#random massive mood drop | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

longing-for-the-past-times · 1 year

Text

The four times you fell asleep on Ghost and the one time Ghost fell asleep on you - one.

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

word count: 2,542

synopsis: Throughout your time as a Task Force 141 operator, you fell asleep on your Lieutenant in random circumstances. What happens when he is the one to fall asleep on you?

notes: hope you enjoy this, it was initially meant to be max 500 words but I got carried away reader's callsign is Bambi (she/her)

find it on ao3 part one part two part three part four part five

masterlist

one.

In hindsight, the day shouldn't have been so draining; it had been an average day spent on base, involving physical training, shooting, and paperwork. You had endured much worse during missions where you could barely get some shut-eye between watches, but that was not the case.

The problem, the literal root of your heartaches was a cat, your sister's cat. You had been more than happy to take care of it when she so kindly asked under the pretence of having to spend a few nights out of town. You had been even happier when you went shopping for cat supplies with her - perhaps excited at the thought of having a furry cuddling partner. And you intentionally kept it a secret from your teammates, scared that they would drop by uninvited to help you take care of it when all you wanted was the creature's undivided attention.

The previous day, the first day she'd spent under your care was perfect: she, for the cat was a female, spent hours cuddled up on the couch, sleeping like there was no tomorrow. But when the night came, the little beast came to life. Scratch that, beast was an understatement - it was the spawn of Satan that had been racing through your bedroom, jumping on the windows, and left hanging on the curtains. The demon that kept butting his head against your door, and that launched violent attacks against your blanket until your alarm rang.

So that was why the plain day at the base was more draining than it should have been. You went on with training, the shooting session was average, and the paperwork had you dozing on your desk. Letting out a small sigh, you forced your eyes to stay open as you scanned the last mission’s report for any grammatical mistakes- which proved to be a tedious task, especially because you’d eaten not too long ago and your eyes became heavier each breath.

At the sound of another yawn, Ghost lifted his head from his own paperwork, glancing in your direction. He noticed with a frown your exhausted face and the way you blearily rubbed your eyes in an attempt to make the sleep go away. What was that kept you up last night? Or should he ask- who? He quickly shook his head at the thought, discarding it like a crumpled piece of paper thrown in the bin. He’d known you long enough to notice your mood shifts and he would know, he had to know, if you started seeing someone. Not that he had something against it - he wouldn’t be the one to pry into your personal life like that. After all, it was Johnny’s job who, in turn, would share the information with him.

But that did not mean he could not try to ensure you felt good enough in his presence - the team’s presence - to not feel the need of finding another someone. After all, it would only get you distracted and unprepared for the missions to come.

His reasoning was sound in his head, and when he saw you had given up, propping your head against a stack of papers while mindlessly glaring at your extended hand, he got up from his desk. He made sure the screeching of the chair was loud enough to alert you something was going on, and he suppressed a grimace under his mask when he saw you slowly turn to face him, eyes glossy with sleep. At that moment, glancing at you, he thought you were the perfect embodiment of the expression: no thoughts, head empty, and, as much as it amused him, he knew he had at least to get you out of the office.

"Come on, let's go."

Scrunching your eyes before blinking, you looked up at his massive figure that was currently towering above your desk. If you'd been more alert, you would have noticed a small sparkle in his eyes, but your efforts were put into battling off the waves of sleep that just kept coming. Your mind could not form a coherent thought: what was the time, did the lieutenant finish his paperwork already, where did he want to go-

The internal questions continued and you ended up yawning loudly again, closing your eyes for a couple of minutes. You just needed to rest them for a while and then you'd be fresh, prime, and proper to finish your day on base. Yet your brief rest was interrupted when you heard, or rather, felt, a hot breath across your face. As you opened your eyes, you realized Ghost had crouched down in front of your desk, his masked face being centimetres apart from yours. His eyes still had that tiny sparkle you noticed this time, and involuntarily you began staring at his amber orbs and blonde eyelashes. Countless times you studied his eyes fervently, trying to get a glimpse of the man behind the mask - so much that you began to be aware of every crease and crinkle that would form around them, depending on his mood. At the time being, there seemed to be no such lines, or perhaps you were too tired to actually notice them-

"You can finish this report tomorrow, Sergeant. Let's go!"

He gently nudged you with his arm, waiting for any reaction. When he didn't receive one, he rolled his eyes and groaned, he actually groaned, which made you perk your ears in disbelief:

"I'm up, I'm up!", you shot up and out of the chair, too surprised by his loud reaction. But you couldn't see his face anymore as he was already heading towards the door, back turned to you, left hand silently gesturing you to follow.

The walk to the lounging area was silent, with Simon walking in front and you trailing dutifully behind him. The silence was not uncomfortable though, which was not unusual: he was one of the very few people with whom you could sit in a room for hours and don't feel the need to fill the space with words. There was no explanation for it; it all came naturally and you were smart enough not to question it, knowing that the lieutenant could be difficult with people when he wanted to.

"Look who decided to show up! Ghost, Bambi - how kind of you to join us!"

You shook your head at Soap’s loud greeting, trying your best to hide your smile as you plopped down on the sofa, next to Ghost. Captain Price was already seated in his designated armchair, leafing through what seemed to be a handbook, while Gaz was lounging on the other sofa, next to Soap. As usual, other members of the task force would come and go, bidding silent greetings, and at that moment, the comfort and familiarity of the atmosphere made you sigh softly as you propped your head on your hand while leaning against the armrest.

"Sleepless night, Y/N?"

Price did not look up from his book as he asked the question, but you knew he must have been watching you throughout the day, taking note of the sleepy state you'd often found yourself in. You also knew that he would have stepped in the moment he considered you pushed yourself too far, but for the time being, you were just satisfied that you managed to get through the day.

"Who's keeping you up at night, Bambi?", Soap quickly chimed in, a signature smirk plastered on his face. A smirk that widened even more when he noticed Ghost rolling his eyes, next to you. "Is there someone we should know about?"

"You're shameless, Johnny", you spat back at him, straightening yourself in an attempt to seem more collected. "...and even if there was someone, you think I'd throw them to the wolves?"

Gaz chuckled loudly at the remark, while Price was trying to hide his grin behind the pages. At that moment, Simon was glad the balaclava was hiding his features - the smirk he was sporting could rival Soap's.

"My sister left town for a couple of days", you eventually resumed, running a hand through your hair, "and asked me to take care of her cat-"

As expected, protests and offended remarks could be heard from both Soap and Gaz, the men demanding why they were not told of this earlier. They could have helped-

"The only help I'd get from you would consist of you two laying to sleep with her on the couch. But here's the catch, the beast only sleeps in the daytime - but when the night comes, she transforms into this dark demon which runs around the house and attacks my feet when I try to sleep!"

"Never had a cat before, Y/N? When you were a kid?"

You shook your head at Price's question, frowning when you notice his sympathetic expression:

"You need to keep them busy throughout the day, and then leave enough food for them at night. As a last resort, locking them in the bathroom is a good solution, but you need to first remove everything from the shelves."

"Or we could come in and babysit the baby!", Gaz kept pushing, an innocent smile gracing his features. "Sure, you had a rough night, but how hard can it possibly be, to take care of a creature whose routine mainly consists of eating and sleeping?"

"Well, it's only three more days. I'll manage somehow..."

As the conversation shifted to another topic you were too tired to understand fully, you laid your head against the wall, letting your body sink into the couch. There it was again, that soft hum that lulled you to sleep- not that you would actually fall asleep in the lounging area. No, you would just rest your eyes for a couple of minutes, before heading towards your car and riding back home to the little creature that must have been expecting you.

***

At first, Ghost did not seem to notice the shift of weight on his right arm. He was too busy scrolling on his phone, searching for articles about cats and their nocturnal habits. It wasn't until the room was too quiet for his liking that he looked up from his phone, his eyes meeting Soap's as his teammate was silently pointing to his right - in your direction.

He slowly turned his head towards you, his eyes widening almost comically behind his mask. You were the dead weight on his shoulder, soundly asleep, your left cheek squished against his arm. Of all the days, it was that specific day that he opted for a plain black t-shirt after training, and he was definitely overthinking his choice. Your skin felt soft and warm against his, enough to short-wire all the working circuits in his brain, prompting him to freeze and stare at you. The complete implications of this gesture would hit him later, when he would be lying in bed, unable to sleep, but for the time being, he could solely focus on the facts at hand: you were there, next to him, leaning against him, sleeping peacefully.

And he only wanted to keep an eye on you and kill anyone who had the slightest intention of waking you up.

"Where's that camera when you need it!", Soap quietly grumbled as he got up and started fumbling on one of the shelves, ignoring the daggers Ghost was shooting at him through his eyes.

"Top shelf, Soap - you put it there the last time you used it!", Price whispered with a sigh of mild frustration.

"Guys, be quiet, let the girl get some rest!", Gaz hissed as well before Soap joined him back on the couch, a dusty Polaroid camera in his hands:

"Alright, this one's for the books! Come on, give us a big smile, L.T.!"

He might have been unable to move, but his gaze spoke volumes- a true death glare though and through, quickly captured by Soap through the lenses and printed on the small Polaroid photo sheet. Gaz leaned over Soap's shoulder to see the result and even Price scooted his armchair a bit closer, a small grin dancing his lips. The picture was proudly placed on the wooden panel, next to one depicting the Captain sleeping just as soundly in the very same armchair he was currently sitting in. And in the meantime, Ghost could only feign indifference, letting his signature eye roll showcase his opinion about the situation.

He could not explain, could not even place a finger on or identify the warm and comforting sensation he was feeling in his chest. He was so used to the cold and dull feeling that had taken residence in there- yet there it was, a glimmer of hope, a ray of sun on a cold autumn day.

You felt safe in his presence, safe enough to put yourself in a vulnerable position in his proximity.

And he would do anything to keep things that way.

***

Bonus scene:

Letting out a small whimper, you stretched your limbs while keeping your eyes closed. You could not figure out how you got home or why your pillow was sporting a distinct smell of cigarette smoke, sweat and cologne, but your semi-conscious mind was too busy keeping you asleep that you did not seem to care.

Wait...

That scent was familiar. You were in its presence on an almost daily basis that you could tell it in your sleep. Well, not literally, considering that your mind was still trying to piece it out- why was your pillow smelling like Ghost?

You jerked yourself awake with a start, your groggy mind taking a couple of moments to process the fact that you were actually not in your bed, but in the lounging room at the base. And your pillow was not really your pillow, but actually, Ghost's shoulder and your cheek was fully squished against it.

"Look who's up, Sleeping Beauty herself..."

From your current position, his voice felt like a deep rumble, vibrating through your body and resonating in your bones in an unsettling manner. With a herculean effort, you managed to prop yourself against the other side of the couch, blearily blinking the sleep from your eyes. A faint blush spread across your cheeks, warmth radiating through your face as embarrassment tinged your features. It took all you had not to cover your face in your hands.

"I’m so sorry, L.T. - I really didn’t mean to-" "It’s alright, Bambi. No harm done."

The lack of your weight against him made him feel empty in a way he struggled to define. He tried to brush it away by rising from the couch and making a show of rolling his shoulder in front of you, calmly watching your embarrassed figure through his thick eyelashes. Your cheeks were already sporting an uncharacteristic rosy hue and your renowned doe eyes were widened, a glimmer of sheepishness and self-consciousness reflecting in them. He would never admit it to anyone, but he secretly adored the fact that he was one of the few people who could coax such a reaction from you.

"Although next time you might want to do it in a room without Soap. It’s likely that the entire base will learn of it by tomorrow."

A/N: wrote this on a whim, not proofread so it may contain grammatical errors (and more) updates won't be regular as I'm a college student with a full-time job

Hope you enjoyed it :)

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley #ghost x you #ghost mw2 #cod ghost #task force 141 #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost imagine #simon riley fluff #ghost fluff #call of duty imagine

4K notes · View notes

hannibals-favourite-meal · 1 year

Text

.⋆｡Gone But Here All The Same｡⋆.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x plus size reader

Being a military wife could be quite lonesome especially being a military wife to a ghost but he knows exactly what you need to make you feel less alone

Warnings: smut, phone sex, masturbation (m&f), some reference to death and PTSD but not really, dom!Simon, sex toys, bit of voice kink, size kink

WC: 1.7k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

You knew what you were getting into when you married Simon. He was a member of the special forces who technically didn’t exist- you were used to the long months when he was shipped off, the anxiety that John Price would show up on your doorstep with a frown and a letter from the military, the anger and the fear that your husband carried on his chest every moment of the day.

You knew all of this and yet you still married him because he was the best thing to ever happen to you and besides that, he was the best lay you ever had.

Simon had ruined you for any other man (and toy) the moment that his thick fingers slipped between your soft thighs and into your panties under the bar table on your third date. He drove you insane with the smallest of touches, playing with your body with a finesse that only a seasoned soldier could.

You constantly ached for him, feeling so hollow without his thick cock stretching you to your absolute limit. Sure the reunion sex was absolutely mind-blowing every time he came home but with Simon leaving for sometimes months at a time, your need for any sort of pleasure drove you insane.

But luckily, he was going to call you today.

Simon called when he could, usually it was from a private number or some foreign phone, a different number every time. He had created a system with you, he would always call on the 13th of every month and if he missed it, he would call you on the 23rd.

You sat on your shared bed, staring intently at your phone. The minutes ticked by at a snail's pace as the sun cast a warm orange glow over the large bedroom. You sighed when the clock hit 8, you doubted that he would call today.

A groan slipped from your lips as you rocked forward to slip from the bed, but just then the phone screen lit up, displaying a cute photo of you and Simon on your honeymoon as a random number rolled across the top. You snatched it up and quickly answered.

“Simon.” You breathed, relief flooding your body. His chuckle crackled through your phone’s speaker.

“Hello to you too bunny.” Your smile grew even wider if that was at all possible. He only ever called you bunny when he was in a good mood. You flopped back against the mountain of pillows propped against the headboard, keeping your phone as close as you could in lieu of your husband’s massive body.

“Are you coming home soon?” You tugged the collar of the shirt you were wearing up to your nose, inhaling the fading scent of his cologne.

He was silent for a moment. “No, not yet love.” ‘Love’, that’s what he called you when he was trying to let you down easy. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion but he quickly spoke again. “I do have a present for you bunny.” He purred, his voice dropping down an octave to that deep baritone that haunted your wet dreams.

“But nothing was delivered to the house?”

“Oh bunny.” He said mockingly. “Your present is already in the house. How ‘bout you check my nightstand.” You practically dove over to his side of the bed in your excitement, Simon’s broken laughter following after you.

The drawer slid open and you gasped. Sitting on top of one of his many spare balaclavas and a book he was in the middle of reading was an enormous dildo. There was a suction cup on the bottom where the balls should have been and with a little bow sitting on the head, it made you laugh a little under your breath. “Got it?”

