#I am a sucker for Christmas fics

[gemaesteria]

Podfic: Wishing On Runway Lights [MDZS, WangXian]

Written by: @inflight-gremlin

Art by: @museywrites

Summary:

7 Chapters.

Main story ends at Chapter 5. (6 & 7 are extras).

Rated E for explicit (eventual smut).

Lan Yuan just wants a baba

With the Chrismas holidays fast approaching, so does the storm of the century. Through it all, issue after issue, no one expected the little wishes made on runway lights to bring two strangers together like never before. Or Amidst flight delays and cancellations, Wei Ying finds himself taking care of a young boy left stranded at the airport. The initially unfortunate circumstances of their meeting would lead Wei Ying to meeting Lan Wangji, the child’s father. From then on, it’s a quick one way trip to falling in love.

🎧 Listen here. 🎧

Available on Ao3, Google Drive, Spotify and Apple Podcasts.

Sound on to hear the teaser below 📣

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut. 

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass. 

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp. 

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste. 

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips. 

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿S��? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over. 

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment. 

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically. 

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think i’m alright

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too. 

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

[photo1030]

oh!! can you recommend HH Arthur fanfics? without being modern.

Ooo, now this one is both easy and hard! There’s so, so many good things going on right now! So much material coming out daily. I’m such a pack-rat and will devour everything I get my hands on.

But here are just a few that I am obsessed with right now:

Of Love and Loss - @coltermorning

The Tie that Binds My Soul to Thee - @moeitsu (all about this one right now)

Your Ivy Grows - @roseghoul26

The Call of the West - @cassietrn (this one is interesting bc she has the same oc in various fic threads)

Dried White Roses - @pine4pple-b0i (this is a great early gang look)

25 Days of Christmas @zanazirafanfic (this one kills me, each chapter is a look at various gang members, all with winter scenarios)

I’m also a sucker for post-gang life bc I can’t handle the idea of Arthur’s demise.

Redemption Was Just the Beginning - @lacrymatoryao3 (this is simply amazing. A lot of characteristic Arthur inner turmoil that is beautifully done)

Second Chance for and Outlaw - @summerontatooine (I LOVE this one as a post gang look. There is even a second leg that goes with it but focuses on Charles - Ballad of Lonesome Heart)

These ones are older threads but still my all-time faves:

The Blue Side of the Mountain @sweet-by-and-by (post gang life and SO amazing)

Arthur!dad Series and Arthur!protector series - @queenxxxsupreme (this writer is one of the reasons I started writing my own fic. So much content on their list too)

And then there are some that just always put out amazing work: @rivetingrosie4 @shootybangbang @sixgunluvr

Hope this helps. Like I said, there is some great stuff out there and I know there are those that I follow and get tagged on that I am forgetting. But these are my ones that are the objects of my affections.

[wednesdaysraven]

my favorite wenclair fics ✶

i’ve read a bunch of fics for wenclair and i just think these are the best ones on ao3 because i think writers should have their work talked about since they work so hard on them. buckle up because this might get long! by the way, these are in no specific order!

so without further ado, let’s get into it!

the moon’s light and the wolf’s shadow

i’ll be honest, i haven’t finished this one yet but so far, i really love it! the plot is so good, the characterization is amazing, it’s a good one! word count: 23,461 status: haitus

like hollywood in me, the diamond on your ring

i am a sucker influencer/actress enid and author wednesday so i squealed when i found this. i am in love with of atomicjellyb3an’s work. word count: 67,911 status: incompleted

driving to your house in the middle of the night

another one from atomicjellyb3an! my favorite fic from them, i have this bookmarked and i come back to this one every month at least. beautiful writing, beautiful characterization, beautiful plot. i could write a twenty page essay on this fic. word count: 43,214 status: completed

hunting season

did someone say road trip?? i love fics like this! so sweet, so fun, its a wild ass ride though! gobreakaneck needs their roses honestly! word count: 179,998 status: completed

the sisyphean nightmare

i always come back to this one! it was actually one if the first full length wenclair fics i’ve ever read. all of honesttoblogjuno’s writing deserves an award, it’s just so damn good! word count: 96,991 status: completed

i know the end

i remember where i was when i started this one. this one made me ugly cry on a bus full of theater kids and that’s saying something. i come back to this one every now and then! word count: 37,196 status: completed

the dead and the dancing

this fic was a damn fever dream for while. i had read it once, didn’t bookmark it so i couldn’t find it ANYWHERE so i thought i had hallucinated reading it but my friend sent me it as a rec and i was like ‘its real???’ no but i really like this one, great plot and it’s an interesting ride! word count: 491,583 status: incompleted

the power of love (is a curious thing)

wenclair children ocs are the cutest thing. i am in love with vega addams (created by the lovely @barblaz-arts) and this is one of those fics! sora and vega’s friendship is the sweetest. word count: 10,102 status: incompleted

if we make it through december

giggling andkickingmy feet!!! the best christmas fic i’ve ever read in any fandom. it’s so soft and fluffy and 1000% worth the read. one of my favorites. word count: 34,645 status: completed

[queen-of-scissors]

Master list for my dumb drawings;

THİNGS İ HAVE NOW;

Sucker for love!

Creator with squishmellows! (GONE FLUFF?!?!)

Creator on Christmas after imposter hunt.

Creator uninstalls Teyvat and Teyvat misses you.

Creator uninstalls Teyvat and Teyvat Crumbles.

Creator reinstals Teyvat (pt 2 of the last one)

Monika and Sans visit Teyvat!

HALUCİNATİONS?! (Creator finds their Acoltyes in their house)

HALUCİNATİONS?! (Dainslieff and Kaeya Version)

Creator plays AMONG US with acoltyes

God of multiverse (Roblox and Minecraft)

Creator of a thousand worlds!

Calling characters bbygirl part 1

Yeeting Venti

THİNGS COMİNG SOON:

Explaining other lores on other worlds

Creator crying their eyes off after Casm quest

Celebrating Nowruz (i hope i wrote it right)

Creator Ascending someone else

Creator who loves messing around with the code

Creator with gen Z humor

Creator that lived through War in their world

Acoltyes (English is hard) that has a phone

Telling them about covid (damn im late)

Creator calling people babygirl

"flowers and unplanned proposals" (not my fic but artwork regarding to that fic)

Creator showing favortism towards MONİKA

Creator from imposter AU but acoltyes are from soft AU

"untouchableee untouchable" tiktok with zhongli

"untouchableee untouchable" tiktok with Xiao

Reverse streamer AU (not my fic but an artwork idea)

Creator who is a vocoloid fan

Real life sagau things i lived through (i am genshins favorite child)

Gaslighting Yanderes back series

[tacobellabeanburrito]

hey it’s anon — you’ve become my go to rec person, which is why I’m here to ask if you have any recommendations for short and sweet fics. Been looking for some bedtime stories :^)

Awwww, really!? That’s super cool. I’m glad I’ve been recommending good fics!

(Also, Anon, you’re the one that asked about Steel Samurai fics right? Well, I started reading this one called “A Brief For The Defense” by Ophelia_Writes on ao3, so check that one out cause it talks about what you were looking for a while back!)

