#it's always some time after i eat something

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

♡ TW: yandere, noncon, incest, blind!reader, twin!satoru,

♡ FEM reader

Overprotective twin brother Satoru…

He was born with an abundance of cursed energy, while you got none and no heavenly pact or anything at all to show for being a Gojo.

You can’t even see curses. In fact, you can’t see at all.

It’s as if in the womb, Satoru harvested everything for himself so that you would always depend on him.

He sees it differently, though. He’s the older twin—and that means everything to him. You’re his. His good half. You were born with the heart, and he was born with the rest, all in order to spare and protect you.

“The royal guard walks at the front to keep the princess safe” is something he started saying when you were younger. “That’s why I was born first. To keep my princess safe.” 

He always holds your trembling face in his hands while saying it. And although you can’t see, you still feel it, how he’s sticky and warm, soaked with the blood he’s spilled—all in the name of protecting you.

You don’t think you were scared of your twin brother when you were toddlers, but you’re not sure. You were still young when he learned how to use his techniques. He’d never had any tolerance to speak of and no mercy to spare when that non-existent tolerance was tested. Still, of course, he’d never ever think of harming you.

That’s not what worried you…

No, rather, it was the staff and any other unsuspecting visitor you feared for and how they might have the misfortune of crossing the hair-thin tripwire that triggered your brother’s cold-hearted rage.

Maids were fired every other day—often after having suffered at his hands, sometimes with limbs missing, sometimes with senses lost. None of them could ever measure up to his standards, especially when it came to you. You were to be treated like a goddess, not a child, despite that being what you both were. His sister deserved only the finest and was to be dressed to new perfection every day, hand-fed only your favorites, and never ever allowed to lift even a single finger yourself. That’s how Satoru saw it.

And if anyone were to fail to understand that, they’d meet with his swift judgment. Even being blind, you’d still see the awful glowing blue of his eyes before the screams and the sudden smell of rust all around.

You remember the first time it had happened. Your nurserymaid had insisted it was time the two of you no longer shared the same bed—said it wasn’t proper. You must have been about six years old. One second, she was there. Next, you were covered in her.

The two of you had slept in it. 

No. Satoru had slept, tucked snugly against you as if nothing was amiss. 

You had barely slept since.

You never stopped sharing a bed. You’d tried at a point to tell him how it wasn’t right, how it wasn’t something siblings should do. He’d only asked you who’d put those silly ideas in your head. And you’d been wiser not to raise the thought again, fearing for the lives he might decide were responsible.

Still, despite his lack of moral restraint, you’re older before he decides sleeping in the same bed just isn’t enough anymore.

You’d always known of the way he looked at you. You’ve felt it. Always there as a silent voyeur during your dress fittings and baths, studying you in a way a brother shouldn’t. You’d done your best to ignore that ever-present feeling of yearning coming from him in those moments he’d touch you, feeling his long slender fingers run cold over your bare skin, always insisting on giving you a helping hand, to dress and to undress, to eat, to walk. 

You’ve always known what he’s wanted.

Still, you’d thought some type of decency would hold him back from ever acting on it. 

You realize now how foolish you’d been…

As head of the Gojo clan, he makes decisions as he sees fit and announces your engagement before the entirety of its ranks and members as if it were only obvious. And under the pressure of his six eyes, no one dares even utter a gasp at the outrageous prospect. No, all they do is smile and clap while giving their blessings.

In the end, you’re the only one who objects.

“Satoru?” you ask after the assembly. Walking, or rather wandering, unsteadily on your plank shoes in the direction of his voice, hearing him talk about clan matters he’s never bothered to include you in—it’s not for you to worry about, is all he’ll ever say. Always treating you like a child despite being the same age.

“Princess!” he exclaims, rushing over to you, holding you up as if you were in danger of getting knocked over by a sudden draft. “What are you doing up? How many times have I told you, just tell the carriers where you want to go and they’ll take you there.”

You purse your lips and bite your tongue from sounding too chagrinned. Embarrassed enough already to want to cause more of a scene. Only muttering, “I can walk fine on my own–”

But Satoru isn’t convinced, nor concerned with the same matters as you, much too busy with protecting you from the terrors of standing on your own two feet. 

“You’ll exhaust yourself. Come,” he decides, dismissing the elders he'd been talking to.

You listen to them leave, lifting a hand to call them back, “No wait, but–”

But nothing. As always, Satoru doesn’t listen. Picking you up without further bickering. He lifts you off your feet and carries you away like an infant, back to the cozy den of pillows and blankets he insists you sit on during assemblies, calling it your throne despite it not being much different from your bed.

He doesn’t set you down. No, instead, he sits down with you, holding you in his lap as he gets comfortable in the plush nest.

“So, princess? Did you like my announcement?” he asks cheerfully. Already picturing you in wedding attire—so hopelessly incapacitated in the heavy layers, how you’d need his help every step of the way, even with walking down the aisle. 

“We can’t marry, Satoru…” You break his line of thought with a mumble. “You’re my brother.”

You're unable to say it with your chest—rather, you only muster enough courage to whisper it. Feeling anxious about his reaction. All he ever seems to care about is dolling you up so you can sit pretty next to him. And for so long, he hasn’t allowed anything else. You have no idea what to expect now that you’ve finally asked. 

Of course, you hope he’ll respect your words and see reason, but somehow, you doubt he’s ever really thought or cared about what you think you want—intent on making all those decisions for you.

“Silly princess,” he starts, closing the distance between the two of you by cupping your face as he so often likes doing, stroking his thumb over your bottom lip. “Who else would we marry if not each other?” 

It’s as you thought. He doesn’t understand, nor does he care to. And still, there aren’t many options other than you trying to reason with him. Despite only being brave enough to do so by mumbling, “It’s—it’s… not right...”

To that, he just hums, nose-kissing you despite how you try to duck your head away—his voice dumbifying your worry, saying “Don’t you love me, princess?”

It’s an unfair question… beside the point, and yet to him, it makes the point. Still, there’s nothing else to say but “Of course, I love you, Satoru.”

It comes out as a croak, somewhat choked in the feeling of hopelessness, all of which he just finds so endearing. Rubbing your cheek with his thumb as he watches those milky eyes of yours grow teary.

“Then who’s to say it’s wrong?” he croons, kissing your forehead as if you’re a silly child crying over silly things, and further explaining it to you just so, “We’ve belonged to each other since birth. Marriage is just to appease society's structures. It means nothing compared to what we already have and have always had.”

His other hand kneads your midriff, keeping you snug against him as if sensing how you wanted to leave. But you don’t try it. No, you barely manage to shake your head.

“I love you,” he says, but it isn’t the same way you say it. No, it’s something far more disturbing. “Sometimes, I wish we were the only two people on earth, like it was when we shared the womb together.”

You shudder, feeling his breath hit your face with your heart causing a ruckus in your chest, telling you to do something to stop what’s coming.

“I want to be close like that again. Just you and me and nothing else.”

You accept it for a moment—his lips against yours. Thinking you had no choice. But as you sit there, willing yourself to stay still, a sickness starts climbing up from the pit of your stomach, until you suddenly can’t stand it anymore. 

And with both hands pushing him away, you shriek, “Don’t!”

Prying yourself out of his embrace, you throw yourself back so fast you end up falling out of the elevated throne bed. Still, the pain in your rear barely registers as you wipe your mouth free of the spit your brother had left behind. Cringing at the stickiness, feeling nothing short of abhorred, as if it were the last thing that should ever touch your tongue.

“It’s disgusting. I won’t. I—” You’ve raised your voice now, for the first time in your life. Your brows furrow as you put all your might into the next words. “I refuse.”

And then, as if almost regretting it, you swallow thickly. Ears burning for any sign of his reaction, everything remains silent, deadly so, only disturbed by the heavy ups and downs of your own labored breath. 

Until…

“Disgusting?” he repeats.

And you don’t know why, but something about the edge in his tone makes you whimper and shuffle back. It was as if something about the very air changed, feeling heavy, crushing, all of a sudden.

“No… You don’t mean that, princess.”

You hear his steps come after you, soft first, stepping through the pillows, then light against the marble tiles, unhurried, knowing you’re not able to go anywhere. 

“You’re just reciting whispers you’ve heard,” he hisses under his breath. Then, darker, growling, “I ought to cut out everyone's tongue. That’ll teach them.”

“No–” you object, but he’s done now with listening to you. 

Shutting you up instantly with a dismissive, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, princess. I’ll teach you too. This is how it’s meant to be.”

You kick off your plank shoes at that, struggling in your heavy dress as you twist around onto your hands and knees before getting up, holding the many fabrics in your arms as you run—only… you have no idea where. 

Anytime you’d snuck out of your room to explore the grounds, trying to map out a route you’d never dared admit was for an escape attempt, your brother had always come and collected you before you’d made it down the first hallway. And so, blinder than blind, you’re completely lost even in your own home. And the panic makes you slip on your skirt before you’ve even made it halfway down the assembly chamber, accompanied by the awful sounds of your own fumbling being echoed back as if mocking you.

You hear him sigh heavily behind you. And then his hand grips your upper arm, harshly—in a way you’ve never felt. 

It’s enough to make you yelp, starting to thrash—panic in your chest, you’re shaking your head, trying to pull yourself free by pushing him away. “Please, Satoru—please, let go–”

Before you know it, you’re pushed flat against the floor. Cushioned by your weighty dress, it’s like a soft bed, but with the way Satoru holds a hand over your mouth and forces you down, you feel as if you’re drowning.

“Keep this up, princess, and eyes won’t be the only thing you’ll be missing,” he barks. Not even giving you enough time for the freight in your chest to settle before worsening it. “Run away, and I'll take your legs. Fight me, and I’ll take your hands. Keep talking back, and I’ll take your tongue too.”

Balanced between your legs in the mess of your skirt’s many layers, bearing over you with his back hunched, he keeps you pinned as your whole body starts to quiver. 

“Is that what you want?” he questions. “Is that what it’ll take for you to behave?”

More tears flow then, in nothing short of a storm. Flooding down your cheeks, wetting the hand he’d locked over your mouth.

It brings a pang to his chest, and he realizes what he’d just said.

He peels his fingers off your lips, then cups your cheeks instead, shaking his head. 

“No, princess, I didn’t mean that—you know I didn’t. I would never hurt you—you know that—”

He kisses your forehead again, then your nose, then your lips, then your neck, where he nuzzles himself as he continues to coo at you, “Sh-shh, princess. Listen to me. Listen to your big brother. I just want to love you. Won’t you let me love you?”

You sob, shaking your head, trying to crawl out from beneath him and the tongue he has against your neck, sucking and biting at your collar with a mouthful of heated words, “Trust me, princess. I’ll take care of you. You’ll see. Just like always. And there’s never been anything wrong with that.”

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[reignpage]

The Best Kind of Remedy

Synopsis: in which your herbalist boyfriend, Geto, has just the thing to cure your ailments Warnings: smut, established relationship sex, penetrative sex, sex whilst under the influence (smoking weed), dubcon?, thigh riding, dirty talk, degradation, lots of praise, unprotected sex, creampie, handjob, brief fingering, spitting, dacryphilia, cum eating, personification of the pussay, not proofread Word Count: 3.1k

Herbalist!Geto is your boyfriend — you can always count on him to cure your ailments with a conversation, sometimes even with just a glance. He has green tea bags ready for your morning bloating, elderberry syrup for your colds, and aloe vera compress for burns, among other things.

Visits to his clinic on Friday nights are routine; you show up just as he’s closing, and he gives you a small smile when he lets you in. “Hey, was just about to text you.”

“Long day?”

Popular and well-respected, he gets customers from all over the country. They swarm to his clinic in hopes of securing a face-to-face consultation with the man himself, eating up every advice, and treasuring each prescription. He’s trustworthy, smart, observant, innovative, and so damn hot. Long hair tied at the back, broad shoulders stretching out the lab coat he wears, and smelling of something floral and earthy, you don't blame any of the girls who come in just to ogle at him.

“A little tiring but I feel energised now that you’re here.” He brushes a lock of your hair back, thumb tilting your chin up so he can get a good look at you. “You haven’t been sleeping well again?”

Herbalist!Geto shrugs off his coat, revealing a loose black shirt underneath, which rises up when he stretches out the lethargy in his bones, revealing a seductive sliver of his boxers and the sharp cut of his abs. 

“I’m exhausted but I can’t rest; I feel on edge all the time.”

He's quiet for just a second, analysing the depth of your dark circles and jittery limbs. There’s an odd glint in his eyes when he places a heavy hand on your head and says, “I might have just the thing.”

That’s how you find yourself in the backroom, sitting on his sofa next to him. He’s rolling up a joint with expert hands, sprinkling a green line across the paper, shaping it into a neat little cone. Fingers pinching the air, he rolls it back and forth, and when ready, puts it up to your lips.

“Go on, pretty girl.” A little nervous, you eye him first and he waits patiently. You lick the edge of the paper, keeping eye contact, even when brings it up to his mouth and licks exactly where you did. It’s sealed and he taps it against your lips like some kind of good luck ritual. “This is your first time, right? Well, then, you’re going to have to listen very carefully to me. Can you do that?”

You nod. 

He tuts. “Use your words, pretty.”

“I’ll listen.”

“Good girl.”

Window open, he seems at ease when he lights the spliff and takes a deep inhale, immediately slumping back into the sofa, arm thrown over the back right behind you, and legs spread so far you’re trying hard not to stare at what’s between them. “Start off with a light inhale. Just suck gently, like you’re sipping from a straw, and don’t hold it for too long. Only a second or two and then breathe out. Got it?”

Smiling, you follow his instructions. It smells earthy, like him, with a hint of something sweet. Embarrassingly, you’re coughing not even a second after you’ve inhaled — it’s dry in a way you weren’t expecting. Head falling onto his chest, his amused huff shakes you a little.

“Sorry, baby. Here, drink some water.”

Just as you’ve gulped down a whole cup of water he had prepared like he knew this would happen, you grill him about this part of him he’s been hiding. “I didn’t know you smoked weed. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Blowing a puff into the air, away from your face, he shrugs. “Always forgot. I don’t smoke too often; don’t ever want to get reliant. But I’ve been growing my own, experimenting, trying to find the best kind. I didn’t want to make you smoke anything less than perfect, after all.”

You’re leaning against his chest, too scared to reach for another puff so you settle for listening to him instead. “There are different types of weed?”

“Yeah. Different strains of weed, just like growing any kind of plant. Some people mix different things into their harvest based on preference. I’ve mixed all sorts of juices with mine. This one has a hint of strawberry — thought you might like to taste something a little more familiar.”

The air’s growing thicker and hazy. Even from one inhale, you’re already feeling more relaxed, like time’s moving slower. “Hmm, this is kinda nice. I want more but I don’t want to choke; it’s humiliating.”

Head tilting back, he pecks you on your lips, tenderly. 

“Don't be embarrassed. It's just me. Come on, I’ll blow it for you. Open for me. That’s it.” Hot air, tasting ever so slightly like strawberry and him, fills your mouth and you swallow, letting it float into your lungs. "Better?"

Nodding, you climb onto his lap, suckling on his lips, seeking more, unable to help yourself. Something is making you feel restless even though you’re slowly melting into your most relaxed self. “Sugu…I feel weird.”

Herbalist!Geto’s free hand smoothes your hair, calming you. “You’re alright, baby. I’ve got you. I had a feeling you’d get worked up.”

“The weed’s making me horny?”

A slow grin appears on his face. He tilts his head, slightly mocking, and says, “You haven’t had nearly enough to go all empty in that pretty head of yours. Look at you. You’re grinding on my thigh and you don’t even realise? That’s adorable.”

You gasp and glance down. He’s right; you’re rocking back and forth on his muscular thigh, leaving a wet trail over his cotton pants whilst your skirt pools around your hips. Senses heightened, you can’t stop, not when the friction feels so good and he’s flexing his thigh to urge you to an orgasm. 

“Hmm, I treat you to my weed and you thank me by feeling good by yourself? Maybe I should start calling you my ‘selfish girl.’ You’re making me feel all lonely here.”

An apology is muttered against his lips. Clinging onto his shirt, you use him as leverage to get into a rhythm. The haze is emboldening you and the only hint of surprise that pops up on his face is a quirk of a brow when you fish out his hard cock. It’s thick and pretty — he keeps it tidy down there and the dark pink tip makes your mouth water. Leaking pearlescent drops, you use it to lubricate his length. Then, you rub up and down in time with your grinding, keen to see his lips part and his eyes go glossy. 

“Poor baby doesn’t like cumming by herself, does she? No, of course not. But you’re already making a -hah- mess on my thigh so you might want to -ngh- pick up the pace otherwise we’ll both be very disappointed, won’t we?”

Shuddering, the corner of his mouth twitches when he feels your thumb rub his slit, running it down a bit of his foreskin. Exposing more of his sensitive skin to the air, he has to take a puff to stop himself from cumming too soon. 

Herbalist!Geto’s head is thrown back, long, slender neck looking so delectable you mouth kisses all over his skin, smiling when he groans. “I thought weed was s-supposed to make you less tense, not more mean.”

He laughs and blows the smoke right into your open mouth. “That’s a lot of —tighter, baby, rub my tip too, you know just how I like it, yeah, good girl— a lot of -hah- talk from someone who always cums hard after being treated a little mean.”

True to his words, you cum all over his leg, tightening your hold on his cock subconsciously and he grunts with the sudden pressure. 

“Ah, Suguru! Fuck, so good.”

Palming your thigh, he smiles to himself when you slump on his chest. “Got a filthy mouth on you. Should wash it out, shouldn’t I?”

You’re just about to get up and lap up his length when he stops you. 

“N-no, don’t think I can wait.” Panties pushed to the side, you embrace the fingers he slides inside your sloppy pussy, stretching your gummy walls in preparation for this cock. You’re moaning, emboldened by the curling of his fingers against a spot inside that renders you breathless. “Hmm, you’re so tight. That the weed or have I not been taking care of you recently?”

