#'love me tender love me true' *sobs*

[seiwas]

i maxxed the tags (what did i expect) but!!

what a soft piece ari 🥺 thank you for sharing this hurt/comfort piece w us!! i think satoru will always be a figure of strength—but i think it’s in part because that’s how he brands himself to be around the people he cares about. he’ll never truly share how he thinks and feels about things, will almost always downplay it really. but he’s always worrying, always aware and cautious, overthinking 🥺 and i felt that loads here!!

there’s a shipwreck stuck between your ribs ; satoru gojo

synopsis; three times satoru sees you cry, and the understanding you gain of each other from it.

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, the synopsis speaks for itself i think, copious amounts of hurt/comfort, i just think he’d be so good at comforting u :ccc, also fluff!!, he’s addicted to calling u ”baby,” satoru gojo vs human emotion (he loses)

a/n; pls ignore the fact that 90% of my gojo fics are hurt/comfort ok we dont need to get into that <33 the writing in this one might be a lil rusty but im pretty fond of this gojo :’3

dim lights, buttery popcorn, and boredom.

the senses invading his mind are mellow, coaxing, a little tedious. all he can see are the buzzing lights before him, all he can hear is the insistent chewing of the people around him, and all he can feel is just that:

boredom.

satoru stifles a yawn, resting his cheek on the heel of his palm. he’s trying to pay attention — really, he is. trying to pay attention to the movie he picked out himself, after thoughtful consideration, one he’s been looking forward to watching with you all week. he’s trying his best. but, gosh, it’s just so boring.

or maybe he just doesn’t have it in him today — with all these too-dim lights, too-loud popcorn-chewers, and the too-convoluted plot playing on the big screen in front of him. he has no idea what’s happening, anymore, what scene this is supposed to be. some sob-story? he clocked out a while ago.

so, with nothing better to do — satoru decides to savour another view.

that’s how it always goes. no matter the movie, no matter the snacks, whether you’re watching at home on the couch or a nearby movie theatre — eventually, when his eyelids begin to grow heavy, or when his attention span begins to falter, that blue-soaked gaze of his shifts. a moth to a flame, following his instincts. constantly looking over to see what kind of face you're making. 

after all, your reactions are far more entertaining than any movie could ever hope to be. little sighs of exasperation, jolts and shivers down your spine, or a laughter so bubbly he can’t resist leaning in for a kiss or ten — he loves it. adores it. lives and dies by it. 

so satoru turns his head, and looks at you, knowing you’ll save him from the boredom clutching at his subconscious. 

and something in his chest constricts.

at first, he doesn’t notice it. hungrily lapping over the expanse of your jaw, to your cheekbones, his gaze drinking in everything he can see. scanning your eyes for a hint of emotion; and he finds it. he finds it in something that glimmers in the dim lighting of the theatre, something that has his breath drawing back to the depths of his throat.

tears.

crystalline, dew-drawn, a fresh set of tears clinging to the edge of your lash line. they’ve yet to fall, but satoru sees them — he sees them and he doesn’t know what to do. 

tears. 

tears?

you’re crying.

in the depths of your glassy eyes, he sees a fractured scene — playing against the scope of your iris, as the movie reflects off your pupils. there’s a turmoil there, a sadness, one that has you covering your mouth with the front of your knuckle. and you’re crying.

satoru wants to tease you. he wants to lean over and purr against the shell of your ear, poke fun at you for being so emotional. such a little baby. what else is he supposed to do?

the tricky part is that he can’t. he can’t move, can’t shape his voice into a purr, can’t even speak. he’s frozen in place like a bug trapped in amber, stuck to his seat, unable to do anything but blink at you in what he thinks might be bewilderment.

his breath hitches — and that’s all. 

something about the sight of you makes him falter, makes him stop in his tracks. catches him off guard. he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t recognize the feeling stirred deep within his chest, something discomforting and foreign. doesn’t understand why his heart feels so itchy, all of a sudden.

then your eyes meet.

and you blink. once, then twice. eyes just a little wide, an embarrassed kind of surprise. he thinks you must be flustered, and he’s proven right when your gaze flees from his.

a mingle of words clog up at the base of his throat. say something, say something, say something. but he doesn’t know what. 

he wets his lips, preparing to part them, but before he can get the first syllable out you're leaning in. close. close enough that he feels your breath ghost against the shell of his ear, close enough that his heart starts skipping the way it always does when you press yourself against him like that’s where you belong.

a whisper. it’s small, hushed, a little frail. but there’s something else, too, laced together with the vowels — amusement. 

”you didn’t tell me this was a sad movie.”

a pout plays at your lips, as you murmur your grievances. but then there’s that amusement; it’s there when you pull back, in the crinkle of your sparkling eyes, the curve of your smile. 

and satoru’s shoulders relax. stiffened bones melting. he exhales a breath he had no idea he was holding, and his heart feels at ease. a grin finds it’s way to his lips, wide, teasing, cheshire and sweet. 

he leans a little closer, bumping his head against yours. gently. ”i think you’re just sensitive, baby.”

his teasing is rewarded with a little huff, as your elbow meets his side. soft. everything you do is soft. 

”oh, shut up,” you scoff. smiling. he’s so relieved that you’re smiling. 

a moth to a flame, following his instincts, satoru brings you closer. an arm around your waist, pulling you into his orbit, until you’re practically sharing seats. searching for your hand — and he finds it, intertwining his long fingers with yours, just to give it a little squeeze.

(for some reason, he feels more protective than usual.)

he feels your gaze. questioning, maybe. but you melt into him quickly, with your head slumped against his shoulder, and his heart settles back into a sleepy rhythm. just watching the movie pass you by.

the dim lighting of the theatre casts a hazy shadow over your face, a tender desaturation, and his eyes stay glued to it when you aren’t looking. the smell of popcorn hangs heavy in the air, salty and buttery, warm and sweet, and he’s almost grateful to feel that familiar boredom tug at his veins.

anything is fine. anything is better than that discomfort, that irritating itch. 

satoru watches the movie flicker by, scene by scene, whispering commentary into your ear and stealing your popcorn with a satisfied hum. chuckling when you whisper-shout at him to cut it out!

he tries not to think of the glittering tears at your lash line, and almost succeeds.

rain clouds, cups of chamomile, and frustration.

it seeps out into the open air, engulfing your living room in a feverish haze. thick and suffocating; the scent of heavy rain, lukewarm tea, and that ugly, ugly feeling underneath his skin.

it pulses. it itches. and oh, how it aches.

satoru hates it. he hates feeling angry, feeling upset — hates when either of those emotions are in connection to you. hates it, hates it, hates it more than anything.

he does everything he possibly can to avoid it; his eyes are keen, always have been, and he can see when that thin line he shouldn’t cross crawls a little too close for comfort. when the rubber band of your patience just snaps. he sees all your buttons, knows which ones not to push. he knows you.

and, more importantly, more than anything — nothing you do could ever make him angry at you. 

(well, at least that’s what he thought.) 

satoru’s anger is a fickle thing, controlled, kept under wraps. it’s a slow process; it simmers, boils, a cup of chamomile brewed too long. and then it all but invades his senses. it never gets the best of him, never, but right now he can feel it — little pinpricks against his skin, a frustration that stirs his guts and has his eyes going cold.

satoru towers over you, like this. full height on display. not slouching or draping himself over furniture, but standing tall, and proud, and menacing. he isn’t smiling, and that’s all you need to know that he’s upset with you. his eyes are layered over with discontentment. 

a sigh spills from his lips, a little gruff, unmistakably annoyed. it slices the silence of the room in half, and a shiver travels down your spine. he doesn’t notice it. his voice has a rough edge to it, something firm. something that doesn’t sound like it could come out of his mouth at all.

”don’t act like such a child.”

a flinch. or maybe more like a jolt; this time, he notices, but it’s too late. he’s in too deep, boiled water licking at his ankles, pulling him down. frustration nips at his skin, and he can’t quite seem to push it away.

and you’re just so, so unaccustomed to it. unaccustomed to seeing him wear anything but a smile, unaccustomed to that cold gaze, usually nothing but warm and fond when it meets your own. this isn’t like him.

it’s not like him at all.

swallowing thickly, you do your best to calm down. but before you can make any attempt to contain it, wetness begins to gather in the corners of your eyes. pooling, little droplets yearning to fall.

satoru notices them instantly. he sees that sad glimmer, framed by the murky darkness seeping in from beyond the curtains, accompanied by the symphony of pitter patter against the windowpane. tears, much like the rain beating down outside.

and his chest goes cold.

a tiny sniffle pushes past your lips, and the dam inside you begins to break — tears tripping over your lash line, rolling down your cheeks. cascading across your pretty face. the air fills with a sense of dread, and both of you seem to be thinking the exact same thing.

(oh, fuck.)

satoru notices, belatedly, that his throat has gone dry. that his heart feels itchy, again. it itches and itches but he can’t do anything to soothe it, and your tears continue to fall. 

his heart begins to crack. right down the middle, like a gash in the reflection of a puddle, right across his chest. it hurts.

an inhale, then an exhale. you’re still trying to keep it all together, grasping for control over your emotions, but it’s not going too well. the little breaths that escape your throat are shaky at best, hands trembling as you wipe the tears away with the front of your wrists. and your voice sounds a little like it’s about to crumble away. 

”sorry,” you squeak, taking a step back. there’s a silent panic in the gesture, one that makes satoru want to get down on his knees. ”i’ll just — i’ll leave —”

he wants to stop you. he needs to stop you. but he does nothing, nothing at all, even as you stumble out. leaving the haunting echo of tiny sniffles and tear-stained cheeks behind you. 

satoru just stands there. once again, the sight of your tears seems to render him completely helpless. useless.

and he's frustrated, honestly. frustrated by the argument, by your tears, by his own guilt. he’s so frustrated he wants to claw his eyes out. he scratches at his forearm, but it does no good. all he can think of is your frightened little expression.

(he scared you.)

satoru slumps down on the couch, head in his hands, running rough fingers through his soft hair. it’s unruly by the time he’s done, and his bottom lip is bruised with teeth marks, and everything in the world feels so meaningless. so out of tune.

(he made you cry.)

a sigh. drawn out, tinged with exhaustion, bitter and battered like the swing of a baseball bat. he feels a little like he could throw up. it’s foreign, this emotion, suffocating. how long has it been since he genuinely felt this kind of shame?

the crack in his heart grows deeper, while you’re gone. more severe. every moment you spend outside of his vision makes him falter more and more, makes his desperation grow. desperate to plead for your forgiveness, to convince you not to leave. to wipe the tears away from your cheeks, delicately, the way you deserve. but he can do nothing but sit there, useless, repeating the same old phrase inside his mind.

he’ll make it up to you.

and when you finally come back, having calmed down a bit, he does just that. you’re embarrassed, he can tell, a little meek. it makes him feel that discomforting emotion, again, that ache. the crack that only ever seems to deepen.

but he covers it all up with a smile. a little sheepish, more than a little forced, but he hopes you understand. hopes you can see his remorse, see a man who loves you, because he does. 

so satoru takes you into his arms, softly, hands finding the small of your back. delicate, protective. a little whisper spilling from his lips. 

”’m sorry, baby. i didn’t mean it.”

and it’s not enough. he knows it isn’t. but he does what he can — even when it just ends up clumsy, teasing, bordering on something that most would interpret as insincere. all he can do is coddle you. shower you in hugs and kisses, gifts and praises. he hands it out like candy, eager hands finding yours, everything spilling out of his chest all at once. 

there’s a desperation to it that isn’t lost on you.

but it works. he’ll make it up to you; he swears. and he dotes on you until you’re too embarrassed to be sad anymore, apologizes until his throat runs dry. until he’s sure you believe him. 

he brews you another cup of chamomile, stirred to perfection, warm enough to make up for the shiver he sent down your spine. the rain beating down on your windows serves as a constant reminder of his failure, and satoru does his best to ignore it. swallowing what’s left of his frustration, focusing on you.

anything to see you smile again. anything to wash away the red tint to your eyes, the puffy skin beneath them. anything to hear you laugh, to get you to feel safe around him again. 

(anything to make him forget the sight of those tears rolling down your cheeks.)

panic, panic, panic.

it’s all he can feel, all he can think, the only emotion his muddled mind can cling to. he’s in pure, sincere, genuine panic, and you aren’t saying a thing. can’t bring yourself to.

arms wrapped around his waist, tightly, you hide away in the crook of his neck. clutching the fabric of his shirt, burrowing your face deeper into his warmth — and you’re not just crying.

you’re downright sobbing.

satoru knew something was off the moment you fell into his embrace, suddenly, tackling him into a hug so desperate it left him reeling. a kind of desperation he isn’t used to, from you.

he knew something was wrong. 

he knew even before he heard it; your choking sobs, those shaky, heaving breaths. muffled into the cotton of his shirt, his uncertain arms around you.

they break his heart.

”hey, hey…” there’s a soothing lilt to his voice, awfully delicate. sweet like molten honey, almost enough to hide the panic. ”what’s wrong?”

satoru holds you to his chest, safe and secure, cradling you protectively. as if shielding you from the world — from whatever or whoever got you like this. as if you’d crumble into dust, otherwise.

he tries to calm down, but his mind is spinning like a broken clock, and your silence doesn’t help. you’re trying to respond; he knows you are, but you just can’t get the words out. any attempts only make you cry harder.

a shake of your head is all he gets — and it’s not much, but satoru’s learned to make a lot out of a little. 

so he continues to hold you, hiding his worry, tucking his anxiety away somewhere you won’t be able to see. he curses, inwardly, grasping blindly for conclusions — for some divine guidance. how is he supposed to deal with this?

(how long has it been since he felt so very useless?)

gentle. that’s the approach he takes, finally, hiding his nervosity. he rocks you back and forth, just a little, like he’s lulling you to sleep; his warm hands finding the small of your back, the back of your head. cradling you so close you hear his rapid heartbeat by your ear.

soothing whispers. murmured into your hair, so soft they seem to melt once they slip from his tongue, all honey and devotion. affection so palpable you taste it in the air, from the breaths he exhales. 

”it’s fine. i’m here, i’m here… i’ve got you.”

he doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, but it seems to work. because you calm down, after a while, just sniffling into his neck and letting him soothe you. sobs and unstable heaves, turning into whimpers and shaky breaths. clinging to him all the while; so desperate for comfort, for him.

it makes him feel so, so desperate to protect you, to wash every single one of your worries away.

it’s unbearable, this aching desire. like a great, insatiable, unnamed something deep within the caverns of his chest, clawing at his ribcage, snarling and hissing, itching to break out so it can open its maw and devour you both.

(it’s ugly. it’s grotesque. it wants to keep you safe so badly it might kill him for it.)

a coo. sad, dripping with care, a comforting tone that he hopes you’ll find soothing. he smooths his palm down the back of your head, heavy, doting. it hurts so much to see you hurt.

”my baby….” satoru exhales, a little shaky. but he smiles, and he hopes you can hear it, hopes it’ll help mend the pain in your chest. ”what’s got you this upset, hm? you're worrying me, here…”

a broken sniffle. the guilt eats at you, gnaws at your bones, and all you can do is hide away in the crook of his neck. apologizing, your voice no more than a tremor of a breath.

”’m sorry…”

and satoru thinks his heart shatters. he can practically hear the crash, feel the broken, useless little pieces dig into his skin.

his arms travel down to your hips, steady, and he lifts you up. just for a second, just so he can plop down on the floor with you in tow — keeping you snuggled into his neck. seated on his lap with your legs around his waist, like you’re his baby koala.

”shh, it's okay,” he soothes, a grounding rumble of his chest right by your ear. he’s got you enveloped, wrapped up in his buzzing warmth, and all you can feel is him. ”you’re okay. no matter what it is, i'll take care of it, alright? you can rely on me.”

a moment passes. 

satoru clears his throat. nervous, suddenly. ”you know that, right?”

all you can give him is a shaky nod, but it’s enough. he sighs, in palpable relief, still rubbing circles into your back. ”okay,” he sneaks a hand underneath your shirt, tracing little shapes into your bare skin. ”good.”

he isn’t sure how long you spend there, on the floor, entirely focused on comforting you. washing away all your sadness, with every gentle caress, every soothing murmur of there, there… every little stutter of his heartbeat next to yours.

and when you’ve finally calmed down, melting under his touch and into his skin, arms going lax around his neck — satoru takes a breath. collecting himself, so you don’t have to. acting like his heart isn’t still a mess of crushed glass.

”you okay now?” he coos, drawing absentminded hearts into the skin of your back. his voice is teasing, but warm, spilling from his tongue and into your ear. deep and smooth. ”almost gave me a heart attack, baby.”

he feels the way your grip around him tightens, just a smidge, and he hears the weak little breath you draw in. your voice is still shaky, and it makes him want to rearrange the world, stitch those broken vowels back together. 

(he doesn’t like how irrational it is, this insatiable something. how it makes him want to bend the rules of the universe, just to see you smile. a dangerous temptation.)

”i’m sorry,” you croak, clinging to him like a shipwreck to a shore. ”it’s not — not a big deal, ’m just…” 

satoru pulls back. just a little bit, making sure your arms and legs stay in their rightful place, curled around his neck and waist. making sure the two of you stay connected.

then he pinches your cheek.

”don’t apologize,” he quips, a playful frown on his face. soft, a vague furrow of his brows. like he’s scolding you. 

it makes you wince, your eyes downcast. you look so meek. a little like a kicked puppy, glassy eyes glancing up at him in search of comfort.

satoru clicks his tongue. ”and don’t look at me like that, either.” 

he boops your nose, playful, doting, and you exhale weakly. it’s small, more breath than a real laugh, but you’re almost smiling, and —

it’s a start. it’s something.

satoru coos, voice dripping with warmth, sickeningly sweet. it seeps from his fingertips when he cradles your cheek in his palm, rubbing circles into the puffy skin beneath your eyes. there’s a mirth in his own, crinkled at the edges, tucked into that blue shade, something glazed over with pure adoration.

”there’s that smile.” 

he leans forward, closer, to press a kiss against the bridge of your nose, eyelashes fluttering. tickling your skin. you fall further into his embrace and he makes no move to resist, wouldn’t do it even if he physically could. even if he had the strength to let you go.

then he broaches the subject. hesitant. tactful, careful, delicate — he tries to remember how it works. how to handle something fragile. he thinks of those boxes you carried last week, little porcelain cups. heavy in his arms. he thinks of the way you jab his side with your elbow; gentle, always gentle, even though there’s never any need.

he thinks of you, and it all comes easy. that’s how it always goes.

”wanna talk about it?” he asks, softly. fingers treading through your hair, scratching softly at your scalp. it makes you melt, a little. clearing your throat.

”it’s nothing, really,” you mumble, tiny, seeking respite in the warmth that seeps from his body. speaking with a raspy voice, a hoarse throat, all tired out after crying. ”nothing big, anyway…” 

a moment passes, before you continue. ”i guess it's just been a rough week,” you admit, a sigh slipping from your lips, tinged with pure exhaustion. ”just little things piling up. ’m okay now.” 

a hum. satoru clears his throat.

”anything i can do?”

(please let me help.)

but you only shake your head. ”you’ve already done enough,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. ”think i just needed to get it all out, y’know?”

a beat. an itch. satoru holds you tight, a little tighter than he should. gentle, he reminds himself. but he needs you close enough to feel the flutter of your heartbeat, close enough to delude himself that you’ve merged together. closer isn’t close enough.

he gnaws at his bottom lip, teeth sinking into the flesh. pulling words out from the back of his throat, uncertain. ”i’m always here,” he settles on. ”if there’s anything you need, come straight to me. okay?”

a frown plays at your lips. you’re silent, for a while, until he hears you mumble beneath your breath.

