#sort of... he sure said some unhinged things

[notnowsirimaddingup]

Alex Horne on Saturday's Kitchen 20th December 2025

[leyiorr]

i can't stop looking at her t-t-t-t, FACE!

mdni.

satoru gojo is doomed.

why is he doomed, you ask? well, put bluntly, you, his girlfriend of five months, are driving him absolutely crazy.

crazy is an understatement, actually. insane, mad, mental, unhinged, deranged, bonkers - whatever you want to call it. he's holding on by a thread; the thinly woven string known as sanity growing ever weaker as the days roll by and turn into weeks.

of course, he's only blaming you. you hadn't actually done anything wrong.

you're the first relationship satoru's had in his life, and he'd be damned if some inappropriate thoughts ruin his chances with the love of his life. he'd never been happier - dating you gave him the kind of happiness he thought only existed in movies; the kind of giddiness of a child in a candy store.

he was devoted to you in every way, shape and form - you are everything he's dreamed of and more.

more.

that's right, you were more.

recently, you were the devil's temptation personified.

surprisingly, even after twenty-odd years of being one of the most attractive guys around, and having women throw themselves at him like he's some kind of greek deity, satoru is a virgin. i'll repeat that, he is a virgin. a fact that only suguru knows. a fact that he's neglected to tell his girlfriend.

he may have a flirtatious personality and the ability to charm ninety percent of the human race with one of his thousand-kilowatt smiles, but in truth, he had never dated anyone. ever. let alone got his dick in a pussy.

so when he starts wanting to go further, he's not sure how to bring it up without sounding like a horndog.

it all started when you wore a sleek black dress to one of your dates. it clung to your figure, fabric wrapping shamelessly around your every curve and tickling your midthigh at its end. and if that wasn't bad enough, it had a plunging neckline, giving the world - satoru specifically - an eyeful of the assets god gifted you with. your boobs were practically spilling out of your dress, the light catching your cleavage as you held his arm. he could feel himself salivating like some sort of perv. how was he supposed to focus with aphrodite's personal creation hanging off his arm?

his eyes began to drift to the flesh of your chest more than he'd like to admit. all sorts of r-rated scenarios ran through his head and he dared to entertain every. single. one. he could do so much with them, tease them, spit on them, pinch them, suck on them, put his dick between them-

“satoru?”

his gaze snaps back to your face at record speed. you notice how he's chewing his bottom lip, flush creeping onto his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. his hands are clammy; there's suddenly too little oxygen in his room.

“did you listen to anything i said?” your arms fold beneath your bosom and satoru almost implodes.

what do you expect him to do? the necklace around your neck has his initial on it, and it hovers over your tits almost mockingly. if it snapped, the letter would fall right between the valley of your breasts-

“satoru!”

he's choking on his saliva, apologizing profusely as he encourages you to continue your story - though he hasn't heard shit over the blood pumping loudly in his ears.

it's a battle no, a war between his rationality and his desires and he doesn't know which is winning. his rationality wins when he's around you - he just sucks in a breath and thugs it out, no matter how much his dick shouts at him. but in private, he's letting the desires win as his fists himself to the thought of you, your lips, your ass; your boobs.

the first time he sees you in a bikini he has to take a breather before he can get into a game of beach volleyball with you and the group.

(and even then he was struggling. every time you jumped for the ball the only thing he was looking at was your tits.)

he should be neutered. effective immediately.

it drags out for so long that you finally notice, and force him to talk to you about why he's avoiding you, and if you'd done anything wrong. but all you get is:

“baby, i'm so sorry- you're so pretty and i can't help myself. i didn't know how to bring up that i wanted to take our relationship to the next step, you mean the world to me and i'd hate to make you uncomfortable-” he trips and stumbles over his words-

“...is that it?”

and his eyes bug out of his head as he stares at you. weeks, months of agony over this and all you have to say is 'is that it'?

he doesn't even have chance to respond; to process your words before you're popping the top button of your blouse.

yeah, satoru gojo is doomed.

[yurunivo]

(Lohen x vampire!gn!reader, mentions of blood (duh), very subtle masochist!Lohen, unhinged!Lohen, mentions of drinking alcohol, slight yandere themes? (I'm not even sure anymore), possible inaccurate depictions of blood loss, written before Lohen release, guess who's spamming him rn)

"Yo," there stood Lohen on your doorstep, a wine bottle in hand, lopsided grin on his face and his narrowed eyes that seemed far too calculating for someone who currently looked like a fool. His feet stuttered on your outdoor carpet, almost as if he lost his footing multiple times in coming here, and his breaths came in short and labored. You blinked, regaining your composure, before sighing and letting the man into your abode.

"I thought we agreed on no contact for a while," you tutted, making sure that your footsteps on the wooden floorboards were extra loud, to show your supposed disappointment. Lohen only whistled with a bored tune in return.

"Pfft, we?" He snickered, not even bothering to cover his mouth with his hand, like a polite guest. Though, his laugh sounded quite labored, as if he was out of breath. "Nah, I can do whatever I want. Sorry Mx Vampire." He didn't exactly sound sorry, but you weren't going to call him out for it, when you yourself missed some kind of company that wasn't the local wildlife ranging from birds to abyss mages.

See, the two of you had been friends in school, back when you were just a little fawn in terms of vampiric rules. He was a crazy kid, chasing around the local birds that hung off the trees and stabbing them with a branch, and you, who weren't accustomed to human food at that time, took to tentatively drinking blood from the dead animals while Lohen watched you with a curious expression. The other kids called the two of you weird, and when you pouted with a hurt expression, Lohen was always somehow behind you grinning at the kids creepily.

The two of you even went far enough as drinking his blood, your fangs in his neck from when the two of you were just preteens, but that was unfortunately when your mother had to drag you away.

"Listen here you brat," she said, brushing your hair of its tangles as you forced yourself to not blush of embarrassing at the mortifying nickname. "You are not to, under any circumstances drink blood from humans if they don't give their explicit consent. No means no, uncertainty means no, and not speaking about it means no."

You nodded frantically, careful to not disobey her.

Unfortunately for him this put a sort of hold to your friendship, and by the time the two of you were well into adolescence you had moved out to a quaint little cottage in the outskirts of Mondstadt where you drank the blood from animals that you hunted down with your crossbow.

Somehow that didn't exactly stop Lohen from finding out where you lived, barging in with a letter on your doorstep with enthusiastic writing saying "can't wait to catch up what we missed!!" And not letting you say no to his subsequent harassment of your time, no matter how much you voiced your displeasure.

The thing is, you don't mind the company in and of itself, but of Lohen's species. He was a human, you were a vampire, and when a vampire doesn't have human blood for a long time the very smell of it drives one crazy. You were no exception to this, and had to constantly force yourself via digging your fingers into your palms or forcefully biting the inside of your cheek to fight the urge to tackle him to the ground, tug his shirt down and stick your fangs into his neck.

Anyway, enough monologuing in your part. You gestured him to sit on your sofa, which he did with some minor tripping on your floorboards which made you slightly suspicious if he was stable enough to even walk back to his own home, as you brought out two wine glasses from your kitchen cabinet and walked over to where he was sitting, placing the glasses onto the coffee table.

"Soo..." Curse you for not being able to bring up a conversation topic. "What brings you here exactly? I thought that you'd be busy dealing with paperwork as vice captain and all."

"Not busy enough to not talk to you," he smiled and you could only roll your eyes. "Besides, I'd hate to keep my drinking buddy waiting for too long."

You feigned a shocked gasp, widening your eyes and putting your fingers in front of your mouth. "Me? A vampire being the Vice Captain's drinking partner? How scandalous!"

He chuckled in turn as he poured himself and you a glass before sliding over the alcohol to you as you raised a brow. His arm, which he used to give the drink, had bandages wrapped around from his wrist to a few inches from his elbow. You suspect that the linen spread to his hands too, but you couldn't see due to the gloves that covered them.

"Training accident making you so woozy?"

He paused for a moment, looking at his arm and then back at you with an unsettlingly blank expression. "Sure, you could call it that."

Bullshit, you wanted to say, but instead kept your cool and took the offered glass in stride.

The liquid was evidently red, ensuring that you were drinking wine, and had that blood-red tinge that showed that it was high quality. A new brew of Master Diluc's then, you hummed as you pressed the rim of the glass against your lips, and had to stop yourself from gasping at the taste. It was a particularly sweet blend, the alcohol rolling on your tongue and leaving the usual aftertaste. But it was way better than the wine you were expecting, and the consistency was quite unique too.

"You may as well convince me to come stay in Mondstadt city if it means I can have this wine stored away in my pantry all the time."

"Really?" Lohen abruptly stood up from his couch, slamming his hands onto the glass of the table in apparent shock. He winced extremely harshly however, and consequently spaced out for a while, as if his vision was going blank. He regained his lucidity after a suspiciously long time, and that immediately raised red flags.

The bandages on his forearm, the way he's been swaying around way more than usual despite the fact that he's a trained knight who's supposed to have proper footing going for him, and the way he took ten times longer than usual to clear up the fact that his vision went blank from standing up too fast.

And the wine...

It was wine alright. You could tell that it was a new brew, the bitter ethanol aftertaste and the sweet fruity taste in your tongue. However, if you focused enough, drowning out all the intense fruit, the tangible taste of iron rolled over your tongue.

Immediately, your mother's teachings thrummed in your head.

"A human body has around 4.5 to 5.7 litres of blood," she made you write down with her charcoal pencil. "They can lose about 14% without any issues, and that's the golden spot us vampires try to hit when feeding off of humans." She drew another line as if making a chart. "15 to 30% causes dizziness, generally not advised but can be allowed with someone's permission. Anything more is a no." She circled the no in the black charcoal multiple times until she was satisfied that her point was getting across.

"Lohen..." You began, very tentatively, very close to raising your voice and shouting his ear off. "What the fuck did you put in my drink?"

Please don't be blood, please don't be blood please...

"Oh you know.." he trailed off, looking like he got drugged at a bar with a really strong stimulant. "Just a little something to get you to taste me," he almost said a bit too honestly, and you had to pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh extremely long, extremely angry and frustrated so as to not let your shouting vocal cords win over your self control.

"Why?"

"Well, why not?" He shuddered again from the night cold, draping the coat on his shoulder closer to his body. "To live so isolated and having to hunt for animals all day? Hah, that doesn't exactly sound like the most optimum choice here, when I'm the one option clearly in front of you."

"Wha- Lohen! I didn't ask for your so called "help"," you gestured frantically with your fingers. "Why in Barbatos' name would you ever give me your blood?! I was living fine, and I don't mind having to not drink human blood again." Even if his blood tasted really, really tempting. Gosh, you knew that you couldn't bear to throw out his blood no matter what your told your stupid, stupid instincts.

