#there's just NO GOOD LIGHTING ANYWHERE >:(

[gay-dorito-dust]

How would the Saja boys react to Nonchalant Manager! Reader going on a date with someone for the night?

The second the words 'I've got a date tonight' left your lips when Romance had asked why you were getting all dressed up for, wondering if they had missed an important date, made the air leave their lungs as a plethora of emotions was brought to the surface.

Mystery wanted more then anything then to hunt this person down, not liking the idea of having to be forced to share your attention with anyone that was outside the group, growling and just showing hostility at this secret date that you were going on.

He would cling to you like glue, not letting you leave his sight for a single second as you got yourself ready, even going so far to make whiny noises from the back of his throat the closer it got to you leaving for your date. He's pratically beggin you to stay with him and ditch your date, filled with this idea that you shouldn't be anywhere but with him and the group.

He might as well be waiting at the door for you at this point, he's loyal to a fault.

Baby acts like he's not listening or showing any interest- head down in his notebook- but he's listening and he's not liking what he's hearing in the slightest, the lollipop half hanging out of his mouth didn't taste as sweet anymore upon hearing this news. Not that you didn't deserve to go on a date, just not with random off of the street that you might've bumped into by pure accident and felt obligated to go on a date with.

He would want to make up excuses that he nedded a secondary opinions on his verse within the song they were working on, needing you to go over pages upon pages of lyrics he had written off of the top of his head to keep on theme with the rest of the song. He would do anything to withhold you from going on that date, but all attempts were siwftly brushed aside as if you could see through them all.

It left Baby feeling a little stroppy as he's forced to wait for you to come back from your date as a unsettiling feeling developed within his stomach, not liking the overall feel of your date in the first place and waiting to be proven right.

Romance never felt as though he had to force a smile towards you, never becuase each and every smile he gave you was genuine. Yet the idea that you were going on a date with this mysterious person didn't sit right with him, and knew it didn't sit right with the others either from what he could tell by quickly glancing at them.

He'd at first try to be happy for you and your dare, but that would be lying to himself, and soon enough he'd drop the act and will try to make you see reason. He didn't like the idea of you on a date with someone else when your perfect partner was standing right infront of you; Him!

He would then try to entice you into staying with him in the apartment, where he could make you things or have an inpromptu movie night with a blanket fort and fairy lights gallore, anything he could think of that would have you second guessing whether going out on the date was necessary. He's determined to see you not go on the date and will keep you occupied by any means necessary.

Abby is not amused. He'd might say some shit like 'can they bench more then me?'

Abby hated not being seen by you, he hated the idea that some random person managed to score a date with you quicker then he could, and he had been trying for a long while since you became their manager. So he's not exactly all that happy and would wander what it was about this random person that had cuaght your eye, could they be more ripped then him? probably not, were they a good singer like him? probably not or else he would've heard about them by now.

So needless to say he's left baffled by what would compel you to look elswhere when you should be looking at him and only him. Abby would try to show why he was the better candidate, showing off his mucles and whatnot, all in hopes that you would see reason and not leave him behind to persue someone else.

Jinu is concerned about this person your going on a date with, espeically if they knew that you had connections to them, so what's stopping this person from trying to get to them through you and potentially hurting you in the process; Worse case scenario what if they were a demon hunter?

This was him trying to justify the ache within his chest when he heard you talk about this date and soon enough he wants every ounce of infomation that he can get out of you about this 'date.' Who they are, what they looked like, where were they taking you and so on to the point it felt like an interogation on his end.

He would secretly get Derpy and the bird to follow after you in secret and give him constant updates on how you are or have himself and the group follow you instead, wearing incredibly ridiculous outfits as to go undetected by you and the fans that would be having a night out themselves, watching your date from afar as they pathetically use the menus given to them to shield them if you were to look over at them.

Jinu will anxiously wait up for you when you get back from your date, demons don't need much sleep after all, but he was determined to not let someone else get to you and take you away from them. Hasn't he lost enough already? wasn't he allowed to be a little selfish with you even if he hated to be viewed as such?

[emisluvr]

Maybe riding sub sunghoon who doesn't know where to put his hands because it's too much for him??? I love your works and the way you write sm it's like my brain melts everytime I read your works bc they are literally so yummy 🤤🫶

ahh tyty sm anon !! help i rarely get any reqs for sub!hoon BUT I AM SAT.

✧ tw. smut (18+ mdni!), sub!hoon, riding, light begging, unprotected sex, praise, use of "mommy"

sunghoon’s hands twitch on your thighs, unsure if he should grip them tighter or let go as you straddle him, riding his cock. "p-please.. it’s s’good—i can’t," he whines beneath you, forehead damp with sweat as his body trembles from the overwhelming pleasure of your pussy sucking him in.

"you can," you whisper, caressing his cheek while your hips keep slamming down on him. "you’re doing so good for me, baby."

he stares up at you, eyes low and glassy. "c-can i touch.. anywhere, please?"

"right here," you guide both of his hands to your waist, giving him something to hold onto. "just hold on and let me fuck you, hm?"

his breath catches in his throat, a soft moan escaping his pretty lips as his eyes flutter shut. "feels s’good inside, can’t think.."

"you don’t have to think," you murmur, voice gentle as you reassure him. "just be my good boy."

your hips switch to grinding, the rhythm steady as you roll them back and forth against his pelvis, cock staying buried so deep as his tip pulses inside your tight walls. "n-need to cum, mmmph—fuck," he groans, head thrown back against the pillows, adam’s apple bobbing, hands gripping your waist tighter.

"you can cum, baby. you’ve been so good for me, yeah?" you tut, bouncing again and clenching around him on purpose, pushing him closer to his release.

his fingernails dig into your waist, clinging like it’s the only thing grounding him. "f-fuck.. m’cumming mommy," he whines, before spilling his warm spurts inside you.

his hands stay glued to your waist even after. poor thing doesn’t even know where to touch you.. he just wants to be a good boy for you :c

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[ao3commentoftheday]

Hi! Lately, I've been trying real hard to start writing again after a break of a couple of years, and it's simply not happening. I took the break to begin with because I figured that I could pick up writing fic again easily when I felt less burned out. But each time I've tried since 2025 started I can barely get the words out. I keep telling myself I need to go slow and build up to it, but my brain blanks after a sentence or two, with or without an outline. I can force myself into a drabble or two, or even a flashfic, but it feels like pulling teeth the entire time. I even tried going back to old drafts and adding to them (unsuccessfully). Nothing works! I'm getting more and more frustrated and angry with myself for taking this long of a break from being creative. Do you have any concrete recommendations for what to do when the ideas/words/characters/whatever just aren't coming? My brain is mush.

(I love this blog. So excited to see you back.)

I'll tell you what I do, but I also want to encourage folks to add their thoughts on the notes. This is very much a situation that can be worked on in a million different ways, so any one particular take might or might not work. Often, frankensteining a bunch together is the better route.

I've currently got two creative hobbies: writing fic and making site skins for AO3. When a site skin isn't working, I just have to drop it. I've been attempting to redo my glowy blue Tron skin from like 4 years ago and every time I go back to it, I just get frustrated and need to stop. I don't have a clear idea of where I want to take it, and so nothing looks "right" because everything feels wrong. For site skins, I need to have a solid idea to latch onto in order to get anywhere with them.

For writing, it's kind of similar. It's a LOT easier to write when I have an idea that really lights a fire under me. However, I've found that I can write even if I just know what the end goal of the story is. Even if my ending is just "and then they bone" at least I know where I need to get my characters in the end, and that guiding principle is really helpful because most of what my characters do in the fic is going to be aimed at that end point.

I don't know if it's just the way that you've phrased it in this ask, but it seems like you can't see the story for the words. If you're focused too much on the act of writing then you might need to back away from that for now and work on just imagining the story first. Spend more time daydreaming or lying in bed staring up at the ceiling and picturing your blorbo in situations. Get into the habit of thinking about the story before you start writing the story. Then the writing part is just transcribing the picture that's already clear in your head.

I well understand the frustration that comes when you've got something in you and no way to get it out. Whatever else is happening, the way you used to go about writing fic doesn't work for you anymore and now you need to discover a new method. Maybe it's handwriting in a notebook instead of typing on a screen. Maybe it's dictating into your notes app. Maybe it's chatting it out with a bestie over coffee or in a DM. Maybe it's something else.

Let's see what other people suggest for you, and then you can cobble together a method of your very own. Good luck, anon! I'm rooting for you ❤️

[belli5]

Current Boyfriend .ᐟ ೀWS²

╰ Synopsis doing the current boyfriend prank on Will, because you know how tiny bit sensitive he gets when it comes to you.

Tags/contains Fluff, Will Smith x fem!reader, kissing, light angst(barely, just a little pout), ion kno fr.

➺ from Sera, to you 📨. Genuinely had a bad day at work, people made me cry there today so I had to come back to my people.. 😭

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it! Please do NOT rewrite/repost my work anywhere else without permission!

When you stumbled across that video, the one where girlfriends film a video, then drop “my current boyfriend” like it’s the worlds most casual bomb, you can’t resist.

Especially because you know exactly how Will will react. He’s your softest boy, he tries to play it cool, laidback rookie, the half cocky smirk he gave you when he scores or teases you, but underneath all that? He’s sensitive, a little territorial, a tiny bit dramatic when it comes to you.

And you love it, every inch of it.

So here you are, sitting cross legged on the edge of your bed, scrolling through your phone with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. The original sound is blasting through your AirPods.

You can already picture it: Will’s eyebrows doing that confused scrunch, the half smile dropping while he tries to figure out if you’re messing with him or actually about to break his heart for fun.

You giggle to yourself, which makes him stir, because, of course, he’s here. Sprawled out on his stomach, face mashed into your pillow, wearing nothing but his grey sweatpants and a black hoodie.

His hair is a fluffy mess from his post practice nap, and one of his arms dangles off the bed like he fell asleep mid reaching for you. He always does that and it kills you every time.

You glance at him, still asleep, dead to the world. Good, you’ll need a few minutes to plan this properly.

The idea forms faster than you want to admit, you’ll film it like a casual “get ready with me.” He loves helping you pick outfits when you’re going out, partly because he likes pretending to care about fashion, but mostly because he just wants an excuse to touch you while you’re half dressed.

So, you’ll give him exactly that.

About an hour later, you’ve showered and picked out three outfit options, and set your phone on your dresser across from the big mirror. The phone’s propped up perfectly for you both.

Will’s still in bed when you peek in. He’s awake now, but barely. Blinking at you with sleepy eyes, cheeks flushed from the nap. He lifts his head when you step inside.

“Where’d you go?” His voice is scratchy, a little grumpy which makes you melt.

“Shower,” you say sweetly, walking over to brush his hair off his forehead. He chases your fingers like a puppy, nuzzling your palm before grabbing your wrist and tugging you down for a lazy kiss.

“You smell good,” he mumbles.

“You drooled on my pillow.”

“‘S your fault,” he defends, eyes already fluttering shut again. “Your bed’s too comfortable.”

You poke his shoulder. “Come help me pick an outfit.”

He cracks one eye open. “For what?”

You hum, feigning casual, “We’re going on a date.”

That perks him up instantly. He shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “We are?”

“Mhm.”

He tries to hide how excited that makes him, but you see it. He always lights up when you say ‘date.’ It doesn’t matter if it’s the fanciest restaurant in San Jose or a walk to the gas station at midnight for ice cream.

He pretends to grumble anyway, flopping back dramatically. “You’re making me get up?”

“Yes, you baby,” you tease, tugging at his hoodie. “Come on, Will. Up. You can watch me change.”

That gets him. He’s up in five seconds, hair sticking up in every direction. He kisses your cheek again before dragging himself to where your phone is set up.

Perfect. You start recording before he realizes.

“Hey guys,” you say sweetly, smiling at the camera as you smooth down your hair. In the phone camera, Will’s behind you, half awake, arms crossed, watching you with a dopey grin. “So, tonight me and my current boyfriend are going on a little date, and I thought he could help me decide what to wear.”

“Current what?” His voice cuts in, sharper than you expected. You almost lose it immediately, your shoulders shake, but you keep your smile locked in.

You pretend not to hear. “Anyway, I have three dresses I’m thinking about. One’s this cute black one—”

“Babe,” he interrupts again. He steps closer into frame, his reflection now clear over your shoulder. His brows are pinched, lips parted. “Did you just say current boyfriend?”

You tap your lip. “Hm?”

He leans in, squinting at the camera like he misheard. “Current boyfriend? What does that mean?”

You shrug, batting your lashes. “What do you mean?”

He scoffs, a soft, incredulous laugh. “You just said current. Why would you say that? Are you planning on trading me in or something?”

“Will—”

“No, no,” he says, stepping fully behind you now, arms circling your waist like he’s staking a claim. “Say it again.”

You glance at the camera lens. “Guys—”

“Nope,” he interrupts, burying his face in your neck for a second. You feel him smile against your skin, but when he pulls back his pout is dead serious. “Explain.”

You try to hold it together. “Well… you are my current boyfriend.”

His jaw drops, eyes wide. He looks like you just told him you were moving to the moon. “Current?”

“Yeah.”

“Like… temporary?”

You bite your lip, shoulders shaking. “I mean..”

“Oh, wow.” He looks directly at the camera now, eyes narrowed. “Are you hearing yourself?So, what, you’re gonna— what, go find a new Will? Upgrade?”

You snort. “Not another Will.”

His mouth falls open again. He shakes his head dramatically, hair flopping. “You’re joking, right?”

You can’t hold it in anymore. You double over laughing, pressing a hand to his chest to steady yourself as he tries to hide his wounded expression behind a fake scowl.

