b-writesometimes (REQ: OPEN)

“I’m grabbin’ a soda from the vending machine. Y’all want anything?” Dean asks, sighing and standing from the bed. 

“Water’s fine,” Sam mumbles, pushing his sweat-slick hair back. You offered him a hair tie a while ago, which is relieving him of the hair at the back of his neck, but the rest is still damp anyway. 

“I’ll take two,” you mutter, spread out on the motel floor in nothing but a loose T-shirt and your underwear. “Grab a bucket of ice, too.”

“Can do,” Dean replies, holding a crumpled wad of bills in his sweaty palm. He exits, leaving you and Sam alone in the motel room.

It’s 102 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and the sun is beaming down like a motherfucker. No hunting will happen today — if there are any spirits afoot in the general area, they’ll have to wait another day. The room’s air conditioner is barely surviving the current heatwave, sputtering and coughing up lukewarm air from its vents. It’s better than nothing, hence why your little trio is holed up here rather than anywhere else. At least you’re all comfortable enough to strip down around each other.

Too comfortable, perhaps. Sam keeps staring at you from his spot on the bed, tracing your body with his eyes. You can’t get a good look at what he’s doing from his current vantage point, but he can see everything that counts: your legs are propped up, bent at the knees and idly swaying from side to side. The underside of your thighs glisten in the light, slick from sweat. They’re slightly spread — just enough that Sam can see between your parted legs, stealing a look at the blue underwear clinging to your body. Your shirt is riding up, too, offering a view of your navel. You lift the hem of said shirt to wipe sweat from your face, and Sam swallows thickly when he catches a brief glimpse of your bare chest beneath the cotton. 

Sam was too nervous to shed all of his clothes — he’s wearing his boxers and a wife pleaser. It makes him feel awfully greedy, now, since he gets to see so much of you. He leans back on the bed, licking his lips, breathing heavy. The longer he looks at you, the more vivid his imagination becomes: he can see himself putting his big hands on the meat of your thighs, spreading them apart. He wants to bite them, leave marks all the way up the inside of that tender, soft flesh. He wants to tug your underwear down with his teeth, kiss your navel and your hips and down your middle. He wants to bury his head between your legs until he can’t breathe. 

He doesn’t realize his cock is hard until it’s too late. There’s a sizable tent in his boxers, stretching the cotton thin. Fuck, he almost says aloud. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did this have to happen now? When you’re both alone? 

To make matters worse, the doorknob starts to jiggle. Dean is back, knocking his fist against the wood. 

“Forgot my key,” he calls, voice muffled.

“I got it,” you say before Sam can move. You roll over, and Sam chokes on his own breath when you get on your hands and knees, your ass perked up in the air. You stretch, shirt slipping higher up to show your back, and — are you doing this on purpose, he wonders? Teasing the ever-loving fuck out of him? Trying to get him to cum in his boxers? Or are you only this cruel by accident?

Whatever the case may be, Sam has to act before you notice his predicament and call him a dirty freak. He scrambles off of the bed, turning his back to the door when you stand to open it up. Before Dean can make it inside and catch sight of his brother very clearly aroused (by you), Sam runs into the restroom, slamming the door behind him. 

You jump, the door swinging open just as Dean slides in with a bucket of ice, some waters, and a couple cans of Coke for himself. 

“What’s his deal?” Dean mutters, having witnessed the restroom door swinging open and Sam’s hurried behavior. The shower blasts on a second later, and you shrug, looking at where the other brother ran off to with a perplexed squint.

“I dunno,” you say, grabbing a cold bottle of water. “Got too hot for him, I guess.” 

turns out i am not built different. the sun does burn.

your nose was pink for three days.

you were very brave about it, which means you complained exactly enough to make dean laugh and then hid behind your lemonade whenever i offered to get aloe. i kept offering anyway. not because i thought you couldn’t handle it. you could handle a lot. more than people gave you credit for. but you had this way of pretending practical care didn’t matter while quietly melting when someone remembered.

so i remembered.

that whole summer started quieter than i expected. you were shy at first, kind of withdrawn, with your glasses sliding down your nose and your graphic tee half-tucked into your shorts because you’d clearly done it by accident and then decided to live with it. you were short enough that dean made one joke about losing you in a crowd, and you gave him such a flat look over your frames that he actually backed off.

for ten minutes. a personal record.

you seemed careful with yourself then. not cold. never that. just selective. like your real personality was something people had to prove they wouldn’t mishandle. i understood that more than i said. maybe that’s why i didn’t push. i just made room for you at the table, slid books your way when you looked interested, and pretended not to notice when you read over my shoulder.

that was when i started seeing more of you.

the town was one of those sleepy seaside places that looked harmless until you checked the missing persons reports. faded signs. boardwalk shops. a motel pool nobody trusted. one tiny aquarium near the pier with a jellyfish exhibit you stared at for so long dean asked if you were communicating with them. you said, “not yet.”

i laughed before i could stop myself.

you were morbidly curious in a way that made research less miserable. where most people got unsettled, you leaned closer. fascinated. you’d ask questions no civilian should think of asking, then blink at me like you hadn’t just suggested a theory involving cursed tide pools and ritual drowning patterns with the same voice someone else might use to ask for fries.

you were creative too. always sketching in the corners of motel receipts, on napkins, in that green sketchbook you kept beside your bag. creatures from cases. little anime-style faces. exaggerated versions of dean looking offended. once, a tiny velma-looking version of yourself holding a magnifying glass and standing beside a blob labeled local evil.

i kept that one... maybe i got a little sentimental.

you fit into the road better than you thought. passenger-seat napper, easy with the music, sneakers kicked against the floor mat, head tilted toward the window while golden hour moved across your face. you’d fall asleep fast in the car, then wake up confused and offended by the existence of daylight. once, your glasses were crooked, and instead of fixing them, you looked at me and said, “how long was i dead?”

“twenty minutes.”

“embarrassing.”

“you snored.”

“i did not.”

you didn’t. i just liked making you glare.

when the impala broke down outside that weird bait-and-souvenir shop, you got out and announced you could help. dean asked if you knew anything about cars. you said, “spiritually, maybe.” then you held the flashlight wrong, handed me a rag when i asked for pliers, and somehow made the whole thing better just by staying calm.

you were good at that, beni. acting unsure and still showing up. it mattered.

i noticed the tiny things because you made them worth noticing. the way you switched into spanish under your breath when you dropped something or got annoyed. the way your humor came out sharper once you trusted us. the way you went quiet when you were overwhelmed, but leaned closer instead of leaving if you felt safe. the way you wore comfort like armor most days, graphic tee, shorts, sneakers, then looked almost suspicious of your own reflection the one evening you decided to wear a dress.

you came out of the motel bathroom tugging at the hem like you weren’t sure. dean opened his mouth. i kicked him under the table.

you looked at me. “what?”

“nothing,” i said. “you look nice.”

“nice?”

