dove the fool !!

Ryland’s word vomit arrives as gracefully as a plane crash, right after you have both stripped down to nothing and settled beneath the sheets of your queen-sized bed (a delightful upgrade from Ryland’s springy, busted twin bed back at his apartment). He’s been sweating bullets for the last hour of your impromptu make out session, and he’s been hard for about eighty percent of that time. You’ve lost count of how many times he groaned in the past twenty minutes from accidentally nudging his erection against your thigh.

Needless to say, you already figured he was a little out of practice.

“That’s fine,” you murmur from below, your head cushioned by a pillow. “I mean, the last time I slept with anyone was…” You pause, brows furrowed in thought. Ryland watches your hands leave his hair only to start counting on your fingers, muttering under your breath, until you give up, settling on, “It’s been a while for me, too.”

Ryland sighs in relief, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Good.” Then, reflexively, his head pops back up. “I mean— Not good. Sorry. That was very selfish of me. You deserve to have— you should get to, you know— bed someone as you wish. Make love. Get frisky. Et cetera. I mean, look at you, how could anyone not—? Well. Anyway… that must have been rough.”

A snort escapes you at Ryland’s inability to use the word ‘sex.’ And did he… speak in a British accent for a moment there? It’s a bit unclear what dialect he was going for.

Regardless of his awkward, sporadic behavior and ceaseless talking, you’re familiar enough with this song and dance that you don’t hesitate to return your fingers to his hair, lightly scratching his scalp. The action, as per usual, makes him melt like putty in your hands. 

“Yeah, let’s maybe not get into the humiliating details,” you muse, tugging him down for a chaste kiss. He moans into your mouth, his body sagging atop yours. He tries to nod in response to your words, but his lips are still smushed against yours. Not to mention his glasses are still hanging on for dear life and poking your cheek. You gently push him away, remove them, and set them on your nightstand; Ryland flashes a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he says. “You know me. Forgot I was wearing them.”

“Uh-huh,” you nod slowly, tugging him down again. “Shut up, handsome.”

Ryland kisses you like he’s been starving for it, panting against your mouth from the effort it takes to focus on just this moment. He doesn’t want to start humping you like a dog in heat, even though he sure feels like one right about now. He gets dizzy off your shared breath, nudging his nose against yours between heated kisses. His hands are shaking — partially from holding himself up, but mostly because he’s scared to touch you. All he keeps thinking about, even now, is how mortifying it would be if he disappointed you even a little bit. He’s out of practice and definitely way too old to be floundering over a kiss, but being in your bed after months of wet dreams and sighing your name into his pillow is a step he didn’t think he’d ever take. Fortunately for him, you were brave enough to finally bring it up and drag him into your bed. 

“You can touch me,” you mumble against his mouth, noting his hesitation. 

“Right.” Ryland swallows. His lips stray to the corner of your mouth, then further to your jawline. He hides his face there, heart hammering against his rib cage, to ask, “Where?”

Although Ryland drudges up a myriad of self-deprecating thoughts upon asking, you happen to find the question terribly sexy.

“I’ll show you,” you mutter, already searching for his hands. You guide them over your body, letting his palms splay across your bare skin. His breath catches. Ryland reels his head back to get a good look at you while his hands explore — kneading at mounds of flesh, lightly pinching your nipples, caressing the curves and dips of your body. He’s meticulous in his search to find out exactly what makes you tick — a scientist after your own heart.

His cock is leaking against your thigh. It’s been in such a state for nearly an hour now; Ryland hasn’t quite found the courage to give himself to you yet. Hell, he hasn’t even dared to grind against you for fear that he’ll empty himself all over your stomach by accident.

Eventually, you turn on your side, shuffling around on your bed. Ryland watches with a growing flush as you get into position, taking his hand into your own and leading it to settle between your thighs. “Here,” you finally murmur, patient as a saint. Ryland’s heart nearly stops altogether when you guide him to where you’ve been aching just as badly as him. He drags the tips of his fingers over your arousal — wet, warm, and patiently waiting for him to get his shit together.

“Good God,” he whines, his voice cracking. Your hips jerk upward when he applies pressure, stimulating your sensitive nerves; he nearly loses all composure the second you moan in response.

“Ryland,” you whisper, squirming beneath him. You’re torn between jerking your hips forward or holding them in place; your body can’t seem to decide which is more appealing. 

“Uh-huh?” He can’t rip his eyes off your body, slack jawed as he strokes your leaking heat. Ryland’s hand suddenly redirects, fingers slipping into his mouth — his tongue swirls around them, messily wetting the digits — before traversing around your hip. He watches his finger gently prod at your rear, slowly slipping into you. Your body gives in with ease, and he marvels at your sharp breaths and sighs when he pumps his finger in and out — slowly, curling just so, angling his hand to let you receive another digit. 

Your throat bobs when you swallow, chest heaving. With a shaking hand, you reach behind you to touch Ryland’s chin. With his attention caught, you tug him closer, pulling him into your orbit. He falls into it without hesitation, allowing you to bring him in for a slow, heady kiss whilst he continues to work you open. 

If you weren’t already as worked up as you are, you wouldn’t mind staying like this for a few more hours. He’s warm and tender, expertly balancing his weight above you. For all his fumbling up to this point, Ryland has managed to far exceed your expectations — and, surprisingly, even his own. Not bad for a couple of out of practice losers.

“Ry,” you sigh into your pillow, closing your eyes to focus on him. “You can— I’m good, if you want to… to…” You trail off, too busy jerking your hips back to really finish your thought. 

Ryland gets the gist of it. In response to your invitation, the man shifts his hips forward, pressing his flushed cock against your ass. He eases his way in, a ragged groan escaping him. You can feel him panting against your cheek as he hovers behind you, working his way inside your rear, slowly filling you up. Ryland bites his tongue, squeezing his eyes shut. He sinks further into you, fisting the sheets as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he sighs, hanging his head low enough that his nose touches your cheek. “Fuck. That’s good. You’re— Jesus, you’re perfect, so fucking…” He trails off, muttering a long, unintelligible string of curses beneath his breath. Ryland doesn’t dare to move until your hips cant backwards, eager for friction, wanting for more. He responds in kind, slowly reeling his hips back before swaying into your orbit. The roll of his hips is heavenly; you moan, reaching behind you. Your hands flail around, searching for his thigh, desperate to pull him in for every deep, languid thrust that fills you.

“So tight,” he mutters once his forehead drops to the crook of your neck. “So, so good. God, you’re good.” His body is flush to yours, focused less on going deep and more on simply feeling you all over him. Ryland’s hands start to wander of their own accord, gripping your hips to help you rock against him, locking your sweaty bodies into a desperate rhythm. 

When his thrusts start to become increasingly heavy, you remove your hand from his thigh to slip your hand between your legs. He doesn’t notice at first, not until you start to whine a bit from the stimulation.

Ryland picks his head up to look at you before averting his gaze downward. He licks his lips, eyes darkened to a sultry expression.

“Let me,” he boldly insists, already sliding a hand down to meet yours. His hand replaces yours; you keep it there, hovering over his for guidance, but Ryland already seems to have you figured out. The pads of his fingers press against the most sensitive parts of you, getting you off whilst his hips rock into yours. You gasp, clutching his wrist and dropping your mouth open in a perpetual moan.

“There? You like that?” Ryland asks huskily, panting against your ear with barely-there composure. You wonder if he knows how attractive he is at this moment — so unlike his usual self. More confident, more sure of his actions.

Regardless of whether he realizes how well he’s doing or not, you nod, moaning wantonly. “Yes, yes. Right there.”

You’re both a breathy, sweaty mesh of limbs, clinging to each other and chasing a high that seems increasingly within reach. Ryland is further ahead of the curve than you are, whining against your neck.

“I’m almost— Fuck, you feel amazing— Can I come inside you? I can’t, I can’t pull out… Too tight, I’m gonna lose it.”

His rambling is met with a fervent nod. As your legs kick against the sheets, Ryland pants like a dog, fucking into you sporadically. He spills his seed — hot and heavy — and groans so loud you jolt in surprise. The sound causes your muscles to squeeze around him; you’re nearing the edge now, barely hanging on.

Ryland remembers to stimulate your sex again, pushing himself up enough to slip his hand where it needs to be. He gets you off with quick, brutal force to your nerves, and you pulse against his deft hand as your orgasm hits.