(Also. I was searching for Christmas fics in my bookmarks just because the Christmas fics are usually the ones that are short and sweet, but now I’m really in the mood for Christmas how dare you Anon)

“Office-Appropriate” by cursedwurn: A hilarious Halloween fanfic that I adore. Featuring all the prosecutors in different costumes. Has an office sitcom type feel (People are seriously, SERIOUSLY, missing out on writing a prosecutors office sitcom type deal. For some reason, sitcom style doesn’t work for the Wright Anything Agency and mainly only works with the Prosecutors Office)

“Disrupting The Calendar” by 3musketears: Also a cute Christmas fic. I’m currently trying to find fics that are short and sweet and I found this one again in my bookmarks and as I started reading it to check if it was good I just kept getting into it and reading it. So yeah, good fic!

“Germination” by Ekat: I JUST READ THIS ONE. Omg, it’s soooo adorable. And absolutely hilarious. You just have to read it, really. It’s short and you can probably guess the real plot from a mile away but I don’t wanna spoil anything because I was so happy when I figured it out. It’s adorable.

“Court Record Companion” by rib14: I Remmeber revealing in this fic when I first read it. I’m also a big sucker for certain fics where the story is told by posts, texts, tweets and photos during the course of the story. There’s something so absolutely funny about it.

“Support Player” by Pirate_Jenna: A really good Larry centered fic. I have already mentioned in detail about how Larry has been done bad in lots of fics and in the games, so I am very partial to fics that are centered on “Good Friend Larry”. BECAUSE HE IS.

“Meet Me Down The Aisle” by bluemoodblue: I’m a true sucker for wedding fics, and this one takes the wedding cake! I’m also a sucker for wedding fics that go wrong. And this one also takes the wedding cake!

“This Christmas (I’m Gonna Risk It All)” by Samiolioli (Samioli): A really cute Christmas fic taking place during a holiday party! It’s all about Phoenix confronting his feelings for Miles, and I remember it being hilarious.

“Not What I Expected” by motivationisfortheweak: A Valentine fic set in an alternate universe where Miles and Phoenix go to high school together. Short and sweet, but Phoenix is sooo dense.

“Monster Movie Monday” by contritecacite: A breakaway from the norm! A Klavier centered fic about him getting a boyfriend and making amends with one Phoenix Wright.

“There Is Time To Kill” by realizationtime: Oh, oh bbg. You weren’t survive after this fic. “Maybe we were never meant to be older than nine”.

“A Fool For You” by bluemoodblue: ADORABLE!! It’s a Narumitsu one. I loved this one when I read it. It’s so funny and so perfectly them. Read it.

-

Ok so, there’s a couple that I personally really like but can’t find in my bookmarks. There’s this one where Miles and Phoenix are stuck in a mall during Christmas, it’s a newer one I know that. It’s absolutely adorable and I fully recommend it if you can find it.

There’s also a really cute one that I remember with Miles and Phoenix as kids making each other Valentines cards, and there’s even a very lovely sequel where they’re older and Trucy finds the card in Phoenix’s stuff! It’s not recent, but I read it recently. It’s very adorable.

Another fic I really like is one where Miles is a worker at a prestigious art museum and gets fired. Then he moves to a small town and ends up with Phoenix as a roommate. It’s actually really, REALLY adorable and pretty funny too. It gives me warm fuzzy sunflower vibes.

OK SO there’s this fic that I remember reading a long while ago, and it’s this one where Phoenix and Miles go to a Steel Samurai orchestra concert and make proposing to each other into a competition. It’s pretty hilarious and I fully recommend it if you ever end up finding it.

AND LASTLY (I think) there’s this fic that’s pretty unknown? I think? It’s absolutely CRAZY. I had no idea what was happening when I was first reading it. I really don’t wanna spoil any details in case you find it on your own. But long story short, through mystical Magatama fuckery, Phoenix and Miles end up in their own weird, fucked up worked where they’ve forgotten all their memories and are married. Characters like Trucy, Gumshoe and a lot of the others try to get them out of their own heads and it’s soooo cool and I read it pretty recently but I can not for the life of me find it. It’s really good and super interesting. Has the exact same vibes as “Perfect” by SideBlog (so if you find it, Fic Anon, I full heartedly recommend it)

ALSO IF ANYONE KNOWS THE FICS IM TALKING ABOIT IN THIS SECTION. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DIRECT ME. They’re soooo good.

These are ones that aren’t short and aren’t really sweet but that I feel should get highlights because I didn’t mention them in my other post (I don’t think):

“Everything That I Have Ever Learned Leads Back To This” by kbots: Oh. Oh this one is… Oh my goodness. SAD. I actually cried while reading this one. Like. Holy shit. Good luck not crying while reading this. It’s amazing and should have more hits.

“All The Better To See You With” by bluemoodblue: OH. Oh. I love this one. We love Trucy hating Kristoph. (Fuck Kristoph Gavin, all my homies hate Kristoph Gavin).

ANYWAY! That’s about all of them, for now at least. Again, full recommend looking at my bookmarks on A3O for other stories because this list isn’t even half of the short and sweet ones I’ve read.

AND! Also, if anyone knows the fics that I talked about in the, uh, other half of this fic ref lists where I don’t know the names but only know the stories. PLEASE DIRECT PEOPLE TO THEM IN THE REPLIES!! Or at least tell me or something cause they’re good.

Good luck reading Anon! Ask again if you need anymore recs! ;>

[mediumgayitalian]

fic rec friday 4

hi!! welcome to fic rec friday. every week, i pick five fics i have bookmarked and rec them with a little review. check them out!

Serenade by @porcelaincas

“Will Solace,” Nico said. They were so close now that Nico could see that there were golden flecks among the blue in his irises. “Are you trying to serenade me?” or the one where Nico falls for Will even before the battle against Gaea and it all culminates on a warm summer night.

i am always a deep deep sucker for fics where will and nico know each other, at least slightly, before BoO. theyre so fascinating and for what. in this one in particular...oh will helping nico in the bronze jar is crazy. i don't want to spoil it but my ass was sat on that seat reading.

2. Stupid Teens by tihsho

Will likes getting gifts, and Nico likes the way Will blushes whenever he gives him anything. It should be a simple situation, but nothing's ever simple for Nico. Something's bothering Will, and Nico can't do anything about it. Never mind that he still can't seem to put a name to these feelings, either. Maybe there's a point in here about anger and nuance, or maybe it's a point about being young, or self acceptance, or whatever else. Or maybe Nico's just reading into it too much.

yes the homophobia scene is a little gratuitous. HOWEVER. the beginning scene is so dorky and ridiculous that i actually smile WIDE every time, first time i read it i laughed out loud. and the whole nico likes to spoil will a little bit (a lot bit) even well before they got together headcanon is GODSENT its one of my favourites. and i also like in this one how will maybe needs a minute to get comfortable in his sexuality too!!

3. Find Happiness in Misery by percyspandapillowpet

"Nothing can make me happy, Solace," he spat bitterly before turning away and wiping furiously at his face. "I like to try." --- In which Nico is searching for happiness, for his childhood, and for a Christmas present.

this is an older fic, but i think it still holds up!! i love any fic that goes over the whole mythomagic thing tbh. theres so much story potential there and this fic had a very sweet premise.

