Elain wakes slowly, consumed by how nice the sheets and the sunlight feel against her bare skin. The moment is quiet and still and she languishes in sleepy contentment, feeling Lucien shift next to her.
She freezes, panic shooting through her veins. Lucien. She’s in Lucien’s bed and she’s naked and he’s next to her. The night before shoots back to her with mortifying clarity, and Elain manages not to groan out loud at her own stupidity. Cauldron, what must he have thought?
Last night, she’d been—well, drunk was a strong word. It was exceptionally hard for high fae to get drunk, in fact, and Elain knew because she’d been trying all evening. But she’d been tipsy, and had unfortunately begun to dwell on how frustratingly slowly her and Lucien’s physical relationship was progressing, despite it going remarkably well in all other ways. He’d been out late taking care of something in the village, and Elain, in a prolonged moment of boldness bordering on ridiculousness, had stripped naked and posed provocatively in his bed, waiting for him to come back.
And then she’d promptly fallen asleep.
In the daylight, her own stupidity is nigh unfathomable. She barely dares to breathe with the fear of waking him, but sits up just enough to eye the floor next to the bed. Her dress is right where she dropped it. If she can sneak out of bed, put it back on and get to her own room—but what then? It’s not as though Lucien didn’t see her when he came home, there’s no undoing this, no avoiding that conversation.
Elain is momentarily so paralyzed with indecision, holding a sheet to her chest with a tightly fisted hand, that she doesn’t hear Lucien shift again behind her.
His voice is rough with sleep, traced with what might be amusement—Elain turns, a rush of embarrassment rising in her throat. He’s propped up on one elbow, languid, casual. Smiling at her.
“Good morning,” She manages, clutching the sheet.
Lucien regards her for a moment, cocks his head slightly. He’s beautiful, the light flattering the cut of his cheekbones, lending a gleam to his mussed red braid and a little highlight to his gold eye. Focus, Elain.
“Come here,” he murmurs, not a command but an affectionate little request. It catches Elain off-guard, and she doesn’t resist when his arm snakes across her waist and pulls her to him, the sheet between her and his obviously bare chest. He nestles into her neck with a satisfied, sleepy little noise. He’s disarmingly warm, arm still slung around her, and Elain finds the tension leaving her body against her will. Lucien’s scent is thick around them, sweet and smokey at the same time; she can feel the weight of him next to her, the fuzzy sensation of him through the bond. It’s absurdly pleasant, it makes her want to melt even as confusion wracks her—where’s the questioning? The teasing, at least? He can’t possibly be so unconcerned with this situation.
Finally, she can’t stand it. “You… didn’t wake me up when you got back last night.”
“You looked peaceful; it seemed a shame to disturb you.” He almost mumbles it, like he’s so sedate with contentment it’s too much effort to articulate.
Elain nearly laughs. Peaceful. That’s one way of saying nude, she supposes.“Are you going to ask why I’m naked in your bed?”
“I wasn’t, no.” She can feel his breath against her collarbone. “If you’d like to tell me, I’m not opposed to it, but I’ve been enjoying it too much to question it.”
It’s almost annoying, how thoroughly his acceptance of this thwarts her mortification. She huffs, and it ruffles his hair. “I’m trying to be embarrassed, Lucien.”
“Mm.” A lazy adjustment of his head, his nose brushing under her ear. “Why would you be that?”
“Why would I be embarrassed?” Elain half-cries, drawing back so he’s forced to look at her. “Maybe because I’m naked in the presence of a man I’ve barely touched before, because I was trying to drunkenly seduce him and instead fell asleep?”
Genuine surprise flickers across his face, followed by sheer delight–Elain covers her face in her hands; Mother, she shouldn’t have said anything, here it comes–
“That’s what happened?” Lucien says, almost dissolving into laughter. “You were trying to seduce me?” His voice goes up a whole octave on seduce. Elain’s face is so hot it hurts and he tries to pull away from him, bury her head into the covers. “Elain, Elain, sweetheart,” he soothes her quickly, still chuckling as he moves to hold her, presses a kiss to her forehead.“You’re adorable.”
Elain is about to protest that she is not adorable, that there is nothing adorable about this situation and cute forehead kisses can’t fix it, but she’s suddenly distracted by the fact that the shift in Lucien’s position has left him on his stomach and the sheet pushed down around his thighs.
And also, he’s not wearing any pants.
Elain isn’t as bashful as she once was, but Mother save her, she can see Lucien’s entire ass. She feels her mouth drop open, quickly comes to her senses and claps a hand over her eyes with a little squeak. “Lucien! Why are you naked too?!”
He’s laughing almost too hard to respond. “You were; I figured my stripping down was only fair.” Elain, still with a hand firmly over her eyes, has to bite back a hysterical giggle; her mate is ridiculous and does not need encouragement. “And maybe you’d become mysteriously allergic to all clothes and I shouldn’t risk exposing you,” Lucien adds. “Which I wouldn’t mind at all, by the way.”
She wants to hit him with a pillow, but there’s a lot of nudity happening in this bed, so she does the safe thing and pulls the covers over her head with a groan. “You absurd man–go put pants on, for the Mother’s sake,” she says through them.
She can hear the smirk in his voice. “Wasn’t the goal of this endeavor to get me out of my pants? You’re contradicting yourself, dove.”
The risk is worth it. One hand holds the sheets and the other blindly lobs a pillow at his face, eyes still screwed shut.
He’s still laughing as he fends her off. “Alright, a moment, please, pet.” The mattress shifts under him as he gets up, and Elain hears him cross the room and open a dresser drawer. “Next time you decide to seduce me maybe send me a formal invitation, that way I won’t be so late I miss the whole thing. On nice stationary: ‘Dear Lucien, your seduction has been scheduled for ten PM, in Elain’s room.”
Elain has to smile at his absurdity, and feels like… maybe she should open her eyes a little. Just to check. He didn’t tell her not to.
He’s rifling through the drawer with his back to her, and she tentatively gets a second, more thorough look at his ass, at the slope of his leg muscles and the powerful lines of his back, where his braid hangs down over a series of scars. Maybe he can feel her looking, because he glances over his shoulder just long enough to give her a cheeky grin, and tosses her something she doesn’t identify until it lands on the bed. It’s a shirt. He’s still on his invitation bit: “Please RSVP so she doesn’t get naked for no reason again,” he goes on.
Elain tentatively ignores her embarrassment and plays along. “What would I tell you to wear?” While he’s still turned away, she relinquishes the blanket to quickly slip on the shirt–it’s long enough on her that it might as well be a nightgown. It smells pleasantly like Lucien and the wood of the dresser. “Formal dress doesn’t seem appropriate.”
He laughs. “What would you like me to wear? Anything in particular you’d like to strip me out of?”
“I could tell you to just arrive already naked. That would save time.” Emboldened now that she’s at least decent, Elain gets out of the bed and gathers up her clothes from the floor. “But you’d have to walk from your room to mine nude, then.”
Lucien’s slipped on loose trousers, and ties them up as he shoots her a wolfish grin. “You know I’d do it.”
“That’s why I wouldn’t ask! I don’t want you to traumatize poor Alis.” She stifles a smile as she passes him, heading towards the washroom.