“really nice.”

you looked away so fast i thought i’d said the wrong thing. then you mumbled, “okay, book boy,” and pretended to inspect your lemonade. but you smiled. small. private. enough.

friends-to-lovers sounds simple when people say it after the fact. like it just happens naturally, smoothly, without anyone making an idiot of themselves. ours was not smooth. it was me pretending i didn’t care that your knee touched mine under the diner booth. you pretending you didn’t notice when my hand stayed at your back a little too long while we crossed the boardwalk. both of us sitting too close while dean watched from across the room with the expression of a man suffering through free entertainment. “this is painful,” he said once.

you didn’t look up from your game. “then perish.”

i nearly dropped my book.

that was the thing about you. no game at all, honestly, but dangerous anyway. you didn’t flirt like you knew you were flirting. you just said something weird and funny and specific, then looked at me with those big curious eyes behind your glasses, and suddenly i was thinking about kissing you in the middle of a conversation about haunted aquariums. i didn’t. not on the first date. which you also insisted was not a date, for the record.

we stayed in after a long day at the pier, with takeout spread across the motel bed and a terrible movie playing too loud because the remote was half-broken. dean lasted twenty minutes before declaring going out to “find real food,” which meant pie. you and i stayed there, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor, your sketchbook open on your lap, your lemonade gone watery beside you.

the movie was awful. genuinely. the dialogue sounded like it had been written by someone who’d heard of humans but never met one. you kept making quiet little comments that got funnier the longer the night went on. at some point, you drew the monster in the corner of the page with sunglasses and little sneakers. i laughed so hard my side hurt.

you looked proud, then shy about being proud. “don’t make it a thing,” you said.

“i’m not.”

“you’re smiling like you’re making it a thing.”

“maybe i like when you’re funny.”

“dangerous information.”

it was. by then, i knew i cared about you in a way that made leaving complicated. but i also knew you didn’t like being rushed. you could be witty and curious and quietly bold, but feelings made you cautious. so i gave you quality time instead. research at the same table. walks near the water at golden hour. an aquarium afternoon where i read every plaque because you kept stopping to draw the fish. aloe left beside your bed without a speech. a ridiculous local t-shirt bought in your size because you said it was ugly enough to be charming. you wore it the next morning. i tried not to stare. failed.

the kiss came later. after the first not-date. after the terrible movie. after enough shared takeout that dean stopped pretending we were normal. it was late, nearly the end of summer, and we were outside the motel while the air finally cooled. you were in that weird t-shirt, sleeves too big, glasses pushed up into your hair, looking at the stars like you were trying to memorize them before the road took them away. i said your name.

you looked at me. “yeah?”

i could have made a joke. probably should have. instead, i said, “i like being around you.”

you blinked. “that’s... very direct for you.”

“i’m trying something.”

you smiled, but softly this time. no joke ready. no escape hatch. i stepped closer, slow enough that you could step back if you wanted to. your hand found the front of my shirt, just barely holding on.

then i kissed you. careful at first. your mouth sweet from lemonade, your fingers curling tighter in my shirt when you kissed me back. it wasn’t rushed. it was the kind of kiss that made the whole summer rearrange itself around one quiet second.

afterward, you hid your face against my chest and said, “this is embarrassing.”

i wrapped my arms around you. “why?”

“because i’m happy.”

i think about that all the time.

we got our soft ending, beni. not perfect. nothing with us ever is. but soft. you came with us for one more town, then another weekend after that, your sketchbook squeezed between my books and that weird t-shirt folded in your bag. dean complained about the space. he also bought you lemonade at the next gas station without asking, so don’t let him fool you.

and me? i kept making room. for your drawings, your games, your morbid questions, your sleepy car naps, your glasses on the nightstand beside mine. for every shy part of you, and every strange, bright, witty part that came after.

The highlighter in your hand hasn’t moved in at least five minutes.

Its tip sits idly against the smooth paper of your notebook, bright yellow ink bleeding into the next page. Your hand smudges the pen beneath it, ink staining the heel of your palm as it rests over the same sentence you’d abandoned moments ago, before your attention drifted somewhere else entirely.

To someone else.

Sam is sprawled sideways across the plush covers of his bed, one knee bent awkwardly to the side, the other long leg of his hanging half off the edge. He twirls his pencil loosely between two fingers, The Stanford Daily crossword spread open across his thighs, covered in partially finished answers and soft graphite smudges. His fingers tap absentmindedly to the beat of some catchy rock song humming from the radio, his foot bouncing right along with it. 

You’d shown up to his dorm to study. And, to be fair, you had been studying. It’s not out of the ordinary for you to swing by his room when the library gets a little too loud—the calm, warm sanctuary of your best friend’s space becoming one of your own. It’s cozy. Comfortable. Watching him do little mundane tasks while you fry your brain with chemical reactions and nuclear physics equations has become, funny enough, one of your most savoured pastimes.

And usually, it works. Keeps you grounded from the mental cyclone that is university. Especially when the pressure of finals is weighing on your shoulders so physically, that you’re pretty sure you’re developing a bit of a hunch. Your chemistry exam certainly isn’t about to write itself, no matter how much time you spend in the lab, and if you don’t get your head wrapped around the concept of chemoselectivity within the next fourty-eight hours, you can practically kiss your entire degree goodbye.

Metaphorically, of course.

But it’s hard to keep your brain focused on chemical reagents when Sam’s right there, worrying his lip between his teeth, wearing the world’s sweetest thinking face, and blissfully oblivious to the chaos silently unfolding in your head. A chaos that currently consists 40% of organic chemistry, and 60% oh my God, his mouth. 

“Hey.” His eyes shift to yours, pencil pausing mid-spin. “What’s an eight letter word for ‘emphasized’?”

The question, breaking the silence, makes you raise your brows. Your highlighter finally slips from your loose grasp, rolling between the pages of your open notebook, leaving behind a wobbly, bright yellow line behind that you’ll probably complain about later.

“Uh,” you buffer, blinking at him. “Asserted?”

He makes an affirming sound, one that makes your heart flutter far more than it probably should, before he shakes his head.

“Mmm… should start with an S.” He scribbles it out quickly, his eraser moving in slow, lazy strokes. The radio crackles on the mellow chord of a guitar intro, the beginnings of something by Nirvana, but it only catches your attention for a second before your focus drifts back to Sam. Sam, twirling that pencil that looks so tiny in his unfairly large hands, staring intensely at the crossword like solving it will reveal the secrets of the universe.

He chews on the inside of his lip as he thinks, pulling the corner on sharp canines, and for a second too long, you can’t tug your gaze away. You trace the moles dotting his face, the shape of his mouth, the soft bow of his lips, the pink hue highlighted by the warm lamp light…

And by the time you snap out of it, he’s already looking back at you. Not just glancing this time, but holding the contact. His messy hair falls over his forehead, casting a soft shadow over his sweet face, while the lamp’s glow catches in his dark pupils. He blinks slowly, tilting his head slightly, the same way a dog might when they hear something strange, before he speaks gently.

“…You okay?”

Caught.

