Hey y'all! Welcome to my bar, where you can order our specialty drinks served by all your favourite characters.
If you're one of our regulars and looking for our menu, scroll down to the bottom of this post! If you're new here, come on in and chat with our bartender a bit; she's got plenty of expertise to share with you :)
My Masterlist!
My name's Vivivamous, but y'all can call me Vivi or Viv, and I'll be your bartender while you're here at the bar with us. This is my first time actually operating a Tumblr account (I've been lurking for years), and I am a full-time university student who also works part-time, so I can't promise I'll be available all the time, but I'll post fics when I can!
MY PRONOUNS -> I use She/Her and They/Them interchangeably!
MY SEXUALITY -> I am bisexual, so expect me to post fics with both male and female characters!
I am someone who loves to read, be it fanfiction or published novels! Feel free to send me any asks related to the fandoms I'm in or with any book recommendations, or simply to say hi!
I don't have many rules, but if I come across any I've missed, I'll be sure to update it here. Please read these fully before sending me a request!
This list also includes warnings and guidelines.
DO NOT INTERACT IF; You are racist, homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, sexist, fatphobic, or against anyone based solely on how they identity or how they look. We love and welcome people in all shapes and sizes at Vivi's! Any hate-speech of any kind will be blocked and reported.
SPELLING; As someone who is Canadian and has lived in Canada her whole life, I tend to spell words the Canadian way. I may use American spelling on occasion, as I do interact with a lot of American-based media. I ask that you do not make comments on my spelling unless I have genuinely spelled a word wrong! I usually do not proof-read my work, so some genuine misspellings may slip through the cracks.
MALE READER; Unfourtunately, I am currently not comfortable writing from a male reader's perspective. This is not to say they cannot read my fanfics! I plan to write many of my fanfiction from a gender-neutral perspective for everything except smut. Sorry!
ANGST; I will admit; this is where I struggle. As much as I would love to be able to offer angst fics, I find they always fall flat with me. For the time being, I will not be offering angst on this blog.
HURT COMFORT; This is iffy with me. I will be writing hurt/comfort fanfiction, but I will not be writing anything based in hate speech (as seen above) even in the context of bullying for the sake of comfort. I may touch on topic such as insecurities, but those are subject to my own life and feelings. For example, I cannot write insecurities from the POV of a person of colour the same way I could write insecurities from the POV of someone who is plus-sized. Please be specific in your requests!
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG.
I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING USED TO TRAIN, GENERATE, OR BE ADAPTED TO OR WITH AI IN ANY WAY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER WEBSITE.
As this is a bar inspired blog, I'll be using an alcohol-based requesting system!
MIXED DRINKS (One-shots)
Shirley Temple -> Fluff
Whiskey Coke -> Mature
Vodka Redbull -> Soft smut
Dirty Martini -> Hard smut
Bloody Mary -> Hurt/Comfort
House White -> Sibling!Reader
House Red -> Platonic!Reader
Beer on Tap -> Random thoughts
Strawberry Daiquiri -> Omegaverse (Omega!Reader)
Blueberry Daiquiri -> Omegaverse (Alpha!Reader)
SPECIFICITIES
On the rocks -> Fem!Reader
Neat -> GN!Reader
CHARACTERS (The stars indicate the ones I am most happy to write about. Alphabetical by source work)
Luke Castellan (Percy Jackson and the Olympians)
Dr. Captain Ryland Grace (Project Hail Mary) ✮
Spencer Agnew (Smosh)
Sam Winchester (Supernatural) ✮
Dean Winchester (Supernatural)
Castiel (Supernatural)
Dr. Frank Langdon (The Pitt) ✮
Dr. Jack Abbot (The Pitt)
Dr. Cassie McKay (The Pitt)
EXAMPLES
"Could I get a Vodka Redbull on the rocks with Sam Winchester?" -> Soft smut, Sam Winchester x fem!reader.
"I'd like to order a Strawberry Daiquiri, neat, with a shot of vodka. Served by Ruby, please!" -> NSFW headcannons about Alpha!Ruby and Omega!GN!reader.
As always, please add any details of your request after your order! The more specific you are, the better I can write to suit your request.
You had always called Sam pretty. It was something of a habit because, well, he was. He was a gorgeous figure of a man, something you swore was sculpted by the gods themselves. He looked like a statue you'd find in a museum; he was your pretty boy.
You reminded him of it every second. always saying it whenever you swept the hair out of his eyes, adding it to the end of whatever praise you threw at him.
He didn't believe it though.
He knew you'd never lied to him, but he just didn't see that part of himself when he looked in the mirror. Handsome he could believe, he had been told that his entire life but pretty? You finding him pretty when you looked like a goddess from above was outrageous in his eyes.
You could always see the doubt that flooded his mind whenever you said it. You wanted to kiss it all away, show him every part of himself that you found beautiful. Every scar, every mole.
"Say it Sammy, for me?" You softly whispered into his ear. Gently stroking his drooling cock, tip redden from how much you've focused on it.
The back of his head was rolled back onto your shoulder, eyes closed as the embarrassment and pleasure was just to much for him to handle.
You had sat him down in front of the mirror screwed Into the wall, it stretching from the floor to the ceiling.
You held him from behind as you were in your bra and underwear and him, completely naked.
You wanted to get it into his head that he was pretty, your gorgeous boy who deserved the world. If only he knew how truly smitten you were for him.
"M'p-pretty" he gasped out, jerking his body as your fingers rub the underside of his cock. His large hands grasping at your thighs.
"Ah ah, look at yourself and say it" you tsked, he whined, clearly not wanting to do the task. You removed your hand from him entirely and he opened his eyes, sadness covering them at the sudden lack of your touch. A pout forming onto his lips.
He was so adorable.
"You do it and I'll let you cum" you bargained and he sighed sharply through his nose, hoping that maybe if he kept up the puppy eyes you'd let him cum without the embarrassment.
You didn't budge.
Finally, after realizing that you weren't falling for it, he slowly lifted his head, making eye contact with himself in the mirror and blushing at the pathetic sight in front of him.
His legs fully open as you stared him down, tilting your head as if giving him permission to speak.
"I-i'm pretty" He just barely got out above a whisper and you smiled. Hand returning to his leaking dick as promised. A loud moan followed along as his head fell backwards again, this time leaning inwards to your neck. Hot breathe sending you shivering as he got closer and closer.
"Look at yourself Sammy, look how delicious you look" He followed your instructions without hesitation this time, though you could tell he was struggling to lift his head due to all the pleasure going straight to it.
One more glance at your dark eyes and he came with a loud moan. His own eyes fluttering shut as he dropped his head back down, panting like a dog in heat.
You brought your non-cum covered hand to his face, sweeping his messy hair out of his eyes before placing a soft kiss to his forehead which brought a doppy smile to his lips.
i don’t care what anybody says, sam winchester is a freak in bed
i’m talking about putting you in a chokehold, your face suffocating in his biceps and drooling on it mindlessly from the backshots he was giving you, his hips ruthlessly snapping to yours while your back gave him that beautiful arch he loved so much
his bicep would be covered by your saliva, red bite marks and hickeys bright and evident on his skin.
“uh huh” sam panted, eyes pinned down on yours and examining your expression— a fucked up, lewd expression squished by his bicep— a sight to behold. “keep that back arched for me, mmm”
i’m talking about gripping your hair whenever you were straddling him, the slight tug making you moan in the hungry, passionate kiss and giving him enough space for his tongue to slide in your mouth
and because of that, there was no way to hide that beautiful face of yours from him. even when your face was buried in his shoulder as you rode his cock, breathless gasps of “sam! mph- sam” leaving your lips. it made his hand—that was already buried in your hair— lift your head up by your hair to lock your lips into a messy, open-mouthed kiss
“don’t hide from me” sam murmured in your mouth, his other hand pulling your leg closer to bury his cock more into your cunt. “wanna see your face when you make a mess all over me”
the drag of his length in and out was stretching out your poor, fluttering walls. enough for your hips to slightly jerk back and a small sound leave your lips, only for it to be swallowed by sam and easily hold your hips in place with one hand, the other still buried and gripping onto the locks of your hair
and i’m talking about his large, large hand around your neck as he has you pinned under him in missionary, hovering on top of you and whispering filthy things in your ear to add onto the wet, slaps of his cock in your needy cunt
“thaaaats it. youre doing so so good f’me, baby”
“god, you look so good like this”
your throat would bob in his palm and his thumb would brush under your jaw, a subtle gesture so soft it felt almost out of place from how eager sam was for you, how starved he was
a moan left his lips when the veins on his length were brushed perfectly, biting your shoulder to swallow back his sounds as he kept murmuring on your skin without a thought. “fuck, you have no idea how you drive me crazy”
summary: after too many useless doctor appointments, and you struggling, Robert takes matters into his own hands. aka you have endometriosis and everyone the 2000s sucks so. thanks dr. cameron!
wc: 6.6k
tw: typical house medical stuff, period mention, endometriosis, surgery, uhh medical inaccuracies for sure.
author's note: this is from a very very very old request...im so sorry anon. the ending to this is...bad. i've been writing this for months, it was time for me to put her out in the world. this isn't beta read and i can't read this one more time.
have a request? ask away!
The bathroom floor was the last place you wanted to be when Robert came home from work. You thought you had more time, the last time you had checked the clock you knew you had at least an hour and a half before Robert even started to head home. Yet there he's standing in the bathroom doorway, obviously confused at your state.
"You didn't tell me," Robert's jaw is clenched and it has you cringing a little.
He's not wrong, you didn't tell him. But again, you had your reasons, this wasn't his problem. You had been dealing with it for most your life. You had been told over and over it simply was the reality of having a period, something he wouldn't be able to do anything about anyways. He was already so good to you, especially when you're on your period always went out of his way to bring whatever rich sweet you're craving, always careful in his touch. And he worked so hard, everyday, you knew it was tough. There was no reason to have him bringing it home. Maybe it had been getting worse, but you could handle it, you have been handling it. Telling doctors, going to the people they refer you to, doing whatever they said.
"I went to my doctors, they said periods hurt," You feel your voice get shaky a little,
"They do," Robert says softly when he realizes just how tender you're feeling, "But they shouldn't hurt this much," His hands start to run up and down your arms, warming you.
"Well doctors I keep getting referred to say that I'm probably just-" You feel yourself get dizzy a little. Robert takes it as a moment to quickly shut down your excuse.
"'m a doctor also and I'm saying they shouldn't hurt this much," Robert lets out a small huff and stands up from the kneel he was in. You slump against the wall closest to you and curl into yourself without thinking. Throwing up had taken whatever you had out of you. He takes a moment to look at you and you cringe. You're sure you're not the prettiest sight right now, slumped against the bathroom wall, your hair stuck a little to your forehead from the sweat. A stab of insecurity presses against your heart, but it's quickly tossed aside when you feel a wave of pain.
"You're not my doctor," You grumble a little and start to pull yourself up from the bathroom floor. Robert holds his hand out and you use it to move towards the sink now that you're standing. You turn on the sink and let the water start to warm when you see Chase step behind you. You're staring at him through the mirror.
"I'm a doctor," He repeats before he pauses and lets his hands rest on your hips. His eyes lock onto yours through the mirror, "I'm coming to the next appointment with you, they've obviously not listening" Chase scoffs a little, "So many of those doctors come to a conclusion before they even get a chance to speak to you,"
For a moment, he sees the debate forming in your head, why he shouldn't come, why you don't need him there, how you can handle it on your own, the words on the tip of your tongue. He boxes you in, his hands coming off your hips and instead resting on the side of the sink. He starts to furrow his brow a little, it makes you tear your gaze from his and run your hands under the now warm water.
"Doctor or not, you're my wife and something isn't right, I want to be there," He says.
You don't respond, your eyes focused on your hands under the warm water. You bring a small palm of water up to your mouth, and use it to try and rinse the taste of vomit out. After you spit the water out you pull your gaze back up to Roberts. He hadn't look away, stern in his gaze, concern hidden behind the gaze. It makes whatever fight you had mustard seep away. It's easy to let yourself lean back into Robert's chest. A soft kiss pressed against your temple makes your eyes close for a moment.
"Okay, yeah, I have an appointment with some Dr. Andrea in Trenton," You concede.
***
The next appointment takes months, they always do. It makes Chase bite his tongue every time your period comes by. You're stubborn to a fault sometimes, and Chase had learnt when to fight that stubbornness. He knows this isn't the time, so instead, he brings home pain killers, picks up take out when he thinks you're in too much pain to cook, clenches his jaw while he holds your hair when you throw up. If anyone at work notices the tension growing in his mood, they don't point it out.
Then the appointment happens and it's the same thing you've experienced over and over. You explain your symptoms. Robert listens to every word you say and furrows his brow at things you haven't told him directly, the pain when you're intimate, the amount of blood you're losing, the exact details Robert knew you didn't want to tell him.
Robert listens to about half of what Dr. Andrea says, it only takes one phrase for him to realize this appointment was a waste of time, ("Laparoscopies are still surgeries and no doctor, myself included, is going to approve an surgery you don't need to diagnose something that is simply period pains, I'll prescribe you a better NSAIDs,"). You don't deflate, don't fight it, simply nod, wait for Robert to finally snap. Instead, he scoffs a little at the prescription and waits until you're in the car to speak.
"Ponstel is just mefenamic acid. It's used to help short term pain, you said you've been feeling this way for at least a year, if not longer, Ponstel is a bad choice. Laparoscopies are minimally invasive, especially for diagnostic purposes," Robert huffs and glances over at you sitting in the passenger seat. You shrug a little, obviously defeated by yet another wasted appointment. The silence has Robert clenching the steering wheel as he drives. The air in the car seems to shift and you realize this wasn't going to be let go.
"You never mentioned it hurts when," Robert bites his tongue before finally spitting it out, "It shouldn't hurt you when we have sex,"
"I know" You whisper.
"You never mentioned it," Robert repeats.
"This is why I didn't want you to come, it only happened a few times, every other time you didn't push me when I said I didn't want to." You furrow your brows when you realize he's taken a different turn than you thought he would.
"I'm taking you to Princeton," Robert answers your unasked question.
"Robert, you aren't my doctor, this isn't your problem. It's not affecting our marriage, we've still been sleeping together, it's not stopping us from-"
"This isn't about sex, (Y/N)," Robert cuts you off, "This is about the fact that you're in pain, you didn't even tell me half the things you mentioned to the doctor."
You open your mouth, ready to argue once more but Robert doesn't stop.
"I love you and something is hurting you, that affects our marriage. You won't let me be your doctor fine I understand that, but I'm sick of you trusting these random doctors when we both know who we should be talking to. At least talk to Cameron, even unofficially, please." Robert says.
For a moment you debate arguing, you don't want to be seen as a patient to Robert, you love him and you refuse to become a duty to him, something he has to take care of. Robert keep glancing over at you in the seat and his tight grip on the steering wheel is enough to have you realize that this isn't going to go away. You nod in agreement and Robert is holding his hand out to you not even a second later. Whatever tension he was holding settles just the slightest when you let yourself intertwine your fingers with his.
Chase finds Cameron easily. She's in the clinic, covering for some of House's hours. Chase pulls Cameron into the closest exam room before she can grab the next file.
"Good morning?" Cameron says confused, "Thought you weren't coming in today,"
"I need your help," Chase cuts straight to the important piece.
"I'm not covering for you with House, whatever you did, deal with it," Cameron goes towards the door. Chase goes to stand in front of her.
"It's about (Y/N)," Chase stop and clenches his jaw. It has Cameron dropping her shoulders disappointed. She likes you. You had met during poker night for the first time, she had been shocked find out just how nice you were. Honestly, she was shocked that Chase was actually married, and committed. She berates herself for believing it so easily now. Cameron is relieved whatever small crush she had on him was just a fleeting thought.
"Definitely not covering for you with (Y/N)," Cameron has her eyebrow raised, "Whatever you did, just tell her,"
"I didn't do anything, I wouldn't-" Chase stops and redirects, "She's up in room 773 right now," Chase keeps his gaze on Cameron, hoping she'll catch on.
Cameron's brows are furrowed as he speaks, but the realization sinks quickly. She nods and motions towards the door for Chase to lead the way.
On the way to the room Cameron stays quiet trying to gauge the situation from the tension in Chase's back. She notices the fact that he's not wearing his white coat, still just wearing his typical ugly shirt and brown pants. He's not disheveled in a way that would imply an emergency. Still, she can't imagine Chase bringing you into the hospital unless it was an emergency.
Chase stops at the door of room 773. "She won't let me help her," Chase says a little helpless. Before Cameron has the chance to ask what he means, Chase continues, "We went to Dr. Andrea over in Trenton and she just blew off all of (Y/N)'s pain and tried to prescribe Ponstel, as if she's a preteen experiencing her first period ever" Chase clenches his jaw, heated in a way that has Cameron furrowing her brow. It takes a few seconds before Cameron realizes, he's acting like the family of a patient. Cameron takes a second to school her face, letting herself imagine this was just another clinic patient for now.
"Can I talk to her?" Cameron asks softly. Chase is nodding and pushing the door open to show you sitting slightly slumped on the bed. You sit up a little taller when you notice Cameron and send her a shy smile.
