#I literally haven’t posted a fic in over a month wtf | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zmediaoutlet · 4 years

Text

in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :( :(

rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

#fffr #wincest #weecest #first time #long fic #my writing #--seriously this one also went too long #but idk it felt right this way

129 notes · View notes

astralaffairs · 3 years

Text

w/ midnight approaching i j wanna let yall know that this blog was genuinely the best part of my 2020. it's been a hellish year, but getting to meet & know writers like @deja-you (girl ur writing has a SPECIAL place in my heart istg. i know we don't talk much but ur presence on this site and on ur blog makes my life a lil brighter. even if the feeling isn't mutual i think of u as a good friend 💞❣) @daveeddiggsit (an actual ray of sunshine 🥺) @iknowthekoolaidflavor @wreakhavoconmacroissantdiggs @tinywhim & @biafbunny all of whose works ive been reading for as long as (or longer than) ive been writing for this fandom has been so incredible and heart warming <3 ur all such damn sweethearts and ilu

& then there have been the new mutuals that have popped up and brightened my life like @commandersmiley @braidedchallah @ramp-it-up & @moondustmemories @summerofsnowflakes @raiseaglasstothefourofus (i know we don't chat much but ilu all sm 🥺)

& @id-do-it-for-free-babe @peoniarose @ohsoverykeri-blog (idk where the hyphens go in ur url ill fix it later) & @cloudynblw

then there's @einfachniemand who literally hypes me more than ANYONE else and is probably the most supportive person on this entire goddamn site ❣💕 i would give u the world if i could but alas i do not have that kind of power

and @youunravelme whose asks and notifs MAKE MY ENTIRE LIFE. u don't even know and i can't explain bruh i get like 80% of my serotonin from getting notifs from u and hearing ur thoughts in my inbox. it's the absolute best. u have made my 2020 like 80% better. i can't emphasize this enough you make me so happy.

and maybe (just maybe) im abt to mention @tinywhim again who is absolutely the kindest most gracious person alive i swear 🥺 also she wrote my absolute outright favorite thom fic that i have ever read (and yes, i have read quite a number of them since 2016) and im now enamored w demon!thom

and ofc @the-lost-marauder 🥰🥰 as much as i adore every single one of my followers and mutuals, ur by far one of my favorite ppl to hear from on this site. your thanksgiving ball oneshot is still one of my favorite things to read on here and u have absolutely excellent energy. i feel like we'd probably vibe irl (also pls more secret relationship vp!thom content!!! pl ease !!!!!! i need it asap)

and yes im abt to mention @deja-you again bc she's such a fucking sweetheart. the literal embodiment of sunshine and cotton candy. idk what else there is to say here u just have the purest vibes i feel like ur the type of person to save a cat from a tree or have a bird land on ur shoulder. u just have that energy 🥺💫 then again you outright broke my heart w foreign affairs so idk i might have to retract all that 😤

& special s/o to @fentinatalin for having shitty taste in men. that's all.

jk jk ily natalie 🤧❣ have i ever told u that when u hmu on ig i almost didn't dm u back bc it gave me anxiety and i thought you'd think i was uncool on main??? anyway im glad i did hit u back bc ur a ridiculously excellent friend and i frequently forget ive only known u for a couple months???? i realized recently that ive picked up some of ur texting habits and idk how to feel abt it . anyway ily thanks for existing

also mega shoutout to @maniacmichele bc ik i haven't answered ur graph theory ask but that's bc ive been watching math yt videos to try and dissect it until i can figure out wtf it all means. ur smart as shit and i am in awe of ur math brain ty for taking the time to explain that graph theory thing bc i have spent literal hours nerding out over it

also to @marioverthere bc i know we don't talk much anymore (FUCK time zones) but meeting you and getting the chance to know u literally made me so happy (also ur the reason i started staying current w/ the hk protests so ty ao much for making me aware of that darling)

and to @softclowninghours for having THE PUREST energy. u probably give excellent hugs i can just feel it. i just know it.

and then all my anons w ur lil emojis and signatures, who i love and cherish -- i won't try to list all of u bc i WILL forget some and im not tryna do u like that but some honorable mentions:

🐥 anon, for being like half the reason i ever touch my draft of lobsterback (ur my motivation, inspiration, muse, etc. thanks honey)

🍬 anon, for being absolutely fucking adorable and an enormous sweetheart

🐺 anon, for being friendly as hell and also kinda fucking hilarious. ur asks always make me smile

💙🖤 anon, for being so so so damn kind and supportive all the fucking time (ily)

there are so many people and blogs and anons that have made an impression on me this year, so believe me when i say this is very, very, VERY incomplete; if we've ever talked, or you've sent me an ask, or you've ever interacted with my post, you deserve a spot up here so pls forgive me for having 3 neurons and not remembering to mention u as i hastily write this post

literally though i love and appreciate every single one of you so much. this sounds like a huge platitude but i don't know how else to say it because there are genuine thousands of u who id list if i had more time or energy. you're all excellent. thank you so much for being alive at the same time as me.

also s/o to disney and lin for releasing the obc tape bc fr thats the only reason this fandom came back to life

+ also HUGE shoutout to the person who venmoed me ten bucks for the fotp smut. i don't have ur tumblr @ since u sent everything on anon but yk who you are; your generosity means the world to me and i hope the smut lived up to ur hopes and expectations

++ also the anon who encouraged me to actually write my art museum au 😌❣ ik it isn't up yet but ive been loving it so much and i hope u like it when it drops

#have an absolutely excellent 2021 #you deserve it #you're all the reason ive stayed alive all thru 2020 #and im endlessly grateful #hzl talks #sending so much love 💞

51 notes · View notes

babiemingoo · 3 years

Text

hello lomls

I bet you’re all sick of all these random text blocks I always post lol but I felt like this specific statement? thought? was something that i’ve wanted to share for a while but I kept telling myself that if I just pushed on I wouldn’t have to but ~obviously~ this is not the case. so I shall just lay it all out there with all my thoughts regarding this blog and more specifically, enmity. this ended up being super long so I apologize in advance. i’ll put it under the cut for all of you.

to put it frankly, there is a specific reason as to why I haven’t written or posted enmity, or anything, in months. brotherhood/enmity used to be my proudest work and it was the thing I enjoyed posting the most, however with where the story is at right now I just have 0 inspiration for it (even though I have the entire story planned already) and i’m more than aware that 90% of people who visit my blog are only here for enmity. and that’s okay! but having so much pressure on me to provide this one story that I really can’t find the motivation for me to write, has turned into me literally getting anxiety whenever I come onto tumblr. i’m sure it’ll sound stupid to some of you but just thinking about enmity takes a toll on my mental health and I avoid it at all costs, which is a big reason as to why I haven’t posted it and have avoided this blog for so long. in addition to that, i’ve still been writing here and there. I have things that of course I would love to post and share. but i’m sure at this point if I were to post something that wasn’t enmity, someone would reply or send an ask like “where’s enmity?” and I get it!!! it’s what makes my blog (somewhat lol) relevant and it’s what people love and I am so so so so so grateful for that. but even without me posting anything else, people have still sent messages and asks complaining about me not posting enmity (as well as really nice ones, dont worry I see you and I appreciate all the sweet words! <3), and I don’t want to take my time writing something that I love just to get feedback that asks about something that makes me hate this blog. so, that’s why I haven’t posted anything; because I know that someone will say something about it not being enmity, and it’d really hurt me after all the time i’ve spent dedicated to another piece of writing. of course, with addition to the toll this takes on me, I have other things going on at home. I personally am not one to share things going on in my personal life on the internet, so i’m going to be somewhat vague, but this is my last semester of college so school is more important to me now than ever. i also now have three jobs to try and stay afloat with the cutbacks the pandemic has caused, and i’m getting kicked out of my apartment in a couple of months. it’s a lot going on and me getting stressed out over a blog isn’t something that I can really be doing right now. so, now it really comes down to wtf am I gonna do with this blog. obviously i’ve been leaving it to sit for a while, hoping that once everything in my life settles down I can come back here because I really do love all of you and sharing my writing here with you. but still, every day someone finds brotherhood and enmity and starts to read, and even though I am SO grateful that people still somehow find this fic of mine and read and love it, I feel so so so horrible because they read for hours and then come to find out that I never finished it. I don’t want to lead people into dead ends anymore because I know the feeling of wanting to know the end of something and it sucks. tl;dr - I can’t handle the pressure of writing enmity anymore. a lot of stuff is going on in my life and adding that on isn’t helping. but I know that it would suck to post things I write and have people be disappointed that it’s not enmity. furthermore, people are still finding enmity and I feel horrible that it’s not finished. so, I really only have three options I can think of: 1. I delete this entire blog. this is what i’m leaning towards right now, because then everything gets erased and no one else has anymore expectations that I can’t live up to. people no longer will find enmity and be disappointed with the fact that it isn’t done. in my opinion this is the best option. 2. I keep the blog, but delete brotherhood and enmity. i’m sure this isn’t ideal either lol but the root of me avoiding this blog really is enmity. so, if it’s gone, maybe I could be just a tad bit more active here, or at least look forward to coming back once my life is more put together. 3. I keep doing what I’ve been doing and everyone just sits around and hopes that maybe i’ll come back? of course I want to come back and had every intention to do so, but with enmity up I can’t guarantee it, and I would still feel like shit knowing that people are waiting. so, personally this is my least favorite option because I feel like it gives you guys the short end of the stick, but technically it’s still an option. i’m so sorry that this got so long, but this is a lot that i’ve been feeling for a long long time and I don’t want to keep everyone in the dark anymore. honestly I feel horrible for how far I allowed this to go. but I hope you all understand that there were never any bad intentions and again i’m so sorry for being annoying. I appreciate you guys so much for all the love i’ve gotten on this blog and the patience you’ve shown me. I love you all so so so so so much.

