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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

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Pink : Part I : Humanist Seeking Person in Love

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Humanism: an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.

The story of a son who won’t love you, and his father, who will.

-OR-

the father-in-law AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Possessive behavior; Jealousy; Slow burn but like not really; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms

A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!

Word Count: 7.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

1. Humanist Seeking Person in Love

The video you’d watched had said that the differences between a jamb nut and a coupling nut should have been obvious. A jamb nut, which was what you were currently looking for, was typically half as tall as a standard nut, or a coupling nut, and would be of a small, stouter shape compared to the other options. As you stare at the wall of overwhelming stock, the incomprehensible mess of steel, PVC, aluminum and plastic hardware you feel, a little bit, like you’d like to start screaming as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can. Just a rip roaring and rageful, top of your lungs, screech. Maybe it’d scare the leering men around you. Maybe they’d desist from the ogling of your ass in the tight confines of your ratty leggings, or the mildly pitying glances as your frustration and confusion becomes more and more obvious.

You try and take a deep breath, glancing down at your phone again and the screenshots you’d taken of the parts you need to fix your leaky kitchen sink. Zooming in, you hold the picture up next to the pipeware currently gripped in your sweaty hand and wonder again if what you’ve chosen is the right piece. You don’t understand why the hardware store, a local business, isn’t as neatly and efficiently organized as the larger chains, and why they make it so damn hard for someone without experience to come in and shop. You don’t want to buy the wrong thing and waste the money you already don’t have, you don’t want to have to make the trek back to this God awful fucking place. You hate the hardware store, you hate the way it smells, dusty and wooden, the cavernous hollow echo of it, the leering gazes of the men shopping, looking at you as if you’re some helpless child, something soft and easy to snap up and eat. You hate the memory of following your father around on many a Sunday morning after he’d forced you to come with him in some false attempt at bonding, at spending time together when really all it was, was another instance of you cowering behind him, trying to make yourself as silent and small as possible so as to avoid his anger and irritation.

You look back down at the piece of PVC in your clutch, at the picture of what you’re supposed to be buying again, back at the other option, a copper bolt you think might look right but can’t really tell the difference, and you feel the backs of your eyes pinch and go hot and achy. A sharp, throbbing pain starting up behind your left eye and spiraling out like a stain to cover your forehead. You want to go home. You want your kitchen sink to stop leaking. You want the past year to never have happened. For your marriage to not have so irrevocably unraveled that the husband you’d so desperately fought to keep had left you out in the cold, divorced, very nearly penniless in a new apartment that you couldn’t make feel like home no matter how many fall scented candles and throw pillows you stuffed into every nook and cranny. You want to not have to make decisions like these and take care of things like this. You want very, very badly for someone else to come and take care of you, help you, make the choices that seem very hard in the moment but that, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t really so difficult, but that still sometimes call for a second opinion, wiser, more experienced hands.

And in that next blink, in a soft, deep voice that should not be as easily recognizable in your mind as it is given the handful of times you’ve actually heard it, your name, being murmured from behind you. The lilt of a question, the gruff of shock coating the syllables as it pushes against your bare nape. Soft as a sledgehammer, like ice water down your naked back, your shoulders hitch up to your ears, going tense and frightened, a hot flush of shame spilling through you, the keenest desire to run away from that soft voice as fast as your stupidly October flip flopped feet’ll take you. You hiccup the half sound of his name, not turning around, lashes fluttering quickly to prevent the dry heat of your eyes from spilling over, nerveless fingers going listless around the plastic nut. You don’t want to turn around. This is a cursed place, this hardware store, and you should never have come, and you really do hate it here. Deep breath, deep breath. Be polite, be succinct. You don’t need to talk to him. You don’t need to think about the past. Fuck the sink, fuck the pipes. You’ll just move apartments. You let a long stream of air out of your mouth, and then turn on the ball of your foot to face him.

“Mr. Miller,” you breathe with a limp smile you know isn’t going to fool anyone.

He frowns, the line of his mouth wavering as he tries to contain his displeasure. “We really back to that?” You shake your head, looking away from him as the last shopper in the aisle you’re inhabiting walks away, leaving the two of you alone. The store suddenly seems to exist in a vacuum echo, all other patrons seeming to disappear, all sound going out. You even feel the imitation of a hollow pop in your ear drums. When you look back at him, he’s really scowling now. His strong brow pulled down over those too pretty, thickly lashed hazel eyes that you know so well on another man, a younger version of him.

It was the first thing you’d noticed about him, the first time Sam had introduced you to his father, they have the same eyes. The same but different. There was a coldness to Sam’s gaze that you hadn’t recognized until it was too late for you, but you recognized it now, with a painful sort of awareness, recognized the lack thereof in his father’s eyes, how different they were even in their similarity.

He raises his brows at you, a pressing gesture, “Joel.” His name feels like salt on an open sore in your mouth. “What are you doing here?” And he looks at you, just a little bit, like you’re an idiot, or maybe that’s only you, for his voice is gentle when he says, “Pickin’ up supplies with some of the boys on my crew. What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart? Sam with you?” Your heart beats like that of a small and hunted creature, pounding painfully against the confines of your ribs while a hot, humiliated flush washes through your entire body, heat suffusing your face so intensely there’s probably steam rising off the surface of your skin. You shake your head quickly, a barely there jerk. You’re suddenly trembling so hard your throat aches as if it’s been pierced by a lancet straight through. Another sharp jerk, and he steps forward a concerned look marring his face.

“You haven’t spoken to him.” It isn’t a question.

“He’s been feildin’ my calls for months. Assumed I’d done something– something else, last time to piss him off again. What’s wrong? Everything okay?” He pauses, head tilting, and you can’t look him in the face as you say it, gaze falling to your fingers twisted around the nut.

“We’re not together anymore. He– he left me. We got divorced six months ago.”

Shocked into silence he takes another step towards you, the toe of his heavy boot coming into your eye line. The ends are thick and rounded, and you wonder if there’s a casing of steel within, how much a kick in the ribs would hurt delivered by a boot like that, and the violent thought startles you, your eyes going wide, shooting up to his face as if worried he could read your thoughts. Ashamed that something like that in reference to him would even cross your mind, for looking at him, the gentleness in his gaze, the utter concern, a man like this would never hurt a creature softer than him, you know that.

It’s funny, or strange, or a phenomena not easily understandable or explainable unless you’d had a certain type of experience with a certain type of man, but there was a sort of sixth sense instilled in a person who’d dealt with cruel men that made it easy to recognize when one had the capacity to hurt you and when he didn’t. There were, of course, those who were good at masking it, but there was always something, a way they held themselves or moved around others, the cadence of their voices, clues that spoke of the sort of man he was. And from the first moment you’d met him, you’d thought Joel had something that spoke only of gentleness. Despite his size and seemingly rough aspect, there was something about his voice, and the way he carried himself, the way he moved around those who were smaller or weaker or less, less alive, less potent than him, that was always careful and always aware.

“What?” He moves as if he’s going to reach for you, and you flinch back, the curve of your spine bumping into the framing of the shelves behind you, face turning away quickly. He goes tense, forcing himself into stillness, the white of his teeth flashing in a grimace, but he puts his palms up in a staying gesture, it’s alright, easy, he murmurs, I won’t touch you, hands lowering to fist in the pockets of his jeans into tight balls of false restraint. As if he’s afraid of what they might do of their own volition otherwise. “What do you mean he left you? What happened? He–”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you. Call him again or– or I don’t know. It’s not my business anymore. He was never happy with me,” you stupidly add, finally braving a look back at his eyes again, a bitter laugh scratching up your throat, “You know this. Call your son, Joel.”

You move to leave, to get away from him, but he shifts, blocking your escape, sending your heart up into your throat. “Honey, wait–” but you’re spinning on your heel the other way, stumbling in your flip flops, and you think he says something about the wrong way, but you’re rushing, blindly trying to get away from him down the aisle as fast as you can. You’re going to cry, you can feel it, any second now. You weren’t expecting to see him, the reminder of everything that had happened, your marriage and its failure and the part Joel had played in it. A painful and jarring shock to your nervous system that you’d not been prepared to receive. You blindly scramble through the aisles of the hardware store, losing yourself to the gloom of the dimly lit back rows where plywood and carpeting are stocked, that detested dusty hollow smell intensifying. You take another blind turn, another, until the sounds of the store have gone faint and then a frightening pressurized silence. Bracing your palms against one of the eye level shelves you let your head fall between your shoulders, your bag sliding down your arm to hang and sway at the bend of your elbow. You watch the slow back and forth pendulous movement, eyes wide and blurred. If you don’t blink, you won’t cry, and you’re so fucking tired of crying over this.

“If you were tryn’a get away from me, exit was in the opposite direction,” comes his voice again. Your eyes flutter shut, a single tear drips from the line of your lashes onto the dusty concrete floor.

“Please, go away,” you croak.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“He– he’s a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart–”

Your stomach lurches, “Don’t call me that.”

But he doesn’t listen, continues on unheeded. “There’s gotta be something we can do. I’ll– I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him see that–” You let your head fall back the opposite way now, looking up at the high, cavernous ceiling of the store, another bitter laugh. It’s the only kind left to you now.

“I don’t want him back, Joel. Be serious.”

“He needs you–” And oh, that makes you angry.

“Fuck you.” You spin around to spit the words at him, rushing forward to shove at his rock solid chest. He doesn’t budge even half an inch. You shove again, again, a humiliating sob making its way up your chest. You blink then, you can’t help it, the tears fall unrestrained. It’s a specific type of humiliating, facing the estranged father of the man who you’d been married to, who’d been unable to love you, who’d abandoned you.

Sam and Joel had been unaware of each other’s existence for almost twenty eight years, but two years ago, Sam’s mother had finally told him about his father, his name, where he lived, how they’d gotten together when they were too young, and how she’d split, scared and vulnerable, without telling him a thing. The two of you’d gone looking for the man, and you’d both been varying degrees of shocked at what you’d found. Sam, faced with a man so unlike himself he’d immediately resented him more than he already had for the fact of his absence his entire life. You, as well, faced with a man so unlike your husband that it had made you resent your marriage even more. Immediately welcoming, loving, patient, gracious and generous and forgiving of the fact that a son had been kept from him for almost three decades. Despite the severity of his character, his serious reservedness, he’d done everything in his power to open himself to this long lost son. Not once had the news been met with cruel anger or outrage. Joel had accepted his son immediately and without question, listening to his mother’s reasoning, accepting the fact that a mistake had been made, forgiving, willing to move on and embrace Sam in all the ways he’d been denied for so long. Sam hadn’t been able to fathom it. He’d been mistrustful, hostile, angry, all the things he always was but compounded and heightened to a terrible degree he eventually started taking out on you.

And it was funny because the fraught, or lack thereof, relationships with your fathers had been the thing that had initially bonded the two of you. Too young and alone and without direction, you’d met him in your last year of college. The relationship had immediately developed without boundaries or reason, you’d been obsessed, a little desperate, unquestioning, and then married a few short months later. Two too young, too lost people, burdened with daddy issues. A terribly sad cliche. You’d never had a chance. You never should have been. And there’s a part of you now, looking up at this man, your ex-husband’s father, that wants to feel angry at him, that wants to spit in his face and say this is all your fault, everything that happened to me, everything that was done to me was in your name, and I blame you for all of it, but you know it’s without reason or countenance. And worst of all, anger, blame, resentment, it’s not anything near to the things you feel when you look at him. The memory of a small, dark restroom flashes in your mind’s eye, his eyes gleaming above your face, the thick slope of his shoulder, the patterned wallpaper behind him, sickening comfort.

You go still and frozen, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt, jerking with a painful shiver from the top of your head, down the length of your vertebrae, to the tips of your toes that cramp and spasm. Looking up at his face, you can feel a pulse throbbing in the muscle beneath your right eye, and the way he looks down at you, as if he’s never felt as sorry for any other creature in his entire life as he does for you in this moment, so embarrassing. You let your head fall forward again, landing with a soft thump against his chest, an uncontrollable tremble moving like fire through your frame. “Fuck you,” you say again, whispered, soft and weak and without any sort of force behind it. “How dare you say that to me,” another tear. “He’s always needed you. It was never me he wanted, never me he needed. It was always you.” You watch as one hand withdraws from its pocket cage, lifting to push a soft tendril of hair back behind your ear. And there’s fire left in the wake of the brush of his skin at the hollow there. Another shiver of a worse kind, one of desire, one of lust, moves through you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it – I’m sorry, honey.” Stupid southern charm and their stupid pet names. You clutch at his shirtfront more tightly, press your forehead harder into his sternum, and he brings his hand to your shoulder, tucking you into himself more securely. He’s huge and warm and smells faintly of salt and sweat and laundry detergent. Something clean and fresh and masculine. He smells alive. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, moving through your hair. Fucking, Sam, he murmurs above you, and you’re sure he’s shaking his head in that disappointed fatherly way. “Tell me what you were looking for. What had you lookin’ so confused and irritated in the plumbing aisle?” You’d laugh if you could, a non bitter sort, but you don’t have the ability anymore, and that makes you so angry. Angry and irrational.

“My sink’s leaking, and I can’t afford a plumber because your son divorced me and left me with no money and no house and nothing for myself, and I hate this stupid place. I hate the way it smells, and I hate that nothing’s labeled clearly, and I hate the way you men,” you shove at his chest a little bit again, “look at me like I’m some dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right.” Even if that’s what you kind of feel like, a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right anymore. Slightly out of breath, you go limp and exhausted against him. His palm flattens at the center of your spine, supporting you, and it’s so fucking inappropriate. You should move away. You don’t know him well enough for this, he’s your ex-father-in-law, you shouldn't let him touch you, but should and should not and right and wrong and inappropriate or not has never really mattered to you where Joel Miller is concerned. “This is the worst place in the whole world,” you mumble, voice muffled from where your face is squished against the annoyingly hard and delicious muscles of his chest. You feel, keenly, like you’re being a little bit ridiculous, a little bit embarrassing, but his big hand is slowly moving up and down the length of your spine, soothing and comforting, and you can’t bring yourself to care. He’d been kind from the first second you’d met him, and then, at the worst moment, he’d been understanding, and you’d never really stood a chance against him either.

