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pandapetals · 1 month ago

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the glasses stay on

summary: A quiet evening turns into something far steamier when Joel catches you teasing him while he's wearing those damn glasses he swore he didn’t need.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

word count: 4k

content warnings: smut, no plot, joel keeps the glasses on, blowjob, face riding, pet names, no y/n used, no reader description, established relationship, teasing, banter, not proofread

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics. i am feeling feral after seeing joel in glasses. it's my first time writing oral sex (blowjob) so...hopefully it's good? also inspired by elliespuns answer on joel asking for eye contact when he eats you out.

All thoughts scattered the moment you stepped through the door.

Joel sat at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, sleeves shoved to his elbows. He didn’t look up, too focused on the mess of metal and wire in front of him. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and his lower lip was caught slightly between his teeth.

But it wasn’t the project that caught your attention.

It was the glasses.

Thin, silver-framed and slightly crooked—he always refused to wear them around you, brushing off your teasing with a stubborn, "Don’t need ‘em." But here he was, home alone, caught in the act. A quiet, unguarded moment. And for some reason, it hit you low and warm.

His hands moved with surprising precision, thick fingers maneuvering the pliers with rough delicacy that made your mouth go dry. The edge of his brown jacket was rolled to the midpoint of his forearms, a smear of grease trailing across one vein-lined wrist. He looked like something out of a dream you didn’t realize you’d been having.

You didn’t mean to stare. You certainly didn’t mean to feel like this—heart kicking up, thighs pressing together before you even crossed the room.

Your bag hit the floor with a soft thud. Shoes were toed off. You padded closer, heat rising up your neck.

“Well, don’t you look pretty,” you teased, voice lighter than you felt. Your smile curled slowly, eyes drinking him in.

Joel let out a low grunt, not lifting his head. “Don’t start.”

You chuckled under your breath, stopping beside the table. “But you look so cute,” you cooed, hand reaching out before you could stop yourself. Your fingers brushed his jaw, gentle but insistently coaxing his chin up.

He finally looked at you, his eyes slowly lifting just above the rim of his glasses. They were darker now, narrowed beneath furrowed brows, unreadable… but there was something there. A flicker. A tension. Heat coiled low in your belly at the sight of it.

His voice was low and hoarse, scraping at your spine like sandpaper. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “don’t distract me.”

Your lips parted, breath catching how he said it—gritty, quiet, like a warning—only made your pulse faster.

“Me?” you whispered, placing a hand against your chest with exaggerated innocence. “Distract you? Never.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh through his nose, shaking his head, but his hand faltered slightly as he adjusted the wire he was working on. You saw it—the smallest stutter in his movement. Not much. Just enough to know he wasn’t unaffected.

You stepped closer, just enough for your knee to brush the edge of his thigh under the table. His hand stilled completely.

He didn’t look up this time. Just exhaled slowly through his nose, nostrils flaring. A vein in his forearm twitched, like he was holding something back.

God, he was so handsome like this—jaw tight, lips pressed in a firm line, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. His shirt clung in places from the house's heat, damp at the collar. One more minute of watching him like this and you would lose it.

Your voice dropped, barely above a hum. “You know,” you said, tilting your head, “if this is what you look like when you’re focused, I might have to start leaving you little projects more often.”

He froze for a beat. Then slowly, he set the pliers down with a quiet clink.

Joel turned in his chair, eyes dragging up your body—deliberate, slow, heat simmering behind his stare. He pushed his glasses up with one finger, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he muttered, “and you’re gonna find yourself bent over this table ‘fore I even finish fixin’ this damn thing.”

You shook your head slowly, lips curling into a wicked little smirk. Then, without breaking eye contact, you sank to your knees between his legs.

“I’ve got other plans,” you murmured, voice silk-soft, threaded with heat.

Your hands found his knees first—broad, warm, solid beneath your palms. You slid them upward, slow and teasing, feeling the muscle tense beneath your touch as you traced the line of his thighs.

Joel’s breath hitched. Barely audible, but you caught it.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice gone gravel-deep. His hands flexed where they rested on the edge of the table. “You ain’t gotta do that, honey.”

He said it like a protest, but there was no weight behind it—no real resistance, just that familiar Joel reluctance, that soft spot he tried to hide behind rough hands and gruff words.

“I want to,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes. Your fingers were already at the button of his jeans, popping it open with practiced ease. “You just keep working.”

You winked, dragging the zipper down slowly. The rasp of metal filled the quiet space between you, and you felt the way his thighs tightened beneath your touch—his whole body coiled like a live wire.

Joel cursed again, one hand lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose, half in disbelief, half trying to hold himself together. But his hips shifted, just slightly, a silent surrender.

He still hadn’t looked down at you.

The challenge of it made your pulse race.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss just above the waistband of his boxers, your lips lingering against the warm skin.

Joel’s breath came sharp through his nose.

“Keep your hands steady, handsome,” you whispered, your voice low and playful. “Don’t want you messing up that wiring.”

His answer came through clenched teeth. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

You weren’t in a rush.

You wanted to savor this—to savor him. Every slow, deliberate motion was part of the tease, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans and dragging them down inch by inch. The fabric scraped rough against your knuckles, and you could feel the heat radiating off his skin before you even reached him.

Joel’s breath came unevenly, his hands gripping the table's edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

When his boxers followed, his cock sprang free—already half-hard, heavy, and twitching slightly in the cool air. You let your eyes linger on him, licking your lips without shame. Then you wrapped your fingers around him, dragging your fist down the thick length once… twice…

Joel groaned, deep and guttural. His hips jerked forward against your hand like his body was acting on instinct, chasing more.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your strokes lazy, teasing. Just enough to drive him mad. You were in control now, and he was already starting to unravel.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head falling back slightly, jaw clenched tight. “You’re gonna kill me.”

A smile tugged at your lips. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin beneath the head, then another to the base, watching the muscles in his thighs tense and flex beneath your touch.

You adored him like this.

Unraveling. Wordless. Tension bleeding out of that tightly-wound body because of you.

You dragged your mouth up the length of him, slow as sin, your breath hot and heavy against his skin. Joel’s hand shot out, fingers curling tight into your hair, but he didn’t push—just held, like he needed the anchor.

“I love watchin’ you fall apart for me,” you whispered against him, lips brushing the sensitive ridge.

Joel finally looked down at you, eyes dark and glassy, his chest rising and falling in deep, uneven pulls like he’d just fought his way through a storm.

“Jesus,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “You look so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

The words hit you low and deep, lighting something hot inside your belly. You beamed at him, lips parting in a slow, satisfied smile because you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Knew he could barely hold himself together.

You leaned in and finally took him into your mouth without breaking eye contact.

The warm and heavy taste of him on your tongue made your thighs press together. You kept the pace gentle at first, hollowing your cheeks just enough, letting your lips glide over the sensitive skin as you drew him in.

Joel groaned—deep and rough—and his hips shifted, his body fighting to stay still. One of his hands was still tangled in your hair, not pulling, just holding like he didn’t trust himself not to lose control.

You hummed around him, loving how he twitched against your tongue in response. His breath stuttered. Another soft sound escaped him—a whimper, barely audible, but it sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.

God, you lived for this. Watching Joel come undone, letting you see the cracks in that hard exterior. Every ragged breath, every broken sound, was a gift—a secret he gave only to you.

Your hands gripped his thighs, fingers digging in for leverage as you took him deeper, the stretch making your eyes water just slightly, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. You wanted all of him. Needed it.

His voice came out strangled, wrecked, and desperate. “Fuck—sweetheart, you keep goin’ like that, I ain’t gonna last.”

You pulled back just enough to breathe, letting your tongue flick against the tip before sinking again, taking him deeper this time, allowing your throat to relax as far as you could. His hips bucked, involuntary, a hiss tearing from between his clenched teeth.

Your hands smoothed up his stomach beneath his shirt, feeling his belly tensed under your touch. You could feel it—how close he was—the tremble in his thighs, the low groan vibrating in his chest, the way his fingers gripped your hair like he was hanging on by a thread.

You looked up at him again, eyes wet, lips swollen, mouth full of him, and smiled the best you could.

You wanted him to come apart. To feel it. To lose himself in you.

Joel’s voice cracked low and rough above you. “That’s it, darlin’... fuck.”

