#caretaker reader

[heartfullofleeches]

Friend: So would you say you're more of a dog person or a cat person?

Caretaker Reader: Ah, well-

[The yan hybrids you've taken in standing in the hallway]: :)

You: Well....

[One of the cats produces a knife and points it at your friend]

You: Well I don't think I'll be answering that question, unfortunately

[candywife333]

Better Have My Money

[TEASER]

-SLATED TO RELEASE IN DECEMBER

chubby caretaker reader x CEO jungkook

"You gold digger, how dare you seduce my grandfather with your feminine wiles? How did you do it with that fat ass? Must've blindfolded my poor grandpa".

I turned around, almost wheezing with laughter still stuck in my lungs, "Hey, don't call me a gold digger dude. That is insulting to me. They say diamonds are a girl's best friend. Why would I settle for something as cheap as gold? And why do you think I seduced your grandpa. I was just his caretaker bro, that's it."

Jungkook bit out, enraged with his eyes blazing, "Then why the hell did he write you in the fucking will you bitch? He left half of his net worth to you"?!!! The dude grabbed the collar of my starch white Ralph Lauren polo, "Do you even comprehend what you have done"?!!

I pushed the dude's hand off , "Dude stop trying to choke me. This is a premium polo, do you know that? I have to return it back to the store next week. You intend on accusing me of things I didn't do and now you want me to have the misfortune of not getting a refund". My eyes got misty as I whimpered out," What type of demon are you? Trying to make the poor poorer I see. You utter rascal".

He looked like steam was coming out of his eyes as he shouted, "How dare you call me a rascal!!! You whorish vixen"!! I thought I would get offended but I was really impressed by his vocabulary. I shook his sleeve, "Dude, do you read historical romance or something? Like the Bridgertons or Outlander. Because your vocabulary is hella impressive. You must've memorized the entire SAT vocabulary list". I waved my hands to silence him. "Forget it. Just listen to me for a second. If you want to get me off this mythical will you speak of, you will have to silence me with either the power of your pocket or the power of the P".

He stared at me quizzically, as though he were confused. I smiled placatingly, "Look, it is very simple. Either you pay me a direct cash deposit of 75 percent of whatever I was promised by your grandfather, or you pay me in sex".

His jaw dropped open, so open that a few cockroaches could fly in if he let them. He seemed to choke on his own spit, coughing till he solemnly sputtered out, "Number one is not on the table. What the hell do you mean by sex"?!!!

I assessed him, with a twitch of one of my eyebrows, "It's an age old profession bro. If I really must explain it", I sat down on a bench and explained , "you must voraciously plunder my depths so to speak". He gulped as he gawked at me with something similar to disgust, "Plunder your depths? You mean that I am supposed to fuck your lardy ass to get rid of you".

I smiled , nodding enthusiastically ," I wouldn't put it in such an uncouth, uncultured manner. To put it in a more sophisticated manner, you must ravage me passionately". He continued to look more confused, so I sighed and clarified with gravity, "To put it more precisely, I want to rattle your snake, la chupa your cabra, or even better, hanky your panky". He gasped in horror, eyes widening as though he had seen a ghost. " But essentially, yes, you must tup me with your very long member for approximately a month". With an astonished face he menacingly bit out, "And how would you know that it is very long you trollop"?

My eyes glinted in the sun as I chirped out sunnily, "Those pants fit you very well Sir, if you must know. And after having consumed enough erotica for years, I can tell you one thing". I winked obnoxiously as I eyed his pants, " My estimation skills never have failed me".

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

COME REST YOUR BONES NEXT TO ME ; SATORU GOJO, SUGURU GETO

synopsis; satoru shares the first snowfall of the year with the two people he loves most. 

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader/suguru geto (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, you're all whipped, reader referred to as spouse, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly domestic, just comfy vibes all around, mostly from satoru’s pov, suguru has a favorite (its you) (but also not really he just likes bullying toru <3), satoru gojo may or may not have unresolved mommy issues

a/n; happy satosugu holidays to those who celebrate <33 geto died today isnt that crazy. dont u think its fucked up how love figuratively and literally killed him. anyway! help urself to two very whipped husbands <33

”holy shit!”

the raspy tilt of satoru’s voice echoes throughout the bedroom, stirring you from your comfortable slumber. a soft groan spills from suguru’s lips, deep and husky, as he pulls you closer into his embrace — smoothing a warm palm down the back of your head. trying to soothe you back to sleep, muttering under his breath.

”satoru, it’s too early for this...”

”it’s snowing!” said man continues, unperturbed. unmistakably giddy. he’s standing by the window, hands pressed flush against the cold glass; entirely entranced by the sight in front of his cerulean eyes. 

your eyelids begin to flutter. a tiny tug of your subconscious, a pang of something excited flowing through your veins, an alert to your sleepy brain.

(snowing.)

with groggy movements, you wriggle out of suguru’s grasp — a displeased grumble leaves his throat, almost a whine — allowing you to scramble out of bed. ”really?” you chirp, rubbing the sleep from beneath your eyes. a raspy, meek little voice spilling into the air.

satoru grins, watching you move closer, watching as a tiny gasp pushes past your lips. watching as your droopy eyes widen — brightening, glittering, starlight and snowflakes painted on the interior of your iris. a breathtaking sight, he thinks. 

maybe even more breathtaking than the winter wonderland reflected in it; beyond the pure opaque frosting of the window’s glass, out into your backyard, buried beneath a thick layer of snow. soft and fluffy, covering the city, suguru’s long-frozen tulip garden, the bare branches of your apricot tree. every roof in sight. all of it dyed a pure white, glittering in the light of a morning sun yet to fully rise, tiny snowflakes descending down to earth. 

it’s beautiful. 

satoru loves winter. he always has, he thinks. it comes to him as a memory — blurred at the edges, gleaming even still, the first time he saw those snowflakes up close. someone held him in their arms, he recalls. a warmth long faded. 

all he can properly remember is that sight. one that knocked the breath from out his tiny lungs, all glitter and something almost other-worldly, something frightening in its majesty. like it broke through a rift in the stratosphere. 

the first snow of the year.

and he’s loved it ever since; the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet, an air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and candied apples, bouts of laughter to be heard from faraway apartments. red and green glimmers of artificial light, sweet frosting on the christmas cake he would always gobble up alone in his room. the cold wind, nipping at his bare fingers — a reminder of his capacity for ache.

there are lots of things to love. lots of memories to cherish. and every single year, he gets the chance to make more.

like this; the light in your eyes, the smile on your face, the excitement in how hurriedly you turn to meet his giddy gaze. a nostalgic kind of joy simmering in the space between you.

and before either of you know it, satoru’s pulling you towards the hallway, intent on dragging you outside to see it all up close. almost tripping over his agumon plush, lying unassumingly on the floor, kicked off the bed once again. 

(probably by satoru himself, though he’ll always insist it was suguru’s doing. overcome by his jealousy, surely, unable to stand the sight of his cute husband cuddling up to a plushie instead of him. satoru understands, he does — he feels the same when he sees you hug that 3’0 cat plushie of yours.

and, sure, maybe once or twice he’s been lucid enough to register the subconscious kick of his leg and agumon’s subsequent fall to the floor — but he’ll still blame suguru in the morning. if only to see the way said man rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, maybe flicks his forehead if he’s really lucky.)

high on the spirit of christmas, spurred on by childlike elation and sleep-deprivation, you stumble towards the door. satoru pulls one of his jackets over your shoulders, delighting in the way your hands don’t fully reach through the sleeves. wrapping you up in a cozy scarf when suguru shouts at you both to dress warmly, barely awake and already tired of your antics.

and the moment you step through the door, satoru is engulfed by it. that mystical, mystical feeling. 

a little lonely, a little too satisfying to pass up. a cold breeze that nips at his fingertips, snowflakes that brush against his cheeks and stick to his white lashes. a warm hand in his, as you cling to his side, shuddering — but smiling, as you look up at the sky, putting a hand out just to feel the snowflakes melt against the skin of your palm.

he feels you let go of him, but doesn’t mention it. a little too mesmerized to tug you back. dipping his toes into the bittersweet nostalgia of it all, staring at the flurry of white all around you, the skeletal branches of your apricot tree. suguru’s poor tulips. humming a jolly tune, subconsciously. a little delighted.

— until something cold and wet hits the exposed skin of his neck.

satoru twitches, a chilling shudder trickling down his spine. the snowball just thrown at him begins to melt, droplets sticking to his nape, and he turns to you with a raise of his brow. a devilish grin on his lips, when he hears your muffled laughter, sees the crinkle of your eyes.

(you’re cute, he thinks. but you need to be humbled.)

”oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement. taking a step forward, reaching down to gather some snow in his palm. a wide grin on his glossy lips. ”fine by me.” 

he's fast, but you act quickly, running towards the apricot tree with laughter in your throat. feeling the pitter patter of your heartbeat resound in your ears, as the snowball misses its mark by just a hair — and you waste no time in making your own.

it’s a hard-fought duel. snowfall blocking your vision, nerves beginning to numb, red cheeks and runny noses as you chase each other with giddy breaths. unfortunately for you, satoru’s arms are unfairly long, fingers unfairly nimble, and his stamina never even seems to falter.

so before long, your energy begins to dwindle. chest heaving, hands too cold to form a proper snowball, while your husband seems like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. they just keep on coming, snowball after snowball colliding with the fabric of your jacket, and when one of them hits your collarbone you squeal — falling backwards, right into a fresh pile of snow.

satoru moves forward, a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. you’re out of breath, and your hands are red, and he’s fairly certain you’re gonna catch a cold. suguru’s going to scold him, but right now all he can think of is you. the frown you’re wearing, the little huff that slips from your lips.

”ready to admit defeat, sweetheart?” he practically purrs, standing above you with his hands on his hips. smug. and you grin right back.

”never.”

a hum. something glimmers in his eyes, a devious little glint, and you come to regret your decision when satoru gathers a heap of snow with his overgrown arms; only to drop it all on top of you. too tired to fight back, all you can do is shield your face, silently accepting your fate.

a shiver wracks through your body, and satoru almost feels bad. just a tiny bit. but then you finally relent, murmuring bitterly under your breath. ”fine, fine…” a soft pout forms on your lips. ”you win.”

and satoru smiles. crouching down to meet you at eye level, on his knees in front of you. there’s a teasing mirth in his eyes, when he reaches out to cup the fat of your cheek. ”that’s all i wanted to hear, sweet pea,” he drawls, trying not to giggle when you exaggeratedly roll your eyes.

his voice curls down an octave when he continues, leaning forward to brush his nose against yours. hot breath against your chilled skin. ”now, for my prize…”

his lips meet yours, sweet and chaste — a little cheeky. you scoff into the kiss, but satoru’s smile only grows. honeyed, a little bit adoring. his tongue flits out to lick at your cold bottom lip.

he lingers, for a bit. like he’s trying to savour the way you taste, faded strawberry chapstick sticking to his lips, smudged against your own. and you sigh, softly, melting a little, comforted by the fleeting warmth that blossoms on your face. 

when he's finally satisfied, having dragged his prize out to its completion, satoru helps you up. brushing snowflakes off your jacket, cradling your ice-cold hands in his. they’re not faring much better, but a worried tug of his heartstrings compels him to warm you up. bringing them to his lips, hot breath fanning over your skin, tender little kisses against the knots of your knuckles.

you can’t help but blush, and a raspy chuckle flows from out his lips. 

hazy morning sunshine licks at the branches of the apricot tree behind you, illuminating the contours of your face, the shine of his eyes. a blue smudge on a canvas painted white and gray. the air smells of pine cones and something smokey, crisp. it courses through his burning lungs when he inhales, exhales, a breath of vapour that scatters up into the sky.

satoru loves winter. always has. but now, he’s certain he loves it even more.

because now, he has two people to share it with. two people to drag out into the snow, two people whose hands he can tenderly warm up, two people who’ll laugh and sigh at his antics and still indulge him. two people to pelt with snowballs. 

what more could a man want?

”hey, idiots!” 

the voice that echoes throughout the air is exasperated, a little teasing. yet fond. suguru’s got his hair tied into a messy half done bun, black turtleneck sweater enunciating his broad chest and the curve of his waist. there’s a fatigue in his eyes, the creases of his face, but a lazy smile is playing at his lips.

”i’m making breakfast,” he shouts, voice deep and smokey and soft even still. ”come in and warm up before you catch a cold.”

”is that any way to speak to your husband and spouse?” satoru chimes back, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. something satisfied. pleased.

suguru shoots him an unimpressed look, but his eyes soften. melting a little, at the words that spill from satoru’s lips, as if they were always meant to be there. 

(husband. spouse. suguru wills himself not to smile.)

with matching grins on your faces, the two of you stumble back towards the door. snow crunching beneath your feet, a happy noise pushing past your lips when you collide with the warmth of your husband’s chest.

”look, suguru. isn’t it pretty?” you chirp, smiling brightly. an expression he mirrors — brushing some snow from the top of your head, warm palms caressing your cold skin, setting a mental reminder to scold satoru later. sparing a brief glance at the snowy veil over reality.

then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”

satoru joins you both by the door, stretching out his lanky limbs. tousled hair, wet strands sticking to his skin, reddened cheeks and a signature pout. ”suguru, my hands are cold,” he whines. ”warm ’em up for me?”

a click of his tongue. ”should’ve put some gloves on, satoru.”

a hum buzzes in your throat, and you put your hands out. itchy, a little dry. a sad frown tugs at your lips when you speak. ”my hands are also cold.”

and, like clockwork, suguru’s eyes soften. a coo tiptoeing on his tongue, engulfing your hands in his larger ones. ”aw, c’mere, my love…” his breath fans over your frozen fingertips. ”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

satoru gasps, a hand on his chest, and you stifle a giggle. he’s acting, you both know, being a little drama queen. he knows you’re just exaggerating suguru’s double standard as a bit, that your husband would probably set himself on fire to warm either of you up.

despite that, his voice comes out thoroughly offended. ”oh, i see how it is,” he huffs, walking past the both of you. pouting deeply. ”you hate me. you hate me, and you want me to die. i understand.”

”satoru,” you coo. he hmphs, but stills, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. and you do — a little too eager to appease your giant baby of a husband.

”we’re just joking around,” you assure him, holding back a humorous chuckle. squeezing his waist with palpable fondness. ”love you sooo much. you know that.”

satoru stays silent. but he cranes his neck, to meet suguru’s gaze, standing just behind him. narrowing his cobalt eyes — a meaningful look.

suguru sighs.

”yes, yes. we love you oh so much.” he takes a step forward, ruffling the white head of hair by the door. a lazy smile on his lips. ”now behave and go change out of your pyjamas. they’re soaked.”

his voice is teasing. exasperated, more than a little condescending. but it’s suguru, so satoru accepts it — following you both into the warmth of your home. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hangs heavy in the air, a hint of espresso and firewood, lulling him into a sweet state of tranquility. rich with comfort, safety.

he changes out of his wet clothes, pulling a black hoodie over his head before waltzing into the kitchen. and you do the same, emerging from your bedroom in one of suguru’s cozy sweaters, knitted and smelling of bergamot. 

when suguru notices, his gaze shifts into something fond. palpable. a look satoru always finds in the scope of those warm eyes, amber and cedar bleeding into something sweet, only ever directed at the two of you. a look said man assumes goes unnoticed. he’s not as slick as he thinks.

the kitchen simmers with hazy sunlight and gentle movements, something sleepy and kind. satoru is a little bit enamored with it; from bowls of cat food by the corner, to camellias by the windowsill, cookie jars and dried lemon slices, the fading scent of baked goods and wishlists stuck to the fridge.

