Cowboy!Bucky who hated rumors. He’d heard enough of them back when he was a bounty hunter—a life he’d left behind. It had been a phase that lasted a couple of years, a necessity driven by money; he hadn’t meant to hurt all those people—he could still remember them. He kept his head down when he entered bars or crowded places, a red handkerchief pulled up to his nose to hide the lower half of his face, his hat pulled low over his eyes.
Cowboy!Bucky who carried Alpine on his shoulder wherever he went. The cat had gotten used to being on top of him, curling up and rubbing against his cheek when he wasn't busy on missions where he couldn't take his daughter with him. The clever little thing was quite good at reading the room and enjoyed his attention.
Cowboy!Bucky who looks up from the bar counter where he’s sitting when he hears your quiet chuckle. You were a bartender at that abandoned bar he frequented because of the few people who passed through, because of the peace and quiet there. The place smelled of old wood and oil, the broken phonograph fighting for its life to keep playing music softly so the place wouldn’t die in silence. I had rarely seen him directly because of his need to remain discreet and out of sight.
Cowboy!Bucky who was a regular at that lonely bar where you worked. You knew him by sight, you’d memorized his face when he’d pull down his handkerchief to take a sip of whatever you served him. With his icy blue eyes and his dark brown hair falling over them. A trace of stubble caressing his hard, firm, sharp features. The left sleeve of his leather jacket completely torn off, shamelessly displaying a metal prosthesis that surely scared off more people than he knew.
Cowboy!Bucky who realized that the reason for your chuckle was that Alpine had jumped from his shoulder onto the table to meow at you as a way of getting your attention. Your hand went to her head, stroking her fur and running behind her ears. Alpine purred, arching her back at your touch.
Cowboy!Bucky who lets out a sigh, a mix of amusement and embarrassment at his cat’s behavior toward a stranger. He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers, catching Alpine’s attention. Alpine meowed at him, moving away from you and arching toward him. You felt embarrassed, but you chuckled again as the heat rose to your face.
Cowboy!Bucky who got fascinated by the sound of your chuckle when he looked up to get a proper look at you. Your sparkling eyes, your rosy cheeks, that beautiful smile—it was as if the sun were streaming through the bar’s tattered curtains. He opened and closed his mouth, staring at you. You felt a chill at how his frivolous, creepy eyes seemed to look straight into your soul, but in reality, his brain had completely shut down.
Cowboy!Bucky who regrets not having paid more attention to you before, so now that’s all he does while you serve the few customers you have each day. The days go by and Bucky stops by more often, you start to get used to his presence and Alpine’s, following him everywhere, even growing fond of you and meowing happily every time Bucky walks through the bar door and sees you behind the counter.
Cowboy!Bucky who surprises you by talking to you more often than just ordering a drink and thanking you when you serve him. In places like this, you didn’t really know anyone. It was hard to trust anyone because of the likelihood of future conflict, so he catches you off guard when he starts talking to you. His voice is soft and melodious, calm and melodious as always. You’re sure that’s not his usual tone of voice—it could be rougher and deeper—but it’s like a song to your ears that you’d never tire of hearing over and over.
Cowboy!Bucky who starts acting like a fool when he's with you. His face turns red, his posture shifts awkwardly and shyly, and his gaze stops being so frivolous and unsettling, softening into something warmer whenever he turns his head in your direction, no matter where you are. You could feel his gaze on every movement, every action, every moment you were near him. He would sigh, his cheeks flushed, when you gave him a sweet smile while pouring him a drink.
Cowboy!Bucky who turns out to be a rather clumsy romantic. He was still intimidating, untamable with his height and burly build. The one no one could budge by pushing him, whose shoulders were rigid and whose back was as thick as an entire door. He was imposing, rough, and menacing, but at the same time, he would sigh every time you looked at him for too long, and you’d start to notice the patterns in his change of attitude when you approached him to strike up a conversation.
Cowboy!Bucky who finds out what your favorite types of flowers are and starts bringing them in small bouquets every time he visits your workplace. He can’t even be considered a regular customer anymore because he stopped caring about your drinks, he was just a visitor. You started placing his lovely little gifts in decorative vases on the work tables, a colorful and lively sight for the neglected establishment.
Cowboy!Bucky who finally plucks up the courage to ask you out on a date after waiting for you until you closed up the bar, not only keeping you company but also indirectly protecting you from any thug who might want to attack a lonely bar that hasn't done anything to anyone. He swears it’s totally platonic, but from the way his heart pounds and his hand starts to sweat with nerves, you can tell that’s not the case. And yet you accept.
Cowboy!Bucky who, against all odds, turns out to be the sweetest, most charming man you could have ever met. He’s chivalrous, sarcastic, and awkward—and yet you had an amazing time. He made you feel safe, nervous, and appreciated. His meaty hand rested on your lower back as you walked through beautiful meadows, telling you stories—some fantasy, some real, some embellished adventures that you’d never tire of hearing.
Cowboy!Bucky who takes you home once the moon hangs in the dark sky and the stars shine alongside it. There’s a moment when he just stays silent, just looks at you—enchanted, mesmerized, and grateful to share this moment with you. He wants to save the mental image of your pretty face and this incredible day like a photograph that never ages and that he never tires of looking at. At the end of the date, he bends down to your height and plants a kiss on your cheek, walking away with an awkward smile that you know is pure infatuation.
established relationship, fluff, short in case anyone's bored
“Do you want me to do your eyeliner?”
“Yes, please!”
The room almost shook with the thunderous drum solo from “Anarchy in the U.K.”—just like any other solo that would come out of the secondhand record player you’d found at a junkyard. The thing was old, the needle kept skipping, but you kept insisting you wouldn’t buy one from a store. Hitoshi had started to get used to the screams, the thunderous sounds, and the shouts ripped from each of the songs you liked; he dared to say he was starting to like some of them.
If it sounded like Nirvana, maybe it was already on his playlist.
Hitoshi rummaged through your things for the worn-out eyeliner you always used, and an amused chuckle escaped his lips at the thought of something you did almost on autopilot. Hitoshi had grown accustomed to this side of you—the one who wanted to be eccentric in public with loud makeup that would shock anyone not used to seeing people like that in their daily lives. But for him, seeing your bright, proud smile on your face when you felt confident was enough to fill his chest with pride and leave him happy and satisfied with himself and his work.
He sat down next to you as you lay on the bed with your head on the pillows. You closed your eyes with an excited, restless smile creeping up the corners of your lips. He snorted, finding it impossible not to smile back at you. He unscrewed the eyeliner, waiting for you to close your eyes so he could lean over you, invading your personal space.
He had decided to sneak into your room through the window of your house when you sent him a message saying your parents were too busy to notice what you were doing—which was trying to finish your schoolwork. You didn’t go to the same school, you never cared about becoming a hero once you realized how the system of power hierarchies, smokescreens, and heroes’ public images based on popularity worked. There was nothing you could do about it—you just had to study at a school like any other civilian.
Hitoshi and you met at a café he used to go to when he couldn’t concentrate in his dorm room at the UA and needed something to wake him up. He was too busy standing outside the order line looking at the menu that he didn’t notice when you stood next to him to do the same. You were quiet, but your outfit wasn’t; the leather jacket, the spiked bracelets, the big boots, the torn and graffitied clothes, the necklaces, and the chains around your waist said a lot about your personality even before he knew the sound of your voice.
“Nice jacket,” he said. The comment was meant to be sarcastic, because he’d never seen anyone so eccentric on the street. His intentions vanished the moment you turned around and gave him a cheerful smile.
“Thanks! Nice hair,” you said, pointing to his spiky indigo hair.
Your smile and response did something to him. Maybe the way his heart skipped a beat, the flutter in his stomach, or the heat he felt on his cheeks. You had a beautiful smile, the makeup on your face didn’t hide your sweet features. He couldn’t find the words to respond to your compliment, staring at you in a way that others might find creepy, but you were so used to people’s stares that you chuckled to yourself and went back to looking at the menu in front of you.
Say something, dumbass.
“T-The Clash?” he said, sounding more awkward than he ever had.
He took it as a victory when you turned your head toward him. You blinked, glancing over your shoulder at the patch on your back featuring the ’70s band he’d mentioned. You turned your gaze back to him, smiling lightly as if you were on the same wavelength.
“Yes! Do you know them?”
“Um. Yeah,” he said, successfully returning to his monotone voice even though he could feel his heart pounding at breakneck speed in his chest every time he heard your voice, melodious as a song.
Your face lit up with an even brighter smile. The way you spoke was spontaneous and witty, talking not only about music but also about what each patch on your jacket meant. It had never occurred to Hitoshi to understand what anarchism was until he heard you explaining it. Every time you finished saying something, his brain worked to come up with another question just so he could keep up with you.
Finally, he left the café with a bitter coffee—no sugar or sweeteners—and your number in his pocket. You texted and hung out when he didn’t have training or heavy chores. He shared his dreams of being a hero unlike the rest, how he’d been discriminated against because of his quirk (even though you thought it was awesome) and how his training was improving day by day. Even though you weren’t on the heroes’ side politically speaking and had already told him so, you supported him in everything.
“Stay still,” he murmured. Back in the moment, with one of his hands on the side of your head, his chest pressed against yours, and his dominant hand holding the eyeliner pencil. He had already outlined your eyes and was trying to trace the contour of your lips. “Don’t talk. Where are you going, anyway?”
“Didn’t you say not to talk?”
“Mph. Where are you going?”
“To a surprise date with you.” You opened one eye to look at his expression.
Hitoshi frowned, pulling the pencil away from your lips and looking at you with a look of confusion on his ethereal face.
“Why didn’t you—”
“Surprise date, Tosh,” you smiled at him. He swore you’d be the death of him. “Ta-da!”
He let out a sigh, rolling his eyes, but his cheeks were flushed a glossy crimson. His hand, which had been resting beside your head, moved to cradle your chin, turning your face toward him and bringing the makeup pencil back to your lips. You chuckled, letting go of the smile on your lips to make his job easier.
You were going to be his undoing, not just with the way you smiled but how you made his heart swell in his chest and his head spin. His eyes were fixed on your lips, and you thought it wasn’t really concentration but something he was hiding. He leaned in, his lips gently brushing against yours. His lips were slightly stained with the black lip liner you were wearing. You chuckled under your breath, reaching your hand toward the back of his neck to pull him closer and give him a more proper kiss.
Nerdy!Sam Winchester x Nerdy!Reader Headcannons!!!
★ Sam is a big nerd. In all the ways that count. The intelligent mathematical ways, argumentative law ways, but also in the cheesy fandom ways. But so are you. And it shows up in your relationship in the best ways.
★ Late at night, you and Sam would stay up on your phones taking Buzzfeed fandom quizzes. You sort yourself into Harry Potter houses, Hunger Games districts, and Divergent factions. And when you get Hufflepuff and Sam gets Ravenclaw, he kisses your forehead sweetly and tells you he loves you all the same.
★ Sam has an impressive collection of legos. He loves collections. It only started recently though, when they started living in the bunker because he had nowhere to keep a collection before. For his birthday, you buy him the one set he needs to complete his Marvel lego collection: the X-Mansion lego set. You secretly always wanted it for yourself, but once you saved up for it, you knew you had to get it for Sam. He tells you $300 is ridiculous and he will repay you in $300 worth of books whenever you want. You spend hours putting the set together with First Class on in the background, and when you’re done he lets you keep Rogue’s lego person.
★ One night, on your way home from a little trip to the bar, you and Sam stop by a Sally’s Beauty store and look at hair dye. Sam’s eyebrows go up when you pick gray hair dye, but he pays anyway. When you get back to your house, you section off a little strip of hair on each of you, bleach it and dye it. You do a little piece of the side of Sam’s bangs. Once you wash and dry your hair and look in the mirror, Sam sees it. A singular streak of gray hair just like Percy and Annabeth in the Titan’s Curse after holding Atlas’ burden. He tells you you’re his Wise Girl and you tell him “I love you, my Seaweed brain.” You make bucket list plans to kiss underwater very soon.
★ You love Halloween and your neighborhood is full of kids who will be trick or treating. Given his lifestyle, Sam could take it or leave it, but he loves you. After much debate, you settle on a couples costume. Sam wears a white collared shirt with a tie and a superman shirt peeking under it and black pants, and you wear a black pencil skirt with a white collared shirt and a vest over it. Sam is the perfect nerdy Clark Kent and you are his (equally nerdy) hot Lois Lane. You tell Sam he’s never allowed to take those glasses off.
𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫. ‧˚꒰🔧୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ he/him. pepper potts' son. newyoker. mechanical engineer. robotics. neuroscientist. enfj. aquarium. former intern. february 11th. '92. puzzles. rubik's cube. whisky. dark coffee. radio - green day. talkative extrovert. videogames. red. hyperactive. iron man & avengers saga.
fc .ᐟ charlie rowe ᰔ li .ᐟ b. barnes
masterlist || main fanfic || backstory
LIKES .ᐟ anything buildable. maths. programming. minecraft. the lore of fnaf. checked shirts. biting things. noise. being on the move. being social. honey lemon pancakes. dnd. skating.
DISLIKES .ᐟ read. being ignored. small places. darkness. silence. his father. doing homework. studying alone for exams. violent people. cheating. indifference.
SECRETS .ᐟ he's dyslexic. he tasted alcohol for the first time at the age of twelve. he's afraid of closets. he doesn't know how to tie his shoelaces. he bites his nails.
“i fucking hate supernatural” i say, hands shaking as i click on the next episode. it is now 3am. i have spent the last 10 hours binging the series, and do not plan on stopping. five Pinterest boards have been created, it is all i have thought about for the past week.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 2.1k | use of alcohol, references to alcoholism, references to an abusive family, but nothing direct.
Alcohol had been a part of Victor’s life even before he knew what it was. He’d see the liquid spilled on the carpet where his father had fallen asleep, and the smell would fill the house all the way to his room, even if he closed the door. Once, when he was twelve, his father—who was unusually quiet that day—offered him a drink. The way it burned his throat made him vow he’d never try it. And yet, there he was, walking into the bar closest to his house after a shitty day.
Because he’d been the one to grow up, he couldn’t let guilt drag him to the bottom of the barrel when he had a little sister who depended on him. Morgan was his whole world. He didn’t care that she was his stepsister—she was his. He promised himself he’d never say a word about this in front of her.
The bar door creaked from lack of oil, the sound of the bell followed, the voices inside a blurry background noise as he entered. Victor rested his face in his hand as he sat down at the bar, his stubble, growing on his chin and lazily trimmed, tickled his hand. It itched. At first he didn’t speak, doing nothing but staring at a stain on the worn table; there was something in his breathing that made him feel heavy.
“Can I get you anything, man?” he heard the bartender’s voice from behind the bar. Victor looked up, blinking a couple of times.
“Oh. Yeah. A straight whiskey, please,” he said, disoriented. The other man hummed and went back to his work. Victor felt disoriented again until he heard a chair leg scrape across the floor as someone sat down next to him.
“Can I have a vodka cocktail?” someone asked in a deep voice. The waiter let out the same hum as before. “Thanks.”
