#reader x sam drake

[m3ntally-unstable]

Why is it that everytime I search for a certain thing I GET THE OPPOSITE. I SEARCHED FOR ANGST NOT SMUT, I WANT ANGST. I AKSED FOR SMUT NOT FUCKING FLUFF AND SHIT 😡😡😡😡 please update your system tumblr I beg of you

[agender-wolfie]

When you’re reading a fic that says it’s gender neutral but then “You wore a short skirt and tied up your hair”

[durrtydawg]

Look, Don't Touch.

(Sam Drake x F!Reader smut) 3rd person

CW: It's smut, it's sex polleny, and it's got a big, fat, dubcon warning. Also a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, internal conflict, etc etc. For detailed tags, please check out ao3, as funnily enough, I literally cannot add any more text into this post 😛

Masterlist

This is long. Horrendously long. Like... *18,000 words* or so, so I don't want to hear any yapping if you click 'read more' and don't actually want to read. Dare I say, quantity over quality? Sorry to those that wanted this split into parts, but honestly... I couldn't make it work, so here we are. Regardless, I hope someone out there enjoys this!! It's been my baby for a while, and whilst not the best thing I've written, I need to let it go before I, too, become a reprobate by force x

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

“In the wake of the Second World War, the elusive Polish alchemist Dariusz Cassimir left behind a legacy shrouded… ooo… in mystery. Hmm. Shrouded is a fun word.”

“Big door. Ominous etchings. Doesn’t get more ‘shrouded in mystery’ than that. This has gotta be it.”

“O-kay… But how do we get in?”

She shrugs, turning back to him with a raised brow. “Oh, I don’t know, Sam, maybe the huge lever right next to said mysterious door?” She purposely targets her flashlight at his face, making her way over to the lever. He swats her with the notes in his hand.

“Okay,” Sam sniffs, striding ahead with a crack of the knuckles after he fixes his own torch to his belt, “‘Cause of the attitude, I get to open it.” He grins sarcastically, making sure to gently nudge her shoulder as he passes, thrusting the papers he was reading from into her hands.

Her eyes roll, but she finds the cockiness endearing- and he knows it.

“Known for his work in chemical weapon and explosives development throughout the Great War, and the start of the Second, Cassimir's true genius lay in the shadows, where he conducted secretive experiments with potions, remedies, and poisons, yada yada… yeah, right.”

She continues reading out from where he left off as Sam checks around the lever for any dodgy set-ups that might send the two of them plummeting into an inescapable pit, falling victim to some sort of horrific creature ready to maul the two of them to death, or perhaps crushed by a flurry of falling boulders, etcetera, etcetera. No death trap is too garish in this line of work.

“Oh. Listen to this. Ahem. Despising intrusion into his work, Cassimir was rumoured to eliminate those who stumbled upon these experiments without permission.” She hums. “So, not only was this guy insane, but he was a murderer too- hey, be careful with that lever, please... I don’t want a repeat of the Tuscan trap door incident.” She sighs, fingernails trepidatiously digging into the straps on her backpack as he braces his hands against the lever.

“Still not over that, huh?” Sam snorts, turning back to her with an arrogance-tinged smirk as she grimaces, folding the paper and stuffing it into her jacket pocket.

“My ankle isn't.”

He scoffs. “Every possible trap we’ve come across today has either rotted itself out of action or has been destroyed by some other poor bastard that got here before us. Besides,” He stamps a boot against the ground to prove his point, “It’s a dense stone floor. I don’t think trap doors are a cause for concern here.”

“Famous last words.” She murmurs as he pulls on the lever, a soft grunt signalling that it takes more effort than initially predicted. “You sure you don't want to find another way in before you start fiddling with- nope? Okay.”

“What’s…the worst…” he pauses, re-positioning himself to give a little more force to the lever, “that could- Ow, Jesus!” He cuts himself off with a hiss of pain as the lever finally gives and he stumbles upright, wincing.

“Aw. Too much strain on your big, strong, man muscles?” She questions teasingly as Sam glares at his hand, flexing his fingers with a frown.

“The damn thing pricked me.”

A sudden deep rumble through the ground prevents her from quipping back as both of their attention is now taken by the stone wall in front of them slowly sliding to the side with a wince-worthy scrape.

“It’s always fascinating how something so archaic can still be so…mobile.” Sam says inquisitively, causing her to snort.

“Talking about you, or the door?”

He offers her no more than an unimpressed glare, lips pursed and eyes heavy-lidded, still scrunching and un-scrunching his hand.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, ya know.” He grumbles, watching a cheeky pout form on her lips.

“Thank you. Anyway, it's probably not that old. Cassimir used this place as his base between the first and second world wars, which, in the grand scheme of things, isn't that long ago. I’m guessing, with all the influence he had-”

“-He spruced up the place. New doors. Lick of paint. Few booby traps for good measure. The usual stuff.” He concludes for her with a slow nod, eyes narrowed at the lever, attention diverting back from the door to his palm.

She snickers.

Her smile deepens into a grin as he bares his teeth in irritation at his tiny little injury.

He grumbles, thumb rubbing small circles on his palm.

She steps forwards, “C’mon, grump. Serves you right for touching things you shouldn't.”

“Well, thank you for exhibiting the utmost care and patience.” He responds, brows knitted together as he continues to scrutinise his hand.

“Don't guilt-trip me.” She turns back and holds onto his wrist gently to inspect the palm of his hand. A little more than a pin-prick sits in the centre; a fresh bead of blood oozing to the surface each time he wipes one away. 

She pouts as she examines it, then offers a quick glance to the lever to see…nothing interesting at surface level. She turned to him with a moue. “What is it? A splinter?”

“Don’t think so.” He mutters, wiping the speckles of blood onto his jeans, nose scrunched into an expression of disapproval.

“Well…You’ve gone through far worse. C’mon.”

He hums in amusement at her dismissal of interest before the two of them begin to walk down the newly revealed corridor.

As she disappears off into the distance, Sam takes a glance at his assailant, cringing as he notes a tiny divot in the centre of the smooth, varnished wood of the lever- furthermore, two engraved letters beneath it. ‘I D’.

“The hell does i-d mean?” He mutters, glancing at his hand again and wiping it on his jeans for the second time with an irked grunt. Strange.

“Noooo!” Her voice echoes from around the corner, attracting his attention back to the task at hand. Or… away from hand, rather.

He turns in her direction, approaching from behind as she grumbles at yet another obstacle. She frowns down at a dormant stone pressure plate on the floor.

“Guess old Cassimir really doesn’t want us getting in there, huh?” Sam mutters, making his way beside her as they both look at yet another enormous door blocking them from proceeding any further.

“Yeah. What an asshole.” She turns to Sam, tongue swirling contemplatively around a molar as he looks down at her with narrowed eyes. “Any lever this time? Stupid thing won’t do anything.” A tut from her makes him chuckle, watching her impatiently scuff the toe of her boot against the plate as if it’ll make it do something other than sink into the ground a little.

He shakes his head, hands on his hips as he ponders their next move. After a moment, he pouts.

“You… think you can squeeze through there?” Sam questions, eye-line fixing onto the discoloured stained glass of a small window framed by stone above the door.

Her cheeks puff up as she assesses the window held ajar by some sort of rusted hinge. A slow exhale deflates said cheeks before she shrugs.

“You severely underestimate the size of my ass, but yes. If you can get me up there, I can certainly try to ‘squeeze through’.”

“Hmm.”

He leans back, making a show of inspecting her rear with exaggerated intrigue.

“Oh, y- yeah, you might be right.”

She flashes a middle finger. “He's here all week!”

“You'd love that, huh.”

“Stop flirting for a sec and help me up.” She teases, feeding his ego slightly.

Ready to crack on, Sam crouches a little, a small grin pinned to his face at her quip. He puts his arms out as she takes a few steps back.

"M'lady."

"Alright, Patrick Swayze." She chuckles, diluted sarcasm in her tone. “Watch those hands.”

He scoffs in response, patting his thigh as if to non-verbally tell her to shut up and get on with it.

After a little run up, the pair manage to execute a relatively successful boost manoeuvre, resulting in boots scuffing against the stone wall as she scrambles the remainder of the way up to the window.

“Nobody puts Baby in a fuckin’ corner.” he commends her dexterity from the ground, his continuation of her reference sending a grin creeping onto her face as she pushes the window further open, wriggling her way through the gap.

“Damn right.” She replies, eventually disappearing out of his sight. She slides down the wall, dust and flecks of rubble curling off of the surface as she approaches the ground.

Dusting her gravelly hands off on her leggings and adjusting the torch clipped to her backpack strap, she begins to look around.

“Shit.” is all she can muster.

Sam glances up at the stained glass, thumb rubbing at the sting in his palm, eyes focusing on coloured Latin lettering separated by intricately crafted lead framing.

Firmitudo Intus Aequilibrio

“You okay?” He pushes, his voice muffled from behind the wall, head tilted to the side in thought as he reads the stained glass. The cogs turn, congruous smirk etching its way onto his lips- his knowledge of Latin permits a little smugness, or so he tells himself.

She nods slowly, before realising that Sam can’t actually see her, almost too distracted by her new surroundings to offer a verbal response.

“Y-yeah, I’m all good.” She clears her throat, turning off her torch. “This place just… you ever seen Shrek 2?”

The stone walls, worn and weathered, stand sentinel, bearing witness to the passage of time. They’re tall. Imposing. But there’s a beauty to their eeriness, aided by the soft, colourful glow from the bottles that haven't succumbed to time.

"Sure. Great hangover movie."

Dust particles dance in the air, caught in the soft rays of crisp winter moonlight filtering through thick tree roots that make up the ceiling, casting ethereal streaks around the room.

"Well, picture the shelves in the dinky potion room."

The shelves, carved untidily into the walls, cradle a trove of relics from bygone eras. Flasks, vials, and jars, now cloaked in the patina of age, their contents long untouched- some clearly from medieval times; when the crypt was first used as an underground apothecary, to more contemporary receptacles used by Casimir himself to store whatever insane concoctions he experimented with; early 20th century brand logos indented into glass, less worn and more transparent than others.

"The one that cat gets the potion stuck in?"

"That's the one." She titters. Sam hums in understanding. "Ha. 'That cat'."

The lair’s height is imposing, a testament to the grandeur of Casimir’s forgotten pursuits. Yet, amidst the stone walls, pockets of soft, colourful radiance emanate from a select few frosty flasks perched high on the shelves. These remaining potions, survivors of the relentless march of time, cast speckled, saturated glows of purples, pinks, and blues around the plethora of other vials and tubes that have greyed and muddied over the years.

It’s all quite something.

She steps back, lips parted as she takes in her surroundings, fingers wrapped around the straps of her backpack. Her breath catches as she feels sudden give in the ground beneath her, calming when she realises she’s trodden on another pressure plate, though this time it doesn’t remain unresponsive.

As the door behind her rumbles and begins to grate upwards, she turns as her heart rate spikes in shock. Sam, still standing on the corresponding slab, watches in intrigue as the room she’s in reveals itself to him. He smiles when he sees her, the mechanism suddenly making sense.

Wagging a finger up to the latin-scribed stained glass window, he chuckles knowingly.

“Balance.” He says, winking at her as she tilts her head cluelessly.

“What?” She asks as he saunters into the room, shining his torch around.

“Latin. See, I’m the brains of this whole operation.”

“Hm.” She huffs. “Thought you were the beauty.”

He scoffs in response to her attempt at sarcasm, walking past her to the heart of the room as the door scrapes shut again. “Hey, you said it.” He smirks over his shoulder at her as she shakes her head.

A stone slab serves as what Sam presumes was once Casimir's makeshift desk, worn and weathered and mossy like the walls that surround it. On its surface, an array of flasks and mixing bowls, each bearing the damage of countless failed experiments, sitting in a dusty mosaic of scientific chaos.

“Spooky.” She mutters, crouching to inspect some brittle bird bones sprawled out on the stone surface. Aged twigs and fibres, remnants of ingredients that probably pulsed with life once upon a time, now lie in withered repose, their potency surrendered to decay. Sam huffs.

“Oof. It is stuffy as balls in here.” He mumbles, hands skimming through parchment laid on the surface.

The room's cold dampness has left its mark on scrawled notes and papers, ink faded, edges curled, bearing witness to the crypt’s neglect.

“Cold as balls.” she contradicts with a punctuating shiver.

Sam gawks at her as if she’s just said something completely insane, but she’s too busy plinking flasks around to notice. It's goddamn roasting.

That, and her idiom makes no sense whatsoever. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so preoccupied with how antsy he feels.

He rolls his neck, an uncomfortable crack making him huff again, yet as his head hangs sideways, he catches a glimpse of something a little more substantial than a few sheets of faded parchment.

Nestled within the clutter, a chunky, leather-bound notebook sits, worn from use, but still relatively intact. “Hell-o.” He purrs, pushing aside some of the papers to grab it.

“What’cha got?” she chirps, still facing one of the many shelves, crystalline clinks reverbing off of the walls as she continues imbibing in her own curiosity.

“I think,” Sam's fingers delicately trace the timeworn pages of the notebook, each page imbued with the secrets of Casimir’s elixir recipes and incantations, “we have got our hands on Mr. Magic Man’s recipe book.”

“Ooo. Anything juicy?”

He leans a hip against the stone, cupping the book in one hand whilst the other tugs at the sherpa collar rubbing against the back of his neck. It is stuffy.

"Uh, yeah, there's... there's definitely some interesting stuff in here," He replies vaguely, his mind preoccupied with the subtle shifts in his body's temperature.

“Spill.” She says, finally diverting her attention from the shelves, a frosty puff of air billowing from her lips as she speaks.

As his eyes scan the complex instructions and cryptic symbols, a particular recipe catches his attention, intrigue somewhat subding his discomfort. "Here's somethin’," he murmurs, his voice just managing to keep his uncertainty under wraps. “'Whisperwind Tonic,’” Sam scrunches his face up, his brow furrowing in concentration as he reads the intricate script.

“Grants the drinker the ability to move unseen and unheard for a short period of time.” He scoffs at the page, subconsciously rubbing his injured hand against the corner of the notebook in an attempt to relieve the subtle ache that’s beginning to radiate from the centre of his palm. 

“Bullshit.” She snorts, putting a bottle back to its rightful place on the shelf in front of her.

“Right.” He clears his throat as he continues to peruse the notebook's contents. Did he eat something funny?

“Keep going. I’m intrigued.” She turns around, making her way towards him to take a peek at the book herself.

His eyes narrow as he faces her, her proximity suddenly more pronounced, the surrounding heat sending him into a slightly dizzying haze. He shakes off the feeling, rolling his shoulders before reading again.

"There’s... potions to manipulate memories... truth elixirs. Nonsense. All this stuff for people who can’t get laid. Probably just a bottle of rohypnol, right? I mean, how else can someone make a ‘passion elix--”

He coughs suddenly, choking on his words before looking at her with some sort of incredulous bewilderment that makes her stop in her tracks.

“What?”

“Jesus, girl. You got enough perfume on?”

“I don’t- what do you mean?”

He scoffs, grimacing. “Whatever you’ve got on? Ease up on it, next time, huh?”

She grumbles, hopping up onto the table beside him, pulling the collar of her jacket up to her nose. She sniffs. It smells like nothing. Just… her. Not good, not bad. She kicks his shin playfully.

“If you think I smell like shit, just say. It’s been a long day.”

“Nah, you don't…” He scratches his palm again, a faint frown creasing his brow as he notices a faint discolouration at the centre. He rolls his wrist to determine whether or not it was just a trick of the light. “You smell really good, actually.” He speaks, though it’s like he’s unaware he’s said anything.

She does. Good enough to eat, in fact, and as she leans in, resting her chin on his shoulder with an amused smirk on her face, Sam's line of sight is dragged from his hand to her eyes, narrowed slightly by her bemused smile. His vision blurs slightly and his brows furrow as he struggles to refocus.

She inquisitively tilts her head, and slowly, he finds his eyesight refocusing on the part of her neck left exposed between her hair and the collar of her jacket. It looks soft. Smooth.

Inviting.

The gentle glow of colour coming from the shelves behind them, reflecting off of her skin mesmerises him, and he finds himself wondering what it would be like to bury his face in the curve of her neck, to dig his fingers into its nape, and let his teeth leave small, speckled bruises behind, to hold her in place and breathe the sweetness in as her breath cools his skin. It's an urge, almost. Raw and overwhelming.

One that he quickly snaps out of.

His cheeks flush as he realises the deviance of his own thoughts, the suddenness of it all leaving him... reeling, to say the least.

“Okay, Romeo.” She teases. “Sometimes I think we’re lucky that this line of work doesn’t have an HR department.” Her voice feels like a hug and a punch to the jaw at the same time, nonetheless, her giggle pulls him back to reality, his attention snapped back to his aching palm.

He frowns deeper, a faint purplish hue beginning to emerge at its centre, subtle discolouration spreading slowly like tendrils of ink on cotton, becoming more pronounced by the second.

He swallows hard, the thickness of the scent oozing down his throat still, leaving him momentarily breathless.

"I, uh..." he stammers, his mind racing to find an explanation for the sudden onslaught of whatever-the-fuck-just-happened, whilst all the layers on him begin to feel like cling film. It’s irritating. It hurts, even.

Her smile falters a little. “I’m… just kidding- hey, you good?” She reaches for his wrist to see what keeps grabbing his attention.

“It’s nothin’, forget it," he stammers, voice a little strained as he closes his sore hand into a fist. He shakes her off of him with an unconvincing snort in a poor attempt to save face.

His attempt at self-preservation only causes her to mirror his embarrassment, and as Sam feels the scent dissipate slightly, an uncomfortable tension takes its place.

He watches her eyes narrow in the corner of his vision, suspicion flickering in their depths as she studies her companion's sudden unsettled demeanour. 

“Right.” she mumbles, slapping her thighs awkwardly. “Well… I’m not one to waste perfume on a job. Especially with you for company, so…” her voice trails off, waiting for what she thinks is an inevitable clapback. It doesn’t come. Her face reddens as her eyes move around awkwardly, though fortunately, he’s too focused on turning the pages of the book to notice.

”Hey.” She says, prodding his temple with her forefinger. “You… sure you’re okay?”

Sam flinches at her touch, a jolt shooting through him as he sniffs to maintain his composure, standing up to distance himself.

“Mhm,” he replies hastily, his gaze darting away from hers as his mind races to find a plausible reason behind the overwhelming sensation. “Yeah, yeah, fine…just- think I ate…” God it’s hot. “-Damn jacket.” He grunts, putting the book down to tug the denim off of an arm, shaking it off of the rest of him impatiently.

She hops off of the stone and backs away, a perplexed laugh escaping her.

“Don’t be evasive!”

“What? It’s…I’m hot. Shit.” Sam mutters, his irritation mounting as he tries to regain control of the situation. He scratches the palm of his hand, and, with a sigh, moves further away from the stone counter, throwing off another layer.

Left in his t-shirt, she gawks at him as he preoccupies himself by looking at his hand once more.

“Samuel, It’s like… sub-zero in-”

“Look. It is warm. I am warm.” He scrunches up his hand with a sigh, frustration progressing strangely fast as he cuts her off. “So, I’ve taken my jacket off. That a problem?”

Her grin falters. She awkwardly teeters from side to side as she decides to keep quiet.

“I could smell… somethin’, thought it might’ve been you, now it’s gone. Just…” He trails off, taking a deep breath as he tries to steady himself. Tilting his head up to the ceiling, he basks in the brief recess from the sweltering heat clinging onto his body, “Just…park it. Please.”

She frowns, her gaze lingering on Sam for a moment longer before she holds her hands up defensively, dismissing the strange encounter with a slow nod as she turns her head back to the shelves.

“Parked. Dick.” she retorts, a façade of amusement decorating her tone in an attempt to lighten the mood, covering the awkward swallow and slight flush in her cheeks one might get after being scolded by a teacher in front of their class. Meanwhile, Sam fixates his attention back onto the notebook in his hands.

As he continues to flip through the brittle parchment, a developing sense of unease begins to tighten his chest. From the corner of his eye, he watches her hop off of the table, tightening her ponytail as she ambles awkwardly back over to the shelves. He parts his lips to apologise, but a painful pulse coming from his hand re-diverts his attention.

He squints between his hand and the intricate symbols and arcane diagrams, words written in faded text, but just as he begins to take it in, he feels himself struggling to focus.

That same sickening sweetness from moments ago slowly assaults his senses again; it’s like a thick, unshakable mist, seeping into his nose, clinging to his throat and settling heavily in his lungs.

Attempting to clear his throat without drawing her attention, Sam shakes his head, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he does so. The back of his hand instinctively rests against his nose, as if warding off the unexplained, worsening discomfort. 

"You…” he swallows, the room seemingly closing in on the tension his outburst had created, “Y’sure you're not wearing perfume or something? Jeez, it’s givin’ me a headache," he mutters with a meekness that she finds irksome.

She scoffs in irritation. "Oh my God, no! What are you talking about?" she retorts, pointing emphatically toward the shelf of vials, her impatience palpable as his attention remains surgically attached to the notebook. “Will you focus?” She looks back at the shelf.

Five of the vials remain untouched, surrounded by that same soft glow he was fixated on moments ago. 

“We need those ones, right?”

Sam, however, remains frozen, his eyes now locked onto a specific page.

“Id. The word- it wasn’t a… damn abbreviation.” Freud's structural model of the goddamn psyche.

“Huh?” She prods, arms folded, brows arched.

“Freud…Id and ego.” Unable to detach his attention from the inked pages, he ignores her as his lips move silently, mimicking the phonetics of the symptoms written on the frail parchment.

The pinprick- sore, burning now, in fact- has become the centre point of a spider's web of dark hairline veins, matching the worrying description in front of him. His gaze shifts between the book and his own hand, a growing realisation drilling into his brain as he watches the deep colour reach his wrist. This is when he remembers the engraving on the lever. Id. the insatiable id, the book says. He scoffs at the audacity of it all. Wonderful!

His own blood flow pulses through his ears, clouding him with more anxiety and indignation, and dread pitches in his gut-

"Sam!"

"What?" He snaps, abruptly smacked back to reality as her irked voice pierces through his fearful focus.

As her gaze settles on him, flustered, brows knitted together in vexed concern, she momentarily holds back her annoyance, her brows furrowing as he blinks, attempting not to entertain the gravity of the situation unfurling in front of him.

 “Jesus, are you PMSing or something?” Her sarcasm goes hand in hand with her raised brow, smirk combo, amused disbelief taking her over. Yet, her own annoyance gives way slightly to genuine worry as she observes the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his expression. "What’s in that stupid book that’s got you so worked up?"

She looks… good. When she's flustered. Annoyed. The flyaway hairs and the frown. He supposes she thinks she looks intimidating. It's having the opposite effect- nope. No. That's enough. 

"I’m not-'' he fumbles an attempt at trying to reassure both himself and her. "Just…” he clears his throat again, the musky sweetness still violating his respiratory system as his eyes twinge with guilt at his sudden attitude change. “Nope. Doesn’t matter." Quickly closing the notebook, Sam clutches it under his arm, straightening his posture, and offering a nod and an awkward smile. “I, uh, didn’t mean’ta…” He trails off, a soft haze forming over his vision. 

She's not stupid. She sees the growing urgency in his eyes that hints at a deeper worry, and it makes her huff. Why can’t he ever just say what he’s thinking? Or, perhaps better, apologise properly?

She sighs and shakes her head. She spends far too much of her energy stressing about him and his wellbeing, when he probably couldn't give a shit about her outside of a job. Enough self sabotage.

“Whatever…can you… get me up to those shelves? Place is starting to give me the creeps.”

Should he show her the book? He looks back to the dark colour continuing to weave through the veins in his palm.

He considers the danger he’s in- that she’s in, if this isn’t, in fact, total bullshit. His blood flow picks up the pace, and he gets hotter. His mouth feels tight. Wet and dry at the same time. God, he feels sick-

“Oh my God, Sam, snap out of it!” She steps closer to him, making him stiffen in apprehension. “I need to get on your shoulders. Focus, please.”

Please. Please please please- the rasped desperation lodged at the back of her throat makes him shudder. He wants to hear her say it again and again and again-

“Do I need to smack you?” The thought of her palm thwacking against his cheek slices through his thoughts, her voice low, bordering irate. He swallows again.

A strained shake of the head is all he can manage in response, and the urgency of their situation propels him into action- if they could just get out of here, he can distance himself. Fresh air cures all ailments, no?