#krys tings #enmity updates

21 notes · View notes

filthyjanuary · 3 years

Note

For the ask game: RK1K

I WROTE A WHOLE THING HERE AND THEN TUMBLR ATE IT THE FIRST VERSION WAS MORE POETIC FML SORRY THIS TOOK A BIT

001 | send me a ship and I will tell you:

when I started shipping it if I did: i think 1-2 months ago? not long after i got into dbh tbh. i was immediately drawn to their hunter/hunted to allies dynamic and THE INHERENT EROTICISM OF TRYING TO KILL EACH OTHER.

What makes me happy about them: i think there’s just SO much potential like they are literally red string of fate tied to each other, their destined to kill each other but they unshackle themselves from that and choose their own futures. they’re the only RK models in existence!!!! they understand each other in a way no one else can. if they don’t trust and believe in each other it literally ends in their deaths, the deaths of their people, the destruction of everything but if they do take that leap of faith they free each other, their people, they save the world. they just compliment each other so well like they’re so similar and yet entirely different, and like i am ALWAYS thinking about the look on connor’s face when he hears markus speak for the first time in stratford tower... the look on his face!! the way markus can convince connor to deviant with a few short sentences... even tho connor has actively been fighting that all game. THERE’S JUST SO MUCH POTENTIAL THERE. IT’S SO INTERESTING. also they are both so pretty <3

What makes me sad about them: uh well a) any scenario where they do not choose to believe in each other and thus uh kill each other!! like it’s compelling and hurts in a juicy angst way but it IS sad wtf. also like just the incredible work they’d need to do post-canon to even be in a place where either of them would feel comfortable in a relationship. i also think there’s a lot of sadness potential in having to unpack connor deviating, being taken back over, and then fighting free and both he and markus having to reckon with that and if connor can be trusted in his own body :( SAD

things done in fanfic that annoys me: i feel like fic connor is often written incredibly ooc? like he becomes this like shell of the compelling and nuanced character that he is. like he just becomes either this like fragile, helpless thing that needs markus to save him all the time or just acts like??? idk just so ooc. what i love about markus and connor is that they’re both layered in the sense that they both have softer, domestic sides to them but they’re absolute stone cold badasses when they need to me. turning them one dimensional turns me off.

things I look for in fanfic: nuanced characterization. not villainizing north. NOT ERASING JOSH. i’m still too early in my dbh fandom experience to chase after AUs yet, so i mostly read canon stuff that explores markus and connor realizing they have feelings for each other and what that means. how do you even unpack then when having feelings is like a newly unlocked experience for you? meanwhile this is all happening on a backdrop of the android revolution, and the political minefield that is advocating for legislation that gives them rights. i’ve always been a big lover of plot and character exploration supporting each other, so i enjoy fics the most when the actual plot has meat to it too. canon compliant/post-canon is the best. also am a big fan of outsider pov fics or fics where their relationship goes public and they gotta deal with that on top of all the political stuff.

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: literally markus is incredibly shippable. i think the actual game could’ve handled him and north way better but in fanon people can make them so compelling! and i think both markus/josh on a pacifist backdrop and markus/north on a violent backdrop are rife with possibilities. i haven’t really explored simon/markus tbh and i don’t particularly feel compelled to YET but i do see the potentials in that i think they are very similar in a lot of ways: weighing multiple options, seeing both sides, but markus is more active and simon is more passive and i think that makes for interesting character exploration. tbhhhhhh i really struggle to see connor with anyone but markus, but i think connor/north could have a lot of potential in the sense that they are SO similar, but i also think after all the violence in connor’s life, connor/josh has the potential to be very sweet and heartwarming also.

My happily ever after for them: slowly coming to terms with what their feelings are, revealing them to each other, and taking a relationship slowwwww because they have a lot going on. leading the androids to freedom n equality and finally being able to just live in peace without being worried about another fight. supporting each other in figuring out after all this, what do they want out of life? and knowing they’re going to figure it out together. they get cats.

who is the big spoon/little spoon: i don’t think they stick to strict designations like this. i bet they switch tbh depending on who needs to be held most that day, you know? connor has a lot of mental shit to work thru, markus is bearing an incredibly stressful responsibility on their shoulders. i think they both like being both the big n little spoon sometimes. [ariana grande voice] it’s equality.

what is their favorite non-sexual activity: i am a BIG SUCKER for markus teaching connor really mundane life things the way carl taught him so like playing piano or painting for fun and not off programming scripts, markus teaching connor to cook, really just spending quality time you know?

send me characters/ships

#the first version of answer one was way longer and more thought out sorry #writing it up again just sapped my energy #asks #otp: what you were looking for #dbh #long post #Anonymous

7 notes · View notes

thehouseoflamentation · 4 years

Note

just use proper tags and don't be shitty about it, it really isn't hard. don't take up space in tags that aren't relevant just to be spiteful or fucking weird.

“Just use proper tags”

uhhh wtf you think I been doing this entire time??? This is my blog and I’ve been using that tag for MONTHS now and I haven’t gotten a single complaint until now. Bread was a fun word I chose for my fics. And also THEY ALL HAVE NSFW ON THE FUCKING TITLE!!!! IF YOU DON’T WANT TO READ IT SCROLL DOWN PAST IT OR BLOCK ME IT AND DON’T BE SHITTY ABOUT IT, IT REALLY ISN’T HARD. And here in case you were wondering and bet you weren’t but I’ll still spell it out for you

You think ppl who tag something as creampie mean a literal pie???

“It really isn’t hard”

Haha really??? Then why don’t you come over here and retag all 587 of my posts with bread in tag?? I’m sure it really isn’t that hard for you. Ohh but what’s this?? A block button??? On my blog??? Huh I wonder how long it’ll take you to press that versus retagging all my posts.

“Don’t be shitty about it”

Do you honestly think its fair for someone to just take as much hate as people can throw at them and only respond with patience?? I’ve tried being nice and civil before but what does that fucking get me?? Anon threats.

“don't take up space in tags that aren't relevant just to be spiteful or fucking weird”

You honestly think I’m doing this to be spiteful or weird?? I’m running this blog FOR MYSELF AND MY FOLLOWERS. I MAKE CONTENT AND TAGS THAT I THINK ARE FUN BECUASE I WANT TO. Instead of asking me to do all that you could have just blocked me and saved us both the fucking trouble of having to deal with each other but here we are guess.

Are you happy now anon??? Bc I know I am. I’ve still got 35 cm of gummy left and pizza in the fridge. Go ahead and cry me an essay it won’t ruin my mood in the slightest.

But you know what I will give an apology. I apologize to all my followers and anyone else who’s had to see this because of anons like you and them that think you’re so entitled to having everything your way you can’t even be bothered to press a fucking block button. I apologize to all of them but like hell would I ever apologize to someone like you.

