An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Relationships: John Diggle/Floyd Lawton, John Diggle/Lyla Michaels
Characters: John Diggle, Floyd Lawton, Lyla Michaels
Additional Tags: Not Beta Read, Adultery
Word count: 3,236
Series: Part 2 of And my only defence is the worst of me
Summary:
It shouldn't mean anything to him, other than relief he supposes, that it should be the end to this chapter of his life. However he can’t stop the thoughts running through his mind, tugging at abandoned strings. It feels wrong to accept that they are leaving a man to die, regardless of the fact they all knew what they were worth, how Waller held them with such contempt, tools to be disposed of when no longer of any use. The Suicide Squad, Deadshot had called them.
Prequel to And when all of your friends are my enemies.
Title - Fireworks
Pairings - Scott McCall/Jackson Whittemore
Characters - Scott McCall, Jackson Whittemore
Warnings - Un-Beta’ed
Words - 687
Summary - “Can’t you two get along for once in your lives?” The others are behind her and he knows the moment is lost, that he too now has to play whatever games Jackson wants.
The cold air wraps around him as he makes his way on to the roof. A cloudless night sky provides the perfect canvas for the feignt lights of the firewars in the distance.
He expects to be alone but a dark silhouette is leaning against the far wall. The figure doesn’t move at the sound of Scott’s footsteps, it’s head tilted towards the sky. He almost decides to make his way to way back to the celebration but stops himself, too intrigued to find out who like him needed some space from the festivities.
As he draws closer the silhouette becomes clearer, revealing Jackson stood there. He doesn’t say anything as he leans close. They both stand in the relative quiet watching the fireworks.
He nudges Jackson’s arm with his elbow after a few minutes of silence. The action draws a sigh from Jackson but he turns all the same to look at Scott. The light from the fireworks dances across the green of Jackson’s eyes, reflected colours highlighting along sharp cheekbones. A wash of warmth causes his cheeks as their breath mingles between them. Eithers features distorted at their closeness.
“I’ve still got a restraining order.”
“I know.” Scott replies softly. “We are sorry.” He adds as an afterthought.
Jackson snorts. Which Scott understands, gets that there reasoning and their sorrys won’t ever be enough. That even if Jackson understands now why they did what they did it doesn’t excuse it. It’ll never not cause tension between them. Pack or not.
A couple more fireworks go off as the display wides up. Soon it will be over and they won’t be High School students any longer. A sobering thought.
“I’m going to miss this.”
“Trust you McCall.” Jackson huffs.
“What!?” He exclaims indignantly.
“What exactly are you going to miss? It’s not like anything is going to change, you and the others are still going to be together. It’s me who's leaving”
“Well it’s not going to be the same without you.” It’s an admission too far, and he wants to laugh it off. To pretend that it was little more than a joke but Jackson is looking at him like he knows. All of a sudden they feel too close, too warm. Scott’s heart pounds as the press of lips takes him by surprise. Subconsciously his body reacts and he pushes closer. His hands grip hold of the fabric of Jackson’s shirt, twisting so tightly between his fingers until he’s convinced it'll rip. His eyes flutter shut as he falls into the sweetness of the kiss. Everything disappears from around them, all he knows is the taste of Jackson’s mouth, the soft slide of their mouths.
In the space of a heartbeat he’s stumbling backwards falling to the ground blinking his shock away. He can feel the ghost of Jackson’s hand where he’d shoved him, but the pain is dull, nothing compared to the pain of the smirk playing on Jackson’s kiss red lips.
“Really McCall.” Jackson taunts, but it’s little more than noise, a buzzing. His mind is muddled, confusion swimming making him question what he remembers. Each thought has him see a different scene, a slight twist upon the previous. Yet deep down he knows the truth, can see it in the way Jackson's eyes are filled with fear, the jerky way he steps back to lean against the wall. His smirk quivers in the corner as it starts to slip.
Pushing it though would accomplish little, Jackson would deny it all, would play this same game. And what would forcing Jackson to admit he kissed him, that it only happened because Jackson initiated it, really accomplish? Anything he was going to say gets lost in the noise of the door opening and Allison’s voice calling over to them in disapproval.
“Can’t you two get along for once in your lives?” The others are behind her and he knows the moment is lost, that he too now has to play whatever games Jackson wants. Even so, a small part of him wants to forfeit, to push, to see what was behind the kiss.
Title - Here We Go Again (A03)
Pairings - Scott McCall/Jackson Whittemore
Characters - Scott McCall, Jackson Whittemore
Warnings - Un-Beta’ed, Prostitution, Adultery
Words - 1,304
Summary - Sequel to Different names and different numbers in hotels
A restlessness falls upon him as heat pricks his skin in anticipation. He can’t believe what he is doing and he knows he should put a stop to it before it begins. But it’s already in motion, stopping now would stop nothing, the damage is already done, it has been for a while.
He loosens his tie then re-ties it, fidgeting nonsensically. A glance to the digital clock on the side informs him that Jackson is late. Not by much but it’s enough for Scott to believe he’s been stood up. As he goes to turn away his eyes land on the folded money, slid under the clock. An embarrassing reminder of what this is. The first time had been little more than happenstance, a chance encounter. This time he’s planned it, found Jackson’s number, arranged the whole thing. It should make a difference though he is sure Alison would not care for the distinction, both instances amount to the same thing in the end, adultery.
He falls back against the sheets hands racing through his hair gripping and pulling at it. Pain shoots through him as he tugs too hard. How other people do this he can’t comprehend. It’s even less clear how he is.
A knock on has him sat bolt upright. He hesitates before a second more demanding knock follows it. Shaking himself he walks to the door, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The door creaks as he pulls it open to reveal Jackson leaning against the doorjamb. It’s hard not to notice how good he looks but Scott tries anyway, refusing to say anything as he moves to let Jackson in.
“You want a drink?” He asks awkwardly as he shuts the door.
“And here I thought I was here for something else.” Jackson whispers into his ear having silently approached him while his back was turned, the words ghosting over the shell of Scott's ear. “But by all means you drink.” Jackson adds pushing away from Scott to fall against the silken sheets of the bed.
Scott takes a drink to calm himself before turning around. Blue eyes stare up at him under long lashes. A challenge in them, a test. It’s one Scott is sure he loses as he watches Jackson stretch, splaying his hands above his head. Scott’s eye travel down to the sliver of skin, the jut of a hip, that’s revealed with the motion as Jackson’s thin shirt rises. The sprinkling of hair that dips beneath the dark denim of Jackson’s jeans enticing him, and suddenly he can’t speak, his mouth dry at the sight.
“Come on McCall.” Jackson goads, lifting his hips slightly. Yet Scott can’t move, his mind blank as the sight, at the knowledge of what he is doing catching up with him. Caught out of his reverie by Jackson’s sighing as he shifts to the edge of the bed.
“Look, McCall if thi-” Jackson begins to say but Scott cuts him off with a shake of his head. “Well then.” Jackson rises up slowly, his hands traveling across Scott’s chest until his fingers brush his tie.
Scott swallows as their eyes meet, he shouldn’t want this. The thought doesn’t stop him though, and he leans down to brush his lips against Jackson’s. It’s barely a kiss but it’s enough to break him out of his stupor.
Slowly Jackson undoes his tie, never once breaking eye contact with him. It slips around his neck dropping to the floor without a sound. One by one practiced finger release his shirt buttons, sending shivers down his spine. Hands slide over his shoulder blades, stripping off the loose fabric. His breath hitching as Jackson presses an opened mouthed kiss to his now bare shoulder. Deft fingers work his belt loose, the worn leather sliding free with ease. Jackson turns them round with feather light touches against bare skin, sliding down Scott’s trousers and boxers until they pool at their feet.
Scott stands there as Jackson appraises him. A flush colouring his skin. A gentle push has him on his back against the hotel sheets. The bed dipping under Jackson's weight as he crawls up so he’s covering him.
“Tell me what you want.” Jackson says as his own hands toy with the hem of his top.
Instead of answering Scott lays his hands against Jackson’s, guiding the top off. He slides his palms down the taut muscles of Jackson’s abdomen, lets his thumbs dig into the dips of Jackson’s hips. This is easier, he can do this, it’s everything before, the build up that gives him too long to think, he can’t.
Thier lips meet once more as Scott deals with Jackson’s jeans’ fastening. He pops the buttons and then let's Jackson shook himself out of them and his socks.
Jackson kneels back over Scott’s thighs, lube and condoms in hand. Scott reaches for them but Jackson just laughs pushing Scott back against the mattress with his free hand. He slicks his fingers slowly, his eyes watching Scott’s face. The tube bounces slightly as he drops it to the sheets.
