#getting all teared up over comments and kudos

[ronsenburg]

I really have been so lucky with this whole fandom thing, you know? I’ve met some really cool people, everyone has always been so nice and supportive. It’s always been so fun and I’m so grateful for that. Thank you all ❤️❤️❤️

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

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

FIVE YEARS LATER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat locks up with tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re really not saying yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay. Weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You squint at him. Liar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop.

This is. This is new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sammy,” you sob out.

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

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

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

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

“Take it off,” he rasps.

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

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then don’t.” He begs.

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

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

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

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

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God, I love you,” he moans.

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

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sammy!” You choke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me you love me again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lie to me, you’d begged him. 

…And Sam had.

_

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

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[rogueddie]

Disabled Steve / Eddie Fics

Important: READ THE TAGS! Also, leave a comment and kudos! These fics are amazing and I love them and I hope y'all do too 🦻

give me a sign

findmeinthewychelm

It was sweet torture the way Steve was pining over him. Robin was sick of listening to him talk about Eddie, but she also hadn’t stopped him yet.

Words : 4,235 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

what would you trade the pain for (i'm not sure)

Library_of_Gage

Steve doesn't bother anyone with his chronic pain; it's something he'd rather keep to himself. And then it spikes in the Upside Down, in front of Eddie Munson, and Steve slowly starts to learn that, sometimes, sharing what hurts does help.

Words : 8,230 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Our Love is Shown in the Letting Go

Xxbottlecapxx

Steve’s mother comes home and has to deal with the fact that she has no idea who her son is, and maybe never will.

Words : 10,189 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Not Rated

AO3 : x

Who Am I to Say What Any of This Means?

IndigoFudge

Eddie’s eyebrows are raised. He’s speaking deliberately. “My first grade teacher set up a meeting with Wayne and told him she thought I had autism. So Wayne took me to the doctors and it turned out she was right.”

He is still looking at Steve. Oh. Steve’s been staring at him like an idiot for forty seconds instead of acknowledging this important, incredibly personal detail that he has just shared. Steve remembers eye contact––one, two, three––then answers. “That’s cool.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, carefully. “Have you ever been tested? Because I’ve been noticing… When I look at you, I kinda see some signs.”

Words : 7,371 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

she'll know me crazy, soothe me daily (better yet, she wouldn't care)

jewishrat420

Eddie doesn’t really cry about this anymore. He’s long since shed his own personal tears of pity, spent enough time mourning a different life. He’s accepted it, for the most part, doesn’t really give a shit about being normal or whatever. No one’s normal.

But this…Eddie’s not used to this. He’s never had someone hold his face in their hands, look him dead in the eyes and say, “Eddie Munson. For better or for worse, and fuck, I know this is worse, I want to know you.”

Words : 3,988 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

the beginning of a bad joke

alligator_writes

At the beginning of his rant, lecture, whatever, Hottie stares right at him. He has a really intense stare. Pretty brown eyes set in a prettier face with even prettier hair on top of his head. Eddie gets distracted by all that pretty and by trying to make his point.

And he doesn’t notice until halfway through that Hottie isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s looking at his friend.

Eddie looks at her, too. Looks at her confused and focused expression. Looks at her hands moving rapidly.

Oh. G-d.

Hottie’s deaf, isn’t he?

Words : 7,083 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

I Took The Good Times, I’ll Take The Bad Times (I Take You Just The Way You Are)

steddieeddie

In 1984, Eddie Munson told Steve he was going to marry him one day laying in the quiet confines of Steve’s room.

In 1985, they broke up. It wasn’t because they wanted to, but because Steve thought they had to. They spent almost an entire year apart, hurting, wondering about what could have been.

In 1986, Steve Harrington was almost fatally injured in the final attack against The Upside Down, against Vecna. He spent seventy six days comatose, and then almost an entire year in the hospital learning how to be a person again. He learns how to open and close his hands, hold things, and how to feed himself again. Steve learns how to stand, how to walk, going from walker to cane by the time he is allowed to go home.

In 1987, he did just that. He goes home.

It was a slow process. Way slower than Steve wanted it to be, but it was worth it.

Sure, his hands were never going to work the same, there was constant pain in his arms and left leg, and he would never walk without a cane, but at least he’s alive.

He made it.

That was what mattered.

Words : 30,101 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Kinktober day 21, Biting - Toby, GN

You might be wondering, Aubrie, didn't you say you'd only post these written out on AO3 so they'd all be together? And, yes, I did say that, but I am making today an exception because I feel this fic is very viscerally my canon yandere Toby and I want it on the blog.

You can still click right here to find it on AO3 and leave any comments or kudos as that would be much appreciated <3

But I also just. I wanted this to be in my yandere tag, as I finally wrote yandere Toby and biting with actual smut.

CWs for this one; dub-con into possible consent, biting, blood, depictions of gore, cannibalism as a very direct metaphor for love, I guess cannibalism as love???, Toby being insane, Reader losing themselves to his insanity, Stockholm syndrome. It really just is Toby basically biting and kind of eating the reader while reader can't decide if they consent or not. (There's also some secret lyrics from a song hidden in there I was listening to while writing <3)

I had a very visceral reaction in one of the ending scenes of this and had to tone it down because it made me so uncomfortable, but I do really REALLY love this as one of my yandere Toby fics. Please enjoy <3

"It wo-wouldn't be so bad if y-you stopped resisting." His tone did little to calm your anxious squirming, his hips holding your own down, hands restraining yours above your head. The blood that coated his lips wasn't his own, and the soreness in your shoulder pressed the tears blooming in your eyes to trail free. You knew from past experience that regardless of how hard you struggled or resisted, even if you'd fully submit to him, the pain would still sting with the same intensity, and he'd provoke you however he could to get a reaction out of you. You opened your mouth to respond, and his eyes narrowed in warning for you not to speak.

"Just let me h-have some f-fun." A twisted smile blooming on his cheeks had you trembling once more as he pulled a switchblade out of his back pocket, flipped it open, and pressed it jarringly softly into your abdomen, slicing cleanly through your clothing but leaving your skin free of blood. No, Toby wouldn't cut you with it, he'd much rather draw the blood out of your skin himself. He licked his lips, your blood smearing across them, as he watched your clothes peel off your skin, and he switched both of your wrists into one of his larger hands so he could remove your clothes, leaving you bare beneath him as his eyes devoured you.

It was one of the few times he still looked soft and loving, when his hooded eyes roamed your figure, his hand softly tracing and caressing with a gentleness you were rarely given. It was moments like this where you could almost believe he still loved you, that he was still your sweet, caring Toby that you'd fallen in love with, but the blood shining on his teeth as he smiled at you was quick to squash that thought. Hand trailing back up your body to rest at your throat, squeezing firmly as he looked over your face, your eyes widening in fear, tears staining your cheeks, the giggle leaving his throat far too happy.

"S-so cute!" He cooed at you, leaning down to press kisses to your cheeks, his tongue slipping out to lick up the remaining drops of tears on your skin, leaving a watery red trail as it went. His licks turned to kisses once more as he pressed them fervently to your lips, giving you a taste of the iron of your blood, before pausing with an irritated sigh as he backed up from you. "Don't m-move them." He glared at you as he painfully squeezed your wrists, and you nodded quickly, wanting the pain to cease. He finally released you, but you obeyed, out of fear more than anything else, and with his extra hand he was quick to begin working his pants off, his mouth once more on yours, impatient moans leaving him as his body twitched above you. You had little time to react as his hands touched you once more, hoisting your legs up and revealing the vulnerable area between your thighs, his grip intentionally squeezing into the areas he'd bruised violently earlier that evening. He separated from your lips once more to appraise the area, a smile far too wide appearing on his face as he began to pump his cock, lining himself up at your entrance without any preparation.

"Toby, wait, please, you haven't-" Your words were halted by a cry tearing from your throat as he pushed inside of you anyway, a deep groan leaving his throat as the warmth of your body enveloped him. He narrowed his eyes at you once more, his hand grabbing yours, bringing it to his lips as he pressed delicate kisses to your wrists. Your heart was thudding in your chest, a whine already leaving your throat as you could feel what was coming. "W-what makes y-you think you d-deserve preparation?" It was chilling, how cold and cruel his voice could be, but before you could respond tears were leaking from your eyes once more as he teasingly nipped at your wrist, before plunging his teeth into the soft skin of it.

Your head tipped back with a scream and it caused him to moan in response, his cock throbbing inside of you as he began to move in and out of you in slow thrusts, his teeth pressing firmer and firmer into your wrist until he could taste your blood on his tongue once more. It was the same process, every single time he wanted to fuck you, every time he wanted to pleasure himself without a care in the world for if you wanted this or not. His tongue lapped eagerly at your bleeding wrist as he fucked into you, moans slipping out of him as easily as tears and cries were slipping out of you. You wanted to hurt him, to make him experience the same pain he'd make you experience every day, but the fear of what would happen if you tried, keeping your right arm held above your head as he continued to hold your left, the throbbing in your broken ankles a reminder not to cross him.

You tried your best to focus on the pleasure, to focus on his cock moving in and out of you instead of on his teeth trailing further up your arm, a trail of red smearing across your skin in a way he always described as divinely bewitching. Your cries alternating between moans from the sensation of his cock dragging along your walls to sobs from a particularly painful bite had Toby losing himself above you, his hips stuttering as he'd lose focus of his thrusting and slip above you. By the time he'd made it back to your throat your arm was beginning to go numb from the pain lacing through it, his mouth once again smeared with blood as he hovered above you, panting heavily as he rutted into you as if his life depended on it. His eyes roamed over your body, looking for purchase, looking for the next place he wanted to destroy with his teeth, and as they always did, his eyes landed on his favorite area of your body. He descended to press passionate kisses to your jaw, trailing them down your neck and licking and sucking, lavishing you with attention as your moans increased in volume. Despite his rough treatment, you could feel yourself drawing closer and closer to your end as he hammered into the spot that would always make your vision go white. You finally broke the rule of not moving your hands to wrap them around his back, gripping onto him for stability in a way that made him think you were enjoying this far more than you were.

"T-that's i-it! Keep enjoying y-yourself!" The excitement in his voice had chills running down your spine, but you couldn't argue back, preferring to surrender yourself to the pleasure fogging up your mind and making you forget who you were and where you were, making you forget who the monster doing this to you was. Your mind buzzed, your vision blurring from the mix of euphoria and blood loss, spacing out and dissociating as you surrendered your body to the man who lived solely to defile it. It was so beautiful, your spacey expression, the blood mixing across your skin, his head was reeling, doing his best to show you just how much he loved you. Causing all of this blood to spill out of you, licking it up and drowning in it, it made him feel so high, so positively intoxicated, presenting his love to you in the deep red color coating your skin. He was so giddy, so filled with absolute joy at the thought that maybe you were finally starting to love him again, that you'd no longer found him so unusual, that you were accepting that this was your life now, embracing it and treasuring it just as he did. Oh, it made him so happy! He felt as if he could explode from euphoria as his pace increased, animalistic grunts and groans roaring out of him as he did his best to try and make you feel as good as he did.

He couldn't remember the last time he felt this happy, maybe not since the first time he'd done this to you. That fateful day all those years ago when he'd lured you here on the false promise of it being an adventurous date, only to lock you up in here forever, right where you belonged. To pin you down and bloody your body, to force himself on you in a way he'd been longing to for far too long, it had been the most exciting day of his life, defiling your body and showing you how much he loved you, the way he loved you. You were the only person whose blood he'd tasted, and it goes to show how much he loved you, that tasing your blood was in fact how he loved you. Drawing blood, your life force, out of you and indulging in it as if it were the finest meal in the entire world, what better way was there to express his unending devotion to you? He recentered himself from memory lane by licking your blood off of his teeth, his eyes rolling back into his head as he trembled above you. There was no better feeling than doing this, and knowing you were finally enjoying it as much as he did was driving him unquestionably insane.

You didn't know how much time had passed since you zoned out, floating above your body in the space between pleasure and unconsciousness, but you'd soon find yourself pulled back down to earth. As your orgasm slammed into you, you'd felt yourself screaming at the top of your lungs, not from pleasure, but from Toby sinking his teeth all the way into the side of your neck, squishing your flesh and causing blood to soak the bed beneath you as his impulses took over him, giddy laughter and moans vibrating from deep inside of him as he gorged himself on your blood and skin. You clawed and screamed and begged, but he wouldn't let go of you, not when he met his own climax right alongside you, not when he coughed and choked on the blood filling up his mouth, not when he slipped his tongue inside of your neck, slid it through the gaping holes his top and bottom teeth had left inside of you and had you crying out from pain and discomfort. It was revolting, it was disgusting, it was violating, it was quite possibly the worst thing he's ever made you feel, and yet it had been the very thing to trigger your orgasm and have you falling apart underneath him. Your cries shifted from pain to revulsion at your body for enjoying such a thing, and an incredibly dark thought focused in your mind, the realization that over the last few years, he'd been conditioning you, conditioning your body to accept this, to associate it with pleasure. His cock throbbed inside of you, throbbed like your arm, throbbed like your neck, and it felt good. You felt euphoric in a way you'd never felt before, and as he curled up beside you, as he pressed his lips to yours, as your blood coated the inside of your mouth as his tongue caressed yours, a horribly intrusive and repulsive thought you'd been promising yourself you'd never have filled your mind as you lost yourself to the darkness of blood loss. Were you falling in love with him again, in love with this monster, this horribly sick man? And, even worse…

Were you finally starting to enjoy it?

[wolvesroampastelgalaxies]

Edit: All chapters up on AO3 & Tumblr

It's over now, the music of the night. My OCD is crazy and I have never completed a multi chapter fic. I truly have no desire to delve deeper into the fandom. This has cured my depression over it. Time to resume my NSFW content. Me and my own younger brother have been trying to reconcile and right before I wrote this we had a falling out. Maybe thats why I'm putting too much into it. Thank you all for the kudos, comments, re-blogs, and the new followers I gained. Bless.

As always,

:P

Second Star To The Right And Straight On Home ⭐️ (Part 2)

Dimmedelphia was rich in history, instrumental to the founding of the nation, a massive contemporary influence on modern culture, home to countless iconic monuments: and Timmy had just hurled all over one of its sidewalks.

    “Sorry,” he mumbles, feeling the queasiness subside, “it’s been a minute.”

    “Yeah, guess it’s harder to travel this way once you get older.” Peri says, looking away so he doesn’t throw up. 

  The human didn’t like the word ‘older,’ sure, it was true but instant relocation through supernatural means was hard on anyone. He doesn’t linger on the thought long when he notices the steps leading up to the brick apartment building before them. It should have been obvious they would not still be living in a fishbowl. This just seemed too normal for housing fairies. 

    “Mom and dad have been living as humans. Albeit not very well.” Peri rolls his eyes, “You should see them with the mail.” 

    Timmy reaches and pokes his crown out of place.  “You’re one to talk, maybe try working on your own disguise.” 

    “Stalling, are you?” Peri says with a quirk of his brow, righting his crown.

    “Totally stalling.” 

  The fairy can sympathize, it had been a total of 10 thousand years of time travel before he saw his parents again. He felt the same anxiety trying to avoid them. He had had all the time before then to prepare for the inevitable. Timmy has had maybe half an hour. But he won't let his brother face it alone.

    “Well, common!” He offers an encouraging smile, mounting the stairs.                                 

                         💫 💫 💫                                                                

    “Coming! Totally average human putting on average human pants to answer the human door!” 

  Peri cringes, hiding his face in one hand. He peeks through his fingers, watching as what must be a hundred different memories cloud Timmy’s usually bright, blue eyes. He places a slim hand on his shoulder, lightly squeezing him into focus. It had taken him a moment to gather courage before pressing the doorbell.

    “He - he sounds the same.” He says in disbelief. 

  Even Cosmo’s yelp of pain as he whacks himself in the head with the door is the perfect pitch he remembers. That’s why it’s so discombobulating to see his former godparent not look exactly as he remembers. Cosmo is definitely trying to look human, channeling an eccentric dad. Just like Peri however, the eyes haven’t changed, as dog, fish, or anything else and he’d know it was his fairy. 