4. Looks Like We'll Be Trapped Here For A While by percyspandapillowpet

Nico stopped in his tracks and turned towards Will. “The Aphrodite cabin is planning to prank us. Today.” Will raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?” "They were talking about it. I just heard them.” Sighing as if it were just what he was expecting to hear this morning, Will reached up to scratch the back of his head. “Okay. What do you want to do about it?” Nico pondered this for a moment. “I think we should hide.” “Hide? Where?” Will asked. “We can’t leave camp, and it’ll be awfully boring to stay in the forest or something all day.” After a quick mental scan of all possible locations, Nico realized there was only one unfortunate solution. “Um…how about my cabin?”

cheesy and fun!! the mythomagic scene in particular made me giggle. in particular i love this part and feel like you should all be made aware of it:

“It’s…a game I used to play, when I was little,” he replied carefully.

Will looked up at him. “Do you still remember how to play?”

He felt his entire face turning red. “Well…kind of, I guess, but I’ve outgrown it…”

Will glanced at the back of the box. “What’s the attack power of Athena?”

“Five thousand,” Nico replied automatically, and then immediately groaned. That stupid game was so hardwired into his brain, and now Will was going know how much of a weird geek he was—

But Will was smiling. “That’s adorable. Teach me how to play.”

nico being physically unable to hold the stats back....unbeatable headcanon. adore

5. Pawsitively Perfect by percyspandapillowpet

“Is that…” Nico couldn’t even finish is sentence when suddenly the thing mewed. A moment afterwards, it revealed its tiny brown face, turning to face the son of Hades with round, curious eyes that seemed much too large for the rest of its head. Nico would be lying if he said it wasn’t the most adorable little creature he had ever laid eyes upon. But soon enough, the reality hit him. Will had a cat. Cats were not allowed in camp. Will had brought the cat into the Hades cabin, so if they were caught, they would likely both get in trouble. Not that Nico was scared of getting in trouble with the cleaning harpies—it was safe to say he’d been through a lot worse. What he didn’t think he could handle was the shame of being ridiculed as the kid who tried to hide a kitten with Will Solace. Jason would never let it go. Nico glanced from the kitten’s face back up to Will’s, which was somehow equally as endearing with his pleading-blue-puppy eyes. He knew what he was going to ask just from his expression. He sighed. “Will, you can’t keep it.”

bleeding heart will my beloved. sweatshirt thief nico u are so real. honestly a power couple what more could u want. a kitten? there's a kitten, rest assured.

thank you for joining me this friday!! happy reading!!

[aftgficrec]

ah I'm so excited you're open!!! thank you for the ridiculous amount of work you all do 🙏ok, this might be too specific but any fics with an alternate take on Andrew and Neil's post-trk reunion? Andrew gets out of easthaven early, Neil leaves the Nest later, AU's, etc.? i think it's a really interesting point in their dynamic, and I'm a sucker for sober Andrew realizing someone was watching his back for once

Feeling a bit like a Bernie Sanders’ meme – ‘I am once again asking myself why I spent so much time on an ask,’ 😅 but it's because this is such an iconic and beloved scene for our fandom. For a super fun ‘live’ first-time reader reaction to this high drama, check out ‘The King’s Men, Chapter 1 – Hello Foxhole, My Old Friend’ by @nickireadstfc here. -A

also see

Andrew's POV of throwing keys off roof here

‘Come and Save Me From It’ here (completed)

‘Learning To Feel (When You've Forgotten How)’ and the fandom meta posts here

‘pipedream’ here

‘reaching for the heights’ here

‘Lost boy’ and ‘[Un]broken’ here

‘I Know You From A Nightmare,’ ‘The Marks We Make,’ and ‘Draw Me Out, Mark Me In’ here

‘Marked’ and ‘Soulmates who can feel each other’s pain’ here

‘Of Stars and Stories’ here

‘What’s normal now?’ here

long previous recs with reunion mention

‘No More Fucks To Give’ here (updated)

‘The Sphynx and the Hare’ here (completed)

‘corvus, vulpes, lupus’ here

‘never fallen (from quite this high)’ here

‘Not a Pipe Dream’ here

‘everything and nothing begins with you’ here

Andrew gets sober, Neil stays at Evermore

‘Oh Raven,’ ‘Jailbird,’ and ‘Take to the Wing’ here

‘Scared to Live (But I'm Scared to Die)’ here 

 ‘Comeback’ here

you may also like

Christmas at Evermore here plus song rec ‘Far From Home (The Raven)’ here

Proust here plus ‘if you really love nothing’ here

Neil’s a hallucination here

Andreil meet in Easthaven here

‘just a slow body’ here

‘Will you be there when I come back?’ here

‘Here With You’ here (complete)

‘i'm here right now (just be here right now with me)’ here 

‘We're All Stories In The End’ here

‘Spirits In My Head’ here 

‘Fold me in your palms’ here

‘The Raven Prince’ here

‘Thanks, Matty’ here

‘Lullaby’ here

Random Rec - Andrew Minyard playlists round up here

Just a Pipe Dream by loveroulettes [Rated T, 2781 Words, Complete, AFTG Exchange Summer 2021, Locked]

Andrew thought coming off drugs will get rid of all side-effects, so why is Neil still here? AKA the scene where Neil picks up the cigarette from the ground and smokes it, but from Andrew’s POV

tw: implied/referenced abuse

reckless/i like it by Willow_bird [Rated M, 27259 Words, Complete, AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2022]

One thing didn’t seem to have changed since getting off the drugs. One thing almost seemed to have gotten worse. ”The next time someone comes for you, stand down and let me deal with it. Do you understand?” “If it means losing you, then no.” --- 5 times Andrew realized this something he had for Neil was, well, treacherous + 1 time he admitted (at least to himself) that he liked it

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: kidnapping, tw: choking, tw: implied/referenced torture

In the rain by Lyndis [Rated G, 1147 Words, Complete, 2021]

Part 2 of Quick and Dirty, parts 3 and 15 here

Andrew is off his drugs for the first time in years. No one knows he is back from Easthaven and he just wants to see Neil.

Time Machine by Marquee [Rated G, 137 Words, Complete, 2023]

Part 4 of Aftg Poetry

Andrew wanting to kiss Neil on the roof, but he isn’t sure he should. But like a poem?? Yeah.

Tumblr Prompts by lipsstainedbloodred [Not Rated, Collection, 2018] 

Chapter 13: Page 12: What if Neil didn’t go with the monsters to pick up Andrew from Easthaven (Andreil) [T, 2434 Words] 

tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced sexual assault

his solace by orphan_account [Rated M, 2292 Words, Complete, 2016]

Andrew’s first thought of Neil Josten was ‘fake’. He was a boy who was clearly lying, clearly pretending to be something he wasn’t; or at least, something he didn’t want to be. Andrew’s next thought of Neil Josten was ‘dangerous’. He was too attractive for Andrew to ignore, whilst single-handedly being the biggest flight risk he’d ever met. Neil looked for exits everywhere he went, and Andrew hated him for it.

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: violence

Silent Words by Jeni182 [Rated M, Collection, Complete, 2018]

Chapter 2: Colors [T] Andrew hates color. It’s part of the reason why he’s always in black. It’s just easier. The color doesn’t make his eyes hurt. He doesn’t have to think about shit matching. It deters people, a lot of times.

