#he can finally learn to move on and just... live

[syrecjh]

─★ ˙ 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ No One Sleeps Mad

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || husband katsuki bakugo x wife reader, pure fluff

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

Three years of marriage to Katsuki Bakugo, and you learned something vital: silence is his weapon of choice. People always warned you that living with him would be Chaotic. Explosive. Loud. But in the quiet moments, when something’s wrong, it’s the stillness that cuts the deepest. Because Bakugo doesn’t yell at you. He doesn’t slam doors or shout insults. He just... stays quiet. Too quiet.

Tonight’s fight wasn’t big—just a few words that cut too deep, too fast. It started small, but in the silence that followed, you could feel it growing. You could feel him pulling away, not out of anger, but out of control. That’s when you know something’s wrong. When he’s not arguing, not raising his voice, but retreating inward. And for Bakugo, that retreat is the most terrifying thing. The calmness in his eyes is what makes your stomach churn.

You try to go to bed. You lie there, facing the wall, pretending to be asleep. But you can’t escape the space between you. The weight of unsaid things.

You hear the soft creak of the door. He doesn’t speak at first, just stands in the doorway, his silhouette outlined in the faint light. His arms are crossed, like he’s holding himself together. Waiting.

“You’re not sleeping like this,”he finally says, his voice low and measured. No shouting. No anger. Just a simple statement. But it hits you like a brick. "We're not sleeping like this,"

You don’t turn around. You don’t know what to say. So you let the silence stretch. And with it, the tension.

“Oi. I’m serious.” His voice is softer this time, but there’s a firmness there, like a command without a forceful edge. It’s the kind of calm that makes you feel exposed, like he’s reading you better than you can read yourself.

You swallow hard, refusing to show that you’re trembling. “I just want some space, Katsuki.”

His footsteps sound as he crosses the room. He doesn’t hesitate. He sits down on the edge of the bed, but just enough distance between you. It’s not an invasion, but an offer. An invitation.

“I’m not going to let you lie to me,” he mutters, his voice raw. “Space doesn’t fix shit. This does.”

He’s never been the type to hide behind words. He says what he feels, whether it’s love, frustration, or raw honesty. And right now, his honesty stings. It hits you right where you’re vulnerable—where you want to be left alone but know you can’t be. Because he knows you better than anyone. And he knows that pushing you too hard won’t help. But neither will letting you sleep with this weight in your chest.

You sit up slowly, heart racing. His eyes don’t leave you, but they soften slightly. You feel the walls start to crack. You hate that it’s coming to this, but you can’t help the sigh that escapes you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, barely audible, like the words hurt to speak.

He doesn’t respond right away. But he doesn’t have to. His fingers move toward you, just enough to touch your shoulder—lightly, but it’s everything. He doesn’t say it, but you can feel his love in the simple touch. His apology, his offer to make it right.

“Stop making this harder than it has to be,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion you almost never hear from him. “We fix this tonight. Even if we’re both exhausted, we fix it.”

You can’t fight it anymore. You lean forward into him, the weight of the fight slipping away as he holds you, the promise of resolution lingering in the air between you two. “We don’t sleep angry, not in this house. Not in this marriage.” he whispers into your hair, almost like a vow.

And in that moment, you realize that, for Bakugo, love isn’t about perfection. It’s about finding the way back to each other, no matter how small the fight is or how much pride you both have. It’s about never letting the night end without fixing what’s broken. It’s about never letting the fight win.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

[moonrise0111]

New headcanons for the Thunderbolts*!

Bob has a lot of time on his hands living in the tower but not going on missions (so there isn’t another void incident) so he’s picked up a few hobbies to pass his extra time. He started crocheting and has made a few things for the others. Yelena wears the scarf he made her basically all the time. His favorite thing to make is blankets that are super fluffy and big enough to fit at least three people comfortably. He also has a borderline WILD amount of complicated paint by numbers. He enjoys that each number feels like its own mini challenge. He also occasionally bakes a MEAN batch of chocolate chip cookies.

Yelena spends a lot of time just hanging out with her teammates. She was by herself for so long that she has come to realize she loves simple company. They don’t need to talk or do anything, just another’s presence is enough and she’s happy. She’s also very invested in an incredibly complicated mystery podcast. Everytime she thinks she has the entire story down there’s some crazy plot twist and makes her rethinks the entire thing. She loves it.

Bucky finally has the time to teach himself to cook. He’d been trying before but never really got into it. But after he made dinner for the team one night from a recipe he’d learned, which they were all EXTREMELY grateful, because it was delicious, he got more into it. So far he’s mastered a few of his own favorites but has been expanding into his teammates tastes. He also asks Bob every so often to make dessert, just for fun.

Alexei has made almost every effort to keep his things tidy after his move into the tower and is somehow completely successful and also not. His room with all the team productions is SPOTLESS. Not a single piece of dust rests on anything more than two seconds. His own room on the other hand, absolute disaster. Just don’t go in there, it’s not a good idea. He is just so proud of the team and his daughter.

Ava still sees Bill Foster (her kind of dad) and he visits occasionally. The rest of the team loves him and Yelena pushes for embarrassing stories of younger Ava so she isn’t the only one whose childhood was explained by her dad. Ava also really enjoys having a place that she can truly call her own. She has created a beautiful space for herself in her room with lots of plants and sunlight. Her room looks like it could be on a Pinterest board in the best way.

John had a tough time adjusting to living in the tower. He was just started to adjust to being alone and then he moved back in with a bunch of odd ducks. But over time he adjusted again and is a surprising quiet roommate. He also tried a LOT to get his shield back to frisbee shape from taco shape and it does NOT want to go. He even convinced Alexei and Bucky to try and get it back and the shield has decided it is a taco now and will not be returning to frisbee shape.

YES the Thunderbolts have a fantastic team as family dynamic, yes they are living in Avengers tower, yes history is repeating itself and 2012 tower fics are so back. BUT!

instead of "Alexei eating poptarts" or "Yelena in the vents", we must come up with new headcanons and make history

Bob always does normal domestic chores, often getting in the way of important missions and spy business. "All I'm saying is Bucky is our best sniper" "It would be a much quieter assassination if I just slipped into the condo and cut his—" "Hey sorry guys, anyone have laundry? I'm doing a load"

Yelena and her guinea pig always eat meals together at the dining table. Everyone has their Chinese food or barbeque, meanwhile the rodent is loudly munching on a salad right beside them

Bucky is the mom and always keeps them on track. "Ava you have a dentist appointment in the morning, and bring Bob so they can add him to the insurance. Lena how was therapy? Alexei, I said no vodka until dinner"

Alexei is always coming up with new promotional ideas for the team. Cartoon tv show, cereal, toothpaste flavour...every day he thinks he's come up with the next big thing. Whenever they actually get put into production (Wheaties) he collects and saves it, and won't let anyone use a different product. (He threw out Yelena's frosted flakes and it took both Bucky and John to get her to stop attacking him)

Ava likes to phase and sneak attack her teammates at random. She claims it's for training but really she just thinks it's funny hearing them scream

John gets blamed for everything, even if it isn't his fault. Especially if it isn't his fault: "who ate the last bagel?" "John." "Where's my hair straightener?" "John had it." "Who's turn is it to unload the dishwasher?" "Johnnnn"

[aziraphales-library]

I just finished Among the stacks and I’m wondering if there’s any other fics where Aziraphale forgets Crowley or something and then finds out he’s a demon and is initially shocked/scared?

Thanks!

You'll fics along these lines on our #memory loss, #human aziraphale, and #mistaken for human tags. Here are a mix for you...

Your face is like a melody by Primroza (T)

Crowley accidentally takes over the bookshop. His new routine is interrupted by amnesiac Aziraphale returning. Crowley is determined to help him even though he knows Aziraphale will leave him again as soon as he remembers. *** “Oh my, I do apologize!” Aziraphale says. “I did not mean to startle you.” “Ngk,” says Crowley. He isn’t sure what’s the protocol for when the love of your life walks back into your life after rejecting you. But he sure as Hell knows that clumsily climbing out from under the armchair is a bad start.

Anything for you, anything at all by angelsnuffbox (E)

Aziraphale, an ordinary bookshop owner in Soho, has been friends with Anthony J. Crowley for well over three years now, but sometimes he thinks that he isn't fully human. He can't be.

