USO picking up syrettes

Babe Heffron tears a hole in his best friend's shirt, knocks out his front tooth, and ruins Eugene Roe’s life.

sam never really thinks his little hang outs through so sometimes it leaves him alone in misa’s room as he plays whatever game got his attention that week. misa’s bed is comfortable though, with four pillows instead of the regular, normal two and there’s a stuffed animal that could be a bunny sat in the corner of the bed and it looks worse for wear; the faded color has hints of pink, the left ear is shorter than the right one and the nose is rubbed white. he could pick it up, tease mees until he’s red in the face about needing a stuffed animal to sleep, but there’s something heavy in his bones so he spreads himself out on the bed.

his phone buzzes in his pocket but he ignores it even when the buzzing becomes insistent—it’s the old london knights groupchat—and he mutes it when he finally pulls his phone out. briefly he sees messages from cowboy and barks, something about martone and philly and toronto that he ignores in favor of misa turning to him.

misa stares at him, headphones pulled around his neck and hair a mess. he’s tired, he can see it in the way misa slouches forward, barely but sam notices because it’s his job too and the way he blinks slowly, mouth turned down into a frown. it takes another second for sam to realize toff is yelling for them to come and eat or so help me god i will eat this all on my own and the two race downstairs, pushing and shoving at each other until they get to the table

toff still looks a little annoyed when sam pulls misa’s chair closer, their thighs pressed together and elbows bumping as they eat. cat looks amused, crystal blue eyes glistening happy under the dining room lights as sam goes on a tangent about a video he watched about some infrastructure project because he’s weird like that, his whole youtube feed is shows and movie essays, home projects and everything and nothing that makes sense.

misa lets him take control of the conversation, horribly aware of the way he laughs a little too hard and his smile is a little too wide, but sam is sat beside him and not alone in his still-too empty apartment, he’ll go to sleep with a full stomach of a home cooked meal and not whatever he orders.

toff huffs when cat shoves him into the living room, leaving the messy kitchen for them to tackle. sam puts his music on, whatever genre that he’s currently into the crooning sound of artists and lost lovers, of rolling valleys and love that can only exist in the music notes of a song.

except misa loads the dishwasher and sam wipes the table down with a rag and they’re not in a cabin surrounded by green valleys and they’re not ranch hands but two hockey players in the kitchen of their alternate captain and he crowds misa into the corner of the kitchen, mumbling the lyrics of but darlin i could love you well ‘til the roll is called on high into the line of misa’s neck, feels the rush of blood running through his veins, and the urge to bite

toff can see them when he stands up to the bathroom and resists the urge to pull sam away and send him on his way when misa looks content, face smoothed out and looking every bit of an eighteen year old. cat has a knowing expression on his face as he carefully heads to the bathroom.

it’s ruining sam’s reputation and more importantly, it’s driving him insane. he’s watching misa fumble with all the shit in his hands and sam has to drop everything to go over there and shove misa’s headphones in his backpack for him. it’s a genuine struggle to leave misa to his own devices, sam feels it thrumming in his body as he forces down the urges to fix, fix, fix, do something fucking useful. misa never gets petulant, never accuses sam of being condescending even as he re rolls the sleeves of misa’s shirt. he’s so polite about it, says thanks and doesn’t point out how sam shoved his way through the locker room to get to him.

it’s misa who’s to blame really, big eyes, asking questions, open face, incompetent if sam is feeling mean. and it should probably be comforting to have that theory proven correct, yet it’s everything but when sam watches spence crack crab legs open for misa. sam could have done that. he could have done it better, without making misa lean back in his seat and wince when the shell broke open. normally it doesn’t matter when other people try to step in because toff is a judgmental old man, porter barely gets misa's attention and the guy is shit at taking care of him anyways, zayne is more content to watch, and everyone else seems fine to let sam obsess. but spence is right there, sitting next to misa in a stupid restaurant in toronto that sam didn’t even get a vote on. he was obviously the go to guy for misa before san jose, maybe only before saginaw, but sam doesn't want to touch the precarious spence-parekh dynamic at all.