A squeal leaves your lips when he withdraws those fingers without waiting for your answer and pulls you down on his leaking length all in one go. It’s almost painful, but the smoke you’ve inhaled is dulling and heightening your senses all at once — you can’t feel the pinch of the stretch but you can feel every vein, every throb, every inch of his cock filling you up completely. 

“Sugu,” you whine, “not so suddenly.”

Herbalist!Geto chuckles. “Sorry, baby. Just couldn’t -hah fuck you’re too tight- h-help myself. You know I love feeling you stretch around me.”

Tears spring to your eyes from the stretch. He throbs inside you. Once. Twice. 

“Pretty baby crying for me? Oh, you spoil me.” Fallen tears are licked up, thoroughly hydrating and fuelling his teasings. "Once you've adjusted, get to work, alright? Want you to show me how grateful you are."

Leaning back on his wide-spread thighs, you offer him a great view of your pussy lips wrapping around his girth. There’s already a light sheen of wetness coating his length and the sight is making him lightheaded. Slowly, you begin gyrating, grinding in circles so you can get used to the ache before your thighs are pushing up and down. He shoots you a wink when he senses your growing embarrassment at just how sloppy you've gotten and so quickly. 

"Hear that? Pretty pussy's saying, 'Thank you.' Polite little thing, isn't she? She needs to be rewarded, no? So go on, ride me."

Barely been touched, and loud squelches are already coming out of your pussy, reminding you of just how well-trained your body is for him. Never wanting to disappoint him, you push your limbs to set a pace you know gets you both going. His breathy moans guide you, setting tingles all over your skin. 

Your shirt is pulled up and pressed to your mouth. You bite the hem, baring your tits to his eyes. “Missed my girls — was thinking about them -ngh- all day. S-still taste as good as they look?

He’s sucking a nipple, rolling the bud around with the tip of his tongue, flicking and suckling in rapid succession. Undeterred by your bouncing, he keeps his mouth full, groaning when you grind down on his balls. "Oh, yeah, my sweet girls."

Every bounce makes you lightheaded, dazed with pleasure. 

"Should come visit me more often. Was starting to think you hate me." He teases. 

Frantically shaking your head, you say, "N-no. I was just busy."

"Too busy for me?"

"Never."

He blows yet another puff of smoke into your mouth, enjoying the breathy mutter of gratitude that you give him. "Good. I'd be devastated if I —oh, fuck, baby, ride me faster, yeah, good girl— if I couldn't see you as often as I'd -hah- like. You know you're the only thing that keeps me going, don't you?"

"Yes, Sugu —ah, yes, yes, you're so big!"

Sucking a mark in between the valley of your breasts, he gazes at his work, licking his lips and loving the salty taste of your skin. "If I didn't love your pussy as much as I love you, I might start to get jealous over h-how much you love my -ngh!- cock."

Kisses to that gooey spot inside you by his angry cockhead has your pussy growing sloppier and sloppier until a thick creamy ring forms around his base and he can’t help but thumb it and bring it up to your lips. It’s dirty, it’s filthy, obscene, and you suck it up with no hesitation, tasting both of your juices on your tongue. 

Herbalist!Geto dives forward, smothering your moans. The earthy taste of strawberries mixes in, tongues wrapping around each other as he seeks out your taste, swallowing every drop of you. He grunts. 

Swivelling your hips, you have to pull back, gasping for air and finding nothing to bring you sanity. Your pussy’s gripping onto him like it could absorb his soul into your very being and the plap plap plap of your skin smacking against his is all you can hear. 

This is unlike your usual sex — he's usually much more controlled, much cleaner in his movements, more thoughtful in his approach. Now, you're seeking out your pleasure with no care in the world, just bouncing rhythmlessly and clumsily, slipping and sliding, moaning and whining, and he's letting you. 

It seems you're not the only one affected by the weed.

A cloud of smoke rises up from his mouth, jaw hanging from just how hot and heavenly you feel around him. You suck it in, swallowing the dry air. But then he’s pulling you back into yet another kiss, that puff being exchanged back and forth like a dirty game of tennis until it’s completely gone and you’re fuelled only by the sickly sweet taste of him. 

“Your stamina’s improved, hah. Remember your first -ngh!- first time riding me? Hmm, pretty? You could hardly last more -ah fuck! don’t squeeze down on me like that- t-than a couple bounces before you were drooling on my chest and begging me to f-fuck up into you.”

Wetly smacking back down onto his lap, your clit grinds down on his pelvis, teased and tortured. 

"Always so keen to make me feel good, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, yess! Oh, fuck, so full. I feel so full."

Herbalist!Geto hums sardonically. "Silly girl isn't even listening to me. You say you want to be praised m-more but we both know you get wetter when you're called a dirty, little slut. My dirty, little slut."

His free hand travels down your ass, giving it a tight squeeze before he lays a not-so gentle slap against it just to feel you tighten around him. 

"Say it."

SMACK!

“Ah, Suguru! I'm your dirty, l-little slut."

You gasp. You could have sworn another vein grew on his long length, teasing your walls and catching onto your greedy pleats, desperate to keep him inside. 

Thick cock worms its way inside, forcing your walls to memorise every curve and vein on its way up and back down. He’s making shallow thrusts up, striking against your g-spot with expert skill. “Missed you so much, baby. All those customers drive me crazy — none of them follow instructions as well as you do.”

Herbalist!Geto's growing closer to a damn good orgasm; he always gets more sentimental at the brink of cumming and it's why your hips don't dare stutter as you work him again and again, taking him deeper and faster.

“I’m a -hah- good girl, that’s why, Sugu.” You grin. 

He plants a sloppy kiss on your lips, enamoured by that sparkly smile. “Hmm, you are. Always such a good girl. My best girl.”

Blunt completely forgotten about and discarded somewhere, both of his hands are clutching your body close to him. One is digging into the plush of your ass, loving the ripples of the flesh with every collision of your hips to his, and the other is groping your tit.

Hips so nasty and gluttonous, it steals grunts from him, ugly, unrefined sounds that he doesn’t care if you hear. “You’re close…I can feel it. Go on, pretty. Cum all over my c-cock. Show me -hah- how much you l-love me.”

Both of your eyes are glazed over, whether from the weed or from the waves of pleasure cresting, neither of you can tell. You just fight through the ache in your joints as you bounce faster and faster on his cock, fingers rubbing against your swollen clit, sticky and slippery. Inside, you can feel his cock stiffening, growing bigger and bigger ever so slightly and you know he’s about to burst. 

Foggy, the only thing in the room you can see is his face: bead of sweat dripping down his temple, strands of hair come loose from his bun littering his forehead, and his lips are bitten pink, matching the flush on his cheeks. He's beautiful.

“Fuck, the weed’s drying my mouth out. M-make yourself useful and -hgnh!- help me out, won’t you, baby?” Like it's been wired into your brain, a fat glob drips down from your mouth and onto his awaiting tongue before you can even process the command. Just as soon as it pools into his mouth, he’s swallowing it, eyes rolling back from the taste of you.“Such a good fucking girl. You're making me lose my goddamn mind.”

You cum first. 

Clinging onto him, you whimper, clit oversensitive from the weed coursing through your veins. There’s no rhythm to his thrusts, he’s simply chasing the pulsing of your sloppy cunt, cockhead kissing that spot inside you he loves so much before his orgasm quickly follows. 

Herbalist!Geto buries his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent and painting your walls white with a flurry of hot cum. It fills your entire body, almost as if you can feel it in your lungs and when you swallow, you delude yourself into believing it's reached your throat too.

The haze still hasn’t passed — it’s making your heartbeat so damn loud and you’re just about to ask if he can hear it but he beats you to the answer by pressing a tender kiss against your pulse, murmuring, “Me too. Mine’s beating fast too.”

Neither of you takes out his cock, much too content to let it soften inside you and much too tired to care that it’s unplugging all your cum out and making an even bigger mess on his lap. 

You’re dozing off, coming down with him when he slumps back into the sofa, letting your head rest against his chest. Deeply satisfied, you mutter, “We gotta do this again.”

“The weed or the sex?” 

Herbalist!Geto’s rubbing soothing circles on your back, pulling down your shirt and keeping you close. He chuckles when he hears you say, ‘both.’

“Whatever helps you sleep, pretty. I’m always happy to be of service, even off-hours, for my favourite client but let’s keep this bonus package between us, yeah? Don't need more of those people coming in here.”

Half-asleep now, you mutter, “Just for me?”

He lays a kiss on top of your head. 

“Only you.”

[abbotjack]

The House She Left You

Content Warnings : 18+ MDNI explicit sex, grief, family trauma, complicated sibling dynamics, references to addiction and overdose, emotionally repressed Pope Cody behavior, morally gray choices, sexual content in emotionally charged contexts, kitchen sex, emotionally manipulative undertones, references to Pope’s canon instability, emotionally explicit dialogue, light dubcon tension (consensual but fraught), emotionally unhealthy power imbalance, unresolved trauma, unprotected sex,

word count : 6,637

a/n : Here’s the Pope fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Not my favorite, but I figured I’d share it anyway since I probably won’t be posting much until after finals.

Summary : She’s dead. You have her kid. Her house. Her ghosts. And now—Pope. The man you were never supposed to want, who never once looked at you when he was hers… but who saw everything. He shows up when the fridge hums and the silence grows thick, and what starts as confrontation splinters into confession, then into violence you asked for.

Time: One week after the funeral Location: Oceanside, California — your sister’s house

You don’t turn on the lights when you come in.

The house doesn’t deserve it.

It’s not yours. Not really. Not yet.

Not even after the state handed you a stack of papers, stamped and signed, with your name on the last page and hers on the death certificate. Not even after the little girl sleeping down the hall said “mommy” in her sleep two nights ago and you had to step outside so she wouldn’t hear you lose it.

You shut the door behind you and breathe in the dark. Not a big breath—your chest won’t take it. Something’s been living there the past week, curling in your ribs like an animal, biting at your lungs whenever you try to hold too much air. You let your back hit the wood, keys still in your hand, eyes adjusting to the same stale shadows.

The kitchen light is off. You left it that way.

But the fridge is open.

At first you think it’s just the door not sealed right, some crack letting the compressor hum like a breath. But then it moves. A shape. A shoulder shifting. A figure standing there like he never left.

Pope.

Just his face in the cold light, slack and unreadable. Forearms braced on the counter. Staring into the fridge like there’s something in it worth seeing. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t apologize.

And why would he?

You flick the switch by the door. Harsh, overhead light floods the kitchen. It hits him like a slap. He barely blinks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices. Dry. Defensive. You’re not ready to see him. You weren’t ever going to be.

He shuts the fridge slowly. Leans his hip against the counter.

“You left the back door unlocked.”

You stare. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d check on the kid.”

“You already did that. Three days ago. She doesn’t even remember.”

“She’s seven.” He finally looks at you. “Of course she does.”

Something in you tightens. You cross your arms to keep it from showing. “You can’t just let yourself in.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” you snap, voice sharp, teeth bared. “Because it’s her house? Because you used to live here? Fuck her on that couch? Eat breakfast with her daughter like you weren’t already halfway out the door before the coffee was done brewing?”

He doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink. And that’s what infuriates you most—that nothing you say ever seems to get under his skin.

You want him to react. You’ve always wanted him to see you.

“She’s gone,” he says flatly. “You’re here now.”

You let the silence settle. He always had that talent—the kind that made people fill the quiet just to get rid of it. You don’t give in.

He pushes off the counter, stepping around the table. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to adjust to his shape in the room. Like he knows how he fills it.

“You get the paperwork?”

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“She wanted—”

“She wanted a lot of things.” You throw your keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary, like the sound might drown out the ache in your throat. “She wanted to be clean. She wanted to live. She wanted to be a mom.”

“I know.” His voice is still maddeningly calm, like nothing ever rattles him. “I was there, too. You think I didn’t care?”

“I think you cared like it was a job,” you say, eyes flicking to the spot on the floor where he used to drop his boots. “I think she used that. I think you liked being needed until it made you hate her.”

A long pause. Then—

“You blame me,” he says. Not a question.

“I blame her,” you bite out. “I blame me. I blame everyone. What does it matter?”

He nods once, slow. Walks toward the sink. Opens the cabinet, finds the glasses like it’s still muscle memory. Like this place remembers him even if you wish it didn’t. Even if you still catch yourself standing in doorways, waiting for him to look back.

“Water?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

He drinks anyway—slow, deliberate.

“I’ve been watching,” he says—low, rough, worn down at the edges. “Not just her kid. You.”

You don’t know whether to be angry or scared. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just that old pulse again—buried too long under everything she took before you ever had the chance to want it.

“Why?”

He sets the glass down carefully. Like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he’s still trying to be the man your sister needed.

“Because I know what this house does.”

Your throat catches. Tight. Dry.

“She let it rot,” you whisper, voice small and shaking and too full. “She let herself rot in it.”

He nods. Once. Quiet. He doesn’t say it out loud—he doesn’t have to. He saw it too. He stayed, and you ran. That’s always been the difference.

You shift your weight, heart pounding like a truth trying to claw its way out. “You don’t get to show up and act like this is yours. Like you’re the only one left who gets to carry her.”

“I’m not,” he says. Looks at you like he means it. “You are.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a punishment. But it does.

Because he’s right.

She left the mess—but she left it to you. The wreckage. The weight. The child. The smell of smoke in the walls. The goddamn silence. Pope? He gets to haunt the corners, slip in and out like a ghost with no leash. But you—you—have to stay and live in it. Scrub the stains out of the floorboards. Pretend the pain doesn’t sound like his footsteps in the hall.

You turn away, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. You won’t let him see your eyes. Not now. Not after all these years of swallowing the part of you that wanted him first.

And that’s when he says it. Quiet. Gentle. Like it matters now.

“She said you were the only one who never lied to her.”

You go still. Stiller than still.

“She said it like a confession,” he continues. “Last time I saw her. Said she couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. Not since the baby. Said you were the only one who meant what you said. Even when it hurt.”

Your hands grip the edge of the sink. White-knuckled. Nails biting down into laminate. Not to ground yourself—no, you know where you are. You’re trying not to shatter. Not to let him see that part of you that still wants to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she never said it to you.”

Silence. Heavy. Sacred. Dangerous. It drips down the walls, clings to the space between your shoulder blades. It makes the house feel like it’s listening.

You stare at the wall above the sink—the same place your sister used to hang grocery lists she never followed. Where her handwriting used to live. You used to read them just to imagine what normal might’ve felt like. You used to watch him read them, too—pretending he didn’t already know how it would all fall apart.

“She wasn’t always cruel,” you say softly. Too softly.

“I know.” His voice is closer now. Closer than you’re ready for.

“But she knew how to gut you.”

“She had a gift.”

You turn. Slow. Like the weight of it might crack you.

And there he is.

Watching you like he’s seeing the ghost and not the girl. Like he knows what it costs to keep surviving her. But more than that—more than any of it—he’s looking at you the way he never used to. Not when she was here. Not when you were just the sister on the couch. Not when you burned for him and bit your tongue raw.

“Are you staying?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Or just passing through again?”

He doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

And that question—God, that question—lands in your chest like a knife you’d still let him twist. Because you don’t know. Because part of you wants to fold into him and forget the rest. Part of you wants to scream in his face. Part of you has wanted this for years, and none of it came the way it should’ve.

But the worst part?

Is that you don’t want to be alone in this house tonight. And he’s the only one who’s ever made it feel like it could be home.

Time: That night, 2:37 a.m. Location: Your sister’s house — hallway outside her old bedroom

You don’t sleep. You just lie there and sweat in the dark.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately—sweating through sheets, through your shirt, through your teeth clenched so tight you wake up with a headache. It’s not the heat. It’s not even the grief.

It’s the house.

It holds things. It holds her. You swear to God, it holds him too.

You roll over, check your phone. 2:37 a.m.

The silence feels off. Stretched too thin, like it’s holding its breath. You sit up slowly, pulse already pounding. You’ve lived in enough shitty apartments to know the difference—between a house settling and a house remembering.

You don’t turn on the light.

It’s easier not to see.

You press your feet to the floor and step into the hallway barefoot.

The wood is cold beneath your toes. The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago—like the house knows something you don’t.

You pause outside your niece’s door. Still shut. Still quiet. She sleeps the way she used to when she was small—after long days, after heartbreak. But now it feels different. Now it feels like retreat, not rest. Like she’s learned the same trick you did: vanish first, before anyone can ask why.

You move toward your sister’s door.

You should go back to bed.

It’s been almost a week since you stepped inside her room.

That had been your one boundary.

You cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout with shaking hands. Rearranged the kitchen so it wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. But the bedroom? You left it untouched. Shut the door like sealing off a limb you couldn’t afford to feel.

Because walking into that room was like crawling back into a wound.

And you’ve bled enough.

But tonight the door is open.

And the light is on.

You don’t call out. Don’t make your presence known. Because part of you already knows who’s in there. You can feel it in your chest—the static. The heat. The wrongness. The himness.

Pope.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, elbows on his knees like he’s praying to something he’s already lost.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say—quieter than you mean to.

His voice doesn’t move. “Neither should you.”

That makes your breath catch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he knows. He always fucking knows. Even when you never said a word.

You cross your arms, lean a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Thought we had a rule.”

“We didn’t.”

“I made one.”

He finally glances over. No surprise in his face. Just that same quiet—dead sea eyes, nothing on the surface but too much beneath it.

“She used to leave the door open when she wanted me to crawl back,” he says. “You remember that?”

You nod once. You were eighteen. Maybe nineteen. You remember everything. The way the door would crack just wide enough for his shadow to slip through. The way you’d sit awake across the hall, listening for the sound of his boots.

“She’d scream at me for two days. Throw my shit out in the yard. Block my number. And then the door would be open.” He gestures around the room like it’s a stage. “Light on. Bed made. Like nothing ever happened.”

“She knew how to make you beg,” you mutter.

