the wisdom of words

19 year old with a multi fandom blog

[vampicie]

my total drama agendas that i will keep pushing

dad chris and son noah

courtney and noah friendship

courtney and bridgette's friendship should have lasted longer than it did

the writers dumbed down so many characters in world tour just to make it easy on alejandro

both alenoah and aleheather are interesting ships in their own unique ways

lyler is the healthiest canon ship in the entire series

ezekiel should have eaten chris alive on camera

anyways, thank you for coming to my ted talk <3

[pittsick]

POPE CODY ﹏ NEW MATTRESS.

summary ﹏ When Pope gets new furniture for his room, all you can think about is how you should inaugurate it. He has a meeting with his brothers and J, but who cares if he's a little late to it?

cw ﹏ ( +18 ) mdni / smut fic. afab!reader. established relationship. spontaneous sex / quickie sex. kissing. praise. dirty-talking. cowgirl position. semi-exhibitionism&voyeurism theme while being caught by Craig. petname (baby). groping. light hair pulling. unprotected piv. clit stimulation. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. cockdrunk!reader. crying during sex / dacryphilia. creampie. light aftercare.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

“You got a new bed, uh?”

Your voice took Pope out of his thoughts as he pushed the new king size mattress into the bed frame. His hazel eyes looked up to see you leaning against the doorway, eyebrows furrowed which made a curious expression appear on your face. He hummed, nodding his head before replying. “Yeah, I needed a change. I didn’t like what was there before.” 

He moved, sweeping the bare mattress with his hand as if there were crumbs on it and then, sat down. You licked your lips, looking around at the new furniture; it looked more mature, more adult-like. Your shoes taped on the floor as you walked closer to Pope, until you were standing right between his legs, hands moving to rest on his broad shoulders.

“It looks good, I think. More… you, in a way.” You nodded at him, eyes looking down to realize he was already watching you. “We should inaugurate it, don’t you think?”

His head tilted to the side as he took your words in, as if he was trying to understand what you meant by them. His strong hands moved to rest on your hips, fingers playing with the thin mesh overlay of your short skirt. He seemed deep into his thoughts before his hazel orbs locked into your face again. “I have a meeting with J, I don’t have time, baby.” But you shrugged at the words leaving his mouth.

“No one said it had to take time, you know. We could be done in ten minutes.” Your hands moved to pull the fabric of your skirt up to your hips so it wouldn’t bother you when you ended up straddling Pope’s thighs. He groaned at the weight of you onto his bulge, but his hands followed the movement of your body and grabbed the fat of your hips to bring you closer. You sighed, sitting directly above his shaft but the rough fabric of his jeans were bothering you, making you squirm. 

“You promise to be fast?” He asked, eyes locking onto yours and you nodded. You knew how important it was for him to respect time and rules. “Of course, I promise. But you want it too, don’t you?” You asked then, leaning your face closer just to press a kiss to his cheek and to his forehead and then, to his lips.

Pope’s hands tightened their grip onto your hips as you kissed him, making you roll on top of him. A sigh escaped his mouth, muffled by your own.

“Can’t stop thinking about y’pussy, I want you all the time.” You heard him reply against your lips before he pulled away just to see your expression. Your hands moved to wrap around his nape, fingers scratching at the hair at the base of his neck which made Pope groan loudly, his hands helping your hips move on top of his own. The rough denim of his jeans burned your inner-thighs with the force he used to make you move, but the pain mixed with pleasure as your clit rubbed against his zipper. Your pussy leaked, creating a damp patch in the center of your panties.

You moaned his name, licking your lips while resting your forehead against his jawline. “Need to be inside your pussy—” He whined at you and your hands immediately moved, movements rushed as you unbuttoned his pants, the fly opening by itself as you pushed the fabric out of the way and freeing his now hard cock. The tip was angry red, beads of pre-cum making it glisten as the veins along his length throbbed for attention.

Pope hissed as you wrapped one hand around his cock, hips jerking up. He licked his lips. “I don’t have any condom on me.” You whined, shrugging. “Don’t care, I need you to feel you inside me.”

Your body shifted, hips lifting up as you angled Andrew’s cock toward your sloppy hole, your free hand pushing your panties to the side. Thread of wetness connected your skin to the cotton tissue; a telltale of the mess your cunt was. Cold air hit your glistening skin, making you shiver as the mushroom tip of Pope’s cock teased your puffy folds, and you gathered some wetness onto it before gently pushing down onto it.

A gasp left your mouth as your boyfriend’s hands moved to your hips, helping you gently to sit down on his shaft. Pleasure took over your facial expression; your eyebrows furrowed, your mouth fell wide open and you moaned loudly when Pope’s cock filled you up.

Your walls stretched around him, pulsating and leaking to ease him deeper. Immediately, his cock twitched inside you but neither of you moved, giving you time to adjust a bit more to the position. Like that, he felt so much deeper inside you than usual; his mushroom head kissing your cervix gently. 

“Fuck, you’re so… so fucking tight.” You heard Pope say, eyebrows furrowed just like yours had been a few instants ago. His large palms groped the fat of your hips, squeezing the flesh there before he caressed your skin. “My cock feels so warm. I don’t want to move.” He groaned, his forehead falling against your shoulder and he rested like that for a moment. Your hands moved and ended up running through his hair, tugging gently on the locks.

You squeezed your walls around his twitching cock and Pope gasped, before remembering that he didn’t had much time to fuck you before he needed to go, and his head lifted up to look at you. “Move, baby.” He ordered, even if his voice was gentle when speaking to you. “You’re so impatient. Afraid to be late?” You joked at him, but all he did was jerk his hips up inside you, making you gasp. The tip of his fat cock pushed against your cervix, mixing pain and pleasure through your body. Once more, your hands moved to grab his shoulders and you started to move.

Skin slapping skin echoed in his room as you lifted your hips up and let down fall back down onto his hard cock. “Fuck! Pope, fuck!” You cried out as your boyfriend helped you, lifting you off of his shaft and pulling you back down with more force; your pussy leaking down to his balls and making them slap and stick to your ass each time. A ring of creamy white had already started to appear all around the base of his shaft, dragging up to his tip. 

You could only wrap your arms around his shoulders to not fall over with the force he was using to move you up and down. Tears had started to form at the corners of your eyes, pleasure making you feel all fuzzy and weak; unable to form coherent sentences even though Pope was speaking to you.

“Good girl, yeah, clench that pussy for me.” You whined, head resting against his shoulder as you clenched your gummy walls, making him groan loudly. 

His hands moved to the fat of your ass, groping it in his strong palms before spreading your asscheeks to get deeper inside your pussy. “Pope! Mhhmfuck! Please!” You moaned into his ears and his hips jerked up at the same time he pulled you down on his cock. Your words made him fasten the pace, and louder squelching noises echoed in the room, mixing with your groaning and moaning. “Yeah? You wanted my cock so bad and now look at you.” He hissed, voice wavering due to the efforts he was making to fuck you. 

You rolled your hips, trying to get his tip to rub your g-spot when a loud door slamming noise was heard. You gasped, lifting your head up and expected Pope to stop but he didn’t, bringing you harder onto his cock. “Pope! Fuck—” You whined, mouth wide open and eyes half-lidded. A voice spoke through the house, a voice you recognized as Craig’s. 

“Pope?! You here?” It was followed by clattering and another door slamming.

Pope’s hips thrusted up faster and harder into your pussy instead of stopping, and you could only bounce up and down onto him as an answer. You forgot about the windows without curtains, about Craig, about being watched as your boyfriend’s hands squeezed the fat of your ass harder. “Keep moving, I’m close—” He groaned into your ear and you moaned, tightening your grip around his shoulders. Your hips rolled, his bulbous tip finally rubbing against your g-spot as you leaned your pelvis forward.

Your mouth fell wide open at the feeling, your bounce becoming messy. “Fuck, please, feels so good—!” You cried, fingers finding Pope’s hair again just to tug on it, making him hiss.

“Yeah? Your pussy feels good? It feels good knowing Craig could see us, uh?” He spoke into your ear, the words bringing shame and embarrassment to you, but you couldn’t stop your hips from moving. Your pussy clenched, gripping Pope’s cock tightly inside, milking him dry. 

The skin slapping skin echoed louder, your ass slapping down onto Pope’s thighs all while his tip rubbed and hit your sweet spot. Your eyes lowered to where you both were connected; you watched as his cock disappeared inside your sloppy tight cunt, as creamy white juice made a mess onto his length, as how much you clenched when you felt your orgasm get closer.

Tears of pleasure rolled down your cheeks, your face nuzzling against Pope’s when you spoke. “Please, I need to come! I want to come so bad!” The words made your boyfriend groan, his hips thrusted up faster, his balls slapping your ass.

“You want to come? I’ll make you come, baby. Come for me, be a good girl.” One of his hands left your ass after those words, making its way between your thighs just for his thumb to press against your clit and start to rub at it. It wasn’t gentle or attentive; but more slick and messy, trying to get you to your orgasm.

And it worked—a few more thrusts of his hips, his bulbous tip rubbing at your g-spot and his thumb against your bud of nerves and you were coming loudly; gasping and crying from the pleasure.

Your mouth fell open, your muscles contracted and shook as you tried to pull away with how strong the orgasm was. Pope held you close; still fucking you as he searched for his own release. Once again, a loud voice spoke inside the house. 

“Pope, for fuck’s sake, you here?!” It was still Craig, frantic and voice mad. The noise of feet was heard right after, coming closer to the corridor and to Pope’s room. Your boyfriend groaned loudly, his balls slapping at your ass and echoing into the space which overstimulated you as he kept fucking you through your orgasm.

His voice buzzed into your ears as he spoke back. “Fucking coming! M’busy, asshole!”

A groan was heard, followed by a: “Move your ass!” from Craig.

You could have laughed in any other situation, but all you could do was nuzzle your face in his neck, muscles twitching and tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks as Pope buried his cock inside your sloppy cunt; making a mess of your juices that dripped from your hole and down to his balls. It made your inner-thighs stick to his own, sweat mixing with the lots. “Pope, please, I can’t—!” You cried, and both his hands moved back to your ass, spreading the cheeks apart to get deeper inside your hole.

“You can baby, you’re doing so good for me. Y’wanted to inaugurate the bed, remember? You’re takin’ it so good, baby. Such a good girl, taking all of my cock.” He hissed in your ear, pulling up and down onto his cock just for his mushroom tip to rub against your g-spot again, making you gasp and roll your hips to escape it. The pleasure was too good, making your head all fuzzy and thoughts disappear. 

“I love when you make a mess on my cock. You have such a sweet pussy.” The words flew above your head, your face buried into Pope’s neck as he groaned, his thrusts becoming sloppy and messy.

His hands tightened their grip onto the fat of your ass, bruising it from how strong it was. “M’going to fill you up now, alright? I don’t have tissues to clean you up, I don’t want to make a mess.” You could only nod your head at his words, your mouth open, drool at the corner of your lips. 

You were too far gone to hear the footsteps closer to the door and Craig’s curse. “Shit, Pope, close the fucking door!” The footsteps vanished and the sentence was thrown again. “No fuckin’ wonder we are late.” And once again, you could have apologized and laughed about the situation if you aren’t so cockdrunk right now. But Pope didn’t seem to care either as he thrusted inside your pussy with a faster pace, making you jump onto his cock.

One of his hands moved back between your thighs to rub at your sensitive clit.

You moaned, more tears falling down your cheeks at the pleasure. “Come on baby, I’m late. Wanna come for me again? Wanna make a mess on my cock so I remember your pussy all day long?” Your boyfriend spoke, to which you moaned, arms tightening around his neck and fingers tugging at his hair again. “Fuck—” He cursed when you squeezed your velvety walls around his fat cock, milking him dry.

You only needed a few more stimulation before coming again; less stronger than the first one but so good nonetheless. Pope followed you immediately, thrusting up one last time before burying himself inside your sloppy cunt to the hilt. You felt his bulbous tip pressed against your cervix, shooting his warm load directly into your womb. His hands held you down onto his cock; it twitched against your gummy walls as he filled you up to the brink. “Pope! Fuuuck!” You cried out at the feeling.

“I know, fuck, you’re so good… Such a good pussy, just for me. Filled up with all my come.” Pope groaned, sweaty forehead resting against your own. Neither of you moved then, taking a second to breath.

You felt your heart beating inside your cunt, an uncomfortable feeling that made you squirm and Pope sighed, wrapping his arms around you. “You were so good for me, you took it all.” The words made you hum, your hands brushing his curls away gently, before you cupped his jaw and tilted his head up.

“You were so good for me too, love. You made me feel so good.” Pope looked at him without replying before leaning his face closer and pressing a chaste kiss against your lips. His hands moved to rest onto your waist then, before he slowly helped you pull away. His semen immediately tried to leak out of your cunt as you sat on the bare mattress but you pulled your panties back in place so it wouldn’t stain the new sleeping furniture. 

You took a deep breath, wiping your almost-dry tears as Pope tucked himself back into his jeans and brushed his curls away from his sweaty forehead. He shifted on the bed, turning to the side to look at you. “I’m late for the meeting now.” And that, that made you laugh. You nodded at him.

“Yeah, trust me, I gathered that from Craig catching us.” Pope only hummed at your words before leaning to kiss you again; softly, lingering. When he pulled away, his eyes swiftly looked over the room.

“I’ll install curtains to those windows, I think.” You smiled and nodded, because obviously, that was a good idea.

Pope looked back at you, head tilted to the side, hazel orbs locked into yours. “Will you be alright if I leave now? It’s an important meeting.” You waved your hand at him, eyes fond as your boyfriend stood up and bent over just to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Go, but we will be inaugurating the rest of the furniture later.” You saw the slight smirk on his face at the words leaving your mouth before he turned his back to you and left the room; leaving you on the bare mattress with a pussy filled with his come and a mess of underwear. In the background, you heard a bit of discussion between Pope and his younger brother as you rolled onto the bed.

“Damn, exhibistionnism, uh?”

“Shut the fuck up, Craig. Move, we’re late.”