  They aren’t yours anymore. 

  Timmy’s nerves bounce all throughout his body as they stare at each other. He chuckles somewhat manically.

    “Hey Cosmo-

    “TIMMY!” 

  He chokes on fairy dust and can’t manage to clear his throat of it with the death hold around his neck. But if he died this way then that'd be okay. He could easily push Cosmo off but instead hugs him back, feeling the now smaller fairy form. He and Peri had already admitted that more tears were to come so he lost little pride in feeling his eyes start to water. Cosmo does release him, but Timmy goes cross eyed with how close the green fairy is. Cosmo pushes and pulls at Timmy’s face, his already in a downpour. The iridescent wings go a million miles a minute creating a light buzzing noise.

    “Timmy! It’s really you!” He sobs. And as if he just notices his son, he cries harder. “Look Peri! It’s Timmy! And he knows my na-na- naaaame!”

    “I know dad, I’m the one that brought him here.” 

  Usually, he’s embarrassed by his father’s dramatic behavior, even if it is genuine, but now it’s becoming contagious. Peri is the only one to notice as a door opens and closes down the hall. He might be able to slip past suspicion by saying he’s wearing a costume, but there is no way to explain the 3 foot something, green guy with wings, having a meltdown in the doorway. 

  Alright, better move this inside.

  He probably saves Timmy some added wrinkles by shoving them in the apartment, dislodging his dad. Besides, he can finally get back to his normal self as well.

                               💫 💫 💫

  Wanda could have instantly whipped up a pie. The laborious task she took on was more on principle. She could practice being human and bake something with real food. They were going to have dinner with Hazel’s family tomorrow night once they got back from her father’s conference. She and her husband tried to put some distance between themselves and Mr. Wells. Their new god kid could handle a day without them. Unlike their last one, he needed constant supervision. Wanda had treated -

    “TIMMY!” 

  Cherry syrup coated her face, it oozed its way down to her blouse, a single cherry sticking to her nose. She really thought the 3rd time was the charm. Her dear, stupid, sweet husband’s yelp shocked her and now she has no issue with using her wand to poof away the mess. Wanda isn’t too surprised at the content of the exclamation. Cosmo had frequent bouts like this. She was able to keep it together, even if it hurt just as much. With Peri being back home now, it was glaringly obvious of the missing piece.

    “Cosmo, we talked about moving ‘crying over Timmy time’ to Tuesdays and it’s Sunday dear.” She calls from the kitchen, moving her way to the living room. 

    “I - I know, but he - he didn’t wait till Tuesday. He’s here nooow!” Cosmo wanted to stop crying, but it seemed so natural now that Timmy was back. He remembers he cried all the time back then. Mostly from fear at the situations they ended up in, but now he was crying over all the good times. He misses him every day. Sundays especially.

  Wanda had been married for centuries but there were things Cosmo said that still needed clarifying. It became crystal, no, there was no need to be crystal clear. Not when there was nothing in the way of her kid and her husband clinging to his arm.

  Oh no, no he’s not a kid. He’s- 

  Timmy did not have much time to recover from the last dusting before getting blasted with another. This time, a much gentler pair of hands cupped his cheeks to keep him still for the firing squad of kisses crossing his face. As suffocating as this was, he wanted to stay like this. The last time they had been this close was a sort of death. He wants a hello to replace the goodbye. What was years apart for the fairies had hit Timmy all in one day. 

    “Oh, look at you Sport!” Wanda coos, his old pet name sounding comforting. “You’ve almost grown into those teeth!”

  The human shook his head and managed to create some space between them, Cosmo about needing the jaws of life to remove.

    “‘Almost?’” His voice sounds in the midst of puberty. There is a forced, short laugh as he uses his work shirt to dry up his face for the umpteenth time today. The lipstick marks can stay for just a bit longer. 

  Wanda reaches for Cosmo’s hands, the glitter and tears making gemstones out of their eyes. 

    “You and Peri have grown into such handsome boys.” Wanda sniffles.

  Peri thinks he’d been forgotten at that moment. Now his parents had literal hearts floating around their heads as they looked at him and Timmy. 

    The latter, who apparently hadn’t noticed Peri’s transformation, manages to sound snarky. “I’m not sure if he’s grown, but he does look older.”

    “You know what? Mom might be right; your teeth still do look a bit too big.”

     Cosmo beams at his wife, “Aww, aren’t they adorable arguing? They learned from the best.”

   Their former god-kid, now with full use of his senses, took in the pastel, bubblegum interior. Most of the accent colors were pink and green. It was …. different from his bare minimum, bachelor box of an apartment. He obviously didn’t have a window to fairy world. Timmy looks out dumb struck, the clouds, glimmering buildings, and dazzling light create an avalanche of memories piling up in his mind.  

    Cosmo fly's over to his side, bracing his arm on Timmy’s shoulder. “Ahh, isn’t it pretty? Remember how many times you almost destroyed it?” He said dreamily, if it wasn’t Cosmo, it might have been taken as an accusation. 

    “I saved it just as many!”

  Wanda was about to quip that he saved it from his own destruction, but she stops herself. How did Timmy remember? They were there when Jorgan cast the spell all god-kids are cursed too. As painful as it was to think about, even now with him standing here, they had been there till the end. Cosmo and Wanda had seen that look countless times and they knew when Timmy was lost to them. 

    “Hey Kiddo,” she tentatively says, “How do you remember…well everything??”

  He had not considered that. What exactly caused this? The question compels him away from the view. 

    “I mean not everything. It - it’s been coming back in pieces.”

    A pinched, worrying expression shadows her face, “That’s not what I mean.”

Peri is shifting in place, wings humming in a nervous way as he bites at a nail. 

  Did not expect this. Well, yeah you did, I just didn’t want to answer for it. 

    “I was at work, and this bird. It - I don’t know how, but I thought of you guys. I went to my old room and then Poo- Peri was there. Then, I remembered, I guess.”

  All their gazes slide to the young fairy, hand caught in the cookie jar. 

      Even Cosmo starts to look tense, wringing his hands. “Per, what did you do?”

      He’s never been good under pressure. “OkaysoImighthaveusedDevtomakeawishthatTimmywouldrememberhisgod-parentsandbeapartoourfamilyforever.” 

  Peri has never seen his mother truly mad at him. Disappointed or upset, sure. But everything pink turns to a scarlet red. 

    “You asked your god-kid to make YOU a wish?!”

    “You have a god-kid?” Timmy blanches. 

  He raises his arms in self-defense, covering his head as he squirms under his mother's rage. 

    “Don’t be upset! I found a loophole! Like you said!” 

    “Oh Peri,” his father says, equally fearful of his wife, “that’s not a loophole. You broke the rules.”

    Peri pales, “No, no. Then, how did it work?” 

    “Do you realize that you could lose your magic!” Wanda’s words aren’t scolding, they evaporate him.

     “He’s got a point! If it wasn’t a loophole, then it shouldn’t have worked. And I obviously remember you guys.”

  The silence balances on a tightrope tension between them all. Fortunately, Timmy is an expert at avoiding responsibility and consequences. He’ll admit that maybe he hadn’t grown into his teeth, but it adds a boyish charm, and he’ll need to lay it on thick to distract Wanda. 

    “You said you had a god-kid?” He says with growing awe and a grin. 

    Peri catches what he’s throwing, though he’s not as practiced. “O-oh yeah. Yeah, I do! He’s a total nightmare. The worst really.” 

    Cosmo’s blissful idiocy is the final sale as he laughs, “Ha, oh no! Timmy was the worst god-kid we ever had! Probably the worst god-kid anyone could ever have!”

   Wanda knows exactly what the boys’ are up to, even if Cosmo doesn’t. Any anger dissipates watching Timmy’s face fall into devastation. It’s not like there’d be a resolution this very second anyway. Timmy flinches, expecting to be knocked on the head; instead, he feels Wanda’s warm palm on his cheek.”

    “It’s because you made for a much better son.”

  Timmy has no more tears to cry, his eyes just shine.

    “Of course, what did you think I meant?” 

  Oh, her dear, stupid, sweet husband. 

💫 💫💫                                                                                                                                                

   Magic is awesome. He really took it for granted as a kid, but as an adult he sees its true value. They don’t have to use a free trial on some streaming service, they can just watch Sleazy and Cheezy. Every. Single. Episode. All in a row. And they do. 

  There is no need to go to the store or wash dishes when you can conjure up spaghetti from thin air. Or fabric cleaner when you're busting at the seams from some nonsensical story your dad makes, and spill said spaghetti all over the couch. He didn’t even have to go out and buy a toothbrush! His little brother just waves his wand after teasing him on how he vomited. Timmy didn’t hold anything back about the use of his baby-rattle after that. They stay up most the night chattering like schoolgirls about Peri’s name change (it was babyish, but his god-parenting license said differently), reminiscing on past wishes and their (often horrible) outcomes, and on his first god-kid. Timmy could see why Dev would be difficult for Peri, having dismissive parents could make kids seem selfish and harsh: he would know. 

  Different as they are, fairies and humans alike need to sleep. Timmy passes out, stretched on the couch. If Peri could see himself curled under his brother’s arm, he’d deny it was actually him. Cosmo had no reservation clinging to Timmy’s leg. 

  Wanda was still awake, listening to the TV and how everyone of them had the unfortunate habit of snoring. She was deeply troubled about Peri’s ‘loophole.’ The wish he granted for Dev should not have worked. As a baby his magic had been powerful as any fairy infant but had also bent the rules. They were small discrepancies she and Cosmo had noticed: like when he was able to allow Timmy to cheat or enchant humans to do whatever his toddler heart desired. Peri’s wording of the wish was also concerning; to be a part of their family forever. Magic was fickle in its direction if not given clear instructions. It followed the true intentions of its user and forever could mean many things. She was certain that her younger son didn’t plan to lose his brother to old age. Of course, it would be Timmy Turner to upheaval the system and he had taught their little Poofiy very well on how to do it. 

  It did not matter at that moment watching her boys snuggled on the couch. Cosmo hardly stirred when she moved him up on the seat cushion and rested her head on his chest. Regardless of the implications of this wish or the events that would follow they’d face as they always did, with some magic and as a complete family.

[adhdprincess]

TLOU rec-list for fics with less than 100 kudos!

If you don't have much time to read, rebloging is a great way to show support. Let's uplift these talented fic writers!

Cuddle up with some Fluff

Rest - 3k words, Joel gets sick in Jackson. It's filled to the brim with lots of banter and sweet family-shaped moments. Also, Ellie doesn't live in the shed!

New Seasons - 5k words, Outside of Jackson, Joel gets a migraine. Ellie takes care of him and it’s just so sweet. I have a cavity, guys 🥹 Both by: ABeckoningCat, @inherstars on Tumblr

bear with me - 700 words, Ellie spots a bear outside the walls of Jackson. Joel’s reactions are funny as hell. By: @bearrycool on Ao3 and Tumblr

if i could give you the moon - 4.5k words, 10-year-old Ellie meets Riley. Fluffy shenanigans ensue, wrapped up in a beautiful ending. Happy belated fic-erversary! By: @becomethesun on Ao3 and Tumblr

When the Party's Over - 2k words, Ellie attends a party in Jackson, but her anxiety takes over. Hurt/comfort vibes? Check! Fluff and angst? Double check! By: @paigegonerogue on Ao3 and Tumblr

Tear your heart out with Angst

Dear Shadow, Alive and Well(WIP) - 30k words, A gritty, immersive multi-chapter set after Ellie, Tommy, and Dina return from Seattle. The prose, the imagery, and the dialogue are all BEAUTIFUL! This story has killed me. @wicked--loving--lies I'm throwing you all of the virtual flowers!! 💐 By: Wickedlovinglies, @wicked--loving--lies on Tumblr

Arsonist's Lullaby - 4.5k, A character study of Joel and his relationship with anger. The angst had me clawing at the floor. The writing is AMAZING! By: fae_the_gay27

think I’ll miss you forever… - 1.5k words, A character study of Ellie after the major character death in TLOU2. Beautiful prose and I think I’ll cry actually 😭. By: @crystalflys on Ao3 and Tumblr

March 2, 2038 (tw gore) - 1.5k words, Might be the saddest fic I’ve ever read, but the angst is so good. This takes place right after the major death in TLOU2. By: Three_kittens_in_a_trench_coat

Journey through these AUs!

sangfroid - 3k words, Joel and Tess have an oops baby and it's Ellie. This is so beautiful and has an awesome twist at the end. By: Glitter_Gecko, @seethesunny on Tumblr

Calamity's Child - 10k words, An AU where Joel is a trans man set after the events of TLOU1. It’s very fluffy with a good helping of angst and so well written! By: Fiachra, @consultingzoologist on Tumblr

Ashes denote that Fire was(WIP) - 3.5k words, A firefighter🔥 AU. Ellie is feral, Joel is bewildered, and Tess is a banter queen. This AU is such a fun read! By: @bumblepony on Ao3 and Tumblr

Roll for Halloween Hijacks - 5.5k words, On Halloween, in a no-outbtreak AU, Joel joins Ellie and her friends to play a tabletop game. It’s so fluffy and communal and everyone is alive! By: MichiMe, @freetobeyouandmichi-me on Tumblr & @marceltheshellwithflipflopson on Ao3 and Tumblr

If you read a story and enjoy, consider leaving a comment! Writers love encouraging comments, even if it's just a heart emoji ❤️.

This rec-list is here to uplift the wonderful writing community in this fandom. Please share this around to show support for writers!

Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the divider!

[kimberbohwrites]

Can't believe I hit 150 Followers that fast. Thank you. I wrote my little heart out to get this done in time.

Do I Wanna Know?

Featuring a prompt from @sorceresssundries who handed out song-based prompts and assigned me: "Do I Wanna Know?" by: The Arctic Monkeys. Rated: Explicit, MDNI, 18+ (Smut) Word Count: 3,165 Kudos/Comment on AO3

The air was thick and humid, it hung heavy on the city, clinging in all the worst ways — like a wet blanket. It had been like this for days now, with nary a breeze to grant them even a moment’s solace from the oppressive heat. Children ran down to splash in the Chionthar, while adults lounged in the shadiest spaces they could find and fanned themselves — hoping for a moment of reprieve from the sun. Baldur’s Gate ground to a halt in the face of a sustained heatwave, filling the long summer days with an unusually lazy energy for such a bustling city.

It wasn’t the temperature that agitated the grouchy tiefling as he sat in his desk chair, a different heat had been consuming his body and soul. It had been weeks since the final battle and he hadn’t seen or heard from Tav. Sure, he had heard of her survival through the paper and the gossip on the streets. But that wasn’t the same.

The last time he’d seen her things had been awkward to say the very least. She had defeated, with his assistance, his abusive former master and the mantle of the Archwizard of Baldur’s Gate had suddenly fallen to him. Every moment since then had been filled with the constant demand from his new responsibilities but in the back of his mind, Tav constantly lingered. It had taken him too long to realize his obvious feelings. It wasn’t until just before the final battle, when he considered losing her for the first time, that he became fully aware. He hadn’t slept in the days that followed that, not until he was sure she had survived.

And yet, she hadn’t stopped by to see him, there was so much to do he knew, rebuilding and resting, but her absence still hounded him like an itch gone unscratched. When his eyes closed at night, she was always waiting for him. He let himself dream of a reality where it was her, in the flesh, waiting for him in his bed each night. Hours of sleep were lost to imagining how she would feel against him, under him — imagining her taste or how she might sound as she cried out for him.

He’d felt a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach when he’d started touching himself to these thoughts. Trying to turn his mind elsewhere had failed and the first time he’d come to the thought of her he had almost passed out from the pleasure. There was no turning back for him now and like a dehydrated sailor at sea who drinks saltwater, it had only worsened the problem and drove him to seek release to his fantasies of her more often.

He’d become desperate for her, and he felt a little pathetic.

The worst part was the constant wondering. Could she ever feel the same? Did he even want to know the answer? Would he ever see her again? These damned questions nagged at him more than any heat could. After a few evening glasses of Arabellen Dry, he’d found he could think of nothing else and letting his questions consume him. It made him feel better to imagine that she was doing the same, in her cups and thinking of him. 

