#it lingers fanfiction

[brokenangelwings22]

Sneak peek of It Lingers, my new Leon/Claire Carlos/Jill fic, inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Here’s the playlist of songs feeding my muse.

“I’m guessing that you are avoiding your brother.”

Claire rolled her eyes.

“Ever since I was chosen,” she drawled, using finger quotes. “He’s been ridiculously protective. It’s been at least two generations since the last woman in our bloodline was a Hunter. He's setting up PowerPoint presentations and demonstrations while you and I train, go to classes, and patrol.”

“You’re all the family he has left,” Jill pointed out. “This is probably scary for him. Plus I don’t think he will get a good night's sleep until your first Hunt is over and you come out on top.”

“Pretty much why I snuck out to train with you instead,” Claire muttered as she stretched her sore legs.

“But did you?”

The redhead swung her head around and glared at her partner.

“You in cahoots with Chris now?”

Jill laughed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“No,” she shook her head. “But I’m pretty sure that he knows. He’s not exactly busting down the door.”

Claire snorted in amusement.

“Hey, I’ll take it. I’d rather do this with you.”

[justaz]

merlin as the village tease/flirt who only ever has little flings with people (much like gwaine) and never develops feelings beyond “oh they’re cute” or “wow they’re a good friend” falling for arthur and having no idea what it means until lancelot has to spell it out for him and then merlin is just a mess. he has to hype himself up before so much as talking to arthur. he feels every time arthur even glances his way and as a result grows clumsier and clumsier to the point where people genuinely believe he was cursed by a sorcerer on one of arthur’s quests that he tagged along on. he can’t look at arthur and listen to arthur simultaneously bc he gets blown away by arthur’s beauty that the rest of the world falls away. pacing for like a solid minute outside arthur’s chambers before he has to wake him up for breakfast, the guards stationed outside watching him go back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth before one of them just opens the door for him.

[pricelessemotion]

I’m such a fool | S. H.

part one part two

Summary: steve has his own confession to make. you’re not sure how to take it. 

Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

Warnings: language, angst with a happy ending, alcohol, underage drinking (reader and steve are both 20), friends to lovers, little women “you’re being mean” reference 

Word count: 1.7k

Notes: part two of the linger duology but can be read as a stand-alone. pic is not mine all creds to the owner!

masterlist

—

“What are you doing?” 

You’re currently cradling Steve’s face in your hands, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. The droplets of perspiration at his hairline are indicative of a typical day in Family Video, where the AC doesn’t work and neither do the employees. 

“Making sure that you’re not sick.”

Steve murmurs a sound of confusion as you take your hand away and dramatically wipe it against the bottom of your vest. It’s been a slow day, the customers few and far between. On days like this you’re normally in the back, sorting through new shipments and cataloging them. Instead, you’re leaning against the counter and looking at Steve like he’s grown two heads. 

“Two very pretty girls just walked out the door without a failed pick-up line or a signature smile. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” You ask, your brows furrowing in faux concern. 

“Oh, fuck off.” He waves his hand in the air as if swatting away an annoying fly and turns to look down at his clipboard so that he doesn’t have to look you in the eye.

If Steve is being honest with himself, he hasn’t felt in the flirting mood lately. As much as he has pretended to be normal since your confession, he hasn’t been. In fact, Steve feels like all he has been doing is pretending. Pretending like he doesn’t notice the way your hair smells like coconut shampoo every time a scarce summer breeze pushes the scent in his direction. Pretending to sort the returns while you sit behind the counter reading a weathered copy of a romance novel he can never remember the name of. Pretending to curse the lack of AC in the store, when really he’s grateful for it because it means he gets to see you in as little clothing as possible. 

Yeah. Steve’s gotten real good at pretending lately. 

What he doesn’t know is that you’ve gotten real good at pretending too. You try to ignore the relief that settles over you at the fact that Steve seems to be in too weird of a mood to flirt. Hoping to lift his spirits you cast a sidelong glance at him. 

“Are you doing anything tonight?”

~

Steve doesn’t even know why he decided to come to this stupid party. Actually, he does. The reason standing right in front of him, wearing a mini skirt and nursing a red solo cup of whatever the hell was in the punch bowl in the kitchen. 

Robin’s arm is slung around your shoulder, the two of you wrapped up in your own little world when suddenly the song changes. You’re pulled out of the kitchen, hand in hand with your best friend as she slur-screams I love this song. You begin dancing together, albeit haphazardly, in the middle of the living room. Usually this is the part where you would turn around and beg Steve to join you, but he’s still standing in the doorway of the kitchen. You’re shining so bright tonight that he’s afraid if he gets too close he might get burned. 

He sighs and looks down at the cup in his hand. It was more for show than anything because he promised to be the designated driver tonight but, god, if he didn’t wish he could drink right now. 

The sliding glass door opens with little resistance, his drink forgotten on the kitchen counter. As he steps outside and sits down at the edge of the pool, he curses himself. Since when did he become this guy? He used to go to parties all the time. He used to have fun. Instead, he’s the guy who isolates himself and sits at the edge of the pool while letting the girl of his dreams dance the night away. 

The door opens again and he hears the melodious sound of your laughter. You shut the door quietly, but the sounds of the party are only ever so slightly muffled. You’re still giggling when you join him, the slight sway of your walk giving away the depth of your inebriation. Clumsily, you drop onto the ground next to him and gently nudge his foot with the tip of your converse.

“What’s on your mind, Stevie?”

The nickname sounds easy coming from you. 

“Where’s Rob?” He’s avoiding the question and he knows it. He hopes that you’re too drunk to notice. 

“Vickie showed up. I thought I’d give the lovebirds a little alone time.” You give him a thoughtful look. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

He huffs. He should’ve known that even in the state you’re in that you would see right through him. You’ve always been able to see right through him. 

You let the silence hang in the air while you drop your head back and trace the constellations in the sky. You’ve gotten as far as Orion when he finally plucks up the courage to speak again. 

“I think you know what.” He says it softly, as if the tone of his voice could ever cushion the blow he’s about to deliver. 

The first look you give him is one of confusion. You’re still thinking about Orion and the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione. The second look you give him is one of betrayal. A million responses run through your head. Some are angry. Some are spiteful. Some are, annoyingly, full of hope. Shaking your head, you decide to go with the simplest option.