“Yeah, well, I fucking wonder why.”

taglist ﹏ @dumbbandpoetic @bluestrd @userhotd ( to be added )

[ignisarrow]

[cloverbbun]

── ⟢ your hybrid room mate gets caught doing what ?!

♯┆ bringing home a hybrid as your room mate? bad idea. catching him sniffing your panties while drooling all over the floor? even worse...

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ cw: mdni, fem!reader, needy dog hybrid Choso in a rut, masturbation, panty sniffing, cum eating, handjob, blowjob, pussy eating, creampie, knotting

♡ comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

Choso was always a good boy, making sure the house is well guarded as well as cleaned while you went to work, eagerly greeting you at the door the second you came back home.

"You're back! Finally" He chirped happily, immediately taking your bag and your jacket from you, trying to help you unwind the second you stepped inside your home.

"Have you been a good boy today?" You asked amused, able to smell your favorite dinner in the oven already. Choso only nodded, waiting for his daily head pats from you and you giggled at the sight, head tilted downwards and his tail wagging so fast it became a blurred line.

"My good boy," you praised and ruffled through his black hair, making the little ears that adorned his head flop slightly. 

It filled you with pride and joy seeing your little puppy so happy and comfortable around you, remembering the time when you just got him. He was in a terrible shape, not taken care of well by his previous owners and fresh wounds covered his body that was already littered with scars - and yet he was trusting and friendly, cautious of course but he still tried to see the positive things in everything. This trait is probably what made you keep him, the way he was so selfless and really wanted to take care of you without expecting anything in return from you but you gave him an endless amount of love these past few months he has been with you. 

By the time you finished your dinner, you noticed something was off, Choso was whimpering slightly and his ears were laid back against his head. "Hey… are you okay? What's wrong?" You asked concerned, feeling his forehead gently and frowning when he was burning up a little. 

"Let's get you to bed early, should I hold you?" You asked caring but he shook his head, moving away from your touch, which you weren't used to. You just figured that he didn't like to be touched when sick or that he didn't want to risk getting you sick as well, so you let him trail off to bed alone before joining him hours later. 

The entire night you kept your distance instead of cuddling up close for warmth and comfort like you two usually do and the way he even whimpered in his sleep made your heart ache. 

Morning came fast despite the rough night both of you had and Choso found himself glued to your side, legs wrapped around yours and his arms clinging to your torso. 

"Please don't leave… stay home today… I need you," he whined but you only cupped his face, a pout appearing on his handsome face as he leaned into your touch. "I can't, baby… I have that important meeting in the morning but I promise I’ll come home right after." you promised, your heart threatening to burst at the crushed expression he wore now but he understood - you probably didn't know what was going on anyways, never having owned a puppy hybrid before so he couldn't blame you and let you get up, wanting to take care of it himself. 

He watched you leave like he did every morning, trying to behave normal and trying to act like he just felt a little sick over night and needed some extra cuddles that day which you gladly provided, even leaving work early just to take care of your beloved puppy. 

This wasn't exactly the case but he didn't have the heart to tell you that he was in a rut, needing to bury himself inside of you and filling you up repeatedly but he could take care of himself… or at least so he thought. His little ears didn't pick up the sound of your keys turning, neither did he hear your worried calls for him. His whimpers of your name almost drowned out the slick sound of his own cum aiding as lube while stroking his achingly hard cock, overly sensitive from all the times he made himself cum already, a small puddle on the floor and some of it dripping off his torso.

Even if his ears were occupied, he should have at least noticed your smell filling his senses but his nose was buried in a pair of your panties that he stole out of the laundry, the scent of your cunt so intense and addicting to him. 

"Choso?" You asked in a soft voice, unsure if you were concerned or shocked by the scene playing out in front of you. Your little puppy perked his head up, the collar jingling with the sudden movement and his cum shooting all over the floor in front of him. He wished he could disappear in that moment, shying away from you but you were able to stop him before he entirely died from embarrassment.

Your palm on his arm made him shudder, a burning sensation spreading through his entire body and the embarrassment was forgotten, big eyes looked up at you

"help… please," he whimpered, dick twitching again already without ever letting him catch a break. 

The mess he made of the floor and himself let you figure that he's been at this for hours, probably since you left in the morning and you felt so bad for him, giving him a warm smile and kneeling down to him. “Are you in a rut?” You asked bold, making him blush further as he nodded affirmatively. 

"I read about that when I educated myself about owning a puppy hybrid… it's okay baby boy, you're my good boy, aren't you?" You asked with a soft voice as your hand traveled from his strong biceps towards his chest, smearing a few pearls of his cum over his pebbled nipples which made him shudder and goosebumps formed over his entire body. 

"But you've been such a naughty boy, stealing my underwear… Do you think I should punish you for that?" You asked, a smirk growing on your lips when he pouted but he nodded, knowing he's not allowed to steal your panties. A little yelp escaped his pouting lips when you pinched his sensitive nipples before tugging his face close to the floor by the collar he wore - something he wanted to do, proud of being your good boy. 

"Clean up the mess you just made," you ordered, trying to sound stern when all you wanted was to help him feel better but he wanted to be punished first, letting him lap at the spurts of cum on the floor while you fondled his tight balls, so pretty on display with his ass in the air like that. 

Once he was done you gave a small slap to each of his butt cheeks and allowed him to sit up again. "Look at you, my good boy," you cooed as you reached for his aching length, making him cry out in pleasure from how sensitive he was after all these orgasms.

"P-please… I need you," he begged, gently fucking your hand and you allowed him, pumping his shaft and wrapping your lips around the tip to reward him for good behavior.

The cum he used as lube tasted bitter on your tongue but it didn't taste bad, craving to taste some more of him as your tongue teased the little slit on top of his tip and Choso didn't mean to but he pushed your head down on his length, no longer gently fucking your hands, now pumping himself into your warm mouth but you didn't protest. 

You knew how much he needed this and he waited the entire day for you without a single complaint so you let him fuck your mouth with utmost care, his sweet moans and whimpers rising in pitch the closer he got. To say it was sloppy was an understatement, your saliva dribbling down his balls and your nose nestled into the small bush at the base. What finally sent him over the edge was your hands fondling his balls, smearing them with your spit and gently squeezing them just the way he liked it.

Your name echoed off the walls in a lewd scream, his cum shooting down your throat before he pulled himself out of your mouth, kissing you hungry. Little thank you’s were whispered between kisses and tears threatening to spill from his eyes letting you know that this meant more to him than just getting off - it was personal - it was a need for you and your love.

The smell of your arousal filled his nostrils, not having noticed how you tugged your pants down just enough to reveal your glistening slit while he kissed you. 

"Can I? You mean it?" He asked excited yet flustered, finally able to make you his forever. All you could do was nod and get on all fours for him, your cunt dripping with arousal. 

Finding him desperately fucking his hand while sniffing your underwear turned you on more than you thought it would and the way he was so desperate for you only made it worse. His tail was wagging fast when he licked a long stripe all the way from your clit to your puckered hole before stuffing his eager tongue into your pussy, dying to taste your juices.

All you could do was moan helplessly, not expecting him to eat you out like a man starved but he didn't want to stop this. Slender fingers rubbed and gently pinched your puffy clit while his tongue was lapping all over your folds or fucking your tight entrance until the knot in your stomach exploded, your arousal coating his tongue and resulting him to cum untouched while he whined and whimpered into your folds. 

You almost had to pry him away after your third orgasm, dying to feel his dick inside of you and who was he to deny you that? With shaking hands he lined his bulbous tip up with your slick core which caused a loud moan to erupt from both of you - he fit so perfectly inside of you and hit all the right spots so that neither of you lasted long. 

Choso felt your walls clamp down and the moment you screamed his name in ecstasy it was over for him, panting hard and he really wanted to pull out but your cunt sucked him in so good that he just couldn't stop himself. 

"Fuck- fuck I'm so sorry," he whined loudly and for a second you didn't know what he's apologizing for until your eyes went wide, feeling the giant knot stretching you further than you've ever been stretched. His hot cum was spurting against your insides, your name falling from his lips in cries of pure pleasure and the knot keeping it all inside of your pussy. 

"I’m so sorry," he mumbled as he rested his forehead between your shoulder blades but you whimpered, the stretch borderline painful but the way you felt so connected to him now made it into something pleasurable.

"Feels good… can we stay like this?" You asked breathlessly, not wanting this moment between the two of you to end and Choso only humped his hips against yours in a silent agreement and to let you feel that he was far from being done - cock still hard. His shallow thrusts right against your sweet spot made you moan again, only waiting until the knot swells off so he can fuck you properly again only to knot you to him again and again. 

[to00fu]

satosugu CD keychains i made last year :3 you can still find them here !

[dippernflipper]

more da pitt tweets bc irl pitt twt is hell on earth

[pupenpie]

I always love when Jack and Robby use Dennis or talk about him as if he is not right between them

“But why would you yell at him at work he did a fine job you were just overwhelmed” Jack tells Robby as he serves Dennis a bowl of cereal who tries to add to the conversation “Well…”

“shh eat”

Dennis takes a spoonful and watches them argue

“I already apologized!”

“He was so sad when he told me what you did you should have seen his eyes!”

Dennis tilts his head chewing, he didn’t even tell Jack that Robby scolded him at work… Trinity did.

Or

Jack thrusting into Dennis under him who is a blabbering wet mess

“God… your tits look so fucking hot right now…”

Robby groans leaning down to kiss Jack who reciprocates the kiss ignoring a sobbing Dennis who gets squashed inbetween the two bigger men

“M-more common!”

Dennis whines but gets ignored as the two men exchange saliva some of it even dropping down to Dennis’ chest who whines trying to move his hips but Jack holds him down with his weight.

Or

It’s date night and they are trying to match their outfits to Dennis’ cardigan

“But I think he looks cuter with the blue matches his eyes and stuff”

“You always dress him in blue I bought him the lavender one he looks good in pastels”

“I like the black one th-“ Dennis can’t finish his sentence as he gets manhandled into the light blue cardigan

“Look he looks as sweet as it can get! and he matches our shirts”

Jack sighs holding Dennis’ face and squishing his cheeks as he leans down and kisses Dennis’ lips who quickly forgets the clothes argument and reciprocates the soft kiss

They separate as Robby leans down to kiss his boy deeper and dirtier compared to the tender kiss Jack and Dennis just had

“What color do you want to wear baby?”

Dennis looks up at then with dilated pupils, red cheeks, and wet lips

“Huh?”

“Blue it is” Robby says with a wide smile looking up at Jack as he pats Dennis’ cheek with his palm.

Idk if I make sense idc 🐎🐎🐎

[milo03c]

jurrasic park hudson hell yeah

[punsarethebest]

HUDSON.

I struggled with cuddys face a lot so apologies if it's wonky or sum..

[milo03c]

A bisexuals wet dream

[emma-ofnormandy]

There is not enough fandom shaming for people not using the read more button.

[love-quinn]

have to, get to — pope cody

you feel a deep affection for the little girl who wanders into the store you work at unaccompanied and a deep vitriol for her seemingly neglectful father. when she is given over to the custody of her uncle, it's easy to see he's way out of his depth. less easy to see how completely obsessed with you he is.           ( 9.6k words )

warnings : gun mentions, clear neglect of lena on baz's part, reader has an extremely strained relationship with her father, parental abuse, food insecurity, age gap (reader is twenty eight, pope is thirty-nine), mandatory tag for employee/boss relationship but mostly not really 18+mdni cw smut, reader is a bit of a perv (just a bit!!), female masturbation, voice kink/voyeurism? not sure how to tag it? inappropriate use of a platonic voicemail?

note : back to my roots with a long pope fic this is the first full length fic i've written since valentine's day why did nobody tell me???? i do intend for this to be a multi-part fic but that depends on if anybody reads this so if you like it please consider reblogging/commenting i actually worked so hard on this one and i'm really proud of it so i hope you enjoy!!!!

The craft store on Fern Road has been there ever since you could remember. Nestled between a hair salon and a bakery right in the middle of Main Street, it doesn’t get a whole lot of natural light once you venture past the huge open windows. Surrounded by a U-shape of shelving around all three of the back walls, most of the middle of the store is taken up by display tables or large metal crates of stock. There’s a system, so meticulously organised you could probably recreate it with your eyes closed. 

Notebooks go on the left wall; A5 bullet journals on one end and A2 canvas sketchbooks on the other and everything else in between. Planners, calendars, to-dos to stick on the fridge, everything had a place. On the right wall were the art supplies, paint at the back and crayons at the front, organised by skill level, price point and colour. The back wall was for the more novelty items, mostly things that you only buy one or two of. Hot glue guns, easels, even a sewing machine that’s been collecting dust since you were in high school.

It had been there the day you got the job; fourteen years old and itching for something to keep you occupied outside of your house. Mrs. Rayskel had been a lot more involved in the operations of the store back when you had first started as its only other employee, but now she mostly leaves you alone. 

The middle sections are the ones most likely to entice a child, you think. Huge metal crates of stuffed animals, short, open cabinets of bracelet making kits and paint by number books. There’s a table right as you walk in that has hundreds of different types of pens in dividers on the outside, the entire area of the surface taken up in thick sheets of paper meant for testing pen types, but really just being a place for kids to draw. 

You’re assuming that’s what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. It’s pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you haven’t had anyone come in all day. You don’t mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you don’t have to worry about someone else fucking up your shit), you have your crochet projects to keep you company at the desk. Most of the time you put on a calming playlist of royalty-free music and mind your business until the early evening when you close. Mrs. Rayskel only works weekends now, so you’re in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. You’ve got about two hours until you need to start your sweep (assuming anyone comes in at all), checking the pen caps have been put on, replacing sample paper, rotating stock for visibility, when you spot her. 

She’s quite small, can’t be older than seven, sitting on the plush rug by one of the windows. You hire a carpet cleaner every three months to treat the floors here, and you know it hasn’t been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. “Hi.”

You hadn’t heard her come in, and you’re not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You could’ve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk. 