Even though you’ve both cum already, Ryland’s hips don’t stop. He continues to bury himself inside you — raggedly working himself through the lasting remains of his release — while he sputters under his breath.

“Could stay here all day,” he mumbles. “Perfect, best I’ve ever had. Fuck, I can’t wait to make you cum again, babe. Fill you ‘til you’re dripping. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—”

If you weren’t so sensitive, you’d probably roll your eyes and laugh at his slurred prayer.

By the end of it, when Ryland has finally had his fill of you, he pulls out and fully drops his weight upon yours, too spent to keep himself upright. You release an oomph when he lays on you, squeezing the breath from your lungs.

“Ry—” You start, already nudging him off of you.

He groans, burying his face against your neck. From his place on your chest, you can see that the tips of his ears are bright red. He mumbles something that you can’t decipher; you poke his ribs.

“What? I can’t hear you.” 

Ryland groans again, flustered and shaking his head. “Sorry. Sorry. Dunno what that was. Who even says that kind of stuff? Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

With a snort, you ruffle his already-messy hair, raking your nails over his scalp. “What are you sorry for? I liked it.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You pity me,” he whines. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

You can’t help but scoff at that, yanking at a lock of his hair. Ryland yelps, turning his head to look at you.

“Who do you think I am, huh?” You poke his cheek, brow raised. “Don’t be silly. Enjoy the moment for once, won’t you?”

Ryland opens his mouth to argue, but — after a beat of consideration — he closes it. He props his chin on your shoulder, sighing through his nose.

“You are, as always, correct,” he mutters, looking at you with all the adoration a man can offer. 

“Exactly.” You smile, fixing his hair back into place. It springs right back up, perpetually defying gravity. Your head tilts, searching his expression. “You know, you’re selling yourself short. That was really good for five years out of practice.”

Ryland perks up. “Really?”

“Really.”

The man cracks a smile, shifting to nuzzle his scratchy, stubbled cheek against your shoulder. “Well, you’ve only seen a fraction of my power.”

“Oh?” You laugh at the ridiculous, overly-serious tone he takes. “Do share more.”

“Give me ten minutes, baby, and I’ll rock your world.”

Advice: Always trust a scientist to deliver thorough results.

fancy some more?

Dean has a complicated relationship with femininity since she never got to do traditionally girly things as a kid; overall, she tends to be pretty masculine or androgynous. She never got to play with Barbies or dress up or put on make up — her “toy” was a rifle, her outfit only ever consisted of the same dirty boots and tattered flannels, and she never learned how to doll herself up. Sometimes she picks up those magazines with the pretty models on the cover and tries to imagine her face on their body; she mostly just ends up feeling weird and guilty over it, like even imagining something like that for herself is wrong. 

Dean’s only real agency is over her hair. John never knew what to do with it — it was always so long and silky, even when the Winchesters spent days on the road without a proper wash. Dean had to take it upon herself to learn how to braid her own hair, how to keep it out of the way on hunts; her hair is her pride and joy. (It also makes her look so much like Mary that John can’t stomach it sometimes.) She probably has to cut it at some point when it gets caught or grabbed on a mission; she cries about it alone in a corner somewhere after John chops it off. 

Dean doesn’t get to play around with traditional femininity until she’s an adult. John starts sending her out for hunts on her own, and she soars with that little bit of freedom; she buys a dress and goes out to a bar alone (with a fake ID, of course), and her first time putting on make up is when one of the drunk girls in the bathroom says she would look so pretty with a little mascara and some lipstick. Ironically, this is also the first time she comes to terms with the fact that she is most definitely not straight — she loves the attention too much to be heterosexual. 

She never officially comes out to her father. John is at the halfway point between knowing his daughter is different and being willfully ignorant of the truth — so long as she stays loyal to her family and does her job like a good little soldier, John doesn’t dare to question it, and Dean never brings it up. 

She meets you on a hunt — you’re being tormented by a particularly nasty spirit, and it’s up to Dean and her father to save you. John is none the wiser when he sees his daughter hanging out with you. It makes sense, really — you’re about the same age, and Dean is a social butterfly. She gets you out of your head, reassuring you that everything will be alright, to stick beside her in case anything goes wrong. Who are you to deny a strong, beautiful woman with arms like that? 

By this point, Dean has been with a handful of people — men, women, and everything in between — but you’re of the odd few that she hated to part with. Cassie was Dean’s first love (and her first real girlfriend), but where Cassie couldn’t bear to lead a life with a hunter, you’re more than eager to ditch everything should Dean say the word. It scares her, your loyalty. She gently turns you down — as gently as she can, anyway. Leaving you breaks her heart and yours. 

You meet again years later when Dean returns with Sam to your town. Another spirit, another case to solve — and you just so happen to be right in the middle of things again. This time, you’re hunting, too — after Dean left, you picked it up in hopes of finding her. You never did get to see her again, but you found out you weren’t half bad at hunting given all the ghostly shit you went through in the past. Dean is impressed, and a little shy to admit that she missed you. 

When Sam heads to the library to do some research, it leaves you alone with Dean. She’s antsy without her sister to act as a buffer between you two, and you notice; you tease her for it. She laughs a bit. Unfortunately, you never quite got over her, but soon enough, she makes it clear that she didn’t get over you either. 

Dean takes you to bed, and after more pillow talk than she usually offers her bedmates, she asks you to stick around for a while. “Just until we find out what’s wrong with Sammy,” she insists, even though it’s more than that. As if you’d ever let her slip away from you again. 

SAM WINCHESTER:

Sam has always looked up to her big sister. She stuck by Dean since birth, always clinging to her more than their father. Sam just thinks she’s so cool and pretty in a way that Sam could never be. She’s especially jealous of her sister’s hair, which leads to Sam always growing it out. The most she can manage is getting it down to her shoulders before John winds up making a comment about how “His hair is getting too long” and “He’s starting to look like a girl.” Sam doesn’t mind looking like a girl, though — but of course, she doesn’t realize what that means until much later in life. Instead, she sniffles when her dad chops her hair away while Dean tries to reassure her little brother that it’ll grow back soon enough. 

Sam loves the toy section at the store. Even though John only ever takes his kids out to the store strictly for essentials, Sam always manages to convince her big sister to let her look around. Dean groans, but she caves easily — she makes up some excuse to their dad about getting herself some tampons only to drag her little sibling to the toys. Sam doesn’t care for the monster trucks and nerf guns, though — she gravitates to the pretty Barbie dolls and the ponies. Since Dean never got to indulge in many toys as a kid, she makes a point to buy something for Sam — when Sam wants a Barbie, Dean doesn’t bat an eye. 

Even though Dean is far from girly herself, Sam likes to borrow her clothes. She’s always delighted to get her hand-me-downs. She likes to play with her sister’s hair, too, practicing how to braid — which becomes a necessity after a mission in which Dean breaks her arm. Sam is all too happy to step up for her sister; and when Sam grows her hair out, she begs Dean to braid hers in return. 

Sam doesn’t like how much she starts to look like her father as she gets older. It isn’t until she’s in college that she starts to realize why she’s so different. When she first starts dating Jess, Sam is still guy-Sam, still waiting to hatch out of her shell. Jess is the one to point out that Sam is different from other guys she’s dated — Sam’s just not manly in a traditional sense. Sam gets along better with other women, fits into their circles and conversations and understands them in a way that a typical guy wouldn’t get. It takes a few conversations about this before Jess finally asks: “Do you think you might be a girl?”

Jess is cool about it — she doesn’t leave Sam, doesn’t treat her any different than she ever has. Jess is his first love, the first person to see her for who she really is and not be afraid of it or avoid the topic like the plague. Sam starts to transition, but of course, she doesn’t tell Dean or John about it — partly because she doesn’t want anything to do with being a hunter, but also because she’s not sure how they’d react. 

When Dean eventually reappears in Sam’s life, they don’t mention the obvious right off the bat. It isn’t until an anxious car ride later that Sam finally asks why Dean hasn’t said anything at all about her appearance — years of estrogen shaping her to look so much like their mother — and Dean just sighs: “We’ve always kept an eye on you, Sammy.” 

You’re a hunter. When Sam and Dean need some extra help on a case, they call on you (courtesy of their father’s contacts via his journal) to help them. Dean notices right away that you and Sam get along well — a little too well. Dean teases her sister every time they’re alone, wearing that stupid smug grin and elbowing her every time your eyes linger for a second too long. Sam is hesitant to start anything; she’s still mourning Jess, still haunted by nightmares of her when she tries to sleep at night. The visions aren’t helping, either — how could she possibly be with someone when she’s halfway to getting locked up in a psych ward forever? 