Let's Try This Again, Shall We? by todays_keysmash_is (T)

When Crowley and Aziraphale first meet, they mistakenly believe each other to be human. After falling in love and leading human lives together, Crowley is shocked to discover Aziraphale's angelic identity. Crowley knows that if he revealed his demonic self, Aziraphale would smite him on the spot- but he can only masquerade as a snake for so long, and the Apocalypse is coming.

Light the Corners of my Mind by cyankelpie (G)

Aziraphale, thirty-eighth order scrivener—at least, that's who they told him he was—wakes up from some perfectly normal memory loss to find a cryptic note written on his hand. The further he goes in his search for answers, the more questions he has. Will he ever learn why he was demoted to a desk job? Or how he'd managed to collect enough books to open a bookshop? Or why that familiar red-haired demon on Earth seems to be avoiding him?

Beware of the Snake by walking_contradiction42 (G)

Aziraphale has spent his many years on earth in solitude, feeling alienated from his fellow angels and somewhat distant from the humans surrounding him. His only friend is a common garden snake, resident in St. James Park. Or maybe the snake is not so common. Crowley just feels like, at this point, he is in way too deep and there is no way he can ever reveal his true identity to Aziraphale. Then things happen. The apocalypse is only one of them.

With you, with me by NohaIjiachi (T)

“Oh, shit,” Crowley muttered, but it came out more like ‘ohkjfd—‘ The man— A bloody priest was still keeping his umbrella over Crowley. The fabric of his button-up had darkened on his shoulders, now throughly drenched. He could see more details, now, and Crowley stared. The priest had round, gentle features, and a shock of hair so blond it looked white collected in messy, soft curls. There was some sense of deep-sedated sadness in his grey-blue eyes, as he looked down at Crowley. “I’d imagine that you need to get back up on your feet, then, son,” the priest said, sounding somehow tired. “You can’t stay here.” “…I have nowhere to go,” Crowley replied, feeling like his tongue was double in size in his mouth. It was a lie, and wasn’t one at the same time. He could technically go anywhere he wanted, as long as the Bentley stopped pouting at him for getting high again, but he had nowhere to go.

And the one you mentioned...

Among the Stacks by MeinirRhos (NR)

Nearly a year after Aziraphale returns to Heaven, he vanishes from existence, leaving Crowley bereft on Earth. Just when the demon has finally started to heal and move on with his life, he finds his angel by chance in a library. But Aziraphale has no memory of his life as an angel, or of Crowley. How will our hero cope?

- Mod D

[wheels-of-despair]

Home Pairing: Sam (Warfare) x You Summary: Sam's finally been sprung from the hospital, and you get to take him home. Contains: The journey home, a quick recap, a new/old friend. Words: 1.9k

You're here.

You put on your turn signal when you see the historic marker on the side of the road, and ease your vehicle onto the gravel patch in front of it. You put it in park and turn off the engine, then turn to look fondly at the drooling, snoring creature stretched out in the back seat.

Sam's not usually much of a snorer, or a drooler, but one or more of the many medications he's been prescribed has been knocking him the heck out. But, he appears to be in less pain when he's asleep, so you have no complaints.

You open the door, slip out of your seat, and close it quietly. You open the back door and put a knee on the floor, leaning in so you can reach him. He's got his legs stretched out over the bench seat, wrapped in a blanket. His neck must be killing him; it almost looks like it's broken, with the way he's hunched sideways against the seat. He still looks cute though, with only his face peeking out of an oversized hoodie.

"Sam," you whisper, placing a gentle hand on his chest. He grunts. You grin and give him a light rub. "We're here."

"Hm?"

"We're here," you repeat, waiting for him to open his eyes. "We're home."

His eyelids flutter open. He blinks a few times, waiting for them to clear, then squints at the brightness, even though it's gray and cloudy out today. He breathes in and stretches, showing his immediate regret with a hiss. His hands fly to his leg.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he says through gritted teeth. "Stayed in one spot too long."

"You wanna get out and move around for a little while?" you suggest.

Sam shakes his head and pulls the blanket off his legs. He grasps the sweatpants bunched at his knees, lifting up and taking some of the weight off as he lowers his legs to the floor. He stretches his legs out in front of him, making horrible faces the whole time. And then, he slumps back against the seat and rubs his eyes.

"Home?" he yawns.

"Almost," you smile. "Thought you might want to be awake for this last stretch. How long's it been since you rode through town?"

Sam scrunches an eye while he thinks.

"Before basic?" he guesses. "Came down to get the wedding rings."

You look to the ring on your left hand, and touch the one around your neck. Usually, it'd be on Sam's hand while he's home, but the meds make his fingers swell. That's alright. You're happy to hold onto it for him.

"Wanna give me a tour?"

A grin slowly spreads across Sam's face, and you're reminded of the summer you met him. Almost twenty years later, and you're still just as enamored by him as you were then.

He winces, and your heart leaps.

"Wanna give me some drugs first?"

You glance at your watch, consult the index card containing the timetable the doctor gave you, and return to the front to get the pills he needs. After Sam downs his drugs and an entire bottle of water, you help him shuffle onto the gravel and into the passenger's seat.

"You ready?" you ask, once you take your seat beside him.

Sam nods. You turn the key, check the mirror, and pull out.

He leans forward, swiveling his head in each direction to make sure he doesn't miss anything. You dip below the speed limit with a smile.

This is the town he grew up in.

The town where his grandparents lived their entire married lives, and where he spent half his childhood in the woods learning SEAL Skills with his dad.

The town you'll now call home.

When Sam got shipped back to the States for an extended hospital stay, you had a long talk about the future. (Mostly because he wasn't able to walk, and therefore, couldn't escape.) It was decided, through hard truths and several arguments and a bucketful of tears, that Sam's military career was over.

So was yours. You'd been working your ass off in the publishing world while Sam was away, and you were sick of chasing trends. Everybody wanted to snatch the rights to the next Twilight, which meant that every manuscript dropped on your desk was about a teenager in love with a monster. You were so sick of it, you could scream. (Much like the angsty banshee in Wailing Winona, a particularly painful read that, thankfully, cannot be found on shelves at your local Waldenbooks.)

You quit your job and packed and had all your stuff either sold or shipped to a storage facility in the town where Sam grew up. His grandmother's house was still standing; thankfully, his mother hadn't sold it off when she passed. Sam had paid the taxes on it every year, thinking that he'd like to build a house for the two of you on the property when he eventually decided to retire.

The timeline had been moved up, but the plan remained the same. You'd visited the house once, just to make sure it was livable, and been scared shitless by a neighbor who showed up to scare off the trespassing stranger. He quickly apologized when he realized who you were; and this was how you met Dwayne, your new neighbor and the person who convinced you that this was not a terrible idea.

Dwayne's family had lived next to Sam's grandparents for decades. His father ran a construction crew - the one who employed Sam's dad when he was home, and taught Sam the ropes as a teen - that had been passed down to him. He spoke highly of Sam's entire family, and was happy to help you get things ready for bringing Sam home. You don't know if you could have done it without him.

"That's the bank where Grandma took me to start my first savings account," Sam remembers, pointing to a brick building on the left. "I was five, but I felt like such a grown-up."

Before you can respond, he continues.

"There's the post office. The hardware store's still open! Wonder what kind of restaurant that is. An ice cream shop! Good thing that wasn't here when I was a kid, I'd have been begging all the time. Wonder how long that dollar store's been here? Dad helped build that house. I helped on that one. That's where Grandma's friend Ethel lived, I used to mow her lawn every Saturday."

When the small town passes by and the houses become spaced further apart, Sam leans back in his seat and sighs. You take your eyes off the country road long enough to spare him a glance; you're not sure if it's the meds kicking in or the thought of being home, but he looks happy and relaxed. You haven't seen him that way in ages.

You flick on signal and slow down, turning into the driveway. Your driveway. Sam grins, leaning forward to take it all in. You drive slowly through the bumpy lane, and Sam doesn't even seem bothered by being jostled.

He sighs in relief when he sees the house.

"Still standing," he mutters.

"Had it propped back up just for you," you tease.

"Houses built by Samuels men do not fall down," he says confidently. His grandfather had built this for his grandmother over fifty years ago, and he was right; you'd done a walkthrough with Dwayne, and he found very little that needed fixing.

You stop in the loop near the front door and kill the engine. Sam stares out his window at the front porch, like he's imagining that his grandmother is sitting there, waiting for him. You wait until he turns to you, with tears shining in his eyes, and smiles.

"Ready?" you ask.

He nods.

You slide from your seat and scurry around to the other side, wanting to help his stubborn ass out so he doesn't jar his legs. He's opened the door when you arrive, but must remember either the pain or the lecture from your last rest stop mishap, because he's waiting for you.

