#i don’t want to tag brady

[matthewtkachuk]

last night (blame it on the vodka)

They say drunk words are sober thoughts, so what are drunken confessions of love?

pairing: matthew tkachuk x reader

warnings: a pinch of angst, swearing, alcohol (and its after effects - aka a fat hangover and a twinge of regret)

word count: 3k

a/n: matthew tkachuk is a stanley cup champion!!!! you know i had to do it to ya. ps this idea was formed a million years ago (pre trade) therefore I have simply plucked Cowboys from downtown Calgary to downtown Miami deal with it. big ups to @wyattjohnston for the edit and for outsourcing my geography queries. title and inspo from the song by the same name by lucy spraggan. enjoy my loves and let me know what you think <3

You’re never drinking again. 

It’s a mantra you repeat all morning, from the minute you’re dragged back into consciousness by the sound of construction down on the street, to when you finally pull from bed to dramatically slam the window shut, to the one-two-three-four times you end up with your knees on the bathroom mat and your head in the toilet. 

You’re far too old to be drinking like that on a nearly empty stomach, far too old to be drinking like that regardless. Okay, maybe that’s a tad dramatic, being a mostly single twenty something year old in downtown Miami. Mostly single in that every time you drank, your painfully unrequited crush on probably the one guy in all of Florida you couldn’t pull came out with a vengeance. 

Looking at your phone and all the unread texts you groan, realizing that the little girl who used to write ‘Mrs. Matty Tkachuk’ in all of her diaries came out in full force last night. 

Hyping yourself up, you type out and forward the message ‘What the hell did I do last night?’ to everyone you remember being out with you. Everyone, that is, except Matty himself. 

Brielle: Last night you told him you loved him 

It’s not atypical for you to be out on a Friday night, a group of your closest girlfriends at your side. Neither is it uncommon for the night to begin with the three of you taking thirst traps for the ‘gram before taking shots as the Uber pulls up. 

Cowboys is a favorite place, certainly not for the high class atmosphere or clientele—of which you’ll find neither. But who doesn’t love to let loose in an environment where the city boys of Miami don Stetsons and large belt buckles? And okay, maybe you’re a bit of a gambler—though, with money or love as the currency depends on the night. 

Tonight you’re pressing your luck, drinking enough to dull the edge and to keep you from overreacting to Matt’s response to the aforementioned Insta story. It’s a simple message, a string of fire emojis, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t refresh the app until his username appeared as ‘Seen’ under the story. 

You don’t want to think it means anything when he shows up with a couple of his boys an hour into dancing with the girls. Cowboys is a popular place, evidenced by the crowded dance floor and the complete lack of personal space. So what Brielle was wearing a cowboy hat in one of the pictures and so what everyone and their mother knew this bar was your favorite place to spend Friday nights and so what you’d even tagged the place in a boomerang of your shot glasses five minutes after arriving. 

It didn’t mean anything—doesn’t mean anything. 

That thought doesn’t stop you from abandoning your friends the second you see the all too familiar head of curls.

“Hi Matty,” you greet, stumbling into him and sliding your hand around his waist. He feels solid beneath your fingertips, warm and secure and everything you’ve ever wanted. His resulting grin could build and topple empires, you think. 

But then reality all comes crashing down again as he slides his arm around your shoulders in turn, squeezing gently as he replies, “Hey, Kid.”

It’s the gentle reminder you’ll never be anything more than the annoying girl next door who used to follow him and Brady around like they were the greatest thing in the world. 

If he notices the way you deflate, he doesn’t say a word, though his hand rubs comfortingly at your shoulder for a moment until you can’t stand it anymore and go back to your friends and their sympathetic faces. 

The thing about you when you drink is the filter comes off. Normally you play your cards close to your chest, making it very hard for others to know your emotions. But a little vodka and you’re suddenly ready to face your feelings head on. 

It starts off innocently enough, an over exaggerated ‘I love you!’ when he brings you a drink without you having to ask. But then Georgia is all but holding you down to prevent you from running after him and professing your love. She doesn’t succeed, what with you running into his arms midway through the night anyway. 

He has that same grin on his face as you tell him how much you love him, and though he doesn’t mean it the way you do, he tells you that he loves you too just the same. 

Though you haven’t eaten in at least twelve hours, the thought of food makes your already upset stomach turn some more, and so you settle for making a cup of tea to get some fluids back in you. 

Not quite ready to face the music in terms of what your alcohol fueled self did last night, you ignore the unread messages to flip through some Insta stories. There’s cute pics and videos of you and your girls, you screen shot your favorites and tap away until you pause on a boomerang of Georgia and Brielle. It’s cute enough if you ignore the small stain by Bri’s collar where she’d lost some of the second tequila shot. Oh, and you looking up at Matthew with the most pathetic lovesick look on your face in the background. 

It unsettles your stomach further, and so you abandon all plans of tea—turning off your kettle and grabbing the water bottle you’d prepped for yourself before you left last night and taking up residence on the couch. 

Putting on a random movie from your childhood on Disney+, you lay back and cover yourself with your favorite quilt. Another wave of nausea washes over you, and so you prop yourself up with a few extra pillows and fall asleep sitting up. 

It mustn’t be more than half an hour of uninterrupted sleep before you’re pulled out of it by the incessant buzzing of your phone. It’s a set of four pictures of you on Matt’s lap and another incriminating tidbit from the night before. 

Georgia: Last night you told him you need him

“Shut up Sammy,” you glare, angrily poking his chest with your index finger. You’re grateful for the uncharacteristic change in nail shape at your last manicure, the stiletto tip serving as a makeshift weapon that actually makes him wince before laughing in your face. 

Truthfully, you’re not sure how the night got to this point—you and your girls hanging around a table with Matty and his boys. You’re not complaining though, not with how your bare legs pressed to Matty’s jeans or how his arm rests above your shoulders, fingertips brushing your skin now and then. 

Matt can spot a fight coming from a mile away, well versed in the language that is your rage from the countless years he was the source of it, pulling on your pigtails and breaking your barbies. 

“That’s not my name,” Sam rolls his eyes, rubbing his chest and stealing a swig of your beer. “Lightweight.”

He’s referring to your drunken state and the fact that Matt himself had to drag you to the table with the promise of a Bud Light if, and only if, you drank an entire glass of water. Narrowing your eyes, you begin to lunge at him again, stopped only by the force of Matt pulling you onto his lap and wrapping an arm around your waist, one hand resting on your stomach and the other on your bare knee. 

The effects of being wrapped up in him are almost instantaneous. Your rage quickly simmers, your body relaxes and you all but sink into the embrace. You quiet then, content to let the rest of the table do the talking for the moment while you memorize the feel of his arms. 

It’s a nervous habit to fiddle with the small charm around your neck, something you do unconsciously, not even noticing until it’s somehow come undone in your grasp. 

“Matty, I need you,” you whisper against the side of his face, watching his eyes darken and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He opens his mouth to speak but you interrupt with your fist coming at his face with your necklace clenched tightly within. 

He visibly relaxes, motioning for you to lean forward and swiping your hair to the side.You grab the strands of your hair after he takes the necklace from you, shivering as his cold hands drag across your skin. 

Georgia is shaking her head at you from across the table, having clearly read your lips and witnessed the little moment. You just smile and shrug at her before pressing a chaste kiss to the skin of Matt’s jaw. “Thank you.”

You’re pretty sure you’re dying. By the grace of some higher power, you haven’t seen the inside of your bathroom in a hot minute. Yes, you’ve finally moved past stage one of your hangover, however you’re not out of the woods yet. You’re dying a slow death on the couch—feeling yourself dip more and more into dangerous dehydration levels despite the giant water bottle on your coffee table that had been a gag gift from Matt last Christmas. 

Truthfully, the room is still a little spinny and your stomach still a little unsettled, but perhaps the worst of it all is the splitting headache and the sore throat. Both ailments make sense, you’re a yeller when you drink and you’re certain last night was no exception—even if the memories are slow to return to you. 

It’s not aggression, not really. It’s more that your body can’t contain all the emotions that you so carefully hide in your day to day life, and without the control that sobriety brings, you’re wont to let them all spill out. 

And really, you can’t linger on the what ifs too long, so you settle back in for another nap as an attempt to sleep off the symptoms of your poorly thought out night out with another movie playing as background noise. 

Elizabeth has just rejected Darcy when your phone lights up three times. 

sam: let’s just say you’re screwed if you ever wake up in vegas

you: fuck off sammy

sam: still not my name, lightweight 

sam: at least I didn’t propose last night 

“You know, Sammy,” you slur, no longer angry but keeping up the nickname in hopes that the table will think you are and Matty will let you stay in his arms. “You’re very lucky Liz agreed to marry you because other than the hockey thing you really have no redeeming qualities.”

“At least someone wanted to marry me,” he retorts not unkindly. 

“Matty would marry me,” you state confidently, tilting your head back to look up at the man beneath you. “Wouldn’t you, Matty?”

“Gonna have to get down on one knee, Kid,” Matty laughs, shaking your body slightly from where it leans against him. The dopiest smile crosses your face at the sound and you know you’re being far too obvious but you can’t help it. Matty laughing is your favorite sound, and happiness looks so good on him. There’s nothing you hate more than seeing him sad or upset. Nothing except dirty, sticky bar floors, which makes your next actions even more comical. 

Pulling from his arms for the first time in what feels like an eternity—not that you were complaining—you jump from the table and dramatically flop down to one knee. 

“Matthew—M-Matty,” you hiccup, keenly aware of the dozens of eyes on you and yet utterly uncaring of any of them except the icy blue you stare into now. “You’re my b-best friend. Marry me?”

The look he gives you is fond if frigid, not at all the passionate love declaration you were hoping for. Pouting deeply, you don’t move to pull up from the floor. “Is that a no?”

“It’s a ‘not right now’,” he answers, getting up himself and pulling you up by your armpits. You wrap around him like a vine, not even protesting as he leads you to the bar to grab another glass of water and some appetizers for the table. 

God, you really regret asking about last night. Maybe it was better to live in beautiful, blissful ignorance — if you never remembered all the embarrassing behavior did it really happen? 

Unfortunately your vibrating phone simply refuses to let that happen. 

brielle: and you totally ate shit on the pavement leaving the bar last night 

That certainly explains the dull ache of your biceps, having caught the weight of you alongside breaking your fall. Luckily that appears to be the extent of the damage, given you can wiggle all of your fingers and toes and no other part of your body stings. 

Just your ego is bruised. 

“Why would we go home?” you ask, gesturing wildly at the emptying bar around you as though it were still the hopping venue of an hour ago. 

“Cause the bar staff would like to go home too,” Brielle explains kindly. 

“So we go to the next bar? I’m sure there’s somewhere still open, it’s only midnight!” 

Matty’s arm is heavy and warm and secure as it wraps around your shoulder to guide you to the exit. “I’ve already called us an Uber.”

You preen at the mention of an ‘us’ between you and Matt, suddenly docile and calm, allowing him to guide you outside. 

Far too preoccupied with the weight of him, you miss the broken piece of sidewalk and subsequently toe pick the crack, ending up face down on the pavement. 

Matt is quick, pulling you to your feet with ease and examining your face and upper body for damage. “You alright?”

“If I say no, will you kiss it better?” you crack back, only half joking. 

Shaking his head at your antics, he guides you into the waiting car before sliding in beside you. 

You’re quite content to lean your head on his shoulder the whole drive home, arm curled around his before letting him lead you to your bed.

A joke about inviting him into your bed doesn’t leave your lips, momentarily mesmerized by the gentle way he tucks you in, the soft press of his lips to your forehead. 

Could it possibly get worse, you wonder. 

Matty: let me up?

He’s got a key for emergencies, and although you usually appreciate that he doesn’t misuse it, in this case you almost wish he would let himself in. 

It would give you some extra time to compose yourself and—to be quite honest—you do yet harbor a little fear that getting vertical might have you running for the bathroom once again. 

Neither of those things happen—he doesn’t let himself in and you don’t throw up on your way to the door. You make quick work of the lock before opening the door to reveal Matthew looking as well rested as you’ve ever seen him. 

The contrast between the two of you is likely a stark difference, but his face doesn’t give anything away if he’s thinking it too. 

His first words to you are simple, full of care and compassion. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a bus that then backed right over me again,” you answer truthfully. 

His responding giggle makes your insides feel warm and you can only hope you don’t have the tell tale lovesick look on your face. There’s a moment of quiet contemplation—his chest visibly puffs up and then deflates as he takes a steeling breath. 

“You said some things last night,” he says and you feel your blood run ice cold in your veins. 

You attempt to deflect. “I say a lot of things, Matty. Especially when I’ve gotten into the Tito’s.”

He shakes his head and takes a step towards you. “Last night you said you loved me.”

“Of course I love you, you’re my best friend.” It’s not a lie, not completely anyway. You love him. He’s your best friend. So what if that love you have for him is something a little bit more than friendship? 

He shakes his head again, little ringlets of curls shaking with the motion. “Didn’t sound friendly. You said you needed me.” His voice is rough, tone something heavy. 

“To fix my necklace, Matty. What are you doing?” Your voice in response is a little wild—short clipped sentences spoken in quick succession.  

He appears frustrated. Not necessarily at you, you don’t think, but it’s clear on his face.  “That’s not—You said you wanted to marry me, got down on one knee even. 

“I was drunk, it’s not that deep.” 

He takes the remaining steps toward you, crowding your space and boxing you in with his arms. Yet you know with one word he would back off if you asked. 

You don’t ask. 

“But what if it is? What if I said that I love you too, that I need you too? That the only person who I’ve ever thought about marrying was you?”

“Matty, what are you doing?” you ask lowly, heart pounding so loud you fear he might hear it. 

“Something I should have done a long time ago,” he murmurs and leans in until your lips barely touch. 

It's the invitation you feel you’ve waited a lifetime for. No amount of doubt or hesitation or uncertainty is going to stop you from wrapping yourself around him and deepening the kiss. 

It’s soft and sweet—two decades of buildup, of a beautiful friendship turned something more. It’s you and Matty the way it was always supposed to be—the way it was always going to end up. 

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (Part 8)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 📍 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds

Part 8 - Trust

Detective Brady is sharper than you initially thought, though Alastor is (seemingly) unfazed by the threat. While you both explore the idea of ‘home’ a familiar face shows up at your apartment.

「Warnings/Tags: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, Detective Brady exists a lot and maybe too much, fingering lol, phone calls, almost our first fight, stress, Disney mom rule, Ruth is pretty alright for now, Brenda」

forgot to tag you in the deleted scene for TRDFAHS

M👻D☠️N👽I😈

Your mother always said ‘Anger is your sword and shield’. So you postured yourself as someone mad. One hip out, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Sir I don’t appreciate a man in a lady’s space.”

Brady bit his tongue, wanting to say something sharp.

 I don’t see any ladies here.

 He met the glares of the women behind you. “Ah, well-,”

“Do you really expect her to leave in her robe?”

“Aren’t you the man whose been stalking her?”

“Autumn I’ll go with you.”

“You want her to get into a strange man’s car?”

He felt like a fox about to be pecked to death by the hens.

