#running around my room stuffing my head in my pillow

[lynnieverse]

I miss u girl

I miss y'all too omg. so sorry I've been gone for so long, I've been working THREE jobs this summer to pay off my car! now that classes are starting back up again I should be posting more regularly (no promises lol). as a thank you for sticking with me, here's a new one shot ;)))

also this is lowkey based on true events in my life between me and the KILLER so maybe i’ll write the happy ending i cant get 😛

lmk if you want a part two!!

friends don't // rafe cameron

oneshot

bsf!rafe x crushing!reader

synopsis: friends don't... but we do.

1.6k words

You stare down at the dim light of your phone, the words practically echoing in your head. 

good night y/n

Simple. To the point. Definitely not something that should make your heart almost beat out of your chest. 

You let your eyes fall closed as you take a deep breath, trying not to overanalyze like you always do. 

You and Rafe are just friends. That’s all. 

But friends don’t…

No. You snap yourself out of whatever trance you’re in and click your phone off. Part of the problem is others feeding into your delusions, so you decide against texting your friends this time. 

Instead you roll over, the duvet crinkling satisfyingly at your movement, and hug a spare pillow tight against your chest. 

After dark is when you become a master director of all things make believe. Daydreaming is nice, but concocting a storyline about your life to fall asleep to is what you’re best at. 

This time you imagine his hand sliding into yours, pulling you down the beach with a secret smile that lights up his twinkling eyes. The scene fades to black and you’re in your living room, tucked against his side watching some RomCom. Your song starts playing through the speakers. You giggle, pulling him to his feet so he can twirl you around on the carpet. He has so much love in his eyes, and he kisses you as Taylor Swift fades to the background.

You can picture it in your head as clear as day. 

“And so it goes, you two are dancing in a snow globe ‘round and ‘round…” 

No; friends definitely don’t do this. 

Fuck.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

The next day you’re meant to meet Rafe early to talk about some upcoming surfing tournament he wants to enter. You must have overslept because the next thing you know the sun is blinding you through a crack in the curtains and someone is pounding on your front door. 

Grabbing your glasses, you stumble down the stairs with a yawn. Whoever decided to disturb your beauty sleep must have a death wish. 

You grip the brass knob and wrench the door open, interrupting Rafe mid-knock with an almost animalistic growl. 

“What the actual fuck, Rafe?!” 

He looks pissed, stuffing his hands in his pockets with a scowl. You’re suddenly aware of how awful you must look. Pajamas askew, hair a mess, and you hadn’t even taken your pimple patches off yet. Warmth floods your cheeks, but Rafe doesn’t notice. 

“I thought you died, Y/N, what the hell!” 

“Died?” your nose scrunches in confusion. A bead of sweat tickles your hairline and you usher him inside quickly. “It’s too hot to be letting all the air out, come on.” 

He follows you to the living room where you sit on the couch expectantly. “Well?” You ask.

“I’ve been calling you all morning, you were supposed to meet me and you just didn’t show up. What was I supposed to think?” 

You roll your eyes. “That I overslept? Literally anything else other than death, Rafe.” 

He blows out a harsh breath and runs a hand over his buzzed head. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m sorry, though. I didn’t mean to worry you. I didn’t get much sleep last night,” you say, biting your lip. No sleep from thinking about you.

His eyes soften and he takes the seat next to you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up… Well I did, but I wouldn’t have if I’d known.” 

You laugh lightly, patting his leg before immediately retracting your hand. “You’re all good, Rafey.” 

Was that too much? That was definitely too much. 

“So about this tournament…”

You groan, letting your body fall back into the cushions. “Do we have to talk about this?” 

“Okay drama queen. You’ll want to hear about it when you hear what first prize is.” 

You perk up, raising an eyebrow. “Go on.” 

“A trip to Hawaii, all expenses paid, for a week,” he smirks, knowing he piqued your interest. 

“Shut up! That’s so cool!” 

He watches as you bounce in place excitedly, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. He clears his throat and looks away. 

“Yeah, so I really want to win this. Plus I get to take someone with me.” 

“Holy shit! Who would you take? Sarah? Topper?” You try not to bring attention to how close you’d become, your knee almost brushing his thigh. He gives you a look, eyebrows pulling together slightly. 

“You are really dense sometimes,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “That’s rude, Rafe,” you say with a pout. He smirks but doesn’t reply, and you don’t push. That’s usually how your conversations went; one person would push a boundary, the other would ignore it, and time went on. It’s exhausting. 

“Why would I take my sister to Hawaii?" He throws his hands up. 

“Well I don’t know Rafe, why would you take me?” Your mouth snaps shut in immediate regret. You both maintain eye contact before someone looks away, silence washing over the room. 

“Okay,��� Rafe clears his throat. “I guess that’s all I wanted to tell you.” He stands, pulling his keys out of his pocket. He takes his time walking to the door, jangling his keys to some unknown rhythm. You follow him silently, watching his T-shirt stretch across his flexing back. Shaking your head you push down those thoughts, the ones reserved for your pillow. 

Rafe stops with his hand on the knob, turning his head back to look at you. “We could—uh…we could go surfing later? You could give me some pointers?” 

You want to laugh. What a ridiculous notion. You give him surfing tips? He has at least a few years experience on you, and he knows it. But his puppy dog eyes keep you from pointing that out. 

“Um, yeah. That sounds like fun! Let me just eat some lunch and get ready; I can meet you there?” 

He smiles, dimples making your knees weak. “It’s a date.” 

Your eyes widen. 

Why does he say shit like that?

He has to know it kills you every time he gives and pulls away. 

His smile falters, but he keeps up the act, winking at you and slipping out the door. You were hoping to get a little space from him. From everything he encapsulates. But of course you folded like a house of cards. 

You always do. 

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

After surfing Rafe somehow convinced you to have a couple drinks at the local dive bar. 

You’re still in your damp bikini top, one of Rafe’s T-shirts from the trunk of his car hanging from your shoulders. The air smells like stale beer and Pine Sol, an odd but oddly comforting combination. The jukebox in the corner is humming some sixties tune, and Rafe’s leg is pressed against yours. The booth is small, but it feels intentional, and it’s making your head spin. 

“I’m telling you, Y/N, I think I inhaled half the ocean out there.” 

You snort into your drink, salt-crusted hair falling into your face. Before you can blink, warm fingers tuck said hair behind your ear. You snap your head up in surprise, but he takes his time pulling his hand away. His touch lingers, softly tracing the line of your jaw. His eyes flick to your lips—cheeks flushed from the alcohol, pupils blown. 

“What?” You whisper. 

His breath hitches. “I just… I love—” A glass breaks behind the bar, startling you both. It snaps the rubber band of tension between you instantly. You shift in your seat, Rafe rubs a hand down his face. 

“You were saying?” 

Rafe’s eyes cut to you, and he takes a deep breath. “I love this bar,” he says finally. You instantly deflate. “Yeah, we should play that next! I’m going to go queue it up, be right back,” he rushes out, practically sprinting across the room in the name of Toby Keith. 

You stare after him, drink sweating in your hand. 

“I love this bar,” you mutter under your breath. “God, you’re so full of shit.” You try to act normal, swirling the melting ice around in your glass. A minute later Rafe comes back, a smile on his face like nothing happened. 

You feign happiness for as long as you can. You laugh at his stupid Toby Keith impression. You even toast your glass to his. But the buzz is gone, the warmth evaporated. Soon after you’re in an Uber, leaving Rafe with his thoughts at the bar. 

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

You’re startled awake by the shrill sound of your ringtone in the middle of the night. You groan, feeling around your nightstand before gripping the phone in your hand. 

“Hello?” You squint through the darkness, eyes heavy with sleep. 

“Hi.” 

“Rafe?” You check the caller ID and confirm it’s him. “What the hell, dude?” 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.” 

“Wait, wait. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing. Honestly I shouldn’t have called… I couldn’t sleep and you’re the first person I wanted to talk to.” His voice is quiet, and something about the way he spoke dissipates all previous annoyance. 

“That’s sweet, Rafey. What’s keeping you up?” 

“What do you think?” 

Time stops. Your heart stutters. Rafe goes quiet. 

“Rafe…” You whisper.

“Forget it,” he sighs. 

“Why did you call me?”

“We’re friends aren’t we?” 

“Friends don’t do this,” you manage, practically choking out the words. 

“No, they don’t.” A pause. “We do, though.” 

Your eyes fall closed with a pained sigh. 

“Yeah…we do.”

[namis-daydream]

i am interested haha, i haven’t role played in quite awhile and i really do miss the fun. let me read up on your rules and stuff and i’ll send another ask with a scenario <3

wehehehehehehehee this is exciting !! we can def figure out characters and stuff once you do !! and thank you for droppin an ask🥹💗

[whos-the-seme]

Shen Yuan is actually a cuddle bug. Had a ton of Luo Binghe body pillows back home not just for the merch reasons but because he needs something in his bed to squeeze when he's sleeping.

Since he started having weekly planning (boozing and bitching) sessions with Shang Qinghua, he sometimes accidentally sleeps over. After he's finished his paperwork and started on some of Qinghua's, sometimes the wine gets to him and he's just so sleepy. Or, sometimes, Shang Qinghua will let the other read some of the short stories he had written early on in his transmigration when fighting to not lose his mind. Shen Yuan would critique them, before harassing him to publish them anonymously.

("Oh, so you are capable of writing more than papapa trash."

"Aw, you like it?" "...it's good." 🙄)

But by the time he finished them, it would be so late, and it didn't make much sense to leave when a bed was right there. And Shang Qinghua had custom ordered goose feather pillows and blankets, which was so unlike his porcelain pillows, and Shang Qinghua himself is right there. Therefore. The man himself becomes his new object of comfort when asleep.

At first, Shang Qinghua used to just wave it off. Then he started to playfully complain and tease about how clingy Shen Yuan was in his sleep, and Shen Yuan would grumble and turn bright red and turn his back on him... only for them to wake up with Shen Yuan basically curled around the other like an octopus in the morning. And then it just became normal because, of course, they really only had each other, so like why not? It brought them both comfort and two people could totally cuddle platonically.

Before long, more than half the week, Shen Yuan was spending the night over, and some rare times, Shang Qinghua goes to the bamboo house. Shang Qinghua learns when to give up his piles of paperwork when his friend starts getting tired and to get more fucking rest himself. Otherwise, Shen Yuan will just walk in, curl up on his lap with his head resting on Shang Qinghua's shoulder, and fall asleep there.

("Really? I ordered those extra stuffed pillows for you, you know. Go to bed, I'll be done in a minute."

"Ugh, shut up, sleeping isn't the same when you're out here ordering new fighting posts for Bai Zhan Peak for the 5th time this month. I'll just wait here for you to finish."

"In my lap...? That's kinda gay--" 😏

"Qinghua."

"Shutting up and finishing the work." )

Those of An Ding Peak, being the peak that was basically the backbone of the entire sect and kept it running through sweat, blood, and some other bodily fluids, knew how to keep secrets from other peaks. You don't become a disciple there without knowing how to keep your mouth shut when outsiders are around. But between each other, whispers abound.

"I don't think Shen-shibo has left in two days," one disciple murmurs to another when they see Shen Qingqiu flouncing around yet again, ordering one of the disciples to bring some two small meals to their Shifu's rooms for a late dinner.

"Do you think they're... you know?" Another asks quietly after delivering some new contracts to their Shifu. The door to his bedroom had been slightly ajar, and through the cracks, green leaf-pattern outer robes were on the ground.

("I'm not sleeping in these, okay! You should have written in pajamas while you were busy adding in chocolate, and whatever else doesn't exist in Ancient China, to PIDW!" 😒

"Oh my god, just sleep in your inner robes, then! Better yet, borrow some of my clothes. But you're sure as fuck not sleeping naked on my silk sheets, bro!")

The disciples on Qing Jing Peak certainly notice when the bamboo hut isn't occupied for the night. At first, they just thought that their Shizun was extra silent in his house now, but once, Ming Fan had to go to Shizun for a small issue late in the evening, and he wasn't there. Nor was he there the next night, or the next. They're not sure where he is, or what he's doing, but he's always there in the morning, so they don't worry too much.

On the fourth night, Shizun was home, but Shang-shishu was also there. And... stayed there. The lights went out, and the disciples who were sent out to spy came back and reported that Shang-shishu had never left.

("He... is Shang-shishu still in there?"

"I think so. M-maybe he stayed in the extra bedroom?"

"..." 👀

"..." 👀)

The disciples eye each other and simultaneously agree to never let those outside the peak know about this. When crossing paths with A Ding disciples, there are discreet looks and nods of understanding, and they pass each other by with not a word.

(Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua?)

----

One bright and sunny morning, Liu Qingge slams his way into Shang Qinghua's office. He is followed by Mu Qingfang, and Yue Qingyuan, all needing to speak with Shang Qingqua to figure out Shen Qingqiu's whereabouts. He wasn't in his bamboo hut this morning, nor was he anywhere else that he typically frequented.

Mu Qingfang because it was time for his bimonthly check-up to ensure that his treatments with Liu Qingge were progressing as they should. Yue Qingyuan due to peak matters (though, technically, he could do it on his own, but if he got to see Xiao Jiu--). Liu Qingge because the beast that he had dropped on his doorstep yesterday afternoon had yet to be removed, which was odd. And also, he had ordered new fighting posts a week ago, and usually they would have been delivered by now, which was also odd.

Wei Qingwei and Qi Qingqi also follow along because they could smell drama. And also they were a tiny bit worried about their shixiong. Whenever he disappeared for too long, it was likely that he had gotten kidnapped or poisoned. Again.

Shang Qinghua scrambles out of his bed chambers with hastily thrown-on outer robes, blurry-eyed, screaming "Whoosit!?" He barely has time to open his mouth before he is instantly bombarded with several requests, most of them pertaining to the apparent missing peak lord. Liu Qingge also asks about his fighting posts, which Shang Qinghua pretends not to hear.

"We've not seen him in a few days," Mu Qingfang says to him over the noise, with an apologetic smile for waking up his overworked shixiong. "I know you two are somewhat friends, so if you see him soon, please tell him he really needs to come to Qian Cao for his next physical."

"Wait, who's missing? Ah, please don't touch that." The last part is directed at Qi Qingqi, who is combing through his shelves. "Shen Qingqiu is apparently missing, according to this bunch," Qi Qingqi says, smirking at him. She pokes the figurine he told her not to touch. Oh well, she'll realize why he told her not to touch it soon enough.

"Shen Qingqiu? What do you mean, he's--" Shang Qinghua instantly closes his mouth, hoping that no one heard that. "I-I mean, yeah, I'll let you guys know if he stops by! No problem, will absolutely send him your way--" "What was that?" Liu Qingge narrows his eyes at him. "You were about to say something. You know where he is. Tell me."

Shang Qinghua begins to sweat immediately. "Whaaat? No, you must have heard wrong. Seriously, I'll let you guys know if I catch him. Now, if you guys can be on your way--" He starts trying to herd people out.

Unbeknownst to him, his bedroom door cracks open and a figure, eyes barely open, shuffles out and heads towards him. Wei Qingwei, idling in the office, is the first to notice the person wearing another set of An Ding Blue outer robes over soft Qing Jing Green inner ones. His jaw drops.

"Qinghua?" A soft, sleepy voice murmurs in his ear, arms circling around his waist and a head laying on his shoulder from behind. "It's too early, come back to bed." A small yawn.

Shang Qinghua can feel himself freeze with a nervous smile on his face.

Shit.

[nereidprinc3ss]

pretty little things

in which you can't keep hiding your stuffed animals from your boyfriend. spencer would like a formal introduction.

fluff! warnings/tags: gn!reader I think, newish established relationship, they're so cute, reader is still kinda shy around him, I'm really obsessed with this dynamic actually, implied intimacy if you decide to interpret it that way, kissing/maybe mildly suggestive a/n: this is dedicated to my friends @parfaitblogs and @gublersg1rl bc in another universe we are actually just three jellycat plushies on someone's bed which is where the inspo for this little thing came from. and thank u willow for naming your fox. ok bye love u hope u enjoy !! :D

The first time you’d shown Spencer your room, and the handful of times he’s been in it since, you very intentionally hid your stuffed animals underneath the bed. After all, you’re an adult. You have a grown up job. And you don’t need him thinking you’re some kind of freak this early into the relationship. You like him too much. 

Today, however—you didn’t have any warning. He comes over unannounced, which is all well and good, until you bring him to your bedroom so he can sit on the bed while you change from work clothes into something comfier for movie night. As soon as you open the bedroom door, you see them, lined up neatly by your pillow, and you know it’s too late. 

“Uh…”

Spencer runs into your back and takes it as an excuse to settle his hands on your hips as he peers over your shoulder. 

“What?”

You slip out of his easy hold and skitter to your bed, practically throwing yourself on the mattress and sitting unnaturally as the little beaded eyes of your friends dig into your back. Even your brightest smile doesn’t distract Spencer. He’s like a bloodhound for the truth. At least, that’s the sense you’re beginning to get. 

“What are you doing?” He tries again, eyes narrowed and closing the door carefully behind him. 

“Nothing!”

The urgency with which you say it has his eyebrows raising. Obviously delighted by the embarrassing secret he’s sure to uncover, he approaches. You lean back further even as he towers over you until you’re almost on your back and he’s folded over you, menacingly (and dizzyingly) close. This sort of position is still new-ish and has your heart pounding, even if it’s entirely playful and ostensibly innocent. 

“Nothing? Are you sure?”

You nod, still shying away from him into the pile of pillows. Without looking he reaches under you and pulls out your pink bunny. You squeak and hide your face. 

“What is this?” He laughs, and you yank it away, sitting up so he’s forced to give you some breathing room. The bunny is cradled protectively in your arms, though you try to hold it a bit more casually when you notice. 

“I said it’s nothing.”

“What about the other two behind you? The fox and the… what is that? A deer?”

“No—”

“I didn’t even know they made deer stuffed animals—”

“Spencer, stop!”

He does, at the desperate tone of voice and the way you’re still hiding from him. 

“No, no! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tease you. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m sorry.”

As usual he’s over apologetic, now sitting knee to knee with you on the mattress and leaning down to try and catch your eye. You huff and grant him some eye contact just so he doesn’t go over the edge with worry. 

“But it’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s really not,” he laughs. “It’s cute. I can’t believe you’ve been—what, hiding them from me? This whole time? That’s like not telling me you have kids.”

“It is not like that.”

“Hm. I don’t know, I think you should probably introduce me.”

You give him a look, letting your head fall to your shoulder. “Spencer.”

“I’m serious. I’m going to be apart of their lives now. You can’t keep shoving them under the bed every time I stay the night.”

This nerd is going to be the death of you. 

Eventually, you groan reluctantly. 

“Fine. Okay, um—this one is… well—her name is Bunny. It’s not… very creative, but it’s—that’s just her name, okay?”

Spencer doesn’t react to your unjustified defensiveness—only grabs your bunny’s round little pink paw and shakes. “Enchanted.”

“Shut up.” Your face is so hot as you bury your smile and set Bunny aside, making sure she’s comfortable against the pillow before bringing out your deer. Spencer doesn’t have the shit-eating grin you were partially expecting when you glance up at him from beneath your lashes—he’s smiling, but it’s so soft. A little twisted, like he’s holding back the full extent of it for your sake. But you wouldn’t mind it at full power. It’s like he’s hiding the sun in a saucepan and the lid’s not on quite right. And he’s looking right at you. Like you’re the source of all his joy. 

A moment passes. You clear your throat and look back down. “Um—this is Bambi. ’Cause—you know.”

“I do,” Spencer agrees genially, nodding as if this were a normal conversation. “Kind of a dark thing to name your deer, though.”

“You’re judging,” you accuse balefully. He chuckles and his hand finds your knee, rubbing apologetically. 

“I’m not, I’m not! I take it back. I retract it. Continue, please.”

For a moment you only pout, but it doesn’t deter him—he simply looks at you expectantly, and now those syrupy eyes come with the added bonus of his hand on your leg. Fine. He wins. But not without a deep, tortured sigh from you while you’re grabbing your fox that makes the corner of his mouth twitch up. 

“This one is…”

The name dies on your tongue, too ridiculous to be said out loud. 

“Tell me,” Spencer pleads in that gentle voice and with those big eyes that you’d consider burning him at the stake for because that look on his face has to be witchcraft. 

“Okay but you can’t laugh,” you insist in one quick breath, giving him a serious look that he can only partially reciprocate. 

“No laughing.”

“It’s… Mr. Cuddles.”Spencer bites the inside of his cheek to keep his promise. You melt inside both from embarrassment and from the way it only further defines an already superbly sculpted bone structure. “Do not.”

Spencer scoffs at your warning. “Don’t what? I’m behaving.”

“Don’t make fun of Mr. Cuddles!”

“Does it look like I’m making fun of him?”

“Her.”

“What?”

“Her. Mr. Cuddles is a girl.”

“I see… can you explain that to me?”

“If a human person said I am a girl and I would like you to call me Mister, would you question that? Would you ask them to explain it to you?”

“I guess not.”

“Exactly. Don’t be rude.”The way Spencer is looking at you now, eyes so clear and still so full of affection, like you’ve got some sort of heavenly spotlight trained on you, lips parted as if to say something but still silent, has you forgetting your momentary confidence. You shrink. “What?”

“I just… you’re amazing.” You throw Mr. Cuddles at his chest and fall into your pile of pillows with a groan. Spencer only continues rubbing your leg. It’s very nice, actually. He’s gentle. And patient. “You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe you came to this conclusion just because I introduced you to my stuffed animals.”

“Not solely because of that. There are a lot of contributing factors. I mean, the stuffed animal thing helped.”

“It’s embarrassing,” you insist for the umpteenth time. 

“It’s adorable.”

Spencer pushes pillows aside and lies next to you so you’re eye to eye. It’s nice how his presence isn’t exhausting the way people sometimes are. He’s easy to exist with. He makes you enjoy existing a little more than usual. Even now. 

You raise your eyebrows and speak, cheek squished against fabric. “I’m a serious adult.”

“I know you are,” he assures with a solemn nod. 

Your eyes narrow ever so slightly. 

“Okay… well… don’t go forgetting that. I’m fun but I can also be not fun.”

“I’d love to see that.”

“No you wouldn’t. You would hate it. You’d be so scared.”

Spencer gives up on holding back a smile and moves his hand to tuck hair behind your ear. 

“You’re right. I’m already terrified. The anticipation… it’s killing me, you know?”

You’re giggling as you roll over on top of him and he roots his hand in your hair, pulling you in for a long, smiley kiss like he knew it was coming. Only when he blindly throws your stuffed friends from the bed do you pull away—just by an inch or so. 

“No respect,” you scold playfully. He kisses you again, tangling your legs and hands wandering. 

“Can I apologize later?”

You’re good with that. 

[noonecareslol]

꧁ Pillows On The Floor

Bucky Barnes x F Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’ve had enough of waking up in your bed alone when it’s meant for two people.

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈：None really just pure fluff. BUTTTT this is my first fic written on tumblr so be nice pookies :)

༺༻

It started when you first moved into your shared apartment. You would put your pajamas on, wash your face, and pull the covers back to slip in your shared bed.

Well, it’s supposed to be shared. Instead, just like clock work, Bucky would take his pillow and blanket to lay on the floor. Every. Night. You understood why. He spent nearly 70 years in HYDRA’S harsh conditions. Being uncomfortable was all he’s ever known.