"Alright, just-" he mutters, voice tight as he takes a hesitant step closer, throwing the book to the ground and kicking it aside. His stare flickers briefly to the discoloured veins now reaching his fingertips, and he swallows in silent acknowledgment of the dangerous path he seems to be treading. Still, with a deep breath, Sam carefully lowers himself to a knee, jaw clenched, skin clammy as he beckons her over.

Oblivious to the tumult going on inside him, she moves, adjusting her stance over him. His hands find support on her hips as she sits on his shoulders, but as their skin brushes directly for no more than half a second, his breath catches and he almost chokes.

“You okay?” She asks out of obligation, looking down at him warily.

Sam inhales deeply, nodding in response, jaw clenched, desperately trying to ease up his heart rate as he pushes himself up, raising her to the height she needs.

He tries to steady himself, but as every sense intensifies to an unfathomable degree, he has no choice but to close his eyes to try shutting them out.

Sam can feel the rhythmic rush of her pulse resonating through him, every beat amplifying that strange suffocating sweetness that continues to overwhelm his senses whenever he’s close to her.

“Hurry it up.” He winces.

“Pot, kettle, black.” She retorts, leaning forwards, backpack unzipped as she reaches for the first vial, and as the softness of her voice reverberates through him, his spine is graced with a shiver.

As she reaches up, her body shifts slightly, and he tightens his grip to keep her steady. He can’t help but notice the way her breath hitches, just for a second. It’s a small sound, almost imperceptible, but it makes his chest tighten with a fierce, protective… is it desire?

"Almost there," she says, her voice a little breathless from the fear of falling off of him. "Just...keep still."

"Doin’ my best," he murmurs, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. He wonders if she can feel it too—the electric current. A persistent, dull thrum tugging and squeezing and pulling at every cell and synapse in his body.

Her thighs tighten around him ever so slightly as she reaches for a further vial; the fabric covering them brushes against his ears, the sensation overwhelming enough to make him grunt and dig his fingers even deeper into the flesh of her hips.

As he does so, the details of her body become vividly apparent beneath his fingertips– every fibrous contour of muscle, the softness of fat, the rush of blood beneath her lycra-clad skin– his senses are heightened to an almost unbearable degree, and his head turns sideways as he tries to steady his shaky breathing- the dichotomy of duty and… maybe temptation… playing out in a near-excruciating loop in his mind.

He feels a pull. His nose- his mouth, are lured towards her inner thigh. He swears his stomach growls at the scent of her. If only he could taste her. Drink her down- devour her until he drowns- Shit. No. No-- they need to wrap this the fuck up. Get the hell out of here.

“C’mon.” he grits- whether it was more to her, or his way of trying to pull himself together, he doesn’t know. He lays his head against her thigh, willing for it all to be over.

He wants to yell at her- tell her to stop being so inquisitive-- to stop finding the need to read the labels on the fucking vials she’s still gathering, but if she speaks back to him again his knees might just give.

You're going to be fine, he unconvincingly tells himself. That's what you do. Deal with things. More importantly, she’s going to be fine. Fresh air, he thinks again, they’ll be out of here soon.

Sam’s eyes begin to glaze over again, fingers pressing ever-so-slightly deeper into her as he tries to keep his vision focused.

He’d be able to control himself, he’s sure of it. He’d stare down at the floor as they both retrace their steps out of the crypt, in his head repeating the notion that whatever’s affecting him will just… go away- it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it, it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it-- diminishing any thoughts of how easy it would be to grab her whilst she walks just ahead of him, blissfully unaware of what he wants to do to her.

Oh. What he wants… to do to her.

Pinning her against the wall. Tearing through that perfectly stitched seam on her leggings right between her thighs before even giving her a chance to react, or, God forbid, to protest before he breaks her in.

He absentmindedly licks his lips.

Thoughts of the financial reward, the glory of finding this place- fulfilling their client’s desires, blah, blah, fucking blah, fade into the background as a primal spark flickers deep. The awareness of the perilous temptation turns into some sort of hypnotic drumbeat in his head, rational thoughts singed at the edges, slowly burning into ash and flaking away into thin air.

As his nose and mouth press against her inner thigh, the tension peaks and he becomes overwhelmed by her; Sam's breath quickens, and a possessive hunger simmers behind his eyelids.

His lips part, brushing against her, teeth grazing against fabric- an exploration that hovers on the edge of giving in to something far removed from sanity.

Feeling a warm tickle, she diverts her attention from the shelves in front of her to Sam’s head between her legs.

She swallows, a fleeting pull in her core as she takes in the sight of his fingers dug deep into her hips, but quickly shrugs it off in favour of understanding why the hell he’s breathing so heavily against her, and why on earth his mouth is pressed against her leg.

Sam inhales, opening his mouth wider, taking shallow breaths.

Then, he bites. 

It’s a feral snap into temptation he was trying so hard to fight against.

As his teeth clamp down into the meat of her thigh, she squeals, wobbling, then falling back and off of his shoulders, her skin grazing harshly, simultaneously snapping him out of whatever sick trance he'd fallen into.

“Fuck!” She shouts as her body thuds against the ground. She painfully drags herself into a sitting position, face contorted into an expression of complete disarray as he gawks at her, horrified.

“Shit- are you-” Sam rushes over to see if she’s hurt, but as his hand brushes against her shoulder, he has to fight against himself in order to suppress a groan. It’s too much. He painfully wrenches his hand away, subduing his own body's desire to keep it there. He cowers back. “Oh, God.”

One hand cradling the back of her head whilst the other pulls at the fabric of her leggings, she frowns, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders uncomfortably as she leans herself away from him.

Wide-eyed frown fixed to her face, she checks her hands for blood. Nothing, thank God, other than a dull ache that sears through her upper thigh.

“Did… did you just fucking bite me?!” She asks, voice quiet, dipped in anger.

Sam doesn’t reply. He’s shaking, hand clasped to his forehead as he glares at the floor, unable to bring himself to look at her. His hand obscures his vision and he breathes heavily at the sight; the purple steadily darkening into the veins in his wrist, fading into his forearm. The book is right. And he’s absolutely fucked.

Meanwhile, she double takes. Sam, leggings, Sam, leggings. There’s a slight fray in the fabric.

She pulls herself to her feet, wincing at the all-round ache in her body, astounded.

“What the hell is up with you?!” She hisses at him, taking a step closer before he holds a hand out defensively.

“I- I’m- no, stay over there, I… I don’t know. I don’t-” He splutters, doubling over as if he’s been punched in the gut as she gets closer. He stumbles backwards, back smacking against the stone table with a force that makes him grunt. “Somethin’- something’s happening t’me.” He rasps, wide eyes glued to the palm of his hand.

“Yeah, no shit.” She spits, looking at her leg again. “You broke the fucking skin- how-” Her voice is tinged with exasperated irritation… that quickly morphs into extreme concern when she finally takes in his appearance. “Jesus. W-what is going on with you?”

Sam’s sweating, despite it being cold enough to see their own breath, his sleeves clinging to his arms, fabric glued to his torso as his chest heaves unsteadily. His eyes are wide, and as they traverse away from his palm, down his body, it’s clear that they’re wide in realisation. 

“You-” He’s fucked. Which means she’s fucked. How on earth is he supposed to explain what’s going on here? “You’ve gotta go.”

She huffs, ignoring his plea. “Do you need… water, or something? Painkillers?” She asks, panic creeping into her voice, dropping to her knees as she throws her backpack to the ground. She holds it open, hands ferreting around for her water bottle, clattering around the vials that miraculously remain intact, whilst Sam’s eyelids grow heavy.

“N-no.” He shakes his head, turning back to her to make sure she’s unharmed, but as soon as he looks at her, he’s unable to avert his gaze from the fullness of her thighs as she kneels. “God.” He mumbles, salivating.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s losing himself.

He musters the strength to force his eyes shut, and it hurts. Every part of his body wants her. To look at her, to touch her, to… taste her, even- but the slither that remains of his weakened mind can't allow it.

Shaking her head, she retrieves her flask. “Here. You’re sweating.” She says, walking over to him. “It’ll cool you down.”

Sam swallows a whine, and lowers himself fully down to the ground with a self-loathing groan, hunched over, eyes squeezed shut as he attempts to drive out all sorts of depraved, wanton thoughts that keep flitting in and out of his head unprompted.

“N-no. Don’t come near me.” his hushed murmur comes out gravelly as she wearily dips her head down to meet his eye line, concerned at how he’s lowered himself to the ground. She takes a nervous breath, kneeling to his level as he lets out a defeated sigh.

He keeps his view of her hidden by his arm as she extends her own, ignoring his plea to instead tilt his chin up and hold the flask up to his lips. He shudders, his whole body trembling as his eyes unwillingly fix on hers, cursing under his breath at the touch of her cool hand on his skin. His gaze draws lower to her waist, her hips, her soft stomach- his hands clenched tight into his jeans as he fights against the impulse to lunge at her.

She tilts the flask and upwards and watches his throat bob as he swallows. She swallows too, almost choking on her dry throat. The longer she looks at him, the more the chill in her bones dissipates- the more she feels warmth seep into her bloodstream.

Her skin against his feels like molten metal, and he shakes with the ever-growing impulse to grab hold of her. To touch, and to be touched. He pushes the flask away in a brash attempt to get her away from him, then holds his breath as he tries to focus on the small bit of reprieve the cool water has granted him, even if it is no better than a bucket thrown over a forest fire.

“Any better?” No answer. She huffs, screwing the lid back on before backing up a little. “Can I trust you to get me back to the window so we can get out of here, or are you gonna bite my other leg, too?”

“Can’t-” Sam blurts panicked, eyes wide as his head darts in her direction.

“Oh my-” She laughs mirthlessly, strenuously rubbing her face before eyeing the room to see what else she can come up with. “Where’s that book?”

No. He’s going to throw up. He can’t let her find out. If he just waits it out, everything will be fine. His gaze moves to where he’d kicked the notebook- just under a shelf. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“Jesus chr- where’s the notebook, Sam! The one you were reading!”

Unfortunately, her eyes follow suit, and as she catches a glimpse of the frayed leather binding, she crawls towards it.

He watches in a sort of trance-like state as she flattens herself against the ground, moving her torch around underneath the dusty shelves in search of the book he’d kicked under them minutes ago. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll look for answers myself.”

This is perfect. He could go for her right this second. Pinning her down would be easy- she's so small compared to him. So weak. A pretty little lamb, all ready for him to slaughter. He suppresses a moan at the thought.

“Got it.” She jumps up, fragile book in hand, and he smacks himself in the face with a grunt.

Revolting. Selfish.

She starts flicking through the pages, face riddled with ire as Sam's breath hitches. “No. Don’t- don’t look in th-” He lets out a panicked whimper as his body reacts to the feeling of his shirt peeling on and off his skin; he starts to hyperventilate. Clasping his hand over his mouth as he strains painfully against his jeans, he winces. “Shit.” He swallows, covering his face with his hands as he leans back against the stone. 

She watches his Adam's apple bob as he quietly gulps down air in an attempt to calm himself down.

“You’re hardly in any position to tell me what to do.” She reads; pages upon pages of notes and diagrams elude her as she takes cautious steps towards him, but as his hands shoot out to stop her coming closer, she stills, and takes him in.

She notes the uneasy tremble, the sheen of sweat, flushed cheeks, and the uncharacteristic panic. Perhaps even more alarming than the complete absence of his calm and collected nature is the wispy nebula of blackcurrant-purple bleeding outwards from the more concentrated black in the centre of his palm, up into the veins leading towards his elbow.

She steps closer.

"Don't." He snarls, flecks of frightened spittle coming through his teeth. And this time, she does as she’s told.

She exhales shakily, eyes fixed on the sight of his hand- she swears she sees the dark wisps expanding.

"I- I need to find out what that… purple shit is."

She keeps flicking through, rubbing at her thigh as it twinges with discomfort.

"Yeah, well," He mumbles through gritted teeth, shoulders heaving as if he's fighting the most ferocious of fevers. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

"Ignorance is only making things worse." She snaps, fingers desperately frittering between pages of Casimir's stupid fucking disintegrating notebook. "Why don’t you just tell me what’s happening?" She laughs- no mirth in sight, eyes watering as her head throbs and her insides churn with dread. “Tell me what’s going on. I bet I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix- Shit, there’s that goddamn smell again.” He laughs ironically, before hissing in discomfort and writhing slightly.

She rests the book on the stone desk with a frustrated grunt, holding it open with one hand whilst the other arm wrestles off her jacket absentmindedly, sighing in relief as the cool air ventilates under her t-shirt. She shakes her head in disbelief before flicking to the next page.

She looks at Sam dead in the eyes, trying to steady her own heart rate as she does so in hopes he’ll pass her red cheeks off as some sort of side effect of the cold. Cold. It was cold a second ago, wasn’t it? 

As soon as she looks back at him, a stifling humidity continues to build. It must be the intensity and the… abruptness of the situation. She goes to remove her jacket, until she realises it’s already off. She feels like she’s wrapped in a layer of plastic- hot, flustered, and her leg fucking kills- This is the last time she lets herself get so… pent up over him.

“You’ve- gotta go.”

“Go?” She huffs, annoyance permeating her tone. She shudders, her face running even hotter, his voice alone enough to render her knees weak, and her throat tight. “You'd love that, wouldn't you? Ever the hero. Asshole.”

“No, I- Fuuuck!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling. Admittedly, it unnerves her, so she turns her attention back to the book, fingers scrambling from dog-eared page to dog-eared page.

“So, you’d rather I let your stubborn ass stay here, suffering from- who knows what- ow, my God.” She hisses, the urgency and irritation in her voice making a return as a dull ache throbs through her thigh. 

“You can’t be near me.” He mutters into his hands as he doubles over, just loud enough for her to hear.

Inhaling sharply, a brief but intense pang of emotion stirs within her, an ache born not only from the profound lack of understanding of what’s transpiring, but also, admittedly, the slight sting of… is it some sort of infantilization? She thought they were over that! They’ve been partners for months now, and he still doesn’t trust her? Why is he trying so hard not to let her know what the problem is?

And then there's the rejection, of course. That hurts almost as much as her developing headache.

“Well, unfortunately, I have to be near you. I can’t get out.” She points to the stained glass window. “I need you to get me up there-” He cuts her off abruptly with an irritated grunt, jaw clenched in warning.

“I can’t!” He shouts.

“Why?” She shouts louder, stepping closer again.

“Stop-”

“Don’t tell me to stop-'' She follows his eyeline, landing on the writing on the window that he’s transfixed on again. “Firmitudo Intus- what?” The script grates clumsily out of her throat as she rubs feverishly at her sore leg. “Tell me what it means! What’s wrong with you?!”

“S-stability in- in balance. How- ughh, shit- how the pressure plates worked.” Sam huffs, words punctuated with a flurry of uncomfortable grunts. “Why can’t you-- ah, God dammit- just take a hint!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling.

“Take a hint?!” She spits, voice wavering. “Screw you! Just tell me what's going on- or, or better off- tell me the fact that you can't stand the sight of me."

“No, no, no- stay there— It's not like that, I- you don't get it, it's —”

“Spell it out for me then! Stop being so fucking secreti-”

“I’m going to fucking jump you.” He bellows, his face twitching as a wave of blistering, blistering heat courses through him. His fingertips dig painfully into the stone behind him, finding leverage.

She ogles him, bewildered.

Then, after a moment, she guffaws, her fear momentarily usurped by such a ridiculous statement.

In that moment, as she mocks him, Sam feels a surge of strength shoot through him, perhaps a side effect of his desperation not to face further humiliation. It's as if some dormant force within him has been nudged awake, overpowering his rational mind, and with a grunt, he drags himself upright against the table; movements fluid. Predatory.

“You’re going… to jump me?” She sneers, her voice low, teeth bared in a sour smile as she turns to the window, momentarily considering how to get up there herself. “Hah! Of course you are. Any threat to avoid telling me what’s happening, huh? You're such a-”

Her insults die in her throat as she’s shoved harshly into the wall. The fragile book slips from her fingers, thudding onto the floor.

She stares up at Sam, wide-eyed and startled. His painful grip on her wrist, the back of her head pulsating after colliding with so many hard surfaces- it’s all making her ears ring. His grip is firm and bruising as he pushes himself onto her, his stare intense. Unrelenting.

“What are you doing?" she stammers, her voice trembling, brows furrowed in frightened confusion.

But Sam doesn't answer. Instead, he leans in closer, his breath hot against her skin, eyes locked onto hers with an unsettling intensity that makes her stomach flutter. She can feel his heart pounding against her chest as he presses into her, matching the now frantic rhythm of her own as heat radiates off of him.

Sam's certain he can hear her blood flow as he holds her gaze, his senses heightened to the point of overload. The warmth emanating from her skin, the rapid rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips, and the heady, sickly sweet scent of her- it’s all driving him to the brink of madness.

“What… the hell are you doing, Sam? Let go.” she whispers, her other hand tentatively going for him in an attempt to wrench herself free, though, with an instinctive speed, he captures her other wrist, pinning it on the other side of her head as a startled gasp leaves her lips. She struggles against his grasp with an anxious whimper, but he only tightens his hold, his wild expression a frightening mix of confusion and horror. Yet his grip on her remains tight. 

"Make it stop-," he stammers through his tightened jaw, his voice trembling with remorse. "I don't know what… I didn't mean to- I need-” A wave of dizziness washes over him as he speaks, a growing tightness in his chest, threatening to send him spiralling into oblivion- he feels like he’s going into cardiac arrest.

Her eyes are wet with anxiety as he cages her in, brows wavering as if she’s attempting to prevent herself from tearing up.

But he’s frozen. Mind rapidly toing and froing between wanting to let her go, and wanting to see her cry. What he’d give to see her eyes brimming with tears, his fingers tight against her scalp while her lips grow swollen, drenched by her own drool as he rams himself down her throat. “I can’t- I can’t stop thinkin’ about… Jesus, the things I wanna do to you.”

His fingers tighten their grip further, pushing himself harder against her, keeping her painfully upright against the stone. Their eyes meet once more as her own chest starts to heave. God. The way he’s looking at her. It’s… carnal.

Amongst this sudden yo-yoing of fear and confusion, she feels herself heat up more, a cramping feeling tugging at her abdomen as he stares at her, breathing deeply- slowly.

“What?” She just about manages to rasp, lips parted, wrists aching, head pounding. “What are you talking about?”

She knows exactly what he's talking about. She can feel him pressing against her.

“You s- sound like a mouse.” He mumbles as if inebriated, one side of his mouth twisted into an almost malevolent grin that makes her stomach drop as he presses his forehead against hers, rendering her virtually immobile. “So small. So scared.” He mocks with a pout as she shudders. “But you’re not just scared, are you?” He speaks through his teeth, eyes trailing down to watch himself push his hips against her with a deep groan.

The sudden friction sends an embarrassingly high-pitched gasp spilling out from her mouth before her teeth have a chance to trap it. Fuck.

His eyes go back to hers, darkened, pupils blown. “Thought so.” He smirks. “I can pretty much taste you from-” a grunt permeates the end of his sentence as his darkened resolve wavers.

He shakes his head, a sudden maelstrom of panic and culpability in his chest making his eyes water. 

“Not- me. I didn’t mean-” She remains glued to the wall, wide-eyed and disoriented, as he stumbles over his words, her heart racing as she watches him lose balance and fall into her, palms braced at either side of her waist as the vice-like grip on her wrists finally relents. “I’m s-” he hisses, his body burning as if demanding him to succumb to what it wants.

Much to her own dismay, she doesn’t move her freed hands- there’s no attempt to push him away again. She’s so caught up in the shock of how good that felt and all of the confusion and guilt that are beginning to plague her head. She must've hit it hard.

Sam’s hand digs into the small of her back, his shoulders slumping as his fingers slip just beneath the hem of her shirt. His grip is tight and desperate as he drops his head against her chest, leaning into her for support as he whimpers, gasping for air. “I can't help it- I want- to stop, but-” 

She takes in a shaky breath, momentarily paralysed, as if her body and vocal chords are in combat against her brain. There's something hypnotic about the way he's looking at her, something frightening about the desperation and the spontaneous Jekyll-and-Hyde-ness of it all, yes, but equally… satiating… as if this is something her body's been vying for for ages.

She swallows hard at the feeling of his skin on hers, and the soft, needy sounds coming out of him- at his weight keeping her firmly pressed against the wall, and the smell of his sweat, cheap detergent, the gift set aftershave he feels obligated to use that’s making her heart thump even harder.

All such normal things- usually so unnoticeable. But it’s a sudden assault on her senses that she can’t shake off- it clings to her, burning her eyes, creeping up her nose, down her throat, settling in her stomach. It’s grounding. Exhilarating, to the point where she wants to tug him closer and inhale him to the point of suffocation.

And she’s baffled by this revelation. Nauseated, almost. She should be angry with him. Furious. How dare he manhandle, bite, bruise and then withhold an explanation from her. Instead, she can’t help but feel an intrinsic need to keep him as close to her as possible. To see, smell, hear, taste him.

Why is her body reacting in such a way? Why is she soaking wet? 

Sam’s terrified. The thoughts he’s had in the past few minutes have been depraved. Actions violent, and he would rather die than cause her harm, so he’s trying with all his might not to let himself give in. Even if he wants nothing more.

From day dot, she’s been off limits. And he's always stuck to that.

He's aware of how she reacts every time he's pushed their banter a bit too far, leaving her flustered. Every hint of jealousy she's let slip when he's talked about his ‘dating’ life. He knows about her ‘crush’– cute, he thought, but inevitably fleeting, surely. Unlike his own feelings- oh no! They’ve fused to every fibre of his being like hot glue.

This whole situation is nothing but a cruel joke. Like fate has conspired to mock him- to force him into getting his way via a horrible, depraved, manipulative circumstance since he's been too much of a pussy to act upon it otherwise. She’s right. He is stubborn. He should’ve let her pull the damn lever. At least that way, she wouldn't be a victim. Or... perhaps less of one.

His stomach lurches and he slumps to his knees, hands maintaining an unstable hold on her hips. He feels pathetic. “Makeitstop.” He heaves again.

He tries to speak again, but as he bucks his hips again, completely against his own will, the blazing friction against his own jeans causes him to hiss, his forehead collapsing against her thigh, eyes wide as he pants for air. “Holy shit.”

She looks down helplessly, shaken and clueless. She watches his hand dig into her thigh, holding it in place as he burrows his face into it.

“You smell so fucking good, I-” He cuts himself off with a groan, shaking his head and pursing his lips. His voice comes out rough again. Dark. Crumbled asphalt, absinthe poured straight down her throat, settling into her bloodstream. “No, no, no…” He just about pulls away to give himself air, eyes flitting up to her, warring between despair and yearning.

The sight of it makes her… warmer still. Hot, even. The bite on her thigh burns as his proximity agitates it. “What should I do?” She rasps, fingers anxiously pulling at the curls by the nape of her neck as if she’s trying to withhold from touching him. “I don’t know what’s… happening.” She whispers, vision losing focus for just a moment.

"I need..." he grunts, struggling to find the words. He weakly tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, but his strength is failing him. "I need you to... take it off... please," he begs, his voice barely more than a desperate whisper.

He looks so pretty like this. On his knees… whining softly, cheeks flushed, his hands grasping at her. It’s so unlike him. Samuel Casanova Drake- reduced to this. The flirtation. The teasing. Getting her all worked up on purpose, only to be reminded that she’s nothing special- that that’s just the way he is. All bark, no bite. Is he being taught a lesson?

She swallows thickly.

She thinks about how it felt when he grinded himself onto her and forcibly suppresses a moan as a pleasurable jolt shoots up her spine, setting her hairs on end. Her head is swimming. This is all so… artificial. So odd. She’s always been attracted to him, but fuck, this is wrong.

She hesitates, her heart pounding in her chest as a wave of guilt-ridden nausea rushes through her. Is- is she taking advantage of him?

“Please.” He repeats, his plea punctuated with a desperate whimper. She blinks, nodding, and with trembling hands, she crouches and reaches for the hem of his shirt, her fingers brushing against his heated skin. Gently, she lifts the shirt over his head, her touch lingering on his arms as she pulls it free.

Sam gasps as the cool air hits his bare skin, a momentary relief from the feverish heat consuming him. He leans heavily against her, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. "Thanks," he murmurs, his eyes closing briefly as he savours the sensation.

She swallows hard, feeling a strange mix of fear and sickening lust fester in her bloodstream. Her hands remain on his arms, steadying the both of them.

