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there-must-be-a-lock · 3 years

Text

Red

Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 3680

Warnings: Kink and trauma. You know, in case you forgot whose blog you were on! Night terrors. Non-graphic flashbacks to violence, very graphic smut. Bucky’s head is just not a very fun place? References to brainwashing and torture. Kink discovery, including some hitting/slapping during sex and some power/control fantasies, all within the context of a very happy relationship. It goes down dark but there’s a distinctly soft aftertaste.

A/N: For @cockslut-padalecki and her Decade Under The Influence challenge. My prompt was “The Crimson” by Atreyu. Thanks for always hosting the absolute best challenges, and congrats on the milestone!

Pre-reads by @thoughtslikeaminefield @mskathywriteswords and @fangirlxwritesx67. Inspiration from that scene where Sebastian Stan gets slapped. You know the one I mean.

The companion fic to this will be coming soon! It’s significantly darker and way outside my wheelhouse, but please let me know if you want a tag.

The Soldier stalks silently down the hallway to the bedroom, scanning the shadows.

The closet.

Something itches, deep under the ice: knowledge that closets are for hiding —

— a small girl, giggling in the back corner of the closet —

— ready or not, here I come —

— but those frozen things don’t belong to the Soldier.

He opens the door and finds the woman on the floor, trying to hide in the darkness. He picks her up by the throat. Moonlight from the open window glints off her wide eyes and the Soldier’s metal hand. She fights back, clawing at his arm uselessly.

He waits for her to stop struggling. They always do.

Bucky opens his eyes and bolts upright, gritting his teeth against the sweaty, shivery wave of nausea.

It takes a moment for the numbing chill of the Soldier’s memory to fade.

He knows it’s a memory. He lost so many things in the deep emptiness of cryo-sleep, but he couldn’t bury them forever, and now they claw their way out while he dreams. The darkness gives him back his life, one nightmare at a time.

Sometimes he wakes up screaming. Sometimes he wakes up convinced that the bed under him is soaked with blood, and it takes a few awful seconds to realize that he just sweated through the sheets. Other times he’s paralyzed in the darkness, convinced he’s back in the cryo chamber, and he wants to punch and claw and fight his way out, wants to see the sun again, but he tried that one too many times — he learned his lesson about wanting things.

At least he didn’t wake her this time. She makes a breathy sound as she stirs, but she’s still sound asleep, and when he inspects his hands in the glow of her night light, there’s no trace of red.

She got the light about two months ago, when he started sleeping over. She didn’t ask him, didn’t mention it — he would’ve been embarrassed, if she asked, but it helps. She helps.

He’s goddamn crazy about her. It hasn’t been long, but he knows this is it for him.

Bucky curls up facing her. Her hair is a mess, and there’s a damp patch of drool on the pillow under her slack mouth, and she’s beautiful. It’s amazing that she trusts him enough to fall asleep next to him.

He closes his eyes. This time he doesn’t dream.

The end credits of the movie start to scroll down the screen, and she makes a grumbling noise that means she doesn’t want to get up and turn the TV off. Her little apartment is full of the rich smell of whatever she’s got in the oven, and the day has been so sweetly domestic that Bucky wonders when everything will start to twist and distort and go bloody. He must be hallucinating.

But the hallucinations always had a sort of airbrushed quality to them when they started, an inhuman perfection that felt easy, like he was floating. Right now his stomach is growling, and when she shifts, her elbow digs into his side, and she’s a heavy comforting warmth on top of him.

The hallucinations were the product of his own brain, which might be why they came back all too quickly when he started to recover his memories. Even when he couldn’t remember his sisters’ faces, he remembered the drug-fueled torture that took place behind his closed eyelids, scenes that started like fantasies and ended like nightmares.

Most memories from before the fall are weak and hazy, sepia-toned afterimages that overlay the living world like ghosts. Other things bleed through the decades, making it hard to keep track of whose memories he’s seeing. The Soldier’s memories are always sharp and cold, and they’re the hardest to shake off. Sometimes they’re triggered by the present, and it’s always a surprise; he’s stepping into a crosswalk and the past is washing over him like —

The water from the hose is freezing cold as the handler rinses off the blood —

— and he’s still staring down at the slushy puddle, but —

— the Soldier keeps his eyes down, clenching his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, watching the red swirl over the cold cracked tile and disappear down the drain, and —

Bucky has to fight to hold on to the honking taxis and the Brooklyn stink, because the cryo chamber is quiet like a coffin in the last few seconds before he’s frozen into unconsciousness, and —

— and sometimes he feels frozen even when the dreams dissolve, even when he knows they’re only dreams.

The frigid paralysis was mental more than physical, for the Soldier, and that’s a hard thing to shake. The raw human parts of him iced over, head and heart numb while his body carried on following orders.

She sits up and stretches, making her shirt ride up, and he notices bruises on her hips, wrapping around the side.

“Did I do that?” he asks, voice thin.

She looks down like she didn’t notice. “Probably.”

He tugs the waistband of her yoga pants down a little and finds the shape of a handprint, stained purple. She twists to show him a matching set on the other side. They’re more defined on the side he was gripping with his metal hand last night. He feels cold all over.

“Sorry.”

“No biggie.”

He’s too scared to meet her eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

“What if I asked you to?” she tosses back, playful and easy.

Bucky doesn’t know how to react to that. He can’t let her see how badly he wants that, so he just freezes like a deer in headlights, forcing himself to go still, to shut down, to say nothing.

“Whoa, hey, don’t do that,” she says, and she moves into his space slowly, deliberately, giving him time to tell her to stop. He blinks at her, and she smiles, soothing.

He spent the first month of their relationship waiting for her to turn and run. It’s gotten better, but…

“Why the hell do you trust me?” he blurts out.

She frowns, and hesitates, and he wants to reach up and smooth out the little frown line that forms between her eyebrows, but he doesn’t. She curls up against him and kisses his jaw.

“Would you ever choose to hurt me?” she asks.

“No.”

“There you go.” He feels the movement when she shrugs, as if it’s that easy. “You control your choices. That’s it.”

“But I —”

“No buts,” she interrupts, and her voice is firm. “I choose to trust you and you don’t get to talk me out of it.”

Bucky lets out a huff of not-quite-laughter at that. She’s stubborn as hell when she wants to be, and he knows better than to argue.

“Okay,” he says, and wraps his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. She settles closer, her breath a warm damp tickle against the side of his neck.

His body used to be a weapon.

“You can’t blame yourself for things that are out of your control,” she mumbles, as if she heard him.

He takes a deep breath and says it again: “Okay.”

He can see her reflection in the mirror; she bites her lip, teeth white against her bright red lipstick, trying to hold back, but the whimpers are getting louder by the second as he fucks her harder. She’s bracing herself with her forearms on the sink, her entire body shaking with each sharp thrust.

“Shhhh,” Bucky says, half-laughing, but he doesn’t slow down.

He’s pretty sure this was her plan all along. They barely made it an hour into the party before she tugged him into the bathroom, and usually he would protest, but he’s been half-hard since he first saw her in that damn outfit.

She opened the door earlier looking like a pinup, complete with glossy curls and red lips and this dress: flared skirt, nipped-in waist, curves threatening to spill over the scooped-low neckline. He had just stuttered for a few seconds as a wisp of memory cast a sepia glow over her pleased smile.

He used to have a dog-eared print of one of those calendar girls, and it was tame compared to some that were carried to war, but there was something warm in her smile that made him hold onto it. He used to daydream about her waiting at home, welcoming him at the door, when everything else was heavy and grey. He used to look at her smile when he couldn’t bear to close his eyes, knowing he’d only see blood. They took it when he was captured, of course, but he used to imagine —

— this, he used to imagine this, the way the skirt is rucked up around her hips and she’s bent at the waist, the way she stretches open around the shiny-wet length of his cock.

He has a flash of certainty that this is just a fantasy, something he’s imagining desperately as he fucks his own fist and tries not to make a sound, pressing his other palm to his mouth to muffle his labored breathing. He’s picturing this so vividly that when he opens his eyes and sees the stars, framed by the caved-in ceiling of another bombed-out shell of a building, he’ll have to fight back tears of disappointment.

The sight of her face in the mirror is utterly pornographic, threatening to send him over the edge too soon, but when he looks down, he can see the way her ass bounces and jiggles as she shoves herself back to meet each thrust, and that’s goddamn obscene too. Bucky’s imagination has never been this good.

She’s so close, too close to stay silent, and just as she lets out a high-pitched, keening moan, there are footsteps right outside the door.

He reacts instinctively, before he can think better of it; he slaps his hand over her mouth, muffling the sound against his palm — the metal one, he realizes, a split-second too late.

Their eyes meet in the mirror for one wild heartbeat. Her skin looks dangerously soft under silver fingers that could so easily break the fragile jawbone they grip.

Then her eyes roll back in her head, and her orgasm blindsides both of them with its intensity. If he wasn’t silencing her, she would’ve shouted, he’s pretty sure; she spasms violently against his grip, writhing like she’s trying to shake him off, and —

— he imagines her struggling, fighting back, until he pins her against the wall and —

— it hits him like a gut-punch. He doubles over, curling himself around her as he comes with a rough shocked grunt, and the white-out lightning-bolt electroshock feel of it is so incredible he forgets, for a few seconds; he just buries his face in those curls and kisses the nape of her neck.

He straightens up and realizes her lipstick is smeared over the metal hand, deep crimson red.

“God, we’re a mess,” she laughs breathlessly. She turns to kiss him, eyes sparkling, and then they have to clean up, put themselves back together, and he brushes it off.

It was probably a memory, a ghost whose features he confused with hers in one fevered second. Unwanted memories —

— dreams — flashbacks — fantasies — hallucinations —

— invade his reality every day.

It didn’t feel like a memory, though.

She smiles, and there’s no doubt in his mind that the smile is real, so Bucky swallows his guilt and smiles back. Her hand is warm in his.

There’s a knife in his hand and blood on the floor.

It’s messy, but those were his orders. Easier to frame the mistress this way. At least the carving knife was sharp. Red drips down the blade onto the metal fingers.

He’s about to place it next to the corpse when he hears the gasp. The mistress had been asleep four minutes ago, but people are unpredictable that way.

Messy.

The Soldier pivots, finds her standing in the doorway, hand over her mouth, eyes wide. She’s paralyzed by fear, like a deer in headlights as he stalks closer. Usually they run. Sometimes they fight back. This one just stares.

“I won’t say anything,” she whispers. “I didn’t see —” He grabs her wrist, and she shrieks, trying to twist away, until he pins her against the wall and holds her in place. Tears start to roll down her cheeks. “No, please, I’ll do anything you want — just don’t kill me! You can — anything, I promise, I won’t struggle! Do you want —”

“Want” is buried deep under the ice. “Want” is for bodies that are warm and soft and human. The Soldier is a weapon.

He presses the knife into her hand and forces her fingers to close around the handle. She was supposed to be asleep.

She’ll be blamed, one way or another, but maybe it’s better this way. Cleaner.

No witnesses. It’s an order.

Bucky wakes up. He’s trembling, sitting up with his hands twisted in the sheets, but it’s not as bad as it could be. She’s sitting up next to him, one gentle hand on his chest as she watches with wide sad eyes.

“Sorry,” he chokes out. “Fuck, I hate waking you up.”

“Almost time anyway,” she says, which is when he realizes that it’s morning. Sunlight is streaming in through the sheer curtains. He settles back against the headboard, taking it in. They’re both naked, with her big downy comforter around their waists, and the residual chill of memory thaws immediately in the cozy warmth of her bed.

She leans in hesitantly and brushes her lips against his. He can read the worry plain on her face — she doesn’t know what he needs right now — but he tugs her onto his lap, tilts his head back, mouth opening easily under hers for slow lazy kisses that stretch like taffy and then turn deep and dirty. She swears like a sailor as she sinks down slowly onto his cock.

Christ, she’s gorgeous.

It must be real. He could never hallucinate something so flawed and incredible as the way she looks naked, the stretch marks under his palms, the calluses on her fingers when she cups his jaw, the way she moans when he plants his feet on the bed and fucks up into her.

She’s flushed and dewy with sweat, moaning in the sharp bitten-off way that means he found just the right angle, and her thighs are shaking hard enough that he has to grip her hips and hold her steady. He can feel her starting to get close, clenching and flooded around him, when her alarm goes off.

“Cocksucking motherfucker,” she snarls.

They both look helplessly at the phone, just out of easy reach on the nightstand. Bucky’s tempted to just ignore it, but she’s already leaning over. She twists at the waist but doesn’t stop rocking her hips down against him, squeezing in little pulses like she can’t help herself, so he settles her more firmly on his lap, holding her weight and anchoring her as she reaches for it. He works his right hand down between them, an awkward angle that’s totally worth it when he can rub her clit with the pad of his thumb and feel her spasm around his cock.

“Five more minutes,” he suggests breathlessly.

“Not gonna need that long if you keep doing that.” She trembles and almost collapses before finally grabbing the phone, and she hits the snooze button immediately.

He’s already rolling his hips, grinding in deep, and he must hit something just right at the same moment she starts to straighten up; it makes her twitch, jerking uncontrollably against him as she moves, and her elbow cracks across his jaw, snapping his head to the side hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“Shit!” she hisses, and then: “I’m so sorry, I — are you —”

But the rough throb of pain hit like a swell of heat in Bucky’s gut, making him jerk up into her and shudder with pleasure. He lets his head loll, taking a deep heaving breath and letting it out as a moan.

It’s not until he tilts his head back to look at her stunned face that he realizes what just happened. His cheeks burn but she doesn’t look disgusted; her eyes go all heavy-lidded and she bites her lip as she starts to ride him again, swiveling her hips.

He’s opening his mouth to make some excuse, to deny it, when she leans in for a bruising kiss: teeth scraping his lower lip, a whimper rough in her throat, cunt silky-hot and soaked, so good his head is spinning.

Then she asks raggedly, “Do you want me to do that again?”

Without even thinking about it, he blurts out, “Yes.”

Her palm connects with his cheek, a sharp sting that draws a guttural sound from deep in his chest. He moves on pure primal instinct, gripping her hips to slam her down on his cock.

From there it’s rough and frantic and desperate. He’s only dimly aware of the way she moans, bucking against him, the way they’re moving against each other like animals, the way she bites his lip so hard he tastes copper and then he’s gone, coming so hard his vision goes white with the first intense pulses of it. She shudders as she follows him, riding out the shocks of pleasure with her forehead pressed to his and her hands in his hair.

He shivers against her, breath hitching as reality washes in like ice water.

“I can feel you freaking out,” she mumbles. “What, they didn’t have kink in the thirties?”

It surprises Bucky enough that he lets out a huff of laughter. “No. Not exactly.”

“Why is this freaking you out?”

He stutters for a second before he manages, “What’s wrong with me?”

She sits up and looks at him intently. “Fucking nothing.”

“That should be the last thing I want,” Bucky mutters, cheeks burning.

“That’s not how it works,” she snaps. “Sex isn’t — it doesn’t always make sense. It’s messy.”

“I’ve had enough of hurting people for a fuckin’ lifetime.”

There’s something vulnerable in her sheepish half-smile. “Sometimes your body likes shit it shouldn’t. You can’t control what gets you off. Believe me, sweetheart.”

He blinks, ready to question that, and she leans in for a quick kiss. As if on cue, her alarm goes off again.

“Fuck.”

“I gotta go,” she says reluctantly. “But later — later we’re going to talk about some things. Okay?”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it very clearly in that moment: I love you.

“Okay.”

The Soldier pins her brutally against the wall, one hand around her wrists, the other around her throat. He doesn’t squeeze, not yet, just holds her there and savors the thrill; she’s writhing and lashing out at him like a caged animal, but he’s got her and she knows it.

It’s beautiful, the way she snarls and tries to struggle.

He wants —

— so this must be a normal dream, not a memory, but —

— he wants to fuck her just like this, up against the wall, and —

— his hips jerk and his cock throbs, and —

— fuck, he wants her.

“Baby?” Her voice comes out as a sleep-slurred moan.

He tries to blink away the dream, but instead he’s rolling over and pinning her, rocking his hips down before he can stop himself. She sucks in a breath, spreading her legs to meet the next slow thrust, and she blinks dazedly up at him, mouth dropping open as they rut against each other.

“What was it?” she asks, raspy and heated.

He lets out a pained sound and drops his head, hunching to bury his face in the crook of her neck. He’s so goddamn hard, so close, all over a fucked-up dream, and —

“I was holding you — up against the wall. Your wrists.”

“Yeah?” she says, voice smoky and eager. “Remember what we talked about?”

“Traffic lights. Red if you want me to stop.”

“Do it.”

Oh.

“Are you sure?”

“Fuck yes.”

He snatches her wrists and crosses them over her head, watching the way her lashes flutter at the touch of metal, the way she bites her lip. She shifts under him, squirming until the length of him is slotted up against her slickness and her legs are up around his hips.

He slides in slow, relishing every inch, her body welcoming him with living dripping heat. She arches up, and he adjusts his grip on her wrists, squeezing slightly as he braces himself. All he wants in the entire damn universe is to drive into her, piston his hips until she’s screaming, but he starts to fuck her with steady even thrusts, holding back, trying to let go of the last lingering doubts.

“Doesn’t this scare you?” Bucky asks hoarsely. “That you’re trapped.”

She lets out a moan that sure as hell doesn’t sound like fear. This isn’t a dream any more, but it still feels surreal.

“Yellow,” she says.

“Shit. What’s wrong?” He tries to pull away, but she’s got her ankles hooked, keeping him in place with her legs. He lets go of her wrists, at least, and hauls in a deep breath, trying to make sense of that fierce expression on her face.

“Nothing. I just wanted you to see that you’re in control. You chose to stop.”

He swallows hard. “Yeah. I did.”

“Stop punishing your body for wanting this,” she says.

His breath catches, and for a moment all he can do is stare. She gives him a smile so soft it threatens to rip him open.

Then he curls his fingers around her wrists again — they’re still crossed, right where he left them. He waits for her nod.

“Green.”

Companion fic is here.

#decadeundertheinfluencechallenge #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #MCU #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader

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commonwealthoccurences · 3 years

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I’ll Crawl Home

CW: Injury based fic, themes of mortality, low-self-esteem-Hancock, description heavy.

Note: The working title for this was “I listen to too much Hozier” /j

The day was long, dragging into night and with the arrival of dusk came heavy clouds and murky fog, thick and suppressing. Hancock’s quarters seemed far away from it all, the repaired window panes keeping back the damp and providing some insulation to keep in the heat that bled from the fireplace, roaring loud, like it was daring the cold to try and get in. Meanwhile, Hancock was sprawled across his bed, fighting his own battle.

A routine trip into the Commonwealth had turned into something that would leave unforgettable marks on his skin, the switch happening with a white-hot flash of pain that slashed across his back and spread through his veins like ice. Annoyance had registered in his mind before the pain had; something had gotten the drop on him and that didn’t happen often. It was a dark alley, surrounded by high buildings, nooks and crannies, and he hadn’t been thinking straight. Exhaustion did that to you, would make you drop your guard even when you thought you were smarter than that.

With a quick turn that only helped spread the pain faster, Hancock whirled around and pressed the barrel of his gun against the offending ghoul’s temple and the situation was over as soon as he blinked. But the pain lingered, catching like a wildfire across the expanse of his back and moving down his arms as he lowered his gun, drawing in quick breaths, trying to quell the panic that was rising in him. Sure, he’d been injured before, but something about this had struck a nerve; many, actually.

The walk back to Goodneighbor was a slow one, characterized by flashes of agony that flared every time he took a step. Thank God Sole had insisted on clearing out the area surrounding Goodneighbor just one week before. Trying to make it past Super Mutants in his state would’ve been a death sentence as sure as the blood trailing down his back.

Once the gates to Goodneighbor were pushed open by his shaking hands, Hancock saw his vision narrow, the edges blocked by a fuzzy, black fog that made him want to rub at his eyes until they burned. Maybe he was stumbling or maybe the world was just too unsteady for him to walk in a straight line, but either way, he wasn’t sure he appreciated the added challenge. Before he knew it, he was tumbling down towards the broken cobblestone that made up the entrance to his town.

Except he didn’t get sent sprawling down onto the sharp, rocky ground. Something warm had caught him, something that smelled as familiar as home and was far steadier than he could remember ever being. It was Sole, always the hero, ready to save the day once again. It was in their blood, he supposed, with the way they always seemed to be there just in time. It was as easy as breathing when he allowed himself to fold into them; he was tired of carrying his own weight, exhausted really, and knew they were there to help. Everything would be alright.

Hancock was vaguely aware of the path they made to the Old State Building, the way their muffled voice called out warnings to drifters that got too close. He was drunk on adrenaline at that point, less than conscious of their surroundings, and let them guide him into the musty smelling building that he called home, and up the stairs. He couldn’t help the gasps of pain he made every time he had to take a step up the stairs and nearly begged Sole to leave him there, on the wooden steps that would inevitably rot underneath him. But the words wouldn’t come out and Sole didn’t leave, they simply mumbled soothing words under their breath and continued heaving his weight up the steps.

Sometime after that he awoke in his bed, face down and nearly suffocating in a pillow. There were hands on his back, which wasn’t such an uncommon situation to awake to, but this was far more gentle. His torso felt stiffer than normal, braced against something foreign, and out of habit he tried to lift his head to turn and look at what was going on. Regret struck him instantly, straight across the back where his wounds had made themself comfortable. One of the hands left his back and pressed against his shoulder, easing him back into the bed. Sole, undoubtedly. He groaned. “I think you’re making a habit out of worrying me, John.”

Their voice felt like it was luring him in, much like the bed, covered in warm blankets and pillows that had been built up to cradle him in place. He wanted far more desperately than his dignity would allow him to admit to turn and curl up with his head in their lap, to let the time bleed away until they decided they were done with him. If they wanted to go he would never stop them, didn’t have the ego to think it was his place to keep them, but as long as they wanted him, he would be there. His hand curled to grip the edge of his pillow at the thought. The urge was harder to resist that he imagined it would’ve been.