When You Were Young by SpookyMiscreant [Rated T, 1831 Words, Complete, 2017]

It starts when the monsters pick up Andrew from Easthaven. Andrew sits on the roof of Fox Tower and contemplates Neil Josten now that he's sober. Set to the background music of When You Were Young by The Killers.

tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied referenced child abuse and neglect

this hole you put in me (wasn't deep enough) by gaygoyle [Rated T, 3368 Words, Complete, 2023]

Neil blames himself for not doing more for Andrew while he's at Easthaven. So, Neil returns the one thing he knows even with his ban- Exy.

tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon

Shades of Sunset by darkbluebox [Rated T, 1885 Words, Complete, 2020]

Andrew is five years old, and he thinks orange is the most beautiful colour in the world. Twenty years in the life of Andrew Minyard.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced csa

Tell Me How You Hate Me by Killingmeslowly_24 [Rated T, 30532 Words, Incomplete, Updated June 2023]

Next to Kevin sat a man who was roughly Neil-shaped, but that was where the similarities ended. Because Neil was brown hair, wide eyes, and a skittish demeanor. Neil was hidden smiles and questions and questions, so many goddamn questions, and- No. This wasn’t Neil. This man was a collage of bandages and bruises, hair bathed in flame. This man was a slack jaw and blue eyes, blue like ice, like an ocean, like drowning, too much like freedom for Andrew’s comfort. ... Or, The King's Men from Andrew's POV

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: violence, tw: dissociation, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: depression, tw: blood, tw: panic attacks

Bury it deep down, keep it under your skin by All_for_the_andreil [Rated T, 2123 Words, Complete, 2023]

He only wants to jump off the roof half the time. He supposes that’s progress too. The other half he’s only thinking about it in theory. How many bones would he break? Would he die on impact, like his mother did, or would it take some time? Would he feel the pain, or would it be just pure shock? Would he laugh as he fell? -or- Andrew's life told in snippets

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: canonical character death

Promptober 2023 by djinthehouse [Rated T, Collection, Updated Oct 2023]

Chapter 2: Falling into his reverse based on the song, The drug in me is you, by Falling in reverse

tw: referenced drug overdose, tw: canonical character death, tw: implied/referenced drug addiction, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: psychological abuse, tw: gun violence, tw: murder

Chapter 4: Weak for the Boy This is based of the song, Weak by AJR it is kind of the opposite of Falling into his Reverse. 

tw: referenced nonconsensual drug use, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: blood, tw: psychological abuse

drop the game by Joana789 [Rated T, 1647 Words, Complete, 2017]

Then, the pills are gone. The buzzing in his veins is gone. The too-bright colors of the world are gone, everything back to its overwhelming dullness again. Neil Josten is, startlingly, still there.

tw: implied/referenced torture

but i’ll know, i’ll know by neilpipedreamjosten10 [Rated T, 2709 Words, Incomplete, Updated Nov 2023]

After Andrew comes back from Easthaven, Neil is missing, and Andrew is the only one who remembers who he is. But Neil never left Edgar Allen. *** This takes place during TKM, a what-if? fic where Andrew returns and finds that Neil was like a figment of his imagination, but now he has to save the runaway.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: referenced overdose, tw: referenced suicide, tw: nonconsensual drug use, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: torture

Lost (I Don’t Want To Be) by Demiwitchwoodwalker [Rated T, 4564 Words, Complete, 2022]

Part 2 of Someone(s) To Stay 

Kevin didn't respond, couldn't, and he suspected Riko knew that as his next words oozed with some sort of satisfaction. "I thought I'd give you a bit of a heads up, as a… let's say Christmas present. Your precious Nathaniel's getting inked. It's a shame Jean already got three, it would've suited the little Wesninski."

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: panic attacks

NB: kandrew/developing kandreil

meta

*tw: may include references to Andrew’s canon trauma and suicidal thoughts

Andrew's time at Easthaven meta by series author @korakos [Tumblr, 2015]

Neil didn’t make Andrew want to live. He gave Andrew a reason to give into that want. meta by @haletostilinski [Tumblr, 2016]

The Extraordinary Strength of Andrew Minyard meta by @imaginedmelody [Tumblr, 2016]

the drugs went away and neil was still the same meta by @miniyrds [Tumblr 2016]

after they pick Andrew up at Easthaven meta by @evil-diabolical-oops [Tumblr, 2016]

andrew hates neil meta by @kickfoxing [Tumblr, 2017]

can you imagine Andrew coming back from reliving weeks of abuse… meta by @boris-pavlikcvsky [Tumblr 2017]

Midnight Thoughts about Andreil meta by @saltierthanbottomofapretzelbag [Tumblr, 2018]

Was "If it means losing you, then no" the final nail in the coffin? meta by @blogaboutyafavbirdboys [Tumblr, 2019]

meta about andrew and caring and wanting things by @sinistercacophony [Tumblr, 2020]

thoughts/feelings/deeper meaning of the (rooftop keys/cigarette) scene? meta by @bloody-wonder [Tumblr, 2020]

andrew thinking that neil was just a side-effect of the drugs meta by @twirlingflurry, @buriedinbaltimore [Tumblr 2021]

how utterly, heartbreakingly sad it is that Andrew calls Neil a pipe dream meta by @fortheloveofexy [Tumblr, 2022]

“You were supposed to be a side-effect of the drugs” meta by @sepulchralblues [Tumblr, 2023]

he cannot be real, he has to be a hallucination meta by @neveranniething [Tumblr, 2023]

neil just gives andrew his bands and knives meta by @grooviestguru [Tumblr, 2023]

you may also like

in the dream I don't tell anyone (you put your head in my lap) by Fortheloveofexy [Rated T, 1850 Words, Complete, 2022, Locked]

The real Neil would never allow this, would not let himself be this vulnerable. The real Neil can barely stand to be around him. Andrew knows this. But Dream Neil? Dream Neil is a different story.

Will you be there when I come back? by Shamman [Not Rated, 299 Words, Complete, 2017]

Andrew is trapped in Easthaven with an eidetic memory and tries to focus his thoughts on the confusing image of Neil Josten's face. -Because however terrible it may look, Andrew's current circumstances are much less pleasant. Furthermore Bee has been making him sing and play the guitar in a very therapeutic attempt to make him express some sort of actual emotion over the past year.

tw: violent imagery

You Gave Me A Key And Called It Home by glintchi [Rated T, Collection, Complete, 2019]

Chapter 19: Yes, I Admit It, You Were Right [460 Words] Renee was waiting for him in the basement, fingers already taped, hair pulled back into a tuft of a rainbow ponytail.

Foxhole Tidbits by SpangleBangle [Collection Rated T/M, Updated  2018] 

Chapter 14: My Friend, O My Friend [M, 953 Words]  Prompt for Renee's reaction after Drake/Easthaven and Andrew's return.

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: canonical character death

Did You Miss Me? by Deathandcommas [Rated G, 555 Words, Complete, 2023, Locked]

Aaron and Andrew have a late night chat after Andrew gets back from Easthaven.

tfw spoons by StrawBerryRains [Rated G, 216 Words, Complete, 2021]

Nicky offers Andrew ice cream when they arrive home from Easthaven.