(yours and satoru’s are filled with scribbles, new ideas popping up daily, while suguru’s is almost entirely blank; mostly necessities, one or two things he’d like for himself.

and then, of course, the same thing he writes at the top of his wishlist every year; some peace and quiet.)

suguru shuffles around the kitchen, long strands of black hair cascading down his back, swaying with his movements. he sends you both an affectionate glance when you step in, already in the process of making satoru his cup of hot chocolate — topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, colorful sprinkles in the shape of tiny stars, a touch of cinnamon. satoru licks his lips.

when it's finished, the cup is promptly handed to him, paired with a tender kiss to his forehead. and suguru starts the meticulous brewing of your coffee, steady hands, finely chosen coffee beans, the low purring of the espresso machine. soothing.

that’s when you attach yourself to his back. wrapping your arms around his waist, a sleepy yawn muffled into the fabric of his turtleneck. he places a big palm on your hand, thumb smoothing over your knuckle, and you nuzzle into him silently. suguru smiles.

”still sleepy, baby?” he questions, a coo on the tip of his tongue. his voice is soft, palpably so, buzzing with warmth and safety and something that makes you want to stay cuddled up to him forever.

satoru senses an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, and forces out a yawn of his own. stretching his limbs like a big cat, blinking drowsily, eyelashes fluttering. hoping it’ll come off as endearing. ”mhm.” 

but suguru shoots him an unimpressed look. ”not you,” he tuts, patting your arm, ”this baby. i wasn’t asking you.”

a pout. ”why are you so mean to me?” he whines, shooting you a doe-eyed look. bottom lip jutting out slightly, a feigned glassiness to his eyes. ”sweetie, tell your husband to stop being so mean to me.”

you smile. indulgent, as always. ”don't be so mean to him, suguru. you know he’s sensitive.”

a sigh. deep, tinged with exhaustion. satoru shares an amused look with you — stifling a shared chuckle at suguru’s exasperation.

and suddenly, he feels something warm flutter in his ribcage. a sunkissed butterfly, wings brushing against his ribs, coaxing his lips into curling up. unmistakable fondness, almost too much to bear. the need to reach out and touch you creeps up on him, a hunger he can’t deny, but he holds back; you look comfy like that, curled up against suguru’s spine. so he only inches closer, without a word. 

his husband casts him a glance, but satoru stays silent. lips pursed, waiting for something. patient.

and suguru relents. he reaches a hand out, to tuck a stray strand of white hair behind his ear — an excuse to touch him. a silent apology. 

(i'm sorry, you big baby.)

satoru grins.

you shift from foot to foot, leaning over to see what suguru is doing, pressing buttons and taking two ceramic cups out from a wall cabinet. your eyes zero in on a particular shelf, narrowing in suspicion, before flitting over to meet your husband’s gaze.

”satoru, did you use up all my peppermint sweeteners again?”

he stiffens. just a tad, before swallowing a gulp — followed by a silly chuckle, sheepish and performative, eager to wiggle his way out of your cold gaze. ”… which sweeteners do you mean, honey?”

”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”

”and don’t play dumb, either.”

a pout crosses his lips. betrayed. ”suguru, who’s side are you even on?”

said man gives him a look. that one look, characteristically suguru, the same one he always sends satoru’s way. one so thoroughly unimpressed it makes him feel like the world’s biggest clown. 

and satoru plays along. your dutiful, beloved clown, his posture wilting like a sad flower. suguru exhales through his nose.

”don’t steal their sweeteners.” he smooths a thumb over your knuckle, absentminded, meeting the cold metal of the ring on your finger. smiling a little at the sensation. ”buy your own.”

satoru huffs, drawn out and childish. crossing his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. ”ah, i see how it is. leaving your sweet husband to buy his own sweeteners?” he clicks his tongue. ”chivalry is dead.”

you bite back a little chuckle — satoru recognizes the cute noise you make when you do — and suguru rolls his eyes. fondly, always. ”remind me next time i go to the store and i’ll consider it.”

”hmph.”

suguru is smiling. it’s small, but genuine, worth a thousand words. and you are, too, the vague crinkle of your eyes giving you away. even as you bury your face in the curve of suguru’s back.

and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again. 

that sickeningly sweet sense of deja vu; the sensation of a certain something flourishing deep inside his chest. warming him up, trickling through his frost-bitten veins. that one little itch he never manages to satisfy, that never goes away, something that took root inside his heart years ago — watered by the sweet looks on your faces.

this everyday slice of heaven, right in front of him, that he’s been greedily partaking in ever since he moved in with you. since he married you.

(married.)

sometimes he still can’t believe it. 

”it’ll be done in a minute,” suguru hums, and satoru blinks. broken out of his syrupy stupor. ”you two go wait by the kotatsu, okay? must be cold, poor babies.” 

and, as always, his voice is a little teasing. a tiny bit condescending, if you really strain your ears, in typical suguru fashion. but it’s laced with a touch of sweetness; one that would be too much for either of you to stomach, if it were to drip out of his lips with nothing to water it down. so satoru accepts it. welcomes it, even.

and you follow his suggestion. making your way towards the living room, satoru trailing behind you, continuously enamored by every little thing he sees. every little piece of the home you’ve built for yourselves.

your living room is cozy. several potted plants seated here and there, a thick quilt to cover the kotatsu, a bowl of satsumas on top of it. a sleepy cat on your couch, golden sunshine ruffling her fur. a santa hat lies beside her, and satoru snags it without much thought. pulling it over his head.

his gaze shifts to the christmas tree over in the corner, eyes filling with a childlike kind of wonder. it’s decorated to completion, weighed down by colourful ornaments and lights, a star at the very top. suguru cut it himself, bringing the biggest and prettiest one he could find back home.

(satoru had gone with him. partially to help carry it back, mostly to get a glimpse of suguru's biceps flexing with the swing of the axe. he’s a simple man.)

and beneath it, presents are already beginning to pile up. carefully wrapped, in bows and silken paper, growing more each day. shattering suguru’s hopes of maybe having a more lowkey christmas this year — but satoru couldn’t be more relieved. this is the only time of year you let him get away with pampering you both to his heart’s content.

a smile blooms on his lips. he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs, right as suguru walks in with a coffee pot in hand. their gazes overlapping.

and something mischievous begins to brew within the blue of his eyes, something that makes suguru narrow his own. satoru pats his thigh, twice, a coo on the tip of his tongue. santa hat sitting pointedly on top of his head, fluffing up his hair.

”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”

”— you’re disgusting.”

the words are playful, but a pout still slips into the curve of satoru’s lips, and he huffs out a displeased little breath. his husband pretends not to hear it, so satoru turns to you — sitting so prettily to his right, already anticipating his next move. puppy dog eyes on full display, he gives you a soft tilt of his head, snowy tufts of hair falling over his eyes.

and you sigh, in what he knows is resignation. his faux pout turning into a satisfied grin.

you curl up in satoru’s lap without much of a fuss, letting him circle his arms around you. an indulgent smile rests on your lips, but he knows you love this; his broad chest against your back, the heat of the kotatsu warming your feet. breathing in the fading scent of your shampoo, he leaves a peck on the sensitive spot right behind your ear, and you try not to shudder.

then satoru smiles. squeezing you, lightly, sweetly, eyes rich with honeyed affection. voice dripping with playful endearment. ”there we go,” he coos. ”what does my angel want for christmas, hm?” 

”i want you to stop stealing my peppermint sweeteners,” comes your answer. instantaneous.

silence fills the room. a moment passes. outside your frosted windows, a bird takes flight from the branches of your apricot tree. and satoru clicks his tongue.

”… santa can only do so much, baby.”

two deep scoffs fill the air, heavy and bemused. one from you, one from suguru. satoru only giggles.

”just kidding!” he chirps, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”don’t you worry. santa’ll give you all the peppermint sweeteners you could ever want.” 

you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. craning your head to meet his gaze. ”and he won’t end up using them all himself?”

”of course not! blasphemy.” 

a moment passes.

”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”

a string of protests slips from your lips, and satoru tries not to burst into a fit of giggles. suguru just watches, silently, smiling lightly as he pours hot coffee into two ceramic cups. steam wafting up to the ceiling, a cat jumping down from the couch to curl up in his lap. he places one in front of you, not taking a single sip of his own until he hears you hum blissfully at the taste — pink lips against white ceramic. a bitter taste on his tongue, sweetened by your approval.

then he starts peeling three satsumas, absentmindedly, and satoru swallows down the love-ridden honey choking up the back of his throat. pretending the domesticity of such a simple action doesn’t melt his heart down to the marrow. 

he turns his attention towards the window. frost sticking to the glass like spider-woven webs, soon to be melted by the glow of the mellow winter sunrays. flitting in through the curtains, cascading over the room, splattering across the floorboards. framing the hue of your hair, the smile on suguru’s lips.

and a memory comes to him. sudden, hazy, faded at the edges. ghosting his subconscious.

he remembers the frost, the biting wind, the frightening majesty of the snow that fell that day. breaking into his world through a rift in the stratosphere. he remembers the contrasting warmth of the person who held him, who cradled him close; the soft lull of a woman’s voice. 

for a moment, satoru thinks he can almost, almost see it before him. hear those gentle words, see her tired smile. why was she always so tired?

(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)

— he can’t recall how it sounded. if it was melodic and soft, or raspy and broken, happy or sad. but he does recall that it made him feel safe. safe enough to find comfort in a sight so other-worldly, so very foreign.

it should’ve been frightening, but it wasn’t. the first snowfall satoru ever saw knocked the breath from out his lungs, stole his heart with cold hands, left him with a suffocating nostalgia. but the memory is precious.

and now, he feels that sense of other-worldliness in this; a kotatsu for three, a warm house, peeled satsumas and promises of a christmas cake soon to be baked. one lovely spouse in his lap, the other gazing at him with that fond look he always assumes goes unnoticed. a cocoon of safety — a ghost he doesn’t need to chase anymore.

warmth. enough warmth to make up for the snow and frost outside your home, all the experiences he missed out on as a child. warmth, warmth, warmth. funny, how that happens to be satoru’s favorite thing about winter. 

he looks at the two of you, hoping you won’t pay any mind to his silence. for once, he hopes you’ll stay wrapped up in your awful, awful coffee, so bitter that just looking at it makes his throat feel dry. just so he can get away with admiring you for a little longer. from the contours of suguru’s face, to the skin of your collarbone, to the rings on your fingers. ones he put there himself. 

and ah, satoru thinks, there it is again. again and again, as always, forever. that warm, warm feeling flourishing in the depths of his chest. 

he hopes it never goes away.

[sharkenedfangs]

— ☆ “IT’S ALL IN THE FAMILY.”

#. — synopsis : because you — you stupid little fuck, should have known better than to assume the worst out of this sick family you’ve been unwillingly forced into from your parents unfaithful divorce. well, guess what? you were fucking right, and now — you only have yourself to blame, baby brother.

#. — content warning! incest, step-cest, dub-con at best, non-con at worst, brief mentions of bullying and violence, alcohol intoxication, big brother whitney being a creep, whiny little sister kylar, daddy bailey being bailey, virgin male reader, semi-forced blow job, cream pie, shit writing and shittier plot with two disconnected scenes.

#. — word count? wait, you guys count the fucking words and don’t raw dog it in the notes app? like, real long, I guess. checked, it’s 7.5k w, jesus fucking christ.

#. — asher’s unhelpful note. “I did it purely for the sister fucking. so I had to churn something out. something filthy — and I mean fucking disgusting shit, y’know? (keep in mind, this is a repost of my old writing from around may, so if it’s dog shit then my writing has progressed from dog shit to even shitter dog shit.)

Divorces papers hastily signed away, the ink dotted onto the lines promising that this was indeed reality along with leathered suitcases packed to the brim. Family problems never were easy, much less when it had all happened far too quickly. To your parents separating, the familiar grip of your mother’s hand stringing you far away from the house you had grew up in, it all seemed like one bad dream. Unfortunately it wasn’t, no. This was the harsh reality of things, hands clasped on your shoulders as you were forced to introduce yourself to the man she had vowed to marry and the children he bore.

Fuck, if only your mother hadn’t remarried.

“This is stupid.” You muttered beneath your breath to which your mother, sharp as ever had somehow heard.

“Oh please, this is necessary. Unless you wish for us to keep on living in that cramped apartment? I am only doing what is needed for us to survive.” She sharply retorted back, not leaving much room to argue with as it was the truth. Your lives had been much more difficult since the divorce, selfish father that took everything else with him and went away to god-knows-where, probably off to spend it all in one go at the sleazy brothel in town. Filthy bitch.

Yes, it had been hard, but if you had been given one more year, finished school for real, graduated and got a job — Perhaps then, you would’ve been able to provide for the two of you and—

“Why don’t you introduce yourself, dear?”

Breaking out of your reverie, you had faintly registered then that you had arrived into this overly large establishment your mom referred to as your new home. Standing before you was probably the man she had fussed about so much during the uneventful drive. Dark, slicked back hair and stern eyes that dragged over your lips down to the curve of your throat, almost as if to criticize. His outstretched arm and hand stuck out waiting, that was probably for yours to shake which you reluctantly did.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir..?” You uttered coolly, enduring the firm grasp he had on your fingers till he finally was the first to pull away.

“Bailey.”

“Bailey.” You repeated back the unfamiliar name as if to slowly get used to it, knowing you wouldn’t.

“Whitney, Kylar, come down here and properly greet your brother.”

One boy — you assumed to be Whitney, a little older than you, stood at the top of the oaky staircase, perched over the banister. Ruffled blonde hair and sharp blue eyes hidden behind his fringe, eyeing you with disinterest as he made his way down the creaking steps and over to you.

“Nice to meet you.” He grinned, taking ahold of your hand in his with what was evidently a faux smile, one that didn’t quite reach his mean eyes that matched his father, a lingering streak of maliciousness in them. Even his grip, barely restrained in its force, threatened to crush your hand before ultimately letting go.

“You too.” Forcing a smile back, both of you knew then, the stifling tension that brewed in the air — Neither of you were going to get along here.

“Hey freak, it’s your turn.”

Another, you had barely noticed, a smaller girl scuffling about in the background, anxiously fiddling with the ends of her oversized sleeves, skittish green eyes purposefully avoiding your gaze whenever you so much as glanced her way. That must be the only daughter, Kylar. Cute thing she was, though your mind couldn’t allow yourself to continue that stray thought any further considering the implications that’d involve after meeting your soon-to-be-step-sister. Fucking get your mind straight, will you?

“P-Pleasure to meet you..” In contrast to her brother’s confident strides, she shuffled towards you before clasping your soft palms together in a hold, weakly shaking it.

“..Pleasure is all mine.” You replied, matching her weirdly formal way of speaking.