You freeze for a suspiciously long beat, staring at him with an, admittedly, pretty dumb expression; but he doesn’t press. You purse your lips, debating, before you’re shifting your notebook off your lap, and crossing the small room in two short strides. 

You sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing him, both of your hands falling into your lap, threading your fingers together as you give them a small, reassuring squeeze.

“Actually, I… there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” you say quickly. “You heard of that party tomorrow night after the football game, yeah? Tom’s frat?”

Sam’s brows furrow for a blink, before he softens. He lowers the newspaper slowly, setting it to the blanket beside him without looking away. His eyes turn full on attentive, damn him, the same look he wears when you ramble about something stupid, or ask him a million questions after lectures. The one that really means I’m listening, even though you’re definitely distracting me.

“Yeah?” he says simply, voice low and steady.

You swallow, gaze dropping to your hands as you squeeze them together, Sam’s eyes following suit. He saw that. He always does. 

“Well… Chris from physics asked me to go,” you tell him quietly. “With him.”

Sam doesn’t move. Not a muscle. Not even that little crease between his brows that always forms when he’s processing something tough, or that tick in his jaw that always shows when he’s frustrated. Just… nothing.

“And… I dunno, I’m just—nervous? I guess?”

For the first time since Sam’s met you, the girl who borrows his hoodies without asking, who falls asleep against his shoulder during late night study sessions, whose laugh makes him stupidly giddy—he feels something cold and unfamiliar coil in his chest. Your words play on repeat in his head like a scratched record, one that’s too loud, too wrong, but is too out of control to shut off.

But he doesn’t say that. He never would.

Instead, he swallows, nods, and schools his expression into something carefully neutral.

“Okay, and… you’re going?” His voice comes out impossibly softer than usual, but in an almost manufactured, forced way. Careful-soft, the kind of tone people only use when they’re hiding something. You try not to dwell on it.

“I mean, I think so? Maybe?” you explain, an uncomfortable frown pulling at your lips. One of his own follows.

“You don’t have to. Don’t let him pressure you.”

Your jaw tightens as you shake your head, and your fingers tense hard enough to ache. Squeeze. 

“No, no he’s not—that’s not what this is.” You laugh awkwardly, but it dies as quickly as it slips out. “He’s nice enough for… y’know. A frat boy. He’s just, bold, and I…”

You trail off, teeth pinching down on the inside of your cheek. Because God, why was this so damn embarrassing? It really shouldn’t be, because Christ, this is Sam. But it feels a little like beginning a presentation in front of an entire lecture hall, then realizing you forgot your notecards at your seat.

Your eyes flick back up to Sam’s, and something flashes across his face. Something too quick for you to decipher, gone far too fast for you to name. But if there’s one thing it does well, it’s make your words tumble out before you can catch them.

“Sam, I’ve never even kissed anyone.” Heat rushes to your face instantly. “What if I’m, like, awful?”

The room goes strangely quiet.

The radio keeps playing somewhere in the background, guitar humming softly through the speakers, but you become hyper-aware of everything else. Like the sound your palms make when they slide against each other. The slow exhale of Sam’s breath. The warm scent of his shampoo lingering in the room. The way he’s looking at you.

Or, the way he’s staring at you.

Because of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t even in the top ten. Nope—wasn’t even in the ballpark. Completely left field. Not about the party, or Chris, or his boldness. He knows all about that. But the sinking, twisting feeling in his gut was bracing for something else. For you to tell him that you liked Chris. Really liked Chris. That this conversation would shift to how excited you are. That he’d have to smile and nod as you gush, pretending that it doesn’t feel like a knife was jammed between his ribs.

But instead, you say that, staring at him like he’s the only person who can ease your nerves, and that? That just makes his chest ache in a whole new way. Because oh, oh fuck, he just hates how much the selfish, guilty part of him likes it.

His gaze softens, just a fraction. Not into something you can pick apart, not yet anyway, but some of that tension leaves his shoulders. Slowly, carefully, he turns to face you more fully, reaching his hand out to nudge your clenched fingers with his own, forcing them to relax.

“Oh, c’mon,” he tries, voice coming out lighter than his chest feels. “You won’t be awful.”

At that, your face does something a little stupid. Your nose scrunches up like you’ve just smelt something terrible, your hands lifting to scrape dramatically over your face, a whiny, pathetic sound slipping from your lips. Peering through the spaces between your fingers, you catch Sam’s expression cracking. Something like warm, fond amusement breaking through the mask in a dimpled grin.

“Everyone I know has said their first kiss sucked,” you deadpan. “I mean, you told me yours was barely a peck, and then you spilled soda everywhere!”

He cringes at the memory, before leaning forward slightly. Not enough to invade your space, not without asking, but enough to rest his elbow on his knee, cheeks slightly pink from mild embarrassment creeping up his neck. 

“Okay, maybe mine sucked,” he admits with a shrug, and a sweet laugh. “But, y’know. Just keep your elbows away from soda cans, and you’ll be just fine—”

“Shut up, Sam.”

You roll your eyes, raising two hands to plant firmly on his shoulders. Those broad, muscled shoulders, that you have to pretend not to stare (read: ogle) at. His eyes widen at the contact, his body going a little stiff, before relaxing into the touch. “This is serious,” you complain, giving him a shake, and he sways like the jostling does anything. It doesn’t, not really. He just lets you believe it does.

He’s holding back a laugh, and you can tell. To his credit, he does an alright job, but there’s really no denying the way he’s biting the hell out of his tongue.

“I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to not freak out, okay? Just, think about it. Please.” His face sobers up immediately, shifting into something almost concerned, which really, really doesn’t help the nerves licking up your spine. “I wanted to, um. Ask if you’d, uh… teach me.”

You swallow.

“Y’know. How to kiss.”

You’re almost sure Sam stops breathing for a second.

His eyes don’t widen. His lips don’t part. In fact, absolutely nothing happens to that usually very expressive face of his, which is infinitely more terrifying. It’s like every neuron in his genius brain fired at once, sent a thousand signals in every direction, before crapping out entirely.

“Sam.” You shake his shoulders again, and this time, he forgets to sway. Your fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, leaving dimples in the soft cotton of his tee shirt. “Say something.”

He blinks, once, twice, before coming back to it. Mostly.

“…What?”

Your stomach drops like a rock in water. 

“Please don’t make me say it again,” you croak, words catching in your throat like you’ve swallowed thick, sticky syrup. Your brain spirals—he’s too stiff. Too silent. What if you ruined things? What if he kicks you out? Oh God, what if he never speaks to you again? “I… I’m sorry. I know that’s—you don’t have to, I mean, I’d never—”

“Okay.”

You pause, choking on your words. “…Okay?” 

Sam nods slowly, his face still really not giving you a whole lot to work with, and that only makes you spiral.

“Just—just okay?” you sputter, your hands dropping from his thick shoulders to grip the fabric of your pants. Squeeze. Your heart picks up a frantic, erratic drum solo against your ribs. “Nothing else? Y’just blank, and then ‘okay’?”