“Now-! Alright I’m seeing I maybe,” he set your shoes down and slid past you and between the other performers, “got a little eager to speak to you.”

“Does Janet know you like to hang around burlesquers?” Someone said as his back was turned.

Like having ice water poured over his head, his shoulders tensed as did his tone. “I’ll be right out the door.”

You tried to hide the tremble in your hands, but failed. Ruth slid beside you, “What do you need?”

A phone. But the cord wouldn’t reach that far. You wanted to tell Alastor. You needed him to know that detective had you cornered and knew of his existence.

“Could you stay with me? I’m not going anywhere. But I’ll feel safer if I’m not talking to him alone. In case he tries to drag me out. He seems a little off his rocker.” You were genuinely scared he would grab you by the arm and pull you out of the theater if he didn’t think anyone would see. 

She patted your back, the others filing in to continue with their work of getting dressed and undressed. You took your time, trying to plan what you would say.

Brady felt an embarrassed blush take hold as the women moved past him with scowls and tsks. He could feel a little bit of his sanity slip back now that you were in front of him. 

“I have some questions about Tommy. I’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks. We can head down now.”

Oddly, your mother also taught you, ‘You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.’ 

She didn’t always make a lot of sense, contradicting herself daily. 

Time to use the tried and true tactic, “I am sorry, detective. I had some trouble recently and have been keeping to myself… going home as soon as possible. Just trying to keep my nose clean. So to speak.”

Brady watched you look up at him with a face his daughter often gave him when she was in trouble. But you weren’t a child and you surely weren’t his daughter. “That’s no excuse to dodge me.”

Your turn to bite your tongue, “Of course, sir.”

Ruth was… confused. She’d never seen you so obedient. You had more venom in your voice after taking a hit from Tommy knowing a third could be close behind. Why were you being so small?

“Are you ready to go?” He fished in his pocket for his car door keys. 

Ruth felt the need to interject, “She’s not going anywhere.”

Perfect.

You nodded, “I won’t be out at night, sir. You know better than most about the dangers.” Your dangers. Your darling Alastor.

“No, no no,” an unhinged chuckle from the fraying detective, “You’re not slipping away again. I have my car, I’ll take you there and bring you home.”

Ruth looked to you, then back to the detective, “Is she under arrest?”

Brady rolled his eyes, “Of course not.”

“Then? What gives you the right?”

Technically, nothing. He didn’t need to talk to you. His lead still stood. But maybe you’d slip and say something to expedite his search for the radio man. Maybe this would only end with Tommy. But he felt something tickling the back of his skull. An urge to not stop pushing.

“I’ll meet you at the station tomorrow morning. Is it the address on the card you gave me?” Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn’t. You just needed him gone so you could call Alastor. 

He was shaking his notebook, key looped onto his finger. A nervous habit. “You still have my card?”

A smile, “Of course. In case any news came up. I’d have called but I didn’t realize you were so worked up.”

He scoffed. He wasn’t worked up. He was just annoyed. Maybe a little rougher in demeanor than usual but whose fault was that?

“If you don’t turn up tomorrow-,”

Ruth, taller than most women and some men and wide at the shoulders, leaned in.

Brady’s eyeline adjusted from yours to Ruth’s. Skye Scraper wasn’t just a pun, it was a cruel nickname she took ownership of. “Finish that sentence.”

The conversation ended there, Brady leaving with a huff.

You’d memorized the number the night Alastor gave it to you, too scared to write it down. He warned you though he wouldn’t be the one to answer.

“Is Alastor still there?” You tried to smile so you sounded less panicked. Ruth mouthed his name and pretended to swoon as you held the phone close to your ear. 

“Uhh depends, who is this?” Brenda answered, a voice you’d never heard but a woman Alastor had primed you for. 

“….”, but why hadn’t you thought through this part, what name was safe? Which was recognizable? You didn’t like the idea of this woman knowing your name. “Tell him it’s Autumn.”

“….” 

You laughed at Ruth, waiting still for a reply from Brenda, “Hello?”

“Is this a crank? Autumn like the season? I-,” a commotion, “Hey there! No. I don’t know. Well it’s past hours anywa-.”

Alastor was lying across Brenda’s desk to reach the phone, having wrestled it from the woman’s grip, “I’m here. What’s wrong? I was about to leave.”

“I’ll walk home tonight.” It hurt, physically hurt, to say it.

Alastor tried to keep his face neutral, “Oh.” Nervous fingers twirling the cord, “One second.” 

Harsh whispers, some clicks, and he was back, “I’m in my office. What happened?”

“Yeah Ruth is with me. It’s okay. I’ll call you like normal tomorrow?” 

“Should I swing by your apartment?” He considered doing it regardless of your answer.

“Ah, no. I wouldn’t recommend it. I’ll be heading to the police station early tomorrow so I’ll be asleep as soon as I’m flat.” Putting your hand over the receiver, you spoke to Ruth, “Thank you, we got it figured out.”

His heart sank to his stomach, “Did he finally manage to catch you?”

“Yeah. Or—-,” your voice cracked a little, the fear rolling in as soon as Ruth walked away, “Yeah.”

“I’m coming over to the theater.”

Cupping the phone you curved your shoulders in and turned away from the staff milling about, “Don’t, that’s worse.” Tears stung your eyes. You felt like you’d failed him. You had somehow, hadn’t you? The loose thread Brady could grab ahold of was you.

“If you can’t come to the alley I’ll leave after a couple minutes. But I’ll be there in twenty, same time as our normal pick up.”

“Alastor, that’s reckless.”

“Please, dear, I don’t want our first fight to be over my work line.” A calming breath, “You don’t have to meet me, but I’ll be there. Just five minutes, then I’ll be off.”

You decided the safest thing to do was to wait in the alley. If you saw any signs of Brady or anyone coming out, you’d go back inside and just miss the meeting. But the idea of Alastor being just beyond the wall, waiting all alone, was too much.

But how much harder would it be if the wall was of the prison? Or worse, dense earth under your feet? That’s what Brady was wanting. 

You hadn’t realized you’d been chewing your nails until his car turned down the alley from the back and you tore off much of the length of your thumbnail.

Your arms were thrown around him before he was fully out of the car, “Alastor, he knows I have a guy. He wanted me to go down right now but I managed to push it to tomorrow.” Alastor tried to decipher the words as you spoke them into his vest, “What do I do?”

Normally you’d have your own plans in mind but this was too big, this was capable of hurting him more than anyone else. 

He smelled like ink and smoke, a scent you inhaled as you tried to calm your breath.

A large hand patted your head, “Okay. You go tomorrow. It’ll be fine. Don’t stress.” Pulling you off he placed chaste kisses across your face. “Think about what you want to say to him and we can talk it out in the morning. Everything is fine.”

The reality of you standing in a dirty alley crying into the arms of a murderer set in. Then the little detail you were both killers creeped over your chest and took hold of your throat.

He was impressed at the strength of your hands as you gripped at his clothes. Leaning against the car, he offered you his most charming smile.

“Deep breaths, dear. Do I look scared?”

He didn’t. He looked like a magazine ad for French cologne or razor blades that left the softest skin. 

“No.” You shook your head.

“No.” He nodded. “It’ll be okay. If you don’t go, he will hound you worse. If you do go, maybe he’ll realize he’s got a handful of nothing.”

His smile blinded you. Bright grin as he rested against his car, arms open. 

“Do you really think so? A handful of nothing?”

“Did he say my name?”

“No.”

“Did he–” he elongated the word, lips pursed as he searched the sky for his next words, “have Tommy’s body?”

You laughed, morbid but preposterous, “I didn’t pat him down. Coulda.” 

Alastor snapped his fingers, “We’ll have to just assume he didn’t.” A moment of tension. The act of joking barely traversing the space between your bodies let alone reaching the stress under your skin. His hands came to your shoulders; firm, secure. “Did you want to have that fight now? About me coming over here.”

You rolled your eyes, obviously not. “Ala-,” you started and stopped.

“I’ll admit I’m being reckless but I think we can both agree my way is more fun.” Smile sliding into a smirk, he cocked his head and lowered it to get back into your line of sight. When you stuck your tongue out he took a deep breath in, relief. “Are you sure I can’t take you home?”

To which home, you wondered. He used the word so casually and interchangeably…

Face close to yours. Eyes solely on you. Perhaps the stage wasn’t as necessary as you’d once thought. Lips on lips, the feeling of his smile spreading as he returned the kiss. A second of panic as you realized you couldn’t see or hear or sense what else was happening anymore in the alley. Brady could have had you in handcuffs and you wouldn’t be the wiser. Not as long as Alastor’s mouth was moving over yours.

“I’ll call in the morning.” He said into your exhale.

You hadn’t opened your eyes yet. Not ready to return to earth. A pout from you. A chuckle from him. “I’ll be waiting,” You finally said. 

While you did your waiting, shuffling around the theater and later tossing around in bed, Alastor fell into a different kind of purgatory.

One he hadn’t realized he’d made for himself until you weren’t there. 

The house was quiet, almost eerie. Even with music on he found himself nearly uncomfortable. He shifted several times in his chair while reading, not finding any way to settle in. 

His bed was lopsided. Suddenly one side was too light. Multiple times his hand slid under the sheets in search of you out of habit. 

What a terrible feeling; to want someone. To know you could have them but they just… weren’t there.

It didn't make any sense. He knew he’d see you soon, in less than a day's time even. He typically enjoyed his home and its silence. Being alone was predictable and therefore comforting. Well, it had been. Before you. 

The feeling in his chest, akin to a magnet tugging through his sternum toward a distant partner, didn’t abate.

Only when he heard your voice again over the phone did he find a sliver of peace.

“I’ve decided I’ll deny I have a guy. And, I’ll never tell him about you. It’s safer if he never connects us.”

Alastor was listening, honestly, but he wasn’t really processing. His mind was worried about something else. The detective genuinely didn’t bother him but he had to agree, “I suppose that’s best. As long as we can manage it, to not let him know we’re together.”

Together.

You were together with him. An item. How spectacular you must be to be a part of anything with him.

But for how long? With a certain detective breathing down your neck…, “I’m scared. Actually.”

You could hear the smile in Alastor’s breath, it was odd but eased you. 

“He will never have enough to convict us. He’ll drive himself crazy trying. Trust me.” He soothed. 

Did you have any choice? “Okay. You’re right. I trust you.” Unequivocally so. 

He cleared his throat, “Sorry to change the subject…”

“Please.”

“I want you to come over again tonight. What do you think?”

“Oh, yeah. Of course, don’t even need to ask. I’ll always say yes.” All you needed to do was get through Brady and you’d be home.

But for Alastor, well, he wasn’t done asking the question. A moment of panic from a place unrecognized in his brain, fear of losing himself entirely. But what good was a safe harbor if he never ventured out to sea? That’s just a restraint then, isn’t it? 

Maybe you held a place for him even richer in its comforts than his solitude.

So he let himself drift away from familiar shores, no sails and no compass, “I think it’d be smart to bring over a couple sets of clothes. I can keep them washed and always here for you. Would that be alright?” He had wanted to suggest it while together, but Brady was ruining more than his sleep.

Oh.

The same silence from when he first extended the invitation, the deja vu not lost on you. You struggled to decipher the second meaning you were sure was there. Maybe he didn't know what he had asked. 

“I know it’s boring out in the boonies but, you’re welcome to just stay over while I go to work. I can come back and get you for rehearsals… I’ll enjoy the clubs or come back and make something for a late dinner for us, and bring you home when you’re done.”

He said it. He hadn’t really meant to, so he felt the need to clarify, but you also needed him to clarify just as quickly, “I -,”

“Did you me-?”

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“No I interrupted you-,”

“Not at all pl-,”

“Alastor for the love of God please don’t make me keep talking right now.” You lightly knocked your head with the phone a few times. Your heart was gasping for an ounce of understanding.

He chuckled, glad you were still very much yourself, “I meant, take you home as in, away from work. So, here. Or, there, if you’d prefer.” His face scrunched up, this wasn’t a conversation he had any practice in, “Anywhere really. I’ll drive you anywhere.”

“Alabama?”

He looked at the phone as if you were in it. Alabama? 

“Like— the first time you asked me over.” You added quickly. A terrible joke, a bad callback that made it painfully obvious you committed everything he said to memory.

Alastor rested his cheek on the dining table, laughing into the wood before bringing the receiver back. You always offered him an out of uncomfortable situations, “Well the offer still stands. I'd be willing to even venture at least halfway across Texas.” 

“The best half of Texas is on our side so that’s a generous offer. But, given our work schedules, I think your house would be much better. Time wise.” 

He let his eyes close as he felt the coldness of the wood, “Is that a yes then? To bringing over a couple of items… for ease.” Was it a mistake? Would he regret it? 

You were worth regrets. He had decided. He wanted you to say yes.

The weight of what he was asking wasn’t lost on you an ounce. You could see your window from the phone booth. You took great pride in your little apartment. It was your space and no one else’s. As a child you struggled to have your own anything, so you valued your home. 

But could you call any place so far from Alastor a home?

It’s just a few items. You weren’t giving up your lease. It’s a baby step. One you could easily walk back if you needed to later. It’s not like you hadn’t spent every night possible already since that first offer.

“Yes.” 

It was a plan that took your mind off cops. Have your interrogation, go home, then go home for a relaxing evening of jazz and drink.

The levity ended though the second you hung up the receiver. An obstacle between you and him still stood. You pulled out your bag but couldn’t find the will to pack it. Your hands were too busy as you chewed on your thumbnail again.

Brady noticed the uneven length when you sat down and set your hands on the table.

“Surprised you showed.” He opened his notebook and readied his pencil. “First things first, what is your legal name?”

A chill. You’d gotten your warning the night before to prepare something to say but ignored it. Your mind was flipping through words and images. Piercing all of it were the white reflective eyes of the deer along the road. You decided to lean into what you knew. 

“Autumn.”

“Really? Never heard the name Autumn before.”

“Me either. Made for an easy stage name.”

“I’ll need to see your birth records, just to be sure.”

You sucked your teeth. “Ah, unfortunately…all that stuff was left behind with my mom when I moved.”

“And where can I find her?

“Corner of North Villere street and Piety.”

“And your address?”

You paused. His eyes rose and met yours. The radiant aqua from the cafe morning was now an icy color. “I don’t give my address out. You know where I work.”

“But you’re fine giving me your mother’s address? That’s cold.”

“Not as cold as she is, I’m sure of that.”

“Fine, I’ll find it in the census records.” He flipped the page, “Tell me about the dates Tommy arranged.” He tapped his notepad on the table like it was the starting bell of a fight.

You wished Alastor was with you, but also wished he would never enter that station. “Apparently many of the dancers agreed, got a cut. I had no idea about it until he,” you remembered the man and his ugly tie, “introduced me to a man who was very forward. I insulted him and ran off. Lost Tommy good money, apparently.”

“And who was that?”

You searched your memory, “S something. Mister Stein? I honestly wasn’t listening much after I realized what was happening.”

Brady nodded, “And then he knocked you around?”

You winced without meaning too, “Yeah. Got me good.”

Brady waited for you to continue talking, but you had learned this game. People know silence is uncomfortable and will use that against you. So you let the silence stay. Let the awkward tension build. You had limited time, he knew that.