A Taste of Your Own Medicine by caffeine_withdrawl [Rated M, 66454 Words, Incomplete, Updated March 2023]

Set after the infamous Thanksgiving, but then diverges from canon. Andrew and Bee decide it’s time for Andrew to come off the drugs, but works some magic so that he is allowed to do it in Columbia. Neil is tasked with helping him through it. They decide to do it the same way Andrew helped Aaron sober up, by locking him in a bathroom. Andrew doesn't react well, and switches between rage and panic. Andrew wonders if Neil is real or if he made him up because of the drugs.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: body horror, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: flashbacks, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: drug addiction, tw: withdrawal, tw: vomit, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: ptsd, tw: emotional abuse, tw: hallucinations

making it harder to breathe by Azure_Allumiia [Rated T, 1643 Words, Complete, 2021]

Christmas Break with the Foxes, featuring Andrew at Easthaven and Neil in Evermore. Foxes celebrate New Years in NYC with the ball drop.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: rape/noncon, tw: medical abuse, tw: torture, tw: blood

Dead Birds by Noah98 [Rated G, 1601 Words, Complete, 2021, Locked]

Neil just got back from Evermore and Andrew has returned from Easthaven. Riko calls. He wants a rematch and oh boy does he get it.

tw: violence, tw: blood/gore

Art

NB: just a sampling of art for this scene

“Feel Again” original song by @whatbutandreil [Tumblr, 2020]

Picking up Andrew from Easthaven part 1, part 2 comic by @coldcigarettes

andreil keys off the roof scene: animation by @hahanken | comic by @rainbowd00dles | comic by @lunapiq | art by @esklinray

I hate you comic by @thematicallycoherent

I’m not a hallucination art by @clumsyartish

Stick around long enough to figure it out for yourself. edit by @m1nyards

You are a pipe dream art by @viennemort

“you spend all this time watching our backs” edit by @matthcwboyd

not a hallucination a pipe dream art by @kryptidfox

“you were supposed to be a side effect of the drugs.” art by @planetmontressor

"Go inside and leave me alone." art by @dimsunstuff

“No, you’re a pipe dream.” art by @starkingdraws

[beomiracles]

You might have answered this before, I am not sure if I am honest, but I have been looking for stuff to read and was wondering if you have any recommendations? Or authors you like?

I think I've answered something similar a few months ago but the list has definitely grown since !

anything @koqabear puts out is a good read in my books, but if I were to get specific (which I will) then I really enjoyed Divinity for the Damned ⎯ it's just so perfect, I personally think it's so hard to portray supernatural spirits but Beomgyu is literally spot on like- and the smut blends so naturally into the story as well I love it !!

another of my favourite authors are @hyewka !! and though I don't write it a whole lot, one of my favourite things are sub!txt, her blog is literally heaven sent if you're looking for good sub fics :3

her most recent one Buddy System (sub!gyu raaahhhh) I absolutely died. And not to mention one of my long time favourites, this yeonjun one in which he's your annoying neighbour who you end up sort of fucking yippie !! (I love meandom!reader. like I love love love love love )

@majestyjun !!! I'm such a sucker for darker content and everything she writes just hits the spot. I even end up reading for groups I don't even stan because her writing gets me so immersed. step!father soobin save me. literally.

@bamgyw 's six nights. I'm floored. you know how some people just know how to use words, this is it. I genuinely go back to re-read as I wait for an update, I also love how the povs alter between chapters !!

let’s not forget @gardnhee !!! absolutely adore her writing and the way she explains things :33 am i biased when i say this emo gyu fic that i requested, probably. but i genuinely combusted

someone i also adore is @izzyy-stuff !! as a bamtori my favorite is by far package keeper hehe just read it. its all i’ll say.

now if you want to cry, i suggest @niningtori , like actually writes some of the best angst on here i kid you not. mastermind is by far my favorite because i am sick and twisted :>

then @miupow of course !! though i mostly read her txt works i sometimes find myself caught up in her skz fics as well for the sole sake of her writing because oh my god. currently waiting for craveverse like it’s christmas. and just like magic i’ll always go back to you.

at this rate i should make a recs page 😓 sorry to anyone who i disturbed with the tag >•<

[ofstoriesandstardust]

the alchemy (j.c.m.)

a/n: wow, i really am sticking to my unintentional every two month fic posting... anyways, this all occurred because of @cottagecori tempting me with the thought of getting a customized jersey for Javy. this is part of my unpublished midnight rain series (will i ever get the balls to post that sucker? not a clue). enjoy!

summary: Super Bowl Sunday in Javy's jersey and a little more.

inspired by taylor swift's the alchemy

warnings: fluff, i'm yearning okay, proposals, swearing, unedited

word count: 1.5k

“this happens once every few lifetimes/these chemicals hit me like a white wine”

“Has Javy ever gotten to wear that jersey?” 

Your eyes narrow at Jake as you mix the dip. “Does it matter?” 

Jake snorts. “Well, you did buy that for Coyote for Christmas, like, over a year ago now. And I think I’ve seen him wear it like, at one game since then. And that was only because you were out of town.” 

You shrug. “Maybe it’s a good luck charm.” 

Jake chuckles, standing up. “Keep telling yourself that.” 

You huff as Jake opens the fridge. “I don’t remember it being your business.” 

“It has his last name on the back!” Jake exclaims, turning you to show the jersey off to his friends. Your cheeks turn a dusty pink as you catch his eyes from across the kitchen island. 

Truth be told, he hadn’t gotten to wear the customized Saints jersey to a single game or watch party since you’d gotten it for him the Christmas before last. And he couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed because the sight of you proudly outing his last name on your back every time you watched a Saints game together was worth a thousand jerseys. 

“...you don’t even like football.” He blinks, realizing the conversation has moved on. 

You shrug again and he can tell you’re sheepish from across the room. “We compromised.” 

“How is watching every game and only being allowed on your phone during commercial breaks a compromise?” Payback says incredulously. 

You smirk. “He has to buy me In’N’Out after every game. And to me, it’s more than worth it.” 

-

You yawn, tucking your head into his shoulder. His thumb rubs soft circles into your ankle as he listens to the post-game interviews. 

The elation of his team winning the Superbowl, for the first time since 2010 you had reminded him, would carry him through the next four weeks, easy. The knowledge that you had been there with him, cheering just as loud as he had would carry him for even longer. 

“Still wanna get food?” He asks, nudging your cheek with his nose. You yawn, shrugging. 

“Rain check for tomorrow? It’s late.” 

He nods, before taking a look around the house. Cleaning their place post-parties was always awful, but this had to be the worst yet. “Shit, I should really get this place cleaned up.” 

You groan, pulling yourself up off the couch. “Don’t worry, I can do it. ‘Sides, you should be out with your friends.” 

Fanboy had mysteriously disappeared with a girl (friend of a friend of a friend of Omaha’s) sometime during the third quarter and had yet to resurface. 

Bob had gone with Rooster and Hangman out for a drink and a few of his friends from high school who'd been in town for the game had gone with them. He probably should’ve joined them for a celebratory beer (or three) but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to leave your side. 

He just wanted to celebrate with you. 

“It’s not your house.” He finally lamely coughs up and you roll your eyes as you collect empty Solo cups from the living room. 

“I really don’t mind.” You say, leaning over the coffee table, giving him a glimpse of the back of the jersey. 

He hates to say he has a possessive streak in him, he really does. He hates it because he thinks of the guys he’s met in the service who say they’re possessive, who control their girl, who think of their spouse as their property. 