At first you let him be and it eventually became a routine. You would both get ready for bed before kissing him goodnight. You would slip into bed and he would slip into the blankets thrown on the floor haphazardly. Each night before turning off the light, you would ask if he would join you. But he always responded with the same stubbornness, “I’m more comfortable down here. I promise.” And with a squeeze of your hand, you would both go to sleep.

After about a month or two of the same nightly routine, you became sick of feeling the emptiness next to you. You would reach out for him during the night only to be met with one of your many stuffed animals. So, you decided to start sleeping on the floor with him.

“What are you doing?” Bucky questioned as you lay your pillow next to his. His eyebrows were furrowed and his sleepy eyes were squinty.

You place another blanket on top as you slide in next to him, “I’m going to bed? It’s nearly 12.” You attempt to fluff your pillow, trying to get comfortable on the hard wood flooring.

A small chuckle escaped his lips as he propped his head on his elbow, looking over at you with his light blue eyes, “Y/n, i’ve told you i’m fine. You don’t need-“

“I know you’re fine. But I actually want to sleep on the floor.” You interrupted him and he could tell you were lying just by the way you haven’t stopped fluffing your pillow.

It’s not like the floor is comfortable. He knows that, you know that. But you aren’t doing this for him. You’re doing it because you don’t want to be the only one in your king sized bed anymore. And you’d rather be on the cold floor with him than alone on your bed.

Bucky sighed before flopping on his back. A small smirk played at his lips as you continued to mess with your blanket and pillow, “Whatever you say doll.”

You give up on your pillow before turning to face him, “It’s so comfy down here. It’s probably good for feng shui too.” You kiss his stubbly chin as you lie to him, and yourself.

“Feng shui, hmm?” He turns to face you, draping his cold metal arm across your waist. He pulls you close and your face buries in between his chin and shoulder, “I love you, Y/n.”

Your body warms at his touch, even with the cold floor pressing against you. He still makes you melt after all this time. You lean up and place a soft, loving kiss on his lips, “I love you too Bucky.” You cuddle against him and close your eyes.

Bucky smiles as you attempt to fall asleep. His hand reaches up to play with your hair. His metal fingers running through the soft strands. He waits and waits until your breathing finally slows and your chest rises and falls evenly before he gently sits up.

Careful not to make any sudden moves he slowly pulls the blanket off of you. A smile plays on his lips as he looks at you. Your knees are pulled to your chest at an attempt to keep warm and your hair is messily laid on the pillow.

He turns around and pulls the comforter and the sheet down. He fluffs up your pillows the way he knows you like and moves some of your plushies to make room.

Slowly he moves down, bending his knees as he softly scoops his arms under your waist and legs before pulling you to his chest. He steadily stands up, lifting you with him. You instinctively nuzzle into his chest, the warmth radiating off his body making you feel safe. He lays your legs down first as he slips you into the bed. His hand moves from your waist to the nape of your neck as he pulls the comforter over your body. Your eyes gently flutter open as Bucky places a tender kiss on your forehead.

“Shhh, shh. Go back to sleep darling.” He whispers as he sits on the edge of your bed. He’s moved his hand from the nape of your neck to your cheek, softly stroking your face.

Once your eyes close again he slowly starts to stand up, careful not to make any sudden movements when he feels your hand wrap around his wrist.

“No. Please, I want to sleep next to you. I feel safe in your arms Bucky. I don’t want to wake up clutching my teddy bear anymore.” Your eyes were a bit glossy, tears threatened to fall as your grip became tighter.

He sits back on the bed and places his hand on your thigh, “I don’t know Y/n. I don’t know if I can. I’m so used to being uncomfortable that its normal now.” He slowly rubs your thigh, reassuring you that he is okay on the floor. You’ve always been understanding about his trauma and it was one of the many reasons he fell in love with you so fast.

You give a small smile, “Can you maybe try? Just test the waters and if you don’t like it, you can go right back to the floor.” You’re pulling his hand now, tugging him to the bed.

He slowly nods before walking around the bed and slipping in next to you. He hesitates as he feels his head land against the pillow but you’re quick to wrap your arm around his waist. Your plushies are tossed off the bed now and you’re nuzzling into his side.

“It’s definitely more comfy than the floor.” He chuckles as he wraps an arm around you pulling you closer.

A pretty giggle escapes your lips and Bucky is quick to place a loving kiss on them. You hum contently as your eyes start to close. And as you fall into a deep sleep the last thing you hear is Buckys soft snores.

༺༻

a/n: Hey gang FIRST fic i hope you like it🙏🙏

[nouearth]

when the snow settles.

clark kent x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. clark’s busy spoiling his sick boyfriend with cookies and cuddles—until things heat up when someone decides a kiss (and more) is the real cure for a cold.

𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 & 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [ 6.0k ].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 corenswet!clark 〳 established relationship 〳 sick!reader 〳 christmas!au 〳 sexual content: top!clark, bottom!reader, belly-bulging, breeding, rimming (r!receiving), praising, body worship, clark can alter the temp of his body (and dick).

Snow fell softly outside the apartment, blanketing Metropolis in a serene hush that contrasted sharply with the sound of sniffling from the couch. Clark’s living room was cozy, aglow with the golden twinkle of Christmas lights strung up around the windows. The faint scent of pine mingled with the sweet aroma of gingerbread baking in the oven, though the stuffy haze of your cold dulled the sharpness of both.

You sat bundled in a mountain of blankets, a tissue box on one side and a half-empty mug of tea on the other. Despite the misery of a congested head and the scratchy soreness in your throat, you couldn’t help but watch Clark with a mix of amusement and adoration.

In the kitchen, he moved with a carefree confidence, humming along to Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas as it played softly on his phone. He had insisted on baking cookies for the evening, declaring it the perfect way to boost your holiday cheer. Not that you needed much help in that department—his reindeer antler headband, bouncing with every step he took, was doing most of the work.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms, and his glasses had fogged up slightly from the warmth of the oven. Even with the goofy apron he wore—a red and green monstrosity with “Santa’s Favorite Helper” embroidered across the front—he looked unfairly attractive.

Clark glanced over his shoulder at you, a soft smile spreading across his face as his gaze met yours. “You okay over there?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Need more tea? Another blanket? A better boyfriend?”

You groaned theatrically, flopping back into the throw pillows. “What I need is for my head to stop feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton.”

And stones—your flair for drama only worsened the throbbing ache from the sudden movement.

Setting down a tray of freshly baked cookies, Clark wiped his hands on a dishtowel and made his way over to you. He knelt beside the couch, one hand reaching up to take the temperature from your forehead while the other rested lightly on your knee through the blanket.

His touch was warm, steady, grounding.

“Still running hot. Sorry you’re feeling this way,” he said sincerely, his brow furrowing just a little. “If I could punch a cold in the face, you know I would.”

You laughed, but it quickly dissolved into a coughing fit. Clark was at your side in an instant, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back until the worst of it passed. “It’s so unfair that you never get sick,” you rasped, your voice rough and strained. “You’re just… immune to everything. Meanwhile, I’m over here melting into a Christmas puddle.”

“Wow. This is the thanks I get for baking you cookies? My boyfriend wishing ill on me?” He chuckled, resting his elbows on the edge of the couch to stay level with your gaze. "If it makes you feel better, Krypto would probably be thrilled to drink you up if you were a puddle! Likes his water from the spring... spoiled dog."

His grin was boyish and a little smug, and you rolled your eyes at him, though the corners of your lips twitched upward.

“What I’m saying is… we could’ve been sick together,” you muttered, “But I can’t even enjoy them. Look here.” You picked up one of the gingerbread cookies Clark had carefully decorated earlier, the icing swirls and tiny candy buttons a testament to his painstaking attention to detail.

The cookie felt firm yet inviting in your hand, its edges slightly crisp and still warm from the oven. Breaking off a piece, you popped it into your mouth, hopeful that even through the fog of your cold, some of the sweetness might break through.

Instead, all you got was the texture—a faint crunch that dissolved into a soft crumble on your tongue. The spice you knew should be there, the warm bite of ginger and cinnamon that normally screamed Christmas, was muted to the point of nonexistence.

You frowned, swallowing the flavorless bite with effort. A sharp, scratchy sting flared in your throat, the dry irritation making each swallow feel more uncomfortable than the last. The lack of taste was almost offensive, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly your cold had robbed you of simple joys.

Clark’s eyes flicked over to you, catching your expression as you set the rest of the cookie down with a defeated sigh. “Nothing?” he asked, his voice tinged with sympathy.

“Absolutely nothing,” you muttered, your voice still scratchy. “I might as well be eating cardboard.”

Clark chuckled softly, getting up on his feet to sit beside you. “Guess that means more for me, huh?” He reached for a cookie, his teasing grin faltering when he saw your pout, but his craving persisted nonetheless. “Hey, don’t worry,” he added, nudging your shoulder gently. “Once you’re better, I’ll bake you a whole new batch. Extra ginger, just the way you like it.”

“Yeah…”

Clark bit into a gingerbread cookie with gusto, clearly enjoying his own handiwork as he snuggled beside you on the couch.

“Mmm,” he hummed dramatically, his eyes widening as he made a show of savoring the bite. “Oh, wow. These might be my best yet. Sweet, spicy, perfectly baked—chef’s kiss.” He gestured extravagantly, grinning like he’d just won a baking competition.

“Not saying these aren’t good, but I’m pretty sure the last time you made cookies, Krypto got more excited than I did."

You were about to roll your eyes at his antics when you noticed a speck of icing clinging to the corner of his mouth and a small crumb nestled in the dimple of his cheek. It was such a ridiculously human detail—charming in its imperfection—that you felt a sudden pang of affection bloom in your chest.

“Here,” you said, laughing softly as you reached up and brushed the crumb away with your thumb, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. His skin was warm, and the bashful smile that tugged at his lips made your stomach flip.

“Didn't stop you from cleaning out the cookie tray...” he murmured, his cheeks pinking slightly as he quickly licked the icing from the corner of his mouth, completely oblivious to how endearing he looked. "Thanks."

You shook your head, biting back a grin. “You’re a mess,” you teased, but your voice was far softer than usual, betraying just how much the sight of him—unpolished, sweet, and so effortlessly Clark—had utterly disarmed you.

Clark’s smile softened, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. His lips lingered for a moment, warm and impossibly tender against your fevered skin. When he pulled back, he looked at you with that impossibly earnest expression that always made your heart twist.

“It’s nice, though, isn’t it?” Clark murmured, his voice soft and warm, like the glow of the Christmas lights reflecting off his glasses. “The cookies, the Christmas specials, the decorations… being snowed in together. Like a Hallmark movie, but… not terrible?”

You could see the flicker of nostalgia in his eyes as he spoke, his tone carrying a quiet sincerity that made your heart ache in the best way. The soft crackle of the digital fireplace playing on the TV and the distant hum of holiday music only made the moment feel more intimate, as if the world outside had disappeared entirely.

A warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with fever. Clark had this infuriating knack for making everything—even being sick—feel like a kind of blessing, as long as he was beside you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, your voice rough but laced with affection. “Talking like I’ve got only two months left to live…” You tried for sarcasm, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Clark’s grin softened into something more tender, his gaze unwavering as he watched you. “Yeah,” you admitted quietly, letting out a small sigh. “It’s nice. Really nice.”

The weight of your words hung between you for a moment, and the corners of Clark’s mouth twitched upward again, this time into a bashful little smile. He didn’t say anything more—he didn’t need to.

Instead, his hand found yours beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles, as if to say everything he didn’t put into words.

You knew he was the strongest man in the world, but it was these quiet moments—his sincerity, his kindness—that made you feel like you were the one holding something unbreakable.

Clark squeezed your hand gently, his expression melting into something tender and a little uncertain. He studied you for a long moment, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked softly. “I mean, really okay? I know I’m supposed to cheer you up, but I don’t want to push too much—especially if you’re not feeling great.”

You leaned your head back against the cushions, exhaling a soft sigh. “Clark, I’m fine,” you said, your voice still raspy but carrying enough exasperation to make your point. “I mean, yeah, I feel like I’ve been hit by a snowplow, but it’s not like I’m about to collapse.” Your lips quirked into a small, teasing smile as you tilted your head toward him.

“Besides, you’ve already gone above and beyond. The cookies, the mistletoe, the cozy speeches… you’re basically an elf on the shelf who magically transformed into the perfect boyfriend overnight.” You reached over, your other hand settling on Clark's broad shoulders as you gently rubbed them, a silent gesture of appreciation.

Clark chuckled at that, but the faint blush on his cheeks deepened. “Well, I don’t know about perfect…” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck in that adorably bashful way that made your chest tighten.

“Perfect,” you repeated, a little firmer this time, giving his hand a squeeze. “Even in that ridiculous apron.”

He let out a breathy laugh, and the sound sent a flutter through you. The way his smile lingered—soft and boyish, but edged with a quiet intensity—made your stomach flip. His thumb absentmindedly traced circles on the back of your hand, and though the gesture was small, it felt impossibly intimate.

“Clark,” you mumbled, leaning in slightly, the hoarseness of your voice making his name sound heavier, more charged. “Stop worrying so much.”

“I can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a low murmur. His eyes flicked to your lips before darting away, a faint flicker of hesitation passing over his features. “You’re sick. I don’t want to… you know… make it worse.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you, though it quickly turned into a cough. Clark’s expression immediately shifted to concern, but you waved him off, catching your breath as you gave him a lopsided grin.

“Clark, I’m not made of glass. And for the record,” you added, your voice softening as you leaned in just a little closer with the support of your elbows, “I think kissing you would make me feel a whole lot better. Best medicine and all that.”

His ears turned an impressive shade of red, and he ducked his head slightly, his grin both shy and disbelieving. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

You shrugged, your grin turning sly. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” he echoed softly, his voice carrying a weight of affection that made your heart ache in the best way. His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the soft glow of the Christmas lights casting him in a golden halo.

Slowly, tentatively, Clark leaned in, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw. “If you wake up tomorrow feeling worse,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours in the barest of touches, “I’m blaming you.”

“Noted,” you whispered back, your breath mingling with his as you tilted your head to close the distance between you.

Strange. You hadn’t noticed the scent of cinnamon when he first brought out the cookies, but now, with your lips inching closer to his—like two cookies spreading and melding into one—you could almost convince yourself you were cured. Almost, if not for the stubborn stuffiness in your nose.

The kiss was gentle at first, as if Clark was afraid you might shatter beneath him. But when you let out a soft, contented sigh and threaded your fingers through his hair, his restraint wavered.

He deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a warmth and intensity that made you forget all about the congestion and sore throat. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his other hand pressed lightly against your waist beneath the blanket.

You tugged him closer still, your lips parting to let him in as the heat between you began to build. Clark’s kisses were like him—steady, powerful, and infused with an overwhelming tenderness that made your head spin. When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, both of you were breathing harder, the warmth of the moment erasing the chill of the winter night.

“Feeling better yet?” he asked, his voice teasing, though the worry flickering in his eyes betrayed him. It wasn’t just concern over your condition—it was something deeper, a quiet struggle to hold himself back. Not when you looked so effortlessly beautiful, your disheveled state a product of his presence.

“Better,” your voice came out in a whisper, your hand resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm before traveling around his torso to untie his apron. “But I think I might need a few more rounds just to be sure.”

Clark let out a soft laugh as you tossed the fabric to the floor, his thumb grazing your cheek in a tender gesture. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, but this time the words were thick with affection. His teeth caught his lower lip as your hands lingered at the waistband of his pajama pants, your intentions unmistakable with the gentle tug at his drawstring.

“You sure?” he asked sincerely, large, calloused hands pressing all over your body, but mainly your bare stomach, where he began mapping out heat zones over the plane.You could feel the strength of his abdomen beneath the thickness of his sweater as your hand gently traced his body in admiration. Biting your lip, you reached up to remove his glasses and nodded.

"If you don’t mind taking care of me tonight.”

There was something about the way Clark watched you during moments like these. You couldn’t tell if it was the warmth of his touch or the intensity of his gaze that made you feel so small, so vulnerable. Either way, you savored it—the sensation of being his entire focus, the apple of his eye, and nothing else.

Your stomach sank when he slid his third finger inside of your tight hole, joining his twinned index and middle.

“I can never get tired of this…” you mumbled, unbuttoning the rest of your pajama top when the pressure below heightened your body temperature.

“I’ll say,” Clark hummed, a growing mass forming large in his pants as he was knelt on the bed, gently working you open. The sound of his lubed fingers twisting and curling deep inside of you made his cock jolt, your cheeks reddening as a result of his attraction.

Clark had always been patient, but when it came to having you submit under his touch, he seemed to relish every second. His hands moved slowly, pressing and kneading at just the right spots, his fingers curling deep and slow to the rhythm of your heart while his other hand rubbed small and smooth circles over your stomach.

It wasn’t just about easing your tension—it was about watching you. The way your breath hitched when he found a tender spot, the subtle flutter of your lashes, the way your lips parted with a moan when he spread his three digits—it all captivated him.

He couldn’t help but grin softly as his hands worked their magic, savoring the reactions that only he could coax from you. For Clark, the real reward wasn’t just in soothing your aches—it was in seeing your face completely melt under his touch, your body reacting wantonly because you craved for more.

And with that, Clark went on to give you more. Knowing how sensitive your body’s condition was in the moment, he carefully pushed your legs up, his large hands stabilizing you by the thighs, and replaced the fill of his fingers with his inquisitive tongue.

Like his fingers, he started out slow and deliberate, tracing the swollen ring of muscle to sample the fresh layer of artificially-flavored lube dripping out of your hole. He licked you with a casual ease, but the look in his eyes was anything but.

“Smells like coconut,” you sniffled softly as he lifted his head to press a few kisses to your inner thighs. The warmth of his breath lingered on your skin, but your attention caught on the sticky sheen smeared across his cheek, a glistening trace of slick that made your cock twitch.

“Close… coconut cream pie. More vanilla than I was expecting, if I had to be honest…”

A tender smile curved your lips as your fingers found their way into his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingertips. You began to pet his head gingerly, your touch slow and soothing, grounding both of you in the moment.

“Love you.”

Clark leaned into your hand instinctively, a low hum of contentment rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, the tension in his broad shoulders melting under your touch, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to fade away entirely.

“I love you too, (M/N).”

His gaze flicked to yours, a sudden spark of mischief between the blinds of his eyelashes, before he paused for a moment, letting the anticipation build, and kept a watchful eye on you while he slowly pushed out his spit to drizzle it over your wet hole.

Then, with agonizing precision, he pushed the remainder of the saliva into the center of your opening, the wet, methodical slck of the motion sending a jolt of heat down your spine.

“Fuck…” Your fingers curled into his hair until they were grasping, pushing him and his tongue deeper into you while simultaneously rutting your hips against him.

Clark was a hungry man. He made sure to clean up any traces of his spit and lube with that thick tongue of his, slurping the remnants before adding onto it again with a generous amount of spit. Every time you thought the trail of saliva was dripping dangerously close to the bed sheets, Clark’s intuition was strong enough to blindly guide him to the leak, deftly licking it back up and kissing your flesh in passing.

He would never waste a single drop.

A quiet, satisfied moan escaped him, low and drawn out, as if savoring the sweetness of the lube and your flesh was a private indulgence. His eyes never left yours as his nose rubbed at your taint in midst of his devouring, The smile that curled at his lips—glazed and glistening—was a challenge, a silent dare that made the air between you feel heavy.

Heavier, when he found the right rhythm of flicking his tongue to make your body writhe under him.

“Clark, please…” you whined, one hand massaging your loose balls while the other toyed with your nipple, pleasuring yourself not only to the sight of Clark indulging in the warmth and taste of your flesh, but also his naked torso.

His chest rose and fell steadily, each inhale making his broad shoulders flex, the faint sheen of sweat catching the light. The planes of his abdomen looked carved, every ridge and dip inviting your eyes to linger, compelling your cock to leak out of sheer astonishment.

His arms were just as mesmerizing—thick and powerful, with veins running along his forearms that seemed to pulse with quiet authority, especially so when he’d alternative between working your hole open with his fingers and tongue again.

The strength they promised wasn’t just physical but protective. Those arms of his were built to shield and hold you.

When he finally pulled away, his gaze lingered, watching as you panted breathlessly, your chest rising and falling, desperate for him to finish what he had so teasingly begun. The tension hung there, thick and electric, like the moment itself had slowed just for the two of you.

He took off the remainder of his clothes before sprawling himself over you, his broad frame hovering just above yours while you seized the opportunity to thank him of his service. Between gentle kisses that Clark needed to get out of his system before he would lose himself in your body, you generously applied a glorious amount of lube on his large cock, though not letting Clark’s kisses answer to nobody.

His muscles pressed gently against you, the solid strength of his chest rising and falling with each breath when you took a couple of moments to thoroughly layer him in slick—to silently appreciate him for his efforts in lifting your spirits throughout the week with firm strokes.

The weight of his cock in your hands was satisfying, hefty enough to make you pause and marvel at the sheer size of it. You couldn’t get used to it, nor did you want to.

“You comfortable? Need more pillows? Tell me if your body starts hurting, okay?” Clark asked, suppressing his moans by showering your neck and face in small, lithe kisses.

His hands roamed your body at their own free-will before they began fixating on your arms, where your goosebumps were discernible. His brows furrowed in concern.

“Little cold…” One arm looped around to caress Clark by the nape, holding his forehead flushed to your own, while your other hand continued to stroke him between your collective hip grinds. You shivered again, despite being nestled so close to him, the draft still biting at your skin.

“Give me a moment,” he murmured softly, the heat of his breath brushing your ear.

You looked up at him, puzzled, but before you could ask what he meant, Clark pulled back just slightly, enough to give himself space to move. Without a word, he began to shift, his body warm and powerful as he adjusted his position. A flicker of surprise passed through you when you saw the subtle concentration on his face, but before you could ask again, you felt it when he pressed himself on top of you again, lowering his hips.

Clark’s body temperature seemed to rise—slowly, but steadily, until you could feel a gentle heat radiating off him. It was as if he was adjusting his own internal warmth, shifting it just for you. Your eyes widened in disbelief, but the shiver running through your body eased, the cold gradually melting away as his warmth enveloped you.

“You should be good now,” he said, his voice low and calm while he pulled you back into his arms, his skin now perfectly heated against yours.

You nestled against him again, finally able to relax as the cold left you entirely. “Not even going to ask,” you graced him with a kiss, reaching between your pelvis and his to adjust his cock against your hole and nodded. “I’m good to go.”

“Love you so much…” He took you by the jaw and slotted his lips into yours once more, grounding the wavering of your breath with his protection before he pushed his hips forth.

“It’s so… big, C-Clark—“ you groaned, clenching your eyes shut through the bittersweet tension of his large cock opening you up.

Clark whispered several I know’s over your lips, a strong effort in placating the pain surging beneath you, while taking a few pauses for you to catch your breath, for Clark to catch his because—you were so tight.

"You're so tight..." Clark seemed to have admitted in a whisper without realizing.

You felt yourself swell within seconds, the crown of your insides clenching him and pushing him out all at the same time, but Clark remained resilient, pushing, and pushing, allowing you to feel the slow, deliberate pressure inside of you, until he was finally deeply rooted inside of you to the hilt, earning himself a deep guttural groan from you as a reward.

