#bobby roar

[sourweather-fics]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

What's this? It looks like you received a Chocolate Sampler for Valentine's Day!!! You check the tag attacted- it's from Sourweather! There's nine different chocolates inside— which one tastes best?

[sourweather-fics]

Sourweather Fics | Patreon

There's a new poll up for members of my Patreon for October's special fic! The options this month are:

👮‍♂️ Handcuffs, Fluff, Roardogs

💚 Jealousy, Angst, Spacedogs

🧠 Empathy, Smut Hannigram

Cast your vote and read the fic when it drops!

[sourweather-fics]

oh hey. its a month until valentines day. thats crazy.

for no reason at all, is there a certain tag/kink/trope that you've been hoping I'd write? you should drop it here. Fluff Angst OR smut. Any flavor, lmk

[sourweather-fics]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

An imposing presence settles at his side, then. By the weight he senses in his periphery, Bobby expects to see an absolute Goliath of a man, but he turns his head to find someone only a handful of inches taller than himself. Still, he seems to fill the room like a fog. He catches the bartender's eye with nothing more than a gesture of his empty bottle, utterly effortless. Bobby bites the inside of his cheek.

The stranger says something unintelligible, and Bobby watches his mouth move with an inexplicable focus. He knows he's staring, knows it's rude, and yet he can't seem to stop himself. Their gazes meet, briefly, when the stranger looks over. Bobby forces himself to look away, frowning at the bar instead.

The other man reaches towards him, then, and Bobby flinches. The stranger smirks, wrapping long fingers around the neck of Bobby's beer. He doesn't resist when the bottle is plucked from his hand, stunned into stillness as the stranger observes the label and speaks to the bartender again.

Another beer appears in his hand a moment later. Bobby looks up at his new acquaintance, forcing a tight smile even though he's becoming more suspicious by the moment. The tall man says... something. It's lost on him. He's smiling, though. A crooked, sly thing. Bobby just smiles back.

He expects the man to walk away. To leave him be, return to whoever he was with before making his way to the bar. He doesn't. Bobby watches him from the corner of his eye as he drinks, the other man looking him up and down like he wants to swallow Bobby whole. It's unnerving, but not entirely unpleasant. The stranger doesn't touch his own beer, not even once.

When Bobby takes his final swig, he turns to look properly at his companion. The man says something else, and Bobby shakes his head.

"I can't hear shit over this trash," he half-yells, gesturing vaguely toward the DJ on his ugly fucking neon stage. "You picked the wrong spot to try and make friends."

The stranger grins, running his tongue over his teeth before leaning dangerously close. Bobby almost breaks his beer bottle over his head on instinct.

His breath is like a sudden chill, running down Bobby’s spine and making him shiver. It cuts through the close heat of the club, a breeze on his neck in the midst of this muggy California night.

"I said," the man purrs, low and dark in Bobby's ear. "Dance with me."