A soft sigh rang out behind him and he found himself wanting to apologize. Hancock wasn’t sure why; maybe for worrying them, for making them go through the trouble of patching him up when he was sure they had much more important things to be doing. The image of them dropping him on the wooden steps invaded his mind again. He would’ve spent hundreds of years on those stairs, letting Goodneighbor crumble around him, letting the overgrowth take back over. The world could go on turning while the stairs caved and sent him tumbling to the bottom of the building, the ivy brambles crawling up to bury him in the green, and he would be content to only think of them the entire time, to let the centuries crawl by.

Their touch pulled him back to the present, the life he was living, the one where they had stayed. One of their hands smoothed over the surface of his back carefully, light and gentle, and surprisingly, it didn’t hurt. Something had numbed the pain while he was lost in his daydream. Well, maybe it was a nightmare. He was getting distracted again; it was a fight to stay in the present with them, but he wanted to more than anything. Their movement brought him back once again.

Except they were leaving and suddenly it wasn’t such a distant thought that he may be left to decay with the building, long forgotten by Sole. He wanted to say something but whatever had numbed his back had crawled up his system and left his mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cobwebs. Or maybe it had been centuries already and his sense of time was so warped it felt like they had just left. As this train of thought began to pick up speed, they returned.

Their weight shifted the bed and he found himself finally making the effort to move just so he could get a glimpse of them. He turned his head just in time to watch them fall back against a neighboring pillow slowly and settle into the fabric. They were looking back at him, eyebrows creased with worry, eyes far clearer than usual; they had been crying. Internally, he cursed the pain and drugs that had rendered him immobile. If only he could take their worry from them and tell them he was just fine, that it would be okay.

Instead, they granted him a small smile in the silence of the room and reached over to rest a hand against his jaw, thumb brushing over the rocky surface of his face. Hancock looked up at them with clouded eyes, slightly confused but far more relaxed than they figured he would be when he seemed to be in such pain. The corner of his mouth quirked up and it sent relief crashing into them like a Brahmin; that smirk was so unbelievably him, and in that instant they knew it would be okay. “You need to eat.” They broke the silence, reluctantly.

John’s eyes were barely focused when he looked at them, but they could tell he was fighting to keep his attention on them. Something about that was endearing, the fact that he was beaten up and bloody, drugged and inevitably exhausted, yet he was still trying to listen. It seemed no matter how he felt he was always trying to give them his all. After a momentary internal battle they reached over to where they had set the soup Farenheit had brought up.

There was no way that in his state John could sit up; this was going to be interesting. They unwound their overshirt from around their body and folded it as neatly as they could before tucking it under his head and prepared themself for the mess that was about to occur. With the bowl of soup in their lap and a sleepy Mayor looking at them as best he could, curious, they dipped the spoon in and lowered the broth to his lips. Most of it made it in his mouth, however, inevitably, part of it seeped out onto their shirt. One down, countless more to go.

Forty-five minutes and half a bowl of soup later, Hancock was ready to stop. They couldn’t blame him; they were sure the awkward angle was hurting his neck just a few moments into the whole situation. They retired the bowl back to its place on his nightstand and lowered themself back down onto the mattress, as close to him as they could get without disturbing his pillow fortress that kept him from shifting his back too much.

Maybe they had jinxed it. The fabric shifted and they narrowed their eyes, silently scolding as his hand crept out from under the barrier. He was looking up at them so softly that they couldn’t keep up the act and simply reached out to lace their fingers with his. The content that spread across his face was more than worth it and they couldn’t resist the urge to smile. Satisfied, he allowed his eyes to drift shut.

The wind howled outside, banging angrily on the windows that wouldn’t let it in. The vines, too, were screaming, albeit silently, unable to reach the Mayor of Goodneighbor, kept at bay by the repairs Sole had made, both to the building and to the man himself. Sole simply relaxed fully, at ease finally as they watched Hancock’s breaths shift the blanket they had draped over him.

#Fallout 4 #Fo4 #Fanfiction #Fanfic #John Hancock #Mayor Hancock #Imagine #Oneshot #Fluff #Hurt comfort #Angst

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hypnomicimagines · 3 years

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☂️Rainy Day Blues☂️[Nurude Sasara]☂️

Oh, how tragedy loved to strike Sasara when he least expected it.

He had been walking to your house with an extra pep in his step, the fresh bouquet he’d picked up along the way only lifting his mood. He was stuck in daydreams even before he reached you, thinking about how lovely you’d look that night and how he couldn’t wait to do the little things like hold your hand as you were on the way to your date destination. He thought that nothing could possibly dampen his happiness, that him finally confessing after years of being in relationship purgatory had made him see the brighter side of any situation, but it seemed he still had blinders on in some aspects. His parade was about to be rained on.

Literally.

Sasara didn’t know where the icy rain had come from but it hit him like a sack of bricks, goosebumps rising on his skin as his leisurely walk turned into a marathon run as he made his way to your apartment complex. He hadn’t checked the weather forecast, who did that anymore? Clearly Sasara’s hubris had upset the weather Gods as he caught sight of himself in a window, no longer looking like your handsome suitor but a sad clown that had just walked through a door with a bucket of water precariously balanced on top of it. The bouquet is just as pathetic as he is, and hey, aren’t flowers supposed to like water? Why were they drooping like that? You’d probably laugh in his face when you saw them.

You did.

He had to get you back somehow for laughing at his plight despite the fact your laughter had quickly washed away every negative emotion he’d previously been feeling. He had to get you back somehow and decided to show you his best ‘wet dog’ impersonation, shaking his hair out in your doorway and giving you a little preview of what it was like outside. The rain had only started to come down harder, thunder and lightning being added to the mix, meaning it was unlikely the date would continue as planned. Not to mention his hair which he had spent an entire three minutes and seven seconds on was now a poofed out mess due to how he chose to dry out his hair, not that you seemed to mind. You laughed again at his saggy bouquet, telling him you loved it no matter how pathetic it looked (he hoped that was the last time he ever heard that).

“We can just spend the night in. Why do you look so excited that I said that? Did you think I’d tell you to walk home?”

“I’d never accuse you of something so cold-hearted!”

“Good, I’m glad to see the rain hasn’t washed away your remaining brain cell. Come in and change your clothes, too, as much as I love seeing you be a complete eyesore, I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Shouldn’t you stripping me of my clothes wait until after dinner? Not that I mind.”

“You know what… Maybe walking home in the rain is just what you need. Maybe you’ll get struck by lightning and have some sort of epiphany that’ll make you funny.”

“Now you really sound like Rosho,” Sasara sighed out, fighting the smile that wanted to break out on his face so he could keep up the ‘hurt’ façade he was putting on, “To think that the person I love most would say such things to me… I’ll go back outside to hide my tears!”

“Bye.”

You closed the door behind him as he stepped into your apartment, heading straight to your bedroom and thinking about how he had essentially done a speed run of the date. He hadn’t suspected he’d be here until a little bit later but he couldn’t say he was complaining as you joined him, digging through your drawers for some spare clothes that he had left behind the various other times he’d stayed over on a whim. He purposely left his clothes with you just so you’d always have something to remember him by, weaseling his way into your heart first and now your home, hoping that he might even get a whole draw just for his stuff one day. His apartment was certainly the winner with its scenic view but since you had yet to talk about the whole ‘moving in’ thing, he decided he’d get you used to the idea by leaving random things of his behind so you were used to it when it finally did happen.

“Here you go.” You set the clothes down on the counter, taking a second to admire how cute he looked with a wet mop of hair on his head, reaching over to run your fingers through it just for good measure, “I’d say take a shower but I don’t actually want you struck by lightning.”

“But you seem to like my hair so much… It could become a permanent fixture with the help of electricity.”

“I do like it,” You confirmed, smiling as you stroked his hair fondly, Sasara’s heart pounding loudly in his chest, “Almost as much as I like you. Get changed while I try to find some candles. I can’t imagine we’re going to have power too long so…”

You spoke the unfortunate lightning strike into existence that completely knocked out anything electrical in the apartment building and part of Sasara wonders if you had spoken the rain into existence, too. Had this been your plan all along? Had you wanted to just trap him in your room from the get-go, using him for your own needs and then discarding him afterward? Sasara considered suggesting that type of supervillain roleplay on a less romantic night but for now his head was still in the clouds, wanting to do simple things like hold your hand and cuddle against you, sucking the warmth out of you as he had no spare warmth to give at this point.

“Y-You’re cold!” Sasara had reached out to touch you when the lights had first gone out, wanting to assure you were still there and okay first, “Just be careful as you get changed! I’ll be right back!”

You’re only gone about ten minutes but it’s so painfully lonely in the bathroom without you, Sasara already thinking about the letter he’d write to you if you had gone off to war. He would be the lonely maiden waiting by the window, longing to see their love again, dramatically falling to the ground as he received the news that you had passed away. He was already thinking about how he’d meet your ghost in the afterlife to confirm he never fell in love again when you entered the bathroom, face highlighted by a small candle that he’s almost positive he had gifted you.

“Come on, come on! It’s a little better in the living room and the blankets are all out.” You moved the candle to one hand and reached down to grab his, fingers lacing together without words having to even be exchanged. “I don’t want you getting lost.”

“The only place I’ll get lost is in your eyes, beautiful.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re lucky you’re cute? Because you’re sooo lucky you’re cute!” He can tell from your tone that there’s a wide smile on your face, the one that made him feel like the most successful comedian in the world. Getting you to laugh was no easy task and you had never been one to show him even a dollop of mercy when it came to his material but it made it all the more worth it when he got to hear you laugh. Every time you laughed an angel grew its wings, that’s how the saying went, right? It doesn’t matter as his brain is entirely centered around you and only you, especially as the two of you seat yourselves on your ridiculously comfortable couch.

“I don’t know what we’ll eat… It’s gonna be cold and sad.”

“As long as we’re not cold and sad, it’s fine, right?”

“Fair enough.”

His arm wrapped around you as you threw your legs across his lap, the blanket quickly following suit as you curled up into his side. You wondered how many people would be surprised that Mr. Tragic Comedy was not only a total romantic but a stage five clinger, unlikely to give you a moment alone now that you had both finally settled in together. Sasara valued his privacy from time to time but when it came to you, it seemed his social battery could never run out; he wanted to be around you, to be with you, to be touching you and talking to you as much as he possibly could.

“What should we do?” Sasara quickly grew uncomfortable with the silence and you felt bad for your boyfriend, knowing his anxiety tended to spike in the silence. You wished you had something to act as white noise in the background but it seemed all you could do to distract him was talk, or listen to a slew of jokes that would have you standing in the rain rather than being in your own apartment if they were on par with the normal puns he liked to deliver.

“Tell me about your day before you got here. Did you talk to Rosho about your birthday plans?”

Sasara is grateful for the conversation starter as once he’s begun to talk, he’s adept at not shutting up again.

It was going to be a long, rainy night, but at least you got to spend it together.

#Nurude Sasara #Sasara Nurude #Hypnosis Mic #Hypnosis Microphone #Hypmic #Hypnomic #Hypnosis Mic x Reader #Hypnosis Microphone x Reader #Hypmic x Reader #hypnomic x reader #Hypnosis Mic Imagines #Hypnosis Microphone Imagines #Hypmic Imagines #Hypnomic Imagines #Nurude Sasara x Reader #Sasara Nurude x Reader #Scenario

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bookishofalder · 3 years

Text

Just Breathe

Pairing: Adam Driver X Reader (GN!Reader)

A/N-In this fic, AD is single. Inspired by my own love for makeup and the alternate life I’d have enjoyed as a film makeup artist. I also think this ended up with the reader being gender neutral!

Warnings: Mutual pinning. Kissing. Caffeine addiction.

——————

You took a long, deep breath, focusing on clearing your mind and settling yourself into professional mode. This was a routine, which used to simply be automatic for you, until you started working this new movie trilogy and your world flipped.

Just breathe.

You had been ecstatic when you got the call-key makeup artist for the new Star Wars movies! It was an absolute dream come true, after years working hard as a makeup artist for smaller films and television shows, building your experience. Now you were the lead, which meant you were going to be working with main character actors, a chance to really prove yourself, under the direction of the production designer. You would get to design concepts for their appearances and execute the approved designs.

And not to mention, you were a huge Star Wars geek, having grown up watching the films with your dad, who was an original geek. You would watch them every year on his birthday together, a tradition that you carried out regardless of where in the world you were working from on set, you would stay up all night and video call him while watching, if you had to. You never missed a single year.

But now, it was years later and you were working on set of the final instalment, which was bittersweet in so many ways. You just needed to breath.

Because since day one of production on these movies, you’ve been in love with the lead actor, and it’s been chipping away at your soul. Because it’s one thing to imagine being with someone unattainable for fun, but when you spend a lot of time in that persons presence and over time realize how perfect they are to you, it can drive you up the wall.

Adam Driver was kind, funny and serious. He and you hit it off really well when you met, he was always keen to hear your thoughts on his characters appearance, and he’d even asked you recently to join him on the next press tour as his stylist and makeup artist. That in itself was an amazing opportunity, one that would continue to launch your career into orbit. You adored working with him, and spent a lot of your down time missing him, his corny jokes and soft looks and overall presence. Because that man took up a lot of space, which seemed to affect you in many ways, all good.

You felt like that character in Love Actually, played by Laura Linney, who was in love with Carl. Except, you were sure you hid it well, and you were always the most professional colleague. However, pining over a celebrity felt too ridiculous, too common, and you were hard on yourself constantly for it. You convinced yourself every morning that it was simply a crush, one that would fade if you kept yourself focused and reminded yourself daily of the type of person he could date, if he wanted to.

Yet, here you were, needing to breath, because he was on his way to the makeup trailer for end of day cleanup and you needed to get your head in the game, figuratively shoving your feelings down. Daisy had finished and left already, while your makeup assistant Bailey was hurrying about tidying the trailer, avoiding your station, and moving some of the equipment into the storage area. Soft classical music was playing on the Bluetooth speakers, and the smell of peppermint tea you had brewed was calming you somewhat.

Glancing in the mirror, you adjusted your hair, smoothed down your apron and internally chastised yourself for bothering to check. Setting down your tea, you looked over your set up, ensuring you had everything needed, though end of day was always the easier part on this set for you. You didn’t exactly envy the hard work that the SFX make up team had on both sides of the day, but you were always beyond impressed with their beautiful work.

The door to the trailer opened and immediately, you felt his presence. Adam stepped inside, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair and face still fully set to Kylo Ren’s appearance, which always made you smile, as the contrast was hilarious.

“Evening, y/n, Bailey.” He said, nodding to you both before sitting down heavily into his chair. He smiled at you warmly, looking tired. You quickly set a headband on his head, pushing all the hair from his face carefully.

“How are you, Adam?” You briefly met his soft eyes, which were fixed on your own. If you didn’t spend so much timing beating yourself up for liking him, you might have noticed his eyes often following you, or his soft smiles, or the way he sometimes stiffened when your hands ran through his hair or down his face as you worked on him.

But you never did seem to notice. “I’m good, tired today, this week’s caught up with me.” He rumbled. You hoped he couldn’t hear your heart rate pick up every time he spoke. Although, it had been like this for years and he hadn’t complained yet. Or he’d grown used to it. ‘Shut up, brain’, you thought.

“I’m not surprised, after the fiftieth take of this scene I got tired watching you!” It was true too, having to be on set at all times during filming meant a lot of time spent watching the actors at work, and since Adam insisted on doing his own stunts, a lot of the scenes he was in were physically gruelling. You didn’t know how he did it, and despite his words you knew if he was called back to set for any retakes, he’d spring from the chair full of energy and ready to work.

His dedication was an astounding trait that impressed you from the start, never wavering. His serious, hardworking personality only had you falling harder.

He chuckled at your words, his eyes closing automatically as you spritzed his face with a gentle solution you liked for removing the prosthetic scar. He kept them closed as you worked, peeling off the wound with delicate fingers. You didn’t know that he kept them closed because when you were really focused on something, you bit your lip in a way that made his blood warm, in a way that gave him trouble with tearing his gaze away.

“I saw Bailey sneak you a latte, though, which I’m pretty sure means I’ve won our bet.” Your hands stilled at his words, and he peaked up at you, a devilish grin quickly spreading across his face freckled, handsome face.

You faked offence, scoffing “I don’t know what you mean, it was decaf.” Adam gave a bark of a laugh at your lie, shaking his head.

“Just admit it, you’re a caffeine addict.” He’d been teasing you for years for constantly having caffeinated beverages within reach, and you’d recently, stupidly, agreed to a bet where you would stick to one a day for a month. If you won, he had to forever leave you alone about it, and if he won he could continue to tease you for infinity.

“I believe the terms of our bet allowed for one slip up, actually.” You pouted, jutting your chin out slightly. You continued working, getting his skin cleaned and recovered from the makeup, pretending to be unbothered by the fact that he had noticed Bailey sneak you the latte on set. And you tried not to overthink why he would have been looking at you in the first place.

Adam considered your words for a moment, “Yes,” he said slowly, “But today is only day two of this bet, and you’ve already slipped up.” You were smiling now, the joy evident in his tone was contagious. Still, you rolled your eyes.

“I’m only human, you know, but I am competitive.” You hoped you sounded convincing. You weren’t sure you cared about winning the bet, really.

He continued to grin at you, but made no response. You settled into a comfortable silence together as you made your way through the end of day skin care routine you developed for Adam during the first movie. You had one for each of the main actors, and they’d all impressed you with their dedication in following them. You weren’t good at giving yourself credit, though. Everyone knew a skin care routine curated by you was priceless.

“You need me to stick around, y/n?” Bailey asked, popping out from the back of the trailer where the storage area was. She gave you a pointed look, which you promptly ignored.

“No, go on ahead and start your weekend, Bailey, I’m almost done here, thank you.”

“Night, Bailey!” Adam waved. Bailey bid them both goodnight and left, leaving you alone with Adam. You cursed yourself, feeling foolish. You meant to be genuinely nice to Bailey, who worked hard and deserved the break, but usually you kept her around at times like this to ensure you weren’t left alone with the object of your daydreams. When no one else was around, you had no witnesses to any comments that Adam made that you might consider flirtatious. And while you assumed handsome celebrities like him would probably inherently flirt with others as second nature, you never understood why he would flirt with you. It confused you entirely.

You felt your nerves suddenly rear up, and your hands shook very slightly as you removed the calming sheet mask you had placed on Adam. His eyes followed your hands, but he said nothing. You’d been alone plenty of times before, but every time you would turn into a nervous, silly mess, overanalyzing every comment he made and every word you managed to sputter.

You didn’t know it, but Adam always wished for more time alone with you. He knew you well, and could recognize your nerves and always wondered why being alone with him made you nervous. He hoped it was because you liked him, but he was helpless at flirting, and didn’t know how let you know how he felt. He didn’t want to overstep, or make you uncomfortable. You were both technically working, and he felt you probably had much more appealing options for partners outside of work.

Tonight, though, for the first time, you were both exhausted, under caffeinated and, though neither of you would openly admit it, lonely. Years of longing the other, feeling hopeful, was going to catch up to you both tonight.

“Okay, head froward for me please,” He complied, and you expertly ran your hands into his hair, pulling smoothing serum through the thick locks with gentle care. As you focused, applying liberal amounts, you noticed Adam’s hands clench the chairs arms. “Is that okay?” You worried you’d hurt him.

He tilted his head back and met your eyes. He was so tall that even sitting in his makeup chair, his eyes were level with yours. It was nice not needing to adjust his seat, as you needed to do constantly for most of the actors, but it also meant a lot of time face to face, learning to read one another. Your hands were still in his hair. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice of reason was telling you to calmly remove your hands and step back. But the look he was giving you had you frozen to the spot. You’d never read that expression on his face before, his eyes were dark, serious.

His eyes searched yours for a moment longer, “Yeah, y/n.” His voice came out quiet, soft. You think maybe your heart would stop working, because he wasn’t looking away. You couldn’t understand his expression, he seemed to be searching for something in your own.

Finally, you managed to pull your gaze away. Quickly removing your hands, you stepped back, smoothing down your apron nervously, “I-I mean, you’re all set, Adam, unless you need anything else from me?” Why was your voice so quiet? And your face, it felt hot.

You needed to get out of this trailer, away from this man-he was having such a strong affect on you. You rationalized that it was simply because you were tired, you really had cut down significantly on caffeine and this was the result, your sleepiness was lowering your defences and he was noticing you were acting strange. That was all it was.

Adam stood, frowning slightly, but didn’t move away from you. Now, he was right in front of you and you had to tilt your head back just to see beyond his chest. You glanced up at him, and his eyes seemed to soften.

“You’ve really been cutting back on coffee, haven’t you?”

You nodded, “Told you, I’m competitive.” Your voice was breathy, like you’d been running. What the hell was wrong with you, you wondered.

Adam smiled, “I know, I love that about you.” You thought maybe you were now hearing things, and simply stared up at him in surprise, his words genuine, warm.

“Thank-um, thank you, Adam, that means a lot, coming from you.” Now, you were basically whispering. Yet your voice sounded much too loud.

He tilted his head, took a careful step closer, the gap between you nearly gone now. His overall hugeness as he stood over you made you feel safe, and a jolt ran through to your core. “I love a lot of things about you, y/n. Like, how you’re face gives what you’re thinking away, if the person knows you well enough, and you know that about yourself so you try to hide it. You look away, before someone reads you-but I’ve gotten pretty good at catching your expressions,” The low timbre of his voice was doing things to you, and you couldn’t look away from Adam now, “And right now, I think I do know what you’re thinking. Can I test my theory?”

He was asking permission, for what you didn’t know, but at this point you’d have given it no matter what. So you nodded, “S-sure.” You saw the look in his eyes shift, his gaze moving to your lips.