"It's just so pitiful," his feet stuttered again, and you had to rush over to him so that he doesn't fall onto the harsh splinters of the floorboards. "Isn't it?"

You sucked in a deep breath, eyes darting to the wine glass that you'd already finished three-fourths of. You really wanted to finish it, to continue having the blood that he so graciously gave at the expense of his own darn health, but wouldn't that be hypocritical when you literally told him that you wouldn't drink out of him now would it?

Lohen now had his head ducked in between the juncture of your neck and shoulder, sluggish even, and from this proximity you could even pick out one of the daggers that he usually keeps in his belt. You wouldn't though, not when he's clinging onto you so tightly.

"Don't worry," he whispered almost fervently, and it made you shiver, trying so hard to not take a bite of him. "You'll come along to what I want soon enough."

[dewfaerie]

neighbour!simon ghost riley x reader part iii: in which you bring him food. (requested) [part i, part ii, part iv]

Simon (the cat) becomes an expected presence in Simon's apartment, and a new routine blooms from this occurrence: everyday, after you're back from work, you stop by Simon's to pick up your cat, chat Simon up a little, and then leave. This, to Simon, feels a lot like divorced parents sharing custody, but he doesn't mind. He's hauled up in his apartment most days, and it doesn't hurt to do you the favor of babysitting your little demon. (Though he's still bitter about sharing a name with the creature.)

Said creature is tolerable, Simon would say. Doesn't make a mess, doesn't attempt any physical contact. He's happy twisting around on Simon's carpet under a patch of sun.

Simon leaves the cat to do its thing. Soap does not.

"Got yerself a kitty, ay, LT?" Soap is laying down next to the cat, scratching behind its ear.

"Not mine. My neighbour's."

"Yer neighbour as cute as her kitty?"

You very much are, Simon thinks. Hell, you're cuter, but he's not about to say that to Soap, otherwise he wouldn't hear the end of it. So he settles the question with a shrug, like your looks aren't something he stayed up last night contemplating. He has lost count of how many times he revisited the view of you bent over to pick up your cat when you came over last week. Even now, the image comes to him easily, on command, as if it's burned to the insides of his eyelids.

"Yer pullin' ma leg!" Soap exclaims, sitting up.

Simon glances over at Soap to find the wanker inspecting the cat's collar. He groans internally and closes his eyes, bracing for the wave of mockery he's about to be subjected to.

"It's got yer name," Soap exclaims again.

"Sharp eyes you've got," Simon deadpans. "No need to shout. I'm sure the neighbours are familiar with the cat's name."

"The cat's got yer name!"

Simon exhales a heavy breath and turns away from both Soap and the cat. He has more pressing matters to tend to. Because of Soap's impromptu visit, Simon didn't have the time to go grocery shopping and is left with an empty fridge. He could go now, but one quick look at his phone tells him this is around the time you come pick up your cat, and he doesn't trust Soap to do the cat exchange. Soap is…unhinged, to put it lightly. Well meaning, but can come off too strong, too pushy. Simon doesn't want you to be uncomfortable.

Besides, your stop by, however short, became something he looks forward to, a little break in his mundane routine.

"Siiiimoooon."

The sound grates down on Simon's nerves. His eyes snap to the source, features twisted into a mean glare. Soap just smiles all innocent like.

"I was talking to the kitty."

The only thing that keeps Simon from strangling Soap in that exact moment is the fact that you'll be there any second now. Simon adjusts his shirt and surgical mask just as there's a soft knock on his door. For some reason you never use the doorbell, and Simon fancies that.

"I saw ye trying to look nice fo' her."

Simon decides, for his own sanity, to ignore that remark and goes to open the door. And there you are, already smiling like you're delighted to see him, like you've been burning all day for this moment. But Simon is not delusional. He knows you're actually excited to be reunited with your cat again.

"Did Simon behave today?" You ask by way of greeting.

I did, Simon thinks. I didn't strangle Soap yet.

Simon catches a whiff of your perfume as you brush past him and his heart thuds against his breastbone. An unusual reaction from him, but he it must be because he really fancies your smell. This momentary distraction was enough time for Soap to bombard you with all sorts of questions about your life. Simon would've interfered, but you looked relaxed, occasionally laughing when Soap said something only Soap would say.

He fancies the echo of your laugh in his usually quiet home.

"Are ye single, lass?"

"Alright, enough chitchat." Simon pushes himself off the wall and walks over to you. You glance at him over your shoulder, a little playful smile at the corner of your mouth, and he almost loses his footing.

"Oh, by the way, I brought you this." You extend a large container towards him. "I made too much food last night and thought of you."

Simon hesitates for a second and then takes the container from you, eyebrows drawn together. It's not like no one has ever gave him anything before, much less food, it's just he's not used to being anyone's first thought.

"Thanks," he murmurs, glancing back at you. You meet his eye and your smile morphs into something soft, something bashful.

"It's nothing, Si."

Soap is grinning like a maniac over your shoulder. Simon knows what the wanker is all giddy about, but there's nothing deep about the nickname, no affection behind it. The matter is as deep as a puddle. When you found out he shares a name with your cat, you thought it would be less confusing to call Simon (the human) a shortened version of his own name, never mind the fact that he's older than the little menace and therefor, the name is rightfully his first.

But he lets it slide for a number of reasons.

"Aye, Si," Soap says, grin wolfish, eyes gleaming.

Simon shoots him a nasty glare and shifts his attention back to you. "Excuse my mate, haven't gotten around to training him on how to behave around people."

Soap barks out a laugh. "Yer a cold one, Lt."

Simon ignores him and leads you and your cat out to safety, pulling the door closed behind him. You turn to face him, the little demon cradled like a baby in your arms.

"Thanks again, for the food."

You give him that soft smile again, the one that feels like direct sunlight on his skin. "It's really nothing. I have issues with portion control. Who knew cooking for one person is this hard?"

Simon knows. He has been trying to strike the balance between too much and enough, often falling into the trap of not enough, need more, craves more, the muscles interconnected under his skin groaning and creaking under the weight of nothingness; nothing to do, nothing to save. Not enough rest, not enough fight.

"So you're military, huh?" you say, looking him up and down. Simon just returns your stare. Eye contact never intimidated him, though yours does makes him want to do something with his hands. "Off duty?"

"Not quite," Simon says and leaves it at that.

"Lieutenant Simon…"

"Riley."

The smile returns. "Lieutenant Simon Riley."

He swallows, hands flexing.

Simon (the cat) drops from your arms on all fours and sprints to your apartment, then start digging under to get inside. You both watch him do that for a few seconds. Simon (the human) is grateful for the cat's attempt to diffuse the tension.

"That's my cue," you say with a small laugh. "See you around, Lt."

Simon does not have a rank kink. He really doesn't, but something about the way you say it makes his spine tingle.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

taglist (for this series): @lillymochilover (let me know in a comment if you'd like to be added) SUPPORT THE AUTHOR (if you can/want to)

[satori-runa]

✄------ON THE RUN

-----------summary: How could Enjin just fall in love with someone who is the exact opposite of him?

---- tags: slight angst, female reader, social anxiety hinted, shy!reader

--notes: Maybe will get a part 2.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

It was difficult to explain, harder to accept, but Enjin slowly came to realize that he slowly but surely fell in love with you.

The feelings had appeared without warning, settling in his chest over the course of a single morning, and he swore they made no sense. There was no logical starting point for them to develop. Enjin didn’t understand when it happened. He only knew that, at some point, he started hating the fact that he liked you. It wasn’t gradual. There was no clear reason. Especially not when it all began with something close to dislike. Maybe dislike was a bit harsh, but he had found you strange in the past. And yet, one day, he woke up with this annoying, heavy feeling in his chest, and somehow it was your fault. He hadn’t paid you much mind before, at least, not fondly.

In fact, Enjin was used to being liked and admired. Among the cleaners and their supporters, his name carried weight. His charm came easily, his smile was convincing, and his voice opened hearts, and sometimes more, if he wanted it to. Most people responded to him without thinking. Some blushed. Some laughed. Some even tried their luck with him. You did none of that. You didn’t seek him out, and you didn’t avoid him either. You simply existed in the same spaces as him, untouched by his presence, like two planets in the same galaxy moving along different paths. Maybe that was why the situation bothered him more than it should have.

What truly caught him off guard was the day you rushed past him in the hallway.

He barely registered your face, just the flutter of your coat, before he stopped short. The scent you left behind was gentle and warm, clinging to the fabric as if it belonged somewhere softer than the Sphere. Had you always smelled like that? The thought unsettled him. Maybe he had never really noticed you before. But now he did. Now, he couldn’t stop.

From then on, Enjin started seeing you more, no, noticing you more. He didn’t approach you or start conversations. He just appeared. Not in an obvious way, he wasn’t following you. But somehow, he kept ending up in the same places. The same rooms. The same missions. He volunteered whenever your team needed extra hands, telling himself it was coincidence.

He said it wasn’t a crush. Just curiosity. You were a coworker, nothing more. It definitely wasn’t because he noticed how carefully you handled your things, or how you took baths whenever you had the chance, like you were clinging to small comforts. Or how you stayed on the edges of crowds, quiet and tense. None of that meant anything.

Except it did.

He learned all of this without you ever really noticing him in return. And he couldn’t even blame you. You were shy and soft-spoken, always keeping to yourself. He was the opposite, too loud, confident, unhinged. What reason would you have to look his way?

So, naturally, Enjin did what he always did, especially to give you a reason to notice him. He flirted. At first, it was small. A smile towards your direction, whenever you looked as well. And a casual comment when you passed by. “Didn’t know you worked this hard,” he said once, leaning against the wall as you sorted supplies. “Kinda impressive.”

You paused, just for a moment. Your shoulders tensed before you murmured a quiet thank you and went back to what you were doing, eyes fixed on your hands like they suddenly needed all your attention. Enjin took it as shyness—something harmless, something even a little cute. It was enough to make his interest grow. He didn’t notice how your fingers fumbled after that, how your movements got clumsier, because he was too caught up in the idea that he was doing something right.

The next time, he tried being bolder. You were sitting alone during a break, eating quietly, when he dropped into the seat across from you without asking.

“You always eat alone?” he asked casually. “Kinda dangerous. Someone might steal you.”

You let out a small laugh, short and thin, more habit than humor. Your eyes fell to your food like it could save you.

“Oh… I should probably go,” you said, even though you’d just sat down. You packed up too fast, nearly fumbling your things, and left before he could react. Enjin watched you walk away, a little confused but not worried. Nervous, he told himself. That was normal. He could work with that.

After that, he leaned into it. Compliments slipped out whenever he saw you.

“That color looks good on you.”

“You’re quieter today. I like it.”