Simon’s voice broke you out of your trance. You snatched up the toy and gasped at the weight of it. “Simon what is this?” You settled back into your original spot, your fingers flexing around the purple silicon almost unconsciously.

“I would think you know what it is considering how often you beg for it.” He said right as your middle finger brushed against an incredibly life-like vein towards the base of the fake cock, a vein you knew very well.

“Is this- is this your cock?” Molten heat pooled between your thighs as you held the toy even tighter, now realising that you were indeed holding a replica of your husband’s generous gift. Already you were using your free hand to pull your soaked panties down your legs.

“Damn right it is. You think I would let another cock near you?” He snarled, sending another wave of arousal right to your core. You moaned softly into the air as your fingers brushed against your aching clit, smearing your wetness over the sedative bundle of nerves. “Oh you like that don’t you.”

“Si.” His groan echoed through the room and you could faintly hear the sound of a zipper.

“Go on bunny, get that cunt nice and stretched for my cock.” You were dripping onto the comforter beneath you, desperately eager to follow each and every one of his orders. Excitement began to curl in your stomach as two of your fingers easily slipped into your cunt. It wasn’t nearly enough for you, your fingers weren’t as thick or as long as your husband’s but they were warming you up well enough.

“Can I put it in now?” You pleaded into your phone, needing your husband’s cock nestled inside you once more, even if it was only a replica. He let out a sniffled groan and you could just picture the way he was biting his lip to keep his voice down, his blue eyes squeezed shut as he gripped the base of his dick to stave off his end. He always got noisy when he was about to cum.

“I don’t think your little cunt can handle it.” He managed to get out through clenched teeth. You nodded frantically. “Words bunny.” He snarled, briefly jolting you from your haze.

“Yes Si, can handle you. Always do.” Your other hand practically flew between your thighs, the toy gripped so tightly you could feel the silicon give under the tension. The cold tip bumped against your hot skin as you notched it at your entrance.

Your cunt burned as it finally breached you, dousing the ache in your belly. You whined with pain and Simon moaned. It was no secret that he loved the size difference between you both, he revealed in the way you cried when he fucked you, his massive cock stirring up your guts in the most deliciously painful way.

You could barely breathe as you reached the halfway mark. “So big.” Your back arched and you forced another inch inside you. A wet slapping came through your phone’s speakers along with Simon’s muffled breaths.

An image of him flashed behind your eyes- fully dressed in dark clothes but with his fly open and his thick cargo pants shuffled down his hips just enough for his cock to be free. The ridged lines of his skull mask would hide the way his lips twitched as he got lost in the feel of his gloved fist around his aching length.

You cried out as you finally reached the hilt of the dildo, finally you were full of him once more. “Simon, you feel so good.” You pulled the toy out only a few centimetres before pushing it back in and sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

“Fuck bunny, keep talking.” He ground out as the wet sounds on his end picked up the pace.

“I can feel you in my belly, so big. Stretching me out.” Your hand began to move faster. It wasn’t the same as when your husband fucked you, you couldn’t feel his weight keeping you picked to the mattress or the way his cock would throb and twitch within you but the sound of his voice right next to your ear was all the same.

His groan resonated through your chest, lighting your nerves up with that familiar fire. “Take that fucking cock, bunny, be a good girl and fuck yourself on it. Let me hear you cum for me.”

You thrashed on top of the bed, hips rolling down to meet your hand with each thrust. “Simon!” You clumsily strummed your clit with your other hand so wishing for the rough fingertips of your husband instead. “‘M close.” You mewled.

“Cum.” The connection crackled with the depth of his voice but the effect was still the same. Your body seized suddenly as your jaw dropped in a silent scream. Pleasure rippled through you like a tidal wave, both easing and fuelling your lust.

As soon as your breath returned to your lungs, you chanted his name over and over again as you rode out your high. “That’s it, good bunny.” Simon cooed, his breath hitching as he thrust into his fist with an added fervour. You were delirious with ecstasy, the toy inside of you now only keeping you full while your orgasm began to fade.

“Simon. Need your cum.” You begged softly into the phone. “Please Simon. Need it so bad.” He gasped and then moaned deep in his chest.

“Shit.” He said breathlessly after a moment. “Shoulda brought a towel with me.” He grumbled and you laughed.

As gently as you could, you eased the dildo from your cunt. You winced at the stretch, now feeling sore and satisfied for the first time in two months. “How much longer do you have left on the call?” There was a grunt and then the sound of a zipper.

“Not long.” You sighed and relaxed back into the pillows. Simon always got quiet after sex, his pillow talk was practically non-existent.

“I love you.” There was a beat and then.

“Go take a shower and have a snack. Don’t forget water.” He never said it back but you felt it all the same. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

There was muffled shouting in the background and he sighed. “Stay safe out there. Don’t worry about me.” Your fingers curled around your phone and tucked it closer to your body.

“Always do bunny.” He replied simply. “Always do.”

You held onto the device long after he finally hung up. It was hard being Simon’s wife but it was also the easiest thing in the world because you knew that he would always be right there, even when he was thousands of miles away.

MW2 Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Join my taglist!

All works @im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3slothy @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @luvvvjada @km-ffluv

#ghost x plus size reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x plus size reader #plus size reader #reader insert #fluff #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #smut #female reader

1K notes · View notes

uncouth-the-fifth · 1 year

Text

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5) Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB. Word Count: ~11k. Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could. THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

FIVE YEARS LATER

The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.

But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.

Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.

On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.

He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.

But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.

The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain.

This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.

It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.

Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?

The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.

You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.

You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.

Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.

By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—

—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.

There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.

You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.

On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.

Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.

Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside.

He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.

He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.

You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”

Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”

There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.

“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?

You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.

Your throat locks up with tears.

Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”

Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”

Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.

“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.

There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.

“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.

You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.

He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”

When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”

Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.

“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”

Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”

You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”

You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.

Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.

“You’re really not saying yes?”

Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.

Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.

“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”

You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.

Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.

After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.

“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”

This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.

He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”

This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.

“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”

You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”

Okay. Weird.

Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”

They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?

But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”

Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.

You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.

He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.

The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.

“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.

There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.

“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”

Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”

You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.

When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.

“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”

You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.

Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”

You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”

…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”

That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”

You squint at him. Liar.

“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”

A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.

Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”

Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”

Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.

It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him.

You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!

There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.

“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”

Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.

You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”

Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”

The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.

Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.

You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—

—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.

In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”

Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.

The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.

He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.

The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.

It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already.

Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.

Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—

You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.

“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”

You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?

He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”

You stop.

This is. This is new.

There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.

Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.

“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.

He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.

It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to.

He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.

…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.

“Sammy,” you sob out.

“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”

He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.

“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.

Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.

“Take it off,” he rasps.

This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.

He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”

Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.

You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”

It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”

A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.

You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.

“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”

Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.

“Then don’t.” He begs.

If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound.

You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.

You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”

Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”

The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.

You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.

“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.

You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.

This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.

Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”

And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.

Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”

“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”

“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.

Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”

Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.

The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”

As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”

Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”

Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.

Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.

“God, I love you,” he moans.

Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.

“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.

There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.

“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”

You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”

It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.

“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”

“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.

He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.

When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.

“Sammy!” You choke.

That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”

Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.

You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—

…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!

“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”

The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”

He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.

“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.

You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”

You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—

In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.

A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”

If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”

You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”

His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.

You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”

The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.

With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.

You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.

When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you.

“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”

“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”

Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.

You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.

“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.

The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.

You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?

Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.

What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?

Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”

He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness.

Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.

Lie to me, you’d begged him.

…And Sam had.

The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.

Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?

Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.

The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.

Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.

To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.

You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.

“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.

…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.

You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.

You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you’d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…

Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—

…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.

“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1@lacilou@cevans-winchester @leigh70@ seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #user uncouth #sam winchester x reader

1K notes · View notes

littlesunshine1223 · 1 month

Note

Hey, I was wondering if you can do hcs on Stu Macher, Billy Loomis, and Tatum Riley? :)

Billy Loomis/Stu Macher Headcanons

[Sorry I’m not used to writing for Tatum]

Billy Loomis

SFW

- no matter how tough he acts all you have to do to drop that act is to kiss him and play with his hair

- some days most of the time he’s worried that you’re going to leave him for someone new

- he loves cuddles and watching horror movies with you while eating junk food

- if anyone hurts you or is making stupid hurtful side comments then their bodies will never be found

- will rarely do PDA in public unless he gets jealous from all the random people staring at you while you’re both just trying to buy snacks

- loves cuddles and another thing he’ll never admit till the day he dies is that he absolutely loves being the small spoon

- he always sneaks into your room through your window just so he can tell you in person that he loves you

- for Halloween you always try to talk him into wearing the couples costumes, he secretly enjoys them but will never admit it

- if you find out he’s Ghostface then his tough guy act will crumble and he’ll beg you to not tell anyone or leave him

- if you don’t know he’s Ghostface then he’ll just use the excuse of Stu needed something or he had to go see what his dad wanted back at home

NSFW

- sometimes if he’s really in the mood while watching a movie then he’ll recreate the classic horror movie sex scene with you

- wanna get noises from him? Praise him, ride him till he’s shooting blanks, and to put the cherry on top cover him in hickeys

- more than likely he loves having the sense of control but if you want to take the lead for a night then he might let you

- we all already know what some of his kinks are: Knife kink, blood kink, dirty talk, overstimulation, hair pulling, and edging

- he will try to act like a brat no matter what but all you have to do is go down on him and suck out all the brat in him

- he’s a messy eater ;)

- he’s gotten cum-drunk from you numerous times and has the prettiest blissed out eyes as he babbles about how good you taste

- if he got a little roughed up after killing someone then he will love you more than ever if you kiss his bandages wounds and bruises while slowly and gently riding him

- one thing that melts his mind is whenever he sees you wearing his Ghostface mask and jacking him off after he first wakes up in the mornings

- if it’s your first time then he’ll be careful with you and hold your hand the whole time

Stu Macher

SFW

- he’s a massive cuddle bug and PDA happens all the time just because he has a lot of love to give you

- Just like Billy he loves to cuddle with you and watch horror movies while eating as much junk food as possible

- he absolutely adores when you yelp and snuggle closer to him when you get scared during a movie

- he loves to sneak in through your window and snuggle up to you, whining about how you need to warm him up because it’s cold out

- one night he showed up later than usual after you had already locked the window and magically that next morning you woke up to him starfished on top of you in bed (he refuses to tell you how he got in)

- if someone’s causing you problems then they randomly disappear the next day, never to be seen or heard from again

- he’s the human version of a golden retriever, he’ll do what you tell him, he’s adores affection, and he follows you around as your protector in case something goes bad

- he “accidentally” leaves his sweaters at your house for you to wear

- if you know he’s Ghostface then he’ll wrap his long arms and legs around you and give you the puppy dog eyes while begging for you not to leave him

- if you don’t know he’s Ghostface then he’ll keep it like that for as long as possible because he doesn’t know how you’d react

NSFW

- he loves when you ride him, something about it just melts his brain

- he loves to cover you in hickeys and pin you to the bed just to tease you

- just like Billy, he’s a messy eater too ;)

- one of his favorite things is when you’re shivering in pleasure beneath him after he just railed you into his mattress

- depending on his mood he might act like a brat or he’ll submit to everything you say (there’s no in between)

- if he’s been teasing you too much then pin him to the bed and ride/rail him till he’s sobbing in pleasure and babbling for more

- he has invited Billy to have a three way (after making sure you’re comfortable with that)

- the more you overstim him the louder he gets

- a great way to get him to make noise is by dirty talking him, spanking him, praising him, and wearing his Ghostface mask while doing all of that

- if it’s your first time then he’ll make sure to stretch you all the way out and use extra lube in case you’re very sensitive

#scream #scream’d #billy loomis x reader #billy loomis x you #billy loomis smut #billy loomis #stu matcher x reader #stu macher smut #stu macher #stu matcher x you #poly ghostface #poly ghostface x reader #ghost face #ghostface #ghostface x reader

136 notes · View notes

hainfulcupid · 5 months

Text

Obsessed with this motherfucker so im gonna drop a few random headcanons about him

ALL ARE SFW AND JUST SILLY STUFF ☝️ im not used to sharing my headcanons publicly like this hyuck hyuck

there’s very little to go off of from this media since all we really have is a pilot with bare , and i MEAN BARE lore to go off of so a lot of this is really me filling in blanks becus im Insane .

> Nordic bunny’s planet has a robotic look to it, i think that he built it himself out of complete boredom along with its inhabitants (that he probably destroys too, out of boredom….)

> I like to think that his guitar strings function like cat whiskers, they aid him in vision and processing the world around him. They’ve definitely busted a few times during battle, causing him to be disoriented for a bit.

> Hates things that are vaguely shaped like snakes (do NOT BRING A CUCUMBER NEAR THIS MAN)

> purrs….meows…does all those silly cat sounds but they’ve got an electric guitar sound effect

> has retractable claws, they do wonders for a man needs a quick escape route !!!!

> related to the thing above, oh he so absolutely adores scratching things up . has the biggest scratching post ever .

> He’s lonely, not like he intends to be but his personality is offputting to many, one of those people who you have a hard time reading into the things they say because every word that comes out of his mouth always sounds insulting. naturally judgmental, thinks he has a keen eye for fashion despite wearing only undies.

> what is his deal with the undies anyways ? i think he has sensory issues so he wears very minimal clothing thinking he’s serving absolute cunt but no ones ever told him how dorky he looked, and if any of his minions did well…..lets just say They’re no longer with us.

> definitely has a weird way of giving gifts…you know how cats bring you things they’ve hunted? well he’s no different, he wants THAT praise he wants you to tell him how competent he is.

> his tail is an indicator of his mood, follows the same rules of a cat .

LOOK AT HIM. TELL ME THIS ISNT TRUE.

> claims he can’t fucking stand emotional music, but listens to sad 80s rock . but no one will see that, they’ll see him as the dude who’s constantly blasting oldies metal classics .

> I AM A NORDIC BUNNY FANG HAVER TRUTHER . I JUST KNOW HED HAVE A TONGUE PIERCING TOO .

> he’s so reluctant to touch, he never knows if he fully enjoys it or not, you’ll be petting down his back and feel his back quiver almost like it’s trying to avoid your touch but he’s also - purring…he’s a confusing little guy…

> If he ever does manage to form something vaguely friendship like, he’d suck ass at managing the connection, oh you invite him to a party ? he sends you an image of himself stuck in the toilet with a text underneath saying “SOZZ . CANT GO. TOILET TROUBLEZ”

> that being said , not having a lot of experiences with relationships, he’d have an avoidant attachment style, he’d also. subconsciously be as unlikable as possible, he has no clue what defines being cool and likable he’s a little clung onto “be as cool and mysterious as possible”

> says “mrr?” instead of “hm?”

> Oh. in my mind he uses he/she pronouns . finds comfort in expressing femininity .

> I can’t see this guy having a preference for dating… he will take anyone who can break through the massive thick wall he puts up.