His hips jerked, shallow and restrained at first, but then a little deeper and needier. He was trying to hold back, trying not to thrust too hard, but his control was fraying with every flick of your tongue, every slow pull of your mouth.

You let him.

You welcomed the way he started to fuck into your mouth, hips rolling forward in time with the wet slide of your lips. He was breathing hard now, one hand clenched in your hair, the other braced on the table behind him—his whole body taut, vibrating with the effort of staying upright.

“Shit—sweetheart, I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he gritted out, voice low and broken. “Fuck, you feel too good…”

Your hands smoothed under his shirt again, fingertips brushing his stomach, feeling how it flexed under your touch. You moaned around him, soft and encouraging, and that was it—that did it.

Joel’s breath hitched, his thighs tensed beneath your hands.

“Fuck—fuck,” he choked, voice strangled as his hips snapped forward one last time, his release hitting hard and fast. You felt the twitch of him on your tongue, the warmth spilling into your mouth as he gasped your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

You didn’t pull away. You took every bit of it, swallowing around him lazily, like you had all the time in the world.

When you finally drew back, a thin string of spit still connected your lips to the head of his cock. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, blinking up at him with that same wicked smile.

“You’re trouble,” Joel rasped, still catching his breath, voice thick and rough like gravel. “Sweet, dangerous fuckin’ trouble.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking up to where his glasses had slipped slightly down his nose with a slow, satisfied smile. Your fingers gliding down the inside of his thighs—just to feel the aftershocks still buzzing beneath his skin. He was flushed and sweaty, chest rising and falling, shirt clinging to him in all the right places. The sight of him like this—flushed, undone, still wearing those damn glasses—made your smirk deepen.

“You should wear your glasses more often,” you teased, dragging your nails lightly along his thigh. “Kinda makes you look like a professor with a filthy mouth.”

Joel huffed out a weak laugh, head tipping back against the chair with a groan.

“Don’t start,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You just about killed me and now you’re lookin’ to finish the job.”

You pushed yourself up between his knees slowly, hands braced on his thighs as you leaned in so close your breath tickled the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, I haven’t even started yet,” you whispered, lips brushing barely against his.

His hand came up to cup the side of your neck, thumb stroking slow against your jaw. The heat in his gaze had shifted, less wrecked, more focused. Grounded. Dangerous in a different way.

“Is that so?” he murmured, voice still low but steadying, a challenge creeping back in. “Guess it’s my turn, then.”

You opened your mouth to protest—to tell Joel he didn’t have to, that he could sit back down and finish whatever project had his attention before you rudely distracted him.

But then he gave you that look.

That smirk. That slow, knowing curl of his mouth paired with eyes that dragged over your body like he was undressing you.

“Don’t act like you don’t want me to make you feel good, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice all gravel and heat.

His words alone sent a spark straight through you—low, heavy, and impossible to ignore. Your thighs pressed together, the aftershocks of your earlier teasing still lingering between them.

“Joel, you don’t—”

He didn’t let you finish.

Instead, he stood up, towering over you, then bent just enough to hook his arms around your waist. You let out a startled laugh as he lifted you clean off the ground and slung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“Joel!” you squealed, half laughing and breathless, but your protest died when your eyes landed on the sight before you—his ass—still exposed from where you’d dragged his jeans down earlier.

You grinned, biting your lip, but the amusement twisted into something hotter the moment Joel’s palm came down in a firm, playful smack against the curve of your ass.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, voice low, barely above a rumble. You could feel it against your stomach where your body pressed against his.

Then, almost to himself, more thoughtful than teasing. “What should I do for you, honey…”

You shivered at the question—not because you didn’t have answers, but because it came out like a promise. Like he wasn’t just thinking about giving you pleasure—he was planning it. Mapping it out in that careful, deliberate way, Joel did everything.

As he carried you toward the bedroom, your fingers curled into the hem of his jacket, nails scraping lightly against his lower back.

“You’re such a caveman,” you muttered, trying to sound annoyed. But your voice came out breathy, wrecked with anticipation.

Joel chuckled, one hand sliding up to grip your thigh.

“Yeah, but you like it when I drag you off like this,” he said, shouldering the bedroom door open. “Don’t think I didn’t see the way you smiled when I smacked your ass.”

He dropped you onto the bed with a gentle thud, your back hitting the mattress and bouncing slightly. Before you could sit up, he crawled over you, glasses still somehow on, those eyes burning into yours like you were the only thing he wanted to see in the world.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-growl as he kissed a slow path down your neck, “lemme return the favor.”

Joel undressed you in a blur of rough hands and reverent kisses—fingers tugging at fabric, mouth tracing the skin he exposed, piece by piece. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t waste time either, like he couldn’t stand the thought of you being covered for a second longer than necessary.

By the time you were bare beneath him, chest rising and falling with anticipation, his touch softened—thumb and forefinger teasing your nipples with slow, deliberate rolls that had you gasping beneath him.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes drinking you like something sacred. Then he dipped lower, kissing a slow, open-mouthed path down your stomach, dragging his stubble just enough to make you squirm.

You braced for it—for him to settle between your thighs, but instead, Joel pulled back.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat as he stripped out of his jacket and shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the sweat-slick heat of him. Then, with surprising ease, he lay flat on his back and shifted you with him, guiding your thighs to straddle his chest, then higher, until you were hovering above his face.

“Joel,” you said, half-breathless. “What are you—? I thought you were gonna return the favor.”

He smirked, brow arched, the picture of smug, ruined perfection beneath you.

“I am, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice a gravelly promise. His hands gripped your hips, firm and possessive, and dragged you up a little higher until your knees were planted on either side of his head, your pussy just inches above his mouth. “You like riding so much…” His gaze flicked up, hot and hungry. “So ride my face.”

Your breath caught—stolen clean out of your chest.

You let out a quiet, stunned laugh, but it faltered when you met his eyes. He wasn’t joking. There was no teasing in his expression now—just heat, need, and the kind of patience that made your stomach flip.

“Joel,” you breathed, your voice trembling, your fingers curling into his hair for balance.

You’d done this before, but never like this. Never with him lay out like a man ready to worship. His hands coaxing you down, his mouth open, waiting, like he was the lucky one.

And fuck… maybe he was.

In this moment, as his grip tightened and he pulled you gently down to his lips, you felt like you were the one about to be worshipped.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he said, voice low and reverent as his breath ghosted over your skin. “Don’t be shy now. Let me taste you.”

You leaned down slightly, breath hitching as you reached for the bridge of his glasses, fingertips brushing the metal.

Joel gently batted your hand away, his voice low and commanding, but soft around the edges.

“Nah,” he murmured, eyes locking with yours beneath the lenses. “I wanna see you. Wanna see how pretty you look when you come.”

The words landed like a punch to your gut—hot and heavy, straight between your thighs. Your body tensed in response, breath stalling in your chest. The idea of him watching—really watching—every twitch, every gasp, every moment of you falling apart on top of him?

It short-circuited your brain.

You barely had time to respond—no witty retort, no teasing comeback—before Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into your skin in that possessive way he always touched you when his restraint started to slip.

And then he pulled you down onto his mouth.

You gasped loudly, the sound ripping from your throat as your hips met his face. His tongue was already there, already moving, hot and slow and devastating between your folds.

Your hands flew forward, scrambling until you found the headboard. Gripping it like a lifeline, your thighs trembled on either side of his head.

“Joel—” you choked out, but it was barely a sound.

He groaned into you in response, the vibration making your spine arch. His hands slid from your hips to your ass, holding you in place, guiding your movement—urging you to grind against his mouth.

He wanted you to ride. Wanted to feel it. Wanted to watch every second through those damn glasses like it was his favorite view in the world.

You looked down and nearly fell apart again.

Joel’s eyes were open, locked on yours—dark and intent, his lashes damp with sweat, the lower half of his face already glistening. He looked wrecked and entirely in control all at once.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, rolling your hips without meaning to, chasing the pressure, the friction of his tongue dragging through your slick.

He groaned again, his grip flexing, his mouth working you with purpose now—slow circles, firm flicks, sucking gently on your clit before diving back in with messy, open-mouthed hunger.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Joel didn’t stop or even blink as he kept watching you.