“You don’t have to hide so much, you know.” Every time, your reaction was the same. Your posture shrank in on itself. Your hands disappeared into your sleeves like you were trying to make yourself smaller. You smiled politely, said something brief and safe, and found a reason to leave. You never told him to stop.

So he didn’t.

He expected you to say something if it bothered you. Expected you to set a boundary. Since you never did, he took it as proof that he was doing things right.

Enjin genuinely thought he was handling this well. He was softer than usual. Less loud. Less obvious. This was him trying. What he didn’t see was how you started avoiding the places he liked to hang around in. How you checked hallways before turning corners. How your breath caught every time you heard his voice behind you.

One evening, he caught up to you as you were heading out alone.“Hey,” he said easily, falling into step beside you. “You always rush like that. Someone waiting for you?” You shook your head quickly. “No. I just… like walking alone,” you said, already picking up your pace. He laughed under his breath. “Relax. I’m not biting.” Your grip tightened on your bag. You didn’t look at him. “I really should go,” you said again, quieter this time. You crossed the street without waiting, putting distance between you as fast as you could without breaking into a run. Enjin slowed to a stop, watching you disappear down the road.

For the first time, something felt wrong.

You weren’t teasing him. You weren’t warming up to him. You weren’t playing hard to get.

You were scared.

The realization hit all at once, heavy and uncomfortable. He hadn’t been charming. He’d been overwhelmed. While he thought he was doing everything right, all he’d really done was push you further into yourself. He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration tightening his chest.

“Oh,” Enjin muttered.

He’d messed up.

[latedeparture]

݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓞NE 𝓞F 𝓣HE 𝓖OOD 𝓞NES !

⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 adrian chase x reader

꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 your coworker decides you need 24/7 protection after a customer does finger-guns at you. you're pretty sure he's more dangerous than any actual threat, but he did bring your favorite chips, so.

BE CAREFUL WHO YOU’RE NICE TO.

that should be, like, a fortune cookie saying. a PSA. a goddamn public service announcement played on loop at every fennel fields employee orientation. "warning: being a decent human being may result in obsessive bodyguard behavior from coworker." but no, no one warned you, and now you're here, staring at your phone at 11:47 PM on a tuesday, looking at a text that just says: "I'm outside."

you didn't ask him to be outside. you didn't invite him over. you didn't even tell him you were home tonight—except, oh wait, you did. sort of. kind of. technically you mentioned it at work like eight hours ago in passing, something about "finally getting a night off to watch that show everyone won't shut up about," and apparently adrian's brain put that down under critical intel that requires action.

it started three weeks ago.

well—if you're being honest, it started four weeks ago, but you didn't realize what was happening during week one. week one was just... adrian being adrian. weird, intense, probably-means-well-but-comes-off-unhinged. you know the type. or, actually, you don't know the type, because there IS no type like adrian. he's in his own category. his own special little bubble of what is happening right now. you worked the register, he worked the floor, and your interactions were limited to him asking where you wanted him to put the new shipment of napkins (you: "anywhere is fine." him: "no but where do YOU want them. specifically.") and trying not to make eye contact during the awkward silence that followed.

you'd stand there, hand hovering over the register scanner, wondering if this was flirting or a social skills deficit or if adrian had maybe never interacted with another human before and was learning in real-time. probably the third thing. maybe all three. he had this way of talking that was just off, like he'd learned social interaction from someone who'd also never spoken to a human.

but here's the thing—and you're self-aware enough to admit this, even if it makes you sound insane—adrian was kind of... cute?

no. not cute. that's not the right word. cute implies harmless, like a puppy or a small child. adrian was more like a cat that brings you dead birds and expects praise. unsettling but weirdly endearing? he had that dark curly hair that always looked like he'd just rolled out of bed (you'd caught yourself wondering if it was soft—stop it, brain), and those glasses he wore sometimes that made him look less like a busboy and more like a deranged grad student. and okay, fine, he had a nice smile. the kind that took over his whole face when you said literally anything positive to him, like you'd just told him he won the lottery instead of yeah, the napkins are fine there, thanks.

then one day, some middle-aged dude with a bad combover and an expired coupon for 10% off got mad that you wouldn't take it. policy is policy—you've been written up before for this exact thing, but he wasn't hearing it. he did that thing where men of a certain age lean over the counter to make themselves bigger, and he pointed at you, finger extended, the full accusatory gesture—and said, exact words: "you're gonna regret this."

with finger-guns. he made finger-guns while saying it. you laughed. you couldn't help it. it was so absurd, so cartoonish, that your brain shorter into nervous laughter. he stomped out. you manager, travis, poked his head out from the back office, asked if you were good, you said yeah, and that was that. incident over. you'd already forgotten about it by the time you clocked out.

adrian did not forget about it.

adrian, apparently, had been on the other side of the store, stacking boxes of industrial-size ketchup bottles, and had heard everything. you didn't even know he was within earshot until seven minutes later when he appeared at your register—materialized, really, like he'd teleported—looking weird. weirder than usual. he was breathing hard, like he'd sprinted over (from where? the ketchup aisle is like fifteen feet away?), and his eyes were doing that thing again. that wide, intense, unblinking thing that made you wonder if he was okay or if he was about to start speaking in tongues. "hey." his voice was aggressively casual. "that guy. the coupon guy."

"yeah?" you were only half-listening, too busy doing your job like a normal person.

"did he threaten you?"

you looked up. "what?"

"because it sounded like he threatened you. that was definitely a threat, right? you should report that. or—or I can handle it. I can definitely handle it."

"it's fine. he's just a dick. this happens all the time."

"that's—" adrian blinked rapidly, like he was processing. "that's a gun gesture. that's a threat of violence. that's—he gestured a gun at you, and guns kill people, so that's a death threat, which means—"

"i really don't think—"

"—i'll take care of it."

he said it so simply, the way you'd say "I'll grab the mail" or "I'll take out the trash." just I'll take care of it, and then he walked away, back to the ketchup bottles, leaving you standing there with a growing sense of what the fuck just happened. you told yourself he meant reporting it to management. maybe filling out an incident report. travis was big on incident reports. maybe adrian was going to... file paperwork? that's a thing people do, right? normal workplace conflict resolution?

coupon guy never came back to the store.

also—and this is probably unrelated, definitely unrelated, completely unrelated—someone on the local facebook group posted grainy cell phone footage of what looked like a masked person in the fennel fields parking lot that same night. the post was very dramatic, all caps, lots of exclamation points: "VIGILANTE SIGHTING!!! IS NOWHERE SAFE???" you saw it while scrolling at 2 AM (insomnia is a bitch).

you wouldn't be entertaining any of this—the location tracking, the sudden appearances, the general weirdness—if there wasn't some part of you that found it... interesting. intriguing. the kind of story you'd tell your friends about while insisting it was "totally creepy" but secretly kind of enjoying the attention, because let's be honest, when was the last time someone paid this much attention to you? your ex couldn't remember your coffee order after two years. your parents forgot your birthday last year. and here's adrian, remembering that you mentioned wanting a quiet night in during a three-second conversation while restocking condiment packets.

adrian's outside, right now, while you're sitting on your couch in a three-day-old shirt that says "i paused my game to be here" (a lie, you don't play games, you bought it at target because it was five dollars), wearing shorts, trying to watch this show that everyone on the internet has been feral about for six months. you've made it through exactly twelve minutes. the main character just discovered her husband is a serial killer or a time traveler or something—you weren't fully paying attention because you were eating chips from the bag like an animal, and now adrian's outside.

you stare at the text, just those two words. "i'm outside." no context. no "hey are you busy" or "is it cool if i stop by" or any of the normal social conventions that people usually employ before showing up at someone's apartment at 11:47 PM on a fucking tuesday. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. you should ask why. you should ask how he even knows where you live—wait, no, you gave him your address last week when he insisted on sending you a link to that youtube video about proper kitchen knife maintenance and somehow that devolved into him asking for your address "in case of emergency" and you, like an idiot, gave it to him. so that's on you. that's your fault. you've enabled this.

you type why are you outside and the three dots appear instantly, like he's been staring at his phone. you can picture it: adrian in his car, probably that weird sedan that's both boring and unsettling, phone in hand, eyes on the screen, waiting for you to respond so he can pounce. the dots bounce. stop. bounce again. he's typing something long, this is going to be a whole thing. you can feel it. "you said you were watching the show," his text says. "i haven't seen it. i should probably see it. can i watch it with you."

this has been happening for three weeks. three weeks of adrian chase appearing wherever you are. at first you thought it was coincidence. the city's not that big, people run into each other, but then it kept happening, and happening, and happening, and the coincidences started feeling less like coincidences and more like a pattern. last thursday you mentioned—in passing, so casual you barely remember saying it—that you were going to grab coffee before your shift. "gonna hit up that coffee place on main." and when you walked into the coffee place, there was adrian, sitting at a table with two coffees. he looked up when you walked in and his whole face did this brightening thing like someone turned on a light inside his head, and went "oh hey! i got you a coffee. i remembered your order. is that right? i hope that's right. i paid attention last time."

he had. he'd paid attention. the coffee was exactly right, down to the specific amount of ice you prefer (light, because you drink slow and don't want it watered down). you should have been creeped out. you should have asked questions like how did you know i'd be here and have you been following me and is this a police matter, but instead you sat down, drank the coffee, and listened to adrian talk about his weekend (he deep-cleaned) and realized that this was nice. having someone remember your coffee order.

or the time you mentioned wanting to check out that new bookstore downtown. didn't say when. didn't invite anyone. just mentioned it to your coworker during a slow shift, something like "i heard there's a new bookstore with a cat, i love cats, might go this weekend." they nodded and went back to scrolling on their phone and you thought that was the end of it.

saturday afternoon you walked into the bookstore and there was adrian, crouched on the floor, petting the cat. he looked up when the door chimed and his face did the thing again—the light-up thing—and he went "you came! i was hoping you'd come today. i've been here for like two hours. this is gerald." he held up the cat. the cat looked resigned to its fate. "he's very soft. do you want to pet him?"

"adrian how did you know i'd be here today."

"you said you'd come this weekend."

"i didn't say when."

"well it's saturday. most people do weekend stuff on saturday. sunday is for like. chores and sadness. so i figured saturday."

"you've been here for two hours."