“Hi,” she says back, shy. She’s wearing a purple raincoat that seems to have done a very good job of protecting her from the downpour, her dark hair sitting loose around her shoulders. In her hand is a stuffed unicorn toy, and discarded in front of her is a pegasus. “Am I in trouble?”

You frown. “No, of course not. You’re not in trouble.” Where are her parents? You’re not sure if she’s old enough to be in school yet, but it’s close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. It’s not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you haven’t seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. “What’s your name?”

She shrinks in on herself slightly. “I’m not supposed to say.” Right, don’t talk to strangers and all that. That doesn’t help you. 

You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. She’s quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. You’re not even sure how long she’s been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes. 

You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. “I work here,” you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store. 

She likes knowing your name, you can tell. She says it softly, stuttering over one of the syllables, before eventually shuffling in her seat and speaking up again. “I’m Lena.”

Okay, you can work with that. Step one is establish trust, step two is locate her guardians. Step three might be call CPS if you can’t get those two done before you close but the likelihood of that happening is extremely low. You have kids wander in here by themselves all the time, just not usually quite so young. 

“Hi Lena,” you say gently. “Can I sit with you?”

She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. “I’m sorry for touching your toys,” she says as you cross your legs. 

You couldn’t care less. “That’s okay. Do you want to play?”

Lena perks up, still hesitant. “Can I?”

“Sure!” You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. “Do you want me to play with you?”

That’s what really gets her, like she hadn’t been expecting you to offer your time. “Can we play with the ponies?” When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go. 

“We can play whatever you’d like.”

Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. “This one is yours,” she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face. 

You accept it seriously. “What’s her name?”

Lena looks at you like you haven’t been paying attention properly. “She doesn’t have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.” She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. “She has to get it back.”

You haven’t played pretend like a little girl since you were one, but it was pretty easy to get back into the swing with Lena. Never just a game, always a full world with rules that spring forth fully formed, buried beneath layers of stories of princesses and ghosts. You remember how it felt to hold all of that in your head all at once, never about good prevailing over evil and instead how it felt to be betrayed, or forgiven, or loved. 

You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again. 

“Lena.” 

Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. “Hi, Daddy.”

Pretty much all bravado you’ve had about tearing Lena’s guardians a new one, simmering and stewing the longer this poor girl sat here with only a stranger for supervision, disappears immediately when you look up at Lena’s dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. You’ve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guy’s left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.

“I thought I told you not to wander off,” he says, uneasy smile on his face. You think you might have read him wrong; not the type of man to yell in front of someone else. 

Your metaphorical grip on the little girl in front of you tightens in panic. You had thought this entire time that what you wanted was for Lena’s parents to come and collect her, and of course you don’t want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and they’re worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. “We need to get home.”

Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesn’t recognise him. 

This man is clearly her father, or at least another relative. They bear a striking resemblance, the features Lena is still growing into looking sinister and cruel on the older man. You wonder briefly if he’s always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man. 

Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. “Okay, daddy.”

She looks at you, the same smile on her face that he’d given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. “Thank you for playing with me.”

You don’t want to let her go - least of all without offering some big act of kindness. You want her to remember you, if she ever needs something to hold onto.

“Do you want that one?” You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. “You can have them both.” You’ll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, you’d give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.

Lena’s dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. “No, that’s okay.” She leaves the pony on the floor. “Thank you for playing with me.”

She’s gone before you can figure out what to say. 

You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. You’re not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You don’t know what’s going on between her and her father. There’s a high likelihood that he’s just having a bad day, that he’s usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his daughter. 

But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. She’s so small, barely up to your hip. You can’t imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. She’s clever, and articulate, and the story she dreamed up with those two stuffed toys shows that. Her father had a gun on him on a Thursday afternoon, in the middle of Main Street. She’s so little, she can’t comprehend cruelty. 

She has to make up evil creatures to process things. 

You think about her for a few days after she leaves. You kept both the stuffed animals behind the counter; it felt wrong to put them back on display. Who knows, maybe you could have been reading way too far into it anyway. 

——

You never really learned how to shop. It wasn’t really a skill that you thought you’d have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, you’ll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure it’ll come to you any day now. 

The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like you’re somewhere more important than in your body. You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for longer than you need to, one hand down by your side holding your basket against your calf, the other hovering over a box you’ve already picked up twice. 

$4.49

You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like you’re expecting anything called ‘Cinnamon Raspberry Crunch’ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper. 

You put the first box back. 

Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You don’t need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But you’ve been thinking about this stupid cereal for days now, since you last came in and passed it on your way out. You could just buy it. You’re almost thirty. 

You can’t explain it, can’t verbalise, can’t even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you can’t form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt. 

Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny. 

You let it ring two full times, trying to control your breathing. You never understood how some people can just take a deep breath before doing something and feel braced for impact. It’s never really worked for you.

“Hi, dad.” Your voice wobbles. 

Your father doesn’t bother saying hello on the other side, instead waiting. You think it might have been the amount of time it took you to answer the phone, but you don’t bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. “You took your time.”

You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure there’s no one else around. “I’m at the store.”

“At this hour?” You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. “I suppose you are a busy girl.” You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing. 

He doesn’t need you to talk to keep the conversation going. “Making good choices?”

“Yes, dad.” You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. He’d call you sport and drag you places like fishing. “I know.”

“You have a few bad habits,” he says, like he’s spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You don’t think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. “Never quite grown out of them,” he says gently. 

You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. “I know.”

There’s that silence again.

“You don’t have to stop,” he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I didn’t mean to snap.” It’s been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. “I’m sorry.”

Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while he’s making his mind up. There really is no rhyme or reason to him sometimes, it is left purely up to his whim. Sometimes a mood you think is a good one can sour in an instant. You’ve known him for how long and you just can’t get a read on him. 

“Anyway,” he breezes past it. “I called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.”

Your car had died and you’d blown most of your savings on getting it fixed, leaving you short on your electric bill for the month. Your father had been practically a last resort, first spending hours researching all possible public transit routes to see if there was any way you could make it work. You’d given him the money back immediately when you’d been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like you’re disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things. 

One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You don’t remember what it was for — just that it had been really important because your dad said it was, and that meant everything had to be right. You remember more of the buildup than the party itself if you’re honest. The air was tight, so quiet that not even the house dared settle. Every day you would take the school bus home and every day you’d drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home. 

Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular. 

You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You weren’t allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didn’t think you were a messy child but your dad isn’t the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you — that part, at least, had always been made clear. 

The night of the party, the house filled up in a way it never had. There had been too many people, all too loud, all of them laughing like your house wasn’t riddled with landmines intentionally set to detonate around your father. You stayed outside, sitting on the stoop, watching the older boys from the neighbourhood ride their bikes up and down the street under the orange glow of the streetlights. 

You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your father’s laugh louder than you had ever heard it before. Then a sharp sound, one that you knew could only come from the vase on the dining table being knocked over. 

You had known what that meant, even back then. Something small goes wrong and everything else follows. The night would fold in on itself, people would leave too quickly. 

You could hear someone inside begin apologising and all you could picture was your father standing there, shoulders tight the way they would always be right before he snapped. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, like it was nothing at all. 

You didn’t come inside until you were sure the last person had left; nobody came to make sure you were in bed. You have never been sure of where you stand with him.

So you’re careful when you speak up again. “I did pay you back.”

He hums. “I don’t think so.”

You’ve barely been able to afford gas this month because of the extra money being taken out of your account. Your job is consistent and pays you pretty well but you still work retail

“I did, I transferred it. I’ll check-”

He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. “Okay, calm down. You don’t have to get upset. If you say you did then I’m sure you did.” He clearly doesn’t believe you. You don’t mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that don’t really exist is what spikes your heart rate. 

“Dad-”

He doesn’t let you cut him off. “No, I won’t keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, I’d appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.” He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights. 

——

You’ve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies — your crocheting, your crafts, your scrolling through social media and seeing which of your high school friends are getting engaged. Spring breaks into summer and you spend the next couple of weeks preparing for the summer rush. The rain settles, giving way to a dry heat that has you grateful your car’s air conditioning hasn’t gone yet. 

The store’s air conditioning is fairly reliable and since you’re the only one who works no one ever messes with your settings. The store is kind of a hangout spot for some younger kids who have clearly been set loose for the first time. They come in for the ever-rotating collection of board games, and you become somewhat of an unpaid babysitter.

You don’t mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and you’ve always loved being around children. Most of the time they’re a lot nicer to be around than adults. There’s no small talk, no worrying about filling the silence, or being annoying. Most of the time, the type of kids who want to come into a quiet store and draw or play chutes and ladders for hours, they just like when adults pay attention to them. You hope you can make them feel important, even if it’s just for an afternoon. Education had been something you’d considered going into once you graduated high school but the workload and the student loans and the decisiveness of the whole thing had been too daunting and eventually you’d put it off for so long it didn’t seem worth pursuing anymore. 

You keep the two ponies under the counter, kept safe from stock rotations and curious children by your careful hands. You protect them from dust, keep them safe. It feels a bit silly to keep them there, keep them clean and ready. You can’t bear to separate them.

The summer rush comes and goes and with it comes the back to school rush. You end up paying your father back a second time, too busy with work to have the energy to deal with the stress of it. You don’t think he has your address, but you also didn’t think he had it the last time he’d shown up at your place. 

It’s perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. You’ve done all the restocking, you’ve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. You’ve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, you’re that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, you’ve finally settled in your comfy chair behind the desk, crochet project on your lap and calming music playing through the speaker connected to your phone. 

The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you don’t even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. She’s not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like she’s just considered the idea that you don’t remember her. 

You’re sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, you’ve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, you’re probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You don’t have the best memory, it’s not photographic or eidetic or anything, but you remember faces and names. You remember people in your kindergarten class, and adults who showed you kindness, and customers you had completely mundane interactions with. You wonder often what it says about you the memories your brain has decided to latch onto, what has shaped you into who you are. Your preschool teacher scolding you for talking during nap time when you hadn’t been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised she’d wait for your bus before beginning her walk home. One time, you had been maybe seventeen, down by the waterfront after a vicious fight with your father. You don’t recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the water’s edge. He had a bucket filled with seashells, and his grandmother was sitting on the sand helping him decorate a sandcastle with his findings. Eventually she’d stood up, dusting herself off, and told him they had to head home for dinner with his mama. The boy had cried something awful, tears and sobs, begging his grandma to just help him find one more shell. One more, just one more. Is it odd you can recall the moment with perfect clarity, feeling your own heart split in two just at the sound of his upset?

Lena has grown since you last saw her, and if she hadn’t referred to you by name you would’ve thought you’d projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if it’s been five minutes instead of five months. 

She’s flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time she’d been in. He’s staring at you when you look away from her, holding the door open for her to come inside and making sure he catches it before it slams. Blue eyes stare straight into you deeper than you think you’ve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesn’t look away at being caught. 

He’s thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like you’re doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and you’re completely aware of every single one of your limbs. 

“Hi, Lena.” Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. “How are you?”

She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how she’s just started second grade, the friends she’s been making, how hard the classes are. She talks with a level of familiarity about her life the way only a second grader could, like it would never even occur to her that you wouldn’t have anything to compare it to. You discard your crochet project, scooting your chair forward and leaning over on your elbows to make sure she knows you’re giving her all your attention. 

Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if he’d expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. You’re not sure if he’s just a starer — some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you — or if he’s watching for something. 

You kick off where you’re leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. “I have something for you,” you feel foolish already. Chances are she’s forgotten, or she doesn’t even like horses anymore, or she didn’t even at the time but they were her only option. “People bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.” You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lena’s eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesn’t move towards them. 

Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. “Can I, Uncle Pope?”

Lena’s uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like he’s not used to doing it but fond like he can’t help it anyway. “Yeah,” his voice is crackly and quiet. “How much are they?” He looks back to you. 

You wonder if he thinks you’re going to quiz him on your eye colour or something. You shake your head, practically tripping over your own actions to get ahead of yourself and skip through the first part of interactions. “No, it’s fine. They’re for her.”

Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesn’t have to be reminded, eyes shining. You get the idea that Pope has heard about the two of them before. He watches her glee, affectionate an albeit untrained smile widening on his face. “Do you want your pen things?”

Her eyes widen to saucers. “I can still have them?” Pope nods and Lena practically shoots off towards the stationery section, leaving the two of you alone. He turns to orient his body towards her instinctively, but he’s standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach. 

His hair is thick and unruly, such a rich copper it almost looks brown in the warm lighting of the store. His curls look well loved but less well maintained and you find your mind stumbling forward again; what hair products does he use? Does he like it touched? Does he have anyone there to touch it? What would it feel like?

“She talks about you a lot,” Pope says, sounding like whatever the opposite of conversational is. He speaks like he regrets it retroactively, aching for solitude but subjecting himself to small talk with strangers. “Practically begged me to come here since she has a half day. I told her if she did all of her homework she could get some of those pens.” He mimes using a pen. “Y’know the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?”

You nod. They’re just called scented markers, but you don’t feel the need to correct him. You picture him at a kitchen counter, trying to coax his niece into finishing a reading log with scented markers. You know Lena has a father, a man that she at least called ‘dad’ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isn’t he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? That’s probably unfair, you don’t know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him. 

But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you can’t lie to yourself about that. 

“She’s a good kid.” You have to assume. She’s lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you don’t know her when it really comes down to it. “Seemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.” You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. “I wanted to do something nice for her.”

Pope looks over at her, taking the caps off the sample markers to smell them, then down at you. You feel real juvenile with your little crochet stars in your lap, you’re planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. He’s clearly older than you by a significant amount, he’s probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lena’s father. Perhaps you’re being unfair, maybe it wasn’t a gun, and maybe he’d just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue. 

“You didn’t have to,” he says gruffly, looking down. He doesn’t have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. “Lot to do for someone else’s kid.”

You feel a little bit scolded, shrinking into him. This man clearly cares a lot about his niece, perhaps more than her father, you want him to think you’re good for her. Want him to like you. 

You’re sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when he’d been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled. 

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say cautiously. 

He blinks at you. The expressions that he’s shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones he’s given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but he’s really been giving you nothing.