“Joel… oh, fuck, right there—” you moaned, voice cracking as your fingers dug harder into the headboard, knuckles white with the effort to stay grounded.

He didn’t let up.

Joel’s mouth moved with deliberate, devastating precision—his tongue lapping over your clit in slow, firm strokes, just the way he knew would push you over the edge. Every flick, every pull of his lips sent shocks through you, your thighs trembling where they bracketed his face.

He was relentless. His hands gripping your ass, holding you down against his mouth as if he knew you were close, as if he could feel it in the way your body started to twitch, to quake. His stubble scraped deliciously along your inner thighs, raw and unfiltered, the kind of burn you’d crave after it was over.

You were sweating, skin flushed and damp, the air thick and heavy around you. Every nerve felt on fire. Your back arching, hips rocking helplessly against him, chasing every bit of friction his mouth offered.

Your head tipped forward, forehead pressing against the cool wood of the headboard as the tension inside you twisted tighter and tighter, impossible to contain.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, your voice barely recognizable—hoarse, wrecked. “Joel, please—right there, don’t stop—”

He groaned beneath you, the sound sending another ripple of heat through your core. One of his hands slid between your legs, two fingers slipping inside you with ease—thick, perfect, curling just right as his mouth stayed locked on your clit.

The sensation shattered you.

Your entire body seized, hips jerking forward as the orgasm slammed into you. A cry tore from your throat, as wave after wave rolled through you, pleasure sparking like electricity from your core to your fingertips.

Joel didn’t stop.

He kept working you through it, drawing out every last twitch, every helpless moan, until your legs went weak and your grip on the headboard loosened.

When you finally opened your eyes, panting and dazed, Joel was still beneath you—his lips wet, beard damp, and those goddamn glasses still on as he looked up at you like you were his favorite sin.

“Pretty when you beg,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.

You took a shaky breath, your body still trembling with the echoes of release as Joel guided you down onto the bed. His movements were deliberate. He hovered for a second, eyes scanning your face, like he needed to make sure you were still there, still okay.

You were. You just felt like you’d melted into the mattress.

His hands smoothed over your hips, then your thighs, grounding you with his touch. You could feel how gentle and attuned he was to every little shiver running through you. Like he didn’t just want to hold you—he wanted to protect whatever fragile thing had bloomed between you in that moment.

“So goddamn pretty,” Joel murmured, voice hoarse and low as he leaned down to kiss you.

The kiss was soft and slow. You could taste yourself on his lips, the faintest salty-sweet tang, and instead of embarrassment, it only made your stomach flip again.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, curling into the damp hair at his nape, stroking gently. His weight was warm above you, comforting, and you let yourself sink into the feeling of him, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

When he pulled back, you caught sight of his glasses, still clinging to his face, slightly fogged from the heat radiating between your bodies.

You blinked, then let out a soft laugh.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered, reaching up to nudge them crooked on his nose. “I think I bent your glasses.”

Joel gave you that slow, lazy smirk, eyes still dark with the afterglow.

“Worth it,” he murmured.

He peeled them off with one hand and set them aside on the nightstand, not bothering to look at the damage. Then he rolled onto his side, tugging you until your head rested against his chest, one of his arms wrapped tightly around your back.

He kissed the top of your head, his scruff scratching lightly against your scalp.

“Y’alright?” he murmured into your hair, voice softened now, more Joel than ever.

You nodded, pressing your nose to his skin and breathing him in.

“Better than alright,” you whispered.

He hummed low in his throat, content and quiet, fingertips tracing lazy circles along your spine like he never wanted to let you go.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller the last of us #tlou joel #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel miller fluff

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cheriecoke · 1 year ago

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nanami kento, who hates dating, and didn’t do much of it in his early twenties. but now, he’s almost thirty, watching all the people he works with settle down, have kids, and he thinks he wants that. so he might as well try.

so satoru sets him up on a few dates — friends of friends, he calls them. and at the end of every one of the dinners, kento goes home empty, exhausted, because he knows what they want is not the same.

still; he thinks maybe he’s being a little self-destructive, maybe too picky, maybe he just got so used to being alone. with satoru’s insistence, he gives all the women another call, invites them over to his apartment.

the first time was a disaster… kento had barely set the dinner on the table before his cat had hissed at her, scratched her down the arm in a thin gash. and though it did draw blood, it was hardly enough to warrant that reaction.

he didn’t even try to stop her as she picked up her bag and left, huffing like she’d been morally offend. kento, though, could only smile to himself in amusement.

because maybe kento was a poor judge of character, a man who was secretly hoping nothing would pan out — but his cat could certainly tell the good from the bad.

it became a little game to him, after that. seeing if anyone could win his pet over, and if they could, perhaps they were the one. his darling animal was a fickle thing anyway. a bit too defensive, quick to bite anything threatening after years on the streets.

naturally, no one came back twice.

he was close to giving up, accepting his solitude because he was tired of empty conversations over dinner. but then, he ventured out over the weekend to a new coffee shop, during hours he normally didn’t spend out of his home, and met you.

though you only talked for a moment, kento felt like maybe he’d known you in a past life. a part of him thought maybe it was strange, the way he kept coming back to talk to you, catching you at the end of your shift to see if you wanted to grab a coffee sometime.

by the second date, kento started to think you could turn out to be his best friend.

by the third date, kento wondered if soulmates were real.

on the fourth date, almost two months later, an appropriate time to get to know someone when you were as reserved as kento, he invited you over for dinner. it was, perhaps, the final confirmation he needed to let himself be with you.

he let you through the door, smiling softly as you told him about the book you were reading, and hung his coat on the rack. a moment later, you stopped, distracted, hands covering your mouth in a gasp.

“kento! she’s the cutest cat i’ve ever seen, you didn’t even show me pictures!” you exclaim, and, a few feet away, crouched down. “look at her pretty eyes…”

“careful,” kento said, “she’s not very—“

but the cat approached your outstretched hand, sniffed once, before letting you scratch her under her chin, purring loud enough for kento to hear across the room.

“shes such a sweetheart, you told me she was mean!” you smiled, making a cooing noise as you threaded your fingers through her fur. “kento’s a liar, isn’t he… you’re so precious.”

a few moments later, she snapped her jaw at you in a biting motion, and you only laughed, withdrawing your hand. “alright, i get it, i won’t bother you anymore.”

though she still brushed against your legs, just as she did kento’s, and seemed to communicate some sort of message to him.

“do you want any help cooking?” you ask, tucking your hair behind your ears. “i’m a disaster in the kitchen, but—“

“sure,” kento said, his chest tightening as he blinked back at you, only in his apartment for minutes and already looking as at home there. he wondered if it was possible to fall in love so quickly. “but only if you want to.”

#this is very silly #i just wanted to get it out of my drafts #i’ve had this thought for a while but #i decided i didn’t want to write a whole drabble so now you get this #kento being inexperienced at dating & not enjoying it is very special to me #and so is him having a cat tehe #selfship coded i suppose bc reader is me but it’s not that obvious i hope #kento 💋 ⋆ ˚｡⋆#nanami x reader #xoxo rylie 💌 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆#jjk x reader #nanami x you #nanami fluff #nanami x gender neutral reader #xoxo rylie 💌 ⋆ ˚｡⋆

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cacoetheswriting · 3 months ago

Note

Request!!

Eddie walking in on reader fantasizing abt him<3 and ine thing leads to another they are fucking and then confessing each others love. Smut to fluff basically

If not that’s cool!<3

pairing: roommate!eddie munson x fem!reader [modern day au] word count: 3k

content warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, modern day au, friends/roommates to lovers, smut, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, dirty talk, sexual fantasies, masturbation (f), mutual pining, fingering, allusions to sex

Eddie Munson works shifts.

His schedule is scribbled in black marker and terrible handwriting on the calendar stuck to the fridge of your shared apartment — although, it’s not like you needed to double check when your curly-haired roommate was and wasn’t going to be home, embarrassingly enough, you pretty much had it memorised.

In your defence, it’s not overly hard to remember.

While your hours are standard, Monday to Friday, nine to five, Eddie works at a nightclub in the city centre — The Black Door. He starts late in the afternoon, so as you come home, he’s rushing out the door with a sandwich between his teeth while he throws on his raggedy denim jacket.

“Have a good night, doll face,” he usually says when you pass each other in the hallway. “Don’t do anything I would do.”

