#and the ones i could get my grubby hands on for !! era

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5) Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB. Word Count: ~11k. Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could. THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

FIVE YEARS LATER

The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.

But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.

Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.

On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.

He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.

But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.

The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain. 

This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.

It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.

Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?

The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.

You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.

You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.

Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.

By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—

—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.

There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.

You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.

On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.

Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.

Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside. 

He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.

He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.

You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”

Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”

There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.

“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?

You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.

Your throat locks up with tears.

Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”

Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”

Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.

“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.

There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.

“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.

You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.

He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”

When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”

Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.

“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”

Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”

You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”

You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.

Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.

“You’re really not saying yes?”

Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.

Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.

“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”

You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.

Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.

After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.

“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”

This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.

He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”

This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.

“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”

You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”

Okay. Weird.

Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”

They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?

But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”

Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.

You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.

He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.

The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.

“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.

There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.

“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”

Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”

You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.

When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.

“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”

You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.

Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”

You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”

…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”

That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”

You squint at him. Liar.

“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”

A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.

Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”

Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”

Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.

It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him. 

You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!

There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.

“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”

Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.

You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”

Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”

The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.

Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.

You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—

—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.

In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”

Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.

The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.

He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.

The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.

It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already. 

Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.

Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—

You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.

“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”

You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?

He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”

You stop.

This is. This is new.

There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.

Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.

“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.

He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.

It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to. 

He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.

…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.

“Sammy,” you sob out.

“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”

He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.

“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.

Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.

“Take it off,” he rasps.

This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.

He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”

Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.

You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”

It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”

A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.

You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.

“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”

Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.

“Then don’t.” He begs.

If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound. 

You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.

You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”

Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”

The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.

You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.

“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.

You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.

This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.

Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”

And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.

Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”

“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”

“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.

Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”

Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.

The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”

As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”

Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”

Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.

Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.

“God, I love you,” he moans.

Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.

“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.

There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.

“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”

You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”

It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.

“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”

“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.

He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.

When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.

“Sammy!” You choke.

That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”

Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.

You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—

…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!

“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”

The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”

He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.

“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.

You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”

You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—

In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.

A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”

If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”

You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”

His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.

You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”

The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.

With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.

You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.

When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you. 

“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”

“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”

Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.

You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.

“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.

The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.

You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?

Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.

What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?

Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”

He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness. 

Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.

Lie to me, you’d begged him. 

…And Sam had.

_

The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.

Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?

Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.

The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.

Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.

To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.

You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.

“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.

…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.

You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.

You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you’d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…

Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—

…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.

“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1@lacilou@cevans-winchester @leigh70@ seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1

[necrotic-nephilim]

for the dialogue prompts ask game

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Freak." and jaytim <3

send a ship and a quote and i'll write a short fic!

i'm delighted this was the most requested prompt and ship. just for that it got bumped to the front of the line. the sexual tension is implied, but this is mostly just 3k of a torture scene during Tim's Robin era. enjoy <3

“I’ve got a present for you, Hood.”

Jason didn't have to look up to see who was talking to him. The voice was a familiarly grating one. He hadn't exactly been hiding the location of his current base. It was used for meetings with the drug lords under Jason’s thumb. Plenty of his men came through, looking to buy weapons off Jason or try to barter for more territory.

That didn't mean Black Mask was welcome.

Jason picked up a random gun from the table in front of him, making a point to loudly load and cock it. “You can't buy your way back into my good graces, Mask.” He cracked his neck. It'd been a while since Jason has fought Roman. He could use the workout.

“This present isn't something money can buy,” Roman sounded a little too gleeful. There was a heavy thud, followed by a human-sounded groan that made Jason turn his head with morbid curiosity.

Well. Jason would be damned. It really wasn't a present just anyone can pay for.

“How the hell did you of all people manage to pull this off?” Jason asked. He walked across the room, heavy boots loud against the concrete. Crouching in front of Roman’s little present, Jason hummed. “I sincerely doubt you have the skills to catch Robin on your own.”

Tim Drake, hog tied, gagged, and glaring like a bat out of hell, squirmed on the ground with an annoyed growl. His face was bloody and the handle of a shiv was sticking out of his thigh. Jason grabbed him by the chin and tilted his head up, just to be sure he was the real deal.

He was. That scowl was unmistakable.

“You underestimate me,” Roman said, pleased with himself. “I killed a Robin, you know.”

Roman couldn't see Jason’s face under his helmet, but Jason still looked up at him, arching an unconvinced eyebrow. More interesting though, was Tim's reaction. Another angry growl, this time directed at Roman.

“Of course, she barely counted as a Robin but-” Roman shrugged and spread his grubby hands- “I'm more dangerous than you know. More valuable.” He tilted his head to the side, giving Jason a ghastly smile. Jason had vaguely heard stories of a girl who was Robin for a short while. “But I’m giving you the honor of killing this Robin.”

Well, wasn't that a gift.

Jason couldn't say he wasn't pleased to have Tim tied up at his feet. Just the sight made him smile. But wanting Tim dead? That unfortunately would just cause Jason more issues than it was worth. Roman didn't know Jason’s history as Robin. No one did, but the Bats. And if those Bats knew Jason actually killed Tim, they'd make his life a hell of a lot more difficult.

It was tempting, though. Jason was already picturing half a dozen ways he would do it, if he could.

So goddamn tempting.

“You think I want the strings attached to this gift?” Jason was careful not to overplay his hand. He made a show of grabbing a handful of Tim’s hair and yanking his head back to get a look at him. If Roman knew Jason didn't actually plan to kill Tim, it could reveal too much about Jason’s past for comfort.

“My requests are reasonable,” Roman hummed. He was wandering around Jason’s warehouse, looking at Jason's weapons. “All of my men and territory pooled together with yours. For thirty percent of collective profit.”

He really was desperate. When Jason first met Roman, the man wouldnt have taken anything less than eighty.

Jason had heard rumors that Roman was losing ground to the Maronis. It clearly held more truth than he realized.

“What about that nightclub you own on the East End?” Jason asked, studying Tim. His face being hidden was a plus. Tim couldn't read him, no matter how hard he was clearly trying, eyebrows knit together.

Roman sputtered. “What about it?”

“I want in,” Jason said. “At least fifty.”

In truth, it wasn't about the money. Jason could get money just about anywhere. But he’d heard rumors about the girls that worked there getting beaten by their pimps. Jason had been looking for a way to get that under control.

He could always double cross Roman after a couple months, once he gained the support of Roman’s men. It would be easier than shooting fish in a barrel.

“I built that establishment from the ground up,” Roman hissed.

Jason only shrugged. “I could just kill you, then kill Robin.” Under Jason’s grip, Tim flinched and started to squirm harder.

Silence.

“Fifty is reasonable,” Roman said slowly, fighting against every word. “But I want to watch you kill the Boy Wonder.”

Jason shifted his weight. “Why?”

“Sadists enjoy admiring each other's work, don't we?” Roman leaned against a table, sliding his hands in his pockets. “I want to see how you’ll do it.”

That complicated things.

“You want to waste your whole night here?” Jason tried to sound bored. “I’m going to drag it out.”

Roman just laughed. “I did the same with the girl. There's no fun in giving them the easy way out.”

Jason needed time to think of a plan that didn't end in a dead bird on his hands. Which meant he needed to stall.

“Whatever.” Jason shrugged. “Do what you want. Just don't touch my shit and stay back there. I don't want you breathing down my neck.”

With a pleased nod, Roman leaned against a table. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it.

Jason cracked his neck and pulled his kris dagger off his belt. He cut the gag off of Tim, knicking his cheek with a small cut. Tim actually looked nervous.

Leaning forward to not be heard by Roman, Jason lowered his voice to a whisper. “Put on a good performance, or I'll have to actually start hurting you.” It was the only hint Jason was giving Tim about his working plan.

Tim’s expression changed. His brow furrowed, then mouth formed a small ‘o’ of understanding. He gave Jason the smallest, almost imperceptible nod. He understood. He would cooperate. There was still hesitance. Jason didn't blame him.

He still had to make Tim bleed.

Jason raised the dagger, making a show of considering what to do with it. He brought the blade down on the part of Tim’s chest plate with the thickest armor. The knife would still definitely pierce skin, but a shallow wound.

Tim grunted, face twisting up. He was going the smart route, making it look like he was trying hard to not react. Jason hummed in approval. He twisted the kris around, digging it into Tim’s suit more. This time, the sound Tim made sounded a bit more genuine.

“You can scream,” Jason said loudly. More for Roman’s sake, to play up the sadist act. Of course, a small part of him did want to hear Tim scream. “If you don't make it interesting, I'll just have to get more creative.”

Tim gave Jason a rude scowl. He really should've been more grateful. Jason still could just kill him.

“What toys do you keep here?” Jason asked. He routed around Tim’s utility belt, looking for something interesting. Tim tried to twist away. Jason kneed him hard in the stomach, pulling a groan out of him. “Hold still.”

Jason tossed aside uninteresting things, like lockpicks and fingerprinting kits. A small noise of victory came out of him when Jason’s fingers curled around a tazer.

“This looks fun.” Jason turned it around in his hand, fiddling with the settings.

Tim was violently shaking his head.

Jason pressed the tazer against Tim’s suit and turned it on.

Tim’s whole body jerked and he screamed through grit teeth. Jason watched his expression changed like a hawk. Of course Tim was acting it up, but still. It was something fun to watch him writhe in pain.

“It’ll hurt more if you press it against his bare skin,” Roman called out.

Jason looked over his shoulder. “If I want your useless input, I'll ask for it.” His tone was deadly enough to make Roman stiffen and nod.

Killjoy.

Jason shocked Tim with the tazer again while hunting some more around the belt. Every tortured noise Tim made was music to Jason’s ears.

The next interesting thing Jason pulled out was a small emergency flare.

With a curious hum, Jason lit the flare. Tim flinched and gave Jason a concerned look.

“What are you-” Tim asked shakily. He was cut off by a hard punch to the face. Blood poured from Tim’s nose.

“Don't rush me,” Jason growled. He pulled his kris out of Tim, setting the tazer aside. Jason held the blade against the hot flame from the flare. The metal warmed until it glowed bright red. “I’d really recommend holding still, unless you want to lose an eye.” Jason brought the red hot blade to Tim’s face. Tim froze, breathing hard.

instead of cutting, Jason just pressed the flat of the blade against Tim’s face. A horrible cry came out of Tim’s throat, but he stayed still. The scent of burning flesh filled the room for the long minute Jason kept the hot blade in place.

When he lifted it, Tim curled in on himself, coughing and choking on the blood from his nose. The wavy design of the kris left an interesting mark on Tim’s cheek, swirling back and forth.

“If that scars, I swear to god-” Tim mumbled through grit teeth, moving his mouth as little as possible.

“It won't scar,” Jason hissed back. “Probably.” Which was a shame. He sort of hoped it would. Jason cleared his throat to raise his voice. “I want Batman to know who killed you,” he explained, spinning the kris around in his hand. “He’ll see that and he’ll know whose blade it was.”

“You’re sick,” Tim wheezed. His voice was so small. Too small for Roman to hear. Jason huffed in annoyance.

“Don’t be shy you’re going to insult me,” Jason taunted. He tapped Tim’s thigh with his shoe. A reminder they were doing this for show.

Tim inhaled sharply. “I said you're fucking sick,” he raised his voice. He spat out a mouthful of blood, clearly trying to hit Jason. Jason just shifted out of the way, letting it splatter on the concrete.

“That was rude.” Jason was glad his helmet hid his smile.

He looked at the flare still lit in his hand, shrugged, and put it out against Tim’s stomach.

“Oh god!” Tim tried to twist away. The suit protected him from the worst of it, but he’d have at least second degree burns. Not to mention the parts of the suit that were currently melting and burning into his skin. “Fuck!” Tim’s scream definitely sounded genuine. He was stuck between trying to stay still to keep the burn from spreading and trying to get away from the pain. It was a glorious little struggle to watch.

The flare eventually ran out of juice at about the same time Tim’s lungs ran out of air to scream with. Jason tossed it aside and studied the new wound, pressing his fingers into it exposed raw flesh.

“Stop,” Tim begged, shuddering in pain. “Please, fuck-” he shrieked when Jason dug a nail into the burn.

“He folded easier than I thought he would,” Roman chuckled from his spot across the room, blowing out a mouthful of smoke.

“Well, you see how fast Batman goes through ‘em,” Jason said nonchalantly. Roman didn't know that was a self jab, and he didn't need to know.

Jason cut through Tim’s chest plate, exposing his bare skin. The fabric got stuck and torn on the burn, pulling a whimper out of Tim at the wound being agitated even more.

It always was a damn shame just how pretty Tim Drake was.

If Roman wasn't in the room, Jason would've torn off that damned domino mask by now to get a good look at Tim’s eyes while Jason hurt him.

Jason sliced Tim’s chest open, a wide arc just above his nipples. It wasn't too deep, but still made Tim cry out.

“Now I know-” Jason said, going back to Tim's belt- “somewhere in here, Batman makes you carry acid to cut through metal and whatnot.”

“No, no,” Tim wildly shook his head. “Please don’t.” He went pale at the thought.

Jason found the little vial he was looking for and held it up, right in front of Tim’s face. “Should've done a better job hiding it.”

He unscrewed the top and tipped the vial, dripping it into Tim’s fresh cut. Jason was careful not to use too much. Only a few drops were needed to start eating into Tim’s flesh.

The scream from Tim was blood curling. He tried to fold in on himself, twisting around on the ground like a wild animal.

Jason’s heart was pounding.

The shiv that was still stuck in Tim’s thigh got yanked out so Jason could drop poison into that wound too.

“Stop!” Tim’s voice already hoarse. “I'm gonna- I'm gonna throw up, god.” He sounded hysterical. His head tilted back and he sucked in lungfuls of air.

“You better not on my boots,” Jason warned lazily. He spilled acid into the burn mark on Tim’s stomach. Then, he got an even better idea. “Open wide.” Jason grabbed Tim’s jaw and forced it open with his fingers.

“Shit-” Tim whispered. His tone of voice sounded different. “Jay- don't. Seriously, please-”

Jason ignored him and let a few precious drops fall into Tim's forced open mouth. Then he forced Tim’s jaw shut again and clamped a hand over his mouth. He plugged Tim’s nose too, just for good measure.

The noises were muffled, but unmistakable. Jason’s body was thrumming just watching Tim twist and struggle to get out of Jason’s vice grip.

When Tim’s face started to turn red from the struggle for oxygen, Jason regretfully let go.

Tim immediately spat out mouthfuls of blood and spit, trying to get it out of his mouth. He was wheezing.

Not screaming, though. Jason was about it to lift the kris to stab Tim again, when he got a better look at how Tim was shaking.

Shudders running up and down his body. His legs were squeezed together. When he breathed, it came out in soft moans.

Jason’s heart almost stopped.

“You’re enjoying this, aren't you?” Jason murmured. So quiet he almost didn't hear himself. He got a glare from Tim that seemed to be an affirmation. Jason’s mouth curled into a cruel, unseen smile. Jason tapped the hilt of the kris against Tim’s crotch, making him flinch. “Freak.”

The realization only made Jason want to hurt Tim more. In all their fights, how hadn’t Jason noticed Tim was a masochist? This changed everything. He didn't have to hold back so much.

He actually wanted to see what it took to break Tim now.

Jason stabbed the shiv into Tim’s hip, as close as he could possibly get to Tim’s crotch. Tim squealed, flinching. Then his full body shuddered again. And just when Tim sighed in relief that Jason had avoided his most sensitive area, Jason picked up the tazer again and pressed it right there, against Tim’s crotch. And he turned it on.

This scream from Tim was different. Still tortured, but in a new Jason’s own pants were getting tight.

“Get out.”

“What?” Roman asked, when he realized Jason was talking to him.

“I said get out,” Jason repeated himself. He stared at Tim's bloody, shivering from. “You got a show while I warmed up, now I want some privacy.”

“But-”

Jason pulled a gun out of a holster. He fired it in Roman’s direction. Not quite hitting him, but instead blowing the cigar out of his mouth.

Roman made a pathetic, scared noise. “The deal was-”

“Do you want my men keeping the Maronis off your territory or not?” Jason growled.

“Fine.” Roman stood up, adjusting his jacket awkwardly. “Mail me a finger or something when you finish. I want a trophy.”

“I’ll save a middle one just for you.”

Roman scoffed, but held his tongue, storming out of the warehouse.

“Ass,” Jason muttered. He pulled off his helmet and tossed it aside.

“You didn't have to use the acid,” Tim said, notably sour about it.

“Big words for someone who enjoyed themselves a little too much.” Jason sliced off the rope holding Tim’s ankles and wrists, then tugged off his domino mask. Tim groaned in relief, getting to stretch his joints. He carefully got to his hands and knees, breathing hard.

“Thank you-”

Jason grabbed Tim by his hair and wrenched his head up. He pressed the kris to Tim’s throat. It pulled a gasp out of Tim and he tried to grab Jason’s arm. Jason just twisted his wrist, easily dislocating it. “Oh nuhuh, you little freak,” Jason purred, enjoying Tim’s yell of pain. He leaned in close to Tim’s ear and grinned, all kinds of fun ideas running through his head, now that they had privacy.

Things were about to get a lot more fun. Probably for both of them.

“I'm not done with you.”

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Bath time

Daryl Dixon x reader

Daryl's early Alexandria era dislike for showers seems to be rubbing off on his kids..

🐺 🐺 🐺

"Oh my god.."

There in front of you stood your two adorable furred children, now entirely a muddy brown. And their father, less muddy brown but for sure in need of clean clothes.

"You." A stern finger pointed at Daryl. "Pups. Bathroom, now." You turned around to open doors and run the water in preperation. "And take your shoes off."

You heard Daryl kick his boots off and huff as he picked up the kids to carry them upstairs.

It wasn't difficult for them to realize where Daryl was taking then and started squirming in his grasp, trying with all their might to escape but in the end they failed and all four of you now stood in the large bathroom.

The shower was already running at a nice temperature to get the clumps of mud out of the kids' fur but it took both of your hands to keep one kid in place, let alone rinse them off and scrub their fur without having them jump out of the tub.

You needed Daryl's help. He was currently standing at the door, making sure no grubby paws grabbed at the handle and ran off, while said grubby hands were grabbing and pulling at his trousers in an attempt to escape.

"Dee, please be a dear and put her in the tub. I need help.." you admitted in defeat as Hunter slipped from your grasp and made it halfway out of the tub before Daryl's large hand had grabbed him and put him back under the shower stream together with his sister.

