growing pit of people. Nearly jumping as a large and calloused hand finds purchase on the low of your back, you're surprisingly quick to begin to relax as James' thumb rubs comforting circles into your now cooling down skin.
"They'll be just fine. We're all attention seeking anyway, comes with the job. Besides, I only ever came over here to see if you were doing alright." Your eyes widen in mortification as you quickly come to terms with the fact that he saw you nearly faceplant and run off only just a few minutes prior.
"Any way we can just pretend like that never happened?" You plead, leaning back into his touch to look up at him and send him a placating and disingenuous smile. James pats his palm against the skin of your natural arch before beaming down at you with a humor-filled, shit eating grin.
"Absolutely not."
Robin's egg blue chipped paint stares back at you as you place the bags on the spinning chair near the entrance of your motel room, the crumpled keycard resting dangerously close on the edge of the clearly pre-used coffee table to your near right.
"She's a beauty, isn't she? I'm pretty sure your room is going to look the exact same, maybe a little bigger." You muse, your lips stuck up in a sore-to-be smile as you glance over at the musician frozen in the doorway.
"I don't know what I was expecting after seeing the vintage sign out front, but this surely wasn't it." James says slowly, his words coming out lazily as his eyes scan the small room in front of him. Flower embroidered bedsheets and blankets stand out on the bed, and a television the size of a toaster lies tilted atop a cracked, screwed in piece of metal plate shoved in the wall.
"You're missing the best part of it all, rockstar," You migrate his attention back to you as you slyly make your way over to the bed, before smacking your hand against the bedpost. "It vibrates. Exactly what you need after the long ride you just had."
"I think those beds vibrate for some other reason entirely, doll." Fingers reaching up to run their way through his facial hair, James hides an amused smile as you lag in place, before your expression turns uncharacteristically cheeky.
"A different type of ride then?" You ask him in a meek tone, watching in amusement as the man in front of you begins to sputter. "I think your roommates must be looking for you." Your eyes fill with mirth as he struggles to catch up with the quick change of subject before you.
Nodding to himself before physically shaking his head to get out of his stupor, James grips the middle of his nape and quickly averts his eyes as you walk your way back over to him. "Yeah, I bet they are."
"Thank you for being so kind to me, James." You whisper out, your short spell of cheekiness wearing off as you stand in front of the epitome of a man in front of you. Chain linked butterflies make their way and rattle through your ribcage as he reaches out to encircle his hand around your wrist once again.
"Thank you for making this town a whole lot more interesting, bell." Lifting your wrist up to his lips, he places a delicate kiss on your blush red fingertips before slowly letting go.
"You forgot one last thing. The best part of it all," Raising an eyebrow as he takes a step back, you watch him with unhidden interest as his eyes brighten with anew light. Digging into his pockets and flashing you three key cards, James sends you a gentle smile before heading on out. "Double sided doors. I'll see you later on, angel." He tosses to you in the humid air, his words nearly sounding muted as your attention quickly shifts to his full backside.
Your stomach tenses with anticipation as you watch him walk away, the awareness of the soreness of your wrists and physical exhaustion long gone while your heart incessantly pounds in your chest. Pushing your weight against the heavy door to fully close it shut and deadbolt it, you knew one thing for sure.
You couldn't wait to see him again, and you had an inkling that he felt the exact same way.
"Why would you want the motel room farthest from the ice box and tour bus?" Lars asks his bandmate as he hesitantly places his weight on the creaking bed underneath him. James pointedly ignores him as he removes his hat to rest it on his knee, causing the unrelenting drummer to continue with his questioning. "Aren't you always the one wanting to hightail it out of towns like this once our location's been leaked? Southern fangirls are a different breed."
"Hell yeah, they are!" Jason agrees, his exclamation ending in a silent cry as the tip of his shoe harshly meets with an oddly bent piece of wood coming from a leg of the bed.
Kirk bites back a chortle as he watches their bassist hop around on one foot, before resting against the wall attached to the cubical sized bathroom. "Dane is right, usually you're always ready to run. What gives? Found a girl worthy enough to not bolt from a shit motel for once?"
"Maybe the eggshell paint and the obnoxiously large welcome signs are growing on me." James rebuts, oddly wanting to keep you to himself and no one else, especially from his occasionally overbearing bandmates and friends.
"It's Robin's egg, man. Everyone knows that." Jason breathes out in indignation once he stops jumping around, the hands he places on his hips being the only telltale sign of him being sarcastic. Rolling his eyes and shuffling back on his elbows to lean against the itchy fabric, James blindly kicks off one of his boots and grins wide as he hears a yelp.