“You feel so good, baby. So, so good. Taking me so well…” He peppered your whimpers with soft kisses, his words soothing you as his boyish smile remained, warm and comforting, easing you with each gentle touch and praise.

“You’re so warm too…” you muttered into the palm of his hand, kissing him at the calloused skin before you returned back to his plush lips.

Your breath caught in your throat as you shifted, the feeling of being filled growing deeper, fuller with every inch of Clark’s large cock moving inside of you. Clark’s large palm rested on your stomach, caressing over the bulge that seemed to move in conjunction with his slow, methodical thrusts.

He had never mentioned it, but you knew it was a sight that he secretly loved. Clark's eyes softened with admiration as he watched, his gaze lingering on the subtle curve of your stomach. It was unmistakable, the way it had begun to gently bulge with every rut of his hips, becoming more prominent depending on the strength, the fullness a natural sign of the way your body had been affected by what you’d taken.

And what you had taken was Clark’s love and devotion to you—his thick cock making you gape and swell from beneath.

It wasn’t easy, not by any means, but there was an undeniable pull in watching your stomach swell from his cock—an almost desperate craving for the mixture of pain and pleasure, for the way it made your body react even though your mind wavered between wanting to resist and wanting to surrender completely.

He couldn’t help but marvel at it, his fingertips lightly grazing the curve, tracing its outline with a reverent touch. The way your body had responded to him, the way it molded to the shape of the intimate moment, filled him with a quiet awe. He leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against your skin, his voice low and hushed. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, a hint of wonder in his tone, as if he couldn’t quite believe the sight before him.

Clark was never one to boast, but in this moment, the glint in his eyes spoke volumes. He’d never been so proud of having someone like you—someone so determined—take all of his girth with such unwavering focus despite the tears in your eyes. Happy tears, to which he’d only create more of, when he gently pressed on the bulge in your stomach and sandwiched his cock within your insides, plunging himself deep inside of you until the only sounds that came out of your throat were guttural.

“C-Clark—oh, god…” your cock was dripping in pre-cum, throbbing to the weight of his cock hollowing you out as he sped up his hips and pushed you deeper into the bed on instinct. You held onto his muscular shoulders as he clutched onto your waist and rocked you back and forth along to his deep thrusts.

“God, I’m so deep inside of you. Is this okay, baby? Is it okay that I’m making love to you like this? I’m being selfish, aren’t I?”

“No-please! I l-love it so much, Clark. Fuck. Keep fucking me like that… wouldn’t want anything more—”

“Like this? You like how I’m so deep inside of you to the point where your tummy’s swelling? So… good. You look so good for me…”

His forehead connected to yours again, panting over your mouth and taking a moment to marvel over how he had rendered you speechless before he could muster up the energy to kiss you again, to draw out another sound from you with his tongue.

The warmth of his mouth was almost feverish, his breath mingling with yours in a tangled, wet dance. Each movement was smooth and sensual, your tongues exploring, tasting, tracing the contours of each other’s mouths with growing eagerness. The wetness of it—the gentle press of his lips, the slick glide of your tongues—made the kiss feel all the more intoxicating, as if every flick and sweep brought you deeper into him.

Clark’s body temperature only seemed to have gotten warmer, affecting you from the inside and out as his cock was synchronous.

You could feel Clark’s dick heat you up from the inside, seemingly softening your guts to make the ease of fully wrecking you all the more easier. With each kiss, praise, and thrust, your body melted further, feeling as soft and pliable as butter left out in the warmth. The tension in your muscles faded, replaced by a liquid sensation that spread through you, leaving you entirely at ease and whimpering in his hot embrace.

The faint sheen of sweat gave him an undeniable rawness, a physicality that made your heart race. You were mesmerized by the way it clung to him, the way the droplets caught the light before sliding slowly down his torso.

Each movement he made only seemed to draw you in more, the heat radiating from his body intensifying the pull you felt. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, infatuated not just by his strength, but by the way he looked so alive, so real—like the sweat was proof of his effort, his focus, and the raw intensity of how he was making love to you and that tantalizing hole of yours.

“You’re fucking me so good, Clark. I could come like this, baby—just like this…”

“And when you make a mess—not if, but when—I’ll treat you like the prince you are. I’ll clean you up with my mouth, let you watch me lick every drop away with my tongue, and then I’ll kiss you, giving you a taste of your love for me.”

His skin, damp with the effort of his keen need to wreck you, left a trail of warmth and moisture as he pounded you, a strong, animalistic friction that made every touch feel more intimate and passionate, that made the current position of him mounting you and bending your knees till they touched your chest despite your condition well worthwhile and all the more rewarding.

It was a sound that matched the intensity of the connection between you both—no words needed, just the symphony of his sweaty skin meeting yours, and his cock hollowing you out until you two had made a permanent imprint on the mattress.

Clark’s breath hitched as he watched you, his eyes soft and filled with admiration contrasting with his hardened thrusts. “You look so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “Just… so perfect.”

His hand moved to your stomach again, evidently in love with the way you swelled from his cock, the weight of the moment sinking in with the aid of the bed creaking, and Clark’s sweaty skin slapping against you.

Every word he spoke, every gentle press of his lips, seemed to soften you, coaxing out of the cold that had been restricting you. It was as though you were being molded by his touch, the heat of his affection spreading through your veins, leaving you pliant, relaxed, and willing to give yourself entirely to him.

All sensation coursing through you was a tangled mess of pleasure and overwhelming intensity. Your body was on the verge of unraveling with every deep thrust of Clark’s. You could feel him swell, veins throbbing inside of you, his balls twitching as he was nearing his high just as you were.

Your eyes fluttered closed, the edges of your vision blurring the harder he pounded into you like an animal, like he was beating away at your cold, and you could feel yourself slipping into a blissful madness.

It was almost too much, yet it felt like the most real thing you’d ever known. Your body trembled from the weight of his body on you, from the girth that Clark was destroying you open with. Every muscle was tight with anticipation, yet you managed to hold onto a smile, the corners of your lips twitching despite the storm raging inside you, your cock throbbing and leaking in overdrive in warning.

“C-Clark..!“

Your hands instinctively found their way around Clark's neck, pulling him closer as if to anchor yourself in the moment. The kiss you pressed against his lips was desperate, full of need and grounding, a silent plea for him to steady you in the chaos as your balls tightened up into your core.

With each breathless press of your mouth to his, you found a sliver of control, a tether to the reality of his presence, even as the pleasure threatened to send you into pure blissful madness.

“I know—me too—“

Your smile lingered, your mind teetered on the edge, savoring every second, every touch, every thrust, and every heartbeat that connected you both, until the very moment where Clark’s name slipped from your lips in a breathless gasp.

“Clark—“

The tension had reached its peak, and when it finally broke, it was like a wave crashing over you, overwhelming and all-consuming. You came in a shared, fervent release. All muscles in your body was taut with desire, the culmination of your love for him unraveling in the form of thick white ropes shooting out of your cock, decorating your bulging stomach with layers upon layers, some splattering onto Clark’s body from the sheer amount of power and arousal.

Clark’s grip on you tightened, his body shuddering against yours as he gave into the same release, his breath ragged in the wake of it. His name left your lips in a soft, trembling sigh as he spilled his warm, thick seed deep inside of your raw hole. He left you breathless, thick, and steady, flooding you in ropes that seemed to never end. It was a powerful, consuming feeling, filling you completely, each pulse of his cock deep and unwavering, decorating your insides with a thickness that left you in awe of how much he had to give, like his body had held nothing back.

Your bodies moved together in those final moments, each thrust and touch sending shock waves through your system as Clark rode out his orgasm. You could feel every inch of him, raw and exposed. The warmth spread through you with each movement, the thick fluid of his cum filling you to the brim, a steady stream that didn’t seem to have an end leaking out of you that would surely have your flesh glued together with his.

Nothing else listed but the two of you—completely undone, unraveling together and leaving behind nothing but the sweet, tender echo of your love for each other.

The room was still, save for your breathing, as Clark’s forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath, tangled together in the beautiful, but sweaty aftermath.

“Are you… feeling better?”

His fingers traced along your skin, over the mess that you made of your stomach to let the sticky substance seep into his own palm, while he caught the remainder of his breath in the crook of your neck, fully collapsing on top of you.

“I…” You groaned, the lingering sensation of pleasure making it hard to find words. But despite the exhaustion, a sly smile tugged at your lips.

You rubbed his broad back in soothing circles, whispering in his ear, “I think I might need another prescription, Doctor.” Your voice was breathless, a mischievous glint in your eyes as the desire still simmered beneath the surface.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[submattsmxmmy]

hiiii it's @ariestrxsh ! this is my backup account !

🤍 content warning: 🤍 smut, stepsibling kink, masturbation, getting caught, praise, light nipple play, handjob, oral (m!receiving), sub!stepbro!matt, dom!stepsis!reader

🤍 author's note: 🤍 if you don't fw the whole stepsibling kink thing, then don't read! if it's not for you, then it's not for you, but don't ruin everyone else's fun!! enjoy!

🤍 summary: 🤍 you're home from college for the holidays, and you find your stepbrother, matt, doing something naughty with your panties.

sit / stay

Matt tried his best to stay quiet, biting down on his lip to suppress a moan while he laid completely naked on his bed with your panties in one hand and his hard dick in the other.

It was a white silk thong with flowers embroidered on the front. You'd dropped them earlier after running your laundry and carrying the basket back to your room, and Matt had even tried to call after you to let you know you'd left an item of clothing behind.

Too bad you'd had your headphones in, and when he picked them up off the tile and realized what they were, he couldn't help but think what a lucky day this was for him. He'd stuffed them in his pocket and scurried off to his room.

He knew you were off-limits. After all, you were his older stepsister, only by a year but still. And you were only in town for a few weeks for the holidays before you had to go back off to college to start the new semester.

But the forbidden nature of it all made you all the more enticing.

He took the strap of your thong and slowly wrapped it around his shaft while he brushed the soft, silky fabric against his swollen tip, eliciting a bit of clear fluid from his slit. He ran his thumb over his sensitive head through the delicate material of your panties, causing his hungry cock to twitch. He threw his head back and let a soft whimper pass through his pretty, pink lips.

He kept imagining how sexy you must look in them as he started stroking his length with his other hand. His movements became faster and more urgent, and his whimpers got away from him until they were filling the room along with the soft fap fap fap as he pleasured himself.

Suddenly, his bedroom door flew open, and you were standing in the entrance, wide-eyed and shocked. "Oh my god, Matt! Are you getting off with my underwear?!" You shrieked, slamming the door shut behind you. He was embarrassed, but he couldn't stop. He was getting so close. He kept stroking his cock, chasing that sweet release he so desperately craved, but you snatched the thong out of his hand before he could finish.

"What the fuck? Did you steal these from me?" You questioned him, holding them up and looking at the wet spot he'd gotten on them and glaring in his direction. "I'm sorry. You dropped them," Matt cried out, looking at you like a puppy dog who had just been scolded.

Your eyes traveled to his rock hard cock. You admired the way it stood straight up and the way his engorged mushroom-shaped tip stared you down. Your first reaction was anger, but the longer you studied him, the more you took pity on him. His face was red with shame, and hot tears of humiliation started streaming down his cheeks.

"Awh, baby. Don't cry," you said, sitting next to him on the bed, kissing him on the forehead and wiping away his tears. "I'm sorry I got mad. I'm just.. surprised," you whispered, caressing his face.

You caught yourself stealing glances at his cock before he grabbed a pillow to hide it. "Please don't tell anybody," he begged between his sniffles. "I won't. As long as you won't tell anyone about what I'm about to do," You seductively responded, your hands wandering towards the pillow and slowly pushing it out of the way. Matt stared at you in disbelief. "W-what are you gonna do?" He stammered.

"Depends on what you'll let me do," you bit your lip as your eyes flicked up to meet his. You placed your fingers on his chest in a flirty manner, and he watched them slowly slither down his stomach towards his lap. "You can do anything you want," Matt lustfully responded, all the blood returning to his tip again as he realized what you were alluding to.

"How were these when I walked in? Like this?" You cooed, taking your panties and wrapping them around his cock again, teasing him with the fabric as it brushed against his tender head. With his bottom lip caught between his perfectly white teeth, he timidly nodded at you.

"And your hands. They were like this?" You whispered, taking both of your hands and placing them around his girth. "Yes, just like that," Matt softly whimpered as you started stroking him. He had this needy look in his eyes as he gazed into yours.

"I think we need to get it a little more wet, don't you think?" You suggested, leaning over his hard dick and letting a stream of drool fall from your mouth and onto his tip. He watched in awe with his jaw dropped as you did this.

"There we go," you said in a soft, luscious voice while your hands slipped around more easily on Matt's rod. "Oh," Matt softly moaned as you swiveled your wrists in opposite directions. He bit down on his knuckle to keep his noises to a minimum.

"Oh, you like that, baby, don't you?" You asked Matt in an alluring tone. "Yes," he quietly whimpered. "Good boy," you cooed. The way you spoke to him while your hands explored his special place had him gripping his sheets and curling his toes. A wetness pooled between your thighs at his reaction to your touch.

"You know what would make this even more fun?" You asked, dying to make his body respond to you even more. Matt perked up, ready to hear your recommendation. You temporarily took your hands off his throbbing member, hooking your fingers into the hem of your shirt.

You took it off and playfully threw it at Matt while he ogled your breasts on display in your solid black bra. "I bet you're dying to see them," you said in a suggestive voice, placing your hands on your tits, gently squeezing them, and pushing them together. "Yes, please," he begged, staring at them and licking his lips.

You reached around to unhook your bra. Then you slowly pulled down the straps like you were giving a striptease and let it fall onto the bed in front of you. Matt sharply inhaled as he took in the wonderful sight of your beautifully shaped breasts and your hardening nipples.

"Please. I wanna touch 'em," Matt timidly replied, reaching out in front of him. "Only because you've been such a good boy," you seductively smirked up at your stepbrother. This comment went straight to his cock, causing it to twitch.

You moved closer to him, took both of Matt's hands and placed them on top of your soft breasts. He looked at you like a deer in the headlights, but his eyes soon traveled back down to your chest. He squished the soft flesh between his fingers while he licked his lips.

As he continued fondling your tits, you wrapped your hand around his cock again and squeezed it. You started twisting your wrist as you stroked it up and down, creating a wonderful sensation for the sweet boy beneath you.

You stared down at his tip that was drooling with pre-cum while he gently ran his thumbs over your stiff nipples, eliciting a soft whimper from you. "Did that feel good?" Matt curiously asked, brushing his fingertips over them again. You whined again. "Yes, Matt. I love when you do that," you whispered, speeding up your strokes.

"Oh, you're so good at that," Matt complimented you, enjoying every touch of your hand. He looked at you with a glazed over expression as a few seductive moans poured from his lips. His grip on your breasts tightened a bit, and you could tell he was getting close by the desperation in his gorgeous, blue eyes and his needy voice.

"You know what else would be fun?" You nibbled on your lip. "What?" Matt asked in a breathy tone, releasing your breasts from his grip. What could possibly be more fun than this, he wondered to himself.

"Wouldn't it be fun if there was no mess for us to clean up when you finish?" You cooed, unraveling your underwear from his shaft and slingshotting them at him. "H-how are you gonna do that?" Matt wondered in a shy voice, catching your panties and running his fingers along the soft material.

You maneuvered yourself between Matt's legs, kneeling in front of him on the bed, and closing the distance between your mouth and his needy cock. "Like this," you grinned at him before you wrapped your lips around his tip.

"Oh," Matt softly moaned as his head fell back and his eyes fell shut at the feeling of you graciously swirling your tongue in circles on his swollen head. You gently sucked on it and moaned against his sensitive nerve endings, causing a wonderful sensation.

His hand wandered to the back of your head, and he gently pushed down on it, encouraging you to take more of it. Your lips slid down his shaft, your tongue grazing all his veins and sending waves of pleasure through his body.

"So good," Matt desperately whined underneath you, savoring the feeling of your soft, velvety mouth. You peered up at him, your eyes meeting his while you worked your magic on him. His moans became louder and more sensual as his cock started throbbing against your lips.

You slowed your movements just enough to draw out the satisfaction he was feeling. You moaned against his member once more, sending vibrations through his tip and causing him to whimper some more while he gripped your hair tightly. "Yes. Please don't stop. Gonna cum," the words passed through his lips like warm honey, his voice textured with a smooth and soft quality.

His dick began to twitch in your mouth, depositing his heavenly substance onto your tongue while he furrowed his brow and looked desperately into your eyes as you swallowed his seed. He let out one more loud whimper as you finished him off, sucking down every last drop like you were starving for it.

"Wow," he whispered, looking down at you in a daze with a satisfied smile on his face. You pulled his cock out from behind your lips, making a loud pop, and you deviously grinned up at him as you wiped the saliva from your mouth. "See? No mess," you smirked at him, climbing to your feet and beginning to put your bra and top back on.

"You're so.. talented," Matt replied, trying to find the most respectful word to describe how he felt about the head you'd just given him. "Next time you want a pair of my underwear, just ask, and I'll give you a whole lot more than that," you winked at him before blowing him a kiss and giving him a little wave.

You slipped out of his room, leaving your panties behind and silently giving him permission to keep them as a souvenir.

[mvst4far]

Sam Monroe x f!reader

SUMMARY: Spending the morning with Sam after sleeping over for the night.

WARNINGS: Brief sexual reference (no smut), pill/drug use and a make out with Sammy 💋

Sam stirs beside you with a moody groan, removing his forearm from covering his eyes as he abruptly sits himself up─accidentally stirring you awake in the process.

"God, can you be anymore louder?" You sigh, rolling over to face away from him as you desperately attempt to fall back asleep.

"Shit, my bad," He grumbles apologetically and scratches the back of his neck, kicking the covers off before lazily standing up from the bed.

Somehow, and with weeks of begging, Sam had convinced his mom to let you sleepover for a night. The two of you were allowed to hang out in his room, of course, but you just weren't granted the access of sleeping in the same bed. His mom knew what he was like─especially with his teenage hormones and occasionally finding stiff socks hidden under his bed.

God knows what you two do when you're alone.

Of course, the first thing this emo boy goes for is a stash of pills he keeps hidden in the beside table. He quickly untwists the cap and shakes out a singular pill─placing it onto the palm of his hand before chucking it into his mouth and gulping it down his throat.

His addiction got so bad, that most of the time you'd have to step in and sit through long, uncomfortable conversations. He didn't like opening up at all, but it felt somewhat natural with you.

"Sam," You groan, stretching one of your arms out as you continue to lay on your side.

Sam's head snaps towards you over his shoulder, quickly screwing the lid back on and stuffing it back into the drawer of his beside table. "Yeah?" He clears his throat, trying his best not to sound suspicious as he turns around to face you.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"Nothin'. You hungry? I can get my mom to make you somethin'."

You sigh and shake your head as he changes the topic. "No, m'okay." You murmur back, your voice lacing with sleepiness.

He nods, standing awkwardly for a moment with his fingers drumming against his thigh. "You tired?" He asks, pointing out the obvious like a dumbass.

"Mhm," You sleepily respond, face nuzzling into the soft pillow that had a lingering smell of Sam's cologne.

Sam almost felt bad that he was keeping you up by continuing to talk to you. He couldn't help it though. It just felt natural speaking to you. And once he started, he couldn't stop.

"So," He starts, staring at your figure lying peacefully on his bed. "What do you wanna do today?" He finishes, shifting on his feet covered with white socks.

"I don't know." You grumble, starting to sound a little more annoyed at his never-ending ramblings.

Sam immediately picks up on the change of your tone, realizing he may have messed up a little. "Sorry," He runs a hand through his black hair, suppressing anything else he wanted to say.

౨ৎ

It didn't take long until Sam had somehow convinced you to pay attention to him instead of sleeping. Even though it was only nine in the morning, he couldn't help his hormones. They sparked a lot more around you─which often got him in trouble.

Sam's lips moves against yours with urgency, his fingers digging deeply into your hips as he firmly holds you down to straddle his lap. With your fingers running through his hair─occasionally scratching his scalp, he couldn't resist but whimper in the most pathetic way possible.

It was a religious occasion for you two to be making out randomly. Didn't matter the place, or the time, since Sam could only keep his hands to himself for so long.

He pulls away with a exasperated exhale, his lips plump and pink. "I was thinking we could hit up the park today. I wanna get high, but I can't do that in my mom's house." He says breathlessly.

You chuckle at his random suggestion, shaking your head in amusement. "We're in the middle of making out, and the only thing you can think about is getting high?" You scoff, making it clear you were teasing him. "Wow, Monroe. Way to make a girl feel special."

Sam clicks his tongue against his teeth, rolling his eyes at your tease. "C'mon, you know I didn't mean it like that," He huffs, almost glaring at you like a defeated puppy.

You burst out into giggles, your hands resting at the nape of his neck. "Yeah, I know you didn't." You admit, shrugging your shoulders.

Sam didn't even have the time to respond before your lips crashes back onto his with desperation─almost latching on him like a leech.

He immediately reciprocates into the kiss, his head tilting to the side to seek a deeper angle while he pushes you flush on his lap. Even though you were basically in control by being on top, he managed to show some dominance with his strength.

And all it did was turn you on even more.

After a few moments, Sam pulls away once more─leaving him completely breathless. "Just to make sure... we are going to the park later, right?" He asks once again, holding you still.

"Sam!" You huff in disbelief, slapping his bicep.

"What?! I was just askin'!"

two posts in one day, i am feeding you guys 🥀

taglist: @alealuvshayden @anakinstwinklebunny @divineani @estranged-girl

[leighsartworks216]

Cup Runneth Over

Sylus x fem!Reader

I was supposed to go back to bed but then this possessed me

Title from "Cup Runneth Over" by Kiki Rockwell

SMUT BELOW THE CUT

Warnings: smut, established relationship, swearing, creampie, stuffing, size kink, aftercare, praise kink, biting, kissing, licking, begging, overstimulation, explicit consent

Word Count: 1,274

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

"One more..." he breathes heavily by your ear. His chest rubs against your back as he shallowly rolls his hips with a low groan. "Please, my love, one more... You can take it, can't you?"

Sylus has never been one to beg. The man will find workarounds and push buttons until people are begging him. But not this time. Not when you're a shaking, whimpering mess beneath him, drooling dumbly into his pillow and fighting to find any conscious thought that he hasn't yet fucked out of you.

He supports himself with one hand as the other reaches under you to glide along your stomach. He peppers kisses all over your neck and shoulders, already marked up from his unrelenting bites. Down further, at your lower abdomen, slick with sweat and the overflow of cum that's spilled out of you, he presses down. You cry out in a sweet gasp, weakly trying to press your hips back against him.

"Feel me right there, kitten?" He sighs shakily, biting softly at a bare spot on your shoulder blades. He's already hard again, twitching and eager. He's insatiable, he can't get enough of your perfect pussy squeezing around him. "There's still a little room left... Just one more, beloved. Need to stuff you just- just one more time."

There's no room left. How could there be? His cum runs down your thighs, your belly, coats his cock so thoroughly he doesn't need your slick to lube him up anymore. But the breathy desperation in his voice reaches past the haze, serenades you with the promise of being taken care of even as he uses you as his own personal cocksleeve. You nod as best you can.