"i wanted to make sure i didn't miss you."

that's the thing you keep coming back to when you're trying to figure out if this is cute or concerning or both. adrian wants to see you. wants to spend time with you. wants to be around you. you look back at his text, can i watch it with you. pros of letting adrian come up. one: you won't be watching the show alone, and you're pretty sure there are going to be twists and you'll want someone to react with. two: adrian always brings snacks. he's a snack bringer. three: you're lonely. four: this might be the only social interaction you have this week and it's tuesday.

cons: one: it's 11:47 PM and letting someone into your apartment this late feels like a choices that future-you will judge. two: adrian is definitely obsessed with you in a way that's not normal. three: you're wearing shorts. four: what if he's a serial killer. no wait he can't be a serial killer he's too much of a golden retriever. serial killers are supposed to be charming and manipulative and adrian is just. intense. and earnest. and a lot.

you're overthinking this.

you’re about to type a response, something noncommittal, something that buys you time to make an actual decision like a functional adult, when there's a knock at your door. which means he's already inside the building. which means he bypassed the broken lock. which means he didn't wait for you to answer. he just invited himself up to your floor and is now knocking on your door like this is something people do. "are you fucking kidding me." you say out loud to your empty apartment.

another knock, more insistent this time. you get up and shuffle to the door to look through the peephole, and yeah, there he is. adrian chase, holding what looks like not one but two grocery bags. his glasses are sliding down his nose, wearing a jacket that's too heavy for the weather. he looks like an overeager puppy waiting to be let in from the rain except it's not raining and nobody asked him to come.

you open the door.

"you didn't answer your texts." he says immediately, like that justifies home invasion.

"i was typing—"

"you could have been in danger."

"i was on my couch."

"you could have been in danger on your couch." he says dead seriously. "people get attacked in their homes all the time. it's actually more common than—"

"how did you get into the building?”

"the lock is broken. i told you a week ago the lock is broken. anyone could get in, that's why i'm here."

"you got in because the lock is broken."

"well, yeah, but i'm one of the good ones."

"that's what they all say, adrian."

"who's they?"

"home invaders."

"i'm not invading i'm protecting." he hefts the grocery bags like they're evidence. "i brought supplies for the stakeout."

you stare at him. "the what.?”

"the stakeout? we're watching your apartment. making sure no one suspicious comes by."

"no we’re not we're watching a .. show?”

"yeah as a cover. it's called hiding in plain sight."

"hiding from who?"

"from whoever that guy sends."

there it is, the thing that's been driving all of this. the thing adrian's been obsessing over for three weeks. that one customer. the finger-guns guy. the expired-coupon guy. the man who said four words and then left and has probably never thought about you again in his entire life. "adrian," you say, and you're trying so hard to be patient. you're trying SO hard. "that guy is not sending anyone. that guy forgot about me seventeen seconds after he left the store."

"you don't know that, he THREATENED you."

"with finger-guns."

"finger-guns are a THREAT GESTURE."

"they're really not—"

"he pointed at you in an aggressive manner and verbally stated you would regret your actions. that's textbook threatening behavior, and now you have a target on your back."

you're going to pop a blood vessel right here in your doorway while adrian chase explains threat assessment to you like you're in an episode of CSI. "i don't have a target on my back."

"you don't know that, what if you're not fine."

"then i'll. i don't know. call the cops? like a normal person?"

"cops take seven minutes average response time in this neighborhood. a lot can happen in seven minutes."

"how do you know the response time—you know what. i don't want to know." you step aside because he's not leaving, you can tell he's not leaving, he's got that look. that determined look. like he's made a decision and physics itself couldn't move him. "just come in. but we're NOT doing a stakeout. we're watching television. like normal people. normally."

"normal people don't have broken building locks," he says, but he's already moving past you, toeing off his shoes, setting the grocery bags on your coffee table/ottoman situation with the kind of care someone might use when handling explosives. you close the door and lock it. the deadbolt you installed yourself because yes, fine, the building lock IS broken and your landlord sucks. you turn around and adrian's just standing there in your living room, looking around like he's cataloguing exits. threat assessment. whatever neurotic thing his brain is doing. "your window locks are good." he announces.

"i'm sorry?"

"i checked last week when i was doing a perimeter sweep. your window locks are actually really good. above average."

"you did a perimeter sweep of my building?”

"of course i did. how else would i know if it was secure?"

"most people don't. they just. live places. without doing perimeter sweeps."

"most people also don't have customers threatening them at work."

"oh my god—"

"i'm just being cautious." he's pulling things out of the grocery bags now. chips. your chips. and cookies. and candy. and what looks like—- is that a first aid kit. "because if something happens and i wasn't prepared, that's on me. that's my fault. i can't let that happen."

"okay, we can. watch the show. and you can do your whole..." you gesture at him, at the situation, at everything. "...bodyguard thing, but you have to sit down and you have to stop doing perimeter checks of my apartment because you're making me nervous."

"that's good." he says.

"what?"

"that i'm making you nervous. that means you're alert. aware of your surroundings."

"adrian that's not what that means."

"it's important to stay vigilant—"

"i'm going to sit down now," you announce. "and start this show and you're going to sit somewhere that's not right in front of my door blocking the exit—"

"i should be by the door in case someone tries to—"

"—and we're going to watch TV like NORMAL PEOPLE."

he considers this. you can see him considering it. weighing the pros and cons of door-blocking versus making you comfortable. finally he nods, grabs a bag of chips, and sits on your floor in front of the couch but angled so he can still see the door. because of course he angles himself toward the door. you sit down, pull the blanket over your legs, and grab the remote. "for the record," you say, "that guy is not coming back. no one is coming after me. i'm the most boring person alive."

"you're not boring," adrian passionately defends. "you're really not boring."

you don't know what to say to that, so you don't say anything. you just press play. the show starts. opening credits. moody music. some actress you vaguely recognize from that other show everyone was obsessed with two years ago. she's walking through a house, looking confused, touching things like she's never seen a lamp before. "do you think she has amnesia?" adrian asks.

"i don't know."

"she's touching everything like she doesn't know what things are. that's classic amnesia behavior."

"or she's just looking around. like people do."

"no one touches a lamp like that unless they've forgotten what lamps are."

you glance at him. he's completely serious. staring at the screen with this intense focus like he's studying for a test. you realize, this is maybe the saddest thing you've thought all week, that adrian probably doesn't do this a lot. just watch tv. hang out, be normal. he's got that energy, that lonely person energy, the kind where they get too excited about small things because small things don't happen to them very often.

you work with him four shifts a week, have for the past six months, and you've never seen him talk to anyone except you and the kitchen staff and that one time he had a full conversation with the espresso machine that you're pretty sure he thought was broken but was just unplugged. he busses tables. you host. sometimes serve when it's busy. the other servers think he's weird. you've heard them. "that guy's so fucking intense." "he stares." "why does he run everywhere. we're not THAT busy." and yeah, okay, adrian does run everywhere. does stare. is fucking intense. but he's also nice. he remembers that you don't like working the section near the kitchen because it gets too hot. he always buses your tables first. he brings you sprite when you're hungover even though you've never told him you're hungover. he just knows.

now he's here, in your apartment at midnight, because some guy did finger-guns at you three weeks ago and adrian decided that meant you need 24/7 protection. on screen the main character opens a closet and gasps. "see," adrian says. "time loop. i bet she's gonna find a version of herself."

"that's not. that's a completely different thing from amnesia."

"time loops can cause amnesia."

he shifts on the floor to adjust his position. you can tell he's uncomfortable. the floor is hard, you have like one decorative rug that's more aesthetic than functional and he's sitting half on it half off it. "you can sit on the couch." you hear yourself say.

adrian's head whips around so fast you're worried about his neck. "really?"

"the floor is uncomfortable."

"i don't mind—"

"you're fidgeting."

"i'm not fidgeting."

"you've adjusted your position four times in three minutes."

he stops mid-fidget. "oh."

"just. come sit up here."

he doesn't move. "are you sure.”

"oh my god yes just sit on the couch before i change my mind."

he scrambles up. scrambles is the word, he doesn't stand up like a normal person, he like. springs. launches himself from floor to couch in one uncoordinated movement that makes the whole couch shake. lands next to you, way closer than you expected, close enough that you can smell his detergent. something generic. tide maybe. and also, is that axe body spray? oh god it's definitely axe body spray. you didn't know people still used that. you thought that died in 2012. "sorry," he says. "too close?"

he starts to scoot away, but here's the thing you're realizing as he's about to put distance between you, you don't actually want him to move. which is. a whole thing you're going to have to unpack later. maybe in therapy. definitely in therapy. "you're fine.”

he stops. goes very very still, like if he doesn't move you won't notice he's there. which is insane because you're hyperaware of him being there. of his leg almost touching your leg. of the way he's sitting with his back straight, like he's in a job interview. "you can relax. " you tell him.

"i am relaxed."

"you look uncomfortable."

"i'm comfortable." he says it with absolutely no conviction. you could blow on him and he'd topple over.

you're about to say something else—something about how he needs to chill the fuck out—when his phone buzzes. he pulls it out. looks at it. frowns. "everything okay?" you ask.

"yeah it's just—-chris is asking where i am."

chris. you know chris. everyone knows chris. christopher smith. peacemaker. the guy who's been all over the news for that thing with the butterflies that you're still not entirely sure was real or some kind of mass hallucination. adrian talks about chris the way people talk about their best friend. their only friend. which. yeah. is probably accurate. "what'd you tell him?"

"that i'm on a stakeout."

"adrian—"

"he's asking if i need backup."

"oh my god do NOT bring peacemaker to my apartment."

"i'm telling him i'm fine." adrian's typing fast, frowning at his phone. "he's asking if this is about the threat against you."

you stare at him. "you told people about the finger-guns guy?"

"i told chris."

"WHY."

"he's my best friend! you tell your best friend when someone threatens someone you—" he stops. "someone you know."

someone you what. someone you care about? someone you like? someone you're obsessed with in a way that's definitely not healthy and requires professional intervention? "what did chris say?" you ask, because you cannot deal with the someone-you-what thing right now.

“he said i should handle it."

"handle it how?”

adrian looks at you, confused by all your pestering apparently, and blinks. "he didn't specify."

"adrian."

"i'm watching you. that's handling it! this is me handling it." he's already distracted. his eyes have wandered from the tv to your bookshelf. the one next to the tv that you haven't organized in like eight months. it's got books and random shit. a candle you never use. a succulent that's barely alive. some polaroids tucked into the side. "you have a lot of books." adrian comments suddenly.

"that's what bookshelves are for."

"have you read all of them?"

"...some of them."

"which ones?"

"i don't know. like. half?"

"why do you have books you haven't read?"

"because i want to read them. eventually."

"when?"

"i don't know adrian when i have time."

"you have time now."

"i'm watching tv with you."

"you could read instead."

"you asked to watch tv with me."

and now he's getting up, walking over to the bookshelf, crouching down, and pulling books out. this man who invited himself over to protect you from finger-guns guy is now examining your reading habits. "this one looks sad." he says, holding up a book with a blue cover.

"most books are sad."

"why do you read sad things?" he puts the book back. pulls out another one. "this one has a dog on it."

"yes."

"does the dog die?"

"i don't know i haven't read it."

"if the dog dies i don't think you should read it."