"Fuck off, all of you. Y'all should be glad I'm taking the smallest room; the master is next door anyway. We can all still tear ass once the fans realize which rooms we're actually staying in."
Kirk lets out an audible shutter as he pushes himself off the ribbed wall and over to the double-sided doors. "I lost count of how many grandmas tried to grab my ass within the first five minutes of getting off the bus."
Lars cackles as he recounts the earlier events in his head, his entire upper half vibrating and lifting with the force of his amusement. "Old ladies out here grabbing at your ass like the first item they see on sale on Black Friday."
"Thanks for that mental image." Kirk mutters before unlatching the lock and making his way into the next room. "You brought it up first, man." A slim and long middle finger retreating behind its owner back is his only response to the blatant calling out, causing Lars to grin to himself before grabbing ahold of his duffle bag. Tossing it onto the coffee table and unzipping it open, the Dane reaches in and yanks out an oversized hoodie and jacket.
"See you fuck's later, I think I saw a bar down the road. Gonna go see if one of the roadies can distract the crowd long enough for me to get a Heineken in." Jason perks up at the sound of alcohol, his otherworldly and positive nature making James grin and fully relax back into the uneven springs beneath him. Looking over at the drummer with a pleading look in his eyes, Lars quickly relents and throws the jacket over to their bassist, who excitedly shoves his arms into the worn out sleeves.
"Try not to make headlines again, will you? I still feel guilty just thinking about Indianaoplis to this day. "
His bandmates share a knowing grin before they sling out halfhearted goodbyes over their shoulders and toss the hoodies over their heads, hurriedly make their way outside. James watches as they hastily tighten the drawstrings around their outerwear before slamming the door shut behind them.
The newly alone frontman makes sure their footsteps become inaudible before he sits up and makes eye contact with the door connected to yours. "Don't be such a pussy, it's only been a few hours." He scolds himself, before throwing caution to the wind and making his way over to the door, despite his inner turmoil and worry of coming off as too desperate and strong and reaching out too soon.
Raising an unsteady fist to the wooden door with a slight nervous tremor, James disproportionately knocks with his knuckles before taking a step back and placing his weight on the heels of his socked feet.
Instead of imitating a similar greeting in return, you instead undo the latch on your side and open the door to invite him in, your wide doe eyes staring up at him as he takes in your change of clothing. Heat rushes up to your cheeks as you wait for him to speak, your hands nervously twisting themselves together in front of you. You fight the urge to retreat as his eyes rake down your entire figure, seemingly trying to permanently encase the image of you in his mind. Thick and partially windblown hair pillows itself against your collarbones, the rest of it descending down the beginning of your spine and resting against the end of your sleep dress's straps. Gold silk shifts against your newly showered and softened skin and ends in lace around the middle of your partially naked thighs.
James punches out a deep breath as his eyes trail over and down your exposed and tantalizing skin, his fingers twitching with the urge to press themselves into you.
"I need you to tell me that this is wrong. That we should take our time and talk things out, since I'm sure we're both at least going to be in town for the next few days. Because if you don't, once I get into your room and I get my hands on you, I don't think I'll be able to stop until we're both finished and done for."
You silently prattle in your head about all the things that could possibly go wrong. The fact that he may be gone in the morning if his schedule changes, or the fact that he might just up and leave your room after you fall asleep instead, that this could simply be something temporary for him. That you could just be being used for his own pleasure. But as you watch the yellow tinged light of your bedside table's lamp illuminate the side of his face in the darkening natural light peering its way in through your partially opened blinds, you find yourself to not truly care. You knew deep down that this may be your one and only opportunity to get this close to him, in this very moment. And you were going to take full advantage of that.
"You said the double-sided doors are the best part of this place, right?" You start, the strong and steady tone you begin with quickly turning labored and overwrought as you feel his hungry and starved gaze weigh you down and hold you in place. "How about you take mine into consideration, and then we can make our way on over to yours?"
James stumbles over the jagged doorstep in haste before breaking out in a breathless huff of laughter at your words, his awaiting fingers coming up to lightly tug on the fabric covering your midsection to bring you even closer. Leaning down to rest his forehead against yours, James brings his free hand up to firmly cup it around the back of your neck and murmurs out before enrapturing you in a deep kiss.
"Fuck waiting."
A gasp of laughter bubbles its way through your swollen lips as you're playfully pushed down onto the aged bed beneath you and your legs are yanked forward to rest against the outer edge. "Do you have any idea how I felt when I first saw you?" Rough and calloused hands teasingly raise the almost see through fabric of your dress up your thighs as James kneels in front of you. "A breath of fresh air compared to everyone else trying to run towards us, your fucking legs and those boots."