You’d never had a chance with the son, you’d never stood a chance against the father, there had never really been much choice or possibility for you as a whole where either of them were concerned.

I was such a little person. Tiny in my insignificance, naivety, hope. Desperate to be as good as I could be, and pathetic in my failure to make myself into what I thought the world wanted of me.

“You can’t afford–” He breathes out roughly through his nose, stopping himself from continuing. “Do y’know what it is you’re looking for? What part?” And you nod your head, still buried against him, unable or unwilling to pull away. “Let me help you,” and he says it so, so gently that it makes you want to stomp your foot and cry and throw a fit at the unfairness of it all.

“Don’t want your help,” you can’t help the muffled whine it comes out as. All you want is for someone to help you.

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” he soothes. “But let me anyway. S’the least I can do for talkin’ out of my ass.” You finally pull back, looking up at him, and he brings his thumb up to catch the wetness at the fine skin beneath your eye. “Please, don’t cry,” he whispers like it hurts him.

And even though he’s currently catching the salt of your eyes with his fingers, you lie obstinately, “I’m not,” whispered back just as quiet.

After he helps you find the correct piece for your sink, finally, which ends up being neither of the options you’d been previously weighing, a fact that almost sends you over the deep end again, and paying for it at his aggravating and overbearing insistence, he walks you to your car.

“Is he still in Austin?” He asks as he holds your door open for you, your shopping bag still clutched in his hand. One of the guys on his crew had come to find him while you were checking out, but he’d sent him away with a shake of his head, said he had something to take care of.

“I don’t know, but he sold our house.”

“Fuck– Where’re you living?” The sound of his spit curse has a wet flutter moving through you, shame following bitterly in its wake.

“I got an apartment in the East Side.”

“And he just left you to fend for yourself? Took your fucking house?” He’s getting angry, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get angry. Something foreign like excitement jumps within you.

“Well, that’s the point of divorce, Joel. You separate and are left to your own devices.” You reach for the little plastic bag, but he jerks it out of your reach.

“He has a responsibility to you. He–”

“Again… the point of divorce.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that boy,” he mutters, shaking his head. And that’s the thing of it, you think, that’s always been the crux of the issue. Sam was always a boy, has always been just a boy… there had never been any chance. “Let me come help you with the sink. Let me fix it for you.” Something to take care of, that’s what he’d said, that’s what he’d called you, what he sees you as.

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish getting the words out, full of regret, and a wish that it could have all been different from the very start. “You know that isn’t a good idea,” and he goes silent because he does, he does know, he’d known since the first time probably. It had been obvious in the way that a secret thing can only be between the two people involved in the unsaid. “I can do it myself. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

“You still got the same number?” He asks.

“Please, don’t call me. Call Sam. He’s the one that needs you. He’s the one that–”

“And who’s taking care of you? Who’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart? You need someone too, we all do.”

A flash of that earlier anger again, and you reach forward to rip the bag out of his clutch now, angry because he’s right. Because he’d always seemed to have a grossly misplaced ability to read you exactly as you are. He’d read you for what you were from the first second he’d laid eyes on you, naive and hopeful and falsely in love with a son who’d never loved either of you in return. “Maybe,” you tell him, “But that can’t be you.” He looks away from you, gruff sound of irritation passing through his clenched teeth, and he drags a heavy palm down his bearded mouth. Fuck, again that provoking spit curse. The wallpaper in that dark restroom had been covered in little blue motifs, butter yellow details sparsed throughout. It had surprised you, the pretty and delicate design in the home of a, for all intents and purposes, bachelor. It spoke of intention and attention to detail, to his space, to care of his home. That dim moment was, strangely, sickly, the brightest memory of the entire two years of your marriage.

“You still got my number?” He presses anyways. Unheeded or uncaring of you trying to push him away, and there’s something about that, that’s pleasurable, his inability to let a thing go where you’re concerned, his unwillingness to allow you to hold him at arms length. Like he doesnt care to be kept away from you, and so he won’t. You nod your head once, face burning, molars grinding to keep yourself still and in place. You’d felt, for two years, trapped, running in place, and now left limp and exhausted and colorless, and you hope that he can’t read that exhaustion in you. For some reason, that would be more embarrassing than everything else, for him to see just how defeated you’d been left. He gives you one of those looks, those direct, piercing, aggravating looks that you’ve seen from him before, aggravating in a way that is inciting, like a relentless tongue against a slick swollen cunt, God. Your hands are shaking, and he bends his head down to your level to look at your directly, “You promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, doesn’t matter what it is – that you’ll call me. No matter the hour, no matter what it is. Promise me.” Another sharp jerk of your chin, if you talk you’ll scream or make a sound not wholly belonging to the body of a girl, woman, whatever you are. Another nod, the mute shape of an okay passing through your lips. And his face is so concerned, his hand almost lifted in the imitation of what you have to tell yourself, as a form of self preservation, is an ill intentioned caress or hug, but that you know he’d mean as nothing more than genuine comfort. You deflate in relief when he doesn’t touch you, right here, out in the open for the whole world to bear witness to. Things like that, after all, are only meant for dark, wallpapered bathrooms. He’d already taught you this.

The relationship had not been what either of them had expected, Sam and Joel, from the get go. There was a smallness to his son, a pettiness and a cruelty and a spoiled rotten vein through the core of him that was incongruous with who Joel was as a man, something that was glaringly obvious to all involved. And try as he might, in those early days, they could not overcome the disparity in their personalities. The attempts from Joel at closeness had been fraught with tension and unsaid resentments, and eventually Sam had given up, stopped answering his father’s calls, evading his attempts to connect. Your marriage had spiraled into dissolution shortly after that. As if the failure to find whatever it was he’d for so long hoped for in a relationship with his father had highlighted all of the things you yourself lacked, all the ways in which you were so specifically dissatisfying to him and always would be.

The marriage had not ended up being what either of you had hoped for, the honeymoon phase quashed and dead early on, no brightly lit halcyon. Reality had set in quickly when confronted with the disjointedness of your pairing, a bone out of place, your specific inability to please him in the ways he’d thought you would when he’d first met you. There was something about you that had always been a little bit lacking, something ascetic and cold natured about your personality at times. Since you were a child, trying to appease an unappeasable father, to emulate a singular mother. Always impossible, always falling just short of utter failure. Not so terrible that you were outwardly obvious in your mediocrity, but never everything you could be. Painfully, succinctly average. Sam had come to realize this quickly. Perhaps, unaware prior to tying himself to you because the only thing you’d ever been not average at, was being a little bit of a liar, of being placatingly complacent when the moment necessitated, manipulative in a way that you found protecting. But you see, that’s what happened when you had a cruel father who always needed appeasing, something Sam, in his abject fatherlessness, couldn't understand. Funny, you’d said that to him once, near the end, called him abjectly fatherless, his weakness a consequence of his lack of a paternal role model, and oh, how he’d hated that. Endings could bring out such cruelty in people, you’d found.

But the manipulation of a moment had become, in some ways, your only talent. The art of superficial gratification at a moment's notice as a way to keep the people around you falsely happy and calm. Like all small and frightened creatures, you’d learned your strengths well, but as all truths do, yours had eventually surfaced. The fact that you weren’t really so appeasing in the ways he desired, not so nice, not so perfect, not so subservient. That the persona was all just a way to keep him happy as a means of getting someone to love you, to stay because you didn’t know how else to be.

Your mother always said you could’ve been nicer to him. She was a kind, soft, patient thing. Quiet and easy and always, always, above everything else, understanding. It was the worst thing about her. A detriment, a weakness, and she resented you for your resentment, for seeing her as such, but you could never help it. Always asking you why you couldn’t just be a nice girl, a good girl.

You didn’t think you had not been nice, not been good. You had only been yourself.

Your father had always hated that about you, you being yourself. The man you’d chosen to marry didn’t seem to like it very much either. And she’d tried to instill her better qualities in you, your mother, so you weren’t all bad all the time. There could be a brightness and a lightness and a sweetness to you sometimes, it’s true. You weren’t always all bad. But there was – is still – also a bitterness and a resentment and an anger, a screaming that you could not quell no matter how hard you tried. And so you’d attepted to give him everything you could, your husband, everything you had at your disposal in all ways, to do and be all he could have ever asked of you during those two small years of marriage. Because truly, they had felt so very small, made you even smaller.

Everything except for sex. You’d never been able to give him that the way he’d wanted.

At first, it had been normal, sweet, soft missionary in the darkness, tepid insinuations of orgasms, always hushed, always exactly how he wanted it. But eventually, when the other parts of you began to fail, he got mean and callous and casually cruel. And as you pulled away physically, he called you frigid, a prude, boring, cold, bad in bed, didn't know how to make a man hard. And it had made you so agonizingly insecure, already a sensitive and anxious thing when it came to your physical form, he’d beaten you down, embarrassed you, belittled you.

With time, you’d realized the truth of it which had been nothing more than that you’d never really wanted him. He had never made you desperate, he had never made you wet. It was his character, his attitude, yes, but it was also him. He just wasn’t it for you, and it wasnt that you were a prude or frigid at all, only that you needed patience and understanding and care, gentleness. Things he possessed none of.

You just needed a little time to warm up and someone who wanted to give you that time.

The reality that your life had not been full of varied and foolish adventures, and that time had seemed to simply slip away like an echo in the brain from one moment to the next was duly painful. A handful of months of wan and false lust, two years of cold, bitter marriage, and now, six months of barren aloneness. Too many mistakes had been made, too many regrets, three big ones that could be held like stones scorched to burn by the sun in the palm of your hand so that even if you let them go eventually, their imprint would still be scarred into your flesh afterwards forever.

So, perhaps the divorce had been painful in the moment. Or not perhaps, there was nothing uncertain about it, you’d fought tooth and nail to make it work, to keep him with you. Prostrated and humiliated and debased yourself. But with time, it became obvious that it was a fantasy you decided you should finally cast aside, as all children do childish things at a certain age. And then, it had been the easiest thing in the world. After all, and let’s be honest now for a moment, the reckoning had come in the shape of his father. That is, at the end of it, the reason you’re really here.

Sat now, before the open cabinet below your kitchen sink, leaky pipe drip, drip, dripping monotonously in front of your glazed over eyes, you think of him. He’s a large man, intimidating and dark and stoic. Taller and broader than his son. Lush, mahogany curls streaked with silver that speak of age and experience like the smile lines around his eyes. Deeply grooved when he laughs that beautiful laugh of his. He looks exactly like the opposite of whatever his son is, like he’d have the ability to make the opposite of you, to pull out of you whatever the antithesis is of what his son was able to. It had been immediate, the nature of your thoughts towards him. The desire, the desire, the desire, you had wanted like you’d never wanted before — like an illness, like dying.

Your marriage had been circling the drain, and then you’d met him, and it should have been innocuous. He’d been kind and polite and welcoming, but also, aloof. Holding himself at a distance, something afraid that he carried within himself, like he didn't want to hope, like he was just a little bit scared of what it meant now to have a son, something to lose. You knew a little bit about that, the worst part of it all is never the cruelty, it’s the hopelessness. Everything had become so much worse after meeting him. An unbearable sort of awareness of something that your listless, frigid self recognized as man, man, man, something like hunger. Something slanted about the desire, wrong, sure, for he was your husband's father, and yet, you wanted him. You wanted to know what he smelled and tasted like, and what the weight of his cock on your tongue would feel like. If it was bigger than his sons, you were almost positive of that, if it would stretch the corners of your mouth to near splitting, the hinges of your jaw to aching.

You’d met your husband's father, and had realized, painfully, with uncompromising clarity, all that your husband could be, all that he was not, all that he would never be. There was no comparison between the boy and the man, and it made you hurt.

Your eyes flit back to the screen of your open laptop and the instructional video there, popping another fuzzy peach gummy onto the flat of your tongue, mouth full of sucking sugar. You’re going to fix this sink if it’s the last thing you do, and you’re not going to think about him again. But tomorrow, you’ll start not thinking about him tomorrow. The talent of a liar never really wanes.

The apartment is quiet, nothing but the cheerful crackling of your sweet pumpkin candle and the mocking splish splash of the drain pipe. You had, in recent weeks, come to think of your abandonment as something of an accomplishment. Perhaps, your loneliness is a good thing, you’ll tell yourself as a comfort, a sort of friend; you can’t be used against yourself again in this solitude, and oh, how you’d been used. That anemia in your character, the ascetic thread of your personality had been weaponized and wielded against you until you couldn’t tell up from down and left from right. You were certain there’d been cheating, even if you’d never had any proof to confirm it, merely grateful you’d never gotten sick as way of evidence. But you knew. And it could've been so much worse for you, of course, of course it could have. But he’d left your mind so off kilter, broken and confused and not yourself. Utterly damaged in a way that was humiliating and devastating when you thought of the way you’d been, such a little person. So often, not a woman, just a little girl.

And then his father. Joel. Seeing him today – you had never felt the way you should have felt towards him. Like your eyes were open, awake for the first time in your entire life. A man like that – he was changing. And you wanted, needed very much to be changed. Seeing him today, being presented with that reminder of what he was, how he made you feel, how he’d always made you feel. There’s something ghoulish about you concerning him – about this desire. That ascetic or anemic or under-grown, illformed thing about you, exterminated in the thrum of how alive he is. How unlike his son. You’d never known what it specifically was, never been able to categorize it, and then there had been that moment, brought so low, six feet beneath the ground sort of debased, and he’d been there and you had been – unburdened from the weight of his own son, by him, and you’re not even sure he knew the extent of it. The power he’d wielded over you in that moment in the dark. And you can’t say it out loud, what it is you’d want from him, you can’t even say out loud what it is about him that changes you as it does – not a woman, just a little girl – but you think that if you could just see him, then you’d know, or maybe you could be brave. You don’t know what it is, but you’d know it then, with him in front of you, you’d have the answer to this question that’s plagued you for so long – how to be yourself in a way that is good.