“Where are you going?” He asks, and she pauses on the threshold.
“I have to put this on.” She raises the bundle of her clothes, full of ties and layers and things she needs privacy to wiggle into. Not like he hasn’t seen everything now, she thinks, flushing a bit, but she’d like to return to some semblance of modesty. “I can’t very well walk all the way back to my room wearing only your shirt,” she adds, awkwardly.
Something shifts in Lucien’s face, something playful and a little predatory as he steps towards her slowly.
“So don’t.” His voice is a lover’s murmur as he gets close enough to kiss her, close enough that Elain can feel the warmth of his only half-clothed body. “Stay here wearing only my shirt. It looks good on you.”
Elain is about to decline, but his hands find her waist and his lips find her neck and the words slip through her fingers like water. For all that they haven’t done very much together, Lucien has still managed to figure out which spots under her jaw turn her into a boneless mess.
“I’ll have breakfast sent up for us,” he murmurs into her skin, persuasive, as he braces one arm up against the doorframe to better pin her there.
“Don’t you have obligations to take care of?” A weak protest–it comes out almost as a gasp.
There’s a smile in his voice. He can feel her crumbling. “Nothing that can’t wait a bit.”
Since she woke up, Elain has primarily wanted to wash her mortification away in a long bath, put on something very modest, and pretend this never happened; she knows he certainly wouldn’t fault her if that’s what she did now. But she is also rapidly recalling why her less sober self was dead set on seducing him last night. And eating breakfast with him in his bed–really, any activity that would allow her to keep looking at him shirtless like this–is very, very appealing.
She huffs, and surrenders. “You win. I’ll stay.”
He grins, moves to kiss her properly–but Elain meets it with a grin of her own and ducks under his arm, darting out of reach.
“You have morning breath,” she says lightly, by way of explanation. She’s such a pushover when it comes to him that she feels obligated to give him a little trouble sometimes.
With the way he’s smiling at her, he knows it. “Then I’ll just be a moment.”
Lucien goes to brush his teeth, and Elain dives back into bed, burrows under the sheets warm and happy and waits for her mate to join her.
tbh i definitely do have a bit of fondness for falling a bit accidentally into kisses, like john just putting on his coat and grabbing his shopping list off the counter and saying all right i’ll be back in a bit, try not to spill that on the lino, would you, and sherlock looking up from his experiment, wait where are you going? and john says just the shops, I won’t be long, and leans in and gives sherlock a quick peck on the mouth and heads out. and then two or three minutes later he walks back in and is like, did i? and sherlock is still sitting there all pink-cheeked and flustered and he goes, um, yes? and john purses his lips a bit in thought and nods and says well. is that? and sherlock says, very quickly and a bit embarrassed, yes, i think so.
so john comes back in and slides both his hands along sherlock’s jaw and studies his face, his wide, uncertain eyes, the flush on his cheekbones, the tiny, breathless part of his lips, and then john leans in and kisses sherlock properly, carefully, kisses him softly but surely, and sherlock leans into it and hums in pleased surprised and they just stay there a moment, reveling in it, the smell of each other, the feel of each other, the thrum of their heartbeats fast but in sync, until finally they each pull away and smile bashfully, and then john says all right well, and sherlock says yes, the shop, and they blush and john rubs a hand along the back of his neck and heads out again and then sherlock calls after him oh john? pick up some wine, too, don’t you think? and john reappears in the doorway and gives him a crooked grin, yeah, wine, okay, and takes off, and neither of them stops smiling for an hour.
He reaches for his grace to find that it’s gone, but his hands are still there, so he reaches out with those, instead. He claws his way up and out of the cold and damp and crushing weight, holding his breath, chest aching.
As soon as he breaks the surface, he lies there, still half buried, and gasps in lungful after lungful of cold, fresh air.
It’s only when his breathing finally calms that he pulls himself the rest of the way out of the ground. He tries to stand but winds up falling to all fours, fabric of his damp clothes chafing against his knees, his elbows. He settles for kneeling, instead, as he tries in vain to shake the sand from his hair and clothes, wipe it from his skin.
As the sun finally peeks over the mountains, he twists his head, looks over his shoulder.
They buried him where he fell. In the early morning light, he can make out the shape of his own damaged wings seared onto the ground, stretching out on either side of where he lay. There is no cross marking his grave, no cairn, just a small circle of carefully placed rocks and a pair of familiar bootprints not yet washed away by the elements.
Castiel turns back around. He rises slowly to his feet and stumbles into the house.
Somewhere around the seventh time Kara saves
Lena’s life, she decides it’s time to tell her. They’re flying over the
reservoir, the echoes of Lena’s screams to let her go playing over and over
again in her mind.
The half of the plane she’s still holding is starting
to slip, and Kara lifts Lena up higher, until they’re at about the same height.
“You need to climb on my back,” she tells her. “Otherwise the plane is going to
slip. Do you think you can do that?”
Lena nods, but her hands are still shaking. She
reaches one hand out to grab onto Kara’s cape, and Kara doesn’t let go until
both Lena’s arms are tightly wrapped around her shoulders.
“Hook your legs around my waist,” Kara says, ignoring
the way she can feel Lena’s heart beating through her chest. It’s the not the
moment to overthink physical contact, and Lena immediately does as she’s asked.
Kara loosens her grip. “Whatever you do, don’t let go.”
Warnings: Alluding to abused Reader, Protective!Ivar, Posesive!Ivar
“You, where is my daughter!” Your mother bellowed, looking up at the Ragnarssons as they lazed about outside the main hall. Ivar could hear Sigurd snickering next to him as the angry woman glared at him.
Everyone knew Ivar was fond of you, in fact no one dare came near you or lay a hand on you lest Ivar find out, which amused Sigurd because anyone who wanted you would simply look for Ivar.
“I do not know where (Y/N) is, perhaps you should keep a closer watch over her.” Ivar drawled and your mother turned a faint shade of red.
Summary: Derry was supposed to be an escape from your mother’s bad decisions and her hatred towards you for being ‘special’. But upon your arrival there you discover the eerily quiet town has a sinister reputation and a history that repeats itself.
“Are you sure they’ll like me?” You ask Beverly, pressing the phone closer to your ear. An old, fading, torn at the edges polaroid picture was held in your hand, the photo she had given you as a final present before you left Portland for good. Fuck your mom and her “unstable” lifestyle. She probably didn’t want you to see the tequila hidden under the bed.
“They will, I promise.” Her distorted voice comes through the ancient home phone, crackling with electricity.
“But you said-”
“They won’t know your last name,” Beverly assures. “And if they find out, they probably forgot anyway.”
A/N: Bucky has been a little pouty while I wrote a few Sebby stories so I want to give him a little attention. My last two Seb stories have been smut intense so I thought I’d test out some lighter fare. Props to all the writers who take on Avenger stories on a regular basis - this has been a challenge.