“It’s a prank, Will.” you wheeze out between giggles. “It’s a TikTok trend! Girls say ‘current boyfriend’ to see how their boyfriend reacts—”

“You’re filming me looking stupid?” He cuts in.

“You’re so dramatic—”

“Current,” he mocks, voice all high pitched now, arms squeezing you tighter against him. “Like I’m just a trial version.”

You wiggle, trying to break free. “Will—”

“No, come here.” He buries his face in your shoulder again, mumbling nonsense about “disrespect” and “betrayal” while you giggle helplessly.

[mingapace]

𝕰𝖞𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖓 𝖒𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜱᴜʙ!ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ʙʀᴀᴛᴛʏ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴠᴀɢɪɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴀɴᴀʟ ꜱᴇx (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘᴇɢɢɪɴɢ, ʜᴀɴᴅᴊᴏʙ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6ᴋ

Your mornings used to start with bright sunlight. Now they start with Remmick.

A cool arm tightened around your waist instinctively, pulling you flush against an immovable chest, bare and chilled like marble beneath sheets. You felt the tickle of dark hair brushing your neck, and a soft groan as he buried his face into the curve of your shoulder. His hair is still damp from last night’s bath — you always help brush it out, and he always insists he doesn’t need it, then makes that soft, pleased little noise the second you start.

He holds you like if he loosened his arms, you’d slip into the air and disappear.

Which, in his defense, you’ve done before. Once. For five minutes. To brush your teeth.

That was apparently enough for him to spiral into grief.

This morning is no different.

You shift a little in his arms. He clutches you tighter immediately.

“Don’t,” Remmick murmurs, voice still thick from sleep. “Ye gave yer word.”

You smiled, already too used to his particular brand of dramatics. “I’m not going anywhere,”

“Mh” He nuzzles into your neck. “Good.”

In fact, you had managed to take a week off work because lately, Remmick had become increasingly unstable and in need of attention. He had started getting very clingy before you left the house, always finding some excuse to make you late.

Often, when he returned from a hunt, he would silently slip between your legs — still dirty with blood and soil — and drain you of so much energy that when the alarm rang just a few hours later, you were still completely wrecked.

One of those nights, as he tilted his hips against yours and rubbed his erection along your folds — still dripping from your shared pleasure — ready to start another round, you had begged him to let you rest, promising in return that you’d ask your boss for a whole week off to stay home with him.

That had calmed him.

You sigh. This is normal now. This very specific brand of obsessive clinginess — but it’s never suffocating. Not really. Remmick’s the kind of touch-starved that’s more endearing than frightening. A centuries-old creature of the night who wants nothing more than to be tucked under the covers like a dog and held.

He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just slides a hand beneath your shirt and lays his palm over your stomach.

“I could keep ya here 'till the end o' time,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I'd feed ya, dress ya, keep ya warm with meself every day.”

You arched an eyebrow, face still against the pillow. “You’re being creepy again.”

“I’m a soft-hearted fool, I am,” he protests weakly. “I’m adoring ya.”

“Like a creep.”

“Like a proper lovely husband.” He nips your shoulder, not even sharp enough to mark.

You laugh softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes finally open — glassy and grey in the low light. He blinks at you like you’re too bright to stare at for too long.

You cup his face. He melts into it, instantly.

“Is that a proposal?” you tease.

He grins. “It’s a threat.”

You lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

His hand slips out of your t-shirt, and reaches your hands, fingers locking with yours. He shifts above you without hesitation, settling between your legs like he belongs there. His mouth finds your neck again, lower this time, the cold tip of his nose dragging across your collarbone.

“Let me stay curled up here all day.”

“You do that anyway.”

“I mean in the bed. With you. Inside ya, if you'd have me.”

You snort. “Is that what you want? Morning sex?”

He gives you the most pitiful look — somehow fragile and greedy at once.

“Nope,” he whispers. “I want…y'know, to be close.”

You stare.

“And maybe a bit of sex, yeah” he adds.

Of course.

He kisses your collarbone. Your jaw. The little hollow beneath your throat. Everywhere except your lips — like he’s saving them.

“Ya always smell so fuckin' good,” he murmurs. “It drives me mad, so it does.”

When you finally guide his mouth to yours, he groans like he’s been starving — and maybe he has. Not for blood, but for this. Intimacy. The kind that’s deeper than skin. The kind he panics without.

You don’t even need to speak. You just tug his shirt off, slide yours up, and pull him down. His hips slot to yours like muscle memory, his kisses growing hungrier, needier.

But it never turns rough. Never hurried.

Remmick isn’t like other lovers — not greedy for climax, not detached after. He clings. He holds your hand, kisses your knuckles, presses his forehead to yours as he rocks into you slowly, like he’s trying to stay connected at the deepest point possible.

“I missed ya,” he whispers, voice cracking.

“I was here all the time.”

“I still missed ya.”

It’s always like this — even when it’s barely been hours. You’re the sun to his cold-blooded orbit. He can’t help it. You let him cling.

Afterward, he doesn’t move. Not at all. Just lays on you, face pressed between your breasts, arms wrapped snugly around your torso. You stroke his hair, the way he likes. He’s humming something soft under his breath — a lullaby in a language you don’t know.

It’s domestic in a way that surprises you. He was all shadows when you met him — blood-slick and unreadable. But now, in the hush of morning, with your scent still on his skin and your name still soft on his tongue, he’s just your Remmick.

The phone rings.

Sharp. Loud. Inevitable.

Remmick stirs, the line of his nose pressed between your ribs. He lets out a small, wounded whimper, as if the sound physically pained him.

“Leave it now, don't,” he mumbles immediately, voice muffled and slurred from sleep. His arms tighten around you like an anchor, dragging you deeper into him.

“It might be important,” you murmur, voice already laced with guilt.

Remmick exhales hard. “There's nothin' more important than meself.”

You glance at the phone without moving too much—just enough to read the name glowing on the screen.

Iwan.

Of course. Work. Again.

You try to twist, just a little, to reach the phone on the nightstand. Your hand stretches. Your fingers graze the corner.

And then—grab.

Remmick's hands clamp hard onto your hips, pulling you down and back under him with surprising force. A deep, warning growl rumbles in his chest.

“You'd pick up the phone,” he hisses, outraged. “While I'm holdin' ya close...in me arms like. D'you hate me that much?”

You laugh despite yourself and press a kiss to the top of his head. “Stop being ridiculous. I don’t hate you.”

“You’re leavin' me behind, so you are” he accuses, dramatic as ever, “right here in our bed.”

You try to slide out from under his weight, but he locks his arms tighter, like a python constricting around prey.

“Remmick.”

He looks up at you, with his big grey eyes and genuinely wounded. “I’ll lob it out the fuckin' window.”

You sigh. “Let me take the call.”

With a groan that sounds like the death of romance itself, he flops onto his back, sheets twisting around his hips, his hair a disheveled mess of sleep and defiance. His pout is theatrical. He watches you grab the phone like you’ve just chosen to betray your nation.

You answer. Quietly. Calmly. Regretfully.

“Iwan, hey.”

“Sorry, I know you’re at home,” comes the too-eager voice from the other end, “but I can’t find the May order file. I’ve checked the whole drive and—”

You bite your tongue. Hard. “Sure. Give me a sec.”

Sliding out from under the blankets, you sit on the edge of the bed, your body still bare save for your underwear, skin kissed red in a few places where Remmick had clearly claimed you earlier in the evening.

Remmick watches your every movement. 

Like a man injured.

Still, he behaves. For a while.

You grab your laptop, open the folder, fingers typing quietly, carefully. The soft click of the keys fills the room like rain.

Iwan keeps talking.

And talking.

You try to stay professional, but the edge in your voice is rising with each needless question. You’re spoon-feeding him answers he could find himself. Patience thins. Muscles tense.

And then—movement.

You don’t notice it at first. A shift in the sheets. A shadow at your back.

Then: the long press of Remmick’s thigh curling behind you.

The warmth of his skin against yours.

His hand. Resting on your knee. Innocent. Still. For three seconds.

He moves.

Fingers sliding in light, teasing strokes. Just enough to make your breath catch—not enough to call him out. The kind of touch that dares you to pretend it’s nothing.

You keep typing.

Iwan asks something about export folders. You answer through gritted teeth.

And then, a pinch.

Sharp. Right on the inside of your thigh. You jolt, inhaling a gasp.

“Everything okay?” Iwan’s voice filters through the speaker.

“Yeah. Just—uh. Stretching a little.”

Behind you, Remmick presses a slow, smug smile into the nape of your neck. You feel the brush of his nose first, then the heat of his mouth. His hand trails up your bare stomach. You twitch.

You try—gods, you try—to push him away. But it’s a weak push. A push that means not now more than stop.

And Remmick knows the difference.

He chuckles. Low. Sinful.

His mouth lowers to your collarbone, tongue dragging lazily before his sharp teeth graze the skin—just enough pressure to make your jaw clench.

“Rem…” you whisper, eyes darting toward your laptop.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he becomes more deliberate.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to ignore the rising ache, the heat blooming between your legs, the pulse under your skin.

“Okay Iwan, the file’s there. Under ‘archive–invoices–2025.’”

Your voice is steady, measured — more or less. You’re proud of that, honestly, considering the warm, taut body practically wrapped around your back like a second skin.

��Oh! Got it. Perfect. Wait though—”

Remmick’s hand slips into your panties.

Your eyes fly wide open. Your fingers freeze on the keyboard. Your breath catches in your throat.

“Everything okay?” Again. That faraway voice, so out of place in the heat you are drowning in.

“Yeah. Yes. It’s just… the cat. Bit me.”

A scandalized little gasp explodes into your ear as Remmick presses his lips behind it.

“Liar,” he breathes. There’s amusement in his voice, but darker heat beneath it. “It's not the cat that's got ya all wet like that.”

His fingers start to move. Predatory. Slow. Certain.

He knows you. Knows exactly where to touch you.

Where to press. Where to tease.

Where to ruin you.

And you try so hard to stay quiet but the filth of it only turn you on more.

“Iwan, really, if you found everything, I—”

“One last thing, sorry—uh, the shipping doc? With the labels?”

Remmick bites your shoulder, gently. 

You gasp — sharp, involuntary — just as he pushes two fingers into you without warning.

Your legs jerk. You have to blink hard to see what words are on the keyboard.

“The document…” you echo, in a daze. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

You don’t got it.

What you got is Remmick’s fingers inside you, thrusting deep, wet and slow, curling perfectly — each motion slick, obscene, muffled by the blanket twisted around your hips. The air around you is thick with heat and unspoken sounds.

He reads your body like a language he’s fluent in: the way your breath hitches, the goosebumps rising on your arms, the involuntary roll of your hips when he grazes just right.

And then he speaks again, so quiet, so close:

“Let me shower ya with all me love.”

You freeze.

Because you know that tone — the false sweetness. The danger underneath it.

It’s the same voice he uses before making beautiful disasters of you.

He grins, grabbing you by the hips to put back your legs on the mattress and slide in front of you again. 

He disappears under the covers.

You fall back against the pillows, struggling to balance the laptop on your knees as he eases between your legs.

The heat of his breath undid you. You feel him breathe you in, savoring you, like he wants to taste how close you already are.

And then—

His tongue. The wet muscle flattened against your mound, tracing the entire path until it reached your entrance.

Your eyes squeeze shut. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. You smother the moan, clawing its way out of your throat.

“You okay?”

You nod—too fast. “Yes. I’m fine. Just… just send me an email, okay?”

“But if you could just—”

You hang up.

Breath shatters. Back arches.

The phone hits the floor, replaced by his head, his hair, his body consuming you like you were the only thing that could satisfy his hunger.

“All that just to get me off a call?” you hiss, your hips grinding into his mouth on instinct now.

“No,” he says, licking his lips. “All this just to remind ya who gets served first, darlin'.”

You feel him before you see him rise again — the trail of his cool breath brushing over your skin as Remmick’s mouth makes its slow ascent.

He kisses the inside of your thigh — a gesture almost punitive, a reprimand for your impatience. Then your stomach, the edge of your ribcage, the hollow center between your collarbones. He skips nothing. He takes you in, inch by inch, as if mapping a territory he already owns.

When he finally reaches your face, he looks at you.

And in that moment, you realize: the pleasure he gave you wasn’t for its own sake. It was a ritual, a soft submission, a gentle form of reverence.

An offering.

He stares at you — long, shameless, indecent.

Then he leans in and kisses you.

His mouth claims yours — cooler than your own, wet, with deep, constant pressure. He parts your lips with his tongue without asking permission, but without brutality. He slides inside and tastes you like he wants you to feel every inch of the pleasure he just gave.

His hands come up to cradle your face, fingers strong and cool, holding you still. His mouth moves against yours with an oppressive slowness, dragging lips, gently sucking your lower one before plunging back into a wetter, deeper kiss. His tongue strokes your palate, retreats, then returns like it never intends to leave.

You let him.

Just long enough to let him believe he’s still in control.

Then your hand shoots up and grabs his chin.

Hard.

And you pull him back.

He blinks — confused, surprised — a flicker of hunger still caught in those red-ringed eyes. But the expression fades the moment he sees your face.

The narrowed eyes.

The mouth curled into a vicious little smile.

“Is that how you think you should behave?” you ask, voice low and steady.

Remmick swallows.

Slowly.

“I was only tryin' to—”

“Quiet.” The word lands like a bite.

He freezes.

You sit up, never looking away from him, your gaze anchored deep in his. You watch him kneel back on the bed, his face flushed, smeared with your pleasure, his breath still shaky.

Slowly, deliberately, you slide your soaked panties down your legs and toss them aside.

He watches — hungry. But he doesn’t dare move.

“Did it seem like a good idea, Remmick?” Your tone is laced with venomous sweetness. “Licking me while I was on a work call? Trying to make me cum mid-conversation?”