In his imagination and even in his dreams, she comes bounding to his door to confess her love, all flushed cheeks and bleary eyes. Lately there seemed to be no escape from her hold over him.

His siblings had been nothing but helpful, always picking on his pining for her and the fact that he never acted on it. They had tried to take his mind off things, and he’d gone out with them, only for them to point out attractive people he might approach. He’d even tried to be a good sport, tried to chat up whomever they pointed out, tried to find them interesting but there was never any spark. Before long he’d realized the problem was that in his mind, he was already Tav’s. Tears had brimmed in his eyes and a heaviness had set in his heart when he realized that even if he never saw her again, he’d always be hers.

It wasn’t fair.

Surely, she had done some trick, some cheat to make him feel this way? How else could he explain this constant longing that he felt. He was an arch mage, for gods sake, he was resigned to pull himself together. Every time he thought he’d managed to banish the obsession he was humbled by failure once more, most recently by a street performer out in front of the shop.

He’d been closing up after a long, steaming day and as he’d gone to lock the doors he spotted the buskers setting up to ply their trade for the evening. Even a city as lively at night as The Gate can fall victim to an influx of evening debauchery when the days had proven to be too warm for life’s pleasures. So, the performers in the heatwave had taken to setting up after sundown, better to catch a paying audience on these busy, sinful summer nights.

The musician was inconsequential to Rolan. It was the opening ballad he’d strummed that Rolan had overheard as he locked up that caught his attention. The opening notes stopped him in his tracks before he’d closed the doors, the song was one of the ones Alfira had played that night at the Emerald Grove, when they’d spent the evening under the stars in celebration of their continued survival. He’d spent the night trying to work up the courage to talk to her, not understanding then that the anxiety he felt in his gut was the beginning of all of this.

Finally, after some liquid courage, a few dazzling spells, and her adoring applause he’d approached her just as Alfira had struck up this very song.

“I love this one,” she’d said

He’d barely heard her, distracted by her eyes in firelight, how could he have not known then?

“Beautiful,” he’d said before he realized his mouth was moving.

“It is, isn’t it?” She’d agreed

In hindsight he was almost positive he wasn’t talking about the song, but he had been grateful for the easy out. As his mind drifted back from the memory of her breathtaking eyes, the bard had finished the song and Rolan strode out with a hand fishing in his pocket for coins.

“Play it again”

The coins plunked into the case as the bard grinned at the handsome tip and began the song over. Rolan strode away slowly back to the tower, letting the melody hold him in that beautiful memory once more. In truth he’d have paid the musician a small fortune to play the song over and over until he’d drifted off to sleep if he was sure that Cal and Lia wouldn’t have caught him. He’d fallen asleep to thoughts of her and dreamed of her that night, and every night following that tenday.

The hot days continued, growing to an intolerable level. Maybe that was why he’d agreed to go out again with his siblings. This time instead of the Blushing Mermaid they were hitting up the Elfsong Tavern to visit Alfira and Lakrissa, Dammon, and the rest of the group. Alfira had reserved the rooftop for a special sundown party in the small but lovely space.

As the sun went down a cool breeze began to blow off the Sea of Swords for the first time since the start of the heatwave. It picked up the strands of his hair and lightly tossed them as the wind kissed his sweat soaked skin, finally cooling him off for the first time in days. He was already one glass of wine in when he spotted her coming up from the ladder that led to the roof.

Tav was here.

He tried not to notice her, instead engrossing himself deeper in his talk with Dammon about some ore or another — to be honest he hadn’t been listening but was content to nod along. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her be greeted by their hosts, who were clearly thrilled to see her. She looked beautiful. It didn’t matter if he’d noted a few new minor scars on her skin, likely from the final battle — she was a vision of beauty regardless. Her bright smile seemed to radiate light even after sundown. Her laughter, the very same sweet melody that haunted him. 

When she finally approached him after a few minutes, he was already fighting to play it cool.

“It feels like it might rain,” she said casually to him as a greeting, her bright smile forcing his heart to skip a beat or two.

“Preposterous, it’s been bone dry for weeks”

“Then I suppose it’s high time for some rain, huh?”

He didn’t respond. Thinking carefully about his words.

His eyes swept up and down her frame, admiring the curves and the toned muscle displayed in the minimal sundress she’d worn against the heat. Gods he wanted her so bad and here she was, just a few inches away. But there was no way that she would want him too, he’d already convinced himself of that fact.

“You haven’t visited,”

“Did you miss me, Rolan?”

The blush that crept across his cheeks was only disguised by the evening as he glanced away to compose himself. Even though the rooftop was filled with at least a dozen other people he knew, whenever he spoke with Tav it felt like they were the only two people around. When he turned his attention back to her, he couldn’t help but flick his gaze down to her lips for the briefest second. Gods how he felt the constant urge to put his lips on hers, threatening to plunge him into madness.

“Cal and Lia miss you, is all”

Before she could respond, a single fat rain drop plopped down on her cheek and she glanced up. After a moment a few more heavy drops of rain followed and people began to flee the roof to protect their drinks and fine clothes. The temperature dropped quickly but Rolan didn’t move, maintaining eye contact with Tav as the roof cleared. All around them steam hissed up from the quenched streets and stonework. He’d waited too long to see her, and he wasn’t wasting this moment.

The rain had charged the air between them, or maybe it was the fact that they were alone — but something had shifted the atmosphere.

“Rolan—“

“Quiet.”

She looked shocked, almost stricken until he blurted the rest out.

“Can I kiss you?”

The shock lingered on her face only a moment longer, replaced by a coy smile as she nodded in agreement.

He was on her in a moment, lips pressed to hers, fingers in her wet hair. The drinks they’d been holding crashed to the ground as they lunged at each other with an unrestrained passion. He felt her tongue on his lips and opened up to her, angling her face to deepen their kiss as the rain came down around them.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

He panted out the truth when they finally broke only for oxygen.

“Me too”

He pushed her up against a stone column on the roof with a sudden movement at her confession, claiming her lips with his once more.

“Rolan —“She gasped out, “Are you sure? We shouldn’t do this if you aren’t sure.”

He broke away and pressed his forehead against hers.

“I have dreamed of you, of this, every night for longer than I care to admit. Tav I missed you, not Cal, not Lia — I missed you. So much so that had I known where you were I would have crawled to be there by your side. I- I love you, Tav.”

The storm, the rain, it all faded away when he heard her breathe out her next five words with tears in her beautiful eyes.

“I love you too, Rolan.”

He kissed her hard, wrapping her legs around his waist as his tail coiled around her ankles to hold her there. She tasted like wine and fresh summer rain. Deceptively strong, Rolan lifted her easily from against the wall and carried her to the only slight shelter available on the roof. It was a small, covered area, safely out of sight of any onlookers or would-be voyeurs on the ground. 

“Mine” he growled between kisses as he gently lowered her to the ground with him on top, supporting his weight on his forearms. His body caging hers against the elements.

“Yours” she murmured sweetly in agreement.

Her hands eagerly shot up to begin stripping the wet clothes from his body, her soft fingers tracing the ridges on any exposed skin she could find. He groaned into the hot kisses he laved down her neck and ground his hard length against her core. She was so openly eager for him, and it drove him to the brink of a feral lust. She moaned as she felt his tail coil up and around her leg, up the skirt of her dress. Before long she’d worked off his robes and his top, their lips never leaving each other’s skin as her fingers traced down his ridged torso. When she began to untie the laces of his trousers, a wry laugh escaped him as pretended to chastise her.

“My, my, greedy as always, aren’t we?”

She bit her lip and groaned in response, his words having the desired effect. At the same time the spade of his tail made contact with her dripping cunt and Rolan was surprised to discover it was bare. A low moan of need followed her groan as she felt his tail begin to stroke at her folds.

“Rolan,” she gasped

He covered her mouth with hers once more with another bruising kiss, still too eager for her and caught up in the moment. His tail gently teased at her entrance, swirling around and preparing her while his hands lowered her dress and exposed her breasts to him. Moving down to tongue at an exposed nipple while gently rolling the other between his claws, ever cautious of his horns at this angle.

Her hands stroked his hardened cock from the moment she freed it from his pants, applying a gentle but firm pressure as she worked him in her fist. He was groaning into her skin as he licked and sucked at every exposed part he could find. Meanwhile his tail pushed into her, slowly working in and out of her warmth as he prepared her. No longer could she contain her pleasure in small sounds, if not for the rain her moans would be heard clearly from the ground. 

Surely the heatwave had driven him to madness over the previous weeks or he’d died of a related affliction and hadn’t realized it. It seemed impossible that he could be on top of the Tav, fucking her with his tail while she jerked him off and screamed for more. But when he opened his eyes, she was still there, now begging for him.

“Please, please Rolan” she moaned as he worked her to her first climax with his tail, hands, and mouth.

“First,” He stopped and slowly licked from her belly button up to her sternum, tasting the fresh rainwater from on her supple skin, “cum on my tail, Tav.”

That was all it took. He felt her walls clench and flutter around him, as she called his name and drenched his tail with her desire. It had been lucky that in her pleasure she’d let go of his cock. Otherwise, he was sure he would have finished just from her hand and the sound of his name on her lips as she came undone just for him.

Gently removing his tail, he lined himself up with her entrance, now better prepared for his size. He may have been shy about the many tiefling traits he’d inherited but he’d never complained about his size. Nor had he ever heard a complaint from any lover, for that matter. Leaning up to kiss her, he looked deeply into her eyes, finally not afraid to let his unabashed love show through — with a silent question he searched to be sure he wasn’t going too far.

“Rolan,” she mewled desperately

He plunged into her, gritting his teeth to keep from cumming on the spot. They moaned in tandem at the sensation, their bodies fitting together in a way that left them lightheaded.

“Gods you feel perfect” he ground out

“Fuck,” she moaned, “You’re huge”

He remained motionless, allowing her time to adjust to his size and fighting the growing urge to claim her roughly on the ground like an animal. Next time he’d have her in his bed and he’d fuck her through the mattress. But not on the hard roof of the Elfsong, and thus he fought against his instincts.

Once she nodded for him to continue, he began to rock in and out of her gently. Even with taking his tail first she was still tight around him, and he could feel the ridges of his cock drag against her walls deep within. He cursed himself for pining after her for so long as he began to fuck into her deeper, he already knew he wouldn’t last long now that he was inside her. Determined to prove himself in body, he needed to make her scream for him at once more before he could finish for himself.

He dropped to put her knees on his shoulders, using his tail to hold them together behind his neck as he adjusted his angle to pound deeper into her. Gently, as to avoid his claws, he used the pads of his fingers to rub her clit — eliciting cries of pleasure from her that were so sinfully perfect, he knew they’d fill his dreams until his last day.

“Rolannnn,” She nearly wailed his name as her cunt began to clench and flutter around his cock.  

“That’s it Tav, do it for me, cum for me, you’re mine.”

He coached her over the edge into bliss and watched her eyes roll back in her head as she screamed his name and came all over his cock. That was it for him, he buried himself deep within her and came with a grunt. Filling her as he ground his hips into hers, he dropped her legs and kissed her again. Breathless from their collective ecstasy, only the sound of their pants and the delicate evening rain hung between them.

“I want this,” He finally broke the silence, feeling bolder with her in his arms.

“Me too, we could be together, if you wanted to.” Rolan couldn’t help but smile into the next kiss he gave hers. After all this time of being hers, finally she was his too.

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Vampire's Kiss | Chapter Three

Pairing | Vampire!Jungkook x Reader

Word Count | 4,4k

Warnings | +18, trouble for MC is not over, use of a dating app to look for someone, Jungkook is absolutely cute and sexy, kisses, fluff

⤷ Summary | Humans have finally unveiled and accepted the centuries-old existence of vampires, in a modern world people share their lives with these peculiar and mysterious creatures, but it is not all roses.

Will two souls belonging to such different species be able to be together?

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! ❤️

I apologize to all of you who have waited so long for chapter third to arrive, I'm really sorry, but life has been really hectic and I'm also working on many other stories, so I hope you enjoy the chapter now 😭💕

Let me know what you think, I always love your comments ❤️

Taglist: @katherine-kookie @peterstarkchrishiddleston @reallygenerouskoala @btsuga-d @angelicsmilesworld @jimincrystal @velvet-stardust2002 @ke1k029 @kylafox09 @pantara @takemeaway5402

Chapter List - Previous - Next

You're going to kill Park Jimin.

It's been a whole week since that party and you're still spinning in your head his words, which had the effect of making you even more depressed.

“In truth ... they specifically told me that they don't believe our relationship, they will only believe it when we go to their house for lunch.”

The idea of spending time with them again haunts you, Jimin had said one evening. One.

Yet, you still have to help him, because his parents did not see passion from both of you, you were blatantly fake in their opinion.

Well, kudos to Father and Mother Park, you certainly don't lack the nose like bloodhounds!

But why at their home of all places? Are they going to secretly feed you to their servants? You shudder just thinking about it. They are certainly up to something, Jimin repeats to you that you should stay calm, but it is easy for him to talk. You are nothing to them, just a dirt stain on their perfect son's shirt.

You must be eliminated somehow.

But the worst thing about all those days spent thinking and agonizing between you and you is the wrong idea that Jungkook may have gotten about you.

Shit, he's just a guy you met briefly at a party, so why can't you get him out of your head?

You always think back to the way he held you close, to his cautious and sweet look whenever he tried a more direct approach with you... and there they are, the damn butterflies! They don't leave you alone for a moment, your wormy little brain even dares to loop back his last words, before Jimin cursed Park ruined the atmosphere.

You roll over on the bed hugging your faithful stuffed animal you've been carrying around since childhood, gazing into his inane black eyes, you sigh.

“What should I do, Little Sunshine?” but the teddy bear, predictably, does not answer you.

He has left without deigning you another glance, perhaps seeing you there with Jimin he must have thought of who knows what, they know each other and must know of your best friend's reputation as a womanizer.

You violently plant a hand in your face, long ago to fuck Jimin it was enough to be his acquaintance, it wasn't necessary to get up to girlfriend status, you may have said Jimin is just a friend ... but in someone else's eyes there may still be a possibility that the two of you are some sort of fuck buddies.

Besides, why else would a human like you willingly accompany a vampire like Jimin?

You feel like screaming like crazy, you don't just do it because you sense your phone ringing in the darkness of the room.

You try to compose yourself, imagining it was a business call, but it turns out to belong to your best friend.

You stare at the phone screen with tears in your eyes almost.

<<Ellen!>> you shout, on the other side your friend whines, <<My sweetest Ellen! You called at just the right time>>.

<<You scream like that again and I'll block the phone in your face!>>.

You ignore her empty threat and begin to tell her what happened with Jimin and about the meeting with Jungkook, omitting nothing. By the end of the explanation you are out of breath and your eyes are glazed over, why do you have to feel that way about a stranger? What is happening to you.

<<Let me understand... Jimin asked you to be his fake girlfriend and this Jungkook, whom you described as more handsome than a normal vampire, flirted with you for at least half an hour or so and then left offended?>>.

You frown, <<He didn't flirt with me! He was just being nice...>>.

You hear a laugh stifled on the other end of the line, <<I used to say the same about Shawn and look at him now, chained to me in the sacred bond of marriage>> a smile escapes you… actually it doesn't sound bad.

<<What should I do?>> you ask more to yourself than to her.

<<Uhm... you said he works with Seokjin, right? Isn't Seokjin the creator of Vampire's Kiss? Maybe he's on that site too, try looking for him... and maybe contact him, they even created a very convenient app!>> you widen your eyes. Sure! That could work...

<<But what if he doesn't want to hear from me? I mean, he didn't leave on the best of terms, surely he must have thought of something strange>>.

<<Take your balls out and look for him! You said you felt something different next to him, right? Don't let such an opportunity pass you by, what you felt doesn't happen to everyone ... and for your sanity and mine too, put your mind at rest once and for all>>.

You nod, she has a point, then you hear her stifle a shriek.