He looks at you for so long you have to be the one to break eye contact. Lena bounces up to the counter, marker pigment around her nose with a pack of scented felt tip pens. “Oh, Lena,” you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. He’s looking down his shoulder at her. “You’ve got pen on your face.”

“Sorry,” she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. “’S’it gone?” She juts her head back to present to you. 

You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. “Here,” you pull one out of the package and present it to her. “Do you mind if I wipe it off?”

Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. She’s got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didn’t get that from her dad. She doesn’t look much like Pope at all, and you don’t remember her father’s face with as much clarity as you’ll recall her uncle’s, but you don’t see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her mother’s side but given that Lena is clearly mixed you’d made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers. 

“Thank you,” she enunciates, nodding slightly on each word. You wipe away the pigment gently, catching sight of the way Pope watches you out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if you’d been overstepping when you’d brought it up but you’re pretty sure it qualifies now. You finish up, curling the wipe in your hand and sitting back. Lena looks up at Pope with a toothy smile. “All better?”

He nods at her. “Be careful with them. We can’t go to grandma’s if you’ve got pen all over your face.” 

He doesn’t have that way about him that people who spend a lot of time around kids usually do. None of the fake niceties in the voice, there’s clear affection there and he’s good with her, but there’s a level of clumsiness there. The love had come naturally but the mannerisms are still forming themselves. Easy and wrought with the deception of labour in the same breath. 

He’s holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. “Right.” Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where they’d connected with his. They’re rough, calloused, and they don’t shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change. 

“Keep the rest.”

He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct. 

“They’re four dollars.”

He stares at you again. “You have a tip jar, don’t you?”

Technically, sure. There’s a jar there that’s labelled for tips, but people rarely leave cash in it. You know his name but you feel wrong saying it. Yours is displayed on the badge you have clipped to your top. You tell him anyway, changing the topic. 

Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. “Everyone calls me Pope.”

“Well, Pope,” you say as if you hadn’t collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. “That’s like a two hundred percent tip, so.” You turn the key and the drawer pops out. You tuck the twenty away and hand him back a ten. $5.15 with tax, $4.85 tip. "Happy?” You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than you’ve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success. 

Lena tugs on his sleeve. “Are we going to Grandma Smurf’s now? She said I could go in the pool, s’long as I wear sunscreen.”

Pope’s frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. “We can go now. You sure?” Lena nods resolutely. 

You watch them go, Lena turning around to wave at you at the door. Pope looks right at you and raises an arm in goodbye. There’s a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent they’re gone but your face is still hot. 

You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lena’s uncle Pope. You wish you’d introduced yourself with your surname so he’d been inclined to do the same. He hadn’t given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so you’re not sure exactly why he’s got you all hot and bothered. He’s at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you can’t argue and claim that’s not your type. 

He probably wouldn’t have captured your attention so severely if he hadn’t been so good with his niece. It had been something that you’d realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. You’d felt your whole adolescence that you were too young to be an adult. Mrs. Rayskel had hired you two days after you had turned fourteen, so when you woke up one day and realised that you were actually an appropriate age to be working, in your mid twenties. That you’re not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she would’ve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age don’t want to settle down, at least none of the ones you’ve ever met have. 

But an older man with a niece he clearly adores? You have to slap yourself in the middle of stirring your pasta to stop yourself from perving on this poor man. You wonder if he’d mind.

——

You spend maybe two weeks having your heart race every time the door to the shop opens, and are rewarded for your diligence when eventually Pope does return, this time without Lena in tow. 

You’re actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. You’re mostly hidden behind a shelf so you’re able to pretend you haven’t seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you. 

“Oh, hi.” You’re kneeling on the floor restocking the bottom shelf and despite the fact that your skirt ends at your calves you tug it down self-consciously. “Lena’s uncle, Pope, right?”

He nods slowly, so slow it’s like it’s something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know it’s probably because his niece isn’t with him but there’s a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. You’re being ridiculous, he doesn’t give a shit what you’re wearing. He offers a hand and you don’t even think before taking it. His hand is so much bigger than yours, and the vein on his arm bulges as he helps you stand. “Everything okay?”

You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. It’s still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. You’ve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. It’s not any disdain for you or anything you’ve done, he’s just a pensive man. 

“What…” he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. “What do you do when you’re not at work?”

You perk up a little bit. There’s no way… he’s not asking you out, right? It’s probably that he wants to know which crafts you engage in, maybe he needs gift ideas for Lena. The answer is embarrassingly sparse, and you definitely paint yourself as a bit of a homebody. “Crochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimes…” you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably won’t after this. “Then errands mostly.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend? Kids?” He asks bluntly. 

“Uh… no. Why?”

He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. “Lena’s my brother’s daughter.” You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. “I don’t know how to take care of her, thought this shit was meant to be easier. Thought all the hard parts about parenting were diapers and tantrums and she’s got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.” He lets out a hot rush of air. “’S not like that at all.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. 

You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent — for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her? 

“All that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,” he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him there’s a different emotion behind his eyes. You don’t have very much to go off, can’t even name his baseline, but from the fluttering eyelashes and the furrowed brows this looks very much like a man out of his depth finally confiding a fear. “Now I have to look after her. Have to, get to.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how he did it. But I have to work, and she needs someone to watch her after school, and the sign out there says you guys shut before four in the afternoon.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. “You want me to… babysit her?”

Pope seems to realise that this is an odd request. Perhaps not the most appropriate, either. He clears his throat and pulls again at the curls on the nape of his neck. “You can tell me to get lost.”

“No, just…” you feel like if you don’t shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, I’m a random adult you’ve met once, how do I know you’re not insane and won’t just dump her here and run away? “You want me?”

Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. “She likes you.” He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him. 

“When would you need me?” As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where you’d need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You can’t quit it for this, definitely not before you’re sure it’ll shake out. “Like after school? I’m usually here until four-ish.”

“She finishes school at three forty-five, it’s only three blocks. You have a car?” You nod. “Good, a license?” You nod again. “If you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.” He points out the window, you’re too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. “If you can, you pick her up from school, bring her back here or to your house or the park or my apartment or wherever. Keep her entertained, make sure she does her homework and eats her veggies. Sometimes I’d need to work late, so she’d need to spend the night with you and you’d have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment that’s fine. School starts at nine but she can go in at eight if you need to be here. Plus weekends. Not every day, and not always that late. I just…” he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. “I can pay you.”

You’d hope so, for all that. 

“Lena mentioned her grandma?” You ask gently. “Do you think Lena could stay with her some days?”

He looks at you as if he’s surprised you would bring her up. “No, I don’t want her around my mom.” He sniffs, looking away from you. “If you don’t want to just say it. Don’t have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour — what do you make here?” It’s not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. “Double on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.” He’s almost breathless. “I can pay you.”

What the hell does this man do?

“Pope. It’s a lot to ask,” you say. “I can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I don’t know about nights, but depending on where you live I could maybe swing by in the morning and help her get ready for school, drop her on my way?” 

Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. It’s the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesn’t make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile. 

“Why don’t I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while I’m not at work?” What Pope and Lena probably need is a nanny, or at least someone who can full time devote themselves to Lena. You have a job that, while it awards you a lot of freedom, is something  you couldn’t live without. And while you adore Lena, and you’re sure that’ll only grow with time, you need the money desperately. 

Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. “Oh, sorry. I left it on the desk.” Your father has been calling you, upset that you’d fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what it’ll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You haven’t the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers. 

“Do you like this job?” He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and you’d practically be chest to chest. “When you were a kid you wanted to be a… craft girl?”

You can’t hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like you’d yelled at him. 

“No,” you admit. “This isn’t what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.” You’ve never really told another person that, never had another person to tell. By the time you graduated high school you were lucky if your father noticed you hadn’t been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty he’d looked at you like he’d forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade it’s been since you last saw his face you’d developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings. 

Pope’s eyes light up. “See, you’re perfect.” He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. “This is basically like being a teacher.”

You laugh again and this time he doesn’t seem so offended. “Goodbye, Pope.”

This time when he leaves he doesn’t turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. There’s a man there who snickers and punches Pope’s chest when he gets in, but Pope doesn’t even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window. 

You look down at your phone. “Pope Cody…” you muse, looking at his contact information. You’re surprised he offered his surname at all, the longer you speak to him the less he seems the type. You smile down at it and startle, caught, at the sound of the bell. Your phone slips from your grasp and you bring up your other hand to catch it before it hits the floor. The app closes in the fuss, and with it goes his unsaved contact information. “Shit.” You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully don’t look like they heard your expletive and put your phone down on the counter. You can only hope that he texts you first, you suppose you’ll find out if he expects you to make the first move. 

——

It’s late when your phone rings. So late, you know it’s not Pope. So late you’re going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. You’re not not going to sleep, you’re just not trying very hard. You’re sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache. 

It’s your father, he’s the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. You’ll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing you’re awake to ignore him. You’re so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, you’ve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesn’t even catch up to you until it’s almost finished ringing. 

Your phone screen goes black again, plunging the room into the sub-darkness that only comes from the whole city being asleep. Then, it lights up again with a text. 

Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device. 

You have 1 New Voicemail. 

Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually they’re unintelligible. Your phone will have taken a transcript as best it can, and you squint at the brightness. It streaks right past your retinas and into the core of your brain, making your headache worse. 

Uh hey it’s pope Cody—

You scramble up until you’re on your knees, heart rate spiking. You can’t be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph it’s not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see it’s almost a full minute. 

There’s a feeling in your chest you can’t get rid of, can’t deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where it’s resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt you’d been intending on sleeping in and finding your nipple. You toy with it almost distractedly, stuck in limbo of being desperate to rake your eyes over his words and wanting to hear him. 

God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps it’s just from the breeze drifting through the open window but you also feel a throb of neediness light up your core. You roll onto your back, clenching your thighs together. This is a line you shouldn’t cross. Sure, it’s late, you’re horny, whatever. But this guy is about to be your boss, you should be able to listen to a voicemail without needing to touch yourself. 

He’s such a serious man, you can’t imagine what he’d say if he saw the state of you, shirt lifted just below your breasts, soaking a damp patch into the front of your panties. The only way you’re going to be able to get through the message is going to be to get yourself off first like a teenage boy trying not to get a boner on a first date. 

Pope’s also painfully awkward and it really does it for you. From the way he moves, to the faces he makes, to the way he talks. Fuck, the way he talks. You let your phone rest on your chest and your other hand finds its way down underneath your panties. 

You haven’t been fucked in a while but you’re way more turned on than you have any right to be. You don’t bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought. 

Your fingers aren’t as thick as his, and you can’t help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? He’s pretty assertive, perhaps that would overtake the awkwardness. You let a whine escape your bitten lips into the darkness of your bedroom as you rub your clit. 

Fuck this, you reach for the phone blindly, half blinded with the vision of his hand shoving yours out the way. You fumble for the button, but after a little while his voice rings out in your bedroom. 

“Uh,” he coughs. “Hey, it’s Pope Cody.” Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you can’t focus on anything but the sound of his voice, already humiliatingly close. His voice is low and the phone quality crackles but it mimics the grooves of his voice well enough you don’t even care. “Look, I know it’s late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I don’t know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.” His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot. 

Frustrated with the limitations the fabric is giving, you pull both your hands out and shove your underwear down your legs, letting it slip off your foot and onto the floor of your bedroom. “And you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Fuck,” you hiss, drawing your fingers from your hole and fucking them back into yourself slowly. He seems like the type of man who would take his time, or maybe that’s just you projecting for slowing down so you don’t cum before he’s even done talking. 

“And I’m sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I won’t come by again, if you don’t want. But I want to see you.”

You’re only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. It’s downright sinful the things you want him to do to you. 

“I need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about… yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but I’m way in over my head here so… Whatever it is you want to do, I’ll do it. You want more money?”

You bring the hand rubbing your clit up to your mouth to sink your teeth into the back, instead grinding on the palm of the hand you’re using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you don’t have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you don’t need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. “Anything you want. Anything.” You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want. 

He says your name, low and deep and you tip into your orgasm, back arching against your sheets and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. They’re clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms. 

He’s gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. He’s older than you, and he’s about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you don’t think that would stop him if he wanted you. 

“Or if you don’t want or, or you can’t or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I don’t fuckin’ know… Thanks for the help. I’m around, if you want to call me when you’re not asleep. Okay.” He ends the message without a goodbye. 

Your eyes are practically glued shut, walls fluttering around your fingers as your breathing slowly returns to normal. How the fuck are you meant to work this job? You can’t even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear. 

You don’t remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you must’ve slipped on in a daze. It’s a Saturday, so you don’t have to get up if you don’t really want to. You have chores to do and sleep to catch up on, you can hear the faint sound of rain picking up outside. Perfect circumstances for a day at home, resetting and fixing yourself up on one of your two days off. 

Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone. 

Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didn’t get your call. I’m free today, I’d love to see you. You chicken out and tack onto the end and Lena! I can come over to your place or we can meet somewhere else?

You barely have time to close your eyes again before your phone is vibrating in your hand, once, then twice. The first message is an address. The second: give me an hour. 

You roll back onto your stomach and try to stop yourself from screaming into your pillow. 