He caved first. “And… the next date. Last time anyone saw Tommy. Tell me about that.”

Lying was second nature to you. You had killed for Alastor. You could do this. Deep breaths, slink into yourself. You imagined Alastor choked on the park grounds, wet and unmoving. Imagined him cold to the touch.

“Tommy said he’d kill me if I didn’t go. So I did. Promised me he’d stay with me for protection.” Tears welled. Bloody hands and a large rock. “But as soon as he got his money he left.” 

Brady was writing, “And the man? What was his name.”

“Something foreign. Kerr-something. Or Car?”

He looked up slightly, “You’re pretty terrible at names.”

You wiped away your tears, “I had more pressing concerns at the time than trying to remember that man’s name. I was hoping I’d never need to know it.”

Brady hummed, “Yeah. And what did your beau think of this?”

Did you hide it? The flash of panic that rolled under the flesh of your face, “If I had a beau Tommy wouldn’t have made me do that. He said that himself.”

“Too bad he’s not here to confirm.”

“If he was we wouldn’t be having this conversation, detective.”

“Touché. Clever little lady aren’t you?”

Fuck.

You shifted slightly in your seat, looking downward in an attempt at being bashful. “That’s kind to say.”

“So why did,” he flipped through his book, “Beth say you stopped singin’ on Sundays cuz of your radio boyfriend?”

“Ah,” a weak laugh to hide the way your breath got sucked in with panic. The words ‘radio boyfriend’ punched the air from your lungs. “You must mean the rake. Took me for a ride at a club corner and sent me off in a cab to never see me again. Didn’t know he was in radio though.” 

“Well now you’re lying and I don’t appreciate it one ounce ma’am.“

“What?”

“Beth says he’s been coming to your shows for nearly half a year.”

No acting necessary for this part. “What are you talking about? I met him at a club. We arranged a date and he picked me up at—“

“Beth’s dive.”

“…. Yeah. Well.” He’d been there before? So often? And you never noticed…, “That’s news to me, that he had been there for so long, it’s got its regulars though so...” You shifted again, this time with a clear uncomfortable edge. 

“He stopped coming when you stopped singing.”

“….guess he got what he wanted then. A fun time in the swing hall bathroom.”  Anger. Unreal and unfounded. Trying your best to hide how confused you were.

“Sounds like a stalker, miss. Maybe one who woulda been quite unhappy to hear you were selli-,”

You cut him off, eyes snapping up to meet his, “I really recommend you reconsider your wording.”

Brady laughed with a huff, “A man dizzy with a dame can do some funny stuff. Especially if he hears she’s in a pickle.”

“Well, no knight coming to rescue me. I’ve sworn off men. It’s why I’ve been leaving work early. Getting home, reading, sleeping. He really did a number on my heart and my pride as a woman.”

Brady’s pencil stopped moving. 

“And his name?”

You’d never fucking say it. He could walk in on you moaning ‘Alastor’ and you’d still act like you’d never heard that string of syllables in your life. 

“John.”

Brady laughed and tossed the pencil to the table, “Let me guess, last name Doe?”

You shrugged, “We weren’t on a full name basis. He was handsome, he took me out, we fucked, I never saw him again” You delighted in the way his face screwed up at your unladylike language. 

“So, someone in radio named John. You know I’m going to be at every broadcaster talking to every John, right?” The nervous shaking of his notebook again. 

“When you find him let me know.”

“Oh I will.” He said it so quickly, so sharply you could feel it cut at your cheek as the words flew past you.

You pulled your hands into your lap, eyes firmly locked on Brady’s. “You look tired, sir. I hope my answers will help you. So you can rest.”

“I am tired. Of people jerking me around. You won’t give me your address, you don’t remember anyone’s name, not even your own, and you deny having a man I know you have.”

If you screamed would he have you committed? “I’m terribly sorry,” you leaned over the table and pulled a piece of fuzz off his shoulder, “my friend gave you inaccurate and dated information. I am genuinely trying to help as much as I can.”

Upon closer inspection, his eyes were more than just blue. They were dark and light, deep and shallow. Blue so far down it was nearly black. A blue so bright it was a cousin of white. Eyes you were sure would haunt you. 

“Help me then, Autumn.” Your brows rose at the request. He leaned back and away from you, “Just tell me what happened to Tommy. What your guy did. If he was trying to protect your name then we could find a sympathetic jury.”

Sympathy? Your smile was too wide, stare gone too soft. What sympathy did he have or would anyone have for you? Did he think you wanted the tender hearts of strangers? “Tommy ran off with a bag of money. He was a good man with a bad habit. That’s all I know. I have no partner, man or otherwise.”

A standstill. 

Brady felt a twitch in his hands he wasn’t used to. An itch to move. Unlike him, and a little frightening. 

Maybe he had been running himself ragged. 

Back sliding down slightly in his chair, he laced his fingers and rested them in his lap, “You know I’m gonna find out what happened, right?” His tone had shifted to something serious and calm. He said it like he was telling you a secret. Low but firm. Steady and sure. 

Those eyes. No, worse. What was behind them. You could see it clearly; unflappable determination. He absolutely would. 

“I trust you will.” A moment of silence again as you both felt the conversation die. As you stood, Brady did too.

“I wasn’t bluffing about him going to Beth’s for more than half a year now. I don’t know how you think this is gonna end but it won’t end pretty. Whether it was just your boss or all the others on my desk, end it with him and help us bring Tommy home to his mother.”

You adjusted your purse on your shoulder, “I don’t know how many time-,”

“Autumn. I’ve seen enough make up covered bruises to clock em from across the room. That’s the act of a possessive, immature man. Just think about what I said,” You opened the door in an effort to keep your hands from shooting to your neck. “There’s no white picket fence or church bells for you two. He’s a bad man. I think he may even be an evil man. You’re gonna end up hurt, or dead.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest but you managed to stifle it. With an honest smile you replied, “We’re all gonna end up dead someday, Detective. I’ll call if I have any news. Thanks for your concern and … evident hard work.” You offered a little nod of your head before leaving the room and the station as quickly as you could without running. 

When he set down his notebook after returning to his desk, he couldn’t sit. Energy was buzzing in his limbs. He needed to run or swing or pace.

His desk neighbor watched him immediately pick up the notebook again and grab his hat. A few other men shared a glance as Brady rushed out, an unsettling feeling passed among them. 

“He’s still on that case?” One asked quietly, going back to his papers.

“Not officially….” Answered Freeman, standing at the window and watching Brady flag down a taxi.

“North Villere street and Piety, please.” He told the driver, not noticing his friend in the window.

It wasn’t near the station, nor the dance scene. He wondered if your mother would be any more amiable. What kind of woman would raise such a creature as you?

When the car slowed, Brady clicked back into his surroundings. He looked through every window hoping to see something different.

After a long pause the cabbie asked, “Ya gonna get out?”

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the seat. “No. Take me back to the station.”

His blood pressure rose so quickly he was sure he would black out as the cab turned around and drove back past the sign; Vincent DePaul cemetery.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Alastor kissed away the worries when he took your bag from you. Every detail of the interview was just hummed away. “Even if he finds me, without a body he has no case.” He reminded you like it was nothing short of fact.

“What if he gets one?”

“Not one of mine, I can assure you. He’d sooner need to kill someone himself and call it my fault.” A pause, was that something the detective would do? He shook off the thought. 

He was so confident that even though you knew it was just skin deep it still gave you a sense of calm. The bodies, where they went after he was done with them in the greenhouse, was the last step he hadn’t shared with you.

There was one thing you didn’t mention about the interrogation. 

You waited until you were a few drinks in, Alastor’s bowtie off and shirt unbuttoned several buttons before bringing it up. Uncharacteristically nervous about how he’d react when you broached the topic, you needed several deep breaths to get up your courage. Normally the idea of offending a man with an honest question wouldn’t ruffle you a bit, but once again there was nothing normal about you and Alastor. He made you so unlike yourself but not necessarily worse. Perhaps some consideration of other’s reactions wasn’t a bad thing. 

“This is awkward to ask.” It was dark already, the sun setting earlier and earlier. The buzz of the kitchen light could be heard through the screen door, the light just enough to let you see each other's features clearly. Leaning back on both hands for support, your legs rested in an unladylike spread down the porch stairs. No shoes. No girdle. No pretense.

Would he be mad? Or maybe offended?

“Brady said you had been going to my Sunday shows for awhile. Months before we actually met. Did you really meet me by coincidence?”

“Or was I stalking you as my next victim?” His head fell to the side, eyes closed and smile wide. “I saw you there, yes. And though you weren’t the best singer, I did enjoy your shows.”

You tried to see him without directly turning your head. 

“But yes, it was a coincidence. I had noticed that brute of a man a couple weeks in a row, staring at you so intensely. Word got around he had made a scene some time ago with a dancer.” 

You listened like someone was telling you your own story. It was an odd feeling, hearing someone recount your days from a different perspective. An unknown one. 

“I was surprised to see you at the theater when I followed him there. Even more so to see you in the alleyway.”

If he had said it wasn’t a coincidence, you genuinely didn’t know what you’d have done. You’d be scared and angry. Another predator lurking just past the tree lines.

Your relief must have been visible. “He really got to you, didn’t he?” Alastor asked, leaning over and letting his shoulder bump into yours. He was still riding the high of putting away your belongings in his closet and drawers. 

“Yeah. He gives me a bad feeling. Like…a brick wall barreling toward me.” You kicked a leaf off the steps, “Or like, when you see a big dark cloud on the horizon. Can’t do anything but wait and hunker down.”

How do you wait out a storm so set on burying you?

“Dear,” his hands rose and palms flipped up in a way that said he wasn’t hiding anything, “We get hurricanes annually. We’ve survived every one thus far. He’s just a drip. A sprinkle of a man.”

People have drowned on land before. A sprinkle could lead to pneumonia and that could lead to a wooden box. 

He tried to change the topic, laughing about Brenda’s reaction to the call and making plans for an evening out when things settled down again. You listened, but it was your turn to be half there. 

You could barely muster concern when you realized you’d forgotten your makeup and hair wrap at home when you were preparing for bed. What you would give for going home barefaced with a ruined hairdo to be the biggest stress of your week. 

The distance in your stare was weighing down his joy, how could he relish in the newest addition to his home when you were so burdened? Even in the moonless night he could see the faintest light reflecting off your eyes as you stared at the ceiling. Did you even feel his stare? 

He couldn’t let Brady poison his bed, and the man was clearly there now. Chasing you in your mind still. 

“Could I offer you a distraction?” Alastor slipped up against you, hand finding your hip. He could see your smile forming. 

“I wouldn’t argue against a distraction…,” you’d beg for one if you didn’t want to feel any lower than you already did. 

“Perfect. This bed isn’t made for three, so let’s eject that little nag, dear.” His hands slipped down your legs, “I want to replace your thoughts with better ones.” He pulled you to him, your back pressed into his broad chest. The way his soft hands smoothed over your silk slip felt like foreplay, so smooth and slick. Frictionless and gentle. Those same hands ran down and between your legs, following the line of your thighs until they found your center. “It seems you forgot something else.” Two fingers caressed your lower lips, barely parting them, “Not that I’m complaining…,” his lips found the back of your neck as his fingers rubbed gently at your core. 

It took so very little to get your body on board, wet and relaxed for his practiced hand. Your own fingers coming down to rub at your clit quickly when you felt your pleasure winding up. 

He sighed directly into the shell of your ear, hands working in tandem with yours under the covers. His back pressed against you, hips rolling into your backside in time with his fingers. 

“What are you thinking about?” Barely above a whisper as he said it into your heated skin.

“Fingers.”

“Whose?” His voice was deeper than his usual speaking tone. A tenor that made you clench around him.

“Yours.”

You’d never been so satisfied with hands before. With breath. With the sounds of a man. Never saw stars while clothed and not under the lights of the stage. Warm and wet kisses to your neck as you came down from your high, you’d never considered sex could be more than a man fucking someone. Nor that a man could find pleasure so readily with his cock still in his pants. But the way he hummed and growled softly into your skin was proof of his good time. 

You’d learned a lot from those progressively chillier nights at Alastor’s over the first week of your constant cohabitation. How much you liked waking up with someone just a reach away. How Alastor woke slowly, incapable of coherent speech for at least the first twenty minutes of his day. He’d stare and smile as his eyes blinked out of sync, rolling back occasionally as he fought the urge to fall back into sleep. Hair disheveled and soft.

When the weekend came, Alastor offered again to take you out. A promise to take you somewhere no detectives would be hiding about. A week without a peep, you were sure he had followed up with your mother and was probably steaming to get at you. But, for some reason or another, he hadn’t appeared again in the crowd of your shows. 

A week of going into work unmade and unkempt, you finally gave in and asked to be taken to your apartment early Friday. You’d grab a few items you needed, take them to work, and be back home that night. 

Your eyes were on Alastor when his car pulled up to your building. When he kissed you, your hand scratched at the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck. Eyes closed, you could smell him and feel him so much clearer. Perhaps when you were old together you wouldn’t have to worry about your sight giving out, you thought. Because you’d always know it was him by the way his skin on yours lit you up. 

“Pack something you’d like to wear out tomorrow night.” He reminded you before you pulled yourself from the car and waved him off. You lingered for a moment as he drove away, wondering if maybe the storm had been pushed off course.

“Oooh, who is he?”

Whipping around, you saw a familiar face sitting on the stoop of your building. An unwelcome one, though. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Mavis?” Your bag fell from your hands as the strength drained from your limbs.

She patted the dust off her dress before bouncing down the steps.  “The names Ephi now.” A half sister, though perhaps a quarter sister would be best to describe the often absentminded, when not literally absent, sibling. 

“That’s not a name that’s a fucking letter of the alphabet. Mama would smack the color of your cheeks if she heard you.” You were sure you’d not see her ever again, not after she ran off to head north before your mother passed. She scowled, arms crossed as you brushed past her. “I don’t have any money so you wasted a trip. See ya in another decade.”

Ephi grinned up at you as you climbed the stairs, “Looked like he had some money. Mr. Big Shot and his shiny bus.”

“Lotsa people have cars.” Your eyes landed on the suitcase poorly hidden behind the steps. Hand halting its search for the building key as you could feel the stare of your mother looking…down? A weight slipping over your shoulders like a man’s heavy winter coat.

“Well I don’t need money or cars. I need a place to crash.”

Your head fell. You could feel it coming. The gust of wind dragging the clouds slowly towards you. No, the storm wasn’t off course. It was just building momentum.

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

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[lailawinchesterr]

remedy (i) — sam winchester

series masterlist

summary: you meet jessica’s friend group that she’s talked so much about and one person who’s she’s never talked about — tags: underage!reader, 22 year old!sam, med student!reader, smoking, cursing.

You’re a lot of things but weak isn’t one of them. Okay maybe just a little. You’re only slightly weak when it comes to Jess’s pout, her ‘please, c’mon’ and those green eyes— okay so only a little corruptible, but it means nothing.

It means nothing that you’re now standing alone at a party where you hardly know anyone and you feel like sleeping outside on the open road might be more entertaining. Not just any party too— one of the biggest parties, Lily Carson’s birthday. 