There’s a sliver of a smile — sharp-edged. Dangerous.

Remmick opens his mouth. Then closes it again.

You crawl down the bed until you’re in front of him, kneeling. Your bodies barely touch. Your gaze slices through him.

Your hand wraps around his cock — hot, swollen, tense beneath your fingers. The skin is flushed, glistening. Remmick gasps as if just the touch might undo him entirely. His eyes plead, glassy with need and anticipation.

“Where did all that arrogance go?” Your voice is calm. Controlled. Lethal.

He doesn’t answer — just a low, fractured whimper escapes him. His thighs twitch, already tightening under the strain of held-back pleasure.

You squeeze — not to hurt, just enough to warn.

Just enough to remind him: every second with you is a gift, not a guarantee.

“Then we start here.” Your voice cuts like a blade. “Apologize.”

He trembles.

His pupils widen instantly — those familiar red flecks blooming in his irises, mouth parting, lips already flushed and damp. He wants to obey, but his body is caught somewhere between thought and need. Between control and surrender.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean—”

Slap.

Sharp. Clean. Not cruel — but undeniable. His cock jerks sideways with the motion, followed by a choked cry from his throat. You’re already stroking him again a moment later, your fingers returning like a balm after the burn.

“‘Didn’t mean’ isn’t an excuse, and you know it.” You lean down toward him.

Remmick inhales, but the breath stutters in his chest when you slide two fingers between his lips, pushing in slowly but firmly, forcing him to open for you.

His tongue brushes your knuckles involuntarily. A small, guttural sound slips from his throat.

“If you won’t talk, I’ll use your tongue myself. Maybe I’ll sit on it. What do you think, hmm?”

Then you smirk, watching the way his eyes flash with mischief.

“But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Mute under me, mouth full. That wouldn’t really be punishment.”

He lets out a filthy, disappointed moan. His hands twist in the sheets like he’s trying to stop himself from coming just from your words alone.

“Apologize.”

You draw out the words slowly, deliberately, like a sentence being handed down.

Finally, he gives in. His voice clumsy against the saliva and your fingers.

“Please… Ma’am… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, so I am. I was bein'… a bit bratty. Dis-r-rrespectful, I know.”

He stumbles over the word, but you don’t help him. You want to hear him trip over his own shame.

You nod slowly, approving.

Your fingers slide from his mouth with a wet pop, and then you take him by the nape, your hand warm against his neck, dragging him gently but with no room to escape toward you. His lips brush yours, his breath tangler there. Your foreheads touch.

Remmick lets out a sound—wet, shaky—vibrating between his teeth. His eyes seek yours, flushed and shining.

“Do you want me to teach you not to interrupt me while I work, Remmick?”

He tries to respond, but only a broken moan escapes—frantic, breathless.

You grip his throat, firm but not cruel, just enough pressure to make him return to earth, eyes flying open.

“Speak clearly, pet.”

“Ah, yes! Yes, please. Make me pay, I’m beggin' ya.”

There’s desperation in his voice—but beneath it, hunger. A need only you know how to satisfy.

You smile, just slightly. Good boy.

You push him back. One hand to his chest, the other on his shoulder. His back hits the mattress, and he drops like a broken doll. His legs fall open instinctively. His cock is hard, flushed, leaking precum across his stomach. It looks like it’s begging as much as he is.

You look at him. Laid out. Offered. Submissive.

Your fingers trail over his stomach, drawing lazy spirals over the soft hair above his groin, while the other hand holds his trembling hip still.

You lean down and blow softly across the head of his cock without touching.

The sound that leaves him is wet, wrecked, humiliating.

“Look at you tremble,” you murmur, voice warm and calm but edged like a blade. “I haven’t even touched you properly and you’re already falling apart.”

Then your fingers move lower, sliding slowly between his thighs, your fingertip pressing lightly over his perineum. He jolts under you, the muscles in his legs tightening, then relaxing in surrender. A tremor runs through him from the inside.

“A needy little whore like this…” you whisper, pressing your middle finger lightly against his entrance. You don’t push in—just circle, letting him feel how close you could. The small ring of muscle flutters against your touch.

He gasps louder. His hips twitch. His cock jumps. His fingers clutch the sheets.

“…clearly needs to be fucked.” You lower your head and kiss the inside of his thigh gently. “Is that what you are, Remmick?”

“Y-Yeah…” he breathes, voice thin and already unraveling.

But one word isn’t enough. You press your fingertip more firmly, drawing the truth out of him.

“Say it better.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth open in a fractured sigh.

“Aye, I’m… a right ol' whore. I want to be fucked. By ye. Always…”

This time, you push in. Just a little. The warmth of him welcomes your finger, slow and steady. Your other hand shifts underneath, knuckles brushing his perineum, your palm cradling his balls with slow, teasing pressure—too light to satisfy.

His breathing becomes ragged as his body draws you in, clenching greedily around your finger. You spit between yourselves, wetting the fingers with saliva, letting the slick, obscene sound fill the space between you.

Then you push them to his entrance again—already soft and sensitive—and begin to enter the second finger in beside the first. Gently, insistently, stretching him.

You watch his face closely. The way his lashes flutter. The heat blooming across his cheeks. The way he bites his lip to keep himself from crying out.

His thighs tremble. Now visibly. Desperately. His cock twitches against his stomach, shiny and swollen.

You push deeper. The two fingers move slowly, precisely, until you curl them forward at just the right angle.

And there it is—the spot.

The reaction is immediate. His whole body jolts, a sudden jerk like a jolt of electricity. A moan rips from his throat, uncontained, trembling.

Your smile spreads slowly.

Satisfied. Inescapable.

Like a hunter who knows they’ve hit the nerve.

Maybe… maybe you should make him come like this.

After all, that week off was for him. He hadn’t asked for much—just your time, your body, your attention. You were the one who promised rest, who said, “I’ll give you everything. Every minute. Every touch.”

But then work messages came. Fatigue. Half-nights. Rushed kisses. He’d been patient, as always.

And now here he is—laid out beneath you, legs open, body shaking, breath heavy with expectation and quiet frustration. His cock is hard, red, aching from too long denied. Pulsing like it’s begging to be seen.

You lean down, lifting your hand to stroke him—to give him at least this.

But the moment your fingers brush his sensitive skin, Remmick tenses, jerking his hips away like your touch burned him.

You freeze.

Surprised. Concerned.

Your brow furrows. For a split second, doubt creeps in.

Did you misread something? Go too far? You’re about to ask—

But he beats you to it.

His voice reaches you — cracked. Tight.

“More.”

“More?” you whisper, your hand still between his legs, fingers buried in his warmth, still inside him, still wet with your spit and his surrender.

Remmick lets out a sound — low, deep, desperate — and rocks his hips toward your hand.

“It’s not… nearly enough,” he pants, voice catching between a moan and a plea. “Ma’am…”

His gaze shifts—quick, longing—toward the far corner of the room. Toward the wardrobe.

Your eyes follow.

And land on it.

The box.

That black velvet box you both know too well. Where you keep your toys.

Where your strap-on waits.

Your chest tightens. Your fingers, still slowly curling inside him, go still.

Silence descends.

Then—a sharp smack splits the air.

Your hand slaps the inside of his thigh, a precise slap, and his body jerks violently, a broken moan catching in his throat from the hypersensitivity. His legs try to close but you’re already there, holding them open with your knees, looking at him with the kind of look he knows all too well.

“You keep sticking your nose where you shouldn’t, honey.” Your voice is low, slippery like warm honey. “I’m pretty sure it said not to open the fucking box.”

Your fingers go back to work, slow, merciless. Two inside him, straight, deep, the others pressing his perineum with merciless sweetness. Remmick writhes, searches for air, a thread of breath that doesn’t come. Then you find it again.

That spot.

His body tenses again. His heels lift off the bed, his throat making a sound that no longer has any form. He’s choking on pleasure. Under your fingers he’s becoming a beautiful mess.

“Maybe I should leave you like this,” you whisper in a venomous caressing tone. “After all, naughty whores don’t deserve to be fucked properly.”

“No!” he gasps immediately, his voice breaking. Remmick's sharp teeth glint in the dim light of the room. “No, please, Ma'am. I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I just—”

Your gaze freezes.

You didn’t ask for explanations.

You never wanted justifications.

Remmick understands. And changes his tone. His voice drops, pleading, a hoarse thread of words that seem to come straight from the heart:

“I’ll be good, love. I’ll be a fuckin' saint all month, so I will. I won’t makin' ye late for work, I swear it on me ma. I won’t be clingin' to yer feet tryin' to stop ye leavin' in the mornin… I won’t…fuck…put up with that bleedin' furball on the couch if you just—”

Your fingers strike with mathematical precision that spot inside that shatters him. Remmick pants hard, almost sobs. His hands fly to his now-dripping cock, his belly tense in spasm.

For a moment you think he’s about to touch himself, to give in… But you see him do something completely different: he grabs the base of his cock, squeezing hard, trying to block the orgasm.

He wants to wait.

He wants to explode only when you let him.

Your smile bends, slow, carnal.

“Fuck me,” he says. His voice broken, raw, sincere. “Please, me love.”

You stand up calmly. His eyes follow you, continues to beg.

You walk over to the closet, and with a slow, controlled gesture you take the box. You carry it to the bed, open it in front of him.

Inside, the belt. Black. Heavy. The long, thick, perfect silicone dildo. The buckle shines in the warm light of the room.

You look at him.

Remmick is still there, lying between the rumpled sheets, his chest heaving in jerks, his skin shiny with sweat, his eyes red and haunted, his mouth open… and that damn puppy voice that knows how to break you.

“Please, me love.”

You smile as you close the box and put the belt on with fluid movements.

You can’t help but think: who the fuck has ever been able to say no to him, when he talks like that?

Certainly not you.

From the heat, from the urgency that you feel growing in your gut, you climb between his legs, his thighs opening for you as if they were created with a single purpose: to welcome you. You grab his hip, hard, as if to carve the command into his flesh, and you push him gently to the side, indicating that he should turn, to offer himself to you completely.

But then you stop.

Because he doesn’t move.

Remmick looks at you.

Tearful eyes, wide open in a request that doesn’t need many words.

“Would ya…” his voice is a whisper scratched by pleasure, “would ya let me watch ye fuck me?”

There is a moment of silence. And in that silence, a thousand things: the erotic tension, the crazy heartbeat, your hand still on his hip… and his truth.

Remmick doesn’t just want to have sex. He wants to be there. He wants to see your eyes as you take him. Hearing your voice up close. Feeling every gesture with your soul before your body.

He wants to be loved even as he’s being torn apart.

You look at him for a moment, and there’s a change in that look. It’s not less domination—it’s just another kind of domination. Not just about strength and control, but about understanding, about caring, about absolute presence.

Nodding slowly, you cup his face in your hands. You caress him with your thumbs, wiping away a tear he’s not even sure he shed.

“Of course you can, Rem.” Your voice is low, rounded, almost a caress. “I want you to look at me. I want you to see everything.”

You ease him down, his ass against the pillow you’ve moved beneath him, his legs flexing, and you calmly position yourself in the middle. You pour a generous amount of lube onto your strap-on and brush against his taut skin, sliding against the inside of his thigh as you adjust yourself.

Remmick’s breathing is short, but his gaze is fixed. Not on what you’re about to do, but on you.

When you enter him, slowly, steadily pushing all the way in, his mouth opens wide in a deep moan, and he doesn’t stop looking at you. His hands seek you. One grips your hip. The other rests behind your back. He wants you close. He wants to touch you.

And you let him.

You lean in, chest against his, mouths brushing, breaths merging. You begin to move inside him gently. Each thrust is full, round, precise—but neither breaks the contact of your eyes.

“Like this?” you whisper on his parted mouth. “Is this what you wanted? To watch me take you?”

Remmick nods frantically. “Ye’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set me eyes on, love.”

His cock—neglected, stiff, now dripping—throbs between you, pressed against your lower abdomen, skin against skin, heat against heat. The contact sends him into a frenzy, and you can tell by the open, honest moan that escapes his lips. His voice vibrates in your throat, amplified by the nonexistent distance between your bodies.

A toothy, sly smile appears on his lips when you pull back a little, just enough to start moving your hips. His eyes peer at you from under half-closed lashes, languid, lost, as you press into him slowly and precisely. One of your hands slides down his chest, following its curve with determination, as if to remind him who’s in charge.

Then he squeezes you with his legs. He wraps them around your waist like someone who doesn’t want to let you go, someone who needs you to stay inside. It’s almost ironic, almost tender: that hold is the perfect mirror of how you usually find yourself, underneath him. Only now the roles are reversed. And you love him like that.

Every thrust of yours finds him ready, almost dancing. Remmick moves his hips in sync with yours, with that instinctive naturalness that only those who belongs in body and soul have. It's a choreography made of skin, breath and humidity.

But you maintain control. You feel it between your legs: the crazy heartbeat, the need that throbs against you, and your breathing that becomes deeper, warmer. Every muscle is contracted to hold the rhythm, to not be overwhelmed.

A drop of sweat slides from your forehead and falls on his chest. It mixes with his, already there for a while.

Under you, he moves, agitated. Brazen in his impatience. He takes your wrist with one hand and he guides the same hand to his throat, forcing you to squeeze slightly.

“Darlin'… fuck, please. I won’t break. Let me feel it.”

The throbbing between your legs explodes as your clit rubs against the material of the belt. You can’t respond. The words evaporate. All you can do is lean into him and kiss him.

And as you do, a clawed hand circles the back of your head and holds you there, his tongue sliding into your mouth with urgency, almost ferocity. He arches against you, pressing himself against your body, seeking your skin as if he could melt into it. And again, as your body moves into his, you feel his cock pressing desperately against your belly.