"Hi Allison," You say, timid in tone, "I'm sorry about this, Robert is worried about nothing,"
"Not nothing, it's been months and that's just when you told me," Robert huffs, "And if all your appointments have been going like Dr. Andrea's did, they have convinced you it's not serious, when it is!" Robert turns to Cameron for a moment and you almost want to laugh at how quickly his tone shifts.
"I think she might have an ovarian cysts. Painful periods, back pains, digestive issues, and pelvic issues when-"
You narrow your eyes a little and makes a small noise when you realize he's going to tell Allison about the painful sex. It shuts him up quickly as he glances back at you. It's obvious this is something that both of you have been living with for a while. Cameron lets out a small sigh as she catches on what her role in this situation is going to be.
"What's the pain like during your period?" Cameron asks.
Robert opens his mouth to speak before Cameron glares at him.
"(Y/N)." Cameron says a little stern to make sure Robert got the message, "Is it a stabbing pain? Or is it more deep and aching?"
Cameron's questions are enough for you to realize that maybe once more would be enough to actually get the help you deserve. You take the time to explain your symptoms again, for what feels like the 100th time. Robert stays quiet for the most part, only interjecting when your mind doesn't pull up the answer.
"How many days before your period starts do you start to feel abdominal pain?"
"You start mentioning it about three days before your period," Robert mumbles to you when you stay silent long enough. It's a reminder that he's paying attention, even if you tried to hide it, he was always listening to you.
A few questions later, Cameron is nodding a little towards Chase and you can't help but feel left out at the unspoken discussion between the coworkers. It makes you slouch a little in your spot and Robert immediately presses his hand against your back, as if to act like your backrest.
"We can take an ultrasound, should be easy enough to spot any cysts, but if it's anything else besides a cysts the ultrasound might miss it" Cameron pauses and instead looks at you, completely letting you understand this isn't something anyone else can make you do, "A biopsy would guarantee we catch anything whatsoever,"
"I could probably schedule a laparoscopy for tomorrow," Robert moves towards the door. For a moment you panic, this was suppose to be off the record, you said you'd speak to Allison nothing about a test.
Before you get the chance to stop him Cameron is speaking up. "She's not even an official patient,"
"Good thing you know how to make her an official patient," Chase raises his eyebrow.
"House sees her name, you know he won't leave it alone" Cameron notices your silence. She glances over at you sitting on the bed. "(Y/N), do you even want a laparoscopy?"
Robert stops his path to the door and focuses in on you instead. He sees the gears turning in your head. It's enough to have him coming back to you. You aren't stupid, you have your own career, likes and dislike, but you've always made it clear that the medical field leaves you feeling stupid. Robert might be a doctor, but he's your husband first and you need him to act like it. Despite having been the one experiencing the pain, it feels jarring to hear it confirmed. Sure, you assumed something wasn't right, but doctor after doctor had dismissed you so often you had started to doubt even your own experiences. Robert had watched this happen over the time, but it didn't matter what he said, he was your husband, it was his job to believe you. Now, here stood Allison Cameron, an immunologist who worked with highly renowned doctors, and she was reassuring you that you were right to be upset about this.
"Something is wrong with me?" You ask towards Cameron. It feels surreal for a moment.
"The pain you're describing isn't right," Cameron steps forward and keeps her gaze connected to yours and Robert feels a small burst of care towards her, for the way she can seem to find empathy for everyone, "I've never had cramps the way you're describing, especially not to the point of having to throw up. This isn't me doing Chase a favor, I promise."
Your shaky breath is enough to have Chase squeezing your hand.
***
Cameron gets you officially into the hospital as a patient under your maiden name, (in hopes of keeping House in the dark, it works for a solid 6 hours.) Cameron takes an ultrasound a few hours before it happens. Robert lingered by your head the whole time, warned you about the cool gel before Cameron even finishes getting the machine ready. Whatever joke you had about his attentive is cut short by the ice cool gel being spread across your abdomen.
"Told you it's cold," Robert mumbles and you playfully glare at him.
Cameron is pressing the probe against you as you speak, "Does he have to be here?"
It's mostly playful, you can't imagine actually sending him away. Still, Cameron seems to miss the tone, eyes and mind completely locked into the task at hand. It leaves you unnerved, hands balled into fists.
"Not if you don't want him to be" Cameron says, seriously. Her eyes are focused on the display and while you glance at it, you give up quickly when you realize how unclear it is to anyone without a medical degree, or maybe a crystal ball. It's a black background with grey blotches spread throughout.
Before you can continue to pick on Chase, he's leaning forward and pointing to one of the grey blotches on the display. He's saying something under his breath that Cameron catches. The tension grows in your shoulders, they're having a discussion that you don't understand. It's rare Robert makes you feel stupid, even if he did talk about work, it was in a way that he answered all the questions you had before you ever. There's a sixth sense he had seemed to develop for you. For a moment you feel vindicated at your resistance from earlier. You go to vocalize this is why you didn't want Robert involved when you feel his thumb lightly run across your torso, trying to warm the skin, his sixth sense kicking in. This other hand is still motioning to the screen. Cameron is pressing the keyboard, taking pictures while doing her best to give you both a moment when Robert starts to speak.
"The grey is what we're lookin at," Robert is speaking quietly in a voice you're use to, but makes Cameron want to turn and look at him, "This shape here is just your uterus," He's motioning to the screen. You do your best to try and see the shape he's speaking about.
"And it looks fine?" You said a little hopeful. Robert's shoulder sink a little, unable to hide the truth from you.
"Mostly," He pauses and tries to figure out how to explain it. Cameron's finger stop moving and she turns a little, spotting Robert's struggle. She tries to catch his eye, tries to explain that of course it was natural he didn't want to give bad news to the person he loves most. It doesn't matter that there is, in theory, no bad news really, an ultrasound can't tell the state of a strange mass, can't say what it's doing, if it's dangerous.
Cameron slides a little closer on the chair and motions to another section of grey on the screen. It's a darker grey, no clear lines around it.
"This shouldn't be here, whatever it is, we don't know, no one can know," This is directed more towards Robert, a reminder that this could be nothing.
"A biopsy can tell us," Robert says, his hand pulling from your torso and grabbing a tissue from the ultrasound cart. Cameron nods but you don't notice, too focused on Robert's careful hand swiping the gel from your skin with the tissue.
After a night of sleep in the hospital, a dinnerless night and Robert coming in and out of the room like a doctor himself, (he is a doctor you remind yourself, this is what he does), you're ready for the laparoscopy.
"They'll make an incision right here" Robert speaks before he presses a kiss against your lower abdomen. It sends a small tingle across your skin. The hours before had been overwhelming, full of being surrounded by other doctors, having to be polite as nurses came in and out to settle you into the room, extra paperwork, even Dr. Cuddy had slipped into your room acknowledging the fact that one of her doctor's spouses was getting treated. It had left you worn, feeling like an exposed nerve, so now with Robert's gentle touch you feel yourself slowly start to settle into the bed before the surgery. Robert had made sure the nurses knew you were under his care, that if you needed anything he could come find them, the moment of peace something you both needed.
"And then what?" You say softly, the nurses had explained before, but it felt different hearing it from Robert. He's speaking against your skin, you feel the words more than you can actually hear them. Between a few words, you feel another kiss pressed against your belly, closer to your bellybutton and it makes you tense a little, ticklish in the soft slide of his lips. He can't help but look up at you through his lashes and smile just a little.
It's obvious he's going to say something smart, something that'll make you want to roll your eyes. It's stopped by the gentle knock on the door. Robert is sliding off and shuffling to stand next to your bed before the doctor can completely step in. Cameron is next to doctor.
"All set?"
***
The biopsy results came quickly, it's jarring compared to the treatment you had at so many other doctor's appointments. It's an obvious perk of having a husband that's a doctor. You feel guilty for a moment, and then remember each time Robert just stood by and watched you throw up, or cry or even simply whine each time you felt the pain so many other doctors had dismissed.
Despite the perks, life doesn't give you everything. The biopsy results aren't good, not the worst, but once they start to explain you lose yourself in the smallest bit of vindication. You weren't being overly dramatic. The pain was real and it meant something. All those other doctors were wrong, you were right. Robert had been the only one to believe you, the vindication is quickly replaced with love for him.
Dr. Cameron and Dr. Foreman had done their jobs, explained the process and why it needed to happen in layman's terms. You missed most of it, too lost in the same circle of how bad news can feel good in a bittersweet way. Thankfully, Robert is focused. Robert is standing facing them and for a moment you realize people are use to seeing him next to them, explaining with them. The idea sinks away when you realize Dr. Foreman is talking to you again.
For a moment you try and focus on what he's saying. The obvious doctor voice is hard to cling onto. It's in the middle of Dr. Foreman introducing your surgeon to you that House finds himself slipping into the room as quietly as he ever has. You glance over, something to keep your eyes focused on, he wanders the room leisurely, glancing at files over doctor's shoulders.
"'re gonna be just fine," Robert says, once the doctors seemed to have finished their own speech. His voice you find, is easy to focus on. The soft tone he drops into when it's for your ears only.
"I know," You sigh and believe it for once. Robert's eyes start to track House when he notices your gaze. The other doctors mostly disappeared, off to finish up anything before the surgery. It makes you realize you had lost the chance for any questions, any concerns. Really, there's only one thing that matters. Allison is getting ready to leave you speak up.
"Allison, wait,"
She turns at your voice. Dr. House, who had settled near the doorway, shuffles a little.
"Robert can't be there, not even in the viewing room" You speak directly to her. Still you can see Robert bristle a little in his spot.
"But-" Robert steps forward ready to argue.
"She's right, Chase" Cameron is using her usual dolce tone he hears her use with families, "You know why we don't let family into the operating room,"
"They're not usually surgeons, they'd be useless, I wouldn't be." He grimaces but stops when he feels your hand grab his and he takes a moment to smile down at you, "'m not going to sit in the waiting room while my wife has surgery."
"Yes you are," You squeeze his hand a little trying to get him to listen. You try and find the words to explain. You love him, he's the man of you dreams, and he had seen you at your worst, you think you need to keep something secret, even if that is your actual insides. Voicing that is harder than you thought. House's gaze narrows a little when he realizes what you're looking for. Robert seems ready to speak up again.
"I'll live tweet the updates," House's voice startles you all from where he's standing.
Before Robert has the chance to reject this idea, or focus back on the real issues, him not being there, House is making his way to your bedside.
"So, whole reproductive system gone right? Make it easy for them? Not like we need little Chase juniors roaming the hospital" House is messing with some tubing you have attached to your arm.
"Hi Dr. House, wondered when you'd come visit me," You smile at him and he can't help but narrow his gaze, resisting the urge to smile back at you.
"Everything seemed under control, no reason for me to come by." You open your mouth to refute the point, everything is still under control, yet here he is. You stop yourself when House fiddles with something before he's bending down lower, a stage whisper into your ear, "Seriously, if you want the security, we can snip a few things, he'll never know"
"House" Robert's jaw is clench and he goes to step forward but you let out a small laugh instead.
"Baby it's okay," You shuffle a little on the bed and look at House, "You'll keep Robert in the loop?" You say softly.
"Does he follow me on twitter?" House raises his eyebrows and when no one laughs you don't break your gaze from House. He huffs, "He'll know every slice and dice, scouts honor."
"No way you were a scout," You crinkle your nose at him a little and he finally breaks into the tiniest of smiles.
"Caught me," He raises his hands a little in surrender, "Tell Dr. Ese, I'll be scrubbing in" He says, this time towards Cameron. With no goodbye, he's slipping out of the room, his word final in every matter. Allison leaves a few minutes later and Robert finally starts in.
"At least the viewing room."
You roll your eyes and reach out with your hand to grab his. He meets you more than halfway and lets you pull on him enough to press your cheek into his palm. His thumb runs across your cheekbone the second it finds your skin.
"I agreed to talk to Allison because my husband asked. I don't care that you're a doctor. You're the love of my life and I don't want..." You stop and press a kiss against the edge of his palm, as if that explains it.
"I know babe, you're mine also, it's why I want to be there. Where else could I possible be? " He coos at your sincerity and tries to bite back the small panic at how easily he's conceiting not being there. He had always stood his ground when he needed in these four walls, but all it takes from you is a small kiss and he's letting you call the shots.
"Don't want you to see all my squishy insides," You say almost under your breath. Robert is leaning into your space, either to catch your words better or simply to be closer could be debated.
"Think I'm already seeing your squishy insides," He teases and you go to pull away your face. Robert stops you by bringing his other hand to your other cheek. He's pressing his lips against your forehead, your nose and you're already puckering your lips when he comes down for a kiss.
***
You pressed your face against the cool pillow. It felt nice against your warm cheek. Your mouth feels dry as you try to swallow any spit. The urge to roll over and throw your body across Robert's is subconscious, when you try to move you feel an ache in your body and suddenly there's hand against your cheek. You lose some more time, it could be seconds, could be days, when you feel a straw bump your lips a little. The water in your mouth is refreshing, cool down your throat. It makes you open your eyes, to thank the precious water giver. It's too bright to notice anything but you hear a rumble of conversation.
"...went well, she'll be off her feet for a few weeks, and then we'll play it safe for the next few months, keep a close eye on her during her period" Foreman is speaking to whoever is standing next to your bed, the person who's hand is resting on the top of yours, the giver of the cool water. You muster enough energy to lick your lips and turn your head to the side. You eyes adjust enough and you see him. Robert. A small warmth blossoms in your chest, it might be the drugs but it also might be the focused look he has, the slight tilt of his head, his mouth moving to ask whatever question. A small whine interrupts Foreman's answer and Robert is immediately looking at you. It's hard to focus on anything else when he's looking at you the way he is now.
"...anything hurt?" Foreman's voice makes you pull your gaze from Robert for just a moment. It has Robert's name slipping out of your mouth, as if he had disappeared the second you looked away.
"Right here, beautiful. Can you answer Foreman's question?" Robert's voice makes you focus back onto him.
Robert's question is lost in your head. Instead the warmth of his pet name wakes you up a little more. Your eyes stay focused on Robert this time, his hair is getting longer than usual, his eyes are serious in a way you only see in rare occasions. He locks his gaze on yours and the warmth of his hand against yours is lost. Before you can pout, his hand comes to rest on the cheek you don't have pressed against the pillow. It makes you hum a little.
"Does anything hurt, (Y/N)?" Robert asks. You crinkle your brow a little at how official he sounds.His eyes are so clear blue, it makes your throat ache for the cool sip of water you had. The dry feeling of your mouth makes you run your tongue across your dry lips, Robert's gaze drops to your mouth. If you had any energy, or felt like yourself at all, you'd beg a kiss off of him.
"No, nothinhurts, jus' thirsty," You slur back a little. Robert nods a little and reaches somewhere you can't see. A straw is being pushed towards your mouth and you're slurping back some water before you can reconsider asking for a kiss. It's enough to keep you content, you grin around the straw at Robert. He's smiling back, a small laugh slipping out of his mouth at how high you look. It makes your cheek warm and your eyes are fluttering closed again without your permission. The last thing you remember is a light kiss against your forehead.
***
The next time you wake up, you feel like yourself. The fuzzy feeling only lingers near the edge of your mind It's easier to recall how you ended up in this position, you glance at the door, the clock, the machines beeping close by, but your eyes finally land on Cameron and Chase standing around House. They're looking at some clipboard Cameron is holding. Really, Chase is looking, House is glancing every once in a while before going back to glancing up. It's this reason, House is the first the spot your open eyes, he doesn't make any indication, instead just locks his gaze onto yours.
"Don't you have a department to run? Employees to torment? Thought you were booked and busy" You clear your throat in the middle of your sentence once you notice the raspy quality. Robert is standing shuffling his way over to your before you can even smile at him. Before he can start fussing over you though, you force yourself to sit up, a small whine escape your mouth without meaning to. It takes more effort than you thought you'd ever need just to shuffle to lean on your back. Chase resists the urge to help you, instead he's fluffing a pillow, tucking it behind you.
"What do you think I'm doing right now? Patient" House points at you, "Doctor" He points at himself.
"Technically, I think I'm her patient," You glance over at Cameron. She's doing a poor job at hiding her smile, it settles whatever nerves you feel coming off Robert so close to you.
"She's my subordinate," House immediately shoots back.
"Hey" Cameron's gaze turns into a glare when she looks back at House. He waves her off. Robert's hand finds itself resting near where your hair is resting. You finally take a second to look at him. It's the one moment he's glancing at the machines. Now, without as many pain killers floating through your bloodstream, you can see the tension in his forehead, his jaw lightly clenched, and it isn't until you lift your head up a little to bump his hand that you catch his attention. His hand moves fingers lightly tangling themselves in the stands of hair, he lightly scratches at your scalp. It's greasy enough that it feels nice to have him scrap his fingernails against your scalp. His gaze is the next thing you catch. It makes you soften against the fluffed pillows.
"Are you okay?" You say to him directly. It makes him frown just the slightest. Makes him a little crazy how you're asking about him. "Surgery was routine, you woke up once earlier today but I think the pain meds might steal that memory from you, you've been stable the whole time, looking good" His thumb caresses the very top of your forehead, where your hairline starts. You nod a little, even if it's not an answer to your question. You keep your eyes on him, waiting for the actual answer.