He looks at you, sharp. Not angry. Just clear. Like he sees straight through you, down to the part that still aches when he walks into a room.

“I didn’t beg.”

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t. But you always came back.”

He leans back, palms flat on the comforter. Hands spread wide like he needs to feel the fabric beneath him to remember where he is. Who he is. Who he isn’t.

“So did you.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true.

Because you were always there—behind the door. On the stairs. In the silence between fights. You never left. Not really.

You just weren’t the one she asked for.

You push off the doorframe, walk two slow steps into the room.

“She was my sister,” you say. Like it explains everything and nothing at once.

He watches you. “You were kids together.”

You sit in the armchair near the dresser—her dresser, still covered in tarnished rings, tangled necklaces, the half-burnt stick of incense she lit the night before her last relapse. Everything left exactly how she abandoned it.

“She hated when people felt sorry for her,” you say. “That’s why she lied so much. Said she was clean when she wasn’t. Said she was sober on Christmas Eve and then passed out on the stairs an hour later.”

“She didn’t want to be seen like that.”

“No,” you murmur. “She wanted to be loved like that.”

Pope doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than looking at you. Like he’s afraid of what your face might give away.

You lean back in the chair, exhale slow. “We were so close, people couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. Thought we were twins. Then she started sleeping with my boyfriends, and suddenly the resemblance didn’t feel so flattering.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. The kind that barely crests his mouth before it dies. But you see it. You always see him.

“She was always louder. Always got the attention. I’d do everything right—get good grades, make curfew—and she’d show up high at dinner and still get the last word.”

“She was fire,” Pope says. “And fire burns.”

You look at him for a long time. Too long. Like the ache in your chest has a shape now, and it’s him.

“She told me you were her last chance.”

He shifts. Slight. But you notice.

“She said that a lot.”

“But she meant it with you. You were the only one she ever… stayed clean for. Even if it never lasted.”

His voice drops. Quiet. Flat. “It was never real. The clean part. Not with me.”

You blink. Your breath catches. “What?”

“She’d lie. Say she was sober when she wasn’t. Tell me she wanted to go to meetings, but only if I went with her. She’d drag me to church on Sundays just to play house.” His hands curl on the edge of the bed. “I knew she was using again before you did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’d already started using me, too.”

The room holds its breath.

Then you whisper, “She loved you.”

He shakes his head.

“She did. In her own way.”

“That’s not love,” he says. “That was ownership.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to. You both know the kind of damage she did.

“I used to watch you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Pope lifts his gaze slowly.

“I’d sit in that hallway when she was yelling. Just out of sight. I’d wait for the part where you’d yell back. Where you’d leave.”

He doesn’t speak.

“But you never did.”

“She needed someone who wouldn’t.”

Your throat goes tight. Your whole body stills.

“So did I.”

The words fall like glass. Sharp. Irretrievable.

And the silence after is deafening.

Not empty.

Just full of everything you never said.

Pope’s jaw tightens, like he’s grinding something down before it slips out. His fingers twitch against the bedspread—like they want something to hold, something to do. His gaze drops—traces the curve of your knees, your bare feet curled into the carpet like you’re bracing for impact. He doesn’t look away fast enough.

You feel it like a flare in your chest. Hot. Gnawing. Old.

He exhales, long and low. “She was scared you’d love me the way she couldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

You just sit there in the dim light, your sister’s walls pressing in like old ribs, her scent still soaked into the sheets, the air, the skin at your throat. Pope sits three feet away, looking like something half-ruined and still dangerous. Like grief only hollowed out the parts that could’ve stayed soft.

And for the first time since she died, you feel like you’re finally mourning her.

Not just because she’s gone.

But because this—this—this fragile moment between you, this silence filled with things she always took before they could be yours… this is everything she never let you have.

“I was always cleaning her up,” you say. “Not just the mess. Her. I’d hold her hair back. Cover her arms. Wipe blood off her teeth and pretend it was from brushing too hard. I lied to Dad. I lied to the kid.”

Pope leans forward. Not fast—like something’s pulling him. “You didn’t clean up,” he says, voice low. “You parented.”

The word hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

You shake your head. “I loved her. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate her too.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He knows—fourteen months apart, same house, same hell.

“She got everything first,” you murmur. “Boobs. Boyfriends. Bad decisions. I got the leftovers. The fallout. Hand-me-downs and scars she never even noticed she left. And every time she lit a fire, I was the one putting it out.”

He leans back, eyes steady on yours. “That’s why you never liked me.”

You hold his gaze. “That’s not why.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just waits. He’s always been like this—danger wrapped in quiet. And you’ve spent years avoiding this exact moment.

You hesitate. One breath. Two.

“I didn’t like you,” you say, “because you made her worse. You let her get away with shit no one else did. And every time she got clean, it was just to keep you.”

You pause. Let it simmer.

“But I couldn’t stop… wanting you anyway.”

There it is.

Hung in the air like smoke. Like confession. Like sin.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just sits there, wrecked and unreadable, and you think maybe that is what undoes you—that he’s finally hearing it, and not turning away.

“Say that again,” he says.

You rise to your feet.

And the ache follows you up like it’s part of your spine.

The room holds its breath as you cross the carpet, slow and deliberate—each step measured like you’re approaching something wild and damaged, something that might bite if startled.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the tension radiating off his skin. Close enough to touch, but you don’t. Not yet.

“I wanted you,” you say again. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you were fucking her. Even when she made sure I saw it.”

His breath stutters, caught somewhere in his throat.

You lower yourself between his thighs, fingers grazing the inside of his leg—slow, certain, like a fuse being lit. Careful. Knowing. The kind of beginning that doesn’t end clean. The kind that ruins.

“She used to tell me I was boring,” you whisper. “Too clean. Too smart. Not the kind of girl men ruin.”

Pope looks down at you like you’ve just become a threat—like you’re something holy and reckless, the kind of woman men do ruin, and never recover from.

“I wanted to be ruined,” you say. “By you.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His hand twists in your hair, rough and unrelenting, dragging you up with the kind of desperation that doesn’t ask—it takes. Like he’s been holding back a storm and finally lets it swallow him whole.

The kiss is unholy. Starved. His mouth crashes to yours like a blasphemy he’s longed to speak aloud, all spit and heat and something darker—like he’s tasting damnation and begging for more. Like your ruin is sacred and he’s ready to bleed for it.

It’s violent with need—ten years of silence burning on his breath. He pulls you into his lap with a force that borders on frantic, devouring your mouth like he’s been fasting on guilt and grief and this is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want since she died.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your ass. Gripping. Claiming. Consuming. Like he’s trying to memorize you by force. Like he doesn’t trust this moment to last.

“Tell me you hate me,” he pants against your mouth, lips brushing yours, voice torn and desperate.

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

“It is.”

You kiss him again—harder this time—so violent it nearly topples you both. It’s not tenderness. It’s a confession in blood.

He groans—full-throated, ragged. Like it’s been trapped inside him for years. His hips jolt up, grinding into you with a heat that burns through the cotton between you.

You grind down, shameless. Raw. He’s already hard—thick, aching, leaking beneath the fabric of his sweats—and you feel the exact shape of everything you’ve ever wanted.

His hands fly to your face, rough with urgency, and he pulls you back to him like he needs to look at you. Like he can’t breathe unless your eyes are open.

“You want it slow?” he asks, voice cracked and wrecked. “Or just the part that hurts?”

"Both."

He lifts you off him in one swift, breathless movement—your body dragged from his like it wounds him to let go.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because you’re submitting. Not with him.

With Pope, it’s not power—it’s surrender. It's history. It's wanting so badly it’s become a kind of religion. You crawl to the center of the bed, fingers sinking into her old comforter, and arch for him with instinct and ache, every breath shaking loose something you’ve buried.

He kneels behind you. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just breathes.

Then his hands are on your hips, tugging at your waistband—not rough, not rushed. Like every inch he bares is something he’s never thought he deserved. He slides everything down your legs in one slow motion.

You exhale like it hurts.

He stays there for a moment, hands resting on your skin—like if he moves too fast, he'll ruin you. Or himself.

You hear his breath catch. Feel his heat press up against your back.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. Wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this. Can’t believe she ever called you weak.”

“She said a lot of things,” you whisper, voice trembling. You’re already unraveling.

His hand traces your spine, palm flat. “She said you were off-limits.”

You look back over your shoulder. Voice like a dare. “And are you good at following rules?”

His eyes meet yours. Burning. “No.”

He drags his fingers through the wet heat of you. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Wet already,” he says, voice guttural. “You were waiting for this.”

You nod, breath shallow. “My whole life.”

He doesn’t pause.

He fists his cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—and brings it to your entrance, dragging the blunt head through your slick with deliberate weight. Like he’s about to take something he’s been denied for years.

And then—he freezes.

“You sure?”

You glance back again, hair falling into your eyes. “You don’t get to be gentle now.”

That’s all it takes.

He drives into you in one slow, brutal, soul-tearing thrust.

You gasp—lurch forward—and arch. Nails digging into the mattress. Breath punched out of you.

And he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried, impossibly deep. One hand locked on your hip, the other pressing down at the base of your neck—holding you there, grounding you, steadying himself like this is the only way he won’t fall apart.

Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him believe he’s real.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice raw and shaking. “That’s me. Inside what she said I could never have.”

He pulls back.

Then slams forward.

You cry out, high and sharp, and he fucks you like he’s punishing himself for every year he pretended he didn’t want this. Like he’s finally taking what he buried alive.

The rhythm is merciless—hips snapping into you again and again, the sound obscene, wet, relentless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, pressing you down like he wants to keep you there forever. He’s panting against your back, mouth open, breath ragged, murmuring broken things:

“Mine.”

“Should’ve been you.”

“Fuck—take me, just like that.”

You’re moaning, gasping, shaking, eyes blurred from how deep he is, how wrecked you feel. You brace your hands harder into the mattress as your body tightens around him—clenching, spiraling, gone.

When you clench, he growls, a low sound that vibrates into your bones.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that. Let me wreck it.”

You nod, barely breathing, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—silent and unstoppable.

He leans over you, chest heavy on your back, and one hand slides under your stomach—ruthless, focused—fingers finding your clit with practiced cruelty. He rubs tight, filthy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. It's too much. It’s perfect.

“You gonna come for me?” he mutters against your ear, voice thick, ruined. “Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod frantically, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarls. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“Please—” you gasp, high and cracked.

“Let me ruin it,” he whispers. "Let me be the one who breaks it."

And you do.

You come with a sob—full-body, wrenching, your orgasm ripping through you like a scream you’ve been holding back for years. You clench around him, trembling, crying, coming apart with his name in your mouth.

He follows seconds later—slamming in deep, one final thrust that splits you open—and groans, long and guttural, like it’s killing him to let go. He spills inside you with a curse and your name dragged raw from his throat.

Then he collapses over you.

You’re both shaking. Breathing like you’ve survived something. Still joined. Still trembling.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—chest flush to your back, mouth pressed to the curve of your shoulder, fingers tangled in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’ll keep him from going under.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, voice broken, raw.

His answer barely makes it past his lips.

“Ask me when I lose you too.”

Time: 8:19 a.m. Location: Kitchen. The morning after.

You wake up to sunlight, and the first thing you feel is him.

Not his body—he’s gone. Just the dent he left behind in the mattress. The scent of him on your skin. The ache between your legs that’s part soreness, part memory. You feel raw. Wrung out. Touched in ways you’d spent years trying not to imagine. You feel like her.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded behind your eyelids: Pope’s hand tangled in your hair. His voice in your ear. His body holding you still like he needed to memorize your shape before he could live with himself.

Let me be the one who breaks it.

You roll onto your back, and it hits you all over again—he fucked you in her bed. Not just sex. Not a mistake. A collision. A choice. A lifetime of looking and aching and staying silent that finally snapped loose. And now?

Now he’s gone.

You sit up slowly. Your thighs stick to the sheets. You wipe at the sweat on your chest. You look like a girl who got wrecked and abandoned.

You look like someone your sister would have mocked.

You dress in yesterday’s clothes and follow the scent of coffee.

You hear them before you reach the kitchen.

Her voice—small, familiar, sharp enough to gut you.

“You made them wrong,” your niece says.

Pope grunts. “There’s no wrong way to make pancakes.”

“Mom used to put bananas in.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stop at the edge of the doorway.

He’s there. At the stove. Same hoodie from last night. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, vanish into the steam. He doesn’t look at you, but his whole body goes taut the second you enter—shoulders pulled tight, jaw locked.

He knows you’re there.

He always knows.

You used to think it was a sixth sense for violence. Now you think it’s guilt. Or longing. Or both.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Your niece lifts her fork and waves. “He’s making breakfast. But it’s not the way she did it.”

You look at him.

He still won’t look back.

The silence is brutal. Ticking. Loaded.

You take a step in. Measured. “Can I talk to you?”

His hand flexes on the spatula. Tight enough to crack it.

“Not now.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

That gets him.

His gaze cuts over his shoulder—sharp. Brief. A warning behind his eyes like the ones he used to give her before everything went to hell.

“Do what?” he says.

“Pretend like last night didn’t happen.”

He turns now. Fully. Slowly. Like he’s squaring up, not facing you.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

But it’s too fast.

And it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like a lie he’s practiced. Sounds like it burned his mouth to say it.

You stare. Your voice softens, but it’s no less dangerous. “That how you’re gonna handle this? Just another Pope Cody vanishing act?”

His jaw ticks. That old, silent rage moving beneath the surface.

“There’s a kid in the room,” he says, dead flat.

“Don’t use her as a shield.”

His mouth tightens. No comeback. Just a low simmer. That silence that always came before the damage.

You step closer. Cross the kitchen tile like it’s a line he’s dared you to walk.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel it.”

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because he can’t.

Because for the first time in years, you touched something real—and so did he.

And now he's too much of a coward to hold it in daylight.

You wait while she eats—sloppy bites of pancake drowning in syrup, her small hands sticky and careless, bare feet kicking at the air beneath the table like she’s still too light to be touched by everything that’s broken.

Pope doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. His jaw is clenched. Shoulders coiled. He watches over her like it’s all he knows how to do. Like standing still might hold the world in place a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t look at you.

When the bus honks outside, she shoves her plate away, grabs her backpack off the hook, and bolts out the door without looking back.

“Bye!” she calls.

The screen door slams.

And then—nothing.

No syrup chatter. No footsteps. No excuse left to not look at each other.

That’s when the silence gets dangerous.

He’s already halfway to the door when you stop him.

“Say something real,” you breathe.

He stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stills like an animal in a snare, waiting for the next shot.

“Last night… that wasn’t some mistake. That wasn’t about her.”

He shakes his head once. A sharp cut of movement. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turns. Slowly. Like it hurts. His face is unreadable—not empty. Buried. Like everything he’s ever felt for you got pushed somewhere too deep to dig out without bleeding.

“You think I wanted it?” he asks, voice low and cracked. “You think I planned that? I touched you in her bed.”

You fold your arms, fingers digging into your sides. “You wanted me before she died.”

He twitches like it’s a bruise you just pressed too hard.

“I saw it,” you say, breath tight. “The way you’d leave the room when I laughed too loud. The way your eyes caught on my hips when I wore her clothes. You were scared of it.”

“Of course I was scared,” he bites out. His voice splinters. “You were the only good thing left in this house.”

You blink.

The words hit harder than they should. Like a wound breaking open from the inside.

“I’m not good, Pope.”

“You are,” he says instantly, eyes locked on yours, voice ragged. “That’s why I came back.”

You blink. Again. Slower.

“I didn’t come back for her,” he says. “I came back for the kid. And for you.”

You step forward. Slow. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

“You kissed me like you hated yourself.”

“I did.”

Another step. “You fucked me like you were trying to forget her.”

His jaw clenches. “I was.”

And another. “But you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

His breath catches.

And now—you’re in front of him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. Close enough to see the blood pulsing in his throat. Close enough to see what he won’t say in the tremble behind his eyes.

And that’s when he shatters.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just shatters—like a man who’s been grieving too long, loving too hard, and finally let himself want something he was never supposed to touch.

Like you’re the only thing he ever wanted that didn’t ask him to disappear.

He grabs your face. Not sweetly. Desperately. His palms are rough, trembling against your skin like he’s holding a live wire. Like this—you—is the thing that’s going to burn him alive, and he’s asking for it anyway. His forehead drops to yours, and he exhales like it hurts to be this close.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t know how to want things without destroying them,” he breathes. Voice low. Fractured. Like it’s been stuck in his throat for years.

“I’m already broken,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not clean. It’s not even careful.

It’s devouring.

Too wet. Too fast. His mouth misses yours and lands on your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he’s trying to bury himself in you. Like he wants to wear your skin, hide inside your ribs, press himself so deep he can forget what loving her did to him. What not touching you did to him.

His hands shove under your shirt—urgent, reckless—palming your ribs like they hold answers. He fists the back of your waistband, yanks you toward him, and lifts you up onto the counter with a grunt, breath ragged in your ear.

You gasp, sharp and startled.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He drags your pants down to your thighs like he’s furious they were ever on you in the first place.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasps, every word a confession he doesn’t want to survive. “I keep seeing you—bent over her bed. Your hands in the sheets. Your voice in my mouth.”

He pushes your legs open, staring down like it kills him. Like the sight of you is both prayer and punishment.

“I woke up hard this morning,” he chokes. “Had to jerk off in her shower. Couldn’t stop hearing you.”

You moan. Soft. Shaken. “Pope—”

He grabs your face again, rougher now, like your voice just undid something he was barely holding together.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“I don’t do gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. A tremble beneath the violence.

“You say stop, I stop.”

You nod. Breathless. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

He shoves his sweats down, rough and clumsy, teeth clenched. His hands lock around your thighs—hard, claiming—and he lines up, flushed and thick and aching.

No teasing. No question. Just one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out—your whole body arching, splintering, as he drives deep into you.

Your sound echoes off the cabinets. The floor. The silence she left behind.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you like it’s survival. Like he means to stay. Like this is the only way he knows how to say I’m here—not with promises, but with ruin.