Basically anyone who looked her way was invited, birthday presents were plethora but not required and you wish you could say that she’s a bitch to everyone, but really, she’s one of the nicest people you’ve ever met. Which is why you started gaping at Jess when she suggested (begged) for you both to go. You don’t know Lily personally but she’s popular, obviously, and she invited Jess so why shouldn’t you come?

“C’mon, girl,” Jess starts as she comes back from a round of beer pong, “you can’t stay rooted in the same place the whole time, that’s not why I made you come.” 

Why she brought you at all was the question. What were you doing here other than being awkward? You haven’t even seen Lily the whole night and she’s the birthday girl. Jess is way more of a party girl than you are, she’ll attend each one and somehow keep her grades up but it isn’t even that. You don’t hate coming, you just don’t prefer it. Too many people more often than not cause overstimulation, crying and too many emotions. You’d rather steer clear.

“I didn’t want to come.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to my friends.” You knew all her friends, who would be new? Oh, probably people who aren’t majoring in med school. You met Jessica at lunch in your first year, she asked if you had company, you shook your head, she sat down, and the rest is history. 

You had plenty of friends from your major but none from outside so someone from law was quite thrilling since you’re not usually one to make friends easily unless you connect through school first. 

But throughout the past two years you’ve known her she’d usually hang out with your friends, she knew them all anyways, than you would go see hers. Now it’s different though, you don’t know of many people in your class that would go to a party on a Tuesday night so you’re sure you don’t know anyone here— well, until now.

Jess drags you to a different room. Fifteen, if not more, people are sitting in a circle— or something resembling it. Some of them on the floor, the couch, the tables with the booze. “Guys, here she is!” She introduces you with a big smile and most of them look up to wave at you. 

You want to say what catches your attention are the cute guys (there’s quite a lot) but it’s how freaking pretty these girls look. Like Jess. God, everytime you decide to leave your house your insecurities grow double their size. 

She starts pointing at her friends for you, “This is Emmy, Mary, Gen—” And it’s a damn long list. Longer than it should be, but you try to keep the ones you care about in the back of your head: Gen, Brady, Stella. No one really caught your attention the way those three have, they look like they’re more your style, laid back, on their phones, talking to Jess like they’re closer to her than the rest of the group. 

You sit between Gen and Jess on the beige couch, Brady and his girlfriend (?) at the foot of it, his hand around her shoulders. “Spin the bottle?” Someone from somewhere in the room says and you sigh. Yeah, this is why you don’t go to parties. The alcohol (which you don’t drink), the games (that you don’t play) and the making out everywhere. 

You grew up pretty reserved before you came to Stanford so you haven’t even had your first kiss, you haven’t smelled alcohol and you most definitely haven’t seen parties this big. 

“Brady?” Someone from the doorway shouts which makes most of us look up at— this person. Who isn’t real. I’m imagining him. “Hey, Jess, Gen,” he acknowledges both people I’m sitting between. Does that mean he’s real? No, no, just a figment of my imagination. He says my name next. A small nod. 

Kill me. Kill me now. How does he know who I am? I want to smile and greet him back but I feel like my body is just gone. Thankfully, he leaves my direct vision after slapping Brady’s shoulder, sitting opposite us on the couch next to a couple on another one. I look over at Jess with wide eyes.

“What just happened?”

“I should be asking,” she sighs, “you see one cute guy and turn mute.” Another thing about reserved upbringings? Never even had a boyfriend. Or seen cute guys.

“Cute?” I exhilarating aggressively, “Jess I would kill myself if I was him. He’s too beautiful for other people to see.” Her eyes widen and she leans forward. We’re already talking into each other’s ear at this point since everyone abandoned the ‘spin the bottle comment’ ever since this guy came in. “What’s his name?”

“I literally just said it when he said hi to you, which by the way, you’re so freaking rude! You didn’t even nod when I introduced you.”

“His name, whore.”

“Sam, slut.” You nod once and lean your back completely against the couch. You try so so hard not to look at him, he’s right in front of you at this angle, if you could just— he’s looking at you. In you. 

He smiles when you hold eye contact and you, like the dumb bitch Jess argues you are, look away quickly. Gen tells some stupid story about something that doesn’t matter to you no matter how hard you try but she’s so cute that you try your best to focus. His green eyes. Were they green? Not as green as Jess’s but they were green under this low light. His Long hair. Those shoulders.

Someone (the same guys who said ‘spin the bottle’?) suggests that you dip and almost everyone in the room agrees. You leave the party with about nine people, which, woah, too many human beings in one place. You see Lily on the way out, wish her a happy birthday, then run back to the group who’s getting two cars. 

You ubered here, not really sure what to expect or if you would be able to park somewhere safe, so you look at Jess with a frown. “What’s happening?”

“We’re going to McDonald’s. You wanna get in Sam’s or in Brady’s car?” 

“Neither, I could uber.” And even as you say it you feel a presence behind you, hovering. Jess is looking at him, but you’re sure if you look anywhere near his face you won’t be able to process the words out of his mouth.

“C’mon,” he draws out your name a little and you’re forced to look up when he stands next to the both of you, getting a cloud of his perfect cologne, “it’s safer this way, since we’re all together. Jess is coming with me, you should too.”

You nod once. Like before, nothing is going on in your head. God, screw this. How can you be so bad at talking to human beings when you're supposed to treat them for a living? 

“By the way, I haven’t seen you around, you’re law?”

You shake your head, taking a small step back that’s barely noticeable but allows you to breathe a little better. His eyes are brown and green. Is that possible? 

“Med. you’re pre-law?” He nods with a smile, putting a hand on Jess’s shoulder to drag her to the car and you follow along.

It isn’t even a tight fit since unlike half of the student population, Sam drives an SUV. You’re in the back with Jess and Gen, some guy who’s name you forgot is with Sam. He’s about to plug his phone in when Jess snatches it from him, “Nuh-uh, Sammy. You promised I can have it next time.” Next time? How many times has Jess been in Sam’s car? Are they together? No, can’t be, you two were just talking about him. 

But she did roll her eyes. Is it because they’re together? “Jess, I swear if I hear any Taylor Swift—”

Jess? And Taylor swift? What kind of joke is that?

“Shut up and drive, Sammy, nearest Mac is still ten minutes away.” But she says it like she’s glad. You and Gen look over her shoulder to choose songs with her, you decide on casual playlists everyone will like and both girls are calm enough to carpool all the way, meanwhile you’re texting your little sister that you’re out with friends so she can know where you are.

Okay, so maybe you listen to murder mystery podcasts too much— sue you for wanting to stay safe. You’ve occasionally gone out where boys were involved and so getting in their car was inevitable but most were nice enough to get into your own if you asked, just helped calm you down way more if you’re the one driving. 

You arrive and everyone’s out of the car, you’re the last one out when you notice Sam's not moving. The car’s parked, isn’t he coming inside?

You can’t believe you’re doing this. You’re speaking to him. “Sam, you coming?”

He looks back at you with that smile of his, that seemingly never leaves his face. “Yeah, just—” and he seems a little hesitant before he opens his armrest. This is it. You pissed off the wrong serial killer who looks nothing above twenty two. 

He takes out a pack of cigarettes and you let out a breath of relief. “I don’t like encouraging them and all that. I’ll finish up quickly and come inside.” You agree but don’t make a move out of the car, even if you do look away from him. “Do you? Smoke?” You nod a little but shrug right after so you confuse him more than yourself. 

You haven’t in a while, a few months, maybe. They’re expensive and money’s tight more often than not. Your parents send over as much as they can, which means you’re doing better than most of the people in school, but you try to be responsible so you’d only do it if someone offers one. A disposable, a cigarette, whatever they had.

“Come up.” It makes a smile stretch on your face as you get out of the car to get in the passenger's seat. “Pull it back. The seat.” You do and it puts you in a way more comfortable position. 

“Chad was just makin’ sure Gen was comfortable,” because she was sitting behind him, “how come I’ve never seen you with Jess before?”

“Oh, we don’t— or I don’t go out often. I don't go to parties and stuff like that ‘cause it’s,” God curse whoever invented oversharing, “yeah, anyways, I don’t do parties. I came ‘cause Jess promised brunch tomorrow if I come.”

“Brunch?” He asks with a small laugh, like it’s a ridiculous offer. 

You shrug, watch him take a cigarette out of the pack and pats himself down for a lighter then— “oh shit.”

Life is in your favor today because you’re grinning as you take out your own lighter. You usually keep it on you for aesthetic purposes, but times like these, they’re really handy. “Lighter?”

He looks over and nods, puts the cigarette between his teeth, his eyes meeting yours intensely. You could’ve lighted it up while it was between his fingers, you’re in the car, there’s no wind. But that doesn’t seem to be his point of view because he leans in and you do too, lining the lighter up, checking hastily so you can get back to staring into those oh so gorgeous eyes. With so many colors. 

The cigarette lights and he takes a pornaghraphic drag, arching his back a little to get comfortable and it almost makes you pass out. He repeats his earlier ridicule.

“Yeah, brunch,” You shrug a little, moving to face him more. You notice his phone is connected and playing music though it’s very low, “She’s paying so it’s basically a free meal for the week.” He chuckles through another drag and shakes his head.

“That’s true.” He offers the cigarette and you take a beat. Okay maybe a little more because he checks in, “It’s blueberry.” And it’s a ridiculous thing to say, he notices and shrugs. “Jess was the  one who bought it for me, my birthday was a week ago.”

“Oh, happy birthday, then.” He acknowledges your words as you take the cigarette between your own fingers to bring to your lips. You’ve shared smoking with other people, a whole car of people smoking the same thing— nothing new— but just the two of you? Sitting in the car with the low music… something is different. “How are exams— LSAT mocks are soon, right?” And if it’s the dumbest thing you could’ve said, he doesn’t mention it.

“Yeah, next week. They’re just mocks but I think they’re counting them as the finals.” You nod, not really understanding. Med school was way different than… this. Way way different. But you tried to be mindful of all the majors just so you could be able to open conversations with other people.

“That’s nice, must be stressful.” You wish you could say you’re usually better at conversations with strangers but unfortunately you’ve always found comfort in speaking about school whenever you don’t know the person in front of you. Really really lame when you’re talking to a guy you like.

You hand the cigarette back, “Shouldn’t we go back inside?” You ask quickly, wanting to leave.

He takes a breath, “I— uh, I gotta finish this first.”

“Why?”

“Emmy’s trying to quit. ‘S why she rode with Brady, he doesn’t smoke and she’s having a hard time.” Oh. That’s generous.

“You’re close with Emmy?” You take a beat before asking the real question that’s been on your mind, “and jess?”

He taps the cigarette out the window then look over at you with a small line between his brows. Just as you were about to backtrack. Not your business, you’re sorry, anything— “Not really. But I’ve known everyone since freshmen year and they're my friends so I try to be considerate. And I think what Emmy’s doing is good.”

For a second you think that’s that and are about to tell him that’s nice, maybe compliment him and then run out of the car but he smiles a little then adds, “Me and Jess are just friends too. Dated in my sophomore year for a few months, that’s it.” 

Oh. That’s good to know, you suppose. Not that it matters or whatever. He hands you the cigarette again and you steal at his eyes, trained on yours, before you take it from between his fingers, your hand slipping against his. You mutter a slow apology. He responds with a warm smile. “What about you? Boyfriend?”

That’s the question of the year. “No, no boyfriend.”

“And this group?” He nods over to the Mac you’re parked in front of. “You know any of them?”

“Except Jess, no. Just met everyone today, a lot of people.”

“So most of the people you know are from Med?” You nod. “You know Lana?” 

“Yeah, do you?” 

“Yeah, Lana’s an old friend, she got me into Stanford,” that earns a frown from you and he explains further, “helped me choose where I wanted to go since I didn’t have lots of options. I needed to get somewhere on a full scholarship. Said Stanford offers the most scholarships so I applied.”

“Woah, you’re here on a full scholarship? Really?” You see his proud nod, and it’s too damn cute. “That’s incredible, Sam.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Your phone pings and you thank god because opening a new conversation would be the end of you. You want to talk with him, and he obviously doesn’t mind your company if he’s opening topics but— it’s scary. And awkward. Though the latter is because of you. 

You see a text from Jess asking where you are, another from your sister to ask who you’re with, and a last one from one of the PA’s for your anatomy class. 

“You okay?” You nod quickly and open the one from your PA to make sure nothing was wrong but— hey, give me a call when you’re free, we need to discuss your last exam.

“Fucking anatomy.” You groan, shutting your phone off. You look up and notice Sam’s raised eyebrow. “What?”

“Anatomy 108?”

“Yeah?” In Med you take the same course four times throughout the school year. The first time you take it it’s called 101, then 102, then 104 and 108. It’s something you wouldn’t know unless you take Med or are interested enough to ask because it’s hard to explain in detail. 

“You’re— you’re taking anatomy? You’re a sophomore?” Oh. Oh shit. Yeah you’re a sophomore, shit shit. 

You can’t lie here, one, because he’d know, two, because you only take anatomy in your second and last year, and you damn well don’t look like you’re in your last. “That makes you, what, eighteen?”

God you wish, at least it wouldn’t kill you. You quickly hand him his cigarette before you break the news, “I’m seventeen.” His face drops and he sits up a little straighter, no longer as playful as he was before. 

So what if Sam’s possibly twenty-two? You’re only a few years younger, and he’s so gorgeous it wouldn’t really be that wrong to do something. Couldn’t you have pretended to be eighteen? Who said honesty is the best policy? Fuck them, man.

“Sam?” You ask when he’s been quiet for too long, even if only a couple of seconds that the music fills. “You okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” He shuts the car’s engine off and raises the windows, “let’s go,” once you’re out of the car he throws his cigarette onto the ground and takes out a packet of gum, then hands you one too. You take it with a smile.

You spot everyone pretty quickly, Gen, Jess and Emmy, the only girls you remember, are sitting on a booth so you head there and the whole way you’re getting looks from jess that you try to ignore. 

You wish it could be like that. And maybe it would’ve been. Maybe he would’ve kissed you or asked for your number or something if you’d kept quiet. 

part two; and all my life, I’ve been wanting this forever.

title from: static by alice shone.

main masterlist

if u wanna be tagged comment + hope u enjoyed!

[bueckersstrap]

THROW AWAY

paige b. x reader

masterlist + playlist here !

warnings : language, cheating

wc : 850-900

tags : @mayghosts

a/n : ok so idk this was really short so imma make it like a prologue if ya catch my drift 😉 hope yall enjoy, chapters will be longer ofc. lmk what yall do and don’t like 💘💘💘 xoxo - cel

0. told her i would call her back, i forgot to text her / PROLOGUE

paige : dude it’s literally not what it looks like chill tf out 😂 11:56 PM

you : chill out ..? ur out cheating and im supposed to chill out ? alr . go have fun w ur lil home wrecking ass friend. 11:58 PM

paige : i’m out tryna enjoy my time w my friends nd ur stressing me ? imma call u after tho , ight? 11:59 PM

paige : i didnt mean it like that ur not stressing me 12:00 AM

deadass i didnt ???

read at 12:02 AM

seriously y/n 12:09 AM

bro y ru acting like that

nah fuck u

wait

no

wait yes

fuck you

read at 12:10AM

‘paige’ has been blocked by ‘y/n’

—

the loud knock that erupted on the apartment door must’ve rung throughout the empty hallways of paige’s complex.

nervously shifting her weight between her feet, holding the cardboard box — that was filled to the brim with all of paige’s stuff — was heavy of a weight enough and the extra anxiety wasn’t helping.

y/n felt like she must have been waiting at paige’s door for hours when it really was only a minute or so.

paige’s expression turned blank, not expecting to ever see y/n again after the incident.