”i don’t want to bother you so much, though…”

”— it’s not a bother.”

the words spill into the air, a little more firm than he meant to sound. but he means them.

”i’m serious. if you ever need help, with anything, come find me. i’m yours,” satoru inhales, deep, his chest moving in tune with the breath. you’re carried along with it, as if being lulled to sleep, following the steady pattern of his lungs. 

then he exhales. in, and out, and with it comes a promise. ”if anyone makes you cry, i’ll get rid of them.”

he says it casually, so casually that you assume it’s a joke, a bout of breathless giggles pushing past your lips. the sound has his own curling up, and he doesn’t have the heart to correct you. has enough tact to know that this might not be the best moment to let you know that he’s honestly a little terrified of how far he’d be willing to go to keep you safe and happy. 

but you’re smiling, finally, laughing. and that matters more than anything. when he closes his eyes, he thinks he can even feel the telltale signs that his heart is picking itself back up, gluing jagged shards into a shape that resembles you.

"that's scary!” you gasp, amusement bubbling up inside your throat. ”you’d go to jail for me?”

satoru huffs. ”bold of you to assume i’d get caught,” he tuts, a smug smile on his face. it makes you giggle, again, and he feels like a god.

”okay, okay,”  you nose at his neck, breathing him in, strawberry lotion and laundry detergent filling your senses. ”please don’t kill anyone on my behalf, though.”

”no promises.”

”satoru…”

slowly, steadily, his heart begins to stitch itself together. it helps that you’re there, he thinks. helps that you’re pressed up against him, that you’re holding him, like he’s the safest thing in the world. like you trust him.

(the word tastes like molten honey and luscious berries, sickly-sweet on his tongue. he gulps it down hungrily.)

it’s healing. the weight of your arms around him, the breaths that brush against his neck. he holds you to keep you together, intact, to keep himself together. a shipwreck and a shore — he just isn’t sure which one of you is which. but your jagged edges fit just right with his own.

”i don’t like seeing you cry.”

you blink. gazing up at him, with a contemplative look in your eyes. it melts into something a little too close to guilt for his liking. shame.

”— but i still want you to let me see you like that.” satoru smiles, with a tilt of his head. snowy tufts of hair falling across his face. ”is that weird?”

a moment passes. then you hum.

”no,” you exhale, a little breathless. smiling, somewhat weak, but still enough to have his heart skipping a beat. ”i love that about you, satoru.”

”huh?” he gapes at you — blinking dumbly. ”love what? that i want to see you sob into my chest?”

”that you try,” you stifle a yawn, sleepily nuzzling into him, all tuckered out from crying. ”even when it makes you a little uncomfortable.”

satoru stills. 

silence fills the space between you. there’s nothing more to say. his tongue isn’t really cooperating with him, anyhow — all tied up. so he leaves a kiss on the top of your head, and doesn’t say a word about the tremor running through his chest. 

he hates seeing you cry. hates how powerless it makes him feel, how useless. hates the fact that he can’t always protect you from the world, from himself.

but you let him see you like that.

he thinks of your tears, crystalline and glassy, like translucent marbles on a summer shore — and sees the trust instead of the sorrow. he thinks of your tearstained face, meek and feeble, and knows it’ll always be enough to break his heart to pieces. 

he thinks of you, and tells himself that it’s worth it; just as long as he gets to bring that pretty little smile back to life. 

[sanemistar]

i won’t let you go — satoru gojo

contains ★ satoru x gn!reader, established relationship, angst to fluff, petnames (baby, love, babe, etc.), 1k wc. ﾉ requested for my milestone event.

event m.list ★ jjk m.list

ever since you and satoru have started dating, you heard a lot of gossip and side talks from people around you about how he's never been faithful to any of his past lovers, how he lets them go after less than six months, saying that he no longer finds them interesting, that he's done being with them, how he's never truly loved and probably never will be able to love anyone. that he's a selfish man who's nothing but a player who toys with people's hearts then tosses them away when it's all over. and you’re no exception, as it’s only a matter of time before you meet the same fate as them.

he'll let you go and forget about you as if you two have never met, because satoru gojo is incapable of loving anyone.

however, you pay no attention to these words. and even if what they say is true, you still refuse to believe that it's anything but mere nonsense. and decide to fully trust satoru like you always do.

because the satoru you know and love, the man you're dating right now, your loving boyfriend, is deeply and madly in love with you. the way he kisses you ever so passionately, how he whispers the sweetest of love words to you all the time, and how he holds you in his arms tightly every night as you doze off to sleep listening to his heartbeat. no way he's leaving you, is it? you're certain of that. after all, he's promised that he'll always love you, that he'll never leave your side no matter what, that he'll never let you be alone without him. because he can't live without you.

he finds comfort in you, you're his home as he claims. and you feel the same way about him, you can't live without him either.

although, you try your best to brush these thoughts off. you can't help but wonder if it's true that he'll let you go the same way he did with the ones before you, that he'll break all these promises about being together forever.

unaware, you let these thoughts consume you as you slowly drown in sorrow.

your head starts spinning as you begin imagining the moment he breaks it down for you that he's leaving, that he no longer wants to be with you, that he's done with you. and your stomach is instantly clenched in a knot. you feel a painful pang in your heart as it gets heavier and heavier by the second.

just when you’re about to get completely lost in your thoughts, you feel a soft touch on your shoulder. you turn around and it’s none other than satoru. he cheekily smiles at you, but his cheerful expression quickly changes into a concerned, panicked one the second you start crying.

“…toru.” you sniffle as you start sobbing uncontrollably, hot tears begin to overflow out of your now red eyes like how water flows from an overfilled cup. he rests his hand on your cheek, his thumb caresses your skin delicately as he leans in. he presses feather like kisses on your face and eyes, gently kissing your salty tears away.

“why’s my baby cryin’? what’s wrong, love?” he questions, his tone is a mix of tenderness and concern. a worried look is shown in his ocean blue eyes, it pains him tremendously seeing your teary eyes and sad face, he simply can’t stand it.

you blink, eyelashes wet from crying so much. and you pause momentarily, hesitant to let the words come out of your mouth.

“i just… thought about you possibly.. leaving me alone and..” you utter in between your sniffles, lips slightly twitching. satoru doesn’t let you continue and cuts you off mid sentence.

what you don’t know is, satoru needs you far more than you need him. you're the only one who loves him for who he is as just an ordinary human and not the strongest, you allow him to be himself freely without any restrictions, he doesn't have to fake anything around you. and most importantly, you’re the one who’s introduced him to love, you’ve shown him what it’s like to truly love someone. so leaving you has never been an option to him. the thought has never crossed his mind, not even once.

"babe listen, ‘kay?” he speaks tenderly as he rests his other hand on your cheek, cupping your face in his big hands as he brings you closer to him. eyes pierced on one another, locked in an unwavering gaze, as if you're staring into one another's soul.

“no way i’m leavin’ you, not now, not ever. so don't think about that anymore, 'kay? we’re stuck together for life." he reassures you, the tone of his voice is so soft and sweet, yet affirmative and serious. he then slightly brushes his nose against yours and it tickles you a little before his hands let go of your face, only to pull you in his arms instead. your eyes widen for a split second before you rest your head gently against his broad, well toned chest. your hands grip the back of his shirt tightly, holding onto him for dear life as you steady yourself listening to his calming heartbeat. his slender fingers delicately run through your hair while pressing a series of quick, loving pecks on the top of your head.

he smiles the moment he feels you relax in his embrace. to satoru, you being in his arms as he feels your warmth against his skin is everything he’s ever needed. as long as you’re here with him, that’s more than enough for him, he doesn’t need anything or anyone else.

“i won’t let you go.” he whispers ever so softly against your ear, his voice rings in your ears like a sweet melody. and you hum quietly, smiling against his chest as your eyes slowly shut in relief. you let yourself trust him once more as his earnest words wash over the little doubts that have been there.

𝜗𝜚 taglist: @sylusdoll @stunies @itoshivy @hanaeriin @spkyssn @17020 @kalsplace

[hoshigray]

𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 | ryōmen sukuna

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: true form! Sukuna x fem/afab! reader - mosterfucking - double penetration (he got two) - biting - spanking - light choking - mention of blood.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: a quick something I wrote for Sukuna to take a break from writing a fic + I have jack shit for him in my masterlist, lmao.

Ryōmen Sukuna is most definitely a biter. There is no need to state this since it is obvious. But imagine him plowing you from behind, watching your ass quake under his erratic thrusts, forcing out choked moans from your writhing body moving to and fro with his. Tears roll down warm cheeks onto the cold cream sheets that cover the futon. Hands grip the material for dear life with every rut to your leaky cunt. And when he smacks the cusp of your ass, a shriek cannot be restrained from your lips. 

Sukuna loves your screams. They please him to no end — a gorgeous tune to his devilish ears. As a sadistic man, nothing gives him more joy during these moments than inflicting pain onto your sweet tiny body forced to accommodate both his girthy cocks. A beast like him is allowed to use you as he sees fit. His little pet. His little toy. Not like you can refuse. Judging by how your body adapts to his dicks inside your holes, it is apparent that you're also enjoying this, too.

Two hands are stationed on your hips to propel you forward to him, and the other two hold your hands behind your back. You're left with nothing to conceal the whimpers and cries that fly out your mouth. He wants to hear it all — the sound of your ass meeting his pelvis, the choked sobs when his black fingertips dent into the depth of your hips, your pants for air as he takes them away. It turns him on so fucking much.

He can’t fight the urge anymore — the sight of your sweaty body quivering under his bow gets him riled up. Your skin, so beautiful and pure, displayed none of his markings from the times before now. Blue eyes narrow to your shoulder, clear of nothing but sweat. Well, he’s just going to have to fix that.

He comes down to your shoulder and sinks his teeth into your flesh. A sharp cry sneaks its way out of you. 

“Eyyahhhh!!! Su-Sukuna, don’t, please! I can’t have any ma— Ahhaahhnn!!”

“Who told you’re in a position to order me, brat?” He gives the mark on your shoulder a slow lick, tasting the twinge of blood to engage his taste. One of his hands snakes its way to your throat to squeeze. Your mind plunging into a deeper haze than before. “Know your place. Don’t stop screaming for me.”

More chews to your shoulders prompt more tears to escape from your strained-shut eyes. And the pacing of his cock becomes unbearably fast for your brain and senses to keep up. The pain inflicted by his demon mouth, along with the tongue from his stomach licking the sweat of your back, coinciding with the erratic tempo of his hips — it’s all too much to bear. And your release hits you hard, your cunt and ass clamping onto his lengths that continue to rut into your now sensitive parts.

“Mmmph, haahhh…Heh, now you think you can come without my permission, huh?” Sukuna whispers dangerously to your ear, and you whine when his teeth catch your lobe. “Such a pathetic pet, aren’t you.” He pistons his dicks deep inside, churning your tender areas to the point of incoherent babbles. “A damn noisy one, too…Hmmgh! Oh fuck, fuck…”

Before he experiences his climax, Sukuna gives the back of your neck one last bite. Your final shriek signals the ingress of his warm load filling your holes. He keeps you pinned to the futon, making sure you stay still for every bit of his essence to enter within you. Your mind is too far gone to try and fight it — too occupied with the feeling of him corrupting your body internally. Just letting him ride out his own crescendo until he slowly dismembers his huge members off of you. Heavy pants are used to steady his breathing, and he examines his messy work on your body. Bloody bite marks, your ass trembling from the onslaught of ruts and slaps, and silent tears trickle down a dazed face. He snickers to himself. 

“Perfect.”

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2023 — dividers from @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[peachesofteal]

Fix You

John Price/female reader 11k words - AO3 - story is set in Through Me (The Flood) but is an AU and can be read as a standalone. Tags: 18+ major character death, heavy angst, loss of a loved one. Grief. Overconsumption of alcohol. Explicit sexual content. Emotional hurt/comfort. Complicated feelings. Angry sex. Caretaking. Trauma. Tenderness. Reader is a widow.

John Price knocks on your door in the late afternoon.

When the doorbell rings, you slip the baby into her bouncer and rub Orion’s hair affectionately at the table where he’s scribbling away with some crayons.

You’re not expecting anyone, but you guess it could be Cami. Though she usually just waltzes through the front door after using her key.

But it’s not.

It’s John.

You’re silent in front of him, eyes wide. He’s holding a bag, a black duffel, still dressed for work, for battle, face pinched in despair. Your heart lurches. “What is it?” He peeks over your shoulder to where the kids are, preoccupied, happy.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“No,” you tell him sharply. “No, I- what is it? Where is he? How bad is it?” His eyes soften, and he whispers your name. You barely notice when he reaches over to close the front door, too busy cycling through every worse case scenario. He eyes the chairs on the porch.

“Let’s sit down.”

“No.” You’re going to be sick. “Just tell me. Say it.” There’s a long moment where your life plays out in front of you. The stretch of before, and after. John takes a deep breath.

“He’s gone.” Gone. Gone as in, missing? Gone as in, on a different mission? What does gone mean? Your confusion must be blatant, because he reaches for your shoulder. “He’s dead. I’m so sorry.” You jerk away and laugh. That’s all you can do. Laugh. Laugh at the absurdity. Simon's not dead. He can't be. That makes no sense.

“No, he’s not, he can’t be. I literally just talked to him, like three days ago. He said you guys were wrapping up, that you were done.” He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, he’s-“

“Stop. Don’t- don’t say that. He’s coming home. You’re all supposed to be home next week, he promised, he-“ Your mind is fighting something your heart already knows. “It’s not true.”

“We ran into a situation, there was-“

“Stop!” You back away, bumping into the railing. You’re shivering, sobbing, unable to catch your breath.

“C’mon,” he says gently, trying to guide you towards the chair, but you don’t budge. You can’t. If you don’t move from this spot, you don’t have to accept it. If you don’t move from this spot, you don’t have to move forward. You don’t have to live a life without him. You don’t have to walk inside and tell your son his father is dead. Your daughter won’t have to grow up without ever knowing him.

“Please.” Your voice cracks, and you stare up at him. “Please, it’s a mistake, it must be. It has to be. He can’t- He promised, he promised.”

“I know.” You shake your head.

“Please.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. I couldn’t save him, I-“ His voice breaks, and then you do, sobbing so loud you’re sure it can be heard over the hills. A scream is building up inside you, burning and itching to get out, and he tugs you forward, cradles a hand around the back of your head and pushes your nose to his chest.

When it finally breaks free, it echoes directly over John’s heart.

You’ll never understand how people can say funeral services are beautiful.

They’re not.

They’re agonizing. Devastating. The last screw in the finality of your new reality.

It’s only you, the kids and his team. That’s all he had.

“You’re everything mama. I love you so much.”

Orion’s barely old enough to understand. He asks when he’ll see his dad again, and your answer is traumatizing for your child, at best. Daddy’s not coming home, you tell him. Daddy’s going somewhere else now, somewhere better.

He’s dead.

You black out during the entire thing. There are words being said, by a priest, by Johnny, by John, flowers being thrown. Cami stands at your side, holding your daughter, the child who will grow up never knowing her father. Barely five months old. Occasionally you look over at her, blissfully asleep, and you feel envy. Envy of your own child, who will never know this loss. Who will never feel the pain of losing Simon Riley.

Someone asks you if you want to do the honors of dumping the first shovelful of dirt onto his coffin.

You laugh out loud.

What a ridiculous custom.

Johnny and Kyle exchange a look of concern, you ignore them. You know what they think.

“Let’s get you home.” John’s eyes linger on your face, their sapphire and gunmetal shine holding you captive for a second as you grapple with what he’s said. If you were more present, more aware in this moment, you’d probably say they were akin to the palest hydrangeas, the color of the shrubs growing in your own front yard.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, you’re not in any state at all, you’re just here, standing at the edge of the cemetery, staring at a mound of fresh dirt.

The dirt covering your husband.

Orion hugs your legs, trying to force his way between your knees. You’ve long tuned out the sound of his wails, unable to give him more, give him anything except your relentless grief.

You should be stronger, for them. Should handle this better.

There are a lot of things you should have done. Should have told him you loved him more. Should have been the one to hold his hand as he died. Should have made sure he wasn’t scared and alone at the end.

The gaping wound in your heart tears wider, and your knees buckle.

John wraps his arm around your shoulders, steadying you, shifting your weight into him, keeping you upright. Cami watches, gaze glossed over with tears, baby in her arms. Your baby. You and Simon’s baby. Orion cries louder.

“I can’t do this.” You whisper, to no one, to the wind-

But it’s John who answers. “You can.”

There are voices in the kitchen.

It’s late now, long after sunset, the day you buried your husband almost over. More and more of him slips away. You get farther and farther away from the last time you saw him, spoke to him, heard his voice with every second.

It aches, so you close your eyes instead and tuck the blanket under your chin, curled up with your nose in the couch cushion.

The kids are asleep. You’re hoping you’ll follow. Soon.

“-want us to stay?” It’s Kyle. He’s trying to keep his voice down but you’re only in the other room, on the couch, staring at the wall.

“No,” John assures him. “You guys go home. I’ll be here.”

“You sure? The kids… if she’s not feeling up to it, or needs help…” Cami’s voice is wet, still heavy with sadness.

“I’m here. I promised him.” There’s a long pause, and he clears his throat. “I’ve got her.”

You can’t dwell on them for too long, exhaustion of the day finally dragging you down, slowing your breathing and cutting off your consciousness, giving you a reprieve from the grief by sealing you away from it in your sleep.

“Mama?” Orion’s little voice calls for you in the dark, and you jerk awake. The baby is crying. Someone is knocking on the door.

“Hey little man,” your throat is raw, your voice not your own. His little eyebrows crease together.

He looks so much like him.

You glance around. You’re no longer on the couch but tucked away in bed, slippers placed neatly on the carpet, phone plugged into the charger. Odd, considering you fell asleep on the couch.

“You hungry?” He nods as you sit up and wipe the sleep from your eyes. “Alright, let’s have breakfast then. What do you think sounds good?”

“Waffles?” “Okay. Go wash up while I go get Nix.” And figure out who’s at the door.

“John.” His hands are in his pockets, beanie folded up on his forehead, and you don’t miss the way he evaluates you, crying, wriggling baby in your arms, still in your pajamas, Orion hollering about breakfast in the background.

“I wanted to come by and check on you guys.” Right. Of course. Come check on the widow. What if she can’t get herself out of bed? What if she’s too sad to take care of her kids? He grimaces and clears his throat. “You’re uh… you’re wet.” He inclines his head towards Nix, who is mouthing at your chest over your t-shirt. Shit.

“Oh, crap. Uh, come in. We were about to have breakfast. Well, not just about. Ry wanted waffles and I was about to start them,” you’re babbling down the hall, glancing at Orion in his booster seat at the counter, banging around a bowl and spoon like a little king waiting impatiently for his meal.

“’cle John!” He claps, and John smiles.

“I’ll start them for you while…” He trails off and you smile awkwardly.

“Thanks.”

Phoenix is an easy baby. She latches easily, eats easily, goes down to sleep easily. She’s a breeze compared to Orion at this age.

Small blessings, you guess.

Simon said it was you earned it, after Ry. You deserved it.

What did you do to deserve this?

“Mama sad.” Orion whispers, his mournful little voice the first thing you hear when you shuffle out of your room. Nix went down after a change and a burp. Easy.