“Why?” 

“I think you know why.”

But that’s all that Steve does. He thinks. He thinks about your incessant need to always have a paperback in hand. He thinks about the mixtape that’s been on repeat in his car since you gave it to him. He thinks about the way your lips might feel on his. He thinks about how you might react to his confession, but he doesn’t know. You’ve always been able to read Steve like an open book. He still struggles to know what page you’re on.

Maybe it’s the moment. Maybe it’s the alcohol flowing in your veins. But the words flow out of your mouth as easily as the spiked punch flowed in. 

“You’re being mean.” Tears begin to collect on your lower lash line. You lift your head and blink as if trying to will them away, but they fall down your cheeks anyway. Steve wants nothing more than to cradle your head in his hands the same way that you did that morning and brush them away. He doesn’t. His hands stay firmly planted on the ground. 

“Baby-”

“Don’t.” You begin, your voice low and threatening. 

You struggle to stand up because your entire body is shaking with anger. Or hurt. Sometimes one disguises itself as the other and you can’t find it in yourself to figure out the difference. Not when he’s looking at you like that. 

“What am I? A last resort? You worked your way through the entire female population of Hawkins and thought you’d settle for a sure thing?”

“Hey-”

“Do you know how many girls I had to see you flirt with? How many dates I had to watch you go on?” You cringe at the hurt filling your voice and want anger to come back and take its place. 

Steve tries to cut in again but you don’t let him have the chance. He may have been the one who started this conversation, but you were sure as hell gonna finish it. 

“You don’t get to do this to me. Not when-” The tears are making your voice sound watery and garbled in a way that you despise. “Not when I have spent the past year of my life loving you.”

Steve is mentally kicking himself because he really needs to stop going to parties and letting the girl he’s in love with get drunk and break his heart. Once is bad luck. Twice is a pattern.

But against all odds you’re still standing there. The mascara you had so delicately applied earlier now smudged. Steve doesn’t know if you’re shaking from anger or from the cold but he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders anyway. You don’t push him away or storm off and leave him in the dust. Instead, you trace the constellation of moles on his neck until eventually you’re looking into his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to figure out and I’m sorry that my timing is awful.”

You take a moment to really look at him. The alcohol that once clouded your judgment is long gone. It seems to have been swept away in the flood of your argument, taking the anger and hurt along with it. It’s been replaced by something lighter. Something that feels a lot like hope.

“I’m sorry too for, uh, basically calling you a whore.” Steve laughs and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your features.

“I kinda deserved that. I swear I’ll do everything in my power to make it up to you. You deserve the world. Hell, you deserve the entire universe and-”  

When the two of you finally kiss, it’s something akin to a stellar collision. Hands desperately grasping at each other as if afraid you might slip from the other’s fingertips. The muffled sounds of the party, the chirps of the crickets, the slight gurgle of the pool filter all fade into the background. There’s nothing on your mind, only Steve. Steve. Steve. 

Once you remember that breathing is a thing, you pull away and laugh at how Steve whines at the loss of contact and chases your lips. You press your forehead to his and close your eyes, toying with the hairs at the nape of his neck. He hums appreciatively, arms circling your waist to pull you ever so closer.  

“You’re a fool, Steve Harrington.” You say, still trying to catch your breath.

The smirk that graces his features is nothing less than devilish. He uses the pads of his thumbs to wipe at the tear streaks that have since dried, cradling your face as if it were the most delicate thing he had ever touched. 

“I’m a fool for you.”

—

likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished ♥️

taglist: @freezaz123

[impasta-wall]

“The ocean doesn’t change though right?”

His eyes were like the ocean, deep blue, broken in places by white froth, “just like the snow or the forests or the sun or the clouds and mostly the stars.” He raised his hands up motioning to the vast array of them in the sky, twinkling in the distance, blinking in and out of existence; the world so wide and for their taking even from the back yard they both shared now—a sense of awe washing over them both as they looked beyond.

He couldn’t help it but whisper, nearly seventy years late;

“The snow changed me.”

Steve looked back at him, same eyes, same hair. His hand comes up and gives Bucky’s shoulder a squeeze. Infinite understanding and a deep, deep longing.

“But we’re still here. That hasn’t changed right?”

I think a lot about how traumatic Bucky’s life has been so far, same with Cap, and I can’t help but shed a tear. In parts they are their own hope, it’s a little bit of codependency but it’s hard when there’s only one other person out there that understands you so carnally. It’s the shared experience of hope and loss and grief and love, romantic or platonic.

[aenxiome]

OK for the next chapter of 1 (800) there are two options (if you have not read it that’s cool you can still weigh in on this) and I’m not sure which to choose. Regardless, all the important information that needs to be conveyed would stay the same. It would just be different ways of it coming out. The chapter itself is supposed to be a break from all the heavy tension that there has been recently. A crack chapter if you will.

We can either:

1) have Danny, Dick, and Wally (they’re visiting him in central city) kidnapped by the ghost of the muffin, man and his army of gingerbread man as they tried to re-create Hansel and Gretel with them and fight their way out

2) similar set up, but instead, there has been random horrible storms in the area—tornado outbreaks. They’re calling it a bad case of global warming. Being the good Samaritans, that they are, the three of them get in the car and drive over to help with some of the rescue efforts. When they get their Danny feels that something is off the issue? It’s not random, some reason vortex is out to play. It’s time for Danny to teach them how to fight a tornado 🌪️ 

The second idea maybe because I recently watched twisters… but now it’s stuck in my head

[throwmethroughawindow]

sabo + ace fucking you preview

so it seems this little piece I've been working on came just in time because I'm feral for not only Ace (duh) but Sabo???? I would love to be used by them? Sabo's mean streak coupled with Ace's gentleness would be so fucking HOT.

I'm (s)CREAMING.

Here's the little preview of what I have written <3

“What did I say about drooling sweetheart?”

               The back of his hand was soft as he stroked along your cheek swiping away a few tears as he let his hand fall by your lips, wiping away the drool that was slipping down your chin. A soft ‘hm’ fell from his lips as you let out a garbled response, mouth too full to properly speak.

