#give it a kudos on ao3 if u like

[lanshappycorner]

guys i have something to tell u, user lanshappycorner's name is actually not lan its ecilan but ecilanshappycorner just doesnt hit as hard so i didnt go with it

[izzy-b-hands]

the big Vent post abt my family today and that post i saw went to my fandom vent blog instead, ur welcome lmao

[scarlettcryptid]

hardcore projecting my avoidancy onto dabi in this soulmate au thing i started in november

[rweoutofthewoods]

fanfic/fandom ettiquite guide

Okay, I've seen some things recently that make me think there is some need to make a master post of some general fandom and fic ettiquite just because some people may not know and I think there's a huge wave of fanfic becoming more mainstream especially on apps like tiktok.

If you don't like it, don't engage with it!! I think this above all, is the golden rule of fandom. The internet is made for you to be able to mute, hide, and censor things you don't like. DO THAT! don't make a career off of hating things. This goes along with the three laws of fandom, which u should check out FIRST OF ALL.

DON'T GATEKEEP!! If you're posting about a fic, art, ANYTHING link it, credit it! Don't post a tiktok about a fic and then refuse to give the name. Not only are you failing to credit the creators of this content, but you're taking away from the fact that fandom is a COMMUNITY where content is meant for everyone.

Ao3 is an archive. You're going to see things you might not like or even find offensive or uncomfortable. But fanfic is not meant to be censored. Ao3 is made to be unfiltered, people can post anything and everything. Posting fics on other sites simply to shame their content not only brings MORE attention to it, but it's pointless. If you want a website that is censored go to wattpad. And of course, if you don't like it DON'T READ. You can filter your tags and warnings on ao3 so it won't show you that content.

Along those lines LEARN HOW TO USE AO3. There is no algorithm, it is not tiktok. You don't need to censor words in your tags. Your fics are not magically getting pushed out to people. Make sure you're using "person 1/person 2" for romantic relationships and "person 1 & person 2" for non-romantic relationships. Make sure things like non-con and underage are tagged under the warnings. AND AS A READER, know how to filter ships and tags to find the content you want. You can filter by kudos, certain tags, exclude certain relationships or characters etc. USE IT.

Do not create placeholder fics or other "non fics" on ao3. This is against their terms of service. You can (and probably will) be reported, this annoys people endlessly. We don't want to find a fic and open it to see "I haven't written this yet, sorry!" JUST SAVE A DRAFT OR DO IT IN A DOCUMENT? this seems like way to rack up hits, and it comes across as disingenuous, I don't see a real valid reason to make placeholders.

HOW TO WRITE AN ACCEPTABLE COMMENT: long is not important. A simple "loved this!" will make an author happy. DO NOT say any variation of "update pls?" regardless of how nice you think it is. Authors update when they can.I'm not the only author I've seen unhappy with this. JUST WAIT, either it will be updated or it won't, and either way you will live. If you have nothing nice to say about a fic?? MOVE ON. Don't leave a hate comment.

Do not rate or publicly shit on fanfic! A lot of authors know many people, and the chances of that author seeing whatever you're saying about their work is very high. If you don't like it, click off and read something else. If it's still living rent-free in your mind, that sounds like fan behavior to me. And there is no standard fics are supposed to meet, don't rate them.

Don't cross-post fics. Don't put fics on other sites, don't put translation on other sites. DON'T DO ANYTHING with a fic without checking with the author first. On that note, also don't post fics on GoodReads etc. unless an author explicitly says it's okay.

IF YOU DO NOT MARK YOUR BOOKMARKS AS PRIVATE AUTHORS CAN SEE THEM!! If you're going to say anything that isn't positive, you better mark that as private or better yet, move on. Don't say anything on a public bookmark you wouldn't want the author to read.

YOU CANNOT PROFIT OFF OF FANFIC, don't sell bound fics! Don't bind fics if the intention is to sell them. You're potentially creating a lawsuit for the authors of these fics and putting the existence of fanfic in danger. I've seen multiple authors debating taking fics down because of binding issues, just don't do it. AND IF YOU'RE BUYING BOUND FICS YOU'RE PART OF THE PROBLEM. it's selfish and I wish bad karma upon you.

You wouldn't think I'd have to say this but don't plagiarize or use AI to create fics/art etc. firstly making ai write something IS a form of plagiarism. bUT ALSO just write your own content. If you can't, then writing fics etc. is just not for you. No shame about it!

DON'T ASK AUTHORS TO BETA FOR YOU!! You wouldn't believe how many people have asked me to beta their fics for them, I AM NOT A BETA. I HAVE a beta because my proofreading skills are shit. If someone wants to beta they will offer, or go find a blog or somewhere where people are looking to beta. Like @needabeta You can even make a post asking around for a beta, but don't go bug your favorite authors to proofread your fics.

Really just don't harass authors. Of course, don't be afraid to send nice dms, asks, or comments if their inbox is open, but don't spam them especially if they don't reply. Respect boundaries! Don't send nasty anons, everyone knows this is a sign of jealousy and obsession. You're only succeeding in making yourself look bad. Ask yourself why is this author living rent-free in your mind, hm??

If you don't like a ship, stay away from the content geared towards that ship. There's no reason for you to be in people's inbox harassing them over a ship. It's never that deep. If you truly hate it so much, go consume the content for ships you DO like.

Stay grounded. This goes to both fic authors and readers alike. Hits and popularity are not the mark of a good fic. Getting a lot of hits doesn't mean it's good and NOT getting many doesn't mean it's bad. I'm tired of seeing tiktoks asking "so what's the next big fic?" WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE A "BIG FIC"? go look through the ao3 tag and find something you like to read, it doesn't have to be what everyone else is reading.

Headcanons are not law. People can think whatever they want about the characters. If you disagree with someone's hc, just move on... and just because a headcanon is popular, doesn't mean everyone has to abide by it. Be creative!

Don't treat artists and authors like celebs! We're all in this together! We're all losers who like the same characters and ships. Of course, compliment and be kind to all creators because we put a lot of time and effort into creating fan content for you all, but don't worship anyone. Don't treat them weirdly or make a post like "omg x followed me!" that's a bit weird. If you want to be excited, dm your friends and giggle together, but acting like authors and artists etc. are celebs only creates the room for people to stop seeing them as normal people and start acting rude or entitled. And many people are uncomfortable with it!!

TLDR; stop creating so much negativity in fandom spaces. At least in MY fandom it's just constantly shitting on ships, fics, art. It's hate anons, antis, and constant fighting about every headcanon. I'M TIRED OF IT! Learn to filter out content you don't want to see, and move on with your life instead of spreading more negativity.

If you have anything you think I should add shoot me a comment or an ask and I will add it! I'm sure I didn't get everything :) this mostly applies to my own experience being in the hp/marauders fandom for a good 10+ years, and I'm sure it varies slightly from fandom to fandom.

[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

[yuuugay]

… Nevermind. Forget surviving — he would rather throw himself out the nearest window than swear himself to this wishy washy hogwash. “Problem?” Blade asked mildly, raising an eyebrow. “No.” Thorne intoned. He sounded dead even to his ears. “Hm.” Blade didn’t say any more. Thorne had a feeling that he knew exactly what was going on.

READ ON AO3 HERE

[irislunace]

I Love Us

Honestly, I'm so, so very glad AvA is the first fandom I've actually been an active participant in.

LONG RANT INCOMING

Throughout the years, I have "been in fandoms", but I never felt like posting my own art or works, commenting on vids (i didn't have a youtube account back then, still don't), or being anything other than a silent observer.

Back in March, when I came home from that math competition, and found AvMath in my recommendeds, and just clicked on it, I did not expect to get dragged into a fandom about stick figures, of all things. I remember watching AvPhysics directly after, then finding "Wanted", and watching it with no context. I remember going to the wiki, seeing all of the content that was made, and and binging AvM and the actual shorts and literally everything else.