Victor turned to get a better look at him. The man had short, dark brown hair and a beard that was thicker than his own, framing his face. His blue eyes were cold and vacant. Deadly. He wore a red sweater, a black leather jacket over it, and thick gloves. The tension in his broad shoulders screamed “don’t come near me”. His leg tapped lightly against the floor, and the fingers of his right hand drummed absently on the table. All the danger signals went off in Victor’s head, his lips curved into a small smile.
“Hey. That sounds strong.” He chuckled. The sound caught the man’s attention, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Ah. Yeah, it is a bit strong,” he replied in a low voice, as if unsure he was saying the right thing. He cleared his throat. “They make them strong here.”
“And you come here often, I suppose?”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “I suppose so.”
Victor chuckled, it was a warm sound that resonated in my throat. The man almost mimicked it to ease his inner awkwardness. The waiter returned with the two drinks in hand, setting them down in front of the men. Both said “thank you” in unison and exchanged a glance.
“It’s a nice place… small,” he mused, picking up his cocktail glass. He thought he was doing a good job with the conversation. “Do you come here often?”
“Honestly? No. It’s like my, what, third time here?” He raised an eyebrow, reached out, and took the whiskey glass in his fingers. “The prices are good.”
“That’s better than any drink you could have,” they both let out a light laugh. “I’m Bucky… by the way.”
“Victor,” he introduced himself, his smile widening until it was almost contagious. Bucky smiled (or rather, grimaced awkwardly) in response. “Are vodka cocktails any good?”
“You’ve never tried one?”
“I’m loyal to whiskey,” he rolled his eyes. He took a sip of his drink as if to prove his point. “Are they good?”
“The ones here, sure. But I prefer dark liquor.” Bucky thought to himself that he’d ordered a cocktail that was a bit too classy for such a casual conversation with a pleasant stranger.
“Something like… aged rum?”
“Brandy.”
Victor raised his eyebrows. “Ah, fancy.” Bucky chuckled, rolling his eyes. The sound made Victor smile a little wider. “I’ll always prefer a good drink over cheap beer.”
“What’s wrong with cheap beer?” Bucky asked, a touch of sassiness creeping into his feigned offense. Victor covered his mouth with his palm to keep from bursting out laughing.
“Nothing! Hey, do you really prefer beer?”
“You know a lot about alcohol,” he noted. It was like stroking Victor’s pride.
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely,” he waved his hand dismissively, his smile softening into a crooked grin. “Want to hear something funny? Because I have to drink like two bottles of whiskey just to start feeling drunk.”
“Sounds pretty normal to me.” He shrugged.
“Right? I’m sure I’m not crazy!” He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. He heard a hint of laughter almost escape Bucky’s lips. “High tolerance for alcohol?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I do. When I was younger, I used to go with my best friend to a restaurant that served drinks and milkshakes. Once we ordered, and they gave me the milkshake and him the drink! I mean, the mistake didn’t make any sense, did it? None at all!”
“Hmm, doesn’t seem so,” Bucky hummed. He’d never met anyone who could talk so fast without needing to take a breath. And he’d only just started.
“And then—oh my God, then we got into trouble! It was stupid. It was so funny! I don’t know what happened, but suddenly we had to go to the Avengers Tower—because I’m the team mechanic and he’s kind of a soldier—without paying because it was an emergency. We barely made it out! A stupid milkshake and a bad-tasting beer.”
“Holy—what? “ Bucky interrupted, his eyes wide and lost, as if he’d missed a part of the story between what had happened from one moment to the next. Victor laughed as if it were a really good joke.
“The Avengers Tower! Do you know what I’m talking about?"
"Yeah, that’s why I’m surprised,─"he frowned at him. "Do you work for the Avengers?"
Victor chuckled. “Something like that! I applied for a job and—well, I got hired.”
“At what, eighteen?”
“Twenty! Although I haven’t been out on the street in a while. I have other jobs and I’m busier. Sometimes I go, sometimes I don’t.”
“Good Lord,” Bucky sighed, stifling a laugh deep in his throat.
It was like finding all the comfort he needed in one person, Victor thought, because he never imagined he’d meet someone who thought it was normal to drink so much alcohol given his tolerance. He didn’t know about the Super Soldier serum, but that wasn’t something he cared about—or that Bucky was likely to share.
“Hey, actually, I’m a 106-year-old ex-assassin who fought in World War II and then for HYDRA. Turns out I’m also an Avenger!” The thought echoed in Bucky’s head like something stupid he wasn’t going to say; it was like feeling proud of acknowledging something he wasn’t going to do, even though it kept spinning around in his head like a broken record. It was comfortable talking to this man who never seemed to shut up, he thought, as he let him keep talking nonstop. Victor ordered another drink while they talked, while Bucky took another sip of his own.
“Have you ever been to the Avengers Tower?”
“Why would I do something like that?” Bucky replied, raising an eyebrow. He was grateful that this man seemed a bit too dim to notice the blatant lie he’d just told.
Victor shrugged, as if he found it amusing to make that assumption about the stranger with whom he had already struck up a pleasant conversation.
“Oh, it’s just that no one sounds that surprised when I tell them what I do for a living. I guess you get used to it, you know? You hear people relating to the public image of the Avengers, and suddenly getting a job isn’t that hard.” He chattered on, finishing the whiskey in his shot glass as if that would soothe his dry throat after talking.
Bucky, seeing that Victor was serious about his tolerance for alcohol, didn’t want to be outdone, so he took a sip of his lukewarm cocktail, which he’d left sitting there while he was focused on the conversation. Neither of them reacted to the strong liquor going down their throats, as if it were just a glass of hot water.
“My mom always says that on occasions like New Year’s or birthdays, you have to drink something strong,” Victor said then.
“Does she really say that?”
“…No,” he couldn’t even hide the laugh that burst from his lips. He ran a hand through his hair; the other found a place on the table. “The truth is… well, she’s not a fan of alcohol.”
“May I ask why? If it’s not too much trouble, of course,” Bucky hastened to say. He feigned interest in his drink.
Victor felt a lump in his throat—something that rarely happened, if ever. Victor never kept quiet; whenever he had the chance, he’d open his mouth to chatter about whatever was on his mind, which was why he was so good at socializing and acting so casual in situations like this. But personal matters? It was as if he knew nothing about himself.
He cleared his throat, his jaw was tense. Bucky was about to apologize awkwardly until Victor managed to find his voice again, and a strained smile spread across his lips.
“My mom dated an alcoholic when I was a kid,” Victor exclaimed, his voice growing low and cautious in a way he never imagined it would. He masked the discomfort in his chest with a small smile. “But you know what? It doesn’t really bother me.”
“It doesn’t bother you that your mother had an alcoholic boyfriend?” Bucky raised an eyebrow with his characteristic bluntness.
Victor chuckled, shaking his head. Bucky didn’t say anything at the time, but he felt a certain admiration for Victor’s optimism—how it seemed nothing could shake his composure. It was a seemingly unshakable mindset that left him wanting to know more.
“There’s no point in getting angry now over something that happened years ago,” was his reply, shrugging as if it were perfectly normal for him to talk about the subject. He cleared his throat. “She was doing the best she could. The old man looked after me while she worked. He was… a rough sort of guy, if you know what I mean.” He laughed.
A sound that could be identified as a hum vibrated from Bucky’s throat, making him wonder in that moment if what he’d thought before—about how that optimism that had surprised him earlier was slowly fading—was true. This guy needs help. But he still made no move to interrupt; if he could be of any use, it was by listening, even if he didn’t always know what to say afterward.
Victor reached out, whistling and calling over the first waiter who turned to look at him, smiling with his characteristic, persistent euphoria. He ordered another glass of whiskey, just as before, winking at the waiter and turning back to his drinking buddy (as he now called him in his head) as if he hadn’t finished speaking.
“I don’t remember much about my mother,” Bucky admitted with a touch of melancholy. He thought it might be his turn to talk about himself. Victor’s head turned toward him immediately, which caused a sense of unease to settle in his chest at the feeling of being truly heard, but he didn’t stop. “And she, um, was a sweet woman. I had sisters.”
“I’m sorry,” Victor said in a pitiful tone. Any trace of his brilliant smooth-talking had been cast aside.
Bucky shook his head. “It’s okay. They had a good life.”
Victor took a sip of his whiskey once it was in front of him again. “I have a sister. Morgan. She’s the sweetest girl in the world, and I’d give my world for her.” A smile—calmer and gentler—curled at the corners of his lips.
“I bet she looks just like you,” Bucky added. The soft chuckle Victor let out made Bucky smile ever so slightly.
Victor swung his legs over the edge of the chair, his height evident in the way the tips of his feet didn’t quite touch the floor, unlike Bucky, who had to shift to get comfortable, as if his body didn’t quite fit where he was sitting. But it was worth it if he could hear Victor talk more calmly—more genuinely—about his personal life. Like that time he shared parenthood with his best friend over a German Shepherd named Gazpacho. Maybe Bucky was a better listener than he thought.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 4.4k | 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 ˒˒ smut/fwb, they secretly love each other but they're idiots, softdom!reader, sub!lucifer, hair-pulling (l!receiving), blowjobs (r!receiving), licking and biting, handjobs, fingering, no relation to the canon.
The night was quiet, for the first time, there were no pending assignments or unfinished work that might compromet the midterm. Instead, the full moon hanging in the sky seemed to shine brighter, and the breeze cooled anyone still walking across campus. Lucifer was lying on his bed, trying to finish one of his many communication assignments, sitting on his bed with his laptop, cursing under his breath as he squinted, trying to read the screen in the dark. His blond hair was combed messily back; his eyes felt red, and he wore a warm apple-red sweater.
A knock on the door snapped him out of his immersion, causing him to reluctantly get out of bed and head to the door to answer it. He shuffled his feet as he stepped off the bed, opening the door into the darkness of the building’s hallway. His bitter expression quickly melted away the moment he saw you in the hallway, waiting for him to open the door.
“Sweetie!” he sang. He leaned against the doorframe, the corners of his lips curving into a cheerful, sly smile, his face immediately softening. His arms went limp as he crossed them over his chest. “What brings you to my humble abode?”
You chuckled softly, leaning toward him to meet his height and invading his personal space. Lucifer felt a blush rise up his neck, warming his pale face. The smile on his face didn’t fade, even in the face of your silence. He took a couple of steps back, letting you in and closing the door behind him.
“My roommate invited another girl,” you sighed feignedly, walking over to sit on the edge of his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You took off your shoes and kicked them to the side of his bed. “I thought I’d come visit my dear friend.”
“Oh, so dear. Of course,” he strutted, closing the distance in a couple of steps until he sat down next to you. His smile widened even more, tilting his head to one side as he continued to look at you as if you were a game he was enjoying getting to know. “Does that mean I have to put up with your presence in my beautiful room?”
You chuckled softly, leaning in until your shoulder brushed against his. You hovered in his personal space until Lucifer was the one to close the distance. His hand moved up to cradle your chin. In one fluid motion, his lips fell upon yours, and everything melted away, becoming hazy and hot.
You were… lovers, yeah. That was a way to describe the dynamic between the two of you. It wasn’t official, for a long time, you put off giving it a name—it meant having to sit face-to-face and talk about what you felt and what you would feel. It wasn’t until the alcohol after a fraternity party that made you admit it and come to an agreement: friends with benefits.
Lucifer and you were very close friends, you met while working on a group project in communications. You met at the university cafeteria to share notes and get the information down to the essentials before finalizing the project. The friendship blossomed because of how easy it was to joke and laugh together, how the brush of shoulders or knees under the table created an intense spark, a tingling sensation on your flushed cheeks, and butterflies in your stomach.
“I have… a daughter,” said Lucifer. You were drunk on the floor of his room, the largest one since he had no roommates. He was rich, had many siblings, and held power through his surname—that was all you knew when he spoke of himself.
You almost choked on your beer. You coughed several times from your bed, crawled to the edge of the bed to look at him, sprawled out on the bed in a star shape, staring at the ceiling with a lost and disoriented look, as if he’d forgotten where he was.
“What?” you finally said, clinging to whatever sober thoughts you had left. “Lucifer!”
“What?” he frowned, lifting his head. He sat up with his back against one of the legs of his desk, squinting as if he were having trouble focusing on you. “Oh. Yeah, I have a daughter. Charlie.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me, dude?,” you waved your arms above your head, beer in hand. You climbed down from the bed and sat on the floor with your back against the foot of the bed. “A daughter?”
“She’s six years old,” he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It was a nostalgic, affectionate smile—gentle and warm—that you’d never seen before when he talked about anyone else. “She’s in school too, just like me. Why do you think I’m in the morning shift? I spend my afternoons with her. Otherwise, she lives with my father and my siblings. She… she’s the light of my life. She’s creative, cheerful, and has a huge heart.”
His gaze was distant, looking over your shoulder as if the girl were there. She must be blonde, with reddish-brown eyes like his. Or maybe she looked like her mother; you felt a strange tightness in your chest at the thought of him with another woman, the mother of his daughter. But apparently he never mentioned that woman. Suddenly you felt like you didn’t know him, even though you’d been friends for just over the first quarter of the year.
“Why haven’t you ever told me about her?” you sighed, almost sad that you’d never met that little girl who, in your imagination, surely looked just like him.
“I don’t go around telling everyone I have a daughter,” he snorted. “I’m studying so I can give her the best.”
“Luci…”
“I’m afraid of being a bad father.”
“Luci.”
“I don’t want her to think I’m absent. I’m trying to give her a good life.”
“Lucifer!” you exclaimed, cutting him off. He blinked, closing his mouth even as the words, half-spoken, got stuck in his throat. You moved closer to him until you were sitting right next to him. “I want to meet her. I’m sure you’re a good father. Charlie sounds like a lovely little girl.”
Lucifer looked away, if it weren’t for the dim lighting in the room at night, the blush rising from his neck to his cheeks would have been more obvious. You opened and closed your mouth, as if you’d sensed a change in the atmosphere. You blushed too. You cleared your throat, looking away as well, until you both ended up staring in opposite directions.
You reached out, sliding your hand across the carpet toward his. His fingers curled spasmodically, and you saw him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing restlessly. His hand slid until it found yours, their fingers intertwining. Without looking at each other. Lucifer turned his head toward you, gazing at you with his deep brown eyes. A deep reddish brown unlike any you had ever seen before.
“I can introduce you to Charlie this weekend,” he said quietly. His blush deepened now that you were face to face, just a few inches apart. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to meet you.”
You pressed your lips into a thin line, the blush on your cheeks ceased to be a source of embarrassment as the closeness became hypnotic. You licked your lips under his gaze, which was the final straw that snapped his self-control.
Lucifer leaned toward you, squeezing your hand as his lips pressed against yours in the blink of an eye, before you even realized it. Maybe it was the alcohol or the build-up of tension, but the apple-like taste of his mouth and his expensive cologne made you dizzy enough to intoxicate you, and you returned his kiss with the same pent-up passion.
His free hand reached out to wrap around your waist, your arm reached for his shoulders to pull him closer to you. His body loomed over you on the floor of his room. Neither of you wanted to stop, even when you needed to breathe or your heads were spinning from dizziness and lack of air, but the pleasure began to build between your bodies, begging to be released.
From that moment on, neither of you stopped.
You two agreed that you would remain best friends and not take things any further. At first, Lucifer didn’t want to do it because he thought it might affect Charlie, but after a make-out session in a classroom, he decided to go along with it in secret—so the rest of the school wouldn’t find out that your friendship had taken that step.