               “What? Is my cock too much for you to handle? Or is it Ace’s fault that you can’t help drooling all over the place?”

               The patronizing tone Sabo was using made you squirm in place, shaking your head a little as the ravenette in question continued a slow wet trail of kisses along your shoulders and on the back of your neck. Ace’s warm calloused palms were cupping your tits, flicking your sensitive nipples as Sabo pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet ‘pop’. Slapping his cockhead against your lips, he chuckled softly at your pathetic whimpering .

[saturnniidae]

'To Catch a Changeling' was the first episode where Jim actually kills someone (not counting goblins), and I've always wished there had been some kind of focus on the moral ramifications he experienced because of that.

Because there's no way he just went from being unable to kill a gnome, a creature considered a common pest, to killing a person with no afterthoughts other than: "oh man! I killed our only evidence of changelings in arcadia!"

Though I guess he could've just been doing a shit ton of compartmentalizing as well as justifying it to himself with the fact she was going to kill both him and Toby. But still, there's no way he didn't feel at least somewhat guilty.

[nicolefirekitty]

fanart of one of my favorite fanfictions "The Tie that Binds" (or as my mind has it filed as: "evil ventus and evil terra gaslight aqua") by @arcawolf

i love all of the story, but the way it ends is my favorite because it's such an emotional scene as well as a bit on the morbid side like "holy shit what did they do" especially because of the pov chosen

i realize making a meme about it doesn't really convey how much i love it, but yeah oh well

[amaurotine-daydreaming]

A Soul Eclipsed (Prompt 5 - Stamp)

“Hm,” Hythlodaeus said, propping his chin in his hand. “Hm.”

Hythlodaeus wanted him to ask. 

Emet-Selch was not going to ask.

“Most astute Emet-Selch—”

“Whatever it is,” Emet-Selch said immediately, “the answer is no.”

“—may I borrow your eyes for a moment.”

Emet-Selch’s lips twitched. “I pray you do not mean literally.”

Hythlodaeus chuckled at the jest and leaned in. His hanging braid brushed Emet-Selch’s shoulder.

“I simply mean to steer your gaze to our distinguished colleague. Or rather, the equally youthful fellow next to him.”

Emet-Selch scowled. “Do not make me party to your ceaseless gossip,” he said, beginning to lean away. With Hythlodaeus standing this close, they looked far too obviously like co-conspirators.

But a gentle touch to his elbow made him pause, and the sudden seriousness in Hythlodaeus’s eyes stopped him outright. Whatever Hythlodaeus did not want to be overheard for, it was important.

And so he allowed Hythlodaeus to step close once more. 

“His soul,” Hythlodaeus murmured. “Unless I’m mistaken… something is amiss.”

Hythlodaeus was ever quick for a second opinion when it came to his talents, even though they both well knew it was his - not Hades’ - Sight that was the sharper. Nevertheless, Emet-Selch obliged. Discreetly.

A passing glance - like he was merely scanning the crowd - sufficed. The man Hythlodaeus had indicated was speaking to Elidibus. Emet-Selch did not personally recognize him, but he was distinguished from the others in the Capitol’s reception hall by his mop of crimson hair and the unusual crystal foci he wore at his hip. That he wore such ornamentation openly made it likely (if not painfully obvious, at least to Emet-Selch) that he wasn’t from the city proper.

What wasn’t unusual was that he was speaking to Elidibus. Elidibus’s role as the arbiter of disputes, his pure white robes, and - perhaps above all - his warm disposition made him the most sought-after member of the Convocation. With Elidibus entertaining almost as many requests for conversation as Azem did, it was a wonder that he ever had time to attend to his duties.

Elidibus laughed openly, delighted by something his companion said, and the man in turn beamed. Nothing too out of place at an external glance. But his soul…

Most souls were robust, healthy motes of light. Emet-Selch had seen other kinds, of course: Those on the verge of death flickered and dimmed, sickly ones looked pallid, and corrupted ones looked mottled or even bloated. 

This man’s soul was none of these.

It looked partially eclipsed. Stained, like something dark had stamped itself upon it and was - almost imperceptibly - spreading.

“Do you see it?”

Now it was Emet-Selch who took Hythlodaeus’s elbow, turning them both away from the pair. “Do try to be more discreet.”

Of course, that was enough to give away to Hythlodaeus that he shared his concern. 

“Should we speak to him?” Hythlodaeus wondered.

Emet-Selch could already see the path Hythlodaeus was considering going down, and gave a short, sharp shake of his head. “Neither of us are even remotely acquainted with him. It would be quite rude to–”

“He seems to have a mutual friendship with Elidibus. Surely we could pass along a message–” 

“No.” It was not for them to disclose something as intimate as the state of another person’s soul. 

“Hades, he should be made aware.”

“Mayhap he already is.”

He was doing his best to steer Hythlodaeus away from this folly–any broaching of the subject to the man in question should be made in private and not in the middle of the Capitol building, at the very least--but Emet-Selch could do nothing about Hythlodaeus looking back over his shoulder at the peculiar, partially-eclipsed soul. 

He was being thoughtful, at least, and perhaps amenable to reason–

“I’ll be just a moment,” Hythlodaeus declared.

“What?” Emet-Selched hissed. “Hythlodaeus–!”

But Hythlodaeus had already slipped away and was weaving his way towards the man and Elidibus. 

Emet-Selch pressed a hand to his forehead, the edges of his mask digging into the flesh there. The stars only knew whether Hythlodaeus’s casual breaking of social norms would ever be less astounding.

[scarletwritesshit]

🐓 Sunday 🐓 Falling Down

Sunday could feel the power dissipating from him.

He no longer had the body of what could’ve been an Aeon. He was nothing more than a bird that could never take flight. Or maybe, he was nothing to begin with.

The flow of time around him slowed to barely more than stop. The platform on which the Trailblazer rebelled against him was slowly shrinking to a mere speck in his vision. As he fell down, Sunday didn’t reach out his hand in a desperate last-ditch attempt at resurrection.

He felt that this is what he deserved. He failed to make his people happy. Did he go about things wrong? Or were people far too comfortable with their suffering that the idea of change was more frightening than comforting?