"'r you hungry? I'll get some nurse to bring something in," Robert says as he notices your gaze on him, he goes to move away but the small noise escaping your mouth has him freezing in his spot.
"I'll go," Cameron speaks up. You miss the unspoken moment before she sets the clipboard down and starts to step out, instead you're completely focused on reaching your hand towards Robert's empty hand. You don't miss the way his hand meets you more than halfway, letting you intertwine your fingers. With his empty hand he goes to pull out the food tray attached to the bed. Before you get the chance to ask him if he's doing okay, House speaks up.
"I always knew most doctor's are idiots, glad you could confirm it for me." House sighs a little and tosses a small file onto the empty food tray, "Luckily, you married one that's less of an idiot,"
"'lmost sounds like a compliment," You let out a breathless laugh.
"Half of an idiot is still an idiot," House settles into a hospital chair and opens up the file he had tossed towards you.
"The surgery took most the tissue out," He pulls out two separate scans and between the lingering effects of the pain meds and the lack of medical knowledge you furrow your eyebrows and instead just look at House confused. He raises his eyebrows to make sure you're paying attention to him. You do your best to lean towards the file despite the small ache in your abdomen. You can recognize Chase's scribble across the prints, labeled in a way that you can understand the difference between pre and post surgery. You squeeze his hand in yours, a burst of love aching in your chest.
"Someone," He glances up at Robert, "will check it in a few months, make sure the tissue isn't growing anywhere it's not suppose to."
"That easy?" You furrow your brow a little. The months of drowning in nothing but aches and pains all for this moment, for a few days in a hospital. It's free falling to see a clear path where it shouldn't happen again.
"Didn't feel easy," Robert mumbles under his own breath.
"Wussy," House scoffs. Robert glares just once at House before moving a glass of water onto the food tray.
You glance at the scans once more before completely leaning back into your spot.
"Thank you Dr. House," You hum a little while you lean your head to the side to keep your eyes trained on Robert. House nods a little before starting his way towards the door. Before he leaves he turns on his feet a little.
"Got you three weeks off," He pats the doorframe a little and then nods his way out. "But it cost you 8 extra clinic hours," He adds before slipping out the door. It's less than a second before Robert's hand is being pulled out of yours. You can't complain when you feel his hands come up to cradle your face. A kiss is pressed against the top of your head, your temple.
"You can take three weeks off?" You furrow your eyebrow as he presses his nose against the top of your head. Robert shrugs a little more focused on being able to touch you. He presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth. You want to ask more questions, but Robert's fingers catching your chin makes you forget anything else besides giving him a kiss.
or: your neighbors are a strange pair. there's lando (golden boy, smile too wide, canines hiding something wicked). and there's oscar (too good to be true, too kind to be clean). they're only home december to february, but, god, do they make the most of it. to your expense. oscar piastri x lando norris x fem!neighbor!reader
warnings: neighbor!oscar and neighbor!lando being muppets, this is DISGUSTANGGGG voyeuristic bullshit, porn with plot because duh!!
♡
there is a special place in hell for oscar piastri and lando norris. and it's paved with spilled beer, sticky shot glasses, and a bass-heavy playlist that makes your overhead lamp shiver with each pulsating beat. (one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, god, when were they going to shut up?)
you'd tried it all at that point. high-end, noise-cancelling earbuds. white-noise apps. begging to sleep at your best friend's, or your ex's, or an overpriced hotel room on the other side of the island (a low moment, you admit). and fifteen desperate texts to your landlord later, righteous rage was coloring your insides less rational by the minute. (god, you would break your own lease if it meant those two inconsiderate idiots would get what was coming to them.)
what kind of normal neighbors threw parties on a tuesday night? what kind of normal neighbors kept a strict schedule—december to february, blackout season, working nine months just to come home and ruin your remaining three? what kind of neighbors haunted your peace (in-person) when they weren't haunting the screen of your living-room television?
the answer? none. except these two.
(fuck it).
your feet hit the tile cold and sharp as you count the steps out of bed, across the hallway, up the echoing stairwell, breathless with exhaustion and a splinter of glee you haven’t felt in weeks. (maybe you want a fight. maybe you want to be the problem, for once. it's only human.)
"some of us pay rent here," you rehearse, not-so under your breath. "some of us have actual jobs. some of us care whether or not our neighbors can sleep through the night.”
you take the stairs two at a time, a bead of sweat trickling down length of your spine. up close, the beat syncopates with your pulse, every floorboard humming under your bare feet, slinking up your calves. (only then, somewhere on the landing, do you realize you're not at all dressed for the confrontation you're about to instigate. of course.)
it's too late to turn back now. you raise your fist as you approach the door, swallowing the taste of marijuana smoke curling under the jamb, the clatter of a southern-english accent, sweat, and sugar, and suffocating heat. you pause. you could walk away, try again tomorrow, let your anger go gracelessly. (but all of a sudden the music gets impossibly louder, crashing through a fresh round of voracious laughter, and your patience—never your strong suit—snaps right in half.)
you knock. no, you pound. hard enough that it goes silent for half a second before resuming (if not doubling) in volume.
it takes fourteen seconds for someone to come to the door. you're raising your hand to knock again when it swings open, and there goes your dignity, because lando norris is standing in front of you, and he's smiling, and very, very drunk, and, oh, no.
he's shirtless, flushed a deep cherry-red, black training shorts riding halfway up his thighs. he pulls at them with his free hand as he throws a 'be back 'n a second' over his shoulder, pupils blown wide under blinding hallway light. you catch low-lit glimpses of drinks stacked on an entryway table before lando steps out, letting the door shut with a low clunk behind him. "hi, neighbor," he slurs, voice curling gentle and soft. "y'lost or somethin'?"
you open your mouth to say something, anything, but all you can do is inhale the scent of his sweat, the reek of gin splashing faintly under expensive cologne, and it should disgust you (it almost does), but your anger is tangled now, caught in something deep, and dark, and wrong. (you came here to yell at him, remember?)
"i've lived here longer than you," you bite out, and you swear lando's eyes drop to your mouth and stay there. "so no. i'm not lost."
"m'kay," lando chuckles, a low, warm thing that starts in his chest and spills down the hallway. "d'you wanna come in? 's that it?"
"no," you say, indignant, and his smile shifts, looser, an uptick in the curve of his mouth.
"wha's up, then?" he asks, hooking his thumb into the waistband of his shorts. his grip is tighter than you'd expect, knuckles turning white, as though he's holding himself back from reaching for you, resisting the urge to pull you in with him—
"what's. up?" you snarl. "what's up is that it's four in the morning, and you're throwing a fucking rave! what's up is that the walls in this building are made of fucking paper and i have to listen to every fucking thing—"
the door opens, interrupting you, and oscar steps out slow, hair touch-mussed, white t-shirt sticking translucent-thin to the dip of his collarbone, the sharp hinge of his shoulders. he doesn't say anything at first, standing there too tall, too comfortable, gaze scraping over you so thoroughly you resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest like a petulant child.
(it's surgical, his silence. you swear he's underneath your skin, storing your image for later review. you think about snapping at him to stop staring, but that would be admitting you feel seen when all you wanted was to be heard.)
"everything alright?" oscar finally asks, voice vibrating straight to the bone. you suddenly feel violently unsteady. lando doesn’t move, and for a second you forget what you wanted to yell about. (for a second, the entire world goes deathly quiet.)
"no, actually, it's not," you snap. "unless you're about to tell all these people to get the fuck out, nothing is 'alright'."
oscar blinks, arms folding slow across his chest. "didn't think we were that loud."
your scoff is graceless. "you have got to be kidding me."
"i'm not."
"are you seriously telling me you don't hear it?"
"we don't."
"it's fucking loud."
"this could've been a text message," your rage burns so hot you almost hit him. though you doubt it would do much.
"fuck. off."
"gladly," he replies, expression something between surprise and amusement. "you're what's keeping us here."
you wish you had something to say to that. you really do.
but oscar moves, slow, cracking the door just enough to let the party spill out in tidal waves of laughter and thudding bass. there’s the unmistakable crash of glass shattering hard on tile, the scrape of voices overlapping in drunken crescendos, and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled liquor and lando’s impossibly sharp cologne that drifts under the door and settles right smack in your diaphragm.
lando shifts off balance, and it's watching electricity, the way oscar’s hand slides up without missing a beat, palm coming to rest with such easy certainty against lando’s elbow that it makes something coil tight in your gut. (they fit together, in some secret way you've only just noticed.)
you blink, and the doorframe is suddenly closing on you, an acute end to the conversation. "i'm telling the landlord about this!" you snap, cutting through the lull between songs.
oscar throws a glance over his shoulder, mouth quirking upward. (you'd think he was beautiful, if he wasn't such an ass.) "cry to daddy, baby. go ahead."
you're halfway down the stairs when you realize he called you baby.
♡
it only gets worse from there.
you decide to start with mailing lists. harmless, really. except you sign both lando and oscar up for fifteen of them. each.
first, the alcoholism anonymous emails. ("struggling to stay sober? you’re not alone. join our virtual support meeting!") then, the porn addiction group emails. ("battle porn cravings with our scientifically-backed mindfulness exercises!") the spam is worse: "THE SECRET TRUTH BEHIND F1 DRIVERS’ UNBELIEVABLE FITNESS ROUTINE—CLICK TO FIND OUT!"
you think you’ve got away with it. nights fall silent, merciful quiet pressing against your eardrums with an unnatural pressure. no thudding footsteps. no blaring music. (no reason to see them again.)
that is, until the magazines.
stacked like a brick wall on your doorstep, tied so sweetly that you let yourself believe, for half a heartbeat, that this is some kind of olive branch. an apology wrapped in glossy, fresh pages, slick covers of... official F1 magazines. (well, high-octane marketing that you don’t care about but now absolutely cannot ignore.)
you untie the bow, flipping through the first with impatient flicks of your wrist. there’s lando first—turned away from the camera, low, golden light catching his cheekbones and the faint flush blooming just above the dark fabric of his racing suit. then oscar, skin in vivid color, helmet clutched in the space between his elbow and hip.
(you don't stop to excuse the slick heat ruining your best pair of panties—a mistake, certainly.)
you almost miss the note scrawled onto the top right of the last page:
pictures of me should help w/the porn addiction. make it worse, i mean. xxx lando
you did not get away with it. you do, however, up your game.
you think you’re clever about it. anonymous shipping. no gift receipt, no note, the billing address a throwaway email you haven’t used since college. you order nineteen different protein powders—who even needs that many flavors?—to be shipped right to their door. the perfect play.
you track the order, refresh the delivery status twelve times an hour, and choke imagining oscar drinking the the mango sorbet flavor out of politeness and then sending you a legal notice. (very polite of him.)
the package lands at their door right before noon; by dinnertime, you’re yet again positive you’ve won. (it's unnerving, the way you’re slightly disappointed.)
it doesn't last long.
at first, you think you’re hallucinating a beat, muffled and persistent, seeping through the walls that night, familiar enough for your shoulders to rise and fall with each measure. it's sweet caroline. playing loud enough to set your bathroom mirror twitching with every bass kick.
you don't mind it for the first ten minutes.
but you go from neutral to rage in the time it takes the chorus to repeat for the ninth time. the song loops, as if trying to drill a singular, awful message through your skull. (you were going to kill them. you debate calling the landlord. animal control. the goddamn police.)
instead, you climb onto your kitchen counter and pound your fist against the vent on the ceiling with as much force as you can muster.
the song only gets louder in response. the second hour of it, you're already planning your next move. by the fourth, you're curled up on the couch with your head planted in between the thick leather cushions, unable to hear yourself think.
by the time sweet caroline finally sputters out—an ugly, abrupt end to an ugly, abrupt punishment— you’re asleep, lyrics splintering like a broken record across your eyelids.
your saving grace? boxer briefs. in forest-green, aquamarine, navy blue. two pairs each. the catch? you order the absolute smallest size in stock, the ones that barely look made for humans, let alone someone even slightly well-endowed. you put their address in the shipping box, smirking like you can taste victory. (and god, that’s enough to make your pulse jack up.)
hope these fit right. from, your neighbor.
it's magnificent until your buzzer goes off the next morning, slicing through your kitchen headache-sharp. you ignore it once, twice, but it doesn't stop, impending doom on your doorstep. (bad omen, bad, bad, bad, your brain suggests, before your hands even reach for the doorknob. this isn’t a game anymore.)
when you finally crack the door, the hallway is empty save for a sleek, black box on your doormat—unmarked, glossy, obnoxious in the soft spill of hallway morning light.
your fingers slip on the lid as you hastily carry it inside, paper brushing against your skin like a tease.
a bra. delicate, impossible, nearly see-through. italian lace, if the quality was any indication. baby-pink embroidery, scalloped cups heavy with hand-stitched rosettes—you trace a strap with your fingertip, just to prove it's real. matching panties underneath, same pale pink, nothing left to the imagination except the price tag (obscene, you notice, and in euros, which honestly makes it worse).
the card’s slipped under the elastic, scrawled in a neat hand you recognize now.
hope these fit right, baby. — o.p.
oscar piastri just sent you lingerie. i see you, it said. come here and see me.
♡
they simply don't let up.
the parties multiply. a glitter bomb ends up from in their vent to yours (lando's idea, clearly). oscar smiles, polite as ever, when you mention his new underwear. somewhere, in the midst of rubber-banding their junk mail and replacing their tequila with water, you crack. (because it's valentine's day, and it's been two and a half months of their bullshit, and you're feeling especially, violently, completely single.)
you pick a dress (short). you wear a pair of heels that's been collecting dust since last june. you're halfway out the door (shallow breath, prickling nerves for a stranger) when you see it.
the black box. perched dead-center on your dresser. mocking you in the low lamp light, like it knows you’re full of shit.
you ignore it to fix the strap on your shoe, but your eyes dart back, magnetic as a car crash. god, it’s just underwear. (it’s lingerie. it's gorgeous. it's his. for you, for you, for you.)
you groan. turn away. then turn back. meander over to the dresser. (fuck it.) you snap the band off, peel back tissue—cursing under your breath when you almost tear it. the lace is softer than you remember as you slip it on underneath your dress, light as air. skin-like in all the right places.
you stare at yourself in the mirror, playing with the neckline of the dress. (low. too low. not low enough. you want everyone to see. you want to curl up and die.) you roll your eyes at your reflection—hope these fit right, baby, you can hear oscar saying. my pretty baby.
(nope. nope. nope. not doing this right now.)
the hallway’s already buzzing with weekend chatter as you lock your door behind you, pressing the elevator button at the end of the corridor with a breath that burns. (this is not about them. it isn’t. it’s about needing something easy. a drink, a stranger, the pleasure of knowing you could want and be wanted and go home alone. or not.)
the elevator dings, and you catch his reflection in the mirrored panel inside before your own.
oscar.
(don't look at him. don't look at him. don't look at him.) you catch the flick of his eyes bouncing back and forth in your periphery as the doors close—impassive, as if he's categorizing groceries on a shelf beside you. the floors blink down to your left—thirteen, twelve, ten, eight, six, four, two, one—
oscar slams the bright red 'emergency stop', jolting you both forward.
you blink. "oscar. what the fuck."
"don't go."
"i—what?"
"don't. go."
your laugh is brittle, barely-concealed offense. "i have a date."
his mouth sets as you stare at him, ironed-out lines of soft skin. not angry. not anything. "today?" (he still won't look at you.)
"yes, today," you snap. "obviously."
the silence is full, thick and sour. "it's cold out," is all he says. "you don't have a coat."
that stops you for half a second. then—anger, hot and immediate, renders you nearly non-verbal. who the fuck are you to tell me what i have and don't have? you want to yell. who the fuck are you to tell me what i need?
"i don't need a coat," is what comes out. "let me out. god—"
you move for the door, and he steps into your path, not close enough to touch, just... there. close enough to hold your gaze. close enough to catch the hitch in your breath. (come closer, go farther, go away, be here, do nothing, oh, god.)
"don't," he murmurs, and something rotten twists in your chest. "trust me."
"you're—" you inhale, schooling your tone. "you're a real piece of shit."
his expression goes blank. not annoyed. not offended. (flat, you realize.) he reaches past you and presses the emergency stop again, and the elevator sinks to the first floor, a clean dismissal.
you take two steps out then turn on your heels, ready to give him the final piece of your mind, to say something razor-blade sharp and stinging, something to pretend you didn't care what he thought of you, that you've never cared what he thought of you—
when you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel. and with it, the pink lace of your bra beneath the neckline of your dress. (visible. obvious. his gift, on you, like you wanted him to look.)
but he doesn't spare you a glance as the doors slide shut.
oh.
♡
valentine's day comes and goes.
so do your neighbors.
mid-february hits hard and fast, and suddenly the apartment above yours is dark more often than not. no music bleeding through the vents at all hours of the night. no laughter and clinking beer bottles ricocheting down the stairwell. their door stays shut for weeks. their lights stay off so long you wonder if they've moved.
you tell yourself it’s a blessing. a needed vacancy.