THATS ALL FOR NOW UHHH UHHHH

#nordicbunny #nordic bunny #shredforce #shred force #headcanons #i am cringe and i am free #GUH #beetlereetles

142 notes · View notes

cheemscakecat · 8 months

Text

So Spy and Scout in Prison…

So Scout’s arms were broken because he tried to help Soldier. [Bad idea, Solly broke his arms].

It takes 6 weeks to heal broken arms, give or take. We don’t know if the drugged food and lead poisoned water in Teufort made it take longer.

Even these random lead poisoned cops are like; “None of us are built to attack this Spy, let’s just lock them in.” How do you know that just from looking at the guy?

I feel like Joey Murders would have tried to kill Scout when his arms were still broken, and Spy stayed up and kept watch to prevent it. Lil bro probably assumed their cellmate wouldn’t want to cause more trouble for himself, but he is a civilian serial killer. Probably preys on the weak.

Maybe one of the reasons why Spy was in such a bad mood is because Murders had been trying to kill his son for 5 months, and Scout still didn’t pick up on it. And when he starts accusing Spy of getting them in more trouble for killing that clown, it hits a nerve.

They’d served community service in Teufort and been labeled heroes, so suddenly getting imprisoned on death row would give them some whiplash. I think the reason Spy kept telling Jeremy that his court case wasn’t going to work was not for a lack of faith in his son. It was him trying to stop Scout from convincing himself that they were going to get out of this and getting let down.

They didn’t know about the lead poisoning or false charges, but I bet Soy could tell that something was wrong with the people of Teufort. They weren’t going to get an “innocent until proven guilty” trial, and even if Jeremy did everything perfectly it wouldn’t sway those freaks away from their public hanging.

But Scout isn’t ready to die, and he wouldn’t accept that fate no matter how small the chances were to get out. He’s assuming that Spy doesn’t care about being hung and is refusing to do anything to help them escape. Which is why he’s mad.

The truth is, Spy was planning to stab their captors in the trial, but they were on camera in the prison cell and he couldn’t just reveal the plan to Scout. I don’t think he’s expecting both of them to get away, either; the goal is probably to cause enough carnage for Scout to wise up and escape before the guards figure out what to do.

I still think he would have taken out multiple people though. Something we forget about Spy is that his suit is specially tailored to hide his upper body strength.

[Not mine, found this online]

Scout put his stats into speed, which is why his thighs are bigger. Spy put his stats into upper body strength. This is the Tf2 universe, so I would not be surprised if he could stab through bone. So yeah, even with a really little stabbing knife, he’d kill somebody.

Two more things.

Scout was probably just so happy to have the casts off and use his arms again that he posed for his mugshot like that.

Poor Jeremy. He isn’t ready to die for real. And not in front of these crappy Tuefortians.

What makes it worse is that they dropped him first, and Pauling had to book it to stop the hanging. That had to be traumatic.

Don’t just leave him like that! I know she needed to stop the mayor, but golly. Soldier came in clutch though, untying him.

They weren’t even on trial for their actual crimes, which makes that 5 months in prison with drugged food, bunking with a serial killer a massive human rights violation. So was the show trial and hanging, and if Pauling and the others didn’t get there in time, they would’ve died for nothing.

So yeah, new Scout trauma just dropped.

#dadspy #tf2 #character analysis #Can’t have crap in Teufort bro.

110 notes · View notes

firefirefruit · 1 month

Text

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Thirty-Nine

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Spitfire

I’m going to kill Law.

No, really, I’m planning his demise.

Nami’s fingers gently interlock through my dark and unruly hair, neatly braiding two symmetrical strips across my head - but all that’s running under that brewing scalp of mine is how I can make Law pay for what he’s done.

Last night was the worst. With Zoro’s snoring and his random mutterings in his sleep, I was practically left wide awake, strewn across the open-spaced crumbling floor, my eye twitching in unbridled irritation.

And with my hand being otherwise occupied, I woke up like a mess. Dishevelled and barbaric, my hair kept slipping over my eyes and I was left there with no way of helping myself. At one point, I considered shaving my head clean - but before I could grab a sharp scrap of metal to de-hair myself, Nami had walked to the firepit of where Zoro and I sat like furious toddlers. She took one pitiful long look at me, and then had decided she had to intervene with my appearance.

“Hey, it’s not so bad,” she lightly says in my ear, her fingers looping through another dark brown lock into another. Her other hand pats my head, her orange hair entangling around my shoulders in a sign of solidarity. “Maybe… I don’t know, maybe it’ll make you two learn to tolerate each other more?”

“But he sucks!” I whine out, stamping my free hand against the rocky ground. “He sucks at sleeping, Nami! You know what he so lovingly said in his sleep last night? Into my ear? ‘I’m going cut you down. I’m going to bury all your limbs in different places, so that even in your death you won’t be honoured.’ I was fucking horrified. I couldn’t sleep.”

Robin’s rich laugh echoes throughout the cave, her deep blue eyes fixed on mine. She tilts her head as if considering a thought, a finger pressed beneath her mouth. “I wonder how he’d cut you down with only one hand free to him.”

I gape at Robin and give her a thanks for adding more fuel to my nightmare spout; not to mention, I can feel Nami behind me with a massive grin on her face as she sprays a mist of water against my matted hair.

“It’s not funny.” I pout, eyeing the hot breakfast that Sanji’s so lovingly cooked up, all encircling deliciously around the firepit. “I’m not even in the mood to eat anymore. Zoro eats the size for two fucking orcs, anyway.”

Robin amusedly looks at me as she pointedly lays her book on the floor. She places her chin in the palm of her hand, which in turn makes me raise a brow.

Not knowing why, I hesitate for a second. “What?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Raya, but I can’t help find this a little entertaining,” she smiles, her eyes flicking to the area next to me. “Especially when Zoro’s sitting right next to you.”

I turn and for the first time in the entire morning, I realise that Zoro is indeed sat right next to me. As if he could even be anywhere else.

I slowly turn, meeting the gaze of someone who’s been pointedly glaring at me for a lot longer than I’ve realised, his bewildered look searing into me as if I’ve just insulted him.

My face falls.

Oh. I did just insult him.

“Really?” Zoro grumbles out, his mouth full of sausage and bread. He instantly drops the rest of his breakfast onto the plate, as if hurt by what I said, and, in a tantrum, wipes the grease on his trousers.

“We have napkins,” Nami quietly mutters out, judgement written all over her face.

My face contorts from guilt to irritation in an instant. “Well, excuse me for trying to have some girl time, Zoro,” I blurt out and eye him with disdain. “I need a way to get through this… imprisonment, somehow.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t we talk about how you accidentally flashed me when you were taking a bath?” Zoro grins with spite, a brow raised at me in challenge. My face falls, heat growing across my cheeks. Oh, gods. “One second you make me crouch on the floor to get you in the water, and the next second you try to get out, tackling me down all wet and n—"

I clamp my other hand over his mouth shut – sealed tight, air-locked – as I hiss, “It was an accident!”

Nami and Robin burst out laughing, moving their heads between Zoro and I as if witnessing a legendary sword-fighting match.

“Yeah, never mind what I said before; looks like you two are really getting to know each other without my help,” Nami impishly says, making us chained folk both roll our eyes and Robin chuckle louder.

For a moment, Nami hesitates, and before she sits in the empty space besides me, she takes the perfect moment to scruffle Zoro’s mossy hair, making him grumble and helplessly attempt to duck away from her looming hand. Nami only smirks and twirls a few of his green strands in her fingers, eyes glinting at Zoro with the slightest inkling of hope. “You need a hairdresser too, princess?”

“No.”

A kiss of teeth. “You suck.”

“Go bother the cook,” a muffle from a mouthful of sausage and bread quips back. Suddenly, a slow smirk rises on one side of Zoro’s mouth as he takes a moment to look at Nami in the eyes. “Talkin’ about that, didn’t I see you and him gettin’ all tolerant with each other yesterday?”

I look up in surprise, but Robin only smirks with her usual goddamn omniscient look in her eyes. Nami’s face has fallen as if Zoro’s just struck a knife in her face before a terrifying appearance of fury crosses her. A beat passes before Nami and I both shout out at the same time.

“What?” I gasp in betrayal, accusingly stabbing a finger at Zoro’s arm. “Why didn’t you tell me anything!”

“I’m going to pummel you in the face,” Nami grits out through clenched teeth, her legs tensing as she prepares to lunge at Zoro. Instinctively, Zoro raises his free arm to block the incoming blow, bracing himself for impact. But the strike never comes.

Zoro hesitates, slightly opening his eye, puzzled by the sudden stillness. His confusion mirrors my own as I glance at Nami, expecting her fury to have landed by now. But instead of following through with her threat, she’s frozen, her gaze lifted to the ceiling, eyes wide with something that almost looks like awe.

My curiosity piqued, I follow her line of sight, craning my neck to see what has captured her attention. There, in the distance, my eyes lock onto a familiar beady-eyed beast.

Of course, I think, suppressing a wry smile. Great timing.

A silhouette of an unnaturally immense-sized dragon beats its wings in equal movements, with three tiny sized passengers scrambling on his stern – one of them clasping his straw hat on his head with a flimsy arm. Luffy’s screams bounce on any available wall, floor, and ceiling throughout the gaping tunnel, making Aragnus huff out through his snout in impatience.

I don’t know whether to grin or to snarl at the view – in one sense, I have some gripe with Aragnus, from outing me as some sort of deathstalker in the worst way possible. In another sense, he did what he had to do to keep me alive. I wouldn’t be here, curse-free and, more importantly, without any metallic shrapnel thorning throughout my body.

In any case, he’s not the prey of my fury today. No, that all goes to a certain doctor on board.

Luffy cheers again, his squawky voice reverberating through all our ears. I amusedly smile as I watch both Zoro and Aragnus unintentionally breathe out a resolute sigh at the same time.

Your brother has given me much discomfort this morning, Aragnus hisses through my head, his voice tinged with slight weariness. He has tested my restraint more than once. I’ve considered reducing him to ashes.

For half a second, my eyes widen after hearing his words. Brother. Luffy, my… brother? Not biologically, but I suppose… cosmically?

I push the thought aside and glance up at the massive dragon. Our eyes meet, and I can’t resist flashing him a mischievous grin.

Having a little servant-master bonding time? I didn’t know your courtesy also extends to Luffy.

Aragnus sassily huffs and looks away from me, as if trying to hide the non-existent embarrassment on his face. I serve you, and by extension, those that share your line. It is nothing more than so.

I snort and watch him soar closer and closer to our camp, his wings riding on the fresh breeze coming in within the interconnecting tunnels to each cavern. Yeah, right, I think to myself. If this old grump doesn’t like Luffy, he wouldn’t be soaring around right now, doing so many ostentatious mid-air tricks in effort of gaining his approval.

When Aragnus’s paws gently scrape against the claw-marked ground in landing, Usopp’s the first to slink off his back and onto the floor like quivering jelly.

“I… I’m…” Usopp mumbles out, unable to form a coherent sentence. Sanji curiously strolls over to him and pokes his pale corpse with the tip of his shoe.

“I told you to eat breakfast before going on that joyride, dumbass,” Sanji grumbles, his tone thick with disapproval. He then turns to Aragnus, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Care to do me a favour, dragon?”

Aragnus responds with a low, unintelligible hiss, his beady eyes narrowing as he shifts his gaze to me.

What have I become? A mere trick-performing dog for your pitiful little camp? he grumbles in my mind.

I suppress a snicker, raising my brows in mock chastisement. You heard him, Aragnus.

With an exasperated flick of his wings, Aragnus allows Chopper and Luffy to slide off his arm before lazily turning back toward Sanji. Without warning, a tiny jet of flame shoots from Aragnus's snout, aimed directly at the chef.

“Shit!” Sanji yelps, jerking back as a small burn forms on one of his fingers. He shoots a furious glare at Aragnus, waving his hand to cool the sting. “What the hell was that for, you scaly bastard?”

Aragnus shifts his gaze from Sanji to me, a smug glint in his eyes. Sanji, still nursing his singed finger, turns to me with a frown, his expression a mix of annoyance and disbelief, like a scolded child.

Go on, Aragnus urges, his tone almost playful. Tell him what I said.

I sigh, shaking my head in resignation. “Aragnus says, ‘Oops.’”

Expecting Sanji to blow up at Aragnus’s evident sarcasm, I quickly pull out a plaster from one of my work bags and wave it at him as a distraction, making Sanji instantly zip his mouth shut and stare at me with a terrifying amount of adoration.

“How can you be so... so...” he whispers, taken by my seemingly incredible act of generosity.

“RAAAAYYAAAAAA!” Luffy screams, one of his arms locking around Aragnus’s paw, the other swinging maddeningly like a baseball pitcher until it blurs into only colour and no limb.

“Fuck,” I breathe out, my eyes widening in sheer terror with knowing what’s coming.

Bracing myself, I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing there’s no escape from the chaos that’s about to ensue. In a flash, Zoro reacts, twisting his body and pulling me into him, my head colliding with his warm chest just as Luffy releases his grip on Aragnus and catapults himself in our direction.

Luffy lets out a startled yelp as he crashes into Zoro’s back, his momentum abruptly halted. He bounces off and lands on the ground, immediately pouting as he looks up at us.

“Zoroooo!” he whines, clearly disappointed. “I was trying to surprise her!”

Zoro, now being sandwiched in between two cosmic-bound forces, grunts out a laboured huff.

“You were about to knock her head off clean,” Zoro pointedly says. He looks back at me for a beat and our gazes lock. An inscrutable look washes over him before realisation hits him. His arm disappears from my waist, the warmth of his touch instantly going as quick as it came – and for a brief moment, I wanted to yank his arm and place it back where it was. He peels Luffy off his back like a sticker, depositing him in front of us.

Luffy blinks for a moment as Zoro sorts him out, but when his eyes finally find mine, he grins wildly and twists his arms around me.

“Man, today’s a great day!” Luffy sings, adoringly squeezing me along with all the breath I have. “I have another sis’! Who woulda’ known?!”

“In a weird way, yeah,” I say, an unconscious tiny smile creeping on my mouth. I think the realisation just hit me now, with Luffy saying those words, that we are indeed in some way or another… family.

Zoro watches us, his eyebrows raised in surprise. His eyes flick between me and Luffy, clearly processing the unexpected bond. I just shake my head slightly at him, knowing he’ll probably bring it up later. It’s not like I can avoid the conversation—there’s no running away from him now.

“I wish I was the one who’s cuffed with you, Raya! It’s no fair Zoro’s the one who can spend all the time with you.”

“Trust me, it’s not fun,” Zoro says.

I elbow Zoro and glare at him. In turn, he only looks down at me and teasingly offers a smirk.

As we all begin to sit down, Sanji drags in a humongous tray into our cavern with steaming animal carcasses piled on it. With a swift kick, the tray gracefully twirls and slides, landing perfectly in front of Aragnus’s sat down body.

