#when he’s dying and he says it feels good to be me again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ilyrafe · 3 days

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𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅'𝒔 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 ✧ 𝒓. 𝒄.

pairing: ex-boyfriend!rafe cameron x ex-girlfriend!reader

warnings: angst

word count: 1k

“hi, rafe.”

just your voice is enough to decentralize him entirely. he didn’t expect to see you at sarah’s party, only because he didn’t know you were back to kildare.

you look beautiful as always. your hair is shorter, but that’s the only thing that has changed about you, at least, it’s what he can assume. the flower crown you’re wearing adorns your sage green dress beautifully.

“hi.” he takes a sip of his mock tail, trying to pretend he’s cool with you there, as if he knew.

“how have you been?”

“good.”

you know rafe too well. his short answers tell you he’s not at all amused by your presence, and that breaks your heart even more. he looks so handsome with a buzzcut, and it’s like he knows it.

“i guess you didn’t know i was coming.” you chuckle quite awkwardly. “sarah convinced me to come, she said it wouldn’t be an issue, but... if you want me to leave, i will.”

“i really don’t care what you do, y/n.”

you sigh, defeated. he’ll never forgive you for what you said. you thought that maybe he would have changed, or at least, understood your point, but you see that he hasn’t done either.

“okay, um... i’ll see you around, rafe.”

he watches you leave, and you’re not even pretending to be happy. he ruined your mood and he knows it. rafe sees sarah comforting you, and she shoots him a glare, making him roll his eyes and leave his spot at the bar.

he should probably leave, too.

when he turns his back and makes his way inside tanney hill, he doesn’t look back. he goes straight to his bedroom and plops down on his king sized bed. the music is muffled, thank god.

he’s been trying to make amends with sarah, even letting her come back home and be with john b in peace. sure, he doesn’t get along with the pogues, but if accepting them is what it takes for him to have the smallest sense of peace, he’ll do it.

rafe has also decided to get sober. after almost dying of an overdose, he was really scared and decided to quit. he wants to make ward proud. staying away from alcohol is a lot harder than quitting coke and marijuana, it turns out. the mock tails aren’t as enjoyable.

as if doing all that isn’t hard enough, you’re back. and with you being back, all of the feelings he’s successfully repressed are coming back up again, stronger than ever.

he hates that he’s given you this amount of power over him.

rafe never did feelings before, and the one time he did, you left him because of himself. rafe is his worst enemy.

he really loved you. well, scratch that. he never stopped loving you. you took care of him, you improved his relationship with ward and sarah. you asked him to quit drugs and selling it. you listened to him and you took none of his bullshit. you held him accountable while giving him grace.

deep down, he knows he fucked up. he wasn’t ready to grow up, but no one likes to say they’re wrong, do they?

“i just think it’s funny how you really believe this little island is an entire world for you.” you snorted. “but i know why you don’t wanna leave this shit hole. you’re a nobody outside the outer banks. there is no “kook versus pogue” once you step out of this place. you’re just another trust fund baby with drug issues to everyone else, rafe.”

he never understood your incessant need to “explore the world”, it’s so childish. you always talked about how you wanted to live in paris, toronto, tokyo, london, seoul, or berlin or whatever (honestly, you have mentioned so many cities, he has lost count), and you always said that you would be happy anywhere else, but rafe doesn’t see himself being happy far from north carolina. from kildare. from tanney hill. it’s where he comes from and where he wants to die. it’s what he knows.

a knock on his bedroom door interrupts his thoughts. rafe huffs and rolls his eyes. when he opens the door, he comes across you.

“what do you want?” he questions, irritated.

you enter his room and close the door behind you, drowning out the noise of the music once again. you’ve missed his bedroom. his bed.

“i think... i think i owe you an apology,” you say. “i shouldn’t have been so mean to you that day, it wasn’t right.”

rafe remains quiet, sitting on his bed, just listening to you talk.

“i just… i never liked it here, and i end up projecting that onto others, and i did that to you. i’m sorry.”

in theory, hearing you apologize should be gratifying, but rafe can’t identify any sign of regret in you. it’s not that he doesn’t think your apology is insincere, it’s that the regret he wanted to see doesn’t exist. you don’t regret leaving kildare nor leaving him.

“apology accepted.”

“thank you.” you smile.

“y/n, are you happy?” he asks.

“hm?”

“are you happy there?”

your smile and small nod tells everything he didn’t want to know. you are happy. in fact, you’re happier than ever.

“i am.”

rafe has vivid memories with you, and your smile has never been so wide, your eyes have never been so bright. maybe this will take him to hell, but he hates that you’re genuinely happy away from there, especially because he isn’t happy. and if he is not happy in where he feels he belongs most, there is no place in the world that makes him happy.

maybe happiness isn’t an option for him, and the most upsetting thing about this is that money really can’t buy happiness. not the one rafe really needs anyways.

you want to tell rafe how you’re enjoying life for the first time, how being independent is amazing, but also sucks, but it’s still amazing, how the feeling of achieving something on merit is indescribable... but rafe would never understand.

it’s funny how two people who are so similar at first are so different in the end.

“that’s all that matters to me, then.”

i love feedback! let me know your thoughts! <3

#my writings #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron oneshot #drew starkey #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey oneshot #outer banks

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jolieblack · 3 days

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Something finally came to me! (I usually can’t write to prompts to save my life.)

May Prompts 2024 by @calaisreno

May 24th: Imperfect

We've always done things the wrong way round.

We moved in together at a time when we knew no more than four or five facts about each other. Significant facts, granted, such as John being a war veteran and me having no patience with idiots, but neither of us could have claimed to have had anything even close to the full picture at the time. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if either of us had. Only on my really bad days, though.

I don’t have all that many of those any more, luckily. And when I do, I have plenty of good memories to help me pull myself up again. Take the ones of how we confessed our love to each other to a beautifully decorated room full of people in festive dress and in even more festive spirit, to much applause and cheering and well-wishing. Yes, you heard that plural right. Those are two separate memories, years apart and in two different places. I got to go first, and it wasn’t even me who was getting married at the time. That’s another thing that most couples would do differently. Coordinate it a bit better, at least.

The second time around, as a lot of you will remember well, it was John's turn to talk, and I‘d been told in no uncertain terms to keep my mouth shut and say nothing, not even to correct his grammar, till he was done. I can now attest that it is true that the groom never gets to have a say in anything at his own wedding. Someone got his late revenge there. And believe me, that doesn’t depend on whether it’s one groom or two. Yes, and I know there are still people out there even in this day and age who feel that it’s not normal to have two grooms at all. They can all go away and never show their ugly faces again where I can see them, or smell the foul breath of the bigoted filth they’re spouting. That’s not the wrong way around, that couldn’t be more right for both of us.

But we did other things the wrong way around, too. In most romantic stories, killing someone to save the person you love is usually the culmination of long mutual trust and dedication. It‘s supposed to be the crowning glory, the final sealing of a bond that has long been in the making. It’s not supposed to be the starting point. And John is usually the more patient of the two of us, but when it came to this, he could barely contain himself for 36 hours after our very first meeting before he did it. Ever heard of timing and pacing, Doctor, I hear you people wonder? And he’s supposed to be the one with the talent for good storytelling. The timing was good, though. The timing was excellent. There’s another 'what if' for you that is no fun to contemplate at all.