That brings us back to where the two of you were kissing because you barged into his room after your roommate had brought another girl over without warning.
Your hand snaked its way until it found its place on his waist, moving up and down his side. Your mouth stifled his gasp. Kissing Lucifer was always a different experience from what you’d had with other partners, perhaps because of the piercings on his tongue or the way he always alternated between taking control and giving it—just like now. His body leaned into yours, your tongue brushing his lower lip, asking permission to enter his mouth, which he granted after a guttural moan you wrung from him along with his hand squeezing your side, pulling him closer to you.
His body loomed over yours, his knees on either side of your hips, both hands cupping your face. His hair fell across his forehead and over his eyes, no matter how much he combed it back, there were always those unruly strands. His eyes were half-closed, refusing to shut, his gaze fixed on yours, not wanting to miss a single thing about you.
You pulled apart, both of you breathing heavily, just a few inches apart, his forehead pressed against yours. Lucifer trailed kisses down your jawline. His hands moved from your sides to your hands beneath his shirt, guiding them to pull off his wool sweater. You tilted your head back, one of your hands moving to the back of his neck to encourage him to continue.
“Is this why you came to my room?”
“You’re still asking?” you gasped, tilting his head with your hand on the back of his neck to look into his eyes. A laugh rumbled in his chest, satisfied with what he was doing.
“You’re so warm,” he leaned into your ear, whispering in a hoarse voice. One of his hands tugged at the waistband of your pants, feeling the blood pooling in your crotch from the intense heat between your bodies. Your breath caught, and his chest swelled with pride. “so receptive to me.”
Lucifer stepped back slightly, just enough to take off his shirt, leaving it on the edge of the bed until it fell to the floor on its own, but neither of them paid it much mind. He leaned toward you again, his body hovering over yours with his arms on either side of your head to support his weight. Your hands moved to his sides, exploring his bare skin─ every mole, every scar from when he played as a child, every memory stored between the two of you. His breath caught in his throat. He leaned in and his lips fell on yours without hesitation.
Your hands clung to his waist, his hands slid down your sides to the hem of your shirt. You pulled apart, panting, and Lucifer took the opportunity to pull your shirt over your head, leaving it somewhere next to his on the floor. His lips fell upon your jawline, your throat, and your shoulders. Your chest was left tingling from kisses as he moved lower, kissing and licking the skin along the way.
Your hand reached for his hair, drawing a growl from him the moment you pulled it. He barely pulled away as he made his way down to your abdomen, his eyes pearly and clouded with lust, his pupils dilated. You bit your lip at the sight of him, pulling his hair once more, eliciting another moan, much hoarser and more pleasurable. You guided his face toward your crotch once he settled between your legs as if he owned the place, trying not to move your hips because of how docile he was being.
“Where’d your big mouth go, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, pulling harder on his hair. A sharp moan escaped Lucifer’s mouth, his hands clenching your hips with painful force.
You lifted your hips. Lucifer understood the look in your eyes and pulled them down until you were left in your underwear. You let out a ragged sigh, and a hint of a mischievous smile played at the corners of his lips at your reaction. His lips touched your V-line in a small, slow, light kiss that made you shiver at the desire coursing through your body like a warm, scorching wave.
Lucifer sat up, his lips falling on yours, demanding a kiss in return. Your hands—one in his hair and the other on his side—pulled him toward you and held him close. Your lips moved with need, hungry and disorderly. His hand slid from your side, slipping into your underwear and taking your heavy member in his hand, making you moan into his mouth. With his other hand, he took care to remove your underwear completely without you even noticing.
Lucifer began to stroke you slowly, almost teasing you; his mouth pulled away from yours to trail kisses down your jawline and neck, focusing on biting and leaving marks as if you truly belonged to him. You arched your back, moaning as your hips moved in time with his hand, which began to speed up its movements as he watched you writhe, begging for more.
Your hands reached up into his hair once more, tangling in his blond locks, damp with the sweat he was beginning to release. Your fingers tangled enough to pull, eliciting a series of pleasurable moans from him, growing increasingly hoarse as if he were the one being manually stimulated instead of you. You moaned in his ear, your other hand sliding down from his hair along his side and slipping two fingers into the waistband of his pants.
Lucifer pulled away just in time, before you could complain about the lack of his lips on your neck. He quickly moved his lips down, scattering kisses across your chest, going lower and lower until he replaced his hand with your member in his mouth. You let out a guttural moan, arching your back off the bed, tilting your head back before lifting it to look at him. His eyes, narrowed, clouded, and bloodshot with pleasure, didn’t look away from yours. For a moment he didn’t move, focusing only on the eye contact and how he was warming your cock.
You growled. Your hand, which had been resting there for a while with your fingers firmly in his hair, gave a pull, which seemed to be enough to shake off his brazen attitude and make him moan. The vibration was enough to make you swallow hard, your Adam’s apple catching as it went down. His hands went to your hips once more to hold on to you. He was gripping you hard enough to make you worry he’d leave bruises, but you were too busy figuring out how to get him to move instead of just staying still on purpose.
Taking a deep breath through his nose, Lucifer began to move his head up and down without needing you to guide his movements with your hands on his head, but the sensation of your fingers in his hair sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. With one hand in his hair and the other on the back of his neck, you began to speed up and control his movements as you pleased, moaning hoarsely while he stifled his own moans. His mouth was warm and could take you in well. The bastard had some sickeningly good reflexes.
With a sudden pull, he took you out of his mouth, holding you in one hand while he stroked and licked the base from top to bottom, his tongue piercing heightening the sensation. His eyes never left yours, he was sure of what his gaze was doing to you by the way you clenched your jaw. You felt heat building in your lower abdomen, moaning with clenched teeth while he paid nothing but attention to the head, sucking and drooling like a shameless bastard.
You hoisted one of your legs onto his shoulder, the smile that spread across his face left you wondering whether he actually preferred to dominate or be dominated. He attacked again, taking you into his mouth once more with the ease of someone who did this often. Judging by your encounters, he’d probably had more than just a little experience. He had always preferred giving oral to receiving it, the way you shuddered or how you tasted as he swallowed was his favorite way to destroy you.
“L-Luci,” you moaned again through clenched teeth, wavering between letting him continue and pushing him away. He drew a ragged moan from you when he seemed to want to take you even deeper. Your hips bucked against his mouth, and he seemed to have no problem with that. “L-Lucifer.”
“Yes, sweetheart?” he exclaimed breathlessly, trying to hide it. As soon as he let you go, you regretted asking him to stop. Your chest was rising and falling just as much as his.
You pulled him toward you, your hands on the back of his neck, and without any resistance, Lucifer lowered his body onto yours once more. His lips pressed against yours in a way that made you feel as though you were being tested, but you didn’t complain. Your hands returned to his hips to finally remove his pants and underwear. You rolled over in bed so that he ended up beneath you, panting, his hands resting on your shoulders as if he could never take them off you.
You took a few moments to catch your breath. Lucifer brushed his hair away from his face while you leaned over to his nightstand, opening the bottom drawer to pull out the bottle of lube and a condom.
“You don’t even bother hiding them anymore, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, your tone betraying amusement and surprise as you unwrapped the condom and slipped it on.
“With you?” he gasped, a shameless smile spreading across his lips. He chuckled. “Impossible. I put them in the most comfortable spot for both of us.”
You chuckled too, uncapping the lube and spreading a generous amount on your hand. You could see Lucifer’s breathing quicken slightly as he let out a sigh that relaxed his tense, sweaty muscles, preventing the penetration from becoming painful.
You gave his hip a squeeze—different from the others, much more reassuring and comforting. “Are you okay?” you asked gently. You waited patiently for him to nod or shake his head; once he nodded, you nodded too. “Do you want me to keep going?”
“Yes.” he exclaimed breathlessly, his anticipation betraying his apparent calm. He let out his characteristic laugh, which was meant to be charming but sounded more nervous, which made you laugh once again.
You shifted, kissing his temple and cheek as you slid your first finger into his opening to stretch him. Lucifer closed his eyes and let out a ragged sigh, trying with all his might not to let it turn into a moan, but you’d learned to read his body’s signals well enough to know exactly what he was feeling. You tilted your head to kiss his other cheek, eliciting a nervous giggle from him at your tender gesture.
He spread his legs wider, finally letting out a moan when, instead of moving your finger to let him get used to the initial sensation, you inserted the second one right away. His eyes widened, looking at you as if you’d broken an unspoken agreement, before rolling back as you began to move them in scissor-like motions. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back as his legs twitched with small spasms.
“S-Shit, mhg,” he muttered under his breath, trying to hide his ragged breathing and his face flushed with madness. He opened his mouth, moaning silently before slowly opening his eyes and looking at you with more honesty. “I-I’m sure I’m ready now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Y-Yeah, damn it.” he exhaled. You couldn’t help but chuckle. You leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, and your heart raced at his whimper once you pulled your fingers out of him.
You sat up, settling more comfortably between his spread legs. You were more focused on his gaze; on his body language, on his comfort, on every reaction you could elicit from his body, rather than simply entering him and getting this over with once and for all. You sat on your heels, leaning in to plant a series of small kisses on the inside of his thigh, they overflowed with tenderness and affection rather than lust—it was a different kind of desire that went beyond what you could have excused yourself for.
Finally, with one hand on his thigh and the other on his hip, you positioned yourself and entered slowly once his gaze confirmed the genuine consent you had. Lucifer’s audacity to be loud was unleashed as he arched his back and made no effort to stifle his moans. At any other time, you would have worried that the other fraternity students would get angry at the noise, but now you were too busy feeling Lucifer squeeze you once you were fully inside.
You pressed your forehead against his, breathing heavily before finally deciding to move your hips. You had to silence his moans with your mouth over his, kissing him wildly and sweatily while another sound—the wet sound of skin against skin—filled the room. You felt the mattress sink and make barely a sound as your thrusts became deeper.
Your hand, which had been on his thigh, moved up to take his, which was hanging from your shoulder, pressing it into the mattress next to his head. Lucifer intertwined your fingers, squeezing your hand as if it were his only remaining anchor to reality while he felt your firmer, rougher thrusts begin to tear him apart. You broke away from the kiss, panting and moaning into each other’s mouths just inches from your own, eyes half-closed and focused on the clouded pleasure and the hot passion like a sheet that persistently covered you both.
Lucifer threw his head back, moaning shamelessly as your dick started to hit that delicate, delicious spot inside him that began to intoxicate him. His free hand, which had also been hanging limply on your shoulder, moved as best it could to give you encouraging squeezes, signaling that you shouldn’t stop. The way he squeezed you made you growl and moan, your face tense, seeking release, moving your hips harder and more desperately, penetrating him deeper.
“F-Fuck! God, right there”—his voice was hoarse from the strain on his throat caused by his moans. His hand on your shoulder moved up to the back of your neck to turn your face toward his. He pulled so that your lips fell upon his with carelessness but need. “—d-don’t stop.”
You moaned just as desperately when he squeezed you with particular force, urging you to keep up the steady, hard pace. Adrenaline was your staunchest ally, allowing you to speed up your movements even more, the knot in your stomach threatening to break loose inside the condom if he kept moaning for more in your ear.
With one last moan, arching his back, Lucifer’s release hit him chaotically, the hand he kept intertwined with yours squeezing you harder than you thought he was capable of. Thick strands of sticky cum staining his stomach as if demanding the spotlight. His moans turned to whimpers when you didn’t stop your movements instantly, chasing your own release until you reached it with equal chaos and hoarse moans, gasping once you finally came to a standstill inside him.
You collapsed on top of him, your chests rising and falling in unison once the adrenaline had drained from your bodies. You pulled away from him, the tearful moan he let out made you kiss him on the forehead. As much as your body, still buzzing with energy but inevitably tired, wanted to lie down, you forced yourself to sit up and stretch to reach the pack of wet wipes he kept in the same drawer where he stored the condoms and lube.
Lucifer propped himself up on his elbows and then against the simple headboard of his bed, watching you affectionately as you took off and tossed the condom in the trash. You wiped away the mess of cum on his chest, also wiping the layer of sweat from his face even though he acted like a spoiled child with pouts and faces. You left a playful kiss on his lips that made him laugh, unable to be truly serious.
Lucifer offered to get dressed and leave the room to go down the hall and get them some cold water and a few snacks. You didn’t know whether to laugh or feel tender when you saw him clumsily put on just a pair of pants and the sweater he’d been wearing before, then practically run out. You made his bed while you waited for him to return, and he handed you a package of cookies and the water with a silly smile.
“I didn’t need this.” you said as you slipped under the sheets. Lucifer curled up right next to you as he took a long sip of water, closed the bottle, and set it on the nightstand.
“I do,” he shrugged, lying because your well-being was his priority. Your arm wrapped around his waist and he snuggled closer to you, his head falling onto your shoulder but his gaze lifting to focus on your eyes. “are you okay?”
“Hmm? Oh. I am,” you snuggled closer to him, comforting him with your body heat. His expression softened. He leaned in to plant a kiss on your cheek. He chuckled, smiling gently, touched.
His eyelids threatened to droop as sleep began to take hold of him. You felt him nodding against your shoulder as your arm wrapped more comfortably around his shoulders, and the final sigh he let out was a sign that he was dozing off. You settled in under the sheets, kissed him on the temple, and finally fell asleep in the tranquility of your room.
summary: who knew sam liked it so much when you were in control?
pairing: sam x angel!reader (gn) | genre: hot smut !! mdni | word count: 7.4k
warnings: older!sam, sub!sam (ft. a lot of whining and other sounds), a lotta edging, unprotected sex (dont do this), grace-play + sam's newly discovered grace kink, marking (giving sammy hickies !!), dean being a pain, dom!reader (?), i think that's it
notes: wow, writing something that's not a request ???? @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth and @aniresrene made me do it (thank you both !!). i took a bit of inspiration for some of this from a fic by @theedaythatnevercomes and her c'mon baby, get in fic :] as always, mdni with my smut !! and also as always, i'm too asexual for writing smut on the regular, this is not an open invitation to request heavy smut from me :]
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There’s something hot under your skin. It doesn’t burn, because it can’t. It doesn’t singe or scorch, because it hasn’t learned how. But it simmers, bubbling gently, a rolling ocean that laps along the shore in soft waves, curved and gentle like crescent moons on the sand. The longer you let it sit, the stronger it gets, coasting toward something like a boil that makes your skin hot and your stomach warm. It drips lower, a slow line of heat that lands heavy when it hits the pit of your core, spreading molten heat in a honey-slow crawl ever downward.
Across the table from you is the reason for your distress. Not that he would notice, of course, because you’ve spent too many years taking the time to learn to cover it up. He’s not in tune with the rhythm of your grace yet, can’t notice when it flares around him, doesn’t seem to realize how it burns stronger on days like these. Sam is many things, and unfortunately, oblivious to the way he makes you feel is one of them. You’ve learned you have to be painfully direct with him, because speaking in wraparound metaphors is never going to get your desires across. He needs facts, statements, full sentences that start and end with Sam, I need you. He needs you to be bold. So tonight, you will.
