#not sure where it was it was a bedroom maybe his

[sixeyesonathiel]

this love survives bad haircuts

synopsis : satoru makes a very questionable decision the night before school. by morning, he’s convinced he’s ruined everything—especially the way you look at him. it’s not just about hair, he learns. it never was.

wc — 4.8k ✦ tags -> character study, humor, comfort, fluff, crack treated seriously, high school au, established relationship, military haircut disaster, teenage love, idiots in love, insecure satoru

satoru gojo has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, running shaky fingers through what used to be his glorious crown of silver-white chaos and is now... this. this travesty. this crime against humanity. his hair sits close to his scalp in a crisp military cut, all sharp edges and geometric precision, and he looks like he’s about to ship out to boot camp instead of walking into first period chemistry.

the thing is, satoru has never been ugly before. not once in his seventeen years of existence. he’s been gangly, sure, when he hit that growth spurt at fourteen and couldn’t figure out where his limbs belonged. he’s been awkward, definitely, when his voice cracked during that disastrous presentation in freshman english. but ugly? never ugly.

more importantly, he’s never been ugly in front of you. you, who calls him pretty boy when you’re feeling soft. you, who traces his jawline with sleepy fingers during saturday morning cuddles. you, who literally purrs—purrs—when he nuzzles into your neck like the overgrown puppy he knows he is.

the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across his face and making his shorn head look even more alien. he tilts his head left, then right, hoping maybe the angle will make it less catastrophic. it doesn’t. if anything, it makes him look like a confused ostrich. he wonders if this is what normal people feel like all the time—this horrible uncertainty about their own reflection.

“what have i done,” he whispers to his reflection, and his reflection—that traitorous thing—just stares back with the same horrified crystalline eyes, now looking enormous without his usual curtain of hair to frame them.

the dare had seemed so simple last night. suguru and shoko, sprawled across his bedroom floor with energy drinks and homework they weren’t doing, had been going on and on about how you were obviously only dating him for his money. for his face. for the way his hair caught afternoon sunlight and made him look like some sort of ethereal prince.

it had stung, the way they’d laughed about it. not because he thought they were right, but because some treacherous part of his brain had whispered what if? what if you really were that shallow? what if the girl who remembered his coffee order and drew little hearts on his notebook margins and let him drape himself across her lap like a house cat was just playing some elaborate long game?

the thought makes him sick. because satoru gojo is pathetically in love with you. embarrassingly so. the kind of love that makes him text you good morning before his eyes are fully open, that makes him buy you little trinkets from the convenience store just because they reminded him of you, that makes him physically ache when you’re not around.

he’d always been too much. too loud, too rich, too everything. his parents had made sure he knew that—love wrapped in conditions, affection measured in achievements. so when you’d started dating him six months ago, he’d been waiting for the catch. waiting for you to get tired of his energy, his neediness, his desperate desire to be wanted for something other than his last name.

instead, you’d started calling him baby. started letting him sleep with his head on your chest. started feeding him pieces of your lunch while calling him spoiled, but with such fondness that it felt like the sweetest compliment in the world.

“she’s totally shallow,” shoko had said, blowing smoke rings toward his ceiling while picking at her black nail polish. “i bet if you showed up tomorrow bald, she’d dump you before homeroom.”

“not bald,” suguru had corrected, ever the voice of reason, though his smirk suggested otherwise. “but like, really short. military style. bet she wouldn’t even look at you twice.”

and satoru—stupid, lovesick, pride-wounded satoru—had taken the bait hook, line, and sinker. because deep down, in the parts of himself he doesn’t like to examine too closely, he’d wondered the same thing. wondered if your fingers tangled in his hair during kisses because you loved him or because you loved the way he looked in magazine spreads and instagram stories.

now he’s standing in the school hallway, hood pulled up despite the no-hats policy, practically vibrating with anxiety. his palms are sweating. actually sweating. when was the last time satoru gojo had sweaty palms? never, that’s when. but here he is, seventeen years old and terrified of his own girlfriend.

he tries to remember the last time he’d felt this kind of bone-deep terror. maybe when he was eight and broke his mother’s favorite vase, standing in the wreckage with tears streaming down his face while she counted to ten in that voice that meant disappointment. or maybe it was never this bad, because at least then he’d known the parameters of his punishment. now he’s flying blind into territory he’s never had to navigate: the possibility that someone he loves might not love him back.

students flow around him like water around a rock, chattering about weekend plans and upcoming tests, and none of them seem to notice that satoru gojo is having a complete mental breakdown. someone laughs too loudly near the science wing. a locker slams shut with metallic finality. the morning announcements crackle through tired speakers, and principal yaga’s voice drones about dress code violations.

he spots you at your locker, and his heart does that stupid fluttering thing it always does—like a hummingbird having a seizure. you’re wearing the sweater he bought you last week—soft pink cashmere that probably cost more than most people’s rent—and you’re humming under your breath while you sort through textbooks. there’s a small furrow between your brows as you squint at your schedule, and he knows you’re probably trying to remember if you have calculus or literature next.

this is the thing about loving someone, he thinks. you start memorizing their expressions like they’re a language only you can speak. he knows that furrow means concentration, not annoyance. knows that the way you’re tapping your fingers against your locker door means you’re running through your mental checklist, probably remembering that you forgot to finish your chemistry homework and trying to calculate if you have enough time before class.

he also knows that if he walked up to you right now and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, you’d make that little huffing noise that means you’re pretending to be annoyed but secretly pleased. knows that you’d lean back into him anyway, letting him nuzzle into your hair while you complained about him being clingy in that fond, exasperated voice you use when you’re trying not to smile.

you look so pretty, so normal, so completely unaware that your boyfriend has committed follicular suicide. your hair falls in soft waves over your shoulder, and satoru’s stomach clenches with the sudden, visceral realization that he’ll never be able to mirror that gesture again. no more running his fingers through matching lengths of hair. no more of you braiding small sections when you’re bored in class.

no more of you tugging on the strands when you want his attention, calling him your pretty boy with that secret smile that makes him feel like he could conquer the world.

“just walk over,” he mutters to himself, bouncing slightly on his heels. “just walk over and—”

“satoru!” your voice cuts through his spiral, bright and cheerful, and he freezes like a deer in headlights. you’re waving at him with your free hand, that brilliant smile on your face—the one that makes your eyes crinkle at the corners and shows off the slightly crooked incisor you’re self-conscious about. the one that makes him feel like he’s swallowed sunshine. “come here, i missed you!”

missed you. it’s been twelve hours since he walked you home, since you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him goodbye on your doorstep, since you whispered “text me when you get home, baby” against his lips. twelve hours, and you missed him.

his heart does seventeen different acrobatic maneuvers in his chest.

his feet move without his permission, carrying him toward you on unsteady legs. the hood feels like it’s suffocating him, but he can’t take it off. won’t take it off. maybe if he just keeps it on all day, you’ll never have to see what he’s done. maybe he can transfer schools. maybe he can fake his own death.

he’s spiraling. he knows he’s spiraling. this is what happens when satoru gojo doesn’t have control over a situation—his brain turns into a hamster wheel of catastrophic possibilities. he’s going to lose you. you’re going to take one look at him and realize you’ve been dating a fraud, someone who’s only attractive with the right lighting and good genetics, and now that one of those things is gone, the illusion is shattered.

“why are you wearing your hood?” you ask, reaching up to tug at the fabric with curious fingers. your touch is gentle, familiar, and he wants to lean into it like a cat seeking warmth. wants to press his face into your palm and let you pet him until the world makes sense again. “you know mr. yaga will give you detention if he sees. and then you’ll be all mopey and i’ll have to sneak you extra cookies at lunch to cheer you up.”

the casual way you plan to take care of him makes his throat tight. this is what you do—you notice when he’s sad, when he’s stressed, when he needs just a little more attention than usual. you pretend to be annoyed about it, but you always have his favorite snacks in your bag, always save him the good seat in the cafeteria, always let him tangle his fingers with yours under the desk during boring classes.

“no, don’t—” but it’s too late. your fingers catch the edge of his hood and pull, and then you’re staring at him with wide eyes and an expression he can’t quite read.

the silence stretches between them like a chasm. satoru wants to die. wants to sink into the floor and disappear forever. wants to transfer schools and change his name and maybe join the witness protection program. your eyes are doing that thing where they go very still, very focused, like you’re trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem.

“your hair,” you say finally, and your voice is so quiet he barely hears it over the hallway noise. your hand is still raised, hovering somewhere near his temple, fingers trembling slightly like you want to touch but don’t quite dare.

he knows that gesture. you do it when you’re trying to process something that doesn’t compute. like the time he showed up at your house at midnight because he’d had a nightmare and needed to see you. you’d stood there in your pajamas, hair mussed from sleep, hand hovering just like this while you tried to figure out if you should scold him for being reckless or hug him for being vulnerable.

you’d chosen the hug. you always choose the hug.

“i can explain,” he starts, words tumbling out in a rush while his hands gesture wildly. “it was a dare and i was stupid and i know you probably hate it and me and—”

“satoru.” you’re still staring at him, and now he can see tears gathering in your eyes. actual tears. your lower lip trembles, and you press your free hand to your mouth like you’re trying to hold something back. “your beautiful hair.”

and then you’re crying. not just tearing up, but full-on sobbing in the middle of the hallway, shoulders shaking as you stare at his shorn head like he’s just told you someone died. your textbooks tumble from your arms, scattering across the linoleum with dull thuds.

this is it, he thinks. this is the moment everything falls apart. except... except you’re not looking at him with disgust or disappointment. you’re looking at him like you’re grieving. like something precious has been lost. and that’s almost worse, because it means you did care about his hair, means maybe suguru and shoko were right about something, means—

“oh god,” he panics, reaching for you instinctively, his hands hovering uselessly around your shoulders because he doesn’t know if touching you will make it better or worse. “don’t cry, please don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry—”

“it’s gone,” you wail, and several students turn to stare. your voice echoes off the lockers, and satoru can see phones being pulled out in his peripheral vision. “it’s all gone! how could you do this to me? to us? to your perfect, gorgeous, fluffy hair that i loved so much?”

and there it is. the thing that makes satoru gojo absolutely, completely, stupidly in love with you. because it’s not his hair you’re mourning—it’s yours. you’ve claimed it, the same way you’ve claimed his hoodies and his passenger seat and his whole entire heart. in your mind, his hair belongs to you as much as it belongs to him, and someone has taken it away without asking permission.

you’re not crying because he’s ugly. you’re crying because someone stole something that was yours to love.

satoru feels his own eyes starting to water. this is worse than he imagined. so much worse. you’re crying over his hair—actually crying—and he doesn’t know what to do with that information. his throat feels tight, and there’s a burning sensation behind his eyes that he hasn’t felt since he was twelve and broke his arm falling off his bike.

he thinks about all the times you’ve touched his hair. casual touches—pushing it out of his eyes during study sessions, playing with the ends while you’re both watching movies, the way you’d run your fingers through it when he was stressed about exams. but also the possessive touches—tugging him down for kisses, wrapping the strands around your finger while you’re talking, the way you’d pet him absently while he dozed with his head in your lap.

you’ve never said “i love you” out loud. neither of you have. but you’ve said it in a thousand other ways, and apparently one of those ways was cherishing his stupid hair like it was made of spun gold.

had it really meant that much to you? had he been so stupid, so careless with something you treasured?

“i’ll grow it back,” he promises desperately, hands still hovering around your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you. he’s crying now too, which is embarrassing, but you’re crying and that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in. “i’ll take vitamins and do scalp massages and—and i’ll research hair growth treatments! i’ll do anything, baby, please don’t be sad.”

the pet name slips out without his permission, soft and pleading, and your expression crumples even more. you’ve never said it makes you feel good when he calls you that, but he sees the way your eyes go soft, the way you unconsciously lean toward him like a flower seeking sunlight.

“it’ll take months,” you sob, and you sound so genuinely devastated that his heart cracks clean in two. your mascara is starting to smudge, creating dark shadows under your eyes, and you’re hiccupping between words. “months, satoru! what am i supposed to do for months?” your voice breaks on his name, and he’s never heard you sound so genuinely distressed. “what am i supposed to play with during movies? what am i supposed to braid when i’m bored? what am i supposed to tug when you’re being insufferable and i need you to pay attention to me?”

each question is like a little knife to his heart because they’re all so you. practical and petulant and so full of casual intimacy that he wants to wrap you up and never let you go. you’re not asking what you’re supposed to look at or what you’re supposed to find attractive. you’re asking what you’re supposed to do with your hands when the thing you love most is gone.

“i don’t know!” he’s definitely crying now too, tears streaming down his face as he stares at your crumpled expression. his voice cracks embarrassingly on the words, and he wipes his nose with his sleeve like the sophisticated seventeen-year-old he is. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, please don’t break up with me! i’ll buy you anything you want—that bag you were looking at, or we can go to that expensive restaurant you like, or—”

“satoru.” you interrupt him, and there’s something different in your voice now. something that makes him stop babbling and focus on your face. “baby.”

the pet name stops him cold. you only call him that when you’re feeling particularly soft, when your prickly exterior cracks just enough to let him see how much you care. you’re still crying, but now you’re looking at him like he’s the one who needs taking care of.

you stop crying so abruptly it gives him whiplash. your tear-stained face goes blank, then confused, then something that looks almost like offense. “break up with you?”

“isn’t that what you’re going to do?” he sniffles, wiping his nose with his sleeve like the sophisticated seventeen-year-old he is. his hands are shaking now, and he can’t seem to stop them. “because i ruined my hair and now i’m ugly and—”

“satoru gojo,” you interrupt, and your voice has gone from devastated to something else entirely. something that makes him nervous. your eyebrows draw together in a way that means trouble, and you plant your hands on your hips in that stance he knows means he’s about to get lectured. “are you insane?”

he blinks at you, confused. water still clings to his eyelashes, making everything look slightly blurry. “i... what?”

“do you think i’m dating you for your hair?” your voice has gone dangerously quiet, and satoru knows from experience that quiet-angry-you is infinitely more terrifying than loud-angry-you. but there’s something else there too, something that sounds almost like hurt.

“well,” he says slowly, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie, “suguru and shoko said—”

“suguru and shoko can eat glass,” you snap, and now you’re glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. your hands gesture wildly as you speak, and he can see the exact moment when your sadness transforms into righteous indignation. “and so can you if you think i give a damn about your stupid hair when i’m in love with your stupid face.”

the words hang in the air between you like a confession. like a secret that’s been building for months and finally spilled over.

in love with.

you said you’re in love with him.

“but you’re crying,” he points out weakly, gesturing at your mascara-streaked face.

“i’m crying because you look ridiculous!” you explode, gesturing wildly at his head. your voice cracks slightly on the word ridiculous, and satoru can’t tell if you’re about to start laughing or crying again. “you look like a military recruit! like you’re about to ask me to drop and give you twenty! it’s so bad it’s actually offensive to my eyeballs!”

satoru stares at you, mouth hanging open. there’s something almost hysterical about the way you’re standing there, tear-stained and furious, defending his honor while simultaneously roasting his appearance. “so you’re not... you’re not going to dump me?”

“for having a bad haircut?” you look at him like he’s grown a second head, and there’s something so incredulous in your expression that he almost wants to laugh. “what kind of person do you think i am?”

and that’s when it hits him. not like a physical blow, but like a slow sunrise, warm and inevitable. you’re not upset because he looks different. you’re upset because he looks bad. because someone he loves is hurt by something that hurts him. because in your mind, anything that makes him less than perfect is a personal affront to your carefully curated world.

the realization makes him feel dizzy. you’re not shallow—you’re protective. you’re not crying because his hair was the only thing worth loving about him. you’re crying because someone took something beautiful and made it ugly, and in your mind, he deserves only beautiful things.

you’re crying because you love him, and you want him to be happy, and you think his happiness is tied to being pretty. you’re crying because in your seventeen-year-old brain, ugly hair equals unhappy satoru, and unhappy satoru is literally your worst nightmare.

it’s such a fundamentally you way to love someone that he almost laughs through his tears. of course you wouldn’t care about his looks in the way his friends think you do. of course you’d care about his looks in the most loving, illogical, completely endearing way possible.

“but you said—”

“i said your hair was gone, not that i was leaving you, you absolute disaster of a human being.” you reach up to touch his head, fingers gentle against the short strands, and your touch is so careful it makes his chest tight. “though i am going to miss running my fingers through it. and tugging on it when you’re being annoying. and the way it stuck up in the morning like you’d been electrocuted.”

you pause, thumb tracing over his temple like you’re memorizing this new version of him. “and i’m going to miss the way you’d let me braid it when i was anxious. and how soft it was when you’d nuzzle into my neck like a puppy. and the way it would catch the light during golden hour and make you look like some sort of angel.”

each word is like a little love letter, and satoru feels his heart expanding in his chest until he thinks it might burst. you’re cataloging all the ways you loved his hair, but really you’re cataloging all the ways you love him.

satoru feels something warm and desperate unfurl in his chest. the hallway around them seems to fade away, the curious stares and whispered conversations becoming white noise. all he can focus on is the way you’re looking at him, like he’s still worth something even when he’s standing there with tears on his face and the world’s worst haircut.

“so you still... you still want to be with me? even though i look like this?”

you’re quiet for a long moment, studying his face with those sharp eyes he fell in love with. your thumb traces along his temple, following the harsh line where his hair meets skin, and he can see you cataloging every detail of this new version of him.

he wonders what you’re thinking. whether you’re trying to reconcile this version of him with the one you’ve been kissing for six months. whether you’re disappointed that the boy you’ve been bragging about to your friends now looks like he belongs in a military recruitment poster.

he thinks about the way you show him off, so casually possessive. the way you introduce him as “my boyfriend” with just a little extra emphasis on the my. the way you straighten his collar before school dances and tell him he’s the prettiest boy in the room, and you say it like it’s a fact, like there’s no room for argument.

then you lean up on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his forehead, right at his hairline where the damage is most obvious.

“you’re still pretty,” you murmur against his skin, breath warm and reassuring. “still mine. still the same boy who bought me coffee every morning for a month because i mentioned once that i was tired. still the same boy who carries my books and walks me to class and lets me steal his hoodies.”

you pull back to look at him, and your expression has gone soft in that way that makes him want to do something stupid like propose. “still the same boy who texts me good morning before he’s even fully awake. still the same boy who remembers that i like my sandwiches cut diagonally and always saves me the corner piece of cake. still the same boy who holds my hand under the table during lunch and draws little hearts on my palm when he thinks i’m not paying attention.”

satoru’s breath catches. he didn’t know you noticed that last one.

“really?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, and he hates how young he sounds. how vulnerable. but you just smile at him, that soft private smile that’s only for him, and reach up to cup his face in your hands.

“really, baby,” you say, and the pet name makes his heart skip. “though i am going to make fun of you for this until it grows back. and i’m going to take so many pictures. and i’m going to show them to our kids someday and tell them about the time daddy was a complete idiot and broke mommy’s heart by cutting off all his pretty hair.”

“our kids?” satoru’s brain short-circuits. the words echo in his head like a bell, and he can feel his face heating up despite everything. “you want to have kids with me?”

you flush pink, pretty color spreading across your cheeks like spilled paint. your eyes go wide like you can’t believe you just said that out loud. “hypothetically. maybe. in the future. if you want. if you don’t mess up your hair again.”

the last part is said with such stern seriousness that satoru can’t help but laugh.

he stares at you—his prickly, bratty, wonderful girlfriend who just cried over his hair and then promised him forever in the same breath—and thinks that maybe suguru and shoko don’t know anything at all. thinks that maybe love isn’t about perfect hair or perfect faces or perfect anything. maybe it’s about someone who’ll sob over your bad decisions and then kiss your forehead anyway.

maybe it’s about someone who gets genuinely upset when you’re hurting, even if you’re hurting over something as stupid as a haircut. maybe it’s about someone who sees you make a terrible mistake and instead of walking away, plants themselves firmly in your corner and prepares to fight the world on your behalf.

maybe it’s about finding someone who thinks you deserve beautiful things, even when you’ve just proven you’re an idiot. someone who plans your future together in the same breath as scolding you for making bad choices.

maybe it’s about someone who loves you so much they cry when you’re ugly, not because they care about your looks, but because they can’t stand the thought of you being anything less than perfect.

“i want,” he says simply, and leans down to kiss you properly.

you taste like strawberry lip gloss and tears and something that might be love, and when you pull away, you’re both grinning like idiots. your hands are still tangled in what’s left of his hair, and he thinks maybe this length has its own advantages.

“i love you too,” he whispers against your lips, because if you can accidentally confess in the middle of a breakdown, then so can he. “i love you so much it makes me stupid.”

“i know,” you say, and you’re smiling so wide it makes your eyes crinkle. “you cut off all your hair because your friends dared you to. if that’s not love-induced stupidity, i don’t know what is.”

“good,” you say, straightening his collar with careful fingers. the gesture is so familiar, so domestic, that it makes his heart skip. you always do this, fix his appearance like you’re sending him off to war instead of first period. “now let’s go find suguru and shoko so i can yell at them for talking my boyfriend into this monstrosity. and then you’re buying me that expensive hot chocolate from the café across the street because emotional trauma requires premium comfort food.”

“anything you want,” he says immediately, because he’s pathetic and in love and would probably agree to rob a bank if you asked nicely enough. “anything.”

you stand on your tiptoes and press one more kiss to his nose, quick and sweet. “i want you to promise me you’ll never cut your hair again without asking me first.”