You roll your eyes and usually reply with something you think is witty, if you’re not completely enamored by the way his locks bounce and fall perfectly around his face.

“Try not to burn the place down, Munson. You still owe me half of the rent for this month.”

“Tomorrow,” Eddie says with a grin, “Cross my heart.” He mimics his words and winks, before disappearing down the stairs.

When you close the apartment door behind you with a gentle kick, you have to lean against the frame and take a breath to compose yourself because the feelings you’ve recently developed for your metal-head roommate were too much, too complicated. You needed to try and keep them buried deep.

So, like every other night alone, you do the only thing you can think of to distract yourself and whip out your phone. After some doom scrolling and texting Steve for advice — since he’s the one who gave up his room in the flat, recommending Eddie move in — you open the apps.

Swipe left, swipe right, left, right, left, left, right. It’s not hard for you to get matches, it’s even easier to get messages which lead to many dates. The odd dinner here, the odd drink there. You like to suggest The Black Door because even though you’re doing this to get over their head bartender, there’s a certain thrill in having him watch you flirt with other guys.

Unfortunately tonight’s date — Tobie with an ie not a y, as specified in his bio — texts to reschedule just as you finish applying some blush pink lipstick.

Tobie: Hamster died

Tobie: (typing)

Tobie: Next time?

You groan in frustration. Nevertheless, you reply to keep the possibility of a next time open.

You: Sorry to hear about your hamster. Next time, for sure.

Then you type out a quick message to Steve, letting him know he doesn’t need to stalk your location since your date just cancelled.

Steve: Good. He looked like a douche anyway.

Ignoring Harrington’s comment, you lock the screen then move to the couch where you finish the glass of wine you had poured to drink while getting ready. The alcohol is bitter on your tongue and after you swallow, it makes you feel even more lonesome than moments prior.

Spending your evenings alone wasn’t the worst by any means. You liked to think of yourself as an independent woman and there certainly were other ways you could continue to distract yourself — ways that didn’t involve a man.

A movie perhaps. Some new Netflix releases to binge watch. Catching up on a favourite podcast. Back to doom scrolling for a minute. Or… You glance at the time on your phone. 7:16pm. Eddie wasn’t due back from his shift anytime soon.

Without giving it a second thought, you lay your head down on the throw cushions and close your eyes. You then proceed to slide a hand down your clothed stomach and you don’t stop, even when you reach the waist of your skirt.

Warmth immediately spreads through you. Even more when you hear a certain sultry voice in your mind, ordering you around. “Come on, doll face.”, or “Show me how much you want me.”.

Well fuck. So much for not thinking about your roommate.

He’s there, behind your eyes. Standing at the edge of the sofa, watching you touch yourself. And he’s doing the same. Fingers wrapped tight around his erect member, rubbing intently while he tells you to keep going and what a dirty, filthy, thing you are.

Cloud nine. Or ten. Who the hell cares.

You’re lost in your own nasty thoughts, lost in the fantasy, completely oblivious to the sound of metal sliding in the keyhole and the click of the lock. Oblivious to the creak of an opening door and teeter of feet. Oblivious to the fact that there was someone now watching you with their mouth agape.

You’re about to reach that complete high. The mountain top. But then someone clears their throat. No, not just someone. Your roommate, Eddie — and not in your dreams.

Eyes snapping open, your heart drops. You remove your hand from its current position instantly, then slide on the sofa into a seated position, horrified and way too embarrassed to meet his struck gaze.

“Sorry, I-I,” Eddie stumbles and if you had enough courage to look at him, you’d notice he was beet red. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“No, no,” you protest and stand quickly, “I’ll ehh, I’ll go and yeah, sorry you had to see that.”

You continue to avoid his brown-eyes as you rush to your room, locking the door behind you for good measure. Then, since you’ve already lost all self respect and probably also his respect, you slam face first into your bed and scream into your pillow.

What you don’t see is Eddie who grimaces as the shrieks reach his ears.

He honestly didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything, but it seems if he told you that now, you wouldn’t believe him. He just felt pervy standing there without your knowledge. And would it make it worse if he said he didn’t mind what he saw? That it was actually really fucking hot? Probably, yeah. He should definitely keep his mouth shut.

But Eddie can’t. Not when it comes to you.

Instead, he drops his backpack to the floor and strides toward your bedroom door. One big breath later, he knocks once, twice. No answer.

“Doll face, can you come out and talk to me? Please?”

“Go away, Munson. You’re never seeing my face again.”

He sighs. “Come on, it’s not the worst thing in the world.” Eddie tries to reason. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t really see all that much. I-I shut my eyes the second I realised what was going on.” It’s a lie, but it’s a white lie. No harm in a white lie.

There’s shuffling inside and the door flies open.

“What are you even doing home so early?” Deflection. Great tactic.

Eddie leans against the frame, stretching his right arm across to pick at painted splinters. “Got into an argument with some weirdo. Bossman sent me home.”

The metal-head must sense your sudden concern because before you can say anything or ask any questions, he says, “And don’t you worry your pretty face about that rent money. I still have a job to go back to ‘cause my actions were in complete self-defence. I was just told to go home and cool off, or whatever.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What did you fight about?”

“Nothing important,” Eddie brushes it off and shrugs after dropping his arm back to his side. “What are you doing here by the way? I thought you had a hot date.”

“Dead hamster,” you say without further explanation, then quickly wonder, “How did you know about my date though?”

“Harrington.”

“Of course.”

There’s a minute of silence. Not awkward, despite everything that’s happened. Quite comfortable actually because that’s how things always are between the two of you.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Eddie asks, another attempt at trying to stir the conversation even further away from what transpired mere minutes ago. “In my room, if you’d prefer that.”

Tried and failed since you glance at the couch and tense all over again.

There is no way you’re going to sit with him in the same exact spot you just tried to get yourself off to fabricated thoughts of him, all while he walked in on you. You’re probably never going to sit there again, ever.

“We might actually need to invest in a new sofa,” you say, full of shame, and glance up at the curly haired boy.

He rolls his eyes.

“Would it help if I dropped my pants and—”

“Eddie! Gross!” You screech and smack his chest. “No, it would most definitely not help.”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Relax, doll face. I was kidding.” The grin on his face spreads. “At least we know you weren’t thinking about me earlier, judging by that reaction to my very kind offer.”

There must now be a grimace on your face, some sort of physical reaction that you didn’t manage to contain as Eddie’s joke settles in the air around you, because a beat passes and your curly-haired roommate's gaze goes wide. His lips part and something flashes in his brown eyes that you can’t quite deduce, but one thing’s for sure, he knows.

“Oh. Oh.”

Without saying anything else, plausible deniability and all that, you try to shut the bedroom door in his face. Eddie however, has fast reflexes and his foot is now blocking you from doing so. But you keep trying and you lean against the wood, shoving it with your back.

“Now you can really go away, Munson.”

“It’s not—”

“If you utter the words it’s not that big of a deal, I will jump out of my window.”

On the other side of the door, Eddie laughs. “Don’t be dramatic, doll face. No one needs to be jumping out of anything, okay?”

You sigh, looking up at your ceiling as if it held all of the answers.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one having extremely specific dirty thoughts about your roommate.”

Silence.

Oddly, now it felt slightly uncomfortable. You sense it immediately. The shift in the air. It’s a little unnerving. Okay. A lot unnerving. Which is why, again without really thinking about what you were doing, you stand straight and open the bedroom door to reveal your roommate’s back. He’s staring at the empty wall, hands on his hips.

“You know,” Eddie starts in a quiet tone and you begin to think the worst, (although you’re about to find out there is really no need). “Before you were my roommate, you were Harrington’s smart, funny, beautiful, hot, city girl roommate.”

“I-I don’t think I’m following.”

Eddie sighs. He spins back to look at you, hands still on his hips.

“Jesus. Okay. Uhm… You’re not the only one with, what is it you said, extremely specific dirty thoughts.”

You raise your brows in surprise. This is not the turn of events you were expecting.

“Oh.”