Currently, Sam is buried in a book with more pages than he has hairs on his head. They’re thin, brittle with age and filled with smudged handwriting that you know strains his eyes to read. If you listen close to the silence around him, you can fill it with whatever internal commentary he has on the text; anecdotes to the lines on the page, mental reminders to search for a connection in another book later. You file those notes away too, because two brains are better than one, especially when one belongs to an angel. Your memory is plenty good enough to handle the both of you, but Sam takes pride in how much he knows, and you’re not one to underestimate the power of knowledge.
You watch, fixated, as he raises a thumb to his mouth, wetting it with the tip of his tongue so he can better turn the pages, careful not to damage the ancient paper. It’s a simple gesture, one you’ve seen him do hundreds of times before on case files or poetry anthology pages, but for some reason it makes your face hot. You avert your eyes quickly, instead opting to trace the lines on the tabletop, listening to their stories. It doesn’t tell you much, because it is just a piece of wood turned into a tabletop and carved with initials, but you can pretend there’s a wise voice telling you it’s tale.
Your eyes follow the lines as far as they go, tracing them until they wind up at Sam’s bare forearm. Those stupid bare arms, covering the ends to the forest’s stories, because he’s chosen to roll up the sleeves of his navy button-up to his elbows. Even from this distance you can count every mole on his skin, the freckles faded by age and made bright again by the summer sun. The faint hairs that curl like fern fronds across his skin, connecting his freckles the same way an astronomer might draw lines to connect the constellations in the sky. Thin, soft, etched into where they belong. Sam turns another page, the muscle under his skin rippling as he moves, your eyes tracking it the whole way from rest to motion to rest again.
Everything about Sam is soft in ways you’d expect it to be sharp. The lines and ridges of his bones and muscles under his skin are rounded and soft, somehow managing to be gentle without sacrificing their power. Where Dean’s hands are large, the bones thickening his fingers enough that you can see where one or two have been broken, Sam’s hands are bigger yet but timid, a little shaky at times, always asking for permission to be big. The way he manages to round down the expanses of his shoulders both impresses you and makes you sad that he feels the need to take up less space. Even the way he’s just cleared his throat isn’t harsh or cracking like it is for most people. Instead, it’s light, quiet, filling the space like it really is nothing more than just a temporary sound.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs softly, barely looking up from his page.
“I am not staring,” you reply.
Sam huffs a laugh, grinning in that careful way that makes his dimple pop on his cheek. It’s hard to see it now that he’s growing a bit of a beard, but you don’t think you could forget what it looks like if you tried. Even now the soft divot is visible to you, pockmarking his skin like a little meteor fell into it, rounding it out and giving it meaning until it was something beautiful and kind instead of fiery. His eyes flick up from the page to your face and back again, the same path they make thousands of times a day.
“If you’re not staring, then what are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
“About what?”
“You.”
Sam’s eyes pause their trek across the page, coming up to meet your steady gaze for a second longer than normal. The longer he watches you, the more you see his expression shift from something relaxed into something strung, an animal ready to move. The lamplight flickers off him in waning waves of gold, his eyes shifting from a dark brown to something lighter, the colour of the worn wood on the table you’d been studying earlier, something golden he doesn’t know exists swimming in them too. Sam looks away first, his cheeks dusted a pale pink, unable to hide the ghost of a smile that lands on his face every time he sees you.
“I’m not kidding,” you say.
“I know.”
He shifts in his chair, the movement disjointed and awkward, settling himself both deeper into the seat and also closer to the edge. Ready to get up and move at a moment’s notice, but making himself comfortable, like he can melt into it and disappear if you asked him to. One hand drifts under the table, the almost imperceptible sound of fingers rearranging denim reaching your ears. His hand drifts back up, fidgeting momentarily with the collar of his shirt before falling back to rest in his lap, book now forgotten. His legs stretch long under the table, ankles crossed and socked feet tapping a rhythm against the floor, eyes drifting anywhere but you.
“Are you done?” you ask, gesturing to his book.
Sam nods, clearing his throat a second time. “I can be. Why?”
You stare, your expression shifting into something deadpan and serious. “I can wait if you’re busy.”
“No, no, I’m not busy.”
“You’re halfway through a chapter. You never stop reading halfway through a chapter.”
Sam shrugs, caught. “First time for everything?”
You absorb the information, standing from your chair in an abrupt motion that makes Sam’s brows furrow as he watches you. It’s not unlike you to move in a space like you’re not used to the space existing, but this is too precise for even that. You’re moving on a mission, and Sam’s starting to understand what it is.
“Come with me,” you say, holding out your hand and cupping his chin with it.
“Where are we going?”
You nod in the direction of the hall. “You are going to have a first time.”
Sam swallows, something that looks like uncertainty flickering across his features. You frown, leaning down to look him in the eyes, softening your expression into something you know he understands as gentle. Your eyes flick over him, from his worried expression to the shirt collar he still hasn’t fixed, down his lightly freckled arms, to the lump in his jeans he was adjusting earlier. Perhaps you’ve misread something. Maybe whatever fire simmers under your skin doesn’t live under his; maybe you’ve overstepped, crossed a line you know you should never cross, hurt the parts of him you promised you would never hurt.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “If I was too direct.”
Sam waves off your apology with a hand, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t apologize.”
“I made you uncomfortable.”
“Not uncomfortable. Very much the opposite of uncomfortable.”
Your face scrunches up, confusion etched into your features. Sam chuckles low, putting one of his hands on the wrist that still holds his chin in your hand. His thumb strokes up and down the back of your hand, drawing you in with the way that every touch of his does, promising everything good and more. When he turns his head slightly, his beard scrapes at your palm, scratching a surface itch and stoking the deeper one.
“But you look…uncertain.”
“Not uncertain.”
“Then what would you call it?”
Sam thinks, eyes flittering over your features, hesitating on your lips. His tongue darts out to wet his own, fingers tightening momentarily on your wrist.
“Anticipation.”
You hum, the sound vibrating through your chest to Sam just by how close you are to him. His knees tip open a little as you step forward, legs spreading just enough that you can stand between them. Experimentally, your hand tips low, trailing a faint path along the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, brushing his adam’s apple that bobs when he swallows. Slowly, your fingertips brush the collar of the shirt he’d been playing with earlier, nails brushing half-moon shapes along what you can see of his collarbone. His breath hitches when you reach the dip at the base of his neck, a shaky inhale and exhale that you know is holding back something fuller.
“Okay,” you say. “Anticipation is good?”
Sam nods, the motion slightly detached. “Yeah.”
“Do you like it?”
Sam’s eyes gleam with something hidden that he keeps carefully locked away, slowly brimming to the surface under your heated touch.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
His voice is unsteady, like it was knocked off balance by a punch to the chest. Something about the reverent breathlessness of it stokes the pot from a simmer to a slow boil, foamy sea roiling under your skin, impatient as it waits. You watch Sam for a moment longer, studying the ridge of his brow under the light, the way it normally shades his eyes but now seems to push the darkness back for you to see his pretty hazel eyes watching you just as intently as you watch him. You brush your hand through his hair slow, raking it back from his forehead. He gives a soft, punched-out noise when your fingers catch on a knot and yank harder than you’d intended, his face immediately flushing pink.
“Sorry,” he whispers when you remove your hand.
“Did it hurt?”
“A little.”
“But you-.”
Sam holds up a hand to stop you. “Something can hurt and feel good at the same time.”
You frown. “How on Earth does that work?”
Sam chuckles, tipping into your hand with the weight of it. “I wish I knew.”
“Do you-. Can I do it again?”
Sam’s eyes focus on you. “Please.”
You follow the same path again, fingers running along his scalp like a rake as they pull his hair back, finding a spot near the top of his head that looks suitable. Quietly, you wrap two fingers around the roots, pulling just hard enough to draw out a low groan from the base of his throat, one that comes up from his chest and sounds like heaven. You move on to a new spot, repeating the same motion but slightly harder, earning yourself another groan, this one louder.
“Wait- wait. Stop,” Sam pants.
You retract your hand immediately. “Too much?”
“No, no. God, no. Just-. We’re in the library.”
You nod, slow. “There is no door.”
“Right.”
“And Dean could walk past.”
“Right again.”
“And you would like to be somewhere else.”
“Three in a row.”
You hum, grabbing Sam’s large hand and pulling him to his feet. He goes a little wobbly, never expecting the strength you have over him, but he stands upright, slamming the book closed and shoving it down the table for Dean to put somewhere else. His hand falls again to the front of his jeans, making an attempt to adjust himself in case you come across Dean. You and Sam both know it’s probably pointless, but it’s the thought that counts.
Your steps on the bunker floor tread so light they barely make a sound, almost like you’re floating over the ground. Maybe you are, in a way, walking light and subtle and with the kind of gentleness that comes from being held up by wings. Sam walks so close behind you it would crowd if he were anyone else; he has a talent for existing shoulder to shoulder with you in your space and never leaving you feeling overwhelming. One hand hovers at the small of your back, his nose nudging at your neck while he lays soft kisses to the skin as you walk, your pace quickening the closer you get to his room.
Sam mutters something impatient when it takes you more than a second to open the door to his room, and you give him a half-hearted glare from the corner of your eye. He apologizes with an open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, exhaling soft through his nose as he does, the heat of his breath curling against the skin of your neck. He nudges the door closed with his heel, the latch rattling lightly against the frame as it comes to rest, something Dean will no doubt complain about later, but neither of you care. The sound of wood hitting frame doesn’t matter, the sound of socked feet on floor isn’t important; the sound of panted breaths and increasingly heated kisses does.
You spin him around, so his chest is pressed to yours, slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him ever closer. His hands fall to your waist, smoothing up and down your ribcage, cupping them and stroking his thumb along the lower ribs in time with your breaths. Your fingertips find their earlier path to the base of his neck, scooping under his hair and bunching it up in your hands as you trail upward, inching toward the roots and tugging when you get there. The first few times only reward you with a huff of breath against your skin, but after some experimentation, you find the right section of his hair that drags a whine from his chest into the kiss.
Despite his size, it’s devastatingly easy to walk him toward the bed, using just a fraction of your strength to push him onto the mattress. His knees buckle when he reaches the edge, gripping your hips and pulling you down into his lap. Your knees land on either side of his hips, leading you to subtly grind yourself down on his growing hardness under the denim of his jeans. Each circle of your hips on his drags a moan from Sam, spitting it out into the air like he’s ashamed of the pleasure, afraid to let you know what he feels.
Eventually, Sam pulls away from you, gazing up at you with blown pupils and the most beautiful eyes you’ve seen. His lashes tangle together as he blinks at you, doe eyes perfectly matching the flush on his cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips. Your hands make a path down his shoulder blades and around to his chest, palm landing flat over his heart. Sam’s hands cup your face like angelic statues cup holy water, holding it like it’s rare, precious, something to be closely guarded. Softly, testing the waters, Sam’s hips jerk upward, your lips parting for a sound that never comes.
“Sam?” you ask, breathless.
Sam makes a noise in response that’s airy and light, something you take for agreement but could easily have no meaning attached to it.
“Do you want to try something new?”
He freezes. “Like what?”
Your hips shift minutely, Sam’s eyes squeezing shut in response.
“Making you feel what I feel.”
“You feel it different?”
You nod, the motion jerky.
“What kind of different?” he prods.
“More feeling. More energy. Just-. More. You’d like it.”
“Okay,” Sam whispers. “Yeah, angel.”
One hand cups his chin, holding it between your thumb and fingers. The other hand drifts up in the familiar sort of salute you use when you heal him, fingers brushing Sam’s hairline, tracing the creases on his forehead as he watches you. A soft press of weight, a faint pulse of blue, and a sharp inhale from Sam, and you know it’s worked. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and soft as you drop your fingers away, grace fading out until it’s no brighter than the room’s shadows. The lamplight fades out too, letting gentle darkness creep in to replace what was once a soft gold, Sam’s pupils widening further as he adjusts to the darkness.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmur in his ear, lips brushing the shell of it.
“Promise,” he whispers back, shivering, goosebumps cropping up along his arms.
Slowly, you move in tandem. Sam crawls on his elbows back until his head hits the pillows, hair spreading around his head all tangled and knotted, like some kind of halo. Your palms, burning warm, trail up his forearms as you lay him back, hovering yourself over his body. Deft fingers pop the buttons on his shirtsleeves, Sam’s huge hands helping undo the ones on his chest. You watch, fascinated, as his chest comes into view, bare under the shirt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight, hair dark like the hair on his head a faint brush trail over his pecs. He crunches as he removes the shirt properly, a hand pressed flat to the muscles of his abs feeling the way they ripple and contract through his movements, flattening out again when he lays back down with a sigh.
“Off?” he asks, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt.
“Not yet” you reply, delicately pushing his hands away.
“Want to feel you.”
“You will.”
Sam almost pouts, something so sweet you nearly cave and let him remove your shirt, but you know his limits. With your grace flowing under his skin, electrifying every nerve until they all sing the same chorus, having your chest bare to him to roam his hands over would be too much for him right now when it’s so new. He’d burn up, skin flushing red and angry, burning out until he’s a shell of himself. You’re not here to hurt him, after all. You’re just here to give him a good time, a first experience he’s never had before; it’s not every day Sam gets to mess around with an angel in his bed.
Drifting downward, your mouth returns to his as your hands palm downward, inching closer toward where he’s straining in his jeans. You go slow, giving him time to adjust to this new state of overwhelm, every nerve in his body no doubt firing a thousand times stronger than usual. You reach the happy trail that points down the slim v of his hips, sharp angled hipbones cutting into his skin and disappearing into the denim hem decorating his waist. The moment your fingers brush through the hair, Sam inhales sharp in a poorly concealed whine, back arching and hips jerking upward. You press down to keep him still, cautious with how much feeling you let himself get high on, keeping control over the situation, keeping control over Sam.
And he lets you. And he likes it.
He likes giving you control to do whatever you want with him. He likes letting himself feel everything a hundred times stronger than usual; every valley of your fingerprints, every particle of your breath on his cheek. Everything else he can’t wait to feel waiting for him under your clothes.
The button to his jeans pops open, zipper pulled down slow, the sound of the metal parts unlinking impossibly loud in the space. Rustling denim fills the room, the soft press of your palms on his skin as you drag his jeans down past your legs, lifting your hips to give him enough motion to kick them off, still drunk on the taste of his mint chapstick. Settling into place again, your kisses trail blazing hot down the skin of his neck, his head tipped back to give you access to the striking ropes of muscle on the sides. Cautiously, you nip at one of them, your teeth driving a full-bodied moan from Sam’s chest.
The tent in Sam’s boxers presses insistently against your inner thigh, warm and full. Slow, painfully slow, you grip the waistband and work them down his legs, fingernails trailing along his skin and leaving faint white lines in their wake, the skin around turning gentle pink like rose petals. Once the fabric is clear of his feet, you make your way back up, equally slow, relishing every sound you can pull from Sam. Holding his legs down while you press a soft kiss to the inside of his knee makes his back arch lightly and makes him breathless, but leaving messy kisses along his thighs makes him squirm a little, almost whimpering with the anticipation. Taking advantage of it, you suck two careful marks on his thighs just near his hipbones, blooming dark pink that will surely fade into reddish purple by the time you’re done.