Despite all her insecurities, you’re patient. You wind up sticking with Sam and Dean for longer than anticipated; you round out the sisters, temper them when emotions get too high, butt in when they fight over something stupid. And, of course, you’re always there to offer Sam a shoulder to cry on when she’s suffering from her powers or the weight of the world. 

When Sam finally manages to make a move on you, she’s a bundle of nerves, hands shaking as she cups your face to kiss you goodnight after a diner date. For once, she has a good night’s sleep knowing you’ll still be there in the morning.

“Why are we going to a record store in the first place?” Sam sighs. 

Dean insisted upon going out of his way to a music store off the highway, tens of miles away from their last hunt. The drive has everybody feeling restless, even the driver in question. 

“Last I recall, you were the one who kept complaining about hearing the same songs over and over,” Dean huffs, shooting his brother a look. “I’d say I’m being rather courteous to go pick out some new tracks.”

“What a gentleman,” you snort from the backseat, leaning forward. You grasp the front bench, right behind Sam’s neck, and he feels your fingers graze his collar. He swallows thickly — not that you notice. “Let me guess: you’re gonna make all the decisions and we don’t get a say in it, right?”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Dean says, flashing you a smug grin. “My car, my rules. Take a hike if you don’t like it.” 

You stick your tongue out at Dean — childish, yes, but it’s effectively vexing for his fragile ego. He huffs when he turns his attention back to the road.

Sam laughs, giving his brother a look. “You’re such a jerk, man.”

Dean is quick to follow up with: “Whatever, bitch.”

Blessedly, the Impala does eventually park outside the record store. You climb out before the Chevy has even finished rolling to a stop, much to Dean’s chagrin. Sam grins at your antics, and a minute later, he climbs out to find you stretching outside the store. 

“C’mon, yoga master,” Sam teases, strolling up beside you with his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Stretch your legs when we’re inside.”

After playfully shooting the younger Winchester some side eye, you follow him into the music store. Dean has already made it in, eagerly flipping through cassettes and gawking at the plethora of options. One of the workers strolls by to talk to him in a friendly, customer-service appropriate tone — a tall, brown-skinned brunette with shiny coiled hair — and Dean turns up the charm while he chats her up. Sam wrinkles his nose at the sight, and you roll your eyes, turning around to flip through the many, many bins of vinyl records. 

Sam hovers behind you, idly flipping through covers without any particular interest. You, however, take your time pulling out records, inspecting the cover art and the contents with a thoughtful hum. Sam keeps taking a peek at you from the corner of his eyes, smiling when your eyes flash with recognition.

“Oh, shit. I wish I could’ve brought my record player,” you sigh wistfully, holding up Weezer’s self-titled album. The bright blue cover shines under the buzzing fluorescents overhead. 

Sam glances over from the section behind you. He squints, nodding absentmindedly. “Weezer, huh? Are they any good?” 

The immediate, utter shock that crosses your features nearly makes him wince. 

Gently sliding the record back into place in the bins, you turn to fully face Sam, arms crossed. “‘Are they any good?’ They’re Weezer, Sam. They’re amazing.”

An embarrassed laugh puffs out of him. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Sorry. My knowledge starts and ends with Island in the Sun.”

You gawk, jaw dropping halfway to the floor. “Are you serious? You really don’t listen to Weezer?”

Sam shrugs, wearing a shy smile that makes him look somehow even younger than he is. “I’ve only heard a little. Dean’s more of a classic rock kinda guy, so.”

You squint your eyes at him in accusation. “So you only listen to what you brother makes you listen to?” With a huff, you shake your head, already reaching into your jacket pocket for your precious iPod. “C’mere. There’s no way I’m letting you get away with this.”

A brow lifts, and Sam slowly crosses the few feet that separate him from you. If there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that you guard your iPod with your life. Dean once tried to borrow it for a few hours while the three of you did research over a particularly tricky poltergeist, but you threatened to skin him alive and feed him to a pack of werewolves. The intensity of your reaction was enough to ward the brothers away from your beloved MP3 player like salt to a spirit. 

Sam hovers over you as you shuffle through your music, eyes darting over the names and albums that fly by. You scroll with one hand, using the other to plug your earbuds in, expertly unraveling them from a knot — all whilst you ramble. 

“I can’t believe you don’t listen to them! Island in the Sun is good, yeah, but you need more exposure than that. I mean, I’m definitely putting you on to the rest of that album later, but whatever. They just came out with Raditude — it’s different from their usual stuff and, like, way more pop-y, but I think you’d like it,” you say, offering Sam an earbud. 

His head tilts much like a curious puppy when their owner rustles a bag of treats. “Only if you say so,” he muses. He takes the earbud from you, fingertips brushing against yours. He tries to ignore the sharp zap of electricity that ripples through him under that brief touch. Oblivious to his slightly flustered state, you land on the album in question, clicking the button on your iPod to begin playing the first track.

Your eyes flit up to catch Sam’s reactions as the first quick strums of a guitar ping through the earbuds, opening up the song to a steady tempo. He’s looking down at the tiny iPod screen, squinting at the leaping dog on the album cover. The upbeat kick of drums and Rivers Cuomo’s soft, whining voice gives way to a catchy chorus, filled out by call-and-response background vocals:

Then I said, “Girl, if you’re wondering if I want you to  (I want you to) I want you to (I want you to) So make a move (Make a move) ‘cause I ain’t got all night.”

Without noticing, Sam inches nearer to you, encroaching on your space. The longer the track goes on, the more he finds himself stealing glances at your expression: your head bopping to the beat, lips upturned and mouthing the lyrics, eyes sparkling. The energy is infectious; he smiles at you fondly, averting his gaze back to the screen every time he catches himself staring for too long at a time. 

Unbeknownst to Sam, you’re stealing glances at him, too. He’s smiling — thankfully — so he must like the song. Whether he realizes the subliminal messaging you’re sending his way is another story entirely. 

By pure coincidence, you finally happen to look up at Sam at the exact moment that he looks your way. Eyes meet, but neither of you turn away. Time slows down, crawling along so even Weezer isn’t at the forefront of your mind anymore. Despite the song blasting through your eardrums, everything narrows down to you and Sam alone. 

Of course, it’s only now that you realize just how close Sam is. His arm brushes against yours, hair hanging in his face as he leans in to meet your height. He’s near enough that you could reach up and touch him — kiss him, even — but you’re still waiting for Sam to catch on and make the move himself. 

He’s hesitating, though, as per usual. Sam wouldn’t be Sam if he didn’t overthink every minute interaction. He leans in close, slanting his body in your direction, but he’s tight-lipped. What if he’s misreading the signs? What if he’s right but something terrible happens to you because he’s cursed? Sam can’t help but imagine you pinned to the ceiling, bloodied and on fire or dying some other miserable death all because his doomed touch fell upon you. But there you are, entirely oblivious to the worst of his shame, and he can’t stop staring at your mouth in spite of it all. 

“Alright, don’t start suckin’ face in public, now,” Dean interrupts, removing the illusion of choice altogether. Sam jumps away from you so fast that the earbud falls out, swinging toward you like a pendulum. You blink, finally looking up to see Dean, who’s looking awfully smug. He lifts up a plastic bag full of new cassette tapes, rustling it in your face. “Off we go, kids.”

“Shut up,” Sam huffs under his breath, flustered and annoyed by the suggestion in Dean’s words. He walks fast, hurrying ahead of you and Dean to get even a second to collect himself. Beside you, Dean wiggles his brows, bumping shoulders with you. 

“You might not be gettin’ lucky, but I am,” he jives, flashing his receipt in your face, where the cashier from earlier apparently wrote her number. “Sucks to suck, huh?”

If you could, you’d shank Dean here and now, but he bounces off to the Impala before you get the chance, whistling a chipper tune. At least one of you is getting laid.

. . .

Dean fucks off to “interrogate the locals” (read: sleep with the girl he met at the record store), and you’re being studious by doing research at the local library. Sam is left to fend for himself at the motel, given the fortune of a rare break as he flicks through the TV channels. He lets them play for a second each before popping to the next one, then the next, then the next. Sam’s thumb scrolls to the next channel on autopilot, bored out of his mind, until he lands on MTV. Miraculously, the channel is airing a Weezer music video. 