sam wants it to be him on repeat, sam looking over misa's shoulder to check if he can put his linin shirt in with the rest of his wash, sam picking him up, sam flicking the light on and saying it was just a dream. seriously, sam wants it so badly, vibrates in his seat at the toffoli breakfast nook while misa cleans the blender less than carefully. he likes being put in charge of misa's life, weaving himself intricately around all the things misa worries about on a daily basis so he can turn his brain off and trust that sam will get them out the door on time. misa, who is so much smarter than sam is, won the bobby smith he wants to yell, and asks sam's all his pressing questions because he really believes sam has the answers. he does sometimes, but more often than not it's not about knowing the correct thing, or even googling it for him, it's about misa putting his whole trust in sam. it worries him nonstop, that sam is taking advantage, that he could say don't do that, mike, and misa would stop drinking water. it's not like sam would, he just worries about misa and his predisposition to say yes, okay, yes, sure, yes, over and over and over again, because he thinks it's easier, or more alarmingly when it comes to sam, because he trusts him.

that's the type of thing people take advantage of, get their fucking rocks off on misa's easy agree ability. but it's not about misa, or sam on a power trip. it's sam inexplicable urge to take the crab legs into his hands and break it over his leg so misa can lick out the fat or something. he wonders if that's what spence feels like, sitting there in his nice normal sweater with his nice styled hair and nice trim nails, still engaged in the table's discussion as he cracks open an animal for michael. probably not, maybe he's a power trip kind of guy, or maybe he looks over and still sees misa ten years younger walking around with skinned knees, maybe he doesn't think about anything in particular— nice normal guy. sam thinks about sticking his hands through the gaps in misa's ribs and rooting around in his organs to make sure everything is in place. doesn't matter, doesn't matter, doesn't matter. misa is a smart guy, he can crack his own crab legs and his own ribs if he really wanted.

gta hockey boys, michael misa, malcolm spence, zayne parekh, beckett sennecke, denver barkey, the three guys sitting at the end of the table sam didn't even look at once. they're standing out on the curb, talking passively, big fuck off group of them in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting for one of them to drop the clue that their apartment is free to hang. misa, big eyes, twitchy hands, looking up at sam saying my stomach hurts. okay, sam can do that. beck gives him this disgruntled glance that makes him look more like his dad than it convinces sam to not swing his arm over misa's shoulder and say we're gonna head out. it's such a no brainer, quickest route back to sam's place already mapped out in his head, thinking about whether he put tums in his console or not. misa doesn't have to ask, he could have stood there silently and sam probably would have figured it out eventually, misa's delicate little gut. it was probably spence and his food handling, you can't trust these random hockey guys.

the thought of misa whining out please, sammy gets him hot and bothered, especially after sam's memorized the way misa looks when he comes. he gets all the right and wrong kicks in his gut when misa chokes up on need you, fuck, need you to... sam wants to do it, wants whatever it is. he doesn't know when he got this fucking soft, however soft it makes him to leave fingertip bruises on misa's skin and bite marks on his chest. it's the same when misa tears up, that's sam doing his job. misa saying please, misa asking for anything (never begging), misa on his knees for any reason, sam gets hard just thinking about it. he chucks two tums into misa's waiting hand and then licks the artificial taste out of his mouth because misa trusts him to do it. sam really wants to fuck him in the backseat and misa might let him if asked convincingly enough but misa likes the bed, likes a pillow propping up his hips and sam moving his legs to wrap around his waist. so no backseat, that's part of taking care of misa. no sex at all maybe because misa's stomach hurts.

inspo & ref images under cut 🦈 shout-out @02asky

Cherny!! You're going to paris!!

In line with the previous yaps let's assume Igor is a little... pent up, quick to fire if you know what I mean.

So they start and Sam, who Cherny never thought that hard about in the first place but, god he commands attention and owns it. Tells Misa to get on his knees in front of Igor, who cums basically as soon as Mis gets his mouth working on him.

Embarrassing as hell, yes.

Incredibly fucking hot for Sam and Misa, also yes.