His dick is resting hard on his lower stomach, coarse hair curling at his base that you run your hand through, teasing. Letting him feel how your fingers catch on every hair, skin goosebumped and hot to the touch. He shivers when your hand ghosts over his length, swollen and pink at the tip, waiting patiently for you to do something. When your hands move back down his thighs instead, trailing along the insides so close to where he needs you yet refusing to touch him there, he exhales shakily, moving on your behalf.
Eyes screwed shut, Sam drifts a cautious hand towards his dick, trembling a little as he goes. You watch, confused, thinking he’s reaching for you. A low noise comes from his throat when his fingers wrap around himself, attempting desperately to alleviate some of the pressure that’s built up in his abdomen while you were busy. You watch him stroke himself, tracking the way his fingers move over himself, likely something he’s done a hundred times before in cheap motels with too much energy and nowhere to put it. For a brief selfish moment, you wonder how many of those times have been to the thought of you; how many motel showers have heard your name, how many magazines he’s read and replaced the models with you in his head. The number likely isn’t zero, and that makes you painfully hot and bothered about it.
A half-satisfied sigh spills from Sam’s lips, thumb smoothing over his tip and coating himself in his arousal. It’s pretty to you in a strange way, the same kind of iridescence as a pearl. If you look close enough, you swear you can see a faint rainbow sheen to it. Sam seems wildly unaware of the natural beauty of it, and you suspect he just can’t see the same colours you can, can’t see the same prettiness to what’s not meant to be pretty.
“You gonna do something?” Sam asks, wrecked. “Or just stare?”
Sliding your own pants off, you climb back up his body. Sitting yourself on his stomach, you’re just high enough that he can’t grind against you.
“Ask nicely,” you comment, frowning a little.
To you, there’s nothing strange about that comment. It’s something you say several times a day, usually directed at his brother who seems to have no concept of manners or the word ‘please’. To you, this is just an everyday comment that means nothing more than what it asks for; respect.
To Sam, it means that and everything more. To Sam, it’s a command, a request he simply can’t ignore. He turns his eyes on you, filled with something lustful and gorgeous, the kind of sin that draws you in because you know it can’t hurt you. His lips form an ‘o’ shape, but no words come out; not until he clears his throat, the sound cracking in the space.
“Please, angel. Do something. I can’t-. I need-. Please.”
When his voice sounds that airy and high, that close to drifting out of his body and up somewhere far away, you have no choice but to listen to him. You seal his lips in a searing kiss, swiping your tongue along the bottom one, lapping up his taste. His hands come up to hold you, lacing together at the back as he holds your head in them, thumbs near your eyebrows. He kisses you back like you’re oxygen, hands feeling like they completely cover the sides of your head, grabbing at you and holding you close because he needs you there, your skin scraping along his beard and tickling deliciously.
You work your hips backward, shimmying them along his torso and dragging your heat over his stomach, down his happy trail until you reach his dick. It’s hot and heavy against your ass, still slick from his earlier ministrations in what you now realize were meant to be preparation. Sam’s working at the foil on a condom when you look back up, ripping it open with his teeth when his hands shake too much to be useful.
“Don’t need it,” you say, knocking it from his hands.
“I-.”
“I am an angel, Sam.”
“Ever heard of a Nephilim?”
You laugh, melodic. “It can’t happen.”
“You’re sure?”
You stare. “I would not be saying this if I wasn’t.”
Sam looks like he’s about to protest again, and there’s only so much convincing you can do with words before Sam starts getting frustrated. Instead, you move the rest of the way back, grabbing Sam’s dick and stroking him softly while you align yourself with him. The moment your fingers close around him, he whimpers high in his throat, stomach muscles jumping in time with your movements. It only takes a few seconds, but to Sam, it feels like it takes an hour; an hour of just feeling the heat of your palm on his sensitive heat, moving too slow and too fast. It takes all he has to keep it together. You hear him make a mental reminder to do this again.
“Of course we can,” you reply aloud.
“What?”
You nod toward him. “I heard you.”
Sam blushes furiously red. “Sorry.”
“Sam. I told you that you would like this. Stop feeling ashamed for it.”
Putting an end to the debate, you sink down on his length, slapping a hand over his mouth when he moans loud enough you worry Dean will hear from behind the closed door. Sam whines when he finally bottoms out, hands flying to your waist in an attempt to keep you still and make you move; he can’t decide which would feel better at this point. To fit him fully, you rock your hips slightly back and forth, his tip notching on your walls as he fits where he always has, buried completely inside you. He gives another moan when you settle still again, the sound devolving into a muffled groan when you tighten your hand on his mouth. You can hear Dean’s footsteps outside getting closer, praying that he’ll walk past without commenting on anything.
“Sammy?” Dean yells. “You in there?”
You and Sam both sigh in defeat. Sam goes to lift you off of him, but you stop his hands where they are. His head tips to the side, the confused puppy look he’s trademarked in your brain, and all you do is kiss him deep in reply.
“What’re you doing?” he whispers low.
“You said something can hurt and feel good at the same time,” you whisper back. “I’m testing that theory.”
Sam’s eyes widen in understanding, a soft grin slowly curling across his bearded face. He pecks your cheek before getting interrupted again by Dean’s banging on the doorframe.
“I got questions for you, Sammy,” he yells.
“Dude, go read a book or something,” Sam shouts back.
You still your minute rocking. Sam looks, confused. You shrug, grinning.
“I did. I still got questions. Help a guy out, would’ya?”
Sam groans, this time from his brother’s sheer audacity instead of your heated touch.
“Make it quick.”
“Do I get to come in or am I stuck yellin’ at this door?”
“Don’t come in!” you and Sam both yell at the same time.
Dean mutters something Sam can’t hear but your ears pick up, something nasty that makes you chuckle and would make Sam slap his brother across the face if he heard it.
“What’s the question?” Sam asks.
“Got this case here, says it’s in, uh, Milwaukee.”
“Uh huh.”
“And it’s talkin’ ‘bout some drownin’s.”
“Wisconsin’s covered in lakes, Dean.”
“Well yeah. But this one’s weird.”
You start moving again, gentle circles that make Sam muffle the breath he sucks in.
“Why’s that?” Sam replies, voice careful and steady.
“’Cause the guy drowned on land.”
Sam makes the kind of scrunched-up face he makes when something is definitely supernatural, but still impressive enough for him to be surprised about it.
“Oh..kay. Weird.”
“Yeah. And there’s this symbol they found on his wrist that I wanted t’show you. ‘Cause I can’t find it.”
“Why would I know?”
“Eh, thought your angel pal could help us out.”
Sam rolls his eyes right at the time you grind down harsh on him, his eyes stopping their motion to flutter closed as his head jerks back into the soft down of the pillows.
“What’s it look like?” Sam asks.
Dean describes the shape as best he can, but you and Sam both know he’s taking several creative liberties in an attempt to draw Sam out of his room and shoulder the work for him. You keep a mental image of what Dean draws, the picture so sharp and clear you’re surprised Sam can’t see it floating between your chests. There’s a few vertical lines and a couple diagonal ones, something that looks like a spiral and is probably mean to be a triangle. It’s surrounded by a circle, and Dean says it looks like a brand, flaying the skin around it the same shade of pink as Sam’s sweat-flushed cheeks.
Each shape Dean describes currently earns Sam another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down on his length as best you can. Occasionally, he hits a spot that makes your toes curl against his legs and forces you to brace a palm on the middle of his ribcage, using his sternum to keep you upright. Sam’s doing a decent job of keeping quiet, his sounds mostly reduced to quiet, shaky exhales of breath, but when he can’t, your palm is quick enough to keep his moans quiet so that Dean doesn’t hear.
“Could be a binding sigil,” Sam answers.
You still abruptly, thighs falling open and movements reduced to nothing so quickly Sam almost tears up at the loss of friction.
“Not right?” Sam whispers to you.
“No. The spiral should be a triangle.”
Sam redraws his mental image. “Dean?”
“What?”
“Is it Celtic?”
Dean shuffles some pages around. You still don’t move.
“No,” you and Dean both say.
Sam groans, frustrated. “Okay. It’s either Enochian or some bastardization of it.”
That grants Sam another thrust of your hips downward, drawing up a whine.
“Good,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, kissing his pulse point.
“Great. What’s it do?” Dean asks.
Sam shifts the both of you, tangling his fingers in your hair and burying his face into your shoulder to suppress the resulting groan.
“Pr- probably binds- ah.”
You stop.
“No, sorry. Not binding.”
You can see the gears turning in Sam’s brain.
“Wait, Dean. Do the diagonals start at the left or right?”
“Uh…left.”
A small movement from you, a reward for asking the right question. Dean’s silence continues, so you continue too, waiting them both out for whoever makes a mistake first. Sam’s fingers squeeze the plush of your waist, nails leaving tiny half-moons that you’re notice later and wear because they came from Sam’s hands. You keep kissing him, swallowing his moans as you build him up higher, working him until you’re certain that whatever pressure he’s feeling now is worse than he’s ever had. His face is screwed up, his mouth mumbling incoherent sounds into yours, nose scrunching. You can tell he’s close, heat burning sharp between you.
“Hurts,” he whines.
Just as Sam’s about to tip over the edge, you stop. You don’t give him the pleasure of slowing down; just a full stop, thighs loosening and heels removed from his legs, palms off his chest and mouth away from his. Your palm blocks his desperate whine from reaching Dean’s ears, Sam’s eyes peering at you bloodshot and frustrated.
“The hell?” he whispers, throat wrecked.
“You haven’t figured it out yet,” is your answer.
“Dean?” Sam asks, weak. “You there?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just readin’ somethin’. Says the lines start from the bottom left, not the top left.”
“It’s a sigil for a plague,” he comments.
“Good,” you whisper, starting a slow roll.
“Oh great. Which one?” Dean asks, exasperated.
“Seven, I think.”
You stop. Sam whines.
“Not seven, not seven,” he says, punched out and breathy. “’S not seven.”
“Well, that’s great. Y’only got, what, nine more to go through?”
“Shut up.”
You lean down to Sam’s ear, lacing your fingers through his hand and bringing it up to rest beside his head.
“Seven was hail, Sam.”
“I know.”
“Ask him what the man drowned in.”
Sam clears his throat, taking a shaky breath in.
“Dean?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d he drown in? Water?”
You can hear Dean shake his head, then remember Sam can’t see it.
“No, uh…drowned in his own blood. Saw trap style.”
Your hand brushes sweaty hair back from Sam’s forehead.
“It’s one. Dean, it’s the first plague. The whole turning water into blood situation.”
Your grip tightens on Sam’s hair, pulling until you draw a whimper from his throat. Again, you start slow circles, mouthing at his pulse point, your hand still locked in his. Again, you build him all the way up until he’s just about to let himself go. Again, you stop abruptly, this time drawing gentle tears from the corner of Sam’s eye.
“What now?” he murmurs to you.
“You haven’t told him how to remove it.”
“I don’t know how to remove it.”
“Yes, you do, Sam.”
Dean shuffles. “How am I supposed to get it off these people?”
“Fire?”
You move, cautious, slow. A half answer, but not complete.
“Hellfire, maybe?” Sam adds.
You stop.
“What other fire is there?” Sam murmurs to himself. “Not hellfire…not fire…f…it’s…holy…holy fire. Dean! Dean, it’s holy fire.”
“Good boy,” you coo, nipping at the dip between Sam’s collarbones and moving again.
“Anything else?” Sam asks his brother.
“Nah. Just needed that geek brain o’yours.”
Dean’s footsteps thud heavily off to the library, your ears picking up the sounds of him rummaging for whiskey in the room before dropping heavily into a chair and commenting something about how late it is. Once you’re certain he’s not coming back, you let yourself move again, thumbing along the hem of your shirt that you stole from Sam’s closet. Some worn t-shirt that’s seen several years of motel rooms and duffel bag bottoms, travelling with him everywhere he goes. It smells like him too, something soft like pavement after rain and cedar wood burning. Sam helps you slide it over your head and drop it to the floor, hands eagerly resting on your ribs again, this time bare.
Your movements turn from circles to proper thrusts forward, your stomach brushing his at some moments, his arms anchoring you against him. Your hand is still holding his near his head, his knuckles white from how he’s squeezing your hand. He’s panting now, full-bodied pants every time you break the kiss, the bundle of arousal in his stomach gripping him tighter and tighter the longer it builds for, radiating to his spine and arching his back off the mattress. You clench around him, earning yourself a heavy moan that echoes in your ears, building the both of you higher and higher. Sam’s hard to the point of pain, aching with every rock of your hips, desperately pleading for you to let him come.
You slow, almost stopping but not quite. Tears fills Sam’s eyes, and you realize, after a quick delve into his soul, it really does hurt.
“Pleasepleaseplease,” he begs, breathless.
You grind down harsh, a cracked whine breaking the air from Sam’s lips. The bubble bursts in Sam’s core, and then he’s coming hot and heavy into you, moaning an incomprehensible version of your name into the room’s night air. Tears slip sideways into his hairline as he lets go, the consequences of reaching the height of pleasured pain. His hips shove up into you, pushing himself impossibly deeper as he finally empties himself, the pressure abating slow and steady with each bit. Somewhere along the way you come too, but you’re too focused on Sam and Sam’s too focused on his own orgasm to notice. You slow, a gentle wind-down unlike earlier, only fully stopping when Sam whimpers something about being sensitive, tingles arching up your back when you tip onto him.
He’s panting heavily now, lying spread-eagled on the bed with one arm hanging half off. His chest rises and falls dramatically, your lips kissing up and down it as you wait patiently for him to come down enough that you can slip away for a cloth. Your first attempt at moving doesn’t go far, Sam mumbling for a few more minutes despite your insistence that he gets up soon. Eventually, his breathing slows into something normal, heart calming down until it’s back to thudding its regular steady rhythm in his chest. You brush his hair back again, this time ensuring you don’t pull at the knots you’ve created by fisting your hands through it; just getting the sweat-sticky strands off his forehead so you can lay a soft kiss to it.
Finally, slowly, when he’s soft enough you’re both sure you can move, you lift yourself off of Sam. He sucks in a breath at the cold of the room reaching his skin that was previously covered by you, adjusting to the room temperature while you search for sleep clothes. He has a hand thrown over his eyes when you come back to bed with fresh clothes, and you peel it back gently to watch him. Your fingers return to his forehead, retracting the grace you’d given him, your eyes watching how he sinks deeper into the mattress again now that he’s fully human once more.
“I will clean up here,” you murmur, kissing him softly. “Get yourself sorted out.”
“Do I have to?” he murmurs back.
You smile gently. “Yes, love. You do. It won’t take very long.”
Sam hauls himself upright with a grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching his long arms over his head, twisting his back to get out the tension from earlier. His hip cracks loud when he stands, and something twists in your heart when you catch the silvers in his hair and beard glint in the grey nighttime light. He’s getting older, you know this. He’s older than he was when you met, and something about that makes you feel overjoyed but also a little sad. He’s getting to an age he never assumed he’d reach, surviving everything that brought him to this point. But that also means he’s running out of time on earth, something you’re distraught at. For someone like him who loves earth so much, it seems cruel to take it away from him.