Sam knows you’re busy and all, but he’s also missing your company. He’s alone, he didn’t even find any decent porn to keep him occupied, and his cellphone is just an arm’s reach away. He dials your number before he can think about it for too long and psyche himself out of it.

You pick up on the second ring, your voice soft and tinny in his ear. “Hello? Everything okay?”

“Hey,” he greets, watching the television. “Weezer’s on MTV.”

There’s a pause. You’re knee-deep in searching for leads on any new cases, jotting down possible references for later. If Sam is calling you about what he’s watching at the motel, of all things, he must be bored as all hell. You laugh, rubbing your strained eyes — you’ve been staring at the computer for way too long. 

“Yeah? Which music video?”

Sam leans back against the headboard, cushioned by cheap, lumpy pillows. “Buddy Holly.”

“Oh? That’s a good one,” you muse, clearly enthusiastic. “They didn’t use CGI at all for the video, if you can believe it.” 

“Really? That’s cool.” Sam’s chest gets all warm from hearing your voice crackling through his phone, sharing your little bits of trivia. He’s still a little flustered and pent up from trying to jerk off a half hour ago, and your hushed tone sounds more seductive than you intended. He swallows, shifting on the bed and desperately attempting to ignore his growing hard-on. “Have you found any leads?”

Sam’s voice sounds a little funny — like he’s straining to keep his voice even — but you blame it on your imagination or the shotty cell reception.

“Nothing much,” you sigh, lips pursed as you flip through the notes you’ve compiled so far. “Some weird stuff in Oklahoma, but I don’t know if it’s our brand of weird. I figured we could go over it later.” You glance up, lowering your voice further when one of the librarians turns her head in your general direction, no doubt hearing the noise. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“A little bit,” he admits, smiling even though you can’t see it. Weezer are still bopping their heads to their own music, footage from Happy Days spliced into their performance. He wishes you were here to watch this with him, even though you’ve probably seen this music video a hundred times by now. He wishes he could feel your weight in the bed beside him, the heat of your body. Sam closes his eyes for a brief moment, pretending you’re leaning into his side — the hand on his thigh isn’t his, but yours, warm and heavy upon his worn denim jeans. 

You click your tongue, oblivious to Sam’s wandering hand back at the motel. “Well, maybe you should have come to the library with me, nerd. The research stuff is supposed to be your thing.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who volunteered to do it,” he huffs, cock twitching beneath his jeans. Your playful disapproval stirs up an unexpected wave of heat in the pit of his stomach that rushes downward. He starts to graze his hand over his crotch — no pressure yet, just the slightest weight dragging up and down the inner seam. His voice starts to drop in pitch. “You could’ve just stayed at the motel. You know I’d have let you use my laptop.” 

Your eyes roll. “Mhm, sure. For five minutes, maybe,” you tease, mindlessly scrolling through an article on the library’s computer. “You have control issues, babe. You’d probably hover over my shoulder the whole time.” 

The casual pet name that slips from your lips has Sam sucking in a sharp breath. He swallows, finally pressing the heel of his palm down against his jeans. They grow tighter, his cock straining to break free from the layers separating himself from his hand — the hand that Sam is still imagining as yours. 

“I wouldn’t hover,” he insists, though he hardly sounds convincing. “I’d let you do your thing.” Even Sam knows it isn’t true; he’s just arguing to hear your whispered, fluttery voice in his ear. If he tries hard enough, he swears he can almost feel your breath on his neck. 

“You are so full of shit,” you mutter; the grin in your voice is obvious. “You act like you’re hiding nuclear launch codes on that thing.” 

You lean forward on the desk, lightly tapping your fingers over the keyboard. The longer you sit here talking to Sam, the more you regret not staying behind at the motel; you’re in a hell of your own personal making, really. You could have done the usual thing and hung back with Sam while Dean fucked whatever poor girl he came across. Sure, you’d be stuck acting like a lovesick idiot all night, but at least you wouldn’t be the loser that chose to be all responsible instead of spending the day with the guy you’ve had a crush on for damn near a year. 

Sam doesn’t respond for a minute. He’s too busy unzipping his jeans, sliding his hand down the front of his boxers. His fingers follow the shape of his cock, brushing them lightly over himself like he imagines you might do for him. When he grips himself through the thin layer of fabric, he bites his tongue, hips jerking forward instinctively. 

A prolonged silence follows. You check your phone to make sure you’re still on the call; it hasn’t cut out at all. When you press your cell back to your ear, you can hear a bit of rustling and shallow breathing. 

“Sam?” Your tone is hesitant, prodding. “Still there?” 

He’s leaking precum, tenting his boxers. Sam swallows, and it’s audible through the phone.

“Yeah,” he grunts, cursing himself for how rough his voice comes out. He tries again, hoping to sound somewhere in the ballpark of normal. “Yeah, I’m still here.” 

He really shouldn’t be doing this — if you find out that he’s jerking off to your voice, he’s royally fucked. He flubs every attempt to ask you out on a date, he goes red when you mindlessly flirt with him or call him a pet name — yet here he is, acting like a fucking pervert while you’re doing something important. Even Dean would call him a freak for acting like this. At least Sam has enough self-restraint not to take it a step further and start smelling your clothes — he’s not that stupid. Despite the thought crossing his mind, he wouldn’t risk cumming all over your underwear or whatever just to get off. 

That still doesn’t justify his current predicament, though. 

You hum, sensing that something strange is afoot. “Is Weezer still on?” 

Sam completely forgot about the TV. When he peeks his eyes open, the image has shifted to showcase an entirely different band. He doesn’t know who they are or what the song is; his attention is far from the music right now. 

“No, not anymore,” he murmurs, grinding against his palm. He tips his head back on the creaky wooden headboard. A sigh brushes past his lips before he can think to cover it. 

For a few beats, you say nothing, shifting your cell phone to the other ear. You lean back in your seat, listening closely to Sam’s breathing; even over the fuzzy quality of the speaker, his sharp, baited breath crackles through clear as day. It makes you feel warm all over, thighs pressing together unconsciously. Your eyes dart around the library; you lower your voice even more, ducking behind the privacy dividers that separate the computers. 

“Sam,” you murmur — and oh, if you knew what your saying his name like that did to him, you’d be on your feet right now. “What are you doing?”

He chokes, hand freezing over his erection. “N-Nothing.” A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Even he knows that wasn’t even remotely convincing. 

You huff in amusement, licking your lips thoughtfully. “It doesn’t sound like nothing,” you say, shifting in your seat. The heat between your legs is flaring up quick, spreading like a wildfire. “Are you… enjoying yourself?”

If Sam had any doubts about whether you knew what he was doing or not, that teasing question confirmed the truth. You know exactly what’s happening, and you’re toying with him like a cat to a mouse. His skin burns with a blush that explodes from head to toe. He removes his hand from his crotch in an instant, running it through his shaggy hair instead. He sputters into the phone, feeling like a complete fucking idiot loser creep. What kind of sicko gets off like this? To a person he’s not even dating, no less? It’s not like you’re some stranger — you hunt with him and Dean, you’ve known them for years, you’re a friend. He must be truly psychotic if he’s actually dumb enough to start jerking off to someone who’s basically his coworker, someone he’ll have to see in close proximity for the foreseeable future. 

“I’m not— I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Your voice cuts him off, and Sam doesn’t dare to move an inch, convinced that he hallucinated the words. 

“Wh… What?”

You roll your eyes, forcibly shutting down the computer and grabbing your bag from the floor beside your feet. “Keep going,” you reiterate. “I’ll be over soon.”

“What?” Sam sputters intelligently, only for the call to abruptly end. He sits up, eyes wide as he stares down at his cell phone. His hand goes slack, and it bounces off the bed and to the floor. Swallowing harshly, he shifts against the sheets, turning his gaze to the obvious tent in his pants. 

You told him to keep going, but Sam isn’t so sure he can do that. If this goes how he thinks it’s going to go, he’s going to bust in his hand only to proceed to struggle to get it up again by the time you make it to the motel. He sinks back, groaning, clutching the sheets and humping the air — the only semblance of relief he’ll allow himself.

But the minutes drag on. Realistically, he knows it won’t take long for you to return to the motel room, but he was already so close to cumming from the sound of your voice; he’s barely holding on as it is. 