He coats his fingers in the cum, brushes lightly over your abused clit. You whimper with overstimulation. "Use your words, baby... Need to hear you say it."

He's unbearably patient. To distract himself, he trails wet, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and upper back. He can feel the jagged imprints of his teeth left behind. He licks over a particularly deep one that he hopes will last for at least a week on your pretty neck.

"Yes... Nhnn, need you to... to fill me..."

"That's my girl."

He holds your hips up with his hand on your belly. He refuses to sit up, far too addicted to caging you in like this to even dream of it.

He starts slow. You're so pliant for him. Your poor abused cunt is so slick, stretched so perfectly to welcome his greedy cock, over and over again. It's a feeling that goes straight to his head. Only he can see you like this. Only he can fuck you dumb like this. No one else will ever come close, will ever get the chance. Only him.

He groans, unable to keep himself from speeding up at the thought. Wet squelching mixes with the slap of hips, a beautiful symphony. With each thrust, more and more of his sticky spend is pushed from your pretty weeping hole, dripping sinfully onto the soiled bed sheets.

His hand glides from your belly, presses against the bed to grab one of your tits. It squishes and sits so perfectly in his palm. He pinches your nipple just to hear your choked moan. He chuckles at just how well he knows your body.

"You're so good to me, beloved," he whispers. His canine digs into your earlobe before he sucks it into his mouth to soothe the sting. "My good girl. Isn't that right?"

You nod without even processing what he asked. You just know he asked something, and that you want nothing more than to please him. He already knows you're too cockdrunk to know what the hell he's saying. Just this one more and he'll take care of you. You deserve it, his sweet little dove.

He's close. He can feel it, just right there. He presses you even further into the mattress with his weight. Releases your breast to rub frantic circles in your clit. You squirm against him, so sensitive, so overstimulated. But he wants you to finish with him. Needs you to. Needs to feel you clench around him and milk him of what he has left to give you tonight.

You clutch helplessly to his pillow. Your cries muffled by the plush, sputtering out nonsensical pleas.

"I've got you. I've got you, dove. Fuck." He thrusts wildly, pounding into you relentlessly, chasing this one last high. "Cum for me, please, pretty girl. Be a good girl and cum for me."

A choked cry tears from your throat. You clench and spasm around him. It's the last push he needs to bury himself as deep inside you as possible, cock kissing your cervix as he fills you one last time with his hot cum. He moans lowly by your ear. His chest heaves against your back, breaths hitching as at last he's milked dry. He stops his onslaught on your clit to tenderly stroke your side.

"That's my good girl," he pants adoringly. He kisses your cheek gently, watching your reactions as he slowly slides his softened cock out of you. "Let's clean you up, hm?"

His weight carefully lifts off of you. Your body is tight and cramped from being in one position for so long. He takes his time helping you out of it to lay flat on your stomach, calloused hands massaging your muscles as he goes.

Any other night, he'd love nothing more than to bury his face between your thighs and clean you with his tongue. Suck out your combined releases and swallow them down greedily. But you're far too gone for that. So instead, he disappears into the bathroom to start the shower. Once it's the perfect temperature, he retrieves you, cradling you in his arms as he presses sweet kisses to your forehead. There's a shower seat installed just for you, for moments like this, where he sits you down and kneels on the floor to take care of you.

You're already asleep when he's finished. His hands working the soaps and oils into your skin sealed your fate.

Wrapped up in a big, warm towel, he lays you down on the couch so you can continue sleeping while he changes the bedsheets. They're most certainly completely ruined, but he doesn't give a damn. He can order more. He has to change the cover on his pillow, too, given the drool that soaks through it.

He gets dressed first, with sleep pants that sit low on his hips. When it's your turn, he's careful not to wake you as he slips fresh underwear up your legs and one of his shirts over your head.

At long last, he carries you as you cling to him like a koala, and lays down with you in the freshly made bed.

He lays awake for a while longer. Plans run through his mind for just how to pamper you come morning, when you're going to be too achy to do anything. Breakfast in bed, plenty of cuddles, a massage if you desire. Through it all, he's most excited to see your eyes blink up at him with all the fondness in the world. He covets that look like no other.

But for now, he'll admire your peaceful sleeping face, devoid of any stress. And he'll brush the lightest of kisses to your lips, ever so careful not to disturb you. And he'll tuck your head under his chin and slip his hand under your shirt to rest on your bare back. And he'll go to sleep, dreaming only of you.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry

[gtgbabie0]

-Vi x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: {A cozy, snowy morning with Vi and your daughter} For my other works my Masterlist is here <3

“Mm, five more minutes,” Vi mutters from behind you, the words whispered into the nape of your neck with one arm draped over your waist and the other stuffed under your pillow. She had said the same thing about ten minutes ago and still wasn’t ready to let you go from her warm embrace.

You chuckle softly, the sound slightly muffled into the silken fabric of the pillows, which brings a smile to Vi’s lips— her rough palm moving to rest over the curve of your hip, rubbing soothingly in a not-so-subtle attempt to keep you in bed and pressed up against her.

“I gotta prepare bottles, she’ll be awake soon.” You tell her with a tender voice, melting back into her chest as her hand gently caresses over your tummy, slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt you’re wearing.

Your daughter had a very specific routine that the pair of you had already grown accustomed to after many sleepless nights and teary breakdowns—all of which Vi had soothed you down through.

“Mhm, can’t have her screaming the house down.” Vi sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to the space behind your ear as you hum in agreement. Yeah, you both had learned a while back not to sleep in when you got woken up by Harper’s cries one fatal morning.

With that you’re pushing yourself up, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to wake your bones up. A small sigh escapes you as Vi’s hand rubs your back slowly— admiring the way the low morning sun casts a muted light through the room and over your pretty face from behind the curtains and it takes everything in her not to pull you back down into her arms.

“You’re so pretty, my pretty girl.” She drawls, a sleep-laden tone with a certain roughness that shoots a slight shiver down your spine— and the fact that she was still trailing her fingertips along the small of your back certainly didn’t help.

She sits up, immediately pressing her nose into the back of your neck with a small hum as she breaths you in deeply— you could feel her smile against your skin. “Violet.” You warn her, though your resolve is weaker than sugar paper when it comes to her and the way her lips feel along your bare shoulders.

“Mhm?” She hums, running the tip of her nose along your jaw.

“It’s already half nine—”

“Alright, alright, I’ll go make a start on the coffee,” Vi announces, with a playfully dramatic groan, bumping her shoulder into yours softly.

“Mm, thank you. I’ll wake up sleeping beauty.” You turn to face her, leaning into her hand as she brushes a lock of hair behind your ear.

“M'kay gorgeous.” She smirks, pressing a kiss to your cheek then another and another and another until they get slobbery and you have to physically push her away with a giggle.

The homely scent of coffee fills the house with wisps of some festive candle— spiced berries and cinnamon or something like that— Vi had picked out the last time you went shopping, she has a knack for picking the best smells at the cost of her completely forgetting the shopping list and becoming distracted by everything.

You were standing by the window, admiring the white fluffiness that has coated the shrubbery and pavement— ice frosted over the windows in intricate swirls. Harper was cuddled up in your arms, in that ridiculous reindeer onesie that was a little too big for her— one of Vi’s marvellous finds as you wait for her bottle to finish warming up.

“Wow, she’s a chatterbox this morning.” Vi chuckles warmly, standing up behind you with a hand splayed across the small of your back— snaking around to settle on your hip, her other reaches to twirl a curl of Harper’s hair around her finger as she continues to blabber nonsense and blows raspberries up at you.

“I think she wants to go out in the snow.” You smile, turning your head to the side to look at Vi as your daughter fists at the fabric of your shirt— still making nonsensical noises.

Your wife catches the glint in your eyes, the way they sparkle up with a playfulness she’s grown to adore— it gives away your real intentions.

“Yeah, does she now, or is this just you using our daughter as an excuse to go play out in the snow?” You nod at her words, a sheepish giggle bubbling up from you, as she pulls you into her, kissing your temple. “You big child.” She adds, giving your warm cheek another peck.

Vi couldn’t lie, it did look tempting as much as she hated the cold and the way the winter air always made her nose run— she’d endure just about anything to see you and Harper smile.

“We’ll take her out after breakfast,” Vi promises, glancing over to the snowy scenery outside— her soft lips ghosting over your jaw as she speaks. A small hushed, celebratory “yes” escapes your lips in response as you bounce Harper in your arms excitedly and your daughter shares your elation in complete unawareness.

The sound of the bottle warmer pinging causes Harper to let out a tiny squeal, her eyes going all wide and glossy as if she knew exactly what the noise meant, food— and you had no doubt that she did.

“C’mere peanut, give momma’s back a break.” Vi coos softly, taking Harper from your arms— “Go get something to eat, I’ll feed her.”

You smile at her in appreciation, a tender look settling over your face as you watch your little one nuzzle into Vi’s shoulder. Her tiny hands fisting into your wife’s hair in fascination with colour to which she gently tries to pry them away, persuading her daughter with a delicious bottle of warm milk— she happily takes it.

You pop some bread into the toaster, knowing that the pair of you really shouldn't eat cinnamon rolls for the fourth morning in a row— despite how Christmassy you felt, Vi had a “figure to maintain”

The twinkling lights of the Christmas tree paint a pretty glow through the living space and into the attached dining room— decorations stretched across the ceiling in colours of reds, golds and greens an endearing tackiness to them that made it feel oh so cosy.

Your socked foot rubs against Vi’s ankle as the pair of you sit at the table— a mix of strawberry and peach jam toast and coffee between you whilst Vi feeds Harper, who is staring up at the ceiling decks with wide curious eyes that flicker around, the festive tunes on the radio were clearly intriguing her.

“Love you,” Vi winks, pushing her foot against your own beneath the table as you take a big bite of jammy toast— you swear she does this on purpose, waiting until your mouth is full before talking to you just to watch you flush and panic.

“Mhm, love you too.” You finally manage to get out, wiping the corners of your mouth as a warm smile stretches over your face at the sight of her leaning down to press a kiss against Harper's forehead— what a tender way to spend your mornings.

[lila-lou]

✨Beyond his true fate - Part 1/14✨

Summary: Sequel to "His true fate".

(Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.)

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, tough topics

Word Count: 5779

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

Day 1 Jensen stared at his phone, thumb hovering over your name in his call log. Five missed calls. Five times he let it ring until it went to voicemail. Five times he hoped, prayed, begged that you would answer.

You didn’t. Your last message had been clear: “Jensen, please. I need space”.

He hadn’t replied. What could he say? That he didn’t want to give you space? That he wanted to get in his car and drive straight to wherever you were, pull you into his arms, bury his face in your neck and apologize until his voice gave out?

Instead, he shoved his phone into his pocket and turned toward the living room, where Zeppelin was currently attempting to stack pillows taller than himself. Arrow was chasing JJ around the couch with a stuffed animal.

Jensen forced himself to smile. Forced himself to laugh when Zeppelin collapsed into the pillows. Forced himself to focus on them and not the aching hole in his chest where you used to be.

But that night, after he tucked them in and the house was quiet, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the spot where you should be. Where you belonged. And for the first time in a long time, he felt truly, completely alone.

Day 3 He found one of your sweaters in the laundry. He hadn’t noticed it before, tangled up in the mix of clothes from before you left. It still smelled like you.

He sat on the couch with it in his lap for hours, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers, his chest aching so damn bad he could hardly breathe.

Jensen had never been the kind of man to hold onto things like that. He wasn’t sentimental about clothes or perfume or little trinkets. But right now? Right now, he would have given anything to hear your voice. To hear you hum under your breath while cooking, to feel your fingers thread through his hair when he sat on the couch beside you, to have your body pressed against his at night—warm, soft, real.

But all he had was this damn sweater. And a silence that was suffocating.

Day 5 Jensen took the kids out for ice cream, trying to distract himself with their laughter. It worked for a little while. Zeppelin got chocolate all over his shirt, Arrow declared she was officially “too old for baby flavors” and got something she hated, and JJ? She barely said anything.

She was watching him.

And later, when the other two had gone to bed, she sat beside him on the couch, arms crossed, her sharp eyes way too knowing. “You look like shit, Dad”, she finally said, her tone blunt.

Jensen scoffed, running a hand over his face. “Thanks, kid”.

“Are you gonna fix it?”.

Jensen looked at her then, feeling the weight of everything press down on his chest. “I don’t know”, he admitted.

Day 7 The kids went back to Danneel’s today. The house was too quiet after they left.

Jensen paced the kitchen, his phone in his hand, your number pulled up for what felt like the hundredth time.

Just one message. Just one call.

But every time, he stopped himself. Because if you wanted to hear from him, you would have called by now.

Instead, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink.

Then another. Then another.

By the time he stopped, his head was heavy, his limbs sluggish, and the only thing he could think about was the way your lips felt against his. The way your voice sounded when you whispered his name in the dark. The way you had looked at him the last time you spoke—broken, distant, done.

He didn’t deserve to call you. Didn’t deserve to beg.

Day 9 The whiskey burned going down, but he barely felt it anymore.

Jensen sat on the couch, staring at the dark TV screen, the bottle sitting half-empty on the table beside him.

He had ignored his emails. Ignored his agent’s calls. Ignored everyone except the bartender from the local place he had gone to earlier that night just to get out of the house.

But none of it mattered. Because no matter how much he tried to distract himself, the only thing he could think about was you. And the fact that he had no idea if you were coming back.

Day 12 Jensen hadn’t shaved. Had barely slept. He was a mess, and he knew it.

The couch had become his bed, the bottle of whiskey his closest companion. Every time his phone buzzed, he snapped his head toward it, hoping—praying—it was you.

But it never was.

Day 14 Jensen barely registered the sound of knocking at first. His head was pounding, a dull ache from too many sleepless nights and too much whiskey. He had half a mind to ignore it—until the knocking turned into full-blown pounding.

Groaning, he rubbed his hands over his face and pushed himself off the couch, stumbling slightly as he made his way toward the door. He swung it open without checking, expecting maybe the mailman, maybe a delivery—hell, maybe even you.

Instead, it was Jared.

Jensen blinked, his vision hazy. “What the hell are you doing here?”.

Jared gave him a once-over, his expression unimpressed. “Checking to see if you’re dead”.

Jensen scoffed, stepping back so Jared could walk in. “I’m fine”.

Jared shut the door behind him and immediately let out a low whistle, taking in the disaster that was Jensen’s living room. The coffee table was cluttered with empty glasses, the bottle of whiskey still sitting there, and a blanket was thrown haphazardly over the couch—the only place Jensen had been sleeping.

“Yeah”, Jared muttered. “You look great”.

Jensen rolled his eyes and dropped back onto the couch. “Why are you really here?”.

Jared exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “Because you’re a miserable fuck when you’re heartbroken, and I figured you’d be too stubborn to reach out for help”.

Jensen scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not heartbroken”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Really? So, this”,—he gestured around the room—"this is just your new aesthetic?”.

Jensen shot him a glare, but Jared wasn’t fazed. Instead, he dropped onto the armchair across from him, leaning forward slightly. “Look, man”, Jared said, his voice softer now, more serious. “I know you. And I know you’re hurting. But you can’t just sit here drowning yourself in whiskey and self-pity, waiting for her to come back”.

Jensen’s jaw clenched. “She won’t even talk to me”.

“Yeah, because she’s hurting too”, Jared shot back. “And from what I can tell, she’s not the one who fucked this up”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He knew Jared was right. He didn’t need to hear it.

Jared leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Jensen, do you even want this kid?”.

Jensen’s stomach twisted, and for a moment, he couldn’t even answer.

Jared shook his head. “That’s the problem, man. You’re waiting for some grand epiphany, but that’s not how it works. You either step the fuck up, or you lose her. It’s that simple”.

Jensen let his head drop back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. His chest felt tight, his mind racing, his heart a mess. “I don’t know how”, he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jared exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Then figure it out. Before it’s too late”.

Jensen closed his eyes, his fingers gripping the blanket on the couch. Because deep down, he knew—he was already running out of time.

Jared leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “Alright, enough”.

Jensen barely cracked an eye open. “Enough of what?”.

“This”, Jared gestured around the disaster of a living room. “This whole pathetic, self-loathing, whiskey-drenched thing you’ve got going on. It’s over”.

Jensen scoffed, running a hand through his messy hair. “What, you gonna fix my life, Jare?”.

Jared didn’t flinch. “No, you are. Because I’m not letting you sit here wallowing while (Y/N) is out there figuring out if she can live without you”.

Jensen’s stomach twisted. He already knew the answer to that. You could.

Jared stood up, towering over him with that stubborn-as-hell look Jensen had seen too many times. “Get up”.

Jensen groaned. “Dude—”.

“No. Get the fuck up”.

Jensen blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the edge in Jared’s tone.

Jared gestured at him. “You look like hell, man. When’s the last time you shaved?”.

Jensen rubbed a hand over his scruff, glaring. “I don’t know. Who gives a shit?”.

Jared let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. You don’t give a shit. And that’s why you’re losing her”.

That one landed deep.

Jared didn’t let up. “You say you don’t know how to do this? Fine. But sitting here doing nothing sure as hell isn’t helping”. He pointed toward the stairs. “So go shower. Shave. Clean this place up. And when you’re done, we’re gonna figure out how to make this right”.

Jensen exhaled heavily, rubbing his hands over his face.

Jared stepped closer. “You don’t get to be the victim here, Jensen. You did this. But you can still fix it”.

Jensen looked up at him, his jaw clenching. He wanted to snap back, to tell Jared to fuck off, to say he was too exhausted, too broken. But deep down, he knew his friend was right. So, without another word, he pushed himself off the couch and trudged toward the stairs.

“Atta boy”, Jared muttered, shaking his head as Jensen disappeared toward the bathroom.

As the water hit his face, Jensen let out a slow breath. He had to fix this. Before it really was too late.

Jensen ran a towel over his face, exhaling as he walked back into the living room. He felt a little more human—showered, shaved, wearing clean clothes—but inside, he was still wrecked.

Jared was sitting at the kitchen table now, arms crossed, watching him expectantly. He had cracked open a beer but hadn’t touched it yet.

Jensen sighed, dragging out a chair before dropping into it. “Alright”, he muttered. “Let’s hear it”.

Jared lifted a brow. “Hear what?”.

Jensen gestured vaguely. “Whatever lecture you’ve been dying to give me”.

Jared shook his head. “Nah, man. I’m past the lecture phase. Now, I just want the truth”.

Jensen looked down at his hands, jaw clenched. He wasn’t ready for this. But at the same time? He was fucking exhausted from running from it.

Jared leaned forward. “What are you so scared of?”.

Jensen swallowed hard, his throat tight. He ran a hand over his face before finally forcing the words out. “I swore I’d never do this again”.

Jared didn’t say anything, just let him talk.

“After the twins, after everything with Danneel…”, Jensen exhaled heavily, gripping the edge of the table. “I told myself I was done. No more kids. No more sleepless nights, no more stress, no more feeling like I’m failing at being a dad when my career is pulling me in a hundred different directions”.

Jared nodded slowly. “So when (Y/N) told you she was pregnant—”.

Jensen let out a humorless laugh. “I panicked. I shut down. Because I knew what was coming”. He shook his head, staring at the wood grain of the table. “The late nights. The exhaustion. The pressure to be everything all at once”.

Jared’s voice was quiet but firm. “And the difference this time?”.

Jensen hesitated, his chest tightening. “This time… I can’t fuck it up”.

Jared frowned. “What do you mean?”.

Jensen looked up at him, his green eyes stormy with emotions he hadn’t let himself feel until now. “I already screwed up one marriage, Jared. My kids already have to split their time between two homes. And now I’ve got this—this perfect, amazing woman who actually loves me for who I am, and I’m fucking ruining it”.

Jared exhaled. “Jensen—”.

Jensen shook his head. “I don’t get a redo if I mess this up. (Y/N) deserves more than that. This baby deserves more than that”. His voice cracked slightly. “And I’m so goddamn scared that I don’t know how to be enough for them”.

Silence settled between them.

Then, Jared leaned back, crossing his arms. “Okay”, he said simply.

Jensen blinked. “Okay?”.

Jared nodded. “Yeah. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, it’s time to do something about it”.

Jensen let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so fucking easy”.

Jared smirked. “It’s not. But neither is sitting here feeling sorry for yourself”. He tilted his head. “You love her?”.

Jensen’s chest ached. “More than anything”.

Jared nodded. “Then prove it”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He knew Jared was right—he had to do something. He had to prove to you that he wasn’t just going to keep running, keep shutting down when things got hard.

But how the hell was he supposed to fix something that felt this broken?

Jared studied him carefully, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. His tone was different this time—slower, more deliberate. “Have you ever thought about proposing?”.

Jensen’s entire body tensed. His green eyes snapped to Jared’s, his breath hitching for just a second before he forced himself to scoff. “Jesus, Jared”, he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m trying to fix things, not push her away even more”.

Jared didn’t flinch. “I’m not saying you gotta do it tomorrow. I’m just asking… have you thought about it?”.

Jensen looked away, jaw tight. His hands clenched into fists on the table. “No”, he said automatically. Then, softer, almost to himself, “Not really”.

Jared hummed like he didn’t quite believe him. “Okay. And why not?”.

Jensen let out a humorless laugh. “Because marriage is right next to ‘another baby’ on my list of things I swore I’d never do again”. His voice was rough, bitter. “I barely survived it the first time. You really think I’d be dumb enough to sign up for that shit again?”.

Jared’s expression didn’t change. He just nodded like he had expected that answer. “And yet”, he said slowly, tilting his head, “you´re kinda willing to do the whole baby thing again for (Y/N)”.

Jensen opened his mouth, then shut it.

Jared leaned forward, his voice even. “So maybe this isn’t about marriage itself. Maybe this is about the fact that Danneel took that idea, chewed it up, and spit it out until all you see when you hear ‘marriage’ is something ugly”.

Jensen clenched his jaw, his chest tightening. Jared wasn’t wrong.

When he thought about marriage, he thought about fights behind closed doors. About feeling like a failure no matter what he did. About a relationship that had turned into nothing but resentment and obligations.

But when he thought about you?

He thought about quiet mornings with your legs tangled in his under the covers. The way you absentmindedly played with his fingers while you watched TV. The way you whispered his name in the dark, soft and certain, like you never doubted he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Jensen swallowed hard, rubbing his hand over his face.

Jared was watching him carefully. “I’m not saying you gotta run out and buy a ring right now”, he said. “But if you want to show her that you’re all in? It’s gotta be something big, man. Because right now, she thinks you don’t want this—don’t want her. And if you don’t do something to prove otherwise, she’s gonna walk”.

Jensen’s chest ached. Because that was his biggest fear. Losing you. Losing everything.

He exhaled slowly, his hands still gripping the edge of the table. “I don’t know if I can do marriage again”, he admitted, his voice raw. “But I know I can’t lose her”.

Jared nodded, like that was enough for now. “Then figure out what the hell you’re gonna do about it”.

Another week had passed. Another week full of Jared pushing, prodding, and dragging Jensen through what he sarcastically called “therapy sessions”. Another week without a single word from you.

It was fucking killing him. But at least now, he was trying.

Two days ago, in the middle of another long conversation about what the hell are you doing, man? Jensen had suggested painting the nursery.

