#luke is a little slower but he’s thorough

[maschotch]

for the opinion thing, if i ever hear someone say "reid carries the team" i automatically don't trust them. but if i hear "reid and garcia carry the team" then i automatically do trust them. like something about the vibes is so different. even as a reidgirl, genuinely do not trust anyone who thinks reid was the only important member of the team.

AKDHSLHD people really say that??

tbh the only indispensable person is garcia. they literally would not be able to function without her breaking privacy laws left and right lmao

i dont even think reid is the best profiler? if it was just one char and garcia for each case, this is the order i think would succeed the fastest: hotch -> morgan -> gideon -> emily -> walker -> tara -> elle -> matt -> luke -> reid -> blake -> rossi -> kate -> jj

not to say he isnt useful. but he’s not the most well rounded. he’s a specialist, like blake, and he’s lacking in some areas. akdhsk maybe a bit too harsh, but he could be replaced by google pretty easily. im

[merihn]

rukebox + a kiss that isn't meant to happen but it does anyway 💕

I am fully aware of how ridiculous this is 🙈 I blame @nuandia for giving me the idea.

*

“-I mean ok, I know he’s good looking,” Reggie says, then sends a pleading look Julie’s way. She grins and pops up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“Not as good looking as you, babe,” she murmurs, slipping her hand into his. Reggie blushes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and she bites her lip and smiles back.

“Anyway. I know he’s hot, but it’s still crazy how girls flock to him, right?”

“Absolutely,” Julie replies. It’s always baffled her, how Luke seems to draw everyone to him, like he radiates some kind of energy that people can’t resist. She’s always been able to.

“What are you two talking about over here?” Luke butts in, dropping his arms around their shoulders and tugging them back against his chest.

“The mysteries of your allure,” Julie deadpans, knocking her head gently against his chin.

“It’s because I’m a good kisser,” Luke boasts, puckering up his lips and making kissy sounds.

“Yeah, right.” Reggie rolls his eyes.

“It is! I only have to kiss one girl for it to get around, then they’re lining up,” Luke says proudly.

“Prove it,” Reggie challenges, smirking a little.

“Fine, I will.” Luke pulls their joined hands apart and spins Reggie to face him.

“Hang on a second,” Julie protests. When had this become a “Luke kissing her boyfriend” thing?

“He told me to prove it!” Luke tugs Reggie a little closer, and Reggie’s smirk grows.

“Babe, you don’t have to do this,” Julie tells Reggie, and he looks over at her for a second, his eyes soft as they meet hers.

“Shouldn’t you be telling me that?” Luke asks, pouting a little now. “I’m the one who has to kiss this dork.”

“Hey!” Reggie complains. “I’m definitely a good kisser, just ask Julie. You’re the one who hasn’t been tested.”

“I mean, you could just ask one of the girls I’ve kissed. I’ve definitely seen one around tonight. But if you wanna kiss me that bad…” Luke trails off, wrapping an arm around Reggie’s waist and pulling them flush together. Julie watches Reggie’s eyes widen, his cheeks slowly pinking. Interesting.

“Sure, we’ll just ask some girl you’ve probably bribed with something to tell us how amazing you are.”

“Bribed!” Luke scoffs. “That’s it.” Luke curls his free hand around the back of Reggie’s neck, leaning in a little slower than Julie had expected, like he’s waiting for Reggie to back out. Reggie freezes in place as Luke approaches, and lets out a startled squeak as their lips touch.

This close, Julie has a front row seat to the way Luke’s lips move, parting to capture Reggie’s lower lip between them, and Reggie shivers in his arms. Luke tilts his head a little, slides his tongue across the seam of Reggie’s lips, and his mouth falls open, allowing Luke to slip inside.

Julie isn’t sure what she expected, but she knows this definitely isn’t it. Luke is gentle, thorough, his arm tightening around Reggie to hold him close as he presses his tongue into Reggie’s mouth. Reggie melts into him, his hands coming up to grip Luke’s biceps, and Julie can see the way he meets Luke’s tongue with his own.