And most of all, I remember thinking, "I wish I could just erase all of this from my mind and experience the magic all over again."

-

In May, I took a chance and went to Ao3. I knew it was a site to post fanfiction, but it had never been something I was interested in. But I was just curious, to see if fanfiction about this amazing fandom really existed. I didn't have an account, no; I think I just wanted to see.

There were about 1600-1700 fics on there about AvA, during that time. I didn't know how hits worked or kudos worked, but I just remember scrolling down until I could find something that looked like a lot of people had liked it.

And even then, I clearly remember the first fic I touched. "Identity", by LeenaFreeBird (I'll link it at the bottom). I absolutely loved it. I spent the rest of the month simply reading, and consuming all of the cool hcs, learning what fan terms meant, having an idea for my own fic that I thought, back then, I could never write.

Because I didn't.

I never made an account or wrote. I never left comments because part of me though people without an account wouldn't be able to, and that was just habit, at this point.

And even though I stepped slightly away from there in the months of June and July (we were in the process of moving halfway across the country, I had just watched the new Demon Slayer season, and upon recommendation had binged all of Haikyuu in a week), I always made sure to keep updated on whatever new AvA/M videos had been posted.

In August, I went back on Ao3.

SO MANY AMAZING FICS HAD BEEN WRITTEN IN THE SPAN I WAS AWAY.

I remember binging all of them for the month. I sat alone at lunch (as I was new I didn't have any friends), just reading them on my phone and getting sucked back into there.

In September AvI began. On a whim I logged back into my tumblr account that I had made like 5 years ago in 4th grade to post random rambling stuff about my life (I tagged nothing but my username wth), and redid my entire blog. I was sooo happy when one of my posts reached 100 notes.

I felt way stronger, and way braver. I joined the invite queue for Ao3, because I decided I DID want an account, and I DID want to post my own fics.

And everyone was (and is) SO NICE about it. They love my fics and posts (which I still consider really crappy, btw) to pieces, and always give me good comments. Even my bad fanart (another thing I got the courage to post during this time). Shipping wars never happen here (if they did, I wouldn't know about it). Rarepairs are appreciated, and we unanimously know the ships that should be completely illegal (not naming ship names here).

Everything and everyone is loved, and this is like the one little corner of the Internet where mostly all is safe and your opinion is valued. Sure, your fan theory may be wrong, but people here don't go and tell you "that's so stupid lol, no way that's true". They'll give you actual feedback, explain the evidence that falsifies it, or add to it because they like it.

Even on YouTube, if someone posts a yellue ship video, for example, they'll get hate, or "the color quad are just siblings lol", or "they r stickmen why are u shipping them". If someone HCs Blue as a girl (ik that's been debunked where we are at rn), they'll get a comment saying "it's stickman for a reason".

Like, let people have their opinions. Alan has never confirmed the color quad as siblings, or their origin story. I know he has said that he would like to avoid romance by not making female characters, but it's not like the people who ship yellue or grapeduo barge up to his door and demand he makes it canon. They're just peaceful, and everything that you're saying is fanon. For all we know, four different animators could have collabed on the sticksfight website and each animated a different character (not saying that's true, but we don't know).

And even with hollowhead pairs. Alan created them, yes, but how does Creator transfer to father in this scenario? We don't know, because he hasn't confirmed the hollowheads as siblings either. They still get hate on YouTube.

But Tumblr just loves everyone. The AvA community, for example, will always make you feel like you posted something good. They lift you up, not put you down. They appreciate your headcanons because it provides a new way of looking at things.

They appreciate you.

I feel so much better about putting myself out there, and I know I will do so more in the future. I now cannot comprehend how someone can see all of this content and think "they are just stick figures". No they aren't. They are stick figures with trauma, feelings, pain, heroic qualities, fatal flaws.

You, tumblr, makes me feel this way.

Thank you so much.

(I did not expect to rant about my entire journey when I was supposed to be talking about how amazing the AvA tumblr fandom is, but now that I have I'll just keep it. Here's the fic I was talking about)

[bright-and-burning]

FIC WRITER INTERVIEW

tagged by the beloved darlingsest dearest @vroombeams

How many works do you have on AO3?

12 (10 for f1)

What's your total AO3 word count? 49,323... oh wow. that's. more words than i realized.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

not gonna include non-f1 fics for this lol (but if 8 people wanna go give begging hands knees please kudos to bump it above my old ted lasso fic...)

begging hands knees please (394)

but my tracks are better (341)

dive down deeper still (330)

the light between the lines (308)

relax and catch the manic rhapsody (222)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

yes absolutelyyyyy i fiend for responding. i guess the first like. mildly successful fic i wrote (said ted lasso fic lol) got a LOOOT of comments, many of which kind of lent themselves to discussion post vibes? like, asking questions, noting foreshadowing, that kind of thing. not sure if that's a ted lasso thing, a multichapter fic in progress thing, a not pwp thing, or just the specific people who got invested in that fic thing, but i was sooo spoiled. got very used to people like picking out their favorite quotes and asking questions and inevitably having like, 4 or 5 comment long threads going back and forth. glorious. all that to say i always respond to comments bc so many of the first comments i got were engaging like that. and now there's less of that kind of comment (though i promise i appreciate all the comments i get!!!) but the habit stuck with me lol

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

that's been posted? none of them. lmfao. actually the three angst-bombs in my docs also have happy endings, i think. well i know for two of them; the third is like, essentially vent fic. so who knows how that ends. not me. it hurts Me too bad to write things that don't end very well. i just can't do it. i gotta put bandaids on the blorbos before the end or i'll die

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

i am the sappiest mf alive . this is like asking me to pick what's heavier, 10 pounds of rocks or 10 pounds of feathers. the light between the lines has the highest end point in comparison to the start point? but yeah. looking at all of these like ok u end in them getting together, u end in them getting together, u end ambiguously but they're cuddling, ur just soppy established relationship fucking nasty. etc etc

Do you write crossovers?

i haven't ever! well not according to what i think of a crossover, which has to heavily involve characters from said other universe, rather than just putting characters in an au. im not opposed but i have no idea what it'd be

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

i.... don't think so?? possibly on something long-orphaned from the early days of me writing i guess. but nothing i've noticed.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

fsdjfal yes. what does what kind mean... "dumbasses accidentally stumbling in a little too deep" is probably the blatant theme actually. oh fuck i probably should've added the under negotiated kink tag to my newest fic.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of??? would be baffled honestly if i did

Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

no i haven't!! or not in the technical definition of that. a lot of my fic comes out of messaging other people and playing around w ideas collaboratively via kind of chat fic . and then turning that into prose. but that's the closest i've gotten. i'm not opposed tho

What's your all-time favorite ship?

all-time... i have been reading fic since i was like 9 years old . and i am incapable of living anywhere but the present, in terms of taste. so. god. all-time... they all serve such different purposes tho...... if we go on statistics i've posted nearly 30k of landoscar and like 20k of everything else combined so.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

runners au... such a good fucking set of ideas. interweaving stories... unfortunately, i'm not really into maxiel a whole bunch anymore (even tho THEMATICALLY. it would fuck even harder now). and i think i went too hard on world building and lost the spark for writing it. which is super unfortunate. bc i do think it would fuck.

What are your writing strengths?

oh dear fucking god. atmosphere, maybe? ppl compliment that sometimes. paying really strict attention to the like. grounding of what's happening in the physical world???? squeezing in lots of detail without being overbearing, maybe?? (hopefully???)

