#f: the road goes ever on and on | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hauntedhowlett-writes · 8 months ago

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HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source.

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free.

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run.

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand.

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach.

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords.

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits.

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder.

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile.

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen.

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway.

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious.

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room.

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring.

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave.

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with.

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once?

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts.

“You wanna?”

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut.

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly.

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor.

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good.

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides.

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup.

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them.

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs.

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare.

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply.

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip.

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes.

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says.

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment.

Want more to read? Check out my masterlists.

#slashers #slasher fandom #slasher fanfiction #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x you #texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw the beginning #the texas chainsaw massacre #thomas tcm #leatherface #thomas hewitt smut #leatherface smut #thomas hewitt leatherface #slasher smut #tw blood #tw violent imagery

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astriiformes · 5 months ago

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#the real question is does gandalf pull out hobbits for the dagor dagorath#i think yes (via @emyn-arnens)

Gandalf: So I’ve developed an elaborate plan to save middle earth from darkness

Elrond: does it-

Gandalf: it involves hobbits again yeah

#i am hollering #f: the road goes ever on and on

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toxycodone · 2 days ago

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mouthwashing characters and their icks

ship. tulpar crew x reader

content. sfwish, just annoying things about our faves, some are romantic and some are general.

Captain Curly

Wildly empathetic. Like to a point where it’s annoying. Like yes, you get it. It’s sad to see an animal on the side of the road. But this is the second dog this week and it’s bit him twice. (He also falls for like. Fake homeless scams. Omg.)

I think he had an era where he had a cat that fucking hated him and never ever left under the guest room bed and terrorized his guests but he didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. 💀

He always ends up playing devil’s advocate without trying. Like when you’re complaining about someone at work or some bitch who cut you off in traffic, Curly’s like “maybe they had a bad day!” or something.

He just…never lets you just wallow in your misery when you need to. When he starts with his “look on the bright side!” stuff it makes your eyes roll back into your skull.

Is soooooo fucking conflict avoidant he’d rather just take shit on the chin then ever speak his mind about things with you. It gets so bad bc he’s bottling all this crap up and getting kinda catty. Because he won’t just grow up and tell you what his problem is.

Comes home in his dirty ass shoes and tracks mud all over the house. I mean he’ll swiffer it up like the housewife he is but it’s annoying.

Doesn’t clean his hands before touching your phone (or his own) before eating,. U get a greasy screen.

Jimmy is an asshole to you and Curly just goes “now now, Jim…” It won’t be until Jimmy does something like. Really bad. That Curly decides to put his foot down and enforce boundaries with that man. You witness this dude literally use your man as a doormat way too often.

If you make him choose. He would probably choose Jim unless push really came to shove…..

GIRLS FLIRT WITH HIM IN PUBLIC AND HES TOO ‘AWKWARD’ TO SAY “I’m taken…” so he just flaunts in the attention. In reality he just…likes the attention but doesn’t want to admit it to himself. (He’s loyal don’t get me wrong but this is annoying)

Thinks big romantic public gestures are cute. Whether that is an ick or not is up to you.

Jimmy

GOES THROUGH YOUR PHONE WHEN YOU’RE ASLEEP OR IN THE BATHROOM. And when you catch him he’s doesn’t even bother to make a good excuses “just wanted to check something.” Okay??? What?? If you go through his phone he will legit tackle you for it back (he isn’t even cheating he’s just pathetically bitchless and friendless. His last text was to his dealer and bro didn’t even respond.)

Will leave your important messages on read. It’s like he has read receipts on just to spite you.

Aggressively questions you out of the blue on who you know and hang out with as if it isn’t the same fucking people each time.

Really horny when he’s drunk and tries to seduce you but has terrible whiskey dick.

Terrible morning breath. Rank. Disgusting. Also all his clothes have the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke. Along with his carpet. And furniture. His walls are probably off-white too.

World’s dirtiest bathroom it’s literally so gross. He leaves his stubble in/around the sink after shaving with an electric razor real fast before work.

Has probably kissed you and then asked you what you last ate with a grimace 💔

Your friends hate him. Your family hates him. Your landlord hates him. And he hates them back.

You’ve had to bail him out of jail before. The officer on duty just gives you a pitied look when he sees you walk in and say you’re bailing him of all people out.

Pretty sure he has threatened to kill himself if you leave him multiple times but lashes out at you when you’re sweet to him at the most random times.

Anya

Stealing this from @l1v1ngd3dgrrl but Anya has the DUMBEST. LAUGH. Like she has a cutesy laugh until she’s finally not thinking and she laugh so hard she snorts. So loud.

Refuses to file down her nails so she accidentally scratches you all the time.

Definitely has an ex she’s still friends with that makes you lowkey question what is going on between them bc they’re obviously still into her and she doesn’t see it.

She silently judges and you can see it on her face when she has something to say but then she goes “it’s nothing!!!” And refuses to say it. (However, this does make her the best gossiper and she can be a total mean girl and tear apart bitches you hate on secret.)

Lowkey tries to psychoanalyze you when you’re venting to her like girl. I am not your homework.

Thinks it’s her responsibility to “fix you” for some reason. Takes you being depressed, angry, etc a little too personally.

Never watches the movies or shows you recommend you have sit her down and watch it w her. And she will. Be distracted by stuff on her phone.

Avid Mitski fan. And Nora Jones. Just an air of sad girl and longing to her that goes soooo crazy.

Big fan of ugly sweaters and tacky matching outfits….but has the audacity to make comments on your style.

Daisuke

“This one’s for you!” *Misses*. In public. In front of your friends. Need I say more.

Uses your hair products in the shower and your soap and your nice shaving oil without asking. :/

This is moreso in the beginning of the relationship but. I see this persisting that he’s constantly looking to you for approval for things. Has a really difficult time making decisions on his own, too. He’s looking to you for guidance on stuff,

Unironically thinks Dutch ovening you is funny.

Your friends all think he’s mid and although he’s sweet. You’re way outta his league. You’re dating down.

Has more skin care products than he can ever use. He’s a total product junkie.

GACHA GAME WHALE. Has definitely borrowed money for a ten pull in genshin 💔

Has cried out of frustration over Fortnite before (he was in a bad place. Okay.)

Cannot keep a job for the life of him. The only solid career he lands is like. Bobarista. But goddamn he’s good at it.

Has. Forgotten your anniversary/birthday/etc. before. and probably almost threw up out of guilt.

Swansea

Does the dad cold start every morning. Hacking. Coughing. Spitting up in the sink. It’s gross.

When he takes a shit he’s stuck in the bathroom for like half an hour at least. It’s always oddly humid and gross if you go in after him.

Chews with his mouth open.

Walks around shirtless only in underwear and will proudly fart whenever he needs to and it’s loud as fuck.

His kids lowkey hate him tbh. 💀 they have a better relationship as adults but man. Rocky fucking childhood.

Nothing ever really makes him satisfied or truly happy so you’re stuck in this weird limbo on if he actually gives a shit about you or not.

Rolls his eyes at you. When you can plainly sees he has suuuuch an attitude problem it’s crazy.

Definitely has asked for a manager in your presence over something minuscule (you wanted to die)

#mouthwashing #mouthwashing x reader #captain curly #curly x reader #jimmy mouthwashing #jimmy x reader #anya mouthwashing #anya x reader #daisuke mouthwashing #daisuke x reader #swansea mouthwashing #swansea x reader #divider by cafekitsune

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littleslaywrites · 11 days ago

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serendipity | spencer reid x reader

summary: five times spencer doesn’t listen to the signs telling him to approach you + one time he does

word count: 4.7k

cw: f!reader, slow burn, fluff, 5+1, invisible string theory, a little bit of angst

Three minutes. That’s how long Spencer has to get in his car and start driving to be at work on time. He calculated the time that morning, when he had woken up earlier than usual and decided on a whim to try the coffee shop that had just opened.

He doesn’t know what makes him turn around. Maybe it was his training, forcing him to be aware of his surroundings at all times. Maybe it was your voice. “One iced mocha with an extra shot of espresso,” you say. Maybe it was fate.

Whatever it was, it made him pause dumping the packet of sugar into his to-go cup and face the back of your head as you dug through your purse to find your wallet. He keeps his eyes trained on you, putting the lid back on the cup.

When you turn, he forgets about the time he was wasting as he stops and stares. He forgets about how many sugars he’d used already. He even forgets his own name for a second. And he never forgets anything.

But something about the way the morning sun brushes its golden touch across your face has him brainless. His thoughts only came back to him when your eyes flitted up and met his.

In that moment, he wants to approach you, tell you that you might be the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Even more so when your lips pull into a tiny smile. He’d been a profiler long enough to know that the way your eyes ran from his was a sign that you were probably waiting for him to approach.

Just when we goes to grab his cup and walk up to you, he catches a glimpse of his watch. Ten seconds. He’d run out of time. He considered his options, choosing timeliness over what he might have with you.

You watch him leave, a little surprised. You were sure he was going to introduce himself. Brushing it off, you determine it’s not meant to be, a mantra you repeat every time something slips away from you.

Pulling into the parking garage, Spencer feels a pang of regret. He really didn’t need to be on time. Morgan had made a habit of being five minutes late. As long as there wasn’t an urgent case, he probably could’ve afforded the time it would take to get your number.

Paperwork gives him a solace from his thoughts, distracting him as he gets lost in reports. He almost forgets you. Almost.

Two weeks later, Spencer is wandering the walls of books, looking for some new reading material. He’s finished everything he’d had in his apartment, and was now holding a stack that’d last at least five days.

Scanning the shelves, he finds one that catches his eye. When he goes to reach up, his fingers brush against someone else’s hand. His immediate reaction is to fight a small freak-out, not wanting the stranger to contaminate him.

Pulling his hand back, he looks over to see someone else doing the same. Not someone. You.

He recognizes you instantly, memories of the café coming back to him.

“Sorry,” you say, hand returning to clutch your own stack of books.

He’s frozen in place. You’ve stunned him. Not because of the usual reasons of germs or stranger danger, but because it’s you. He realizes he’s frozen in place, which makes his internal panic worse.

In the seconds where he’s staring, you realize where you’d seen him before. It was coffee shop boy, as you’d nicknamed him when you’d texted your friends about how you’d just seen the cutest boy at that new café down the road.

Your heart skips a beat, and you try to fight off the blush you’re sure is currently invading your cheeks.

Say something, you think, trying to fix the uncomfortable moment.

“You’ve got good taste,” you force out, awkwardly trying to make some kind of conversation.

Her eyes are prettier up close, he thinks, hand involuntarily clenching from the brief touch.

He knows he should say something to you. He really does. It’s just that he can’t. He gives you a subtle nod, then escapes in between another aisle. He meant to find at least twice the amount of books he ended up with, but you had sent him into such a panic that he ended up checking out and walking out before he realized what he was doing.

You were left slightly stunned by the interaction, partially confused by the way he hurried out. You chalked it up to him being some kind of introvert, not wanting to talk to you. You could only hope that he didn’t find you repulsive or something, mind going to the worse places. Just like in the coffee shop, you let it go, assuring yourself you’d see more cute boys in bookstores in the future. Hopefully some that had as good of a taste in books as coffee shop boy.

Closing the door to his apartment behind him, Spencer realizes how he’s acting. He feels like a kid again, the same awkward schoolboy who was too young to be like the boys who had a girl on their arm as they walked through the halls. Setting the books down on his coffee table, he tries to not think about how he never truly learned to ask someone out. One day, he thinks, one day I’ll find the courage.

Rain has pelted the ground all afternoon, defying the forecast that called for sunny skies. Spencer, in his usual preparedness, had brought an umbrella to work just in case.

The past week, Prentiss told him about an exhibit in D.C. that she thought he’d want to see. It was a museum he frequented, so he set out on Friday afternoon to make a quick trip to the city.

When he got on the metro, he pulled out a book to pass the time. He hardly looked up when he got lost in a book, only listening for the announcement that he’d reached his intended stop.

Something drew his eyes up, though, just like the morning in the coffee shop.

It was you again, this time soaking wet. You’d gotten caught in the rain, trusting the forecast. You just have to get home, you keep telling yourself as you shiver on the plastic seat.

Sensing someone looking at you, you glance up. Spencer brings his eyes back to his book, looking but not reading.

There he is again. Coffee shop boy. He doesn’t usually take this train, you think. Maybe that means something.

As soon as that thought crosses your mind, you remember the bookstore, the way he ran from you. Your friends had reassured you, telling you to stop catastrophizing. You hoped that he was simply antisocial, but part of you still was stuck on the possibility that he hated you for some reason, sent from universe to humble you.

So you don’t move closer to him. Besides, you could only imagine that you don’t look your best, already feeling the way your hair is frizzing up.

Spencer’s heart is currently beating so hard that he thinks it’s trying to break out of his chest. Even after you’ve been caught in the rain, you’re stunning. He remembers the past two interactions, suddenly embarrassed by the way he acted. He couldn't just go up to you, especially after the way he ran at the bookstore.

When he reaches his stop, you move to get up. Dread mixes with hope inside you both as you realize you’re walking out together.

You keep trying to lose him, but your steps are sinking up. Climbing the stairs, you sigh at the sight of rain.

Spencer thinks to offer you his umbrella, to walk you wherever you’re going. It’d make up for his other two mistakes, giving him an in to start a conversation with you.

Approaching the mouth of the station, you can only hope your bag is watertight enough to keep your laptop dry. A more romantic part of you hopes coffee shop boy will stop you before you reach the end of the steps.

Spencer hesitates, takes too long to decide if he’ll approach you, and you turn to walk the opposite direction before he can say a word. Opening the umbrella, he turns to watch you walk away, sympathy creeping in as you hug yourself in the cold.

Cowardly. That’s the only word he can think of to describe his behavior. He’s embarrassed. It’s not gentlemanly, letting you walk away in the rain when offering the umbrella would’ve been easy.

When he makes it to the museum, he’s hardly in the mood to enjoy the exhibit. This time, he can’t seem to push you out of his mind.

Fall turned to winter quickly, the rain turning to snow. Spencer was thankful, since he thought of you every time it rained. He thought of the way you shivered down the street, alone as the droplets accosted your beautiful face. He thought of the way he acted, not even telling his mother that he’d seen you again. He’d written about you the first two times, but couldn’t bear to describe your third meeting. He knew all too well that his mother would have something to say about his lack of courage.

He was a worrier, the incident in the rain being no exception. His imagination even went so far as to picture you getting deathly ill from the cold, Pride and Prejudice style.

He pictured walking you home. Maybe you’d invite him inside, offering a cup of coffee to warm both of you up. Then he pictured you alone, stepping into your apartment in your damp clothes. He wished the former was the reality.

Spencer changed his routine, something he usually despised, simply to wake up earlier to get a morning coffee in hopes of seeing you there. This incited comments from the team, telling him the office coffee couldn’t be so bad that he needed to stop somewhere before work.

“It’s just a way to clear my head,” he said.

“Sure,” Morgan replied, knowing he’d been slightly distracted the first morning he’d visited the shop.

After three weeks of frequenting the shop, he finally saw you again. He’d almost given up, assuming he’d never make it up to you.

Walking out the door, the wind chill hits him, hands warmed by the coffee in this hand. He's looking down, studying the crunch of the snow under his boots.

You’re late, usually grabbing your coffee much earlier. It reminds you of the first time you came to this shop. That reminds you of that boy you saw that day. And two other times. Heart leaping, you brush it off, mind focussed on getting in and out before traffic gets worse.

The snow isn’t too bad, but the wind is stealing the feeling from your fingers. You reach into your bag, pulling out the pair of gloves you’d stashed inside on your way out the door.

You regret looking down when you feel yourself run into someone walking the opposite way. The gloves fall from your hands, and you crouch to pick them up.

Before you can grab them, the person you collided with is handing them to you.

“Thank-“ you begin, words stolen by the realization that the person is no stranger.

It’s him again, you think. Thankfully, you’re already flushed from the cold, protecting you from any outward reaction to him.

It’s her again, Spencer thinks, holding the gloves out to you. He prays the trembles away as your hands brush against his.

The image is comical, two people crouched in the middle of a busy sidewalk as it snows. You’re frozen, gloves in your hand but not pulling them away just yet.

Realizing this is his chance, Spencer tries to think of something clever to say to you. Something Morgan would say.

“It’s cold,” he says.

Fuck.

“Yeah,” you half speak, half giggle.

Is that really the best you can do?

He releases the gloves as you both stand up. There’s a brief hesitation, eyes finding each other and smiles creep onto your faces.

You’re still late, you realize, ending the moment. You look down simultaneously, walking past each other shyly.