“i promise,” he says solemnly, and means it. “i’ll never make any major appearance changes without consulting my girlfriend first.”

“good boy,” you say, and the praise makes his chest warm. “now come on, we’re going to be late for class and i refuse to get detention because you had a crisis about your hair.”

satoru laughs, bright and relieved, and thinks that maybe this terrible, terrible mistake might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. because now he knows, with absolute certainty, that you love him for all the right reasons.

even if he does look like a military recruit.

[spaceshipkat]

hmm currently thinking about how Buck recognized Eddie’s nice cologne when he was going on a date. and im also thinking about maybe Eddie asking if Buck wants to go to that new fancy restaurant everyone’s been talking about but Buck didn’t want to go to alone, since he’s single rn and just. not feeling up to dating. he’s sharing Eddie’s house still, now that Eddie and Chris are back, and he’s kinda maybe stopped talking about moving out because it feels so, so good to be under the same roof with two of his favorite people. he hasn’t been to any apartment viewings in ages, and Eddie isn’t asking him about them, so he feels like maybe he can just. stay here a little longer. until he gets the vibe that it’s time to move out (as if that’d ever happen. every morning Eddie walks into the kitchen to find Buck cooking at the stove and Eddie’s coffee already sitting on the island, made exactly how he likes it, Eddie feels just. so unbelievably happy. he can’t confront why yet, but he’ll get there. he will. Bobby—who is alive!!—told him he has time, bc Buck isn’t going anywhere. he’s staying right here with Eddie)

so Eddie asks if Buck wants to go to the new fancy restaurant, and of course Buck says yes (and he’s definitely not calling it a date in his head, bc he knows that’s not what it is: Eddie is straight, after all, and he’s just doing this romantic thing with Buck because that’s just how their friendship works. it doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else), so Eddie says “great, i’ll pick you up at seven,” and Buck just laughs and pretends not to notice Eddie’s cherry-red cheeks. it’s probably just the heat anyway, so Buck turns on the air conditioning. and he spends the day doing busy work so he doesn’t have to think about tonight, even though it’s all he ends up thinking about: what he should wear, how he should do his hair, which aftershave he should put on. because this isn’t a date—Eddie is straight!—but it is a fancy restaurant and Buck doesn’t want to stand out like a sore thumb. so in the end he does dress nice, and he does style his hair, and he does put on his best aftershave, and if Eddie later remarks on it Buck will just point out that Bobby (who is alive!!) told him he should dress to the nines because it’s a fancy restaurant (and who cares if Bobby kinda insinuated it’s a date. it’s not. Eddie is straight!) and Chris helped Buck pick out the right tie and it turned into a little lesson of Buck showing Chris how to tie a tie like Bobby once showed him, so Chris ties Buck’s tie for him and Buck definitely gets a little misty eyed oops

anyway then Buck’s turn in the bathroom is done but he makes sure that Eddie doesn’t see him after he gets dressed bc for some reason he really wants his appearance to be a surprise, so he’s hiding out in the kitchen while Eddie does his thing in the bathroom. Chris is in there with him, and Buck can hear the low rumble of their voices but he purposefully doesn’t listen. (and when it gets too tempting to try to eavesdrop on their conversation, he turns on the garbage disposal)

then Chris steps out of Eddie’s bedroom and says “have fun tonight!” with a waggle of his brows that Buck tries not to recognize from his own damn face (Chris isn’t his kid! however much Buck loves him! no matter that Chris asked Buck if he could go to the park this morning and Buck said yes and gave him cash for the taco truck he and his friends like for lunch and told him to be back by six, and it was only after Chris left that Buck realized he probably should have told him to ask Eddie, seeing as how Eddie is his dad and Buck is…his Buck, so Buck hurried to tell Eddie—who was out in the backyard working on his herb garden, bc his sisters got him into gardening while he was in El Paso—and Eddie just nodded and barely looked up when Buck rambled about where Chris was going, and it’s strange that Eddie isn’t at all concerned or upset but Buck isn’t gonna question that bc he doesn’t want to ruin the vibe of the date that isn’t a date tonight) and Buck’s facing the sink so his back is to the kitchen doorway but then he hears Eddie stop, and it’s quiet for a moment and Buck pretends he can’t feel Eddie’s eyes on him, lets Eddie believe that Buck hasn’t noticed his arrival, and besides he knows Eddie is probably just making sure his slacks aren’t stained with soap bc Buck is going a little nuts on a dirty coffee mug that Eddie used to house a worm until he could find a better place for the worm to live than a flower pot

and then Eddie clears his throat and says, “you look good, Buck,” attempting to be casual, but his voice gives him away: a little raspy, Buck’s name wrapped in heat and affection that Buck knows is just his imagination going wild. and so Buck licks his lips and says, “thanks, Eddie,” like they do this all the time (do they?! Buck feels like he would know if they do this all the time, but then again, so much of his life with Eddie is rote that he barely notices when they’re holding hands in a crowded room so they don’t get lost until he realizes they forgot to ever let go and now they’re holding hands while Chim and Hen see to a patient who called 911), and Eddie asks “you ready?” and Buck breathes in—

and he knows that cologne. it’s Eddie’s nice cologne. the cologne he only ever wears on dates.

—and Buck breathes out.

[luvrgeorge]

BROKE DOWN, BENT OVER | w. lenney

summary: you and will are driving home late at night after a road trip when the car suddenly breaks down. no cell signal, no one around—just the two of you and a playful way to kill time. warnings: mature (mdni), public (ish) sex, sex on a car (yes, on) slight degrading if you squint wc: 4k a/n: another long one but lord forgive me i cant not include every single detail im working on it. anyway hope you enjoy tags: @orlaunderrated @willnees <3

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

you’d had the best week—really, one of those golden, heart-full kind of weeks that makes everything feel light. you visited your boyfriend, will’s, hometown for a few days, met his family who welcomed you like you’d always been part of the furniture, slept in will’s childhood bedroom, youtube memories from his early career still clinging to the walls, everything soaked in nostalgia.

it had all been amazing—except for the drive.

will, in all his confident, slightly-too-proud glory, had insisted that it would be fun to drive there and back. ‘road trips are romantic’ he’d said, grinning, already mapping out the playlist. and, to be fair, the drive there was fine. better than fine. you left early, sunlight dripping through the windows, singing along to old songs, eating service station snacks, stopping once for a coffee break. you arrived mid-afternoon, the day still stretching ahead of you like a welcome mat.

the drive home, though. that was a different story.

you left late—too late, really. will had wanted to squeeze every last minute out of the visit, and you’d agreed, thinking it would be fine. six hours back, home by midnight. you’d sleep in your own bed, wake up feeling fine.

wrong.

everything that could go wrong, did. first, traffic. thick, unmoving traffic that clung to the motorway like syrup. red brake lights in a sea of stillness. an accident ahead, apparently, but no updates. after an hour and a half of waiting, will made the executive decision: take the back roads. ‘quieter’ he’d said. ‘we’ll save time.’

you weren’t sure when exactly the sky had gone from dusky blue to full black, but now it was pitch dark, and the road you were on had no lights—just trees pressing in on both sides, tall and quiet and vaguely menacing. the radio had long given up trying to find signal, and your phones had followed suit: no service.

then, like a cruel joke, the car stuttered. once. twice. then nothing.

a soft, mechanical sigh, and silence.

you both sat there, blinking, waiting for it to come back to life. it didn’t.

so now here you are: seven hours into what was supposed to be a six-hour drive, still two hours from home, parked half on the grass shoulder of some barely paved country road that probably hasn’t seen another car in hours. there’s no service, no light except for the stars and the dim interior car light. it’s quiet—not the peaceful kind, but the eerie, empty kind that makes you feel like you’ve slipped off the edge of the map.

and it’s hot. hotter than you expected for a british summer night.

you glance over at will. he’s frowning at the steering wheel like he can will the car to work again with sheer frustration. you want to be mad—you are mad, a little—but mostly you’re just tired. the kind of tired that makes everything feel a bit unreal, like maybe you’ll wake up in your bed after all and laugh about the dream where you broke down in the middle of nowhere.

but you don’t. you’re still here.

you both stepped out of the car, gasping for fresh air, hoping that the signal would be better outside — it wasn’t.

he muttered something under his breath—sharp, clipped—barely more than a growl as he jabbed at his phone screen. the glow lit up his face in the dark, highlighting the tight set of his jaw, the way his brows were drawn together in pure frustration.

‘come on, come on,’ he hissed, lifting the phone slightly in the air like an inch of altitude might magically summon a signal. his thumb hovered over the screen, thumbed the redial button again. nothing.

‘fuck’s sake,’ he muttered, voice low but heated, pacing a tight little circle in the gravel just beside the car. ‘absolute bullshit. middle of nowhere, twenty-first century, and there’s still no bloody signal.’

he turned the screen toward you like he needed you to see it—blank, empty bars, not even a flicker of a connection. you didn’t say anything. you just watched from where you were perched on the bonnet, arms folded across your chest, the air flowing through the thin fabric of your dress

he redialed again. held the phone up. squinted. nothing.

‘fucking useless,’ he snapped, slamming the phone down on the roof of the car with more force than necessary. it clattered against the metal, the sound ringing too loud in the still air. he didn’t look at you right away, just dragged a hand down his face and exhaled hard through his nose.

you stayed quiet, the weight of the situation settling heavier with every minute that ticked by. he hated not being able to fix things, hated feeling helpless. you could see it in the way he stood—tense, coiled energy barely held in check, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

‘we’re not even that far from the next town,’ he muttered to himself. ‘ten, maybe fifteen minutes… if we could just—’ he stopped himself, teeth pressing into his bottom lip.

you knew he was trying. trying to keep his cool, trying to figure something out. but every option led to a dead end, and it was eating at him.

finally, he looked at you, eyes still stormy with frustration, but softer around the edges now. like he hated that you were caught in this too.

‘i’m sorry,’ he said again, quieter this time. ‘i’ve ruined it, i’m so sorry’

you offered a small nod, the tiniest of smiles pulling at your lips.

‘i know.’

and still, the road stayed silent. no cars. no lights. just the two of you and the stubborn dark, pressing in from all sides.

he moved away from the bonnet, positioning himself between your legs like he belonged there—because he did. his hands found your hips without hesitation, tugging you gently forward until you were right at the edge of the car, your knees parting instinctively to make room for him. his fingers gripped your waist, not tight, but firm—possessive in that quiet, wordless way that made your breath hitch. he tilted your chin up with a single knuckle, and your eyes met his in the low light.

‘hi,’ you murmured, barely above a whisper. your voice felt fragile in the night air.

he let out that quiet laugh of his—the one that puffed out through his nose more than his mouth, a soft huff laced with something fond. something dangerous.

‘hi, gorgeous,’ he said, and he didn’t say it like it was just a greeting. he said it like it was a claim.

then he kissed you—slow, deep, and grounding. there was no rush, no hesitancy, just the heat of his mouth and the way his hands pressed a little harder into your hips like he was reminding you who you belonged to. it wasn’t just affection—it was apology, promise, and possession all folded into one kiss that curled your toes and made your hands clutch at the front of his hoodie.

when he finally pulled back, his lips were pink and slightly swollen, eyes dark and unreadable.

‘you trying to pass time?’ you asked, voice lighter, teasing.

he smirked, and the grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, pulling you forward so your thighs pressed snugly against him.

‘i mean,’ he said, leaning in until his lips just brushed yours again, ‘why not?’

his hands slid down, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, thumbs hooking into the hem of your dress as it inched slowly upward. your breath caught as cool air hit your thighs, his touch featherlight but deliberate. it was enough to make your skin prickle, nerves lighting up under his fingertips.

‘will,’ you whispered, breath shaky, ‘we can’t… not here. what if someone drives past?’

he chuckled again—low, amused, confident—and nuzzled against your neck, lips trailing kisses that burned despite the cold. his voice vibrated against your skin, slow and smug.

‘we’ve been on this road for an hour, baby,’ he murmured, pausing to nip gently at the spot just below your jaw. ‘no cars. no people. just us. if someone drives past now, i’ll be genuinely impressed.’

his hand slipped further up your thigh, coaxing your legs a little wider, and his other hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face back so you were forced to look at him. his eyes were dark, pupils wide, and there was a glint there that made your stomach twist.

‘c’mon, sweet,’ he said, voice low and coaxing but with an edge that brokered no argument. ‘let’s have a bit of fun. don’t let this week end on a miserable note.’

his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, slow, deliberate.

‘i know you want to,’ he added, tone darker now, like a challenge, like he already knew the answer. ‘you gonna let me make it up to you?’

you swallowed hard, your body already leaning into his, heart pounding like it was trying to escape your chest. your brain was screaming logic, but your body? your body was already his.

your hands moved up slowly, fingertips brushing against the back of his neck before sinking into the curls at the base of his skull—soft, familiar. you tugged gently, guiding his face back to yours, your noses brushing for the briefest moment before your lips caught his.

you kissed him deeply, with the kind of urgency that only builds from silence, frustration, and too much time spent waiting. it was an answer—the answer—wordless and certain, your fingers curling tighter into his hair as you pressed your mouth against his.

he exhaled hard through his nose, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time, and kissed you back with a roughness that made your stomach drop. his hand moved instantly, confidently—back to your waist, gripping hard enough to make you gasp.

‘good girl,’ he murmured against your mouth, voice low, laced with heat and satisfaction. his tone shifted—no longer coaxing or playful, but in control now, like a switch had flipped. like now that he had permission, he wasn’t going to take his time.

you were both more than a little touch starved after spending the week at his childhood home—crammed together every night in his too-small single bed, limbs tangled, holding each other close but never daring to cross the line with his family just down the hall. the tension built quietly, simmering under shared glances and late-night whispers. you don’t know exactly when he decided he wanted to fuck you on the hood of his car, but when the engine gave out in the middle of nowhere, no signal, no lights but the stars—well, it felt like the perfect moment. honestly, you both needed the release.

he adjusted his stance, stepping in tighter between your legs, then pushed you back slowly onto the bonnet, one firm hand guiding you down by your waist, the warm metal humming under your back.

his eyes dragged down your body, dark and deliberate. he hiked your skirt up, bunching it around your hips without hesitation, revealing your thin black thong, the lace barely covering anything. he let out a low sound in the back of his throat—half groan, half approval.

‘fuck, look at you,’ he muttered, almost to himself, dragging two fingers along the waistband before tugging it to the side, exposing you completely.

the air hit you cold, but his fingers followed immediately—warm and practiced, tracing over your slit before circling your clit with slow, measured pressure that made your legs twitch.

you whimpered softly, hips shifting instinctively toward his touch, and that made him smile—crooked and dark and just a little cruel. ‘needy already?’ he said, tone mocking but affectionate. ‘we’ve barely started.’

his fingers moved with more intent now, teasing circles around your clit before sliding lower, dipping between your folds, spreading your wetness deliberately. he watched your face as he pushed two fingers inside—slow, but deep—curling them slightly to press against just the right spot.

you moaned, head falling back against the cool windshield behind you, the sound spilling into the still night like a secret.

he leaned over you, free hand braced on the bonnet beside your head, his breath hot against your throat as he began thrusting his fingers steadily, every movement deliberate.

‘keep your eyes on me,’ he said, voice low but firm, thumb brushing over your clit again as his fingers worked inside you. ‘i wanna see you fall apart.’

you did as you were told. because it was will. and because when he looked at you like that—like you were the only thing that mattered—you couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

his eyes never left yours—dark, commanding, fixed on your face like he was memorising every little shift, every flutter of your lashes, every shaky breath you took. his fingers moved with purpose now, curling deep with each thrust, his thumb pressing in tight, perfect circles against your clit, dragging you closer to the edge with no intention of slowing down.

‘that’s it,’ he murmured, voice low and rough, his breath fanning hot across your cheek. ‘so fucking pretty like this. taking it so well for me.’

your hips bucked involuntarily, legs trembling on either side of him. he didn’t let up. if anything, he doubled down—thrusting his fingers harder, pressing his thumb with just a little more pressure, knowing exactly what your body needed without you saying a word.

‘you’re so close, aren’t you?’ he said, his tone dark with satisfaction. ‘feel you tightening around my fingers already. you gonna come for me, sweetheart?’

your only answer was a broken gasp, your head falling back against the bonnet with a thud, mouth parted, eyes fluttering shut despite his earlier order.

he leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear, voice like gravel and silk all at once.

‘eyes on me. now.’

your gaze snapped to his, wide, dazed, desperate—and that earned you a low groan of approval.

‘good girl.’

his pace didn’t falter. slick sounds filled the quiet night, his hand working between your thighs, dragging every twitch, every moan, every helpless whimper from you like it was owed.

‘let go,’ he whispered. he pressed deep, curling his fingers again, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes ‘right on my fucking fingers.’

your body seized, back arching against the bonnet, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto.

‘that’s it—come for me. now.’

and you did.

your orgasm ripped through you like a wave, white-hot and blinding, your mouth falling open around a soundless cry as your body shuddered beneath him. his fingers never stopped, coaxing you through it, dragging out every last pulse of pleasure until you were twitching, breathless, legs shaking around his wrist.

he finally slowed, easing his fingers out gently, his touch soft now, careful. your eyes were glassy, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as you tried to come back to yourself.

he smirked down at you, dragging his fingers through your slick once more, then raising them to his mouth, sucking one clean with a low hum of satisfaction.

‘fuck, you taste good,’ he murmured, then leaned down to kiss you—slow, deep, possessive—like he hadn’t just ruined you against the hood of a broken-down car in the middle of nowhere.

his hands snaked behind your back, strong and unrelenting, gripping your waist as he pulled you upright from the bonnet. your legs were still a little shaky, your breath ragged, but he held you steady. his mouth was right at your ear when he spoke again, voice low and commanding.

‘up now baby, turn around.’

there was no hesitation.

you turned slowly and placed your palms flat against the still-warm surface of the car, bending at the waist. the metal beneath your fingertips vibrated faintly from the cooling engine, grounding you as you settled into position. your back arched instinctively, dress bunched up over your hips, lace thong still pulled aside, your skin completely exposed to the cold night air.

behind you, will let out a dark, appreciative hum.

‘fuck, look at you,’ he muttered, more to himself than to you.

you heard the familiar sound—his belt unfastening, the soft metal clink of it slipping through the loops. the shuffle of fabric as he pushed his jeans down just enough.

you tried to glance over your shoulder, needing to see him, but his hand found the back of your head before you could get a proper look. his fingers slid into your hair, wrapping around the strands near the base of your neck. he didn’t yank, didn’t pull, just guided your head back down, forcing your gaze forward.

‘don’t move,’ he said quietly. ‘eyes forward. you don’t get to watch. you get to feel.’

his grip was firm—controlled, unshakable—the kind of grip that sent a hot pulse straight through your core.

and then you felt him.

the slow press of his tip at your entrance, teasing just barely, dragging across your folds like he had all the time in the world. your body arched further in anticipation, needing him to stop playing, to take.

‘you feel so dirty right now, don’t you?’ he murmured, his tone dark and laced with smug satisfaction. he leaned over you, chest brushing against your back. ‘bent over the bonnet of my car… ass in the air… getting fucked in the middle of nowhere like it’s exactly where you belong.’

you opened your mouth to speak, to protest, to agree—but you didn’t get the chance.

he thrust in hard, burying himself deep in a single, ruthless motion that stole the breath right out of your lungs.

you cried out, the sound caught between a moan and a gasp, echoing into the open air, swallowed by the wind. your hands braced against the bonnet as he pulled back and drove into you again—fast, relentless.

his grip tightened in your hair, keeping you still, keeping you his, and his other hand slid over your hip, holding you in place like you might try to escape—though you never would. not from this. not from him.

‘so fucking tight,’ he growled, each word a punch of air against your ear. ‘like your body knows who it belongs to.’

he set a brutal rhythm, every thrust driving you forward slightly on the metal surface, his hips snapping against you with precision, with intent. and all you could do was take it—every thrust, every word, every ounce of control he held over your body in that moment.

any fear, any flicker of anxiety about being so exposed—bent over a car in the open air, skin bare to the night, moaning into the wind—was long gone, driven out of you with every punishing thrust of his hips.

it didn’t matter anymore. not the road. not the silence. not the risk.

whatever concern you’d had about someone driving past, about being caught like this—blatantly, shamelessly his—was gone. burned away by the way he moved inside you, how he owned every inch of your body without apology.

his grip on your hip tightened, his other hand still buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place as he thrust into you with relentless, bruising rhythm. the wet slap of skin against skin echoed in the night, shameless and loud, and still—no one came. no cars. no headlights. just the two of you, lost in it.

you could feel it building again—heat curling low in your belly, your legs shaking, your moans coming quicker now, raw and breathless. he knew. of course he knew.

he leaned in over your back, his chest flush against you, his mouth finding your ear again.

‘you gonna come for me again, sweet girl?’ he murmured, voice strained now, rougher, breath catching just slightly on the edges. ‘gonna let me feel you lose it all over my cock?’

you whimpered something between yes and please, your head nodding slightly under his grip.

‘that’s it,’ he growled, pace never faltering, driving you closer and closer to the edge. ‘don’t hold back. i want every bit of it. make a mess on me—just like that.’

his fingers slipped down between your thighs again, finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing tight, filthy circles as he kept thrusting into you, faster now, his own breathing sharp and uneven.

the pressure inside you snapped—your orgasm crashing through you in waves, your body going rigid beneath him before it trembled uncontrollably. you cried out into the night, your voice broken and raw, every nerve alight, clenching around him so hard it dragged a deep, guttural moan from his chest.