But watching you walk around his house, cleaning up after him and his friends, he knows it’s true. He is possessive of you, something he can’t help. Not in the weird, controlling way, but the knowledge that you are his, his partner, the one you come home to every night. The sight of you walking around in his jersey with his name on the back, seeing you so proudly wear his last name and own it, well… it does something to him. 

“Stop staring.” 

He blinks, eyes coming into focus. You’re not looking at him, eyes focused on the empty cans of beers you’re pouring out into the sink. But he can hear the smirk in your words as his eyes follow your every move through the kitchen. 

“I’m not staring.” He claims, knowing full well he is. 

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.” You snort, tossing the cans into the recycling under the sink. 

“You could be; don’t ever limit yourself.” You toss him a glare over your shoulder as you pull a bunch of chip clips out of the drawer. He pushes himself up on the couch. “You don’t have to clean up, seriously.” You shrug as you pull your hair away from your face, giving him a better view of the jersey as you turn away from him. 

“It’s fine, I really…” 

Your voice fades as he fixates on the name on the back. His name. 

Machado

God, does he want to make you Machado.

He bites his lip, thinking of the ring tucked away in his closet. The ring he had designed specially for you, after he always swore he’d never let himself get this close to someone again. 

He wants you to be a Machado more than he’s probably wanted anything else in this world. He just hopes you want the same. 

-

He thinks of little else for the next few months. 

The burning desire, deep in his chest, to get down on one knee and propose to you only grows, especially after the two of you put your down payment on your dream house together in early June. 

You both spend the tail end of summer and into the fall building your home together, out here by the beach you’ve always wanted to live close to. 

It’s all so domestic it would rot some pilots' teeth. 

You go to Home Depot after work to pick out paint samples and visit furniture stores he can’t pronounce the names of to look at couches on weekends. You go to Best Buy and pick out a TV and there’s always a vase of fresh flowers from Trader Joe’s on the dining room table every Sunday. He makes you dinner most nights as you sit with a glass of whatever seltzer you were trying that week and trade stories about the workday. You go grocery shopping together every Sunday afternoon and even have a Costco membership together. And the whole time he’s thinking about how badly he wants to make you his wife. 

It almost becomes too much to bear, the question nearly slipping from his lips one lazy morning in bed. The two of you were so close to being done with the house and he simply couldn’t bear it a second longer. 

He barely manages to stop in time, diverting to ask if you’d make pancakes this morning. You raise your eyebrows but give no other acknowledgement that he might’ve said anything else. He’d had a plan to do this right and you deserved better than being asked while half-awake. 

By the time the two of you start the two-block walk to the beach near your home, he’s practically bursting. 

Nerves and eagerness thrum through him as he takes your hand. You either don’t notice or don’t comment on the way he’s gripping your hand just a little too tightly, thinking of the little box tucked away in the picnic basket the two of you were taking with you. 

To catch the sunset he’d said, when he’d asked if you want to picnic on the beach for dinner tonight. You’d been more than willing, as he expected, and you were none the wiser. 

It was perfect.

The sun is setting in the distance, the sky becoming a golden pink, as your feet dig into the sand. He intertwines your fingers, squeezing your hand as he does. You look over at him as he takes a deep breath. 

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart.” 

You smile at him. “So do you.” 

His smile only grows at your words, the surety in what he’s about to do growing. 

Christ, he can’t believe he almost wasted this moment right here. And yet, any sort of soft speech he’d prepared beforehand gets wiped from his brain as looks at you, taking in the way the sun makes you glow golden. 

Breathless, he whispers, “Will you marry me?” 

Your eyes grow wide as you lean in towards him. “Are you- are you serious?” 

He nods, a giddy joy alighting his chest. “Yes, yes, God I am so serious. Baby, I- I want to marry you more than anything in this whole world. I want to make you a Machado.” He picks up the box tucked under his leg, sliding the ring out. He poises it just so at the tip of your ring finger. “Will you do me the greatest pleasure in the world by being Mrs. Machado?” 

Your eyes grow glassy but you nod, shock still written in your features. “I- I would love nothing more. Yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you.” 

The ring slides over your finger with ease and it’s barely on before you’re pulling him into a kiss. His hands cups the back of your neck as he sighs into, feeling his heartbeat finally steady. You were going to be his, forevermore.

[critter-rarepair-reccs]

Hello all! I hope you're having a lovely day. Today I bring you our very first recc list, featuring eighteen fluffy fics! Some are pure schmoop, some come with a side of angst, and a few with a touch of smut as well. You can find them below the cut and I highly encourage you to check them out, and leave kudoes and comments to spread the rarepair love 🩷

To Keep It All In by rabbitxheart (2071 words, Teen) Pairing: Fjord/Caleb Widogast (Widofjord) Warnings: Drug mentions

Fjord touches a weird mushroom thing that makes him high and sick and has to be babysat until the clerics can heal him the next day. While Caleb is sitting with him he tries to make a confession.

Reccer Says: It's really cute and Fjord has sweet moments with Beau and Nott too. Just great sickfic fluff

lips pressed to the palm of your hand by vietbluecoeur (2410 words, General) Pairing: Yussa Errenis/Marion Lavorre (Rubygold) Warnings: None

Yussa does Marion's makeup for her before a performance. She returns the favor. They kiss about it.

Reccer Says: It's just SO beautiful. Every word feels gilded or done up in the cosmetics that cover Marion's vanity. The whole thing is poetry, not least of all the relationship between Yussa and Marion. They're so sweet and you can feel the affection they have for each other in every sentence. The way they banter and tease each other is adorable and Viet's voice for Yussa is also just so fun (let that old man say fuck! XD) Also, the way the title ties into the fic is just so sweet.

a place for us to dream by glossolali (1105 words, General) Pairing: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (Shadowidomauk) Warnings: None

Essek, Molly, and Caleb share a cozy and domestic summer afternoon.

Reccer Says: I am a sucker for cozy cuddly domestic fluff and for Shadowidomauk and this combines the two in the sweetest package. They're snuggly and in love and it's absolutely wonderful.

cheap wine and new beginnings by bunnymauk (2618 words, Teen) Pairings: Past Lestera/Mollymauk Tealeaf, Hinted Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss (Shadowmauk) Warnings: Referenced drug use, referenced car accident

Essek and Molly leave the club early and hang out at Molly's place together, there's cuddling <3

Reccer Says: I enjoyed it!

fledgling pledges by hanap (3100 words, Teen) Pairing: Astrid Beck/Eadwulf Grieve/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (Blumenshadow) Warnings: None

Caleb, Astrid, and Eadwulf go on a date with Essek, and each try to woo him.

Reccer Says: Its adorable

she said "take care", but i take more than i bring by MouseInTheCastle (3385 words, General) Pairing: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss Warnings: None

Molly and Caleb are together, and Caleb and Essek are together, but Essek and Molly aren't - Essek gets sick and Molly takes care of him

Reccers Says: Warm and fluffy and cozy, very very sweet <3

December's Language is Imprecise Grief by Marvelouska (2688 words, Teen) Pairing: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (Shadowidomauk) Warnings: None

Molly, Caleb, and Essek staying in the dorms over christmas break, and Molly and Caleb try to make it a great holiday for Essek.