(it should be.)
you sleep through the night for the first time in weeks, sans noise-cancelling earbuds and white-noise apps. your mornings are quieter (and you definitely don't spend minutes each morning staring at the vent above your kitchen counter wondering when you'll hear something again). the building settles back into something resembling... normal.
you don’t get any mail that isn’t yours. (which should be a good thing.)
you stop checking the hallway camera on your way home from work. you stop planning your next move at odd hours of the night. (which should be a relief, shouldn't it?)
you catch yourself pausing in the kitchen when a door slams somewhere down the hall, waiting for the tell-tale pair of footsteps, a chance to catch them in the act, to stop holding your breath. but nothing happens.
(you open and re-open the black box nearly a hundred times. you wake up at 3:30 in the morning with your heart in your throat. they're training, you tell yourself. this is their job. you wanted this, you wanted this, you wanted this.)
nothing happens. then everything happens.
1:37 am. monday. keys scrape on the floor above you. a door slams. suitcase wheels stutter across tile, thunk-whine, thunk-whine, the rhythm unmistakable and unwelcome. (welcome home.) you freeze, heart a tight fist in your ribs; irritation hits first. of course they couldn’t be gone for good, they were back to disturb your peace, wreck your life, make you miserable.
then relief. sour, thick, slamming through you. you listen to the subdued laughter stuffed behind walls, and you stay stubbornly in bed, staring at the patch of light bleeding under your door from the hallway. (nope. not going. won’t give them the satisfaction.)
but the pattern returns.
at first, it’s subtle: a stray beat of music, dull and far, seeping through the drywall late tuesday. a clatter of glass bottles. laughter—two, maybe three voices, never more, but always too loud, always right above where your head hits the pillow. you clamber around at midnight searching for your noise-cancelling earbuds, falling asleep to remixes of god-awful pop songs.
but lando and oscar were never subtle.
friday night brings bass so heavy the lamp rattles on your nightstand, voices crashing over each other in slurred crescendo, liquor and something else headier threading the air. and god, you try to be angry. you roll onto your back, curse loud and colorfully at the ceiling. practice the way you'd uppercut both of them if given the opportunity. realize you wouldn't do half the damage you wanted to.
(you'll never admit that you missed the reason to go storming up there.)
you throw back the sheets, pad across the hallway past the elevator, up the echoing stairwell, and the closer you get, the louder it is. you can feel the bass in your teeth, in your collarbones, rattling up through the soles of your feet to your thighs. that familiar flush of nerves, rage rising. (or maybe just excitement. you’ll never admit the difference.)
lando somehow opens the door before you knock—not shirtless, not wasted, just standing there in one of his old karting shirts, collar loose, curls still slightly damp from a midnight shower, eyes much too focused on you. he leans against the doorframe, mouth tilting (never quite a smile). "are y’lost again?"
your jaw sets, resisting the pull of his mouth, the dare in his voice. "you’re throwing another rave."
"could say that," he shrugs, glancing over your shoulder. "missed us?"
"no." (maybe? yes?)
"wanna join?"
you hesitate for a beat too long. "no."
his gaze flickers, obvious. "suit y'rself, then."
the music thrashes through your bones, inside louder than ever, laughter ricocheting from wall to wall. you’re about to turn, to tell him to shut it down, to tell him anything else so he won't leave—when from the living room, clear and bored as anything:
"let her in, lan." (oh, oscar.)
lando shrugs, steps aside. "y'heard him."
you step in, ignoring the heat behind your cheeks, the flush crawling up your neck at the smoke and sugar and sweat and something warm swirling in the air, oscar leaning against the living room window, arms folded, face unreadable in the garish light. a handful of people you don't know gathered around the kitchen counter, backs pressed to the island, yelling over the music, laughing at jokes you don't understand.
oscar doesn't look at you when he cuts the speakers. "party's over."
lando's brows shoot up, half-delighted, half-annoyed. "bit early, mate," he murmurs, but he doesn’t look surprised—that, more than anything, flips your stomach inside out.
oscar's gaze flicks up, across the room, over you, past you, then: "everyone out. now."
lando shepherds the crowd, clapping everyone on the back ("rain check, see y'next time"), dragging footsteps and half-mumbled complaints crossing the threshold, the scrape of coats off hooks, the last pair of heels clacking across the floor. the energy empties out in a seismic wave, and, more suddenly than it feels, it is silent.
the door clicks shut.
lando is standing behind you—close enough that you feel his breath ghosting the back of your neck, more threat than comfort. you don’t move. (won’t give either of them the satisfaction.)
you scoff, voice dry: “i thought that would take a lot more work.”
oscar is already watching you, eyes shadowed against the harsh overhead light. "how was your date?"
(fuck.)
you dig your nails into your palm. "it—fine. it was fine."
lando makes a low, amused sound, somewhere between a snort and a sigh that curls against the curve of your spine. you resist the urge to shiver. "tha's convincing," he chimes in.
"it's true," you snap, turning your head over your shoulder, and that was a mistake, because your breath catches in your throat the second your eyes meet lando’s. his gaze flickers, brows a touch raised, a challenge, a dare, a promise. (come here and see me. come here and see. come here.)
then, his breath just barely brushing your ear, he murmurs, "y’wanna go home?"
your heart stalls. because you should go home. you really should.
lando nudges again, quieter still. just for the two of you. "y'wanna stay?"
and you're not sure if you say yes, or you nod, but lando's mouth finds yours, an explosion of mint-chased cigarettes, and sloppy want, and when he chuckles, you feel the vibration of the shattered sound echo down your spine.
he's dragging your bottom lip between his teeth like he knows you wanted it (needed it), a thin line of spit stretching between his mouth and yours; heat burns your cheeks as his tongue darts out, licks the strand away, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that infuriating too-wide grin.
you've barely caught your breath when there's a hand curling around your stomach to spin you around—oscar. he's got one palm at the base of your spine, and the other anchoring itself at the hinge of lando’s jaw. his thumb traces slow over the mess you made, catching that slick string at the corner of lando’s mouth (cleaning up after you, messy girl, look at what you did).
lando's lashes flutter, running a full-body shudder, and you feel it where his hip is pressed to yours, everywhere you’re tangled together. (you feel it in your goddamn bones.)
oscar's hand slips south just as he kisses lando, almost gentle, except for the way it's not, except for the way watching their mouths share the same breath of air cracks something open deep in your stomach. lando's hands fist in oscar's shirt the same way they had in your hair, wounded need you’ve never seen from him—not on tv, not at the door, not even when he kissed you.
it's reserved for oscar. you understand that now.
you don’t realize you’re staring until oscar breaks the kiss with a soft, low sound—more an exhale than anything else—and shifts to press his mouth to yours.
not hard. not rushed. not sloppy, not hungry. purposeful, controlled. you hate him for it.
he’s correcting the angle, you realize. molding you soft, like you kissed lando all wrong and he’s showing you how it should be, what you should do. the hand at your back tightens, pulling you flush to his chest; the other lingers on lando’s jaw, thumb stroking absent circles there (to kiss both of you at once).
(and you don't hear lando whine—you feel it.)
oscar pulls back just enough for you to see it—the faint shine on his mouth from kissing lando first. it glistens when he drags his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the mix of you and him and lando into something you shouldn’t want but do.
and you're getting ready to tell him off for it, but lando's mouth is on you, hot at the column of your throat, two months of restraint branded into a blind, hungry path for skin. (the blind leading the blind, you don't have any more control than he does—)
"easy, mate," oscar warns angling your face toward the wall with a kiss to your jaw, your cheek. "you'll spook her."
lando's exhale punches straight through your stomach. "s-sorry," he says, but he doesn't mean it. (he's been starved off of praise for years, and, fuck, this is what he looks like waiting for someone to give it to him.) his teeth scrape your pulse, forcing a breathy sound of surprise out of you before you can swallow it down. both his hands are frantic—one fisting the fabric at your hip, the other tugging, tugging, tugging until the hem of your sleep shirt slips off your shoulder and pools at the crook of your arm.
(all of a sudden he's higher, fingers grazing the curve of your chest.)
he goes still.
"pretty," lando whispers, the words slurred with want, and you're not exactly sure who he's talking to. he noses at the exposed skin, kissing the skin like he’s thanking it. (thank you, thank you, thank you.) "c-can i take it off?" (he's talking to oscar. about undressing you. like you're not even there.)
oscar steals whatever sound was about to leave you, fondness in the lick he gives your upper row of teeth. it's predatory, but you want it, and you would feel ashamed if you could feel anything at all. "she doesn't seem to mind." he taps the side of your cheek as your eyes roll back, heat lining your cheekbones. "right?"
you barely get out a nod as lando's mouth trails lower, lips closing around the top swell of your breast as he's pulling your shirt down, down, down—"oh—"
oscar's breath brushes your ear when his hand clamps over lando's, halting the motion. (oh, you hate him now, the absolute piece of shit, making you wait, starving you of something he so evidently wants.) "let her take this off." he puppeteers lando's hand where it grips the hem of your shirt. "by the window."
your pulse trips. "the—window?"
both men go still, watching you. assessing. your gaze slams against lando's, his pupils blown black in the half-light, but he doesn’t say a word. he just waits, knuckles white on your hip. (because that's what he does for oscar. waits.)
oscar’s thumb drags slow over your cheek, and you realize you've been quiet for too long. "you heard me. go on."
you want to tell him to fuck off, or at least to pull the blinds, but lando’s teeth are ghosting your skin, and you’re suddenly, unreasonably hot all over. the window’s only a few steps away, but it might as well be miles with your shaky stance. you catch the streetlights flickering beyond, the golden spill of someone else’s kitchen window. it's too early in the morning to catch passerbyes on the street, but the impossibility dwindles.
you half-turn, glancing over your shoulder. oscar’s watching you with that unreadable look from the elevator, a hand lingering alongside lando's hip. you don’t know who you want to impress more. (danger, danger, danger, danger.)
you're curling your fingers under the hem of your shirt when oscar's voice lilts through the room.
"aren't you going to open the window?"
(you're going to kill him.) "oscar."
"yes."
you roll your eyes—try for defiance, but your hands are trembling. "it's—someone could see me."
"so?"
you suddenly find yourself unequipped to handle the english language. "so it's—wrong. and... dirty. and i—"
"—am both of those things." oscar finishes for you, and something hot curls low in your stomach. he nods to where your palm traces over the soft skin of your navel absently, a flash of electricity sparking in his tone. "finish what you started, baby."
"what i started?" you're surprised you've got the breath to spit the words out. still, you reach forward to unlatch the window, beginning to drag the fabric of your shirt over your head, slow enough for them to see, for the world to see, if they cared to look. the air bites at every inch of bare skin you reveal. "y-you put glitter bombs in my vent. and you sent me lingerie."
"which you wore," comes lando's voice as you drop your shirt to the floor. you hear the scrape of his breath catching behind you as you shiver dutifully in the cold february air, nipples pebbling almost immediately under the gaze of the world turning, the pairs of eyes staring fire into your spine.
"only because—" you start to defend, but oscar interrupts, clicking his tongue.
"if you want to talk," he says, barely louder than the wind rattling the glass, "do it while taking off the rest."
you don't talk. but you do keep your eyes pointedly on the window latch, fingers fumbling at the waistband of your shorts.
"go slow" oscar murmurs as you rush, and you hate him for how gentle it sounds. how soft he's being with you. "make it pretty."
your face burns as you peel your shorts down, the fabric catching on your thighs, your underwear following behind it. you kick them away, bare feet against the cold floor, the chill biting up your legs, nowhere left to hide. the february air kisses between your legs, sharp and mean. (oh, that feels nice, doesn't it?)
oscar steps closer, his body a shadow at your back. "look," he says, voice honey-thick and terrible. "how many people can you see?"
you blink, eyes adjusting to the street below. it's a blur of streetlights and shifting shapes, the occasional glimmer of movement. at first, you want to lie—say no one, say it’s empty—but there’s laughter echoing up from the sidewalk, the far-off clatter of heels on wet pavement. you squint, heart pounding.
"n-none," you stammer, but it comes out pathetic.
oscar laughs, low and knowing. "look harder."
lando’s hand ghosts over your hip when your hands twitch by your sides. you swallow. there’s a group spilling out of a taxi, a pair of friends weaving home, someone lighting a cigarette under the yellow haze of a street lamp. oscar’s hand comes to rest at the center of your chest, over your heart, fingers splayed. "how many?" he asks again, mouth at your temple. "how many people could look up and see you right now?"
(honesty burns.) "seven. or—eight."
"fuck," is lando's exhale, palm sliding higher, stomach to sternum, flicking over your peaked nipples. when did they get so close? where did they begin and you end?
"imagine if they looked up," oscar continues, lips brushing your ear. you barely hear him over the sound of your heart. "imagine if they saw you. what would they think, hmm?"
your knees nearly give out. you press your palms to the cold window, the city yawning open below, the air biting at your skin. you bite down on a breath, but it doesn't matter. lando’s hands have found your waist, lips dragging desperate down your shoulder. but then he sinks lower. and lower, and suddenly he's slinking a hand in between your thighs, spreading your legs. (he's on his knees in front of you and staring at your pussy like he wants to pray to it, and oh, god, he better do something about it soon.)
you must jolt forward into lando's hand, because oscar punches out a breath.
"dirty," he grits out, and you can feel the hard press of him behind you, the slow grind of denim against naked skin. "dirty fucking girl." and oh, his thumb reaches through to push ever so slightly at the entrance there, circling the slick gathered from the show you put on. "ever take it back here before?"
shame tangles in your throat. "n-no," you answer honestly, and lando's resounding moan vibrates through your lower half. "guys tried. in the past. but i-i'd let you." (you're saying just about anything to get either of them to do something, aren't you?)
oscar hums, rocking his hips up against you, just once. you nearly choke. "bet you’d let me do it right fucking now, wouldn’t you?"
"yes," lando responds for you, and you're keenly aware of the way he's tonguing at the inside of your thigh, hot and desperate.
oscar's mouth meets your throat, and you stretch backward, hand stuttering into lando's hair. "would you? hmm?" his palm slides up your spine, curling at the back of your neck. "right here, where anyone could see you? would you let me just—" he pauses, and you hear his belt buckle clink. "—fuck your tight lit—?"
it's lando who doesn’t let him finish.
he moves forward, mouth catching on your cunt, and the noise that rips out of you is nothing short of obscene—half-moan, half-curse, all deep, dark hunger. your forehead hits the cold glass, breath fogging up the view, and you know if anyone looked up they’d see fucking everything, and humiliation courses through your blood.
lando leans his tongue flat, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to taste you, hands digging bruises into your hips, keeping you spread open for him, for oscar, for anyone who might be watching.
"there we go," oscar mutters, prideful. he leans in, mouth hot at your ear, hand sliding down, down, down, until his thumb is sliding through the slick mess lando’s making of you, pressing down, not enough to penetrate but just enough to feel your natural resistance give.
"osc—lando—" you gasp when the latter's hands lock around your hips, grinding your body across his open mouth, and you damn near break the window with how hard your hand slams against it.
oscar’s thumb drags lower, circling, teasing, and then—fuck—there’s a second finger joining the first, slick and slow and stretching you open. it’s too much and not enough, and he's not giving you any time to recover, but god, you’re already so close you can taste it. lando groans, tongue somehow dipping inside of you, and you’re a mess down his chin but you know he wants it just as much as you do.
"jesus—y'hear that, baby?" oscar murmurs, clearly pleased, and only then does it occur to you how wet you actually are. you lock up, every muscle straining, right there, so close—
and then he pulls out.
you sob, hips jerking forward, and then you're coming around nothing, white light behind your eyes, knees stuttering against lando's shoulders as he suckles your clit into his mouth then releases it with a slow slip of his tongue, forehead drooping against your thigh. (you're opening your mouth to thank him when he kisses your hip, and you realize he already knows.)
"fuck you," you choke out, hands scrabbling for purchase. "fuck you to hell and fucking back—"
oscar's two steps ahead of you. one second he's lining up, and the next the blunt head of his cock slides easy, too easy, through the mess between your cheeks, hot and heavy, pressed right where you’re aching for it, contracting around nothing.
you shiver when he kisses the back of your neck, smoothing the sweaty hair at your nape. you expect him to scold you, to say something mean back as he gathers your slick in his palm and covers his cock with it. but no.
"perfect girl, sweet girl, fucking takin' it so good, fight me if you want me to stop, put up a fight, pretty—"
and then he's splitting you open so slowly you fold over, hands braced on lando's shoulders.
you squeeze your eyes shut as oscar punches out a choked breath ("tight fuckin' fit—"), a painfully sharp shot of electricity going up your spine. you've barely got your eyes open before you're keening, nails dug deep into the crevices of lando's broad collar. and god, isn't the man himself a sight, jaw slack, cheeks cherry-red, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats.
he shoves them down his thighs just enough to free his cock—flushed dark, leaking in his fist. he doesn’t even bother getting up, just sits back on his heels, hand working himself in time with the way oscar’s fucking you open. his hand tightens when you watch the flush creep up his chest, the way his stomach twitches when you moan.