What the fuck, Spencer? he asks himself. He beats himself up all the way to Quantico, feeling like he blew what could be his final chance with you.

You, on the other hand, are giddy. It was the most he’d ever said to you. Even when your boss gives you a talking to for your tardiness, you're fighting a smile. Coffee shop boy didn’t hate you, not at all. He was awkward, sure, but he didn’t hate you. That’s all you could ask for.

Spencer tried the café for about two weeks after your encounter, but gave up when you didn’t return, even after he waited three minutes past his usual allotted time.

The team was at dinner after returning from a particularly exhausting case. At least Spencer’s mind had something else to focus on. With time, he’d forget you. At least as much as Spencer Reid could forget a person.

You walked into the restaurant, two of your girlfriends in tow. One of them recounted the tale of her last date, a story juicy enough to require a sit-down meal for the official debrief.

As the host is walking you to your table, you stop in your tracks when you see him.

“Don’t look now,” you whisper, “but that’s coffee shop boy at that big table.”

“You’re joking,” one of your friends says.

“Which one,” the other whispers.

“The one with the glasses,” you say as you all slowly walk by, slow enough to look but fast enough to not arouse suspicion.

“Oh, the nerd?” your friend asks, causing you all to break into laughter as you scurry away to catch up with the host.

The sound draws Spencer’s attention, and he looks up to see you again. He looks down quickly, more than aware that he’s surrounded by profilers. Unfortunately, he’s caught by Morgan, because of course he is.

“You recognize her?” he teases.

“No,” Spencer murmurs.

“Then maybe I’ll introduce myself,” he kids, and Spencer forces a half chuckle.

He wills himself to not think about you, wanting to avoid any more commotion. He distracts himself with the team’s conversations, reminding himself that he’s made it this far without another person. Even if he feels something that’s a hybrid of regret and jealousy when his coworkers talk about their own pursuits.

At the end of the meal, the waiter brings fortune cookies for the table. Cracking it open, Spencer reads the tiny words on the paper:

“Fate gives you the ink, but you are the one who decides what to write."

Something in his mind clicks. He has to find you. He can’t let you go. There has to be a reason that you kept running into him.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, wandering toward where the host was leading you.

He looks for you, but it’s hopeless. You must’ve slipped out when he was distracted. He curses himself. You’ve escaped again, a result of Spencer’s inability to approach you. Part of him wants to run after you, follow every street until he finds you. But he knows the table is waiting for him. So he goes back to sit down, and pays his bill.

That night, he goes home to his empty apartment. The silence he always enjoyed is suddenly deafening. Five chances, and he blew all of them.

Spencer has learned to deal with disappointment. He’d learn to love the loneliness, filling his mind with knowledge, one part of him that he could keep from being empty. The emptiness always found him, though. It found him when his father left, when those kids tied him up on the football field, when the nightmares started and he’d wake up alone and afraid. And it found him tonight, when the weight of his lack of courage sank in.

Your friends drove you home, and you let them take the front seat while you sat in the back. As they talked, you felt the weight of the empty seat next to you. The two of them entertained you with their stories of romance, but it was just that— entertainment. Hell, one of them was engaged, and you hadn’t had a date since you’d moved to D.C. Maybe that’s why you were so stuck on coffee shop boy, the brush of his hands being the most romantic touch you’d felt for a while.

Suddenly, you were annoyed. Annoyed at the way your friends acted when you told them about a cute boy, excitement that you even had the semblance of a chance, a fraction of what came so easily to them. You were annoyed at yourself, alone on a Friday night in a city full of people. You were annoyed at the way coffee shop boy ignored you, meeting multiple times with less than ten words between spoken.

For all you knew, he had a girlfriend, a fiancée. Maybe that’s why he avoided you.

When your friends dropped you off at your apartment, they waited for you to get inside the doors. Nobody would be waiting inside for you. You imagined how it must feel to have a smiling face to greet you. In your fantasy, it was coffee shop boy, his brown eyes looking at you for as long as you wanted him to, his hand finding yours without pulling away.

Your bed felt a little colder that night. The universe could send you the same man five times, and you’d still end up without knowing as much as his name. You wondered where he was now, probably with the blonde he was laughing with when you were leaving the restaurant. It’s not meant to be, you repeat, not fully believing it, but letting the phrase lull you to sleep, anyway.

Another Valentine’s Day approached quickly, and you knew that it would likely be spent alone. Not alone, exactly, as you would be spending it at your best friend’s wedding in another state. You’d tried to find a plus one, scouring dating apps for any eligible bachelor that’d make you look less lonely at the ceremony. It proved futile, so here you were, alone in your hotel room.

You slipped on the mini dress, a matching color as the rest of the bridesmaids. Your best friend had chosen a bar for her bachelorette. All of you were unfamiliar with the area, making you feel a little uneasy, especially since there had been a series of murders in the area that had brought the FBI in to investigate. Luckily, they’d reported that night that the suspect was in custody, so the night out was still on.

When you walk into the bar, you know right away that it wasn’t your scene. It was loud, hectic, and slightly overwhelming, but you sucked it up for your friend’s sake. This was her night, so nothing would stop you from celebrating her.

Looking around, you find the bar is mostly filled with middle aged men who are unsuccessfully flirting with the younger girls. You probably should’ve known that this wasn’t the night you’d end up meeting anyone worthwhile. It didn’t really matter, though, as your friends are quickly on the dance floor.

Spencer didn’t necessarily love when the team went out to bars after a case was solved. It wasn’t his scene, loud music and unruly patrons. He could get over it, as long as it meant spending time with his friends.

It was windy that night, causing the jet to be delayed. Emily had been the one to suggest going out instead of sitting around on the tarmac. Everyone was at a table in the corner of the closest bar they'd found on Google maps. Spencer was observing the people around, one particular group catching his eye. On the dance floor, he saw flashes of a sash that said “Bride to Be”. He wasn't sure what about the group caught his attention, but he found himself looking up every now and then to see if the girls had escaped the dancing crowd to somewhere more open.

As his coworkers complained about the delay, Spencer realized that it was February 13th. He’d never had a Valentine before, unless you counted his mother and the candy hearts she’d buy for him every year. His friends had people to return to, people waiting when they got off the jet. He longed for a reason to complain about missing the holiday, but to Spencer, it would be just the same as any other day.

After about half an hour of dancing, you slithered between the moving bodies to find the bar. You took a seat at one of the barstools, ordering your favorite drink to cool you off from the heat of the dance floor.

Spencer sees your figure from behind, and knows right away who you are. For a second he doubts himself, not believing you were halfway across the country at the same time he was, but his memory had never failed him before.

JJ sees his eyes following you, and asks “Do you know her?”

“Yeah,” he says, standing up. “I do.”

He’d promised himself that, if he had another chance, he’d approach you. He knew he had to, regret tinting his memories.

And here you were, in some small town, serendipitously in the same place once again. He couldn’t ignore it, determining it must be fate, an idea that went against his leanings toward practicality.

He’d tried to explain it away with logical explanations. Even if it was coincidence, he thought the shared locations meant you were compatible. That’s why he was so bothered by the way you had disappeared that night in the restaurant. He’d finally had the courage to approach you, and you’d escaped.

This time was different, though. You were firmly in place at the bar. This time, nobody would pull either of you away. Not on Spencer’s watch.

“Excuse me,” he said, taking the seat next to you. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you-“ he stutters.

You’re shocked. Surely, your eyes are wide, and he can tell you know who he is. Trying to cover up the way your jaw dropped, you say “We’ve met before.”

“We have,” he says. He’d planned what he’d say to you, thinking of every possible situation or smooth line that would win you over. “A few times, actually.”

“What are you doing all the way out here?” you ask, nervous at the amount of words you were exchanging. Coffee shop boy had been on your mind for six months now, and here he was, sitting beside you.

“Work,” he answers, causing you two to fall into a silence. It’s not awkward, the way you look at each other. It’s more of a studied silence, ensuring your eyes weren’t deceiving you.

Spencer is the one to break the silence. “I meant to approach you earlier, it’s just that I’m…”

“An introvert?” you finish his sentence for him.

“Yeah, I guess. I tried to find you the last time I saw you, in that restaurant, but you’d already left.”

“You tried to find me?” His confession takes you by surprise. “Honestly, I thought you hated me.”

“Of course not,” he says quickly. “I just get…. nervous.

“Yeah, I gathered that.” You giggle together. “Maybe this is weird, but I feel like I know you already.”

“You kind of do. You’ve seen me in five other places already. You could put together my routine if you really wanted to.”

Another quiet moment overtakes you. It’s comfortable, like two friends who know each other well enough to not need words.

“I’m here with my friends,” you explain, wanting him to know everything about you. “It’s her bachelorette party.”

“That’s more fun than my reason,” he says, glancing back towards his coworkers.

He explains his job, then, taking you by surprise. He didn’t strike you as the fed kind of guy, considering you know him through bookstores and coffee shops. He tells you about how he ended up in his line of work, how he finished school at an age when you hadn’t even learned to drive.

Then you explain your job. And your friends. And why you moved to D.C. And everything else you can think of. Before you know it, an hour has passed. Part of you feared that, in getting to know him, he’d lose his appeal. You’d constructed an image of him in your head, and you worried that it would be too high of an expectation for him to live up to. You were proven wrong. He exceeded the version of himself that had been created in your imagination.

He’s taken out of the conversation only by Hotch's tap on his shoulder. “The plane should be taking off soon,” he says. He nods, making plans to meet you again when you return home. He writes down his number on a receipt, and you tuck it delicately in your pocket, afraid to lose it, to lose him again.

“I forgot to ask,” you stop him before he can walk out. “What’s your name?”

“Spencer.”

And then he’s out the door. This time, his retreat doesn’t leave you with the same hurt it had the last five times. You feel fuzzy, warm, like you were right where you needed to be.

Spencer, you think. No longer coffee shop boy, he now had a name, a story. You turn his name over in your head, and it rattles around like a weight and makes your mind hazy when you join your friends again.

“Who was that?”

“You’ll never believe this, but it was coffee shop boy,” you reply.

“You’re kidding! What was he doing here?”

“Work.”

“Huh. Serendipity.”

Serendipity. Your friend threw the word out, speaking it lightly before going back to dancing. Yet, it stuck to you, grabbing on and not letting you go.

You weren’t looking for Spencer any of the times you ran into him, yet he was there. A gift waiting on days where you were otherwise preoccupied. You put a hand in your pocket, feeling the paper with his number waiting for you on it. It was material evidence of the connection you had, a piece of him left behind until you met again.

Spencer didn’t believe in fate. He hated when people said “everything happens for a reason”. It was the opposite of a comfort, and he refused to believe that the bad things in his life were destined for him.

However, something about you had planted a seed of doubt, watering it every time he ran into you again. It blossomed tonight with the ease of your conversation. You felt good, you felt right, you felt fated. If there was a destiny for him, he was sure you were part of it.

He could ignore his friends' teasing. Morgan asked him questions on the jet that he refused to answer. He pretended to be asleep, eyes closed as the vision of you overtook him. Someday, they’d find out about you. Your roots had intertwined with his already, locking your stories together. For now, though, you were his. His own personal offering from whomever sent you into his life. Even if he’d messed up the first few chances, you kept finding him, even where it was least expected.

Serendipity, he thinks. Finding something good when you’re not looking for it.

The definition swims in his head, still hazy from your encounter. He wasn’t looking for you that morning in the coffee shop, nor any other time. So he chose to believe it was fate. He allowed himself this one moment to ignore logic and everything he’d been taught. He allowed himself to suspend his disbelief and ride the flutters of his heart to you.

There had to be a reason. A reason that you kept finding each other. A reason why your conversation flowed with such ease. And, without your knowing, you gave it the same word. Yours spoken by your friend, his from a memory of an old movie his mom used to watch. You were apart, as he sat on the jet and you danced with in the bar, but your minds synced up as you both thought the same thing: Serendipity.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #mgg #mgg x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader

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seventeenpins · 11 months ago

Text

a slight miscalculation - pt. i

pairing: Joel x F!Reader

word count: 8.3k

summary: Sarah is off to college, and Joel is about to be living in an empty nest. They road trip out together, and as she spends her first night in her new apartment, he's staying in a nearby hotel. Letting go of his inhibitions for the first time in a long time, he tumbles into a one night stand that becomes very complicated, very quickly.

content/warnings: smut, age gap, mycologist!reader, dick sucking, implied pussy eating, fingering, no outbreak au, reader likes to hike, reader also infodumps, joel miller has a big cock, he also has anxiety, reader has anxiety too, and a cat, reader is in early 20s--exact age not established, one (1) use of daddy, alcohol and weed consumption, joel is a diligent condom wearer, set in present day, discussion of girl scout cookies, joel is sweet and soft and hasn't been eviscerated by the death of his daughter

a/n: I'm intending this to be about five parts. This may change, but right now it's looking like five. I've been struggling to write for a while, unable to focus, but I think I'm back at it? as always, your feedback is hugely appreciated, and i'm kissing all likers and commenters and rebloggers deeply and with tongue 🩷

check out pt. ii

For the first time in nineteen years, Joel is completely adrift. Sarah's starting college in just two months.

It's the kind of realization that hits him like a bucket of ice water, a sudden shock and then an unpleasant trickling of anxiety wrapping about him in nasty tendrils. And then he feels guilty, because he's so, so happy for Sarah because he knows that she's thrilled, but fuck she's gonna be two time zones away and now what's Joel meant to do on Thursday movie nights when he's here without her?

It's terrifying, and it's new. And it's not that he's new to anxiety. He's usually anxious, and he has the Sertraline on his bedside stand to prove it. But if his general anxiety baseline usually hovered around a 6.4, where he was at now far surpassed a 10. It felt exponential, and totally exhausting.

When he voices his fears to Tommy, to Joel's horror, Tommy just doubles over in laughter.

"Jesus, Joel," he wheezes, wiping fake tears from his eyes in exaggerated movements, "You looked so serious I thought you were gonna say you'd killed someone."

Joel scowls. "The fuck you laughing for?"

"She's going to college, it's not like she's dying!"

"How'm I gonna be there for her? What if she needs me? What if-"

"Joel-," Tommy pats him gently on the shoulder, "She can always call you, and you can always call her. And we both know she's got a good head on 'er shoulders."

Joel snorts in concession. "Yeah, yeah. Better than yours and mine put together, and then some."

"Exactly." Tommy agrees, "And if there's ever anything that really goes wrong, you got me. We can drive out together and make sure she's okay."

Joel nods and feels the tiniest bit of tension leave him. One step at a time.

Just over nineteen years ago he found out he was about to be a dad. Suddenly, he had a purpose. Having a kid at twenty-two wasn't something he'd ever intended, but somehow he knew he loved his baby girl from the moment he knew she was a possibility. He spent a solid seven months running around, hustling, doing everything he could to get the very best for his kid. He'd take on doubles, working himself to the bone to make sure they had the best crib, and the best stroller, too. He was thrilled and terrified and so, so green.

Now, his heart feels so big he doesn't know how to handle it. His baby girl is an honest-to-god adult, moving out and going to college, and he has no idea what he's gonna do with his time now.

He has work, of course. But beyond that? He's really gotta to widen his circle, he realises, because who's he gonna hang out with? His brother?

He'd only just turned forty-one and had absolutely not come to terms with an empty nest--the few friends from high school he'd kept in touch with were so much further behind than him. The ones that had kids had them later in their twenties and thirties, and now they're raising middle schoolers while Joel's kid is a real fucking person, leaving home and everything. All the scrapping and saving he'd been doing since before Sarah was born–for his little girl to be able to follow any dream she chose–it was finally paying off. The precocious young woman she is, she graduated early and spent nearly a year working retail to save up some cash. She'd applied to colleges all across the country, and a few international ones, too. Joel had been crossing his fingers for months, hoping she'd choose something near Austin, but cheered with her all the same when she got her acceptance letter from Oregon State University. The previous summer, just before she'd started her applications, she and Joel and Tommy spent a miserable, wonderful week hiking round the Pacific Northwest. She fell in love with it, and the university offered a few of the majors she wanted to consider.

Joel didn't know what he'd do with his baby girl so far away, his life, his reason, but he sure as hell wasn't gonna tell her that. He will not clip her wings. His baby's gonna change the world and he's not gonna hold her back. He is, though, gonna require regular phone calls and check-ins and god they grow up so fast.

"Y'all should road trip out there," Tommy suggests one night over the dinner table.

Joel knew the conversation of how Sarah would get to the West Coast would come up, and it oughta be sooner rather than later. He was half afraid that she wanted to head out on her own, that she didn't need her dad anymore. Worried she would say she wanted to get a plane ticket, or take the Amtrak all the way to Corvallis. But he knows he needs to loosen his grip a little, so he braces himself when he turns to her.