You’re pushing yourself to your feet, fueled by the thought, fingers gripped over the ledge of the counter to pull yourself up, sink forgotten, stumbling to your front door, shoving your feet into your shoes and fumbling for your keys. How to be yourself in a way that is good.

When you were seventeen, your father had been at his angriest. Angry in that way that all angry father’s are. Loud and brutish – an anger that is cowing, a sign of true weakness. Brute force in the shape of the man who gave you life. When you think of it now, even as a grown woman, you still feel that phantom limb of fear, and you know that it isn’t normal for a grown woman to be afraid of her father, and yet you are. And then to think that you’d gone from your parents home directly to the bed of the same sort of man, one even crueler, if possible. You’re forced to laugh your singular terrible, self deprecating laugh at the irony of it – even worse, if possible. For what’s worse than a person who constantly needs to be soothed into kindness and patience and calm?

Once, in that terrible seventeenth year, funny and strange and unknowingly perfect, you’d been gifted the Farmer’s Almanac by your elderly neighbor. She’d said that she’d read it since she was a girl, liked the peace in knowing that the year had been predicted by experts and put down on paper. It made life seem more secure, more in control in a small way. You’d needed that during that turbulent time, locked in your teenage bedroom, lulled to sleep by the sound of your father’s anger and the year’s long-range weather predictions before your blurry eyes. It was so comforting to be able to read the future in text, catastrophe or sunshine, at least it was there. You still read it to this day. And there’s no congruity to the thought now, as you crawl into your car, a ghoul in the night, banging your knee on the hastily opened car door, sprouting gooseflesh in the cold; this desire, desire, desire that is the worst thing you’ve ever felt in your whole life, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop because there is something about control in this moment also. Control like knowing what the future will be like on paper, control like a man who is entirely grown into himself, who knows who he is and who he is not and is not uncertain, who will not yell, who will not hurt you. He has this – your husband’s father – you know he does. There is something about control, there is something about knowing how a thing will be, there is something about being yourself in a way that is good.

You’d picked up the wrong wine on your way here. Rushing, trying to fix your makeup in the car, you’d gotten confused, chosen the one he didn’t want instead of the one he did. And it was nothing, or an accident, surely nothing to incite his ire, but he’s so fucking angry hovering in front of you. He looks at you, now sometimes, like he hates you, like you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He said you’d humiliated him in front of his father. That he was going to think he didn’t have good taste, couldn’t afford a decent bottle of wine. And you don’t know Joel very well, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man to care about such things. Calling you an idiot in that poisoned shrill tone he takes on when he’s delivering a set down, and you’re trying to tell him to please, please keep your voice down, Sam, your father is going to hear you. You’d heard someone say once that a truly powerful man never feels the need to raise his voice, it simply isn’t necessary for him, and you’re reminded, terribly, of your father, with the sight of your shrill and seething husband in front of you. And then a low toned that’s enough, son from the mouth of the kitchen, and it’s so much worse, entirely catastrophic in a way, and you’re rushing away so humiliated, face on fire, tear caught over the trough of your lower lid, trying the doors in the hallway for the nearest restroom. You hear the murmur of voices, one struggling to maintain composure, the other, cool and steady, then the slam of the front door, and finally, the silent din of his house settling around the two of you as you find a restroom to hide in. Your heart beats so fast it makes you nauseous, knees strangely aching, listening to the heavy steps of Joel’s boots, as if he’s trying to warn you with those measured, weighted thuds that he’s coming, coming, coming for you. Turning to face the far corner of the restroom, you press your palm over your mouth, face slippery and burning and so stupid, the soft swoosh of the opening door, a paused breath as he takes in your form huddled into the wallpaper, and then the muted snick of the door closing behind him, shutting the two of you away together.

Part II

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#pink fic #Joel Miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #Joel Miller smut #joel miller imagine #the last of us au

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thegnomelord · 1 year ago

Text

Missing You

CW: NSFW, sub bottom Soap, dom top Reader, phone sex, masturbation, dirty talk, edging, sex toy, dom/sub. Quick and rough but that's how the horny strikes.

Like always, asks/requests are open :Dd

You've been gone on a mission for nearly a month now, and Soap doesn't know what to do with himself. Even when you text him sporadically to tell him you're alive, sometimes he feels like a housewife, stuck awake late at night wondering if you'll return to him as a pair of dog tags.

And even later at night he can't help thinking of what you'll do to him when you come back, ravage him until he's drooling and his brain is leaking from his ears.

As days turn to weeks he finds himself trying and trying to jerk off to no avail. No matter how much he tries he can't seem to get himself off while you're away; he could fuck his cock into his fist until his skin's rubbed raw and his balls are so full they feel like they'll explode but nothing ever comes out. His body is just so used to having your body over his and your scent in his nose and just your presence near that it can't cum without it.

Pure need breeds desperation and has him finding himself at your door in the middle of the night. It's locked, but he has the key. He's quick to shimmy his way inside, a happy little sigh escaping him when he huddles underneath the covers and your scent invades his nose. A stuttered breath leaves him as he gropes his stiff cock underneath his shorts, burying his nose into your pillow and breathing in deep until his lungs are full of you and his brain is buzzing nicely.

He tries to get himself off like that, doesn't take him much to stroke himself to full mast but even surrounded by your scent he can't cum. It's like there's a blockage at the base of his cock that's not letting anything put pre-cum out while he humps his fist until tears prickle his eyes.

A thought pops into his mind and without even thinking he's fishing his phone from his pocket and dialing your number without thinking of what time of the day is on your end. Holding the phone in one hand and cock in the other he nibbles on his lip as he waits for you to pick up. Hopes you will pick up.

"Johnny?" Your voice is slurred with sleep, giving it a deep base rumble that sends a nice shiver down spine.

"Bonnie..." He breathes out and bites his lip to hold back a groan, cock twitching in reaction from just your voice. "Fuck, ah missed yea."

You hum, still half asleep. "Missed you too Johnny. How have you been?"

"Good." He breathes out, worrying his lip between his teeth as he strokes himself. "Just been mighty bored since you left lil' ol' me alone."

You can hair faint shuffling on the other end, but not his usual chatter. Normally when you call each other Soap will prattle on and on for as he can, but this time he is strangely silent save for his shuddered breath. "Soap... where are you?"

He freezes and sucks in a breath, "In yeh room."

"Johnny." The way you say his name sends a shiver down his spine and he begins stroking himself again, pinching and squeezing the head of his poor cock in the same way you do. "Did you miss me this much?"

"No shite." A small sound escapes him, a mixture of a curse and something more animalistic. "Ah try 'an wank off but every time I try it's-" A familiar hellish feeling in his balls, like something close to pain but not quite, has him cutting his sentence short.

"Poor boy," You coo, "Can't cum without me there, can you? Got you so trained to cum with my cock up your ass you can't do it without something nice and big stretching you out, hmm?"

Your words have embarrassment flooding his system and a small stream of pre leaking from his red angry tip, "'S your fault, fockin' wanker." He curses, burying his head into your pillow while quickly stroking his cock. He'd be embarrassed about what your voice does to him if he wasn't so damn horny. "Fix yer mess."

"Want to cum so badly don't you?" You stall just for a second, your mind birthing a devious idea. "Alright sweetheart, check under the bed for me."

Your request confuses him. "What for?" Still, he's a good boy, he does as he's told no matter how much it hurts to let go of his dick. Even just the sheets rubbing against his poor dick has him whimpering from overstimulation, but he manages to reach beneath your bed and finds a small discrete box.

"Just a gift for you." Your smirk carries over the phone and you can just imagine his expression when when he opens the box.

Inside the box is a dildo. It's firm in his hand as he picks it up, heat pools in his stomach as he recognizes the tip he'd spend hours suckling on, as he traces each realistic vein with his fingers the same way he'd do with his tongue, as he rubs the silicone balls like he'd worship the actual ones; It's molded from your actual dick.

"Oh you sick fuck." He breathes out, but there's not a single hint of disgust in his breathless voice. "Did yea make it so's yea could fock yourself?"

"Funny." Your two share a small chuckle, "If you're not careful I'll make one of yours and lock the real thing away. Not like you use it much."

He never knows if you're serious or kidding but the subtle threat in your tone has his dick throbbing all the same. He manages an indignant "Oi!" before his voice pitters out when he finds your second surprise.

"Thought you'd want something to remember me by." You can't hide your amusement when he finds your underwear. After you'd caught him masturbating with his face shoved in a pair of your underwear he'd nicked, you'd gone out of your way to wear one pair each time you went to the gym and didn't wash it.

"Oh bile yer heid." He huffs but he's already rolling on his side with your underwear pressed close to his nose. He breathes in deep until he can taste the heavy tang of your musk on his tongue, arousal burning hot in his veins.

"I'll take it you like it." You chuckle, "Go on sweetheart, you know what to do."

"Aye." He shuffles until shimmy his shorts off, having not even bothered with wearing boxers. He shifts so his knees are close to his chest, the phone pressed between his ear and the pillow so he can use both hands. "C'mon, keep yappin'. Need tah hear yea." He feels so high-strung begging like this, but it just makes heat burn hotter in his cock when he brings the silicone dildo to his puckered hole that's already wet from when he'd tried to finger himself to an orgasm.

"Oh, sweetheart," With your voice ringing in his ear and your scent in his nose and the weight of your sheets over his half naked body he almost feels like you're right there. If he closes his eyes he imagine it's your cock poke against his hole and your body swallowing his. "Let me guess, you're already wet huh?"

"Know me so well." He breathes out and slowly pushes the dildo against his hole until the head finally slips past the ring of muscle. He's rougher than you'd be but his body is so desperate to feel you that the cock slips in easily, his walls clenching greedily around every familiar vein.

You croon praises in his ear as he sets a deep and fast pace, biting your underwear between his teeth to muffle his pathetic mewls while pounding his hole. But it's not enough, even with every single one of his senses full of you it's not enough. His arm's starting to cramp the longer he fucks himself, twisting and angling the dildo in a desperate attempt to catch his prostate, his hips twitching back to when he bottoms out so he can feel the fake balls slap against his own.

"Shit- It's not enough, fock, please." He shifts his head just enough to beg, huffing in your scent.

"What's wrong Soap, can't fuck yourself like I can?" He groans at your words, biting the wet fabric of your underwear again when he finally manages to graze his prostate. His cock's leaking like a faucet, easing the glide of his fingers when he grabs it to stroke himself until he's whining from the stimulation coming from both ends.

His balls ache and fire burns in his stomach every time he bottoms out, his thighs shaking with the need to cum. "Nae, you fock me so good-" He pants, pleas both in English and Gaelic falling from his lips until you can barely understand anything aside from pure need.

"Go on Johnny, you can cum."

Your permission is all it takes for him to tip over the edge, hole spasming around the dildo and cum spurting like a firehose from his cock and his sight going white. Weeks upon weeks of unresolved tension all escaping him as waves of euphoria pulse through him, leaving him shaking from his orgasm.

"There you go, good boy." Your voice brings him back from the peaks of heaven, his breathing heavy and uncoordinated. "How do you feel?"

"Fockin' perfect." He slurs and has just enough strength to slip the fake cock from his hole and toss it somewhere on the floor. "Felt like ah was ready ta blow." A loud yawn leaves him and his eyes feel heavy when he hears your voice again.

"Get some sleep Johnny, I'll be back by the time you wake up."

"I'll hold yea to it." A dumb little smile tugs on his lips and he nuzzles his head into your pillow, drifting off to sleep.

#cod mw2 #x reader #male reader #top male reader #centerpieces of the hoard #sub john soap mactavish #soap x male reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish #cod mwii #cod x reader #cod x male reader #soap mw2 #soap mactavish

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thedreamlessnights · 2 months ago

Text

Stress Relief

Satoru Gojo x F!Reader - NSFW

AO3 Link

Synopsis: During a drinking game, you confess you've never had an orgasm before. Gojo, your friend of a year, doesn't like that.

Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough). No use of 'Y/N.' Mentions of alcohol and being buzzed, but not during sex. Fingering, oral (giving and receiving), first time climaxing, facesitting, multiple orgasms. P in V sex, cumming inside, leaving and receiving marks.

Word Count: 7.3k

Your night starts like most of your bad ideas do: with a little alcohol in your system, a shot glass in your hand, and Shoko at your side.

You don’t know half of the people who are sitting in the circle around you, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s been a while since you’ve been in a situation like this. That’s usually a good thing, but you need the stress relief tonight.

Even your slight buzz has some of the constant tension in your shoulders slipping away, being replaced by a pleasant warmth.

“Alright,” Shoko says, sitting up. You can barely hear her over the blaring music of the party. “Never have I ever—”

“Hey, what’s this?” a voice cuts her off, and you don’t even have to look up to know who it is. Your entire body goes stiff. So much for releasing tension. “Playing without me?”

“Gojo,” she says, her tone dry. “If you’d like to join, you’re welcome to.”

“Satoru, over here!” someone chirps, scooting over to make room for him.

But he plops down in between you and Shoko, stretching his legs out in front of him. Shit. You’re dying to look over at him, to see what’s on his face, but you know better than to risk that. Your eyes stay trained on your fingers, determined to keep your drink steady in your hand.

“Here,” Shoko says. Out of your peripheral vision, you can see that she’s handing him a shot glass and filling it up. “Now, then. Never have I ever… fallen asleep during class.”

There’s a collective groan. Your glass meets your lips as soon as she’s finished the question, and you can see Gojo’s hand rise, too. Then comes his grimace. He’s never liked the taste of alcohol.

When you’ve downed the shot, you find Shoko’s eyes fixed on you.

“Gojo, I expected. But you?” she asks.

Your cheeks grow even warmer, and you can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or embarrassment. “It was only once,” you insist. “I was really tired from training, and… it just… happened.”

“Aww, Ieiri, give her some slack. It happens to the best of us,” Gojo says.

“Okay, my turn!” someone calls, sitting on Shoko’s other side. You don’t recognize her, but the pink flush in her cheeks tells you she’s had more than enough to drink tonight. “Everyone ready?”

You scramble for the bottle in the middle, clumsily pouring more. A little spills over your hand, wetting your glass and making it harder to hold onto.