[groovyangelkisses]

Happilymarried!Pope who makes everything a onesided competition on who treats their wife best. He just wants to brag how he kisses the ground u walk on because how are they criminals but Cath has to work at a bar??? Uh uh not Pope's wife, she's lapping up the sun by the pool in their house or busy spending his money around, not a care in the damn world hair done nails done in a cute lil car...his card has never graced the leather of his wallet cause its always in her purse

oh my gosh yes, absolutely. oh he's so husband ohhhh i'm sick!! i especially love this with ditzy, bimbo!reader <3 i got a little carried away but it's andrew so it fits! :)

everyone's at the house waiting for dinner to be made, just standing around and chatting. it's hot, bordering on nauseating humidity, and all andrew wants to do is see his pretty wife before dinner. he needs alone time, quiet time in his old room to just sit and gaze at you as you chatter.

but now? andrew's engaged in a mindless conversation with craig, hearing him drone on about his latest hook-up while he stands with his hands on his hips nervously. you're due at smurf's house at any minute, a promise you made as you laid out on the beachfront of your home, waving at andrew as he got in his truck to meet up with the boys earlier that day.

he couldn't stop himself from kissing you. he was 15 minutes late. big fuckin' deal. andrew's family knew he needed his "you time".

deran's cooking tonight, much to pope's chagrin, and the cody's are all a bit anxious to eat the food. "oh no i literally have the pizza place down the block on speed dial" j expresses in between sips of his beer, before deran angrily chimes in from inside the house "jokes on you, dickhead, i catered."

baz sits on a lounger with cath, holding her to his side as he talks to j about an upcoming job. she's sticky with bar-soda stains and exhausted with the sheer movement of a work ethic. staring down at her ring, she runs her thumb over the diamond, wondering how life could've been different. her eyes flicker over to the oldest cody, and she can remember a time when she'd always find him looking back at her. but that hasn't happened in a long time. her shoulders crack with resignation and envy.

a horn honking, a happy squeal from the driveway, and andrew's straightening up his miserable stance. the thick gummy sole of his jordans rub against the concrete as he, quite literally, walks away from craig mid conversation. "bro-" craig shrugs, turning to look at baz in confusion as baz smiles "his girls home bro, you lost him the second the tires pulled in the driveway." craig stomps into the house, but he's not really angry, never could be at pope, "fucker has super hearing, man"

andrew walks to the driveway, shoulders losing their hunch the closer he gets to your bubblegum pop music and toothy smile. it's hard for andrew to smile, he'd often tell you, late in the dark of your bedroom, "'it's like it hurts a bit. hurts my face, i guess" but right now? his smile is beaming; crooked, endearing teeth on display with a light flush. it's probably because his brothers are inside, he never liked smiling with his teeth before you.

"andy!!" you cheer, wide smile and bouncing in lightly between your left and right foot. andrew doesn't even slow his steps, just keeps trudging towards you until you're in his arms. one big hand hooked behind your head for a long, sloppy kiss. waaaay too much of a display for normal public settings. his breath hitches as your hands drag under his t-shirt, nails lightly scraping his sides.

breathing in through his nose, andrew pulls back to look down his nose at you, "missed you. where you been? how was shopping?" "good! really good andy, wanna see?" "later. lemme get a feel for you. missed you so much" with more kisses to your cheeks as he pushes the hair away from your eyes <3

when you go into the yard, you're smiling and waving at the cody's as you hang onto andrew's arm. your ring glistening in the reflection of the pool, cath can't help but swallow bitterly. andrew trails next to you, head fully turned to listen to you rant and rave about the latest sales and the cute clothing you bought for yourself and him. he looks like he could and would eat you whole at the nearest convenience. it's been years, and he still looks at you the same way.

at dinner, you sit on andrew's lap, legs swinging as you bring the fork to his mouth. craig can barely look but deran smiles into his food; it's nice to see pope happy (even if it is gross to witness at dinner). when his iced tea needs to be refilled, you lean forward over the table, his hand resting on the side of your ass to stabilize you. he's not comfy until the weight of his pretty wife is resting on his thighs.

later that night, when you are all cozy and chatting on the couch, you lift your feet into andrew's lap. he doesn't even bat an eye, moving like it's routine.... because it is. slipping off your lil platform flip flops, starting with a massage at your ankle, andrew massages your foot lovingly as he watches the conversations around him. "'s that good?" he speaks lowly to you, and you nod excitedly.

it's almost torture for cath to watch. she was on her feet for probably 9 hours today, and here you are: shiny toe ring, perfectly, freshly manicured toes. begging andrew for a massage, "think i twisted it after i ran out of victoria's secret." his voice sounds alien to her "'s no good baby, gotta watch your step, we talked about this" soooo husbandly and earnest.

[midnightbandito]

Pope Cody subtly getting clicker trained

» mdni, nsfw, afab!reader

The first time it happens, it’s unintentional. 

Pope’s sitting at the table in the kitchen and you’re standing near the counter, trying to open up a jar by yourself. If he’d noticed, he would’ve helped immediately, but your back’s turned to him and his gaze’s fixated on the floor.

Getting frustrated, you click your tongue before speaking. “Andrew, love, come here a sec?”

He’s right behind you in a flash. 

“I got it, sweetheart.” it’s all he says, effortlessly opening the jar you’d been struggling with for at least five minutes. You smile mindlessly, shoulder resting against his chest.  Looking up to him, your palms find his cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss. “Thank you, love.”

The second time you do it, it’s a completely different situation yet still unintentional. 

It’s late at night and in a sleepy haze, you hear the front door open and light footsteps heading towards the bathroom. Reluctantly, you get up to follow them. You find your boyfriend sitting on the edge of the tub, trying to self medicate a wound. Pope doesn’t acknowledge your presence, too focused on how bad the cuts sting. Or at least not until you’re clicking your tongue, head shaking in disapproval.

“Here, let me do it” you offer, taking the bandages and alcohol from his bloody hands. 

Andrew’s static, gaze sorrowful. I’m sorry, he wants to say. Kneeling between his parted legs, you deal with the injury. Once you’re done, you plant a kiss on his cracked lips, “it’s okay love”. 

It happens accidentally another couple of times, at least, before you slowly start to notice that whenever you click your tongue, Pope draws closer to you, lingering around like he’s excepting something.

So that’s when you start doing it on purpose, kind of playing into seeing how far you can take it before he notices; clicking your tongue every time you need something from Pope and then kissing him after as a thank you. 

You try bringing it inside the bedroom as well, once for now: Andrew’s been eating you out for what felt like hours, lapping at your cunt like man starved. You truly are grateful how much he values your pleasure but christ you need him inside you yesterday. Thus, you grab a fist full of curls and force his mug up, causing a whine to escape his throat. 

Pope looks completely out of it, blindsided by how puffy your pussy has become due to all his sucking and biting. He’s not even trying to look you in the eyes. That’s when you click your tongue and his gaze snaps up immediately. There’s your Andrew. 

“Come up here, ‘need you..” You moan into the open-mouth kiss as soon as he finally sinks into you. 

So you keep doing it on purpose. And everything goes great, you’ve successfully pavloved Andrew Cody.

A small click of your tongue and your boyfriend’s hanging around you, waiting to be helpful to you and hopefully getting a kiss in return.  You can’t be sure whether he’s figured it out and is simply indulging you or he genuinely has no clue about what you’ve done to him. 

However, an answer comes unexpectedly when one day, you’re all at Smurfs. Setting up the table for dinner, you stand outside with Craig talking bullshit as usual, courtesy of being coked out half the time. Deran and Pope are inside, cooking. 

Absentmindedly, you click your tongue at something unbelievably idiotic Craig says.

You don’t even realise what you did until Andrew comes up behind you, strong arm wrapping around your hips, placing a sweet kiss on your temple.

“Need something, sweetheart?” His voice is so raspy in your ear that your head feels dizzy for a second. You might’ve clicker trained the man, but the way he’s always so willing to give you anything is a hazard to your self control.

Craig’s gaze flickers between you and Andrew, eyes so wide they might pop out. You’re so lost in your own bubble, that you barely register him laughing at the two of you. 

“God damn it brother, she’s got you trained like a fuckin’ dog!” He jokes. And for being on drugs all the time, he’s perceptive, you’ll give him that.

Andrew’s expression goes from soft to confused fast. His back straightens. He hates being the unaware one, being laughed at and you know it. 

“What?” He barks, his grip around you getting firmer. As if he’s looking for some grounding within you.

“Don’t worry about it” you don’t mean to sound dismissive, it’s just not the time nor place. Not with his brother teasing. After all, what you two do inside the walls of your own home is no one else’s business. 

But Pope’s relentless. Looking at you in search of answers, eyes downright almost begging. 

“What’s he talkin about?”

You hate not giving into him, but you truly don’t feel like dealing with his brothers teasing. So you turn to him, palming the back of his neck, “I’ll explain it later, ‘kay love?”

His muscles relax at your touch. Eventually, Andrew nods, slightly hesitant.

“Good boy.” It’s merely a whisper in his ear, barely audible. Only for him.

But you swear under the hand you’re sliding up his forearm, you feel goosebumps spreading over his skin. 

[popepout]

baby daddytrapper!pope …

andrew “pope” cody & f!reader

content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, mention of death / murder, obsession, talk about having babies, baby trapping, use of daddy / mommy.

when you first started coming around no one thought much of it. except for deran and craig who placed a bet that pope was paying you for your company, and although smurf doesn’t particularly love the idea of you distracting him and doting on him, she did promptly tell them to shut up. everyone’s eyes linger on you both as you lay out by the pool on a lounge chair, skin warmed by the sun whilst pope rests over you in a way anyone else would find suffocating or overbearing.

he allows you to rub your hands over his strong freckled shoulders, not flinching away from your hands even as his eyes lock with smurf’s through the glass door.

it became very apparent that this relationship would be a problem in that exact moment. not because of you, no. everyone thinks you’re a total angel, debatably the sweetest girl he’s ever brought to the house. maybe you’re a little dumb to be hanging around a man that got out of prison only months ago but it is what it is. the problem lies with pope, because they know how this ends. either you’ll smash his heart to bits and pieces, or be tossed off the rear of a boat dead or alive.

“pope, don’t tell me you knocked her up.”

you can hear baz from the other room but you pretend you don’t as you help smurf arrange little finger sandwiches for a party and purse your lips, ignoring the way she side-eyes you. she knows, too. you haven’t been drinking, haven’t been as present in the house to avoid chaos, and unfortunately you woke up one day earlier this week and discovered your bump has decided to make quite the appearance.

it was easy to leave your anxiety behind that day when pope came up to you and placed his hands on your stomach, rubbing your bump through your tank top with such a gentle touch. a touch that parallels the way he caressed your soft skin while he fucked you full— you were too far gone to remind him to pull out but you’re not sure if it would have made a difference. you were wrapped up in the promises that were dripping off of his tongue. that he’s going to provide for you and your baby to the fullest extent, that he’ll be the best daddy, that you’ll be his for the rest of your life if you just give him what he wants.

how were you supposed to fight him off and stay strong when he was begging you to let him make you a mommy?

“it’s none of your business,” andrew replies. his blunt voice bounces off of the walls and snaps you out of your memory induced trance.

you hesitantly look over at smurf who’s already grinning at you, eyes crinkled in what you can only imagine is faux happiness—

“i guess we have a baby shower to plan. don’t we, sweetie?”

[slytherclaw1978]

i am thoroughly repulsed by the thought of a man baby trapping me

….andrew cody is not just a man though. he’s the love of my life, my world, my everything, my heart, my soul, AND YES….my baby daddy

[blkkizzat]

HE CUMS IN DREAMS (AND SO DO I) r.sukuna

                         ♪ 𝓿𝓸𝓵𝓾𝓶𝓮 𝓸𝓷 + 🚨 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓫𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 🚨

ꉂ FREDDY KRUEGER! SUKUNA X GOONETTE! READER

ꉂ dream (sum): Teens in your town are turning up dead—mutilated by their own nightmares. The solution? A government-issued pill that creates dreamless sleep. But you're taking your chances! Dreams are the only place where all the hott senior boys line up to rail you! Tonight, though, someone new joins the lineup—ancient, hungry, and hellbent on turning your wet dreams into a bloodbath. Will you survive?

ꉂ nightmares (cw): based on nightmare on elm street 2. freddy krueger. freddy! sukuna kinks: teratophilia, size difference, virgin. everyone in this fic is 18+ senior in HS. horror but also humor/crack. *warning*—this fic makes fun of small town evangelism/religious frenzy. gooner!reader. nerd!reader. sheltered!reader. wet dreams. mentions of death/murder. brief mentions of one-sided delulu!reader x other jjk men (𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮, 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨, 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢, 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢, 𝐢𝐧𝐨, 𝐤𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐨). heavier mentions of gojo (dreamjo) as readers dream bf. true form!sukuna, double pen and voyeurism, masturbation. (also a few horror movie/tv show easter eggs if you catch them!)

ꉂ kills (wc): 7.8k of ?

ꉂ a/n: hope y'all enjoy p1! had to break up as i start going crazy when the draft hits 10K.

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 || 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

Your favorite hobby is sleeping.

Not exactly thrilling, but in this dead-end town? Girl, dreams are all you’ve got.

So it’s no wonder why on a Friday night you're racing up the stairs just to get in bed.

Not like a shut-in like you gets invited anywhere anyway—not since middle school at least. Your bible-thumping mother treats anything past sundown like a one-way ticket to hell. 

She’s also the reason why you’re still a senior at nineteen. 

After listening to your pastor’s fire-and-brimstone sermon about ‘Satan’s curriculum in secular schools’ (or whatever that means). Apparently cutting paper animals and licking glue was too “spiritually risky” so your kindergarten enrollment was delayed.

From there your social quarantine only escalated—no playdates, no sleepovers, no extracurriculars—unless it was church related. 

Eventually, your childhood friends gave up even trying. You don’t even blame them. With your brick-like fossil Nokia phone you couldn’t even download any social media apps to keep up with them. 

Sure, you’ve technically been a legal adult for a while but for now you’re biding your time until graduation. You’ve already got a full ride to an out-of-state college lined up behind your parents’ backs. So missing out on being blackout drunk in a field somewhere wasn’t exactly tearing you up—there would be many more opportunities in college to drink that didn’t involve trying to dodge cow shit. 

But there IS one thing you definitely feel like you’re missing out on—

Dating.

Boys and dating are two things your parents, especially your mother, would absolutely not tolerate until marriage. 

No exceptions. 

Not even a chaste courtship with Ino—the good-natured, boy-next-door who played acoustic guitar for the church choir—was allowed.

You still cringe thinking about the first (and last) time he bought you a popsicle from the ice cream truck one summer. Of course, your mother snatched it right out of your hands then gave you both a scathing 10-minute lecture on how popsicles are a ‘slippery slope to orally sinning.’