When they part, it’s as if reality rushes back in, the slightly too loud music filling Julie’s ears again, the thrum of hundreds of voices reminding her of where they are.

Reggie’s mouth is shiny and red, open as he pants for breath; eyes wide, pupils blown.

“So?” Luke asks teasingly, raising his eyebrow.

“Uh,” Reggie says intelligently.

Luke laughs triumphantly, dropping his hands and stepping back. “So good he’s speechless!”

“I - I think we need an independent judge,” Reggie stammers. “Julie, you should kiss him.”

“What? Reggie, I’m not kissing him!”

“Afraid you’ll like it too much?” Luke leers at her, licking his lips. They’re pink and a little swollen from kissing Reggie.

Julie sighs and rolls her eyes. “Absolutely not.”

Reggie curls his arm around her waist and dips his head, pressing his mouth to her ear. “You should really kiss him.”

She turns her head to meet his eyes, dazed and half lidded now. “I’m not kissing him, this is crazy.”

“It’s not.” Reggie pulls her closer, drags his lips across her jaw until she shivers, then kisses her deeply. For a moment she swears he tastes different.

“Fine,” she sighs, kissing Reggie softly before turning to Luke. “Do your worst.”

“Wow, what an enticing offer,” Luke grumbles.

“Oh, stop being a baby and kiss her.” Reggie reaches out to punch Luke’s shoulder, and Luke rubs it with an even more pronounced pout.

“Fine, but don’t come crying to me when she begs for more,” Luke smirks.

“Ok, that’s it, I’m -” Julie starts, but Luke cuts her off by reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, dragging his fingertips down her jawline and tilting her face up to his. His eyes are serious when they meet hers, questioning, and she finds that she can’t do anything other than nod minutely, pulling in a deep breath as he leans in.

Like with Reggie, he kisses her softly at first, just a light press of lips. His mouth is soft, relaxed, and when he starts to move, she lets out the breath she hadn’t even realised she was holding, turning her head to deepen the kiss. His tongue is equally gentle, sliding over her lips and into her mouth, teasingly slipping against hers.

Julie loses herself in the kiss, her head spinning with the tender way Luke holds her, claims her mouth. She makes a small noise when he pulls away, and she’s glad for the loud chatter and music that covers it.

She clears her throat and steps back to Reggie, sliding under his arm. “I guess you’re not too bad.”

Luke just grins at her, and even Reggie snorts quietly. She elbows him in the ribs and smiles when he curls in on himself a little.

“Well, that was fun, but I’m gonna go find someone not so mean to make out with now.” Luke waves vaguely at them and turns away.

“Jules,” Reggie says urgently.

“What?”

“Come on, tell me that wasn’t one of the best kisses of your life?”

“I get to kiss you every day, that was nothing.”

Reggie stares down at her steadily, until her cheeks grow hot. “Oh, fine. It was… really good.”

“Exactly. And he obviously liked it, too. What if we... “ Reggie trails off, struggling to find the words.

“Asked if he wanted to try it some more?” Julie finishes for him.

Reggie raises his eyebrows hopefully.

“Luke, wait,” Julie calls out, and Luke turns back slowly. “I’m sorry I was mean. I - I was embarrassed. But we’d like it if you stayed. If you… wanted to try that again?”

Luke has never reminded her more of a puppy than just then. “Really?”

“Yeah, we, uh… we both really liked that. And if you did too…” Reggie bites his lip nervously, and Julie squeezes his hip reassuringly.

“I didn’t want to make things weird.” Luke ducks his head, his eyes darting between them.

“I think that ship has already sailed. Come here,” Reggie says, holding out a hand. Julie mirrors him, and Luke hesitantly grabs each proffered hand as he steps in close.

“I really didn’t expect this,” Julie says, looking between them. “But maybe we could see where this goes?”

“I’d like that,” Luke murmurs, and Reggie leans in just as Julie does, like he’s reading her mind, and they kiss Luke’s cheeks together.

Definitely not where she saw the night going.