Like he thinks he can erase her memory by burying himself in yours.

Your hands claw at his hoodie. He doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t even kiss you again. He just fucks you harder, like he’s chasing something down inside himself—guilt, grief, hunger. Maybe all three.

You moan his name and his grip tightens until your skin burns.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he growls, teeth bared.

“Then don’t.”

He thrusts harder. Rougher. You fall apart with a sob—full-body, breathless, undone—your orgasm ripping through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until he’s gone too—slamming into you deep, groaning like it’s killing him, his release pulsing inside you, your name dragged raw from his throat like it’s the only thing he still believes in.

The kitchen is silent again.

Except for your breathing—shallow, broken. Except for his—louder, rougher, like he’s still trying to catch it. Like he’s still somewhere inside you.

Pope doesn’t move.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath hot where it hits your skin. One hand grips the counter beside your thigh, the other still buried in your hair. He’s trembling. Not from the cold. Not from shame.

From the fact that he’s still here.

That you’re still here.

When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Careful. Like it hurts him to leave.

You wince, but don’t pull away. You don’t move at all.

He tucks himself back into his sweats with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.

You expect him to speak. To backtrack. To run.

He doesn’t.

He stands between your legs, eyes closed, hands now resting on your hips—thumbs rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s trying to learn what staying feels like.

You whisper, “What now?”

He opens his eyes. Bloodshot. Devastated.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“I won’t make you promise anything,” you say.

“Good,” he mutters. “I break those.”

A pause.

Then—his hand lifts. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he says quietly.

“You already are,” you answer. “You’re still here.”

His jaw clenches.

And for the first time in years, you see it on his face—not guilt, not rage.

Hope.

Tiny. Fragile. Flickering.

But alive.

He kisses you again. Slow this time. Like thanks. Like maybe, if he’s careful enough, this won’t burn too.

And when he rests his forehead to yours again, he doesn’t shake.

He breathes.

And so do you.

[honeyncherry]

when all else fails - joe burrow

summary some men send flowers after they mess up. others buy jewelry. joe? he prefers to taste your forgiveness directly from the source

content 18+, smut, angst, fluff

Somewhere between the last coat of mascara and checking your dress in the mirror, you felt it—that small, dread-filled certainty that tonight wasn't going to unfold as planned. Not because of anything obvious.

His voice sounded normal on the phone. "I'm trying, baby, I swear. Everything is running late, but I'm pushing to leave early." And you accepted his words, because that's what you always do. You've made a habit of hope.

The rain set the mood, persistent and melancholy—lazy droplets crawling down windows, blurring the world outside like your expectations for the evening.

It seemed almost cruel now. He was the one who'd brought it up three weeks ago, sprawled across your bed, his phone in hand and your feet in his lap. "I made reservations for the 26th—same place as last year. Figured we'd keep the tradition going." You'd looked up, surprised, and he'd smiled at your expression. "You think I'd forget our anniversary?"

He hadn't forgotten. The calendar on the fridge was marked. His phone reminder had gone off yesterday. You'd even set a second one, just to be annoying. He'd laughed, kissed your shoulder, and promised, "I'm not missing it."

Even this morning he seemed certain, backpack slung over one shoulder, lips pressed against the top of your head. "I'll be home by seven," he'd said, squeezing your hand.

And you trusted him completely.

By six, you were dressed in that black dress he loved, the one he once said you shouldn't wear in public. You'd left your hair half-down, clipped just enough to show the necklace he gave you last Christmas. Dabbed on the perfume he never remembers the name of but always notices—the one from your first night together, sitting on the floor eating takeout in the dark, too nervous to touch each other until midnight.

You dropped your heels by the couch, leaving them untouched.

Joe always said the clasps were easier if he did them, but you knew better. He liked being close, kneeling before you with your leg draped over his thigh, fingers brushing your ankle as he pretended to fumble with the strap. Sometimes he'd lean in and kiss just above the bone like it meant nothing. Sometimes his hand would slide higher. Always slow, always with that look in his eyes.

So you waited.

You poured wine you didn't touch. Lit the candle by the door just to occupy your hands. The ticking clock over the fridge sounded louder than usual, so you tapped fingers against the table edge to drown it out. Your phone sat untouched for the first hour, then became an obsession as the minutes crawled by—every glance at the screen a small wound.

He said he'd be home by seven. Said he wouldn't let the meeting run over. That he was pushing to leave early. There's still some stubborn part of you that thinks wanting to be there should count for something.

But seven turned to eight.

At 8:14, your phone lit up. I'm so sorry. Still going. Not gonna make it in time.

You stared at the message with a hollow resignation. It would have been easier if anger came. If you could throw something. Scream. Say I knew it just to feel vindicated. But there was nothing left to say. Your reflection in the screen hit harder—lips pressed tight, eyes already glassy, posture curled in as if you'd been anticipating this moment.

Because perhaps you were. You wondered if he tried—truly tried—or if he just hoped you'd understand. If he counted on your forgiveness the way he counts on your presence. Always there.

It's not the first time. That's what cuts deepest: how familiar disappointment feels now.

You flipped your phone over, screen down on the counter, and went to the bedroom. The dress slipped off and pooled at your feet. You stepped out of it and folded the fabric carefully, placing it over the back of the chair. Not because the night could still be salvaged, but because leaving it crumpled would feel like admitting it never mattered.

You skipped his LSU crewneck, didn't touch the hoodie he'd left draped over the laundry basket. You grabbed one of your own instead, one that smelled like fresh detergent with no trace of him on it. It felt right tonight.

With the sleeves rolled at the wrist, you pulled on cotton shorts that sat low on your hips and asked for no attention you didn't want.

Back in the kitchen, the kettle hummed low as it warmed. You went to make the tea he always made for you—just a dash of sugar, half a spoonful of honey. But at the last second, you left them both out, letting it steep bitter and plain. Something about doing it differently tonight felt like control. Like maybe if you changed one thing, something else would change too.

The mug warmed your hands as steam curled into your face. You crossed to the chair by the window, half-lit by the porch light, outlined by the storm. One leg tucked beneath you, the other draped along the cushion as you settled in. The tea rested on the windowsill, untouched. You didn't like it this way. You hated it.

Rain streaked the glass in steady lines. The backyard vanished behind the storm. Everything felt quieter now, like the world was backing away, giving you space to feel however you needed to.

And you did. Emotions churned for however long it took the sky to blacken, until lightning became the only true light flashing across the walls. Under-cabinet bulbs in the kitchen still glowed softly, but here in the corner, it all felt distant. Your head leaned back against the cushion as you watched the rain blur streetlights into smears of gold. You didn't even hear the door at first.

Not until it closed with a muted click, careful, like whoever stood behind it didn't want to be heard. A shuffle followed. Keys into the tray. The soft thud of a bag hitting the floor. No voice. Just footsteps. Slow. Uncertain. Like even he wasn't sure he should be there.

The air shifted, and you knew he was there. Somewhere behind you, just inside the living room. Close enough to see you, too far to reach. He probably had his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. Nervous in a way you'd seen before.

"…Honey?"

Quiet steps cross the floor. You stay facing forward, but the faint rustle of fabric against the back of the couch tells you he's closer. Then silence.

In the reflection of the window, you catch a glimpse. Clothes damp, hair wet and falling in loose strands across his forehead. He stands motionless for a moment, hands shifting from his sides to his pockets, then back out again.

Eventually, he edges closer. His fingers brush the arm of your chair, a silent test. When you don't pull away, he bends and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Warm breath stirs your hair and then he draws back, sinking to his knees.

Crouched before you, one hand steadies on your thigh, the other reaches up and grazes your arm before falling away. His gaze meets yours, but his expression gives nothing away.

"I tried to leave early," he says, thumb tapping gently against your knee. "Swear I did."

You remain still.

"They pushed it," he adds after a pause. "Wasn't supposed to go past six."

His forehead lowers to your legs, lips brushing your skin in apology.

"I'm sorry, baby." The words are muffled. "I'll make it up to you."

He lingers there longer than he should. Long enough for your fingers to twitch. Long enough for you to wonder if reaching for him would make this hurt any less. Before you find out, he lifts his head. His attention shifts to the windowsill, where your mug sits. He picks it up, takes a sip—and immediately winces.

"…Jesus." You almost smile. Almost. The expression flickers at your mouth before you stop it.

"Let me make you a new one," he offers, already half-rising.

Your hand snaps out, claiming the mug and setting it firmly back on the sill.

"No."

Brows draw together. "No, what?"

"I don't want a new one," you say. "I like it that way."

He stares for a second, elbow balanced on his knee. "Hm… Well, you look really pretty right now," he says quietly. "Like… really pretty."

Rather than answer, you give a small shake of your head, as if the words don't feel right now.

Joe sighs, chin tipping upward. "I'll book the flight tonight."

There's a faint crease between your brows, though you don't look over.

"To Milan," he clarifies, his voice chasing the silence. "That place you liked—the one with the garlic butter scallops and the owner who gave you that little spoon you tried to steal."

Your lips press together, but you don't speak.

"No schedule, no work calls," he says quickly. "Just us. Boats, museums, room service. That flower market where you bought an entire bundle and forgot to water them—done."

At last, your gaze lifts to his. He leans forward slightly. "I'll get the spoon engraved if you want. Swear to God."

There's the faintest twitch in your cheek. "Joe—"

"I'm serious." His voice tightens with urgency. "I'll do better. I'll plan things you actually like. Not just dinners to patch things up. Not just big gestures that don't fix anything."

You sit there, eyes on the rain, heart beating somewhere too deep to reach, letting his words press down into the silence. The promises. The guilt. The hope threaded between them. It crosses your mind how badly you want that version of him to be the one who shows up. The one who stays.

And just as your thoughts start to drift, something warm grazes the inside of your knee.

You flinch from surprise. Joe kisses again, a little higher. Then again, slower this time, wetter. Open-mouthed, the heat of his tongue just barely grazes across your skin. Your pulse stutters. When your eyes drop to him, he's already looking up at you from beneath his lashes, hunger darkening his eyes to something almost dangerous.

His hands are warm and steady on your thighs, thumbs brushing idle circles as he coaxes your legs open. His lips drag higher. You feel the scratch of his stubble catch on sensitive skin, feel his breath between each kiss growing hotter, more charged. The earthy scent of his cologne mixed with sweat rises between you, familiar and intoxicating.

"This okay, baby?" he asks, voice low and raw. There's something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes—a glimpse of fear that he's truly fucked up, that you might not forgive him this time.

The answer to his question isn't spoken out loud. Your lips part, eyes dazed, a stunned kind of arousal flickering behind your lashes as your legs begin to uncross. One knee bumps gently into his chest as you shift, and he leans back a bit to make room. But his hands never leave you. If anything, they tighten, fingers curling firm into the meat of your thighs, grounding you with a focused intent.

Without breaking contact, his hands begin to slide higher. He catches your waistband and starts peeling your shorts down with the care of someone handling something fragile, something sacred. And when he sees there's nothing underneath—just bare skin and flushed heat—his breath catches like a punch to the gut. A sharp, involuntary grunt breaks from his chest.

"Jesus... fuck."

The tension ropes through his jaw, knuckles flexing where they grip your legs. His eyes drag down, dark and locked in like he's trying not to lose it. Every muscle in your body tightens with anticipation, the delicious torture of knowing exactly what's coming but being forced to wait for it.

"You know how they get," you murmur, voice thinner than you expect. "You act like you didn't see it coming."

"I know." His response is instant. No protest, no excuse. His gaze never lifts. "That's on me."

And then his hands drift in, up the insides of your thighs. Barely there at first. Just the whisper of skin to skin, fingertips ghosting in slow, lazy arcs that never quite give you what you need—only make you feel every second he's choosing not to.

"I should've put my foot down," he says, and his voice drops further, like it's carved straight from guilt and want. "Should've walked out at six like I said I would."

You shift again. Your hips tilt forward without thought, chasing his hands, the pressure, anything—but he doesn't budge. Joe smirks, soaking in the way you tremble under the weight of waiting.

"Tell me you need this," he murmurs against your inner thigh, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through you. "Tell me you need me."

Your breath catches in your throat. The words feel too vulnerable, too revealing, but your body betrays you completely—arching toward him, seeking his touch.

"Because that's what matters," he says, and this time his fingers brush closer—so close you feel the stroke of air shift between you. Just a ghost of contact across the edge of you. It makes your whole body jolt.

He holds you steady with one palm, wide and possessive against your thigh. "You," he says again, quieter this time. "Not them. Not the meeting. Not whatever bullshit I told myself so I could sit in that room feeling sorry and still do nothing."

And then, finally, he leans in.

There's no buildup or teasing cruelty. Just that moment: his mouth, hot and unrelenting, sealing over you like he's starved for it.

You gasp as the heat of his tongue drags up through your center. His arms hook tight under your thighs, locking you down with a low grunt, and then he's gone completely silent. Like he's concentrating. Worshipping. Devouring.

The first full stroke of his tongue is slow but purposeful. The kind that maps you out. That relearns every inch of you like it's the only thing he's good at. He pulls back just long enough to press a kiss against your clit—soft, obscene—and then does it again, firmer this time. Open-mouthed. Messy. The sounds echo in the quiet, wet and slick and unashamed.

He groans into you when you twitch. You feel it reverberate through your whole body.

"Yeah," he mutters, more to himself than to you, dragging his mouth across you again with a low, stunned sound. "Could never let this pussy go."

One of your hands fly up, trembling as it slips beneath the hem of your sweatshirt—seeking something, anything to ground yourself. Your palm finds your breast and you squeeze, letting out a breathless gasp at the new sensation.

Joe sees it, he feels the way you react.

His hand jerks up and slips beneath your sweatshirt, finding yours already there. He covers it completely, fingers wrapping over the back of your hand with purpose. He squeezes hard, guiding your grip tighter around yourself, and holds it there—his thumb pressing into the soft underside of your breast, adding more pressure whenever he deems necessary. Like he's deciding how much you get to feel. Like you touching yourself isn't allowed unless he's in control of that too.

The contact makes your spine arch, your thighs clamp tighter around his head, and his tongue only presses even deeper.

You think he's going to keep going on like that, all tongue and heat and slow torment, but then his hand adjusts, fingers sliding between your legs, two of them pressing in deep with a firm, practiced curl that makes your hips jerk up.

"Oh my God—" You gasp, nails clawing for purchase, catching his hair instead. He grunts again when you do, like the sting of it only spurs him on.

His fingers fuck up into you with rhythm, curling just right, just relentless enough to make your vision start to haze. All the while, his mouth never leaves you—tongue flicking and dragging and rolling with that desperate kind of hunger, like this is the only way he knows how to apologize. Like he's trying to leave the memory of everything else behind in the way he makes you fall apart.

He pulls back just when you're at the edge, making you whimper with frustration, your body arching desperately toward his mouth. You can feel him smile against your inner thigh, the bastard, before he dives back in with renewed intensity.

"You're shaking," he breathes against you, voice low and fucked-out and proud. "Look at you. All worked up already. How long were you waiting for me to get my shit together, huh?"

You can't answer. Can't breathe properly. Your thighs are trembling around his shoulders, back arched, fingers knotted tight in his hair. He smiles—so fucking smug, and sucks hard around your clit until your whole body clamps down on his hand and you swear you black out for a second.

Joe doesn't let up, he holds you through it. Works you through every wave until you're whining, twitching, trying to squirm away. Each time, his grip tightens and he keeps going like he's savoring the aftermath.

His mouth eventually stills, he presses one last kiss to your clit before easing his fingers out—wet, glistening, dragging slow between your folds. You shudder when they leave you. You watch closely as he lifts his hand to his mouth and drags his tongue up the length of them with one slow, filthy lick. Then another. Then his mouth closes around both, sucking them clean like he's chasing the last drop of something holy.

"Fuckin' perfect," he rasps as he pushes off the floor. His chest is heaving, mouth flushed, the same hand still wet when it curls under your jaw. His other hand wraps around the back of your neck as he leans in, thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat, just enough pressure to make your pulse jump against his skin.

The sound that slips out isn't intentional, it just slips out the second his mouth finds yours. The kiss hits like a punch to the chest, knocks the breath right out of you. You grip his biceps without thinking, fingers digging into muscle like it's the only thing keeping you from floating up and out of your own body. He's still holding your jaw, thumb tight along your cheek, guiding the angle, kissing you deeper, slower, like he's pulling every last sound from your throat on purpose.

And he tastes like you.

You feel it every time his tongue drags over yours, the echo of your own release coating his mouth. It makes your spine arch. Your knees fall open wider without thought like your body's still begging for more.

Joe groans into your mouth, his hand sliding back under your sweatshirt—skimming up your ribs, settling firm to hold you there. You're panting by the time he pulls back. He kisses you again—once. Twice. Quick little pecks that make your lips chase after his before you even realize you're doing it.

"All night," his lips brush yours like the words aren't finished yet. "Not stopping 'til you forget where I even fucked up in the first place."

Your hands drift up his chest, fingers splayed wide as they press into the front of his shirt. The cotton shifts beneath your touch, stretching over the heat of him—solid muscle and steady breath rising to meet you.

He huffs a quiet laugh to himself, eyes on your mouth. "And after," he grins, "I'll make you some tea you'll actually like."

[catcake24]

A Butler and the Villainness

(This is only a first draft FYI, just wanted to post it while I was still thinking about it.)

Lady Nightshade has never been the same since the day her carriage crashed.

It was an accident, no proof of sabotage, but Hawthorne would not have been surprised if there had been. Miss Nightshade was hated by all who knew her, from the village she tormented to the other nobles who only tolerated her egotistical behaviour and cruel indulgences due to her family’s wealth and influence. But even then, she had lost much of it over time from her behaviour.

Despite it all though, Hawthorne could never leave her. The late Nightshades, decent enough people, had been born into their wealth yet used it well. They lifted him from a mere homeless veteran into their butler who they considered a close friend, and he wanted to repay all the debts he owed them, and thus their daughter after their deaths.