Despite noticing this, it still caught you entirely off guard when Adam leaned down, his hands moving to your face, gently, and caught your lips with his own. So off guard, that you immediately moaned in surprise. You felt Adam freeze, and wondered if you’d messed up, but before you could open your eyes to check, he pressed you against the wall behind you and resumed kissing you with renewed fervour. You felt yourself returning the kiss, mirroring his movements, entirely caught up in him. His tongue ran across your lips and you parted them, allowing him to taste you as he deepened the kiss.

And you tasted him, his breath minty and overwhelmingly him, you felt drunk, dizzy. You moaned again, and he pulled away, still holding your face, “Sweetheart, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” He breathed, his pupils blown, face flushed. His gaze was intensely affectionate.

You had to catch your breath, “I didn’t think...I’m just a makeup artist, Adam, I-“

But he cut you off, shaking his head, “Don’t do that, how do you not realize how amazing you are, y/n? You take my breath away every time I see you, and it’s not just because you’re beautiful,” He punctuated his words with a peppering of kiss along your cheeks, “It’s how funny you are, how hardworking, your talent and vision, the way you take care of me and the others, how kind and sweet and goofy you are-I’ve been in love with you for a long time, for a million different reasons.”

Tears threatened at his words, and you had to work to blink them back, “I think I’m dreaming.” You breathed, feeling silly, but he grinned, and shook his head. You returned the smile, gazing up at Adam in wonder, before reaching up with both hands to caress his face, the gesture so much more intimate than it had been when you worked on his skin. His eyes closed briefly, but opened again when you spoke, “I love you too, you know, always have.”

In an instant, his lips were on yours again, this time the intensity was burning, smouldering. Entirely too much and yet no where near enough. You pushed your hands into his hair and he groaned against you, his hands gripping your face and it felt like you couldn’t get close enough to him. He dropped one hand to your waist, pulling your body flush to his, then slid his other into your hair. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like this, fully ablaze in each others arms, but you never wanted it to stop.

When you did break apart, breathless and flushed, Adam was the first to speak, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine, “Would you like to come over to my hotel?”

You nodded, still standing close against him, “I’d really love that.” And you leaned up, on your tip toes, to plant a chaste kiss on his nose, unable to stop smiling.

Adam hugged you close again, planting a few affectionate kisses to your cheeks and hair, before stepping back, watching you as you gathered your things quickly. He took your bag from you as you pulled off your apron and threw on your coat, and you followed him out, feeling giddy.

“We might have to end our bet, by the way.” Adam held open the passenger door for you, when you reached his car, and watched your confusion at his words.

“Why’s that?”

He leaned down, his eyes dark in a way that had you mesmerized, “You’re going to need a lot of caffeine when I’m done with you, sweetheart.” He murmured softly, his voice laced with cheek, and yet you shivered.

You met his gaze, grinning, while internally you had to remind yourself to breath.

Just breath.

#adam driver x reader #adam driver #reader insert #oneshot #first post #romance #star wars #constructive critism welcome #new to the community

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harmony88 · 3 years

Note

Okay so I saw your post yesterday from journey's end where you said something about how the Doctor wants to snog Rose when she says she built the dimension cannon to come back to him and I just want to read your take on that PRETTY PLEASE!

Oh, anon! How lovely if this had been reality! Let's just say it is. Ask and you shall receive :) Also put this on Ao3 (I'm sure its been done before but this was too fun)

He knew hugging her was going to feel like coming up for air. The amount of times he’d imagined this moment was astronomical and overwhelming, and even so, he was entirely unprepared for what it would feel like to actually hold her again.

He’d come up with a million scenarios. Dreams about falling into the parallel world by accident and scooping her back up and then escaping with mad laughter, holding hands just as the walls were sealing off again; visions of somehow finding her on a beach in this reality with her hair smelling of sea salt and sand. In those, he would wrap her up in a hug that made them both dizzy, and of course, he'd spent an absurd about of time coming up with silly daydreams of just casually stumbling across her in a coffee shop, making some flirtatious comment that was much too simple for the heartache they had both been through.

Not entirely unlike what he'd said to her today, he supposed, as he had laid dying in her arms.

Long time no see.

It had been far too long. But, by some miracle or utter cleverness, here she was. Her chest was pressed against his, her lips were on his shoulder, kissing him and also breathing him in, and he just held her. The very thought of letting go was more than his hearts or soul could bear, so he didn’t, instead he opened his eyes and looked at Donna, who was giving him a coy smile full of relief and joy. So much swam between their eyes in that single look, and he knew without her having to say that she was thinking about that day so long ago, standing in a wedding dress, watching him try not to cry.

And he knew that right now, she was bloody happy for him.

Her name was Rose.

“I missed you,” he said without meaning to Rose's ear, and his eyes pulled away from Donna to look at her as she loosened her grip around his neck. He swallowed hard, because she was already too far away again and he was already falling, losing himself to her sweet honey scent and beautiful eyes, and the longer he looked at her the harder it was to imagine they’d been apart for as long as they had.

He didn’t know how he’d survived, and he refused to even think about having to go through it all again, not when she was finally here, and when her hands came to rest on his chest directly over his hearts, Jack averted his eyes, noticing the way the Doctor’s eyes seemingly widened.

"I'm starving," he said, looking at Donna. "And if we have to keep fighting today, we should -"

"Right, yeah, we should," Donna said, but neither Rose nor the Doctor noticed when they left and headed to the galley. They were just staring at each other, and when he exhaled her name, his breath brushed her cheek.

“Rose….”

“I missed you, too,” she whispered, and he nodded, smiling a little at her before he pulled her back into a hug, and this time he realized they weren’t being watched. So his hands, which he’d made sure to keep on her upper back before, fell to her waist, forcing her breathing to hitch a little, a sensation he could hear just as much as he could feel, and it was intoxicating. “I missed you so much.”

He stayed silent, but his lips pressed onto her hair, and his fingers debated about slipping under her shirt and her leather jacket, but the moment he realized that's what she was wearing a sense of dread filled his entire body, and he let out a shaky breath when he decided to keep them where they were. “Do me a favor?” he asked quietly, and she nodded. “When this is over, I want you to throw away every single leather jacket you own.”

“What?” she asked, pulling back a little and raising her eyebrow at him. “Why?”

“It reminds me of...saying goodbye,” he said softly, wearing his hearts on his sleeve for the first time in years and he found himself utterly terrified by it. But she just bit her lip and cupped his cheek, and she looked down at her jacket.

“Funny,” she began. “It reminded me of you.”

His face softened, and when her eyes looked up to his, there was a tenderness in them that was making his breathing feel sharp and painful. He just let his Adam’s apple bob as he tried to accept those words, and she stepped closer to him, her eyes never leaving his face as he brushed his hand across her arm, feeling the tangible evidence that she was here, in the flesh and in leather, and he fought the urge to kiss her forehead.

He lost, and before he knew it he was tasting her skin, savoring the sweet concoction that was Rose and sweat, and her hips buckled into his. She let out the smallest moan when she did and his hearts began to speed up, and suddenly she felt too far away again.

He touched the leather jacket, and they both remembered.

You were fantastic. And do you know what?

“Doctor…”

“Rose…”

So was I.

They were so close, so beautifully close, and he started to lean down, ready to kiss her, ready to just give in because he was simply tired of fighting this and he supposed there was some truth to that stupid saying about how distance makes the heart grow fonder, when the TARDIS sounded an alarm and everyone’s attention snapped to the console. He grabbed her hand, not about to not touch her, and they ran over to take a look at what was going on. Jack and Donna were there, too, and whether or not they actually ate their snacks or had been listening at the door like petty teenagers didn’t matter at all as they read the readings, and Jack stiffened.

“What the hell?” he asked.

“Something is looking for us," the Doctor said.

“There’s a massive Dalek ship at the center of the planet,” Jack said, looking at the screen. “They’re calling it the crucible. I guess that’s our destination.”

Rose and the Doctor shared a glance, but Donna was trying to play catch up, and she looked back down at the controls. “You said these planets were like an engine. But what for?”

“Rose,” the Doctor said, a thrill running through him completely at the fact that he was able to do that and look at her face while he did. She bit her lip, probably thinking the same thing. “You’ve been in a parallel world -”

He made sure to smile with his eyes at her at the word ‘been’, because it was the past, and it wasn’t true anymore, because here she was, perfect and pink and yellow and in the damn flesh, and she smirked a little, realizing that was a game he was going to continue to play and she was certain of it. He’d make it light hearted and fun, of course, but she knew and he knew that really, he would say it as a reminder that he wasn’t dreaming.

She squeezed his hand.

“That world is running ahead of this universe. You’ve seen the future. What was it?” he asked.

“The stars were going out,” Donna told him instead, remembering suddenly, and Rose glanced over at her. She nodded.

“One by one,” she added. “We looked up at the sky and they were just...dying.”

He stared at her, waiting for her to continue, and she began to look at her feet. She couldn’t wait to tell him this, she'd thought about it so much, but she wanted to do it alone, and right now they had...well….a few too many people. But he needed to know and time was running out, so sod it.

“Basically we’ve been building this, erm. This travel machine...This, dimension cannon, so...well - so that I could…” she tried to say, but she could feel Donna and Jack’s eyes on her and it made her hesitate. The Doctor’s eyes darted to her lips before they found her eyes, and his face was hard to read, though there was the ghost of a smile tugging on his lips.

“What?” he whispered.

He needed to hear her say it.

“So I could come back,” she mused, and he gave her a classic grin, full of teeth and his clicked jaw, and she couldn’t help but notice the way his hand found hers again. He hummed happily as she rolled her eyes, because they could both feel the flirty banter lingering in the air. She bit her lip as he continued to smile like an idiot at her. “Shut up.”

She was teasing, but her voice became a little breathier than it had been, the way he was looking at her was simply too much, and his smile fell, his tongue tapping the back of his teeth as he suddenly had this hungry look in his eyes that she’d never quite seen before, and she stopped breathing when he spoke next.

“Make me.”

His hearts were pounding, and her face, which was a little shocked at first, suddenly became determined, and neither cared nor remembered that Jack and Donna were there as she grabbed his lapels and pulled him to her. He wasted no time. She was lonliness' remedy, the thing he craved more than the air in his lungs, and his mouth was on hers before he could process it.

She cried out when he pushed her against the controls, tongues lapping and hands cradling her waist like they were before, only this time his fingers slipped beneath her shirt, dancing on her skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind them, and Jack stared in shock. Donna blushed and then turned away, walking over to Jack and making him step aside as well, because they both heard the panting that was starting to stir from both of them, and they figured if the world was ending, they should at least get this.

So they slipped back into the other room for as long as they could.

“Up,” the Doctor groaned.

“What?” she gasped, shuddering when his lips found her neck.

“Your legs. Put them up. On the seat,” he ordered, nipping a little at her. She laughed and kissed him, but she did what he said and groaned when he suddenly rubbed her in just the right spot with his thigh, and that leather jacket they’d debated about was being unzipped. "Oh, I missed you."

“Doctor,” she whined, and he just nodded.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “I'm not going anywhere.”

She nodded, letting herself be spellbound for another moment, but her eyes caught sight of the monitor and she tried to pull away.

“We have….the planets, we -” she tried to say, but his lips were on hers again, and he sucked on her bottom lip. She whimpered.

"So?" he whispered, and she sighed.

“We can’t...not right now, we -”

“Yes we can,” he growled. “We can. I don’t care. I want you. I don't want to have to wait, the universe always makes us wait and I'm tired of it.”

Her jacket was nearly pulled completely off as his kisses grew more frantic, hot and wet and needy and full of so much guilt, perhaps. Guilt for losing her, guilt for not finding her first, and she rocked into him, making him cry her name as he slammed his hands on the console.

But the TARDIS still had her wits about her, and just as they began to tear each other's clothes off, making it so his suit coat was completely unbuttoned, she shifted and threw them both to the ground.

Rose winced when her shoulder hit the grating and he looked at her worriedly. His pants had a bulge that hadn’t been there a moment ago, but before they could yell at the TARDIS or resume what they were doing, the Old Girl jolted again, and he pulled Rose to his chest.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, you?” she said, and he nodded, standing up and helping her to do the same. Donna and Jack were back in the room, looking a little nervous, and everyone knew the storm was getting closer.

“In that parallel world, you said something about me,” Donna whispered, looking at Rose. The Doctor looked at Jack, who was smirking and pointed down to his pants, and he just made a face.

“Don’t start,” he muttered, and Jack just beamed.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he teased, but Rose was looking at Donna carefully, and when she slipped her hand out of the Doctor’s to walk to her, he panicked.

“Rose, come here,” he said, unable to stop himself, and she stepped back so her side was touching his.

“The dimension cannon could measure timelines -” she began, and the Doctor gave her an adoring smile, wanting to ask her so many questions about it he could hardly stand it. She just nudged his side. “It’s weird, Donna, but they all seemed to converge on you.”

“But why me?” she gasped, “What have I ever done? I’m a temp from Chiswick!”

The TARDIS jolted again, knocking them all down, and the Doctor’s hands were securely on Rose’s waist as they stood back up. His hearts were pounding, and they all stared at the door. The scanner beeped.

“The Dalek Crucible,” he whispered, and for good measure, he kissed Rose’s hair. “All aboard.”

He looked at the hand in the box for a fraction of a second as they headed toward the door, because he’d seen a version of this timeline that he was just desperately hoping was not about to come true. But if it did, he'd try to be okay with that.

He'd try.

#fanfic #anon ask #doctor and rose #tenthdoctor #rosetyler #pining #my heart

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jungtified · 4 years

Text

convenience store | j.j.h.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: college student! Jaehyun x college student! Reader

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: fluff & a tiny dot of angst <3

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1.5k

𝐀/𝐍: honestly, if anyone reads this, I don’t actually know what was going in my mind when i decided to write this lol. I don’t even like this but I ain’t wasting my time and effort so... if you like this enjoy <3??? and if you don’t then high-five! bitch same. + if there are any mistakes, let me know! I’m kinda blind sometimes. last but not least, any feedbacks would be greatly appreciated :) enjoy!

your phone had been ringing continuously for the past 5 minutes. you cursed silently and rubbed your eyes, turning to your side table where your phone laid before picking it up finally.

“hey beautiful, let’s go get some ramen,” Jaehyun said playfully. you groaned after his words. “what’s wrong with you, it’s literally 3 a.m., I’m trying to get some sleep!” you replied with a tired, raspy voice.

“damn, you sound sexy. come on, I’ll be at your door in 5.” he joked and hanged up before you could even say something. ‘this asshole, is he even living in the correct time zone? he called me beautiful and sexy though…’ you thought and whilst annoyed at him, you blushed.

Jaehyun is the one guy favoured by all. you didn't think you'd be friends with him one day, let alone pay attention to you. but after he sat next to you in class, he found himself beside you more often and becoming best friends in no time. you were very much surprised to be a quiet person like you are usually, that he would hang out with you. even the campus gossiped about you both for a while after you unexpectedly hanged out with him.

with the vibe Jaehyun had around him, you instantly hated him the first time you met each other. but it all changed after he managed to treat you to coffee, ending up spending hours there just talking about life. you found out that he isn’t what he’s always like, cold and a dry texter type of guy. actually kind and friendly, he also likes getting you to be adventurous, trying many new things you wouldn’t usually go for.

the amount of time you had spent around him was ridiculous, it’s like you can’t live without him. of course, you started developing feelings for him over time. you can’t remember when exactly, but you were clear of it after he hung out a couple times with a girl named Wendy. you couldn’t understand why you were jealous of them at first, but your knowledge of how protagonists fall in love in k-dramas and fiction stories made you realise you were crushing on him.

finally, out of your tiny daydream, you got out of your bed to check yourself. you looked exactly to what you thought you would look like, a whole wreck. unlike you, when some people wake up, they actually look good, like Jaehyun. what in the world was god thinking while he was making you and Jaehyun? did he miss an ingredient or something?

a knock was heard when you were combing your hair. immediately knowing who it was, you shouted, “come in!”. Jaehyun walked in and was scared by your glaring looks at him. “okay, I’m sorry for calling you so late at night. let’s go!” he said.

“but I have to look decent!” you replied.

“ma’am you look perfectly fine to me, let’s get going right now!” he said while dragging you away while snatching the comb off your hands.

sitting outside the 24/7 convenience store, Jaehyun told you to wait for him. you looked up to the sky, stars shining bright. it’s beautiful but, it constantly reminds you of how Jaehyun’s like the stars. so fucking gorgeous, people admiring him just like how people admire stars. yet you’re just an ordinary girl, working hard in school and getting good grades to graduate university just to get a good job in life without having fun in your school years. that was your plan until he came along.

you couldn’t believe that someone like him found you entertaining. he told you once that you were fun to be with. he told you that you’re a great person. he told you that he loves how you treat people equally, even him. those words made your heart flutter. sometimes you just want to shout your feelings out for him, you want to be with him forever. he makes you feel happy and worth. all the times he made you feel better after a bad mood, or whenever you get your period, he never fails to surprise you. your favourite foods? his appearance? simply anything he does just makes you smile.

the thing is you didn’t have the courage. you tried multiple times to hint that you like him, but it didn’t work. getting scared that one day you’d miss the chance of being with him, you had to build tons and tons of courage. obviously, the number one reason for not telling him about your feelings was quite obvious you were scared that he won’t be able to reciprocate your feelings and end up ruining the friendship the both of you have built up over the past year.

but today, right now, you felt like it was now or never. you are ready to risk your friendship for love. was it the energetic feeling of being awake at 3 a.m.? or just the sight of how you saw Wendy was all over Jaehyun last week made you bold? you couldn’t take it anymore; you were sick of it. ‘okay, don’t be nervous, don’t back down you scaredy-cat. when he comes out you must tell him.’ you assured, telling yourself that it’ll be okay.

the moment Jaehyun pushed the door of the convenience store open, you stood up and gathered your courage to speak out your feelings to him. “Jaehyun! I-I have something to tell you…” you stuttered for a moment, nervous of what was to come. “okay… you seem a little nervous,” he answered as he sets down the ramen and snacks he was carrying.

“you know, w-we have been f-friends for quite some time n-now right, Jaehyun?” you said, eyes starting to water. you felt so overwhelmed by your feelings for him, along with the turning feeling inside you.

“Y/N, calm down, are you okay? you’re making me nervous.”

“no-no, I’m fine, just listen to me yeah,” you assured him. “uhm, I’m really thankful for all the times you’ve spent with me. I’m so happy that you became my best friend and whatever happens, you’re still my friend, right?” you asked with a cracked voice, twisting one of your rings around your finger.

“you… did something wrong? or you don’t want to hang out with me anymore?” he questioned nervously speaking fast and hands turning clammy. he liked your company, a lot. which explains why he was really scared that you would leave him one day.

“no Jaehyun, listen to me. I-I uh, I really like you. like, like-like you, and I can’t stand the sight of you and Wendy together anymore. I can’t help but feel so pissed off and jealous all the time even if I don’t show it. I’m sorry for that and you probably don’t like me back. I think just ruined our friendship; I hope we still can be friends after this.” you spilled, fingers fidgeting and tears running down your face.

you looked at him for a response. no matter what it’s gonna be, you told yourself you’ll accept it even if it’s a rejection. but all he did was to stare at you with such intense eyes. it wasn’t sadness, lust, or hatred. you couldn’t make out the emotions he’s having, therefore you decided to leave since you ruined the atmosphere.

“I-I should just go…”

you stood up to walk back to your apartment, feeling so overwhelmed from your confession. you felt so sad but so good that finally, you spilled your feelings out. the stuffiness was gone, but the thought that you will never be the same around Jaehyun again made you feel worse.

turning to the direction of your apartment, you felt Jaehyun grabbing your arm. “what now?” you coldly reply turning around to shake his grip off you. somehow, he managed to hug you. “Y/N. I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a long time now. the reason why I’m asking you out for ramen right now was to tell you, I have liked you since the first time we’ve met.” he spoke calmly, holding you tight. as a response to his words, you hugged him back. you never thought that he would like you back, especially the way he treated you usually.

however, inside his mind was full of regrets, regretting that you were the one to confess first and not him. it should be jealousy, but he regretted that he made you wait too long. also, the fact that you thought he and Wendy were in flirting terms made his heart break a little.

“but I thought you liked Wendy,” you questioned, breaking his train of thought.

“since when? she’s irritating, I only saw her as a friend,” he assured you.

the moment he told you that, you began to cry harder. of all the times you saw them together and telling yourself that he doesn’t like you, were purely just some imagination that you perceived yourself to believe. he pulled away, hands now holding your waist. attempting to wipe your tears away, you ended up crying more out of joy. you couldn’t believe it.

“are you sure you like me?” you ask as a confirmation.

“yes Y/N. I’m in love with you.”

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somuchbetterthanthat · 4 years

Text

Probably too long for tumblr, un-betaed, written in one rush, utterly and completely self-indulgent. Have a little bit of touch-adverse/kiss-adverse Martin (with a good deal of denial and internalize prejudice to boot, so warning) for Aspec Martin Week.

It’s been a week, and they haven’t kissed.

It makes sense, Martin insists to tell himself, eager to find excuses for that one little discordant note in his otherwise perfect fairytale. What they shared in the Lonely had been -- much more powerful than that, for starters. And afterwards, there’d been the rush of getting somewhere safe, first to Martin’s flat, then to Scotland. They’d gone from stuttering at each other, exhausted and soft, blatantly trying to get over months of separation, to falling back in each other’s orbit with an easiness that made Martin light-headed when he thought about it too long.

So they hadn’t kissed. It just hadn’t -- came up yet. They’d gone so fast, so suddenly, it was nice to have that little thrill of anticipation. They were building towards something. They were building something, right now. There was no rush, was there?