You help him slide down, and he sucks in a breath when his feet hit the ground, but he doesn't curse or gasp. See how easy things are when you let me help you? you want to ask. You do not.

Instead, you tuck yourself under his arm and close the car door, walking him slowly up the path and to the porch. Sam makes it up the stairs, one at a time, and stops to collect himself at the top of it.

"You wanna sit out here for a minute, or go in?" you ask.

"Here," he says through gritted teeth.

He holds onto the railing while you pull the nearest chair to him. He falls into it before he realizes what it is. He slides his fingers back and forth along the polished wooden armrests, as if he can still feel her there.

It's his grandmother's. Dwayne and his father, the greatest neighbors in the world, had moved Grandma Dottie's beloved rocking chair inside after her funeral, to protect it from the elements. Lord knows how many storms had ripped through here in the last thirteen years.

You lean against the banister and watch him, knowing that he'll roll his eyes at the smile on your face when he remembers you're there. You weren't sure how he was going to react to being back in his Grandma's house again after so long… but so far, so good.

"Can I help you folks?" a deep voice booms.

Sam jumps, just like you had when Dwayne had pulled the same thing on you.

"Dwayne?" Sam asks.

"Well, if it isn't little Elmer Samuels," Dwayne laughs.

"You mighta grown into the size of a tree, but I can still kick your ass, man," Sam grins.

You love your husband, but you doubt this; Dwayne is easily twice his size.

Dwayne lets out a booming laugh and steps onto the porch, handing you a covered basket.

"Thank you," you smile.

"That's from Mama," he smiles back. "I told her Little Sam was coming home today, and she flew into that kitchen and pulled out her best cook book so you two didn't have to worry about dinner tonight."

"Tell her we said thank you," you grin.

"I will," he nods. "And as for YOU."

Dwayne turns to his old friend, still in his grandma's rocking chair, and aggressively offers him a hand. It hovers in midair for a second, like Sam's going to leave him hanging, and then they clasp hands and perform some sort of complicated shake that concludes with exploding fists.

Sam looks to you, grinning, and sees your raised eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, did we just blow your mind?"

"You kids are just so adorable," you grin.

Sam scoffs, and Dwayne laughs.

"I'm not here to stay," Dwayne informs you. "I just came to deliver dinner. I'm gonna let y'all get settled in. But if you need anything at all, you call me, hear?"

You nod, trying to pretend that the weight of the basket in your arms is nothing. How many people did Mama think she was cooking for?!

"Thanks, man," Sam smiles, pulling himself out of the rocking chair and giving Dwayne a simple handshake this time. "You're gonna come back soon to get me caught up on everything, right?"

"Absolutely," Dwayne says. "Welcome home, brother."

Home.

[moonlightmornings]

hannah's buddie fic recs || pt. 7 💫

oohhh i can just tell 8x17 is gonna be the most earth-shattering pre-season finale ever, could easily lean towards terrifically good or horrifically bad

as always, if you're the author of one of these please reply and i'll tag your tumblr! and check the tags and warnings before reading!!

<- PART SIX: hannah's buddie fic recs

decipher my heart (you can feel me) by buckleydefender | 64.1k words | GA Eddie is injured in a fire that leaves him temporarily blind, Buck is the only one he wants to take care of him. They’re both in love and they’re both oblivious.

meet me where the tide comes in by @iinryer | 4.1k words | GA A 3+1 fic about eddie getting kissed on the head

time, wondrous time by saintsnames | 5.4k words | GA Eddie wakes up after being shot, and all he remembers is thinking that Buck was hurt.

sleep talk by antrashi | 3.0k words | GA Buck says “I love you” in his sleep, Eddie doesn’t cope, and somehow it all comes to a head next to the mustard.

between something and nothing by taegyungie | 11.7k words | explicit It all begins with a heated conversation: “What, you want me to fuck you in your sleep?”

international let's hug day! by @kejfeblintz | 1.2k words | GA Eddie was yawning his way through fastening his uniform shirt when the door was flung open. Before he even really registered someone else’s presence, a body flung itself into his back and two strong arms clamped around him, squeezing tight... “Happy Let’s Hug Day!” Buck warbled in his ear, entirely too enthusiastic for this time of day.

he touched me, so i live to know by @kejfeblintz | 4.1k words | teen+ 5 times Buck and Eddie touched, and one time they really touched.

all in good time by @kejfeblintz | 4.5k words | GA Eddie ended the call with an explosive sigh, dropping his phone on the couch cushion and raking his hands through his hair... “My parents are visiting,” Eddie said, words muffled by Buck’s t-shirt.

i ain't gotta tell him (i think he knows) by dickleydiaz | 3.4k words | teen+ The one where Eddie knows about Buck and Maddie’s conversation but he conveniently forgets to actually say something. Until now.

touch me, baby (put your lips on mine) by love_was_a_deadline | 25.6k words | teen+ Eddie keeps touching Buck, and Buck is losing his mind.

pandora's box by sevenheavenly | 10.8k words | explicit Eddie learns to open up.

strip me of my sins and pain by thanatoskull | 9.7k words | explicit Buck finally finds the perfect excuse to worship Eddie's body.

and all of my peaches are ruined for you by @queerdiazs (oklahoma) | 4.1k words | explicit Buck asks to breed Eddie one morning and, well, Eddie isn't going to say no.

carved until i set you free by billionlittlepieces | 2.7k words | GA Buck notices that Eddie never lets himself be the little spoon. He is determined to break through his boyfriend's walls and show him that sometimes, it is okay for him to let himself be taken care of.

everybody leaves (but you don't get to) by plz_send_help27 | 12.0k words | explicit Buck flips the tablet to find out Eddie's leaving for El Paso. He rightfully is pissed off about it and they argue. Said argument gets a little heated, and they fuck nasty about it (8x08 coda)

accidents, healing kisses, conversations & creative solutions by @sugarandspace | 4.6k words | teen+ Eddie has a nightmare and in his half-asleep state he pushes Buck out of bed, which results in a small injury. While Buck is understanding and chill about it, Eddie finds himself unable to simply forget and move on.

[buried-dog]

TW: vent + violence, suicide, and homophobia mentioned!

I wasn't diagnosed until I was 18 and out of highschool (and payed insane money for it) despite multiple years of trying. As a child I was "diagnosed" with symptoms of ADHD and autism as well math level 3 years behind what's expected for my age. This meant I would receive absolutely no help whatsoever but all the discrimination. The reason my parents heard? Because, and I quote, they were "trying to make their child into an idiot in order to gain benefits" because the three of us "are lazy".

In kindergarten my classmates destroyed my books and toys and my teacher laughed that I was crying about it. When someone turned off lights in the restroom, after brushing my teeth as one of the first kids to be done, the kids banged on the glass door making it fall on my foot. My toes were so broken my shoes were visible stained with my blood. The teacher put a small bandaid on the cut and didn't inform anyone about this. When my mom came to pick me up at 6 pm the teacher was demanding she pay for damages I didn't even cost. My mom basically told her "shut up, you insane bitch, I'm taking my child to hospital" in much nicer words. Turned out I had multiple of my toes crushed and one of my bones cut my skin, that's why I was bleeding. The teacher was not punished or moved in any way.

When I was in my first primary school I was regularly beaten by "gifted kids" who not only were not punished but instead I was forced by my teacher to apologise to my abusers, because at that point it wasn't just bullying, or else I would be kept a year back. Among other things they did was putting my hair on fire, throwing firecrackers at me, throwing me into the frozen pond, under the ice, that was in a park next to the school, destroying my backpack and textbooks, and even cutting me with scissors. If I told the teachers I would be forced to apologize to them. The situation I remember the most is when suddenly a girl attacked me and kicked me so hard in the leg I couldn't walk for the next two days. I remember when a week later I learned my homeroom teacher forgot about this despite the fact she was the one to help me get to the nurse.

In my second primary school I was locked in classrooms during breaks as punishment for not doing homework which ended up with me developing claustrophobia (fear of locked places and situations you can't escape! Not small places! Although they also can trigger.). I was still bullied by students and teachers, but finally it was only verbally. I wish adults would tell me that I have any potential to waste, instead my teachers would regularly say it's good that I was "the way I was" because I wouldnt be able to hold a job anyway. One substitute teacher said to my face during an English lesson that I should just kill myself because I'm useless to society and only a leech. Mind you, I was 14 at that time. Even my class thought that this was too much and reported him. He was not punished in any way and we still had lessons with him. When I was 12 I had an aneurysm. After spending Christmas, new year and my 13th birthday in hospital I was let out early, but was supposed to stay in bed for 2 more weeks. I asked my classmates who lived few houses down the street if I can come by to borrow his notebooks. He told me I can't because he was too embarrassed about me showing up at his house, because as I learned later, while I was dying, my school started a true rumour I'm queer. When I came back to school I was given a week to catch up with everything that happened during those months, but nobody wanted to give their notes to a "dirty fag" so I got in even more trouble academically.