"Mmaaaaammm..." loud whines filled the room as they both fiercly protested.

Daryl held both pups far enough under the stream so you could rub at the clumps of mud slowly washing away.

Hunter seemed to have given up halfway through so cleaning him wasn't too much of a fuss, until the shampoo came out.

At the sight of the bottle of doggy wash he wormed out of Daryl's grip, who was more focused on keeping the ever feisty Rose under control with just one hand.

Hunter managed to hop up and out of the tub and slip on the edge, dropping his full, soaking wet body onto yours with a loud flop and sending you both to the ground.

"Ohw, come on!" You groaned as you grabbed at his slippery limbs and get yourself upright at the same time, while Daryl watched you with a shit eating grin on his face. "Looks like the lil' momma's boy weren' havin' it no more."

"Could have helped.." you mumbled as you sat your son back into the tub and shuddered at the gross wet shirt stuck to your skin.

When you got no response you looked over to him. Both his hands were on Rose, but he paid no attention to her chewing on his wrist and instead was clearly distracted by the fact you wore nothing underneath the thin, currently very see-through shirt.

"Hello? Assistance?" Struggling to keep Hunter in the tub you snapped Daryl out of his trance before he reached out to hold his son in place again.

A soft thanks was all he got before you got to rub the shampoo through Hunter's fur, making sure none got in his face. It was a huge struggle already with his paws shoving away your hands and his constant shaking, sending soapy water everywhere to the point of even getting Daryl to complain.

"Ya can't wash'em any quicker?"

Your head snapped to his side giving him a death glare before going back to make sure every inch of your son was covered in soapy bubbles and rinse him off again. "In case you forgo-- oh my god.." you spit out the soapy water that got info your mouth as Hunter shook out his fur again while still under the stream. "In case you forgot, I don't have wolf strength." You struggled to put Hunter back on his butt so you could properly rub the remaining shampoo from his fur. Maybe you overdid it a little, but he was so dirty..

"Wha? Ya can't even handle a kid?" A deep sigh left you before repeating yourself.

"No, Daryl." You state clearly. "Little human me can't handle a werewolf child with werewolf strength. Especially not when they're slippery and wet." An understanding grumble left him as he held onto Hunter's fur a bit tighter to keep him still.

His whines of protest only got more over time as Rose was still gnawing at Daryl's wrist that had bled and healed over a couple of times by now already.

Hunter's long drawn Nooo's and Mammaaa's combined with fake sniffles made an almost believable schtick if he hadn't pulled it so many times before.

"You're almost done, sit still for a minute and I'll let you out."

When he realized his tricks werent working he sulked under the water as you got rid of the last bits of soap bafore moving him out from underneath the stream.

The second he stopped feeling water on his head he full-body shook himself out, sending water all over the place.

"Oh thats just rude, baby." The towel you readied for him first went to your face to dry off before grabbing onto Hunter and wrapping him in a tight hug. It was the only way to get him out of the tub and dry him off at least a little bit.

Now that he was out of the tub and no longer a muddy threat you moved on to clean the more feral of your two children.

Daryl luckily had already moved her under the water entirely to remove large clumps while you prepared for shampooing.

With two hands holding her you were a little more confident in a quicker wash this time but wow were you wrong.

Within the first minute she had snapped at you twice.

Daryl only stared proudly at his daughter currently defending herself against the evil soap monster that was her mom. He cooed her a bit, hoping to bargain with some tasty meat as reward she'd be at least a little more calm.

But of course just as you were somewhat comfortable washing off her legs, Hunter threw his full weight into you to dry himself against your back and so shoving you forward enough to get your entire head under the water, soaking your hair.

You pushed back to sit on your heels again, throwing your head back to get your wet hair out of your face before sending an angry glare at your son out of reflex.

He quickly realized he was in the wrong and ran off, grabbing at the doorhandle and escaping the bathroom.

"Fuck.." you groaned as you turned back to cleaning off Rose, who had picked up her brother's moves and let out a laugh as she shook herself out every time your hands left her body.

"I'm taking a shower after this. You babysit and give them a treat or something."

With newly found strength you pulled through and got Rose cleaned in record time, letting Daryl handle the drying while you took off your soaked clothes and hopped into the tub.

You felt Daryl's gaze on you the entire time, complaining as Rose bit his finger when he wasn't watching her.

"Watch your kid." You pointed at her as you stepped over the tub's edge. "You can gawk at me all night long when they're asleep."

An agreeing tone sounded over the running water and a few moments later you finally got the bathroom to yourself, warming up and rinsing the shower walls off in the meantime.

It was times like these when you doubted yourself a bit, being a human raising two pups that could easily overpower you within the year. What if Rose bit you for real? Would she turn you? Can they do that at their age? The bathroom door opening caught you off guard, peeking tour head from behind the curtain you spotted Daryl standing there in clean clothes and with a worried look on his face.

He stepped up to the tub and questioned the sad emotions he was smelling all over the top floor.

You gave him a short version of your doubts as he helped you out of the shower and dried you off. "Yer a strong one, pups love ya." His hands on the towel lingered on your chest longer than needed when he leaned in for a kiss. "They jus' hate showers."

You huff out a laugh at that understatement when the door slammed against the wall and a still slightly damp Hunter clamped around your leg. "Wav momma."

"See?" Daryl gave you a smug 'told ya so' smile.

He easily wrapped you in the large towel and picked you up, careful to not smack Hunter with your foot.

Rose waddled past just as he walked through the doorway. She probably followed her big brother but her wobbly legs made climbing the stairs quite the challenge.

Once in the bedroom you were tossed onto the bed and clothes quickly followed as Daryl dug through the cabinet and threw a full outfit at your head.

You thanked him and got dressed, watching your kids try wrestle eachother to be the first one on the bed until Daryl picked them up and set them down onto the matress.

Without a second to spare the two jumped up against you for cuddles, their dad happily joining as well.

🐺 🐺 🐺

A/N: I hope you're not tired of kid content yet! I love the pups dearly and hope to be writing for them for a while longer ♡

[uhgood-girl]

why jikook?

i've been asking myself this a lot recently bc well, why them? why not tkook? or ynmin? hell, jihope even, they're underrated as hell honestly, have you seen that hot tub video? hobi was ready to unhinge his jaw to swallow jimin whole (and who (jk) could blame him.)

but jikook, in a not joking way, hits different. they always have. it's been years at this point that i've been deep in this rabbit hole (within the larger bts rabbit hole, my god, how deep does it go) but i don't recall making the conscious decision to fall in.

maybe a little background?

i'm a fake love army. actually, if we're getting technical, i'm an outro tear army bc it was in the comments of the freshly released fake love music video that i saw someone recommend outro tear if i enjoyed fake love and then it was over for me. extremely not fake love at first listen, who's voice is second on this track? i NEED to know. i'm a yoongi/rapline bias to this day. fake love still fucks though, don't get me wrong, it's a never skip for me.

for that first year and then some, i consumed backlogged content like it was my day job. i am a prone to hyper-fixations hermit, basically, who was going to stop me? my therapist? nah, she picks her battles.

i watched everything i could get my grubby little hands on like someone would be testing me on it later. (shoutout qdeoks, you were so real) i didn't open stan twitter for the first time till probably the end of 2018, really just in time to be slapped in the face full force with the shitshow that was a hate campaign against these boys i was deeply invested in by then, the likes of which i had never experienced in an online space up to that point. it was a truly, truly wild era, don't ever let anyone tell you differently.

all that to say, i've been here for a hot minute and i developed my own first impressions on bts and the members as individuals in a vacuum. no one had to point jikook out to me, they stuck out on their own.

potentially relevant disclaimer before we continue: i am really really queer. i grew up in the united states conservative deep south and had to change high schools my sophomore year bc i was outed and then violently ostracized for being in a relationship with my same sex best friend at the time. it is safe to say i have a lot of feelings about and experience even when it comes to having to be low key (understatement lol) about who you love. i am not here just to make my barbies kiss.

actually, on that note, jikook wouldnt even be my chosen barbies out of bts. if we're in true fantasy delulu hours here, i would want yoonjin to be real. god, that would be the stuff, they're so old married as it is. peak romance.

i think the first place jikook ever truly caught my attention were the memories dvds. jimin has always been a sweet, bby angel taking care of all his members but i remember thinking that he seemed to pay a little extra, special attention to jungkook. and of course, why not, jk's the maknae after all. all of them have always been doting on him and deservedly so. but in those briefly shown really serious, quiet moments, jimin was often first in line. a spot very easy for him to obtain tbh as jk never seemed to be very far from him anyway. maybe if you've never in real time lived the satellite jeon accusations (hi pandemic army, bless you, i hope you make it to 2025 when we have them all back without restrictions) you might find them easier to dismiss but it was so consistent back then in all of the content being released. and once noticed, i don't know how anyone ever un-notices it. but i was in deep before i even realized the water was boiling.

should i talk about why not tkook? or ynmin, for me? i'm just pulling those as examples bc i know they're the popular contenders here but all joking in the beginning of this post aside, none of the other members interpersonal relationships, in any configuration (sadly, RIP yoonjin romance), have ever struck me as anything other than puppy crush/deep friendship/family. and that's not bc i don't think over half of those men aren't queer in some form or fashion because WHEW, that is an entirely different post and we simply do not have the time to unpack rn but it's not for lack of looking.

i started in a vacuum, but i have by no means stayed there, i walked in all of those front doors and sat down and said "convince me." i've got the time and lack of life, i am ready to be won over. what have i missed?

to this day i still regularly try and check my own confirmation bias, i'm obviously looking for jikook at this stage but i'm still ready on my toes if any of the others want to get crazy. (yoonjin i am rooting for you, we're all rooting for you)

and i'm not here to really persuade or sway anyone one way or another either. there are a 1000 other blogs on this site that can probably offer you better explanations, specific clips, and detailed break downs of moments throughout the years and even then people are going to see what they want to see. i just wanted to write some of my own thoughts down finally.

though...i guess if i had to point to any one single piece of "evidence" it would definitely be tried and true gcf tokyo? but if watching that the first time didn't ring through you like a gunshot, i def don't think there's anything i could say beyond that.

honestly, i think so much of "why jikook" for me boils down to the pit in the bottom of my stomach that i used to get when i first began to notice them. when i got past the initial warm fuzzies inspired by the sincerity of their interactions, my immediate second emotion was concern.

i remember the first time i heard some of the other boys make an offhand joke about them being a couple and i got anxious, fast. i thought hide, hide better, please be safe. i began to pay extra attention to the other members in general too when jikook would do things and felt like i could sometimes see a similar anxiety to my own in their expressions. for a long time, i just worried about them and where i saw other people rejoice in their more obvious moments, i was slow to celebrate.

despite my initial hesitation, it's now been about 5 years since the first time they ever made me double take. they're a few years younger than me but i feel like we've been growing up together. (parasocial? idk her.) they're less conspicuous these days, and for lots of obvious reasons, but i feel like overall, their confidence in themselves and each other is quite high. i know that's probably a funny thing to say in light of this last week especially, but i stand by it. i've seen this song and dance before. i have managed my own expectations in the past, taken full steps back only to be beaten anew over the head so many times with enough "coincidences" i felt borderline foolish to try and deny anything. jikook are truly some sort of neuro-spicy pattern recognition drug, i swear.

and i've never really gotten to talk about any of this with anyone before! i'm shy irl, and shy online apparently bc i have just been lurking around the outer lines of this circle this whole time like some creepy creep but i've decided i'm over it. fuck it. growth.gif. idk that i have anything important or new to contribute to the conversation but my god, no one else seems to let that stop them so i might as well take my turn on the soapbox, no?

so 📢 JIKOOK REAL (?) jikook sus. jikook make bandaged queer little heart go boom boom.

[vibrantstarfire]

was talkin abt this w a friend yesterday and i know i have no business getting my grubby little hands on wonder woman lore but. if i had to 1) write a new wonder woman continuity and 2) was supposed to diverge from canon while keeping the heart of wonder woman...

wonder woman is a title, not a singular person. she has been a goddess of myth and legend, passed down to a new generation. there have been wonder women through every generation and they have touched every continent and every era of human civilization. there are only three things consistent with her myth: 1) she must always leave home and give up the safety of themyscera to learn of the wider world for herself and fulfill her destiny, 2) she is always associated with truth, as it is her sacred demigod domain, and 3) she is always, always, good. she is the best of humanity without having grown up in it.

i would follow many stories with the current wonder woman, and have her join an era of heroes that have become new demigods of this strange new world. but ultimately, the arc i would be most excited for is the one that introduces donna.

there is a child that the fates are weaving, but they have been in deadlock around her for eons. she is destined to be the one who weaves a path across realities, the one who the fates entrust with a silken thread to create new fates. but though they can determine when she must weave this path across reality, they cannot determine who this child will be. they cannot decide on a background for this girl. there have been hundreds, and the only constant is pain and loss. diana finds the fates as they are in yet another deadlock, and she asks them if there is a chance she could raise the child on Themyscera herself, away from these evil fates. the fates tell her that this is impossible. instead of listening, diana steals the child, who she names donna troy -- but because donna's fate was left unfinished, each of the half-formed realities crystallize in donna as she is escaping the dimension between dimensions.

diana raises donna on themyscera, and many of the spiritual leaders of themyscera allow donna to be raised without having to remember those alternate realities. but the spell only lasts as long as donna is raised on themyscera. and diana, in her own mythos, cannot stay for long on this island of safety. she must return to the wider world and be the force for good, as is her destiny.

donna is partly taken care of by diana, when she can visit themyscera -- but mostly by hippolyta. this makes diana and donna more like sisters, though they don't grow up entirely together.

eventually, when donna is older, she follows diana into the wider world, without diana's knowledge. the spell lifts, and she learns of the many fates that could have been hers. she finds that she has power to bend reality. it is channeled easier through her lasso of persuasion, where she persuades the universe to bend to her will.

donna joins the titans

donna is then used like a demigoddess prophet to 1) note continuity issues from previous reality merges, and 2) fix them and solidify what is true and what is not.

lastly, and most importantly, this version of donna troy was never groomed by terry long but is still aware of his existence, so she gets to dunk on him without having ever been in a relationship with him.

[sir-renaissance]

Ranking Shaperaverse Songs from Worst to Best Within Their Album

First up:

24- Voodoopunk

Listen. I have listened to every single one of Paul’s albums. I’ve hunted each and every one down and listened to the ones I could get my grubby hands on. I’m very familiar with his work and his musical habits (he has a very particular set of trademarks ie: symbol crash to end a song, repetitive word/lyric use throughout albums to create a through line, etc) but one thing that just does not resonate, does not vibe with me are these very long winded instrumental songs interspersed with singing. I’m a huge lyric person, so I definitely have a bias and it’s not that the music itself is bad, but this song is always gonna be a skip for me. I’m just not gonna sit and listen to pretty much the same thing over and over again, although I would LOVE to see this performed live. I think it would be incredibly fun, but from a listening standpoint, there are much better songs on this album.

23- Edgar Builds a Business

There’s gotta be a worst and best, and unfortunately this lands on the former side of that scale. Despite me absolutely loving Kate coming in with the connective tissue, the central theme of the show (really, all of Paul’s shows if you think about it) “circles never stop themselves” it isn’t enough to get past the extremely repetitiveness of the song. One could make the argument that, because we are heading for a more industrious/business era it’s only natural for the song to be repetitive and maybe even a little boring. One could also argue that because Edgar is such a boring little evil incel bitch, perhaps he’s meant to have such a tedious song. Whatever the case may be, it has a lot of verses, lots of instrumental breaks and it usually also gets a skip, unless I’m listening for lore purposes. I have to admit that the second to last verse where he addresses the issue he has with Silof is my favorite part of the song, it really lets us peak into his head after the break up and is almost the epitome of his evil if not for the last verse/conversation he has with a recently divorced Fay over dinner. (Side note- I absolutely love the headcanon that Silof is Amelia’s father. I don’t know if that’s canon or been made canon, but it’s absolutely delicious and makes DoNA a complete circle with no loose ends.)

22- New Albion 3

The lesser out of the four. While it does tie up some storylines (or ties them up from the perspective of a first time listener) and it does have a humor to it, it’s extremely transitional and it shows. You might be thinking ‘well no shit it’s transitional that’s literally what the song does’ but when I say it shows, I mean that you can just feel Paul really wanted to write this song and be done with it. It falls into the unfortunate section of not being the last one as most of us in the western world are very used to a ‘rule of threes’ way of things. Particularly stories. But I did say it had humor and it ending abruptly with the sentient plant’s story coming to a close is some unexpected humor I enjoyed. (Also is the plant a post human? Did I read that right on the wiki? Is the fucking plant able to control reality? Somebody tell me, please.)

21- The Movement 2

So. The thing is I don’t think I like gen 3 all that much. It’s still interesting and Byron and Amelia are fascinating characters- also Jasper gets to really shine in this act! But it definitely has the more instrumental, bring me to church kind of songs. We get an interesting advancement of understanding the character dynamics with Amelia fully admitting to loving Byron who is never gonna love her back, but it just doesn’t make up for the repetitiveness of this song. Much like New Albion 3, I think this entire act suffers from not being the last to go, it feels very transitional despite it being arguably one of the most important acts due to the founding building blocks of Radio Hour being done within it.

20- The Movement 1

Much of the same critique of the one above this, but I will say what gives it more of an edge is the reestablishment of Edgar’s ‘business theme’ where Byron uses it for campaigning. It’s a bit of musicality that I really enjoy from Paul, connecting the characters through motif and parallelism. Byron hates his dad so god damn much, and yet still employs the same tactics he used when he was a young man looking for a purpose. McAllisters don’t fall too far from their tree huh?

19- Annabel Has a Doll

The origin of Kate’s ‘circles never stop themselves’ motif and it’s haunting beautiful when you go back and listen through. It essentially sets up the theme of every album following the first and is, what I think, the central part of what Paul is trying to convey. I could get into the philosophy behind his work for hours, like make a whole video essay on it but for now- this song. It’s on the lower end due to the fact that even though it is a hilariously frantic and manic bop, it can get really grating after the third verse. Like getting hit by a hammer over and over again with the constant and loud and insistent melody. Like I said, there has to be a worse and best, and I just think there are better songs on this album. Oh also- the beginnings of the Elysium theme? Fucking brilliant.