After all, they’d hold hands, a few times. In the train to Scotland, fingers loosely intertwined, when Martin was still shivering from a coldness that had nothing to do with the rain pouring outside, and everything with the pervasive attraction of the sea that was still trying to drown out the beating of his own heart. They’d hold hands and it was warm and good and -- and well, sweaty, sometimes, when they kept at it for too long, but Martin had daydreamed of holding Jon’s hand for so long he could never make himself let go (and if there was an odd drop of relief wherever Jon let go first, at last, well, that was -- that was --)

Jon was affectionate, the way Martin had seen cats be when he fell into YouTube spirals, before. He hovered in Martin’s physical space, nuzzle his shoulder when he was sleepy, put his legs on Martin’s lap when they sat on the couch, and downright beamed and melted into his arms the first time Martin, filled with abrupt courage and stubbornness had decided to hug him, and every single time after that (this chased away the sound of the sea; if he kept Jon’s close enough, all he could hear was Jon’s voice and Jon’s heart and Jon’s breathing --)

(And if it get too much, sometimes, if he had to bite his tongue not to flinch when Jon’s hand brushed over his arms, his neck, his back, suddenly and without any apparent pattern, well, that was --)

They slept in the same bed, for heaven’s sake. They hadn’t even talked about it. The first night, tiredness had won over any potential flustering. Afterwards, it’d been easy, like everything else between them. Martin adored the intimacy of it in a way that was hard to describe properly. He loved it most in the morning, when the sun came in and he woke up before Jon, liked going to prepare breakfast knowing that he could come back whenever he wanted, and Jon would be there still, comfortable and vulnerable and in their bed, probably curled on Martin’s side, nose pressed against Martin’s pillow. He loved it most when they spent the evening there, still dressed, Jon’s reading, Martin scribbling in the small notebook Jon had bought for him at the London train station, cheeks flushed and eyes hopeful.

(They slept in the same bed, and Jon’s pajamas were too short, and his legs hairy, and his feet cold, and when he fell asleep he had a tendency to roll over and lean his legs against Martin’s, and Martin closed his hands into fists and breathed, breathed, and tried not to feel like he was trapped between suffocating in the bed, or disappearing into the fog to escape it all together. It was intimate. It was intimacy. It was what normal couples did, sharing a bed, and why couldn’t he enjoy it, he who’d dreamed of this his whole life? Intimacy. A relationship. Someone to love and to hold and fall asleep with, he who had been craving gentle, casual, loving touches his whole life, why couldn’t he ----)

So they hadn’t kissed; it didn’t matter, because Martin knew they would anyway. It was just that, out of everything, he had dreamed of kissing the most his whole life. When he was very young, the person hadn’t even had a face; he’d thought this would happen very officially, at his wedding. As a teenager, it’d slowly dawned on him he had no desire to kiss girls. Harder, he’d thought, but that would happen, he knew it could, Mr Anders had a boyfriend, everybody knew he had. Martin had imagined his first kiss with Louis who was two years older and played Rugby. Then it’d been with Tom, and Samir, and -- and then, there hadn’t been school anymore, but that was fine; he’d imagined his first kiss to be with an half stranger in a café, or in this bar where they hosted poetry nights.

It’d never happened, of course, but that was fine. That was fine. Who needed a relationship, anyway? Lots of people were single, and didn’t kiss people all the time, and if Martin sometimes felt icy envy when Tim used to speak of how easily he seduced people, well, that was easily pushed back down. (Martin had thought, once or twice, that he could ask Tim. Warm, friendly, easy-going Tim, who would never judge him for being inexperienced. He could have, but Martin didn’t want to kiss Tim. There was no pull, no attraction, no matter how charming Tim’s smile was. He wasn’t in love --)

And then there was Jon. The first time he’d daydreamed about kissing Jon, he was sleeping in his cot, and it smelled like his awful-but-not-quite-boss and safety-safety-safe-. Afterwards, there’d been million of other occasions. God, how much he’d craved, this past months, to go down the Archives, the hell with Peter, and to cup Jon’s face and to -- (and then he hadn’t wanted to anymore, and that was fine, too, it was easier, to stare at Jon and care in a pragmatic way instead of like a pathetic, lovesick fool. One of us should, he’d thought in his worst moment, and he loathed the man he’d been for those weeks so much -- there was a quiet dread in him that liked to murmur back to him Daisy’s words, that the entities didn’t force anything on them, just exacerbated what was already inside them, and every time, inevitably, he felt so cold again--)

So they hadn’t kissed. It was fine. They were going to. They were building to it. They just needed the perfect moment. First kisses weren’t just about the right person. They were about the right place, at the right time. Martin had wanted this for so long --

Tonight, Jon’s scowling at their puzzle like it personally insulted him, has been for the past ten minutes, and the light of the fire is reflecting in his eyes; he’s wearing Martin’s jumper and his hair is still wet from his earlier shower and Martin’s heart jumps at his throat as he thinks now. It has to be now.

��I’d like to kiss you,” he blurts out, filled with a sudden urgency. “Please? If -- If that’s -- if you want to.”

Jon looks up, startled, and it’s magic, the way his scowl disappears under his sudden flush and shy, happy smile. “Ah, yes,” he says, like he’s surprised. “Yes, I want -- I thought you might not --”

“No,” Martin says, “No I really really do --” “Well, then.” Jon’s lips curled into something that’s full of mischief, and Martin didn’t know it was possible to adore someone just as much as he adores Jon. “Come here, Mr Blackwood.”

“Oh I’ve got to work for it, have I?” Martin retorts, but he’s grinning, and already moving to Jon. They push the puzzle away, and Martin’s whole body is thrumming with nervous energy, abruptly, as Jon looks up to him, eyes dark and beautiful and soft. “I haven’t -- I haven’t actually ever done this,” he says, and is surprised to find he’s not embarrassed to say.

“There’s really not much to it,” Jon tells him, but he cups Martin’s face, tender as ever, and Martin thinks -- non sense, what is there more intense and intimate in the world than this? What else embodies love as much as kissing? -- and then Jon’s lips gently brush against his

-- and it’s good; for a few seconds, Martin feels electrified and so happy he could float; and then Jon’s lips are pressing back a little more insistently, and they’re a bit dry, and chapped, and his breath is hot against Martin’s face, and Martin’s knees are not wobbly, and the electricity has passed and all there is left is two bodies, pressed awkwardly against each other, skin and flesh and that odd, wet noise, and he wants to run, he wants to run so badly, this is ---

Jon moves away. Blinks worriedly, smile gone. “Martin?”

“No,” Martin says, his voice too tight, his hands trembling. “No, come back it’s -- sorry, i’m going to -- I’m just, i’m new to this? It’s got to -- It’s just -- I need --”

“Martin, breathe,” Jon snaps (he’s not angry, Martin has learnt to recognize the different ways Jon snaps over the years. He’s worried, and anxious, and probably thinking he’s done something wrong, the beautiful idiot --)

Martin breathes.

“Let me try again,” he stammers, after a minute.

“...Are you sure?” Jon tentatively asks. He’s so far away, careful not to lean too close while clearly yearning for it, and Martin forbids himself to start crying.

“Please,” he says instead.

“Okay,” Jon says. This time, he is so much more hesitant, so Martin is the one who crosses the distance between them, heart racing desperately in his chest. He tries to think of every movie, every story he’s ever watched or read or listen to; he puts one hand on Jon’s shoulder, and one hand on Jon’s hair, and Jon sighs, and their lips met and this time it’s right except, except it’s --

it’s all wrong, everything is wrong, and all that Martin manages to be aware of is how awkward and weird it all is; just like the hand-holding, when they do it too long, just like those little unexpected touches Jon offer at random moments, just like Jon’s legs in bed, and his damn cold feet;

Martin doesn’t remember breaking off the kiss; suddenly he is sobbing angrily -- at the lonely, at himself, at his childhood self who’s probably dreamed of this so much he’s ruined the reality of it all for themselves as an adult, -- and hides his face in Jon’s shoulder, apologizing like an idiot; he doesn’t even know what he babblers on. Stupid stuff, properly, because he’s an idiot, because he’s doing this horribly wrong, all of this, because he’s not feeling anything of what he should feel right now, because there is something ugly in him that refuses to be tamed even by love, and so what now? What now?

(Jon holds him. Jon murmurs it’s okay, it’s okay, we don’t have to, it’s okay, I love you, breathe for me, Martin, it’s okay, you’re okay -- and how is it, that Martin can love him so much and yet not be able to --)

“I want to,” he manages to say. “I’ve wanted to. All my life I just --”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, as if he is in any way responsible for this disaster. “Kisses are very much overstated, if you want my opinion.”

“But it’s not,” Martin argues, clinging to him harder. “It’s how you, you show love --”

“Is it? I never thought so. I like kissing just fine, I suppose, but It does get boring, especially if you do it for too long. Assuming we’re speaking of mouth kissing, of course.”

“How can you -- How can you say that?” Martin sputters, tearing himself away from Jon’s arms to stare at him. Jon is frowning, but he also looks so calm, it’s baffling.

“Easily,” Jon said, shrugging, a bit defensively. “Look, Martin, I told you four days ago I didn’t have sex. Ever. And you said it was fine, that you didn’t mind.”

“Well, yes, but --”

“How is that in any way different than kissing?”

“It’s, it’s -- I don’t know but --” Martin can feel himself tearing up again. Jon’s eyes soften, and he gently squeezes Martin’s hand.

“If you want to try again, at some point, we can,” he tells him, and it’s so impossibly gentle. “But it’s alright if it’s not -- something you enjoy. If we don’t kiss, ever, I won’t love you any less for it.”

“Maybe I just -- I just need to practice,” Martin says, quieter now.

“Maybe,” Jon admits. “But if it makes you this distressed every time, I might be the one who has to say no, here.”

Martin wants to argue some more, but something in Jon’s expression, stubborn and worried still, stopped him from doing so. “I love you,” he says instead, because that part is true, that part he trust; if he cannot control his body, at least he has mastered his heart;

Jon smiles. “I love you,” he says back, and he brings Martin’s hand to his mouth and kisses it gently.

Martin’s heart stops; his cheeks warm up abruptly; a shiver runs down his spine. He feels his breath hitch up his throat.

“Do that again?” he tries, voice trembling.

Jon raises his eyebrows. “This?” his lips linger on Martin’s knuckles, this time. Martin’s knees feel weak. Jon’s smile gets wider; warmer. “Oh, I can do this,” he nods, seriously. “Tell me if it’s get boring.” and he kisses Martin’s hand again; each finger, with a tenderness that makes Martin feel dizzy.

“I love you,” he repeats, because he thinks, he’s starting to understand what Jon was saying. “I love you so much.”

Jon kisses his wrist; his lips are a bit chapped and it’s slightly wet and Martin’s pulse is loud in his ears.

This. this is perfect.

There is no but; there is no quiet, shameful parentheses; Martin thinks he might have to talk to Jon about the bed, maybe, tomorrow; for now, his eyes fall back on Jon’s hand. He wonders what it’ll be like, to kiss it. He’s got a feeling it might be very pleasant, indeed.

#the magnus archives #aspecmartinweek #tw: internalized prejudice #i /guess/ it can vaguely fit the prompt #exploration #?#or together #but mmh #tma stories #sorry there is an actual story i'm working on properly that ought to arrive hopefully next week or so

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summahsunlight · 3 years

Text

Worth the Risk, Part 12

Rating: Mature(18+only)

Word Count: 1707

Pairing: Army Pilot!Poe Dameron x Nurse!Reader (1940s AU)

Summary: It’s the 1940s, Army pilot and Captain Poe Dameron is flying on missions for the United States Army in Europe. After being shot down off the coast of France, Poe wakes up in an Army hospital in England, to find you, a nurse, taking care of him. Throughout the process of his recovery, Poe finds himself falling for you, and even though you, for the most part, maintain a professional relationship with him–you’re falling for him as well. Both of you know the risks of falling in love during a war, but then again, both of you have never cared much for being cautious.

Warnings: Angst, Holocaust imagery (not graphic)

Start from the beginning!

Taglist: @fanfic-addict-98, @thescarletknight2014, @blushingwueen, @americasassromanoff, @ginger-swag-rapunzel, @spider-starry, @totelpoedameron, @captain-america5, @liadamerondjarin, @m1rkw00dpr1ncess, @paintballkid711, @justanotherblonde23, @castiel-barnes, @itspdameronthings

Hello readers, I am so sorry that this part took this long. I hope you enjoy reading it! Remember the taglist is open, just comment here or send me an ask/message if you would like to be added!🥰 As I mentioned in the warnings there is some mention of the Holocaust, however it is not graphic imagery but I wanted to warn readers.

August, 1944

It was quiet now. Earlier that day the streets of Paris had been lined with citizens cheering the Allied Forces as they rode into the city. Poe had collected so many roses from the adoring crowds that he had enough to give you two dozen. You’d found a glass jar and they were now sitting on the small table besides your cot, the sweet smell permeating the air.

Currently your head was resting on Poe’s bare chest, listening to his heart beat, as well as the drunk Frenchman singing outside your window. In a few days he’d be moving out of Paris with his unit, while you would be staying behind and treating the wounded. You knew that this was coming at some point--the Army was going to station your unit in a more permanent place--and Poe would be on the move. Because of this you clung a bit more tightly to one another tonight.

“I’m gonna miss Paris.”

“Why? Because all those random girls wanted to kiss you?”

Poe chuckled and pressed his lips to your temple. “It did give a whole new meaning to French kiss.”

You playfully hit him on the shoulder and laughed. Someday, you would get to lounge in bed like this, without a care in the world--without the war right outside your window. “You’re an idiot.”

“Arana says I’m a lovable idiot.”

“True. And you’re my lovable idiot.”

His finger ghosted over your cheek, his brown eyes softening as he gazed at you with so much love in them. “Do you know for the first time since this war began I actually feel hope that we might win this? That I might actually walk away and be able to go home to the ranch and build a life with you.”

It was so easy to feel hopeful when he talked like that, you realized. Softly you played with his hair. “What’s the ranch like?”

Poe smiled, softly. “Hot.”

You returned his smile. “Hotter than the South of France in August?”

“Much hotter.”

“Can you see for miles?”

“Miles and miles of blue skies and rolling hills.”

“Are there horses?”

“Lots of horses.”

Closing your eyes you tried to imagine the ranch where Poe had grown up. You’d grown up in the city--there had been no wide open spaces or horses--other than the ones pulling carriages or police officers rode. “I always wanted my own horse when I was a little girl.”

Poe ran his fingers through your hair, heart softening at the thought of you as a child wishing for a pony.. “Do you know how to ride? I could always teach you.”

Even thought you had not been able to have a pony when you were growing up, your parents did provide you with riding lessons. “I know how to ride but it’s been a few years--I might need a refresher course.”

“Something to look forward too then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I know the perfect spot on the ranch to ride out to.”

Placing a kiss on his shoulder, you smiled. Tomorrow morning both of you would be back in the thick of the war, but for now, it was just the two of you, dreaming about the future.

Poe wrapped you tightly into his arms and kissed your temple. He was dreading having to say good-bye to you tomorrow morning but he would at least have peace of mind knowing that you were safe in Paris while he pressed on with the Army deeper into Europe. Since taking back France there was a new sense of hope resonating with the boys--they were going to see this through to the end--they were going to win.

You fingers brushed his hair back. He’d gone back to trimming his curls since he’d left the hospital in England, but you still loved how incredibly soft his hair was. “What are you thinking about?”

A gentle smile spread across his face as he looked at you. “Just feeling incredibly hopeful.”

“Me too.”

“A year from now we’ll be on the ranch--you’ll see--it will be over, finally.”

--------

September, 1944

It wasn’t often in the last few weeks that you got to leave Paris. There was still heavy concern about Nazi troops inciting guerrilla warfare in the forests and along the country roads that led to towns and villages outside of the city. You had already been injured thanks to one sniper before--you didn’t want to go through that experience again.

However, a few volunteers had been asked to assist with the medical needs of some prisoners that had recently been freed from a Nazi camp.

There was far less destruction out here in the countryside, although there was still evidence of war, of the Allies heavy bombing runs. Poe couldn’t talk about those, at least not with you and you weren’t sure if it was because he was sworn to secrecy or if the very idea that he could kill innocent people rendered him speechless. You surmised it was both.

His letters that last few weeks had been short, upbeat; he would let her know if Arana was fine--still a pain in my ass, but I love him--Poe had written.

“Lieutenant,” the driver said, pulling your attention away from daydreaming. “Did the Army give you any forewarning about what you’re going to see?”

“No,” you said with a shake of your head, suddenly feeling a pit forming in your stomach. “Is it that bad?”

“Treated them worse than animals,” the driver mumbled as pulled down a long, narrow drive that led to a stone farmhouse. “And they’re not soldiers ma’am--civilians, French civilians. The French Red Cross has been caring for them, but with the war still going on, it’s overwhelming. They asked for some help.”

Something inside of you sparked, the conversations you’d heard your father have with other men in the neighborhood when he thought you were not within earshot. What had you agreed to expose your nurses too? Already they had seen so much--too much.

The jeep came to a stop in front of the farmhouse. You glanced at it for a moment, a picture of the French countryside at the onset, but you knew inside.... it was a much different story. Stealing yourself, you took a deep breath and got out of the jeep. With your medical bag in hand, you headed inside to find the doctor in charge.

It was eerily quiet. Beds lined walls with far too thin men, women, and children. A French nurse handed you a mask, told you to put it on because they were dealing with an outbreak of influenza. Judging by the condition of the patients, this came as no surprise to you; they had no immune systems to combat even a cold.

Slipping the mask on you, you buried your emotions and got to work. Later, when you sat down to write a letter to Poe, you’d let them all out. But for now, you had work to do.

------

Eight hours later, you found yourself hugging a toilet bowl. In all your lifetime, you had never seen people so sick, so frail, or so thin. Not even when you and your mother had traveled to rural parts of New York to help people in need during the Depression had you seen such horrendous conditions.

The Army private that had driven you to the farmhouse had been right--these people had been treated worse than animals.

“Lieutenant?” Jess called from the other side of the door. “You okay?”

“No,” you answered, truthfully before vomiting again.

“Can I come in?”

“Enter at your own risk.”

Slowly, the. door to the bathroom opened and Jess stepped inside. She closed it behind her before speaking. “I know this probably means nothing to you--but the way you held it together today, it really helped all the girls. I don’t know how you did it.”

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you answered her, honestly, “I’m not sure how I did it, either. My parents helped several families get out of Germany before the war began, they told us stories but I never...I never thought it would have been like this.”

Jess sat down next to you, pressing her back against the vanity. “I don’t think anyone could have imagined it was like this, Lieutenant. How could anyone sane imagine this?”

You had to agree. Dropping back on your feet, you glanced exhausted at your friend. She looked just as drained as you; the pair of you had spent the entire day helping treat patients and listen to the ones that could communicate with you what they had been through--ripped away from their families, losing everything they owned. None of them were sure if members of their families were even alive--they had been sent away to other countries--you had heard the word Auschwitz a few times.

“Do you think Captain Dameron is right?”

“About what?”

“The war being almost over.”

“I think he wants it to be almost over.”

“Me and him both.”

Sighing, you swallowed the sour tasting bile in your throat, wishing you could unsee the sick and dying people today. Suddenly you were feeling Poe’s absence harder than ever--you wished he was here so he could pull you into his arms and just tell you that it was going to be okay.

Jess reached for your hand and gave it a squeeze. “Maybe you should go write to him.”

You glanced at her, incredulously. “How did you know I was even thinking about him?”

“Because if the man I was gonna marry was that good looking--I’d be thinking about him all the time as well,” she said, with a big smile.

“He is pretty cute,” you said, returning her smile. And then you both started laughing. When the laughter had died down, you rested your head on Jess’ shoulder. “Thanks, Jess. I feel better.”

“Anytime, Y/N,” Jess said, softly. “You don’t have to shoulder all this alone, especially if we’re going to be here helping these poor people for a while. We’re going to need each other to lean on.”

#my writing #star wars imagine #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x reader #WW2 AU #100 followers celebration #worth the risk

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heartbreak-of-a-marauder · 4 years

Text

Through the Rabbit Hole (2)

Part Two: The Trickster

Pairing: Loki x fem!reader

Summary: You give Loki a piece of your mind for New York and its fall out, but things aren’t as you thought.

Word: 2,335

Notes: Angst +++ Weirdly had a lot of fun writing this part... y/n = your name, y/h/c = your hair colour, y/e/c = your eye colour, b/f/n = best friends name. If you haven’t read part one STOP NOW and go do that:

<- 2 ->

~*~*~*~*~

New York, 2012

It was the penultimate day of your week-long holiday in New York and after days of sightseeing and shopping, you were glad to finally have a rest day. The restaurant you and your best friend picked today had a fresh but quirky vibe and your window seat gave you a fantastic view of the New York skyline. You chatted happily with b/f/n as you waited for your food to be served.

“Will you take a picture of me y/n?” b/f/n asked, both of you had saved for this trip for so long, at every opportunity you were taking pictures to remember these moments forever.

“Sure,” you pull out your phone and aim the lens at b/f/n. “Move slightly to the left, you’ll have Stark Tower in the back then.”

B/F/N followed your instruction and scooted over slightly. You grin as the camera focuses on your friend, you just knew they’d be bragging about for weeks. You snap a couple of shots before repositioning the phone for a different view, your thumb hovers over the button as you see a beam of blue light shoot into the sky from Stark Tower.

“What the heck?” you say absently, lowering the phone to stare out of the window, your friend turns as well to see what you’re looking at.

Other patrons in the restaurant also begin to notice just as an ink-black cloud begins to brew, expanding with supernatural speed; distorting the sky. Your frown deepens as when dark specks begin to fly out of it at speed. Some break off, heading in different directions in small arrow-shaped formations. Some specks explode as the descend, others are firing purple beams of light, you rise out of your seat not 100% sure that what your seeing is real.

You are so close to the window that your breath frosts the. One of the purple beams makes contact with a space a few floors above you. The glass shudders violently while the building moans in protest.