You shift your weight up to rest against the back of your arms and look down to try to and meet his eyes. A small thrum of a pulsation sensitizes your clit as you watch him slowly spread your thighs apart, a small patch of arousal bleeding through the cotton covering your sex as you watch him bring his face in between your legs.
"Your lips and the way you purse them when you're in a train of thought, makes me want to have you suck on my fingers while I eat you out." He roughs out, before placing a kiss on the inner side of your knee, the juxtaposition of the brash rub of his beard and his lips making you moan out in shock in the nearly quiet room.
The sound reverberates as James licks his lips at the sight of you getting wet, his cock already jumping in the tight confines of his jeans from the sight of you alone. "Your cunt's getting so wet for me already and I haven't even done anything to you yet. You feeling needy yet, doll? Need me to do something for you?"
You nod quickly, your eyes feeling heavy as his thumbs snag themselves against the softness of your inner legs to yank them open wide. A timorous feeling runs through you as the condensed and slowly cooling air blowing out from the AC unit creates goosebumps on your newly exposed skin, and you almost shy away from him as his eyes flick up to yours.
"Look at me, angel," James coos softly, his slightly condescending tone from earlier long gone. You're faced with a comforting smile on his bruising lips once you follow his request. "Good girl. It's just you and me in this room, alright? No one else gets to see you like this, just me. Be here with me and be present, baby. Let's make this last while we can. There's no need to be shy with me when I'm already fully hard in my pants from just kissing you and seeing you laid out for me like this."
You take in a deep breath as James begins to move once again, his mouth replacing his hands, which now climb their way up to your hips to hold them in place. Firm and wet kisses are placed unevenly on your now trembling thighs, your hesitancy now the least of your worries as he sucks a mark into your reddening skin. Back arching up from the mattress as the musician bites into you without any warning, you reach down to fist a handful of his hair in a silent rebuttal, your bitten skin stinging pleasantly.
James moans out against you instead, the vibration being so close to your pussy that it makes you cry out loud, your underwear starting to stick to you as you feel your folds begin to dampen with your arousal.
"Please, James. I need to feel you, want to cum on your tongue." You plead, the throbbing of your cunt becoming borderline painful as he continues to touch and suck and lick anywhere that isn't where you truly needed him. James grins against your skin as you plead and beg, before slowly making his way up to your awaiting sex and placing a teasing kiss to your swollen and clothed clit.
"Is this where you need me, bell? Need me to fuck you with my tongue, have you dripping down my chin as you cum all over me?" You open your mouth to respond, before widening into a gape as his heavy and hot tongue swipes against the cotton, the warmth of his mouth a stark contrast to the coldness of the room. James' eyes nearly close in ecstasy as your essence blankets his tastebuds, his cockhead leaking pathetically through the rough denim.
Using his teeth to move the soaked cotton to the side, James pulses forward to spontaneously caress the tip of his tongue against your opening, while his nose rubs insistently against your bud in tandem. "Oh God!" You scream out, your hips overpowering his hands holding you down and your left leg raising to wrap itself around his shoulder. "I'm sorry." You gasp, before grinding your hips up and fucking his face, bellowing out a chant of his name as his tongue slides into your hole.
Reaching down to grasp onto your right leg and place it onto his other shoulder, James replaces his tongue with an index and middle finger as he raises his head to harshly suck at your clit.
Your thighs begin to seize as you feel his facial hair indent itself into your skin, your thrusts turning wild and uncoordinated as he curls his fingers upward and brushes against your g-spot. "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum." You whimper, tears springing to your eyes as the orgasm building in your groin begins to feel almost overwhelming.
Lifting his head to look up at you, James watches you with intense eyes as his fingers thrust into you relentlessly, his other hand coming down to pinch and rub at your swollen nub. "Cum for me baby, you can do it for me. Such a fucking good girl, making a mess of me." Slick glistens against his beard and runs down his thick neck, his nose soaking wet with your essence and his facial expression completely fucked out and hair disheveled.
James smirks as he feels your walls begin to erratically convulse around his fingers and places a soft kiss to your bruising skin, before fucking them into you at an even faster place. You gasp out an expletive and tremor as he roughly pushes his thumb against your clit and scissors his digits, your sudden release and the force of it causing you to bow and curl around the man pleasuring you. Tears stream down your cheeks while you simultaneously try to catch your breath, slowly beginning to come back to as James carefully lowers your legs and beckons you into his arms.