"What now?" she asks, her voice barely audible.

Her eyes are drawn to the sheen of sweat covering his body; the way dark hairs lay matted on his chest, softly trailing down his stomach, past fading ink and mottled scars, beyond where his belt keeps his jeans smouldering against his skin.

She watches her own hand rest under his chin, tilting him up to her. It’s like she’s watching it unfold through a TV screen.

Delicate wisps of condensation coming from his parted lips makes her mind wander; What would they taste like? How would the roughness of his stubble feel against her? Her mouth, her neck, her bare stomach, down down down- she's had these thoughts before; fingers delved between her thighs as she stares breathlessly up at the ceiling.

Saliva pools under her tongue as she imagines rutting against his pretty nose and open mouth like a bitch in fucking heat- oh god- her teeth graze her lower lip as her thoughts begin to spiral further than usual- why are they spiralling like this?

She’s sweating.

There’s so much desire- so much insatiable hunger in his eyes alone as he looks at her that it makes her thighs tense together. As she does so, she’s reminded of the bite again. It fucking hurts, snapping her out of her depraved trance; her eyelids flutter unsteadily as she regains focus, her cheeks burning.

His pulse thuds frantically against her thumb, and her nails stroke gently at his skin as his shoulders rise and fall harder, amplifying his restraint which is growing more and more painful by the second. 

“You…” he pauses and grunts, fighting himself as his eyes remain shut. “Don’t… know what to... ugh- hurts. It’s too- too much." Every tiny little touch feels like he’s being swallowed whole. It’s like a cold spring and a flow of lava all at once, and he wants to scream. 

She pulls her hands away, looking at them as though she’s the cause of the problem. Hoping to herself that her sick mind will sort itself out if she distances herself from him.

He shakes, sweat beading off of his chest, blood pumping through him at a dizzying pace as his eyes pine for her.

“N-no.” He’s craving- starving. A trembling hand raises to her wrist, and he winces as his fingers wrap around her. As his fingertips dig into her forearm, the thought of sudden absence of her touch feels like a death sentence. “Don’t.”

He swallows audibly as his body jolts again at the touch. The contact hurts him. Arouses him to such a painful degree, but he’s not letting her get away. He can’t- he doesn’t want to. He’s too far gone.

Sam’s eyes squeeze shut and he screws up his face in some sort of pained internal conflict. He grabs her wrist tighter and she winces, but as he drags her hand back to his face, her eyes follow.

“Help.” he blurts, finally deciding it’s time to bite the proverbial bullet as he sits fully and leans back against the stone table, accidentally pulling her with him. “I need- need you- your help. The last pages- another way to-” He eyeballs the notebook. “Make it stop. Before I hurt you again.”

She picks up the book and kneels. Her thumb swipes across his cheekbone as his hand rests over hers. Her hands on his bare skin are fucking excruciating; he can feel every single ridge of her fingerprints despite her stillness, like thousands of knife edges grazing his skin all at once.

“Okay- I- I’m looking.” She says, and oh, she sounds like velvet. Liquid gold that he just wants to swallow forever and ever and ever. He’s transfixed by her lips as she speaks, absentmindedly snaking his other hand up the nape of her neck and into her hair.

His fingers tighten their grip, gently pulling her head backwards, and with watery eyes he nuzzles into her neck, breathing deeply- slowly. “Hmmm, God.”

His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips grazing over her neck make her swallow hard. She doesn’t need to read the book to know what’s going on. He whispers breathless apologies, guilt making his heart ache whilst he loses control of the rest of his body.

Her eyes continue to flit around the pages nervously, no longer to read, but to hide. This is ridiculous. Her skin hasn’t felt this sensitive before.

Her eyes fall over a likely explanation; a sketch of a lever mechanism, an embedded sharp needle, designed to assault the user of the lever- the intruder, all annotated in scrawled purple ink.

This artifice serves twofold: first, as a deterrent to the audacious; and second, as a penance, a punishment to those who dare disrupt the harmony of my sacred space. May they find the scales tipped; themselves lost within the labyrinth of their own psyche, ensnared by the very primal urges that govern the basest instincts.

She looks at his hand again, and takes in the details written on the page. Primal urge. Base instinct. Her cheeks flush as she converts the words into layman's terms, confirming her theory.

“It’s an… aphrodisiac.” She affirms.

As the wayward thief succumbs, such symptoms shall manifest: The skin shall burn, the point of breach becoming the source of a webbed discolouration as dark as ones fevered desire, and the pulse shall quicken with an infernal craving, subjugating the relentless pursuit of knowledge with the all-consuming tug of the insatiable id. The mind, entangled in the labyrinth of unbridled lust, shall forsake rationality. The thief shall be led astray from their pursuits, ensnared by their own voracious yearnings, knowledge plundered.

Sam hears the uncertainty in her voice as she grapples with the implications of the infection. Their eyes meet for a split second, and he feels a surge of humiliation that’s so unfamiliar to him he’d probably wretch if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied.

She takes in a shaky breath returning to the page again as the pieces begin to fit together.

“S’there another way?” he murmurs into her, the low vibrations of his voice making her close her eyes for a moment. She grunts to herself, forcing her eyes back to the page.

In the safety of companionship, the afflicted may find respite. Should the infection remain unchecked, the heart will strain beyond its limits, ultimately succumbing to the weight of its own longing.

The ‘cure’  is plain and simple. Two people. Balance. Or, by the sound of it, death.

She shakes her head.

The thought of said cure makes her shiver, tongue rolling over her bottom lip.

A coil begins to tighten in her abdomen as he groans into her skin. His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips on her neck make her exhale harshly.

She looks at her leggings as another sore, shooting pain emanates from the bite mark, Sam’s wandering hands peeling apart the small tear in the fabric as his teeth graze against her throat.

Realisation fills her lungs, a bubble forming by her tonsils; the disorienting mix of undeniable, rising pleasure and panic creeping into the forefront of her mind.

Her skin looks mottled, veins deep purple.

Just like his.

The telltale discolouration, mirroring the ominous staining making its way up Sam's arm sends a shiver through her as she comprehends it all. As she watches his brows waver in internal dispute, her own contort in… concern, yes. But also a sense of desperation, wanting to feel more as Sam drags himself more upright with a cracked groan that makes her lips part and her throat seize when she’s pushed harder against him. More importantly, perhaps, the relief from knowing that neither of them can help it. That, for what it’s worth, is a mutual need.

She takes a gamble, grappling with the part-insidious, part-alleviating truth as she looks back to him, legs parting to straddle him properly.

Her chest heaves; the air feels thick, and there’s a strong pulsing ache between her thighs every time her nipples rise and fall, sore and tender underneath her tight sports bra. All of her clothes feel tight, creating tangible friction all over; her whole body, her face, her skin- is clammy and sticky and so fucking overwhelmingly hot.

A small part of Sam is still trying to stop, to control himself, but as he drags himself away from her neck to look at her, it’s clear that this prolonged contact has its consequences; his psyche swells with a sudden growth in appetite as she settles over him, and suddenly, he barely registers that he’s doing anything at all.

Moving his hand to the back of her head, he pulls her closer in a sudden move that draws a gasp from her as her hands brace themselves on his chest- the sudden harshness of his desperate fingers tugging at the roots of her hair is unexpected. The strength coming from this movement alone renders her unable to pull away- even if she wanted to.

He pants harder, unable to let her go, but so afraid of causing her harm all the same. His fingers impulsively flex at her scalp, and she gulps down a whine at the sensation as her eyes squeeze shut.

“I’m- I’m s- I can’t stop. I’m sorry-”

A hand moves from his chest to the back of his neck. With a gentle pull, she guides his gaze downward, her fingers pulling apart the material to trace the mottled purple that’s started snaking across her skin.

Sam's heart lurches in his chest, an undercurrent of panic rising up his throat like bile.

"No, no- what did i do? I-“

“Sam.” She hushes, pressing her forehead onto his, forcing him to stay still- to focus. She silently implores him to find solace in her. “It’s... we’ve just gotta...” Her eyes non-verbally tell whatever flecks of her Sam that’s still in there that she’s here for as long as he needs her to be. That she wants this. She's wanted this. That she’s willing- God, she’s willing.

This is where he feels himself begin to dissolve away completely. Prolonged closeness. Her voice. The heat rising throughout her pretty little face, the growing heaviness of her eyelids, her freckles subdued by an involuntary heat spreading through her cheeks.

And, he can feel the warmth pooling between her legs.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that this kind of reaction from her is fuelling him. He needs more of it. Craves more of it.

He’s slipping just beneath the surface, but he’s too tired to drag himself up for air. He supposes he doesn’t really need to, now. He could drown in her and die happy.

She’s starting to feel it worsen, too. The ache. The coercion of mind from body.

Her lips brushing against his feels like molten sugar; a searing heat that’s so sickly sweet he can’t pull away despite the blistering heat that’s destined to leave a nasty burn.

“We’ve just… gotta…” she repeats slowly, voice low and speech slurred. She can’t finish her sentence- every part of her is swarmed by the need to close the gap. She has no idea how he’s managed to hold out for so long.

With a shaky exhale, he nods, releasing the tension he's been painfully holding onto, allowing himself to surrender to the overwhelming heat pulsing through him. He finally allows himself to sink under as she plants a tentative kiss on his lips. A kiss which he only returns, though much more urgent- more voracious; it’s like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of the desert- it’s his first sip of fresh water in days, and it makes her eyes widen.

She brings a hand round to the back of his neck, clinging to him eagerly, her thighs spreading further- non-verbal consent, a silent plea for more as she begins to feel the simmering deep in her belly hurriedly rise to a boil.

He grinds himself upwards without a thought, and she whimpers into his mouth. The friction, the sweet, fucking friction has him press back into her desperately, wanting more, sending a groan up from deep in his chest.

He’s gone. Rationality dwindled entirely as the slightest bit of pressure is applied, steadily being replaced with a frightening strength and burning need to have his way no matter the consequences.

She feels her heart rate quicken as she takes in the sight of his pupils. They’re fucking blown out. The pretty specks of amber that normally contrast the darker brown in his irises have been eclipsed by a deep amethyst.

“… want...fu-” Sam’s voice becomes lower still, grating through gnarled teeth, and as his fingertips dig into her back, keeping her in place, he shifts again- he’s so hard, so perfectly angled underneath her- she salivates as she chokes out. “Want to f- fill you up.”

Hey eyes gloss over and her brain numbs. She nods frantically. Heat floods between her thighs with a vengeance, rationality waning as a shockwave shoots through her arched spine. She wants everything to be touched by him.

The third time comes quicker; more brutal, more needy, taking advantage of her lack of composure as she succumbs to his grip, his mouth hungrily taking a dive for her neck again, except this time there’s less restraint. None, even.

“Oh-- sh-mmf-” Her body shudders as she slurs her words, and as his teeth pull harshly at her skin, she cries out into her hand.

Her legs tremble, knees aching as the stone beneath them digs in, breath pitching in her throat as she’s hit with a shamefully sudden climax.

Her wide eyes water as her hand remains clasped around her mouth, chest heaving as she struggles to register how little action it took for her to come, waiting for the pressure to abate and the fog to clear.

Instead, as she feels his hands roam, and watches his frantic eyes fail to decide what to settle on, the fog only thickens, overruling any semblance of critical thinking.

It hits her like a fucking tidal wave, in fact; she can’t fathom anything other than the fact that she needs more.

And in that split second, she surrenders to the pull, inhibitions fizzling away as she leans in, closing the distance between them again with a fierce determination. A surge of adrenaline tips her over the edge and she takes control, seizing him hungrily, fingertips digging harshly into his scalp to bring him back up to her. He protests, growling, biting harder until he feels himself pried away by force, her nails pressing into his jaw, leaving crescents as she gets him where she wants him, lips crashing together again in a tumultuous collision of lust and fervour.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She wants everything off- to feel her skin pressed up against his, but the time it would take to unbutton and unzip is a repulsive notion that ignites an almost animalistic frustration within her. The thought of it drives her insane- feverish fingers move from his hair and chin, and instead scramble for his belt buckle, clumsily tugging it apart as his teeth mirror the action at her bottom lip.

The messy exchange of teeth, tongue, and spit takes precedence over Sam’s brain, and he feels himself fall into her, torsos glued desperately together as the heat in his belly burns stronger. Hot blood pumps rapidly to his cock as her choked mewls drag him perilously close to the edge after no more than some mere friction.

His mouth traverses down her chin to her throat, ravenous groans muffled against her skin as he grips onto her for dear life, beginning to feel some give in the confinement of his jeans as she unzips them. She doesn’t even try to pull him away this time- her objective has changed.

He’d swear if he could, but his brain can’t even conjure up letters any more.

His teeth pierce the delicate skin of her neck, and a startled cry escapes her lips as she loses balance and tumbles backwards onto the unforgiving stone beneath them.

Sam looms over her, his weight pressing down until she feels almost crushed beneath him. Only his hand, gripping the back of her head with a fierce intensity that verges on violence, prevents her skull from meeting the ground with bone-shattering force.

His weight bears down on her, the back of one hand planted firmly against the ground underneath her head, while the other moves to maintain its bruising hold on her jaw, thumb hooking around her bottom teeth.

Every nerve in her body seems to betray any remnant of morality as she keens, her thighs tightening around him, trapping him in place as grinds himself against her. He selfishly draws tiny pinpricks of blood from her neck, and she claws at his arm, holding it against him as she bites and sucks what he gives her- almost every inch of her has become an unforgiving erogenous zone; it's all too much but not enough. It’s not enough. Teeth piercing her skin, tongue lapping up the mess- It’s an exquisite sort of agony, and she wants- needs- 

“More.” She murmurs around his thumb- or is it his finger now?

His teeth leave a trail of fire along her collarbone, her jawline, finally settling on her pulse point as it throbs beneath his lips. He grunts in response. There, he bites down harder, eliciting a guttural sound from deep within her throat as she struggles to catch her breath beneath him. Every break of the skin permits small bleeds of that relentless purple colour, rendering her virtually feral as she grows increasingly more overruled by the substance.

Rough hands roam beneath her t-shirt, sending goosebumps rising over heated skin as speckled blood bruises settle around her neck wherever his teeth have failed to puncture. To find some semblance of control amongst the chaotic frenzy, her trembling fingers pull at the waistband of her leggings, her urgency matching his own.

Fumbling clumsily, he joins her, his fingers tugging at the fabric with an urgency nigh on feral as his other hand harshly kneads at her waist. God, he wants to dig his fingers into her flesh, to break the skin, tear her apart, and fucking consume her from the inside out.

Before the waistband can even reach her thighs, she’s reaching down, pulling him out, drawing him towards her as a dribble of precum trickles over her fingertips, and he pushes up his torso to watch.

He’s sensitive. So, so, sensitive. In her desperation to pull him closer, she squeezes her palm around his shaft, and he chokes on his sudden gasp, hands smacking hard against the floor to hold himself up. 

Fuck. She wants to hear him do that again.

She grips him harder, stroking up and down with a cruelly tight fist. He’s all breathless whimpers and fluttering eyelids, allowing her to revel in the sounds as he drinks in the sight of her hand wrapped around him.

He shudders, undone, from virtually nothing, shaking violently and audibly moaning behind pursed lips. He can’t even think to muster up a verbal warning before he comes, pearly hot liquid spurting over her hand, dripping down onto her stomach. Yet, similarly to her, there’s no comedown. No time for shame about such a short build up. He’s still hard, red hot and weeping, body vying for more as his eyes glue themselves to the mess he’s made on her t-shirt, seeping through to her skin- Christ, her skin-

He’s hooked; her plushness, every recess and every convex curve, how her t-shirt clings to her stomach, made tacky by him. If it were possible, he’d cover her in him just so he could spend minutes watching it drip and bead and roll across and in-between her soft, smooth, warm skin. Sam’s so mesmerised that he barely even takes in the fact that he’s pushed her t-shirt up, his tongue and teeth licking and pulling at her stomach until his hips buck harshly at the saltiness of her sweat mixing with the flavour of his own stickiness. He shudders.

Her hands slide and scramble, clumsily unhooking her bra, scraping her knuckles on the floor beneath her before pulling it all off, over her head; all just in time for his mouth to open and cram as much of her left tit inside as he can. Sam sucks with a ferocity that’d be frightening if this wasn’t a shared affliction, rutting his hips sporadically against the bunched up fabric of her leggings rolled down to her thigh.

Her nipples are hard, sore, aching, and the pressure of his teeth rabidly biting and pulling, contradicting the soothing warmth of his tongue rolling in tandem, make her jaw go slack and her brows knit tightly together as she tries to navigate the fluctuating sensations.

Her hands slide over the back of Sam’s neck and down his shoulder blades, to his waist, his hips, sticky fingers stretching, running over hairs and scars and flexing abdominal muscle as they reach for his cock, slick, swollen, and heated as it meets her palm. Squeezing him closer to her, Sam groans, mouth pausing its assault on her chest, face falling flat into it, bucking harshly as she impatiently pulls him close, close, closer, writhing restlessly ’til her leggings are low enough for her thighs to part enough to let him in.

Incoherent, mumbled moans are hummed and panted into her tender chest, hands digging into the flesh of her waist as his shaft is squeezed and dragged against her sopping cunt. She moans, a languid, filthy thing as he meets her swollen, sensitive clit, the sodden cotton of her underwear brushing tortuously against it as she brashly pulls them aside.

His impatience builds, fingers digging into her deeper and deeper until they become restless and tug fiercely at her leggings. She hisses sharply as her naked back scrapes suddenly against the floor, her body shunted downwards til one of her legs are fully exposed to air, allowing Sam to hook his knee under hers, pushing up harshly and pinning her thighs apart- access that they’re both burning for. She urges him on with a whine as he pushes down on top of her, words lost to the both of them, communication reduced to vying grunts and desperate writhing.

His pupils dilate enough to make him look feral, purple-flecked irises madly dancing left, right, up, down, as if committing the sight of her, greedy and parched, to memory, before he finally complies, long groan grating out of him as his tip breaches her slightly. He can’t hesitate any longer. His lips part as his thick cock sinks into her inexorably, leaving her completely pliant beneath him. Despite how impossibly wet she is, the stretch is still so intense- she feels like she’s being split in two; it’s both the best and worst thing she’s ever felt, but something she never wants to end.

“S-ss…” She hisses, screwing her face up in frustration as she tries and fails to say his name, nails digging into him more. “Pl-P…” She grunts again, frustrated with her inability to conjure words. Her thighs tremble, the sharp, tight warmth in her stomach tugging and pulling and obliterating every sense as she tightens around him, eyes flickering, rolling back almost painfully as he fills her deep, retracts, and fills again, each time not stopping until he’s buried to the hilt.

For a moment, head spinning, he stares down at the way her head falls back, eyes squeezing shut, arms flopping, knuckles smacking against the ground as she traps a warbled cry behind her teeth, greedily sucking him into her. He grunts, brows drawn together, and thinks he’ll never be sated again like this. It's perfect. If only it weren't manufactured.

Heat sears him apart from the inside out, savage gluttony evident in the way he gasps and he groans when his hips slam forward, over and over, pressed so tightly against her that each movement reverberates astoundingly against her clit. She’s so tight, so perfect, so wet, around him as she whines and bucks up into him.

Sam holds her down; hand pinning forearm, fingers digging deeply into stomach and waist, knee prying thigh from purple-stained thigh, pumping into her at a relentless pace; She groans as he harshly works her open, arching into him as her stomach tightens— tighter, tighter, tighter, until she’s screaming, unpinned arm smacking into his back, nails clawing crescents into his sweat-slicked skin as another wave of arousal floods every sense of her being.

She can’t breathe- she doesn’t want to- the energy needed to do so would take away from the white hot pleasure coursing through every inch of her. Liquid gushes, her cunt clamping down hot around him and squeezing, milking him so tight it makes him choke on his own sharp inhale, so good it burns- it’s almost excruciating. He shudders as he breaks, palm slamming against the floor to hold himself up when he comes, too.

She groans at the fullness and the warmth of him spilling inside her, breath coming out in messy, uneven bursts as she feels herself suck in every drop.

For a moment, she watches him come down from his peak, heavy-lidded eyes grazing over the vulnerable crease in his brow, the way his cheeks flush as he catches his breath above her, and his parted lips- she wants to kiss him. Sweetly. She wants him to let her show him she's not a ‘kid’. She wants to feel what it's like to be wanted by him. She's strong, capable, undeniably and irrevocably attracted to him, and… God… She still feels hot. Despite coming twice- or is it three times, now- the need for more is already becoming unbearable, and she fails to decipher if these thoughts are coming from the chemical festering in her veins, or if they're being made apparent due to its diminishing strength. She stings. Oh, she's a mess.

He’s still hard inside her, twitching, demanding still. The question gnaws at her, but her body burns for more, more, more. He slows above her, the lack of physical stimulation, and the completely deriding overstimulation of her mental state making her eyes water. She wriggles slightly, an impatient grunt echoing around the small room as she tries to roll her hips under him. The stillness of his cock inside her has her mewling, still spasming softly around him.

“S- Sam-” She sputters, eyes widening in realisation of her somewhat rehabilitated ability to speak.

For just a few seconds his mind’s feverish occupation dilutes, replaced with a glimpse of a soft, sated afterglow… he falters, his mouth hanging open like there’s something he wants to say. 

“Mm…more. Need more.” She beats him to it, murmuring between shallow breaths, feeling the rising ache cloud her mind already.

His heart thuds so fast it’s a surprise it’s not sat in his throat- is it gratitude he’s trying to muster? Or, an admission perhaps? “I-” Just like her, the words are fighting to get out of him, but just as he strings a sentence together in his head, he starts to tense again. “Gotta… I- I’m-”

For a second, she feels sympathetic as she watches him war with himself. But her body doesn’t let the sympathy hang about for long, and she finds herself making his mind up for him, tugging him down by the back of the neck, tongue meeting tongue as she ferociously bucks up, calf hooking around thigh to pull him tight against her, giving her leverage to twist her hips and roll them both around.

It burns, the white hot anticipation, and he can barely move. His brain has been dumbed down; near-irrevocably stuck between wanting to split her open again, to keep biting and bruising and claiming, or to actually feel- to savour her in her entirety. His indecisive stupor makes him ache even more, brows knitting together tightly as his mind tries and fails to establish where to go next.

Sam can barely process anything outside of the softness of her sticky palm on his chest, the ridges of her fingerprints and the gentle sharpness each time her nails brush against his skin as she pushes him against the ground. She rolls her hips, soft curses spilling out of her lips as she feels his hands clumsily dig into her ass. He shuts his eyes, head lulling sideways as he swallows hard, choosing to feel.

Grip loosening momentarily, his eyes open at the feeling of her fingers branching up, wrapping themselves around his throat; loose, but just enough pressure that he can feel his own pulse reverberate against her thumb. She squeezes harder, turning him to face her, his head numbing with a pleasurable fizz as his vision transfixes on her.

He's too tired to fight against her- truth be told, he probably wouldn't try if he did have the strength. Jesus, she's so pretty, he thinks. Well that makes a change. Significantly less violent than the thoughts circulating his head earlier. She could squeeze tighter and tighter if she wanted, and he still wouldn't protest if it meant he could watch her, like this, from underneath her. Especially when she comes again, back arching as she moans like a fucking animal- and still she doesn't stop.

“So- you’re-” Between the pressure on his throat, her relentless pace, and his own spasmodic panting, he can barely string a sentence together, “s-damn tight- so good- fuck.”

He finds himself completely and utterly caught up in how tight she still feels around him- how fucking gorgeous she looks with her eyebrows drawn tightly together, eyelids heavy as she ferociously rocks her hips, stomach flexing, tits bouncing- the speckled bruises and drying blood stippled across her neck and collarbones- and then there's a hard pang of guilt; he did that to her- made her bleed- infected her- it's his fault that she's being made to give him this-- exactly… what he's wanted…for months.

He expects the thrumming ache to cloud him over again, but it never comes. Instead, a strange clarity claws its way through the haze of his mind. This is what he has longed for for months, but now that it's here, the moment is tainted by anguish. It took this entire horrible ordeal to force him to act upon his feelings, and he mourns the likelihood that this will be the one and only time he gets to be this close to her.

And then, beneath the sorrow and the dread, there lies a deeper, more corrosive guilt. It gnaws at him, a conscience-grating burden that leaves him nauseous. Despite the mental torment, despite everything, his body betrays him, running rife with boiling hot pleasure. The contradiction tears at him, a cruel reminder of his own skewed morality and the complex, painful nature of his...is it his love for her?