“Pass it over?” Gojo asks, and it takes a moment before you realize he’s talking to you. Your fingers brush when he takes the bottle from you, and something hot and sharp shoots up your arm. You nearly drop your shot glass.

Damn him.

You can handle him when you’re sober, or when you’re next to Shoko—but he’s blocked you off, and you know he can read every reaction of yours. Gojo sees everything; isn’t that what everyone says?

“Never have I ever… faked an orgasm,” the girl calls.

Your stomach drops.

Gojo doesn’t move. Shoko doesn’t move. Great, you think. Of course. If you don’t move either, would they know you’re lying? No, they couldn’t possibly.

But… the point of this game is being honest. It’s no fun if people aren’t willing to take risks.

The alcohol buzzing in your veins must be giving you a temporary sense of boldness, because you find yourself tilting another shot down your throat before you can think better of it. Most people in the circle are drunk enough that they either don’t see you or don’t care, but you have no doubt that two people in particular have taken notice.

“Oh, really?” Gojo remarks softly, almost to himself.

“Wait. Hang on, what?” Shoko asks. “Who? The asshole at the bar that one night?”

“Shoko,” you hiss, trying to stop her, but she just keeps going.

“Or was it that one… what was his name? The one with black hair?”

“Shoko.”

“Come on, you can’t seriously think I won’t chop whoever it was into tiny pieces.”

“It really wasn’t, um. I- I mean...” You have to stop for a minute to gather yourself, sucking in a deep breath. “It really wasn’t their fault, I just…”

“Wasn’t their fault?” Shoko repeats, her tone sharpening.

“I’ve never really h-had one,” you stammer out. “So it wasn’t their fault that I didn’t. I don’t think I… can.”

There’s a long beat as they both gape at you. If you could melt straight into the carpet and never return, you’d do it in a heartbeat. Shoko’s staring at you, and you know Gojo is, too, but you refuse to look at him.

“It’s not a big deal,” you force out, giving a shrug. “It still felt nice, so…”

Just as you’re about to grab the bottle again, Gojo snatches it up, holding it out of your reach. “Hang on just a minute,” he says. “Am I hearing that right? You’ve never had an orgasm?”

And despite yourself, you find yourself meeting his eyes.

It’s a stupid thing to do. Absolutely idiotic, because the moment you look at him, it’s like he’s seeing everything. Every shitty night in bed, every small detail you’d prefer to hide from him, every embarrassing memory you want to lock away.

Worst of all, he looks so ridiculously pretty that you can barely tear your gaze away from him. His hair perfectly tousled like always, dark sunglasses perched at the end of his nose, blue eyes bright and attentive. The first buttons of his shirt undone, exposing his sternum.

You’ve been Gojo’s friend for the last year or so (and that’s mostly due to how much time you spend with Shoko), but it’s still a rare occasion when he gives you his full attention. It’s unnerving, and it takes everything in you not to spout a shitty excuse and bolt home, never to come out again.

“I need another drink,” Shoko mutters, shaking her head. “Something strong.”

She gets to her feet and you race to go with her, leaving Gojo with his unanswered question and the half-empty bottle of booze still in his hand. He’s smart. Probably smarter than you are. If he wants to know so badly, he can put the information together himself.

You’re almost expecting him to chase after you, but he doesn’t. In fact, you don’t see him for the rest of the night—not until the party is over, leaving scattered pieces of trash all over the carpet and multiple people sprawled out on various pieces of furniture.

You don’t envy the cleaning job Shoko and her roommate will have to do tomorrow, and you also don’t envy their future hangovers. You had your last drink hours ago, and much to your disappointment, it’s worn off completely.

“Heading out?” Shoko asks, leaning in to kiss your cheek. Her voice is still a little slurred.

“Yeah,” you tell her, giving her a smile. “I should really get to bed.”

She frowns. “You’re not walking, right?”

“It’s not far. I’ll be fine.”

She shoots you a look—both disappointed and annoyed. “Sometimes you really are stupid,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to have to heal you up tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, Ieiri. I’ll walk with her.”

Gojo.

“Good,” she says. “Make sure she doesn’t get killed.”

“I really don’t need—” you start, but he’s already slinging an arm over your shoulder and pulling you toward the door.

“See ya, Shoko!” he says. “Drink some water!”

You can’t hear what she says back, but she sounds annoyed.

Gojo practically drags you out of the apartment and onto the street, and the entire time, he keeps you close and his arm fixed around you. Much to your irritation, he’s warm, and he smells like sandalwood and vetiver. Some expensive cologne, no doubt. You hate how much you like that smell.

“So,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him. “You never answered my question.”

That asshole.

“Really? Which one?” you ask innocently.

“Oh, you know,” he drawls. “Just the one where I asked if it was true that you’ve never had an orgasm.”

He says it casually, like the two of you are talking about the weather, but it still makes heat flare across your cheeks. “Right. That one.”

You’re desperately trying to think of a way to get out of this, but you can’t find anything to save you. He’s got you wrapped in his grip, and there’s nowhere to hide. You’re almost home, though—if you can just delay him…

“Yeah. That one,” he echoes. You can tell he’s smirking, just from the sound of his voice. When you look up, his face confirms it. He holds your gaze evenly, not a trace of shame. Not that you’ve ever seen him look shameful, not in all the time you’ve known him.

Warmth stirs in your gut, and you swallow hard. He has to know what he’s doing to you, right? There's no way he doesn't.

“Why are you so interested in hearing the answer?” you ask.

The corner of his lip quirks up. “How about this: you answer my question first, and then I’ll answer that.”

Just a little further and you’ll be free. Does he have to be staring at you like that? Does he have to be so god damn close? It’s putting all kinds of stupid ideas into your head.

“It’s true,” you admit, looking down at your feet. “Not that it’s any of your business, Gojo.”

“Is it?” He doesn’t sound particularly surprised. “Well, then.”

The two of you come to a stop, and when he finally drops his arm from your shoulder, you realize you’re standing in front of your front door. You should dash inside and forget any of this ever happened. Wake up tomorrow, and rinse him out of your thoughts, and go on with your life.

But that’s wishful thinking, knowing you. He’d still be on your mind. He always is.

You know it’s stupid of you to want him like this. There’s no guarantee that he’ll be any different than the rest. No guarantee that he actually wants you back, or that this isn’t just petty flirting to get under your skin. Still, you can't quite find it in yourself to turn him away without even trying.

And if anyone is going to be different than the rest...

“Y-you didn’t answer my question,” you tell him, anxiously fidgeting with the bottom of your skirt.

“I didn’t?” he asks, tilting his head. “Must have slipped my mind.” He pulls off his sunglasses and steps closer. Even though he’s not touching you anymore, his eyes might as well be pinning you to the wood behind you. “I asked because that’s quite the injustice for someone as pretty as you are.”

You’re suddenly very thankful for the door at your back, because your knees feel like they’re giving out.

“And, to be honest?” he continues, taking another step toward you. “That upsets me.”

“Gojo,” you murmur, trying to remember a single reason that you shouldn’t grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him inside. There were so many just a few seconds ago, but you can’t seem to find any of them anymore.

“Satoru,” he corrects.

“Satoru.” It comes out breathy and weak, but he smiles at the sound of it.

“Well?” he asks, bringing his hands up to the door on your sides. Caging you in. “Were you planning to let me in any time soon?” His next words are delivered next to your ear, so close that you can feel his breath ghosting your skin. “I mean, I’m happy to fuck you out here, if that’s what you want—”

Now you really do grab him by the collar and yank him inside.

He doesn’t waste a second before he has you pressed against the wall, taking your face in his hands and kissing you.

God, for all his ego, he really does meet the mark. His lips are soft, and he smells so damn good, and when you get bold and tangle your fingers in his hair, it’s smooth and silky. You give an experimental tug, and he groans into your mouth.

White-hot arousal floods down your spine. For a moment, you think you might crumple to the ground.

Then one of his hands moves to your jaw, tilting your head to the side so he can kiss down your neck, and fuck, it’s incredible. He nips at the sweet spot behind your ear, and you find yourself letting out a soft, needy sound that he hums in response to.

If he really does manage to make you come, it’ll be ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous, because you can’t even count the number of nights you spent hours just trying to get yourself close and failing miserably. He can’t possibly be good at everything.

But his knee slides between your legs, and you honestly start to debate grinding against it for some relief. It’s pathetic.

“To the bedroom?” he asks, pulling away. He’s breathless; you’ve never heard that before.

“Bedroom,” you confirm, taking him by the hand and pulling him further into the house. When the two of you get in, you fall back onto the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows and shifting backward.

You just have the mind to be embarrassed about the multiple plushies on your sheets, shoving them aside as quickly as you can, before he's crawling over you and grinning.

“Cute,” he says. Then he straddles your hips with his thighs, sliding his fingers under your shirt and starting to peel it up. It comes off easily, leaving you in your bra, your chest heaving as you stare up at him. One nimble movement from him, and the bra is off, too, being tossed to the side.

This is insane. All of this. How is it possible that Satoru’s kissed you, and wants you, and is in your bedroom taking off your clothes? His eyes sweep over you and you squirm, suddenly self-conscious. He could have anyone he wanted—why you? What if you aren’t what he thought?

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, tracing a hand from your sternum down to your navel. His eyes are darker than usual, pupils dilated, and you can swear that his cheeks are the slightest bit flushed. “Even better than I imagined.”

“Satoru,” you whimper, and he grins.

“Relax,” he instructs, but he’s pushing your skirt up around your waist, and you know you must be absolutely fucking soaked, and how the hell are you supposed to relax?

He tilts his head, admiring the sight of you as he drags a slow finger over the front of the thong you’re wearing. You’re definitely soaked.

“Wow,” he says. “You know, I’ve barely even touched you, but I think you might already be ready for me.”

At the sound of his words, you clench around nothing. He must be able to tell, because the smug smile he’s wearing widens. That cocky bastard. He’s still fully dressed.

You reach up to tug at the bottom of his shirt, but he’s faster than you—his free hand closes around your wrist and holds it above your head.

“Oh no you don’t,” he chides. “Your job is to relax, remember?”

You’re ready to launch into the argument that seeing him with his clothes off will most certainly help you come, but he starts shifting downward and leans in to kiss you again, releasing your wrist to cradle your cheek with one hand and drift the other across your chest. Every coherent thought you have melts away, replaced by the feeling of his hands on your body.

You’re just considering begging for more when he pulls away, kissing down your jaw. His mouth is hot, and everywhere his lips touch seems to light you on fire: your neck, your collarbones, your chest.

He pauses, and his breath tickles against your skin before he slowly trails his tongue around a nipple. You shudder and bury your hand in his hair, tugging and trying to get him to go a little faster, but he ignores your efforts and takes his sweet time—licking, kissing, nipping—until you’re certain he’s trying to cover every free inch of your skin.

Then, finally, his mouth starts to trail lower.

Just when he’s about to reach the place you most want him, he pulls away. Completely away, straddling your hips again and leaning his weight back onto his heels. Maybe he really does want you to beg.

At least, that’s what you think until you see the expression on his face. He’s not smiling—not teasing. Instead, his brow is furrowed, and he’s studying you with a look in his eyes that you’ve only seen in rare moments, during training.

Concentration.

He slips two fingers under the waistband of your thong and starts to pull it down, urging your hip up with his other hand until the fabric peels away from you. Then he moves a thumb to your clit and starts to rub slow, agonizing circles, and shit. You can hardly breathe.

It’s good—really fucking good, better than you’ve ever been able to do for yourself—but he’s dragging it out.

No one’s ever taken their time with you like this before, and everything about it is just… fucking overwhelming. The way he’s looking at you, the growing pleasure between your legs, the smell of him that seems to have bled into your sheets.

You can’t even squirm, because his weight on top of you is keeping you pressed into the mattress. His movements are almost lazy, but he’s watching your face attentively and taking note of your reactions to everything he’s doing.

It’s so nerve-wracking that you’re tempted to drape an arm over your face just to get a break. The only reason you don’t is because you get the feeling he won’t like that, and you don't want to risk anything.

And then, right as you’re actually starting to lose yourself in his touch, it happens. Just like it always does. The moment you feel at all close to the edge, the moment when pleasure is coiling in your gut and spreading and building into something more, it snaps. A rope pulled taut, cut in two.

You’re left with nothing but frustration and numbness, right back where you started.

Satoru stops touching you, and it takes a few seconds for you to swallow down your disappointment before you can meet his eyes. It had seemed like it’d be different this time. You’d hoped it’d be different.

When you do look up, though, Satoru’s just… smiling. Like he’d expected it, and isn't the least bit phased.

What the fuck? you think, staring at him.

“Like I said. Relax,” he tells you, and you really could punch him for that.

But then he lays a hand over your abdomen and applies a little pressure, and he’s right. You’re ridiculously tense. You force yourself to relax, and as soon as the tension under his hand releases, the pressure starts feeling… nice. Really nice.

“Good. Like that,” he says. “Breathe.” Then he shifts, and his weight on you eases. “Spread your legs for me,” he instructs.

When you do, he positions himself between your thighs. “Good girl,” he murmurs. You clench around nothing, and his smile widens. You’re waiting for him to start taking off his clothes, but he doesn't. His other hand returns to your clit, and you have to fight to keep your body from instantly tensing up again.

Breathe, you tell yourself. You’re not even sure it’s doing anything, but you do it anyway.

It’s not like he’s making it easy for you, though. He’s touching you like he has all the time in the world. It’s good, but you really wish he would speed up or press harder or something. You should have known that Satoru, of all people, would tease you.

Asshole.

Deep breaths.

Just when you’ve started to get the hang of breathing and relaxing, he slides two fingers inside you and everything you’ve been doing goes out the window.

It’s agony. It’s bliss. It feels so fucking good that it almost hurts, but it's not enough. And the moment you go tense again, he stops.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Your body relaxes little by little, and he goes back to what he’d been doing. Slipping his fingers inside you, tilting them until they’re brushing against a spot that has you seeing stars, sliding them in and out as your muscles fight to go tense. His thumb is still circling your clit.