There is killing out of love, and - I have to say it, I can’t not, I‘d be lying by omission if I didn't - there's also dying out of love. I doubt, however, that there’s anyone out there who has ever put a more elaborate effort into pretending to die out of love than I have. As far as I‘m aware, that’s not really a romantic convention, either, and I sincerely hope I haven’t started a trend. I honestly can’t recommend it. Effort is well and good, and I dare say the execution in my case was flawless, but I can’t deny there was a certain lack of forethought as to the emotional impact on both parties concerned. Don‘t try this at home, folks.

People also usually date first, then start cohabiting, then get married, then raise children together. Please don’t ask me to define at what time in our lives exactly John and I were dating and when we weren’t yet. To this day we have never been able to agree on a definition for this mysterious activity that emphatically, according to John, for whatever reason, does not encompass two people who like each other going out together and having fun. But it is an undisputed fact that we had been raising a child together for a good while before we got married. And we have been going out together and having fun for years uncounted now. Crime scenes never fail to work that particular magic on us. Oh wait, no, that was another example I had on my list for what most other couples do differently. Hang on, do I see a certain Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard raise his hand in objection? Raising both hands, actually, showing us… what, seven fingers? Is that the number of couples working for the Metropolitan Police that you know personally who have met at crime scenes? Or are you reminding us of the number of times John and I were actually kicked off a crime scene because we were enjoying ourselves entirely too much, and were told not to come back till we could behave like adults? I could have sworn those were more than seven occasions, but I‘ll take your word for it.

Talking of raising a child together, I‘m sure Rosie will say a word or three about that herself later, but I have never understood why most of you had doubts about the practicability of that particular endeavour. Let me just tell you that a baby carrier is entirely compatible with a cashmere scarf, or didn’t you know cashmere can absorb up to a third of its own dry weight in liquid? And it got only easier from there when Rosie grew older and stopped affectionately drooling on whoever enjoyed the happy privilege of holding her and carrying her around. She hasn’t demanded being carried around in a good while now, and I don’t know what our poor old backs would say to that these days. But we were talking about happy memories, weren’t we, so there’s another. And at least in the metaphorical sense, I hope you know, Rosie, that you’ll be held and carried for as long as you want and need, as long as we both live. You were my daughter even before I was your father’s husband, and that has been one of the greatest honours bestowed on me in my life.

Because this is who we are, isn’t it, our crazy little family, where nothing is as you’d expect it to be. But we still wouldn’t have it any other way, topsy-turvy, weird, flawed and utterly imperfect, but also utterly us, unique, one of a kind. I don’t know if it was fate that threw us together, or if it really was just a whim on the part of the comfortable, corpulent, bespectacled gentleman sitting at this table over here, smirking with his trademark benevolence. But there’s a debt of gratitude to be paid there, and today is a good day to do it. In this at least, we’re doing the conventional thing, but who’s to say we’re not allowed to do that at least once in a quarter-century.

So, ladies and gentlemen, dear friends and family from far and wide, I give you: John Watson, the man of my life, the man at my side for over thirty years, and for exactly twenty-five years in the legal sense on this very day. Please raise your glasses with us to the next twenty-five. And for God’s sake stop snivelling like that, Mycroft. You’re embarrassing the whole room.

#bbc sherlock #may prompts 2024 #mayprompts2024 #jolie writes #imperfect #bbc sherlock fanfiction #johnlock #old married couple #johnlock fanfiction

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breedtheseed · 3 days

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Adam is charlie mom, oh that would be a good angst idea

For example, maybe before heaven found out, adam had a baby. For the first couple of days, adam would spend every waking meal with charlie. Like singing her to sleep

Years later at the hotel at

Adam humming a song on the outside balcony

Charlie: Hey adam

Adam: charlie what are you doing up?

Charlie: couldn't sleep

Adam: oh okay

1 hour later they both still awake

Adam thinks I haven't done this in a while, but I remember correctly . She fell asleep in minutes: Hey Charlie, you want me to do a tick for you to go to bed

Charlie: sure

Adam started to hum and sing a bit in minutes, charlie fell asleep

Adam: still works like a charm

This AU hurts my soul and I was writing it with someone in a server so some of these parts are theirs and some are mine. Also I just copied and pasted the texts so it’s gonna have some grammar mistakes on my end. (Their Twitter)

Discord idea

(Adam is Charlie’s real mother)

So running on the idea that Lucifer and Adam used to hook up a lot at the beginning of Adam joining heaven eventually they had a hard falling out when Adam found out Lilith and Lucifer were getting married and chose Lilith over him once again.

But Adam found out he was pregnant he hid the pregnancy with eating more and hiding his body.

When he had the baby he was completely alone and if Heaven found out it was Lucifer’s who knows what they’d do, especially because the baby looked just like Lucifer.

He swallowed his pride and gave his baby girl one last kiss before leaving her at Lucifer’s castle to which Lucifer adopted Charlie immediately, especially since Lilith liked the idea of kids but not the idea of having them, part of the reason her and Adam didn’t work out.

So with this AU Adam still falls in a similar way but instead he falls because of Lilith back stabbing him and stuff

And Charlie hates Adam because Adam lead the exterminations

And Adam is just in pain because his kid hates him and he can’t even talk without her looking at him like he’s a monster

When he first saw Charlie the air caught in his throat because his baby girl was all grown up, she looked just like Lucifer. Poor Adam having to deal with the idea that Charlie grew up without him and doesn’t see him as anything more than just Adam the Man in charge of the exterminations

Wondering if Lucifer knows. He couldn't NOT know, Charlie looks EXACTLY like him, and who else would be the mother? Unless Lucifer was fucking around with others too, which only depresses Adam worse.

(Me)

Poor Adam knowing deep down no one wants him but little did he know Adam realized Charlie was Adam’s but it was only after Lilith had pointed out how similar Lucifer and Charlie were despite “not being related”

Just...he had no way of bringing it up without it being awkward

And especially because Adam never acknowledged it too

Adam may have gone to that last Extermination drink off his ass just to get through it. Getting lost in the role he had to play. He wasn't actually going to kill Charlie, but he had to pretend. He's always had to pretend.

He especially had to pretend to Heaven

And when Lucifer showed up...instead of just ending it, Lucifer mocked him all over again. Fine. *FINE*. Adam wouldn't even ENTERTAIN the notion of talking it out. Just go scorched earth on this bitch, he was DONE

Just having so much pent up anger that he lets everything happen because he couldn’t man up and say something sooner

And then he was stabbed. Like 26 times, Great. Now he's dying. And no one will know the truth.

Sobbing not cuz he’s dying but because he died lying to everyone, *Sigh* 😔 I know it makes sense to kill him but imagine Lucifer saves him

Now he's alive. But practically a prisoner. Fuck, he might as well have kicked it

Being numb to everything and just accepting his fate as a loser

Even when Lucifer shows him the door opens. It's unlocked. He can come out.

He doesn’t even try just stays where he is holding his arm feeling like shit and Lucifer has to coax Adam. Only then does Adam follow Lucifer but still keeps his distance behind the king

Adam keeping his distance. Last time he got near, Lucifer beat the shit out of him and would have finished him off if not for Charlie

Imagine Lucifer was angry because Adam had the audacity to abandon Charlie and then almost kill her, not knowing Adam was drunk and at the time Charlie reminded him of Lucifer. The one who knocked him up and got away

Adam definitely not welcome at the Hotel so he's stuck at Lucifer's palace. His bedroom might be open but he's locked in when Lucifer is gone. Which gives him ample time to raid Lucifer's bar and get drunk enough to forget how every time he hits rock bottom, life keeps handing him a pickaxe

The first time Lucifer had come home to a very drunk Adam asleep on his bed he was annoyed especially because Adam smelled like too much alcohol.

however one day he had come home the usual, Adam drunk and laying on his bed. Lucifer sighed and walked to his closet only to hear Adam start sobbing and mumbling something that sounded like an apology.