Easy solution, Sam's a smart guy so he's saying don't even worry about it, can you go again? Great! Lean back on the bed and let dear Misa over here use your mouth, muffle you a little while I work you open. Win-win-win

Being under them both is overwhelming. A lot more than Cherny bargained for, but so so so hot. Sam's holding his legs up in a tight grip behind each knee fucking him nice and slow. Cherny mimics it, wrapping both arms up Misa's thighs, pulling him down to grind on his tongue.

I got into this here a little but I have plentyyy more to say. First and foremost I support established chernymisa

Cherny is completely amused by the dog (sam) and pony (misa) show, until he isn't. Sam flirting with his boyfriend is cute, hot even, when Mike blushes talking about him later. But Sam is too passive for Cherny's liking. Teasing in a way that's just casual enough it makes Misa doubt himself and dismiss it when Igor tries to bring up Sam's obvious crush. Which is kind of a ridiculous thing to shrug off, who wouldn't have a crush on Misa? Not even a little tiny one? Cause his eyes do that squished thing when he's listening really hard? Igor is pretty biased but he's definitely right about this one

He's totally gonna challengers those guys in his hotel room.

it's april 19th, season's over, lockers cleaned out. sam's laying across misa's bed in a really inconvenient way, stretched from corner to corner with his forearm tucked behind his head, soft blue tee riding up on his tummy. he's being annoying right now, he knows, watching misa twist his fingers through his hair and make little huffy noises, breathing through his nose.

he's trying to pack, in that annoying, inefficient way that misa does a lot of things. he's puttering around, making little piles and then going "fuck, how's this gonna fit in my suitcase?" and fair, really, he'd gotten a lot of new pieces over the season. that leather jacket he likes so much, prized possession, and the cream-colored fleece pullover that sam had bough so hopefully he'd stop wearing it so often.

sam isn't exactly trying to stop misa from packing, but he's not helping either. his hands keep ending up in misa's back pocket or tugging on his wrist, trying to urge him down onto the mattress, goad him into a snuggle sesh.

"twenny minutes," misa snarks, digging his chin into sam's pec, then shimmying around so he can get comfy. "i still gotta do a load of laundry."

sam's thumb is swiping, trying to find music that's most likely to lull misa into a nap. FUCK YOU MEAN? BITCH, I'M BABY KEEM probably won't work, it's one of their cardio tracks. he lands on a drake song, one of the ones where he's whining about some chick not liking him back. sam's pretty grateful that he doesn't get distracted by that kind of stuff. not that girls don't like him back, they do. he just doesn't give a shit these days, he's a one and done guy.

"drake's having a thing in tronno next week," sam murmurs into misa's temple. he pockets his phone and gets his arms around misa's waist, easy. their bodies shift closer together like they’re being pulled by magnets. “come with me.”

"dickie, c'mon," misa slurs, plush lips moving slow against sam's neck. "you dunno drake 'r anyone who'd invite you to his thing."

sleep takes them both before the song ends.

who knows how long later, sam jolts upright when a heavy heap of fabric lands on his chest. misa's storming around the room, throwing drawers open and chucking all his dirty air forces into a pile. sam blinks slow, reacquainting himself with the light.

"this is all your fault," he barks, all gas, no jokes, ripping a balled up hoodie at sam's head.

it unravels in his lap, revealing a flyers logo, and god, he must've really fucked up, since that feels like a bullet meant just for him. some urgent and frightened creature is burrowing a hole in his stomach, sam's pretty sure. he doesn't even need to flip the hoodie over to know what's embroidered on the chest, since misa doesn't give a shit about anyone else in philly. not zegras, not acciari, just ninety-fucking-four.

sam looks out the window. the sky's almost black, it's gotta be after ten, and fuck— "your flight, mikey, shit, look." he fishes for his phone, swipes open the air canada app. "look, fly home with me tomorrow. i'll get your ticket."

misa's eyes are narrow and dark, irises swallowing up the whites. "marty's s'posed to pick me up in the morning, then we're driving straight to—"

sam watches misa's front teeth cut into his bottom lip, splitting open the top layer of skin. he's holding back, and he never does that. sam almost always knows where misa's going. he's almost always the one who decides where they're going, together. together. not anymore though, not during the summer, maybe never again.

before sam can generate a response, investigate, push misa around in the way that gets him easy and open, misa’s got one foot on his overfull suitcase and is trying to force it closed. sam's swimming in a pool of unpacked sharks tees and grey sweats, and oh, these are— these are his, collected through months of stopping by his apartment to grab something and coming back to toff's, to mikey, 'cause sleep doesn't feel as restful when he does it alone. just emptied out of the bottom drawer like sam was never here.