Jackson slides his hand between them, leaving a stripe of lube against flushed skin. The tips of his fingers brush against Scott’s cock but he continues trailing them down until he can slide two fingers inside himself. It’s more a pretense then a necessity to stretch himself open, but Scott’s jaw goes slack, clearly taking pleasure in it and isn’t that the point of this. A groan escapes his lips as he brushes against his prostate. Leaning forward he urges Scott to slide the condom on.
It’s awkward but Scott manages to rip open the package and slide the condom on his hard cock. His hand curls roughly around the nape of Jackson’s neck, tugging it down until their foreheads meet. A shuddering breath escaping at the first touch of Jackson's hands slicking his cock up. It’s almost enough to come from that alone, and sensing that Jackson leans back to urge Scott to slide his cock inside. It’s tight and too warm as Jackson slides down agonisingly slowly, setting the pace.
Jackson moves slowly above him a wicked look in his eyes as he stares down at Scott. It’s not quite enough, Scott wants more, needs more. The words don’t come however. Either way Jackson teasingly seems to slow his movements more as though he knows.
Stubbornly Scott refuses to give in and digs his fingers into Jackson’s hips instead, tries to take control, to set the pace. Thrusting up with an unsteady snap of his own hips.
Jackson laughs breathlessly matching Scott's speed, retaking control with a roll of his hips.
Scott’s eyes dilate, blown wide with desire. Relinquishing control once more to Jackson too far gone to think.
Jackson rides him fast and hard. Dropping forward onto his elbows, bracketing Scott in. Just the tip of Scott’s cock sliding in and out, a shallow penetration that sends Scott into overdrive.
Shakingly Scott pushes Jackson back, angeling them once more so he can thrust in deeper. Sitting up now he rocks up to meet Jackson’s movements. His hand holding Jackson’s neck in a vice like grip, keeping their eyes locked as he feels himself get close to the edge. With a loud shout he comes. Jackson following close behind him, his muscles twitching and tightening around his softening cock.
They fall back against the sheets. Scott sliding out only when Jackson huffs. His breath is short as he sakes through the afterglow, too full of bliss to notice as Jackson cleans them up and disposes of the condom.
Jackson goes to get dressed but Scott pulls him back to the bed, wraps his arms around his waist. He presses kisses against salty skin, pleading him to stay as he drifts off.
Title - Diner
Pairings - Scott McCall/Jackson Whittemore
Characters - Scott McCall, Jackson Whittemore
Warnings - Un-Beta’ed, plotless nonsense...
Words - 813
Summary - “Great that’s just what I needed.” Scott looks up then when the familiar voice calls out, surprised to see Jackson staring back at him.
Rain falls in heavy droplets against the large windows of the diner. Scott is alone, once again being dumped with the night shift. He doesn’t mind really, it’s relatively slow most nights and he can study in the lulls. Still having been there since 11 and having only served three customers, and given one very lost tourist directions, he’s starting to wish he’d said no.
The large clock that hangs on the wall ticks over to 3am. His shift ends around 6, another 3 hours and he can go. It’s going to drag he knows, and he finds himself almost begging for a customer to come in as he wipes down the counter for the millionth time.
When he’s almost given up hoping for someone to come in, the bell rings to signal the arrival of a customer. He doesn’t look up straight away, trying not to show his excitement at the company.
“Great that’s just what I needed.” Scott looks up then when the familiar voice calls out, surprised to see Jackson staring back at him.
A moment passes in which Jackson, clearly defeated, decides to stay, even if he looks as though he’d rather drown out in the downpour. His woolen coat is sopping wet from the rain, dripping large puddles against the tiles as he walks towards the counter. A deep scowl darkens his face as he stares up at the menu.
“What can I get you?” Scott asks after a minute, clearly too chirpy for Jackson, who glares up at him as he orders a simple black coffee.
“Want anything to eat with it” Scott adds as he pours the coffee. Silence follows it and he is about to ask again when Jackson finally responds.
“It’s 3am?”
“Well I was going to do me some pancakes so.” He says instead of a direct reply. He waits watching for a response from Jackson but when nothing comes so he just shrugs and walks to the griddle to pour enough mixture for two portions anyway. Once the pancakes are done he grabs two plates from the warming rack, then plates up the pancakes before grabbing some fresh fruit to spoon over them with a drizzle of maple syrup.
The plates clink against the countertop as he places then down. Jackson stares at them, a clear argument forming on his lips.
“Just eat them, it's not like you have to pay for them.” Scott says between bites.
They lapse into an uncomfortable silence after that. Scott wants to ask so many questions, so much time has passed since the last time he saw Jackson. More than that however he wants to know why Jackson looks so miserable. Why someone like Jackson would be walking into a diner on the edge of town at 3am in the pouring rain. It seems intrusive, they aren’t friends anymore, not that they really ever had been in the first place. So he stays quiet and watches Jackson try to dry off with the corner of his coat.
The silence begins to take it’s toll after a few minutes. Scott can practically feel it push against him. The sadness in Jackson’s movements, the strange tension to his shoulders. All of it has him take pity on Jackson, and with a casual ‘here’ he passes over a towel so Jackson can at least try and dry himself properly.
Jackson just looks at him cautiously before taking the offered towel with a quiet thanks that sounds too angry to be real. Either way Jackson puts down his fork and wipes over his face and hair, and finally peeling himself from his coat.
The silence is lighter after that. Small bits of conversation flows between them as they drink cup after cup of coffee. The rain has long since stopped by the time Jackson looks to leave. Any excuse for having stayed so long washed away with it.
Scott almost has the courage to ask what had happened to make Jackson so melancholy, but the words are barely formed in his head when the door opens for the morning staff to wander in. Another missed chance. Jackson is gone by the time he has greeted Isaac. It’s not all that surprising if he’s honest but still he’d hoped that Jackson had stayed.
He grabs his things and makes his way out with a good by to the others, only just noticing the card left under condiments by where Jackson had been sat. He picks it up turning it over in his hands. It’s a business card, one for the firm Mr. Whittemore owns, with all of Jackson’s contact details printed on. The other side has a quickly scribbled note of thanks, though what for Scott doesn’t know. Nor care. Yet it gives him an odd sense of calm, and as he walks out into the morning light the feeling grows.
Title - Howl
Pairings - Scott McCall/Jackson Whittemore
Characters - Scott McCall, Jackson Whittemore
Warnings - Un-Beta’ed, Dream!Sex
Words - 478
Summary - A howl rips out of Scott and disperses into the night, it’s a throaty noise that cuts through the stillness reverberating in the air.
He can feel his heartbeat against his ribs. His breath clawing out of him and misting in the cold fall air. The woods seem endless as he runs, fog hiding the horizon and only the deep brown of the trees breaks through. Leaves crunch under foot as his eyes search for something. A sweet scent wafts through the damp air. Calling to him. Twisting he runs towards it, feet hitting the ground harder, faster.
Throat now burning he comes to a stop. Ahead of him a figure moves. Silvery moonlight breaks through the branches of a large tree above them dancing strange patterns against snow white skin.
A howl rips out of Scott and disperses into the night, it’s a throaty noise that cuts through the stillness reverberating in the air.
The figure starts, it’s head turning to face him with crystal clear eyes. Jackson’s eyes.
Time shifts, displaces perhaps, either way Scott is stood now, hands pressed against the bark of the tree as he towers over Jackson. Heat spreads through him with a hunger he’s not sure how to sate. Keening he drops to his knees, pushing Jackson to the soft undergrowth. He drags his nails down the smooth fabric of Jackson’s shirt, tearing into it with slow and precise cuts. The shredded fabric disappears as it falls on top of the leaves.
Skin now bare Jackson shifts under him, desperate and wanting. Trying to find the friction Scott is offering.
Scott hums as he swipes his tongue across hardened nipples. The taste of sweat following the action. But it’s not enough. He needs more.
He nuzzles against the soft skin of Jackson’s neck, letting his teeth scrape across the delicate skin, before sinking in. Blood fills his mouth, a deep coppery taste.
Jackson lets out a shout, but his hands take hold of Scott’s head holding him in place. Begging for release, bucking his hips up, grinding against Scott’s thigh.
Lapping at stray droplets of blood that streak across flushed skin, Scott pulls away.
Things twist once more and Jackson is on all fours below him. His cock thick with desire thrusting inside Jackson's tightness.
It’s too tight, too much and-
Scott wakes hot and needy, his cock hard and leaking precum in his boxers. His sheets are a damp tangle around his legs where he’d tried to kick them off in the night. The dream lingers in his mind as he reaches between his legs. Half asleep he jerks himself off quickly, stifling his cry into his pillows. The come down is quick, and a cold shiver runs down his spine as he realises what the dream was. Still a warmth settles in his abdomen, and he almost wants to fall back into it. To see more, feel more. Shame keeps him from it, a fear that if he gives in it won’t stop.