“What the fuck is that!” b/f/n shouts. Your stagger back thinking the same thing.

“Get away from the window!” you shout, panic rising in your chest as more shots connect with the building.

A woman behind you screams as a serpent-like creature descends from the cloud, its shrill shriek makes you cringe.

“We need to get out now,” b/f/n turns back to look at you, their face frozen in fear. You nod robotically, your eyes never leaving the window.

The world around you seemed to slow as the specks got closer, firing shots at random. You look back at b/f/n, screaming their name, reaching out for them just as the glass behind them shatters spraying the room with shards. The force of the blast throws you backwards. You crash onto your back hitting your head against the concrete, the force of the impact knocks the breath from your lungs as your vision swims. Dizziness and nausea assault you as you try to move, looking desperately for b/f/n. Dark spots dance across your vision when you finally locate their face. Their eyes are wide, and unblinking, a red puddle slowly expanding around their head.

“B/F/N?” you whisper just as everything goes black.

Today

You had woken up in the hospital a day or so later to learn that not only was your best friend dead but that Loki had led the attack. You had always wondered why he had attacked. What had happened to the gentleman you had known to become so twisted and spiteful that he was prepared to rain hellfire down on humanity.

But now, here you were, six years later, stood in the same courtyard you had first met Loki all those years ago. It hadn’t changed in the slightest, except this time there was no one waiting for you. The quiet made you feel out of place and unsure of yourself.

Now you were here you didn’t know what to do. Loki was probably incarcerated deep in the heart of the palace.

‘Good. Lock him up and throw away the key.’ You thought

It had taken a lot of courage to go back through that portal but now you were here you knew it was somewhat of a wasted journey. If you were discovered you knew you would likely end up in the dungeons too, after all, no mortal was supposed to be able to travel to Asgard.

Determination settled deep in your bones, you knew it was unlikely that you could give Loki a piece of your mind but that didn’t mean you couldn’t give it to someone else. Someone higher. His father perhaps.

You made your way out of the courtyard retracing your steps from memory, everything you passed looked the same as when you had last seen it. Loki had only taken you to certain parts of the castle, always making sure to keep you out of sight of other Asgardians. You stopped in the middle of a crossroads of hallways with no idea where you were supposed to be going.

If you were to be caught by Palace guards they might take you to the Allfather.

Turning around you went back the way you came until you found yourself with your nose nearly touching the doors to one of Loki's favourite places; the library. You tentatively place your palms on the ornate doors, there was bound to be some decrepit old librarian lurking about in there. But you made no effort to open them.

You struggled against the memories that began to seep into your mind, happy memories of the hours you and Loki spent in this room as he read to you.

"Y/n?" A voice whispers incredulously from behind, making you jump out of your skin.

You stand frozen for a moment, the sound of his velvety voice bringing back long-buried feelings. Remembering why you came you let your anger and grief swallow them up.

Turning slowly you face Loki. His hair had grown but he looked the same as last time you saw him. His porcelain skin and chiselled features hadn’t changed, but his chest seemed broader and his carefree demeanour was gone.

‘Of course, it’s gone, he’s a megalomaniac’

He wasn’t the same man you had fallen in love with, you had wondered if he had ever been that man or if it was just one of his tricks.

“Loki.” Your voice is cold and distant.

“You came back,” disbelief echoed in his voice. “I never thought you- it’s been years, I thought I would never see you again.” He admitted shyly, sounding almost hopeful.

You kept the anger and upset you felt in the forefront of your mind and let it bloom hotly in your chest. It would help with what would come next, you couldn’t allow yourself to feel anything different, you owed it to b/f/n not to forget.

“Yes, well, New York nearly made sure that I would never see anyone again.”

He baulked at you. Guilt and shame gnawed at his insides and a slight sadness took over his once optimistic expression. He had endured anger from Odin and disappointment from his mother with relative ease, but seeing the hurt he had caused in you very nearly broke his heart. The venom in your voice began to poison the hopes and daydreams he had conjured of you during your absence.

“You were in New York?” he asked quietly avoiding your eyes.

“Along with someone I loved very dearly.” You snap, emphasising every word.

“I had no way of knowing-“

“Bullshit!” you hiss.

“You never came back. I had no idea where you had gone.” His expression was stoic as he defended himself.

“You led an invasion party against us! Conquering New York would’ve just been the beginning and you know it!” You shout incredulously and watch Loki cringe as he understands your original meaning.

“The attack was a mistake I shall never stop paying for…” He admits quietly after a while. The sincerity in his voice was unprecedented. “… Forgive me Y/N, never in my wildest dreams had I imagined you would be hurt because of my foolishness.” He had taken a careful step towards you.

Hot tears burned your eyes and blurred your vision. You blinked quickly willing them away, he did not get to make you feel guilty for your words. You had come back to Asgard with a plan. You didn’t have time to be overcome by silly teenage emotions.

Yet there you were feeling overwhelmed by the man stood in front of you, the speech you had prepared was being forgotten with each passing moment.

“Keep your lies and excuses for someone who actually cares Loki.”

“Silver-tongued I may be, but I have never lied to you Y/N.” His stance shifted to one of defence, he had been stung by your words.

“How can I believe you? Why would I believe you! You set out to destroy my world, you murdered hundreds of innocents in the process.” Your breath comes out harder as you go on. “You should be rotting away in a cell for what you did, not walking around like some dandy, but I suppose because you’re royalty it's okay because daddy’s there to defend you.” You say spitefully.

“Why did you do it? You’re a fucking Prince, you had the world on a silver platter! What? Did you get bored, is that it?” you ask rhetorically. “Did mummy and daddy not pay you enough attention?” your intentions are cruel as you aim to hit a nerve.

Your thoughtless comments and accusations raise Loki’s hackles and in two long strides, he was toe to toe with you. So close you could smell him.

“I had my orders.” His voice was harsh but strained, your brows knit together as you process what he had just said.

Orders? Someone had sent him to attack earth? Why?

“So what! If someone tells you to stick your hand in a fire pit, you do it?” You try to regain the upper hand in the conversation knowing that if you let him speak, you would listen. “What backwards fucking logic is that?!”

“The kind that keeps you alive.” He hisses down at you.

There it was; the crack in his beautiful façade. He sighs heavily and just like a deflated balloon his shoulders sag and he drops his head. His forehead just a hairsbreadth away from yours.

“They threatened to kill you if you didn’t go through with it?” Your previous vehemence was gone, an unknown expression flashes across his face

“I have paid for my treachery.”

“Loki, who-“ Your press.

“‘Who’ does not matter anymore little one” he diverts.

“Of course it does, what if they try again, we-we need to be prepared.” You speak hurriedly, remembering the terror you felt in New York, you drive your hands through your hair, pulling it at the root.

“No.” There’s a tone of finality in his voice.

“What do you mean ‘no’? Loki, who sent that army? If you’re here you can’t know that they won’t try again!” the muscle in his jaw ticks.

“Your precious avengers have proved themselves ready and worthy of dealing with him, you do not need to worry little one.”

“Stop changing the subject!” you cry exasperated. “I was there Loki! I saw those things and what they did.” You place your hands on his chest willing him to pay attention to what you were saying.

“You don’t need to worry-“

“Loki,” you start, preparing to launch into another rant but he cuts you off.

“Enough y/n! Please…” his voice sounds broken as he begs.

“What did they do to you?” You ask softly.

When he doesn’t reply you begin to remove your hands from his person when he reaches up and captures your wrist, holding it against his chest. His grasp sends heat through your veins inviting your teenage fantasies in. You knew that deep down you still harboured feelings for the God, and all of these revelations had your defences crumbling.

“You don’t need to know little one.” His tone is as soft as yours had been and his smile sad.

The sound of footsteps and metallic clinking bursts your little bubble as you both remember where you are stood. Keeping a hold on your wrist he begins to drag you through the Palace, you glance around and realise you’ve never seen these parts before. You have to jog a little to keep up with his pace.

“Loki, where are we going?” you ask breathlessly, pulling against him trying to slow his pace.

“Somewhere a little more private little one,” for the first time you frown at his old pet name for you.

“No.” you state resolutely, pulling your arm out of his grasp.

“y/n now is not the time nor place for this.”

“Either you start talking or I start shouting again.” He glowers silently at you. “I came here for answers Loki, not for a friendly little visit for old times sake. I’m not some hormonal little girl that’ll eat up everything you say.” You cross your arms over your chest.

“There was a time you would’ve done anything I asked y/n.” You feel heat begin to creep up your neck and settle in your cheeks.

“Yes, well, you made your feelings about that quite clear though, didn’t you.” You deflect, desperate for him to not see how his comments affected you.

This time he took hold of your hand, linking his fingers with your own. When he pulled you into motion it was slower this time, allowing you to walk beside him and not have to fight to keep up.

“I always thought you were going to come back.” He admitted after a while.

You shrug in response.

“I missed you.” He adds quietly like he’s afraid the words will make you disappear.

You had come back, he didn’t much care for why anymore. He simply knew he would do anything to make this moment last.

~*~*~*~*~

TAGLIST: @jessiejunebug @seventieshead-modernlover @kinghiddlestonanddixon @danielle101370

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wellknownwolf · 4 years

Note

I want to move into a new phase in my relationship with fandom, as I mature with new experiences. I'm not sure what exactly that looks like though. What is your take on the parasocial affection inherent in an RPF like Rhett & Link? Or even the deep attachments that can form with fictional characters? Or a desire to emulate fantasy worlds? I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable with all this, it's just that it's been a long time coming, and once I got started I couldn't stop. - Natasha (5)

First, let me post the full question, since it came in 5 parts:

Hey, it's me again. Your 'mystery inquirer', as you so adorably dubbed me. You're right, I had forgotten I'd sent in that ask. Just now, I couldn't help but think about a scene from Life After, as I am wont to on a frightfully regular basis, which is what got me back here. When you said you pondered over my seemingly simple, banal question for a good while, and wrote out a beautifully thoughtful answer like you always do, it made me happy.

Your narrative voice is similar to my own, and it made my chest ache in a certain way to have gotten such a response to what felt like a random shout out into the abyss (though it obviously wasn't, I sent it directly to you, I guess it's more what it felt like taking a chance on a conversation with a random stranger online). And now I'm cringing a bit at how melodramatic all sounds. But I'm committing to it, anyway. That's the beauty of anon, eh?

Wolfie (is it presumptuous to call you that? Please do forgive me the liberty I'm taking), I must admit. I'm quite envious of this community you have with @missingparentheses, @lunar-winterlude, and other wonderful people. Since childhood, I've been head over heels in love with fandom. Not a specific fandom, I've been a traveller through dozens, but fandom in general. I've read probably thousands of fanfics, spent countless hours daydreaming about beloved characters and their stories.

To the point where, in my most recent and worst depressive episode, it may have been for the worse, if I'm honest. Escapism and yearning to the point of impairment, engendering a sense of constant bereavement. But it's taught me so much about life and its wonders, I can't write it off as just some damaging habit. It's such an integral part of who I am, a deeply curious soul (shout out to my Enneagram Type 5-ers out there!). But I don't anyone to share it with, and it can get quite lonely.

.....................................................................

Thank you for giving me so much to respond to, Natasha. Thank you for continuing to reach out. I accidentally wrote something like a paper in response to your thoughtful question. I even conducted a little research and cited a source. ENGLISH TEACHER, ACTIVATE!

Also, for what it’s worth, I feel at times that I communicate exclusively through shouts into the abyss, so it’s a language with which I am at home. In fact, it is this very technique, this experiment with intense vulnerability at the hands of a virtual stranger, that earned me one of my absolutely most-treasured friends: @missingparentheses. I have poured out a great deal of my own melodrama to her, and she has received it and reciprocated it in a way that, three years later, continues to teach me how to be a better friend. In short, I’m a firm believer in diving straight in when it comes to new friends. Cringe not; I’m on board.

So let’s dive.

R&L is really only the second “fandom” with which I’ve been involved. Third, if we count my preteen obsession with ‘N Sync (and considering how much wall space I dedicated to their posters and self-printed photos, we probably should). My point is, while I don’t have much experience with the community facet of fandom, I do relate to your feeling of near-obsession. Or clear obsession.

I know the feeling of escapism you’re describing, and I know the yearning and melancholy that can come on our worst days, where we feel like “real life” will never measure up to the color and brilliance of the worlds we spend so much time considering. These worlds, these characters and their relationships, their challenges, victories, and defeats all seem so purposeful: they’re the plot points we use to craft the stories in our heads (regardless of whether we’re writers at all). It can be much harder to view ourselves as protagonists worth analyzing, viewing and reviewing through new lenses, perhaps because we’re warned against navel-gazing, perhaps because our self-perception just won’t allow for it. Maybe a little of both.

But yes! It teaches us! We DO learn about life, other people, love, risk, all kinds of things through what we consume in these fandoms, so I would never classify it as a “bad” thing. We hone our imaginations and learn to pay attention to our own emotions as we recognize feelings from our favorite shows, games, books, and characters arising in ourselves.

I used to be a little afraid of the fact that I was always telling myself stories, internally imagining myself as someone else, a player in the worlds I often loved more than my own. I suspected that someday, somehow, I would be caught playing pretend all the time in my own little ways. I was a bright and ambitious young woman, so why would I give so much of my mental energy to such frivolous pursuits?

In my first semester of graduate school, though, I learned from a Lit. Theory professor who intimidated the hell out of me that we all do this. We’re all telling ourselves stories all the time, some of which are true and close to objective reality, some of which are more subjective to whatever fantastical (or fandom) material we last consumed. I’ve whispered my own dialogue in the shower, but so have you whispered yours in your head (if not also out loud in your shower!). And through this act, however it is performed, I have made those worlds part of my own. So have you. In this way, they are real, and I no longer feel fearful of being “found out.”

When we have those moments of doubt, though, when we wonder whether we’re going too far, it probably stems, at least partially, from the “us v. them” divide between fandom and mainstream society. We love our little worlds, but we also feel that twinge of anxiety that we might be bordering on obsession, that our guilty pleasure might be discovered and we will be socially punished for it, namely, as Joli Jensen writes in “Fandom as Pathology: The Consequences of Characterization,” because “the fan is characterized as (at least potentially) an obsessed loner, suffering from a disease of isolation, or a frenzied crowd member, suffering from a disease of contagion. In either case, the fan is seen as being irrational, out of control, and prey to a number of external forces” (13). According the consistent covert (and overt, at times) messages of the mainstream, “[f]andom is conceived of as a chronic attempt to compensate for a perceived personal lack of autonomy, absence of community, incomplete identity, lack of power and lack of recognition” (Jensen 17). Yikes. That doesn’t feel good to admit about ourselves, does it?

Luckily, it’s bullshit.

Treating “fans” as others (outsiders, people who can’t form relationships or find fulfillment in the “real world”) “risks denigrating them in ways that are insulting and absurd” (Jensen 25). Those who take this stance, who see fans as victims of hysteria or desperate loners, do so in order to “develop and defend a self-serving moral landscape. That terrain cultivates in us a dishonorable moral stance of superiority, because it makes other into examples of extrinsic forces, while implying that we [members solely of the mainstream] somehow remain pure, autonomous, ad unafflicted” (Jensen 25). In short, that us/them thinking just makes people feel better about themselves by pointing out an easily-identifiable “other.”

I have also grappled with the concept of parasocial affection, particularly with R&L. I was well into writing my first Rhink fic when the thought crossed my mind, “Oh my god, what if I actually met these people someday? How would I look them in the eye? I’d feel like a crazy person (again)!” From the safety of the Midwest, I laughed off the thought. And then a year or so later, they were announcing their first tour. And I was still writing, here and there, still deep in my affection for them, sometimes wrestling with the thought that I’ve devoted so much energy to people who would never know I exist.

It doesn’t matter that the attachment was in the most obvious, tangible ways only one-sided. As an adult who is ever-learning how to navigate the worlds of her own creation and the ones over which she has far less control, I view my intense attachment to characters both real and fictional with deep fondness. And while I may not receive affection or attention directly from the sources (R&L, fictional characters, sports teams, who/whatever we build fandoms around), I am still earning some very real rewards for my involvement: Because of them, I found my way to a participatory culture in which I was supported and encouraged to express my creativity. This gave me the push and interest that I needed to hone skills that have not only made me a better writer, but also a better teacher and mentor. With fandom comes the ability to immediately strike up a conversation over shared interests. With fandom comes a sense of belonging in what we have proven is an awfully divisive world.

Right now, I’m consuming far less fandom-related material than I did a few years ago. I don’t really watch GMM anymore and I’m on a break from Ear Biscuits (though I still love it), Gotham ended over a year ago and I’m not in the habit of reading fics right now, and I can’t yet play the remade Final Fantasy 7, so that’s out for me, too (though I know I will fall deep into that well once the game is in my hot little hands). This all happened by itself. I never consciously moved away from these sources; I just floated on to other interests and other levels of interest, knowing that if and when I wanted to dig back in, I could always come back.

I used to feel quite sad at the thought of someday “moving on” from these intense interests. I couldn’t fathom somehow falling out of love with those bands, actors, or video games. But for me, the transition into wherever I am now has not been painful in the least. I’m glad I knew the intensity that I did, and I’m happy with the distance I have now. And there’s a good chance I’ll be fanatic about something else someday. I’m looking forward to it!

Here are some responses that I couldn’t organically fit into my essay:

Yes, you can call me Wolfie if you’d like. That name started with @missingparentheses (her second appearance in this answer!), and quickly became a reminder to not take myself too seriously.

Second, I don’t think I know any other Type 5s! I’m a type 8.

Also, here’s my MLA formatted citation for the Jensen source:

Jensen, Joli. “Fandom as Pathology: The Consequences of Characterization.” The Adoring Audience: Fan Culture and Popular Media, Routledge, 1992, pp. 9-29.

#ask me anything #fandom meta-discourse #bc I always said I wouldn't get involved in fandom discourse #oh no I'm us/them-ing in my tags!#shame on me!

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aliciaspinncts · 4 years

Text

⧼ alisha wainwright, cis female, she/her / lost in translation - frankie + sweat so prevalent you can see it glimmering in the sun, running in the rain with a mouth half-consciously open, letting the cold water roll off the tongue, curling up in a huge jumper with a cup of something hot in front of a garden of flowers, that moment the patience snaps and fists start flying. ⧽ ━━ hey, isn’t that ALICIA SPINNET? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the TWENTY-SIX year old [ muggle born ] WITCH is a [ GRYFFINDOR alumnus who has gone on to be a PERSONAL TRAINER FOR PROFESSIONAL QUIDDITCH PLAYERS. ]. i’ve heard they can be quite EXUBERANT & FIERCLY LOYAL, but i don’t know… they came off very RECKLESS & STUBBORN in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it?

heya!!! i’m vicky, twenty-two, and live in the gmt timezone!! i am EXCITED!!!!!!!

so, alicia’s wiki is sparse ( as can be expected ). here’s what it does tell us:

she’s two school years older than the golden trio ( so she would’ve left hogwarts after the fifth book )

she was only a reserve chaser until her third year, when she made the main team

was a member of dumbledore’s army, even letting the meetings cut into her quidditch training time

returned to hogwarts for the battle of hogwarts

was friendly!

her blood status is unconfirmed, so i went with muggle born based off her reaction to draco calling hermione a mudblood in the second book:

Alicia shrieked, "How dare you!"

chronologically:

alicia was born in scotland to two muggle parents ( so sounds like a weaker version of this, not as strong because of spending time at hogwarts & in london post-school ). grew up, went to primary school, made lots of friends. was devastated she didn’t get to go to the same secondary school as her friends, but this was quickly overshadowed by how cool the wizarding world was.

she played football ( the soccer kind ) in primary school and was immediately entranced by the idea of a magical sport, dedicating most of her first year free time to figuring out the ins and outs of the rules & practicing whenever she could ( possibly by making friends with some of the slightly older students and hm... persuading them to take her out with them and teach her )... almost failing some of her classes ! getting on the reserve team only made her work harder at this, and it took a mini intervention from head of house mcgonagall for her to realise her grades were taking a hit too.

time jump !

alicia had left hogwarts obviously by the time the battle came around, but she still carried her dumbledore’s army coin around with her wherever she went. jobs were few and far between in the wizarding world, so for those two years she ended up moving back home and taking on a muggle apprenticeship in personal training.

when things really began to heat up, her parents could sense that things were not right. she helped out with lee jordan’s radio getting the news to the resistance, and shielded some fellow muggleborns a couple of times in her family home, giving them a bed to sleep in for a couple of nights and some warm meals to build up their strength – beyond thankful that her parents could see the hunted look in her friend’s eyes and understood what it meant to them.

when the coin called, she went to hogwarts – sneaking away without saying goodbye to her parents and regretting it almost immediately, with no way to take it back. in the quiet moments inbetween fighting she had horrible daydreams of her parents’ faces if someone had to go back and tell them. hogwarts had been a place she’d been able to call home, and now it was ransacked. she fought alongside her friends, and felt the back-breaking, bone-twisting agony as some of them were lost. used some muggle tactics when fighting a couple of death eaters, and enjoyed the surprise on their faces. it felt perverse to say, but she never felt more at home than in those desperate, awful times – being able to face down the threat with direct action and side-by-side with her friends once more, with that intense feeling of community encasing them all.

it was hard to go back to the mundanity and obliviousness of muggle life after that. she moved down to london, popped her parents onto the floo network finally so she could visit more conviniently. attended as many funerals as she physically could – surprised to find that tears were hard to come by. the adrenaline wouldn’t wear off enough to let that happen.

that’s how she got back into the personal training, as she started working out more and more to try and out-run the constant vigilance her brain had latched onto. she enrolled on a muggle personal training course nearby, accidentally spending almost every lesson mentally rearranging the exercises so they’d work for quidditch players, which sparked the idea. ( i reckon she probably pitched the idea to one of her friends who’d been scouted in the leagues, did it for fun & then was encouraged to make a living from it – bolstering business through word-of-mouth ).

but her way of coping is distraction, keeping her mind so occupied she can’t possibly think of how much was lost, which is no way of healing at all.

plot-wise !

the dark mark sends her into a spiral of panic. alicia hasn’t processed the first tragedies, and her mind goes to dark places imagining what could happen now to the little amount of peace she’d managed to gather in the aftermath.

the prophecy worries her, she believes in it. she’s never had much cause to question things in the wizarding world ( she never would have imagined magic existed as a child, so why not prophecies and wrack-nosed snouts and all that stuff ? ) but she has never been very good at riddles and puzzles so regarding that she buries her head in the sand and hopes that the people with the smarts to figure it all out are on it.

despite this, her teeth are on edge and she can feel the fear transforming into something more like resolve. if she can do anything to stop things progressing into what it became before, she’ll do it. always more of a follower than a leader, though, she’s looking for the answers to fall into her lap and so her day-to-day is spent pretending and gathering strength – her dada books have been dusted off, and her pull-up numbers are increasing steadily.

here’s a wanted connections part !