It had come out of nowhere. One second, Jared was rattling on about emotional vulnerability or some shit, and the next, Jensen had blurted it out. “I should probably paint the nursery, huh?”.

Jared had frozen mid-sip of his beer, staring at him like he’d just spoken a foreign language. “You what?”.

Jensen had shrugged, playing it off. “She’s not gonna get rid of the baby”. Saying it out loud made something heavy settle in his chest. He cleared his throat. “And even if I still don’t—I mean, I don’t—”. He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck, I don’t want this, man, but I know I have to get there somehow. And I sure as hell won’t let her leave me over it”.

Jared had watched him carefully for a long moment, then simply nodded. “Then we better get some paint”.

Which led them here. To a damn hardware store.

Jensen walked down the aisles with his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning rows of paint samples while Jared followed behind, arms crossed like some judgmental therapist. “So… you’re painting the nursery”, Jared mused, eyeing Jensen with an annoyingly smug look. “Big step”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, grabbing a handful of swatches. “It’s just paint”.

Jared scoffed. “Right. And I suppose you just accidentally wandered into the baby furniture section earlier, too?”.

Jensen shot him a glare.

Jared grinned. “That’s what I thought”.

Jensen sighed, glancing at the blues, greens, and neutral tones in his hand. “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing”.

Jared clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You got this".

Jensen huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah”. His eyes flickered over the soft pastel colors, and before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed a few cans of paint. “Let’s get this over with”.

Jared didn’t say anything, just smirked knowingly as he followed Jensen to the checkout.

Jensen dipped the roller into the tray, watching the soft, muted green coat the surface before pressing it against the nursery wall. The rhythmic motion—up, down, up, down—was the only thing grounding him, keeping him from spiraling into the thoughts he had been trying to avoid all day.

But the silence made it impossible to outrun them.

It was just him, the paint, and his own fucked-up mind.

He hadn’t told anyone, not even Jared, why he chose green. But he knew. Deep down, he knew.

It was the color of your sweater—the one you always wore around the house, the one he found in the laundry after you left, the one that still smelled like you.

And maybe, on some subconscious level, he thought if he filled this room with something that reminded him of you, maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t feel so terrifying.

Jensen sighed, pressing the roller harder against the wall. The sound of it gliding over the drywall filled the empty house, the scent of fresh paint mixing with the whiskey lingering on his breath.

He still didn’t know how to want this. That was the worst part.

He had spent years swearing he’d never do this again. The sleepless nights, the crying, the constant feeling of never doing enough. He had already lived through it, and he had barely survived it then.

And now? Now, he was older. His patience was thinner. His life was different.

So why the hell was he here, rolling paint onto these damn walls like a man preparing for a future he still didn’t know if he wanted?

Because she’s leaving you. The thought came so fast it knocked the wind out of him.

Jensen froze mid-roll, his grip tightening around the handle. That’s what this was, wasn’t it?

That’s why he had spent the past two weeks drowning himself in whiskey and self-pity. Why Jared had to drag his ass off the couch just to function like a normal human being. Why he was standing in a half-empty nursery at one in the morning, painting walls for a baby he had spent months trying not to think about.

Because for the first time, he felt it.

The empty space beside him. The missing presence of the woman he loved. The gaping hole you had left behind when you walked out of that house.

And if he didn’t fix this—really fix this—he was going to lose you.

Jensen swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he stared at the half-painted wall. He needed to stop being a coward.

The next morning, Jensen woke up stiff as hell, his back aching from falling asleep on the floor of the half-painted nursery. His hands were speckled with dried paint, his shirt a mess, and his head still a little foggy from everything running through his mind the night before.

He had never planned on getting this far.

Never planned on standing in a room he was preparing for a baby. Never planned on thinking about cribs or carpets or curtains.

But here he was.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his face before reaching for his phone. He knew what he had to do, but fuck if he was going to do it alone.

Jensen: I need your fucking moral support today.

It didn’t take Jared long to respond.

Jared: Moral support for what?

Jensen exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his jaw before typing back.

Jensen: Baby store.

Jared: …holy shit.

Jensen: Shut up and get your ass over here.

Jensen locked his phone, rolling his shoulders before standing up and taking a good look around the room. The green walls were dry now, the color softer in the daylight. The room still felt empty as hell, but it was a start. And he was going to make damn sure it didn’t stay empty for long.

Jared was already waiting when Jensen pulled into the parking lot, leaning against his truck with his arms crossed and an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face.

Jensen groaned before even stepping out. “Don’t”, he warned the second his sneaker hit the pavement.

Jared just chuckled. “Oh, I am gonna”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he walked past him, straight toward the entrance. Jared followed, his grin only widening. “I just need a crib”, Jensen muttered. “Maybe a carpet. Some curtains”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot coming from the guy who, just a couple weeks ago, was acting like this baby was an alien invasion”.

Jensen shot him a glare. “Moral support, Jared. Not moral commentary”.

Jared held up his hands in surrender, still grinning as they stepped inside.

The second they entered, Jensen felt like he had been hit with baby shit everywhere. Cribs. Strollers. Little clothes that were way too tiny. Shelves filled with things—things that made his head spin, things he had completely forgotten about from when his own kids were babies.

This wasn’t just picking out a crib. This was preparing for something he had been trying to run from for months.

Jensen swallowed hard, but before he could backtrack, Jared clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning like the bastard he was. “Alright, man. Show me where the cribs are”.

Jensen sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s just get this over with”.

Jensen had faced a lot of difficult things in his life. Grueling film schedules. Long flights. Even longer nights. Divorce. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for standing in the middle of a baby store, staring at rows of cribs while Jared fucking Padalecki grinned at him like he had just won the lottery.

Jensen let out a long breath, crossing his arms as his eyes scanned the options. Too many choices. Too many colors. Too many damn cribs that all looked exactly the same.

Jared, on the other hand, was having way too much fun. He leaned against a display, arms crossed, watching Jensen with pure amusement. “Never thought I’d see the day”, he mused, shaking his head. “Jensen Ackles, shopping for a crib. It’s like watching Bigfoot pick out furniture”.

Jensen shot him a glare. “Shut the hell up”.

Jared smirked. “Nah, man, this is too good. Should I call Gen? Maybe get Danneel on FaceTime? This is history right here”.

Jensen groaned, running a hand down his face. “I swear, if you don’t shut up—”.

Jared just laughed, clapping him on the back. “Relax. I’m proud of you, dude”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, pretending to be irritated, but the words did hit somewhere deeper. He didn’t respond to that, though. Instead, he turned back to the cribs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which one of these things is… I don’t know. The best?”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Best at what?”.

Jensen exhaled sharply. “Best at keeping a baby alive, Jared. Isn’t that the whole point?”.

Jared snorted. “I mean, yeah, but it’s not that deep, man. Just pick one”.

Jensen frowned. “It’s not that simple”.

And apparently, it wasn’t—because before he knew it, he was running his hand along the wooden railing of one crib, testing the bars, then moving to another one, checking its sturdiness like he actually knew what the hell he was doing.

Jared watched in amusement as Jensen muttered to himself, comparing features, shaking cribs slightly to test their stability. “Wow”, Jared drawled. “You’re really putting your dad instincts into this, huh?”.

Jensen scoffed but didn’t stop inspecting. “It’s a crib. It’s gotta be solid. What if the kid starts climbing? What if the bars are too wide?”. He frowned at one and moved on to another. “What if it’s got some cheap-ass paint that chips?”.

Jared blinked. “Dude. Babies don’t just come out the womb climbing like monkeys”.

Jensen ignored him, still scanning the options. His eyes landed on white crib—solid wood, no flimsy parts, simple but sturdy. He ran his hand over the rail, nodding to himself.

“This one”.

Jared smirked. “Oh, so now you care about the details?”.

Jensen shot him a look but didn’t argue. Because, yeah, maybe he did care. Maybe picking this crib meant something. Maybe it meant he was trying.

Jared must have sensed the shift, because his smirk softened into something more genuine. “Alright”, he said, nodding. “Let’s get it”.

After the crib was loaded onto a cart, Jensen turned toward the next item on his list. “Curtains”, he muttered.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “You actually giving her a choice on those?”.

Jensen huffed. “She’ll pick everything else. I just wanna get something neutral”.

Jared smirked but didn’t argue, following as Jensen made his way toward the fabric section. And somehow, some-fucking-how, Jensen found himself holding up two different sets of curtains, actually considering shades like it was the most important decision of his damn life. “These?”. He held up a soft gray set. “Or these?”. A muted sage green.

Jared blinked. “Dude. They’re curtains”.

Jensen glared at him. “Yeah, but they gotta match the room”.

Jared snorted. “Alright, Martha Stewart. Go with the green. It matches the walls”.

Jensen grumbled but tossed them in the cart.

Next up: a rug.

Jensen wandered toward the aisle, scanning the options before stopping at one with a soft, plush texture. Simple, neutral, nothing fancy—but it looked comfortable.

While Jensen was focused on loading the cart with the essentials—crib, curtains, rug—Jared had somehow wandered off to another aisle. And that was never a good sign.

Jensen found him standing in front of a display of tiny baby clothes, holding up an impossibly small onesie with a goofy grin. “Man”, Jared muttered, half to himself, half to Jensen. “Maybe I should have another one”.

Jensen groaned. “Oh, hell no. Gen would kill you”.

Jared smirked but didn’t put the onesie back. “I mean… look at these”, he said, holding up a tiny pair of socks between his fingers. “They’re like… this big”. He pinched his fingers together dramatically.

Jensen exhaled, rubbing his forehead. “Jesus, Jared”.

Jared laughed, tossing the socks back into the bin before glancing at Jensen. “You know the gender yet?”.

Jensen shook his head, his fingers tightening on the cart handle. “No. Won’t know for another four weeks or something”.

Jared nodded, his expression turning more thoughtful. “You gonna find out?”.

Jensen hesitated, glancing down at the items in the cart. The crib. The rug. The curtains. The first things he’d actually bought for this baby.

For his baby.

“Yeah”, he admitted, voice quieter now. “I think I wanna know”.

Jared grinned, nudging him with his elbow. “Good. That way, I can get you something really obnoxious”.

Jensen rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Because, for the first time, he realized—he actually wanted to know. And maybe that meant something.

Eventually, Jensen stood in front of the rack, staring at the onesie like it had personally offended him. The design was so familiar, but just… off enough to avoid a lawsuit.

Jared stepped up beside him, taking one look before bursting into laughter. “No way this is legal”.

Jensen scoffed, shaking his head. “Someone at Warner Bros. is definitely gonna lose their shit if they see this”.

Jared picked up the tiny black onesie, reading the white lettering aloud. “‘Saving People, Hunting Things… My Family Business’”. He whistled. “Damn. They really just went for it, huh?”.

Jensen crossed his arms, smirking. “I mean, they changed like, one word. That’s gotta count for something, right?”.

Jared grinned. “Yeah, let’s see how well that argument holds up in court”.

Jensen let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the onesie. He turned it over in his hands, fingers brushing over the fabric. It was small. So damn small. His throat tightened a little. Before he could overthink it, he tossed it into the cart.

Jared’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—seriously?”.

Jensen shot him a look, raising a warning brow. “Don’t”.

Jared bit back a grin, holding up his hands. “Just saying—you’re actually picking out baby clothes. On purpose. This is a big moment”.

Jensen rolled his eyes. “It’s just a onesie, Padalecki”.

“Yeah, yeah”, Jared said, clearly unconvinced. “And the crib was just a crib”. He nudged Jensen’s shoulder. “Admit it, man. You’re getting into this”.

Jensen sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing”, he muttered. “But if I let you pick shit, my kid’s gonna end up in a ‘Uncle Jared is my favorite’ onesie, and I refuse to let that happen”.

Jared grinned. “I mean… that can still be arranged”.

Jensen groaned. “We’re leaving”.

Jared laughed as he followed him toward checkout, watching as Jensen—Jensen Ackles—paid for a crib, a rug, and a damn Supernatural-adjacent onesie.

Maybe he wasn’t all the way there yet. But damn if he wasn’t trying.

That night, Jensen sat on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by unassembled crib parts, screws, and an instruction manual that looked like it had been translated into English by someone who had never seen a crib in their life.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders before picking up the first piece of wood, aligning it with another.

Alright. Let’s do this.

The rhythmic process of assembling the crib—slotting parts together, tightening screws, rechecking everything—gave him something to focus on. Something to do. It kept his mind from spiraling into places he didn’t want to go.

But as the frame started to take shape, something inside him shifted.

Jensen sat back on his heels, looking at the half-assembled crib in front of him. It was real now. Tangible. A thing that was going to hold a baby—his baby—in just a few months.

His hands rested on his thighs, his fingers curling slightly as he exhaled.

For weeks, he had pushed this away, refused to let himself think about it too much. But now, sitting here, surrounded by baby furniture and walls he had painted himself, the truth settled in his chest like a weight.

This was happening. No matter how scared he was. No matter how much he hadn’t wanted this. It was real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to want it, too.

He let out a slow breath, brushing his fingers over the wooden frame, imagining tiny fingers gripping the edge one day, little kicks against the mattress, quiet breaths in the middle of the night.

Jensen swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion he wasn’t ready to name. He reached for another screw, tightening the last side panel into place.

And for the first time since you had left, he let himself think about the moment you’d see it. Would you be proud of him? Would you even care? Would this be enough?

He didn’t know. But for the first time in weeks, he knew one thing for sure. He wanted you to come home.

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A/N: Hello and welcome back, lol. I didn't want to keep you waiting for the first chapter any longer, even though I still don't know when I'll post the following chapters. I might post one or two chapters per week, but maybe just one. I don't have a fixed day for that. Just a heads-up in advance.

And of course, please let me know what you think.🥰

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Part 2

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[thaliagracesgf]

CRUSH

young!tommy miller x best friend!reader summary: tommy's painfully in love with you, and you might be just as bad. warnings: yearning, alcohol, cigarettes, weed, the works, physical fighting, mentioned parental abuse, slut shaming, insinuated joel x reader but they are very much NOT a thing, swearing, mentions of chemistry class, lots of making out mentioned and otherwise, some middle school activities that they are too old for but i couldn't resist writing—going back to my roots! no beta. wc: 12.8k notes: i've been working on this for a while and had to post it or it may never have seen the light of day. i hope you enjoy it mwah!

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You think the only place you ever want to be is in Tommy Miller’s arms. Cradled, wrapped up tight, and held firm. It doesn’t hurt his case that you already love to be in bed. Enveloped by a soft mattress, some clean sheets, and fluffy pillows. Your best friend just makes it better. 

You can think all this as you’re succumbing to sleep, but your subconscious must disagree—you roll and stretch for hours, and Tommy narrowly avoids your hand coming down across his head. But he never really minds getting kicked in the middle of the night. As long as he manages to stay on the bed, maintain some real estate, he’ll never complain. 

It always starts the same. 

A gentle tap at the glass. You can sometimes hear him coming. He crawls up the side of your garage like a spider, and you always let him in. Sometimes with just a wave of your hand—you’re hunched over a pile of schoolwork on your desk, putting off the moment that you’ll lean away from it and never look back. His favorite nights are the ones when you’re already finished, when you get up from your book or magazine and cross the room with a smile on your face, and roll up the window for him. 

Your least favorite are the days when you see his face, and your smile falls. A bruise on his jaw, or his cheekbone, often still forming but sometimes already purple, when you know he’s been sulking around town for a few hours already. 

“What this time?” you whisper, running your fingers over his face. 

And he’ll reply, “The usual. Mom’s upset I ain’t dating someone like Heather. I think they think I’m running around Austin fucking girls all over the place.” 

You snort. 

“At least someone thinks I get around,” he tries to grin, but winces. “Dad,” he adds, gesturing to his face. “Y’know.” 

He doesn’t like those nights either. He’ll try and tell you it’s fine, because he’d rather move on, put something on your record player, and make you laugh with his stupid jokes. But you’ll sigh, sit him down on your bed, and he’ll mess with your stuffed rabbit until you come back upstairs with an ice pack. 

“Mom says she needs some help on her car, by the way,” you say as you shut your door. 

“Fuck,” Tommy mutters. “How does she even know I’m here? I’m so stealthy.”

“Uh-huh.” You press the rice bag your mom made herself to his cheek. “She knows everything, man. Gotta earn a living somehow.”  

“I still think it’s a scam,” Tommy whispers, like he’s afraid your mother’s going to appear behind him.

“Wow,” you drawl as you stand between his knees, examining the bruise. There’s a bit of a gash, too, already starting to scab over. “You really know how to flatter a girl, accusing her mother of fraud.” 

“Who says I’m trying to flirt?” Tommy cocks his head. You narrow your eyes, grab his face by the jaw and hold it still, and he winces. 

“You,” you grin. “I never said flirt.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” He grabs a pillow and lays back, which you protest, climbing up the bed to hold the ice pack to his face. 

“I can do it myself,” he mutters, his hand coming to rest atop the one you’re holding to his cheek. 

“Yeah, but you don’t want to,” you tease. 

He looks for anything in your eyes, but all he finds is humor. “Guess not.” He feels pathetic, the way you have this hold on him, the way he savors every moment like this, where despite his efforts not to, he can pretend you’re his. 

He doesn’t have to pretend that he’s yours. 

You’ve been Tommy Miller’s best friend since he was in first grade. He thinks he’s had a crush on you about as long. 

It’s not like he’s trying to hide it, either. He just doesn't know how to make you understand it’s not a joke. It’s what he gets for eleven straight years of messing around. 

Your skin is getting paler—even though the sun’s still out for the summer, since school’s started you haven’t had as much time to be outside. It’s damaged from the hours you spent out at your summer job at a nature center just outside town, but it still looks soft. He studies the way the collar of your hoodie sits on your neck, on the skin beneath your hair, and imagines how it would feel to run his fingers along it. His lips.

He almost had a shot at it being his hoodie you were wearing. 

1982. You were in seventh grade, he was in sixth. 

He was supposed to be in your grade—a fact he was still constantly upset about. He was old enough even though were almost a year older—your birthday in August, his birthday in April, but before his parents moved from Arlington to Austin, he and Joel had been homeschooled by their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Abbots, who seemed more interested in whacking them with rulers than teaching phonics. 

Joel somehow picked it up on his own, getting into 5th grade after the move, but Tommy got stuck in kindergarten instead of first grade. It’s commonly brought up in the Miller household, when his mother remembers just how much better his older brother is than him, but that’s not what Tommy really minds. He just wishes you could have gone to school together. 

But it was his first year at the gigantic middle-high school, and you had shown him where his classes were, how to get around the crowds in the parking lot at the end of the day to find Joel’s car. It was Joel’s sweatshirt that was your favorite, the one you would wear to school whenever he would leave it at your house. 

Tommy hated how you idolized his older brother. He never seemed to be able to see that you saw Joel like your own big brother, even though Tommy was the one you wanted to hang out with. Tommy was your best friend. 

He didn’t understand that part of it was your way of navigating middle school politics—you figured out very quickly that the popular girls hung out around the shop classrooms, where their crushes would be in class or hanging out, and their attention had quickly shifted from the seventh grade boys to the handsome older guy that was always quietly working on his carving projects in studio five. 

You had decided to capitalize on the matter, subtly introducing them to your “friend Joel,” who lived next door and drove you home every day. You loved the attention you got when you were hanging on the steps outside the studios, and Joel would come out, give you a look, and ask if that was his hoodie. 

It was obviously his, five sizes too big for you and in rough shape around the edges. You noticed how your friends started trying to sit by you first at lunch (or on the woodshop steps). You tried explaining it to Tommy, but he was all too concerned, in your opinion, in whether your friends were friends with you for you or Joel. 

You loved Heather, when she and Joel first started dating. You still do. The two of you could talk for hours about school and the world at dinner, if your mom didn’t swing the conversation to something she, Joel, and Tommy could keep up with. 

One night, you were talking about bugs—you used to be fucking obsessed with cicadas—when you noticed Heather shiver a bit. You were about to ask if she wanted you to turn the heat up, when Joel reached around the back of his chair and handed her his hoodie. Your hoodie. 

To his credit, he gave you a look—is it okay if she takes it?—and you nodded. But even though you were happy for Joel—really, really, happy, and obsessed with Heather, you felt a pang of jealousy as she smiled and slid it on over her head. It wasn’t that you had a crush on Joel or anything. You thought it was gross that your friends did. 

You’d just always been his girl. When you’d run up after school and he’d pick you up and swing you around in his arms, when he’d try his best to help with your math homework even though you were better at it than him. You liked that he let you wear his sweatshirt. It made you feel special. 

But Tommy noticed. He noticed the flash of hurt in your eyes even as you nodded at Joel. 

A few days later, he was working up the courage—he wasn’t sure why the idea made him nervous, but it did—to ask if you wanted one of his sweatshirts to wear to school, when Josh Walsh entered the picture. 

He asked you out with a stupid note in your stupid music class (it had to be that one—in all your academic subjects you were in the higher levels that Josh could only dream of testing into), and it was all you could talk about for weeks. How sweet he was, how he brought you flowers from the football field during gym. How he gave you his sweatshirt to wear. 

You gossiped and giggled with Heather over dinner, and the two of you would disappear to your room to talk about your boyfriends, much to Joel’s dismay, but leaving him and your mother, Michelle, to tease his little brother over his obvious disgruntlement. 

That was when Tommy thinks he put the pieces together about how he felt for you. 

It was also the first time he crawled through your window, with the lame excuse of practicing his climbing for when he got a girlfriend. 

“I’m fuckin’ scared,” he said, one night, hurrying through the window frame. He’d also started swearing more. “Some cop ratted us out to Dad for fighting. He’s talkin’ to Joel now, but I’m definitely getting the belt later.” 

“I’m sorry,” you’d said, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “You can stay here as long as you want. We’ll feed you.” 

He knew it was true, but he knew he had to go back home. It wasn’t the best hiding place, the house next door. 

You’d sat in silence for a few minutes, just leaning on his shoulder and sitting with him, when you asked:

“Tommy, why aren’t you using the front door?” 

“Saw it in a movie.” 

“Yeah, but that’s for kids sneaking around. My mom would give you a cookie as you came upstairs if you went through the house.” 

He rolled his eyes. You just didn’t get it. “It’s more fun this way,” he’d laugh. 

He didn’t run away to your place anymore. He’d wait it out, take whatever was coming to him from his dad, and then come to you. And you’d lie next to one another, listening to the Talking Heads, and talking about anything and everything. And he’d fiddle with the strings of your boyfriend’s hoodie. Nevermind that he doesn't know Tommy’s the one in your bed most nights of the week. 

He always knows you’re going to fall asleep before you do—you keep talking, but your words get slower, more slurred, until you’re mumbling nonsense and burying your face in his shoulder. 

Most of the time he’ll wait until you’re asleep and sneak out. He doesn’t take the window on the way out—he only really does it for your amusement. He’ll head downstairs and say goodnight to your mother, who’s also more of a mother figure to him and his brother than their own, and who’s always kept an unpredictable sleep schedule (on one occasion, she was even in the middle of a reading for a client, who had to be convinced Tommy wasn’t her high school lover from 50 years ago). 

Sometimes, though, he won’t fight the sleepiness overcoming him. He’ll slip further down the bed, wrap his arms around your shoulders, and fall asleep himself. 