Looking around the living room in the Avengers compound, you couldn’t help but smile. The team had gathered to celebrate a grueling but successful mission and everyone was in great spirits. The drinks flowed and laughter rang out as you, Tony and Thor performed a rather animated reenactment of the covert operation. As the three of you shamelessly exaggerated the events of the past week to position yourselves as the stars of the mission, Natasha and Bruce heckled drunkingly from the audience. Steve and Bucky, not feeling any effects from the beers they were downing, intermittently rolled their eyes and threw beer caps in protest.
Collapsing on the couch beside Steve after taking your bows, a twinge of warmth spreads through your body. Even though you had only joined the Avengers three months ago, you had quickly developed a deep connection to your team members. They were the closest thing to a family you had ever had. Looking up at Steve as you nuzzle his chest, you smile gratefully at the man who had rescued you from your bleak captivity as a Russian operative. Taking in your inebriated state, he frowns and wraps a strong arm around your shoulder, trapping you in a protective grip.
“You better slow down on the martinis,” Steve cautions.
“You’re such a big brother,” you chuckle, reaching up to ruffle his perfect hair.
God he was handsome. You giggle, remembering the first time you kissed Captain America. His wet, full lips pressed softly against yours. It was so sweet, so gentle, so…platonic. It was in that moment, you both realized you were better suited as friends than lovers.
Steve kisses your forehead and looks around the room. "Well you’re drunk and I don’t want any of these punks to take advantage of such a sweet, innocent thing like you,“ he says jokingly, but with a hint of serious intent. "Especially that one.” He juts out his chin to motion to the handsome, solitary figure sitting across from you.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Just the mere thought of the super solider was enough to bring a stain to your cheeks and to your panties. Looking shyly over your shoulder, you sneak a quick look at Bucky who is silently peeling the label off his beer bottle while ignoring the lively chatter around him. Damn he looked hot tonight in his tight black jeans and t-shirt that perfectly outlined every hard muscle in his body. Your head spins as you drink in the soft curve of his lips and sharp lines of his cheekbones. As your gaze runs down the chiselled sweep of his jaw to his neck, Bucky’s body suddenly stiffens. Sensing your stare, Bucky’s head snaps up, his icy blue eyes bearing down onto yours. You bite down hard on your bottom lip as a shiver runs down your spine. Watching your reaction, a mix of frustration and pain wash over Bucky’s features. He turns away and bolts from his seat, scrambling to join Nat and Bruce in conversation.
Heart dropping, you lower your head into Steve’s chest and sigh. From the very first moment you had met Bucky - his calloused hand wrapped around yours in a forgotten handshake while he stared deeply into your eyes in stunned silence - he had awakened a part of your heart you thought had been destroyed. But after months of trying to establish even a simple friendship had gone nowhere, you resigned yourself to the fact that the attraction wasn’t mutual. He seemed to ignore you at every turn, only acknowledging your existence when it became necessary for training or during a mission. Steve’s constant explanations that all Bucky needed was more time to get past his trust issues were wearing thin. You sensed there was something deeper at play but you just couldn’t figure out why Bucky Barnes hated you.
Before you can reassure Steve that Bucky can barely stand to lay his eyes on you, let alone any other body part, you hear Tony scoffing loudly at Cap’s claim.
“Innocent my ass,” he drawls. “There ain’t nothing innocent about those noises coming from her bedroom at night.”
“What? Wait no,” you protest over the ensuing hoots and catcalls. “I’ve never had anyone up in my room. I haven’t even had sex since I moved in here.”
You regretted the words the second they left your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bucky turn his full attention to the discussion and take a few steps closer to you.
“Bullshit,” coughs Natasha. "Guys are constantly hitting on you when we go out.“
“What about that really cute doctor that keeps asking you out? Bill…umm Bob…no Ben!”
You glare hard at her, silently willing her to stop. She innocently takes a sip of her drink and raises an eyebrow at you before glancing sideways at Bucky.
“Who the hell is Ben,” Steve and Bucky shout in unison. You flinch at the sound of Bucky’s tense voice. Turning to face him, you’re greeted by his blazing eyes and the sight of his metal hand forming a tight fist. This uncharacteristic show of emotion aimed squarely at you makes your head swim.
“Ben is no one, he’s just this guy I met,” you stammer in confusion, your eyes locked on Bucky’s. "We haven’t gone out on a date or anything. I’m not interested in Ben.“
Upon hearing your exasperated confession, Bucky’s eyes soften and his lips curl up into a slight smile. The blood is pounding so loudly in your ears, that you barely hear Tony’s response.
“So if you’re not getting your rocks off with Doctor Ben MD,” he asks slyly “then which one of us is making you so hot and bothered every night that you need to, ahem, relieve the tension?” Tearing your eyes off Bucky, you look over at Tony. You begin to roll your eyes hard as he wiggles his eyebrows and shoots you an over-the-top seductive look. Not to be outdone, Thor pushes out his massive chest and strikes a regal pose. Bruce meanwhile fidgets with his hands before giving you a shy smile. Turning to Steve for backup, you’re surprised to see him playing along - looking up at you through his long lashes with a sweet, puppy dog face. You punch his arm in disgust.
“Et tu, Rogers?”
Not daring to glance over to the one person you know can make you come undone with just a look, you miss the wide smirk on Bucky’s face.
“Puu-lease,” you growl, gaining your composure. “I can control my urges…”
Pausing, you catch Tony’s gaze making its way down your body and you are struck with urge to turn the tables. Rising from your seat you walk over to him slowly, hips swaying. Leaning over to provide him with an unobstructed view of your ample cleavage, you take the martini from his hand and murmur seductively, “which is a lot more than I can say about you Stark.”
Tony swallows hard as you straighten up to take a sip of his drink before raising it to toast to your willpower. "I however, am the master of my domain.“
Groans fill the room.
“I understood that reference,” chuckles Steve proudly.
“Hold up sweetheart,” snickers Tony. "Are you trying to tell me that you could go longer without having an orgasm than moi?“
"That’s not what I meant Tony,” you huff, shaking your head as you make your way back to your seat. “But sure, I bet you would crack way before me.”
A devious smile spreads across Tony’s face. "Challenge accepted.“
Confused looks are exchanged amongst the other team members while you narrow your eyes at Tony, waiting for him to deliver the punch line. He just continues to smile.
Steve rubs his forehead. "Tony, tell me you’re not suggesting that you two have a contest to see…”
Tony cuts him off with a wave of his hand and jumps to his feet. "No, not just the two of us, we are all taking part. Don’t forget, it’s my turn to organize the team building exercise for the month.“
"You are crazy if you think I’m going to take part in this deranged experiment,” exclaims Bruce.
Natasha tilts her head to the side and runs her hand up Bruce’s chest. “Don’t think you can hold out Banner?” He laughs nervously in response.
Ignoring the protests from the team, Tony buttons his jacket and begins to pace back and forth, silently in thought.
“I’m in,” volunteers Bucky as he sits down next to you.
Tony points to Bucky in appreciation. "Now there’s a team player.“
Bucky looks straight ahead, avoiding your shocked expression as he takes a long swig of his beer.
"OK, here are the rules.” Tony announces with a flourish.
“No orgasms of any kind - whether achieved by manual or oral stimulation, intercourse or by using any type of device - will be permitted during the contest period.”