Sam takes deep breaths. His jeans feel absolutely suffocating. It wouldn’t hurt to just relieve some pressure, right? That’s all he can do to keep from cumming in his pants, after all. With shaking hands, Sam reaches down, popping the button of his jeans, then slowly pulling the zipper down. The interlocking teeth break loose, and he lets out a sigh when his cock has a bit more room to breathe. His boxers are still too tight, but the cotton at least has some stretch to it that doesn’t make this so unbearable. 

Just then, you finally bust through the door, breathing heavily. Sam jolts upright, startled by the sudden intrusion. He swings his legs to sit on the edge of the bed, hitting his skull on the headboard in the process. He scrambles to look normal and totally inconspicuous, even though his jeans are unzipped and his damp boxers have a very obvious tent in them. 

“Hey,” he chokes out, taking in your appearance — frazzled, jacket slipping down your shoulders, chest heaving. He squints. “Did you—?”

“Run here? Yeah,” you confirm, kicking the door closed behind you. Your bag is haphazardly tossed on the desk near the window. It’s impossible to keep your eyes from drifting down to Sam’s clothed erection; you nod towards him, already shrugging your jacket off, draping it over the desk chair. “You didn’t finish.”

Sam is starting to think he’s on another planet. How you can be so casual about all of this is equal parts concerning and reassuring. 

“No, I didn’t— I couldn’t…” He trails off, and despite how embarrassing this all is, it only gets worse when Sam blushes. He wipes at his cheeks like it might somehow remove the redness from them, but it stubbornly remains. 

Your head tilts. “You couldn’t?” You approach slowly, crossing the short distance between you two until you’re standing between his legs. “What, you need help?”

Sam stares up at you. His cock twitches, straining painfully against his boxers. He almost wishes he could die on the spot to escape the shame of it all. 

“I… This is so weird,” he sighs, laughing dryly to himself. He looks down, starting to cover his erection, but you get closer, nudging his knees further apart. 

“Don’t do that,” you say — not scolding, exactly, but deeply dismayed by his lack of confidence. “You’re the one who seduced me with Weezer over the phone.”

Even though your words are in jest, Sam groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, that’s the weird part.” 

He’s retreating in on himself before you’ve even gotten the chance to touch him yet. That won’t do, not when you ran here, sweating for twelve minutes straight just to jump his bones. 

“Well, maybe I like weird,” you huff, reaching out to tip his chin back. He finally looks at you, guided by your hand; his brows are upturned, eyes all big and glinting and puppy-like. You bite your tongue to keep from telling him all the aggressively fond (and downright filthy) thoughts that press against the forefront of your mind. 

“You… liked that?” He asks tentatively. Sam is half-convinced that he’s about to wake up from a wet dream, that he’ll wake to find that he’s perspiring through his clothes for a whole different reason.

His question almost makes you laugh, but this is clearly a sensitive subject — Sam is deathly allergic to realizing his own attractiveness, as you’ve long since deduced — so you nod, leaning in.

“Yeah,” you breathe, mouth hovering over his. “I like it, Sam. I like you.”

You take the leap and kiss him so hard that he nearly falls back against the bed. He sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back for a split second as if to convince himself that you’re actually here, actually wanting this. When you don’t show any sign of stopping, he finally turns his brain off and pulls you into his lap. 

Teeth click together as you both fall against the bed, kissing sloppily. It’s like a switch has been flipped, because suddenly, Sam isn’t the shy, gentle giant you’re used to talking to. He sucks at your bottom lip, surprising you with the eagerness behind it. You brace your hands against the sheets, holding yourself upright as Sam’s hands grip your waist, already pushing your shirt up to feel more skin. 

With your legs slotted alongside his, you’re able to press your knee against his erection while you grind on his thigh. Sam groans, hooking a finger through the belt loop of your jeans to guide your hips. The feeling is dizzying — even more so when he parts his lips, licking into your mouth. 

Everything is escalating fast. The motel room feels hot; you couldn’t stand another minute in your clothes if you tried. Thankfully, Sam has the same idea, because he hastily tugs your shirt up and over your head. He helps you with your jeans, next, hands fumbling over your hips and thighs; you climb off of him for just long enough to shimmy out of the denim, kicking it to the floor. 

Once you’ve crawled back into his lap, Sam yanks you closer, rolling over to lay on top with you below him. He hovers over you on the mattress, the springs squeaking under your combined weight. His mouth lands on your neck, spreading wet kisses across your skin while he shoves his jeans all the way down with one hand, kicking them off his ankles. 

Sam works his way further up, kissing behind your ear; your breathing gets increasingly heavy as his tongue starts to drag up that sensitive strip near your hairline. You’re still sweaty from running all the way from the library to the motel — definitely from this, too — but Sam moans when he tastes the salt on your skin. There’s a moment where he stops kissing you to press his nose against your damp skin, inhaling deeply; he could spend forever with his face buried against your neck like this, smelling the familiar musk of your sweat. He pants heavily, the hot air making you shudder and sigh. He tugs you closer by the hips, and that’s when you feel his cock twitch against your thigh. 

You start to reach for it without a second thought, gravitating towards the bulge as if compelled by some higher, hornier power. You bite your lip as your hand lands against his erection. Sam groans, his sounds unkempt as you palm him through the thin layer of his boxers. Emboldened by the noise he makes, you curl your fingers around his length, tracing the shape of him. The sizable wet patch from his precum is soaking through the cotton, making your hand damp along with it. 

Sam’s mouth lands over your ear, and he licks the outline of it. Unexpectedly, it feels good. A weak whimper escapes you under the attention, your spine tingling when his hot tongue swirls around the soft appendage. You briefly forget that you were touching him, too busy melting into the sheets. When your eyes flutter shut, Sam groans again, tracing down your arm to find your hand. He gently guides you to his waistband — letting his desires be known for once in his life — and you remember exactly what you were getting to. 

Your fingers break past the elastic of his boxers. The happy trail leading down to his cock is sparse; even without giving it a proper look, you can feel that he’s neatly trimmed all around. Sam’s hand leaves yours to push his boxers further down, and you wrap your hand around his length before it can spring out and hit your thigh. It’s thick and heavy, flushed at the tip from all the blood rushing south. Sam’s breath hitches in your ear as you work your fingers to the head of his cock, circling your thumb over the tip before spreading the precum down the length of him. 

“Fuck,” Sam sighs, unable to help himself; he rolls his hips into your open hand. Pride swells up in your chest, and you wrap your fingers completely around him, slowly guiding your fist up and down his cock. He gives up on tonguing your ear for a minute, dropping his forehead against the bed, moaning and thrusting his hips forward. Your free hand slips around him to slide up his back — that stupidly tight shirt still on for reasons that make you want to tear it off — until your fingers card through his hair. 

“When’s the last time somebody touched you?” You ask, voice low and breathy in his ear. It clearly triggers something in him; he bucks into your fist, gripping at the sheets. 

His reply is shy, ears blazing red. “Can you, ah, not ask that?” 

It takes a Herculean amount of effort not to grin. “I’m just asking. You’re so sensitive.”

Sam all but whimpers, shoving his face against the crumpled bedsheets. “Feels good,” he mutters, muffled against the mattress. “...Been a while.”

You lick your lips, slowing the rhythm of your hand. He huffs and puffs, trying to make up for it by canting his hips faster, but it’s of little use. He’s on the verge of begging you not to stop when you speak again: “It gets better than just my hand, you know.”

You’re lucky that you survive after saying that. 

Sam pounces on you, forgoing all attempts at restraint and conveniently forgetting his own shyness. His mouth presses against yours in a hungry kiss, devouring you like you’re his last meal. You finally tug at his shirt, and — to your immediate relief — he pulls it over his head, carelessly tossing it to the floor. 

Sam finally makes a move for your underwear, greedily slipping his hand under the waistband. He only gives you a brief glance to check that this is okay, that you really want more, but your hand finds his and guides it down to answer without words — just like he did for you. Sam flashes a small, grateful smile, letting his middle finger swipe through your wet folds. You moan, but the sound is quickly swallowed up by his mouth in another kiss. His long fingers experimentally run over the heat between your legs, applying gentle pressure to see what makes you tick. 

