Chapter 11 of Nothing Was Ever Inevitable is still in the works and will be with you before too long. Work on all my fics has stalled for the time being because life is a bit mad right now.
I’m getting married in a couple of weeks (!!), and work has been unrelentingly insane for the past couple of months.
I haven’t been entirely idle, fic-wise, though! I finally have an ending for NWEI that I’m happy with, and I’ve worked out that, in all likelihood, chapter 12 will be the last one. Both 11 and 12 are going to be long and unwieldy, though, so my usual monthly update schedule is in the wind for the time being. For context, chapter 11 currently sits at around 10k words and I’m not even halfway through it. I expect chapter 12 will be of a similar length.
Love, as ever, to everyone who has been reading along and giving feedback 🥰
I hit the halfway point of my fic Seen, Not Just Noticed!!! 6 months of writing just to get to this point!! I'm so psyched that my baby has come so far. I love writing this stupid fic and I'm gonna be so sad when it ends 💔💔💔
It was so hard for me to commit to an idea for thr longest time and now I actually have SOMETHING worthwhile. It makes me so happy seeing other people like it as much as I do :3
If you're interested in reading what has been written so far, my fic is linked on the pinned post of my profile!!!
Chapters: 13/20
Fandom: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa Series, Dangan Ronpa Zero
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Relationships: Kirigiri Jin & Kirigiri Kyoko, Kirigiri Kyoko & Naegi Makoto, Hinata Hajime & Kirigiri Kyoko, Hinata Hajime & Nanami Chiaki, Class 78 & Kirigiri Kyoko, Class 77 & Kirigiri Kyouko, Class 77 & Hinata Hajime, Hinata Hajime & Komaeda Nagito, Kirigiri Kyouko & Otonashi Ryouko
Characters: Kirigiri Kyouko, Kirigiri Jin, Komaeda Nagito, Nanami Chiaki, Naegi Makoto, Otonashi Ryouko, Hinata Hajime, Matsuda Yasuke, Kuzuryu Natsumi, Reserve Course Student(s) (Dangan Ronpa), Class 77 (Dangan Ronpa), Class 78 (Dangan Ronpa), Kamukura Izuru, Original Characters, Warriors of Hope (Dangan Ronpa)
Additional Tags: Kirigiri Kyoko-centric, Stress, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship is Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Kirigiri Kyoko Is So Done, Kirigiri Kyouko needs a hug, high-school shenanigans, Murder Mystery, Attempted Murder, Graphic Description of Corpses, Komaeda Nagito Being Komaeda Nagito, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst, Strained Relationships, The Tragedy of Hope's Peak Academy (Dangan Ronpa), Hope's Peak Academy (Dangan Ronpa), Reserve Course (Dangan Ronpa), Temporary Character Death, Mystery, Classism, Privilege, Kamukura Izuru Project | Hope Cultivation Plan, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, paranormal elements, Propaganda, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slice of Life, They/Them Pronouns for Fujisaki Chihiro, Mental Health Issues, Discussions of Suicide, Internalized Misogyny, no beta we die like most of canon, Corruption, Abuse of Authority, Discussions of Prostitution, I'm fully aware that the title is a bad pun, specific trigger warnings on chaps, discussions of child abuse, Discussion of Sexual Abuse, Discussions of child sexual abuse, tagged those last 3 on chaps but forgot to add here, Queer Characters
Summary:
“Makoto,” Kyouko turns to face him head on. “There is a time and a place in which you should surrender. But in pursuit of the truth, there can be no such defeat.”
His twitching hands and aggravating worry did nothing but spur her on. “To give up seeking the truth might as well be equal to forsaking all hope. For, the moment that I stop trying to unearth the reality of the situation, then the lives of innocent people are always the ultimate price.”
The storm's incessant downpour drowning all but the conviction in her voice. “This isn’t about Jin Kirigiri. It isn’t for his sake, it never has been. But to end this reign of terror and prevent this madman from causing any more undue harm.”
“That which I intend to do with or without your help.”
Middle of June. It was dry, and hot. On the brightside, there was warped tour going on. So, atleast that was fun.
Since it was a big event, there was a couple big bands playing- Fall out Boy, The Offspring, Avenged Sevenhold. My Chemical Romance was even there.
Your band was going as some point, and that motivated you to find out when MCR would be there. It was hard not to seem like a total creep, but conaidering you had the fattest crush on Mikey Way, it was pretty hard.
early July, 2005. 8:40 PM
That evening felt strange. First, in the afternoon, you watch My Chemical Romance play. In your eyes, they were amazing. Even better just that you got to watch Mikey Way play.
That evening, you saw him standing in a corner somewhere, and you just had to go up to him. Gosh- it was so scary! Approaching someone you had a crush on, he looked so.. Aloof.