18- We Bid the 1st Generation Adieu

This is a brilliant way to introduce the concept of time jumping and also not getting too attached to the characters we see. It’s exposition without it feeling like exposition and Kate is always a delight to hear. It’s just that it’s a very short, transitional song and it’s. Yeah. That’s kind of it. We bid adieu to this review and move on to the next.

17- Bonfire of the Dolls

This song is a doozy in the best way possible. The climax of gen 3 and it completely delivers after creating such a delicious amount of tension between the living, the dead, and those who stand in between them. It’s the culmination of a society finally ready to snap and it is displayed so beautifully through a kick ass score that evokes such a frightening kind of emotion. A mixture of fear and pain and loss and somehow, love. Byron calling for Jasper in a desperate attempt at saving the one thing he only truly selfishly cared about gives me chills every time I listen to it. What this song suffers from however is the large amount of instrumentation. Don’t get me wrong, it sounds very good and the way Paul creates the ‘screaming doll’ sounds is so incredibly cool. But this would definitely benefit from having a visual element which is a problem I see across pretty much all the albums. Now that I call it a problem, I feel as though it’s a harsh word to use. I think it’s more like the show doesn’t need such long musical breaks if it’s never going to be staged. Still have the breaks, but perhaps shorten them? My mind can only supply so much imagination before I’m just replaying moments over and over again in my head.

16- The Ballad of the Gambler and the Monk

Full disclaimer I think this song is a fucking bop. I think it’s a certified, fun to sing along to jam. I love how this is the interlude of the story, reminding us of how exactly we got to this point of societal collapse by showing us how everyone was doomed from the start essentially. The music too has this old, nostalgic feeling to it which makes you feel like you’re being transported back to somewhere else, away from the chaos and the death and relentless evolution of New Albion. The only issue I have with this number is that for most of it, we already know the story due to it being explained to us. The opening lines of this show are telling us the story of the gambler and the monk. They only go more into detail about what happened at the end of the game, introducing us to the concept of reincarnation with incredible subtlety, but I really wish we had gotten more of a glimpse into just who these two were, and more importantly, who they were to each other. Now that’s a big wish considering it might’ve been difficult to have some establishment for these characters before Paul knew he was going to make Janissury, but some more detail to an already known story would’ve been nice considering a whole song was dedicated to it.

15- Edgar Gets His Heart Broken

Oh Edgar. Edgar you silly stupid bitch. You silly stupid bitch baby boy. Your song is objectively hilarious to listen to and I enjoy hearing your heart get broken every time. Although his incel anger does backfire on…well, New Albion for the rest of its existence, it was pretty funny watching it happen in a musical number. Lime pie//dying inside? Instant classic. Also the origin of the ‘one day you will learn’ theme and it’s honestly one of the best motifs Paul has ever written. It’s a perfect reprisal line and can be interpreted in so many ways, it just open to possibility. I don’t really have any critique for this one, it’s a concise and well paced story that gives us exactly what we need to know about gen 2 and it’s a bop. There are just better songs that come before this.

14- Annabel Raises the Dead

God damn does this song kick. These cats are cookin. When that piano/xylophone/I don’t even know what fuckin instrument barrels in with that tight ass arpeggio. The instrumentation is gorgeous, it’s evocative as all hell with its frantic nature and atmospheric sounds. The sole reason this isn’t further down on the list, is because I have this (most likely) singular issue with the actual notes themselves. Specifically the notes Annabel sings. Now, we’ve heard Laura Osnes sing, and I mean sing but what I can’t figure out is why despite everything being so incredibly frantic and high energy, are the notes she singing fall so…flat? And I don’t mean flat as in pitch I mean flat as in it just doesn’t match the energy. Annabel is a mad isolated scientist, why wouldn’t her melody line be an insane roller coaster? Why does it continue on in this sort of monotone way? It does get better at the end, with the bridge giving us insight into what the actual fuck is going on. But overall it leaves me wanting more in regards to a dynamic musical experience. Annabel’s part in the song holds the whole thing back with its sort of awkward melody where she’s singing these low, honestly uninteresting notes when the music is kicking all kinds of ass. Love this song, but I wish it was different.

13- Fay Considers Edgar's Proposal

Get his ASS Fay, make him eat shit. With his own musical motif of course. This song gives me chills when I listen to it, never a skip. For this entire time Fay has been living outside the main narrative, the sole reason why our easily corrupted protagonist gets…well, corrupted. To many, some may resent Fay in the beginning of gen 2 due to her somewhat vague couple sentences of break up. We have no context for how she feels or what her motivations are besides finding someone in a better financial/status position in life- but then this song comes on. Then we understand Fay really and truly did love Edgar. Filled with school-girlish, young love, Fay was head over heels. She fell in love with a young man who was most likely just as much in love with her. And during this song, Fay no longer sees that young man anymore. She feels betrayed, wondering how exactly she became a piece in Edgar McAllistair’s game of business and commerce. Wondering where the young man went and when he got shot out the back and replaced with the miserly and revenge ridden capitalist sitting before her, having taken everything from her. And then to top it all off with offering her late father? Her explosive ending is a stroke of genius and my only complaint is that this song is too short.

12- New Albion 4

This is the first instance of us hearing a more dieselpunk sound, the roots of Radio Hour beginning to grow into the cobbled ground of New Albion. It is haunting to listen to the second time around and frightening the first. Times are changing and by the sounds of it, for the worst it seems. Kate introduces us to a new kind of city and paints a very geometric and drab image in my mind where a dark cloud looms over a frightened and paranoid people. We are introduced to Soldier 7285 and the origin of one of the slappiest songs Paul has ever written, ‘the day we come’ motif. It is evocative of Javert from Les Mis, a solid and clear cutting tune that constantly comes in like a thick wall, impenetrable. You can basically hear the brainwashing going on and it’s honestly a great example of police/authority indoctrination. The words are empowering 7285, making him feel like he is justice, he is an important extension of the law and the law is just. It is unwavering. It’s an incredible piece of music and it was really difficult to decide to put it at twelve.

11- We Bid You All Adieu

There’s something about this number that breaks my heart in the best way possible. Like the way you felt when the children accidentally left Narnia or seeing Frodo Saul away to the Lands of the Undying. There’s still more story to be had, peoples lives still go on, but we are no longer viewers. The characters will live on as will we and…that’s that. The song is a perfect button finish to the mad and frightening escapades of the McAllistair family, bringing us not a sense of closure but drawing us in even more as to wonder what happens next in and to New Albion. I love the way it makes me feel, the only reason it falls here, just short of the top ten is because at this point we have heard this musical refrain many, many times and while that isn’t necessarily bad, repetition isn’t always the best choice, though perhaps in Paul’s case, the easiest when creating a new show every year.

10- The Suicide

Coming in at number ten we have our girl Amelia signing out! I have very similar thoughts to this as I did with Fay, getting the context of Amelia’s life is extremely heartbreaking. Also the discordant, chaotically violent way Paul displays abuse from a father is unfortunately accurate and phenomenal. Every time I listen I get so incredibly uncomfortable and displaced when that part comes and that to me is what makes this song a success. And then the twistingly sad nature of Elysium getting a reprise through Amelia’s epic goodbye to life just ties the whole thing together so neatly. Amelia is also a huge perpetrator, much like my blorbo Annabel in creating a chain reaction of events that will eventually lead to some crazy ass shit. I admire what this song contains and what it does.

9- New Albion 2

Full disclaimer, I love all of Kate’s parts and solos. I adore this one because of the charm we still have with this narration convention as well as development of the background characters! I want to hear more about the two women, the albatross Simon and the brilliant mouse Sam! It gives the city so much more life whereas the first one is an intro to help us build the world and the others lose a bit of charm after a while. This one I think is the most fun and I really enjoy listening for what are essentially clues/future callbacks for the future albums.

8- Priscilla Contemplates

I had no idea what Miss Priscilla was saying the first time around and if I didn’t take the time and effort to really listen to the words, this song probably would’ve been in the twenties. But after thinking it through and really tasting the words, I think this is one of the best poetically written songs Paul has ever wrote. It’s gorgeous in writing, describing such an odd and strange feeling from a girl who is living such an odd and strange life. And the way it ends with the phone call? Chills. Can you imagine being Jasper in that moment? This is a scene I would kill to see staged because of just how raw it can be. Priscilla is the best of the McAllistairs- as though reincarnation finally got it right this time.

7- The Day They Come

Not a ton to say about this one other than the fact that the rising panic is kick fucking ass to listen to. The way the music portrays Jasper and Priscilla arguing yet still desperately trying to be quiet. The inevitable way Soldier and the others are proudly and dutifully singing their vows. It’s short but it’s a riot, also RIP Byron and his trophy wife I’m pretty sure they die in this one if not died way before.

6- The Old Trunk in the Attic

I don’t know what the wide, general opinion is of this particular song but it, to me, absolutely belongs in the top ten. It’s strength is that it completely stands out from the rest of the discography. When Paul takes that moment to just create music from poetry, evoke feelings from us that we’ve never felt before. The delicate way the melody and instruments are done, the nostalgic yet unfamiliar list of items we all have a collective (but not real) memories of seeing going through our relatives belongings before. It’s what is a great representation of what makes the Shaperaverse so special. Just these moments of singularity, of importance when to the characters it’s just a Tuesday night. There’s so much gravity in this one song, I think we all forget just how much the rest of the discography relies on this specific moment- save of course for Annabel’s breakthrough. It’s beautifully sung by Kate and I put it on loop all the time.

5- Annabel's Lament

Humanizing our mad scientist with a ‘where did it all go wrong/how did I get here’ song is brilliant. One could argue it’s a verse too long, but to that I say the word ‘opera’ is in ‘pulp opera’ which is how Paul describes his works so. Yeah it sounds like a verse too long cause it’s opera. Anyway Annabel, like the logical thinker she is, lays the map of her life bare as she is finally ready to face the grotesque music she has composed entirely for herself. She’s trying to find the source, the answer as to why, why she cannot seem to escape this deep pit of loneliness she has been stuck in ever since her father set the high expectation of ‘be a success, then you’ll be happy’. And y’know what the crazy part is? I don’t even think she really figures it out in the end! Isn’t that wild? Yes she sets Jasper free because she loves him and on some level realizes his suffering- but the main reason she lets him go is because HE was supposed to be her success and, confoundingly, she still. Isn’t. Happy. Annabel doesn’t understand why this didn’t solve all her problems, why despite having worked for years and years, pushing everyone and every opportunity for social interaction away she still can’t get what she wants and this is the beauty of Paul Shapera’s works, but especially highlighted in his first. Annabel is trapped in a cycle, a circle. And the great tragedy is that she is the first act- there was no way her story was going to end happy. Instead she begins (or if you think about it, just another in a long line) a curse which takes four generations for her lineage to break. But the greatest tragedy of them all is that Annabel didn’t just curse her family tree, but the entirety of New Albion as well. Or perhaps- it was already cursed from its conception? I could keep going about Annabel and her lament, but overall this song feeds the story and lore part of my brain that is never satiated and the music has the intensity that I was looking for in Annabel Raises the Dead. It builds and builds until Annabel is screaming at an inanimate object, tragically missing the point of her own sad story as her ax flies.

4- New Albion 1

Where it all begins. The set dressing done in this song is brilliant in two ways. The first being that as just a listener, it’s like a pop-up book is opening and unfolding in your brain. Like a DM just before the beginning of a long, long campaign setting up the most intricate and alive world you’ve ever had the pleasure of stepping into. This is how musicals should be (something I’ve noticed is that immersion is distinctly lacking in modern day mainstream shows) where they entice you, guide you into a story before plopping you right down into the action. It’s exciting to hear what’s around every corner of this intensely strange city. The second is that when this is staged, despite imagination not being all that necessary, it is as though Kate is conducting the city to come to life herself. Set pieces gliding in from stage right, the one eyed red haired dwarf strolling onto stage tossing a pair of silver dice in the air, the city itself rising as Kate builds upon it. New Albion 1 works because it is not complicated, it tells you things as they are because what they are is already a wonder to imagine or see. And the continuous line of ‘and Annabel McAlistair is raising up the dead’? Brilliant intrigue, instantly letting us in on the score. More stories should try this method, after all why do people like Hamilton or Hadestown or Heathers or Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 so much? Their intros lay it out and we get to sit back and enjoy the spread. Also of course, this is the origin of the New Albion theme, the one all the narrators use. It’s just beautifully simple and strange and it makes me emotional whenever I hear it across the albums. Even when I’m all the way in the future, watching Jane fight for her life and Han Mi struggle with creating her own narrative, I hear that familiar tune and think about where it all began, with a sad lonely blorbo trying to bring back to life her own blorbo.

3- Priscilla and Jasper Play Cards

This song is disgustingly good. It’s a final act showdown, an earned epic moment in the narrative. Finally everything that has happened in this fucked up city is reaching a head in Byron McAlistair’s basement of all places and it is beautiful on delivery. The reprise of so many important motifs, my favorite being Jasper saying ‘be my angel’- the chills I get every time I hear him use that line is outrageous. Now I’m not sure who is right, but my interpretation of Jaspers line in that moment is that he’s asking Soldier to be his ‘angel’ by shooting him and finally, y’know, letting this man fucking die. But then I saw someone else say Jasper is saying this to Priscilla, begging her not to do this for him as he has finally accepted being alive again and doesn’t want her to die due to finally loving a McAlistair. Whatever the interpretation, canonical or not, it is a rip out your heart kind of moment. Sacrifice, duty and love all culminating to finally end the cycle of madness started so long ago in an epic trio of fantastic vocals. And when Priscilla finally can hear the music, the message Kate has been trying to get through, it’s breathtaking. You have to wonder how Kate feels when this happens, when she’s actually listened to. And just when you think it’s over…

2- I Will Bring You Down

…A new hero starts the cycle anew. This song is so fucking dramatic, so very end of an action movie sounding song and yet it works. It works because this is a relatively new character who is now able to think for himself, not just rehash the creed which will haunt this city for generations to come. And his thoughts (the music) sound incredibly unique to everyone else and that is a sign of so much care and attention from Paul. It’s a call to action, a sign of a new age coming whether the city and its people want it or not. It’s the beginning of a new story placed squarely as this shows finale. Finally, when the dust settles it is not a McAlistair who ends the tail in triumph, but a random soldier who kicks of another set of events. Circles really do never stop themselves.

1- Elysian Night

It’s hard for me to express what I feel when I listen to Elysian Night. Usually when I’m talking to people about it I end up struggling and stuttering and start spouting about something ephemeral leaving the person I’m talking to trying to decipher my words. What can one say about Elysian Night that isn’t already felt when you listen? Much like The Old Trunk in the Attic, it stands out amongst the rest of Paul’s works while somehow being the golden center of the sewn together quilt. It’s honest, it’s raw. It’s all the thoughts Jasper has been desperately trying to say after three generations of living. Picking apart other songs on the radio just to craft this one that will hopefully (tragically and inevitably fly over peoples heads) send the message about how he and every other doll in the city has been robbed of something that can barely be described. How do you not love this song? How do you not feel every emotion Jasper has raging on inside the machine that is his body? It’s close to one of the best songs Paul has ever written and I’m grateful to be alive in the time I am to be able to listen.

Thank you so much for reading if you’ve gotten this far! I’ll probably do another one for Radio Hour as it is my favorite of all the albums and we’ll see where this all goes. If you have any questions or would like to share your own opinion about the songs or have a bone to pick with me about the order they fall into, feel free to send me an ask or use the comments on this post. I never really get to talk about the Shaperaverse with people in real life and despite the discord community being amazing a full of incredible people, I find it hard to interact so I lurk most of the time. Thanks again for reading and happy listening!

[gloriousmonsters]

Hey btw I absolutely want to hear that Yu-Gi-Oh propaganda. Hit me

*sam reich voice* you have until I cut you off to sell me a manga about a Japanese teenager being possessed by an Egyptian pharaoh

Honestly, recommending Yu-Gi-Oh is a bit hard just because of its multiple forms; the manga, the first anime, and the second anime. All of them have good points; some more than others, but there's a few things each has done that I prefer. If you got into just one, I'd rec the manga; if you go anime only, you HAVE to watch at least a few episodes of the original anime before the follow-up.

This is because Yu-Gi-Oh is two (or three. four?) stories stuffed in a trenchcoat and if you miss out on the story it was at the beginning, what happens later will not be nearly as good. I have a lot of other things I want to say but I'm going to put a short version after all my screaming so ctrl-f 'give me the short version' for that, lol

HIT ME WITH THE LONG VERSION. I WANT A TED TALK

Yu-Gi-Oh is a horror story that takes a swerve into shonen through the Power of Friendship, but never loses its horror elements. You might know the basics, but I'll lay it out--Yu-Gi-Oh focuses on a sweet, shy boy named Yugi, who has no friends and gets occasionally bullied by another student, Jounouchi. But when an opportunity arises to take revenge, Yugi passes it up, choosing to treat Jounouchi as his friend instead. Jounouchi turns out to be a golden retriever at heart and immediately becomes his ride or die for life (their names put together literally form the word for friendship. it's stupid i love them). Oh, and a dark personality takes over Yugi and engages the guy who hurt the two of them in an unhinged 'penalty game' where the guy's left tormented by visions :)

Yu-Gi-Oh does a few laps through the grubby teen horror genre, and it's amazing. People are in danger of getting stabbed daily at this school and ALL of them want to stab the protagonists (or beat them up, or steal their spot at the school fair, or--). The only thing that makes Yugi's 'dark personality' the good guy is that the people he tortures are so awful. Yu-Gi-Oh Season 0, as the first anime is usually called, captures this vibe beautifully, everything is dark shadows and bloody sunsets and glowing eyes. It pretty much went wherever while the manga struggled to catch up, so it really builds its own little world; not something you need to watch more than a handful of eps of if you want the overall canon, but delightful in itself.

The horror era doesn't end, but peaks before it really mixes with shonen, with an arc villain called Kaiba Seto, an unhinged rich boy who's taken over his adoptive father's company and is in the process of converting it from a vague business + military tech operation to gaming and theme park related stuff + vague business (king shit) and who after suffering a penalty game from Yugi's dark side proceeds to construct a revenge that involves a death amusement park where he tries really hard to kill all of them, and an attempt to beat Yugi('s dark side) in a card game in front of an audience. Yugi('s dark side) promptly wins and shatters his mind, shrugging that he'll pick up the pieces if there's anything left to salvage.

Then everyone starts playing card games all the time. 