LOTS. OF. FRIENDS. that straight up. dm me if you want to go over details, but you can 100% assume that your character(s) and alicia are friends from a get-go. personal training clients would also be sick! i’m rubbish at doing this formally but YEAH plot with me babie!

more formally:

ALICIA SPINNET ( alisha wainwright ) is looking for their ANGELINA JOHNSON who resembles UTP (must be black) and should be 26/27. applicants do not have to contact VICKY to talk over the details before applying. ( alicia and angelina were certainly close friends but the details of this can be utp: whether they’re close but not super close, were best friends etc. alicia had a bit of a hero worship teenage crush on angelina, but it’s also utp whether this was unrequited or they’re dating or exes or anything ! )

#just noticed the alicia / alisha thing . goddamnit vicky #nox.intro #gimme and alicia sum luv please !

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infpisme · 5 years

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Why Routines Are So Important For INFPs (Even Though We Hate Them)

There’s one word that’s debatably more terrifying to us INFPs than Voldemort and Freddy Krueger combined.

ROUTINE.

But… why?

We’re described as the “children of the Myers-Briggs world” — we’re leaves blowing in the breeze, happy to glide along wherever the wind takes us. Creating (and not to mention, following) a schedule basically goes against just about every core value that we stand for: autonomy, options, freedom.

But what if I told you that it’s not only a good thing for INFPs to have a routine, but that it’s downright necessary?

Wait — not so fast. Before you hit the “X” button, hear me out on this one.

When I graduated with my Master’s degree two years ago, I had a minor mental meltdown, to put it lightly. After having spent over two decades of my life in an extremely structured school environment, I was finally free. The options were endless. I could do whatever I chose, whenever I wanted. Which was great… right?

Nope. Not so great.

My fleeting sense of liberty soon turned to utter cluelessness. Suddenly no one was telling me what to do. No advisors. No schedules. No structure.

Who even was I anymore? I tried my best to swim rather than sink, but let’s just say that the Titanic and I were starting to have more and more in common.

After lots of pondering, countless therapy sessions, and an existential breakdown (or two), I figured out the key reasons why INFPs like me absolutely need routines in their lives.

5 Reasons Why INFPs Need Routine

1. If left to our own devices, we may self-detonate with creative outbursts.

Our vivid imaginations and diverse and quirky interests are the perfect recipe for spending hours on end doing whatever sets our hearts ablaze. INFPs are dreamers who spend a lot of time in our own heads, and don’t all of those half-cooked ideas have to see the light of day at some point?

On especially emotional days, all I want to do is fine-tune my Shakira impersonation (spoiler alert: yodelling is hard) and peruse Reddit all day long. And don’t get me wrong — things like this are cathartic and even necessary for us INFPs. But when I forget when I ate last or what the heck sleep even is anymore, that’s a pretty solid indicator that I’m losing sight of the bigger picture and that my routine could use a major makeover.

2. Many INFPs choose flexible lifestyles, and routines can make all the difference.

When choosing a college major, I immediately nixed any options that would cement me into a rinse-wash-repeat routine. And I’m not alone here — a lot of INFPs avoid monotony like the plague and intentionally choose a flexible work life. Freelancing and working as digital nomads are fairly common for INFPs, since these frameworks are as go-with-the-flow as we are. I’m living proof: I’ve freelanced for the past few years as a Spanish tutor and translator, and my travel bucket list is growing longer by the day.

But is this type of lifestyle truly all margaritas on the beach and answering just the occasional e-mail? With the sweet freedom of being your own boss comes the colossal responsibility of time management and prioritizing, a.k.a. two things INFPs hate. Just because our corporate cats are away doesn’t mean we INFP mice should play all day! A little structure in our routines can make all the difference.

3. Routines can be a form of self-care.

Let’s look at one well-known INFP: Holden Caulfield from The Catcher in the Rye. Yes, he was a teenager in the book, but he illustrates a common theme that many, if not all, INFPs experience during their lifetime: disillusionment with the world around them. I mean, let’s face it — the world can be a lot to take in for anybody.

However, research shows that introverts as a whole run a higher risk for depression compared to extroverts. We INFPs are especially sensitive creatures who hold our values very close to our personal identities, so it’s no wonder that the real world can majorly bum us out from time to time. Building a routine that focuses on sleeping well, exercising regularly, and trying to eat healthy is one of the best things an INFP can do for a daily dose of self-care.

4. Sticking to a routine actually gives us more free time.

When I started getting serious about keeping a stable daily routine, I suddenly realized that I’d wasted a lot of idle time when I didn’t have a schedule. I used to spend half my free time worrying about how I was being so unproductive, thus eating up hours that I could have actually used productively (a self-fulfilling prophecy at its finest!).

When I decided that I needed to clean up my act, I was suddenly getting more freelance projects, spending more time with friends, and finally making progress on the guitar. Also, the first draft of my first fiction novel is well on its way to becoming an actual published book. I know I couldn’t have accomplished half of these little personal triumphs if I hadn’t given myself a bit more structure.

5. Routines make you feel like you’re working a bit more with society instead of fighting against it.

As an INFP, my inner rebellious nature and against-the-grain views can make me feel pretty isolated at times. But going entirely against society by not following any sort of routine was an exhausting uphill battle that was starting to wear me down (big time).

Then it dawned on me: I can still be my eccentric self while also following a routine that fits me. I didn’t have to give up who I was to follow a routine, and life honestly became a lot easier once I found a schedule that worked for me. I like to think of this as INFPs flowing along with the current of life, only they’re wearing their own unique, funky bathing suit for the ride. It’s all a balancing act, and a fun one at that.

Let’s face it: This whole “adulting” thing is hard enough, but it can feel exponentially harder when you’re a spontaneous, daydreaming INFP. We tend to not only fall off the wagon — but get full-on trampled by it — if we have no structure in our lives.

So, what do you have to lose? Try setting a schedule and see if you like it. And don’t fret: You don’t have to follow your routine to a “T” — INFPs are far from being Type A personalities, after all. You want to snooze your alarm three times before getting up? You need to practice your new tai chi moves during your lunch break? Go for it. Establishing a routine isn’t about turning yourself into a cookie-cutter robot — it’s about finding your own unique balance between kooky and productive.

Nothing can take that special, mystical INFP glimmer out of your eye. Not even a routine, I promise.

Source: Darcy Ritt

#darcy ritt #infp #infp personality #infp advice #infp problems #infp things #infp struggles

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imcynfinite · 4 years

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her name is cyn.

This kid. Head always in the clouds. You couldn't keep her grounded. Only liked reality when it stimulated her imagination. Read a lot of books because she liked the trip. Did a lot of unhealthy things for attention. Always compared to her sisters and never getting affection just for herself, there had to be another way to get noticed. So she stole. Glasses from her classmate's desks during reading time on the carpet (sorry, Salita), Sour Power candy from lunchboxes after bake sales, mechanical pencils from the supply shop that she'd tuck into her uniform jumper, books from the library after she read them, pretending she returned them just so she could have their worlds to escape to at home whenever she needed to. She lied a lot, too. A pathological liar. That's what her mother called her when she was caught in the act. She was ALWAYS caught in the act, but couldn't stop doing it. Lying felt good. Even as the lie formed words that she knew wouldn't be convincing enough, she could. Not. Stop. It was here that she first learned she could tell stories, but didn't see her power yet. She used them ill. When she couldn’t drift off, she grew resentful. Loved alone time. Sought after it to escape. Sure, she'd play dolls with her little sister, or watch Saturday morning cartoons and Toonami after school with her older sister. She allowed herself to be herself with her siblings, but only until she was compared to them or didn't have control over the situation. She was never good enough. She couldn't be the pageant queen with stardom in her future like her little sister, and couldn't be the first born who did everything right like her older sister. She didn't understand the pressures they faced holding such titles, but at that age, how could she? At that age, it stung. What could she do right? What title could she hold? She loved her sisters, but couldn't be them. So deep down, she grew resentful. Acted really mean towards them, in ways she couldn't help. Much much later on, she'd spend a day trying to understand why she grew cold with them so many times during her teens and young adulthood, and the resentment will click. It'll all make sense to her, the healing to not blame her sisters for their parents' comparisons will begin, and a newfound friendship and appreciation will bloom. But here? How could she have known? She loved food. Don't know when it started, but once it did, it took off. She ate a lot, because food made her happy. When she was sad and resentful, food was forgiving. Soothing. It didn't judge her in the slightest. She'd ask for more at dinner. Get the extra scoop of ice cream for dessert. Asked the kids during lunch if they were gonna finish that. Sometimes was so hungry, she'd sneak and take a bite or two of her lunch before the bell. She started gaining weight. That cute face growing round, belly poking. But she was fine. A beautiful, chubby kid. The first time she learned something was wrong with her body, though, was seven years old. Frustrated they couldn't find a communion dress that fit, her mother told her it was her fault. "You have to do something about this." A few years later, her father, out of deep frustration and desperate to bring her to shame to incite some motivation, called her an elephant. Her mother tried to take food away from her, but that just made her want it even more. How could something that made her feel good be so bad? The one thing that validated her existence was the enemy? No. Her mother tried, and tried, and tried. But little did she know, it just made the girl cling to it harder. Seek its affection. Crave its nurturing. She had no idea she was growing an addiction. This kid had charm. You see that smile? The softness in her eyes. The brightness in her spirit. She did things her way, because she projected the world as what she saw in her head. People were charmed by it, and she had no idea. Co-workers of her mother took a liking to her every time she came to the parties. One in particular always gifted her with Nancy Drew books, every birthday. Just because. She thought this kid was beautiful and joyous and couldn't help checking in on her or asking her mother how she was. Asking if she finished reading her book, and considering expanding her gifts to include The Hardy Boys. ...People watched this girl. Liked her spunk. Liked the mystery of not knowing what exactly she was, but feeling good being in her presence. This kid had charm, and she had no idea. How could she? If she wasn't being compared to, she was told no one would like her looking like she did, round belly and all. That having bad grades meant you were lazy and stupid, and not that you possibly had issues concentrating. Teachers complained about her staring out of the windows for too long and not doing her homework. Kids bullied her for not being pretty or not liking what they liked. That she kept to herself and was a "trouble maker". No one liked the kids who upset the teachers. Sisters that loved her but couldn't stick up for her. They didn't understand. She didn't have anyone to tell her she was just fine the way she was. Magnificent, even. She grew tired of the loneliness. Her imagination was fun, sure. But reality got realer, and she needed a way to deal. She just had to. So, she transformed. Right into high school, she became a vibrant spirit who cracked jokes to make people laugh. Rebelled against her parents and pretended not getting good grades and being fat was something she wasn't ashamed of. Joined drama club and performed on stages. Cut off her permed hair and rocked a fro. Writing like crazy and showing anyone who cared; growing a fan base in school and online. She didn't know it then, but it was here she was learning her voice had volume, and people wanted her to blast it. She became someone she'd write about in her stories. Even though it was all an act, her best starring role to date, it was enough to help her get by. To survive. It silenced the self-hatred that was beginning to build due to neglect of interrogation, but as time went on and new masks took form, she realized pretending meant neglecting that inner child who just wanted to be herself and liked for it. Who didn't want to be compared. Who didn't want to be frowned upon for not being pretty. Who didn't want to be told they were too much, or too little. Who just wanted to SHOW UP, without pushback. At 29 years old, I've realized how much of myself I've created just to be seen. Over the last five years, something has called on me to undo those masks and to begin living in my truth. As a storyteller who wants to hold up the mirror, I was chosen to perform, and I was then tasked to learn how to leave the costume backstage. Not to make a home out of it. For friends, for lovers, for parents, for society, I have done so much dancing to survive, but that isn't LIVING. That isn't love. It's not care, it's not protection, it's not kindness. For a majority of my childhood, I spent it daydreaming. Wishing reality could look like my wildest dreams. And here I am, facing what truth looks like and realizing that I can bend it. I can find a way to merge my dreams and my reality without disappointing my inner child who'd rather get lost in the clouds and pretend she's riding them. That kid doesn't know how amazing she is. I don't remember everything, but for the things I do, sometimes I'm charmed by her, too. I look in the mirror and don't always recognize that kid, but sometimes when I look off into the distance and my lover asks, "Hey. Where did you go?" or my mother looks at me and just smiles because I'm radiating light she can't deny, I remember. When I write my tweets and people respond with, "You should write a book. The way you write, I'd read anything you make," I remember. When I decide to meditate and my imagination brings me back to a dream I had a while ago, I remember. When I look in the mirror and look past the make-up and the experiences I've lived, I see her. She's so precious, man. She's a kook, lol. She's rambunctious and impulsive and loud and expressive and quiet and dreamy and fluid and hard. She's a whole ass universe. I wish she knew her impact. God, I wish she knew. I do my best to tell her... well, I'm learning to. When she wants to throw a tantrum, I'm learning how to parent her the way she needed. I'm trying to work with her. When she wants me to perform for people to get the attention she wants, I try not to fight her but get her to understand we can't do that anymore. That maybe we don't NEED to do that anymore. That maybe it's time we just be who we wanna be. She doesn't know what that means. I try to explain that it's like her daydreams, except real. She's not convinced. "Dreams are better." She walks away to her corner to embark on a mental journey. It's a constant battle with her. She wins a lot of the time. She's stubborn like that. But every now and again, when something in reality works just like or better than we could have imagined, there's a glimmer in her eye. Hope, I think.

As I learn to navigate adulting, I run into fear, and run away from responsibility. But 2019 taught me that it's high time I stop running, because the freedom I'm meant to have is so rich and the brilliance I harbor is so abundant, they're meant to marry. The mirror I want my stories to reflect to the world require I go through this transformation, and feel it ALL. I've stayed in places I didn't belong, loved people who weren't as good to me as they could, hid from opportunities that could give me wings, all because of who I thought I was. All of the voices from people I loved who, when I think about it now, were simply afraid for me and themselves and just didn't know how to say that. Despite knowing the masks I've put in place to survive and understanding that in 2020, I'm being asked to leave them behind, the fear of shedding skin is real. Because that means people I wanted to stay forever have to go. The stories I repeat to myself have to end. Discernment to trust I will always do my best to give myself what I need must be sharpened. Love, the way I want to experience it, must be given room to walk into and I have to set the example. 2019, my goodness. What an acid trip. A chapter I hated to write, and probably should have embraced more of. It dragged me because I had given up on myself during a period where curiosity could have governed me further. I remember being a kid who loved to be curious. Now, I hide away in fear. Where is that girl? I'm determined to meet her again. Talk to her. Conjure up a master plan. I cannot play small, and the universe has stopped begging. It's sitting back now, watching what I'll do now that it's not up my ass. I turn 30 years old this year, and there's something personal to that. A resonance very warm. Will I meet the beauty of that turning point of my life with arms wide open? Will I grab the opportunity to take that kid's hand and show her something different? Can I stand by her?... This kid's name is Cynthia. She's one of the coolest kids I know. And if no one else can, then I will. I'll stand by her. I'll stand by me.

#blog #journal #black queer writer #writer of color

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itsok2bunstable-blog · 4 years

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This has got to be the worst year of my life. The stress felt like I could be buried in it. Every day the work piled higher and higher, until eventually it felt like Mount Everest was standing on my chest, making it hard to grasp even the smallest breathe of air.

“This just isn’t going to work out anymore”

I woke from my daydream to stare at the all too familiar face in front of me. The storm gray eyes I fell in love with six months ago, when I first laid eyes on the man in front of me, now all they did was make me feel sick. Like I was about to lose the walking tacos I had for lunch right here right now.

“But why?”

All I wanted was an explanation. Sure, lately we have both been so busy with our intense schedules that seeing each other became difficult. Not to mention the undeniable difference that’s been going on between us since he started working with that new girl who transferred into our school a month ago. I could have seen this coming if I paid attention to the obvious signs. That, however, does not mean that this felt any better. In fact, currently my heart felt like it was slowly being pulled out of my chest, so slow that I could feel every tear from an artery, every movement of the clenched fist around my pumping heart, squeezing it so tightly that I just wished it would stop pumping blood through my weak body.

“It’s not you...”

The over used words of every ending relationship rang through my ears like a siren, never ending and only getting louder. The words Jessie said sounded muffled, like he was talking under water. I caught some things, like how he’s been seeing that new girl and falling for her with every time they met. The world around me seemed to spin all except for the boy in front of me, I realized in this moment that he was not a man, but a boy posing as a man.

“Ariel, please don’t put this on yourself. We just didn’t work out, friends?”

From there I only remember bits and pieces, I remember saying okay. I remember walking to my house and briefly waving at the few people I passed by. I somehow manger to keep the building tears at bay until I reached my small apartment. As soon as I unlocked the door, my knees buckled sending me crashing to the floor, the sobs shook my chest as they came out. This is what they call an ugly cry. Soon enough I was coughing with every breathe. All the promises of forever, all the I love you’s, the talks about our future together, all meant absolutely nothing now. All of it was one gigantic lie. It felt like someone placed a fifty-pound weight on my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. Almost being the keyword, I could still manage small gasps of air, just enough to keep me alive. All I could feel as pain, insane pain.

After two hours of nonstop crying I finally settled from an outrageous sob to a soft tear cry, and was able to call my best friend, the only other person that knew about her panic attacks other than the boy she just waisted six months on. Cody rushed over, of course with my most favorite comfort items, including a blue fuzzy blanket from his house, a cheesy chick flick and curly fries from Arby’s with Arby’s sauce. I couldn’t help but close my heavy eyes as he ran his fingers through my thick black hair.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me yet punk, we haven’t even gotten to the overly dramatic breakup”

I let a small chuckle from my lips, there’s a possibility he’s watched way too many of these movies with me. I pluck a fry from the container before submerging it into the sauce and throwing it into my mouth where I relished in the sweet and spicy combination before saying my first words all night.

“Thank you for coming”

My voice sounded so weak and hoarse that I cringed, barely recognizing my own voice. Even after years of this, I still felt so embarrassed allowing anyone to see me this weak.

“Hey, it’s kind of my job considering I am your best friend”

I offered a weak smile in his direction. Our moms were best friends since high school, they somehow managed to get pregnant at the same time. We were raised together, even though he is two days younger than me, since someone just had to take their sweet ole time to come out. We were raised together, family vacations, family dinners, tons of sleepovers, any huge event basically was spent together. Through the years we developed a close knit of friends, his football friends and my lacrosse friends meshed well and once we got to high school it wasn’t just us, parties, hanging out, we were typically always in group of six with our closest friends. Still, we always managed to make time for just us, even if it was just helping my mom make dinner before Friday Family Night. However, when we were 15 my world came crashing around me. My loving mother, who had been fighting leukemia for three years suddenly took a turn for the worst and lost her long battle. At her funeral I had my first ever panic attack, people who I never met were approaching me and telling me how much I looked like her, how sorry they were, that at least I got 1 years to be her daughter and remember the lessons she taught me. It all became too much to handle and before I knew what was happening, I was shaking, feeling ice cold, my world was spinning, and it became so difficult to breathe. Cody, who hadn’t left my side all day immediately picked up on his and carried me outside, where I cried on is shoulder for a solid 45 minutes while he held me and didn’t say a single thing, he just let me cry it out. That was the first of many, very quickly out tradition became Arby’s fries and a movie, sometimes three however many it took to make me feel better.

“Where’s your mind at chicken?”

The nickname I haven’t been able to shake since we were 13 when I refused to jump off a cliff into the local river makes me roll my eyes.

“Well unlike you I’m watching the movie.”

Small white lies to keep him from knowing how often I think of my mom usually work and keep me from having to explain these things, in truth though he knows without asking, it’s like this unspoken truth between us because I know he thinks of her as well. Before I can even register what is happening a pillow is hitting my face. As a child I always ought a pillow fight would be soft and not hurt, because pillows are soft and tender and there’s no way they could hurt. Man was I false, my face stung from the zipper of the cushion hitting my cheek and I’m sure my face insanely turned red after the impact. My moth dropped, forming an O as I mincingly shot the death glare at Cody. I grabbed the closest pillow too me and swung it with all my might in his direction. His eyes widened and he flinched before I even made contact, he held out his hands in the hopes to deflect the object now flying at him. The pillow made contact in the most epic pillow swing ever seen on this planet. As I wound up for hit number two, because let’s face it who ends a pillow fight at just when hit he yelped,

“Mercy! Mercy!”

I couldn’t help but giggle at his big baby eyes, starring up at me begging me to end this pillow torture.

“I hit harder than you youngin”

He narrowed his baby blue eyes at me and wined.

“Only by two days”

This got me to giggle because he sounded exactly like he did when we were eight, that same little voice that cried to mom anytime we got into a fight or he scraped a knee riding his bike.

“Oh, hush up. Look it’s the breakup”

We watched as Savanna broke up with John through a letter after not talking to him in months, we watched as he threw all the letters into a fire pit and his best friend approached him. That’s when we learn that she was engaged to another man and planning on getting married to him.