Regardless, Sunday allowed himself to plummet to the bottom. He could no longer tell if he was still locked in the confines of Penacony’s dreams or harsh reality was creeping upon him. Whatever form of darkness was due to swallow him whole, he would accept it without protest.

He relaxed the two wings that he normally kept tucked into his torso, watching as two large crow-like wings outstretched before him. Theoretically, they would be large and strong enough to lift him up in the air, should he desire to make his return.

Except, his wing was clipped. Sunday had no means of taking flight. He couldn’t lift himself off the ground, and he could never save himself, should he come crashing down.

Perhaps things were meant to be this way. Maybe fate dealt him a cruel hand, destining him to fail no matter how wide attempted to spread his wings. It was only a matter of when he would take the leap of faith and shortly come crashing down.

If he had succeeded in founding his utopia, then a faulty wing would matter not, as he would be standing as equals with Robin, along with everyone else.

Nevertheless, it was foolish to assume that a bird that could not even fly had the slightest chance of making a difference in the world. The only place for him now was whatever awaited him at the bottom of the abyss, whether a broken spine or a rude awakening in his bed awaited him.

He was okay with that. As much as he wanted to spend his last moments with his dear sister, he just wasn’t meant to stand with her.

Sunday didn’t allow himself to weep, not did he permit himself to cry out for help. He forced his eyes shut and silently awaited his likely demise. However, he was awoken from his trance by the presence of someone familiar holding him close as he fell.

He opened his eyes, yet couldn’t believe what he saw. Robin was pulling him in close to her, as if she were hanging onto him for dear life.

"Sister?" he said, panic-stricken.

But she didn’t respond, not with a word, gesture, or anything. She remained unresponsive as she slowly faded into the light above, right in front of Sunday’s eyes.

Things really were meant to end this way for him. Sunday closed his eyes once more, not even willing to allow the impact of death to disturb his fated slumber.

[funnyao3]

Jesper stared at him with a surprised smile.

"You're cute but word of warning- If Kaz so much as hears you suggest that he has feelings for Inej he will kill you, and then me...and then probably three more innocent bystanders for good measure"

[pricelessemotion]

I’m in so deep | S.H.

part one part two

Summary: liquid courage allows you to finally tell steve how you feel

Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

Warnings: talks of alcohol and drinking, angst, unrequited love

Notes: this is the first piece of fanfic i’ve EVER published so pls be nice 🫶 and enjoy my steve brain rot

masterlist

—

The TV hums in the background. Robin is on the floor, mouth agape as soft snores escape her.

Steve is sitting against the couch, facing the film that has long since been forgotten. The staticky glow bathes his face in an array of colors. Every moment it shifts. Blues to greens to oranges to reds. You don’t need to look at him to know that he looks beautiful. He always looks beautiful.

It’s so unfair.

Instead, you stay sprawled out on the couch and trace constellations on the living room ceiling. The only thing you can hear is the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. The weight of your confession has caused the once light air to be thick with tension.

I think I’m in love with you.

You saw the realization sink in. It wasn’t a look of reciprocation and relief. It was a look of consideration. A look that was trying to figure out the best way to let you down easy. That was hours ago. Or minutes. Or seconds, you’re not really sure. Time seems to have frozen despite the fact that the slow progression of the film on the television proves that it continues to race forward, just like the beat of your heart.

Steve sighs a soft sigh.

You finally find the courage to speak. The slurred words spilling out of you like the beer you knocked over on the coffee table. Sticky and sure to leave a residue.

“Just do me a favor.”

He turns to look at you but you’re still staring at the ceiling. Still tracing constellations.

“When we wake up tomorrow, can we pretend this never happened?”

He murmurs a soft sound of agreement. You close your eyes. The constellations have finally seemed to burn out. An entire universe has been obliterated and the fucking movie is still playing.

You turn to face the couch cushions and let the silent tears slip out. Only one phrase is on your mind as you drift off to sleep.

I’m in so deep.

—

likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished ♥️

[omar-rudeberg]

wanted: fic prompts

i've been finding myself wanting to write anything except my current projects at the moment, and any generic prompts / challenges i've come across are not enticing - i want juicy juicy personal prompts dripping in yr canon or headcanon.

if you have any such prompt/s for young royals - like, probably wilmon but not exclusively so - please send it through to me? put it on this post or put it in my ask box i don't mind.

literally if you've ever wanted to beg me to write anything (like, sweet, spicy, savoury, subtle or super unhinged, etc.) here's your chance ???

[cellophaine]

Lingered Affection (Chapter XV)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Word Count: 4865.

Series Summary: You thought breaking up with Matt was the right thing to do. For his sake and yours. Life went on as you navigated through it with the lingered love and affection you still had for each other, neither of you could let go.

Chapter Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Fluff. A little angst.

Author's Note: I'm finally back to this wasteland that I call home. I've missed this, but it's hard to get back to it since I put too much pressure on myself to make it good when I could've had a silly good time with a silly goofy plot. But no, I had to suffer instead 🥲

I hope you will enjoy this chapter :)

GIF is not mine

The car ride home was cast in a glowering silence with your unwillingness to talk as the instigator. It wasn't that you didn't want to. You didn't know how to explain yourself, where to start. An apology was redundant if not too little too late, and what was the point of apologizing if you kept committing the offence over and over again?

After the swift escape, you made your way to the alley behind the building to retrieve the sealed document lying on the empty spot, usually occupied by an industrial waste container. Once it was secured in your hands, you jogged to the main street with Matt's sullen silence glued to your side, uncomfortable like the lump in your throat you couldn't get rid of, and wordlessly flagged down a cab.

And now, in the suffocating, borderline blistering warmth of the taxi and the moody crooning of an old jazz classic crackled through the old radio, you found yourself unable to open the conversation. It was like an old diary of your worst mistakes sealed shut, and you knew once you pried it open, nothing good would come out. Still, the anticipation of the inevitable confrontation felt worse, somehow. It seemed harmless at first, like a small but smouldering flame that built up until every inch of you was covered in the tiny blazes, pricking at you from the inside. Your body knew the price of keeping secrets, and you were reminded every time.