"What'dya think, Sarah? You wanna be stuck in a car with your old man for a cross-country trip?"

Sarah rolls her eyes, but her face breaks into a grin. "Can we, Dad?"

This was too good to be true, he knew, but he wasn't gonna give up one last opportunity to spend some time with his girl till winter break.

"Course, baby," he tells her, and that flicker of anxiety quells just the tiniest bit.

The next few weeks fly by, and the knot of anxiety in Joel's chest feels like it's consuming him from the inside out. He's taken some time off, more than Sarah or Tommy can remember, but he's constantly trying to suggest ideas for activities to Sarah. For the most part, she's a good sport, understanding how much it means to her dad. She took pity on him, and let him drag her to places that ideally she would've gone to when she was little, but she humored him and he appreciated her dedication. He did his best to step back when she was heading out to spend time with friends--her time here was limited, after all, and she was always a social butterfly.

There are five weeks till classes start, four weeks, three, two, and in the blink of an eye, they're loading up the truck with all of Sarah's things, and Tommy is hugging Sarah goodbye, teary eyed. He gives Joel a hug, too. Joel would never admit it, but fuck he had really needed that hug.

They would take the scenic route. Make a memorable trip of it. Joel would make sure she settles in safe and sound, and then he'd head home.

6am Sunday.

You wake with a start. It's just over a week before term starts and your entire body aches. Fuck, you think to yourself, definitely overdid it with that last hike.

(The hiking part wasn't itself a problem, but one of the trails had washed out. You thought you'd found your way, but the "easy" three and a half mile hike took about five hours, leaving your calves bruised and your heels blistered.)

You roll over in your hotel room bed and, at the sound of a slight yelp followed by a gentle thud, realise with a sudden start that you just catapulted your cat off the corner.

"Shit, sorry goblin," you tell Spatula, who glares up at you with disdain as he licks at his paw. You reach down and, despite your inadvertent cat launch, he immediately rubs up against your fingertips and lets you scratch behind his ears.

"I'm sorry, baby," you soothe.

He meows, loudly. Howls, really. You take it as an apology accepted.

You sit up properly and look at your phone calendar. Nothing immediate. You don't need to get keys to your new apartment till tomorrow, nor do you meet your roommates till then–they're both moving in today, and moving is already horrible without having to navigate around the belongings of two other people. No, thanks. You can afford one more night at the hotel, and it'll make everything go that little bit more smoothly tomorrow. Besides, you have a bit of reading you'd like to get through, maybe stock up on non-perishables till you have a full-sized fridge, and get to know the city just a little.

You move gingerly, testing the ache in your muscles as you unfold yourself from the position you've been sat in and pull yourself from the bed. It hurts, but not something that won't be fixed with a little movement.

A plan forms. First, a walk, to try and loosen up your tight muscles. Then, errands. You have a whole list, with everything categorised by store, but then you enter IKEA and exit fifteen minutes later, only to find that five and a half hours have passed and it's evening now.

How was it that IKEA harnessed such a malicious power. How could anything harness that?

You need a fucking break. And a goddamn drink.

"Hey Dad," Sarah calls from the adjacent bedroom as Joel sweats, hauling another box towards her. The drive has been good, but it has been long. His legs ache. His back aches. There are parts of him that he didn't know existed that now ache.

"Yeah?" he calls back.

"Are you sure you're okay with me staying here tonight?"

Joel lets out a breath. He wants to be okay with it. And there's no way his nineteen year old would want to hang out with her dad when she could be spending the very first night in her brand new apartment. But he also wishes she wanted to spend one last night, hanging out in a hotel room with her dad. They could watch shitty movies together. Make the most of the final night before this cataclysmic shift.

But no.

That'd just be him being selfish. He can handle a night by himself. He's gotta handle a whole lotta them soon enough.

"O'course baby," he nods, hoping the smile he's plastered on his face looks totally genuine. "But we're still doin' breakfast in the morning, right?"

She nods, vigorous, and then waves her phone around. "I was looking up places! There's a diner called Tommy's," she laughs, "Wanna try that? 9:30?"

"Let's do it," he smiles, and this one is a little less forced.

"How much more do we have?" Sarah asks, nodding towards the box Joel's still holding.

"Last box," he grunts, "What else can I help with?"

He places the box down and lets out a slight, almost silent whimper. Sarah catches it, though.

"Maybe you should take it easy the rest of the day, Dad," she tells him, "We both know you have old man back."

He rolls his eyes but nods. "Guess you're right," he shrugs, "That my cue to take off?"

Sarah blushes but turns to him sheepishly. "Yeah, I-"

"No need to explain," Joel assures, "I know you must wanna get unpacked and settle in, get to know your roommates an' all."

She jumps up and, almost startling him, wraps her arms around him in a bear hug.

"Love you, dad," she grins, and she squeezes just a little tighter than usual.

He squeezes back, and they both pretend there aren't tears in his eyes.

As you step through the doors of the hotel bar, you decide you like it. The lighting is comfortably low. It's not loud, but it's not quiet, either. Colorful bottles line the shelves, the light of the filament bulbs glinting off the glass in rainbow prisms.

You take a seat at the bar and give a nod of thanks as the bartender passes you a small menu. It's unsurprisingly extortionate, hotel bar and all, but it'll do.

"Old fashioned, please," you tell the bartender, who nods in response. A minute later, he hands you a glass, delivered with a twist of orange and a cherry on top.

With your first sip, you feel your shoulders start to relax and some of the tension loosen from your body. The warmth of the burn envelops you and your stress starts to unravel, leaving only the buzz feeling good.

You order a second, and as the glass is handed to you, a voice to your right catches your attention.

"This seat taken?" a man asks.

You shake your head and offer a quick smile, gesturing towards it, "All yours."

"Much obliged," he nods, and slips into the backless stool next to yours.

The bartender comes over and passes him the same menu, but without looking at it he asks, "Could I get an old fashioned?"

You smile and catch his eye, tipping your glass towards him. "An excellent choice," you praise, "Though if you don't have a sweet tooth, I'd recommend asking Jeff there if he can go easy on the simple syrup."

"Oh yeah?" He asks, and then he leans in conspiratorially. "T'tell you the truth, I do have a bit of a sweet tooth."

You raise an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Suddenly, he breaks into a grin and it's dazzling.

"Yeah," he laughs, "I've got cookies stashed in secret locations all through my house."

You raise an eyebrow. "If I keep 'em in my pantry, my brother'll find 'em and eat 'em all," he explains, "But ever since my kid was a girl scout, I always get cravings for girl scout cookies, so I buy an armful o'boxes and try and preserve 'em throughout the year, till I can replenish."

"What's your favorite girl scout cookie?"

"Caramel deLites, hands down."

"Oh yeah?"

"Absolutely," he nods.

The bartender, Jeff, sets the man's drink down with a clink. You catch one another's eye and both erupt into a fit of laughter.

You're not even sure what's funny. Maybe it's just been a long day? Maybe the whiskey was getting to you?

Whatever it is, it feels good.

The man takes a sip of his drink and lets out an aaaahh and it's goofy and charming and then he extends his hand.

"Joel," he tells you, "Joel Miller". You shake his hand, introduce yourself, and then take a sip of your own drink.

"So, tell me about yourself," you smile, "You coming from out of town?"

"Yes ma'am," he nods, "Come up here from Austin."

"Texas?"

Joel nods.

"That's a long trip."

"Yeah," he laughs, "It really is."

"So, you're a nice Southern boy, huh?"

"Well," he swishes his glass and tries to bite back a smile, "I don't know that I'd go quite so far, but my mama did raise me to be a gentleman."

"That so?" you ask and his blush deepens.

"I... have been known to get up to some trouble, but I like to think I've mellowed in my old age." He gestures at the beautiful little smatterings of silver at his temples, and you cackle.

"Okay, that's hot," you tell him and he chokes, but you keep going, "Old age, though? What are you, like, forty?"

He exhales, chagrined. "Forty-one."

You roll your eyes. "That ain't old."

"It feels it sometimes," he smiles, "My kid is grown. My little brother's married with a kid of his own on the way. My back hurts, pretty much all the time."

You snort. You also notice, without trying to look, that he doesn't have a wedding band. Doesn't have a tan line for one, either. Interesting.

"But more than that," he continues, "I guess I feel- I don't know. A little... aimless?"

"Yeah," you nod, and you let the moment sit. "I get that."

He lets out a little breath, and then turns back to you, focused.

"What about you? Where're you from?"

"Oof," you exhale, "All over. Spent a bit of time on the East coast. The Midwest. Lived a few months in the South, even," you tease as you bump your shoulder into his and he laughs. It's a surprisingly familiar gesture, but miraculously comfortable.

"Ever make it to Texas?"

"Naw," you shake your head, "My time in the South was all in Mississippi. After that I moved out to California, and I've been slowly working my way up the West Coast."

"And what have you been enjoying about the West Coast?" Joel asks.

"The mushrooms," you grin, and Joel frowns.

"Like, the kind you get in a little baggy from the dealer down the street, or-?"

"No," you laugh, "Or, well- Okay, sometimes. Gotta say it is great out here for that, too. But I mean fungus as a whole--mushrooms, mold, yeast, lichen. But I'm most interested in mushrooms. They're just really fuckin' cool, and there's so much we don't understand about them. And, they're delicious."

"Huh," Joel ponders, "T'tell you the truth, I've never thought much about mushrooms, besides enjoying 'em as a pizza topping."

"Most people don't," you agree, "But fuck, like-- Okay, so we know there are over five million types of fungi on Earth, but we've identified less than two percent of them. Some fungus aids decomposition. Some fungus is bioluminescent. Some are known worldwide for their delicious flavours, and others are known by the slow, horrible ways they kill you."

Joel raises his eyebrows, and suddenly you feel a little self conscious.

"Sorry, I do this," you laugh, rubbing at the back of your neck, "I get very excited about fungus and manage to alienate everyone around me."

You half expect him to stand up and walk away.

Instead, though, he leans in closer. "Don't apologise," he tells you, "I'm learning something new. Tell me more?"

"No, I should stop. Otherwise I'll never stop talking," you wince.

"How about just one more fungus fact?"

You sit for a minute, pondering. "This is- well, I guess this is one of the reasons I find fungus so fascinating. So, fungus can't photosynthesise the way that plants do--they can't produce their own food from sunshine, and water, and carbon dioxide. Instead, their mycelium-- they're these thread-like networks--they branch out beneath the earth, seeking out food, growing in the direction where it can find the nutrients it needs and breaking down organic material all around them, sometimes living organisms, as a parasite, and sometimes dead organisms as a decomposer, or both. And it's just- It's this hidden world, that exists right beneath the surface even in some of the extreme places on earth, temperature-wise. And most days, we don't even think about it."

You punctuate your thought with a large swallow of your drink, which is half-watered down now that the ice is melted, and doesn't hit quite as hard as you'd hoped, but then you look up at Joel and he's smiling at you, pensive, and--

"That's- That's actually really interesting."

Before you can respond, though, Joel glances at his watch and balks. It is getting late. "Shit," he shakes his head, "I think I oughta call it a night," he says, pulling back. "Early morning tomorrow, and if I stay at the bar I'll just keep drinkin'."

Fuck. That's a dismissal. Of course you went on too much about mushrooms. You'd fucked this up. You'd thought this was going well, but now it felt like a bucket of cold water was dumped over you. "Oh," you nod, matching his posture, and try to swallow down the sudden wave of disappointment. "Of course. Have a good night, Joel."

Joel stands up and then looks you up and down, considering. It's not brazen, but it isn't shy, either. And then understanding flashes across his face.

"Wait- Sorry, that's not how I meant it." He reaches out towards you and you melt into his touch. "I'm messin' this up." He chuckles, but it sounds pained. "Now look, I don't wanna make any presumptions. And I'm really hopin' I'm not coming off as some--dirty old man. Jesus, I haven't done this in a while. But I'm in room 308."

Your eyebrows shoot up. What you'd taken for disinterest was just--nerves?

"I reckon I'll be awake for a while yet. You're welcome to... drop by."

The disappointment melts, making way for a fluttering in your stomach.

"Twenty minutes," you assure him, "308?"

He nods and he brakes into a sheepish grin, shedding what you now realise had been something of an anxious wince. "308."

You watch him leave. When he's out of sight, you toss back the rest of your watery drink and go to pay your tab, but Jeff tells you it was already settled. You thank him and tuck your shaking hands in your pockets. You feel an electricity running through you as you take the elevator up.

When you get back to your room, you hop into the shower, just to freshen up--you keep your hair dry but scrub your body. Once you're clean, you brush your teeth.

Stepping back out of the en suite, you survey the hotel room. Spatula is lounging on the corner of the bed, entirely uninterested in your movements. You top up his dry food bowl and place a kiss between his ears before slipping out.

When you knock at Joel's door, you hear a slight rustle and clatter and then the door swings open, Joel's staring a little wide-eyed, like he didn't actually expect you to show. He's wearing grey sweats and a Johnny Cash t-shirt that looks like it's been around nearly as long as you have. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, an anxious tell that's desperately endearing.

"C'mon in," he smiles, and you step in, closing the door behind you.

You reach out to cup his face, delighting in the feeling of coarse stubble beneath your fingertips. Your first kiss is chaste. You both lean forward and press your lips to one another gently, exploring.

Then, you let out a little moan and Joel shudders. Heat surges between you, and his hands are cradling your head and brushing your cheek and he's pinning you against the closed door. You're kissing again, nothing chaste remaining, learning the taste of him, his rhythm, the crashing waves of give and take between you.

You wrap one leg around him and smirk when he lets out a throaty groan as you grind against his hard cock. You're pretty sure he's not wearing underwear, the thick bulge seemingly unconstrained in his grey sweats, the whole length pressing against your thigh.

Your head falls back and you let out soft, breathy noises as his lips trace along your collarbone, up your throat, and against that tender little spot behind your ear. When he puts your earlobe between his lips and presses his teeth gently against the skin, your knees go weak and he chuckles, strong arms wrapping around you, holding you up.

"Bed?" he asks, and you breathe yes and then, with a yelp and a throaty chuckle, you're lifted up and spun around and both tumbling into the duvet.

You're grasping at each other, desperate to keep your hands on one another. The only times you part is when you undress, and even then, you're helping each other--pulling the hem of his shirt over his lifted arms, pressing into him as he reaches around and moves to unhook your bra, but then he realises you're not wearing one and lets out a groan, his thumbs brushing alongside the tender skin along your ribs, moving gently as if to cup your breasts, but then he pulls back.

Normally you might wait, do this part slowly, draw out the tease just a little bit longer.

Tonight, though, you're ravenous.

As you fiddle with the buttons of your pants, you tug at the drawstring keeping Joel's sweats on his hips. The bow comes loose in one smooth motion, and he lifts his hips and you pull the sweats down.

Your mouth immediately waters seeing him bare, laid out for you. You watch a bead of precum drip down the head and pool on his belly. The coarse hair of his happy trail glistens with it. He's thick, uncut, and looks painfully hard, his cock head ruddy. "Fuck, you're beautiful," you tell him, and his cheeks redden but he grins. It's boyish, the way he grins, and devastatingly charming.

And, what you're saying is true. His body is gorgeous, something you wish you could sketch. Soft flesh over hard muscle, visible tan lines where his chest and shoulders are noticeably lighter than his arms. The muscles and veins along his throat are driving you absolutely fucking insane as he swallows and looks up at you.

He's got freckles on his shoulders, too, and without thinking, you lower yourself down to kiss at his shoulder. He shakes, just a little, and lets out the most beautiful gasp. It's addictive, pulling these noises from him. You follow the curve of him, giving him a taste of his own medicine--tracing feather-light kisses along his collarbone, up the tendons of his neck, behind his ear. You can feel the blood pulse in his veins as your lips brush along him. Joel goes from panting lightly to full on groaning, rutting his hips up towards you and, frustrated, meeting only air.

"Can I taste you?", you ask, and Joel lets out a half-strangled sound and nods, vigorous.

You scoot back, lower yourself, poke out your tongue and, without any preamble, lick at the slit of his head, tasting the salty, tangy precum.

Joel tips his head back and groans and you decide to be kind. You grasp onto his hips and take him in your mouth, slowly sinking down, inch by inch by inch and now you can feel him at the back of your throat, your saliva dripping down the shaft and collecting in the hair between his thighs.

You bob your head up and down, taking him deeper with each thrust, but your throat is full and there are still inches to go. You relax, doing everything you can to take him deeper, and he starts to thrust up gently.

You let him fuck into your mouth but release one of his hips, allowing him to move as freely as he needs and freeing up your hand, which you shove into your underwear, rubbing furiously at your clit.