(he likes the attention just as much as you do.)
oscar's breathing words into your neck, his voice deep, strangled brass, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. "did you miss us? hmm?" (nod.) "gonna let me fuck you like this all the time?" (nod.) "gonna let lando have a turn?" (nod, nod.)
lando whimpers like he can imagine it already, and you feel the sound like a live wire between your legs. you reach for him blindly, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging him up, and he goes willingly, cock still in his hand, mouth sealing over yours in a mess of tears and spit.
you kiss him the way oscar taught you—slow, controlled, all tongue and filthy want, and you taste yourself lingering in his mouth, slick and sharp and obscene. lando groans into it, hips rutting into his own fist.
"oh—" he breathes, breaking away to pant against your jaw, "god, 'm gonna come—"
oscar shifts behind you and you yelp, breaking the kiss as he angles your back, pressing your shoulder blades so you lean down, chest nearly touching lando's. his hips are already high into his hand, cock throbbing within reach, and oscar thrusts so deep you see stars as he grits out, "put your mouth on him."
(you almost want to say no. just to see what he'd do. but there's a shine in lando's eyes, oh, god, he's crying for you—)
your lips close around the tip just as his hips shudder up, unintentionally fucking your mouth. his hands fly to your hair, a half-syllable of your name leaving his lips as you close your lips tighter, a soft, possessive kiss in the swirl of your tongue. you barely get any warning before he's going ramrod straight, babbling, "shit, ‘m gonna—" and tumbling off the edge, release flooding your mouth.
you don't swallow. not immediately. not until oscar pulls you upright, presses you flush to his chest, and draws the hinge of your mouth open. "swallow," he says after what feels like hours, and you do, and he's kissing you, and oh, god you've never tasted anything better.
there's an ache in your navel, a desperate, sweet torment that buckles your knees and slackens your spine, and every single nerve ending sings when oscar's hand loops forward, fingers ghosting over your clit, a touch so light it should’ve been too much. it would have been too much, had his cock not sunk in just that inch deeper, had it not been exactly what you needed.
"fuck, 'm gonna—wait—osc—" your eyes roll back, because oh, god, you're going to come, and you can't believe you didn't do this that very first night, you can't believe you let so many months go by without knowing how shallow oscar's thrusts get when he's about to come, how he breathes your name into your spine and hunches forward as warmth splatters along your skin.
(you can't believe you went so long not knowing how it feels to come around his cock.)
you barely catch your breath before lando’s hands meet your hips, strong and sure and steady, catching your weight as you fold forward toward the open window.
oscar pulls out slow, and you wince as he eases away the discomfort, hands moving to the small of your back to trace the warmth of his release there.
"we're not done," he murmurs, enchanted with the way you arch up. "not by a long shot."
♡
note: I NEED HOLY WATER OMG. 😭 you all are INCREDIBLE i know this is longer than most of my works but i hope it serves as something new from me!! once again i apologize for my extended absences—i should have a lil something else coming soon!! LOVE FROM GRACIE!!
Hiiii, could you write smth about reader (part of House's team) and Chase teasing and throwing suggestive comments each other all the time until something actually happens?Thanksss
𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬. (𝐫.𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞)
whilst your’s and chase’s relationship was… unconventional, you never crossed any true lines. until you did.
CW | 18+ MDNI. afab!reader, definitely not allowed workplace engagements, unprotected piv, porn with plot
fem!reader ☆ 4.3k ☆ masterlist.
The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead as you flip through the patient’s chart, skimming the details of yet another medical mystery.
A 37-year-old woman with an unexplained fever, muscle weakness, and—of course—negative test results for every common diagnosis. House’s kind of case. Your kind of case.
“Could be lupus,” Chase offers, leaning lazily against the back of his chair.
“It’s never lupus,” you counter automatically, not bothering to look up.
“One day, it will be,” he muses, smirking at you. “And when that happens, I’ll personally accept your apology… preferably over dinner,”
You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with the hint of a smirk. “You assuming I’d take you to dinner if you were right is cute. Delusional, but cute,”
“Then I’ll settle for drinks. You can even pretend it’s a pity outing,”
House, who has been listening to your exchange with barely concealed amusement, finally interjects. “I’d tell you two to get a room, but I think you’d rather keep up this foreplay in front of an audience,”
Cameron coughs, Foreman scoffs, and Chase—completely unfazed—shrugs. “If we’re keeping score, I think I’m winning,”
You arch a brow at him, shifting in your seat. “Oh? And what exactly are you winning?”
“The game,” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping enough to sound almost conspiratorial. “You know… the one where you pretend you’re not enjoying this,”
Your pulse jumps for just a second before you scoff, shaking your head. “You wish,”
House claps his hands together, effectively cutting through the moment. “Much as I’d love to watch this unresolved sexual tension play out in real time, we have an actual patient. So unless this is leading to some kind of medically relevant insight, I’d suggest you both channel that energy into something useful,” He pauses, eyes flicking between you and Chase before smirking. “Or at least wait until after work to rip each other’s clothes off,”
Cameron looks deeply uncomfortable, Foreman mutters something about needing new colleagues, and Chase? Well, Chase just winks at you, smug as ever.
Game on.
—
The patient’s condition is getting worse, and House is nowhere to be found—probably off harassing Cuddy or playing mind games with Wilson. That leaves the rest of you huddled around the conference table, sorting through test results.
You tap a pen against your lips, eyes narrowed at the list in front of you. “Her liver enzymes are elevated, but no sign of hepatitis. Negative for Wilson’s disease, negative for autoimmune markers…”
“Could be a parasitic infection,” Cameron suggests, glancing up from her notes.
Chase leans back in his chair, tilting his head toward you. “Sounds messy. I hope you don’t mind getting your hands dirty,”
You shoot him a look. “That depends. Are you offering to be my assistant? Or just my parasite?”
Foreman groans, rubbing his temples. “Oh my God. Can you two just—?”
Cameron nudges his arm before he can finish. “Shh. I have twenty bucks on them cracking by the end of the week,”
You and Chase turn to her at the same time. “Excuse me?”
Foreman crosses his arms, smirking slightly. “I said a month, but now I’m reconsidering. You two can’t go five minutes without turning everything into an innuendo,”
“You’re imagining things,” you say smoothly, ignoring the way Chase’s knee just barely brushes against yours under the table.
“Yeah,” Chase adds, grinning. “I’d never use a serious medical discussion to flirt,”
You scoff. “Right. Because that would be wildly inappropriate,”
Cameron exchanges a knowing glance with Foreman. “Exactly,”
—
The hospital is quieter at night. The usual hum of activity dulls to an ambient murmur of overnight nurses and the occasional beeping monitor.
You’re in the diagnostics office, reviewing test results while Chase leans against House’s desk, absentmindedly tossing a stress ball in the air.
It’s just the two of you.
“This is the part where I should tell you to go home,” you say, not looking up from the file. “But I know you won’t listen,”
Chase catches the ball in one hand and smirks. “And miss out on the chance to keep you company? I’d never,”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. “What a gentleman,”
He pushes off the desk and moves closer, just enough for you to feel the shift in proximity. “I can be, when it suits me,”
The air is different tonight. He’s always been flirtatious, always toeing the line, but this time, there’s something heavier in the silence that lingers between words.
You glance up at him, and for a moment, neither of you speak. It would be easy to close the gap. To push just a little further.
But you don’t.
Instead, you exhale, shaking your head as you look back down at the file. “You should really get some sleep, Chase.”
He lingers for just a second longer before letting out a soft chuckle. “Yeah,” he murmurs, stepping back. “You too,”
As he leaves the office, you find yourself staring at the door for longer than you should.
—
It’s been one of those shifts where the exhaustion settles deep into your bones, where you feel like you’ve been going nonstop for days, even though it’s only been a few hours.
Chase, ever the one to escape stress with some humor, suggests grabbing drinks. The others quickly agree, but you and Chase end up walking out of the hospital together, the others trailing behind.
You’ve worked together long enough to know the difference between casual group outings and just the two of you.
When you get to the bar, the atmosphere is warm, filled with the sound of low conversations and the clink of glasses. You order your drinks, the chatter flowing easily at first. It’s comfortable—like it always is when you’re with Chase—but tonight, there’s something different. The usual teasing that’s exchanged over the complexities of medicine starts to feel like something else.
“Well, you know, if you were paying attention, I did say we should run the ANA panel last time,” you tease, stirring your drink. You catch him watching you, his expression almost smug, but you don’t break eye contact.
“Oh, I heard you,” he replies, his voice low, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “I just didn’t think you were right,”
You tilt your head with a scoff, narrowing your eyes. “But now you do?”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” he replies, taking a step closer. “But I think you like the challenge of proving me wrong,”
You lean back in your chair, trying to act unaffected, but your heart races. The space between you has closed in ways you hadn’t expected. “Not everything’s a challenge, Chase,”
He grins, his voice dropping a little further. “Sure about that? Because if you think I can’t keep up with you, I’m happy to prove you wrong,”
It’s playful. It’s always playful, right?
But tonight, there’s an edge to it. A tension that neither of you have addressed, but both of you are clearly aware of.
The way his eyes follow your movements. The way his smile lingers just a second too long on your lips. You feel the weight of his words like a challenge you don’t want to back down from.
It’s subtle, but it’s there—an almost imperceptible shift. You feel it when his hand brushes against yours on the bar. He doesn’t pull away immediately, and neither do you. For a heartbeat, everything around you fades, leaving only the space between the two of you.
It would be easy. So easy.
You could lean in, and he could kiss you, and you wouldn’t need to say a word. You could blame it on the alcohol, or the exhaustion, or just the chemistry that’s been crackling between you for weeks now.
But then, just as quickly as it started, you both pull back.
You laugh—maybe a little too loud, trying to cover up the moment that nearly shattered the wall you’ve both built around yourselves. “You’re an idiot,” you say, a little breathless, fingers tapping nervously on the edge of your glass.
Chase smirks, but there’s something softer in his expression now. “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you like idiots.”
He leans back, turning his attention to his drink, and the playful banter resumes—but it’s different. There’s an edge to it now, an undercurrent of something else simmering beneath the surface.
Neither of you acknowledges it directly. Instead, you both talk about the case again, acting like nothing has changed. But you both know. Neither of you is fooled.
For the first time, the game isn’t just a game anymore. And it’s only a matter of time before one of you breaks.
—
The next day is a blur of frantic phone calls, lab reports, and running from one department to the next. The case has taken a turn for the worse, and the pressure is palpable.
Everyone is on edge, moving faster than usual, but the answers still aren’t coming. You and Chase work side by side, your minds racing with the mounting frustration.
The stress is starting to take its toll.
You’re reviewing the latest test results when Chase steps closer, his eyes scanning the board. “We’re missing something. There’s got to be a piece we’re overlooking,”
You feel his breath just a little too close, your heartbeat quickening. “Yeah, no kidding,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “If I knew what that piece was, I’d have figured it out by now,”
“Don’t snap at me,” he says, voice quiet but teasing. “I’m on your side here,”
You glance at him, frustration flashing in your eyes. “You think I don’t know that?”
The tension between you is thick, heavier than it’s been before, each word a spark in the charged air. The room feels too small, too close, the adrenaline turning everything you say and do into something else—something that doesn’t belong in a hospital.
Chase takes a step back, but the distance doesn’t help. He’s still close enough to make your skin feel tight, still close enough for you to hear the quiet beat of his pulse beneath the surface.
“Sorry,” You sigh, exasperatedly taking your hands through your hair. “I’m just stressed,”
There’s a pause, a breath held in the space between you. Then, without a word, he steps forward, his hand finding your arm.
“You need a break,” he says, his voice low and urgent.
You swallow hard, feeling your breath catch in your throat. “I don’t need a break. I need answers,”
But the words feel hollow even as you say them. You don’t need answers. Not right now.
Before you can think, before you can even process what’s happening, Chase pulls you gently but firmly down the hallway, into a small, empty supply closet.
It’s a tight fit—your back pressed against the cold wall, his body just a breath away. The air in the small room is thick with the same kind of tension that’s been building between you for weeks, but now, it’s palpable. You can feel it in your skin, in the way your breath comes faster than it should.
You give a small laugh. “This isn’t the break room,”
And then, just like that, the moment snaps.
Chase closes the space between you, his lips crashing into yours. It’s not the slow, teasing kiss you expected—it’s urgent, hungry, desperate. All the months of flirtation, the innuendos, the playful jabs, finally culminating in this.
His hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can’t help but respond, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepens, and the world outside the closet fades away. There’s only the rush of adrenaline in your veins, the heat of his touch, the way your bodies move in sync, as though they’ve always known this was coming.
His hands slide down your back, pressing you even closer, and for a moment, you forget about the case, forget about everything but this. His lips trail down to your neck, and you let out a soft gasp, heart pounding in your chest.
“Are we really doing this right now?” you breathe, barely able to form the words as your breath hitches in your throat.
Chase pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression intense, searching. “Do you want to?” he asks, voice low, a mixture of desire and uncertainty.
Your mind races, the heat of the moment clouding your thoughts. But you don’t hesitate.
“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely escaping your lips before you pull him back to you.
The kiss picks up again, but this time, it’s more than just passion. There’s an urgency to it—something unspoken that has been building for far too long.
His hands roam, slipping beneath your shirt, and you don’t stop him. Every touch feels electric, igniting something deep inside you. The adrenaline from the case, the rush of being so close, the need to feel something more than just the constant stress of the hospital… it all comes together in that moment.
You don’t think about the consequences. You don’t think about anything except the way he makes you feel.
But even in the haze of desire, the question lingers. What happens after? What happens when the game is over?
Right now, though, you don’t care. All that matters is the way his lips feel against your skin, the way his hands fit perfectly against you. It’s everything and nothing at once.
And for the first time, you don’t pull away.
Chase is driven insane by the smallest things. The way your fingers curled into his belt-loops to tug him closer. The feel of your nails, scraping over his scalp as your hand slides through his hair. The way you breathe his name as he dips his head, mouthing at the hollow of your throat.
Too much. He thinks, as one hand comes up to curl around your wrist, pinning your hand against the door of the closet. Too much but still not enough.
He’s lost the ability for rational thought. It’s been pushed aside for need, for desire. Your name’s a constant on his lips, a hushed whisper as he presses kisses onto your neck. Teeth skimming over your skin, tongue soothing the light sting.
He finally draws back to meet your gaze. His expression is dark, pupils blown wide and his cheeks flushed so pretty. “I want you.” He says it as an absolute truth. As if you don’t already know that by the way his knee is slotted between your thighs.
He watches you. The way your lips part on a breath, an almost involuntary sound falling from them as he draws his knee up. “God, look at you,” He murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, “So pretty already and I’ve barely even touched you,”
His hand slides up the inside of your thigh, his touch almost reverent. The tip of his nose grazes your ear as his fingers dip under the edge of your pants. “Want you. So, so goddamn badly.”
And in contrast to the sweet way he speaks to you, the way he’s touching you is downright dirty. It sets the pit of your stomach on fire as his hand dips lower, cupping you through your panties and giving a slow, testing drag of his palm.
It’s a low, breathy moan that escapes you, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment and your head thumping lightly against the door. “God-“ he groans, “I’m not going to last.” He hooks a finger around the waistband of your pants and tugs them down just enough for him to get a better purchase on you.
He doesn’t even tease. His hand immediately slips under the soft, black cotton of your underwear, his fingers dipping into you in a fluid motion. “God you’re so hot—“ He asks, his breath hot against your ear. “All this for me?”
Your answer comes in the form of a stifled gasp, your hips moving of their own accord to meet his hand. “Chase.” It’s the only word you manage, and it’s half formed, coming out on a whimper. Like you’re pleading.
It’s that sound and your pleading tone that does him in. His breath shudders out of him in a low sound of want. “You’re killing me.” He mutters, his words punctuated by the sound of his belt unbuckling.
He’s impatient, and it’s evident in the way his hand pushes at the fabric of your underwear. There’s nothing romantic about it, no sweet murmurs of sweet nothings or gentle coaxing. It’s needy and desperate and it’s you and that’s all that matters.
He keeps one hand planted on the wood of the door, keeping you pinned in place. The other dips, and the feel of his fingers is immediately replaced by the head of his cock, already leaking as it stretches out your entrance.
A low curse is muttered, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
He moves with purpose, his hips rolling forwards and pushing his length into you in a single steady motion. Chase gives a quiet grunt, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.
The whole thing feels like it’s happening so fast. Too fast. Neither of you are thinking clearly. But it’s you and it’s him and his face is still buried in the crook of your neck and his cock stretches you out so good that it leaves you whining.
His hand drops from the door, shifting to grip one of your thighs and hitch it over his hip. It gives him a different angle, one that he takes full advantage of.
He picks up the pace, and the hand that he’s gripping your thigh with gives it a firm squeeze. “I’ve thought about this.” He whispers, the words almost lost against your skin, “Can’t get you out of my head.”
He’s babbling now, his words low and punctuated by heavy breaths. And you’re so pretty like this, your eyes squeezed shut and your back arched against the door as he takes and takes and takes.