‘fuck—’ he bit out, hips stuttering for the first time. ‘fuck, baby—just like that. god, you feel so—’

he didn’t finish the sentence. didn’t need to.

he spilled into you moments later, his grip bruising on your ass, forehead resting against the back of your neck as he rode out every last pulse of it, both of you breathless, spent, your bodies tangled in sweat and heat and satisfaction.

for a long moment, neither of you moved.

just the sound of your breathing, the creak of cooling metal beneath you, the stillness of the world beyond.

and then will finally let out a low, shaky breath, kissed the side of your shoulder, and murmured against your skin:

‘well… if no one comes to fix this car, at least we found a decent way to kill the time.’ he chuckled, breath hitting your neck.

the air was still heavy, warm with the lingering haze of what had just happened. will rested against your back for another moment, one hand smoothing gently over your hip now, his earlier dominance softened into something quieter, more tender. he pressed a kiss to your shoulder—slow and grounding—before pulling back.

‘you alright?’ he murmured, breath ghosting over your skin.

you nodded, still half-draped over the bonnet, your legs shaky but your body loose, boneless. satisfied.

‘mhm,’ you managed, eyes fluttering shut for a second. ‘i don’t think i’ll ever look at your car the same way again.’

he laughed—low, breathy, real. the kind that warmed your chest.

‘good,’ he said. ‘was hoping to leave an impression.’

he stepped back, tucking himself in, buckling his belt with quick movements, and then reached for you, helping you up with a gentle pull. your legs wobbled slightly when you stood, and he caught you easily, his hands finding your waist like second nature.

‘steady,’ he smirked. ‘might’ve overdone it a little.’

you gave him a tired, teasing glare as you tugged your skirt back down, smoothing it out with half-hearted swipes. your hair was a mess, your lips kiss-swollen, your thighs sticky—but none of it mattered. not right now.

will turned to grab his hoodie from the front seat, offering it to you wordlessly. you took it, pulling it over your head, drowning in the scent of him.

just as he was leaning against the car again, pulling out his phone out of sheer habit, he froze.

‘no fucking way,’ he muttered, staring down at the screen.

you blinked at him. ‘what?’

he turned the phone toward you.

one bar. not much. but it was something.

you both stared at it like it might disappear again, holding your breath.

he quickly hit redial. the phone rang. once, twice—then clicked.

‘yes! hi—yeah, we’ve broken down, no signal until just now. yeah—yeah, we’re fine. just… need someone to come out. soon as possible.’

you smiled to yourself as he gave the details of your whereabouts, voice calm and clipped now, all business. his free hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they always did—easily, naturally.

when he hung up, he looked over at you, brow raised.

‘help’s on the way. about thirty minutes, they said.’

you leaned into his side, your head resting against his shoulder.

‘guess we’ve still got time to kill.’

he smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple.

‘not sure the car can handle round two.’

masterlist

[hoonstrology]

i saw you were looking for asks!! how would error 404 sunghoon react to sleeping with reader for the first time? i don't mean sleeping as in sex but like he's over at her place or vice versa and they sleep in the same bed. or what if one of them struggles to sleep and is constantly moving too in the bed lol

＃ surprise sleepover .ᐟ

   ⤷  ꒰ an e404-boyfriend!sunghoon drabble. ꒱

⤷  can be read as a stand-alone. ┆ for context, read e404 here! ⤷  contains — 1.4k words. suggestive content. (mdni.) est. relationship. loser bf!sunghoon. (we cheered!) kind-of-perv!hoon comeback. fluff. not proofread. ⤷ main masterlist.  ┆ series masterlist.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ reblogs and replies are highly appreciated! 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

the most you two have done was kiss.

sure, sunghoon's hands wandered to the curve of your ass or to your inner thigh during especially steamy make-out sessions, but you've never actually done the deed. 

not yet, at least.

so when you told him to stay over for the night for the first time ever, he froze in the middle of packing his bag.

eyes wide, half bent down, hand clutching on a book to ground himself.

he'd like to think that he's been a respectful boyfriend. though your friendship has lasted for more than a year, your relationship was still fragile. young. barely 3 months old. 

you've never asked for anything more than a kiss, and he never crossed that line despite dreaming of what it would be like on the other side. 

maybe tonight would change that.

"so is that a yes?" you half-shout from your bedroom, footsteps pattering on the wooden floor and your bare face peeking out from behind the door frame.

"huh?" 

"i said you should just stay over tonight." you spoke like it was just a casual offer. like it wasn't making sunghoon's heart rattle inside his ribs. 

because at the end of the day, he's just a man. one full of hormones— of need. 

"w-why?" his voice came out like that of a kid who doesn't know whether he's getting rewarded or punished. and that's pretty much how it is right now. 

"are you crazy? i'm not going to make you drive through the storm. auntie would kill me." you laughed, sauntering over to gently lay a stack of clothes on the coffee table.

oh. 

oh, okay. 

you didn't want sex, you were just making sure your boyfriend stayed safe. 

right. 

"my brother left some of his clothes here. i'm pretty sure he wouldn't mind if you borrowed it for a night." 

you stepped out of your bathroom door in an adorable pajama set to see sunghoon running his fingers through his freshly dried hair. you didn't even notice he was wearing jeonghan's clothes because they look so different on him. 

the gray wife-beater was a tighter fit, making his muscular arms look even bigger than how they feel whenever you held them. and the gray sweatpants were hung low on his hips, showing you just a sliver of his smooth and fair skin.

good lord did he look like sin personified.

if only he didn't look so goofy with his back practically pressed against the wall.

"what are you doing?" you asked.

"i... uh— i was waiting.. i was— w-where's the spare blanket?" he stammered, and you raised an eyebrow in confusion. 

"what for?" 

"for the couch?" 

"why would you put a blanket on a couch?" 

“angel, it’s for me.”

"i thought it was for the couch?” 

"no, i mean— i’m gonna use it when i sleep there."

no one spoke while you two exchanged befuddled looks. 

"you have to be insane." you finally scoffed, pulling him towards your bed and grunting out his name when you felt him resisting. eventually, you managed to push him to lie down on your bed, throwing the duvet over his body and pointing a finger.

"you'll sleep here. with me. understood?"

he meekly nodded, flashing you those damn puppy eyes that you know could guarantee him a way out of any crime— and you almost gave in. but you turned around to dry your hair, replacing the silence with the loud wheeze of your blower. 

he's been in your bedroom. he ate chinese takeouts with you on the floor, has sat on this same vanity seat, and napped on the same damn bed stomach down on multiple occasions. 

for him to even imply that you'll let him sleep on your cheap couch was a blow to your sunghoon-loving ego. 

the linen-colored walls turned a shade warmer from the soft glow of your lamp after you turned off the big lights. you head to bed and closed your eyes, letting the song of rain and rumbling thunder lull you to sleep. 

but you're only afforded a few minutes of true rest when you feel your body dip from your boyfriend shifting. 

a few more minutes and then another one. 

again.

you heard another squeak and you’ve had enough.

you sat up and sighed, arms crossed over your chest. "have you never slept over a girl's house before?" 

"what? of course i have!" he's laid on your sheets, blanket covering his lower half, brows furrowing at your words like you've accused him of murder. “i don’t mean to brag but i’ve slept in a lot of girl’s houses.”

you snort. "okay, mister popular. why are you so antsy then?" 

"'m not." 

"sunghoon." you flashed him a look and he sighs, pulling the blanket up higher to cover half his face, grumbling. "i don't know. it's my first time sharing a bed with you... it feels weird. in a good way. but also in a weird way." 

how your boyfriend can switch from looking like an irritated sex god to an absolute cute fluff ball within a second is beyond you.

you wanted to snap back but he’s always been a very sentimental person, always caring for the firsts he shared with you, always cooing when you let him in on new information about yourself. 

it does nothing but make your voice soften.

"baby, it's fine. you don’t have to be nervous. it's not like we're gonna fuck."

he’s quiet but you felt the bed dip when he squirmed, and suddenly, it all made sense. 

"oh my god. you thought we were going to fuck when i asked you to sleep over, didn't you?" you say with a wicked smirk tugging on a corner of your lips. 

"n-no!" 

"you totally did!" 

he narrowed his eyes at you and clicked his tongue, his body bouncing a little as he turns around to face the wall with a huff. you can’t help but chuckle at his childishness. you laid down again, wrapping your arms around him from behind, chin hooked on his shoulder before pressing a kiss on the soft skin of his neck.

“you've been thinking about that all night, huh?”

"angel, ask any man my age what 'stay over for the night' means and they'll all say the same shit i would." he sighed. 

you let out a loud laugh, your hand resting over his abdomen to give it a pat. "i'm sorry if i gave you that impression, my love." you muttered, tracing shapes on the thinly clothed skin before hugging him tighter.

he relished the feeling of being the little spoon— a first, among the many firsts you’ve taken from him. the warm lamps you had adorning your room was no match for the naturality of the one he gets from your touch. but your apology made the loving hold you had on him feel a little too suffocating. 

sunghoon turned around to look at you with an expression you’ve grown familiar with: guilt. 

he wrapped you around his arms, bringing your head to his chest so he could press a kiss on your hair. “don’t be sorry, angel. i should be the one apologizing. you don’t owe me anything, mm? if you want to take your time before wanting to do… it with me,—” he clears his throat. “then i’ll be fine waiting.”

you leaned back and stretched just enough for you to place a peck on the corner of his lips. “i’m not opposed to doing it right now," you mock. "but it’s so cozy and warm like this. i like being held by you. makes me feel fuzzy.” 

you giggled and did a little restrained dance in his hold. you let your head rest on his bicep, letting out a soft sigh as you snuggled against him further, tangling your legs with his and whispered a soft ‘i love you’ before closing your eyes.

the words, no matter how much time has passed or how much they’ve been repeated, still made his cheeks warm.

sunghoon softened, squeezing you in his hold and returned the same words to you, sealing it with a kiss on your forehead.

"good night, pengoo."

"good night, my angel."

he decided, at this very moment, that no amount of mind-blowing sex, no amount of intimacy, could make him feel as fulfilled as he does being the one to hold you and keep you safe as you drifted to sleep.

꒰ from ! 🐰 yan ꒱⠀⠀ eep !!! still very new to writing so i'm sorry if this isn't as good. i also dunno if this is what anon meant, but i hope it's good enough. sigh. as much as i love perv!hoon, my heart just beats a little stronger for wholesome loser bf!hoon. (ᵕ—ᴗ—) send your drabble requests in my ask! i'm accepting e404!hoon ideas or just general ideas for any enha members. ♡

⌗ taglist (open) — @zerocoded

© hoonstrology 2025. please don't translate, plagiarize, steal, or repost any of my works.

[theobservatory]

｡⁠☆Brain Fog｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+⁠ 

☆Clark x reader

☆Cw: no pronouns, no use of y/n, memory issues, dissociation(?), complete self projection from the author

Dating Clark is the easiest thing you have ever done. He's doting, attentive, kind, and gorgeous. For the first time in your life it seems you've landed a 10/10. Sure, we all have our flaws, but Clarks seem almost miniscule compared to people you've dated in the past. It feels good, maybe a little embarrassing, to be known and cared for like he does for you.

You try your best to return the favor whenever you can. That's the only hard part about your relationship. You don't think Clark's caught on, not that you're hiding your less than efficient brain from him, but you'd also rather not point it out.

Currently Clark is standing beside your desk. He's leaned against the wall in your home office/guest bedroom, chatting and watching you work. He knows you're only half paying attention, just wanting to be in your presence in whatever way possible at the moment.

You're not sure when you completely stopped hearing what he said. When his soft voice turned into muddled droning that you can't quite parse out. It must've been the same time your brain started feeling like lead, when the paper you've been typing started to become gibberish.

Clark notices the moment you stop typing. He's smiling at first, ready to steal your attention for the rest of the day, until he sees your face. His smile pulls into concern.

"You okay?"

"Yeah- sorry, I'm alright. Creative juices just stopped flowing I guess."

More like it was washed away in a river. Every time you try to read the words your brain becomes static, and anything you try to type falls through your fingers before it can reach the page. You glare at your computer screen.

"I need a break." You sigh.

"Good. It was getting lonely talking to myself over here."

You snort. "Shut up Clark."

You probably should've sat down and explained your memory problems to Clark in this moment, he gave you the perfect opening to do it. But no, you brushed it off like you always do, because it didn't seem like that big of a deal. A little brain fog is normal when you work a high stress job like you do.

Still, this didn't become apparent to you until around a week later, when Clark had stayed over.

It's not strange for you to wake up and not know where you are, even when you wake up in your own bedroom. You're so used to it you don't even bat an eye when you sit up dazed and confused. Clark, ever the attentive lover, does though. He notices immediately that something is off.

"Darlin'?"

You look at him cluelessly. You have no clue where you are, and you don't know who this man is. He seems awfully familiar with you, he is sleeping in bed with you, and he doesn't seem nefarious. You're sure you'd know if he was, even though in this moment you don't know anything.

"I don't know where I am." You say flatly.

You don't ask for help, because you don't need it. Nothing is familiar to you, but you feel like you know it anyway. Even Clark's large hand on your forehead only feels like a distant piece of a memory, even though he's right here.

"You feeling okay?"

You shrug, and slide out of bed. Clark follows on your heels like a herding dog.

It's not until you step out of your bedroom and into the rest of your apartment that everything rushes back. It's like a bulb in your brain ticks on, shedding light on all your memories. You also haven't forgotten that a very concerned Clark is hovering over your back as you stand in the middle of your living room.

"Darlin'?" He asks again.

"I'm okay." You groan, embarrassed. "Sorry that was a whole- thing. I don't know. Sorry for worrying you."

"Thing?"

So you start to talk. You explain how you lapse in memory pretty frequently. You explain how he saw it for the first time in your office last week. You explain how it seemed to pop up out of nowhere one day, and you've been dealing with it long enough that it doesn't stress you out anymore. It's just a part of your life now.

Clark is clearly not satisfied by your explanation.

"So you've never gone to the doctor for it, even once?"

"No. I don't know how to explain what I feel. It's not like it happens outside my own house very often, so I figured it's fine."

You don't mention the multiple times you've completely forgotten where your house is, as well as your address, and had to ask a friend for help. Bringing it up wouldn't be very indicative of your point.

Clark's jaw drops. "You don't even want to find out what's wrong?"

"It's not a big deal."

"N-Not a big deal? 'Not a big deal' she says."

"It really isn't. I'm managing it, just leave it alone, okay?"

He doesn't bring it up again, but his eyes trail you until he goes home. They're big and blue and sad. It makes you feel a little guilty, almost guilty enough to let him stay another night, but you feel like you've been scrutinized enough for a few days.

After this he somehow becomes even more aware of you. He seems to always notice when the fog slips in, even before you do. He treats you like normal, and explains things if you ask questions. It's nice. You even prefer this new arrangement over him ignoring it entirely.

One day, when he was back over at your apartment, really only staying for dinner, but half the time when he says that he ends up spending the night. You felt the fog come over your mind, sluggish and blurry. You were in the middle of cooking, which you should know, the stove is on, there's a pan in your hand, you can smell the food cooking, but you can't seem to figure out what you're doing.

Clark, as of sensing something wrong, is behind you in a second. His arms wrap around you from behind, and he rests his chin on your head. You can feel low vibrations of his chest as he talks.

"You doing okay?"

"I can't remember what I'm doing."

You know it's obvious. You know you should be able to connect the dots, but you're lost. It's like you can't even begin to figure out what you're looking at, despite standing in your own kitchen.

"That's okay." He kisses your cheek, and lifts you onto the counter. "I'll take it from here."

The pan is removed from your hands and you're content to watch your boyfriend shuffle around your kitchen. The longer you sit there, the more that comes back to you, but you're still content to just watch. Clark's doing a good job, he looks in his element, domestic. It's good. You feel good.

Normally after a lapse like that you'd be scrambling to salvage your burned pans, or trying to force your brain back on track. Now though, you feel safe enough to take it slow, to let yourself come back on your own. That's something you've never had before.

For a moment, you're stuck staring at your boyfriend. Your vision shortens to only focus on him. The way his back muscles move, his slightly wavy hair, his fingers gripping your pan. You feel so overtaken with adoration that it suffocates you.

"Clark?" You call.

"Mhm?"

"I love you."

His eyes flick away from the stove to focus on you. His pupils seem to swell, much larger and faster than any humans would- like a cat's eye. His whole face softens and his shoulders go slack with it, like the weight of the world has dropped off them.

"I love you too." He plants a kiss on your forehead, and turns back to the food, slightly more relaxed than before.

Hey guys, does anyone know what the fuck is wrong with me /hj. But like dead ass. One time I completely forgot where I was in my bathroom while I was washing my hands and for the life of me couldn't figure out why TF the sink water was running, despite my hands being covered in soap.

I have a burn on my arm from grabbing a pizza pan with oven mitts on, but mid action forgot how to hold the pan and just fucking held it and let it burn me and I couldn't figure out why my arm hurt.

Don't get me started with how hard writing can be for me. Dear. God. This is complete self projection, I need this man NOW.

｡⁠☆Requests Open

[jujukaisenslut]

currently thinking about choso who gets hard every time reader lowkey bullies him.

reader isn’t super mean to our precious choso. just little things like calling him dumb, or being demanding, or shoving him really turns him on.

——————————————

You walk in on Choso who is whisking what looks like some type of batter. You don’t miss the slight frown on his face, and the slight furrow in his brows in his focused state.

“Whatchya makin’?” You ask lightheartedy. Choso looks up, his face softening to a relaxed expression when he sees you.

“I wanted to bake a cake, but the batter seems very runny.” Choso replies, the furrowed brows and the slight frown coming right back.

“Well how much water did you put in it?” You ask, looking at the box that the cake mix came in, looking at the instructions.

“1 3/4s a cup.” Choso replies confidently, so sure that the box says 1 3/4s a cup.

“The box says 3/4s a cup.” You laugh. Choso grabs the box and checks it himself to see where he went wrong. And sure enough, the box says 3/4s a cup of water.

“Oops” Choso sighs.

“Dumbass.” You laugh. You turn to walk to the fridge to find a snack, not waiting on Choso’s reaction to the lighthearted insult.

“Don’t say that” Choso whines.

“Dumbasssss” You repeat, just to push Choso’s buttons.

“Stop” Choso insists in a whiny tone. You laugh and look up to see Choso’s flustered face. And you just so happen to notice the tent in his pants. Your jaw drops.

“Are you hard?” You ask, shocked. Choso averts his gaze.

“…Maybe.” Choso replies sheepishly. You sit there and laugh at him for a good ten seconds.

“You have a degrading kink?” You laugh.

“…Yes” Choso admits begrudgingly.

“Whore.” You say, awaiting his reaction. Choso’s face turns redder, and the tent in his pants becomes a little painful for him.

“Shut up” He says quietly. You laugh and drag him to the bedroom.

“Oh no you don’t.” You shove him onto the bed.

——

Later, Choso has hickies and handprints all over him. And he’s very pleased.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

hey guys what the helly its been so long since i’ve actually written something. after this its probably gonna be another year til i get the motivation to write something again. you matter!! love ya!!

[geeeedub]

kenma kozume x reader SMUT

tags: THIS IS PURE FILTH, undertones of dom(ish)!reader and sub! kenma but idk rlly. just pure filth use protection yall

kenma softly tugged at your sleeve. the two of you had been invited to go eat out with the nekoma boys for a reunion. it was loud, maybe too loud for him. he faked a smile and tried (failed) to immerse himself in the conversation. eventually, he convinced you to tell everyone you weren’t feeling very well and that the two of you were leaving.

on the ride home, you quickly found out the real reason he wanted to leave so urgently. his hands were all over you. you struggled to keep focused on the road as you listened to his soft pleas for you, groping and working around any piece of you he could touch.

“kozume” you warned, “wait until we get home.”

he huffed in his seat, dramatically falling back. he murmured something about how you’re mean and always make him wait. you kept that in mind as you pulled into your driveway. calmly and carefully exiting the car. walking inside and taking off your shoes, kenma was quick to get his hands all over you. you swatted his prying hands away.

“go to the room, i’ll be there soon” you requested flatly.

naturally, he obeyed. solemnly making his way up to your shared room. you made sure to take your time unpacking leftovers and scrolling through your phone, showing him what waiting really is. eventually you decided to meet him in the bedroom. where he sat only in his boxer, scrolling through his phone aswell. he glanced at you, then quickly back down at his phone.

“yeah?” he mumbled, not taking his eyes off his phone.

before he could react, you snatched his phone. kenma tried to protest but you attached his lips to his. you didn’t waste time by starting your kisses off slow. as soon as your lips were connected your tongues intertwining, saliva mixing, and quiet whimpers. he pulls away, enjoying the sight of you on top of him.

“need to be in you” he caresses your face, thumb tracing over your lips. you take his thumb in between your mouth without breaking eye contact.

you kissed down his neck, nibbling on the sensitive part near his collar bone. then working your way down his chest. finally, you kiss all around the waistband of his boxers. you help him out of his boxers, kissing his angry tip.

you crawl back up his body, aligning yourself with his throbbing length. kenma let out a low groan as he felt you envelop him, his back arching slightly off the bed. "a-ah... doll..." he breathed out, hands flying to your hips to steady himself. he looked up at you with hazy, lust-filled golden eyes, biting his plump lower lip.