You glanced at Matt, who angled his face toward the window as if his city, which always moved in blurry shapes and danced in transient flames, suddenly came to him in every little detail so sharp that he could touch it with his unsighted eyes, and he couldn't help but marvel.

You took a steady inhale, then exhaled softly through your lips. The easiest thing you could do for yourself right now was to say what was perching on your lips the moment Matt pulled you to the side at the fundraiser.

"I wanted to tell you. I really wanted to."

But you couldn't, not after everything that happened between the two of you. If your self-sabotage tendencies were like headaches, your family and everything that came with them were like migraines that only intensified, never relented. You thought you could spare Matt from descending downward into the neverending pit. It was a gateway that, once you opened, would never shut.

Your parents' maltreatment was like a program ingrained in your mind, impossible to unlearn, much less remove entirely. But it seemed like no matter what you did, Matt would end up in the midst of it. The only thing you could do was to be honest. But it was hard, and you couldn't help the way you were. The way you had always been. Your secrecy was your way of protecting yourself, looking out for your sanity because who else would?

"I'm really sorry. The last thing I want for you is to be involved with my family's… drama."

Such a trivial word for an intricate situation. It couldn't encapsulate the scope of virulency your parents were capable of. You knew that, and Matt had started to grasp the weight of your situation, too. It wasn't a walk in the park. It was a run for your life through the woods on injured ankles with bloodhounds chasing after you, their mouths foaming, their teeth snapping at your heels. And you couldn't outrun them.

Matt sighed and turned to your side of the cab. You couldn't gauge his emotions in the dark of the taxi. His face was cut with sharp angles by the shadows, but there was a softened edge of defeat in his voice.

"All I ask is for you to be honest with me."

When you were lost in your own turmoil with your parents, you neglected Matt. You forgot that he, just like you, also had a hard time getting close to others, especially when it came to his Daredevil identity. It took time, patience, and so much commitment for the two of you to reach this point where you could trust each other completely and wholly. You messed it up more than once, but here he was, still giving you his all. For as long as you thought you were protecting him by keeping him at arm's length, it only hurt both of you in the long run. You had to learn how to balance. Allowing Matt to know more about what was going on between you and your parents seemed like a fair trade for the time being.

"I know."

You allowed the rumble of the car and the low jazz to take over again. In the back of the cab, your hand found Matt's on the worn-out leather seat. At first, it was a barely-there contact; your skin grazed his. You drew on your courage to move atop his hand, feeling the small raises of his scars underneath your palm. For a moment, he didn't move. You breathed a relieved sigh as Matt responded to your touch, turning his palm upward to enclose your hand, your fingers wove tightly. Those were the last words exchanged for the rest of the ride.

–

Matt's home granted you great relief from the outside world, but his persistent silence did not. After closing the door behind you, he walked ahead while you lingered at the console table. You understood the gust of indifference he left behind was for you. Like a moth to the flame, he could never truly stay away, yet, for tonight, it didn't keep him from trying.

You followed Matt into the living room, where he had stopped to tug on his tie. He pulled it loose, draping it over the back of the sofa before working to discard his suit jacket. You tossed your purse along with the sealed file on the dining table, allowing the important document to be nothing but a scrap of paper and made your way to him, stepping into his space with so much uncertainty.

You reached out to him with your hands curled on his wrists, silently asking. After a moment, Matt let his arms fall to the sides, allowing you to help him. You felt the tension in your body wane with every button unfastened, slowly and languidly, until you reached the bottom that disappeared into the waist of his pressed slacks. You tugged slightly on the soft material, freeing the rest of the white shirt. Once all the buttons were undone, Matt's chest was bare to you, naked and moving steadily with every breath he took.

You couldn't help but risk a touch below his belly button, feeling the faint dust of fine hair tickle your fingertips. Your brief contact raised goosebumps on his skin, and Matt drew in a soft breath, held it there and waited for your next move. He looked beautiful like this, patient, yet his longing was palpable to your eyes, and you wanted nothing more than indulge. You missed this, the intimacy you shared, the deliberateness as you really took your time with each other until the need you built was so unbearable that you gave in. You dragged your fingers up, barely touching him, and the hitch in his throat was so quiet that you almost missed it. It gave you a small boost forward as you grew bolder; your hand ghosted over his abs, the hard planes on his chest, and only stopped to stroke teasingly at the column of his throat, feeling him swallow hard. You dared a look at his face to see his unsighted eyes settled on you, his lips parted and quivered in soft, careful exhales. Your eyes fluttered, and your heart skipped a beat as you took his slightly dishevelled self in, reading the barely hidden yet, still restrained desire written all over his glossy eyes, his parted lips and the way his breaths seemed to grow even quieter at his control.

You leaned in, only paused when there was barely any distance in between so he could end this if he wished to. But Matt made no move to push you away. So you followed the natural course laid out before you; your fingers were replaced with your lips on the delicate flesh with a light-as-feather touch. The small caresses were careful, experimental as you were unsure of your place until they became insistent as you pressed harder, wanting to feel more of him. Your lips parted to suck on his skin; your tongue darted out to taste it. You felt Matt's arm close around the small of your back, pulling you closer like an invitation for you to continue. Your teeth closed around his skin and tugged, drawing a deep groan from his throat. Matt's hands grasped you through the material of your dress; the low resonant of his whine urged you to continue. Your arms wrapped around his neck, one hand found its home in his hair, carding through the soft strands and tugging as your mouth moved to nip at his jaw. Matt liked that, his grunt of approval and the tightening of his arms around you, pressing you against him even more, was an obvious indication.

His hand grasped your chin and tilted your face to meet his. He caught your lips with such urgency as if he couldn't do it soon enough. A dam broke inside you when your lips connected; a swirl of relief and exhilaration winded deep in the pit of your stomach. His hand banded around your throat, his fingers brushed against your pounding pulse, holding you still but not restricting your movement. Your kiss was unrestrained and desperate, releasing all the bottled frustration from your earlier exchange in the closet. It was also a physical proof made of skin, bones, and the thundering of your hearts that you were here together, that this was real. Matt had longed to hold you like this, to have you like this, and you had yearned to feel once again the home you made in his arms. In this sacred moment, you didn't need words. You had already said so much in so little time and trusted that your action was enough to show him how much you wanted him. Matt crushed you to him, making your dress bunch and wrinkle, and you groaned at the barrier in between. You pushed at the shirt on his shoulders with impatience, and Matt helped you get rid of it. You sighed as your hands met his bare skin, warm, alive, and taut over the expanse of muscles.