The obscene squelching sounds and the wetness leaking out of her and down her inner thighs, forming small puddles on his skin, and the floor, and, fuck, as she murmurs an exhausted plea, the taste he's getting of being wanted- needed- used by her- it all sends him over the edge.

She whimpers and falls into him, moaning incoherently into the crook of his neck as her fingers tighten, nails scraping against stubble, and-- jesus, he's coming again.

His hands meet her upper back, holding her down as he fills her once more, rasped groans and a string of murmured curses vibrate against her skin as he swallows against her hand. He holds onto her selfishly, savouring the feeling of her weight on top of his- bare skin on bare skin, the way she seeks comfort in him- he's thought about this countless times… and he hates how much he's enjoying the consent-less reality of it.

Her movements slow, becoming sloppier, lazier, her energy dwindling as she tries to chase the release she desperately needs. She whimpers, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes, dampening Sam's shoulder as they fall, and she finds her swollen, sensitive clit with one hand while the other moves from his throat to his hair.

He continues to hold her as his sensitive cock twitches inside her, nose nuzzling into her hair as he whispers; "Did you...?"

She shakes her head, a soft whimper coming out of her as she tries to push herself into another orgasm. The sound of his voice. Raw, raspy, quiet in her ears makes her tear up even more, and all of a sudden, her body's pursuit of pleasure has become torturous. She looks at Sam, his eyes clearer, amber flecks of colour visible again, his expression one of concern and exhaustion. Guilt churns in her stomach, sharp and nauseating, as the fog in her mind grows lighter by the second- the physical pain persists.

Her body, still wracked by the effects of the drug, betrays her with every shiver, flush of heat, and every desperate circle of her fingertips. She feels humiliated, the intense need now a source of shame, tucking her head back into his shoulder as she arches her back despite herself. Tears well up in her eyes, and she can’t meet Sam's eyes. "I... I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I still need to-" she sniffs, "I can't- hurts."

Sam’s heart aches at the sight of her distress, and he nods, one hand smoothing down to her soft hip as the other stays on her back. He breathes in the scent of her hair, wanting to savour the moment- hell, he probably won't see her again if this is how she's reacting before she's fully recovered.

He wants more of her, he knows he does. But he's sensitive… and the clarity is still there. The clarity. The stabbing, blunt, serrated knife sawing in and out of his gut that makes him realise that he's never going to have this again. And that none of it was real anyway. But she sobs, and the sting in his chest wanes from his pain to hers. For now, curing hers takes precedence. 

Gently, he pushes against her, and exhausted, she complies, rolling back round to her back, eyes closed, borderline hyperventilating. He pulls her hand from between her legs and she huffs out a shaky breath.

“Sorry…hgnn- I'm sorry.” She whispers, her chest tightening.

He watches her try to cover her face with her forearm, and as he slides out of her, she sobs quietly, tensing her thighs together and rocking her hips softly to try and give her clit the friction it needs as she's left empty.

He rubs the palm of her hand with his thumb, gently lacing his fingers between hers, eyes glued to the way their skin glistens with their mixed arousal. “None’a that.” He says, squeezing her hand as he gently pries her thighs apart. “Not your fault.”

She whimpers up to the ceiling.

“God, it really hurts, Sam.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He holds himself up on an elbow and exhales. His free hand traverses down her torso, giving her waist a reassuring squeeze before reaching between her thighs.

She keens at the nickname, making a shuddered whimper as his fore and middle fingers gather some of the copious amount of shared arousal, rubbing against her carefully.

“This okay?”

Her chin trembles as she nods. “I need more.” She whispers, and almost immediately he pushes two fingers knuckle-deep into her aching cunt, pearlescent slick oozing out onto the palm of his hand down to his wrist. She squeezes his hand instinctively, a groan bubbling out of her throat.

His eyes follow the trail as his fingers stroke her from the inside and his thumb flicks softly at her clit, her soft moans permeating his mind. He's hard again; the thick liquid warms his wrist as it trickles down further, up to where the veins in his forearm meet the inside of his elbow- the veins that were deep purple not too long ago. He looks at his hand, then her thigh; still a small webbing of colour coming from the bite mark, whilst nowhere to be seen on him.

He swallows. There's a soft haze over his brain again, but it's gentle this time. Normal, even, bar the bittersweetness of it all. There's no burn. No malicious desire eating away at him… He just wants to savour her; to soothe, to make her feel better. She looks so ashamed. He wants to take that away from her.

Sam glances back up at her, eyes shut and arm crossed to cover her chest and it feels like a kick in the stomach. He purposely slows his hand, and her eyes open.

Before she can choke out another plea, he leans over her again, pressing his lips to hers gently, slowly building up his hand’s pace as he feels her sigh heavily. His chest thuds as he takes the time to memorise the softness of her lips, acknowledging that this might be the only time he gets to be so soft with her. It breaks his heart- another unforseen circumstance.

Her stomach flutters as he kisses her, the unexpected softness of it making more tears prick at her eyes as he works her closer to her peak. She moves her arm from her chest back to his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

After a moment, he moves from her lips, gently licking and pecking at each bruise and break in her delicate skin, relieved that there's no more purple, but unable to shake the guilt as he mutters apologies interspersed with each break for breath.

She squeezes his hand back, her whole body tensing.

His mouth traverses lower; down her sternum, all the way to her lower abdomen, until he reaches the tops of her thighs, where tacky quickly turns to wet as he moves lower still. Her breath catches as his eyes lock onto hers, and her lips part slightly, a subtle invitation, or perhaps merely surprise, but it's enough to keep him rooted, suspended between action and restraint as he feels himself salivate. In that silence, he waits, desperately vying for the smallest sign of consent.

She winces, her body aching as it waits for release, but she doesn't break eye contact. Instead, she takes a deep breath, and her fingers, trembling, unhook from his and reach out to rest on his jaw, her thumb brushing lightly against his lower lip. It's so brief and gentle it almost feels imagined. Yet, it's there— an undeniable gesture that heats his blood- organically, this time; He tastes them both on her skin and fuck, it's nothing short of heavenly. 

He swallows, eyes flitting around, learning the sight of her by heart before looking back up at her. He licks again and his cock twitches.

With a mixture of reverence and hunger, he closes the distance between them, movements measured and purposeful, each stroke of his tongue filled with a tenderness that belies all of the turmoil eating away inside him.

Her grip on his hair tightens as she sighs up to the ceiling. He loses a little restraint as she breathes out his name, begging him for more, and small, neat licks turn more rabid when his hand wraps around his shaft. He pumps himself with the same intensity as his tongue as it works in and out of her, his soft groans making her hips buck into his mouth as her breaths become more shallow.

She moans- cracked and raspy with exhaustion- at the feel of his lips, his nose, his tongue licking and sucking and savouring the satiating nectar dripping from between her trembling legs. His tongue broadens to gather and swallow before alternating to target her clit with the tip, wet and hot as he laps and swirls and buries in and around her. He tightens his fist around his cock, causing her stomach to roll as he moans into her- it's sloppy and messy and downright vulgar, but there's something so enamouring about his enthusiasm. His forearm wraps under her thigh, pulling her tight against his mouth as he grows closer to another climax of his own, and she gasps and arches even closer.

"Fuck, Sam-I, I'm-" she can feel him looking up at her as she struggles to string a sentence together, using the sight of her to coax his own pain-numbing, breathtaking orgasm. He moans, stimulating her tenfold as he releases warm ropes onto himself, his eyes rolling back as he near-suffocates against her.

He keeps going, and going, even when he lets go of himself to grip her stomach and pin her down- and she almost chokes, unable to breathe as she's utterly overwhelmed by the pleasure and the raw, visceral feelings for him that stabs relentlessly into her heart. She feels the pain raking its way through her body dissipate with each second that goes by.

He's so good. So fucking handsome.

She finally comes, a warbled cry trapped behind her teeth as her eyes squeeze shut and a rapturous wave of coolness floods her body. It's overwhelming- asphyxiating, even; tears streaming, fingers knotting rougher into his curls as he holds her tightly in place, devouring her through and past her climax. He takes and takes and takes-- shit, he loves this.

"S-sam,"

He loves this.

"Agh- Sam, pl- stop-"

He loves this. He fucking loves this- her. He- he loves-

She yanks hard enough on his hair that he's forced away from her with a pained hiss, gasping heavily like he hasn't taken a proper breath in minutes, his entire face from the bridge of his nose down glazed and glistening. He looks so pretty. She aches.

His eyes traverse, conflicted and somewhat melancholic from her thighs, up to her face, and she sees that he's... crying too. It's alien to her. What has she done to him?

She holds his gaze, her own eyes red-rimmed and tear-filled. The regret feels like a physical ache in her chest, mingling with the remnants of aftershock and the soreness between her legs and all over her broken skin across her thigh and décolletage. Despite the excruciating shame, she wants to reach out, to tell him that it's okay, that they had both been caught in the same storm. But the words don't come.

Instead, she sits up ever so slightly, wincing as she scoots closer, their bodies brushing as she nervously pulls his head to her shoulder; a tentative, fragile gesture, but she hopes it speaks volumes nonetheless. He stiffens at first, but eventually relaxes, his arm scooping beneath her to hold onto her gently.

She cradles his head against her, staring at the ceiling with tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. The physical pain was dulled now, but the emotional ache was fierce. She had never fantasised it being like this, tainted by necessity and confusion, and she doesn't know what to do. It's suffocating.

For a moment, they both just breathe, soaking in the sickly, unfiltered aftermath of the whole ordeal.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours—they've lost all sense of time in this weird fucking space where the boundaries have been irreparably corroded. They're cold. Exhausted. Emotionally bare. And now he feels like a damn coward, letting her stroke his hair and cradle him against her chest, after all he's put her through. He grits his teeth in an attempt to keep his watery eyes from spilling over.

But the attempt fails, and he hates how uncharacteristic this is. Screw this place. Screw Cassimir. Screw their client, screw his own greed that brought them here in the first place, and screw- fucking screw her for taking away his ability to remain a husk- and for letting him hurt her.

Finally, she pulls back as she feels her skin dampen and his shoulders jolt ever so slightly, her hand forcing his chin up. Her eyes search for him, and in that moment, she fully takes it in, and sees what she hopes to be the same fear, the same shame, and yet, the same insane level of care that has gnawed at her heart for so long.

Sam opens his mouth to speak as her brows furrow, but no words form, let alone come out, aside from a pathetic, choked sigh that hints at the tumult of emotions stirring inside him. His tongue rolls over his lip, and the lingering taste of them has him shudder and shut his eyes.

He can’t bring himself to look at her, the shame too sickening, too palpable. But then, as he pulls away, getting up to his knees as he fumbles with his jeans, he feels her hand on his arm, steadying him. He looks down, and in her eyes, he doesn't see pity, or accusation, but- and for a second he considers pinching himself- understanding, a non-verbal acknowledgment of his vulnerability.

Delicate and trembling, her fingers reach up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw as if to reassure herself that he is real, that this moment, however fleeting and fraught with confusion, was real. At least she'd have it stapled to her memory. Sam closes his eyes at her touch, a self deprecating huff leaving his lips. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm; a silent apology and a desperate plea for reassurance that she's actually thinking what he hopes she is. He even hazards a look to her thigh for any sign of coercion from the drug still coursing through her, but there's no purple in sight.

She reaches one of her arms above her head, just about reaching her shirt. She grunts in disgust, the material sodden, and she drops it back down with a shaky huff, the room's frigid temperature finally having an effect once more.

Sam pushes himself up again, rubbing his damp cheeks with the back of his hand as a sense of normalcy seeps back into his senses. And with that normalcy, grief.

He finds his t-shirt, quickly sliding it over his head despite the excess of sweat and bodily fluid covering both his skin and the material. He grimaces as it clings to him, and she watches on with a poignant shiver, pulling her knees to her chest after adjusting her soaked-through underwear, her boots scraping against the ground as she does so.

He clears his throat, picking up his plaid overshirt from where he'd discarded it earlier before looking over his shoulder at her as he pulls the sleeves through the right way. 

Someone has to speak sooner or later, she thinks, but can't bring herself to. Her nails scratch nervously at her skin as she weighs up what to do, trying not to cry at the prospect of Sam's walls being rebuilt so fast after pouring everything- mind, body, soul- into her moments ago. She feels so naive- so fucking silly-

“What was it you said earlier?”

Her head shoots up as he speaks, caught off guard by how much he sounds like his usual self. Charming, cocky, collected.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyebrows drawing together and her eyes narrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity. Her lips part just enough to show she's on the verge of speaking, but she holds back, waiting for his next words to clarify the moment.

He extends his shirt out to her, lips quirking into a soft, somewhat reassuring smile. She looks at him for a moment, taking the shirt and putting it on.

“Somethin’ about an HR department?”

She looks at him, a soft laugh fluttering to the surface. It's a quiet sound, tinged with shyness and still wrapped in the lingering sadness of their shared ordeal. Her eyes lower for a moment, the weight of everything that happened settling in.

Seeing her reaction, Sam gets up and moves to where her water flask lies discarded. He unscrews the cap and pours some onto a clean part of his t-shirt. She begins to button her shirt, but he stops her, silently asking for a moment longer.

“Can I?”

She lets go of the shirt, and with gentle, still slightly shaky hands, he dabs the wet cotton softly over her wound-ridden skin.

She watches him, the sadness in her eyes gradually giving way to something softer, his tenderness speaking volumes. As he continues to tend to her wounds, his mouth twists in thought, like there's something he wants to say. So he does.

“I'm sorry.”

He's not the type to apologise, so eye contact is impossible.

“What?”

He continues dabbing at her skin in silence.

“Sam.”

She covers his hand, stopping him from finding any other distraction.

“You didn't ask for this."

He frowns. “I- I just put you through… somethin’ not far off of assault, and your response is-”

“No. Not one part of that was assault-”

“She says, as I wipe up blood from bites I gave her.”

“Yeah, with the mouth that's covered in my cum.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but he can't find anything to say. His cheeks redden.

She sighs again. They're going in circles and she wants to put an end to it all- she's tired. Filthy. Possibly concussed. Which she uses to excuse what she does next.

“Can I try something?” she asks. Fuck it.

“Try what?"

Without another word, she steps closer, her eyes searching for any sign of protest. When she finds none, she leans in and kisses him, her lips soft and warm against his, holding none of the desperation or haze of their previous encounter, completely free from the influence of any perverted pill or potion.

What's she got to lose?

Sam is shocked at first, his body tensing. He instinctively pulls her off, his eyes flitting around her face as his jaw loosens and tightens in search of something to say.

Her heart sinks and she steps back, “Thought so,” she smiles sadly, backing away, knowing it was a mistake to try. "Can we... can we get out of here?"

He should hate himself, right? He's gone against everything he's ever stood for- let every non-committal brick he's built since teenagehood crumble to dust. He's gone soft. Sentimental. By force, to begin with, yet he still hasn't stopped himself. It's… Pleasant. Is this the balance Cassimir fetishised over?

Screw it, he decides, Because if he has to stand by and watch her grow apart from him when she's just shown the same as- if not more vulnerability than him, what use are a few walls?

He pulls her back, his lips finding hers again. This time, it's different- there’s no urgency, no magical compulsion, but rather something deep- genuine. The kiss is tender, filled with all the emotions they’ve been too afraid to voice, and he feels years worth of tension escape him. His sore muscles loosen, hands cupping her face softly, and she melts into him.

When they finally pull apart, their foreheads rest together, and this alone feels infinitely more intimate than anything that had transpired beforehand.

"So... is it safe to assume that we're both on the same page, or...?" She swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper, but her usual playfulness breaks through, and it makes him smile.

"What, that we're both in dire need of some good laundry detergent and a shower? Or was there somethin' else on your mind?"

She snorts, gently kicking his shin, the enormity of months worth of repressed feelings finally worn on the proverbial sleeve. She takes a deep breath, the worry in her eyes softening as she looks at him.

"We have a lot to figure out."

He chews the inside of his lip contemplatively, still not entirely sure there’s any reason why she’s being so gracious. So calm, despite it all, like he deserves any of it.

There’s a beat.

And then he nods. Because that’s why she makes his entire psyche shift off-kilter- makes him notice his bad habits.

"We'd… uh, better cash those vials in."

She sees a million-and-one thoughts behind his eyes, but he needs to rest. So she waits, head tilted, suspecting he's got something else to add. 

"How else am I supposed to afford a five-star first date?"

The other million thoughts can wait.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

I promise to write something short and funny next time x

[jasmines-library]

What do you think about a Batfam x Supernatural crossover??? Like, Reader is Dean's twin, and Sam's older sister, but she can't take the boys' nonsense anymore (like the pranks in the first season) and goes out to hunt a nest of vampires alone, only in Gotham, Batman V and confronts her, she even runs away but is caught, so she tells the truth, he takes her to the mansion and everyone is extremely shocked that these creatures are real (including Bruce) but there is no way to deny the facts!! And meanwhile the boys are freaking out because their badass sister is missing and they're looking for her like crazy?

Changes

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Note: (how strange, someone requested something very similar: anonymous also requested here.

Warnings: Swearing, blood and gore but not descriptive.

Word Count: 1.9k

⛧ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧ SPN MASTERLIST ⛧

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You had finally had enough. You just couldn’t take it anymore. The constant bickering and blame passing, the constant nights spent laying awake blaming yourselves when another got hurt…you were sick of it. 

It was in the very early hours of the morning that you slipped out the door, with a handful of your belongings stuffed into a bag. It’s not like you had planned to ;eave forever..you just needed to get away for a little while. To take a breath of fresh air. You had found a hunt a few states over; a nest of vampires which should be simple enough. 

You made your way to the bus station about 10 minutes before your bus was supposed to leave. It was just a short walk from the motel. You had considered taking a car or hitching a ride with someone, but you knew that Sam and Dean would be able to track you much easier if you did that. So, you opted to take a bus and exchange half-way there just to make sure they wouldn’t follow behind as quickly as you wanted them to. If you were lucky, you would make it back before they even figured out where you were. To say that they were going to be pissed when they found out would be an understatement. But you were an adult, for crying out loud. Hell, you were the same age as Dean and he seemed to run off without a care in the world. 

There was little to no-one on the bus as it sped down the freeway. Supposedly that's because most people weren’t mad enough to get up at 2 in the morning to get on a bus. Either way, it was nice. You had disabled the tracker on your phone and plugged in your headphones to prepare for the drive. 

Gotham city was a strange place. Extravagant, but strange. Dawn was slowly creeping into day when you hopped off the bus, and you could tell that the city was lively. There were people roaming the streets as the streetlamps flickered off and the lights inside the skyscrapers blinked on. There were dog walkers, couples holding hands and businessmen hailing cabs over the road. An eerie feeling hung about the city. You couldn’t place it, but there was something malevolent about this city. With the high rise buildings and twisting alleys,it seemed the perfect place for crime. The city was so big that people could just vanish. It was the perfect place for vampires. 

You found your hotel a little way up the street. It was quaint with only one bed and a small table next to the wall by the ensuite, but it suited your needs perfectly. 

Concealing a machete is not easy. Even though the city had died down slightly now it was past the mid-day hubbub, there were still people everywhere and you did not want to risk being caught by the police for carrying a weapon around. By wearing one of your jackets, you managed to conceal it under your arm as you began to scope out the city to find where the vampires were supposedly nesting. 

When you finally found it, it seemed to tick all of the boxes: glazed windows, outskirts of the city, two entrances that you hoped wouldn’t lead to your untimely demise. Vampires were never very subtle. They were always the same. 

The entrance to the building was concealed down a side-road. Checking your surroundings to make sure the coast was clear, you began to work on the lock. It snapped open and you made your way inside. 

~

Sam and Dean were frantic. 

The day had started out like any other. Sam had slipped out the door early in the morning for his run (a habit which Dean despised and thought was completely unnecessary). He had made nothing of the pile of pillows which you had stacked up on the couch beneath a blanket. It was only when he returned to find Dean nearly burning a floor in the carpet as he paced, taking angrily into the phone. 

“No, I don't know where she could have gone, that's why I'm calling you!”  Dean was scared. Sam could tell that from the first word he spoke. 

There was a pause as the person Dean was on the phone to spoke. Clearly, he wasn’t happy with the response they gave as he slammed the phone shut and threw it across the room. 

“Son of a bitch” he yelled, hands coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“What's going on?” Sam asked. He had a nasty feeling that he already knew. 

“Y/Ns missing.”

“What?” Sam blinked. 

“Yeah. I thought she’d been snatched at first but most of her stuff is gone too.”

Sam bit his lip. “Have you tracked her cell?”

His older brother nodded. “Nothing. I’ve tried calling her too. She’s turned it off.”

“Shit.”

~

You had managed to get yourself in a little bit of a pickle. And by ‘little bit of a pickle’, I mean ‘there were a lot more vampires than you thought and now you were fighting for your life’. So the usual, really. 

When you had slunk inside the building it was completely silent as the vampires sheltered from the sun. But as you moved further into the room and began counting how many there were, you paled. Things hit the fan when you stepped backwards and knocked over a stack of books. All eyes snapped to you and you struggled to keep up with the sheer number of them. The scent of blood and sweat filled the room as you fought and swung. Most of it theirs, but some of it yours. 

No matter how many you took down, their attacks never seemed to end. You had just sliced the head off of one when another three raced before you. They were about to reach you, their fangs bared and snarling, when someone tackled them to the ground. The boy was tall, muscular and dressed from head to toe in black, besides the brown jacket slung over the top and the red emblem on his chest. Another figure appeared to your left, also dressed in black. Though this time, his face was concealed by a domino mask and a blue symbol was imprinted on the front of it. 

Although the vampires went down, it seemed the two vigilantes didn’t know how to kill them which meant that even with their help, you were going to get nowhere. So as they tussled with them, you swung your arm to defeat the one before you before moving to help them. When the last one went down, their attention snapped toward you as you wiped the end of the machete with the hem of your sleeve. 

“What the hell was that?” The one in blue had you pinned up against the wall before you could even blink. 

You scoffed. “A thank you would be nice.”

You pushed against his arm, trying to free yourself but he had you stuck firmly in place. 

He lowered his voice, leaning closer to you. “I’m gonna ask you again: what the hell were they?”

“You won't believe me.” You told him slyly.

“Try us.” The one in red said. 

“Vampires.”

The one in red snorted. “Funny. Now start talking before we arrest you for murder.”

“I told you you wouldn’t believe me.” You rolled your eyes. “If you let me go I’ll prove it to you.”

~

Dick and Jason honestly weren’t sure if they believed you or not. They had heard the commotion when they passed a building on patrol. People had been going missing in the area recently and they were investigating the area. When they saw you inside they were taken aback. Their initial instinct was to attack you, but when they realised that you were trying to stop the group of people they realised it was you who needed help. They thought it would be easy to take them down. That was until they actually tried. The attackers had sharp canines that came very close to their faces and only stilled when you attacked them with your machete. 

When you revealed to them that they were vampires, they thought you were messing with them, but after you showed off their sharp fangs, they were convinced 

They were silent as they walked you back to the cave, unsure what to make of it. They were shell shocked; creatures that they thought only existed in movies were real…?

Even more so, they were surprised at how unfazed you seemed. It made them wonder how long you had been doing this for. They didn’t recognise you, and you had refused to give them a name. Jason was going to ask Tim to run a search on the database later, though he wasn’t even sure if he would find anything. 

Bruce wasn’t sure what to make of it. When the two vigilantes brought you into the cave after introducing themselves and explaining their work, Bruce was hesitant. He thought that this was some kind of joke. A prank by his two sons. You were adamant however, and showed him pictures on your cell and research papers online. 

When you turned your cell back on, you were bombarded with dozens of miscalls and twice as many unread texts from both of your brothers and anyone else who they decided to contact about your disappearance. Shitttttt

Just as you were about to speak, a loud clatter sounded from across the batcave. All of the vigilantes in the room stood to attention and you reached for the gun holstered in your waistband. But as soon as you did so, you came face to face with eyes you knew very well. 

“Dean?!” You gawped at him. 

“Y/N? Oh thank god.” He pulled you close to him. 

The vigilantes dropped their weapons slightly. “You know them?” Jason raised an eyebrow.

“My brothers.” You nodded. They must have managed to track the bus you got on. 

“Jesus christ, Y/N. What the hell were you thinking?” Sam chided. “You could have gotten seriously hurt.”

“Relax, Sammy. I’m fine. I needed to get away from your bickering for once.”

Dick laughed from across the room “You can say that again.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean frowned. 