"nghn... you feel so good. so tight n�� warm around me," kenma panted softly, thumb brushing over your cheek. he bucked his hips up slightly, relishing the sensation of being fully sheathed inside you.

his other hand slid up your side, tracing the curve of your waist and the dip of your lower back. kenma’s chest heaved with each shaky breath he took, you can’t help but notice how his legs slightly trembled.

"come here" he groans, tugging you down by the hips until your chests were flush together. kenma captured your lips in a searing kiss, tongue delving into your mouth to taste you deeply. you swallowed his whimpers and moans, his hand fisted in your hair while the other kneaded the flesh of your ass.

kenma pouted as you slapped his hand away, his bottom lip jutting out in an adorably bratty manner.

“awe, poor kitty” you pout condescendingly.

you bounce on his length, over and over for what feels like hours. fucking him so good until he’s on the brink of ecstasy, then cruelly ripping it from his hands. kenma whines and writhes beneath you, his body trembling with pent-up desire.

"please, baby, please.. can't take it anymore!" he begs, voice cracking with desperation. "need t’ touch you, need to feel your skin”

the way he’s wincing sounds like he’s in pain, funny because he’s feeling quite the opposite. his hips buck up erratically as you continue to ride him, chasing your own pleasure while denying him his release. beads of sweat form on kenma’s brow, his chest heaving.

kenma pants heavily, his voice rising in pitch as he begs.

“please, ‘m so close... can't hold back!" he grips the sheets beneath him, knuckles turning white from the strain. his eyes are low, hazy with lust and desperation.

"i'll do anything, anything. just please let me touch you, taste you, feel you.. ‘m begging you" he bucks up hard against you, a strangled moan tearing from his throat. "i’m gonna cum if you keep teasing me like this. i need you.”

you halt for moment, deciding on what his fate might be. feeling kind, you decide to let him finish. you run your hands through his hair, then down to his face, neck, and then down to his body. you trace the faint abs he had, sure kenma wasn’t the buffest, but god was he lean.

“go ahead, honey. you’ve been good for me” you announced.

as soon as your permission was granted, kenma's hands were everywhere. groping and caressing every inch of your skin he could reach. he squeezed your breasts roughly, rolling and pinching your nipples between his fingers.

“hah…” he panted “hmm’ gonna cum, please let me. please, needa cum inside you so so bad”

you felt bad. poor boy was blabbering almost nonsense. with the nod of your head, he was cumming. kenma cried out, voice raw with ecstasy as he finally found his release. his body convulsed beneath you, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass as he pulled you flush against him once again. he shuddered and twitched, hot seed spilling deep inside you as he fucked you through the intense waves of his climax.

hazy golden eyes met yours, pupils blown wide with lust and satisfaction. a lazy, smug grin spread across his face.

"mm... you’re always so good t’ me," he purred, nuzzling into your neck. His hands continued their exploration of your curves, now gentler and more appreciative.

you got up, although he protested, to go clean yourself up. you quickly made your way back to bed and snuggling back into bed with your lover.

“i love you, kozu’” you said, curling up onto his bare chest.

“i love you more” he sleepily mumbled, before falling asleep with his favorite person on his chest.

[breakmeoff]

Good Pup

pairing: sub!seungmin x fem reader

warnings: swearing, degradation, praise, usage of "mama" and "pup" SMUT: oral (f receiving), usage of toys (m receiving), light bondage (m receiving). MDNI, 18+ only*

word count: 2.3k

synopsis: you bring home a new toy for your pup to play with, but first need to remind him not to give you so much sass beforehand.

note: all of the other depraved writers out there have made me go feral for subby seungmin, and that pegging req i got during my event has been stuck in my head. i fear that there may be more where this comes from. as always, thanks for reading. :)

Masterlist

“You really don’t listen very well, do you?” You asked dryly, eyeing your boyfriend who was sprawled out on the couch nonchalantly as all hell.

“Whatever do you mean?” Seungmin replies, dry as hell, barely lifting his eyes over the top of his phone to look at you.

Kicking your shoes off and dropping your purse on the table by the door, you padded barefoot inside, swinging a shopping bag loosely from one crooked finger. “Pretty sure I gave you some pretty basic instructions for when I got home.”

Sitting up straighter, he pulled back the lapel of his button down shirt, revealing the black leather collar hanging around his throat. “You mean this one?”

Stepping closer with a small smirk on your lips, you nodded once, pausing before him to reach down and flick the silver name-tag that hung in the hollow of his throat. “Hmm, guess my Good Pup halfway listened after all.”

Looking up to you from his seated position, a blank expression still on his face, he gestured to the bag before dropping his hands on his thighs. “What’s in the bag?”

“Seeing as you didn’t fully comply to my request earlier, I’m not sure you deserve it.” You shrugged lightly, opening the top of the bag to peek inside briefly even though you obviously knew what it was.

“And ohhh, you wanna deserve it…” you added with a sly grin.

Sighing dramatically, Seungmin pushed himself to his feet, towering over you as you stood before him. “You’re annoying.”

Just as he turned to walk towards your shared bedroom, you reached up and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back to sneer into his ear. “And for all of that damn sass, now you get to crawl to the bedroom.”

Seungmin hissed with the pain of your tug, groaning a little as the lilt in your voice turned to that of venom. Hesitant, through gritted teeth, he slowly lowered himself to his hands and knees. “Yes Mama.”

Letting go of his hair, you waited a few seconds before you followed him into the other room. With a slight chuckle, you mused. "Y'know, you'd look really cute with a tail. Maybe I should get you one for Christmas." He didn't reply.

Once inside your bedroom, Seungmin paused at the foot of the bed before he instinctively reached underneath and pulled out the padded dog bed. You had no pets. This was reserved for one reason and one reason only.

Just before he went to crawl into position on top of the cushioned bed, you stopped him. "Strip first." Dropping the bag on top of the king sized bed, you turned to your dresser and pulled the matched leather leash off of the top and turned back to your boyfriend.

Now, having folded his clothes politely and placed them on the floor to the side, he crawled back into position, kneeling on the dog bed and looked up to you. As you reapproached him, you reached for the loop on his collar and clipped the leash into place.

"There. Now you're ready."

Seungmin's eyes were dark, and though he looked and acted as if he was miserable with this whole charade, the reaction of his body was telling a different story. His now exposed flesh and position gave the perfect view of his cock, growing harder by the second and turning a darker shade of pink.

Moving between Seungmin and the bed, you took a seat at the edge of it and parted your legs, causing your short dress to hike up your toned thighs and expose your delicate pink panties below. A darkened, slightly damp patch could be seen perfectly from his angle.

"Because you've been such a good boy for me now... I think I'll give you your present. Would you like that?" You teased, wrapping his leash around one hand as you grabbed the shopping bag again.

"Yes please, Mama." His voice was still firm, but just looking down at his fully erect cock which was now resting against his lower abdomen, you could tell he was trying to play it cool.

Reaching into the bag, you pulled out a vibrating cock and ball ring. Holding the new silicone toy in front of him, you watched his eyes roam over the new toy while he swallowed roughly. "Best part... is I can control it from an app on my phone. So if you behave like a good boy, I promise to treat you like one."

Sensing his hesitation, you inched it closer to him. "Go on, put it on. I can already tell you're intrigued..." you teased, your foot moving between his legs to gently rest under his sack, getting a slight reaction from him.

A minute or so later, Seungmin had aptly affixed the new toy, and his eyes were focused now on his dick, getting redder by the second. His lips were parted, and he took a shaky inhale, already enjoying the squeezing sensation already presented just by being on.

Now with your phone in one hand, you free index finger went to the on button on your phone, and a soft buzzing could be heard as the toy kicked on, and Seungmin sucked in a breath. "Ohh..." he mumbled, somewhere with a mix of shock and pleasant surprise.

With a soft chuckle, you tugged on his leash lightly, forcing his attention back to you. "Can't let you have all the fun now..." Spreading your legs again, you pulled his leash down enough to guide his head between your thighs, leaving no guess as to what you wanted him to do next.

His eyes lifted to yours as he lowered his face into the apex of your thighs, and brushed the tip of his nose against the darkened, moist patch of fabric covering your pussy. Inhaling your scent briefly, Seungmin moaned lightly, extending his tongue to drag a wide stripe up your clothed cunt. "Good boy..." you murmured, praising him momentarily.

Just as he was about to lap at you again, you tugged his collar back with a short tsking sound. "Panties off. With your teeth."

"Yes Mama..." he said softly, manuevering his mouth to your right hip, grasping the fabric of your panties between his teeth and tugged it down, before doing the same to the fabric on your left hip. Once he shimmied it down further, you lifted your hips in an effort to assist.

Moving back to your center, Seungmin's teeth clasped the front of your panties and began tugging them down as you spiked the vibration of his toy up just enough to break his concentration. Opening his mouth to moan, your panties snapped back in place and he pressed his forehead to your thigh, raising his hips at the intense feeling of the toy at that magnitude.

"I didn't tell you to stop, Pup. Keep going." Shakily, he lifted his head, panting his breath as he looked up at you with his hooded eyes and clasped your panties back between his teeth, roughly pulling them down your thighs and letting them fall to your ankles. Using his hands, he pulled the material completely off of you and tossed them to the side, moving his hands to slide back up your inner thighs.

With your fingertip still controlling the intensity and speed of the vibrations, you brought it back down to a mild buzzing, allowing Seungmin to take a deep breath and try to regain some composure. "What do you think of the new toy so far, Pup?"

"It feels good... kind of scared to see what all it can do." He admitted, his large hands pushing your thighs apart.

With a short tug of his leash, you corrected him. "Pups don't have hands... you know better than that."

"Sorry Mama..." he mumbled, moving his hands to rest on his bare thighs before he leaned back between your legs and took one more large lap of his tongue against your soaked pussy. Groaning at your taste, he nuzzled into you a bit further as his tongue teased your folds.

"Good Boy..." you sighed, one hand resting behind you on the bed for stability, and your other moved to another button on the app, making the vibrating toy start to pulse rhythmically around his cock and balls.

The new pulsating vibrations caused him to moan into your cunt, his lips moving to your clit as he sucked it into his mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue against your sensitive bundle of nerves almost now in time to the persistent pattern of the throbbing he was feeling.

Starting to truly feel the effects of his new toy, and wanting nothing more than to please you, Seungmin began lapping at your wet pussy, nuzzling into your warmth like a man starved.  Dipping his thick tongue inside your entrance, you moaned lewdly, rocking your hips in time with his movements.  “Fuck I love your tongue, always so good for me…” 

Dragging your fingertip back over the screen of the app, you intensified the vibrations speed, and the pulsations changed to a new rhythm, throwing him for a loop as he groaned into your wet cunt.  Pulling his tongue out only to curse under his breath, he doubled down his efforts and began licking and suckling at every part of your soft skin, becoming pussy drunk and afraid of becoming distracted by his own pleasure.

“Mama… shit you taste so good, pussy so sweet for me…”  He babbled, the firm tip of his tongue went back to expertly licking your clit, flicking at it perfectly before his wet lips surrounded it and he began sucking enough to cause your back to arch and your hand to fly to the back of his head.  

“Jesus, fuck, Minnie… yes, right there…” you cried, wrapping one of your legs over his shoulder to keep him in place as you began grinding your pussy against his mouth, chasing whatever it was you needed out of him.  Between your hand tugging his leash into the position you wanted him, your hand on the back of his head, and his messy mouth, you were quickly approaching your release.

Dropping his jaw, he extended his large flat tongue and just let you ride his face, rubbing your clit and pussy against his drenched mouth and nose, his warm breath colliding into your heat as your free hand blindly increased the vibration on his toy before you bumped your phone out of your way and brought both hands to the back of his head.

“Fuck yes, right there, cumming, gonna cum all over that good tongue… shit, yess…” and your voice caught, both of your hands tangled in his hair as your body tensed and the wave of pleasure ran down your spine and through your entire body.  

Seungmin, like the obedient, obsessed, good little pup he was, groaned into your cunt and kept licking you through your orgasm, letting you take every last bit you needed from him before your body went slack, relaxing and falling slightly limp.

Once he felt your leg pull off of his shoulder and your hands release his head, Seungmin began babbling, now fully feeling the full effects of the toy and able to focus on his own sensations. 

“You’ve been such a good boy for me, take it all my pup… cum for me.”  You cooed, watching his eyes fall shut.

“Fuck fuck fuck, Mama… I lo- love you.  Thank you.  Thank you…” he nearly sobbed, pressing his forehead against your shaking thigh as he was finally allowed his release.  Thick spurts of his cum splattered against his stomach and chest as his climax crested, and reaching down to the tip of his oversensitive cock, you wrapped your fingers around the head and continued pumping him through his intense release, tears breaching his lashlines as he sobbed a moan, babbling thank yous and how much he loved you.

Seungmin choked out a sob as his body finally relaxed, his tense abs now softening as he tried to suck in air and calm his frayed nerves.  It took a moment before you realized the vibrations were still on at full capacity, and quickly you swiped the power off on the app and he exhaled a deep sigh of relief, nearly nuzzling into your thigh.

Brushing your fingers through his sweat damp hair, you began praising him, and pressed a series of soothing kisses to his forehead.  “You were so so good for me, Baby.  So proud of you… you must be exhausted…” 

Barely able to do much but nod his head, you reached down to his throat and unclipped his collar and leash, dropping them to the floor as you quickly got up to place them on your dresser before stepping into the bathroom.  Returning a moment later, you coaxed him up onto the king size bed seeing that he had removed the toy, and carefully began cleaning him with the warm, wet towel.  “So perfect, always such a good boy for me.”

With his eyes still shut, he laid there, allowed his breath to catch up to him before you dropped the towel onto the floor and cuddled right up to him after you pulled one of the blankets over your bodies.  

Dropping your arm loosely over his stomach, you began peppering his bare shoulder with soft, tender kisses as he lifted an arm around your shoulder.  “Was it too much?”  You whispered, tilting your head to look up at his face.

With a short chuckle, a wide grin bloomed over his face and he turned to look down at you.  “No Baby… that was… that was great.  Thank you for my gift.”  He rolled onto his side and wrapped his arm around you, pressing a tender, lingering kiss against your soft lips.

“Thank you for trusting me.”  You murmured against his mouth, kissing him again softly before he moved to press a longer, gentle kiss to the middle of your forehead.

“Thank you for challenging me and loving me always.”

“Always,” you confirmed, tucking your head under his chin and sinking into his warmth.

my tags: @angel-writes-skz-here @idkimobsessed @queenofdumbfuckery @mfcherry @downingmorphine @pixie-felix @d3kstar @lveegsoi @ebnabi @nebugalaxy @babystay724 @mmarusa @imagine-all-the-imagines @erisuna @hanniesbubuwife @bbykaixx @riri53 @jinniesgirl @alx-wyjsr @skzswife @hwangjoanna @stephanieeeyang @minnysproutgriffinteddy @moontabi @foivetimesacharm @letsstrippp @likexaxdaydream @ateez-atiny380 @makeitworse

[rafeslvbug]

here are some ideas I have for ex-husband!neighbour!rafe!! if you could just write one that would be awesome, or them all but mini! -📓

(I have a lot but don’t feel pressured :)) even if you do just one i’ll be ecstatic!)

drunk confession night on the balcony

you get locked out in just a towel, and he’s the only one home/he’s right outside

he mows your lawn like he still lives with you, or just does stuff around your property, tends to your garden etc (maybe shirtless 🥳)

he keeps leaving notes in your mailbox/ on your door

he finds your old lingerie in a box and returns it

a hurricane hits, and you have to take shelter at his place

you both show up to the same block party and pretend you’re fine and ignore all the people asking questions, despite JUST hooking up

he makes you a welcome basket, filled with some dirty things (this one might be too late)

your ac breaker during a heatwave, and he offers his spare bedroom

the neighborhood kids say you two look/ fight like a married couple

he leaves town for a week. You realize you miss the tension

there’s a neighborhood power outage. He brings you candles and stays to keep you company

you hire a cleaner (who is very hot), he thinks it’s your new boyfriend and tries to intimidate them

he tells people you moved here to be close to him

you leave your blinds open while changing, he watched from the balcony and reader pretends not to notice, but puts on a show

neighborhood game night! you get paired up as a team, on purpose by the ladies scheming to get you back together!

I love your writing! hope you like these and maybe use them in the future!

WOAH. IM NOTING ALL THESE DOWN AND STAY UPDATED THEY’LL COME OUT SLOWLY BUT SURELY CUZ UR AMAZING

for now…the neighbourhood kids!

“rafe! you can’t just enter my house whenever you like!” you snap. you knew it was a mistake– letting him into your house that one time. telling him where the spare key was. kissing him. sleeping with him. hell, ever marrying him was a mistake in itself.

“why not? you don’t seem like you hate it when you’re screaming my name–“

“rafe!” you scold, eyes widening. you were outside of your house, you could be heard bt anyone. oh my– you could be heard by karen. rafe grins, slowly, spreading onto his face. “am i wrong?” he says lowly.

“that is not the point!” you grit out.

“my mummy said you guys were divorced,” a squeaky voice pipes up. your head whips in the direction, even more horrified to find the little boy standing there, on the pavement in front of the hedge separating yours and rafe’s houses.

“they don’t sound divorced,” the little girl beside the boy says, lips stained blue from her artificial lollipop.

“it’s because we’re not,” rafe smiles, and you rush to interrupt, correct the narrative before the two children can go reporting back to their parents.

“we are! we definitely are!” you rebut, and rafe shakes his head when he thinks you’re not looking, holding his hand up. his ring finger, a golden band on it. the wedding ring he hadn’t taken off since the first night you two slept together after the divorce.

asshole.

“that’s a random ring! look! i don’t have mine,” you prove showing your hand, then turning to rafe. “take that off,” you force out. he mouths back a “no” and you groan.

the kids have begun walking down the street, and you can hear the boy say, “they look married.”

“it’s because they are!” the girl sighs dramatically, dragging him faster down the pavement.

you gape at them, then say hopelessly, “we’re not!”

[bratzforchris]

ONCE UPON A DREAM ୨ৎ christopher sturniolo

in which. . .you surprise chris with your most recent amazon order and new editions to your sex life

warnings: smut, roleplay, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, cum eating, fingering, mirror/vanity sex, unprotected p in v, creampie, idk y'all i was an insane 19 year old when i wrote this

wc: 1.7k

*originally posted on bratzforchris in summer 2024*

you had never been the type of girl to try anything…different when it came to your sex life. maybe some would call you vanilla, but chris was your first serious boyfriend and as active as you two were in the bedroom, you were still a bit hesitant to try anything overly “out there”. your boyfriend never, ever pressured you, but you also knew that he was a bit more experienced than you were, and that he was also very much into the “lady on the streets, freak in the sheets” act. 

you were drawn out of your thoughts when the doorbell to your and chris’ home rang. you stood up off the couch, straightening your pink-and-white striped Victoria’s Secret robe. chuckling and shaking your head as you padded to the door, a clear image of a drenched, shaking chris standing on your front porch as the rain pounded against the windows because he forgot his keys again. much to your surprise, it was not, in fact, your lover on the other side of the door. instead, all that was there was a box from amazon and a deliveryman who was already hurrying back to his truck, eager to escape the weather. 

picking up the box, you raised a brow at your name on the label. you didn’t remember ordering anything, but then again, chris could’ve accidentally used your account. you shrugged and carried the box into the kitchen, eager to see what was inside regardless. you quickly used your pink kitchen shears to cut through the tape and box, your heart swelling when you saw a gorgeous pile of pink lace, glitter, and tulle inside the box. you pulled the item out of the box and practically gasped at what you saw. 

it was a tiny, lingerie bodysuit. the corset ribbing was covered in glitter and pretty lace, while the pink, tulle miniskirt puffed out.iIt was almost like a mini, sexier version of aurora’s pink dress from sleeping beauty. the set even came with small, lacy, white gloves and a tiny, silver tiara studded with little diamonds. now that you knew what was inside the box, you had a vague memory of ordering the set last week after tara yummy’s one million party, at which you’d had slightly too much to drink. you immediately ran to your bedroom to try the set on, abandoning the box on the kitchen counter. your soul focus now was what chris would think of your new look. you had thongs and sexier bras, sure, but you’d never worn something like this. 

you quickly pulled the outfit, if it could even be called that, on, looking at yourself in the mirror of your white vanity where you sat to do your makeup every morning. even though this was truly the first piece of lingerie you’d ever worn, you knew you looked good. scratch that, better than good. your ass hung out the slightest bit under the skirt, but overall, the outfit hugged your body better than the white gloves on your hands. chris had told you when two had first started dating that he loved how feminine you were, and even now, you knew that the princess dresslike bodysuit and dainty tiara would turn him into an animal. 

despite the rain pounding against the roof, you heard matt’s car pull into the driveway, finally dropping your lover home after a long day of filming. you quickly slicked some glittery, pink gloss across your plump lips in the mirror of your vanity before hurrying onto your shared bed. as you began to kneel on the silky, pink sheets, eagerly waiting for chris to come into the bedroom, you could feel your wetness beginning to soak through the bodysuit, ideas of what your boyfriend was going to do to you coursing through your veins. 

you could hear chris puttering around the kitchen, chuckling to himself about the leftover remains of your package. he knew you loved to shop, especially online, so the empty box came as no surprise to him. once you heard him walking closer towards your bedroom, calling out your name, you began to whimper and pout your lips, probing an extra feminine aire. 

“are you in…” chris trailed off as his eyes went wide at your erotic look. “hello.”