“Remmick…”

His lips move. They kiss your neck, then your ear, hot, wet, pleading.

He whispers dirty words, broken, almost prayers: that he wants you. That he needs you. Who wants to be fucked, taken, loved like only you know how.

His words hit the small of your back, burn between your thighs. The fingers still clutched at his throat contract before you push him down, hard, against the bed. Maybe harder than you wanted. But he welcomes it with a blissful breath. Happy.

He tenses, clings to the bed with his nails, the fabric breaking under his claws. Your thrusts get harder, deeper. You leave no more space. With your eyes you follow every thrust of your dildo that sinks heavily, with precision, as if you wanted to leave your name engraved inside him.

And when you look up, you see him.

There is drolls on your fingers. He is drooling, literally, and he smiles.

His head thrown back, his neck exposed, his skin clear, stained with love. You have dominated him in many ways but never like this. You have never seen him reduced to this condition — so dirty and beautiful. Every part of him is tense, open, lost in the pleasure.

He makes a low, irregular sound, almost an animal squeak. You feel his heart going crazy under the palm that still tightens his throat. You see his belly tense, his legs tremble, his cock twitch reflexively at every thrust you make.

“Ma'am… love… I’m so close… nearly there…”

The tension in his muscles is perfect. Unstoppable.

Your fingers slide along his neck, down his chest. Your nails leave red marks. He tenses under the touch like a rope ready to snap. You adore him. You love him.

You reach out between the glued bodies, find his cock—wet, throbbing, almost exploded—and take it hard, with the same ferocious cadence with which you are fucking him. Your hand caresses him with a firm rhythm, while your thrusts make him pant in a perfect crescendo.

You feel yourself burning. In your belly. Between your thighs. Between your teeth.

And Remmick, beneath you, says nothing more. He can’t. Not a line, not a coherent sound.

His breath hitches, his back arches in a violent spasm, his fingers clawing at your arm. And then he comes.

You feel him lunge forward, moaning your name like a dirty prayer. His cock explodes in your hand, a warm, abundant wave that splashes across his chest, his abdomen, between you. His body jolts again, shaken by continuous little spasms.

You don’t stop right away. You make him ride the wave until the last contraction, accompanying him with your hand and your thrusts — gentle, now, but still present, still inside him.

When his body finally collapses, without strength, without defenses, you feel him exhale a long breath that tastes of gratitude and surrender. His arms and legs loosen. His chest moves slowly. Sweat shines on his skin.

You brush his black hair from his forehead and leave him a delicate kiss.

Pulling away from him with extreme sweetness, you still hold his throat with your hand, now only as a caress. His eyelashes tremble, and his eyes search for you, tired but happy.

“Darlin'…” he murmurs with a helpless half-smile, his teeth now retracted, his voice hoarse. “You tore me apart.”

“You deserved it.” you reply, with a soft but confident tone as you use the covers to clean him.

You snuggle back into the pillows, as Remmick rearranges himself against your side like he’s done this a thousand times. One arm around your middle, one leg over yours, chin on your shoulder.

After a while, he mumbles:

“You’re me whole world, so ya are, y'know.”

You glance at him.

His eyes are closed, but he’s awake. Just nestled. Just content.

“I know,” you whisper. “You’re mine too.”

He exhales, satisfied.

[confessionsandcreampies]

s. aizawa relationship headcanons

love language? presence—he’s not loud. he doesn’t make big declarations. but he shows up. every time. brings you a blanket without a word. pulls you into his chest. cooks eggs half-asleep because he noticed you skipped dinner.

he treats you like how he treats his cats—you are precious. you are allowed in his bubble. you can climb into his lap any time, even in the middle of grading papers. “you need attention? come here, then. i’m not going anywhere.”

he never argues when you need comfort—you cry? he’s already pulled you into bed and turned the lights off. you want to talk? he listens with his hand in your hair. you don’t? he’ll hold you until the sun rises. he won’t say “everything’s okay”. he’ll say, “we’ll get through it. i’ve got you”.

protective in a deadly quiet way—he doesn’t make a scene. he stares. and when he does, people shut the hell up. if someone flirts with you, he walks behind you and mutters, “mine”.

domestic aizawa is slow and steady—wears sweatpants. cooks simple meals. falls asleep with his hand on your thigh. when he kisses you, it’s long, slow, and deliberate. no rush. just reverence.

quiet dom. low voice. wrecks you in silence—he’s not loud. he talks in a low rasp right against your ear. “shh. relax. you’re doing so well. breathe. take me slow. that’s it.” every word is like smoke curling down your spine.

he binds—scarves. soft ropes. handcuffs if you’re lucky. “don’t move,” he murmurs, tying your wrists above your head. “i’ll give you everything you want. but only if you behave.”

precision control. he teases until you beg—touches you just enough. pulls back when you’re close. breathes on your skin. watches your thighs tremble. “getting desperate already?” you whimper and he smiles. “good. let me ruin you slow.”

worships your body like he’s studied it—maps every moan. traces every inch with his mouth. when he eats you out, it’s not for fun, it’s a mission. “you’re going to cum,” he says. “again. and again. and again.”

aftercare that redefines love—wipes you clean. massages your legs. carries you to the bathroom. pulls you into his lap and lets you breathe against his chest. “you’re safe now,” he whispers. “you’re perfect. rest.”

aizawa makes love like a man who’s seen too much and wants to forget it—all by burying himself inside the only person who makes him feel peace.

[deansbestfriend]

just close enough 𐙚 dean winchester

dean winchester x gn!reader

tags and warnings: another dean drabble. fluff, angst, unspoken romance, TOUCH STARVED!DEAN (my baby) dean feeling undeserving, you feeling otherwise.

summary: cleaning up dean after a hunt leads to a side of him you had never experienced before.

The motel room reeked of antiseptic and exhaustion.

A pale bulb swung from the ceiling, casting its weak light over the cracked linoleum floor and a man who refused to sit still.

"Dean," you warned, clutching the first aid kit in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. "Stop moving."

"I'm fine," he muttered, jaw tight as his green eyes darted anywhere but at you. Blood streaked his cheek, smeared and half-dried, blending into the stubble along his jaw. Neither of you sure if it was his or someone else's.

"You're not fine," you snapped, more forcefully than you'd intended. You softened your tone, getting closer. "Just let me help, okay?"

"I've had worse, this'll heal on its own." He smirked, but held a weariness in his eyes.

"Yeah? And what's your plan for the dried blood? Gonna wear it like a badge of honor?" You fire back.

He huffed a laugh, but when you reached out, he didn't pull away. Instead, he let you stand between his knees, close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to notice the way his breath hitched as your fingers brushed his chin.

"Hold still," your murmured, your voice softening as you tilted his head towards the light.

Dean's gaze flicked up to you, and you could feel the intensity of his eyes even though you focused on cleaning the blood from his face. His expression was unguarded, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be.

"You're gonna fuss over me no matter what I say, huh?" he asked, his tone more fond than exasperated.

"Pretty much," you said lightly, dabbing at the dried streak. "You should be used to it by now."

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm. He was comfortable. "Yeah, I guess I should."

You worked quietly, your touch gentle as you cleaned the wound on his cheek. Every so often, your fingers would graze his skin, and you felt him tense. Not from pain though, from something else entirely.

"There," you said, stepping back to admire your work. "Good as new. Well... almost."

Dean's lips quirked into a small smile. "Thanks, Doc."

"Don't get use to it." You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the grin tugging at your own lips.

"Too late," he said, his voice softer now.

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, the world outside the dingy motel room didn't exist. It was just the two of you, too close, sharing something unspoken.

"You should rest," you said, breaking the moment but not moving away.

Dean tilted his head, looking upwards to you still, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "What, you gonna tuck me in too?"

You swatted his arm lightly, laughing. "Don't push your luck."

But as you turned away from him, you heard him mutter, almost to himself. "I wouldn't mind if you did."

Your heart skipped a beat, and by the time you went to look back at him, his hand had gently wrapped itself around your wrist pulling you close to him.

You stood there, hovering above him, his arms snaking itself around your waist while the side of his head rested against your stomach. His breathing evened out, the tension in his frame finally began to dissipate.

Watching him from above, your chest ached in the best possible way. Though you didn't say it, you knew you'd stay right here, as long as he'd let you.

He nestled into you further, now one of your hands ran through his brunette head of hair, aimlessly.

"You don't have to do this," he said gruffly. His voice was low, laced with something unsaid.

"Yes, I do." You focused on the task, dabbing away the blood with care. "You never take care of yourself. Someone has to."

His arms tightened around you.

"You shouldn't have to," he murmured after a beat, so quiet you almost missed it. Almost.

"What does that mean?" You pause, your breath hitching. He looked up at you, his hands on both sides of your figure now. Your eyes locked with his finally.

"It means," he shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. "It means I don't deserve it. Any of it. This."

Your chest tightened in protest. "Dean."

"Don't," he said, a note of desperation breaking through his usual bravado. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

Your heart stuttered, torn between his pain and your own. You wanted to reach for him, to smooth the lines of worry etched into his face, to tell him he was wrong. But you couldn't, not with the way his walls shot up the second you got too close.

"Why do you do this?" he asked suddenly, voice hoarse.

"Do what?"

"Care," he said simply.

"Because I do."

He didn't look away this time, and it was almost unbearable, the intensity of his gaze. "You shouldn't."

"And yet, here I am." You replied softly, a single hand of yours gently touched the side of his face. His eyes fixated on you, longing for you as your gaze lingered.

"Thank you." His lips twitched, almost a smile. He didn't let you go however, he pulled you back in. The two of you stayed like this for longer than you could remember, but for him you'd stay like this forever. Just close enough to him.

[moesthoughts]

boyfriend lottie matthews ꪆ୧

lottie matthews as your very loving masc lesbian girlfriend. <3

warnings ⠀✺⠀ drug use, alcohol, lottie is a masc lesbian, nsfw, pre crash.

𑄽𑄺 Lottie has always been very boyfriend coded, even when you guys weren’t dating. Buying you nice gifts, driving you to the mall so you can shop, just to steal her dad’s credit card to buy you really nice clothes. Literally anything she could do to make you happy.

𑄽𑄺 She just puts more thought into what she does now that you’re dating, there’s not minute that passes where you’re not on her mind.

𑄽𑄺 Always drives you to school, work, literally anywhere you need a ride to, she will be there to pick you up and drop you off. Lottie’s hand is always on your thigh while she drives.

𑄽𑄺 You two are never seen without each other, you’re attached at the hip. Her arm is either hooked around your waist, or draped over your shoulders. She loves having you close to her at all times.

𑄽𑄺 PDA, but not too much. Lottie likes letting people know you’re her girlfriend. She’ll hold your hand, kiss you on the cheek before running off to her class, and hugs you soo tight before games or practices.

𑄽𑄺 She does get jealous, but not to the point where she’s mad at you. At most, she’ll pout. She usually goes up to you and snakes her arm around your waist, forcing her way into the conversation you’re having with the person who’s flirting with you.

𑄽𑄺 Sees something that reminds her of you and buys it for a gift, or makes a mental note so she can talk to you about it later on.

𑄽𑄺 Heavily always talks about you, the team is so sick of her yapping about you.

𑄽𑄺 Lottie gives you her extra jersey for you to wear, and paints her number on your face before games. She adores that you come to watch her play, even if it’s just practice.

𑄽𑄺 GOOD LUCK HUGS AND KISSES! She swears she can’t play well without them.

𑄽𑄺 WILL walk you to classes even if hers is on the other side of the school, lottie wants to make sure you arrive safely and not alone.

𑄽𑄺 In the class you do have with each other, she’s always messing with you. Doodling on your notebook or arm, poking you under the table, and whispering jokes into your ear until you’re both giggling. MULTIPLE teachers have threatened to separate you.

𑄽𑄺 Lottie will carry your bags for you while you shop, she smiles so big when you give her yet another one to hold, even if there’s already so many. She loves helping you.

𑄽𑄺 Big on holding doors open for you, always accompanied with “ladies first.” and a cheeky laugh.

𑄽𑄺 If you smoke she’s always buying you a pack, and lighting your cigarette or blunt for you.

𑄽𑄺 Best believe there’s constant dates, chill and small dates sure, but her favorites are where she can spoil you, even if it isn’t her money she’s spending.

𑄽𑄺 Lottie helps you get ready for parties or dates, ties anything you need, puts your shoes on for you, helps you pick out your outfits, literally anything for you.

𑄽𑄺 Always there to hold your hair back when you throw up from drinking too much, Lottie literally always keeps a water bottle on hand during her parties because she knows you like to have fun.

𑄽𑄺 Grinding on her during parties when the radio plays a good song, Lottie holds your hips and bites her lip, acting like she actually has a dick.

𑄽𑄺 Lottie fucks you silly with her strap, to the point where you can only moan her name. She’ll do it anywhere in her house as long as her parents aren’t around. She’s bent you over the counter once.

𑄽𑄺 Suck on her strap and she’s mewling like she can actually feel it. She jerks her hips up into your mouth and begs for more.

𑄽𑄺 She’s an eater, she’ll eat you out like you’re her last meal. Lottie will ask for more each time you cum into her mouth, she’s obsessed with how you taste.

𑄽𑄺 Her fingers are long and best believe she’s using them so well. She curls them in just the right places, she knows every spot that will make you cum the fastest.

𑄽𑄺 Won’t leave hickeys anywhere visible unless you want her to, if so she’s marking you like crazy, your neck and chest will be bruised for days.

𑄽𑄺 Leave hickeys on her, she’s obsessed with showing them off around other people. Lottie adores letting everyone know she’s taking by such a lovely girl.

𑄽𑄺 She lets you grind on her thigh, her hands on your hips as she guides you to your orgasm. Whispered curses fall from her lips as she feels you get wetter and wetter.