It doesn't take much to lose yourself in it, to focus only on the sensation. You're so wet, slick coating your fingers, making the glide that much smoother as you touch yourself. Joel tastes so good, too, the intrusion of his cock the most delicious thing, feeling the way he shudders when you moan, the way he moans when you shudder.

"Fuck-" Joel gasps, and then there's a hand guiding you gently off of him.

You raise an eyebrow. "You okay?"

He swallows, hard, and nods. "More than okay. Felt too fuckin' good."

"Oh yeah?" and you lean down, as if to take him back in your mouth, but he chuckles and pulls you back again.

"It's been... a while. For me. And-" He drags his palm down his face, wearing an almost pained expression. "Christ, you just look too fuckin' good down there, mouth stretched 'round me while you touch yourself. An' it feels too fuckin' good, too. I ain't ready for this to be over yet but if you keep lettin' me fuck your throat like that it's gonna be over real quick. And I wanna feel that pretty pussy myself."

You sit back up and he pulls you towards him so you're straddling him.

"You gonna fuck me, Joel?"

"Yes," he breathes, "Yes, baby, please-"

You do an awkward wobble and then stand up, shedding your pants and letting your panties drop, stepping out of them, one foot and then the other, and the way he's watching you is addictive. He watches you with beautiful eyes, drinking all of you in, and suddenly the moment has changed into one of those quiet, intimate moments where you both exhale a laugh.

You straddle him again, and lean down to kiss him, and the electric current surges up. He grabs you by the jaw, meeting your desperation. His lips on yours are exactly the balm you need and you can taste the whiskey on his breath.

"Feels fucking good," you tell Joel as you slide up and down his length. He's not penetrating you, not yet, but the lips of your pussy are spread and you're gliding along him, feeling his head at your clit and thrusting back till you're nearly seated on his balls.

He watches you, nearly unblinking, drinking it all in. Then, he lets out a groan, and half-sits up, suddenly focused.

"Shit," he closes his eyes in frustration, "I don't have any condoms. Shit shit shit-"

You push him back down and kiss him again. Then, you hop off the bed and sift around in your jean pockets.

"Ah-ha!," you exclaim, once you've found your treasure. Joel raises and eyebrow and you wink. "Saw they were selling them in the lobby. Figured it might be a good idea."

"Shit," Joel laughs, and presses his lips just to the side of your mouth. "Clever girl," he tells you, and a shiver goes up your spine.

He leans to help, but you shoo him away and he watches, entranced, as you neatly open the condom wrapper and, with a small amount of difficulty, roll it down his cock.

"Feeling okay?" You ask him, "Shit, I shoulda gotten the Magnums. Is your dick okay? It's not being choked to death by an inappropriately sized rubber, is it?"

Joel snorts. "We'll manage," he says, and then he grips you by the hips, lines himself up. He draws his knuckles along your cunt and groans, "Fuck, so goddamn wet for me-" and, the moment you look at him and nod, he holds the head of his cock against your drooling lips and presses into you.

It's a big stretch as he lowers you down onto him, the intrusion almost painful, but before you can even take a breath, it melts into absolute pleasure. You've fucked people with longer cocks before, and you've fucked people with girthier cocks before, but never have you fucked someone with a cock that's both this long and thick and it feels like you're being split in two and it's perfect and you realise, with a sudden flip of your stomach, he isn't even fully seated inside you yet.

Then, you manage to focus on the words Joel is saying-that had really just been background noise for the past ten seconds or so-and suddenly you're tuning back in for "Tha's it," his voice low and hoarse, surprisingly gentle, "Good girl, takin' this cock so well, look at you."

His brow is furrowed and he's looking at you with such dark eyes, nearly black, the pupils are so blown. "Just a little more, that's it, just one more inch, you can do it, christ, look at you, takin' all of me."

His tone is reverent and it sets a fire through you. You can feel more slickness build and drip out of you, and from the way he moans, you're certain he can feel it too despite the condom.

"So fuckin' wet," he groans, "Soakin' my cock- grippin' me so nice-Fuck--"

He leans towards you and cradles your head in his hand, kissing you hard.

When you both pull back, you know your lips must be kiss swollen and red. His are--they're soft and bright, and you want to eat him whole.

"You're gonna be the death of me, woman."

He's thrusting into you lazily, holding you in place, but you need more, you need all of him.

You push forward and move his hand from your waist to your clit. As you manoeuvre him, his nostrils flare, and you'd wonder if he was angry, if not for the way you felt his cock stiffen even further inside of you. You start to move your hips, to rub up against the thumb on your clit, and to feel every fucking inch of him.

Urged on by the way he groans, you start to ride him, properly. Holding each other close, you fuck down onto him and he leans back, awed.

"Enjoying the show?" you ask.

"Damn- right- I- am-," Joel breathes, every word punctuated with a shuddering breath after you drive back down onto his cock, "Jesus- you- look- so- good- like- that."

You like being watched. Being admired. It sent an extra thrill through you, and your hips stutter, just a little, and now you're following a new, faster rhythm.

"Fuck, that's it, baby-" he praises, "Shit, yes- bounce on it."

You lean forward and kiss his throat, and then he makes this noise, half-strangled and beautiful.

"Shit, honey-- honey, honey, hold on-," he holds you still and you're glad he has, because your brain hadn't quite processed his words.

He's looking at you so earnestly.

"Baby, if you keep ridin' me like this I am gonna blow my load in the next twenty seconds and I don't wanna end this quite so soon."

You hum, a moment of consideration. You stare into his eyes, and part of it is calculated seduction, but another part is getting genuinely lost in the way he looks at you. The crinkles round his eyes. The way he seems able to focus on you, in a way that feels as frightening as it is exhilarating.

"How about this," You smile, "You get yours, and then you can eat me out till I get mine. And if you're ready to go again by the time I've come, we can see where we're at then. Hmm?"

You see a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, and take a moment to appreciate how much he's clearly trying to control himself.

After a moments of avoiding your eye, he looks at you again and he looks utterly wrecked. "You- talkin' like that?" He shakes his head and tries to even his breath. "Fuck, I nearly came right there."

"It's okay," you soothe, and you cup his jaw and resume you movements, riding him like you had before. "You can come if you need to-" your fingertips stroke the stubble of his chin, "You're close, huh? It's okay, daddy, you can let go."

Joel lets out a strangled noise and busts immediately.

You savor the way it feels, the pulse of his cock as he spills into you. No, into the condom, you correct yourself, but you can always pretend-

After his balls relax and you can feel him start to get soft, you hold the condom down as you pull yourself off, and you're nearly unseated when there's a sudden squelch noise that sends you both into tumbles of laughter.

It takes a while to calm down, and you find yourselves heaving, tangled in the sheets, and wrapped up in each other. The condom is hanging limply on Joel's now-soft cock and it's oddly cold and gooey as you accidentally roll against it, and that sends you both off again.

"Fuck," Joel snorts, and tugs at the condom, starting to roll it off his length, "I'd almost forgotten the weird texture of a used condom. Fuckin'... Slug-like."

"That-" you declare, "Is visceral. And I hate it. Thanks."

He snorts, and you suddenly have a question.

"Condoms not making too many appearances in your life?"

"Not many, no."

"What, you usually fuck raw?"

"Just haven't been sleepin' with anyone," he shrugs, nonplussed.

"Well, I gotta say, the good people of Austin have been missing out."

Joel shrugs again, and it comes off as casual, but you notice the way his ears tint pink. "Just- not been something I did. But now, I guess, I can. And with way less guilt."

"Why guilt? Are-" you venture, dread pooling in your stomach, "Are you married?"

His eyes flit up to you sharply, and then soften immediately. He lets out a breath and shakes his head. "No. Nothin' like that. I was married, but I've been divorced nearly twenty years now."

The tightness immediately uncoils and you realise how tense you were only a moment ago. I am not a cog in the machine of a collapsing marriage. Thank fuck.

But now your curiosity is piqued. "So... why the guilt?"

"Sorry, I- I really didn't mean to get into it. I'd rather not get into it. It's- complicated."

"Of course," you shrug, and it isn't a problem because this is just a hot fantasy hookup that you'll remember fondly, and it'll be wonderful masturbation fuel for probably the rest of your life, but you don't wanna make the poor guy go into his life's trauma, especially when he's looking at you so fucking earnestly and you are actually really fucking fascinated but no, you would not let this become a problem.

"Thanks," he says, and then steps out of the room. You hear the clang of the bin as he steps on the pedal, then drops the condom, takes a piss and washes his hands.

"You hungry?" He asks, and you realize very suddenly, you're absolutely famished.

"Yes," you jump up and he laughs when you run, bare-assed and shameless, over to the corner of the room filled with brochures and traveller info and finally, you raise it in triumph when you find it, the list of nearby takeaways.

"Okay," you look at the list, "There's one place at the top of the list here that's apparently highly rated, but I actually have plans there soon and I wanna wait till then to eat there. Hope that's okay."

Joel comes over to you and rests his head on your shoulder. "No problem."

"But... alright," you continue. "There's pizza. Or... more pizza. Or, look--there's a Southern-style place, that'll make you feel right at home!" Joel pokes you in the side and you swat at him as he grunts a laugh.

Suddenly, a warning sound starts playing on loop in your brain. It was dreadfully domestic, wasn't it? This was an absolute stranger you'd just met in a hotel bar? But... it also felt... nice? And it felt nice in ways that you'd never found yourself enjoying before. Even with long-term partners. Maybe because this was so low-stakes, you reasoned, such an inevitably temporary situation, so you weren't putting the same kind of pressure on yourself.

As soon as you think that, the eternal curse of overthinking shows itself and you suddenly feel desperately self conscious. Before you can pull away and make some excuse, though, Joel's arm wraps around you and his thumb starts rubbing little circles into a tender bit of skin between your hip and your tummy. The anxiety spiral you'd been teetering on the edge of suddenly vanishes.

"How about-," he nods at the list, "Pizza?"

After Joel calls in your order, the pizza delivery service tells you to expect your food in about thirty minutes. You remember you have a little box of edibles. You ask Joel if he minds if you take one, and he doesn't. You offer him one, and he automatically declines, but then as he starts to explain, he pauses and pivots, goes "Wait, actually. Yeah. Why not?"

A freckled kid who looks no more than sixteen pulls up with a short stack of pizza boxes and a two liter bottle of root beer. He raps awkwardly on the door after exactly thirty five minutes, and it swings open.

The room looks utterly wrecked, clothing strewn along every surface. Joel answers the door wearing a robe, his entire face smelling of sex, and his moustache still shining with the slick of your release.

"Thanks, kid," Joel nods, and hands him a small wad of cash. The kid eyes him and shrugs. "Keep the change," he tells him, and the door swings back shut.

The edibles have hit beautifully. You're both blissed out, comfortably hazy, lost in the sensation of bare limbs on bedsheets and the flavors of the pizza and it's assorted sauces. You lay together on the bed, paper plates strewn between you. In the background, an X-Files rerun plays.

"Ooh!" You sit up as you catch the premise of the episode, "I love this one! See the goo? There's a giant fungal... entity.. that's working on digesting them, and giving them hallucinations as they die."

"You and mushrooms, huh?" Joel laughs, but then looks back at the episode and contemplates the viscous yellow goo. "Jesus christ," he frowns, and sniffs, now contemplating the mushrooms on his pizza slice.

You spot his glare and snort. "I think you're safe."

He takes another bite and shakes his head as if to clear it.

"I'm getting tired," he admits.

"Me too," you agree.

"No pressure, but in case it wasn't clear, you're welcome to stay the night here."

"That's sweet," you tell him, and think it over. "If I took you up on that, would you be offended if I slip out early?"

Joel raises a brow.

"I have a cat," you explain, "And I'm working on moving into a new place, and meeting a friend for breakfast, and then I need to check out after breakfast because I won't be able to get my keys for the new place until the breakfast but I can't take my cat to a diner-"

You take a breath.

"Basically, I've got a bunch of things I need to do in the morning, but if you don't mind me slipping out around, maybe, 5-ish, then I'd love to stay."

He stares at you.

You regret saying as much as you said. You don't need to over-explain yourself to this actual stranger. He doesn't care. There's no reason for him to care. He's probably in it just for the fuck, and it was fun and if you stay then there's a chance the two of you will wake up at some point in the night, still horny and lustful and you might fuck again and you'd be lying if you said that wasn't part of the draw. You realise, though, you'd also be lying if you said you didn't care what he thought of you. All of a sudden, you are overwhelmed with caring what this man thinks of you.

How fucking inconvenient.

"I wouldn't be offended at all," Joel chews, swallows, wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin and speaks again. "What's your cat's name?"

You don't know what you'd expected he'd say, but it wasn't that. You buffer for a moment. "It's- Spatula."

"Spatula?"

"Yep." You feel foolish.

"Huh. Spatula."

A silent moment between you.

"Got any pictures?"

You weren't expecting that, either. "I... do? Do you want to see them?" He nods. You pull out your phone to scroll through.

Joel, suddenly scrambled around for his phone, too. It was late and he hadn't checked it for hours. Had it been on silent? What if Sarah had called and he'd missed it?

His panic eased when he saw he had only two notifications. Both from Sarah, but neither were bad. He hadn't been neglecting any crises. The first text was a selfie of Sarah and an unfamiliar person, which she'd texted to him with the caption New roomie!! The second contained an address to the place they'd have breakfast tomorrow along with Just wanted you to know I've invited a friend to join us tomorrow morning! Is that okay? Realized I should maybe have checked with you? 😬

There was an ache in his chest. He wanted to keep her to himself, get to spend one last day, just the two of them. It was the start of a whole new chapter, but more than anything, he wished he could hold onto the moment for just a second longer.

But Sarah was stressed, he knew this, so he wasn't gonna make it worse and put this burden on her. He could handle it. He had to handle it. He typed back- No problem, baby. Can't wait to meet your friend.

After a moment, he followed up with another text. Gonna turn in now. Good nite!

The less he texted right now, the better. He did not want Sarah to know anything about the night he was having.

His screen lit up a moment later. Night Dad! He takes a deep breath and wills some of the tension away.

He slips his phone aside and you scoot into bed next to him.

"This," you announce, "Is Spatula."

Joel scrolls thru, his brows raising higher with each image.

With a single nod, he opens his mouth and instead of speaking, he collapses into laughter. It comes out a wheeze- "I-- I know this won't make any sense, but your cat looks just like my goddamn brother."

You're laughing now too, both of you almost hysterical, even though you have no frame of reference. You cherish the absurdity.

Then, Joel pulls up a picture on his phone and shows you, and now you're doubling over again because his brother looks exactly like Spatula.

You don't remember falling asleep. You curse your body's internal clock because you wake up right at 5am, and even though you know you should get up and leave, you wish you could have just a little bit longer.

It's such a comfortable way to wake up. One arm is folded under your pillow, and the other is slung over Joel's hip. He's asleep, snoring softly, and strands of his hair are mussed along his forehead. Your hand is holding his tummy, but you realise there's something pressing against the heel of your hand, and then realise, with a delicious jolt, that he's hard and straining against his boxers.

It's so fucking hard to get out of that bed, but with enough barely-effective reminders--you're gonna fuck up your whole day if you're late, gotta make a good impression, Spatula's gonna be so disappointed if you're late with his breakfast--you manage to bully yourself out of the warm and wonderful bed containing blankets and absolutely fantastic dick, and you tiptoe through the room, dress quickly, and, after making a note and leaving it on his bedside stand, you slip out.

Joel wakes up with a jolt, and then rolls over to see that the alarm clock (which he dared not contemplate the number of times he must have snoozed) was telling him it was 9:13.

He was late. Really fucking late. And then the panic made his brain spin faster and that's when he noticed the note on his bedside table.

I had a really good time If you're in town for a little longer, don't be a stranger?

It's followed with your name and phone number, and a rather detailed mushroom sketch across the page. He wasn't sure what kind of mushroom it was, but it was beautiful, and clearly hand-drawn, and for whatever reason you'd decided to tear it out of, presumably, your sketchbook? And you gave it to him, and he's gonna read that note and replay last night for the rest of his fucking life. It felt incredibly precious. He placed it in a book so it wouldn't get creased or folded. Made sure it was all contained and neat, totally flat in between the pages.

Then, he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower.

After scrubbing the smell of sex off of his entire body, he dresses quickly and checks his watch again. 9:28.

He texts Sarah and lets her know he's a few minutes behind. She responds with an eye roll emoji.

Joel settles in his truck and pulls up directions. It's only a few minutes away. He won't be too late.

When Joel steps into the diner, he's charmed by it. It's old school, with a checkerboard floor and bright red vinyl seats. He scans the room till he spots Sarah in a booth in the corner. She's laughing over a hot chocolate, and her friend must be in the seat opposite her.