#bread #salt

154 notes · View notes

boomerang109 · 3 years

Note

*looks at my fic, which hasn’t been updated in 4 weeks (other than edits because i Didn’t Like It) and i’ve now driven myself into a horrible writers block immediately after outlining the entire thing possibly because i have outlined the entire thing and i forgot where i was going with this but am i sending it anyway yes i am please god tell me to write someone threw my motivation out the window and it’s all muddy now and i don wanna touch it oh god what even is that metaphor see what i mean about the writers block anyway ily cant wait for the next chapter of wwda get it out when you can don’t stress ily bye*

don’t tell me why my brain is like “yes we can answer this but we’ll combust if we look at any messages.” there’s no logic but i’ll get around to your messages and everyone else’s there. (to everyone waiting for like two sentence answers who’s seeing me post paragraphs, i’m sorry. the braincell does not function)

the way that i’m in YES! i can help! mode even tho i myself am lowkey in writer’s block which means i’m not qualified at all ajfhjghfgfdjghj

first of all: outlines are just to guide you. they stress me the fuck out too (which is why i’ve refused to put my wwda outline to paper, despite the fact that this means the timeline is absolutely fucked. like it’s in my brain, but if i put it on paper i’ll try to stick to it and i’ll freak out--see my month long break when i had an “outline” for chapter four). you can have goals for chapters (ie, lay groundwork for foreshadowing/character development/etc) but overall? just let yourself sit in front of the computer and vibe. don’t think about where you’re going, just think about where you are.

“i don wanna touch it oh god what even is that metaphor see what i mean about the writers block“ this? this is you judging yourself while you write and i don’t want to see ANY of that shit. writing is a process and editing is a thing, but when you’re doing your first draft you just gotta word vomit. sorry that’s a gross phrase but that’s what i do. and honestly? most of wwda is barely pieced together word vomit. idek why anyone likes it, but they do. and even if they didn’t--nothing would exist if you don’t put something to paper to start with.

apparently this advice doesn’t apply to everyone (i still can’t process @hella1975 ‘s writing technique like what the actual fuck) but for me one of the big things with writer’s block is starting where i want to start and just writing whatever fucking scenes i want. idk if that makes sense so i’ll put it into the context of wwda. so when i was still in my fucking intensive class i wasn’t writing cause i didn’t have time except for like a few minutes before bed at like 3am. now at 3am i’m not gonna write suki and azula being rivals cause i can barely handle that dynamic when i’m Focused. but at 3am i’m sad as fuck and i generally like to peruse the ao3 dadkoda tag, so instead i just wrote my own dadkoda scenes for much later (although they’re not actually that far off) in the fic. are they gonna need some editing cause i was just like ‘maximum angst even tho this scene is supposed to be about healing’? yes. yes i was. now the other day on the plane (when i really should’ve been working on an essay i didn’t end up finishing) i was like okay, i need to work on something actually relevant to chapter 12. but i’ve worked myself into a corner with my azula & iroh scene so i didn’t want to deal with that bullshit on two hours of sleep and also being called “miss” and other female terms in the airport got me all in the gender feels so i was like oh! i’ll write some more enby aang! and i wrote this like gorgeous passage or two on aang’s gender feels. and yeah, it probably makes no sense for aang cause i wrote it from a pov that was too much me and not enough aang, but the point still remains. i skipped to a part of the chapter that was important to me. and then i realized that aang could be having these thoughts in the context of another scene which led to . . . and there i was with somewhat of a complete thought for the chapter.

also along those lines, if you’re having writer’s block you gotta look at that block. what’s wrong? is there something wrong with the story up to this point? is there something you don’t like about where you’re going? is there something you really want to write that you’re not letting yourself write?

cause the thing is, we’re not professional authors. we’re fic writers. we do this for fun cause we love the characters. so if you’re not loving the characters for some reason, you shouldn’t force yourself. take the pressure off yourself. this fandom is so supportive, they’re not going to rush you (literally look at the fact that even as you say you’re excited for wwda you also tell me not to stress) and remember to apply that to yourself. it’s okay to need a break, whether that’s cause the vibes are off or cause you’re tired or any other reason.

i tried to write a bunch of different thoughts cause i know different things work for different people, i hope at least one of these ideas help. i literally haven’t looked at wwda even though i really want to be writing (and i still haven’t been reading fic). sometimes our brains just don’t cooperate. and yeah, i could sit here and yell at myself and go “what the fuck boom you’ve been looking forward to writing for literal weeks and now you have time and you’re doing other stuff what is wrong with you” and sometimes it’s really tempting to give into that. but the truth is i don’t usually do as much work as i did the past few weeks on as little sleep as i got so i’m really fucking tired. and so i’m giving myself a break. and i’m just not emotionally prepared to read fic cause--oh oops i hadn’t admitted to myself until right this second that i was avoiding fic cause i’m suppressing my feelings that kinda hurt wtf this wasn’t supposed to become therapy hour wtf. but as dumb as all that feels to put, i’m not gonna delete it cause i’m sure you’re gonna read it and say something along the lines of “it’s okay to rest and wait to read/write if that’s what you need!” cause you’re a nice person. so say those things to yourself IF that’s what you need. but if you’ve been sitting in bed for weeks and don’t have any reason not to write, maybe it’s time to word vomit. or if you have a problem with your story maybe you should look at that. just, do whatever works for you but be gentle with yourself. give yourself the same kindness you give others. whenever i’m not sure how to handle something (or how to treat myself ig), i’ll ask myself how i would give advice to a friend. so maybe try that. look at yourself, your writing process, your fic like it’s a friend’s and be like hmm. what would i recommend my friend do? and if weird rambley advice that probably displays my many years of therapy is helpful to you, then know my inbox (and my messages that i swear i’ll answer some day) are always open. i’m not gonna read this over cause i know if i do i’ll be too embarrassed to post so i’m just hoping it’s helpful. much love <3

#ask a boomerang #snakefarm tag #long post

4 notes · View notes

lancearcherinrippedjeans · 3 years

Note

Omg you’re back!!! I absolutely love seeing an update from you!!

Okay let’s discuss Nova, I love that she’s gonna give Ricky a chance bc he seems like a sweet person for Nova! And when she bought his shirt I thought that was cute but I was literally the white guy blinking gif when TAZ like literally just TAZ had the nerve to say that she’ll be gone in a few months like wow!!! Who even are you Taz hmm?!! But I’m glad that Nova doesn’t think Ricky is using her.

The girls banter like at the gym or when Veronica flicked Sawyers head or the studded shoes just makes me laugh like I love their bond!

Talking about the gym not Wardlow being so thirsty like I love it, like PLEASE claim Sawyer and treat her good!! Like I’m not really a big fan of Max but I generally loved how you wrote him in this fic like she seems generally funny and I love that he’s trying to get Wardlow and Sawyer together!

Love how you warned us that Kenny is horKNEE in this chapter lol but I’m so happy about Veronica and Ken making it officially BUT I’m still scared and sus that something is gonna ruin them like those weird good brothers. It’s it’s not that then I’m worried that Kenny’s ‘cleaner’ personality will hurt her bc I was rereading chapter 3 and the fact that Matt and Nick mentioned it is sus!

Justin Roberts and the yoghurt incident is literally such a funny thing to imagine ha!

MY GIRLS ARE ALL ELITE WE LOVE IT!

But let’s give a moment of silence for Sawyer friendzoning Chuck 💔 bless his soul but I love their best friends being good friends with Sawyer and looking after her.

Okay Adam Page and Veronica tho!!! Like I jusy know Adams gonna absolutely adore Veronica and be good friends with her I just hope he doesn’t fall for her bc I don’t think this sad cowboy could take it.

The girls night out was too much for me lol I don’t want any of my girls to fall out with each other 😭😭 Veronica and Sawyer don’t be like this!!! I get why Veronica doesn’t like the Kenny and the lock door jokes but also Veronica it them pesky good brothers you need to brawl lol BUT I do get Sawyer like girl chill.

Kenny is giving me like stage 6 clinger with them texts hmmm

Wardlow knowing Sawyer like the back of his hand PLS if these two don’t make it official soon urgh!

Also I saw the Instagram was updated and I love the post and I was looking through all of them and why is it only on Veronicas post that Matt comment with the ❤️ emoji huh Matt huh??!

Absolutely love this fic and the Instagrams and cannot wait for more!! Have a good week 😘

-💗

ANON!!! THE BEST PART OF MY WHOLE WEEK!!

let’s hope that ricky is mr. right, we all know maxwell ain’t 🙄 already being a gentleman and they haven’t even gone on the date yet, TAZ IS SO UGLY UGH HE NEEDS TO GO AWAY.

me and adriana try to make the bond of the girls like our bond with our friend brianna in some ways cause we’re REALLY silly just like them, but of course we make the girls their own

honestly the gym segment was so fun writing, especially with the wardlow being hornknee and maxwell being besties with the girls

wardlow and sawyer figure it out.

kenny and veronica are just 😩 but matt and nick warning her, WHEW, but I LOVE THAT YOU'RE KEEPING THE GOOD BROTHERS IN MIND, THATS GOOD.

sawyer holden vs justin roberts

AHHH YES THEY ARE

sigh, i feel so bad for doing chuck like that, since hes my hubby, but YOU WILL SEE WHAT HAPPENS SOON, DOES IT HAPPEN? DOES IT CAUSE A BREAK IN THEIR FRIENDSHIP? DOES IT BREAK UP THE BEST FRIENDS? okay not that extreme, this is just one of the parts i'm the MOST excited about writing and i hope you are too.

also petition to add sawyer to the best friends

AH, adam and veronica bonding over their friendships is just <3

HAHA YES, TAKE SAWYER'S SIDE. TEAM SAWYER. MY BABY HAS BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH. BUT ALSO TEAM V, SAWYER WTF YOU DOIN.

kenny needs to step back before I STEP IN

wardlow and sawyer just KNOWING the facial expressions of each other just make me so UGH i love writing this relationship

AND ANON YOU ARE OVERTHINKING THE HEART BESTIE, CHILL

AH, i love you anon! see you when we post the next part!