“She misses your daddy,” John answers, “like us.”

“Yeah.” You bite your lip so hard it stings at the sound of his voice, dejected, depressed, palm finding the wall to stay upright.

The world tilts, falling out beneath you. For a second, you can see him. Standing on the other side of the counter, black sweatpants low on his hips, pouring some milk in Orion’s little orange cup, Nix cradled against him, stretched across his forearm. Simon laughs, licks his finger, and rubs something off the corner of Orion’s mouth.

You want to scream.

It’s a memory. Nothing else.

“.. okay?” John’s standing in front of you, head tilted, cupping your elbow. “You alright?” You raise your eyebrows, and he rolls his lips inward. “Sorry, course. You just… you looked a little sickly there for a minute.”

“Mama!” Orion yells, rocking back and forth to see you on either side of where John blocks the hallway. “Waffles!” You slide your hands down your shirt, Simon’s shirt.

“You made waffles?”

“Pre-mixed batter isn’t so hard. The lad was hungry.” Guilt simmers in the pit of your stomach, pinches your cheeks inward. “Hey, it’s okay. He was fine, jus’ a little impatient.” You nod, and he jerks his head back to the kitchen. “C’mon, I made you some too. And there’s fresh coffee.”

“Did you put me in bed last night?” You’re wiping down the countertop, some movie enrapturing your toddler in the background. He hesitates, and then nods.

“You were falling off the couch. Didn’t want you to brain yourself on the coffee table.” Your fingers curl around the mug, still warm to the touch, shoulders bunching beneath your ears before you forcibly relax them.

“Well, thanks.” I guess. An uncomfortable silence settles between you, questions evaporating on the tip of your tongue.

“I was going to head into town today for some groceries, can I get you anything?”

“Formula.” You blurt. “I can’t… we’ll need formula.” You don’t want to explain to him how it’s too much now, to breastfeed. How you won’t be able to handle it on top of everything else. How you think your milk will probably dry up anyway, bowing and breaking with the waves of your despair.

“What are you thinking about for dinner?” He scratches at the underside of his chin. The beard is overgrown, something you haven’t seen on him in a while, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

He’s grieving too. You know it.

You just can’t find it in you to care.

Something is weighing on John. Something is tied around his ankles, tethered to the sea floor, waiting to drag him beneath the surface. You see it. There’s guilt in the lines of his face, tension between his brows.

You wonder if there is blood on his hands.

“Why are you here, John?” You don’t intend to ask, but the words have a mind of their own and slip free.

“Wanted to stop by.” His voice is tight, rough like yours this morning. “Check in, see if you needed anything.” There are a million things you want to say, but words fail you. You don’t know how to tell him he should just leave, because nothing will ever be okay. You’ll always need something.

Simon.

Your husband.

The father of your kids. The man whose shirts are hung up in the closet. His paperback book still sitting open on his nightstand. His toothbrush still in the cup by the sink.

The agony you’ve managed to lock away for a few brief moments breaks free again, and you clap your hand over your mouth to muffle the heaving sob. John looks past you to where Orion still sits in front of the screen, mesmerized, and then takes you by the elbow to the bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, settling on the closed lid of the toilet, still choking on the lump in the back of your throat. “I told you, I can’t do this, I can’t. I can’t be without him, I don’t know how to be without him, I can’t-“

“Hey,” He’s crouched down, evening the height difference, looking at you with an expression so serious it quells your spiral for a fleeting moment. “You can do this. You have two beautiful kids who need you to do it for ‘em.” He hands you a square of toilet paper, and you wipe your nose.

“I want him back, John, I- I need him back.” You tuck your hands between your thighs, suddenly freezing, cold from the inside out.

“I know,” he murmurs gently, “I know you do.”

“There’s a lasagna in the fridge. Cami left it last night.” He’s tugging on his jacket, your handwritten grocery list from the fridge tucked in his pocket.

“Oh.” She’s texted you multiple times today, and all have gone unanswered. You don’t know what to say. “That was nice of her.”

“I’ll be back in a few hours after I take care of a few things and do the grocery run. You’ll be alright?” He’s treating you like glass. Like you’re a bomb primed to explode, big red letters counting down to an inevitable explosion. You manage to nod.

“Yeah.” The smile you give him is painfully fake, and you know he clocks it. “I’m going to hang out with the kids. Cuddle on the couch.” His smile is more genuine, but small.

“I’ll help you with dinner later.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind.” He turns to leave, but you call his name before he hits the door.

“John?” His eyes meet yours. Blue. Crystalline like the sapphire on your finger. You clear your throat. “Thank you.”

He nods.

John finds you catatonic on the couch one morning. Nix in her day crib, the one that’s a permanent fixture in the living room, and Orion perched in front of an old Disney movie for the hundredth time this week.

You’re failing. Failing your kids, failing as a mother, failing to keep yourself patched together.

You thought you’d be stronger if it ever happened. You promised him you would be, but the promises have turned meaningless, your integrity torn to pieces.

You can’t remember the last time you showered or brushed your teeth. You’re sure you smell.

At least the kids are clean. Dressed. Fed. You’re not a complete disaster, you guess.

Still, when John appears in your line of sight, brows knitted together with worry, you’re caught off guard.

“Oh.” You blink, his frown deepens.

“I was calling your name. Were you somewhere else sweet?” Sweet.

“Sorry, I was… lost in thought.” He takes you in from head to toe, you in all your grimy glory.

“How about you take a break?” Irritation ignites, and you grit your teeth.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I don’t need help.” His arms cross his chest.

“It’s not a request. You’ve been wearing those sweatpants for four days. Get up, and get in the shower, or I’ll put you in myself.”

“Fuck off.” You hiss, and his eyes widen, surprised. How many people have surprised John Price? Close to none, you imagine.

“That’s enough.” He hauls you off the couch by your forearms just as Orion glances your way, little brain no doubt trying to understand the situation. “Be right back, bud.” John soothes him, and you seethe at how easily your son, Simon’s, nods and returns to his movie.

He’s gentle somehow, dragging you to the bathroom, but still forceful as he holds you by the elbow and reaches into the shower to turn the tap on.

The little fight that was inside you is gone. You wilt. “I’m sorry,” you whisper to the floor, fingers knotted together.

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not.” You’re sniffling, crying for the hundredth time in the last few days, and he rubs your upper arm.

“Nothing is going to be okay for a while,” he murmurs, “forever, even. But you’re not alone, okay?”

“Okay.”

The rest of the week goes too fast. You’re getting farther and farther away from it, from the moments when Simon was still alive in this world, when he still existed.

Desperate to slow it down, you don’t sleep. You sit in the kitchen and scroll through your phone, replaying the same videos over and over again, tears dripping down your cheeks. Grief is an emotion, but it’s a physical ailment too. It rots in your stomach and starves you. It aches between your ribs, so viscerally it’s like there is a knife twisted there, scraping against your bones, sawing between your muscle.

You take care of the kids in a daze. Feed and change Nix on autopilot. You give in to Orion’s every wish without a second thought, and he has waffles every morning. Chicken nuggets every night. Ice cream sundaes with too much chocolate syrup and a mountain of whipped cream. As much screen time as his little heart desires. You let him sleep in your bed, curled up in your arms, his little fist clinging to the neck of whichever shirt of Simon’s you’re wearing.

He can’t sleep in his own. He wakes up crying.

Cami comes over and stocks your fridge and freezer. She refills your tea canister. She vacuums the entire house. She feeds and changes the baby. You watch, listlessly, and when she’s finished, she squeezes your hand with a promise to be over again in a few days. You don’t have the words to thank her, so you don’t try. You want to believe she knows anyway.

John is the steady presence. He’s here, doing the dishes, making sure the three of you are eating, helping with the kids. He watches you shrewdly, careful.

A ticking time bomb.

One he’s afraid to set off.

It doesn’t matter how much they try to lessen the burden of living. How much they try to support you. They can’t change anything. They can’t stem the bleeding of your broken heart.

Seven days after Simon’s funeral, you crack the bottle, the one you had shipped from the states, stupid expensive Kentucky bourbon, caramel colored gasoline.

The baby is asleep. Orion is exhausted from his day with Gaz and Cami.

You’re alone on the front porch, curled up in a blanket, the hood of Simon’s sweatshirt pulled over your head. The only light you have is the green glow of the baby monitor. Otherwise, it’s just you, the moon, and the stars.

The hoodie still smells like him. So do the pillows. His t-shirts. His side of the closet. It’s a blessing. It’s agony.

You drink directly from the bottle, though you should use a glass. Simon would chastise you for not using a glass. He would tell you to sniff it from the rim of a tumbler, and then laugh when your nose wrinkled.

You should use a glass, but you don’t. It’s easier to take big sips this way.

Truck tires crunch on gravel, and then the broad figure of John Price stands at the foot of the porch. “Hey.” You raise the bottle, expecting him to laugh. He doesn’t. The stairs creak beneath his feet.

“What do you have there?”

“Bourbon.”

“Kentucky?”

“The one and only.” You take another swig, baring your teeth when it burns. You shake it. “Want some?”

“Think you’ve had enough for both of us.” Ass. You bristle, anger boiling in your blood, but you’re too drunk to stay on track and unleash it.

“Why are you here?” It’s the same question you asked earlier this week, but you still don’t understand. He holds your gaze for a long time. The only thing you find there is devastation.

“I promised him.”

“You promised him what?” He rubs the back of his neck.

“This isn’t a good time for this conversation, let’s go inside-“ You don’t budge. You can’t.

“You promised him what, John.”

“I was there,” his voice is hoarse, and there’s a heaviness to it, an agony the two of you share. “And he knew. He knew we wouldn’t get him back in time, no matter how fast we landed a bird.” You can’t see, vision blotted out by your tears. You want to put your hands over your ears. You want to know everything single thing. The two sides battle, and your cheeks grow wet like your face is upturned in a downpour. “He made me promise to take care of you. To take care of the kids. Grabbed me by the front of my vest and asked me to swear. So I did. I swore. I swore and I’m not going back on my word to him. I never will.”

“You were with him.” You’re not sure you want to know, but you have to. You have to know every piece of him, even this. Even the end.

“Yes. I was with him at the end. He wasn’t alone.” You clutch the bottle against your chest, so tight you’re afraid it might break, shatter the glass into your fingers. It would hurt less than this.

“Was he scared?”

“No. He was only thinking about you. You and the kids. He wanted to make sure you were going to be okay, that was all he cared about. He dug the pocket square out of his vest and held it over his heart.” The sob breaks free and destroys the dam holding everything together. Your body shakes with it, the ugly noises coming from within you, the pain of losing the love of your life.

“You were supposed to keep him safe.” Your voice raises, the alcohol tainting your ability to be rational or stay quiet.

“I know-“

“Mama?” You jolt, turning to ice, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. John swears under his breath.

“Orion,” you croak. He’s stricken, holding his sippy cup, wide eyes focused on your face. “It’s okay, everything’s okay.” You try to reassure him, but his panic only increases, and you fail in the moment, unable to offer him comfort. John steps between the two of you and crouches.

“Hey bud.” He points at the sippy cup. “Need some milk in there?” Your son nods, trying to peek around him to see you. “How about,” John scoops him up, “we get you some more milk and get you back in bed okay?”

“I want mama.” His voice trembles. You feel sick and close your eyes, but the next thing you know there are little arms wrapping around your neck in a hug, your boy’s hair under your nose. You look up at John, his eyes red and his face tormented.

“Say goodnight and she’ll see you in a little bit, okay?”

“I love you, little man,” you kiss him once, twice, before rubbing his back. “Let Uncle John get you some milk and put you back to bed, okay? I’ll be in soon.” Their voices disappear down the hall, and you twist the cap on the bottle.

Down the hatch.

“He looks like him.” Orion is rolling around in the living room, playing with his magnatiles while Nix is on her back, feet in the air, kicking at the play arch. John hums, stroking a hand over his beard. He’s finally trimmed, looking more like himself and less like a mountain man.

It’s a strange feeling, to see him and notice it looks better. Good, even.

“He does.”

“Guess we’re lucky, in that way. Having these little pieces of him.” Orion has his eyes, his shoulders too. They have the same smile, even some of the same mannerisms, and it hurts so much to think about how it will fade over time, how Orion will no longer be able to mimic his father. John steers your mind away.

“Can I help you with dinner?” “No, I’m okay. But… if you want to stay, you can.” He should, but you don’t say it out loud. You don’t admit to him or even yourself that you’ve become reliant on him, his consistency, the steadfast force in your lives.  Weeks have passed, and he hasn’t given up, no matter how hard you fight and fall apart. No matter how destructive you, the maelstrom at the center of your family’s life.  

“We all lost-“

“You didn’t lose anything!” You’re screaming, finger jabbed in his chest, pushing him backward. He lets you. He doesn’t flinch. “He was mine! He was mine, not yours. He was ours. Our son’s. Our daughter’s. He belonged to us.” You’re barely breathing, suffocating underneath your grief, fingers going numb. He reaches, but you step away, swaying on your feet. You whimper. “F-fuck.”

“Come here.” It’s not a request, not the gentle coaxing you’re used to from him. It’s a command from a captain. When you don’t, he strikes, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you into his chest, hand at the back of your neck. “Breathe.” He rocks you side to side slowly, head down, rumble in his diaphragm soothing against your ear. “C’mon, you can do it. Big breaths.”

“I can’t.” It’s the same thing you’ve been saying over and over again. You can’t do it, you can’t do this, you can’t you can’t you can’t you-

“Yes, you can, you can. Try. I’m right here, I won’t let you fail. I promise.”

“John said you needed a break.”

“John doesn’t make decisions for me.” You snap, and Cami winces, triggering a tidal wave of guilt. “I’m sorry Cam. I… I’m having a hard time.” She rubs your shoulder.

“I know. It’s okay. You’re not going to offend me or push me away. I just want to help.” You sigh. “Let me take them for the night. You can catch up on some trash tv. Read a book. Take a bath.” She whittles you down, and you finally concede.

Except being alone is bad for you. It’s bad for your mind. It’s bad for your heart.

Hours later, John finds you in a pile of Simon’s clothes. You’re curled up, nose buried in cotton, skin swollen under your eyes. “Oh, sweet.”

“Go away.” You don’t even lift your head.

“No.”

“I don’t want you here.”  

“That may be but I’m not leaving you here by yourself like this.” There’s an empty bottle of wine buried in this pile somewhere, and he plucks it free by the neck. “Didn’t save any for me?” It’s supposed to be a joke. It falls flat.

“I didn’t want… I didn’t want to have to think.” “I know.” He pulls you into a sitting position, palm cupping your cheek. “It’s okay.”

“I can help,” he motions to the kitchen. “I know how good you are with rice.” His smile turns mischievous, bright blue irises sparkling in the low afternoon sun, and you glower.

“I’m not that bad.”

The sink gets clogged one afternoon.

You try to diagnose it yourself, scrolling through google results on how to DIY it, try standing on your own. You’ll have to get used to it; you guess. Being a widow and all.

The attempts last about thirty minutes. Just in time for your front door to swing open, little feet hauling down the hallway, your son breathless and excited to tell you all about his trip to the park with John and Gaz. John follows right behind, trying to remind him about Phoenix’s naptime.

He pulls up short at the sight of you next to the sink, a pile of tools in the bowl.

“I uh… it’s clogged.” His lips twitch into a half smile. “I tried to fix it; I thought I should try. You know since…” You still have a wrench in your hand, but Orion is tugging at your shirt.

“Here,” he takes the wrench, touch casual as two fingers of his wrap around yours. It’s innocent. It’s nothing. But here he is, fixing your problems. Selflessly again, helping you out.

You’re not sure where you’d be right now if he wasn’t around-

At the thought, guilt so violent almost makes you double over.

Cami and Gaz host a spaghetti dinner, and you leave the house for the first time in weeks, months even. Time is a thief.

There’s laughter coming from the living room when you open the door, Orion sprinting from your side to where his uncles and aunt are hanging out. When you cross the threshold, Nix cooing in your arms and a loaf of banana bread in your free hand, the voices screech to a stop.

“Hi.” Your enthusiasm is lacking, but you’re trying. You really are, even though this is all you can give. Cami smiles excitedly as John stands and crosses the room.

“Let me help you with that.” He grabs the bread, warm hand briefly settling in the middle of your back before it disappears, taking the baby bag off your shoulder. You breathe him in, cigar smoke and pine. It’s calming, somehow. Familiar. “You okay?” He knows how hard this is. Knows how you tossed the decision back and forth, unsure, uncomfortable. You did it for Orion, in the end. You can’t deprive him of his community, so you nod silently.

Cami pulls you into her arms, putting her finger in Nix’s fist and pressing her cheek to yours. “I’m so glad you came.” You manage a weak smile.

“Me too, I… it’s good to see you. And everyone. Ry was really excited.” You look past her to where Soap has him in his arms, moaning and groaning about how they’re nearly the same size.

You take a deep breath.

You can do this.

They tiptoe around you all night. It should bother you, but it doesn’t. You’re not ready for anything else. For stories, for meaningful conversation. Everyone keeps it light. They veer away from work. They treat you with kid gloves.

It’s fine, but it’s exhausting, trying to keep yourself under control. Trying to quiet the ringing in your ears, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

You almost manage it. But then someone slips up.

“- an’ that piece o’ shite. Simon was so pissed; I thought he was going to rearrange his face before he let him go.” Gaz laughs, you freeze. “He won in the end though, didn’t he? Always did, until-“

“Soap.” John cuts, and the table goes dead silent, as if they forgot. There’s a warm hand on your knee, but it’s not enough. Cami is shaking her head, blinking at him in horror, and Gaz glares. You stare down at a pile of peas.

“’m sorry,” Johnny whispers, stricken. “’m so sorry. I miss ‘im too, it helps… to talk about ‘im, ye know? I-“

“That’s enough.” John’s command is scathing.

You throw a quick excuse me over your shoulder as you make your way to the bathroom by the kitchen.

You try to breathe deep, but the oxygen doesn’t come as fast as you need it. You’re falling down the dern, despair filled hole that plagues your every waking hour. The reality you try to shove away, the fact that you’re here and he’s not.

Knuckles rap against the door. You undo the lock to come face to face with John, who steps inside and closes it behind him. You keep your gaze fixed on the floor, chest heaving. “Shhh,” he murmurs, pulling you close, “it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry.” He wipes the tears from your cheeks, tipping your face up.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Soap is oblivious sometimes.”

“It’s not up to me to tell people how to grieve.” He wraps you in a hug.

“It’s not, but he should treat you with respect.” You nod, drifting, trying to burn the words from your brain. You’re holding onto him. Clutching at his shirt, and he rubs a hand up and down your spine. It’s good. Warm, and comforting. You sink deeper, let him hold you, seeking solace. The strength you find in John.

You rest your cheek against his chest. “I’m so tired. I want to go home.” You whisper, and he smooths a hand over the back of your head.

“Okay. I’ll take you.” There’s another knock on the door, and you grimace.

It’s Cami. She has the baby on her hip, tears in her eyes. “I’m so-“

“It’s okay. Really. I’m just tired.” You’re lying, but you don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. She knows anyway. You never should have come. “I think I’m gonna head home.”

“I figured. I packed some food to go, and Gaz has Orion at the door.” Your best friend, always so kind, so thoughtful.

“Thanks, Cami. I love you.”

“I love you too. Text me when you get home, okay?” She passes Nix into your arms, following her with a hug, and you press your face to her shoulder before pulling away.

“I will.”

It’s been three days since the dinner, despondency settling back into your routine like it never left.