Reccer Says: I enjoyed it!

someone as lost as you by floralprintshark (6500 words, Teen) Pairing: Beauregard Lionett/Jester Lavorre (Beaujes) Warnings: None

Jester asks Beau about her first kiss. The conversation leads to a question Beau didn't expect.

Reccer Says: It's very sweet and has a lot of mutual pining and disaster lesbian Beau

Thread by Crewe (2256 words, General) Pairing: Fjord/Caleb Widogast (Widofjord) Warnings: None

Fjord and Caleb develop a routine at night, Caleb reading his books and Fjord mending his and his friends' clothes.

Reccer Says: It's quiet and domestic Widofjord from the very beginning of campaign 2.

Maybe by Tulikettu (3389 words, Explicit) Pairing: Shaun Gilmore/Vax'ildan (Vaxmore) Warnings: None

Vax thinks a good cuddle will really set him right. And Shaun must give the best hugs. (Fluffy smut ensues)

Reccer Says: I enjoyed it!

Vivere, Ridere, Amare by noconceptoflife (20189 words, Mature) Pairing: Yeza Brenatto/Veth Brenatto/Caleb Widogast Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Anxiety

AU where Caleb meets the Brenattos soon after leaving the asylum and hides with them in plain sight. Pretend poly marriage turns real.

Reccer Says: I enjoyed it!

The Maps are Gone (So Are Our Footprints Too) by J (6514, Explicit) Pairing: Yeza Brenatto/Veth Brenatto/Caleb Widogast Warnings: Consensual voyeurism

Yeza knows Caleb and Veth have something special, and decides to show Caleb how best to take care of Veth on their travels.

Reccer Says: I enjoyed it!

Not Fancy Stuff by CriticalRolemance (3216 words, Teen) Pairing: Shaun Gilmore/Vax'ildan (Vaxmore) Warnings: None

Vax and Gilmore take a moment to forget about the looming existential threat of dragons and have a picnic dinner on the roof of Whitestone Castle.

Reccer Says: All the fics in this series are simple sweet fluff, but this one is probably my favorite. They're just a pair of romantic idiots and they deserve to get to be stupid in love together.

something sweet by roundtriptojupiter (4988 words, General) Pairing: Percy de Rolo/Grog Strongjaw Warnings: None

An oblivious, and very confused Percy, becomes subject to Grog's tribe-specific courting rituals when the goliath gets a crush on him. (He eventually gets the hint)

Reccer Says: It's a very niche ship written in a way that feels very authentic to the characters. It also completely got me onboard to the possibilities of said ship! As well as that, it's just a well written, very sweet fic. A great way to get acquainted with what is probably one of Vox Machina's rarest pairings.

The Scientist's Guide to Being Loved by tangereen (1237 words, Teen) Pairing: Eadwulf Grieve/Essek Thelyss (Esswulf) Warnings: None

Essek tries to figure out if Eadwulf is in love with him using logic.

Reccer Says: Essek is a goofy little guy trying to use science to explain emotions. I think it's cute.

bifurcation of heart and bone by 917651827 (2372 words, Explicit) Pairing: Eadwulf Grieve/Essek Thelyss (Esswulf) Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics

After his pregnancy, Essek can transform his body and fuck his partner the way he prefers.

Reccer Says: This esswulf focused entry in an Astrid/Eadwulf/Essek/Caleb series is so sweet! After he gives birth, Essek is able to get his dick back and fuck Eadwulf. They're both so loving and gentle with each other. It makes my heart burst!

Through the Years by piratesPencil (5649 words, Mature) Pairing: Yeza Brenatto/Veth Brenatto/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast Warnings: None

Scenes of how Caleb and Essek and the Brenattos' relationship grows over several years and they eventually form a polycule.

Reccer Says: I love each one on one scene between Essek and the others. Also great demi Essek feels 💕

And we have two reccs for; Today I Love You Even More by wtgw (5687 words, Teen) Pairing: Yeza Brenatto/Veth Brenatto/Caleb Widogast Warnings: None

Yeza encourages Veth to pursue her crush and is surprised when he ends up developing one of his own. Takes place in Xhorhas between the time Yeza is rescued and the time they’re able to relocate him; a very sweet fic about Yeza slowly falling for and awkwardly romancing the Wizard boyfriend his wife picked up on the road.

Reccer 1 Says: I loooooove Yeza's characterization his dynamic with not just Veth and Caleb but the rest of the nein is great Reccer 2 Says: I always love any story fleshing out Yeza and his personality+motivations, and this one does it so well! His patience and kindness in letting Nott persue Caleb, and then his own developing feelings, are just so endearing and fun to read about.

Thank you for joining us for our very first recc list! We'll be doing these every Wednesday for the foreseeable future 🩷 All enclosed recommendations were submitted by the community via our submissions form, which you can find here. All fic information is as it was provided by the reccer, so it may not be accurate to the author's intent or the precise contents of the fic itself. Please assume good intent from all parties 🩷

Submissions for next week's list are already open! We'll be featuring Modern AUs. If you have any you'd like to highlight, you can send them in here. The week after that, the theme is Whump, and you can also submit fics for that now!

If you want more rarepair fic, check out @cr-summer-wildflowers and their event collections on ao3! If you want some friendship after all this romance, take a look at @critter-genfic-events and their recc lists! And if you're interested in everyone's favorite wizards, you can't go wrong with the lists at @aeor-is-for-reccing !

Thanks all and have a lovely day/night/timezone! 🩷

[stevetonyweekly]

Cap-Ironman Rec Week - Time Travel - Tuesday

IT’S TIME TRAVEL TUESDAY! 

Guys. I am so excited about today’s theme. Anyway--welcome to day two of @cap-ironman rec week, featuring---you have already been told--TIME TRAVEL! I am such a sucker for time travel with our boys, so here’s some of my favs. 

~

The Twice-Told Tale by arysteia

For someone he'd hero-worshipped for so long, Steve Rogers in the flesh is a pretty big disappointment. For one thing, he keeps looking at Tony as though he reminds him of someone else, and even if he never says anything, Tony's pretty sure it's his father. A lifetime of not measuring up to Howard's expectations is more than enough, thank you very much, and he's certainly not going to make an effort to live up to any of Steve's. Steve's pretty clearly failed to live up to his expectations, in any case, and that's not hypocritical at all.

my thoughts: if you’ve followed the blog at all you will not be surprised to see this included. I almost didn’t, because i rec this fic so often. BUT--it’s my favorite time travel fic, and one of my favorite Stevetony fics of all time so. Read it, I love it, Steve’s patience in this is fucking saint levels. 

To Make Much of Time [Podfic] by paraka

When Iron Man rejects Steve's romantic advances, Steve is disappointed, but of course he understands -- Iron Man's secret identity is important. But when a portal opens and Tony Stark crashes into their midst from twelve years in the future, Steve starts to suspect that there are more secrets here than he can even begin to comprehend, and neither Iron Man nor Tony are providing any answers.

my thoughts: i am hugely fond of the original fic (by sineala) and the podfic that paraka did for it is just lovely. I adore identity porn and the way that the Tony’s interact. Perfection. 

Your Name on Every Wall by Sineala

The Time Gem throws Steve into the past rather than the future, and in doing so, it gives him the opportunity to undo his past mistakes. But when it turns out that all of his mistakes involve Tony Stark, Steve begins to wonder if he's ever going to be able to mend things between them.

my thoughts: the beauty of time travel is the hindsight and the angst of it is not being able to change a damn thing and Sineala captures that sooooooo well here. 