What are your writing weaknesses?

prior to this month i would've said writing with any kind of speed. and then i wrote an 11k fic in a week and a 3k fic in a day. so im working on it. is it going to sound horribly narcissistic to say i can't think of any. wait that's a lie actually i just needed to think. i feel like my POV characters tend to all sound the same. in general i feel like there's not a whole lot of variety in my fic fjlsdjfals. also probably the aforementioned inability to not put bandaids on the blorbos by the end; i dont think im very good at like deep emotional complexity

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

ehhh. i don't do it. for a lot of the reasons kee said actually jfdlsajf.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

ok so i THOUGHT . it was . ahem. maze runner rpf. which is very funny on its own bc i dont think i ever read the books or watched the movies. i was just really really really into the BTS clips of thomas brodie sangster and . his name is NOT conan obrien. fuck. DYLAN. oh wait that's also a lie i watched the first one with a bunch of 20 year old boys while drinking pink whitney in college . my point still stands; i wrote it like 7 years before i watched the movie. it's still up on ao3 it's just very much so orphaned and also Really Really Really Terrible. and i don't remember the title. i was like 13 ok.

none of which matters bc i recently experienced extreme flashbacks to the fact that i wrote 5sos rpf first. and i was into reading the gay shit (and wanted to get into writing it) but i entered a fic exchange and got a Y/N girlie. so i wrote Y/N fic. for someone else. i think that was posted on wattpad??? i couldn't even tell you which 5sos guy y/n was going on a date with. that was ten years ago 😭

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

soooo many except lando n oscar's voices come so easily to me now that every time i try to write something else im like jesus christ this is so fucking hard and for what. i have a r63 (the BOTH of EM) markoscar fic that would be nice to finish. someday. if i can figure out mark webber's fuckass voice. or that ancient 2019 rookies wip that actually i think was the first thing i ever talked to m @glasscushion about. i want to exploreeeeeeee. but im scared it'll be bad 😔

What's your favorite fic you've written?

the light between the lines for suresies. even when i hate everything i've ever made and want to like, delete my blog and tear down my ao3 and set fire to my laptop. im still proud of it? it's a very weird dichotomy when that feeling hits, lemme tell u. it's just so different from everything else i've ever finished/posted. it accomplishes everything i set out to do w it, and it came together like it already existed in the world, and someone just needed to commit it to paper. it made people CRY. i've never done that before! (well i have but not. in a 'i wrote something cool' way.) there's real growth, and a real world behind it... idk. also some people really liked it and said such nice things abt it that EYE cried. so . <3 (god fucking willing it someday passes that ted lasso fic in kudos. please.)

zero pressure (like so zero pressure it's negative pressure. i've created a vacuum.) tagging @foggieststars @leclercenjoyer @wewentcarracing @userkritaaay @its-all-papaya and @mecachrome <3333

[singsweetmelodies]

Piarles Winter Fic Exchange 2023/24 - The Final Round-Up

AO3 Collection Link

After three months of build-up and two weeks of spectacular fic reveals, the Piarles Winter Fic Exchange 2023/24 has finally drawn to its close 💙 Today, it is my honour and pleasure to share with you the results of all of our efforts: an astounding 478 616 words written over the course of twenty-eight brand-new Piarles fics. 🎉

We want to start by saying a MASSIVE thank you to all our incredible creators. You are all so wonderful and so so talented - it has been a delight and a privilege to spend the last few months with you. To laugh with you and to create with you and to share the Piarles joy with you. You are all phenomenal, and we feel so lucky that you chose to spend this time with us. ❤️

I also want to take this opportunity to say a personal thank you to my amazing mod team: @boxboxbrioche, @welightitup, @duquesademiel, @wolfiemcwolferson and @river-ocean. Moderating this exchange with you has been a slightly crazy rollercoaster ride, but I couldn't have asked for better people by my side throughout it. Thank you all, for everything!!

Below the cut we have the final round-up of all our 2023/24 Piarles Winter Fic Exchange gift fics. You are in for a real treat - enjoy!!! And don't forget to show the authors some love in the form of kudos, comments, bookmarks and tumblr reblogs 💘

Thank you all so much again.

Love and kisses,

Katie, Briony, Tia, Sol, Logan & River ❤️💙

you and me were raised in the same part of town by @wolfiemcwolferson | rated M | 11.6k words | tumblr post here

A story of two best friends told through the years in the setting of Charles' childhood treehouse.

damage, destruction by @pinkierre | rated T | 6.7k words | tumblr post here

Pierre Gasly doesn’t win the 2016 GP2 title, and thus he stays in the category for another year with Prema. He’s joined for the 2017 F2 season by his long time best friend and fresh GP3 champion Charles Leclerc. What starts as a dream come true, quickly turns into a nightmare. Fast forward 8 years later and they’re teammates again. At Ferrari F1 team. However this time, they hate each other. How will they cope?

Chasing What’s on the Other Side by @espithewarlock | rated E | 15.8k words | tumblr post here

A Mafia AU where Pierre is immediately obsessed with Charles, the newly-introduced romantic partner of his biggest rival, Carlos. He begins dangerously pursuing Charles, they fall into bed together, and his obsession only gets more real the more he learns about Charles’ history. Meanwhile, Pierre is also trying to keep his business running and figure out exactly what his rivals are plotting. There’s something simmering, and he does not like having a target on his back.

model behaviour by @your-littlesecret | rated T | 8k words

Charles isn't sure what he should be doing here - he is not proud to admit he completely zoned out as Camille was explaining - but the gorgeous guy is just standing there and Charles says fuck it and walks to him, extending a hand. "Hi" "Hello. I am Pierre." His smile is almost blinding and Charles feels like he's never seen someone as beautiful in his whole life - which is very fitting, considering he is a model.

change my mind by @chaesonghwas | rated M | 31.8k words | tumblr post here

When Lance drags him to a Drama Club meeting, Pierre doesn't expect to stay for long, but he meets Charles, brother to one of his fraternity's new pledges, and he decide to give it a chance. After all, Charles seems interested in him too - what could go wrong?

Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With You by @crimsonicarus | rated T | 2k words

It was easy with Charles, talking, spending time, being silent. It felt natural, like breathing. Laughing at his awful jokes came from his mouth effortlessly, like another mother tongue.

five january seconds by @fenesacha | rated E | 8.9k words

Charles' phone is on the counter between them, and Pierre reaches out to tap the screen, waking the device up. He spares one second to look at Charles’ new background, a photo of the two of them in their Christmas jumpers, before he glances at the date. There, not changing no matter how many times he blinks: Tuesday, 2 January. What the fuck.

falling Inn love (five years later) by @gaslybottoms | rated T | 17.5k words 

“American style holiday inn,” Lando reads from the description, squinting at the small font on the screen. “Family owned and run for the last three generations, the All Pine Inn is located deep in the heart of the South Downs, with picturesque views over the rolling hills of the local area. A step back from city life, the local village is a peaceful respite away from the busy day to day. See Charles, it seems perfect." OR Charles takes a trip to the country for the Christmas holidays, and rekindles an old almost romance along the way.

All The Pebbles Along The Way by @shankyspork | rated M | 17k words

Centering around friendship and grief, this fic takes the slow road through life and its meaningful moments, hoping to bring you to the conclusion that belonging is something innate.

all I ever wanted by @golden-fairylights | Not Rated | 8.4k words

When Charles received the email that Prince Pierre would attend his vernissage, he didn't know that by the end of the night, he would have found his soulmate.

Anything you can do, I can do better by @whatdidwejustdo | rated T | 2k words

In which Pierre and Charles are insufferably competitive mechanics for rival F1 teams (Red Bull vs Ferrari) and their friends (Carlos, Alex, and Yuki) suffer. Endless snark, friendship, and references to decades of F1 lore. Or:  "Well.” Pierre’s eyes were sharp and blue. "Have you ever re-assembled Max Verstappen's car in twenty minutes when it was supposed to take forty, and watched him put together a hot lap in the dying seconds of Q2 to make it into Q3 and take pole?" 

let's be what we are by @hourcat | rated E | 46.1k words | tumblr post here

Some weekends go better than others, and the only time Charles sees his best friend is at the post-race afterparties that the bigger teams throw. They’ll clink bottles of gross tasting beer and chat with one of the other drivers relegated off to the side this season, and it feels like they’re the karting kids again. Some weekends, though, Pierre is draped along Charles’ back, all but welded together after an early spin-out ended his day, and Pierre will give him what he needs—what they need. (or: pierre, charles, and the consequences of a lifetime of touch.)