He blinks, the neutral mask finally shattering into something else, something almost defensive. But it’s the Sam-version of defensive, which as it turns out, is a whole lot cuter than it is intimidating. His brows pinch together, forming a sharp crease between them, his nose scrunching as he pulls up his hands in mock-surrender. “Well, y’know, I… you told me to think about it!”

“Yeah, well, not like that!” you shoot back, the strange mix of nerves, frustration, and sticky-sweet affection making your pitch pick up a fraction. 

He winces, something like guilt painting his features. “Okay, okay, sorry. Uh.” He lets out a long, shaky exhale, and you feel it fan over your cheeks. When did he get so close? His shoulders drop with some sort of forced-calm, as his eyes search yours with a sudden, almost startling vulnerability.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs, the word soft, barely above a breath. “Yeah, of course. I mean, if that’s what you want. Really want.” He pauses. “I mean. It’s just… practice, right?”

You nod, but your throat feels too tight to speak. Right. What you really want. Practice. The words spin and dance around in your head for a moment, echoing on repeat, and there’s something about the smooth, comforting rumble of his voice that settles your spiraling anxiety into something shallower. Calmer.

“…Yeah. Practice.”

Sam shifts, closing just a bit of remaining distance between you. His movements are agonizingly slow, giving you every opportunity to pull away, to laugh it off, to change your mind. When you don’t, his hand comes up. Those long, warm, graphite-tinted fingers gently take your hand, flipping it over to brush a soothing circle over your whitened knuckles. The touch sends a fresh, electric wave of heat rushing to your face. Damn him.

“We can stop whenever you want,” he whispers, his gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to your eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, your voice coming out far quieter than you’d intended, and he smiles. It’s small, a subtle tug of his lips, but dimples dent his pink-tinted cheeks in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“Relax for me,” he instructs. “Just a peck first, yeah? Test the waters. Then tell me how you feel.”

He waits for you to nod, then leans in, and nothing could pull you away from him then, not even your pulse threatening to pound straight out your chest. His eyes flutter closed, and it takes you a moment to realize that oh yeah, yours probably should too, and then they do, and then he’s kissing you.

It’s just a peck. Barely there, exactly like he said. 

It’s not like the movies, where there’s a dramatic swell of music, or fireworks exploding somewhere in the distance. It’s just Sam. It’s the familiar, comforting scent of his laundry detergent and the faint, sweet trace of the coffee he’d abandoned on his desk earlier. It’s the soft, hesitant press of his lips against yours.

But it’s enough to make your entire world feel like it’s tilted on its axis. 

His lips are softer than you’d imagined. And that only makes you think holy shit, have I imagined this before?, and that’s a whole new can of worms you’re not quite willing to open up yet. Not when he pulls away, far sooner than you’d like, and you find yourself wishing he’d lingered.

He doesn’t go far. Your eyes take a second too long to blink back open, and when they do, he’s already looking at you. Those soft, hazel depths swirling with something so warm that you have to fight the urge to squirm.

“See? Not awful,” he teases, his big hand squeezing yours where his fingers are still cradling your wrist. “…Feelin’ okay?”

“Uh-huh, yes. Okay.” You nod, a too-fast, jerky movement, and his eyebrow raises, a laugh huffing from his chest. 

“Right,” he snickers, and then his other hand is moving. Still slow, still careful, but when it lands on your cheek, you have to fight every urge to lean right into it. But that sounds very non-platonic, and this is normal, friends-teaching-friends, thank you very much, so you resist. “…I’m gonna do it again. Just a little more. And you tell me if it’s too much, too fast.”

You nod, and then he’s closing the space again—but your palm lands flat on his chest, and he pauses. Confusion clouds his face, then concern, a question forming on his tongue, but you’re faster. “What—what do I do with my hands?”

The brief flash of worry melts, puddles into warmth right along with your heart, as his expression fades back into fond amusement. A faint dusting of pink blooms across his cheeks, across the gorgeous slope of his nose, and he lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, dipping his head. 

“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice a low, raspy hum that vibrates straight through your palm still resting on his chest. He glances at your hand, then back to your eyes, tilting his head. “Or stay right there. I don’t mind.”

When you don’t say anything right away, a shuddering breath flowing from your parted lips, he softens. Completely.

“Hey,” he whispers, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “How about… you just keep ‘em where they are. Just like that. And then… just follow whatever feels right. Yeah?”

A smile tugs at your lips. “Okay. Yeah.”

This time, when he closes the distance, it’s not as hesitant. He tilts his head slightly, his warm palm gently guiding yours to do the same, and when his lips brush yours, the kiss is different entirely. It’s no longer a testing, fleeting peck. 

His lips part slightly against yours, soft and yielding, and for one terrifying, wonderful second, the world narrows down to nothing but the heat of his mouth and the gentle, grounding pressure of his hand cupping your jaw. He has to duck his head to reach you, so you let yours fall back just slightly—it should be awkward, cramped, but God, it’s really not. He hums, a sound that feels a little like approval (and Christ you hope it was), and then his hand in yours slides away.

Not quickly, or harshly, only the opposite. It never leaves you completely, trailing warm, teddy-bear soft fingertips along your forearm until they dip, circling your waist. Now it’s your turn to hum, and he responds by adding just a little more pressure against your lips. Tilting your face a little further to align with his. Your body sings with the touch, head going all airy, mouth tingling, pulse fluttering, and holy shit, you’re really kissing someone. 

You’re really kissing Sam.

Inevitably, your mind starts to reel. How do you breathe? Do you pull back? Is that rude?—but Sam must feel it in the way a shaky exhale warms his cheek, because his lips part from yours just long enough to drag a breath into your abused lungs. Then he’s right back on you all over again. 

Yes, your body soars, a dumb, happy sound tumbling into his parted lips, high-pitched and giddy. His thumb dimples into the plush flesh of your hip, his lips popping off of yours. He chuckles, sneaking one more kiss to your cheek.

“Awh,” he coos, heat climbing up your neck. “That was cute.” 

You don’t quite have the capacity to tell him to shut his trap, considering that you’re pretty sure your brain tapped out two Sam-kisses ago, but your body moves of its own accord. The arm that isn’t smushed between your chests slings around his neck, fingers threading into the messy hair at his nape, and then you’re pulling him in. 

The enthusiasm at which he reciprocates pushes your body back, but oh, he catches you, strong arm still circling your waist, fingers pressing into your skin. He feels impossibly bigger that way, half-looming over you, broad and steady, never imposing. His neck is fever-hot beneath your fingertips, and you can feel the rapid, fluttering pulse pattering a frantic rhythm at his throat. 

He’s feeling it too.

And that, that alone, has a fresh wave of electricity buzzing through your veins. Your mouth parts, instinct taking over, as he swipes his hot tongue along your lower lip. He doesn’t push through the seam, not even if your body was begging for it—not yet, anyway—but that little taste has your fingers tugging softly in his hair. Your body screams closer, closer, closer, your chest pushing against his, all that Sam-warmth of his a very welcome comfort.