By the time I got to highschool my parents pulled me out of school because they knew if I continued I would just kill myself. You cannot drop out where I'm from so officially I was homeschooled. I have no idea how I managed to pass final exams, but it was literally the exact % I needed to pass them.

Colour me pissed when I talk about how I and many others were literally torture by school and out of nowhere a Gifted Kid crawls out to change the entire conversation to something it wasn't about. It's not that you weren't traumatized by school, it's that it's not about you!

insane to me when former gifted kids hear other people (mainly disabled people and dropouts) talk about being horribly traumatized & irreversibly harmed by the school system and their response 9/10 times is “oh yeah??? you think that’s bad??? well my teacher said I had potential and everyone said I was going places and then I didn’t” like we’re supposed to be absolutely devastated for them because of this. lmfao

[orellazalonia]

Learning to Ask

Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]

Summary: Feeling small and struggling to ask for comfort, you finally find the courage to whisper a simple request, a hug. Bucky responds with quiet warmth, holding you close as Steve gently joins in, reminding you that it’s safe to ask for things and even safer to be held.

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: There’s not a single use of the reader’s specific pronouns here. So, this can be read by anyone. Remember though: You are responsible for the media you consume.

Main Masterlist

You’ve never been good at asking for things.

Not for help. Not for affection. Not even when you’re quietly unraveling inside. As a result, you’d often become non-verbal, outwardly and unintentionally demonstrating your struggle to ask for what you want or need.

And it’s not that Steve and Bucky haven’t been kind. They’ve been patient, gentle. They notice things, the way your shoulders curl in when you feel small, the way you sometimes hesitate before joining them on the couch, or how you chew your sleeve when the words won’t come out.

But you still hold back. Even in the soft glow of safety, something inside you is too scared to reach out.

Tonight is quiet. The apartment is warm, cozy. The lights are dim with a blanket tossed over the back of the couch, something simple playing on the TV. You’re curled in your usual corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, your oversized hoodie swallowing most of your frame. The plushie they gave you sits on your lap, clutched a little tighter than usual.

Steve is in the kitchen making tea. You can hear the clink of the spoon against ceramic. Bucky’s nearby, reading something with his legs stretched out, lounging in one of the living room chairs.

You feel it rising slowly, that aching want. That soft, desperate little part of you whispering, Please just hold me for a second. Please just ask if I’m okay.

But no one can read your mind. So, you stay silent. Your fingers twitch.

Glancing over at Bucky, his expression is relaxed and focused on the book. Not ignoring you, just giving you space, like they always do when they know you’re floating closer to littlespace. You know they'd never push. But that doesn’t make the words any easier.

Your lips part and then close again. It takes you three full minutes. Three whole minutes of your heart thudding and your chest tightening and your mouth going dry, before you finally whisper,

“…Daddy?”

He looks up instantly. Not startled, just alert and present. His eyes soften just as fast.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

Your throat tightens as you quickly look back down at the plush in your lap and squeeze it. You don’t know where to focus on. Your voice barely makes it out.

“…Can I… have a hug?”

There’s silence for just a moment. Not the bad kind. Just the kind that feels like stillness right before something really, really important happens. It still felt like an eternity to you, like maybe your request was too much.

But Bucky sets his book down without hesitation. He doesn’t make a big deal of it. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pry. He just moves, crossing the space between you in two strides, and sinks down beside you on the couch.

“C’mere,” He says softly, opening his arms.

You don’t hesitate as you lean into him like you’ve been waiting your whole life to. His arms wrap around you tight, not too tight, but just right. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. The other anchors you close. You can feel his heartbeat, practically hear it. It’s slow and steady.

You let out a shaky breath before Steve walks in. He pauses at the doorway, holding two mugs of tea. He takes in the scene of you tucked tightly against Bucky, your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, your cheek pressed close.

“Everything alright?” He asks, voice soft, not wanting to startle you.

Bucky doesn't move. His arms stay wrapped around you, steady as ever. He glances up at Steve and nods, a small, proud smile tugging at his mouth.

“Yeah,” He murmurs, resting his chin lightly atop your head. “They asked this time.”

Steve’s face softens instantly. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he sets the mugs down quietly and crosses the room, crouching beside the two of you.

“That’s a big step,” He smiles at you, his tone gentle, “We’re really proud of you.”

You don’t say anything, but he doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t pull you or crowd you. He just eases onto the couch gently, his thigh pressing against yours, his warmth surrounding you from the other side now.

Steve leans in just a little, brushing your hair away from your face. “You know, you did something really brave just now.”

You squirm a little, face heating up. “Didn’t feel brave…”

Bucky’s arms tighten slightly. “Still was,” He murmurs. “Takes a lot to speak up. Especially when you’re little.”

You nod, but it’s hard to believe. The inside of you feels squishy and small, like any second now the world could get too loud, too fast, and you’d disappear back into yourself.

But you don’t. Because they’re here.

Steve’s hand finds yours where it’s fallen back down to rest on your lap, clutching your plushie. He doesn’t take it away. Just laces his fingers with yours, gentle and warm. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod again, feeling shy.

“When you feel like this,” He asks softly, “What helps the most? Is it cuddles? Gentle words? A blanket? Maybe your paci?”

You blink up at him, eyes wide. No one’s ever asked you that before, not like that. Not like it mattered. You feel the answer bubble up in your chest. Quiet and honest.

“…Warm blankie. This…and… soft voices.”

Steve smiles. “That’s good to know, sweetheart. Thank you for telling me.”

Then he gets up for only a second, returns with the softest, fluffiest blanket you own. The one they keep clean and close by, just for you. He wraps it carefully around your shoulders like you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because you are to them.

“Better?” He settles back beside you.

You nod. Your voice is smaller now. “…Yeah.”

Bucky’s hand rubs slow circles on your back. Steve kisses the top of your head.

In that moment, you feel safe and seen. Like maybe asking for what you need doesn’t make you a burden after all.

“Anytime you want something,” Steve murmurs, “Even if it’s little, even if it’s silly, you can tell us. We want to take care of you, baby.”

You sniffle. “Even if I don’t use big words?”

“Especially then,” Bucky murmurs. “You don’t need big words with us. Just whatever you feel comfortable with in the moment. Just you.”

You melt into both of them. Wrapped in a warm blanket, between the strong, steady arms of two people who don’t need you to be anything but exactly how you are.

[ophanstears]

i could explain why anyone that says "flowey cant feel (positive emotions) because he doesnt have a soul" is wrong but i dont feel like it. all you need to know that as a fellow trauma survivor he is my puppet to project onto whether he likes it or not

read the tags for more i suppose

[alongtidesoflight]

i swear my stepdad is so illogical AND stubborn it hurts

[stickdoodlefriend]

I can see a lot of your points but I would also like to address some as well.

I agree 911 has put the same conflicts on loop because the writers like to regress the character development for many like Eddie and the Vertigo storyline, Buck's self awareness is temporary, and Maddie's mental health plummets every time new trauma is introduced like you mentioned. However for Henren, isn't marriage/job/kids the main categories someone has development in? Hen deciding between becoming a doctor or being a paramedic was some good development too. I agree I would love for these characters to explore their potential but from what we've seen so far, I don't think they can stick the landing. Buck died (temporarily) but even for the time period he was dead, nothing happened.

So Bobby died, they'll shuffle around and we'll definitely see captain Hen which I love! But what else, either Tim goes the Shannon route and has ghost Bobby floating around the rafters of the firehouse or everyone else reverts back to themselves before. But I would like to not make any hasty judgements and will wait to see the rest of the season on how they deal with his death.

On paper, Bobby dying for his family after he killed them is a perfect ending. However this was a character who also said that 'God is punishing me by keeping me alive' and suicidal until season 7, to kill him off after he finally didn't choose to die and was huge in moving forward for him left a bad taste in my mouth.