You’d say she put the fear of God into Ino, but honestly?

Ino seemed way more afraid of your mother than of God—especially with the way he’s avoided you like some biblical plague ever since.

Not that you were too heartbroken.

Sure, Ino liked you. Like a lot. 

But you mostly just liked the idea of being liked. 

Still, the fact remains that beggars can’t be choosers and Ino is sweet enough that you would’ve let him be your first kiss. 

With a sigh, you shut your bedroom door—not that it mattered when it didn't even lock.

Your mother has a sixth sense for depravity and always knows the worst possible moment to barge in.

You can’t even goon in peace.

So something perfectly normal for a nineteen-year-old—like a vibrator? Yeah, no. 

You’d never risk bringing one into the house. Your mom wouldn’t just ground you—she’d send you straight back to the Lord himself.

Tossing your hoodie on your desk, you dig through your drawers for your favorite sleep shirt: the faded one that says Crystal Lake Camp.  The yellow, worn cotton is basically the closest thing you own to illicit contraband.

It used to belong to a hot camp counselor at the church-run summer camp your parents dumped you in last year, hoping it would “instill moral character.”

(Spoiler: it didn’t.)

Thankfully, every camper and counselor got the same oversized shirt, so it was easy to swipe Counselor Kashimo’s from the laundry pile without anyone noticing. 

And yeah... you shamelessly didn’t wash it for like a month. Not until the woodsy, storm-soaked scent of the punky, blue-haired hunk faded completely.

Nostalgia clings to it like old cologne as you change and enter your bathroom.

Sigh. Your nightly routine is as dull as ever. Brushing your teeth on autopilot, you rinse and glance up at the mirror. Gaze catching on your reflection, you just stare.

Same tired eyes. Same boring hair. Same pouty lips, still tasting faintly of berry chapstick—untouched by anyone else’s.

Well, anyone real. (Doesn’t hurt to stay ready, though.)

While staring in the mirror you often imagine Suguru Geto—your school’s unnervingly charming student council president—standing behind you, just out of frame. One hand ghosting over your neck, the other trailing down your spine as he leans in to whisper something unhinged in that smooth, reverent voice of his.

You don’t even need to close your eyes to picture it.

You’ve rehearsed this scene so many times before in your dreams you can practically see him in the mirror behind you.

A familiar heat pools low in your belly as you quickly flip off the light and exit the bathroom. 

Eee! You’re so horny—you need to get to bed like asap!

Your panties are already soaked, clinging to your heat as you kill the light and melt into the mattress—settling in like a seasoned whore slipping into her usual spot on the curb, ready for the night.

Daydreams are one thing—but lucid dreams? A whole different beast. 

Vividly visceral, they’re the only place you start living the way you were meant to. There you can flirt like a slut, wear skirts with nothing underneath and kiss boys your mother would definitely deem to be demons.

And in your dreams? They might as well be devils. 

Bending you over desks, pinning you to lockers, in their hedonistic hunger they are too down to stuff you full at the drop of a hat—usually more than one of them at the same time too.

You smile to yourself, already squirming just from thinking about your favorite senior boys who make up the main cast of your delusional dream harem.

First up—

Toji Fushiguro—quarterback of the football team, built like he does prison workouts for fun (which is convenient as prison is exactly where everyone thinks he’ll end up). 

He’s got a sexy scar on his lip, a black ‘67 Impala he calls “Baby” and allegedly a secret kid according to the rumors.

You’re pretty sure he’s repeated a year or two if not flunked out entirely—no one’s ever seen him in a class. Moonlighting as the school’s resident plug, Toji just shows up to deal, wreck the other team on game days and rail a cheerleader in the parking lot before dipping. As long as he keeps winning, no one seems to care.

The only place to reliably spot Toji is at his part-time gig at the local auto shop. You started tagging alone so much your dad thinks you’ve developed an interest in cars—but really, your interest lay in seeing Toji. You know without fail, the second your dad’s back is turned, Toji will tower over you wearing that deadly smirk and ask if you need anything “checked under the hood” while he licks his thumb like he’s prepping it just for you.

He’s grimy and disgusting. 

Far beneath any self-respecting standards of the modern woman.

And yet? 

You’d let him raw dog secret baby #2 into you—no questions asked.

Even so, you could only imagine the shotgun marriage your parents would force upon you so a much safer option would be…

Gojo Satoru—the basketball star that’s six feet of snowy-haired chaos with dazzling crystalline eyes and a mouth that never shuts up. 

He has no concept of the term “inside voices” and half of what he says is utter nonsense. Yet somehow the devastatingly attractive goofball still manages to be the school’s resident heartthrob.

Once you ran into him while he was skipping class on your way back from the bathroom. Thinking he’d ignore you, you were completely blindsided when he complimented your Digimon keychain like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen—right before having the audacity to ask if he could borrow your hall pass.

And of course—like the absolute simp you are—you handed it over without a second thought before he could even finish the question.

Pleased, Gojo purred out a thanks with a wink, tongue peaking out between his lips

And then you blacked out. 

No, seriously—like full-on collapsed. 

You came to twenty minutes later in the nurse’s office with a goose egg on your forehead and Gojo looming over you amused as fuck at you giving him an actually legit reason to skip class.

Now he calls you ‘anemic girl’ in the halls and occasionally tosses you a hard candy like you’re some random stray he adopted. He’s given you 16 so far and you’ve kept every single one—carefully hoarded like relics—in a shoebox shrine under your bed. 

Obviously.

Although there is never a dull moment around Gojo’s chaotic energy, sometimes you crave a little order. Someone more on the straight and narrow to keep you on track. Someone like…

Nanami Kento—head of the disciplinary committee. 

Nanami is the only senior who people sometimes mistake for an actual teacher as he dresses like he already has 3 kids and holds down a grueling 9-to-5. One thing is for sure though, those khaki slacks that Nanami wears are most definitely working overtime as they have absolutely no business showing off just how double-cheeked up he is (and still being within the dress code). 

Nanami carries a clipboard stacked with half-pre-filled detention slips like he’s just waiting for someone to fuck up. His moral compass is so rigid it could be registered as a weapon. 

And if the outline in his pants is any indication—so could his dick.

One morning, you were sprinting through the halls, already late, when Nanami caught you. Flushed and fumbling, you spat out some half-baked excuse about helping a teacher.

Nanami didn’t blink. Just stared right through you like he’d already clocked your piss-poor lie and filed it and you under ‘pathetic’.

Yet in a rare show of mercy, noting your otherwise perfect attendance, he simply adjusted his glasses and let you off with a cool, “don’t let it happen again.” 

You could’ve cried in relief—which, in hindsight, would’ve been way less humiliating.

Instead, nerves had you whimpering out a needy, “Y-Yes, sir.”

It was the one time you ever saw him falter—just briefly—before he smoothed it over, raising a single brow. But the faint curl of his smirk and the darkening heat in his eyes as he turned away nearly brought you to your knees.

You would’ve gladly taken in-school detention and correction right then and there—which, unfortunately, left you fantasizing whether Nanami detentions come with safewords.

Still, there were times when the thought of answering to anyone in your already sheltered life felt suffocating—and that’s when you craved someone more free-spirited. Enter...

Choso Kamo—the art freak burnout with a facetat, who’s always “getting air” behind the gym with the other stoners, the smell of weed and acrylic paint always trailing behind him.

Notorious for that pale, sleepless Edward Cullen look, Choso’s eyebags all but screamed he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since leaving the womb. And if expecting him to sparkle didn’t keep you staring at him more than the whiteboard during class, the way he toys with his labret piercing using his tongue barbell definitely did the trick.

You’ve watched him do it enough during fifth period to know—deep in your depraved little soul—that he eats pussy like it’s his last fucking meal.

But the most disarming thing about him? 

That brooding emo-boy exterior melts into golden retriever sweetness any time he talks about his younger siblings.

Surprisingly sentimental, you once caught him tearing up at his locker over a crayon drawing his little brother Yuji hid in his lunch bag, along with the message to—“half a gud dae at skool :)” scrawled in glitter gel pen. When you handed him a tissue, he looked up at you with glassy puppy-dog eyes and whispered a broken, “Thanks,” like you’d just saved his life.

You can’t decide if you want to wreck him or swaddle him but either way?

Choso is your Roman Empire.

And finally…

Suguru Geto—class president. What healthy ovulating girl didn’t want Suguru?

Smart, commanding and terrifyingly magnetic—Suguru’s morning announcements feel more like political rallies. He’s got the presence of a world leader and the aptitude of someone who’d absolutely start a murderous apocalyptic sex cult. 

One that you’d be first in line to pledge yourself to, collar, chains and all.

Especially when he smiles that polite, unnervingly deliberate smile. 

Geto is always top of the class. Always ten steps ahead. 

Like he could correctly guess the color of your panties—and then know exactly how to talk you out of them for "the cause."

Your parents might’ve put you off religion, but you’d still worship at his altar any day of the week—even if he was Damien in the flesh, horns tucked beneath that gorgeous spill of raven hair. 

One time during an assembly, Suguru stated that, “devotion breeds obedience”—while staring dead at you.

Your panties haven’t been dry since.

All-in-all, with such a powerful teen dream starting lineup, of course it made the perfect sleepy-time goon fodder

Or at least—it used to.

Then the deaths started.

Peculiar ones. Grotesque in that slasher-movie kind of way that even left investigators rattled. 

Too violent to be self-inflicted, yet no signs of forced entry, no murder weapon, no DNA—no trace of anything, really.

Like their dreams themselves were killing them.

The few who survived long enough to wake up? None of them stayed sane. Every single one was institutionalized. And all of them raving about the same thing: A pink-haired monster who crawled into their heads and twisted their worst fears into blood-soaked nightmares.

The only thing anyone could confirm? It only happens while asleep. 

And it wasn’t just at night either.

A girl in your Biology lab—Riko—nearly jammed a scalpel into her own temple, convinced there was a giant bug burrowing into her brain.

She would’ve done it too, if class president Suguru hadn’t reacted fast enough—snatching her wrist and shaking her awake just in time.

Soon all over town, whispered rumors and wild theories began spreading like wildfire.

The cops blamed a new wave of hallucinogenic drugs. 

Churchgoers (your mother included) pointed fingers at violent video games and action movies.

But the older folks, the ones who’d lived here long enough to know where the skeletons of the town were buried, blamed something else entirely—a curse. 

An ancient and particularly malevolent one at that.

The local folklore of the town’s founding told of a vengeful spirit—one from an evil man from nearly a thousand years ago who could control the souls of others. 

One who was burned, quartered and his body sealed away for his blasphemous sorcery. 

Supposedly, he wasn’t even from the area and among the founding settlers of your town were the guardians of the sealed parts and they scattered his remains across it.

But these were just stories. Just silly hoodoo.

Or it was until Yu Haibara died. The pastor’s son. 

Bright, kind and beloved with no moral vices nor enemies to blame—that’s when the fearful frenzy truly hit. 

Yet somewhere in all the chaos, someone suggested a desperate, off-the-cuff fix—Dreamless sleep.

And shockingly? 

It worked.

The deaths stopped. Just like that.

Naturally, what followed was a strict curfew along with mandatory, state-distributed, sleeping pills were handed out to every teen in town. The heavy stuff—the kind that shoved you right past REM and into a dreamless, black void.

No dreams meant no monsters. 

No monsters? No mysterious murders.

Unfortunately for you, it also meant no wet dreams.

It’s been almost a week since your last one and you’re on the verge of crashing tf out. 

Forget killer nightmares—at this point, it’s the built‑up tension in your core that feels lethal.

Your one escape—poof, gone. Just like that.

God, you miss getting railed in every depraved way your real life refuses to allow.

Unlike the rest of the town—currently drowning in shared hysteria—you’re keeping your head. 

Thankfully, you literally just covered something like this in your psych textbook.

To you, the “dream murders” sound like a perfect storm of sleepwalking, mass panic and one very real killer no one’s caught yet. You’re not about to knock yourself unconscious any longer while everyone else plays catch‑up.

So tonight? You don’t take the pill.

The second your mother’s back is turned, you spit it into your mint tin for safekeeping.

You’d flush them, but hey—never know when they’ll come in handy. 

Maybe once this all blows over, you’ll spike your parents’ nightly chamomile and finally sneak out. 

Toji did say to stop by if you were ever in need of a tune‑up… and you wouldn’t mind letting him pop your hood—among other things.

Settling deeper into your pillows, you release a few cleansing breaths. You’re too eager to see who your subconscious picks tonight—or maybe something more collaborative?

Yeah.

A gangbang sounds like the perfect ‘welcome back’. Every hole and limb filled, twisted into tools of pleasure, used exactly like the desperate little slut you are.

With a hum you close your eyes and allow your mind to drift into sleep. There’s no way you could’ve known that the thing haunting this town wasn’t just real—it had locked onto you the moment your brain dared to fall into REM.

Inside of your dream world, you awake in the boys' locker room.

Nice. 

Looks like you’re getting that gangbang after all.

Although you're no stranger to the boys’ locker room in your dreams, something about this time feels off.

The rows of lockers stretch farther than they should, looming taller, their metal faces dull and streaked with grime. Overhead, the lights flicker with a  jaundiced glow, casting jagged shadows across pale concrete walls. The air buzzes with the sputter of dying ventilation and reeks of damp metal, mold, and something almost bloody.

Technically, it’s the same room. But it feels... wrong.

Too quiet. Too empty. Like a space between spaces.

Then again, it is the boys’ locker room—nobody expects it to smell like a field of lilies.

Then you glance down at your outfit.

No cheer skirt. No pom-poms.

No thigh-highs, chokers, or themed S&M ensemble.

Just the ratty Camp Crystal Lake sleep shirt you passed out in.

Yeah… that’s definitely not normal.

“Hey, cutie…”

Oh! 

Eagerly, you shove the weird vibes to the back of your mind the second you hear a familiar voice echo behind you. The setting was never the main event in your dreams anyway—you’d fuck on a cardboard box in an alley if the dick was good.

“…ya know you’re not supposed to be in here.”