He can’t remember the last time he came so quickly. All it takes is a sound from you, a breathy sigh of his name and he’s done. He lets himself lose control, giving a loud curse as his hips stutter in their motion, desperately trying to pull out despite the instinct to bury his spend inside you.
Instead, it dribbles down the inside of your thighs, coating your skin and your underwear alike.
The moments after are filled with a tense, lingering quiet. Neither of you speaks immediately, neither of you moves to pull away. Your heart is still racing, your mind spinning with everything that just happened.
Chase stands there for a moment, his forehead resting gently against yours, both of you catching your breath. But neither of you says anything.
It’s like a flicker, an electric pulse, that connects you both, and then just as quickly as it began, it feels like a weight pressing down. The weight of what just happened, of the unspoken words, of the fact that everything has changed.
“Chase…” You break the silence, your voice a whisper, uncertain. You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, but the question sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. What now?
He steps back slowly, his hands resting at his sides. He doesn’t look at you directly, his jaw tight. “We shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have…”
But the words trail off, unsaid. He doesn’t finish the sentence, and neither do you.
A moment passes, and the world starts to feel like it’s slowly realigning around you both. The air no longer feels suffocating, but it’s thick with the weight of everything you didn’t say. Neither of you makes a move to break the silence. Finally, Chase gives a sharp exhale. “We should get back to work.”
You nod, a little too quickly, still lost in the aftershock. Your fingers graze your lips, still tingling from the kiss and everything after, but you don’t let yourself linger on it. There’s nothing to say.
Not yet.
—
The next day, you and Chase are back in the diagnostic office like nothing happened. Well, almost nothing. The air between you is a little too thick, a little too aware of the space you now share. Every word feels heavier, more loaded. And whenever your eyes meet, it’s like there’s something you both are trying not to acknowledge.
But neither of you says a word.
It’s House, of course, who does notice. He’s always observant, always sharp when it comes to his team’s dynamics. He watches the two of you from across the room with a knowing smirk, almost as if he’s been waiting for this.
“Is it just me,” House drawls, breaking the silence as he slides into the office, “or does it feel like someone’s been… busy?”
You freeze, and you can feel Chase tense next to you. You don’t want to look at him, not with House’s smirk aimed squarely at both of you. You can’t look at him.
“You two should get a room,” House continues, unbothered by the tension hanging in the air. “It’s honestly like a live soap opera around here,”
Cameron, overhearing from the other room, raises an eyebrow. “What’s going on now?”
“Nothing,” you mutter, barely able to keep your cool. “Nothing happened,”
But House just fakes a sigh, fishing out his wallet and holding out a twenty dollar bill in Cameron’s direction. “I guess I owe you twenty bucks,”
You can hear the amusement in his voice as he takes a seat at his desk, eyes gleaming with too much satisfaction. He’s not going to let this go. Not for a second.
“You guys slept together?” Cameron’s voice is a mix between amusement and mortification as she takes the cash, and you groan.
Chase clears his throat and straightens up, trying to salvage some sense of normalcy. “It’s nothing to write home about,”
“Oh but it is,” House says with an exaggerated smirk, leaning back in his chair. “Talk about a HR violation,”
—
The next few days pass in a blur of awkward silences, quick glances, and sidelong looks between you and Chase. Neither of you brings up the supply closet, not once. Instead, you focus on the case, on everything but what happened behind closed doors.
The chemistry between you both is still there, still undeniable, but now it’s wrapped in layers of unspoken words. It’s the elephant in the room you both avoid acknowledging.
And yet, as you work together—closer than ever before, eyes meeting more often than they should, the energy still humming between you—you both know something has shifted. You’re not sure what it is yet.
At one point, when House pushes you to continue working late on a particularly difficult diagnosis, you end up alone with Chase again. The tension between you both feels just as charged as it did that night in the supply closet, but now, it’s thicker. More complex.
Chase stands next to you, looking down at the patient’s chart, but you can feel his gaze flicking toward you, gauging your reaction. His voice is quieter this time, as though testing the waters. “So…”
“So,” you reply, keeping your voice steady, but there’s a nervous edge beneath it.
He sighs, clearly sensing the unease between you. “What do you think? Is this it then?”
You hesitate, the words sitting heavily in your chest. This is the question. What happens now? What happens when the game is over?
You take a deep breath, trying to ignore the flutter of uncertainty in your stomach. “I don’t think it’s just a game anymore, Chase,”
His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the silence stretches between you both. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—a mix of hope, uncertainty, and that ever-present challenge.
And in that moment, you realise: neither of you has to have the answer right now.
“You’re right,” he says softly, his lips curling into a smile. “Maybe it’s not,”
And so, the game continues—only now, it’s not a game at all. It’s something else entirely, something neither of you is ready to define yet.
omggg smut based off the episode where sams dressed like a swat officer?? HELLO so fine
SWAT!Sam from S2E12...hell yes. requests are still OPEN
They hightail it away from the bank and the blockade of cops- patrol officers, tactical agents, and the FBI. The only stop on their way to get the hell out of town is to get you.
You’d been watching the bank’s hostage situation from the motel room, nauseated by the choppy news coverage that showed the SWAT team sneaking their way inside. The place was surrounded, every entrance and exit covered, according to the reporter, but you knew better than to count the Winchesters out.
You’re still watching the news coverage when there’s a pounding on the door. It nearly makes you jump out of your skin. Your heart stutters as you come face to face with a SWAT agent, his herculean figure accentuated by layers of black tactical gear. The man paws at the hood concealing his face, pulling it down over his nose and mouth- and you realize it’s Sam.
“Grab your stuff.” He orders. “We need to get out of town. Now.”
You nod and he watches the door while you get your shit together in less than five minutes. At this very critical moment when you need control over all of your facilities, you’re hyperaware of how inappropriately turned on you are- by the sharp authority in Sam’s voice and the emanation of lethality and danger from the uniform. Just the notion of Sam overpowering the real SWAT officer has your knees weakening.
It’s only when you all make it a few states over that you pay for two motel rooms, that you finally get to be alone with Sam. You’re crowding into his personal space the moment the door closes behind him.
“You know, I love all of your disguises, but this one is definitely my favorite.” You muse, running your hand down his ballistic vest as he wrestles with the hood again, pulling it down to rest under his chin. He unclips his helmet, tossing it aside before shaking out of his hair.
Grabbing you by your waist, Sam smirks. The tactical gloves he wears are rough as his fingers brush under your blouse. “Yeah, baby, could practically read that on your face.”
“Really? I thought I was being subtle,” You pout, letting him pull you into his arms.
“Subtlty isn’t your strong suit, baby,” He murmurs before kissing you.
You can almost taste his adrenaline, as he presses you back against the wall, tugging at your clothes like they’re personally offending him. He’s only satisfied when you’re completely naked, caged between his enormous figure and the wall, with his hands caressing and gripping your exposed flesh as he pleases. With his lips still moving against yours with bruising force, he starts to shrug out of the thick ballistic vest, but you stop him.
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly spreading across his swollen lips. “Oh. You like it that much?”
You bite back a smile.
“Alright, dirty girl,” Sam banters. “You want me to fuck you with all this gear on? Might take some convincing.” Taking your hand, he brings it to the crotch of his tactical pants. The fabric is bulky and rough against your palm, but when he pushes his hips forward into your hand, your mouth waters as you feel the unquestionable evidence of his arousal.
“Whatever you say, officer,” You say with a cute little smile, your hands mindlessly unclasping his belt as you carefully settle on your knees before him.
Sam’s jaw slackens at the view of you, naked and on your knees, so eagerly working to pull his dick from his pants. Running an appreciative hand through your hair, he grits his white teeth the moment your tiny hand wraps around his girth, and he grunts harshly when you take him into your mouth.
As you lick his cock all over, getting it covered in a sheeny layer of your spit, you moan at his tangy flavor. You start bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks and sliding as much of him as you can fit at a time into the hot, wet channel of your mouth. He grips the roots of your hair with one hand, his hips twitching every so often, accidentally shoving a little more of his length down your throat. You let your eyes roll back, your mind shutting off, except to catalog every sound he makes- his breath catching when your tongue pays special attention to the head of his cock, grunts, and moans of appreciation when you force yourself down so that your nose brushes the thatch of hair at the base of his cock, your throat tightening around him as tears and drool freely slide down your face and chin, onto your exposed breasts.
One hand in your hair turns to two, and he starts to fuck your face, gently at first, bulding up to driving his cock in and out of your mouth like you’re just a mindless doll for him to use. You let him, sliding a hand down between your legs to rub at your puffy clit, which has been crying for some kind of friction since the moment you laid eyes on him in that uniform. You stare up at him through the tears dotting your eyelashes, loving the way he’s dressed fully with layers, while you’re helplessly bare.
He yanks you to your feet, manhandling you to bend over the edge of the little table in the kitchen. Your breasts press against the cool wood, and your fingers keep rubbing at your drenched pussy, until you feel the brush of his clothes behind you and the prob of his swollen cockhead at your entrance.
Sam grips the globes of your ass in his hands, pushing his cock into you, but you’re so wet that there’s very little resistance. He groans as your walls spasm around him, coating him in your creamy arousal, and your thighs start trembling the instant he starts pumping in and out of you.
He fucks you fast, using a crushing grip on your hips to haul you back onto his cock the same instant he drives his hips forwards. The feeling of each thrust is so intense and sharp that you couldn’t be quiet if your life depended on it, but Sam seems to enjoy your cries, smiling breathlessly above you. He folds his body over yours, so his lips are at your ear.
“Such a little slut,” He chastises in your ear, pulling your hair to lift your head a bit. The action, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, and the relentless abuse to your cunt is sending you rushing towards your peak. “Spreadin’ your legs for any guy in a fuckin’ uniform.”
“No-” You gasp, but he’s slipped a hand between your legs, which only adds to the excessive wetness making your thighs glisten. Your muscles tense as he starts rubbing tight, fast circles on your clit. “Only you-”
“Damn right, only me.” He grunts.
You cum together, your pussy convulsing wildly around his length, your mind whiting out in the midst of such a profound orgasm. He keeps thrusting to prolong the feeling, and when he eventually pulls out, your combined fluids begin to seep out of your cunt.
He takes you in his arms, sitting with you on his lap, kissing you softly while you both recover. You decide together that the uniform might be worth holding onto.
Summary: Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies. But after spending far too much time with nothing more than a couple lingering touches—you’re getting a little frustrated. Too bad Dean can’t seem to take a hint.
CW: Barely any plot, quickies, unprotected PIV, hot library sex (mmm), reader is a little a lot frustrated, Dean’s a major cock block, getting caught (so, accidental voyeurism? I guess?), and no, they’re not into it… sorry!
WC: 4.6K
Based on this request!
Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies.
It’s a fact that you’ve, rather unfortunately, become painfully aware of over the past year. One that can make you melt one moment, and lose your mind the next.
Because when it comes to you, Sam takes his time.
If he had it his way, every night spent with you would stretch long past midnight, bodies tangled beneath motel sheets while the rest of the world seems to fade into nothing. He’d kiss you so slow that your lungs would run out of air, and you’d have to drag it back in between gasps as he touches every inch of your skin with careful hands. There’s nothing rushed about the way Sam loves you, and nothing careless, either. He makes damn sure that you’re nothing less than spoiled, left boneless and worshipped against his chest, drifting in the hazy bliss of exhaustion as his heart thumps beneath your cheek.
And God, you love him for it. Most of the time.
But the downside of dating Sam is that his life comes with a permanent, trauma-bonded punishment attached at the hip, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester.
You love Dean. You really, really do. He’s family, always has been, and always will be—that’s just a fact of life. But there’s moments, usually when you haven’t spent more than five uninterrupted minutes alone with your gorgeous boyfriend in over a week, that fantasizing about wringing out the older man’s neck like a dish towel becomes your go to form of stress relief.
The two of you need to run some errands? Dean has the impalas keys in his hand before either of you can speak.
Need to interview some witnesses for a case? Well, apparently, the only thing better than two fake FBI agents is three.
Want to stop at some cute diner you noticed for a bite to eat? Oh, you’ve just read Dean’s mind, because he’s been dreaming about pie since last week.
It’s endless, and it’s starting to become unbearable. Especially when you’ve spent the last two weeks with nothing more than a little heavy petting, and it’s starting to feel like some forced dry spell. By day fifteen, you’re pretty sure Dean’s doing it on purpose.
Maybe not meticulously, or even consciously, but either way, you’re going a little insane. For a man so sex-oriented, you’d think he’d be less oblivious about how much of a cock block he’s become; and there’s only so many interrupted moments and unwanted third-wheeling a woman can take before she starts making up conspiracy theories.
Like tonight, for example.
You and Sam had finally managed to peel away after dinner under the excuse of breaking into the local library past close, and digging through some lore archives for your case of the week. Your plan to jump your adorably clueless boyfriend, and climb him like a fucking tree, was in full swing.
And God, it almost worked. It should have worked. Dean had barely looked at you over his burger as he waved the two of you off, mumbling something about not wanting to join in on your little nerd club.
But, of course, fate had other plans. Because not ten minutes later, he’d had some stupid change of heart. And coupled with Sam’s inability to say no, your sweet little library date had turned into a three-person job.
So, you sit wedged beside Sam in an old rickety chair, pressed close enough to rest your shoulder against his, as Dean slouches across from you looking bored out of his skull. Honestly, you’re just grateful he’s finally stopped bragging about his alarm disarming abilities after the three of you busted in through the back door. The silence that’s settled in in the aftermath, though, only makes you twitchy.
Sam’s warm at your side, his thigh brushing against yours every time his leg bounces against the dusty floor. To his credit, he really is researching, which doesn’t surprise you one bit. There’s that familiar, deep furrow in his brow, accompanied by a look of intense focus lighting up his hazel eyes as he scans each page. You, on the other hand, haven’t flipped a single page of your copy of ‘Daemonologie’ in over twenty minutes.
Because Christ, it’s pretty damn hard to focus on mind numbing lore when Sam’s so close, and smells like fucking heaven.
It’s a little stupid, really, how a few dry weeks have managed to wound you up so tight, that you’re vibrating in your seat like a bitch in heat. But that revelation sure as hell doesn’t stop your foot from tapping restlessly against the floor, or do a damn thing about the way you’re practically salivating over the scent of Sam’s shampoo. But, hey, you’d thrown away subtle nearly ten minutes ago, the moment Sam’s beautifully long fingers started tracing the faded ink of some demonic sigil, and you had to resist every primal urge to lick the veins on his hand.
You’re about five seconds from drooling when you break the silence.
“Alright.” You slam your hands down on the table, spooking an unsuspecting Dean, who’d just laid his head down over his forearms—Sam’s head snapping towards you. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Dean groans his agreement, shoving away the book that he hadn’t touched since he’d sat down. “…Thank God. Y’know, I saw a dive a few blocks over. We should—”
“—There’s a microfilm reader in the back,” you interrupt smoothly. “We can flip through old newspapers, look for an actual, visible pattern.”
Dean’s mouth clicks shut at your words, and you swear you’ve never seen him look quite so betrayed. He blinks at you, before throwing his head back like he’d just been sentenced to life in prison.
Sam, on the other hand, folds his book closed with silent care, tilting his head towards you in silent question.
“Microfilm?” he echos, raising a brow, before offering a shrug. “I mean. Beats sifting through physicals, but…”
You shoot him a less than friendly look, one he must some-what understand (bless his soul), because his mouth snaps closed before he can finish his sentence.
“…Right,” he amends.
“Whatever, sweetheart,” Dean grumbles, already moving to stand. “Let’s all go stare at some ancient newspaper clippings ‘til our eyes start to bleed.”
And oh. Oh, absolutely not.
“Dean,” you say flatly, “you hate microfilm.”
He freezes halfway to standing, argument already on the tip of his tongue, but you’re faster.
“Last time, you almost smashed the damn thing before Sam took over.”
You stand quickly, too quickly, knee thumping against the table in your haste, your hand falling to plant firmly on Sam’s shoulder.
“You stay here, Dean. Keep watch, take a nap, or whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing for the past half an hour. We won’t be long.” You give Sam a soft squeeze. “Right, Sammy?”
Sam lifts his head to meet your gaze, staring at you with those big, earnest puppy eyes, wide and slightly confused. He looks unfairly pretty in this light, all messy hair, sleepy focus, pink lips slightly parted in silent question.
He glances at your hand on his shoulder briefly, then back to your face, like he’s trying to piece together why you’re suddenly so intent on getting him alone. Which, unfortunately, is a fair question. Not that you care.
“Uh,” he buffers quietly. “Yeah. ‘Course.”
Dean plops back down in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, kicking up both his feet. He doesn’t even pretend to read this time, just watches you with narrowed eyes full of suspicion, and, well. Maybe mild annoyance.
You spare him one last mostly well natured smile as Sam stands, but you don’t let him get another word in before you’re practically herding his brother across the library with far too much enthusiasm to be casual. The back room is quiet, dimly lit, and just far enough from the main library to fall out of earshot. Perfect. The door groans in protest as you pull it shut behind you, creaking loud enough to make you wince. And then you notice it.
No lock.