It left an uneasy feeling on Lucifer not knowing if it was the alcohol talking or Adam was actually apologizing, he found out when he saw the man dead asleep with streams running down his face.

In his sleep, Adam had his arms curled like he's holding something

Whimpering and a cry woke him up, Adam’s eyes snapped towards the sound but the room was empty there was no one in his room and no traces of the cry actually being there.

The sound was unforgettable, he heard it in his nightmares or in his dreams. It was Charlie’s, he engraved it in his mind when she was born and he had to shield them in his wings as he held her close and cleaned her off. He remembers how small she was in his arms, how the girls pipes were the same as his other children.

Adam winced at the migraine he had, his skull was throbbing. He must have gotten back into Lucifer’s stash again. Though Lucifer never really seemed mad when Adam would go on his drinking sessions when he was away

Which was good. He wasn't going to stop. He just avoided Lucifer when he could, didn't mess anything up, and resigned himself to being the ghost that haunts the place halls. Because that's what he was. A ghost. Avoiding the north wing because that's where the big fuckoff portrait of Lilith and Lucifer were. He could spend hours glaring at it, remembering how Lucifer said he was marrying Lilith after all this time, and then just days later finding out he was pregnant.

Sometimes he’d debate fucking the picture up or he’d end up curled under it crying, it was best to just avoid it as much as possible.

At some point Adam found Lucifer’s Alcohol storage empty, and he panicked because without it he felt he couldn’t function. He couldn’t even be near Lucifer or even in the castle being sober. There was too much too much Charlie and too much Lucifer. How could he avoid it or even confront it without breaking down.

“Adam that’s enough,” Adam froze as he was throwing things around trying to look for something anything that could take his thoughts away from Lucifer. “Adam this is just sad, you can’t keep running away from me,” Lucifer stepped close too close and Adam found himself trying to get away from Lucifer despite being in a corner. “Adam I told Charlie about your behavior and she’d like to help you in your recovery,” Lucifer’s words weren’t registering in Adam’s head, he was only hearing bits and pieces.

He shakes his head, covering his ears with his hands. His head was pounding and he needed a hair of the dog before the migraine really kicked in. He couldn't process Lucifer, he DEFINITELY couldn't process Charlie.

Despite Adam’s protests he was dragged to see Charlie, and he was fucking sober. He hated it.

Charlie wasn’t too pleased about it either but from what her dad was telling her, maybe Adam wasn’t as bad as she originally thought. Especially after seeing him in person, he looked horrible and Charlie was sure that her dad was the one who dressed him because he did not look capable of doing so. Adam looked his age despite also looking young, he had lost weight in his face making him look like death. The guys hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks maybe even months, Charlie actually felt sorry for the guy.

Adam on the other hand was out of it, his mind choosing to disassociate and go on autopilot which didn’t last long because Lucifer kept bringing him back.

Husk immediately recognized the issue, making up a bloody mary despite Charlie's protests and giving it to Adam. "Look, I've seen the different levels of alcoholism, and if this fucker wasn't an angel, he'd be dead already. He needs to come down gradually, not cold turkey!"

Husk gives Lucifer a look of disappointment before giving Adam the drink, though Adam looks to the other two before drinking. Waiting for their approval before drinking it.

“Look Adam you can join me instead, but I ain’t going to talk about my feelings with you got it,” Husk made clear as they made their way to the bar. Charlie feeling guilty for telling her father to get rid of all the alcohol

Husk being careful to give Adam mixers, preferably with real fruit muddles or puree

As the sessions continue Adam started to associate a little more managing to make conversation with husk and angel, them both managing to find common ground despite not knowing what’s actually going on in his head.

They were both like small anchors that kept Adam from drifting off into his thoughts, eventually Angel managed to convince Adam to join a session of Charlie’s friendship exercises. It was a simple one or at least Charlie thought it was, it was to have everyone say one good thing about everyone.

Adam was doing good, even managing to compliment Alastors cooking. However when he got to Charlie suddenly Adam started to back track, he tried to skip her but her and Lucifer were the only two.

The panic sets in. He had SO many good things to say about Charlie, but every one of them sounded like poison coming from his mouth.

He wanted to tell her how proud he was how she grew into a wonderful person, but he couldn’t, he didn’t deserve to. He abandoned her his baby she deserved to hate him he didn’t deserve this.

Charlie started to panic now, this wasn’t supposed to happen like this. If it wasn’t for angel dust getting Adam to focus on him and to give him another compliment she was sure Adam would have had a full blown panic attack.

The fact that Adam would panic when it came to her or her dad made her think it had something to do with the exterminations but she scratched that when she say Adam and Vaggie talking about music together. There was something going on.

Lucifer too thought the same as Charlie, neither of them knowing the first man as well as they thought

Adam just leaves the room after that. He can't do this. He gets another drink and just sits in the corner waiting to go home

Angel dust followed behind him, husk had given angel a couple of bottles of booze. He hoped it would help.

Adam had become accustomed to going to Angels room for some comfort it helped that fat nugget was a sweetie. And despite Adam it felt nice to hold the little pig and just imagine he was back in heaven, with Charlie before he had to give her up.

“So do you wanna talk about it?” Angel asked softly as Adam sat on the floor so fat nugget could crawl into his lap.

“If I do it’s cuz I’m not sober,” Adam sighed out and Angel waved a bottle in front of him

“That can be arranged”

Lucifer and Charlie had a pit growing in their stomachs Adam had been in hell for about a year and still wasn’t on talking terms with them aside from small talk every so often.

A part of Lucifer wanted to get closer to Adam, it had started after he heard Adam apologizing in his sleep. It had reminded him of when he fell with Lilith and how for years he would mumble apologizing to her whether he was asleep or awake. It took a long time for him to get out of that mindset and if he was being honest, the visits he and Adam made really helped. Though Lucifer knew better, he knew those moments between him and the first man were only driven by lust and nothing more. Or at least he thought that, it wasn’t until he was actually married to Lilith did it all come together, him and her they were perfect. Their relationship was amazing up until Charlie arrived on their doorstep, it was like a switch for Lilith. The woman had begun taking care of the girl though it wasn’t as motherly as Lucifer hoped. Maybe because Charlie wasn’t hers, or maybe because she just like Lucifer realized who’s baby the girl really was.

Lucifer knew Charlie was Adam’s, he hadn’t slept with anyone other than Adam and Lilith. It wasn’t like Eve to just leave a baby so it had to have been Adam’s, at first Lucifer was angry with the idea. However those thoughts were starting to shift now that he was living with Adam

Angel was at a lose for words as Adam was in a drunken fit, the man was going through all the emotions

“It was the first time since I entered heaven that I actually felt happy,” Adam gave a shaky smile as he looked at the bottle of alcohol “it fucking broke me to leave her here,” Adam sobbed again, “looking at her now all I want to do is tell her how proud I am,” he bit his lip “but in reality I should be fucking dead, I am horrible I don’t even deserve to live with Lucifer,”

Angel pulled Adam into a hug and just let Adam sob for a good while until Lucifer came to get him. However angel wasn’t about to just let Adam go with the king in fact Angel felt the need to say something or at least give the dumbass a hint. Since whatever Adam was doing was definitely not working for anyone

That’s what we had and honestly idk what to add lol 😂 sorry for the sudden dump

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treedaddymcpuffpuff · 17 hours

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Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen

TW: nsfw, angst

The lights of the amusement park in the dying day make the old wooden dock feel like a carnival, a happy place where only good things can happen. He’s snagged your hand in his again, giving your fingers an affectionate squeeze. You can’t help but notice that he slows his long stride to match yours. You get the feeling that it’s not often Detective Tom Ludlow takes the time to meander anywhere.