Every part of you feels sensitive; you’re practically gushing all over his fingers already, and he’s barely even massaged your clit yet. He leaves teasing swipes, his hand getting stuck between your thighs when you close them around his wrist. Sam doesn’t mind at all; he still manages to slip a finger inside you despite your closed legs, and ironically, that has your legs falling open like a door off its hinges. 

Sam’s kisses turn sloppy as he divides his attention between your mouth and your fluttering cunt. He pumps his finger inside you whilst using his thumb to lightly press against your clit, massaging it with tight circles. A second finger joins the first, stretching you open, and you choke on a moan. Your hands fly up to grab his bicep — which is unfairly huge — as your hips finally give up and impatiently buck against his deft fingers. He pants against your mouth, briefly reeling back to watch as you cum. It happens fast — his fingers are slipping through your folds, drowning in the release that spills onto his digits. He works you through your orgasm, rubbing his nose against your jawline while your walls pulse around his fingers; Sam only removes his hand when your legs kick against the bed, sensitive from the overstimulation. 

You lay against the mattress, sighing deeply. Your arm covers your eyes for a moment, and Sam watches you breathe through it. He can’t help but tear his eyes away, trailing his gaze down your body, watching your chest rise and fall with every exhalation. He looks down at his own fingers, now shining in the light, slick with a thick layer of your cum. 

Sam doesn’t give it a second thought: he lifts his hands to his own mouth, tasting you. His cock recovers quickly, springing up to nudge against your thigh, and you remove your arm to find him blissfully licking your cum off his fingers. It gets you hot all over again. He looks far too happy to lap you up like that; but you don’t know how many times he’s woken up from a wet dream about you, imagining you like this or with his head between your legs or your lips around his cock. 

When he remembers to open his eyes, you’re already looking at him. He’s still savoring the taste of you when you tug him back down, dragging him into another kiss. Sam feels suddenly, terribly impatient after waiting so long to get off; he reaches for your thigh, pushing it up to spread you open, and he lines himself up with your glistening center. He presses the head of his shaft between your folds, smearing your wetness up and down his length, watching you squirm beneath him. His breath hitches, and he finally can’t take another second of waiting. He’s so hard it hurts, and he hasn’t gotten to cum once, but he’s determined to last long enough to fit himself snugly inside you. 

His cock finally pierces into you, and your eyelids fall shut. He fills you up completely when he bottoms out — and even then, he’s so big that the full length of him doesn’t fit all the way inside of you. There’s still another inch hanging out, but he doesn’t try to force it in, not when you’re already being stretched thin. 

Sam hovers over you, gripping the sheets beside your head. His long lashes flutter as he rolls his hips nice and slow, mindful enough even now to let you adjust. You sigh and tremble beneath him, squirming under his weight. Your hands reach around his body, fingers crawling up like spiders to grip his back. The pressure of your touch encourages him to pick things up, to go at a steady — but not distasteful — pace. He’s trying so hard to be a gentleman; he doesn’t want to get too carried away, not after he’s already spent so long pining after you and praying he might get to touch you. Sam isn’t selfish. If he’s going to get you in bed, he wants you to feel good before anything else. 

You lay under him, breathing heavily, and slide your hands down to his lower back. He falters from the feeling of your possessive tug, so you raise your hips to meet his next downward thrust. He’s holding back — you can tell. His brows are upturned, eyes squeezed shut — all of his features twisted up in concentration. It’s sort of cute how courteous he is, but you’re determined to whittle him down to the shape of his desires. 

“Sam,” you breathe, “you’re thinking too hard.”

Sam opens his eyes. His expression is still a little tense, his pace still dreadfully polite. He swallows harshly, fingers twitching against the bunched up bedsheets beneath your head. 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he manages to say, cheeks burning. 

You tip your head at an angle, staring up at him with a fond, lightly exasperated expression. “You won’t,” you assure him. “Please, Sam. Don’t make me beg. It’s not really my thing.” 

He huffs out a flustered laugh, always so easily amused by you. He leans down to steal a kiss from you, sucking in a breath and offering a dangerously deep roll of his hips. Your hands tighten your grip on his back, pulling him closer still, and he groans into your mouth. With renewed confidence, Sam tips in to his own needs, thrusting harder, making the bed shake. 

It’s not enough, not for either of you. Sam pulls out, letting his hard, leaking cock spring back against his navel. Before you can complain or ask questions, Sam turns you on your side, laying behind you. He slides one large hand between your legs, gripping your inner thigh and lifting it up. He spreads you out, using that same hand to guide the head of his cock back inside you. The tight drag of his cock through your walls — every vein and ridge — is delicious. His hand quickly returns to hold your thigh up, and he takes you from behind, groaning against the back of your neck. 

The angle has Sam dizzy with want, possessing him to finally stop giving a fuck and take you the way he’s always dreamed of. He spreads you out, rocking into you viciously, punched-out moans filtering past your parted lips. He kisses behind your ear, digging his hand into the meat of your thigh while the other keeps him upright on the mattress. Underneath you, the bedsprings squeak and strain, and the heat in the dingy motel room nears a boiling point. 

Sam feels his orgasm coming before he has the sense to warn you. It’s a wonder how he even managed to make it this far, given how close he was just listening to you on the phone — but now he’s about to cum inside you if he doesn’t get his shit together. He bucks his hips a few more times before beginning to reel back, carefully guiding himself out—

“Don’t,” you say quickly, reaching down to catch his wrist against your thigh. “It’s okay. Don’t move.”

If Sam could, he’d probably marry you on the spot.

Sam bucks his hips forward, sharper than before, and you gasp. He hangs his head, pressing his nose against your neck and panting like a dog. Damp skin slaps together as he nears his release. Sam can feel how you squeeze around his cock, and if your desperate whines are any indication, you must be close, too. 

Pushing himself up, Sam moves to hover over you, keeping you on your side. The hand on your thigh slides up to the back of your knee, bending it as he fucks into you at an angle. You moan, close to drooling against the damn pillow as he drives you into the mattress; his own sounds grow louder, unkempt and unashamed, until Sam feels his balls tighten. He groans aloud, his free hand practically tearing a hole in the sheets as he cums inside you. His release is hot and thick, filling you to the brim.

The heat that fills you is almost enough to have you tumbling over the edge yourself. Sam is still thrusting into you, hand flying to your clit to massage it with tight circles. You choke on a moan, cheek buried in the pillow as your walls suck him in one last time, squeezing tight, before bursting open with your release. Sam lets out a shuddering breath, watching you whimper and tremble beneath his weight. His hand leaves your clit, moving back to your thigh; he squeezes it lightly, staying inside you until your breathing evens out. 

Sam finally slides out of you, moving to lay by your side. You roll onto your back, shoulder to shoulder with him. His skin is warm and sticky from sweat, blotched red from his flush. Sam stares at the ceiling for a good, long while, as if expecting your body to float up and be set aflame at any moment. 

But nothing happens. No demons, no fires, no mercy killings, no death. He turns his head to look at you, and you’re still right where you were minutes ago. Sensing his stare, you loll your head to the side, opening your eyes to find him already looking at you. Relief tugs at the corners of his mouth, his expression melting into its usual boyish tenderness. You squint at him, a smile of your own steadily growing. 

“You look happy,” you muse. “Proud of yourself?”

He snickers, searching your expression. “Something like that,” he rasps. There’s not a hint of regret to be found. He lays on his side, draping an arm across your waist to pull you in. You sidle up to him without hesitation, caressing his forearm affectionately. How many months had you spent hoping for this? Praying you could get even a smidgeon of courage to get close to him? If this is a dream, you’d be a fool to pinch yourself awake.

Sam’s cell phone starts ringing, startling you both from the peaceful silence, and — with a disgruntled sigh — Sam rolls over to fish for his phone on the floor beside the bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress and flicks it open with his thumb, pressing it to his ear. 

“Hey,” Dean greets from the other line, sounding mysteriously serious. “Have you gotten laid yet?” 

Sam blanches, staring at his phone as if his brother might be able to sense the glare Sam is trying to send his way. “What? Why would you—?”

“So you did,” Dean says proudly. “I have a sixth sense for these things, man. Forward my congratulations or whatever. I’ll let you have some extra alone time, you seem like the girly pillow talk type.”

“Dean—”

“Deuces, brother.” 

Dean abruptly hangs up. You sit up in bed, the sheets rumpled beneath your form. With a wrinkled nose, you lean towards Sam. 

“He knows, doesn’t he?” 

Sam sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. He tosses his phone on the nightstand, nodding gravely. “Apparently.”