I agree, he can't handle retirement, but that's the thing. If he has accepted living a long life with Athena, that would have been the next step for him to accept. And being forced into retirement similar not identical to Buck's firetruck arc would have been a good development for him. Just because someone is never going to retire doesn't mean you have to kill them off to keep the show. Plus, the 118 confide in Bobby and those conversations were a really good tool to get insight into everyone's vulnerabilities. Captain Hen would look to Bobby to talk about leading because as great as she is, I want her to stumble and learn and grow. She won't be able to ask anyone for help now.

I know grief is a part of life, believe me. And I know you don't get goodbyes and death is unexpected and cruel. I get it. I'm holding out for the last two episodes because while Chimney and Athena got to grieve, we haven't really seen others. Hen, Buck, Eddie, heck even Ravi had important relationships with Bobby. We spent so much time on the case and the baby that could have been allocated to showing Harry and May grieving too because they are important to Bobby. And that is why I'm worried that for the first time, Tim has finally committed to a death but if the first episode to follow is already a mixed bag, I'm unsure of how we're planning to wrap everything up in two episodes. ESPECIALLY because we have another emergency coming up.

To address Eddie, what aspect of Eddie's and Christopher's life is in Texas? The last episode with Chris really highlighted how everything his parents had told about Chris liking was manipulated. Chris wasn't happy and him earnestly asking him 'you'll be my dad again?' clearly implied they were skewing Christopher's understanding of what was happening. Yes, Eddie bought a house but his found family is in LA. He has friends there, the 118, heck Christopher's friends are there too. The Texas arc wasnt done well but even taking everything in canon, Chris wanted distance to heal but his parents only created a rift and made him feel small and out of character. He wasn't thriving there and he only lived there for a year. He won't be uprooted. He's going back home to his old school and home. Eddie doesn't want to be an Uber driver and the whole point of his arc was choosing joy and joy is Christopher but also learning how to be himself and not just 'dad'.

He likes being a firefighter and the 118 is his family. That is why Bobby kept his seat at the 118. The season 5 arc showed Eddie wants to be a firefighter and be with his family again.

Yes the 8x16 episode didn't prioritize Eddie and I didn't want them to. However because they spent so much time on the case (a woman in denial about her son's death even though Athena KNEW Bobby was dead) that they didn't have time to show the 118's grief. They don't have to share Athena and Chimney's spotlight but I think a few minutes would have been good to show no, this is his family, they are actually more than coworkers who lost someone they worked for 7+ years would have been good. But we will see this Thursday if Tim can carry those emotional beats.

As for Hen, YES I want her to be captain. But she needs to be Interim Captain first consistently for a few episodes or addressed. The development that would happen as a captain will kickstart as an interim captain.

MCD is not the enemy AND that a lot of people are rightfully upset because 911 just broke the plot armor and they are valid in feeling that because for them it was a comfort show and characters have survived a lot of unlikely things.

as a writer, and as someone who likes to analyse media for fun, Bobby's death is quite literally the only logical narrative choice they could make for his character this season.

sure they could've let him survive, let him live through the rest of this season and into s9, but then what? he never gets promoted, never retires, never changes, just stays stagnant at the top of the 118 forever? that's just putting a cork in the bottle. no one else on the team will have any movement with Bobby still in place.

Hen and Buck won't branch out with Bobby still in the captain's seat. (not that I think Buck wants to be captain yet, but that's another post.) Chim hasn't shown any signs of wanting to change his career path, so Bobby dying isn't going to affect that, and Ravi's looking pretty content where he is too. Eddie, of course, isn't even a concern since he's not a firefighter anymore, so his promotional goals aren't relevant.

So it comes down to Buck and Hen. the two who have shown in past seasons that they want more in their lives/careers than what they currently have. taking Bobby out of the equation means that Hen can apply for the captaincy. it means Buck can start learning those ropes in case he ever needs to step up as interim if Hen needs him to. hell it could even mean that Buck might just try for a promotion anyway, since he's had literally zero career growth since he finished his probational year at the 118. (I'm pretty sure there's a rank or two between where Buck is now and the captaincy but I don't know enough about it.)

let's be real, Bobby was never going to retire. he loves his job and his team too much to ever just leave like that. he would never be happy knowing that his team and his wife were still out there at risk and he couldn't do anything to help them. sure he might've liked retirement if Athena retired with him, but she's not going to do that either. so yeah, the only narrative choice that the writers could make this season to shake up the show's dynamics was to kill off Bobby. and it's sad, but its necessary. MCD isn't a bad thing, it can be really useful when its used properly, and this I think is one case where it's been utilised perfectly.

we can be sad, we can mourn Bobby (and I certainly am) but I don't think it's fair to label this as a "bad writing decision" when it's the only logical choice to make.

[braceletofteeth]

If you want to be happy, I hope it comes true.

I hope you will be happy too.

[novadorks]

finally finished orv after two years . . . what do i do with my life now

[fullmetall]

i like thinking abt pre-canon ed but i also like thinking abt post-canon ed a lot

[000png]

ajlkdfadfsja

[sai-int]

TICKET TO PLAY | john price

Sheriff Price has a habit of pulling you over, and you have a habit of seeing how far you can push him. It’s a game you've been playing for years—a harmless one, until he gives you exactly what you’ve been asking for.

⤿ based on this | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, fem!reader, small town vibes, porn with minimal plot, smut, oral (m receiving), dom!john (back and forth between hard and soft), bratty—sort of pathetic reader, fingering, squirting, public sex, smidge of voyeurism, size kink if you really read the fine print, implied slight age gap [ 6.6k words ]

You weren’t going that fast.

Maybe nudging 35 in a 25, but the road was empty—just you and the soft, golden light of a July evening slipping into dusk. The cicadas hummed their lazy symphony, crickets chirping in harmony, while the air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and summer warmth. It was the kind of night that wrapped around you like a blanket, slow and sweet, the kind that made you want to roll the windows down and let the world drift by.

But then the sirens sliced through the calm, sharp and jarring, shattering the stillness. Red and blue lights flashed in your rearview, splashing the road ahead in a chaotic swirl of color. Your hands tightened on the wheel, that familiar knot twisting in your gut. You didn’t even need to check the mirror to know who it was.

Sheriff John Price.

The small-town Sheriff (asshole) that had a sixth sense for catching you when you weren’t even doing anything wrong. The guy who’d written you up for a rolling stop at an empty intersection, or a right on red at 2 a.m. when the streets were dead silent. Sure, maybe you were five over on a straight stretch of road, but come on—did he really have nothing better to do than hassle you over that? It was starting to feel like he was just looking for excuses to pull you over.

At this point, you figured you were practically on a first-name basis. Hell, you were probably the most frequent flyer on his ticket roster. But that was the trade-off for living in a town where the sheriff knew everyone’s business—and apparently, yours most of all.

You eased the rickety old Nissan Skyline to a crawl, tires screeching softly as you pulled onto the shoulder and shifted into park. Your fingers moved on autopilot, fishing the registration out of the center console before he even asked. If John Price had one talent, it was knowing where you were before you did—and you’d learned the hard way to keep things within arm’s reach.

The music blared for a second longer before you killed the volume, the sudden silence pressing down on the summer night like a weight. You rolled down the window, letting the warm, sticky air flood the cabin, thick with the scent of grass and distant rain. Leaning back in your seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, you waited. Same old song and dance.

First came the slam of his cruiser door, sharp and final, like he was already annoyed at the prospect of dealing with you. Then the crunch of his boots on the asphalt—slow, deliberate, each step dragging out the inevitable. It was almost comical, the way he took his time, like he wasn’t the one who’d flipped on the lights and sirens.

The window hissed as it rolled down, the sound jarring in the quiet, and before you could stop yourself, a smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. You didn’t bother hiding it this time. If you were walking away thirty dollars lighter, you might as well make it entertaining.

"Evenin’, John," you drawl, letting the words hang in the air with a playful edge that makes his jaw tighten.

He leans in, his arms braced against the window frame like he owns the whole damn road. His face is all sharp lines and shadows in the fading light, the faint scent of cigarettes and worn leather wrapping around you, mingling with the heavy, humid air of the summer night.

“Don’t call me John,” he grumbles, his voice rougher than usual, like gravel under tires.

You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a grin. “Why not?” you tease, letting your fingers trail lazily along the steering wheel. “Thought we were friends, John.” You bat your lashes, adding a pout for good measure, laying it on thick just to see how far you can push him this time

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. His eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he leans in closer, his presence crowding you. “We aren’t ‘friends,’” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “You know why I pulled you over?”