It’s possible that you lean your head on his shoulder.

When you reach the festively lit booth of the shooting gallery Tom lifts his arm, surprising you by guiding you in a little twirl. “Alright, Miss Oakley, you’re up.”

“Not fair, now I’m dizzy!” you giggle.

“Got a feeling I need any advantage I can get,” he teases. He pays the operator and you get to go first, with the air hose operated pistol. With the shots alloted you knock down 8 out of 8 ducklings, and you make a sad face for the fallen.

Tom takes the pistol with that signature smirk, and you can’t help but admire the way he squares up to the targets, all broad shoulders and spread feet.

You probably need your head checked.

He knocks down seven ducklings easily and doesn’t even look like he feels bad about it. The competitive part of you pouts, but it is his actual job to use an actual gun, so you don’t feel too bad. You know for sure he’s not going to miss the last one. However….

It’s really not your fault, that your awesome push up bra choses that moment to poke you. You have to adjust it, at that very moment. As you fidget with your strap and tug on your neckline to expose your cleavage Tom’s attention is drawn decidedly elsewhere–he misses his duck, and by the look he shoots you, you just know you’re going to pay for it.

The booth operator hands you the big stuffed bunny, and you give it a tight hug goodbye before handing him over to his new owner. “What’re you gonna name him?” You ask.

Tom pinches the fabric of your dress and tugs you forward so the pillowy creature is the only thing separating your bodies. “Oh, you just wait.”

You blink up at him, feigning innocence even as you crush your inner thighs together to relieve the awful ache between them. “That’s a weird name, but whatever you like.” You even add in a little shrug.

His smile is a curved knife—his smile goes straight to your clit, if you’re being honest.

After that little scene, you shouldn’t be jumping at the bit to get locked inside a Ferris wheel compartment alone with him, but you are.

And Tom, not one for wasting time, wrestles you into his lap immediately after the ride starts, dress sleeve falling down your arm, hem ridden up to show your thighs, ass pressed against his clothed erection.

You feel so tiny and scared and helpless and safe in his sturdy lap. He brushes stray hair off your neck, makes your skin erupt in goosebumps, traces the curved line of throat from shoulder to dress sleeve, then tugs the fabric up into its rightful place.

“Aren’t you supposed to be undressing me?” You ask him, emboldened by the fact that you don’t have to look at him while saying it.

“Only sweet girls get to be undressed.” His fingers coast down your arm, leaving every hair raised in their wake, then ghost over your twitching belly, feeling the soft cotton wrinkles of your pretty sundress, taking far too much time inching up, up, up, finally feathering over your pebbled nipple, making your hips jerk and your breath catch on a throaty whine.

His hand travels further until it’s wrapped snug and soft around the front of your throat, tipping your jaw up and back.

“Am I hurting you, pretty girl?” His lips are almost, fucking almost pressed against the sensitive shell of your ear and you get the unhinged urge to scream in frustration.

His other hand slides into the space at the back of your right knee and unsticks your leg from the other one so you can’t press an ounce of this terrible need out of your center. “Answer me.”

“No.” You hardly recognize your own whiny voice.

He rocks his hips up into your soft bottom, and you can’t hide the groan that the feeling of his hardness sinking an ident into your softness elicits.

“Serious question,” he asks.

“Hu-uhh?”

“Was anyone ever patient enough to not just immediately fuck you?”

“Honestly, not really,” you admit, thinking back to previous partners who were convinced foreplay meant giving you a single hickey. You resist the urge to tell him about Dr. Mercer, because you have a feeling Tom really will hurt him badly if he knows the extent of how he made you feel unwanted, and afraid.

“Can’t say I blame them,” he tells you, finally pressing his stubble against the hypersensitive space behind your ear.

You want to ask him the same question, but it’s hard to make words when he’s kissing your cartilage, inhaling your scent, flicking his tongue out to taste the tip of your ear while his right hand absently tickles the back of your knee. Just really fucking teasing the shit out of poor you.

“Look outside,” he urges, and you open eyes that you didn’t realize had fluttered shut.

Below you, the pier glows and glitters rainbow bright, stark against a dark, churning ocean and inky sky. You are suspended at the highest point, stuck right at the top, and your tummy flips a little bit at the thought until it realizes that it’s completely safe wrapped up in Tom’s embrace.

He himself seems a bit distracted, and you use the opportunity to turn your head and kiss his cheek—the angle is awkwardly off, so it ends up being more of a peck to the side of his beautiful nose, but it gets the point across, and this impenetrable fortress of a man flusters below you, a hint of peach lighting the bridge of his nose and cheeks.

He looks absolutely—heartachingly—adorable, and you regret doing it only because this dumbfounded puppy side of him makes you want him in more ways than just physical. Fuck, you want to keep this man. It’s terrifying.

Of course, he’s got to show you up, releases your throat in favor of pushing his fingers into your hair and turning your body so that you’re across his lap rather than in it. One arm supports your back and head while the other lifts both your legs up onto the bench. It’s a perfect position to kiss in, and he’s leaning down, nose brushing your own, lips a half inch away from where you need them to be.

You close your eyes, mouth popping open, every inch of you tense and ready and wanting, but Tom Ludlow does not kiss you. He stays just out of reach, driving you crazy.

You try to make contact after an eternity of him being right there right there right there, but he just holds you in place and tickles your lips with the warm air from his chuckle.

After an aching eternity of madness, he leans in, and makes this so much worse for you, ever so softly placing a wet, tiny kiss to your upper lip before pulling away and making you pant and writhe.

You want to tell him you hate him when he grins that knowing grin, but that would be another lie, because you’re starting to do the opposite of hate him, and it’s far too soon for that feeling to overtake you.

“Tom.” You brace your hands on his chest.

“Yeah?”

“I kinda made this vow to myself when I first moved here that I would be alone with myself for a while. That I would, I don’t know, kind of find myself?”

“So, you’ll bend your rules for a bitch Doctor, but not me?” Instead of angry, his demeanor is outwardly jealous, boyish, pouty. It makes you feel like the biggest jackass on planet earth, and that’s really saying something because you know from experience there are a large number of jackasses residing on this little blue orb.

If there’s one thing about Tom Ludlow, it’s his ability to call you out on your bullshit and expose every part of your charade before it can even really get started. “You’re right, but Julian was a fluke. If anything, he solidified the need to find myself without anyone else in the way.” You decide to not mention the fact that Julian respectfully asked you out instead of harassing you, which greatly influenced your decision of who to go on a date with in the first place.

You watch his jaw tense, vision narrow. He sucks the inside of his cheek. “See, the problem with that is, I’m the one in the way now, and it’s going to be hard to get me to move.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t felt like this in a long fucking time, and it’s not just something you let go without a fight.”

You have a feeling he excels at fights.

The Ferris wheel churns to life, sending you down from heaven, breaking the tight intensity of the moment.

You take the attack of opportunity, snatch Mr. Bunny from the seat, and shove his face into Tom’s while making a kissing sound.

“You little weirdo.” He’s laughing, pushing the stuffed animal away half heartedly, rolling his eyes at the childish distraction that’s actually working splendidly.