Well, she didn’t seem so bad compared to the rest.

The introduction didn’t last very long, lacking any real warmth usually found between two shared families merging together as one. It felt more stiff than anything though you couldn’t spare the thought to think it any further, an ushered murmur said to make yourself at home.

As you made your way over to your new room, hauling your hefty luggage up the wooden stairs, something within the depths of your guts stirred from the shared eyes that bore into the shape of your back, intently observing your every move.

The walls here felt unbearably bare.

Like the people that lived in it.

Ironically enough, your new room was much bigger than your older one, leaving little room to complain as you did when your mother had announced you’d be moving into a new place. All the reasons, no matter how good had earned nothing but a gentle shake of her head, dead set on her decision to drag you along. And to say you hadn’t even told Robin you’d be moving away, best friends since childhood that shared everything between the two, except for this apparently. Imagining his freckled face, worry etched across his features had you wanting to go back to the town you knew, knowing you couldn’t.

Sighing lowly, you sat down onto your bed, hearing the slightest crinkle beneath your weight as you felt an uncomfortable, sharp lump underneath it. That.. Reaching for the covers, you threw aside the thick blankets that covered the suspicious looking lump, revealing fresh packets of condoms haphazardly scattered across the sheets and an old, raunchy magazine displaying a cute-looking school boy getting brutally fucked against the lockers by his own bully.

Heat burned your face at the lewd sight, quickly shoving your little “gift” under your pillow so you couldn’t spare another glance at it. Fucking bastards and their sick jokes, “gifting” you shit like that.

You weren’t like them. Fucking perverts.

Were you?

—

Whitney was the first to change that.

From the first time he laid his eyes on you, you knew then what he thought of you, distaste apparent over his features, the slight curve of his upper lip curled into a snarl. It was obvious, your step-brother didn’t like you. Shit, maybe hate would be a more appropriate word for the things he’d do. Whitney had made it clear from the get-go, the empty names you’d call each other were utterly meaningless, rarely slipping past his own lips. ‘Little brother’. Fuck, you were a pain in his side more than anything else, dropping by unannounced into his life just like that simply because your shitty mother happened to divorce, meeting his dead beat father who then strung up with yours.

The blonde didn’t attempt to hide his obvious disapproval of your presence in his house, blatantly knocking his shoulder into yours whenever he passed by, mouth cruelly drawn into a snide grin as you toppled down to the cold, hard, wooden floor with a dull thud. The bullying didn’t stop there either, often encountering the delinquent in the school hallways, surrounded by his usual cronies that stuck to his side like a bunch of desperate, panting puppies, eager for his approval. They simply wouldn’t leave you alone, went through your damn locker too, ransacking everything that sat in there before carelessly throwing aside the remnants into a nearby trash bin, left to fend for yourself.

Weak, useless. That’s what you were to him, and nothing else. Soon enough, he’d get rid of you, have you snap and run away, it was merely a matter of time.

Well, that was the initial plan he had made up in his mind — Too fucking bad for the poor bully that life didn’t go always as planned, not when he caught you fresh out of the shower, worn towel snugly tucked around yours hips, a bit lower and he’d catch a glimpse of your— Fucking snap out of it, Whitney! The fresh droplets of water that’d trickle down the curve of your back, cascading over the smooth surface before gently dripping onto the fuzzy carpet below. Fuck. Didn’t help that he was staring a tad bit too hard, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from your bare form shamelessly displayed before him. You were doing this on purpose, weren’t you? Tryna get him all distracted, fill his thoughts with nothing but your thighs sticky with his cum, your lips lightly parted to obediently suck on his fat cock, lapping away at the beads of pre-cum that trickled over the curved length.

Knew he had cracked the second his hand had reached for his cock, fisting his dick for all it was worth, hem of his shirt roughly held between his teeth as he jerked himself stupid to the thought of you. His annoying little brother, fucking bitch, oblivious to the effects you had on him whenever he came with a stifled curse, several strings of cum that’d messily splatter across the curve of his toned stomach and his cotton sheets, staining it.

You, of course, lay ignorant to his frequent glances trailing over your frame, mistaking it for the hostility he had shown you over the past few weeks. You were partially right, except this time it was out of frustrated lust, cock stirring beneath his ripped jeans at the mere sight of his younger sibling now. God, not even the dumb whores that’d sloppily suck him off in the grimy bathroom stalls between classes did it for him anymore, eyes shut in a haze to imagine it was your mouth instead wrapped around the tip of his cock.

Dumb slut. Dumb fucking slut you were, didn’t know what he had in store for you. Take it as payback from having infested his mind with thoughts of you that stray to other thoughts and to other.. that’d eventually end in the same scenario, fucking your slutty mouth wide open.

Yeah.. Actually having you choke down on his cock didn’t sound half-bad now that he thought about it.

So why not make it happen?

It had been a mistake then to accept his offer over drinks, get to know each other better, he had cheerfully claimed with a friendly arm wrapped around your shoulder. Bullshit. Think he gave a shit about that? The only ache in his mind had went straight down to his slowly hardening cock underneath his grey sweats as his plan was brought into motion, insistently pouring more and more of his friends stolen bottle into your cup until you had lost track of the exact number. Prideful as ever, you had gulped it all down, unrelenting despite the nausea that had crept in your guts and the dizzying blur of your vision.

A hint of a rosy flush had started to spread throughout your skin, lightly dusting your cheeks with half-lidded eyes intently gazing back at your older brother’s slouched form atop the cushioned couch. The dribbling liquid sloshed lazily in the glassy bottle that threatened to spill from your weakened grasp on it. TV faintly flickering in the background, playing some outdated show that had since long been forgotten by the two of you, leaving the remote abandoned on the coffee table.

“Cmon, don’t be such a baby.” Whitney would taunt whenever you hesitated in your sluggish movements, silently observing the rhythmic bobbing of your throat as you took quick shots from your half-full glass. Lightweight, he mused in his mind.

“I’m not a baby.” You retorted back with that fucking cute pouty expression he adored.

Fuck. That’s the look. That goddamn look of yours he was waiting for. Nothing better than some arrogant slut all fucked up, practically begging to be taken on his own fucking couch.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

“Whitney?” Shit, the way you’d call his name all whiny too, slipping past your own lips. Had his cock twitch like fucking hell, painfully aching between his spread legs.

“Hm? What is it?”

“Why are you so mean to me all the time?? What did I ever.. What did I ever do to you?? I—I just don’t get it.” You hiccuped pathetically, stumbling over your own words, already half-drunk from the fizzling alcohol in your system.

Ah, so you didn’t seem to get it at all yet, did you?

How cute.

“‘Cuz I wanna fuck your noisy mouth, that’s why.”

“..What?”

Blinking back at him, you didn’t even get the chance to register or mutter out another word before he was upon you. Knees firmly planted to each side, increasingly aware of his encompassing frame that towered overs yours as his clothed crotch faced your drunken expression. If it had been any other time, perhaps the blonde would’ve paused then to greedily drink in the sight before him, but this was Whitney after all and he never liked to waste time on silly notions like foreplay, preferring the rougher options that came along with it.

So, fuck it all, right?

With practiced ease, he hurriedly shucked down the elastic waistband of his grey sweats past his hips, hefty cock confidently springing free from the constricting confines of the cotton fabric as it lightly smacked against the curve of his bare stomach. Fuck, you haven’t had the slightest idea how long he had waited for this. Merely a matter of a few weeks for you, though for him, your older brother was dying to sink his dick in that whorish mouth of yours. Looked like you’ve never taken a real cock either, snugly shoved down to the hilt of your inexperienced throat that he’d train till it became a sixth sense to you, gratefully swallowing down his salty cum.

Calloused fingertips tenderly dragged along the swollen flesh of your bottom lip, bloodied cut reopening from the time the bully had split your face open on his fists for the whole school to see in the busied courtyard on a particularly rainy day. Licked his knuckles clean too after that rough beating you took, savouring the heady taste of the crimson mess you left behind, groaning all the while. Had him stupidly hard for the rest of the day, itching to relieve some tension once he got back home. Great times, really.

Now would’ve been the time then, probably— to sputter out your firm opposition over this, resist somewhat. Maybe kick the motherfucker in the balls, satisfyingly watch him writhe on the floor in agony before scrambling up the ancient staircase to hysterically yell about how you nearly got raped by your aforementioned step-brother, to your dozing mother. Christ, that would’ve been the sane decision to do then yet, the bubbling drinks coursing through your veins had thoroughly taken its effect on you, blood rushing down lower to the wrong region, the sinking realization nearly making you bolt upright.

Fucking fuck— you were hard.

And Whitney hadn’t failed to notice.

“Shit, are you getting hard from this?” The delinquent snickered hoarsely to himself, making a show to lightly tap at the growing bulge underneath your own jeans, all too visible despite the rough fabric that covered it. “Should’ve known you’d be into it. Your body speaks for itself, y’know. You want this, you cock whore craving slut.”

No, no. This was all wrong. Must’ve been. You liked girls, didn’t you? Squishy cunts and fat tits you could easily slip your cock into — god. Didn’t like guys and if you did, your step-brother who treated you like nothing but shit would’ve been last on the fucking list.

But you secretly do like being used this way, don’t you? Baby brother.

“I’m n-not fucking—“ Attempting to deny the harsh statement, you cut yourself off from the sudden intruding tip eagerly pressed against your lips, flushed cock head leaking thickly and smearing sticky pre-cum all over.

It wasn’t an order nor anything else that hung heavily in the air, a simple gesture, a subtle thrust of his hips that had his actions speak louder than any words would’ve been capable of. Either you do it or not, the delinquent couldn’t have cared less regardless, always used to getting what he wants and by god, if he wasn’t going to fucking get this. Because the signals alarmingly ringing through your head felt faint in the face of this, shakily inhaling the musky scent of your big brother’s throbbing cock subtly twitching in response to your feathered breaths against it, dribbling out more translucent pre-cum that melded with the scarlet stain of your bloodied lips.

Out of your damn mind — That’s what you were. To even properly consider the implication at hand here. Yet your lips won’t stop from parting, from sticking your pink tongue out, clumsily imitating the gestures those submissive girls in the cheap porns you’d watch underneath your thin covers late at night, shamefully enough. Always thought you’d be on the receiving end of that one day, dutifully patting at the soft hair slotted between your thighs however here you were, shyly pawing at Whitney’s naked hips instead to steady yourself.

All your fault, all your damn fault so shut up and take it, alright? Shouldn’t had led him on like that, now you’re only reaping what you sow, slut.

Felt more like he was plainly fucking your mouth than you were sucking him off, sharp, punishing thrusts meeting your open mouthed lips to drive himself deeper in that warm throat that reflexively tightened around his length whenever he hit a particularly sensitive spot — drawing another string of adorable, strangled whimpers from you. “Shit, you sure this your first time? You’ve got the mouth of a — hah, fuckin’ filthy glory hole.” Heat prickling up the nape of your neck at the direct statement uttered, the brief realization of your inexperience being taken away like this, from a blowjob. On the giving end. A first, that will mostly likely not be the only first after this, not when you’re unconsciously getting off to the thought for more in store despite your haze filled brain begging you to reason. Ah, fuck. He’s gone and got you stupidly cock drunk now, didn’t he? The bastard. Slurred mutterings tumbling out above you, almost hasty in how he handles you, wanting to truly savor this never-ending moment when his body can’t stop on its own, too eager to be fulfilled of this yearning pleasure he sought out from you firstly. Thankful for your lack of gag reflex that somehow has you forcefully endure the ruthless slam of his hips, struggling grip straining onto his thighs for leisure, promising to leave a fresh set of bruising marks on the tanned flesh.

A delighted sigh softly escaped from the blonde as you finally gave his dick some much needed attention, experimentally running the flat of your tongue along his leaking slit, coaxing out more dribbling fat globs of pre-cum before slowly and carefully taking his full girth in the warm depths of your tight, wet mouth. “Ah— Fuck. Yeah, that’s good.” No way can he hide the barely restrained, high-pitched, almost needy whimper that threatens to slither past him as you so prettily suck him down to the base, slobbering all over his throbbing balls that has him huffing out a cursed moan of satisfaction, eyes rolling back. “F-Fuckin’— god.” Can’t help the sheer guttural groan that slips out from how tightly his baby brother’s virgin lips sweetly glide around him, the uncertainty in your movements making it all the more endearing as you struggle to take him all in, saliva dripping over your chin to land in varying wet dots on the cushioned pillows. Looking so damn pretty like this with a mouthful of cock, your big brother’s pulsing cock specifically. So don’t blame him then when his hips automatically snap back, slender fingers instinctively reaching for the back of your head to entangle themselves through the soft strands of your hair, ruffling it.

It’ll be more than that though, the sick realization dawning upon him of this opportunity handed to him on a silver plater, free of his taking, of course. Not some other replaceable slut he can find anywhere else by chance, but one forcefully bound to him whether they like it or not since what can you possibly do? Come running with tears in your eyes to your mommy about what your big, mean, older brother did to you? His father will certainly not be one to help you for that matter, that’s for damn sure. Who the hell will believe you then? No one. Fucking nobody. Inadvertently handing him free range to do whatever he so pleases with you, whenever, where the fuck ever. Oh, but it won’t only stop there, y’know. Ruining you fully for the sake of his own selfish pleasure, corrupt that naive view of yours that has you blush bashfully at a bunch of lewd illustrations plastered onto the printed pages. Soon enough, the majority of your days will be lazily spent in his room, leaking cock dribbling profusely from the kitten licks you’ll so cutely give him then while he absentmindedly scrolls on his phone, grinning proudly as you inevitably beg for more of him. And shit, Whitney isn’t one to disappoint either — he’ll have you rightfully rewarded for such behaviour, in public to be exact. Clip a nice, leathered collar around your neck along with a leash too, tug at it a bit to show off his newfound pet, his loyal little brother that sloppily sucks him off and happily sinks onto his hefty cock at a mere snap of his fingers. Drives him fuckin’ crazy merely thinking about it.

That’s right, suck on your big brother’s fat cock to selfishly earn his twisted love, his blind adoration and protection of your being. His pet. His slut. His beloved baby brother. His now blood, flesh and soul tainted throughly by him himself. Personally service him on your knees like the whore that he knows you are. Fucking get on your knees and earn it.

All too soon, despite wanting to stretch this further solely to ingrain the addictive noises of your stifled whimpers and drooling mouth inside his perverted mind, visibly struggling to take him all in as he shamelessly used your throat like some sort of flesh light stretched to the hilt — He can feel himself reach the brink of his limit, confident hips stuttering in their steady thrusts to greedily bury the tip of his quivering cock into the back of your throat one last time. “F-Fuck. Stay like that — just fucking stay like that.” He hissed sharply between strained curses, head thrown back like some cheap virgin whore who’s just received his first ever mind blowing blow job. The familiar overwhelming heat curling in the curve of his belly, like a coiling string on the verge of popping. Balls tightening in need, pulsing spurts of his fat load squirting out of the head of his cock to messily splatter across the surface of your pretty fucking face, ruining you for his own amusement.

Should’ve busted his load down your throat just to hungrily watch you swallow it down, though he supposes that the cum stained look adorning your pretty face is a sight to behold on its own, taking a good minute to appreciate the mess before him.