“hi handsome,” you practically purred as chris eyed you up and down hungrily. “you looking for someone to save?”

chris’ eyes went wide at the innuendo, the tent already growing in his pants at the sight of you like this. “come here, darling,”  he beckoned, smirking as the skirt flounced across your ass as you walked towards him. “this is new, but i can’t say i’m mad about it.” the brunette said, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he kissed you roughly, his teeth nipping your bottom lip. 

you moaned involuntarily, which allowed chris to slip his tongue into your mouth, his own fighting yours for dominance as he kissed you roughly. after a moment, your boyfriend pushed you to your knees gently, undoing his belt directly after. 

“did you get lost on your woodland walk, little princess?” chris teased. “think a knight’s gonna save you?”

by now, he had gotten you all the way on your knees, your pouty, glossy lips and doe eyes looking up at him as he shoved his jeans and plaid boxers down. chris ran his hand up and down his length a few times, letting out noises that made the pool between your legs dampen. finally, he thrust his cock towards your mouth, a little sneer on his face as he knocked the tiara off your head. 

“how lucky am i to take the innocence from a princess, hmm?” chris asked as you began to suck him off, tongue swirling around his tip as you took him deeper into your throat. “what do you think your kingdom would think of this, my lady? watching you suck my dick like a fuckin’ whore?”

you whimpered and moaned, drooling running down your lips and puddling with your lip gloss as chris’ dick hit the back of your throat. your boyfriend was letting out erotic moans as you ran your tongue against the underside of his cock, head thrown back as he bucked his hips towards your face. his length was only continuing to grow as you sucked him off, always loving the way you deepthroated him like a queen. 

“oh god…’m gonna cum,” chris panted, chest heaving as the need to climax built in his stomach.  “better swallow like a good girl, princess.”

you nodded as chris let his orgasm overtake him, hot ropes of his cum shooting down your throat as he did so. you pulled off his cock with a pop, licking your lips and giggling at the combination of his cum, your drool, and strawberry lip gloss that coated your chin. 

“who knew that such a darling girl could be so freaky?” chris tsked, abandoning his pants all the way followed by his shirt. “gonna go have your coronation in the same dress you got fucked like a slut in?”

you blushed as chris helped you up, pushing your back against your vanity. “i don’t mind being ruined.” you whispered in a shy, feminine way, still a little unsure of yourself. 

“oh i can tell,” chris chuckled, thrusting his hand between your thighs and beginning to rub slow, agonizing circles on your clit through the fabric of your lingerie. “that’s not very princesslike now is it?”

you moaned, bracing yourself against the vanity as your thighs clenched. “p…please, chris. need you in me.” you whimpered softly, looking up at him through your lashes. 

the brunette continued to play with the sensitive bundle of nerves, making you throw your head back with a harsh moan, your hair cascading down your shoulders. you were practically putty in chris’ hands as he undid your outfit, pulling it off your body and throwing it somewhere onto the floor. before you knew it, your boyfriend had turned you around so that your hips were pressing into the vanity. gripping your chin, chris lifted your head so that you were looking into the mirror. it was absolutely filthy; you bent over your vanity like a slut while chris’ cock pressed into your ass from behind, his large hand gripping your jaw as he forced you to look at yourself. 

without another warning, he slammed into you from behind, moaning loudly. “god, you’re so fuckin’ wet.” 

“chris…oh…” you whimpered as he sped his thrusts up. you rutted your ass back to meet his dick, crying out when he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside of you. “feels so good.”

“this little princess pussy is all mine, huh?” in the mirror, you could see chris smirking as he railed you from behind, the sound of his balls slapping against your ass, combined with both of your erotic noises echoing throughout the room. 

the only coherent words falling from your lips as chris fucked you was the sound of you moaning and whimpering his name repeatedly. every so often, he would pull out, only to tease you and slam back into you with even more force. your lower stomach was beginning to ache with the need to cum, the image of you and chris in the mirror of your girly vanity turning you on even more. 

“cum with me?” you begged your boyfriend, pouting your lips as you panted. “want you to fill me up.”

chris chuckled at that, feeling the way your cunt clenched around his dick. just as he felt your orgasm overtake you, he gripped your hips roughly, enjoying his own release as his seed coated your walls. your chest heaved as you practically laid against your vanity, legs shaking. your thighs were beyond slick with the combination of your and your boyfriend’s cum.

“who knew that such a sweet, darling princess could be such a dirty girl?” chris chuckled, picking you up softly and walking towards your ensuite bathroom. 

you whined against his chest, cheeks flushing now that the scene was finished. “shut up.” you grumbled cutely. 

“i know what i’m doing later.” he hummed, starting the shower so that you could both clean up. 

“what’s that?” you asked shakily, your body still tight as you came down from your high. 

“buying more princess outfits.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

© bratzforchris

lilah yaps ⋆. 𐙚 ˚: why was i so goddamn insane last year holy shit. anywayyyyy um interactions are appreciated!! love you all<3

[moominlovely]

Playing favourites

Summary: She has a favourite, she must of.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Another one. Fluff

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damian had been stomping around all day. A little frown on his face and his arms crossed. Alfred had asked him what was wrong, only to let out a huff that could rival Cass's. He was mad about something and Dick was to be his first victim.

Dick was standing at the breakfast bar, making a sandwich, when he heard a huff he turned to see Damian standing in the doorway. Dick smiled then nodded a what's up, he turned back to his sandwich just to hear another huff. This time he put down his knife and really looked at Damian. "Hello, Damian, how can I help you today?"

Damian took a step forward, pointing his finger at Dick. "Don't you have your own house? With your own food?"

Dick frowned, this again. This happened every time he came to visit. Damian would get all territorial. "Well, I am just visiting." he picked up his plate with his finished sandwich. Walking to the sitting room with Damian as his shadow. Sitting on the couch were Cass and Tim the both of them with their heads in their own screens. Cass on her phone and Tim on his laptop. "Oh, Yes. The only way to hang out with your siblings, not talking." Tim made a disgusted face, and Cass rolled over on her back, putting her feet on Tim's face. He tried for a good ten seconds to get her off before giving up and just letting her.

Tim looked up from his laptop, then did a double take, "Are you really still doing this?" Dick was about to ask what, then Tim read his mind. " Ever since Jason decided to stay for a bit, Dami get in a huff, flinging his weight around." He shook his head.

"His jealous." Cass spoke up, smirking. shaking foot side to side.

"Stop trying to put your foot in my mouth!" Tim stood up, moving to the armchair. As he did, dad walked in and took his place, where Cass did the same to him.

Cass put her phone down on her chest. "His jealous because Jason's ummi's favourite." She teased.

He stomped his little foot. "I am not." For someone who wasn't jealous, he was acting jealous.

"Is so." Damian jumped forward. Behind him stood Jason Todd. He had the cockiest face in the world.

Damian quickly straightened his composure. "As if I'll have any to be jealous of you."

Jason taped his chin. "Maybe the fact that I'm ma's favourite."

Damian was about to respond, then he felt a delicate hand on the back of his head. "I don't have a favourite." Mom walked in, she was carrying a shopping bag, Bruce didn't need to be told, he was already up and taking the bag from her. She flopped down where Bruce was sitting. Cass placed her feet on moms lap.

Yeah right, Dick thought, if you had a favourite, it would surely be him. He was basically your firstborn. Tim, Damian and Jason were talking over each other. When he looked over to mom. She did not look to invested in any of is, " I love you all the same." All of them looked around, none of them believed any of it. " I feed you all, I tucked all of you in, I'll wait on you hand and foot when you're sick and I'd made all of your costumes."

Cass huffed out a laugh. "I guess that rolls out Dick"

Mom tapped the top of Cass's shin"I thought he looked cute." Dick's face turned red as he looked away.

Tim piped up, closing his laptop, "Alfred does that stuff too and he still has a favourite." he looked her deep in her eyes, "If the manor was on fire, who would save?"

Mom playfully huffed and stood up, "Well, I think you're all capable of saving yourself and I'm telling you all don't I don't play favourites." and with that, she left. All of the kids then looked at Bruce to get an answer, but he just shrugged, not wanting to get involved.

That night, Bruce peeked into their bedroom. Didn't have a favourite, what a lie, there she was in bed with the most spoiled, pampered thing in the house. Bruce really knew who your favourite was, Titus.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A.N:I always feel that pets are always parents favourite children. I welcome feedback. Thx 4 reading.

[azzifudd10]

Silent Strings

Chapter 12: Ceilings

A/N: double update bc tonights love island has be feeling GREAT

TW: DV this chapter is kinda super dark

Paige sat stiffly in a sleek, glass-walled office downtown, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Across from her sat her lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman named Naomi Reyes, flipping through the file Paige had handed over.

The fake marriage license. The notarized forms. The missing-persons report.

Naomi’s brow furrowed deeper with each page she read.

“How the hell did he even pull this off?” Paige demanded, her voice low and controlled, though her knuckles were white.

Naomi set the papers down and took a breath. “He’s good,” she admitted. “Not perfect — but good enough to fool law enforcement at first glance. Most clerks don’t scrutinize paperwork unless someone formally contests it.”

Paige’s stomach churned. “So what do we do?”

Naomi’s gaze sharpened. “What we can do. File to void the fraudulent marriage, then formally report the forged documents to the state. That will start an investigation into how he acquired the notary stamps and who helped him. We’ll also prepare a cease-and-desist order regarding his public claims about her.”

Paige nodded firmly, her jaw set. “Do it. Whatever it takes.”

Naomi leaned back in her chair, watching Paige carefully. “You care about her a lot, don’t you?”

Paige didn’t even flinch. “I love her. And I’m not letting him take another damn thing from her.”

Meanwhile, at the apartment, Azzi sat on the floor of Paige’s bedroom, her back against the bed, staring at her phone.

Her fingers hovered over the contact she hadn’t dialed in nearly three years.

Dad.

Mom.

Tim and Katie.

Her chest ached at the thought of their voices — at the memory of the last time she’d seen them.

Tim’s face red with frustration as he told her Ryan was dangerous. Katie crying quietly in the corner as Azzi packed her bags anyway.

She remembered Ryan’s hand on her back as they left, his quiet murmur in her ear: You don’t need them anymore. You have me.

And just like that, she’d let him cut her off from the only people who’d ever truly loved her.

Now she sat here, her thumb trembling over the call button.

Could she really ask for their help after all this time?

Would they even want to hear from her?

Would they even forgive her?

Her thumb hovered, then dropped.

Not yet.

But soon.

Maybe soon.

Across town, Ryan was sitting in his car again, his laptop open on the passenger seat, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

The PI was useless.

The posters were useless.

Even the marriage license hadn’t brought her crawling back.

But he knew Azzi.

Better than anyone.

He knew how to hurt her.

What to say. What to dig up.

He thought about the things she’d told him once, late at night in their New York apartment — the little secrets she thought she could bury.

Her fractured family. Her mistakes in med school. The things she did to survive her residency that she never wanted anyone to know about.

Things she’d rather forget.

Things she’d rather no one know.

If she wouldn’t come to him willingly… he’d make sure the world saw her for what she really was.

One skeleton at a time.

His lips curled into a dark smile as he began typing.

Ryan’s fingers flew over the keyboard in the dim light of his apartment, the cigarette smoke curling lazily around his head.

He’d already burned through every public record, every hospital database he could get into with his connections. Residency records? Scrubbed. Employment history? Predictable. Credit reports? Clean.

But Ryan knew people — dangerous, quiet people — and they knew where to look.

Tonight, his contact delivered.

A thick envelope slid across the diner booth toward him, sealed and stamped. “Everything you asked for,” the man muttered. “You didn’t get it from me.”

Ryan didn’t even glance at him, just slipped a wad of cash across the table and walked out without a word.

In his car, parked on a deserted side street, he ripped the envelope open.

And smiled.

It started small: a report from her first year at NYU. An incident in the on-call room no one had ever filed properly — no one but her and the head of surgery even knew about it.

A photo of Azzi, hunched over outside the hospital in the middle of the night, bruises on her arms, a gash above her eyebrow. A signed “informal agreement” to keep the matter private — no police, no formal charges, no complaint — in exchange for her silence about what she’d seen that night.

That was the first thread.

Ryan pulled it harder.

There were transcripts of sessions with a university therapist, notes scribbled in shorthand — PTSD symptoms… survivor’s guilt… dissociation… recurrent nightmares about the stairwell… claims she “deserved it.”

There was even a sealed disciplinary notice from her second year — something she’d managed to cover up well enough that no hospital had ever seen it.

It painted a very different picture of the poised, confident surgeon she presented to the world now.

But the real prize was at the bottom of the stack.

A photograph.

A grainy security cam still from a hospital stairwell.

Azzi on her knees in the corner, sobbing, her scrubs torn, blood smeared on her cheek. And a figure in a white coat standing over her — their face obscured.

On the back of the photo was written: Property of NYU Medical Center – Incident 6B. DO NOT DUPLICATE.

Ryan stared at it for a long time.

So she had secrets.

And not just embarrassing ones — the kind that could destroy her if they ever saw daylight.

No wonder she ran. No wonder she thought she could hide.

But now… he had her exactly where he wanted her.

Across town, Azzi stirred fitfully in her sleep at Paige’s apartment, tangled in the sheets, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Somewhere in the darkness of her dream, she was back in that stairwell. Back where she swore she’d never be again.

She jolted awake with a gasp, her heart hammering in her chest, her whole body slick with sweat.

Something told her — deep in her gut — that she’d never really left that night behind.

And now… it was coming back for her.

Meanwhile, Ryan laid the photo on his desk and smoothed it flat with both hands.

Tomorrow, he decided, he’d let her know.

Not that he’d found her.

But that he could.

And when she saw what he had — she’d have no choice but to come home.

The first one came folded neatly in a plain white envelope. No return address, no name.

Just a single grainy photo — the stairwell, the corner, her on her knees with blood on her cheek — and nothing else.

It was wedged between a credit card offer and a grocery store circular in the stack of mail Paige’s PI dropped off at her apartment that Saturday morning.

Azzi froze when she saw it.

Her fingers went ice-cold as she unfolded the paper, her eyes locking on the image she thought she’d buried years ago.

Her chest constricted until she thought she might be sick.

She quickly shoved it back into the envelope and stuffed it under the couch cushion before Paige came into the room.

“Anything important?” Paige asked, carrying a mug of coffee in each hand.

Azzi forced a faint smile and shook her head. “Just bills,” she lied.

The second one came a week later.

Another envelope. This time it contained a copy of the “informal agreement” she’d signed back then — her own signature staring back at her, a cruel reminder of what she’d given up to keep quiet.

I know what you did was scrawled across the bottom in red ink.

Azzi’s hands shook so hard she dropped the envelope.

She didn’t even bother hiding it that time — just shoved the entire pile of mail into the closet and closed the door, telling herself she’d burn it later.

By the third week, she started feeling it before she even saw it.

That prickle at the back of her neck, that quiet nausea every time the PI came by and handed her the week’s mail.

This time it was worse: a copy of one of the therapy notes, with a sticky note attached that simply said:

Does Paige know?

Azzi sat on the edge of the bed for almost an hour, staring at it, the words blurring in her vision.

No matter how many locks Paige put on the door or how much security she hired, he was still getting to her.

Still reminding her that he was watching.

Still reminding her of what she wanted to forget.

That night, after Paige left for an evening workout, Azzi sat in the dark with the pile of envelopes spread out in front of her.

Her hands trembled as she ran her fingers over them, her breathing shallow.

It was working — exactly how Ryan wanted it to.

She was unraveling.

And she didn’t know how much longer she could keep pretending she wasn’t.

When Paige came home, she found Azzi sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing.

Paige’s brow furrowed as she set her bag down. “Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”

Azzi startled, then forced a small smile. “Yeah,” she lied again. “Just tired.”

But her hands stayed hidden in her lap, clenched tightly into fists, knuckles white.

Across town, Ryan sat in his car outside the post office, watching another envelope slip through the chute, his lips curling into a slow smile.

It was only a matter of time.

Practice had run long the next  day. Film review had been brutal.

Most of the team had already filtered out of the gym by the time Paige wandered into the coaches’ office to grab her phone charger she’d left earlier.

Ryan was still there, as she knew he would be.

He sat at his desk, head down, scribbling notes on a clipboard, looking every bit the dutiful coach.

She kept her distance, offering a curt nod before reaching for the charger on the counter near his desk.

But something caught her eye.

On the corner of his desk — partly covered by a folder but not quite hidden — was a photograph.

A grainy, black-and-white still from what looked like a hospital stairwell.

And there — unmistakably — was Azzi.

On her knees in the corner. Her cheek smeared with blood. Her eyes wide, terrified. Her scrubs torn.

Paige froze, the charger slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor.

Ryan glanced up casually, his expression perfectly neutral.

“Oh,” he said softly, following her gaze. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

But he didn’t move to cover it. Didn’t take it away.

Instead, he simply leaned back in his chair, studying her reaction.

“I—what… what is that?” Paige asked, her voice tight.

Ryan tilted his head just slightly. “She never told you, huh?”

Paige felt her stomach twist. “Told me what?”

He smiled faintly — a smile that didn’t reach his eyes — and carefully slid the photo into a folder. “Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have left that out. My mistake.”

But there was no mistake.

Paige could feel it. He wanted her to see it.

That night, Paige sat in her car outside her apartment for a long time before going in.

She held the charger in her hands like it was a lifeline, her mind still full of that image — Azzi crumpled in the stairwell, bleeding, broken, alone.

Why hadn’t she told her?

What else didn’t she know?

And why the hell did he have that photo?

When she finally walked through the door, Azzi was on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, watching TV with the sound turned low.

She glanced up, smiling faintly when she saw Paige. “Hey,” she murmured.

Paige swallowed hard, setting her bag down. “Hey.”

She sat beside her, unsure how to start.

Her eyes flicked to Azzi’s hands — the way they fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. Her lips — the way they pressed into a thin line when she was nervous.

She wanted to scream. To demand answers. But when she finally spoke, her voice was soft.

“Az… can I ask you something?”

Azzi nodded slowly, her brow furrowing. “Of course.”

Paige stared at her lap for a beat, then met her eyes.

“Is there… something you haven’t told me? About New York? About… him?”

Azzi froze, her breath hitching almost imperceptibly. “Why… why are you asking that?” she whispered.

Paige hesitated. “I saw something today. A picture. On his desk. It was—” she broke off, her throat tightening. “It was you. In a stairwell. Hurt. Scared. And I just…”

She reached for Azzi’s hand, her own trembling. “I just need you to tell me what happened. Please. I’m on your side, but… I can’t protect you if you keep shutting me out.”

Azzi’s eyes filled with tears, her fingers tightening around Paige’s.

“I… I can’t,” she whispered finally. Her voice cracked. “Not yet.”

Paige’s heart sank, but she nodded, pulling Azzi into her arms and holding her close.

“Okay,” she murmured into her hair. “Okay. But whenever you’re ready… I’m here. I swear.”

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s shoulder, silent tears soaking her hoodie.

And somewhere across town, Ryan sat alone in his apartment, staring at his empty glass with a satisfied smirk.

Just as planned.

[suku-enthusiasts]

Were Just Friends || s. ryomen - (one shots)

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (one shot series) - New Home & Marriage 

❝you asked your best friend to take your v-card. As friends. No feelings, no strings- Spoiler: it completely ruined your friendship. Now you're dodging each other, pretending nothing happened, while secretly nursing a years-long crush. From meme-filled silence to tearful confessions, jealous fights, and awkward flirting — somehow, you stumble your way into love, marriage, and a house full of sarcastic chaos. Turns out, “just friends” was never really the plan.❞

word count ; 1.6k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety. major fluff

main masterlist | series masterlist

It had been exactly thirty-four days since the wedding — one month and two days of “Mr. and Mrs.,” of half-finished thank-you notes and quiet Sunday mornings where you still caught yourself staring at your husband like he was a secret only you knew, and yet, here you were… tripping over a shoe rack in the hallway for the fourth time in a week. “This apartment is shrinking,” Sukuna muttered, half-dressed and annoyed, as he slammed the bathroom door behind him. You rolled your eyes from the couch, balancing your laptop on your knees. “No, you’re just messy.”

“I’m not messy. I’m expansive.” You looked up. “Expansive?”

“Yeah,” he said, toweling off his hair, eyes narrowed. “Big personality. Big energy. Big—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘dick,’ I swear to—”

“You said it, not me.” He grinned, dropping the towel onto the floor beside the already overflowing laundry basket. You stared at it. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet,” he said, walking over and pressing a kiss to your temple, “you married me.” That night, somewhere between heating leftover curry and sharing a too-small futon with your feet in his lap, the conversation shifted. “Do you think,” you started, cautiously, “we’re… outgrowing this place?” Sukuna blinked at you, chewing. “I mean,” you continued, “there’s your new workbench stuff crammed into the corner, and the spare bedroom is really just a closet with ambition, and don’t even get me started on our closet—”

“I’m listening.”

“—and I was just thinking, maybe something bigger? But still in Tokyo? A townhouse maybe?” Sukuna shrugged, setting down his bowl. “Sure.”

“…Seriously?”

“I don’t mind,” he said, casual as ever. “As long as it’s got two bathrooms. I’m tired of fighting you for sink time in the morning.” You gasped, offended. “You take forty-five minutes brushing your teeth.”