“Yeah…”

And then, for reasons not completely clear in that moment, you laugh. Loud and clear. Velvety. It’s music to Eddie’s ears, so he smiles, watching you. You. Still that smart, funny, beautiful, hot, city girl he had a schoolboy crush on. Even more beautiful when you laughed. And all those nights he’d invite himself over, back when you still shared the flat with Steve, and he’d talk nonstop about this girl he liked but didn’t know how to ask out (you), well, all those nights finally felt worth something because now he knew you liked him too.

Eddie’s shoulders relax and he drops his arms from his hips, sucking in his bottom lip between his teeth.

You notice immediately, eyes glued to where his points are digging into the flesh of his mouth, and the laugh freezes in your throat. The realisation of what Eddie just admitted dawns on you fully. He’s gotten off on fantasies of you long before you ever saw him that way. You don't, however, get to ask him what any of it means, or where you two go from here, because Eddie makes the decision for you.

He reaches for you. One hand on your jaw, the other gripping your waist. His eyes race over your face, as if he’s taking every little detail in since you’ve never stood this close together. You’re admiring his features too. Memorising each crinkle and line. Each mark and freckle. He’s attractive, for sure, but this close and personal, Eddie Munson is the most alluring guy you’ve ever seen.

“I think I’d like to kiss you now,” he whispers, brushing a thumb over your lips. “Unless you’re still thinking of jumping out the window.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and between your legs. Your gazes latch onto one another and you tip up your chin, inviting him to stay true to his words.

Eddie doesn’t waste a second. He takes your mouth, causing your knees to buckle beneath you, but the hand he’s got on your waist holds you up in place as his lips interlock with yours. The sweetness of the kiss surprises you. It’s pleasant and you find yourself hoping he’ll kiss you this way again, and again. And when the tips of his fingers trail against your cheek, when they travel to the back of your head, settling in place and pushing you in closer, you part your lips and moan softly into his mouth.

He takes this opportunity to slip his tongue in and intertwines it with yours. The hand holding your waist falls slowly, lingering against your body like a shadow as he drops it lower and lower. When he reaches the hem of your denim skirt, he freezes there momentarily.

“I don’t want to overstep, doll face.” Eddie murmurs against your plush lips.

“Please…” You all but whine in response.

“Please what?”

His hazel eyes go dark. Hungry. It sends a shiver down your spine, knowing that he wants you just as much as you want him, if not more.

“Overstep, please.” You slide your nose alongside his, nudging him slightly as you say, “Eddie, t-touch me. I’d like you to touch me.”

He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Swiftly, he pops the button and slides the zipper, letting the garment fall to the ground so that you’re standing in the hallway of your shared apartment with your skirt around your ankles, exposing the black lace of your underwear to your roommate.

Eddie kisses you again. It’s rougher this time, more needy. And while his lips work against yours in perfect harmony, his fingers slide in between your thighs.

Slowly, Eddie traces your wet heat, teasing with just one finger. Your body is jolting with anticipation. Your skin is soft and warm, writhing under his delicate touch. He can feel tension building as your legs start to tremble and he smirks into your mouth, clearly pleased with himself because he’s barely even touched you.

Gently, he presses the pad of his index to your entrance, carefully slipping inside as you whimper. He continues pushing in slowly, knuckle by knuckle and you melt around his intrusion. Your arms now pressing your bodies together with all the strength you can muster.

Lewd, wet sounds drift up from between your legs as Eddie begins pumping his fingers in and out of you. Rough. Hungry. He breaks the kiss, crazed eyes looking back to admire your face as you slowly start to come undone. Then you gasp: he curls a finger inside your pussy to mash his palm into your clit, massaging the spot relentlessly.

A moan grows in your throat and your lips part, desperate to let it out. Eddie has another idea though. His free hand clamps over your mouth to muffle the sound. It causes your eyes to widen in shock, but surprisingly to both of you, you lean into it and after a few moments of this treatment, your walls close around his fingers.

You arch your back and Eddie struggles briefly to keep his hand over your mouth. He thinks for a second that maybe he’s being too forceful, forehead to forehead, pushing into you further. Somehow his force only makes you react harder and in a matter of seconds, you deflate, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you cum all over his digits.

Eddie drops his hand from your mouth, grinning. He removes his other hand from between your thighs and you miss him desperately already, though you don’t immediately say because you don’t want to come off as such. He licks his fingers clean then leans down to peck you on the lips as your orgasm haze clears. You can taste yourself on him and it drives you crazy all over again, but when you try to deepen the kiss, your metal-head roommate places his hands on your shoulders and gently pushes you back.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he says simply.

“Right now?” You pout and manoeuvre your hand in between your bodies to reach for his hard member through his work slacks. “‘Cause I wanna repay the favour.”

Eddie grins then places his hand over yours, intertwining your fingers together. He pulls it out and brings it to his cheek, brushing it softly against his light stubble.

“I am loving the enthusiasm, doll face.” Eddie begins, “But I’d like to try and do this thing right, which means dinner before I further corrupt you, okay?”

“Maybe I’m the one corrupting you.”

“Maybe,” he says with a sly smile, “Either way, the faster we get out of here to grab some food, the faster we can come back and maybe even put that couch to good use.”

You laugh at that.

“So will you stop being stubborn and let me take you to dinner?”

When you nod your head, Eddie’s smile grows even wider. He drops your hand, but only momentarily, to lift your skirt and button it for you. He smooths the material, then once again, he reaches for your hand to lead you out of the shared apartment.

Eddie Munson works shifts.

Only, from now on, whenever he comes home late at night, instead of going to sleep in his room, he stumbles into yours, more than invited.

thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson request #roommate!eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut

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mommyameliestorycorner · 2 months ago

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Reasons Why ALL Boys Belong in Diapers

Boys are messy creatures. From their sticky fingers to their questionable aim in the bathroom, boys have never been good at keeping things clean. A diaper just simplifies the whole process—no more "oops, I missed" or "it was just an accident!"

Moms and girlfriends are already cleaning up after them. Ever noticed how boys conveniently “forget” how to do laundry, dishes, or pick up their own socks? They already expect someone else to handle their messes—diapers just make it official!

They think farting is funny. So let’s see how they like a full diaper. Boys love to giggle about their own gas, but let’s see how funny it is when there’s more than just air in their diaper. Oh, what's that? Suddenly it's "not so funny"? Thought so!

They have the attention span of a goldfish. Oh, look! A ball! A car! A flashing light! Boys get so distracted by the simplest things—who has time to actually remember to use the potty when there are way more important things to focus on? Best to keep them safely diapered so they don’t make a mess when they inevitably forget.

They have NO shame. Boys will scratch, burp, and do all sorts of gross things in public without a second thought. If they have no problem acting like babies in front of everyone, why not dress them like one too?

They never know when to stop playing. Boys will run around, roughhouse, and completely ignore their obvious potty signals until—oopsie! Too late! Rather than trusting them with big boy underwear (as if!), it’s just safer to keep them padded so they can go whenever they inevitably lose track of time.

They’re so lazy. Let’s be honest, even if a boy could make it to the potty, would he really want to? Getting up, stopping what he's doing, actually aiming—so much effort! It's just easier to let him go in his diaper like the helpless little thing he is.

They still act like babies, so they might as well wear what babies wear. Boys whine when they don’t get their way, throw tantrums over the smallest things, and sulk when they lose. If they’re going to act like fussy little toddlers, they should be dressed like one too—diapers included!

They hate being told what to do. Which makes it even more fun! The best part? They’ll huff and puff, but there’s nothing they can do about it. They can squirm all they want—at the end of the day, they’ll still be right where they belong: safely diapered.

Deep down, they know they belong in diapers. At the end of the day, all their silly protests and puffed-up bravado don’t change the truth—boys just aren’t meant for potty training. They’re much better off being padded, protected, and properly taken care of. And while that will never change, their diapers certainly will—again and again and again

Please reblog I you agree, that all boys should be in diapers 24/7! Thank you @all4thedips for your suggestions and help.

#ab/dl community #ab/dl mommy #ab/dl story time #ab/dl boy #ab/dl babyboy #ab/dl caption #ab/dl diaper

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stellawish · 2 months ago

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flowers and fliers

summary: dad!gojo trying to cheer his baby genre: fluff🌷 dad!gojo x mom!reader p.s Haru is still a baby. i didn’t specify his age but he’s still wittle (not toddler yet)

“No, give it to me,” Satoru said as he tried to unclench his son’s tiny fist. Haru’s small white eyebrows furrowed while he sniffed angrily and shook his head in protest.