It’s not really a question—it’s a challenge, and you can’t help but rise to it. You tilt your head, letting your gaze linger on him, your smirk widening. “Hmm… maybe ‘cause you’re a sucker for a pretty car?” you suggest, your tone dripping with sarcasm, sweet enough to sting.

John’s lips press into a thin line, but the subtle shift in his posture tells you everything you need to know. His gaze is unrelenting, sharp enough to cut through the cool facade you’re trying so hard to maintain. Internally, he’s fighting not to laugh—you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, like he’s holding back a cackle.

“If this—” he steps back, his eyes sweeping over the exterior of your car with deliberate slowness before landing back on you, “—is your idea of a ‘pretty car,’ I might have to issue you a ticket for driving without glasses.”

You lean back in your seat, arms crossing over your chest, your mouth hanging open in mock offense. Just because Fergie was old didn’t mean she was ugly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?”

He stands there for a moment, just watching you, his expression unreadable. It’s like he’s weighing how much more of this he’s willing to put up with. Finally, he tilts his head, his voice dry as dust. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a brat?”

“Touché.”

You two had been here before. Over and over again. Ever since you’d come back home from college, he’d been hot on your trail—always showing up at the worst possible moments, right when you thought you might’ve gotten away with it.

This was your town. You’d grown up here, knew every road, every corner, every face. It was small, sure, but it was yours. And then John Price showed up. Sparkling, brand new hot-shot sheriff, fresh off the Mayflower. Sworn in by all the touch-starved wives and swooned over by every teenage girl in a fifty-mile radius. Ever since he’d arrived, it was like Elvis all over again

You figured he didn’t have the right to boss the locals around like he owned the place. No shiny badge or gun on his hip was going to earn him any respect from you. This wasn’t some big city where the badge meant everything. Out here? You could be just as stubborn as he was.

Still, he had a knack for showing up when you least expected it, always lurking in the background, keeping an eye on you for reasons you couldn’t quite figure out. No one could explain it, but there he was, always hovering like you were some kind of problem. But you never did anything wrong. Not really.

“I bet you 50 bucks there’s about five disgruntled teens smoking pot under the high school bleachers as we speak,” you say, leaning back in your seat with a grin tugging at your lips. “Surely, they deserve your devotion and attention more than little ol’ me.”

He pauses, clearly weighing your words, and you can see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. “I don’t want your money,” he mutters, his tone dry but with a hint of amusement—and something else you can’t quite place. “Besides, I doubt you’ve got 50 dollars to spare, considering how often you’re in the precinct paying off tickets.” He leans in just a little, his gaze sharp, like he’s daring you to argue.

You shrug, playing the part, even though you know he’s right. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’re wasting your time with me. I’m practically a model citizen. Those kids under the bleachers, though? They could be causing all kinds of trouble.”

You give him a sidelong glance, letting the playful challenge hang in the air between you. “I’m just trying to help you out here, Sheriff.”

Your tone is sweet—too sweet—and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out whether you’re messing with him or just being your usual self.

He takes a slow breath, clearly trying to keep his composure. His hand pinches the bridge of his nose before he exhales, the sound heavy with exasperation. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Big help, givin’ me that advice.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you, your voice dripping with mock sincerity. “What can I say, Sheriff? Someone’s gotta make your job worthwhile.”

For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you. The air grows heavy, charged with something you can’t quite name, and the silence stretches taut between you. But then the faint hum of a car engine cuts through the stillness, tires rolling past on the asphalt—a sharp reminder that you’re not alone out here.

“Step out of the car.” His voice is calm, steady, but there’s a flicker of something darker beneath the surface, a low undercurrent that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your jaw tightens, anger flaring hot and sudden in your chest. He’s never asked you to step out of the car before, and the demand catches you off guard. You can’t afford to be arrested—not with a shift at the diner at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, not with the way your life is already balanced on a knife’s edge. The thought of cuffs, of being hauled into the precinct, makes your stomach churn.

But you don’t move. Not yet. Instead, you meet his gaze, your own sharp and defiant, and for a heartbeat, the two of you are locked in a silent standoff.

You don’t say a word, just reach down to unclick your seatbelt with an indignant sigh, movements slow—like dragging out the inevitable might change the outcome. The latch pops, the sound too loud in the quiet, and you open the door, letting the evening air rush in, cool against the heat prickling at your skin.

You step out, tugging your shorts down where they’ve ridden up, keeping your gaze on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, anywhere but at him. You try to keep your breathing steady, try to act like this is just another bullshit stop, just another way for him to waste your time and break your wallet. But your heart’s already racing, faster than you want it to.

Then his hand is on your hip.

Firm. Unmoving. Not quite guiding, not quite restraining. Just there. A weight that lingers, like a silent reminder that he’s the one in control here, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise.

For a second, you freeze.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, charged with something you don’t want to name.

You swallow, still refusing to look at him. “Gonna write me a bullshit ticket, John?” Your voice is casual, flippant—too much so. You know it, and so does he.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that makes it worse.

Because the truth is, you’d rather he just do it. Write the damn ticket, hand you the fine, and send you on your merry way. That would be easy. It’d be normal.

But nothing about him has ever been easy. And this? Whatever this is? It sure as hell isn’t normal.

His fingers tighten—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for you to catch it, that flicker of something dark and barely restrained. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and you realize he’s at his limit.

Like he’s weighing his options. Like he’s wondering if he should just give you the damn ticket and walk away. 

You tilt your chin up, finally meeting his gaze, like a challenge. Would he?

His voice is tight when he finally speaks, low and strained, every word biting through the air.

"You think this is a game?"

You pause, letting the question linger as you ponder. Is it a game? Is that what this has always been? This back-and-forth, this constant chase—where you go about your life, minding your business, and he shows up, lurking, watching, like he’s got nothing better to do than make you his personal problem.

Would he really arrest you? Pin you against his cruiser and throw you in the back? Take you downtown like you’re some criminal? The thought sends a slow, involuntary shiver down your spine, but the more you think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. If he was going to do it, it would’ve happened already.

He’s just a big softie. A stubborn, gruff, self-righteous pain in the ass who acts like he’s got the whole town in a chokehold but has spent too many years shadowing you for it to be a coincidence.

And deep down, you reckon he must have some sick, weird crush if the only way he can muster up the courage to see you is by stuffing a white slip of paper under your windshield wiper, like he can’t even be bothered to have a conversation without the safety of bureaucracy to hide behind.

You don’t even have to think about it anymore. 

This is a game.

You keep your gaze steady, watching him. Watching the way he’s fighting to maintain that authority, to keep control. And through the harsh headlights from his car, it’s almost cute—the way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way his fingers twitch against your hip like he’s waging a war with himself. Like he thinks he can win.

But he can’t.

Not really.

His grip on you tightens, fingers pressing deeper, slipping beneath soft flesh to squeeze the bone. Like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he thinks if he just holds on tight enough, he can remind himself who’s in charge here.

But you see it—the shift in his expression, the cracks forming right in front of you. His eyes are darker now, narrowed with something he’s still pretending isn’t there, and his teeth grit like it physically pains him to keep standing here.

You just can’t resist.

You lean in just enough, close enough that your breath tickles his cheek, and with a slow, knowing smirk, you whisper, “You’ve been dying to get your hands on me, haven’t you, John?”

The words hang between you, sharp and saccharine, and for a moment, it’s like the world holds its breath.

His eyes go dark, that flicker of anger flashing through them like a warning. But it’s not just anger anymore. It’s something else, something raw. For a split second, you’re certain he’s off the deep end.

Before you can even blink, his hand moves. It’s fast, and suddenly, he’s grabbing you by the arm, yanking you toward him with a force that steals the breath from your lungs.

“Get over here,” he growls.

The words are rough, guttural, scraping against his throat like he’s been holding them back for too long.

The next thing you know, he’s dragging you to the hood of his cruiser, his grip tight and bruising as his fingers wrap around your wrist, effortlessly dwarfing it. The cold metal of the hood bites against your skin as he shoves you down, bending you over the car.

And then he’s on you.

His chest is solid heat against your back, his weight pressing you into the hood like he’s making sure you stay there. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements as you try to process just how quickly the shift between you has turned into this.

“Talk so fuckin’ much,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice a growl of frustration and something deeper, something rougher. His breath fans against your ear, hot and unsteady, sending a shiver down your spine.

One hand clamps over your wrists, holding them firm against the small of your back, while the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of your throat.

The grip is possessive. Unforgiving, like he’s staking a claim.

“You think you can just keep pushing me? Keep fuckin’ with me like this, hmm?”