Aragnus growls out a hum of approval as he begins to dig in, but I look at Sanji with surprise. Sanji shrugs when he notices my questioning stare, a cigarette softly placed between his lips. The end of the cigarette slowly glows with glowing embers in sync to Sanji’s expanding chest.

“Can’t let these dragons starve - else they’d eat us for dinner, my love,” he says. In a hasty effort to change the subject, he nods at the glowing cuff between Zoro and me. “How did that happen?”

“I did it,” a measured masculine voice resounds in the corner. I turn to the sound, and only grit my teeth when my eyes lock onto Law’s. He offers a smirk when he sees my furious expression while coolly walking towards our campfire. The rest of his crew disperse from behind him, eagerly joining us with big grins; Bepo catches my gaze and gives me a sympathetic, yet uncertain, smile.

Sanji frowns at the surplus of Heart members, eyeing them as they begin digging in. “Didn’t know we were having guests.”

Luffy ignores Sanji’s comment, his eyes widening at Law. He shoves his wrist into Law’s face, making the latter scowl and bat his arm away. “Really? Can you cuff me too, Torao? Cuff me!”

“You’re not getting cuffed, Mugiwara. Get away.”

Luffy pouts and crosses his arms. “Why’dya even do it if you’re not gonna do it to me? I wanna join in on the fun.”

“Because,” Law enunciates, brushing past my captain and sitting intentionally right across from me, his eyes glinting at me with a certain kind of mischief, “They were getting on my nerves. I decided to give them a sweet taste of my revenge.”

His lie catches me off guard, and I give him a strange look. I was almost certain this would be the moment he'd spill everything—my true identity, the dark history behind my newly awakened power. But he doesn’t. Instead, he brushes it off as a simple prank, leaving me confused and a little suspicious. Is he planning something, or was this just an unexpected act of kindness? The way the lie slides off his tongue so effortlessly makes me narrow my eyes at him, unsure how to interpret his intentions. The double entendre in his words doesn’t go unnoticed either.

“So, you decided to bind them together?” Robin raises a brow.

Law shrugs, popping a piece of bacon in his mouth. “A harmless prank.”

“Harmless, my ass,” I mutter to myself, making Zoro snort out loud.

Law only smugly cocks his head at me in tandem to biting a piece of toast. A wave of anger pierces through me, seeing him act so nonchalant and unworried. If only I could just sink my teeth into him the same way he’s taking those bites of food.

I shiver aggressively, shaking my head as if trying to throw those awful intrusive thoughts away. What the fuck is happening to me? My own mind is coaxing me to submit to murder.

Zoro, in the corner of his eye, watches me with a frown on his face. I don’t know how long he’s been monitoring me, but it only hits me now that he’s intently keeping an eye on my reactions. But not once this morning have I seen him sheathe his swords to his hip; his hand hasn’t moved from his plate or his thighs and this makes me feel incredibly… out of sorts.

“Where are your weapons?” I mumble quietly, pretending to look at the rest of the camp and the members animatedly talking within it.

I intently watch his face to see if he makes any minute expression on it, but Zoro only shrugs in response. His lashes flutter and shadow over his tan cheeks as he looks down to his empty plate, his calloused fingers stretching across his thigh in idleness.

“I don’t eat with my swords,” he says, giving me a sarcastic eyebrow raise. I scoff at him.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

He pauses and looks at me, his gaze firm and absolute. “I told you before, Raya. I’m not scared of you.” He leans in slightly, his voice lowering as he continues. “But I have this feeling you’re taking what I’m saying the wrong way, the way you always do.”

Instantly, I take in a sharp breath. My mouth opens and closes, determining on how I should respond to him, and for some reason, I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks as I hold his immovable stare.

Before I can respond, Luffy’s boisterous laughter cuts through the silence. He’s already engrossed in conversation with Usopp, who has finally found his voice after the dragon ride. Their lively banter echoes through the cavern, but Zoro's words still linger in my mind.

“You’re always like this,” Zoro continues, his voice softer now, almost like he’s trying to reason with me. “You overthink things. Sometimes it’s not that deep.”

I scowl at him, the defensiveness rising up before I can stop it. “I’m not overthinking anything,” I retort, but even I can hear how unconvincing I sound.

“Sure,” Zoro replies with a lazy smirk, leaning back slightly. “Whatever you say.”

I turn my head away from Zoro, staring straight in front of me out of pettiness, but instead, my eyes accidentally lock with Law’s, making all of those repressed feelings within me start to coil tighter.

Revenge, another unwanted thought brushes against my mind. No, not revenge – justice. Attack him, fight him, terrify him for your freedom. That’s what I want. That’s what will sate my fury.

Law doesn’t miss my gaze darkening for even a second. He leans his torso over slightly, taking me in, tracking me with those troubled yet sharp eyes.

“I think you and I should talk,” Law steadily says, quiet enough so that it drowns in the midst of other peoples’ animated conversations. I think you and I should talk, before you do something that you’ll regret, he means. Before I fall victim to these vicious thoughts that only appeared when my true form was awakened.

I purse my lips and nod once, but intentionally, I eye the rest of the crew as a reminder that this area isn’t private enough. Law nods, standing up as he brushes crumbs from his jacket, whispering something unintelligible to Bepo before he coolly walks towards the other side of the cavern.

I look at Zoro and, in front of the others, obnoxiously say, “Well, I guess we should go and do some sword stuff.”

The end of his mouth twitches amusedly as he looks at me with a deadpan look. “Yeah. Totally. Can’t wait to do some sword stuff.”

Zoro rises to his knees with a deliberate calm, his eyes not leaving mine as he offers a hand to help me up. I take it, trying not to focus on the warmth of his grip or the way his rough skin contrasts with mine. Once I’m up, he releases me almost immediately, his hand dropping back to his side with a casualness that irritates me more than it should.

We begin walking toward the edge of the cavern, and I can feel the weight of several pairs of eyes on us. Nami and Robin, no doubt amused by the exchange, Luffy probably still sulking about not being involved, and Sanji… well, Sanji is always watching with that intensity he tries to disguise as casual interest. But I don’t dare glance back to confirm; I’m too focused on keeping my composure as we head toward Law.

Law, standing in the shadows at the far end of the cavern, watches our approach with an unreadable expression. The usual smirk he wears is absent, replaced by something more serious. It makes my nerves prickle, a sense of foreboding settling into the pit of my stomach.

I glare at him. “So, are you going to explain what you did to us?”

Law takes a moment to sigh, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose before taking a moment to fully look at the chain that bounds Zoro and I together.

“I wasn’t lying last night. Roronoa, you did fuck up,” Law mutters, taking a step forward to examine the damage. His fingers gently trace over the linkage as he looks up at me. “I was supposed to be bound to you – not to him.”

I laugh out loud, because that’s the only way I can react to hearing this piece of information. “Please, tell me, where did your logic disappear off to when you were brewing up this idiotic plan?”

He glares at me. “Answer me honestly, Raya. If you weren’t bound to Roronoa right now, would you have run away and disappeared from your crew just so that you didn’t have to face your possible doom?”

My laughter dies in my throat, replaced by a cold silence as I stare at Law. His question hangs in the air, heavy and unyielding. It’s as if he’s reached into my mind and pulled out the one thing I’ve been trying to ignore—the gnawing fear that if given the chance, I might just run. Disappear into the shadows to avoid facing whatever monstrous power has awakened inside me.

“Thought so,” Law says quietly, his tone less confrontational and more understanding than I expected. He steps back, giving me space, but the weight of his question still presses down on me.

“That,” an inked finger points at my cuff, “weakens your powers. It keeps you in check, meaning we won’t have accidental God outbursts whenever something mildly unpleasant happens to you. Until I do some more research on your powers and how we can help you from turning into another Tyr, that’s going to stay there as a precaution.”

I glare at him. “So, you’ve basically imprisoned me.”

“If that’s how you want to see it, sure.”

I bristle at this slightly. “Don’t you think you’re being a little bit too dramatic?”

“If you’re volatile now, what would you be like if your full powers are unleashed?” Law counters. There’s a pause where I shift from one foot to another, unsure of how to respond. He continues, frustration evident in his face. “Look, if either of you have any other solutions, then I’m happy to hear them.”

“Could you then at least unbind me?” Zoro intervenes, pointedly looking at the cuff encircling his wrist. “I don’t get why I’m roped into this.”

“You’re roped into this because you decided you couldn’t keep your sticky fingers away while I was in mid-incantation,” Law snaps, his eyes narrowing on Zoro. “I’m not redoing my work, Roronoa. It’s not a permanent spell, and it’d actually be helpful if you could keep an eye on things. Just give me a few days to learn more about Kozuki’s awakening, and all of this will be done and dusted.”

Before Zoro can open his mouth, Law turns his attention to me, his gaze piercing me with sincerity. “One of Tyr’s evident mistakes was not learning of his bloodline, of where all his power even originated from. It’d be wise if you did some research on your past, though I know that idea pains you. But the faster we figure this out, the easier you’ll have it.”

I narrow my eyes at Law, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy shroud. Research on my past? The idea of delving into that unknown, murky territory is as appealing as walking barefoot on shards of glass. But the reality of the situation is unavoidable—if I don’t take control of this power, it will control me, and I’ll be no better than the monsters we’ve been fighting against.

“I hate that you’re right,” I admit, the bitterness in my voice unmistakable. “But I’ll do it. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m okay with being treated like a ticking time bomb.”

Law nods, his expression softening slightly. “I don’t like it either, Kozuki. But this is the safest way for now. I’ll do everything I can to help you figure this out.”

Zoro, still looking less than thrilled with the situation, tries to cross his arms but tugs me aggressively to his chest. Flustered, he steps away from me, ignoring my irritated expression, and gives Law a hard stare. “Look, just make sure you follow through, Torao. I’m not interested in playing babysitter any longer than I should.”

Law rolls his eyes but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Believe me, I’m as eager as you are to resolve this.”

I look between the two of them, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and irritation. As much as they’re both insufferable in their own ways, I know they’re trying to help. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need their help.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, turning to leave. I tug on my wrist connecting to Zoro's, making him grumble out a string of curses. Law watches us go, his expression unreadable, but I can sense the wheels turning in his mind. He’s not done with whatever plan he’s concocting, and that thought makes me uneasy.

But then, I pause in my footsteps without thinking; Zoro yelps and only barely steps away before he collides into me. I turn around and look at Law, my face set very serious.

“Law,” I mumble. He looks up from his thoughts and raises a questioning brow. I clear my throat, averting my gaze. “Thank you… for, um… not outing me to the group today. You could’ve done that and made it a lot easier for yourself, but you didn’t. I… appreciate it.”

Law’s expression softens, and he gives a slight nod, his usual cocky demeanour tempered by a rare glimpse of sincerity. “I’m not here to make your life harder, Raya,” he says quietly. “I just want to make sure we all get through this in one piece.”

I hold his gaze for a moment longer, then turn away, pulling Zoro along with me.

“Kozuki,” Zoro suddenly bites out. I look up, surprised in hearing the tenseness in his voice.

“What is it?” I stare at him, noticing the way his brows are furrowed and his mouth pursed deeply into a frown. I sigh and look down at our cuffs. “It’ll be temporary, Roronoa. It’s shitty, I know—"

“It’s not that,” he quickly cuts me off, his gaze locked on me with dead seriousness. “I need to piss.”

It’s the afternoon – and a hell of an afternoon it is. The clanking of metal against stone fills another cavern, a steady rhythm as Zoro sets up his gym equipment. The dumbbells, barbells, and various other heavy objects he loves to train with are neatly laid out, but the usual calm of his workout space is anything but. I sigh internally and feel Zoro unintentionally yank on my wrist again, almost toppling me over to the floor.

“Do you have to do this right now?” I hiss through gritted teeth, frustration already bubbling over me as Zoro on me tugs once again, making me almost dive headfirst into the cement. “I’m not really in the mood to be amputated today, you know.”

“If I don’t, I’ll lose my edge,” Zoro replies, his tone dismissive as he grabs a dumbbell with his free hand. His muscles flex, the veins in his forearm standing out as he starts his reps. It’s a sight that would have been impressive—if it wasn’t so fucking inconvenient.

I try to remain still, but every time Zoro moves, the chain binding us jerks taut, sending a sharp jolt through my arm and pulling me slightly off balance. It’s as if the chain has a life of its own, tugging me this way and that with every flex of his muscles. The constant, unpredictable yanking makes it impossible to find any sense of equilibrium, and the frustration builds inside me like a kettle about to boil over. Each time he lifts the dumbbell, I’m dragged along in a clumsy dance, my patience wearing thin as I fight the urge to scream and knock the weight out of his hands.

“Do you always have to be so intense?” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably as Zoro reaches for a heavier weight, his muscles straining with the effort.

He doesn’t even look at me, his gaze locked on some invisible point ahead as he methodically lifts the dumbbell, his biceps bulging with each slow, controlled movement. The sheer focus in his eyes is almost intimidating, as if nothing exists except the iron in his hand and the sweat on his brow.

“Can’t you just stand still for an hour?” he finally replies, his voice steady, barely winded, as if he’s unaware of—or perhaps indifferent to—how much he’s disrupting my balance with every lift.

“Easier said than done,” I grumble under my breath, struggling to find my footing as Zoro powers through his routine. His focus is unbreakable, each lift executed with precise control, his muscles flexing and unflexing with mechanical efficiency. Meanwhile, I’m left to wrestle with the constant tugging of the chain, the metal links clinking with every one of his movements.

I grit my teeth, determined to stay as still as possible, but it’s like trying to stand on shifting sand. Every time Zoro hoists the weight, the force of it sends a jolt through the chain, yanking me off balance. My feet shuffle awkwardly, trying to keep up with the relentless push and pull, but it’s no use. The more I fight it, the more my frustration builds, the irritation bubbling under my skin like a pot about to boil over.

Seconds stretch into minutes, each one dragging on longer than the last, my irritation growing with every lift, every clink of the chain, every muscle that Zoro flexes without a care in the world. I can feel my temper fraying, the last threads of patience snapping one by one until finally, I can’t take it anymore.

“Would you just stop!” I snap, my voice echoing off the cavern walls, the words bursting out of me with all the pent-up anger I’ve been trying to hold back. I yank my arm back in a futile attempt to steady myself. Zoro grunts at me pulling away from him, his torso ever so slightly being pulled towards my direction, yet not enough where I could make a convincing point.

Zoro pauses, lowering the weights with a huff. He looks up and glares at me. “If you keep complaining, this is going to take forever. Just deal with it.”

I narrow my eyes at him, mocking his condescending tone. “Maybe if you weren’t so damn single-minded about this, we wouldn’t have a problem.”

Zoro’s eyes finally meet mine, and there’s a flicker of something dangerous in them, a darkness pooling in his grey iris. The sweat across his tan skin reacts with his mossy green hair, allowing it to lay matted and wet across his forehead. I can’t help it – I can’t look away from him, the way the muscles in his jaw tense as his gaze darkens, locking on me with such intensity.