“can i get a little help?” misa grumbles, kicking at the suitcase. “lazy ass.”

the way his voice raises an octave at the end, h-eelp, knocks sam out of his spiral, like a dog hearing his favorite words. help, sammy, please, i need…, the list goes on. an unfortunate smirk tugs on the corners of his lips, thinking about how misa didn’t wanna say that, probably would’ve rather told sam to walk out the door and into the ocean than ask him for anything. it doesn’t matter though.

sam springs up and kicks that philadelphia fuckers hoodie under the bed, because not on his fucking watch. “hey,” he coos, simmering down immediately, schooling his voice smooth, calm. he takes those clenched fists in his hands and squeezes, gentle, thumb running over the bumps of misa’s knuckles. “hey, mikey. we’re good. we’re gonna get you there right on time.”

in no more than ten minutes, misa’s suitcase has been reorganized, zipped shut and loaded into sam’s trunk. sam’s passenger princess is buckled in, fresh smartwater in his lap and a granola bar in the pocket of his backpack. sam even manages to get misa bundled up in his #6 sharks hoodie after a very persuasive “arms up, mikey.”

when the passenger seat’s empty, and sam’s parked in the underground lot at his apartment, the gnawing starts. he’s replaying a snap that misa had sent to the baby sharks group chat: in it, he’s sitting on an uncomfy looking airport bench with a dopey, overtired look in his eyes and a #6 embroidered over his heart. “dickie saves the day,” the caption says.

the gnawing’s hard to explain, but fuck, it feels bad. not normal, that’s for sure. kinda like someone’s chewing on his brain stem and he can’t get from thought a to thought be without thinking of misa. he drives back to toff’s, and cat lets him in, nods knowingly when she says “miss him already, huh?”

sam falls asleep in a pile of clothes, his and misa’s mixed together, and barely wakes up in time to catch his flight. he doesn’t have time to eat, and when misa’s story goes up, a fucking picturesque lake tagged in peterborough, he almost yaks up two cups of airport coffee. it feels like he’s in a daze, like he’s bella swan in that part of twilight where edward leaves her and she curls up and basically dies beside a tree. obviously, sam has seen the twilight saga. he’s cultured.

there’s a little turbulence around two hours in, but sam’s able to sleep through most of his flight, only waking up to scarf down a bowl of pretty gross mac and cheese. he kindly asks the flight attended for some ketchup and she looks at him weird, probably, so he mutters an embarrassed “never mind” and dozes back off.

the flight lands around 7pm and sam’s idling at the luggage carrousel, scrolling through instagram and so naturally surprised as fuck when schaef bumps into him from behind, knocking his phone out of the loose grip sam had on it. “classic dickie,” he jokes, leaning down to pick the phone up. “defenses are always down.”

sam doesn’t wanna hear it right now, especially from this guy, this 1oa media darling who’s actually totally fine and sam’s just in a pissy mood. he wants to disappear into the floor. wants to do something drastic and stupid. instead, because sam’s a smart guy, he says, “bro, can i catch a ride with you?”

“oh,” schaef says, taking a pull from his smoothie, or whatever it is. green liquid. “ry’s picking me up and we’re heading to—”

did sam’s invite get lost in the fucking mail? carrier pigeon hit by drone? he’s… he doesn’t get it. he works hard to be the life of the party, a little jester dancing round and making stupid jokes.

“to marty’s, i know. same,” he finishes, smooth. sam dickinson is nothing if not smooth.