"Hey,"
His eyes dragged up from the ground, and eventually rest on you. It took a moment for that bitchy look to flee from his face, but when it did, he gave a quick smile. Great. He probably though you were a fan, and it was going to be akward as shit.
"What?"
His voice sounded a lot nicer than his face looked. To be honest, he looked pretty mad, but his voice was very gentle.
You two chatted for awhile, and eventually l, he offered to take you back to his tour bus for the night. Obviously, you agreed. How couldn't you agree? He was your fucking idol.
Later that night, you both were laying side by side. Your legs were intertwined together. The other members of My Chem were out, so it was just you two in the tourbus.
"Man,"
A murmur started in his throat, and it almost shook into a giggle.
"Isn't it so fun laying here.. Do nothing..?"
He almost giggles, but he supressed it.
You sighed, and couldn't help but smile. Now that you'd gotten to know him he was quite nice, and pleasant to chat with.
"Oh yeah?"
Mikey nodded, his head thudding beside your shoulder dramatically. Nothing happened for awhile, just him laying there. You felt a touch of warmth hit your hand, and you saw his own hand on yours. His thumb was rubbing your wrist slowly. Holy shit. There was nothing polite in your head. His hands were kinda boney, at the same time, they were kind of thick. He had big hands. That's it.
Mikey's head turned up, and he stared at you. Didn't say anything. Just.. Stared. Eventually, a sigh left his lips, and he pursed his lips to your skin.
"So.. Bored."
His eyes were glowing. Despite him looking up at her with tired, narrow eyes, there was so much happiness in them. The light from the lamp behind you hit his eyes perfectly. It made him look less dull.
"Then.. Do something fun."
You murmured, half jokingly. What was he gonna do anyway? He hardly knew you.
For a few long seconds, his eyes bored into yours. Then, his hand slid to your waist, up your chest, then your jaw. Fuck, his hands were so gentle. So were his lips. Small spots on your body kept heating up from his kisses.
"Ts.. Not what I meant.."
The kisses made your voice shake a bit from nerves, and you rolled your head back while your eyes fluttered shut.
"Do you not like it?"
The kisses stopped, and his eyes met yours again. It made a knot form in your stomach. Like all your organs twisted together.
"I do- I do."
Both your eyes met, his having a more distant look in them, while yours were wide with content.
"Be quiet then."
He glanced sideways at the door, then back up at you. His hand slipped down your chest, waist, and slowly slipped his hands under your waistband.
"What-"
A question almost uttered from your mouth, but it was cut off by a sharp feeling where his fingers were. His fingers began just lightly caressing your clit- teasing. Throughout the whole process, he maintained steady eye contact.
Once he assumed you were comfortable with what he was doing, he inserted his middle finger into you.
A breathy moan escaped your lips, your head tipped back, eyes fluttering. Despite trying to contain yourself, a stream of breathy, quiet moans.
A second finger entered, and the pace gradually got quicker. It felt warm, and almost liquidy. Like there was a little discharge leakage. But that was all.
It felt like a wonderful bliss. It made your whole body warm. His fingers in you, pumping in and out steadily, and now those little kisses he was peppering along your collar.
"More-"
Right as you finished the word, his pace quickened, fingers sliding in and out rapidly. Fuck- you forgot he played bass.
You're lips parted, and a scream nearly left them, but his lips prevented it. His tounge entered your mouth, fingers still quick paced.
The door to the tourbus rattled, and his fingers immediately slipped out of you. A quick peck was the last bit of touch he left you with, before springing up.
pairing: 2000s!liam gallagher x f!reader
cw: smut, alcohol, smoking, cheating, reader being shamelessly down bad, reckless flirting, messy adult decisions.
wc: 4,3k
author's note: I’ve had this idea for ages because Standing on the Shoulder of Giants Liam is so dear to me. That man was gorgeous in a way that should’ve been studied by science. So yes, reader is shamelessly down bad in this one. I fear I understand her completely. I too would have begged until he let me breathe.
By the early 2000s, Liam Gallagher looked like trouble with cheekbones. That was the first problem. The second problem was that he knew it.
He stood at the end of the bar with a cigarette between his fingers, hair falling into his eyes, black jacket half open, gloves on, mouth set in that permanent expression of boredom that made women want to either slap him or take him home.
You had been watching him for twenty minutes now. Liam had noticed after two. At first, he did nothing about it. Just let you look. Let you pretend you weren’t. Let you glance away every time he caught you, only to find your eyes back on him seconds later.
Then you walked over. Not shy or subtle. Not even pretending you needed a drink.
“You’re coming home with me tonight,” you said.
Liam blinked at you. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Bossy, aren’t ya?”
“Very.”
He took a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes moving over your face with lazy interest. “What if I’ve got plans?”
“You don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
His mouth twitched. You leaned against the bar beside him, close enough to be a problem, not close enough to give him anything for free.