𑄽𑄺 body worshipper, she will kiss every part of your body and thank you for letting her touch you. She’s actually so in love with you it’s crazy.

𑄽𑄺 Secretly feels bad when you go down on her, she gets so nervous when receiving and not giving. You always encourage her that you love how she tastes and giving her pleasure.

𑄽𑄺 After winning a game she bolts to find you instantly, scooping you up in her arms and spinning you around.

𑄽𑄺 Lottie who is so boyfriend coded it hurts…

a/n : HI NEW THEME?? Hope you enjoy these because I missed lottie matthews like a mf… ALSO IM WORKING ON MY 600 FOLLOWER SPECIAL, LOOK OUT FOR IT 🤍🤍

req me!

masterlist

[gatorbites-imagines]

About you asking if we would be interested in Date Everything work by you: YES YES YES ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY ENTHUSIASTIC YES. Ahem, yes please. That would be awesome. I would love to see your work and takes on some of my favorite boys. (Skips, Hector, Bodhi) I just think they're neat, ok? But ultimately, it's up to you. Please have a good day/night! Love your work! <3

Skips Shadley x Male Reader x Hector Valentino Airnesto Condicionado 

Rambles 

I was giggling and twirling my hair when I was romancing Hector, cuz wow,,, need someone to talk to me like that,,, Im also starting my internship tomorrow, so wish me luck.

As I've played the game, I've just assumed that everyone is just in a big ol polycule. Some art friends, some are lovers, some it changes from day to day. And,,, most of em are also into voyeurism, it comes with the territory. 

Hector and Skips have to both be really into it though, because there's a vent in most rooms of the house, and there's shadows everywhere.  

Now gamers, imagine this. 

Imagine its late at night, its dark out, theres no lights on anywhere in the house. Maybe you woke up with the munchies, maybe you just needed to use the bathroom. But imagine as you stand there, half asleep and going through the motions, the shadows seem to collect and grow into something big. 

Im a big sucker for Skips first form, so yeah, that one. 

At first you think it's just your sleepy imagination, cuz you didn't even remember falling asleep with the dateviators on, but there is Skips, or maybe its Shadowlord in this form. But he's there, hovering and scary in the hottest ways. 

Now imagine Skips leaning against you, his big clawed hands sliding up under your pajama shirt as he growls the neediest and hottest fantasies, what he wants to do, what he can do in the shadows like this. 

Imagine his long ice cold tongue sliding out of his maw and slobbering all over your neck, his big hands holding you up as your knees buckle. 

But, gamers, imagine your knees buckling and Skips has to keep you standing, and when you look up you can see Hector in the vents, his hands sticking out and clenched tightly together, his eyes staring, unblinking. If you listen closely you can audibly hear him panting. 

Imagine Skips turning you so Hector can see better as he pulls your pajamas off, Skips explaining what hes gonna do to you, or asking for Hectors input. 

The air in the room grows so hot and thick, both from your body heating up, but also from Hector panting and being so heated up from the sight. 

Chewing on the bars of my enclosure thinking about Skips, as Shadowlord, lifting you up so you are face to face with the vents. Skips growling in your ear to suck on Hectors fingers, so you do, and Hectors breath is so shaky and audible as he starts fucking your mouth with his fingers as Skips does what he does down below. 

Imagine pressing closer to the vent, so you can press your lips between the metal grates, or whatever they are called, or so you can stick your tongue through. And imagine now, that you can feel Hectors lips press back against yours in the dark. Or, Hector sucking on your tongue, getting the vent all wet but none of you guys care. 

They both get you off so hard you just keep shuddering, so Skips, being so strong in the pitch dark, carries you back to bed and tucks you in. He keeps hovering in the darkest shadow of your room. 

In the vents Hector starts blowing air of the perfect temperature to help you sleep, him also just staying awake and watching you sleep with almost heart-shaped pupils. 

[naffeclipse]

S'mores

Reader x Cryptid!Monty

Commission Info

This was requested by @catbeastaisha who was so darling and wanted some more Cryptid Monty from my fic! There's nothing like enjoying some marshmallows and discussions of how cryptids function while out in the marsh, and you get to do so while spending a night camping out under the stars! And you feel completely safe in the dark.

———

You’ve never found yourself out in the marshland so often after dark, but this night was a long time coming. At least, Monty has been asking you again and again to venture out into the swamp to spend a night with him. He could only have nefarious purposes or so you teased him, but he grew quite insistent that he wanted to spend such quality time with you. 

The truth is that you only declined the first few times because you had late baseball games. Not that Monty minds watching you play. You’re not certain how the cryptid watches you during one of the late night, bright light tournaments that leave you drenched in sweat in a dirty jersey from sliding into homebase. But, the back of your neck prickles with the awareness of eyes upon you. A few of your teammates will shudder despite the hot night and throw wayward glances to the fence way out in the outfield, but return to the game, no less on edge from seeing nothing out in the darkness.

You smile to yourself, hand in glove, knowing that you’ve got someone cheering you on.

When you linger in the parking lot long after the lights have been shut off and everyone has gone home, he’ll detach from the darkness, hulking and outlined in starlight, to gather you in a huge hug and spin you once. He’s dynamic, roaring about your plays and then tearing apart any calls the ref made on times you got out. Nothing makes you grin more.

And, especially after a terrible game, when you’re half ready to smash a helmet with the nearest baseball bat, he’ll take your hands and let you squeeze his rugged, scaly palms until you don’t feel like biting clear through a barb-wire fence, and tell you that your anger is good and what happened wasn’t right, but it’s okay now. You can be mad all you like. 

Somehow, that always takes the ferocity out of you. You’ll stop grinding your teeth and seeing red, and you’ll let Monty take you somewhere, anywhere to help you calm down. 

A claw, dark and sharpened to a skewer tip, touches the brim of your baseball hat. You lift your eyes from memory, and smile at the red eyes studying you with a mild concern. 

“Almost lost you there,” he rumbles in a crocodilian hiss. “Where did you go?”

“I’m right here,” you chuckle, reaching up to take his hand from your hat, though you didn’t realize how much you’ve spaced out. “Sorry, I was just thinking about baseball. And that hot dog.”

You still have the roasting stick in hand, but you’ve dutifully cleaned the end and prepared it for the real pièce de résistance for tonight. 

S’mores.

The campfire crackles quietly, burning a bit lower but hot with red embers sitting in the pit. It’s taken you a while to find a decent camping site where there would be fewer people and less chances of Monty terrifying some unsuspecting people coming out to enjoy nature as you are doing now. Your sleeping bag is set out and ready to go, alongside a cooler and bag of necessities. Monty’s vessel, a shattered, broken beyond repair animatronic bearing a resembling an alligator in mascort form, is propped against a far cypress. 

You roasted your dinner and piled a hotdog bun high with condiments for Monty to see. He’s wanted to share a meal with you for some time, and this seems appropriate enough considered that his diet consists of what he calls rule breakers. 

“I don’t know how you humans eat those things,” he shakes his long mouth. “There’s no crunch. There’s nothing to crack open with your teeth!” 

It’s comical to have him sit beside you on a log that he pulled out of the swarm, scattering a few frogs from their perch while you nestle in a camping chair. He’s massive. Even with his shoulders hunched slightly to lean closer to you, he towers in the orange flames of the campfire. He watched closer as you explained how you like to turn the roasting stick slower to evenly cook the hot dog. You refuse to eat it until it’s sizzling and split from the heat. 

“They’re good! Just as good as your rule breakers, I’d say,” you counter, half grinning at the dark humor of it all. You just do your best to not think about it too much, lest fear start eating away at you.

He snorts. “Not even close.”

You leave it be and bend down to search the near darkness. His tail wags slightly behind him, the thick, musculature of his tail covered in thick, green scales sweeping behind you when you pull out a bag of jumbo sized marshmallows. You cheered under your breath when you found these in the grocery store. 

“You shouldn’t have, shug.” His wide mouth opens, teeth gleaming under flickers of flame.

All of your concentration goes to spearing the jumbo marshmallow onto the end of the roasting stick. Carefully, you snatch up graham crackers and chocolate bars from the small tote underneath your chair, and you prepare the pieces before you flash a grin and set the marshmallow carefully above the embers. There will be no treats catching fire tonight.

“Just wait until you try it.” You don’t even take your eyes off of the end of the roasting stick. “You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

He chuckles, a deep, crocodilian like hiss underneath the burly sound, and he tips his head. “You know kids love s’mores? Can’t get enough of them. They might like trying to cook them more than actually eating them, and there’s a fair bit more of burned ones than edible ones, but I’d scarf those down too. That would dry up any tears.”

You warm with the image of Monty reassuring a child their burnt marshmallow is still good by tossing it into his mouth, and the shiny gleam of a child’s eyes as they stop crying to watch in awe. Your gaze remains on the white edges of the marshmallow, on guard for scorches or the beginning of a golden outside.

“Do you usually watch over kids camping?”

“Sometimes,” he rumbles, and his tone deepens into a primordial growl. “The marsh draws a lot of people in it. Some good. Some bad. The rule breakers think they can hide under moss and blackgum trees, but they can’t hide from me.”

Risking a glance away from your masterpiece, you watch the cryptid beside you for a moment. His eyes gaze deep into the fire, and his claws curl slightly before he shifts, and places his hand tenderly on your knee. He squeezes once, releasing whatever was steaming up within him.

You look back to the marshmallow, and pull it slightly up from where your lax grip was lowering it too close to the hot coals. Thankfully, no burn edges appear when you twirl it around once for inspection. 

“Good,” you say. “I’m glad there’s someone like you out there making those kinds of people scared.”

His grin spreads wide in your peripheral vision. His hand remains on your leg, waiting for the dessert you promised him. The marshmallow begins to puff up, roasted tenderly as a golden edge begins to bubble on its edges. 

“There we go,” you mutter, baring your teeth in concentration as you bring the roasting stick close and place the gigantic marshmallow onto the graham crackers and chocolate bar. Immediately, the chocolate begins melting. Carefully to not get any gooey marshmallow on your fingers, you press the other graham cracker on top and present Monty with your most tasty creation.

“How’s that for a s’more?”

He doesn’t wait before snatching it deftly between two claws. You sit back and watch him stuff it into his long jaws. It would be comical to watch an alligator-like beast of the swamp chew on the delicacy were it not for the red gleam of his teeth flashing viciously between each chomps. Crumbs fall from his jowls. Marshmallow sticks to his scales. Chocolate stains a long, dark tongue before Monty turns to you, eyes feverish.

“Oh, I ain’t letting you go, junebug.”

Your mouth split into a grin.

“I told you it was good.”

You pull out the marshmallow bag again and before Monty steals it from you, you nab a marshmallow for yourself. The white fluff skewers easily on the end of the roasting stick and you hold it once more above the embers.

Your mind wanders slowly to what will come next, and you fight a slight blush as you ask, “Do you sleep?”

“Me? Sure.” He takes another marshmallow, fresh from the bag, and you’re not entirely certain that he didn’t just swallow it whole. “It’s not quite the same, but we can get some shut eye.”

“For how long?” You glance at your sleeping bag. Returning to the fire, you swear under your breath as your marshmallow receives a scorched and ashy side from brushing against the side of the fire pit. 

“Not as long as you humans,” he chortles, thick and booming. “Why? What’s got you worried, shug?”

“I sleep like a rock,” you frown. “Won’t you get bored?”

He throws his head back and laughs a roaring thing. You glare, a red flare setting in your chest before he shakes his head vigorously, and touches your arm once. You try to turn away from him and slip out from his grasp, not seeing what’s so funny, but he firmly and gently stops you from going anyway.

“I ain’t laughing at you,” he bites back another chuckle, “I’m just amazed that you don’t think this will be a great night for me. Being with you is always exciting. Besides, I want to hear what you’ve got to say in your sleep.”

You stop, and stare at the fire in hope that the flames will excuse the pink brushing against your cheek bones.

“I don’t talk in my sleep.” You arch an eyebrow in challenge.

“We’ll see,” he smugly replies.

You huff indignantly before Monty points out that your marshmallow is on fire.

[arkofangels]

Stretch It Out!

synopsis: After helping you ease into working out, Dunk offers some hands-on motivation

Pairing: Duncan "Dunk" Shuttlecock x Reader (Date Everything)

Content. MDNI: GN! Reader, personal trainer!Dunk, praise kink, size kink, rough sex, overstimulation, creampie, athletic dom energy, sweat, choking (light), spit, dumbification , muscle worship (from both sides), improper use of yoga positions

“Th-this is where you’re weak, right?” Dunk’s voice cracks—deep and guttural, like he’s just fumbled the ball and liked it.

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when he’s got you pressed chest-down on your yoga mat, sweat-slick and trembling, your legs splayed as wide as they’ll go under the strong, caging weight of his body. He’s got one bulky arm laced around your midsection, the heel of a calloused palm pinning your wrist above your head, and the other hand—

Fuck, that hand is dragging your hips back like he’s trying to line you up for a perfect field goal.

The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance, flushed hot and slick from everything he's already done to you—stretching, teasing, edging with his stupid mouth full of praise and filth.

“Right here,” he pants, his cleats digging into the floor as he jerks forward and shoves the thick, veiny length of himself into you in one slow, spine-bending thrust.

“Oh fuck–mmghhh!” Your mouth falls open, drool stringing from your lips into the mat below. “D-Dunk—right there!”

“Right there, huh?” he grunts, voice all hoarse and starved and dripping heat. He braces one elbow—elbow skate grinding against the mat—and slams into the same spot again. “This your weak spot? Right where you get all soft and squishy f’me?”

You choke out a whimper, body locking up, toes curling in your socks.