"You did so well, doll." He tells you as he encircles his arms around your trembling waist, careful not to have you rub against the rough fabric of the sheets covering the bed. "Took care of me so well." You rebut shakily, lifting your head up from his shoulder to begin a slow trail of kisses down his neck.
"You don't have to, baby. I'll be just fine." He tries to reassure you, but to no avail. Leaning back to look him in the eye, you sneakily raise your foot and press your toes into the large bulge almost bursting against the seams of his zipper. James groans out at the dizzying relief the pressure gives him, before his eyes snap open as you abruptly stop.
"Do you have any idea how I felt when I first saw you?" You ask him once you finally stabilize, his lips quirking up at the familiar sounding words despite of the sexual frustration he felt. James raises an eyebrow as you offer him a hand, but takes it, nonetheless. Tugging him on top of you once he's fully stood, James instinctively catches himself on his forearms before he could place all of his weight on you, his large thighs pressing you into the mattress. "I thought you were the most handsome man I've ever seen and met, with a personality to match. So gentlemanlike to walk me back to my room and make sure the room attached to mine would also be yours. With an ass so full, even a girl like me couldn't help but want to grab onto."
You grin victoriously to yourself as you watch a flustered expression grow on his face, before you gently guide him down into a fulfilling kiss. Allowing him to take the lead once you two find a synergistic rhythm, you moan into his wet heat as his tongue runs against the top of your mouth. Spit lines connect the two of you as you break apart, you licking your lips to collect it as your own before you motion for him to pull his shirt over his head. Reaching down to unbuckle his belt and push his jeans and briefs past the swell of his ass, your eyes widen as his hot length smacks against the top of your pubic bone.
"So, you're a big boy in more than one way, huh?" Lips stretching in a wide smile as his cock jumps in response and his face begins to flush even further, you teasingly and blindly run your index finger down his long shaft.
James lets out a resounding moan as you wrap your hand around his girth and stroke upwards, the amount of precum seeping down his length allowing it to be a comfortable slide. Pressing your thumb into his tip and reaching down to cup his balls in a firm grip, you whisper against him as he gasps out your name. "You going to let me make you feel good, help me make you cum inside of me?"
"Yes, baby. Want to push my seed inside of you as deep as it can go, want you to be sore and feel me stretching you out days later." James pants out against you, the veins in his dick pulsating wildly against your palm. Resting your head against the sheets below you and making sure to maintain eye contact, you position his tip to your entrance and raise your hips to slowly thrust his cockhead in. You both sharply inhale in unison, his cock stretching your walls open in a way you thought wasn't even possible.
James clenches his jaw shut, forcing himself not to move as you slowly shift yourself down his overly sensitive shaft. Your lips part in a silent cry as you bottom out, the overwhelmingly full feeling causing tears to swell in your eyes once again. "I swear, I can feel you in my stomach." You whisper out, your shaky exhale turning into a whine as James unintentionally moves forward and brushes against your cervix.
Lifting your legs to wrap them around the sweaty lower part of his back, your walls subconsciously tighten around him as you make yourself more comfortable. James grunts out above you before sliding his hands down to your waist and shifting his weight onto the backs of his thighs. Darkened blue eyes stare down at you with desperation, quietly pleading to move as their owner tenses up his shoulders with physical restraint.
"You can move." You murmur up at him, the tightening coil in your midsection threatening to snap and break apart as you watch his facial expression relax with relief. James' grip strengthens around you as he thrusts forward, his irises blown wide as your walls accommodate to the thick stretch of him and his movement. Gasping out as his thrusts begin to roughen and his ballsack begins to smack against the sensitive skin of your ass, you reach up to encircle your arms around his neck as his hips begin to push you up the bed.
"Just like that, just like that." You plead as the underside of his cock slides against your sponge-like spot, a gush of your slick pulsing out and steadily dripping down onto the ruined sheets beneath you.
"Fucking look at you, taking me so well," James moans out from above, his fingertips pressing bruises into your skin as he lifts your waist up from the bed. "Made for me to fuck into. So soaking wet for me." You flush red and scream out as he propels his dick even further inside of you, the bedpost noisily making contact with the chipping wall from the force of the drive of his hips.
Your thighs tremble around him as he begins to lift you up and down his cock, the sound becoming audible as you fall silent, your orgasm forcing you to quiet down. James curses out as he feels his balls raise and tighten, the orgasm coursing through you causing you to constrict around him. Whining out as you begin to feel overstimulated as he pistons himself into you and against every right spot, you try to shift back in his hold, before crying out as one of his hands slide down and makes contact with your asscheek.