“Don’t know what you were s’worried about,” he hums, breath hot against your lips. “You’re a natural, sweetheart.”

The words do something to your stomach, something gooey, something gratifying, a strange mix of heated flush and goosebumps rising on your skin. 

“Yeah?” you purr, Sam responding by pulling you in further, shifting you up-right, letting both hands settle at your waist. Your body smushes so close to his, that you may as well be straddling those tree trunk-thick thighs of his.

In an utterly, completely platonic way, of course.

As it turns out, once you begin kissing Sam, it’s just about impossible to stop. You alternate between pecks and deep, long kisses. It’s not as sloppy as you imagined, and maybe less… wet, but that could just be him. Sam kisses with a force that could be mistaken for passion, or even reverence, sweet and gentle and fuck, the back of your mind just keeps rattling about how right it feels. 

“You taste so good,” he breathes, and you mmm-hmm your agreement, unwilling to part too long, just as his tongue swipes across your lip again. Fucking-fuck. 

“You planned this, didn’t you? Taste—tastin’ like heaven.” You don’t have time to fluster, not with how he mouths at you. All you can do is whine. “S’that strawberry, honey?”

You don’t have the breath to deny it, not when his mouth continues moving against yours with just devastating, sweet enthusiasm. He kisses you like he’s been waiting months, years to do it, and maybe, just maybe, he has. One hand slides up your back, slipping into your hair, tangling with the locks and holding you flush against him as the kiss deepens. It turns heavy, all consuming as you melt into him, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips. And oh, Sam’s done.

His tongue finally, finally slips past your lips, tasting of black coffee and the sweet berry chapstick that’s smudged against his own mouth. It’s intoxicating.

Your brain croons, because this, this is it, you realize. It settles that Sam’s kisses are the best you’ll ever have, and you’ll just have to live with that forever.

Screw Chris.

The grip on your waist tightens as he angles his head, deepening the kiss until your mind goes entirely, blissfully blank. You can forget forming thoughts, your brain all gooey and useless in such a perfect way, something you weren’t even sure was possible. It’s heated, slightly messy in the best way, and you’re pretty sure he’s stolen your ability to breathe entirely.

It’s right in the middle of one of those searing, mind-numbing kisses when your brain, the torturous, unorganized organ that it is, suddenly misfires entirely. A synaptic impulse jumps the gap, and your eyes fly open.

You pull back abruptly, your hands falling to grip his shoulders again as if to steady yourself. You’re panting, lips tingling, face so hot you feel as though you could melt like ice cream in the middle of summer. 

Sam blinks, dazed, those sweet, hazel puppy eyes blown wide. “What? What is it? Did I—”

“Stressed,” you blurt, breathless, voice carrying just a little too loud through the heavy air of the dorm room.

Sam freezes. His face falls. Hazy warmth clears the way for sharp, genuine concern. Both hands drop from your waist as though he was burned, cupping your cheeks instead, his thumbs brushing below your eyes as he scans your face for any sign of a spiral. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he soothes. His voice drops into that protective, heart-breaking register he uses when you’re on the verge of a panic attack, or sobbing over some organic chemistry lab. “Breathe f’me, okay? I’m sorry, we can stop, I shouldn’t have pushed—”

“No, no, Sam, listen,” you interrupt, grabbing his wrists to still his frantic, stupidly-comforting motions. “The crossword. Eight letters. Starts with S.”

He stares at you. Pauses. Then, slowly, the pieces click into place.

The concern in his eyes dissolves completely, into something so profoundly fond, so overwhelmingly soft, that it almost hurts your chest to see. A slow, dimpled grin spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, as a disbelieving laugh tumbles from his lips, and his forehead drops against yours.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, the vibration of his chuckle buzzing against your skin. “You, Jesus, I have my tongue in your mouth, and you’re thinking ‘bout the crossword?”

“It—it was bugging me!” you defend weakly, though a smile is already beginning to tug at your own lips. You can still feel the tingle of his. “And, y’know, it fits!”

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping back to your mouth. The fondness in his eyes darkens, slow and languid, slipping into something more heated. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw one last time. “Yeah. It does, sweetheart.”

Before you can say another word, long before you can register his big man-paws sliding back down to cradle your waist, he closes the distance. He shuts you up completely, mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that doesn’t feel platonic—and sure as hell doesn’t feel like practice. 

Not at all.

AN: Okay sooo, got side tracked by this adorable ask, oops! Have some sweet, fluffy Stanford Sam (who, I’ve come to realize that you guys absolutely adore. Me too, my friends).

Anyways, should be returning to my roots, writing absolute filth soon, I promise! I just have absolutely no focusing ability recently, lol. Also, side note, the chemistry stuff in here is just stuff I vaguely remember, so it’s probably definitely wrong.

Storm/Ororo Munroe: 997 words

The mission was more direct than most. A failed weapons convoy intercepted just outside the city, nothing the X-Men hadn’t handled before. Intelligence from Charles flagged the cargo as experimental, Stark-adjacent tech repurposed and sold through black market channels. You’d be surprised if any of the original technology remained or just a frankenstein of metal, stripped down and rebuilt by people who didn’t understand it.

Ororo hadn’t called the storm at first, but the air already felt off when you arrived. Heavy. Like something waiting.

Now rain and darkness swept across the empty highway, slowing you down, turning every step into effort. Storm didn’t seem concerned.

She had a plan, she always did, you knew that.

She kept the winds low, restrained, not dismissing them yet as the team moved in and secured the perimeter. The air shifted around her, constantly nudging debris aside or guiding movement to protect her team.

Then the weapons activated.

A sharp whine, then shocking blue energy pulses cracking through the air, jagged arcs of electricity snapping toward the team. The smell hit fast, burnt metal and ozone, bitter and sticking to your nose and tongue.

Someone shouted. Another voice cut off. You heard the sounds of breath being knocked from the bodies of your colleagues as they fought, formation breaking as everyone split up to protect those they cared most for.

One discharge struck too close to a fuel container. The explosion didn’t fully bloom, but it didn’t need to.

That was enough.

Ororo stopped holding back.

The storm came down hard.

Rain slammed into the ground, thick enough to blur everything into motion and shadow. Your boots slipped against mud and broken asphalt as wind tore in every direction, pressing against you, making each breath feel tight.

Lightning split the sky, close enough to rattle through your bones, your jaw buzzing with static.

Ororo hovered above it.

Eyes glowing. Steady.

Everything bent around her. She redirected power from the damaged tech into the ground, cutting off arcs before they could reach anyone. Wind wrapped around injured teammates, holding them steady, shielding them from debris and stray fire.

It reached for you too.

Not violent. Focused. The wind curled around your body, tugging at you, guiding your steps back.

Toward her.

Toward safety.

It even cleared your path, sweeping rain aside just enough to keep your footing.

You hesitated.

Then ignored it.

The weapons broker was just out of sight, slipping behind the metal frame of a truck. Running.

You pushed forward.