He catches Sarah's eye and she grins at him, waving him over.

You've been at the diner about fifteen minutes, and you and Sarah are already getting along beautifully.

You'd met on a university message board and had become fast friends, but meeting someone in person was always a little terrifying. On top of that, you'd already committed to spending at least one (academic) year with this person, so you were damn sure gonna make it work.

Sarah waves over her dad. You can't see him yet, the back of the booth too high.

But then he's standing right there.

You already have a hand outstretched, but when he sees you and you see him, your stomach flips and dread runs through you. All the color drains from his face. He looks like a deer in headlights, and you'd be surprised if you didn't look the same.

Sarah looks between you, not quite concerned, but definitely confused. Sarah smiles and tries to diffuse the situation.

"Hi dad!" She grins, "This is my new roommate! Well, the other new roommate--the one in the picture, their name is Ellie, they weren't able to make it this morning. BUT. Breakfast seemed like a great time to hand off keys!"

Joel is still frozen and white-faced. Your brain whirs, and you know you've just fucking catapulted yourself into a disastrous mess, but you do your very best to save face.

Reaching your hand out further so he can't possibly miss it, he gives into some familiar social instinct, takes it and you shake. You think of his hands, how they dragged along your body last night, touched you, felt you, wrecked you.

You introduce yourself. He nods, avoiding eye contact.

"Joel." He grunts. "Miller."

Sarah frowns at him, but turns back to the menu.

This- was unexpected. Problematic. Arguably, really fucked up. All of those things and more. But it'll be fine.

All throughout breakfast, you repeat that to yourself, letting the words bounce around your head. It will be fine, you repeat your mantra, it will be fine, and you try not to feel too hurt at the way Joel's avoiding eye contact as if simply looking at you will cause him unimaginable disgust.

Everything will be fine.

Note: The fic's premise is loosely based on the book Mistakes Were Made which is a fucking excellent sapphic romance novel that utilises this trope. Would strongly recommend the book if you're into smutty queer stories.

#joel miller smut #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel miller x f!reader #ok i gotta be honest i was stoned out of my mind for writing most of this #but mostly sober for editing #thank u for bearing with meeeeeee

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astriiformes · 5 months ago

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#Aragorn is out here manifesting the divine right of kings meanwhile Sam has to run an election campaign

Love that the Fellowship has like. A prince. A king. Several nobles. Members of very wealthy and important hobbit families.

. . . . and Sam, who becomes possibly the only democratically elected official in all of Middle-Earth.

#IT'S GOOD AND VERY FUNNY #f: the road goes ever on and on

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lotties-ashwagandha · 2 months ago

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AGATHA & RIO NSFW ALPHABET

(afab reader, female implied, poly relationship/throuple with them and reader, im disregarding that we can’t kiss rio without dying)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

after sex they would both be so soft! depending on the mood both of them can be into pretty rough sex and in general i think sex is very intense for them not just physically but mentally as well, so afterwards they become quite gentle and sentimentally inclined. they're both quick to check on and cater to each other's and your needs, and expect that out of you as well. the time all of you spend together once you're all exhausted and grounded in each other becomes an act of quality time and showing affection through caring for each other. i feel you could get into some deeper discussions with them as well, which you might not usually have the time or focus for otherwise.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

rio loves agatha's neck and shoulders. she likes to run her knife down her neck and her hands are always finding agatha's shoulders to clutch when she's riding her thigh. OH and we know rio loves playing with agatha's hair as well, not in a sexual context but just in general.

agatha loves rio's. she. she loves her boobs man idk someone get this woman the biggest prode flag you've ever seen and scribble down BOOBS on it in sharpie. or whatever.

their favorite thing about you would be your legs, your arms your back your everything. they want every part of you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

rio loves to make you taste yourself after she's finished eating you out. it's validation for her, a trophy and a way of rubbing in the fact that she just made you finish with her tongue.

agatha loves to see your face covered in her cum after riding your face. she wants to make a mess of you, claim you as hers in the way your chin glistens with her cum.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

on the witches road, they MAY have considered each fucking you during a trial and seeing who could make you come the fastest, obviously very funny time limit bc if you don’t complete the trial then u die I mean what who said that!

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

they’re both experienced, you’d get good at eating pussy after being around for centuries I would hope.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

when you’re trying to eat one of them out while the other is fucking you with her strap!!! agatha particularly loves making you and rio take her strap, and if you’re in a rough mood degradation kink mood then she loves to bully you, tease you, shame you for being so needy for her and desperate for her to fuck you. she likes to watch you ride it, but really she just wants to lay you down and make you come hard.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

they have to have some level of seriousness to actually like. get off. and with them like I mentioned before sometimes they will get really into the emotionally intimate and romantic aspect of sex, but with them nothing can stay serious for too long so there will be a bit of humor, a few mean jokes, anything to break the tension. if you don’t want that they’ll try to dial it back, but if you do then even better.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

with rio being death and agatha being a witch i dont think either of them have the most time to be meticulously shaving or waxing or whatever hair removal they would prefer. agatha would care more than rio, and i think they would both try to keep up with it to some extent, but time gets in the way. as for you they don't mind whatever you prefer to do (shaving, waxing, not doing anything in the way of hair removal) with yourself as long as you are comfortable.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

sex with rio and agatha can either be sex just to fuck or sex to be romantic. it depends on the mood, it depends on what has turned them on, it depends on the day. but sex for them can be a form of intimacy — neither of them are the best at expressing their feelings with words, and while sex should not take the place of verbal communication, it definitely helps.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

I can’t see them masturbating as much in a relationship, they’d both just prefer to fuck, but in general I think agatha would masturbate more often than rio?

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

do I even have to say knife kink??? knife kink. we all know knife kink. maybe even splurge a little and say blood kink.

bondage!!! they would be really into tying you up (and making a competition out of you somehow, a power struggle), and I can also see rio being so proud of herself if she got agatha to agree to let rio tie her up.

praise and degradation! of course. they’ll pick different sides, one night rio will be praising you and agatha degrading and then the next time it will switch. they crave both, and they want the element of surprise for you when you don’t know what you’re going to get from either of them.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

ideally at home in the bedroom but tbh you’ve all probably fucked everywhere including the witches road.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

if you’re a witch, they would get turned on by watching you do whatever magic you specialize in — they like seeing you with power, and they like taking it for themselves. they want to see that you’re powerful and then remind themselves that you belong to them.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

anything you say no to they’re throwing away the idea of, but in general they would be averse to sharing you with anyone else.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

rio would prefer giving, and agatha would prefer receiving. rio wants you and agatha coming on her tongue, wants to be what gives you those highs. agatha wants to completely let go of herself in your touch, forget the rest of the world exists for a little while because all that’s important is how pretty you look between her thighs.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

it depends!!! if it’s a more emotionally intimate and romance geared night they’re more slow and sensual, and otherwise it’s fast and rough.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

quickies anywhere and everywhere and whenever. as long as you’re in a place relatively safe from being discovered, the two of them are down for quickies. i can see them trying to test the limits of where they can and can’t fuck without being discovered too, so lots of being pulled into public restrooms or dragged off into the woods on the witches road or into an alley or whatever little places you can find.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

they will probably be down to experiment with whatever you bring up within reason, with both of them having been around for centuries they’ve seen it all, and it will take a lot to surprise them when it comes to testing things out.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

they can go for a relatively long time, rio can last longer than agatha but they go until they’re completely exhausted, there’s no such thing as casual sex for them unless you’re in public and it has to be a quickie somewhere.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

apart from vibrators and straps I can’t see them being incredibly into toys, they would much rather just go hands mouth all the essentials.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

an obscene amount it’s not even funny these women would tease you until you’re in tears and then would do it some more. it’s a game to them, like everything is.

I can see them reaaaally being into edging you and overstimulating you as a side note, rio wants to edge you and agatha wants to overstimulate.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

they’re both relatively vocal but not necessarily loud. agatha would be louder than rio, she loses every bit of composure when you’re fucking her and rio’s main goal specifically is to pull any moans, whines, anything she can get from agatha while fucking her. rio herself is a bit quieter, i can see her more prone to gasps and low moans — her tells would be more through body language, nails digging into your skin or her grip on you getting tighter.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

I’ve posted about this somewhere before but agatha with a mommy kink calling rio mommy. you agree.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

idk about agatha but I need to see rio in a black lingerie set. bah!

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

relatively high??? not super crazy but we all feel the level of longing for lesbian sex right.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

it depends, if it’s in the morning or afternoon they probably won’t. if it’s nighttime then not immediately, but not incredibly long after. in general they get some water take a shower make some food (bc i can see rio cooking up a three million course meal for the three of you after sex she gets hungry). they want to make sure you’re doing alright and just bask in the domestic bliss of aftercare before they give in to sleep.

#agatha all along #agathario #agathario x reader #agatha harkness x reader #rio vidal x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal #agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader #agatha harkness #rio vidal #agatha x reader #rio x reader #marvel #agatha x rio #agatha x rio x reader

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astriiformes · 5 months ago

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One thing about Lord of the Rings is that the way Tolkien wrote both Sam & Frodo and Legolas & Gimli really lends itself to interpreting their relationships as queerplatonic, or something like it, which is of course the interpretation that means the most to me, and in honesty is probably somewhere near Tolkien's intention of writing "romantic friendships," just using more modern queer terminology.

Not coincidentally though, since the intense devotion of both pairs is part of that, the fact that they all end up following each other to Valinor is another important facet of the same relationships. Which you can absolutely read as simply a way of representing their deep, enduring commitment, but also. Since it happens with both of them. It does kind of feel like the intended message is "queerplatonic partners get to go to Valinor"

#scribe and i have been repeating 'queerplatonic partners go to valinor' at each other for the last several days #in case you were wondering how things were going in thr elf nest #f: the road goes ever on and on

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mitsuyasluvr · 5 months ago

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.ᐟ dating choso headcannons

pairings: choso kamo x f!reader

context: fluff

author’s note: finally got motivation to write something

boyfriend choso! who loves when you play with his hair, he likes seeing how excited you get when he lets you try hairstyles on him.

boyfriend choso! who always wants to hold your hand, nudging your pinky with his to let you know he wants to.

boyfriend choso! who was so excited to introduce you to his brothers, reassuring you that they would 100% like you.

boyfriend choso! who’s always the first one to apologize after an argument.

boyfriend choso! who definitely follows the sidewalk rule, always snaking an arm around your waist and moving you to the opposite side so you don’t walk close to the road.

boyfriend choso! who always lends you his hoodies because he just loves seeing you in his clothes.

boyfriend choso! who sends you pictures of pretty things he sees when he goes on runs and tells you it reminded him of you.

boyfriend choso! who’s love language is physical touch, he can never keep his hands off of you.

boyfriend choso! who always wants to fall asleep on the phone with you, he can’t sleep without you.

boyfriend choso! who loves surprising you with hand picked flowers and always buys you cute stuffed animals.

boyfriend choso! who is a such a good listener and always listens to you when you rant on about something, nodding after every sentence you say.

boyfriend choso! who’s extremely loyal to you, he cherishes your relationship way too much to ever cheat on you.

boyfriend choso! who always wants you to be safe and comfortable around him, constantly trying to make sure he’s being respectful.

boyfriend choso! who leaves you cute little notes around the house just talking about how lucky he is to have you.

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mingumis · 9 days ago

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waves of you | kmg

you're called to the ocean, like a sailor to a siren's song. kim mingyu's soul is made of the same stuff as yours.

pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader genres/themes: slow burn, pining, friends-to-lovers, slight angst, eventual fluff (suggestive bonus at the end!) tw: brief mentions of mental health and medication, unhealthy coping mechanisms a/n: my first fic ever posted! pls let me know if this is any good,, wc: 7.4k

You were born on an island, and although growing up, you rarely visited the beach once a year, in adulthood, something about the ocean calls you back to it and eases your nerves. The salt in the air that you taste with each breath, the fine sand hot between your toes, the waves that lap at your ankles, everything is familiar and puts your soul at peace.

It’s what enabled you to become friends with Mingyu, you think, because he’s also inevitably led to the coasts and the sands and the water. Because otherwise, the popular, well-loved sports junkie that he is would never have even looked your way back in freshman year, you tell yourself.

“Oh, how beautiful,” your friend, Yujin, breathes out a gasp as the car rounds the corner and turns onto a road that overlooks the beach that you’re headed towards. Minghao, her boyfriend and the current driver of the car, takes a peek and hums in agreement. It rouses you from your half-asleep daze, and you sit up a little to crane your neck to the side to look out the window.

She’s right. The cabin that your group of friends has rented for the weekend sits cozily along a row of other identical lodgings, dotting a beautiful shoreline that meets the eastern sea. The sunrises are gorgeous, Yujin had insisted, and that had been enough to convince you to come along. Of course, the mention of Kim Mingyu’s presence on the trip hadn’t been omitted either. The view, further solidifying the reality of this upcoming weekend, and the recollection of the conversation sends a flutter of anticipation in your stomach, which you try your best to swallow away.

Once Minghao pulls into the designated parking stalls for the campgrounds, you’re pulling at your belt buckle and all but scrambling out of the backseat. Instantly, you take a lungful of the salty air, feet surging forward and leading you towards the water. You barely hear and acknowledge Yujin’s amused murmur, “There she goes again.”

As you near the beach, you crouch to pull your sneakers and socks off, planting your bare feet into the sand and breathing a quiet sigh of relief. You almost feel instantly healed from the headache of work and life. There’s a few remaining minutes of the sun left, so a few stragglers saunter along the beach still. A family with two squealing children, a couple quietly sharing a blanket around their shoulders, and a singular, tall silhouette that you would recognize anywhere in the world.

Almost as if he’s been expecting you, the man turns his head over his shoulders at the same time that you distinguish him. The grin that splits Mingyu’s face takes your breath away, more than the purple and orange and blue of the twilight sky overhead.

“Hey,” he calls your name with a wave to accompany it, his own shoes dangling from his other hand. “About time you guys showed up!” He’s in a white linen cardigan, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, and his jean cuffs are folded up to his ankles neatly. A pair of sunglasses hang from the vee of his collar, and his hair is wind tossed and salt ruffled. He looks every part a resident of this sleepy, seaside town.

You will your racing heart to calm as you take each footstep towards him carefully and intentionally, so as not to rush and trip. Once you get close enough to see the moles on his nose, cheeks, and forehead that you love so much, you return his smile easily.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Mingyu just agrees and laughs.

When the sun finally disappears behind the mountains to the west, the two of you can’t linger any longer, especially as the wind picks up with a bite. Mingyu lets you take the lead as you trudge through the cold sand, barely satisfied with the glimpse of the ocean.

You enter the house first, kicking your shoes clean outside, and immediately, a warm body crashes into you forcefully and nearly knocks you clear off of your feet. Thankfully, you’re held upright by a sturdy surface behind you, as you grasp at your chest, where your heart lurches in surprise.

“Seokmin,” you hiss out, mid-complaint, but the man already apologizes at a million words per minute, arms looped around your shoulders.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Seokmin mumbles sheepishly, hugging you properly, as if it’s consolation for giving you the fright of a lifetime (it is). “I just missed you so much!”

A quiet rumble of a laugh breaks you out of the moment, and it’s with mild horror that you realize that the surface that caught you from crashing to the floor is actually Mingyu’s broad, firm chest. With a jolt, you straighten up under Seokmin’s hold and shuffle farther into the hallway, leaving the two men behind and pretending to huff as you go.

In the kitchen, Yujin and Minghao quietly tuck away the groceries and drinks into the fridge and freezer, and you study them for a moment, watching as they work effortlessly in tandem without saying a single word. Their movements come practiced and easy, through years of patience and work and fighting and loving. Despite the smile that curls onto your lips, you wonder cynically if you’ll ever find that sort of love for yourself.

“Oh!” Yujin has turned to place something onto the kitchen counter and has caught sight of you lingering. “And how’s your estranged lover doing?”

You snort out a laugh, broken from your reverie, just as Mingyu and Seokmin catch up to you and crowd around the counter.

“You have a lover?” Seokmin gapes innocently, eyes bright with confusion. He turns to glance at Mingyu, who responds with a shrug and a nibble along his bottom lip.

“Yeah, and his name is the ocean,” Yujin deadpans with a quick roll of her eyes. “Can’t get enough of him, really. Maybe that’s why she can’t seem to find a guy.” She bites playfully, knowingly shifting her gaze from you to Mingyu and back.

You wince, “Ouch.” Pretend not to notice the way Seokmin offers you a sympathetic smile nor the sag of Mingyu’s shoulders. Instead, you plaster on the brightest grin you can manage and change the subject.

“So, what’s for dinner?”