“I mean you two are constantly arguing and I’m sick of it. I needed to get out on my own for a day or two. I was planning to come back tomorrow morning.”

“And you planned to stay here with these...people?”

“...not exactly.”

“Y/N.” Dean warned. 

“They helped me.” 

“You told them?!” 

“Kind of hard not to when you’re being attacked by a group of blood thirsty vampires.”

“It’s true.” Jason said. “We didn’t believe her at first.”

“Sorry…”

“It’s alright.” Dean said. “We’re sorry it got so far that you felt you had to leave. All that matters is that you’re safe.”

Bruce decided to speak next, his interest peaked by your earlier statements. “So about those vampires…the other things are real too?”

Dean nodded. “Pretty much all of it.”

“Oh god. I have a feeling things are about to get a whole lot more interesting in Gotham.”

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BATFAM TAGS

@aestheticdaisies @hearts4robs @xxrougefangxx @mamapucket @hell-o-kittys @harleycao @batfamsstuff

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SPN TAGS:

@defonotashleyr @aestheticdaisies @xxrougefangxx

@hell-o-kittys @inlovewhithafairytale @harleycao

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[nathandrakeisabottom]

Headcannons about them with an anxious SO? Love your stuff x

Thank you, friend! Now, in full canonical honesty, I don’t believe that either Nathan or Sam would be particularly good at dealing with their deeper anxiety, let alone someone else’s, let alone someone else’s who they loved dearly and would only be afraid to make it worse (that many crumbling bridges and a guy’s gotta if consider his only superpower is the ability to destroy everything he touches) for most of their young lives. 

However, I do believe that post-UC4 (perhaps a little earlier for Nathan), and a good dose of necessary therapy (paid for in pirate coins, of course)--- they’d be more than willing to finally take on the challenge. 

For themselves, and for the person they love more than anything.

Drakes with an Anxious S/O Headcanons

Nathan:

In his younger days, the prince of the awkward smile and half-hearted clap on the back. A pulley doll whose only catchphrases were “Man, that’s hard”, “Yeah. Yeesh.”, and “Soooo, I guess this would be a bad time for a joke, huh?”. Scurries to the bathroom as soon as they’re not in tears anymore, and stays there for as long as it takes to stop hearing the residual sobs.

However, his late 30s and 40s bring him a much healthier perspective (and therapy— Jesus, finally) and being the smarty pants he is, he passes on no opportunity to put his new skills and knowledge to use.

That playfulness and desire to find the lightness in even the hardest situations never leaves him at any age, though.

A panic attack? “‘Is something… wrong with you’? You realize you’re talking to the guy who accidentally destroys ancient temples for a living, as an archaeologist? And I still consider myself a not so bad guy. So in my eyes, you’re basically a lesser known Mesopotamian god.”

Got a bad grade? “A D in Psychometrics? I don’t know, sounds like they don’t know anything about math if they’re using a letter to grade you. Maybe they should go get their teaching certificates checked. Hey, how ‘bout I just draw you a PhD myself? You know I have an eye for art.” 

Dealing with shitty parents? Landlord? Roommates? Exes who won’t leave you the fuck alone? “What? That buffoon? Guy who can’t even spell their own name right? That asshole isn’t worth a thought of a thought of a thought in your head. Pretty sure they haven’t had a thought in their own head since 1996.”

As soon as the first wide-toothed smile is won, he’s leaning into his partner with a secretive smirk: “Ya wanna get the hell out of here?” 

Because distractions always helped him before. 

Will act especially gentlemanly, and theatrically play it up, while taking their partner for a frozen yogurt, antique shop, Target trip, public park, laser tag (yes, really) decompress. Bows when he opens the car door for them. Pays for everything. Calls them ‘your majesty’ for the entirety of the excursion.

All he wants is to get them to smile. And he’s not stopping until he sees it. 

When the night creeps in and his S/O starts to lose steam, Nathan’s own worry grows more obvious, though he tries his best to keep it to himself. 

Watches them with wide eyes. Gives them space, but still asks every few minutes if they need a cup of water. No? Tea? Arnold Palmer? Popsicle? Massage? Hot Pocket? Sexy pillow fight? However many it takes to make his partner laugh again. But he fully means every offer he gives.

Says nothing as he helps them undress and into their PJs. Touches are tender and intimate, gently rubs their shoulders and neck. Never too hard, never too direct. Plays the friendly ghost and lets their partner take the lead, but never, ever just sits around to watch.

Makes them a beverage of some sort, even if they say no. Hot lemonade with honey is his personal homecure. Says yellow is a happy color, so it must be good for you.

And right before they turn the lights out, Nate timidly offers— with a shy, trying chuckle— if they want him to read them a bedtime story. 

Somehow shocked every time they say yes. Mumbles something self-derogatory about himself (“Ya know, not the best actor, but—” “Personally I think I have the voice of a dying goose, but—”) before sitting on the nearest surface and cracking open a book.

If he’s still feeling a little awkward, will uneasily ask if they wanna hear what he’s been reading lately, and will do so if asked— but really wants to read the pirate storybooks his mother read to him and Sam when they were kids.

It always made him feel better when the world felt too big, too scary, too cruel. 

So he wants to share it with the person he loves. 

He wants to share everything with the person he loves.

And without even asking, goes to the medicine cabinet and brings them a tablet of whatever they need when the anxiety gets especially bad, and says “I know, it’s scary. But we’ve been through scary before, right?” with a kiss on the cheek as they swallow it down with a sip of lemonade.

Lingers, eyes down, and vaguely nods to nobody as he stands and walks to the door.

“Want me… uh, want me to keep reading to you?” But he offers before he can even get past the door frame. 

“Do you want me to want you to keep reading to me?” 

And the last thing he wants to see is his love, alone. The idea of them crying beneath the covers because they were too afraid to burden him with it, too afraid to be seen. Everything he felt he had to do when he was 6 and his mother “passed”, age 9, 10, 11, 12 after a black eye, the words that his brain told him wrong: spoken aloud by the playground bullies he feared he’d never be stronger than. 

But he knew they were wrong. The bullies were wrong. The ones in his brain. The ones in theirs.

“Yes.” He replies without missing a beat. 

And he makes sure to hold their hand in his free one until the second they fall asleep… and a few hours after, just to be safe.

The next morning they fucking better expect breakfast in bed— and he maybe, just maybe, might even be willing to spring for McDonald’s, if that’s what they want. As long as they promise to eat actual fruit after. And hell, maybe even a vegetable or two when he makes dinner that night. Did you know that eating right and exercise are actually primary solutions to poor mental health—? That’s what Dr. Dorian said— No, potatoes don’t count as a vegetable— no, especially not if it’s fried— NO, FRENCH FRIES DON’T COUNT, BABY—

Sam:

Sam takes a bit longer to warm up to discussing anxiety than Nathan does, mostly due to struggling so deeply with it on his own. It’s not like prisoners (or Shoreline guards) made the most comforting companions. 

The better he could keep secrets, the less he could reveal, the safer he’d be.

So it makes sense that it’s both his greatest strength and weakness when it comes to emotionally turbulent times. 

In his younger, more avoidant years, he’d be the first to leave the room, leave the building, hell, sometimes even leave the city after a particularly heavy cry or confrontation with his then-partner. Only to come back the next morning and act like nothing ever happened. 

But now, he doesn’t run. After prison, after Rafe, after Madagascar, all he wants is to be allowed to stay. To be wanted to stay by someone who loves him. 

Is happiest to just sit with you in the silence. His biggest skill is his ability to weather the storm. And whether you need to scream bloody murder, or need to sit and decompress and just fucking feel, but can’t do it alone, Sam’s there. Listening. 

Once you’re done talking, he takes one last, long drag of his cigarette, stubs it out onto the pavement, and asks simply: “So do you want solutions… or something else, sweet’art?” 

You can see in his eyes— darting less than solid, certain against your own— that he really means it, in every way that he was too afraid to when he was younger.

The wonderful and terrifying thing about having anxiety while Sam is there is that it’s a vulnerable experience for the both of you. He’s learning, discovering, trying right along with you. And he may not be able to lift you up so easily, but he’ll be able to sink into the dark places with you, and not be afraid to see what’s down there. 

And maybe seeing someone he loves so deeply, sees as so beautiful, so smart, so kind, so wonderful, so absolutely perfect to him feel the same ways he does about himself… maybe it makes him think that he’s not as terrible as his brain tells him, either. 

Helps you take action by letting himself (finally) not be the smart one: “When ya… get like this, what do you usually do first, sweet’art? Paint me a pit’chure.” Gives you complete control, and smiles softly when you wipe your tears and the logical, the archaeological mind awakens. Mimics unraveling an ancient map when you begin to explain, and you inadvertently hiccup out a laugh. 

At times, it’ll feel like he’s trying to run again, but when he stands up and walks across the room— he always returns. This time with your favorite of his jackets, the denim one that smells like him even though he just cleaned it, and drapes it protectively over your shoulders. Clasps his palm at the back of your neck and rubs out the knot he always finds there. Smiles toothy and wide when your words are broken up by sighs of relief. Only to be filled once again with silence, gazes meeting sweet and safe. 

“Remember Indonesia?” He offers with a smirk, despite your furrowed brow.

“I guess? What about—?” 

“I read the runes’ instructions and ran us in circles all around Bali, only to reread the transcript and realized I got three letters completely wrong. J—V—A. Java. It was goddamn Java the entire time.” 

“Your point being?” 

He smiles and shrugs. Trying. Maybe he’s wrong, a foreigner in some ancient, uncertain land, but he tries.

“Sometimes our brains are just wrong.” He tries for you. “That’s all.”

You sniffle, and he leans in to press a prickly kiss to your cheek. His jacket is still warm from the dryer, wafting with the residual sting of cigarette, Old Spice Captain, cheap mouthwash, even cheaper aftershave, and something else completely unnameable. 

And maybe some others would think the scent appalling, but it’s the strangeness, the specificity, and yes, the stank— everything that makes Sam him— that makes you love it. Love him. The depth. The difference. 

The pain, and what he chose to do with it. 

Another kiss, this time down your neck. This time, the sigh of relief is his own.

What he chose to change it into. 

“So… any chance sex therapy might be a thing?” He asks grinningly.

“Why don’t we find out, ‘sweet’art’?”

[eccentricallygothic]

🎀 girls just want to be impaled by sam drake's cock. it's me, i am girls 🎀

[alorlie]

SAMUEL DRAKE

— uncharted 4

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Out Of The Darkness, And Into Your Arms - Sam Drake X Female Reader

Title: Out Of The Darkness, And Into Your Arms

Sam Drake X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's friend one, Reader's friend two, Nathan, Elena (Mentioned), Sully (Mentioned), Rafe (Mentioned), Alcazar (Mentioned), and Bar jerk

Loosely inspired by: 'I'm So Tired' by Lauv and Troye Sivan

WC: 6,390

Warnings: Uncharted 4 canon violence mentioned, Uncharted 4 canon events/storyline, Sam's death, italics used, cursing, crying, nightmares mentioned, bars, alcohol, drugs mentioned, guy at bar harrasses/annoys Reader briefly, blood briefly mentioned, brief mention of mental health/depression, nicknames, slightly suggestive, angst, and fluff

"Come on, Y/N, just try." Your friend placed a hand on your shoulder, stopping your pacing. 

You threw your hands up in the air, "I have been trying." You huffed, glancing at your friend as you tugged at your hair in frustration. "I have been trying - for fifteen years. But you don't understand how damn hard it is." You gently pushed past your friend and moved over to the couch, sitting down. 

As you covered your face with your hands, your friend let out their sign. "I know that it's hard. I truly do. I may not know the full extent of everything, but I'm so sorry for what happened."

"It's not your fault," You whispered, taking a deep breath, dragging your hands down your face, making your cheeks burn slightly; "It's mine."

"No, it’s not, Y/N." They quickly sat next to you, putting an arm around your shoulders, "You didn't know what was going to happen."

You shook your head, looking up at your friend, "I watched him fall." You felt tears sting at the corners of your eyes, "I tried to help Nate but we couldn't hold on..." You stared down at your shaking hands. You could still see the look on Sam’s face when he got shot - the blood - and you could still remember the feeling of his hand slipping from yours before he fell down the side of the building. You remember the shock, the horror; the complete and total shuttering dread that filled and chilled your bones. You couldn’t hear the bullets piercing through the air near you, Rafe, and Nate’s bodies on the rooftop. You couldn’t even feel the bullet as it grazed your arm… You couldn’t even hear Nate as he yelled out to you, nor did you feel his hand as it grabbed you. The dread… The feeling of the adrenaline, and your heart breaking into millions of pieces, were overwhelming as you followed Nate. You wished you stayed… Maybe Sam was alright. Maybe you could’ve saved him… But the blood - his blood - you couldn’t think about it anymore. You couldn’t think about Sam anymore, but it was hard not to think about him constantly. He was always on your mind. You stared at your hands, your mind imagining Sam’s blood on them before you clenched them, your nails digging uncomfortably into your palms; creating crescent-shaped divots. "I should've done something." You took a shaky, deep breath, "I should have stopped him from falling."

Your friend gave you a sympathetic smile, pulling you closer to their side. "But you couldn't, Y/N. You are only human. The only thing we could do was move forward."

"Yeah, I know… That’s what everyone tells me." You sighed deeply, leaning your head onto your friend's shoulder, "...It just hurts." You admitted after a moment, "Every day I think about him... How scared he must have been..." You trailed off, letting your words drift away into nothingness; your hand mindlessly drifted up to the scar on your upper arm, your fingers brushing over the sleeve of your shirt, the scar was slightly raised beneath it. 

They didn't say anything for a few moments until your friend spoke again, "I know, but that's why moving on is going to be good for you. Going out and about in the world, meeting new people... Get your mental health back on track."

"I've been trying, you know I've been trying. But it's been fifteen years and I still love him." You looked up to meet their gaze, tears slowly spilling from your eyes. “And I never got the chance to tell him.”

"I know." They nodded, their voice soft. "I know. That hasn't changed. But you can't live like this. Please, Friday, just go out with us... Just try and have some fun."

"I'll try..." You sniffled, wiping away the stray tears, "But if things start going south, then I'm coming straight home." 

They laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder, "Fair enough." They reached forward and pulled you into a hug, "So... Friday?"

You smiled sadly, hugging back, "Yeah, Friday."

Giving your friend one last smile, you said your 'goodnights' before shutting your door. The moment the door clicked shut, you sighed. Leaning forward, you shut your eyes as you pressed your forehead against the cool wooden surface of the door. Your chest began to tighten as the dam eventually broke, and your tears quickly fell down your cheeks.

Sobs racked through your body as your arms wrapped around yourself, holding tightly to your ribs. A small whimper escaped your lips as you sank down against your door, clutching your knees to your chest as you dug your chin into yourself, muffling your sobs. 

After what felt like hours, your cries eventually quieted. Exhaustion seeped into your limbs as you slipped against the door, finding purchase on the ground; burying your face in your arms as you just curled up on the cold floor. You tried to shut up your brain, trying to force yourself not to think about Sam, or the night you lost him... But you couldn't stop yourself from remembering every detail. 

Every time that you thought about Sam, it hurt more and more each time. The pain never dulled, never numbed... You remembered how his eyes sparkled whenever he talked about his adventures in Italy and Brazil. You loved how they sparkled that same sparkle - that same passion - when he showed off the treasures he had found during those adventures; the same went for when he told you about Sir Francis Drake. It made you miss him even more. You'd never hear his stories again. You'd never hear his voice again; that deep, thick Boston accent. You'd never get lost in his chocolate-brown eyes again, or try and count the small freckles on his cheeks before losing track. You'd never get to hold him again… Listen to his steady heartbeat... Or tell him that you loved him... 

Sam… You'd never get to tell him. You never got to say it back to him.

~~~

The blankets shifted as you shuffled closer to Sam, your arm falling over his chest as you cuddled into his side. Sam laid there with you, his hand caressing the soft, warm skin of your back. You, Sam, and Nate had traveled to Spain to find some old pirate treasure of a notorious female pirate of the eighteen hundreds. You and Sam were in your motel room, relaxing after a long day roaming through forests and hiking up mountains. It was nice to finally be able to relax, and have some downtime. You loved adventures - treasure hunting - but it was nice to take a break. No hot weather, no dirt under your fingernails, or running away from treasure-hunting competitors. Just you and Sam, enjoying a peaceful night together. 

Sam chuckled suddenly, causing your eyelids to flutter open. "What's so funny, Sammy?" You asked, glancing up at him.

He smiled, "I'm just thinking about that movie," He glanced at the TV, a soft glow emanating from it; showing the credits rolling. "I liked it."

You matched his smile, "Well, I am happy you liked it. It is one of my favorites." Your fingers played with the edge of the blanket that laid upon Sam's stomach, "I told you bringing a movie with us would be helpful."

Sam hesitated, his mouth opening and closing before opening again, "About this morning... I- uh, it probably wasn't the best time to tell you... Ya'know, when we were getting shot at." Sam tried to joke, but his words sounded awkward even to his own ears.

You hummed, biting your lip briefly, "Sam, I-"

"You don't have to say it back," Sam spoke, interrupting you, "I don't want you to say it when you're not ready."

You felt your face flush, Sam had told you he loved you that morning. Multiple bullets were being shot at you, and both you and Sam were barricaded behind a crumbling wall of an old castle. Sam was right, the situation you two were in wasn’t exactly ideal. But after Sam watched you single-handedly take down three of your competitor's goons; he had to tell you. The sight of you taking those goons down, it was amazing - he couldn’t take his eyes off you, couldn’t keep his focus off the way the sunlight hit you, making the light dance across your features. Your hair was messy, sweaty strands sticking to your forehead, you were breathing heavily, yet you still managed to pull your gun out from its holster and shoot another two goons dead. You did it so flawlessly, it was breathtaking. And by the time you were beside him again, racing to find Nate, Sam just blurted it out. You were shocked, yes, but before either of you could say anything, you had found Nate and the three of you were off to Spain; a piece of an artifact in hand.

"Thank you," You whispered quietly, pressing a kiss to Sam's cheek, smiling at him.

He smiled at you gently, wrapping his arms around you. "Of course," He mumbled, before placing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

~~~

Your eyes widened as you jolted upright, and your heart raced, before swiftly looking around your living room, breathing heavily as you realized you must have fallen asleep. The depression seeped in again, and you let out a small sniffle. You wondered if you'd ever feel better, but it had been fifteen years. Fifteen years of just... Drifting? Living? No, you weren't living, and you knew that Sam would've wanted you to live. You didn't know what you were doing. And you were scared that these feelings weren't ever going away. Looking up at your window, the sun was already low in the sky; it seemed you had slept for a good couple of hours - yet, you were still tired. 

~~~

The bar was loud, and the moment you entered it, you regretted ever leaving your house. Yes, you had gone out, but to stores or to the mall when you felt like it. You felt incredibly out of place, even though, years ago, you used to frequent bars with... Sam. You used to be the life of the party, but things changed; you changed.

You couldn't even remember the last time you went into a bar after what happened. After what happened, you and Nate - along with Elena and Sully - stuck together; for the most part. Soon, Elena and Nate got married, it was a beautiful wedding, and the both of them quit their adventuring. You lost contact with Victor not long after. You spoke to Nate on the phone often, and both he and Elena visited when they could; and vice versa. 

Your two friends practically dragged you by the arms further into the bar, snapping you out of your thoughts as you felt the tingling feeling of anxiety coursing through you. You were not ready for this at all. Your friends then found a booth near the small dancefloor, and before you knew it, you were stuck sitting in between your two friends.

"I might get a martini," Your friend, the one that comforted you in your home, spoke.

"You always get a martini. I'm going to try something new, maybe a bloody mary." Your second friend spoke, before turning to you, "What are you getting?"

You shrugged, shifting uncomfortably in your seat on the dark red, leather booth. "I don't know."

Your second friend gently nudged your shoulder, gaining your attention away from the wooden, circular table. They gave you an encouraging smile, "You got this. Just for tonight."

You tried to smile back at them before you watched the both of them head off to the bar on the other side of the large, dim-lighted room. You let out a sigh, before letting your gaze shift around the room, you were already growing tired of the music the bar was playing. You fiddled with your fingers in your lap, somewhat people-watching. It was a pretty crowded bar, with a good amount of people either at the bar, on the dancefloor, or at the booths eating. The bar was located more by your work, close to downtown. You had passed by it many times in your time living in the area, but you never went in. 

Your eyes snapped away from the people of the bar, your ears perked up to where you presumed a speaker was, hanging on the corner of the ceiling. The music, that had been playing throughout the short time that you were there, was ranging between pop, rock, and indie - had changed, changed into one song that you hadn't heard for a long time, and for a reason.

The song was a rock song, though it had some romantic elements mixed into it. It was made by a band from the eighties. A band you used to love - that Sam even liked. The song was your song. It was yours and Sam's song. 

You had first heard the song in your car. It was way before... Before what happened, but you and Sam had been driving away from somewhere, and the song just popped onto the radio. The song was something new, something neither you nor Sam had ever heard before. But as you sat there, listening to the lyrics, you couldn't help but think about Sam. The song spoke about two lovers, who had the power to speak without words. They could go through everything and anything. Their love could transcend all. There was more but the song resonated within your bones. 

Sam thought it was a bit cliche, but the more you insisted that it was your song for each other, the more Sam grew to love it. He never told you, but you knew. 

You bit your lip, your eyes dropping back down at the table, memories flooding your mind. Sam had given you a mixtape for your birthday, composed of your favorite songs. You remembered, a long time ago, listening to the song in the car; from your mixtape. You were singing along, somewhat obnoxiously, but you didn't care, you were having fun. You remembered when you pulled up to the red light, somewhere in the middle of nowhere - miles from home - when you turned to Sam. Your bright smile slowly faded upon seeing Sam's face. His expression was intense, but soft, as he looked directly into your eyes. The side of his face was illuminated by the streetlamp on the side of the road, highlighting his features beautifully. You could hardly take your eyes off him. 

It was like time stood still, and the world stopped spinning. The world only existed for that one moment, and for one single moment, nothing else mattered. No treasure hunting, no running from men with guns, no responsibilities. Nothing. It felt only natural when you both began to lean in, your heart beginning to race in your chest as Sam reached out with a hand, cupping your warm cheek. He closed the distance between you two as your eyes fluttered shut and you felt his lips press against yours. He tasted like cinnamon and smoke, and you loved it. You loved how his rough hands cupped your face, how the calluses of his thumbs felt as they brushed against the apples of your cheeks. You loved him... You loved him.

You blinked away the memories, a heavy feeling resting in your chest. That moment would forever stay with you. But, you were tired. You were tired of love songs, and you just wanted to go home. You wanted to go home and watch some comfort movie while eating takeout. You wanted to be alone. But, you knew that being out and about was probably good for you, as your friends had said many times before.

So, you slid yourself out of the booth, making your way to the bar; passing the dancefloor where you found your two friends dancing and having fun. Upon reaching the bar, you waved the bartender down, but before you could even reply with your drink, a deep voice answered for you.

"She'll have a vodka lime and soda." 

You briskly turned your head, coming face to face with a man in what seemed to be his late thirties. He was tall, had short, curly blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes that you could surprisingly make out within the dim light of the bar. He was attractive, yes, but with the way he was staring at you - ogling you - looking you up and down; there was just something about him that gave you an uneasy feeling in your gut. And you often trusted your gut; something that you learned to use when you used to treasure hunt. On top of that, he ordered a drink for you, choosing a drink for you, instead of politely asking to pay for your drink. 

You weren't at all in the mood for whatever bullshit he was going to pull, "I don't drink those." You replied simply, thankfully the bartender was still there, and you corrected the drink to one you preferred, before turning back to see that the man was still there, so you raised an eyebrow. "Can I help you?" You weren't trying to be polite, and you were hoping the man would just see that you were not interested and just leave you alone. 

"Just admiring you," He finally spoke, his comment making you scoff, and roll your eyes. What? Were you some sort of museum piece? What did he want? He continued speaking, "The outfit you're wearing is gorgeous."

You stared at him with annoyance, not sure how to respond. Did he expect you to thank him? Because you wouldn't do that. Maybe you'd have to simplify your question. "What do you want?"

The man - that you still didn't have a name for, mind you - as if you wanted one - just gave you, what he probably believed was a charming smile. With a swish of a hand, he pushed the curly blonde hair from the side of his temple, "Can I not just admire someone as beautiful as you?" Honestly, this guy was reminding you of Prince Charming from 'Shrek'. And obviously not in a good way, you hated that guy.

"Go find someone else to admire - actually, no, how about you go home and not bother anyone else? Forever." The man, still with no name other than the idiot from 'Shrek,' just continued to smile, unbothered by your attitude. You briefly looked around the dancefloor, unable to spot your friends. 

"I quite like where I am right here." He continued, soon the bartender arrived with your drink, and you were quick to grab your drink; not wanting this guy to possibly drug you. "Unless you want to join me. My apartment is just down the street."

But at this point, this man was becoming insufferable. "Hell no," You took a quick sip of your drink. "Not interested. I have a boyfriend." You pursed your lips, the words had just slipped out, easily, subconsciously. You clenched your jaw, taking another sip; you wished the drink was stronger, but you didn't think they made anything strong enough to numb the pain you were feeling. And besides, that was unhealthy anyway. One drink for the night - maybe even two - was enough. You had a long day of work tomorrow and you didn't want to wake up with a massive headache. Though, you were beginning to get one the longer the man stood beside you. And the jerk was still staring at you. Weirdo. 

You could vaguely hear the man beside you talking, but you weren't paying attention. Your eyes wandered the bar, trying to spot your friends, checking the booth that you had been sitting at before your eyes landed on the dark corner of the bar; near the back door; a green neon sign locating the exit above it. Your eyes widening as you felt your hands shaking; you had to tighten your grip on your drink to stop yourself from possibly dropping it. There stood a figure. One that you could barely make out, but you knew that figure. You knew that stance. 

Feeling a hand on your arm, you snapped your gaze away from the corner, your eyes meeting the blue ones of the man, who was still beside you. Your expression completely soured, your eyes narrowing and your frown deepening. You stared daggers at him before grabbing his hand and taking it off of your arm. "Do not touch me." You practically growled, only for the man to smirk down at you.

"Awe, you're so cute when you're ang-" Before he could even finish his sentence, you left the bar. You were this close to punching him, and you would’ve loved to if you didn’t have the threat of the police being called on you if you did.

Spotting your friends next to a small group of people, you walked over, your friend turned to greet you; but upon seeing your expression, their smiles fell. "Gone south?" One asked, and you nodded, handing your other friend your drink.

"Gone south." You confirmed, before saying your 'goodbyes and thanks' before leaving the bar entirely. 