The realization gives you pause for exactly half a second before it’s buried beneath need so thick you have to swallow it down to keep it momentarily contained. Because honestly, now that you finally have Sam alone… a flimsy detail like that is nothing but an afterthought.
Sam, the sweetheart, who somehow still hasn’t managed to connect the dots, moves instinctively towards one of the desks in a few short strides. He leans over the tabletop, bangs falling lazily over his forehead, his hand moving for the knob.
“What are you doing?” you ask, unable to keep amusement from creeping into your tone. His finger hovers halfway over the microfilm reader’s power switch, eyes flicking from it to you. That big, Stanford brain of his trying so hard to decipher where he’s missed a cue.
“What?”
The question comes out a little croaked, and the puppy-eyed sincerity of it damn near brings you to your knees.
“Sam.” You take one slow step forward, tilting your head with an almost innocent smile. “I thought my eye-fucking was getting a little obvious.”
He freezes. Not dramatically, no, more like a slow, dawning realization washing over him like a wave. That sweet, dumb face of his finally cracks into something else, something warm. Something darker. The kind of look that makes your stomach flip, and heat coil low in your core.
His hand slides away from the switch in a slow, teasing drag, as he pushes himself back up to his full height, stalking towards you in a few measured steps. Shadows fall over his features, catching on the sharp angle of his jaw, the perfect slope of his nose—and that gorgeous dimple that’s just begun to show itself with the heated smirk that spreads across his lips.
“Oh?” he breathes, voice rougher now. “Really? Here?”
“Yeah,” you purr, and there’s nothing subtle about the way your gaze drops to his lips before flicking back up. “Here.”
You don’t let him think too hard about it before your fist is curling around his collar, and his lips are crashing against yours.
It’s not slow, or testing, or soft. No, it’s immediate hunger. It’s you pouring weeks of desperation and need into a single action, mouth devouring his with every ounce of frustration you’ve bottled up tight enough to burst. He exhales into it, a warm puff against your cheek, as those big hands that have been haunting your fantasies slide up to cradle your jaw with infinite levels of care. His fingers splay over your cheeks, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as he tilts your face closer to his like he can’t get enough.
He pulls back just long enough to drag in a breath, the taste of him still heavy on your tongue.
“We’re in a library,” he reasons, your noses brushing, breaths mingling.
“We are.”
“Dean’s just outside.”
“He is.”
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, and you can tell he wants to drag this out. Make it last. Take you apart so slow that you’ll be shaking in his grasp, and the only word left on your tongue is his name.
But right now? That… that just won’t do. You part again with a slick pop.
“…And you’re sure about this?” he asks, of course he does, and your heart squeezes tight in your chest.
You raise a brow, moving for another kiss, but he dodges you with a chuckle. You can’t help but glare.
“That’s not an answer, baby.”
“Been soakin’ wet since you bitched out that asshole cop earlier,” you tease, raising one palm to trace down his chest. “That an answer?”
He pauses for a moment, considering, then his expression breaks out into a sweet, cocky grin, and then he’s crushing his lips back on yours. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the surface. Like he wants nothing more than to drink you down and swallow you whole. One arm loops around your waist, cradling you closer, spinning you until you’re caged between him and one of the cold, veneer-lined desks. His tongue slips between parted lips, exploring your mouth with a hunger that belies the tenderness of his touch.
“Up,” he murmurs between licks, tapping your hip with two calloused fingers, before hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting. You squeak, a sound that earns you the world’s most panty-dropping snicker, your ass hitting the desk with a thud. The heat of your core contrasted by the cool surface sends a new spark of want through your system, left sizzling beneath layers of pesky fabric.
Hot, feverish kisses pepper your throat not a moment later, as he splays his palms over your thighs, nudging them apart until they bracket his hips. Massive hands hold you in place, heavy and warm and so damn close to where you’re aching for him. A shiver rips through you like lightning as his lips trail up your neck, soft and wet against heated skin. He finds that sensitive spot, the one just below your ear, lingering on it with slow, open-mouthed kisses, nipping gently before soothing the sting with a lap of his tongue. Sparks climb up your spine like a kindling fire, a poorly-stifled moan whirling from your lips.
You’re already panting, heart slamming against your chest, your fingers sliding to tangle in his messy hair to keep him right where you want him. Your other hand drags swiftly down his front, pressing into the butter-soft expanse of his chest, finally palming at his belt with fingers that have already begun to tremble.
His lips disconnect with your neck with a sharp inhale as he straightens up, meeting your darkened gaze. You almost fucking whine at the loss.
“Woah, hey.” His large hand covers your wrist, not pushing you away—thank God—but turning it over gently in his grasp, thumb sliding to rest over your racing pulse point. Even that simple touch has you squirming. “Easy, baby. ‘M gonna take real good care of you first, yeah?”
It’s sweet. Really sweet.
In fact, it’s so sweet, that your pussy clenches around nothing, and that simply won’t cut it. The only thing it really does is make you want him even more. As in, like, as soon as fucking possible. You pinch your eyes shut, forehead thumping against his chest, before looking back up at him with the most pleading look you can muster.
“Sam. Sweetheart. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before Dean barges in here ‘cause he’s bored,” you argue, and the tight-lipped, almost shy look he gives you almost has you melting right there. “Just need you. Right now. Please.”
Sam swallows hard, pulse thumping so hard in his throat that you can practically see it. The man is quite literally vibrating with need, a shaky breath escaping him as his eyes drop from yours, traveling back to your kiss-bitten lips. If he was attempting to be nobly subtle, he unfortunately fails. Miserably.
“…I don’t wanna hurt you,” he lands on, and it’s so Sam that you have to fight the primal urge to shut him up with another kiss.
“You won’t.”
He opens his mouth again, probably to argue, or say something far too responsible for your liking, but instead, he loses. His mouth surges firmly back onto yours with such force that your head gets tilted back, and you let out your second embarrassing sound of the night, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. His tongue shoves right back through the seam of your lips, licking hot against yours with such fever that the situation in your jeans starts to become a little unbearable.
“Okay,” he concedes, mostly to himself, tugging his belt open in one sharp movement that probably shouldn’t make you nearly as stupid-horny as it does. You want to complain about not being able to do it yourself—but you forget every word of protest the second he tugs down his zipper, and your gaze lands on the throbbing bulge in his boxers.
Yup. You’re going to be wet for fucking weeks.
“C’mere,” he purrs, his big, grabby hands scooping around your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the desk until you have to white-knuckle his shoulders to stay upright. He chuckles, the sound vibrating straight through you, his nimble fingers popping the button of your jeans, helping you to shimmy them away. You wiggle and squirm until they fall somewhere beneath Sam’s feet, and he kicks them aside, taking a greedy handful of your now bare ass. “So fuckin’ pretty.”
He latches his lips back just below the curve of your jaw, licking and suckling at your skin as his fingers squeeze hot over your thigh. Your eyes flutter closed, consumed by the arousal flooding your senses, and finally, fucking finally, you feel two thick fingers pull your ruined panties to the side.
The fabric peels from your core, sticking to your drenched pussy as Sam’s fingers replace it swiftly, and oh, it’s electric. His breath comes faster than before, warm against your neck in punched-out puffs as your body reacts to him, arching into his touch. Two tough finger pads glide easily as he parts your folds, applying a ghost of pressure over your clit for one heavenly second before he’s circling your entrance. You’re dripping. Clenching around fucking nothing. And still—he’s teasing you slow with those unfairly hot dimples popping on his cheeks.
“Sam,” you scold, but God, it’s weak. Real fucking weak. And when one finger dips into your weeping cunt, you damn near cry. “Please, baby. C’mon...”
“Shhh…” he croons, sneaking a quick, mean kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Just makin’ sure you’re ready f’me.”
You don’t get to complain before he’s adding another digit, curling just right, dragging across that spongy, fluttery spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back, and has a broken gasp tearing from your lips. It’s like he intended to shut you up, and it absolutely worked.
“You weren’t kiddin’ about the cop thing, huh?” he teases, and you squeeze his fingers like some sort of warning. He full body shudders like you’ve just done it around his dick. “Soaking wet. Musta’ been a little uncomfortable, baby.”
“You have no idea.”
Your twitchy fingers snake right back between the two of you, this time dipping below his waistband. Your fist circles around his thick cock, and you relish in the very sexy groan he spills into your ear. He’s hard enough to hurt, leaking onto your palm, and he drags his fingers out of you just to help you free his throbbing dick in one quick movement. You can’t help but ogle as you pump him once, twice, nudging that fat cockhead between your folds, his thumb holding the soaked gusset of your panties to the side.
“Ready?” he asks, just one more time, those dark, blown pupils studying yours, glittering with arousal.
“Shut up n’ fuck me already.”
Whatever hesitation he was holding onto snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. He kisses you hard, a rough collision of teeth and tongue. One hand braces on the edge of the desk while the other guides his dick through your dripping pussy, collecting the slick that’s practically caked to your core. When he finally presses forward, it’s slow. So damn slow.
So slow that you feel every bit of the delicious stretch, and his pulse pounds against you in more ways than one. Your back bows into the feeling as your chest presses against his, heat exploding through every nerve ending.
You’re panting by the time you take half of him, and when he’s fully seated, you have to suck saliva back in through your teeth before you drool dumbly. Sam’s thumb slides off from your panties, opting to splay his full hand along the expanse of your inner thigh, holding you as wide as you can go. The pressure in your belly coils so hot that for a moment, you wonder how the hell you’ve survived over two weeks without this.
A groan rips out of him, unfiltered and raw, and the second it hits your ears, it’s already vibrated through his chest and yours alike. Sam’s eyes slam shut for half a second like he’s just been electrocuted by the tight squeeze of your walls so perfectly around him. It’s beautiful, really, a sight that would have you dripping if you weren’t already. His jaw clenches hard, tendons standing out on his sweat-slick neck, fighting for control. His hips shift just slightly then, a gentle, testing rock that has fire licking up your spine.
“Fuck, yes,” you gasp, fingers curling around his strong forearm. And oh, that’s all he needed.
He pulls back gently, before snapping forward in a deep, enthusiastic roll. The desk creaks beneath you like it’s threatening to break, and suddenly, he’s not being so careful anymore.
You wiggle in his grasp, a plea for more, and he doesn’t spare a single moment. He scoops one leg up high over his waist, hips canting into you with a new kind of fever. The pace he sets is dizzying, desperate, damn-near sob worthy, his thick cock splitting you in half so fucking perfectly that stars explode behind your eyelids. Each thrust presses you harder into the desk, his breath huffing ragged against your neck. You reach for him instinctively, fingers splaying everywhere you can reach, taking greedy fistfuls of Sam.
“Y’take me so well,” he chokes, as he leans back to fuck you in powerful, measured strokes, driving you higher and higher with every slap of skin. His muscled abdomen clenches taut as arousal pulls at his belly, and you can feel the tension beneath your palm. “So—so fuckin’ good, just for me.”
White-hot pleasure crashes through you in waves with every ruthless pound. You barely have it in you to hold yourself upright, raising your hands so your fingers can dimple hard into the meat of Sam’s shoulder for even the slightest lick of leverage. Your cunt sucks him in like it was made to, the heavy upward curve of his cock brushing right fucking there, over and over and oh fuck, you can only hope the room is soundproof.
“S-Sam, don’ stop, p-please—”
Gasps and moans and pleas tear from deep in your chest, ecstasy bubbling through you so hot, that you have to bury your face in the crook of Sam’s neck before you wake up the entire city.
He hums into your hair, a smooth, comforting rumble, such a contrast to the way his cock bullies your sweet spot with every brutal thrust. Your lips find his throat, sucking sloppy kisses to his heated skin, but busying your mouth sure as hell doesn’t stop the string of cries from spilling into his ear.
“Oh, baby,” he coos, one arm slipping around your back to tangle in your hair, holding you tight to his chest. It leaves little space between you, if any at all—his hips snapping in quick, short thrusts that hit so deep that you swear you can taste it. “Feels so good, doesn’ it? So full? Tha’s what you needed, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm,” you manage, but it’s broken. So broken. It’s hard to remain coherent when you’re being fucked dumb, and Sam isn’t exactly leaving room for mercy. He squeezes his hand between you, thumb finding your clit with expert-level accuracy, and suddenly, you’re done.
You’re right there. Right fucking there. You tumble closer, closer, closer, until you’re teetering on the edge, dangling off, Sam’s perfect fingers and his perfect cock about to push you over, and—
“What the hell?!”
The sharp, deep voice of Dean-fucking-Winchester stops your orgasm cold like a silver blade slicing through flesh. Shock tears through you as you squeeze Sam tighter than a vice. His hips snap forward hard, way too fucking hard, his body enveloping yours as his palm slaps over your mouth to muffle your forced-out cry.
Sam’s torso practically crushes yours, sparing most of your dignity (thank God for those damn shoulders), your forehead thumping against his chest as his hand slips from your face. Your heart pounds like a snare drum against your ribcage, the strangest combination of sexual frustration and utter mortification washing through your veins.
“Get. Out,” Sam barks, quick, his strained voice sharp as he turns his head towards his brother. You’re suddenly incredibly thankful for your haste—because, hey, at least Sam’s jeans never made it below his waist—but yours sure as hell did, and your only cover is Sam’s body. You tilt your head just enough to peek through the sliver between Sam’s arm and his side, and oh. Oh God.
You’ve never seen Dean look like that before.
He’s white as a fucking sheet, and if you weren’t completely horrified, it would probably be hilarious. Standing in the doorway, he looks entirely scandalized, jaw hanging wide open, eyes threatening to pop right out of his skull, before he snaps out of it long enough to throw a hand over his eyes, turning his head away.
“Yeah, I—don’t you think I’d freakin’ love to?” he spits, shaking his head like he’s seconds away from losing his mind completely. “I mean, Jesus, what are you two, high schoolers? You’d think—”
“Dean,” you choke, and Sam flinches like he’d forgotten you were there entirely. Which, well, is unlikely, considering the fact that he’s still buried to the hilt inside of you.
“We’ve gotta go. Now. Apparently my, uh, alarm disarming skills are pretty rusty,” he stammers, the hand that isn’t covering his eyes reaching for the door. “Put your freakin’ pants on, and go. There’s goddamn cops outside.”
Well, shit.
If that isn’t just worst case scenario, you’re not entirely sure what is.
He finally stomps out of the room, muttering an irritated “seriously!” as he goes, and the second he does, a long puff of air floods from your lungs in a ragged sweep. Every cell in your body is practically vibrating for you just crawl in a hole, and never return—but there’s another part of you that’s just pissed. Because Christ, after waiting so fucking long, is a little bit of relief really that much to ask for?
You’re busy wallowing in your newfound despair, attempting to shuffle your ass backwards to get up, when two warm palms plant firmly on your cheeks, tilting your face up to look at his. Sam’s eyes are wide, undoubtedly panicked, brows pinched so hard that a sharp crease has formed between them.
“Fuck—‘m so sorry. Are you—you okay?” His thumbs swipe at the sweat beading at your temples, touch gentle now, fingers shaking where they cradle your face. “Did I hurt you?”
“What? I’m fine, Sam,” you grumble, but that sure as hell doesn’t ease the look of pure concern on his sweet face. Still, you push yourself back just a little more, and he takes the hint, pulling out so tenderly that you barely even hiss at the feeling. “…Physically, anyway.”
“You’re sure? I just, Jesus, just fuckin’ manhandled you, baby.”
Somehow, that makes you laugh despite everything. “Pass me my jeans,” you snicker, and he moves quickly, following your command without another word. His free hand fumbles with the zipper of his pants, and you hop off the table on wobbly legs.
But that fire in your core?
Apparently, a two-week dry spell turns you completely insatiable.
Sam stands again, passing you your now wrinkled jeans. But instead of taking them back right away, your hand lifts, curling around his collar again, pulling him close until only a lick of distance remains between your lips.
“We’re not done,” you whisper, and God, you watch his pupils swallow all colour in his eyes in real time.
“…Later?” he purrs.
“Later.”
AN: So, I’d actually planned to post something else, and then got distracted and wrote this in a couple of hours. My bad. Needed something fun 🤣
I’m going to take this opportunity to apologize for my very, very slow writing skills… there is so much going on in my life right now, it’s driving me crazy, and I can’t focus on my word porn as much as I’d love to. But hey, gimme a couple weeks, trust the process!
You knew Victor wasn't interested in sex, even before you began dating. But when he catches you in your shared bed with your hand between your legs, he insist you help him understand how to take care of you.
Warnings: fingering (non-penetrative), Victor Vale is a bit of a freak in a sociopathic kind of way, kind of one-sided sex, one instance of a petname (darling), Victor being slightly OOC but its okay i promise, fem!masturbation, reader is caught masturbating, mention of drugs (brief, unimportant), slight exhibitionism (mention of sharing walls), PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTE!!!
Author's Note: Been thinking long and hard about that one quote from Vengeful; “He had craved a lot of things—power, revenge, control—but sex was never one of them. Even with Angie… he’d wanted her, of course, wanted her attention, her devotion, even her love. He’d cared about her, would have found ways to please her—and perhaps found his own pleasure in that—but for him, it had never been about sex” (Schwab 51). And now I’m thinking about Victor's need for control and willingness to pleasure his girl even if he gets nothing from it/has no interest in sex at all, and how that would translate into mid-Vengeful Victor. AKA; I got an arc of Victorious (I love being a bookseller) and am back in this fucking building AGAIN.