“You’ve been standing here for half an hour looking like a tragic Greek statue with a nicotine addiction,” you said. “You’re not busy.”
Liam stared at you for a second. Then he grinned. And God, it was unfair. The kind of grin that should have come with a warning label. Bright, wicked, boyish, devastating. His whole face changed with it, softening in all the wrong places, making him look younger and worse and entirely too pleased with himself.
“You always talk to men like that?”
“Maybe, you wanna find out?.”
That got him. A proper laugh this time. He looked down, shaking his head, cigarette hanging from his lips. “Fucking hell.”
You watched him. “What?”
“Nothin’.”
Liam looked back at you, and for the first time all night, the boredom cracked. There he was. Not the rockstar pose, not the pretty face that had probably opened every door he had ever leaned against. Just a man who had been caught enjoying himself.
You smiled like you knew exactly what you had done. “Come on,” you said. “One drink at mine.”
“No.”
“One drink.”
“No.”
“Half a drink.”
“Still no.”
“You’re very dramatic for someone who absolutely wants to say yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re proper annoying, you know that?”
“Yes.”
“And arrogant.”
“Also yes.”
“And you think that’s gonna work?”
You stepped closer. Not touching him. Not yet. Just enough for his attention to drop to your mouth, then drag itself back up like it had manners it was trying very hard to remember.
“No,” you said. “I know it’s working.”
Liam’s jaw shifted. For one beautiful second, he looked genuinely offended by how right you were.
“You don’t even know me,” he said.
“I know enough.”
Liam looked away first, dragging a hand over his mouth like he was trying to wipe the thought of you off before it stuck.
“I’m married,” he said.
You looked at him for a long second, unreadable, the corner of your mouth barely lifting. “I like a challenge.”
Liam’s eyes snapped back to yours. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know what you’re playing with.”
You stepped closer, not touching him, but close enough that he forgot, briefly and visibly, how to be smug. “I’m not playing,” you said. “I’m asking.”
“You’re not asking. You’re telling.”
“Fine.” Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then came back up. “Then tell me no properly.”
That shut him up. The music, the voices, the clink of glasses behind you all seemed to move somewhere else. Liam stared at you like you had just handed him a loaded gun and asked whether he trusted himself with it.
He should have said no. That was the worst part, really. He knew the word. It was right there, sitting behind his teeth, clean and available and waiting to save him from himself. But you were looking at him like you already knew he wouldn’t use it.
“I’m serious,” he said, though it came out weaker now.
“So am I.”
“You’re trouble.”
You smiled. “You keep saying that like it’s going to make me leave.”
His jaw shifted. Then, very slowly, he leaned in, close enough for his voice to turn private. “It should.”
“Is it?”
Liam held your gaze. Still pretending he had choices. Then he looked down, laughed under his breath, and muttered, almost resentful: “Fucking hell.”
You reached past him for his drink, took it from the bar, and handed it to him. “Finish that first, then.”
Liam looked at the glass. Then at you. He knew, immediately, that he had lost. Worse than that, he suspected you knew too.
“You’re something,” he muttered again.
“I’m lovely.”
Liam looked at your mouth, longer this time. The room kept moving around you, voices, glasses, music, all of it turning into static. He could have walked away. He probably should have. He had done enough stupid things for women with pretty eyes and dangerous timing.
But the thing about Liam Gallagher was that, for all his mouth, all his swagger, all his beautiful-boy arrogance, he was embarrassingly easy to lead when the right woman held the leash. And you had barely even pulled.
He finished the drink in one go.
You smiled. “Good boy.”
His eyes snapped to yours. For a second, neither of you moved. Liam held your gaze. Then he sighed, irritated with himself, with you, with the entire female population and the historical power they seemed to hold over his decision-making.
“Fine,” he said.
You arched an eyebrow. “Fine?”
“One drink.”
“At mine.”
“At yours.”
“And you’re not going to complain?”
Liam reached for his jacket, eyes flicking over you with that sudden, reckless heat he had been trying to hide all night. “Oh, I’m gonna complain the whole way there.”
He held the door open for you like he was doing it against his will. Which, judging by the look on his face, was exactly what he wanted you to believe.
You stepped out first, the night air hitting your skin, cooler than the bar, cleaner than the smoke and the heat and the noise you had left behind. Liam followed a second later, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like a complaint and absolutely nothing like regret.
“One drink,” he said, as if reminding you. Or himself.
You looked back at him over your shoulder. “You’ve said that already.”
“Yeah, well. Don’t want you getting ideas.”
“That’s adorable.”
He made a face. “Don’t call me adorable.”
“You’re following me home for one drink after telling me no five times.”
Liam stopped walking for half a second, cigarette between his fingers, eyes narrowing like he was trying to decide whether to argue or laugh. In the end, he did both badly.