“your stuff. i didn’t need it taking up space in my apartment anymore.” you said, shallow and shoving the box into her chest.

“I- uh. thank you?”

it seemed as if paige swallowed her pride and was going to say something but before she could you flashed her a tight lipped expression and begged yourself not to give in to her antics if she tried anything.

you two had been in this situation countless times, it always ended up in sex. but you didn’t want that this time. not yet, atleast.

it was the awkward silence that confirmed the end of you two was catching up to the years that lacked apologies and proper communication. there was nothing you could’ve done to stop it, what was done was done and paige’s actions couldn’t be controlled. that’s just how she is.

paige looked scared, almost. her expression was unexplainable and as hard as you tried to study the way her lips curled or the way her eyes scanned your own face; you couldn’t figure it out.

without saying anything more, you gave her once last look and walked away, completely shattered.

—

‘the incident’ that was referenced was the moments leading up to when you were sitting in your apartment, innocently and mindlessly scrolling on tiktok when you came across your girlfriends’ friend — ice brady’s — live.

you clicked to see them all out at a bar. this wasn’t unexpected as paige had already told you what her plans for the night were. you watched contently for a little bit, admiring the night your friends were having, that you weren’t invited to. it was weird to not be invited to a group hangout and not be asked to go with, not even by your girlfriend. it had already made you uneasy but it didn’t matter and you brushed your feelings under the rug.

ice shifted the camera to her left and for a split second the world stopped. you immediately recognized the blonde. the grown out roots with the slender hands that wrapped around presumably — from the back — her teammate, azzi fudd.

it wasn’t just a hug as you might’ve thought, her hands were on azzi’s waist and azzi’s hands were around paige’s neck. the distance between them was non-existent and very clear to everybody on live.

ice uncomfortably shifted the camera back to her, exchanging looks with her friend caroline. both the women’s expressions turned into ones of pure shock and slight panic as her and caroline tried to play it off as normal. nothing was normal about this, though.

“what the fuck?” you mumbled, furrowing your brows to try and capture the moment in your brain. it didn’t last as long as it felt though.

for a couple minutes you set your phone down, pacing around your apartment. too many thoughts you had to calculate came at lighting speed in your pounding head. at first, you tried to justify her actions, thinking, maybe it wasn’t what it looked like. but then you started thinking more rationally. you knew what you saw and there was no defending her actions no matter how much you tried. you attempted reading between the lines, trying to catch a loophole in which azzi and paige weren’t kissing within an inch of life between them but the hand placement was a dead give away. the realization made your blood run cold and gave you the confidence needed to say something, not wanting to silence you or your feelings anymore.

that’s how the whole text situation ended up happening because the pure shock turned into pure anger. you concluded that azzi fudd was a home wrecker, and paige bueckers was a lying slut cheater.

was it fair to label azzi that, just by seeing the live? probably not. but the heat that rose to your cheeks in your anxiety driven body made it hard for you to think straight. but this wasn’t about azzi, this was about paige and her extremely ignorant tendencies. especially her intoxicated ones.

it hurt but you knew it was a long time coming, anyway. the toxic relationship you two shared had been ongoing since your junior year when you hooked up at a halloween party and were on and off since.

you couldn’t tell whether knowing that the cycle between you and paige would continue until one of you broke— which wasn’t going to happen— brought you comfort or sadness. it was very unfortunate that you wasted this much time on paige, but considering your past and the very foreseeable future, it was hard not to. as fast as you tried to run away you knew you’d probably end up being caught up to sooner or later. until the pattern repeated itself, you’d try and heal like normal and be destroyed when she came back and ruined your life.

it was the circle of paige.

[joeyalohadream]

Last Line Tag

Thank you for the tag @reallylilyreally

Finally sat down at made myself write something with my morning coffee.

Here's the latest from Part 3 of my 'Cooler Fic' series. It's coming along VERY slowly right now, but it's still coming.

----

“We didn’t have enough time.” 

Bucky doesn’t open his eyes or lift his head from where it rests atop of Gale’s wool wrapped one at the hushed tone of Benny’s voice. He’s too worn, whole body feeling like lead that’s frozen to the ground. The man in his arms trembles even in slumber and Bucky tries not to think about how little warmth radiates from him. 

“We were there for over a year, Benny,” Brady’s equally quiet words sigh out over Bucky’s shoulder. “It was more than enough time, you ask me.” 

“I mean after,” Benny continues. He sounds as exhausted as Bucky feels. “After Buck got out. We didn’t have enough time.”

His breath stalls in his lungs at the implication of Benny’s words, at the conclusion he can hear in his tone. He doesn’t want to hear this, but he can’t find the strength to turn around and tell them to shut up. 

“You don’t think he’s gonna make it.” 

Brady’s words are met with silence. Or maybe it’s met with a grim look or a shake of a head that Bucky can’t see. Whatever the case, Bucky doesn’t want to listen to anything else from them. 

Sleep had claimed Gale the moment he’d settled against Bucky’s chest and the boys must have assumed Bucky had dropped off as well. They’d never talk like this if they knew he could hear them. The kid gloves they’ve been handling him with since the first time Gale got sick have been on in full force, covering their own frostbitten fingers. 

He kicks his leg out enough to make noise as his boots scuff against the stray beneath him. Enough to let them know he’s awake. He hears a throat clear, hears two bodies shuffle and then settle.

He pulls Gale impossibly closely and curls around him as much as he can. The smaller man doesn’t wake in the slightest at the shift and Bucky knows his heart would be beating frantically at the compounding evidence of how unwell Gale is if it wasn’t frozen in his chest. 

They’re wrong. They’re all wrong. They have to be.

----

No pressure tag to @soliloquy-dawn , @ranger-elizabeth , @happy-days19 and @heretoobsessstuff . I know this one is going around quite a bit, so apologies if you've already been tagged in this!

[comphy-and-cozy]

illicit affairs - andrei svechnikov

gif by @pyotrkochetkov Universe: sequel to this blurb

Pairing: Andrei Svechnikov x reader (f)

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY); oral sex (f receiving), spitting, fingering (f receiving). Much heavier cheating/adultery themes than the original blurb so tagging it. Non-consensual voyeurism/exhibitionism.

Masterlist

Guilt gnaws at your insides, the worry and disappointment on Marty’s face etched into your brain. Maybe food poisoning was the half-assed reason you gave him for leaving Brady’s wedding early, apologizing with a kiss on his cheek and a promise to call him tomorrow. 

“I mean, your guts are going to be rearranged, so technically, you’re not that far off,” Andrei says with a smirk. 

“Andrei!”

“What? Just trying to make you feel better.” His large hand rests on the steering wheel of his ugly, fancy car, his thumb tapping against the rich leather to the dull beat that plays through the speakers. Some Russian electronica music that you don’t really care for, but you’re far too entranced by the way his forearm flexes to notice.

It doesn’t really, make you feel better, but his cheekiness does make you chuckle. Fortunately, Andrei knows exactly how to distract you, hand pressing warmth into your thigh. He grips the skin firmly, pinky drawing lazy circles on the sensitive flesh as his hand slips under the skirt of your dress. A moan fights its way to the base of your throat when he brushes against the apex of your thighs, and he grins.

“Missed this delicious little cunt.”

He teases you for the remainder of the 35-minute car ride, working you into a frenzy with the mere effort of a pinky finger. Hardly enough to do much on its own, but enough to have moisture pooling in your panties by the time he pulls into his garage.

Before long, Andrei’s got you pinned against his stairwell, dress bunched up around the swell of your hips with a hand groping at your breast. He presses hot kisses against your lips, tongue exploring the cavern of your mouth. “Gotta have you, dorogoy.”

He rucks you up into his arms, coaxing your legs around his waist as he carries you with ease up the stairs. You seize the temporary distraction of transporting you as an opportunity to trail your lips against his thick neck, sinking your teeth into the flesh. He hisses, then chuckles before he’s placing you on his mattress.

Your clothes—and his—are removed in a blur, tossed haphazardly on the floor so he can get his mouth back on you. He trails over your jaw, your chest, your neck, nipping here and there as he re-familiarizes himself with your body.

The sound of your phone buzzing beside you makes both of you pause, and Andrei groans into your neck when you shh him and reach for it. “It’s Marty,” you whisper.

“Tell him you’re busy,” Andrei quips, tongue licking a stripe up your neck, earning a shiver from you. 

“He wants to make sure I got home safe.” You moan when he returns the bite on your neck, taking his time to suck a mark into it. Claiming what’s his, and you both know it. “He’ll be worried if I don’t answer.”

Andrei groans in agreement, impatiently pressing his forehead against your shoulder. You slide the button and assume your best food poisoning voice. “Hi, Marty.”

“Hey, how you feeling? Did you make it home safe?”

“Yeah, I’m home,” you say, weakly. Another lie. You’re starting to lose count of how many you’ve told him at this point. Your mouth opens to continue, and then you feel Andrei’s mouth moving its way down your body. “I–I–”

Hot breath fans along your pelvis before two large hands pry apart your legs. With a glance down, you see a devilish smirk from Andrei, whose mouth hovers over the damp lace between your thighs. If your pussy wasn’t aching for him to touch you, you’d probably kick him away so you can finish the conversation with Marty, but there’s something about the heat in his eyes that pins you in place.

“You okay?” Marty’s voice interrupts your moment. The scar on Andrei’s chin disappears from sight as he levels himself with your core, almost like he’s looking her straight in the eye. You take a shuddered breath when you feel his lips press against you, licking a thick stripe up the fabric. 

Andrei uses the sound as encouragement, eagerly lapping at the moisture before he grows tired of the lace and tugs it to the side. He groans, lowly, against your center as he–for lack of a better term–slurps up your nectar, drinking you in like your pussy holds the elixir of life. You suck in a sharp breath and bite your lip to swallow your moan. “Yeah. Just feeling really… nauseous.”

“You want me to come over? I can hold your hair back.”

The question comes just as Andrei’s lips are hovering above you, lips pursed to drop a thick wad of saliva over your already dripping folds, eyes watching his spit slide into your greedy entrance. Your eyes lock with Andrei’s, his eyebrow quirking in amusement, before his tongue is shooting out to press the frothy spit into your tempting cunt.

It’s a horrible contradiction: Here’s Marty, being the absolute sweetest, offering to come over and take care of you, and here you are, his friend’s tongue buried in your pussy, eating you like his life depends on it. You’re looking forward to seeing your special place in Hell. At least Andrei will be there, too.

“That’s very sweet, Marty,” you begin, gasping out when you feel a thick finger sliding between your folds, teasing softly at your entrance. You’re fighting for your life trying to keep your voice level, pausing for a moment before continuing, “but I‘ll be alright.”

Your words, it seems, are Andrei’s cue to plunge the digit inside your heat. A strangled moan flies out of your throat and Marty’s on high alert. “Are you sure? You don’t sound alright.”

“N-no, I’m fine, Marty—just—just queasy.” You squeeze your eyes shut when Andrei curls his fingers just right, fighting to swallow the cry of his name as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

Marty’s talking, the words not quite making it to your brain, only hearing his tone that’s laced with worry. You cut him off, lust taking over and suddenly you can’t wait a single second longer. “I-I’ve gotta go. Text y’later, ohh—okay?”

You hang up before you can hear his reply, chucking your phone onto Andrei’s nightstand and shoving down the deep pang of guilt that shoots through your heart at the abrupt silence. Lying to Marty feels bad, so why does this feel so good?

“Thought I might get you while he was on the phone,” he husks, not relenting his quick rhythm that has fire roaring in your belly. “Was kinda hoping for it.”

“You’re awful.”

“Am I?” He punctuates the question with a particularly hard thrust of his hand, not waiting for a response before his lips attach themselves to your clit. 

You don’t have to see his smirk to know he’s smug as hell upon hearing the way your retort is quickly swallowed by a loud moan, back arching involuntarily. The thought of his Czech teammate has fully dissipated, wiped clean from your mind with every swipe of Andrei’s tongue against you, playing your body like a violin. He knows you well, you can’t deny that; he’d studied every inch of you far too intimately for you to expect anything different.

“This is almost better than that chocolate cake,” he says, the timbre of his voice vibrating against your pelvis. There’s a metaphor here, somewhere, about the molten lava oozing out of the cake and the way his fingers, mouth, and chin are glistening with your essence. He can’t quite make the thought connect, though, so he just offers a wink at you instead and enjoys the way every little movement he makes earns a throaty whimper from you in return.

“Drei,” you whisper, and this time your voice actually sounds like you could be suffering from food poisoning with the way it rasps weakly. “M’close… gonna—”

He hums, pleased, desperate to hear the way your moans continue to lilt higher, almost like they’re climbing to the peak that he’s driving you towards. “That’s it, dorogoy. Let me taste you.”

The curses in Russian are low, mumbled, barely comprehensible as your hips jerk involuntarily. All at once, the band snaps and the world goes dark for a fraction of a second before it’s exploding in a burst of colors you didn’t know existed. Andrei’s tongue flicks at your clit, coaxing more shockwaves to course through you as the pulse between your legs slows gradually.

He doesn’t give you a moment of reprieve, lips cascading over the sensitive skin of your stomach as he mouths at the ticklish skin. Large hands follow the path of his tongue, working their way up your body. Your phone chimes on the table beside you, and Andrei seizes your lips before you have the chance to even think about glancing at it.

“Leave it,” he murmurs against your mouth, pausing to kiss you for long enough that the memory of the text has almost slipped away entirely. You hum, a slight protest, chasing his lips as he pulls away. “Unless you want him to hear what it’s like when I’m fucking you. M’not gonna be so polite next time.”

[itstheheebiejeebies]

John Brady Wallpapers

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[deancasbigbang]

Title: twin flame bruise

Author: stayawake

Artist: NeverSleepUntilFive

Rating: Teen

Pairings: Present: Sam/Eileen, Bobby/Ellen, Layla/David, Donna/Doug Past: John/Mary, Ellen/Bill, Dean/Cassie, Dean/Lisa, Cas/Balthazar, Bobby/Karen Mentioned: Chuck/Naomi, Jess/Other, Brady/Ruby

Length: 55000

Warnings: None

Tags: Soulmate AU, Friends to Lovers, Poet!Cas, Bartender!Cas, Bartender!Dean, Angst with a Happy Ending, Alternate Universe - No Supernatural Elements

Posting Date: October 28, 2024

Summary: All Dean wants is a happily ever after with his soulmate. He meets Cas, an aspiring poet who ran away from his life as a law school student. Dean feels an instant connection with the guy despite the fact that they aren't soulmates. It's fine. They can maintain a friendship while Dean continues the hunt for his soulmate. Absolutely no flaws in that plan whatsoever.