“I do not—”

“You floss your canines like they’re holy relics—”

“I have amazing oral hygiene, and you should be grateful.” That was the beginning of the end. A week later, you found the place — a hidden little townhouse tucked in the backstreets of a quiet Tokyo ward, two stories tall, with black wrought-iron railing and a front gate covered in trailing ivy. It had three bedrooms, two full baths, and a tiny square of garden that Sukuna insisted would never be used and now calls “his smoking temple” despite not smoking anymore.

The real battle?

The move.

You never realized how much stuff you’d accumulated until you were ankle-deep in bubble wrap and existential crisis. “Why do we own seven frying pans?” Sukuna asked, holding one like it had personally insulted him. You were labeling boxes. “That’s for egg moods. Big breakfast, single yolk, frittata dreams—”

“Why do we have a spiralizer?”

“To make zucchini noodles.”

“Zucchini. Noodles.”

“Sukuna.”

He sighed dramatically, setting it down. “God, I miss my bachelor apartment.” 

“You had black mold.”

“It never judged my cooking tools.”

The bickering escalated with each room. Who packed the extension cords? (You.) Who taped a box labeled “BATHROOM” shut without checking for the toothbrushes? (Sukuna.) Who decided now was a good time to alphabetize the spice rack mid-move? (Also Sukuna, and he denied it with every breath.) By mid-morning on moving day, you were sweaty, annoyed, and debating divorce, which is exactly when your friends arrived. Shoko showed up first — naturally — carrying a bag of kombucha and absolutely no desire to help. She pointed at the heaviest box, said “that looks traumatic,” and sat on it while sipping from a paper straw. Toji rolled up behind her, picked up the couch by himself, and then declared himself exempt from any further labor. He parked on the balcony with a beer and hasn’t moved since. Utahime brought candles and yelled at everyone to stop stepping on her sage. Uraume, silent as ever, began unpacking boxes labeled “KITCHEN” with surgical precision, quietly replacing your spice system with something “more practical.” You didn’t even notice until dinner.

Yuuji and Choso came in like a wrecking crew — Yuuji panting from the stairs, Choso cool as ever, lifting heavy boxes with ease and asking, “Where do the fragile things go?” while Yuuji tripped over a lamp. Suguru came late. Brought snacks. Had opinions. Did not help. It was a mess. But it was your mess. Loud and loving and chaotic.

When the furniture was finally in place — when the new couch was wedged in just right and your books had spilled across two walls of the office — you stood in the middle of the kitchen with Sukuna, barefoot, both of you covered in sweat and dust. “Feels good,” you said, breathless. Sukuna, hair sticking up, shirt twisted on one side, nodded. “It’s ours.” Then came the final boss: your parents.

They rang the doorbell like they owned the place, your mom bustling in with two bags of warm food, your dad grumbling about the stairs but handing Sukuna a six-pack like a silent offering. “You need to eat,” your mom said, unpacking rice, curry, and an assortment of side dishes. “You’re too skinny.” Sukuna tried to protest. “I eat—”

“She’s not talking to you,” your dad said, already cracking a beer. Dinner was on the floor, chopsticks clicking, laughter soft and slow. Your mom fed your dad from her spoon. Sukuna leaned against the wall, watching your family like they were something sacred. Something he never had but always wanted.

After they left, you and Sukuna stood in the kitchen — alone again. The fridge hummed. The lights were low. And outside, Tokyo pulsed quiet and close. You wrapped your arms around his waist, face pressed to his chest. “We did it.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, kissing your hair. “We did.” And it wasn’t the wedding, or the papers, or the photos on the wall that made you feel married.

It was this. It was watching him assemble a bookcase upside down. It was stealing a bite from his plate and him pretending to complain. It was peeling back the tape from a cardboard box labeled US. This was the beginning of the rest of your life. 

And it was beautiful.

Sukuna swore he didn’t care about furniture. “I’m a simple man,” he said that morning, mouth full of toast. “Give me a mattress on the floor and a coffee maker and I’m good.” But now? Now he was standing in the middle of a pristine, airy showroom like it was a battlefield, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at a perfectly innocent velvet couch. “I hate it.” You blinked. “You haven’t even sat on it.”

“Don’t need to. It looks pretentious.”

“It looks soft.”

“It looks like a couch that charges you rent.” You let out a slow exhale. “Sukuna.” He raised a brow. “Wife.” You wanted to strangle him. Instead, you turned on your heel and walked three paces to another setup, one with walnut-stained legs and saffron-colored cushions, the kind of bold-yet-earthy piece that made your heart flutter. Mid-century lines, vintage flair, and a touch of whimsy — your style in one perfect frame. You looked over your shoulder. “What about this one?” He squinted at it like it had insulted his ancestors. “Is that mustard yellow?”

“It’s saffron.”

“It’s a condiment.”

“It’s character.”

“It’s… food-colored.”

You stared at him flatly. “Did you just come to sabotage me?” He shrugged. “No, but that does sound like me.” Sukuna had been difficult the entire afternoon — not because he didn’t like what you liked, but because, in typical Sukuna fashion, he had to pretend he didn’t until it was his idea. Take the dining table. You picked out a gorgeous round table with flared legs, walnut finish, and a leaf insert for hosting guests. He said it “looked like something a professor would use for a séance.” Thirty minutes later, he was nodding at the same table, telling the salesperson, “Yeah, this one’s got presence.” Or the rug — handwoven, thick-looped wool, with deep emerald and rust-red accents. “Too boho,” he said. Then, after watching you pout and walk away? “Actually… this color hides stains. We should get it.” You nearly slapped him with a sample pillow. But the real battlefield?

The bed.

The frame you wanted was elegant but grounded — rich walnut with a low, wide headboard, warm-toned and timeless. Sukuna plopped down on it with all the grace of a human boulder, legs spread, arms stretched. “This is too low. I feel like I’m in a cult.” You crossed your arms. “You’d be the cult leader.”

“And you’d be my favorite disciple,” he smirked. “Focus.” He tested another one — a taller, industrial metal frame with sharp edges and zero personality. You recoiled. “Absolutely not. That looks like a torture bed.”

“…Kinda hot, though.” You threw a throw pillow at him. “No.” After two more showrooms and one smoothie break where he tried to flirt his way into getting the extra punch stamp (he failed), you finally found a compromise: A wide-frame walnut bed with a cushioned, textured headboard and legs tall enough for under-bed storage (his one actual request), paired with a bold rust-orange throw and deep green pillows to satisfy your need for color.

He sat on it.

Bounced.

Looked at you.

“I could have very passionate married sex on this.”

“That’s not a review.”

“It is now.”

You bought it.

Back home, as you unboxed candles and admired your new statement lamp shaped like a mushroom (which Sukuna said “looked like a Disney trip”), he passed by and gave your ass a firm pat. “You know,” he said, voice casual, “for all your overpriced taste…” You raised a brow. “…You’ve got a pretty good eye.” You turned, sliding your arms around his waist. “Even for saffron couches?” He groaned. “Don’t start.” But he kissed you anyway, pulling you close in the middle of your still-bare living room, surrounded by bolts of fabric and instruction manuals and a whole future you were building, one sarcastic piece of furniture at a time.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

There's a light that I can see (but only when there's darkness in me)

(Sam Winchester x female reader)

Summary It’s late in the evening when suddenly Sam Winchester is at your door. He says he needs your help. He’s relapsed on demon blood, so you let him in. Of course, you let him in. You’ve never been able to say no to Sam. CWs Takes place somewhere in season 5. Sweet Sam on withdrawal. Childhood sweethearts turned almost-lovers turned strangers turned friends turned lovers? Hallucinations. Self-esteem issues. Unspoken feelings. Gentleness and a little bot of sexual content. 18+. 10.2k words.

Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

You’re sitting on your small couch, legs swung over the arm, TV on mute in the background, the window open but the screen closed to let in some of the cool night air. There’s a book in your hands and you’re just turning the page when you hear your phone buzz once.

You think about getting up but you’re a little bit too comfortable, plus the day has been warm and humid and made you tired. It can wait.

You begin reading again and you’re at the bottom of the next page when it buzzes again. Raising your head you can see it there on your night stand, plucked into the charger. Just as you’re about to turn back to your book, it starts buzzing repeatedly, a call coming in.

So with a sigh you swing your legs off the couch, deposit the book spine up where you were sitting and walk over, cross the length of your one bedroom bungalow that you’ve been in for near a year now. It’s one of the cozier places you’ve lived and any time you get an urge for the road, you hop into your little van that’s parked outside. It’s been a good combination and you’ve felt something like peace for the first time in a long time.

Life isn't missing much, and that's saying something.

You pick up your phone, which is lying face-down and turn it to look at the screen. What you see there makes your heart thump and a smile spread on your face. You accept the call and hold the phone up to your ear.

“It’s past eight pm in Kansas,” you say by way of greeting. “Isn’t that way past your bed time?”

Sam gives a weak sounding chuckle into the phone. “Isn’t it way past yours, short stuff?” Your grin widens at the old nickname.

“Nah,” you say, “parents are out. Gonna stay up past midnight, maybe watch a horror movie. You wanna come over?” It’s almost word for word a conversation you and Sam have had what feels like a million times. Of course you haven’t actually had it in years, but you used to all the time, when you were younger, when John would park his sons at Bobby Singer’s, run off to some case or another. You and your parents, who were friends and colleagues of Bobby, lived down the street, and you and the two boys quickly grew close, would spend any available minute together. Well, Sam and you would, Dean just at that age where he started being a little too cool for you, more interested in girls and being on his own, all lone wolf style.

But you and Sam. Every available minute.

“Funny you should say that,” Sam breaks you out of your thoughts. You frown, wonder what he means. “I’m actually outside your place,” he adds, sounding apologetic. You move to the window. And yes, there’s a car parked outside, just behind your van. It’s not a car you recognize. It’s not the Impala, because you’re pretty sure you would recognize the chortling sound of its engine anywhere. After all, it’s the car that would announce the arrival of your two favorite people, the car you fell asleep in a hundred times when John stayed at Bobby’s for a day, Dean old enough to drive it and he would load you and Sam and you would go downtown, watch a movie, Dean dropping you off at your parent’s house after, your head on Sam’s shoulder and the salty taste of popcorn in your mouth. The car in which you kissed Sam, the summer before everything went wrong, before you left and didn’t see him again for years.

“Okay,” you say into the phone, a little confused. It’s not like Sam, surprise late night visits. Maybe he was in the area? But then why isn’t he with Dean? Since Sam has come back into the hunting life, he and his brother have been joined at the hip, and you haven’t seen them on their own even once. It’s weird, to say the least.

“Well, come on in,” you say to Sam. He’s quiet for a second.

“Are you sure?” he finally says. “I don’t mean to just spring this on you, I… I should have let you know I was coming.”

“Jeez, Sam,” you chuckle, “just come in.”

He gives another weak laugh, says: “Okay.”

Then you’re hanging up, and a second later you see the interior light of the car go on and yes, it is Sam, even though it’s dark out and the light is blinding and making it harder to see. Just like his brother's car, you would recognize him anywhere.

You take a quick look around. The place doesn’t look so bad, a couple of discarded clothes here and there that you quickly rush to, grab and throw in the laundry basket. You look down yourself. Cotton shorts and an old men’s work shirt that you’ve had for the better part of ten years. It’s not the outfit you’d chose to wear when Sam comes around, but it’ll have to do because just then he’s knocking on the door. You smooth your hands down your side, a weak attempt at getting the creases out from lounging on the couch, then walk towards the door, quickly open it.

It’s Sam alright. The broad shoulders. The hair that could always use a trim. The way he looks down at you, a lopsided, dimpled smile spreading on his lips. There’s something… different about him, but you can’t put your finger on it, because the next second you step back to give him room to walk in.

“I don’t usually let in strange men off the street,” you say, and it comes out a little half hearted. Sam still smiles at it. Usually you would hug him and you want to, want to wrap your arms around him, but his hands are deep in his pockets, and he doesn’t seem inclined to get them out, so you just stand there for a second, not sure what to do.

“Come on in,” you say, and he finally steps over the threshold. The bungalow is small but Sam makes it look tiny. You walk around him to close the door, use that second to scan how he’s holding himself. It’s not the usual, sweet awkwardness he has. There’s something fidgety about him, his body tensed. Weird, you think, and you can feel a tug of worry somewhere in your stomach. You walk back around him. He’s surveying the space, looking around, but he’s been here before, and it seems he’s just doing it to have something to do.

“So,” you say, trying to make your voice sound light and casual. “What’s the occasion? Not that I’m not happy to see you.” Sam focuses on you, and you see that his pupils are large. He did just come in from the dark, but it’s enough to make you notice.

“I’m sorry to just drop in on you like that,” he says, not answering your question. “I texted you, was gonna pretend I was in the area, but then I saw the light was on and I just called.”

“Hmm, stalkerish,” you joke and Sam smiles a little, looks down. “Where’s Dean?” You mean for it to be a normal question, simply inquiring where his brother is if he’s not here, but a look goes over Sam’s face that has your heart cringe in worry.

“Is he okay?” you quickly ask. Sam takes one hand out of his pocket, raises it.

“Yes!” he says, quickly, reassuring you. “Yes, he’s fine. All good.”

“Okay,” you say, letting out a small breath. But Sam doesn’t elaborate and slowly you’re starting to think that something is seriously wrong.

“Sam,” you say, making him look at you after he’s gone back to surveying the room. “Are you okay?” You see the second he tries to act like he is, the moment he wants to reassure you, wants you to know everything’s fine, even if it’s not. It’s always been his way. With a brother and father that have the tempers of a steam roller it’s always fallen to Sam to placate, to make things okay. It’s not in him to open himself up, to show his jagged corners. But you can read him like a book and then suddenly you know he’s not okay, that something really is very wrong.

“Sam,” you say again, and his attempt at playing over whatever’s going on falters. You see him grind his teeth, his eyebrows going down. He looks like a beautiful marble statue for a second.

“I…” he finally starts, but it’s taking him everything to push himself to continue. “I need your help.” You nod.

“Okay,” you say, “anything. What do you need?”

Sam doesn’t answer. He looks at you for a few seconds, and the intensity of it almost makes you blush. You swallow, want to say something to interrupt this moment, but Sam’s quicker.

“I messed up,” he says, and you think you hear a thickness in his voice, sadness. Involuntarily you take a step closer to him. His sadness has always drawn you in.

“What happened?” you ask, your face serious, showing him you’re listening. His eyes go over your face, he presses his lips together. You reach out your hand before you know you’re going to do it. It goes to the one he still has in his pocket, fishes it out. You hold it, your thumb running over the back of it. Sam looks down, looks at what your hand is doing. He takes another shuddering breath.

“Sam,” you say, also looking at your hands, because maybe it’s easier for him to say it without being looked at. “You can tell me.”

“I drank demon blood,” he says, his voice flat. Your thumb keeps stroking the back of his hand, runs over the scars on his knuckles. You nod.

“Okay,” you say, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t, so you dare to look up at him. You know his history, know what a dark chapter of his life this is. “Tell me,” you say. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek, avoiding your gaze. You think his eyes might be glistening.

You tug on his hand, and without dropping it turn around, lead him to the couch. You move your book aside and sit, pull Sam down. He gives in, following you. All this time, you don’t let go of him. His other hand lies on the arm rest, his fingers tugging at a thread there while you watch him, wait for him to continue. He finally does.

“Dean and I were on a case,” he says, looking at where his hand is playing with the fabric. “Just a couple of demons, no big deal. We got separated and I tackled one of them, tried to stab him but he moved at the last second.” He stops, clenches his jaw. You bring your other hand to the one holding his, wrap it around him, hold him. You want him to know you’re there.

“I cut him and then he pinned me and…” Sam continues, cutting himself off again. “Some of it was dripping on me and I didn’t know what to do, I just needed to get out of there.” He lets go of the thread, realizing he’s pulling apart your couch. You couldn’t care less, but he lays his hand in his lap.

“Next thing I know I grabbed him, got my mouth on the wound…” he says, pauses. “Then I threw him off me, killed him.”

There’s shame in his face and it breaks your heart. “I ditched Dean as soon as I could. I don’t think he noticed.” Sam looks down. “He can’t know,” he adds.

That you understand. You love Dean with all your heart, but he can be judgmental. He’s a better man than John, far better, but one thing he inherited from his father is his disdain for weakness. Sam, gentle, kind, sweet, with an aversion for violence, might look weak to them. They have no idea that he’s the strongest person you know, because he hasn’t let everything that happened to him make him hard, make him cruel. He’s fought for that goodness tooth and nail.

“So I came here,” Sam says, motioning to the space around you, a weak smile on his face. “I… I didn’t know where else to go.” He dares a look at you and you nod at him.

“I’m glad you came,” you say. You see him almost twitch at the kindness. It’s not something you’ve ever been able to get him used to.

You’re both quiet for a while. A car passes by, somewhere a dog barks.

“So what can I do?” you ask finally. Sam sighs.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna want more soon,” he answers, carefully. “I know it. I can already feel it coming. And when I don’t get it there’s going to be… symptoms.” You nod.

“Okay,” you say, “so do you need me to tie you down or something?” You realize how it sounds the moment the words leave your lips, and Sam does too. You both grin a little, embarrassed.

“Inappropriate,” you scold him, as if you didn’t just imagine what that would be like. Sam grins, a little more earnestly this time.

“You might have to,” he says. “Are you… are you okay with that?”

You shrug. “You won’t be the first guy I’ve tied to my bed.”

Sam’s grin falters and you immediately regret saying it. Because Sam’s never been in your bed, not that way anyway, tied up or not tied up, even though you’ve always wanted him to be. Uncoordinated make-out sessions in the Impala when you were fifteen aside, you were in love with Sam from the moment you met him, and you were pretty sure he used to be in love with you too, at least until you messed it all up.

Your father had died when you were sixteen, just another hunter torn apart by something that goes bump in the night. You remember crying in Sam’s arms, so many tears coming out of you that you were shocked that you could keep going, and at the same time feeling like you would never be able to stop. Sam held you, stroked your hair. Made sure you ate, drank. Listened to all your burbling words, the fears, the sadness. He held your hand then.

Your mother soon couldn’t bear to be in that house anymore. Too much reminded her of your father, or of his absence. You hated her then, because losing the familiarity of your life felt like another death all over again. Now that you’re a little older you understand. Sometimes leaving is easier than staying. You would find that out soon enough yourself.

So that’s what she did, moved you halfway across the country. You and Sam swore to keep in touch, to call, to write. Swore to visit but you didn’t have a car and Sam and his family were always moving, always on the road. It made it difficult to stay in contact. Then Sam left for Stanford.

You still remember when he called to tell you, you sitting on the floor next to the phone in your grandparent’s house, knees to your chest. The excitement in his voice. It made your heart sing. Sam was smart, wanted out of the life for a long as you knew him. He called you again, once he got there, invited you to visit him at college.

You’d dropped out of high school the year before, since your grandmother had gotten sick, and your mother’s salary wasn’t nearly enough to pay the bills. Even with you pulling double shifts at the diner in town and baby sitting you were barely making ends meet. But when Sam said he wanted to see you, wanted to show you where he went to school, what his life was like, you had moved heaven and earth to make it possible. You got into your late grandfather’s beat-up truck and drove the eight hours in one stretch. And then there he was.

He’d grown taller in the years you hadn’t seen him, really tall, his soft hair falling into his face, and you nearly cried right then and there. You were awarded a brilliant smile when you hopped out of the car, that smile that Sam barely ever showed. You felt tacky from the drive, you were tired. None of it mattered when he pulled you in, your cheek pressed against his chest, his chin on your head. It felt like all the late nights worrying over bills, your mother’s tears, all the stress just melted away. In Sam’s arms, the world made sense.

He brought you to his room, introduced you to his room mate, to other people on his floor. And while he did it, he held you hand. Showed people you belonged with him. You wondered suddenly if you would have sex and felt a rush of excitement go through you. You’d showered and Sam had shown you around. Showed you the campus, the library, the cafés he hung out in, and a feeling stared stirring in you, one you tried to push down.

Sam had gotten into Stanford on a scholarship. Otherwise he would have never been able to go, John not having any steady income and also not being supportive of Sam’s choices. But still somehow Sam fit into this place. He was smart, book-smart, and enough of a chameleon to make himself unnoticeable in a way.

You weren’t. You hadn’t made it through life by being malleable, quite the opposite. You’d needed to be hard, tough, ugly sometimes. The girls at Stanford weren’t. They didn’t have to accept some creep’s hand on their hip to get a better tip. They didn’t have to fix cars because they couldn’t afford a mechanic and scrubbed floors until their fingers hurt. They got to be soft, and you didn’t.

It had hit you right where you were most vulnerable, right in the part of you that hurt the most. You wanted to be sweet and soft and pretty for Sam, but you couldn’t. Sam hadn’t noticed the tears stinging your eyes, had kept talking, excitement in his voice. In the evening, he’d taken you out to a party, a bonfire by a nearby lake, warm beer and loud music. You’d brought the nicest outfit you had but it had made you feel worse instead of better. Sam stayed by your side, introducing you to people, chatting, asking about your family, about your work. He didn’t think there was anything sad about your life, but his kindness wasn’t enough to quiet the turmoil in you.

When he went off to get you both more beer, he had left you alone with a small group of people you had been talking to for a while. They had chatted amongst themselves, one beautiful girl turning to you. “So you and Sam know each other from when you were kids?” she asked. You nodded.

“Yeah,” you answered. “We kind of used to live next to each other.”

“Funny,” she said, scrunching up her pretty nose. “He’s never mentioned you before.”