Your boots slid as thunder cracked overhead, loud enough to make your ears ring. Rain soaked through everything, vision blurring from the intrusive droplets.

“Stay back!”

Her voice cut clean through the storm. Sharp and commanding, meant for everyone even if her eyes were frozen to your figure below.

You kept moving.

Your foot slipped for a split second, just enough to throw you off.

That was all it took.

The last combatant stepped into your path. Half-wired into the weapon system, his movements jerking, uneven, like the tech was pulling him along. Energy flickered along the metal grafted into his arms, unstable and wild.

Shit. How hadn’t you seen him?

Too focused on the broker. Who, honestly, wasn’t the real problem.

You pivoted to counter, body too slow from the water weighing your suit down, the wires snapped toward you. One caught your cheek, buzzing and stinging as you twisted away, already off balance.

Your boot lost traction completely.

The world dropped out from under you, your back slamming against asphalt, breath knocked from your lungs. Rain hit your face hard, blurring everything as the man loomed over you, arm lifting to strike.

This was it—

The wind snapped.

Air surged beneath you, lifting you clean off the ground before you could react, pulling you out of reach with enough force to steal your breath again.

“Enough.”

Her voice was quieter now.

Still absolute.

A gust hit your opponent from the side, sending him skidding across the soaked highway. Lightning struck close, forcing him back and buying your space.

By the time you blinked the rain from your eyes, Ororo was already there.

Descending through wind and water as it parted for her.

God, she was beautiful.

Her arms wrapped around your torso before you could protest, firm and steady, pulling you upright and then higher, lifting you off your feet as the air shifted to hold you both.

You barely registered the movement before you were against her. Her body was much warmer than the chill of the rain, a pleasant shiver as you held back the urge to curl up fully. 

“I told you to stay back.”

“I was fine—”

“You were not.”

She didn’t look at you right away, her focus still outward, tracking the field, adjusting the weather with small, precise movements. Her grip tightened as she shifted you, one arm firm around your back, the other under your legs.

She made everything look so effortless.

“You lost your footing,” she said. “You are tired.”

Her hold tightened again when you tensed, like she expected it.

“That doesn’t mean I couldn’t—”

“It means you are done.”

Her tone stopped you in your tracks.

Her gaze flicked to you, sharp enough to cut through whatever you were about to say.

“We are all tired,” she said. “Do not keep your team in this storm just to prove your pride.”

You exhaled, more out of habit than anything, but didn’t fight her.

Didn’t want to.

“…You always do this.”

“Yes.”

No pause. 

As you tilted your head back to look at her, rain catching on your lashes, you considered your next statement, bringing your pointer finger to push at her jawbone.

“…You’re not even gonna ask me to say sorry?” you said, testing how upset she was.

Her eyes flicked down.

There it was. That something softer, the difference between Ororo and Storm.

“No.” A brief pause. “You are safe. That is enough.”

Nightcrawler/Kurt Wagner: 955 words

The compound wasn’t on any map.

That alone should’ve been enough to tell you this mission wasn’t going to stay simple. Still, it made sense in a bleak sort of way. No one leaves a clean paper trail for something like this.

Hidden on the outskirts of an industrial district, the building had been flagged as a holding site. Mutants disappearing from nearby cities, all of it slowly traced back here through scattered intel and one very nervous informant who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week and probably wouldn’t again.

The moment you breached it, everything went wrong.

A two-person infiltration team had sounded much smarter on paper. Fast entry, less chance of detection. In practice, it meant there was nowhere to spread out when things went sideways.

And it went sideways fast.

The kidnappers had money. More than expected. Enough to outfit the entire facility with systems that reacted before you even finished processing what you were seeing.

Red lines snapped into existence down the metal hallway, forming a shifting grid of automated targeting systems. Something clicked somewhere overhead, and suddenly the air felt thinner, like the building itself didn’t want you here.

Teleport disruptors were embedded into the corners, pulsing faintly. Worse than that, the sentinels.

Not full-sized. You weren't lucky enough for them to cramp eachother into shutting down. This version was stripped down for tight corridors, leaner plating and sharp fingers. Thin glowing face plates making them look much faster and meaner.

Kurt had been moving nonstop since the fight started.

Sulfur hung in the air every time he vanished, sharp and biting, filling your senses as you moved separately. He didn’t stay anywhere long enough for you to track.

Bamf. Across the room.

Bamf. Behind an enemy.

Bamf. Reappearing just long enough to shove someone out of the path of collapsing debris before disappearing again.

He was everywhere at once, and it made your head spin trying to keep up.

You focused on what you could do. Undoing dampeners. Ripping them off collars, wrists, anything that looked like it was suppressing power or movement. Some of the captured mutants were too weak to stand, others just stared like they didn’t quite believe it was real. 

Your feet turning to get to the next group, your first mistake.

“Kurt—!” you shouted, ducking under a strike from a half-assembled sentinel that moved far too fast for something that size. Its arm clipped the air where your head had been a second earlier.

He didn’t answer.

Another bamf echoed somewhere behind you. Closer. Then gone again.

You twisted, trying to track him, trying to find where he was moving people. If there were any left still conscious enough to help, space was tight, but if even a few could fight…

A mechanical hand closed around your arm.

Hard.

It yanked you sideways with brutal force, and your foot caught on sharp metal debris.

Pain flared instantly, hot and shooting up your leg so fast your vision stuttered. You barely had time to register the angle you were falling at before your arms came up instinctively to protect your face.

You never hit the ground.

Bamf.

The world disappeared.

For a split second there was nothing but sulfur and pressure, like your body forgot how to exist in a straight line. Your stomach lurched violently, orientation gone, sound swallowed whole

Then you were somewhere else.

Higher and safer, Kurt had you pressed against him before your brain fully caught up, one arm locked firmly around your waist as he reappeared on a broken overhead beam. His tail curled around your leg immediately, anchoring you both so you didn’t slip off into open space.

Below you, the fight looked smaller but no less chaotic. Sparking sentinels had worn out their half-built joints but above it all, Kurt was already scanning over you.

“Eh—no,” he muttered, voice tight. “This will not do.”

“Oh my god -sorry-, put me down, I can handle it”

“You were about to be crushed,” he cut in immediately.

“I had it—”

“You did not.” Sharper now, then softer as his grip adjusted, “Liebchen, please.”

His last plea landed differently. The frustration and concern he wasn’t bothering to hide worming its way through your worry

His hold tightened again as he bamfed further along the beam, repositioning you both away from incoming fire. Your instinct was to grab onto him this time, fingers catching the fabric of his jacket as the space shifted again.

He made a quiet sound of approval.

“Ah,” he said. “Better.”

“You could warn me.”

“I did.”

“When?”

“I said ‘no.’”

You stared at him for a second, breath still catching up.

“That’s not a warning.”

“It is if you listen.” he chuckled quietly before continuing “You don't listen though”

Below, another blast rocked the room. Something heavy hit the floor hard enough to shake the beam under your feet. Sentinels were bashing their broken arms and bodies against the pillar.