“Players will refrain from touching other contestants suggestively, outwardly seducing them or from walking around in an unacceptable state of undress until after the contest is over. Sexual innuendoes and basic swearing and/or dirty talk will be allowed in the general context of our day to day banter.”
“There will be no external stimuli allowed in the compound. So no strippers, porn, groupies, etcetera.”
Steve leans over to Bucky. “We have groupies?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders.
“And now to make it interesting,” Tony says with a smile.
“The first two people to drop out of the contest will have to cook all the team meals for one month.”
“Oh god, please don’t let it be Natasha,” jokes Steve, narrowly dodging an olive thrown by the red-head.
“The third person eliminated will have to organize the monthly team building events for the rest of the year. Good luck topping this one.”
“The fourth person eliminated will execute any weekly social activities requested by the team for the next four months.”
“The fifth person eliminated will file the weekly team status reports for the next three months.”
“I want you to get that one Bucky,” Natasha says gleefully. You try not to laugh as you picture Bucky hunched over a computer swearing while he stabs the keyboard with his two index fingers.
“And for the last two standing. The winner will be entitled to request, within reason of course, three favours from the runner-up that can’t be refused.”
Tony pauses to look at you. “You do own a bikini right? You’ll need something to wear while you wash my cars.”
You raise your middle finger. “Bite me.”
Bucky silently chuckles at your words.
Bruce clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “So, just how will we, ummm, determine if someone has well, you know…”
Tony looks around the room with an expression of pride. "F.R.I.D.A.Y., initiate the Climax Protocol.“
"Protocol Climax has been initiated.”
Steve chokes on his drink. "What the hell is the Climax Protocol?“
"The Climax Protocol is a program developed by Tony Stark to identify the occurrence of an orgasm within a subject,” answers F.R.I.D.A.Y. while the team sits in complete silence. "The program measures the activity in areas of the brain impacted by sexual arousal including the nucleus accumbens, ventral tegmental area, amygdala, cerebellum, and the pituitary gland along with the levels of neurochemicals present.“
"You’ve gone mad,” says Bruce as he scrutinizes Tony with a look of bewilderment. "What on earth possessed you to create this program?“
"It’s for science,” answers Tony matter-of-factly. "I even have portable devices for us to wear when we leave the compound.“
"Wait,” stammers Steve. "Not those silicone bands you made us wear on that mission in Budapest? I thought those were to monitor our heart rates.“
"Well, technically yes they do, among other things.” Tony purses his lips tight to suppress a laugh while he watches Steve’s face turn pink.
The team erupts with laughter and once again a celebratory mood fills the room.
It’s almost midnight when the team starts in on Thor’s cask of Asgardian mead. "The drink of the Gods,“ exclaims Thor as he pours you another glass of the potent brew.
You sink into the couch with your drink, wedged cozily between Steve and Bucky, who strangely enough hasn’t left your side since the talk of the contest started. After months of barely giving you a passing glance, suddenly having Bucky so close kicks your senses in overdrive.
Silently drinking your mead, you try hard to focus on the conversation Steve and Bucky are having but you can barely form a simple thought as you breathe in Bucky’s scent and feel his taut body moving next to yours. The low, sexy timbre of his voice is like a siren song, drawing you closer to drown in his ocean blue eyes or become mesmerized by the way his lips move when he speaks. Your mind starts to drift, imagining how sweet those full lips would taste, how they would feel as they made their way down your body. Wetness pooling between your legs, you start to imagine Bucky’s warm, wet mouth on your pussy.
Deep in your fantasy, you at first don’t think anything of it when Bucky leans into you several times during his conversation with Steve. By the time you realize he’s been inching his body closer to you with each pass, his thigh is already pressed up hard against yours. As he reaches across to playfully punch Steve’s shoulder in response to something he said, Bucky deliberately brushes his metal arm across your breasts, sending a jolt of electricity down to your core. He chuckles lowly as you moan into his ear.
"You alright doll,” he says with mock concern as he watches you squeeze your thighs together.
“Or do you need to head back to your room to take care of that?”
Ignoring the scowl on your face, he casually drapes his arm behind you on the back of the couch and starts to lightly trace his metal fingertips on your bare shoulder.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t go down so quickly on me. Well, at least not until after I win the contest.”
He tilts his head and winks at you. You blush deeply - half from arousal, half out of anger at his smug cockiness - and cast your gaze down to avoid his stare. Eyes drifting to his lap, a smirk starts to spread across your face. You look up at him coyly through your lashes.
“How cute are you Barnes, talking the big game,” you purr as your hand coasts up his thigh and stops just sort of a bulge that’s forming in his tight jeans. "You should really give that tongue of yours a rest though, for when you lose of course.“
"You’re going to need it for what I’ve got planned for that smart mouth of yours.”
Your hand dips slightly between his legs and squeezes his thigh. His eyes flutter closed for a brief instant but snap open quickly when Thor calls out his name.
“Young Bucky,” he roars. "Are you worthy to possess the power of Thor?“
You both look over to see Tony, Natasha and Bruce gathered around Thor’s Mjölnir. Bolstered by the mead, they were each taking turns to see who could lift the hammer from the coffee table.
Bucky shakes his head laughing, "Not even close.”
“What’s wrong soldier,” you tease. "Can’t get it up?“
"Try me doll,” he murmurs, throwing his arms wide open in invitation while he sits back smiling.
Before you can answer, the team begins to loudly cajole you into testing your worthiness. Standing up from the couch, the effects of the asgardian liquor washes over you and you find yourself swaying back down towards your seat. Two hands quickly wrap around your waist to steady you. As you reach down to squeeze what you assume are Steve’s hands, you feel the touch of cool metal. Looking down, you’re met with Bucky’s smug grin and the feeling of his fingers moving down your backside. You clumsily swat his hands away and stagger over to the Mjölnir.
You have never been this close to Thor’s hammer and you find yourself in total awe of it’s power. As you absentmindedly begin to circle the tip of the handle with the pad of your thumb, you look up to see Bucky watching your movements closely while biting down on his bottom lip.
“Well this could be fun,” you think chuckling to yourself. Hearing your laugh, Bucky furls his brow and leans forward, hands clasped tight with his elbows resting on his thighs, waiting to see what you have planned.
“Mmmmm, so hard and long,” you sigh as you begin to run your fingers up and down the leather clad handle, your eyes fixed squarely on Bucky.
Bucky crosses his arms and leans back on the couch, shaking his head while he forms his lips in a tight, disapproving smile.
“It’s so big, I can barely get my hand around it.”
Fingers wrapped tightly around the handle, you begin to move your hand up and down slowly. You give Bucky one more smile before you close your eyes and throw your head back. Obscene, breathy grunts start to spill from your mouth as you tug at the ridged shaft.
You smile as you hear Bucky start swearing in Russian under his breath. You bring your head forward and open your eyes to meet the amused looks of your teammates. You give yourself a mental high-five when you notice Bucky has strategically placed a large pillow in his lap.
“Like I said Cap,” mutters Tony, rolling his eyes at Steve, “innocent my ass.”
Turning to Thor, you smile sweetly and shrug your shoulders.
“Guess I’m not worthy to rule Asgard.”