You click your tongue, rolling your eyes. “Figures,” you mutter. “He has a sixth sense for these things.” Sam is still sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned to you. With a low, thoughtful hum, you shimmy closer to him, laying a hand against the ridges of his spine, propping your chin up on his shoulder. “I mean, if he already knows, we could always go again. While we have time and all.”

He freezes, a renewed blush covering him from head to toe. Sam releases a wheezy laugh, running a hand through his hair and glancing your way. Your eyes are sparkling, mischievous and wanting. Sam is a weak, weak man — he turns to face you again, his confidence returning like the tide. 

“Yeah? You want to?” He asks, already climbing on top of you. 

Falling back against the sheets, you laugh, tossing your arms around his neck. “I want you to.”

> masterlist. > main.

Now, cis white women getting content made for them is OBVIOUSLY not the issue here. People write for their personal interests, and there is nothing wrong with that. We all know this, and we all enjoy a fun story with our favorite characters centering around us.

The main issue here is the mentioned women not tagging their content properly, refusing to tag their content properly, straight up lying in the tags or not tagging things at all.

Trans men, nonbinary people, trans women, gay men, disabled people, fat people, intersex people and many people of color or non-american readers are constantly left out of fandom space and forgotten entirely. I've seen hundreds of complaints about it, and it needs to be spoken about more. While I'm on specifically talking about the fanfiction part of it, it is a VISIBLE issue in every fandom space you could possibly partake in. I don't even need to explain to you the rampant racism and transphobia in the cosplay community.

And the fix is extremely easy! TAG YOUR THINGS PROPERLY. It is the easiest, simplest form of allyship one could do for the community, and it goes miles. However, a lot of you seem to not understand how to, even if your heart is in the right place.

How to tag your fanfiction for the general audience:

- Specify the gender of the reader. This goes MUCH farther than just what pronouns are used. I've read WAY too many fanfics that tell me it is gender neutral, only to be hit with nicknames like "princess", or to be told the intended reader loves dresses and wears a bra.

- In tags or a prior description, mention every nickname used for the reader and every possibly gendered descriptor. It's really not difficult, and doesn't take too long.

- If necessary, mention what style of clothes the reader is specified to wear. And if this applies as well, specify any highlighted personality traits you gave the reader.

- Specify the body of the reader. This also goes much farther than gender. "Afab" and "amab" don't exactly cut it. Many people are triggered by certain words connected to genitals, so specify what words are used for those as well! Also, if you are trying to write a gender neutral body, PLEASE specify whether it is entirely gender neutral or something is implied. Many say it is gender neutral, and then explain how the reader's body self lubricates, or even has a clitoris. Please do better than that.

- For the love of God, do not automatically feminize the "GN afab" reader you wrote without a warning, and PLEASE MENTION if breasts are even spoken of, let alone used for smut reasons. And do NOT refer to someone's body as having "fem" or "male" genitalia. just say vagina or penis, please.

- Specify what body type you had in mind. Many fat or even slightly chubby individuals need to look for fanfiction that specifically caters to them, because "neutral body reader" writers, tend to not make it neutral. If you have any specifics on whatever you have written for the body mentioned, do tag it!

- Specify what sort of skin tone or hair texture is mentioned, if at all. Many POC complain that they read neutral fiction just to find straight hair, pale skin, light eyes, and blushing faces to be mentioned. If any color of the body is mentioned at all, or anything is implied, do say so! This also can go for specific things you may not think about, like how long it takes hair to dry, how easy it is to brush, hairstyles and other things of the sort.

It may seem like a bit of a list, but this is really the LEAST you can do for your community. We are consistently forgotten and ignored anywhere we go, and the simple things like this truly mean a lot.

- If there is an implied location, or anything to imply a place of origin, it's best to be on the safe side and mention that if it feels important.

- Please tag if you put the reader through, or mention a past traumatic event. Casually putting the reader character through things like an abusive ex, abusive parents, bad home or work life, or something like a car accident can be highly triggering. tag your scenes thoroughly! This also applies to putting the reader insert through something like sexist comments, unwanted touching of any kind, and similarly negative situations.

I cannot tell you the amount of times I've turned to fanfiction as an outlet and an escape, as many others have, just to be jumpscared by my favorite characters misgendering me. It's truly a miserable experience knowing no place is actually welcoming to me, or in the very least accommodating for people who aren't like them. This post is NOT meant to shame or send harassment to those who are forgetful, but ignorance is never a good thing to uphold. No one is asking you to write for an audience you don't want to, we just want to KNOW who you are writing for. Assuming an entire space is all one demographic is never, ever a good thing.

If you need help writing for a demographic you don't fully understand, just ask people who are a part of it how they would! Look at how other writers write and tag their content, and listen to anyone if they have necessary critiques. I wish you all happy writing! :]

The white fabric sits there sharp and new, soaking up the thick pink froth that was seeping wider by the second. It wasn't 'new', not exactly, it's been in your closet for months now, but this is the first time you wore it out. Every so often you'd pause in front of it as you skimmed through your closet, fingers hovering above the hanger. And then you'd push past it again, waiting for a better time. You had spent weeks protecting it from life, only to choose the exact wrong moment to finally let it live.

"Napkins, napkins,” Sarah says under her breath, moving before she finishes standing.

Seconds later, she materializes beside Nikki, who’s now skillfully moving your hair out of the way and behind your shoulders. Thin cocktail napkins are swiftly slapped onto your shirt, and the two girls work together while you watch, momentarily stunned into silence. Rubbing hard only makes the red syrup sink deeper into the fabric, spreading through the threads and dyeing the silver sequins. It's no use.

Across the table, Ian’s seat groans when he sinks lower. Bent at the waist now, arms locked tight around his middle, his laughter devolves into gasps without noise, face stretched in a silent scream while his whole frame jerks like something loose has snapped. Bear just keeps coughing, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull while he attempts to rub his stinging lips with the edge of his shirt. When he finally is able to take a deep breath, his fingers stretch your way, then they freeze, afraid to make contact with the mess.

"I'm—" Bear coughs again, his eyes watering from the spice. "Holy shit, I didn't mean to… do that." He gestures wildly at his half-full glass. He didn't even taste it first, just downed half of the drink as if he had ordered it a thousand times before. "The picture made it look like a slushie! I didn't even look at the-- I didn't think it'd be straight tequila and fire. God, fuck, that was awful."

There’s a trail of red still oozing from the side of his mouth, dribbling down his chin, and his cheeks are almost the same shade as the stain on your shirt. He's rocking back and forth in his seat just slightly, and he keeps harshly squeezing his eyes shut every few seconds like it can erase the memory of the last five minutes. It’s evident that he didn’t intend to spit up like a baby all over you, but intent and innocence are two very different concepts.

You go through a million different responses in your brain.

And yet, you settle on:

"It's totally fine," you manage to say as Nikki shoves the last of the soaked napkins into her empty water cup. "No worries."

Ian finally is able to speak after several ragged inhales, swiping a tear from his eye. "That's probably the first time Bear has ever gotten someone wet—" He doubles over again, his laughter cutting through the silence of the table.

"Dude. Shut up." Bear coughs lamely a final time, his chair scraping against the ground as he stands. The wood table soaks up the remnants of his drink, leaving a crimson blob in its wake. He doesn’t look at it.

Instead, he glances at the neon-red blob that’s currently bleeding into his shirt collar, and then at the matching, much larger ruin soaking into yours. "I'm going to order another drink. A beer, or… something." Bear mutters. He shifts his weight between both legs, rubbing the back of his neck, and then pulls back when he realizes his hand is also covered in syrup. He rubs his palms on his jeans as he speaks again, “I can get more napkins, if that would… help?"

His voice fades into nothingness as he poses the question, but his eyes never meet yours. Instead, they fixate on Nikki’s, lingering for a brief moment before darting behind her, then returning to her and nervously scanning her features. He tracks her reaction, waiting for her to absolve him. There's a sharp remark somewhere in you, clawing at your throat. You swallow it down.

Nikki intercepts the pleading stare with an ease that almost makes it look like she didn't notice it at all. She looks from Bear, to you, and back to Bear.

"I… think that you've done enough." she sighs, swatting her hand towards the bar to dismiss him. As he scrambles off, she pivots to you, already tugging at the zipper of her jacket. "Here. Take my jacket. I have a tank top underneath, so it's not a big deal. We can go to the bathroom and change."