A blank, pristine canvas that he had helped ruin and stain with the filth of his very own actions.

It suits you, really.

“That’s a — hah, good boy.” Whitney heaved roughly between ragged breaths, the uncharacteristically gentle praise laced in his tone differing from his usually sadistic nature. If it weren’t for the sticky mess that obscured your vision along with the heat of his sweating palm placed flat across your forehead, you’d notice the strange fond, warmth that had settled into his softening gaze, a sort of reverence in of itself. “My good fucking boy.”

“So good for big brother, aren’t you?” He smirks knowingly at your hitched gasps of breaths, struggling so stupidly to form back a snarky insult as per usual.

Ah, he gets it now — really fucking gets it, glazed over eyes settling onto your evidently hard, twitching cock still tented pitifully against the front of your jeans, frantically humping at the air like some sort of rabid, horny, untrained puppy in heat, tongue lolling out. Aw, so fuckin’ cute when you’re cock drunk and needy for big brother. Makes him wanna do it all over again.

For that, he should be properly training you then.

“Whitney— fuckin’ cmon, please.” Whining so pathetically in a way that sends a jolt straight down through his spent cock, immediately standing up to attention once more. You’re really asking for it, fuck.

So damn cute, but so impatient too. Maybe he should fuck your virgin ass next, stuff it full of his cum and see what happens to that bratty mouth of yours then. Shut you up a bit.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. Just— keep still for me.”

Well, can’t be having his little new pet go frustratingly neglected like that, can he?

—

Kylar, your precious little sister, all too eager to be the first, but the second to sink her mark into you. Convince you a bit more.

Needy as she was, she wasn’t as bad as the rest that inhabited this sick place you reluctantly called home, a flicker of warmth among the distant coldness that resided in this house. Much unlike her brother, the dark haired girl didn’t seem to dislike you in the slightest, often shooting you the smallest of smiles whenever you two briefly locked eyes at the dinner table or in the shared hallways by mere coincidence.

‘Course, she did have her questionable moments whenever you caught her rifling through your drawers, namely the ones where your underwear lay neatly folded in the cubicle space. Promptly muttering out an unbelievable excuse as to why she needed your boxers before bolting past your stunned self, red in the face. Or that time she had decided to curl up onto your bed, lovingly burying her nose into the warm sheets that you slept in, relishing in that sweet scent of yours she’d catch a whiff of as you drew closer next to her at the table.

..Yeah, she certainly had unresolved issues, but it beat the constant poking fun at that Whitney would do. The rough shoving into the metallic lockers that’d clank heavily from your weight, the shared snickering that came along with it and the forced blow jobs that you had somehow eased into over time despite yourself. Fuck, why were you even thinking of that asshole?

Freak or not, she didn’t harbour any of the senseless cruelty this town had to selflessly offer and that was good enough. Enough so that you had found yourself increasingly spending more and more of your time with Kylar whenever you weren’t forcibly dragged along to some shoddy place your big brother roped you into, leaving the loner to her own whims for the day.

So it was no surprise then when the two of you grew closer, a little more than you had expected so to be the one sat onto her worn out bed, her hideaway — she’d call it, a moment of respite from the constant teasing she had to go through from her older brother. A means of escape, perhaps? And for you, it was no different either, all the same. Gladly listening to her overexcited rambling about this and that, about the fine mangas she had newly bought at the local, dusty library, the half priced anime figurines she had found on display beyond the glassy windows that separated them — matching pearly bracelets made of shiny gems and rocks carefully picked at the park she’d sow together to gleefully tuck around your wrist, whining sorrowfully at her own being too loose for her delicate wrists. Cute. Your little sister was real fucking cute, more so than you’d like to admit at times.

So much so you couldn’t ignore the growing knots in the pit of your stomach whenever your knees fortuitously bumped against each other, a sign — a silent, repetitive warning of your shared proximity that was crossing past the treacherous line of two mere siblings. Yeah. Okay. So you found her cute, so what? Big fucking deal. Plenty of guys found a girl cute, didn’t mean jack shit, didn’t mean they wanted to fuck her till she clenched pathetically around them, sniffling miserably at being fucked brutally by their kind, soft-spoken big brother they naively put their trust into. Right, that’s what you were. Nothing more. A responsible big brother she could certainly put her faith into since her other piece of shit brother couldn’t bother with that shitty role, something you’d curse him for on the daily. One she could seek out at a moment’s notice, spend time with to her heart’s content like a normal, unsuspecting relationship between siblings should be.

Not some perverted creep of a big brother who’d steal periodic glances her way, instinctively trailing down to the soft, plump and pink flesh of her parted lips, glistening sinfully from the wetness of her saliva — a habit she unconsciously did despite claiming not to. Gulping thickly, you hadn’t registered how her seamless chatter had ceased to a stop, deafening silence befalling upon the both of you as you stared at each other like some sort of stiff actors awaiting for the next act on stage. Wait, were you staring? Fuck, you were — and she hadn’t failed to notice by the looks of it, blooming flush adorning her pretty, pale cheeks you’d like to press gentle, reassuring kisses to, squeeze under the weight of your palm. Maybe have her spill a few stray droplets of tears across the rosy surface while you’re at it, make her cry the same way Whitney did.

Oh, you’re such a fucking bastard for this one.

“W-What is it? Do I have something on my face?” Her sudden squeak had you stilling in your tracks, twisting the spread sheets without meaning to from the timid pitch of her shrill voice. Look at her, trying to hide behind her torn sleeves in attempt to draw attention away from her bashful blush, becoming a fidgeting mess under your gaze.

Fuck, no. It was more than that, Kylar. It was the pout of your lips that you wore, the black strands of hair that framed your face so beautifully, the exposed sliver of skin of your thighs from that short skirt you slipped on. It was all you, but dammit all — fuck.

“Hm? No, it’s nothing — really.” Liar. Drawing back to create a manageable amount of space between you both, a reminder not to act upon those disgusting urges of yours, better not to. Bad idea to be thinking with your dick, no man’s ever made a reliable decision with that one. Even so, Whitney did it with you and — nothing particularly bad happened, did it? Would it be so wrong, if you were to do the same? Selfishly grasp for what you so dangerously desire, drop meaningless hints here and there to care for her wants, such a gentler option than any boy could ever treat your dearest little sister?

Would it?

Too lost in your endless train of thoughts, your eyes falling upon Kylar’s green own that bore with such intensity you hadn’t seen before, almost as if contemplating — no, waiting for something to happen. Though you couldn’t tell what it was, her actions were enough so to speak on their own with how she shifted considerably towards you, used mattress dipping from the creaking weight over the wooden floorboards. Ah, was she..?

“Ky—?”

Before your mind was even fully given the chance to process it, like the leap taken before the shuddering dip of a waterfall, her inexperienced, virgin lips clumsily smashed into yours, knocking the wind out of the both of you from the abrupt step taken by your little sister. Sweet. So sweet. Pink tongue tentatively swiping along the scarlet cut of your bottom lip, ushered gasps accompanied by startled squeaks as she timidly gave you what she thought was a simple kiss, but felt more like a pornographic make out session with how she so desperately shoved her tongue deeper. More. Wants more of this, more of that honeyed taste she yearned to savour, to finally enjoy while her other dumb brother so greedily took you away every time she wished to be the one at your side instead. It wasn’t fair, not fair at all! He’s so mean, so why does he get to string you along whenever he so pleases? Should be her, only be her to fill that solemn space. Only her, only her—

“W-Wait, wait— Kyl— fuck.”

As if struck by the weight of what she had just done, the loner recoiled back instantly in a fit of panic from the sheer brashness of her actions. Oh, how could she let herself so easily fall to such temptations? What if you hated her now? Or worse, were repulsed by the kiss? Wouldn’t be able to live it down then, quivering lips and bubbling tears threatening to spill freely down the length of her flushing cheeks from her overreactive imagination running rampant — because she’d rather die than to have you loathe her so.

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to— umm.. I thought that maybe you.. wanted me to—“ The girl stuttered uselessly, trailing off in an aimless direction only to shrink back in her unbecoming position. Silence only answered her in return which she took as the harsh reality of rejection, mustering up all the courage she possibly had in her lithe frame to at the very least subtly peek at the current expression painted along your face. Would it be anger? Disgust? Disappointment even? Surely if you hated it that much, you’d have plainly kicked her right off the bed by now, right? Storm out in a fit of shock and never so much as glance her way again.

The sight to greet her instead wasn’t an unwelcome one though — no, far from it actually, her gaze deliberately falling upon the blazing flush of your face down to the evident bulge straining painfully between your legs, palm nervously placed over it in a half-assed attempt to keep your dignity at bay — shit. It’s one thing to be kissed by your younger sister but to get fucking hard from it is like shameful admission on its own, a visceral reaction that could not be denied no matter what reasonable excuses may tumble from your lips. “..It’s fine. I don’t mind, actually.” You’re really no better than Whitney in that aspect, but when an opportunity presents itself, it’s only fair to mindlessly grasp for it, is it not? More worrying is the debauched idea that forms in your mind in regard to the enamoured expression worn by her wobbly lips and wide-eyed look, not-so-subtly rubbing her plush thighs together in a hint of arousal. Oh, so that’s how it is. If the sloppy kiss itself didn’t confirm it then this surely did, a surge of confidence rushing momentarily through your body at your next actions.

“Like I said, it’s fine, Ky.” That fucking nickname again. Unable to stop yourself from dragging your cute little sister closer towards you till she consequently found herself comfortably placed onto your lap, blinking stupidly at the bold move done by her normally gloomy, big brother. Silly girl.

“Siblings do it all the time, it’s not weird. It’s natural.” Lying through your goddamn teeth with a certain ease that even surprises you internally, but oh, is it so worth it as her viridescent eyes glimmer brightly to the whispered reassurance in your casual tone, acceptance easily slipping through. “But Whitney and I don’t—“ She starts, only for you to immediately latch onto her endless questioning with the seed having already been planted, too late to fucking back out now. “You and I are different. I’m nice to you and you’re nice to me, so it’s normal if you want to. We can do that cuz’ everyone else does it, alright? You don’t have to be shy with me about it, Ky.” Every carefully measured word to make it seem as though this was the norm, knowing fully you’d be seen as freaks and degenerates by your peers attending the nearby school. Not that they didn’t already think so with Kylar, the rumors having grown out to such an unhealthy proportion that it pestered the poor girl at every corner in the narrow hallways. Poor thing.

So isn’t it your job as her big brother to make it all go away? Make her feel better.

“Shh, just let me..” Soothing circles rhythmically rubbed in a recognizable pattern along the edges of her skirt, repeated affirmations of want so to ease her chattering mind over the possible morality of this newfound situation. Could’ve said no if she didn’t secretly desire this, though her actions seem to say so otherwise with how she earnestly complies, willingly tucking her arms to her sides to let your hands do the rest. Good girl. So docile, like a porcelain doll, sharpening breaths noticeably deepening from the careful tugs of her short skirt, revealing the confirmation of her depraved wants as the wet patch of slick soaking through her plain, white panties is bared. Your adorable little sister isn’t so innocent as you thought, is she? Contrary to her modest choice of underwear. Getting fucking wet solely from being leered at so openly by her step brother, even going so far as to spread her soft legs for better viewing.

“See? Isn’t it frustrating to be left all worked up like this?” Agreeing nods promptly interrupted by the press of your thumb against her clothed slit, such a sweet, hitched gasp elicited from the lazy circles traced onto her swollen, twitching clit. A free view of your younger sister’s scrunched up expression morphing to one of pure, unadulterated pleasure, scarred fingertips tightly clutching at the fabric of your shirt, but that’s the least of your concerns at the moment, really. “This good?” There’s no real need to ask when you can naturally rely on the shivering of her dainty figure, breathy moans of y-yes and feels good! along with the guiding of her needy fingers, flush against her slicked heat. A flick of your thumb is all it takes to have her turn into a babbling mess, bucking her hips up to meet your cupped palm, incidentally grinding onto your aching hard-on. “S-Shit, okay. Look at you, hah — so fucking wet already.” Barely able to discern the own pitch of your voice, but who the fuck is supposed to properly maintain their composure when your little sister is so prettily begging for your cock?

Effortlessly peeling away at the sticky fabric of her cotton panties, slipping it down the length of her legs to thoughtlessly throw away onto the wooden floor beneath. No time to fucking think, not with how cute her cunt looks, pink and dripping with slick coating the smooth surface of her inner thighs. Ah, and she’s already impatiently fumbling with your belt too, smiling so happily once it loosens to eventually tug your own underwear down too, leaking cock eagerly springing free from its restraints. “Want it that bad, lil sis?” Fuck, does it feel wrong to even be calling her so in your current predicament, yet so damn right too. The pleading nods, urgently clinging to your frame to press against as she grinds her sopping cunt along your flushed tip, whining whenever it knocks just right up against her puffy clit, squelching from the melding fluids. “W-Want it, want it inside, please.”

“B-Big brother—“

As much as you like the high-pitched mumblings of your dearest Kylar, there’s really only so much edging you can take before promptly snapping your hips up in tandem with her own, relishing in the slippery warmth that lovingly welcomes you, stretched folds accommodating to the sheer girth of your length. “Oh, fuck — Fuck, just relax for me. You feel so.. hah, so good.” Collectively sighing in relief at the intrusion of your pulsing cock squeezed so nicely by her constricting walls, having to steel yourself from the tight suck of her cunt snugly wrapped around your tip. “You’re doing so good for me, taking me so well.” Softly hushing her breathy whines intertwined with a mix of pain and pleasure, fingertips digging harshly in the tender flesh of her hips to guide her quivering frame up and down the length of your cock. Isn’t this what she wanted after all? Such a quick learner too, steadily bouncing to match the pace you had set, your wandering hands slipping past the hem of her loose shirt to greedily palm at her perky breasts which prompts another moan to exit her parted lips. Uncaring for the increasingly noticeable squeaking of the worn mattress when your little sis is so cutely riding you, doing her very best to satisfy your immoral urges and have you mark her slicked insides with your seed.

“What a good sister.. So good, aren’t you?” Cute, pink tongue poking out, begging for another messy kiss pressed onto her swollen lips which you dutifully oblige with another muffled groan. Sloppily planting your own against hers, treasuring every shuddered gasp to swallow down and stifling her open mewls. It’s borderline disgusting how desperate you are, savouring every thick inch engulfed by the sloppy suck of her baby sister pussy, reappearing briefly only to bury yourself balls deep once more into her defiled cunt. Isn’t really your fault with how fucking tight she is, is it? Barely grasping the reality of the situation which is the very high possibility of being heard from outside her room right this moment, but fuck — you can’t slow down, not right now, not when you’re already on the verge of spilling your cum deep inside. Damn Whitney, the bastard. Damn to hell your parents, your indecisive mother and her new husband, this is heaven itself right here. “I’m close—“ You huff out in a sort of warning, though it’s more of an invitation to Kylar, an opportunity for you to shoot your thick seed in her wanting hole, practically locking her legs tight around your waist.

Anything for you after all, huh? Her beloved. Her darling. You just didn’t know it yet! And to say it came true on its own, openly enjoying the sensation of your fat cock instinctively fucking into her tight, little sister hole. So close.