The thing with Yu-Gi-Oh is that you have to buy into the central narrative, which is that this card game is essentially sacred. It's called 'dueling' for a reason; it's about honor and proving yourself and philosophical argument and Friendship and, rarely, about actually having fun. If you can buy into this, dueling is SO fun I promise. Although I'm always nostalgic for the wild west 'different game/toy every time' of early Yu-Gi-Oh, many of my favorite moments in the series are duels.

And when you've bought into the premise, Yu-Gi-Oh rewards you with ALL the juicy emotional moments and dysfunctional characters fumbling toward better things and gay shit you could want. I love it primarily from two angles--one, it's at its heart (especially in the manga and the last-ish arc of the anime) about becoming a better person in whatever way you can. It sounds cheesy, but I will go on record as saying that the Battle City arc is one of my favorite narratives about trauma and finding ways to move on from it.

The other angle is that it's batshit and LOADED with characters that are just. So fucked up in various ways. It's a kooky Ancient Egpytian fantasy narrative stuffed into a sports manga about cards continually being stalked by its horror roots, you can pick and choose your own elements of worldbuilding because shit does NOT make sense, and every villain is a GOLDMINE of not only delight but noncon opportunities (*mabel voice* noncoppurtunities). We've got somewhat hinged sadists. We have unhinged sadists. Combat sadomasochists. We have mind control that's actually pretty inventive and creepy. We have people with all-consuming grudges and pretentious depressed bitches who sublimate their trauma into murder. The more consensual ship options are just as varied and delightful.

Kaiba Seto also crawls out of his coma to become the third main character and trust me, if you like Kinnporsche you will almost certainly LOVE Kaiba, especially in the manga. He is a Kinnporsche-ass character. Narrative about trauma and cruelty and power and daddy issues up to here. Huge asshole. My sweet baby boy. Every filler arc the anime added is basically about him and he deserves it, even if they don't fit with the overall narrative.

Oh, and in the fourth season of the anime the writers do a bunch of drugs, watch Atlantis: The Lost Empire, notice that the censors have gone out for lunch, and rapidly assemble an arc where you put up with about forty-five combined minutes of pure stupidity in order to get a urban fantasy horror shonen fusion where we talk about the horrors of war and the fate of humanity and how cults pull vulnerable people in and radicalize them, and do some of the most glorious indulgent fanfiction bullshit ever. It's the horniest and darkest season and will probably punch you in the gut if you have depression and gives us the best filler villains in existence (one of whom was the guy I originally made that post about, lol). Despite its flaws, it functions remarkably well as a conclusion for the story, which is good because the last arc of Yu-Gi-Oh mostly doesn't exist? Like there's a little bit of content at the beginning of the manga arc but other than that it's just. Not there. Weird!

THAT IS A LOT OF WORDS, VIC

I apologize, I have a lot of feelings.

GIVE ME THE SHORT VERSION

Yu-Gi-Oh is a paranormal romance bundled with a story about friendship and personal growth wrapped in a horror story masquerading as a shonen manga and it FUCKS. There are so many little guys you look at and go 'wow! there's something incredibly wrong with you!'. If you can get into it it will Get You. Also I need more people in this fandom that aren't solely into my NOTP or twentysomethings that call ships 'illegal' please for the love of God. I will write fic for you if you get into it. Yes, this is a bribe. pspspsps

WHAT ARE YOU EVEN SAYING I SHOULD READ/WATCH

bare minimum is read the manga best minimum read the manga up to the end of battle city and then watch YGO season four and then read the beginning of the last manga arc as if it were a gradually fading ancient text that crumbles into the dust the moment you say 'wait, what the fuck' out loud. you can also just watch the anime with the background assumption that everything was 2x darker and 1.2x gayer in the manga

THAT SOUNDS DAUNTING, HOW DID YOU EVEN GET INTO IT

Honestly I don't know how I got into it either but this pit's great once you slide down to the bottom. 

WHAT IS YOUR PARTING WISDOM, SAGE?

I don't know if this needs to be said but never expose yourself to the English dub it's horrendous

[thekillpetition-if]

Hector Z. - The Journalist

(According to Luddy)

Hey Boss! Lucy here! Compiled some profiles (and got some dirt) like you asked. What is this for exactly? None of this has anything to do with the current case, you and you knew them already. Whatever. Disclaimer: All pictures acquired from social media and other public means, I’m redacting faces for privacy and legal reasons.

Second is Hector Z. Getting this guy to talk was easy, they loves to talk. I still can’t figure out what the Z. on his name stands for, though. 

About -  A journalist who made it their life-long mission to cover every one of your ongoing cases- And to leak any juicy information he could get his grubby hands on. I still can’t get my head around how he managed to get a glimpse of one of our new cases when I literally left the only copy in the office fridge while I was getting coffee. 

Skills - Creeping about. Big stealth points if he’s in a game, I guess. Or maybe he got so many contacts whispering in his ears. I have no idea how he get those leaks, but it was obviously not legal. 

Personality - Loves to talk. And when I say loves to talk, I mean he loves to communicate. He listens as much as he talks. Also, he’s very generous, though that might just be him trying to pry some info from me through coffee bribes. Lots of underlying motives when it comes to Hector, but a the end of the day, it’s just for his scoop. 

Brief Background - BJMC degree from Verson University. Very prestigious -> New Morlene Times in International News Section, then in Law & Politics. Can’t find their gopher era. This doesn’t make any sense. 

Dirt - I’m pretty sure they got information on our cases through unethical means. I just can’t prove it. Yet. 

Appearance -  Shorter than average height, a bit on the skinnier side, dark brown skin, dark eyes, and medium-length dark wavy hair. Of Indian descent. Everyone who first met them will always note their perfectly arranged white teeth. Sharp jawline. Hot. And yes, that statement is extremely objective. 

[leggyre]

Have you ever played the danganronpa games, anyway? I know many people who like the series but have never played the actual games, so...just wondering

youre OUT HERE questioning my DANGAN RONPA CREDENTIALS????????!?!?!?!?! you here citing the deep magic even though i was there when it was written??????

but i can imagine a lot of people who never played come from the translation thread era. i thought i'd remain one those forever because the official english translation came out for the PSP only but then the PC version came out and-- yes i have played all three of the main games

(and YEAH i could've watched someone play on yt when it was translated but class trial gameplay is SO fun i actually chose to wait for a version i could get my grubby gamer hands on. i tend to do that and its usually the reason i end up far behind on fun trendy viddygame stuff(quote from man who will play celeste eventually i swear))

[eeb-rody]

It's late and I'm not going to be able to sleep so do you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna put together a comprehensive timeline of my blorbos from the past decade

Feel free to analyze and/or bully me

- age ???: my first one was zazu from lion king, when I was a child I was absolutely fixated on that little shit

-ages 8-10: James from Pokemon, I was simply enamored with this man, I wanted to wear his skin

-age 11: ninth doctor and I stand by it

-ages 12-14: okay there were a couple, Spock from star trek and Crowley from supernatural, because I was both terrible with people and very horny, I fixated and I fixated HARD

-age 15: smithers from the Simpsons???? Honest to God I can't explain this one but he was my beloved off and on for a While

-ages 16-17: this era is an absolute blur, there were many and it was bad

-age 18-??: Fucking starscream, because a year in isolation had made me consume every piece of transformers media I could get my grubby little hands on for some god awful reason. Anyway every version is just horrible, I would like to put him in a purse like one of those shitty dogs and carry him about

-right this second: Laszlo Cravensworth. I will not shut the fuck up about Laszlo Cravensworth and his Good Lady Wife and Terrible Adult Baby Boy

Anyway I probably missed some. But I have watched many shows and these are the characters that my brain decided I needed to think about constantly 100% of the time for months at a time

[chojuuro]

do you like or hate kabuto?

short answer: yes

long answer: also yes.

i have what may seem like conflicting feelings toward him, but understand that a) my venus placement is in aquarius and b) he deserves a little throttling as a treat

let me explain (under a cut because i got Started)

kabuto is someone who is SO interesting and weirdly personal to me. a kid who grew up with no identity of his own, who's trying to find his place in this world the way he knows best. which, i mean, he's been kinda fucked since day one and it DESTROYS MY ASS and not in a fun way

he was, i think, 7 when danzo picked him up, after 3 years in an orphanage where they just. gave him a name. because he had amnesia and DIDN'T. KNOW. HIS BABYHOOD. boy didn't know his NAME or his parents or anything

and THEN danzo got his grubby hands on him when he was SEVEN. worst part is he went willingly because he wanted to help the orphanage with the funding that danzo cut.

and THEN THE OROCHIMARU SHIT ASLKFJ and then when kabuto killed nonou unknowingly and then had his entire identity crisis, probably his first real one. hm. HM.

at which point orochimaru showed up, ensnared the poor boy with promises of identity, of finding out exactly who he was, of making a name for himself.

kabuto has been a spy his entire life. dozens of different hats, of different identities, of different masks to hide the kid who never really got to explore or figure out who he is. orochimaru died, and kabuto spiraled.

orochimaru was his only constant. the only thing he could come back to, that he knew, vaguely, would always be there. that he knew he always had a solid place with.

after the amnesia, after the orphanage, after ROOT, the spy work, the death of his mother, orochimaru's slimy grip, after trying to deal with the aftermath of everything? dude is a fuckin shell of the man he never got to be. and it KILLS ME.

don't get me started on how he's a fucking nun now. i do not perceive nunbuto. but i can't help but feel like maybe he wound up running the orphanage because he literally had no idea where else he could go. ROOT doesn't exist anymore, also FUCK that place. orochimaru is doing whatever That era of orochimaru is doing and i imagine part of kabuto wants to distance himself from them, at least for a while. no way the hospital would trust him enough to work there, even though his medical ninjutsu is SO strong and he could be licherally one of the best medics in konoha. he probably IS. but will konoha give him the chance to prove himself for it? not in a thousand years.

and maybe im biased bc little 11 year old me simped for him really hard. maybe im biased bc i can totally get the loss of sense of identity, the identity crises, the wanting to be better. the internal struggle of not knowing who you are, of having other people tell you who you are for you.

he's done a lot of really fucked up shit, obviously. he's literally a criminal. brought souls back from the dead just to fuck around and find out during the war. shows up uninvited at ALL TIMES. he's pretentious and he's smarmy and he's an asshole who worked under orochimaru for a huge chunk of his life, so you KNOW that he's been On Some Shit and honestly? to little fault of his own. he's a victim of circumstance, of grooming on multiple accounts, of his own mental health and the lack of care that konoha takes in anybody's psyche. good thing i have an oc to fix that for me aha

let me be clear that this does not excuse any of his actions. but it does explain them.

anyway *climbs off my soapbox* i love He but i kinda wanna beat him up sometimes

[watching-pictures-move]

Put On Your Raincoats #21 | Double Chinn Double (Double) Feature (with Hyapatia Lee)

By the time the '80s rolled around, Bob Chinn, best known for his collaborations with John Holmes (the inspiration for Boogie Nights), had been directing movies for over a decade. For much of that time, he'd been making them for peanuts (in an interview with the Rialto Report, he recounts being once asked to make a movie for five thousand dollars, which was handed to him in fifties on the spot), but in the early '80s, he was directing for Harry Mohney's Caribbean Films, working with respectable budgets (by porn standards). Some of these films starred Hyapatia Lee, one of the most popular porn stars of the era and one of the first contract girls. Now, I suspect these aren't necessarily the defining works of Chinn's career, and I do intend to get to some of his movies with Holmes. But Vinegar Syndrome had a sale and there were two double features of their collaborations going for dirt cheap, and because I am weak and foolish with money, they ended up in my cart and a few weeks later in my grubby little paws. How did this happen? Through the magic of Canada Post, of course! Anyway, what I found was that these didn't represents any extremes of artistic ambition. They were neither seeking to elevate the genre, nor were they hackwork. Rather, they represent a happy medium, movies that seek to deliver the genre's goods in a polished, diverting package. Slick cinematography, courtesy of Jack Remy. Catchy theme songs that wouldn't sound out of place if you caught them on the radio. Flashy titles. Lee recounted the atmosphere on set as one of professionalism and engagement, where everyone present wanted to do as good a job as possible. Chinn claims to have been losing interest in his work at this point, but the results onscreen are the result of confident execution by somebody who had been doing this kind of thing for years and knew how to put the production's resources to good use.

The first one I watched was The Young Like it Hot, where the operators at a phone company worry about being replaced by computers. To keep their jobs, they scheme to go the extra mile in helping their callers. As this is a porno, most of this help is sexual in nature, as when Rosa Lee Kimball stays on the line while an obscene phone caller played by Bill Margold finishes. (In an interview on the DVD, Margold says after shooting his scene, he was invited to record additional dialogue. Being the method actor that he was, he insisted on whipping it out during the recording session despite the lack of cameras.) Sometimes they are informative, as when Bud Lee (real life husband of Hyapatia at the time) explains why the perineum is referred to as taint ("cuz it taint cunt and it taint ass"). But the highlight of their efforts are Shauna Grant's increasingly life threatening home improvement advice to one poor sap played by Joey Silvera. Hyapatia Lee is ostensibly the star, and has a certain charisma, playing the supervisor, but this is really an ensemble piece, and she's joined by more experienced actors like Kay Parker and Eric Edwards. The latter I've occasionally found bland elsewhere, but he has a nice obnoxious quality that serves him well as the villainous manager whose idea it is the automate the operators' jobs. The movie reflects a very real concern (that's very much still an issue in the modern workplace), but overall this is a breezy, affable comedy.

A bit more serious in tone is Sweet Young Foxes, a coming of age story whose dramatic parts are more sensitively realized than I expected. The screenplay was written by Deborah Sullivan, Bob Chinn's wife at the time, and this is a case where a movie definitely benefited from having been written by a woman, and it seems like an earnest effort to capture the anxieties and yearnings of its young women protagonists. Lee moves closer to a real starring role, and is joined by Cara Lott and Cindy Carver as her friends, who aren't quite as strong actors as her but do have decent chemistry. I can believe they're friends even if their line delivery can be stilted. (That the movie has a good ear for genuine sounding dialogue also helps.) Kay Parker is especially good as Lee's mother, hitting some of the same notes as Taboo, and has a credibly emotional masturbation scene in front of a mirror that did not leave me unmoved. (In what way? That's none of your damn business.) This was shot by Jack Remy, the same cinematographer who worked on The Young Like it Hot. That movie looked nice and slick, but this one is a little more stylish, with the solo sex scenes in particular resembling magazine centerfolds. There's also some nice new-wave-ish music that shows up on the soundtrack, which I certainly didn't mind. I do wish some of the sex scenes didn't run quite as long (the previous movie kept them refreshingly concise) as I'd prefer more of the runtime was dedicated to the dramatic elements, but what's there is still good.

Body Girls goes back firmly to comedy territory, where Hyapatia Lee and the members of her gym are trying to win a bodybuilding contest despite a rival gym's attempts to undermine them. This comes in the form of a pair of schlubs in yellow tank tops who break into the gym after hours to sabotage their equipment, only to be foiled by Hyapatia and her girls who just happened to be having sex in the locker room as people do. Of course, despite Lee's attempts to teach them a lesson (which depending on your proclivities, may have the opposite effect), they don't give up, and during the contest threaten the judge at gunpoint. Not one to take things lying down (okay, poor choice of words here), Lee finds a way to influence the judge back in her favour. (The judge is played by Francois Papillon, bringing a dopey charm to the character as he fumbles through his lines in his French accent.) Her method is pretty ridiculous and certainly in service of genre requirements, but I did laugh.

Now, there's probably a dilemma in audience sympathy here as both Lee and her rivals are cheating, but Lee's methods are more agreeable and directed at the judge instead of her rivals so I guess we ought to root for her. She's also buoyant, charismatic and has a real star quality, and is joined by such fan favourites as Shanna McCullough and Erica Boyer, all of whom sport wildly different hairstyles. As can be expected given the exercise theme, most of the ladies have toned, athletic bodies (and given the decade, voluminous coiffures), with the exception of Tigr, who brings a wiry punkish energy that stood out to me despite her limited screentime, and she also performs the miraculous feat of making a mullet look cute. (I'd previously been moved by her work in Kamikaze Hearts, the great mockumentary about a porn production and her relationship with Sharon Mitchell. She didn't stay in the industry for too long, but I'd be interested in seeing more of her work.) The screenplay was written by Lee with her husband Bud (who plays the judge's assistant with an agreeable presence that's neither too alpha nor too schlubby) and is full of exercise-related dialogue. Most of this is pretty clunky and calling it wordplay might be a bit generous ("sexercise" features at one point), but I did appreciate the effort. Also as is requisite for the premise, the longest set piece in the movie is an orgy in Lee's gym with the various participants snaked around different pieces of equipment. I must note that one of the male actors resembles Barry Gibb and that Francois Papillon is shown to wear a tiger-striped speedo. Did I enjoy the movie? Yes, but not for reasons cited in that sentence.

At the end of Body Girls, Bud Lee suggests to Hyapatia, "Let's get physical", which is the title of the next movie. (Body Girls also features a character looking at dirty magazine with stills from Sweet Young Foxes and ends with a plug for some of these other movies, anticipating the MCU's narrative and marketing strategies by a few decades.) Now, all of these movies have had decent theme songs, but the one in Let's Get Physical has lyrics that are plagiaristically close to those of Olivia Newton-John's 1983 hit. (The delivery however is more shrill but not unpleasing.) This movie is a drama where Lee plays a dance instructor trying to put together a ballet performance despite her strained relationship with her impotent husband played by Paul Thomas. (In the interview I listened to, Lee speaks well of almost everyone she worked with on these films, with the pointed exception of Paul Thomas. If there was bitterness behind the scenes, it arguably helps their performances.)

Lee wrote the screenplay for this one, and unlike Body Girls with its surface level references to bodybuilding and exercise, the dialogue here feels packed with knowledge of the real thing, which is understandable given Lee's real life interest in dance going back to her childhood. (I looked up "Luigi jazz dancing" after finishing the movie and was pleasantly surprised to learn it was a real thing.) This movie goes all in on her star power, and features a number of dance numbers that seem genuinely interested in the form rather than just leering at the performers. (There is one scene where the song Lee dances to sounds suspiciously like "Beat It".) I did appreciate that the sex scenes were kept relatively concise and tied into the dramatic aspects, although in some cases, the choices made could be goofy, like the scene where Lee makes love to her student Shanna McCullough while Thomas, in a dramatically justified but still awkward gesture, watches from another room and jacks off. (I assume he's playing the audience in this scene. Also, McCullough's character remarks "I've never done this before" when going down on Lee, and yeah, okay Shanna.) Other highlights include a car stunt that may or may not have been lifted from elsewhere but still looks decently executed, as well as a dream sequence where Thomas (or his character at least) plays the piano and sings a song. This is held back a bit by the genre's demands, like when it places a completely superfluous sex scene at the end after Lee's reconciliation with Thomas, but on the whole this is probably the best one of the lot.