Fresh off the court and glistening, Gojo rakes a hand through the messy white strands clinging to his forehead. With the other, he lifts the hem of his jersey just enough to wipe the sweat from his face.

“…but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Your eyes trail down his exposed waist, savoring the definition of his glistening abs. You follow them as they dip into a deep V-line, the waistband of his shorts hanging dangerously low, teasing tufts of well-kept fuzz.

Gojo chuckles, clearly enjoying the way you’re eye-fucking him like he’s girl dinner.

“See something you like, doll?”

He winks.

Thank god you never pass out in dreamland, although you do erupt in shameless giggles out of glee of seeing Gojo.

Of all your guys lately, Gojo’s been showing up the most—your unofficial dream boyfriend. 

So you’ve gotten used to this version of him—Dreamjo, as you’ve dubbed him.

No doubt nerfed by your subconscious, your brain probably built this version of him off that one time he called your Digimon keychain “sick as hell”—which means the man has serious dork potential.

Real-life Gojo? A walking ego-trip in Airforces.

Dreamjo? Still cocky, but also nerdy and endlessly down bad.

And you do mean endlessly.

Whether he’s center stage or getting gleefully cucked by the rest of your lineup, he plays his part.

So no—you’re not even a little mad that he’s the first to greet you after your dream drought.

“You missed my game again.” Gojo pouts, swaggering toward you until your back hits the lockers with a hollow clang. “Hard to focus on the court without my lucky charm in the stands... dressed like my personal guardian angel in that slutty Angewomon cosplay.”

You roll your eyes.

You’ve never actually worn the cosplay—even in your dreams. It’s just one of those weird lore bits your subconscious cooked up for him and now Dreamjo won’t let it go. 

But that’s part of the fun—letting your mind run wild, turning fantasy into fact.

Whatever. This is your dream.

Your rules.

And Dreamjo? He always falls in line.

“Urgh, just shut up and fuck me, Toru!” 

You mean it to sound commanding—but it comes out breathy, desperate and you can’t keep up the femdom act for long.

“C’mon… let’s hit the showers. You’re already filthy.” You whine as your hands roam his sweat-slick abs, fingers slipping under his jersey to grope at his pecs.

Gojo groans, gripping your waist, before dipping lower to mold his hands into your fleshy bare bottom.

“Mmm, so you did miss me…” His voice is hot against your ear, lips brushing your lobe before he nips at it. “Y’know it’s been even longer for me... especially since you cucked me last time.”

If you weren’t already feral, that line might’ve given you pause—lore aside, your dreams always reset. 

But you’re so hard up your brain automatically switches off when his long fingers ghost over your already soaked folds.

Your mouth crashes on his, hungry and impatient, making Gojo groan into the kiss. Lifting you with ease, he carries you toward the showers.

Expecting to be pinned to a tile wall with steamy water pouring over you—you blink in confusion when Gojo sets you on a bench, a wild gleam in his eyes.

“Aht-aht… I’m the messy one, baby. But you’re not dirty enough for a shower. Not yet, at least.”

Great. Even your own mind is edging you.

Not that you don’t love Dreamjo’s games—his teasing is half the fun. But tonight? 

You’re wound far too tight to mess around.

“C’mon, princess. Get nasty for me, please? And I’ll fuck you just how you like it.”

You pout for show but of course, you already know what he wants. Dreamjo’s wired into the most crazed parts of your subconscious afterall.

Gojo peels off his jersey and tosses it at you.

Catching it on reflex, the jersey is damp with sweat and adrenaline. You don’t hesitate to pull your own top off and slide it on instead. 

Urgh, the oversized fabric soaked in jock pheromones feels clammy and damp against your skin. Sick. 

And yet somehow your pussy’s even wetter than before as you bury your nose in the material, inhaling like it’s life support.

“That’s it,” Gojo breathes, voice thick as he palms his cock through his shorts. “Take a nice, lonnnnng whiff, babydoll.”

Gojo’s musky amber scent hits like a slap: the tang of salt and heat with an undercurrent of something primal. You squirm on the bench, thighs rubbing together, belly molten with slow, coiling heat.

“Heh, now turn around and show me how messy my nasty girl’s pussy gets sniffing my musty jersey.” 

You think about mouthing off, maybe rolling your eyes—but the way his scent is sinking into your skin brain makes it impossible to deny him anything.

“Toruuuuu….” You whimper out complaints, but you obey—because the sheer depravity of it only makes you more desperate to be fucked.

Turning around, knees digging into the bench, you lift Gojo’s jersey around your hips.

The basketball hunk whimpers out a moan as you arch—back bowed, cunt spread—two fingers parting your folds. A thick string of slick drips from you, glossy and obscene, smearing on the bench beneath you.

Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the sight of his shorts hitting the floor—his cock already leaking globs of pre as he strokes himself slowly, eyes glued to the gorgeous mess between your thighs.

“C’mon, my pretty goonette princess…” Gojo as groans his own need seeps through. “T-Touch yourself…”

Turning back around to face the lockers, your fingers circle your fluttering hole, gathering creamy juices to smear on your clit. 

“S’toruuu c’mon… am I not wet enough for you yet.” You slur out his name, trembling with raw need to feel his thick cock inside you.

Exposed to the air, you squirm, the cool draft making your muscles spasm as you fight to keep yourself spread.

“Jus’ a second, doll…,” Gojo pants out. He’s so close now you can feel his warm breath tickle your soppy folds, “...lemme get a better look.”

The sounds of a lewd schlick-schlick, fill the room as Gojo fists his cock. You’re tempted to groan remembering how stupid sensitive he is—almost as bad as Dreamcho (Choso)—who often busted from just one look at your sloppy pussy. 

Gojo better not fuck around and cum before actually stuck his dick in you.

“Hurry up, ’Toru n’ fuck me before you c—”

You freeze as warm liquid splashes your backside as wet gurgles bubble up behind you.

He came.

Urgh fuck—fine. 

You’re taking matters into your own hands now. You’ll just have to ride his twitchy, oversensitive cock until it’s hard again, no matter how much he cries or begs for mercy.

Wait. You’re cooking, not a bad plan, all things considered.

As much as you wanted to be manhandled, bent over and used like his personal onnahole—there’s something equally delicious about wrecking Satoru. Riding him half-hard while he sobs under you, limbs quivering from overstimulation, his cock slipping in and out of your creamy cunny before you grind your clit against the feathery soft hair on his pubic bone.

Yup, you’ll take it—you’re still gonna give him plenty shit about it though.

“Toruuuu! You dummy, I told you not to—” 

Whipping around, you stop when you don’t see him. 

He’s gone.

What?! He was just right behind you!

Wiping a hand over your backside, you roll your eyes when your fingers come back slicked in thick red liquid.

Blood.

Oh. My. God—did that dork seriously get a nosebleed before even putting it in again!?

Well… wouldn’t be the first time the little perv squirted blood mid-thrust trying not to cum too fast.

But where the hell did he go?

Not like you can see anything now with steam rolling in the area like a tsunami, swallowing everything until the whole room’s bathed in a sickly haze.

Looking around frantically you spot it: a single bloody footprint leading deeper into the locker room.

Okay. That’s way too much blood for a nosebleed.

Your stomach tightens.

“S’toru?” you call, voice pitching high. “It’s okay, I’m not mad! Wouldn’t be the first time you bled all over me…”

Shit. Maybe the sleeping pills are still in your system, messing with your ability to lucid dream. Or maybe your poor, dick-deprived subconscious has finally snapped.

Okay. This dream is officially a bust.

And with nothing to show for all that buildup with Gojo, there’s no way in hell you can stay still. Your hips rock against the bench, chasing friction like a dog in heat.

No, girl—focus!

You sit up, close your eyes, force a breath.

With a shaky sigh, your fingers snake back between your thighs—just a few light circles. Just enough to quiet the needy throb at your clit so you can concentrate.  

“Okay. Malaysia. Beach. Gangbang. Any guy—go!” You chant it under your breath like a spell.

Nevertheless when you open your eyes, you’re still in the same musty old locker room full of steam.

Fuck. Well at least the blood’s gone.

But Satoru is too, every single trace as realize you’re right back in your old sleep shirt.

What the actual fuck!?

BANG!

You jump as a loud crash echoes from the far entrance near the football field. 

Heavy footsteps drag as the sound of metal screeches like nails on a chalkboard.

“Toji?!” you call out. Though your gut’s already telling you that’s no football cleat.

The steps stop.

Silence.

The hiss of steam thickens it’s angrier and choking what little visibility you have left in front of you.

BAM!

A locker slams shut—closer this time.

You squeak, heart jackhammering... but your fingers don’t stop.

They move faster now, shaking with horny panic, the tension somehow is making you even hotter.

God, you just want some cock is that too much to ask!?

“T-Tojiiii…daddy? Is that you? I’m really pent up—come fuck n’ me already…”

Still no answer.

Fuck—maybe if you could just get off a lil, maybe you could reset this weird dream spiral?

“Toji, stop playing around! I’m serious—I’ll…urgh, I’ll even eat your ass this time…how does that sound?!” 

Yeah, you were getting pretty fucking desperate alright if eating that caveman’s ass was now on the table.

A low growl resounds through the locker room just as the lights above stutter—then flicker violently.

Then—

Blackout.

Every bulb dies at once… except one.

It buzzes overhead, flickering weakly, drowning you in static and shadows. A singular light casts you in rouge.

The rest of the room disappears into heavy black fog.

Unnerving? Sure.

BUT—the red haze reminds you of something. 

That sleazy adult video store you snuck into when your parents allowed you to visit your aunt’s place in the city for your bday—who, frankly, didn’t give a single rat’s ass what a nineteen-year-old got up to.

The place was sensory overload—neon buzzing like a live wire, shelves of sex toys and cursed DVDs. You remember the sticky faux‑leather peep booth seat, the moaning through the wall—and that flicker of real flesh on the other side of the viewfinder.

And now?

It’s like you’re the star. On display. Center stage. 

And the idea of one of your dream boys dragging you into a sleazy backroom for a “demo”… yeah, you’re already dripping for it.

Your fear slips the leash, devoured by the hunger igniting in your core.

Well you might as well put on a show then!

Your frame control is shaky, but you force it—closing your eyes and gritting your teeth until it appears in your hand: a long, fat, ridged pink dildo. It’s curved just right for maximum g-spot stimulation and features a giant knot sitting atop two heavy balls at the base.

Sigh. It’s a start.

“Looks like I’ll just have to fuck myself againnnn, if no one wants to put their big fat cock in my wet lil holeeee!” you shout into the haze, voice frustrated with need.

Equipped too with a suction at the bottom, you hurriedly slam it down onto the metal bench as you straddle it. Steeling yourself, thighs trembling, you sink down—inch by greedy inch—until a desperate moan tears from your gut. 

You’re being extra loud on purpose, hoping someone hears. Anyone.

Oh sweet relief! The ridges scrape perfectly along your walls. Building up more pleasure, you tweak your nipples, moaning again as they stiffen with every flick.

Not enough. 

Dropping your hips hard, the toy slides in deep with a wet, obscene squelch, knot popping past your entrance, stretching you wide.

“Mother-fuck!”

Spasming around it, you feel a wave of release rippling through you. 

But even gasping, hunched over on the bench, your thighs clenching—

You wouldn’t be satisfied with mere solo play.

“Slutty ass nerd, ya mean you couldn’t even wait f’er me, ma?”

Relief washes over you—Toji!

Oh thank fuck!

Finally, sweet salvation. 

Wet from the showers, water carving down golden skin and sculpted muscle to soak into the towel slung low on his hips, tented over his girth. 

He looks positively delectable coming out of the fog.

And unlike Dreamjo, Dreamji didn’t fuck around—he just fucked.

Except… something’s wrong again.

Argh! You try to shove the thought away—desperate to stay in the moment—but then you see it. 

The scar.

It’s on the left.  It’s supposed to be on the right.

You’re not Toji.

The second the thought crystallizes, the illusion ruptures.

To your horror, Toji's skin begins to bubble like wax in a furnace, melting off in thick, gleaming globs. His flesh is sloughing off from the bone, muscles bulging as his left side bursts open, a chuck missing from his torso. 

You scream, unable to move—still speared on the knotted toy, legs paralyzed. Your hands fly to your face, eyes clenched shut like a child praying the monster away.

The air fizzes with something sinister as you fight to reboot your dream once more.

Yet when you dare peek one eye open.

The locker room is normal again. 

Pristine and silent, no corpse, no red blood nor haze.

But your heart seizes as realization sinks that you are not alone.

A foreign presence consumes the room. It’s overwhelmingly oppressive. 

For a moment you struggle to even breathe under its weight. 

Then a voice cuts through the silence, soaked in venomous delight that grips you in feat.

“Figures the only other person in this pathetic town who knows how to control their dreams is a filthy little whore.”

A masculine figure steps into view. 

There’s a bleeding red aura clinging to him as he looms above the lockers—eight feet of muscle and malice—shoulders squared beneath a haori that drapes from him prominently like a war banner. His chest is bare, skin the color of desert stone, marred with old scars and writhing with black markings—symmetrical, like incantations meant to cage something.

There’s just too much of him. Too much presence. Too much mass. Too many arms. 

Wait—four? Four!?

You count again, just to be sure—fuck. 

Yep. Still four. Each one outfitted with razor sharp claws too.

Yet most striking of all is his face—almost beautiful in a twisted, uncanny way. Four fiery crimson eyes glower down at you. Two in the right place. Two more set in a mangled, flesh-twisted mask along his right cheekbone.

Buffer than Toji. 

Taller than Gojo. 

More tattoos than Choso.

And with a commanding presence that would put both Nanami and Geto to shame.

Oh, this creature is giving major demon daddy vibes …and is that?

Holy Shit.

Your eyes widen at the monstrous grin stretching across his stomach—teeth jagged like carved ivory, lips peeled back around an obscenely meaty, drooling tongue.

Okay….This is definitely not where you thought the dream was going.

Your imagination is good—but this? 

This had to be aftereffects from the pills. You haven’t even been allowed to watch enough sci‑fi or fantasy to dream of something this elaborate.  