#anon <3

1 note · View note

selfcareparker · 3 years

Note

LMAOO I WAS GONNA BRING UP FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLIDER BUT I WASNT SURE IF YOU WERE WATCHING IT HSKAJ (are you liking it? i know it’s only the first episode but ya know, another one tomorrow night- well tomorrow night for me, and did you like wandavision?? i loved it!!)

oh my goodness i’m watching lion king while writing this and i haven’t seen it in a while and i am..... emotional. but anyway, i love that streaming services think that imma pay for them while they charge $50 a month. like yes of course i have that kind of money and i am going to give it to you to watch tv 🙄 that $50 is budgeted to sims thank you. (ALSO SIMS!!! i’ll get to that in a minute) now see if i don’t google levidia right this minute LMAOO, not that i’m gonna use it.. just for the research...

AND HDKSHS SEND THAT CHAOS WALKING LINK LMAO i saw it for the third time with a different one of my friends and she wasn’t the best one to see it with? she literally was on her fucking phone and i was like ok whatever her loss not mine, and idk if you’ve read the books or if you’ve seen it by now, but by the end of the whole movie, after they’ve confirmed THE THING throughout the whole movie she asked the dumbest question and i’m like diD YOU NOT WATCH THE MOVIE, and i guess she didn’t. so. this sounds so vague but i don’t wanna spoil the movie for you just in case lol.

THE STORY LMAOO, so A DIFFERENT FRIEND LOL, like my oldest bff, we had a day together and we wanted to go see chaos walking. and i honest to God thought that no one would be seeing this movie. like NO ONE. every day, i checked the theater seating and no one was there right? plus i really wanted us to have the theater to ourselves. so we sit in the wrong seats, the row in front of us, STILL THINKING WE’RE ALONE. and then these 3 older people came in AND IM ABOUT TO SCREAM FHSJSH AND IM LIKE “are we in your seats?” and they we were like uh yeah, AND IT WAS SO BAD LMAOO , we’re moving and everything would’ve been FINE but my friend’s reclined seat was going down so slow and as it’s going shes LITERALLY SAYING ALOUD “awkward awkward awkward” so she thinks forget it, lemme just get up. HER BAG GETS CAUGHT ON HER CHAIR AND HER FRIES AND THEY SPILL ALONG WITH HER HONEY MUSTARD 😭😭 ALL OVER THE FLOOR! so i’m trying not to laugh lmao but those aren’t even our seats and we just made a mess, so naturally, i get on the floor and start cleaning it up with my napkins (this is going for too long) AND MY FRIEND IS STILL SAYING “awkward awkward awkward awkward” and i’m really abt to crack up bECAUSE LIKE SHUT UP HAHAHA and we’re cleaning it and shit and the oldest lady is gonna say “yeah you’re not gonna make an old lady get on the floor, are you?” AND I WANTED TO LAUGH AND SCREAM AT THE SAME TIME BC DID WE ASK YOU TO, NO, so then i had to get the manager and she helped us clean it, we got new fries and everything was fine, it’s just a crazy story bc LITERALLY WE COULDVE AVOIDED IT AND EVERYTHING BUT THESE ELDERLY PEOPLE HAD TO COME AND SEE THIS MOVIE😭😭 at least the gentlemen was nice.. he helped us clean. but then his wife was like “i aM nOt siTTiNg tHeRe” and at first i thought she was a teenager bc of her stink attitude but her husband was nice. and it’s not like we weren’t cleaning it up, we were!!! like i was so apologetic- anyway.

about sims! do you play console or pc? wait,, you already told me you play pc bc your computer was broken, i’m glad you can play now though :’)) litetally when i read in the tags that you’re playing sims !!!! and are you hyped for bunk beds? i have cc so i’ve had them for a bit, but they were glitchy... but i’m so excited we have them now! i should really play sims today...

GURL IM SO PROUD OF YOU 🥺🥲 i know you aren’t fluent in everything and you aren’t a linguistic genius LMAO but it’s still soooo amazing :’) here i am reading the captions while ur just going hahah, yea i tried duolingo but.... i didn’t stick to it HDJSH talking to you though makes me so interested because you know all these languages, not even studying them like that, but you have this foundation and ahh it’s just super cool. LOL YOU DONT SOUND LAME HAJA IM TELLING YOU ITS SO SO COOL, i’m loving this lesson btw oh my goodness- HSKAJS YOU THOUGHT I WOULD ALREADY KNOW THAT??? HDYSJHS MY ONLY ENGLISH SPEAKING ASS??? HAHAHAHHAH i find that word (Rindfleischetikettie- i’m not gonna write the whole thing i’m sorry) very interesting... like... wow. did you have to google that or did you just know lmao

OKAH THE WATER THING HDKDJDKS UR GONNA TERRIFY ME HAHAH OH MY LORD- first of all CROATIA 😍😍 but thinking about it like that, I WOULD FREAK OUT TOO HAHSGSG i never go that deep into the water, or if i do i have my dad with me lol and i kind of hold onto him bc ive seen/heard too many things about people being dragged into the sea. but i loveee the water (i wanted to be a mermaid soooo bad ohmigosh)

I DONT UNDERSTAND HOW ONE CANNOT LIKE MUSIC ITS AWFUL !! lmao yeah i haven’t even listened to harry’s his first album, everyone says they love it more. I WAS GONNA SAY IMMA LISTEN TO ONLY ANGEL BUT THE WAY YOU DESCRIBE IT HUHAHAH also i have never listened to anything by mgk (i actually had to google who he was IM SORRY😔) i’m tempted to listen tho lol PLEASE JUSTIN BIEBER- I PROMISE IM NOT LAUGHING AT U IVE JUSY NEVER HAD SOMEONE SAY THAT B4!! like i don’t know many people who’ve liked him bUT NOW IM GONNA LISTEN & the cardboard cutout- okay. 😭😭😭

oh my goodness to see the vamps live 🤧 TO SEE ANYONE LIVE PLEASE JJDGSHAHGD and little mix is so good oh my goodness- i actually haven’t been to that many concerts.. i was at my first one, elsie fest (it’s like a broadway thing really) in uhhh october of 2019, yea i took my mom for her birthday bc she loves darren criss and i’m obsessed with glee lmao OH MY GOODNESS YOUVE BEEN TO SO MANY!!! and those are such great artists 😩😩

LMAO UR FINE, hamilton is a musical that lin manuel miranda wrote and i think generally made? i’m obsessed, but basically it was on broadway and then recorded and put on disney+ ... idk i guess it counts a film bc it’s like a movie really cuz it was recorded but in what 2018 or 2016? i don’t remembers the date that is on disney+ but it’s strange how i got into it, a lot of my friends were obsessed and i was like uhh why? and while researching it and watching it, trying to figure out why people love it... i fell in love with it LMAO but the music is FANTASTIC and lin is incredible😭 but yes yes yes i loveeeee high school musical!! my dad actually took my cousins to see it on ice or something (i absolutely forget lmao) but i don’t know how people don’t know hsm. it upsets me.