[harrysweasleys]

Saint-Like

Summary: Can you make one where the reader and Fred have been together since their 6th year (goblet of fire era) and now it's time to bring Harry to the Burrow and she goes with them although his protests, and she gets hit and loses something too like also an ear or so and she feels insecure especially at the wedding and when everything is safe she finally explains she is insecure and he comforts her?

Warnings: Blood, death, violence, anxiety, language

Word Count: 5k

A/N: This took me six hours, oh my goodness, So, incase you guys didn’t see my last post, I have a new account called @malfoyswheezes! Also, this isn’t my gif! I got it off of google. :)

ONE WEEK AGO 

“You know we’re gonna have to go see Harry, right?” Y/N asked Fred as the two of them helped Molly out in the garden, picking out the gnomes and plants that were unwanted, “We have to bring him here.”

Now that Voldemort was out for revenge, everyone knew Harry wasn’t exactly safe anywhere he decided to go. Arthur and Remus Lupin had decided that bringing Harry to the Weasley home was the safest bet, and so after Harry persuaded his aunt, uncle and cousin to move to safety, the Order would swoop in and safely bring him over.

“I know,” Fred nodded, wiping soot off of his forehead, “You can stay here and prepare for Harry’s arrival with mum and Ginny. Help out for the wedding and whatnot. It won’t be long.”

Y/N shook her head, “Like hell. I’m coming with you.”

She knew Fred was a strong enough wizard to handle any situation thrown his way, she didn’t doubt him in the slightest, but Harry was her friend too and she was dead set on guiding him to safety.

“No, you’re not,” Fred crossed his arms, looking down at her, “I get why you want to, but no.”

“You’re not my parent, Fred Weasley,” Y/N scoffed, “If I want to go, I’ll go. You’re not going to lock me in my room and tell me to sit still while you’re all out there risking your lives for someone I also happen to care a great deal about.”

Fred dropped his head, knowing that Y/N’s stubbornness was going to get the best of her. He had always wanted to make sure she was safe and out of harm’s way, but she constantly persuaded him to let her go straight into the line of fire. It had gotten worse since Voldemort’s return. Y/N only wanted to look after her friends, and the people she had grown to call her family.

“C’mon, Freddie,” she pouted her lip, knowing she’d crack him, “Let me come help.”

“Fine,” Fred sighed, “But at least stick by my side, yeah?”

“Promise.”

---

PRESENT

The Order stood around what used to be the Dursley’s living room, each about to drink some of the Polyjuice Potion that would turn them into Harry while Harry himself stood watching them all, nervous as hell about his friends turning into him. He was the one the Dark Lord wanted, after all.

“I can smell it from here,” Y/N gagged, tying her hair back in preparation for her transformation. After Fred and George took their sips, they passed it to her. She hesitated before taking a sip of the foul potion, already feeling her insides churning and twisting. She grimaced, clenching her fists as she felt herself transforming into an unfamiliar body, her hair shortening and her face becoming wider. 

She suddenly felt as if her tank top was too tight, and as she opened her eyes, noticed that she had indeed turned into the one and only Harry Potter.

“Wow! We’re identical!” Fred and George looked at each other, both looking like Harry as well.

“Not yet, you’re not,” Moody pointed to their clothing before tossing over a large garbage bag full of multiple items of clothing, all the same. They all walked over, picking up a shirt, sweater, and pair of pants. 

“Oh, Y/N, I’ve never been more attracted to you,” Fred — as Harry — smirked in her direction. She shook her head, a smile on her lips.

“Guess you better date Harry then,” she retaliated, crossing her arms over her now-flat chest. 

“By the looks of it, I already am,” Fred said, wiggling his eyebrows and wrapping his arm around her shoulder. She laughed, shrugging it off, not used to the image of Harry being so close to her. She knew it was Fred, but it was still weird. 

“Haven’t got anything more sporting, do you?” George eyed the brown pair of pants.

“Yeah, I don’t really fancy this colour,” Fred picked out a shirt and shook it off before putting it on.

Moody glared at the two, looking away as everyone started to change. Y/N took off her clothing, feeling awfully uncomfortable at the fact that she was no longer in her own body. It was her first, and hopefully last time, drinking Polyjuice. She changed into the shirt, sweater and pants before looking around and realizing she had no idea who was who. Everyone was just Harry. 

“Right then, we’re pairing off, each Potter will have their own protector,” Moody turned around once more to face the group, looking around and prepared to pair everyone off. 

Y/N, unsure of who she was next to at this point, grabbed a hand of one of the Harrys and decided he was going to be the one she’d take off with.

“My own brother,” Fred’s voice came from the other side of the room, eyes on Y/N’s hand intertwined with the Harry next to her.

“Whose hand am I holding?” she asked, looking at the person next to her.

“George, of course,” he grinned, “The better looking twin, if you ask me.”

“Well, right now you look like Harry so I wouldn’t be so sure,” she joked, taking her hand away from him.

“Thanks,” the real Harry’s voice came from somewhere amongst the group. You smiled at him, apologizing, and then turned to Fred, also apologizing for picking the wrong person.  

“Right. George and Y/N, Mundungus, you stick to me,” Moody glared around the room, “As for Harry—”

“Yes?” the entire room asked, each stopping their movements to look at Moody.

“The real Harry,” he rolled his eyes, but the real Harry came forward, “You’ll ride with Hagrid.”

As the chaos of getting dressed died down, Y/N walked over to Fred, “Sorry, Freddie. I know I promised I’d stick by your side, but we’ll be alright, right?”

Fred sighed, placing his hand on her shoulder, “Yeah, we’ll be alright. I’ve got dad, he knows what he’s doing. Wouldn’t be so sure about Georgie.”

“Hey,” George piped up, offence in his voice. 

She wanted to kiss him, but as he was Harry, she didn’t feel like she could, so she pulled him into a hug — ignoring Moody’s comment about ‘stupid sentiment’ — and told him she’d see him when they arrived at the Burrow.

The group made their way outside, careful not to be spotted by the neighbours as a large group of people who all looked identical — on broomsticks, at that — might raise suspicion. 

“This way, your highness,” George grabbed Y/N’s forearm and dragged her over to their brooms, trying to keep her from running off to Fred like she wanted to. She was worried that something might go wrong and she wouldn’t be with him when it did. She hated being apart from him. 

“Thanks, your majesty,” she laughed, mounting her broom next to George. He rolled his eyes at her and got on his. Y/N looked over to Fred once more, giving him a nod and a smile, which he retaliated, before looking forwards again and ready to take off.

Moody counted down from three, and the group took off. Despite the intensity in the air, Y/N smiled at the wind blowing into her face, not used to the fact that her long hair wasn’t whisking into her vision as she took off into the night sky. 

The beginning of the journey was uneventful, they had passed over London — Y/N pointed out all the buildings and landmarks to George — and the burrow was only getting closer and closer. 

“Blimey, what is that?” George’s voice caught her attention and she looked forwards, noticing that through the clouds, flashes of lightning seemed to be moving closer and closer to them. Rumbles of thunder shook her broom, causing her heart to catch in her throat. She took her want out of her waistband, gripping onto it tightly and preparing for the fight that was bound to happen.

As Y/N and George made their way into the clearing, wizards and witches on brooms were flying around all over the place, green and red blasts coming out of wands left and right. 

Death Eaters. 

Y/N tried looking around to see if any other Harrys were in the area, but the constant ‘whoosh’ of a passing broom made her lose her focus. Bodies were flying and falling everywhere, it was nearly impossible to make out anyone’s faces. She stuck by George, the two of them trying to figure out what the hell they were going to do.

“Avada Kedavra!” she turned to her left, spotting a grubby looking wizard pointing their wand to Moody, who caught the full blast, falling off of his broom, lifeless.

“NO!” Y/N wanted to go catch him, but she knew he was gone. His coat flailed as he continued falling, disappearing into the thick cloud below him. 

“Come on, Y/N,” George waved his hand, signalling her to follow him. She did as she was told, ducking down as spells passed over her head. George swerved around the Death Eaters, Y/N in tow and trying her best to keep an eye out for the others. 

“Stupefy!”

A flash of light came barrelling into her vision, and within a second, she found herself falling. She was no longer on her broom, the lights of the city below seemingly getting closer and closer. She was falling at a much quicker pace then it seemed. She could feel the wet clouds surrounding her as she continued on to her eventual death. 

This wasn’t how she wanted to go. 

She closed her eyes, the brisk wind numbing her fingers and nose.

“Y/N!” George swooped down below her, catching her hand and pulling her aboard his broom. She wasn’t even thinking, it had all happened so quickly. She wasn’t dying anymore, she was safe. George had saved her. 

She wrapped her arms around his waist, but kept her wand ready to use. 

“Thanks, Georgie,” Y/N shouted to him, keeping her eyes focused on her surroundings, grateful beyond words that George caught her before she could plummet to her death. 

"Stupefy!” she pointed her wand at a passing Death Eater, knocking him off his broom and instead, sending him plummeting down to the solid ground below. 

“Expelliarmus!” she pointed her wand once more, missing completely as she was then blocked by a large cloud which cut off her view from the Death Eater she had her eye on. 

It felt as if they were out of harm’s way. No one was around them, and the clouds were too thick to be spotted. She wanted to go back and personally attack each and every single one of Voldemort’s goons, but she knew that their mission was to get Harry safely to the burrow. She didn’t even know where Harry and Hagrid were. 

As the cloud cleared and a few more Death Eaters came into view, that’s when she knew it was too late. A blinding flash of light hit her and George from the left, whizzing right past both of their heads, and pain flooded throughout her entire body. 

“Ah, shit,” she groaned, noticing that George had been hit with the same curse. He was bleeding profusely from the left side of his head, his eyes screwed shut as he gripped the broom with white knuckles.

“Get to the burrow,” Y/N winced, placing her left hand over the bleeding ear, the pain becoming worse by the passing second. The grey sweater was starting to become stained red, and she could feel it matting her hair down to her skin. 

George nodded, and Y/N tried her best to remove her sweater and place it against his head, helping him out as he was too busy flying to stop the blood flow. He couldn’t lose too much blood or he’d be in danger. 

She managed to do so, and she ripped it in half using one hand and her teeth, holding one half to George’s head and the others to hers, leaning it against her shoulder and tilting her head to the side, putting as much pressure as she could.

She could see her vision becoming fuzzier, so much that she didn’t even notice the Polyjuice potion wearing off. Her hair became longer, she could feel it getting caught in the blood, and she could see her fingers become thinner, still covered in blood. 

As George lowered the broom, the burrow came into sight. The two of them were too focused on the pain to notice if anyone else had arrived. 

Fred was going to freak out when he found out both his twin and girlfriend had been attacked. 

George landed the broom and the two of them stumbled off, Molly noticing them immediately and rushing over.

Y/N could swear she saw Harry and Hagrid, but her vision felt too blurry for her to be sure. Molly and Ginny grabbed Y/N and George, ushering them inside to tend to their matched wounds. 

“How are you feeling? How many fingers am I holding?” Molly asked as she placed Y/N down on the dingy couch next to George, the two of them in the same state. 

“Like my brain is oozing out my ear,” Y/N’s grin turning into a wince as Molly placed a wet towel to the side of her head, “Where’s Fred?”

“He’s not back yet,” Ginny said from over on your right where she was tending to George’s ear. 

A loud bang sounded from outside, and within seconds, Lupin came rushing in the front door to check on who was already here. He noticed Y/N and George on the couch, bloodied, but turned his attention to Harry real quick. 

Harry got the wind knocked out of him as Lupin pushed him up against the fireplace, asking him personal questions to see if it was the real him. Y/N couldn’t hear the questions really well, her mind too focused on the pain and whether Fred was alright. 

“You good, Georgie?” she mumbled turning to face him, trying her best to smile.

“Yeah, you?” his eyes looked heavy, but he seemed in a good mood despite the pain he was also in. 

Y/N was about to answer but Lupin’s words caught her off guard, “We’ve been betrayed. Voldemort knew we were being moved tonight. I had to make sure you weren’t an imposter.”

Y/N shared a look with Molly, everyone in the house looking more worried than before, guessing who the imposter might have been. Another whooshing sound was heard from outside, and Lupin rushed out to check whoever had arrived. 

As Lupin rushed out, Y/N tried to squint and see through the window, noticing that Shacklebolt and Lupin were now pointing wands at one another, quizzing the other to make sure they were both legit. But there was still no Fred in sight. 

More whooshing sounds signalled that more and more groups were arriving.

Please be okay, Fred, please be okay.

Y/N felt George tap her on the wrist, “It’s Fred, he’s fine. You think he’d go off and die when he’s still got you? Nah.”

Y/N giggled slightly, letting her head fall back on the couch, “Sorry ‘bout the couch, Mrs Weasley.” The tattered orange couch was getting stained with both their bloods, and that was hard to wash out. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it dear,” she smiled at you before walking over to check on George. 

“Where are George and Y/N?” Y/N’s eyes widened as she heard Arthur’s faint voice outside, but there was no response to his question. Footsteps got louder outside the door, and within a moment, Fred appeared in the entrance. 

His heart stopped at the sight of the two of them injured on the couch. Y/N had to strongly resist the urge to jump into his arms and never let go, but her body felt weaker than it had ever felt before. 

His face paled and he rushed over to the two of them, placing a hand on both of their knees. 

“Y/N — Georgie, how are you two feeling? What happened?” he asked, his voice shaky. 

“Reckon it was Sectumsempra,” Y/N spoke up, lifting her head off the couch and smiling down at him, “I feel like a milllion Galleons.”

Fred smiled at her, relief on his face, “What about you, Georgie?”

“Saint-like,” George muttered. 

Fred furrowed hie eyebrows, “Come again?”

“Saint-like. Get it? I’m holy, Fred,” George pointed to his missing ear, “So is she. We now have a combined two ears.”

Y/N laughed, leaning her head back on the couch. Whatever Molly had pressed up against her ear had helped with the pain, and made her incredibly drowsy. 

“A whole wide world of ear related humour and you go for ‘I’m holy’ — that’s pathetic,” Fred chuckled, leaning his head against Y/N’s knee. She lifted her hand and ran it through Fred’s hair, letting him know she was okay. 

“Reckon I’m still better looking than you,” George joked, letting his eyes close. 

Y/N giggled once more, turning her attention to Bill, who walked into the room with a gloomy expression.

“Mad-Eye’s dead,” he said slowly, looking at Lupin. Y/N thought back to watching Moody fall off of his broom and her heart sunk even further.

The room fell silent. Harry clenched his jaw, and Lupin sat down, his head in his hands, tugging at his hair in frustration. Y/N knew him and Moody had grown to become good friends, she couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling. 

Bill continued on, talking about how Mundungus had taken off after seeing Voldemort, and Y/N’s heart sank even further. The situation had somehow felt so much more real than it did an hour ago. She could see the guilt on Harry’s face. Of course he was blaming himself, he always did. 

“Well,” Arthur spoke up, startling Y/N, “we should all get cleaned up and go to bed. Best not to dwell.”

The group murmured in agreement, everyone going their separate ways without talking to each other. Fred picked his head up and looked at the two of them on the couch. 

“Do you guys need anything?” he asked, eyes darting over to the kitchen, “Water? Tea? Food?”

“I’d like my ear back,” Y/N smirked, making Fred shake his head. 

“I second that,” George responded, laughter in his voice. 

“You guys really are something,” Fred muttered, sitting up and walking over to get them both some water. 

Y/N turned to face him, “Learned from you, my love.”

Fred felt his cheeks flush at the name, walking back over to them with two full glasses of cold water. George downed his instantly, but Y/N didn’t touch hers. She could feel the pain creeping up her neck, she didn’t feel like drinking and making it worse. She noticed Fred’s eyes scanning the gash on her head, and insecurity suddenly flowed over her body. 

She hadn’t thought about the long term effects. She’d probably have damage to her hearing, and the left side of her head would never really look normal again. She lifted the face cloth and held it against the side of her head, preventing Fred from looking at it. The last thing she wanted was for him to think of her as weak, that she couldn’t handle a small battle wound. 

Molly finished wrapping up George’s head with a bandage, making sure it was on tight so he would be able to sleep without worrying about bleeding everywhere. He bid the two goodnight and took off to his room, a stumble in his step.

Molly started working on bandaging up Y/N, being careful not to cause too much pain. Fred held her hand, letting her squeeze it when the pain became too much. Nearly ten minutes later, Y/N’s head was securely wrapped and the pain had slowly start to become a dull throb. 

“Thank you, Mrs Weasley,” Y/N gave a tired smile, and Molly placed a hand gently on her shoulder, saying goodnight and taking off to bed. 

Fred finally got up off the floor and sat on her right, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close to him, placing kisses all over the non-bloody side of her face. 

“You scared the bloody hell out of me,” he said between kisses, causing her to giggle at the ticklish feeling. 

Y/N leaned into his touch, “Sorry, Freddie. George did save my life though.”

“And that’s why I was worried about you coming on this mission,” he stopped kissing her face and looked at her seriously. It was rare he showed his serious side around her, the two were usually joking around, so she knew he wasn’t in the joking mood right now. 

“I can handle myself,” she said, suddenly feeling defensive. She didn’t want to be belittled, especially not by Fred. 

“I know you can, love, but I can’t always look after you when we’re doing things like this and I hate it,” he said softly, running his fingers through her hair. 

She wanted to pull away and continue to argue, but she couldn’t find the energy, “Fred, I went through the same schooling as you. We’re the same age. I’m a good witch, I can’t just sit back quietly and never use my abilities.”

“I’m not saying you should, I just get so worried when you willingly go out there and risk your life,” he tried reasoning with her, but she took it personally. She knew he worried, so did she, but worry wasn’t a reason to sit back and live life in hiding.

“What? And I don’t get worried when you do the same?” she pressed on, ignoring how heavy her eyelids were feeling. 

“Love, just go to sleep,” he pressed another gentle kiss on her jaw, resting his head against the back of the couch. Sudden exhaustion wiped over her and she felt herself dozing off.