And Dunk groans like a man in his prime scoring the winning goal in triple overtime. “Shit, yeah. You’re clutch, baby. Makin’ me feel like a fuckin’ champion.”

He’s not subtle. He never is. Every thrust is a penalty-worthy foul, full-body and brutal—his padded hips hammering into your ass with a wet, smack! of skin on skin, the seams of his football-textured pants brushing your thighs raw.

And you love it. You’re taking him like a champ, brain turning to static, vision sparking with every drag of his cock along your g-spot.

“So good,” he growls, low and rough in your ear. “So tight. Taking me like this? You were made for me—swear to God. Can feel you tryin’ to pull me back in every time I leave. Mmmph—don’t worry, I ain’t going anywhere.”

His fingers twist in your shirt collar—yanking you halfway up, arching your spine so he can get even deeper, stretch you out more, ruin you. His mouth is right at your ear now, warm breath ragged as he growls out praises like a dirty coach from hell.

“You’re doing so fuckin’ good. I mean, look at you. You’re—shit—you’re beautiful like this. Sloppy, sweatin’, fuckin’ perfect.”

The sound you make is more animal than human, all heat and overwhelmed bliss.

“S-slow down,” you whine, even though your hips are moving to meet him. “It’s too—too much—”

“Oh no, no no.” Dunk chuckles, deep and mean and amused. “We don’t quit halfway through a workout, sweetheart.”

Then he slams into you again. Hard. Vicious. Filthy.

You nearly scream, forehead digging into the mat, tears dripping freely now.

He leans down, mouth pressing at the back of your neck, lips brushing the sweat there. “One more set, baby. Just one more. And then I’ll let you cool down on my chest. Promise.”

And when you finally come—crying out like you just crossed the finish line of a marathon, your whole body twitching under him—he follows with a growl that sounds more like a war cry than a moan, spilling deep inside you and holding you there, locked to his body like a medal he refuses to take off.

Afterward, you’re a pile of boneless mush sprawled across his sweaty chest, legs still twitching. He strokes your back with gentle fingers, breath slowing.

“That,” he whispers, brushing his stubbled jaw against your temple, “was the best cardio I’ve had in years.”

You murmur something incoherent.

He grins. “No bummers allowed, remember?”

[acrux-rising]

airport pickup (y. isagi x foreign exchange buddy!reader)

wc: 0.6k tags/cw: f!reader, can be read as pre-bllk isagi (still losersagi) a/n: mostly inspired by isagi's travels in the latest chapters + exchange students my friends hosted back in hs (maddie @3p1logu3 we havent talked in a bit but i hope you like this)

yoichi is absolutely ecstatic when he’s selected for his school’s foreign exchange program (he’s never gone anywhere further than okinawa). he feels like he’s floating through his days, a little starstruck by the idea that someone is actually coming to his country, his house, to live with him for two whole weeks.

his english isn’t exactly the best, but he throws himself into studying anyway, cramming vocabulary lists and pronunciation videos into every spare moment. he even switches his phone’s language settings to english, which results in some mild chaos when he accidentally resets it entirely.

still, he’s determined. he wants to make a good impression.

so when the big day finally comes, he decides to meet you at the airport himself. he polishes his sneakers the night before and gets there an hour early, just in case. but your flight ends up delayed by two hours. not that he minds too much. 

he spends the time nervously scrolling through soccer news, his headphones in, eyes occasionally flicking to the arrival screens. he watches the world cup livestream to distract himself, trying not to think too hard about what you’ll be like. he doesn’t even remember your name off the top of his head. he’s sure he looked once, but it slipped right out of his brain somewhere between past participles and irregular verbs.

then suddenly - 

“hey!” he feels a light tap on his shoulder. “you’re yoichi, right? my exchange partner?”

his heart practically jumps out of his chest. he whirls around so fast his phone nearly goes flying. and standing there - right there, in front of him - is you.

and the only thought echoing through his brain, english vocabulary forgotten, is -

pretty girl.

he hadn’t expected this. not at all. not the way your smile curves up so easily or the way your eyes meet his without hesitation. you’ve got a small backpack slung over one shoulder and a suitcase rolling behind you, and you look completely unfazed by the hours-long flight. he, on the other hand, feels like he’s just been hit by a freight train of panic and hormones.

“h-hi,” he stammers, suddenly very aware of how sweaty his palms are. “it’s really great to meet you. your accent is very good.”

your laugh - light and warm - makes something flutter in his chest. it’s a sound he finds he could be addicted to already, rather embarrasingly. “you can be honest, yoichi! i’ve still got a long way to go.”

you glance down at his phone screen, where the livestream is still running. then your gaze shifts to the small collection of soccer keychains swinging from his bag.

“oh, do you like soccer?”

he exhales in relief. a safe topic. finally. “yeah. i play for my school’s soccer team.”

your eyes light up. “will i get to watch you play while i’m here?”

he nods, trying to play it cool even though he’s sure his face is still a hundred shades of red. “yeah, we have practice every other day, and there’s a big game on saturday. you could come watch, if… if you want. b-but only if you want.” 

he cringes internally. smooth, yoichi. real smooth.

“i’ll be there!” you smile sweetly, then go on to talk about how excited you are to meet his friends and family. or something along those lines. admittedly, he’s too focused on how your lips move to focus on what you’re actually saying.

the second your back is turned, he groans internally and runs a palm down his flushed face. it’s not even been five minutes, and he already knows one thing with absolute certainty: he’s completely and hopelessly done for. and it’s all your fault.

-> to bllk masterlist -> to main masterlist

© acrux-rising

[velvetghoul]

Read Me Like You Mean It

✦ oneshot

Reader x Kento Nanami | 18+ MDNI

cw: 18+, smut, softness, teasing touch, opposites attract, morning-after scene, bookstore AU, emotional intimacy, physical affection, quiet obsession, domestic fluff, slow burn with payoff

⸻

You hated bookstores.

The musty smell, the quiet people, the way your friends spent hours comparing covers like it mattered. You weren’t a reader, never had been. So when they dragged you along to some trendy used bookstore downtown that also sold limited edition manga, you already planned to spend the whole time sulking in the corner on your phone.

That was until you saw him. He didn’t belong here. Not really.

He stood near the far aisle, adjusting books on a display table with slow, methodical movements. Tall. Broad. Hair swept back but tousled in a way that looked too good to be accidental. A cable-knit sweater strained gently across his shoulders, the sleeves pushed to his forearms to reveal strong, veiny hands that could do unspeakable things. And glasses—those glasses—rested low on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed the back of a novel, completely unaware of the world burning around him.

“Who is that?” you whispered, elbowing your friend.

“Oh—that’s the owner. Kento Nanami. Used to work in finance or something. He’s like, super quiet but nice.” She smirked. “Why, interested?”

You should’ve said no. But instead, you found yourself drifting toward the poetry section like fate was pulling you there by the hem of your shirt.

He turned slightly. His cologne hit first—earthy, expensive, subtle. Like amber and citrus and heat. Then those eyes glanced up behind the glasses—brown, calm, devastating.

“Can I help you find something?” he asked, voice smooth like velvet, but with weight behind it. Serious. Warm.

You blinked. “No, I don’t really read,” you admitted.

He quirked a brow. “But you’re in a bookstore.”

You gave a shrug. “Dragged by friends. I’d rather be anywhere else.”

He gave a small hum, then glanced at the poetry book in your hand. “Yet you’re holding Neruda.”

You looked down. You were. The cover was soft. Old. Worn like a well-loved secret.

“Maybe I just liked the color,” you muttered.

But Nanami didn’t laugh. Instead, he leaned one hand on the shelf beside you and said, low, “May I?”

You handed him the book, breath caught.

He opened it one-handed, thumb flicking through like it wasn’t the first time, then stopped on a page. Cleared his throat.

“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

You stared at him, lips parted. The nerve. The delivery. The goddamn voice. Heat bloomed up your neck.

“Maybe… I like that one,” you whispered.

Nanami met your eyes. Held them. Then closed the book carefully and handed it back.

“I’ll put it on hold for you,” he said. “Just in case you change your mind.”

You came back three days later. Alone.

He didn’t mention it, but the book was still behind the counter.

You didn’t buy it.

You came again. And again. You started pretending to browse. Asking for recommendations. Sitting in the little reading nook by the window. He never flirted—but the way he moved near you, the way he leaned when explaining a passage, or handed you a mug of warm tea without asking, or fixed your scarf on windy days outside—God, it felt like foreplay.

Until the night it became one.

It was late. Your friends had bailed on movie night. You’d wandered by the shop without thinking, only to see a light still on.

You knocked. He answered. No sweater this time. Just a black fitted t-shirt and low-slung slacks. Hair mussed. Glasses gone.

“I was closing,” he said, holding the door slightly open.

“I’ll only be a minute,” you said. “Or… unless you don’t want—”

He opened the door wider. Inside, it was warm. Dim.

He watched you from behind the counter as you wandered, touching spines, trailing your fingers across the edge of the poetry shelf.

“Can I ask you something?” you said softly.

He tilted his head. You turned. Heart hammering.

“Why do you always feel like a secret I shouldn’t want to keep?”

Nanami blinked. Then something shifted in him. Quietly. Deeply.

He came toward you with a measured pace, as if calculating his restraint with every step.

“I don’t want to be a secret,” he said. “But I also don’t take things lightly.”

You stood your ground. “Neither do I.”

Then his hands were in your hair. And then his mouth was on yours.

It was slow at first. Careful. His lips pressed to yours like punctuation, deliberate and weighted. You clutched the front of his shirt and pulled—hard—until he pushed you against the nearest shelf with a groan and kissed you like you were a story he’d waited a lifetime to read.

Your fingers slipped under his shirt, dragging over abs you hadn’t even fantasized about yet, too distracted by his brain until now. He hissed through his teeth, then hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“Say you want this,” he murmured against your neck, voice low and wrecked.

“I want you,” you whispered back. “Since that first fucking quote.”

His laugh was soft. A little breathless. “So poetry wins again.”

You fucked in the back room, on top of a table covered in hardcover first editions.

Nanami was everything you’d imagined and more—controlled, intense, quiet, but not cold. He unbuttoned your pants like they were a gift. Pressed his mouth to your stomach, your thighs, your chest, reverent and slow.

When he finally slid inside, he kissed you so deeply you forgot where you were.

And when you came—twice, embarrassingly fast—he whispered your name like it was the final page of his favorite book.

Later, you lay tangled in a blanket from the armchair, the storm outside shaking the windows, his hand wrapped around yours.

“You’re not what I expected from a bookstore owner,” you said, smiling into his chest.

“And you’re not what I expected from someone who hates reading.”

You glanced up. “Still not a fan of books, honestly.”

He raised an eyebrow.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow. “But I think I’m starting to like the endings.”

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Not that you were counting. But it had been that long since you’d last seen him.

After that night—the slow burn turned wildfire on his office desk—you hadn’t gone back. He hadn’t texted. You hadn’t called. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was something worse: the ache of wanting something real in someone who moved like a ghost and touched like a storm.

Now, standing just outside the shop with your phone in one hand and a folded list of manga titles in the other, you realized how stupid this was.

Your best friend’s birthday was tomorrow. You needed books. The bookstore was here. That was it.

So you walked in. A bell chimed. The door creaked. And there he was.

Behind the counter. Dressed in a grey button-up, rolled sleeves, tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose. Hair combed but not gelled. The knit vest did things to your spine.

He looked up when you entered. And his eyes—those slow-burning, unreadable eyes—landed on you like they’d never really stopped watching.

“Hi,” you said. Quiet. Controlled.

“Hey, you,” he replied, equally calm. Polite. Neutral.

But the heat? Still there. Like a room with no windows.

You wandered toward the manga section, acting like you weren’t hyper-aware of the way his voice had dropped half a register since last time. Like the memory of him pressed over you didn’t haunt every aisle.

“I need help,” you finally said, walking back over, waving the list in your hand. “My friend’s birthday. She’s obsessed with romance manga. I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

He blinked once, nodded, and stood. You followed him.

He pulled books down efficiently, explaining tropes, plotlines, things you pretended to care about.

You let yourself look.

His hands were still scarred in that oddly elegant way. The veins in his forearms twitched when he reached for the top shelves. You wanted to bite them. You wanted him to lose control the way he hadn’t that night.

He handed you three volumes at once. Your fingers touched.

Electric. Immediate.

You looked up through your lashes. He didn’t move away.

“I remember these hands,” you whispered. “They made me cry.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. “That’s not very appropriate to say in public, is it?”

You smiled. “Well, it was your desk.”

He let out a slow exhale, but you caught the flicker of amusement in his gaze.

Still, he turned, walking further down the aisle, clearly trying to keep things professional.

But you weren’t in the mood for professional. You were in the mood for him.

So you followed. You waited until the aisle narrowed.

Waited until he stopped to skim a spine and you slipped in behind him.

“Nanami,” you said softly.

He turned, and you stood close. Very close.

He was so much taller. But you didn’t care.

You stepped into his space, tilted your head up, and slowly dragged your fingers along the front of his slacks.

He stilled. You palmed gently over the fabric, soft pressure, just enough to get his attention.

“I missed you,” you said, voice low and saccharine. “Did you miss me?”

His mouth twitched into a slow, dangerous grin.

“Mm. Little lady…” His voice rasped like it had been locked away too long. “You don’t know what you’re doing to yourself.”

You tilted your head, bit your nail, gaze locked on his.

“Maybe I don’t know, sir. Maybe…”

You leaned closer, lips brushing just beneath his jaw.

“…I want you more than you can imagine.”

That was it. That broke him. He looked around once—silent, careful—then took your wrist with firm gentleness and led you straight to the back room again.

The door shut behind you. The latch clicked. Your back hit the same desk as before.