OKAY IM DOWN TO THE BOTTOM HAHAHA (it takes me so long to respond, now i’m on lion king 2 WHICH IS SO GOOD PLEASE FHHSSHHSHSH) i could respond in chunks but i kind of enjoy responding like this? it feels a bit like a letter but if this whole thing is overwhelming i’ll cut it up lol

+ yes that was me about your fic and sleep and everything lol but it was so good😭 i don’t understand how you write peter so well like you have this ability to capture his.. everything? i’m crine. all the time. over your fics. & i cannot describe my happiness for youuuu :’) i’m so happy you’re writing again 🥺🥰 the thing about how you only want to write the long peter fic but you don’t know how to continue... i feel that so so so hard, i don’t think i told you but ughh i was so blah bc of that feeling of having pent up inspiration for only one fucking thing and not being able to write it. it’s so frustrating 😭

not to add more to this but i need to vent a bit? the situation is definitely different bc with your major it obviously requires for you to ya know, know english lol, but uhm bc i’m homeschooled ive been cheating on all my work SHSHDHSJ like i google the answers but i’m still learning! it’s just..... i find it so unnecessary, like going for an audition no one is gonna say to me “i want you to chanel the knowledge within yourself of the centripetal force of the circle that is the table on this stage” like tf??? there’s literally no point. i’m gonna be getting into voice lessons again soon and i’m already doing dance, AND i’ll be doing this summer camp program (more hamilton lol) and thinking about school is only making me stress more, like i haven’t been able to rehearse dance at all this week bc of it...... so

hahaha reading your tags, lonely anon would still be accurate HAHAHHAHA // another add: yea i love ur current theme, i’ve gotten used to “seeing you” like this, but anything will look super pretty :)) ALSO HOW IS IT STILL SNOWING THERE, i swear it’s getting warmer and warmer by the day here 😭🤧

these long ass posts, my gosh🥲 lonely lovely anon <3

Omg yes it does feel like a letter sldkdj and then the few days of waiting also make more sense okay i love this ❣️💕❤️💓❤️💞🧡💜💘(wtf)sksjhz

Dear lovely anon,

ALSKSJVKD yes i‘m liking falcon and winter soldier dlkdh i haven‘t watched the second episode yet but i‘ll watch it tomorrow! but i didn‘t watch wandavision........ eidislskks i was going to but idk i wasn‘t that interested in it and watching series is already too much of a commitment (what can i say i‘m a Sagittarius—🤧 (no i’m joking i actually know NOTHING about starsigns)) didjj that i couldn‘t force myself to watch it, ALSO i hate (idk if this is an unpopular opinion) when every episode is like a whole hour. i‘m rewatching an old series today (it‘s german so i won‘t even get into it) and the episodes are 25 mins each and i‘ve already watched 8 episodes today ridlndjdjd,,, and i feel like if the episodes were an hour each i wouldn‘t have gotten past episode 2 today like idk.... even if series had the same length in total, i prefer when the individual episodes are shorter idk why tho tbh (so yeah i already wasn‘t 100% convinced about watching wandavision so i just couldn’t make myself watch a bunch of 1hour episodes— i‘ve heard that it‘s good tho- but i‘m not much of a series person so. Dldkk (have we talked about this already??? sorry i don‘t remember what i said lol and i couldn‘t find my own post anymore so dkdjsh) (WAIT I JUST CHECKED THE WANDAVISION EPIOSRDES ARENT EVEN THAT LONG??? Okay wait i might watch it now - did you like it? let me know if i should watch it— why did i think they were 60minutes???)

okay another confession i‘ve never watched the lion king????? i mean i watched it when i was a child but i was too young to actually pay attention to any kind of plot i just liked the songs lol sldkdj i‘ve been meaning to watch it for years tho 🦁 (idk it just felt appropriate to put a lion emoji lmoaoo)

OH MY GOD THE CHAIS WALKING/CINEMA STORY AHSJSKKS😭😭😭😭 NOOOOO (very fitting that there was so much chaos when you were watching a film that has chaos in the title loool) and the “awkward awkward awkward“ SAME SKSKSLSKDJ, that‘s literally me 24/7 ahajshshhshshsh. Like i was so skdjdjdkdllsldksnsnsnsb while i read what you sent me djslslsjdjdbdn why are old ladies always so grumpy btw 🥲🥲🥲 at least the man was nice tho! and wait did i read that right... you have fries (which, to me, are called chips dusuusldk) at your cinemas?? (Movie theatres sorry sksjsh) we just have popcorn and nachos and drinks i want chips too when i‘m watching a film what😭😭🥺🥺🥺🥺

Also i still haven’t watched it so thanks for not spoiling it!!! (idk when i’ll watch it i’m so bad with films and even worse with series💀💀💀- same with cherry. i literally forgot all about cherry, i was SO hyped when the trailer came out like i’ve never been so excited about a movie... and then it came out... and i still haven‘t watch it like what‘s wrong with me???? Dkdjdjdjdklsl i feel like i‘m not gonna watch it anytime soon tbh, but i wanna watch chaos walking i just have to find the time

Okay and @ your other friend who wasn‘t paying attention like why are you even watching the film then???? but ok (omg this sounds so mean i‘m sure she‘s very nice but in this situation just like❔❔❔)

SIMS ahhh, BUNK BEDS, ahhhh sdljdjdjdkdkdldksj i actually haven‘t played it since the update 🤧🤧 i made both of my sims (enisa (bestselling author already, thank you) and michael (aspiring doctor)) go to university and bro it takes so long 😭😭 and you can‘t do anything else if you want them to do well so literally the last three times i played sims i was just constantly clicking their homework and computerd to write their assignments (i play it in german so idk what its called on the sims) and do their presentations and do them all over again so that they get better or whatever for HOURS, but imma play again soon

also i‘m living my fanfiction life loool, so i made my two sims neighbours (on the same plot tho but i made two small separate houses lol, i still wanted to control both of them at the same time but i made sure they didn‘t interact before i wanted them to skdjdjdk). and first they both experimented and got some experience in the love department you know (all genders, cause i have to live my sexuality even in a pc game slskdjh— wait, i‘ve never lived my sexuality irl like i‘ve done NOTHING nothing with guys nothing with girls (🥲) but maybe that’s why i want to do it even more in the sims) and then they met at uni and realised like hey we‘re neighbours and now they‘re together (but michael accidentally had an alien baby with another woman (who was an alien which i was not aware of) cause i wasn‘t paying attention like i said woohoo not try for baby like michael why is your pull out game so weak tf LSHDDHDJDJSKKDKSKDKS okay but making out and flirting and doing all the fun stuff in the sims turns me on way more than it should PFAHAHHAHSH) so idk why i told you this but I’m creating that neighbour!au in the sims lmaoooo

i did not have to google Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsübertragungsaufgabengesetz (just did it again😌 sisjshhs) but i might have mixed up the words überwachung und übertragung or i might have even forgotten a word skskks but in the end it doesn‘t matter (by linkin park- ok i‘m so sorry it‘s 2 am and i have a headache from having waveformers in my hair all day but i still wanted to reply to this now so sorry if i‘m not making any sense right nowbahahshah)

i wanted to be a mermaid too dldjdksksj like h2O and all those series convinced me i could be one like. i remember i‘d always go in the deep pool and attempt to swim like them in all the series with that wave motion i must have looked so crazy with my goggles as well dkdjsksöksj (i was like twelve but still)

so mgk has two sides one is hip hop/rap which is like ~~~~ idk he has good and bad songs, but his latest album is like punk pop snd I LOVE IT SO SO SO SO SO MUCH, so if you like punk pop I’d recommend his album tickets to my downfall (i don‘t blame yoj if you don‘t like it tho like about a year ago i would have HATED that type of music dkdkdkkd)🥴

Okay talking about music, there‘s this german rapper and he is... not a good person. he‘s literally a criminal and extremely sexist but to me he‘s still hot???????? he‘s even cute at times even tho he has tattoos everywhere and is like 6‘5 and is super aggressive but i see him and i‘m like 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 my heart beats only for you💘💘💘💘and he released a new song today and i watched the video and i‘m wondering wtf is wrong with me 😃 (he did look particularly cute cause he was high so idk he wasn’t really aggressive in this one) 😭 so i thought i‘d share that LMAO IDK

(not saying tattoos aren‘t cute btw i LOVE tattoos imma get some soon, but you know he looks like someone your grandma would be afraid of (and in his case rightfully so💀)

okay wait i‘m getting so tired it‘s 2 am i think i‘ll have to do the rest tomorrow but i wanted to do it now😭🥺🥺 see you tomorrow

it is now 3:42 am and i couldn‘t sleep so here we go again

girl you can laugh at me for liking justin tho skskks i wanna laugh at myself idk, like i said i really really really liked him a few years go, basically my life was at least 50% justin and then he went on a break for a while and released an album last year which i hated 🥴 but this album is wow. (Still weird to me because it‘s literally the definition of pop and i don‘t ever listen to pop?) and it‘s so weird because i used to know so much about justin and had so many friends who loved him as well and now it‘s like I’m listening to someone new? Don‘t get me wrong i never KNEW justin and i never will and i‘m aware of that shahsh but yeah i used to be soooo used to him and it‘s like reconnecting with an old friend and you realise you don‘t know that friend anymore- like you don‘t know them anymore at all. I mean justin is weird nowadays 😂😂😂 so pls laugh at me tbh dskksjsjsh

awww it‘s so wholesome that you gave your mom tickets to the concert 🥺🥺🥺🥺 i gave my mum tickets for pink like 2 years ago and she loved it so much and i was like 🥰🥰🥰 (i went with her) AND OMG GLEE ok so unfortunately i barely remember glee, but i used to watch it too!!!! And it‘s actually on my list of series i wanna watch (again) so youre making me want to watch it even more (but like i said i‘m bad with series so 😩😩😩 who knows when i‘ll rewatch it)