“Cum inside me, please. Let’s finish together, big brother. I-I’m close too—“

And that’s all you really need, precise thrusts upwards hastily turning into erratic humps to lazily grind against her ass, wanting nothing more but to see the dumb, drooling, fucked out expression painted across her adorable face, the convulsing of her cunt stuffed full of your length when she does have her first ever orgasm. A few clumsy circles drawn over her used clit is all it takes to have her cumming, slick trickling out of her fluttering cunt to drip over the base of your cock and stain the pristine sheets beneath. “Ah— God, you’re so fucking tight.” Fuck, fuck, fuck — Shoving the hilt of your cock as deep as possible into your little sister’s stretched out hole to rightfully mark her pink insides with your seed, spurting out thick, white strings of cum while you fuck yourself deeper into her womb and downright have her experience her first ever accidental cream pie too. It’s only then when she pitifully whines for you to stop that you do eventually pause, hips drawing back to stare in awe at the dribbling globs of cum spilling out of her sore cunt. “S-Sorry.” You mutter out apologetically with a sigh, the tension easing out of your muscles once she giggles softly in response to your strained apology. “It’s okay. I-I liked it a lot too.”

“Did you?”

“Mhm, I did.” Kylar sleepily mumbles back with drowsy eyelids, the exhaustion washing both over you all at once from, well.. all the movement involved. Let’s leave it at that, actually. Plus you deserve the rest, don’t you? Wouldn’t be fair to leave your adorable sister all alone in her twin bed without her older brother’s body to warm it with too, yeah? It’s fine to lay yourself down next to her curled figure snuggling closely against yours, drape an arm over her waist to remind her of your presence close by, make her feel secure and at ease. A silent, ushered promise to clean her up later once you two awaken, affectionately pressing a single kiss atop her head one last time before sleep takes her first. It’s your role to as the big brother, after all, isn’t it?

“..Good.”

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

You were still flitting around like a moth by a lamp, from one task to another, and Daryl was worried. He knew you hadn't stopped all day. "Hey," he said gently, trying to catch your attention. But you were so focused on the task at hand that you didn't even hear him. "Hey," he said again, a little louder. And then, when you still didn't register his voice, he moved beside you and gently grabbed your arm, speaking your name softly. That you felt to your core. Your eyes shot over to his face. "Stop for a second," he said. "Have ya eaten today?" he asked.

Your brow furrowed, as if you were trying to remember. You thought of what had passed your lips. Just water. "No, but—"

His hand was still on your arm, his rough palm against your skin. "No buts..." he interrupted. "Sit down for ten minutes and let me get you somethin'. We can't have ya goin' a whole day without eatin'."

"Daryl, I'm fine. I'm not even hungry. It's okay."

"No, it ain't okay. Ya ain't hungry 'cause ya've hardly quit movin' since this mornin'. Ya haven't stopped to even realize yer hungry. Ya think I didn't notice?"

"There's so much to do," you sighed.

"I know. But guess what? It'll still be there waitin' after ya take a damn break to rest and get some food in ya. Now, c'mon. Sit down. I ain't takin' no for an answer."

[starrspice]

Now that we know what Canon Eclipse is like I wanna see them interact with the grubbiest most gremlin Y/N possible

Bonus little call out from my friends @pika5544 and @miracleboymason

[goldenempyrean]

Hi there! If you are still taking them id love to request a fic where the avengers are bantering/teasing Natasha because she supposedly never gets sick but a little while later R finds her crying and thinks its because the guys have upset her but its really because she feels so terrible.Maybe including Baby, I think this is more than just the sniffles and Oh my god you’re completely burning up. Sorry if this is too specific I just think it would be so cute

You're My World

〚 Notes - Wow, its been a while. I haven’t written Nat in so long, finally getting this request done <3 〛

〚 Pairing - Natasha Romanoff x Reader 〛

〚 Summary - Nobody really believes it when Natasha gets ill but there’s always going to be one person thats always there for her. 〛

〚 Wordcount - 2100 〛

〘 Check Out My Masterlist! 〙

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“Afternoon sunshine, and just what time do you call this?” The voice of Tony called out with a small chuckle, raising his eyebrows from behind a mug of coffee.

“Lay off her Stark.” You bit back, shooting him a glare and came over to where your girlfriend had shuffled into the room. She was leaning against the doorframe, her pale complexion a sharp contrast to her messy red curls.

You put down your own coffee and came to her side, hand reaching up to cup her cheeks, “Morning baby,” You murmured, kissing her forehead gently before taking her hand and leading her over to sit by the kitchen island, “You still not feeling good?”

The two of you had been cuddled in bed together last night when she’d complained of being extra tired and after some gentle encouraging, she’d eventually admitted that she’d had a growing sinus headache for most of the day.

When you’d woken up that morning, Natasha had still been asleep, still curled up in your arms. Usually, she was up before the sun had even risen, getting in a workout or simply just enjoying her morning. After some careful consideration you decided it would be best to let her sleep in, so you’d carefully detached yourself from her arms and pulled the blanket back over her before silently tiptoeing out from the room.

Natasha shook her head, “I think I’m getting a cold.” She mumbled glumly, letting her head fall onto your shoulder as you sat down beside her. She stayed like that for a moment before falling into a painful sounding coughing fit.

“Baby, I think this is more than just the sniffles,” You sighed sympathetically in response, “You wanna head back to bed? I can bring you some water and something to eat?”

“Heading back to bed? At this time in the afternoon?” Tony interrupted with a playful scoff as she jumped up to sit on the countertop. He looked at you then Natasha before whistling through his teeth, “You, Miss Romanoff, look like shit.”

“Shut up Stark.” It was too early to be dealing with his shenanigans. Natasha just rolled her eyes, judging it best to simply ignore him, “And just for the record, it’s barely 10am. No idea what world you live in where that’s considered afternoon.”

"That's probably the world where Tony's been up since 4am tinkering with his latest suit," Steve chimed in, entering the kitchen with a knowing smile. He grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter and took a bite, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Natasha gave a weak chuckle which was quickly followed by a short cough into her elbow, rubbing a hand down the front of her throat. She swallowed and tried her best not to wince at the painful sensation which followed.

Of course you noticed. “I’ll grab you that water.” You rubbed her back gently for a moment before heading to the fridge.

“I didn’t even know you could get sick yknow.” Clint piped up, seemingly deciding to join in on the conversation. He’d previously been too engaged with trying to solve the children’s word search on the back of his brightly coloured cereal box.

She looked over towards him, “What do you mean?” Her eyes narrowed a little.

“I dunno.” He shrugged, “I just mean, I’ve never even seen you close to sick. Like when you had the gnarly shoulder cut that got infected, you didn’t even run a fever or anything like most people do.”

Tony pulled a face of disgust, “Barton, I really do not need to be hearing about gross shoulder gashes when I’m trying to enjoy my coffee, thank you very much.” Clint pulled a similar face to mock him before throwing a tea towel in his general direction, leading the two of them to start bickering at each other.

You’d just been handing your girlfriend the bottle of water when Bruce strolled in - adjusting his glasses and taking in the scene. "How come everyone's so chipper this morning," He asked dryly. "What's going on?"

"Romanoff’s caught the plague," Tony took a break from messing with Clint to speak in his most serious voice, earned several eyerolls from around the room, "But don't worry, Doctor Banner, I'm sure ‘Miss I Never Take Sick Days’ will pull through."

Natasha groaned, “God you’re such an asshole.” She sniffled, rubbing at her nose for a moment. Whatever itch she’d been trying to get rid of clearly hadn’t been listening because a second later she drew in a sharp breath and sneezed twice in quick succession.

It wasn’t exactly a dainty sound, like her usual sneezes rather harsher yet still somewhat feminine. Obviously, it was still adorable, but you couldn’t help but think now wasn’t the best thing to vocalise that.

Instead, you settled for a loving, “Bless you.” as you offered her a tissue from the box nearby. She mumbled a quiet thank you, dabbing at her nose. The teasing continued as you rubbed her back, trying to comfort her.

"Maybe she just needs more vitamins," Clint suggested with a smirk. "Or maybe a new suit of armour, Tony?"

"Please, like I'd let anyone else touch my suits," Tony replied, his voice dripping with mock horror. Natasha sneezed again, a little louder this time and he pointed over in her direction, “Plus there’s no way I’m letting someone that drippy inside one of my suits. I’m not in the mood to expose my lab to a walking biohazard.”

“You’re exhausting.” Natasha sniffled from behind a tissue. Her nose was starting to take on an irritated red twinge. She coughed again before clearing her throat roughly, “s’cuse me.”

You felt your gaze soften a little, “You’re okay sweetheart.” You spoke reassuringly, before offering an outstretched hand as you slid from your stool, “How ‘bout we head back up to bed, get you away from all the men-pheromones. They surely can’t be making you feel any better.”

It didn’t take much convincing for her to agree.

She accepted your hand gratefully as helped her to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist to support her as you both walked back to your room.

Once back in your room, you gently guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. "How about I run you a nice relaxing bath?" You suggested, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. The subtle heat rising from her skin didn’t go unnoticed though, “Poor girl, you're completely burning up here, aren’t you?”

You made a mental note to take her temperature and get some medicine into her later. You knew she’d likely fight you about it, but that bridge could be crossed when it came to it.

In the current moment Natasha nodded, “A bath sounds nice.” Her voice was a little worse than earlier, a little more congested and scratchier.

“Okay, give me a few minutes and I'll get it ready," You said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead before heading into the bathroom.

It didn’t take long to draw the bath. You methodically checked it to make sure it wasn’t too hot nor cold, even going as far to add a generous squirt of your berry-scented bubble bath. You weren’t entirely sure she’d be able to smell it but the clouds of fluffy bubbles covering the surface of the water certainly did the job. The steam began to rise, filling the room with a comforting warmth. You smiled to yourself and drew a little heart on the condensation-soaked mirror before heading back out to get Nat.

Natasha wasn’t where you’d left her. Instead, she was led down on the bed, curled up with her back facing the door. You knew she wasn’t asleep by her breathing, so you gently came to sit by her side, “Natty?” You murmured quietly, reaching out to stroke her back when you noticed the damp sniffles coming from her. She was crying.

“Oh baby, what’s up my love?” You were pulling her into your arms in an instant. She clung onto you; her body wracked with feverish chills. You knew fevers made her weepy, but this was different. Your poor baby was distraught.

The redhead sobbed for a little longer, before sniffling thickly, “I don’t know.” She managed to stammer out, wiping her eyes but fresh tears quickly came to replace them.

“Was it the boys earlier?” You scowled, “I know they didn’t mean harm but-“

She shook her head, looking more vulnerable than you’d ever seen her, "No, it's not that. I’m just- I just feel so exhausted... my whole-body hurts and I feel so ill." Her voice cracked as she tried to speak, blinking as your hand gently moved up to wipe away the tears streaming down her fave.

You wrapped her in a gentle hug, rubbing her back soothingly. "I know, sweetheart, I know. It's sucks to feel sick; I understand especially how hard it is when you’re not used to it either. You’re my world Natasha, so just let me look after you, alright?”

She nodded after a moment and you gave her a few minutes to let it all out, holding her until she was ready. Eventually the tears stopped, and she looked up you again, “I’m okay. I’m sorry I just lost myself for moment.” She leaned away from you as she cough harshly, her poor voice sounding even worse then earlier.

You rubbed her back until she managed to stop coughing and catch her breath, “You’ve got nothing to apologise for. You and fevers don’t go well as if we both know but if we’re being honest, I think you needed that, to just get all of that out. Sometimes its better to cry it all out.”

“It still sucks though.”

“I won't argue with that,” You couldn’t hold back a chuckle. She did have a point. “How about we get you in that bath now?”

The offer wasn’t refused and soon the two of you were cooped up in the bathroom. You found yourself kneeling down by the side of the tub as you gently washed her hair, running your hand through her damp red curls.

“How does that feel baby? The steam should help open up your sinuses a little.”

Natasha closed her eyes, a small sigh escaping her lips. "It feels good, really good." Her voice was softer now, a bit more relaxed as she leaned into your touch. You continued to gently massage her scalp, feeling the tension slowly melt away under your fingers.

You reached for the cup nearby, carefully rinsing the shampoo from her hair, ensuring none of it got into her eyes. "You're doing great," You murmured, placing a soft kiss on her temple.

She sniffled again, but this time it wasn't accompanied by tears. "Thanks for taking care of me," She whispered, her eyes meeting yours with a grateful look.

“Of course.” You smiled lovingly. The two of you continued the talk quietly as you continued to wash her hair. Nat had insisted she was okay to sit by herself but the way her eyes kept drooping closed didn’t have you convinced. Eventually the water began to turn cold, and it was time for her to get out.

There was a fluffy towel ready and waiting to be wrapped around her. You’d already laid out a fresh pair of matching pyjamas for you both to change into.

You helped her into the pyjamas, making sure she was warm and comfortable. As she settled onto the bed, you pulled the covers up around her, tucking her in gently. Natasha's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but she opened them again, looking at you when she felt something being gently nestled into her hold.

Her small brown bear. Something only, you knew about. It brought her comfort when there was nobody else around, it was something you’d given to her before you’d gone on a long undercover mission. If anyone else knew how much it meant to her, she’d probably have to kill them. This was something only she could know.

"Do you need anything else my darling?" You asked quietly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face as you climbed beneath the covers beside her.

Rolling over to face you, Natasha buried her face in your chest, “Just you, only you.” She muttered before hiding a yawn against your shirt. You knew she’d be asleep soon and you began drawing random shapes down her back as she settled into your hold, her eyes fluttering closed as she fell into a gentle sleep.

It was true Natasha Romanoff didn’t get sick often but when she did? Well, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

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[warmfungi]

What fucks with me is an evil, despicable character, lost and alone while violently ill – abandoned without anyone to care for them... And then someone Finds them.

Someone who has no connection to them or isn't even remotely aware of their actions. To them, it's just a stranger that looks to be on the brink of death. As the villain, who's got more blood on their hands than they can brag about spilling, collapses onto the ground, this person rushes to them, completely unaware they're about to save the life of someone who's not worth their time.

However, I'm tired of this trope ending up with the villain back to their old ways in an instant. If that's your thing, sure – but I always find it annoying. Sometimes, I think, it takes a monster facing its own death to realize they should treat people better – were it not for mere coincidence, death would have swallowed them whole.

Instead, it only got to graze them – because someone cared. For once, someone cared, and the villain didn't plan to use it against them.

Villain isn't a whumper. I don't like that dynamic.

[injestedsoap]

ghost who loves himself a little more (by accident) when he has a partner to take care of. he is a care taker at heart, don't let him tell you otherwise, and when you come down in a crop top when it's just above freezing outside he marches you right back upstairs to get you dressed in real clothes. he fusses with you when you want to run out without a rain coat on, he shoves a veggie on your plate, reminds you about your medication, grumbles as he fills your water bottle every morning. taking care of you helps him remember to take care of himself too, he eats better when he's scolding you, actually goes outside when he insists it's a nice fucking day and you need some sun, brushes his teeth twice a day when he's reminding you to brush yours. taking care of you makes him treat himself a little better.