March 8th—International Women’s Day. Although this day isn’t widely celebrated in Japan, Satoru believed it was still special. He always loved showering you with gifts and attention, and now he had another reason.

Earlier, he announced to his students that the day was off and there would be no lessons or missions. He responded to their joyful reaction with mock sadness, telling them not to miss him too much. In return, he received nothing but rolled eyes and stony expressions.

Later, you had lunch at home, and he prepared your bath with soapy water and soothing lavender oil.

Meanwhile, a delivery man arrived with a huge bouquet of flowers.

The bouquet was stunning—colorful and huge. Your son certainly appreciated it. His doe blue eyes lit up at the sight of the massive arrangement and the explosion of colors. And his tiny hands quickly grabbed one of the buds and refused to let go.

Unfortunately, one flower at the very edge had arrived crumpled, for which the courier apologized profusely.

Satoru, distracted, put it aside, completely forgetting about his son’s tenacious grip and endless baby curiosity.

“ Haru, be a good boy and give this to dad,” Gojo said sternly. He was worried about the naked stem, which had a few very sharp-looking thorns, now clenched in his son’s little hand.

Haru sensed the shift in his father’s tone and stopped his mischief. He looked up with wide, blinking blue eyes. His pink lips trembled, and he clutched the now thoroughly crumpled flower closer to his chest. A second later, the first tear appeared.

“Oh no, no, no!” Satoru muttered nervously. His heart clenched, and his hands reached out to scoop up his son’s small body.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, kissing his son’s forehead and gently wiping away the tears from his flushed, chubby cheeks.

Haru always cried so softly and heartbreakingly that it nearly brought Satoru to tears every time.

“Your dad’s a fool, I’m sorry,” Satoru whispered affectionately, pressing his son’s face against his shoulder.

Still crying, Haru whimpered and clutched Satoru’s strong neck with his plump little arms, as if silently agreeing.

Suddenly, an idea sparked in Satoru’s mind.

Fresh from your shower and after applying body lotion, you heard your son’s bright giggle echoing through the house. Smiling and following the sound, you entered the living room—only for your heart to nearly stop at the sight before you.

Haru was flying. Flying!

“Satoru! What the hell?” you hissed angrily. “Put him down now!”

“Relax, sweets. Everything’s under control,” he replied confidently.

Still, he brought Haru closer, and you immediately snatched your son into your arms, feeling a brief moment of infinity before the comforting warmth of his little body settled against you.

Haru, unbothered, continued to giggle and babble happily.

“Happy Women’s Day!”

Strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against a firm chest.

Haru stretched out his unclenched fist, revealing the now hopelessly crumpled flower. His eyes sparkled mischievously, as if saying, This is for you mommy!

With the baby flying around the living room, you hadn’t even noticed the enormous bouquet of beautiful flowers. Your heart swelled with endless love for your boys.

“Oh, thank you, Haru,” you cooed, kissing your son’s nose and happily accepting his crumpled flower.

“And what about me? Hm?” Satoru whined, clearly unhappy about being left out.

You giggled, turning in his arms and pressing a kiss to his lips.

Satoru instantly smiled into the kiss, tightening his embrace around both of you and sighing contentedly.

hi everyone! Happy International Women’s Day! I know the history of this day and know that people in different parts of the world view it and spend this day differently. Where I come from, men often give flowers to women on this day. So, I decided to bring a similar scenario into my favorite Gojo family. k bye 😘

more dad!gojo HERE

taglist: @3lliesrifle @achbbys000 @happytreetale @mashtura @spicana @issamomma

cute flower dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics stars by @enchanthings-a

#jjk fluff #dad!gojo #gojo fluff #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x y/n #gojou satoru x reader #jjk gojo #dad gojo #gojo x you #jjk x you #jjk x reader

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tteokdoroki · 8 months ago

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˗ˏˋ 💎 JJK MEN AS OVERPROTECTIVE GIRL DADS gojo, sukuna & geto .ᐟ

⋆˙ ᯓ★ about ! “a little girl’s first love will always be her father." three scenarios in which the daughters of three jjk men introduce their boyfriends to their fathers. ( 5.7K )

warnings ! minors blank and ageless blogs do not interact. video banner. not beta read. sfw, fluff, angst if you squint, no-curses!au, mentions of pregnancy, children and babies, the children have no names, some family issues, married life, domestic bliss, husband + father!jjk men, mother + fem!reader.

sonic says ! hello everyone !! i wanted to try my hand at some head canons and scenarios, i couldn’t get this idea out of my head so put a pause on working on kinktober to write it lol!! hope you enjoy <3 - m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊

ᯓ★ SATORU GOJO:

before meeting you, satoru gojo had never been fond of a family dinner.

in his childhood home — they were cold and quiet, pockets of clattering cutlery would cut through painstaking silence and distract from the loud emptiness of the seat at the head of the table where his own father was supposed to be. his mother, often solemn and sunken in the shoulders, never spoke. never cooked and slipped small bites to her son in between preparation or steps.

they had staff for that, they had staff for everything.

to keep the household clean and together. to keep him fed and breathing. to keep him alive. all requirements felt almost clinical, the environment in which he was raised almost like the white walls of a hospital — without a trace of love needed for a child like satoru gojo needed to thrive.

even if he had all the money in the world, he hadn’t a drop of love. he wasn’t ever sure if he was capable of the warm and fuzzy emotion, didn’t know if it was something his heart could ever open up to — sealed in by layers of cool, cold concrete and cement. kept in a safe without a key. at least until you miraculously found it and melted the thick layers of ice blocking satoru’s veins. you brought back colour to his cheeks and light to his eyes, taking up the space in his heart where his family had left a swirling, black void.

to satoru, you were a saving grace. his everything… and he swore he’d never be like his father; who left his wife unhappy and empty, like a abandoned shell. he promised; he’d do much better than his parents ever did. especially when you found out you were pregnant, even more so when your little girl came into the world with plentiful white curls and lashes, screaming at the top of her teeny tiny lungs.

at the time, you were sure you’d never seen satoru gojo so in love ( and so teary eyed too ) — but you knew what becoming a parent meant to him. what it meant for the new life you now shared.

but now, having met you and married you and created life with you — satoru had found a new appreciation for family dinners. they were a sacred event, a special time for him to keep up with the lives of his children and let them know he was there. present.

it wasn’t a time to be imposed on and certainly not by meddlesome boyfriends brought home by sixteen year old daughters.

“so kid, what’s your 401K look like?”

satoru carries a look of disdain, his nostrils flared, blue eyes narrowed and perfect pink lips curled in an unhappy frown.

the young boy opposite him, a little scrawny and awkward, shrinks underneath the white haired man’s intense gaze — if you squinted, you could probably see him shaking like a little leaf in the intense wind from across the table “um… i don’t know?”

“hear that little guy? no 401K… how’s he meant to take care of your sister. yeah, yeah.

you’re right, i’ll give him a chance,” he mutters to the baby boy snoozing happily in his arms under his breath, engaging in a one sided conversation before switching his focus back to his daughter’s…sorry excuse for a partner. “okay then… finances, clearly not. academics and common sense —“ pausing, the white haired father of two clicks his tongue, pushing it into the soft flesh on the inside of his cheek as if to feel his next words out in his mouth. “do you even know what a bouquet of flowers is, kid? a corsage? gojo women don’t play about their flowers, yanno.”

“sir—“

without giving the boy a chance to speak, gojo drops his intrusive gaze under the table and back up again — pointing an accusatory finger at his little girl’s partner. “your top button’s undone and your shoe laces are untied. you might wanna fix that! if you care about my daughter’s safety!” he turns his nose up all petulant like a picky toddler being forced to eat his veggies, he even sticks his tongue out for good measure. gojo’s eccentric movements nearly jostle his sleepy son in place. the baby whines and gurgles a little bit, only soothed by a pat to his back from dad — who repositions him to snooze over his shoulder.

in a silent, quieter gesture, satoru uses two fingers to point between his eyes and the boy’s. almost as if to say ‘i’m watching you.’

catching him in the act, the eldest gojo daughter bounces into the room carrying plates of steaming hot food, exhaling with worm down patience evident in her body language. “daddy please, you don’t act like this normally. stop messing around.” rolling her eyes, she sets the dishes down, freeing up her hand to smack the back of her dad’s clearly empty skull. just like her mother.