A bitter smirk curls at the corner of his lips, a teasing glint in his eye as he slowly lifts his free arm. The movement is deliberate, almost taunting, and I can’t help but watch as his biceps flex with effortless strength. His rough, calloused fingers rake through his hair, pushing the damp strands back into place with a careless grace.

“You’re really pushing it, Kozuki.”

“No, you’re pushing it,” I childishly bite out.

“C’mon. You haven’t even seen half of it.”

I scoff out and raise my brow at him. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

Zoro’s smirk is slow and deliberate, curving with a dangerous edge that sends a shiver through me. His gaze locks onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch, a look so charged it silences any retort I had prepared. “You really want to know?” he murmurs, his voice low, almost taunting.

Before I can respond, Zoro drops the weight with a resounding thud, the sound reverberating through the cavern. His movements are fluid, every gesture calculated as he turns toward me. In one swift motion, his arm wraps around my waist, and suddenly, I’m lifted off the ground, my breath hitching in surprise as I’m drawn tightly against his chest.

“Wait, what the fuck—” I gasp, my hand instinctively reaching out to steady myself, fingers clutching at the firm muscle of his shoulder. But Zoro doesn’t hesitate, his grip strong and steady as he shifts me effortlessly, pulling me closer until my feet leave the ground completely. The way he holds me with such ease and power leaves me momentarily speechless, my pulse racing as the reality of our proximity sinks in.

“So eager to complain,” he teases, his voice a deep, rich rumble that seems to resonate through my entire body. “I figured I’d put you to good use.” His words are laced with amusement, but there’s a challenge in his tone, one that stirs something inside me I hadn’t anticipated. He begins to lift me higher, his muscles flexing with every powerful movement. The sensation of being pushed upward, with him guiding me so effortlessly, is dizzying. Then, just as smoothly, he draws me back down, bringing my face dangerously close to his. The warmth of his breath grazes my skin, the closeness of him overwhelming, almost intoxicating.

“You’re such a brute,” I hiss, trying to muster some irritation, but my voice betrays me, coming out softer and more breathless than I intended. Zoro’s smirk deepens, his eyes gleaming with a knowing amusement as he senses my wavering resolve. He lifts me again with the same ease, his hold unyielding. Sweat glistens on his skin, tracing shimmering paths over the defined contours of his muscles as he moves. His gaze remains fixed on mine, a playful light in his eyes as he watches me struggle to maintain composure.

Realising I’m outmatched, I allow my body to relax, surrendering to his strength. He manoeuvres me with such confidence, as though I weigh nothing, and the way he handles me sends a thrill through me, awakening something deep within that I can’t quite explain.

Without warning, Zoro pulls me back toward him, his movement gentle yet firm, until our faces are just millimetres apart. His breath brushes against my cheeks, warm and teasing, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. His eyes, sharp and focused, flick from my lips back to my eyes, mischief dancing in his gaze. “You’re a lot lighter than my usual weights,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that wraps around me like a caress. “Maybe I should add some difficulty.”

With that, his fingers begin a slow, deliberate exploration of my waist, tracing the curves of my body as if committing each one to memory. His touch is light but intentional, his hands gliding over my hips with a lingering caress before he suddenly shifts his grip. A surprised yelp escapes me as his arm slides lower, his strong fingers gripping my thigh as he lifts me higher against him. The movement pulls me flush against his chest, the solid strength of his body pressing into mine, and I can’t help the way my breath quickens in response. My legs dangle helplessly for a moment before instinct takes over, and I wrap them around his waist, desperate for balance and a semblance of control that seems to be slipping away.

“Put me down, or so help me Gods,” I snap, but my voice betrays me, a sultry edge creeping into my words that I know he can hear. His smirk widens, the satisfaction clear on his face as his voice drops to an intimate whisper. He pushes me upward, positioning my midriff against his face, his calloused fingers tracing the tender skin beneath my thighs with a touch that is both possessive and gentle.

“Why?” he murmurs, his breath warm against me. “You’re finally being useful. Besides, you seem to be enjoying this.”

I hate that he’s right. I hate the way my body reacts to his touch, the way my pulse quickens as his muscles shift and flex beneath my hands. The way he holds me, the firm yet tender strength of his grip, the heat radiating from his body—it’s all doing something to me that makes it hard to think, let alone protest.

“I-I’m not…” I stammer, but the tremor in my voice reveals the truth, the unsteady rhythm of my words making it clear. I clear my throat, struggling to keep my expression neutral, to fight against the overwhelming sensations that have taken hold of me. “I’m not feeling anything.”

Zoro chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that seems to vibrate through his chest and into me, connecting us in a way that feels almost tangible. He pulls me down again, this time bringing his face so close to mine that I can see the faint flecks of darkness in his stormy grey eye. The intensity in his gaze is almost too much to bear, a magnetic pull that draws me in even as I try to resist. “Liar,” he whispers, his breath mingling with mine, a quiet challenge that sends another shiver down my spine.

His hand slides up my back, his fingers pressing into the small of my spine, urging me even closer until the space between us is nearly non-existent. The heat of his body seeps into mine, his presence overwhelming in a way that makes it impossible to focus on anything but him. I can feel every inch of him now, every subtle shift of his muscles, every breath he takes. It’s overpowering, this closeness, this connection that seems to vibrate in the very air around us.

“You’re such an ass,” I mutter, but the words lack any real force. My pulse pounds in my ears as I take in the details of his face—the way the scar over his closed eye stands out in a lighter shade against his golden skin, the sweat that glistens on his neck, tracing elegant lines down over his defined collarbones and disappearing beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. His presence is magnetic, impossible to ignore, and I can feel myself being drawn deeper into his pull, unable to resist.

Zoro’s grip on me tightens, the possessiveness in his touch growing as his breath hitches slightly when I shift against him. My fingers dig into his shoulder, gripping him as firmly as he holds me, as if we’re both clinging to each other, caught up in a moment that feels charged with energy.

“Are you done complaining now?” he murmurs, his voice rougher than before, a low growl that sends a thrill through me. His breath fans across my face as he speaks, the closeness amplifying every sensation, every emotion swirling between us. He tilts his head towards me, his lips only a mere fraction away from mine. “’Cause I can deal a lot more damage if you push me.”

I open my mouth to retort, but the words falter as I feel his grip tighten just a fraction more, his body pressing closer to mine, enveloping me in his warmth. The room around us seems to shrink in size, filled with an unbreathable heat that consumes us both whole.

But just as quickly as it began, Zoro suddenly releases me, lowering me back to the ground with a smoothness that leaves me stunned. The absence of his touch is startling, a cold shock to my system, and I have to fight the powerful urge to reach out, to pull him back and demand an explanation for the storm he’s just stirred within me.

“Let’s get back to training,” he says, his tone more controlled now, though there’s still a hint of that dangerous edge lingering in his voice. He averts his gaze away from me, staring at a spot in the wall across from him.

I silently nod, trying to ignore the lingering heat in my veins as we return to his workout routine. But as Zoro picks up his weights again, I can’t help but feel like something has shifted between us—something that can’t be easily ignored.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m not entirely sure I want to ignore it anymore.

I try to shake off the feeling, to push away the frankly baffling mix of sensations swirling inside me. The irritation, the heat, the connection that seems to hang between us like a thick fog. I know I should just let it go, move on, and pretend that nothing happened. But I can’t. Not with the way Zoro’s gaze flickers toward me every so often, not with the way his muscles tense with each movement as if he’s trying to keep himself in check.

An hour later, the clanking of weights eventually slows, then stops altogether. I look over to see Zoro wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes still glued to the floor in that usual contemplative way of his. I can’t help but notice the slight tremor in his hand as he sets the dumbbells down, the brief pause as if he’s weighing something in his mind.

“Alright,” Zoro finally says, breaking the silence with a gruffness that belies the uncertainty I can see in his eyes. “I’m done for now. Let’s find a place to crash.

I nod, grateful for the chance to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the cavern. The chain between us rattles as we gather our things, the sound a constant reminder of the bond that keeps us tethered—both literally and figuratively. We move through the dimly lit tunnels in silence, our footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls. Neither of us speaks, but the quiet isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s more like an uneasy truce, a temporary pause in the ongoing battle of wills.

The small cubby hole barely has enough room for the two of us. The walls feel like they’re closing in, every breath of mine echoing against the stone as we awkwardly settle in for the night. The chain binding us together makes the situation even more uncomfortable, the metal links clinking with every slight movement.

Zoro lies beside me, his eyes open and his body tense, as if ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. The silence between us is heavy, filled with the unuttered sentiments we’ve exchanged in glares and scowls. But despite the discomfort, there’s no real anger left—just an odd sense of acceptance that this is our reality now.

I shift slightly, trying to find a position that doesn’t strain my wrist or press me too closely against Zoro. He’s warm – too fucking warm, actually – his presence a steady reassurance even as it irritates me. The silence stretches on, but it’s not uncomfortable. We’ve said too many apologies in the past, and if I’m being honest, they’ve lost their meaning; now, it’s just about getting through this without driving each other insane.

I’m trying to find sleep, but it eludes me. My mind keeps replaying the events of the day—Law’s words, his insistence on me having to comb through my bitter past, makes me less tired and more agitated.

“You’re thinking too much again,” Zoro murmurs, his voice low and rough from fatigue.

I turn my head slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes are half-lidded, but there’s an alertness in them that tells me he’s not as close to sleep as he appears.

“Hard not to,” I mutter, shifting slightly to ease the stiffness in my neck. “It’s been a long day. And having to sleep like this isn’t helping. In fact, this whole setup's fucking ridiculous.”

“I mean, you’re making it worse by moving around so much,” Zoro grunts, his voice rough with fatigue.

“I can’t help it,” I retort, frustration bubbling up as I try to wiggle free. “You’re taking up all the space.”

“There’s only so much space to take,” he bites back.

I huff, annoyed but also too tired to keep arguing. Instead, I settle for glaring at the darkness, my body tense as I try to find some semblance of comfort. The silence stretches on, thick and heavy, but I can feel Zoro’s presence beside me like a physical weight.

After what feels like an eternity, Zoro finally breaks the silence, his voice low and rough from disuse. “You ever think about your family?”

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden question. Family isn’t something I talk about often, and certainly not with someone like Zoro. But there’s something in his tone that makes me pause, makes me consider answering honestly.

I turn to him. “Why the question?”

“I would’ve told you earlier, but I didn’t know you were a Kozuki for a while. I’ve met some of your family, you know.”

I purse my lips and search his gaze, but he doesn’t offer me any sort of reaction. I huff and look up at the dark ceiling, my free hand resting across my chest, fingers thrumming out of agitation.

“Law did mention that you met them,” I say. He doesn’t respond; instead, he closely watches me, as if wordlessly telling me to continue. I clear my throat. “Hiyori gave you the Enma, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she did,” Zoro admits.

I purse my lips and train my eyes on the ceiling. Hiyori. The sole reason I regret leaving Wano; the girl who gave me reason to keep on living whilst I was back in that confined world with their confined beliefs of what women can do with their lives. My heart pulses sourly; thinking of what she must feel like, what she’s doing… Would I ever see her again? Even now, with my unpredictable awakening, those chances are growing slimmer by the moment.

“She…” My voice cracks slightly, making me quickly clear my throat as if to cover up the poor blunder within my defences. “She must have trusted you very much to give you a piece of our heritage.”

Zoro remains silent for a moment, his gaze softening as he watches me wrestle with my thoughts. I can tell he’s not the type to pry, but there’s a genuine curiosity in his eyes, a need to understand. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentler, lacking the usual roughness.

“Hiyori’s strong,” he says simply. “She didn’t just give me Enma because she trusted me. She did it because she believed it was the right thing to do, to protect Wano.”

I nod, my thoughts drifting back to my time home. The memories are hazy, but they’re laced with a bittersweet nostalgia. I can still see Hiyori’s determined face, the way she carried herself with grace despite the weight of her responsibilities. It’s strange to think that she’s still there, carrying on the legacy of our family, while I’m here, far from home and bound by chains—both literal and metaphorical.

“She’s always been strong,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “Stronger than I ever was. I admired that about her. She would stay, even if it meant she would fuck up her life and her dreams along with it. I… Well, I run away from things a lot.”

“Oden ran away a lot,” Zoro mentions. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

I laugh out loud. “See, I’d normally be upset with a comparison to Oden, but I guess that’s pretty accurate.”

I pause and look at him, a thought flashing across my mind. Enma’s still broken into bits; that being completely my fault. “I promise I’ll get Enma fixed soon, though… I think facing that sword had been a nightmare of mine for a while. She holds a lot of…bad memories, but I think that she might be the key to finding more about my past.”

Zoro purses his lips and looks down as if he’s about to say something. He hesitates for a moment longer before finally opening his mouth. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I don’t think I can face that sword right now, anyway.”

I raise a brow and look at him, completely taken off guard. Zoro’s not the type to just admit something like that. “What? What do you mean?”

He sighs and avoids my gaze, shifting his head toward the black ceiling.

“Sometimes… I feel like Enma brings the worst out of me. It feels like if I slip up in my mental defences, I could be consumed by her power and then… turn into someone… really evil.”

Zoro’s admission catches me off guard, and for a moment, I’m at a loss for words. The Zoro I’ve come to know is so sure of himself, so unyielding in his strength and resolve, that hearing him express doubt—especially about something as significant as Enma—is jarring.

“I didn’t think you’d ever admit something like that,” I finally say, my voice softening despite myself. “I guess even you have your limits.”

His gaze flickers to mine, a shadow of vulnerability passing through his eyes before he masks it with his usual stoicism. “Everyone does,” he replies gruffly. “Even someone like me. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna give up. I just need to get stronger—to control it, not let it control me.”

I nod, understanding more than I’d like to admit. The fear of being consumed by power is something I’m all too familiar with. “It’s not easy, is it? Facing something that could potentially destroy you.”

“No, it’s not,” Zoro agrees, his voice low. “But it’s the only way. If I let fear hold me back, I’ll never achieve my goals. And I can’t afford that.”

For a few minutes, we both remain silent, both savouring the words the other has said, our minds beating against the dark shadows that try to consume us within the night.

A realisation crosses my mind, and before thinking about it, I turn to Zoro.

“You’ve never told me about your family, you know,” I quietly mention. I look at him hesitantly. “Is there a reason?”

Zoro's expression shifts slightly, his gaze turning inward as if he's considering something he's not used to sharing. For a moment, I think he might brush off the question, but then he speaks, his voice low and measured.

“I don’t really have much of a family,” he begins, his eyes still focused somewhere distant. “At least, not in the way most people think of it. I grew up in a dojo. My sensei, he took me in when I was a kid. And obviously Kuina.”

My lips curl upwards in hearing that familiar name. Obviously Kuina. She was the rock that supported us both; she was there for us in two entirely different ways, yet, still, she had made such a similar impact.