–

You sit on the deck railing, half-ignoring and half-laughing at Yujin’s shrill warnings for you to be careful because if you fall and break your leg, nobody’s taking you to the ER. Behind you, Mingyu mans the grill, and Minghao sets the table up for dinner. Seokmin, bless his heart, sidles up behind you and mumbles sweetly that he’ll drive you, if it comes to it. You thank him with a grin, popping open your can of seltzer and knocking a mouthful back.

The darkness that you stare into is dizzying, but there’s a certain calm that it brings. You swing your legs back and forth, balancing yourself on the wooden beam carefully, and sip away at the can, listening to the distant waves crash and break.

“Doin’ alright?”

The voice comes without warning, and you jump at its proximity which jostles you an inch forward, teetering a bit off balance. Before you have the chance to right yourself, an arm snakes around your waist, holding you back firmly.

“Mingyu,” you breathe. “You scared me.” The motion has made your drink spill all over your hand and pants, and you pull a face, bringing your arm up to lick away at the stray droplets clinging to your skin.

The man besides you giggles a little sheepishly, “Sorry. Dinner’s ready, but you seemed so peaceful and I didn’t want to bother you.” He pulls away once you twist around to come down from the rail, and you instantly mourn the loss of his warmth.

Nonsense, you quickly admonish yourself. As smitten as you may be with the man, you have to remind yourself constantly that he’s been seeing another girl for almost the better part of a year now. The day that epiphany had come, through a careless slip of Wonwoo’s tongue, had gone over rough. You had spent an entire weekend moping on the couch, as Yujin and Minghao, Seokmin and Soonyoung, and Chan and Seungkwan took rotating shifts to make sure you didn’t fall apart completely and do anything stupid.

You know that you’re pathetic, pining after the only person you know who comes close to being perfect, but you’re anything but weak so you tried to take it in stride, laughing easily at jokes and eating all of the sweet treats that your friends brought you to cheer you up. It was only after you shut the door behind Seungkwan and Chan taking off for the night with lingering hugs and quiet murmurs of comfort that you allowed yourself to unravel, heaving through dry sobs that shook your entire body until the tears followed.

You let yourself cry over Mingyu that one night and never again.

Now, as you trail along back inside to the dinner table, eyes glued to the wide expanse of his back, you wish you could cry. Mingyu’s perfect, you’re realizing all over again, as if the distance and time away from him had made you forget. Perfect, but not meant for you.

You gulp down the rest of your seltzer just as you sink into your designated chair to chase away the bitterness that pools in the back of your throat. Seokmin leans into you, bumping his shoulder against yours with a concerned furrow to his brow, but you wave him away with a smile.

“Eat up,” you urge him, nodding towards the piles of barbequed meats that Mingyu has grilled.

You quickly realize that the dining table, despite being long and wide enough to seat all five comfortably, is still too small because you can hear every word, giggle, grumble coming from Mingyu. It gets to the point where you’re just one more seltzer in, barely having nibbled on a short rib or two, and you’re all but sagging into Seokmin’s side, hanging off of every word that comes from Mingyu’s mouth as he recounts some funny story.

At one of the punchlines, you squeak out a giggle, unable to hold it in, and the whole table turns to glance at you, which then makes the others laugh too.

“Oh, man.” Mingyu grins, visibly pleased by the reaction to his story. “She’s gone.”

You snort a puff of air out, mumbling, “M’right here!” Your friends laugh again, and Seokmin snakes his arm around your back to hold you up in your seat, snickering as he does.

“Don’t remember you being such a lightweight,” he muses, chewing on his lip, before he dips his face close to yours to whisper. “You alright?”

You merely smile, head bobbing once. He’s so warm and gentle besides you, and you’ve been so starved for touch like this that you all but melt into him. “Never been better.”

By now, Minghao and Yujin have started up another one of their stories, and you listen along in a half-daze, eyes shut and cheek against Seokmin’s shoulder.

You don’t see Mingyu’s gaze lingering on where you’re pressed into Seokmin.

–

You wake before the sun, mouth dry as if you’ve eaten sand. Someone has carried you from the table to the room with the giant king-sized bed, tucked you into the sheets next to Yujin. Quietly, you slip out of bed, brush your teeth, and shower, and without even meaning to, your feet lead you out of the house, onto the shore.

It’s still too early for the sunrise, and the sky yawns above you, navy blue and speckled with stars. You crane your neck back, mouthing out the few names that you know. Orion’s Belt, Canis Major, Sirius. Once you’ve exhausted the constellations that you know, you find a dry spot in the sand, sit with your legs folded and knees hugged to your chest.

You finally let your guard down, breathing in through your nose, letting out a shuddering sigh through your teeth. Maybe this was a mistake, you ponder, running your fingers through the sand absently. It really is nice seeing your friends after so long, and the ocean welcomes you back home with open arms, but Mingyu’s presence, his beauty, his easy smiles leave the wound in your heart raw and open. Festering.

Another few moments pass by lost in thought, until you pick up your head and notice that the sky has started to lighten overhead. Just then, a short whistle catches your attention, and when you turn, you suppose you’re not even surprised to find Mingyu crossing over the beach towards you.

Your heart pulses and aches as you take him in. He’s in his checkered pajama pants still, a giant gray hoodie pulled on over his head. In the crook of his elbow are two water bottles, as if he knew you’d be here. Something about that thought unravels you even more.

“You’re up early,” you mumble in greeting, nodding your appreciation when he hands you one of the bottles.

Mingyu clicks his tongue and shrugs. “Wanted to see what the fuss about the sunrise was about. You?” He comes right beside you, planting himself into the sand and taking up the same position as you, elbows perched onto his knees.

“Woke up dehydrated as fuck,” you say around a mouthful of water, grinning when he laughs. The man doesn’t say anything else, tilting his head up to watch as the sun begins its ascent.

Despite the ache in your chest, it’s so easy to be Mingyu’s friend, to act like you don’t love him so much that you could die. It’s easy to sit here in silence with him, shoulder to shoulder, elbows brushing, pretending that the moment, and the world, belongs to the two of you.

You zone out, concentrating on keeping your breath steady and thoughts reigned in. It isn’t until a tiny gasp catches in Mingyu’s throat that you’re looking away from the waves, first to him and then up above. Overhead, the sun has risen just enough to send a million colors across the sky. It’s a different palette from yesterday’s sunset, as orange and pink and blue swirl around each other. You stare, enraptured by the sight, and for a second, everything is perfect.

“Okay,” Mingyu says softly. “I get the hype now.”

You glance at him, trace your gaze along the cheeky smile, the wonder in his eyes. Your heart squeezes, and you nod in agreement.

Being here in this moment with him alone loosens your tongue, or maybe you’re still not completely sober because the words are escaping before you even have the thought to stop them.

“Why did you come, Mingyu?” Your eyes widen in horror as you hear your own voice above the gentle push and pull of the waves, but it’s too late to take anything back now.

The man blinks in surprise once, twice, leaning his cheek against a knee to fully look at you. “For the sunrise, silly.”

No, you want to exclaim. Why did you come this weekend? Why did you come alone? But you’re a coward, and you always have been, so you swallow away the rest and hum in response.

–

“Hey, Tiny. Come say hi.”

If the rasp of Mingyu’s voice isn’t enough, that dumb, aggravating nickname that he insists on teasing you with sends your stomach tumbling. He peers over at you innocently as he sits on a stool at the kitchen counter, holding his phone in one hand, his chin in the other, elbow propped up. You cut him a glare, peeking at the screen that he turns to you to find Seungkwan and Chan’s faces peering back at you.

“Oh!” You smile, pleasantly surprised. “Hi, Kwannie, Channie.”

“Hi, Tiny,” comes their response in unison, Chan’s mouth quirking up into a smirk and Seungkwan’s eyes widening mockingly. Little shits.

You scowl immediately, turning away with a sigh. “Sorry, I don’t talk to mean people.”

Thankfully, Chan and Seungkwan know exactly when to indulge someone, and they paw at the screen, blasting the speakers out with incoherent shrieks of apology. You chuckle, dipping behind to put your face besides Mingyu’s.

“Much better,” you nod. “Miss you guys.”

Chan’s grin softens, and Seungkwan splutters at the sudden tenderness, lips jutting out into a pout. “Wish we could’ve come too,” he ends up murmuring, gaze swimming with affection. “It’s been a while since we all got together.”

You chat with the two, and Mingyu interjects occasionally with his own quips until a notification drops from the top of his screen. His thumb swipes it away before you can fully make out the contact, but you do catch the purple heart emoji tagged after the end and your heart drops. You must freeze because Chan pauses in the midst of his sentence and his brow creases a little.

Mingyu takes advantage of the lull in conversation to mumble out a quick excuse and apology, “Hey, guys, I gotta go make a call real quick. Can we call back later?”

You both hurriedly say your goodbyes, before Mingyu’s pushing himself up and away from the kitchen counter without another word. Left alone, you hover for a few seconds, disappointed, before shuffling through the house to find your other friends.

You’re not going to let your weekend getaway be ruined by something like this.

And that’s how you find yourself, clinging to Seokmin’s shoulders as he marches deeper and deeper into the water. His arms hold strong, looped under your knees, and he just giggles, skin warm beneath your fingertips. Just ahead, Yujin teeters precariously atop Minghao’s shoulders, teeth flashing as she shrieks giddily.

“You’re quiet,” Seokmin notes, tilting his head back to look at you. “Everything alright?”

You just hold tighter, hiding your face away into his shoulder. It’d be so much easier to love Seokmin. You already do love him, for his infinite joy and compassion for others, for his positive, sunny presence. But it’s not the same, and it never would be the same. You hate yourself for these thoughts.

“Is it Mingyu?”

You frown and mumble his question away, “No, it’s just my dumb head thinking too much.” With a ruffle of his damp hair and a quick kiss to the cheek, you assure, “I’m okay. Thanks for worrying about me.”

Seokmin merely shies away at the touch, cackling bashfully. He drops his voice to a whisper, “Let’s go dunk those two.” Tightening his hold on you, he surges forward to the unsuspecting couple, and you lunge for Yujin, toppling her off of Minghao and into the sea, which sets off a round of screaming and splashing that makes you forget about everything. It’s hard to be lovesick when your friends are around, grabbing you by the waist to throw you into the water.

–

I can see that you’re hurting.

Your thumbs hover over the phone screen, eyes roving everywhere, anywhere, but that particular gray bubble in the message log with Lee Chan. Lee Chan, who’s so perceptive that he can read you like an open book through a fifteen minute video call. Lee Chan, who’s so in tune with his own emotions that he’s not afraid to call you out on your own.

Breathing a defeated sigh, you type out a response.

I’m doing alright, Channie. I’d rather see him and hurt than never see him again.

His message back is instant: You’re torturing yourself.

You dig a knuckle into a temple, easing the sharp jab that arises from the conversation. With another halfhearted attempt of reassuring Chan, you shut your phone off and pocket it, switching it out for the two pill bottles you’ve carried out with you. You continue what you were doing before Chan’s concern interrupted you, reaching for a mug in the cabinets and filling it with water.

In the midst of shaking out a single pill from each bottle, a gentle voice quivers out from the hall, making you jump and tense. As your luck would have it, it’s Mingyu, forehead creasing as he looks from your face to the labeled orange prescription bottles to the tiny pills in your palm. He holds an empty glass, as if he’s also come out for a drink of water. His face, initially cautious and guarded, opens up, confused and worried and devastated.

“Hey, Tiny,” he mumbles, padding closer and closer. “Everything alright?”

No, no, no, no. You had purposefully crept out of bed once the house settled into a prolonged silence, afraid that you'd run into one of the others. You freeze like a deer caught in headlights, pinned by Mingyu’s searching gaze on you.

When he gets close enough, you finally force yourself to move, hurriedly pocketing the bottles and tossing the pills into your mouth and swallowing them dry. In your panic, they get stuck halfway down your throat, and you have to gulp desperate mouthfuls of water down to dislodge them. Fuck, you’re making a mess of yourself.

Pull yourself together, you chide before urging a smile onto your face.

“Hey,” you murmur back, careful to keep your voice even. “I’m okay, just getting ready for bed. What are you doing up?”

He mutters a quiet reply, “Was on a call.” Right. He’s been on and off his phone all afternoon and night, ever since he scrambled away from the kitchen counter earlier in the morning. He had missed out on the entire beach session, only joining in with the group briefly for dinner, wearing a permanent furrow to his brow.

Despite your attempt at steering him away, Mingyu’s appraisal of your expression penetrates your soul, gaze slow and intentional. He doesn’t press, he never does, but his presence is firm and it’s clear that he’s not backing down without answers.

You shut your eyes in defeat, breathing through a few moments of working up the courage to vocalize something you haven’t told any of your friends. Not even Seokmin or Chan. Because saying it out loud, telling someone else, means that it’s real, means that you’re acknowledging that you are weak after all, despite all of your bravado.

As a last ditch attempt, you wince, “Do you have to know?”

“Yes,” Mingyu insists.

“Why?”

A long silence stretches between the two of you.

“Because you–” Mingyu cuts his words off abruptly, and when you glance up at him, his eyes widen imperceptibly, surprised. He hesitates, which is weird to see because Mingyu never dithers. He always, always barrels through things, whether he’s prepared for them or not. It’s one of the things you admire most about him, so when he falters, it’s your turn to give him a strange look. “Because I’m your friend,” he finally settles on, which makes your stomach sink in disappointment, “I’m worried about you, but you never let people worry about you, which frustrates me.”

Your chest could have been torn, ribs pulled apart to bare your aching, bleeding heart, and it would probably feel the same as you do now as you speak, throwing the words out into the cold, midnight air hollowly. “I take antidepressants. Helps with my anxiety.”

Mingyu exhales forcefully, as if his breath has been punched out from him. He moves automatically, reaching a hand up to cup your face, palm warm against your cheek. “How long?”

His touch is searing, and you ball your hands into fists to stop yourself from tearing yourself away from him or running or throwing up.

“Almost six months now.”

The day after you cried over Mingyu, you had promptly scheduled yourself a slot into a therapist’s office, who had been recommended to you by Yujin. About four months of therapy alone had proven insufficient, and your therapist had suggested medication, which you had greedily, almost desperately, accepted.

“Nobody else knows,” you start blabbing, stomach suddenly lurching with fear because now that one person knows, it’s only a matter of time before others do. Mingyu’s not a snitch, you know this somewhere deep inside your head, but maybe, just maybe, he’ll think that this is information that needs to be shared.

“Hey,” he rasps, but you barely acknowledge it, thoughts racing and dipping deeper and deeper into the swirl of dread and misery that exists constantly inside your head.

“Tiny.”

Only the slight irritation that spikes at the sound of the nickname rouses you from the spiral, and you return to the moment, frowning. Mingyu smiles, despite it all.

“I won’t tell a soul.”

He stays true to his word and doesn’t even bring it up the following morning, but he may as well be screaming at the top of his lungs that something is wrong, through his newfound devotion to hovering beside you at all times. You’ve been brushing past Yujin’s curious hums and dodging Minghao’s side eyeing all morning, but during lunch out at the beachside town, Mingyu pulls your salad away to manually cut the chicken breast into bite-sized pieces in front of everyone before handing the plate back over to you wordlessly. When Seokmin’s eyes appear to be bugging out of their sockets, you decide to intervene.

You have to catch him by the elbow, pulling him aside momentarily as the others step into a gift shop to hiss, “Okay, you’re freaking everyone out.”

Mingyu merely blinks his huge, guiltless eyes at you. “What do you mean?”

“You’re hovering. Stop that. I’m depressed, not dying.”

The man scratches at his neck sheepishly, swiveling his head from side to side to see if anyone has overheard. “Just trying to take care of you is all,” he shrugs.

You sigh. This is exactly why you’d chosen not to tell your friends anything. “I appreciate it,” you say, poking a fingertip against his chest (pretending that you don’t notice the way his firm skin barely gives way beneath the pressure). “But please, at least try to be subtle about it?”

Mingyu merely lets a grin split his face like an overjoyed puppy, as if he’s just glad you haven’t refused his special treatment.

You turn away and into the gift shop, ignoring the way the tips of your ears burn red-hot.

–

“So…”

You groan loudly, lifting an elbow out of the jacuzzi water to tuck your face into the crook of it.

“I didn’t even say anything yet!” Yujin protests as she quietly slips into the tub beside you, knees knocking against yours. She holds out a can of beer to you, which you politely refuse, having already had a moment of weakness on the first night.

“But!” She continues, gaze burning fierce with curiosity. “I think everyone has caught onto you guys, so spill.”

You blink owlishly, wondering what ideas your other friends have come up with. “Sorry to disappoint,” you say mildly, shrugging, “but nothing’s going on.”