Potentially needless to say, Tommy Miller hates Josh Walsh. 

His name, for starters. He thinks it’s stupid that it rhymes, and that he would decide for it to do so by deciding to go by Josh instead of Joshua. 

He uses that as his excuse, but what he really hates is seeing him near you. He hates the feeling he gets in his stomach when Josh crosses the cafeteria, the dread that causes almost physical pain at knowing what comes next: how he’s going to kiss you lamely, grab your ass, and sit down to put his arm around your shoulders but talk almost exclusively with his friends, sitting next to yours. 

Objectively speaking, the friends are much worse than Josh himself—he’s listened night after night as you complain about how none of them can treat your friends right, how they’re on-and-off or cheating on each other, or how you’ve been told that they all have tiny dicks. Information Tommy wishes he could share with Luke and Kevyn, but doesn’t have a good enough excuse for how he came to know it.

He doesn’t tell them about the nights you spend together, even though he knows you talk about him openly with your friends. It’s different for you. Your friends see him as Joel’s baby brother, the loser you keep around for some reason who’s cute enough, they guess. They’re nice to him, will sit by him in class because he’s funny, and will make chem go by faster, but they always ask too many questions about his brother. It turns science into a long hour of yes, he’s still with Heather, yeah, they’re great, yeah, she’s great. 

It got a little less Joel-centric after Tommy made out with Lucy Parker at a party a few months ago, and apparently got a rave review (as you reported back. He’s pretty sure Lucy wasn’t close enough with you to know that what was said about Tommy around you was going to make its way to him). But he wasn’t really into her. He was polite, told her he didn’t think he was what she was looking for, but still you rolled your eyes at him that night, and he tried to ignore the ache in his chest as you listed off the fifty reasons you thought they’d be cute together.   

To Tommy’s friends, you’re the girl he pines over, but can’t quite win over. They know you live next door, but they don’t know that Tommy and his brother practically live at your house that he loves, all colorful and eccentric thanks to your mother, a professional psychic. He hates it when they talk about you, but telling them to shut the hell up just spurs them on. It could be worse. It’s not like they’re objectifying you—a term he learned from your mother during his state (Michelle)-mandated lecture on how to treat girls going into high school (Joel received the same one years prior, to seemingly better results—i.e. Heather. Of course his older brother had to go and bag the valedictorian). 

It just doesn’t matter how many times he tries to convince them that he’s not trying to “bag” you, they’ll still lay into him about stepping up his game. They don’t get that Tommy’s more than happy (fine, he’s content) being your real best friend. He likes that no one knows just how close you are, that he knows everything about your life and you everything about his. He sits in chem and pretends he doesn’t know the details of the dating history of the girl sitting with him, and it fills him with pride each time they talk about you and he realizes he knows more about something going on with you than they do. 

The guys you hang out with—Josh’s friends—are the real issue. They seemingly have it out for you, since you’re the reason their girlfriends think they have a shot with Joel, even if he’s been in a committed relationship for five years and, at twenty-one, isn’t looking twice at your seventeen year old friends. But they still bat their eyelashes at him when he picks you up from school, and their boyfriends seem to take it out on you. The shit he’s heard them say when Josh isn’t around, or even when he is, seemingly on a mission to break them up.

Tommy’s not a violent person, but he wants to beat them into the walls of that fucking room until their lockers are dented in. 

He thinks they say it in front of him to try and rile him up. Because they know. They have to know. 

He gets the shit beaten out of him one afternoon, after gym. The gym feels like a swamp in the September Texas heat, and he’s still pissed at Luke and Kevyn for making up some medical excuse to get out of the class, which Joel wouldn’t let him get away with. He pushes the door into the musty locker room open, and makes his way to his corner, where he’ll try and avoid the senior boys, but of course he seems to walk right into an ongoing conversation.  

“Can’t believe he’s still fucking with her, man,” Paul Connor snickers. Tommy tenses, unsure of who they’re talking about, but he thinks can make some educated guesses. 

“It’s gnarly, dude,” his friend—Chris—responds. “Doesn’t he know his girlfriend’s a fuckin’ slut?” Tommy clenches his fist to avoid spinning around, but he can feel their eyes on his back, and though they haven’t mentioned your name, it’s clear to him who they’re talking about. Not that it should matter, your mom’s voice echoes in his head, and he shakes his head to himself. He’s not getting involved, no matter who it is. You’d be so disappointed in him. 

But that’s before his ears start ringing and the space behind his eyes starts to ache with rage.

“You think he and Miller’s girl know she blows him when he drives her home?” 

As if. Tommy might throw up. 

“Nah. Think he fucks her in the damn truck.” 

And just as Tommy’s thinking about whose head he wants to slam into a locker first, he hears his name. 

“Which is it, huh?” He turns. Probably a mistake. He’s sure his face is red. 

Tommy doesn’t say anything. He crosses the room slowly, Paul snickering as he approaches. He’d like to say he wasn’t thinking, that he was being stupid. 

But he thinks about it. He calculates the best time to draw his fist back and hit Chris so hard across the jaw that it bleeds on first impact. 

Before he knows it, Paul’s coming down on him too, and the other guys in the locker room start to cheer and chant. Tommy lands blow after blow on Chris’s face, and a good elbow to Paul’s stomach, but at the end of the day it’s 2 on 1 and they’ve probably each got fifty pounds on him. 

There’s shouting and chanting and whooping from all sides, and a sharp pain in Tommy’s ribcage and his eye. He’s losing, bad. He feels his head slammed into the side of the lockers, and his body falls to the ground. Right, he thinks. This is why you don’t want him getting involved.

But before it can get worse, the blows stop, and the shouting ceases. He opens his eyes with a groan, and sees a figure standing between him and the assholes, and leans back in defeat. Of course Josh fucking Walsh had to come to his rescue. Maybe he’s spontaneously decided he doesn’t despise Tommy so much after all. 

“Fucking idiots,” Josh shoves his friends. “Get out of here.” Tommy doesn’t hear what the boys respond with, but he notices them leaving. And a hand in his face, which he pretends not to notice, pushing himself up with a wince. 

“You okay, man?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he mutters, brushing off his jeans. 

“Just ignore ‘em, they’re assholes,” Josh says. 

“You seem to like ‘em just fine,” he snaps. He really wishes the older boy would just leave him alone. “Thanks,” he adds begrudgingly, nodding to the door, figuring it’s the polite thing to do. 

Josh sighs. “You know how it is.” Tommy rolls his eyes, out of sight. 

But he keeps talking.“Y’know, Lucy’s been asking about you.” 

Tommy turns faster than he should’ve. “What?”

“She likes you,” Josh continues. “Had a good time at the party.” 

Tommy has to stop himself from groaning aloud. “I heard.” He pulls his T-shirt on over the bruises on his chest. 

“It’s fine if you aren’t into her, just…” 

He knows he should let the silence go, but he’s getting irritated again, and he doesn’t think quite straight when he’s annoyed. “Just?” 

“Thought it could help.” 

“Help?”

“Yeah… like, y’know. With the guys. Generally. Whatever.” 

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Tommy asks, genuinely confused at this point. He thinks Josh might seriously be one of the slowest people on Earth. What you see in the guy is so far beyond him it may as well be in space. With Josh’s brain. 

“Like,  y’know. So they stop picking on you. Or a little less.” 

“You think I should ask Lucy out so that your friends can find someone else to beat the shit out of?” Tommy narrows his eyes. He’s trying not to laugh at Josh, finding the conversation so incredibly ludicrous that he doesn’t care about admitting he got his shit rocked. Mostly, he’s wishing he could make fun of Josh to you, but he decided he wasn’t allowed to a while ago—half because it makes you upset or annoyed, depending on the day (although you’re allowed to make fun of him to Tommy—he just nods his head and tries not to agree too hard), and half in his attempt to cover up the fact that he’s desperately in love with you. 

“Well, when you put it like that—” 

“They were talking shit about your girlfriend, man.” Tommy rolls his eyes and turns to packing up his stuff.

“What?” 

“They weren’t fucking picking on me, or whatever you seem to have…” he trails off. He’s not going to be too mean. “They were saying some fucked up shit about her, and…” he gestures to where he was on the ground a couple minutes ago. He can’t seem to finish a sentence.  He glances at Josh, who’s running a hand through his hair. “Pretty shit friends you’ve got.” 

Josh is quiet. Tommy stands there awkwardly for a moment, watching him, until the boy mutters. “Yeah. Thanks, man.” He gets his stuff and heads for the door. “She’d appreciate it.” 

You wouldn’t, which is why he lies getting in the car Joel, telling him Kevyn was getting jumped by some super senior who thought he was getting hustled buying weed, and lets his brother lay into him for twenty minutes on the drive home. 

He’s relieved not to run into you before climbing through your window that night, glad he can blame his father, which would normally be the truth. Glad that he can hold you in his arms after you grab him ice, and fall asleep with you next to him. 

Six months ago, Tommy had what he thought would be the best night of his life. 

It started when he came over for dinner one night in early April, and you asked him to go to prom with you. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head. 

He meets his brother’s eyes, which offer him no assistance. “Hell no,” he said, mouth full of pizza. 

“Oh come on,” you press, “I want you to be there!” You pause. Then, coyly: “I told my friends I might invite you, and Lucy seemed very interested.” Tommy rolls his eyes, embarrassed to be talking about this with your mother six feet away in the kitchen. 

“Lucy?” Heather grins, leaning into the table. Joel even raises an eyebrow. 

“I know you’re already gonna make me go next year, that’s bad enough.” 

“Well who am I supposed to dance with?” “Have you considered Joshua?” 

Heather makes a face and Joel tries not to laugh. Even your mother snorts a little from the kitchen.

“He’s so boring. He’s going to be with his friends all night. I’m gonna be with mine, you included. It’ll be fun! Just come on, we’ll all dance, and you can dance with Lucy when they play something slow!” 

Tommy turns a little red despite his best efforts. He knows there’s no getting out of this. But at least he has an opportunity to make himself look a little less pathetic in front of Joel, Heather, and Michelle, three people he thinks might actually know about his feelings for you. 

“Fine,” he rolls his eyes, pretending to give in because of Lucy. (He’s not fooling anyone.) “I’ll go, I’ll go!” 

Which is how he ends up here, in the ballroom of some hotel in town, leaning back on a table with some spiked punch in his left hand. He’s wearing Joel’s old suit that he wore to this same function, and it’s a little big on him, but you assured him he made it work. 

He borrowed Joel’s car to drive Lucy here. They’ve played one slow song, and they danced together, and she kissed him. He returned it, but his mind was elsewhere, just like it was back at Jackie’s a few weeks ago. 

He was more annoyed than he should have been when he found you by the drinks, and you smirked and told him he had lipstick on his face, but he grins like he knew it, and pretends to give in as he takes a napkin from your hand.  

But it’s been fun, too, like you said it would be. He’s always surprised by the fact that your friends are funny, which you scold him for, but he’s glad to be reminded of it now. None of their dates want to dance with you guys to the upbeat music, and being with “the only cool one,” (not his words) pleases Lucy. He sees you smirk in the corner when she tells all your friends. 

They’re just starting something new, another slow song, when he sees you alone, leaning against your table. Before Lucy can notice, he slips away from the group of her and your other friends, sliding between couples to reach you. He grabs your drink from your hand and sniffs it.

“How’d they get this in here, anyway?” he says as he winces at the smell. It’s sickly sweet and bitter at the same time—probably from the bottom of the bowl. He hands it back—he’s driving tonight— and you finish the cup. 

“No one cares what the football team does, obviously,” you say drily. 

“Ah,” he taps his fingers on the table. “Joshua.” 

You scoff. “Why do you call him that?” you almost snap. 

“Is it not his name?” Tommy raises an eyebrow. 

You give him a look. “Whatever.” 

“Where is he, anyway? Thought you were doing the slow dances together. It was actually in my contract for the night, if I recall.” 

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” you say, but there’s no malice. You mess with a hem on your dress, and Tommy watches your hand. When he doesn’t leave to go dance, which you guess you didn’t really expect him to do anyway, you shake your head. “I’m fine.” 

He studies you for a moment. “Wanna dance?” 

“Oh, come on.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“Where’s your date?” 

“I was under the impression that you were, technically.” 

You sigh. Sure, he was technically your plus one, not Lucy’s. On the actual list. 

“Where is she?” 

“With Nicole, I think.” He clicks his tongue. “They seem pretty into each other, I dunno,” he grins. “They seem fine to me.” 

You roll your eyes again, but he extends his hand, and you take it. You drop your head back in surrender, and Tommy has to look away from the stretch of your neck, glistening in the dark lighting.

He pulls you to the edge of the dance floor, where you can’t see your friends looking around, or the punch table, or any chaperones. Just couples you sort of recognize around you, swaying to the music. You laugh together at how off-beat they all are. 

For a moment, you just stand there, your hand still in his. Then you grab his other, and pull them to your waist. He grins as you drape your arms around his neck, and start to pull him to the rhythm of the song. 

Tommy’s gotten used to the way he feels around you. The way he can’t focus on anything else, because you’re there, taking up every atom of his consciousness. But you look so fucking beautiful right now that he might lose his mind. 

Your hair’s messier than at the beginning of the night, more yours—but better, Tommy thinks, than the way Heather had styled it. Even though it was fun to sit and observe with Joel and Michelle as she tried her best. 

Your dress is beautiful—not as crazy as some here, but silky with puffy sleeves at the shoulders(? Tommy’s not sure what they’re called)—he’d been there when you went over patterns your mom thought she could make and beautiful fabrics you guys figured you could afford enough of.

He was there when you tried it on, when Joel kicked him to say something and stop sitting there like a moron. 

Your lipstick’s smudged, probably from making out with Josh earlier, but he can’t seem to find the normal jealousy within him, not when he’s the one who’s so close he could lean in and kiss you right now. God, he’s never wanted anything so badly in his life. 

He resists, though. Tries to let himself enjoy the moment, try to memorize it. He tries not to feel the horrible sinking in his stomach when the song comes to an end. 

Together you make your way back to your friends. Some of their dates have shown up, and you all spin wildly to the next few songs of the night. Josh isn’t there, though, and Tommy lets himself dance a little too close to you. He can’t help the feeling in his chest when you meet his eyes to give him a look, or laugh at what an idiot Ben looks like trying to dance. Or when you make eye contact and jerk your head toward the drinks. 

The two of you slip away, and Tommy pours you a cup from the refreshed bowl of punch. Thankfully, he doesn't think this one’s been spiked yet. You don’t really need another drink. 

On the other hand… You flick Tommy’s jacket back to reach for his pocket, a satisfied grin crossing your face when you feel the joint he’s got rolled up with his lighter. 

He’s just trying not to short-circuit as your hand brushes his chest. 

“You wanna go?” 

He nods, too fast, Lucy and everyone else in the room forgotten. 

You don’t say goodbye to anyone but Jackie, to get Lucy a ride home. She gives Tommy a look, but waves you off regardless. 

He doesn’t realize how hot it is inside until the cool spring night hits your face. You sigh and spin in a circle, arms flung out to your sides. Crossing the parking lot, you ask if you can drive. 

“You’re funny,” Tommy says drily, opening the passenger door for you. You narrow your eyes playfully, but get in anyway. 

You protest as he drives back to your house. “We should go to the reservoir, it’s such a nice night for it!” you argue. 

“And what if I want to smoke, too, huh? Then how the fuck we gettin’ home?” 

You roll your eyes, but accept your fate. “Fine. But I want to crawl in through my window. Like you do.”

“What the hell do you want to do that for, huh?” 

“Because. I’ve been drinking and I should be hiding from my mom. It’s no fair she’s so… y’know. Open minded.” 

“Trust me, you don’t want it the other way,” he says, and you fall silent. But he doesn’t let it settle. “You’re still tipsy and you’re gonna crack your neck open trying to climb the side of your house,” he laughs.

“Not if you’re there to catch me,” you smile, staring over at him. 

Tommy’s at a loss, so he rolls his eyes. But he caves, and he finds himself spotting you as you impressively climb your way up the side of your house and through your window. He follows, somehow louder, and swears to himself. 

He tumbles into your room, where you’re digging around in your drawers for pyjamas. You’ve switched on your lamps, and there’s a warm glow around the room, complemented by your red patterned rug and the pink quilt your mom made when you were six. 

He practically loses all ability to speak when your voice rings, softer than outside, “unzip me?” His heart beating far faster than it should, he crosses the room. Your shoulders ripple as though you can feel his gaze on them.

You shiver as his knuckle grazes your neck, as he pinches the top of the zipper. And he draws it down your back, staring at his socks as he does so. 

He spins around when you start to pull it down over your shoulders, and you laugh. “You don’t have to, like, be weird, Tommy. You can look,” you say mockingly. At least, it sounds mocking to him. 

He doesn’t know whether you realize how fucking mean you’re being.

But he just shrugs and studies a pile of books on your nightstand. He doesn’t trust himself to look at you like that and not lose his mind completely. 

“I don’t think Josh would appreciate that very much,” he says, and immediately regrets it when he hears your scoff behind him. 

It’s not a lie, but it would be a lie to say that he gives a fuck what Josh thinks. But that’s not why he regrets it. 

“Josh doesn’t own me,” you reproach. 

He’s ashamed of himself for saying it—he should have known how it sounded, how you would hear it. Your mother’s taught him better. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. When he realizes you might not have heard him, he says it a little louder. 

There isn’t a more intense roller coaster on the planet than the next ten seconds of Tommy Miller’s life, as you speak. 

“You’re my best friend, he needs to get over this like, weird jealous thing he’s got going on.” He hears you slip on your pajamas and get into bed, but he can’t turn around yet. He can’t let you see what’s probably written all over his face, the heartbreak that always comes with being referred to as your best friend. But he also can’t help the little smirk that comes at the thought of Josh being jealous of him. And then: “I think I might break up with him.” 

At that, Tommy can’t help but spin around. “What!?” 

You give him a look. “What?” 

“You’re breaking up with him?” 

“I said maybe, Jesus.” 

“You’ve been together for like, four years, five? years.” 

“You don’t think that’s way too long to be with someone at this point?” you laugh. “I’m going to college next year, I was going to break up with him by then or to be honest, I think my mother would have done it for me.” 

“Does he know that?” Tommy doesn’t know why he’s getting like this, and from your face, neither do you. He’s certainly never come to Josh’s defense before. 

“I don’t know. Probably.” 

“This isn’t the kind of place where people go off to college, though. This is the kind of place where people marry their high school sweethearts and settle down and raise more football players.”

“I mean, he knows I’m going to college.” 

“Does he?” 

“Why are you being so weird? You don’t even like him!” 

“I never–” 

“Oh, please. You’ve never fucking liked him, I don’t understand why you’re taking his side here!” 

Tommy goes quiet. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Break up with him if you want, I don’t care.” He may as well be made of straw, as superficial as it feels to say he doesn’t care about anything regarding you—let alone this.

He sees something flicker behind your eyes, but he can’t tell what. It’s a rare occurrence. 

He considers apologizing again, but doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs off his jacket, grabs the joint from the inner pocket, and lights it in the window, taking a drag before crawling into bed next to you and handing it over—a peace offering. 

You take it—duh. And you take such a long hit that Tommy starts to get concerned, but you just lean into his shoulder and pass it back, dropping your head on his shoulder. 

“Thank you for coming, Tommy.” 

He gazes at the top of your head, at your thighs in your pyjama pants just above the top of the quilt. “Yeah, of course.” 

“I had a lot of fun, believe it or not.” 

He snorts. “Really? Chris stepping on your foot twice in a row didn’t ruin it for you?” 

“Almost,” you laugh. “Not quite. I had the best dancing partner in the house.” 

“Shut up,” he tilts his head back. Your ceiling is covered in those glow-in the dark stars, though they’re just green with all the lamps on. He’s familiar with the pattern of them—he’s spent countless nights staring up at them as you sleep beside him. Nights he sleeps at his house, he’ll try to pick stars out of the sky, despite the Austin light pollution, and imagine they’re the ones on your ceiling. 

He slides out, and you moan and grumble as he turns the lights off and puts a record on, but it’s worth the way you wrap your arms around him when he pulls the blanket back over himself. 

You lay silent for so long that he thinks you’re asleep, when you murmur, “I’m going to break up with him.” 

And Tommy falls asleep elated, lighter than he has in five years. 

He’s in the bathroom in the morning when he hears the arguing start. He shuts off the sink, listening intently. It’s not your mom, you never argue this early in the morning. And you rarely sound this mad at each other. 

It’s Josh. 

Tommy’s eyes widen, and he realizes it would be very bad for you if Josh realizes he spent the night here. He sneaks down the hall and down the stairs, grateful that he had pyjamas here and that he put Joel’s suit folded up in the laundry room, where Josh wouldn’t see it. He heads downstairs as quietly as he can, making eye contact with your mother as he enters the kitchen with a mutual “eek.” 

He planned on running back next door, but your mom is shoving a plate of pancakes in front of him before he can say anything, and he’s forced to sit and stay. What can he really do? They’re the best pancakes in the world. Worth whatever punch Josh Walsh’ll throw at him. 

They sit in silence, listening to the yelling upstairs, which Tommy quickly wishes wasn’t quite so loud. 

“What the hell am I supposed to think? Huh? David said you were like, grinding up on him all fucking night!” 

Tommy goes bright red. “I—” he starts, food left on his fork. “We weren’t…” But your mother just rolls her eyes and dismisses him with a wave of her hand.

“Idiot,” she whispers, pointing at the ceiling, and Tommy grins. 

“Are you fucking serious?” you shout upstairs. “Do you just listen to everything David tells you? Where the hell were you last night? I was fucking looking for you!” 

Tommy knew you were just dancing with him because you couldn’t find your boyfriend, but it still stings to hear. 

“I was… I was around! Okay! Sorry I was fucking socializing! I was talking to my friends!” 

Your voice drops. “Fucking… whatever, Josh, just go. I’m fucking tired. We’ll talk about this later.” 

“Can we just—” 

“No.” 

But Josh doesn’t drop it, so your mother calls up for you to help with breakfast, and you call back that you’ll be right there. 

Tommy tries to get up as Josh comes downstairs, but he’s not quick enough. Thankfully, it does look like he could’ve just come over for breakfast, but Josh sees him. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, making eye contact with Tommy as he passes him by. 

“Bye, Josh!” Your mom calls politely as he leaves. When the door swings shut, though, she turns to Tommy, and they laugh.

It falters when you come trudging downstairs, obviously in a bad mood. 

“Sorry about that,” you mumble. “Didn’t realize he was coming.” 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” your mom kisses your forehead. “Have some food.” You sit on the stool next to Tommy’s, drowning your pancakes in maple syrup and shoving them in your mouth. 

Your mother turns back to you both, fixing something on the stove, and Tommy turns to you. “You break up?” he asks quietly, and prays he doesn’t sound too hopeful. 

“Nah,” you mutter. “Not yet.” And you take another bite. 

The music is good, something with some good synths that seems to have gotten twice as many people undressing each other with their eyes as usual. You grab another cup of punch, careful not to spill it on your costume, and sip on it, leaning against the wall as you look for Jackie to pop back up. 

Tommy didn’t want to come to this party, didn’t want to sit around and flirt with girls while he tried not to stare at you making out with Josh. But Kevyn and Luke had a bunch of stuff to sell, and had promised him twenty percent just for getting them in. One of the benefits of being the best friend of the most popular girl in school. 