“I’m not following you,” he said. “I’m walking in the same direction.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“Still could be.”
You smiled and kept walking. He stayed close. Too close. Shoulder brushing yours when the pavement narrowed, hand hovering near your back when you passed a group of drunk men outside another bar, mouth still running because silence would have made the whole thing feel too honest.
By the time you found a cab, he had complained about the cold, your attitude, the fact that you looked too pleased with yourself, and the general state of women as a concept.
“You lot are dangerous,” he muttered, sliding in beside you.
You shut the door. “You say that like you’re not enjoying yourself.”
“I’m not.”
The cab pulled away from the curb. Liam looked out the window for exactly three seconds before his knee knocked against yours.
“Liar,” you said softly.
His eyes flicked to you then, dark in the passing streetlights, all that beautiful boredom beginning to slip at the edges. He didn’t smile this time. Not fully. Just looked at you like the space between you had become something physical, something he could either cross or choke on.
When the cab stopped outside your building, Liam got out first and stood there while you paid, cigarette already between his lips, jacket pulled tighter around him. He looked up at the front of the building.
“This your place?”
“No, I bring men to random buildings for atmosphere.”
He gave you a look. “Mouthy.”
Inside, the hallway was narrow and dimly lit, the kind of yellow light that made everything feel later than it was. Liam leaned back against the wall near your door, one boot crossed over the other. For once, he didn’t look bored. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a bad decision, annoyed by how badly he wanted to jump.
You unlocked the door slowly, aware of him watching your hands.
The second your front door clicks shut behind him, you turn and lean against it, watching him take in the space—your living room, low light, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. He’s got his hands shoved in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched like he’s still pretending this is a bad idea. Like he’s got some moral high ground left to stand on.
You let the silence stretch, let him feel the weight of it. His eyes keep flicking to you, then away, then back again. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, that little tell he’s got when he’s trying to decide whether to be smart or stupid. And you already know which one’s gonna win.
“Well,” he says, voice rough and low, dragging the word out like he’s testing it. “You’ve got me here. Now what?”
You push off the door, slow, deliberate. Every step you take toward him feels like a small victory. You don’t stop until you’re close enough to smell the beer and cigarettes still clinging to his jacket. Close enough to see the way his pupils blow wide even in this dim light.
You tug the zipper down, push the jacket off, let it fall somewhere behind him. He’s in a plain black t-shirt underneath, arms bare, that tattoo winding down his shoulder. You trail a finger over the ink, feel him tense under your touch.
“I think you know what,” you say, voice low, steady, teasing. “Don’t play dumb now, silly.” He lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half groan. You drop your hand from his arm, slide it down his chest, over his stomach, until your palm rests flat against the front of his jeans. He’s already hard. You can feel the heat of him through the denim. “And you love it.”
His eyes flutter shut for half a second. When he opens them again, that cocky mask is back in place, but it’s cracked. You can see the hunger underneath.
“So what’s your move, then?” he asks, voice a little rougher now. “Gonna get on your knees and show me what you’re about?”
You smile, slow and sharp. “Was waiting for you to say that.”
You sink down in front of him, knees hitting the carpet, and you don’t take your eyes off his face. You see the way his throat bobs when he swallows. The way his hands curl into fists at his sides like he’s trying to hold back.
You undo his belt, pop the button, drag the zipper down. He’s not wearing anything underneath. His cock springs free, already thick and flushed, the head slick with a bead of precum. You wrap your hand around the base, feel the weight of him, and you hear him inhale sharp through his teeth.
“Fuck…” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
You lean in, but you don’t take him in your mouth right away. Instead, you drag your tongue along the underside, from base to tip, slow, savoring the taste of salt and skin. His hips twitch forward, a tiny, involuntary movement. He’s trying to stay still, trying to look like he’s in control, but his breathing is already gone ragged.
You take the head between your lips, suck lightly, swirl your tongue around it. His hand comes down, fingers threading through your hair, not pulling, just holding. Grounding himself, maybe. Or warning you not to stop.
You take him deeper, inch by inch, letting your jaw relax, letting your throat open. You find a rhythm that’s steady, eager, but not desperate. You’re in charge here. You set the pace. And you make sure he knows it.
His grip tightens on your hair. His other hand presses flat against the wall beside him, knuckles white. He’s murmuring things under his breath—words that sound like “Jesus” and “fucking hell” —but he doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t pull away. He just stands there, letting you take him apart, bit by bit, until his hips start to roll forward in time with your movements, until he’s fucking into your mouth in shallow, needy thrusts.
You hollow your cheeks, suck harder, and you feel his whole body shudder.
“I’m gonna…” he starts, voice cracking.
You pull off just enough to look up at him, lips slick, eyes bright. “On my face.”
He groans, something between a laugh and a curse. “You’re fucking mental.”
“Do it.”