The doors slide open to reveal that once again the guy with no name is already stood there, engrossed in his mobile. He should say hello, introduced himself, they're sort of neighbours after all. Even if there's a floor difference. However, instead, like every other day he walks into the small space, gripping his bag strap, and wringing the course material until it burns his palms. It's stupid and he knows it, however he can't help how nervous he gets.
He tried to talk to him before, but he'd hesitated so long the elevator had reached his floor. Stupidly he'd taken it as some kind of sign, creating a sort of superstition around it.
Feeling like a lovestruck teenager he glances over, hoping he's not caught doing so.
Steve had started to tease him about being so obvious in his crush, telling him with a grin on his lips that the '<i>elevator guy</i>' works on occasion at the student cafe. In class he'd nudge him, beg him to talk to the guy.
Bucky ignored him.
It's been so long he knows he's built the guy up, that there is no way for him to live up to the vision he has. That's partly why he holds back, why he lets his nervousness fester, not wanting to shatter the illusion. It's unhealthy in every way.
There was a time when he'd not have cared, when he'd have smiled and introduced himself. Flirted with abandon. That person is lost, stripped away like so much, in dark alleyways and warehouses, by people who were supposed to protect him. Healing is a process his therapist had said. Still he is sure that he’ll never be that person again.
A noise suddenly snaps him from his thoughts. A gasp of sorts. It happens in slow motion the way he catches the phone before it crashes against the floor, before he even knows what he's doing.
"Great reflexes." The guy says eyes wide in awe. Bucky nods unsure how to respond as he fumbles to awkwardly passes the mobile back.
The guy smiles slightly, not put off like Bucky had assumed he'd be, and offers his hand.
"Sam." He says as Bucky shakes the offered hand, both amused by the formality of the action.
Sam's hand is warm to the touch, calluses’ and burns mark his dark skin. Bucky holds on longer than necessary, but Sam shows no signs of noticing. Nor caring. Both seemingly lost in the moment.
The doors open to Bucky’s floor, as they slowly let go of each other. Bucky makes no move to leave, instead he opens his mouth, and finally introduces himself.
Title - And when all of your friends are my enemies (AO3)
Pairings - Floyd Lawton/John Diggle, Lyla Diggle/John Diggle
Characters - Floyd Lawton, John Diggle, Lyla Diggle, Sara Diggle (Mentioned)
Warnings - Un-Beta’ed, Adultery, Spoilers for season 3
Words - 2,523
Summary - “How?” He manages to choke out. The word hangs in the air between them unanswered as Floyd steps closer until there is barely a space between them.
“Does it matter?”
This was born out of my desperate need of some Diggle/Deadshot.
Inspired by [x]
The sound of his phone wakes him, an incessant beeping that burrows into his head. Quietly, so as not to wake Lyla, he lifts the offending device from his bedside table, unlocking it with a quick swipe of his finger. He doesn’t recognise the number and it makes him hesitate. He waits a moment longer before he opens it. It simply reads ‘Papp Motel, DS’. The words mean nothing at first, his sleep addled mind trying it's best to pick them apart. They click after a moment and any notion of sleep leaves him. He knows it is not possible, but no one else would sign off in such a way.
Lyla shifts in the bed beside him, reminding him she’s there, her breathing even in sleep. He should wake her, he thinks. They could make sure Sara’s with someone and head out together. The message could be a trap after all. He should wake her, but a niggling in the back of his head tells him it's better if he goes alone, that he should take the chance of it being a trap.
Moving slowly he dresses, throwing on the clothes he’d been wearing the day before. He moves quickly through the rest of the house, leaving a small note to say he’d gone out and not to worry affixed to the fridge.
The cold night air hits him as soon as he is out the door. The street is empty with nothing but the streetlamps to light his way. The motel is on the other side of Starling, so he has no choice but to get into his car and drive. The rumble of the engine no doubt wakes Lyla but he can’t think about it. Even though he knows he should.
The clock on the dash blinks 3.39 as he pulls into the motel car park.The sign is missing some of its letters and flashes to it’s own rhythm. A ‘No Vacancy sign’ hangs loosely underneath blowing in the cool breeze. The sound of his phone suddenly cuts through the eire quite. A simple message of ‘Room 13’ fills the screen. A tightness forms in his stomach, twisting against itself, a fearful sickness threatens to overpower him. Breathing deeply he sits in the car for a moment, lets his mind empty of the thoughts that rattle around, steeling himself. He pushes open the door and gets out, the gravel crunching under his feet. Unease washes over him, and he wishes he’d thought this through. Wishes he'd stay home, that he wanted to be home.
He ignores the checkin desk and enters the main hall instead. The motel has a pungent smell, he doesn’t really want to identify, that hits him as soon as he's through the door. The red paint on the walls is cracked and peeling in places and what he can only assume is mold colours the walls. The lights, where they work, flicker and buzz in their shades. The carpet is patchy and worn, dark stains marring it underfoot.
9, 10, 11...
Adrenaline floods his system as the room numbers clim, his heart racing as he searches for the room. Instincts kicking in, his focus becoming sharp.
12, 13...
The door’s paint flakes off as he knocks. It creaks open slowly.
Though a part of him knew somehow, his breath still escapes him when Floyd is the one to open the door.
“Johnny boy.” Floyd greets, his lips quirking into a smirk. He offers Diggle no explanation just waves him in with a flick of his hand.
Diggle steps into the small room without really thinking. It smells of damp, and a coldness clings to the air that sends shivers up his spine. His eyes search the room, as Floyd shuts the door, finding little more than the ratty bed, though he can see a door he can only assume leads to a bathroom.
He turns back to Floyd, letting his eyes soak in the man he thought dead. It is less of a shock to see him, after all it is not the first time to have happened. It feels different this time. A warmth he wants to cut out of him, burns in his chest, a small spark of relief he knows he should not feel. He’d drank to this man, mourned him.
Questions he doesn’t know how to ask accumulate and flutter in his head. Each as desperate as the next. He tries to swallow them down, to focus, but all he can think of is how glad he is to see Floyd alive. How until now he’d been floating, reckless and lost. He tries to think of Lyla, Sara, anything but the man before him. Tries to focus on the slow burning anger he feels.
“How?” He manages to choke out. The word hangs in the air between them unanswered as Floyd steps closer until there is barely a space between them.
“Does it matter?”
Diggle’s answer is lost in the press of lips as Floyd surges forward. It’s awkward and Diggle doesn’t know how to react, his hands fumbling as he tries to grip hold of Floyd, settling finally on Floyd’s hips, his thumbs gently stroking the jut of bone. It’s easy to fall back into, to remember the first time.
Floyd tastes sweet, and smells of sweat and oil. It’s intoxicating. Digging his nails into Floyd’s sides Diggle walks them back until they hit the bed. His knees give way and they fall back against the scratchy sheets. The movement forcing them to pull away from the kiss.
Panting Floyd pulls his tank off, staring unwaveringly into Diggle’s eyes, challenging him to look, to understand.
Not knowing how to answer, nor in truth what the question is, Diggle leans forward, letting the tips of his fingers brush along his brother’s name. He will never forgive Floyd for it, but this isn’t about that, his brother has no place in this room. It’s just them here. Lyla, Sara, all the names that paint Floyd’s history bare, they are nothing but distant phantoms.
Diggle runs his tongue along Floyd’s collarbone, and up across his throat, feeling the way Floyd’s breath hitches. He grazes his teeth across Floyd’s stubbled chin, presses hard and insistent kisses against practiced lips.
“I want this, do you?” Diggle asks heady with need and he feels foolish for it but he needs to know; needs Floyd to know as well.
Floyd’s answers with a sharp tug on the hem of Diggle’s shirt, pulling it up and off, trailing his hands over the naked expanse of Diggle’s chest, blunt nails digging half moons into Diggle’s shoulders as he pushes forward, whispering ‘yes’ into his ear.
They make quick work of removing their pants and underwear, falling back to the bed naked. Diggle pulls Floyd down capturing his lips in a biting kiss, tugging at his bottom lip. Hands grip at his hips, thumbs digging in painfully, before sliding slowly, purposefully down, to slip between slightly parted legs. He bucks up against Floyd searching for more, for release.
Floyd laughs, twisting his right hand to wrap his fingers around Diggle’s hard cock. He moves his hand slowly, the dry rough, calloused skin creating an almost painful friction. He stops his hand and leans over to the side table, hands quick as they pull out lube and a condom that he drops to the sheets.