<<Wait a minute! ... You said that just looking at him turned you on-!>> you close the call in half a second, redder than a tomato! There, that thing you might as well have avoided revealing it to her, even if it simply slipped out of your mouth without realizing it ... such a thing has never happened to you, neither with humans nor with vampires, that was a detail as embarrassing as it was surprising.

You make a decision and install Vampire's Kiss on your cell phone, the app's simple and intuitive screen allows you to enter your account right away, go to the purple heart with the magnifying glass and search for Jeon Jungkook.

The results are immediate and the search leads you to no less than five users, but only one is the one that immediately hits you like a bouquet of soft flowers in the middle of your face.

He is right there, posing for a photo taken in the middle of a summer day, not at all concerned about possible sunburn, and you smile instinctively at his caption, which is short and absolutely adorable.

So your impression was right, this is a good guy. You zoom in on the photo and look admiringly at the sunlight softly shining on him, he is also smiling and without thinking about it you take a screenshot, do you look crazy? Probably yes, but your chest tightens at the idea of not being able to see him every day.

It's really crazy... it's just a stranger.

But you and this stranger have one thing in common. The two of you are desperate for love, to the point of signing up for a dating site to find it, your finger trembling, undecided whether to press your purple heart to follow him and thus engage in conversation with him or just drop everything and move on from your lightning-fast meeting at the party.

You turn off the phone with a sigh. Even if you wanted to try, you are nothing compared to him. You would only have wasted his precious time.

“But seeing you there, under the moonlight, I-”

You shake your head violently, it's no use daydreaming, he didn't even finish the sentence. That only indicates one thing, that it was not meant for you two to continue the acquaintance, period.

Suddenly an annoying noise starts from your stomach, you cast a glance at the time -- 2:11 p.m., you haven't even had lunch and there is nothing edible in the fridge, in short, the typical life of a single career woman. But below the house there are several small stores open 24 hours a day that sell noodles and allow you to cook them immediately after purchase. Yes, you would have graciously taken advantage of their services, that is also the beauty of living in Korea, every place becomes home.

You turn on the light and look around for your shoes, heedless of the eyes burning at the sudden impact.

Next mission: don't starve.

You look thoughtfully at the shelf stuffed with packages of noodles, there are all flavors and colors, but maybe you'll have to buy some instant cook rice too to satiate your stomach more, and speaking of your stomach, you hear it growling once again.

Ungrateful, why doesn't it give you time to think?

You grab a packet of spicy chicken-flavored noodles on the fly, then reconsider -- better two.

Excited to eat, you jump merrily without looking over your shoulder, like the clueless fool that you are, you feel your head collide with something sharp and immediately see the stars in the middle of the convenience store, a stifled moan escapes your lips and you squeeze your eyes shut trying to chase that pain away, being interrupted by another unexpected moan of distress.

You turn back to the source and notice a boy behind you, head down, you can just make out a wonderful mass of dark, wavy hair.

You blanch, your own flushes of pain sidelined. Did you hurt him? Medical bills are fucking expensive.

"I-I'm sorry! Did I hurt you very much? I didn't want to, believe me."

The boy makes a strange noise, as if he has suddenly held his breath, then slowly his head rises and you find yourself going wide-eyed.

In front of you Jungkook in casual clothes and a jacket far larger than his own size is holding his chin with one hand.

“Gosh, you knocked me out,” he chuckles with difficulty, removes his hand and you see a red spot take shape on that area of smooth, soft skin, “I didn't think I'd find you here....”

You're frozen, you can't utter a single word, the only thing that assures you you're still alive is the slow pulsing of the bump on your head, but is this guy made of granite or what? A very sexy granite, of that there is no doubt.

"I didn't... I didn't think so either” for the simple fact that not even twenty minutes earlier you looked him up on a dating app, then clandestinely saved his picture like a poor desperate spinster.

"Are you okay? I think you were the one who got the hardest hit,” he asks worriedly, out of the corner of your eye you notice how his hand tries to rise, but he instantly lowers it, you gloss over the incident by waving yours away.

"No, absolutely! I'm fine, I'm so sorry, I'm stupid,” you mutter to yourself, feeling guilty.

You see him looking around carefully, “I'll get you some ice, wait here!” not even time to tell him to let it go, it vanishes in an instant.

You lower your eyes to the packages of noodles, “This happened because I never buy real food, right?”

You both find yourselves so seated face to face in front of the convenience store, you're uncomfortably pressing ice on what appears to be quite a bloody good bump. Jungkook just stares at you with that innocent look on his face, is he seriously a vampire?

You take the floor, trying to fill that uncomfortable silence, deliberately ignoring the palpitations of your heart, “Does it still hurt?” you point to his chin, which seems to have returned to normal coloring, in fact he denies it.

“It's okay, for us vampires pain is momentary, we heal quickly.”

Okay, now what?

There, meeting him was not some kind of miracle, but a curse.

"Um... you look different, I mean... with these clothes you look normal, no wait! I mean you look great even without clothes, No! T-those elegant clothes! But you look fabulous even like this, really!” you stumble over your own words and god, you want to hole up in some dirty hole on top of a remote mountain. You look great without clothes, really?!

“Hey, hey, don't worry, you look very good in your normal clothes too,” he smiles amused, then changes his expression, “Did you have a good time at the party when I left? I apologize for how I left you, I don't usually go to parties and I don't know how to behave,” he explains, his voice sounds colorless, different from the sweet voice he used before and even during your first meeting.

Something has been bothering him and you even know what it is, or at least you think so. You shouldn't worry about it, but you like him and want to clear it up.

You take a breath, “Jungkook, I don't know what you thought seeing me there with Jimin, but I assure you we're just friends, there's no romantic or ... well, sexual interest,” you just want to calm him down, but evidently your words have the opposite effect, because he whitens starting to gasp.

“Oh god, I made you feel like a lowlife, didn't I?” he puts his hands to his face shaking his head, “I'm just an idiot, you don't have to pay attention to me,” he complains with his forehead pressed against the surface of the table.

"You didn't make me feel like a lowlife! I just wanted to make it clear that I didn't lie to you, I was really there to accompany Jimin” maybe it's best not to specify the plan that brought you there that night.

But the boy continues to shake his head, at times in despair, “I never thought you had lied to me or anything...” he raises his eyes to you fearfully, “I was just... disappointed, your knight for the evening had returned and my company therefore no longer needed, that's it, I was disappointed and envious,” he chuckles exasperatedly, most likely at himself.

You feel the same pleasant grip on your heart as a smile makes its way across your features. Should you tell him?

Maybe it's not such a bad idea after all, you would have loved him even in case of rejection, he seems like a really good person.

“I'd like to tell you a secret...” you start by saying and immediately come back with a straight back, in his eyes you can glimpse ill-concealed curiosity, “I too felt disappointed... my real knight left that night, leaving me with one of his underlings,” you sigh sadly.

“That knight may have felt he was in over his head in that situation,” he says embarrassed, but you shake your head.

“He shouldn't have left me there, it's his duty to make sure I'm okay!” you don't know where all that courage came from, you just feel it's the right thing to do.

He tilts his head to the side, biting his lower lip with what you identify as a canine, the soft scarlet skin drooping under his pressure, but not tearing. Images and thoughts of what he could have done to you with those luscious lips of his leap into your head, adding to all the erotic dreams you've had over the past few nights, they always knocked treacherously, but you let them in willingly.

“Even this knight has a secret to confess” he leans toward you, enough to breathe your own air just inches away, you remain in awe of his deep irises, where you catch a vermilion flash, “Wasn't the moon beautiful that night” you begin to cough because of your own saliva, you didn't expect such a statement, not from someone like him toward someone like you. You beautiful? Is he really saying that? The darkness must have been to blame, the moon cannot be darkened by a mere human, he must have seen wrong.

But wait… vampires see in the dark as nocturnal predators, don't they?

A grin from him surprises you and you also understand the motivation behind it, after all, the rush of excitement your body undergoes is not ignorable. Now you also have confirmation that vampires perfectly sense a person's emotional and physical changes.

You try to compose yourself, bringing a lock of your hair behind your ear, he remains firm in his position.

“I like you, I've done nothing but think about you, do I have a chance?” his bluntness amazes you in no small part, he is showing much more courage than any other man who would have gone around us instead.

You swallow, not knowing what exactly to answer, so you try with resolving one of your doubts, “Y-You know I'm human, right?”

It seems a silly thing to ask, but it's very important to you that he knows what he's getting into, you two have different rhythms and abilities, you don't want him to feel stuck in a relationship too different from the ones he was used to with women of his own kind.

But his eyes soften, you feel you can also calm down.

“Of course, I knew right away...the sound of your heart beating is something I couldn't give up, your skin is warm and it warms mine,” he takes your hand between his, the ice falling to the ground from your shock. Doesn't he care about that? “Can we at least try?”

In that instant you realize that you cannot give up on him so easily, you nod contentedly as your eyes glaze over, incredulous that such a thing could have happened to you.

From that moment you continued to go out every day, especially at night hours, as he wrote in his profile on Vampire's Kiss, he loves to take walks under the dark sky and he also took his dog, Bam, with him from time to time. You, who usually prefer cats, found no difficulty in falling in love with that handsome, hyperactive dog, so similar to his daddy in both physique and character.

You and Jungkook are now hand in hand at the seashore, neither of you speaking, simply listening to the sound of the waves calmly crashing on the shoreline.

You see him lying comfortably on the sand, heedless of the grains that go to hide in every fold of his comfortable clothes, without much thought you follow his example.

It is nice to gaze at the stars like that, but turning your head in his direction you find yourself thinking that the best show is there by your side.

Unlike you, he has never looked away from you, you have literally found the boy of your dreams, “What is it?” you ask with a laugh in your voice, he doesn't answer right away, settling on his side.

“I feel a little confused,” he replies, frowning a little worriedly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I love this beach at night, but the only thing I can think about is you next to me, it's a little confusing to me, now whenever I come here without you, I'm sure I'll be thinking about you nonstop.”

You watch his face engulfed in darkness, yet you can make out the brightness of his eyes; he is a nocturnal predator, you lift yourself up on one arm to get a better look at him.

“Who says you'll come back here without me?”

He inhales sharply, “Don't say such things, don't make promises you can't keep, baby,” he hisses an inch from your face, he has never called you that. Sometimes you forget that he is an adult vampire, much older than you. You like being called that by him, with Jimin it's a game... with Jungkook it's something more intimate.

"Why, Jungkook... Have I been giving you a lot to think about these days?” you are literally talking on his lips, clenching a fistful of sand tightly, the urge to kiss him is becoming more and more pressing, but he shakes his head, pulling away suddenly.

“You always make me think a lot of things, but no ... you don't have anything to do with it, it's just that all my relationships have ended one way,” he laughs without humor, “That is, with a broken heart, mine. It's funny coming from a vampire who doesn't have a heart, isn't it? Or at least, not as alive as you humans',” he explains with a look up at the sky. No, you can't believe it, it's impossible that there is someone who can leave such a boy.

"Are you so convinced that this will also apply with me? If that's really the case, then why have we come to this point?” if he believes it will end badly, why the hell did he invite you on all these dates?

He shrugs, “I've never dated a human girl, I look good with you! I would never say otherwise, but...."

Sighing, “You're afraid,” you finish for him, “But you know what? I have never dated a vampire guy, yet I want to give myself and him a chance, even if it ends badly, with him now I want to think it will be okay."

Silence falls between you, you return with your back to the sand, unsure of what just happened.

Perhaps you have both gone too far in such a short time? Oh... maybe he wants more space for himself, that's why he talked about going to the beach alone, your lips begin to tremble.

“Jungkook... maybe I'd better go home,” you murmur, rising slightly again in search of your bag and shoes, but a hand on your arm stops you instantly.

"What? Why?” he stares at you like a lost puppy, unable to understand your intentions.

“Maybe I rushed you too much, I'm sorry,” you try to wriggle your arm still in his grip, but all you get from it is an imprecation from him that makes your eyes go wide, he has never cursed in front of you, and before you can say anything to him you see his figure descend entirely on you, just like the vampires in the old movies, with only one difference, at that moment he is not interested in your blood.

His moist lips make contact with yours without hesitation, you accept them willingly using your free arm to anchor yourself to his blemish-free neck, you close your eyelids inhaling his wonderful scent, crushing his weight on you as if your very life depended on it, he lets you do it by filling your lips with numerous small kisses in the mold, your heart threatens to melt under all that tenderness and you note with happiness the softness of his lips that taste like cherries, not resisting you lightly grasp a flap of his lower lip between your teeth, savoring it on your tongue.

His shoulders shake and he releases your arm from his grip so you can sink a hand into your hair, this encourages you to do the same with his, enjoying his little moan. Jungkook with an extra bit of resourcefulness deepens the kiss, tapping his tongue against the seam of your lips, which you open willingly to his passage.

You kiss him as you've never kissed in your life, in your chest a soft warmth pushes to bring you to accept him in his entirety, your eyes moisten from that almost suffocating instinct, it has an effect on you that you can't even imagine. It scares you a little, but that is bearable if it means keeping his taste alive on your lips.

He separates from you slowly, “I've been dying to do this,” he whispers an inch from your noses, you take a big breath.

“So it's okay?” you whisper, you don't want barriers between you two, it's hard enough to accept the fact that you are not yet an actual couple.

He brings his head to your chest, resting his ear exactly over your beating heart, then nods.

“I think I've lost hope, every woman I've had wanted different things from me, mainly money and sex, then there were the ones who wanted to own me in everything... I've just come to a dead end after all these years, it's not easy for me to open up now.”

Gently you stroke those locks from which only a sweet floral scent comes, “Jimin said you never attend parties like that.”

“It's not easy for me to stand by and watch couples who are doing much better than me,”he look up with huge eyes, almost as if you want to express something very obvious, “I'm a very envious guy, you know?” you burst out laughing, sounding like a child, and lean slightly toward him to print a tender kiss on the tip of his nose.

He looks surprised and awkward for a moment, then returns to hide his expression.

“I'm talking seriously, and you go and do things like that,” he mumbles, shrugging.

“You're so cute,” you whine, he lets out a grunt.

“A little human talking like that to a vampire much older than she is.”

A question mark the size of a house makes room in your mind, “I've been wondering this for a while... how old are you?”

You hear him smiling at you.

“S.e.c.r.e.t,” he punctuates nicely, before lifting himself up on his arms and planting another soft kiss on you, “I'll tell you my age, if we're good together.”

You arch an eyebrow, “On Vampire's Kiss you wrote twenty-five, so I already know how old you are,” you say in an offended tone.

He shakes his head, “Twenty-five years I've been living in Seoul, baby.... We vampires tend to fake our age so as not to scare you humans."

Oh dear. He always has an answer for everything!

“All right, how long would you be willing to make me wait?” he clearly pretends to think about it, his expression too theatrical, but you let him. You find that side of him really adorable and would never try to change it in any way.

“A hundred days, a hundred days and you'll know who you've decided to spend your life with,” he chuckles, wrinkling his nose, nodding in agreement.

“A hundred days.”

You both don't know each other very well yet, but already hearing him say such a sentence sent your heart to heaven, and the butterflies in your stomach to a valley in bloom.

How much more can you like Jeon Jungkook?

[inexplicablymine]

GET RECC’D - TRANS DAY OF VISIBILITY

welcome to “get recc’d” my themed fic reccomendation lists if you follow me on Twitter, you might recognize that I do threads and fic recs quite often ~ thought I would bring it over here as well for some more fun.

Themed lists: Get Recc’d

Daily Rec’s/Weekly Rec’s: The Fandom Feasts

NOW THAT THE BOOKKEEPING IS OUT OF THE WAY

Happy Trans Day of Visibility!

Today I thought it would be pertinent to highlight some wonderful Trans!Firstprince fics, now this is a non exhaustive list as there are 154 fics tagged / mention “trans” in their stories (finished and in the English language) you can click through those here.