Slightly dazed, Thor picks up his hammer and bows in front of you.
“That my lady, was a performance worthy of a King. If you would…I need to…I must go now.”
Natasha sidles up beside you as you watch Thor make his way to the elevator.
“Damn girl, are you trying to kill Barnes,” she whispers approvingly. "He looks like he’s ready to explode.“
"That’s the plan,” you return with a wicked grin.
You chat with Nat for a few minutes before heading back to the couch to sit beside Bucky who is trying hard to avoid eye contact.
“Are you ok doll,” you goad, patting the pillow on his lap. “Or do you need to go take care of that?”
You see a slight smile cross his lips.
“I hope you’re not ready to give up Barnes, ‘cause I’m just getting started.”
“No way babe,” he murmurs, turning to lower his face within inches of yours. "After that little show, I’m making you my mission. I can’t wait for you to make those pretty noises for me all day long with that dirty porn star mouth.“
He reaches up to run his thumb across your lower lip. You struggle to suppress a moan.
While you’re deciding whether to slap him or suck his thumb into your mouth, F.R.I.D.A.Y. interrupts your thoughts.
"Thor Odison has achieved climax at approximately 1:12 am.”
After a few seconds of silence, the team erupts in laughter.
Hi! It's my birthday today (yeah I have the same birthday as Park Jimin aint it cool), so I wanted to request something with Jimin. Maybe an assassin au? Or a random fantasy au, like a dragonshifter au, where a person can switch between dragon and human form? Idk it doesnt have to come out today, I just wanted to treat myself to a request today cause I dont normally do this. Thanks so much!
happy birthday kiddo!!! here’s dragon!jimin ~
your entire village knows about jimin
they know that he’s locked up within the cave at the upper east side of the mountain that casts a long, dark shadow over your village
and they all whisper,,,,,what a hideous boy he must be,,,,,,part dragon
and because your village knows jimin, they know you
the keeper of the dragon, the poor child that has to go up there and feed the ‘monster’ that has brought so much terror to the hearts of villagers
and you know - that all of this hatred for jimin is baseless bullshit
yes, he’s a dragon - but his form is mostly human and his personality is docile and shy
lore had lead people to believe he was malicious, ten feet tall, and grew horns on his spine,,,,,,but he was nothing like that
it took you three weeks,,,,,three entire weeks,,,,,to get him to show himself to you when you finally decided that fine, if no one else was going to take care of a poor boy banished to live in a cave, then you were going to be the one to do it
at first, you were a bit frightened too, but you trudged up there with clenched teeth and a bag of food to offer whatever was waiting in that cave
upon entering it, the dark and musky place echoed your footsteps. you didn’t hear anything else, but yourself - the dragon must be hiding
you were sure it was a little bizarre, but you started calling out. you introduced yourself, waited for an answer, and then went on to repeat what you said
finally, after three weeks of telling aimless stories of the village and waiting for replies you got one
in a hushed, gentle voice you heard a simple greeting. the dragon had said your name. he had been listening
“you remembered! im thankful. here, i brought more food. ill leave it at the entrance unless,,,,,,,,you want to come and get it?”
for a moment it was silent and maybe,,,,you thought,,,you were asking for too much
but then - footsteps, human footsteps
and the “dragon” emerged
blonde hair littered with tangles and overgrown bangs, eyes ringed with red from insomnia, and pale almost sickly looking skin - which you imagined came from his living conditions
looking up at you, his eyes were a brilliantly deep brown, that you were sure at one point glowed in the sunlight
but now, he looked weak and tired. this was the evil dragon everyone else seemed to fear
but in reality he was a thin, starving boy
you realized too, that the bags of meat you had been bringing were not going to benefit him at all. you made a mental note to bring fruits and vegetables next time, maybe something sweet
he asked, quietly. eyes looking at the bag in your hands desperately.
“here, but also -”
you pulled the bottle of water which you brought up the mountain with you and handed it to jimin
he stared at it, but with shaky hands and a bow of his head accepted it
watching him eat, bare hands and crouched down like a frightened animal, made your heart ache
was jimin even a dragon? he just looked like a poor orphan, someone in need of a warm home and good meal
he seemed aware of your looks and slowed down, closing the bag and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand “t-thank you”
you wanted to say something, but just as he appeared from the dark, he disappeared back inside
after that, you visited jimin even more often. you brought better food, hauled blankets up the mountain for him, at one point you even attempted to gift him a comb to tame his hair
but he had looked at it, tried to bite it, and said he didn’t know what to do
you had giggled, telling him that if he wanted - you could help
he looked like a chlld, with wide eyes, watching carefully as you ran the comb through his long bangs
not to hurt him, you tried to get through the knots with small, precise movements
at some point, jimin had closed his eyes. entrusting himself to you completely
your relationship with him only got better, you’d never even seen his dragon form, just the human boy who awaited your arrival everyday with eagerness
a friend of yours had made a joke that the dragon was becoming your boyfriend - you spent hours up there with him
but you blushed,,,,,jimin?,,,,,,boyfriend?,,,,,
well there was no opposing it, after getting his hair unmatted and the sparkle returning to his eyes, jimin was handsome
and, most of the time he had his chest exposed. some kind of healed scars ran down his back, but other than that he was lean. getting more toned with the better diet
you tried to shake the thought, but when you saw him the next time,,,,,,, smiling, innocent eyes and soft voice,,,,,,,,,,,,ok,,,,,,,,he was kinda like totally your type
you were humming happily up your climb to see jimin one sunny afternoon, usually you had hated the hike but now it made you happy
you didn’t notice the other villager following you up, your lovestruck neighbor since you were kids who had taken unkindly to your job as ‘keeper of the dragon’
once you got to the entrance of the cave, you set down the bag with you and opened your mouth to call out jimin’s name
that is until,,,,,,a hand clasped around your mouth and you let out a muffled sound of surprise
turning you around, the neighbor told you not to scream it was only him
letting go you caught your breath and asked “what are you doing here?”
he snorted, eyes averting to the mouth of the cave “i wanna see that demonic thing you’ve been taking care of. running up here like you’re married to it.”
you winced at the disgust in his tone, who was he to talk - he knew nothing about jimin
but without even letting you retort, he took a hold of your waist and smiled with wicked intent; “how about this? i kill that thing and you come down to the village and start taking care of me. a human, not whatever creature-”
your hand came up on its own, slapping across his face with a sound that scared some of the birds in the surrounding trees
“you better not lay a hand on him. if you even dare -”
“you’ll what? what will you do, you’re weak and no one in the village understands your obsession with a dragon. you’re crazy, the villagers won’t even notice you if you’re gone -”
and with that he pulled the dagger he’d brought with him, holding it dangerously close to the skin of your throat
closing your eyes, you tried to wrench his hand off of you, but even if something happened in the back of your head you prayed he wouldn’t find jimin
you didn’t have to worry though, because with a roar that rumbled like thunder and a body three times the size of any person
the dragon finally showed it’s true form
emerging from the cave was jimin, but he had transformed into a large, brightly scaled dragon, with a tail ten feet long and a wingspan as wide as the mountain
his eyes locked on those of your neighbor, who began to shake - dropping the dagger in his hand
in a deep, unrecognizable voice jimin hissed out “let them go”
your neighbor obeyed, letting his grip loosen as you pushed out of it and backed yourself into the shadow of the cave
jimin flee above the opening, diving down to unleash another sound that made the world feel like it was shaking
your neighbor needed no more convincing, he was running and tumbling his way through the brush to get away from the dragon
and you watched, protected by jimin who landed himself in front of you and blew wind from his nose that practically barreled your neighbor right to the bottom
after he was gone, jimin turned his head to look at you
his eyes were a shimmering yellow, long teeth visible through his partially open mouth. his scales were a mix of burnt orange and gold, beautiful
you took a step closer to him, hand out to touch the scales of his skin
he didn’t flinch, but let you comfortably take in this side of him. the side your village had learned to hate.