Diggle lets his fingertips trace Floyd’s face, glides them to sit softly under the strap of Floyd’s eyepatch. Floyd smirks as he places his own hands over Diggle’s, to help slowly guide the patch off. His eye is milky, a twist of copper running round the iris. Scars litter the skin around the socket, with one running straight down through his eye, angry and red. Diggle shifts closer, places kisses across the scarred skin. It feels intimate in a way nothing to this point has. He knows now a line has been crossed, that no matter what there was no coming back from this night, but now, now he no longer wants to. Working his way slowly he peppers soft open mouthed kisses on each scar he sees. Stopping as he comes to the scar on Floyd’s shoulder. It's a jagged slither, the skin pinched and red around it. It’s this scar that proves to him that Floyd is alive, not the warmth of the man pressed to him. He swipes his tongue along the wound, finding a strange please in the hiss that Floyd makes at the contact. With more care he presses a light kiss against the skin, before allowing Floyd to shift back.
Diggle buries his hands into Floyd’s hair, pushing the locks back off the man's face. He’s caught by how draw to him he is, how without knowing when or how, Floyd had found his way under his skin.
Cool fingers work the condom onto Diggle’s straining cock, before Floyd reaches back, his fingers slicked with lube. Diggle helps guide them to Floyd's puckered entrance and watches in silence as they slide in.
Floyd works them in, twisting them, stretching himself, making sure he is loose and ready. It doesn’t take long, and he is soon shifting closer, to hover over Diggle. He slides down, agonizingly slow, until his heat surrounds Diggle.
Moans and gasps fill the room as Diggle thrusts up into Floyd. His hands gripping Floyd's waist until he is sure it will bruise. He knows he won't last long buried deep, Floyd's warmth enveloping his cock, squeezing and flexing around him. He runs his hands over the taut muscle of Floyd's back to cup the nape of his neck. He holds him there for a moment, lets the sensation of filling Floyd run through him, before pulling him down for a kiss. It's rough and desperate as their tongues slide against each other, and teeth clash. The distinct taste of copper fills his mouth and it tastes right for them. The kiss becomes loose and unhurried as he feels the telltale signs of heat curling his abdomen. He comes biting into Floyd’s shoulder, his moans hidden with the action.
Floyd's movement's become erratic as he fucks himself hard on Diggle's cock, throwing his head back to moan out as his orgasom ripples through him, come spilling out over Diggle's chest.
They pant breathlessly their sweat slicked foreheads pressed together. Diggle can barely tell where he begins and Floyd starts.
Diggle's cock slips out of Floyd as the man moves to lie beside him. He pulls the condom off, tying it before dropping it against the floor. The sleepy afterglow begins to take hold, the want for closeness. He holds himself still, strangely worried the gesture would scare Floyd away, but strong arms wrap around him as Floyd buries his head in Diggle's shoulder
"You think too much, John."
Floyd is right, besides it is too late to think of the boundaries now, of the things that make this more real. He pulls Floyd closer, happy to let it just be them for one more night.
The morning light filters through the dirt on the window pane, breaking the spell of the night before. His phone buzzes quietly, where it had landed in their haste to undress. Guilt sits heavy in his chest as what he has done crashes down upon him. He'd promised himself that the first time would be the last, that it had been a mistake, that it had been the mission, the adrenaline. He knew better and still he had lied to himself. This time he has no excuse, no way to lie.
The bed shifts as Floyd turns to him, propping himself up on his arm.
“Running back to the family?” It’s less a question and more of a statement. A slight hint of bitterness hides under Floyd's humour however.
Diggle just makes a noncommittal sound in response as he climbs off the bed. It’s silent as he throws on his clothes, slipping his bare feet into his shoes, choosing not to fight with his socks and to tuck them away in his pocket instead.
“I should…” Diggle begins before his phone buzzes once more. Yet another call from Lyla. He waits for it to stop before shoving it into his pocket. He doesn't turn to face Floyd like he wants. The door handle is cold as he twists it open, the air that hits him is fresh against his skin. He steps forward, hoping to leave his transgressions behind.
“Say hello from me.” Floyd calls as he all but flees the room, forcing him to admit there is nothing he can do to forget, and even if there was Floyd would be there.
The lights are on when he pulls into the drive. The half light of dawn highlights the speckles of morning dew. Only the sounds of the waking world fill the air as he turns the car off. He can't hide here he knows but he doesn't know how to face Lyla. He's betrayed her. Not for the first time. He'd thought himself better, thought he loved her enough to not stray.
A noise jerks him out of his reverie as Lyla taps gently against the window. She's wrapped up in a black nightgown, a wedding present from her friends. The sight causes his stomach to roll.
“Where have you been?” She asks in a rush as he gets out of the car. Her arms wraping tightly around him.
“A job.” He lies, hopping she doesn’t ask any more questions. That she believes him.
She pulls back to study him, fingers lightly running over his face.
“You OK? You’re not injured?”
“No.” The word tastes bitter on his tongue as she watches him. He can't read her but how he wishes he could.
“Do you fancy some breakfast?” She asks not sounding herself, and he can’t help but wonder if she can see through his lies, if she’s giving him this.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute, just got to update the others.” He replies waving his phone at her, hoping she understands.
She frowns, opening her mouth to question him but she snaps it shut and nods instead. She leans in to kiss him, before heading back into the house.
He waits until she is inside before trying to ring Floyd and he hates himself for it, that he's already planning to break his vows. The call doesn't connect however and he's not sure if he's relieved or not. It takes the choice out of his hands, but the desire to be with Floyd doesn't go away, it leaves a space in his chest, hollow and wanting. He's made it worse by giving in again,pushes hard against his ribs. Begs to be sated.
He looks up to see Lyla smiling at him through the window, his beautiful baby girl in her arms. It won't happen again he promises. His stride purposeful as he heads to the house, to where he belongs. It won't happen again he repeats to himself, ignoring how the words feel like a lie.
Title - Should we try? (AO3)
Pairings - Sera/F!Trevelyan
Characters - Sera, F!Trevelyan
Warnings - Un-Beta’ed, PWP
Words - 709
Summary - They cling to each other, kissing hard and frantic as they throw their clothes to the ground. Sera nips at Trevelyan’s lips as they fall back, bouncing slightly once they hit the bed.
I'm posting this before I change my mind. I've never written Femslash before so this is more than likely terrible, but I wanted to write something for Femslash February so, tada~.
They cling to each other, kissing hard and frantic as they throw their clothes to the ground. Sera nips at Trevelyan’s lips as they fall back, bouncing slightly once they hit the bed. Sera laughs, bright and happy. She kisses down Trevelyan’s throat, licking at the droplets of sweat already clinging to her collarbone. Sera’s hands move down Trevelyan’s sides, elating small laughs at the ticklish sensation.
“Ticklish there shiny?” Sera asks, looking up at Trevelyan with a mischievous smile.
“Sera, no.” Trevelyan replies, stern but with a hint of a laugh. Sera smiles, but holds her hands up before placing them back softly against the bedsheets under Trevelyan’s arms. She leans down, her tongue running in a circle around Trevelyan’s nipple making it pepple. She pulls it into her mouth, sucking the nub lightly, her free hand rubbing circles against the other. She draws back, looking up at Trevelyan before trailing kisses down Trevelyan’s body. She lets her teeth graze Trevelyan’s stomach, elated at the sharp breath Trevelyan takes at the sensation. Her hands ghost over Trevelyan as she lets her tongue brush along the smooth lines of purple skin.
"So pretty you are." Sera purrs as she looks back up at Trevelyan. "not fair that."
"Pfft, I'm nowhere as pretty as you." Trevelyan says back running her fingers gently through Sara's hair, with nothing but love in her eyes.
"Stop it you." Sera says twisting so she can kiss Trevelyan’s palm. "Super gorgeous you are."
Trevelyan blushes, embarrassed by the words, but she nods.
Sera shifts, moving further down the bed. She lifts and spreads Trevelyan's legs, kissing along her thighs. She leans in, presses her lips to the coarse hair above Trevelyan's clit. Licking down in one swift sweep. The tip of her tongue glides across the soft bundle of nerves making Trevelyan riggle and lift her hips. Sera licks at it, with broad sweeps.
Trevelyan gasps above her, but holds in her moans, her arm thrown over her mouth to muffle the ones that do escape. Sera had been worried the first time, when Trevelyan had been almost too quiet, but she'd learnt that Trevelyan is a quite lover.
Sera groans as she feels Trevelyan get wetter, she moves from her clit to dart her tongue inside Trevelyan. Slowly she moves in and out feeling Trevelyan shake around her.
"Sera..." Trevelyan breathes her hands buried in Sera's hair scratching against her scalp.
Sera slides her tongue out, trailing it along Trevelyan’s folds and back up to her clit. She presses against it, her strokes quicker, harder, her nails digging half moons into Trevelyan’s thighs.
Trevelyan tenses as she comes melting back against the sheets. Her breathing heavy as her hands slip from Sera's hair.
Sera crawls back up Trevelyan’s body, pressing kisses as she goes. She turns them so they lie side by side.