“Obviously Kuina,” I repeat with a smile. I curiously search for his eyes within the deep darkness of the cavern. “So… you had no other family?”

Zoro hesitates for a moment, his gaze flickering between mine and the darkness of the cavern. It’s clear that this is a topic he doesn’t delve into often—if ever. Finally, he sighs, as if deciding that there’s no point in hiding it from me.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not really. My parents died when I was young. Too young to even remember their faces. After that, I was on my own for a while. I don’t really remember how long, just that I had to survive.”

I listen in silence, my chest heavy with the weight of his words. His story is all too similar to mine. While I had more family than him, I left Wano all too quickly. I only had Gramps and Kuina. Only two strong currents in my life, one of them having passed away far too quickly.

My throat grows thicker as I think about Gramps. That old man – that loveable pain in my ass… who would’ve known he would’ve been the target of something so sinister. I hope he’s okay. Gods, I just hope he’s still alive.

I clear my throat, shaking those dark thoughts away. I take in Zoro’s softened appearance, his gaze taking me in like a wide-eyed German Shepherd who only just remembered how to become vulnerable.

“And now you’re here; ‘Pirate Hunter Zoro.’”

“I guess.”

“Don’t you think that nickname’s a little too outdated for you? I mean, you’re part of a pirate crew.”

He shrugs, flexing his sore arm. “I never really cared about all of that.”

I scoff. “You should! I’ve got some killer nicknames for you, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” Zoro smirks, his gaze lingering on mine for a little longer than it should. “Give me a list, then. I’m interested.”

“Okay, so the first one’s Marimo,” I say with a straight face.

Zoro’s face falls into a scowl, tugging on his cuff so that I’m instantly pulled towards him. “Ha ha ha, you’re so funny, Raya. You should turn into a part time clown.”

“And then the next one’s Sword-mouth. Get it? Cause you have a sword—”

“That’s fucking bad.”

“Okay, okay, what about Bullhead? That’s my favourite.”

“Bullhead?” Zoro repeats with a sceptical raise of his brow. “You’re really reaching with that one.”

I smirk, feeling a surge of playful energy course through me. “Oh, come on, it suits you. Stubborn, always charging headfirst into things… It’s perfect.”

Zoro rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of amusement in his gaze. “You really like pushing my buttons, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” I admit with a mischievous grin. “It’s just so easy to get a rise out of you. You’re like a bull seeing red. Maybe I should consider making a red cape for you.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re asking for it, Kozuki.”

“Oh, am I?” I say, leaning in just a little closer, my tone teasing. “And what are you gonna do about it, Bullhead?”

Zoro’s eyes narrow, the playful glint in them taking on a sharper edge. He doesn’t respond immediately, instead, he lets the silence stretch, the tension between us growing thicker with each passing second. Then, in one swift movement, he grabs my wrist—the one bound to his by the cuff—and yanks me toward him.

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls me down onto the makeshift bed, his grip on my wrist firm but not painful. He’s over me in an instant, his body hovering just above mine, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. The chain between us clinks softly, the only sound besides the rapid beating of my heart.

“You’ve been pushing me all day,” Zoro murmurs, his voice low and rough. His eyes, darkening with something far more intense than irritation, lock onto mine. “I’m thinking maybe it’s time you see what happens when I push back.”

But before I can respond, Zoro shifts his grip, grabbing my other hand and pinning it above my head along with the chained one. His strength is undeniable, and the way he’s holding me down, with just enough pressure to make it clear that he’s in control, sends a thrill through me that I can’t quite explain.

He lowers his head, his breath hot against my neck as he murmurs, “Why don’t we think of nicknames for you, huh?”

My pulse quickens, a heat rising in my chest that has nothing to do with the close quarters we’re in. I can feel the roughness of the stone bed beneath me, the coolness of the air on my skin, but all of it fades into the background compared to the weight of Zoro hovering above me, his presence completely overwhelming.

"Nicknames for me?" I murmur, my voice trembling slightly despite my efforts to keep it steady. I try to inject a bit of the usual sarcasm into my tone, but it falls really flat – embarrassingly so. I swallow down my pride as I defiantly look into his gaze. "Like what?"

Zoro smirks, but it’s not the usual cocky grin; this one’s intense, more primal, and it makes me hold in a small breath. His eyes flicker over my face, taking in every detail, every reaction, as if he’s cataloguing it all for some future purpose.

"I’m thinking…" He pauses, his grip on my wrists tightening slightly, just enough to make me aware of the power he holds over me right now. "Something that suits you. Something that captures that fiery temper of yours. Maybe… ‘Spitfire’?"

I scoff, trying to sound unimpressed, but there’s a flutter in my chest at the name. "Spitfire? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?"

He chuckles, the sound low and rough, and it sends a wave of heat through me. "It’s fitting. You’re always spitting fire, whether it’s with your words or your actions. You’ve got somethin’ that could burn anyone who gets too close."

He gently picks up my hand that’s tethered to his, carefully eyeing the bruises that have formed beneath and around the cuff that’s so tightly linked over my skin. “Or… The Whining Witch? Since you love to scream my head off.”

I burst out laughing. “That’s an awful name.”

“Really? I think it’s pretty good.”

“Stick to Spitfire, buddy—"

Without warning, Zoro lowers his head, his lips grazing the bruised skin of my wrist with a feather-light touch. The unexpected tenderness of the gesture catches me off guard, making me bite down on my lower lip to keep from gasping.

His tongue flicks out, tracing the bruise with agonizing slowness, and I feel my legs tense in response. The sensation is electric—a tantalizing blend of pain and pleasure that causes my breath to hitch in my throat. Throughout, his eyes remain locked on mine, never breaking contact, as if he's studying every flicker of emotion, every reaction his touch elicits.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady, to mask the effect he's having on me.

Zoro doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he continues his deliberate exploration, his tongue tracing the marks left by the cuffs with a maddening precision. It's as if he’s soothing the pain, but there's something more in the way he touches me—an unspoken claim that lingers beneath the surface, making it clear this is about more than just concern.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes have darkened, filled with a heat that mirrors the burning sensation spreading through my chest.

His voice, a low, rough murmur, breaks the silence. "I'm making sure you remember who you're dealing with, Spitfire."

The way he says it, the way the nickname rolls off his tongue, sends a jolt of something intense through me. My pulse pounds in my ears, my heart hammering in my chest as his calloused fingers gently stroke the tender spots on my wrist. A part of me wants to push back, to reclaim some measure of control, but another part—a larger, more insistent part—is drawn in by this side of him, captivated by his raw intensity.

Then, without warning, his mouth is on me again, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin of my neck. I gasp, my back arching instinctively as he trails his mouth lower, his teeth grazing just enough to leave me on edge, caught between anticipation and desire.

“Zoro—” I start, but my voice cuts off as his tongue flicks out, teasing the pulse point at the base of my throat. I groan out without the ability to restrain myself, squirming under him, but he holds me steady, his grip unyielding.

“You talk too much,” he whispers, his breath fanning against the wet column of my throat. “Maybe I should find a way to keep that mouth of yours busy.”

His breath is so warm against my skin, his lips so close to mine that I can almost taste him, yet he doesn’t close the distance. Instead, he continues to toy with me, his fingers tracing patterns along my side, his touch light and provokingly slow. His hand slides up, brushing against the curve of my waist, and I can feel the heat pooling in my stomach, desperate for it to be released. Zoro’s eyes are locked on mine, powerful and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe.

He leans in, his mouth hovering just above my collarbone, and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, goosebumps bubbling all over my body in anticipation. My fingers dig into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor me, but he only smirks, his lips ghosting over my skin without making contact.

“You’re torturing me,” I manage to whisper, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

“Am I?” he replies, his voice a low, teasing rumble. His hand slides up my back, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer. “Or are you just not used to someone who knows how to play the game?”

“You’re such a—” I hiss, yet again, but the words die in my throat as his hand slides up, under my shirt, and his rough fingers brush against the bare skin of my stomach. He smirks against my neck, clearly pleased with the reaction he’s pulling from me. His fingers trail higher, exploring, tracing patterns on my skin that leave me trembling. I should be pushing him away, but all I can think about is how much I want more.

“Calm down, Spitfire,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low. “You’ve gotta learn to be patient.”

And just when I think I can’t take it anymore, when the bound coil between us is so tight it feels like it might snap, something shifts. There’s a soft, metallic clink, a sound that breaks through the haze of desire and pulls me back to reality. Zoro freezes, his head lifting as his eyes flicker down to the source of the sound.

I follow his gaze, my breath catching in my throat as I see it—the Kozuki Coin, the last gift Gramps ever gave me before he was taken away, rattling out of my pocket and onto the ground. The sight of it is like a bucket of cold water, dousing the fire that had been burning so brightly just moments before.

“Oh,” I say, my voice cracking in a mixture of surprise and grief. “That’s…”

The golden coin glints in the dim light, its intricate design catching the eye, and for a moment, neither of us moves. The weight of what it represents settles over me like a heavy shroud, pulling me back from the edge of the precipice I’d been teetering on.

Zoro’s grip on me loosens, his gaze lingering on the coin for a long moment before he looks back at me. The darkness in his eyes has softened, replaced by something more contemplative, more grounded.

I reach down, my fingers brushing against the cool metal as I pick up the coin. The weight of it in my hand is familiar, comforting in a way that nothing else is. I turn it over, tracing the intricate designs with my thumb, and for a moment, I’m lost in the memories it holds.

But then, as my fingers continue to brush over the face of the Kozuki coin, a sharp sensation travels through my hand, as though the coin itself has a pulse—one that syncs with my own heartbeat. My mind starts to blur, the world around me melting away as a tingling sensation runs down my spine.

Suddenly, a loud, metallic clink echoes through the cavern, jerking me back to the present. Before I can process what’s happening, an explosion rips through the air. The blast is so powerful that it sends a shockwave through the small cubbyhole we’re hiding in, causing the walls to shudder and dust to rain down from the ceiling. My heart lurches as I realize it came from my backpack, which had been lying just in front of the cubbyhole.

“What the fuck just happened?” Zoro hisses, wide-eyed and looking alert, his fingers brushing over the empty spot at his hip where his swords usually are. He curses to himself and hastily begins to look around for his weapons, wherever they might be.

But my eyes catch onto something. My fingers reach for the back of Zoro’s hand, trying to pull him back into the moment. “Wait, look,” I whisper.

The force of the explosion knocks the backpack back against the wall, tearing it apart. My belongings scatter across the ground, torn fabric and charred remnants of supplies I’d packed now little more than useless debris. Smoke curls up from the remains, filling the air with the acrid stench of burning.

I stare at the tattered remains in shock, my pulse pounding in my ears. Amidst the destruction, something catches my eye. There, in the centre of the wreckage, untouched by the blast, lies Gramps' forgotten logbook.

The worn leather cover is surprisingly intact, its edges barely singed, standing out starkly against the charred ruins of everything else. My hands tremble as I reach out to pick it up, the familiar weight of it grounding me.

“How?” Zoro mutters in surprise.

“I don’t know…”

With a mixture of confusion and disbelief, I open the book, flipping through the pages. Not a single word is smudged; the ink remains sharp and clear. Even the delicate, brittle paper seems unaffected by the explosion. I turn page after page, searching for any sign of damage, but it’s as if the logbook has been preserved by some kind of magic.

As I continue to flip through, a sudden sharp pain lances through my finger. I yelp, more out of surprise than actual pain, and look down to see a thin cut on the tip of my finger. Blood wells up and smears across the page.

Before I can react, the blood starts to seep into the paper, spreading out in thin, crimson lines. The words on the page blur, shifting and twisting as though they’re being rewritten in blood. The entire page begins to change, darkening until it’s completely red. Then, as if the logbook itself is alive, the transformation spreads like wildfire, turning every page into a deep, dark crimson.

The leather cover follows suit, its familiar texture shifting beneath my fingers. The logbook vibrates in my hands, the edges of the pages curling as they harden, morphing into something else entirely. My eyes widen in shock as the logbook twists and reshapes itself, the leather stretching and smoothing until it forms a hilt—a weapon’s hilt.

My breath catches as I realize what I’m holding. The logbook is no more, replaced by the unmistakable handle of a sword. The leather is supple yet firm under my grip, perfectly fitted to my hand. Etched into the base of the hilt, just where my thumb rests, are the words:

“You weren’t ever much of a reader. Clumsy oaf.”

I stare at the inscription, a lump forming in my throat. Gramps’ familiar scrawl brings a flood of memories crashing down on me, his voice echoing in my mind, teasing and affectionate. But before I can fully process the message, my eyes are drawn to the top of the hilt, where a hollowed-out coin holder gleams in the dim light. The metal is polished, almost as if it’s waiting—waiting for something specific to complete it.

The Kozuki coin in my hand suddenly feels heavy, as if it’s pulling me toward the hilt. Without thinking, I lift the coin and set it into the holder. It clicks into place with a satisfying snap, the metal fitting perfectly as though it was always meant to be there.

The moment the coin settles, the entire hilt seems to come alive. The face of the golden coin begins to shift, the once-familiar emblem of the Kozuki clan dissolving like liquid metal. In its place, a new symbol emerges—a silver emblem of a helmet with a star etched across its screen, gleaming with a cold, almost ethereal light.

Before I can comprehend what’s happening, the coin begins to melt, the silver flowing down the hilt like molten steel. It moves with a purpose, cascading down in shimmering waves, shaping itself into a blade. The transformation is mesmerizing, the metal expanding and stretching, forming into a massive, two-handed longsword.

The sword is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The blade is a brilliant gold, the metal glowing with an otherworldly light that seems to pulse with energy. It’s enormous, easily as long as I am tall, yet perfectly balanced in my grip. The edge gleams razor-sharp, catching the light and reflecting it in a dazzling array of colours.

I stand there, the sword heavy in my hands, the weight of it grounding me as the realization of what has just happened sinks in. This is no ordinary weapon. It’s a piece of my heritage, a manifestation of the power that’s been lying dormant within me, waiting to be awakened.

Zoro stares at the blade, his eyes wide with shock and something else—something like respect. He doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face says it all. This is a weapon worthy of a warrior, and in this moment, I feel the weight of that responsibility settle on my shoulders.

The sword hums with power, the energy coursing through it resonating with something deep inside me. It’s as if the blade is an extension of my own soul, forged from the very essence of my being. I can feel it, a connection so strong it’s almost overwhelming, and I know, without a doubt, that this weapon was meant for me.

The metal blade hums, its resonance vibrating deep within the recesses of my mind. The sound is a low, pulsing thrum, like the distant rumble of thunder or the echo of a heartbeat. It’s an ancient sound, carrying with it the weight of countless generations, the whispers of those who have come before me. It vibrates through the sword, through my arm, and into my very bones, a steady rhythm that matches the rapid beat of my heart.