She had been raised in the lap of luxury, and with the sudden passing of her parents at a young age, she only had governesses and distant family members to raise her. It was hard on her, and Hawthorne could see how it twisted the spoiled young girl into the monster they all knew. It was no excuse for her poor behaviour, but Hawthorne felt like he needed to stay by her side even as she squandered all the privilege she was gifted.

But after that crash, she had changed. She had a few days of confusion after, which the doctor explained as mild hysteria after such a head injury, but soon her personality had been completely changed even as she regained her footing in this world.

Lady Nightshade spent many of her days within the library, gobbling up all she could find despite never being a lover of books before. Some days, Hawthorne had to bring meals to the giant room just to remind her to eat, and the maids often had to ask her to bathe if she got too lost in her new studies. It was annoying but compared to the menace she was to the staff before, no one minded. She even thanked them every time they helped her, or when she asked for a meal it was meek and spoken like she could get one herself if she chose – which was madness for a lady of her standing.

She started apologising to those she had wronged within the village, and those at her school. Other young lads and ladies she had once tormented were often invited to play croquet or for lavish meals during a celebration. She gave out gold coins to young children who asked nicely, and those who didn’t merely got a silver or bronze coin.

Soon, Lady Nightshade had become the most generous donor in their town – tipping well to any service she received from them and only showed the utmost respect.

Even political enemies she had made started to soften, as she apologised and gave all she could when she could.

She also strangely took up new hobbies, such as gardening and hunting for sport. She even insisted on gutting some of the animals she caught, like her father once did. She looked disgusted by the prospect, but insisted she was shown anyways or even brought a book to instruct herself.

And the strangest habit was how she treated Hawthorne himself. Whenever he brought her tea, she insisted that he bring the tea bag separately and inspected the water beforehand. She was always careful around him, hesitant to have him be near her or to be behind her. Like he was a threat, an idea which punctured his heart at the thought of. What had he done to make her so distrustful of him, he didn’t know.

But even so, grudges did not die so easily.

Some forgave her, but a young woman refused to – bright blonde hair and electric blue eyes, she was a peasant who was ruined by Lady Nightshade, according to her, and would never overlook that with her new kindness. The men she attracted, princes and nobles of high influence, listened to the woman, and insisted she was not to be trusted – that this was all a farce, something even Hawthorne couldn’t completely deny. Soon she was made an outcast despite her generosity, with only a few staying by her and even fewer doing so for more than how they could use her.

Her generosity itself also didn’t go unpunished, as vultures just as well off as her started coming to their door and begging for help, saying they would be ruined if she did not, and the newly bleeding heart lady couldn’t reject their pleas. They were wealthy beyond measure, but she had to meticulously plan their collections to make sure she could afford to fund all the projects and people she could. It was like she did not care for herself anymore, only for others, and yet they only sought to take advantage.

Even the peasants who she tried to help and even mingle with during festivals still side eyed her, and often spoke in hushed whispers about how she must be hiding her true nature.

Lady Nightshade tried to bear it all with a smile, but Hawthorne could still hear the cries from her study some nights.

One night, despite the fact he was just about to take off his gloves and retire for the day, he heard her crying and couldn’t leave her there.

He took out the tea set, and resisted the urge to prepare it himself. He could tell the tea the Lady made was always over steeped, yet she always insisted on making it herself, and so he complied and set the tea aside separately and prepared milk and sugar.

Balancing it on one hand, easy for a well trained and old butler like him, he knocked on her door. She didn’t seem to hear though, and as he was about to announce his presence, he heard her talking through the door.

“Why?!” She cried, hiccupping. “I did everything right, so why am I still getting the bad end? Why does she still hate me, I’ve done all I could!”

His brow furrowed, confused by her language. She made it sound like she knew what was happening, and desperately wanted it to stop. “This isn’t fair,” she sniffled, “I don’t want to die.”

He had to sit with that proclamation for a moment, shocked by it.

Many had troubles with her, but most were minor now. Even those she had horribly offended like the king had given her another chance and had only seen change from her, so why would she think she was going to die?

Unless… the peasant girl threatened her?

Steeling himself, he knocked again, speaking up, “My Lady, I have tea for you. May I enter?” He said.

She made a surprised noise, there was some shuffling, before she told him to come in.

There were tear stains on her face, which was flushed from crying, and she was trying to wipe away her makeup with a handkerchief. She wasn’t sitting perfectly lady like, legs spread and wearing pants of all things, but he did not say anything – these were her quarters after all, and many had strange habits when they were alone. Part of being a butler was seeing these vulnerable moments sometimes.

As he served her though, he could only think that maybe he should keep his musket and bayonet nearby, in case of any attacks in the night.

His lady was still not perfect, but he made a promise to her parents.

At one time, before the crash, he was feeling his resolve slowly chip away over the years. He might’ve been just a few years away from quitting or letting the woman reap was she had sewn. But no longer.

She was a changed woman, however the carriage crash changed her. She wouldn’t dare harm even a fly and had done everything within her power to make the world better – even more than her parents did.

His resolve was restored, and he would never betray Lady Nightshade no matter how many riches were offered.

(The idea of this was that the butler originally betrayed the villainness, with a few different ways depending on the ending of the original game, and so Lady Nightshade was kind of terrified of Hawthorne. If I made this into an actual longer story, it would probably have her slowly come to trust him and even see him as a male parental figure, and the same with seeing her as his daughter. I hope this came across well enough.

Also I went with the idea that fate is still pushing her towards a bad ending for her, with things still going wrong even as she tries to do good or from before she was isekaied, but some things have completely changed like Hawthorne defending her not betraying her.)

A butler notices his lady of the house has changed—meek and kind instead of evil. One day, he overhears her crying: "Why?! I did everything right, so why the bad end?! This isn't fair... I don't want to die."

[jazziejax]

𝐉𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧’, 𝐉𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧’

“Wait…you fucked both?!”

“Shut the fuck up, Mary.”

“Oh, you nasty freak! Why didn’t I know about this right after it happened?! Did you do it at the same time?”

“We are in a church parking lot! Have some couth!”

It’s the summer of 2003 in the deep heat of Mississippi, and Juicy’s just trying to live life loud—jewelry clinking, hips swinging, and lip gloss always fresh. Between running around with Mary, eating good southern cooking, keeping her name clean in a town full of loose talk, all while taking a break from behind a perfect college student, Juicy doesn’t have time for love… not that it stops love from finding her anyway.

The Moore twins are back, and so are the memories they all tried to keep buried. Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore is silent and steady. And he still had those burning eyes like he knew things she hasn’t even admitted to herself yet. Observant as ever. And Elias ‘Stack’ Moore is still as bold, reckless, and shameless in the way he flirts, always saying the wrong thing at the right time just to see her blush.

It was just like old times. They’re her brothers best friends, and she’s not supposed to fall for either of them—let alone both. But in the hectic summer of ‘03, feelings begin to slip through the cracks as they all depend on one another, just how they did when they were younger.

What starts as teasing glances and late-night conversations grows into something tender, tangled, and far more complicated than Juicy ever expected. She’s never been one to choose between sweet and wild… so why start now?

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞. | 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 | ★ ★ ★ ★

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨. | 𝐒𝐨 𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 |★ ★

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞. | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐤 | ★ ★ ★

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫. | *𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 | ★ ★ ★ ★

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱.

[shimmering-starsun]

there’s been an insane resurgence of headcannons in the marvel fandom thanks to thunderbolts, so heres my masterlist of headcannons i’ve seen from others that I will continue to add to :)

Yelena

her guinea pig is the group pet—named Nat

insists on doing karaoke every saturday night, she and Ava eat everyone up.

Cooks for EVERYONE. makes sure they all eat enough.

laughs at her own jokes, especially the bad ones. Ava can’t help but laugh with her.

Bucky

leads group therapy seasion every tuesday.

tries* to use brainrot and slang terms, but it catches onto Alexei, so now nobody can convince him otherwise.

helps Bob with his nightmares. Sees pre-serum Steve in Bob so he feels like he needs to protect him

talks about Sam a lot, everyones tired of it.

argues with John constantly, but they always work well together on missions.

It’s a competition to see who can sneak up on and scare bucky. He’s expressionless every time and just says “wow that was so scary”

Insists on silence breaks, everyone starts speaking again after 3 minutes.

says he never cares, but makes sure there’s water and first aid for every mission.

Bob

THE little brother.

has to have some amount of light on when he sleeps. He also loves to sleep in the living room on the couch when other’s are there to listen to the soft of their voices.

May or may not be on Booktok, either way, he reads romance and mystery.

always in the corner drinking tea or a milkshake when the others are fighting.

hates cucumber, any way it’s prepared.

He always beats John in every card or board game. when it’s more than 2 people playing, it doesn’t matter if Bob comes out on top, he always gets a higher score than John. They’re the two brothers who hate eachother.

watches cartoons to heal his inner child, doesn’t let anyone know.

>800 hours on minecraft

hard for him to accept gifts from others, even if it’s a bag of chips, he’ll say he doesn’t deserve it.

actually has a great sense of humor, can make the entire team cry from laughter just by saying something small. Takes him a couple weeks to loosen up and start joking around

Ava

likes to jumpscare people by just appearing out of thin air. Steals everyones snacks because she can.

Ultimate gaslighter, especially towards Bob. shows him those ai videos of sad cat stories and obvious rage bate and he gets pissed about it.

loves halloween and horror movies (a menace on halloween night, especially to John who she would just stand in the hallway and stare menacingly at while in a clown costume or something)

has trouble sleeping. Bucky once found her on the floor of the training room at 3am

once passed out from overworking herself, woke up and found Bob sitting next to her watching over her like a big golden retriever.

Kendrick Lamar enthusiast

Red Guardian

runs a tiktok account where he posts videos of the team (bonus, he puts filters on them and doesn’t tell)

will make the most heinous food combinations and swear they’re good.

hugs a little too tightly.

always gives a big dramatic speech before they go out, even if it’s just for coffee.

tells stories that are 90% lies, but everyone listens anyway.

John

acts as if he doesn’t care for the group, but gets worried if they don’t all text him back.

thinks he has a niche movie collection but it’s not neiche at all. horrible taste in movies (this one is very popular)

resident chef, along with Yelena.

the only one who has an actual schedule.

Gets really quiet after missions, especially if things went bad. Extremely self-critical even if it’s not apparent.

[magnoliaswriteatsunset]

I watched a reel showing what Zayne said after being gone for 30 days. I can’t help but wonder about something.

Imagine this:

We are the MC. We are because we customized her and the cafe can show time passing from morning to evening, then night based on the time of where we are/the server. Usually, we/MC always tells the guys/chosen love interest(s) if we are leaving. We can say good night and hello when we meet.

But something bugs me.

When we exit the game and leave for 30 days, sometimes less, sometimes more, they send messages. Try to get in touch. Search the spots we frequent. Check in on things we left behind to keep them in order and in good shape for when we return. They don’t know when we’ll come back. If we’ll ever come back. All they know how to do is wait. Wait for someone who seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet.

A thought occurred to me.

What if the reason no one can find us, and the reason no one else seems too concerned, is because in their world once we exit the game, MC, us, our avatar, the only way for us to show and give our love to the guys, ceases to exist, but are not completely erased.

The side characters are none the wiser, believing we were sent away on a classified mission or simple were too busy to socialize with their peers. However, the love interests are different. They are aware of the situation to some extent, at the least. They know us well by now. They know we wouldn’t disappear without good reason. And the threats surrounding us are ever present. But something’s off. If that were true, and we were taken by force, they know we wouldn’t go without a fight. They know we would have left traces of *something* behind. Anything. From a knocked over glass to cameras watching over Linkon. They would have found it. But no. It’s like once we step foot outside the game, out side of Destiny Cafe, we simply cease to exist.

The space itself is empty, save for the lone chair the love interests lounge in, only allowing one at a time. No staff to take your order, no customers chatting idly in the background as they sip on their drinks and eat whatever food they bought earlier, no people passing by the windows or coming in and out of the building. Just us, our love interest, and this empty space all to ourselves, playing music of our choice non-stop.

I think we forget, at times, that we have more power over this “world” than we realize. That our choices, feelings and thoughts have sway over how we perceive their world.

But what really gets me, is that it’s as though there is mutual comfort to be found.

Comforting us by easing our worries, waiting for us, the world refusing to turn unless we arrive. Comforting them by interacting with them, touching them, conversing with them, sometimes reacting to what is going on beyond the screen in eerily perfect timing, even though they don’t know what’s actually going on. They are just programmed to do so. Nothing more, nothing less.

Here’s what gets me, though.

We have all this interaction, all this time together, chatting, studying, working (while trying to act like or blatantly staring at each other), playing, or even sleeping together (literally just sleeping, like a nap with the phone on because your too exhausted to exit beforehand). Then suddenly, it’s like we’re a ghost. Gone. No one else has seen us. The only thing left is the echoes of where we once stood.

I wonder,

Do they wait in that chair, acting as though we exist beyond those cafe walls? As if they’ll find us on a walk in the park or fighting to protect Linkon? Do they sit and wait, switching out from time to time to try and see who will get to be in the cafe when you arrive?

So many questions.

Perhaps, in their world, you are the only thing that helps time move forward. Everything else feels flat and stagnant. As their whole world encompasses this small room.

Do you know?

Do you understand what they do while they wait?

Do you feel the same longing and yearning for them as they do for you?

Do you wait? For them? Or is the world around you able to keep you company? Unlike their own. At least, not the way yours does.

Will you ever get to be with them? No longer being stuck behind a screen and wall of code. Would you still love them, without that safety net? Or would it be too much for either of you to bear?

…..

I deviated a bit from where I originally planned to go but I’ll expand more on these later. What do you think? What ideas are bouncing around in that brain of yours? (I also put stuff down in the tags if your interested by it’s mostly just little note from me.

[jester-privilege]

Villain Stone is definitely what I'm hoping to see from Sonic 4, so I tried my hand drawing him - mind you, in my design he's a bit of a hot mess, with Robotnik's old coat repurposed and patched up, and with longer hair and beard (and the sunglasses, just because those are fun).

Then I ended up deciding to write a short piece for this Stone, which could be a beginning of a longer fic. Text under the cut:

Stone gives himself a year to grieve. A year for the Earth to rotate, for the people to recover. To forget. 

He doesn’t stay idle, of course. He uses the emergency bank card in his shoe to leave England. Flies back to the United States. Rents a car and drives to Idaho. 

The Doctor liked the idea of putting a secret bunker in Idaho, mostly because nobody would ever expect it to be in Idaho. 

Stone stocks up on food at a nearby town, and hunkers down. For the first two months, he looks at trees. Eats. Reads the Doctor’s old notes, downloaded once he was able to connect to the private network. And he thinks. 

When Stone was thirteen, a couple came to the orphanage. Friendly, wealthy-looking, hopeful. For some reason, they spoke to Stone, who gave off one-word answers. The next day, Stone was pulled into the director’s office. Told that there would be another meeting with the couple, with the prospect of fostering him, with adoption in mind. 

When the couple came back, a few days later, Stone made a point of walking up to a boy two years his senior and breaking that boy’s nose. He still remembers the couple’s shocked faces - the director’s panic, the boy wailing in surprise as blood poured down his face. That boy, who Stone had found annoying at the time, had looked at him with an expression he could not back then quite parse. It wasn’t until later that Stone recalled that he’d been smiling. 

Smiling, Stone learned later, in the right context could put people at ease. 

After a few months, Stone starts to plan. He runs out of supplies fast, but he has emergency funds, he has contacts, and he has a pick-up truck. For the next few weeks, Stone hunts down mechanical and electrical parts, and calls in favours. In the evenings, he begins to build a database of G.U.N, collecting schematics and personnel files. It helps that he still remembers where the bodies are buried, and which people are the weak links. 

Around month six, Stone travels back to London, purchases a coffee shop near the G.U.N headquarters, and takes it over. It’s a particular favourite of many of the bigwigs in G.U.N, and Stone makes sure to keep the operations running exactly as they did before. Give or take a few listening devices. 

One time, the Doctor had asked him if he was dating anyone. Of course, he hadn’t phrased it quite like that. 

“So, should I presume that you have some sort of paramour, Agent?” Robotnik had said, his head bowed towards the chip he was soldering. “Note my lack of assumptions about their gender. Don’t care, don’t need to know, read the HR memo!” 

Stone had swallowed down his initial response, which was to point out that Robotnik had asked. Instead he smiled, standing attentively with the tool case in hand. 

“I’m unattached, Doctor. Free as a bird.” 

Robotnik gave him a sharp glance, with something odd flashing across his face, there one moment and gone in the next. He’d turned back to his work, moustache twitching. 

“What, no takers? Pretty pathetic, Stone, I gotta say. At least I have the excuse of my prize-winning personality.” 

“I’m not interested,” Stone had said, mildly. “I don’t like most people.” 

This, for some reason, had attracted the Doctor's attention - the man had turned and looked at him again, brows raised.  

“You don’t like people? You, Stone? You’re always grinning at everyone like an idiot!” 

Stone had grinned at the Doctor, like an idiot, just happy that the Doctor paid that much attention to him. 

“Adapting certain positive mannerisms makes it easier to navigate social interactions, Doctor. The only person I actually like is you. Everyone else I simply tolerate.” 

The Doctor had looked at him for a moment longer, studying him. He wasn’t the first person Stone had told about his lack of interest in the general humanity, but he was the first one who didn’t look at him like he was some kind of a monster. Of course he didn’t. He was the Doctor. 

“You’re an odd little man, Stone,” Robotnik had said then, his voice tinted in genuine amusement. “No wonder you made such a good merc. You little sociopath, you.” 

“Not diagnosed,” Stone had responded cheerfully. 

“Huh! Well, whatever - at least I don’t have to worry about you running off to fornicate with some Suburban Sally, or - Barbeque Bob,” Robotnik had added hastily. “No assumptions, of course.” 