He doesn’t argue. His hand slides to the back of your head, guiding you back onto his cock for two more deep, messy strokes, and then he pulls out, stroking himself fast, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You tip your head back, mouth open, eyes on him, and you watch the moment he falls apart.
His cum hits your chin, your lips, your cheek—hot and thick, streaks of it painting your skin. He keeps going until he’s empty, until there’s nothing left but a few final drops that land on your tongue. You swallow, licking the corner of your mouth, and you see the dazed, wrecked look on his face.
He slumps against the wall, head falling back, chest heaving. “Fucking hell…”
You get to your feet, slow, wiping a smear of cum from your cheek with the back of your hand. You don’t clean yourself off properly. You let it dry there, a mark of what just happened, a reminder of how easily you broke him.
“Drink?” you ask, voice light.
He blinks at you, still catching his breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I need a drink.”
You watch him for a beat, the way his chest is still heaving under that t-shirt, the way his jeans are still undone, his cock softening against his thigh, streaks of his own mess drying on your chin. He looks wrecked, and you love it.
You turn and walk to the coffee table, pouring two fingers of whiskey into each glass. Behind you, you hear the rustle of denim, the clink of a belt buckle. By the time you turn back, he’s tucked himself in, zipped up, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reassemble the pieces of his dignity.
You hand him the glass. He takes it, knocks back half in one swallow, then sets it down and runs his thumb along the rim. His eyes keep flicking to your face, to the drying cum still smeared across your cheek, and there’s something dark and fascinated in his gaze.
“You’re just gonna leave that there?” he asks, voice rough.
You touch your cheek, smear it with your finger, then bring it to your mouth and suck it clean. Slow. Deliberate. His jaw tightens.
“I like the taste of you,” you say simply. “Why waste it?”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, that lopsided, dangerous smile that’s probably gotten him into more trouble than he can count. He picks up his glass again, finishes it, and sets it down with a clink.
“You’re something else,” he mutters. “Really.”
You move closer, refill his glass without asking. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
You sit down on the arm of the sofa, legs crossed, watching him over the rim of your own glass. The silence between you is thick, charged. He’s standing by the coffee table, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other wrapped around his drink, and he keeps looking at you like he’s trying to figure out his next move. But you already know you’re the one calling the shots.
“So,” you say, letting the word hang. “You gonna pretend you regret this now?”
He laughs, short and dry. “Regret it? I don’t even know what the fuck just happened.”
“I sucked your cock on my living room floor. That’s what happened.”
He flinches at your bluntness, but not in a bad way. More like he’s not used to a woman being this direct. His eyes narrow, but there’s heat behind it.
“Right. And now I’m standing here, drinking your whiskey, and thinking about how I should probably leave.”
“But you’re not leaving.”
He looks at you, really looks, and you see the crack in that arrogant facade. He wants to stay. He’s fighting it, but he wants to.
“You’re not done with me, are you?” he asks, voice low.
You set your glass down slowly, letting the silence stretch. Then you stand, close the distance between you, and trail a finger down his chest, stopping at the waistband of his jeans.
“Not even close.”
You take his hand and lead him down the hall without another word. The bedroom is dark, but the orange streetlight slices through the blinds, painting stripes across the bed. You push the door open and pull him inside.
He doesn’t hesitate this time. He crowds you against the edge of the bed, hands finding your waist, his mouth crashing against yours. It’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s hungry and desperate and tastes like whiskey and salt. His tongue slides against yours, and you feel the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his palms sliding up under your top.
You break the kiss just long enough to pull the shirt over your head, then your bra. His hands are on your tits immediately, thumbs rolling over your nipples, and he groans against your throat.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
You push him back onto the bed. He lands with a thump, legs hanging off the edge, and looks up at you with that mix of surprise and hunger. You crawl onto the bed, straddle his chest, and lean down until your mouth is inches from his ear.
“Do you want to return the favor?.”
He doesn’t need more encouragement. His hands grab your hips, pulling you up until you’re hovering over his face. He looks up at you, eyes dark, and then he drags you down onto his mouth.
His tongue is hot and greedy, licking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night. He finds your clit immediately—circles it, flicks it, sucks it between his lips until you’re gasping and grinding against his face. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, and he groans into your cunt like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“God, you taste good,” he mouths against you, the words muffled but clear.
You rock against his tongue, letting yourself feel it, letting your head fall back. His nose presses against your clit while his tongue fucks into you, and the combination sends sparks up your spine. You’re already close the tension from earlier, the sight of him so eager between your legs.
You come with a sharp cry, your thighs clamping around his head, and he doesn’t stop. He laps at you through it, drawing out every pulse, until you’re trembling and oversensitive and you have to push his head away.
He surfaces, chin glistening, grinning like a fucking devil. “That’s just the beginning.”
“Get those jeans off,” you order, breathless.