[amymbona]

No wishing bad stuff to anyone but imagine that Patrick Zweig is after an injury, like a really fucking bad one, and his lower half doesn't work properly. There was something wrong with his spine and spinal cord and has to spend like half a year bound to a wheelchair, needing a 24/7 assistance. And you're a good, young medic, specializing on people like Patrick, providing them care. So it's only natural that you move to his place to assist him fully.

He hates you at first, fucking despises you, because you're all smile and sunshine. He's so pissed at the positive energy you bring, how you keep taking care of him and being all nice and kind. Every other meal you cook, Patrick just pushes the bowl down the table and lets it shatter. Each time you attempt to excercise with him, he keeps complaining and not putting his whole effort in - even though he fucking should - and then, ironically, gets anger when there's no progress. Obviously, he can't stand up within days. But Patrick Zweig is an impatient man.

He hates everything and everyone, hates the whole fucking world and he hates you the most. Stupid, naive girl. If you were a magician, oh, maybe he'd buy you that vintage moped you keep babbling about to get you to heal him. But you're not. You're just a girl who never shuts up, keeps banking him stupidly sweet pies and gently touching his legs every day at four in the afternoon in his small house gym (not that he can really feel it). You wash him too, you hold his hand when he's in pain even though Patrick would love nothing more than to twist your wrist so hard that you'd cry. He wishes it was you who could cry instead.

Patrick is genuinely at his fucking worst. He's lost all hope of ever healing even though his prognosis is not that bad at all. But Patrick is a drama queen, he's a bitch, a menace and all the other words, but you never dare say that to his face. Not until he throws a childish fucking tantrum at lunch one day, throwing his glass in your direction and almost hitting you in the head. This time, you don't reach out to hold him, to drive him to his room, you don't even smile.

Instead, you yell at him. For the first time ever, your voice raises. Significantly. You yell at him for good ten minutes, calling him every name under the sun, calling him out for his constant complaining and childish behaviour. He's a grown man, for god's sake, you tell him while standing up and slamming your delicate hands on the table. And then, as you walk around the table, you say you're not gonna leave him, but you won't accept his behaviour either. He hears you cry later that day.

Ever since this encounter, he doesn't dare say a single word against you, against this treatment. It's evident you're angry with him, mainly from the harsh way you keep handling him suddenly. No more nice girl. You keep twisting his ankles, bending his knees the way he used to bend girls during sex, completely silent with a single crease between your brows. At one point, you really push too hard, so hard that Patrick gets a cramp in his calf - the first distinct hint of regaining the lost feeling - but he never tells you, not when you're pissed at him. That night, he cries in his room.

One day when you go out, as one of your colleagues offers to look after Patrick for the afternoon, you're wearing the prettiest floral dress. And at that exact moment, Patrick's dick twitches, he gets fucking hard the sight of you. As if magically regaining all the feeling in his cock. Your colleague is terrible, by the way, absolutely unable to care for Patrick the same way you do. When you come home in the evening, Patrick tells you that you're really pretty. As the time goes on, he begins thinking you might be his guardian angel.

[mellowwillowy]

𝐁𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐲 ♥

⤷ warnings — general yan warnings, gn reader

Bailey has always been a good boy. The two of you grew up together in the orphanage with joint hands, always backing each other from your caretaker's bitter ass.

Bailey is a good boy although he does have this sharp tongue that always finds a flaw in you, always teasing you for it.

Yes, Bailey has always been a good boy, never indulging himself in alcohol, cigarettes, and the likes of prostitution. And so, you become the subject of his carnal desires. What? Do you seriously expect him to only rub one out without feeling you clenching on his length? Dream on.

Bailey may be possessive at some point in time but he means well! In this town filled with nothing but perverts, you ought to cling to him even more. No, you don't get to sleep in your own room, you are sleeping with him. What would you do if a stranger sneaks into your room again? The idea of them feeling you before he could break their wrist and throw them out the window in fractured condition makes him snarl.

"You'll be sleeping in my room from now on, no retorting."

Bailey is a good boy, always waiting for you. Always waiting for you to finish your shower despite the 3 minutes rule that you break. Always waiting for you to finish your food despite going over 5 minutes on the dining room. Always waiting for you to come back home from your meetings with the others.

And always waiting for a miracle of you being alive.

Bailey has always been a good boy. The moment he sees you wandering in front of his orphanage, in the uniform you two once wore...

He knows it's you.

So why do you act like you have never recognize him?

"Just relax. I'll handle everything like always."

Bailey muttered into your ear as his hands held you in place. You were drenched in rain on your first day of school after you moved into this town not long ago. To shelter yourself from the rain in front of the orphanage's door step was not wrong. It was the timing. The moment Bailey's eyes met yours, he knew. He knew this was his only chance.

"You're coming with me and that's that."

---

--

-

Bonus because I wanna use some of his in-game lines.

Bailey stood by the doorframe, watching your figure sleeping peacefully in his room. He made you stay at his room with the reasons of 'rent-free room'.

How peaceful, how nostalgic. You, on his bed.

Just as the bed dipped because of his weight, your eyelids fluttered open.

"Sshhh... go back to sleep."

Was it a dream? You tried to sit up only to be hold back by a pair of hands.

"I told you to hold still."

From that, you were confident it was not a dream, especially with how firm his hold was. You pouted at him, glaring at him for holding you still. Unable to hold back, Bailey pressed his lip onto you, brushing it lightly. Upon pulling away, he relished in how your eyes widened in surprise.

"Surprised are you? You'll learn to kiss better soon."

Bailey pressed his lip against your face again, peppering it with kisses before pulling away and tucking you back into the blanket.

"Just something to remember me by."

To remember the night as something memorable and not a mere dream, for both him and you.

[necros-writing-stuff]

Eden has to love you. You're in his home, let into his private space when only one other knows it exists beside from you and him. All of these years alone, all of these years thinking he was fine with only his own voice to remind himself of his own humanity. But now you are here - your voice keeps him grounded. Your touch staves off the thoughts that had been desperately clawing at his skull. Eden has to love you, because he can't find peace without it.

Bailey can't love you. You're his ward; you're his pawn to bleed dry until you break. He knows breaking you will be the toughest job of them all. His interactions in life are shallow, monotony occasionally broken by tensions so thick you can see it hovering in the air. It bores him so. Yet in your eyes there is hatred - vitriol that could poison him from glance alone. Bailey can't love you, but you're the only genuine thing left in his life.

[shu-box-puns]

Reader and Jake’s na’vi partners bonding over their baby fever once they see their little humans taking care of Spider. I can imagine Tsu’tey looking at her looking at Jake with that hungry look and being like “haha she’s WHIPPED. got baby fever for a HUMAN HA” and then his ears flatten as his head snaps to his own partner, realizing “oh, shit. I have baby fever. I am whipped. oh no. do I want a baby??”

This! This is their entire dynamic! Just ribbing each other like the children they are, only to turn out to be complete hypocrites. And whilst Tsu'tey has his realisation, I just know Neytiri is laughing her ass off at him.

Just Jake and Reader's confusion as they tend to Miles (Spider), whilst Neytiri loudly cackles and Tsu'tey sits there with his head in his hands looking like he's having a breakdown over a maths problem.

Baby Miles (Spider) is too powerful for any of them to resist.

For anyone confused by this ask, you can find the fic it belongs to on Ao3, here! Chapter 2 is almost complete :)

[sharkenedfangs]

What do I need to do to get a fic of sub crossdressing male pc begging Bailey to be their first time ( first everything really)? I don't even care about wether PC gets railed like we wish, I honestly highkey just want your take on it.

— ☆ “SIMMERING BENEATH.”

— sucks when your annoyingly bratty, yet pretty bastard of an opthan manages to get past your tight-held clutches, doesn’t it? mister bailey. 1.8k wc

— “the fuck do you want, asher?” : wrote this on the way back home, so on the sort of.. subway thingies, it’s not called that where I am, but they do resemble that and felt fucking nauseous, so apologies in advance if it’s shit. was too good to fully pass up on this one, though couldn’t turn it into a full-on lengthy one due to being busy with other current things. still tried to input every aspect you’ve asked for. yeah, may it be up to your standards then, anon.

Fucking fuck.

No, hell— that wouldn’t truthfully encapsulate the sheer idiocy of his muddled actions even then, because god— fucking shit, why would a man of the likes of Bailey — relatively known, if not factually remembered as the cold, logical one in town — stupidly fall for some mere trickery, childish ploy fabricated by your own stubborn whims? Or, to be quite precise, those pathetic taunts of yours that any man possessing the slightest nerve of a goddamn functional brain, wouldn’t have dumbly caved in to.

Talking about the depraved perverts that’d foolishly slip between the evidently, way too small cracks unfitting for their same, way too fucking large bodies — of the barely opened windows the dumb orphans would forgetfully leave behind. Shakily pawing with sweat slicked hands at some brat’s snoozing body before they’d eventually be chased off by the mere sight of his approaching figure inevitably barging in, hastily mutter on about their prestigious status and so on— fuck, never really truly listened to the shoddy bastards. How Bailey was no man to rudely kick ‘em out of the own crappy establishment he was sloppily running with a twinge of cruelty ever present in his cold gaze.

Yeah, he’s no damn better than those perverted fuckers right about now— possibly worse, but shit, no way in fucking hell will he potentially admit to that despite the cooling air annoyingly caressing his bare skin, sticky sweat clinging onto his flushed flesh nor the disheveled mess of his habitually, slicked back hair partially obscuring his hazy vision of this.. well, fuck— say it or not, admittedly, fucking hot sight shamelessly greeting him in return. Loosened, pristine white dress shirt untucked in face of this, to give forth to a discreet glimpse of one of the numerous tattoos snaked along the surface of his toned figure.

Slightest pout of your rosy, puckered lips he’d unconsciously find himself eyeing for far too long when thoroughly denied for the day by your daily, insistent questioning. Pop your cherry, you had confidently said with a noticeably excited shake of your fists. Might as well endlessly yap his ear off with that unrealistic request of yours— a pitiful plea that somehow, without fully realizing as to how and why — is currently happening within the otherwise narrow confines of his private office. Solely dedicated to calmly concentrate on each and every one of his gruelling tasks. Namely, neatly sorting out the thin sheets of paper openly displaying pertinent information to the numerous orphans residing here, registering the missing few that’d either go in running like some mindless moron or be plainly sold off to a godforsaken hell he held no genuine interest in— Fuck, fuck. You get the gist by now, there.

A well-deserved punishment is what this all is, simply was for that matter, and hah— you seem to be willingly taking it, although, can’t truly say he’s all that suprised. Brat. It’s what you are. Stupidly nosy brat who couldn’t hope to obediently keep his supple hands to himself for the shitty life of him. One that’d so ironically, perfectly fit all too well underneath the weight of his calloused palms restricting your bashful squirming— now contentedly facing the eventual consequences of your impulsive actions with a gleeful smile tracing your curved lips. Rhythmic squeaking of the wooden, chipped desk the man had sworn to fucking god, promised to dearly replace whenever was soonest possible and, well, he’s received his all-time excuse to be snidely given to those thugs.

A cum coated piece of furniture is just about a good reason to be neatly reinstalled with something sharper, newer— something along the lines of that, the bigger the better, probably.

Speaking of big.. Shit, he’s undeniably fucked.

“Don’t you fucking look at me like that, you ungrateful little bastard. I’m putting a roof over your head and a place to stay so— fuck, the least you can do is fucking pay me back on time, but can’t even do that, can you?” Habitually stern is what he’s evidently known best for amongst the nosy orphans, yet that usual bite in his gruff voice is almost.. pitifully lacking in face of whatever the fuck this is— yeah, actually he’s got a clue what it is. Inwardly cursing at how his hips automatically snap back in one sharp motion to then, merely slap forward— flush against your reddened ass. Riddled, fresh marks traced along the entirety of your curved back nor your spread asscheeks for that matter, shouldn’t be looking so infuriatingly pretty after all that harsh spanking he’s had you withstand. Take it as the start of your relatively tame punishment coming from a stone cold man like him, that’s what.

“Like what? A satisfied client? Hah— this is the best day of my life, y’know. Feels so fuckin’ good, Bailey— please don’t stop..” Of-fucking-‘course you’ve already had whatever comment prepared to hurriedly retort back within your noisy mouth, despite being so crudely bent over a flat surface like this. Particularly whiny moan drawn out at the feel of his thick cock satisfyingly stretching you full, sinfully defiling you from virginity itself. Pervertedly spread open with your dizzyingly warm, honeyed— fuck, did he really just think of your hole like that?? Must be losing his goddamn mind. Correct, your fucking hole is the one irreversibly altering his unwavering principles. So fuck you, really.

Sloppy, squelchy noises, all too annoyingly addictive to hear, of your tight, puckered heat fervently sucking his fat cock in, coating it all sticky and wet with your slippery, pink insides. Instinctively hissing at the knee-buckling sight of his veiny length repeatedly remerging and disappearing deep inside because shit— can’t get enough of it. So much so his rough thumbs are subconsciously spreading that tender flesh wide open for his unrelenting, stern gaze to gawk at. Not to mention, those frilly lines adorning that stupidly short skirt, bouncing in tandem with each ruthless thrusts slapped to your backside. Admittedly adorable, cute cock clumsily bobbing from the ruthlessly loud smacks of the caretaker’s fat balls sloppily slapping upon the flush of your ass, teasing— no, irrefutably taunting him by the subtle glimpse of your dribbling, wet dick peeking from beneath that skirt.

Like to play dress up, don’t you? Sneakily slip in those overly feminine, lacy garments the elder man would’ve notably poked fun at the sissies that unabashedly wore such clothings back in his day— ironically enough, now he’s finding himself, balls deep into said ‘sissy’. Meanly tugging at the silken material snugly encircling your flailing legs, neatly tied bows bound to predictably come undone given the unrelenting bounces of your shared figures. Unable to keep still when you’re being fucked or something?

Little, incompetent brat. Constantly managing to crawl underneath his skin, reach the deepest parts within him the caretaker has progressively learned to conceal beneath this ruthlessly heartless facade. Not that Bailey’s the nicest man to begin with, but hell— favouring a good for nothing, admittedly appealing to the eyes— meddling boy like you wasn’t on his fucking wish list either.

Should be crudely wiping off that joyous grin etched upon your features if you actually know what’s good for you. Though, doubt you will.

Fine. He’s not necessarily against doing the honours for you. Frustratingly fuck out the undeniable audacity ever so present in your every movements when carelessly distracting him during work hours— time meant to be initially spent for focusing and godfuckingdammit, merely thinking back on it has him obscenely gritting his teeth, further tightening his unrelenting grip planted along your — sure to be bruised later, which you’re naturally paying the price of it — hips. Heaving groans mixed along with some curses which are presumably directed at you, if not at himself, that he’s uncertain of, really. All he’s stupidly conscious of is the undeniable fact that you might’ve coincidentally, if not intentionally, gotten him dizzyingly drunk off your previously undefiled hole.

Fuck, must be that then. Overly aware of what you’re currently doing to him, aren’t you?