“Well that was shitty.”

I most definitely agreed but at the same time he chose to reenlist after 9/11 without even really discussing the option with her. I could only imagine how it felt knowing he might never come home, especially after 9/11.

“I mean she definitely could have done it better, but he did reenlist”

As we continued to argue about the Nicolas Sparks movie, I couldn’t help but think about Jessie. Fr the past few weeks anytime I tried to reach out he was always too busy to hang out yet was able to make time for this new girl.

“He was probably with her every time.”

My own voice made me jump as I realize I said this personal inside thought out loud, meaning Cody most definitely heard it. Since Cody got here while I was an absolute mess I wasn’t able to tell him at happened. Once I got calmed down enough, he knows not to ask because nine times out of ten it sets another attack off just thinking about the trigger.

“What?”

I turned so my body was facing him and as the tears slowly fell down my cheeks, leaving wet trails behind their path, I told him the story. With Cody I don’t typically hold anything back, he’s always been my safe space, my go to for rants and I know anything I do say is between me and him.

“I’m going to kill him”

Was his only response after I finished, I gave him a soft smile after wiping the last of my tears away.

“As sweet as the offer is, we both know he would probably pummel you.”

His hard expression turns soft before he sighs and rubs his face with his hand.

“Your right on that, but he deserves something after the pain es caused you. I am not okay with that; you’ve been through enough already. Stuff he knows about, yet he continued to do this.”

Instead of responding to this, I crawl into his lap and burry my face into the nape of his neck as he wrapped his arms around my waist. The best thing about Cody, is he’s been in my life for so long now that this doesn’t feel awkward, the hugs don’t have meaning behind them other then offering a safe place for me in my weak moments. We stayed in this position, with me silently crying his shoulder until the movie ended. When the credit scene rolled, I jumped up from his lap, wiped my tears, and told him I had an idea.

Walking into Jessie and the psychology blonde having sex is not exactly what I was expecting when we got to Jessie’s house. When Cody pulled up and I noticed that the door was wide open, somehow, I didn’t see the beetle parked next to Jessie’s 2004 light blue Mustang. I walked through the kitchen, not hearing a single sound until I reached the living room. Where the blonde was on her knees, with Jessie’s back facing me. My mouth dropped as I witnessed him pull her hair something, he had done to me a million times. Cody touched my arm making me jump in place before awkwardly clearing his throat. The girl screamed and grabbed a t shirt in attempt to cover herself. Jessie however turned around completely unfazed and turned around with a cocky smile.

“Oh hey, you should have called”

My eyes were still focused on the girl desperately trying to cover herself, as if I didn’t just get a full show of everything, she has to offer a few minutes ago.

“I tried. Three times”

My voice comes out so steady and clean it shocks even me.

“Oh sorry, I’ve been a bit occupied”

Jessie scratched the back of is head, trying to seem guilty but enjoying this moment all too much.

“Put some pants on jackass.”

Cody’s voice wakes me from my zone, and I can feel his thumb moving up and down on the small of my back a slight comfort in this crazy moment. Him being here makes all this a bit easier to handle, because I know if it was just me, I would have lost my stuff the minute I walked into this room. I watch as Jessie grabs his shorts from the ground and slides them on effortlessly, as if his is ex-girlfriend of not even a day walking in on him having sex with another girl happens often.

“Come get our shit”

Without another word, I pivot on my heel and walk back through the kitchen and out to Cody’s Nissan Altima. I popped the trunk and start throwing Jessie’s things onto the street. Before I reach the fourth box Cody came from behind me and grabbed my hands. Jessie was behind me desperately trying to gather the things that have fallen out from the boxes.

“Let me do it.”

I sheepishly manage to nod my head and step back as Cody unloads the last two boxes. As this all unfolded Infront of me my mind went completely blank. My head tilted back, and I saw the stars of the night sky. Suddenly the toll that today has taken on me takes full effect and the exhaustion takes over. He didn’t even wait a day; we broke up a total of six hours ago and she was already over here. He same girl he broke up with me for.

“Come on.”

Cody’s touch startles me from my thoughts, and when I look back down from the sky, I realize it’s just me and him alone in the empty street. Cody’s soft hand guides me to the passenger side of the car, where he opens the door and allows me to slide in. My whole body feels numb, every limb of my body feels heavy. My head rolls back onto the seat cushion as Cody starts the car. I can feel my eyelids getting heavier with every blink I take and before I know it, they become too heavy to even open. The last thought that crosses my mind before sleep finally takes over is,

He’s been sleeping with her this whole time.

#heartbreak panicattack bestfriens

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rockhoochie · 6 years

Text

All In

THIS WORK IS FOR PERSONS 18 YEARS AND OLDER.

Pairing: Sam x Reader x Dean (No Wincest)

WC: ~8,000

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit sexual content, explicit language, dom/sub undertones, dom!Sam, sub!Reader, name-calling, unprotected sex (wrap it up, peeps!) dirty filthy smut, and a teensy bit of fluff.

Summary: Y/N has been riding with the Winchesters for months, falling for both Sam and Dean. Among the twinkling lights of Las Vegas, she uncovers a secret they’ve been keeping from her - one that may change all of their lives in a way she could never imagine.

Y/N Submit: Interactive Fics (What is this?)

Author’s Notes: Whew, this escalated quickly! Written for the wonderful @squirrel-moose-winchester ‘s 1K Make it Dirty Gif Challenge. My gif is embedded in the text. This is the first threesome I’ve ever written, so...well, I hope I did okay! I love your comments and reblogs, so if you enjoyed this please let me know! Special thanks to my beta - my husband. And as always, thank YOU so much for reading!

**My work is not to be copied, altered, or shared to other sites without my express written permission**

We’d finally rolled into Vegas in the late afternoon. After three weeks on the Rugaru hunt from hell, all three of us were beyond ready for a break. Thanks to Sam and his newly acquired platinum card, he splurged on a beautiful two-room suite. Compared to our usual accommodations it felt foreign, almost too luxurious and self-indulgent. But hell, if we didn’t deserve it.

Sam and Dean settled into the room with two queen beds, letting me have the king room to myself - along with it’s attached, private bathroom that included a whirlpool tub. The only quid-pro-quo was that I let Dean use it at least once.

After stuffing ourselves at the hotel buffet we each went our separate ways. Sam had tried to talk me into going hiking with him at some nature preserve, while Dean rambled something about Baby needing a new set of rims and wanting someone to blow on his dice. Insisting that neither activity interested me, I told them I was just going to hang out by the hotel pool.

I lied.

I really needed to get away from the two of them for a while, and I needed to be alone.

After shutting the door to my room, I flopped down on the soft, pillow-top mattress with a moan that would rival any porn star’s.

Sam and Dean Winchester crashed into my life nearly a year ago, after rescuing my careless ass from the throes of a witch’s curse. I had been taken miles from my current hideout and my ever faithful but piece of crap car, with nothing but the clothes on my back and about two bucks in my pocket. They took me to the bunker, set me up with some gear and a couple of new credit cards, and let me recover from the powerful spell that had nearly killed me. The night before I’d planned to be on my way, a solid lead on a werewolf pack they’d been tracking came in, and I’d offered to lend them an extra pair of hands.

It turned out that the three of us made an impeccable team, taking out the pack in record time with minimal damage to ourselves. Soon after, case after case seemed to find us, as though the universe didn’t want to allow me to part ways with them. And amidst all the dirt, blood, and fire we left in our wake, a loving friendship grew fast and strong between us.

I felt more at home with them that I ever had anywhere. Unlike the other hunters I'd known, they never underestimated me, knowing I could hold my own but never failing to hold me up when I needed them to. They had faith in my strengths and reinforced my weaknesses, all the while being ever the gentlemen. Weeks flew by, quickly building into months; months that earned me a comfortable place in the Impala’s back seat, my own room at the bunker and an insistent invitation to join them in Vegas.

All served up by two of the most gorgeous hunters ever to salt and burn their way across this earth.

Living and hunting with Sam and Dean had become delectable torture. The two of them unknowingly branded the most indecent, lecherous fantasies into my brain, reigniting a sex drive had been shelved once I’d started hunting. The more time we spent together - on the road, sharing close quarters, in small towns and seedy bars, or engrossed in late night research sessions - the more my imagination went wild. There were mornings - too many mornings - that I struggled to look them in the eye after what I’d done with one or both of them in my dreams.

And it was getting harder and harder to push the thoughts away. Every day I spent with them filled me with more desire than I’d ever felt in my life.

There was Sam, with his hazel eyes that switched their dominant shade to match whatever color flannel he wore, with his sweet smile and gentle laugh, those sharp cheekbones, long fingers, and hard, chiseled body…the several times I’d seen him working out shirtless had me sprinting to my room and my hand sliding straight into my pants.

There was Dean, with his sense of humor, those crinkles that formed on the corners of his forest green eyes any time he grinned with his uncannily perfect lips, freckles that adorably dusted his nose, his bowed legs and firm, broad chest…everything he did, from the way he devoured a bacon cheeseburger to the way his muscles strained when he worked on Baby, left me wet and aching.

God, what I wanted them to do to me...things I never imagined that I would want or find pleasure in. To let my guard down, to be at their mercy and obey any sinful command they issued...a single night of that, and I would die a happy woman. Maybe it was because they made me feel safe. Protected, yet respected. I trusted them with my life - I would trust them implicitly with my body.

But I knew it could never happen, with either of them. On the off chance something ever did transpire with one of them, I knew I’d still be wistfully attracted to the other. I’d long ago given up on trying to decide which man I wanted more, so I let myself get lost envisioning the three of us twisted together. Since nothing would ever come of it, what was the harm in a little X-rated daydreaming? I knew we loved one another, but I had fallen in love with them, and I was sure neither Sam or Dean saw me in the same light. Playful flirting aside, we were just three hunters who couldn’t possibly maintain normal relationships. But that was this life. Saving people, hunting things...it was a lonely business when it came to finding love.

So, I resigned myself into letting out my pent-up frustrations on subpar one-night stands whenever I had the rare chance, which always left me less than satisfied. More often, I settled for burning through batteries and putting myself in danger of developing a nasty case of trigger finger.

Our last hunt had almost killed me. Smack in the middle of Northwest Nowhere, there had only been one motel with one available room. At least there had been two beds, and at least we were comfortable enough to take turns sharing. But the nights either of them was next to me - Dean’s leathery, oaky scent taunting me, his warmth just out of my reach... the way Sam would sleep curled on his side, creating a space that seemed made for me to be nestled in... I had nearly gone insane. One shot of whiskey away from opening my mouth and making a huge mistake.

Which is why I desperately needed to go out tonight. After weeks on the road with the world’s finest embodiments of walking sex, I needed to get laid.

No, I needed to get fucked. Hard.

Hopefully somewhere in the swarm of Las Vegas inhabitants and tourists I could find a decent guy to sate me for a while. Someone tall and built, someone kind and funny and smart. A girl can dream, right?

Before parting ways, the three of us had planned to meet back up in the room, grab a late dinner at a restaurant with actual linen tablecloths, then head out to a club. Neither Sam or Dean had seemed too keen on the club idea, but instantly changed their tune after I suggested just going out on my own. I knew it was involuntary, protective instinct on their part - and honestly, it kind of turned me on - but hopefully after a few drinks, they’d each find themselves a distraction and leave me to my own devices.

Rolling off the bed, I called the front desk and had them send up a bottle of merlot. There had been a time, years ago, when all I would drink was wine. I could barely remember the last time I had it, since whiskey in all its forms is a vital part of a hunter’s toolkit. Fresh out of Bactine for the gash that Wraith gave you? Pour some Johnny Walker on it. Need to anesthetize yourself to dig a bullet out of your flesh? Nothing does it quite like six shots of Jack Daniels. Need to calm yourself after seeing a Winchester walk out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel? Jim Beam to the rescue.

‘Hunter’s Helper’ indeed.

A knock on the door signaled my alcohol delivery. The room service attendant, a pretty Indonesian woman about my age and height, greeted me with my bottle, two glasses, and a smile. I let her in to open the wine and pour it into the delicate glasses, filling them halfway while we exchanged pleasantries. Once she left, I unceremoniously dumped one into the other, grabbed the bottle, and sipped on my nearly overflowing glass as I made my way into the bathroom.

Placing my drink on the vanity, I sat on the side of the tub and turned on the faucet, adjusting the temperature and letting the water flow over my fingers for a moment. Then I stripped out of my road-worn clothes, tossing them in a pile in the corner. Glass in hand, I stood and sipped, naked, waiting for the bath to fill. The wine was already sending a pleasant flush through me as I watched the steam rise. Jesus, how long had it been since I had a bath and not a shower? Maybe Dean could figure out how to put a tub in the shower room at the bunker...

That one little thought shot straight to my core, and now all I could picture was him, his brother and I in a slick, bubbly bath together...hot and wet, Sam’s lips trailing along my neck, his hand cupping and teasing one breast while Dean's mouth attended to the other, his fingers on a slow but steady course to reach between my legs…

Fuck.

I gulped down the rest of my merlot, poured myself a refill, and shut the faucet off. Setting the jet timer to 20 minutes, I slid into the tub, placing my glass on the ledge with a heavy sigh. Apparently even getting away from them was useless. For a brief moment, I considered letting the pulsing water beat against something other than my stiff muscles.

Instead, I decided to stave it off, in hopes of actual human contact. If I did manage to find a decent guy tonight, I almost pitied him - I was so worked up and tense, craving the weight of a body on me so badly that it would probably be over in ten minutes.

I let myself relax, forcing the thoughts of being wedged between two slippery Winchesters out by mentally reciting random incantations and spells for practice as I finished my wine.

The timer seemed to click off much too quickly, bringing the swirling bathwater to a stop. But between the heat and the wine, I was flushed red hot and a little lightheaded. I pulled myself out of the tub slowly, wrapping one of the plush towels around me and headed back to my bed. I turned the air conditioning up higher, letting the frigid breeze dry up the sweat that rolled down my cheeks.

Drowsiness dug its claws into me, drawing out a heavy yawn as I dug through my bag. I’d get dressed up later - for now, my ‘hoping-to-get-some-tonight’ underwear was all I needed. It was my one set of anything remotely resembling lingerie I had - after all, no need to be sexy while dripping in Ghoul goo or decapitating vampires. It was simple, a lacy, white cotton bra with thin black straps that sported a little black bow between the cups, and matching cheeky panties with a twin ribbon at the top. Unpretentious and not at all racy, but as I put them on I found myself feeling a little sexy for a change, unable to help myself from wondering if Sam and Dean would approve.

God, I needed sleep.

Eyeing the soft, complimentary bathrobe hanging in my closet, I wrapped it around me, then flung myself back on the bed. The clock on the nightstand read 5:02pm. I had a few hours before they’d get back and slipping into unconsciousness seemed like the best way to shut my brain off. Wrapping my arms around a spare pillow, I burrowed my face in it, breathing in the faint scent of lavender. This hotel was spoiling me. Within minutes, I was fast asleep.

I woke to the murmur of Sam’s and Dean’s voices outside my bedroom door. A little groggy from the wine and nap, I peered at the clock. Shit, it was after eight already. Why didn’t they wake me up? Maybe they tried and I was so out they didn’t want to bother me? After a full body stretch, I swung my legs over the bed and shuffled to the door. I could hear that they were in the middle of what seemed to be a lively conversation, and when I heard my name, I slowed my stride. Curiosity got the best of me, so I leaned close to the door and eavesdropped.

“...going out to a club with her, I don’t know.”

“What’s the big deal? Look, we can't hold her back from living her own life.”

“I don’t think I can stomach watching all these Vegas douchebags hit on her. The dicks she picks up - none of ‘em are good enough for her.”

Holy shit, they don’t think I’m here.

“She has to watch you hit on girls all the time, Dean. Bartenders...waitresses...Gas n’ Sip clerks...morticians...librari-”

“Not lately she hasn’t! I can hardly even look at other women anymore. And none of the guys she gets gives her what she wants. I hear ‘em leaving her room after two hours...or less.”

“How do you know what she wants? Has she actually told you her sexual fantasies?”

“Not exactly...kinda borrowed her laptop one night, after she went to bed. She forgot to close a couple of tabs and…”

“And?”

Oh god, no... please not…

“Chick gettin' spanked, tied up a little bit...callin’ the guy ‘Sir’, begging him to get her off with a -”

“Okay, okay, got it. Look, just because she likes watching it doesn't necessarily mean she likes to actually do that stuff.”

Too bad that Rugaru didn’t get me, because I am going to die from embarrassment anyway.

“Right. That's why you watch the same shit, because you only like to see it, not do it. Maybe she watches it because she wants to try it.”

“What else was she watching?”

“Two guys...one girl...”

“Really? Huh...”

Shit. Shit, shit shit. I’m going to have to move out. I can never look at these two again.

“I mean, a woman like Y/N... she needs to be treated right.”

“All right. What would you have to offer her that any other guy wouldn't?”

“How about the best night of her goddamn life?”

What?

“Wow, you’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself.”

“Well, ever see a girl leave my room after an hour? Or yours for that matter? Doubt that she can act out her fantasies with random townies. Better to try that stuff out with someone you trust.”

“And I suppose you think you’d be the perfect guy for her.”

“Either one of us would be. Ah come on, Sammy, you love her as much as I do, I know you still think about it. Y/N’s a fuckin’ knockout.”

“Of course I love her, but we work with her. Hey, we’ve talked about this, it’s better for all of us to just to let it go. So no, I haven’t even thought about -”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“‘Excuse me?”

“You still moan her name in your sleep!”

“Well at least I’m doing it unconsciously!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m sorry, has she been showering with you lately, or is your hand’s name ‘Y/N’? You’d better keep it down or we might lose her.”

Oh my god. Am I really hearing this? Sam and Dean think about me this way? Want me? Love me?

“What can I say? She's smokin’ hot, sassy, smart as hell and a damn good hunter. All I know is I’m not sure what I wouldn't give for just one night with her. And I know you’re still thinking the same thing. “

“You don't know what I'm thinking”.

“Come on, man. You're thinking about wrapping that tie you're wearing around her wrists and smacking her beautiful, perfect ass while I'm busy licking every inch of her body.”

“Dude!”

“Jesus, sleeping next to her in that shitty motel...I almost said something, Sammy. You know, maybe we should just lay it all out, let her know how we feel.”

This is a joke. They know I’m here and they’re playing an evil practical joke on me and I’m going to kick both their asses six ways from Sunday...

“Dean, this...this is so not normal.”

“Name one damn thing about our life that is! We don’t get normal - never will. Plus, we’ve shared before...that chick in Dayton, that stripper in St. Louis -”

I’m dreaming. I’m still in that bed, drunk from half a bottle of wine and I’m dreaming.

“Yeah, but that was just...sex. This is Y/N.”

“Exactly. She needs us, and dammit Sam... we need her, and you know it. I say we go all in.”

“I don’t know...do you really think she’d be okay with it? I mean, what if she freaks out and runs, thinks she’s been living with a couple of psychopaths?”

“We are psychopaths...this line of work... And at least we’d know. I can’t hold out much longer, man. One of these days I’m gonna open my dumb mouth and it’s just gonna come out.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“You should ask her.”

“Me? Why me? You’re the one with the god-awful pickup lines that surprisingly seem to work.”

”I just think she’d rather hear it from you.”

“I can’t just ask her flat out, ‘hey, wanna have a threesome’!”

“Well...one of us needs to do it or it ain’t ever gonna happen... Come on.”

“Dean, you can’t be serious...”

“As a heart attack. Let’s go, two outta three.”

“Fine.”

Sam and Dean Winchester were in love with me.

Sam and Dean Winchester were playing Rock-Paper-Scissors to decide who was going to ask if they could both fuck me.

I’d heard enough.

“You know I can hear you both,” I shouted through the door.

Then I pushed it open.

There they were, both sitting on the sofa in their Fed suits, hands readied for their next round of roshambo. Sam swept his head in my direction, eyebrows raising in surprise as Dean quickly came to the realization that they were both busted.

Sam cleared his throat loudly and stood up. “Hey, Y/N… we were just...we thought you were still down by the pool and... we, uh...you still need some time to get dressed?” He was beet red, nervously running a hand through his chestnut hair.

My lips curved in a smile. “Unless I didn’t hear the two of you correctly, I don’t need to bother.”

Dean leaned back against the couch. “Y/N/N... exactly how much did you hear?”

Sam sat back down as I walked slowly toward them. Apprehension kept me from confessing everything that I’d heard them say. It felt too good to be true and I didn’t trust it yet.

“Let’s see...something about a threesome and the best night of my life?”

For all the talking they had been doing just moments before, they seemed to be at a loss for words. I folded my arms across my chest.

“Well?” I quipped playfully.

“Y/N, we’re so sorry,” Sam stammered. “We just...we didn’t think you were here and we were…it’s not...shit...” He bent his head forward, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Guys, I’m not mad. Not one bit.”

Dean grinned like a Cheshire cat as Sam looked back up at me with surprise.

“Really?”

I could feel myself blush as I nodded my head ‘yes’, fiddling with the tie on my robe. “So, what’s happens now?”

They both glanced at each other, speaking in that silent way that was always indiscernible to me but crystalline clear between them.

Dean patted the empty space on the cushion between him and his brother. “Why don’t you have a seat, sweetheart?”

I settled between them, my pulse pounding, straining to keep my composure and not throw myself at both of them right then and there.

Dean brushed a finger across my temple, pushing away a few strands of my hair. “So you’d really be okay with this? This is something you’d want?”

I turned to Sam, resting my hand on his knee. “It’s something I’ve wanted for a long time.”

His hand covered mine and gently squeezed. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“No. But you two have?”

“A few times.”

Dean was running his hand up and down my arm, keeping uncharacteristically quiet.

“How about the things you like to watch?” Sam continued. “Being...dominated a little? Is that what you really like?”