BUTTT WITHOUT FURTHER ADO SOME DRUMROLLS PLEASE (and in no particular order)

Longer Than Most by @happiness-of-the-pursuit (26K/E)

Seahorse Dad Henry and accidental Baby Daddy Alex, this work is handled with so much care and is the kind of soft emotional happy feelings that you just want to roll around in

You love me! You love me? by anarchyat4am (28K/T)

Trans!Alex College AU where Henry and Alex end up at UT Austin together and become accidental roommates, when I tell you this fic is one I come back to repeatedly? Yes this is so soft it made me cry in a good way the first three times I read it (back to back of course)

Anything You Want by somuchworse (5.7K/E)

This is where things pick up into steamy territory, transmasc Henry has never had the big O and Alex helps him see the light. The kind of care and conversation and delicacy in which the discussions are had on top of the steamy hot conclusion make this one a repeat offender on the reread list

say you'll see me again (even if it's just in your wildest dreams) by @coffeecatsme (21K/T)

The softest shmoopiest 5+1 of Henry coming to terms with who he is and Alex falling in love with him the entire way through

the reason comes on the common tongue of you loving me by ncfariouvs (3K/E)

Henry brings back so many people to the apartment but according to him he never gets off, Alex is there to help, a trans!Henry roommates, friends to lovers speedrun that is delicious

T4T First Prince by @cactusdragon517 (10K/E+G)

THIS SERIES my lord go run skip jump dance on over to it and then just stay a while because man is this one of those series that makes you smile through the happy tears of how soft and happy and joyful it is. T4T Henry helping Alex post top surgery and falling in love + bonus second fic of them IN LOVE LATER IN LIFE

snapshots of you and me by @thedramasummer (7K/E)

Post Top Surgery Trans!Henry hires a Boudoir Photographer (shocking news it’s ACD) to do some self affirming photos, and this is such an affirming gorgeous glorious story of that process experience and of course the steamy happy ending

seahorse dad Alex by @jackzimmermemes (3.5K/G+E)

Another Seahorse Dad series! This time with Trans!Alex, take a look at these little slice of life stories of firstprince as they navigate their lives and parenthood and feel full to the brim with joy

long live (the walls we crashed through) by breakmytears (2.5K/G)

Alex and Henry’s son comes out to them as trans and let me tell you if you thought the tears were flowing before there is NOTHING on this fic for the soft unwavering support that is threaded throughout

I Wanna Swim Between Your Thighs by Alex20 (2.4K/E)

Teacher!Alex with a tremendous crush on single!dad Henry (also trans!Henry) and this is the delightful fun filled story of their coming together (in more ways than one)

If I missed an author tag here for their tumblr I tried to find them all but please let me know and I’ll add them in directly!

And with that I bid you good reading! Until next time I hope these recommendations recc’d you in the worst possible way, please support these authors when reading their works by giving kudos and comments! It helps vocalize support and show that readers love what they are doing!

[wordsofhoneydew]

fic rec time!! lfg

here i compiled a list of 11 amazing fics under 500 kudos!! you have angst, smut, fluff, pinging, grief, hurt/comfort. you fucking name it, it’s here.

happy reading!

Invisible by @nocoastposts [100, G]

For the Brownstone Discord Server's weekly drabble prompt "invisible".

Total Eclipse by @myheartalivewrites [1k, T]

Alex is not sure what the fuck is happening here.

“And if you only hold me tight…”

A man—probably the most beautiful man he has ever seen—is up on stage in this karaoke bar, absolutely murdering Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart and he’s pretty sure the guy is crying and it’s one of the most horrifying things he’s ever seen and Alex cannot. Look. Away.

Be Mine (And Be Yourself) by @itsmaybitheway [9k, E]

It starts with a misunderstanding, the way it always does with them.

Early on in their relationship, when there wasn’t even a relationship to speak of, the misunderstandings used to feed the animosity.

Then they’ve turned into something softer when their relationship turned into something softer. Purposefully misunderstanding each other just to take a jab, messing around for the fun of it or turning an innocent comment into a filthy innuendo and watching the other squirm.

But this? Oh a misunderstanding has never been this delicious, this appetizing. This one feels like the door to fucking sexy Narnia and Alex can not wait to eat those delicious Turkish delights

OR Henry just wants to be Alex's pretty little princess and Alex will make sure he gets his wish! AKA my Valentine's Day fic with housewife!Henry

it's so hard to get to heaven with my head in my hands by @anincompletelist [6k, M]

His mother would have a fit if she could see him now, taking comfort he isn’t owed from men he shouldn’t want it from. But Henry wipes his tears with the back of his hand and Alex begins singing the dulcet tune of a Spanish lullaby and George feels, perhaps for the first time in his life, like he belongs.

the tragic flaw is that they hide the truth (that you’re enough, you’re enough) by srrafoxjournals [6k, NR]

Alex has been staring.

For weeks now, actually.

Henry had originally chalked it up to Alex being, well, Alex. But lately, Henry can’t help but take it in as more than just his boyfriend's usual oddness.

Or: After gaining some weight, Henry feels self conscious. Alex however, loves his tummy.

blurred lines. by seafloor [5k, E]

Henry is a lovesick writer; Alexander a charismatic bartender. They’re still fated to fall into bed at some point.

I will/I will/We will by @tintagel-or-cockleshells [6k, T]

Alex's wedding planning business is going from strength to strength, but if he never has another wedding at Mountchristen Manor it will be too soon. He just can't get along with Henry, the venue coordinator, and the feeling is mutual. But when push comes to shove, the couple's big day has to come first.

I’ll be with him again soon by mymistakesweremade4u [3k, T]

It's sometime in mid-January, just a couple of months shy of his 95th birthday, when Henry finds himself surrounded by family in his and Alex's bedroom.

Or, Alex and Henry grew old together.

beg you on my knees (to stay) by @littlemisskittentoes [13k, E]

“Up.” Henry keeps the tone low. Controlled.

Alex is often frantic to follow commands, his limbs falling over themselves in his haste to obey. There’s no sign of that rushed need now. He takes his time, unfolding himself leisurely.

“You’re bold,” Henry monotones. He takes calculated steps forward, punctuating each slow stride with the unbutton and roll of his shirt sleeves. “I’ll give you that.”

“You’re only now realizing? Thought you were brighter than that, baby.”

keep me up all night / i wanna scratch your surface by @firenati0n [1k, M]

They step inside, greeted by moonlight streaming through the windows, illuminating their living room in a dreamy light; it’s enough to see outlines and shapes, enough to keep everything just a little bit secretive, a little softer around the edges.

Henry moves his hand to flick on the kitchen light, and Alex’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist. Henry looks down at him questioningly, blue eyes sparkling even with the absence of light. Alex always feels a little off-kilter around him, Henry both his center of gravity and his reason for vertigo. He’s stabilizing, and dizzying, and everything.

Alex’s thumb and index finger circle Henry’s slender wrist, exerting the slightest pressure. He feels Henry's pulse jump under his thumb.

“Get on the couch.”

don’t let me get drunk again by @getmehighonmagic [3k, E]

Alex had never wanted to cancel plans as much as he had while watching Henry pull a pair of light wash, tight jeans over his stockinged legs and bare ass.

Christ, he’s getting hard thinking about it now.

[coffee-in-rain]

Hannibal would definitely struggle with premature ejaculation after being in the BSHCI. This was planned to be a future oneshot but I don't know if I'll ever get around to writing it. For now it's a headcanon/ramble.

Hannibal (who's been mute since awakening post-fall + has been dealing with a broken wrist) being so touch-starved that he loses composure within moments of Will administering a catheter insertion. No one can convince me that Hannibal wouldn't end up a whimpering and writhing mess the moment Will's gloved hand wrapped around his cock, or that he wouldn't struggle to restrain an involuntary thrust.

Will knows he could be cruel about this and make a snide remark. He doesn't and instead leans in close to wipe a few stray tears from Hannibal's cheek (an endearing shade of red and burning with shame).

Hannibal's eyes are clamped shut, tears of silent overwhelm sprinkling his lashes, and his bottom lip is clenched between his teeth in an effort to stifle any and all responsive sounds; breathless whimpers and tremulous gasps. He startles beneath the sensation of Will's thumb tracing languid patterns over his bleeding lower lip, ever gentle yet determined to coax it free. He isn't at all prepared for what happens next.

Will's breath: warm and soft as silk against his ear. Will's voice: far more gentle than he's ever heard it. Will's next words:

"It's all right to need this. You can use my hand, darlin'. You don't have to keep holding back. Not with me. Not ever again." Hannibal almost has a heart attack on the spot, breathless from the toe-curling shock of Will's gloved hand stroking up his stiffening shaft and building up to a slow yet steady pace. "I've missed that beautiful voice of yours. Let me hear you, sweetheart, please."

The moment Will breathes the words "good boy," Hannibal climaxes right then and there, a hoarse and overwhelmed sob piercing through the air. He's been craving Will's praise ever since that fateful night at the cliff house.

tbc (maybe one day).

Disclaimer: If anyone wants to write something inspired by this (or any of my other Hannigram headcanons + rambles, really) please feel free to do so! I would leave you a billion kudos and be raving in your comment section until the end of time. I've already received an ask from someone about writing something inspired by my previous vulnerable Hannibal ramble and it felt like such an honor. I was gobsmacked (/positive) and literally became the human embodiment of this 🥹 emoji lmao. Y'all are always welcome to write anything inspired by my Hannigram posts. I love y'all and your amazing, creative little minds ♡

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Beneath Miles of Stone - Part Twenty - John Wick x Plus Size Fem Reader

Summary: John has been in prison for nine months. He’s content to stay if it means appeasing the high table and keeping peace between the owners of each continental. However, he meets someone who erases that willingness. Peace be dammed.

TW: kind of kidnapping if you squint ; mentions of death ; violence ; angst ; nsfw kudos to @scarlettspectra and @lilspookymeh for being music gurus and basically inspiring my entire writing playlist ❤️

“John, I can’t stay here - I have work, Michael.”

“It’s not up for debate.” 

She scowls at the way he talks to her like a petulant child, looks over at Winston for help and finds none.

“You can’t make me stay here,” she grits.

He fixes her with a dark, mean look, clears the distance between them in one stride, and grabs her before she can think about running. “I can make you stay, but I don’t want to have to do that.”

He’s really just springing this on her. Because the death of Maria puts a target on his back and therefore a smaller one on hers, John thinks the best solution is keeping her locked in the safe house that is Winston’s massive hotel. No consulting her, no talking about options. Just cut and dry. Do as I say. She’s offered alternative solutions, even - “I’ll walk around with Victor’s - sorry, Viggo’s - bodyguards at my side!” - because, of course, her having a private little secret service of her own is now unnegotiable, too. Imagine that.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she retorts, voice quiet despite her lionhearted words. 

“I’m not speaking in metaphors,” John says, “you’re staying here. Either way. I need you safe.”

She tries to tear her arm from his grip, but it’s like attempting to wrestle with a gorilla. “So what? I’m just supposed to stay locked up in your gilded cage and forget I have a life?���

He loosens his hold a little bit, lets her puffy flesh spring back from bruising, and softens, hard rock eyes turning molten. Still, there is fire involved. “You can hate me if you want. You don’t have to look at me or speak to me, but I’m responsible for your safety, now. I need you unharmed.”

Ah, there it is again, that fucking pang in her heart that leaves her whole being bloodless and aching when he reminds her why she’s ultimately here - pity. 

Sure, he’s told her otherwise a thousand times now, and his actions are testament to how much he wants her, but that admittance is all she needs to start thinking she’s a charity case again. 

Tears swell her eyes. 

She can’t believe they’ve gone from bliss to this in such a short amount of time. And now what? She’s trapped here and humiliated? Pitied? 

“No, I didn’t-“ 

“Yeah you did,” she whispers, looking down at the shiny dark floor, watching little tear droplets accumulate on its surface.

He lets her pull away and gathers every ounce of his willpower to avoid following as she walks out of the room and into the bustling hotel. 

“That went well,” Winston comments, flipping through the manila envelope of witness statements.

His knuckles ache to punch something. Marcus isright here, downing scotch like it’s his last day on earth - maybe he thinks it is - one little punch wouldn’t hurt him. 

More willpower used up to not hit Marcus. He decides to leave the room instead. 

Marcus thinks he did it. Winston might as well think so, too. The eight witnesses that put him at the location say he did. 

The only person that knows he didn’t do it - because he was instead with her when he supposedly took a round trip flight to El Paso and fixed a bullet into Maria’s skull - wants nothing to do with him when the only thing he wants is to curl up beside her and lament. 

He needs an outlet. 

———————————

“You need to call the police,” Michael tells her. His voice fades away for a minute while she hears rummaging in the background. 

“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble Michael. It’s not like I’m being tortured or something.” 

“And?” 

“It wouldn’t matter.” 

“I don’t know, they could probably come get you out of there?” 

“I don’t think cops come here, Michael. I don’t think they’re allowed to be here.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, probably. She’s glad she called him. His usual antics calm her. “They’re not allowed to tear gas peaceful protesters either, but….. ”

“No, I think they kill them here.” 

“Sneak out,” Michael concludes. 

“That’s my next bid.” 

“Damn, your pussy must be god tier if this man is kidnapping you, though.” 

She rolls her eyes. 

“What?! I’m just saying!” She hears the no good grin and it puts a smile on her face. 

“I don’t know how I’m gonna pay rent, Michael. I told work, but they’re probably going to fire me - if they even believe me - and then I won’t have income to pay my share-“

“ Are you serious?” Michael sighs. “You’ve just been kidnapped and you’re worried about me ? Babe, stop.”

“We made a deal Michael, and all I’ve done is fuck it up.” 

“Worry about getting out of there, and we’ll sort it out once you’re free of crazy boyfriend.”

“He’s not crazy,” she tries, “he’s just… worried.” 

“Uh-huh.” Michael takes another pause.  “Anyway, what is this place called?”

“You are not coming here, Michael. You’ll get hurt.” 

“Why? I’m not a cop.”

“Michael.”

“Right, right. You’re living the mystery novel life. Is it wrong that I’m a little jealous?” 

“No, I guess not. He just kind of makes it seem like he has to keep me here. I feel like a burden.”

“ You ? Feeling like a burden ?” The sharp sarcasm in his voice cuts. “Have you tried telling him that?”

“Well, no, but I’m scared.” 

Michael sighs. “Jesus, hun, I’m not sure what to tell you here. Sounds like he’s a little bit dysfunctional. Maybe he’s just not ready for a relationship. I mean, he has to know that holding you against your will isn’t okay.” 

She sighs back. It’s like their own little angsty language. “It’s not like I’m normal.” 

“Ah, so maybe the darkness in you calls to the darkness in him?” Michael sounds like he’s reciting breathy Shakespeare.

She laughs. 

——————-

The Continental is massive, shimmering, crystal chandeliers and intricate, antique carpets. 

Spotless, open, airy, a few delicate plants dotted about. Every room or hallway or lobby she enters feels too big - like she’s a kid again, tiny in proportion to everything else. Even the elevators gold and glimmer and loom.

Private clubs with massive polished oak doors to guard against entry, workers in perfectly tailored suits everywhere; one around each corner, in the bars and shops, diligent and watching. 

If she had any hope before of getting out of here, now she definitely doesn’t. Seems like every exit has an individual posted on it who would put Benny’s hulking mass to shame. 

She sees a woman who is taller than John, in a sleeveless tuxedo dress, muscles rippling over her shoulders and neck. She doesn’t think she has ever envied or admired someone so much. Despite the bodybuilder physique, this towering lady moves like flowing water. She just stares at her for a few minutes, entranced by the otherworldly beauty. How can he even think of liking her when women like this live and breathe? 

It’s easy to forget the outside world exists, here. But, she stills feels trapped - heralded off to some magical realm where everyone has a gun tucked under their shirt instead of a magic wand. 

She gets lost in the place, always expecting John to be waiting for her around corners or down a hallway. He’s not, though, instead leaving her alone like he said he would. That pisses her off and disappoints her a little bit; she wants him to follow her, fight for her, extinguish her flame of independence, which must mean there’s seriously something wrong here. He can’t just lock her up and then leave. 

Ignoring the empty John shaped space in her gut, she walks until she finds the library. Wall to wall shelves, rolling ladders carved in intricate, braided designs, a few cozy reading nooks. Librarian fantasy says hello. 