‘S that it? Your admittedly, badly thought out plan simmering deep within your mind, happily tugging at his heartstrings in hopes of getting your mean caretaker to fuck your virgin holes full of cum? Well, all to say— you’ve graciously received what your bratty, stupidly pretty ass has fervently been desiring for all along, huh? Ain’t that right? So in return, it’s only fair that he greedily takes whatever he so pleases, whenever or wherever— that is of no importance then, whether it be comfortably settled atop his lap during office hours or slung along your knees to dutifully service him. “God, don’t you dare fucking move— just— just fucking stay like. Yeah, just like— hah, that.” Got no qualms whatever position that might be in, too caught up in the tender feel of your soft flesh underneath his punishing grasp to sluggishly catch on what’s spilling forth from his swollen red, oozing tip because.. shit, got him cumming— not just plain ol’ cumming, but mortifyingly enough, squirting prematurely too. Effectively painting your stretched walls in a sticky, white mess of his seed, inwardly cursing at himself for potentially letting things stretch on further than they were initially meant to.

Yet as ironic as it may be, his unwavering pride naturally beckons him in turn or is it the petulant whine longingly drawled out from between your rosy lips at the sole thoughts of your time together being cut short? Right— ‘course, what else would it be that’d have you miserably whimper so? Didn’t cum yet, did you? Obediently took his fat load sickeningly dripping free from your sore, used up hole without any sort of complaint, gaze momentarily flicking downwards to the pearly droplets of his cum progressively trickling down the length of your suspended legs laid along the precarious edge of his oaky desk.

Similar to how an opportunist excitedly pounces on every chance set before him— hah, he’s never been much like Eden to cowardly hide amongst the oaky, wooden trees to begin with. Huddle within the shadowy forest in a futile hope that mere distance might erase the muddled past; the foggy, far-away town altogether from their collectively minds.

Rather take part in the animalistic feast even if it would’ve eventually spelled utter ruin for himself, inevitable defeat one cannot simply crawl out of sheer will. And maybe, that said ruin, is delicately staring at him right in the face with a fucked out look stretch upon your features, pupils blown wide with a hint of saliva gracing the corner of your pouty lips that he— fuck, can’t help it, really— have his calloused thumb stroke at, soon swiftly followed by the immediate puckering of your overly attentive mouth suckling along the digit. Incidentally coating it in a slippery wet layer of your spit that you, of course, joyfully take advantage of by stifling a wanton moan right ‘round it.

Shit, going to be the goddamn death of him.

That eventually faith patiently awaiting for him, doesn’t sound so bad when your cum stained, little needy self is notably factored in that messy equation after all.

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

I have full confidence that Price is the type of man to give you the clothes off his back if it means you’re taken care of.

Clothes got wet? Dry yourself off and here’s a shirt and pair of pants, yeah they’re bigger on you but it’s okay. Cold? Here’s my jacket, no, take it I’ll be fine. What happened to your scarf? You’ll freeze without one take mine. Need gloves? Here, you can have mine, don’t worry I have an extra pair. Why not give you the extra pair? Well you already put those on so there’s no point in asking for them back now is there? Sun blocking your eyes and you can’t see? Fine, here’s my hat just give it back to me when you’re finished and don’t lose it, yeah?

[anlian-aishang]

Hello, could I please request a Captain Levi X reader fic where he comforts a sick and injured reader please? Canonverse of course. I love your writing btw :)

Tags: levi x reader, fluff, canonverse, mutual pining, caretaking, broken bones + blood mention, reader is physically supported, platonic undressing/nudity, fem!reader Word count: 5800 A/N: Thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy, dear anon <3

Levi could not shake the feeling: had he been there, you never would have wound up like this. With that train of thought came a crash of regret, his one vow being to live without it. He could not turn back time and prevent the accident from happening, but there was one thing he could do to alleviate its aftermath.

Fresh off the return from the expedition, he had not even changed out of his uniform yet, Levi made straight for Hange’s office. “Put me in the infirmary tonight.”

Hange rolled their eyes and teased, “How about a hello or a please first, huh?”

“Hi, and please.”

Hange grinned, internally laughing for having expected anything more. “You got any good reason? Hurt or something?”

They already knew the answer to that. His grey shirt was just as ironed as it was before setting off beyond the walls. Not one wrinkle in his canvas coat. No rips in his cape. Certainly not injured.

“Or did you just want an easy shift?”

They both knew: only one person had ended up in the infirmary. They both knew: that one person was you. In a wordless, imbalanced eye contact, Hange communicated their knowledge of the nature behind his rare request. Levi communicated that if they uttered one word about it, they too would end up on the list of casualties.

“Yeah,” Levi spoke flatly, “that’s it.”

The section commander dipped their quill pen fresh, crossed out Nanaba’s name and replaced the assignment with his. “Consider it done, but you owe me!”

Levi merely scowled and promptly turned on his heel. Stewing in irritation yet also simmering in thought of how to repay them. Maybe some assistance with a titan capture, maybe just saving their ass again as he had countless times before. 

With the captain’s back turned, Hange hollered after him, “You would save yourself a lot of time and trouble if you just asked them out, you know, like a normal person!”

But Levi had already shut the door and started down your way. Gritting his teeth, by subduing a smacking, he considered the two of them even again.

// // //

Though he had sped down the hallway, Levi dampened his pace as he approached the infirmary. At your door, a deep breath as his fingers delicately inched along the handle, just enough leverage to let himself in as quietly as possible.

Golden hour seared the white walls and placed a spotlight on the lone patient bundled in bed. Your lips were trembling. Your breaths were uneven. Your body was tired, bogged down by stiff casts and bandages. Levi felt his throat instinctively tighten. Fists clenched at his sides, aching to do something - anything - for you. To brush the strand of hair from your face, to straighten you from the entanglement of your sheets, but he was woefully aware that any movement carried the potential to wake you, and with the look on your face - he determined that unconsciousness was not a bad place for you to be.

Levi shuffled his boots across the wooden floor, cautious of how creaky the panels could be. Slowly, he lowered himself to a seat on the bed across from yours, nothing but a nightstand and temptation between. With a sigh, he tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, searching for ironic escape from the scene he had begged to be placed in, but instead - all he could picture was what must have happened to you out there. How had you ended up injured but no one else? Where were your comrades? Your squad leader? Where was he?

“Alone out there,” Levi pitied. The one who was always thinking of others - in their time of need - no one showed up for them. Again, Levi released an exasperated sigh. He was well familiar with how cruel the world could be. Every now and then, it still managed to surprise him. In your case, he supposed. 

Come to think of it, the infirmary itself seemed in remarkably poor condition. Levi swiped his finger along the bedframe and scoffed at the dust that flew from his touch. At the allergen, he sniffed slightly, and through that noticed the musk in the air. Levi glared out the window and into the empty courtyard. A lovely spring evening you were both missing: budding trees, bloomed flowers… Flowers.

Levi surveyed your state, bargaining within himself for a handful of seconds. With no sign of your stir, he clutched the side of the mattress and hoisted himself to his feet. Despite the audible crunch of the comforter, you remained sound in sleep, silently granting your attendant permission to depart from your side - however temporarily. 

At the door, he turned back once again: on one hand - anticipating that you would remain at rest so he could sneak out, on the other - hoping that you would call out to him, Levi, please don’t go. His knuckles turned white around the handle before swiftly departing, cutting himself off from overthinking any longer, at least for a little while. 

// // //

It had only been ten minutes, but he swore he was going too slow. Picking all of the wildflowers he could find, he tucked them beneath his arm until he had assembled a makeshift bouquet. Just enough to flush out the hospital aura, but as his arm began to cramp, he realized there may never be enough when it came to you. Grateful to be outside, Levi waited out his blush before heading back inside. 

This time, more hurried than when he first approached - the guilt of leaving you alone in there propelled his pace. Hastily, he flung the door open, causing your eyes to do the same. 

“Shit…” Levi cursed himself as he watched your figure shift. Tiny groans echoed throughout the barren room as you came to. With a few harsh blinks, your vision adjusted to the scene. A stark but beautiful transition, dreamlessness to the stuff of dreams: Levi in the door frame, flowers in hand, overcast in the gradient of sunset. 

“Am I … dreaming?” Your words made his heart halt, Levi clutched the stems a little tighter. Your angelic voice fresh out of sleep was suddenly seized by a sharp inhale, speech weakened, “My… my head…”

He may have said something, but you could not tell. Merciless ringing in your ears combined with the pounding at the back of your head, leaving you oblivious to everything external. You cupped your palm around your forehead and winced through clenched teeth. Atop your hand came his, fingers wedged in the spaces between yours. His contact was your answer: this was not a dream for not even in your most self-indulgent desires would you have come up with this. 

His hand did not massage you, did not apply pressure, but reminded you of his diligent presence. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ve got you. It was what he longed to say, what you longed to hear. As your inhales and exhales diluted, you both regained the composure to settle for less forthcoming words. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open and were met with those of solid steel, “Levi?”

Cracks in your voice, he swallowed for you, “You’re burning up.”

Your lips parted in confusion, hardly believing the scenario you were in. I thought… Nanaba… Why is he…? Levi read your questions and chose to ignore them. 

He was conscious of it, but conscious not to mention it - the sweat that came off your skin and stuck his hand to yours. Instead, he paraphrased, “Don’t you feel hot?”

An autonomous response, you shivered, whether due to the temperature or a certain other factor. “N’No, I think I -” your speech was interrupted by a pair of violent sneezes - saying all he needed to hear. 

Levi closed his eyes and frowned, silencing the germaphobe within him, “I see.” 

Hiding behind your wrist, “Sorry.”

He reached into his chest pocket and lent you a handkerchief, “Don’t be.”

His gaze descended from your eye contact, granting an ounce of privacy. Now that you had sat up, he could see precisely the spot you had laid. A stiff indent on the pillow outlined your shoulders, nape, and head. Folds in the sheets likewise defined your stagnant sleeping pose. You hadn’t moved for hours. It prompted him to scan for more hints: your nightstand displayed no tissues, no tea. Levi stifled a disapproving sneer, substituting action for anger. 

Levi’s fingertips grazed your comforter, “Your bandages…” 

“Yeah…” a tinge of stuffiness in your voice, your movements staggered as you brought your limbs out from underneath your bedding. 

Upon revelation, his eyes widened. Your right calf had been swallowed by a cast startlingly thick. Your right arm had been painted red by blood-soaked bandages. The sight made you lightheaded, nauseous, Levi caught it, “Hey, don’t look at it. Look at me.”

Your throat bobbed in nerves, anxious whimpers emitted. Over your frightened sobs, Levi ordered over them, “Look at me. Look at me.” 

Past blurry eyes, you strained to follow his guidance. His steel gaze was dead set on your wounds. Lips remained their characteristic flat. Hands were gentle and stable in lifting your arm closer to him. Even as your blood soaked through to his skin, even as you cried in panic and pain, he showed no signs of rile. Observing his calm brought you closer to your own: infectious medicine. 

“It hurts?”

“Y’Yeah.”

Slowly, Levi lowered his hold until your arm rested on the bed again. He stood and made his way to the cupboards. In your gaze, past the twitch of your eyelids, you caught the focus in his. Jaw set, near-silent rolls of pills as he picked up bottles and read them, knuckles white around the acetaminophen. A coughing fit snuck up on you, and by the time it was over, he was once again at your bedside. Effortlessly, he twisted the cap off, and poured two pills into his palm. With his left hand, Levi placed his thumb on the bulb of your chin and pushed down, tugging your lips apart. In his right hand, pointer finger and thumb pinched the capsule and perched it between your top and bottom teeth. 

In his contact, you shuddered against him, yet his voice remained monotone, “Swallow.”

You raised your brows sharply, and at your sight, Levi realized how self-indulgent he was being. On the other hand, you were ignorant, too blinded by perplexion: the command of your captain and the tenderness of a husband. You sure this isn’t a dream? 

Levi reached into his coat and pulled out his canteen, untouched from this morning’s expedition. Again, his eyes honed in on your lips as his reach began to approach you again. God, chills once again seized you, you weren’t sure you could take much more intimacy without - well, you weren’t sure what you would do. Squeal? Giggle? You didn’t want to find out, so instead, you stopped him. Hand cupped his container, fingertips grazing, you tried to ignore it and affirmed, “I’ll manage.”

Levi’s eyes briefly widened, the rest of him froze. “Right,” you idiot! He scowled and cursed himself. He thought your feelings had been mutual, but your refusal reminded him that he wasn’t so good at this sort of thing. With a heavy sigh, Levi left your side and strode to the other side of the room. A harsh, unpleasant drag of wood on wood echoed throughout the room - Levi pulled the chair out from under the desk and slumped on it. Arms crossed, gaze sank to his toes.

Now it was your turn to chastise yourself. Nice work, now he thinks you hate him. The opposite was true, but how were you supposed to convey that now? He could not have been further away, nerves in your shin reaffirmed: there was no chance your leg would walk you there. 

Wordlessly, you both shared a simultaneous thought: Maybe Nanaba should’ve been here after all. 

For some time, the two of you sat in silence. Levi thought about retreating to his room, but something kept him planted in that seat. Hange had already humiliated him enough today, they would have even more if he came back and asked to be relieved of the assignment he pled for. Then, there was the question of who would replace him. Some half-ass recruit? Even if he called on a fellow veteran, he was sure that the last-minute shift would impact their morale, and therefore, their performance. Even if his feelings were unrequited, it did not affect the fact that he cared about you - though it would have been easier if it did. Leaving you with someone other than him was unacceptable - in this context or others - Levi jut his heel against the ground.

Just a few meters apart from him, but you were in your own world. Your body ached, your muscles tired, but nothing was more painful than this silence. You thought about trying to sleep, but that attempt would be futile, for this quiet was too loud. Your heart longed to run to him, to throw your arms around him, to dip your lips to his ear and tell him you were sorry. Legs and fear damned that option. Powerless, you leaned back, crossed your hands at the wrists, and threw the X over your forehead. Resigned. 

Inside and outside, “I feel gross.”

First, a side eye. Then, he turned his neck and shoulders. Even after you had shoved him away, Levi found it impossible to ignore you. Still, there was a lingering paralysis, a fear of letting himself go again. Invisible ropes reigned him in and kept him tied to humility.

You peeked out from under your hands, flickering eye contact made from across the way. Despite the distance, he could see the glaze of brimming tears, blurring your gaze. Lips quivering, both overwhelmed and let down, his name cracked in your throat. Levi could not hear it, but saw it in the weak motions of your mouth. His hands clutched the edge of the desk, fingers clenched, your call of his name released the last of his anchors. Swiftly, he crossed the room to stand at your side.

Blood caked to your skin. Sweat glossed over it. Gross was not what came to mind when he looked at you, but he could see why you felt that way. As for him, a shower was a necessity the second filth found him, but his lips stayed sealed. Something about recommending it to you made him feel even dirtier. 

Levi kept his gaze averted, scanning the room. A metal bucket would keep the water hot. A stack of washcloths adjacent might feel nice. A thick roll of gauze, he glanced to the clock, it was probably about time to change your bandages anyways. He began to start towards them.

No, don’t leave me again.

Before you could think, your hand snapped to his wrist, drawing a startle and brow raise from your captain. A cough scratched its way up your throat, you snapped to the other side and leaned into the crook of your elbow, sparing him. With each cough, your hand twitched around his arm. Painfully pathetic. After the fit, your voice was left broken, throat sore, craving steam and humidity.