"No, no, it's fine, you don't have to—"

You don't have time to finish the sentence before she's pulling you up by the wrist and dragging you towards the restroom.

"Nope, I would be an awful friend if I let you spend the rest of the night uncomfortable." she says, pulling you toward the restrooms. "Besides, maybe if we wet the shirt before the stain sets, you'll be able to wash it out. C'mon."

You allow yourself to be pulled along, and despite you trailing behind her as if you don't want to go with her, there's a smile on your face.

"Okay, here," she shrugs off her sun-bleached bomber jacket and shoves it into your hands before you can object. It's molded to her body from use, and there's deep, soft lines where the leather bends. The elbows are faded, it's lined with scuffs and scars that could tell a story if you looked at them the right way, and there's cue chalk on the cuff of the left sleeve from the last time the group went out and played pool. "Go change. I'll stand guard here, my liege."

You don't fight her on it. You're entirely too eager to get out of your ruined top—the cold, damp fabric is clinging to your skin, chafing against you and making you want to scream. "Why, thank you, my loyal subject," you reply, slipping into a mock posh-accent as you hold the jacket up like a prize. "Do hold the perimeter, I would absolutely hate to get into another…" You trail off, searching for a suitably aristocratic word before finally settling on, "…kerfuffle?"

"Absolutely no kerfuff-ing here." Nikki promises, flashing a mock salute. "Now," she shoves you lightly into the stall behind you, "get changed. Be quick so we can try to get that stain out."

The heavy metal door clicks shut, leaving you alone in the cramped space. You hang the jacket onto the door hook, taking a moment to breathe. Above, a flickering neon sign begs, 'PLEASE DON'T DO COKE IN THE BATHROOM', and it bleeds into the dim overhead light. The stall is a masterpiece of the usual peeling band stickers, phone numbers, and scratched-out initials. The walls are an endless canvas of graffiti, some intentionally painted by the owners, but most added on over the years by patrons. You manage to maneuver yourself awkwardly out of your shirt without messing up what's left of your outfit tonight. When you set it on top of the toilet paper holder, a few small red droplets fall to the ground. You grimace, quickly scuffing them into the linoleum with the sole of your shoe. The smear on the floor, combined with the claustrophobia of the stall, brings back memories of too many late nights hunched over this exact toilet after one shot too many.

Over the thrum of 3 Doors Down crooning through the speakers, Nikki's laughter echos against the bathroom tiles. She's somehow found herself chattering away with a group of tipsy girls. You zip up the jacket, grab your shirt, and push the door open. Nikki is in deep focus, face to face with a familiar stranger from the bar. She's carefully using her pinky nail to clean up the woman's makeup, dragging the edge of the eyeliner until the cat-eye is perfectly sharp. She repeats the motion on the other side and then takes a small step back, squinting to asses the symmetry.

A satisfied nod gives way to an enthusiastic grin. "Perfect!" Nikki claps her hands together, bouncing lightly on her heels. "You look stunning!"

The woman revels in the compliment for a moment, turning to the mirror to take in her updated look. She beams, thanking Nikki profusely before she stumbles out with her friends in tow.

When the door behind her closes, Nikki turns to you. She takes in the the sight of in her jacket for a second too long before rapidly bringing her attention back to your face. "Speaking of looking good! Are you more comfortable now?"

Nodding, you smooth out non-existent wrinkles on your—well, her—jacket. "So much more comfortable. Thank you again. You're an actual lifesaver."

Stepping up to the sink, you drop the sticky top into the basin. It hits the porcelain with a heavy thwack. You reach to crank on the hot water, but Nikki's hand shoots out, catching your wrist.

"Jesus, no, you're going to make it worse!" She scolds, but there's an amused edge to her voice. "Here, let me—"

She gently nudges you with her hip to move you aside, but she stays close, making sure you’re watching. "First rule of spilled drinks," She begins, deliberately turning the faucet dial to cold water. "Never use hot water. Ever."

She flips the top inside out, positioning the back of the stains directly underneath the cold stream. "Second rule, always flush it out from the back so you don't push the dye deeper… or whatever google said last time I looked this up.”

She holds the fabric in place for a moment before pausing, standing up straighter. Her eyes dart around the room for a moment until they land on the abandoned glass of soda water one of the women from before had left. "I'm a genius. I hope you know that. A true genius."

Without missing a beat, she plucks the lime wedge off the rim.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Science," Nikki replies simply, a small, triumphant smirk on her face. She squeezes the lime directly over the red splotch. "Citric acid breaks down the fruit dye. This ain't my first rodeo."

After a few more minutes of meticulous dabbing (not scrubbing), you grab the soaking shirt and wring it out. It's not perfect, it probably never will be again, but it's the best you're going to get it.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" you praise, holding up the newly cleaned shirt in awe. "I owe you my life, I think."

Nikki waves you off, feigning nonchalance. "It's nothing. I'm just a modern day Einstein. No big deal."

You scoff. “Oh, totally. Definitely Einstein-adjacent."

With a laugh, you turn to leave, but Nikki grabs your shoulder before you can take a step.

"Hey."

The word hangs in the air, laced with something raw and all too real. She tilts her head down, closing her eyes. All the levity from seconds ago is gone, replaced with a tight, unfamiliar seriousness. Her eyes are open now, but they remained glued to the floor.

"I, um, I figure I should say this now and tell you before everyone else," she stammers. "To, you know, give you a heads up, because we're…" She releases your shoulder, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "Yeah. But… I put in my two weeks today."

You freeze. A sick sort of desperation gnaws on your chest, and you can almost feel sharp teeth sinking into your heart. Do something, your mind screams, say anything to make her stay. But the impulse is extremely selfish, and guilt paralyzes you. Besides, you know better. You're well aware that once Nikki makes up her mind, there's no convincing her otherwise.

"Oh." Is all you can say for a long while, and it feels entirely inadequate, but it’s all you can manage. The shirt suddenly feels heavy in your hands. "I wasn't expecting that." You add with a nervous chuckle. "Cassell's not cutting it for you anymore?"

Nikki lets out a huff of air that barely counts as a laugh. "I mean, not really? I mostly took this job to pass time, honestly. And then I got the fellowship I was talking about a while back to be a Writer-in-Residence, and I just…"

There's an attempt to meet your eyes that's immediately followed by her eyes darting back to the ground again. She digs the heel of her boot into the floor like she could chip through it and fall into the abyss—an easy escape from a difficult conversation.

"…A Writer-in-Residence?" You prompt, if only to fill the silence before it eats you alive. You have an idea of what it is, but now hearing her talk is something that comes with a countdown, and every moment with her is another grain of sand that falls to the bottom of the hourglass.

"It's, yeah, it's kinda like… insane, honestly. They're giving me a stipend to live on, and an apartment to live in for the next ten months. No dealing with fuck-ass customers who don't know the difference between a violin and a viola, you know?" She offers another fake laugh that falls flat, but you appreciate her trying to inject some levity into the situation. "All I have to do is sit there and write my manuscript. It's literally all I've ever wanted, I couldn't turn it down."

You shake your head. "I'd never expect you to turn something like that down, Nik. It's… wow. Where is it?"

"…Chicago. I have to leave in a little over two weeks." She admits, scrubbing a hand down her face. "Which… is the only bad part about this whole thing."

You look down at the same scrapped and dirty floor tile she's been looking at. Chicago. That's a good four hour flight from LA. A whole different timezone. The desperation that was gnawing at you seems to encompass your whole body now, fingers twitching towards her like you want to do something you're not sure of yet. You're desperately searching for a plan, something to fix this, to make it better, but there's nothing you can think of that would make it work. You can't pull her out of her orbit and into yours, you're two different people with different ambitions. You've been content with watching as she circles her needs while you circle your own.

But you can't watch her from states away, and neither of you have plans on switching trajectories.

You sneak a glance at Nikki, and she looks so utterly defeated. She shouldn't be, this is her dream. She shouldn't be worried to tell you that she just got the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Well," you start, forcing your voice steady, "We're wasting time in here, aren't we? We should be ordering shots." You nudge her foot with yours. "Celebrating your new job, and shit. If we have a timer going, I'm not wasting it in a bathroom. Come on, I'll buy the table a round of shots and we can make the most of the time we have, deal?"

Nikki perks up, the ghost of a smile forming on her face. "Deal."

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