Looking back now, you're a little embarrassed at the effect her words had on you. But then, young and confused and ashamed of everything you hadn’t achieved, it had stung you. You pressed your lips together, the tears you had felt at the back of your throat the whole day threatening to fall.

You’d left then, hadn’t even bothered to find Sam. It was clear to you that your lives had taken on completely different trajectories, and you felt like a fool thinking you could simply come back into his. Sam was going to be a big-shot lawyer, probably with a nice house and a nicer wife. You were going to be serving coffee until the day you died. There was nothing connecting you anymore.

Sam had called you when you were in his dorm room, packing your things. He had called you again when you were getting into your car. You didn’t answer. He called you, again and again. What were you supposed to tell him? How were you supposed to explain to him that you felt less than, would always feel less than?

Sam kept calling you, over the following weeks. You never answered. He called the house and you didn’t answer. Your mother did though, at some point, dark rings under her eyes, a sigh on her lips and generally done with your drama. She picked up the receiver, told Sam you were fine, that you’d gotten back safe and sound. She held the receiver out to you then.

“Jesus,” she said, exhaustion tinging her voice. “Just put that poor boy out of his misery.” But you had shaken your head, lips pressed together, shame burning you. So your mother had told Sam you couldn’t talk. He hadn’t called again after that.

You hadn’t seen each other for years. It wasn’t until the day of your mother’s funeral that you saw him again. She had worked herself into an early grave, never enough money for doctor’s visits, chain-smoking to stave off the stress and exhaustion. You stood at her grave, your last living family member gone, your grandmother having died years before, surrounded by your mother’s colleagues, some friends from school, her new boyfriend you had never liked, what were essentially strangers.

You were going to sell the small house your grandparents had owned, you had decided that morning. You were going to sell it, pay off the debts that were the only other thing your family had left you and then leave and never come back, never come back to this place, this town where everyone and everything was grey.

When everyone had left the cemetery you’d dropped behind, wanting a few minutes for yourself. You were looking down at the ground, and when you looked up you saw him. Sam.

He was standing by the gate leading out to the street, in a suit. You stopped dead, sure that this was some grief-induced hallucination. But then he walked towards you. You stood in front of each other and your arms had gone around your body at the rekindled shame you felt, remembering how you had parted ways. You wondered if Sam would be mad at you.

“I am so sorry,” he said then, and he didn’t seem mad at all. “I wanted to come earlier, but I only heard about the funeral today, so—”

You had hugged him then. Just stepped close to him, your arms going around his middle, your face buried against his shoulder. Even if he would push you away, even if you’d made him hate you – it would be fine, because he was here.

But instead of pushing you away, his arms went around you and he pulled you closer, one hand running over your back.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. You’d gone for coffee then, more than happy to ditch the wake. You and Sam sat in a small café, catching each other up on your lives. Sam was back in the hunting life and when you found out why, that his girlfriend had been killed by the same thing that killed his mother, your heart broke for him. He’d tried so hard to get away but it all had caught up with him anyway. Your heart also broke for yourself when he talked about Jess, the jealousy, even though the poor girl was dead, making you feel ill. You knew you didn’t have a right to feel this way, but you still did.

Sam offered to stay with you, but you hadn’t accepted. You told him that this was something you needed to do on your own, and it was the truth. But from then on, you stayed in contact, never a week going by when you didn’t hear from him, or he from you. You would see each other whenever you were somewhat close to each other and just like that, it was like no time had passed between you. Nights were talked away until suddenly the sun was going up, and you’d look at each other, surprised and bleary-eyed, but you couldn’t help but grin. Sam told you everything that was going on in his life, the ups and downs, the horrors. So many times, he’d sat close to you, close enough to reach out to, to touch. But you’d never dared, until today.

You hugged when you said hello and goodbye but never touched more than that. You didn’t deserve it, you told yourself, not after shutting him out the way you had, but you never stopped wanting no, never stopped wanting him to hold your hand again, to kiss you like he had in the backseat of the Impala, hands awkward and shaky. And now he was here, had chosen you as the person to go to when things were falling apart around him. You didn’t know what to make of that.

To distract from your comment about tying people to your bed, you clear your throat.

“What are the symptoms?” you ask. “If you don’t have more, if you go into… withdrawal?” Sam nods at the word, it’s appropriate.

“I might see things,” he says. “That’s what happened last time. See and hear things that aren’t there. See… people.” You frown.

“What people?” you ask. Sam sighs.

“Myself, as a kid. Dean. My mother,” then he quickly looks at you. “You,” he adds. You have no idea what you are doing in that line-up and you feel it make you want to pull back, retreat into yourself. But you can’t, not now. Sam needs you.

“Okay then,” you stutter. “Do you need me to do it now? Or do we have time for coffee first?”

Thirty minutes later you’re caffeinated and you’ve gotten some rope out of your van. It should be just enough for Sam, and he’s showing you the knots, even though you already know them. It’s more of a refresher but it gives you something to do, something that means you don’t have to address how strange this situation is. It also gives you the chance to look at Sam, watch him move, listen to his voice. You feel like you could do that forever, like you’d never get sick of it.

He positions himself on the bed, because the headboard is the sturdiest thing you own, just in case in the throes of withdrawal he does try to make a run for it. You leave enough slack in the rope that he can sit against the headboard or lie down, maybe sleep. He’s fine with that, but when you start tying up his wrists he shakes his head.

“Tighter,” he says. You look at him.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” you say, but he shakes his head again.

“It’s not safe,” he says, and then: “Please.” So you do it, even though it feels all wrong.

When you’re done, Sam extends his legs on the bed. He asked you earlier if he should take off his shoes, but you told him to leave them on if he wants to. You’re not really worried about your comforter’s cleanliness right then.

You stand there, unsure what to do for a second. So you sit at the end of the bed, near Sam’s shoes. He’s adjusting his position, then leans his back against the headboard, his hands resting in his lap. You catch yourself thinking that he looks nice there, in your bed, amongst your things.

To distract yourself, you ask: “What does it feel like?” He grins a little.

“You never been tied up before?” he asks, purposefully a little suggestive. You roll your eyes.

“Ha ha,” you say and his grin goes just a little bit wider. You look down, smiling a little yourself. Sam and you usually don’t talk this way, sex and dating and love all topics you avoid like the plague, just like the touching. But whatever this night is, those rules seem to be abrogated. You wonder what that means.

“No, I mean… I mean the blood,” you ask, and immediately regret it, because Sam’s smile flies off his face. “I’m sorry,” you say. “If you don’t want to talk about it…” Sam inclines his head.

“I mean,” he says, “do you want to hear about it? It’s… It’s pretty disgusting.”

You look up at the ceiling. “I used to have this gig a few years ago,” you say, “at this catering place that had an oyster special. It wasn’t fancy, and one day the delivery guy comes, and he has no oysters that week.” You look down at Sam, and he looks very confused at why you’re telling him this.

“So my boss sends me to this guy he knows,” you continue, unperturbed. “I think they knew each other from prison. Anyway, he says this guy can get you anything, and we need oysters because we’re catering a retirement party that evening. So me and this other waitress, we go there, we get the oysters this weird, shady guy is selling us.” You purse your lips. “Have you ever been around when fifty people get violent food poisoning, all at the same time?” Sam makes a face.

“So yeah,” you conclude. “I have a pretty high tolerance for disgusting stuff.” Sam shakes his head at you.

“You’re tough, you know that?” he asks.

Yeah, you know. You don’t want to be tough, don’t want to have to be tough, but you know you are. Sam seems to collect his thoughts then, tries to find the right words.

“It makes me feel… powerful,” he finally says, but then corrects himself: “No, it makes me feel in control. Like I can do things, not mess them up.” You frown at that, but let him continue. “It makes me feel that all those times I felt like there was something different about me, like I was a freak, that I was right, but in a good way, you know?” He looks at you, maybe trying to see if you understand at all.

“And then it goes away, and I’m… just me again,” he says, like being him isn’t the best thing you can imagine anyone to be.

“What’s so bad about you?” you ask. Sam scoffs, looks at you again. Then he sees it’s a genuine question.

“Well, for starters,” he explains then, “I have demon blood in me. I, I made a huge deal out of thinking I was too good for this life, only to go right back to it the moment things got tough. I’ve screwed up every relationship I’ve ever had.” He stops suddenly, throws you a look and you wish he didn’t. He’s all confusing tonight and you don’t know… You just don’t know.

“It’s not arrogant to want to do something different than what your family does,” you say. “And you know that.” Sam looks down, avoiding your gaze. You shake your head. “If I told you the exact same story you wouldn’t see anything bad about it. But it’s you, so for some reason the same doesn’t apply. Not for Sam frickin' Winchester.” Sam looks up at you, frowning.

“You’re kind and understanding and empathetic and sweet,” you say, “but you’re none of these things to yourself.” You shrug. “I don’t get it,” you conclude.

“Like you’re so much better?” Sam says, and now it’s your turn to frown. “Like you don’t get down on yourself harder than you would on anybody else? Like you don’t act like you deserve nothing while everyone else deserve everything?”

You open your mouth to protest, but you’re unsure what to say. So instead you mumble: “Damn, demon blood makes you kind of an asshole.”

Sam’s quiet for a second and you wonder if you’re gone too far. But then he grins, and then he actually laughs. You can’t help but chuckle along, both from relief that you didn’t go too far as well as the joy you get from his laughter. As Sam quiet down, he nods.

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

You’re both quiet for a while. “Do you wanna watch some TV?” you finally say. “Or, or try to sleep?”

Sam smiles a little. “Some TV sounds good."

You move the little TV stand you have around so it faces the bed. Then, and you clearly didn’t think this through, you climb on the bed next to Sam. The bed isn't huge so you can’t stay too far from him, but you make sure you don’t touch. There’s a Fawlty Towers rerun and you and Sam settle on that, remember watching it when you were younger but not really understanding all of the jokes. Now you chuckle at “Don’t mention the war!”, grin at each other a little. You feel fifteen all over again.

“I had the biggest crush on John Cleese,” you say after a long time of silence. Sam turns to you.

“Oh yeah?” he asks. You nod, then turn to him.

“Probably the height,” you say with a little wink. Sam huffs but his heart’s not in it. He looks pale, you notice.

“How do you feel?” you ask, feeling worry bloom in you. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m getting a headache. Little dizzy,” he answers.

“You sure those ropes aren’t too tight?” you ask, looking down at his hands. He shakes his head.

“All good,” he says, trying to smile at you. “Let’s just keep watching.”

You do, but now that you noticed it’s hard to miss the signs that Sam’s not doing well. He’s breathing heavier, he seems shaky. Like he’s coming down with a bad fever. The show ends, and something else comes on, but you’re barely paying attention. There’s a sheen of sweat on Sam’s forehead and his fingers are twitchy. For some reason, you didn’t think that it would be like this, like actual withdrawal, but it seems to be heading that way.

You get up, go to the sink, fill a glass with water and walk it over to him. “Here,” you say, and Sam nods in thanks. He takes the glass from you but his hands are shaking, he spills some of it, so you grab for it, not wanting him to pour it all over himself.

“Let me,” you say, and in response Sam turns his head to you a little bit. You raise the glass to his lips and he gulps it down, eyes closed, throat working. He empties it in one go, and you turn around to get some more.

“Wait,” Sam says and you stop, turn around. His voice sounds a little raspy and he’s looking up at you.

“Can you stay with me?” he asks. Now it’s your turn to take a deep breath.

“Of course,” you say, and you put the glass on the night stand, sit down next to him. The kitchen isle is only a few feet from the bed, you wouldn’t even have to leave the room to get to it, but Sam’s asking you to stay with him so you’re not going anywhere.

He’s looking down at his lap, his broad shoulders shaking on every exhale. His head snaps up, like he forgot you were there.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. He’s pressing his mouth into a line and his forehead is knotted.

“About what?” you ask.

“That I asked you for this, that I just showed—” He interrupts himself, looks off into the middle distance. “That I just came here to let you take care of this.”

“Sam,” you say, trying to catch his gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m glad you came here. I’m glad you trust me that way.” I don’t deserve it, you don’t say, but think. You’re not sure Sam hears you. He seems distracted.

“Hey,” you say, and you do what you’re not supposed to do, take his hand. It’s the second time tonight and you wonder what would happen if you did it a third time. Three strikes and you’re out?

The touch makes Sam look a you. “Let’s try to get some sleep,” you say and you wonder if it’s possible to sleep through demon blood withdrawal. Sam nods.

“Yeah,” he says, seeming to calm down a little. “Sleep sounds good.” You get up, which unfortunately means you have to let go of Sam’s hand, and walk around the bed. Sam pushes himself down the bed, his legs hanging over the end a little but it doesn’t seem to bother him. You lie down, on your side to face him, pull up your legs and he’s right there, right in front of you. It makes your breath hitch. A small smile flashes across his tired face and he rolls towards you, with some difficulty, so he’s facing you too.

“Hey there,” he says, making you smile.

“Hi yourself,” you reply, and then you say: “Close your eyes.” He does. His hands are out in front of him, held there by the rope, and you dare to lay your hand over his. He flinches for a second, but doesn’t pull away.

“Just fall into it,” you say, and you stroke his hand with your thumb again.

Sam grins a little. “Like you did into that pile of hay when we were thirteen?” You chuckle.

“You mean the pile of hay that wasn’t as bouncy as I thought it was?” you ask.

Sam nods, eyes still closed. “Can you tell me about it?” he asks, voice careful. “About that day?”

Sam was there, he knows the story as well as you do. But yes, yes, of course you can tell him about it. It’s one of your favorite memories.

The boys were at Bobby’s again and Dean had promised to take you and Sam to the pumpkin patch outside of town. It was fall, the air crisp, dark clouds in the sky. It turned out though that Dean had a date, some girl from town and he was very much not interested in looking after his little brother and the girl from next door. He sent you into the Halloween-themed maze next to the patch, part of the farm the thing had been built on, and snuck off to enjoy the local delights.

Sam and you had gotten bored quickly and at your behest you had soon started exploring the rest of the grounds. There was a barn that had a rickety ladder leading up to a loft and what you assumed to be a deep pile of hay under it. You had dared Sam to jump down into the hay, thinking that was what boys liked, dares and jumping. Maybe some of them did, but not Sam. He’d tried to talk you out of it but your mind had been made up – you were going to impress him and maybe in return you would get to kiss him, just a quick peck like you’d seen the other girls at school do.

So you jumped and landed on your arm, breaking the bone, as it later turned out, in three places. Sam had climbed down to you, mewling there on the floor, the pain worse than anything you had ever felt. He had said that he was going to run and get help, but you had started crying, begged him to stay. You thought you were going to die if he left you.

So Sam had stayed, sat down on the floor next to you, held the hand of the arm that wasn’t broken. Two hours later Dean had found you, panicked when he realized you two weren’t where you were supposed to be. He’d carried you to the car, but Sam hadn’t left your side, not when you got to the emergency room and not when your parents showed up and not when Bobby picked the brothers up, saying it was time to go. He had simply refused.

The adults and even Dean had chuckled at that but the truth was every other act of love in your life has been measured against that one. You’re not sure if that makes you pathetic or a romantic.

You don’t say the last part when you tell Sam the story now, but it doesn’t matter. He’s fallen asleep, and at some point, he started holding your hand, instead of you his.

You must fall asleep too, because when you wake up you’re disoriented. You hear mumbling and you wonder if you left the TV on when you realize it’s Sam. He sounds distressed, scared. You blink your eyes open. He’s still lying next to you, but he’s leaning up against the headboard, staring into the room. His lips are moving but you can’t hear what he’s saying.

You sit up quickly, turn the way he’s looking. There’s nothing there so you turn back to him, say his name. He doesn’t seem to hear you. He looks terrified, or like he’s in pain. You say his name again, then again, voice raised and finally he hears you, turning to you with a snap of his head.

The rules are forgotten as you clutch his knee.

“Sam, there is nothing there,” you say, because this must be what he warned you about, seeing things. He doesn’t answer, but his eyes dart back to where he was looking before. “It’s not real,” you tell him, “it’s the demon blood.” Sam swallows.

“She’s saying the same thing about you,” he replies, his voice low and hoarse. You can’t help it. You know there’s nothing there, that it’s just you and Sam in this room, but you turn around anyway, and of course there’s no one there, but the way Sam is staring at that spot nearly had you convinced.

You look back at him, try a different approach. “Who is she?” you ask. “What’s she saying?” You wonder if it’s Mary, his mother, or his dead girlfriend or someone else you don’t even know about.

“She’s saying…” he starts, then listens before he begins again. “She’s saying I abandoned you. That I promised to stay with you and I didn’t. I didn’t try hard enough.” Your mouth drops open. What is he talking about? He must think you’re someone else, part of the hallucinations.

“Sam,” you say, getting his attention again. “Who did you abandon?”

His eyes focus back on you. “You,” he says, and he doesn’t seem confused about that part. “In the barn. At Stanford. I, I abandoned you.” So he is talking about you, but it still doesn’t make sense. Sam didn’t abandon you in the barn, he stayed with you. And he didn’t abandon you at Stanford, you abandoned him. He’s looking at the spot behind you again.

You lean forward, not sure what overtakes you and you put your hands on both sides of his face, make him look at you and only you. “It’s not real, Sam,” you say, your voice clear and strong. “It’s not real. Look at me.”

He does, his eyes darting to whatever he’s seeing once more, but then he focuses on you. His eyes are like dark galaxies and you cannot believe how much you missed looking into them.

“I’m real,” you say, and you feel your voice fill with sadness. At him, at his demons. At the fact that of all the people in the world he is the one who has to suffer so. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.

“I’m here,” you say, “and you never abandoned me. You’re the only one who never has.” A tear spills down your face, and then another one, but Sam is focused on you now, is seeing you, hearing you. His hands go to your wrists, not to move your hands away but to hold on to you. It makes you sob deep in your chest.

“Please,” he says, and you’re not sure what he means but it feels like you do.

So you move your hands, just a little, to put them over his ears. You pull him close, so that your face must fill his entire vision. You pull him down a little, gently, so that he is lying back down, your face close to his.

“You’re real,” you say, and you think you see tears in Sam’s eyes too. “You’re the realest thing in the world.”

You say it over and over. You can’t see or hear what else Sam is seeing or hearing, but you keep saying it, like a chant, hoping that your voice, your words, are just a little bit louder than whatever else is screaming at him.

Sam’s brain is a storm and you try to make yourself the eye of it, the quiet and violent center where he is safe. You’ll kill anything that tries to get to him. You’ll stay with him on the floor of that barn the way he stayed with you, even if the barn is being torn away around you, even if the tornado takes wood and hay and pumpkins and goddamn cows and spins them up into the air.

You tell him that, that you'll stay with him no matter what, and you keep telling him that he is real and that you are real, say it until your voice cracks and then you say it some more.

Pale morning light breaks through the window. You crash into wakefulness like you’re diving into a cold body of water. Your hands are still on Sam, albeit not over his ears anymore. His hands are still around your wrists, but his grip isn’t as tight because, as you see with a wave of relief, he’s asleep. You don’t move, try to keep your breathing steady so he can stay in that peaceful place for just a little while longer.

So instead you study his face, because it’s all you see anyway. The cleft in his chin, his strong nose, the mole under his eye. How young he looks when he’s calm like this. Not for the first time you wonder what things would be like now if you had not left that night at the lake. If you would be rewarded with this sight every morning or if things would be exactly as they are now.

You could drive yourself crazy, wondering.

But then Sam stirs. You hold your breath, hoping it’s just a dream, but then he’s slowly blinking his eyes open. Maybe you should pretend to be asleep, that you haven’t been staring at him but you don’t have any energy for pretending.

Sam’s eyes focus and when he sees you he takes a deep breath, just looks at you. Neither of you is willing to break the silence, so you lie like this for a long time, just looking, still touching. Sam speaks first, eventually.

“Why did you leave that night when you visited me at Stanford?” he asks, his voice low like he’s reluctant to cut through the quiet. You sigh slowly and then you find your are rubbing one thumb along Sam’s cheek where it has moved again inexplicably.

“Because I was an idiot,” you answer, but Sam’s eyebrows twitch. It’s not the answer he wants.

“Because,” you say, taking more time to answer this time. “Because I saw that you were meant for great things and I wasn’t.” Sam frowns a little and you can see a reply form on his lips, but you’re faster. “Because I thought that if something… happened between us, you would eventually see how completely ordinary I am, and you wouldn’t like me anymore.” You push yourself to take the final plunge. It’s too late to back out now anyway. “Because the thought that you might not want me was the worst thing in the world, and I thought I could spare myself if I left first.”

It’s the truth, and it sounds even worse said out loud, but you owe Sam this. He seems to think about your words, turning them over in his head.

“I thought--,” he starts, but then closes his mouth. He takes another second and you wonder if this is the end, if whatever he says next will be the end of your relationship, whatever kind of relationship it might be.

“I thought,” he finally continues, “that you saw what a fake I was and it disgusted you.” Now you’re frowning.

“Fake?” you ask. Sam nods, just a little, your hands moving along with his head.

“Who I was trying to be at Stanford,” he explains. “Who I thought I could be.”

“There was nothing fake about it,” you say. But Sam makes a face like he doesn’t agree.

“I really thought I could leave it all behind. All the…” He thinks for a second, looking for the right word. “Darkness,” he finally settles on. “But I take it with me everywhere I go, because it’s me.”

You look at him for a long time. You don’t see any darkness in Sam. Sadness? Yes. Depression? Maybe. Trauma? Hell yes. But darkness?

