Okay, get ready, because here's a lot: A, C, F, I, S, V, and X for Seijuro Mikoshiba? If that's alright?
A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)
He is, for lack of better words, a babe after sex. He’ll make sure you’re alright, that you enjoyed it thoroughly, and ask if you need a shower… He just likes to make sure his beloved is well, after all. And if you don’t want anything…? Well, expect cuddles!
C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)
Pearl, you are a disgusting person. I love it. Cum is just another nuisance to clean up, when he’s on his own - but when he’s with you… There’s something intensely arousing about seeing his cum dripping out of your holes, and he’s unafraid to admit so.
F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)
Seijuro could never decide on a favourite position, to be honest. He’s an active guy, and, as such, enjoys moving about during sex - honestly, any position that allows him access to every part of your body is great, for him. Maybe something a little risky, too - holding you up with his own strength as he fucks you is both fun and daring.
I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)
Seijuro can get a little carried away when he gets really into it, but he still cherishes you more than anything else, and, if you want it, is completely willing to slow down and be more romantic in the moment.
S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)
All. Freakin’. Night. Seijuro’s stamina in the pool isn’t a one-off thing, oh no. He’s gonna keep you up all damn night, and he won’t get more sloppy as he goes on. If you ask for it, Seijuro will give you a whole night of amazing sex.
V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)
His enthusiasm also plays off into his noises - grunts, groans, moans… Seijuro is a master of making you desperately aroused simply through his own obscene noises, and it’s marvellous.
X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)
This might be cheating a little, but let me just direct y’all over to this post on my main blog, rather than doing a copy & paste job (+ bonus Momo). ♥
Dean doesn’t really have a choice about the whole ‘dance’ thing—literally every other eight grader is going and his choices at this point are be a social pariah for the rest of school year, or man up and show his face. It’s like the worst Catch-22 ever. Dean doesn’t want to go—dances are freaking lame. This whole thing is stupid.
Friday night should be spent lounging on the floor with Cas, Charlie, and an extra large pizza, haggling over which Blockbuster rental they’re gonna watch first. Instead he’s getting dressed up for this extra awesome foray into social awkwardness. He tugs at his sleeves and glares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Everyone’s gonna be acting weird, just like they have all freaking week, giggling and talking about what they’re gonna wear and who they’re gonna go with like it’s the biggest freaking deal. They’re not even gonna have good music—he’s gonna suffer through Celine Dion all freakin’ night. Jeeze, Dean doesn’t even know how to dance.
“Aw, sweetie,” his mom insists, smiling and straightening his tie, smoothing down his shirtfront. She doesn’t really need to do that because it’s already ironed and pressed, so that the collar feels too tight around his neck, “You’ll have fun.”
Dean rolls his eyes, and shuffles his feet, but he doesn’t swat her hand away when she brushes a stray hair off of his face, cups his chin in her hand, and call him her ‘handsome boy.’
Sammy is more excited about this than Dean is, but that’s because Sammy is ten and he thinks it’s so unfair that you have to be in sixth grade before you’re allowed to go to school dances—Dean envies him his youth and innocence.
His mom takes pictures and his dad ruffles his hair.
“Go get ‘em, champ,” his dad says when he climbs out of the Impala, “have fun.”
It’s not as bad as it could be. It’s just their school’s gym, with ugly paper streamers and funky lights and a DJ. It smells like the gym; stale sweat and lemon scented floor wax. Charlie is already there by the time Dean walks in, and she runs up to him in an Iron Man themed dress and a smile, dragging him over to where she and Benny and Victor are already hanging out, well away from the throng of kids bouncing to the music (if you can call it that). Dean catches sight of Ash near the middle of a throng of seventh graders, screaming and whipping his mullet around gleefully.
Standing on the sidelines isn’t too bad—they’ve got snacks: little pigs in a blanket and these freakin’ delicious mini-Philly cheesesteak things, and pretzels. People flit in and out throughout the night—Charlie goes off to dance with Dorothy, turning tomato red and mouthing “OH MY GOD” back at Dean as she follows her onto the dance-floor (Dean gives her a thumbs up and mouths back ‘good luck!’)—Ash stops by and downs a cup of fruit punch because ‘Doctor Badass needs a little pick me up,’ Victor is commandeered into dancing with Bella (who, honestly, Dean thought had better sense than to participate in this shit, when he mutters as much, it turns out she’s not too dignified to stick out her tongue at him). Garth tries to get Dean and Benny to come out to the dance floor, “C’mon, don’t be shy guys; it’s fun”—but Garth thinks that Celine Dion is a revolutionary singer and his opinion is therefore, at best, suspect. Dean’s fine right where he is, thanks. Benny, awesome friend that he is, sticks by his side…until Andrea shows up making goo-goo eyes, and, well, Dean’s not that much of a dick.
Dean figures this is about as okay as its gonna get; his friends are happy, he’s got the tray of mini-Philly cheesesteaks all to himself, Crowley and Meg and their crew are holed up on the other side of the gym, and if he doesn’t pay too much attention to the music, this whole experience is relatively tolerable. Dean thinks that’s all he can really expect, which is, of course, when things take a turn.