Can I just be in my head with you? by @chipsandnuggets | rated T | 7k words

"Pierrot,” he mumbles without thinking, while he separates for a moment from Pierre, but still keeps some closeness. “Can I have you? At least in my head? Can I have you like this, every time I want, in my head?”  5 times Pierre and Charles desire something plus one they finally do something about it.

Le Cheval Cabré by @moonlight0starlighte | rated G | 24.3k words

Charles, a tortured Michelin star chef, returns home for his father’s passing and discovers the family restaurant has been left to him. Though his grief feels stifling at times, Pierre, his oldest friend, is the light that guides him through it all.

Job 37:6 by @mysticalbreadcollective | rated E | 8.3k words 

Maybe he can pass it off as a drunken hookup. A one-time thing. They can both forget it ever happened and move on. Pierre doesn’t need to remember Charles whining and panting beneath him. He can bury it down with the piece of his heart that Charles owns always.

take my hand (put yours over my heart) by @duquesademiel | rated T | 37.7k words | tumblr post here

Pierre Gasly has been declared Public Enemy Number One after breaking Charles’ best friend’s heart. Which, honestly, makes working in their charity work together just a little bit too awkward. A Christmas box, a lot of charity work, football matches and flower crowns might change Pierre’s status in Charles’ books - with a little dash of fake dating, of course.

hearts in the byline by @ilspredestinato | rated M | 25.6k words | tumblr post here

“You know,” Frédéric’s hands are crossed in front of him, fingertips tightening after every pause, “there is only one thing that brings stability to a Kingdom without it being a marriage.” Charles draws in a sharp breath—he knows, nodding almost imperceptibly once Frédéric falls into a hesitant silence. A courtship.

The Defenders by @justahappycloud | rated G | 30k words | tumblr post here

You showed me colours I can't see with anyone else by @radiocheck | rated E | 9.5k words | tumblr post here

Metropolis, a city for all kinds of people: good people, bad people, and people with special abilities. Pierre, alias Blue Arrow, considers himself a special person. With the ability to fly like a bird and bend the toughest of materials at his will, he has decided to use these gifts to protect the city he loves. But what happens when a new threat arises that could destroy everything he'd ever loved? To prevent this, Pierre joins a group of other three heroes and an unlikely ally so that they can maybe, hopefully, save Metropolis from the claws of this new powerful villain.

“I really thought you didn’t like me, you know,” Pierre muses. “You were always so… defensive.” Charles smiles thoughtfully. There are small dimples in his cheeks and his hair falls softly over his forehead as he glances down at the table before replying. “It was never that. I think I was afraid I would like you too much, if I let myself.” In which Pierre falls for his roommate's best friend, Lando is never where he's supposed to be, and Charles is a dream in technicolour.

show me who made you walk all the way here by @yukierres | rated M | 36.5k words | tumblr post here

Pierre is being blackmailed by a former lover into coming out, but risks losing his seat at Ferrari if he does. Charles is a prince who is forbidden from coming out until he has a long-term partner. The solution seems so obvious. Pretending shouldn't be that hard, right? Right?

still waking every morning (but it's not with you) by @river-ocean | rated T | 6.5k words

Charles loves being an actor. It’s what he has always felt was born to do. But he hates that it means that he has to spend so many days of the year away from the people he loves the most. He hates that even though he technically lives with his boyfriend, he is still in a de facto long-distance relationship most of the time.

anything, everything by @leclercenjoyer | rated E | 5.8k words | tumblr post here 

Pierre and Charles go on a ski trip together, and things don't exactly go as planned. (Or do they?)

They Will Never Know by @effervescentdragon | rated M | 35.3k words | tumblr post here

Most stories are about blood. This story is not an exception. Charles disappeared. As for Pierre, well. Pierre had a very big secret.

Point Non Plus by @boxboxbrioche | rated E | 22.7k words | tumblr post here

brought to Point Non Plus idiom, commonly used in the Regency era 1. to be brought to a situation with no other options. 2. to baffle or confuse someone to the point that they have nothing to say. or: with his reputation in ruins and his options limited, Charles receives an offer from Lord Pierre Gasly that he simply cannot refuse.

like a heart made of dynamite by @vicsy | rated E | 31k words

Maybe all these years they were coming towards each other like a car crash in slow motion. Charles just had to wait for the brakes to fail.

and i long for you to appear by @singsweetmelodies / 17.5k | rated T | tumblr post here

When now-famous actor Pierre Gasly gets himself into a bit of PR trouble, it's up to his childhood best friend to step in and save the day. Thankfully, Charles is an expert public relations manager... the only question is if he'll be able to stop his feelings getting in the way when he finally sees Pierre again after all these years.

hold me in this wild, wild world by @fenesacha & @gaslybottoms | rated T | 2k words

Cross-country skiing isn't Pierre's forte. While he managed to stay upright during their earlier outing, it's done little to shake off his aversion to the sport that Charles seems to love so much - or, rather, his aversion to winter as a whole.

[kojitheopossum]

hehe i saw you gave kudos to my ethubs fanfic (not to be TOTALLY creepy) and i just wanted to say thank u sm 💗!! love all ur drawings, and the siren au comic, they’re so so so pretty and u inspire me sm as a writer and artist :) have a lovely day!!

oh my goodness ofc!! I'm assuming this is about the red bdubs last life one? (If not then oops sorry I'm sure whatever fic you wrote got my kudos for a reason) but if so THAT WAS SO WELL WRITTEN!!!! I won't get into the uh details like I usually do when complimenting but I genuinely couldn't believe that was ur first time writing that sorta thing?? So soooo so so good, I haven't read fics in an embarrassing long time now but I'm glad I stumbled along urs 🫶🫶 Don't worry about being creepy genuinely the first thing I did after finishing was going through ur ao3 account to see if there was any more ethubs 😭

oogofhg tysm,,, (in tears) I'm so glad to hear my stuff's inspiring, genuinely stuff like urs inspires me to give writing a serious try <3 have a fantastic day !!!

[allwaswell16]

All the One Direction fics I read and enjoyed in September 2023. You can listen to my podcast to hear me talk about each of these fics as well as an overview of what was posted on ao3 including the fics on this month’s fic roundup which you can find here! Please let the writers know if you liked the fics by leaving kudos and comments! Happy reading!

Fanfictional Podcast #54 |  ko-fi | fic recs

—Harry/Louis—

🍁 And What If I Were You by jacaranda_bloom / @jacaranda-bloom

(E, 109k, famous/not famous) For Louis, will losing his sight give him the clarity to realise what is right in front of him? For Harry, will losing the love of his life give him the strength to finally open his heart? And can they find their way back, before they lose each other forever?

🍂 Suddenly Last Summer by @disgruntledkittenface

(E, 44k, mystery) Suddenly he has someone who listens to him and cares about what he thinks. Someone who really sees him. But their happily ever after is forever marred by an incident at a party during Labor Day weekend, and Louis is left with a choice to make.

🍁 Endgame by @brightgolden

(E, 38k, royal au) Where omega Crown Prince Harry Styles is trying and failing to get pregnant for four years, but all that is about to change when courtesan alpha Louis Tomlinson comes into the equation.

🍂 That Howling Infinite by @sweettartine

(E, 27k, uni) the one where Louis and Harry fall in love while reading Moby Dick.

🍁 Might've Took The Long Way by LiveLaughLoveLarry / @loveislarryislove

(M, 21k, exes to lovers) Now Harry is back in town, and no matter how many times Louis tells himself they can't be together, they keep falling right back into each other.