You barely parted. You couldn't, even when the air in your lungs wane. When you were desperate for it, you would pull back slightly only to gravitate toward Matt again. Your teeth clashed, your tongues intertwined. You needed the lack of distance, the growing intensity, and the impatience you shared. Matt found the zipper of your dress and tugged on it harshly, eager to free you of your confinement. He pulled on it several times, but the creased garment refused to give. You felt his grunt of frustration before his withdrawal from your lips, felt his hands hold the fabric in place so he could slide the zipper down while you peppered kisses all over his neck and collarbone, licking and nipping at his skin like it was a drug.

After a final decisive pull and a satisfied groan, your dress came loose and pooled at your feet. Matt's warm hands raised goosebumps on your skin as he caressed your body, worshipping with every fervent touch. His hands moved and kneaded and groped as if you were to disappear any moment, and he needed to seize every moment, every second. Your bodies fused as one as you moved backward and bumped into the back of the couch. You felt his erection straining against his dress pants, pressing into your thighs. You felt lightheaded, not only from the onslaught of kisses, of the intoxicating air you breathed in but from the dizzying need to shed his clothes, to get him naked, to have nothing else in the way.

With shaky but determined hands, you reached for his belt, tugging it loose with Matt's help. You sighed breathily into his mouth as his pants fell, and the hard outline of his erection felt more noticeable now. You palmed it, and Matt moaned softly, his face contorted as if your touch was enough to make him lose it. He made his way to your throat, making you gasp and moan as you could tell his bites were hard enough to leave marks. You couldn't care less about how you would be perceived with Matt's love bites on your neck the next morning. You could only focus on how good he made you feel, how he lavished his attention on you. He settled on the point between your neck and shoulder, sucking on the delicate flesh. One hand guided your neck to arch into his mouth while the other reached for your bra and unfastened the hook. You tossed the garment over your shoulders, and Matt wasted no time attaching his skilled mouth to your breast. You felt your legs weakened as he worked you over relentlessly; his tongue swirled over your sensitive nipple, his teeth dug softly into the supple flesh, sucking and nipping and licking while his other tended to the other, groping and rolling your hardened nub between his forefingers. You threw your head back, letting your moans of ecstasy bounce freely off of the brick walls. Your hands grasped his shoulders; your nails dug into his skin to warn him of your urgency.

"Take me to bed, please. I need you."

Matt came back to you, so breathless and speechless that all he could do was nod, his breathing laboured. You were picked up in one swift movement; Matt's hands dug into your thighs. He laid you onto the bed gently, a contrary to the way he had been handling you. You crawled backward on your arms, watching as he followed. Your gaze roamed over the mushed-up hair on his head, his glossy unsighted eyes trained on you. You eyed the faint smear of your lipstick all over his lips; the clumsy imprint was blurry and only enhanced the irresistible dishevelled look on Matt's face. You caught a brief glimpse of the pigment before Matt brought you back to him by capturing your lips in a searing kiss, by the feel of his hand on your hip bone, his thumb delved under the lace of your underwear. You lifted your hips, and he worked quickly to rid of them. You went for his boxers, pulling the waistband down the globes of his ass until he was free from the containment. His cock was hot and heavy on your thigh, and you couldn't help but moan softly at the sheer anticipation.

Matt touched you where you needed him most, and you couldn't help the moan that escaped. His skilled fingers ran along your wet folds, grazing your sensitive clit. Your back arched off the silk sheet as his movement grew persistent, drawing needy whimpers from you as if he could feast on your pretty sound of pleasure. Your hips chased after his hand even after he pulled it away to retrieve a condom from the bedside table. A wave of relief washed over you as Matt returned. He braced himself above you, close enough for you to feel his warmth, yet not enough that he could crush you. You involuntarily tensed as he poised at your entrance; the tip of his aching cock caught on your folds. You hadn't been intimated with anyone else since your breakup, and you had the feeling that it was the same for him. Matt sensed your uneasiness and drew his hips back, giving you some space. His hands found yours; his thumbs drew soothing patterns on your palm. Even though there hadn't been a single word exchanged between you ever since you got back, you understood everything Matt had been telling you with his actions. His face softened, and his unseeing eyes settled on you with affection and love as he waited for your permission.

Your heart swelled in your chest at the tenderness evident in every fibre of Matt's being. You knew you were safe here and how much you had desperately wanted that safety net to catch you. All you had to do was to let yourself fall into his arms.

Your hand travelled along the side of his firm body to reach his back, relishing in the coiled muscles, feeling the divots of his waist, and urged him to move with a slight nudge. The other came to rest on the side of his face, softly caressing the stubble that tickled your fingertips. Matt understood your cues, pressing his lips into your palm before pushing in. You felt the slow and delicious stretch of his cock, your mouth fell open, and a moan parted your throat in a way that drove him mad. He took his time and moved slowly, and as impatient as you both were, you understood that Matt was careful not to break you. The world and your worries ceased to exist as you were wrapped in the enrapture of one another, lost at being so physically connected that the only person you knew of was him. The only thing you felt was him.

Matt increased the pace, jolting you with each hard thrust as he pulled out just to slam back in again. Euphoria filled your body and mind, inspiring your thought to spiral into something deeper you weren't even aware of. You missed this. You missed sex, but not as much in the act itself. You missed being intimate with Matt. The way he understood you, the way he knew what you needed in the heated moments. He listened, he obliged, and he cared more about your pleasure than his. Finally having him here, like this, despite the rift you caused just months ago, made your nose sting. You thought you had lost him for good, and that alone gave a final push to the salted tears gathered in your eyes. Matt's pace faltered, yet, he still kept a steady rhythm, only slower than before. He touched your cheek, feeling the wetness at the corner of your eye, his brows furrowed in concern.

"Am I hurting you? Should I stop?"