“oh, sick, lesgo. we’re gonna pick up some brews on the way.”

and it’s that easy. that easy to lie, to perform. sam’s an actor before anything, feels pretty good about how he can kinda just do and say whatever, because’s he’s goofy ass sam dickinson. he tries not to get too in his head about how underestimated he feels, but it’s hard not to when you pull off a little-ish white lie like that. and he bets, cos marty’s a coward, he’s not even gonna say anything when sam shows up with a pack of white claws and a few prerolls.

sam’s in the backseat, schaef is driving and ryan scriven is bitching about how the titans were knocked out in the gohl eastern something-finals. sam can’t bring himself to care. the radio’s playing too, some morgan wallen song. it’s all pretty easy to drown out when he’s thinking about misa. misa who might be totally pissed off, might tell sam to eat dirt and out him as a totally fucking weird party-crasher. but also, maybe, he’ll have been drinking a little, and he’ll get those eyes, big and dark and wet around the lash line, and he’ll grin and wrap his clammy hands around sam’s neck and push their lips together.

when they pull up, sam scans for misa but doesn’t see him. he fist bumps barkey and shoulders past buckets, who tries to chat him up about something. “i gotta piss,” he says over his shoulder. “back in a sec.”

inside, he sees the bright teal of a sharks hoodie and then sees misa swimming in it, cuffs folded over and everything. he's so cute, and he’s half sitting in marty’s lap, and porter’s grubby little fingers are wrapped around misa’s chest, covering the #6 that sam knows is underneath. he wants to breath all five of them, snap them back so far marty won’t ever be able to hold a stick right again. he can’t do that though, and actually, the thought kind of freaks him out. sam’s not like, a violent guy, and he can’t really identify what’s making him feel so pissed off. self-reflection is for pussies though, so he just downs a room temp mango white claw in one gulp then reaches for another.

sam mills around for awhile, getting pulled between conversations. bucket’s talking about buying his mom her dream car, which is cute. ryan won’t shut the fuck up, til someone else eventually tells him to, about the titans. nez is yapping about some blue haired chick who’s letting him hit. it’s all inconsequential, but sam’s finally done throwing his bitch fit, standing up straight again now that’s rememebered that people like him here, know him here, want him around. hard to admit that you were freaked out over nothing when you’re five claws and a jagerbomb deep though, so sam doesn’t think about it at all. distantly, he wonders where misa is, but he’s having fun either way.

later, sometime, when the crowd’s thinned out, crashed on the couch, or in the corner, or the back of their car, sam’s sitting around the fire with schaef and bucket. nobody’s really talking cos they’re all pretty fucked up, they’re just sitting there and staring at the flickering flame.

thinking about how sam seems like the kinda guy to attract super hot, super cool, high maintenance girls who look at him like a little court jester. his past girlfriend wanted him to watch her try on 15 different dresses at reformation and pay for her nails, and pick out what color she'd get. and sam is happy to do all of this because despite the rumors, he's a committed guy. a good partner. and he loves a little task, a little responsibility so he doesn't spend all of his rest days playing cod and jerking off.

he starts hanging around misa more and thinks he's different. he's not asking for anything, not making a big deal, but that ends up being exactly the problem. mike will just sit there quietly getting worse. hungry, tired, too hot, too many people talking, shoelace untied, headache starting behind one eye, whatever. he won’t say shit until he’s at the point of being snippy and short and totally retreating into himself, and what's sam to do about this but start paying attention?

he can't just stand there watching mike sway a little on his feet, pale around the mouth, stomach audibly grumbling. he goes, “jesus christ, did you not eat today or are you being haunted?” then he’s guiding mike by the elbow toward the car before he even answers, hitting the drive thru without asking if mike wants anything because of course he wants something, he’s just being weird about having regular needs. he shoves a water bottle into mike's chest because it’s hot out and mike is still wearing a hoodie like he WANTS to get heat exhaustion, so sam gets right in his space to unzip it himself.

for what it's worth, mike doesn't seem to mind. he acts annoyed, obviously. he'll make a face, but he drinks the water. he lets sam unzip his hoodie and tug it off his shoulders. he eats what sam ordered without complaining because sam knows his chipper order. he whines when sam interrupts his scrolling to go "kay, enough screen time, let's go for a walk" but still, he goes. if he told sam to fuck off for real, none of this would be happening. keep happening.

toff notices and kinda acts like his job is being co-opted, like sam is getting in the way or something, but sam's just like, this is what you do when your best friend has the self-preservation skills of a bug flying into one of those zappy lamp things.