"noted."

he's methodically going through your shelf now. pulling books, reading the backs, making commentary. "this one's about murder." "this one's about space." "this one looks pretentious." and you're just sitting there, watching your weird coworker organize your life without being asked. "adrian what are you doing."

"looking."

"at my books."

"yeah."

"why."

"because they're yours. i want to know about them."

that's kind of sweet actually. in an invasive way. he's trying to know you through your stuff. through the things you own. the things you've chosen to keep. he moves from the bookshelf to your coffee table, picks up the remote, and examines it like he's never seen one before. "this has a lot of buttons." he observes.

"it's a universal remote."

"for what?"

"...universal things?"

"that's not specific."

"tv. sound bar. the little light thing."

"you have a light thing?"

"yeah the. the lamp that changes colors."

"why does it change colors?"

"for ambiance."

"what's ambiance?"

you stare at him. "do you not know what ambiance is?"

"i know what it is i just don't understand why you need it."

"it's. it makes the room feel different. cozy."

"your room already feels cozy."

"thank you?"

"you're welcome."

he puts the remote down. picks up a coaster. it's got a cat on it. your friend jess gave it to you as a joke because you don't even have a cat. "do you have a cat?" adrian asks.

"no."

"why do you have a cat coaster?"

"it was a gift."

"from who?"

"jess."

"why did she give you a cat coaster if you don't have a cat?"

"because it's funny."

"is it?"

"she thought it was."

"huh." he studies the coaster. turns it over. examines both sides. "i don't get it."

"the joke?"

"yeah."

"it's ironic."

"why is that funny?"

you don't have an answer for that. you're realizing adrian might not understand irony. like at all. he's so earnest. so literal. irony probably doesn't compute. "never mind."

he sits back down on the couch, closer this time. he doesn't seem to notice, or if he notices he doesn't care. he's looking at the tv now. the show's still playing. you've lost the plot entirely. “what's happening?" he asks.

"i have no idea."

"should we rewind?"

"i don't even care anymore."

"me neither."

you look at him. "then why are we still watching it?"

"i don't know. it seemed rude to turn it off."

"rude to who?"

"the tv?"

you laugh. "you think it's rude to turn off the tv?"

"i don't know how tvs feel about things."

"tvs don't have feelings."

"well, what if you're wrong and we've been hurting tv feelings this whole time?”

he's grinning, that little grin that means he's fucking with you, or he's serious, with adrian it's impossible to tell, and you're smiling. sitting here at 12:47 AM with your coworker who invited himself over and has spent the last forty minutes examining your possessions. you've had fun. actual fun. the kind you haven't had in. months? longer? you can't remember the last time someone came over and just existed with you.

you're realizing—as you sit here with your legs tucked under you and adrian's presence taking up space in your apartment—that you could let this continue. you could let him stay. let him sit here on your couch and talk about tv feelings and reorganize your bookshelf. you could fall asleep with him here. wake up to him still here. that's terrifying. that's way too much too fast. that's the kind of thing that happens in relationships.

there's no way you're letting adrian sleep over. if he stays he'll definitely touch more of your stuff, examine every object you own, probably organize your kitchen cabinets, and talk all night about everything. ask you questions at 3 AM like "do you think fish know they're wet" and you'll be too tired to tell him to shut up and you'll end up having a two-hour conversation about fish consciousness.

you need to kick him out. but like, nicely, because he's sweet in his weird obsessive way, and you don't want to hurt his feelings, don't want him to think you don't like him, because you do like him, unfortunately, against your better judgment. you like adrian chase. "hey." you say.

he looks at you. immediate attention. full focus. it's kind of overwhelming how he does that. "you have work tomorrow right?" you question, watching him watch you.

"yeah. closing shift."

"what time?"

"four to eleven."

"that's late."

"yeah."

"you should probably get some sleep. so you're prepared. for the shift."

he blinks at you. "it's only one AM."

"right but but you need to be alert. for work. can't be bussing tables if you're tired. that's dangerous."

"dangerous?"

"you could drop plates. or trip. workplace safety is important adrian."

"i've never dropped a plate."

"there's a first time for everything."

"i guess." he's looking at you weird, trying to figure something out. you can see his brain working. "are you tired?"

"me? no. i mean, kind of, but that's not. i'm just saying YOU should probably go home. and sleep. be responsible."

"oh." his face falls, just slightly. barely noticeable except you're noticing everything about him now. every micro expression. "you want me to leave."

"no i'm thinking about your wellbeing. sleep is important."

"i will eventually. but i'm fine now. i'm not tired."

he's not getting it. he thinks you're genuinely concerned about his sleep schedule, which you are, kind of, but that's not the point. "what about preparation?" you try. "for tomorrow. you probably need to, i don't know, prepare things. get your stuff ready."

"for bussing tables?"

"yeah."

"what stuff do i need?"

"i don't know. your bus. bussing supplies."

"we have those at work."

"right, but, personal supplies. things you bring."

"i don't bring anything."

"maybe you should start."

"like what?"

you're grasping. completely grasping. "i don't know. a. a water bottle. stay hydrated. very important."

"i can fill up a water bottle in the morning."

"takes time though. you should do it tonight. be efficient."

"it takes like thirty seconds."

"still, every second counts."

he's staring at you now, trying to decode what you're actually saying. you're so bad at this. "do you not want me here anymore?" he asks finally.

"what? no. i mean. i had fun. this was nice."

"but you want me to leave."

"i just think it's late. and we both have work. and it's responsible to get rest."

"you said you're not tired."

"i'm not but i will be. probably soon."

"so i could stay until you're tired?”

"adrian—"

"i don't mind, i like being here with you. this is the best night i've had in a while. maybe ever. i don't really have good nights. most nights are just nights. but this was good. you're good."

"i had a good time too," you say. "you're fun to hang out with."

"really?"

"yeah. you're weird but like, good weird. interesting weird."

he smiles. "you're the first person who's ever said that."

"that you're weird?"

"that it's good."

oh. that's sad. that's really fucking sad, and you're realizing that adrian probably doesn't get this a lot. people being nice to him. people wanting him around. people saying yeah you're weird but i like it. he's got chris, and that's probably it. everyone else probably thinks he's too much. and he is too much. he is intense. "you should go," you say. "not because i don't want you here, but because i do. want you here. and if you stay i'll want you to stay longer. and then it'll be 4 AM and we'll both be zombies at work tomorrow."

"you're kicking me out because you like me?"

"basically yeah."

"that doesn't make sense."

"i know but it's a boundaries thing. a self-preservation thing. if i don't make you leave now i won't make you leave at all."

"would that be bad?"

yes. yes it would be bad. it would be bad because you barely know him. because he's your coworker. because he tracks your location and does perimeter sweeps. because letting him stay means admitting this is something. means acknowledging that you want this to be something, and you're not ready for that. not tonight. not at 1 AM when you're tired and he's looking at you like that. “just go home adrian. please. we can do this again. hang out. watch tv. whatever. but tonight you need to go home."

he nods slowly, stands up, grabs his jacket, and he looks .. disappointed but also understanding, like he gets it even if he doesn't fully get it. "okay," he says. "i'll go."

"thank you."

"but i'm checking the perimeter first."

"fine. check your perimeter."

"our perimeter. it's your building. your perimeter."

he's at the door, putting on his shoes, taking his time like he's hoping you'll change your mind. tell him to stay. part of you wants to. part of you wants to say fuck it nevermind stay all night let's see what happens. but the rational part, the self-preservation part, the part that knows this is already too much, that part wins. "text me when you get home." you say.

he looks up, surprised. "really?"

"yeah. so i know you're safe. since you're so concerned about my safety it's only fair."

"okay!!! i will!!!"

"this was nice. i'm glad you came over."

his whole face lights up. "me too."

he's lingering. you realize he doesn't know how to leave. this guy has no idea what the social protocol for ending the night is, so you make the decision for him. "goodnight adrian."

"goodnight."

"go."

"i'm going."

and he does, finally, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps fading down the hallway. the building settles back into silence. you don't go to the window this time, you just sit there on your couch in the warm spot he left behind. this is a bad idea. this whole thing. letting your weird obsessive coworker into your apartment. into your life. letting yourself care about someone who thinks finger-guns are a credible threat and does security sweeps of your building at midnight.

but bad ideas have always been more interesting than good ones, and adrian chase is nothing if not interesting.

you turn off the lights. your apartment goes dark except for the streetlight glow through your window, the same window adrian checked last week during his "perimeter sweep." the same window he'll probably check again next week. and the week after that.

and you're realizing you're okay with that.

more than okay.

you're looking forward to it.

fuck.

STARTED 2.9.2026. POSTED 2.9.2026.

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©️ latedeparture

[sylvia-plaths-fig-pie]

Correcting Conjugation PART 2 ★ Sam Winchester x Reader

read part 1 here

summary: two mysterious men are talking very loud in your usual diner, you were just going to ignore them until you happen to over hear some Latin miss pronounced and can't help but correct them, which totally has nothing to do with how attractive one of the two are...

Warnings: smutty smut smut, fem reader (use of good girl), obviously please only read if you're an adult i beg, first time writing smut (be gentle with me its my first time xoxo), praise kink, oral f!receaving, P-in-V, unprotected (wrap it before you tap it folks), make out, general smut things, if you want a plot go to part one, the plot here is them fucking that's it lol

A/n: if you don't want to read smut, but want to read part two I've put a star so you can read it as if it is a fade to black fic, hope this helps xx

also sorry it took so long, it was a massive learning curve trying to write this in a none cringe way

★・・・・・・★

The call came two days later, later than you'd expected, later than you'd hoped, right around the point where you'd started composing and deleting increasingly unhinged theories about why he hadn't texted yet.

"Hey," Sam said, when you picked up, and something in his voice, warm, a little relieved, told you he'd probably spent just as long deliberating over the call as you had waiting for it. "It's Sam. From the diner."

"I remember you. Tall, freelance historian, surprisingly good at taking correction."

"Curse is lifted, by the way. Kessler's, erm, taken care of... Your lead was solid."

"Look at that. My one and only foray into consulting detective work, and it actually worked out. I'm putting it on my resume. Grammar consultant, part time occult investigator, has never once regretted correcting a stranger's Latin in a diner." You tucked the phone against your shoulder, trying and mostly failing to sound as unbothered as you wanted to. "So is this a professional courtesy call, or...?"

"Not entirely professional, no." You could hear him smiling down the other end of the phone.

"Mm, bold for a man who introduced himself as a freelance historian."

"I contain multitudes."

"You said that already. At the diner. Verbatim, actually, which either means you genuinely contain multitudes or you've only got the one good line and you're recycling it."

"Maybe it's just that good a line."

"It's a mediocre line, Sam. I'm being honest because I think you can handle it." You could hear him laugh at that, low, a little startled, like he hadn't expected the same bluntness over the phone that had gotten him in the first place. "Was there an actual reason for the call, or are we just going to stand here trading mediocre lines at each other indefinitely?"

he paused, just long enough for you to begin overthinking your brashness before he spoke again.