The kids help, John too. They keep you focused. They keep you alive.

“An’ cookie!” John smiles. It’s the lips quirked to the side one, the gleam in his eye one, combined with his standard issue work hair and beard, thick cable knit sweater stretched across the firm weight of his shoulders. It’s navy. Complements his eyes.

A flicker of heat burns in your stomach, between your legs, taking you by surprise.

You’re staring. You’re staring and he looks away from Orion, meeting your eyes, a question forming in them until you clear your throat and glance away, focusing on the baby in your arms and the last of her bottle before trying to get Orion prepared for the end of his night.

“Come on little man, finish your dessert so we can get your pajamas on.”

“U’cle John help me.” His arms cross against his chest, and you give him a reproachful look.

“What do we say when we want to ask someone to help?”

“Please.”

“Yes, please. Good job.”

“Please ‘cle John?” John glances your way, hesitant, and you shrug.

“Sure, bud. Once you’re finished.”

The kitchen gets the final wipe down when John slinks out of Orion’s room, clicking the door shut softly behind him.

“Nix go down?”

“Easily. She’s never fussy. Sleeps like a dream. Thanks for helping with him.” There is a glass on the coffee table, and a bottle of wine. You meant to have some earlier but got distracted. “I was going to have a glass of wine and watch something, want to stay and hang out for a bit?” You love your kids, but only having a baby and a toddler to talk to all the time can get old fast, no matter how much you love them.

His fingers brush yours when he takes the second glass from your hand, and you swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry, and you shiver.

The movie is two hours long, but forty-five minutes and two glasses of wine in, your head starts to feel heavy, and your eyelids grow lazy.

“- want to go to bed?”

“No,” you sigh. Your head is quiet, and you’re curled up against something warm, drifting in the sweet space between sleep and waking, low volume of the tv murmuring in the background. “Gonna stay here.” The blanket is tucked around your shoulders, and you snuggle deeper, sagging into the cushions. You’re almost there, just on the cusp when you jerk. “Baby monitor.” You mumble, and a whisper traces an arc from your temple to jawline, touch so featherlight it’s hard to know if it was ever there at all.

“Sleep, dove. I’ll be here.”

“We were going to have another baby you know. He wanted another one so badly. Kept trying to knock me up every time he was home.” The ice rattles in your glass, and you cast a long look at the half empty bottle between the two chairs you’re in on the porch.

“He told me.”

“He did?”

“Mmm. Kept talkin’ about how you turned him into a caveman all the time.” You laugh. It’s real. A real laugh, something unbidden, releasing from your chest. John raises his eyebrows, and smiles.

“That’s how it was. He was always like that.” The stars are really bright tonight. They have been, ever since you buried him. You’re not sure if there’s less light pollution lately or if you’re just paying attention more. Sometimes you want to believe it’s something else entirely. If it’s a piece of him making them glow for you. Lighting up your sky. Wrapping you in a blanket of midnights, little collections of constellations in his arms. “They’re named after the stars, you know. The babies.”

“I know.” He sips his whiskey. “Orion the giant hunter, son of Poseidon, and Phoenix, rising from ash to be reborn.”

“Yeah.” You’re crying, again, and you wipe the tears away as quickly as you can.

“They’re beautiful names.” You don’t answer. There’s nothing to say, so the two of you sit there, side by side on the porch in silence until you break it.

“I’m angry at him. I’m so mad, he broke his promises. He broke all his promises and left me here. He left me.”

“He didn’t do it on purpose. He loved you so much.” You twist the ring on your left finger. It’s looser now, your inability to stomach most things starting to show. You wouldn’t have even noticed, or cared, unless John said something. ‘I promised I’d take care of you. That includes not letting you turn into a beanstalk.’

“He didn’t keep his promise.” There is the crux of it. All the promises made, only one kept. ‘Til death. Except he’s gone, and you’re still here.

Turning into a ghost.

“Can you hang out with the kids for a little bit tonight?” His brow pulls together, pinching in the middle, lines of his forehead wrinkling just bit, just enough to remind you of his age.

“Sure, everything okay?” Your eyes find your feet.

“I want to go to the cemetery.” His mouth opens, and whatever was going to come out of it disappears with his nod.

“Alright.”

You’re sick.

That’s the only way you can explain this, laying here on top of the plot, bottle of Kentucky bourbon in your hand. You’ve dumped some on the ground at the base of his stone, a toast of some kind, a sad, hopeless connection sitting one sided.

This is a special kind of agony. It’s the kind that wears you down. It makes you ill. It has you wishing you could dig up his coffin and crawl inside it. Sick. Rotting from the inside out.

“John’s kept his promise to you,” you manage another large swig, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “He’s always around. Helps with the kids a lot. Keeps us afloat. I guess he takes his pledges pretty seriously.” Another swig. This one leaks from the side of your lips. “I hate you, you know that? If you weren’t dead, I’d kill you myself. You weren’t supposed to leave us here. You were always supposed to come home. You promised.” You dig into the earth, dirt and grass compacting under your fingernails.

The night is dark and starless.

Figures.

You’d do anything to change this. Anything. You can’t carry it. You can’t bear it. It’s too heavy. Too much. For one moment, you’d like to not feel it, to not know the crushing weight of your grief. It follows your every waking minute. It follows you in your dreams.

When people die, there are always these fantastical stories floating around about their loved ones seeing a bird, or a cloud, or a rainbow. Some overwhelmingly positive sign leading them to believe the deceased is at peace.

It’s all bullshit.

There are no signs. There is no peace.

There’s only you, and the dead man you love in the ground.

It’s late when you make it home.

You probably shouldn’t have driven. It’s a short ride to and from the little graveyard on the hill, but you’re ashamed to have done it.

You know better.

“Didn’t hear you come in.” Your keys clang against the counter, forgotten as you turn to face him. The lie gives you pause. He knew you had come in. Simon never missed the sing of a door hinge, the latch of a window. You know they operate. How they function.

Still, you let it go. You don’t have the mental capacity to call him out.

He’s closer than you expected. Close enough you can smell him. It’s always the same, cigars and pine. Fresh needles fallen on the forest floor. He reminds you of it too in a way. The woods. Something about him, the way he fits into his sweater, the rough heels of his hands, like he’s felled a thousand trees and could go for a thousand more.

He’s got amber gold on the rocks in his hand, more whiskey. The ice has diluted it a bit, a thin watery film sitting on the bottom of the glass. You wrap your fingers around the rim and tip it to your lips. It burns. The clock ticks, the two of you breathe in and out. In and out.

“I can’t carry this.” You blurt, setting the glass down a little too hard. “I know you think I can… but I can’t. I’m drowning.”

“No one expects you to right now…” He’s talking, reassuring, supporting you, but there’s nothing except for his eyes. They’re the color of the ocean, the one you swam in the weekend Simon put the ring on your finger.

Your ears are ringing. Your blood is hot, the alcohol rewiring your brain until it conjures wild ideas about an escape. Maybe you don’t have to carry it, for a minute. Maybe you can close your eyes and share it with someone. Share it with him. Just for a minute.

“John.” You whisper, still focused on his eyes.

“What is it?” You twist your fingers in his sweater, dirt from under your fingernails getting caught in the wool, and he tenses, confused. “Hey, maybe-“ No maybes. You swing onto your toes and drag him downward, pressing your mouth to his in a rush. He grunts, but the kiss lingers until he pulls away. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes.” You can’t place the look he gives you, mind too far gone. If you were sober, you’d say it was significant. He cups your cheek.

“Let’s sit down and-“

“No. John. Please. Help me carry it. Please.” Electricity crackles in the air, his hand sliding to your neck where he holds it firm with two fingers.

“We can’t. Shouldn’t. It’s just the grief, it’s-“

“Please.” You raise yourself back onto your toes, and though he’s dead still, he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop you as you kiss the corner of his mouth, beard brushing against your chin, and he doesn’t stop you when you find his lips again, parting your own, holding onto his shoulders.

He groans, hands drifting to your hips and digging into them, gripping you so tight, a pendulum swinging, pushing you away, pulling you back, until he gives in.

You’re kissing captain Price, for fucks sake. Your husband’s boss, his friend. One of the most important men in his life.

The betrayal burns.

This is wrong. So wrong, but there’s a wild piece of you that wants it. Likes it. The pieces that have taken solace in John have now turned to something else, something stronger, more vibrant.

It’s wrong. So wrong.

But in this moment, there’s nothing else but you and him and this decision. There’s no room for the other things that plague you.

It’s rough. You’re rough. He’s rough. You pin him against the kitchen counter, fumbling with his belt and zipper, sandpapered pads of his thumbs under your shirt and rolling over your nipples. You’re clumsy, disorientated, only saved when he spins you around and folds you over the cool surface. “Alright.” He murmurs like it’s just now kicked in what you’re doing, what’s happening in this moment, this sacrilege now staining you both. He kicks your feet wide, and rips your leggings to your ankles, tracing a line back up your thigh to shove his hand inside your panties and through your folds to push his finger inside you.

“Ah, John-” You hiss, arching your back, greedy for more, desperate for something, waiting and wanting, willingly going with him as he drags you to the floor, pushes you to your knees and bends you over, too big hand between your shoulder blades.  

He fills you in a single stroke and you cry out, slapping a palm over your mouth to cover your scream, stifling the moans that follow. It’s a stretch, one that burns, too much and too soon, but this isn’t meant to be slow. It’s not a treasure, a sentimental unfolding of passion. It’s grief. It’s loss. It’s nothing like love. “Christ.” He grits, pinching your ass. “You’re bloody tight, sweet.” You can’t respond, your free hand digs against the hard wood, scrambling for something to hold onto as he shoves his cock against your cervix. You’re going to come unreasonably fast, already clamping down around him, tightening with the curl of your toes. “Be nice and quiet for me now, angel.” He pulls you up by your chest, mouth hot at your ear as he reaches for your clit, pinching the swollen nub and then smacking it with an open palm, your shriek barely muffled by your hand. He’s speaking, but you’re not quite catching it, too distracted by the blinding light on the outside of your vision, sparks blooming into fireworks. “Oh dove, you’re coming,” his mouth is on your cheek, kissing, nipping, and you turn to steel, vibrating with the strength of your orgasm, pathetic whines ghosting over his neck as your head tips back. He coos, brushes a hand over your forehead. It’s comforting, sick comfort for a sick girl. “Good girl, Shh, I know, I know it’s a lot.” The peak crashes, and you twitch, pulsing around him, fingernails digging into his forearm.

He comes all over you. Puts you back on all fours and curses under his breath, holding you steady, gripping your ass cheek so hard it will be tender tomorrow. The ocean rushes in your ears and you start to drift away, post orgasm, post fuck, sweaty and sated as he paints you.

“Fuck honey-“

I’ve got a lot of cum for you, honey

Tell daddy what you’re doing, honey

Can’t get over how good you taste, honey

Feel how bad I want to be inside you, honey?

The tip of the knife jams between your ribs. It penetrates your heart. It shreds organ and bone until the injury is so catastrophic, the only fix is death.

The noise you make is more animal than human.

Honey, honey, honey-

You flinch and crawl away panicked. He’s calling your name but you’re deaf to it, drowning in Simon’s voice.

Simon, your husband, who was the last man inside you. Simon who called you honey, and sweetheart, and mama. Simon, who’s body is cold in the ground. Who’s ring is on your finger.

Honey, honey, honey-

You stumble to your feet and make it to the sink just before the whiskey and bourbon comes shooting out of your mouth.

Sick.

“Promise me-“

“Shut up Simon. That’s an order.” He’s got her embroidered pocket square in his fingers, stained in blood, crimson dotting out the constellations. The radio crackles, but it only confirms what they both know.

Simon has minutes. They need at least twenty.

He shakes his head. John presses harder on his abdomen, pointedly ignoring the river of red spilling out beneath his palms. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how much human bodies bleed. It’s not like he’s usually sticking around to watch.

“John.” Simon’s free hand latches onto the strap of John’s vest and jerks it roughly, pulling him closer. “You swear to me, right now. Do it.”

“I won’t. There’s still time. Stop talking, you need the oxygen.” His lips crack into a smile, gaze already starting to fall away, and then snaps to, refocusing.

“Tell her I love her. And that I’m sorry.”

“You’ll tell her yourself, Lieutenant.” He shakes his head, fist tightening over that little square, dragging to his heart, the organ beneath the vest that’s beating too slowly.

“John. Swear it. Promise me you’ll take care of her. You’ll take care of them.” There’s blood trickling down his jaw now, flowing from his lips. “She’s strong, but it’s gonna be hard. She’ll need you. The kids will need you. Nix is only a baby, she can’t-“ he coughs, shudders, and then his brow furrows with determination. “They can’t grow up without a dad.” John’s stomach, already an open pit, now rips into a black hole.

“You’re their dad, Simon. You are.” His voice cracks.

“Swear.”

“No.”

“Swear to me!” Simon shouts in his face, blood spraying on his cheeks. Gaz is yelling at them from twenty-five yards away, but it doesn’t matter. There’s not enough time.

They stare at each for seconds that are really eternity. They’ve been together in this hell, in this job, for so long. Suffered and slogged and killed together for so long. Simon isn’t just his team member, he’s a part of his life.

A rabid fucking dog brutalized and beaten down, now a husband, a father, a leader in his own right.

John pushes away the memory of the day he met Orion. The pride on Simon’s face. The pure joy.

He would never deny him.

They hold on to each other’s forearms. It’s goodbye.

“I swear it, Simon. I will take care of them. I promise. On my life.”

“And you’ll tell her I love her.”

“I will.”

He should have stopped you.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe it happened, but it’s not hard to remember. Not hard to remember how you felt, scorching velvet plush around his cock, not hard to remember the sounds you make when you come, how your pussy twitches. Not hard to remember how beautiful you were in his arms, shaking and crying, holding tight to him as he fucked you as deep as he could.

And it’s hard to forget the horror on your face. The way you crawled away like a wounded animal. The hoarse sobbing that came after the vomit in the sink. The way your knees gave out. The way you told him to get the fuck out.

Help me carry it.

It’s survivor’s guilt. It must be. Or trauma bonding. He’s been here for you, for the kids. He’s held you and wiped your tears and scooped you off the floor.

Because it’s his duty.

Right?

He can’t deny there’s something wrong with him, though. There’s something wrong with the way he barked at Soap during dinner, something wrong with the way he let you curl up beside him with your head on his stomach the night you fell asleep on the couch. He just sat there, stroked your cheek, rested his hand on his shoulder.

The guilt builds. It’s compounding, and fueling the anger, the rage directed at himself.

How dare he? How dare he betray Simon like this? How dare he try to take something that’s never been his?

He walks it like a tightrope. It’s his duty. It’s a betrayal.

Duty. Deceit. Duty. Betrayal. An oath. A line crossed, again and again.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do except crush and pulverize this thing trying to bloom. He rips out it by the roots.

Though he knows as well as any, determined things always find a way.

You don’t even look at him, and it gets under his skin. It feels wrong. Everything is wrong.

“Orion is almost ready.” You say over your shoulder, already moving away from him and down the hall, running but you’re not being chased. He’s supposed to take the lad fishing today. Orion has been looking forward to it all week, and you, quite frankly, don’t have the energy.

He catches you by the elbow and you jerk away, lips pressed together and eyes down. “Look at me.” You shake your head, glisten of tears catching in the early morning light streaming through the windows. He says your name, as softly as he can manage, and you tremble.

“I can’t do this right now.”

“Do what? Talk to me?” He’s pushing, and maybe he shouldn’t.

“Yes.” You hiss, venom twisting your face into a mask he’s never seen before. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk about what we did.” Your voice cracks on the last word, and it hurts in a way he didn’t expect. He wants to agree. He wants to wipe your face and tug you into his chest. He wants to bury the guilt ripping through him and turn around. Walk out the door.

He’ll do none of it. He’s a man of his word, above all else.

“When you’re ready then.” He nods as if it’s nonnegotiable, and then saved from a rebuttal when Orion runs full speed from his room. You turn on your heel and storm away.

Fine.

He’s at your door the next night for dinner.

You stand in the frame, arms crossed, anger etched into your face. “I don’t need your help tonight.”

“You going to make me a liar then?” He snaps, patience thin. The anger dissipates, and it’s replaced by that same despondent, dead look in your eyes that’s been making him sick since the day he came to the door. “Make me go back on my word to him?”

“John.” You whisper his name with shaking hands.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” There’s acid on the tip of his tongue. It’s stringent, bitter like the soap his mum washed his mouth out with. He doesn’t know why, but it stings. You look up at him, eyes so wide, so sad, so lost, he has to hold himself back from dragging you into his arms. “It didn’t mean anything, dove. It was just us. Just between us. Just grief.”

“Just grief.” You parrot, tears dripping from the corners of your eyes and down your temples. He brushes them away, and you surprise him by leaning into it. You smile weakly. “We’re having pasta bake.”

A few days later, and there are loads of laundry on your couch when he walks in. You throw him a desperate look, piles separated into toddler clothes, baby clothes and your own. They’re mountains, nearly at your chest when standing.

“Get a little behind?”

“I’ve been a little tired, I guess.”

“Can I help?” “Sure, want to fold onesies?” You laugh a little bit, enough to crack your lips into a small smile. He likes it. Likes your smile. It reminds him of the one you used to give Simon, the way it would break across your face, sunshine in a patch of clouds. He’d nuzzle your cheek, your neck, holding Orion on his hip with one arm, and you with another.

He stills, holding a small yellow piece of clothing.

Your husband. Simon was your husband.

And he’s the interloper.

Swear to me-

I swear it-

I will take care of them.

His ears ring with the bells of remorse, the song of at the beginning of a procession.

“John? You alright?” He’s been staring at you this entire time, but not seeing you, just seeing the past, seeing Simon, seeing everything that came before these moments where he’s being torn in two. He nods, not trusting his voice, his words.

“Will you be here for dinner tonight?” He usually is. It kills two birds with one stone. He makes sure you’re functioning; he makes sure you’re eating. It’s never been a question of you caring for the kids. The worry has been about you caring for yourself.

He can’t stomach sitting down for a meal with you and Orion today, so he lies. “I have to get home and get some work done.” You’re surprised, and then disappointed. He sees it so clearly and chooses not to dwell on it.

He can’t stay. He needs to work this out of his system.

You’re sad tonight.

Some days are really bad days, and then some of them are awful, like these. The ones where you move from bed to the couch, feeding and changing and dressing the kids on autopilot. He calls them your sad days, because he doesn’t want to call it what it is. Depressed days, despair days, you’ve given up days.

Some of the days are better, but these are the worst. It gets ugly at night, when the anxiety and fear becomes too much, when the loss crashes down too quickly.

The house is quiet, and you’re curled up in the middle of the bed under a heap of blankets, staring at the wall. You don’t acknowledge him when he opens the door or slips inside, you say nothing when he sits on the side of the bed. He lays a hand on your shoulder. You don’t react.

“Did you eat today?”

“A little.” He strokes your cheek, backs of his fingers gliding over soft skin, trying to rouse you a bit more, and you sigh.

“Kids go down alright?”

“Fine. Orion is upset he can’t sleep in our,” your face twists, “my bed anymore. But I placated him with too much ice cream.” You manage a smile then, and he matches it.

“That’s good. Nothing he won’t do for some chocolate yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is small. “John?”

“What is it?”

“Do you think it will ever go away?” He smooths some baby hairs back from your forehead.

“I don’t know, angel. Eventually it will hurt less, I imagine. But the loss will always be there.” Your cheeks glisten in the dark, sliver of light shining through the crack in the door from the hallway.