[zmediaoutlet]

since I haven’t posted any writing in a while--and I promise, I’m working on a long WIP, but that’s not always so fun--I thought I’d show a little writing underbelly.

Some of you may recall a fic I wrote called reclamation. I’d made various mentions of Sam being ‘thorough,’ and a few people asked me to expand on that theme. I decided that I wanted to write Sam shoving Dean into multiple orgasms in a too-short time period--something that happens all the time in fic, but I try to write a slightly more realistic refractory period on my gents. Especially since I decided that a fun place to put it would be in the ‘getting back together’ period of s8, after the LARPing, when things are happy and calm and also Dean is 34, so making him come twice that fast is a bit of a trick. Nicely done, Sammy.

However: I started trying to write this and it just was not working. Was it the idea? Was it the setting? There was just no... snap to it, no spark, nothing yanking me down the page toward the conclusion. I’d been writing from Dean’s POV, and that meant that the story was going to be about... gratitude, almost. About how much Dean had been missing Sam, and how thrilled he was to have him back. Which--fine. But since it wasn’t working at all, I switched POVs to Sam’s, and--oh, all of a sudden, it just flowed. Because from Sam’s POV, it wasn’t about gratitude, it wasn’t quite that soft. He wanted Dean back, of course, but he was also pretty upset about the whole Benny situation, and what it became about all of a sudden was staking a claim. That made the whole thing snap into place. Really illustrative of my number one piece of writing advice:

You can’t write a story well if you don’t know what it’s really about.

If you want to look at how flat the first attempt was, feel free to check it out (and laugh at me if you want) below the cut. The beats are the same as the published story, the action roughly similar, but there’s a reason I couldn’t make it much past 1000 words. Sorry, Dean. You get to be the narrator some other time.

After they get back to the motel, after the post-battle victory drinks with Charlie, they take turns showering. Dean lets Sam go first. Another little peace offering—not that he puts it quite like that. “Go, you reek,” he says, and Sam rolls his eyes but he’s almost not-quite-smiling. Dean’s gonna count that as a win.

When it’s his turn he just stands under the spray for a while, letting the hot water hit him square between the shoulder blades. The hunt was easy and the fight with Boltar—or whatever his name was—it wasn’t much of anything, since the fairy took care of it for them. He shakes his head and reaches for the soap. He’s never going to be over the fairy thing. The so-called battle afterward actually was kind of a workout, though. Those nerds really went for it, even with foam swords and axes. There’s a sting at the back of his neck and his shoulders are kind of sore, but it’s the good kind of sore, and the beers with Charlie helped—listening to some story about dumb inter-‘kingdom’ conflict, joshing her for some rookie move that landed her on her ass, and most of all, Sam. Being there, smiling. Where he belonged, finally, after everything.

He comes out of the bathroom to find Sam standing at the table with his back to Dean, in pajama pants and t-shirt, some show on mute on the TV. “What, did the hot water finally run out?” Sam says, mildly.

“Hey, I’m the hero of Moondoor,” Dean says. Sam turns around and—oh, hey, whiskey, and two glasses. Sam raises his eyebrows, and Dean shrugs. “What’s the point of being the queen’s trusted general if you don’t get to indulge in a few creature comforts, Sammy?”

Sam huffs, but there’s a smile in the corner of his mouth. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask for a medal,” he says, dry, and holds out one of the glasses for Dean to take.

The whiskey’s not half-bad, definitely not the crap Dean’s been drinking lately. He rolls the sip around his mouth, lets it sit sweet and hot at the back of his tongue for a second. Sam just holds onto his own glass, lets it rest against his chest, and watches him, and Dean’s suddenly very aware of how he’s now the one in just a towel, and of how close they’re standing, and of how long it’s been. He swallows, the whiskey hot straight down to his gut, and says, too late, “Charlie needs to work on her Leia action, we both totally deserved medals.”

“That makes you Han?” Sam says, and finally takes a sip.