“F-Fuck,” you choke out, grinding into his hand.

Your eyes flutter closed and it’s all you can do to keep breathing. In and out, no tension, relax. You’re so focused on it that you don't notice you’re approaching the edge until it’s too late.

You clench around his fingers and come so fucking hard that you forget how to think.

Through your haze, you’re distantly aware of a few different things. Your ears are ringing. Your back is arching off the bed. You’ve completely stopped breathing, and you’re not sure you’ll remember how.

The pleasure comes in hot, intense waves—ebbing and flowing, drifting you down from your climax until you finally come back to your body. And with your post-orgasm riddled mind, you can only think of one thing to say:

“Holy shit.”

It comes out half broken, strangled. You’re laughing, almost delirious. Your mouth is dry. His fingers are still inside you, and they haven't stopped moving. You can’t decide if you want him to stop.

“What was that?” he asks, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Shut up, Gojo,” you mumble, but you’ve already started grinding into his hand again.

“Satoru.”

“Sh-Shut up, Satoru.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he purrs. “I just might.”

His fingers leave you, and you nearly sob at the loss until your eyes fly open and you find him sucking them into his mouth and licking them clean, holding your gaze the entire time.

A shiver runs down your spine. You think you might even stop breathing again, but you can’t be sure.

Before you can think of how the hell you’re going to respond to that, he’s back at your navel, repositioning himself and kissing lower and lower down until you’re convinced that he’s going to stop. Surely he’s not about to do what you’re thinking he’ll do. He’ll pull away, just like he had before. Right?

Then the warmth of his mouth closes over your clit and you gasp, your thighs snapping together on instinct. He takes hold of them, lightning-fast, holds them apart and moans at the taste of you, and you immediately lose the ability to think.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. One of his hands comes up to press down on your abdomen again. Your skirt is still fanned out around your waist. You’re starting to wonder if you might be dreaming; you have to be dreaming.

But dreaming or not, the pleasure is building again, and your back is starting to arch, and it’s far too soon to be here again with how long it took you the first time but there’s no stopping it now.

He holds you down as you come, letting out another moan as you shudder and pant and make sounds you didn't even know you could make. All of this is only going to add to his ego, but—well, what are you supposed to do?

And Gojo must be crazy, because he just keeps going. It’s not that you mind, but you’re desperate to reciprocate. You still haven't done anything to him. With all the nights you’ve spent secretly wanting this, you’ll never forgive yourself if you don't get to touch him.

“Satoru,” you whine, tugging at his hair.

He gives a small noise of complaint and finally pulls away. “Fuck,” he gasps, reaching up to unzip your skirt with one nimble movement. “Need you to sit on my fucking face.”

“What?”

He’s already trying to get you to move, urging you to sit up before stripping you completely naked.

“You haven't even taken off your shirt,” you protest, attempting to scoot away.

He rips his shirt off so fast you think he might actually have torn it. One of the buttons pops off and rolls across the floor, but you barely hear it.

You’re too busy staring at the sight of porcelain skin, soft and warm when you reach out to touch him, muscles tugging under your fingers as he moves.

While you’re distracted, he takes the opportunity to pull you onto his lap, and it immediately becomes clear that he’s so hard it must hurt. There's something animalistic in his eyes, and you want it, want what he’s asking for. You also want to touch him so badly that you think you might die.

“Satoru—”

But he’s already lying on his back, shifting down until he’s settled under your thighs. He nips at the delicate flesh there, sinking his teeth in until you’re sure it’s going to leave a mark. “Sit on my face,” he mumbles.

And God help you, you do.

He instantly gives an appreciative hum, and the vibration has you squirming, hips stuttering. One of his hands comes up to grab your ass, encouraging you to grind against him. When you do, he groans. His mouth starts moving faster, and it’s almost more than you can take.

You’re starting to get lost in a haze again. A thick, pleasurable haze that’s clouding your vision and making it hard to breathe.

You’ve had a couple men go down on you in the past, but it was nothing like this. If anything, it felt it was a chore for them—an incentive to get a blowjob, and nothing more.

How the fuck is Satoru Gojo the one who makes it feel like he actually wants you? You should be the one begging for his attention, desperate to get a night with him. And yet, here you are, being eaten out like he’s fucking starved, growing closer and closer to your third orgasm of the night.

You can’t take it anymore. Even though you’re panting, one of your hands trails back to run along his chest, settling briefly over his heart and feeling the way it’s pounding before moving further down.

It’s an awkward reach, but you’re determined to touch him. You need to fucking touch him. He’s still hard, and it has to be painful, and you want to see the way he looks when he’s getting off.

But the moment you start to palm him through his pants, he pauses, kissing up your thigh. “Stop that,” he says breathlessly, punctuating the words with a soft bite.

“But—”

Another nip, a little harder. “I’ll fuck you once you’ve come on my face.”

Fuck, you think. Why’d he have to say it like that?

You’re still tempted to keep touching him, but he’s stubborn. It’ll probably be faster to do what he asks rather than try to argue with him. You reluctantly pull your arm back, and he continues what he’d been doing before.

Eating you out. Very enthusiastically.

You shudder into your next climax within minutes, tugging at his hair as you do, vision blacking out, and he doesn't pull back until your hips are quite literally jerking away from his touch.

He places one last lick on your clit and shifts out from under you, sitting up. As soon as he does, you’re yanking him close and kissing him, straddling his lap with your thighs. You can feel him laugh against your lips, but you don’t even care anymore. You need him, need to fucking touch him, need to hear him.

Then you start kissing down his throat, and his jaw clenches, and he inhales sharp and deep. I fucking knew it, you think. He’s just as affected as you are.

When you dig your teeth into the skin, his breathing hitches and he tilts his head back, giving you more access. On impulse, you drag your tongue up his neck and he groans.

It’s driving you crazy, not having him where you want him. Should you go slow? Tease him? Do you have the patience for that? Your hands, or your mouth?

You tug his belt off with trembling fingers, tossing it to the side, unbuttoning his pants as fast as you can.

“Got somewhere to be?” he asks, tilting his head.

On your cock, you think, shoving his pants down as far as you can. You give him a look, waiting. He huffs, then pulls them the rest of the way off.

Jesus, he’s hard for you. Even through his boxers, you can tell he must be desperate for some relief. Your lips find his on impulse, and he grips the back of your neck, licking into your mouth.

His other hand settles on your waist, urging you down on top of him until you can feel his hardened cock under you. He grinds his hips up into you, and his grip tightens. “Fuck,” he whispers, so soft you barely hear it.

It feels so good you’re almost tempted to let him take over—almost. You’ll be damned if you don’t have your way with him, even just for a little bit.

Placing your hands on his chest, you gently push him back, and you just catch a flash of the confusion on his face before you’re back at his jaw, trailing your lips down and over his collarbone, placing feather-light kisses down his chest.

Then you shift off of him and out of his hold. “Take these off,” you tell him, tugging at his boxers. While you’re waiting for him to comply, you push off the bed and kneel next to the edge, watching him expectantly.

But he doesn't move. The boxers stay on.

“What’re you up to?” he asks. “Planning to put that pretty mouth of yours to good use?”

“Yes,” you tell him. “Now get naked and come over here.”

He grins, and it’s so boyish, so charming that you almost don't hear the next words. “Say please and I’ll consider it.”

You blink at him for a moment, almost thinking that he’s joking. But he's not. He's looking at you, waiting for you to beg.

And damn it, you’re actually going to.

“Please.” It comes out airy, softer than you meant it to be.

“Oh, don't be shy now,” he purrs. “Let me hear you.”

“Please,” you repeat, louder this time, forcing yourself to keep your eyes locked on his face.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, finally pulling off those damned boxers and moving to the edge of the bed.

You adjust until you’re kneeling between his thighs, and his hand moves to your chin—tilting your face up until you’re gazing at him.

God, the sight of him. His eyes are dilated, blown so dark that you can barely see the blue in them anymore. There’s a pretty flush to his cheeks, and his lips are parted.

Something about seeing him like this, knowing it’s for you, has your thighs pressing together. But that’s not what you’re here for.

His cock is just as pretty as his face. Long and pale, flushed pink at the tip, already leaking for you. You knew he had to be desperate, but the proof of it in your hands is something else.

The taste of it is something else, too.

He groans as soon as you take him between your lips, head tilting back and eyes falling closed as the velvety warmth of your mouth envelops him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, and he takes in a shaky breath.

You’ve dreamed about seeing this so many times in private that it almost doesn’t feel real now. All those nights with your vibrator between your legs, thinking of him, wondering how this might feel—they don’t even come close to this.

The weight of him on your tongue. The way his brows pinch in pleasure when you take him deeper, your fingers taking everything you can’t fit, the way his breathing grows strained and heavy.

The way he starts to guide you with the hand that’s on the back of your neck, gently encouraging you to pick up the pace. His hips start to lightly jerk into you, fucking into your mouth.

“Shit, just like that,” he says.

You’re so turned on that you can barely think. Everything you’re doing is entirely instinctive. You’re only vaguely aware of the fact that you’re squirming, thighs pressing together to get some relief.

You’re desperately trying to commit every detail to memory, because you’re very, very sure that this is never going to happen again, and you don’t want to forget anything, not one second of it.

You file away every jagged inhale, the way the muscles of his thighs start to flex when he starts getting closer, the way he moans your name when you do something he particularly likes.

And then, just when it starts getting really fucking good, you find yourself being pulled off of him.

He’s panting, and there’s an intensity in his eyes that has a shiver running down your back. Jesus fuck, you want him. You’re about to start begging for him to finish in your mouth, but his thumb starts to trail slowly over your bottom lip and the words die in your throat, instantly forgotten.

“Satoru…” you mumble instead.

“Told you I was going to fuck you, didn’t I?” he asks, pushing two fingers between your lips, pressing the pads of them onto your tongue. On impulse, you start sucking on them, and he grins. “I’ve been dreaming of being inside you for months now, you know.”

You whimper, and the sound comes out muffled.

“That’s right,” he coos, pulling his hand away. “Planning to come up here, or do you want me to take you there on the floor?”

Arousal shoots straight down to your cunt, and you scramble up. The floor sounds hot, but from experience—it’d just mean an aching spine. And, if the way he’s looking at you is any indication, you’re already going to be limping tomorrow. You should really spare yourself, if you can.

“Lay back,” he requests softly.

You do as he asks, and he nudges your legs apart with his knee, sitting back on his heels as he runs a hand up your thigh. Then higher and higher, drawing a slow, lazy circle around your clit before sliding his fingers down against your entrance.

You’re fucking soaked. You’ve been ready for him since he first pressed you against that wall and kissed you, and you’re so wet now that when he lifts his hand away, you can see the evidence of yourself shining in the light.

The corners of his lips quirk up as he inspects his fingers, and he huffs a laugh. “Damn, baby, all of this for me?” He tilts his head. “Better not let it go to waste.”

He wraps his hand around his length and starts to stroke himself, and the moment you realize what he’s doing, you clench around nothing and whine, grasping at the sheets—even though it doesn’t do much to ground you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut. You swallow hard and study his long lashes against his cheeks for a moment, watching his brows knit together. “Need to be inside you right fucking now,” he says, the words quiet but intense, his gaze finally meeting yours again.

You spread your legs wider, and a muscle in his jaw tenses.

“So damn pretty,” he murmurs, grabbing at your thighs. “So fucking wet.” Then he pulls you over to him, the movement so smooth and quick that by the time your lips are parting in shock, he’s already bending down to kiss you.

It’s hungry and messy and desperate; sharp teeth and his hand on your cheek and the lingering taste of you on his tongue. Him moaning into your mouth when you fist a hand into his hair and tug him even closer.

Then he props himself up on his elbows and lines himself up with you, flashing you one more mischievous smile before he’s pressing inside.

He doesn’t go slow or particularly gentle when he thrusts into you, all the way to the hilt. You’re so ready for him that it’s all pleasure—white-hot, searing in your nerves until you can barely think.

Everything is heat and friction. The world fades away and becomes the addictive stretch of him filling you, him bending down and swallowing up the noises you make for him with another kiss.

“That’s it,” he says, moving a hand down to rub maddening circles on your clit. “Just like that. Taking me so well, baby.”

“Satoru—fuck,” you choke out. It’s the only thing you can say when he’s fucking you like this.

His pace quickens and he groans, nuzzling into your neck, biting down so hard that there’s no chance it won’t leave a mark. Something you’ll worry about tomorrow, but you lean into now.

He feels so goddamn good inside of you. His hips thrusting into you almost brutally, stealing away your air, one of his hands planted at your side and the other between your legs.

It has warmth coiling in your gut, building more and more as his movements start to grow faster, his breathing starts to sound labored, his noises start to become louder.

Your back is starting to arch—the pleasure grows blinding at the edges, clouding your vision over and parting your lips, making your thighs shake as you try to spread even wider for him.

“Satoru,” you gasp, cock-drunk and barely there. You’d meant to say more, but you can't remember what.

“God, yes. Come on my fucking cock,” Satoru pants, and that’s all you need.

It’s the strongest one yet. You clench around him and he immediately makes a strangled noise in response, fucking even harder into you as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you.

You can't breathe. Satoru hasn't stopped: not his hips, and not his thumb on your clit. Your lips are parted in a silent moan, and it’s so fucking good that you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to see or speak or even move after this.

Then, finally, it ends and you float back into your body piece by piece, limp and breathing jaggedly.

When you come down, you find your nails digging into Gojo’s back. He’s close. He has to be, with the noises he’s making, with the way his thrusts are erratic.

You wrap a leg around his waist and urge him deeper, and he shudders, leaning in to kiss you. He’s noisy—so fucking noisy, even with your mouth to muffle him, but you're too far gone at this point to care if any of your neighbors hear (or have been hearing, really.)

When the kiss finishes, you lean up to bite at his neck, licking over the mark you made, and his hips stutter for a moment.

“Oh, fuck, I’m—” he says, and then he's cumming inside you.

You watch him shamelessly, hungrily, memorizing how his face scrunches in pleasure and the way he’s mumbling your name like a mantra, over and over.