There was one way you could get that, sweetheart. One place.

“Wait, Levi…” your arm shook as it rose to point. Bathroom door on the other wall, “will you help me in there? I kinda,” you tried to speak past the impending tickle, “I think I want a - ah…” three rapid sneezes, you groaned in their wake, “ngh…” 

Was it that each of your words was so obviously pained? Or was it his eagerness boiling over again? The interruption arrived before he could answer: “A bath?”

You sniffled away whatever irritant that was, and smiled sheepishly, “Sounds nice.”

Heart pounded in his chest, Levi swallowed his feelings down and replaced them with his reliable intuition. Grey gaze assessed your state. The injuries in your arm - you wouldn’t be able to hold onto him. The cast around your leg - he wouldn’t be able to hold you. Carrying you was not an option - not tonight at least - but otherwise, the venture should be possible. He just needed a little bit from you, he would shoulder your rest.

“Here,” Levi kneeled. Over the edge of the mattress, you looked down to see him awaiting. Inexplicable shivers were due to no cold. The solidity of his voice incinerated your wandering thoughts, “- alright if I?” 

His arm gingered towards your back, and with it came a run back of that last interaction - the one you screwed up. You knew, you were lucky to get a retry. This time, you would make the choice you would regret the least, just like he’d want you to. 

And he did.

Rather than cutting him off from you, you sewed yourselves together, leaning into his reach and leaning on him. Through bangs, Levi glanced up to you. Had you really just done that? Or was he again misreading things? You met his stare with a weak yet assured smile, cupping his shoulder. Understood, his hand curved to match your waist. Delectable.

“With me,” Levi ordered. As he began to rise, you did, too. Your left side put in overtime as your right side dragged without much use. His hand on your hip did most of the lifting - not only effortless for humanity’s strongest, but a hand he was happy to lend. Each time your balance threatened, you found that his grip cinched tighter. Buckling knees and selfish imagination longed to topple - the former for relief, the latter just to see. 

You needed to get there. You needed to get there! You could have sworn that light was glowing from the outline of the door - a bath with Levi Ackerman - but it seemed the world had some stake in preventing your arrival. Pain shot through your side, you could not help but wince. Your high-pitched mewl fell upon his ear, making your shudders shared.

“C’mon,” Levi beckoned, the strength to your struggle, “you’re almost there.”

The edges of your vision turned blurry. The floor and the ceiling seemed to switch, or something? A painful ringing in your ears, his voice was the ice to soothe it, the sturdiness to silence it, “I’m here. I’ve got you.” 

You blinked for long spells, it seemed to help the threatening headache. Cold ceramic on the backs of your thighs lured you out of that strategy. When your eyes blurred open, the harsh white of the infirmary’s bath had been softened by a handful of candlelit lanterns, a four-wall twilight. The sound of water flowing from faucet to tub, an indoor waterfall. Maybe it was the medicine speaking, but you could not have pictured a more romantic scene. 

Levi shouldered off his tan coat, loosened his cravat, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows - you bit the inside of your lip, punishing the indulgence of your mind. Not romantic, you reminded yourself. Platonic, Levi settled.

The bath was filling. Water hot to the point of steaming: the mirror fogged, Levi’s cheeks tinged to red. You told yourself it was because of the room’s humidity. As he perched himself between your knees, Levi knew better. 

Clothes off. “Alright if I -?”

One hand would be hard. “Will you help me?”

The two of you interrupted one another with shared sentiment. A slight twitch of his lip - a smile - and a nervous giggle from you communicated mutual consent. He started with the hem of your tee. Fingers curled beneath the bottom, and god, how he was going oh so slowly. So delicate, there were times you had to rely on your sight to tell if he was really moving. Eventually, the brisk air wafted upon your skin, providing goosebumps as evidence. Within your collar, Levi spread his fingers wide, allowing the elastic to slide over your head and face without too much friction. When it came to your wounded arm, he was especially focused. Surgical precision, the fabric did not even graze your skin. 

However, now was the time. From the side of his hip, he unsheathed his pocketknife. A sharp shing! The blade razor thin, yet you were not the least bit scared. Even as he reached toward your fresh wound and slid the dagger between your bandage and forearm, somehow you knew he would not slip. After this long in the Regiment, he had learned some things about the psychology of first aid. Before you could think to panic, he had already sliced the wrap in two. Your gauze fell to the floor. Now, all that was left of your upper garments was your bra. Levi deliberately met your eye contact - this okay? You smiled and leaned forward, shortening the distance - I trust you. 

There was something about the way he unhooked you, and there was something about the way you interpreted it. Not suspiciously swift - he must not’ve been with many girls before. Neither clumsy nor awkward - had he anticipated this moment for a while? The tension of your brassiere as well as the tension in the room diluted when he finally stripped you free. Your bare chest before him, you anticipated his stare, but it never came. Levi did not look, but at the same time, it did not seem that he was trying not to. The aversion of his gaze once again humbled your ego, maybe he just wasn’t into you like that. The truth was, sex just wasn’t on his mind. Life had thrown him enough cold stones, had sculpted him into a realist. Let down had tethered his reins, preventing him from lunging too far towards satisfaction. 

Faced with your fragile state, your blood and bruises had his whole attention - more than the lips that longed to be kissed and the curves that yearned to be held again. Was it because he was a soldier that he could not care less about this opportunity? No, it was because his desires for you were far less shallow. 

Levi wanted to see you smile, actually smile. He wanted to show you the world beyond the walls, but only once the titans had been eliminated. Eyes on you on every expedition, he resented the perpetual fear that snared you. So terrified of the near threats - even the potential of threats - that you could not see the beauty in distance. The horizon. Mirages. Mountains in haze and trees to the forests. They were out there, and he had brought you there, but as long as the world was a dangerous place, you would fail to enjoy them. An expression without worry, that was his desire, more than anything -

“Levi?”

Snapped from his daydream, your puppy-dog gaze brought him back down to earth. A bob in his throat, a silent swallow, “Right, sorry.”

Gently, he took your bra and flowered it on the bathroom countertop. Your starch white pants, now stained with blood and dirt. Fingertips sandwiched your button and its opposite flap, looping the metal circle out from within, his knuckles grazed your tummy on the way. Drag of your zipper, you twitched beneath his touch. Once again, he checked on you. To confirm your consent, you used your left leg to shift your lower half off the edge of the tub, granting him the space to remove your bottoms. Levi glanced up to you and gave a half-nod. Then, he gradually curled his grip beside your hips, beneath the fabric of both your canvas pants and cotton underwear. Unexpected, scratchy lace on its edges drew a shiver he nearly subdued. Likewise, his neatly trimmed nails slightly scraped your sides. With the two of you flinching at once, both of you were ignorant to the startle of the other. 

Fabric bunched on his way down, he slid the loops off your ankles and over your feet. After dealing with the left side, he realized the problem of the right. Your cast so thick, there was no way it would fit through the sleeve of your pants. His thought process seemed to glimmer on the reflection of his blade. Its glare took hold of your peripheral vision.

“It’s okay. It’s fine.”

Levi held the blade in his trademark backwards way, “I’ll get you -” not we’ll get you - “a new pair.”

With one hand, he held the bundle of canvas. With the other, he gave a quick nick at its top, just an inch past the thickness of where your belt would go. A jut of his wrist snapped the switch back under its protective case, Levi shoved the knife back into his leg strap. Two free hands grabbed each side of the cut and tore apart. A satisfying tear! Not as satisfying as the way his forearms flexed. Somehow, the movement of his muscles contracted with the still in his face and the lack of audible exertion. Purposed and effortless. 

Your pants had been destroyed, yet still, he folded them neatly over his forearms - a perfectly symmetrical square. Levi draped your panties over your bra. While he fixated on the potential for wrinkles, your teeth began to chatter, nose began to tickle. Though you were glad to be out of those filthy clothes, the loss of warmth was beginning to affect you. Bundling into yourself, you ducked your head down and sneezed again - immediately garnering his attention. 

Levi chastised himself for moving too slow, but did not loom. In this context and others, he preferred to rely on action. After a quick cuff of his sleeves at the elbows, Levi gestured his arms out to you, you lifted your reach toward him. By an arm at your back and one beneath your knee, he helped maneuver you into the bath, all without getting your cast or cuts into the water. Although, Levi bit the inside of his cheek, those scratches would have to be cleaned eventually. But for now, he could not bring himself to sever your bliss, let alone replace it with pain. 

Hot, but not too hot. Scented, but not overwhelming. You tipped your head back and sighed. Singsonged breaths, your toes curled around the porcelain rim. The sight and sound of your satisfaction made his heart stop, his middle blaze, “Ah, that feels good…” 

Levi balled his fists in his clothes, good god help me. He could practically see Hange laughing and teasing: Look what you got yourself into, Levi! Lips pressed together, a grounding throat clear. Maybe, selfishly, he should get your arm under the water after all. 

He did not have to say anything, for you could feel his gaze searing onto your arm. You were impressed with his composure. In your eyes, just thinking about your wound was enough to make your stomach flip. Levi, on the other hand, seemed relatively unbothered. Looking back on this moment would bring you immense sympathy: what had he seen already that made this okay? Indeed, he had witnessed enough injury to accurately survey: the scratch was actually not as bad as the amount of dried blood suggested. Until he cleaned it, you would continue to shriek at your own sight. 

You knew what had to be done, so don’t make me beg. 

Your voice was quiet, sagged by reluctance. Your lip started to quiver, your throat seemed to close. No one enjoyed this sort of thing - shots, the dentist - but some things just had to be done. As long as he was here, it wouldn’t be so bad. It was how you tried to convince yourself, but despite his presence, your eyes began to burn, sobs began to simmer. Stuttering turned to blubbering, “C’Can you… C’an you…” Tears brimmed, you tried to speak past them, “H’Help m’me…?” You could not even manage the thought of voluntarily sinking your arm into the water, let alone the speech.

Thankfully, he read between the lines. Levi knew what he had to do. Fingers intertwined, you squeezed his hand hard. “You’re okay,” Levi assured, “I’ve got you.”

He lead the way, you went along with it. On your descent, despite his solid contact, you could not stop trembling. Levi used his other hand to graze the bottom of your chin, beckoning your gaze to meet his. “Don’t look at it, just look at me.”

Brows flat, eyes plain, Levi’s calm was contagious. You didn’t believe in yourself, but he did: “I know you can do it.” Who were you to object to your captain? 

You can do this. You can do this. You -

Steaming, soapy water finally consumed your arm. The spot of contact managed to demand each of your nerves and diminish any ounce of composure. One leg pushed against the end of the tub, the other squirmed and snapped. You threw your head back over the rim with a scream that hurt your own ears. Levi did not shush you, only fierced his grip. His grounding technique brought you back a bit, just enough to substitute your high-pitched mewls for between-teeth hisses.

Pathetic, it was a word he used towards plenty of people, but when it came to you, it meant something different. Helpless - not weakness - in a way that pled for his assistance. When others acted like this, it irked him. And it wasn’t that he enjoyed seeing you like this, but the hold you had on him was confusing: how did this bother him so intensely yet make his heart do somersaults? 

Levi chose to distract himself from his emotions and instead fixated on the twitches of your body. Some here, some there, but now starting to die down. Deep breaths, your chest rattled on exhale. As soon as you regained coherence and speech, you apologized, embarrassed, “Sorry.”

Levi knit his brows, you had nothing to be sorry for. If anything, he did. Sorry that he wasn’t there when you needed him to be. With each tear you shed and each strain of overstimulated muscles, he was painfully reminded that this could have - should have - never happened. Maintaining his hold of your hand, Levi took a washcloth from his back pocket, dipped it in the lather, and began to scrub your skin clean. Sorry that - “I wasn’t there,” at that moment, he swabbed a little harder, “what happened?”

It was as if he was trying to wipe away your layers and get to the bottom of today. Gentle at times, deliberate at others, he worked to massage an answer out of you. Reaching all the spots on your back, over the shoulders, the sides of your neck, the divot at your middle. Fingers woven, he leveraged his grip to lift your hand from the water and clean your arm. Levi pressed the cotton against your skin from the insides of your thighs to the tips of your toes. His arm aligned with your spine, reclining you backwards so that your hair could soak. Not too deep, as he tipped you back, Levi whispered, “Trust me.”

Throughout the bath, you remained quiet, though Levi could tell that you were not dosing him the silent treatment. Rather, you were still searching for understanding yourself. You sunk your gaze to the water below, hands kneaded beneath the surface, “It was my fault.”

There was no change in his movements, but his gaze snapped to you through sullen bangs, inviting you to ramble on. Ramble. “I was looking at another wing. A six… no… seven-meter abnormal.”

His brows arced, eyes to yours, That was my encounter. 

Caught red-handed, your own admission, I know.

“And… in the distance, I could see - could see someone was fighting it.”

Me.

Yes, you. 

“I got nervous. Startled, panicked… cinched the reins too hard.” It had happened in a second and was still so raw. Memory foggy, you tried to fill in your own blanks. “She must’ve thrown me or something. Stepped on my leg, I think?” With your blood washed away, you could finally bear to glance at your cut. “I remember being dragged, this must’ve been from the ground.” 

Levi’s lips parted, struck by your story and a thousand ensuing thoughts. It was his fault after all. It wasn’t that he was too far away from you, it was that he was too close. In your sights, but wait. Why were you looking? 

It was the last time that your eye contact began with uncertainty, but the first time that the two of you overcame your doubts. Through your story, you had all but confessed. Through his actions, Levi had, too. 

“Thanks for looking out for me.”

“You, too.”

When you were ready, you held out your hands. This time, far fewer check-ins were needed in the progression of your contact. Levi scooped your fingers in his palms, caressed and supported, he helped you out of the bathtub - your hands in his as he stood. Faced with his front, you noticed how his shirt had been soaked in the process, made more and more see-through as he bathed you. While he still refused to indulge himself in your appearance, you could not help but admire the symmetry of his abdomen and the new tightness of his top. Suddenly, your pain was flushed out and replaced with some other honey-like hormone. Was this the best medicine?

Levi kept one hand on you, there for balance, as he reached to the rack and unfurled your towel. Wrapped tight, he tucked the corner beneath your upper arm, allowing you to keep warm while he used a spare rag to dry the rest of your limbs - gentle and thorough. 

You rolled your neck and shoulders, “I don’t have clothes here…”

Levi flicked his head to the side, “...and that bed’s filthy.”

“Hey,” you glued your pointer and middle finger together and pushed the middle of his chest, sighing, “I couldn’t help that.”

But he could now. 

The next couple hours were another blur. In one arm, your dirty laundry. With the other, Levi supported your weight as you sneaked yet stumbled through new moonlit halls. You could not retrace the path to his room, but there were a few parts along the way that you could write novels about, could paint portraits of. The way his index finger crossed with the line of his lips, shushing your nervous laughs as you passed recruits’ barracks. The hush and haste in his voice. Bringing you to his bed and pulling the covers to your nose, why did he insist on taking the sofa? The answer to that question, you could not understand. The oceans in his eyes, you could not quite draw. The words that dwindled on the tip of his tongue, you could not quite pen. 

But there were many more nights to get there. 

// masterlist //