At first, the noise is nothing more than unintelligible static, a jumbled mess of sounds that scrape against the edges of my consciousness. It’s like trying to tune an old radio, the signal crackling and popping as it searches for the right frequency. The noise grows louder, more insistent, until it drowns out everything else—the distant echoes of the cavern, the sound of Zoro’s breathing, the pounding of my own heart. All of it fades into the background, swallowed by the static that floods my mind.

And then, through the chaos, I begin to hear something—someone. A voice, distorted and faint, like it’s coming from a great distance or through a wall of water. It’s a voice I’d know anywhere, no matter how garbled or distant it might be.

It’s Gramps.

“Raya—” The word is drawn out, his voice cracking as it forces its way through the noise. There’s a slur to his speech, as if he’s struggling to form the words, like he’s fighting against something—pain, exhaustion, maybe even fear. The sound of it makes my chest tighten, my breath catching in my throat.

“Gramps?” I whisper, my voice trembling as I clutch the hilt of the sword tighter. “Gramps, is that you?”

“Raya… oh gods, Raya!” His voice is raw, frantic, and filled with a desperation that sends a chill down my spine. It’s like he’s drowning, each word a struggle to the surface before being pulled back under. “They… they got me… they… the ink… it’s—”

His words come out in a jumbled mess, fragmented, and broken, as if he’s fighting to stay coherent. The pain in his voice is palpable, and I can hear the faint sound of sobbing, choked, and muffled as though he’s trying to hold it back but failing.

“Gramps, where are you? What’s happening?” I try to keep my voice steady, but it wavers, betraying the panic that’s beginning to creep in. The connection between us feels tenuous, fragile, like a thread that could snap at any moment. I need to hear him, to understand what’s happening, but the words are slipping through my fingers like sand.

“Find Trafalgar Law—” Gramps croaks out, his voice faltering. There’s a long, agonizing pause, and for a moment, I think I’ve lost him, that the connection has been severed. But then he speaks again, his voice weaker, more strained. “Gods, oh Gods, Tell… tell Luffy, too… they’re… they’re all—"

And then it cuts out.

22 notes · View notes

tozettastone · 10 months

Text

More Naruto OC thoughts:

an unnamed researcher's top 5 top 6 rules for stalking Kakuzu

[A clipping of Kakuzu's wanted poster is stapled above.] Remember he is so, so dangerous. You must ensure you are never an object of interest to bounty hunters generally and certainly not to Kakuzu specifically. Kakuzu is bigger, older, and a lot scarier than you are. Anonymity is the first rule.

If you cannot be perfectly anonymous, you can embrace pseudonymity instead. That is, if there's a risk of exposure, you can pretend to be someone infinitely more interesting. Impersonating a different missing-nin has worked so far. You need to keep track of who's who in the industry, which happily is also your ongoing project. [Notes regarding assassination pricing are written, rewritten, and crossed out in the margin.]

Kakuzu is rarely oblivious as to his surroundings. He has a good chakra awareness and a lot of experience. But missing-nin who want to exchange dead bodies for money have to go through locations where drops are made, and they're frequently populated. Keep abreast of the exchange locations. Pro tip: everyone stares at Kakuzu in a town, because he's massive, wearing a giant black cloak, and, oh yes, carrying a corpse. You blend right in.

"Pein sees everything that goes on in Rain." This is absolutely true, but if you're good enough at genjutsu you can make sure what he sees and what he knows are two different things. Even Pein cannot see right through a really good genjutsu.

[Smudged with soot] Avoiding Kakuzu's young man only seems easy because he is loud and easy to track. He is by far the more likely of the two to involve random bystanders in his moods. Never remain in the same building again, no matter how well disguised you are. Hidan is indiscriminate in his violence. When is Kakuzu going to kill him? On reflection, Kakuzu may not be able to kill him.

6. [Next to a bloody half-fingerprint.] Avoid Uchiha Itachi.

#naruto oc: red #akatsuki

58 notes · View notes

impishtubist · 1 year

Text

friday snippet

@strugglequill tagged me in a snippet game and I was in A Mood last night, so have a lil spite ficlet instead.

Open tag for anyone else who wants to play along!

---

“Why do you look like the cat that’s got the cream?”

“Because you’ll never believe the book I found in the drawing room.” Sirius holds it up with a flourish. Remus squints at the cover. This close to the full, his eyesight is shit.

“The Alpha’s Virgin Mate,” Remus finally reads out loud, and then he groans. “No, absolutely not.”

“I’m certain it’s Molly’s,” Sirius says, dropping down next to where Remus is curled up on the couch in a ball of misery and pulling Remus’s legs into his lap. “Let’s have a look.”

“Sirius, no.”

“Hush.” Sirius flips to a random page. “His eyes raked over me, lingering on my quivering quim--who even says that anymore? Quim. Did my mother write this?”

“Do quims quiver?”

“Not in my experience.” Sirius skips forward a few pages. “Oh, you’ll like this bit. He was as broad as three men, his chest covered in a thick carpet of hair, his muscles and…other parts of him…thickened by the moon. I couldn’t help it. My eyes were drawn to what hung between his legs, that massive rod of manhood he meant to spear me with. I shivered in fear. How was it going to fit?”

“Thickened by the moon,” Remus snickers. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Nah.” Sirius pats his bony shin affectionately. “I like you just the size you are. Makes it easy to throw you on my bed and have my wicked way with you.”

“What happens next?”

Sirius flips forward a few more pages. “With a roar, he explodes inside of me, his fourteen-inch sword of life--fourteen inches, Merlin, how is this woman not dead?--spilling seed into my waiting womb.”

“Sounds painful.”

“It gets better,” Sirius says, turning several pages. “I stand before the mirror, a hand on my belly. It had been flat the night before, and now is swollen, thick and round, from his hourly deposits. Hourly deposits? That’s, what, eight orgasms in a night?”

“Well, he is an alpha, Sirius,” Remus says, his lips twitching. “You know how the moon turns us into muscular sex gods.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and tosses the book aside. “Whoever wrote that has never met a werewolf.”

#imp is writing #wolfstar #yes please ignore the post i made a couple of hours ago saying i was glad i took down all my wolfstar fics #this is DIFFERENT it is spite wolfstar

109 notes · View notes

1moreoffkeyanthem · 4 months

Text

Hey y’all guess what?!? :) it’s time for a new episode of Bedtime Stories With PCE!!!

Who ordered some old man yaoi? That’s right, this one is set right after If Heaven And Hell Decide, with a sick Kyle, worried Stan, the best little immortal cat of all time, adding injury to illness, two middle aged men being massive fantasy dorks, all that goodness. Very sorry to my favorite arthritic ginger it will happen again, very sorry to his extremely concerned husband.

And y’all. I’m dedicating this to the Sickfic Queen herself, @alwaysinstyle who consistently kicks ass and gets stoked about style taking care of each other with me. Ana I love you so much and I’m so proud of you. All the people in your corner, we have you covered.

Also OFC the rest of the RANT homies have been subjected to random snippets of this over the past 2 weeks or so (jesus my sadsack ass needs to get some motivation back how has it been two weeks) but hey I will always be obnoxious when the mood strikes me and this long ass monstrosity is FINALLY done!!! Thank y’all fr for putting up with me.

Here’s •Well, That Would Be Pretty Odd•

A subtle knock at the door drew Stan’s attention and Kyle from uneasy rest. His husband’s head lolled exhaustively in his hand, still drained of energy and, according to the screen displaying his vitals, running a pretty high fever. Stan kept one arm protectively over him and turned to the door. “Yeah?”

The doctor entered, shutting the door behind her. “Hey, guys, how are we doing in here?”

Kyle pulled up slowly, clearly emotional, like he always got when he was sick. “Can I go home yet? Moose needs me.”

“Our cat,” Stan explained. “He’s worried he scared our cat.”

“I did.”

“Scared the hell out of your husband, too, sick as you are. It says on the chart you guys filled out that your blood sugar was low enough to potentially trigger a seizure. If he hadn’t acted as fast as he did, you’d be even worse off than you are.”

Kyle slumped back into Stan. “He always rescues me,” he murmured.

Stan felt like crying. “I’m your knight when you need me, dude.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, what’re we working with here? Stomach flu, dehydration, complications because of the diabetes, all that, right?”

“Right. Kyle, we have you on antivirals and fluids via IV for now, and I know you’re eager to get home-“

“-he hates hospitals-“

“-I hate hospitals.”

The doctor smiled kindly, even after getting interrupted. Stan liked her. “We’re keeping you overnight at least, but if your vitals are still stable and your fever is less than 102, we can send you home.”

Stan knew Kyle appreciated being the one addressed about his own health. This doctor could read the room, that’s for sure. Kyle nodded tiredly, eyes closed.

“How about when we go home? What’s the plan?” Stan inquired, tired as fuck himself but making an exception for Ky, always.

“Fluids, rest, anything with nutritional value that can stay down. Your friend in the waiting room mentioned orange juice as you guys’ go-to when Kyle’s having trouble with blood sugar? And he said you’re always diligent about keeping an eye on his health.” She was definitely addressing Stan now, since Kyle had clearly relinquished responsibility for the time being, knowing Stan had him covered. Hell yeah he did. “Any further complications; if you catch the bug too and can’t take care of him, another bad sugar drop or fever spike, and you guys come right back here. But at this point, it’s looking like this is something manageable from home, fingers crossed.”

And Stan had every finger crossed. He’d take care of Kyle, just like Kyle took care of him. Even if he was kind of scared as fuck, not having seen him quite this sick since maybe college. Or even when they were kids and he needed kidney surgery. He bit the panic down. Kyle was okay.

“Gotcha. I can spend the night? Spousal rights and everything?”

“You won’t convince him not to stay if you say no,” was Kyle’s muffled reply.

The doctor laughed. “I won’t make you leave. The last thing I want is either of you worked up, especially you, Kyle. If you need your husband with you to be comfortable-“

“-mhm-“

“-that’s not a problem in my book.” She tapped her clipboard with long fingernails. “There’s a call button on the bed if you need anything between the nurses checks, and I’ll tell your friend he’s free to go. He isn’t allowed back here, I’m afraid, but I can also let him know he can be the one to pick you up in the morning, if that’s what you two want?”

Kyle mumbled something that sounded like “like a good neighbor, Tucker is there” to the tune of the state farm insurance jingle. The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, he’s pretty delirious, alright.” A couple quick checks to Kyle’s IV line and heartbeat monitor, and she was gesturing for Stan to lay his half asleep husband back down. “You boys get some rest. We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Stan whispered, letting Kyle nuzzle into his chest as she left the room. Once they were alone in the darkened space, he kissed him softly on the top of the head. Kyle was a space heater. But if the hospital staff wasn’t alarmed, they were okay. “I’ve got you, baby, just sleep.”

The next morning, Kyle improved enough to leave and discharge paperwork done, they faced the problem of actually getting the sick man home.

Stan waved off the nurse’s offered wheelchair and stubbornly picked Kyle up because like hell was he losing even a second of contact. That and he took pride in the fact that he was in his 40s and still able to carry his husband.

“Sir, there’s procedure…”

Kyle snorted from where his head was against Stan’s shoulder, coherent enough to be aware but still too weak to insist on, god forbid, trying to walk on his own. “Believe me, ma’am, there’s no way in hell you’re convincing this guy not to carry me. Losing battle, mark my worms- words.”

Someone needed to be home in bed.

The nurse sighed, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth argument. Thank God, because Kyle could out argue anyone normally, but he was fucking tired.

“Just sing me home again, Orpheus,” he murmured into his husband’s ear.

Stan laughed at the reference. “Alright, ma’am, so if we’re all set….”

“Yes, yes, you can go. Hope you feel better.”

Kyle only had a vague recollection of both Stan and Craig yelling at the hospital staff when they brought him in, which was kind of funny to think about. Craig didn’t get worked up about things easily, and Stan was as gentle as they came. But it was nice to know his friend and his partner were willing to act so out of character for his sake. He muttered a “hey, spaceman” in greeting when Stan lowered him into the back of Craig’s car, mid morning sun forcing him to keep his eyes closed.

Craig barked a short laugh, pulling from the parking lot when both his passengers were settled for the short drive. “Someone’s feeling better.”

“I’ll get him set to rights, kick the plague’s ass,” Stan said, softly kissing his husband’s still too warm forehead. “Thanks for picking us up, dude. And for last night.”

“No biggie,” Craig shrugged nonchalantly. “Someone had to keep a level head and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be either of you.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong there. Craig was probably the least prone to getting over emotional person Stan had ever met.

Craig’s husband, however, was the exact opposite. Upon getting home and getting up to bed, Kyle could faintly hear the frantic voice of Tweek downstairs, bringing Moose back from spending the night over at apartment two.

Kyle was nauseous, not to the point that he had been, but nauseous all the same, waiting for Stan to be done retrieving their cat and filling Kyle’s water. He felt weak as shit, and sweaty, which was probably a reasonably good indicator of his fever coming down, but it fucking sucked. And he was going to need some soup or something in him soon so his blood sugar didn’t get so bad again, which was another thing that sucked, because why do flesh prisons require so much maintenance? Why did his body require so much to function.

He didn’t realize tears were flowing until Stan entered the bedroom, hands full with the water, a KMBS, and one of those bottled protein drinks that tasted like chalk. Moose was quick to jump up and pad softly over to him, big blue eyes so worried and sweet as he curled up beside him. Kyle’s two blue eyed boys.

The second of whom was setting the drinks on the bedside table. There was a straw in each, so Kyle wouldn’t have to move as much to drink. It made him cry harder.

“Shhh, dude, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Stan climbed onto his side and grabbed the juice, holding it to Kyle’s lips. “I know you don’t feel good, that’s okay. I’ve got you. Go slow, okay?”

Kyle complied, the sharp taste of salted orange juice helping both physically and mentally. Plus, it’s hard to drink something and cry at the same time, so his breathing was a little less sporadic. A few sips were all he managed before his stomach started rolling, and he shook his head. Stan understood, setting the cup down and pulling Kyle’s face into his chest. “Just sleep, baby. I’m gonna have to check your temperature and levels in about an hour, but just sleep until then, alright?”

“Mhm.”

Stan would take care of him. Kyle would put up a fight, when he had the strength to, but Stan knew from experience that he’d be ‘secretly’ loving being cared for.

The husbands had a couple favorite positions to hold each other in. They’d hold the other from behind, arms wrapped around and poised to kiss an exposed nape or shoulder as a reminder of their presence. They would entangle themselves like they were doing now, they’d let the other’s head rest on their legs, Kyle would perch himself in Stans lap or Stan would drape over him like a blanket. Holding each other was safe. And in this moment Stan wrapped protectively around his sick partner like it was his sacred duty, one hand cradling Kyle’s head from underneath, fingers gently rubbing his hair, the other arm tucking him firmly against himself, feeling Moose’s purrs vibrating where the cat had claimed his place against Kyle’s back, right below the place Stan’s arm was wrapped around.