Trevelyan pulls her in and kisses her hard, her tongue sliding into Sera’s mouth tasting herself. She brushes her fingertips down Sera’s skin. Cupping her breasts, sweeping her thumbs across Sera’s nipples. Sera gasps into Trevelyan’s mouth.
Trevelyan moves her right hand further down Sera’s body, her left continuously teasing Sera’s nipple. Trevelyan slides a finger between Sera’s legs, letting it brush her soft folds. It’s the lightest of touches.
"Stop teasing you." Sera says as she lifts and hooks her leg around Trevelyan’s.
Trevelyan moves her finger it in and out at an agonising slow pace, enjoying the little gasps and moans escaping Sera’s mouth. She slides a second in, spreading Sera’s walls with each thrust inside. Sera's wetness letting her fingers glide easily in and out. She feels Sera tighten around her, and slides her fingers free, to softly brush against Sera’s clit. Sera’s breath hitches, her hips bucking trying to get more friction. Trevelyan circles her finger around the sensitive nub, brushing lightly against it.
Sera's hand grips her side tightly, her teeth grazing Trevelyan’s shoulder.
Trevelyan, speeds up her caresses, rubbing harder.
Sera comes, her back arching as she screams. Trevelyan wipes her hand against the sheets not caring for the mess she makes. She pulls Sera in for a kiss, slow and sloppy.
Title - Samson's Tale (AO3)
Pairings - Implied!Cullen Rutherford/Samson
Characters - Cullen, M!Inquisitor
Warnings - Un-Beta’ed
Words - 1,676
Summary - “He was a Templar in Kirkwall, until he was expelled from the order.” The Inquisitor’s eyes are on him, and he feels he should explain the sudden outburst, but the Inquisitor doesn’t ask him who he means and he wonders vaguely if he has truly been so transparent.
So this is something I've been thinking about a lot. Just how did Maryden learn all about Samson? Well this is my headcanon. Yes it is foolish, and makes little sense but I liked it as an idea so I ran with it. Thanks for reading <3
It’s been a long day. No more perhaps than some, but it still weighs on him. Things tend to seem worse once you get a moment’s peace, which is all he has seemed to have today. With the move to Skyhold finally complete, and with restoration underway he has finally been able to take a moments rest. Much to the joy of the others who had been telling him to take some time, and that he worked too hard. It had felt nice at first, to not wake so early, to lay in the warmth of his bed for just that little longer, but thoughts of laziness, of problems he needed to fix, drove him from the comfort. He’d tried to help out only to be glared at by Cassandra, and so he’d gone back to his room, taking a few files with him to work on in secret.
The quite makes it easier to drift, allowing his mind to conjure things he’d rather forget. Flashes of the past, of softness and the smile of another. All of it now tainted in red.
He drops his quill, watching as it flicks ink on his report. He needs to work, needs to be doing something so the thoughts will stop. So he can forget, pretend for just a moment longer that everything is as it was. A foolish thing he knows, but it’s still too fresh, too new a hurt and hidden away in his room, it’s too easy to get lost in the memories. So he heads to the Tavern. He has not spent as much time there as others, finding the loud and brash customers too much for his liking, but today he has a need of a drink and the loud custom to get lost in.
He is greeted warmly once he enters, and it eases the pain. He chooses to sit at the bar, the fire at his back, throwing warmth against him. It crackles and makes the room smell of charred wood.
He’s not sat there long before the Inquisitor sits next to him, having left the company of his other companions.
“Would you like to talk about it?” He inquires, and Cullen laughs. No, he really doesn't.
“I would rather not.” The words are bitter and he feels he should apologise for them. But the Inquisitor just nods, taking a sip of his own drink.
“Would you rather I left you to it then?”
“I would like the company, so long as you don’t mind I’m not much good for it today.”
“I’ve never minded before.” The Inquisitor teases, and Cullen smiles at him, it’s small but still a smile.
They talk about preparations, about what to do next, as Cullen steadily gets more and more inebriated. The memories he’d tried to keep hidden float to the surface, words spilling from his lips freely. He wants to stop them but it’s freeing.
“He was a Templar in Kirkwall, until he was expelled from the order.” The Inquisitor’s eyes are on him, and he feels he should explain the sudden outburst, but the Inquisitor doesn’t ask him who he means and he wonders vaguely if he has truly been so transparent. He lets the words flow instead, feeling lighter we each one. “When I arrived in Kirkwall, Samson and I shared quarters. He seemed a decent man, at first.” He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts slightly. ”He was a decent man.” He takes a large gulp of his drink, emptying the glass. “I thought once maybe…” He trails off, looking away from the eyes that are on him. “It doesn't matter now. That man is no longer the man I knew.”
The Inquisitor orders them more drinks with a flick of his wrist and they sit in companionable silence for a while, the chatter of the other patrons filling the room around them.
“Why was he even expelled?” The Inquisitor asks suddenly, his voice quite, uncertainty colouring the words.
“Officially, the Knight-Commander expelled him for "erratic behaviour", in truth he was caught passing notes and letters from an apprentice to his sweetheart. Maker he was a fool.”
“You have no sympathy for him then?”
“For Samson, once I may have done, but after this, after what he has done. No, I don’t have sympathy. He had choices. He could have found another path.”
They continue to drink in silence, until Cullen has lost count of how many he has had, and his face is pressed against the cool, sticky bar. His words swirl and spill, unheeded. The Inquisitor is still at his side, and at some point they have been joined by others. He talks of his friendship with Samson, how he had thought better of the man. He tells them tales of the two of them, all of them tinged with fondness.
Once his words get too slurred, Cassandra and the Inquisitor loop their arms around him, heaving him off his feet. They carry him the short journey to his room with only a little trouble. He can hear them speak to him but his sluggish mind can no longer pick out the words, and he is sure he probably would not like what they are saying about him. They push open his door and leave him propped up against his desk, the idea of lugging his dead weight up a ladder seeming too much for them. Cassandra drapes a soft blanket over him, and he drifts off, with a slurred thank you.
When he finally wakes the next morning his head feels like he has been run of by a herd of Druffalo. The room spins as he opens his eyes, the sunlight too bright, making his stomach roll. He bends, dry heaving, wondering what he possible could have drank for his mouth to taste as bad as it does. He sits back against the desk, trying to piece together the fragments of memory he has of the night before. He drifts off again only waking when the door opens and a cold breeze ruffles through his hair. It’s bracing and wakes him slightly, but still he burrows further into his blanket, shivering away from the cold.
“Command-”
“Maker, not so loud.” He groans, batting the air with his hand.
“Sorry, ser. It’s just, The Inquisitor wished to see you. I can inform him you are not up to it if you’d prefer.”
“No, no. It’s fine. I shall be a moment however.”
The scout leaves him alone once more. Pushing himself gingerly to his feet he groans, his body aching from the unnatural position he’d slept in. He should thank Cassandra and the Inquisitor for getting him back to his room, but his bones are feeling less than appreciative of the help. He swills water around his mouth, hoping it will get rid of some of the taste. He strokes down his hair and rearranges his clothing before staring at himself in his small mirror, and deeming himself good enough.
He walks the long way round to the war room, hoping the fresh air will clear his head. As he walks across the battlements something grabs his attention, a melancholy song pushing out through the windows of the Tavern. With heart hammering in his chest he runs, ripping open the doors as he goes, practically crashing into the banister at the top of the stairs. Below him Maryden sings, a small gathering of people around her. Her words are his, twisted to make a forgiving shape. Anger and rage boils inside him, but it’s nothing compared to the embarrassment he feels, how could he have been so foolish.
She finishes to applause, and he feels sick all over again. The words are not false, but the sympathy they invoke in these people. It’s wrong. His legs buckle beneath him, and he slides to the ground. It should not affect him so much, he knows this. It’s just a song, just something to ease the troops. Something to make a man out of the horror of the enemy. Yet he can’t help but feel betrayed slightly, that his own people would take his moment of weakness and twist it.
“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. How’s your head?” Cullen stares up at the Inquisitor as he leans down to him, hand held out to help him to his feet.
“Fine.” He says, gripping hold of the hand to pull himself up. “I just. The bard she was singing, about Samson.”
“You may have told the entire tavern about you two. I think she may have wrote it last night, with your help. You were very, very drunk.”
“I helped? Maker...”
“Yes, do you not remember anything? How much did you drink? She has edited it though, taken out all the...” The Inquisitor trails off looking at him with concern plain on his face. “I will have a word with her if you like, tell her not to sing it. It’s not like she doesn't have more songs.”
Cullen thinks about it, he doesn’t want it to be sung, he wants to hide from the words, to forget he ever knew Samson, but he knows he can’t. That what happened won't change just because he buries it. It could be worse he thinks, and now he’s slightly more sober he knows it’s not so bad. Not really. The song after all is not such a pleasant picture of the man and what right does he truly have to stop them from singing something that helps them get through this war. It’s more the embarrassment of the situation that he hates, and telling their troops not to sing the blasted thing is only going to make it worse.