Kurt glanced down, then back to you. His expression shifted, eyes sharpening in a way that made the humor disappear, making way to something else entirely.

“…Stay here.”

“No—”

His tail flicked sharply from side to side, eyebrows knit slightly

“You stay,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I will come back for you if you move.”

That was not negotiable. It didn’t need to be said twice.

You let out a breath through your nose, equal parts annoyed and resigned.

“Oh no,” you said dryly, sarcasm bleeding through despite everything. But as his eyes didn't move from your face and he hadn't left you knew you needed to confirm. 

“Thank you.”

A small pause.

Then, like he couldn’t help himself

“Bitte.”

And he was gone.

Rogue/Anna Marie: 1070 words

The convoy had been a trap, but the realization didn’t arrive all at once. It came in pieces. The route was too clean, roads looking like they’d been freshly poured, and a quiet perimeter, the eerie rushing of blood in your head, the only sound being able to be perceived.

The thing that broke that silence was a gunshot and the beeping of your earpieces losing connection with the school.

What should’ve been a standard interception turned into a full ambush the moment the X-Men moved in. Mercenaries emerged from concealed positions along the treeline and broken road barriers, wearing layered armor threaded with power-dampening tech. Not cheap gear either. Someone had invested in making sure the mutants didn’t just get stopped, they got neutralized, forever.

Rogue took the center like she always did when things turned loud.

No hesitation, no calculation you could see from the outside. Just movement. She hit the line first and it cracked open around her. Gunfire tracked her and failed to hold her. Reinforced plating meant to stall her got ripped aside like they were made of foam.

You followed her lead because that was how it was supposed to work. Push in, secure space, keep pressure moving forward.

For a minute, it did.

Then the formation started to fracture.

“Back off!” Rogue called out, voice cutting through the gunfire as she sent another mercenary flying hard enough to disappear through the metal side of a transport truck.

You didn’t back off.

You saw the gap at the same time she made it. A narrow opening in their line, just long enough to slip through and shut down one of their mechanics setting up weaponry before it collapsed back into chaos.

It was the kind of decision you make without thinking too hard, because thinking too hard is what gets people killed in situations like this.

So you moved.

Fast.

Straight into the gap.

For half a second, it worked exactly how it should have. You were through their line, inside their formation, close enough to see the panic shift as they realized someone had broken their rhythm. And you realized this is what gets people killed in situations like this. 

Then everyone corrected themselves.

A counterstrike came from your blind side- the hit slamming into you with enough force to fold your breath out of your body. Your vision flashed white at the edges, knees buckling as your boots scraped against gravel and broken asphalt. Something in your ribs screamed, but your brain didn’t have time to process it cleanly.

“Sweets—!”

Rogue’s voice hit your ears like it was coming from far away.

You tried to recover, to turn, bracing your body as another impact was already coming in.

You never felt it land.

The world shifted.

One moment you were about to hit the ground. The next you were no longer in that space at all.

Rogue had you.

Her arms locked around you mid-motion, hauling you completely off your feet like whatever weight you had didn’t matter. The transition was so abrupt it stole what was left of your breath, your body snapping into her hold as she moved without breaking stride.

“Absolutely not.”

Her tone was sharp enough to cut through the noise around you.

“Put me down—”

“Oh, I will,” she shot back immediately, already turning away from the line of fire. Her boots hit the ground hard as she repositioned, dragging you out of the kill zone like it was instinct more than decision. “When you stop tryin’ to get yourself killed.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Maybe not tryin’ but you were succeedin’.”

You shifted slightly in her grip, trying to regain some sense of control, or at least dignity, as she had thrown you over her shoulder, hand on the back of your upper thigh keeping you close.

Her hold tightened instantly.

“Don’t,” she said.

You stopped moving. Considering her last order probably would've kept you safer it seemed like a good bet to listen this time.

The battlefield behind you didn’t stop for anything. Gunfire still cracked through the air, metal still rang out under impact, and someone somewhere was shouting orders that weren’t going to be heard over the noise.

But in her arms, you were out of it for a second.

“…You’re dramatic,” you muttered, mostly because silence felt worse.

Rogue let out a short laugh, breath a little heavier now as she adjusted her grip again.

“I am the calmest one here, thank you kindly.”

You pushed your body up, tilting your head just enough to look at her.

She wasn’t calm. Not really. Her eyes stayed locked forward, scanning movement, pupils blown wide and already tracking the next push while still holding you steady against her shoulder.

“…Second calmest,” she added after a beat

That got a small laugh out of you before you could stop it.

The sound made her glance up at you briefly.

Just a flick of attention. Bright green eyes checking over you, then she kept moving like nothing. 

The terrain shifted under her steps as she carried you deeper into partial cover, using the wreckage of the convoy and broken vehicles as shielding. The air smelled like burnt fuel and wet metal, static still hanging from discharged weapons and damp earth.

You could feel the tension in her arms now that you were paying attention. Straining to hold herself back from doing something more aggressive than necessary because she had you with her.

“…You good?” she asked after a moment, feeling your eyes boring into the side of her head.

“Yeah,”.

She didn’t immediately accept it. Just kept moving, eyes settling on a dry area decently covered by cars, dropping you into her arms and then to the ground.

“Stay put. If you need to defend yourself,” she swung her finger down to the ground, pointing to some sort of pulse gun. “No leaving here, I'm coming back as soon as we’re through.”

You let out a ragged breath, somewhere between annoyed and resigned.

“…You saved me,” you said, half teasing it out just to see what she’d do with it.

Rogue’s mouth tugged slightly at the corner.

“Oh, I absolutely did.”

She shifted a little as she stepped over debris, keeping her balance steady while walking away even as another round of gunfire hit the far side of the convoy.

Her eyes flicked toward you for a second.

“Try me doll.”

Gambit/Remy LeBeau: 989 words

Glass frontage, gold trim, chandeliers that caught light and broke it into something softer than it should’ve been. Outside, valet attendants moved like nothing ever went wrong here. Inside, the noise swallowed thought before it could settle.

Music layered over laughter layered over the constant churn of chips and glass in the casino. Everything always in motion.

Remy slowed just slightly as you crossed the threshold, lining his body up with yours as his hand found its way into the small of your back.

His black and red eyes were already moving. Ceiling corners, double mirror walls, the slow rotation of security cameras disguised as plants and lamps.

You followed him through the crowd, staying close, letting the tide of people carry you forward.

The information broker would be somewhere in it, hiding amongst the many bodies and agendas. Nobody comes to a casino of this caliber unless they deal dirty.

You felt it before you saw it.

The crowd thinning just slightly near the upper floor access, people unconsciously avoiding stepping into a space they hadn’t been invited into, bouncers lining up around the room all facing this one point. 

Not very inconspicuous, they must be bad at their job. 

Remy didn’t point or signal, just changed direction.

You went with him.

Upstairs was quieter, but not calmer, jaw set in anxiety not sure how nobody had stopped you up to this point, chatter from downstairs fading the further you walked in the padded halls.