Turning your thoughts away from his mortality, you straighten out the bedsheets, a snap of your fingers cleaning and drying them, a second snap making them carry the same warmth that they would if they’d just been removed from the dryer or just brought inside from the sunlight. Your hands fluff the pillows into something that isn’t dented by Sam’s head, straightening the pillowcases again. Your ears pick up the sounds of Sam in the bathroom, your brain filtering out the sound of him peeing and focusing instead on his soft humming as he washes his hands.
When he shuffles back into the room, you’re in the process of putting on your sleep clothes; an old thin shirt of his that you only wear because anything warmer makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out and pants made out of some kind of athletic material you hate but keep wearing. Sam struggles into a clean pair of boxers, nearly falling over when his heel gets stuck in the leg. You pull the sheets back so Sam can climb in, throwing them over him as he snuggles into your side, one impossibly heavy arm thrown over your waist. Boneless, without putting in any effort to keep himself light for you, he has the weight of tons of rocks; it never hurts, just a comforting heaviness that proves he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
“So?” you murmur, turning to face him.
“So,” he replies, soft and tired eyes watching you fondly.
“Was it too much?”
Sam shakes his head, shaking strands of hair into his eyes in the process.
“No. ‘S perfect. Thank you.”
“Would- would you do it again?”
Sam pushes into the pillows groaning a soft comment about angel stamina. “Not now.”
You laugh light and airy. “I didn’t mean now, love.”
“Oh. He hauls himself up on one elbow, blinking slow. “Yeah. Yeah, I really would.”
You reach for him, dragging him to you. The perk of your angel strength means Sam can go completely boneless in your hold, putting in no effort whatsoever, and you can still drag him around like he weighs nothing. He’s barely in control of his muscles right now, but he still slings his arms around you when you pull him to your chest, one hand disappearing under your pillow and the other resting somewhere on your shoulder blade. His hand won’t go numb; you won’t let it. Instead, he melts himself completely over you, burying his face into your shoulder and humming as he gets comfortable.
“Okay?” you ask when he stills.
“Okay,” he murmurs, barely a word rather than just a sound.
You kiss the top of his head. “Rest well, Sam.”
“You know I will.”
You smile into his hair. “I know.”
He presses a lazy ghost of a kiss to the side of your neck. “I love you, angel.”
“You know I love you too.”
“I know.”
It’s the last conscious thing he says before the sleep crawling up his spine claims him, surrounding him in a warm blanket as he drifts off in your arms. You don’t sleep, Sam knows you don’t, but for his sake you slow your breathing and heart rate until it matches his; beat for beat, breath for breath. Your eyes drift shut, brain alert and awake but eyes sleeping with the rest of the room. You notice the moment his exhales change from through his nose to through his mouth, then shift into soft snores that get gradually louder as the night progresses. It’s never annoying, and you’ve told him this, but he still tries his best to keep it to a minimum with you. He doesn’t shift at all during the night, sleeping as heavy and deep as a fallen log. And if he drools a little on your shirt in his deep sleep? Well, nobody but you will know.
I Just read ur Percy Jackson fic, omg tysm for writing one. I haven't seen a percy Jackson fic that had more than 1k words in like so many months, maybe even a year. It was soooo good too and I really do hope you'd consider writing more similar fics in the future:D
-crazy person out
OMG HIIIIII, TYSM!! ╥﹏╥ I genuinely enjoyed writing it as my first smut fic, and i'm happy that you guys liked it as much as i did o(〃＾▽＾〃)o if u want to request anything i'm open about it!! have a good day ᰔ
Hi, how are you? If it's okay with you, could you make a part two of this https://www.tumblr.com/unini/817448613754126336/wrapping-around-my-finger-percy-jackson-x-loser?source=share] with them exploring sex more, with the reader giving him oral sex, and them discovering some fetishes, whatever you want? Thank you very much.
oh wow, this is actually a good idea! i wanted to keep the first part simple, so i limited myself w the things to put, but u gave me ideas! wait for it o(〃＾▽＾〃)o
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 8.7k | 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 ˒˒ fluff/smut, sub!amab!reader, softdom!percy, first time, grown-up characters, established relationship, dry humping, spicy, aftercare.
Percy was popular at camp. Who could deny it? The son of Poseidon had a trail of fame following him wherever he went; his name was on everyone’s lips—the well-known terror of the gods—and the best part came when puberty hit him. He began to get used to it, rolling his eyes in amusement at the cheers, the attention, the sighs, the compliments. They made him happy; they might have made him a little proud, but he still had his heart of gold.
Everyone saw Percy coming into his own, and it seemed he didn’t disappoint anyone—his height, his tan, his signature cocky smirk, the dexterity of his hands, the confidence in every step, his sword training, and he knew it. He liked to strut around, be a drama king, make a scene; he was the life of the camp when he wasn’t fighting for his life against monsters or gods trying to kill him.
Who didn’t love him? Everyone wanted to be with him! With the popularity that followed him everywhere, he had constant invitations to dates, proposals, or girls all over him. Those daring ones in sleeveless, low-cut shirts, shorts, ribbons in their hair, sweet smiles, and big eyes—but none of them were… his type. He’d laugh, flirt a little, but then awkwardly step back with some sarcastic comment. That’s why everyone was confused when he started taking an interest in the withdrawn boy from the cabin next door.
“Hey, handsome,” Percy smiled, his lips curving into a smug grin. He crossed his arms and leaned against a tree—the tree where you were sitting.
You blinked, once, then twice. You tucked a tangled strand of hair behind your ear, looking up at him. Slowly, deliberately; you took your time, analyzing his features. Every smile, every wink, every blush rising up his cheeks, the twitches in his eyes, the catch in his breath, the tremor in his hand, his Adam’s apple moving. He was nervous. You could see it.
You smiled too, more calmly, more vividly, more awkwardly. “Hey,” you waved awkwardly, feeling a natural warmth in your chest. His heart melted. “Do you need anything?”
“Well… Mr. D sent me to find volunteers for the canoe race.”
“Am I… a candidate for that volunteer position?”
He blinked; for a moment his brain stopped working because he didn’t understand why you’d used that mix of words. He cleared his throat; his hands in the pockets of his short pants didn’t make him look casual, just as uncomfortable as you, but it was different. You knew it was different.
“I meant─ well, I meant that I think you look like a good guy.”
"Good guy," you repeated under your breath. You let the words melt in your throat, tasted them, and clicked your tongue. "Do you think I can be on your team for the canoe race, then? "
"Yeah, something like that, " he shrugged, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "That’s how it works, right? “I want you on my team for Friday’s race.”
“Oh, thanks. No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no. We’re not in the Devizes-Westminster International Canoeing Marathon.”
“The what?”
You smiled amusedly, as if you found it adorable that Percy didn’t understand a word of what you’d suddenly started talking about. You shrugged, chuckling to yourself as Percy’s confused expression also shifted into something more amused, more curious.
“It’s held in England! It takes place every Easter and covers 201 km from Devizes to Westminster.” It’s been held since 1948," you said calmly. "I read it in a book."
“Wow, not even Annabeth has facts that unnecessary.”
“Thanks!”
You laughed; you didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or just amused, but you found yourself laughing along. As if it had always been fun, as if you’d always known each other and could say things like that. Percy gestured with his hand and you nodded, so he plopped down next to you, sitting with his legs stretched out and his posture relaxed.
“Well… what else do you know?”
You tapped your chin with your finger, lost in thought. This was your chance! If the son of Poseidon was already sitting right next to you, showing interest in your ramblings about random things and asking for more, what was the harm in giving him what he wanted? You used to be very accommodating, with a charming and adorable grin.
“Huh. Do you know the Yeti Crab?”
“Kiwa Hirsuta?”
Your eyes sparkled, your hands on your knees, trembling with excitement at the urge to throw yourself at him. “You know its scientific name!” It was more of a statement than a question, just as you’d planned.
His cheeks flushed, his sea-green eyes widened at your sudden reaction, which was so unexpected to him. His brain couldn’t come up with a quick enough answer without stuttering.
“Y-Yes! As the son of Poseidon, I know quite a few sea creatures, haha.” He laughed awkwardly, then cursed himself for trying to match your energy, but failing.
“Sea dragon?”
“From the Syngnathidae family?”
You were delighted.
You were… weird, and not in the way the other campers were used to. You talked a lot but had no one to talk to; you were always reading, but not like the Athena kids—books about insects, strange animals, fiction, and fantasy, never history or math books. You preferred to gaze at landscapes without doing anything, listen to artists no one knew, skip workouts, ask questions no one else asked. You were weird, and even though no one picked on you, you had the label plastered on your forehead. You lived quietly, too deep in your thoughts, and then Percy set his sights on you, and you raised an eyebrow.
No one knew where it all came from, how from one day to the next they were walking everywhere holding hands, kissing on the cheeks, or when you whispered in his ear about your fixations. When you accompanied him to his training sessions, he helped you focus or reminded you of things you would have otherwise forgotten. You were way too close; the girls who had a crush on your handsome boyfriend would just roll their eyes when they saw you together, while the guys who secretly had a crush on him too would just sigh in disappointment. You had no idea how lucky you were; you lived in your own little bubble.
How could he not love you? You could spend hours on end talking about the origins of an invention whose name he couldn't even pronounce; you were very intelligent and talented, but there was more to it than that. The way you looked at him, the way you smiled at him, the crafts you made for him, how much you loved spending quality time together, the hugs, the nights sitting by the campfire; you were popular enough to make the girls feel like their jealousy couldn’t go far when you ran after Percy chattering about the new series you’d read.Well, but you were also a dumb. It sounded harsh, but it was the truth. You were clumsy at fighting, socializing, planning—you didn’t try to improve because sometimes you just didn’t care. You were caught up in the magic of being too distracted or too embarrassed to take steps forward; one in front of the other, smiling at others as if they weren’t judging you. As if you didn’t trip over your own feet, didn’t understand when people spoke to you, when your ADHD made you feel different even when you were supposed to fit in. You were a loser. And that was okay.
Summer was gradually coming to an end, which meant the weather was changing, along with the activities and games Chiron organized for his beloved campers—or so Percy thought as he took your hand and led you to the pier to watch the sunset. They sat on the sand; Percy draped your legs over his, his hand on your knee and yours on his shoulder, while you rambled on about the new video game coming out at the end of the year.
“Where are you going this year?” he asked. He wasn’t usually one to interrupt, but the question had popped into his head, and he decided to voice it.
You blinked, tilting your head to one side. “Where am I going?”
“Yeah, for winter holiday."
“Oh. Nowhere, I’ll stay at camp like always,” you replied, as if it were obvious.
“Like always?”
“Yeah, I spend the holidays at camp.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah. Hey, it’s fine, this isn’t anything new,” you patted him on the head. He almost laughed.
“Are you sure?” He tilted his head to one side. He saw you nod. “You don’t have to… be alone.”
“Hey, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s only until next summer.”
“What if we texted each other using Iris?”
“Of course!” You gave him a little shake by the shoulders. “We could play that new game I was telling you about; I wouldn’t let you miss a thing.”
Percy hummed, nodding. He didn’t say anything for a few moments, then finally leaned in and kissed you on the temple, telling you with his eyes that you could keep rambling if you wanted to, and that was the end of the conversation, because that’s exactly what you did. At another time, Percy would have been concerned about your lack of concern over the fact that you’d be alone after the summer, but he didn’t want to smother you with questions about why, so he let you keep talking.
His free arm wrapped around your waist while his hand, which had been on your knee, moved up to rest on your thigh. The nervous chuckle that bubbled from your lips made his chest swell; a mischievous smirk spread across his lips as he leaned in to get even closer to you, if that were possible. He was delighted by the way your cheeks flushed red at just a single approach.
“What?” he feigned innocence.
“What? No, nothing,” you hurried to say, looking away.
Percy chuckled, closing the distance with a gentle kiss that landed on your lips, leaving you even more dazed. Your hand on his shoulder slid down in an attempt to grab hold of something as you felt his tongue on your lower lip, asking permission to enter, which you didn’t know how to accept. You tightened your grip on the collar of his shirt, causing him to let out a sigh over your mouth as he leaned into your touch, deepening the kiss.
His mouth danced over yours, your free hand went to the back of his neck, and in a matter of moments your legs were wrapped around his. No matter how much shame or inexperience you felt, you didn’t back down—you managed to keep up with him. You felt his teeth capture your lower lip, making you gasp, and he took advantage of it to slip his tongue inside, which made you melt even more in his arms. Your whole body was vibrating with tingles from your cheeks to the tips of your toes; you let out ragged sighs at the slightest separation between you, desperately pressing your lips back together.
He would have pulled you onto his lap to keep kissing if it weren’t for the footsteps of the campers running behind you toward the dock, which startled you, causing you to pull away abruptly. Percy watched you catch your breath while he let out a disappointed sigh.
“Well… so you’ll be staying here for the holidays?”
You blinked, almost as if you’d forgotten what you were talking about before the kissing session. You chuckled and nodded, running a hand through your hair.
“Yeah… I’ll stay at camp. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
Percy clicked his tongue. “Well… if you say so,” he took your hand. “I want you to be okay.”
“I will be!” you smiled at him.
Your smile was contagious enough that Percy smiled too, leaning in to press a kiss on your lips, gentler than the last one.
Besides kissing him, you loved being in Percy’s cabin, sitting on his bed and chatting away while he tried to use those quiet hours to rest, because when he wasn’t fighting monsters, he had the chance to cuddle up with you, and nothing could compare to that. With his head on your chest, murmuring nonsense while your heartbeat lulled him to sleep.
You yawned; your throat moved as you swallowed, dry from spending half an hour discussing the different endings of a single game that you and three other people had been playing since it came out. You rubbed your eyes with your hand, exhaling a breath of air you didn’t know you’d been holding. Percy, barely awake and knowing it wouldn’t be long before exhaustion got the better of you too, turned his head so your eyes met.
“Tired, pretty boy?” His voice was hoarse and deep, the words drawn out lazily, as if they didn’t really have to come out.
“A little,” you admitted. A yawn interrupted you again, and you heard Percy’s laughter rumbling in his chest. “Just a little.”
“Are you sure? You can fall asleep.”
“Yes, I’m sure! I haven’t finished telling you yet—”
“You can tell me tomorrow.”
“But… but summer ends tomorrow,” you thought aloud. Your voice took on a higher, more nervous pitch as you rambled on. “Summer ends tomorrow, you’ll go back to your mother, and—and I’ll stay here!”
Percy blinked; any trace of sleep had now vanished at your response. He slid off you, sitting down beside you. Memories of that conversation on the beach hit him; it was as if a wave of guilt were tossing him about and he couldn’t do anything about it.
He took your hands and squeezed them. “Come with me.”
“What?”
You propped yourself up on your elbows until you were sitting next to him, your hands resting in your lap; your fingers nervously fiddled with the strings of the bracelets adorning your wrists, along with the large rings you’d found rummaging through the junk in Bunker 9. You bit your lower lip, and Percy fought the urge to kiss you right there, but he had to remember what he was talking to you about in the first place.
“Come with me… spend the holidays with me! I’m sure my mom won’t mind. Neither she nor Paul, and I’m sure Estelle will love you.”
“But… but I don’t know them.”
“What better time than Christmas! Come with me—you don’t have to stay at camp.”
“Percy, I don’t want to be a burden.”