When all this pandemic shit is over (let‘s be hopeful <3333) then you need to go to as many concerts as possible!!!!! i‘ve been to SO MANY and it‘s literally one of the things in my life i‘m the most grateful for, concerts are some of the best experiences i‘ve ever had in my life especially the ones that are in smaller concert halls where you can feeeel the vibe and everyone‘s energy (and that sounds awful thinking about it mid-pandemic 😐) anyway—

Okay omg you‘re absolutely making me want to watch hamilton right now like omg i WANT TO WATCH IT NOW but it‘s 4 am sodndkdldl

what you said about my peter fics🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺like omg i love these emojis they literally just describe how i felt when reading what you said so, yes, 🥰🥺 + thank you :) it really means a lot <3

and no omg i totally get the studying thing. like last year before i graduated .. was that last year? yes wtf omg okaykdjdj, so the last three months before i had my final exams we were just in a lockdown and we didn‘t even have online classes. We had nothing except one teacher who left our group chat (😭) because she was mad at us (?) and one maths teacher who did an online ““lesson““ once a week. he‘d ask: so does anyone have questions. us: . Him: okay, bye then. So. Yeah dndldldj. But we had one online test and it was in german and like i read the book wee were supposed to read? but the questions on the test were all unanswerable (is that a word?) and i had to google everything (got an A tho 🤪 but only because i googled everything so i was so scared that i wouldn‘t be able to get a good result on the final exam because what if i‘d gotten used to just googling everything and i couldn‘t do it by myself anymore? anyway it was all fine in the end but yeah at times i couldn‘t even study because i had so much anxiety about studying and yeah- like this whole annoying cycle. but you said you‘re still studying———- okay wait 👁👄👁 i forgot what i was going to say??????????????????????????????????????????????????? Like wtf. Is wrong with me? And i‘m reading what you wrote again and i just don‘t know what i was going to say? Like i get what you‘re saying obviously but i‘m like? Idk 4am brain ayeee, please vent more if you need to and elaborate further because right now i‘m???? Too dumb to respond to this right now wtf. I‘m so sorry lmao ddlkdjdjd what is even going on like i‘m sitting here open mouthed just like ? But btw the fact that you have Voice and dance lessons is like SO FUCKING COOL like oh my god that is sosososos cool wtf, i was thinking that when you first talked about it too

And “i want you to chanel the knowledge within yourself of the centripetal force of the circle that is the table on this stage” ODHDKSLDBDJDOFIDKDNDLDK

Yes i know about the weather dkdkdkjd but it‘s getting (a lot) warmer here too and where i live we kind of get a weird type of wind called föhn (which literally means hair dryer but idk if that‘d the reason why it‘s called that, i‘m too tired to think of whether it makes sense rn) and it gives me headachesssssss and the changing weather is also giving me headaches 😭😭😭😭 so this season right now is just headache season and i hate summer so i wish it would just snow again lmao (okay it‘s getting so late that it‘s early already snd i can hear this bird chirping so fucking loud wtf i‘m also getting a headache 🤧🤧🤧) but at least i can do my new theme soon (i hope it‘ll look good🥺 and omg thank you for what you said about my current theme- i always feel like i‘m so bad with aesthetics, i obviously like my theme but i feel like every single person on tumblr has a theme that is prettier than mine so it was very nice to hear you say that you love it👉🏼👈🏼 (i‘m so used to it by now that i actually hate it lmao so it‘s getting yeeted soon and i‘m making megan thee stallion my pfp 🤪 (if the graphics and shit works out skdjdjdj)

#lovely anon #<333 #okay its so late now i dont wanna post it now in case i‘m too tired to notice losds of mistakes #but i also wanna post it now so.#*loads #i‘m posting it #and i absolutely do not mind if you answer like this!!!! but if you ever do feel like it‘s too much or you uust want to respond to one thing #in particular sooner then pls go ahead! <3

2 notes · View notes

angelaiswriting · 5 years

Text

Children (1 of 4) | Michael Gray x reader

[original picture: pinterest]

✏️ Pairing: Michael Gray x fem!reader

✏️ Summary: After a nice Shelby family dinner, Michael and his wife leave their son at Polly’s to enjoy a night with each other. It turns out, though, that’s it’s not just each other that they crave. (Requested by Anonymous)

✏️ A/N: gaaaah *insert unintelligible sounds here* I told Paulina I would wait tomorrow to post this, but let’s be honest: this is me we’re talking about, I literally have close to zero patience (sorry b). Anyway, this fic was a ride, I somehow was embarrassed to talk about a dick and a vagina, but I pushed through it HAHAHA wtf is happening to me? This is honestly my sweetest smut ever and I just hope Michael is not OOC here! (You let your girl know, though.)

✏️ Beta-read by: @sweetvengeancee

✏️ Warnings: 18+ only, so if you’re a minor, don’t fucking interact. With that said: vaginal sex, oral sex f/r, fingering, talks of wanting children, just... immense fluff mixed with the sex.

✏️ Word-count: 4,572

PART ONE: CHILDREN | >> part two: anna and john >> | >> part three: a bigger table >> | >> part four: warhorse >>

In the silence of the big house, even their hurried steps echo off the walls, lose themselves in the depth of the mansion. Even when Michael’s coat falls to the ground after his hand missed the coathanger, the sound is louder than usual – more like a long, soft sigh than a thud, the pressed wool delicate and still warm from having been worn all day.

His wife’s long, red topcoat follows suit, joins its partner on the waxed hardwood floor of the hall and then it’s the turn of Michael’s hat – the cheap razor blades clink against the parquet.

After that, it’s all short breaths and whimpered words, hungry kisses left on kiss-starved lips. They’re both hungry: they haven’t had a chance of being alone for a while now, both too busy with the business or helping John grow up, teaching him how to talk and walk and run. And live – live like the world is made of shining gold and riverbeds are filled with flowing honey.

“I fucking missed this,” he whispers against her lips as he meets her gaze and finds hers already twinkling with amusement and something else. Something more. Something that runs deep and that scorches like living fire. “Missed you.”

She has no chance to chuckle, for he kisses her again. And it’s pure hunger. It’s pure lust and need and love, the same insistent feeling that brought them to having a baby running around the house on his chubby three-year-old legs and a hat too big on his head. The same baby that’s now sleeping peacefully at Polly’s place after a chaotic dinner with the whole Shelby family as they’re being given the chance to love as foolishly and as recklessly as they always did before getting married.

He makes her walk backwards as he blindly leads her towards the staircase and her hands are desperate and messy in his hair, on his face, on his neck and then down his chest and back up his back when she pulls him closer.

“Missed having you this fucking hungry,” he groans when he picks her up in his arms and she squeals.

She kisses his neck as he walks up the stairs – burning lips against even hotter skin – and then scorching tongue against his kiss-bruised neck. She licks and kisses and suckles, and he does his best not to moan – the maids might be used to overhearing their love-making sessions, but he’s not. He’ll probably never be.

His hand slaps her butt when he reaches the landing. She laughs, he laughs, and it’s a matter of seconds before he puts her back down onto her feet. And a couple of seconds later, they’re both sprinting down the corridor like children, giggling and chuckling, promises of a wild night falling from their lips like solemn pledges.

It’s all downhill from there: she’s in his arms again as soon as the door closes behind her back and a heartbeat later, she’s pressed up against the wooden surface, legs wrapped around his waist as she hastily fumbles with the knot of his tie just as he struggles with her garter belt.

His lips are bruising against her neck. They suck and kiss on her pulse point as he breathes her in. Her scent is home – roses and cigarettes and clean pressed bedsheets and the sugary honey of John’s sweets. It’s a smell he craves during the day when he’s in the office or dealing with more risky business with Thomas or any other of the guys. And it’s also a smell he relishes when he comes back home and he finds her sitting at the table as John draws, a smell he loses himself into when he spoons her at night and buries his face in her hair – breathes her in.

“We won’t go to sleep until sunrise,” and it’s a promise.