A soft whimper tumbles from your lips, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip, the rest of the sound dying in your throat. His hand pulls on your hair, making your neck arch back, and the sharp tug sends a jolt straight to your cunt. You try to choke back the reaction, but it’s impossible—the way he’s holding you, the way he’s pressing into you with every word, every move.

His body presses into yours, the intensity of it all making your pulse race. Despite everything, despite the situation, a shiver runs down your spine. You can tell he’s holding back by the way his teeth grit, the sharpness in his voice. 

You smirk, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze from the side. “By the way John Jr’s more sprung than a rainy day in April, I’d say you like it,” he groans and you chuckle, “You do like it, don’t you, John?”

The words slip from your lips, taunting him, and you can feel the shift in his posture before he even moves. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling you back further, forcing you to arch your neck more as he leans in, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, each exhale brushing over you like a warning.

“Think you’ve got me figured out?” he growls, teeth grazing the curve of your ear, his words a promise and a threat all at once. “Since you’re so fuckin’ knowledgeable, tell me something…”

Your pulse quickens, the anticipation like the loaded gun in his waistband. “Tell you what?” you ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless, but your eyes never leave his.

“Tell me what I do t’dumb girls that don’t know how t’speak only when spoken to,” he murmurs, his grip shifting, pulling you in closer, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. 

You can feel his cock twitch with interest in his jeans, and instinctively, you roll your hips back into his. The firm bulge presses against your pulsating cunt, offering just the smallest bit of reprieve from the ache in your clit and you can’t help but whimper. “You give them a ticket and send them on their way?”

“Nice try, love,” he says, the words dripping with disappointment, like he’s genuinely let down by your guess.

Before you can even react, his hand leaves your hair, and you hear the cold click of the cuffs snapping around your wrists.

You jerk against the restraint, but it’s useless. You turn to look up at him, but the look on his face—hands on his hips, blue eyes locked on you—makes you stop.

No smirk, no joke. Just intensity.

“Get on your knees,” he says, voice low, rough, without hesitation.

You bite your lip, the urge to snap back hitting you. But instead, you swallow it down and push yourself up, kneeling before him on the pavement. The roughness of it bites into your skin, the cuffs digging into your wrists, each pull reminding you of just how much control he has in this situation.

His boot taps lightly against your thigh, the sound sharp in the quiet air, a silent demand for your attention. You glance up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s a look that makes your pulse quicken, as if he can see right through you, into everything you’re trying to shovel deep..

“Sit,” he commands, the word simple, authoritative.

It takes you a second to realize what he means, but when his boot nudges against your clothed cunt, you get it. 

You lift your hips slow, like you’re not sure but can’t help it, settling atop his boot. The sensation makes a shiver run up your spine. His fingers find your hair again, firm, enough to tilt your head back and make you look up at him.

“This’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it, dove?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, like he’s savoring the sight of you—knees to the ground, wrists bound, eyes wide as you stare up at him. He can’t help but palm himself at the sight.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, heat simmering in your cheeks with anticipation. “I’m not gonna beg,” you sneer, defiant like your cunt isn’t already drooling for him. The lie sits thick on your tongue, heavy enough to choke on.

He smirks—slow like he’s amused, but there’s something else there, like he’s already decided how he’ll play with you.

“That’s cute,” his fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just a little further. Your lips part on instinct, a quiet, pained mewl slipping out before you can stop it.

“but you will,” he hums with a smile so saccharine, it makes you want to smack it off his face. His free hand reaches for his belt, fumbling with the leather as he pulls it out of the buckle. You can feel your body buzzing with anticipation, the tension building in every nerve of your body. Everything in your mind is screaming at you, telling you how wrong this is, how this can’t happen. But deep down, you know he’s right. This has been a long time coming.

But fuck, he’s a literal cop, the Sheriff. This has to fall under some public indecency law.

But despite everything, despite all the warnings your mind throws at you, the pull is stronger, too real to ignore. And you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it.

He peels down the zipper of his blue slacks and the sound echoes in your ears. You’re on your knees on the shoulder of a road, the last vestiges of daylight fading, and God help you, your mouth waters when you see the outline of his solid cock through his boxers.

He doesn't break eye contact, his other hand still tight in your hair, daring you to even try to look away. The recklessness, the sheer audacity of him whipping out his cock in the middle of a traffic stop. It’s all so palpable, like a stack of weights on your chest. He tugs down his boxers in one fluid movement, his cock springing free, and you can’t help but try to back away at the sight. 

He's massive in every sense of the word. Dark curls trail from his navel to the base of him, thick but neatly kept. His cock hangs low and heavy between his legs, thick and long with a few veins and just the softest blush of pink at his tip. There’s no way you can take him all, let alone in your mouth. 

He could see the shift in your eyes, the sudden apprehension in your demeanor, and the hand in your hair loosened. He trailed his fingers from your scalp to your cheek, his thumb wandering to the plump flesh of your parted lips.

“You can say no, dove. I won’t hold it against you,” he says softly, giving you an out. His blue eyes soften as they meet yours, and you know he wouldn’t force you. But the way the hard leather of his boot presses through your shorts, firm against your clit, has you fighting the urge to grind against him. You want—No, need him. Badly.

You bow your head to meet his cock, tongue darting out, hungrily swiping up the drop of precum dangling from his tip. He automatically groans and his hands find their way back to your scalp, feeding his cock into your mouth. Your lips tighten around him immediately, suckling as he presses in and stretches you out. 

“Fuck— that’s it, love, so fuckin’ tight,” he babbles as he watches his length disappear in your mouth over and over. His eyes flutter shut as he tips his head back—he knew if he looked at you any longer he’d blow his load too soon. Your tongue is just so hot. He hadn’t expected it to be ice, but God you were sweltering. He nestled himself in the back of your throat so nicely, tickling and toying with your gag reflex each time you bobbed your head. You coat his length with slick spit, the sounds of your gags subconsciously making him push your head down even further. 

You focus on steady breaths through your nose as his grip tightens. Your hands strain against the cuffs, aching to touch, to feel, to at least stroke where your mouth can’t reach. So pretty like this, he thinks. The way you look up at him, defiant yet desperate. The way your breath catches and your throat flutters around his mushroomed tip.

It drives him crazy—how much he wants to break that control, to make you lose it completely. His groans only spur you on further, your tongue moving with purpose, tracing the prominent vein along his underside.

Your hips jerk against his boot as spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, knees grinding into the asphalt, but you barely notice the sting. All you can think about is the way it makes heat pool in your cunt—sends sparks up your spine. 

You can’t help it—your hips keep moving, grinding against his boot, the rough leather driving you wild, and you’re sure you’re leaving a wet spot. The friction is delicious, and you’re so lost in it that you almost miss when he speaks.

 “Look at you,” he says, smirking despite how badly he needs to cum. “Can’t even help yourself, can you? Just a needy little mutt, humpin’ my boot.”

His hand tugs your strands, not rough but firm, just enough to make you gasp. “Just need your pretty pussy touched, that right?” he tuts softly, pulling you off him, a thin strand of saliva connecting your glistening lips to the tip of his cock.  “On your feet, come on.” He guides you up, your legs shaky and chest heaving but his grip steadies you. “There you go, sweetheart.”

The sky’s a deep blue now, the sun long gone, the cruiser’s headlights casting faint shadows. He shoves you back against the hood, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. His hands are on you immediately, rough and demanding, squeezing your thighs, your tits, like he’s marking his territory. 

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s useless. His fingers dig into your flesh, and your hips jerk instinctively, craving more. “So quiet now, hm?” he hums, his face centimeters from yours. “What happened to that smart little mouth of yours?”

The way he switches from caring to being so dominant, it makes your head spin. You glare at him, but he doesn’t care. His hand slides under the waistband of your shorts, fingers dancing over your soaked panties, and you can’t stop the way your hips roll into his hand, desperate for any touch he’ll give. “All this for me, sweet girl?” he mutters, middle finger slowly circling your sensitive clit, “All wound up, yeah? Need me to set you straight?”

“Fuck—,” you whine, your hips bucking into his hand, you can feel his breath against your lips as he chuckles. He deftly pulls your panties to the side, groaning when his fingers slide through your folds. His lips find your neck and he mouths at the sensitive patch of skin above your pulse, sucking a dark, red splotch into your skin as if you’re his. 

You instinctively toss your head back, letting him lick hot, wet stripes from your clavicle to your jaw. He slips a single finger into you and your cunt squelches embarrassingly. 