“I’m glad you were with him.” He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he bleeds.

“I am too.” Your fingers curl around his.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” The ache in his heart is back, doubling the beat, blood churning all the way to his toes. “Will you stay?” He shouldn’t, but he folds himself alongside where you’re under the blankets and tucks your head into his neck.

“Yes, dove. I’ll stay.”

The next time it happens is filled with rage.

You’re a wild animal, a wolf starved, teeth bared and snapping, claws out.

But you beg him for it. You plead. You demand.

It’s just us. Just grief. Take it from me. Why should I be the only one carrying this?

It’s wrong as he takes you on the bathroom floor, cold tile under his knees, warmth of your thighs bracketed at his waist. You dig your nails into his back hard enough to break skin, and he pins them back, his forehead knocked against yours, sharing breath. Sharing grief.

He breaks you down eventually, pushing his cock so deep you wail, holding you firm with a hand on your hip. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to betray him, doesn’t want to take his place in a home that could never be his.

Still. He can’t stop. He can’t help himself. He lives for your cries, the way you tighten around him when you come, how your eyes turn into bright stars at your peak.

It angers him. He’s always been a man of control.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes, fuck, t’s not… it’s just-“ He snatches your jaw, and you look away.

“Look at me sweet. Look at me and tell this is just grief.” You can’t. You don’t. Instead, he shoves his hand between your legs and rubs your clit until you come.

When it’s over, you cry.

“Is this it?”  He stares at Simon’s headstone. “Is this what you meant? Is this what I promised you?” Dead men don’t answer to anyone, ghosts don’t provide explanations. John replays those last moments in his mind, burning Simon’s face into his memory so he never forgets, so he never gets confused. He’s in another man’s place, a father and a husband’s place. 

It’s been days since he’s seen you. Cami visits in his stead, which is good for you, better. You need a friend now, not him. Not whatever this is. Not whatever he’s done to you or vice versa.

He claps a hand on top of the stone, the same way he’d do it to Simon’s shoulder.

“I promised on my life, but I didn’t promise this.”

You haven’t seen or heard from John in nearly a month.

It didn’t bother you at first since they were gone for work, but when Gaz opened the front door to greet you two weeks ago, you were surprised.

They’re back and he didn’t reach out.

Why? 

You miss him. It’s a shameful revelation, and a surprising one.

So much for the mourning widow.

“Mama, i’cream?” Orion is huddled between your legs, tugging on your jeans while you bounce Phoenix, trying to get her to settle before bed.

“No ice cream tonight baby.” His eyes well with tears, and the guilt hits you. Be strong. Don’t give in, you’re spoiling him too much.

“Let’s go get in bed and I’ll read to you, okay?”

“No! I’cream!” Your face crumples.

“Orion, please. I already said no. Now can you help mama and go get in your bed?” He flings his hands at your thighs, little face twisted up with rage.

Normally, you’re well equipped for the tantrums. It’s part of having a toddler, but tonight, it’s breaking your back. Wearing you down. You’re about to walk away, create some space, take a deep breath when the doorbell rings.

Literally saved by the bell.

Orion’s already running down the hall, bouncing on his toes as you open the door to see John on the other side. Weary. Weathered. “U’cle John!”

“Hey, bud.” He locks eyes with you, standing on the threshold, meeting your eyes unflinchingly. “Need some help?” You swallow.

“Come in, you’re letting all the heat out.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Your mouth is on his, or his on yours, you’re not sure how it started. All you know is his arms are warm, and strong, and a safety net at the bottom of your life now, waiting outstretched for when you lose your balance on the tightrope.

“I know.” He does that thing where he cradles your face, stares into your eyes like he’s seeing an entire universe, one he’s never been to, a planet undiscovered, stars recently born and exploded across a night sky. “I know sweet, but- I can’t-“ It’s why he stayed away, he confessed earlier. Why he disappeared. It wasn’t fair, he knew that.

The guilt is crushing him. It’s crushing you.

“What’re we doing then?” It’s not right, whatever this is.

But his body pressed against yours, his arms holding you tight, it’s impossible to run from. Hard to hide.

It’s not just grief anymore. A hydra with a head cut off, two more born again from the wound. It's a flower blooming in a forest of ash, life finding a through the gash of a wildfire. A small, tiny, flame, desperate to burn.

“Just kiss me,” you breathe, mouths now millimeters away from one another. His chest heaves beneath your fingertips. “Just kiss me, John.”

“Daddy.” Orion pats his hand on the stone, little fingers digging into the engraving.

Husband. Father.

Your thumb finds the sapphire, rubbing the stone it in practiced circles, and Phoenix coos beside you, half buried beneath the wool of John’s jacket. “Ready to go home, little man?” You’re crouched behind him, holding him, kissing his cheek. This is a weekly tradition, the visit, and even in the dead of winter when it’s too cold for the kids, you never miss it.

Your commitment never wavers, your gold band a mirror to the one buried beneath your feet, an eternal tie to your husband.

‘Til Death.

You will never not be Simon’s wife, the mother of his children, his moon. You will never marry again. You will never have another child.

But that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for a sunrise, a dawn, a new promise. An oath to John, though never formal or official in the eyes of the law, but true all the same.

The sun. The stars. The moon.

“Alright, we ready?” You press another kiss to your son’s face before scooping him up, taking one last look before nuzzling Orion’s face. “See you next week, Si.”

John lingers for a moment, a hand curled over the stone, fingers flexing into a squeeze. His eyes are distant, a world away, tangled up in the past for a long moment.

“Hey,” you call softly, extending a hand. “let’s go home.”

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Short Stories:

Limerence (Prequel)

Yandere Rebellion Leader x Princess Reader

TW: Yandere behaviors, mentions of past SA (on yandere’s part), murder, death, blood, a man slaughtering your entire family to be with you, etc

(Your name) quietly sobbed into her knees, her body curled tightly into a ball on the floor of her closet. The loud screams of the servants ring out through the hallways. Not a single doubt in her mind that the castle staff were being slain like cattle by the rebel troops.

When did everything go wrong? Would she soon join the rest of the castle’s inhabitants when the troops inevitably found her? Would they be merciful or would they gut her like a fish?

(Your name) didn’t want to think about it too much… she just hoped her death would be quick and painless.

Crack! Slam! Her door was splintered apart with brute force that made the closet doors shake. (Your name) quickly covered her mouth before she screamed out in fear. She didn’t want to alert the intruder of her whereabouts…

(Your name)’s breath hitched when she spotted a pair of leather shoes that stood outside the closet door through the crack of the door. Oh god… this was it.

(Your name)’s arms flew up to shield her face but strong hands quickly moved her arms out of the way so soft lips could be lovingly pressed against her soft cheeks.

“It’s okay… it’s me.” A smooth voice hummed softly while he continued to pepper (your name)’s face in kisses. “It’s Adonis.”

(Your name) reluctantly peeked her eyes open to see if his words rang true. Adonis’s chocolate curls were wild and his sea foam green eyes were filled with admiration. This was indeed her handsome childhood friend who stood before her.

“A-Adonis?” (Your name)’s brow furrowed in confusion. Why on earth was her stepmother’s personal servant here and why did he press kisses all over her like she was his lover? Didn’t he belong to her stepmother?

Adonis hummed in reply, his actions failed to cease while his hands now cupped her cheeks. “Yes, darling. It’s me… I’m here to get you out of here.”

(Your name) was shocked to be pulled into a warm embrace. Adonis’s muscular body did little to soothe her nerves, quite contrary. Adonis’s hug felt like a cage.

“Where’s my stepmother-“ (your name) nearly squealed when Adonis nipped at her neck. An angry red mark now visible on her smooth skin. “Adonis, what was that for-“

“She’s not in the picture anymore.” Adonis inhaled deeply to try to calm himself before he lashed out any further from the mention of his despicable mistress. “She interfered in our relationship for far too long.”

Relationship? What was Adonis talking about?

“Adonis?” (Your name) then noticed the speckles of blood that covered his tan face in shock. Blood?! Adonis wasn’t bleeding so whose blood could that be… no. Did this mean Adonis betrayed the royal family?

No… Adonis had been with her family for over a decade. They grew up together! Adonis and her were always such good friends! So why would he slaughter her family in the name of love?

“I love when you say my name, darling.” Adonis bent down and pressed his full lips against yours in a tender peck. “We no longer have to worry about what others think. I abolished this unfair system.”

(Your name) felt tears run down her face as Adonis continued to ramble. His sea foam green eyes lit up with madness. “We don’t have to sneak around anymore! You and I can finally be together, the way we were always meant to be.”

Realization sunk into (your name) at Adonis’s words. Did he mean the moments the two of them would run into each other in the rose garden at night? The nights where she’d have nightmares of fire and death while he would be slipping out of her stepmother’s chambers? The times she’d sit beside him on the bench and listen to each other’s woes? Adonis and (your name) always had a friendship since they were children… to think he interpreted her kindness for love was astounding. What on earth made him think she loved him?

“I’m so happy to finally be free. I no longer have to touch that vile woman ever again.” Adonis gave you a bright smile. “You were my shining light through this entire ordeal of my servitude. Without you, I’d be so lost.”

Adonis pulled her towards the window of her tower to gesture to the various fires set ablaze on the castle she once called home. The same scenery she often saw in her nightmares have become a reality.

“I destroyed it all. You’ll no longer have nightmares and I’ll no longer have to be intimate with our enemy!” Adonis gave you a bright smile when he took your smaller hands in his large ones. “This is the biggest gesture I can give you to express my utmost feelings to you. I’d set the whole world ablaze if they opposed us. It doesn’t matter the extreme, because I’m willing to go to any length to be with you.”

[harianaswhore]

⟡ cₕₐᵣₗₑₛ ₗₑcₗₑᵣc ⟡

NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME

ᵐʸ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʳᵉᶜˢ ᶠ¹ ʳᵉᶜˢ

— ᶠᴸᵁᶠᶠ ⟡

little guard - @xxblairexxss

banned - @starkwlkr

dancing in the rain - @thef1diary

you are in love - @love-belle

sleepyhead - @pucksandpower

changing lanes (^)

theories of relativity (^)

something sweet (^)

in another life (^)

made with love (^)

going once, going twice (^)

jealous!charles - @theemporium

welcome to the chalet (^)

30 more minutes - @chillielo

causal dominance - @verstappen-cult

26 birthday kisses (the cutest thing i've actually ever read) - @f1version

i saw mommy kissing santa claus - @uramakimochi

red - @champagneholland

tipsy - @uluvjay

just kidding - @sincerlyleclerc

did i do that? - @chlerc

birthday - @poetsblvd

miami hot lap - @leilakisakabiri

lipstick stain - @p8dris

early mornings - @lxclerc

ten seconds (^)

mine (^)

— ᴬᴺᴳˢᵀ⟡

too good - @dilemmaontwolegs

all that matters (^)

world burning (tw: injury, violence, etc.) - @miirohs

écoute chérie (tw: injury, violence, etc.) (^)

world burning (tw: injury, violence, etc.) (^)

right timing (sobbed over this) - @moneymasnn

said something stupid, instead of 'i love you' (smut) - @absolutelynotmate-archive

mon ange - @leclarifies

tender is the night for a broken heart - @katiascraft

— ˢᴹᵁᵀ⟡

true temptation - @cherry-leclerc

needy (^)

you know it - @leclsrc

playing with his nerves - @ccsainzleclerc5516

tired eyes - @sunsetchicane

inked - @pucksandpower

lessons in anatomy (suggestive) (^)

pretty songs and pretty moans - @theemporium

aphrodisiac (^)

only for you - @mickyschumacher

hands to myself (^)

shaving practice (suggetive) - @fastandcarlos

post race massage (suggetive) (^)

— ˢᴼᶜᴵᴬᴸ ᴹᴱᴰᴵᴬ ⟡

charles' playlist - @writingstoraes

all mine (^)

biggest fan (^)

no.1 fan (^)

birthday - @absolutelynotmate-archive

obsessed - @chrisevansonly

everything ends...or does it? (^)

let me be your armour (^)

heart eyes (^)

charles' sweetheart (^)

friendship bracelets - @astonmartinii

tight knit (^)

love languages (^)

undercover verstappen (^)

oh no he's hot - @verstarppen

baby - @csainzoperator

sur le point - @f1fnatic

mystery girl - @lewisvinga

ever letting go - @hs-is-loml

three's a crowd - @poetsblvd

lover boy - @luvclerc

like a feather - @maplesyrupsainz

they don't know me like my baby (^)

hard launch (^)

newey!reader - @pucksandpower

in a different timezone - @sof1shticated

hitched - @lxclerc

every day, i dress all black - @chokamo

— ˢᴱᴿᴵᴱˢ ⟡

everything shower smitten (smau) - @xxblairexxss

tying the knot two three (smau) - @dannyricsmirrorball

christmas in monaco two three - @everythingne

steal my girl snitches end up in ditches i'd lie (smau) - @leclerckins

via two - @eu-nicola

revenge two - @xxblairexxss

bear hugs - @lightsoutletsgo

a paddock day (smau) - @sofs16

life is a highway (lighting mcqueen!charles is everything to me) (smau) - @f1version

go for his brother two three (smau) - @il-miele-che-scrive

[tender-rosiey]

even — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: ohoho? an argument with husband sukuna? i wonder how that will go ;) fluff ending btw so don't worry

your life as the wife of the king of curses is far from the normal married life. your husband is not like most. you knew that. he is different, rougher than your childhood tales of a prince charming.

he is sharper, grumpier, and grouchier. it was all part of the package and you knew all of that.

but, you can’t help but wish for a moment of tenderness between you and him. and while you know that sukuna shows his care differently, you also want to feel the softer side of his affecton.

that’s why when you overheard the maids talking and gossiping about your marriage, your heart was filled with fury, but most importantly sadness.

they talk about how he will eventually get bored and that your fate has been destined since the moment you entered the palace. it also doesn’t help that there are times when sukuna is a tad bit rougher and angrier.

he tends to not take it out on you, but sometimes, you’re there in the wrong time.

such as today.

after a particularly rough day, you slam the door of your chambers behind you. your chest feels tight and the kimono feels far too suffocating to keep on, especially since it reminds you of him. you clumsily take it off and throw it on the bed and get into your silk robe.

you take multiple deep breaths as you settle down on your bed, trying to calm down.

though, the calm is short-lived as your husband bursts through the door, a deep scowl on his face, “what’s up with you?”

he is met with silence which aggravates him more, and he growls, “I am sure what you did isn’t something you do to the king of curses who is also your—“

“what do you think of me?”

and for the first time, in this moment, his eyes meet your own. yours are filled with pain and faux confidence, with a hint of fear. it reminds him all too much of your first meeting, and he doesn’t like it. he thought that your fear of him became a thing of the past. it makes him uneasy.

but sukuna’s perceptiveness is nothing to take lightly because when he concentrates, he notices that the fear isn’t from him but what he will say.

and it snaps him back to reality and the question you ask. but he still doesn’t answer it. instead, he quirks an eyebrow, confused, “huh? what the hell are you talking about?”

you stand up slowly, silk dragged behind you as you walk towards your mirror. you’re playing with your ring quietly before you ask, “what do you think of me?”

“you should know that,” he retorts, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

“well, I don’t,” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

his feet take him to you, his arms crossed, “do you think I would marry just anyone?”

you seem to have reached your limit as you finally look him in the eyes with anger brimming in your irises. you snarl at the man in front of you, “what if it was a marriage of convenience? what if it was something to shut the world up with? to make me submit?”

he seems taken back, but you give him no chance to reply as you continue, “the maids talk and talk about how you don’t care, and I ignore them I really do!”

anger laces your voice as you roughly push a finger to his chest, “but when you do things like what you did tonight, you make what they say all sound true!”

“you push me away, you pull me back,” your tears start to well up, “all at your own leisure, and I can’t handle that! I want you to care, but with so much happening—I…”

your tears are falling down your face; panic and pain lacing your voice as it gets louder and louder, “I can’t help but think that you don’t truly like me, let alone love me!” you press on, “do you even like me?”

your breaths are ragged and heavy. your eyes are puffy, red, and strained. you slowly sit on the ground and pull your knees closer, sobs escaping your throat. you’re unware of the man who walks towards you then kneels in front of you.

you’re wiping your tears frantically, but they never stop. sukuna frowns.

he then silently takes your hand into his and raises it to his forehead. his eyes are focused on you as he utters the following words, “If I gave you the necks of those who speak nonsense to you,” he raises a brow, “will you be sure then?”

your breath is caught in your throat and you can’t formulate a response. he sounds serious and you know he is. you recall all the times he, without hesitation, killed for you.

but, right now, you truly can’t help but think about how the moon shines behind your husband, contrasting and illuminating his reddish pink hair.

while you’re lost in your own thoughts, sukuna has enough of your silence and bites down on your finger lightly, “so?”

gasping, you pout and snatch your hand back, “hey! what was that for?”

with a roll of his eyes, he pulls you closer by the waist then his hand travels to the back of your head. he rests his forehead on your own before speaking up, voice absolute, “you’re my queen, and I will cut the head of anyone who speaks ill of you.”

“and…” his thumb gently swipes at your tears, “I don't want to see you cry like this,” he grumbles, looking away, “so stop it; it’s annoying.”

a smile creeps up your face and a giggle escapes your lips, “you love me that much?”

he groans before getting up and leaving you on the ground. he goes to rest beside the window and you giddily follow suit. his hand, almost by instinct, pulls you towards his lap. after sitting, you tilt your head to look up at him with a cheeky smirk, “aww, you love me!”

he pushes your face into his chest, muffling your voice. he mutters as he looks out the window, “don’t push it.”

you smile against his skin, because if he thinks that you can’t feel the kiss he placed on the top of your head then he is sorely mistaken.

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawings @pompompurin1028 @scul-pted @dazaisdeathwish @requiem626k @nameless-shrimp @shinys-bsd-world-1 @sonder-paradise @ravenina14 @jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies @pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @wemma67 @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @anakalana

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[xenteaart]

you are not difficult

pairing: chan x reader (i wrote it with idol!chan or producer!chan in mind, but it can fit any au, really) word count: no idea but it's short genre/warnings: er, angst, hurt/comfort, implied suffering w depression, implied history of SH. also implied shitty ex. so PLS keep that in mind before you read. also, it's all good in the end. author's note: it's a self comfort thing y'all but i hope you like it too.

it was yet another night where everything felt too much and you kinda hated yourself for it. bad day, maybe some hormonal imbalance due to a certain time in your cycle, history of mental illness — it's hard to put a finger on the exact cause. you're sick of trying, anyways.

chris was, of course, right there for you, and as you were falling apart in his arms, your entire soul was aching so bad that it made you want to crawl out of your own skin. it's usually like that, everywhere in your body like some sort of extreme inflammation, except physically you're perfectly fine.

"'m sorry…" you blurt out somewhere between your sobs and cries, still unable to hold eye contact with him.

"baby, you have nothing to be sorry for," chan shakes his head and keeps rubbing circles into your back, just between the shoulder blades where the ache feels the most excruciating.

"kiss me?" you squeak. almost pathetic, honestly, but it's always been your way of checking, whether he still wants you. whether he still loves you and desires you, even at your lowest, even with your mascara all smudged over your cheeks, eyes puffy and red, lips slightly irritated and swollen. even when there's a gaping black hole where the heart is supposed to be.

chris doesn't even question it, really. he simply leans in and gives you a long sweet kiss full of both a partner's tenderness and a lover's lust, so, so willing to do whatever it takes to calm the thunderstorm inside your mind and ease your struggle.

the kiss doesn't really satisfy you, the feeling is still there.