“well sooooorrry for being a good dad and caring about your wellbeing! who you’re dating! who you’re bringing into our bloodline!” gojo rebuttals with petish grunts, unable to cradle the back of his injured head like he does with his son.

and as if by magic, you, his beautiful and loving and gorgeous wife appear with dinner plates in hand to double down on a scolding the white haired man. amused, you also swat at your husband’s head and tut down at him. “satoru? what are you doing?” there’s something about the way you tease and tell gojo off that always makes his heart race, even after all these years of marriage and raising his kids. he loves you, his family so much. he almost keens into your touch like a pathetic dog, until your daughter starts gagging at the sight — slipping into her set. you were supposed to be watching the baby. not interrogating the poor kid.”

“we’re having a heart to heart, babe,” gojo swoons, clearing his throat as his head bobs in the direction of his daughter’s boyfriend. “jimbob here was just telling me about his 3.4% grade point average.”

“it’s hiro sir! and uh… 3.5% sir.” the boyfriend in question chirps shyly.

you know that your husband feels… almost threatened by another man entering your daughter’s life — they’ve been practically inseparable since the moment she first opened her eyes. to give up the duty of loving and protecting her and pass it onto someone else is probably what scares him the most. “that’s pretty good hun!” you comment absentmindedly, hoping to pull satoru away from the conversation.

“no it’s not! our daughter has a 4.0%.”

“s-she was failing in math, i was tutoring her.” the boyfriend hopefully interjects again, whispering next when the baby stirs at the dining table. “i hope that makes up for my 401K sir. i-i also work part time to save for college and—!”

“haha — no i wasn’t!” the younger gojo girl tenses in place, elbowing her date in the ribs not so discretely from under the table. it’s this interaction that makes her father smile, only briefly, before you scowl his way.

“i thought you told them we met at a tutoring session.”

“you were failing?” you raise a brow, taking your own seat beside her father.

“see! this boy failure is a bad influence on our daughter!” a glare settles on the slopes of satoru’s angelic features, mirrored by your child’s unimpressed expression across the table. in his arms, your youngest fusses about as if he senses the mounting tension at the table — earning a bounce or two from daddy, who turns your way all matter-of-factly like. “see, this why he doesn’t have a 401K”

“why would a teenager have a 401k, satoru!” comes your exasperated sigh.

“i had one when i was his age.” satoru shoots back and the kid sinks nervously in his seat. the poor boy looks as though he wants to disappear, squirming in place like he’s no better than a worm on a bait hook — it’s torture being interrogated and inspected by someone so close to the person you love most, but even he knows how important satoru’s approval is to your daughter.

she wouldn’t say it now, not when she was all grown up and finding her way out in the world — but she idolised gojo, all of her fondest memories are painted in his colours. shades of sapphire and azure like his vivid eyes, snowy white from his hair that almost rivals the clouds in the sky — the backdrop to days spent riding her father’s shoulders through the big wide world, racing down grassy green hills and wasting the hours away. she wouldn’t admit it here, today, but she never wanted to leave those memories. leave her father behind in her youth — it was written on each dip and curve and highlight on her youthful face, she wanted her father to move into this next phase of life with her too.

“daddy, you were a trust fund baby with shit grades and no prospects until you met mum,” she huffs but her words hold no malice, even if the sass brims over the edge of her tone like an emotionally charged, overflowing glass of water. you’d chide her for cursing — but you know she means well, stubbornly expressing her desire for approval to her man child of a father. “a loser, if you will.”

gojo slumps, the rosey petals of his plump lips pushing into an age old pout. “how could you say that about dear old dad?” he whines, as though he’s a wounded animal.

“well she’s not wrong, baby. you were a loser satoru, you still are.” the words are fond and light hearted on your tongue, a similar state to the wisps of a smile that trace over your own lips. leaning in close, you tickle the nose of the gurgling baby boy in his arms, heart heavy with affection — grateful that the one interaction you had with your husband all those years ago ( when he was a scrapier and misunderstood ) led you both to the beautiful chaotic family you have together now. “a hot one at least.”

“gross.” your daughter groans and buries her embarrassed gaze in the spread of food on the neatly laid table — grabbing a plate and piling it high to cope.

her boyfriend chuckles nervously, wanting nothing more but to eat and do the same. desperate to hide from gojo’s intimidating aura, but too afraid to cross another one of his ridiculous invisible lines. “i think that’s very sweet mrs gojo!”

the brief moment of peace in the war of dad v boyfriend is then interrupted by the white haired man’s temper tantrum, realising that his only daughter is still in the room. “don’t push it kid.” the father of your children all but wails and finds something else about the young couple to pick apart. “you’re sitting too close together! move apart!”

“daddy—!”

“w-what?”

“i said move it or lose it kid, before i keel over and die of heartbreak.” “betrayal. my own daughter, leaving me for someone else.”

the two separate, shifting their chairs away from one another despite never actually being too close. you share an empathetic look with your eldest, empathetic to your husband’s actions. you both knew he wouldn’t handle the meeting well, but this was beyond your whilst dreams. the young couple’s hands remain intertwined under the table cloth as the meal begins properly, and when satoru notices, he doesn’t comment — biting down hard on his unhappy tongue. he knows all too well what it’s like to love against the odds, his father in law hardly wanted him around you. it’s not like he wasn’t aware how bad he was for you, how your standards might have even dropped for the man to be with him. but you loved satoru with your entire being, wholly and against all of your own parent’s wishes.

in a way, the dinner tonight reminds him of himself meeting your father for the first time — how he had to work for his approval too. prove that he was more than just a spoilt brat. too caught up in the memories, the odd sense of loss threaded between his every breath and the love he holds for his daughter settled in his lungs — gojo almost kissed the way you whisper to him adoringly, head drooping to rest on his shoulder mostly to look at your baby but partly to comfort him. “you’re being dramatic satoru. look at them, don’t you just love young love.”

and he does, he looks, really looks — softly staring across the table and through the haze of his own judgement, noticing how happy his little girl looks all wrapped up with her boyfriend. all he’s ever wanted is to keep her smiling, give her a life that his parents couldn’t give him, he feels all of his resentment and fear or losing his daughter melt away like a plain sheet of paper dissolving in water. he loves her too much to not let her be happy, his baby. his little girl.

“no, not at all,” satoru finally relents with a wobbling voice and silvery tears that dot his vision — shaking his head back and forth to stop them from dropping onto his sleeping son gathered in his arms. “w-why would you say that? god, is it allergy season? my eyes are killing me. they’re not cute at all, why would you say that i’m crying?”

your teenage daughter glances over, relief evident in all of her identical gojo features. “no one mentioned you crying, daddy.” she coos softly in an attempt to console satoru.

it doesn’t work, he starts dry heaving and sobbing. which is new for her, he hasn’t cried this hard since her baby brother was born.

the kid scrambles into his pocket and damn near stumbles over the table in order to hand your white haired lover a tissue. “i don’t think you’re crying sir!”

“shut up!” gojo sniffles dramatically, putting on his best theatre kid act and drapes himself ( and the baby ) all over you. “shit, is this cushioned tissue? three ply?” pale, deft fingers swipe at the blue pools of eyes which well with tears while the kid nods over enthusiastically — desperate to please his girlfriend’s guardian. “good stuff this is… but this doesn’t mean i approve of you for my daughter!”

“gojo!”

“whaaaaat!? he doesn’t have a 401K!”

ᯓ★ RYOMEN SUKUNA:

if you’d told sukuna, almost a decade and a half ago, that he would end up with a life shrouded in domestic bliss — he would have laughed in your face. maybe even called you a cunt whilst telling you to fuck off. back then, when he was younger and the spirit of ambitious fire burned brightly in his veins as though he had petroleum for blood, the pink haired man never dreamed of settling down. buying a house. getting married. or having kids.

he was as untameable as a wild horse, with only one goal in mind. to open up his restaurant and get his family out of that shithole town by all and any means. he’d cross whatever rivers he had to, climb whatever mountains he needed to — push past societal hurdles that judged him for the pink in his hair and the thick ink on his body. ryomen sukuna did not care. not about anyone else, only about his goals.

at least, until he met you.

in many ways, you were a blessing to the world where sukuna was a curse. his complete opposite, the day to his night. though the worlds and lives you came from were completely different —

nowadays, the man is a little softer around the edges and weaker in the heart — they say that’s what true love does to you.

a set of keys jingle at the front door, followed by the dull thud of trainers on the shoe rack and footsteps on the mahogany wood floor. sukuna hardly looks up from the article he’s reading — something about the best recipes for autumnal vegetables. who would have thought, ryomen sukuna, reading up on gardening. he would tell anyone who asked it was for his restaurant, not because he actually enjoyed it. would make him look soft.