God, she looks into his eyes and she knows that’s a promise. There’s a frenzy in them, a frenzy she knows will push her to be louder than she usually allows herself to be. Promises of every kind flash across her husband’s features, tug at his lips until he’s grinning up at her as his hips experimentally thrust against her.

And she moans – low and deep and barely above a whimper, but it’s there and as they look into each other’s eyes, they know they’re just as hungry, just as ready to get drunk on each other.

She moans and he groans, her hands cradling his face and her lips pressing and pushing against his until he parts them and their tongues glide against each other. It’s… good, like a glass of fresh water after a day spent in the sun. They kiss and savour each other like they haven’t done in what feels like forever. And he tastes of strong whiskey and cigarettes and she - of Christmas trees, the gin she’s drunk still pungent on her tongue, still buzzing in her fingertips.

When he moves away from the door, he does so with a grunt, for her hold on him gets tighter and pressed up as she is against him, she feels delicious.

She makes him delirious.

His brain works a mile a minute, his heart - ten.

Everything’s messy – messy lips, messy backwards steps, messy hands under the gown of her dress, pushing her stockings down her legs until the back of his knees bump into the edge of the mattress and he falls backwards.

“Michael!” She squeals and chuckles as she balances herself with her hands on his chest.

His hands move along her thighs and glide over her ass, fingers pressing into the plump flesh as his grin widens, teeth glinting mischievously in the bedroom lights. “Y/N.” He savours her name on his tongue as he stares up at her.

They stay like that for a while, panting lightly, both of them catching their breath with their eyes set onto each other’s. It feels good – this feels good.

Michael Gray loves staring at his wife more than anything else – but never more than watching his boy grow and learn things and explore the world. He wants at least six more of them, six more Johns playing hide-and-seek in the endless rooms of his mansion – or maybe two more Johns and three girls that teach their brothers how to remain anchored to the ground, how to avoid being swept away by the Peaky Blinders’ lifestyle and business.

He looks at her and he sees it all over again – her pregnancy, her slowly-growing belly, her swelling breasts, that absolutely mind-fucking pregnancy glow that had stuck to her for nine months like a second skin. He sees it and he feels it – feels it in his loins, in his breath growing shorter, in his smile widening and losing its wickedness. He feels it in his heart, that very heart that throbs and flutters in his chest as a pinky blush slowly blooms on his cheeks.

And he finds himself craving it again.

He craves it all again – even the morning sickness, even the empty threats thrown his way through a closed door as his wife gave birth to his son. He craves the smell of her, so sweet and delicate and unexplainably heavenly.

She’s undoing the buttons of his shirt when he comes back to his senses, her hands swift and precise as they reach the last one before sliding underneath the cotton and across the flushed skin of his chest. They’re quick at opening his shirt – and her thumbs are even quicker when they swipe on his sides, just below his ribcage.

After that, she bends down and her lips are feathers against the scars on his chest. It’s become a habit by now – she kisses the bumpy skin of the scars left behind by those fucking bullets and everything falls back into place – everything is right. Again.

Everything feels safe. It’s safe to want it again, it’s safe to wish for it – and it will always be, in her arms, in their bedroom, with her skin against his and his against hers. And so his hands move away from her buttcheeks to cradle her face, to pull her closer to him.

She smiles and it’s one of those whispered smiles that make her exhale loudly from her nose and the air fans his lips as she looks down at him. Her eyes are grinning, too, before he kisses her.

“Let’s have another kid.” It’s a murmured prayer against her red-covered lips, against the smudged reddish hue around the corners of her lips, where his lips have pressed before.

“Another kid?” She presses kisses to his jaw, all the way to that sweet spot below his ear that makes his hips thrust up against her when she suckles on it.

“For a start,” he breathes, hands snaking around her neck to blindly undo the clasp of the necklace he’s given her for their first anniversary. His left arm opens, then, hangs from the foot of the bed to let the diamonds fall to the floor, their dead value protected only by the soft sheepskin someone has gifted them on their wedding day.

“‘For a start’ sounds good,” she mutters against his skin, slowly sliding down his body until she’s sitting between his legs, her fingers undoing the button of his black trousers. “Was this your great plan?” she asks, pushing both slacks and underwear down his legs, stopping for a moment only to take off his shoes. And his socks.

And after that, she’s kissing her way up his legs and there are only goosebumps in her lips’ wake – goosebumps that tug at his skin and at his brain, cutting his breath short the closer she gets to him.

He’s hard – he knows he is, he doesn’t need to look down. He’s straining against nothing and the closer she gets, the more insistent the pulling in his loins gets. The whole day has led up to that – from the groggy first minutes they spent in bed that morning; to that free hour in the afternoon they spent cuddled up in the tub, preparing for the family dinner at his mother’s; to the way she had looked in that sparkling grey dress, her smile shining brighter than the diamonds around her neck.

Michael loves Y/N like nothing else and with such an intensity that it hurts. It shatters his heart in the best way possible and it leaves him craving for more – more of her, more of their lazy mornings, even more of the hectic mornings spent in bed with John gurgling and telling unintelligible stories and simply being the rascal child he is.

“Michael?” she hums against the taut skin of his stomach as a cool fingertip traces the underside of his left ball. “Was this your great plan?” she repeats, for she knows he’s already forgotten the question. “Spend the night fucking another baby in me?”

He loves it when she’s like that, when she lets her dirty mouth run free – when she takes off that lady-like mask she wears when she deals with people outside the family.

“Undress for me,” he says instead, stopping her from taking his dick in her hands.

She smirks up at him and she looks so fucking ravishing that his eyes almost roll back into his skull as the muscles in his thighs tense, his toes curl.

“Undress for me.” The words are whispered this time, and pleading – voice soft and imploring as his thumbs caress her burning cheeks.

She mutters something back to him, something his brain doesn’t pick up, before she leaves a kiss on his hip. The second after, her comforting warmth isn’t there anymore. When he opens his eyes, she’s standing in front of him, between his legs, her feet between his on the floor.

“Why don’t you help me?” Her smile is sweet, loving – so fucking loving that Michael feels a sob build up in the back of his throat as he sits up on the bed and his hands reach their place on her hips.

All he wants is to fucking press his face into her belly and breathe her in.

“Turn around,” he says instead, standing up behind her when she faces the bedroom door in front of her.

His breath is hot against her neck and his hands burn even more even through the dress she’s wearing when they come to rest on her abdomen. He leaves them there for a moment as he peppers kisses on the side of her neck, pushing himself closer against her, suckling on her sensitive skin until her head lolls back to rest against his shoulder.

“Let’s have another baby.” He leaves a kiss on the crown of her head before pulling out the pins that keep her hairdo up. They fall to the floor one by one and the sound each one produces sends shivers up her shins. “Let’s give John a baby brother,” and he kisses the back of her neck, “or a baby sister.” It’s only when he’s let her Parisian earrings join the hairpins on the hardwood floor that he whispers in her ear: “Or both.”

It takes him three excruciating minutes to undo all the ties and buttons on the back of her dress. And to let it fall in a heap at her feet. And to slide the straps of her full slip down her shoulders. And to let the garment glide down her body until all she is wearing are briefs, garter belt, shoes, and socks.

He makes her turn around and as she does, he sinks to his knees. Michael Gray doesn’t kneel in front of anybody, but with his wife? Fuck. He’d spend his life on his knees for her – he’d die on his fucking knees for her. His heart aches at the sight of her like that, lips parted, fingers dancing lightly on the skin of her cleavage and then up her neck as she goes to remove the one hairpin he forgot in her hair.

And his hands – his blood-covered hands, so used to numbers and weapons – are soft and light on the skin of her sides and the brushing of his calluses makes goosebumps wash over her as she looks down at him – looks down into his eyes.

Gentleness turns into hunger when his fingers hook underneath the hem of her briefs and garter belt and his head leans forward to leave a chaste kiss on her lower belly as his mind’s already wandering – wandering to when her womb will be round with yet another kid of his, wandering to when he’ll feel his spawn kick from inside her to tell him, daddy, I’m here! I can’t wait to get out and see you!

He can’t wait to welcome his child, either. He can’t wait for the moment he’ll have another mini Gray in his hands to show to John, to teach his firstborn how to be a big brother. He craves it, and there’s something in that image that tugs at his heart and at his eyes and makes tears well up and obfuscates his sight.

He makes quick work of her shoes but he’s slow at taking them off. It’s something he enjoys – undressing his wife. It’s a night-time ritual he’ll never get tired of, something he enjoys more than anything in this godforsaken world. It makes him feel capable of more, makes him feel like there’s a higher meaning to his existence – to her existence – and to existence in and of itself. There’s a meaning so fucking high that his mind can’t comprehend it and so it leaves him with love-filled turmoil inside.