once you were close enough, jimin muttered something in a language you were sure died out years ago and in an instant his form was shrunken, the wings disappearing and left in the small mist was jimin, human jimin
his teeth were still barred in anger, the fangs retracting slowly into his mouth
a line of scales still visible on his cheekbones and the yellow of his eyes just made him all the more handsome
and before you could stop yourself, you ran into his arms, pulling him close
jimin was shocked, slightly weak from suddenly transforming, but after a moment he lifted his hands to embrace you back tightly
you buried your head in his neck and thanked him for saving you
you could feel him slightly relax when he realized you weren’t afraid of his dragon form, you didn’t think he was horrid, you were actually nothing but happy to be in his arms in that moment
“nothing will hurt you ever again, i will forever be by your side.”
his voice was still gentle as he spoke, but the sense of urgency was real.
you weren’t the dragons keeper anymore, you were jimin’s most beloved treasure and he was going to protect you till the end of time - he vowed it
Summary: You’re a demon in Hell that wants to serve one of the most legendary badasses you’ve ever heard of; Dean Winchester. The famed hunter, who wore the Mark of Cain, only to be turned into a demon. All this pent up rage and lack of fucks to give, Dean is more than happy to have a willing demon hanging on his every word.
“Run that by me again?” Dean slowly turned to you, swirling his glass of whiskey.
“Well, sir, I just know that a man of your power…you need a loyal servant.”
Dean just stared at you for a moment. His eyes never moved, but you could see the wheels turning in his head. Slowly sipping his whiskey, he let the warm heat rise in his body before he answered.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”
“Is something bothering you, McCree?”
McCree quickly averts his gaze, pretending to look down at his phone. “Not at all,” he replies, pretending he hasn’t been caught staring at Hanzo like a lovesick puppy–again. “Little tired after that mission, but that’s about normal.”
From the corner of his eye, he can see Hanzo frowning, unconvinced. “No,” he says, “there is something. Tell me.”
McCree forces himself to maintain a neutral face. He and Hanzo are the only ones on this shuttle, headed back to Gibraltar after a short excursion in London, so there is nowhere to hide and nobody to turn to for help. “Ain’t nothin’ to tell,” he says, a little more forcefully. It’s a bold-faced lie–there’s always something on his mind when he’s with Hanzo–but he’ll just have to hope Hanzo lets it go.
Instead, though, Hanzo sighs heavily. “I know there is something,” he says. “You may not act like it, but there is. I am your friend, McCree. You do not need to hide.”
“Would you just let it go?” McCree snaps, and immediately feels guilty for doing so. “Sometimes a man just doesn’t wanna talk about something. Let it go.”
“So there is.”
“It doesn’t concern you.”
“On the contrary, I am almost certain it does.”
McCree’s heart gives an extra-hard thump against his ribs. Has he been that obvious? He always feels like he’s bleeding out his feelings all over the place, ready to be caught at any given moment, but he thought he was hiding it well enough. It was harder during this mission, when it was just the two of them fighting together against their enemies, but still, he thought he had gotten out okay.
Hanzo continues, unaware of McCree’s fears. “I have seen the way you look at me, when you think I cannot see you,” he says softly. “I cannot tell what it means for certain, but …” He clenches his fists in his lap, then releases, flexing nervously. “Have I done something to upset you?”
McCree’s breath catches in his throat. “No, Hanzo, not at all,” he says. “Probably the opposite.”
“Then what? What about me has you so distressed? I can only think of one other thing that makes you look at me the way you do, and it seems even more unlikely. I only thought of it because Genji mentioned it.”
“Well, I ain’t mad, so what’s the other thing?”
Hanzo’s mouth shuts with a click. He looks embarrassed suddenly, and averts his gaze to somewhere near the floor.
“He suggested,” he says, through gritted teeth, “that you might have feelings. For me. He was not so delicate when he was suggesting this, but nonetheless.”
McCree’s heart drops to his gut. Damn Genji, the meddling little shit. Now McCree’s in trouble no matter what he says–and he has no idea whether it will be worse to admit it, or continue trying to lie his way out.
But Hanzo’s too astute to lie to, especially when he’s already suspicious, and McCree would be lying to himself if he tried to say he didn’t want to admit it.
He forces himself to look up at Hanzo. His gut twists around his heart as he says, as evenly as he can, “And what would you say if I told you that was true? That I like you so much I can’t stop starin’?”
Hanzo breathes in sharply, loud enough to be heard, and snaps his gaze to meet McCree’s. McCree clenches his teeth and pulls up every ounce of willpower he has just to not look away.
A long, silent moment stretches between them. McCree starts to contemplate the odds of his survival if he throws himself off the shuttle.
“I suppose,” Hanzo starts, slowly and deliberately, “if that were the case …”
He trails off. He uncrosses his arms and starts to reach across the gap between them, then hesitates, gauging McCree’s reaction. McCree holds perfectly still.
“I suppose,” Hanzo starts again, as his fingertips curl gently against the back of McCree’s neck, “that if that is true, I might … do this.” He leans in, achingly slowly, eyes locked on McCree’s.
McCree doesn’t move as Hanzo kisses him. His lips are warm and dry, surprisingly soft, gently cradling McCree’s bottom lip in a gesture so light and sweet that it makes McCree’s chest ache. It lasts only a moment before Hanzo draws away, and McCree can see the faintest dusting of pink on his cheekbones.
“I do not mind,” says Hanzo, barely above a whisper, “if that is the reason you watch me.”
Pushing his hand through his hair, Sehun laughed as he elbowed Chanyeol in the ribs, eyes becoming crescents as his cheeks rounded out. Chanyeol laughed and bade him farewell, exiting the bar. Sehun’s cheeks felt warm as he paid his tab and shrugged his jacket on. He was still tugging at the strands of his hair, freshly dyed and still a little bit startling to see in the mirror that hung behind the shelves of the bar.
He ducked his head as he exited the building, handing the ticket to the valet. Sehun shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the valet stared at him briefly, probably recognizing him, before excusing himself in embarrassment and stalking off to fetch Sehun’s car. Sighing, he leaned against the brick facade of the bar, his lower lip jutting out. He thought about Chanyeol, his wild story about his dream the night before last, and how jealous Sehun was that Chanyeol’s hair was dyed an exciting red and his was simply bleached white.