More Than Gravity by JenTheSweetie

“Aw, time travel, no.”

On Christmas Eve, Tony came unstuck in time.

my thoughts: time travel AND team as family shenanigans? What’s not to love? 

the mistakes we never made by Areiton 

Steve’s sigh is so tired Tony is actually offended. 

“I didn’t do this,” he says, before Steve can say anything. “I didn’t even play with any HYDRA tech and accidentally do this.” 

“Pretty sure I did this,” one of him says, easily. 

my thoughts: ok so this one is mine which might be cheating but ALSO--Tony having to face both his bratty past self and future silver fox self (and isn’t Steve’s attention there interesting) is just--fun. I love all the Tonies. 

[lestappenforever]

What A Bright Time (It's The Right Time) - A Lestappen Christmas fic

You didn't actually think I'd leave you without a Christmas fic, did you?

This whole thing came into existence because I wanted to write a Christmas karaoke fic after listening to way too many Christmas songs, and I'm a sucker for Christmas fics.

So, here it is - my silly little Lestappen Christmas gift to you!

Dedicated to the beautiful, wonderful @f1writingbyme, who pretty much watched me write at least 70% of this fic live by creeping in the document along the way. Thank you for being such an incredible friend to me at all times, and for always hyping me up whenever I try to write. You motivate me more than you'll ever know, and I love you. ❤️

If you want to listen to the songs/versions in this fic, you can find a playlist here.

And please have a look at the Arctic Igloos at Ranua Resort in Lapland, Finland before/while reading. You'll understand why later.

You can read the full fic on AO3 here.

Merry Christmas, everyone! 🎄

Summary: “I still can’t believe Max agreed to lend his private jet to get everyone here,” Charles says to Lando and Pierre as they make their way into the elevator of the lavish apartment building that holds Lewis’ Monaco apartment.

“We know, Charles, you’ve said that ten times already,” Lando responds in exasperation. Charles sees the eye roll through the mirror in the elevator.

“It was a bet, Charles. And you know Max is a man of his word,” Pierre offers, pressing the button that will take them to the penthouse.

“I am aware of that, Pierre,” the Monégasque shoots back, earning him an elbow to the side from the Frenchman. “But I’m just saying, I never would have expected it.”

---

OR: Lewis Hamilton arranges what he hopes to be the first annual F1 Christmas Karaoke event in 2023. It's about as chaotic as anyone would have expected.

[anxious-witch]

So, I am starting a new series. It's essentially fic recommendations, but I will be sharing aesthetics of the fics that I really liked and why I liked them. Unsure how long it'll be and the series is in no particular order, but I think this fandom has really wonderful writers and I wanted to show them my appreciation in some way.

Now, on to the actual content

Last Christmas I gave you my heart by @occhi-verdi-come-il-mare

Bokris/ongoing/26k words(currently)

Summary and my thoughts under the cut

Summary: While shopping for Christmas presents, Kris slips on a piece of ice and falls. But he's sure that nothing bad happened, so he gets right back up and continues with his day.

Things might be a little bit more complicated than that...

[A story in which Kris loses part of his memories, featuring Bokris endgame, established Jance and a lot of soft friendship content]

What I liked about it: I am a sucker for a trope of a couple breaking up and finding their way back together later. This, paired up with a mix of both old and new perspective on his and Bojan's relationship makes reading Kris' pov so interesting!

I think the character's voice was very well put with the au it was in and the overlaying beauty of winter in the background really made it for me. I am very hyped to see where the fic is going to go so if you like amnesia fics and bokris, I definitely recommend this one ❤️

[farm-witches-fic-recs]

Our farm witch friends really delivered with their faves last month and we're here this week to share the last of that list. Thank you to everyone who responded to pass along the fics you love and help keep this fandom reading (and writing)!

Check these community fave works out and leave the authors some love!

=========

Bound by symmetry (barelypink) “I am and always will be a sucker for a slow burn. This one is a diamond.”

Goodwill (@spiders-hth-is-an-outlier) “I don't know why I love this as much as I do. It's really sad, but also really joyful. It unfolds so beautifully. I love all the introspection. And the socks. I'll always love the socks.” 

If not now (MoreHuman, swat117) “There is no truer test of a relationship than all the time in the world.”

If you say run, I’ll run with you (upbeat) “Wonderful, different take on the wedding.”

Language of Love (pandorasdaydream) “This series takes the 22 min tv episodes and fills in the moments we don’t see. David and Patrick are fleshed out, while staying true to Dan Levy’s characters. The series is beautifully written and developed.”

Left unsaid (@treepyful) “A very detailed day in the life of a rare pair in the Fandom. Like, so so detailed. But every word is glorious and intentional, and somehow, though there's only like 6 words of dialog in the entire fic, so much gets said. Also, there's one of the most incredible descriptions of a thunderstorm that I've ever read.”

Neither snow, nor rain (middyblue) “Christmas slow-burn.”

Post hoc ergo propter hoc (various) “I love all of the installments in this political AU because I liked the West Wing a lot but it was never queer enough. This series has all the humor and dialogue and romance and Queer Feelings (tm) you might ever wish for in a beltway workplace drama, plus President Johnny Rose and Stevie Budd as his (eventual) chief of staff.” 

Prismatic (thetrustytaco) **WIP**  “You only see b&w until you get close to your soulmate! Gah! Not finished but so good so far!!”

Sleepless (@wellschitt) “This fic is funny, sexy, and full of heart, and at just over 10k, it's the perfect length for a reread (or in my case many, many rereads) when you need a quick pick me up on a stressful day.”

Time until the end of time (@ships-to-sail, yourbuttervoicedbeau (@kiwiana-writes)) “I've been into the idea of a waiting room on the way to the after life for a long time, and this piece totally does our characters justice. If you have an ache in your life, it will knead it and might even heal you a bit.”

Value added (theMaura) “Short. Hilarious.”

Vampires Are People Too! (@petrodobreva) “It's a rare thing indeed for a fic author to create a unique, fully realized alternative world while still holding on to the spirit of the canon work that we all know and love, but that's exactly what petrodobreva manages to pull off in this teen vampire AU.” 

Winning the Game (@ladyflowdi) “One of the most hilarious laugh-out-loud fics in the fandom.” 

[hella1975]

HIIIIIIII 12 16 and/or 27 for writer asks ❓❓

12: a trope you're really into right now

i am the world's worst sucker for the 'christmas fluff' tag this time of year. is christmas even a trope does this count. i will read every fucking one shot of every ship i have ever looked twice at if it's xmas related and anytime after bonfire night. i just read a 120k dabihawks christmas fic that wasn't even that good. don't test me on this

16: favourite place to write?

coffee shops!!!! i have an ongoing coffee shop series on spotify w 17 different playlists inspired by specific coffee shops. i have spent years of my life in coffee shops writing. all of my best stuff happens in coffee shops.

27: your favourite part of the writing process?

idk if either of these are technically the writing process but worldbuilding and dialogue are some of my favouriteeee things to write. also when you've built to a certain moment in a certain chapter DEEP into the story and you finally reach it and it climaxes perfectly and the build up was so worth it omg omg