She scowls at the thought, goes to the fairytale section, lying to herself about thinking of John in this instance, too.

As chance would have it, someone she recognizes is here. The older woman from the bookstore in the mall, still sans reading glasses, squinting at the cover of a worn yellow hardback. 

“Do you need some help with that?” 

“Oh, my dear, nice to see you again.” There is an air of poise about this woman even in her shortcomings. She hands the book delicately to her rescuer, smiling softly. “Would you mind?” 

“Oh,” she thumbs the cover, feels the carved gold letters on the front. “This is Alice in Wonderland.” 

“Lewis Carroll?” 

“Yeah, I can tell you about this without even reading it.” She grins, cheeks puffing, pleased to have someone familiar here. 

The woman takes the book from her hands and sticks it back. “As interesting as Alice in Wonderland is, I’d much rather talk to you. You don’t belong here, do you? In a place like this?” 

She looks down at her feet. “Ah, no.” Really, she could pose the same question, but she finds herself unsurprised that nice stranger books in this hotel. Maybe it was the men in suits at her side. Maybe it’s because she’s used to this by now - fitting in nicely, snug as a bug in a rug. Meant for the underground. 

“So why are you here, dear?” 

They end up sitting in one of the lounges. She offers to go grab them both tea, paying for it and tipping despite hospitality, and then settles in to talk. This woman reminds of her of Winston, or like one of the kind, witty grandmothers from sparse foster homes. No matter how mean the rest of the family was, usually the elders were double kind to make up for it. 

She ends up telling her small things. Not too much, but more than she can Michael. This woman is already involved in the ancient crime world, so she feels like she can divulge more info. Plus, she’s confident that anyone here could just type her name into some imaginary database and bring up every detail about her, anyway. 

“Ah, John Wick, Boogeyman.” 

“People keep calling him that. I don’t think he’s that scary.” 

The woman laughs. “I don’t know, I’ve only heard. Never met.”

“Well, he’s actually nice,” she supplies, sipping her hibiscus tea. “Stubborn, but nice.”

“And he’s keeping you here to protect you, so he can’t be all bad.” 

“Yeah… we’ll go with that.” 

The woman laughs. “Oh, there is a fire in you. Misplaced, but a fire all the same.” 

“Misplaced?”

“You desire hardness, outer armor, to be strong, but you don’t realize that your true power comes from your softness.”

“I’m tougher than I look.” 

“I’ve no doubt.” Her contemplative eyes assess the cementing posture. 

“Sorry, I’m just. I’m irritated that I have to stay here.” She drops her shoulders, relaxes her jaw. 

“You’ve got a free spirit. You remind me of someone I once knew.”

“Was it you?” She smiles again. 

“Indeed. Unfortunately, this old bird had her wings clipped long ago.” 

“Your wings are massive and amazing, still.” 

The elder beams at her. “You know, my children think I’m out of my mind.”

“Huh? But you’re not.”

She shrugs. “They want my empire. I suppose I am getting older - should probably relinquish it sooner rather than later.” 

Just like with John, she feels that deep dive questions would be too forthcoming and intrusive here. “So, they’re making up stuff to get it? Sounds like your kids aren’t that great.” 

“Ah, but isn’t that my fault if they are not great, then?” She sighs and leans back into cushions that swallow her small frame. 

This is a hard question. She’s spent a lifetime blaming foster parents for fucking her up so much. 

“See? You can’t argue with that.” Her crinkled smile widens. 

“Mistakes are mistakes. The past doesn’t define the future. You do seem lovely now, regardless of what happened when they were kids.” 

“What do you do for work, my darling?”

“I’m a nurse.” 

——————————-

After talking for a long time with Ella, her mystery bookstore friend, she goes to knock on Winston’s study door, surprised she can even find it again. It takes a while, and she gets completely lost in the process. 

“Won’t find him in there. I think he’s downstairs. Do you need something?” She turns to find a tall, tattooed, beautiful woman folding linens onto a silver cart. 

“Oh, I just wanted to talk to him. Sorry.”

“You’re John’s girl?” She holds out a hand, gives a soft smile. “I’m a good friend of his.”

Why in the hell can’t she repress the jealousy raging inside her as she takes this absolutely gorgeous woman’s hand in her own? “Uh, yeah.” She resists asking how everyone seems to know what she looks like and who she belongs to. Maybe it’s just that distinguishable? John Wick with a fat girlfriend. 

Ouch . Back to hurting her own feelings again. 

“Oh, it’s really nice to meet you. A friend of John’s is a friend of mine. I’m a bell hop, trying to work my way up into bartender. They make more money.” She fixes her pile of cloth and then looks up as if forgetting something. “I’m Addie.” 

She’s at a loss for words, feels incredibly sheepish around this girl for no reason - exposed and open, ready for final judgement. Harrowing.

She introduces herself back despite trepidation and tries to give a warmer smile than she’s capable of right now. “Oh, that’s cool. You like bartending?” 

Addie laughs at some inside joke. “Oh, God no. Not in this city. But in the hotel, it’s great. Not many other bar owners will let you punch their customers for getting too handsy.”

She laughs. “Serves them right.” 

“I don’t mean to pry,” Addie smooths over a crisp sheet. “But how did you meet John?” 

Oh, the million dollar embarrassing question. “The prison. I was his nurse.” 

“Oh, that’s cute as hell.” Addie’s melodic giggle helps lower her raised haunches. “He hasn’t gone steady in a minute. I’m glad he’s happy. I’ve known him since we were kids, I mean, and he hasn’t been this sunshiny in a long time.”

Ah, another one of John Wick’s long time friends. “He’s a pretty good guy.” 

Addie nods. “Ah, we’re not passing the bechdel test.”

She chuckles. “You’re right.” 

“We will next time, promise. I gotta get back to work.” Addie gives her a wink and then she’s off. She calls back over her shoulder, “I’ll tell Winston you’re looking for him.”

“Thanks, but you don’t-“

“It’s fine.” Addie grins back. “He’s not busy.” 

—————————

She gets lost a few more times, maybe just maybe hoping for a tall, dark hero to come swoop her up and apologize. She’s more disappointed than she should be when that doesn’t happen. 

But, she does run into Charon again when she finds the front entrance. 

He gives her a small smile. “I trust you are finding the provisions here adequate, Miss?” 

She leans on his counter, emboldened by the lack of patrons in the lobby. “Could I ask you something?”

“Anything.” 

“I was in the library, and I saw the book with you in it. Behind the big glass display case, you know? You were in an orchestra in the pictures. Do you play… cello, right?”

“That’s correct. Well, was correct. I haven’t played in several years. Do you play?” 

“Ah, no.” She shrugs. “I just saw you in there and you looked amazing. Like really in your element.”

“Do I look.. out of my element now?” His head tilts, smile broadening.

“No, no, not at all.” Her eyebrows furrow. “Sorry, I just meant - you really looked like you loved it.”

“I did. It was exhilarating.” 

“Why don’t you do it anymore?” 

“I suppose I just got busy with other duties. I enjoy working at the hotel. The light of the stage was wonderful for a while, but I realized I was meant for a quieter fate. One with less excitement.”

“This is less excitement?” She gestures around. 

“Continental ground is sacred. We rarely have to take action against our guests for violence.” He pauses. “I know your experience has indicated otherwise.” 

She shakes her head. “Sorry, I didn’t-“

“There is nothing to be sorry for.” His pleasant smile still lingers as testament to that. “It’s alright to be curious. Ask me anything you want.”

She does. She asks who can stay here, who is not allowed to stay here, how long it’s been around, who built it. She asks him about the cello, if his hands got scarred, if he would play again at some point so she could come to his concert. 

Charon is infinitely interesting, sports the same dark humor that John does, and she chats with him until he gets customers. 

—————————

John stays gone. All day, all night. The more time goes by, the more anxious she gets. She should be angry, seething, but instead she just wants him to be okay, to come back to her. She’s grown so miserably attached to this elusive man, and the insanity that goes with that attachment is eating at her like swarms of locusts on fresh fields of grain.

—————————

He’s all bruised knuckles and blood flecked, sinew and tendon and vein. The smell of diesel and sweet liquor and heavy iron. She can’t help but peak at him from under the comforter while he undresses. 

“Good morning.” 

Of course he knows. He’s got sonic radar. She flushes, and doesn’t answer him. 

“I’d ask if you want to join me in the shower, but that would make me a bigger asshole.” 

“I don’t remember even saying you could stay in the same room as me anymore,” she grumbles, shifting under the blanket so a few of her toes peak from the end.

He resists tickling her. 

“You’re right. Let me take this shower, and I’ll book another one.”

“Are you rich?” She asks. 

“I have money.”

“Like, rich money?” 

He raises a dark eyebrow and looks far too good standing nude and bruised on the cold hardwood. 

“Does it matter?”

“I feel like you’re trying to buy me off.” 

He snorts, rubs a flexing hand down his abdomen and yawns. God, he’s fucking delectable. “Would it work?”

“Fuck you, John.” She tries to make her words hurt, but they’re half assed and weak.

He’s got a smile that makes her seethe and clench at once. Infuriating bastard. 

“Want me to fix that attitude with my tongue?” He offers, watches her toes curl up as she turns the other way and becomes a smaller mound under the covers. 

“I want you to go away.” 

He gives her credit for the control in her thickened voice. Saliva, always giving her away. 

“You got it.”

When the bathroom door shuts, she flings the blanket off and goes to get breakfast. For herself. 

Winston catches her in the dining room. “Do the clothes I sent up fit?” He asks. 

“Yeah, they do. Thank you. I appreciate it.” She looks distraught, out of element.

He hums and threads her arm with his, walking with her to the serving bar. “I’m sure he’ll take you to get your clothes and toiletries soon,” Winston promises. “I offered to have Charon escort you, but Johnathan seems to have faith in your ability to weasel away.” 

She huffs a laugh. “I’m not promising I wouldn’t try to escape.” 

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, I get it, he’s a bully.” 

“Ah, can’t say it’s entirely his fault. I’m concerned for your safety, too.” Winston sits with her as she orders cheesy eggs and toast and orange juice. 

“If he would have just explained it better, maybe I would have compromised.”

“Unless you know how to kill someone, I’m afraid there’s little compromise for you here.” Winston pauses, rubbing at the slick surface of the bar top. 

“I’m still mad at him.” She’s not sure why she feels so comfortable talking to Winston about her relationship problems, but the man is more than happy to chat and advise. 

“I can understand that. What can I do to make you feel better?” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Scott, you’ve already done so much. I’m sorry for being like this.” 

He smiles warmly, amusement cresting the crinkles of his face. 

Normally, she’s wary of being touched, but there is nothing except reassurance in Winston’s hand rested over hers. “My dear, you are human. Flesh and bone. Your feelings and emotions are your power, no matter how overwhelming they may become. Never forget that.” 

She feels a little like she has stepped from the mortal realm into fae territory. Everything shines and dazzles, wise figures give her hopeful advice, and there is a beautiful, inhuman man terrorizing her with a small grin from across the room.

She quickly looks away from John, and Winston of course notices the pick up in nerves. 

“Do you want me to kick him out?” He asks her. 

She giggles. “Will he leave?” 

“It’s worth a try.” 

Avoiding John Wick is kind of like being a moth who hates light. 

When he looks at her, she’s looking at him. And vice versa. She tries to eat, but feels too nervous to finish with coal eyes burning the endless fire in her belly, asks for a to go box and gulps the rest of her orange juice down. 

He watches her while she walks out, sipping his black coffee, unabashedly staring directly at her beautiful bottom. 

“I’ve thought about it,” Winston tells him, taking the seat across the table. “And I believe you.” 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” John asks. 

Winston ignores his sour mood. “Someone is trying to frame you, Johnathan. Someone wants you dead. With eight witnesses, the high table will come for you. Especially concerning the public knowledge that Maria put a bounty on your head. This is a war that ends one way.” 

“I know.” 

“So, do something.”

————————-

“I’m sorry.” 

She turns around to find him leaning into the door jam.

“I told you I wasn’t good at this.” He motions between them. “But that’s no excuse to be an asshole.”

“I’m not good at it either, in case you didn’t notice,” she replies dryly. 

“If you get hurt, I’m not sure what I’ll do,” he admits. 

“But I can’t live like a clipped bird, John. And you’re just so forceful about it. I can’t get a word in when your mind is set. Michael has been nothing but good to me, and now I’m bailing on him. I like my job. It makes me feel like I have a purpose.”

“It’s not forever, just until I can figure this out.”

“Is it really that dangerous? If it is why did we start this in the first place?” That kind of sounds like she regrets the relationship, so she doubles back. “Sorry, that’s a stupid question. I would gladly meet you again and again, even if it meant more hardship, John, but I can’t just leave my old life.” 

He gives a deep, baritone sigh, running hands through his damp hair. 

She gets a little waft of the delicious shampoo he used, and itches to go to him. 

“Just give me a day. One day. I’m going to fix this, and I need you to trust me.”

She eyes him, makes him feel vulnerable - raw - with the power of her stare.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” It sounds more like a plead than a demand, so she provides.

“Are you just doing this because you feel like you have to? Am I inconveniencing your life even more?” 

He looks at her for a very long time.

Then, pads over and tips her chin up with his fingers. “I live in a dangerous world. I’m scared to lose you in its chaos.” 

“But is it out of obligation or-“

“It’s because I need you.”

“You need me?”

He presses his forehead against her own. “Yes.” There is frustration in his voice.

She cradles the back of his head, inhaling spice and salt, quiet and still. Some kind of storm will rage and destroy her later, but for now she can keep it at bay while he is folding her up and pressing her into the bed. 

“This doesn’t solve anything,” she says, trying not to lose her resolve in the delicious wet of his mouth. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, lips trailing the sensitive bridge of her ear. 

She doesn’t. Lets him gather her hair back and lick behind her lobe, turn her into a quivering little mess of a human clinging to his sweatshirt. 

He can’t get enough of her in his mouth at once, uses his hands to make up for the loss, cups her tummy and groans at how soft she is. God, he could just sink right into her and never come out. 

“This is all I wanna do,” he says. “Every time I look at you, you just get more tempting. That cute little smile, pretty skin, soft little body. Who sent you here to destroy me?” 

“Th-the FBI.” She’s smiling that sunshine smile, animosity an afterthought, pulling at her new fixation which happens to be his velvet hair, rubbing her fingers into his scalp. 

His cock gives a little jump against her thigh, and he vibrates for her again. Ah, of course it’s the hair. 

“You like it when I play with your hair?” She asks, voice hitched high and tight as he sucks down her neck. 

“Yeah,” he admits. 

“I uh, yeah, l-like your hair, Johnny.” She sloppily threads a strand around her fingers, tugging just a little. 

And to think he was contemplating getting another buzz cut because of this mess always being in his face. Not now. Now he would never cut it again. Now it was his pride and fucking joy. 

He snakes his hands under her shirt, rubs at her bare tummy, pulls and feels and groans about how fucking pillowy she is - about how a bullet would probably just bounce right off of her. 

“Fuck, I love this,” he says, making her giggle and grab his fingers. 

“Tickles,” she tells him.

Immune to bullets, but not to soft fingers digging into her plump. He can’t help the hells grin while he indulges himself and makes her a giggly, frantic mess. “Where you going? Huh?” Chasing her up the bed, pressing her against the pillows, making her scream and curse his name. 

Only a little bit of fun, and then he’s kissing her ribs, pulling her bra up to let these beautiful tits flop in his face so he can nuzzle between them. Giggles into moans, the chant of her hips matching the rhythm of mewling sounds. 

“You’re so fuckin sweet.” 

Her hands make their way back to his hair.

Big cock pressing and grinding into her giving thigh, fingers running circles around her areolas to tease, mouth nipping at the tips of her breasts. 

He gets her begging, whining, needs her to ask him for it. 

“Pretty girl wants to cum on my tongue again, huh?”

“Yeah.” Little shimmering tears in her lashes, lips all puffy and big just like her nipples. 

“Tell me. Tell me, babydoll.” 