Excerpt: “Who’s the dude behind the bar?”   Jo glances over her shoulder and then back at Dean. “New bartender. Castiel. He’s nice, but I don’t think he’s ever worked in a bar before.”   “Castiel?”   Jo just shrugs, walking over to the bar. Dean follows her and stops in his tracks when Castiel looks up at them. Dean’s drowning in a world of blue and he never wants to come up for air again. It’s not the first time Dean’s looked at someone and thought this could be my soulmate, but it is the first time Dean prays he’s right.   “Castiel, this is Dean,” Jo gestures to him. “He’ll be the one training you tonight.”   “Just Cas is fine.”   “It’s nice to meet you, man,” Dean says, holding out a hand.   A handshake may be a strange form of greeting between two bartenders, but Dean’s just looking for an excuse to touch this guy. He can picture it so easily, their hands meeting, and each other’s names appearing on their skin. It would be right, it would be perfect, and then one day they can tell their children the story about meeting in a bar.   Dean’s heard plenty of soulmate meeting stories and knows that the mark will appear on their left ring fingers within a few moments of the first touch, so it’s disappointing when he pulls his hand away and notes his skin is still blank.   He tries to hide his disappointment. Looks like this Cas guy isn’t his soulmate after all. Dean tells himself he’s fine with that, no matter how handsome this guy is.   He slips into bartender mode, dedicates downtime between customers to show Cas the ropes and narrates what he’s doing whenever he makes a drink. Cas stands back, quiet for the most part as he watches Dean. Dean isn’t a stranger when it comes to training new employees, but he finds himself continuously distracted because he just wants to keep looking at Cas. Something about the guy makes Dean want to never look away. Too bad they're not soulmates. He has a feeling he could spend a lifetime looking at the guy and it still wouldn't be enough.

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 1: Afternoon Light]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 3.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

A/N: Not me pulling a Tom Brady by announcing my retirement only to immediately un-announce it. 😂😂 I regret to inform you that I am apparently incapable of not writing fanfiction. I had no ideas for a grand total of 1 week before this story showed up and possessed me entirely against my will...and then I fell in love with it. I’m still working on my book, but I had to get this out of my system too. I hope you enjoy it. 💜 I’ll tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to! 🥰

@elsolario @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess

He’s thrusting into you, but you’re miles away: a speck of an island in the Mediterranean Sea, the glimmer of an unnamed star.

His rhythm is clumsy but never rough. He smells like wine and sandalwood, lavender and bleak perspiration. You moan when he expects you to. Your body moves with his, compliant, complicit. You roll your hips and tug at his white-blond hair, corollaries of ecstasy you wish you felt. You’ve learned to feign pleasure convincingly. Aegon will stop if he thinks you’re not enjoying yourself, and you need this to be over. What do you want me to do to you? he’ll ask, cerulean eyes drunk and muddy, words slurred, body repositioning. Do you like it this way? How about this? You can’t bear his curious consideration, his invasive hands. You don’t really like it any way. You’ve grown to accept that. You’ve had time to get used to the idea.

The air is sharp with the mineral ether of sex. Spots on the sheet beneath you are wet, clinging, cold. When Aegon kisses you—sloppily, carelessly—your lips and tongue follow his, willing him to finish, your eyes squeezed shut as he gropes your face with ungainly fingers. And at last, it’s done: he shudders, groans, flops down beside you on the mattress.

“Well done, wife,” Aegon pants. He gives your disheveled hair one absentminded stroke and then gazes up at the canopy, cloth embroidered with green roses and spiraling gold dragons. He yawns, his eyes dipping closed. The rise and fall of his bare, glistening chest is slowing.

“Aegon?”

“Hm?” He is inconvenienced; he is already half-asleep.

You roll onto your side, turning towards him. Aegon feels the mattress shift. Reluctantly, he rouses himself, sighs, swallows the rest of the wine in the cup he left perched on the nightstand. “I’m so sorry,” you say softly.

“About what?” He peers at you, groggy and half-listening, stray beads of red wine like blood on his chin. “Oh, yes. That.”

That. What he means is three miscarriages in one year, all early, all excruciating beyond words, all destructive to both the body and the soul. “You have no idea how hard I’m trying.”

“Don’t worry yourself, wife,” he says, yawning again. He always calls you that—wife—with a vague, impersonal fondness. Aegon doesn’t know anything about you. He doesn’t seem interested in remedying that. He doesn’t see it as something to be remedied at all. He attempts to set his empty cup back on the nightstand and doesn’t notice when it tumbles off and clanks against the floor. He burrows beneath the blankets like a hedgehog. “We’ll get it right eventually.”

Eventually, you think with horror, as you are left alone in the candlelight; Aegon plummets into sleep and is silent except for his snoring. How long will I have to do this?

Twelve months of marriage and you are no closer to fulfilling your purpose here. You are told what to eat, when to sleep with your husband, how to lie still afterwards so his seed can take hold, which saints to pray to. You are offered tender-voiced morsels of advice until they feel more like palms cracking across your face than gifts. Every second of your existence is consumed by the desperate need for Aegon’s heir, for the Greens’ future. And each time you lose a pregnancy, the clock starts over again.