“Feels so good, John—,” you whine into the evening breeze as he pumps his finger in you, curling to hit your g-spot with precision you’ve never experienced. He smiles against your skin before enveloping your lips with his.

It’s hungry, messy, and desperate. His tongue crowds your mouth trying to drink you whole, like he’s been parched, waiting for you to quench his thirst since he first met you. He swallows your whines and pleas for more as he works you open, grinning when he slips in his ring finger alongside the middle and you gasp.

It’s a pathetic attempt, really, to kiss him back—to try to match his fervor. He has you at his mercy and you’re near collapsing into him as he finger fucks you, low heat pooling in your belly as the coil tightens, as you claw at the hood of the car, wishing the cuffs weren’t there—wishing you could claw at him instead.

“Feel you gettin’ all tight ‘round me, dove. Gonna cum? Gonna soak my fingers, doll?” He questions against your lips. Your walls are squeezing him so tight, sucking him in and keeping them there. So greedy, he thinks.

You nod vehemently, biting your lip so you don’t scream—or sob, you aren’t sure how to feel—into the air. He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit, and that’s all you need to finally break. You near black out when you cum, sparks shooting up your spine and making your vision go black for a moment, his fingers lazily working you through your orgasm as your legs shake and your walls damn near break his fingers. 

“That’s my girl, knew you could do it,” he hums against your temple, wiping away tears you hadn’t known fallen. 

You hadn’t cum that hard in your life. Not by yourself, and most certainly not by any of the lame frat boys you fucked in your college days.

But John isn’t in a frat.

And he certainly isn’t just a boy.

He gently slips  his hand out of your pants, bringing his fingers up to his lips before popping them into his mouth. The way his eyes flutter shut, eyebrows pulling together softly as he groans at the taste of you on his tongue, it’s all fucking sinful. You watch him, mesmerized as he pulls the glistening digits out of his mouth with a pop. 

He dips his head to yours, kissing you again, but much softer this time, less hungry, more savoring. You can taste the subtle tang of your own juices on his tongue, and you’d be a liar if you said it didn’t turn you on further. 

John subtly tugs your shorts and panties down, the fabric whispering against your skin. He fishes for a small key in his pocket, before using them on the cuffs. They open, releasing your raw wrists with a near-silent snick. You feel the moment the cuffs fall away, and your hands move as if drawn by an invisible force, reaching for him, clutching at his jaw, pulling him closer with urgency. Your fingers roam his shoulders, his neck, tracing the hard lines of his body as he spreads your legs, tossing your discarded shorts aside. He settles between them, lazily pumping his cock with his free hand. 

“You want this, love?” he whispers against your lips.

You nod almost imperceptibly before crashing your lips back to his, like you just can’t get enough. 

He kisses you back like a magnet, but just as quickly, he pulls away again.

“Words,” he says sternly.

You huff, ever the impatient brat. “Put your fucking cock in me or I swear to God, I'll get in my car and drive right out of here.”

“That right?” he scoffs, "You gonna drive off?" He brings his angry red tip to your sodden folds, teasing your sensitive clit with each brush, making you jolt, “You want t’act like a brat,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Then we can do this the hard way.” He leans in, his lips brushing against yours. “Unless,” he murmurs, ghosting the head of his cock into your hole, “you'd like to ask nicely.”

You bite your lip as you watch him tease you, fighting a groan at the way your cunt squelches and stretches around just his tip. 

“She’s so greedy, already tryin’ to suck me in,” he coos, “don’t want to deprive her, now do we?”

You whine as he notches just the head in. He pauses, waiting for you to speak before he moves any further. ​You open your mouth and your voice just breaks as you leak and drip around him and onto the hood of the car. 

“Please, John, Please, I need you—Please, I’ll be so good,” You break and claw at his shoulders and back, desperate to pull him closer to you, to have you flush against him, chest to chest and full of his cock.

“See how gorgeous you sound when you’re nice? See where that gets you, love?” He coos as he inches his cock into you. Your walls are already fluttering, still all worked up from your last orgasm. He has to fight the urge to cum right then and there, gritting his teeth as his grip tightens on your thighs, fingers dimpling the fat as he spears you open. 

You’re slack jawed, eyes glassy as he bottoms out. You’ve never been so full and stretched in your life. You can feel him in every orifice of your body, you feel him in the pits of your stomach, in the hollows of your lungs, in the cavern of your throat. His tip nudges against your cervix and all you can manage is a strangled sob. 

“Oh none of that, lovie, none of that,” he hums, pecking your lips and wiping the tears from your eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

 “Gonna fuck you real nice,” the thumb he used to wipe your tears away travels south, finding your clit and drawing soft, slow circles that have you gushing and relaxing around him, “Just be a good pet and take it.”

You nod as he cradles your head in his hand. He gently moves his hips, inching his cock out of your cunt before sliding back in, squeezing the air out of you like a fucking balloon. 

Gasps fall from your lips with each stroke, not entirely from discomfort, but from the sheer intensity of the feeling. He repeats the motion, a slow, deliberate push and pull that sends shivers down your spine. He keeps his thumb on your clit steady, making your legs shake, a burning heat already blossoming low in your belly. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his clothed frame as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide of sensation.

He continues, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. Each thrust is deeper, faster, steady plaps from where his hips repeatedly meet yours. He knocks the breath out of you, each stroke forcing a soft mewl from your lips, your body trembling with anticipation. The world narrows, focusing on the rhythmic movements of his hips, the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with his.

He leans, his lips brushing against your own. “That's it, doll,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Take it all.”

His words ignite a fire within you, a raw, primal need that surges through your veins. You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with a ferocity that surprises even yourself. His pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, more erratic, and you know he’s getting close. The burning in your abdomen intensifies, spreading outwards, and throughout your body.

His name falls from your lips in a litany—John, John, John, john—a prayer, both a plea and a demand as his cock plows into you with staggering precision. Your cunt clenches around him, milking every ounce of pleasure from each stroke. He groans, cursing as his grip tightens on your hips, until you wail, toes curling and clawing at his back, your voice hoarse as you squirt all over him. He continues to move, his rhythm relentless, until he too reaches his peak, groaning as his body shudders, as he spurts hot ropes of cum deep inside your cunt.

You’re breathless, spent, your limbs heavy and relaxed. The dampness of sweat cooled on your skin, a pleasant contrast to the lingering heat between your legs. The world slowly comes back into focus and a soft smile plays on your lips as you trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

“That was…” you murmur, your voice still rough.

He nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “A lot,” he finishes for you, his voice low.

You hum in agreement, tightening your grip on his jaw just slightly. You don't need to say more. The silence that settles between you is comfortable. He shifts slightly, and it reminds you he's still there, sheathed inside you.

You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his body against yours, a comforting heat that seeps into your skin. Every nerve ending still fires, buzzing with aftershocks.

Slowly, he inches out of you. It feels weird to not be full of him, a sudden emptiness that makes you instinctively clench. He's out, and the cool air against your skin is a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. Of the fact that you’re literally on the side of the road. John reaches for your discarded clothes, picking them up with a casualness that borders on audacious. 

He starts with your panties, briefly bending down in front of you as you step into them. He pulls them up your legs, snapping the elastic against your hip. “Sheriff’s discretion,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with amusement as he fastens your shorts too. “Wouldn't want you getting a ticket for indecent exposure.” Fucking knew it.

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips. “You were just as indecent as I was, if I recall.”

He shrugs as he tugs up his own pants, a picture of nonchalant authority. “Evidence suggests otherwise, doll,” he counters, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “I'm the one writing the tickets.” He finishes buttoning your shorts, his fingers lingering against your skin. 

The world sways for a moment, your legs still a little shaky. He steadies you, his arm around your waist. He walks you back to your car, the silence between you comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. He stops just short of the driver's side door, his hand resting comfortably on your back.

“Drive safe,” he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

You nod, your eyes meeting his. You stand on your tip toes and kiss him, a soft, lingering peck on his lips that’s got him feeling like a teenager again.. He responds in kind, other hand moving to cup your cheek. Judging by how he holds you close, he’s reluctant to pull away.

But he does, and he turns and walks back to his cruiser. Eventually, You watch his car fade away, a strange mix of emotions swirling within you. Then, with a deep breath, you turn and get into your car. The door shuts and you just exhale, replaying everything that just happened. 

You reach to crank the keys sitting in the ignition and your eyes fall on a small white rectangle tucked under the windshield wiper. You get back out of the car and pull it free. 

It's a ticket. For speeding.

Asshole. 

[neverendingford]

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