Remembering something that he had meant to tell him earlier but had forgotten, he grinned and fished his phone out of his pocket. The bright light of the lockscreen temporarily blinded him as he blinked dumbly a few times. Staring back at him was a picture of himself, grinning widely, his arms slung around you as you hid your face in his neck.
Pairing: Dean x Female Reader Rating: M Warnings: Swearing, mild dirty talk, smut. I have no shame. Note: Happy late Valentine’s Day; here’s some smut. I didn’t proofread this, so sorry in advance for any errors.
Dean’s wearing that coat again.
You tried not to stare when he came out of the motel room earlier in the morning, but– okay, you’re only human.
The worst part is – well, not the worst part – is that he knows how good he looks in it. The whole day he’s been sauntering around, that goddamn smirk on his face, and you can’t decide if you want to punch him, or kiss him.
(You definitely want to kiss him)
“Gotta hit up the library, kid.” He says, getting back in the Impala after he talked to a witness. “We should find out more about the history of that house.”
“Uh huh.” You agree, distracted as you watch him loosen his tie and pull off his coat.
He snaps his fingers in front of you. “Are you listening to me?”
You snort. “You sound like my Mom.”
He glares. “That’s hilarious.”
Dean pulls away from the curb and you watch as he glances in the mirrors and rests his right wrist on the steering wheel, the other arm resting on the window. That’s another thing – whenever he wears this coat, he ends up getting too warm and takes it off halfway through the day, leaving him in a dress shirt with the sleeves inevitably rolled up. Another favorite Dean look.
You’re trying not to stare at the veins on his arms, you really are, but they’re right there.
wow so this is extrememememmememmememllylyllylyyyyyy late lol like no kidding i think 2 of these messages have been sitting in my inbox for who knows how long….and ive gotten requests to do fic recs post since like. the beginning of this blog lol. but here i am almost a yr later sup guys
so ill go ahead and only list my top 5 because out of the 46248678282 fics ive probably read these are the most memorable ones for me…..there are more but they are either unfinished or i jut genuinely do not remember the title/author because i am a mess lol….so here goes!
Alright, so I dont usually write things like this? But @kaleenjackson said she liked both my smut and my angst, so this is sort of her fault.
Sorry in advance. Mind the cut!
Warning– not healthy coping, somewhat rough sex, definitely far away from the usual fluffy, healthy relationship status smut I usually write.
“Tony.” Steve stepped from the shadows, hands clenched by his sides, a concerned look on his face. “Tony, honey, are you drinking again?”
“Steve.” Tony drained the last of his whiskey and set the glass down with a thud. “Imagine running into you here. Left the start spangled suit at home, huh?”
He was bitter and angry tonight, and Steve felt each word like a knife in his gut.
“Tony.” He moved further into the room and took the bottle right out of Tony’s hands. “No more, tonight, huh? Please?”
“Well, then give me something else to keep my mind off of everything.” Tony’s eyes were bloodshot, but his words were crystal clear and dangerously sharp. “Isn’t that why you are here? Distract me. Be good for something other than—”
“Shhh.” Steve hushed him with a kiss, slow and easy, sweet and achingly tender and Tony hated it.
Fuck he hated it, but that didn’t stop him from hooking his fingers in the black combat suit and dragging Steve closer, trying to push the kiss into something harder but Steve shook his head and cupped his jaw and whispered, “No, honey. Not like that. Not tonight.”
“Damn it.” Tony started to yank away, but Steve didn’t let him go far, keeping a big hand spread over the small of Tony’s back, the other carding through sharply spiked hair until it was mussed and touchable, stroking down Tony’s neck and around to trace his jaw, over a goatee that wasn’t near as neat as it used to be, now that Tony didn’t care as much.
“Steve, I don’t want this.” Tony pulled away again, reaching for his bottle of whiskey. “I don’t want sweet. Either fuck me, or get out.”
“Tony—” Steve started to argue, and Tony flung the bottle at the wall, smashing expensive crystal and smattering alcohol up the wall.
“Either fuck me or get out.” he repeated. “What’s it gonna be, Rogers?”
Summary: On a night out with your friends, you accidentally text the wrong number for advice. The guy on the other end of the phone is abrupt, harsh and kind of an ass - but he also happens to be right. Which explains why you keep texting him. Right?
[ Takes place after USJ arc, Aizawa is still hospitalized but recovering. All Might can’t help but to come and visit him frequently. ]
A flatline, and Toshinori is awake.
It’s still going, pulsing with stark chimes in the otherwise silent room. It was a dream, a bad one, where the rhythm of beeps is drowned out by a painfully long note that only ended when he was pulled from his mind by the distinct shifting of fingers across his knuckles.
It’s slow, but it’s enough. Toshinori turns his cheek against the side of the bed, and watches bandaged fingers skirt across his hand, feeling across the lines of his knuckles and down to drag concealed prints across the dips in each digit. Each touch is light; gliding across the sections of bone until the hand ceases its movement when it feels at the small bump in Toshinori’s pinky. Then a sigh of relief comes from the man covered in bandages.
John answered the door before Sherlock could even text him to let him know of his arrival, and immediately stepped out onto the front steps, already dressed for the cool London air. Sherlock’s eyes fell onto his scarf. His dark blue cashmere scarf. His gaze made John look down too.
“Oh.” He shuffled, “I’d forgotten I ever…” He glanced back up at Sherlock to see him smiling slightly. His neck warmed but he couldn’t help but slowly offer once of his own, “took that..”
Sherlock studied it a moment more then looked out to the street, the streetlamp casting his high cheekbones in stark contrast. John felt the tug. The oh-so familiar tug snug deep inside his chest that he hadn’t felt in so long. That he’d felt for the first time in two years earlier that night. Sherlock’s voice broke his gaze.
“Are we walking then?”
John cleared his throat, “Yes, I thought It’d be more…” he shook his head as they trotted down the steps side by side, “I don’t know what, I thought It’d be nice.”
“Walking is scientifically proven to let blood flow easier, therefore clearing and stimulating the brain at the same time and making it easier for thoughts to form and function…”
Sherlock broke off and fell back next to John, realizing he’d walked a step ahead of him.
Sherlock tried to study John’s profile, “You usually stop me by now.”
“Oh.” John kept his eyes ahead, “Well, I haven’t heard it in a while.” He glanced at Sherlock, “Might’ve missed it.”
Sherlock nearly fell behind this time. He fought to keep his voice neutral, “Really?”
John let out a little laugh, “I’m going to regret those words.”
Sherlock watched the neon sign of the 24 hour cafe catch John’s eye, and nodded quietly when he asked if he wanted a tea for the road. He waited, hands clasped behind his back and facing the street while John went in. He felt good about how things were going so far. John seemed… Sherlock closed his eyes. John seemed like he wanted Sherlock to think he was okay. Sherlock almost felt disappointed that John thought he couldn’t see through that.
“Right, two sugars, this one’s yours.”
Sherlock turned, starting slightly. He looked down at John whose cheeks were pink from going from the warm shop to the cold early morning.
John rolled his eyes, eyes crinkling in a smile, “Stop looking at me like that, of course I remembered.”