She didn’t remember if she had continued to speak — all she knew was that she dreamt of green flashes and distant screams. 

---

The next few days before the wedding, Y/N’s insecurities about her ear got bigger and bigger. While George made jokes and stuck things in the new hole on the side of his head, Y/N covered it with bandages and her hair every chance she could get. She was growing sick of people asking her how she was feeling, and was starting to get fed up of Fred doing everything for her. She appreciated his help — she really lacked energy — but she didn’t want to feel useless. She didn’t want people to see her as weaker because she had been hit with a curse. 

She had spent the last few days helping Molly with gardening, preparing flowers and food for Bill and Fleur’s wedding that was happening tomorrow. Cooking had helped take Y/N’s mind off her injury as Molly was too stressed about making everything perfect to pester her about how she was feeling every second of the day. 

The boys were outside, constructing the gigantic white tent that would be covering nearly a hundred people at this time tomorrow. Ginny and Hermione were out finding dresses — Y/N passed up on going to avoid people staring at her — but they promised they’d pick up one for her as well. 

As dark clouds swarmed in and rain drops began falling, the men came indoors to warm up and take a break, crashing on the couch and armchairs in the living room.

Y/N pulled the pies out of the oven and placed them next to the open window to cool down, jumping out of her skin when Fred’s arms wrapped around her waist. 

“Fred! I was carrying hot stuff,” Y/N whacked his arm, squealing once he picked her up off the ground.

“Now I’m carrying hot stuff,” he smirked, placing her back down and kissing her forehead. Y/N was lucky that the dark clouds took away some of the light in the room as her cheeks flushed red at his compliment.

“How’s the ear?” he asked, looking over the bandage quickly.

“Still gone,” she muttered, turning away from him. He seemed to sense she didn’t want to talk about it so he dropped the subject, complimenting how wonderful it smelled in the house. 

He had been worried about her lately, he knew that it bothered her more than she let on. 

On the other hand, Y/N was thankful for the change in topic as everyone barrelled into the kitchen to see what was smelling so nice. She had to keep swatting at Ron’s hand so he wouldn’t eat everything. 

“I’m starving, making a massive tent is hard work,” he’d repeat to her each time she scolded him. 

The wedding preparations seemed to all be right on schedule, and Bill and Fleur were ecstatic. 

---

The day of the wedding rolled around and the dim sunlight had been just the weather Fleur wanted. There was a warm summer breeze that flowed through the air as the guys were back outside, lifting the tent and doing last minute preparations. 

Y/N fell in love with the yellow dress Hermione and Ginny had picked out. It was flowy and light, perfect for the warmth outside. She had gotten dressed rather quickly, but her main struggle was her hair. She wanted to have it up and out of the way incase she did some dancing, but as soon as it was tied, her bandaged ear was on full display. 

She stared at herself in the mirror, her face showing no signs of excitement. She let her hair fall loose, the messy curls having no sort of rhythm. The yellow dress, despite being gorgeous, felt far too cheerful for how she was really feeling.

A knock at the door made her jump out of her skin, “Come in!”

She adjusted her hair, covering up her ear and turning to face the person who walked in. Fred, donned in a waistcoat that matched her dress, wore a gentle smile on his face as he walked over to her.

“Hi, love,” he wrapped his arms around her waist, “You look amazing. Like a Filibuster Firework.”

“Is that the best compliment you got?” she giggled, poking him in the side. 

“You know I love Filibuster Fireworks,” he said, a small smirk on his lips, “But I thought you were tying your hair up, no?”

She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her right ear, “Oh — yeah, I changed my mind.”

“Why?” he asked, twirling a strand around his finger, “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

She shrugged, feeling awkward, “Dunno, just through it suited the dress better, I guess.”

Fred could tell she wasn’t being entirely truthful, so he dropped his hand from her hair and placed it on the left side of her face, “Are you hiding your ear?”

Y/N’s head snapped up to look at him, her mouth hanging open slightly. Yes, she had been hoping to hide it, but she thought she was being a little more sly about it.

“You’re a terrible liar, love,” Fred’s other hand rubbed up and down her arm, goosebumps rising under his touch. 

She knew he’d catch on. She had always told him about her insecurities and he always made her feel better. Something felt different this time, it felt more permanent, so she figured telling him wouldn’t really have helped her. But as he stood there, gazing into her eyes with concern and love, she felt like an idiot for not telling him. 

“Yeah,” she whispered, looking back down to her feet. 

Fred placed his hand under her chin and lifted her head to look at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were glossy. 

“There’s no reason to be insecure about it,” he told her, “First of all, no one is judging you. Secondly, it’s cool as hell that you have a battle scar. I didn’t get any, I’m the lame one.” Y/N giggled, letting a tear streak down her cheek before she wiped it away quickly. 

“I’m serious,” his voice was soft, “Don’t hide it. I think it’s awesome. Sure, I’d have preferred it didn’t happen, but it’s still cool. Besides, you can always make up some epic story about how you got it.”

“I think the real story is epic enough,” Y/N chuckled, leaning her head against Fred’s chest. 

He nodded, “Yeah, that’s true. Look, please don’t spend the rest of the evening trying to hide it. I get to show off that my girlfriend’s a badass.”

He pressed another gentle kiss to her temple and pulled away, placing his hands on her shoulders and looking her up and down, “Now, shall we get downstairs, my lady?”

“Let’s,” Y/N grinned, locking her arm with his. The two made their way downstairs, Y/N feeling much better about her appearance thanks to Fred. She got to the bottom, smiling kindly at Arthur and George who were talking in the kitchen.

“Hey, my other half,” George winked at her, causing her to chuckle and toss her hair over her shoulder, pointing to her ear and nodding.

“Hey, she’s my other half,” Fred pouted, gripping her shoulder and pulling her closer to him. George laughed, noticing that everyone was starting to sit down outside. 

“We should get out there,” he nodded towards the door and the four of them made their way outside. Y/N linked her hand in Fred’s and the pair took their seats next to the rest of his family. 

Every now and then, Fred would lean over and whisper in her ear, telling her how gorgeous she was. She’d blush every time, hiding her face in her hair and nudging him. 

Although it would take some time getting used to, she knew that with Fred by her side, she’d be able to get through it. After all, he knew how to cheer her up no matter what the situation. And she was the luckiest woman alive. 

[heresathreebee]

No Touching

[Ava Starr x Female!Reader]

Summary: Friend dates with Ava always brighten your day (and night). Tonight is more enlightening than brightening, though… 

Previous Masterlist Next

Word count: 1.7 words

Warning(s): 14+ | angst, gay panic, dolls, 1 (one) racist antique, Steven Segal movie, chronic pain, tears.

AN: No actually I didn't bother to edit this, not doing that anymore, I think too much as it is. As always, I write with a black reader in mind but feel free to read even if you aren't. 🖤

You are eighty percent sure that you and Ava are dating.

85%... 78%... 81.5% sure.

It would probably be best if you cleared that up (but be cool about it though). You've started seeing each other more and more, and on purpose no less. Never a dull conversation, she's reluctant to share some of her life story but she's eager to know everything about you and you're more than happy to indulge. It's not like you know nothing about her; you just don't know the specifics of her past. 

Her parents died when she was young, she's ex-military (you think?), and she just came off of a huge life change and is getting used to what she calls 'real life.' You figure out she's a bit of a shut in and hates crowds, so you go out of your way to show her quiet places and introduce her to things she's never tried before. The bowl by your front door where you put your keys has 20 or 30 marbles from ramune bottles in it. You can't seem to ring her secret out of her, she just gives you this cryptic knowing smile and laughs at your attempts to sweet talk or annoy it out of her. 

You feel so close, growing closer still, she's quickly become the best part of your week, and you catch yourself thinking about her even when she's not with you. But you've never held hands. Hell, you've never even so much as brushed shoulders with her by accident. If you're dating, shouldn't you at least hug her goodbye? Is she even able to be into you like that?? 

You try not to let the panic set in as you stand outside of the antiques mall. You told her you liked old things and promised to show her your favorite pastime. God, how do you go about this? Should you just flirt with her and see how she reacts? Also how does one flirt? What if you’re fucking up and she really just wants to be friends? God knows you could use some friends right now. 

When she does appear, you do nothing. You continue to act relaxed and enjoy her presence, promising yourself you’ll ask about it afterwards. Ava’s wearing that grey jacket again made of a thin sports fabric and you make a mental note it might rain today. 

“Ava,” you stage whisper, waving her out of the jewelry section by the front desk and into the maze of vintage old clothes and furniture. “Back here, to the left.” 

Deep deep deep in a corner of the massive store, Ava stops dead in her tracks (you run into her but back away quickly) and stares. 

“This... is…” Ava covers her mouth with her hands to hold her laughter in, “ghastly.” 

The shelf is wide, with dark wood trimming and protective glass. The lights are almost fluorescent as they illuminate dozens of humanoid dolls. Some are cute, but some are also creepy, unnerving, down right scary. 

You point at the one with the Jonbenet Ramsey likeness and deep cracks in her porcelain face. It was overly large compared to the rest, having to have stuffed legs crossed like a sitting child. "I think I fear that one the most." 

You felt Ava shiver and didn't even realize you were standing that close. Her eyes darted from face to face, taking in every terrible and wonderful detail of them. You smelled coconut in her hair and tried to distance yourself a bit, missing the conversation. "Huh?" 

"I said they're haunted, aren't they?" 

"That one definitely is." You look over the other dolls. "I don't know, I think the rest are kinda cute. 'Cept that one: that one can fuck off straight to hell." 

Down on the second shelf where the light began to struggle in reach belied an offensive porcelain joke. The decoration portrayed an over animated child at play, with oil black skin, fat red lips, and bulbous eyes. This child was dressed in white rags and sucking on a wedge of fruit. Guess which one. Fucking guess, I dare you. 

"It's not even a fucking doll," Ava grumbled. "Why is it here?" 

You leaned in to whisper, "someday, I'm gonna buy that thing just to fucking smash it on the pavement." 

"Oh, what a lovely sound it would make." 

You hum. "I'm not gonna give nobody money for that trash. Can't steal it either, we'd never make it to the door." 

Ava looked over her shoulder with a cheeky smile. "We?" 

You simply tilt your head at her, and she huffs out a laugh. She nodded as if agreeing with you, then drifted away from the case like a wary woman. You toured through the rest of the store like a treasure trove of other people's memories, war memorabilia, ancient brand merchandise (why would anyone want a life size green m&m in their house? Who is this for?), and paintings from the dadeism era by unpopular artists. You ate lunch at the vendor shops in downtown and retired to your place for a movie. 

You must have fallen asleep at the beginning but you came to during some big shootout between Steven Segal and generic Latino drug dealer #7 when you accidentally dropped your hand into Ava's lap. Quickly, Ava withdrawals, thrusting herself to the other side of the couch as if in disgust. Your head jerks up in hurt and confusion, you hadn't even felt anything except a light tingling. You could barely hear the tv audio over the sound of blood rushing in your ears. 

"You can't touch me," Ava spat. "You just can't. Ever. Please…" 

"I'm sorry. Ava, I– I am so, so sorry I didn't mean to–" 

"It's not your fault and you didn't know," she mumbled and faltered, "it's just… you can't." 

You feel tears prick in the corner of your eyes as you try to swallow. "I'm sorry. Really. It won't happen again." 

Ava looked up at you guiltily and sighed. She folded her legs and eased herself off of the couch arm rest, hands tucked into her lap and unable to meet your eyes anymore. 

"It's not what you think it is," she explained. "I… I have a condition of sorts. And it… it hurts.” 

Her words put a hold on the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “Like a… skin condition? Or nerves or something?” 

Ava nodded quickly. “Yes. yes, like a nerves thing. My um, my nervous system. It's chronic."

“Oh Ava,” you cover your heart with a breathy sigh, “of course! I wish I’d known I would have never–” 

“It’s not something I like to talk about.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m really glad you understand. Sorry I freaked out, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything.” 

You tried to blow a raspberry. “It’s whatever, didn’t hurt my feelings.” 

Yeah, you could hear the weakness of the lie, too. Still, Ava went and parked herself on the couch exactly where she was before– close but not too close. Warm but not quite touching. You were ready to let it slide and go right back to pretending to watch the movie when– 

“So what’s going on between us exactly? I like girls– I like you– and I don’t mean just in a friend sort of way– is it maybe sorta possible you might feel the same way about me?” 

Who said that? You? Honestly you’re feeling a little dizzy as you try and stare a hole in the tv screen. And Ava? Well at least she didn’t hold you in suspense for too long. She chuckled– and god you had to look. You had to know if she was laughing at you or with you. Your eyes snapped to her completely unmocking face. 

She blinked at you, bit her lip even. “Yes, I am.. Capable of liking girls. Might prefer them actually. And I definitely like you in a more-than-a-friend sort of way.” 

It takes a second to sink in. OK, it takes a hot minute to sink in. Like the movie ended and you walked Ava home and you slept in until 10 am and made omelettes for breakfast at noon and laid down on your floor staring at the ceiling until sundown. Yeah that kind of hot minute. And your lips curled into a soft smile because you had a girlfriend and she liked girls and you could not be happier than you are right now. 

~

Ava asked you to meet her on the corner by the antiques mall that night. You don’t know how but she got her grubby, thieving little mitts on that disgusting tar baby doll from the haunted doll shelf. You made her swear up and down she didn’t pay real money for it, then nearly pulled out your hair when you realized it meant she definitely stole it and– 

"How the ffffUCK do you just DO that?!" 

"Slight of hand," she mused. 

Fuck, and she was a geek. Yeah, you're definitely in love. She pushes the ugly thing into your hands and despite being cold porcelain it feels like it's burning. 

"Do the honors." 

There's no build up. No ceremony. You don't want to drag this out anymore. You take a swinging leap and spike that shit and watch it shatter into a hundred pieces with the most glorious sound you'll ever hear. You land in slow motion, already replaying the image of thick glass pieces cracking on the indigo pavement. You stand over your mess, triumphant. 

The quiet of the night time street drifts back to you, as does Ava. "I'll be honest I expected a big speech." 

You shrug. "I've been waiting too long to do that. Thank you, Ava. I mean it." 

"Oh believe me it was my pleasure." Ava swaggers closer to you and if you didnt know better you'd think she was going in for a kiss. "Tonight, the tar baby. Tomorrow, the world." 

You resist the urge to clap her on her shoulders and throw your hands in the air instead. "Sounds like a date!" 

Next

[tata-is-the-name]

Witcher Of The Night (Chapter 7)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

WITCHER OF THE NIGHT MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 6

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Your life was on the edge again as you were close to being sold to men in their dimension. With a kind and selfless heart; you've tried saving Cirilla. Though, despite of the failure of a rescue, a certain witcher wouldn't let you stay in danger as he came to your aid and massacred whoever comes in his way. Thus, he'd recognized the person holding you and it made him curse deep beneath his breath as he remembered what he wanted from him after years of avoiding them for their regal favors.

Warnings: Gore. (I’ve added a gif that kinda..ugh. You get my point. Hehehe.) Death. Swords. Curse words. Modern references. Hehehe. Blood. Anger. More descriptions than dialogues. (I mean, who fights while talking? XD Also, it’s Geralt. You know how he is. XD) Assholes selling women/children.

Words: 6.3k+

A/N: Chapter 7 is out now! I've used Gifs of Geralt while the story goes on. Heehee! Just wanted to. IT’S GETTIN’ LIT IN HERE. AYEEEE!

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE!

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren't from moi as well. GIF’s INCLUDED ARE CREDITED TO THOSE WHO MADE THEM! I DO NOT OWN THEM!

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

It took a narrow, derelict looking alleyway for Cirilla and her friend to be found. This was why you never trusted kids playing alone because they needed supervision at all times. There were black, grey and brown stone build houses designed for the outmoded era surrounding the alley.

You taciturnly stood in the middle of the dirt ground, scanning the whole place and finding a kid who wore a light blue kirtle. The sound of sand and gravel was apparent as you've taken conniving steps till you were about to enter another aisle that looked deserted. But, you were stopped as a silhouette of two men who wore dark brown furry sheep coats emerge from the gully.

The man holding Cirilla had a horrible beard looking like the man in the movie 300 with a sly smirk that could get you to know that he was part of the villains in a show while the other was a blonde chevalier that can pass as the prince's bodyguard.

They had sharp looking daggers across the children's necks and it made your heart cease because of the panic rising through your head. Yet, you try to calm down to make better decisions.

Not that it was a habit. You were bad a making decisions; look at how your life ended. Forgetting why you were drowning on a lake and suddenly emerging from another dimension like you had your next life in just a snap of Thanos' gauntlet.

"Nice, very nice." you mindlessly mumbled, avoiding their scowls and grins; giving the kids a once over as you've seen the fear straight out of their eyes.

There were no guns, anything to use for defense nor do you know any kung-fu that can make Jackie Chan watch you with popcorn on his hands.

You were currently a useless human especially that you were teleported with no supernatural powers or magic. What a nice way to be brought to a world you didn't know and had people who are experts in brutal fighting.

"Why, why, why," The man looking like King Leonidas mischievously announced as he tightened his hold around Cirilla and held the dagger close to her neck. The princess shrieked and growled before him, struggling against his hold as you winced at your mind who couldn't help but utter the most awkward sentences in panic.

"Delilah?" your nose scrunched so hard you were sure you looked constipated. It was a pun, and so it wasn't the best as you couldn't help but cringe for your stupidity.

"Ain't she a beaut," The blonde knight cackled as he strolled towards a wooden cage that can be used for lions or any feisty animal as Ethelia was dragged and locked in like a fauna being pulled around; never forgetting to give Cirilla's friend a pinch to her delicate cheeks as she flinched away from the asshole.

"Don't hurt Ethelia!" Cirilla struggled against her captor's arms, but he tightened his hold around her a lot more, "---Get her out of the cage!"

You've squinted your eyes at the large cage where Ethelia has been violently captured and saw not only one but a dozen of children taken to their account. Some were grubby and clean, though that one thing that made them all the same was that they were women.

They were freaking women and you definitely saw red because they all seemed innocent with all their wailing and bloodshot eyes.

The princess has managed to bite Tybalt on the arm; making the latter grab onto her roots brutally, igniting a frightened scream out of Cirilla, "You are next to this wench that shall be offered to the king!"

Thus, her screams made your palms sweat. You needed to do something and not just stand there like an idiot.

Tybalt's attention was suddenly turned to you; cocking his head to the side as smugly as he could, giving you a menacing grin that gave you the nervous shivers.