Flooding with hot embarrassment, biting her lip, trying not to crumble and break, she does her best for him, tries her hardest to make him happy. “John, make me cum. Please.”

It’s not good enough. “Ah, ah,” he scolds. “Make you cum on what?” 

“Y-your tongue. Want your tongue. Please, fuck.” 

“There you go.” And how could he ever fucking say no? 

How could he not spend a decade between these comfy thighs eating her sweet puffy cunt nice and slow. 

Fucking her on his fingers, tickling her little clit with his tongue and making her her hips spark up off the bed, giving her rug burn on top of rug burn while she pulls his hair and curses his wicked mouth. Sometimes it hurts, especially like now when she’s too drunk on his mouth to be careful or sweet - and he fucking loves it. 

He may never be able to convince her that he’s sorry with words, but he can still use his mouth to accomplish the same goal.

By the sounds of it, she, at least for now, forgives him.

[thesandsofelsweyr]

THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 2/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 2,748 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《TAGLIST》 @tild3ath @iiirhiane-g

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃

Please consider reblogging if you enjoy the read ❤️ (Thanks for all the support you've given my lil story so far!)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You push yourself to your feet and hurry over to his kitchen, flipping on the recessed lighting overhead. The kitchen is as bare and spotless as the other rooms you’ve seen, its countertops clear of the usual clutter you’d expect. No rags nor paper towel roll. No knife block nor coffee maker nor toaster—the appliances are the ones that come standard with the unit. No stacks of unopened mail nor candles nor cookbooks nor a sink full of empty dishes. No signs of life except for the adorable houseplant and some liquid hand soap beside the sink (which is good—you need soap).

You pull open drawers and cabinets, feeling a twinge of guilt for invading his privacy like this but it can’t be helped. Even those are mostly empty, only containing the barest amount of necessities like cups, dishes, and flatware—run-of-the-mill kitchen items that were probably provided with the furnished unit. You do manage to find some clean rags and paper towels (and a coffee maker), but nothing like sandwich bags for the ice. On a whim, you check his freezer and bingo! No food or decapitated heads but plenty of ice packs along with an unopened bottle of vodka. You arch an eyebrow at the curious yet amusing stash. Perhaps coming home injured is a typical Friday night for him.

You turn on the sink faucet then tear off a few sheets of paper towels from the roll, wadding them up and wetting them before adding a few pumps of soap then working up a lather. You can’t get the sight of his bleeding face and swollen neck out of your head. It’s hard to imagine anyone doing that to him against his will. He’s an intimidating guy, to say the least. Over a head taller than you, powerfully built with broad shoulders and thick thighs (and a nice ass). Perhaps he got jumped on his walk home—an all too common occurrence on these crime-ridden streets—and his stubborn pride was too wounded to go to the ER. Or maybe it was a gang thing… some sort of hazing ritual? That could explain the bloody letter on his cheek, too, you suppose. But then you remember his shaking hands and fumbling fingers as he tried and failed to unlock his door, and how he jumped at the sound of your voice. He was scared, you realize, your heart swelling with sudden pity. He was more afraid of you than you were of him. Afraid, and probably hurting, too. That thought makes your heart swell even more. It also leaves you a bit shaken. What in God’s name could frighten him? You can only hope that whatever it is doesn’t plan to make a house call anytime soon.

With the items in hand—ice packs, wet and dry rags, soapy paper towel wads, paper towel roll—you return to his side. He still doesn’t appear to have stirred, which is troubling, you have to admit, but you put it out of your mind for now. You set the items down on the floor beside the corpse-like body before grabbing a throw pillow from his couch. (Yes, a throw pillow. There’s a throw blanket on the couch, too. It’s the strongest evidence yet supporting your furnished unit presumption, since he definitely doesn’t strike you as a throw pillow kind of guy.) You kneel down at his side, then, ever so gently, you slip an arm behind his neck and lift his head enough to pull back his hood and slide the pillow beneath him. Next you take off his cap, revealing a mop of sweat-damp black hair. You sweep the soft locks back from his forehead so that you can place a cold rag against that warm, sweat-slick skin.

That’s when you notice the scars. You’d never been close enough to him to see that his face is absolutely covered in them. Faint white lines that cut through his features: his dark brows, his full lips, his freckle-dusted cheeks, the bent bridge of his nose. The worst one (aside from the J on his cheek, that is) is a deep gash that slashes across his right cheek and his nose, all the way up to his forehead. Another knife wound? Is this guy a masochist with a knife fetish or is there some freak out there who gets off on slicing up this poor guy’s face? Those marks on his neck imply the latter—the more sinister of the two—and that sends a cold chill shuddering up your spine.

Almost magnetically your eyes are drawn back past the (cute) cleft in his chin to those sunken bands of red ringing his throat. A thin line of blood has surfaced along the outer edge of one of the bands, where whatever was used to strangle him had cut into his skin. As you wipe away the blood with one of the soapy paper towel wads you spot several scratches on his neck, and for a moment you wonder if the assailant also used his hands to choke him. But then you feel your own throat constrict as the horrible realization sets in: those are claw marks. Gouges from his own fingernails where he desperately struggled to pry the ligature away and free his windpipe so he could breathe. Defensive wounds where he fought for his life.

You set aside the wet wad, then, driven by some morbid curiosity, you find your fingers returning to his throat. Ever so delicately, as if trying not to wake a sleeping lion, you touch one of the raw indentations in his swollen flesh, tracing it with your fingertip, feeling how the abraded skin had folded inward around whatever had coiled around his neck and tried to choke the life out of him. His throat vibrates gently against your probing fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. You lay one of the dry rags across his throat, hiding the hideous damage, then place the ice pack on top, as instructed by the health article you Googled. You do the same for the back of his neck as well.

Now you turn your attention back to his scarred, haggard face. After swiping away the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth you press the soapy paper towel to his cheek, which gradually turns from white to pink as it soaks up the blood seeping from the J carved into his flesh. Once you staunch the bleeding, you lift the towel to replace it with a fresh one, and you get an unimpeded view of what was hiding beneath the cut and the blood, beneath his hat and hood all of those times you passed him in the hallway, all of those times he ducked his head between hunched shoulders to avoid eye contact with you. You pull in a sharp breath. It’s not a J-shaped scar; it’s the letter J branded into his cheek. You can tell by how the skin is puckered around the too-precise curve of the raised letter, by its faint red outline, by how it seems to tug uncomfortably at his cheek.

Your mind rewinds to a few weeks back when you accidentally burned your neck with your curling iron. You’d shrieked like a banshee then thrown the damn thing across your bathroom. The blistered patch of seared skin had throbbed for the rest of the night, and was still sensitive to the touch for the following week. That was the result of hot ceramic glancing against your skin for maybe half a second, if that long. You can’t even begin to imagine how much it would’ve hurt to have held the infernal thing against your neck for long enough to melt a fucking letter into the flesh. And not just any flesh. His cheek; that tender skin right below the orbital bone, less than an inch from his eye. It probably felt like his eyeball was boiling in his eye socket from the immense heat. And the smell! His own flesh barbecuing like meat to be served at a cannibal cook-out…

You don’t want to think about it anymore. You can’t think about it anymore or else you’re gonna be sick. And luckily you don’t have to because a low moan slips from his lips and his lashes begin to flutter. A rush of relief floods through you at the small signs of life, and you absently begin to stroke his soft hair with your hand. Heavy eyelids strain to lift then glassy blue eyes are peeking out from between the slits. You smile down at him, your fingers caringly combing through his tousled hair, easing his way back into consciousness. You expect him to groggily ask where he is or what happened to him.

Instead his eyes snap open, and the romantic portrait you’ve painted inside your mind of this moment is ripped to shreds.

He bolts upright, sending rags and ice packs flying away from him, then that massive wall of muscular torso turns on you. Time seems to somehow speed up and slow down simultaneously as those large, dangerous hands of his are reaching for you, and in that terrible instant you know without a doubt that he means to strangle you. A tiny, panic-stricken sound—the choked cry of ensnared prey—comes from your mouth as you throw up your arms across your face and neck in an comically feeble attempt to defend yourself from certain death, and the thought that flashes through your mind—maybe the last thought you’ll ever have in this lifetime—is that you’ll never have the chance to open that bottle of merlot.

But his hands don’t wrap around your throat; they land on your shoulders, and then you’re sliding, falling backwards from the force of a violent shove, your vision flashing to black as your head bounces off the hardwood floor.

“Ow!” you squeal as a bright burst of pain rings through your skull, leaving you stunned for a split second until your fear takes over, clearing away the haze and stars. You push yourself up on your forearm, blood pounding through your ears as your eyes frantically search for your attacker, heart lurching as you find him.

The guy is scrambling backwards away from you on all fours like some frightened beast, slamming into a floor lamp in his haste to escape. The lamp reels drunkenly, throwing light madly around the room as it whirls, like a waving searchlight at a festival. Then he’s pressed into a corner, able to go no further, yet his hands and heels are gripping the floor for purchase, as if he’s trying to push himself into the walls. As the lamp settles, somehow still upright, its light illuminates the hulking figure backed into the corner behind it, and you notice for the first time that the front of his red hoodie is splattered with an even darker red.

You’re sitting up now, frozen like a deer in headlights, your fight or flight reflexes canceling each other out because you’ve realized that you’re the toothless predator, not the prey, and the guy you’re gaping at with his bloodless face and wild eyes is a cornered animal who’ll do anything to survive. Then, to your horror, that cornered animal seems to remember his claws and reaches for the gun that’s not there, and you thank the universe and every holy entity within it that you disarmed him.

His wide eyes narrow as they lock onto you, and the fear that had filled them only a heartbeat ago has vanished, replaced with a look so cold, so devoid of anything but shadows and darkness, that it turns the blood in your veins to ice. 

“Who are you? What’re you doing in my apartment? What the fuck did you do with my gun?” Some of the wildness returns to his eyes as he shouts at you with a scarred voice, wheezing between each sentence. You shrink back, shocked that the guy can speak louder than a mumble, then your attention is caught by something more unnerving than his shouting, something that clutches at your insides. His eyes… The little hairs on the back of your neck stir again as you study those pale blue irises flecked with green, barely visible beneath his blown-out pupils yet still trained on you like a sniper’s laser sights. There’s something wrong with his eyes… But before you can figure it out he roars: “Answer me!” and you can’t help but jump at the hateful ferocity, his deadly strength palpable in his tone.

Your heart’s in your throat again, and your mind is racing out his door, terrified all 200-something pounds of him are about to pounce on you, so you’re surprised when you not only find your words, but shout them back at him, just as vicious.

“Take it easy! I'm your neighbor, remember? You passed out. I was trying to help you. I thought you were fucking dying!”

You see a flicker of recognition flash over his face before a coughing fit takes him. Then it hits you, like a punch to the gut as you watch him clutching at his blood-splattered chest again as he gasps for a breath. His eyes… they’re red where they should be white. All of the binged episodes of Forensic Files come flooding back to you and you even remember the term for it: petechial hemorrhaging. Burst blood vessels from strangulation. His strangulation.

The rush of pity that wells up in your chest at the awful realization calms your fear enough that you crawl a tiny bit closer to him. “You’re hurt,” you say gently, trying to keep your nerves from shaking your voice. “Your neck…”

You trail off as his eyes snap back to you, pupils still blown wide. You try to hold onto his skittish gaze, praying he won’t notice his gun behind you and lunge, but his eyes fall away to the floor. He raises his free hand to his neck, as slowly as if his wrists were chained to the floor, and touches one of the red furrows there. Then his trembling fingers move to his brand, where fresh beads of blood have surfaced. You hear him mutter something so low and tremulous it’s barely audible, but you think it sounded like… “Plan J”?

“I cleaned it with soap and water,” you reply as he stares blankly at his bloody fingertips. “But it’s deep. You may need stitches. I can bring you some Band-Aids,” you pause, feeling really fucking stupid for suggesting Band-Aids for the guy who’s been strangled and cut and branded. You blurt out the rest: “If you need them… for the time being.”

His eyes have glazed over, as if he’s gone somewhere far away. Somewhere terrible, because his rasping breath quickens and his whole body starts to shake, as though he’s reliving something. His attack? His branding? All of the times that monster of a person cut his face? You desperately want to reach for his hand, to pull him back from whatever hell he’s been sucked into, but you’re too scared to wake that cornered wild animal again.

Finally he snaps out of it, and his eyes close as his hand drops limply to the floor. You watch helplessly as the tension drains from his body and he sags forward, like he’s been crushed by whatever was waiting for him in that flashback.

“You should go,” he mumbles to the floor, barely louder than a whisper.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself agree. As you stand you remind yourself that you can finally have that glass of wine, but the notion isn’t as appealing as it was earlier in the night.

You gather up your phone and bag. You start to ask if you can get him anything before you go but you know his answer so you turn to leave. 

“Thank you.” His small voice cracks like a little boy’s when he speaks, and you know he’s started to cry.

“Yeah, sure,” you say softly as you turn the knob and push open his door. You glance over your shoulder at him one last time. The sight of the broken boy—the boy whose name you still don’t know—huddled in a corner with his knees pulled to his chest, weeping into his hands, wrings your heart out like a wet rag, and you feel your own throat tighten up with tears. You hang your head as you shut the door softly behind you.

[awarmbowlofhomemadesoup]

How to Build Resilience in Long Fanfic Writing

Sometimes, when a fanfic goes past 20 chapters, people who had been commenting, began to lose interest. Maybe you'll start doubting your skill or whether you "have what it takes" to be a writer, even if you're doing it for fun.

But maybe you see all those beautifully written but unfinished long fics and mourn that they'll never be finished (for the writer's valid reason or another). And you don't want that to happen to yours.

There is also an advantage to completing long fics: you develop the discipline to write original novels which can take far longer.

So if you're in for the long haul and you want to stay steady and true despite whatever popularity your fic may have, here's how to have the resilience to finish it to the end.

(Disclaimer: this is not a reason to stop commenting on fics)

#1 Whatever You Think You're Owed, Let It Go.

Accidentally quoting Elsa aside, I'm talking about comments. Comments validate and can make you learn new things about your fics through other people's eyes.

But when you see a high-to-low ratio between kudos and comments, you may feel like you are owed.

When you push yourself to complete three long chapters and publish them all in the same day and only get one response, it can feel like people are being mean.

The truth is, we'll never know why the people who loved our fics will not talk to you about them.

Maybe they forget there's a person behind the fic.

Maybe they're having a bad day and just want to shut down after reading something enjoyable.

But whatever the case is, it's beyond your control.

This post said it best (shoutout to @radioactive-earthshine) :

"Remember - hits/likes/kudos/comments are not reflective of the quality of your fic or your ability to write. Most people just don’t comment - even if they say they do, they don’t... Even if your fic brought tears to their eyes and it haunted them for weeks and they printed it out and sent it to their friends they just don’t comment. You just have to accept it.

I'm not saying you force yourself to let it go now. But someday, you will need to let it go, and control what you can which is you.

#2 Put Your Life First Before Your Readers

I have to say this because sometimes writers would have thoughts like "I haven't written for a long time; people must be wondering about it." Nope. Stop. Not worth it.

Creating is fun, but it is also exhausting. Add into the fact that most of us have 8-hour jobs or classes.

The reason you haven't written for a long time is that other aspects of your life deserve your time and energy, too. And after all that, you would be understandably tired.

So put your life first before your readers.

#3 Make Preparations to Replenish Your Soul

Long fanfic writing is energy and time-consuming. But you cannot depend on external validation to make up for it.

External validation in the form of comments can be good because we don't want to imagine it's all in our heads. But seeking it too much leads to what I've read in the book, "Ego is the Enemy":

"If outside validation is your only source of nourishment, you will hunger for the rest of your life."

So before posting a chapter, list down what you can do to replenish your soul after. Treating myself to a cafe one time helped. So is taking walks when the air is cool.

To stop anticipating responses too much, what works for me is to post on Wednesday. Wednesday is when people are less busy. At the same time, when the weekend comes, I don't obsess over it so much and can focus on other aspects of my life or replenish my energy for the next week.

In the commitment to complete a long fic, it's important to be honest with yourself. This is to be transparent with your needs and watch out for any signs of burnout, like feeling sad and tired. If you need to walk away from your fic for a while, then do it.