"Are you free tonight, by any chance?"

"...Depends what you had in mind."

"We could go out. Grab dinner somewhere. Though it's a Thursday, so I'm honestly not sure how much is even open around here past nine."

"You clearly haven't spent much time in this town. Nothing's open past nine on a Thursday. This place shuts down like it's under curfew." you laughed, "Mm, yeah, this town rolls up the sidewalks embarrassingly early. Most of the good places close by eight." You chewed your lip, weighing it, then decided, again, that a little recklessness had served you well so far. "Or..."

"Or?"

"Or you could just come over to mine. I'm not going to pretend I'm above ordering in instead of pretending to be normal in public."

you bit your lip awaiting his reply, maybe that had been a little bold... Then again, you'd basically already asked him to sleep with you in Latin, so bold had sort of sailed as a ship a while ago.

There was a beat of silence just long enough that you started to wonder if you'd overplayed your hand, before Sam said, "Yeah. I mean, yeah, that works for me," in a voice that had gone slightly rougher around the edges than it had been a second ago.

"Okay." You gave him your address, feeling your heart do something complicated in your chest as you said it out loud for the first time.

"Okay." A pause, like he was writing it down, or just repeating it to himself to be sure he had it. "I'll see you in fifteen?"

"Fifteen works."

"Fifteen," he echoed, and you could still hear that same smile in his voice right before the call ended, and spent the next fourteen and a half minutes in a low grade panic about your apartment, your hair, your entire life choices up to this exact point.

He knocked fifteen minutes later, right on schedule, and you opened the door to find him looking almost as nervous as you felt, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, hair slightly damp like he'd showered specifically for this.

"Hey," he said, a little breathless, like he'd walked faster than he'd meant to on the way up.

"Hey yourself." You stepped back to let him in, suddenly hyperaware of every book stacked precariously on every surface, every mug you hadn't washed, the general chaos of a life lived by someone who owned considerably more dictionaries than furniture. "Sorry about the mess. I wasn't exactly expecting a guest tonight, and 15 minuets isn't enough time to deep clean, I should have given myself longer but i—"

"It's not a mess." Sam cut you off with a smile as he glanced around, taking it in properly now, something almost delighted crossing his face as he clocked the sheer volume of books lining every wall. "This is, this is a lot of books."

"I own a bookstore. An occult one, specifically, so, yes. Occupational hazard." You gestured vaguely at the nearest shelf. "That entire section is just Latin grammar texts. I know that's not normal. I've made my peace with it."

"I think it's great." He picked up a battered paperback off the coffee table without really thinking about it, then seemed to catch himself. "Sorry, is that, can I look at this?"

"Please. Feel free to judge my reading habits."

"I wasn't going to judge." He turned it over, reading the spine. "I actually own this one. Read it twice, actually."

"See, that's exactly the kind of thing I have questions about." You gestured toward the couch instead of pushing further right away, not quite ready to pull that thread yet. "You clearly know Latin well enough that you own books like these, but them you missed clear pronunciation that any Latin professor would have drilled into you, it was a bad photocopy though, and your Latin isn't the worst I've ever heard... Sit." You gestured vaguely to the couch as you sat down then promptly sprang back up. "Drink. Do you want a drink, or are we skipping straight to the part where we both pretend we're not nervous."

Sam laughed at your antics, seeming to relish in the mix of your bluntness and nervousness, "Little bit of both, maybe."

"Wine, or, actually," you said, already halfway to the kitchen, opening cupboards with slightly more urgency than the situation strictly called for, "hang on, I don't think I actually have any wine, hold on."

You ducked to check the lower cabinet and promptly smacked your head on the edge of the open door above it, hissing.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam was up off the couch immediately, crossing the kitchen in about three strides.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just, apparently I don't have any wine, all I've got is some genuinely terrible tequila from a grad school going away party two years ago, does that work for you?" You said holding up the bottle you retrieved from the lower cabinet, "I hope this isn't, I don't know, too much, I don't want to come on too strong, I already sent you a vaguely indecent Latin phrase and now I'm offering you bottom shelf tequila and hitting my head on cabinets, this is not exactly the smooth evening I had pictured—"

Sam stopped your rambling by stepping in close, gently taking the bottle out of your hand, and placing a hand on your waist as he leaned down near your ear.

"Bene mecum eris, quiesce," he murmured, low and unhurried, the words landing somewhere just beneath your ear in a voice that did absolutely nothing to help your composure. You felt goosebumps erupt across your skin and your face flush.

Then he simply straightened up, entirely unbothered, and asked, "Where do you keep your cups?"

You stood there for a solid two seconds, brain thoroughly short circuited, privately cataloguing the extremely unfair fact that a six foot four man could apparently switch from murmured Latin to casual kitchen small talk without so much as a change in his pulse, while yours felt like it was trying to escape your chest entirely.

Bene mecum eris, quiesce; you will be well with me, relax.

"Mugs," you managed. "I only have mugs. Top shelf, left of the sink."

You grabbed down two mismatched mugs while Sam unscrewed the cap, the small kitchen filling almost immediately with the sharp, faintly medicinal smell of cheap tequila, and Sam poured a genuinely generous amount into each one without so much as blinking, handing you yours with a look that suggested he was fully aware of the effect he'd just had on you and was choosing, for now, not to comment on it.

You both carried your mugs back to the couch and sat down, closer than before, the earlier careful distance between you having quietly evaporated somewhere between the cupboard search and the Latin.

At some point, mid conversation, your nerves got the better of you and started spilling out sideways.

"I've never done this," you said, apropos of very little, interrupting whatever he'd been saying.

Sam blinked. "What?"

"I mean, left my number for a random stranger in a diner. That's not really my style. I don't do that. I have never once in my adult life done that, and then I did it to you, immediately, over a Latin joke, and I've been mentally replaying it for two days wondering what possessed me, no pun intended, given, you know. Everything you two turned out to actually do for a living." You were aware you were rambling and seemed, at present, unable to stop. "I just don't want you to think that's a regular thing for me. Handing out phone numbers with mildly suggestive dead language footnotes attached. I have a system. I follow the system. You broke the system—"

Sam cut you off gently, one hand coming up to your jaw, and kissed you.

It was soft. Unhurried. Nothing like the nervous momentum of your rambling, like he'd decided the fastest way to actually get you to stop worrying was to simply show you instead of trying to talk you down from it. You melted into it before you'd consciously decided to, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, and when he finally pulled back, just far enough to speak, he was smiling in a way that made the whole rambling apology feel unnecessary in retrospect.

"I get it," he said, quiet. "I don't usually do this either. But I knew I would've regretted it if I didn't at least come see you again. I travel a lot, for... work."

"As a freelance historian?"

"As a freelance historian." He huffed a laugh at his own cover story, ducking his head. "But yeah. I wanted to see the girl who apparently knows Latin better than two guys who grew up reciting it."

"What posh school did you two go to that made you make the leap from Latin to curses?"

Sam laughed, "Let's just say we started the whole freelance historian thing pretty young."

"Define young."

"Young," he said, entirely unhelpfully, laughing again, and you laughed too, some of the nervous tension finally breaking loose between you, and somewhere in the middle of that laugh he kissed you again, slower this time, achingly slow, the kind of kiss that started careful and then made you want considerably more than careful. You pressed closer, chasing it, and something in Sam shifted, the slow patience giving way all at once to something hungrier, less careful, both of you leaning into it hard enough that your mug ended up abandoned on the coffee table without either of you quite registering when that happened.

He pulled you into his lap without much warning, hands steady at your waist, and you went easily, knees braced either side of him, and for a while there was nothing but that, his mouth on yours, hurried and then not hurried at all, one of his hands sliding up into your hair while the other stayed firm against the small of your back like he was trying to keep you exactly where you were. When he finally broke away from your mouth it was only to trail his lips along your jaw and down to your neck, and you tipped your head back to give him better access without any real conscious decision to do so, a small, involuntary sound escaping you that made him pause just long enough to smile against your skin.

You pulled back, breathless, abruptly remembering something. "Wait, I should've— I said on the phone we could order takeout, I didn't even ask if you'd eaten—"

Sam laughed low against your throat, the sound vibrating right through you. "Sweetheart," he said, pulling back just far enough to look at you, something wicked and entirely unhurried in his expression, "I plan on eating good tonight. Patience."

And before you could fully process that sentence, he was kissing you again, Rough and hungry for more.

★.

His mouth found yours again, and this time there was no careful edge to it at all. You kissed him back like you'd been waiting two days to do exactly this, which, you supposed, you had. One of his hands stayed cradled at the back of your head, fingers loose in your hair, while the other pressed flat against your spine, drawing you in until there was no space left between you to speak of.

You'd forgotten, somewhere in the last two days of overthinking this, how it actually felt to be wanted like this; not politely, not tentatively, but like something to be savored. Every place his hands landed felt like it left a mark, warm and a little dizzying, and you were aware of your own pulse in a way you usually weren't, a steady, insistent thing beating under his palm where it rested against your back.

He kissed like he had nowhere else to be. Slow, deliberate, occasionally breaking off just to rest his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he was trying to memorize the shape of the moment, before he kissed you again, deeper this time, and you felt the small, helpless sound that pulled out of you get lost somewhere against his mouth.

Sam pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, a little wrecked around the edges in a way that did nothing for your composure.

"You're so perfect," he murmured, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

Then he drew back further, properly, just enough to look at you, really look, slow and unhurried, taking in all of you like he wanted to remember it, and you felt your face go hot under the weight of it, some old instinct making you want to duck your head or laugh it off the way you usually did when things got too sincere too fast. You didn't, quite. You just sat there, a little exposed, feeling strangely shy under the attention of someone who, two days ago, had been a stranger correcting his own Latin over pancakes.

"God, you're beautiful," Sam said, quiet, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud. "How did I get so lucky."

You didn't have a clever line ready for that one, which felt significant, somehow, the first time all night your mouth hadn't beaten your brain to the punch.

His hand slid slowly beneath the hem of your top, palm warm and steady against your skin, and whatever response you might have managed dissolved entirely. You leaned back into him instead, answering the only way that still felt available to you, and kissed him again.

This kiss had none of the earlier restraint left in it. It felt like everything neither of you had said out loud, every ounce of the last two days spent wondering, waiting, talking yourself in and out of hope, poured into the single point of contact between your mouths, until you weren't sure where the conversation had ended and this had started. Your body reacted before your mind caught up to it, some warm, insistent pull low in your stomach that had you shifting closer, chasing the feeling of him without fully deciding to.

Sam made a low sound against your mouth, hands tightening slightly at your waist like he was doing his best to hold onto some thread of control.