You see him before he sees you, across the room, and a wave of heat you can’t stop rushes through you. Stop it, you think. You can’t start thinking like that. But you’re a few drinks deep, and it is really hot in here. 

And he looks entirely too good in his costume, whatever it is. His t-shirt is tight against his chest, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his neck, which you can’t help staring at. A few of his curls are sticking to his forehead, and his arm flexes when he raises it above his head to keep his drink out of danger from spilling when people rush by. 

He catches you staring, and grins. And then he fucking winks at you. 

And then you make possibly the worst decision you could have. “You should start up seven minutes in heaven,” you turn to Jackie, who’s just reappeared. You pretend it’s just popped into your head. “For old times’ sake.” Jackie’s been hosting these parties since middle school, when the only way you guys knew how to have fun was a spin of a bottle or the draw of a card. Since then, you’ve pulled it out at parties to spur drama. Despite the forced protests of its being a middle school game, it’s not hard to get a bunch of horny teenagers to agree to be locked in a closet with someone to make out with and grind up against. 

She pretends to consider it, but grins. “Fine. Draw me and Chris, okay?” 

“You got it.” The other thing about seven minutes in heaven—you, Jackie, and Joanna, wherever she may be right now, always rig the draw. 

She stands up on her toes to try and look around the room. “I’m sure Josh is around here—”

“Nah,” you interrupt. “Just draw me and Tommy.” 

Jackie raises her eyebrows in surprise, and you give her a look—what?

“Josh’s off somewhere. Got to make him jealous somehow. Tommy won’t care.” It’s a lie, so thin you worry Jackie can see right through it, and it hurts you to say it, as if Tommy could pop up and hear you, think you’d use him like that. Even though you guess you kind of are. But it’s not like that. 

“Whatever you say, babe,” she starts to head toward Joanna. “He does look good tonight.” 

You roll your eyes dramatically, and cross the room to him. 

“Come on, loser, we need to find you a girl tonight,” you lie as Jackie starts collecting people she deems hot enough to head to her room.  

The music still comes through, but it’s muffled. It gives the synth a dreamy vibe, paired well with the haze of someone’s—probably several people’s—cigarettes and joints, and you look around for one you can steal. 

Tommy comes to the rescue, pulling a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and lighting one. He takes a drag, and passes it to you, and you sidle up beside him in the circle on the floor. 

“My hero,” you laugh dryly. You lay your head on his shoulder as Jo draws Chris and Jackie from her dish, and you pass the cig back and forth for the seven minutes that pass as people laugh, speculate on the goings-on inside Jackie’s closet, and gossip about people not lucky enough to be invited up. You each take a hit of a shitty joint, and then you get it back for another. 

But Tommy sobers up as he notices Jackie come out of the closet, brandishing her bowl of names and reading one out—yours. 

Tommy deals with the pain in his chest. He’s gotten used to it, over the years, and puts a hand over his heart as you sit up from his shoulder. He doesn’t see you wink at Jackie. 

“...and Tommy!” she giggles. 

Tommy’s heart might stop beating. At the same time, it feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. Five years of these parties, and you’ve never been drawn together. 

He’s had his fair share of awkward, messy, seven minutes, shoved in this closet with some random girl and trying to forget that you were just in here with Josh. 

Once, he’d had a girl offer to suck his dick the second the lock clicked, which rapidly turned into another instance of seven awkward, silent, minutes, when he panicked and gave her a look she probably took as horror or disgust. It wasn’t her fault he was too deep in his own head, thinking about you. This game is where he first made out with Lucy (another rigged solution), though they did take it to Jackie’s parents’ room quickly after. 

He’s lost in his head as he’s shoved into Jackie’s closet beside you, doesn’t come to his senses until the door’s slammed shut and he’s left surrounded by jackets and shoes and only a little light and you. 

And he doesn’t really process what’s going on until you nudge his foot with yours, and let out a quiet “so…”

And then he laughs, and you laugh with him. And you laugh for a good couple minutes, although he’d hoped it would last longer. Get him out of here quicker. 

“So…” he repeats, when it dies down. “Where’s Josh?” 

“God knows,” you mutter a response. “Probably the beer pong table in the basement.” 

A heavy silence sits between you as Tommy tries to think of what to say next. It’s never been this difficult with you. It’s never been difficult, period. 

“You look good tonight,” you say, and his heart swells. He hopes you can’t see his eyes light up and go pink in the dark, because he’s pretty sure that’s what’s happening. 

“Thanks,” he replies. “So do you.” He pauses. “You always look good.” 

You drop your eyes to his feet, grinning. Maybe blushing a little. 

“Thanks, Miller.”

He laughs again. “No problem.” You roll your eyes. 

And then you make your second awful, terrible, stupid decision of the night. 

“So, you gonna kiss me or what?” 

Tommy can’t have heard that right. His eyes probably pop out of his skull, and he laughs despite himself. 

“What?” you mutter, but you’re still smiling. 

“Alright,” Tommy rolls his eyes. But not an alright, I’ll kiss you. It’s an alright, you’re being ridiculous. 

“C’mon, Miller, it’s the game,” you tease. 

He mimics the teasing shake of your head. “I’m not gonna kiss you,” he replies. 

“Why not?” 

He stares at you a moment before his eyes drop to the floor. The music is even more muted in here, but in the silence, even surrounded by jackets and dresses, you can still hear it around you. Tommy just sighs. 

“You know why not,” he mutters. He can’t even look at you. It’s the closest he’s ever come to telling you how he feels. 

You could decide not to be an asshole. You could forget you ever said anything, go back to joking around with your best friend. But you’re a little drunk, and you’ve smoked a bit, and you don’t take that route. “No, I don’t,” you drawl. 

“You don’t want to kiss me,” he says. “You can go and find Josh in a few minutes. Your boyfriend, remember him?” 

You sigh, and Tommy tries not to read too much into it. “Yeah, I remember. He’ll be all sweaty, and taste like shit beer.” 

“I’m all sweaty,” he counters. “It’s hot as fuck in here.” 

“All hot and heavy,” you whisper. 

Tommy glances at the ceiling. “Shut up.” 

“But you’ll taste like my cigarettes,” you reason, hanging your wrists around his neck. 

“Your cigarettes?” Tommy laughs, forgetting the intensity of the moment. 

“Our cigarettes,” you modify. He rolls his eyes. You look into them. “You’re cute enough,” you smirk, the same teasing lilt back in your voice. 

“Just shut up,” he says quietly. Less teasing. A little serious. “You’re drunk, you don’t want to kiss me.”

“Come on,” you press. “You know we rig this thing.” 

He did know that, you’d told him plenty of times. But he had convinced himself that at least your draw was random tonight. That you hadn’t fucking gone and done this. 

“You don’t…” he’s starting to lose the words again. “What the fuck are you doing?” he mumbles. You press your hips into his. You’re still leaning back, far enough to look into his eyes, to study him. You’re not entirely throwing yourself at him. Yet. 

Joel and your mom both know you’re at this party. God, if they knew what the two of you were doing. He doesn’t know why the thought occurs to him. 

“Maybe I… want to kiss you, Tommy.” He gets the familiar surge of pain and nausea that he associates with seeing you outside your house, at school, with your friends, but he gets something worse, too. A heat at the bottom of his stomach, that isn’t new, but for all intents and purposes, he normally tries to disassociate from his thoughts about you. He can’t seem to do that, now. 

He just prays you can’t feel it where your stomach rests between his hips. Prays he isn’t ruining everything. 

“Maybe I don’t want to kiss you,” he forces out. 

A silence falls heavily between you. You look up at his eyes. He’s avoiding your gaze. A lump forms at the back of your throat. You know you shouldn’t be feeling like this. That it’s entirely unjustified. You have a boyfriend. He’s supposed to be asking out one of your friends. But still, it hurts you like a stab in the chest. 

Fuck you is on the tip of your tongue, but it doesn’t come out. What does might be worse. Your third terrible decision. “I thought you–” 

He says it instead. “Oh, fuck you,” he seethes. Suddenly, you’re looking into his eyes, and you don’t know if it’s sadness or anger, or both, but you’ve never seen so much of it in this boy. He’s stormy, but his brown eyes give away the dejection beneath it. 

And as if it didn’t hit you hard enough in the first place, he repeats it. “Fuck. You.” 

And then the door swings open, and the low light in the room almost blinds you in comparison to the sliver in the closet. You blink back tears, just hoping Tommy doesn’t see them. You watch blurrily as he rejoins the circle, and excuse yourself to the bathroom. 

Tommy sits down, head between his knees. He knows the two of you have thrown the vibe in the room off, but Jackie reigns it back by drawing Joanna with Ben Torres. He sits there, dazed, as Ben pulls Jo toward the closet, both laughing and smiling. He doesn’t say anything until a commotion in the hallway makes him jump. 

“What the fuck,” he hears from outside the door. It’s not that loud, but it’s you. He leaps up, yanking it open as you shout. “No, get the FUCK away from me, Josh.” He watches as you tear down the hall, and Josh follows you, pushing past onlookers, away from the bathroom, where a girl—Tommy thinks her name might be Ally—is standing, her makeup smudged. Fuck. 

He tries to follow you, almost pushing past Josh, but the older boy grabs him by the arm and pulls him back.

“Tommy, get the fuck out of my way,” he snaps, yanking him with enough force that he’s pushed against the wall. 

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough, man?” he barks. 

“Excuse me?” Josh snarls. 

“You heard me.” He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think it through this time. He just fucking swings. 

Josh is knocked back against the wall. There’s a malicious look in his eye as he pushes himself back to his feet. 

“Here we go, fighting her fucking battles again.” 

“Guess you didn’t appreciate it as much as you said,” Tommy smirks. 

Josh’s jaw clenches. “You like being her little fucking bitch?” he sneers, and pulls his fist back. But Tommy’s had more practice dodging punches. He ducks, and lands a blow to Josh’s stomach. He doubles over, and Tommy comes down hard on his back, but the other boy dives forward and takes Tommy down by the legs. He lands on top, and lands a blow to Tommy’s cheek, but Tommy’s able to shove him off, sending him back against the wall of the narrow hallway, toward some spectators who jump out of the way.

He crawls across the floor and climbs on top of the other boy, coming down swinging. He lands blow after blow, and he hears someone shouting at him to stop. Probably Jackie. But he doesn’t until he realizes Josh is about to pass out below him, and even then, it’s hard. 

He stands up, leaving your boyfriend laying on the ground, and turns on his heel, storming down the steps. 

He gets outside just in time to see his brother’s truck pulling away from the curb and disappearing down the street. 

You don’t see Tommy again that night. He never crawls through your window. You do cry in Joel’s truck as he drives you home, though. 

You tell him about Josh, and he threatens to beat the kid over the head for being so fucking stupid. 

You smile through your tears, and almost laugh before you wince, biting your lip.  “I think your brother’s taking care of that.” 

For once, Joel doesn’t seem mad that Tommy’s out picking a fight. He just nods, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Yeah,” he says. “Good.”

“God, I was such an asshole to him tonight, too,” you mutter, tapping your fingernails below the car window. 

“I’m sure it ain’t that bad,” Joel says, and you shake your head. You turn to look at him, and he glances back, though he stays focused on the road. 

“Joel, I tried to kiss him,” you say, and it’s quiet for a second. You stare down at your hands. You’re afraid to look over. He wouldn’t be mad, would he? But the car is awfully silent.  You sit in the discomfort for a second longer before you look over—and realize he’s holding back laughter. 

“Dickhead,” you roll your eyes. “Y’know, I’m over here trying to, like, tell you about my problems and shit.” Joel lets out a low whistle, but plays along.

“‘N’ how’d he take that?” he chuckles. 

Despite everything, you can’t help laughing a bit, too. “Not as well as I thought.” The car is silent another moment, and then you both descend into heinous laughter. You should feel a little bad, laughing sort of at Tommy’s expense. But you’ve been doing it almost all your lives, and for almost a second, you can forget the context of the evening. 

You don’t get home for another hour. First, Joel stops at the ice-cream place he used to take you to in middle school, that thankfully doesn’t close for “summer” until December 1st, and gets you a milkshake that you sip on slowly as he finds some dumb work story to distract you. 

Then he surprises you by stopping at a house you don’t recognize, but when he stops the car and crosses the lawn to start chucking pebbles at the window, you put two and two together. Heather’s head pops out, and you guess they have a conversation you can’t hear, in which Joel gestures at you in the car a couple times and eventually Heather smiles and tosses something down. 

You can’t tell what it is until he gets back to the car, and you roll your eyes as he passes you his hoodie, the one you used to steal. “Figured you might get cold,” he smiles.

You could cry again, but instead you lean across the center console to wrap your arms around his neck. He hugs you back, playfully flicking the hood up over your head as he does. 

“Thank you, Joel,” you mutter, and he hugs you tighter. 

“‘Course. Anytime, you know that.” 

You laugh as you pull away to cover the tears, and brush them away with the sleeves. 

“It smells better than it did,” you smirk. “Heather probably actually does her laundry on time.” 

“Oh, shut up. I’ll take it back.” 

You just smile and stare out the window as he starts to drive. The sprinklers are going over the neighbor’s yard. 

“Big middle school flashback night for me,” you grin, pulling the hood over your head properly. “This. The ice cream.” You titter. “Seven minutes.” 

“That what you were doin’?” Joel narrows his eyes. “Wait, don’t you and your friends always draw who you want to—” 

You can’t help giggling as you cut him off, even if it’s to threaten him. “Joel, I will fucking kill you—” 

“You are the deceitful little spawn of… something,” he shakes his head. 

“Well, it’s not like your Halloween plans were all that much better! Showing up at your girlfriend’s house just to take her sweatshirt back?” 

“Do you want the damn thing or not?” he practically shrieks, as much as Joel Miller can shriek, and you explode into laughter yet again. “For your information, I was giving out candy with your mother, since you decided to go cause irreparable chaos at some party—” 

You ignore the second part of the comment.“Thank you. I know she appreciated it.” 

He pauses, like he’s not sure whether he should tell you more, but he does with a sigh. “And I’m coming back, later, once I get rid of you.” You giggle.

“You gonna climb through her window?” you giggle. When he coyly rolls his eyes, you draw your eyebrows together a little. “Oh, come on, man. Doesn’t she live with her friends?” 

“It’s more romantic,” he grumbles. 

You smile.“Ugh. You Millers and your obsession with movie window cliches.” 

Joel appears to scrutinize the road for a second. “Oh, don’t fuckin’ tell me—”

You just laugh more, curling up in his sweatshirt in the passenger seat, struggling a little bit to breathe.

“Oh, for the love of God. That kid has to pull it together,” he sighs and shakes his head.

You quiet, and your eyes fill with something—some sad consideration, maybe, Joel thinks. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” 

You fall mostly into silence after that. Joel tries to keep you distracted with more work stories, but he can tell you’re getting tired. He drops you off, makes sure you get up to your door and sees your mom take you in and wave. 

He sits in his car for a second, just thinking. Then he turns the car back on and past his house, back the way he came.

Six months later, November 1st, and you still haven’t fucking done it. He finds you by your locker at the beginning of your free period. You’ve just said goodbye to Jackie as she heads to calc, and as the hallway empties out, you find yourself trying not to cry again.

“Hey,” his voice echoes from behind you, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You wipe your tears as quickly as you can with the sleeves of Joel’s sweatshirt. “Can we talk?” 

You turn to face him, keeping your face as solid as possible. 

“About what, Josh?” you grit your teeth. 

“I— come on, just five minutes.” You both know it’ll be more than that. “Can we go outside?” 

You end up crossing the football field, standing sort of close to the woods by campus. There’s either no gym class this period, or they’ve finally gone into the gym for the season. It’s getting a little brisk, and it is Texas. You don’t exactly all function well below 70 degrees. You feel your sneakers getting wet with dew, and you pull the sweatshirt tighter around your body. 

“So?” you shake your head expectantly. “What is it, Josh?” 

“I…” 

You raise your eyebrows. 

“I’m sorry, okay? I was an idiot.” You nod your head. “I shouldn’t have done it, and… I’m sorry. You never should have found out like that.” 

You scoff. “Unbelievable.”

“Oh, come on,” he says. “I’m, like, trying, here, okay? I fucked up, I know that, but, like—” 

“But what? What the hell could you possibly have to say to me right now? I trusted you!” 

“I know, and I’m sorry, and, like, I still love you!” 

You roll your eyes. “Cute.” You pull your messenger back up on your shoulder, turning to walk back to the school. “We’re fucking done, Josh.” 

You get maybe ten feet before his voice sounds behind you. 

“Oh, get off your fucking high horse.” He almost shouts. Then, quieter: “Don’t act like you’re so fucking innocent. From what I heard, you were cozying up to fucking Miller like you fucking always are.” 

You turn sharply on your heel with a disbelieving sound. “You don’t get to turn this around on me! You fucked up!” Your voice starts to raise. “You don’t get a get-out-of-jail free card because you’re jealous like you fucking always! Which you have no right to be, by the way!”

“It is all the fucking time!”

“Nothing happened in that fucking closet, Josh!” you yell, incredulous. 

“You were in the—” Josh shouts. “God, do you think I’m fucking stupid?” 

“I—no! I never fucking said that!” 

“God, you fucking do! You think I’m fucking stupid, like, what, I haven’t been here the past five years?”

“It’s a game, Josh! A game. It’s stupid!” 

“That’s, like, our fucking thing!” 

“THAT’S our thing!? Josh, that’s so fucking pathetic I can’t—”

“We’ve been doing that together since seventh grade, babe—”

“DON’T fucking call me babe right now, I swear to god.” 

“You—” 

“It’s a fucking game!” 

“It meant something to me! I’m sorry it wasn’t fucking good enough for you—” 

“Clearly it wasn’t good enough! Clearly it didn’t fucking mean anything! How the fuck are you going to stand there right now like you weren’t fucking some sophomore in a bathroom? In MY friend’s bathroom? At a party I was fucking at?? Like, how fucking stupid do you have to be, you can’t even cheat properly, get fucking caught in, like, five minutes?” 

“It wasn’t five minutes,” Josh sneers. 

And then his face sinks. 

The silence is deafening. 

“Babe—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap. The field might be spinning around you. You have to look over to make sure the bleachers are still empty, because you should feel heartbroken. But the only thing you feel is humiliated, and you pray no one’s overhearing the fight. You feel so fucking stupid—even though Josh is the one who’s accidentally just admitted to cheating on you for longer than you had him for. 

“Prom,” you say, and you clock the confused look on his face. “When I couldn’t find you anywhere, were you with her?” Your voice is dry. Josh is sputtering four feet from you, but you aren’t even looking at him. You’re staring at the tree line at the edge of the football field. 

“I—” 

“You spent the night with some girl—she must’ve been what, recently fifteen?” When he doesn’t respond, you raise your eyebrows. 

“I… yeah, I guess—” 

“Yeah. You were with her, and then you had the fucking nerve to accuse me of cheating on you with my best fucking friend, the person who was just actually there for me that night?” 

“It was fucking embarrasing! You were dancing with him all night, it’s not like I was spinning her around in front of everybody—” 

“Oh my god!” you shriek. Josh doesn’t respond. “You need to stop talking. Every fucking word coming out of your mouth is making me realize just how much more of an idiot you are than I thought. I don’t know why the hell. I ever let you near me.” 

“I…” 

“Keep fucking looking for something to say. You know what, you should be embarrassed about that night. About Tommy. Because I bet if I had slept with him, he’d have actually been able to make me fucking cum.” 

You’ve been doing a decent enough job avoiding him. It’s difficult, and you feel bad that he hasn’t been at your house as much as usual. 

You’re running downstairs for your book one afternoon, when you stop in your tracks at the bottom of the steps. Tommy’s at your kitchen counter, sitting on a stool with a mug of tea in his hand, talking to your mom. They go quiet as you enter. 

“Oh, sorry,” you stumble. “I’ll just—” 

But Tommy gets up from his seat, an awkward silence filling the kitchen as you stare at each other. Your eyes flit across the room, trying to avoid his intense eye contact. “Can we… can we talk?” He says. 

You probably turn red, but you don’t have a good excuse for saying no, and you can’t make one up fast enough. He’d probably know you were lying, anyway. “Um. Yeah. Yeah, sure.” 

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“You want some tea?” he adds. 

“Sure.” 

“I’ll bring you some.” 

“Thanks.” You turn slowly, and head back up the stairs.

You sit cross legged on your bed, chewing your nails and staring at the leg of your desk. What are you going to say to him? What is he going to say to you? You’ve worked yourself up to the verge of tears by the time Tommy pushes your door open and slides inside. He closes it with his foot, and gives you a look to ask that okay? that quickly shifts into one of “you okay?”  

You just nod, reaching out for your tea. Chamomile, with just a little maple syrup. He always adds the perfect amount. 

You hold it in your hands, and before you even take a sip, tell him, “I’m sorry.” You’re nervous to meet his eyes, terrified they’ll reveal that same horrible combination of hurt and anger they did last week. 

Tommy just sighs. His back rests against your headboard, and you turn at the foot of your bed to face him. “It’s fine,” he says, but you know him. You can hear when he’s lying. You’re not going to press it, though. You’ve realized over the past couple of days how humiliated he must have felt in that closet. Coming out of it. And he still came to your defense. “You were drunk,” he adds. “And you were having a shittier night, anyway.” You love him. You love that he can’t get through a minute of conversation without a joke, or a playful jab at you. 

“Ouch. It’s not a competition,” you smile softly into your mug. “And not by then, anyway.” 

“Nah. Maybe you were just drunk.” 

“I wasn’t that drunk.” 

“I saw you smoking, too.” 

“You gave me that blunt, loser. And it was shit, anyway.” 

“Kevyn isn’t going to waste anything good on people who are too drunk to tell the difference.” 

“Ah. Kevyn,” you sigh, smile all full of mischief. “Well, I could tell the difference, so maybe I wasn’t too drunk.” It’s almost an admission—and it hangs heavily over the quilt between you. 

You notice the way Tommy’s pulled the quilt over his legs. In the middle of maybe the biggest fight you’ve ever had, and the loser still thinks he has some claim to your blankets. (He does.)

“Does that mean Kevyn does have good shit?” you grin, and Tommy rolls his eyes. “Addict,” he pokes, and you roll your eyes. He looks at you a second, before he caves. “Yeah. You got money?” 

“Nah,” you grin, turning closer to him and drawing your knees to your chest. “You know I ain’t got any money, Miller.” 

“Clairvoyance not paying so well these days?” 

“Big words from someone who’s literally obsessed with my mom,” you knock his foot with a giggle. “Not all our parents can be pigs.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he smiles, and his eyes crinkle. It feels good to laugh together again. Not just good—like the weight of tears behind your eyes has been lifted, and your lungs can expand to their full capacity again. 

You missed that look in his eyes. The one that for a second in that closet, you thought you might never see again. 

“I thought you—” 

You’re not even sure what you were going to say. I thought you liked me? I thought you wanted me?

“Tommy, I shouldn’t have said what I did.” 

He tries shaking his head, but you give him a look. 