Plush lips ghosted against my ear as the hand stroking my arm moved to my leg, still over the fabric of my bathrobe, gently massaging from my knee to the middle of my thigh.

“The thought of it, watching it... I wouldn’t mind trying it for myself. Do you like to do it?”

“To a point. But we don’t have to do that tonight- we can just keep it vanilla if-”

“Oh hell no, Winchester,” I winked, melting into Dean’s touch, “I’m all in.”

Sam grinned. “Okay. We’ll start slow. But at any time, any time at all, if you don’t like something, just say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ and we’ll move on. Is that okay?”

My eyes were fluttering shut as Dean’s caress became stronger, my head reeling at the thought of what was coming.

“Y/N, did you hear me?” Sam asked softly.

“Yeah, I heard. I say no, you stop.”

“One other thing. Dean and I, we kind of have...an arrangement when we do this. We’ll both be in this, but...well, I call the shots.”

I looked into Sam’s eyes and was met with an intensity I’d never seen before - not on a hunt, not after a kill, not from a win...it was unadulterated, predatory lust.

“Meaning?”

A wicked grin stretched across his lips. “Dean,” he said, “stop touching her.”

Immediately, Dean lifted his hand and pulled himself away.

Sam cupped my face in his hands, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “It means, Y/N, that I’m in charge and you both do what I say when I say it. Dean gets leeway, but not you. Do you understand?”

I could feel myself trembling, excitement and arousal and the thrill of exploring uncharted territory with the two men I loved coursing through every cell in my body. All I could manage was a nod.

Sam tutted with disapproval, tipping my chin upwards. “Rule one, Y/N/N, I ask you a question, you answer with your words.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes Sam, I understand.”

“Rule two, you don’t get to call me Sam. You call me Sir, Daddy, or Master. Your choice. And that,” he said pointing to his brother, “is Dean. Only ‘Dean’. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he hummed, burying his nose in my hair, his lips ghosting along my neck. “And besides Y/N, what should we call you?”

“I liked you calling me a good girl.”

“Okay. Is there anything else you’d like to be called?”

“Whatever you and Dean want to call me, Sir.”

“Are you sure?” Sam took my face in his hands, leaning in, barely brushing his lips against mine. His massive hand slid up the back of my neck, gripping a fistful of hair but not pulling, the buzz of his low, seductive voice vibrating against my lips. “We’ll call you a good girl, Y/N, but what if we call you a naughty little whore? What happens if I call you my slut or Dean calls you his fucktoy? Would that be okay, princess?”

“Yes Sir, all of it,” I breathed, waiting for Sam’s mouth to fully claim mine, ready for the deep, probing kiss I had only been able to dream about until now.

“All right then,” he said, pulling away. “Now how about you stand up for us?”

Biting back a huff of disappointment I complied, lifting myself off the couch. Both brothers were smirking, Sam with one foot propped up on his knee, fingers steepled against his lips. Dean leaned back and loosened his tie, legs open, displaying the impressive bulge between them.

“Dean, where should we start with her?”

“I think she should take off that robe and let us see what we’ve been missing all this time.”

“Take it off, Y/N.”

I tugged at the already loose knot, gasping as the robe opened and the cool air of the room hit my bare skin. I shrugged it completely off, letting it fall to the floor.

“Damn, sweetheart,” Dean rasped.

“Very nice Y/N. Now turn around. Let us have a good look at you.

Pivoting, I turned my back to them, craning my neck over my shoulder to see their reactions.

“You were right, Dean. She does have a perfect ass. I can’t wait until she misbehaves and I get to spank it.”

I couldn’t help the whimper that escaped my lips as wondered how the hell I was still standing.

“Christ baby girl, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Y/N,” Sam said, “Thank Dean for the nice compliment.”

“Thank you, Dean,” I purred. “And thank you, Sir.”

“Behaving so well already. Turn back around.”

I turned again to directly meet their stares. Sam leaned back, and I could see his prominent erection twitching under the fabric of his pants. Dean already had his hand on his, dragging his palm against himself.

“Y/N, I want you to sit next to Dean.”

Dean’s arm wrapped around my shoulders as I sat as close to him as possible, placing my hand on his thigh. His hand floated from between his legs to my lace-shielded breasts, his lips attaching to my neck as he kneaded and teased each one. My head fell back with a moan when his hand traveled downwards, my hips rocking back and forth in anticipation of being touched where I needed it the most.

“Hmm, someone’s eager,” he mumbled against my neck.

“Dean, please…Sir, can Dean touch me?”

“He is touching you, princess.”

“Need more,” I whimpered as Dean’s finger trailed just under the waistline of my panties.

“She does,” Dean husked, placing his warm hand against the fabric of my covered sex. “Can already feel how wet she is for us.” My body jerked with a gasp as he pressed against the wetness that was beginning to seep through my underwear.

Sam shifted his position, giving himself a better angle to watch his brother tease me. “All right. Go ahead.”

Dean finally slipped his calloused hand under my panties, dragging his finger just along my slit.

“Christ, she’s fucking soaked.” He sunk into my entrance, pumping a few times before tracing my folds and circling my clit. I gripped his knee hard, letting out a moan.

“I want to see it,” Sam ordered, rising from the couch and seating himself on the cocktail table directly in front of Dean and me. “Get those panties off of her and give them to me. Then Y/N, spread those legs nice and wide so I can watch Dean play with you.”

I raised my hips as Dean pulled my underwear off of me, sliding them over my feet and tossing them to his brother. Sam caught them, feeling the damp material between his fingers as Dean slipped and crooked two fingers inside me, the heel of his hand pressing against my clit, my hips rocking hard against his hand. A sudden rush of heat coursed through me, quickly igniting into a whirling blaze.

“Wow Y/N, you are excited,” Sam marveled, raising my panties to his face and taking a deep breath. “And you smell absolutely amazing...we’ll definitely have to get a taste. How does she feel?

“Fuckin’ perfect. So warm and wet...nice and tight...this sweet little pussy’s gonna take our cocks so good…”

The way they were using me and the things they were saying, the audible heaviness of Sam's breathing and Dean's touch, and the simple fact that this was actually happening crashed over me like a rogue wave.

“Dean, fuck!” I yelped, my orgasm surging through me without warning, my walls pulsing around Dean’s fingers as I slammed against his hand harder.

He worked me through it, his head nuzzled against my neck until I relaxed, closing my eyes as I caught my breath.

“Uh oh,” he chuckled.

I let my eyes flutter open to see Sam's boring into mine, his lips pursed and jaw set firm, fingers tapping against the tabletop.

“Needy little whore, coming so fast...I'll let it go just this once, since you didn't give me time to tell you the last rule.” Sam leaned forward, cupping my chin in his hand. “You tell us if you're about to come, and you ask for permission to come. You do not come unless I say you can. Even if it's Dean's fingers, tongue or cock inside you, you ask me. Is that clear?”

“Y-yes, Sir. I’m sorry Sir.”

“Don’t let it happen again. Now give him a kiss and thank him for getting you off.”

Dean reached for me and pulled me into his lap so I was straddling him. He didn’t give me time to open my mouth for anything other than the bruising kiss he delivered. Finally, finally feeling his tongue slide against mine was glorious - from the way he tasted to the way he cradled my head in his hand, how the other splayed against the small of my back, pressing me closer into him. I all but disappeared into the kiss, coherent thought an impossibility, grinding against his hard, covered cock. Dean released my lips and kissed down my jawline, under my chin, making his way to my collarbone. Flushed and panting, I tilted my head back to give his soft, perfect lips better access.

I was snapped back into reality when I felt a hot, hard smack on my ass. Then both of Sam’s large hands curled over my shoulders.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he rumbled.

“Thank you, Dean,” I uttered, unable to stop myself from sliding along his hard length. “Thank you for making me come.”

Dean flashed a wolfish smile. “There’s our good girl. Did you like it, sweetheart? Me making you come while Sam watched?”

Sparks of arousal were igniting through me as I continued to rock against him. “Yes, Dean.”

He replied with a grunt, jerking his hips upwards, watching my bare pussy drag against him. “Feel how fucking hard I am for you, Y/N? Oh, just wait till I get this inside you...”

“Enough,” Sam said. “We’re moving this to your room. Dean, get that bra off of her first.”

His thick fingers made quick work of unhooking the clasps and removing the white cotton from my body. In a flash, I was lifted off the couch, saddled in Dean’s arms as he followed his brother to my room. Sam stood on one side of the bed, shrugging off his suit jacket and unraveling his tie. Dean stood with me opposite him, shooting his brother a look.

“Middle of the bed,” Sam directed.

Dean set me down gently, making sure my head was propped up on the pillows before getting to work on removing his own coat and tie. Sam was unbuttoning his shirt, strolling over to the foot of the bed while his eyes raked over my naked body.

“Knees up, legs open, Y/N,” Sam commanded, completely removing his shirt. “My turn to play with that pretty pussy.”

Despite how weak they felt, I managed to lift my knees. Keeping my feet flat against the mattress, I widened the space between them as much as I could.

Anyone outside looking in may have thought I was being demeaned, objectified, employed as nothing but a sexual plaything for two men to take advantage of. But I knew it meant I truly held the authority. By doing everything they wanted, they gave me everything I needed. I wasn’t being degraded, I was being worshipped.

And I loved every single, sinful second of it.

A shaky sigh floated from my throat as I watched a shirtless Sam Winchester begin to unfasten his belt. Even the slight flex of his muscles as he made his minimal movements set my every nerve ending afire. I kneaded one of my breasts, pinching my nipple as he pulled his belt off, feeling a flood of wetness gather in my core.

Sam shook his head, folding his belt in half, the buckle clinking. “Y/N, there's no need to touch yourself. That's what we're here for, isn't it Dean?”

“Got that right,” Dean muttered, sliding next to me. He was already undressed, his thick hard cock pressing against my hip.

Sam tapped the length of leather against his palm. “Unless you're an impatient little slut who can't get enough from the two of us?”

I let my hand fall to the side, brushing right against Dean’s erection. “No, Sir.”

“There’s our girl,” Dean murmured, replacing my hand with his, rolling the stiff, pink peak of my nipple between his thumb and finger. “We’ve got you.”

His words were muffled as he took my neglected breast into his mouth, every stroke of his tongue and little nip from his teeth pumping jolts of electricity through every vein in my body. He rocked against me, the warm precome dripping from his cock slicking my skin. I took hold of him, feeling him pulse in my hand as I stroked him slowly, drawing out quiet growls that vibrated against my breast.

The bed sank as Sam crawled on, kneeling, each of his hands running over my thighs. I let out a groan as I felt my own wetness trickle between my legs.

“Just came not five minutes ago and she’s dripping wet already,” Sam hummed. “I think we have our work cut out for us, Dean.” My grip on Dean’s cock tightened as Sam licked, kissed and nipped at the skin of my inner thighs, deliberately avoiding my aching, sodden core. I writhed against the mattress, my clit throbbing, begging for attention as small, desperate sounds tumbled from my lips.

I nearly screamed when Sam finally dipped his tongue inside of me, lapping up my juices at a maddeningly slow pace. The fingers of my free hand laced through his long hair, gripping the back of his head and pushing him against me.

“Oh, fuck, Sam, yes!” I shouted, not giving a shit if the entire hotel heard me.

Sam firmly wrapped his long fingers around my wrist and pulled away.

Dean released my breast from his mouth and turned my face toward his. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N…” he chided, low and wickedly. “You were being so good, why’d you gotta go and misbehave?”

“Dean, move. Now.” Sam commanded. This time he grasped broth of my wrists, sliding up my body until his nose was touching mine. “What did I tell you, princess? What did I say you call me?”

“Sir. I’m sorry Sir, please…” I whined, nearly languishing from the loss of Dean’s skin against mine, my body wound so tight and desperate for release that it was nearly painful. “Need you both so fucking bad…”

I was flipped over onto my stomach so fast the room spun. Sam delivered a firm slap to each cheek of my ass, the sting making my insides quiver as I let out a wanton wail.

“Do you like this, Y/N?” Sam growled, “because this is what happens to bad, greedy little whores when they forget the rules.”

“Yes, Sir...yes…” I mewled. Two more smacks and I bit my lip hard, afraid I might come any second.

“I don’t think you can control yourself. Your sweet little ass loves to be spanked, so you’ll probably keep misbehaving on purpose. Maybe tying those hands up will help you remember to be our good girl?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Dean?”

“Got it.” Dean was grinning as he clutched one of their discarded ties. “Hands above your head, sweetheart. Better do it quick, Sammy’s got an itchy palm tonight - and he’s being gentle.”

He wrapped the sleek, cool silk around my wrists as Sam gently rubbed over my flesh that burned with the sweet bite of his strikes. Dean finished binding me with a durable knot, then grasped my shoulders right as Sam gripped my waist, both of them manhandling me into their desired position. I was laying across the bed now, Sam at my feet and Dean looming above me.

“Turn over, Y/N,” Sam ordered. I obeyed enthusiastically, rolling my body and instinctively spreading my legs. “She looks adorable like this, doesn’t she?”

“Good enough to eat,” Dean smirked, curling his thick tongue over his bottom lip.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance. I’m not done with her yet.”

Dean leaned over me, looping my arms over his head and brushing his upside-down lips against mine. “Such a fucking good girl for us,” he muttered, his voice deep and sabulous. He cupped both breasts in his hands, keeping his mouth a breath away from mine, breathing in my moans and sighs as Sam’s tongue licked a solid line from my entrance and flitted against my clit.

“Christ, you taste amazing, Y/N,” Sam praised. “So fucking sweet…” His lips latched on to my clit as he easily slid two of his thick yet agile fingers inside my cunt, prodding and exploring the deepest parts of me until my entire body jolted in pleasure.

“Oh fuck yes,” I groaned, fire beginning to churn in my abdomen from the vibration of Sam’s satisfied moans against my folds, from every brush of his fingers against my g-spot.

“Sammy find your sweet spot, baby girl?” Dean asked, tugging each of my nipples. “How’s it feel?”

“God, feels so fucking good...”

“You like how my brother plays with you? Bosses you around like a little fucktoy?”

“Love it, Dean…”

The tension was gathering too quickly, raw bliss surging through me, my legs beginning to tremble.

“Do you have any idea how long we’ve wanted this, Y/N? Wanted to kiss you, touch you, take care of you the way you should be?”

The waves of my climax were swelling, threatening to crest at the next word Dean uttered or the next flick of Sam’s tongue.

“Need to come...Sir, can I come for you?”

The warmth of Sam’s mouth left me as his movements slowed to just short of a stop.

“Look who’s being such a good girl now,” he grinned, his lips and chin glazed with my juices.

“Please, Sir…” I begged, knowing I sounded strung-out and pathetic, my body tensing with every ounce of self-control I had left.

“What do you think, Dean? Should we let her?”

“Fuck yeah, wanna see her pretty legs shaking, see her face this time when she comes…”

“And I want her to lose it with her mouth full...”

Dean stood up, tapping the tip of his cock against my lips, my tongue involuntarily snaking out to lick at the salty precome that dribbled out of his slit.

Sam’s fingers began to pick up momentum. “Since you won’t be able to talk, I’ll tell you now - you can come when you need to. You have my permission.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Dean traced the tip of his finger along my jawline. “Go ahead and take it, sweetheart.”

He was like velvet-wrapped iron, smooth and heavy against my tongue, stretching my lips with his girth. With my hands still tied, all he could do was fuck my mouth, sliding in until he hit the back of my throat. I let my tongue swirl around him as he pumped in and out, constantly moaning at the taste and feel and scent of him while Sam worked between my legs.

Dean held my head as he guided me along his cock, rewarding me with praises whenever I took him deep.

“Fuck Y/N you’re a pro at this...if your pussy’s even half as good as your mouth…”

Sam slid in a third finger, beginning a steady, salacious attack on my g-spot. Almost instantly, I felt my walls tightening, the weight of an intense pressure threatening to shatter me from the inside out.

“Dean, she’s close. Play with her clit for me. Y/N, you keep his dick in your mouth like a good little whore.”

I screamed around Dean’s cock as the pad of his fingers pressed and circled my clit, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes as a euphoria I’d never known overtook me.

Somewhere underneath Dean’s heavy breaths and the sound of his brother’s fingers slamming into my sodden cunt I heard Sam’s insistent coaxes.

“That’s our good girl...come on, Y/N, that’s it...let it go…”

Sobbing around Dean I exploded, feeling my slick splash against Sam’s hand, soaking my thighs and the sheets beneath me. Dean pulled out of my mouth with a harsh grunt, leaving my lips free to weave a litany of incoherent curses as I rode out my high. Sam kept working, drawing out my orgasm so long it felt like it was never going to stop. He slowed his movements as I finally drifted down, sliding his fingers out of me and into his mouth.

“Dean, come clean her up. She’s fucking delicious,” he beamed, laying down next to me and pulling me into a fervent kiss; it was thorough and passionate, all-consuming, brimming with purpose. I could taste myself, mingling with cinnamon-laced flavor of his tongue.

“Thank you, Sir,” I whispered between kisses, still shuddering with aftershocks, tingles crawling up my spine from the feel of Dean’s mouth lapping up the remnants of the best orgasm of my life. My eyes fell shut as I basked in Sam’s warmth radiating beside me and the tickle of his brother’s stubble brushing against my inner thighs.

“No sleeping, Y/N,” Sam murmured against my ear. “We’re not done yet.”

Dean hooked his arms under my thighs and plunged his tongue deep inside with a hungry moan.

“Not sleeping, Sir…” I panted, my breaths becoming quicker. “I...I... oh, fuck…” Dean was sending me on a direct trajectory towards another orgasm I didn’t think I could physically handle.

“What do you want, Y/N? Tell us.”

“Want Dean to fuck me, Sir. Want his cock in my pussy and yours in my mouth.”

“I think that can be arranged,” he hummed, tracing my ear with the tip of his nose. “Would you like me to untie your hands now?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sam rose to his feet, nimble fingers loosening the knot around my wrist.

“I still expect you to behave…”

“I will, Sir, I promise.”

“Good girl. Dean? Wanna give her what she needs?”

Dean kissed his way over my mound, up my stomach and sternum, landing on my lips for only a quick second. He knelt between my legs, grasping himself in his hand and rubbing the head of his cock teasingly between my folds.

“You want this, baby girl?” he taunted, pressing the tip right against my entrance.

“Yes, Dean. God yes, please...need you inside me…”

“Need you too, Y/N,” he sighed, steadying himself as he pushed into me inch by inch, my walls stretching and pulsing as I took him all the way in. He hissed in pleasure once he was buried to the hilt and began to move, dragging almost all the way out before sliding back in again.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart... feel so goddamn good...”

Sam was on his knees next to me, pumping himself, ready to feed me his perfect cock.

“Sir, please let me taste you,” I said, wrapping my fingers around him and guiding him into my mouth. He was as thick and long and luscious as his brother and I greedily took in everything he had.

“Oh my god, Y/N... shit yes…” he moaned as I swallowed around him, flicking and sliding my tongue. Dean grabbed my leg and raised it against his chest, affording a new angle that allowed him to nail my sweet spot with every thrust.

“Fuck...still so tight and wet…” he grunted, his thrusts gaining momentum and force. “Not gonna last long.”

“Hear that, Y/N? Want Dean to fill you up and come inside that beautiful pussy?”

I released him from my mouth, still stroking him in my hand, my breaths coming quick and hard. “Yes, Sir...Dean, please, yes…” A cry escaped my lips as Dean’s thumb found my clit again, making my insides quake, another climax taking hold of me. “N-n-need to come again...Can I come, Sir?”

“You love all of this dick in you, don’t you?” Sam sneered. “Go ahead, little cockslut, but you let him come first. And then, I’m going come in this pretty mouth of yours and you’re going to swallow every drop. Understood?”

Sam didn’t give me time to answer as he pushed past my lips again, his rhythm as fierce and insistent as Dean’s had become.

“Fuck, Y/N…” Dean growled. “Gonna come...gonna fucking come…”

Dean spilled into me with a shout, the wet, thick warmth triggering my own release, the vibration of my muffled scream pushing Sam to his own end. He grabbed my head in hands as he let out a carnal roar, hot spurts of his come filling my mouth. Dean collapsed on top of me, his brother following suit but landing by my side as soon as I drank down everything he’d given me.

Dean rolled off and settled on my other side, the three of us in a sweaty, sticky tangle of weakened limbs and rapid breaths. Eventually, Sam hauled himself up and walked to the bathroom. I turned my head toward Dean, kissing him softly as we simply stared at one another, lost in the moment, the corners of our mouths curving in sleepy, gentle smiles while we traced nonsense patterns over each other’s skin.

Sam emerged with two warm washcloths, handing one to his brother. Then he kissed me tenderly, while both brothers cleaned me and themselves up as best they could. His sweet, gentle demeanor was back, his eyes now full of what I could only dare to call love.

“Did you...was that okay, Y/N?” he asked.

I giggled, lacing my fingers through his and Dean’s hands, “It was more than okay. It was fucking mind-blowing.”

Sam let out what seemed like a breath of relief, pulling me against his chest. I nestled into that curve I knew I’d fit so well in, while Dean pressed into my front. “Glad we could deliver, sweetheart.”

“Hey guys, listen... I hate to go all chick-flick on you, but -”

“You’re wondering what happens now,” Sam offered, reading my mind. “If this was just a onetime thing.”

I nodded, slightly afraid of the response I was going to get.

“Y/N,” Dean started, “When I said you had no idea how long me and Sam wanted this...I wasn’t lying. We’ve both been in love with you since the day we saved your sexy ass.”

“This life is hard,” Sam added. “It’s dangerous and bloody and we never know if the day we wake up is going to be our last. We never thought you’d go for it, but maybe it could work...I mean if you feel the same…we’d love it if you were ours.”

“Well, son of a bitch,” I laughed.

“What?” both brothers asked in unison.

“My first time to Vegas and I hit the fucking jackpot.”

~Fin

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