He complies, kicking them off along with his boxers, his cock already hard and leaking against his stomach. You flip over, positioning yourself on your hands and knees, and look back at him over your shoulder.
“Now fuck me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He moves behind you, lines himself up, and pushes in with one smooth, deep stroke. You both groan, him low and guttural, you sharp and breathless. He’s thick, and he fills you completely, and for a second he just stays there, letting you adjust.
Then he starts moving. Slow at first, deep, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your skin, and he sets a rhythm that’s steady and punishing.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice strained. “Taking my cock like you were made for it.”
You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and the angle hits that perfect spot. You moan, fingers twisting in the sheets, and he picks up the pace, slamming into you harder.
“You like that?” he grunts.
“Yes—fuck, yes—”
He reaches around, finds your clit with his fingers, and rubs in tight circles while he fucks you from behind. The double stimulation sends you spiraling, and you come again, harder this time, your whole body clenching, your moans turning into something almost animal.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps pounding into you through your orgasm, chasing his own. You feel him twitch inside you, feel the heat building at the base of his cock, and you know he’s close.
“Where?” he pants, voice ragged. “Where d’you want it?”
You’re still coming down, but you know what you want. You push back against him, taking him deeper, and you say it, low, clear, no room for doubt:
“Inside me. Please.”
He groans, a broken sound, and buries himself to the hilt. You feel him pulse, feel the hot rush of his cum flooding you, filling you up like he’s marking you from the inside. He keeps thrusting, shallow and sloppy, riding it out, until he collapses against your back with a shuddering exhale.
For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, slick with sweat, your bodies still connected. His forehead presses between your shoulder blades, and you can feel his heart hammering against your spine.
Then he pulls out, slowly, and you feel the mess trickle down your thigh. He flops onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest heaving.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “That was…”
“Good?” you offer, grinning.
“Something like that.”
You turn onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow, and look at him. Messy hair, flushed skin, cum still drying on his stomach where it leaked out of you. He looks completely undone. Exactly how you wanted him.
“You’re not going to tell me this was a mistake, are you?” you ask.
He peeks out from under his arm. “Would it matter if I did?”
“Not really.”
He laughs and pulls you against his side. His arm wraps around you, hand resting on your hip, and for a few minutes, you just lie there, skin to skin, the streetlight painting shadows on the wall.
Neither of you mention his wife. Neither of you promise to call. Neither of you pretend this is anything more than what it is.
You woke up before him. For a moment, you only stared. Liam was still there, lying on his stomach beside you, one arm tucked under the pillow, the sheet low on his hips, his hair a disaster against the white cotton. Morning had softened none of him and somehow made everything worse. The line of his back, the slope of his shoulders, the lazy rise and fall of his breathing.
He looked indecently calm for a man who had spent the night pretending he wasn’t going to stay.
You moved closer before you could talk yourself out of it. Slowly, carefully, you pressed your mouth to the back of his neck. He didn’t wake at first. So you did it again. A little lower this time. Then lower.
Your lips moved over his warm skin, across the top of his spine, over one shoulder blade, light enough to be innocent if either of you had been innocent people.
Liam stirred. A rough sound left him, half sleep, half complaint, his face turning into the pillow.
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, voice thick and ruined. “What’re you doin’?”
You smiled against his back. “Checking if you’re real.”
He huffed, but didn’t move away. You kissed his shoulder again, slower now, and his body gave him away before his mouth could lie about it. The smallest shift. The lazy stretch of his fingers against the sheet. The way his breathing changed when your lips found the place just beneath his ear.
Then, suddenly, memory caught up with you. You lifted your head, staring at him with a grin you couldn’t quite control. “You stayed.”
Liam opened one eye. Barely. He looked at you like you’d accused him of something deeply offensive. “I fell asleep.”
“In my bed.”
“Yeah.”
“After saying one drink.”
“There was a drink.”
“You barely touched it.”
“Still counts.”
You laughed, unable to help it, and God, you hated how fond it sounded. Like you weren’t supposed to be this pleased. Like he wasn’t supposed to look this good in the morning, sleepy and smug and halfway annoyed that you had caught him doing something almost sweet.
You leaned in again, brushing your lips over his shoulder. “You stayed,” you repeated, softer this time.
Liam was quiet for a second. Then he turned his head just enough to look at you properly, eyes heavy with sleep and something dangerously close to affection.
“Don’t make a thing of it.”
You smiled. Too late. It was already a thing. And judging by the way he reached back under the sheets, found your hip, and pulled you closer without opening his eyes again, he knew it too.
Hi there, are there any long fics where aziraphale is a fallen angel you recommended? I'm looking for mainly 10 chapters+ but I'm not picky.
We have looooooads of fics on our #fallen angel aziraphale, #demon aziraphale, and #reverse omens/#reverse au tags so knock yourself out! Here are more long ones...