He grabs the fat toy from you and holds it high into the air. You start to scramble up on him to get to it, but he wraps a restraining arm around your waist.

You can’t reach Mr. Bunny, but you can—finally—press your mouth over his own, giving the same teasing treatment, just a little chaste peck on the lips.

You try to pull back, but he’s got other plans, braces the entire back of your head in his hand and pulls you into his open mouth. His caveman and your cavewoman clash with fervent tongue and teeth. The stuffie drops forgotten while you attempt to meld. His hands are desperate, urgent, like he can’t get enough of you at once. And you don’t think you’re doing any better, because although sporting less brawn, you are just as frantic, grabbing at his short, velvet hair, fisting his shirt in your hand to pull him further against you despite being so smashed together already that you can hardly breathe.

You’re grateful for being on an ending carnival ride in public, because if you were in any sort of private setting, you’d be ripping this man’s clothes off to get him closer.

The look this man gives you as you exit the carriage could start a wildfire. He tugs you against him and slings his arm around your shoulders, bringing you into the shelter of his strong body. It really shouldn't make you feel so invincible as it does, but you feel untouchable under his wing. You make your way down the pier, and you giggle like a little girl when he buys you a cotton candy. You share the sweet treat, the sugar melting on your tongue like your resolve to resist this man.

Fuck. You’ve got it bad.

When you reach the end of the pier you cut down to walk by the water. Tom offers to carry your sandals for you. “Sure you can handle it?” you tease, looking at the bunny. “You’ve got quite an armful.”

“I think I’ll be alright.”

“I’ll be expecting to see that stuffie on your dash the next time you pull me over,” you inform him with an insouciant grin.

“I still gotta pull you over to get some action?” he fires back, tugging you against him. It steals your breath away, and you toy with his collar, mainly to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Tom…?”

“Yeah baby?”

“Is that…something you’ve done before, to get girls?”

You think you know the answer, but your heart is in your throat anyway.

“No. Just you.”

You feel a little braver, lifting your eyes to meet his. “Why?”

“What do you mean?” He seems genuinely puzzled.

“Why me?”

“There was just something about you, sweetheart. When you walked into the room and put me back together again that night–I felt my whole world change.”

You can’t stop yourself from biting your lip. If he’s lying–feeding you lines, the way so many other men have–it will destroy you. You can just feel it in your bones.

“I get the feeling you don’t believe me?”

“I want to,” you tell him, and mean it. “I really want to.”

An ambitious wave chooses that moment to crash around your ankles. You screech, the cold water a shock to your bare skin. Tom scoops you up and swings you to dry land, grinning like a feral tiger with your body wrapped up in his strong arms. He kisses you, really kisses you, nearly lifting you off the ground with his ardor. Your tongue slides against his, and you fancy he counts every single one of your teeth as he bends you over his arm. When at last you part he presses his forehead to yours. “I’m going to be honest with you.”

Oh lord. Here it comes. When a man says something like that to you…it always seems to end in disappointment, somehow. You can’t stop yourself from curling your fingers in his shirt, hiding against his broad chest. You’re not ready. There’s nothing you ever could have done to prepare yourself for this man–maybe deep down, you knew it all along.

“What?” you ask, bracing yourself.

He huffs with laughter, but there’s also an edge to it, his fingers digging into your sides. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind thinking about how sweet your pussy must taste.”

He can’t see it, but at first all you can do is blink. You should slap him, but instead you just feel weak in the knees. You must make a little noise while tucked up under his chin, because he smirks at you before catching your mouth again.

“I’m starting to think my little nurse likes it when I talk dirty to her.”

“Officer Ludlow, you are a walking sexual harassment violation.” But fuck you, if you don’t say it with a smile.

“Just you wait, baby.”

It almost sounds like a threat, and it sends a spear of molten desire straight to your core, your fingertips curling against his broad chest.

Somehow you manage to peel yourself off of him, tugging on his hand to walk down the beach a little longer. One more second and it was not going to matter how many people were milling around this warm California evening–you were going to tear off his shirt.

Maybe he senses this tension singing down your spine, thrumming like a tuning fork, because he squeezes your fingers in his, leaning over to kiss your temple. “I got you that worked up?” he teases, and you know you should just fucking relax, because he’s already told you that he has good intentions, as insane as that might sound, but you just can’t help but grit your front teeth. To be fair–he’s the one who started all this, and as usual, you’re pretty sure you’re the one who’s risking getting hurt.

"Can I be real with you?"

"Yeah."

"I'm just so fucking tired of being used. I don't know if it's this town, or what, but everyone is so in love with themselves, and everyone has their own agenda..." You sigh, afraid you sound like a crazy person, and a whiner on top of it. "Nevermind."

But he pulls you closer, and he could have pushed you over with a feather after saying, "I get it, believe me. I know we got off to a rough start, but…I meant what I said. I like you. And, if you want, I’ll go find Doctor Bitch right now and make him regret the night his ugly ass Ivy League parents decided to make him.”

You don't know why those simple words crush you inside, but you grip his big hand like he's the last thing you've got to hold on to.

Still, you’ve heard this all before, so a massive part of that protective mind of yours is reluctant to believe anything anyone says let alone talk, dark, handsome men.

“I see you fighting with yourself in there, y/n.” He brings you back from the thorny forest of your thoughts, and you look into his dark, far too perceptive eyes.

Now that he has your attention—he’s never really lost it since you saw him that first night bleeding out in your waiting room—he tucks hair behind your ear and says, “I told you, I can be patient. Trust me.”

“That’s, uh, hard to believe.”

He laughs a little as if at some inside joke. “Want to get a drink? It might do us both some good.”

The margarita you’d had with dinner was excellent, but maybe didn’t have quite enough tequila in it to get you through the night with this man.

“Yeah. That sounds excellent.” It sounded essential, if you were being honest.

***

The bar he brings you to isn’t exactly a dive, but it’s definitely his spot. Everyone seems to know him, and there’s a tickling little thrill in the back of your mind, as you think about how it’s almost like he’s showing you off.

He orders a shot of vodka and a beer. You opt for your favorite vodka cranberry.

“How did you score a date with a nice girl like this?” teases the bartender, and you can tell there’s no malice in it, just friendly ribbing between Guys™.

“Once in a while, even an asshole like me gets lucky,” Tom answers with a smirk, pulling your barstool closer. You find yourself tangled in his long legs, and you’re pretty sure you like it that way.

Tom was right. The drink does do the trick, and you feel yourself relax, even as he keeps finding excuses to touch you, his fingertips on your arm or his big hand engulfing your knee. You lean close so you can hear each other over the requisite noise of the bar, and maybe it’s just the vodka, or the low lights, but his dark eyes shining for you from so close ties your heart up in knots.

You chat for a little while, finish your drink, and before you can stop him he orders you a new one with an insouciant grin. “I gotta hit the head,” he tells you, kissing your cheek before sliding off his stool.

“Okay.”

You try not to. You really do. But you can’t stop yourself from watching him–coming or going, that man is a menace.

It isn’t long before someone hops up on the stool next to you. “Sorry, that seat’s taken,” you say with your best apologetic smile. It’s a man about Tom’s age, with a tight crew cut and a sharp look that just screams LEO, even though he’s in plainclothes. With a glance you see his badge clipped to his belt.

“Oh yeah?” he says with a smile like a razor blade, a hard glint in his blue eyes. “Couldn’t help but notice you’re here with Ludlow.”

“Yeah? So?”

“I’d be careful, I was you. Be a shame, to end up like his wife.”

Your heart spins into freefall at hearing this.