Stone had bitten the inside of his cheek, to swallow his initial response. Not very work appropriate. Instead, he’d just smiled. 

“Of course, sir.” 

Doctor Robotnik had been the only person he’d cared about, and now he was gone. 

Stone barely sleeps. He stops grooming himself. The shadows of the bunker grow longer, twist and turn as he works through the nights. Whenever he closes his eyes, the shape of the explosion burns inside his eyelids. 

He’d been content, for as long as the Doctor was by his side. He’d been happy to be domesticated, to be soft.

He’d been happy. 

By month twelve, Stone packs up his meager possessions and loads them into his truck. The time for grieving alone was over. He was ready to share the pain. With the whole world.

He starts the long drive towards Montana.

[unluckilyimnot]

Bed chem – trafalgar law

You have nightmares and happen to bump into your captain in the middle of the night. ~2k

Note: first one piece post, not the last, i just restart reading it. made this late last night. My bsf told me it was nice so here it is

main m.list | m.list | rules

It was the middle of the night when you woke up from yet another nightmare. You’re gasping for air, having a hard time collecting your thoughts and grounding yourself. Tears peak at the corner of your eyes – you need to get away from this feeling. So you get up, not bothering to put some pants on based on the hour and go looking for a glass of water. Chills can be seen on your arms, but you swear yourself you’ll be quick. You walk fast around the ship you know now like the back of your hand, you’re not really looking, not bothering turning the light on – until you hit into someone right in front of the kitchen.

“Shit.” You cursed before you can even make sense of who’s in front of you. He turned on the light, that way can finally see your captain, bare chest, making his way to the kitchen as well – you figured. If you had a hard time grounding yourself, hitting your nose right in Law’s chest was very efficient. You didn’t mention how he’s dressed, neither does he for you. There’s just a knowing look between you two.

“Couldn’t sleep too ?” you ask, walking in the kitchen and getting your needed glass of water while he took an apple.

“No.” He waited a moment, enough for you to finish your glass in one go, before asking, absently. “Nightmares ?”

There’s a long silence, more comfortable than you’d expected. He knows what he’s talking about, you don’t need to hear him saying it – you just know. That’s probably not the first time he hears you wandering around the Polar Tang at night, and it’s certainly not the first time you hear him either. You’re always awake around the same hours, but it’s the first time you ran into each other.

“Yes.” You answer in the same tone.

He nods, taking a knife, then sits at the table. There’s chills on his back as well, but he doesn’t seem to care. You look away quickly, not wanting to face him when you just checked him out. You pulled another glass from the shelf, filling them both before sitting next to him. You lean slowly on the table ; your hands couldn’t reach the other side, but you still liked to try. You don’t really know why you sat next to him when you usually don’t even bother to check on him, but finding yourself in the same room as him, in the middle of the night, felt a little intimate. You liked it : sitting in silence, giving him a glass of water he didn’t ask for. It felt right.

Without a word, Law handed you an apple’s slice. You looked at it for a second, blinking twice before taking it. You took a bite, eyes glimmering at the sweet taste before he ate one himself. It goes on for a while. Law gave you another one after finishing his, and so on, until the apple was done.

“You want more ?” he asked roughly, his voice was deeper than usual from the late hour. When you shook your head he got up and threw it away, leaving the knife and both glasses  in the sink and leaned on the counter. You knew he was staring at your back, probably dying to ask something, just like you, but wouldn’t dare. Then he moves again, his hand brushing along your shoulders.

“Come with me,” he whispers, as if talking would push you over the edge. It wouldn’t, but you didn’t say anything. You look up at him, not knowing where this was going. A small frown formed on your face, making him roll his eyes.

“I’m not gonna eat you,” he snored before patting your shoulder gently.

You got up this time, following him in the dark hallway to his cabin. You stopped by the door, not daring to take a step ahead. There’s a twisted feeling in your guts, you’re not sure you can walk through the door and then leave the same. Law turns back to look at you.

“Let’s stay awake together, if neither of us can sleep,” he clears things out quickly, of course, but it still feels weird. Yet, you take that step and walk into his cabin as he closes the door behind you.

You don’t really know what to do at first, and now you feel really self-aware ; you regret the small pair of shorts you could’ve easily put on. Noticing you fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, he showed you his blanket, authorizing you to lay in his bed as he puts on a shirt before sitting at his desk. So you do. Let the warmth engulf you, drowning in his scent – you feel safe, finally, and your body understood it faster than you because you yawned quietly.

You're laying on your side, rolled into his blanket, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can I sleep here ?”

“Sure,” he said softly after a moment, you can tell he wants to ask something else but isn’t sure. You fight to keep your eyes open for a few more minutes.

“Do you mind if I join ?”

“No.” You didn’t hesitate, maybe because you’re already half asleep. “It’s your bed.”

You hear him chuckles, but it’s far away already. Your eyes close slowly and you hold the sheet a little closer. You’re not even fully asleep when you feel his arms pulling you up and bringing you up to the pillow before he lays next to you. There’s space between you, but he’s radiating so much heat, you’re drawn to him like a moth to light. You don’t remember touching him, not really. You think you do but you can imagine it totally as well. You fall asleep with the weird feeling of his arm around your waist.

When you wake up the next morning, the sun is piercing through the round porthole falling right to your face. You roll away from it, hitting Law's arm. He’s covering his eyes but slowly moving as well. Your eyes are still half closed when you catch his also half asleep eyes. He groaned, stretching his arms above his head even if his limbs hit the wall. You pull the blanket closer to your face, hiding the small blush you can feel coming dangerously to your face.

He’s hot. His hair is a mess, his eyes shine with sleep after he yawns. It feels like cheating, seeing him so vulnerable. He doesn’t say anything, neither do you, not yet. He gets up before you, only putting pants on before giving you a shirt – longer than the one you wear at the moment, so you can go back to your cabin and change.

“I’ll make your coffee,” he says, finally, his voice still deep and rough from sleep.

Something flips inside you. You bury your head in your pillow before nodding. You hear the door close behind him and sigh, before groaning in the pillow. You take your head out of it, gasping for air a little, feeling so flustered. It feels weird thinking about it, you don’t even dare talking about it ! But it was nice. You slept well, you were hot all night, not curled up on yourself. It was comforting having him close, being able to touch him and hear him breathe. You shake your head. You don’t want to think about it.

But you do. It doesn’t leave your mind all day. You kept thinking about his arm around your waist you’re sure you didn’t imagine. How you just fell on him in the middle of the night, how he wanted to sleep at the same time as you, how you two woke up at the same time… You couldn’t help but think you two match each other too much.

Of course you noticed how well rested he looked as well, it didn’t go unnoticed by anyone in fact. He’s less on edge, a bit less firm in his words, he laughed at one of Sachi’s jokes – almost made the man choke on air. It wasn’t just you, he slept way better as well.

Yet neither of you mentioned it. You go on your days like you usually do, without looking at each other more than necessary, without lingering touch. It didn’t change anything, after all. Right ? It was a one time thing, you wanted to believe it.

Until you woke up again in the middle of the night later the same week. You went for a glass of water, like usual, but this time you stayed a little longer in the kitchen, waiting. You felt silly, but you kept your eyes on the ocean on the other side of the porthole with your glass still in hand. Until you hear him walking around the corner, the barely marked stop in his track when he sees the lights on before you imagine him walking in.

“You again ?” he chuckles but there’s no fun in his voice, only a strange softness you didn’t expect. Or maybe you did. You don’t want to think about it. You turned his way, smiling at him.

“Who else ?”

He’s still bare chest, he can still see the beginning of your ass because your shirt barely covers it but you don’t mind. He walks to you, stealing your glass from your hand before filling it and drinking.

“Nightmares ?” It’s your time to ask now as you stare softly his way. He turned around and leaned on the counter next to you, crossing his arms.

“Didn’t have time to fall asleep yet,” he cleared, but didn’t say he didn’t have some. You whine at his words.

“It’s three in the morning, captain,” you nagged. “You should try at least.”

“’Cause you do ? Then why are you here, almost every night, at the same time ?” there’s a mocking smirk on his lips – he’s not buying it.

“Well, yes, I do sleep. I’m just the best at it,” you pout a little, before laughing lightly. There’s nothing to laugh about, but the conversation made you laugh anyway. You miss the light in his eyes, and you for sure would never think his heart would ache at the sound. And yet. 

“We have a really good bed chem, Law,” you confessed after some time. You’re now leaned on the counter, leaving your head on your arms. He doesn’t dare look at you, you guess, because he’s suddenly stiff beside you. “We wake up at the same hours in the night. Fell asleep at the same time the other night, and woke up together as well,” you comment, not sure if you expected him to speak or not. “It felt nice,” you confessed, finally. “I slept well that night.”

He can see you half naked by now, but that’s only fair in your opinion. His eyes linger on your for a second before looking away and finishing his glass. “Yeah, me too.”

Your heart skips a beat at his word and you can’t help the smile on your lips.

“Can I sleep with you tonight ?” you ask, confidence showing up out of nowhere.

“Sure.”

He’s distant, not looking your way anymore as he pushes himself off the counter but he waits for you by the door, and he lets you choose the pillow you prefer. And he pulls you to his chest when you turn your back to him after saying goodnight this time, holding your waist so close to him you can barely move. But it’s fine, you’re not arguing that, not when you fell asleep so easily ; not when all your nightmares go away when he’s near.  

I might do another part, idk yet. Ace is gonna have his version too hihi. Let's me know if you liked it!

[thestarsaboveme]

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: angst with comfort, reader and lads men having a misunderstanding because reader is overthinking that they’re cheating on her with the mc since they always spend time with the mc and spending less time with the reader.

xavier ver. | rafayel ver. | zayne ver. | sylus ver.

caleb x reader | angst/comfort

There was a time when Caleb used to show up with your favorite drink before you even asked.

He'd call you ''pipsqueak'', kiss your forehead, and ramble about the most bizarre cosmic theories while you curled up beside him.

Now…the only thing constant was his absence.

And MC.

-

''I'm going out with MC again today,'' he'd said casually that morning, slipping on his jacket. ''She's got some readings I wanna help her decode.''

You nodded, trying to be supportive. ''Again?''

He glanced at you. ''Yeah. We've been making progress. She's intuitive. Gets the rhythm of it.''

You gave a faint smile. ''Right.''

He leaned down, kissed your cheek quickly, and said, ''I'll be back late, but I'll text you, okay?''

But he didn't.

Again.

-

You scrolled through your messages that night, seeing blue bubble after blue bubble with no replies.

Dinner's ready if you want to swing by.

Hope the readings are going well.

Are you okay? It's getting late.

Each one unanswered.

And then your heart twisted when you checked MC's social feed. Just a short video clip of her and Caleb, both laughing as he showed her something on a holographic tablet.

He looked happy. Relaxed. Engaged.

The kind of look he used to save for you.

-

It wasn't just tonight. It had been weeks.

You told yourself it was work. That MC was a client, a partner, a hero in her own right. Of course Caleb would be focused on her.

But even when you were in the room with him lately…you still felt alone.

Like he was always looking past you. Toward someone else.

You didn't even notice your hands were trembling as you typed the message.

I need to talk. Can you come over? Please?

It took six minutes for his reply to come through.

On my way. Give me 15.

-

He arrived exactly 15 minutes later, his hair wind-tossled, coat still half-zipped, and an easy smile on his lips that immediately faded when he saw your face.

''Hey…what's wrong?'' he asked, stepping inside.

You didn't answer right away. You just stood there, looking at him, trying to figure out where the boy you fell in love with had gone.

''You and MC seem close,'' you said finally.

Caleb blinked, confused. ''I mean, yeah. We've been working side by side for a while. Why?''

You looked away. ''Are you cheating on me?''

The words cut through the room like a sharp blade.

His mouth parted slightly, stunned. ''What?''

''I need to know, Caleb. I can't keep pretending this isn't eating me alive.''

He took a slow step toward you. ''Pipsqueak…no. I would never. Where is this coming from?''

You laughed bitterly. ''From weeks of watching you give her your time, your focus, your energy. And leaving me with scraps. From seeing the way you light up around her. From missing you when you're standing right in front of me.''

His brows pulled together, the easy charm in his expression replaced by something heavier.

''Is that really how you feel?''

''I don't know how else to feel. You don't look at me the way you used to. You don't see me.''

He ran a hand through his hair. ''I didn't know it had gotten this bad.''

''That's the problem,'' you whispered. ''You're so good at reading the stars, Caleb. But you haven't been reading me.''

Silence stretched between you.

Then, in a voice low and raw, he said, ''You're right.''

You stared at him, heart pounding.

''I've been out of sync. Focused on work. On helping MC process everything she's dealing with,'' he said. ''And I thought…I thought you were okay. That we were okay.''

''Because I didn't say anything sooner?''

''Because I wanted to believe we were solid enough to weather it,'' he said. ''But I see now I've been neglecting the one thing I can't afford to lose.''

You folded your arms tightly. ''So what was it, then? Just convenience? You two work well together, so I got put on the backburner?''

He stepped forward, voice steady but filled with something deeper. ''You were never on the backburner. MC is a colleague. A friend. Someone I respect. But you…''

He stopped, looking straight into your eyes.

''You're the only person I've ever loved without fear.''

Your breath caught.

''You think I'm fearless, right?'' he said. ''The charming one. The one who always has a line ready. But you terrify me.''

''Why?''

''Because you're real,'' he said. ''Because you see through all the masks. Because when I'm with you, I'm not pretending to be the guy who always knows what he's doing. I'm me. Just Caleb.''

You swallowed hard. ''Then why didn't you show me that lately?''

''I was scared,'' he admitted. ''That I'd burn out. That I wouldn't be enough for both of you. For her mission, for your heart. So I leaned into what I knew. Work. Banter. The stuff I could control.''

You looked at him, searching for the lie.

But there wasn't one.

''I thought maybe…'' you hesitated, voice trembling, ''you were starting to feel more connected to her. Like you admired her more.''

Caleb stepped forward again, slowly this time, until he was close enough that you could feel his warmth.

''I do admire her,'' he said honestly, ''But I love you. You are not the same. You'll never be the same.''

Tears welled up, and you turned your face away.

He gently cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze back.

''I should've told you more. Made time. Asked how you were doing instead of assuming,'' he said. ''And I know an apology doesn't erase the loneliness I caused. But if you let me…I'll prove I haven't forgotten how to be yours.''

You let out a shaky breath. ''I didn't need fireworks, Caleb. I just needed you.''

His eyes softened. ''Then let me come back to you. No shields. No distractions.''

You didn't respond with words.

You just leaned into him, letting his arms wrap around you.

Letting the quiet between you finally mean something healing.

[dantes-jacket]

I’ll love you forever and ever

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: request #8!!! You and Dante have been together for 15 years but never got married because of his financial status. Until one day he keeps getting signs that make him upset, but you’re there to assure him. Fluff and a touch of angst also marriage!! I really love how this turned out!!

You and Dante are out shopping today for random stuff. Well you’re out shopping to get some clothes and other cute things that catch your eyes, Dante just tagged along.

In the 15 long years that you and Dante have been together, he loves going clothes shopping with you. He loves seeing you try on a bunch of different types of clothes and giving him a fashion show. He loves seeing your personality match the clothes you’re wearing. If you’re in something nice like a dress, you walk all elegantly and curtsy. If you’re in jeans and a leather jacket you walk around all cool and mysterious. He thinks it’s adorable and doesn’t want to miss it.

The shopping center you two went to has a big out door fountain area. It’s very pretty and soothing to watch. You and Dante always eat little snacks right by it because it’s a nice view. The store you’re wanting to go to is just past the fountain.

While you’re walking by you see a big set up in front of it. You stop to see what is going on. Dante stops beside you, “Something the matter?”

“I just wanna see what this set up is for.”

You watch as this younger man by the fountain while a group of girls are standing a little bit away and taking photos. The man gets down on one knee and takes something out of his back pocket. The friends turn the girl in the middle around and point to the man telling her to turn around.

The girl turns around and slowly walks to the man. You can see she’s covering her mouth with both hands and crying. Once she gets to him they talk for a minute or two then he’s sliding a ring on her finger. He stands up and spins her around then kisses her.

You and other people who watched clapped for the newly engaged couple. You’ve always loved hearing stories about people getting engaged and making the plans. It’s so exciting and happy. You love all the positive emotions that surrounds it.

After watching you turn back to Dante, “That was cute.”

Dante is looking at the scene, “Yeah it was nice.”

You grab his hand and drag him along, “Okay it’s shopping time! Let’s hurry the store has a sale today.”

Dante laughs at your eagerness, “I’m right behind you baby.”

While you drag Dante to the store he is lost in his thoughts. He saw how happy you were watching that proposal, your eyes shined so brightly. He also remembers all the times you’ve come home from work and talked about your coworkers getting engaged. You have that same light in your eye. How he wishes that light would be because he proposed.

You two have been dating for 15 years but he hasn’t proposed or have you two get married. He wants to throw a grand wedding for you. He wants to see you in a beautiful white dress walking down the aisle to him. He wants to say vows with you in front of everyone so they know how much he loves you. He wants to dance with you in front of everyone to a slow song. He wants to have a custom cake that you two share a big bite of. He wants it all.

But him and his stupid lifestyle can’t afford it. He beats himself up every single day about it because you deserve it. You’ve never once complained or asked questions. You respect him and what he wants. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky. But watching that proposal only sank him into the ground further. That was strike one for today.

You get to the shop and walk in. You’re greeted by a worker, “Welcome in you two! Can I help you with anything?”

“Hi! I was just curious about the dress shopping.” You respond to the nice worker.

“Oh well it’s only our wedding dresses that are on sale this week. Would you like to try them on?”

“Um I don’t know-“

“Come on it’ll be fun! I bet your husband would love to get a reminder of what you looked like on your special day!”

Strike two and three in the same sentence. If words and actions were weapons he’d have three swords sticking out of him. He just keeps getting aggressive reminders about his whole dilemma.

“I guess I could. Maybe it’ll be fun, right Dante?”