Then he kisses you again, and you start memorizing the way Satoru kisses when he’s barely there instead. It’s less controlled. He’s licking into your mouth and shuddering, his hips rocking into you until it’s over and he finally goes still, burying his face in the junction between your shoulders and neck and breathing heavily.

You find your hands sliding into his hair and playing with the soft strands of it. Your nails scrape lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your skin as his body goes slack.

The two of you stay like that for a while. His breathing slows. He’s warm and heavy, and the feeling of him on top of you is making you sleepy—you’re halfway to drifting off when he starts laughing. It’s quiet, but you feel the tickle of it against your throat, the curl of his smile. You’re half annoyed and half endeared.

“Something funny?” you ask.

He hums, pressing feather-light kisses up your neck. Then he pulls out of you, murmuring a soft sorry when you wince before he sits up on his heels and grins at you.

“I was just thinking about earlier. You know, how you said you couldn’t come. That was, what, three times? Four?”

Your cheeks go hot. “Shut up, Satoru,” you tell him, tossing a nearby pillow at him.

He catches it easily, fluffing it up and placing it on your stomach before he crosses his arms over it and rests his chin on his hands. “Not bad for a first try,” he says, mostly to himself. “Next time, I could get you to eight for sure. Maybe even ten.”

Next time? you think, suddenly feeling lightheaded. Ten!?

His grin widens. “Guess we can find out in the morning,” he tells you, sitting up again. “You don’t have any plans, right?”

You do. An important meeting with the higher ups before noon.

“I have a—” you start, but the way his brows rise immediately shuts you up. Screw the higher ups. “No,” you tell him. “I don’t have anything.”

“That’s what I thought,” he says, throwing one of your plushies at the wall. Somehow, it hits the light switch perfectly, and the two of you are left in the dark. You can see the faint glow of his eyes but nothing else.

You hear the pillow being put at your side again, his contented sigh as he stretches out on the bed, laying on his stomach. “Good night,” he says.

You swallow hard, hardly daring to believe that this is actually happening. “Good night.”

You’d been so close to sleep just moments ago, but now you’re wide away. The glow of Satoru’s eyes is gone—he really must be intending to sleep.

Here. In your bed.

The second you start thinking more about that is the second when everything falls apart, so you don’t. You force your eyes to shut. You can still hear him breathing. You hone in on the sound: soft, slow and even, and after a while the stillness of the room finally starts to take over you.

Your thoughts grow thick, like syrup. Your body goes heavy. Everything fades away.

You wake to golden light streaming in from the windows, and a pair of very warm arms wrapped around you.

The memories of last night hit you all at once (in vivid detail) and you instantly go tense, sucking in a slow breath. Honestly, part of you thought it might be fake. That you walked home from Shoko’s alone and fell into your bed, and dreamed it all up. But the feeling of him pressed against you is unmistakable.

Satoru Gojo is in your bed. He’s—he’s fucking cuddling you right now, and you can’t even tell if he’s awake or asleep.

Your answer comes when you adjust yourself a little and he stirs, the pillow you’re on shifting as he lifts his head. You hear him yawn, feel his grip loosen a hair around you. You don’t say a thing.

Will he snatch his arms away, now that he’s aware of what he’s doing? Will he change his mind about what he said last night, call it all a joke and leave?

But he just buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, kissing the skin. The tender, unexpected touch makes you shudder.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“Morning,” you reply, letting out a soft gasp when one of his hands trails downward, rubbing slow circles on your thigh.

“Well?” he asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Ready to get started?”

#gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #mywriting

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eddiernunson · 5 months ago

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Ice Cream, Bikinis, and Other Ways to Torture Him | Older Rockstar!Eddie x Harrington Fem!Reader | 18+

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Edit: this tagging system sucks. I just fixed it! Sorry if you weren’t tagged originally!

Summary: The stories of Eddie Munson, front man of Corroded Coffin and his music filled the Harrington household, his albums on shelves and picture frames hung of your dad and him, young and dumb. You’re home for the weekend, which just so happens to be the same weekend Eddie is in Hawkins on a personal errand. The longtime crush on him bubbles to the surface as you meet him, giving into the temptation of small summer dresses and bubblegum gloss for the fun of it. Until your dad is called in to an emergency work meeting. Then the fun of torture becomes temptation.

Warnings: Older Rockstar!Eddie, Harrington!Reader (Steve’s daughter), multi chapter build up, excessive use of nicknames, no use of y/n, (major) use of marijuana, perv!Eddie, general horniness

Describes: long hair, shorter than Eddie by a few inches, reader is described to look like her mom (can be ANY race) with Steve’s freckles. No skin colour or body shape/type

Word Count: 4.1k

Chapter 3

The heat is unbearable, the kind that provides the motivation not to do anything but lie in bed all day spread out so one could confuse them as a starfish. It’s hot enough the house wide AC feels too weak for a job this tough and needs to call in backup. The fan that stands alone rotating as it blows cold air through your room is nowhere near enough backup.

Your skin feels sticky, your hair as far away as possible from your sweaty skin as you melt in the sweltering heat. One more than one occasion you’ve scooped under your tits to wipe at the sweat that has pooled there, coming up with miraculously slick hands.

Fuck it’s too hot for clothes.

The summer sun has been working late night shifts as of late, staying out until 8 or 9. As much as you revel in the longer daylight hours, today you’ve decided you hate the sun. You check the time, hoping it’s 3 or 4 in the afternoon already, having decided to forego your phone due to its inefficiency from distracting you from the heat and therefore lost track of time.

It’s only 12:30.

You swear softly, in a quick decision you can’t stay still anymore and need to go in your stash to fucking relax. You put on a light tank top and short jean shorts, lifting your hair off your sticky neck into a bun as you pocket your phone, some joints and some cash for an ice cream cone.

Smoke a joint on the way, indulge on some delicious ice cream then stumble back home for what will probably be quality time with your vibrator. Seems like a decent plan.

When you get downstairs Eddie is lounging on the couch with one leg over the armrest, sunken in the corner as he watches the tv with a glazed look in his eyes in a muscle t-shirt and his long locks in a bun. He seems to share the same sentiment that it is too damn hot. His eyes shift to you as you put on your flip flops, sitting up with loud curiosity on his face.

“I’m going to go for a walk and get some ice cream, it’s too fucking hot,” you tell him, one hand on the scorching door handle. You hiss, shaking it in a jerk move as you glance down at it. “Ow.”

”Yeah, I learned my lesson the hard way,” he observes, stretching as he stands up, his arms over his head as the lift of his shirt reveals a tuft of dark hair.

You shake yourself out of it, opening the door quickly underneath your shirt before the handle has a chance to burn your skin again and step out into the blistering sun, putting the sunglasses over your eyes as you reach the end of the driveway. Behind you a set of running footsteps startle you, the slapping of sandals on pavement having you turn to face a set of wild curly hair falling out of its ponytail as its owner catches up to you.

He’s smiling ear to ear, bearing those dazzling dimples when he sees your perplexed face. “A walk for some ice cream sounds really nice, when I thought about it.” You blink up at him, processing his words and distracted by the sheen layer of sweat on his toned arms. It’s a dangerous automatic shut down on your brain.

Eddie falters, stepping back as you continue staring up at him, jaw slack and speechless. “Unless, you’d prefer to be alone—“

You finally snap out of it, almost swinging to grab his hand out of pure reflex. “No, um, it’s just a bit of a walk and I was gonna take my time and uh…smoke for a bit.” God, that sounded terrible.

His eyes light up, his wild grin back on his face in a flash. “A joint and ice cream? Now that’s a hot day.” He starts putting his hair back into the ponytail, a god damn scrunchie, starting ahead as you stand dumbly on the driveway. ”Now you wouldn’t mind turning this into a blunt rotation would you?”

Are you kidding me? Like are you actually fucking kidding me?

“I only got two joints,” you hold them out from the stash in your bra apologetically, as you pretend to hesitate in accepting his offer.

He yoinks one out of your hand, lighting it in a flash. “Joint’s a joint,” he states, warbled from the blunt in his half open mouth. He closes his eyes as he takes a big inhale, bliss taking over his face as it hits his lungs. “Oh that’s some good shit.” He passes it to you, clearing his throat. “Who’s the dealer these days, because that did not come from a dispensary.”

“How—“ you stop at his raised brow, grinning around the joint as you take your first inhale. God, that hits the spot. “Right. It’s some kid named Mickey. Mickey…Carver, I think.”

Eddie's fingers brush against yours as he takes it back, looking pensive as he breathes it in. “So you’re telling me that Jason Carver's son is the new dealer?” He breathes it out, grinning maniacally. “Fuck, that’s poetic.”

You’re about three doors down already, but you’re already feeling it. Usually you take much more time between inhales, not wanting to be stoned in the convenience store. It’s at least another three blocks away. “Right…I forgot his dad is the mayor. I think he’s like the black sheep of his family.”

“Oh, sweet justice,” he mutters, yet you find yourself having no interest in the context. “Would your dad happen to know about this little past time of yours?”

You take another inhale of the joint, absorbing the ache in your lungs for a moment longer than you usually do. “I don’t know if he does.” You shrug, stumbling past one of the sidewalk cracks. “I’m not all that covert about it.”

“How much he smoked in college, I don’t think he’d care,” Eddie comments, chuckling.

You stop, staring at Eddie with your mouth half open. Eddie is yanked back, tugged by his hand on your wrist. Huh, when did that get there? “You okay, there, sweetheart?”

You’re so fixated on your dad smoking you don’t even have time to process his use of the nickname. “My dad smokes pot?”

Eddie bursts out laughing, his eyes crinkling shut as he throws his head back. “Your dad has absolutely smoked pot, sweetheart. Only every time he comes to see us in concert.”

Yet another thing that short circuits your brain, staring at him as if he grew a second head. “When has my dad seen you in concert?”

Eddie’s eyes go wide, his laughter stopping almost altogether. “Oh shit, I don’t think I was supposed to tell you that,” he mutters, seemingly fixated on the bushes right next to the house you’re standing in front of.

“When does my father come see you in concert?” You glare, stepping forward more into his personal space with your hands arms tightly crossed.

“Every tour since you were born?” He answers, giving you a weak smile as he grimaces.

“What!?” You bark, tightening up your crossed arms. “Every concert? You’ve been going on tour consistently for the last 22 years!”

He throws his hands up in surrender, smoke floating up from the last remaining bits of the first joint still between two fingers. He holds it up for you, face just a bit cautious as he says, “You look Iike you need this.”

You yoink it from his fingers, taking a deep enough breath to kill the joint up to the filter. You’re not sure if its the company, the heat, or the weed, but this news really threw you off, and yes, you really needed it. The filter lands on the ground when you flick it, mindlessly pulling out the next joint and your own lighter from your bra.

As the end glows in amber, you take another deep inhale, forgetting Eddie’s still only a few feet away in front of you. You basically accidentally shotgun him. You pass it to him, seemingly completely unfazed by the puff of smoke you just blew in his face.

You jerk your head, suddenly remembering you’re supposed to be going for a walk. “Walk, we’re supposed to be walking,” you mumble to yourself, stepping away from Eddie as he laughs out a cloud.

A hand lands on your shoulder, startling you as you continue on the scorching pavement. You haven’t even hit the first crosswalk, yet and you’ve gone all fuzzy. You jerk your head back in surprise, turning your head to look up at him inquisitively.

“Sweetheart, you’re drifting,” he answers, using his wrist to fix your diagonal gait. “I think you’re very stoned.”

“It’s possible,” you muse, allowing the overwhelming scent of his cologne to float to the back of your mind. If it was the first thing, it would be the only thing.

The conversation quiets down for a bit, Eddie still keeping you somewhat steady as he continues to pass you the joint back and forth.

You’re in the middle of a mental spiral, thoughts coming and going, passing through like thoughts on a road until one particularly flashy thought passes by. “I had no idea he was going to your concerts,” you chirp out of nowhere, waiting for the light to indicate you can cross.

“To be fair it's not the best place for a kid,” he mutters, trying to make you feel better.

“‘M not a kid,” you deadpan, smoking a little bit of the last of the second joint.

“Compared to me, yes.” You glare at him, wanting to wipe off that stupid little smug grin off his face. “Regardless I’m sure your dad just needed some time off. He’s a single father of four kids, for Fuck’s sake.”

“I didn’t tell him to knock my mom up four times,” you mutter to yourself, earning another scoff from him.

“Wow, your filter is down, huh?” He chuckles, leading you across the crosswalk and towards the convenience store. “Don’t give your dad a hard time, he’s trying his best.”

You wanna move on from your dad so you’re no longer feeling guilty as you stare at his toned arms. Like, right now. Your eyes fiddle around the sidewalk, looking for any suitable topic of conversation. Anything. A chorus of laughter fills the air, your attention snapped to it immediately. As soon as you see the culprits, you blanch in disgust, jerking your attention back as you approach the convenience store entrance.

“Oh, god, gross,” you groan, stumbling as you push the glass door open.

Eddie trails a few feet behind you, leaning down as he asks, “Wh-what just happened?”

The repetitive motion of ice cream scooping hypnotizes you, catching you in a trance until Eddie bumps his hip into yours. “Hmm?”

“Outside. What was that?” He asks, pointing towards the door.

Oh, right, that. “Oh, my ex boyfriend,” you explain, wondering if you’re swaying on your feet or if the store just turned into a boat all the sudden. “Two years of my life I’ll never get back.”

“Which one was he?” He asks, putting one hand on your shoulder to steady you again.

If he were anyone else, you’d shrug him off, literally and metaphorically, offended at their need to ‘take care of you,’ so to speak. But your lowered inhibitions and inexplicable draw towards him allow the words to free flow out your mouth. “The idiot with the Oakley sunglasses hitting on what is probably the youngest girl he can without getting arrested— ooh they have cookie dough.”

Eddie chuckles, one hand on your shoulder as he pushes you forward. “They called for you about five times now, sweetheart.”

Oh, oops.

The teen with braces and her hair in braided pigtails, clearly working as a summer gig, looks annoyed as you stumble forward. “I um, want one scoop of cookie dough and one scoop of cookies n’ cream in a chocolate covered waffle cone, please.”