~~~

"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while." That sentence seemed to echo through the TV screen, making you pause your chewing as you shuffled further back into the cushion of your couch. You watched as Westley and Buttercup lay in the green grass, in each other's arms; you placed your popcorn to the side.

"I'll never doubt again," Buttercup spoke, as Weastly just gazed down at her, with such admiration and true love.

You sighed as he spoke his line, "There will never be a need." Before he brought her in a long-awaited kiss.

You sighed once more, grabbing your large bowl of popcorn - mixed with M&Ms - resuming your eating. You loved 'The Princess Bride' but you hadn't watched it in a very long time. And, like most things in your life, it reminded you of Sam. You somewhat scolded yourself. It had been fifteen years, and you still felt the same as you did since the moment you watched Sam fall to his death. You wished that you could just un-miss him... But, you needed him. You needed him more than ever. 

Somedays were harder than others, and today was one of those days. The night before, you had gone to the bar with friends, and had to deal with that Prince Charming wannabe jerk - and then with that overwhelming thought that maybe Sam was there at the bar... No, you didn't see him. Your mind was just playing tricks on you. It was like that scene in another movie you liked, where the mother spoke that she saw her missing husband ten times a week, in a hundred different faces. You shook your head to clear it, letting a sigh escape your lips.

But that feeling, you couldn't shake it. You needed to tell someone about it. And there was only one person you could possibly talk about it with, that would totally understand.

Leaning over the side of the couch, you grabbed the TV remote; careful not to spill your popcorn and M&Ms. Pausing the movie, you grabbed your phone off the coffee table, replacing it with the bowl. Flipping open your flip phone - you never really got around to getting a new phone - you opened your contacts and called Nathan.

The phone rang a few times, before he answered, "Hello? Y/N?" He asked, and faintly you could hear the theme of 'Crash Bandicoot' before you assumed he paused it.

"Hey, Nathan," You felt yourself smile, "I'm sorry to call so late."

You heard him let out a sputtering chuckle, "Nah," He was probably shaking his head, "Not too late. I was just playing 'Crash Bandicoot.' What's up?" 

"Just checking up on you and E," You spoke, shifting on the couch, "Anything new going on?"

"Mmm, nope, not at the moment." Nate spoke with a short hum, "Still a salvager." He paused shortly, "What about you? What did you really call me about?"

You let out a somewhat awkward laugh, "Nothing! I just wanted to check up on you and Elena. It's been a while since I saw you both." You sighed, glancing over to the shelf beside your TV, spotting the picture frame featuring you, Nate, and Elena; you were all standing by the Colosseum in Rome - your birthday vacation. "I guess I just miss you guys."

"I miss you too, kid," Nate spoke, his voice soft, "I know Elena does too. She talks about you a lot. We've been planning to see if you are available to hang out sometime soon. Have dinner with us. Haven't seen you in like, what? A month?"

"Two, actually." You corrected with a small laugh, "And you know I am free whenever. I am my own boss, so..." You trailed off, and Nate laughed in return.

There was a short pause before he spoke again, "How are you?" He asked, and with that tone of his voice, you knew what he meant, but you played oblivious. 

"I'm doing great-"

"Y/N," He interrupted, and you huffed, "You know what I mean. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But, you know, talking about... Well, everything… It might help."

You glanced at the paused movie, "I know," You bit your lip, your eyes dropping on to your lap before you huffed again, but it turned out into more of a sigh, "Honestly, I am the same as I was since the beginning." You rolled your eyes at yourself, fiddling with the soft fabric of your throw blanket with your free hand, "I went out to the bar with some friends, and I thought-" You swallowed before continuing, "Can I just- Are you free tomorrow? Uh, before work? Can I just come see you? What I have to say might be easier face to face."

"Yeah," Nate answered, "Yeah, yeah, for sure."

"Thank you, Nate. I really hope I’m not bothering you or anything with this." You replied, your eyes closing momentarily, a slight frown on your face, before opening them as Nate spoke once more.

"No, it's totally fine, Y/N." His voice reassured you a bit, "I'll talk to you more tomorrow, okay?"

You felt yourself smile - an appreciative one - "Yeah, yeah… Thank you again, Nate. See you tomorrow."