"---Or not?"

"Leave the child alone!" you suddenly had the courage to muster out loud; but it was no use as it didn't sound frightening for the party. Tybalt aimed the sharp edge of his dagger along Cirilla's neck as he moved them both forward, his appearance more discernable from the sudden cloudy day as he stepped outside his shadows. "---If it isn't another whore that I could sell to the duke,"

You could see how tall he was and utterly buff just like Geralt. His face was a complete epitome of a bandit as you noticed those sharp fangs and thinking he just had that type of teeth,  "---Your beauty...Only passes for a knight's whore,"

Well, that sounded mean.

Tybalt continued, keeping Cirilla steady in the width of his arms as the child went on to struggle against his hold, her movements accidentally giving her a short slice of a wound that you quickly saw. Crimson liquid dripping down her neck like a breeze; not much, yet it was enough to give a wince, "---not for a king," the latter continued as he gave a low baleful laugh.

He'd studied you from head to toe, his gaze utterly making you feel uncomfortable. It was obvious that it consists of obscene thoughts running inside his brain. You couldn't help but feel your sweat turn cold from the panic you were feeling, "You are one short fella'! But, also kind of adorable like a dirty mouse not even worth for a penny,"

"Don't--Don't touch her," you stammered, biting on the insides of your lips as you tried thinking quicker. His wicked plans and diabolic ideas inside his head were enough to make your knees tremble; like you were being hunted by an Alghoul for the second time. You always had the luck in being involved with such ill-fate circumstances and it was making you crazy. Tybalt loudly scoffed, brown eyes glowing with malevolence and his smile turning sinister, "What are ye' going to do, little one? Cry like a bairn?"

The princess breathed in deep breaths, her heart beat running as fast as a cheetah. She'd gave you a look and you could quite see that she was deep in thought. Was Jaskier lying about her abilities? Was she a mutated one as well? Were the men holding her the Elvens?

"Cirilla," you subtly shook your head to distract her from doing anything that could give you both more peril than it should have.

"I can bring your little friend and this woman," Tybalt gestured to you and it made you step back; nevertheless, more of his bandits marched into view and roughly grabbed onto your arms, leaving you no chance to escape as you've tried to battle from their hold. "---Ethelia has been sold to the king by her father who had killed one of his knights. You know how King Viduka loves his knights,"

You wrestled against their hold. Two men strenghtened their grasp on you; rooting you to the ground as they were pretty much stronger, lanky and muscly with their fur coats. They were laughing on either side of you because of how you were struggling, "What is your name?" Tybalt drawled his words like a snake teasing his prey.  

You loudly huffed and tried to wrench your arm away from both as you breathed hard; languidly feeling as if you were having a panic attack. It was there; again and it wasn't the right time, "You don't want me dropping down memes, I swear. I'm close to screaming John Cena," pause. "---You're gonna hate me, King Leonidas." A small guiltless smile was given to Cirilla's captor and it was enough to infuriate him because of how you didn't make sense.

Out of the blue, Tybalt unceremoniously pushed the princess off the ground; giving both his men that stood on either side of you a look as they roughly pushed you to him; passing you like a tennis ball as he caught you in his arms. You shrieked and have your heart flying off your chest as the chess piece suddenly moved and you were now their target.

Cirilla coughed her shock out of her chest; face scrubbing the ground which soiled her pretty face as she crawled and trembled away from you; sitting on her backside as she had her eyes focused on the the whole scene; thoroughly staggered at the sudden shift of victims.

Tybalt had his fingers grabbing onto your roots like a bitch; making you yelp as loud as you can to get anyone's attention from the other side of the city. But, no. There was no saviour. "Nobody owns ye', little scrubber! Come, to the palace!" he mercilessly yanked you with a handful of your hair, painfully dragging you to where the cages for humans stayed behind them; covered with a thick brown cloth for decency purposes if they even have dignity in their bloods.

"There's a place for little whores like ye'!" The other man who held you on the arm announced in a snobbish manner; ending his statement with a mirthful laugh that petrified you because of how presumptuous they were to find their actions fine for their world.

Your nerves were spiking up like a sparking electric circuit. The more closer you forcefully strided towards the cage, the more your emotions was flying up the sky. Adding the pain that Tybalt has been pouring on your roots was triggering your sensitive self to shed some tears from the fear of being sold by some dirty, old man who treats women like some kind of doll to relieve their sexual pleasures.

The lioness of Cintra dreaded the moment to see you walking towards a cage full of women going to be sold to different people. She couldn't do anything but think of ways that could get time ticking before Geralt could feel that there was something wrong. Accepting the fear of not saving you will never die down; if she would've not tried to help as she was saved by you.

Cirilla stood on her soles, feet shaking like a leaf as she had both hands in front; halting the forceful kidnap happening, "No! Stop! A man owns her with the name, Geralt! Geralt owns her! Geralt of Rivia! The Butcher of Blaviken!"

All men had their brows in a twist, tugging you back and making you face her. You were wincing and tears were falling from the hopeless feeling; it was much better to be living in their family rather than another man's home whom could have the power in owning you like a damn animal.

Tybalt jibed at the princess, poking fun at the lies she was saying. The name rang a bell; it was a name that they've been searching for so long but have been considered as a myth that isn't real. They've had their latest witcher be killed by a lethal beast. This known Witcher that they have been searching was no where to be found for years after years; or he just didn't want to be found was more of a logical reason at the same time.

"The Witcher?" he belittled with a grin, "---He's long gone, child. Hiding like a birdie! Cease your fantasy in having a witcher in the Kingdom of Kaedwen! We will all be killed by beasts! Just like them!"

Your captor tightened his hand on your head, giving it a sting that made you shriek. You didn't want to grow bald because of this. It was humiliating; you thought at the back of your mind as you sobbed from the fright. Tybalt inserted his dagger back in his pocket and swiftly opened the cloth to reveal ten children scared to death or even more, "This dirty maiden can be more useful than this lioness of a kid! It bites and roars too much!"

Thus, you never know how satisfying it was to hear a strum of a lute from afar. The echo resonated from the far end as you whipped around in zealous. Your heart beat coming to life as the hope flew back to where it should've been.

"That...is definitely not a good idea,"

Jaskier. There was Jaskier. Only Jaskier, but no Geralt. Still, it gave you a ton of hope to be saved.

"A bard," Tybalt rolled his eyes from all the pathetic interruption. Just getting you was thoroughly time consuming and he didn't know if he was already regretting it. He should be, when he's got his foot six feet on the ground already by touching Cirilla and you.

The bard stood where you could clearly see him. You eyed him with that agitated look. Nevertheless, he'd given you a cheeky wink as he continued to strum; his foot signalling Cirilla to take her flight and leave the hell hole before the men even had second thoughts of grabbing her again.

Hence, she hurriedly did; with a need to find the witcher.

You knew what Jaskier was doing. You've seen this in the movies for a lot of times. Some ended well while some didn't.

He was distracting Tybalt and his men. Hence, the bard was doing a damn great job at it because of how he was great at not showing his anxiety and trembles from being stabbed or beheaded like he was already...used to the thrill and danger.

"Get out of my way!" Tybalt frustratingly barked; giving him a nasty glare, "You are making the massive mistake ever---," Jaskier articulated, sounding like he was telling a story as he sounded informative and factual.

"---You are plotting your own demise, Berk."

The nickname was a wrong move for Jaskier. He'd wince after seeing Tybalt's nose flare like a dragon in heat. Now, it was the perfect time you've seen his fingers stop from strumming his lute and actually seeing the little tremble from his fingers.

He was doing good; so good, but he had to just insult the guy and let the mistakes flow.

You've sniffed and felt the tears have subsided. Eyes thoroughly bloodshot as well because of how you've felt the man holding you captive exhale a breath of vexation. Tybalt was mad.

Which gave you a reason to mouth at the bard that he had only one job, one job and he ruined it.

"What did you just call me?" Tybalt seethed like there was fire coming out of his mouth. Forehead creased to the extent that he was tempted for his horns to come out. "Ughm," Jaskier spluttered, eyes rolling elsewhere as he heard footsteps coming closer from behind.

"I'm--I'm--I'm just actually uttering out the most foolish things ever! Just wasting time until a witcher has your head in a platter or more so; cut in half!" Jaskier spun around and saw those two men who has held you was now treading near and his eyes wanted to come out of his eye sockets when he'd seen them scowling.

A tiny shriek came out of the bard as he swallowed his nervousness and swiftly spun and kept his lute behind him.

You've felt Tybalt shifting behind you; fishing for his dagger as you'd remember it from a while ago. "There are no more witchers in this kingdom," he harshly spat with spite, "---If so, Sorceress Ingrith and I would've found him and asked for help,"

The bard halted from backing away from the two men who wanted to corner him, peeking back at Tybalt as his back felt the stone walls and they were looming before him. "What?"

"---So, just let me take her, bard!"

Jaskier was swift enough to dodge out of being cornered, quickly jogging to where you were at arms reach from him as he had his hands on his hips; still having the time to be sassy after being threatened. "No, no! You cannot take her! I second the notion and refuse for you to take her!"

Those two bandits who had eyes on him unsheathed their swords from behind. He'd heard the metal slash out of its home as he felt the tip of the sword from one man on the edge of his neck; like a warning to shut his flowery mouth from even saying anything less.

"Impossible! You are close to being beheaded!" Tybalt scoffed, cackling as he saw the bard tap his foot in anxiety when he'd seen another pair of Tybalt's men emerge from behind you. Jaskier was thinking and also having an internal monologue of feeling the adrenaline rush. There were more; maybe a maximum of nine people who came with the kidnapping monster.

"Oh gods, where is Geralt when we need him," Jaskier mumbled to himself and calmly breathed out of his nose; languidly closing his eyes to keep him from panicking out loud.

Yet, the bard couldn't control it and began to yell for help.

"Fuck!---GERALT! This is no time for your bone aching moments because of how senile you are! You are certainly getting old when you want me bleeding after this just to rescue your darn midget!"

Jaskier was heaving deep breaths as he was having his panic attacks right now. He stared at you with hysteria and thinking if Geralt didn't come too early, he would already be beheaded. You swallowed the fear stuck in your throat for the third time around; patiently waiting for your demise that you had been wishing on the first day but was now dreading the idea of it when you had lived in for days in their dimension.

You thought it would take hours for the witcher to find you; or even days after being captured. But, seeing him make an appearance as he finally turned a corner was the best feeling you've ever felt.

Now, you know how it feels to be captured then saved by a man who lives in your fantasy. It felt utterly fulfilling and joyous. Specially, when he'd cautiously trudged along with that brooding facade he had.

You were elated to see him; huffing out a breath you were holding for far too long. Too happy as you were saved for the second time; having a chance to live for the second time.

"Geralt! Oh gods, great timing!" Jaskier yelped when a man roughly kept him still. The witcher came with nothing but his bag of sword strapped behind him and his brooding charm, his anger obvious on his face and a humorless expression.

"Fuck," thus, he deeply snarled beneath his chest; knowing what was bound to happen.

A look you have never seen before; ever. Hence, it was a facial expression you didn't want to encounter because it was as if you felt like he wouldn't bat an eyelid to everyone who would come his way and end up creating a massacre.

It technically resembles the look of destruction.

Geralt stood on the middle of the area, a few meters away from you; thoroughly calm and collected but with a stony-face you didn't want to poke on. Shoulders and chest puffed to an extent that screams strength and resilience. He'd given Jaskier a once over to check if he was okay and based on how talkative he still was; the bard was totally fine.

Then, he'd taken a look at you. Those golden eyes were blazing with indignation. His forehead slowly creasing together so tightly as he realized Tybalt's fingers grabbing onto your roots; a shiny dagger catching his eye that was hidden behind your clothing. Your attention right on the witcher as you didn't realize that it was painstakingly lifting Geralt's tunic in which you wore as the asshole grinned back at him with devilry.

"What took you so long?!" Jaskier still managed to hollered out loud. But, took no answer from the witcher as he squinted his eyes at you who was held captive.

You felt the cold, brisk wind hit your thighs; lately realizing that Tybalt was playing with your clothes like the debauched man that he is as he was slowly lifting the damn tunic and making people see your black underwear which made the man eyed it weirdly. Your heart was hammering out of your chest as you stared back at the witcher who was sending a grimace at the man behind you.

Your eyes was pleading for him to come and get you. Geralt knew and could see it in your eyes and it was making his blood boil for everyone.

"The infamous witcher," Tybalt announced in shock. The tip of his dagger probing at the side of your hip like a warning to never move. Geralt hoarsely gave a groan deep within his chest, languorously unsheathing his sword from behind him and never shifting his eyes away from you.

“---He’d finally shown himself to us! Perhaps, you really aren’t just an epic created by the blue-eyed dunce!” 

The men who held Jaskier was foolishly eyeing the witcher with their faces twisted like they couldn't believe what they were seeing. They've seen his face in the parchment paper that they had. Though, Geralt was considered as a myth that was never true. To Jaskier's luck, it was the right time to snatch the blade from one who has held it loosely; spinning on his heel and aiming the nib on his neck with an awkward stance. A triumphant grin given from the bard as his friend continued to gawk at the witcher like he'd seen the heavens.

"We've been finding yer' kind!" Tybalt grinned from ear to ear, feeling the tine of his whetted dagger pointed on top of your hip bone and you felt your blood rise from the adrenaline starting to take over. Your feet shuffled and it took one move for him to yank at your roots that was already throbbing from the soreness, "---Or a particular one! Long white hair, brooding and a stubborn arsehole who keeps on rejecting the king's favors like some notable man!"

You can feel Tybalt sniffing out loud, thus a loud shriek came out of you when he'd vulgarly dropped his head to inhale your scent in between the pillar of your neck which made your face twist in utter disgust because of how peculiar he was acting; like a vampire in the movies who couldn't get enough of your scent. "Oh, hell no! You're no Edward Cullen! I'm also no Bella! You don't glimmer against the sunlight and you're not as pale as I think you are!" you were terror-struck from his actions and tried to fight away from his face that was strapped on the edges of your neck and suddenly felt canines teasing that part of your neck where he wanted to bite, "---OH MY GOD, A VAMPIRE! PLEASE DON'T BITE MY NECK! NOBODY HAS DONE IT YET!"

All hell broke loose as Tybalt plunged his mouth on your neck like a deprived creature; but not giving a bite. Thus, his men rashly took charge from the moment Geralt lifted a foot as he fully drew his blade out from behind; including the man who'd tried threatening Jaskier; leaving the other weaponless man to the bard as they both looked at each other in wonder.

The witcher knew Tybalt was a vampire. A higher one. He sensed it and he knew him.

A knight from the palace was the first to pounce on the witcher with persistence, lunging after Geralt as he dodged his attack and stabbed him from the back with no penitence. His focal point on you and his senses were heightened a lot more than it ever does with a will to keep you from harm.

Without even batting an eyelid, the witcher was aware of the men ambushing him one by one. Second man who had an unlucky fate tried to strike a blow to his upper leg but the witcher was more skilled than the latter and shielded the attack by his sword; the loud metallic retorts when the blades collide with one another, it was ringing in your ears as you felt Tybalt licking a stripe from your nape to your jaw, making you shiver from disgust.

You shrieked out loud as you felt so gross from his ministrations; but never taking your eyes off Geralt who managed to skillfully dodge all blows from the fighters like a virtuoso as he stabbed them to anywhere they were vulnerable and fatal; giving them no chance to live. There was blood, lots of bloodshed happening as Tybalt cackled from behind you; watching his men be killed with one stab of the witcher's sword; amputating them with no pangs of conscience.

He was that dedicated that he'd assassinated five of his men without a blink of his eye.

You've felt the dagger poke at your sides, and you were too distracted on watching the witcher edge closer to where you were as he fought men. You didn't feel Tybalt stabbing you on the hip; not fully sheathing it inside you but it was enough to ignite a loud cry that made Geralt stop and snap his head away from the previous attacker as he fought him off, his Aurum eyes narrowing as he gruffly growled to himself and saw Crimson dripping from your hip to your thigh; tears dripping down the sides of your eyes when you've felt the excruciating pain sting like a damn train hitting you on the face.

Tybalt took a loud whiff as the pungy, metallic smell wafted through the air; from you and from his men that Geralt have slaughtered; his eyes burning you as it has been on you since the start of the fight. "She smells different," your captor mirthfully foretold to the witcher who was quick to cast a sign towards a charging man with a mere use of his palm and it was enough to make you breath hitch as it seemed to look like he just used a spell. It was magic. The man propelled backwards as his head hit the stone wall; knocking him out.  

So, magic really does happen in their world. You silently thought to yourself.

The dagger was slowly being dragged out and it even hurt more than it ever should. You sobbed and felt your knees weakening from the pain because of how low your pain tolerance was. Tybalt dragged the dagger to his mouth, his sharp, long tongue giving himself a little taste of your blood, "---Even tastes different," he grinned, inhaling deep as your focus was on the witcher who penetratingly stabbed a man's mouth; slashing him open in between his head without regret with blood splashing his face and on the ground he stood. His focus on exterminating who comes in his way. Your face was twisting in a cringe by the pain on your hip and by also seeing the gore happening around the area made by the witcher.

"---Witcher got himself a bizarre woman!" Your captor announced out loud with a laugh when Geralt was finally close enough. Assassinating every bit of his men into lifeless dolls.

No exhaustion was written on his face except for the sweat. There were splutters of human blood soiling his dashing features. He'd relaxed his stance and had his hands on either side of him, palms on show but the other holding his sword, yielding it away from your captor, yet still showing sign that he wouldn't be doing any more violence.

Jaskier had managed to kick the unarmored man with his foot and hit the butt of the sword on the latter's head, knocking him unconscious as he scanned the whole area with a terrified look on his face.

It was a complete massacre.

The witcher had his eyes solely on you; your eyelashes batting languidly when you've taken a good look at your brawny savior and felt yourself turn jello from the blood pouring out of you. You didn't know if it was already hallucination but there was anger, dismay and fear pouring out of those blazing, golden peepers like he'd already seen the whole event, hoping it wouldn't end the way it was before.

"I take what's mine," Geralt rasped and firmly pressed with that low baritone of his. If one was aware of his change of emotions, you could hear how earnest he sounded as he took cautious steps closer; facial expressions still apathetic and non-readable for the people who sees him. The witcher kept his mouth closed as he breathed and looked away, before keeping a weather eye on you again. His half-tied hair disheveled, dirty and looking greasy from the sweat.