“It was fucked up to throw that back in your face. And I don’t even, like, know that that’s true, I was just grasping at straws and I never want to hurt you but I just reached for what was there and  And I’m sorry I did it and I’m sorry I didn’t say anything after and I’m sorry I’m so mean to you and—” 

“Woah, woah, woah woah woah,” he narrows his eyes and shakes his head. He reaches out to grab your arm, pulling you closer up the bed. “It’s okay.”

“But it’s not, though! Tommy—” 

“It’s okay. I promise. It’s okay.” He pulls you into his chest and you slump against it, his arms cradling you. You could stay here forever. 

Your body moves when his does, leaning over to put something on. Music flows through the room, and he stands up, pulling you up with him. This time, he brings your arms up around his neck, places his own on your waist. 

His head drops to the side of yours, and he whispers in your ear as you sway to soft music: “You were right, anyway.” 

You pull back to look at him, to look into his eyes—dark brown, so deep you could lose yourself in them. He’s so anxious. You wish you could wave a wand and make him never feel that way again. 

Even more of an admission than yours. 

You can see the gears shifting in his brain as he stops holding back. 

“I don’t want Lucy,” he breathes. You can feel your heart beating harder in your chest. Your throat even feels like it’s starting to close up. But Tommy’s broken the dam, and now he can’t stop. 

“You’re all I think about,” his voice cracks. “You’re all I can fuckin’ think about.”  

“Tommy,” your voice shakes.

He exhales, and his hands leave your waist. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” They run through his hair, down his face. 

“Tommy, I can’t lose you.” 

“You’re not going to lose me.” 

He hopes it’s true, but he’s not sure. He feels like this is it, though. He needs to be shot down if it’s not going to happen. He can’t keep going like this. Watching you with someone else. He waited too long last time—he can’t let it happen again. 

His eyes meet yours. They’re slowly becoming red, and you’re sure yours are too. He’s fucked everything up, and he can’t stop running into the wreckage. 

“Please,” he whispers. “Please tell me if you feel this. At all.” He whispers your name. “I feel like I’m over the fucking deep end. ” 

It’s the longest five seconds of his life, the seconds you’re looking at him, your eyes unreadable to him like this. 

When you nod slowly, it’s like he’s gasping for air he couldn’t reach before.

And then you cross the room and grab him by the wrist, and you kiss his lips like he’s never been kissed before. He thinks he might be dead, ascending to heaven in his own delusion, when you pull back and whisper: “fucking kiss me back.” 

He kisses you softly at first.

Pulling away a moment, he murmurs, “Y’know, I always imagined our first kiss more like that.” He grins, tilting his head. “No closet,” he adds mockingly.

“Mmm. Tell me how else you’ve been fantasizing about me, Miller.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You gonna make me?” 

He can’t respond with anything but “Mm-hmm,” because his lips are already back on yours. He reaches to cradle your face in his hands and pulls you back in before you can say another word. One of your hands rests on his jaw, the other runs through his hair, and he kisses you harder instinctually when you pull on his curls. 

He whimpers against his will, and feels your wicked grin against his lips. You fall side by side when you walk him to the edge of your bed. 

When you hit the mattress, he moves his hand to toy with the hem of your shirt. You push his hand away and he says “I’m sorry,” and you say, “shut up.”  He climbs on top of you and you’re just making out with him but he doesn't think sex could even feel this good. This right. 

It’s everything he’s ever wanted—it’s perfect. But he wonders if he should be doing more. He just wants to be good for you. And then, because you’ve always been able to read his mind: 

“Stop thinking about what you think you’re supposed to be doing.” 

His knee rests between your thighs. You kiss him along his jaw, bite his shoulder. You leave hickeys on his collarbone and his neck and he does the same. 

You stay like this for well over an hour, maybe two. 

Tommy exaggerates about being hot and you pull his shirt up over his head. 

In a moment of careless confidence, he whispers in your ear, “it’s okay, you can stare, baby,” to which you shove his head to the side, but run your fingers down his stomach. You pull away at a point to pull yours off, too. He tries to stop you, but you insist you want to, and he’s not going to complain. 

But you don’t really do anything. Too obsessed, too desperate to be close to one another. 

Now you’re laying with your head by his, your face in his shoulder that’s in part covered by a quilt. He keeps kissing your head, your cheeks, even when you laugh and push his head away lightly.  

“Sorry. I just can’t stop. I can’t believe this is real.” 

“You’re such a loser.” 

“Yeah, but you knew that before you kissed me,” he says. 

“I hate you.” 

Tommy grins. He wants to reply, wants to say the words at the tip of his tongue that he knows are true—that he loves you. But he decides to keep it to himself, just another night. This is enough for him, for now. 

All he thinks he really needs is to hold you in his arms.

notes: girl why is this so long and at the same time does anything even happen? i appreciate every single person who reads this fic that i have been working on for maybe ten years but finally just locked in on, and i double appreciate everyone who interacts with this post. this fic came to me in a dream. and was also in some places inspired very much by @grayandthyme's summer of 1989 young tommy fic which everyone should go read. and trust that @pearlessance THE tommy miller writer's cupid's chokehold updates are my lifeline. if you aren't on that fic literally what are you doing but i digress i love you all mwah i hope you enjoyed this

p.s. i am actually begging you on my hands and knees not to pay attention to the years they were born and the grades they should be in. the math trying to figure that out while maintaining how old joel is canonically and the age gap i wanted for him and tommy AND the time he canonically joined the military made my head hurt. 

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: teen dad!scott barringer x teen mom!reader

Author's note: this a request but my internet was playing jokes on me and it got deleted :// also the baby girl is called ava, as you wanted but I just feel in my bones that scott would affectionately call her mitsy..

FLUFF ❦

SCOTT BARRINGER’s head was half cuddled in a pillow when he felt the first in this hour poke. It was a soft little jab against his exposed cheek, then another, before tiny fingers became more insistent to catch his attention..at 2am. His sleep was already threading through thin ice, causing Scott to easily wake up and let out an exhausted groan, barely managing to crack one eye open. After that, he was immediately met with a pair of wide, bright blue eyes and a messy mop of curls tousled from sleep (or rather lack of it).

“Dada!”

The enthusiasm was off the charts for such early hour

Scott blinked, trying to make sense of the chaos. His brain slow to catch up. “Missy?” he rasped, voice rough.

Beside him, you were half-sprawled over the blankets, one hand fisted in the sheets, still very much unconscious. Your cheek was smushed into the pillow, a tiny snore escaping every few breaths. You were out.

Meanwhile, the little gremlin you two had somehow created last year was squirming happily between you both, chubby hands patting Scott's everything.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Babe,” he mumbled, nudging you hopefully awake. “Your daughter’s insane.”

You just grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like your daughter, rolling over with a groan. Scott snorted.

“Dada!” the baby insisted again, more excited this time, little legs kicking wildly against the sheets. Tiny fist closed around the collar of his t-shirt, trying to tug at it to somehow pull him closer, if possible.

“Okay, okay,” he chuckled, sitting up. “I’m awake. Jeez.”

She beamed, gummy smile stretching wide and being all bright, eyes crinkling at the corners—just like Scott’s. His chest ached, although he won't admit it to anyone really.

Another glance at the alarm clock told him it was a quarter past two. Great. Perfect. Just perfect. But then his daughter squealed happily, smacking a tiny hand against his jaw, and Scott couldn’t even find it in himself to think of much bigger complains.

So he scooped her up, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. “What’s got you all excited, huh?” he whispered, voice soft and fond. “It’s way past your bedtime, missy.” she just giggled of course, grabbing at his face with both, greedy hands, babbling some kind of happy gibberish that Scott was pretty sure was a baby curse word. He grinned, shaking his head. “You are crazy..but that's okay, it's not your fault you got mommy's genes” he murmured, rubbing a thumb over the soft skin of her cheek.

You whined from your spot on the bed, burying your face deeper into the pillow. “You’re both banned from the bed,” you grumbled, words slurred and exhausted, though your voice was all fondness and sleep. "I love her, but—please. Please.”

Scott just rolled his eyes, scooping the baby higher on his hip. “C’mon, trouble,” he murmured to her, smiling. “Let’s give momma some peace.”

So that’s how he ended up on the living room floor at 2:30 a.m., surrounded by a tsunami of pastel toys and fluffy blankets, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips while the baby girl flailed around like a feral toddler. She had to make it a habit, and smacked a stuffed bunny into his face, squealing happily. Scott sighed, catching her tiny hands in his, watching how she drooled over her own smile. Thumbs run over the pudgy soft skin before he did something bold (for someone like him) and pressed kisses to her chubby fingers until she would dissolve into giggles, wiggling around in his lap. He was tired. So tired. A good amount of coffee won't fix that exhaustion. But damn, was it worth it..

And when she finally wore herself out, tiny fists rubbing rather clumsily at her eyes, head drooping against his arm, Scott melted a little. He scooped her up, tucking her beneath his chin, fingers carding through her messy, thin nest of hair. She let out a tiny sigh, cheek smushed against his skin.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Thought you were a big girl, huh?”

She just grumbled something that sounded suspiciously (for Scott who made it his job to analyze her baby language) like ‹dada› and nuzzled deeper into his chest, fingers burying in his shirt, making sure he still will be here when she'll wake up.

Scott smiled, eyes crinkling, thumb brushing over her back in gentle circles. “Love you, little missy,” he murmured, voice low and tender. “Love you so much..”

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake

[angelluvsrafe]

losing your stuffed bunny

you can’t find it anywhere, you’d taken everything off of your bed and looked around your room in case you had gotten out of bed with it still in your arms by accident.

yous start panicking a little when you can’t find it, that’s your comfort teddy. now it’s gone.

you hear the front door shut and you immediately run downstairs and see rafe kicking his shoes off by the door. he looks shocked to see you in such a panicked state.

“hey, sweetheart… what’s up?” he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his chest, feeling your heart pounding at what felt like a million miles an hour.

his comforting tone immediately causes your eyes to well up with salty tears and your throat to feel tight. you whimper softly and nuzzle your face deeper into his chest.

his hand rubs your back gently, he looks down at you, trying to figure out what on earth could’ve happened in the time he had been out of the house.

“i-” your panic causes you to suck in a sharp breath, “i can’t find my bunny” you tell him, the words causing the warm tears that had pooled in your eyes to pour down your cheeks.

“hey, hey, don’t cry…” he shakes his head, eyebrows knitted together with worry. he wipes the falling tears off of your flushed cheeks and guides you over to the sofa.

he pulls you so you’re sitting across his lap and tucks some hair behind your ear before speaking softly “tell me where you’ve looked already…” he gives you a small smile, giving your cheek one last wipe with his thumb.

“um, i checked the bed… and then the rest of my room incase i accidentally brought it with me when i got out of bed… but it’s not there…” you explain, your voice coming out whinier than you would have liked due to the tears but rafe doesn’t even bat an eye lid, he is determined to find this bunny.

“you want me to have a look? maybe another pair of eyes might help…” he suggests, poking his bottom lip out as he looks at you with raised eyebrows. you nod and he sets you down before heading to the bedroom, you follow close behind.

he looks on the bed, pulling pillows back and peeling back the covers, letting out a sigh when he doesn’t find it. he then lets his eyes scan the room quickly, his shoulders slouching slightly when he has no luck.

his forehead creases in thought for a moment before his eyes light up and he looks over at you, a big grin on his face.

“did you check the kitchen? sometimes you wander to the kitchen in the morning with it tucked in your arms when you’re still sleepy…” he suggests, looking very proud of himself for possibly figuring it out.

you gasp and run downstairs. sure enough, the bunny is sat on the kitchen table. now the memory comes back to you; you had sat there this morning and ate your breakfast with your bunny since rafe hadn’t been there when you woke up.

rafe comes into the kitchen and chuckles fondly when he sees you grabbing the fluffy toy. he ruffles your head, giving you a kiss on the temple.

“you happy now, baby?” he asks you, an innocent yet mocking tone in his voice. you nod and hug him, he laughs softly and rubs your back.

“thank you, rafey…” you tilt your head to give him a kiss on the cheek. he gently nudges his nose against yours and returns the kiss to the cheek.

“who knew a girl could be such a mess without her little bunny…”

— ·˚ ༘ a/n - i feel bad calling the bunny ‘it’ but idk if you guys call your teddies he or she so i just stuck with it (my bunny is a she)

[airbiscuitz]

The List

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Summary: After a big fight, you and JJ take a break. He leaves a folded note in your mailbox every day—a list of reasons why he loves you. On day 30, he writes, “I’m still here. Are you?”

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader

Word count: 4k

Warnings: Angst! (to bbs that requested @apeachtea, @rottinglexi)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You and JJ Maybank were a wildfire—bright, burning, passionate, and destructive when left unchecked. The love was never the issue. It was everything else. The chaos of life on the Cut. The weight of growing up too fast. The pain he didn’t always know how to express, and the silence you’d learned to master when everything felt like too much.

The fight wasn’t new. It had roots tangled in past arguments, old scars reopened with sharper words. You told him he never let you in. He told you that you didn’t understand what it was like to always be running from something. The door slammed. Your voice cracked. And the silence afterward was more deafening than anything.

You didn’t know who walked away first. Maybe you both did.

But you remembered the first note.

Folded into a square the size of your palm. Stuffed in your mailbox like some forgotten secret. No name on the outside, but you knew the handwriting instantly. You’d traced it on his knuckles. You’d seen it scrawled on scrap paper maps during treasure hunts and doodled on napkins at The Wreck.

It read: Reason #1: You always made me feel like home, even when I didn’t have one.

You didn’t cry then. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just JJ being JJ—saying too much or saying it too late. You slid the note into your nightstand and tried to forget about it.

But then there was another the next day.

Reason #2: You snort when you laugh too hard. I love that stupid sound.

You smiled. Just a little.

And the next day:

Reason #3: You’re the only person who ever made my birthday feel real.

That one knocked the wind out of you.

Because you remembered that day. A few years ago. You’d spent a week saving up tips just to buy him a stupid cake and some fireworks. He tried to act cool, like he didn’t care. But you saw it in his eyes—like he was a kid again, even just for one night.

You started waiting for the notes after that.

Each one folded the same way. Always at the same time: 7:12 a.m. Like he knew exactly when your dad left for work and you’d be alone. Some notes were sweet. Some were funny. Some were heartbreakingly sad.

You started waiting for the notes after that.

Each one folded the same way. Always at the same time: 7:12 a.m. Like he knew exactly when your dad left for work and you’d be alone. Some notes were sweet. Some were funny. Some were heartbreakingly sad.

Reason #9: I loved watching you dance around your room when you thought no one was watching.

Reason #14: You’re the only one who saw me when I didn’t want to be seen.

Reason #18: I hate sleeping without you.

Reason #22: I kept your first hair tie. It’s on my keychain. Looks dumb, but I don’t care.

Each one dug a little deeper under your skin, until your hands trembled pulling them out of the mailbox. Until your pillow smelled like tears most nights. Until you started writing replies you never sent.

You thought he might stop. That he’d get tired. That maybe this was some guilt-ridden apology stunt.

But he didn’t stop.

Every day, no matter the weather, the fights in your head, or the ache in your chest—there it was.

Day 30.

You woke up before your alarm. You didn’t know why. Maybe something in you knew. You wrapped your hoodie around your shoulders and crept out onto the porch barefoot. The sky was still purple. The air was heavy with Carolina humidity and summer endings.

The note was already there.

You unfolded it with shaking hands.

Reason #30: I’m still here. Are you?

Fuck.

You sat down right there on the steps, note clutched to your chest like a lifeline, breath catching somewhere between your ribs. Thirty days of silence on your end. Thirty days of him not giving up.

You knew where he’d be.

The dock.

The same one where he kissed you for the first time. The same one you stormed off from thirty days ago. The same one where he told you, once, “If I ever disappear, this is where to find me.”

So you went.

You didn’t brush your hair. Didn’t even grab shoes. You ran, heart pounding louder than your steps, gravel biting at your soles. The sun was just peeking over the trees when the water came into view.

And there he was.

Sitting at the edge, legs dangling, same hoodie he always wore. Back to you. Still. Waiting.

“JJ,” you breathed.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Just said, “Did you get the note?”

You nodded, though he couldn’t see. “Yeah.”

Long silence.

Then softly, “I didn’t know if you’d come.”

You took a step closer. “I almost didn’t.”

He turned a little, not fully, just enough that you saw the flicker of hope in his profile. “Why did you?”

You swallowed, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. “Because… I never stopped missing you. Even when I was mad. Even when I told myself I shouldn’t.”

JJ looked down at his hands. He was fidgeting with something—a string from his sleeve, maybe. His voice cracked. “I thought I broke it. Us. That maybe I pushed too far this time.”

“You almost did,” you whispered. “But then you kept showing up.”

His laugh was hollow, but his eyes were wet when he glanced at you. “I didn’t know what else to do. Talking never worked before. So I wrote. I wrote every damn thing I couldn’t say that night.”

You walked forward until you were standing beside him, then lowered yourself down beside him, knees tucked to your chest.

“I read them,” you said. “All of them. Some more than once.”

He turned toward you fully now, blinking rapidly, like he couldn’t believe you were really there. “Do you believe them?”

You met his gaze. “I want to.”

“That’s enough,” he said quietly. “For now, that’s enough.”

Silence fell again, but it felt different this time. Softer. Like something mending, thread by thread.

“I didn’t write number thirty-one,” he added suddenly.

You raised a brow. “Why not?”

JJ shrugged, a small smile pulling at his lips. “I was waiting to see if you’d let me say it out loud.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “Then say it.”

He looked at you, eyes shining. “Reason thirty-one: You make me want to be better. For you. For me. For us.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you smiled anyway. “JJ…”

“I don’t have it all figured out,” he continued, words tumbling out now. “And I might still screw things up sometimes. But I swear to God, if you let me… I’ll spend every day proving how much I love you.”

You didn’t reply right away. You just leaned in, forehead resting against his. Your hand found his, fingers curling together like they belonged there. Like they never stopped belonging.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes. “I missed you more.”

A pause.

“I’m still here,” he said, barely above a breath. “Are you?”

You leaned in and kissed him—soft and trembling and real. The kind of kiss that said yes. That said always.

And when you pulled back, tears on your cheeks and sunlight kissing the dock, you whispered, “Yeah. I’m here.”

That was answer enough.

---

You found a shoebox two days later. Stuffed under his bed. Filled with every note he’d written before delivering them. Some with crossed-out lines. Some tear-stained. Some rewritten three times.

He caught you holding it and froze.

“I didn’t want to mess them up,” he said.

You hid a small cry with a breathy chuckle before putting the letters back inside the shoebox.

"You didn’t. You never did."

[mrsfudd]

Stalker

You first saw Paige on one of your morning walks, you gave a friendly smile and thought nothing of it, little did you know that small interaction would change your life forever.

“No because I know im not crazy, i keep fucking seeing her” You rant on the phone.

“Okay but it seems like you’re enjoying the attention” Your friend answered.

“Yea I dont- oh oh wait i gotta go!” You blurt out, quickly hanging up the phone.

You run to your bedroom window, it was 6:42 pm. It was time for Paiges daily run and there she was, in some simple running shoes, a black nike sports bra and black shorts.

It wasn’t unusual to see your neighbors walking around the neighborhood, but this was different, she was different. Your friends swore you were delusional but you knew you weren’t. You saw her at the grocery store, the park, the gas station and everyday without fail mysteriously in front of your house, seeming innocent. You knew it was something more, just didn’t know how to prove it, until one day.

You were taking out your trash cans, strategically at the time Paige would be running past your house. As your walking down the driveway, one of the wheels gets caught.

“fuck” You mutter to yourself, trying to fix the problem.

“Need help?” Paige calls out, walking towards you.

Your heart dropped as you saw her eyes locked on you.

“uh-uh yea this shit is so annoying” You say trying to avoid eye contact.

“Dont worry, I got you” Paige reassured picking up the trash can and bringing it to the front on the driveway.

You follow her down, wanting to thank her.

“Im Paige by the way, but I bet you already know that. She said looking you up and down.

“Whys that?” You ask.

“Well my first assumption would be basketball of course but also maybe the fact that you watch me out your window everyday.” She smirks.

“oh- I um” You stutter.

“But its cool though, I like it and if im being completely honest, I plan my days around running into you.” She admits.

Your mind goes blank. “uhm, could I get you some water?” You ask, not wanting this interaction to end.

You and Paige end up sitting in your living room for about an half an hour. Nervously making small talk. The tension was so intense, you were scared to say something wrong.

“So could I get a little house tour maybe?” Paige asks with that same dumb smirk on her face.

“Yeah, come on” You say, leading her through the rooms.

Everything was going smooth until you got to your bedroom. Paige sat on your bed and asked “ So this is the window huh?” You just smile and shake your head, ignoring her.

“Im not trying to embarrass you, I love that shit.”

“Oh yea?” You say walking up to her, slightly biting your lip.

“Yeah baby, I bet you get real excited everytime you see me walk past.” She says slightly tilting her head back.

“Excited how?” You tease, inching closer to her.

“I know that pussy gets excited.” Paige flirts.

You let a nervous chuckle, unsure of what to say.

“Your not as slick as you think, I see that vibrator stuffed under your pillow” She says.

Your heart dropped, now she knows you been acting like a perv in a pantie shop whenever she gets brought up.

“Nah dont be shy now, c’mere” Paige demands.

You listen, inching closer and closer to her until your lips meet. The kiss was deep and hungry, filled with passion and desire.

Paiges hands rest on your waist, pulling you in more. She pulls out of the kiss and straightens her arms, slightly pushing you.

“Strip for me” Paige demands.

Desperate to please her, you listen. Slowly stripping each piece of clothing.

“Fuck” She mutters under her breath, tightly pressing her legs together, trying to conceal her arousal.

“You like what you see?” You tease.

“I love it mama, I knew you had a sexy little body under all them clothes” Paige says.

“Right, so what are you gonna do with it?” You ask.

Before you could say anything else, Paige stands up, towering over you. Her large hand finds your throat, slightly choking you and guiding you to the bed. She lays you down and starts to kiss you, her hand never leaving your throat. Paiges knee finds its way between your leg, subconsciously you start bucking your hips into her, needy and desperate for her.

Paige starts to kiss and caress down your body, she gave you gentle kisses as she inched closer to your aching pussy. She rests her head between your legs and lets out a small chuckle. “All this for me?” She asks.

“hmm please paige” You whimper.

“Please what baby, tell me what you want” Paige asks.

“Please taste me” You barely let out.

“Good girl” Paige chuckles as she licks you from your needy hole to your aching clit.

Your back arches off the bed as she slowly puts two of her long fingers in you. She immediately finds your gspot and starts sucking on your clit as the same time.

The pleasure is overwhelming, you were moaning Paiges name so loud the whole neighborhood was going know who was at your house.

As you inch closer to your orgasm you grab a chunk of Paiges hair and wrap your legs around her head, wanting her closer to you.

“Let it out mama” Paige demands as she feels you tightening around her fingers.

You do as your told and cum all over her fingers and tongue.

“Hmm, good job baby” She praises.

She helps you clean up and put new clothes on, now you are both sitting in the bed together.

“So, when am I gonna see you next?” You ask.

“You already know the answer to that” She replies.

“What do you mean?”

“We see each other everyday, i cant wait to see your pretty ass watching from that window tomorrow night” She chuckles.

It was getting late and Paige had a early practice tomorrow night.

“See you soon, stalker”.

ik this is lowk ass i havent written anything in forever. 😇😇