“A burden? Don’t give me that,” he frowned, personally offended by your accusation. “Do you really think you’d be a burden?”
You bit your lip, shyly, then nodded. Percy’s frown deepened even more.
Percy cupped your face in his hands, his fingers gently caressing your cheekbones—with the caution of someone who fears breaking what’s in their care, yet with a desire simmering just beneath the surface. His eyes drifted down to your lips and then back up to meet yours. Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and planted a kiss on your lips. It wasn’t as if you could say anything more with your mouth occupied by someone else’s.
You returned the kiss when you realized there was no point in arguing; you leaned in and agreed to his terms. It didn’t take long for his tongue to caress your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine and drawing a gasp from you when he next captured your lip between his teeth, demanding more of your mouth with a passion that was more than just tender love.
“Come with me,” he said between kisses. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
He didn’t pull back far enough for you to say anything; he risked hearing you protest his plan. His hands moved from your face to your waist, his fingernails digging into your camp shirt, making you shiver as you leaned into his touch. Your hands found their way to his chest, seeking support so you wouldn’t fall, clinging once more to the fabric of his shirt. His intense sea-green eyes refused to look at anything but yours; he wanted to be attentive to every reaction, every expression, every shudder. Blinking felt like a punishment.
His hand slid beneath your shirt; yours traveled up to the nape of his neck, keeping your mouths pressed together—breathing wasn’t really necessary anyway. His pupils dilated, his eyes narrowed and finally closed as he felt your fingers tangle in his jet-black locks, clinging to him as you leaned forward to press yourself against him.
“Is that a yes?”
“Please shut up.”
“Yeah, okay.”
His hands on your waist guided you onto his lap; he spread his legs and took you on top of him without hesitation, your legs on either side of his hips. His hips thrust instinctively; he had to pull away from the kiss to breathe, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his chest rising and falling rhythmically as he caught his breath. You were breathing just as heavily, your head tilted back, your Adam’s apple bobbing as you swallowed before speaking.
“Yeah… that’s a yes. I’m coming with you.”
You heard an amused snort escape his lips with the little breath he’d managed to catch, and he looked up at you with amusement and passion.
“You idiot…”
“You kissed me!”
He laughed even harder, his hands pulling you close. He fell backward onto the mattress with you on top of him, your head resting on his chest and your arms at your sides, with nowhere to go. You let out a laugh that was joined by his, leaving you on top of him like a proud man.
The next morning, you were picked up by the camp bus and dropped off at the local train station. You had never been to the town of Percy, New York. You didn’t know where to go, what to see, where you were, or why it was so crowded. Your eyes sparkled when you saw every hint of something you liked in the shop windows, when you stumbled while walking through the crowd to keep up with him, when you stumbled over your words ordering something to eat. Everything was new, and Percy was falling more and more in love with you.
“What if she doesn’t like me?”
“That won’t happen.”
“What about your stepfather?”
“Everyone likes him.”
“And what about your sister—”
“Honey,” he interrupted, a calm, affectionate smile on his face, trying to calm your frayed nerves.
You had bought bus tickets and arrived at the door of Percy’s new apartment, since he had told his mother he could go alone because he had a visitor. He had told her all of this in a text from Iris the night before, after you had fallen into a deep sleep—his mother was a very smart woman; of course she knew what her son was planning.
“My mom will love you,” he assured you with a smile wide enough to make you smile too, more shyly, with a tingling sensation on your cheeks.
“Okay… oh, okay, you win.”
Percy pinched your cheeks; the laughter that burst from your chest made him want to cover your face with kisses. His hands lingered insistently on your cheeks, massaging your skin as if you were a small child, and judging by how you laughed and your eyes sparkled, you were happy with that treatment.
The Jacksons' house was noisier and warmer than you expected, with the smell of freshly baked cookies and sea salt lingering in the air, toys and papers scattered across the floors, loud music, and lots of laughter. You were taken aback when you felt a little girl at your feet as soon as you walked in, followed by the laughter of a kind woman whom you recognized as Mrs. Jackson when she peeked out to greet you. Her smile was so much like Percy’s that you felt a blush rise to your cheeks. You received a few pats on the back from her stepfather.
It turned out Percy was right—the household was so close-knit and chaotic that you couldn’t help but feel at ease. Paul listened to you talk about your new book series while you served yourself dinner, Estelle let you brush her hair while you sang softly, and Sally taught you how to bake cookies while you danced around the kitchen. Percy was happy about how quickly you’d fit into his family; he didn’t even have to tell his mother about his boyfriend because you talked about him so much.
“So… you and Percy?” She raised an eyebrow. Her voice was feigning innocence, but inside she was brimming with maternal concern and a hunger for gossip.
You choked on the mixture you were secretly eating and had to cough a little before looking up. Your cheeks were red, you felt hot, and suddenly your body felt heavy with a tingling nervousness. What were you supposed to do?
“I, um…” you stammered. “W-what did he say, Mrs. Jackson?”
She chuckled. “Come on, dear,” she gestured with her hand. She bent down to your height, her thumb wiping a bit of cookie dough from your face—the very dough you’d been sneaking a bite of just moments before. She smiled sweetly. “I’m not here to judge you. Make yourself at home.”
You swallowed hard, but you didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You didn’t know if Percy wanted his mother to know, and you didn’t know how the family would react. But even so, he gave you enough confidence to know that you could be sure nothing bad would happen, right? Because that was what you were really hoping for as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
“I, um…” You swallowed hard. “Mrs. Jackson, h-he and I… um, he and I…”
“Darling,” she sighed, moving close enough to you that you could smell the sweet scent of candy wafting from her Christmas sweater. She smiled at you sweetly again. “Do you think I don’t know?”
You blinked. You choked on your saliva.
“W-What?”
She chuckled. “Oh, you two are so obvious. Adorable!” she sighed happily. “I know my son all too well; of course I’m going to notice how head over heels he is for you. You know what? You’re a good guy, and I’m happy that you’re the one with him.”
“A-Are you serious, ma’am?” you asked timidly.
“Absolutely. It’s clear that the two of you love each other very much.”
You smiled. You really did—radiant and excited, a warmth like that of the sun pulsing through your chest; it must have been the thrill of acceptance, of Sally’s genuine love behind her words and that charming smile that made you feel like you truly belonged there, or that they were simply treating you as if you’d been there your whole life. Every laugh, joke, or hug was new to you; the first day was so welcoming and new that your cheeks ached from smiling so much.
Percy? Oh, he was delighted. Every time he saw you with Estelle in your arms, chatting with Paul, or following Sally around like a lost puppy, he felt his heart rate quicken; he couldn’t help but sigh with love every time you walked into the room, which seemed to glow brighter. He couldn’t ask for anything more than to be by your side, and you’d be at his house for the entire vacation.
“He’s cute,” Sally sang when it turned 5 p.m., her lips pressed against the coffee cup she was holding. You were learning how to use the over-the-air TV channels with Paul’s help, while Sally sat with her son at the kitchen table.
“Huh?” Percy looked up, swallowing the sip from his glass of juice. “Who are you talking about?”
“Him,” she replied. Slowly, a mischievous, knowing smile spread across her lips, making Percy feel small as he suspected what was on his mother’s mind. “You really like him, huh?”
He laughed awkwardly, blushing deeply. He bit his lip, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Y-Yeah, he…” He paused, swallowing. “…h-he’s cute.”
“Cute, you say?” she chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, young love.” She patted him on the back.
“Mom!” he exclaimed, sitting up straight, his face flushed and his eyebrows furrowed in embarrassment. The woman burst out laughing.
“What? I’m just saying you two are adorable!” She shrugged. Percy muttered something under his breath that his mother couldn’t quite hear. The woman placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, I’m glad you’re happy with him. He seems like a good guy.”
He swallowed hard; the blush on his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment at being so close to his mother, but he still felt her words warming his heart with their obviousness—his mother had noticed his crush on you, even without him having to say it outright.
“Percy!” you shouted, turning to look at him from your spot on the couch. You had a huge, excited smile stretching from ear to ear. “They’re showing The Lord of the Rings!”
Percy sighed, knowing that now he’d be stuck watching the nearly three-hour movie—or at least part of it—before your ADHD got bored and made you want to do something else. He wasn’t upset; he was just used to dealing with whatever you were hyper-obsessed with that week.
Actually, he wasn't wrong, because after almost half an hour of the movie, even you got bored. The two of you started talking; the hum of the movie's soundtrack faded into the background. It didn't really matter as you chatted and rambled on about a thousand things at once, the way only the two of you knew how.
Percy got up to find a set of sheets and pillows to create a cozy nest—or a fort, as you called it. You followed him, went into his room, and sat on his bed, taking in everything around you. There was all sorts of stuff there—from photos of the two of you to trinkets like gifts and more mementos that you both treasured.
“Do you still have that?” You knelt in the middle of his bed and reached up for the beaded bracelet sitting on a shelf next to his bedside table.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. It’s the color of your eyes. I wear it when I feel like I’m not going to lose it.” He walked over to stand beside you, taking your hand with the bracelet on it. He’d pushed the blankets and pillows to one corner of the bed just to be close to you. “Is that okay?”
“I think it’s adorable,” you assured him with a smile.
Percy could only chuckle; the blush spreading from his neck to his cheeks spoke for itself. You reached out to cup one of his cheeks, a gesture to which he responded by leaning into the natural warmth of your body. His hand sank into the mattress beside you; after this gesture, he leaned in even further, just enough for you to read him all too easily. Your two hands cradled his face completely; you pulled him toward you and swore you witnessed the exact moment his mind melted away.
Your lips met his like an old magnet that always found its way, soft and loving in every sense of the word. His hand rose from its resting place on the mattress to hold you by the waist. His heavy hand was comfortable in its position, with no intention of moving as he leaned in further, his intention to press you beneath him became more obvious. Though it didn’t seem like he was trying to hide it either.
Percy’s body ended up pressed against yours, one of his arms at your sides while the other wound its way from your waist to your hip, his knuckles were white from the force with which he was holding you. You didn’t complain—in fact, you enjoyed the attention, despite the marks he intended to leave you with.
His kisses moved from your swollen lips to your jawline, descending to your neck as if he were tracing a delicate map with every mark he left. Your hands moved from the nape of his neck to his back, making sure to explore every inch of him with your touch. They were like flames of fire striking his skin, and he found himself not wanting to let you go anymore.
He turned, his body ending up beneath yours this time. Without stopping to assault your mouth with kisses, his hands on your waist pulled you down to kiss you hungrily (again) while he slipped his hands under your shirt. Your legs were beside his hips, your back arched as you leaned over him.
Yeah, the two of you would have kept up your horny teenage business if it weren't for the footsteps in the hallway.
You were the first to recognize the sound, the first to pull away from the kiss with particular haste. Your hands on his chest for support pushed you further away. You slipped out from beside him and sat up on the bed. Your breathing was ragged, as if you’d run across the entire camp grounds, your hair disheveled and your lips swollen and bruised. You blushed suddenly.
Percy took longer to react, he blinked several times, trying to take in his surroundings, as if he’d forgotten where he was. You tugged at the collar of his shirt to get him to sit up and compose himself too; his cheeks were flushed, his gaze dazed and clouded by lust, his hair standing on end in every direction. You would have laughed if it weren’t for Paul peeking through the door to announce dinner.
It was pure luck that Sally left the two of you alone, or it was pure luck that the movie Estelle had been begging to see on opening weekend happened to fall on the weekend you were visiting. That’s what you told yourself as you searched for nature documentaries about your favorite animal, because you were sure you’d already seen every one that existed. You were sitting in the living room armchair, scrolling through the catalog that Percy’s Netflix membership offered you with the remote control.
“Hey, sweetie,” Percy sang with a big smile, plopping down in the seat next to you with two bowls in his hands. “I brought you some fruit.”
“Awesome!” you squealed, lunging toward him to snatch the fruit plate. You chuckled, popping a piece of fruit into your mouth. “Mmm! Thanks.”
“No problem,” he chuckled, seeing how excited you were, and popped a piece of fruit from his plate into his own mouth.
After eating comfortably in silence for a few moments, boredom set in faster than you were used to. Well, you were both restless. Percy yawned, his arm stretching behind the armrest of the chair, falling discreetly onto your shoulders. You didn’t seem to notice, but you leaned into his touch anyway, as if your body were already accustomed to his.
“Did you find anything to watch?” he sighed, his face close to your ear. It wasn’t a seductive tone, but calm and relaxed, like waves lapping the shore at dawn. He kissed your shoulder, desperately wanting to curl up with you until their bodies became one.
“The vampire squid. Vampyroteuthis infernalis.” You barely turned your head to look at him, smiling tenderly when your eyes met his.
Percy licked his lips, his head peeking through the hollow of your neck until it was just a few inches away. He looked at your lips, then at your eyes, his hand rising to lift your chin with a finger. The atmosphere had shifted too quickly; you could feel it in the tingling sensation on your cheeks and lower abdomen. You swallowed, leaning in instinctively. The shadow of a mischievous smile that didn’t reach his eyes played at the corner of his lips.
“Have I ever told you how much I love hearing you talk about sea things?” he whispered. His voice dropped to a hoarse rumble, audible only to you, the only other person in the room besides him.
You swallowed again, your gaze frantic, not just on his eyes but on his face—his lips, cheekbones, nose, eyebrows, simply everything. You remembered every detail—how his lips were split, the small scar on his eyebrow, the mole on the side of his chin, his dark circles, the scar near his temple, the barely noticeable trace of stubble that not even he knew about. You were sure you knew everything about him, but still you never tired of looking at him—that’s why it took you so long to nod in response to his question.
“Good,” he gestured, because he didn’t even say it—it was just his breath that sounded like words. He cleared his throat, realizing he hadn’t heard his own voice. “Because I don’t want you to forget it.”
Then he closed the distance between them, his lips falling on yours as if gravity had vanished. The fruit plates were forgotten on the floor at the foot of the armchair, the fabric and cushions sank under their weight as Percy brought his free hand to your waist, sliding down to your hip while squeezing and groping whatever part of you was within his reach.
This kiss was different from the others, much more passionate, wet, and messy than the previous ones, a tangle of tongues and teeth. Being alone definitely stirred both of your hormones, even yours when you swore you were calmer than he was, while your hands went to the back of his neck to hold on to something, your thighs opened instinctively, and he took the opportunity to slither between them as if he had always belonged there.
Percy’s hands on your hips applied just enough force to lift you up easily, your mouth was too busy with his for you to protest when he lifted you onto his lap—or maybe your head was just too dizzy to think of anything other than him. Your arms wrapped around his neck; your hair stuck to your forehead from the sweat caused by the heat building up between your bodies as they rubbed against each other.
“Can we—” he tried to say, moaning into your mouth as your thighs fell to either side of his hips, the weight making his body tremble. He swallowed. “can we go to my room?” he finished saying.
You nodded. That was how, without much effort, he picked you up, his arms were under your thighs as he lifted you off the couch. Your legs were wrapped around his waist as if by instinct, your mouth fell on his once more without giving him time to say anything else, to which he was totally on board with keeping up the pace.
Percy kicked open the door to his room and, stumbling, found his way to the bed, where they both fell onto the mattress. The initial laughter caused by the weight of one on top of the other turned into ragged moans, and the silent house filled with gasps and heavy breathing that made you two grateful to be alone at home.