Victor Vale had never been interested in sex.
You knew that. Had learned that pretty quickly after you started living with him, Sydney, and Mitch. He was never interested in the happenings on-screen when you all watched movies—though, to be fair, he never seemed all that interested in the movies to begin with. But you noticed it especially whenever you had to venture into a club of whatever sort. It turns out the kind of errands the two of you often run together take place in the seedy underbellies of the cities you found yourself in, and you were often Victor’s first choice of companion when he had to make his way into a strip club or topless bar.
It wasn't that he didn’t look. He did; Victor was always looking. Watching. But he never cared.
It only became more obvious when you got together. You had mostly pieced it together at that point, so you never tried. You didn’t care—sure, it’d be nice to find mutual pleasure with your lover, but there were hundreds of other ways to love him, and for him to love you. You never tried, and he never asked, never offered, never implied. You simply took care of yourself when you were alone.
It was a night like that when it happened.
You were on your back, sheets pooled around your hips, hair splayed on the pillow. It smelled like him; that’s what had done it. He’d slipped out of bed at some point, leaving you to stir awake like you always did, sheets still warm from his body. The pillow smelled like him, and it’d been days since you’d last been on your own, and, really you didn't even think. Just slid a hand under your shorts, between your thighs, and started to relieve that building ache.
You thought he was out. Thought he was in a dark alley, or a dingy bar, or a drug dealer’s den, looking for a way to stop the buzzing in his bones. You did not think he had simply stepped out for a moment, his body too hot, his head too full. So when he slipped back into the room, expecting to find you still asleep—probably curled into his side of the bed, like you always were—he froze in the doorway.
He knew you did it, of course. Very little happened around him that he didn’t know about. He knew, but he’d never known. Never seen it, heard it. Never been in the room, because you were nothing if not a respectful lover.
He watched for a moment, wondering what it would be like if he felt that way. If he craved sex the way you so obviously did. But he didn’t feel that ache the same way you did.
He did, however, feel the immediate need to help. Not for his sake, really, but instead to fulfill his innate need to take care of the people he decided were his. It was the same as his need to teach Sydney to protect herself, the same as his need to make sure Mitch stayed alive and moderately content. Victor Vale took care of his people, and that included you.
“Jesus—” you pulled your hand away the second you noticed him. “What the fuck? Victor—shit—fuck, Vic, sorry—”
You rolled instinctively, thighs pressing together in a shameful attempt to hide what you’d been doing. As if he hadn’t been quietly watching for the past minute. You stared at him, heart pounding, face flushed, eyes wide. You had been close—Victor could tell. He wasn’t interested in sex, no, but he was interested in the human body. In the intricacies of how it worked.
He could tell, because your thighs kept shifting and your chest was heaving. But instead of asking, of pretending he didn’t know exactly what you'd been up to, he steps closer.
“How often?”
You blink once, twice, foggy head taking a moment to catch up. “What?” You tipped you chin up to look at him in the dark, those pale eyes just as sharp in the absence of light as they always were. His hand, always so gentle when it came to you, pushed the blanket aside as he sat on the edge of the bed next to you.
“How often do you touch yourself?” He asked again, voice so even you’d think he was asking about the weather.
Those sharp eyes of his watch your throat bob, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “Victor—”
“Don’t lie to me,” and suddenly he seems angry. Frustrated, though with you or himself, it’s impossible to tell. “How often do you touch yourself?”
“I…” you swallow your sudden shame. “Every few days. Never—never while you're around.”
He hums, considering you. He’s calm again, reaching out to brush some of your hair off your face. “Teach me.”
“What?”
“Teach me how to pleasure you,” He rumbles, sliding into bed next to you. Your head spins as he tucks his body against yours, his warmth seeping into your skin. “You’re not meant to do it yourself. Let me take care of you.”
“Victor,” you huff back, rolling over to face him properly. He’s watching you, careful, calculating. “You’re not interested in that kind of thing. I know you aren’t. It’s okay.”
His head tilts a little, and it almost takes your breath away. He’s so gorgeous, always has been. It was one of the reasons you fell so hard. That soft blonde hair, each lithe line of his body, the way he always looked like he was scheming. Those sharp, pale eyes that always felt like they were boring into your very soul.
“No,” he concedes after a moment. “I’m not. But—” He cuts you off with a look, the same one he gives Sydney when she’s being particularly teenagery. “I am interested in you. In loving you, in pleasuring you. I will learn how to take care of you properly, even if I get nothing from it. That is my decision to make, darling.”
Damn him. Damn Victor Vale and his expert use of that stupid, stupid nickname. He knew it was the fastest way to make you cave, and he knew that it had worked this time when you let out a shaky breath and averted your eyes from his. You could practically taste his boyish grin when his mouth met yours.
“Teach me,” He insists again, and you let out a shaky breath. He lets you find his hand under the sheets, lets you gently guide him between your thighs. When his fingers meet the soft, wet skin of your cunt, his breath catches. For once in his life—or at the very least, since you’ve known him—Victor looks… lost. Nervous.
“Have you…” His eyes catch on yours, and you know the answer to your question before you even ask. No, he has never done this before. But he knew the body, knew how to work it like a machine, so it only took him a moment to find his way to that little bundle of nerves. He hesitates for a moment, brow furrowed, then rubs. Gently, but…
“Vic,” You mumble and shift, and he freezes, scanning your face. Reading you. “Like this.”
Your hand meets his again, and you start to guide his movements. After a moment, he takes over again, touching you the way you like, and you all but melt into him. This, at least, was familiar to Victor. His body welcomed yours, even as he kept his hand working steadily at your clit. He let you hide your face in his throat, let you curl into him like a cat in a sunny spot.
“More?” He rasped against your hairline, letting his fingers dip a little lower. He stopped when he felt you shake your head.
“S’enough,” You mumble against his throat. “I don’need anymore. S’okay, Vic.”
He seemed to relax a little at that. He’d been wanting to please, but any actual penetration was a bit much for him tonight.
He didn’t let his mind wander while he worked. He focused on keeping that steady pressure and rhythm you’d shown him, categorizing each little noise you made in his head. He only shifted when you bucked your hips a few times, whines pitching up. “Close?” He prompts softly.
“Cl…close,” you agree, biting your lower lip, conscious of Mitch sharing a wall with you both. You felt Victor’s wrist flex, giving him room to keep rubbing, even as you shifted. When your thigh brushed his crotch, you noticed something. Victor wasn’t… hard, per say. But he wasn’t unaffected, either. Even if his head hadn’t caught up to the situation, maybe never would, his body reacted naturally to yours.
It was that thought that pushed you over the edge. You came on Victor’s fingers, mewling softly, letting him keep going until it was too much and you had to tell him to stop. He retracted his hand, pulling it free of the sheets, staring at the slick on his fingers in the little light from the window. You pulled back to watch him, the way his eyes slid over the evidence of your arousal as if it were the result of a science experiment.
Maybe it was, for him.
“Do you want a tissue?” You murmur, unsure of what to do with him now that it’s over. You’d truly never expected to be in this situation with him. Victor hummed, icy blue eyes meeting yours. You reach over, pulling one from the bedside table, and reach to clean his hand for him. He lets you, the same way he lets your clean blood from his hand when he hurts himself. He watches you work, watches you crumple the tissue and toss it aside. He watches you settle again, body relaxed after the release you’d been needing.
“Thank you,” you hum after a moment. Victor hums back, sliding his arm around your waist. He wanted you close. Wanted to feel those relaxed muscles against his body. “You didn’t have to do that, Vic.”
He shakes his head, letting you shift so your back was to him. This was another one of those familiar positions, and he settled comfortably into it. His lashes fluttered, breath warm against your collarbone. “M’supposed to take care of you,” He rasps against your skin. “I take care of what’s mine. You just have to teach me how.”
You let his words sink in, let them settle in your chest. Victor had found a way to pleasure you, and would continue to find more, even if the sex itself did nothing for him. It wasn’t about sex for him.
that one house party scene in Vicious when victor buys a ridiculous amount of coke and his classmates get so alarmed by how out of character this is for him that they call eli
one of my favorite things about the sam x reader fics in the supernatural fandom is that we've all collectively decided that sam's an eater and no one ever deviates from that truth and i think that's beautiful 🥹
Ohoh smutty thoughts on ryland x pinup or rockabilly reader (totally not because i am obsessed with @prudejudee's theme...noooo)
I just think it would be incredibly hot for a geeky guy to have such a baddie partner lol.
Black/red kiss marks on his tan slacks...no comment!
No that's so real actually I am also obsessed with their theme. (And everything they write 🙂↕️)
Ryland would have your posters EVERYWHERE. He's got these big glossy prints he spent what little extra money he had after all his expenses and they're framed and hung in your shared apartment. He makes you sign each one—he's literally your BIGGEST fan.
I can also imagine him taking you to the few science conferences he still attends, and you dress up all pretty in your glossy black pumps and your leopard print top and oh, he's so smitten. He totes you around to all the people who mocked him for his thesis and delights when they do a double take. Yeah. He's got a baddie on his hip.
As for when he's got you at home? He loves when he's got you on your back, legs thrown over his shoulders, and he can feel the tips of your heels digging into his back. He also loves the scratch of your stockings on his bare skin.
"My gorgeous girl," he croons, balls deep in your cunt and mouthing at your throat. He can practically taste your smoky perfume. "C-Can't believe I'm this lucky, honey."
He LOVES those little bows on the front of the panties you usually wear, too. Ryland Grace is a certified panty freak. He will steal them right in front of your face and squirrel them away to play with later. Sometimes they end up wrapped around his cock.
Sometimes they end up in his mouth.
This is to say, Ryland is a munch. He WILL eat you out for hours, half of which is through said panties. I am also a firm believer that his preferred way to do it is on his knees, your body pulled to the end of the bed, so that he can fist his cock while he savours you.
There's nothing he loves more, though, than getting to watch you work. You always try to book your photographer when you know he's got days off, and there's even a plush chair in the studio especially for him to curl up on while he watches you pose. He's always so quiet, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted. His hands sit folded in his lap, just perfect enough to pass for purposeful.
Your photgrapher teases him, calls it Ryland's cuck chair. He doesn't care. He's just happy to watch his gorgeous girl work.
It doesn't last too long, though. He has fucked you in that studio before, and he will continue to fuck you in that studio until the end of time. His favourite way to have you is on the fake leopard-skin rug—the scratch of the faux fur makes his dick throb. He also loves that he gets to just tug up your skirt to get at you.
As for KISS MARKS ON HIS SLACKS???? DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE??? They're all concentrated around his crotch, because you can't help but want to tease him before you pull his dick out. Most of the time, it's while he's sitting in that chair that he gets them. You can't help but want to make it up to him once your shoot is done—your poor lover has been hard for hours waiting for your photographer to leave :(
thinking about body shots w sam turned to smutty body worship oh i need that
Oouuhh yess
Sam would be obsessed with body shots actually...
He'd put those big bear-paw hands of his on you so you can't roll away. The table is cold under you, your backless top offering little protection.
There's whiskey on you stomach, the same kind he always drinks. Tonight, though, he leans down and drags his tongue over the alcohol, latching momentarily.
You grip his hair, face flushed, heart pounding, panties wet.
He'd be sooo smug about it too... grumbling all happy and palming at your thigh. Thank god you decided to try this in the privacy of the bunker—Dean's out, Cas is god-knows-where—because fuck. You might cum from his tongue on you alone.
Sam is such a body worshipper, me thinks. He's constantly pawing at your curves, mumbling praise so incoherently you're starting to think he's not even saying it for you.
"So pretty..." As he kisses your throat
"My baby... so so soft..." As he squeezes your thighs.
"Ma'a big fan'o'these..." As he gropes at your breasts.
"So gorgeous, baby... how lucky'a guy am I?" As he leans in to mouth at your cunt.
So when he drags you closer on the table and easily pops the button of your jeans, mouth still suckling on the soft mound of your tummy, you know it's coming. You know to brace for his weight as he makes his attraction for you very well known.
Maybe colt comforting reader when things for her film aren’t going right 🫶🏽🫶🏽
Colt comes to your rescue (clumsily) when you have a hard day. fem!reader, 1k words
Very minor plot spoilers for The Fall Guy (2024) if any
“I think he’s mad at you.”
You pause where you’d been scrubbing your eyes with your hands, though you don’t look at him. Colt Seavers seems to follow you everywhere you go, and consequently plays witness to your many breakdowns. “Thanks, Colt. That’s astute.”
“Are you mad at me? Why are you mad at me? It’s been ten seconds,” he complains. He has a unique talent for sounding flirty and needy at once.
“No, Colt. I’m tired, it’s been a long day.”
Colt is grinning when you meet his eyes. He has blood, fake or real undetermined, drying in the scruff of his facial hair. You gesture to yourself in a slow circle in the approximate area, to which Colt smiles again.
“You look perfect,” he says confidently.
“You have blood in your beard.”
“Oh, right.”
You sigh heavily, taking the few paces back to a stack of safety mattresses for a quick break. You’ll get up and help whoever needs helping as soon as you can feel your toes. Colt stays where he is, squinting against the sun, strands of blonde ends kissing his tan forehead. The summer shoots are good for him, he always looks so beachy. You’re exhausted all the time.
As he notices. “Are you getting enough sleep?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“‘Cos I was sleeping badly and then I got this new mattress that has four hybrid layers, there’s a foam layer, and then there’s titanium springs,” —he sees your distant expression and his own flickers— “anyways, you could try it if you want. Test it out with me. Or– Not with me. With me if you want. We’d have fun. But not with me if you don’t want to.”
You’d laugh if you had the energy. “Do you wanna sit down?” you ask.
“God, yes, please.”
He has another talent for being insanely handsome no matter the day. You look like you’ve been badly rewarmed before serving, where he looks like he rolled out of bed with a smile. He’s smiling at you now, the foolish kind that’ll fluster you if you let him do it for too long. “Stop,” you say quietly.
“You’re doing amazing.”
“Thank you. You’re the only person who thinks so, unfortunately.”
You smile at him weakly. Worried you look pathetic, you turn your face to your lap and clasp your fingers together.
“That’s not true. Mayview is old-fashioned, that’s all, he was around when they were still killing horses on TV.”
You grimace. “Yikes.”
“But it’s the modern era. He doesn’t get to make you feel like shit, or I’ll make him feel like shit.” He pretends to charge a sucker punch.
You lean forward a touch, not quite hugging your knees but tempted to fold in on yourself nonetheless, the heat of the sun a memory on your neck as the evening begins and cloud cover floods in.
The safety mattresses beneath you squeak and shush against each other. Your weight and Colt’s slides together slowly. He might be pushing himself a little with his boot, but you pretend not to notice as his hand comes to rest between your shoulders.
“I just can’t do anything right,” you mumble.
As soon as you’ve said it you’re hoping he can’t hear you, but he does. He might have injured pretty much anything that can be fractured, sprained, or just plain broken, but he has stellar hearing. “You do everything right. You do!” he says, quietly and passionately at once, “They don’t realise it, but you’re the glue keeping this whole thing together.”
“What are you?” you ask, bemused.
His hand is warm on your shoulder, unafraid where he hesitates to answer, “I don’t know. The test dummy? The guy who gets set on fire a lot?”
“How is that?”
“Warm,” he says, beaming, his face so unexpectedly close that you can see the glucose shining in the blood on his cheek. Fake blood. “You wanna try it? I’m sure I could convince the guys.”
“No, I’m okay.”
His voice turns silky. “Good, I wasn’t gonna let you anyway.”
“Let me?”
“You could get hurt.”
You give in, melted maybe by his warm tones, or exhausted by a day of playing mom for a director who can barely tell his left from his right. Your face presses to his shoulder and your spine sags under his hand, prompting Colt to pull you flush against his side. He always waits for your signals for stuff like this, no matter how desperate he might confess to being. “Can you make them all leave me alone?” you mumble into his jacket, the fabric rough against your nose.
“Obviously I can, but… We could run away.”
“Where would we go?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere sunny. You can rub sunblock on my back, I can hold the umbrella over your head while you read.”
“They have stands for that sort of stuff. Or you can shove it in the sand, you know.”
“I wanna do something nice for you,” he interrupts, the sound of a smile in his voice as he gives you a friendly jostle. “That’s the point.”
“You’re plenty nice, Colt.”
And he is. He saw you were upset and he came jogging upto you valiantly, and your side-armed cuddle is really pushing the pep back into your life. You take a few deep breaths under the weight of his arm before turning to him, brave, ready to go back to work if it means he’s gonna drive you home tonight. “Thank you for caring.” You kiss his cheek, careful of the fake blood. “You’re super nice.”
You miss the heat of him the second you stand, but there really is work to do.
“I’m super nice?” he calls. “How nice is super? Nice enough to get another one of those, or what? Are they by the metre?”
You bite back a smile.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” He must catch someone’s eye. “She can’t hear me. It’s cool. We like each other.”
Nobody saves face quite like Colt.
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