How long can I do this before it breaks me, kills me, drives me mad?

~~~~~~~~~~

When a northern pike glides through cool rippling currents, yellow perch and bluegills scatter; and that’s exactly what the courtiers do to you. It’s a bit like living inside a glass bowl: people press their palms to the arched walls and stare like you’re a captive animal—a leopard or an elephant or a white bear from the Arctic—but they don’t speak to you. None of them know what to say. There are whispers flying, women in gowns and men in tunics gossiping about how last night was the first time the prince returned to your bed since your most recent miscarriage. The tentative speculation can begin again, glances at your waistline and delicate inquiries about your health. Bets are placed on whether you will at last produce an heir this time: boy, girl, white-haired or not, early, late, alive, dead. The clock has been reset.

You do not allow anyone to see your pain, your desperation. You have no true friends here. You are allied with the Greens, yes, but that does not mean they are your friends. The Duke of Hightower, chief advisor to the king, was insistent that you bring none of your ladies with you from your homeland; and so the women who attend you are English, polite but not particularly devoted, dutiful but not reliably discreet. He wanted no weak links, no chess pieces that he could not entirely control, no loyalties that ran deeper than his ambitions for Alicent and her children. Now, the Duke of Hightower is fiercely disappointed with you. He’s losing his ability to hide it.

As you traverse the Great Hall of Westminster Palace—an island, a lone cloud roaming across a clear sky—Prince Daemon, smirking and wolflike, stalks into your path.

“Hello there, Navarre,” he says, circling with one hand on the hilt of his sword, his strange deep-set eyes flicking all over you. He likes to call you this, a reminder of where you came from, of why Aegon married you: for an alliance, for advantages in the inevitable civil war when King Viserys dies, for heirs intrinsically linked with the Continent. You were one piece of a far grander design. Helaena was married off to Castile, you were brought west from Navarre, and thus the Greens gained supporters in the Iberian Peninsula. Helaena has given birth to one healthy son so far, and by all accounts has found great happiness in her new life across the Bay of Biscay. Daemon never tires of drawing attention to the fact that you have yet to fulfill your half of the bargain.

You bow your head swiftly, without conviction. “Prince Daemon.”

“My, that’s quite an extravagant gown. What have you got hidden under it? Your father’s famed archers, perhaps? Gold coins and steel daggers? I know what Prince Aegon would want under his skirts.” Daemon grins. “Lady Joanna Montford. Or is it Mountford? You must forgive me, I’m always mixing up the details.”

“I’ll defer to your better judgment, you have far more experience with whores than I do.”

He offers you a single rose, dyed black. “I regret that I did not have the opportunity to properly express my condolences after your most recent loss. It’s become difficult to keep up with them, they’ve grown so numerous. I’m sure you understand.”

You take the rose; untrimmed thorns bite into the defenseless flesh of your fingertips, but you don’t let it show on your face. “Only one from you? Your wife sent me a dozen.” They were red, the color of Navarre’s flag; though the resemblance to blood did not escape you.

“Yes, it’s true, her heart remains rather tender, much to my chagrin.”

“And yours remains nonexistent.” You pluck onyx petals from the rose one by one and toss them to the floor. Courtiers watch this, chattering spiritedly.

Daemon is still grinning. He has won. It never matters what you say, what you do; until you give Aegon a son, in every interaction Daemon walks away the victor. “I hope you enjoy the rest of this glorious July afternoon. And I hope you enjoy your evening as well. And the evening after that, and the evening after that…” He prowls closer, his voice dropping low and sinister. “And all those countless, blundering, long evenings you’ll spend under your mortifying drunk of a husband.”

You rip away from him—not his hands, no, even Daemon would not deign to touch you in front of an audience, but from his suffocating antipathy—and continue on your way to the royal stables, courtiers dispersing in your wake like startled doves. The cobblestones of the palace gardens are weather-beaten and craggy as you sail over them, warm summer wind in your hair, the hem of your gown dragging. Herbs and spices grow high and vivid green: angelica for digestion, feverfew for headaches, St. John’s wort for melancholy, betony to ward off evil spirits, chamomile to bring sleep, rosemary to quell nightmares, pennyroyal to induce a woman’s monthly blood. You have the opposite problem. All you seem to be able to do is bleed.

Inside the royal stables, the world is reduced to hushed subtleties: hooves thudding against straw, nickers and huffs, the swishing of tails, cascading sunlight dotted with whirling planets of dust. You drift by each of the stalls, inhaling the scent of horses and mid-summer. King Viserys promised you an Andalusian, brought by ship all the way from your homeland, for each child born to you and Aegon; alas, none of the animals housed here are yours yet. There’s Sunfyre, an Akhal-Teke, small-boned and shimmering gold. There’s Caraxes, a temperamental blood bay Arabian, and Syrax, a Marwari, cremello with blue eyes and delicate ears that curl in towards each other. Tessarion is a dappled blue-grey Percheron, young but gaining height and brute force each day. Jacaerys and Lucerys have Marwaris like their mother, Baela and Rhaena own volatile Arabians like their father. Joffrey is still riding a slow, potbellied pony; little Aegon III, Viserys II, and Visenya cannot ride at all yet. Every time you blink, it seems, the Blacks have added another child to their ranks, another inheritor to carry their claim forward. Your stomach sinks beneath your skin and scarlet ropes of muscle, a basket full of rocks.

You stop at the last stall, twice the size of any of the others. Vhagar towers over you. She is an English Great Horse, and the largest one that anyone can remember knowing of; her coat is a dark, lustrous brown, her massive hooves feathered, her muzzle sloped and velvety when you lay your palm against it. She lets you do this, as she always does; more than that, you think, she welcomes it.

You remove the letter from your bodice, your true purpose for coming here. You want to read it where you can be alone, where there are no prying eyes to report back to King Viserys, Queen Alicent, the Duke of Hightower, Aegon, Daemon, Rhaenyra the Crown Princess. You must keep your composure, your dignity. It’s all you have left.

You unfold the letter, your gaze skimming across your mother’s words, the slopes and summits of her letters heartbreakingly familiar, her fears loud through the ink-and-parchment silence. You expected this, and yet the weight of it stacks up in your ribcage like the splintered wreckage of a ship.

Think, my love, the Queen of Navarre writes. Think of everything you do, see, say, and feel. There is something that is poisoning the children inside of you. Do not trouble yourself with court gossip or bitter rivalries. You cannot serve your husband’s family—your family, now—if your attention is divided and your heart heavy with doubts. Shut yourself away from all things impassioned. Commit yourself to prayer and needlework. Purify yourself, dear daughter, prepare yourself in body and soul. God answers the cries of those who have won his favor.

You crumple the letter in your fists and then rip it to pieces, not out of wrath but so that nobody else might read it. The fragments flutter away like autumn leaves. You cannot resent your mother for her cushioned reprimands. She means well, but she cannot hope to understand; she bore ten children, eight of whom lived past the cradle, with no exceptional difficulty. Your father has taken mistresses on occasion, but not until years into his marriage, and regardless of his dalliances your mother remains his confidant, his greatest desire, his heart. Your life is nothing like hers. Your future has become something you didn’t know existed. You feel as if you have stumbled into a mirror, a duplicate world where everything is the same but the wrong way around. Where is your own satisfaction? Where is your soulmate?

There are footsteps, and you spin to see Prince Aemond standing in the doorway. He immediately turns to leave, and this is unsurprising; he never speaks to you, rarely looks at you, glides out of rooms as you come into them. You had once hoped to befriend him before his aversion to the notion became clear. He is palpably disinterested in you. But this afternoon as warm golden sunlight spills down on him, for reasons you cannot fathom, he hesitates; and now he’s waited too long, it would be rude for him to flee so obviously from you. Slowly, Aemond walks into the stable. He is so much like Daemon, though lighter: not in color but in gravity, his steps quieter, his hands graceful and precise. You’ve never seen him without his eyepatch. The Blacks call the cause of his maiming a sparring accident, the Greens call it an ambush, King Viserys doesn’t call it anything; perhaps he has forgotten it completely.

You expect Aemond to demand to know what you’re doing here, to scold you for jeopardizing your health with unnecessary excursions. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through,” he says instead, his voice whisper-soft like pattering spring rain, like a leaf of lamb’s ear threaded between your fingers. “I hope my brother has been…kind about it.”

“He’s very kind. He doesn’t mention it at all.” Not once has anybody said those three words to you: I’m so sorry. They lift a million pounds from your shoulders, an eon of stones from your belly. “In fact, no one speaks of it with me. They speak in my direction, they tell me what to do differently, they assign blame…but no one has any interest in what I have to say back. No one asks me what it feels like to…to…”

It shocks you, knuckles to the gut: your breath hitches, your lips tremble, you swallow down tears like poison. It’s humiliating, this display of helplessness, this shattering of regal poise. You shield your face with both hands so Aemond cannot watch you war with yourself. And surely he is repulsed by you, this prince who has been mutilated and unavenged and overlooked since childhood. You have never known anyone as self-possessed as Aemond Targaryen. He endures all of life’s trials without emotion, without weakness. He must be appalled that you cannot do the same.

Yet when you are at last confident that you will not weep in front of him, you lower your hands to see that Aemond has silently obliterated the space between you. He is close enough to touch, his palm pressed to Vhagar’s monstrous neck. He’s looking at the horse, but he is listening to you. “She likes you,” he says gently. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

You’ve never been in such proximity to Aemond before. He’s taller than you remember; his eye is watchful and intent, a paler shade of blue than Aegon’s, more clear, a river rather than a sea riotous with storms. When you inhale, you taste pieces of him: leather, musk, the smoke of a blacksmith’s forge. There’s an abrupt weakness in your knees and ankles that you pretend not to notice. “Most of my friends have hooves these days.”

“I never see you go out riding.”

“I’m not allowed to.”

For an instant, his brow knits with confusion, and then he remembers. Horseback riding is thought to be calamitous for pregnancy, and your chances are slim enough already. “But that’s something that you once enjoyed, back in Navarre?” You flinch when you hear the name of your homeland, a reflex, Daemon’s taunts ringing in your skull like church bells. Everyone knows that’s what he calls you. “Forgive me, perhaps that word has painful connotations now.”

“It doesn’t sound so bad when you say it.” And that’s true: it’s not a dagger but a murmur, a musing, a dream. “Yes, I used to love riding horses. And dancing, attending hunting expeditions, reading poetry, plucking olives from the trees…my brothers and I would even knock swords together sometimes in the courtyard.” You smile wistfully, then lose it like a gull feather on waves. “And now I don’t do anything.”

“What brings you happiness here in England?”

“Nothing,” you reply, meeting his gaze for the first time. He studies you, his eye blue like the mid-summer afternoon sky, searching. And suddenly, you’ve never felt more interesting, you’ve never felt such raw hunger to unearth everything you’re built of. You skate your palm down Vhagar’s face and confess quietly, shakily: “I always thought I would teach my children to ride horses.”

“You will someday,” Aemond insists.

“When you’re little, five or ten years old, you dream about growing up and all the miraculous things you’ll be. And then you finally become an adult and you meet the rest of your life and…and…” You don’t like it. “It’s so different from what you imagined.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, soft and mournful.

“But I’ve interrupted you,” you say. “You came here to take Vhagar riding, I’m sure, and now you’re caught in my little web of nostalgia and self-pity. Please, accept my apology, and don’t let me delay you any further.”

“I was planning to go riding,” Aemond admits. He’s wearing a black leather messenger bag, you notice for the first time. He pulls at the strap that hangs from his right shoulder self-consciously. You have never seen Aemond betray any sign of self-consciousness before this moment. In many ways, you have never seen him at all. He asks you pointedly: “What if I took Vhagar out walking you accompanied me?”

“I told you. I can’t.”

“Not riding,” Aemond says. “Just walking. We’ll lead her down to the edge of the forest, let her stretch her legs a bit and eat some of the fallen apples. You’re allowed to walk, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so.” You stare at him, perplexed. You almost ask why he would offer to do such a thing, why he would feel inspired to raise your spirits. But you don’t want him to change his mind. You point to his messenger bag. “What do you have in there?”

“Parchment. Quills. A bottle of ink.”

“What do you write? Battle plans? Letters to marriageable foreign noblewomen?”

“Poems,” Aemond confesses in a whisper you can barely hear, not looking at you.

“Could I read some of your poems?”

“No,” he says immediately, startled.

“Never mind. It was wrong of me to ask.”

He doesn’t reply; he just fetches Vhagar’s halter from the hook on the stable wall, black leather studded with sapphires the size of ladybugs. She allows Aemond to place it on her without any resistance. He attaches the lead chain—heavy silver links—but he doesn’t need it. Vhagar follows him out of the stables, her colossal hooves drumming like distant thunder, her jet black mane whipping in the wind. Aemond matches his pace with yours as the three of you cross the emerald green field that separates Westminster Palace from the tree line of the forest.

After strolling for a while—Vhagar chomping on apples, you stepping gingerly over felled branches and gnarled roots—you and Aemond sit beneath a sprawling cedar that blots out the sun, its limbs like the wings of a dragon. He recounts myths and legends of England, things that Aegon has not thought to share with you once in the past twelve months, weeks of which you spent in bed bleeding out his would-be children: King Arthur and Beowulf, Robin Hood and the Rollright Stones, Saint George the guardian of the royal family. And as Aemond speaks, at some point you stop hearing him and start seeing him, everything that brought him here, everything that will happen next.

Once upon a time, King Viserys named his daughter Rhaenyra his successor. She was his only surviving offspring, the last vestige of his cherished wife Aemma, dead in fruitless childbirth and cold in her tomb in Windsor Castle. The king then promptly remarried and fathered four more Targaryens, closer to afterthoughts than assets in his eyes: Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. Rhaenyra is still the king’s favorite, and is much loved in Northern England, where her mother hailed from. She has the support of Scotland as well. Her marriage to their Crown Prince Laenor Velaryon was meant to consolidate the two nations under one ruling family, one flag. To reinforce this alliance, her uncle Daemon wed Laenor’s sister Laena. But then Laena died, and Laenor did too, and all those tragic pieces fell together for Rhaenyra to get what she evidently wanted all along: Daemon in wedlock, in her confidence, in her bed. Her sons with Laenor will soon marry his daughters with Laena, and each new white-haired child she produces with her uncle gives the Blacks one more dynastic pawn to play in the game of thrones.

The merchants of Southern England—the Duke of Hightower foremost among them—are aghast at the thought of Rhaenyra’s ascension. No woman has ever successfully ruled England, and she is sure to be malevolently influenced by her uncle-husband. The Pope will not sanction their incestuous union, nor those of their children, though this does not daunt the Blacks. They will make a new order here in the British Isles; they will not play by the Continent’s rules. In reply, the kingdoms of Western Europe—to varying degrees of zealousness—support the Greens and the coronation of Aegon II upon his father’s death. King Viserys is in fine health now, but that could change at a moment’s notice: with a fall from a horse, with veins darkened by infection, with a vial of poison, with a resurgence of Plague. When the king is dead, Aegon must have every possible advantage to offer England, including a clear line of succession. This was supposed to be your role. This has become your greatest failure. Yet here under a hundred-year-old cedar tree outside Westminster Palace, Aemond makes you forget that for a while.

Hours later, you are back in your bedchamber when your husband arrives to fuck you. That’s a crude word for it, but that’s exactly what it is: something he does to you, not with you. You gulp down a cup of your apple cider, the drink you like best here in England, not as thick and bitter as ale, not a poor imposter of the Continent’s red wine. It is bright, sweet, sometimes vaguely minty. It makes you think of spring and summer, of rebirth. It fills you with the undying ambition to bear fruit of your own.

You turn to Aegon, who is yanking off his white shirt with his back to you, his hair in disarray, his pores sweating out wine and indifference. He crawls into the bed on all fours, slapping himself lightly across the face, forcing himself to stay awake until the act is done.

And you think, for the very first time: I wonder what it would have been like to marry Aemond.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Oh my god Im stalking your Benny and Lu tag and I had no idea there were so many Benny girls in this fandom!? Or maybe it’s the Lu effect I don’t know. But I love it!

I’m not entirely sure which began which but I’m so happy the man is getting the love at long last. I have admitted many times to being a straggler on the thirst train (I always loved him but, not that way) but a combo of rewatching, seeing his biceps and thinking of him through Lu’s eyes (ok and fics where Brady wants to bang the living daylights outta him) have won me over fully.

I wonder about the others. He so deserves it tho. I’m still insecure in write him, just a little outta my gut hunch comfort zone in characterizing

[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

(Saw someone do this and decided it seemed fun~

link to my ao3 here)

How many works do you have on AO3?

85.

What's your total AO3 word count?

915,568 words~

 What fandoms do you write for?

Currently it’s for Helios Rising Heroes, Hypnosis Mic, Obey Me, Paradox Live, and Twisted Wonderland!

I’ve previously written for A3!, Ace Attorney, Ace of Diamond, Borderlands, Bungou Stray Dogs, Free!, Fire Emblem Three Houses, Fire Force, Gorillaz, Hero Academia, Kuroko no Basuke, Magi, Naruto, Red Dead Redemption, Run with the Wind, RWBY, Shokugeki no Souma, Stardew Valley, Tokyo Ghoul

Top five fics by kudos?

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes [Twisted Wonderland] – 6,298

We’d Be a Hit Together [Haikyuu!!] – 6,211

Super Powered Love [My Hero Academia] – 5,436

A Devil’s Bride [Obey Me!] – 3,583

I Need Love [Hypnosis Mic] – 1,928

Do you respond to comments?

I try to! I always read and appreciate comments made on my posts, on AO3 and Tumblr, I always check to see if someone has tagged it with commentary <3

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

To be fair I hurt Malleus with the whole ‘you’re likely someone with a shorter lifespan’ idea constantly, but The Brightest Star was definitely a sadder one from my KNB days.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of them because I truly hate unhappy endings. You can probably tell just from how I write that I try to put a positive spin on things, but I am trying to just let the angst happen or leave things off with ambiguity rather than specifying that a character only seems to feel a certain way when they’re actually feeling something else entirely.

Do you get hate on fics?

Occasionally. I remember getting this angry message about me being a feminist because I made the reader like dom Hanamiya from KNB and they were MAAAAD about it lmao I also remember being on fanfic dot net and getting argued with and I just sent the brady bunch theme song over and over until they stopped messaging me back

Do you write smut?

I do! Not the biggest fan of it honestly because I never feel like it’s half as sexy as the things I read other people write, but I do get in moods and with certain characters they just need to be manhandled a lil, you know?

Craziest crossover?

I have never written a crossover in my LIFE

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Awhile back I did but I was told about it and the story was quickly taken down, I think it was on Wattpad or something like that.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! I’ve gotten a handful of requests for my more popular ones to get translated, I don’t mind at all!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I mean I’m co-writing a book with the other admin on this blog, so does that count?

All time favorite ship?

Me and all my lil husbands.

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I was writing this Criminal Minds fanfic that I had all plotted out, dramatic quotes at the beginning of episodes already picked, but I don’t think I’ll ever bother focusing on it.