"You like that, sweetheart?" he murmured, lips grazing your jaw.

All you could do was nod, your breath gone somewhere you couldn't quite locate.

"Gonna need more than that from you," he said, low, teasing, close enough to your ear that it felt like it landed directly under your skin. "We've only just started."

"Please, Sam," you managed, and even to your own ears it sounded like you were already begging.

"Such a good girl," he cooed, and the words undid something in you completely.

Everything after that blurred into warmth and low laughter and his name, said again and again like it was the only word you still remembered how to use, the two of you finally, finally done waiting.

All the words you'd been holding back, all the want, the waiting, the two days of wondering, pooled into the ferocity of that kiss until there was nothing left but heat and the desperate, grinding press of your body against his. You felt it before you consciously registered doing it, that warm, insistent ache between your legs seeking friction, your hips rolling down against the hardening bulge in his jeans with a mind of their own.

Sam groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and his hand slid higher beneath your shirt, finding the thin lace of your bralette. His thumb dragged slow and deliberate over the clothed peak of your nipple, and the moan that tore from your throat was embarrassingly loud, and completely involuntary.

"Keep making those noises," he murmured against your jaw, breath hot and unsteady. "I want to hear you."

His fingers kept working you through the lace, teasing, circling, until you were arching into his touch like you were begging for it, which, you supposed, you were.

"Doing so well for me," he praised, and the approval in his voice sent a fresh wave of heat flooding south, making you grind down harder against him.

Then his hand was gone, sliding away from your breast, and a frustrated whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it. Sam just smiled against your neck, all wicked patience, and you felt his fingers trail down your spine to the hem of your shirt again.

"Arms up, pretty girl," he said, low and commanding. "I think you overdressed."

You obeyed without thinking, raising your arms, and he stripped your shirt off in one smooth motion, unhooking the bra and tossing both aside. The air hit your bare skin and you went suddenly shy, hands moving to cover yourself without conscious decision.

Sam caught your wrists before you could, gentle but firm, pulling them away.

"Such a pretty thing," he said, eyes dark and roaming over you like he was starving. "Don't get all shy on me now." He leaned in close, mouth grazing your ear, and whispered, "Cupio to gustare."

Then his lips were on your nipple, hot and wet, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the couch, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he soothed it with his tongue. The moan that ripped out of you was ragged, broken, and somewhere in the haze of it you heard yourself correcting him automatically, brain still trying to function through the fog of pleasure.

"It's Cupio te gustare," you gasped out.

Sam laughed around your nipple, the vibration making you whine and squirm beneath him. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips swollen and wet, expression impossibly smug.

"Good girl," he said, thumb brushing over the damp peak he'd just abandoned. "Knew I could count on you to keep me right." He settled back on his heels, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. "Can you tell me what it means?"

You stared at him, brain fuzzy, mouth open but no words coming out. You just wanted his mouth back on you, his hands back on you, anything—

Sam shook his head slowly, tsking. "Tell me what it means, and I'll keep going."

You ground down against him again, seeking any friction you could get, but both of his hands clamped down on your hips, stopping you cold, holding you still above him.

"What does it mean?" he asked again, voice low and gruff, demanding.

You tried to squirm, to rock against him, but his grip was iron. "Cupio te gustare," you managed, breathless, desperate, "it means... I long to taste you..."

Sam laughed, low and possessive, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Such a good girl," he said, and then his hands were moving, undoing the button of your jeans, pulling down the zipper with agonizing slowness. He kept kissing your neck, your collarbone, dipping down to suck marks into your breasts as he worked. "I can't wait to taste you."

You lifted your hips, stopping your straddle of him just long enough for him to tug your jeans down your legs and off, leaving you in nothing but your panties, exposed and trembling. Then Sam was pulling his own shirt off, and you stared, couldn't help but stare, at the broad expanse of his chest, the defined muscles, the scattered scars that told stories you suddenly wanted to know every word of.

You reached out without thinking, running your hand down the bare plane of his torso, feeling the heat of him, the way his stomach jumped under your touch.

"Sam," you breathed, not knowing what else to say, what else to call this feeling.

His eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, hungry in a way that made your breath catch. His fingers toyed with the lace edge of your panties, trailing along the waistband, dipping lower but not quite where you needed him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, overwhelmed, and immediately felt him pull back.

"Hey," he said, sharp enough to make your eyes fly open. "You gotta look at me, pretty girl. Eyes on me."

You obeyed, locking gazes with him, and his fingers dipped lower, pressing over your clothed cunt, playing with your folds through the damp lace. "Just like that," he murmured, watching your face. "Keep your eyes on me."

Your hips bucked up into his light touches, seeking more, needing more. He started rubbing your clit through your panties, slow and gentle, circling with just enough pressure to make you see stars but not enough to get you there.

"Sam, please," you whined, "I need more—"

"Aww, sweetheart," he cooed, not speeding up, not giving you an inch. "You're so desperate already and I've barely touched you."

"Please—"

"Please what?" He pulled his hand away completely, leaving you empty, aching. "Please stop?"

"No—" You grabbed his wrist, yanking his hand back to where you needed it, pressing him against your clit. "Please touch me, Sam, don't be gentle—take what you want, just please touch me—"

Something in Sam snapped.

He moved fast, lifting you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back on the couch so you were laid out beneath him. His fingers hooked into your panties and pulled them off in one rough motion, leaving you completely bare, exposed and dripping for him.

He gathered your arousal on his fingers, spreading it through your folds, and then he was pushing one long, thick finger into your weeping hole, stretching you around him. You cried out, a pornographic, broken sound that didn't even sound like you, and he started to move, setting a slow, agonizing pace that had you clawing at the couch cushions.

His other hand snaked up your body, finding your nipple again, pinching and rolling it in time with the thrust of his fingers as he added another one inside you, building you up until you were panting, writhing, completely undone beneath him.

Then he brought his head down, and you felt his breath hot against your core before his mouth even touched you, and when it did, when he started eating you out in earnest, sucking and mouthing into you like he was starving for it, you stopped being able to think at all.

"That's it," he murmured against your folds, the vibration making you sob. "Let me hear you, sweetheart. I've been waiting to hear you."

You're not thinking anymore, can't think anymore, there's just the wet, filthy sound of his mouth on you and the pressure building, building, building until you think you might actually die from it. Your hands are in his hair, gripping tight enough to hurt, and you're babbling, actual words have left you and now it's just please and Sam and oh god and more, more, more, your hips bucking up into his face shamelessly because you can't control it, can't control any of it, and you don't want to.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs against your cunt, the vibration making you keen. "You're doing so good for me, so fucking good. Look at you, taking my mouth like you were made for it."

You whine, high and desperate, your head thrown back against the couch cushions. You can feel yourself getting closer, that tight coil in your belly winding impossibly tight, and Sam seems to know exactly where you are, exactly what you need, because he doesn't let up, he doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and crooking the finger inside you to press against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges.

"Sam—Sam, I can't—I need—" You're incoherent, tears pricking at your eyes from the sheer intensity of it, the pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.

"Come for me," he commands, voice rough, muffled against your folds. "Come on my fingers and my mouth, pretty girl. I want to feel it. I want to taste it."

That's all it takes. You break apart with a sob, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, your body convulsing around his finger, your thighs clamping around his head as you cry out his name like a prayer, like a curse. Sam doesn't stop, he keeps working you through it, lapping at you, moaning against your sensitive flesh like he's savoring every drop, every spasm, every broken sound that rips from your throat.

When he finally lifts his head, his chin is shining, lips swollen and wet, and he crawls up your body with a predatory slowness that makes your oversensitive nerves spark. He kisses you, deep and filthy, and you can taste yourself on him, salt and musk and something uniquely you, and the fact that he seems to love it, that he's groaning into your mouth like you're the best thing he's ever had, makes you whimper all over again.

"Please," you gasp when he finally pulls back, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach. "Sam, please, I need you inside me. I need you, please—"

His eyes go dark, dangerous dark, feral dark, and he stares down at you like he's barely holding himself back from devouring you whole. "Tell me where your bedroom is," he says, voice low and rough, sending shivers down your spine. "I want to fuck you properly. Want to take my time ruining you."

"Down the hall," you manage, pointing weakly. "Last door on the left—"

He doesn't let you finish. Sam stands up and hauls you into his arms like you weigh nothing, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, crushing you against his chest. You squeak, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he carries you down the hallway with long, purposeful strides, kicking your bedroom door open and tossing you onto the mattress.

You bounce, breathless, and he's on you in seconds, caging you in with his arms, his thighs, his sheer overwhelming presence. He looks down at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, like he wants to wreck you and worship you in equal measure.

"Look at you," he breathes, running a hand down your body, from your collarbone to your hip, possessive and reverent. "So fucking sexy. So wet for me. You taste like heaven, did you know that? I've been thinking about it for two days, how you'd taste, how you'd feel. Couldn't work properly, ever time I saw Latin i hear your voice, couldn't stop thinking about how you'd sound moaning my name," His hand dips between your legs again, gathering your arousal, spreading it through your folds. "Can't wait to ruin you with my cock. Can't wait to feel you squeeze around me."

He sits back on his heels and undoes his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a sharp sound that makes you shiver. You can't help but stare, transfixed, watching his long fingers work the buckle, then the button of his jeans, then the zipper. You feel like you're in a trance, hypnotized by the slow reveal, by the promise of what's underneath.

Sam pushes his jeans down his hips, then his boxers, and his cock springs free, thick and heavy and impossibly hard, flushed dark and leaking at the tip. He's huge, you realize with a flutter of nervous excitement, thick enough that your fingers wouldn't touch if you wrapped your hand around him, long enough to hit places inside you that might make you scream. A vein runs along the underside, pulsing with his heartbeat, and you whimper at the sight of it, at the thought of it inside you.

"Like what you see, baby?" he asks, smug and knowing, fisting himself slowly, once, twice, spreading the bead of precome over the head. "Gonna fill you up so good. Gonna make you feel every inch."

He crawls back over you,

The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and heavy and impossibly thick, and all you can think is wow, just wow, because he's big, bigger than you realized, and the stretch as he starts to push inside is already burning so perfectly you see stars.

"Fuck," Sam hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched tight with restraint. "You're so tight, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me."

"Sam—" you gasp, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders. "Sam, you're—"

"Too much?" he asks, stilling, concern flickering through the haze of want in his eyes.

"No—no, don't stop, just—" You arch your hips, trying to take more of him, needing more of him. "Just go slow—"

He obliges, inching forward with agonizing patience, feeding his cock into you so slowly you feel every vein, every ridge, every single inch of him splitting you open. Your head falls back against the pillows, mouth open in a silent scream, your body struggling to accommodate his girth even as you crave it, need it.

"That's it," he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh where it's wrapped around his hip. "Let me in, baby. Let me fill you up."