“No, it’s fine, it was just a shock to hear. Maker why didn’t anyone stop me?”
“Oh we did, but, well as I said you were drunk.” It’s an explanation he supposes, even if it’s not one he wants to hear. He sighs, it’s going to be another long day.
Some of the lines come from conversations you have with Cullen, so if something seems a little familiar that will be why.
List of lines:
"He was a Templar in Kirkwall, until he was expelled from the order."
"When I arrived in Kirkwall, Samson and I shared quarters. He seemed a decent man, at first."
"Knight-Commander expelled him for "erratic behaviour"" (slightly edited)
Because I’m 100% original I really want a mob/Cop AU where Cullen’s partner Samson gets 'killed' in a mob hit. Cullen starts spiraling and just when he is at his lowest his boss, Cassandra, offers him a chance to get payback on the group who ‘killed' Samson, by going undercover to infiltrate them and bring them down from the inside. Cullen jumps at the chance. However while undercover he sees Samson, who is being referred to as ‘The Vessel’, the very man blamed for killing Samson several years earlier.
Samson doesn’t remember anything, and Corypheus, the leader, gleefully explains the way Samson was once a cop but after years of drug abuse he’d lost bits and pieces of his memory and they’d brought him under their wing, corrupting him and lying to him about who he was, creating the perfect subordinate.
Cullen is disgusted by this, but he has no way to tell Samson without coming clean, thereby putting the mission in jeopardy. But it eats away at him, and so he tells Samson, everything. About how they were partners, how maybe there could have been more. Samson however thinks Cullen is lying, praying on his lost memories as a way to get to him so he can take over as Corypheus’ second in command, after all Cullen rose through the ranks pretty quickly. So Samson goes to tell Corypheus that Cullen is a cop, but just as he is about to he stops, something in Cullen’s desperation stopping him, and a niggling sense that just maybe he is telling the truth. So he backs off, helps bring Corypheus’ operation down with Cullen, all the while the two start to fall in love, and Samson gains some, not all, of his memories back.
Title - A pleasant distraction (AO3)
Pairings - Cullen Rutherford/Samson
Warnings - Un-Beta’ed, PWP
Words - 964
Summary - Samson thinks Cullen works too hard.
It's late as he passes by Cullen's door. Light shines from the cracks in the wood, dim but still noticeable. He hesitates before heaving a heavy sigh a pushing his way in.
It's brighter once he gets inside. Cullen is sat working at his desk, files littering the top as candles burn low in their holders. Cullen’s dedication is admirable, but that doesn't mean he doesn’t push himself too hard some days.
The fact Cullen doesn’t seem to notice him causes him to roll his eyes. It's not like the door hadn't creaked as he'd opened it, but Cullen is too absorbed in whatever it is he is reading. Sighing he makes his way over to the desk, draping himself over Cullen’s shoulders. Cullen jumps slightly at the sudden contact but he doesn’t say anything, just shifts to accommodate the extra weight. Samson laughs before he kisses down Cullen’s nape, trailing his tongue back up to his hairline taking pleasure in the way Cullen shivers.
“I have to finish these.” Cullen says, coughing slightly at the end, clearly losing some interest in the papers.
“Are you sure you have to finish them right this second?” Samson says, pulling back from Cullen and moving round him to sit on his desk.
"Maybe not right now." Cullen replies not making any movement other than to glance up at Samson, with a glint in his eye, challenging Samson to do something.
Neither move, both content to take the other in, to trail their eyes along the other. A beat and then Samson is twisting slowly, pushing out Cullen’s chair with his foot. He slides off the desk into Cullen’s lap, pressing himself to him. Hands pull at his shirt, and he obliges, lifting his arms so Cullen can tug it off. He lowers his arms and lets his hands run through Cullen's hair, leaning in to kiss along his jaw. His fingers scratch against Cullen's scalp before trailing down to unlace his breeches, his mouth swallowing Cullen’s gasps.
Large hands grip his thighs as Cullen lifts him up and onto the desk. Cullen's breaches slide down to his ankles with the movement. Bottles and files get knocked over, clattering to the ground in the rush for more. Cullen kisses down his throat, sucking bruises onto his collar bone. Calloused fingertips trail up his sides, fingers splaying against his chest, the beat of his heart speeding up, hammering beneath his skin. Cullen stops, looking down at him, a smile spreading across his lips.
"Maker..." Cullen breaths, taking in the sight of Samson below him, hair mussed and kiss red lips.
Samson surges up, kisses hard, teeth tugging at lips. He licks along Cullen’s scar, his breath hitching as Cullen fumbles to ride him of his breaches, deft fingers making short work of the laces. Samson helps pull them off, kicking them to the ground. He presses kisses along Cullen’s shoulder, bites down hard at the first touch of Cullen’s hand against his hardness. Cullen groans, his movements becoming quicker as eagerness grips hold. Samson watches as Cullen pulls open one of the draws to pull out a small bottle. He raises his eyebrow in question.
"One of the, um, one of the apocatheries gave it to me. Well, Leliana gave it to me and said it was from them." Cullen cheeks burn red and Samson can’t help but falls just that little more for Cullen. "It should-" Samson stops his words with a kiss, which Cullen gratefully responses to.
"Get on with it then." Samson chuckles, spreading his legs slightly to give Cullen a better angle. The concoction makes Cullen’s fingers cold as he slides them inside. Cullen opens him up with slow practiced moves, his hips hitch along with the slow in and out. His breath catches, and he throws his head back, his own fingers going white where he clings to the desk.
"Maker, hurry up." He grunts, urging Cullen along as he digs his heels into his sides. Cullen shivers, shifting once more to extract his fingers and line his cock up. Cullen slides in, slow and careful, watching Samson’s eyes flutter at the sensation. He moves at a steady pace, in and out to the beat of his heart. The desk screeches across the floor along with his thrusts. Samson reaches for his hand, sliding Cullen’s fingers into his mouth. Licking and sucking the digits, staring up at Cullen through half lidded eyes. Cullen picks up his pace, steadying himself with his free hand.
Samson nips at his fingers, sliding them out to press a kiss against his palm. It's intimate in a way he’d never say, it's the words and promises he wants to share, but fears all the same. He swirls his tongue around a finger, pulling it into his wet, warm mouth.
Cullen speads up, his thrust erratic as he pulls his hand free from Samson’s mouth to get a better purchase on the desk, thrusting harder into Samson. He leans down, pressing his forehead to Samson’s, he slows slightly as he comes. Samson following soon after. Cullen doesn't slide out straight away, he leans in to presses kisses against Samson's mouth, cupping his face, his thumb tenderly stroking his cheek.
Samson shifts, watching as Cullen slips out, and then hitching up his breeches. Samson pushes himself to his elbows grinning up at Cullen. The other man huffs, but smiles back all the same.
The candles are out he realises suddenly, the room is nothing but shadows and the faint light from the moon. Everything seems quiet and peaceful, and the moment stretches, filling him with something he can’t describe, but feels a lot like love. It's foolish, and he knows it won't last, but for tonight he's happy to pretend.
Summary - The first time Samson kisses him, he’s not sure it counts.
(AKA: 6 times Samson kissed Cullen, plus one time they kissed each other. Or something)
First
The first time Samson kisses him, he’s not sure it counts. It’s nothing more than a brush of dry lips against his own, but Samson stands close, after, his eyes dark with want. He knows he should do something, but he’s frozen in place, his heart hammering. He waits too long and so the moment passes him by.
Samson sighs, pushing away from him, putting space between them, his hand toying with his hair.
Time seems to stand still but then Samson laughs, plays it off as a joke. A prank. Cullen nods along, cheeks flushed as he chides Samson. Stamping down on the feelings bubbling inside him.
Still, he wonders what would have happened if he’d pulled Samson close, kissed him back like he had wanted.
Second
They fight, harsh words thrown at each other, cutting deep, but there is something hidden behind them. He tries to puzzle it out, his fingers soft as they reach for Samson. His questions dying on his lips as Samson kisses him; hard, his lips quirking against his own.
He runs his hand through Samson’s hair, tugging at the ends to pull him down, closer, a desperation thrumming through him. He breaks away, resting his forehead against Samson’s, their breath mingling in the small space between them. He wants to say something, fill the silence, ask why and if this will be forgotten too, but Samson smiles at him, guarded and small, and his words dry up.
Samson leans back in, pressing his lips against Cullen’s, light and tentative. It’s softer, but still an undercurrent of something more pulsing through it. A need for this, for more. Hands against skin, mouths finding hidden places.
He likes to think of that as their first kiss, but he knows it doesn’t work that way.