Dante doesn’t respond. So when you look over at him he is zoned out. You tug his leather jacket, “Dante?”

That seems to snap him out of whatever he was in, “Oh yeah do whatever you want baby.” He came out a little snippy and he didn’t mean it. He hopes you didn’t catch it.

You’re caught off guard by his tone. He’s been acting weird today and you have no idea why. “Dante are you feeling okay? We can go home if you’re not.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just try on the dresses,” he says while pushing you towards the worker.

The worker leads you back to a little try on space with a couple different dresses.

“So you see one you like?”

You look through the rack of dresses and one catches your eye. It’s a beautiful floral lace dress. It has a lower v cut to show some chest but still keep it mostly covered. The chest has the floral pattern and then on the skirt there’s some vines that run up from the bottom. It’s absolutely breathtaking.

“Can I try this one?”

The worker comes over and jumps up and down, “Yes please! This one keeps getting skipped over and no one ever tries it on.” She grabs the dress of the rack and leads you to the actual dressing area. She turns back to Dante, “I’ll be back out with your bride in no time!”

Dante just gives a curt nod and looks away. What is wrong with him today? Maybe you should have just gone home. You’ll take him home after you try this on.

Dante watches you disappear behind the curtain just hangs his head. He can’t help all the negative emotions swirling in him. He’s so mad at himself. You didn’t even try to correct the girl either. Do you really not care? He bet you does you’re just being nice.

Lost swimming his thoughts he’s snapped out of them by the call of his name. There you’re standing in the middle of the area so you can see every angle of yourself in the dress in the many mirrors circling the room.

His mouth goes dry and every word he knows just disappears from his head. You’re shining, quite literally glowing in that dress. He can’t take it anymore, he wants to give you a wedding. You deserve it.

He stands up and walks over to you. He smiles and holds out his hand. You take it and he holds it above your head indicating for you to twirl. You spin around with a laugh and smile. He can’t help but smile at you. You’re grinning ear to ear. You look so happy. How can he have just kept this from you?

“You look absolutely breathtaking. I just can’t take my eyes off of you.”

That makes your grin even bigger it’s possible, “The dress is so beautiful, I really love it.”

That breaks Dante’s heart, he already knows damn well he can’t afford it. He goes to respond but is cut off by the worker, “Go ahead and have it.”

You turn to face her, “What?”

“Take it. It’s just collecting dust in here and if it doesn’t sell this weekend we are trashing it. I don’t want to see this beautiful dress get destroyed.”

“Wait I have to at least pay for some of it.” You go to grab your purse but are stopped by the worker.

“Really I promise it’s okay. Plus I think your husband wants you to take it. His eyes are shining just as bright as yours.”

You turn to look at Dante who is nervously chuckling now, “I mean how couldn’t I? This dress was made for her.”

You smile at him but you can tell there’s something conflicting laying behind his bright blue eyes. They might by shining but they are also clouded. By what you don’t know.

“Well let’s get you out of the dress so I can box it up for you.” She leads you back to the changing area leaving Dante alone with his thoughts again.

Changing out of the dress and getting it boxed up was quick. Dante takes the box from the worker and thanks her. You two walk out of the store, “Hey let’s go home, trying that on tired me out.”

Dante’s shocked by your change of heart, “Are you sure? You were so excited to go shopping today.”

“Yeah, I’d rather just spent the day with you at home.”

“If you say so…”

You two get back to Devil May Cry and Dante just locks himself in your shared bedroom. Seriously what is going on with him? You decide to let him have some space so he can try and work through whatever is going on. If he’s not back out in an hour you’ll check on him.

You make yourself and little snack and eat in trying to kill time. You watch the clock anxiously and don’t see him come out or even hear a peep come from the bedroom.

You push yourself out the your seat and head up stairs. You knock on the door and get no response, “Dante, can I come in?”

You hear a mumble, “Fine.” You open the door and walk in to see Dante laying by the dress that is laid out on your bed. He’s lying on his stomach looking at the dress. You walk over and sit by him and run a hand through his hair.

“You wanna tell me what’s been bugging you all day?”

He mumbles out his question, “Did you ever dream about getting married?”

“I mean when I was a kid yeah but that was more or so me replacing a princess in a fairy tail. I never really planned or dreamed about mine. Why do you ask?”

“Your eyes shine any time a wedding is brought up. Whether be about the engagement, proposal, the plans, or just anything about them you’re like a kid in a candy store. You look so happy. I can’t help but feel I’m taking away that happiness by not giving you a wedding.”

“Dante baby can you look at me?” You wait for him to turn his head. He does it but slowly. You can see the light drained out of his eyes and him just looking exhausted. You run your thumb over the bottom of his eye to help soothe him.

“You know I’m happy with you right? I have gotten to be with you for 15 years now and I haven’t regretted a second of it. You make every day feel so special and I can’t wait to wake up everyday to see what you’re going to do. I’m so moved by your love for me. You proudly love me and I can’t ask for more. Some people get married and it’s just for the title. Those people wear the rings but that’s doesn’t always mean it’s a symbol of their love.”

You brush the hair that has fallen into his eyes to the side. You then run your fingers down his jawline. “When we walk into a room people know we love each other just by the energy we pour off of us. What more is there to ask for?”

Dante sighs, “I want to have a big ceremony. I want you to walk down that aisle to me in this dress. I’d know I cry the entire time especially during our vows. I want to dance in front of everyone with you. Then I want to share our custom cake. I want all of that and I can’t afford it. I want to give you all of it.”

“I get where you’re coming from but I’d be happy just with signing the papers. I’d even be happy with a paper ring. Don’t feel like you have to make something big just for me. At the end of the day it’s just you and me, that’s all that matters to me. As long as you’re by my side, I’ll be happy.”

Dante is silent for a couple of minutes. He then speaks up, “How about we throw a little celebration. Nothing too crazy but it involves you wearing that dress.”

You smile and run your hands through his hair once again. “I’m all ears.”

“I’ll get the paperwork and bring it to the creek area outside of town we like. I’ll invite Trish, Lady, Nero, and my idiot brother. I’ll bring a pizza and mini cake for us. Knowing Trish she’ll look over everything. Just all I ask is wear that dress.”

You lean down and kiss his forehead, “It sounds perfect. I promise I’ll wear the dress.”

•

The day of the ceremony is here. Everyone is dressed very nice even the boys. They all are wearing suits. You wonder how Dante convinced them to do that, well Vergil. Nero probably didn’t put up a fight.

You see Dante standing at the end of the makeshift aisle and Lady standing behind him. She’s the one overlooking the signing. Vergil is standing behind Dante and Lady is standing on your side. Nero is the one that is going to walk you down the “aisle”.

Nero turns to you, “Whenever you’re ready.” He holds out his elbow and you wrap your arm around his bicep. You two have a pretty short walk but it still is blissful. You feel the dress flowing behind you and an excitement you didn’t know was possible. You look to see Dante true to his word, he’s tearing up watching you walk to him.

You two get at the end and Nero hands you off to Dante. Dante quickly takes your hand and brings it up to his lips, “You look beautiful my love.”

You blush at his compliment, “Thank you.”

You two turn to Trish and she holds a clipboard with the paper on it. But you can tell she wants to make this as close as she can to a real wedding.

“Dante Sparda, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He squeezes your hand, “I do.”

She then calls your name, “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

You squeeze his hand back, “I do.”

Trish smirks, “Dante?”

Dante calls out your name and you turn to see a beautiful silver ring with a red gem on it. “Hold out your hand.”

He takes your shaky hand and slides the ring on. He then brings it up to his lips and kisses it. Lady taps your shoulder and holds out a black band for you. You take it from her and turn back to Dante.

“Hand out handsome.” Now he holds out his hand and you slide the band onto his finger. You mimic him by bringing his hand up to your lips and kissing the band.

He clears his throat, “One more thing.”

He grabs a little sheet of paper from his pocket and goes to read it. He starts off by saying your name, “I never knew the moment you walked into my shitty shop 15 years ago that this is where we would end up. We’ve been through so much together and it’s only made our bond and love grow. Growing older with you is such a gift and I’ll treasure it forever. You are the light of my life and I just can’t imagine you not in it. Waking up next to you, seeing you smile, hearing you laugh, having you in my arms or even just seeing your beautiful face always makes me so damn happy. I know it took us awhile to get here but I’m so happy you’re going to be taking my last name and becoming mine even more. So thank you for becoming my wife.” He then says your name but adding Sparda instead of your last name.

You ended up crying by the end of the speech and he goes to wipe your tears, “No tears today baby.”

You just smile and shake your head. “You cried earlier silly.”

He just laughs and grabs the clipboard from Trish. He signs his name at the bottom of the paper and hands it to you. You sign your name next to his. You hand the clipboard back to Trish.

She then says, “You may kiss the bride.” Dante doesn’t waste a second to pull you into a kiss. It’s a tender kiss with exhilarating emotions behind it. It’s not a long kiss but it means most.

You hear claps and cheers from everyone that attended. You pull apart and give each other big smiles. This is definitely going to be one of your favorite memories.

The rest of the night is spent dancing, eating pizza and cake. Everyone enjoys themselves but not as much as you and Dante are.

As it gets later Dante drags you off to where no one can see you two. Once you’re out of sight he pulls you into a bone bruising hug. “I love you,” and says your name with his last name again.

“I love you too Dante and I’m so happy to be your wife.”

@tamashithe2nd

also thank you so much for your kind words in your request!! They were super sweet and I appreciate them so much!! I hope you enjoy this, I really loved this idea 🩵

[maevedoodle]

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹જ⁀➴ 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

Bob has his own room, he just hates being alone in it and feeling like he’s gonna get swallowed whole from every thought. So, he starts sleeping on the couch falling asleep to the thunderbolts voices. They take notice.

𝐚/𝐧: I decided to base this on a hc I posted on tiktok!! Worked on this at school so any mistake or if it seemed rushed this is why💔.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

Bob has his own room.

A large king sized bed, dripped in silky beige sheets and an olive green duvet draped over the fluffed up bed.

Yelena even insisted on getting him a gray reading chair for when his bed gets too much, or feels to swallowing.

Ava and John even worked together to get Bob a rug that classed horribly with the curtains, But it made him smile anyway.

He should feel safe, He should want to dip underneath the duvet after his long burning hot showers, He should just want to lay there sometimes when things get home.

It should feel like his space.

But it doesn’t.

He promises himself he’d never talk about it, not directly atleast. But the team doesn’t play coy, they’re aware. The signs are easily spotted.

They noticed weeks ago.

After he’d tell them he’s tired, he’d wander back downstairs with his patterned quilt and crawl into the couch pretending to listen and engage in the conversation.

He never interrupted, The way Yelena and Bucky traded their tragic stories, Or Alexei and John arguing over stupid uno and Ava pretending to be over it, knowing damn well she loves this team.

Bob liked it, Existing in their space. This was safe to him, not his room, his room filled with abandonment and darkness.

Every few nights, like clockwork, Bob would show up just before they all started winding down. He’d sit quietly, always with that same blanket, always pretending to be part of the conversation even if he didn’t say a word.

It didn’t take long for them to figure it out. After all he’s like family.

Alexei was the first to say something. Not to Bob, Never directly, but one night, after watching him doze off mid conversation for the third time that week, he leaned back in his chair and suggested a life changer, well for Bob.

“We should make this a thing. Couch Night. Every Sunday.”

No one questioned it, it just became their thing.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

It was currently Sunday, Bob’s favorite day of the week, Couch night.

Bucky was in the kitchen stirring up hot chocolate and adding extra marshmallows in each mug, John beside him baking chocolate chip cookies and secretly eating the leftover dough.

Ava and Alexei were busy with the blanket situation, Silk pillows propped up on the large couch and many fuzzy, and soft blanket options to choose from.

All of this, it’s exactly what Bob needs.

Bob tiptoes downstairs, he had a habit of walking softly, one he picked up from his childhood.

Yelena was sat on the couch, Her legs tucked under her as a blanket wrapped around her figure, she was attempting to find a movie.

“Oh, hey Bob.” When she speaks his name, it’s gentle, like it’s sacred. He gives her an awkward grin before scurrying near her on the couch.

“Hi.” He whispers as he gets weirdly comfortable on the couch. She tosses him the remote, “I can’t find anything good, and you know they’ll kill me if I mess up a movie night, choice this sunday is yours.”

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

Everyone’s settled in, Bob sips his hot chocolate slowly as he savours the flavor, he had a few cookies in a bowl also. The soft sound of the movie, ‘Paddington’ plays in the background.

Ava is already back in the kitchen reaching for more cookies, Alexei sobbing over the movie, “poor bear, why none of them takes him as a family?”

John keeps dozing off, but eventually wakes up after Bucky slaps his knee and tells him, “this is our valued time, wake the hell up.”

Yelena sips her hot chocolate quite quickly, before having Alexei fetch her some more.

Bob admires the sight in front of him, his own thing that feels close like family.

Halfway through Paddington, Bob’s head starts to lean.

Yelena notices first. She glances down just as the weight of him settles gently onto her shoulder. He’s already out, slow, steady breathing, blanket clutched in his hands like a grounding method.

She doesn’t move. Just adjusts a little to make it easier for him.

Across the room, the others notice too. One by one, the screen fades from focus as their eyes drift toward Bob asleep on the couch.

Ava is the first to smile. It’s faint, barely there, but it softens her whole face.

John lets out a quiet breath, something like a laugh. “Guy sleeps like a cat,” he whispers.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just watches with that faraway look he sometimes gets when the room is full and warm.

Alexei, hands folded over his stomach, nods once like this is good.

No one dares speak too loud. It feels like sacred ground, Bob, asleep and safe, trusting all of them not to let the silence turn cold.

For a long moment, no one says a word. They just sit there with him.

Together.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

𝐚/𝐧: I love this little found family.

[muwapsturniolo]

Third time's the charm 🐰ྀི C. Sturniolo

"let me make it up to you bun."

⟢ nsfw content ahead, smut, overstimulation, fingering, mentions of sex toys, begging,

@bernardsbendystraws FOR DIVIDER

Self-care was something Bunny loved to participate in. Face masks galore, facial steaming, skincare products, as well as body care too. It was the perfect way to relax, especially with her having two days off from ballet.

It was the perfect weekend for it as well. Doll was out of town on a business trip, leaving the girl alone to do whatever she pleased, including self-pleasure.

She had her whole night planned, half of the activities being done. She had washed her hair and diffused it, she had done all her body care after an everything shower, and she put on the new pajamas she had gotten last week.

She felt good.

She was currently in the kitchen looking for a small snack to eat before she went to her room and started to have fun by herself. Just as she had popped a grape into her mouth, the doorbell had rung. With furrowed brows, she makes her way over, the pink bunny slippers shuffling across the hardwood flooring.

The door opens just a tiny bit, enough for her to see Chris on the other side.

"Chris? What are you doing here?"

He licks his lips as she opens the door wider, her pink lacey pajamas that weren't supposed to be sexual in any way, coming into view. The flowy top hugged her chest perfectly, pressing her boobs together and showing just enough skin. The pajama shorts, if you could call them that, were super short and tight, the material hugging her plump thighs just right. He could only imagine how the cusps of her ass looked.

"You said Doll was out of town, figured I'd keep you company for the night. You gonna let me in?" She smiles softly and does as asked, letting him into the warm home and closing the door. He follows her back into the kitchen, watching as she stands at the counter and continues munching on her grapes.

"Did you bring clothes?" She asks him softly, covering her mouth like she always does when eating. "Nah, figured since you like to steal my clothes, I have something here." He walks up behind her and grabs her waist, kissing her shoulder softly. She turns around and holds up a grape, offering it to him. She pops it in his mouth before pulling away from him.

"You can go change in my room. I have some of your hoodies and a pair of your sweats in my closet." Chris hums and pecks her lips before walking out of the kitchen and making his way to her room. He sighs as he enters the comfortable space, the smell of sugar cookies and vanilla infiltrating his senses. He walks past her bed and towards her closet, catching something in the corner of his eye.

He turns his head, his eyes widening when he sees the objects on the bed.

A baby pink rose toy, as well as lube and a dildo.

He approaches the bed, grabbing the pink phallus and examining it. It was pretty big, similar to his dick size that stands at 7 inches. It looked like it was made of jelly, a few veins running up along the side.

He smirks as he grabs the lube and throws it into her nightstand along with the dildo, hiding the rose toy under one of her many pillows.

The night continues, the couple ending up in her bedroom, lying down and watching a movie. He was shocked she didn't react to her toys being gone from her bed, but he figured she was distracted. It was no secret that Bunny was completely infatuated with Chris. When he was around, it seemed as if the girl's brain shut off and only focused on him.

Chris was currently sitting with his back against the headboard, Bunny lying between his legs with her eyes trained on the TV. He begins to kiss her shoulder, trailing soft kisses up to her neck before nipping softly. She tries to turn around, but Chris keeps her in place, one of his hands settling on her thigh.

"Did you have any other plans for tonight?" He murmurs in her ear, his breath hot and causing goosebumps to rise along her arms.

"Mmm, no." Chris smirks at her answer, his hands starting to rub at her thighs.

"I think you're lying Bun."

"No I'm no- Really? Because the dildo and vibrator that were on your bed said otherwise." He chuckles feeling her whole body tense, the embarrassment settling in. She tries to turn her body once more, Chris still holding her in place.

"I-I didn't know you were com- Shhhh it's ok Bun. I should be the one apologizing for ruining your night." He begins to snake his right hand into her shorts.

"Let me make it up to you Bun."

She gasps softly as a singular finger swipes through her folds, gathering her juices before circlining her clit. Her whole body relaxes into Chris's touch, his fingers drawing lazy figure eights on her sensitive bundle of nerves. He continues to plant open-mouth kisses along her neck, whispering sweet and dirty words into her ear.

As she opens her legs wider, giving him more room, he trails his left hand up from her thigh to her chest, groping her breast softly. He tweaks at her nipple through the lacey material of her pajama top, enjoying the way she mewls out and arches her back.