🍂 Ace of Hearts by @allwaswell16

(E, 10k, historical) Louis Tomlinson, the alpha Duke of Yorkshire, had returned to England to stay now that he’d married and mated. But since his husband was also the omega he’d once held captive aboard his half-brother’s pirate ship, he held back from pushing Harry into parenthood. Part 3 of Ace of Spades

🍁 Feels Like Magic by crimsontheory / @ireallysawanangel

(M, 10k, Marcel) It's been two incredible years with the best boyfriend Marcel could ask for, but is his biggest fear starting to become a reality? Has it really all been too good to be true? Part 2 of Marcel

🍂 Light Up Any Room by crimsontheory / @ireallysawanangel

(E, 10k, Marcel) Marcel is a little nervous about having to give a speech at the library’s annual charity gala, but thankfully he has Louis right by his side supporting him. And later that night, Louis shows Marcel just how proud of him he is. Part 3 of Marcel

🍁 In Shining Armour of Trackie and Trainers by LadyAJ_13 / @ladyaj-13

(T, 9k, famous/not famous) Online dating isn't exactly working for Harry. In fact, it couldn't really be going much worse. But then the door of the bar opens, and the pack of friends walking in parts and - that’s Louis Tomlinson.

🍂 Court Wine by @enchantedlandcoffee , red_panda28 / @red-pandaaa

(T, 7k, a/b/o) after a misunderstanding during a scrabble game, Alpha Louis starts courting Omega Harry without the latter being aware of it.

🍁 I Remember (The Distances We Covered) by @lululawrence

(NR, 5k, famous/not famous) @ColleenisStylish: @LouisTomlinson my dad thinks he’s sat next to you on a train from Edinburgh right now, so if you could confirm that would be amazing. His name is Harry and he’s just had white wine and says you’re on red

🍂 U-Pop Truck Stop by @kingsofeverything

(E, 4k, truckers) After driving their big rigs all day, Harry and Louis park at the same truck stop.

🍁 Eyes so blue, Shorts so red by nonsensedarling / @absoloutenonsense

(G, 2k, alien Harry) Alien Harry discovers poetry.

🍂 Tongue Tied by YesIsAWorld / @louandhazaf

(G, 1k, roommates) “I wish that I could tell Harry that I love him, instead of getting all tongue tied and chickening out.” The Irishman winked. “You never know, your wish may just come true.”

🍁 Enemies to Lovers by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup

(G, 1k, poem) There's something happening at Styles' place. Louis can sense it. He's good like that.

🍂 My Muse by skipper / @skipperxao3

(NR, 1k, older Harry/Louis) My love, my life, my everything. Until the day I die, you will never cease to be my muse.

🍁 The Lovers by @reminiscingintherain

(T, 1k, tarot cards) “Come inside,” an eerie voice seemed to echo from the darkness. “Come inside, and seek your destiny.”

🍂 Are We In the Clear by asphodelknox / @iamasphodelknox

(M, 1k, historical) Louis and Harry meet across a crowded court at a time when falling in love would mean their destruction. With help from a friend, they run for their freedom.

🍁 Gaydar Lessons by @homosociallyyours

(G, 1k, girl direction) While standing around after softball practice for the company's women's softball team, Harry gets caught (and caught up) in staring at Louis as she eats a ripe, juicy peach. If only she could be certain that Louis was into women.

—Rare Pairs—

🍂 You Are A Song by @lululawrence

(NR, 3k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw) To Louis, Nick felt like poetry in motion. He was a bit of chaos surrounding Louis’ otherwise monotonous days, and Louis was quickly becoming addicted.

🍁 bet on it by @nouies

(E, 2k, Louis/OMC) a fic inspired by Louis at the barricade during AFHF

🍂 you are the magic in me by @beardyboyzx

(NR, 2k, Zayn/Liam) Zayn is eight when he meets the Prince for the first time. His dad is being knighted — the King has seen the way he fought to defend his village from the enemies of the Kingdom and has decided to gift him a piece of land and a title.

[autisticlancemcclain]

thank u @zenstrike for the tag <333333333 i see ur mic and i'm elated about it

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

185! but i haven't updated in like a week and a half so we're probably closer to 190

2. what’s your total ao3 word count?

556,104. i am very excited to watch it jump up when i finally finish my longfic teehee

3. what fandoms do you write for?

literally just voltron lol. well not counting baby me's wattpad lol. i started writing almost two years ago and just went ham basically. i've been intentionally avoiding things that i know i will get hyperfixated on bc i don't want to stop my writing obsession lol

4. what are your top five fics by kudos?

ooooou i'm excited to check. i know it's changed quite a bit over time. i usually sort them by hits!

i will grind you to sand (beneath my louboutin heels) [voltron, 2573 words]: bamf lance fic where i give him a revolver and let him go ham basically

mr. snuggles [voltron, 1656 words]: one of my very earliest fics! lance, lover of weirdo animals, finds a demonic cat-sized spider and adopts it despite his friend's freakouts

he might not look like he gets bitches (but honey that dick was eleven inches) [voltron, 1136 words]: this one is so dorky lol but it's just secret relationship klance coming to light in the most embarrassing possible way

does anyone know where the love of god goes (when the waves turn the minutes to hours) [voltron, 4283]: a canon divergence au where lance is a seer and convinces the skeptics on his team of his abilities by ending the war

this is the part of me that you're never gonna ever get away) [voltron, 3262 words]: a lance & shiro hurt/comfort with a small autistic lance character study! i'm very proud of this one

5. do you respond to comments?

i definitely do on tumblr! it's one of the first things i do when i wake up actually. on ao3, though...i'm pretty sure i have about eight hundred unanswered comments sitting in my inbox 💀 it's an ongoing issue

6. what’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i'm almost sure it's this post-game show lance leaving fic, because i got comments and asks for weeks begging me to write a happy ending lol. but this fic from the hana universe, from when keith is little and shiro is fighting for custody and they haven't figured things out yet. that one is sad. this dream pov adashi fic is also sad and has no happy ending bc, you know. shiro is in space and adam thinks he's dead and everything. my loneliest series is also still in progress and as such there is no happy ending. and this is my earliest angsty-ending fic with MCD

7. what’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

oh god pretty much everything i write has a happy ending?? if i’m being serious?? frankly i don’t do a lot of linear plot. i just write Scenes that are vaguely connected. BUT my h2o fic had a plot that ended happily, as did my cowboy fic, but truly i’m more of a slice of life kinda gal. all my active wips are plot-driven, though, and i plan for all of them to end happily.

8. do you get hate on fics?

oh god yeah. i get it on brown eyed lance, autistic lance, adhd keith, allura just in general (are you sensing a pattern), my refusal to use readmores, and lately just some demands for me to write differently/more?? most of it is just funny so i post it to goof on it lol, but some of it i just delete and pout about until i forget about it 💀

9. do you write smut? if so, what kind?

yes and it’s nasty and i will literally never ever post it. although i guess i’ve written some softer stuff that’s more allusion than anything, like in my loneliest series.

10. do you write crossovers? what’s the craziest one you’ve written?

not anymore, but i did when i was a kid?? i think i wrote a pjo/hoo/divergent/the mortal instruments/homestuck/a bunch of other shit fic when i was 13. i’ve successfully blocked that era out of my mind tho so i’m not sure. i do a lot of insane aus, tho. i wrote a fic based off a country song written in the sixties. so.

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

i’ve had people write continuations of my wips?? which i didn’t rly like. i just ignored it.

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

someone has asked me about translating a fic before! haven’t heard anything since tho.

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

i have tried. i’m not very good at it. i have very Specific ideas about things and can be very controlling, so it’s honestly better that i don’t lol.

14. what’s your all-time favorite ship?

klance, easy. been in the trenches of this goddamn fandom since i was 13 years of age. it’s been a Journey.