“I’ve tried,” he said, voice calm but low, eyes burning into yours. “To forget that night. To stay professional. To keep you at a distance.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I don’t do casual. I don’t fuck someone just to say goodbye the next day. But you…”

His hands moved to your waist. “You tempt me like no one else ever has.”

You could barely breathe. “And now?” you asked, chest heaving.

“Now,” he said, dragging you closer with one arm, “I’m going to remind you what this desk is for.”

It was messier this time. Not frantic—but possessive.

He lifted you onto the desk with ease, pushed your thighs apart with reverence, not rushing, but not waiting either. The air was thick. Heavy with memory.

You kissed him first, hard—tongue, teeth, need—and he kissed you back like he’d been starving for two weeks straight.

Your shirt hit the floor. His mouth was on your chest. He made no noise but let out the occasional exhale when your hands tugged his belt open and your nails raked his back.

When you wrapped your legs around his waist and whispered “Please,” against his ear—he finally gave in.

He didn’t just fuck you. He claimed you.

Hands on your hips. Teeth on your neck.

Thrusts deep and controlled—measured and perfect.

You cried out once, gasping his name. He gripped your chin and looked you in the eye.

“Keep your voice down,” he warned with a smirk. “Or someone might hear how good I make you feel.”

And fuck, you loved him for that.

When it was over—when you were panting, flushed, back against a pile of books and still gripping his wrist—he kissed your knuckles, then your temple, like nothing had happened at all.

Like everything had. You stayed silent for a while. Breathing.

Then you looked up and whispered, “Do you think I might become a regular customer?”

He chuckled. Full, rare. Real. “I think I’d like that.”

The day after.

As you gathered your things that morning, something he said the night before lingered in your head like a line from a favorite page.

“Maybe just stop by tomorrow. I like my coffee black, ma’am.”

You hadn’t planned on going. You meant to play it cool. Let the fire simmer, maybe wait a few days. But by the time you left work, the sky was grey and the rain was soft and the thought of him behind that counter—with his sleeves rolled, his quiet mouth, his smell—made your chest ache in ways that felt too sweet to resist.

So you went. With two coffees in hand.

Your jacket was damp, hair sticking to your cheeks. You pushed open the bookstore door and stepped in, the warmth and woodsy scent immediately wrapping around you like something personal.

And there he was.

Behind the counter. One hand holding a pen, the other braced against a notepad. A few books scattered, the open sign still glowing behind him. He looked up as you entered.

His expression shifted.

That same Nanami look—cool, sharp, unreadable—except not quite. Tonight there was something softer in it.

Like he’d been waiting. Like seeing you just fixed something broken.

You stepped up to the counter, smiling through wet lashes.

“Hello there, mister,” you said playfully, voice sweet. You set down one of the drinks. “Your coffee is ready.”

He looked at it. Then at you.

And God—that look.

His eyes dragged down your body slowly, lingering at your damp shirt, your flushed cheeks, your hand still curled around your own cup. And when he stepped out from behind the counter, the distance disappeared in two quiet strides.

“Mmm. Coffee?” he murmured, voice low and curious. “What about you?”

And before you could answer, his hand reached behind your neck—firm but gentle—and pulled you in.

His mouth met yours, deep and slow and familiar.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was like coming home.

You melted instantly.

His lips moved with purpose, tongue brushing yours in a kiss that left you dizzy. He smelled like cedarwood and old pages and rain-soaked linen. His other hand slid up your side, stopping just under your ribs like he needed to feel your heartbeat.

When he pulled back, barely, his breath still on your lips, he murmured:

“I close in fifteen minutes.”

Your stomach twisted—giddy. Hot. Then he leaned in closer, mouth brushing your jaw. “Do you have plans for your Friday night… or does this little lady want to come home to me?”

You bit your lip, grinning, already gone.

“Depends,” you said, teasing, voice honey-sweet.

He cocked an eyebrow. “On what?”

You leaned up on your toes, lips ghosting his. “What you have to offer.”

That did it.

His eyes went dark, hunger and amusement flickering together as he dipped his head beside your ear.

“I can show you everything,” he whispered, voice like velvet and danger. “All night, sweetheart.”

And then—God, then—he leaned back just enough to meet your eyes with a slow, devilish grin.

“Only if you want, of course.”

You nearly moaned right there.

Fifteen minutes later, you were in his car.

Twenty minutes later, you were in his home.

And ten seconds after the door shut—you were in his arms again.

He didn’t even wait to get to the bedroom.

He kissed you against the wall of his hallway, coat still on, his palms braced on either side of your head. The rain dripped from your sleeves but his mouth was hot and demanding, like he’d been holding back for days.

You tugged open his shirt, pressing your palms flat to his bare chest. His skin was warm, taut with muscle, a few fading scars here and there like stories you wanted to read with your tongue.

“You’re so goddamn hot,” you breathed.

He chuckled—quiet, smug. “I’ve been called worse.”

He peeled your jacket off, slowly, mouth dragging down your neck.

And when he lifted you—strong arms under your thighs—he didn’t ask.

He just carried you to the bedroom.

The rest of the night passed in slow-burning chaos.

He undressed you like you were fragile but kissed you like you were his favorite sin. When he finally buried himself inside you, one arm wrapped behind your back to hold you up, the other gripping your thigh—you saw stars.

You clung to him, breathless, panting.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, nails dragging down his back.

His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “You have no idea.”

And when he made you come—hard, crying his name—you bit his neck and whispered “Fuck—Kento” for the first time.

He shuddered. And then he fucked you again.

Slow. Deep. Like he was trying to make up for every day he hadn’t touched you.

Later—much later—you lay tangled together in his sheets, skin still slick with heat, hair damp with sweat and leftover rain.

He was quiet. You were quiet too. But it wasn’t awkward. It was thick with something that scared you more than lust.

You looked at him. He looked at you. And with that soft, unreadable smile, he whispered, “Next time… don’t wait two weeks.”

You smiled back. “Next time,” you whispered, “maybe just read me poetry in bed first.”

He reached over, brushed your cheek with the back of his hand, and said— “I can do that too.”

Morning came slow.

Warm light bled in through gauzy curtains. Somewhere in the kitchen, the soft hum of the fridge buzzed under the hush of rain against the windows. But nothing felt more sacred than the heat between the two of you—limbs tangled, skin to skin, bodies lazy with the afterglow of the night before.

You were half on top of him. Bare chest pressed to his side, your leg thrown over his hip like you owned the man.

Kento Nanami—stoic, pristine, serious bookstore owner—was flat on his back in rumpled navy sheets, glasses on the nightstand, and not a single thought in his brain except you.

His hand rested gently on your thigh. Your head was tucked beneath his jaw, hair soft and wild against his skin. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t even want to breathe too hard, afraid he’d wake and find it all gone.

But then—of course—you did move.

You shifted with a slow little stretch, chest brushing his ribs, hand sliding from his stomach down—

“Mm,” you hummed against his throat, fingertips dragging across the soft trail of hair under his navel, “someone’s still warm.”

He let out a breath. Tight. Low. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

You grinned.

“I thought you liked games, Mister Bookstore.”

He turned his head to look at you—and Jesus. His eyes. Still sleepy, golden in the morning light, soft around the edges but simmering underneath.

You touched his chest. Drew little shapes over his sternum. Then let your fingers wander further. Smoothing over the cut of his abs, brushing his sides, watching the way he breathed like each graze made him bite down a groan.

He didn’t stop you. Of course he didn’t.

“Your body is ridiculous,” you murmured, tracing over a scar on his rib. “How are you real? You look like you were carved out of a Greek statue and then cursed with… literacy.”

He actually laughed at that. Low and raspy.

“You’re trouble,” he said, eyes still half-lidded.

“And you,” you whispered, moving your hand lower, brushing the edge of his briefs, “are a very, very good distraction.”

Nanami caught your wrist—not hard, not sharp. Just enough to pause you.

“You keep touching me like this,” he said softly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, “and I’m going to make you late to whatever life you’re pretending you still have.”

You leaned over him, hair spilling across his chest, your hand sliding back up to his shoulder.

“Maybe I don’t care about being late,” you whispered. “Maybe I like it here. Warm bed. Pretty man. Big arms. You know… my kind of literature.”

His jaw flexed. His hand went to your waist, then your lower back, dragging you gently up over him. You were straddling him now—lazy, playful, hips settling over his growing problem.

“God,” he murmured under his breath. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your hands cradled his face now. Thumbs brushing his cheekbones. He looked up at you like you were something impossible—like a miracle he didn’t dare ask for, but you showed up anyway, dancing barefoot into his world with rain on your jacket and fire in your mouth.

And even as you smiled, kissed his nose, teased, touched him again— Something changed behind his eyes.

He caught your wrist again. Brought it to his lips.

And whispered, “You know… for thirty-two years, I didn’t think I was missing anything.”

You blinked.

“But now…” he continued, voice low, almost like it hurt to say, “You touch me. You smile. You talk your little shit. You wear my damn shirt and tease me like it’s your full-time job…”

His fingers skimmed your waist, curling under the hem of his t-shirt that you had absolutely stolen.

“…and I think maybe you’re the missing piece I didn’t know I was allowed to have.”

Your breath caught. He looked away, then back, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it—but wouldn’t take it back for anything.

“You’re nothing like me,” he added. “But you fit me in ways I didn’t think were possible.”

You pressed your hand over his heart. It was beating fast. For you. You bent down and kissed him. Not playful. Not teasing. Just soft. Deep. Slow.

“I’m gonna ruin you, Kento,” you whispered.

He smiled. “I think you already have.”

The rest of the morning? You kissed his neck until he groaned.

You slipped your hand inside his briefs just to hear him mutter “Fuck, sweetheart—” in that broken voice.

You made him coffee wearing nothing but his shirt.

And he didn’t stop smiling for a single second.

You ended up staying. The whole day.

After breakfast—which Nanami cooked with maddening precision and a little smirk every time you bumped into him barefoot in his kitchen—you curled up on his couch under a blanket, a mug in your hands, one of his books in your lap.

He watched you read for a while. Not with judgment. Not even amusement.

Just quiet, curious awe.

“You’re really doing it,” he said eventually, sitting down beside you.

You looked up, squinting. “Doing what?”

He gestured toward the open book. “Reading.”

You snorted. “Only because you told me this one has smut in chapter nine.”

He chuckled, warm and low. “Chapter eleven, actually.”

You gasped in mock betrayal. “You tricked me?”

“I lured you in,” he corrected smoothly. “I believe that’s the proper term.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed a pillow at him. He caught it one-handed, effortlessly.

God, he was annoying. Perfect. Smart. Hot.

And he looked at you now like he was memorizing you—your wet hair tied up, his oversized hoodie swallowing your frame, your legs tucked under you like you’d always belonged on that spot on his couch.

“You’re comfortable here,” he said after a beat. It wasn’t a question.

You glanced around, then shrugged. “Shouldn’t I be?”

He nodded. Then said, softer, “I just never thought anyone would be.”

That made your chest ache. You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Well, I’m here now.”

His eyes closed briefly. As if that meant more than he was ready to admit.

Later, he worked on paperwork at the kitchen table while you explored his shelves.

He had everything: classics, first editions, weird out-of-print poetry, horror novels you didn’t even know existed.

“You’re a nerd,” you said, holding up a ridiculously annotated copy of Frankenstein.

“You’re in my hoodie stealing my coffee,” he replied without looking up. “You don’t have much room to talk.”

You grinned and wandered back over, sliding into the seat across from him.

“I like your world,” you said suddenly.

He looked up. Surprised.

“This quiet, cozy, leather-smelling place you live in. The books. The calm. The routine.” You paused. “It’s the opposite of mine. And maybe that’s why I like it so much.”

He tilted his head. “Tell me about your world.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I want to know.”

You chewed your lip. “It’s… messy. Loud. Unpredictable. I never know what I’m doing next. I forget appointments. I don’t cook unless toast counts. I’ve never finished a novel in my life.”

He set his pen down.

“But,” you added, “when I’m in your bed, or your kitchen, or even just beside you… it feels like I’m learning how to breathe right for the first time.”

That silenced the room. Nanami stared at you, eyes unreadable, something breaking loose behind them.

He stood. Walked around the table.

And then he knelt beside your chair—knelt, this proud, composed man—and rested his head on your thigh.

“Don’t go then,” he murmured against your skin.

You blinked fast. Your fingers curled into his hair.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you whispered.

His hands slid along your calves. Up your thighs. One of them slipped beneath the hem of the hoodie. Not rushed. Just there.

You swallowed. “Do you want to go back to bed?” you asked, your voice smaller than it had been all day.

He looked up. His face so open now. Unhidden.

“I want you wherever I can have you,” he said. “But if we go back to bed, I’m not letting you out of it for hours.”

Your stomach twisted deliciously. You stood. Took his hand. Led him there without another word.

The second time that day, he made love to you. No teasing this time. No games.

Just soft, slow kisses and hands that roamed with reverence.

He buried his face in your neck and whispered how good you felt.

He held you like you were something rare. Something real.

Afterward, you stayed tangled up together in silence, the afternoon light creeping in golden through the curtains.

His fingers traced your spine lazily, skin to skin.

“I wasn’t joking,” he said softly. “You might really be it for me.”

You didn’t know what to say. But your heart answered for you by how hard it started to beat.

So instead, you curled in closer, kissed his collarbone, and said:

“Then don’t let me go.”

And from the way he tightened his arms around you…

He wouldn’t.

thanks for the request ⭐️

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

Be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

@shibataimu

[wendichester]

｡𖦹°‧ across the room⁷,

summary.you’ve seen sam around. he’s seen you too. all you’re both waiting for is the perfect opportunity to go from strangers to something more.

pairing. stanford!sam winchester x reader   genre. fluff

wordcount. 1010

notes / warnings. let me know in the comments if i should write more of this! // family chaos. just overall sweetness and wholesome

ᯓ★ read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

You don't think too hard about asking Sam to come home with you. It just sort of slips out one night, somewhere between takeout and reruns, your feet on his lap and his thumb tracing lazy circles over your ankle.