Hanging up the phone, you tossed it to the side cushion, and grabbed the TV remote, unpausing your movie. 

~~~

Your fingers tapped against your car's steering wheel, not to any particular rhythm, nor to the song that was playing on the radio; just your nervous energy that wouldn't leave you alone. Stopping at a light, you blindly grab ahold of your water bottle, taking a quick sip before the light turns green. The drive to Nate's place of work was a good forty-five minutes from your house, so the drive wasn't terrible, and you considered yourself lucky that you didn't get stuck in traffic or something along those lines.

Pulling up into the driveway of the parking lot, you parked beside a red pickup truck, before letting out a sigh. Taking a few seconds, you flipped open the vanity mirror in your sun visor. Pausing, you glanced at the polaroid of Sam that you pinned to the inside of the sun visor. You and Sam had been in Egypt - looking for treasure as always - and you just decided to take a picture of him. The sun was setting, and you could just barely see one of the pyramids behind Sam's head. He looked so… Ethereal.

Fixing your hair somewhat, to at least look presentable, you hopped out of your car. The sun was already raising, and you had to take a minute just to admire the sunrise as you climbed up the stairs towards Nate's office. However, when you reached the top of the stairs, you froze. 

If your heart was beating, you couldn't feel it. All you could feel was the soft breeze that passed by you as you stared wide-eyed at the sight before you. You originally thought that you were seeing things again. But, as he turned to face you, a sort of apprehensive look on his face... You let out a breath - a sigh - that you didn't know you were even holding. 

His name was on the tip of your tongue, just at your lips, and yet, you couldn't force the words to pass through your mouth. Instead, you felt tears burn the backs of your eyes before they spilled over onto your cheeks as you quickly ran towards him. Sam staggered back as you crashed into him - wrapping your arms tightly around him; your hands gripping the denim martial of his jacket.

His arms wrapped tightly around you, squeezing you tighter as he buried his nose into the hair on the top of your head. You shut your eyes, your breathing coming out heavy as he kissed the top of your head softly, whispering your name; almost like a prayer.

You clung to him tighter, an overwhelming wave of relief and happiness flooding over you as you pulled away slightly; your fingers still clinging to the front of his jacket, the other resting on his chest. His heartbeat was the proof that he was real, that he wasn't just some grief-created hallucination; he was alive.

Meeting his chocolate-brown eyes, seeing that smile on his face... You finally found yourself able to speak, "You're alive," You reluctantly let go of him to wipe the tears from your eyes and cheeks, "But you fell…” You buried your face back into his chest, “It’s my fault, I should’ve- I should’ve held on tighter." Sam’s arms tightened around you, shaking his head.

“No, sweetheart, darling, none of this was ever your fault.” Sam let go of you to gesture to himself, “I’m fine, see?” He gave you a reassuring grin.

You nodded, brushing the tears from your cheeks, “I thought you were dead.” You gave him a smile, “But, I am so glad you’re home.”

Sam couldn't look away from you - after fifteen years, you continued to look as beautiful as ever; like a goddess. Sam missed you, so many nights in that prison, Sam had dreamed about you - some nights he even thought he heard your voice... And now that he was standing there, with you standing right in front of him, and all he wanted to do was pull you close to him again.

"So did I." A small grin stretched across his face as he took your hands in his, his thumbs gently rubbing against the tops of your palms as his gaze moved over your face. Honestly, he was still taking you in; it had been so long. 

"What happened?" You asked, your worried and confused eyes searching his as Sam let out a small chuckle, glancing at the sunrise before looking back over at you, he was about to speak, but you continued, "I mean, how did you get out? How did you get here? Nate called basically everyone, and everything led to you being dead, and now you're here, and you're alive. I grieved for you, and I even thought I saw you at the bar, but I think I was just going crazy, or maybe the stress of going out- nevermind that. Are you alright? I mean, you got shot and then you fell-"

"Hey, hey," Sam cut off your rambling, laughing lightly as he raised one of his hands to cup your cheek, "I'm okay, sweetheart, I promise." He smiled reassuringly at you, but seeing the worry that was so clearly written upon your face - the desperation for answers - Sam let out a sigh, nodding his head. "Let's sit down, alright?" Sam led you to the wooden bench, sitting down beside you, and Sam was quiet for a moment before he opened his mouth to explain. And explain he did. He told you about being caught, stitched up, and tossed right back into a cell. He told you about Alcazar and the treasure of Henry Avery. He was in some crazy trouble, and you knew Nate, you knew that Nate was going to help his big brother. You wondered how he was going to tell Elena. "That's the story," Sam let out a sigh, looking over at you with a grin.

You let out a breath, "Wow," You muttered, looking up at him in shock, well, many emotions. "Well, I am just going to say this, I am helping you with his whole Alcazar business. And don't think you can try and convince me not to go. I am going." You hadn't gone on an adventure in a very long time, but you would be crazy to not go with him and Nathan to find that treasure of Henry Avery's. Deep down, you were hoping it would be like the good old days.

Sam raised his hands up in defense, letting out a chuckle, "I'm not going to stop you, the more the merrier."

You felt your shoulders fall as you let out another sigh. Looking up at Sam, relief washed over you in waves once more. You couldn't even express to anyone, nor yourself, how incredibly happy you were that Sam was alive. You missed him, that was obvious, but you missed being next to him, talking to him, hearing his voice; his laugh and touch. And the way he looked at you... You couldn't believe that this was really happening. "I missed you," Came out before you could even have time to think about it. 

Sam's expression softened, his grin morphing into more of a smile - a real one - his hand reached out to grab one of yours; the callouses rough against the soft skin on the back of your hand. "I missed you too, Y/N," Sam admitted quietly, watching you, "You have no idea how damn much."

"I think I've missed you more," You muttered, shifting impossibly closer to him on the bench, your eyes roaming his face before they caught sight of the tattoo on the side of his neck. "I haven't stopped thinking about you, you know? I've had dreams, nightmares. Pictures hanging up on my walls... Even a couple of your shirts." That statement made him chuckle but you continued, your fingers still going along on their journey across Sam's skin; trailing from the apples of his cheeks to his jaw, and so on. "It hurts, sometimes. I miss our talks and our late-night drives. It hurt when I woke up from nightmares and realized that you weren't there..." Your words drew out, your tone wistful and yearning, almost pained.

"Hey," Sam spoke up, pulling your attention away from your exploration, "All that matters is that I am here now," His hand came up cupping your cheek once more, his thumb brushing along the skin of your cheek like he used to do all those years ago; a smile slowly slipped upon your lips, your hand coming up to press against his. You watched as his dark eyes flickered from around your face to your lips, before looking back up to your eyes. He didn't move, no matter how much he just wanted to swoop in to steal a kiss, he spoke, "Can I... Can I kiss you?" He asked, his voice deep, soft, but husky as if there were a slight nervousness hidden underneath it, in addition to longing. "It's been... A long time and I don't know if you-"

"Only you," You answered quickly, "There's only been you." Sam let out a shaky breath before he leaned forward. Your noses brushed together slightly as he brought his free arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him; his lips pressing against yours. The kiss was sweet - gentle yet passionate - as you melted into each other. You hummed, your fingers coming up to brush against the hair on the nape of his neck. Sam eventually pulled away first - reluctantly - resting his forehead against yours, catching his breath, before bringing his hand up and threading it through your hair.

Your hand cupped his warm cheek before you nuzzled your cheek against the other, digging your face into the crook of his neck. Sam chuckled, tightening his grip on your waist, "I love you," He whispered against the shell of your ear. Just for you, and only you to hear.

"I love you, too," You finally got to answer, your own heart beating faster than it ever had before. You didn't want to pull away - not just yet. You couldn't. Not when you finally had him back. You squeezed your eyes shut as you relaxed, leaning into the warmth of Sam's body beside you, relishing every second of being near him. After what seemed like forever, you sighed contently, tilting your head up to press a light kiss to the underside of his jaw before cuddling into his side; admiring the beautiful morning with him. "I hope you know that you're forever stuck with me." You added teasingly as you laid your head back on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Sam responded without hesitation, smiling as you let out a giggle. Shaking your head as you wrapped your arms around his torso, listening to the sound of his heart beating as you laid your head against his chest.

Finally, after so many years, after so much heartbreak and grieving... After so many sleepless nights, watching soap dramas and binging pints of ice cream and cold pizza... Finally, Sam was home. With you. You closed your eyes, feeling his hand brush up and down your arm soothingly as he buried his face in the top of your head; you still used the same shampoo.

Sam shut his own eyes, ignoring Rafe's voice in the back of his mind, allowing himself, for a moment, to pretend that everything was alright. He let out a sigh from his nose, relaxing at the sound of your breathing as he pressed his lips to your temple. Everything was going to be fine.

---

Main Masterlist | Uncharted Masterlist

[igotanidea]

Goddess : multifandom imagine

MINORS DNI!

Suggestive content but nothing explicit. Just a touch starved and shy yet craving intimaty f!s/o

***

„You’re shaking.” he whispered watching her trembling figure next to him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about… “ she mumbled, her gaze focused on the floor, then on the wall, then back on the floor. Anywhere but on him.

“Don’t you now?” he grabbed her chin making her look straight into his eyes “Talk to me, baby. What’s going on?”

“I…..” she stuttered not able to form a full sentence.

“Yes?” that knowing smirk on his face was not helpful at all.

“I need you….. I…..I need your touch…..”

“Like this?” he cupped her cheek  gently and brushed a thumb over it. Poor girl immediately closed her eyes, becoming red, her blushing turning him on.

“No…. I mean, yes, but…..”

“Like this….?” he continued, his other hand traveling up her leg, skimming her thigh and resting on her hip, playing with the hem of her shirt. “Tell me…..” he whispered in her ear, making her breath heavy.

“Please……” she whimpered desperately. She wanted more. So much more.

“I need your words, honey. What exactly do you need?”

This was inhumane. He knew precisely how he was affecting her, making her hot, wet and needy. A mess in his arms even if he barely did anything. That bastard was aware of how touch starved and shy with physical intimacy she was and was using it only to his advantage.

“Please…..” she tried again, almost at the verge of tears “please, kiss me….”

“All right, sweetie.” he pulled her closer by the waist, placing that aching for his touch figure in his lap and captured her lips in his, kissing her gently, slowly, passionately, one hand in her hair, the other on the small of her back. Safe and secure in his embrace. So perfect against his chest. So perfect in his loving grip. Genuine smile formed on his face when her hands sneaked up his arms and shoulders and locked on his neck pulling him closer, like he was her air, her anchor, her everything. She was so needy and so afraid to admit it. A sign of troubled past and previous bad relationships. “Do you like it?” he moved to suck on her neck making her moan and arch her back to him.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop. Please……”

“Don’t worry babygirl. I still got a lot I want to teach you about pleasure.” He carefully changed position, so now she was underneath him. He had no intention of hurting her. Ever. Only showing his love for that blushing beauty who was his. “Just tell me if it’s too much and if you want to stop, all right?”

“Mhm…...” she muttered, her mind consumed by the view of his strong, toned body hovering over hers, moaning when he took off his shirt. All his attention was focused on her as he slowly started to peel her tank top, leaving her bare and exposed to him. “Please…..”

“I love you…..” he panted not able to control himself anymore “Let me please you…..” and with such words he began his mission to worship her and her body.

His goddess.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Day 13- Oral { Female Receiving }

Fandom: Uncharted 4 / Uncharted: The Lost Legacy.

Character: Samuel ‘Sam’ Drake

Warnings: Oral { receiving }, light fingering.

Digging your nails into the sheets, you did your best to bite back a moan. You can feel the man’s smirk against your inner thigh, his thumb slowly rubbing your clit.

“Come on Princess. I know you, you don’t gotta hold back. I wanna hear you scream.”

Shivering, you let your eyes glance over at the man bucking your hips against his fingers. “You’re such an ass.”

Grinning, Sam pinned you hips against the bed as he worked his fingers in your warmth. “Don’t worry darlin, I’ll make you be screamin my name soon enough.”

You want to scoff though the only thing that spills from your lips is a moan as you feel his tongue slide across your slit. Another gasp left your lips as you bucked you hips, a playful chuckle coming from Sam as he placed your legs over his shoulders.

“You know beautiful, it’s gonna be hard tearing my gaze off you when you’re lookin so good.” Grinning, Sam then gave your slit a slow lick keeping your hips firmly in place.

“Sam.” You turned your head away, your hands now digging into his shoulders.

“It’s hot, seein you like this. Moanin for me, gettin reading to come.” Sam shifted his body against the bed as he buried himself between your legs, his tongue pushing inside of you.

Your hands tangling into his hair as your back arches off the bed. “Fuck,” you moan.

You can feel Sam grin as he does it again. With his tongue inside of you, his thumb returns to your clit, making your body convulse uncontrollably. Your heart pounding in your chest as you gripped his host tightly. Your hips grinding against the movement of his tongue.

Your moans echoing through out the room, your eyes squeezed tightly shut.Your orgasm is building again, and this time you don’t say anything. Last thing you want is for him to stop. With each lick and swipe of his tongue you inch closer to the finish line. The moans and swears cannot be helped as you begged Sam for more.

Darting his tongue in and out, Sam started to suck your clit helping you reach your orgasm. As the man sucked your clit he started to work his in and out of your pussy brushing your walls and soon your were coming.

Your walls clenching around his fingers, your juices soaking the man’s face as he with drew himself away from your soaked pussy.

Running his thumb across his lips, Sam could still taste you on the tip of his tongue. Crawling on top you you, small shudder ran through your body feeling the man’s erection against your thigh.

“The nights not over yet beautiful. I’m just gettin started.”

[gogogodzilla]

day 7, face fucking

sam drake x reader warnings: nsfw 18+, sam is mean, dirty talk, oral sex, teasing, gagging, sam calls reader princess kinktober ☠︎︎ main masterlist ☠︎︎ read on ao3

Sam drags you to the middle of nowhere. Again. As you stomp through some godforsaken rainforest in search of god knows what, you reconsider all of your life choices. The air is sticky and thick with humidity, and sweat drips from your brow.

“You know, I thought we would’ve been retired after all that Libertalia business,” you grumble, glaring at Sam’s back as he leads you. 

“We both agreed to do this job, princess,” he retorts, paying your tone no mind. 

“Well, if I would’ve known we were going to be lost in the middle of a jungle, I would’ve said no.”

Sam halts and you nearly run into his back. He turns to face you, a scowl replacing his normal laid-back demeanor. “You were the one with the map. If you were paying more attention then we wouldn’t be here right now,” he snapped, pointing a finger in your direction. 

You clench your fists at your sides and grit out, “We agreed on what path to take.”

“Well that was assuming you had a sense of direction, but I guess we’re both wrong.” 

You flush with embarrassment and anger. Sam’s jaw tightens as he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. You turn, attempting to keep your composure. The jungle is clearly getting to both of you and arguing isn’t helping your situation. 

Sam takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry, princess. That wasn’t fair.” 

You bark out a laugh, “No, but you’re right.”

He steps forward and wraps his arms around you, his strong chest presses firmly against your back. He kisses your cheek, “We’re in this together, remember?” 

You nod, leaning your head back against the crease of his shoulder. He presses featherlight kisses against your neck, always quick to apologize when he realizes he hit a nerve. 

You turn your head and close the gap between you. You can’t stay mad at him forever, especially when his apologies are so satisfying. His hands creep upward and cup your chest and you squeak against his lips. 

He grins against you before letting his hands wander, squeezing and kneading wherever he can to get those needy little noises out of you. Sam slips his tongue past your lips, groaning at the taste of you. 

You pull away, a string of saliva connecting the two of you. Sam pouts, just for a moment. You turn in his embrace so you face him and press a chaste kiss to his lips before slowly sinking to your knees. 

“I want to taste you,” you purr, almost begging, as you rub his thighs. 

He looks at you through his lashes and gives a nod. Quick and clumsy fingers reach up to undo his belt. The clinking of the metal was music to your ears. Sam’s hands clench at his sides as you slowly pull his zipper down, desperate for something to steady himself. You slide a hand up to lift up his shirt and graze your fingers over the taught skin on his abdomen. You drag your hand downward and plunge it under the waistband of his boxers. 

You wrap a hand around his aching cock, and he shudders against you. You pull him free from his jeans, and he lets out a sigh. You stroke him once and then twice, twisting your wrist with each pass over his length. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and Sam’s hips buck into your grip. 

You grin, “You want me to suck you off, Sammy? You want my lips around your cock?”

He hates that nickname, but your sultry words more than make up for it. “Yes, princess. Fuck, need you so bad.” 

You hum before swiping your tongue against his weeping tip. You allow your mouth to fully envelope him, swirling your tongue around the pink-hued tip. Sam groans as you take him, one hand gripping your shoulder with the other one laced through your hair. 

You rest your palms on the backs of his thighs, ushering him closer with every bob of your head. You look at him through your lashes as you hollow your cheeks around him. It’s like something snaps inside him and he’s grabbing the back of your head and fucking himself into your eager mouth. 

You gag around him and he pulls back just enough to let you catch your breath. It’s a tender act that is quickly replaced by the abrasive action of him shoving his cock down your throat once more. It brings tears to your eyes, and Sam swipes a calloused thumb across your cheek. 

He’s taking what he wants and you’re letting him. Like everything with Sam, his movements are swift and impulsive. One moment he’s squeezing your jaw to get you to open just a little wider and the next he’s raking a hand through your hair and pulling you closer. 

You can feel the drool starting to dribble down the sides of your mouth, and Sam groans at the sight of you. His thrusts are quick and he’s whining like an animal in heat. Pride swells in your chest. Only you can make him feel this good. 

Sam’s strategic, and that didn’t stop when you were fooling around. He hilts himself deeply inside you when he cums, forcing his seed down your waiting throat. He pulls back when he realizes you bit off more than you can chew and his cum is spilling down the sides of your mouth. 

You eagerly gulp down everything he gives you. You’re left panting with tear-stained cheeks and traces of Sam glistening over your mouth. He leans down and traps your lips in his. The ferocity of the kiss nearly sends you falling, but Sam’s hand stays planted on the back of your neck, keeping you in place. 

He’s never that good with words, but his actions speak volumes. This was his way of saying thank you. 

“I love you, you know that right?” he states as he pulls you to your feet. Something dances in his caramel eyes as he cups your cheek in his large hand. 

You nod, a grin dancing on your lips. You move your head to kiss the palm of his hand, “I love you, dork.”

[fandomnerd9602]

Uncharted Territory

Lara Croft x Drake!Reader

For @deafeningsharkslimeempath

Outside the pub windows was the blurring neon glow of London. Inside, the fire crackled merrily, casting flickering shadows on the worn wooden beams. You nursed a pint of ale, eyes following the curve of Lara's neck as she sipped her tea.

"Lost in the Amazon again, I see," she teased, her lips quirking in a smile. Her braid swung back and forth as she leaned closer, the firelight highlighting the emerald flecks in her eyes.

It wasn't every day you got to share a fire with Lara Croft, world-renowned adventurer and the love of your life. You chuckled, taking a swig of my ale. "Just trying to decipher a cryptic pirate journal Nate unearthed from his latest escapade. Apparently, there's a hidden fortune of Captain Kidd somewhere off the coast of Madagascar."

Lara scoffed, a playful glint in her eye. "Knowing Nate, it's probably buried under a pile of bad puns and empty rum bottles."

You couldn't help but agree. "Sounds about right. Though I wouldn't put it past him to actually stumble upon the loot by sheer dumb luck."

You both fell silent, a comfortable silence settling between the two of you. Dating Lara meant a life far removed from the quiet bookstore job. Her adventures brought danger and excitement. Yet, there was something undeniably thrilling about holding her hand as she recounted tales of dodging booby-trapped temples and outsmarting ruthless mercenaries.

"Are you coming, (Y/N)?" Her voice broke the stillness, her gaze softening. "To Madagascar, I mean."

You hesitated. The thought of Lara facing another treasure hunt alone gnawed at your soul. But you also knew she craved these challenges, that her curiosity and thirst for knowledge were as vital to her as air.

"Not this time, Lara," You give her hand a squeeze, not wanting to let it go. "That's Nate's turf. You know I wouldn't want to steal his thunder."

A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, but she quickly masked it. "Of course," she said, her voice light. "Besides, I don't think that island could handle two Drakes running amok."

"True enough. Though I might send Sully along to keep him out of too much trouble."

Lara laughed, her giggle was the only thing that made your existence feel like it was something. "Do that. And tell him to pack plenty of wisecracks and rum."

The rest of the evening unfolds in a warm haze of conversation and shared laughter. Reminiscing about past adventures, from misadventures exploring lost Mayan temples with Nate to Lara's encounter with a mythical serpent in the Peruvian jungle.

As the fire dwindled to embers, Lara leaned her head against your shoulder. "You know," she whispers in your ear, "the flight to Madagascar doesn't leave until the morning"

"That's still a couple hours away" you gaze meets her.

"I think we can find one or two ways to make the time fly" she gives you a wink. "My flat's not far from here"

"Lead the way" you gather up your supplies and take her arm in yours.

And with that, you and her slip out into the night, your footsteps blend together into the London streets. One little night together, a bit of wine and a whole lot of mischief.

You are (Y/N) Drake, brother of Nathan Drake, and boyfriend to the bravest, most extraordinary woman in all the world.

[durrtydawg]

A Brief Encounter

(Sam Drake x F!Reader Smut)

You’d agreed not to give each other gifts this year, but after a rather crass Secret Santa gift from Sam at his brother’s Christmas party, it’d be rude not to return the favour. So, when he subtly beckons you to meet him into his brother’s airing cupboard, you’re all too happy to accept the invitation.

a/n: this isn't the best, and christmas is pretty much done and dusted, but i'm a bit low and it helped to write this, so I hope you enjoyyy!!

Word Count: 5.3k

WARNINGS: 18+, unprotected p in v, oral (f&m), friends with benefits type beat, erring on the 'too much' side of pining, but that's how i roll so sorry if that's not your jam. I have NOT proof read this fully, so there are bound to be mistakes but I am OVER it. Enjoy, lovelies x

Curiosity and anticipation mingle as you slip into the cramped space, closing the door as slowly and as discreetly as possible. You down the remainder of your amaretto and coke, placing the glass beside Sam as you wince at the unmixed alcohol that coats your tongue.

The moment the latch clicks, the same smirk he’d given you from across the room mere minutes ago returns as he swallows a mouthful of beer. "Fancy meeting you here," he quips, his voice low and provocative, the red tinsel draped over his shoulders offsetting a warm glow over his face. You don’t want to take him seriously.

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” You scoff, leaning against the dryer as you’re enveloped by the smell of detergent and clean linen. “Crappy wrapping, tacky gift. I should’ve known you were my Secret Santa the moment it was handed over.”

“Alright, I can’t excuse the wrapping, but, I’ll have you know that these,” He removes a hand from the counter, pulling the offending garment from where it’s poking out of your skirt's pocket, catching you off guard and eliciting a quiet yelp from you as he slingshots the material against your forearm.

“Ow!” You attempt to smack his hand, but his reflexes are quick, and he swipes it out of reach just in time, placing a finger over your lips.

“Keep your squawking down.” He warns with a slightly sardonic half-smile, shaking his head towards the door. “These were not cheap. I don’t scrimp on my favourite girl.” He holds them up to the small lamp on the shelf behind him and you blush a little. “Plus, I just know it’s gonna look fantastic on you.” He shrugs, smug, and satisfied.

You roll your eyes, smirking as you adjust your volume. "Really, though, Samuel? ‘Ho ho ho’? A thong? Real smooth.”

His response accompanies a smug grin. "Well, I had to get you something that matches your…” He holds his beer just shy of his lips as he mulls over his thoughts for a second, “You.”

You snort in response, folding your arms as your brows raise, the two of you locking metaphorical, and very flirtatiously charged horns. “Oh! Well, in that case, we’ll have to get you a matching pair!”

He chuckles into his beer bottle, taking a swig before placing it beside him. He goads you with his look- a soft furrow of his brows that says ‘elaborate’.

“Dragging me into your brother’s airing cupboard in the middle of his impeccably planned Christmas party? Hardly the behaviour of someone who isn’t a… ‘ho ho ho’ themselves.” You feel yourself stifle a giggle- what a stupid conversation.

Ah, who gives a shit. You’re both tipsy, and you both know what’s about to happen.

Sam licks the remnants of his beer off of his lips, pushing himself away from the counter with an amused grin. His smug smile, a silent agreement, sets the stage for what both of you have been dancing around all night. The atmosphere becomes charged, filled with unspoken needs that have lingered in stolen glances and exchanged banter amongst a crowd of drunken acquaintances and giddy friends.

“You must be sorely mistaken, gorgeous.” He starts as his hands brace themselves onto the dryer, gently caging you in. “I wanted to help out my little brother by… folding towels. You know- keep him in the wife’s good books.”

In the intimate, shrunken space of the airing cupboard, the atmosphere thickens as his joke hangs between Sam and you, a veil of playfulness concealing the underlying, and oh so mouth-watering tension that’s coarsening your skin with goosebumps.

“Folding towels. That’s what we’re calling it now?” You grin, though your voice takes on a slightly lower tone as he leans over you. God, he smells fantastic.

The slight wrinkle in his navy t-shirt is a telltale sign that he’s obviously pulled it straight from the dryer and thrown it on as he left his apartment; but that damn jacket. Recently washed, yes, but never rid of that tinge of cigarette smoke that’s practically woven its way into the denim by now; a little aftershave spritzed over it as to not cause offence to those that despise his poor habit, accompanied by… him; A gentle amber muskiness diluted by the subtle red fruit scent that’s interwoven itself into him during his winter period of reluctant domesticity.

“Shame you’ve not got these on now, ya know.” He takes another look at the thong before abandoning it on the top of the washer, re-assuming his position over you. “Red’s definitely your colour. Always has been.”

His eyes make a show of their journey up and down your frame, and much to your own chagrin, you feel your face heat up even more. You should be used to this by now. Your little arrangement has been going on for almost a year. Yet every time, he’s got you blushing like a high school kid with a crush on their teacher.

Sam grins, shoulders jolting with a chuckle as he watches the redness spread across your cheeks.

“Aw. See? Adorable.”

“Stop it.” You chide, head turning to the side as you try to hide the consistent blush bleeding across your face. As if his ego needs to be given any more fuel.

“Stop what?” He smirks, knowing full-well what you mean. You frown. “Ohhh.” He over exaggerates, grinning wide as his head flops sideways in search of your face. “Making you blush? Doesn’t take much, does it?”

“No. I’m not gonna stop.” Sam's smug smile lingers, a subtle spark in his eyes made visible by the warm glow of the lamp. The air crackles with anticipation as he leans in, his lips brushing yours with a teasing tenderness that makes your hairs stand on end. His eyes are sly, and of course seductive, provoking you to lean in and close the gap. He’s offering the illusion of a situation where you get to take charge.

But he’s done this before, and things never go that way.

Not that you mind, of course.

Each passing second adds fuel to the simmering fire as you feel his thumbs grace your wrists at either side of you. You hold steady, your eyes narrowing towards his in a sort of stand off. You’re not going to cave first.

Though… it’s becoming more and more of a challenge as he leans further into you, your back pressed hard against the edge of the dryer as he imposes fully on your personal space. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans.

His head dips down, and you feel light stubble scratch against your jaw as he laughs softly, yet there’s still an undeniable smugness to it that makes your hands go clammy. “I intend to keep that blush of yours nice an’ vibrant for the foreseeable, sweetheart.”

And just like that, you’re butter in his hands. Melted butter, mind you- it’s fucking boiling in here.

You mutter a quiet “fuck sake” in a poor attempt at saving face, but as his lips press against the spot just beneath your ear, you know things are about to progress quickly- just like they always do when the two of you are alone. A few more pecks down your neck, and you breathe in; your nipples rub against your bra, and you exhale shakily as his teeth come into play. Sam removes his hands from your wrists, respectively taking a hold of your waist and your hair, keeping you pressed against him as he reddens your neck, bit by bit, and- God- the sight of him still wearing that jacket is making you feel like you’re in the depths of a furnace. He’s not even breaking a sweat. Bastard.

You find your hands weaving underneath the sherpa, clawing at his dark tee ’til you reach his shoulders. You tuck your hands underneath, and as if telepathy exists, he shunts the jacket off, along with the tinsel, lips still trailing a series of small bruises along your neck.

They fall to the floor, buttons clack-clattering against the washer behind him- dangerously loud whilst whatever song is playing outside seems to be in the midst of a quiet bridge- and you both break apart to stare at the door, wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

After a few butterfly-inducing seconds, a new song starts and someone whoops loudly- you’re safe.

Sam looks back at you with a relieved smile. It’s too innocent and uncharacteristic, so you push him off of the diving board, straight into the deep end; fingers tugging him down to your level by the scalp, using his slight moment of surprise to shove him back into the washer as your lips find his.

Sam's hands trace a path of yearning along your back; they dive under your tacky ‘tinsel tits’ sweater in search of skin, and as his calloused, scarred hands meet the smooth softness of your back, he hums quietly into you, as if he’s checked something off of a to-do list. You take it upon yourself to tick off another, and your free hand reaches down to give him a teasing squeeze through his jeans.

You both smirk in tandem, but as you one-handedly pull out his t-shirt’s French-Tuck- his lazy attempt at sprucing himself up- and your dexterous fingers unhook his belt buckle in one fell swoop, his smirk falters slightly.

Smugness now replaced by an urgent need, he pulls you tighter against him, and the air becomes charged with the electricity of your concealed connection as you unbutton his jeans. Your hand snakes past the zipper, thumb testing the waters with a teasing stroke over the fabric of his boxers as you push your tongue into his mouth. He tastes of nicotine that’s been drowned in alcohol, Nathan’s experimental lebkuchen, and a stick of cheap gum, and as your hand wraps around him completely, you cannot get enough.

Sam fights against your tongue with his own, brows scrunching every so often as you slowly pump his cock in your palm. Shutting him up is always pleasant, and always rare, so you savour every second, watching as a flush of his own begins to make an appearance across his cheeks. Two can play at that game, you think to yourself, your core seizing in anticipation.

A wandering hand squeezes at your ass under your skirt, and as you roll your thumb over his tip, you pull your lips from his, making sure to take in the sight of his growing arousal. You smile knowingly, your other hand freeing his hair so your thumb can swipe away saliva from his lips. You give him a gentle peck, made teasing by the smirk that accompanies it before you pull away from him and crouch slightly.

Pushing up his t-shirt a little, your smirk deepens as you take in the quick rise and fall of his stomach as he breathes fast in expectancy. You kiss him; a soft, open-mouthed peck over each scar, tongue rolling across the hair trailing along his belly, down lower, and lower, fingers pulling aside the waistband of his jeans.

Sam’s hands find purchase on the edge of the washing machine, eyes transfixed on you as you expose him, jeans pulled down just enough to give you access, but still modest enough for any hasty getaway that may be required.

You lower yourself fully to your knees, and the temperature is too much now. You pull off your sweater, placing it gently aside as you twist your hair into a makeshift pony, throwing it over a shoulder. He’s well-groomed. It’s almost as if he knew this was going to happen.

“Don’t be too quiet.” You look up at him. “I love hearing my pretty boy lose his composure.” You smile innocently, taking him in your hand again.

“Shut ya mouth. Calling’ me shit like that.” He laughs in response. The way his cheeks take on a soft pink hue sets you aflame; it’s evidence that his annoyance his feigned. He likes being called ‘shit like that’.

You giggle quietly, tongue licking a stripe up from his balls to his tip, before you let spit roll over your lower lip and onto him as Sam looks down at you with a neediness he’s only ever let you see. You move painfully slowly, lips parting enough to pull his head into your mouth, hands finding the outside of his thighs. He’s tense with anticipation, and your hands squeeze, before your throat envelopes his cock as far as you can take him.

Cheeks hollowed, you slowly retract, making him hiss as you gently graze your bottom teeth against his frenulum, before you retract completely.

“Do that again.” He breathes, knuckles pale.

“Ask nicely.” You grin, opening your mouth a little, hovering just in front of him.

“Christ.” He mutters, unable to wipe away his smile as he shakes his head, eyes closed. “Do that again, please.”

“Good boy.”

“Will you stop callin’ me th-ah-at, fuck!” He cuts himself off as you repeat the action, this time drawing a bead of salty-sweetness from him. You hum in satisfaction, feeling your own slick between your thighs as his hand instinctively grabs a hold of your hair.

As the next minute progresses, you hear Sam’s breathing gradually grow slightly more erratic, his hand unsteadily pushing your hair out of your face as the pace builds. Every now and then you flick your eyes upwards, relishing in the way he swallows in want, hips twitching occasionally as you involve your teeth- his breathy little pants make you want to keep this up forever, but you crave more.

You move particularly deep, and he bucks up; you feel him hit the back of your throat and you gag, eyes beginning to water instantly. You slide him out of your mouth as you take in air, and whilst it takes a whole lot of willpower for him not to push himself back into your throat, he instead tucks himself away and comes down to your level with an apology and a chuckle, cupping your jaw as you pull yourself together.

“Hate it when you do that.”

“It’s a good thing I did,” He breathes, “Don’t think this would’ve lasted as long as I’d want it to if you kept going.”