His wife? Is Tom married?

You know your surprise and horror is written all over your face–this asshole enjoys it way too much.

#tom ludlow x reader #street kings #keanuverse fic #keanuverse #x reader

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mrinafria · 9 hours

Text

The person who saved my life, and the person who made me want to live again, were all you.

Writing this to echo what @thedeathdeelers said in her post. I'm a Seon Jae softie through and through, and yet, when anyone questions Im Sol's choices or calls her names, I want to flip a table pretty much because have you seen the effects her choices have had on people?

Because of Im Sol's choices her mom doesn't have a burn injury on her hand.

Because of Im Sol's choices their house didn't completely burn down.

Because of Im Sol's choices Hyun Joo finally has the best of both worlds, with no regrets about letting go of something for the other. Her brother who was struggling with no motivation or luck whatsoever is definitely better off now.

Because of Im Sol's choices we even have a Tae Sung in the story, otherwise all we knew at the beginning, in episode 1, was he was some guy who dropped out of school after getting into a fight over something. Not the best first introduction to a character (who goes on to become the best second ML ever). I am the most proud about Tae Sung's transformation, because you can see that even in high school, underneath the 'bad boy' facade, he craved some genuine care and attention and guidance, which Im Sol the haelmoni, the yeppo noona provided.

Im Sol's choices allowed Seon Jae in Alt 2023 to live guilt-free for 14 years (where they confess), instead of him suffering that mental anguish and longing for 15 years out of guilt which the OG Seon Jae had to go through. And we all know what my feelings are about that version of him.

Because of Im Sol's choices, Sonagi exists (/-ed). Because if the 19yo Im Sol had not held the umbrella over him, giving him that dazzling smile of hers that is sunburst and blinding and contagious, capable of stirring storms within the heart, our boy would not be smitten and a loser and a goner for life (well, lives). And now we all know what that means when she chooses not to do that.

If Im Sol's choices have made anyone's life harder, it's Im Sol herself. She carries around the memories of THREE++ timelines, with the love of her life dying/almost dying in EVERY one of them. She goes through life as if she really didn't live through all that trauma that is enough to drive someone insane. She knows her Seon Jae is gone, for good, and all she has are memories that don't even exist in this timeline, memories that not even a single person can corroborate. You know how utterly helpless and hopeless that sounds like? She has a person in this timeline that resembles her Seon Jae, but she has to constantly remind herself he is not her person, her Seon-Jae, he better not be if she wants to see him alive. Going around in the city and seeing his posters/ads with his face on it, or stumbling onto him and seeing him staring at her with no recognition whatsoever? It's not easy. Becoming a complete stranger to someone who was once your everything, who could've been your everything. Not easy.

And she decides to carry on with life still because deep down she knows that's what Seon Jae would want, that's what Seon Jae had taught her: to live for the people who are thankful to have her around, to live to see another day, rain or shine. She loves life, lives life, as a token of gratitude to Seon Jae. She lives because when she says You saved my life, and you made me live to him, those are not just words she is casually throwing around. She is thankful that he made her find reasons to live one more day, and she is going to pay him back by living a worthwhile life. Because Seon Jae truly wants/ed that. He literally died wanting that, putting her life before him, because he wanted her to live, and by living, I mean not just breathing and spending the remainder of her life with survivor's guilt. Going back to this epic confession scene, he says all that because he is afraid of how Im Sol would go on with her life if he's no more. Here, he wants her to know that she doesn't need to blame herself, or suffer, because it is his choice to save her, and it'll all be worth it to him if she gets to live the best life she possibly can.

Just like Seon Jae in any timeline never stopped living or appreciating the good things in life despite longing for Im Sol for more than a decade, she will live and keep her love for him alive through herself. Even if she comes back home at the end of the day to cry in secret, or breaks down in tears in public places.

If Im Sol didn't make the choices she did, we won't have a Seon Jae to begin with.

#Lovely Runner #Byeon Woo Seok #Kim Hye Yoon #Sun Jae #Im Sol #Seon Jae #선재 업고 튀어 #kdrama #kdrama recommendations #east asian drama #still not sure if she spent 15 years back in the past is true #but she's been through more than enough already #and yeah I totally gifed my own video edit because the way she cries? and has that LOOK in her eyes? T-T #this is an incoherent mess cuz my brain is too tired and thinking about Im Sol is quite traumatizing

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enokian3310 · 3 days

Text

hooked on a higher dose

explicit / 3.6k words / ao3

“Dean?” Castiel shifts closer on the couch, eyes stormy and dark. He touches Dean’s leg tentatively, like he's unsure if this is allowed. “You’re okay.” It’s as if he’s looking right through Dean, straight at his charred, twisted up soul and library of issues. And Dean decides to lock that box back up.

“Absolutely,” Dean agrees, and crashes their mouths together.

It feels wrong, being alone in Bobby’s house. Sure, Dean’s spent enough time there over the years to not feel like a guest, but he’s still on high alert. Like Bobby’s gonna turn the corner any moment now and chew Dean out for putting his shoes on the table.

He begrudgingly repositions himself with his feet back on the floor, sinking deeper back into the shapeless, sunken cushions.

The owner of the house is state over hunting down some book he didn’t have, for a lead on something — anything — that could help them shove Lucifer back in his cage. It’s not like the angels have been particularly charitable with their Apocalypse knowledge, and “read the Bible” got old real fast. Dean’s read the goddamn Bible. He knows how it ends, how the world as they know it ends. They’re after a different ending. And it would be great if the ghost population of the Midwest could understand that, and calm their tits and not make him fight ghouls on top of every fucking thing else with Castiel as his only backup.

(He hasn’t seen Sam in days. Last text came this morning, three little words taunting him from the screen. Look, don’t worry. And good people were dying in an undeserving neighborhood and Dean had to save them because no one else would. Or could.)

He helps himself to Bobby’s liquor stash and has a brief flash of feeling like he’s a kid raiding his parent’s cabinets while they’re out of town, but then he shakes his head. He’s not a fucking kid. Bobby’s not his dad. And besides, he needs this. His hands are still trembling and his heart still races, there's really only one cure for that.

Castiel chooses that exact moment to flutter into existence, scanning the room until he finds Dean. He’s tough to read even in broad daylight, and right here and now in the shadowy living room he could be mistaken for a mannequin, that’s how perfectly unmoving he is. Staring at Dean, following his every movement.

If you asked Dean, the angel looks a little tired.

“Look who finally decided to show up. Want a drink?” he asks, offering Castiel the bottle because he doesn’t have the energy to get glasses from the kitchen. The angel shakes his head, and Dean sinks back down in the ratty, familiar couch, pouring whiskey down hist throat. Fuck. The hunt earlier tonight had been too close of a call. Stuff doesn’t shake him anymore, but this… yeah, he’s still a bit rattled.

“What is it like?” Castiel asks, like he’s trying to make conversation. That is, if possible, even more bizarre than spending the night alone in Bobby’s home.

Only… he’s not alone.

“What, this?” Dean stops to take a look at the bottle in his hand. “Uh.”

His dad drank to forget, but Dean doesn’t need to forget, he just needs to come down. Drinking washes away the remnants of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated fear that’s still echoing through his system and caging his heart. The familiarity of it calms him, like coffee in the morning and his little brother in the passenger seat. He survives, and he drinks. It’s just how it is. Castiel couldn’t understand; fucker’s probably never been scared of anything. And what does he have to fear, anyway? When he died, he had God looking out for him, putting him back together and placing him right back on the chessboard. And really, why should Dean worry? Dear old Michael would probably do the same for him. He puts the cold rim to his lips again. Maybe he would like to forget, after all. Just for one goddamn evening. “My prize for getting through the day,” he says. “C’mon, you’re weirding me out. If you’re gonna hang out, at least get comfortable.” Dean pats the cushion next to him and Castiel obediently walks over and sits down. Dean thinks his hands might be trembling so he clutches the bottle harder to keep it from showing. “Why do you ask?”