His body was on top of yours, his hands roaming from your waist to your hips, touching everything in their path, marking you and groping you possessively, not wanting to miss a single part of your body. Your hands were clinging to his shirt, the fabric wrinkled across his back as you nearly tore his clothes off with your nails.
Then—you felt him move. His hips jerked forward, and you felt a hard bulge pressing against your crotch. Startled, you jumped back, your hands on his chest; the shock left him dazed, blinking dazedly for a few moments.
“What—”
“I-I’m sorry, um… I-I just felt something…”
Reality hit him as hard as a bucket of ice water, his cheeks flushed even more—as if that were possible—and his eyes widened as if he’d suddenly realized exactly what you were talking about in a matter of seconds. He swallowed hard after nearly choking on his own saliva. He sat back on his heels, his hands going to his crotch in a discreet attempt to hide the uncomfortable bulge that was growing.
“S-Shit!” He bowed his head, his ears were burning like crazy. “I-I’m sorry! Gods, I’m an idiot—”
“Percy,” you reached out your hand to touch his face. His lower lip trembled slightly, but he met your gaze. “C-can I ask you something?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Can you do it again?”
“Do it again?”
Your face flushed, and you felt a warm sensation in your lower stomach. You struggled to find the right words to express how you felt, opening and closing your mouth hesitantly. Percy was confused, stupidly excited, and staring at you, waiting for you to say what he himself had said. Any trace of confidence or his usual playful personality had gone out the window when he realized he didn’t know what he was doing.
You took a deep breath. You cradled his face with both hands, pulled him closer, and guided him. Your body leaned backward until your back rested on the mattress. Percy’s body leaned over yours, his hands resting on either side of your head. He tilted his head to one side, his sea-green eyes resembling those of a confused puppy with no orders to follow.
Your hands found their way to his hair, stroking his jet-black curls as your brain sent commands to your mouth to speak up already, but at the same time you were lost in the moment. Finally, you swallowed and cleared your throat.
“Can you… move your hips again? Like you were doing before?” you found yourself saying. The heat embracing your cheeks was starting to become scorching, like a barrier standing between you and lust and consent.
Percy blinked, the corners of his mouth turning down in an awkward grimace of sheer embarrassment, as if the mere memory of what he’d been doing when his hormones had clouded his judgment had left him frozen in place. But when he saw you, how your beautiful eyes were shining and pleading, it was as if whatever self-control he had left had vanished. He nodded, his lips moving to the corner of your mouth to plant a small kiss before positioning himself better between your legs.
His hips began to move against yours, you immediately felt the heat of his crotch brush against yours, and your breath caught in your throat. Percy hesitated for a moment, his eyes opened wide, and a wave of concern washed over them, but you gave him a nod to keep moving—and he did. You spread your legs wider to give him more room to settle in. His hands clenched the sheets on either side of your head to hold on tightly.
It was like a warm tingle that energized your body like a shot of adrenaline. Your hands moved from his hair to the back of his neck to pull him toward you, your lips collided with his frantically, your energy motivating him enough to give him confidence in his movements. You moaned into his mouth and he growled. You began to feel the blood rushing through your body at an accelerated pace, accompanied by a buzzing in your ears.
You moved his head, guiding it to the hollow of your neck as you tilted your head back. Percy let out a muffled sound, his lips fell against your skin, kissing and licking. You bit your lip, stifling your moans, your eyes narrowed, clouded with lust and a hunger for more. Percy pulled away after a few moments, breathing heavily as he tried to regain his composure. He felt a shiver run down his spine at the protesting whimper you let out when he stopped.
“Are you okay?”
“You’re still asking?” You raised an eyebrow. Your hands moved from the nape of his neck to his shoulders, and you settled back against the headboard, watching as he leaned in toward your body heat. “I… I want you, Percy.”
“I want you too,” he gasped, leaning in to rest his head in the crook of your neck again. His lips traced a path of kisses from your shoulder to the cup of your ear, pulling away to look at you. “Are you… sure?”
“We’re not sixteen.” you said without hesitation. Your arms hung around his shoulders as if it were perfectly natural to be there, touching each other in each other’s personal space.
You needed to touch his skin, not just rest your hand on his shoulder over the fabric of his shirt. One of your hands slid down his side, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt and feeling his skin beneath your fingertips. You heard a stifled gasp from him, a shiver running down his spine, and felt his posture suddenly straighten. You didn’t know whether to chuckle or ask if everything was okay.
“We… we’re nineteen, we’ve been dating for almost a year…”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“I, um…” You blushed even more, trying to find the exact words instead of rambling out of nervousness. You swallowed, feeling small under his penetrating and intense gaze. “…I want us to have our first time. Me with you and you, uh, w-with me.”
Percy’s eyes widened the moment he realized what you were really saying. It wasn’t just the blush on his cheeks that made him look flushed; if you squinted, you could see sweat beading on his temples and his jet-black curls sticking to his forehead. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. You felt a pang of guilt that made you feel awkward and guilty for choosing those exact words. Just as you were about to apologize and move to get out of bed, you felt his hand clench your arm, stopping you.
“Wait!” he finally managed to say. If only his brain could work faster when he was horny. “I-I never said no.”
It was your turn to blink. “What?”
“Want to give it a try?” He tilted his head to one side, looking pretty excited to have his first time with you. The faintest hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips. “I have condoms in my nightstand.”
“W-Why the hell would you have condoms in your nightstand?!” you replied hastily, your eyes wide and a deep blush caressing your cheeks. Percy couldn’t help but finally chuckle under his breath.
“Remember when we were in my room talking about whether you’d come with me on winter holiday? He raised an eyebrow. When you nodded, he hummed. “Well, I’ve had my contacts ever since. Ouch!”
“You idiot!” Your hand slapped his chest. Your lips threatened to curl into a smile.
“What? I’m just being honest!” He couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from his chest. “Are we going to have sex or not?”
“Don’t be obscene!
“I’m not being obscene!”
“I should say no and leave your house.” You frowned, your lips curling downward into a scowl. Your hands went to the hem of your shirt, and any teasing Percy might have had died in his throat as you pulled the shirt over your head.
His brain short-circuited. It wasn’t that he’d never seen you shirtless before—he’d convinced you to work out together when you weren’t sitting on the steps of your cabin counting rocks; sometimes you’d bathe together or play in the lake. But this? The context was so different that his arousal began to manifest itself by tightening his pants.
Percy pounced on you and everything went blurry. His hands touched every part of your body they could reach, your hands roamed his body and you pulled his shirt over his head in one swift motion, touching everything within your range with his body hovering over yours. The kisses were like fireworks; hot, brief, and repetitive. You could never get enough of each other’s mouths—the way he bit your lower lip before caressing it with his tongue, or how your mouth let him treat it however he wanted.
Two pairs of pants ended up on the floor, without such a sudden barrier between you, the physical closeness felt even greater. Bites on your neck, on your chest, scratches on your arms, hickies on your shoulders and throat. The room began to fill with whispers, laughter, and jokes that quickly turned into moans, gasps, and groans when he rubbed his hips against you again.
His breathing was ragged, his head was nestled in the crook of your neck, his teeth clenched against your skin, but without biting or applying pressure. It was a way to stifle the sounds he was trembling to let out. His hands were running along your sides. He reached one of them toward his nightstand to open a drawer and rummage for a condom. You were so overwhelmed by all the new sensations you were feeling that you didn’t bother to ask him when he’d hidden them, since he’d spent the whole day with you.
His movements were clumsy as he stripped off his underwear, suddenly looking away from you, shy, as he opened and put on the condom. Shy—the same cocky guy who had just bitten your shoulder hard, leaving a white mark with purple bruises around it. You raised an eyebrow, torn between amused tenderness and the desire to milk him dry, so you decided to strip off your underwear too.
“Is it okay if I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“What part of me makes you think I do?”
“Right. Okay, good point.” He laughed awkwardly, a laugh that made you laugh along with him in the same way.
You lay back down fully, your back against the mattress and your body turned toward him. You bit the inside of your cheek, your nerves and anticipation making you sweat. You could feel the adrenaline making you breathe heavily no matter how hard you tried to hide it. You ran your hands through your hair, keeping your gaze fixed on Percy as he settled between your legs, one hand on your side and the other next to your head. His sea-green eyes pierced right through you.
“Ready?”
“N-No.”
“Oh. Um. Me neither. Do you want to keep going?”
“Yes.” You nodded. He nodded.
With a breath he tried to pass off as confident but failed miserably, he positioned himself at your entrance and slid in slowly. He cursed under his breath, biting his lip, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again just to look at you, not wanting to miss a thing. A groan vibrated in your throat, your face contorted with pleasure, and immediately you felt your legs tremble with slight spasms. You weren’t sure what to do with your hands, where to touch or where to rest them.
One of Percy’s hands—the one that had been on your side—moved up to rest on top of yours, placing it on his shoulder. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, he remained immobile inside you with no intention of making a move until the two of you had grown accustomed to the new sensation. His hand returned to your side, caressing your warm, sweaty skin with his thumb, gentle movements in an attempt to ground himself. The hand that had been resting beside your head moved to take yours, intertwining your fingers, pressing your hand against the mattress. You squeezed his hand, exhaling heavily but less tensely as you began to get used to the sensation of having him inside you.
Percy’s movements were slow. He wasn’t very loud, but he groaned with his head nestled in the crook of your neck, trembling and lost. His head was spinning, he couldn’t believe what was happening. He was so in love with you that taking this intimate step could only have existed in his wildest dreams—dreams he never spoke of. You began to suspect something was wrong when there were days he wouldn’t look you in the eye.
The room filled with moans, ragged breaths, and clumsy movements. Sweat covered his olive skin, the marks you’d left on him just moments before were beginning to turn purple and red. Your hand on his shoulder moved up to the back of his neck to tilt his head and pull him toward you in a wet, messy kiss. Percy moaned into your mouth and deepened his thrusts, making them deeper and faster.
Everything was disorganized and blurry, the assault of touches and thrusts making both of you dizzy. It was hard to say anything amid the tension and nerves, your gazes were fixed and honest, with love and passion filling the air. His thrusts were deep and unbridled, when he wasn’t moaning against your lips, his head was on your shoulder, biting and kissing marks in his name. His hand found its way to wrap around your member, making you arch your back as he began to stroke you.
“Mhng! P-Perce—”
“I know,” he said, lifting his head. His lips pressed against yours roughly, as if to drown his moans against your mouth. He squeezed your hand and pressed it deeper into the bed, his hips moving even faster as the knot in his stomach threatened to break free. A sharp moan, like a whimper, was torn from his throat. "j-just let me take care of you."
Curses and incoherent prayers overwhelmed him as he spoke, his movements became desperate and pleading, frantic in their search for release at any cost. His head returned to the hollow of your neck once more—the one that wasn’t as marked or bitten as the other side. His teeth dug into your skin as the knot came loose, his release ending in the condom inside you. His hand paused when he felt the warm liquid coat his hand and your chest.
Their breathing slowed after a few intense, frantic moments. The room remained silent until Percy kissed the fresh bite mark, tilting his head to the other side to return the kisses—gentle and comforting after leaving you aching and trembling, with spasms and moans escaping your lips.
Percy pulled out of you, removed the condom, tossed it aside, and got out of bed. His legs were shaking, and it hurt to move as the adrenaline began to wear off. You propped yourself up as best you could on your elbows, frowning and feeling a pang of longing in your chest at the absence of his warmth against yours.
“Percy…?”
“Just a moment!” he said over his shoulder. He bent down to pick up his underwear, put it on, and left the room. From where you were still lying in his bed, you heard him moving back and forth, turning on the faucet, and grabbing things. When he returned, he had a damp towel and a glass of water.
He sat on the edge of the bed, helping you clean up, get dressed, and drink some water before lying down again. You didn’t move a muscle. He leaned over you once more when he was done, his arms wrapping around yours so you could stay embraced. His lips brushed your temple with a ghostly kiss, keeping his head so close to yours that your breaths mingled.
“I love you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and weary. His eyes were threatening to close, but he wanted to stay awake with you just a little longer. To feel you with him just a little longer.
“I love you too,” you said softly, dragging out the words lazily. You turned your head to kiss him on the corner of his mouth, smiling with the weary smile of someone in love.
Percy pulled the sheets up to cover both of you. You curled up in bed, holding each other, exchanging occasional little kisses, whispering private words, or laughing wearily. The intimacy wasn’t just sexual, it was the intimacy of finding someone who made you feel whole and at peace.
established relationship, fluff, short, attempt to get out of writer's block
Hitoshi Shinso didn't actually have insomnia. Not like everyone thought.
It wasn’t that Hitoshi didn’t sleep; it was just that his sleeping habits always seemed strange to everyone else. He could fall asleep extremely quickly if he was in a comfortable, quiet place—like the common room on a lucky day—but he could never fall asleep in his bed early in the evening without staring at the ceiling until dawn.
And he didn’t hate naps; he just couldn’t fall asleep if he was training. He was always sleepy at the worst possible times.
That’s why he started feeling sleepy when you invited him to cuddle up.
Hitoshi had been training all day with Aizawa, as usual; strands of indigo hair were plastered to his forehead with sweat, his chest was heaving rapidly, and he could still feel the adrenaline coursing through his body. He was completely exhausted but unable to sit still.
Hitoshi was sitting under a tree, his head tilted back as he caught his breath. In his calloused hands lay his untangled capture weapon, its light yet efficient texture keeping him grounded. Until you arrived. You had that sweet smile on your face, waving at him as you approached with hurried steps and your hands full—a cold bottle of water in one and a packet of crackers in the other.
"Toshi!" You greeted him warmly. A weary smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Hey, honey,” he said in his usual husky voice that always gave you butterflies.
Hitoshi shifted his body to make room for you, spreading his legs and arms. You settled yourself against him, your back against his chest and his legs wrapping around yours. His arms wrapped around your torso; he didn’t bother to take what you were offering him, even with your complaining voice echoing in his ears. His head nestled into the crook of your neck, letting out a sigh and closing his eyes.
No matter how much you wanted to complain that he was sweaty or how much you squirmed to get away from his embrace, Hitoshi’s arms didn’t loosen their grip. You heard a purring murmur in his throat, and for a few moments, you could have sworn he started snoring.
His mind went blank, and any worries he had were swept away the moment he felt your warmth against him. The tension in his shoulders eased; he was almost a different man the way he nestled his face against your shoulder, letting out moans you swore you’d never hear if you moved, and he almost lost you.
They're so warm and comfy… and smell so good. Sweet. Oh ny God, they smell like caramel.
You were his weakness, his everything. You were the only person he trusted enough to doze off in your arms, the person he listened to when he was scolded for neglecting basic care. The way his face would relax comfortably without him even realizing it. He was a hero to you, though not always in a heroic way; more in the way he wanted to hold your hand in a room full of people.
“Toshi─ Toshi, come on, you're not gonna sleep here.” “Huh? Why not?" As soon as he opened his eyes, he tilted his head to make sure he was looking at your face. "Because you're not. Let's go to my room. We'll watch a movie, and you can sleep over in my room." "Hmm," he murmured hoarsely, still making no effort to move but agreeing with you. "yeah."