it takes 30 days to form a habit and that's about how long it takes for mike to start expecting sam to just know what he needs and do it. not consciously. if you asked him, which reavo had, if something was going on, he'd just go "no, dickie's just annoying." but he starts pausing beside sam when they leave practice, waiting for sam to check if he has his phone, wallet, keys, airpods. he starts handing sam granola bar wrappers and half-empty drinks without thinking. he starts drifting closer when rooms get loud, letting sam put himself between mike and whoever is talking too loud. he’ll stand there with his arms out while sam pulls his jersey over his head and goes "damn, hope your arms aren't broken" and then fully winks.

and sam, who already loves a task, is immediately like oh no. oh this is the best task in the world. he gets so embarrassingly into it. he starts having opinions about mike like it’s his job. he's tired. he's too quiet. too warm. needs food. needs to sit. needs to get out of here before he starts biting people. mike will be like “i’m fine” and sam’s like “you’ve been cranky for twenty minutes."

it turns into this private language where sam just knows best, and he tells mike to do something, and he just does it. for the best really.

arms up.

come here.

sit.

look at me.

and mike is still bitching, still rolling his eyes, still calling sam annoying, but his body is already halfway through listening before his mouth has finished objecting. which is fine. usefully really. definitely not something sam is thinking about later when he’s alone remembering the way mike went limp when sam put two fingers under his chin and told him to drink the damn gatorade.

the worst part is mike isn’t even coy about it. he’s not trying to be hot. he’s just standing there, sixish feet of deeply repressed hockey player, letting sam manhandle him into basic wellness like he doesn’t understand that this is doing irreversible damage to sam’s brain chemistry.

like sam will be rubbing out mike’s shoulder after a game, talking absolute nonsense because silence makes him feel like he’s gonna do something horribly regrettable, and mike is all loose and heavy under his hands, half-listening, making these tiny annoyed sounds whenever sam hits a sore spot. and sam is like yeah, this is very normal, bro stuff, nothing to see here. meanwhile mike’s head drops forward and sam can see the back of his neck and soft tufts of hair there and suddenly sam is having to remember all that stuff he heard during "the talk" about respect and responsibility. it's hard to be respectful and responsible when mike's grinding into his lap, but prolly not even grinding, just trying to squirm away because sam's trying to get a gnarly knot out.

then sam says, “quit moving,” and mike does. he still huffs and makes that annoyed little sound again and it's unfortunately kinda cute, and his body goes loose again. head tipped forward. shoulders heavy. hands useless in his lap. and sam has this insane second of like, oh, okay, so that works. he can just say something and mike might? listen. it seems like too much power to have over some guy, some 2nd round pick nhler who's not even close to his ceiling. and that should not do anything for sam but

obviously it does. because mike is still sitting there, warm and pliant and bitchy, letting sam work his thumbs down from his shoulders to his hips like sam has any business knowing this much about how his body works. letting sam find the sore spots. letting sam tell him when to sit still, when to drink, when to move, when to stop pretending he’s fine. and the whole time mike is acting like this is just sam being annoying, overbearing, which is almost worse because it means he isn’t even trying to be hot. he’s just like this

because it’s not just that mike needs things. lots of people need things. sam has dated girls who needed things and he was good at that, actually. elite, even. he can carry bags. he can wait outside dressing rooms. he can say “the blue one” with enough confidence that it sounds like a real opinion.

but mike doesn’t point. mike doesn’t ask. mike just gets quiet or pissy and sam has to figure it out himself. and you know sam gets off on being right. so maybe sam thinks he wants a high-maintenance girl until he gets one low-maintenance boy who won’t admit he needs anything, and then he develops a full-time unpaid position as michael misa’s emotional support nuisance.

and maybe mike thinks he’s just letting sam be annoying because it’s easier than fighting him.

but sam knows better. or he’s starting to.

because mike can say dickie, stop managing me all he wants, but then he’ll hand sam his battery dead phone, or stand there with his collar crooked waiting for sam to fix it, or drift into sam’s side in a crowded bar there's no way he can leave until sam tells him it's time to go.