"Don't run from me, baby. Thought you wanted to make me feel good, wanted to help me make you feel nice and sore for days after?" He taunts you, his grip holding you in place once again as he relentlessly fucks you deep into the creaking mattress underneath the two of you. "Take it like a good girl, like I know you know how to be."
You nod vehemently and hold onto him desperately and he has his way with you, despite the fact that you were barely holding on, so fucked out you felt like you couldn't even formulate a single thought or word as he impales you with a rough and irregular pattern. James lifts you up onto his lap as his thrusts begin to become shorter and harsher, his tip seemingly feeling like it was going past your cervix and straight into your uterus. James pants above you and lightly wraps his hand around your throat as your head lolls to the side, forcing you to look up at him with unfocused eyes.
"You're doing so good for me, bell. Just a little while longer, alright? Such a pretty mess, all for me." The praise goes straight to your head as you feel yourself come back down to earth as he sends you a satisfied grin, the sweat beading down his temples from the exertion making its way down his chin and landing on your breasts. You shiver as the cool air makes its way over to the droplets and dries them against your skin, the frigid air causing your nipples to harden and sensitize as they're brushed against James' chest.
"Cum for me," You moan out, swallowing thickly as his hand delicately tightens around your neck, the slight depravation of air making your voice sound breathy. "Making me feel so good, can't you feel it?" You tighten your walls around him with a clench, causing him to let out a whine on top of you, his chin leaning forward to rest against the top of your head as his cock begins to spurt its seed inside of you.
James' hand around your throat shakily slides back to your nape, his fingers twisting themselves in your hair for purchase and holding you in place as he steadily empties himself. You close your eyes in content as you feel his warmth fill you to the brim. Taking in a deep breath to ground himself, James gently untangles himself from you before wrapping his hands around your middle to lift you up.
"Not yet, still want to feel you." You protest weakly, leaning back in his grasp until he gets the hint to allow you to lie back on the soiled sheets and bedding. James nods and bends down to place a placating kiss on your lips before carefully flipping you over, situating you on top of him so your head can rest comfortably on his heaving upper half.
You close your eyes tiredly as you feel his calloused palm slide down your spine in a comforting manner, the rise and fall of his chest and erratic heartbeat almost lulling you to bed, before your eyes snap open at the sound of multiple heavy and drunken pairs of feet stumbling their way into the motel room right next to yours.
James looks over at the wall in horror as he realizes that in his haste to get over to you, he forgot to close and lock the double-sided door. You let out a yelp as he jolts up in a sitting position with you still on top of him, your hands scrambling to hold onto his shoulders as he yanks the sheets from underneath the two of you as a set of dazed eyes peep their way through the opening.
"Oh shit!" Jason yells out as he makes eye contact with you frozen on top of James, your bare breasts hanging out of the yanked down and almost torn sleep dress haphazardly draped around you. "Get the fuck out!" James screams back at him, throwing a pillow and narrowly missing the crown of his head as he quickly tucks the sheet around you.
"What the fuck is going on?" Lars slurs out, before letting out an embarrassingly high sound as his drunken bandmate slides back into the other room and tackles him onto the carpet. "Nothing, do not go in there, man!" James groans and drops his head back on the bed, one of his hands unwrapping from around you to reach up and rub at his eyes.
"I am so fucking sorry." James apologizes, before lifting his head to look at you, perplexed. Uncontrollable giggles pour out of you as you sit up and plop yourself between his legs, your hand clutching onto your stomach as your breath is stolen from you once again. James' lips raise at the joyous sound coming from you, before sitting up himself and wrapping an arm around your shoulder.
"Well, that's one way of meeting the rest of the band." You muse, humor heavy in your tone as you finally re-collect yourself and lean back against his bicep. James grins to himself before wrapping his arm around you and twisting you down back into bed, a laugh of his own filling the room as you let out a shocked squeak.
"Don't worry babe, you still haven't met Kirk yet." He reassures you, before descending down on top of you and kissing away the rest of the laughter that finds its way through your swollen and smiling lips.
Lars gives up underneath Jason as he realizes struggling against him is futile, the bassist easily overpowering him and pinning him down within the first few seconds. The Dane goes to open his mouth to spit out an insult, before freezing in place as a breathy, feminine laugh bleeds through the opening door and into their room.
"Is that a girl?" He asks, his lips spreading and forming into a wide grin as Jason unconvincingly responds with a "No!"
Lars shakes his head and lets out a drunken laugh as Jason rolls off of him and lies down next to him instead. The bassist closes his eyes in tired defeat, a partial amount of his curls landing on his friend's shoulder as Lars stares up at the stained ceiling with hilarity-filled eyes.
"James, you slimy bastard."
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