"sorry," you whisper again as you breathe out into chan's lips but the intimate contact doesn't last long. chris frowns and makes some distance between you two to look into your eyes.

"why? baby, why do you keep apologizing?" he sounds gentle but still slightly frustrated.

"i dunno? cos 'm difficult? for bein' difficult?"

there's a silence as he blinks a few times, processing and putting two and two together.

"just because it was difficult for them to love you and take care of you, doesn’t make you difficult. you are not difficult. like, at all," he puts on his serious tone, the one he uses for you when you can't see the obvious and he has to remind you.

you don't really know what to say to that, so you keep playing with the tissue paper in your hands, ripping it apart piece by piece just to keep yourself busy and focused on something other than the burning ache in your chest.

"dealing with mental health isn't easy, that one is true, baby, but it's so easy to love you. you are easy to love. even now, looking so small and in pain but it's still you, and my duty as your boyfriend is to take care of you when you can't. and, hell, you're one of the most capable people i know, so please just let me hold your hand through it once in a while, yeah?" chan speaks slowly and quietly, as if to make every single word sink in, tenderly forcing it into your stupid lovely brain that refuses to cooperate sometimes.

chris feels safe. he feels like lighting up a cookie scented candle after a long day at work. he's the feeling of the ocean timidly licking at your feet and burying them deeper into warm wet sand. chris is the first sip of coffee in the morning and the cold side of the pillow at night. he's everything worth living and trying for.

"thank you," is the only thing you manage to say, but in the way you lean back into his embrace he's able to read a lot more.

"do you want a nice mug o' hot chocolate and some fairy bread, baby?"

this question makes you hiccup and sob once again. you nod and nuzzle closer into the crook of his neck.

[vasquez-rocks]

i know most ppl haven’t seen it yet but wanted to write something abt how annoyed some of the critical discourse abt I Saw the TV Glow is making me. MAJOR SPOILERS below the break, be warned!!

so idk i’ve seen so many reviews of the film positing that it’s about the dangers of obsessive fandom and overidentification with fictional characters, esp vis a vis real life self-actualization/coming out. (like, essentially every review has some of this in it, from what i’ve seen.) and, like: i don’t think that’s wrong, but i also think it’s massively underselling what schoenbrun is doing here. the metaphor of the show’s bleed-over is so smart because works in both directions at once.

like, in one direction: when maddy asks owen to come into the show by burying himself alive, you can read it as her asking him to abandon his real-life responsibilities, and the material facts of his real life body, in favor of a fantasy life where everything is already fixed. she’s inviting him to skip over the hard, messy work of transitioning and to sink even deeper into the analgesic obsessions he uses to numb his dysphoria. in this interpretation, it’s, like, the equivalent of overprioritizing “transition goals” instead of actually medically/legally/socially transitioning if that’s what you want, living forever in the ideal instead of taking difficult steps to change the material. (also, uh, if you don’t think she’s literally correct about the nature of reality, she is in fact asking him to kill himself. there’s that.)

BUT! it also works the other way. when maddy tells owen that the show is real, that their lives are just the buried dreams of dying girls in another life, she terrifies him by confronting him with something he’s always known about himself: he was supposed to be a girl. what she proposes is radical, dangerous, seemingly unhinged, and based on a childish fixation: all the things scared closeted trans people worry transition is, basically. on a more figurative level, too, the feeling she’s telling owen is real – that his real life is just a dream within a dream, that his home is not his home, that he belongs somewhere else, that he is supposed to be SOMEONE else – is something so, so, so many closeted trans people have felt before, myself so much included. when he sobs in the shower, yelling “this isn’t my home!” at his dad, i felt a sense of identification stronger than i’ve almost ever gotten from art before. when maddy finally calls him isabel, it’s the gentlest thing i can imagine.

in this read – which i do love, while thinking the other one is simultaneously true – it’s less “come sink deeper into delusion with me instead of dealing with your own life” and more “it’s going to be terrifying, but that childish dream of being a girl you once held wasn’t childish, and it can be real if you’re courageous enough.” he says he runs away from the football field because he thinks maddy’s not mentally well; it takes very little analysis of subtext to figure out he’s running away because he’s afraid of how much he wants what she’s offering. and, of course, the idea of the visible world being an illusion laid atop the world in which one is one’s truest self is a classic trope of trans cinema going all the way back to the matrix. (also: while i’m pretty death-of-the-author-pilled in most media analysis, it kinda seems like schoenbrun themself has interpreted the film in this way, as they’ve spoken at length in interviews about how, to them, transition felt like asking to be buried alive.)

all of which is to say: i think the film IS commenting on fandom, obsession, overidentification, and the ease with which queer people can sink into art as a way to dissociate from real life. but i think it makes the film so much more cynical and so much less tender to treat it as the ONLY read of the film’s relationship with the pink opaque. art, especially the sort of slow, metaphor-laden art schoenbrun makes, is best when it is complex and productively contradictory. the pink opaque is a problem, and an escape, and a fantasy, and it’s real, and one day isabel is going to wake up.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hey! I am almost certain you've done this prompt before, but may I request a villain saving the hero's life, and coming to the horrifying realization they don't hate the hero? I love your writing style btw. Thanks!

"You just saved my life."

"We don't need to make a big deal out of it. It's nothing."

Still, the villain stayed where they were. Pinning the hero to to the floor. The whole building in rubble and ruin around them. Their breath quick in their throat, their bodies pressed warm against each other. The villain's hand...the villain's hand rising to brush a smudge of dust away from the hero's cheek.

"Nothing?" the hero asked. Their voice came out breathless.

The villain swallowed. Their gaze raked over the hero. Their eyes were dark, agonised, a molten thing threatening to interrupt.

"You saved me for nothing?" the hero pressed. "You feel nothing."

"Don't."

The hero closed their eyes, briefly. Pained. Then they patted the villain in an indication that they get up, get back. Go back to everything that was normal between them. Still, the villain did not move. If anything, they only looked more agonised, more simmering.

Their fingers dragged down, dragging over the hero's bottom lip.

"You could have died." The villain's voice was harsh. "You're an idiot."

"Still here. You can probably hear my heart beating."

The villain's breath stuttered.

"...Do you want to feel?" the hero asked.

Slowly, so slowly, the villain's hand moved from where it braced to the ground to rest on the hero's chest. The thumping proof of life.

"There you go," the hero said. "Nothing."

"Fuck off."

"Thank you for saving me."

The villain made an angry sound in the back of their throat. Their nails dug in, half like they might carve the hero's heart in fury, half like they might scoop it out only to keep it save forever.

"You would have died." The villain's lips crushed against the hero's own. "God, I hate you. That would have been the stupidest reason to die!" Their lips trailed down the hero's throat, teeth digging in with a heated claim. "You're so stupid."

The hero curled their fingers in the villain's hair in wonderment. The villain's body was tense, taut. Another boiling thing.

It would be so easy to tip them over, then. To push the realisation from the villain's hungry lips, their ravenous and desperate eyes, to their voice. To make them say it.

Nothing.

They had never, for a second, been nothing.

But the villain had really thought that, hadn't they?

So the hero tipped their head back and made space, and they didn't push the villain away, and they made soothing sounds as the villain began, wretchedly, to sob.

"You're nothing," the villain said again, as if that might make it true. "Only nothing would nearly get themselves killed by a bloody building. Oh my god."

The villain's hand pressed against their chest.

They stayed in the rubble, even when the ambulances and the fire engines and the police cars all began to wail their way down the street, until the chaos beyond became unignorable.

The villain pulled back. Tears clung to the tips of their lashes; still more furious than anything else.

The hero's lips tingled with savage tender kisses.

They were alive, so stunningly, painfully alive.

"It's not nothing to me," the hero said. "For what's that worth."

The villain fled as the emergency services arrived on the scene.

[biteofcherry]

Gasoline

dark biker!Ari Levinson x female reader x dark biker!Curtis Everett

summary: They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. It sure was true for you. An attempt at saving someone led to you being taken into the pits of darkness. And the devils own you now.

warnings: dub-con; power imbalance; possessiveness; threats; sex in public; unprotected sex; cockwarming; oral (m receiving); mention of oral (f receiving); fingering; pussy spanking; spit kink; forced tattoo; dark!Ari; dark!Curtis;

word count: 4.5k

Author's Note: So this is a result of a few factors ruining me - @buckets-and-trees tattoo artists Curtis and Ari story making me think of those two combining forces; musings about masked dark biker Curtis with @stargazingfangirl18 ; as well my horny brain creating a very naughty dream 🫣 It's not a story I've been working on for long. I wrote it all today, because I needed to get it out of my head.

Be ready at 9PM. Max will drive you.

The message is blunt and direct. Like most of their commands. 

The upside is that at least you don’t have to figure out what they want, there are no games to be played. Still, you love when they turn a bit more playful - marginally so. When there’s a whisper of softness and fondness in their eyes as they let you tease and poke a bit.

You think it’s because you’ve learned when to do that and how to keep it just a small, acceptable dose. 

You’ve learned quickly that acting a full on brat wouldn’t be tolerated. 

Well, at the very beginning they shouldn’t have been surprised you lashed out. After all, they’ve taken you without your consent, stealing you away from your steady life as a punishment for daring to defend someone who crossed them.

With your fierce, empathetic heart you couldn’t just stand down and watch as they flayed someone open. But that act of humanity cost you your freedom. 

Swept away on a beast of a motorbike, its roar barely covering the thudding of your panicked heart; taken into the depths of the city’s darkness and into the tower that became your new life. 

Because nobody crossed Ari Levinson and Curtis Everett, without facing severe punishment.

It was your luck, or perhaps doom, they sanctioned you with life instead of death. But that life was now theirs. 

You were all theirs. 

So of course you fought at the beginning, which didn’t seem to surprise or faze them much. Your screams and throwing things against the beautiful walls of the two story penthouse were ignored for the most part. So were your tears. They merely wiped them away in an almost tender gesture, then coldly told you to accept that this was your life now. 

“You can make yourself miserable living it, or you can let yourself accept it and find enjoyment in it.” 

The way Ari's thumb brushed along your bottom lip told you exactly what kind of enjoyment they were offering you. Your traitorous body reacted, despite your mind detesting it.

They took away your clothes and when you asked for some Ari simply told you no. So you ripped down the gauzy window curtains and draped them over yourself in a makeshift dress. 

You were very smug about that little victory.

Until Ari ripped them off of you and fucked the rebellion out of you. 

Fucked you hard and long, ‘till you sobbed and begged for mercy. Which was granted only after you promised to follow the rules. 

You were still sore and oversensitive when Curtis slipped into your bed the next morning, waking you up with his mouth devouring you. Pinning you down after wrecking two orgasms out of you, he fed you the mixture of your cum and his spit, ordering you to swallow. 

“Good girls get rewarded,” he left you with that direction. And with a pile of new clothes on the chair. 

Over the next weeks, through trials and tribulations, you’ve learned that as long as you followed the rules and expectations, most of your requests were met. Often they went beyond and before you even asked for something. 

The only thing you would never be granted was your freedom. 

You weren’t allowed outside, unless you were with them. The steel and glass tower they owned was swarmed with guards and all sorts of alarms and traps. The only time you were out without either Ari or Curtis at your side (usually the both of them) was when an appointed guard was taking you to them. 

Just like now. 

You stare at the message on your phone. Which isn’t your connection to the outside world at all. The only contacts in it are to Ari, Curtis and two most trusted men from their inner circle. It’s tracked at all times and you’re sure they are monitoring your browsing history, as well. 

Clubbing is not my thing. You dare to type back.

The fact they told you where they were going when they left the penthouse isn’t much comforting, because it’s a way to force you to have information for which they could easily kill you, if you used it in any way. It’s also a manipulation to make it feel like what the three of you have is some sort of a relationship. 

But isn’t it?

Fucking aside, they spend time with you. If they aren’t away doing bloody business, they always eat breakfast with you. Other meals depending on their workload. They aren’t very talkative, but they engage in conversations with you. Curtis taught you how to properly use the few machines at the home gym, when you were restless and searching for something to do while locked in. Ari will keep you in his lap, playing with your hair and watching movies on the ridiculously huge screen. 

Glimpses of softness, really. You never fool yourself to think of them as truly soft, because even as they provide a certain tenderness, there’s always that brutal darkness lurking behind. 

It shows in the way they fuck you. As well in the way Ari’s gaze glints a murderous warning when you come close to crossing the line, or how Curtis doesn’t bother wiping away enemy’s blood from his face before coming to you. 

Wear a red dress - comes the reply and you know tonight they’re not in the mood to give you room for some brattiness. 

You huff in annoyance, but still get up and go into the bathroom to take a shower and shave. 

Sometimes, when they’re more relaxed and content, they entertain your pushing. Usually it leads to a sinfully hot chuckle, a few spanks and a lot of orgasms. But if they’re in one of their darker moods, you don’t dare to rebel. It doesn’t end well. 

Yes, there’s merciless fucking that leaves you shattered into pieces, but there’s always a higher price to pay too. Like having your childhood friend and her family threatened with death, when you reached out to her via social media. 

Hair and makeup done, clad in a tight, short red dress, you’re ready five minutes before 9PM. Max waits for you in the elevator, greeting you curtly, but not looking up at you. 

No one ever looks directly at you. No one beside Curtis or Ari. 

As you’re being driven through the city, you wistfully watch streets buzzing with life - people freely walking around, friends meeting and going out for drinks, workaholics leaving companies and trailing home. You were never a partying girl and you know you’re being summoned to the club only for Curtis and Ari’s entertainment, but at least you will be out of your beautiful prison for a few hours. 

The club is pulsing with a sensual, enticing beat. There’s enough people filling the space to make it obvious how popular this place is, but there’s also a street long line at the front, because getting in isn’t that easy. 

You don’t know if Ari and Curtis own this place, but you doubt they’d take you anywhere that wasn’t under their strict command. 

Besides, they have their fingers wrapped tightly around so many establishments and people in this city, that it may belong to them whole. 

Many would never assume that their power extended so greatly. They’re nothing like the polished, suit-wearing mafia men, or politicians that people imagine to be at the top. Not with their less classy attire of jeans and leather, their heavy biker boots, tattoos covering their bodies. And yet it’s them who hold the reins and carve up anyone daring to step out of line. 

Max points toward the staircase, leading to the upper floor. VIP section undoubtedly, considering two heavily tatted bouncers guarding the entrance. 

They nod their heads in greeting, but drop their gazes. One of them unhooks the red rope and lets you onto the stairs.

There's a middle floor, filled with velvet couches and chrome accessories, shiny tables set with buckets filled with ice and champagne bottles in each. You notice a few faces you know from the tv screen and social media. 

Ah, so it's a floor for the celebrity kind of VIPs. 

But the real important people are on the top floor. Guarded by another set of bouncers. 

Unlike the lower levels, this one is instantly recognizable as belonging to bikers. Chrome details are kept in darker tones, velvet replaced by leather, a tattoo-style painted skull takes most of the black wall. 

Members of the gang mingle around. Not many of them, just the inner circle, or closest to it. Brutal enforcers, sneaky assassins, remorseless bunch. 

You pass them without glancing at anyone, your gaze searching and settling on the only people you're allowed to give your attention to.

Ari and Curtis are sprawled on the central, U-shaped sofa. Arms braced on the back of it, legs spread wide. Masters of the dark universe. Of your universe, too. 

There's no one beside them, but in front of them, separated by the steel chrome coffee table, is a man. A battered, bleeding man. On his knees. 

Everyone around acts as if there was nothing there to see. As if the man didn't exist at all. You feel that compassionate sadness squeeze your heart. The same instinct that made you act that fatal night and sealed your fate. Now you know not to show it, not to act on it, or it would lead to the man's immediate death. 

Instead, you stand before them. Just a few steps away from the trembling man. 

Ari and Curtis’ eyes instantly move to you. Both slowly drag their gazes up your form.

One thing that you gained from their attention is the huge boost in body confidence. Each pound, each curve, each roll - they desire you all the same.

You made sure to wear a dress that's short enough to leave your thighs exposed. They always like when their marks of ownership are visible. 

Getting them was painful. Also against your will. But you stayed in place, gritting your teeth and clenching your fingers into fists. Ari held you down to prevent any squirming as Curtis personally tattooed your skin. 

One thigh presents a scary black&white skull, shrouded in darkness. With a bleeding red rose crunched between its teeth. Drops of blood are painted as dripping into scratched out letters below, forming his name - Curtis.

On your other thigh is a female's head - your portrait. All dark stencil, no color. Two skeleton hands gripping you. One is wrapped around your throat, letters of Ari's name written on each bony knuckle. Two fingers of the other hand are pushed in your tattooed version's mouth.

Ari bounces one of his legs and you know that it's a sign for you. You slip between the table and the couch and sit down in Ari's lap. 

His arm moves from the backrest to curl around your back. You lean into him, resting your side against his chest. With your fingers you play with the chain around his neck, distracting yourself from the scene unfolding.

They ask the man something. Their voices are steady, but deadly serious. The man sounds pitched, stuttering. Others would laugh at him for such “unmanly” reaction, but you understand that core-deep terror and how the scrutiny of the two bikers turns you into a pathetic mess.

You tune out whatever they're saying. You don't want to hear the begging for mercy, because you know it won't come. 

Ari and Curtis share a look. A silent agreement passing between them. 

Some people make the mistake of assuming that Ari is the leader and Curtis his main enforcer. That couldn't be farther from the truth. 

They both rule. Equally. Each decision is unanimous. 

It just so happens that Ari often takes the talking part and Curtis the executioner’s. 

It’s Curtis who moves now, too. Extremely fast for his massive body. His hand curls around the man's throat, squeezing it hard. Not just in warning. He drags the flailing man away, just by holding him by the neck.  

You don't watch where he's being taken, nor who takes over. You don't want to see. Besides, Ari commands your attention.

He grips your hips and in a swift move has you straddling him. One hand moves up, to cup your chin, while he slides the other hand over his tattoo of ownership and under your dress.

He brings your face closer, with a swipe of his tongue coaxing your lips to part wider. When he kisses you, you melt into him all pliant. Your own tongue gives a little kitten lick, which you know Ari really likes. 

He probes further between your thighs, tattooed fingers touching your bare folds.

“No panties, little lamb?” Ari’s breath tickles your lips. His voice is sweet and tempting like molasses, but also deceptive and suffocating like a tar. 

“Is it because you’re a good girl, or a bad girl?” he chuckles, spreading you at the seam.

A moan rolls out on your tongue as his fingers expertly draw out your wetness. It was your doom from the very beginning, how easily both of them played your body, despite your emotional state being far from turned on. But they taught you to crave it. Got you addicted to their touch, to the teasing, as well to the merciless fucking. 

“Both,” you roll your hips against Ari’s hand. 

“Duality of a woman,” he chuckles, nipping your chin. The hand cupping your face drifts lower, his tattooed fingers curling around the front of your neck. “But you’re going to take the good girl route, lamb,” Ari hisses, clenching his fingers tighter.

With his grip around your throat, he pushes you backwards. Your back rests on his legs, head bowed backwards, almost touching the coffee table. 

His fingers keep circling your clit, then dipping lower to gather your slick and rub it all over your folds. When he pushes a single digit in, your walls resist at first. But Ari’s an unyielding beast, forcing you open and making you keen. 