As she gets to work, pulling on gloves for what is probably the thousandth time for the day, reaching up for a cone off where they sit stacked Eddie leans in to say, “You know that’ll melt by the time you get home, right?”

You watch the girl scoop the ice cream, your grin growing wider with each addition of ice cream. “That makes it all the more fun to eat,” you smirk, biting your lip playfully.

The teen, Emma, you hazily notice from the name tag, holds out the cone with a measly single thin napkin. You have the foresight to understand the single napkin won’t be enough, but not to grab more.

You dig in humming as the first taste of cookie dough has a perfect little chunk of doughy goodness as Eddie orders a chocolate and vanilla soft serve swirl.

In mid bite you cough, almost exaggeratedly looking back and forth between your ice cream and the soft serve coming from its machine onto the cone. “What?” He asks, rocking on his heels.

You take another taste, “Nothing,” taste, “just,” holy shit this is good, “um…”

“Just…?”

He interrupts a rather delicious lick, eyes closed as you tilt the cone for a better angle. “Wha?”

“Oh, my god, thank God Steve’s out of town, or he’d kill me,” Eddie chuckles, grabbing the cone from Emma.

”Why?” You ask, the ice cream remaining on your lips as you take another bite.

“Because you are outrageously stoned- here you go, sweetheart,” your bottom lip pouts out at the use of the nickname toward the blushing teen, crossing one arm across your stomach as the cash register dings.

You have half a heart to thank him for paying, glad you wouldn’t have to hand over sweaty underboob cash as you start your way out when you hear your name, vaguely, then loudly. Oh god. You are not prepared to be hounded by—

“Andy!” You grimace, wiping some excess dessert from your jaw. “Hi! You here on break?”

“Oh,” he rolls his eyes, that same old cocky look smeared on his face. On Eddie it’s charming. On Andy it’s nauseating. “I dropped out in the first semester. I did not need to stay very long to know I know more than any of those pompous assholes.”

Hmm. You’re astounded. At his gull and that he knows what pompous means. “Guess all that talk about getting out of Hawkins was just talk,” you mutter, sloppily taking another bite.

You must’ve mumbled, as Andy leans in like he has no idea what you’ve said. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” you dismiss, missing Eddie glowering at him over your shoulder.

“Well, now that you’re in town,” he starts, brazenly grabbing you by the elbow, “what do you say we take some time and uh, revisit old times, yeah?”

You jerk your elbow away from him, your face squishing up at disgust by his sleazy voice suggesting you lie under him one more time for a rousing, unsatisfying round of mediocrity. “Ew, I’m good.”

“Now don’t be like that, pretty peach,” you always hated when he called you that, the reminder sending a chill down your spine that had nothing to do with the ice cream itself. “What’s one more night?”

Only now do you realize he’s only tightened his grip on your elbow, ice cream in your other hand nearly forgotten as the hair on your arms rise. Eddie pops up, the memory of his prescience and the terror that takes over Andy’s face both send a rush of relief right through you.

“Take your slimy little hand off her, you pathetic little weasel,” Eddie’s voice is rough and assertive, the soft serve ice cream miraculously held stable in his other hand as he starts to bend the arm that was on your elbow unnaturally backwards. “She said ‘ew, no’”

”Ow,” Andy’s once bravado is turned weak, wiggling like a worm on a hook as he cries out his little yelps of pain. “Okay, okay!”

“If I want unsatisfying and awful sex, I’ll let you know.” Hmm, you glance back down to the cone that melted only the littlest bit, the top layer now softened and flowing down to the chocolate covered crust.You take a bite from the chocolate, the mix of cookie dough flavour with the chocolate exactly what you had in mind the whole walk over. ”Get lost, Andy.”

You feel Eddie close behind you as the sweltering sun welcomes you, a town wide sauna you don’t think you’d ever be so glad to walk into after being engrossed in a fridge temperature. “God, if never see Andy Lewis again, it’ll still be too soon, fuck that creep.”

“You dated him? For two years?” Eddie asks incredulously, having already eaten a chunk of his sweet tasty treat.

“Low self esteem and a parade of gaslighting would have you believe that he was the best boyfriend ever,” you sweetly smile, squinting your eyes as you take yet another bite of the cookie dough starting to blend with cookies n cream. As the blend explodes your taste buds, some trails down your fingers messily in the hot sun, completely rendering your soaked napkin useless.

His eyebrows furrow, giving you a look of what you assume can only be pity for a girl who thought that was a good boyfriend and had minuscule self worth until some dude in her freshman English class begged to eat her out. You still go to those receipts when you need the confidence boost.

Unfortunately for you, when you’re stoned and the very idea of sex crosses your mind, it sends you down a spiral. The unsatisfying sex with a gross sweaty Andy isn’t the thing that set it off, but the first time your legs shook certainly turned the faucet on. Next to you, Eddie takes your silence in stride, allowing you to float in your own hazy brain as he works to finish his cold treat before it disappears at the unforgiving hands of the blistering heat. He’s seemingly lost in the taste, the desert already down to the hilt of the cone as his tongue scoops, disappearing as he focuses on the flavour.

The drop of ice cream splashing your toe alerts you of the multiple trails of cream coloured sugar, your ice cream starting to resemble soup. Dammit. You start cleaning up your hand, quickly stroking your tongue down your hand as you attempt to grab control of the situation at hand. Your hand remains sticky as you move on to the ice cream soup that has cultivated in the chocolate shell, no more semblance of where cookies and cream started and cookie dough ended. No matter, guess it’s just a melted milkshake at this point, you shrug, starting to drink, grateful you haven’t eaten much of the cone yet.

Eddie starts slurping a little louder as he gets to the end of his soft serve, a noise you allow to simply exist in the background like white noise as arousal seemed to steadily pool deep in your gut. At this point you’re not sure if it’s the extra joint or the attraction you know better than to act on but his exuberant wet noises and grunts of satisfaction seem loud, flooding your ears until it’s all you can focus on.

Maybe you shouldn’t have worn shorts, the arousal having surely made its way down your thighs and past their frayed edges right below your ass. “You that stoned or did your ex boyfriend just spook ya?”

You blink back to Eddie, chewing on the last few bites of the chocolate cone. It's sadly not the same without the last little bit of ice cream tucked in. “Hmm?”

He looks at you pointedly, raising his brow as he starts to brush the hair out of his eyes, fixing the wisps of black bangs.

“Oh,” you giggle, the sentence finally registering. “I forgot I ran into Andy, honestly. I’m just super stoned and really need to—“ you cut yourself off, swallowing what is suddenly a very hefty case of cotton mouth, “take a shower,” you amend, ignoring Eddie’s intense stare.

It could’ve been intense, but the more you focus on the ever increasing need for friction, the more you grow increasingly aware of everything he’s doing.

“I just smoked a lot more and a lot faster than what I’m used to,” you mutter, fidgeting with your bun, at this point a mess of strands.

Eddie leans in close, using his pointer and middle finger to lift your chin up to face him. He’s much closer than you expect, able to see the finer details on his face even the most HQ photos couldn’t reveal. You blink, suddenly unable to remember the basic function of breathing.

“Next time don’t push yourself too hard when you know your tolerance isn’t as good as the person you’re smoking with. You could’ve told me.” Strange, he doesn’t sound disappointed, not in you, anyways. Just at your flagrant disregard for your own limits. His voice is smooth, yet demanding, sending a shiver down your spine.

“O-ok,” you stutter, thinking about the pads of his two fingers against your skin, picturing him taking the pointer and shoving it past your lips. The mental image quakes your knees. God you should’ve known your body would react this extreme to Eddie, weed has always been a catalyst for raging lust.

Unable to handle the eye contact for much longer, you rip your chin out from his grasp, recognizing the shrub you usually walked past on your way to school.

“I-I really need that shower,” you mutter, walking ahead of him to the long, windy driveway leading up to the Harringtons. Eddie’s flip flops smack against his heels step by step steadily behind you as you open the door, remembering Eddie’s haste as he tried to catch up to you.

He says nothing as you rush up the stairs, slamming the door behind him as he saunters into the living room to fool around his guitar.

The blasting air conditioner should be refreshing after spending an hour or so in the hot blazing sun with no water, but it does little to off-set the raging fire coursing through you. Your face feels hot, stretching to scratch an itch you know can only be scratched one way when you're as blitzed as you are.

It’s one thing to picture him when he’s a million miles away in LA or on covers of magazines, but its another entirely when he’s right downstairs after a walk in during which he defended your honour.

You switch back to it, his commanding tone and demonstration of strength as he so effortlessly pushed a boy whose name you don’t even want to think about in this cloud of overwhelming desire. You open your eyes, standing in the middle of your room, the weight of your hand trailing over your skin suddenly heavy but doing its job all the same.

You kick off your sandals, having forgotten to at the front door. The shorts and thong come off as well, having no patience in teasing yourself as you normally do. Your head meets your pillow, legs spread as you start to make yourself comfortable.

As soon as your core meets the air the stark realization of how wet you are sinks in, the arousal slick down your thighs at this point ready for something more… You feel the sharp exhale deep in your belly, rolling over you in an impatient wave begging for some kind of relief.

As your fingers start to roll across your clit, you gasp in how wet you are. It usually takes a vibraor and some self teasing to get this far, Jesus. For some reason the fingers aren’t doing enough, whining needing as you attempt to get the friction you so desperately need.

As two fingers slide through the weeping, begging hole you grind the heel of your hand against your clit, desperately lifting your hips up to meet it. Right now you don’t even have to picture him doing anything particularly dirty like his hips rolling against yours as he fucks into you or his pretty brown eyes peering up from between your legs.

No.

Just the demonstration of his strength as he so easily yanked the asshole’s arm back and his commanding, harsh tone was doing it for you. His sun-kissed skin, the halo of bright yellow sun surrounding his curls, his toned arms…his lips so close to yours, that was enough to get you halfway there.

And loud enough for any potential wandering ears.

Thank you so much for reading remember replies and reblogs are the best way to support fic writers on tumblr

She might get juicy next ch

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eddiesxangel · 1 year ago

Note

would LOVE a follow up to the brother’s best friend eddie fic where adam finds out they hooked up and just kinda loses it. maybe some angst with a happy ending if you do? i love the fic and thought all the details and feelings were perfect!

I'm so glad you enjoyed the first part! I hope this is up to your expectations. 🤗

cw: Allusions to smut, Mentions of depression, angst with a fluffy ending.

Tag list from part 1: @lofaewrites @lavendermunson @imyourdaninow@itsfreakingbats @allthingsjoeq

Wc: 2k

Read Part 1 here

What Adam Doesn’t Know | Eddie Munson x f!Reader

Ten days. It has been ten days since you slept with Eddie, and you haven't heard a word from him since he kissed you goodbye that next morning. He confessed to having feelings, so why is he treating you like a one-night stand? He hasn't taken any further steps since he fucked you. The situation left you feeling angry, frustrated and used. You wanted to talk to him, but you'll be damned if you were the one to reach out first. Sure, you were stubborn, but you also loved him. So you waited to give him another chance.

Eddie thought things would be okay after he got you out of your system. He just needed to scratch the itch that was you. Wrong.

Eddie was even more obsessed with you and didn’t know what to do about it. He knew Adam would be so not okay with this. He has already expressed his disdain about Eddie pursuing you.

Adam and Eddie have been through a lot together. Adam supported Eddie through family struggles and being held back in high school. Adam has always been there for Eddie, no matter what. The guilt is eating away at him...if he's hiding the fact that he slept with you and has developed feelings for you? He was screwed.

You were browsing the junk food aisle at the grocery store. Try to pick up your favourites to help you wallow in self-pity and eat your feelings. Just as you were to reach for the Doritos, you heard your name.

“Tink,” you look over your shoulder.

“Oh. Hi Eddie,” you turn back to face the aisle.

“Tink, please; I’m sorry”

“No, I get it. I’m just another notch on your belt.”

“No. You are the last thing from that, and you know it.”

“Do I, Eddie?”

“Ugh, I know! I know I screwed up. But let me explain? Please?”

“You have five minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Tink. I’m not avoiding you on purpose… it’s just that Adam had said something, and I didn’t want to keep this from him, but I didn’t know what you wanted to do... We didn't get to talk much.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that you and I were never going to happen. That he thinks it’s ridiculous.”

“So what, you believe him?”

“What? No!”

“So what, Eddie? Adam is a moron.”

“And so am I for not calling you. Please let me make it up to you. I want to take you on a date.”

“A date?” Your heart betrayed you by fluttering.

“Yes, a real all-American date. I’ll pick you up; I’ll bring you flowers. I can take you to dinner, then I’ll take you to the movies where we can suck face, and you let me feel you up in the back of the theatre. The whole shebang”

This made you giggle.

“What do you say?”

“Okay, Eddie,” you smiled.

It was late morning, and you were waking up in Eddie's bed. It's been three weeks since you ran into him in the grocery store. You were officially dating' you were Eddie's girl, and I couldn't be any happier.

You weren’t dating secretly because Robin and Nancy knew about the relationship, but you weren’t telling Adam... yet.

"Morning baby," Eddie's gravelly morning voice sent a shiver down your spine. You were both naked under the covers. Eddie's morning wood was pressed up against your outer thigh as you lay on your back.

"Morning," you reply, still sleepy.

"You cold?" Eddie saw the goosebumps pepper your skin.

"mmm hmmm"

"Well, let me fix that," he smirked.

Eddie had you on all fours, screaming his name over and over as he fucked you from behind. He was so deep inside you swore you could feel him in your stomach. He had you so cockdrunk you couldn't form any thoughts. In your opinion, it was one of the best times you've had, but any time you have sex with Eddie, it seems to top that last.

As you flop down on the bed, all blissed out from your orgasm and your limbs feeling like jelly, Eddie gets up to get a damp cloth to clean you up.

You watched as Eddie pulled on his sweatpants and walked out of the room.

Eddie unexpectedly saw Adam sitting on his couch watching TV as he exited his bedroom.

"What the hell?! Shit man, you scared me.” Eddie chuckled uncomfortably. God, he hoped you stayed in the room.