Stan glanced at the nightstand clock, keeping watch for the next time they’d need to wake up for a check in. About an hour and he’d get the thermometer to make sure they were still headed in the right direction, check Kyle’s levels, make them both something for, well, he supposed lunch at this point, and call the clinic to let his coworkers know that he’d be out a few days for a family emergency. He’d have to let Kyle’s work know too, before his husband tried to go into school still unwell.

Fitfully, Kyle dozed, sweating in his sleep, which Stan knew damn well he’d complain about when he woke up, but personally, he didn’t mind holding a miniature sun, because it was Kyle. Overheated, but still Kyle.

It hadn’t quite been an hour, but the warmth was starting to concern him. He gently kissed the top of his husband’s head, encouraging him to stir.

“Dude, hey.”

Kyle let out a tired whine as indication that he was awake.

“I know, baby. I just need to check your temperature and then you can go back to sleep.”

“I can check my own damn temperature,” Kyle protested, rolling over onto his back when Stan relinquished his grasp around his beloved. He scowled. “I’m all sweaty.”

Stan chuckled lowly. Was he right or was he right. “Gimme a second.”

Upon getting the thermometer and finding that they were still going in the right direction, Stan relaxed slightly. He let Kyle check both his temperature and blood sugar by himself, because it wasn’t worth the impending argument and the last thing he wanted was to make his husband feel helpless. Fever was down, but he definitely needed something to eat soon.

“Dude, do you think you can handle something solid, or you wanna keep sticking with drinks?”

Kyle hadn’t puked in a while, so he felt like maybe something simple, easy on the stomach, would be okay. As much as he wanted to keep going with the safe option of juice and a protein shake, he wouldn’t get better without something substantial in him and he knew it. “I can try. No promises.”

“You don’t need to promise anything,” Stan insisted, leaning down to kiss him on the way out of bed. “But I have an idea, if you’re okay by yourself for a few minutes.”

“Moose is with me. I’m not by myself,” Kyle remarked with a sleepy smile.

Stan snorted and went to change into jeans, last night’s pajamas not exactly ideal attire for walking to the BBQ place a block over. Kyle was weird about food sometimes, but Brendan’s mac and cheese was a simple, safe, Kyle approved bet. He’d probably want it to get cold first like he usually did (weirdo), but sick Kyle was sort of a wild card. They’d see.

“I’ll be back in fifteen, dude, drink some water.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Kyle heard the door close downstairs, slowly reaching for his water at the bedside, one hand resting on their cat’s head. Moose was stretched out along his side, fluffy tail dangling off the side of the mattress.

“You sleepy too, young nastyman?” Kyle asked, setting the bottle down and closing his eyes. Moose purred in response.

Apparently he’d drifted off again, waking up to the rustle of a takeout bag and a strong, smoky smell.

Kyle clapped a hand over his mouth. Ordinarily the smell of brisket and ribs wouldn’t bother him, but in his half asleep state, smelling meat on Stan of all people…

“…Dude?”

“FUCKING CHANGE!” Kyle screeched, staggering up to run to the bathroom, tears in his eyes because the bbq place smell all over his vegetarian husband was wrong and disorienting and he hated being sick and fevers made him sensitive and an asshole and-

Falling hard in front of the toilet, he felt his knee go out. The cherry on top of the fucking cake while his stomach tried to escape his body. Kyle cried out in pain, which was cut off immediately by a wave of sick splashing into the porcelain while he attempted to move and take the weight off his left leg, shaking and already crying because he was pissed and it hurt and he couldn’t catch a damn break. Dry heaving and spluttering, he collapsed tiredly into the alcove between the toilet and the cabinets, one trembling arm draped over the seat and the other hand clutching his knee, eyes shut tightly against the light and the nausea and pain.

“Ky, hey, hey, oh, fuck, baby, shit, did you twist your knee? Okay, you’re okay, hold on-“

Kyle leaned over to retch again, choking out “YOU SMELL WRONG” because that’s all he could manage between gasps.

Stan yanked his shirt off and threw it through the open door into the hallway, past where Moose was watching with wide eyes from the threshold. “Okay, I’m sorry, is that better? Here.” He gently eased Kyle’s hand away from his leg, carefully straightening it out. “God, yeah, it’s already swelling.”

“WHY do I have to LIVE IN THIS GODDAMN FLESH PRISON?!?” Kyle slammed his fist against the floor, frustrated beyond belief. Stan caught his hand before he could do it again.

“Shh, Ky, c’mon. You’re okay, it’s fine.”

Seeing his husband like this, sick, aggravating his bad knee mid vomit, broke Stan’s heart. But he had him. He had him and wouldn’t let go. Was that dramatic? Absolutely. But when the fuck was he not dramatic about Kyle’s health?

“THAT FUCKING STUPID ASS NURSE!” Kyle was yelling. “Sending me sick kids, thinking they were just trying to get out of class, that BITCH!”

“Baby, dude, calm down, man, breathe.”

“YOU’RE ONE TO FUCKING TALK!”

Alright, point to Kyle. Stan sighed as Kyle heaved over the toilet again, expelling nothing but water. They really needed to get something in him before he wound up needing the hospital again. Stan gently rubbed his husband’s back as he hiccuped and cried, clearly feeling betrayed by his body. A few minutes of heavy breathing, and Kyle was pulling back up. “I- I think I’m d-done.”

“Alright dude, I’m gonna get you up now, that okay?”

“Mhm”

Very, very carefully, Stan hauled Kyle from the floor, mindful not to move his knee too much and going slow in case of another bout of nausea. Moose trotted into the bedroom after his dads, obviously distressed seeing Kyle cry and immediately curling back up against the redhead when Stan set him down.

Stan was honestly a little nauseous himself, because Kyle’s frustrated tears never failed to make him emotional too. But he knew what to do here, he reminded himself. Fever was coming down, leg flare up was pretty routine, Kyle would rant it out if he had to and Stan would be his yes-man, and liquids were probably going to be the staple for the rest of the day.

He rolled up a throw blanket and propped it under Kyle’s leg, taking some strain off the irritated joint and kissing his husband’s kneecap when he did so. “You want ice, babe?”

“Yes I want fucking ice,” Kyle mumbled, arms draped over his eyes.

Stan could admit to enjoying taking care of Kyle when he fucked up his knee; pissed off Kyle was cute. “Aw, baby, I got you.” He grabbed the takeout bag from the nightstand too, not knowing if the bbq smell was lingering there too. “I’ll stick this in the fridge for when you want something solid, okay? How ‘bout another Ensure?”

Kyle grumbled something inaudible that Stan took as a yes. Poor thing was so upset. But he had every right to be, and Stan would never be annoyed at him for that.

Downstairs, he debated making his husband a smoothie, but the blender was loud, and his head probably already hurt from throwing up. Instead, he just grabbed an ice pack and a shake (strawberry, still gross but the flavor Kyle hated the least), taking the time to scribble out the nutrition information, just in case. That practice was pretty much habit at this point; he’d started ripping off or crossing out the calories on food for Kyle when they were fourteen, when his favorite person was recovering from his eating disorder, and even if he’d been more than fine for a longgggg time, Stan was prone to reverting to the past. When Kyle wasn’t okay, for whatever reason, food lore got crossed out.

“Dude, you up?”

“Mm”

“Shit, babe.” Stan knelt by the bed to carefully apply the ice, reaching a hand up to thumb away a falling tear. “You just mad?”

“Fucking pissed,” Kyle moaned. “It’s not enough that I have the goddamn plague?!? I have to have to fuck my leg up too? My parents are, like twice our age and even they don’t have fucking arthritis!” Kyle pointed two middle fingers to the ceiling as a ‘fuck you’ to god, which was actually pretty funny, but Stan didn’t laugh. That would only make his husband madder.

“Ky, c’mon.” Stan cupped under his head to kiss his cheek, relishing in the subtle smile that action brought. “And your parents didn’t shred tendons and refuse to do physical therapy.”

“I am damn well aware my goddamn arthritis is my own fault, Staniel.” But he sighed contentedly, adjusting the ice pack before leaning back against the pillows. “That helps. I’m sorry.”

Declaring the anger over for now, Stan climbed into bed beside him. “Don’t be sorry, dude. How’s your stomach?”

“I don’t fucking feel good.”

“I know, dude, can you drink a little water? We have to keep you hydrated.”

“It’ll just come back up.”

“Not necessarily.”

Moose crawled up between his dads, small furry head on Kyle’s shoulder, knowing he needed comfort. Kyle rubbed his face on the cat. “Babyman, did I scare you last night? I did, huh?”

“Dude,” Stan started, “he’s fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine. Drink something and don’t move your leg.”

“I didn’t shred my tendons, by the way.” Kyle protested. “I just tore some shit a little.”

“Enough that it’s a problem even now.”

“See, you get it.”

Stan laughed. “Quit being a dick and go to sleep, baby. You know you’ll feel better. I’m right here, dude, whatever you need.”

“I’m not being a dick, I’m being contrary.”

“Same difference.”

“Mm.”

God, poor Kyle, pissed off, sick, having a flare up on top of everything else. “Dude, what do you need?”

“Leg hurts.”

“We have a pack on it, dude. Maybe some ibuprofen? You should take some for the fever anyway.”

“It hurts.”

Stan started to gently rub his partner’s knee. “I know, babe. I know it’s hurting.”

“I hit it on the floor.”

“I know you did.”

“Fuck this shit.”

Kyle knew he was being a total dramatic asshole, but he didn’t care. God had fucked him over; he could be a dick. That made sense. “I’m mad, dude.”

“That’s okay.”

And no he didn’t have the right to be mad. Stan was being so sweet. Always. Any time Kyle’s meat suit betrayed him and he got upset about it, Stan was there, doting and adorable as ever. “I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep.”

“Something bad’s gonna happen.”

“Oh, dude.” Stan wrapped around him, carefully. “We’re not OCD spiraling. We’re not. A little rest, alright?”

In actuality, Kyle was too tired to argue.

It had to have been a few hours when Stan felt Kyle stir against his chest, swinging over to get out of bed… and promptly falling with a loud “FUCK!”

“Ky?”

“I FUCKING FORGOT ABOUT MY GODDAMN LEG!!!”

Stan sprang off the bed then too, getting on the floor beside his hyperventilating husband. “Dude, shhh, okay, okay, straighten it out.”

Sobbing, Kyle did. “D-don’t, freak, okay? I moved it weird, that’s all.”

“It’s fine, dude. Look at me. I’m not freaking out.” He was just doing a good job hiding it. Stan hated seeing Kyle cry, emotional, probably still feverish and nauseated, trying to get up in the middle of the night and falling on his knee, just the perfect storm of fucked up shit. But Kyle needed to stay calm, above all else. “What did you need, dude? Let me help you.”

“Water,” Kyle mumbled dejectedly.

“And guess what? You have me for that.” Stan carefully felt around his husband’s leg. “Can I turn a light on?”

Kyle responded by throwing up into the trash can, which had Stan gagging too. Fuck. Honestly, he was surprised he lasted so long without sympathy puking. “Hold on, baby.”

Stan rushed to the bathroom to empty his own stomach, somehow only just noticing that he still hadn’t put a shirt on from earlier. And Kyle hadn’t said anything about him wearing “outside pants” in bed, either, which was probably the best indicator of how sick he was.

Flushing down the panic induced vomit, Stan stood and glared at his reflection while he rinsed his mouth out, gulping a few handfuls of water from the sink. He had to keep it together. He needed a plan. Okay. Get Kyle back in bed, check his temperature and blood sugar, go downstairs to fill up his water and feed Moose, go from there.

Kyle had curled up on the floor back in the bedroom, and Moose had the zoomies. Stan sighed.

“Dude, okay, let’s get up.”

“Moving sucks ass.”

“I know it does, babe, but the bed is better than the floor.”

“Quit being right,” Kyle mumbled, allowing himself to be helped back under the covers. Stan snagged his readers from the nightstand, flipping on the lamp and grabbing the thermometer too.

“Okay, melmë, let’s see.”

Kyle smiled a little. “You look like a dad.”

“I am a dad,” he reminded him. Even if he’d bemoaned needing reading glasses and his body getting softer with age, his sentimental side was happy he had made it this far in life, especially with Kyle at his side. “Our son is bouncing off the walls as we speak. Open.”

Down to 100.3, thank whoever the fuck was up there. Maybe he should be thanking Kyle’s God, not having any attachment to one of his own. When he’d first started AA and found that part of the whole thing was putting things in the hands of a higher power, he had posed the question of what to do if you weren’t particularly religious to his sponsor. Mark had said “hell, put your faith in the doorknob if you want. Got you in here, didn’t it?”

“What’s the damage?” Kyle inquired.

“Definitely better. You want to check your levels or can I?”

Kyle slowly opened his eyes. “I got it, sweetheart, you’ve been doing so much.”

“Because I want to.”

“I’m difficult.”

Stan brought Kyle’s hand up to his lips and kissed it. “It so isn’t your fault that you got sick, or that you hurt your knee, or that you have diabetes. In sickness and in health, right?” Kyle’s fond grin only grew, and Stan decided to let up on the overbearingness. He snatched Moose up quickly on the cat’s next lap around the room. “I’m filling your water and feeding the dragon, okay? Be right back.”

So he had sweat out most of the fever, it seemed like. Judging by how sticky he felt, Kyle was fairly certain he was over the worst. At least in terms of the fucking stomach flu. His leg was a different story.

It was dim in the bedroom with only a sliver of moonlight slipping through the window, and the soft light from the lamp, but he could feel that he’d aggravated his knee pretty bad. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. The cartilage felt like it was grinding when he shifted. Kyle groaned in frustration, debating trying to hop over to the closet for his brace, but deciding against it, because Stan would flip his lid if he saw him standing. And considering what his blood sugar was at, being vertical was a bad idea anyway.

Said husband returned to the room. “I come bearing gifts for the king!”

Dork. Freshly refilled water, a KMBS, sleeve of crackers. Stan presented the juice. “Your elixir, melda târ. And-“ he beelined for the top of the closet, clearly having read Kyle’s mind.

“Thank you, my most dutiful and trusted of knights.” Kyle let him secure the knee brace, watching as those careful, strong, gentle hands worked, as Stan leaned down to kiss his leg when he was done. His Stan. His sweet Sir Marshwalker.

“Oh, shit, dude, are you crying? Does it hurt that much?” Stan was up by his face again. Kyle shook his head.

“It’s not that; I just- I really fucking love you,” he sobbed.

“Aw, baby, come here.” Stan climbed into bed and wrapped around him again, avoiding touching his husband’s stomach or leg. A little jingle of Moose’s collar announced their boy’s return to the bedroom, a tiny *prrrt* as the cat settled back at Kyle’s side. “You’re not as warm as you were, Ky, I think you’re getting better. That’s good, my love, you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Kyle murmured against him, damp eyelashes tickling Stan’s chest. “You still don’t have a shirt on.”

Stan laughed. So he had noticed. “You complaining?”

“You know I’m not.”

24 notes · View notes