There are people around, you’re aware of them. No protests, however, would stop either Ari or Curtis from taking what they want. When they want. Wherever they want. Humiliation simmers beneath your skin, but it’s buried deeper than arousal that Ari ignites. 

There’s also a certain comfort, because while he displays your body publicly, it’s for his and Curtis’ eyes only. Nobody would dare watch you.  

Your back arches as Ari thrusts a second finger along with his middle one. You stretch your arms above your head, fingers gripping the edge of the coffee table. His hand slides from your throat across your chest and down your belly, until it settles on your hip to help hold you in place. 

He fucks you with his fingers long enough to have you dripping onto his lap, your core clenching as he rubs your swollen nub with his thumb. 

But then he withdraws with an obscene squelch, which thankfully gets lots in the sexy beat filling the club. 

Ari unzips his jeans, giving his thick cock a few strokes, smearing your slick all over. Both hands gripping your hips, he yanks you closer and spears your cunt in one stroke. 

Your scream of his name makes him grin. Lips curling in a triumphant, sinister smirk, Ari moves your body to meet his thrusts. He loves the way your body just gives in to whatever he wants to do to you. And the remnants of resistance taste so delicious when he breaks through them. 

“That’s it, lamb.” He taunts when your pussy tightens around him. 

With you bowed back, your hips arched, his cock gets to ram into that sweet spot that turns you into a messy slut. Over and over again. 

Your nipples poke through the fabric of your dress, your mouth falls open, spluttering incoherent sounds and mewls. You make a beautiful, ruined view. Though no, not yet ruined enough. But they will work on that. 

Ari’s gaze travels from your bouncing breasts, nearly spilling out of your dress, down to where your puffy folds hug his cock. Glistening, pink tightness that stretches around his intrusion. 

Their perfect pussy.

“Go on. Come all over my cock, like a good girl,” he speeds up his pace slightly, thumbs rubbing back and forth along the junctures of your thighs. 

You fall over the edge with a helpless cry, pleasure rolling through you in heated waves. And it goes on as Ari continues to fuck you through it. He starts pulling you to him harder. Hungrier. Burying his cock to the hilt, your wetness smearing over his jeans. Rough edge of the zipper bites into your skin each time your buttocks press into his pelvis.

A silhouette appears above you. A dark, threatening shape against the strobe lights.

Curtis’ head tilts to the side as he looks down at you. He holds a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, which he brings to his lips. He takes a sip, watching you writhe in pleasure. 

He dips two of his fingers in the amber liquid before bending down to slide them between your parted lips. Spicy flavor trickles down your throat. Your tongue struggles against the pressure of digits, which Curtis keeps pressing against it. 

He feels your saliva pooling around his fingers. Though the music in the club drowns out the sound, he feels your gurgling as you’re kept on that edge between choking and freedom. 

After a beat he pulls back and sits on the sofa beside Ari. A part of you wants to look his way and assess what torment he’s brewing for you, but you fear to know. Also the pleasure Ari keeps stoking is too distracting to focus on anything else. 

Until calloused fingers circle your swollen clit with purpose. 

You’re not so out of it yet to not know it’s Curtis' hand. Ari’s are clamped on your hips, moving you like a ragdoll. 

He draws tight circles. Slow ones, then a few faster, then slow again. You whine, jerking in Ari’s iron grip. His low laugh indicates he won’t be coming to your aid; not when your sensitive nub being played with provides him so much pleasure, because your cunt tightens anew. 

Curtis’ touch disappears for a second. Only to come back with heavy torment.

His palm lands a smack on your clit, causing you to cry out. 

Your thighs tremble, muscles tensing as instinct urges you to close them and protect yourself from the torment. But you’re spread open, Ari’s body nestled between your thighs and holding them open. 

Curtis slaps your clit again and your body bows. One of your arms reaches down, trying to shield yourself. Strong fingers cage your wrist. 

“Don’t even try it, lamb.” Curtis leans forward and growls; he clenches his fingers on your wrist. “Keep your hands away from our pussy.” 

With a whine, you stretch your arm above your head. Your wrist pulses with pain. 

Curtis’ palm pats your mound. His fingers dive back to your clit, drawing wicked eights that contrast with the steady, rough pounding Ari continues. 

“You may squirm and cry, lamb,” Curtis teases, “but you’re going to cum from having your clit spanked. And you’re going to cream all over Ari’s cock, like a good little slut.”

Five more swats deliver his prediction. 

Your whole body seems to lock in a spasm, your very fingertips turn numb. Ari groans a curse as your pussy tightens like a vise, your silky walls clinging to him desperately. Despite the tightness, there’s so much wetness leaking around his cock and onto his lap. 

Your temples are wet, too; tears streaming along with your smudged mascara. 

As your orgasm continues to roll, your cunt finally eases some of the tension. But the aftershocks have your walls rhythmically pulsing, which turns out to be enough to stimulate Ari’s cock. 

It twitches inside of you and your pussy clenches in response. Ari moans, digging his fingers into your skin and jerking his hips. Hot, thick ropes of cum fill you. 

They keep you tipped back until the last drop of his spend pours into you. When they finally pull you up and Ari’s cock slips out, you know to clench as hard as you can, to spill as little of his cum as possible. 

Ari swallows your ragged breath, taking your mouth in gentler possession than he’s taken your body. Your clasped hands rest against his chest and you lean in sweetly, with a little needy mewl. He gives you that softer kiss you’re pleading for. 

They arrange you, spreading you on both of their laps. Your lower half rests on Ari’s thighs, his big hands slowly rubbing warmth into your calves and up your thighs. Your upper body rests in Curtis’ lap, head tipped on his thigh. 

You look up at him; his cold, blue eyes holding your gaze.

Once again he dips his fingers into whiskey and brings them to your lips. You suckle obediently. 

On the third pass, Curtis presses his fingers deeper and holds them. On the fourth, he not only pushes them against your tongue, but hooks down so that your jaw opens wider. 

He spits into your mouth. 

When he withdraws his fingers, you swallow without prompting. Some responses they have conditioned into you. 

Ari’s hand slides between your thighs and up. His fingers dip into the sticky mess pooling between your folds, despite your attempts at holding it in. You can’t stifle the moan that spills as he pushes two fingers into your aching hole. But that sound cuts short when Curtis’ whiskey-soaked fingers fill your mouth again. 

Three this time. Forced to the back of your throat, making you gag. 

Curtis holds them in, until your eyes tear up. Then starts fucking your mouth slowly, but always deep, always making you choke. 

Ari curls his fingers, but doesn’t move. Just wiggles them slightly, driving you mad with the teasing so close to your g-spot. 

Your saliva coats Curtis’ fingers, strings of spit smearing on your chin each time he withdraws before forcing his hand back in. He pries your mouth open, tugging your tongue out. Rubbing the pads of his fingers against your tongue, he spits into your mouth again. 

You keep your mouth open, tongue sticking out, when Curtis moves his hand away. He didn’t tell you to close your lips and the jangle of the belt buckle suggests he’d be ordering to open it again, anyway. Tip of his cock brushes your cheek when Curtis takes it out. He grips the base in one hand; his other slips to the back of your head. 

You turn your head as he guides you, tongue flicking against the veiny underside of cock that fills your mouth. 

It’s more difficult to take a lot of him in this position, on your side, with your cheek pressed against the harsh fabric of his black jeans. Curtis forces it anyway, careless of the choking sounds you make. 

Using his hold on your hair, he starts moving your head. Steady, but always uncomfortably far; causing your body to tense as gag reflex kicks in too hard.

“Want her to come, while she’s sucking you?” Ari asks, wiggling his fingers in your tight channel. They both laugh when you moan at the stimulation. 

“Not yet.” Curtis shakes his head. His gaze drifts down to you as he holds your head in place. “She’s going to warm my cock while I make some calls. And wait for her reward like a good girl. Right lamb?” He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

Everything is pulsing - from the changing beat reverberating through the walls of the club; the buzz of the gang members going across the VIP floor this and that way; the throbbing of Curtis cock in your mouth; to your clit demanding attention. 

Like he said, Curtis holds two phone calls. Each long and detailed, though you’re sure it’s not because he needed all that information. He wanted you to suffer. Ari’s fingers keep moving. Constantly. But too light, too slow, not deep enough. Yet he has you dripping all over his hand; which he keeps angled in a way that deprives your clit of any stimulation. 

Your whole body rouses to attention, almost giddy, when Curtis finally ends the call and tosses his phone to the side. 

He looks down at you and grins; as beautiful as sinister looking. 

He traces his fingers along your cheek, with deceiving tenderness. It’s gone in a blink of an eye. He fists your hair and pulls you down on him, at the same time thrusting his hips up. 

Along with him, Ari starts fucking you with his fingers. 

You’re gagging each time Curtis makes your nose press against the fabric of his jeans. Sloppy, gurgling noises of your mouth moving along dick match the lewd sound of squelching as Ari’s fingers push in and out of your pussy. 

Though there’s relentless build-up, your orgasm hits unexpectedly, as if forced by one particular thrust. Your body tensens like a string, toes curling. You twist to the side as much as they’ll allow you, digging your fingers into Curtis’ ribs. Your moans vibrate around his cock, making his hips jerk into you sharply. 

He slides even deeper and your lungs constrict from lack of air. Tears stream down your cheeks. Your throat closes around intrusion, causing Curtis to grunt in peak pleasure. 

When salty warmth spills suddenly down your throat, your vision goes black for a few seconds. 

Your breath returns in a sharp intake, a small coughing fit following when Curtis mercifully rolls your head away. His cock is still throbbing, spurting ropes of cum into your mouth and across your face. 

He slides the tip into your mouth again and you close your lips around it, hollow your cheeks and suck the last drops. 

Ari’s hand retreats from between your thighs. He licks his fingers clean, savoring the flavor of your combined spend. When he reaches for his own glass of whiskey it’s not to chase away the taste. 

Curtis downs the rest of his drink, too, before tucking himself back into his pants. He unties the skull-printed bandana from around his neck and uses it to clean your face. 

They help you up into a sitting position, keeping you between them. Ari brings his glass to your lips, giving you a sip. You grimace. You were never a fan of whiskey, but what’s worse is that spicy booze doesn’t help the burning in your mouth and throat. But then Ari’s scooping a half-melted ice cube from the tumbler and slips it between your lips. You hum appreciatively as the cold water soothes your used throat. 

You stay curled between them for a few more minutes. They’re not touchy, definitely not cuddlers; but they remain close to you. Their warmth keeps you anchored. When they put you on your feet some time later, you stumble slightly. It wasn’t the hardest fucking they ever subjected you to, but you’re tired nonetheless. 

You slide your arms into the sleeves of Curtis’ black leather jacket when he offers it to you. It’s soaked in his scent and so warm. 

You bury your nose in the collar of the jacket as you sit in the backseat of the car when Max takes you back to the penthouse. The city may be shiny with lights and neons, but the darkness holding it in its grasp is undeniable. And the grim reapers behind that darkness are gliding the streets with a roar. 

On their motorcycles, Ari and Curtis flank the car you’re in. Escorting you back to your forever prison. 

[amathslutsguidetofandom]

Imagine modeling some lingerie you just bought and this is Bucky’s reaction to it🤭❤️‍🔥

Beautiful As Always

PAIRINGS: James "Bucky" Barnes x Girlfriend!Plus-Size!Reader

WARNINGS: Smut, fingering, slight exhibitionism, insecurities (reader is sad about having thick thighs and a pudge), Praise. (If I have missed anything, please feel free to let me know 😊)

WORD COUNT: 1,081

*not proof-read*

ENJOY!

"I'm don’t know, Bucky," you murmur, gently twisting and turning within the confines of the dressing room, where only a thin curtain separates you from your beloved.

"Don’t know ‘bout what, doll?” Bucky's voice drifts from the other side, a comforting presence in the midst of your uncertainty. Your fingers graze over the delicate lace of the high-waisted undergarment, and pinch at the soft pudge of your belly.

"It's just... I don’t know," you confess softly, a weight settling in the pit of your stomach. As though summoned by your doubt, a cascade of insecurities begins to flood your mind, each one more relentless than the last.

Do you really look like that? God, are you really that chubby? Has Bucky seen all of this? How can he really love you when you look like this?

A stifled sob escapes you as tears blur your vision, and you clumsily brush them away. At the sound of your distress, Bucky draws back the curtain and steps inside.

"Doll?" His voice is tender as he closes the curtain behind him, his hands finding solace on your trembling shoulders as he gently turns you to face him.

The colour on Bucky’s cheek grows red at the sight of the supple weight of your breasts sitting against the lace of the bra. The allure of your exposed thighs proves to be a distraction, making it difficult for him to focus on the matter at hand.

You observe the way his gaze traverses your body, a glimmer of admiration shining in his eyes.

Yet, your mind interprets it as disdain.

"I look awful, don’t I?” you whisper, casting your eyes downward and biting your lip in apprehension. The monsters within your mind seize control, enveloping you in a suffocating embrace.

Bucky is taken aback, crouching down to meet your gaze. "What did you say?" he murmurs, tenderly cupping your face in his hands.

You push his hands away and turn back to face yourself in the mirror. “I look bad, Bucky,” you shake your head and fold your arms around yourself trying to make a shield, covering your form from your man’s gaze.

Bucky shakes his head and steps in front of you, “Why would you say that, doll?” Surprise and concern seep into his tone. You just shake your head and shrug, “I don’t know.”

-----

“Repeat it. C’mon, doll, tell me. Tell me who’s pretty.”

Bucky’s unwavering thrusts make you spiral further into your realm of pleasure. His fingers rub furiously at that spot inside of you, making you grip onto his forearm as he keeps you locked in a headlock.

“Didn’t hear you say anything, doll. Want me to stop, huh?” His fingers halt, and you whine at the general loss of your euphoria. “Bucky, baby, please,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes awaiting him to continue.

Bucky clicks his tongue, “I didn’t hear what I wanted to hear, doll.”

You try to use the last remaining of your energy to comb through your mind as you try to find what Bucky wanted you to say, and you finally retrieve it.

But you don’t want to say it.

Because you can state a fact if it isn’t true.

“Bucky, I can’t,” you slouch against him, your back fully pressed against his. He makes eyes meet yours through the mirror and you shy away from his gaze.

“Doll, how many times do I have to say that you are one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen? You have made me feel ways I never thought I was capable of feeling. You made me feel loved,” he says softly, like the whole world has to stop in order for him to say those words.

“Who tells me that my scars look like stars when I start hating them?” he asks.

“I do,” you whisper back, and he kisses your temple.

“You do, sweetheart,” he says against your forehead.

"Doll, I don't give a damn about a little extra cushion. You're soft and smooth, and that's what I love about you. Your cuddles feel like home, and it blows my mind that you'd ever doubt how amazing you are. To me, you're everything. Your curves? They're just more of you to adore."

Speechless, you really don’t know what to say.

You knew that Bucky loved you, but at times when the demons had the upper hand, you doubted that love he had for you.

Now with him, in this dressing room, you slowly feel yourself get the upper hand from those demons. You slowly start to feel like you actually do deserve the love this man absolutely showers you in.

“I’m beautiful,” you whisper, but slightly cringe. Bucky sees this and nods slowly, understanding your hesitation. “It’s okay, doll. Say it, say it. You are beautiful,” he slowly starts to move his fingers again, and you inhale deeply at the sensation.

“I’m beautiful,” you say breathlessly, holding onto his forearm for dear life as he starts rubbing your button harder. “Fuck, Bucky. Yes!” You dig your teeth into his forearm, preventing your screams from being heard by the world outside of the dressing room.

“Say you're worth it, doll. Tell me that you deserve this,” Bucky harshly whispers into your ear. You see him through the reflection of the mirror and whimper when his other hand brushes against your clothed nipple and pinches it hard.

He smirks and whispers again, “be a good girl and tell me, doll.”

You moan, “I’m worth it, Buck. I’m worth it.” Bucky smirks and nods, “Good girl, so proud of you.”

You grind against his hand and babble nonsense against his arm. You feel the wave of pleasure reach the edge, and your legs start to quake.

Bucky chuckles as you finish with a squeal that’s barely muffled by his arm.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he says and turns you to face him.

You try to cower away, but Bucky already has his fingers on your chin and is gently forcing you to look up at him. You moan as he lewdly sucks on the remaining juices on his fingers.

He looks down at your body and the set you're wearing, “who’s beautiful?”

Your lips turn up a bit, “me.”

Bucky nods, “that’s right.” He kisses the tip of your nose, “My pretty girl.”

You place your hands on his chest, “yeah?” You slightly smile, your demons slowly evaporating and leaving the caves of your mind.

Bucky nods.

“Beautiful as always.”

💌💌💌

PHEW! Here you go, my lovely @sergeantbarnessdoll

Finally got this done, this has been sitting in my drafts for a while (with my other WIP's).

Hope you lovelies like this!

Feel free to let me know how much you enjoyed it!!!!

Till' then,

Stay Coquette-y,

Anya 🫶🏽🕊️🎀

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

a childhood sweetheart of coryo turned couple classmates yet the games began and she saw coryo fell in love with lucy, went to district 12 and returned empty handed with a cold heart

and how she was there to welcome him back and accept him wholeheartedly, allowing him to use her through his rise at becoming President.

"you dont love me anymore and thats okay but at least you dont love her as well. at the very least use me until im nothing of value to you. because thats how i love"

Use me || Young!Coriolanus Snow x reader

A/n: anon you're so creative....

Warnings: reader smoking, manipulative snow, mention of infidelity, suggestive, if there's anything else lmk

Wc: 1,075

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Flashback

"What's on your mind, my love?" You gently sweep a stray strand of his blonde locks away from his face. His chest still rapidly rising and falling from the previous activities.

Coriolanus' gaze gravitates toward you as you gracefully rest on your forearm, the strap of your nightgown sensually slipping down your arm. Coryo delicately corrects it, gracing you with a warm smile as your eyes intimately connect with his.

"Nothing, everything's alright," he dismisses, his gaze returning to the ceiling. You release a quiet sigh, opting not to probe him further.

You shift to turn to your side, your back facing Coryo as you hear him quietly sigh. Unexpectedly, his arm envelops you, drawing you against his warm chest, his lip delicately grazing your ear.

"I love you. I will always love you, y/n," he murmurs, prompting a tear to cascade down your cheek in response to his sudden confession. Part of you embraces his sincerity, while the other clings to lingering doubts.

As the 10th Hunger Games approached, the air buzzed with anticipation. Tributes were selected and the Games began, and with that, you noticed a shift in Coriolanus. His tribute from District 12, Lucy Gray, seemed to capture his attention in a way that sent ripples through your once idyllic romance. His eyes, once filled with tenderness for you, now held a distant, searching look.

-

"Tell me, Coryo, did you cheat for Lucy Gray?" Tears welled in your eyes as you stood before him, arms crossed, while he gazed back with a vacant expression. His silence hung in the air.

You took his hand in yours, bringing it up to your cheek. "Please, just tell me, I could help you, my parents can help," you pleaded, wanting to know the truth. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, y/n," he murmured, shaking his head and retracting his hand as you stifled a sob.

Coriolanus, caught in the crossfire of ambition and newfound desires, struggled to articulate a response to your question. The once unbreakable bond as childhood sweethearts you shared seemed to fracture under the weight of the Games and the allure of Lucy Gray. He left, leaving you with unanswered questions and a heart heavy with uncertainty.

As the Games progressed, whispers of Coriolanus's involvement in cheating echoed through the Capitol's corridors. The ambitious student found himself banished to District 12, a harsh consequence that would permanently alter the course of his life. The Capitol, ever hungry for scandal, eagerly awaited his return.