Dean scoffs and moves over to where he dumped his bag on the bed closer to the door. “Obviously.” He puts the glass carefully on the terrible purple bedspread and unzips his bag, digging for his sweatpants. “You’re clearly Luke, so I guess that makes the Impala Chewie. Can’t believe Chewie didn’t get a medal, by the way.”

“You’ve mentioned,” Sam says.

Dean finds the sweatpants, but as soon as he gets his hands on them Sam’s there behind him, standing close. “What’s this,” he says, and Dean goes still when Sam’s hand lands on the back of his neck, long fingers probing at the little sting.

“Nothing, just—I don’t know, one of the kids caught me with his shield, maybe I got a little nick.” Sam’s thumb swipes over the spot, and the tug on his skin does kinda hurt, pulling, but he can’t tell if it’s bleeding. “What, do I need stitches?”

“No,” Sam says, but he’s—not moving away.

Dean sucks in a breath through his nose, bites his lips between his teeth. They haven’t—not since that first day, that first weird afternoon when he was back and saw Sam and tackled him to the floor in Rufus’s dusty little cabin, kissed him so hard and clumsy he’d cut his lip. It had all gone wrong, after that. Sam’s other hand lands on his shoulder, both palms heavy and warm on Dean’s bare skin, and it can’t be as easy as that, can it. Dean closes his eyes, hands still clenched uselessly around the stupid sweatpants, and then Sam’s breath—warm, and then the hardly-there touch of his lips, brushing over Dean’s skin barely heavier than the air. Dean bends his head for it, automatic. Sam’s mouth hovers, lips brushing up to Dean’s hairline, and he drags his hands over Dean’s shoulders, down to his biceps, squeezing lightly. He’s not touching Dean anywhere else, but—“Jesus,” Dean says, rough on half a breath, and then Sam yanks him around, and he stumbles and the towel drops to his feet but then Sam catches him by the back of the head and dips down fast and kisses him, just like that.

Sam’s mouth—it tastes like the whiskey, warm and familiar even after this awful year. He gets one hand in Sam’s t-shirt, the other in Sam’s hair. Holds on. Sam’s palm drags down his side, slower now that they’re kissing, and Sam’s mouth slows, too. He scrapes his teeth over Dean’s lower lip, drags a slow thumb over the line of Dean’s jaw, back to the spot under his ear that’s sensitive, and when he rubs hard there and Dean shivers, Sam smiles against his mouth.

“Still works,” Sam says, soft, and then pulls back a few inches.

When Dean opens his eyes Sam’s—right there. There’s a few lamps on so Dean can see all of him, his stupid long hair tucked behind his ears and his damp mouth and the goofy moles Dean always made fun of when they were little and his eyes, the pupils already spreading out dark, fixed on Dean. Dean tugs at his hair, sharp, and watches how Sam’s eyelids go heavy. “That does, too,” he says, still not quite believing his luck, but then Sam’s hands slide down, both of them dropping to the curve of Dean’s ass where he’s flashing the empty room, and Sam’s lips are a pleased curve when he bends down and finds Dean’s mouth again.

His bag gets tossed off the bed and he gets laid back on it, Sam still mostly dressed and heavy between his thighs. The glass of whiskey barely gets rescued in time, fumbled onto the bedside table one-handed since Dean just—really needs to keep Sam’s head tucked down into his throat, biting just hard enough at the tendons there. Sam catches his wrist when he’s done, pins it to the mattress beside his head, and just that makes a surge of heat run into Dean’s gut. Sam’s like this, always—overwhelming, crazy-making. He smells like the cheap soap they share, all clean and warm, his bigger body pressing Dean down into the cheap bed, and it’s absolutely everything Dean missed, everything he’s been wanting but couldn’t ask for through all those stupid terrible months. Sam drags his mouth all slow down to one nipple, flicking his tongue soft against the flat of it, and Dean arches up, can’t help it. When he looks down, panting, Sam’s watching him.

See what I mean? Dean’s emotional arc here just isn’t compelling enough. The mild possessive urge from Sam pulls us along. Hence why it’s called ‘reclamation’.