Yujin gasps, scandalized. “Then why is Mingyu trailing after you like a lovesick puppy?”

Is that what it looks like? You want to laugh it off, but your friend’s words only lodge a tight knot in your throat that you can barely swallow around.

“He is not.”

“He totally is! Minghao told me that he saw you guys coming in together from the beach yesterday morning, so we assumed something happened then!”

You watch, pained, as Yujin excitedly spins a theory, and you must look pathetic enough because her own expression falls. “What?” Her voice lowers into a concerned whisper, and she reaches for your hand beneath the surface of the water.

“He’s definitely still with that girl.” You try not to sound bitter, squeezing at her fingers. “I saw her texting him, and they were calling the other day.”

“Oh,” she calls your name sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

You merely smile at her, wave away her concern. “Don’t be,” you insist, “It’s about time that I get over it anyway. I can’t keep living my life like this, right?”

“Right,” she affirms. “I’m proud of you.”

The two of you soak in the hot water for a few more minutes, chatting about everything and nothing at all, before Yujin complains about her wriggled fingertips. You’re just about covering up the jacuzzi, having sent your friend back inside the house ahead of you, when a patter of bare footsteps up the stairs to the deck from the beach catches your attention.

Mingyu has just climbed up from a night swim with the boys, hair drenched and tousled, water still clinging to his tan skin, shorts pressed to his strong thighs. His eyes are bright when he catches sight of you, and suddenly, you’re hyper aware of your own stare and quickly cast your gaze away.

“How’s the hot tub?” The man makes easy conversation, bending to pick up a towel from a stack that they’ve left conveniently on the deck. He roughly dries his hair, and you pointedly do not look at him as he does.

“Insanely nice,” you breathe honestly, pulling your own towel tightly around your shoulders to keep yourself concealed. “You and the boys should try it out.”

Mingyu hums in agreement, throwing his head over his shoulder to look towards the beach. Seokmin and Minghao are still chasing each other, kicking up sand as they go, voices pitched up in joy. “They don’t seem like they’ll be heading back anytime soon.” He shakes his head mirthfully.

Your stupid heart betrays you, mere minutes after you just told Yujin that you’d start trying to get over him. Defeated for now, you’re opening your mouth to bid him goodnight, when Mingyu speaks first.

“Listen,” he starts. Hesitates again. He crosses over the deck to tower right above you, standing so close that you can smell the salt on his skin. Mingyu reaches, hand resting heavy on your hip, and you’re beyond glad that your towel is wrapped tightly around your torso because if you felt his palm on your bare skin, you might have lost yourself completely.

Your breath catches, and you don’t take another, afraid that any movement will break the moment.

“I did some research,” Mingyu’s voice dips low, as if he’s sharing a secret with you. “Read somewhere that you shouldn’t mix alcohol and antidepressants, but you drank, didn’t you? The first night? That’s not good for your, Tiny.”

You freeze. This is the type of person that Mingyu is, you remind yourself. Someone whose physical touch comes as a natural instinct. Someone who notices and remembers things. Someone who looks things up out of concern.

The weight of his hand on your waist, the scent of his skin and the salt on it, the cloying uncertainty in his voice is all so dizzying that you might as well have been five drinks in now. He is your ruin, your undoing. So long as you are friends with him, you’ll never heal, you realize with dread.

Frightened, you take a few steps back, unable to look at him anymore. You manage a strangled squeak to wish him good night, before you’re all but running away.

When the next morning comes, you feign being sick, which isn’t completely a lie, since the incessant throb in your head is enough to keep you in bed. Yujin fusses over you, suggesting to call Minghao in and make him drive the three of you back to the city to take you home.

“No, no,” you insist, waving your hands up frantically. “It’s the last day that we’re here! Just enjoy yourselves without me. I think I just need to sleep in a little longer.” You even crack open your eyes to smile at her.

Yujin, thankfully, tucks you beneath the comforter tightly, leaving you with a soft kiss on the forehead and a promise that she’ll bring you back something to eat.

–

Mingyu’s very confused, and a little nervous, as his friends give him varying expressions of frustration and disbelief when he tells them that he broke up with his girlfriend a few months ago. Minghao holds his face in his hands, as if he doesn’t even want to look at him when he asks why.

He twists his lips from left to right as he ponders the question. What he told his ex were assorted excuses of “I just don’t see us being a long term thing” or “I think I just have too much on my plate right now”, but after this weekend, he’s not so sure anymore. Mingyu cautiously offers, “I don’t think she was the one. She keeps texting and calling me, though. I shouldn’t respond, but I feel so bad.”

Yujin cuts a glare at him, looking like she’s all but ready to kill him with nothing but the spoon clutched in her hand. She’s evidently a few mimosas in, and she hisses, “Kim Mingyu, you dumb, idiotic moron!”

He blinks in surprise. “Okay, you just called me stupid three different ways in one sentence.”

Seokmin sighs from beside him, poking his fork into the puddle of yolk leftover from his eggs benedict. “Well, you are pretty dumb,” is what his best friend tells him.

Mingyu pouts, a little hurt by the way his friends are treating him, especially when he just told them that he’s going through a breakup. “You guys are being mean,” he sulks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tiny wouldn’t treat me like this.”

At the sound of his nickname for you, everyone at the table looks at him, and now they’re all glaring at him. His poor little heart shrivels up in his chest, and Mingyu finally lets out a cry, “Can you guys just tell me what’s going on?”

“You have no right.” Yujin slurs angrily, jabbing her spoon in his direction. “No right to treat my girl like that!” Her voice pitches up a bit too loudly at the end, which causes patrons at the surrounding tables to turn and look. Minghao reaches to clap a palm over her mouth, using his other hand to pull her into his side and calm her down.

Seokmin, gentle soul that he is, softly mutters, “Have you ever considered that you might mean more than just a friend to her?”

Mingyu’s mind goes blank, as he falters. A million thoughts run through his head at a million miles per hour.

You’re the only one in the world who understands what it’s like to be led to the water by the ocean’s siren song. He doesn’t have to use words to explain what he feels to you, when he lets himself wander and finds himself skirting the edge of the beach, where the waves lap at his feet and pull away, leaving nothing but foam and bubbles. You’re the one who confided in him first, all those years ago, that you found the city too suffocating and heavy, that you were considering moving back to the island you were born on, despite your entire life being on the mainland. He had smiled and murmured that he wished he could do the same, and would want nothing more in life than to do that.

You, who he can always count on finding at the beach, as if magnetized to one another because your souls are made of the same stuff.

Mingyu’s breathless because his friends are right. He is a dumb, idiotic moron.

He runs back to the campgrounds ahead of his friends, all the way from town. He doesn’t bother checking your room or even going into the cabin because in his heart of hearts, he knows exactly where you are. Sure enough, he’s just coming up the small dune towards the shore when he catches sight of you, sitting with your knees tucked to your chest, head lolled to the side as you watch the water.

He can only see your back from where you are, and you look so tiny. That’s why he had started calling you it in the first place, so fond of how little you are compared to him, how your nose would inevitably scrunch up in objection whenever you heard the name.

Mingyu cannot believe how stupidly blind he’s been.

–

You hear your name being called, but your heart limps along, immune to the sudden appearance of his voice. Tightening your arms around your bent legs, you wait until Mingyu comes by to sit beside you, just like that morning you watched the sunrise together. His back rises and falls rapidly, huffing as if he’s run all the way back from town. Even when his breath settles, he doesn’t say a word, as if waiting for you to speak first.

You inhale shakily and then unload everything before you have the chance to doubt yourself.

“I can’t be friends with you anymore, Mingyu.”

The man soaks in the words, before he says plainly, “Okay. Because I can’t either.” He then leans forward, to crane his head and peer right into your face. Mingyu grins, bright as the sun. Your heart cleaves in two and you’re grasping at the remnants of your sanity to hold it together, and he’s smiling.

“–The fuck?!”

You bite your tongue to prevent hurling more expletives because this is certainly not the Kim Mingyu that you know and love.

His smile only widens, and he’s suddenly talking, words spilling from his mouth and stumbling over his lisp, “I know, by the way. I know that you love me. I know that you’re trying hard to pretend that you’re fine, when you’re not. I know I’ve been so, so stupid, and I’m sorry for that.”

Mingyu reaches across the space that he’s politely left between the two of you, one hand coming to cup your cheek, the other sweeping your hair back from your face gently. He holds and looks at you so tenderly, as if he’s scared of shattering you, and for the first time ever, you feel seen.

“What’s going on?” You manage to work out, but your voice comes out very small.

“I broke up with her months ago,” Mingyu says, as if that explains everything. “She didn’t understand who I was. But you…” A thumb delicately brushes over your cheekbone to catch a tear, and only then do you realize that you’re crying. The man’s smile crumples, and he dips to press his lips onto the top of your head, mumbling into your hair, “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

You gasp for a breath, forcefully trying to swallow away the sobs. All day, as you tossed and turned in bed alone, you had been working yourself up towards ending your friendship with Mingyu once and for all, to protect whatever pieces of your heart were left.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” you warble, finally holding onto him, fingers tightening around his shirt like it’s a lifeline.

Mingyu chortles, and it rumbles throughout his entire body.

“You won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”

–

“Um. What is that?”

Chan’s voice comes through, shrill and scandalized, from the other end of the line, and you can see the cogs turning in his head, as you quickly move to turn the collar of your shirt up and cover the burgeoning mark that Mingyu’s teeth have left on your skin. When Chan leaves the screen momentarily to frantically call Seungkwan over, you whip your head around to glare at Mingyu, who lounges in the armchair beside you lazily, a pleased grin curling onto his lips.

“I’m never hearing the end of this,” you mutter, just as Seungkwan enters the frame.

“What’s this about a hickey I’m hearing?” Seungkwan clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “What kind of low-grade, classless loser did you bring home with you?”

At that, Mingyu jolts up, straight as an arrow, brows furrowing. He starts whining his complaints as he comes over to your side.

You watch with amusement as the recognition of the voice registers in Seungkwan’s eyes first, then Chan’s. Then, Mingyu peeps his face into the camera. It’s actually quite comical, the way Chan and Seungkwan both slap their hands over their mouths, eyes stretching wide.

“What the–”

“–actual fuck?!”

You snicker a little, cheeks flushing as you catch sight of the little window on the phone screen that mirrors back your face pressed against Mingyu’s. He must notice it too because he catches your eye through the screen and leans in to smile against your mouth. A cacophony of groans and gags come from Chan and Seungkwan, but your heart swells, tight with love and affection.

bonus:

“Can’t believe I got called a ‘low-grade, classless loser’,” Mingyu mutters, laving his tongue over the mark on your throat. “Could a loser do this?” His voice drops low and raspy, deep inside of his chest, as his hands dip beneath your shirt and his fingers leave sinful trails along your stomach. As soon as Seungkwan and Chan had hung up the call, Mingyu had immediately pulled you onto the armchair, pinning you into the seat with his weight, knees pressed into the cushions on either side of your thighs.

You squirm, throwing your head back against the armchair in an attempt to create some space, but Mingyu just follows. His hooded gaze burns bright with affection, with desire, as he peers up at you.

Good lord, those eyes of his.

“H-Hey,” you stutter out when you feel the drag of his teeth against your clavicle, the sharp bite of his pointy canines. “Hey,” you repeat, pressing your hands firmly against his shoulders to push him back. “We never talked about the emoji.”

Mingyu’s half-listening, you can tell. He pretends that he’s looking at you, but he can barely meet your eyes, gaze dipping lower to your lips and then your throat. A tongue peeks out from the corner of his mouth, just before he’s trying to lean back in.

You scowl, threading your fingers through the soft hair at the back of his skull and tugging to pin him in place. Head forced back, Mingyu finally focuses, chest heaving. A soft whine catches in his throat and the tips of his ears flare bright red, and you would find it endearing if you weren’t trying to get answers.

“Baby,” he purrs. “That was so hot.”

“Down, boy.” You roll your eyes, loosening your grip on his hair. “The emoji. Explain it.”

“What emoji?”

“The heart emoji, next to your ex’s name in your phone.”

Mingyu pulls his brows together in thought, before he nibbles at his bottom lip sheepishly. “Okay, you’re not gonna like the answer.”

Your stomach turns uneasily, but you shrug anyway. “Tell me.”

The man sighs. “She’s the one who put it there in the first place, and I honestly, swear on my life, forgot that it was there. But she’s since been blocked and deleted!”

You narrow your eyes, contemplating his words. “Hm,” you say, watching Mingyu squirm under your scrutiny.

“Can I show you what you’re saved as in my contacts? Maybe it’ll make up for it.”

You nod, waiting as he taps at his phone to pull it up. When he turns the screen around to show you, and your gaze focuses on “the littlest tiny” with five blue hearts next to it, you can’t decide if you should kick him or kiss him.

Balking at your silence and lack of reaction, Mingyu pushes himself off of the chair to fall to his knees at your feet. He clasps his hands together and places them in your lap, eyes wide and shining with remorse. “I’m sorry,” he whines pitifully. “It was a joke, I promise!”

You regard him coolly, thoroughly enjoying the way his bottom lip quivers into a pout. Before you can stop yourself, you’re pressing a thumb against the seam of his mouth, watching with acute interest as it parts and his tongue, warm and soft, peeks out to meet the pad of your finger. The image sends your stomach tumbling.

“I love you,” Mingyu mumbles, extending an olive branch. “Only you, baby.”

You bite. “Prove it.”

You barely catch the glimpse of the smirk curling across Mingyu’s lips, before his strong arms lift you up and out of the armchair, into his chest, and towards your bedroom.

#seventeen fic #seventeen fanfic #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #mingyu x reader #mingyu x you #mingyu fluff #mingyu angst #mingyu fic #svt fluff #svt fanfic #svt x reader #svt x you

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nonbinoclard · 7 days ago

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>>> TUNES TO LOSE YOUR MIND TO <<<

KEEP IN MIND: This is a living playlist! Songs may be added and removed at times to further curate the vibe I'm going for. I'll try to keep this post updated, but you can just check out the link for an up-to-date track list.

(EDIT: Song discussions are not finished! I have a lot more to say. I'll reblog when I've updated.)

This is set in a sort of nebulous time between Harry's life right before Martinaise and the night before he lost his memory. I wanted this playlist to feel erratic-- full of manic energy one second, then slow and bleak the next, dreamy, unreal, then right back to ridiculous.

(In no particular order. Shuffle for full emotional whiplash effect.)

I Don't Like My Mind - Mitski

I don't like my mind, I don't like being left alone in a room [...] And then I get sick and throw up and there's another memory that gets stuck / Inside the walls of my skull waiting for its turn to talk / And it may be a few years, but you can bet it's there, waiting still

The days before cleaning out the rooms... also, eating an entire cake and throwing it all up again feels very harry-esque... Overindulgence

A whole cake, so please don't take / Take this job from me

End Of The World - Hether

I mean, I could just post the entire set of lyrics as evidence, tbh. Struggling to find meaning and purpose in his life in the wake of heartbreak (5 year old heartbreak, but who's counting anyway)

I wake up in the morning and I wonder / Why everything's the same as it was I can't understand / No I can't understand / How life goes on the way it does

Cane Shuga - Glass Animals

Baby, don't go / I'll stop breathing coke / No more bloody nose / No more John Does Burn through my love / Just like your drugs / I've had quite enough / Or lack thereof

This is about the last moments of Harry and Dora's relationship to me. The chorus (a kind of circular, endless, self-aggrandizing internal monologue likely fueled by stimulants, implied in the song) continuing after the second verse kind of reflects the solution for Lonesome Long Way Home.

"11 Voyager Road. You no longer live there. Those times are gone, and so are those people. Why did you come here? Why are you still here? And where’s the dealer? You have to get back to work. That’s all you have now."

Hot Venom - Miniature Tigers

Hot venom is mixing with my blood / I can feel it on my fingers and taste it on her tongue / It feels so good to fall in love with you

I've heard a lot of people say this song is about heroin addiction, which is thematically appropriate for this playlist, but also. Harry's unhealthy obsession with Dora/Dolores Dei. Adoration (and hatred) so strong it's killing him.

Her venom makes me strong / Stronger than I am on my own / Before too long, I'll wake up to it gone / Wondering how I ever was happy [...] You can't go back now; that's not how this works / And as long as she's gone, I can never be happy

Who Is She ? - I Monster

This is just straight up about Harry's recurring dream to me. Just. Gestures at the lyrics.

Oh, who is she? / A misty memory / A haunting face / Is she a lost embrace? Am I in love with just a theme? / Or is Ayesha just a dream?