15. what’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

god, the butterfly effect. i get people asking me to update all the time and i genuinely feel bad, because i have absolutely no ideas or plans for it. i might try to come up with an ending of some kind?? but i wrote that like two years ago, so i have changed a LOT about my writing since then.

16. what are your writing strengths?

dialogue and humour, i think. and sometimes writing lack of emotional communication (if that makes sense — i like to try and write around an emotion).

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

i over explain a lot. and i overuse dialog ur tags sometimes. i have a Very Specific scene playing out in my head and i want everyone else to see it like i’m seeing it, which is my downfall a lot. i’ve been trying to work on implicit stage directions.

18. thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

i think sometimes it’s necessary? it can be a good tool for humour, like with cussing that can’t be achieved in english. but while i understand and read several languages i have always always struggled to speak or write in them. it’s very frustrating so i often avoid the subject entirely lol.

19. first fandom you wrote for?

i’ve been writing fanfic in my head since before i knew what it was, but i started typing things at around 11 when i used to homestuck roleplay with my friends lol. messy messy times.

20. favorite fic you’ve ever written?

oh i am my own target audience. i have several.

i need a man (who’s patient and kind): keith-centric post canon (divergence) fic where lance takes him to his family and keith is good with kids and just keith being loved is the whole point. always.

what if i lose it all: an alternate universe where lance, as a baby, loses both his parents, and then is raised by his oldest siblings. in luis’ pov.

when does a ripple become a tidal wave (when does the reason become the flame): brogane fight & angst canon divergence post season 6; covering shiro’s guilt complex and keith’s unwavering loyalty

he’s into superstitions (black cats and voodoo dolls): halloween verse with witch lance and vampire keith! i have barely spoken about this au on here but rest assured i’m thinking about it all the fucking time

the applebee’s universe: modern au with young keith and lance learning how to love each other

ceilings (plaster): non-linear dream-like fic that’s just so trippy and strange i’m obsessed with it

if the sky comes falling down (for you) there’s nothing in this world i wouldn’t do: a keith character study about how the biggest bleeding heart in the universe loves

the hana universe: brogane-centric universe as their family starts rocky and grows

thank u again for the tag zen <33 open offer for anyone else who would like to hop on!!

[anamelessfool]

When I see an AO3 account wander through my stuff giving everything kudos, bookmarking, and then silently going on their way I feel like a villager when Link runs in and destroys all the pottery in my house, opens all my wooden chests, and leaves

I'm so happy u got everything you wanted bb have fun storming the castle /lh

[lostdrarryfics]

hi i'm looking for a fic!

post hogwarts, set in some kind of workplace, possibly auror or something like that. actually might be non magical office au!

plot: (i MIGHT've mixed harry and draco up here but this is what i think) basically draco is friends/coworkers with ron but draco has to become the assistant of/work for (short-term) this other guy who turns out to be harry. in the past, when they were in school, draco had confessed to harry on the last day/graduation. harry rejected him and draco was devastated so when he realises he has to work for him now he's upset/worried/nervous but then it turns out that harry doesn't even remember draco which outrages draco. (it ACTUALLY turns out that harry thought the confession was a prank or something and turned him down. but in truth, harry actually really liked draco this whole time too but draco didn't know this.) harry also acts super mean to draco (and it turns out that harry is only acting mean because he heard back then that draco likes mean guys who treat him like shit because of blaise or something). after they work together for a bit, eventually harry "casually" asks draco out (he tries to act casual but is actually nervous) and draco's kinda shocked possibly insulted because i think harry implied or draco took it as a casual thing. but i think draco actually becomes upset over that and runs off or something then harry chases after him then tells him the truth. there's a scene somewhere where harry and draco are out at a bar or something and hermione comes in and starts hinting about how harry was pining for draco or something like that?? she says something harry wants hidden because at that point you think harry doesn't remember draco but it turns out that's not true. i think there was an earlier scene when they start working together near the start where they're at a cafe or something and harry somehow alludes to school/the past/the confession and that's when draco realises that harry doesn't even remember him (or so draco thinks since harry is pretending)

would've read it on ao3 or one of those drarry fic hosted sites/livejournal. would've read it some time before 2018 so the fic is older than that

completed fic, either chaptered or a long one-shot.

i'm not sure why but the fic kinda reminds me of Take These Lies by Avocado though i don't think it's the same author

thank u <3

We believe you are looking for Give Me a Quiet Mind by calrissian18 (16k, T)

Don’t forget to bookmark, leave kudos and comments!

[tortoisebore]

Fic recs?? It’s so hard to find good stuff😩

i’ll list a few of my recent favs, but first i’ll give u some tips & secrets ab how i find new fics 🥰

my first & biggest source—i snoop on everyone’s bookmarks. like everyone. if i read a fic i liked, i check that author’s bookmarks. if someone comments on my fic, i check their bookmarks. if i come across someone talking ab fic on the tl, i go to their ao3 and check their bookmarks. i’ve found so many great fics just by snooping on what other ppl are reading 🫶

my second most-used tactic: searching for tags & using filters. if i’m looking for something specific, i search the tags/pairings i want and make sure to exclude things i don’t want (i.e. i don’t usually want to read jegulus, so i make sure to exclude that pairing in my results. same goes w tags/ratings/warnings u don’t want). i’ll sort by date, kudos, and hits separately, and add anything that sounds interesting to my bookmarks to sort through later. ao3 really has the best filtering and tagging system out there, but a lot of times we don’t use it to its full capacity! if you want to read something specific there’s a very good chance someone has written it, you just need to search and filter your results so that you’re not just seeing the most recent stuff! (i also filter by word count a lot too bc i’m not always in the mood for something multi-chaptered or something that will take me multiple days to finish reading)

last, sometimes i’ll go into the main pairing tag i’m looking for and sort by kudos/hits/date/whatever and jump to like….the 30th page of results. there’s sooooo much stuff i miss just bc it gets lost in the flow of new/popular fics, so jumping to random deep-dive search results will help you find new stuff & come across fics & authors you haven’t seen before 💞💖💘

now here’s some of the stuff i’ve been enjoying lately!! 💞💖💘💕

love by the seaside by viwrites

this was very cute and a great quick read! remus is a disgruntled painter/barista recovering from a toxic relationship & sirius is the sweet, dashing stranger that he meets by accident on the beach one day. lots of early-morning coffee runs and nervous flirting with some christmas fluff as a treat

hurling crowbirds at mockingbars by wrappedup

y’all know i am typically NOT an exes to lovers kind of girlie. i find this trope very hard to read most of the time bc i am a huge baby, but this one was a quick read and the plot was overall very sweet! remus broke up with sirius & left the country out of the blue almost 10 years ago, and then comes back to town with a fiancé. sirius learns very quickly that he’s still hurt, and remus learns very quickly that he might have jumped the gun all those years ago.

in the dark there is discovery by lynxindisguise

wolfstar pirate au!! need i say more!!

disarm you with a smile by five_ht

listen to me. look me in my eyes. this is explicit as fuck and i encourage you to read every single one of the tags carefully. seriously read all of them. it will not be for everyone but like….,oh my fuxking god. sirius steals remus’ phone number while hanging out with his friend (remus’ niece) one day and starts sending him increasingly suggestive texts anonymously. it’s all fun and games until sirius starts to catch feelings & remus starts to get curious ab who he’s been talking to.

in the centre of a circle by moonheavens

reccing this again bc I HAVEN’T CAUGHT UP YET BUT IT’S SO SO GOOD i’m going after the latest chapter as SOOOOOON as i have the time this week 🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩 sirius lives with the lupins and is very much in love with remus. he consults various people for advice.

[mandowh0re]

Baby, I Love You

posted to AO3 but i guess i shall post here as well. link here if u wanna go give kudos!

pairing: john soap mactavish x simon ghost riley

warnings: GAY SMUT IDK WHAT YOU WANT ME TO SAY. also bottom ghost supremacy.

words: 3287

🫶🏻 happy reading!