But one thing’s for certain—you abso-fucking-lutely have a monster-fucking kink now.

Sukuna growls as he stalks forward toward you, moving in the space like gravity bends for him alone.

“One, two…Sukuna the Curse King’s coming for you.”

Releasing a shrill cry, your pussy pulses feverishly around the dildo inside of you—shit you almost came from just looking at him—omg, how humiliating! (although you now sympathize a bit more with Dreamjo and Dreamcho).

Watching you wiping spittle off of your chin, with damn-near hearts in your eyes, Sukuna’s upper lip curls as he feels your fear lessening the closer he gets.

“Couthless woman.” Sukuna sneers. “Did you hear what the fuck I said?”

You nod rapidly, biting your lip, every nerve in your body screaming for you to run is easily overpowered by your pussy practically sobbing for you to stay.

“Uh‑huh,” you breathe excitedly, eyes still focused on that vulgar looking tongue flicking out from his stomach, “I, uh—something about you… cumming in me?”

Sukuna stops dead in his tracks, blinking with all four eyes.

“…You—What? No, whore. I said I’m coming for you, brat—as in I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Lost in your arousal, your dream brain doesn’t register the actual threat—it just chalks it up to your slutty-ass subconscious cooking up its most diabolical scenario yet.

Guess you weren’t so immune to the hysteria after all, well might as well enjoy it.

“Yeah—demon daddy, mmm fuck—murder this pussy!” you moan, desperate to swap the  plastic for cock inside you for a real one.

If the rest of him was any indication, his dick would be like a goddamn tree trunk. 

Oh you’d break for sure. 

You can’t wait!

“Demon?” Sukuna snarls, eyes flashing. “I’m a curse, you insolent brat.”

With a lazy flick of his claw, a gash splits open across your thigh.

The pain hits instantly. You scream as blood gushes—hot, thick, and far too real.

“Keh. Figures,” Sukuna sneers. “Bet if I cracked open that slutty little skull, all that’d ooze out is cum.”

A white-hot bolt of agony surges through you leaving your nerves tangled in something raw and electric. Confusion coils tight in your gut as the pain on some level feels exhilarating. 

Shit. Knife play too? Really?

You’d laugh at your ever-expanding kink list if you weren’t seconds from blacking out.

The pain doesn’t fade, it gets worse.

No dream logic. No mercy failsafe. Nothing kicks in to soothe it.

Okay, this is getting a lil too real. 

Frantic, you clamp your eyes shut, trying to force him out. Force the pain away.

But it’s still there—throbbing louder, sharper, deeper.

There's a siren blaring through your soul. Telling you something’s pushing in, peeling apart your dream from the inside out, cracking open your subconscious like a ribcage.

And the more you resist, the more it hurts.

Your breath falters. Your chest tightens.

All that shit you brushed off—the whispers, the rumors, the monster hiding in the dreams?

It’s real.

“Bingo, you ditzy whore,” Sukuna purrs evilly. “Finally catching on? If I kill you here—in your dream—you die for real.”

Your eyes fly open, breath hitching. 

He’s inside your thoughts too?!

“Of course I am.” Sukuna’s grin widens.  

“If I can crawl into these vapid, dick-obsessed dreams of yours, I can root around wherever else I like as well. There’s nothing you can hide from me.” 

Those last words bypass your ears entirely—hot and sticky, slithering straight into the depths of your mind.

“I don’t just know your fears... I bathe in them.”

Well damn…

“Ahhh, so you get it now,” Sukuna drawls, laughter echoing off the lockers. 

“You’re fucked—and not the kind you’re so desperate for. But don’t fret. One of us’ll enjoy it, pet. I’ll take my time… peeling the ski—”

“Wait!” You throw your hands up—palms out, halting.

“Sorry—, not to interrupt but... speaking of fucked...,” you cut in, words tumbling as your brain trips over the spiral it's in. “Just walk with me here—let’s say you did actually fuck me—would I lose my v-card in real life too?”

Sukuna stops. Not dramatically. Not ominously. Just... stops. 

His whole face slackens in unfiltered disgust that anyone could have terminal brainrot to this degree without quite literally being braindead. 

To add insult to injury, you simply blink up at him in earnest, like you actually expected him to take that obscene drivel seriously. 

You had to be categorically insane.

Sukuna grits his teeth. “Exactly what in the fuck is wrong with you, woman?”

You have to fight to suppress a giggle at that—beacause honestly?

A lot.

But you do not have the time—nor emotional bandwidth—to unpack all of that right now. Not when the only problem you care about is still leaking so audaciously around the knotted dildo still lodged inside of you.

“Look, uh, Sukuna, right? This cut sucks,” you wince poking at it, “but I’m still not totally sure you’re real. I’m like, 85–90% there.”

You cross your arms, unconvinced. “There’s just this stubborn little 10% whispering that I made you up to rail me. I mean… there’s a mouth on your tummy for crying out loud! Why else would you have a tongue that big if I’m not supposed to ride it!?”

Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to slam his head into the nearest locker.

You have no idea how powerful your dreams are. Consuming your soul would amount to dozens of others. Your subconsciousness is a loaded weapon—and you’ve turned it into a hedonistic fuck circus, it’s pitfull. 

“It’s to tear the flesh off the bones of women and children before I devour them.”

Sukuna roars, the sound shaking the lockers with unseen force. The mouth on his stomach splits wider—dagger-like teeth bared, tongue thrashing like a whip—clearly meant to terrify you.

Unfortunately for him, all it does is make you cream harder around the dildo as you tilt your head, genuinely considering it.

“Mmm. Yeah, okay I can see that too—but it honestly looks wayyyyy better suited to devouring pussy and breeding children, Curse Daddy.”

Curse Daddy!?

Sukuna lets out a guttural snarl as his aura lashes out in fury—but it’s no use.

If he had the power to kill your infuriating ass, he would’ve done it ten minutes ago. 

But it’s been a week since he last fed.

The whole town’s gone dark—one big dreamless dead-zone.

And you?

Even with fear buzzing under your skin, your brain short-circuits the second you look at him. There’s no room for survival instincts in that slutty little head of yours. 

Just one thought on loop:

What his monstrous tongue, thick n’ velvety, would feel like thrashing inside of your pussy, flicking at your cervix.

For once, the Curse King is at a loss.

He’s fed on nightmares for centuries. 

Roamed the minds of tyrants, zealots, serial killers—hell, even a few professional whores.

But never—not once—has he met a creature so catastrophically, proudly down bad.

Did you never leave your house?!

“With my mom? Tuh. I’m lucky she lets me go to school,” you snort, catching his thoughts.

You grin as his face falters.

“Figured if you’re poking around in my brain, I could poke around in yours. It’s called home field advantage, Curse Daddy. You’re in my dream, remember?”

Malice hums in the air and the tile beneath Sukuna’s feet cracks.

But you don’t flinch.

Because Sukuna has already said too much and upon that confirmation the power dynamics decidingly shift. 

“Anyway, judging by how much this fucking leg hurts, I’m bumping you up to a solid 99.9% real. And since you’ve already murdered your way through half this shithole town, you already know how ass-backwards it is.”

You press on. 

“Hate to break it to you, Curse King—but your reign of terror? Yeah, that’s over. Everyone’s doped up on prescription elephant tranquilizers. Nobody’s dreaming about anything anymore.”

Sukuna growls something under his breath about modern bullshit—how no tincture or herb in his time ever blocked dreams, only enhanced them.

“I’m SAYIN’!” You throw your hands up, equally annoyed. “We need our dreams!  I haven’t been properly fucked in a week and it’s starting to show!”

Your leg throbs, pulsing hard enough to break your focus. 

Wincing, you groan and slowly lean forward, using the leverage of your body weight to slide off the dildo. There’s a salacious pop that echoes once you are free of it, catching Sukuna’s attention as his eyes track the tantalizing trail of slick shimmering as it drip-drops down your plush thighs.

Indecorous slut.

Yet staring a moment too long, Sukuna’s eyes immediately flick to your face. 

Oop, busted! You smirk. “Anyway, if you’re really just a dream demo—”

“Dream curse,” Sukuna sneers. “I’m The Curse King, you crude little cumdump.”

“Right,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. 

Big difference. 

“So, as I was saying—If you kill me, you lose your only power source. You feed off nightmares—but you’re still standing here, aren’t you? That means you can survive in normal dreams too. So if I’m gone then you’ll fade away, huh?”

You cross your legs and fold your hands in your lap, playing fake diplomat which leaves Sukuna scowling at you harder.

“Let’s cut a deal, then!”

Sukuna narrows his gaze but allows you to continue, he had little choice otherwise.

“I let you squat in my dreams—for now. But no nightmares. No trying to murder me nor anyone else, seems fair, right?” 

Sukuna scoffs at you, all four of his arms crossing. “Tell me why the fuck would I want to squat in some horny brat’s cock-crazed delusions?”

“Because you’d be alive, jackass! Uh.. and maybe…” You clear your throat. “...maybe I could make it worth your while?”

Sukuna glares at you menacingly, seeing your pathetic attempts at tempting him.

“If I have to suffer, so do you,” he snarls. “And you think, someone as powerful as I would stoop to fucking some sad twitchy virgin who’s desperate for male validation?”

Biting your inner cheek, you bristle, your hands clenching into fists as you stand to face him, bare and bloodied.

“I never said I wanted your approval, you dream creeper!”

Sukuna laughter is full of dark amusement. 

“No, you didn’t—and yet that vulgar ass cunt of yours is practically penning me a puddle of love poems every time you glance at my stomach.”

You don’t need to look down to know he’s right. 

Yet the vibes are still undoubtedly set to ‘fuck this guy’ as your indignation builds.

“You’re nothing but a fraud, you know that!?” 

Rage, arousal, and defiance crackle through you like live wires.

“You couldn’t kill me even if you tried. You’re too weak. You’re nothing but a big sad bully,” you snap. 

“And now that I have an idea of how this whole dream shit works—you don’t even scare me anymore!”

In a flash Sukuna is in front of you. The size-difference apparent as his body dwarfs yours and all light cast upon you. 

“So do what you want. Cry. Brood. Fap in the corner for all I care!”

Your determination only grows stronger as you stand your ground, finally assuming your the title of deity of your own subconscious domain.

“Fuck you, because after I fix this leg and I’m going and getting my shit wrecked like I should have been doing all along!”

Because god knows how much time has actually passed—you might have to wake up soon!

You challenge Sukuna, eying him up and down. “And that's worse right? Sentenced to rot slowly, not quite dead but wholly dismissed in the mind of a ‘silly little slut’ who you couldn’t even scare enough to kill.” 

For a moment it’s quiet, only your huffs of exertion filling the space.

Then, just as suddenly, the room shakes more violently than before as rows of lockers begin to explode in shockwaves, the ceiling cracking like it might collapse entirely.

Through the chaos and rubble, Sukuna’s eyes glow sharply, locked on your form. 

“I’ll kill you yet,” he hisses, “That’s a promise.”

Ignoring him, you fling open the door of a mangled locker that has fallen on its side. 

What pours out is an otherworldly light, bright and swirling, reshaping into a portal to the deeper parts of your mind where your real sex-crazed dreams await you.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you blow him a kiss.

“Try it then, Curse King. Let’s see whose kingdom this really is.”

And with that, you step through—the portal vanishing along with you.

The realm rapidly dissolving, Sukuna seethes in the crumbling dark.

“Fucking brat.”

               all rights reserved. blkkizzat©2023-2026

𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.

ꉂ a/n: i will release p2 of plug!reader (final edits), incel!naoya, elevator p2 and then come back to this before working on invisible man!gojo. [if i didnt mention it no im not working on it right at this second, yes i do plan to finish it, please don't bug me about it :) ]

accepting p2 tags below (100 cap) if you are already on gen or kinktober list you will be tagged automatically.

[femnoah]

Just wanted to add on to my RR was scripted headcannon and make a fun little au out of it, female noah obvs

Neha and Owen were both very much involved in the writing process of this

They met Don on another TV show and he mentioned how he had always wanted to make a show to parody TD and Chris who he doesn't really like

Meanwhile Neha also doesn't like Chris at this moment thanks to what went down in WT so as soon as she hears it she decides that she's gonna make it a reality and ensure this project goes through

Owens kinda just going with the flow here

Also, Neha is totally using it cathartically like giving 'Noah' a girlfriend when Chris would constantly tell her that 'Noah' was just an extra and who'd want to date an extra

She also is the main brain behind the challenges using her experience working for Chris with this- however this is the reason that she can't have her and Owen's team win it

Geoff joining was a complete coincidence

The entire thing is not wholly scripted, it's more like the placement of each pair is pre decided with the ones in the latter half given character arcs

It's completely up to them how they get there so it is improv central bar very specific scenes

However they do also do multiple takes on certain parts and pick the best one

Neha and Owen stay behind the scenes after they are out because they are still working on the show, and some of the other pairs are allowed to stay and watch too

Geoff and Brody got banned from set at one point during their elimination era because they kept on over enthusiastically cheering the others on and it ruined a lot of shots

After filming each day, the cast kind of just sit and chill around with each other, sometimes they have a drink, sometimes they just talk, and sometimes they play games- they have a group chat that they still use after the show ended

Neha and Owen have a tradition of having short flings on the different shows they're on and kinda just wing man each other as the bicons they are, this applies to RR so you know, any age appropriate ships ;) they never last passed the season they're on though, it's purely a short term thing for a bit of fun

Kitty and Neha friendship!

Emma has weird feelings about the nemma thing purely because she feels weird at the idea of dating a girl the same age as her little sister, even if the age gap isn't that bad, plus it's kind of hard looking at the people younger than her as anything but kids even if they're adults (any older siblings, iykyk)

But she is professional and has fun with the filming, she just doesn't like the idea of it happening off set

Basically, she's fine with the 'Noah' thing for the show but the Neha thing would be too weird for her, they still are good friends though and after a certain point joke on about it a lot

Owen calls himself Neha's assistant when they're on set- he's not, but he does constantly go on about it