What are your writing strengths?

I would say characterization is my strength! The characters are the best parts of fanfics after all and I always try to do research on the characters I write; if they’re ones I don’t know as well I’ll scan the wiki and read extra stories with them in it just to get a better handle on them! It’s why when there’s characters that haven’t been around long enough or don’t have a lot of content translated for them that I don’t like writing for them because I need at least something to go off of, I don’t want to have to make up their personality myself

What are your writing weaknesses?

Details. Which is a horrible thing to say as a writer, but I do feel like my writing lacks details here and there. Like with dialogue, I’ve been trying to write more in-between actions while the characters are talking since most people aren’t just standing still, especially if a character was doing something before another person entered the room. Descriptions of the world around the characters

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I don’t like using google translate but I do have characters I love who speak other languages. Those heinous Hetalia days where you’d randomly put a word into the middle of an otherwise english sentence… they haunt me. But what I try to do with Citron from A3 is write some of his dialogue in parentheses to show he’s speaking in a language that the reader might not understand, and I feel like that works a little better for someone who doesn’t speak anything but english to do for the sake of not butchering another language.

First fandom you wrote in?

I truly wish I knew. I know I wrote for Naruto back in the day, and The Outsiders was one of the first full length fics I did. But that was back on Quizilla which has since turned to dust. I was also on Lunaescence for a while, whose creators have also turned to dust apparently. What a world

Favourite fic you've written?

It’s hard to pic just one when most of my fics are like, stand-alone short little things. But I think one I’m very fond of (which was written for the other admin so it explains why I put so much effort into it) was Snowy Mountain Getaway, which was a FE3H Dimitri/Reader College AU fic.

[cuttergauthier]

Hate Me First, Love Me Later

I hope you love it❤️

(These photos do not belong to me, this is all fanfiction)

Josh Norris x Female Tkachuk Reader

This is apart of the Fic Hate Me First, Love Me Later

Yntkachuk

Liked by Joshnorris, Bradytkachuk and more

Yntkachuk we finally get along🩵⚾️😘

Tagged Joshnorris

View all comments

Joshnorris I love you❤️

→Yntkachuk I love you more❤️

Jackhughes About time you made it Insta official!!!

→Yntkachuk shut up Jack, at least I have someone to show off!

Quinnhughes you do realize everyone knew it was going to happen right?

→Yntkachuk No you didn't we didn't even get along!

→Bradytkachuk we did, you guys were just idiots who couldn’t see!

MatthewTkachuk I’m still mad you couldn’t wait an extra week to get together!! but I love seeing you two happy!!

Tracinorris we’ve been waiting since you were 12 for this to happen!!

→chantaltkachuk agreed!!

Emmatkachuk You guys are so cute🥹

→Yntkachuk I love you🫶🏼

Matthewtkachuk Josh you better take care of her, i know where you live!

→Joshnorris now that i finally have her, i’m not planing on letting her go!

→Yntkachuk 🥰 

Trevorzegras Never thought i’d see the day you two would get along and now you’re dating😳

→Joshnorris It took us a 4 years and a  wedding to have a normal conversation about our feelings!

Mollysummers Cutest couple🩵

→Yntkachuk love and miss you every day🩵

Dylanduke25 I don’t know how much more i could take from you complaining about how you felt about him, so i’m glad the feeling was mutual!!

→Yntkachuk DUDE!!!

→Joshnorris Yn🥹🤍

→Colecaufield BAHAHAHAH

Rutgermcgroarty The way he looks at you🥹

Taryntkachuk so glad to see you both happy🫶🏼

→Yntkachuk Love you🫶🏼

Lucafantilli been waiting for this!

Adamfantilli Just like that, he turned her into a Yankees fan🤦🏼‍♂️

→Yntkachuk Actually... I was already a fan...

→Joshnorris That's when i knew we were perfect for each other🫶🏼

→Adamfantilli Get married all ready 🤯

G.brindley5 why couldn’t this happen when we were still at Michigan?!?!

→Markestapa the complaining would have been way less🤦🏼‍♂️

Joshnorris

Liked by Jackhughes, Dylanduke25 and more

Joshnorris Happy to have you by my side❤️

tagged Yntkachuk

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Yntkachuk always, i love you❤️

→Joshnorris i love you more than you’ll ever know❤️

Jackhughes Why are we okay with this? I miss when they were avoiding each other🤢

→Yntkachuk stop being so jealous !

→Jackhughes I am not jealous, I just hate coming home to the lake house and to see you two always being so lovey dovey!!!

Edwards73 watch the hands!!!!!

Emmatkachuk So, When are you two getting married?

→Bradytkachuk NEVER she’s to young😭

→Matthewtkachuk she better not!!!!

→Daltonnorris i mean she did catch the bouquet at the wedding…

→Bradytkachuk Quinn YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE ON MY SIDE!!!

Nolan_moyle i definitely do not miss you guys fighting!

Dylanduke25 Can I be the best man at the wedding?

→Jackhughes it’s going to be me not you!

→Joshnorris 5 minutes ago you didn’t even want us to be dating?!?!

→Colecaufield his feelings are complicated🤦🏼‍♂️

Mattheujoseph I think i just heard brady pucking….

→Timstutzle I heard it to… 

Elblue06 you two are so cute🥹

→Yntkachuk love you mama hughes❤️

Matthewtkachuk my dad wanted me to remind you he knows where you live

→Joshnorris …

Mollysummers Bridesmaid???

→Yntkachuk definitely!!!

→Bradytkachuk NOO!!!!

→Yntkachuk Brady LEAVE!

Trevorzegras if there’s no wedding, what about babies?!?!

→Bradytkachuk are you guys TRYING to kill me?!?!

→Timstutzle can confirm Brady almost fainted…

Jakobchychrun From what Brady told me, i’m happy I only know you guys as a happy couple

→Zackmcewan agreed!!!!

Two years Later

Ynnorris

Liked by Bradytkachuk, MatthewTkachuk and more

Ynnorris Married my best friend today💍🤍

tagged Joshnorris

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Joshnorris forever yours my love😘🤍

→Ynnorris 😘🤍

Daltonnorris MR. & MRS. NORRIS!!!!!!!

→Ynnorris Brother?

→Daltonnorris sister?

→Colecaufield you guys forgot the in-law…

Bradytkachuk How did we let this happen again?😭

→Emmatkachuk You said yes when he ask your permission! 

→Bradytkachuk why did you let me do that?

→Emmatkachuk Brady they are perfect for each other!!! Plus you & Matthew both started crying because you were so happy!

→Matthewtkachuk i don’t recall ever crying…

→Chantaltkachuk you were both crying !!!

→Bradytkachuk MOM!

→Ynnorris Best brothers a girl could ask for🫶🏼🫶🏼

→Matthewtkachuk You are lucky we love you🫶🏼

Emmatkachuk The best weekend ever celebrating you two❤️❤️

→Ynnorris Best Bridesmaid a girl could ever ask for❤️

Mollysummers So happy i got to stand by your side when you married the love of your life🥹❤️

→Ynnorris I love you so much❤️

Taryntkachuk does this mean i’m next?

→Ynnorris obviously there’s no way it’ll be be Matty😂

→Matthewtkachuk What’s that supposed to mean?

→Taryntkachuk you know what it means😂

Alexturcotte Best wedding ever!!!!

→trevorzegras More like best party ever!

Willlockwood How is it that Josh was the first Norris to get married?!?!

→Colecaufield he’s the most likeable!

Trevorzegras babies next?

→Bradytkachuk TREVOR STOP!!!!!!

→Ynnorris 🤭

Rutgermcgroarty JUST MARRIED!!!!!

Dylanduke25 i would like to point out that i was a groomsman!!!

→Ynnorris🤦🏼‍♀️

CoaleNorris Welcome to the family Yn!!!❤️

→Ynnorris Thank You Coale!❤️

Tracinorris So happy to finally have a daughter❤️

→Ynnorris Love you so much Mama Traci❤️

[svechnikovvv]

birthday boys

andrei svechnikov x fem!reader , brady skjei x platonic!fem!reader

a/n: the two birthday boys needed an insta edit 🙏

masterlist: here

y/n.insta

liked by andrei_svechnikov37 and others

y/n.insta svech, drei, dimples, my love, my bestfriend, my lover all in one. i wish you nothing but the happiest of birthdays today 🫶🏻 я тебя люблю ❤️

see translation: i love you

(👤: andrei_svechnikov37)

view comments

andrei_svechnikov37 i love you more and thank you ❤️

y/n.insta only the best for my personal rasputin

andrei_svechnikov37 😐

sebastianaho the man, the myth, the legend

y/n.insta he’s very much so not a myth, but the energy is appreciated seb!

user1 y/n giving us the andrei content we need 😫

user2 the second picture??? LETHAL

user3 andrei and y/n’s relationship is my favorite

bradyskjei where’s MY birthday post?

y/n.insta sitting in the drafts collecting dust 🥱

bradyskjei friendship -> gone

y/n.insta you can’t break the best friend contract or i’ll slash your tires ❤️

bradyskjei i can easily report your car for a hit and run

y/n.insta i’ll have you know the government loves me

bradyskjei and i’ll have you know i have bribery money

yourbestie so he’s your best friend now? 🤨

y/n.insta you’re my wife, i think this is fair

yourbestie raleigh women are outrageous 🙄

canes happy birthday svechy! ❤️🖤

liked by y/n.insta

pyotr_kochetkov с днем ​​рождения, брат! ❤️

see translation: happy birthday brother

liked by y/n.insta

canes and andrei_svechnikov37 added this post to their stories!

y/n.insta

liked by bradyskjei and others

y/n.insta happy birthday brady bunch. so glad you’re on the canes now, because you look hideous in blue 🥱 anyways, don’t party too hard because the local geriatrics center doesn’t accept walk-ins ❤️

(👤: bradyskjei)

view comments

bradyskjei respect your elders

y/n.insta you’re not helping your case whatsoever

bradyskjei and fyi: i looked AMAZING in blue

y/n.insta crickets.

bradyskjei thank you anyways 🙄❤️

y/n.insta next year you’ll be dust! 😁

andrei_svechnikov37 for his next birthday, let’s put him in a home

y/n.insta this is why two brains are better than one

bradyskjei i hate you twos relationship.

user4 i agree, blue is not his color

liked by y/n.insta

user5 i love brady and y/n’s friendship

user6 andrei & y/n ganging up on brady >>>

sebastianaho happy birthday skjei!

bradyskjei thank you fishy! at least someone likes me

y/n.insta and he’s the only one, so get used to it bradyskjei

pyotr_kochetkov С днем ​​рождения старик

see translation: happy birthday old man

liked by y/n.insta

canes happy birthday skjei! ❤️🖤

yourbestie i think he broke my screen

bradyskjei i don’t like you ☺️

canes & bradyskjei added this post to their stories!

y/n.insta

liked by andrei_svechnikov37 , bradyskjei and others

y/n.insta the two birthday boys (on slide 1: see the most amazing boyfriend and man to ever roam the earth & on slide 2: see a try hard man who is growing greys in his twenties and is posing with his fish like every guy i went to middle school with) happy birthday you two! ❤️🖤

(👤: andrei_svechnikov37 , bradyskjei)

view comments

user7 y/n is dragging brady through the mud today 💀

user8 he does look like a middle school boy

liked by y/n.insta

andrei_svechnikov37 you’ve made today one of the best birthdays ever 😘

y/n.insta anything for my drei 🫶🏻

bradyskjei do you want me to cry on my birthday?

y/n.insta make sure you send me a crying picture

bradyskjei this is why only a handful of people like you

y/n.insta i like to think that i’m just an acquired taste

bradyskjei good thing you don’t get paid for thinking

sebastianaho the two 🐐

y/n.insta i think i accidentally posted two pictures of andrei then

user9 just be glad brady didn’t have a pair of pit vipers on

y/n.insta you’re so right

canes it doesn’t get any better than these two 🔥

pyotr_kochetkov 🥳

y/n.insta a man of many words. i knew you were worth keeping

yourbestie tag yourself: i’m the fish

y/n.insta you poor fish

tags: @liquidflyer 🫶🏻

[latibvles]

throwing this under a read more of all the thoughts i had on vacation because uhh vacations make my creative brain go crazy. like two of these are a little nsfw but oh well . tagging @hesbuckcompton-baby & @upontherisers for subjecting them to a couple of these already thanks pookies 💏

Viv thinks those boardwalk iron-on prints for sweatshirts are hysterical and has one that says Big Dick Is Back In Town (based on my uh. recent boardwalk purchase.)

Bucky and Viv make me weepy because Viv’s only ever been with people who want to fix her or save her and Bucky just wants to Love Her

[ NSFW-ish ] Willie & Brady? Smashed at the cowboy themed birthday party someone had to ride the cowboy

Willie has synesthesia

Somebody Else by The 1975 has big Frat Boy AU Viv/Bucky vibes™

Alex and Inez probably don’t get together during the POW camp. However the chances of Inez running off after the war and ending up on his doorstep are extremely likely

Someone writes a book. Maybe not the crew themselves. Possibly a family member (my first thought is Lorraine’s older sister possibly). But someone writes the story down.

^ re that: if Viv had done it it would be very impersonal when pertaining to herself, very dick winters biography-esque. It’d be very factual.

Big ensemble casts are fun bc there can be a level of unreliability in everyone’s narration i.e Jo underestimating the weight she really holds in Willie’s life which stems from her middle child problems.

Willie & Brady are the first to get married, Bucky & Viv are the last. June & Benny have the largest wedding though (big families and lots of friends)

Viv is fairly harrowed by the time she reaches the Stalag but I think Carrie is the one that haunts her the most.

“They shot Harryie!”

Fern’s mom was in a sorority in frat boy au. Hence the appeal

Speaking of: Fern is a PolSci major in frat boy au. Fern for President!

[ NSFW ] When Viv & Bucky essentially hookup the night right before Munster (since there was like . a day in between with another mission ) they do kiss but it’s not like . The type of First Kiss Bucky would ever want to give Viv. All tongue and teeth and desperate and hard and hungry. That’s not the first kiss he ever imagined giving her nor was a back alleyway the first place he imagined having a hand in her pants.

After the War Jo becomes an elementary school teacher. She goes to school and everything. The only one happier than her that she passed her exams is Rosie

Harrie & Carrie kind of have a Malarkey & Skip dynamic. I think a Harrie & Malarkey crossover would be agonizing fun to write!

Viv’s go-to karaoke song in any modern au is Man! I Feel Like A Woman

[swifty-fox]

WIP Wednesday!!!

Tagged by @nicijones welcome back bestieeee

Working on Understanding in a Plane Crash today!! It's time for the Stalag March

“We’re fucked,” he says, quietly so none of the others hear, “We were fucked the moment they told us we’d be flying goddamn tin can bombs.” 

Benny squeezes his shoulder. It’s all he has to offer. They’re not in love yet.

There’s nothing else to gather up and for a single shocking moment Brady balks at the idea of leaving. I don’t want to. This is home, this is familiar. The desire makes him sick, but they’re being ordered out, the bunkhouse just a few down is already ablaze and soon theirs will be next. It’s cold, so fucking cold, even with the blaze of flamethrowers and crackling wood. The metallic scent of snow is in the air, and the wind is whipping the already fallen flakes into a constant icy sandpaper against their faces. Beside him Johnny hears Benny make a small noise, as if in sudden pain. 

Hambone’s shoving food into his mouth feverishly and Johnny thinks to warn him against it but Major Egan beats him to the punch. It doesn’t matter, Hambone ignores Bucky Egan as well. 

He and Benny walk among the men, making sure everyone has as many warm articles of clothing as they can wear, order them to scrounge and scrape and beg for what they lack. Their faces are little more than eyes and wind-chapped cheeks under their hats and scarves, a hint of hair or nose here and there. Bedraggled skinny ducklings all in a row.

Johnny counts them until he’s dizzy, works his rosary through his fingers and hates how he can’t feel the sharp cut of the beads through the fabric of his gloves. He’s praying, automatic and frantic.

Please Lord, please Lord, please Lord, please. 

“They’ll shoot us, if we can’t march. If we refuse, if we can’t make it,” Buck Cleven is saying lowly to the officers. He’s got his hands on his hips and he’s shivering faintly, but they all are, “Every man has to be able to walk on their own.” 

“Every man can walk,” Johnny tells him, wrapping his arms tight across his chest. They’re all mirror poses of each other, aside from Buck Cleven with his hands on his hips. Major Egan is little more than a pair of furious blue eyes, scanning the dark woods past the fenceline as if he could see their route already laid out. 

“They’ll manage, they’ve been training for this,” He assures the assembled group. His breath feels tight in his chest, he’s working his rosary through both his hands like the collar of a long lost dog. 

Most of the men are assembled now, their bunkhouse is on fire and Johnny’s counting them again, double-checking their coats again, stopping to pray with Gangwer for a brief moment, passing Hoerr a more modest mouthful of crackers because he admits he fallen asleep before supper earlier that evening.

tagging @blixabargelds (when ur able) @reallylilyreally @euph0riacc

@ranger-elizabeth @middlingmay

[paraliveimaginesblog]

(Saw someone do this and decided it seemed fun~ also posted to my TWST blog

link to my ao3 here)

How many works do you have on AO3?

85.

What's your total AO3 word count?

915,568 words~

 What fandoms do you write for?

Currently it’s for Helios Rising Heroes, Hypnosis Mic, Obey Me, Paradox Live, and Twisted Wonderland!

I’ve previously written for A3!, Ace Attorney, Ace of Diamond, Borderlands, Bungou Stray Dogs, Free!, Fire Emblem Three Houses, Fire Force, Gorillaz, Hero Academia, Kuroko no Basuke, Magi, Naruto, Red Dead Redemption, Run with the Wind, RWBY, Shokugeki no Souma, Stardew Valley, Tokyo Ghoul

Top five fics by kudos?

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes [Twisted Wonderland] – 6,298

We’d Be a Hit Together [Haikyuu!!] – 6,211

Super Powered Love [My Hero Academia] – 5,436

A Devil’s Bride [Obey Me!] – 3,583

I Need Love [Hypnosis Mic] – 1,928

Do you respond to comments?

I try to! I always read and appreciate comments made on my posts, on AO3 and Tumblr, I always check to see if someone has tagged it with commentary <3

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

To be fair I hurt Malleus with the whole ‘you’re likely someone with a shorter lifespan’ idea constantly, but The Brightest Star was definitely a sadder one from my KNB days.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of them because I truly hate unhappy endings. You can probably tell just from how I write that I try to put a positive spin on things, but I am trying to just let the angst happen or leave things off with ambiguity rather than specifying that a character only seems to feel a certain way when they’re actually feeling something else entirely.

Do you get hate on fics?

Occasionally. I remember getting this angry message about me being a feminist because I made the reader like dom Hanamiya from KNB and they were MAAAAD about it lmao I also remember being on fanfic dot net and getting argued with and I just sent the brady bunch theme song over and over until they stopped messaging me back

Do you write smut?

I do! Not the biggest fan of it honestly because I never feel like it’s half as sexy as the things I read other people write, but I do get in moods and with certain characters they just need to be manhandled a lil, you know?

Craziest crossover?

I have never written a crossover in my LIFE

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Awhile back I did but I was told about it and the story was quickly taken down, I think it was on Wattpad or something like that.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! I’ve gotten a handful of requests for my more popular ones to get translated, I don’t mind at all!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I mean I’m co-writing a book with the other admin on this blog, so does that count?

All time favorite ship?

Me and all my lil husbands.

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I was writing this Criminal Minds fanfic that I had all plotted out, dramatic quotes at the beginning of episodes already picked, but I don’t think I’ll ever bother focusing on it.

What are your writing strengths?

I would say characterization is my strength! The characters are the best parts of fanfics after all and I always try to do research on the characters I write; if they’re ones I don’t know as well I’ll scan the wiki and read extra stories with them in it just to get a better handle on them! It’s why when there’s characters that haven’t been around long enough or don’t have a lot of content translated for them that I don’t like writing for them because I need at least something to go off of, I don’t want to have to make up their personality myself

What are your writing weaknesses?

Details. Which is a horrible thing to say as a writer, but I do feel like my writing lacks details here and there. Like with dialogue, I’ve been trying to write more in-between actions while the characters are talking since most people aren’t just standing still, especially if a character was doing something before another person entered the room. Descriptions of the world around the characters

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I don’t like using google translate but I do have characters I love who speak other languages. Those heinous Hetalia days where you’d randomly put a word into the middle of an otherwise english sentence… they haunt me. But what I try to do with Citron from A3 is write some of his dialogue in parentheses to show he’s speaking in a language that the reader might not understand, and I feel like that works a little better for someone who doesn’t speak anything but english to do for the sake of not butchering another language.

First fandom you wrote in?

I truly wish I knew. I know I wrote for Naruto back in the day, and The Outsiders was one of the first full length fics I did. But that was back on Quizilla which has since turned to dust. I was also on Lunaescence for a while, whose creators have also turned to dust apparently. What a world

Favourite fic you've written?

It’s hard to pic just one when most of my fics are like, stand-alone short little things. But I think one I’m very fond of (which was written for the other admin so it explains why I put so much effort into it) was Snowy Mountain Getaway, which was a FE3H Dimitri/Reader College AU fic.