You laugh whilst Sam’s eyes follow the trickle of drool slowly rolling down your chin. He’s suddenly in a world of his own, barely registering what you’re saying before his tongue gathers the spit off of your skin, pushing it back into your mouth, your back hitting against the cool metal of the dryer as he kisses you; stubble grazes almost painfully against your face, but you don’t give a shit. Sam takes a rushed pause to rest his forehead against yours as he looks down at your chest; heaving, ripe for the picking.

You can only squeak as he grabs hold of you, hoisting you to your feet before propping you back up onto the top of the dryer. You almost fall back from the haste of it all, but with his hands on your lower back, you’re relatively stable again.

You groan as his hands grab your breasts, kneading them with a ferocity that sends your pulse skyrocketing. His eyes flit to yours, and he gives you an warning grin before his hands snake behind you and unhook your bra. You gasp, mildly irritated that he’d expose you so thoughtlessly whilst you’d taken every care to preserve him from any embarrassment that could occur from an innocent party-goer accidentally infiltrating the unlocked airing cupboard.

“These are magnificent.” He preens, and you roll your eyes with a scoff.

“You’re acting like you’ve never seen them before.”

“Been a while. God.”

“Did you just lick your lips? What are you, fourteen?”

“Look, doll, you know me. I’m a simple guy. I see a good pair’a tits, and I start to salivate. Now shut up.”

You huff in amused shock, but as Sam’s tongue goes for your nipple, you force yourself to swallow down a small gasp. A lick turns into a suck, which turns into a bite, and you have to cover your mouth to stop yourself from yelping out in pained pleasure as his teeth apply pressure to the sensitive spot, tugging as he looks up at you deviously. He lets go, and you let out a sharp breath, glaring at him.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” You chastise, panting a little as he pinches your neglected nipple, the roughness of his thumb and forefinger making you squeeze your thighs together in response to the action.

He gives you a toothy grin, pupils blown out; eyes darkened by impertinence as he chooses not to respond. God, he drives you mad.

As Sam takes a moment to look at you again, his smugness gives way to an unseated hunger, his lips briefly seeking yours again with a precision born of familiarity. He smooths his hands up your legs, pulling his lips away, eyes flitting between each one as he squeezes your thighs.

And all of a sudden, your heart is palpitating hard. You’re soaked- that much is certain, but you’re also slightly afraid of the concept of him stripping you completely bare without so much as a lock from keeping you from being walked in on. Perhaps you should’ve thought this through. Perhaps you shouldn’t be-

“Sam!” You whisper-yell as the ripping of fabric snatches you from your thoughts.

“I’ll buy you a new pair.” He replies, completely unbothered by your reaction, the new hole torn into your tights right between your thighs giving him an almost completely unrestricted view he’s been waiting for. “Jesus Christ. Haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re wet through.”

“I will kick you.”

“Nah, you won’t.” He shoots a complacent grin up at you, before hooking his arms around your thighs and pulling you to the edge of the dryer with a quick yank that has your eyes widen momentarily.

You sigh shakily, bracing yourself on your forearms as he comes back to antagonise your chest.

Your gaze fixes on Sam, who looks up at you with a teasing smile as he pushes your thigh aside, deft tongue swirling and flicking around your nipple in a way that makes your lips part with quickened breaths; the signalling of your growing want couldn’t possibly get any clearer. The playful glint in his eyes mirrors the deriding movement of his lips, and for a moment, the laughter, music, and clinking glasses outside the intimate space you’re sharing muffles into the background.

His fingers, warm and skilful, navigate the contours of your skin through your thin tights with a gentle caress. The intention is clear—a slow, tantalising exploration that builds mutual desire with every inch of you that’s covered, and as he finally strokes a thumb over your covered core, sending a soft mewl spilling from your lips, a switch flips in his brain. Playfulness starts to deepen into a smouldering gaze, reminding you of his undeniable hunger beneath the friendship on the surface. As he pulls aside the material and starts to coat his fingers in your slick, it’s all too clear that his movements are deliberate, each touch purposeful, as if he's savouring the anticipation as much as the final destination.

He wants you. But he wants you to need him more. Sam wasn’t lying when he said you’re his ‘favourite girl’.— he adores you, and he wants to give you everything he can through his body that he can’t bring himself to give you through caged in commitment. As a result, he’s not afraid to take his time- time to pretend that this is more than the ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement you’d forged way back when. He doesn’t give anyone else this kind of time. He doesn’t want to.

You're caught between the thrill of the unexpected and the familiarity of Sam's touch. Every stroke and every red blotch left on your skin feels like a shared rebellion against the constraints of everything else life has to offer. He bites you again, and you buck your hips in response, brows furrowing as a quiet hiss pushes through your teeth. Your nails claw against the edge of the dryer, and as he effortlessly slides two fingers knuckle deep inside you, your grip falters slightly.

The hand on your waist tightens, and one of yours goes for the back of his head. You tangle your fingers into his hair, head rolling back as you try to stop yourself from moaning. He hooks his fingers, rubbing back and forth against your sweet spot in quick, repetitive motions, whilst his thumb flicks against your clit. Your breathing grows heavier, and you struggle to keep quiet as he releases your nipple from his mouth with a gentle ‘pop’.

The fire in your lower belly is burning stronger with each passing second, and you clasp your lip between your teeth as he adds a third digit— the stretch forcing a groan bubbling out of your throat as he laughs softly at the sight of you leaking onto the back of his hand. This time you’re unable to keep it down.

You’re sopping, and so damn tight at this angle— Sam feels his cock twitch with need as he feels you contract around him, the sensation of your nails scratching gently against his scalp, tugging at the roots of his hair giving him goosebumps of his own. He loves the way you sound; the wetness, your unsteady breathing, and your quiet, raspy little moans— even more so knowing that you’re trying and failing to restrain yourself.

“Ohh— shit.” you gasp as his thumb speeds up, stimulating your clit to the point where your breath gets caught in your throat. You’re not far from the edge, but he’s not ready for that yet. Neither are you.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers out of you, and you exhale, a desperate look in your eyes as the emptiness hurts.

He presses his forehead to yours, gently nudging his nose against yours in a display of affection that forces a shy smile from you. His eyes flit to your lips, and back up to your eyes, and just before you take it as a silent invitation to kiss him, his hand is brought up from between your thighs. Your cheeks heat up at the sight of his glistening fingers as he hovers them just in front of your chin.

“Open up.” He whispers, lips tugged into a cocky half-smile. You’re more than happy to oblige, and as your lips part, he slides two slick-covered fingers into your mouth, your tongue lapping up the sticky sweetness as he fixates on your mouth for a moment.

Without so much as looking back up at you, he mutters “My turn.”

As you continue to taste yourself on his skin, Sam gets to his knees, free hand holding a thigh to one side before it moves aside the soaked material of your underwear again.

“So so pretty.” He mutters, voice gruff, eyes ravenous as he takes in the sight of you; glistening, ready. All for him. All because of him. He leans in, hand keeping you exposed as he pulls his fingers from between your lips, instead choosing to keep you wide open for him. His tongue scoops you up, from the bottom of your folds up to your swollen clit, and you shudder, fingers instinctively tightening in his hair as you look down at him.

Sam goes again, this time sucking the sensitive bud in order to draw out a noise from you. You hum; high pitched and needy, leaning your coccyx against the dryer as you spread your legs open a little further.

He groans into you, fingers digging into the fullness of your thighs as his tongue moves; slow and deliberate, as if every stroke, every lick, every bite is a carefully composed note in a well-practiced symphony. The taste of you spurs him on, and through the feeling of your thighs involuntarily tightening around his head as he begins to devour you like you’re the first meal he’s eaten in days, and the slight tug you give his hair every few seconds, a blend of mischief and longing and lust takes him over.

You’re a mess, flustered, muffled moans and curses spilling into your hand, your bare chest heaving as he becomes more unrestrained; he can’t get close enough to you, his nose rubs against your clit while his tongue snakes inside you, pretty, dark eyes flicking up to see the effect that he’s having on you every so often.

You could do this all day. So could he. But you’re approaching your peak far too quickly, and whilst his tongue feels wonderful, you want more. You want him inside you when you finish— you want him to feel what he’s done to you in the most intimate way possible.

“Sam?” You rasp, tugging at his hair slightly harder. “F-fuck, Sam, s—stop.” You tug a little harder, and you whimper as you feel his breath fan over you as he reluctantly allows you to pull him away from your sensitive cunt.

He swallows, chest heaving as he takes in air. “You okay?” He asks, brows furrowed, nose, lips, and chin coated in a glistening layer of your arousal. You have to give yourself a moment to take it in. This is far from the first time you’ve seen him like this, but each time you do, you feel yourself fall in deeper. You nod, hand moving to the back of his neck, drawing him into you. Your lips press against his again, and as his tongue dives into your mouth, sharing with you the tangy sweetness he’s obsessed with, you pull his cock into his other hand. Your thumb smooths over the dribble of pre-cum that’s seeping out of him, and you pump him in your hand a few times just to feel how hard he is. He huffs out through his nose as you squeeze him gently, and as you rub him against your dripping pussy, his arms tighten around you.

You line him up, edging yourself forwards just enough for his tip to breach you, and as he swallows down a quiet moan, you peel your mouth from his and get him to look at you. “You know I love you, right?” You breathe, thumb stroking the bridge of his nose as he looks at you with parted lips.

“I know you love me.” He says, just a little louder than a whisper. He pushes into you, a cuss sighed into your neck as he tucks his head beside you. You swallow a moan as he stills, nestled into you as deep as he can, your arms wrapped around the back of his neck as he gives you a moment to adjust, and him to embrace.

You laugh, quiet and breathy into the shell of his ear. “I know you do.” You say, pressing a kiss just behind his ear as he drags himself part-way out of you. He rocks himself back into you, hips rolling gently as he begins to build a gentle rhythm. He doesn’t want to come just yet. He wants to savour this. To enjoy this perfect glimpse into the normal life he’s never wanted. He loves you. He loves you so much, but he can’t give you everything you want, so you both settle for stolen moments like these.

He quickens the pace ever so slightly, and as he continues to litter the delicate skin of your neck with deep pink nips and wet speckles your eyes close. You cradle his head in your arms as his thrusts grow a little harsher, and he hums out soft, vulnerable moans that make his closeness to his peak all the more evident.

“So good t’me.” He murmurs into your neck as he slots a hand between you, blindly searching for your clit with shaky fingers.

You cry out into his shoulder as he finds it, and you cling onto him with all of your might as he fucks you with more intensity with each passing second.

He grips onto your lower back as he continues to groan into your neck— he pulls you into him with such intensity that every small bruise developing on your chest is stimulated as your tits are crushed harshly against his t-shirt.

Sam goes deeper, sweeter, and your eyes water as he squeezes your clit almost desperately. You grunt, the coil in your abdomen tightening and tightening with each passing second, eyes squeezing shut as he gives up concentrating on your neck, collapsing into the crook of it altogether.

He breathes heavily, grunting as you bite into his shoulder to suppress a scream as you completely lose yourself. You convulse in his arms, your pussy spasming around his cock as you feel your orgasm crash over you, muffled expletives and Sam’s name spilling mindlessly from you as you feel nothing but white hot pleasure. The coil releases, and you fall limp in his grasp as you begin to milk his own orgasm out of him.

“G—God,” He groans, hand snatched from between you as he braces himself against you. He keeps moving as you feel hot ropes of cum fill you, leaning back just enough to see it dribble out of you and onto him.

He stills, foreheads touching again as you catch your breath. You feel his eyebrows scrunch and unscrunch as his breathing slowly becomes steadier, and the intensity of your respective climaxes dim into a soft afterglow.

You feel a hand stroke against your jaw, and he huffs out a laugh as you smile.

“Hi.” He whispers.

“Hey.” Your responding laugh quickly dissipates into a wince as he slides out of you.

He sniffs, with a smile to mirror your own. “Perhaps I should’ve gotten you a towel instead of that thing.” He shakes his head towards the Secret Santa gift lying abandoned on the washer behind him, and you snort.

“Hmm. I mean you could always use them as a cum rag.”

“Love it when you talk all ladylike.” He jokes. “Christmas isn’t over til New Years, the way I see it, so you’ve got plenty of time to model them for me before they’re allowed to be used for something so…menial.”

You shove him playfully, hopping off of the dryer, legs wobbling slightly as you get used to being on the ground again. He throws you your bra and sweater, which you throw on as he relocates his jacket.

You rake your fingers through your hair in hopes that it still looks relatively presentable and suitably covers your thoughtfully gifted hickey-patchwork, before you swipe up the thong and walk over to the door.

“Gonna... take a stealth walk to the bathroom.” You clear your throat, smiling as you rest a hand over the handle.

He nods in response, a half, and slightly coy smile on his lips. As you twist the handle, he gets your attention with a quick “Hey”.

You turn, raising an expectant brow. He clears his throat, nodding as if he’s reassuring himself about something.

“You… you know I love ya too, yeah?”

You smile, taking in the slight nervousness in his eyes. “I know you do. Despite these.” You swing the red monstrosity around your finger before bunching it up and shoving it into your skirt pocket. You give him an endearingly sweet wink, opening the door slowly, exposing the room to the bass boost of Nate’s festive playlist and someone’s dreadful karaoke attempt.

“See you out there?”

He chuckles as he watches you check that the coast is clear. God, he adores you.

“See you out there.”

*

I love him a normal amount.

[jasmines-library]

idea for a little spn and batfamily crossover!

imagine reader being part of the batfamily and maybe like 17-19 and also is the horseman of war. imagine the apocalypse starts and the brothers and cas come looking for her seeking her help and everything

Bringers of The Apocalypse:

Part one: Time to Wield The Blade

Note: this is such a cool concept I couldn’t say no to writing it! When I started writing I honestly wasn’t sure where to go with it at first, but as I carried on I grew to like it. I hope you all do too.

Word Count: 3.1K

BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧ SERIES ML ⛧ SPN MASTERLIST

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

The Horsemen are drawing nearer On leather steeds they ride They've come to take your life On through the dead of night With The Four Horsemen ride Or choose your fate and die

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

It had been coming for a long while. You knew the minute that Dean Winchester was dragged off to hell and the first seal was broken that it was coming. The stench of its inevitability hung as one big fat cloud in the air but at first you still held out a little hope. A spark. A fraction of optimism that somehow someway the Winchesters would find a way to stop the seals being broken. But demons were tricky. You had never like the evil fuckers. You had hoped that Sam and Dean would notice that behind Ruby’s compelling eyes and false smile, there was a snake waiting for her prey to fall right into her trap. But it just so happened that lady luck was not on your side and the cage doors came blasting off their hinges for Lucifer to rise again. And with him would come the apocalypse.

~

The day was hot, the sky was cloudless and the flowers were in full bloom. It was so nice that you would have been described as perfect if your head didn’t feel like it was being pounded upon by a meat cleaver. It was was because there were there in the back of your mind, whispering away. Your brothers. The other three horsemen: Pestilence, Famine and Death. The bringers of the apocalypse. It had been many years since you had seen them, albeit they would still occasionally pop up in the back of your mind for a chat. A perk of being a celestial being you supposed. Though right now you were trying to shut them out and failing miserably. Sometimes you would find that they grew irritating, constantly disagreeing with each others actions or views. Perhaps that was the reason that after thousands of years together all of you had decided to go your separate ways. That was when you had decided to start over again in Gotham.

You remember the day distinctly. Bruce Wayne had opened you with open arms after you had decided to help them on a patrol with a particularly sticky villain. You were young. Well, younger. Time passes by strangely for a horseman. You have been alive since the very beginning. Since man decided to declare war on another. That was what you did. You aided and guided war. And it was a cruel job. You had seen a lot in your time as a horseman. Some things that made you squeeze your eyes shut until there were wrinkles on your forehead and nose. But someone had to do it. For the longest time it had just been the five of you: you, your brothers and God. For there cannot be no light without dark. No life without death. And while it had been exciting at times…it was lonely. Heart wrenching too for your entire existence was dedicated to something that caused so many people so much pain…often you had just wanted to quit.

You watched the world build foundations and knock them down again and again until it slowly morphed into what it is now. Over that time you had grown to love Earth and its people. Their complexities intrigued you. So, slowly but surely you began to build yourself a life on earth. You began to create your own human identity so that you could feel something more. And so you and your brothers split to begin lives amongst humans. To help keep an eye on things and to carry out your jobs more effectively. After all, it’s much easier to understand someone when you put yourselves in their shoes.

You kept to yourself mostly. You forged yourself an identity. Then came along Bruce Wayne and his espionage of Robins who embraced the real you instead of shunning you away. You felt loved and tried oh so hard to enjoy your time with your family. Until one night Lucifer tore that all away from you.

The feeling cut through you like a knife, tearing the wind from your lungs. Dick would have thought you were dying from a gunshot had it not been for the fact that you had been lounging beside him on the couch when it happened. You clutched at your chest tightly, clawing for breath as though you were suffocating. He was looking at you with wide eyes when you removed your hand from your chest allowing your breathing to finally slow. And there it was, shimmering against the light. Golden lines that twisted around your wrists. They were pretty like: shifting in rich shades of gold that would make even the richest of men jealous, though the meaning made you want to scream and shout. To kick your legs around like a small child just in hope of a small chance that it would disappear. Albeit instead you closed your eyes tight and took a sigh of defeat.

A binding.

Lucifer had bound you to him.

~

A gentle breeze drifted through the air. It was enough to make the branches dance softly as it passed through providing a small moment of relief against the warm summer's afternoon. The sun was still high in the sky, casting golden shadows against the ground that moved as she pivoted in the sky. It was truly a nice evening, so you had decided to sit in the garden to enjoy the day for once.

You had chosen a lounge chair tucked away by the flowers. They were in full bloom and adorned the garden with shades of reds, pinks and whites. It was a nice burst of colour against all of the green hedges that Alfred kept pruned back cleanly.

At first, you wanted to curl up with a book and catch a bit of sunshine but you had long since set that aside on the pillow next to you. You hadn’t really been reading it anyway; more like scanning the words blankly without letting them even register in your mind before you had moved on.

The truth was you were distracted. You had been since the minute Lucifer placed those bonds on your skin. It began to affect your everyday thinking. Every minute was consumed by the thought of him. And your brothers, whose whispers in the back of your mind grew louder and louder as time ticked by You were waiting for him to call you to him any minute. The anticipation ate away at you but you tried to ignore it and let it get stale.

Something was changing.

You had felt it coming: a ticking in the back of your mind. And you shouldn’t have been so thrown off by it: you had been watching and waiting patiently for it to arrive for years, but now it was finally here you couldn’t help the bubbling feeling in your stomach.

You sat twirling the ring around your finger: A simple gold band that fit snugly around your ring finger. It was far less ornate than the ones that the other horsemen shared, but you supposed that was the beauty of it. So war is so complex…yet simplified too much in the public eye. Being with you since the beginning, the ring was so much more than meets the eye. Holding the key to your power it was a symbol of who you are and so so much more. It was also the reason that you knew you would have to leave soon. Sooner or later you would be forced to reunite with your bothers under Lucifer’s binding to begin the apocalypse. Unless you could convince them to use the rings for good and to create the key to the cage to send lucifer back. Though you knew it would be much harder to get your brothers to give up their rings. They did not share the same values as you did.

“Y/N?” It was Damian who made his way toward you from the double doors. He had seen you leave a few hours ago and had watched you for hours as you sat trying to work through whatever was clearly bothering you. He had tried to figure it out himself: Damian had always been good at reading people, though you stumped him. He could never quite figure you out. He supposed that was one of the reasons you were so special. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” You nodded, still twirling the band around your finger. “I’ll come back in a moment. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“Not at all.” Damian gestured to the bench and you slid over so he could squeeze in beside you. “What’s on your mind?”

There was no easy way to put it. You knew exactly what it was and you knew that you were going to have to tell them about it at one point or another. So why couldn’t you bring the words to your lips? Why were the words you had spent so long rehearsing refusing to speak? It’s not like your family didn’t know who you were. In fact, that was one of the reasons that Bruce adopted you into the family. For years and years you had known nothing but War, Famine, Pestilence and Death. And they were all so different from you. Without the same morals you were often left aside. Or sneered at when they thought you weren’t looking. You had nothing. And now Bruce and given you everything. Perhaps that was why you were so hesitant to tell him. As it meant that you would have to leave. Although you knew it was inevitable, you had hoped it wouldn’t have been this soon. The thought bothered you deeply, so with a heavy sigh you decided to just spit it out and get it over with.

“The apocalypse is beginning.”

Damian faltered, jaw nearly falling open like an old doll that had lost its jaw hinges. “So soon?”

“I am afraid so.” you chewed on the inside of your lip.

The boy fell into silence for a moment as he tried to process the information.

“They will be coming for me soon.” You told him “if I don’t go to them first.”

Hunters. Sam and Dean Winchester. They were infamous and you heard whispers that they were looking for the rings. So you knew that sooner or later they would be coming for you to use everything in their will to get their grips on your ring.

“You’re leaving. Aren’t you?” Damian asked at your silence. You couldn’t bear to meet the young boy’s gaze. Instead you opted to watch the petals fall from the flowers as the wind knocked them from their beds.

“Yes.”

“Do you have to?” Damian pleaded “why can’t you stay here in hiding? We can protect you!”

Damian’s gesture made your heart melt. You knew they would try to protect you. They had for years. But this was the apocalypse and as strong as they were, they stood little chance against the end of the world. You had told them before that this would come one day. That you would have to leave to complete something dangerous and they could not follow. So it hurt to hear Damian plead for your safety.

“Sometimes, Dami, we have duties to fulfil that we do not want to do. But we must for the greater good.”

“But what if you get hurt!? If you leave us and we can’t protect you then-

“Oh Dami.” You turned to face him, placing a gentle hand on his arm and trying to swallow down the guilt that ate away at you “I will be fine. Promise.”

~

Sleep did not come easily to you that night. In fact, it didn’t come to you at all. Instead you lay awake staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried to plan out how you would tell them you were going to leave. It would be difficult. For you and them. And the situation wouldn’t go down without a verbal fight between the six of you.

You had considered just getting up and leaving in the middle of the night. They would piece it together sooner or later if Damian hadn’t already told them, which he likely had, so it would save you the pain of having to tell them yourself. But you couldn’t do that to them. It was unfair. So instead you lay awake planning how you would break their hearts.

No matter how many times you tried to think it through, you just couldn’t get the words to sound right. They were always too formal or straight to the point. You could just picture their faces: Dick’s gaze refusing to meet yours, Tim’s eyes glazing over and Jason’s brow hardening. The thought of leaving there and then crossed your mind again.

But then, the decision was made for you.

Almost silently, the window to your bedroom began to slide open inching upward slowly. You moved watched it hesitantly for a second before noting the tall silhouettes that tried to keep their backs pinned to the wall of your balcony. Swiftly, you were up on your feet and moving to stand in front of the window, readying your fists in case of the the figures got too trigger happy and moved to attack you first.

When the first figure squeezed through the window, dressed in plaid, he seemed taken a back to see you standing there watching him struggle through the small space. With a flick of his head he gestured to the other man, who shared a similar likeness, and reached for his pistol holstered in his back pocket. With a flick of your hand you turned on the light.

“No need to draw a weapon on an an unarmed girl is there?”

“War?” The taller one squinted at you, leaning forward to study you.

You nodded calmly. The smaller man eyed you warily and you saw him hand inch towards his pocket where he more than likely had a weapon concealed.

“You’re… younger than I expected.” The tall one noted.

“I’m older than I look.” You told him. “How did you get in?” You asked. Security around the cave was high, but not impossible to bypass if you were exceptionally well trained like these two seemed to be, the real challenge was your family who had eyes on every window like a hawk and seemed to have a 6th sense for unwanted visitors.

“Snuck under the fence. There’s a gap between the hedges in the garden. If you stick close enough to the shadows and move at the right time the cameras have enough blind spots to get by mostly unnoticed. And besides that? We’re damn good at our job.” The older one said.

You hummed. Smart, you thought, making a mental note to tell Alfred about the fencing.

The taller one with the long hair opened his mouth to speak and you could tell from the way he shifted his feet uncomfortably that you were in for a very long winded explanation of why they needed you to come with them, so you decided to put yourself out of your own misery and to beat him to it.

“I know who you are, Sam Winchester.” You watched his face drop. “I know why you’re here.”

“Then you’ll know we need that ring.” Dean barked.

“I know. And if you’re as experienced as people say you are then you’ll know that I can’t just give it to you.”

“Well it’s either that or we take it from you, sweetheart.” Dean clenched his jaw. His voice had little to no remorse despite the fact that he knew it would end in your untimely demise. Or close to it. But he was growing desperate: the fate of the whole world quite literally depended on his actions. The fate of his brother. And Dean Winchester was not one to give in to fate.

You inched away from them, subconsciously twirling the ring around your finger savouring the coolness of it against your skin. “You know that’s not possible.”

“Listen here sweetheart. We need that ring to send Lucifer back to that god forsaken hell hole he crawled out of and-“

“I know. But I cannot give you the ring.” You told him. “I have a life here. A family. I will not give myself up just like that. And besides…” you rolled up your sleeves to reveal the shimmering binding on your arms. “He will know the second I do. I am bound to him and to fulfil in duties in the bringing of the apocalypse.”

Sam and Dean’s faces fell.

“However I am willing to help you as much as I can.”

“How so?”

“I will help you get the other rings. I will help you save Sam Winchester and I will give everything to hand you my ring to send Lucifer back to the cage on one condition.”

“Go on.” Sam nodded.

“You help find a way to make me human.”

“What?” Dean was sure he had misheard you.

“If I give up that ring. I lose everything. I will become a shell of a person. So lifeless that there is hardly any point in living. That is if I don’t die the second the my brothers, or lucifer lay eyes on me. If I become human… I can live out my life here with my family. As a Wayne.”

The two shared a look. It said a thousand more things that words could have.

“Son of a Bitch…” Dean murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

NEXT

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[ryrywrites]

Masterlist

Key: *(ns): no smut

ₘᵢₗₒ ₘₐₙₕₑᵢₘ cₕₐᵣₐcₜₑᵣₛ

➡ Wally Clark

➡ Zed Necrodopolis

➡ Ben Plunkett

➡ Nico (Doogie Kamealoha)

Cᵣᵢₘᵢₙₐₗ ₘᵢₙdₛ cₕₐᵣₐcₜₑᵣₛ

➡ Dr. Spencer Reid

➡ Emily Prentiss

➡ Jennifer Jareau

➡ Derek Morgan

➡ Aaron Hotchner

➡ Luke Alvez

➡ Penelope Garcia

ₛₐₘ Wᵢₙcₕₑₛₜₑᵣ & Dₑₐₙ Wᵢₙcₕₑₛₜₑᵣ

➡ One-Shots

➡ Drabbles

➡ Headcanons: Sam

➡ Headcanons: Dean

ₘₐᵣᵥₑₗ cₕₐᵣₐcₜₑᵣₛ

➡ Peter Parker

➡ Steve Rogers

➡ Bucky Barnes

➡ Natasha Romanoff

➡ Sam Wilson

➡ Wanda Maximoff

➡ Pietro Maximoff

➡ Peter Quill

ₕₐᵣᵣy ₚₒₜₜₑᵣ cₕₐᵣₐcₜₑᵣₛ

➡ Harry Potter

➡ Ron Weasley

➡ Cedric Diggory

➡ Fred Weasley

➡ George Weasley

ₜₑₑₙ Wₒₗf cₕₐᵣₐcₜₑᵣₛ *(ns)

➡ Scott McCall

➡ Stiles Stilinski

➡ Derek Hale

➡ Isaac Lahey

➡ Theo Raeken

ₜᵥD & ₜₒ cₕₐᵣₐcₜₑᵣₛ

➡ Damon Salvatore

➡ Stefan Salvatore

➡ Jeremy Gilbert

➡ Niklaus Mikaelson

➡ Elijah Mikaelson

➡ Kai Parker

➡ Marcel Gerard

ⱼₐcₖ Cₕₐₘₚᵢₒₙ cₕₐᵣₐcₜₑᵣₛ

➡ Miles "Spider" Socorro *(ns)

➡ Ethan Landry

ₜₕₑ ₒffᵢcₑ Cₕₐᵣₐcₜₑᵣₛ

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➡ Anthony Bridgerton

➡ Colin Bridgerton

➡ Benedict Bridgerton

➡ Simon Bassett

➡ King George III

➡ Theo Sharpe

Random Fics

Kinktober '23

[nathandrakeisabottom]

Yesss please sam drake food/eating hcs?? Fave meals, hated meals, etc

It is with great joy and great belatedness that I post my first Uncharted piece in ages. Thank you for the lovely ask, anon. :)

⋆ Sam Drake - Eating Headcanons ⋆

Two words: scarcity mindset.

After running away from Saint Frances’s, to claim money was tight is to be telling some humorous bit, Money was borderline non-existent. And as such, came what the Drake boys do best: theft. 

Liquor stores were their easiest, and most consistent source. Sam still takes great pride in telling his many stories revolving around ‘cashier meet-cutes’ disguising their proudest heist to date: a 12-year-old Nathan smuggling canned goods under a moth-holed hoodie. 

Because of this, gas station snacks: twinkies, Lays chips, slurpees, etc. all tend to give him this simultaneous sense of nostalgia and nausea. Like when you’re eating eggs and all of a sudden, your body gags on the next bite.

But on an especially shitty day, expect him to be gobbling a Big Gulp and a half-frozen hot dog on the nearest street corner, with a half-smoked cigarette still sunken between his lips. It’s the way he wallows. 

Secretly wants you to tell him how bad that shit is for him so he has an excuse to snottily spat back “who the ‘ell cares?”. He finds pride in not caring about anything. (He cares about everything.)

Getting fast food at the drive-thru? Man waves you off a total of three times claiming he doesn’t want nothing before proceeding to eat half of your McNuggets without asking. He loves BBQ sauce and needs Tabasco on everything like it’s his will to live.

Big fan of spicy, sour, and tart, anything that makes your mouth pucker. Pretzels, salt and vinegar chips, cottage cheese, pickles, pineapple (😉). “What can I say? I admire a fruit that fights back!” — he snorts before taking a raw bite of a lemon, just to squirm you out.

Maybe a bit of the masochist in him. 

When he and Nate were able to get proper gigs (12-year-old Nathan: illegally, of course), they were able to progress to the simplest of grocery outlet options. Eggs, instant ramen packets, canned vegetables that were 9 out of 10 times eaten raw out of the can with a fork, and more nothing-but-toast-for-dinner than they’d want to admit).

Sam and Nate spent most of their childhood eating their dad’s scrambled eggs and microwaved peas. When their mom passed, and dad released them to the state, Sam decided he’d only ever eat over-easy again.

Nate still chooses scrambled. He asks for cheese and green onions to split the difference, but always ends up only eating half of it before the memories come too strong and he has to push his plate away. 

QUICK eater. MESSY eater. And I mean quick and messy. 

Will use as minimal cutlery as possible, and if disposable, even better.

A scooper. Tends to be a chronic careless spiller with how frequently he tries to funnel all the last crumbs into his mouth, how quickly he chugs even a glass of water. (Most shirts of his are stained as a result.)

Tends to wait till the last possible moment to eat or drink anything. Breakfast basically doesn’t exist to him. 

Spills more beverage down his chin and shirt than his mouth (but a wet t-shirt certainly isn’t the worst thing to happen. Especially not to Samuel Drake. ;)

Pizza order: Meat Lover’s with extra sausage. Maybe some green bell peppers when he finally compromises with Nate during movie night.

Never, ever orders (well, non-alcoholic) drinks when eating out. And only water when he finally lets himself cave. Otherwise, he’s stealing sips from the nearest patron’s Jarrito bottle (his favorite is Tamarind).

Doesn’t bother cleaning up his fruit peels or peanut shells, even around others. That shit’s going on the floor without a second look.

Surprisingly, a king and natural on the BBQ. Despite having so little in their childhood, Sam still tried to go hard on the holidays for Nathan’s sake. Fourth of July is still Nate’s favorite holiday exclusively because of Sam’s public park-smoked ribs and the long, bumpy motorcycle ride up the highest hill in whatever city they were currently loitering in, just to see the fireworks. 

A dive bar master. Nate always orders whatever grease-covered appetizer they got in the back. Sam purposely keeps his stomach empty so there’s more room for whiskey. (Since nobody asked, incredible at pool, and will offer any woman in a twenty foot circumference a lesson. Cue the leaning chest over back, cue stick fantasy.)

A love language that was a total surprise to him is his partner cooking/baking something just for him, especially if it’s from scratch. Gets that rare, soft look in his eyes as he watches them carefully place each steaming plate onto the table. And trust, he’s not looking at the food when it happens.

Loves his partner in an apron. Like… loves his partner in an apron.

Make him food, and as soon as it’s eaten, he’s eating you after. ;)

When he finally settles down post-Madagascar, it’s a fucking struggle to get him to go grocery shopping at all for the first few months. 

Self-punishment, maybe. 

Nathan buys them himself instead and leaves them on the porch of Sam’s trailer park home when he’s too depressed to answer the door. 

Basically has to be forced to eat actual meat and vegetables. For the first few months, he reverts and eats only familiar prison food. The same single pot of chili/beans for a whole week, half portions only for each meal. Uncooked canned carrots. Microwave popcorn when Nathan calls him asking if he’s eaten, and when Sam lies, it sounds more believable with the microwave droning in the background.

However, when he finally starts to pick himself back up, when he gets his first day job since prison, finally lets Nate buy him a used truck to get around, his first solo call from Sully, that’s when he finally starts to eat.

And when he finally feels like himself again, when he finally lets himself want to live again, the first hobby that Sam Drake takes up is cooking.