But Sherlock couldn’t. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop looking at John like that. John who was the only person who bothered to remember how he likes his tea—save Ms. Hudson. John who was the only person in the world who could read, not his thoughts, but his emotions. The only person in the world who acknowledged he even had normal emotions.
John had turned his eyes to the city line, nodding towards it as he blew on his paper cup, “We’re gonna see a nice sunrise.”
Sherlock blinked, attempting to regain his composer, “Ah, yes. Day one back in the land of the living.”
He didn’t miss John’s flinch and instantly regretted his attempt at a joke.
“Do me a favor,” John sighed, “Don’t-“
“I won’t say things like that.”
John studied him for a moment then snorted, mumbling something like “bloody mind reader” as he led the way across the street to a small park with empty benches.
Hardly, John. Hardly.
John chose the bench with the best view of the only barely pinking sky, sitting down with a sigh and crossing his ankles. Sherlock took the seat beside him wordlessly, burning his tongue on his still too hot tea.
“This is… odd, Sherlock.”
“Two people waiting for the a sunrise? I hardly think that’s the definition-“
“Sherlock..” John’s voice was soft, much more serious than before. Sherlock took the hint. They needed this. They needed words—good, solid words—not to dance around each other.
Sherlock nodded once, looking down into his tea, “Yes. Yes, I suppose this is.”
John leaned back against the bench, eyes on the man beside him. Really, odd was not the word to describe this situation but, then again, he’s never been particularly good with words. He was in disbelief. Here he was, watching his best friend—his very dead best friend—sip a cup of tea and joke about watching the sunrise.
“You’ve got terrible timing.” He settled on.
Sherlock straightened, “I gathered that. You know, with the ring and the wine… the restaurant reservations-“
“No,” John laughed, he couldn’t help it, “Well, yes, that is also terrible timing, but I mean longterm.”
Sherlock finally looked back at him, “Longterm?”
John set his cup beside him to cool, “You jump of a bloody building, I-“ John’s chest suddenly feels tight at that hard fact, “I saw you- okay, you’re going to have to tell me-“ He pinched the bridge of his nose, “No, sorry, not the point right now. The point-“ he closed his eyes briefly before turning back to his friend, “is, is that you died but you didn’t. You died… and you let me watch you die, and then you let me grieve and- God, Sherlock… I grieved. I grieved…”
The air is filled with just their breathing for a moment, both labored, both filled with the sting of unshed tears. This is not what friends are suppose to do to one another.
“I wasn’t okay, Sherlock, I was not okay. For so long.” John said between breaths, “I met Mary, honestly pretty recently and she… God, she helped. She helped and I got a little better every day.”
“No.” John let out a long breath, “I got better and then you come back and you see me better and that isn’t fair. Because now you have no idea what you did to me. What your death did to me. What losing you…”
John couldn’t finish and turned away, picking up his tea and quickly taking a sip. Sherlock was left breathless and frozen. “John..” He tried again and this time wasn’t cut off. John’s hand was shaking. He didn’t seem to have any words left for now, “What I- What I said before at the chips place…” Sherlock closed his eyes. His brain felt foggy. Without the usual sharpness he felt bare, unarmed. He forced his eyes open again, pushing against the fog of emotions, “John, I try not to say things I don’t mean. I meant what I said. It was for your protection. I’m not-“ he cut John off when he opened his mouth to speak, “making excuses. I made this mistake. I made this mistake and I’m so, so sorry.”
John’s cup was nearly squashed in his hands from his grip and was in great danger of spilling over. His breathing was labored, his head bowed, “Yes.” He let out a shaky breath, “Yes, well I’m the one who made the mistake of getting use to it.” Sherlock’s mind immediately reeled, searching for context for the statement, but coming up blank, “Getting use to what?”
John bit at the inside of his cheek for a moment, worrying the skin, before looking back at Sherlock, blue eyes swimming, “You always being there.”
And Sherlock felt it all over again. The cold pavement on his back, John’s fingers on his temporarily stopped pulse, his cries and broken words. Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath, felt heartbreak for the second time in his life.
“Please…” Sherlock swallowed, both halves of his heart hammering, “Please get used to it again.”
For a split second Sherlock saw John’s jaw clench before it was hidden from view, John’s tea falling to the ground as he dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking.
“John..” Sherlock felt his own voice break. He couldn’t think straight, he was at a loss for words. All he could seem to see in his mind was John. All he could think was that John was hurting and it was his fault. It had been his fault for two years. The ache that settled in after that thought burned like acid.
John’s voice came out muffled and thick, “You have to understand-“
“I do. I do understand, John-“
“No, you don’t.” John was looking up now, eyes rimmed red and burning into Sherlock’s, “You were suddenly gone, and I was suddenly right back where I was before I met you. I couldn’t sleep, I was alone, and every night staring down the fucking barrel of a-“ John closed his eyes turning his head away.
But Sherlock didn’t need him too. His mind had finished the sentence for him and for once he wished he wasn’t so fucking quick. He couldn’t breathe.
He didn’t have words but, he decided, right now he didn’t need them.
He reached out, tilting John’s face towards him and, for once, acted without logic, without thinking. He kissed him. He kissed John because he loved him, because he always had, and because it said everything he couldn’t. He kissed him because sorry wasn’t enough—he was sorry, he was in love.
John didn’t freeze like he expected him to. Instead, he reacted like he’d been shocked, touched by fire, and didn’t miss a beat in fisting the collar of Sherlock’s coat, other hand in his hair. He was crying, Sherlock thought maybe he was crying as well, but it didn’t matter. Tears mixed and Sherlock pulled John closer by the waist, his tea joining John’s, forgotten at their feet.
When they parted they were breathing hard and the sky was a brilliant orange and red. John didn’t say anything, just leaned his face into Sherlock’s neck where Sherlock could feel him breathing. It was the most comforting thing in the world and Sherlock let his eyes slipped closed, feeling like he’d been waiting for this for an eternity. And, for that moment, everything felt okay. Or like it would be.
For that moment, it was just the two of them against the world. Once again.
“Yes, yes it was. You know why? Because you’re boiling and I won’t have more of your self-sacrificing ass. So, suck it up and take off your clothes, you need a bath.” You put the pillow aside, watching as he clenched his lids shut, refusing to look at you.
“Move, (Y/N). I’m fine.”
“Liar.” You pressed, shaking him a little. He had to wake up.
He huffed, rolling on the bed. “Please, I just need to sleep.”
Just a little Saturday morning smutlet…happy weekend!
She’s humming to herself as she scrubs at the remnants of cinnamon stuck in the depths of her mug and doesn’t hear him approach from behind, his bare feet making little sound on the hardwood as he cages her in with his arms. He chuckles at her flinch and she flicks the water from her fingers over her shoulder in retaliation.
“Sorry, love, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Yes you did.”
He doesn’t respond, instead seeking the soft skin behind her ear with his slightly wet nose, his lips pressing a smile along her neck when he feels her responsive shiver.
“I was getting lonely.”
“I’ve only been over here for a few minutes…”
Who is she kidding? The way their lives are, a few minutes might be all they have before someone comes crashing through their door with a problem that just must be solved.
The grumble he mumbles against her skin sounds like an agreement to her unspoken thought.