But then, when she’s finally and utterly naked and he’s back on his feet, he hugs her and he holds her tight – and close – so close he swears he can feel her heart beat against his chest. Every part of him brushes against her and every part of her brushes against him – skin, limbs, hair, breath.

She’s so close it physically hurts. But it’s a good hurt, something that makes him feel alive, something that makes him feel lucky to be alive.

He tilts her head back, then, and he looks down at her with a smile brighter than the sun and the moon and all the stars combined. And all he sees on her face is love for him – love for them both together, for what they’ve been capable of doing and for what they want to do again.

The kiss is sweet, almost chaste as they stare into each other’s eyes, breathe against each other’s skin as her hands move up his back and down his biceps until she’s holding onto his wrists, his hands cradling her face and keeping her in place.

“I love you,” she breathes when he lets her go, when she lets him guide her until she’s lying on her back, the soft mattress underneath her and his strong body above her. “I love you so fucking much it hurts.”

He smiles at that – he grins at that. He’s glad she feels the same – the same feeling, that same weird tugging in every single muscle and bone of her body, that same churning sensation deep down in the pit of her stomach as the head of his cock leaks pre-cum in the joint of her thigh and hip.

“I love you too,” he whispers in the valley of her breasts as his kisses drift south, lower and lower until he’s settled between her parted legs.

And she’s beautiful. She’s so fucking beautiful, spread out for him like this, that he has to close his eyes for a moment, even though there’s no stopping that finger from swiping between her folds.

And she’s wet. She’s so wet he can almost feel her on his tongue – he can almost taste her on his tongue even from there. And it’s even better when he replaces his finger with his tongue because she’s there and it’s just so…

Ugh.

Michael doesn’t know how it feels, he can’t label it with a word. He feels like it’s been so long since the last time he’s had this much time to worship her like he should – to be soft and gentle and slow, to drive her as wild as he used to when they still had to get married, when they still had to have John.

She hisses when he licks that first stripe between her slick folds and the scratching of her nails on his scalp is so gentle it’s almost barely there. A second swipe and his name falls from her lips like a prayer, a never-ending litany that raises in volume the more he licks her, two of his fingers slowly pushing into her throbbing pussy – first one, then the second – and they curl gently and when they brush against that sweet spot of hers, she gasps.

She gasps and he groans against her, the sound coming out just as he wraps his lips around her clit, suckling gently on it once. It’s then that her hips buck up and he slides his arms under her thighs, grabbing her hips into a tight hold to keep her still.

His hands – those same hands that have killed and hit and punched – now hold onto her with the utmost gentleness and care as his shoulders – those same shoulders that at times feel like they hold the weight of the world – press into her inner thighs.

He loves this – loves what he can do to her, loves that he can be a different person with her. Gentle and careful and reckless and wild and so loving all at once. He loves the effect he has on her, the sounds she whimpers and moans when he goes down on her like he’s doing now, his fingers slowly fucking her, his tongue and mouth insistent on her burning core.

It builds up slowly – and yet, faster than he thought it would. She pants and wiggles under him, her back arching off of the mattress, her fingers tugging on his hair, making him moan as he presses himself harder into the bed.

And when he opens his eyes and looks up at her, he swears she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Eyes screwed shut, lips parted, nipples peaked, baby hair sticking to the thin layer of sweat on her forehead – he swears this is a fucking vision, and he finds himself hoping this is what he’ll see the day he dies: his lovely wife spread out for him on their bed, opening up for him the way she always does, clamping down onto his greedy fingers as his mouth tends to her clit.

He wants to stay here forever, wants to lose himself into her, wants to love her like a starved man would – intensely and ardently and all at once, pouring himself into her before it’s too late, before the time for their last farewell comes.

He fucking loves her and he’d like to tell her again, for he’ll always love her. Even on his deathbed. Even on her deathbed. Even during the storm, when everything looks darker than it actually is. He wants to tell her he loves her to America and back – to the Moon and back – and surely even beyond that. He loves her more than he loves his job, more than he loves his life with the Peaky Blinders, even more than he loves horses.

But she’s coming when he’s about to open his mouth and tell her again how fucking much she means to him. She’s coming and she’s moaning and whimpering as the walls of her vagina flutter around his fingers.

Her skin burns against his lips when he kisses his way back up to her face – past her lower belly, past her chest, past her breasts after he kisses each nipple and tears whines from her lips and even past her neck, until he’s finally kissing her lips and she can taste herself in his mouth.

There’s a moan, then, one that builds up in a crescendo and that comes from deep inside her as her tongue swipes against his and it’s a sound – and a feeling – he’s missed. He’s missed it so much that his lungs almost hurt and he finds himself melting in her arms.

Right after that, it’s all a God and Michael and fuck and love against his lips as he takes himself in his hand. His body barely has the strength to balance himself on one forearm as he gently strokes himself once, twice before nudging her clit with the head of his cock.

And just like that, with a long and slow thrust forward, he’s sheathed inside her and his forehead is covered in sweat and he’s fucking panting against the kiss-bruised skin of the crook of her neck. And her hands are in his hair again, fingertips gently massaging his scalp as she pants against the side of his face, his ear, his hair.

“I meant it,” he moans against her skin when her walls hug him tighter and his back tenses. “Another kid.” He’s out of breath – even out of strength as he lies there, his chest pressed heavily against hers as her thighs slide along his until they’re pressing against his hips.

Her lips pepper kisses to every centimetre she can reach without moving her head and he starts doing the same, forcing her to stop. He pecks her neck before the slow kisses turn to suckling, his teeth gently grazing her flushed skin as his hips draw back.

It’s delicious – the friction, the feeling of her all around him, the whine that leaves her lips when he pecks them. It’s heavenly and he feels like a whole new person as her burning warmth scorches all his walls and masks and protections down.

Her “I meant it, too,” is a breath against his lips as her hands press into the flesh of his shoulders, nails lightly scraping his skin. “God, let’s have another one.”

After that, it’s pure desperation. It’s like they can’t have enough of each other as his pace picks up and her ankles cross over his ass, trying to pull him deeper and deeper each time he thrusts into her, the head of his dick nudging that spot inside her that just makes her eyes roll back into her skull as her neck arches and her breasts press harder into him.

“Let’s have ten more,” is the incoherent plea she breathes out as she fails to look at him, her eyelids too heavy to keep her eyes open.

His exhale is almost louder than anything else as he snorts, trying to hold in the chuckle. And he’s kissing her neck and face – cheeks, nose, lips, eyelids; anywhere he can reach, he presses a kiss to her skin.

By God, she drives him insane. There’s no rhythm in his thrusts, no steady strength as he loses his focus and his head falls forward, his forehead pressing against her collarbone. His arms snake and push their way under her waist, hands sliding between her ass and the mattress to pull her a little higher. And it doesn’t make much of a difference, but both of them see stars.

When she comes, her orgasm cuts his breath short and all it takes him to reach his bliss is another couple of strokes of his cock inside her, her vagina clamping down on him.

And he’s gone.

He’s so fucking gone that he forgets his name for a minute or two as he sloppily and automatically thrusts inside her. Back and forth, back and forth – it’s the only action that has meaning as he draws out their highs and gently leads them both off of them.

Neither of them remembers when he’s pulled out, nor that they moved on the bed to cuddle until they’re already in that position, their breathing slowly evening out as she pants against his chest and he draws made-up patterns on her sweaty back.

“Did you mean it?” he manages to ask after a while, when the thrumming of his heart in his chest is not that loud anymore – when he feels himself starting to harden again. “When you said you wanted ten more kids.” It’s a breathless laughter, the one that shakes him and that vibrates in her chest.

She tilts her head against his chest to look up at him and she grins, her eyebrows wiggling before she chuckles, too. “Who knows?”

“You’re insane.”

She’s insane but he loves her nonetheless. And he’d give her twenty more children just to see that radiant grin on her lips that makes even her eyes laugh.

“We should hurry up, then,” he says instead of confessing his thoughts, his right hand moving down her left thigh and then back up again before pushing between her legs. “Make the most of this night of freedom to make sure we’ll have at least one more, huh?”

*cleans sweat from forehead* Was this any good? How was Michael? (Hopefully not that OOC) A penny for your thoughts? :)

Requests are still open if you want to request some Peaky Blinders stories ❤️

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892 @mblaqgi

Peaky Blinders: @whimsylavender @thethyri @friendleyneighbourhoodvillain

People that might be interested: @sweetvengeancee @kind-wolf @flowers-in-your-hayr

#michael gray imagine #michael gray x reader #michael gray #michael gray smut #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders smut #angelaiswriting

863 notes · View notes