#3 This is Between You and Your Creation

Yes, fandom should be two-way street. Yes, fandom shouldn't treat fanfics and fan arts like commodity. And yes, there should be interaction and engagement. But before all that, there is this thing between you and your creation first and foremost.

Just as a story has to have a "why", remember why you thought you should write your long fic. Your reason may change over time, but when you remember your "why", you remember your true goal to keep going.

#4 Write like No One is Reading

This is a perk I adapted when I only get two responses if I'm lucky after updating a fic that has more than a hundred subscribers. If people barely react, then you're free to write whatever you please in your story as if you're dancing like no one is watching. Just have fun improving your skills.

This is similar to an inspiring section of the same post that I've found:

"10.) Write for yourself, not for others. Write the fic you know no one is going to read. Write the fic that sounds ridiculous. You will be so happy you put it out in the world and there will be people who will be glad it exists."

#5 Cherish the Rare Friends You Find Along the Way

Sometimes, we get lucky and get something better than a hundred people interacting with our fic -we find a friend we would make in the way of writing the long fic that we dared to write. And they're the ones who would cheer you on and cry and laugh with you about the shared stories. Cherish them.

(dedicated to @lightreader1)

[rogueddie]

Fluffy Steddie Fic Recs

Important: READ THE TAGS! Also, leave a comment and kudos! These fics are amazing and I love them and I hope y'all do too 🎀

Steve Harrington Tears the Munson Doctrine to Shreds

Peachesandpears

Eddie had always been more than happy with the quick and dirty of Indy. He’d always been content to get his rocks off with some guy with the mutual understanding that they’d never have to see each other again. It was the beautiful symbiotic relationship of two gay dudes who would forever be a stain on the collective American moral conscious. And he loved being a stain on moral consciouses.

But Steve fucking Harrington, the goddamn bastard, is making him yearn. Tore the Munson Doctrine to shreds, the sacrilegious asshole.

Words : 8,325 Chapters : 2/2 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

Thank Our Lucky Stars (That We Can Call This Ours)

steddieeddie

A lot has happened in Steve Harrington’s life, specifically in the last six years. Too much stuff for one person to deal with, and he’s held onto it for too long.

When Robin tells him that shaving his head will help him let go, because hair holds onto bad energy? Well, he’s willing to try anything.

Words : 2,330 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

Bambi, can't you understand?

19_empty_vacancies

“Even if you can’t get the words out, Steve, there’s no disguising the way you look at him. Have always looked at him. You walk around shooting him the big eyes like you’re Gomez Addams looking at Morticia, ready to pounce.”

“Oh God, do you think he ever noticed?”

Words : 4,675 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen And Up Audiences

AO3 : x

A King and His Poet

steviewashere

Steve makes his way to a stack of notebooks. All piled precariously on Eddie's way too cramped desk. One has a large beer stain on the cover. Another is burned in the corner from a dropped joint most likely. There's one more with an ominous yellow stain, Steve doesn't touch that one.

But there's one that catches his eye.

It's a leather bound, small journal.

Words : 1,639 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

listen to the siren's song

atimelessfiction

Corroded Coffin plays at The Hideout every Tuesday, but Steve doesn’t go because of them. He doesn’t go because of Eddie Munson, whose fingers dance over the guitar strings with such a beautiful precision that Steve sometimes wonders if he made a deal with the devil.

No, Steve doesn’t go because of a band with stupid music and a stupid band member who has stupid hair and a stupid voice. Steve goes because his friends go. 

That's the only reason.

Words : 4,512 Chapters : 2/2 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

There Is A Pleasure In The Pathless Woods

crow_of_crimes (Theyna_Shipper)

Hey, um… Do you want to go for a hike?”

If you’d asked Steve what he’d expected when he opened his door at 9am on a Wednesday in March, it wouldn’t have been Eddie, hands in his pockets, chewing on his lower lip, asking that, but somehow it doesn’t phase him.

“Sorry, this is weird,” Eddie adds before Steve can respond. He’s doing that thing where he rocks back and forth on his heels and darts his eyes everywhere, refusing to choose a single spot, like a rodent scanning his surroundings for predators. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Eddie Munson stand completely still. “Shouldn’t have just… showed up like this.”

“It’s alright, man,” Steve says, truthfully. He doesn’t get a lot of visitors alone in his parents’ huge house, except Robin, and she can’t keep him company all the time, especially now that she has her own friends. Dammit.

Words : 4,791 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen And Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Side B

Frckn

Steve keeps trying to tell Eddie he loves him, but it never feels like the right time. They keep getting interrupted, and as much as Steve loves their friends, they’re driving him crazy. All he wants is a moment alone with his boyfriend. It really feels like the world is against him.

Words : 8,153 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen And Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Can't Take My Eyes Off You

starsdontsleep

Dustin might ask him to watch DnD, but Steve attends because of Eddie.

Words : 2,241 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen And Up Audiences

AO3 : x

At the speed of love (nothing changes faster)

Guardthenest

Somehow, Robin has talked Steve into an LGBT Speed Dating event on Valentine's Day. He's just doing it to be a good friend, he definitely does not care about finding love. Definitely not. But when it happens to sit down right across from him, who is he to say no to Cupid?

Words : 4,695 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen And Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Absolute Beginners

IntoTheStardust

Eddie asks Steve and Robin to fill in for two of his D&D members. Steve has more fun than he could have imagined.

Words : 3,488 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen And Up Audiences

AO3 : x

it's supposed to be fun (turning twenty-one)

pricklywhicket

“So what you’re telling me is that you’ve never had a birthday party that was for you? No nerdy superhero themes, no dinosaur balloons, nothing?”

“Nope,” Steve replies, popping the ‘p’ in a way that Eddie just knows he’s picked up from Robin. “The last couple I’ve been too busy to even remember. So, like I said. Not a big deal, don’t make a thing out of it.”

“Oh Steve. Stevie. Babe.” Eddie’s voice has taken on a manic quality that almost always means trouble.

Words : 7,457 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen And Up Audiences

AO3 : x

The "Friend Date" (oneshot)

jamsin_3

Steve gets stood up by a girl. Before he can make the walk of shame out of the diner, he's surprised when Eddie enters to erase Steve's humiliation. Based on that one Tumblr post about getting stood up on a blind date and a stranger swoops in to try and save the date.

Words : 3,885 Chapters : 3/3 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

A Kiss for Luck and We're on Our Way

badfanfictionaire, LittleMissKnowItAll

It’s the week of Steve and Eddie’s wedding, and boy are they ready to get hitched! Will the week fly by in a flurry of fluff and bliss, or will their emotions get the best of them?

A day-by-day fic leading up to the big day.

Words : 25,503 Chapters : 10/10 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

[hlficlibrary]

HL Fic Library 😎🤓 Popular Louis/Nerd Harry Fics

Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find the library's other recs here.

😎 This Offer Stands Forever  by Tomlinsontoes / @pianolouis {M, 78k}

Harry is who high school kids would define as a nerd, he loved going to class and studying, he was just good at school work and saw nothing wrong with liking it. He signs up to tutor students at the middle school down the road where he ends up helping Lottie Tomlinson, younger sister to the ever popular and gorgeous Louis Tomlinson who is also a senior and in a few classes of Harry's. Harry might have a crush on him and not so sure how to act around Louis but hopes he can get close to the other boy and learn everything about him.

🤓 Want You More Than A by TheCellarDoor / @donotdialnine {M, 77k}

Falling in love with your step-brother’s best friend is a disaster enough. When he happens to be the boy everyone loves and you’re a nerd who wears sweater vests and cries during rom-coms, it takes it to a whole new level.

😎 I hear you calling in the dead of night by Thelonelycoast {M, 72k}

No one really notices Marcel Styles. In fact, Marcel’s so invisible that if his teachers don’t call on him in lessons - and they rarely do - Marcel can go whole days without speaking to anyone other than his mum, his sister, Gemma, his cat, Dusty and the school librarian, Alma. And if he just so happens to have a tiny, miniscule crush on the footie captain, Louis Tomlinson, well, that’s no one’s business but his own. Until Louis notices him back...

🤓 Webs of lies by Hazzaslittle28 {E, 35k}

"Truth or Dare?" The question was delivered with a nasty smirk from Drake's side,

"Who do you think I am? Of course Dare." Louis scoffs before leaning back and adjusting his skirt,

"Very well than. Your dare is to play Styles for two months until the dance." Louis frowns at the odd dare,

"Why would you- you know what? Okay I accept it. Louis Tomlinson never looses a dare." He smirks sultrily before plucking the cigarette from Drake's mouth and taking a drag out of it.

"Let's see then."

Or The au in which The popular is given a dare to date the nerd, hearts will be broken, words will loose their meaning and tears would be shed.

😎 The Library Universe (series) by @allwaswell16 {E, 33k}

Harry Styles has a great life. He’s a children’s librarian at the New York Public Library, he’s got wonderful friends, and he loves cooking, green tea, yoga, and his collection of bow ties. He doesn’t mind that his life seems a little structured, maybe even a little boring. But when Louis Tomlinson joins the library staff as the new Installation Coordinator, things become a lot less predictable. Louis gets under his skin right from the start, bossing Harry around, making noise during story time, and eating the last cupcake in the staff lounge. Louis may be almost offensively attractive, but Harry will not be succumbing to Louis Tomlinson’s charms, even if the rest of the library staff have.

🤓 Supposed to Be by kikikryslee / @flamboyantommo {M, 26k}

“I’m making a movie for a film competition, and I want you to be in it,” Harry told Louis. “I think you would be a great leading actor in it.” “Why?” “Because it’s you. I mean, who wouldn’t want to know all about the amazing Louis Tomlinson? It would be a great movie.” “You don’t have some weird crush or, like, secret obsession with me, do you?” Louis asked. Harry bit his tongue so he didn’t say “Ew, I have standards.” He didn’t think that would go over well. Of course, that was assuming Louis understood what that meant.

Or, the Geek Charming AU where Harry's a film geek, Louis' a popular jock, and they both need each other to get what they want.

�� He Was a Different League (When I Was Nothing Much) by @afangirlfantasy {NR, 21k}

Sick of being alone, Marcel is forced (by Niall) to join an online dating app. The idea is well and all, except for the inconvenient fact that he hasn’t moved on from his childhood sweetheart - Louis. If only Marcel could learn to let go, he might actually be able to love again.

Or, an AU where finding that 'someone new' actually leads to finding that 'someone old,' and Marcel is painfully oblivious.

🤓 taken by lust’s strange inhumanity by CuckooTrooke / @larrydoinglaundry {E, 20k}

One of the reasons Harry said 'yes' in the first place was because he believed Louis Tomlinson, the campus’ most notorious “bad boy”, would be here.

And much to Harry's triumph and dismay, Louis is here but the last time Harry got a glimpse of him, he had a pretty omega wrapped around him, clinging onto the flaps of his leather jacket while nosing his scent glands.

Maybe that’s just the story of Harry's life; always infatuated with the wrong people.

OR The one with all the jealous snarling, awkward first kisses and one unforgettable night.

😎 Won't Keep You My (Dirty Little) Secret by @lovelykits {E, 16k}

“I got asked out today,” Louis comments. “Okay,” Harry shifts. “Did you hear me? I said I got asked out.” "You always get asked out.” “Yeah well this time they didn’t believe I had a boyfriend!”

Or Louis and Harry have been together since the end of last year and somehow no one knows about it.

🤓 Kings by dolce_piccante / @haydolce {T, 13k}

Marcel receives an invitation to his ten year high school reunion, which brings up some painful memories of his youth. His lifelong best friend and roommate, Louis, is as supportive and kind as ever, but Marcel still has hesitations. Louis was Prom King. Marcel...was not.

Will Marcel make the reunion a night to remember with his former classmate, Zayn, who is newly wealthy, handsome, and reveals his childhood crush on Marcel? Or will Louis finally realize what everyone else has known all along?

😎 blinded me with sweater vests by veterization {T, 13k}

Marcel really is the geekiest person Louis has ever seen with that gelled hair and that horrendous sweater vest, so it sucks that Louis really, really wants to get to know him.

🤓 A Real Work of Art by @lululawrence {NR, 11k}

“I don’t understand,” Liam said for probably the fiftieth time in ten minutes. “You have to explain again how this is a bad thing.”

“Leeeeyummm,” Harry whined into the phone as he leaned his head onto his desk. “I felt like this year was my year for getting his attention, you know? That senior year I would finally get Logan Thompson to realize I exist! But he’s in almost every single one of my classes, Li. How am I supposed to survive that?”

“Easily,” Liam answered, with the same matter of fact tone his voice always took when Harry was in one of his fits. “He doesn’t know you exist, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Right?”

Or the one where Harry calls on an old friend, the super popular Louis Tomlinson, to help him change his look to capture the heart of Logan. Things only mostly go as planned.

😎 your heart is glowing (and i'm crashing into you) by orphan_account {T, 11k}

If this were a fairytale, maybe even a Young Adult novel or a chick flick, this would be the moment where Louis would stare right into his soul and whisper, “You. It’s you, Harry,” before pulling him in for a kiss right there and then in the middle of the sidewalk. They’d confess their never-ending love for each other then hold hands for the rest of the walk home, and then they’d go to uni together and become the ultimate power couple of their campus. They’d start a family together a few years after they graduate, find a large house somewhere nice and preferably warm, get two pet dogs and five cats, and then adopt enough children to start a football team. If only men could get pregnant as well, Harry thinks wistfully. He’d love to carry Louis’ babies given the chance.

But. This isn’t a fairytale, nor is it a movie based off the latest YA bestseller. This is real life.

(harry is in love with love, volunteers to hand out valentine gifts for a week, and somehow becomes the football captain's secret admirer.)

🤓 I could give you what you deserve. by larryaresoulmates {E, 8k}

Louis is popular, Harry is his super nerdy tutor. Louis is the only one who's actually nice to Harry despite his nerdiness. Harry has a giant crush on Louis, but Louis has a boyfriend, who bullies Harry behind Louis' back.

😎 Convalescent Boy (with a Heart of Gold) by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup {T, 7k}

Just as the professor beginning to mess with his powerpoint, the door at the back of the balcony creaks open and Marcel looks back to notice Louis Tomlinson, The Louis Tomlinson, slip in and take a seat in the very back.

Marcel is starting to feel like his life is a comedy. Only yesterday was Louis Tomlinson on his floor at the library. Now he’s in his seminar. What is happening?

“Hey Mars,” Nick says, not particularly quietly as he leans over. “Isn’t that your crush?”

Marcel smacks him.

Or, the one where Marcel is a nerd who loves to learn but loves to go to theatre productions even more, and may or may not have a long time crush on the lead in most of the plays, Louis Tomlinson. The same Louis Tomlinson who seems to be appearing wherever Marcel is. Funny, that.

🤓 Seems You Cannot Be Replaced by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird {M, 5k}

Harry and the popular boy in school, Louis Tomlinson, share a tension-filled night together when they're young. Fifteen years later they see each other again.

😎 it's kinda hot in here by ballsdeepinjesus {E, 3k}

“Is that a moth on your stomach?”

or nerdy harry is hiding some stuff under his dorky clothes and louis fucks him in a locker room

🤓 Lucky by @friendofhayley {E, 4k}

When Harry had moved from London to New Jersey he had been prepared for bad spray tans and Regina George. He hadn't been prepared to meet the best thing to ever happen to him.

If only he hadn't worn an ugly brown vest covered in cat pee when he met him.

😎 No Matter What They Say by ivorydreams {M, 3k}

It's not that Harry and Louis are hiding the fact that they're in a relationship. It's not them being ashamed of each other.

People just never noticed.

Or the one where no one knows Harry Styles, the 'nerd', and Louis Tomlinson, 'mr. popular football captain', are in a romantic relationship.

🤓 ❤ For Effort by @fallinglikethis {G, 2k}

When Harry Styles lets his team down during gym class, resulting everyone having to run laps, he expects the worst. But the backlash never comes.

Harry's crush, Louis Tomlinson, may or may not have something to do with that.