A Light in the Dark by cyankelpie (T)
After leaving Crowley to return to Heaven, Aziraphale Falls, certain that no one will help him pick himself back up. Crowley proves him wrong.
As Angels and Demons by probably_publius (T)
Over the years Crowley had rescued Aziraphale from danger. Time and time again. This arrangement made both parties very happy. Crowley would get a wonderful sense of doing good, and Aziraphale would get a wonderful sense of knowing that his demon was doing good, despite what he might claim.
But once again, Aziraphale reached a point where he felt the need to return the gesture. So he vowed that whenever Crowley was in danger, he'd be the one to save him.
When Aziraphale gets his offer rejected by Crowley, he doesn't let it faze him. The angel decides that he alone will be able stop Heaven, and when he does, he'll win Crowley back. Unfortunately, unforeseen obstacles complicate Aziraphale's plan.
Between my Lies by its_janelle713 (M)
Aziraphale will pay the price.
He lied to Crowley. He lied to the Angels. He lied to God. And now he will pay.
And he will fall, fall so deep, fall to a place where there is no one to catch him, no one to comfort him. And it is his doing.
All the while, Heaven is planning the Second Coming. Though Aziraphale doesn't know much, he does know this: Once it happens, Heaven will reign over everything. And that would be a living Hell.
As Long as I Fall by Aidaran (E)
Heaven is so high up that once you’re there, Aziraphale realizes the only way out is to fall.
In an attempt to stop the apocalypse once more, he steals the Book of Life and The Messiah's soul, placing him back on Earth as Adam’s brother. Now suspended somewhere between falling and fallen, Aziraphale needs help from the only one he can trust to navigate his new life. The same demon he rejected a lifetime ago.
Despite how they parted, Crowley can't turn his back on the aching angel, working through his pain and heartache as they slowly inch towards one another, acting on millennia of bottled-up feelings and desire.
The only problem? Adam’s powers are still alive, and he wants everybody to have their “happy ever after” in his town.
Or else.
Yeah, I dunno how to word this because it’s a mix of movies and TV series fusion and I don’t have enough of them to make it separately. BUT, I promise they’re gonna be awesome reads~
(I might be cheating a little because I can’t find those in my bookmarks and have recced those I searched for and found interesting to read.)
Movies
Legally Stiles by redhoodedwolf wc: 15393, ch: 7/7
Stiles took a moment to think this over. If he got into Harvard, he could win Lydia back. He'd show her how smart he really was, and that he was willing to go that extra mile for her to win her love back.
"Okay," he breathed, feeling a large weight settle on his shoulders. "Let's do it."
Scott cheered. "Awesome, dude. Let's go make the LSATs your bitch."
(I will always be appalled and baffled that no one recs this fic enough. It’s an awesome read, I’ve read it twice and I’ll probably reread it again after this fic rec.)
The Awakening by Venezia wc: 15672, ch: 7/7
*Underworld AU*
Stiles is a vampire, part of an ancient coven of werewolf hunters. When he discovers the werewolves are planning another rebellion, he takes matters into his own hands to stop it. But this time, the werewolves are looking for someone, someone who will help them win the war and Stiles has to find them before the werewolves.
However, he didn't plan on uncovering a plot within his own coven to overthrow the vampires. Now, Stiles must stop the werewolves and the Elders that made him who he is. He also didn't count on Derek, Derek who is the lone carrier of the gene that could destroy both species or give one the upper hand in winning the battle that's been raging for centuries.
The Ship of Dreams by CharlotteV wc: 45902, ch: 8/8
Stiles Stilinksi was just looking for his next greatest adventure, risking everything in a game of life to get aboard the Titanic to go home. He wasn't sure where he would be after that. Washington, Maine, Colorado? Little did he know the next adventure he went on would be a lot closer to his heart...
Derek Hale DeWitt was just looking for a way to breathe again, to not feel the ever constant darkness around his heart. Despite fighting it, he can't help what a certain boy in third class does to him, and he wonders if it's worth it just to let fate run it's course...
Or, the one where our favorite couple was on the Titanic.
i think i wanna marry you by thegirlinthedress wc: 11176, ch: 4/4
"Derek knows about his reputation among his employees; that they think he's a workaholic and that he hates people. The first one might be true, but it's hardly a character flaw that he likes his job. Editor in chief is a huge responsibility, and not one that Derek takes lightly. He gets the results he wants, even if they come at the expense of his staff liking him. Derek's philosophy is that they don't have to like him, they just have to respect him and get their jobs done."
The Proposal AU I've always wanted an excuse to write.