Castiel gives him an inquisitive look.

“You’re using it to self-medicate.”

Dean rolls his eyes hard.

“Who are you, my fucking doctor?”

Castiel frowns. The only source of light is coming from the kitchen, softly illuminating his silhouette. Jimmy Novak was a good-looking man , Dean thinks, not for the first time. Really, it’s — jarring. Straight nose, full lips. Eyes you could get lost in, if you had a poetic bone in your body. Dean can’t think like that — he just can’t. But then that attractive face turns to look at Dean again and always – always so fucking close, it’s not like he stands a chance here. And whatever his life is, a gospel orchestrated by the God Squad or whoever’s in charge of the universe, whichever prophet wrote the fucking Bible, he knows for a fact it wasn’t supposed to be this . Him, and this angel, over and over again.

“Do you need a doctor?” He sounds concerned for Dean, eyes searching Dean’s face and Dean has to close his eyes because he can’t take it. All that misplaced tenderness that Dean isn’t worthy of. Having his eyes shut makes it easier to say the next things, too.

“No. Just you.”

Even a whisper feels too loud in this empty house. And Dean’s still scared of being found out and he’s not sure what would be worse; facing God after what he did to one of his soldiers, or facing Bobby and Sam – not that he thinks they care where he sticks his dick (or the fact that he lets guys stick theirs in him), but because then they’d know . That his dad was right all along, that he’s a fucking sissy. That he can’t get anything right in this godforsaken life. That he came back from hell wrong.

“Dean?” Castiel shifts closer on the couch, eyes stormy and dark. He touches Dean’s leg tentatively, like he's unsure if it's allowed. “You’re okay.” It’s as if he’s looking right through Dean, straight at his charred, twisted up soul and library of issues. And Dean decides to lock that box back up.

“Absolutely,” Dean agrees, and crashes their mouths together. It’s not romantic, but it doesn’t need to be. Castiel’s big hands are circling his face and they’re warmer than they have any right to be, and his mouth is wet and impatient and he’s kissing Dean like his life depends on it now that Dean's given him permission. He shudders as Castiel attempts to get even closer by swinging a knee over Dean’s lap and sitting down on top of him, escalating at a pace that can only be attributed to him still being endearingly new to all of this. Dean still gasps, trying to adjust to the turn of events, hands coming up to rest awkwardly at the angel's hips. Is this what he hoped for when he insisted Castiel stopped by later?

Maybe.

Dean is learning what Castiel likes, and it’s a thrill like nothing else to feel Castiel get all worked up under his hands and mouth. Castiel has a body, perhaps for the first time in his existence, and he loves to be touched. He’s got one hand on Dean’s shoulder, right there , bracing himself, and he uses the other one to cup Dean’s neck, holding him in place so Castiel can kiss him deeper, but Dean’s giving as good as he gets. Using the angel in his lap as an outlet for all his pent-up frustration and residual fear. He’s heavy and solid and very close and Dean’s dick is finding all of this extremely interesting. He’s tugging at Castiel’s hair, running his fingers through it, kissing him frantically. And it’s difficult to be scared when his body’s focusing on the thrill of making out with a freaking angel , one who - despite his clumsiness and experimentation - makes Dean feel so good inside and out he can temporarily forget the fact that his body was only really brought back to ultimately be used and abused by someone else.

It’s not like they’ve made a habit out of doing this, but it’s happened a handful of times. Castiel had been a virgin, for Christ’s sake. The world is ending, in the literal sense. Any night could be their last, and kicking the bucket without knowing what it’s like to come when it’s someone else’s doing… That was just Dean being a good friend. And they tried with the brothel, but when that didn’t pan out, Dean figured he might as well do it himself. Get Castiel off, no strings attached, a quick jerking off in the back of the Impala. A favor for a friend. Then Castiel had returned the favor, and it’d been the best damn thing he’d felt since he crawled out of his own grave, all those months ago. Because it had been Cas. Not some random one night stand. Someone who actually gave a shit about him.

Fast forward a couple of months and Castiel’s hand is worming its way between their bodies to cup Dean’s crotch, making a satisfied sound when he feels the effect he's having on Dean.

“Can we...? I need you to...” Dean mumbles, face hot, hardly able to look Castiel in the face as they grind against each other, wearing far too many layers. It comes out choked, desperate. They’ve only gone all the way like that once, but that’s a particular scene that’s been featuring a lot in his dreams lately. The heat and weight of Castiel when he thrusted inside Dean, who bit down on the pillow just for something to do with his mouth. He can still taste the low thread count cotton on his tongue. Remembers how excruciatingly good it felt to be so close, skin to skin with someone who would go to hell for him and bring him pleasure worthy of heaven. He doesn’t deserve any of this. They shouldn’t be doing this.

“Yes,” Castiel says breathlessly. “Yes.” He’s hard too, not-so-subtly grinding down on Dean’s crotch, and Dean wants more of that pleasure. Wants to feel something that isn’t pain and fear. Anything, really.

“Upstairs, then,” Dean sighs at a particularly inspiring thrust. When Castiel makes no move to get off him, he puts one hand on each of his shoulders and pushes. “Upstairs, come on.” He’s not doing this in the goddamn living room. He would never be able to look Bobby in the eyes again if he did.

Castiel looks as debauched as Dean feels; hair messed up from Dean’s restless hands, erection tenting his slacks, a pink flush rising from his collarbones to his cheeks making his eyes look impossibly brighter. And still wearing too many damn layers of clothes. God, it’s all he can think about. Cas, Cas, Cas, the way he tastes, the way he feels, the way he looks at Dean. Lube is also there in the back of his mind. They’re gonna need lube. Lucky for them, Dean is a hopeless horny idiot who never goes anywhere without it these days. You never know when the angel’s gonna come knocking. Should be right there in his duffel bag.

He wonders if Castiel would like it as much, to be on the receiving end. If he’s up to it, if they ever get the chance, Dean — shit, he would love to try. Would love to see what kind of noises Castiel would make when he’s the one being fucked. Dean’s cock is straining his jeans uncomfortably, heavy, dampening his boxers, fabric clinging to the sensitive skin. He pulls Castiel with him toward the stairs, and Castiel keeps close, not touching but close. Dean can’t help the smirk as he pulls Castiel inside the guest room where Dean’s stuff is. There’s a narrow bed in one corner, in which Dean’s spent many hours in the past week staring at the ceiling and wishing desperately for sleep to come and knock him out. He starts to pull off Castiel’s coat, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His hands still tremble, but he's pretty sure it's not out of fear anymore. The room would be dark if it wasn’t for the moonlight leaving just enough light to make out features and silhouettes and Dean feels his way around his chest, nails scratching gently, gently down Castiel’s sides until Dean can feel goosebumps rise in his skin. Leaning in to kiss his collarbones, then his nipples, barely able to help himself, brain blissfully empty apart from the slew of Cas and please. Castiel is undressing him quickly, pulling impatiently at his shirtsleeves to make them let go of his wrists. Dean smiles while biting down on his swollen, stinging bottom lip, leans away to reach his bag and the tube he rolled up in a pair of socks, hiding it as much for himself as for anyone else.