You shook your head and pulled him down to kiss you; your lips moved together in urgency. He felt your plea to be consumed wholly, so he kissed you just like how you needed. Deeply, thoroughly, wholeheartedly. Your mouth eagerly opened to his demanding tongue. Your hips arched to meet his, silently asking him to pick up the pace. And he did. You let go; your fervent moans materialized and molten together in a melody. A song of lovers found, of lost souls touched and intertwined. Your hands grasped his sweat-dotted skin; your thighs banded around his hips like a mark. You tried to hold on as you didn't want this to end already, but Matt gave your wrist a squeeze, promising you it was okay. The frantic drive of his hips made it harder and harder for you to hold off, so you conceded. You came with a loud cry, and Matt held you through the intense wave of ecstasy. You moved your hips to meet his stuttering thrusts before Matt came too. A broken moan enveloped your hearing and pounding heart in a warm embrace. You held him close as he lay on top of you, welcoming his weight like an anchor, binding you to him, to where you had always belonged.

Time slipped by your woven hands much too fast to your liking as you nestled in Matt's arms, with his hand covering yours on your chest. He lavished you with attention, adorning you with kisses to dry up the tears that poured moments before until the inevitable happened. When it did, Matt left the bed with much reluctance, leaving you in the remnant of his warmth on the sheet. You heard him putting on his Daredevil suit and watched as he made his way to you, giving you one last lingering kiss. He smoothed a hand over your hair before putting his gloves on, and then he was gone with a promise of returning soon.

You flopped back to the bed and sighed, relishing in the afterglow. A tiredness settled in your bones, a result of all the exhilaration and anxiety that happened in the span of one night. You buried your face in the pillow that smelled like Matt, wishing he was here with you.

You could feel the pull of fatigue in your body, but your mind insisted on staying awake no matter how much you willed yourself to fall asleep. You tossed and turned and eventually gave up when it was clear you were only wasting time.

You leaned against the kitchen counter while waiting for the water to boil. The aroma of dry tea leaves soothed your nerves as you zoned out, trying to clear your head. Your eyes roamed the room aimlessly until they fell on the sealed file perched atop the dining room table alongside your purse. Its whispered promises of secrets revealed drew on your interest, and you allowed your curiosity to win after debating whether you should open it. After all, you had time to spare. For once, maybe you could stay ahead of your father's game.

You sat down and flipped through the file; your eyes read and examined every word written on the pages. Your eyes read the names next to their black-and-white photos. Ethan F., Theodore K., Terry M., Minh T., Rob H. No last names. Nothing else that might give away too much, only short descriptions of their blood types, medical summaries and respective recordings of what you couldn't fully understand. Stabilized with Aconitine. Responded well to the insertion process. Metal compounds with complicated names were assigned to each man. In Terry M.'s report, the recording was only half as long. His page was crossed out in a red X. You skimmed through the paragraph, noting the small differences compared to other men, and at the very end of it: Subject responded negatively to graphene. Increased dose. Subject unresponsive. Your brows scrunched together, and your stomach churned at what you were reading. You shut the file and leaned back in the seat, taking a moment to process.

Just because you hated your father didn't mean whatever he was planning was illegal. Maybe your source was wrong. Perhaps you were the bad person in this situation. You were so desperately hoping for your father's life-long project to be malfeasance that you overlooked the good things that did come out of it. He saved a life. He might have hit you, injured you for a long stretch of your life, but he saved someone. That must make the scale balanced.

The thought grew ugly and vile as it twisted at your insides, knowing it had the upper hand already. Your eyes were pricked with fresh, frustrating tears, and you blinked slowly, willing them to not fall.

No matter how you looked at it, abuse was still abuse. You had to remind yourself. It was hard to remember and believe it on most days because who were you to say that you were innocent, that you didn't deserve your father's beatings? If only you were a better daughter, a better person–

You stood up abruptly, cutting off your train of thought forcefully. The chair scraped the hardwood floor, making an unpleasant sound that made you wince. You hunched over, forcing yourself to inhale and exhale slowly in an attempt to slow your heart rate and the growing anxiety. You did it until your pulse returned to normal, until the dread in your stomach wasn't as intimidating as before.

You eyed your purse on the table and realized you might have a better understanding if you knew at least some of the extent of your father's project. You reached for your phone and quickly looked up your father's name. You watched as the results showed within seconds and scrolled through the headlines. They were all praises dedicated to "the most innovative doctor of our time". You clicked on the link written by a reputable scientist who worked closely with your father throughout the early stages of development, the article cited. The details they shared were generic enough to give a normal person a good understanding but not in-depth enough to give away their life's work. You read on as they sang your father's praises on how he reconstructed Aaron's broken spine by providing support with an unnamed material that was flexible yet durable. The procedure was described as "delicate, one-of-a-kind, state-of-the-art that will change the world for the better."

Before you could read further, the door to the roof opened, signalling Matt's return. You placed your phone on the table and watched him descend the stairs, gauging for any sign of injuries. He appeared unharmed, his steps light and quick as he approached you. You greeted him in the middle, your arms opened with a hug, and Matt returned your gesture of affection. You let him lift you off the ground, his face tilted up to find yours; his lips captured yours with urgency with his cowl still on. The hard material dug into your face, but you couldn't care less as you melted in his arms, grateful for his presence.

When you finally pulled away, Matt spoke, his voice deep and drunk from the kiss.

"What are you doing up?"

"I'm just looking over some stuff we took earlier tonight. I couldn't sleep."

You took hold of the helmet with one hand and tried to free Matt from it.

"Anything important?"

His hand moved to help you with the cowl as you responded distractedly at the sight of his face revealed.

"Oh, I'm sure everything in that file is important. I haven't figured it out yet though."

He went in for a peck, and your nose scrunched as it landed.

"I know you will. I'm here to help you as well."

"Thank you. I appreciate you."

You stroked the back of his neck, feeling the slightly damped hair there. Matt cleared his throat softly; a touch of tease edged in his voice.

"If you're still up, that means … I didn't do my job right."

Your smile widened at his meaning.

"You'll have to try harder then."

"Is that a challenge?"

He arched a brow, and you couldn't help but chuckle.

"It is if you want it to be. Do you … want it to be?"

"I think you know the answer to that already."