When he's finally buried to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, you both groan in unison. He gives you a moment, just a moment, to adjust to the overwhelming fullness, his forehead pressed against yours, breathing hard.

"Feel good?" he asks, voice rough.

All you can do is nod in reply, feeling dizzy with pleasure.

"You okay for me to start moving, baby?"

One again you just nod. Sam laughs, low and rough in return, as he brings his lips to your ear kissing it once before murmuring, "Be a good girl and use your words, I wanna treat you right baby. Do you want me to move?"

"Yes—yes, Sam, please—"

He pulls back and thrusts in, and the slow, deliberate slide makes you keen. He sets a rhythm, unhurried, deep, dragging out every stroke so you feel the drag of him against your walls, the way he nudges that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

"Look at you," he says, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "Taking my cock so pretty. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to be fucked like this."

"Sam—"

"Tell me," he demands, snapping his hips harder, making you cry out. "Tell me how it feels."

"Big— you're so big— I can feel you everywhere—"

"Yeah?" He grins, wicked and feral, and then he's picking up the pace, his thrusts getting harder, more punishing, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl. Gonna fuck you so good you forget your own name."

"Oh god— Sam— harder—"

He obliges, driving into you with a force that moves the bed against the wall, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you down onto his cock to meet every brutal thrust. You're babbling again, incoherent, please and yes and Sam tumbling out of your mouth in no particular order.

"Such a good girl," he praises, sweat dripping from his temples. "Taking me so deep. You like that? Like feeling me split you open?"

"Yes— yes— don't stop—"

"Never," he promises, his voice strained. "Could never stop fucking this perfect cunt. So wet for me. So desperate."

He shifts his angle, hiking your legs higher over his shoulders, and the new position has him hitting something inside you that makes your vision go white. You scream, actually scream, and Sam groans like the sound is the best thing he's ever heard.

"There?" he asks, doing it again, nailing that spot with every thrust. "Right there, baby?"

"Yes— yes— Sam I'm gonna— I'm gonna—"

"Not yet," he says, slowing down again, drawing a frustrated whine from your throat. "Not until I say. Wanna feel you come on my cock, sweetheart, but you gotta wait for me."

"Please— please— I can't—"

"You can," he insists, his thumb finding your clit, circling in time with his slow, deep thrusts. "You can do it. Be good for me. Hold it."

You're trembling beneath him, your whole body wound tight as a spring, your nails leaving red marks down his back. He keeps you there, right on the edge, fucking you with cruel, perfect patience until you're sobbing with need.

"Sam— please— I need to— I can't—"

"Okay," he relents, his own control clearly fraying at the edges, his thrusts getting erratic, harder, needier. "Okay, pretty girl, come for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you squeeze me."

He reaches between you, presses his thumb hard against your clit, and that's it, you break apart with a wail, your orgasm crashing through you violent and overwhelming, your body convulsing around him, your vision going dark at the edges as you cry out his name like it's the only word you know.

"Fuck— fuck— that's it—" Sam groans, his hips stuttering, losing rhythm. "So good— so fucking good— taking it so well—"

He thrusts deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and you feel him swell, pulse, throb as he comes with a ragged shout of your name. He fills you up, hot and thick and endless, pumping you full of it, his cock twitching inside you as he collapses forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Sam's face is buried in your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, his heart hammering against your chest where he's pressed flush against you. You can feel him softening inside you, can feel the wetness between your thighs, his and yours mixed together, and you don't think you've ever felt so thoroughly, perfectly claimed.

★.

"Wow," you breathe, when you finally find words again.

Sam lifts his head, his eyes soft now, sated, that dangerous edge gone and replaced by something tender. He kisses you, slow and sweet, and you can still taste yourself on him, can taste the salt of sweat and the lingering musk of sex.

"Yeah," he agrees, smiling against your mouth. "Wow."

He stays there, buried inside you even as he softens, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels like safety, like belonging. His mouth finds yours in lazy, unhurried kisses, slow and dreamy, like he's mapping you out, memorizing the shape of your lips, the taste of your tongue. Your head is fuzzy, thoughts scattered and drifting, unable to hold onto anything coherent except Sam, how incredible he is, how hot he is, the solid warmth of him surrounding you, filling you, consuming you until there's nothing else in the world but this moment, this man, this perfect, hazy afterglow.

He pulls back eventually, just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and soft and full of something that makes your chest ache. His thumb traces your cheekbone, your jaw, your swollen lower lip, reverent and slow.

"You're so perfect," he murmurs, voice rough and raw and utterly sincere.

You stare up at him, brain still too pleasure-drunk to form English words, so you reach for the language that's always come easiest, the one that started this whole thing. "Omne quod tecum erat mihi suave," you whisper, your voice hoarse and wrecked. "Sine te laboriosum est et grave."

Sam goes still above you, his breath catching, his eyes going impossibly softer. He knows, of course he knows, and the smile that curves his lips is something tender and broken open, vulnerable in a way that feels like a gift.

Omne quod tecum erat mihi suave, sine te laboriosum est et grave; Everything that was sweet with you is laborious and heavy without you.

"Omnia mea mecum sunt," he replies quietly.

Omnia mea mecum sunt; All that is mine is with me.

He then pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin, his arms wrapping around you like a fortress. He presses a kiss to your forehead, sweet and chaste and somehow more intimate than everything that came before, holding you there in the dark while your heartbeats slow and sync, two languages, two histories, two bodies speaking only one truth.

★・・・・・・★

A/n: I went on a reddit deep dive for the Latin and asked a lovely old lady at my uni library about classic Latin love phrases to 'impress my partner who loves classics', (not entirely a lie..?) she thought it was very sweet and then she started telling me how she watching the Odyssey this weekend and she's really excited. Carol if you are reading this I love you (te amo). also this is my first time writing smut, I did a lot of research (read far too much smut #can'tgetcracked #longdistancerelationship #fml) but alas I have no idea what i am doing lol, its really difficult to remember how peoples bodies are positioned lol. anyways yeah lol. take a shot every time i said Sam laughs.... guys its fine it wasn't me not knowing what else to write, I'm providing him with joy and whimsy and happiness for once... yeah. also if anyone read it as a fade to black fic lmk if the starts (★.) are in the right place or if you'd prefer they were moved xxx

tags: @we1rdth0ughts @bonkbinktink @iraskissnet @pupwrites @localpanicattack @zoraamn @doubledinochiknnuget @nacihe @sinsandsuccubus

[4doras]

HE LISTENS (BUT ONLY TO ME!) ₊˚⊹☆ 

» behind sharp looks and good reputations, you and taesan find yourselves in a relationship that no one believes 

♯. troublemaker!taesan x f!reader, highschool au, fluff, 0.8k, ft. yujin and liz of ive 

𝄢. thank you 🎸 anon for requesting ( ๑ ˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و ♡ my no1 taesan fic requester 

when the word about you and taesan got around school, no one could believe it. you? dating han taesan? he was trouble, and everyone knew it. he never did anything he was supposed to – never listened in class, never did his work, never attended detentions, never stopped his troublesome acts. and he was with you? a student known for her good deeds, always helping anyone who needed it. it was something that could only happen in a stereotypical 2000’s movie. 

“y/n, why in the world would you ever date taesan?!” even yujin couldn’t believe it, and she was by your side all the time. “he’s a disobedient student and never listens to anyone! how’re you gonna even talk to him?” 

taesan? never listens to anyone? well, in the case of teachers, it was true. but he listened to you, and there was no denying it. 

if you asked him to come over because you missed him, he’d be there as soon as he could be. if you asked him to get you a snack from the vending machine while he snuck out of class, it’d be on your desk before you knew it. if you begged him to study, he’d do it. you were the only one who could tell him to do things and he would. 

“he’s scary, too! do you see him standing over there with those cold eyes?” liz shivered seeing your boyfriend standing across the cafeteria. 

you rolled your eyes at their dramaticness, swatting your hand. “oh please, he’s not scary whatsoever. he just… looks like that.” 

more under the cut! 

he stood leaning against a wall, surrounded by his intimidating-looking friends, who did not help for his case of being daunting. his shaggy hair fell into his eyes, which were dark and sharp, piercing those who looked at him. and he “never” smiled – though you could attest otherwise, seeing his smile all the time. 

through the corner of his eye, taesan caught you and your friends looking at him and started to approach your table. 

“i’m gonna go over to y/n. be right back.” taesan excused himself, but his friends couldn’t let him go without a little tease. 

“aw, taesannie!” jaehyun cooed, making grabby-hand motions at him. “how cute, he misses his girlfriend, huh?” he said mockingly, a small smirk on his face as he held back a laugh. 

“shut up,” taesan said bluntly before leaving his friends. 

he walked up from behind you, causing your shoulders to jump when he spoke. “hey,” he said in a low voice, wrapping his hands around your shoulders. “d’you want anything?” 

you turned around, standing to face taesan properly. “hi, san.” you greeted him with a warm hug, smiling into the crook of his neck. “could you get me a drink? like, tea or something?” you give him your student card to pay with, but he refuses, pushing your hand away. 

“yeah, of course, baby.” he dismissed your pleas of using your card to pay and went to get your drink. 

“see? he’s not scary at all, guys.” you go back to scraping your plate, scooping up the rest of your food. 

you expected them to start talking, but there was no response. looking up from your plate, instead of agreeing, your friends’ jaws were dropped, practically unhinged. 

“he actually listens to you?” liz said in astonishment, trying to believe what she saw, but it wasn’t registering. you furrowed your brows at your friends, confused as to why they wouldn’t trust you when you said it. 

“...yeah?” well, taesan was somewhat of a bad student, considering he did tend to skip a bunch of classes and had over twenty missing assignments, but he wasn’t a bad boyfriend, and that was for sure. 

yujin on the other hand, was shocked for another reason. “baby? he calls you baby!?” she gasped. “i thought it was some sort of prank that you and him were doing, i can’t believe it’s real.” 

“he’s a good boyfriend, i promise. you both know i wouldn’t simply get with someone, especially if i thought they weren't a good person.” you reassured the two, reminding them of how mature you were and that taesan was a good guy. “plus, i really like him.” 

you weren’t sure as to why yujin and liz had gone silent, staring at you with eyes that told you they knew something you didn’t. but that was because they did, and that was that taesan was standing at the back of you. holding your bottle of tea he’d gotte  from the vending machine. listening to every word you were saying. 

“you like me that much?” he chuckled, handing you the bottle of tea. “see you later, y/n.” and with that, he started heading back to his friends. 

“you both are so in love with each other, it’s actually insane.” liz shook her head, a small grin peeking through the corners of her lips. 

yujin laughed, agreeing with the girl beside her. “who would’ve thought.” 

boynextdoor taglist. @beomev 

perm taglist. @jellyouse @gyubvlin @blushnboba