I feel like it falls in line really well with the idea that Harry's mind has been affected by the Pale-- a lack of memory, or maybe mixed memories, in a misty haze beyond the boundaries of reality. (and maybe Dolores Dei has started haunting him via Pale? Like some theories I've read.)

Somewhere across the sea of time / A love immortal such as mine Will come to me / Eternally

I Don't Miss You at All - FINNEAS

Dummy - Portugal. The Man

F the World - The Northern Boys

You Stupid Bitch - Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV Show)

These shards are a metaphor for my soul Won't stop the self-pity 'cause I'm on a roll

This song perfectly captures the inherent melodrama of a mental downward spiral imo. Catastrophic and all-encompassing. This is what I think it sounds like in there (Harry's head).

You ruined everything / You stupid bitch / You ruined everything / You stupid, stupid bitch / You're just a lying little bitch who ruins things / And wants the world to burn / Bitch / You're a stupid bitch / And lose some weight

Oleander - Mother Mother

Intermission - Scissor Sisters

Skit #2 - Kanye West

Self explanatory. He's got no money. He's got no clothes. He has no car and he has no hoes.

We broke, broke broke phi broke We ain't got it Broke, broke, broke phi broke We ain't got it Don't spend no money, ain't got no clothes Ain't got no cars, ain't got no hoes

Nobody - Mitski

My God, I'm so lonely, so I open the window To hear sounds of people, to hear sounds of people

This one is more about the feeling of the song itself rather than the lyrics specifically; I love the upbeat tempo that continues through the song (trying to remain steady, continue working), how the beat is simple at first then builds into a kaleidoscope of sound by the end of the track (overwhelmed by the world), then ending in a distorted loop (trapped in a cycle). This song has always felt really authentic to my own experience with mental spirals. The themes of loneliness tie it all into a nice bow.

I'm A Broken Heart - the bird and the bee

Not Allowed - TV Girl

Party Time - The Northern Boys

Comfortably Numb - Scissor Sisters

(Do The) Act Like You Never Met Me - TV Girl

Novocaine For The Soul - Eels

Basket Case - Green Day

Do you have the time / to listen to me whine About nothing and everything all at once? I am one of those melodramatic fools / Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it

I just think this one fits him well during Martinaise... just shaken up and unloading trauma onto unsuspecting strangers like a can of soda (bad analogy lol), depending on the dialogue you choose.

I went to a shrink to analyze my dreams She says it's lack of sex that's bringing me down I went to a whore, she said my life's a bore So quit my whining 'cause it's bringing her down

Sometimes, I give myself the creeps / Sometimes, my mind plays tricks on me It all keeps adding up / I think I'm cracking up Am I just paranoid, or am I stoned?

Also it's just a little pathetic, which just... it fits. Sorry Harry.

Labyrinth - Miracle Musical

#disco elysium #de fanart #disco elysium fanart #de #harry du bois #my art #jams #character playlist

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booksandabeer · 9 months ago

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Celebrating 10 Years of CA:TWS — A Stucky Rec List

Rec list for the CA:TWS 10th Anniversary Event @catws-anniversary (thank you so much for organizing this event! 💙) | Prompt: Memories

10 years, huh? 10 years of Captain America: The Winter Soldier. 10 years of what many—myself included—still consider to be the best MCU movie ever made.

But also 10 years of post-TWS fanfiction. 10 years of Bucky Barnes Recovering and Steve Rogers' Sadness Errands; of Up All Night to Get Bucky and Revenge Road Trips; of Winter Soldier Trauma Umbrellas and Everybody Needing A Goddamn Hug; of Good Bros and Soft Epilogues. 10 years and tens of thousands of Steve/Bucky fics later, here we are.

So, to mark the occasion, let's take a trip down memory lane and celebrate the movie and the stories it inspired: One fic from each year since it all began:

There's really only one rule here: All fics are set before, during, or after the events of CA:TWS and/or reimagine its plot in interesting ways. Naturally, many of the fics on this list are post-TWS canon divergent, but I tried to go for a nice variety of length, genre, and popularity to keep it interesting. Speaking of popularity, this is very much not intended as a round-up of ‘most popular fics of each year’ because—and I say this with all the love and respect in my heart for those stories and their authors—nobody needs a rec list for that, and I believe in spreading the love. Here we go:

Poltergeists by enemyofrome | 17K, T

Author's summary: When the helicarriers blow up and the Winter Soldier goes on the run, he takes Steve with him. He's got a name written in Morse code on the inside of his arm, a ton of questions he doesn't know how to ask, and now, a new handler with absolutely zero sense of self-preservation to contend with. Life is hard. In which Bucky tries to figure out whether he's a human being, Steve does everything he can to keep from losing him again, and there are lots of explosions.

Starting off with one of the best versions of the 'Bucky didn't leave Steve, he took him with him after the Potomac' fics that were (and still are!) so popular post-TWS. This one stands out because of its fantastic beginning, its interesting take on how Bucky was broken and remade into the Winter Soldier, and because it allows both characters to be messy. It's a popular fanon trope that it's Steve who brings out a ruthless, almost vicious streak in Bucky, but here it's emphasized that this is very much a mutual thing. Just like Bucky, who's often afforded the "excuse" of still figuring out how to be a person again, Steve gets to be difficult here—without ever turning him into a stubborn asshole. They're both traumatized, and they're both allowed to show it and to lash out, including at each other. Also, this fic will give you capital-F Feelings about morse codes and apples. Believe me.

sleepwalk back to the battle site by ftmsteverogers | 22K, T

Author's summary: “I’m going to track down every HYDRA agent that’s left,” Bucky says, buckling his gun deftly to his belt. “And then I’m going to kill them.” “Oh,” Steve says. “Come with me?” Bucky asks, dangerous hands tucked into his pockets.

A classic post-TWS fic that picks up right after the movie ends. Equal parts Revenge Roadtrip, Bucky Barnes recovering, and Steve Rogers being in urgent need of a good hug. This starts out intensely melancholic—Steve's despair and helplessness are palpable and there's a scene involving a drinking glass that still brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. Halfway through, the story changes pace and becomes much more action-heavy, but it still manages to allow space for the quiet, intimate moments between Steve and Bucky. They have both become sharp and deadly men, but they're also allowed to be soft with each other. Their coming together feels sweet and inevitable. I also really enjoyed the Steve characterization here. His absolute conviction that Bucky is still Bucky at his very core and always will be, but also his emotional and intellectual flexibility to adapt to this still-new-to-him, changed version of Bucky rang very true to me.

Surveillance by Sproings, 7K in 2 parts, G

Author's summary: If there are ears everywhere, that means it's somebody's job to listen. I hate my job.

Do you ever think about how SHIELD bugged Steves DC apartment and how horrible that was, but also...you're kind of curious what they might have overheard? Do you ever wonder about the people who listened in on his sad, lonely life? Well, here you go. An outsider POV fic told "through the ears" of an unnamed SHIELD agent assigned to spy on the private life of a man who doesn't really have much of one. The story begins just before IM3 and takes us all the way through the events of CA:TWS and beyond. It's clever, original and told with great empathy for both the subject under surveillance and the person carrying out that surveillance—who increasingly questions its purpose. Here's a small snippet to give you an idea of the fic's style:

He got a phone call, once. He put it on speaker, too, which was very exciting for me at the time. It was from an archivist at the Smithsonian. They seemed really surprised that he answered his own phone calls. The two of them talked for a long time about an exhibit the museum was planning. A very long time. As if one of them was starstruck, and the other was desperate for any kind of human interaction.

What Gets You Through by velleities | 12K, M

Author's summary: For Steve, getting through each day is a process – one he’s currently failing at spectacularly. Feeling out of place in this brave new world, he hopes to find a home in Bucky, and looks for him with everything he’s got. But Bucky doesn’t want to be found, and when he does touch base with Steve, he never sticks around for long. Bucky has embraced the modern age, leaving Steve lagging behind – or so Steve believes, until Bucky shows him otherwise.

This post-TWS fic revolves around five encounters in liminal spaces, and each time Bucky has pieced himself back together again just a little more. Despite their increasingly longer and more honest conversations, and Bucky's incremental progress, he always disappears again, leaving Steve to grapple with his heartbreak. There are quietly gorgeous moments in this fic (the bus and the church in particular were my personal favorites) as well as wonderfully crafted characterizations. Bucky is initially portrayed as somewhat feral in some ways yet surprisingly well-adjusted in others, and I love that Steve can't help but be a little annoyed at that. However, it quickly becomes clear that, in good old Bucky Barnes fashion, much of it is really just a front put up for Steve's benefit...

A Real Boy by itsnotbleak | 5K, T

Author's summary: It took the Winter Soldier three weeks to remember that human beings needed to sleep and eat. It took Steve far too long to realise the Winter Soldier was sleeping in his bed.

A wonderful, short-but-doesn't-feel-like-it fic (in the very best way) set immediately after CA:TWS, in which Bucky secretly and then soon not so secretly visits Steve in his apartment. Follow along as Bucky Barnes argues with his brain about sandwich toppings, the importance of a good night's sleep, and the necessity of personal hygiene. Also: how to best go about becoming a real boy (again). And who the hell is that Bucky guy anway? This is as soft and sweet a Bucky recovery fic as you're ever going to find. It's funny but not silly; sad in a way that all of these stories inherently are—because, well, these are some tragic boys—but not super angsty or depressing. A beautiful story with a lovely, hopeful ending.

Savage God by PottersPink | 36K, M

Author's summary (abbr.): Past, present, future, Steve knows Bucky Barnes. It’s why he recognized him when he found him in that alley in April of 1942, even though Bucky was older, stronger, wearier; he called himself The Asset, and had a metal fucking arm. He flinched when Steve tried to touch him, and when Steve told him he loved him, his first response was to ask why. Seventy years later, Steve wakes up in the twenty-first century, and he doesn’t know whether to be heartbroken or hopeful when some of the things Bucky revealed to him in 1942 start falling into place.

An absolutely riveting AU that will have you on the edge of your seat the whole time. I'm itching to talk about it more but I cannot since it would mean spoiling the hell out of it. What I can say is that it's a very intriguing and clever exploration of what would happen if Steve knew about the future but without really knowing any of the details. How would it change the events of CA:TFA and CA:TWS, and how would it change Steve himself? I so very much appreciate this characterization of Steve as smart, competent, and unwavering with a hefty dose of no fucks left to give. This fic features some really nifty time travel and plotting, great action sequences and a very satisfying ending where certain people get their much-deserved comeuppance. Plus: Bonus Shrinkyclinks (kind of)!

Charlie Lock by seapigeon | 105K, M (hard M)

Author's summary (abbr.): The Winter Soldier knows that sometimes, in order to make the kill, you must destroy what the Target lives for. Steve Rogers knows that he can't fight his captors. If he fights, they'll kill Bucky. But the price of his life is steep. Tony Stark has nothing left to live for, but he's needed. So all these miserable motherfuckers better stay alive, too. Clint Barton never expected to be a leader. But a leader he is, and no one else is going to die on his watch. --- A story in which the first wave of Project Insight succeeds, and the Avengers must pick up the pieces and find a way to stop Hydra from completing its work with Zola's algorithm.

This is not only the longest fic on this list, but also the angstiest one—by a mile, so please heed the tags. It's dark, disturbing, and brutal. However, it is neither relentless misery porn nor is it shocking for shock's sake, where everything is magically forgotten and/or healed the moment Steve and Bucky start kissing. Instead, the author puts these characters into an absolutely horrifying situation and then slowly, gently guides them out of it and into the light.

It's a Stucky fic but it's also a multi-POV ensemble piece featuring all the Avengers and other familiar faces. If you are someone who'll always be a little bitter about the unfulfilled promise of an Avengers found family, then this is for you. In this AU, they do not only fight together, but grow together in every way. They truly become a team, not just co-workers barely tolerating each other. The story takes its time exploring the characters and the group dynamics. Steve and Bucky are definitely at the center of the narrative but there is space here for every member of the team to grieve and adjust to the new reality and to find at least some measure of healing. It's a story about the meaning and the consequences of revenge, about hope and resilience, and about love in all its many forms. It also has one of the most satisfying title drops that will have you pump your fist in triumph when it happens. It's a tough read, but ultimately a very rewarding one.

SPELEVINK by Ginny_Potter | 10K, G

Author's summary: Bucky’s back. He’s leaving me messages through IKEA plushies, Steve texts Sam. jesus christ, rogers, Sam texts back. Or, Bucky lives in an IKEA Tiny Apartment, Steve is a dancing monkey once again, and somehow they find their way back to each other.

This is an absolute DELIGHT of a fic that will have you alternately laughing out loud and crying quietly into your SVARTFIBBLA blanket (super-soft, recycled polyester, 47x63"). It's ‘crack treated seriously’ at its very best and a clear homage to the fandom classic Infinite Coffee… (that’s not a dig or a spoiler, the author says so in the author’s note).

Now if you know me, you’ll know that angst o’clock is my happy hour and I’m usually not very into these heavy-on the-humor quasi-absurdist fics (because I’m super special and not like all the other girls, obviously). But. I LOVED this story so, so much. It’s such a fun read—even when it makes you cry—and it really became one of those ‘huh, I guess I’m into this after all’ moments of joyful (self)discovery via fanfic for me. I never thought a pair of oven mitts could move me like that, and I'll never be able to walk into an IKEA again without muttering "F******!" under my breath (iykyk). Absolutely fantastic.

a handful of dust by RecoveringTheSatellites | 20K, M

Author's summary: Steve looks for Bucky for a long time. But the thing is that Bucky doesn't get found, Bucky finds. Bucky always finds Steve. This takes a hard left after the Potomac and stumbles through the dark a lot after. Take a bit of running, the occasional synaptic misfire, the resurfacing of old memories, a dash or two of PTSD, and (eventually) a nice dose of action, stir, and serve over some unresolved issues.

Honestly, the second paragraph up there perfectly sums up the story. It's a good ol' fashioned Bucky recovery fic with some angst, some action, and a whole lot of healing and devotion. Steve and Bucky get to be very sappy about each other, but also extremely Badass Battle Boyfriends™ when somebody threatens their hard-won happiness. Both are allowed to be messy, unstable, and very co-dependent.

This was the first time this author played in the Stucky sandbox and I mean it 100% as a compliment when I say that you can tell. This is someone with "fresh legs" diving headfirst and very deep into the Stucky trope pool and they're doing it with great relish and enthusiam. The result is a story that rejects some of the tried and true conventions of the post-TWS fanfic canon and lovingly embraces others, but that is definitely aware of and in dialogue with the body of work that came before it. Also, it's just a really fun read that gives these two the very soft ending they deserve.

Everybody is Supposed to be Dead by pollutedstar | 22K, M

Author's summary: In 1944, Bucky Barnes falls off a train into the Alps, missing and presumed dead. Months later, Steve Rogers nosedives a plane into the arctic. In 2010, the Winter Soldier project is uncovered by S.H.I.E.L.D., and Bucky Barnes is found alive. Three years later, Steve Rogers’ frozen body is found in the ocean.

A really interesting AU and a fascinating exploration of what could’ve been; the impact it would’ve had on the events and characters if Bucky had been the one to be “found” first. How would it affect Steve to come back into a world where he isn’t quite so lonely and adrift, and where he does have the relief and reassurance of having Bucky by his side and at his back? How would that have changed the way he acted and reacted to this strange new world and the people and organizations trying to recruit him to their cause even though the ice hasn't even completely melted off his body yet?

There are a lot of astute and precise observations about characters like Tony, Natasha, and Clint in this story, and on top of that, it offers up some very compelling insights into Steve's conflicted and difficult relationship with his role as Captain America.

it's never over (hey orpheus) by romcommie | 12K WIP, 2/?, M

Author's summary: He remembers a song first and then everything else follows, burying him below. Or, Bucky Barnes pieces a life back together with a few choice verses, some duct tape and seventy years worth of spite. Steve Rogers tries very hard to relearn there's a life to be lived in the first place.

Ok, listen up, people! This is a WIP and there are only 2 chapters posted so far, but I haven't felt this absolutely bonkers excited about a post-CA:TWS fic in a long while. We're talking frothing at the mouth here. I have such a massive crush on this fic, it's a bit embarrassing, really. It's one of those fics where you know after just a few paragraphs that you're in very good, very competent hands. The wealth of historical and cultural detail; the way the story shifts/flips/flickers back and forth between time, perspective and narrative levels; the Bucky voice—it's all so well done! I'm so insanely excited to see where the author takes this!

ENJOY!

#catws10 #stucky #stucky fic rec #stucky fic #stucky rec list #steve x bucky #stucky fic recs #steve x bucky fic rec #stevebucky fic rec #stevebucky #my recs #*drops this and runs aways* this rec list nearly gave me an aneurysm. you're welcome!

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