He speeds up his ministrations, the lewd and crude sloshing sound of her juices getting louder as well as her moans.

"Come on baby, know you're close."

He focuses on the way her toes curl, her breath hitching and her back arching as she comes closer and closer to her high. She was teetering on the edge of release, but she needed more.

"M-more, please!" She breathes out, her needy pleas making Chris hum.

"You can do it, be a good girl for me Bun."

She begins to grind against his hand, each movement of her hips matching up with his quick swipes over her clit. It seems like that was just enough for her to reach euphoria, her eyes rolling back as she crumbles into his touch.

But Chris wasn't done.

He grabs her jaw and angles her head back, his lips finding hers in a greedy and sloppy kiss. The two of them work together through the kiss to get her shorts off, throwing the pink material somewhere in the room.

As she remains distracted, Chris reaches underneath the pillow to the side of him and grabs the rose toy. The girl yanks away from the kiss just as the device makes contact with her clit, her hips jerking at the overstimulation.

"F-fuck - Language Bunny." Chris presses the toy harder against her clit, enjoying the way she clenches her eyes shut and her thighs quiver. She was still sensitive from her previous orgasm, her juices leaking onto the white sheets - It was too much.

"Chris, pl-please!" She grabs at his wrist, her nails digging into his skin as she tries to breath. He turns the vibrator up one setting, smiling sadistically as she throws her head back and lets out a mix of a moan and a sob. Chris wraps his left hand around her throat, squeezing gently.

"You can handle it," she breathes heavily, sniffling as she tries to stop her body from seizing up. Despite the overstimulation, her hole was aching, clenching as it begged to be filled and stretched out.

"P-please I- nghh- need you!"

"Aww, my little Bunny needs me? I thought this was too much?" He chuckles as her eyes roll back once more, her moans getting louder and louder every second.

"Give me one more and I'll give you what you want. Be a good girl."

It doesn't take that much time for her to reach that peak, her juices splashing all over Chris's hand and her bed. She heaves and pants harshly as Chris pulls the vibrator away, throwing it somewhere along the bed as he moves from behind her.

He settles between her legs, looking down at her dripping cunt. His eyes drift back up to her face, her dazed eyes meeting his. He pulls his sweats down along with his boxers, his aching cock slapping is abdomen. She whimpers seeing his large member, eager to be filled, yet scared about how sensitive she is.

He lines himself up, swiping his tip through her folds and watching the way she flitches as he nudges her clit. In one swift movement, he slips inside of her, the air being knocked out of her lungs. He pushes her legs to her chest, setting a brutal and fast pace.

Tears were rushing down her face, her breathing erratic as she tried to slow him down, but he wasn't letting up.

Her body was on fire, she could feel everything yet nothing all at once. Incoherent babbles were tumbling from her mouth, and all Chris could do was coo at her.

He eventually does slow down, opting for long and harsh thrusts. She could feel every single ridge of his dick, his mushroom tip dragging along her aching and abused walls.

"C-can't ta - Yes you can." Chris urges, now using his thumb to swipe at her clit.

"Come on Bun, can feel you clamping down on me. Make a mess."

At his firm and encouraging words, her back arches as her legs spasm, her juices seeping out in large amounts.

Chris's own high follows soon after, the milky white liquid coating her walls and her puffy lips. She lies upon the bed looking like a full-on mess. Her thighs were completely soaked, a thin layer of sweat covering her body. Her hair was frizzy, the tight curls looking as if they were brushed out.

He attempts to clean up their mess, going to wipe between her legs, only to stop when she snaps them shut and whines. Thinking quickly, he goes to her bathroom and runs them a bath.

Soon enough, the two are in the tub, Chris holding her as she lies half asleep in the hot water.

"You relaxed now Bun?"

She hums sleepily, still completly spent and fucked out from Chris's so called apology. He chuckles softly and begins to lather her body in soap, mumbling sweet and soft words as she falls into a deeper sleep.

[midnghtprentiss]

Can I request for Jack Abbot x fem reader? Their child wanted pet(s) and Jack just wouldn't let him since he wasn't convinced that they would take care of it and he's busy with work and so does her. Their kid persuaded her and she tried to tempted Jack to give in. Doing everything just to let him say yes. Jack knew his answer but just wanted to mess you with them🫣. Kisses, fluff, suggestive. Thanks!! :))

a/n: this is my first request omg omg omg, i absolutely loved your request! i changed a few times but hope it matches what you wanted. have fun dear. sorry if there's some mistakes, english is not my first language. enjoyyyy :)

mission called convincing daddy to get us what we want - jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader warnings: jack as girls dad, suggestive content

Parenthood was amazing. You loved it more than you expected. You loved being a mom as much as Jack loved being a dad and he was really proud to be a girl's dad. Your twin girls were the reason for him to absolutely love the new version of him. 

Evangeline and Cecilia were his sunshine, his everything. He would die and kill if meant to make them smile. Even before they came to the world he was excited about the idea of having two versions of himself with the person he loves. He spent nights imagining how life would be so much cooler and brighter, he even confessed to you that he always wanted to be a girl dad but never had the chance to make it right before you. 

The whole pregnancy wasn’t easy, you had a lot of pain, restrictions and anxiety at the same time. Growing two girls at once was a hell of a full time job and apparently will be for a long time. You were eating more, sleeping more, feeling bigger than ever, you can’t even count how many clothes didn’t fit anymore. You started by doing less shifts and when you did, Jack made sure you didn’t work harder, which led you to a few fights. 

“Jack, pregnancy is not a disease. I am more than capable of doing my job and still have two children inside of me.” 

“I’m not letting you do everything you want so you can prove something to other people.” You laughed in his face.

“I am a doctor first and then a mother. So please, let me enjoy this moment before I’ll spend my days being known only as a mother.” 

Everything changed when you got to hold your girls for the first time and actually be a better mom than the one you have. It was a full time job, the hardest job you’ve ever had, 24/7 of being alert and on the edge of your seat for the smallest things. You didn’t showered for almost a week after you got to bring them home, you cried when they cried and the worst part of it all was the excruciating feeling that you were already failing. 

Jack was your number one supporter, your safe haven and he was happy to be there. He dealt with the sleepless nights like a champ, always holding the girls, giving them what they needed just for you to sleep for a while, he didn't even complain about being sleep deprived, he just accepted it. But he never told you how terrified he was of sucking at the only job he couldn’t fail. How he was afraid of sleeping and missing something important, or how anxious he was when they were out of his plain sight. He didn’t tell you he almost gave up being a doctor to stay with the girls. 

As they grew up, you both understood how to be better parents and that brought you closer than ever, creating boundaries and rules to make this right. You agreed on coming back to work at your own pace, making cohesive schedules and trying your best not to go home during shifts. You worked the day shift so he stayed with them and he stayed with the girls all day and he worked at night shift for you to be home during bedtime. 

Real teamwork.

Cecilia was like a mini version of Jack. She was bossy, talkative and had the same bad attitude as him, which sometimes made your life so difficult, but she was glued to you. Everywhere you went, she was there like a shadow. Evangeline was a whole version of you, she was sweet, calm and did her best to be nice to everyone and yet Jack was the only one who could calm her down when she wasn’t having a good day. 

There were nights Ange cried non stop because she wanted daddy and as a consequence Cece cried because her sister was crying. You have to call him at two in the morning, knowing he was busy with a trauma, trying your best to not cry on the phone, asking him to talk to her. Or when Cece was giving him an attitude because he wanted her mama so bad that everyone else was an enemy, he had to call you just for her to feel better. 

You decided to change your tactics again and put the girls to socialize in preschool. At first you hated the idea as much as Jack but eventually you decided to give it a try. They absolutely loved it. The first week was filled with tears and anxiety (from you, especially), the desire of bringing them home and putting the whole experiment behind. By the second week the girls begin to cry less and be more excited about going. It was a relief for your mind and both of you could focus more at work. 

At six years old you could see these girls were smarter than you imagined. They talked about what they learned at kindergarten and included details about everything they knew and saw. There was no better feeling than watching your favorite human beings embracing their personality. 

One day after school during a pick up, you noticed them speaking quietly and giggling with each other pointing at some drawings in their notebooks. 

“What’s happening here? Am I missing something?” Ange and Cece looked at each other and giggled louder. 

“Mama, we want a dog.” Cece screamed and lifted up her piece of paper. 

“Oh really? Why do you want a dog?” You asked curious. 

“Today Mrs. Sunny told us about responsibilities and she told us having a pet helped us with that.” Ange was so excited and her sister was agreeing on everything. “We are big girls now.” Big girls that made her father look under the bed every night for monsters.

“Girls, having a pet is a big thing. Me and daddy are really busy taking care of more things to have animals.” You tried to sound soft, knowing how emotional they can get. “Plus, I don’t if you’re ready for this kind of responsibility.” 

“We can help!” Cece jumped in, “We can give them food, water, snuggles and we can take them to our walks with daddy.” 

That would be fun, you think to yourself, Jack was going to have a stroke when you tell him that. Or better, you’ll let them speak to him. 

The idea of a pet was something you and him already talked about. During your pregnancy you had long conversations with your husbands on the subject, you grew up with animals and in fact helped you with the responsibility of taking care of the people you loved. He wasn’t against it, but you’re both busy and now with two kids taking a lot of attention and time, an animal would make it worse and more chaotic. 

“I agree with you, girls.” Of course you agreed with them, the smiles they gave you is more than enough. “We need to convince dad to let us have a pet, what do you think?” They squealed and laughed, starting to make some plans and creating some crazy scenarios where the pet was included. “I suggest you two work on something really good for him and we talk about this before dinner, alright?”

When you got home, Jack was already waiting outside. Crossed arms, polo shirt, faded jeans. What a view. The moment he opened the car door for them, they were already on him, talking about their day and showering him with hints about the conversation that would happen later. 

He just looked at you confused and nodding with whatever sentence was coming out of their mouths. You walked behind them, contemplating the sweet view of your family. 

While Cece and Angel were doing their homework, you were studying a few things for your lecture and Jack was making dinner. You approached him quietly and held his face to make him look directly at you. 

“We have a problem, a big one.” His heart almost stopped at your words. “They want a dog.” 

“Really?” He chuckled, going back to slicing the onions. 

“Something about Mrs. Sunny teaching about responsibility.” You poured yourself some wine and leaned against the counter. “They are on a mission called convincing daddy to get us what we want. It’s gonna be tough on you, buddy.” 

“What exactly did you say to them?” He put the knife down and stared at you. 

“I said the truth. We’re busy and getting a pet would add more chaos into our lives but I said yes.” You said quietly and he raised his eyebrows. “I can’t resist them, you know that!”

Dinner was chaotic. Cecilia and Evangeline were on fire telling all the good reasons for having cats and dogs. They even called themselves ‘doctor daughters’ and their specialty is love and snuggles. You held your smile the whole time, while Jack was so hypnotized by them he didn’t even blink. 

“Girl, I understand you really really really want that but we need to discuss it better.”  Their eyes were full of water and while he talked about their busy life, their school time and the extracurricular they do, a dog was harder. 

“But we are good girls, daddy.” You almost got up and went to the nearest shelter to get the damn dog. 

“I know, bug.”

After bedtime you were laying next to Jack, tracing lines in his chest and you couldn’t stop thinking about their wish of having an animal. Jack knew this conversation was about to happen for the way you tucked them in bed and he heard you saying you would try to convince him using your ‘supermom powers’. Before the conversation started he was already laughing. 

You smacked his chest and rolled your eyes, trying to focus on whatever you were about to say to him. 

“You know why we can’t have a dog.” You looked at him. 

“Why not? Are you afraid he will steal your prosthetic leg?” He burst out laughing holding your arm.

“You would like that, didn’t you?” He teased and your eyes studied his face. 

“Jack, we are raising two girls. A dog can make our job easier.” You think about your next words. “It can teach them responsibility.” 

“A dog can be dangerous.” He found it amusing how you rolled your eyes every time you disagreed. 

“Men are dangerous, a dog is the sweetest thing they can have. Besides, we can use that to make them stop asking for another sibling.” You reminded him, getting more comfortable against his body. 

“You have a very good point, love.”

“Of course I have.”

“A sibling?” You giggled, hiding your face between his chest. “They can have a dog and a sibling, then.” 

“Easy there, tiger. It’s debatable since I’m the one who carries the children here.” 

“Everybody wins something here, just saying.”

“You’re a trouble, Jack Abbot.”

“You married me.” He held your face, caressing your cheeks gently. 

It took Jack three days to get a dog. He talked to an old army friend of his that had the contact of a guy that had retired dogs and just like that, you got a dog - Luke. He’s the nicest, trained and responded very well to the girls clinging on to him. 

You’ve never seen them so excited and happy to have a furry friend and the best part is watching Jack pretending he’s not blusinh watching his girls run around the backyard. You were sitting next to him, listening to Angel and Cece squeal every time Luke licked their faces and screamed when he runs from them. 

“About the sibling situation.” He smirked and watched your face with the same look that got you pregnant before. 

“Not before bedtime, Abbot.” You pushed his shoulder. 

“Can’t wait for our talk later.” 

Maybe life is worth it for the moments like that where everybody is truly happy.

[eraserbread]

gojo's holding back // megumi's babysitter x dad!jo

gojo's home this morning. you don't know how or why, but he's smiling, watching you take megumi by the hand to drop him off at school. It's just a seven-minute walk towards the city, but you still spend extra time kneeling in front of him at the doorway, buttoning his coat high and pulling gloves over his small, delicate hands.

he's pouting, hating the way his coat sounds when he walks. he always has, and he always complains to you, but you won't budge. in the middle of winter, the least you can do is make sure he's warm on his way to school.

"leaving without telling me first? that's harsh. " gojo's been back in his bedroom all morning, napping with one eye open after a long night at work. when he emerges, he's spikey-haired and sleepy—a reflection of his sweet son.

you smile in his presence, turning around to say your goodbyes. long, lanky legs only have him taking four big steps until he's crowding you two.

he's sweeping megumi up on his hip, hugging him with one arm. "look'a my handsome bundle. you warm, 'gumi?"

"put me down." megumi deadpans, but you can see the way he nuzzles a bit deeper in gojo's shoulder.

you feed gojo a laugh he's throwing at you, tight-lipped smile so familiar as you watch the two of them. "thought you were asleep."

"i was, but that's okay. I never see him off, so i wanted to be awake." his voice is so soft, genuine, and persuasive as he gives you unyielding blue eye contact. you have to look away just to maintain some mystery.

"dad, we're gonna be late." megumi whines, crisp white sneakers kicking in gojo's thigh. "tsumiki said she'd meet me right at 8."

"punctual and only six years old." gojo pinches megumi's nose, breathing out a laugh. "alright, kid. i won't keep you."

when megumi is back on his feet, he pouts and reaches back for your hand to tell you, 'i'm ready to go. ' you squeeze him back.

"i'll be asleep when you're back." he catches you just as you start to pull open the door. "make sure you're quiet for me!"

"'course." you turn back down to megumi, raising your eyebrows as he stands with a less-than-entertained look on his face. "c'mon, baby. i know you're eager to head out."

when you get back to the house after dropping megumi off, gojo isn't asleep like he promised—well, hardly—he's limp-necked, dozing in and out on the couch with the television on.

you don't notice his reflection at first as you shrug off your coat and shoes. all you had to do before your six-hour break was clean up after breakfast and start some of megumi's laundry, then you're free to leave.

you're texting a friend back when you round the back of the couch, phone clicking incessantly with your ringer on. it's hardly noisy, but it stirs the giant from his rest. he twitches.

"megumi get to school safe n sound?"

you stop just before you leave the room, heart pattering in your chest because his deep voice scared the hell out of you. "of course."

"that's my girl."

then, you're blushing like an idiot when he groans and stands up. "w-what?"

"when i adopted him, i was always insecure about his lack of a mother figure. it's why I hired you, and I'm so glad I did... i mean, you're just angelic."

he's definitely trying to tell you something—you're not stupid. you know he likes you—too much, as more than a transactional partnership. he was just too professional to say.

but never too professional to pin you to his couch cushion, hot and breathless against your skin as he kisses your neck. it's so embarrassing, so needy and pitchy when you whine his name, crying for more. he fucking loves this, he could just eat you alive.

"the need for you is just... it's suffocating, i apologize."

"don't." you bite, fist all bunched up in the back of his loose shirt. it's frightening just how many times you've stewed over this situation. how many sleepless nights and traffic lights you've endured with visions of crystal blue eyes. the guilt eats you alive, but it's like he said, the need is suffocating. it's insurmountable, you have to let him in.

you crane your neck for him, willing him to take his fill.

you feel so innocent under his big hands, so ethereal and motherly and downright delicious to satoru, that he has to stop.

he can't let himself have you, yet. you're far too pristine, his mind wouldn't allow it. even now with your sexed hair, blown pupils, and panting lips, he wants to pull you apart.

then, he asks. because he's nosey, yes, but more because of the way you're shivering underneath him right now. "are you a virgin?"

"no! i'm not a virgin." you're already overcome, so hot and overwhelmed under his headlight-gaze.

"because you're flailing like a newborn foal," he smirks, a gentle laugh behind his tone. his plush, pink lip drags through his teeth. fluffy white hair tickles your forehead as he kisses you again.

you conjure up every single piece of resilience in your soul to suppress a needy whine. he's been edging you for weeks now -- pulling you away to stare deep into your eyes or to suck your lips off. but that's always as far as it ever goes, you can tell he's rearing up to stop.

"please..." you're begging, not quite whining. fists digging in the back of his shirt to keep him close. "please, don't... stop this time."

"it's just so inappropriate," he hums, breath so hot and clean over your pouting lips. he's staring at them, tasting your flavor when he darts his tongue.

then, he's sitting up, ruffled shirt, fluffy-haired, and flushed pink. he's so godly, you could cry.

so, you do, palms pressed into your eyes as he stares down at you.

"oh - i'm sorr-

"don't even."