They fall together, skin and heat. Samson above him, smiling, loose, and happy. Though there is an edge to it, something he can’t place. He tries to kiss it away. Wants to remember the sweetness, the soft press of Samson against him.
The morning comes, and he wakes alone, Samson having gone in the night, from his bed, from the order.
Third
When he hears from Samson, years later, it’s like they’ve never known each other. Reunited after so many years, but still so far apart. He hesitates, asks Hawke what to do, not sure anymore how to deal with Samson. Wonders if this distance will last, if the broken splinters of what they were, could have been, can be put back together.
He agrees to Samson being reinstated, pushes Meredith as far as he dares to get her to agree. All the while Samson stands silent, waiting. They are to share quarters again, she says, Cullen will be responsible for Samson, held accountable for his actions. They both agree with sharp nods.
The room seems smaller, too little space for everything that has passed between them. Samson smiles cruelly. Sharp words meant to wound. But Cullen is not so innocent any more and sees through the lies. Begs Samson to stop hiding, to tell him what he means, to stop this charade.
Samson stands, strokes Cullen face with his hand. Leans close, his intent clear.
And when Samson finally kisses him, it’s bitter, and angry. Hungry for things lost. Both so different and finding it hard to reconcile who they are now with the person they’d known before. He pulls away, hands hard against Samson’s chest. Watching as a smirk plays across Samson’s face, determined this will be the last time, knowing it won’t be.
Fourth
They clash against each other, but fall together as lovers. Cullen wants too much. Everything is falling apart around him but this, but them. Samson laughs at him, grinning wide. Tells him he's soft.
But still things crumble, the templars begin using red lyrium, Hawke disappears, and he is left floating, feeling lost, of no use, waiting for a purpose.
An offer by Cassandra, to join her reforming Inquisition, gives him hope. Lets him believe he may have a new purpose, but he hesitates, worries he is not good enough, that he would compromise the intentions of the order.
Cassandra tells him to have faith, that he can do more good as part of something new, and so he agrees.
When he tells Samson, he isn't sure how the other man will react, but Samson kisses him softly, not at all like any of the others. It’s filled with all the goodbyes Cullen doesn’t wish to say. He has to tear himself away. To stand back, put distance between them. He chokes his words down. This is no longer his place, he can no longer stay here. Trapped in a life he no longer believes in, stifled under the pressure he places upon himself. He wants to ask Samson to come, but knows he’d decline. Knows, as much as this is not his place, the Inquisition is not Samson’s.
Neither say anything as he leaves, both expecting it to be the last they see of the other. Cullen hoping it wont.
Fifth
When Haven is destroyed Cullen can't believe Samson was involved. His heart breaks at the sight, an anger filling him where once love was. He wants so much for it to be a lie.
He chases Samson down, takes apart all the things Samson has built. A hope clings to him once they find Madox, but hope is not enough. Better to be wrong about him, he thinks, than have false hope.
They capture Samson, broken and defeated, a shadow of his former self. And when The Inquisitor judges him, he hands him over to Cullen. Tells him to find out what he can, unaware of the pain coursing through Cullen at the words.
He asks questions but Samson never answers. The silence is too much and Cullen screams inside. He prods at things expecting a reaction, but still Samson says nothing.
Weeks pass by, each visit shorter than the last, but still he returns, a belief that Samson, too, deserves a second chance as he once had bringing him back. The anger turning to sadness, a want for the intimacy, the love, he thought they could have had. It’s a twisted thing he knows. He starts to fill the silence with things he’d meant to say, words filled with desperation and fear. He tells of the time he spent doubting, believing that this was something he could never have, that they'd never be more, that they would never last. That the life they'd been living was right.
And Samson turns to him then, eyes hollow. His words slow. He talks of little things, things they already know, but Cullen hangs on every word.
He frees Samson, because he needs him, because he believes even he deserves more than this.
Samson smiles, but it is not a happy thing.
Cullen holds him, tries to steer him to his new quarters, but Samson stops, forcing Cullen to turn, to question why, but Samson's face is too close, and everything rushes before him. The want and need running together until nothing else matters.
Samson presses closer, kissing Cullen with dry, cracked, lips, like that first kiss that never was.
Sixth
They fall together, their kisses full of the promises they should have said and kept. Hesitant and unknowing, a brush of lips and nothing more. Cullen mapping each new scar he sees. His heart hammering in his chest, like it’s the first time. Samson smiling into it, a laugh in his breath. Fingertips lightly pressing against skin.
Everything is new, and nothing feels as it did. Different but better. They still crash against each other, both have days, weeks, when things are dark. But they are fewer and far between. Not fixed but accepting that they weren’t broken to begin with. That they have time now, to get things wrong, to fumble and figure out how to be together, and how to be true to themselves.
+1
Samson stays with the Inquisition, to try and find his redemption among those he fought against. He knows it will not be easy, that it will never be enough for them. He accepts the truth of it, but still he tries. He follows his orders, takes as much as he is given.
The Inquisitor orders his men to leave Samson be, but that kindness is too much for most to accept. Instead their eyes follow Samson, never leaving him. No one trusts him, no one wants him here. But he holds his head high. Snears in their direction. Not above scare tactics if that is what it takes. But it gets harder and harder. A song in the back of his mind. He preservers however, refuses to give them the satisfaction of being right once more about him.
He stands, looking out at the mountains. He knows he's been given a second, third, chance. His last. He knows not to waste it.
Footsteps sound behind him as Cullen comes towards him, enveloping him in his arms. He feels Cullen's smile against his neck as he kisses him there. Twisting in Cullen's hold, to let the other man press a kiss upon his lips, to kiss down his neck, whisper words against his throat. He grips at Cullen, pulls him closer. He kisses Cullen with his eyes wide open, watching the flush darken on his cheeks. His hands hold Cullen's face, cradling it in his palms. Breaking away only to press his forehead against Cullen’s, to breath in this man he can’t believe thinks he is worth something. A man he thinks deserves more than him, but is glad will settle, who will chide him for thinking so little of himself. They profess their love, in every touch, in every kiss, in every smile they thought they would never get to share.
Summary - It’s like he’s swimming in darkness, no up nor down, just nothingness. The screams of those he has killed echo around him, their blood stains his hands, fills his lungs, drowns him.
The cold is seeping into his bones as he stands there. It’s late but not so much so that custom has dried up. He watches one of the others get in a car across from him, he notes the number plate, does his best to remember it just in case. It’s too cold for this, he thinks, as he pulls his hoodie closer to him. A couple of guys walk past, one checks him out but he doesn't stop. It bothers him a little. He’s getting old, no longer has the boyish good looks that drew in most of his customers when he started. He doesn't normally do this, doesn’t have to since he has a string of regulars, but he’d felt the need today. He wishes he hadn’t bothered. He considers leaving when a car pulls up, it’s a non-descript brown thing, something he imagines a parent would drive. The window closest to him rolls down, though can't make out who is inside with how dark it is. He waits a beat before moving toward the car.
“Jackson?” A voice asks from inside, and he realises that it’s Scott, someone he'd never thought he'd see again after graduation. “You need a lift?”
He smirks because of course Scott wouldn't get the implication of him standing here. He nods once before climbing in. It’s warm inside, and smells of leather, and it rumbles to life once he’s fastened himself in.
“I thought it was you, what are you doing out here?” Scott asks, it’s obvious he’s trying to fill the silence, but Jackson doesn't really mind for once, content to hear a familiar voice.
“I was just waiting for a friend, seems like they stood me up though.” It’s an easy lie and he hopes Scott doesn't catch it, though he’s not really sure why. The car falls back into silence and Jackson can't think of a single thing to say. He knows he should tell Scott the real reason for him standing on that corner. That he wasn't really waiting for a friend, at least not in the way he's led Scott to believe. He watches as road passes by instead, the streetlights blurring into each other, painting the sky an orangey yellow. He doesn't pay much attention to his surroundings, though he knows he should, has learnt to be more cautious than this. There's just something about being close to Scott that calms him, forces him to let his guard down, let his walls crumble, if only slightly. It's been years since he felt like this, and it scares him. It makes no sense, he knows this, knows that he’s clinging to the past. It’s not the same now, he’s not the same, and he doubts Scott is either.
The car slows, pulling into an alleyway Jackson hadn't even noticed. He turns to Scott, watches him slowly turn the car off. A part of him knows he should be panicking, that this is normally a red flag, and he knows it would be if it was happening with anyone else.
“You disappeared after graduation.” Scott says suddenly, before twisting in his seat to stare at Jackson.
“Yeah,” He says trying to find the words to explain. “After everything that happened with my parents and then Lydia, I kinda needed some space.” Scott nods though Jackson doesn't know if he’s doing so in understanding or just to let him know he's listening.