You threw your head back and laughed softly, exposing your throat to him. Matt caught the chance, dipping his head to kiss the sensitive skin. You squirmed in his hold and gasped softly when his grip on your thighs tightened as he carried you to the bedroom.

–

You pulled your bag closer to yourself as you stepped off of the subway, navigating the flow of pavement traffic. The weather had warmed up so much that you could ditch the scarf and heavy coat and opt for a light jacket instead. You checked your phone again to be safe and continued your route. Eventually, you stopped before your destination. The building looked decent from the outside as you took it in before checking the address one more time. Figuring you shouldn't stand in the middle of the sidewalk any longer, you walked in through the door. It opened even though it looked like you needed a key. You didn't question it as you took the elevator going up. The number ticked up slowly, and you felt your anxiety rise with it.

The elevator's doors opened, and you stepped out. At the end of the hall was where you saw it: the writing on the frosted glass pulled at your attention, indicating your stop. You closed the distance with assured steps and took a deep breath before you knocked. You waited patiently, listening as some dull sounds made it to your ears: a dull thud, a chair push, boots steps on the floor, and finally, the wooden door with glass pane revealed the person on the other side.

"You."

The woman levelled you with a cool gaze and an even colder tone, almost as if she was bored by your mere appearance.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. The one with mommy and daddy issues."

You gave her a tight-lipped smile.

"It's nice to finally meet you in person, Detective Jones."

She rolled her eyes; her annoyance was clear at the formal and false title.

"I'm not a detective."

She turned on her heels and walked over to her desk, not bothering to see if you would follow her.

"Come in. Whatever you found for me better be good."

*Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!* Follow my side blog to receive notifications whenever I post! @cellophaine-archives

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: Simmer (The Long-Awaited Reply to a Lingering Kiss)

Aziraphale Fell is an accomplished food writer and book collector who leads a quiet life. Anthony Crowley owns the Grand Duke Distillery, maker of Wanton Sinner Whisky, and has a reputation for living on the wild side. As former culinary school classmates, they share a love of food and drink — and a long ago kiss that neither one has ever quite forgotten. Are they just too different to ever make it work? (I bet you can guess.) Aziraphale rises from his chair, takes a few steps towards him, then hesitates. Crowley knows a hundred different emotions must be flickering across his face, reflecting all the turmoil between his head and his heart. His heart is loud, insistent, nudging him to see the earnest hope in Aziraphale’s expression, to remember the beatific boy who lent him a pen and kissed him on a stair step, urging him to not let go of this man with ink-stained fingers and rare books who constantly surprises him. His shoulders tense as his breath hitches, his voice hoarse. “You need to tell me exactly what you want.”

Length: 28,364 words

AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥

Best for: Mostly Safe in Public, Human AU, Romance

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by LemonTart

*Minor Spoilers* I really loved this version of Aziraphale and Crowley. In this AU, they had known each other in culinary school many years ago and one night shared a kiss that neither of them could fully forget. I love how we meet them in the future, as more than acquaintances but not close enough to know anything about each other's personal lives. But it's written all over them how much they both want to reconnect.

The tension between them simmers slowly as they begin to spend more time together. I absolutely adore food AUs because it allows them to be experts and intellectual equals, which I appreciate in a Human AU. It's important to me that they can keep pace with each other! When emotions finally reach a boiling point, they must be brave and honest about their desires. Then, they need to put in the effort to make it a reality. I would love to spend more time in this specific AU. I want to follow them as they visit new restaurants, sample whiskies, and cook together. I want to see how they manage their schedules and integrate into each other's lives now. The pacing was excellent, and it ends on a very satisfying note, but I can't help feeling greedy with this one. I want an extra helping.

Mostly safe in public, the sex is not too explicit and they're shorter scenes, so you could get away with it. But I think it makes a perfect binge read if you can settle in and read it in one go.

Read it here, fic by LemonTart

[didsomeonesaybuffet]

Hiiii I've just posted chapter 1 of my Hell's Kitchen AU where Dean is competing, and Cas is a sous chef. Here's a snippet for you:

If You Can't Stand the Heat...

Walking into the dining room for the first time, Dean felt a wave of terror that he hadn’t anticipated. Suddenly he felt wildly out of place, and shoved his hands into his pockets in the hopes that their shaking wouldn’t give him away to the others as someone weak to pick off. 

They gathered around the kitchen’s pass in a semicircle, that heady mixture of arrogance and bravado that had followed some of the group from the bus was beginning to subside, sending nervous ripples through the group. Dean rocked backward on his heels a little, hoping to appear nonchalant. He was seriously considering walking straight back out through the front doors and hitching a ride to a gas station Bobby might pick him up from when he heard footsteps in the corridor behind the kitchen. A sharp elbow caught him in the ribs, and his head snapped to the left where his eyes found Charlie beaming up at him, almost vibrating with excitement. He smiled back, some of his nerves abating. 

The footsteps in the corridor materialized as Chef Crowley strode into the kitchen and walked up to face the group from behind the pass. He was a little shorter than Dean had expected, though he had no doubt that infamous personality more than made up for that. 

‘Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen!’ Crowley smiled as he said it, but it was devious more than it was friendly. The group applauded and some cheered, though Dean was having a little trouble breathing enough to remain conscious, let alone cheer. He’d followed Crowley’s career for years, studying his recipes and keeping track of his accolades, hoping that one day he’d see his own name in similar headlines and articles. ‘Each of you had been selected out of the thousands of applicants from all across America; you showed potential, talent and passion in your applications, and I have high hopes for each of you. With that said, it’s time for you to cook your signature dish. I want to see what you’re about. 

‘Before you get into the kitchen, I’d like to introduce you to your sous chefs. For the red team, he’s a celebrated and highly awarded chef with five Michelin stars, most recently for the incredible desserts at his flagship restaurant Angel’s Food Cake on the east coast. Everyone please welcome Castiel Novak.’ Applause and cheers broke out among the group of chefs as Castiel walked through the back door to the kitchen and made his way to stand beside chef Crowley. His gaze swept across the chefs crowded in front of him, appraising each of them in turn. His eyes rested on Dean for a moment before Crowley began to speak again. 

Read more on AO3 (please please please please)