Don’t Write Me Off (Just Yet) by Finduilas wc: 27672, ch: 1/1
Former pop sensation Derek Hale isn't doing so well ever since his band 'Pack' split up. His manager Erica does what she can to get him mostly nostalgic gigs, reliving the 'Pack' glory days, but his solo career isn't taking off as well as he'd hoped. What Derek really needs is a good lyricist to go with the music he writes. Enter Stiles Stilinski, doing his friend's mom a favor by watering Derek's plants for a few days. Turns out Derek and Stiles are compatible in more ways than one. And Stiles can write! But does he want to?
The Romance of the Sword by seraphim_grace wc: 16512, ch: 1/1
Highlander movie AU
Derek is the immortal highlander caught in the terrible battle to the death over the mysterious prize, and Stiles is the professor helping the NYPD find out who is cutting off heads.
Inspired by the fact that Russell Mulcahey directed both Teen Wolf and Highlander I kinda had to.
Sterek Big Bang
art to follow
How Many Wonders by SylvieW wc: 15359, ch: 2/2
Derek doesn’t think Scott should make a deal with Stiles the sea witch in the first place. When Scott can’t hold up his end of the bargain, he’s doomed to spend eternity in Stiles’ watery hell-soaked lair. Derek can’t stand to see his best friend taken and he’s got an eternity to spare…
You Were a Kindness When I Was a Stranger by DevilDoll wc: 8092, ch: 1/1
"It's not all handcuffs and spankings and learning to deep throat." This is an AU with consensual BDSM sex acts, in which Derek supports Stiles financially in exchange for a sexual relationship. Stiles is of legal age.
Scowls and Sarcasm by dr_girlfriend wc: 26,054 ch: 16/16
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single alpha in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a mate.
Whether or not Derek Hale felt that way was hardly a concern to the neighbourhood — the very fact of his arrival was enough that the surrounding families seemed to consider him the rightful property of one or another of their eligible sons and daughters. That was, of course, before they met the man.
The Boy Who Drew Wolves by dr_girlfriend wc: 5,863 ch: 1/1
"Once upon a time,” Stiles began, and Thomas sighed happily, resting his cheek in the hollow of Stiles’ shoulder. “There was a gangly, clumsy, freckle-faced young boy, and a beautiful, majestic wolf —”
“You mean, there was a beautiful, brilliant, amber-eyed boy, and a half-starved, mangy-looking wolf,” a voice interrupted. “It looks like I made it just in time, huh?” Derek said with a conspiratorial smirk at Thomas. “Gotta make sure you tell it right.”
“Yeah, Daddy!” Thomas parroted. “Tell it right!”
“Okay, okay,” Stiles sighed, settling his arm across Thomas with his hand resting on his husband’s waist, thumb drawing an absent-minded little circle. “Once upon a time, there was a probably-going-to-grow-into-his-looks-just-fine young boy, and a very lonely wolf…”
Only You, Sterek by im2old4thisotp wc: 57,218 ch: 8/8
Derek gets the name of his soulmate off a Ouija board when he is ten. He's obsessed with finding them, but then his life irrevocably changes. He erases the name from his life and determines to live free of those stupid words, "fate" and "destiny".
But on the eve of his wedding, he gets a phone call that will change the course of his life forever, and show him that maybe destiny does have a hold on him, after all.
Or, the Sterek rewrite of the movie "Only You" that you never knew you wanted.
I'd go anywhere to find you by KhaSterek wc: 18,185 ch: 5/5
A newlywed groom becomes smitten with another man and questions his sexual orientation.
*Sterek's Imagine me & you.*
TV series (Bonus)
might as well kiss the monster, laugh and fuck until you’re dead by hoars wc: 8275, ch: 1/1
This is how Scott meets Peter.
This is the beginning of Peter hijacking his entire life and twisting it from something normal and average to this shitstorm.
One Boy In All The World by orphan_account
(This is a series. It’s basically Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU.)
Beta editing and endless moral support by @SpectrallyDistractracted
Britpicking and cheers by @GroovyNightStrawberry
Cheers and plot detangling support by @curiouspupsicle
Summary:
It's 1987 London and anti-gay sentiment is on the rise ahead of the government's push to pass Section 28 to prohibited the "promotion of homosexuality" by local authorities -- including banning books and education in schools.
Why do Fell, low level government administrator, and Crowley, a "fixer" for a nefarious consulting company and reluctant queer community organiser, keep running into each other -- quite literally? Is it just romantic fate bringing together two middle aged "confirmed bachelors" who thought it was too late to find love, or is there some other connection? Can they figure it out? (Are they sure they want to?)
Chapter Summary:
Crowley speeds back to London to answer the call of his Angel, trying desperately to put his feelings aside so he can help do this One Important Thing. And that's fine, right? He can be cool. He's fine. It's all fine.
Tw: AIDS, Homophobia, Medical Phobias, Hospitals
Continue reading Chapter 28 on AO3
Or start from Chapter 1 - The 24 Hour Print Shop, July 1987