"---Release her," It was a demand from the witcher himself. An ultimatum sent as you've noticed Geralt's fingers tightly wrap around the handle of his silver sword; like he was trying hard not to stab Tybalt who stood behind you because he had you shackled.

Tybalt noticed Geralt who was stealthy prowling to reach you up close and so, he'd positioned his dagger across your neck as you heaved breaths; yanking your head back to show Geralt that he wouldn't think twice in slitting you dead. The witcher was quick to cease his steps when he was a meter away from you; tightly keeping his lips in a straight line as he exhaled a frustrated breath.

"The king will be delighted to see you," Tybalt deliberately observed the witcher from head to foot, shaking his head in disbelief that it only took one woman to kidnap for him to reveal himself from hiding. Your breathing was staggered as you blinked repeatedly back at the witcher as his nose was scrunched to his discontent for everything, "I don't have time for your royal shit," he seethed back at the man; giving him a tight scowl.

Tybalt frowned back at Geralt, feeling the tip of his dagger heavily pressing against the pulse on your neck;  making you whimper, "---But, you wasted your time on killing my men for this useless wench, Witcher."

"She's...She's a different case," The witcher trailed off as you felt his stare on your face, definitely pining than it ever intended to before he'd given the stink eye to the vampire holding you captive, "---I don't want anything to do with the castle,"

"The prince is slowly losing himself, reaching his demise," Tybalt stressed; worried about the royal family whom he was devoted to for already a decade. Geralt scoffed back with a rude remark, "I don't have anything to do with any of their horseshit, Tybalt. I wasn't the witch who have cursed prince Althalos,"

He said his name out loud, catching you off guard as you peered back at the witcher with an intrigued haze of your bloodshot eyes because he knew him.

"You witchers are fucking useless!" Tybalt groaned and loudly sneered before violently fishing out his dagger. Geralt knew what he was about to do and your life held no value for Tybalt as he had no second thoughts on ending you with a stab to the chest.

Yet, from the moment Tybalt held the dagger over your chest; the witcher was fast enough to cast a sign towards the both of you; dragging you from the force as you were pushed off in the air. Though, Geralt was immediate enough to catch you around your wrist, pulling you to him before you could even fall flat on the ground.

The witcher secured his musclebound arms around you, his sky scraping height thoroughly used as your support as you were holding him for dear life. You didn't know how comforting his warmth was when he carefully sat you down against the stone walls as your vision was starting to spin a horizon.

"Ge...Geralt," you whispered as you heave for long breaths, tightly closing your eyes as you tried to take a good look at the witcher who was crouched in front of you; examining your face for more injuries and too dizzy to realized that he'd tuck a disheveled strand of your hair away from your face to observe your status.

You were probably losing blood, having a panic attack and feeling weak from the stab wound.

Your eyes were just straightaway staring at the witcher; seeing his face contort into pure rancor and you tried to smile despite of the pain. It took a kidnapping for him to finally notice you or even care in giving you his attention and you wanted to laugh by how you needed to shed blood for the witcher to care like this.

It looked entirely pleasing and also satisfying to see him care.

"I'm okay! J-Just bleeding--??" it was a yelp as you tried to move your hips and felt your muscles spasm as it gave you another strike of excruciating pain; making you moan and whimper; looking away from Geralt to inspect the cages for the poor children still in the background.

Jaskier finally got off on his feet, running towards where you were and you've seen him crouch beside the witcher with a look of panic and worry. Never uttering a word as his mind was in a mess at all the blood that was flowing. You languidly blinked; trying to fight off from fainting because you didn't want to fall unconscious. The heat from Geralt's palm cupping your face forcefully made you take a look at him and his expressions were unreadable as per usual, "The...The children,"

Geralt couldn't help but sigh; his face frowning from your words. Despite of being wounded and on the verge of fainting, you were still selfless enough to ask to release the children from their cage. Jaskier blinked at the image in front of him. The witcher was cupping your cheek as he worriedly stared into your eyes and the bard needed to blink to stop himself from watching; lifting himself off his feet to answer your requests. "I-I'll free them!"

The Ivory haired man checked your wounds; seeing Carmine liquid dripping from the wound like a slightly open faucet with every breath you take; staining his dark Tunic till blood was dripping down your unclothed thighs. He'd stood on his feet as he was sure to leave you in a position that would lessen for the blood to spill, his angered; golden eyes scanning the area as to where Tybalt was. But, to his dismay...He was gone.

"Worry no more, children or...women! The witcher has saved the day! Come on now!" the bard hooted as he freed the children; noticing some were teenagers and actually close to being young adults. Some of the women gasped at his words because of the fact that they were saved by a monster slayer who was only capable of taking lives and continued to gawk at the witcher who stood in the middle of the area; seeming to be in a deep contemplation within himself.

Geralt closed his eyes to try and get a scent from the vampire. Though, none. It was never found as the metallic scent of your blood has heightened it all; including those he have exterminated. A low grumble vibrated out of his chest as he sheathed his sword and kept it strapped on his back again despite of all the blood it had.

He thought Tybalt wouldn't have lasted long in the castle; even having the luck on earning a spot in the military forces despite of doing all the dirty work for the royalties. His hatred for the vampire growing back in a bigger fire; adding more wrath because he'd butchered the witcher that worked for the king last time because of certain purposes.

It wasn't a little later that you were being carried in somebody's arms. Based on the long hair hitting your face and the strong scent of blood, you knew it was Geralt. Your arms were feebly encircling his neck as you closed your eyes, fighting off from being knocked out. "I...don't...want to sleep," you saplessly whispered to the witcher who was talking to Jaskier and asking if remembers the healer that was close from the city.

You didn't want to sleep because you were worried that when you wake up, he would be back in being distant again; that everything that has happened was all a dream, being carried and saved by Geralt for the second time as he even had the look that he cared and not actually feel as if you were a baggage to their family.

Your forehead leaned on the witcher's neck as you could feel yourself smile as he'd hummed to inform you that he was listening; putting his attention solely on you alone, "I...I...didn't do anything...mean, right?" you continued to question and whispered against his neck, the beat of your heart skipping a beat despite of how shallow it was sounding right now.

Geralt exhaled a deep breath, giving you the side eye as he tried to peer down at you but it was impossible as you hid on the corner of his neck. A weak smile lifting your lips as you continued and felt your head so light; the words coming out of your mouth completely like a whistle of the wind as you accepted the daydream of talking your thoughts out in the open, "I..I...don't want you hating me..and I don't want you avoiding me...at all costs," the vulnerability of your words can be heard. You were too weak to even feel Geralt swallow that uncomfortable but equitable feeling down his throat as he strode past people who were looking at you in bafflement.

It took one last sigh before Geralt felt your head fall in between his neck in unconsciousness and for the first time, ever again. The witcher was scared.

Thus, you were sure you were thoroughly fond of his presence. As if, you were surprisingly taking more than a liking to a witcher without your consent and unbeknownst to your conscience, it has always been from the start as destiny made it out to be.

SO, I WAS SCREAMING WHEN GERALT SAID ‘I TAKE WHAT’S MINE’ (GERALT, YOU CAN TAKE ME HOWEVER YOU WANT---OOPS) OTHER THAN THE WORD FUCK THAT HE ALWAYS SAYS. *sCREAMS* WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS FOR THIS CHAPTER, TATER TOTSSSS!!?!?!?

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[skinks]

I had a REALLY intense beatles phase in my late teens and i had the hots for paul mccartney and one time i found this story where this woman said she met paul at a party in 65 and he took her home and they talked until the sun came up and then he got a call telling him to come to the studio and he started to say he had to leave and she was like "not before you fuck me" and he laughed and then he DID and he left her alone in his house after and she stole his underwear (1/2)

(which she kept for decades until her husband threw them into their muddy front yard one day in a fit of jealousy) and a teapot and it always made me absolutely FERAL with jealous horny rage and like?? just this incredulous feeling of How On Earth Did That Really Happen and anyway bill hader’s dumpster mattress one night stand story is my new version of that (2/2)

The fucking journey this just took me on, holy shit. Did she at least get to keep the teapot?

I love that you had an intense teenage horny phase for a Beatle, I had one for Bob Dylan and I remember watching one of his electric era tour documentaries and being HORRIBLY jealous of the 60s girls hanging around outside his hotel... anyway that’s besides the point

I UNDERSTAND!!!!! THE MATTRESS STORY HAUNTS ME.... Bhader knows what he’s doing, he can try to couch it in as much self-deprecating oh-I’m-just-an-awkward-nerd fronting as he likes but he KNOWS what he’s doing and that woman knew it too. You ever notice how it’s the most competent ones who don’t feel the need to loudly prove themselves by being anything other than humble?? What did he SAY in that club! “It was going well,” he says, what does that MEAN, BILL, what did he fuckjfdkjcnnfkcning do that convinced this woman to leave the club, go to her place, lift a bed onto a car, go to HIS place and move furniture when she was literally moving to a new city the next day all so sHE COULD FUCK HIMMMM HOW IS HIS GAME THAT GOOD I FEEL LIKE A CHARACTER IN AN EDGAR ALLEN POE STORY BEING SLOWLY DRIVEN MAD BY THIS UNANSWERED MYSTERY

Ok sorry, I’m back. This is making me want to read a fic where (before they get together) Eddie watches an old interview of Richie telling the mattress story and he’s a seething ball of jealousy too. Then Richie comes out, he and Eddie sort their shit and get together, and one day Eddie laughingly comments that he had no reason to be jealous after all since Richie was obviously making the story up.

Richie looks at him weirdly. “I didn’t make up—that story did actually happen, Eds, I only changed it so people thought I went home with a chick.”

They are lying in bed. Eddie’s eye starts twitching. “Pardon?”

“Yeah?” Richie stretches, draping his right arm over his own head to scratch his left ear. Eddie will not be distracted by his chest right now, what the fuck. Richie squints at the ceiling. “I think his name was... Marco, or something. At least, that’s the name he gave to quote unquote Chris.”

“Marco, okay. Huh.”

“I wanted to be Lance or something cool, but my friend said I inhabited Chris better, I dunno. I didn’t even tell him why I needed a fake name, he was just like, big into method.”

“Yeah, mhmm.” Eddie sits up, nodding. He can’t stop nodding. His head feels like a champagne cork fizzing at the top of his spine. “So you, you uh—you were such a fucking player in your plaid and your baggy jeans that, that, that were the only things you even owned back then, Rich—don’t try to deny, it I’ve seen the pictures—that you convinced some guy who was moving town the next fucking day—”

Richie’s eyebrows shoot upwards. It makes his eyes look rounder, more delighted. “Convinced? Eddie—”

Eddie can’t stop, twisting the sheets in his hands til his knuckles go white. “Yes, convinced, you convinced him to go pick up some dirty mattress right off the street with a complete stranger even though you always make such a big deal about how awkward and nervous and repressed you were, you still, you still—”

“I was probably on molly or something at the time, man.” Richie’s beaming up at him. He pokes Eddie in the arm. Eddie feels how tense the muscle is, and fights to relax. “I’m kidding, at worst it was just a little tipsy driving. A little Wacky Races. Just call me Dick Bastardly.” Richie grins at his own dumbass joke, poking Eddie some more. “And it wasn’t just the mattress by the way, it was the whole bed. That’s a key detail. Headboard and everything.”

“The headboard?!” Eddie tries not to yell, but it comes out louder than he means to anyway. More of a shriek, embarrassingly. He lurches around in place to glare at their own flat bar of wood behind them. He holds onto that thing! It supports him, even when Richie’s fucking him into the wall!

Betrayal is neverending today, apparently. Eddie turns his glare onto Richie, who is laughing. “Stop laughing!”

“Your face,” Richie gasps. He covers his own face, then changes tack and yanks Eddie down over him to cackle into his flaming-hot throat. “What’s the problem! You’re acting like this is the same fucking bed, oh my god, you think I haven’t at least changed my mattress since I lived like a—like a Beavis and Butthead parody in Westwood, fifteen years ago?”

Eddie squirms miserably. Not even Richie’s broad nakedness against his can salvage this, he’s well and truly destroyed their sweet afterglow with his stupid overreaction. Feels like being fifteen again, ruining clubhouse hangouts with his snappy sulking as soon as Richie mentioned some girl at school. “No! No, obviously fucking not, just. I dunno.”

He doesn’t really deserve the gentle tease in Richie’s voice. “What don’t you know?”

“I don’t know!”

And that’s the part he hates most.

“Okay, okay. I think I do. Jesus, you’re actually jealous,” Richie breathes. He bites his lip, the way he does when he’s so happy about something he’s making a real effort not to talk over it. He’s still a little sweaty and pink from their Friday night activities, bedraggled hair and no glasses. The expression always scrunches his left eye into a full squint, something Eddie finds so helplessly appealing he can’t imagine what it’s like to watch that interview and not feel jealous.

Eddie grunts, shrugs as best he can under Richie’s heavy hug. Fucking Marco.

Richie’s hand is firm on the back of his neck. There’s pressure from his thumb at one point of Eddie’s jaw, the soft part between ear and bone that has him gulping open for Richie’s low murmur, “Eddie baby, don’t be jealous.” Their mouths meet and Eddie sighs into the slick warmth of it, feeling grateful and abashed and idiotic all at once.

They separate with a little snick of spit. Richie lids his eyes open just a touch, looking drowsy with affection. Eddie lowers his forehead to Richie’s shoulder and speaks to his collarbone. “I just—I hate it when you act like people are just doing you a favor for, for liking your shit or fucking going home with you when clearly it was—you’re fucking hot, Rich, and, and sexy when you’re not trying to be, and you were hot back then too, but you still act like it was a miracle anyone wanted to even touch you when I—I always would’ve picked the stupid dirty bed up off the street too. For you. And I wouldn’t’ve moved town the day after. So.”

Richie doesn’t speak for a moment. There is a cloud above their shared, clean bed, implicit with shared memory of all the times they dirtied each other’s sheets with grass stains and grubby feet, chip crumbs and even tears, just once, just before Eddie really did move town and forgot all the things he cared about so much more than he ever cared about getting sick.

He would never leave again though, is his point. Richie always seems to know what he means before Eddie does. He tries to think it loud enough, brings his hand up blindly to Richie’s face and strokes back his hair, not because Richie is a mind reader, but because he knows what it means that Eddie has never wanted to touch someone else like this.

Eddie’s spine then, curving under Richie’s knuckles like brushing a shiver along a set of wind chimes. His hand lands on Eddie’s tailbone, an X marks the spot that still throbs with loosened heat and pleasure from his orgasm. Lying on your front is bad for your posture.

I’m not lying on my front, Eddie thinks, with a little of the vicious defiance he doles out to that cloying voice sometimes, the one that tries to ruin quiet moments with its fretting. I’m lying on Richie’s. He’s good for my posture. He’s gonna snap my spine back into place and this time I’ll let him touch me.

Richie presses their temples together, small-voiced. “I guess... I find most of the flattery shit hard to believe. I didn’t like myself or the stuff I was making, so I’d automatically assume they were lying, y’know? If I agree it implies I believe them, which makes me feel like some giant, arrogant dick—don’t say it.” He pats Eddie on the ass. “But, on the other hand, if I think I’m somehow important enough for people to lie to, that’s kind of an arrogant dick move too.”

Eddie pushes up to eyeball him. “Even with sex? That’s so fucking dumb.”

This second ass-pat is harder, more of a stinging smack. Richie’s guarded look coils into a grin again at Eddie’s bared-teeth hiss. “I never said it wasn’t.”

“Well, I mean, what do you think it meant that fucking Marco—” Richie snorts at the projectile venom burning acidic holes through Eddie’s voice, “—was clearly willing to catch fleas or goddamn tetanus just to fuck you? What about me? You think I’m pretending it’s good just to encourage your weird, unnecessary inferiority thing? ”

“No, you’re right,” Richie laughs. His snorts have bubbled into full-blown giggles now as he squints down at the mess between their stomachs. “That’s pretty hard evidence you’re providing there, Eds.”

Getting harder too, rubbed up against the soft crease of Richie’s hip. Eddie can feel the lingering red throb of heat on his ass, like closing his eyes and still catching the gold-coin flash of the sun branded on the inside of his eyelids. Richie digs his blunt nails into the stung tenderness of his skin and gently pulls Eddie’s asscheeks open. He feels Richie’s quickened breathing against his wet mouth, and wonders how to ask for another spank in a way that isn’t gonna make him want to enter witness protection afterwards.

“I can’t believe you were jealous, you’re the last guy in the world who needs to be jealous,” Richie moans. Eddie feels the vibration of it on his tongue, now sucking on the knot of Richie’s adam’s apple. “Wait, can you really get tetanus from abandoned street beds?”

“Ugh!” Eddie bites him there and pulls off slowly, sucking so the stubbled skin of Richie’s strong throat is released from his mouth’s suction with a wet pop. Richie’s hips flex against him. “I almost wish this was the same fucking bed just so I had something to throw out into the yard!”

“O-ooh, how telenovela of you, I like it.”

Oh Christ, Eddie has to put some kinda stop to this before Richie starts speaking Spanish. He needs to last. He needs to beat Marco. “I’ll throw you out with it,” he says, too breathy and honest for anywhere else but here. “Trashmouth. Sweetheart.”

Richie’s face is flushed, eyes dark and desperate. He grips at Eddie’s ribs so hard Eddie feels them bending. “Dumpster diver.”

Eddie rolls his hips down, plants his palms on either side of Richie, shoves them under the pillows. He braces his elbows hard into Richie’s shoulders and grinds their sweaty foreheads together, but whatever aggression there is within him is softened by his catapulting heartbeat, harmonising with his own laughter. With Richie’s, always.

“Nah, ‘fraid the only thing left to remember that half-night stand with Marco is, well.” Richie looks down between them again, eyes almost crossed. “It’s me. My dick, more specifically.”

Eddie can feel as much. Another wave of possessiveness froths through him, crackling in the pockets of his joints, feels like cartoon steam whistling out his ears. “It better not be half-standing because it remembers anything about fucking Marco,” he snarls.

Richie raises his hands in a down boy gesture. It shifts his arms and shoulders in the way that sometimes makes Eddie wish he were a door, just so Richie could ram him open, and so he pins Richie’s wrists to the bed instead.

“Please don’t throw my dick out into the yard, babe,” Richie says.

“Gonna give you something to remember this fucking bed by,” Eddie says, and slides down Richie’s body to do just that.