A private gaming floor. Glass walls. Soft lighting that made everything look so dazzling and shiny. Security posted at intervals that didn’t match the visible crowd density.

And there he was.

Center table, surrounded by people who laughed quickly after each of his statements, nervously clinging onto the arm of his chair or leaning across the table to be closer.

The broker didn’t look like someone who would be hiding. An absurdly confident looking man whose gaze trailed over to you the second you crossed that threshold.

Remy stopped.

Just for a fraction of a second.

His gaze dipped, not to the man, but to the floor between you and him.

You saw it a beat later.

A clean straight seam in the carpet. Out of place in an expensive establishment like this.

“Cher—”

His voice started.

You couldn't stop your step, as if time slowed down you watched in horror as your weight traveled down onto your foot… and onto the carpet.

The floor answered immediately.

Not an explosion like expected. A drop.

The section under your foot gave out cleanly, balance vanishing as you fell. The world tilting sideways as your body followed the absence beneath you.

Glass rattled.

Chips spilled across polished tile.

Someone shouted, too late to matter.

“Aw, hell.”

A hand caught your wrist.

Then your waist.

Motion snapped sideways before you hit anything below. Remy pulled you out of the collapse path in one fluid turn, your fall redirected into him instead of the opening beneath.

Behind you, the floor continued its sequence. Panels retracting in sections, empty space where you had just been standing.

You landed against him instead of the drop.

“I had it,” you started.

His grip didn’t loosen.

“What you had,” he said, already moving, “was a problem.”

Another shift rippled through the room, the lights flickered once, as somewhere across the room, a console sparked and went dark.

Remy hadn’t even looked at it.

He was already walking you through the crowd.

His hand stayed at your waist, not firm enough to stop you from moving, just enough that you moved where he wanted without noticing the exact moment you agreed to it.

Guards shifted , moving their hands near restraints. Eyes looking through the crowd not yet settled on the two of you.

A dealer froze mid-deal, cards rushing out of his hands

Remy didn’t stop.

Another step, and the room bent slightly around a controlled burst of energy from him, precisely hitting a security panel near the bar as died without sound, a gap opening as people gasped and pointed at the sparking apparatus. He took it immediately.

Tables became cover instead of furniture. Bodies became obstacles, pushing you along like a tidal wave.

“Mm,” Remy muttered, sounding mildly inconvenienced more than concerned, “Dis place think it clever.”

Remy moved instantly.

You felt it in the way his hand tightened for half a second, then shifted you slightly off-center before a ripple passed through the floor, mechanical plates clanking below your feet.

He lifted you just enough that your steps stopped syncing with the unstable surface.

“You done,” he said without looking at you.

You opened your mouth.

He didn’t wait for it.

“You are.”

A guard broke through the crowd line ahead, eyes locking onto you both.

Remy looked at him.

The lights above the gaming floor flickered again.

The guard stopped mid-step, as if he had briefly forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

Remy kept walking, the two of you toe to toe in line, his attention finally flicked to you for half a second, 

“You trust Remy?”

The man had just whisked you out of the pit of a booby trapped casino.

“…Yeah.”

His signature smirk crawled up his face before he opened his mouth

“Good.”

He angled you toward a reinforced column near the edge of the floor, cast completely in shadows due to the dim lighting

Another pulse from the system hit the room behind you.

Remy stepped in front of it.

The noise dulled where you stood.

He finally let go. Just enough that you were on your own feet, warm palm prints still able to be felt on your skin.

“Den stay,” he said, eyes already back on the room.

Baby, just do the dishes, I'll give you what you, what you want/Considering I have feelings, I'm like, "Why are my clothes still on?":

Scott may have been a busy man but he wasnt under any sort of impression that you'd "pick up" all the housework when the two of you moved in together. As your arms wrapped around his waist he moved to put one hand over yours before remembering he was elbow-deep in suds. Looking over his shoulder to see a love-drunk expression on your face and glazed over eyes. A little insulted that you thought he was that backwards in his thinking and... you were still dating him. He needs to have some sort of conversation about this

Jean loved having with her while doing chores, the domesticity of it warm in her chest, but as you tucked yourself into her side, muttering something about "taking such good care of me". She absolutely doesnt object as you start pressing your face into her neck but she is a bit worried she might've been distant the last few weeks, laying her head on you as she finishes up before

Ororo was fine with doing her part around the household, but she did have a specific distaste for dishes. But with the dishwasher broken and you busy at work, she had started on the dishes from last nights dinner and today's breakfast. She'd gotten into a groove when you got home and saw her doing the thing she dislikes just because you were busy and it had to be done. Ororo prides a bit as you press against her back pressing kisses in thanks. She could get used to this... lets hope maintenence was here tomorrow though.

Anna-Marie huffed and puffed about getting it done but when she finally sauntered over to the sink and started working the look of pure unfiltered attraction from you as you finished cleaning the bookcase was all worth it. She'll make a show out of it too, lifting the plate up slightly so that droplets of water run up her arm as your eyes followed the wet trail. Might try to bargain for a reward (kiss) when she's done.

Remy doesnt shy away from doin what his partner wants, he lives to serve. And if the fastest way to get your hands crawling across his skin is to play house-husband then he is more than willing to comply, he doesnt exactly get how you get hot and bothered from doing the bare minimum but Remy would never turn down an oppurtunity to lavish you in attention (and get some in return)

Assemble a chair from IKEA, I'm like, "AhAhAh"/Offering to do anything, I'm like, "Oh, my god":

Kurt has gotten more handy over the years, keeping his small church in order was a lot of work and outsourcing all the labor just wasnt possible- plus watching your eyes trail over his back and arms while he lifted your new bedframe up the stairs was a pleasure like no other. Shocked that he did it by himself, as he assured you it was his duty as your partner, he doesnt want to ruin the moment though so dont be surprised when he bamfs across the room to receive his payment

Kitty and her endless ability to understand complex (and ridiculous!) instructions was one of the most attractive things about her. Oh her brain was so amazing, it's not your fault her face was in front of it! Which is part of the reason she seems so surprised when she looks up, halfway done fixing your phone to see your eyes glossy and unfocused, flitting across her face and hands. She'll fan her face and tie up her hair for you to have a better view, giggling as you come back to and start praising her.

Logan was buff. He was so, so buff. He knew it, you knew it, and he knew you loved when he showed off- moving your new couch to the other side of the room for the nth time as you keep getting distracted. Muttering out another "no not right" as he laughs and rolls his shoulder, hauling it to another area as you trailed behind, staring at his muscles. At some point he'll forego any sense of 'modesty' and take off his ratty white tank alltogether, enjoying hearing your breath catch in your throat

Warren didn't particularly like this process. He had put something on backwards a bazillion steps ago and was groaning in frustration as he had to redo all his hard work, but oh you loved this process. Watching his face flush in frustration and seeing how he kept doing this one little task for you over and over (accidentally making it harder for himself), he was about to call it quits when he saw your half-lidded eyes and knew there was a very nice end in sight.