“Hello, Dean,” he hears at his back and he turns, smile on his face to greet Cas, except, shit—Cas is like, not Cas. He’s dressed different for the dance, like Dean has, except Dean looks like a doofus in his tie and his nice shoes, and Cas, well, Cas looks…really freakin’ awesome with his white shirt unbuttoned a bit, and his dark washed jeans, and his hair mussed and spikey, and Dean just…sort of short circuits for a second, with a cheesesteak forgotten halfway to his mouth, his eyes bugging out of his head, his palms starting to sweat, and some weird fluttering sensation in his stomach that has absolutely zero to do with how many snacks he’s had.
Cas, for his part, cants his head to the side and frowns slightly, forcing Dean to realize that he’s staring and hasn’t said shit.
“Uh, heya, Cas,” he blunders, “Cheesesteak?”
Charlie chooses that exact moment to come over and unknowingly rescue Dean from himself (for fuck’s sake, Cas is a vegetarian and Dean knows that…what is wrong with him?).
Dean watches Charlie throw her arms around Cas and the two of them start a riveting conversation about Zelda. He might be having an epiphany: Cas, his best friend since Kindergarten (when Alistair and his douchey first grade friends ganged up on Dean in the sandbox, and Cas stormed over and miraculously took the three idiots out, and then pulled Dean up and over to the swing-set without saying two words), is actually freaking cute and like beautiful and shit (can you say that a guy is beautiful or is that weird? Dean’s not sure, but he doesn’t have another word besides awesome for the way Cas is making his skin tingly and his heart beat too fast every time he smiles…nah, that’s not right, cause Cas is always awesome, so now he’s like super freakin’ awesome and…hot, and Dean is starting to regret the delicious cheesesteaks because he feels like he might hurl).
Cas probably thinks Dean has lost his fucking mind because every time he says anything, Dean sort of gapes, unable to form words around the overwhelming magnitude of his revelation. Charlie keeps glancing between them as if she’s solving a particularly difficult puzzle, and Benny is too wrapped up in Andrea to really notice anything else.
“What?” Dean starts, shocked out of his reverie, which has something to do with the way that Cas has really dark eyelashes.
Cas shakes his head, “I asked you if you would like to dance…I think it’s the last one.”
“Uh,” Dean thinks that the butterflies have multiplied by ten at least; they’re making it hard to breath, “Uh, sure, yeah.”
Cas smiles small and shy before he offers his hand to Dean. Dean takes it, blindly, reaching, worrying about how his palm is sweaty and hot, and probably gross, and Cas is gonna think he’s nasty—but Cas just leads Dean out onto the floor. Not in the middle, but over to the side. It’s a bit darker here, and he doesn’t have to worry about idiots elbowing him (he only has to worry about not stepping on Cas’ feet, which suddenly seems really difficult and mildly terrifying).
“Relax, Dean,” Cas says, and it’s the same calm, soothing, no time for bullshit voice that’s soothed him through nightmares and comforted him when he broke his arm last summer, and stayed up with him all night that time his mom and dad fought so hard that Dad left and slammed the door behind him—and Dean, despite himself, feels less like he’s gonna die, feels calm around the butterflies, and grounded despite his frantic heartbeat.
Cas takes the lead, he places Dean’s hands on his waist, he places his own on Dean’s shoulders and they start to sway. It’s only then that Dean realizes that they’re slow dancing, at a dance, which is like a big deal. Then he realizes what they’re slow dancing to and he snorts.
“The Lion King?”
“I like the Lion King,” Cas counters, “and so do you…as I recall, you spent three weeks humming Hakuna Matata at every opportunity.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get cocky.”
Dean can’t shove him, because he’s got his hands on Cas’ waist, so he pinches Cas’ side instead, which causes him to yelp and squirm, ticklish bugger, and end up even closer to Dean, so that Dean can smell that Cas has put on cologne.
“Thanks for, ah, asking me to dance,” Dean says, with Cas’ face only inches from his, blue eyes sparking with laughter, “I don’t really know how.”
Cas ducks his head; his hair brushes Dean’s chin as he does so, and Dean’s heart starts beating like a Bug’s Bunny cartoon.
“I think you’re doing okay,” Cas says, still looking at his shoes, his arms are warm and heavy against Dean’s shoulders.
Dean isn’t sure why he does what he does next; it’s like he’s possessed, like Mufasa descended from the clouds and gave him a sacred order or some shit, but he takes one hand, and uses it to tilt Cas’ chin up, so that they’re eye to eye—that he’s done a million times before, but this—brushing his fingers against Cas’ cheek so that his eyes fly wide, and gently, quickly, leaning forward to press his mouth to Cas’—that is brand freaking new. It lasts maybe a second, just a touch of his lips to Cas’, which are full, and cool, and slightly chapped, but, in that second, fireworks explode behind Dean’s eyes, and the butterflies in his stomach have a freaking rave, and his heart explodes into confetti, and when he pulls back, Cas looks exactly the way Dean feels, feaking gobsmacked and awesome.
“That was—” Cas starts.
“Awesome,” Dean finishes.
Cas grins bright and fucking happy, like that time Dean made him a lumpy chocolate birthday cake from scratch with “Happy Birthday Cas” written crooked in blue letters and Cas tackled him in a hug and almost cried. While Dean is marveling at how fucking gorgeous he is, and that Cas should smile like that all the time, Cas leans forward and slots their mouths together again. It is even more fucking awesome, the second time, and it definitely lasts more than a second.
Elton John is asking if they can feel the love tonight, and Dean is pretty sure that’s exactly what’s happening. If Cas holding his hand on his way to the impala, and shyly kissing him on the cheek before he clambers into his sister’s car is anything to go by, so he can feel it too.