“Well it’s good to see you.” Scott smiles around the words, sounding honestly genuine and Jackson doesn’t know what to do with that. They stare at each other, and Jackson can’t help the way it feels like no time has past between them. It’s never been easy for them, the feeling of being more always hanging above them. "So what do you do?" It's an innocent enough question, but there is a weight to it he can’t place, and Jackson doesn't know how to answer. He's never been ashamed of what he does, but he can't bring himself to tell Scott. He tries to think of something to say, process why he’s bothered by the prospect of telling Scott anyway.
Scott glances at him, and he realises he's been quite too long, that he's being suspicious, and anything he says now is going to seem fake, like he is hiding something. So he doesn't say anything, just leans over, pushing the heel of his hand against Scott’s crotch. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he wants this, has wanted it for longer than he cares to think about. It’s easy to fall into this, easier to pretend Scott is like all the others.
"Wha-" Scott starts, a strangled cry falling from his lips as Jackson pushes just so.
“This is what I do Scott.” He leans in so his lips come close to Scott’s ear. His hand still palming Scott’s cock through his slacks. “I fuck people for money.” He feels Scott’s intake of breath at his words, feels the way he shudders. It feels cruel.
“How much.” Scott asks, his pupils blown wide. It’s not what Jackson had expected to hear, and he wants to laugh but holds it back, he doesn't want to break the moment, doesn’t want this to follow like all of their other missed chances.
“Don't worry I’ll give you a special friends discount.”
“Are we friends? Were we ever friends?” Scott asks, and Jackson does laugh then, it’s sharp and not at all kind.
“Close enough.” He says moving his hand away only to feel Scott grip his wrist and push it back in place. A light catches Jackson’s eye suddenly, and he glances down to where Scott is gripping him, and he realises it’s from a wedding ring. “What would Allison say?” He smirks, twisting his hand and receiving a sob from Scott. There isn’t enough room in the car and no matter how good Jackson is, even he is finding it difficult to get Scott off. Scott doesn't seem to mind however, as he ruts against jackson's palm. Jackson pushes down slow, deliberate, watching Scott squirm. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small tube of lube, he squirts some onto his hand, warming it slightly. He flips the cap back down, and throws the bottle someplace in the back with a dull thud. Scott goes still as Jackson undoes his fly, and slipping his hand into Scott’s boxers. He feels Scott shudder as he wraps his hand around his cock, sliding it up and down, slowly. The angle is still awkward but Scott’s bucking into his fist now so he doesn’t think it matters. He feels Scott tense before he comes, gasping. It’s silent for a moment, nothing but their breathing. He tucks Scott back in, makes a show of pulling some wipes from his pocket and cleaning up.
“Well that was..” Scott trails off, clearly not sure what to say. He’s not looking at him, shame colouring his features. “I should get home.” Scott says suddenly fumbling to get the car to start. “I’ll drop you off at the station or something.” Jackson smiles but stays silent.
I really like the idea of Sebastian cooking/baking for Fenris. He'd give Fenris all these beautifully crafted meals and treats, and then Fenris who wouldn't really know WHY Sebastian was giving him all this food, would take it back to his and Hawke's room and they'd share it. Hawke would probably smile about it, because really how could Fenris be so clueless about Sebastian's feelings.
And it would get to the point where Hawke would tell Sebastian how nice it was for him to keep making all this food for them, but he really didn't have to, guests or not and Sebastian would just sort of deflate a little but smile and thank Hawke for the kind words, and and say that it was no trouble at all and of course the food was for the both of them, not just Fenris... Then he'd go back to his own room and cry...
Warnings - Slight blood kink (like really really minor), angry sex (but not really) , explicit, handjob, blowJob, I feel I should also warn for first time writing any kind of sex?, unbetad
Words - 874
Summary - For day 3 of Sam/Bucky week - Intimacy.
He leans in, sweeps his tongue against the cut, the tang of blood filling his mouth. He pulls back to see Sam's pupils blown wide. He does it again till there is nothing but an angry red line across Sam’s cheek.
They trip and fumble as they push their way through the front door, pulling off their clothes as their mouths collide. It’s awkward and takes too long but then they are standing with nothing but the thin fabric of their boxes separating them. They stare at one another, panting in the small space between them. Bucky turns them, gripping Sam hard as he pulls him along towards their bedroom. He kicks the door open, pushing Sam until his back hits the wall. His eyes search Sam’s as he reaches for him, distracted by the cut along Sam's cheek, it’s still bleeding slightly, and Bucky can’t stop staring at it, can’t stop his mind from replaying the moment Sam was hit, the silent curse and the sound of his gun going off a moment later. He can still feel the rough asphalt digging into his flesh from when he’d landed after Sam had pushed him out of the way.
He leans in, sweeps his tongue against the cut, the tang of blood filling his mouth. He pulls back to see Sam's pupils blown wide. He does it again till there is nothing but an angry red line across Sam’s cheek.
"You were being reckless." Bucky grunts, pushing Sam harder against the wall, his fingers digging into his sides. Sam just huffs in response, clearly amused by the hypocrisy of the words.
“Someone needed to save your ass.” Sam replies after a beat, scratching down Bucky’s chest, leaving bright red marks blooming in his wake.
“Didn’t have to take a bullet.” Bucky says, eyes narrowed.
"Hardly even grazed me." Sam says between biting kisses. "Plus it makes a change for someone else to be reckless when saving people. Now you know how everyone else feels when you do it." Bucky almost pulls back, but he continues to kiss Sam instead, chooses to catalogue the scars he can see, prove to himself Sam is still there. That they both made it out.
He curls his hand around the back of Sam’s neck, feeling the way Sam shivers at the cool metal. He runs his right hand down Sam’s side, slow, deliberate, his thumb stroking the jut of Sam’s hip. Slowly he leans in, drawing it out before Sam closes the distance, catching Bucky’s lip between his teeth, tugging it harshly. He must split it because Bucky can taste blood once more. He grunts, roughly hooking his thumb in Sam’s boxers, yanking them down, freeing his cock. Sam sucks in a shuddering breath, burying his head in Bucky’s shoulder as Bucky wraps his hand around his shaft. He moves it slowly, the rhythm off at the awkward angle. It’s rough and too much and not enough at the same time. Sam grips hard against his hips, panting hotly against his neck. It’s not long before Sam comes, biting Bucky’s shoulder, both to strung out and tired to last long. He watches as Sam pulls back after a moment, his head colliding with the wall behind him.
Bucky smirks at him, clearly wanting to say something but holding his tongue. Sam grins back before leaning in to leave kisses along Bucky’s jaw, his chest, the bruise forming on his shoulder. Sam falls to his knees in one swift moment, pulling Bucky's boxes down as he goes.
Bucky presses his palms flat against the wall, caging Sam in, he casts his eyes down to watch Sam lick and suck at his hip, the flat plan of his stomach. He feels Sam’s teeth scrape across his hip, feels the hot air he blows along the wetness he had left against Bucky.
Bucky’s breath comes in short gulping breaths, his heart quickening as Sam gets closer and closer to his cock.
"Stop teasing." He huffs. He hears Sam Laugh, its small, private. Sam runs his tongue over the head of his cock and Bucky can’t stop the moan that escapes, his head falling forward, hitting the wall with a dull thump, his arms buckling slightly. Sam takes him in, hollowing his cheeks and sucking lightly, he pulls back, slowly moving back and forward, running his tongue along the underside, teasing at his slit. Sam runs his hands along his thigh, the tips of his figures brushing his balls. He tries to buck into the warm wetness of Sam’s mouth, but Sam holds him in place, humming around his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath at the feel of Sam’s hand cupping his balls. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his orgasm build, he comes with a shout spilling into Sam's mouth. Sam swallows, pulling back when there is nothing left, licking the drops of come from the corner of his lips as he stands, slowly, grin firmly in place.
Bucky crowds him against the wall once more, kissing him hard, hands gripping Sam, his teeth nipping at his lips, the faint tang of blood and come lingering. He smiles as he leans against Sam, resting their foreheads together. He feels Sam's hand grip his own, he twists them slightly so he can interlock their fingers. It’s a promise, the only one he can give or ask for, that yeah, they’ll both be reckless but that he’ll be here if Sam is.
I need a fic in which the Hale house is put up for auction for reasons and Derek goes to buy it but Stiles decides he wants it for reasons and so they keep upping the bid until they realise that neither one of them can actually afford it alone and therefore have to club together to buy it, then they have to decide how they are going to share the house, even though Derek doesn’t want to and keeps bringing up how its his family home and so he has more rights to it but Stiles will just as easily bring up how they paid half each so he’s just as entitled and if Derek doesn’t like it he can always buy him out of the house, and then they fall in love or something…
I’ve clearly been watching too much Home Under the Hammer…