"This weekend's my grandma's anniversary thing," you say, chewing your lip. "It's nothing big, just a family dinner. You don't have to, but... if you wanted to come, you could."

Sam barely blinks. Just raises an eyebrow and says, “Do I get to meet the grandma who allegedly tried to seduce your high school math teacher?”

You nearly choke on your tea. “…Yes.”

He grins. “Then I’m in.”

The drive is soft.

You borrow your roommate's old car, the one she's too afraid to drive anywhere, and Sam insists on driving. He keeps one hand on the wheel and one wrapped around yours. The radio buzzes low in the background, playing songs you used to scream-sing in high school.

Sam hums along. Knows all the words, even the embarrassing ones.

It's easy, the kind of easy you used to think was fake. Like he belongs here. Like you were always going to end up like this: in the passenger seat, watching the trees blur past, his fingers tapping rhythm on your thigh.

He glances over during a red light. "You okay?"

You nod. "You sure you're ready for this?"

"Meeting your family? I'm great with moms."

You roll your eyes and raise an eyebrow. "And dads?"

He grins. "We'll see."

Your hometown is small enough that the welcome sign has faded letters and a cracked plastic sunflower nailed to the side. It's the kind of town where everyone knows everyone. The kind of town that reminds him of the many others he's passed through with Dad and Dean. 

By the time you pull into the driveway, Sam’s been offered three different kinds of mints from the glove compartment, listened to your highly biased ranking of local diners, and been warned—twice—that your dad “has a very specific sense of humor”. 

He takes it all in stride. 

Until he walks into your house.

And meets the chaos.

Your mom hugs him first. She makes a delighted little gasp like she’s just seen a golden retriever in a button-down—hugging him, pinching his cheeks like he’s not a whole six-foot-four adult man, and offering him pink-frosted cupcakes she made “just for the occasion”. Sam goes pink when she cups his face and tells him he’s handsome.

Your little cousin barrels into the living room wearing a superhero cape and demands to know if Sam can lift the couch. Sam blinks, shrugs off his coat, and does. Your uncle claps like he just witnessed magic.

And then there’s your dad.

Silent. Stern. Standing in the corner with a beer and a squint that could melt steel.

You grip Sam’s hand tightly and whisper, “He’s just like this.”

Sam gives a barely visible nod. He’s sweating.

“Name?” your dad asks.

“Sam.”

“Hmm.” He eyes him. “You religious?”

You blink. “Dad—”

Sam clears his throat. “Not particularly, sir.”

Another long stare. “You know how to change a tire?”

“Yes.”

“You allergic to dogs?”

“No.”

“Good,” your dad grunts, then turns and walks away.

Sam leans down and whispers, “Was that the interrogation?”

“No,” you whisper back. “That was him liking you.”

Dinner is homemade chaos in the way families always are: overlapping voices, clinking silverware, someone telling the same story for the fifth time. Sam stays close and he listens. Really listens. And your cousins seem to like him, especially the little ones, who crawl into his lap and demand piggyback rides.

You catch your dad watching him from the head of the table. Not judging—just... observing. Measuring. Slowly thawing. 

Your mom insists Sam take second helpings of everything. Your aunt keeps asking if you’re two “just friends or friends-friends.” You accidentally knock over the gravy boat during dessert because Sam squeezes your knee under the table and gives you that smirk.

But it’s Grandma who truly steals the show.

She shows up in a faux-fur shawl, three necklaces, and red lipstick like she’s about to accept an Oscar. The minute she sees Sam, she clutches her heart and gasps dramatically.

“Well, hell-o,” she says, eyes twinkling. “If I knew you were bringing a man like this, I would’ve worn something more scandalous.”

“Don’t grandma me, sweetheart. I still got it.”

Sam—poor Sam—is pink in the ears, but he takes it like a champ. He lets her pat his bicep (“these arms could carry me to church”), listens to her ramble about her secret rum cake recipe (“can’t die with me, it’s too sinful”), and even shows her how to use the portrait mode on her phone.

After dessert—apple pie and those cupcakes your mom makes—you and Sam sneak off to the porch. It's just barely chilly, the sky soft and purple, stars starting to blink awake. You sit beside him on the swing, sipping cider. He stretches out, one arm behind you, his thumb grazing the top of your shoulder.

"They're great," he says, quiet.

"They're nosy."

"Still great."

You snort, nudging him. "Even Grandma?"

"Especially Grandma. She called me 'a strapping young gentleman.'"

"She also asked if you had chest hair."

He laughs, head tipping back, and it’s that sound that gets you. The easy joy. The comfort. Like this isn’t hard for him at all.

But when you glance over, there’s something soft in his eyes. Something wistful. A little faraway.

You thread your fingers through his. "You okay?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. Just... this is nice. It’s different."

You want to ask different how? but you don’t.

That night, you fall asleep in your old room. It's cozy and ridiculous, with glow stars on the ceiling and posters still curling at the edges. Sam's too tall for the bed, legs hanging off the end, but he doesn’t complain.

He holds you close, his breath warm against your neck.

“Thank you for coming,” you whisper.

He kisses your temple, voice sleepy. “Thanks for bringing me home.”

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[starlightkwan]

pink pretty bows- sylus qin

in which you give sylus a new nickname and a cute pink bow

fluff, word count: 640 ish

warnings: none (pls lmk if you spot any!) info: sylus is a lovesick fool, the twins and mephisto mentioned

notes: LuLu is lowkey what i call sylus- i forget he's meant to be the big bad leader of onychinus, pic above is LuLu in said pink bow :)

Sylus. A name that is so feared in the N109 zone, one that makes people shudder in fear or one that makes people worship the ground that he walks on. It’s a name that everyone knows, but only a select few are actually able to put a face to the name. Even the great Hunter’s Association is unable to put a face to the almighty name of Sylus. They only know him as Skye, a humble fruit vendor.

He may be a man with a height that puts most of the male population to shame, a man with a jawline that can cut paper but he’s your Sylus. He enjoys listening to vinyls, helps animals in need (you insist that Sylus is secretly a Disney princess but he disagrees) and almost always indulges in your every whim.

That’s why it’s not much of a surprise when he allows you to put on a cute pink bow on him. You cheer happily, running off to your vanity to grab the bow from your extensive collection. It sits perfectly on nim, the baby pink colour perfectly accentuating the light pink flush on his cheeks as you sing his praises on how pretty he looks.

“LuLu, you look so good! You’re a pretty princess! All you need is a dress and you could be cast in the next Sleeping Beauty movie!” You beam, gracefully bowing at the new princess in town.

“I put a pink bow on my head and that's all it takes for me to go from Sylus to LuLu? What happened to ‘baby’ or ‘my love’?” He pouts and you swear his bow slightly droops in sadness.

“Do you not like it?” You ask, looking up at him with doe eyes.

“No of course not, sweetie. It’s a wonderful nickname. It’s just new, I just need a little time to adjust to it, that’s all.” Sylus gives in, pressing a soft kiss on the crown of your head.

“Great! Can you do a quick twirl for me please, LuLu?” You plead, your hands clasped tightly together.

Without saying anything, he turns around very slowly, letting you take in all the angles of him and his bow. You hear footsteps from the kitchen, and a quiet conversation between two very familiar voices. “Bossman, would you like to play that game that we- huh?” The twins make their way into the room and stand in silence. Even with their masks on, you just know their mouths are wide open in shock.

“LuLu, why did you stop moving? You haven’t properly shown me the back of the bow yet!”

“Lulu?” The twins exclaim in unison, looking at each other in confusion before their gazes fall back on Sylus.

Sylus silently continues his turn, facing you again and flashing you a quick grin before turning back around to face the twins. “Not a word.” He points and the poor twins nod obediently.

“Have you guys seen my phone anywhere? I want to take some pictures of our pretty princess before he takes off his bow.” You ask, searching your pockets but all you hear is a quiet chorus of no.

A loud caw and violent flapping of feathers makes its way into the room. Mephisto. “Have you seen my phone anywhere, Mephi?” You are greeted with a bunch of caws, where you vaguely understand that you left it somewhere in the dining hall. Mephisto’s ruby eyes suddenly gain a strange white shine to them and he frantically flaps his wings. He circles around Sylus, cawing happily.

“Send the footage to me once you’re finished, Mephi!” Kieran requests.

“What is he doing? Is he doing some kind of bird happy dance?” You look at Kieran, pointing at the hyperactive mechanical crow.

“He’s taking videos of me.” Sylus sighs. “Once this is done, you’re getting a reboot.” You hear a sad coo from the crow.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖° pls don’t be afraid to interact! likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :) dms work too! if you have any feedback pls lmk! <3 enjoy the rest of your day/ night!

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

TRAIN STAN! he isn't limited to tracks and can fly

He can go anywhere

He has as many cars as he wants

He can change what the cars are

Need food? Food car!

Need sleep? Bed car!

Only thing he needs is the front one

(I don't know what the cars are called)

Hmm. Hmm.

Stan the crime infinity train here.

Somehow got got for some kind of magic getaway vehicle for some supernatural crime syndicate that planned to use his soul to power their getaway train. Too bad they messed up some of the enchantments and now Stan's on the loose! He's flying around, chugging away! Going places no train has gone and desperately trying to not be a train before it uses up his soul power and he stops existing.

Starts by just using his train power to get away, then starts stumbling upon wandering vagabonds, feels bad, gets train cars going for beds and food, drops them off. Starts becoming the infinity train here except its giving homeless kids someplace to lie low for as long as they're willing to ride. Maybe learns he can sustain himself for longer from their own grateful soul energy?

Now there's the ghost train. It follows no tracks or any route, but it always has a bed and a warm meal for anyone who's lost on the road. There's no conductor, and the engine blazes with a golden light (Stan's soul). And its.. not a bad existence, giving all these kids a ride, hearing their stories, chugging along, seeing the sights. Glides over the ocean, sees some pretty cool things, gets some repeat passengers, some not. Eventually gets his own 'rest stops' going, places that, at some point if you're lucky, he'll slow down, stop, and kids can get on or off, depending on how they're feeling. Gets a system going to take requests, and now he's taking runaways to distant relatives (or away from them), reuniting kids who got lost with their families, or giving people a place to call their own for a while.

Maybe stays like this for a few years, and he's actually pretty happy? With his train life now? He's got a dedicated 'staff' of kids that grew up on his train, help the new kids adjust, spread the word about the Runnaway Train, maybe has a 'car of fame' where he figures out how to hang up pictures of all the kids who've gotten on. He's everyone's uncle train guy, they know something controls the train but not who or why, just that it likes jokes, has a sense of humor, and is pretty lax on the rules as long as no ones causing too much chaos. People have rarely been kicked off the train (and a few people have been run over), and there's a car for anything they might need, as long as they ask (and plead, and beg and offer Stan entertainment in the form of stories or fight rings. He's still Stan after all, he loves to watch kids fight)

Then one day Stan's soul starts to flag. He was never meant to last this long after all, just some poor guy who got snatched for his soul and managed to run off before they tied him down and managed to prolong his existence by being a semi decent caretaker.

The trains slowing down, and his passengers are desperate to save him. Start looking into magic, learn that the giant glowing golden fire thats been getting dimmer is a soul, and they need to figure out how to boost it if they don't want their train uncle to snuff it.

Along comes Ford! Some kid who loves cryptids and ran away from home to hunt monsters (and away from their own) knows a scientist who studies this! They'll just kidnap him, get him to look after Engiy (or whatever name a bunch of homeless kids came up with for Stan), get the guy to fix their train home, and voila! Problem solved!

Well Stan does love crime and kidnapping is a crime so sure. Why not. Lets go to Oregon! He's always loved riding around here, feels good (Stan got trained before he learned Ford moved there perhaps?)

Chugs along to Oregon, follows his kids directions to Fords house, stops right in front of it, then do do do's making a kidnap car do do do while his kids break into Fords house and drag him kicking and screaming in confusion then follow him when he catches sight of the train on his lawn when he scrambles to climb on and figure out its whole deal.

Stan gets one look at Fords grinning face and slams his soul engine shut. No way is he letting Ford poke around like some kind of messed up mechanical soul doctor. Not happening, not his brother. Lets find someone else maybe?

There is no one else.

Ford gets to ride his brother train and gets slammed with guilt at looking at and hearing about all these homeless kids lives, how the train saved them, how its their home, how its dying and if Ford can't fix it they'll have nothing.

Doesn't he know how hard it is for kids who get kicked out or run away? Especially if they never graduated, have no other family, only have themself to rely on? So many things can go wrong, so many kids can get taken advantage of. Some of these kids grew up on this train, its all they have, and if it goes they'll have no documentation to make it back in the real world. They love their train, they take good care of each other.

This train existed only after Stan got kicked out. Ford knows, he's heard of it before.

There's no way Stan would have gotten a chance to ride.

Then Ford learns to be a magic train mechanic while Stan the magic train becomes the most uncooperative patient ever. He makes all the locks funky, never does as Ford asks, makes all his meals bland and tasteless. He loves Ford but Stan's sorta.. moved on? He has his family of kids and they need him and thats the only reason he hasn't kicked Ford out for looking at him like a mystery to be solved and not a living train with feelings.

How does it end? Does Ford find evidence of Stan in the engine? Maybe the Stanley Mobile license, or pictures of them? Does he find an alternative fuel source, finds a way to boost the soul and never knows that's his brother? Does he realize the train is actually killing the soul, and they work to pull it out to save it, and out pops Stan, shaky at being a person again and tired from being a train for years? Who knows!