~

End of Flashback

When Coriolanus comes back, the triumph that should define his return is replaced by the chill of defeat. Empty-handed and with a heart grown cold, he stands before you, a mere shell of the boy you once knew. Yet, true to the loyalty that defines your love, you are there to welcome him back.

"Coryo," you whisper tenderly, the rapid click of your heels announcing your silent approach. His eyes have yet to meet yours, but you surprise him with an unexpected hug, shattering the quietude around you. The warmth that once enveloped him dissipates, leaving only a haunting emptiness in its wake.

You could feel it in the way his arms reluctantly wrapped around you, the embrace forced and lacking the familiar back rubbing that used to accompany such moments. Lifting your head, you locked eyes with his cold and reserved gaze.

With a furrowed brow, you withdraw, clearing your throat before cautiously inquiring, "How are you?" He scoffs in response, his retort cutting through the air, "I've been living in the districts. How do you think I am?" his words spat out with a harsh bitterness.

You nod slowly, taken back at his outburst. "Sorry, that was insensitive of me. Forgive me," you murmur, your eyes fixed on the slender points of your heels, catching a mumbled and incoherent response from him.

"It's fine," though the contradiction between his words and tone is palpable. "Now, shall we go? I've had a long day." Coriolanus massages his forehead as you nod. "Of course, the car is waiting outside," you move your feet.

"Y/n, wait," he calls out as you pause in your steps, turning around to face him. His arm extends, an unspoken invitation for you to link onto it, and you feel the corners of your lips turn up momentarily.

Your family's wealth and influence worked as a shield, protecting Coriolanus from the harsh judgement of Capitol society. It was an unspoken fact that you and Coriolanus would be together no matter what happened.

As the months pass, Coriolanus's political ambitions soar, fueled by your family's wealth and connections. Your role transitions from a lover to a silent supporter, your love an offering laid at the altar of his ascent to power. Your heart bears the scars of unspoken pain, but you wear a façade of unwavering commitment.

So, you play your part. Standing by Coriolanus' side as he maneuvers through tricky Capitol politics, him as the youngest President of Panem, and you as First lady.

In the quiet moments, away from prying eyes, you try to break down the high walls of ice he has erected around his heart since his arrival back in the Capitol. But every attempt to rekindle what was lost seems to fall on deaf ears. The specter of Lucy Gray lingers, an unspoken presence that casts a shadow over your attempts at reconciliation.

~

"How many times have I told you to stop drinking so early in the day," Coryo's harsh words boom through the corridors of the lavish presidential mansion, his footsteps getting louder by each step.

You discreetly roll your eyes, a skillful concealment, as he forcefully snatches the posca glass from your grasp. The resounding slam of the glass meeting the table fills the room with an echoing punctuation.

"Coryo, it's Sunday, for goodness' sake," you implore, tilting your chin downward. Your eyes, slightly blown out, fixate directly on him, and a smirk graces your perfectly painted lips.

His gaze carefully explores the contours of your face. Your habit of indulging in the luxurious of alcohol at any time, in any place, has left its mark on you. "Get dressed, we have visitors soon," He says through gritted teeth, his fingers harshly holding your chin up.

"Of course, Coriolanus," You push his hand away, standing up quickly causing you to bump into his shoulder. Coryo's hands bawl into fists as he watches you walk away, he ought to have a talking to you for using his full name.

Coriolanus was not surprised at how quickly you managed to sober up and act like the proper lady you were. It was something Coryo admired about you, how much you prioritised your image and duty.

Luncheon went by a breeze, Coriolanus' hand never leaving your thigh during the entirety of it. The mask of Capitol perfection never failing to falter. However, the emotional toll of playing the dutiful partner while witnessing Coryo's heart slipping away, became increasingly unbearable.

Later that evening, your feet led you to his office. The speech you had rehearsed replaying in your mind, a plea for acknowledgment, a desperate cry for the remnants of the love that once defined your connection.

You lift up your knuckles to the wooden doors, hesitating for a moment before your knuckles make contact with the door. "Come in," You hear his voice call out as you let out a breath before stepping in.

Coriolanus arches an eyebrow in your direction, his gaze then drifting to your left hand where a cigarette delicately hangs between your manicured fingers. "You know how much I hate it when you smoke in the house, especially in my office," he remarks, reclining in his seat, an annoyed expression on his face. Undeterred, you challenge him by taking a deliberate, long drag, keeping eye contact intact.

"Apologies, husband, but you're well aware of how smoking has a peculiar way of soothing my nerves," you quip, casting him a wry smile before strolling towards the window. With a deft motion, you open it, allowing the tendrils of smoke to gracefully exit the room.

Coriolanus scrutinizes you, attempting to decipher the enigma you've become, though he acknowledges that his once-sharp ability to read you now lies dormant, lost during his time away from the Capitol. "Do you have something you want to say? I'm rather busy right now," he states, his gaze glued to scattered papers, while you, tapping your foot with impatience, await acknowledgment.

"Sit, if you want," he gestures nonchalantly, his eyes remaining steadfast on the sprawl of papers before him. You gracefully settle into the plush leather chair, crossing your legs as you stub out the cigarette.

"You don't love me anymore, I know you don’t, and that's okay," you said, your voice steady, your eyes fixed on the man who had once been your everything. "I've learned to accept it," you add, a note of acceptance in your voice. Coriolanus visibly freezes, his attention finally torn from the paperwork, as you wear a satisfied smile, relishing the impact of your words. "But at least you don't love her as well."

"At the very least, use me until I'm nothing of value to you, because that's how I love." Coriolanus, a complex tapestry of emotions, looked at you with a gaze that betrayed a mixture of regret and resolve. The reality of your words, the stark admission of your willingness to be used for the sake of a love that had long lost its luster, hung in the air.

"I never wanted it to be this way," he said, his voice carrying the weight of the choices that had led them to this moment. You refrain from letting out a scoff, "But it is," you replied, a bittersweet smile playing on your lips as you get up, walking around his desk to place a hand on his shoulder. "I'm at your disposal, Coryo. You know that, don't you?"

The words hung in the air, a silent acknowledgement. Yet, the hunger for power had consumed him, and your sacrifice became a mere footnote in the narrative of his ascent.

As the years passed, you became a shadow in his political theater. Your influence and wealth were tools in his rise to power, your heart a casualty in the ruthless pursuit of his goals.

Your sacrifices, both seen and unseen, were the foundation upon which his legacy was built. Yet, the hollowness in your heart grew, a testament to the silent agony of a love that had withered in the shadows of power and ambition.

[lidiasloca]

can i please request one with cassian x reader where reader is pregnant but doesn’t know and is being extra clingy to cassian. literally he’s going up to drink some water and she’s going with him or he’s training and she’s sitting next to him waiting for him to finish. And at meetings she’s sitting in his lap and holds him close. everyone wonders why that is bc reader doesn’t usually like pda. the bond knows before them that she’s pregnant and she subconsciously wants to stay close to her mate to feel protected. they eventually find out after feyre recognizes the signs she also had and everyone are so happy for them, cassians extra possessiveness and protective instincts go crazyyyy😍🧎‍♀️

cassian's mate is clingy (and pregnant)

cassian x reader

fluff

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

"But what if she is?" you heard your mate ask desperately. His voice was so pained it stopped you in your tracks—making you hide before the door of the room he was in with his brothers.

"Cheating on you?!" Rhys asked in disbelief. You swallowed a gasp. Were they talking about you? Impossible—Cassian wouldn’t even spend a second wondering that nonsense. Why would he?

You peeked out to see Cassian nod. Then you hid again. "Cass, Y/N is madly in love with you—she’s your mate. Don’t feed into that idea, it’s stupid," Azriel told him, his arm on your mate’s shoulder.

"Yeah, brother—it’s impossible. I mean, look at her. Lately, she won’t even take her hands off you for a second. She loves you so much."

"But that’s the problem. Lately, she’s all over me. She’s never been that way in public. And now it seems like she has to show everyone how much she loves me. I don’t know… it’s like she has to affirm a truth that shouldn’t need affirming."

Your eyes started to swell with tears. It was true—you had grown more clingy lately. It all started when he left for meetings. You hated it, so you began going with him, sitting next to him. Then on him.

Even when he went to training, you accompanied him. He loved when you watched him fight, admiring him from afar, proud to call him your mate.

Surely, the Inner Circle had noticed your neediness. At every dinner, you sat next to him, always holding his hand or touching his arm.

You thought Cassian was loving it—but maybe, all this time, he had seen it as a distraction. You couldn’t even stomach the idea that he might think you would betray him like that. You loved him more than anything in this world.

"Cassian. She’s your mate. So what if she’s more clingy? Good for you. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill."

But you saw Cassian wasn’t satisfied. Seeing him like this—so sad and despairing because of you—it broke your heart.

It was all your fault. These last months, you couldn’t stop being all over him. You needed him so much. Gods, you had been so stupid and annoying. But why? You’d never been like this.

One thing was clear—you had to get away before they heard your sobs.

You quickly shut yourself in the farthest room you could find, letting yourself collapse against the closed door as you cried and cried.

"Y/N?" It was Feyre’s sweet voice that made you open your teary eyes.

"Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know someone was here. I’ll just go." You moved to get up, but she stopped you, sitting down in front of you.

"Are you kidding me?" she asked gently. "No, you’re going to tell me why you’re crying, sweetie." She had really mastered that mom voice with Nyx.

But you couldn’t form words, so you just shook your head.

"Well, I’ll stay here with you nonetheless," she said, tracing a soft hand across your wet cheek. Her gentleness made you sob even more.

"Thank you," you mumbled, looking up to see her tender smile.

"You know," she began, her voice soothing like she was telling you a bedtime story. "I see myself in your tears. Bittersweet tears, I used to call them." You gave her a confused look, so she continued, "Maybe I’m wrong, Y/N, but I could recognize this kind of sweet despair on any female’s face."

"Feyre, I don’t understand a thing."

She giggled lightly. "I’ve been watching you these last couple of weeks. The changes in you—the frustration because you don’t understand. Everything’s changing—you, Cassian, your body, your emotions. It’s all too much—especially when you can’t explain why it’s happening."

"You mean like when you became Fae?"

"No," she chuckled. "No, no. I mean when I became pregnant."

Your eyes opened wide, and your mouth dropped slightly.

"Oh yes. I had a similar look when I realized," she said, smiling, but her smile faltered when she sensed your pounding heart. "Sweetie," she started, tucking strands of hair behind your ear, "are you alright?"

You nodded slowly.

"I’m pregnant?"

"Well, I’d guess you are. But I can’t be sure."

But you were sure. It all made sense now. This was the missing piece. Feyre’s worried face relaxed when she saw the smile growing on your face.

"I’m pregnant," you repeated, now filled with joy and gratitude. Then, "Cassian. I have to tell him!" you blurted, hurrying to get up and run to him. But before leaving, you glanced back at Feyre, giving her a grateful smile. "Thank you."

She returned your smile, almost as happy for you as you were about the baby.

You ran back to where you had last seen Cassian. He was still with his brothers, a sad look in his eyes.

But you were about to change that.

"Cassian." He looked up at you instantly. Maybe you should have waited until it was a hundred percent sure. Maybe you should have gone to Madja first. But... "I’m pregnant."

He stood frozen in place, and from the corner of your eye, you could see Azriel and Rhys, just as shocked, their mouths open and brows raised.

"You’re what—?"

"I’m pregnant, Cassian," you repeated, walking toward him to take his hands and look deeply into his eyes—make him understand everything.

"You’re pregnant."

-Characters by Sarah J Maas

[esggs]

Cottagecore life with Sukuna, who’s already packing his bags out the suburbs as you paint a picture of blue-green countryside idyll amid the mountain grass carpet, warm hearthstone, and sweetfish fresh from the stream. 

“Pick your favourite.” He scoffs at your delighted face. He won’t show you how much time he spent planning the whole thing: a surprise trip to a sheep ranch. Your laugh warms a blush all through his tan skin. “We’ll take it with us.”

A quick peck of gratitude later, you spend your time examining through the bleating herd. Cloud-balls brush past your knees. You decide on a youngling: fat little candyfloss on stubbly legs, a few weeks old at best. You’re already planning on the barn you’ll make for him– watch him grow up into a spoilt old ram. 

Sukuna, hanging back against the fence, rustles your hair as you return with your baby in your arms.“Good choice, looks soft too.”

“He is!” You pet his little head as he nuzzles into your neck, already taking to you. “His name’s Yuuji, I’ve decided, it’s perfect for him!”

“I’m not gonna call the pest that.”

You two walk back to your car, strapping your new pet into the backseat the best you can. The journey back to your homestead is pretty short anyway. “You’ll start loving him in no time, I tell you. C’mon, just call him by his name once!”

………..

“You don’t like it, brat?” Sukuna is confused seeing the tears in your eyes. Is it the smoke from the sizzling dish? Or were you not feeling meat-ish today? The lamb has been roasted to perfection, he made sure of that, topped it with your favourite lemon-cilantro too! “I’m even calling it ‘Yuuji asado’ instead of ‘cordero asado’.” 

“My baby…” You reach out to touch his now-crispy skin. 

Sukuna’s a bit hurt– you didn’t even try it once before reacting like that. Sukuna might not be a very experienced cook, but he actually followed the recipe to a T, putting his heart and soul into the dish to make you happy. On top of that, you did pick the lamb out yourself, so there’s no reason for you to be so ungrateful. 

Still, he carves out a leg, pouring extra garlic oil onto your plate, and forks off a bit for you to taste. You don’t want to hurt his feelings. You take the bite he’s offering. 

Yuuji. You’re sobbing now. You’re heartbreakingly delicious.

“Do you … like it?” His first culinary attempt: He just wants you to appreciate his efforts. 

“It’s the best lamb ever, baby.”  It’s true. Well-marinated meat, so tender you could tear it with your lips. Juicy on the inside, the flavours seeping through and through. You can’t even pretend that you don’t want another bite. “Tears of happiness, don’t worry about it.”

“Damn right.” His smile is back to cocky again, having conquered the art of the kitchen. “Play nice and I’ll make it again for you next week.”

a/n: this happened to me. I was 7. dad's side of the family yk.

[igotanidea]

Smooth criminal: AK!Jason x reader

part 1 : Somebody's watching me

part 2: Run baby, run

Yeah... I know it's been a while. Sorry guys. But here we are :)

***

They say that history repeats itself. That’s its merely a one big circle in which people get lost endlessly, not learning from the past mistakes, instead doing them all over again.

Like an Uroboros, forevermore biting his tail.

And that was how Y/N felt at the moment, shaking over the cup of tea Dick so generously offered her alongside with his hoodie. And even more kindly – not asking any questions of why she showed up at his apartment (or rather under it) in the middle of the night looking crazy.

She was back at the beginning. Back over Jason’s grave, sobbing and shaking while the memories of the news of him being gone forever haunted her mind.

Felt like all her efforts to forget and move on have come to nothing.

“Y/N…”

“No. No please I don’t want to talk Dick-“

“I was just gonna say you can stay here for as long as you like. I don’t know what got you so freaked out, but the Y/N I know – knew­ – was not the one to get scared over a spider or a mouse. So it must have been serious. Stay.” He grabbed and squeezed her hands reassuringly. “I’m serious.”

“No, no it’s too much to ask for—”

“Good thing you did not ask then.” Dick grinned “Cause I believe I offered It myself.”

“You really didn’t change a bit, Grayson. Same golden, sunshine boy.”

“And you’re still the same, not holding back girl. Woman. How long has it been exactly?”

“Two years.” She sighed

“Two years.” Dick sighed too, his eyes becoming a little blurry from the memories. “I missed you, you know. And not only me. So did Tim and Alfred and Damian and I’m sure even Bruce became a little more grumpy without your presence to challenge him.”

“He’s got enough criminals to keep him entertained I believe?”

“Oh, Y/N, criminals he can handle easily, they are no fun. But having a woman with a sharp mind? That’s something Bruce still needs a lot of training in.”

***

 It was shockingly easy to reconnect with Dick.

Or maybe not, given the fact he was always awfully friendly, keeping in touch even with his exes and even having considerably good relations with some villains.

Long story short, in a months’ time she was regularly back in his life and he was back in hers. And much to her surprise, this time it was not a constant reminder of the person she lost, neither filling the void, but rather a soft recollection that she was not the only one who felt the repercussions of Jason being gone.

If anything, after that time apart, it felt like Y/N and Dick’s relationship could finally move past the tragic events and bloom. Not in a romantic sense, because he had Barbara and was making plans in that area, but like a true, deep friendship, cemented with similar feelings.

And she even got the guts to meet with the rest of the batfamily, ditching those girls who left her alone at the party. Slowly, but steadily, she was getting back to her old, familiar self, dropping the act of a girl who wanted to be anything but the version she was when Jason was alive and with her.  She was not running from the past anymore, but rather embracing and accepting it. And that was the real healing.

Only that Jason was not gone.

Observing her carefully from the shadows, watching almost every step, be it himself or using his militia. With explicit orders given to not let her know they were there. He had bigger plans coming, and making the same mistake as before, by coming as close as to touch her, could never happen again. Even if somewhere deep inside, the very subdued part of him screamed for that. For the warmth he remembered and knew would come with tenderness and not pain.

She never gave him anything less but love and devotion.

If anything Jason was only cursing himself that he let her step into the Batman world again. That is was his reckless behavior that drove her back into the arms of people, who were nothing but bad news. Who would eventually end up hurting her too.

And he was going to protect his little, innocent princess from that.

So yes, he was watching.

Sending his goons when he knew she was walking back home from work late, to ensure no one would lay a finger on her.

Causing a commotion in the area that happened to be dangerous only so she would choose another way.

Sending her colleagues threat letters so they would drop the chase for the same promotion at work as her.

Beating up a guy who was trying to flirt with her when she was buying coffee-to-go at her favorite place.

Doing it all smoothly, like a professional he was.

Building up a way to execute his master plan that would keep her safe from any danger, real or hypothetical. Forever.

***

“She got home, boss. Safe and sound, not one hair out of place.” One of his militia officers reported to him

“Good.” Jason only grunted in response. One whole month and he was so close to the finale. The end was right in front of him and he had to hold himself back to not make a single rookie mistake that would derail his efforts.

“If I may, sir, why exactly are we wasting resources on some woman? She’s no one important, just a regular—”

“What did you say?”

If the sinister voice wasn’t enough to make the man stop his sentence, the iron grip on his throat did.

“I- I-“

“No one important? Huh? Was that what you said?” Jason mocked tightening fingers on the man's jugular. “Answer me!”

“I- I-“ he was struggling for air.

“Pathetic!” Jason threw him on the ground, retrieving the gun from his holster, pointing it at the man’s head.

“Please, don’t—”

“I should put a bullet in your head for talking about her like that and second one for questioning my plans.” The gun outlet was now pressing into the man’s temple. “You are doing what I tell you, you hear me? No questions. No doubts. You are here to serve me, unless-“ Jason put a little bit of pressure on the trigger.

“No! No please!”

“You’re a piece of shit.” Arkham Knight muttered, taking the gun away. “But I am feeling merciful today. We can’t have blood on the floor when Y/N arrives. Now go! Get out of my face before I change my mind! And you make sure everything is perfect because if not—” he  caressed the arms with a cruel glint in his eyes, enjoying the way his officer rushed out of the room, throwing commands left and right, halfway out the door.

“Soon, baby… Soon we’ll be back together…” Jason muttered to himself once he was finally alone.

He was so close to having everything he needed.

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