“I don’t know it this makes sense,” you say, “but this darkness? What you’re feeling? It’s not what others see in you. It’s not what I see in you. For what it’s worth.”

Sam’s brow creases a little again. He’s quiet for a few seconds, and then he asks: “What do you see?”

You shake your head just a little. “I see you,” you say and you feel a smile tug at your lips. “I see someone who keeps getting knocked on the chin and still decides, every day, to be good and to believe in people. Someone who cares so much that it kills him, literally sometimes.” Sam gives an embarrassed, weak chuckle, but you’re not done.

“You came here last night,” you continue, “because you made a mistake. A stupid, human mistake. And the first thing you did was face up to it and try to fix it.” Sam scoffs a little.

“Yeah,” he replies, “and drag you into immediately.”

“God, Sam,” you say, and you’re actually a little annoyed. “Do you have any idea how happy it makes me that you would come to me? That I would be the person you trust in this?” You press your lips together, the emotion of the confession feeling a little overwhelming.

“And I know how messed up that is,” you add, “but it’s the truth.” Sam looks at you for a while, studies your face. You don’t think you’ve fully convinced him, but he seems to be thinking about something.

“They’re gone,” he says finally.

“Who’s gone?” you ask.

“The voices,” he says, “the… hallucinations.” You nod against the pillow.

“Good,” you say. You look at his hands for a second. “Do you want me to untie you?” you ask. Sam thinks, then shakes his head.

“No,” he says in a soft voice. “I don’t want to leave yet.” It feels like someone takes your heart in their hand and squeezes it.

“You can just stay,” you say, and now your voice is quiet. Sam nods.

You let go of him and it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. You sit yourself up and start undoing the ropes. His wrists don’t look too bad, but it would still be better to get some ointment on them. You get some from your bathroom and then gently apply it to the red marks on Sam’s skin. While you do it, his fingers land on your hand and he keeps them there.

“That’s all done,” you say.

“Thank you,” you suddenly hear him mutter. You look up at his face. He’s looking into your eyes and you feel a pull inside yourself, a pull towards him. You almost do it then. Almost lean in and kiss him. But he's just come out of a night of sleepless withdrawal so maybe it’s not right to do it.

“I’m gonna freshen up,” you interrupt yourself and stand up. “Back in a sec.” You walk to the bathroom without looking back at Sam. You wash your face, brush your teeth. Comb your hair where it’s been pressed between your head and the pillow. You change your clothes, soft washed-out jeans and a loose blouse. You come back into the main room, and Sam’s sitting on the couch, going through the book you were reading.

“I left you a towel and a spare toothbrush if you want it,”  you say, burying your hands in your pockets. “I’m gonna make some coffee.”

Sam fingers the edge of the page he has open before him. He looks like he’s about to say something, but then thinks better of it and gets up, walks past you into the bathroom, close enough that he touches you, that his arm brushes along yours. You slowly breathe out when he closes the door behind him.

Something’s different. You’re just casually touching now and you feel like your skin is on fire where Sam met it. You shake yourself and get started on the coffee. Sam comes back soon, rolling up the  sleeves of his shirt. You pour him a cup without speaking, hand it to him, and you both just stand there for a while.

“How are you feeling?” you finally ask.

“Okay,” Sam says slowly, like he’s checking in with himself to make sure he’s telling the truth. “Kind of chewed up and spat out,” he continues, “but no hallucinations. And no cravings. Well, at least not for demon blood.” You both smile at that, look down at the floor. You notice some dust collecting down there and hope Sam doesn’t see it. Like he has nothing else to worry about right now.

“You know I always trusted you, right?” he suddenly says.

“Huh?” you ask, confused.

“You said earlier,” he explains, “that you were happy that I came here, that I trusted you.” He puts his cup down on the counter. “And I just wanted to say that I always trusted you. That was never the issue. I just didn’t trust myself.” You’re not totally sure where he’s going with this, so you just let him talk.

“The version of you that I saw last night, the other version,” he continues, making it clear he is talking about the hallucination. “She kept telling me that I messed everything up when I stopped calling, when I stopped trying to reach you. Is that true?” You pass your coffee cup from one hand to the other because it gives you something to do. You shake your head, finally.

“You didn’t mess anything up,” you say. Sam studies your face.

“Why don’t you ever touch me?” he asks and you frown. “It’s like you’re purposefully avoiding it,” Sam continues. You put your cup down too, because it allows you to look away from him for a second. You notice the buzz in your fingertips you’ve been feeling since you woke up. Like there’s little magnets in them and Sam is the other pole. You look back at him.

“Because if I start touching you again,” you say, “I don’t think I’d be able to stop.” Sam takes a deep breath at your words, and then suddenly he is stepping closer. Your stomach drops and your heart beats faster when his hand goes to where yours is and he takes it, rubs his thumb over the back of it.

“Then don’t stop,” he says. You look up at him and there’s those pesky tears in your eyes again. But it feels like you’re in a trance, Sam so close, not just a fleeting hug but actual, real closeness that you can breathe in. You lift the hand he is holding and bring his fingers to your face. You don’t know what you’re doing until you’re doing it, and then you press your cheek against the back of his hand. You feel a stuttery sigh leave him at the contact and you look up at him the contact breaking but not for long, because Sam lifts his other hand, runs it over your exposed arm, so gently you think you could almost be imagining it.

You look up at him, into those eyes you know so well, and you take a step closer to him. You break the eye contact only to lay the side of your head against his chest, wrap your arms around him, hands running over his back and you close your eyes. Sam’s hands find your back, run over it, warming it. A breath leaves you that might be a sob, because you are so full of love for him. Sam just holds you closer.

You stand like this for what could be years until you feel Sam move just a bit, and you pull your head back to look at him again. One hand of his lands on your cheek, the thumb running a line just below your eye. Your hand goes up, palm turned towards him, and you run your fingertips over his bottom lip. You’ve never touched him like this, not even during those fleeting times in the Impala, or when you went to the movies and he held your hand there or the one time you slow-danced to one of your dad’s records, Sam continuously stepping on your toes with his large, ungainly feet.

Sam leans forward, and his forehead meets yours. You rub yourself against him carefully, both of you moving closer, slowly, carefully. You’re not sure you know the exact moment your lips meet, that’s how slow you’re going. But then Sam leans that little bit more forward and you’re definitely touching now and it turns into a kiss at some point, Sam’s eyes falling shut and yours do too. His hand is on the small of your back and he’s pulling you closer and so you wrap your arms around his neck. You need the extra balance because without it you think you might pass out. He feels so familiar and yet completely new.

At some point Sam’s hand finds your face, and he pulls you even closer. The kiss takes on a different energy then, hungrier, needier, both of you pulling the other in, pushing yourself against each other. Before you know it, you are stumbling towards the bed, not sure who is leading who. Sam’s calves bump into it and your hands are going under his shirt while his are at the top button of your shirt. You’re both breathing heavily and Sam pulls away from you suddenly. He’s not going far, but he tilts your face so you’re looking at him.

“Are you sure?” he asks and you’ve never been so sure of anything in your life.

“Yes,” you say and then you’re pulling him back against you, Sam’s lips melting against yours, because in the few seconds you weren’t kissing him your heart was aching. You both fall back on the bed, Sam cushioning your fall and you’re tearing at each others clothes. They’re hard to take off with how close you are but you manage.

You touch Sam’s skin everywhere you can reach, and his hands are running over you like he’s trying to commit you to memory, like he’s mapping you. One of his hands wanders between your legs and he feels perfect, big and warm and he keeps kissing you while he touches you, only breaking his lips away from you when you press your head back into the pillow, whimpering, so he can watch you.

The moment you’ve regained your senses you’re reaching out to him. You just have the wherewithal to reach out your hand, grab into your night stand and pull out a condom. Sam takes it from you, carefully tears the foil with his teeth so that at least one hand can stay on you, and then he’s reaching down between you two, lifting himself up and a second later he’s on you again, kissing you, his hand in your hair. You drop your legs open and then he’s right there, and you cry out when he enters you because you cannot believe that this is the first time.

He rocks into you and you keep kissing and between pants and small noises, Sam says into your mouth: “Don’t leave me.”

You sob again, bring your head up so you can kiss him again, and say back into his mouth: “Never.”

Later, you lie together, not speaking but touching. Sam’s hand has found yours again and he is playing with your ring finger, absentmindedly.

“Do you have to go back soon?” you ask into the silence. Sam turns to you, pulls you closer to kiss your forehead and then the spot between your eyebrows. He shakes his head.

“I can tell Dean I’m staying here for a while,” he shrugs, then carefully adds: “Maybe another day? Or more, even. If— if you want that, I mean.” He looks at you, an unsure look in his eyes. You push yourself against him.

“Does forever fit into your schedule?” you ask. It’s supposed to sound like a joke but Sam looks at you in a way that tells you he knows it’s not. He smiles a little.

“I can make that work,” he says. 

[rafeyscherry]

this account is sooo cute even if you don’t have any fics written yet🩷💗!! But i would like to ask for one😇 Im not sure if you write smut but i thought it would be really cute if you did a fic where rafe and reader are a newer couple, and so in love. they decide to have a sleepover (at either of their houses, you choose ofc😊) and have their first time together? maybe the sleepover is after a party at rafes house or something!!

Anyways, thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this hon!! I hope you know you’re so so so loved💕💕

(P.S can i be -💐 anon??)

hi lovely!!! thank you so so so much for your request, i hope i did it justice because this is my first time ever writing smut lol. of course you can be the 💐 anon! 💗💗

NO 1. PARTY ANTHEM

rafe cameron x reader

cw: smut!!!

The slam of the car door startled you awake. You don’t remember most of the car ride, but you do remember Rafe letting you lay down in the backseat with your head in his lap because “you needed your beauty sleep,” and who was he to deny you of it? You felt Rafe shift you a bit in his arms to get the keys out of his pocket, and that's when he noticed your eyes had opened. “Hey baby, sorry. Just give me a second…” he trailed off as he fiddled with the door, finally opening it with a click. He carried you inside and sat you on the long couch in his living room and turned on one of the lamps, the white light filling the room and worsening the headache that had grown from the party's music earlier. “Did you get my purse?” you asked, turning your head away from the bright lamp and over to where he was fiddling in the kitchen. “Mhmm, it’s on the table. Headache?”

“Yeah.” you mumbled as he walked back over with a cup of water and medicine, placing it on the coffee table before sitting next to you on the couch. He slid an arm around your waist as you leaned forward and took the pills, letting you swallow before pulling you into his side. You practically slumped into him, still a bit groggy after your car ride nap but not tired enough to sleep again. He smiled and kissed the side of your head, his hand running through your hair. “You looked pretty tonight, baby. Like a fuckin’ angel.” he mumbled, looking down at your dress then back at your face.

He never failed to make you feel like the prettiest girl in the room, because in his eyes it was true. Even with the smudged highlighter on your face and a bit of mascara goop in the corner of your eyes, he thought you were perfect. “Thank you.” you mumbled, looking up at him. He hummed and leaned down, giving you a small kiss. Then another one, and another one. With each kiss the intensity rose and his hands got more grabby, and you grew more awake. You straightened up from your slumped state against his chest and pushed your head up a bit to meet his lips halfway, feeling his arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

He started running his hands up and down your back during the kisses, his hands fiddling with the zipper on the back. You pulled away slightly, your lips still brushed up against each other, and asked “bedroom?” He was silent for only a second, because you had always just made out, nothing more. But he was growing a tiny bit impatient over the weeks, so hearing you say that? He was practically jumping for joy. He nodded, pressing one more kiss on your lips before standing from the couch and hoisting you up into his arms, ascending up the stairs and towards his bedroom as you kissed his jaw and neck.

He made it to his room and pushed the door open with his foot, stepping in and leaning back against it to close it and sliding a hand back to lock it. “Just in case,” he mumbled, placing another kiss on your lips. He walked to the bed and dropped you down onto it, making you squeal at the sudden fall. He leaned down and kissed you once more, his hands sliding behind your back and yours around his neck. His hands found the zipper and tugged it a bit, silently asking for permission. He felt you nod a bit against him, and it was all he needed to unzip it. You helped slide the dress off and onto the floor, leaving you in just a bra and panties. He looked down at you, his hands running all over your torso and hips and started placing kisses all over your collarbone and neck. Your head tilted back for more access and let out a small whine, making him smirk a bit.

“Fuckin’ stunning baby. Perfect,” he complimented between kisses, his hands sliding up to the clasp on your bra. “Can I?” he asked, fiddling with the fabric. You nodded quickly, a bit of nervousness building in your chest but also excitement. He unclasped it and pulled it off, tossing it somewhere onto the floor before cupping your chest in his palms. “Gorgeous.” he mumbled, guiding you back onto the bed and he leaned down, sucking small hickeys and kisses onto your tits. You moaned quietly, your back arching up just a bit as his kisses trailed down your chest and stomach, stopping at your hip line to hook his fingers into the fabric of your panties. He looked up at you with the silent question, tugging slightly on them. You nodded quickly, helping him by lifting your hips so he could slide them off easily.

“Atta girl, look at you.” he praised, his fingers tracing your thighs as he went to lift your legs over his shoulders. “You still okay up there, baby?” he asked, looking up at you. “Mhmm, I'll say somethin’ if I don’t like it, promise.” you said, your hands finding his head. He nods slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your mound before practically diving in. His tongue slid in between your folds and you arched up, a strangled gasp escaping your throat at the sudden pleasure. He flicked his tongue back and forth over your clit, not being too rough yet but enough for pleasure to coarse through your body. Moans were spilling out of your mouth as his fingers shifted from your thigh to your folds, moving his mouth to latch onto your clit and sliding in two fingers.

You gasped and gripped his head a bit more. “Rafe—oh fuck—“ you moaned, your head tilting back and eyes fluttering shut as his fingers pushed in and out. He smiled up at you and mumbled “I know baby,” before latching onto your clit again. You felt yourself tipping towards the edge before he suddenly pulled away, the warmth gone too. You immediately went to protest, but before you could get a word out his lips found yours again as he pressed his pelvis against yours, slowly rocking his clothed hard-on against your bare folds.

Your hands tugged at the waistband of his pants, to which he pulled away for a moment and moved to your neck, his hands helping wiggle off his bottoms and boxers and throwing them elsewhere. He looked back up at you as he spread your thighs wider, rubbing the fat of them a bit. “You ready?” he asked sweetly. You nodded almost desperately, and he smirked and leaned down for another kiss. You gripped his shoulders as he started pushing in slowly. You both weren’t virgins, but you had started dating a while back so it had been a while. He whispered praise after praise as he bottomed out, your nails digging into his shoulder blades and your hips trying to rock back and forth underneath him. You had waited so long and was practically begging now that he was inside you.

The moment he started thrusting it was like a game over. You grabbed onto him and tried to keep up a steady pace on your end, but he just took over. His pace increased quickly as he threw a leg over his shoulder to press deeper, making you moan loudly. “Rafe—don’t stop. Please—please don’t!” you cried, as if Rafe had enough willpower left in him to even attempt that. He didn’t slow down once, not even when he felt you clench around him and finish. He needed more—he needed everything. Your head was thrown back on the pillow as his pace quickened for the last time, both of you reaching the edge. He quickly pulled out and came all over your stomach as you panted, trying to catch your breath and come down from the intense moment.

He just kind of hovered over you for a moment, as if processing what just happened, before he leaned down and kissed your cheek. “You’re so beautiful. Did perfect for me, y’know?” he mumbled against your ear tiredly. You nodded sleepily at his praise, the tiredness from before creeping back into your system. He smiled down at you, his hand finding your hair. “Sleepy?” he mumbled. You nodded as his hands found your waist. “Alright baby, go to sleep. I’ll get you all cleaned up, don’t worry.” You hummed tiredly as he kissed you once more, your consciousness already fading as he got up and walked to the bathroom to get a towel. The last thing you felt before slumber overtook you was him pulling you into his arms, kissing your temple and drifting off alongside you.

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hii I wanted to ask if you could maybe do a fic where bucky or Steve has a daughter but the mother isn’t in the picture. Bucky/Steve never told them that they’re the reason that their mother left but she somehow finds out . And maybe the daughter was rude to Steve/ Bucky because she thought it was his fault.

have a great day ! 🤍

The Reason » Steve Rogers/Captain America

Pairings: Dad!Steve Rogers x Teen Daughter!Reader

Summary: You blame Steve for not telling you the reason why your mom left.

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, language, absent mother, crying, nicknames

Age of reader: 13 years old

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

Ever since you were old enough to talk, you’ve been asking your dad about your mom. Steve always beat around the bush instead of giving you a straight answer.

“Dad, please tell me about my mom.” You begged.

“Y/N.” Steve sighs. “Not right now. I’m working.” He says.

“Can you at least tell me if she’s dead or alive?” You asked.

Steve sighs and looks up from the mission report he’s filling out.

“She’s alive and that’s all I’m saying.” He says. “Now, will you stop asking about her?” He asks.

“Yes.” You replied.

You left the conference room so your dad can get back to work. You gave Bucky a smile as you walked past him. He smiles back.

“Is Y/N still asking you about her mom?” Bucky asks Steve.

“Yes.” Steve sighs.

You weren’t too far down the hall when you heard your dad and Bucky talking about your mom. You walked back down to the conference room and leaned against the wall next to the door, listening to their conversation. You know it’s bad to listen to other people’s conversations, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“You know she has a right to know.” Bucky says.

“I know.” Steve says.

“Why do you keep beating around the bush with it?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell my daughter that she’s the reason why her mom isn’t in her life.” Steve says.

“I’m the reason why my mom isn’t in my life?” You asked, entering the conference room.

Steve’s eyes went wide when he saw you.

“How much of that did you hear?” Steve asks.

“All of it. Especially the part where I’m the reason why my mom isn’t in my life.” You say.

“Y/N, let me explain.” He says.

You shook your head and ran out of the room and went straight to your bedroom. Steve followed you to your bedroom. He caught the door before you could slam it shut.

“Sweetheart, please let me explain.” Steve pleads.

“Why?! You kept something important from me for years! I don’t want to hear your explanation!” You say, raising your voice at him.

“Y/N, please.” He pleads again.

“No!” You said. “I don’t want to hear anything from you! Get out of my room!” You say.

Steve sighs before leaving your bedroom. You slammed the door shut and locked it. You threw yourself on your bed and started crying. Steve could hear you crying. He hates what this is doing to you. He wishes that he told you sooner.

You don’t know how long you’ve been crying. You readjusted your head on the pillow, looking out the window to see the sun setting. You jumped at the sound of someone knocking on your bedroom door.

“Y/N, sweetheart? Can we please talk?” Steve asks.

“Go away!” You shouted.

“Y/N, please.” He pleads.

You grabbed a shoe and threw it at the door, making Steve jump back. He sighs and goes to the lounge room.

“I should’ve told Y/N about her mom years ago.” Steve says.

“Don’t beat yourself up over, Steve. That won’t do you any good.” Bucky says.

“It’s not going to do me any good if my daughter hates me.” Steve says.

“She doesn’t hate you. She’s just mad at you. She’ll come around.” Bucky says, trying to stay positive.

“I don’t know if she’s going to come around.” Steve says.

Steve knows when you’re mad, it doesn’t last long. He’s not sure if this time is one of those times where it doesn’t last that long. You are really mad at him, because he never told you about your mom. For now, he’s going to leave you alone. He’s going to talk to you about it tomorrow when you’re not as mad at him… hopefully.

A few days go by since you found out the reason why your mom isn’t in your life. Since then, you’ve been rude to your dad and you’ve been giving him attitude. Steve understands that you’re upset with him, but he can only tolerate so much of your rudeness and attitude. Enough is enough.

“I’ve tolerated you being rude to me the past few days. I understand that you’re upset with me, but that’s no excuse for you to give me attitude. Enough is enough!” Steve says sternly, raising his voice.

“Whatever.” You say with an attitude and rolled your eyes.

“Y/N, I swear if you don’t drop the attitude.” He warns.

“I’ll drop the attitude when you tell me why my mom didn’t want me.” You say.

Steve didn’t say anything. He wanted to, but he didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You have a right to know why your mom isn’t in your life. You scoffed and walked away. Your dad grabbed your arm and pulls you into the lounge room.

“Fine. I’ll tell you.” Steve says.

You stared at him, waiting for him to tell you why your mom didn’t want you.

“Your mom didn’t want kids. When she found out she was pregnant, she was going to put you up for adoption, but I wasn’t going to let that happen. I told her that if she had you, I’ll be the one to raise you and take care of you.” Steve explains.

All of your anger towards your dad left your body. Tears filled your eyes and your bottom lip quivered.

“Was I- Was I a mistake?” You asked, your voice cracking.

“No! You are not a mistake!” Steve assures.

“Then why- why didn’t she want me? What did I do?” You asked with tears streaming down your face.

“You didn’t do a thing, sweetheart. You’re innocent in all of this.” He says softly and hugs you.

You broke down in tears in your dad’s arms. Steve hates this for you. He rubs your back to help you calm down and to comfort you.

“Please don’t be mad at me anymore, princess. I only kept it from you to protect you.” Steve says.

“Protect me?” You asked and looked up at him.

“That’s all I was doing, sweetie. That’s all I ever do. I never meant to keep this from you. If you want, I’ll tell you everything you want to know about your mom.” He says.

“Really?” You asked.

“Of course, sweetie.” He replies softly.

“I love you, dad.” You hugged him.

“I love you too, my little soldier.” He hugs you back.

-Bucky’s Doll