Once his boots and jeans are off, and once Castiel has kicked off his slacks and well-worn dress shoes, Dean lies back on the bed and thinks that he’s still not brave enough to face Castiel while they do this, but nothing in the world could make him turn away now. Castiel is on him in an instant, kissing wherever he can reach: his mouth, jaw, catching his earlobe between his teeth and breathing hot near his ear, and Dean’s back arches off the bed.

His head is swimming and he’s so worked up he worries this is going to be over before they even get started, but he resolutely pours lube on his own fingers, not really able to see what he’s doing and probably getting a fair amount on the sheets, and wiggles until he can reach behind himself. He never really figured out a good angle for this, but he gets one digit inside, and Castiel watches him intensely, holding himself up with one arm while the other hand is on his own cock, stroking slowly, overwhelmed and hungry.

Fuck, that’s hot. Dean forces the finger deeper inside, straining. Back and forth, trying for a rhythm. He looks up at the ceiling, because he thinks that if he looks straight at the naked angel kneeling between his legs he’ll lose it. It’s not until he’s awkwardly added a second finger that Castiel asks if he can do it, and Dean bites his lips again, nods. Last time Dean did all the work while Castiel watched, but his angel is a quick learner. Castiel’s touch is gentler, he's got one careful finger stroking his rim slowly, and then proceeds to finger him open at a pace that is entirely at odds with the frantic look on his face. It’s the carefulness more than the physical sensation that has Dean writhing in the sheets. When Castiel finds his prostate it sends him straight to that almost-edge, and the angel looks pleased with himself, sitting upright so he can touch himself with his free hand. The slick sounds of Castiel’s hand and fingers working in tandem fill the quiet room and fuck it, Dean hopes the heavenly host is watching what Castiel is doing to the Michael Sword. He’s deriving a sick kind of pleasure from how messed up this is, how dirty and unholy. Involuntarily, his muscles clenches around the fingers inside him. It’s inching past uncomfortable towards good, and his breathing is coming out unevenly.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads, prays.

“I won’t.” Once he’s three fingers deep Dean pulls his other thigh up, face hot but so desperate that he doesn’t care, he just really needs this to happen now.

“Now, Cas,” he demands, sounding wrecked even to his own ears. Castiel wastes no time, wiping his messy fingers on the bed sheets (yeah, Dean’s gonna have to do laundry before Bobby comes back), the head of his cock bumping against his entrance, and with some guidance of his hand carefully pushing inside. Castiel groans close to Dean’s ear as he inches forwards, and it hurts, but everything feels good, even the pain. Jimmy Novak was hung , and Dean doesn’t even know if Castiel picks up on stuff like that, if he knows that his equipment is bigger than usual. Probably not. Dean loves it.

Once Dean’s adjusted, Castiel fucks him steadily with bright eyes and his kiss-bitten mouth hanging open. The starving black hole in Dean’s chest causes him to keep pulling Castiel down so they can kiss, which leaves Castiel with little leverage left and throws him out of his rhythm, but it’s worth it. Dean’s not twenty anymore, and he’s got a feeling he’s going to be sore in more places than one tomorrow. He really doesn’t give a shit, though, bent in half like this. And more than he wants to orgasm he wants to feel Castiel’s arms around him again, all that skin-to-skin contact, cause nobody’s ever really held him like Castiel does, but for some reason it’s easier to ask to be fucked than to get a goddamn hug.

“Harder,” he says, eyes shut, but he means closer. Castiel leans back up on his arms, and finds his pace again, jolts of pleasure sparking through him. Not close enough, but it's getting more and more difficult to think, which is probably for the best.

When he opens his eyes again he can see how the outer rings of Castiel’s irises are glowing a soft blue and how his wings keep flickering in and out of this plane of existence behind him. Dean hooks his ankles around Castiel’s waist, slipping a little on the sweaty skin, trying to meet his thrusts. It’s getting really, really good like this.

“Bring ‘em out,” Dean begs, greedy for anything he can get. A look of exasperation flickers across Castiel’s face. “Want to see your wings while you’re fucking me.”

“That… requires… concentration,” he grunts.

“So?”

Castiel cock hits his prostate again, sending lightning through him. “Mmm. Keep doing that, right there.” At that, Castiel stills, fully sheathed inside Dean. Staring down at him with fully blown pupils, keeping him in place.

“You’re very demanding.”

Dean pulls him in with a hand around his neck again and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his mouth in an attempt to collect himself. Never in his life has the simple act of sex felt so stupidly monumental. He’s had great sex, but not even with the partners he was certain he loved, like Cassie or Lisa, did it feel like this. Like the turn of the Earth hinges on whichever way Castiel will touch him next.

“Sorry,” he whispers. Castiel starts to rock inside him again, and suddenly they’re there, massive, feathery wings, filling the room. Pitch black and more than a little impressive. Dean buries his hands in them curiously and this time it’s Castiel who groans, to Dean’s delight. They feel softer than anything he’s ever felt, silky smooth and light.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” It tumbles out of him before he can stop himself. Nothing matters except his rebellious angel, naked and beautiful, and the only damn angel allowed inside this body. Dean has been balancing on the edge of his climax for a while now and it only takes a few more minutes with a hand on his cock and the other gripping Castiel’s wing tightly for him to come, explosively, long stripes of semen painting his own chest, painting Castiel’s. Castiel follows closely after, emptying himself deep inside Dean while his wings trash wildly, and Dean can’t only lie back and take it. After he’s pulled out, he wipes one finger through the mess on Dean’s chest, popping it into his mouth with his eyes firmly on Dean’s face. And Dean’s not a prude, but Castiel is so shameless in his want that it makes Dean’s ears burn. To his mild disappointment, the wings have disappeared back to whatever dimension they reside in. Damn, he really wanted to get wrapped up in one of those bad boys.

“Weirdo,” he mutters, but he doesn’t really mean it. Castiel raises one eyebrow and licks the rest straight from Dean’s chest. And when he’s done, when he lies down on his side between Dean and the wall, it’s Dean who rolls over and kisses the taste of it from his mouth. He’ll need to get up and wash the drying come off his ass and thighs, but… in a moment. Honestly he’s not sure his legs would carry him to the bathroom even if he tried. It’s still tingling pleasantly while the cold air chills his sweaty skin, making him shiver. Yeah, it’s a real shame about the wings, but he’s not sure he can ask for that again either.

“You could have been killed tonight,” Castiel says quietly. Some of his old reservedness and awkwardness is back, like a curtain that has been drawn, and he doesn’t make a move to hold Dean with his arms. It’s not something they do. Still, in a moment of weakness, Dean laces their fingers together.

“You could’ve brought me back,” Dean counters. Castiel looks down at their intertwined hands on the bed between them.

“Your life is precious.”

“My vessel is precious,” Dean corrects, detangling his fingers in order to jokingly pat his own naked ass. “And for good reason. Feels good, doesn’t it?” Right now, it is feeling very good, all loose and relaxed. A bit sore, but in a good way. And Castiel seemed to enjoy himself fine. The black hole yearning for something more, some love, maybe, is a minor detail, pay it no mind. Castiel watches him and he doesn’t look very amused.

“You need to be careful,” he says, barely audibly. “I don’t think I could stand to lose you.”

Well, fuck.

“Don’t worry, Cas. I’ll be fine. I’ll always be fine.”

#supernatural #spn #deancas #destiel #spn fanfic #mdni #destiel fanfic #still in my offline era but i've still been writing so. just thought i'd post this #see u all soon

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