~

soap’s had enough of this.

the flirting, the gazes, the lingering touches.

he’s spent the last several months trying to hold himself back and convince himself that ghost is only joking because he thinks soap is joking. but recently, ghost initiates the touches. ghost makes the first flirty joke. soap will look up from a file to see ghost looking at him first.

it’s driving him fucking mental.

he makes a noise akin to a growl and hauls himself from

his bed, out his room, and makes his way to ghost’s.

he hesitates, unsure if this is the right call. but before he can convince himself to turn around and leave it, he steels himself and knocks on the door.

only a few seconds go by before the door is opened, ghost on the other side with the slightest tilt to his head and a questioning look in his eyes.

soap notices that he’s only wearing his plain black balaclava, a tight black t-shirt, and gray sweats that fit snug to his hips. it makes soap’s mouth water.

“johnny?”

that snaps soap out of his lust frazzled thoughts and his eyes snap back to ghost’s.

“can ah come in?”

ghost immediately nods and steps to the side, letting his sergeant in. once the door is closed, soap turns around and looks ghost in the eyes.

mismatched eyes stare back at him, gaze curious and soap thinks he sees want in them as well.

he takes a step forward, closer into ghost’s personal space. when the other man doesn’t ask him to move, doesn’t even look at him in question, he takes two more steps forward until they’re almost chest to chest (or what would be chest to chest considering the height difference). a few more seconds of neither of unfaltering eye contact, soap reaches up and places a palm on the side of ghost’s face, resting on the soft fabric separating them.

ghost, to soap’s utter surprise, leans into the touch and his eyes flutter closed. a tiny breath escapes him, imperceptible to most, but soap hears it. because he hears and sees and notices everything about his lieutenant.

soap moves his hand to the back of ghost’s neck, curling his fingers around him and taking the last step until they’re flush together.

“tell me to stop, simon.”

“if you stop i might cry.”

a wicked smirk graces soap’s face, and his free hand comes up to toy with the edge of the mask, silently asking for permission. ghost nods, and soap pulls it up just enough to rest on the curve of his crooked nose, moving that hand to fist in ghost’s shirt.

his next move is a 180 from the gentleness he had been treating ghost with, and he all but shoves the taller man back against the door, the hand on his neck coming to his throat and pulling him down. their lips barely touching when soap tells him

“ah’ll make ye cry if ah keep goin.”

apparently that’s what breaks ghost’s resolve entirely, because he closes the incredibly short distance between them and kisses soap like his like fucking depends on it. sparks fly up his spine and his skin feels like fire. his hands come up to cradle soap’s face, prompting the shorter man to move the hand fisted in ghost’s shirt to his hair. it’s desperate, needy, and hungry, and faster than ghost can blink he finds himself slammed into his mattress, soap standing between his legs looking down at him.

“ye’ve been driving me fuckin insane, si. every time ye touch me ah feel like i’m goin to explode. i catch you lookin at me with yer ‘fuck me’ eyes and i nearly come on the spot. do ye even know what yer doin to me?”

they’re both breathing heavily, soap’s hands are on ghost’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh. they both hope there’s bruises there in the morning.

“yes, about took you long enough.” ghost finally answers between breaths.

for the second time that evening, soap growls and he lifts his knee and places it on the bed against ghost’s crotch, where he can see ghost’s already fully hard cock straining in his sweats.

“i’m going to make you pay for all that, but tonight i want to worship ye like ye deserve.”

ghost thinks he’s going to get whiplash from the back and forth soap is doing with him.

he also doesn’t really want soap to be soft with him, he wants to be roughed up and manhandled. he wants to be fucked into his mattress and unable to speak the rest of the night.

but then soap is gently lifting ghost’s shirt off of him and kissing up his torso, biting and sucking marks into his flesh as he goes. soap’s hands knead his hips, waist, thighs, and whatever meaty part of him that the younger man can get his hands on.

soap makes it to his pulse point on his throat and sucks a dark, near painful bruise before laving over it with his tongue in an apology. he pulls back to see his work, ghost’s body a canvas for him to decorate as he pleases. but something stutters soap’s movements at he looks back up into ghost’s eyes, hands gently placed on his cheeks.

“if we do this, simon, yer never gettin rid of me. you are mine. i need ye to be sure about this.” he emphasizes his words by leaning over and placing their foreheads together.

ghost takes a breath and in one motion, yanks the mask off and throws it across the room.

“there’s never been, and will never be anyone else, johnny. i’m yours. i always have been.”

ghost thinks soap looks like he’s going to cry before he crashes their lips together again. the kiss this time is slow and sensual, soap nudging and encouraging ghost up the bed until his head hits the pillow.

soap breaks the kiss and pulls back, looking down at ghost with the soft, lustful eyes.

“anyone ever tell ye how pretty you are, simon?” soap purrs, dragging his nails down the expanse of ghost’s torso. not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to cause pinpricks of pain that have ghost harder than he thinks he has ever been in his life.

his mind is beginning to fog over and his voice is incredibly hard to use when he attempts to answer soap.

soap, ever the ghost decoder, sees the struggle in ghost’s features and pauses his ministrations, “simon? you okay?” he asks. ghost feels embarrassment wash over him. he nods, biting his lip trying to cause enough pain to pull him out enough in order to speak.

soap catches on though, and moves to pull ghost’s lip from his teeth with his thumb, and then kisses his forehead.

“can ye not talk, baby?”

he doesn’t see disgust or humor in soap’s eyes, only genuine curiosity. so he forces himself to take a steadying breath and nods again.

“okay,” soap kisses the edge of his mouth, his jaw, then his lips once more, “okay. that’s fine, baby. but we need a system for ye to let me know if i need to stop somethin.”

ghost thinks for a moment before tapping soap’s thigh three times.

soap tilts his head, “three taps equals stop?”

again, ghost nods.

“okay, i need to know when to slow down too, so how about this,” he reaches down and grabs ghost’s hand, still on his thigh, and manipulates the man’s fingers until his pointer and middle finger are the only ones pointed out, “two fingers, two taps for slow down, three taps for stop, wherever you can reach, okay?”

ghost nods again and his hands move to roam up soap’s chest, bunching his shirt up as he goes. soap smiles, tearing his shirt off and kisses down ghost’s neck, biting and sucking more bruises. he adjusts himself above ghost’s hips and grinds down, causing the man to gasp and let out a moan that makes soap’s cock twitch in interest.

“fuck, baby. ye even sound pretty.” he breaths against ghost’s chest before sucking a hard nipple in between his lips before grinding again, pulling more delicious noises out of the man below him.

he continues until he decides to give the other nipple the same attention, his hands touching, petting, and squeezing wherever he can reach. he’s still slowly grinding, and before ghost even realizes what’s happening, he’s arching from the mattress and coming with a yelp. his hands tangle in soap’s overgrown mohawk.

when the sparks and colors behind his eyes settle, he has no time to even feel embarrassed about coming prematurely because soap is kissing him again and licking into his mouth.

“yer so fuckin perfect, oh my god,” soap says into his mouth, “coming just from that, do ye know how fuckin gorgeous you look when you come?” his hands remove ghost’s own from his hair and gently pin them above his head on the pillow, “think ye can give me one more, baby?”

ghost isn’t one hundred percent sure he can, because he’s honestly never tried and nobody has ever stuck around long enough to try, but he’s more than willing to do anything and everything soap asks of him so he’s quickly nodding, looking up at soap through half lidded eyes.

“perfect. i still need to make ye cry, right?” he asks coyly, thumb tracing ghost’s bottom lip.

it comes out as a question but hangs in the air like a promise and ghost’s cock twitches at the thought. and apparently, with the way soap is sitting on him, he feels it too. the same smirk from earlier curls his lips and a hand gently wraps around ghost’s throat.