“So this the same chick you keep blowing me off for?” He motioned to the bedroom, obviously hearing everything.

“W-what are you doing here?”

“We were jamming.”

“Shit, oh god, dude i'm sorry, I lost track of the time-”

“I can’t be too mad; she sounded like a really good time.” He winked.

“Adam.”

"What?! You really fucked her brains out. She was all, oh my god, Eddie, you're the best. You're the biggest I've ever had," he said in a high-pitched tone.

You swore you heard Eddie speaking but didn't hear the phone ring?

“Baby, what’s taking so long? I miss you.” You walk out of the room not bothering to put on anything. “Ahhhhhhhhh!” You run back screaming into the bedroom when you see your bother.

“DUDE WHAT THE FUCK”

“Man, I can explain.”

“YOURE FUCKING MY SISTER”

“Well yea but it’s not like that… I like her dude”

“How long.”

“What”

“How long have you been going behind my back”

“Look we were going to tell you”

You bravely walk back out with a shirt and pants on this time

“Adam, calm down, please.” You beg as you intertwine your fingers with Eddie. He needs your support.

“Calm down?!”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been going behind my back, Ed?”

“The first time was a month ago.” You spoke up.

“How did this even happen?”

I found her crying walking home in the rain; she needed a place to stay...”

“Oh well, isn't that romantic... NOT”

“Adam, you seriously need to chill the fuck out,” you ask.

“Fuck you.” Adam directed back to you.

“Hey!” Eddie got defensive.

“You don’t get to be mad right now.” Adam pointed out.

“You’re being so unfair, Adam.” you spoke.

“Unfair? I’ll give you unfair. Eddie you have to choose right now. It’s me or her.”

“What !?” You cried.

“Come on, man...” Eddie begged.

“No, dude. You can’t have us both. It’s either me or her.”

You can't believe your brother. He is being so childish. Can't he see the good in the situation?

“Tink I…” Eddie's voice shook.

“No... I get it. You can’t ever choose me over him.” You tried so hard not to let your voice crack.

Oh, how you wished you were a kid again to wallop Adam.

“You take everything nice thing I have and ruin it. You did that with my stuff and my toys. And now you’re doing it with my real life, and it’s fucked up, Adam. Be lucky that I don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

“They can’t do anything. I’m an adult.”

“Then start acting like one and not some kid who got his truck stolen on the playground.” With that, you slammed the door behind you.

It has been two weeks since you left Eddie's apartment. You have yet to speak to either Eddie or Adam since then. Unfortunately, you both had to go home for Reading week, and your only option for a ride home was with Adam. It was a very silent hour-long car ride as Adam drove home the both of you. You refused to speak to him.

You didn't even know why you respected Adam's wishes; he couldn't tell you what to do! But then again, they were Eddie's wishes as well.

You hugged your mom and dad hello and went to your old bedroom. There, you stayed for the night, not coming down to eat or socialize. Your mother was worried. She knew something was wrong.

“Honey. Is there anything you want to talk about?” She opened the door the next morning.

“Yea. You birthed the spawn of Satan.”

“So this is about your brother...” she sighed. She must be really tired of having to be in the middle of you two fighting all the time. “What happened?”

You can no longer hold in your feelings. The only people who know are Robin and Nancy because you broke down when you returned to your apartment.

“I finally had Eddie! Like he actually likes me back, Mom!” It was no secret to your family that you’ve been obsessed with Eddie Munson your whole life. “He likes me, and Adam made him choose between me and him! So obviously, he chooses Adam!" Now you’re sobbing.

“What? Why would he do that?”

“Because he has to take everything good in my life and ruin it. It’s been that way ever since we were kids.”

“Honey…”

“You know it’s true. So now I’m heartbroken because I got to experience what it was like to be with him, and it was ripped out from under me.” She sighed again as she stroked your hair.

“I’m going to have your father speak to him.”

“Like that will do anything.” You mumble.

The next day, you decide you need to leave your room.

You’re in what you call your depression outfit. A hoodie, actually, it’s Eddie’s, sweatpants, matched with your throw blanket wrapped around you.

You plant yourself on the couch for the rest of the day. Most of your spring break consisted of being depressed and moving from the couch to your bed. Were you being dramatic? Yes, but you needed to prove a point. You needed Adam to see how his selfishness affected you.

"You really still not speaking to me?" Adam finally breaks the silence on your way back to school.

You don't even look in his direction.

"Come on, Tink! This is ridiculous!"

"No! You are ridiculous. You may have your best friend choose between you and his girlfriend.

"Girlfriend?!"

Yea, Adam. We were together. Like together, together. We weren't just fucking behind your back."

"I- I didn't-"

"You wouldn't have because you didn't, let's explain. You made it the Adam special. Like you always do. Newsflash, not everything is about you."

"Well, it freaked me out! I didn't want to lose him to you."

"How could you lose him to me? If anything, you would see more of me, not the other way around."

"Ugh!"

"How is he doing?" You dared to ask.

"He's miserable." He mumbled.

"Oh, Adam."

"Yea, yea, I know I have to fix this."

Adam pulls up to your student housing unit, and you can see Eddie sitting on your front porch. You sprint out of the car before Adam even puts the car in park, running into Eddie's arms, not caring about what Adam sees.

“I can’t do this. I can’t not see you or talk to you. I’ve been miserable without you.” He wraps his arms around you.

“Eddie-” your heart swelled. He was choosing you.

“Please, I don’t care what Adam says anymore. He can get over it. He will get over it. But I have to be with you.”

"Hey, man," Adam greeted.

"Hey," you moved so you faced Adam, but Eddie's arm was still wrapped around your shoulder.

"Look, I uh... I overreacted, and if she makes you happy, then... I guess I'm cool with it." He shrugged.

"Thanks, Man." You looked up to see Eddie smiling.

"I don't want to hear about any more sext stuff between you two. I still have PTSD." He laughed uncomfortably.

With that, Eddie got your bags from the car, and Adam left the two of you to be alone.

You walked into your house, and the girls weren't back yet; they wouldn't be coming back until tomorrow.

"You came back for me." You smiled before tilting your head up to kiss him.

“I was not letting him take away the best sex I’ve ever had; he can get over it.”

“The best sex you’ve ever had, huh?”

“With the best girl I’ve ever had.” He smiled before you led him to your bedroom...

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x y/n #Eddie Munson angst #Eddie Munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fan fic #requests #TJ’s mailbox

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mono-dot-jpeg · 11 days ago

Text

tall! reader s/o hcs - jayce, viktor

summary; jayvik and a tall s/o headcanons

genre/extra tags; headcanons, fluff, comedy, silly silly jayvik, they deserved to be more silly

[gender neutral! reader]

a/n; i did headcanons since i didn't really know what you wanted from a oneshot. but i hope you enjoy! it took a bit to get working on this one because it's just so hard to be consistently writing and i take monthly breaks... mostly. honestly this isn't really up to par for me because i think there's not much of difference of how jayce and viktor would treat a tall s/o.

jayce and you carrying viktor on different days

sent tweet

i dont think they would really care about height

i think viktor would feel a little annoyed being the shortest of the trio but he makes up for that by being able to tug on either of your ties or shirts and giving the most heavy kiss he will ever give

and leave you and jayce puppy eyed and dizzy for the rest of the day

jayce does not care if you're taller

GET IN HIS DAMN LAP !!

he will be the big spoon, he'll find a way

viktor hates to admit that once in a while he does like being carried sometimes

especially when his leg is giving him a bad day

you carry him and jayce fixes his brace

it can be hard to convince viktor to let you both help him

because he's just used to being independent and not used to having a support system like you and jayce

it takes him a bit to warm up to letting you both coddle him like two big dogs who are just doing their best

viktor may not be able to carry you like jayce can, but his cane does a good job in tugging you around

he does the same with jayce

it's my favorite hc.. something about having the cane around the waist and viktor tugging oughhhh i love him

cuddle piles are a must

or cuddle sandwich?

the sofa may not be big enough, but that doesn't stop you or jayce from holding viktor between you because he runs cold and jayce worries if he's too cold everyday

it either goes really well

or backfires because viktor's hands and feet are colder than ice sometimes

and he uses that to tease you both

hands all over skin, pinching and poking as he mutters about how you're both stopping him from working on his latest project

his feet press against yours or jayce's legs in bed which either shocks or make you kick around and grumble at him

he loves it

when he needs to get yours or jayce's attention, he's putting his hands under the shirt and holding around the waist

they're just so silly

jayce loves when you give him forehead kisses

viktor doesnt mind them, i think he likes kisses on the cheek or nose. he does slightly rub his forehead against yours or jayce though

#league of legends x reader #jayce league of legends #league of legends viktor x reader #lol jayce x reader #league of legends jayce x reader #jayce x reader #arcane jayce #vik #lol viktor #league of legends viktor #viktor x reader #viktor league of legends #arcane viktor x reader #arcane x reader

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biibini · 1 year ago

Note

Hiii! I love your hcs! Can I request a scenario of going on a date to an arcade with Mizu? (and possibly winning her a Snoopy plushie??)

fluff modern!mizu x reader at an arcade date (request)

tags: fluff, arcade date, modern!mizu, reader & mizu are already dating, date nights, snoopy reference, sweet kisses, author loves love, author wishes that was her with mizu

a/n: thank YOU for reading my hcs! that one mizu & snoopy post is so adorable i just want my girl to be happy :,) also i’m starting school AGAIN i can never catch a break w this damned quarter system

modern!mizu & u are already dating in this scenario

but every other week would be a date night

it didn’t matter if it was a simple or extravagant date

it was always a designated time to catch up, spend quality time together, and experience new things

even with the busyness of college and classes and homework, it was still a night to look forward to

this upcoming friday was a night at the arcade

u had been there with friends before but it had been a couple months since ur last visit

it was also mizu’s first time going to the arcade w u as a date

u had already talked ab the games u wanted to try together such as the mario kart, a few shooting games, airhockey

modern!mizu would def let her competitive side come out with some games

she already gets competitive with taigen when it comes to sports

she totally doesnt rock his shit in basketball

if she’s against you, she’ll go easy on you

doesn’t mean she won’t back down from a fight

You and Mizu were hand in hand, checking out the games available at the arcade. Going down one of the aisles, you found yourselves at the some of the newer arcade games. Skimming at some of them, you hear a familiar sound.

Hadoken!

It was soon followed with a grunt and fighting groans. You turn back to find a Super Street Fighter game, patiently waiting to be played. Your eyes widen as they found the perfect challenge.

You playfully tugged at Mizu’s hand, pointing at the retro machine.

“I bet I can beat you at the Street Fighter.” you said, lightly jabbing at her competitive spirit. You knew she would put her all in it. However, you wondered of its limit.

Mizu glanced at you, and then looked back to spot the machine. Her eyes ignited, seeing the challenge put right in front of her by her

“You in?” you say, defying her in a playful tone.

“You bet.”

so um

turns out that was the WORSE POSSIBLE GAME YOU COULD CHALLENGE MIZU TO

u played a little bit with friends and family but mizu was on another level

how exactly did mizu beat ur ass for 5 rounds straight???

old man eiji.

he was a retro arcade go-er during his prime

even had the game console to continue his practice at home

if he wasn’t welding or fixing up someone’s bike, he was definitely spending his time grinding on the game

so modern!mizu end up playing games with him bc he got sick and tired of the computer bots

Player 2 Wins blinks again on the screen while her character, Ryu, celebrates another round of victory. You slowly turn to face Mizu to find a grin forming on her face.

“Wanna go again, baby?”, she taunts, hugging your hips closer to her.

You blankly stare into her eyes, your orbs empty from defeat. Mizu already knew your answer.

“Let’s find one we can both do.”, she said as she gave you a quick peck on the cheek. Her arm wrapped around your shoulder, beginning your hunt for the next game to win together.

modern!mizu would def try to win u a prize

actually no not one

all of them. yes she will try.

do not let her in a round1

iykyk

that is plushie heaven and credit/debit hell

her poor card will be spent trying to win u a prize

she wouldn’t outright announce her achievements

but she would attempt to sneak away from u, hoping to get lucky and win a plushie or two

u loved and appreciated the sweet thought

but

there was no room on the bed, the bookshelves, the desk, the couch

mizu even brought a couple plushies back home but her old man started to complain about mizu and u coming by just to drop off plushies and not see him

(he likes the plushies but bro is alone with his craft and misses his girl sometimes)

if u eyed any specific prize, modern!mizu would stop for nothing to earn it for u

at the arcade, u eyed a snoopy plushie, stuck in a claw game (for a little too long) and pouted at how cute it was

like cmon it was rlly cute

he had a puffer and a lil hat

mizu immediately saw ur reaction and locked in

Mizu’s arm slides off your shoulder. You look back, hoping to find the missing arm. No arm, no Mizu.

Instead, you find her striding over to the claw machine you just stared at with a goal in mind. Snoopy was coming with you, one way or another. The thought of Snoopy being in your arms was nice, but there was no way she was going to get it.

First off, your bedroom was already filled with plushies. Peace and love to all of them. They were practically your babies. However, every flat surface or shelf had a plushie. Every. Single. Surface.

The bed was crowded as well. No way there would be space for another plushie. There was also no way that she would go back home to drop off more plushies. Eiji was at his limit with the amount she dropped off during the last time.

Secondly, she had already spent so much money trying to get twinning plushies for the both of you. Her poor credit card was taking hit after hit after hit. Mizu drastically failed after every attempt and you had to basically pull her away from the machine after her 11th time.

Third of all, the both of you were getting ready to leave the arcade for dinner. After getting demolished by Mizu 5 rounds in a row at Super Street Fighter, you didn't have much energy in you to play more games.

But once Mizu gets set on something, it's hard to pull her away from it. It was already difficult separating her from her failed claw games earlier. You just decided to accept the outcomes of this claw machine this time around.

On the other hand, Mizu was in the zone. She studied the position of the plushie, focusing on how far back Snoopy sat. She slid the arcade card, starting her future attempts to retrieve the plushie. She bit the inside of her cheek as her hand carefully held the joystick. The machine jingled, starting its countdown.