“ye like that? do ye want me to make you cry, simon?”

the fog in his head is settling again, heavier than he’s ever felt it and he nods again, eyes fluttering closed as soap’s fingers squeeze just that much tighter against his carotid.

then the hand is gone, and soap is pulling at the waistband of his pants and boxers, pulling both off at one time. when the weight of soap’s body doesn’t return, ghost opens his eyes to see him stepping out of his own sweats and ghost feels his mouth watering at the sight of the other man.

“like what ye see?”

ghost’s eyes flicker to soap’s and he nods, reaching out and soap steps closer, gently laying a hand on ghost’s cheek.

“what do ye want, love?”

and dear fucking lord, ghost isn’t ready to deal with what that word does to his mind and body.

he looks back down to soap’s cock and licks his lips before opening his mouth and looking back up.

“shit, si. what the fuck did i do to deserve you?” he leans down and kisses him, slowly and lovingly, before pulling away, “ye can choke on my cock another time, beautiful. if i don’t get inside you soon im goin to lose my mind.” he smiles, “do you have lube?”

ghost pouts but nods and points to the drawer on his bedside table. soap moves to grab it and at the same time ghost turns his head and sucks soap’s thumb in between his lips. the startled, hungry look on the man’s face was absolutely worth it.

“steamin jesus.” soap mutters, and pushes his pointer finger in as well, “make them wet.” he commands.

ghost happily obliges.

after a minute or two, soap resettles himself between ghost’s thighs and forgoes the lube at first, using his spit slick finger to tease at ghost’s entrance.

at this point, ghost is keyed back up and fully hard again.

“relax, si, i’ve got you.” his other hand sits on ghost’s hip bone, thumb rubbing calming circles into his skin.

ghost takes a breath and forces his body to relax, and soap gently pushes past his entrance and begins working his finger in and out.

“so good for me, baby. so fuckin wet and tight for me.”

ghost keens at the praise, head tilting back into his pillow as soap moves a little quicker. soon he’s pressing in another finger, ghost’s hole still wet enough from the spit on his other finger. ghost is whining beneath soap’s hold, trying to rock back onto his fingers.

soap uses more pressure with his free hand to pin ghost’s hips to the mattress, stilling his movements.

“are ye ready for more, simon?”

ghost nods quickly, hands moving to grip on soap’s shoulders.

the younger man removes his fingers to add lube, because the spit is no longer enough to work ghost open the rest of the way. and while soap wants to make him cry, he doesn’t want to actually hurt him.

ghost whines again at the loss, but soon enough three fingers slip past his hole and a deep moan escapes him.

“ye make such pretty sounds, fuck. i could get off just from listenin to you. my pretty boy.” soap feels ghost clench around him at the words, “you like that baby? being called that? my pretty boy. my good boy.” he says the last part at the same time that he curls his fingers and presses against ghost’s prostate.

ghost gasps and makes a choked sound. distantly, he realizes there’s tears forming in his eyes, but he’s too lost in pleasure, too lost in soap, that he cannot bring himself to care.

soap continues this for a little while longer, before he finally removes his fingers and applies a generous amount of lube to himself. he pulls ghost by the hips farther up his lap, and holds his cock against ghost’s now aching entrance.

dropping down, soap places kisses all over ghost’s face, before pulling away and forcing ghost to make eye contact by holding his chin.

“are you ready, baby?”

ghost responds by wrapping his legs around soap’s waist and whines.

soap chuckles and pulls up, holding ghost still as he slowly pushes into him.

a deep, wonton moan is punched out of ghost the second soap is buried completely.

“jesus fuckin’-“ soap forces himself to hold still for both their sakes. letting ghost adjust and making sure he himself doesn’t blow right then and there.

he can’t help but think that this was even better than anything his mind could have ever come up with. ghost is pliant and willing below him, making the prettiest sounds he’s ever heard in his life, tight and wet and near begging for soap’s cock.

he doesn’t have much time to bask, though, because ghost is suddenly rocking onto him, a silent plea to move. soap opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and sees the most vulnerable, needy expression he’s ever seen on the other man. it makes him feel feral.

soap lifts one of ghost’s legs over his shoulder and kisses his inner thigh before biting into it.

“okay, okay, i’ll give ye what you want, love.”

he gives a slow roll of his hips, testing the waters to make sure ghost isn’t pushing himself past his limits. but when he sees no expressions of pain, he moves faster, finally reaching a brutal pace that’s punching moans out of both men.

“god fuckin bless, si. you feel amazing. yer so good, such a good boy for me.” he throws ghost’s other leg over his other shoulder and grips the meat of his hips, fucking into him like he’ll never get the chance again, hitting ghost’s prostate with every thrust.

ghost can’t really reach soap from the position he’s been put in, so he fists his hands into the pillow above his head. he belatedly realizes there’s a few tears falling down his face.

“fuck, look so fucking pretty when you cry. taking me like a whore. but you’re mine, simon,” he grunts, tightening his hold on the man, “nobody else gets to touch you again. you belong to me.” he snaps his hips harder with the last word and it pushes ghost over the edge, forcing his second orgasm and making him choke on a sob.

soap doesn’t let up though, still fucking into him with the same amount if not more vigor, wrapping his hand around ghost’s neglected cock to pull every last drop of cum from him.

it’s becoming too much, too overstimulating for ghost, but it feels too fucking good and ghost realizes he’s going to come again, but he can and will do nothing but lie there and take it. he’ll take whatever soap gives him.

“fuck, si, in or out?”

ghost, who’s so far under the fog that he doesn’t register the question at first, is still crying.

soap slows down, moves ghost’s legs off his shoulders, and leans down. he wipes the tears from his cheeks and presses a kiss to his lips, pulling him back to the surface.

when ghost’s eyes open again, he sees soap smiling at him with pure love and adoration.

“baby, one tap for in, two for out. where do you want me to come?”

ghost’s hand quickly finds soap’s hip and taps once.

“fuck, i love you.” he kisses ghost again, licking into his mouth and biting his lip, his hips resuming the earlier pace.

it only takes a few more of those brutal thrusts for soap to come with a low moan, hips stuttering and filling ghost to the brim. the feeling of soap filling him up has ghost coming again, dry.

when soap finally catches his breath, he looks up and sees ghost staring at the ceiling, a far away look in this eyes. he carefully moves off of ghost and rummages around the man’s bathroom and finds a cloth. he wets it with warm water, cleaning himself and then going back out to clean ghost. when he returns, there’s more coherence in ghost’s eyes.

“can ye talk yet, love?”

ghost shakes his head, and soap smiles lovingly.

“that’s okay, darling.”

he cleans the man off and grabs a water bottle he finds on the desk across the room, bringing it back and making ghost take a few sips.

when he’s done drinking, soap climbs into bed beside his partner and pulls him into his chest.

they’re like that for a while, soap tracing his fingers along ghost’s bicep, and he eventually thinks ghost is sleeping. so it startles him when the older man speaks.

“did you mean what you said?” his voice is weak and a little unsteady.

“i meant everything i said, simon. but what specifically are you referring to?”

ghost’s quiet for another moment and soap continues rubbing along his bicep. he knows ghost isn’t the best at articulating his feelings, so he’s patient.

“did you mean it, when you said you loved me?”

soap stills for a moment and then moves his hand to gently grab ghost’s chin with this thumb and forefinger, coaxing him to look up at him.

“of course. i’ve loved you for a very long time now. it’s not a new revelation. but you don’t have to say it back, sweetheart.”

a tear slips down ghost’s cheek, “i want to. because i do, but i don’t think-“

“i know, baby. it’s okay. even if ye can never say it, it’s okay. because i know. i don’t need words to know that ye love me.” he presses his lips to the blonde curls on ghost’s head, carding his fingers through them and soothing ghost as he cries for the second time that night, but for a very different reason.

they fall asleep like that, ghost wrapped around soap, and soap’s arms wrapped protectively around him.