“hey, i’m home!” the voice that calls to him is sweet and youthful, a dulcet symphony that tugs paternally at the pink haired man’s heart strings. “is ma here?”

sukuna smiles to himself behind the newspaper, inhaling its fresh ink scent. “in the kitchen, workin’,” he replies absentmindedly, listening to his daughter skid down the hall after dropping her backpack. “oi squirt, you ain’t slick. you know what day it is, report card. now.”

there’s a dramatic sigh that follows footsteps trailing back into the living room. sukuna’s daughter, his pride and joy clings onto the doorframe with a scowl that could very well rival his own, ruby red eyes twinkling with annoyance — she’s in a rush to chat with her mother after school, he knows, but he can’t help but to tease her just a bit. “s’in my bag, can i go now?” she whines impatiently but takes off at the first gentle nod from her father in reply.

but the pink haired parent’s peaceful evening is quickly turned upside down at the discovery he makes in the bottom of his pride and joy’s bag. no matter how much time has passed, how many decades have gone by in which he’s been a father — nothing could prepare him for this new challenge, the new wave of emotions that come with having a tween daughter and swirl hotly in his chest.

“what the fuck is this?” he announces with a foul snarl, slipping into the kitchen where his girls chitchat idly over a test batch of cookies sukuna had made earlier in the day. for his restaurant of course. not because he’s a doting husband or loving father. he’s got an image to uphold and it’s not one of domestic bliss.

his daughter chirps, not looking up from the sweet treat she picks apart and pops into her mouth — seated on the kitchen island while you work away on your laptop. “what’s what, daddy?” her innocent nonchalance about the older sukuna’s discovery almost makes him pop a vein. “also, ma told you to stop saying the f-word. so, swear jar.”

the hulking man with the contrastingly soft pink pokes his tongue into the soft epithelium of his cheek, his jaw ticks and a playful frustration tingles throughout all four of his limbs. the swear jar was something you’d brought into play as soon as [daughter name] had learned how to talk, afraid that your rough and rugged husband’s potty mouth would rub off on her young impressionable mind. every time a cursed word falls from between ryomen sukuna’s lips, a couple hundred yen is popped into the jar as punishment. the thing was practically full by your baby’s third birthday, so you’ve been putting it down as her college fund ever since.

paper rustles between deft and tattooed fingers as sukuna reveals not a report card, but a crinkled note like the kind passed back and forth between distracted kids in the middle of that one class before lunch. “don’t play dumb with me, squirt.” ryomen holds the note up to the light so that both of his girls can see, blood diamond eyes squinting so he can inspect it better. somebody get this guy his glasses. “‘do you want to go out with me? tick for yes, cross for no.’” he reads out loud, each word leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, his frown so deep that lines of disapproval form on his well-aged face.

thoughts of the once all-important report card vanish into thin air, the relaxed aura in the room replaced with a palatable tension that not even your husband’s finest knives could cut. your precious baby girl shoots up from the counter to scramble with her dad over the note in hand. he holds her back with a large palm to the forehead.

“oh my god! you weren’t supposed to see that! daddy, give it here. please!”

“fat chance, squirt,” the tattooed man retorts. “you passin’ notes in class? that why you’re hidin’ your report card?”

“you can have my report card, when you give that back!”

with the two standing side by side, the resemblance strikes you as clear as day. they share the same hair, same scowl and same rugged intonation to their voices. they’re both yours, your entire world under one roof. before they can blow said root off, you stand between the elder and younger sukuna — turning to your husband with hooded eyes and a gentle hand on the centre of his broad chest. “oh ryo,” you coo in flirtation, slowing his train of thought as you sneakily swipe the crushed paper from his grip. “shut up ‘n let me see that.”

your daughter gags behind you at the display of affection, contrasting with the amused smirk you share with your long time lover. after all this time, marriage and the perfect kid, you’re still able to make a fool out of him — make sukuna’s heart skip a beat and a heat he refuses to acknowledge crawl up the back of his neck. he’s gone soft, for you and his family. for now, for you, he relents on taunting his precious little girl.

casting your gaze over the note, you grin at the pink-ink chicken scratch scribbled across the page. it’s sweet and endearing, reminding you of young love. “did atsushi finally ask you out?” you ask tenderly, handing the paper back to your daughter who cuddles it to her chest like the physical version of a precious memory.

a bashful expression lines the contours of her face, seeping into features you’d recognise from your husband on her. sukuna would argue that she has the shape of your eyes and your beauty too — but all you see is a culmination of love. “ma you were so totally right, playing hard to get really works!”

she gushes dreamily over her crush like it’s puppy love, biting her lip and bouncing on the spot.

“like a charm, every time.” comes your entertained response, much to your husband’s dismay.

“you weren’t playin’ hard to get with me…” sukuna questions rather than states, trying to piece together parts of the gossip that he’s missed. an anxiety corners the beat of his heart at the thought of his daughter dating, something in which the burly man never thought he would be afraid of. the world had been hard on sukuna; he only worries that it’s not as safe for his pride and joy as it were for him. “never mind that; the brat asked you out with a piece of paper? y’better not have said yes. we have standards here.”

his words make you roll your eyes with the hint of a smile. ryomen almost reminding you of your own father around the time you’d met him.

your daughter scrunches her nose petulantly, gearing herself up for a witty reply. “well ma married you, so her standards can’t be that high.” she snaps, earning a stifled laugh from you and an unimpressed grunt from her hardheaded dad. “and no, i didn’t. told him he needed to ask me out properly. face to face. with words. he said to meet him on the running track tomorrow at lunch for a surprise!”

pulling her into a hug, you kiss her round youthful cheek. “oh baby, i'm so happy for you!”

“well i ain’t! show me the damn kid, need to see what kind of pitiful brat wants to ask out my little girl,” sukuna crosses his arms and grumbles to himself, black ink tattoos flexing menacingly as he does so. almost as if he’s preparing to threaten the kid before even meeting him. “whatever happened to askin’ for permission to court or whatever. he should have been on my doorstep asking for your hand.”

“firstly you would have said no, and secondly this isn’t the olden days, dad. nobody does that anymore.” your cheeky daughter chides him loudly, her words slipping over her snarky little tongue. like father like daughter, the way they snip and snap at one another has an uncanny resemblance.

tilting your head upwards towards your fuming husband, you laugh breathlessly in a way that washes away his anger.“she’s right ryo; though my dad hardly approved of you either.” you say softly. even now, you make him feel weak in the knees and dizzy in the mind, like he’s so anything for you. whoever dates his daughter should feel the same about her.

“i freakin’ earned it, didn’t i?

“just barely.”

sukuna huffs but settles a hand on your waist from behind and his head atop yours. he needs to soothe himself somehow, his daughter is growing too fast. “stop ganging up on me and lemme see the damn kid.”

“here, isn’t he cute.”

lips downturned, sukuna craned his neck to look at your daughter’s phone from over your shoulder — scrutinising the instagram page that she’s opened now offering the kid his only child has taken an interest in like a lamb at the slaughterhouse. “brat looks like a noodle.” haughty laughter fills the kitchen, reverberating against the bones and organs in ryomen’s chest and buzzing right though your back. “you’re right i woulda said no as soon as he fuckin’ turned up!”

two sets of scolding eyes similar in shape, belonging to the two girls he loves the most swivel around to face the pink haired man disapprovingly.

“ryomen sukuna!”

“daddy!”

“yeah yeah, i know. swear jar.”

ᯓ★ SUGURU GETO:

“my love, were you aware that our little munchkin has a boyfriend?”

suguru looks up from the bubbling pot of child friendly pasta sauce on the stove. if it were just the two of you having dinner tonight, like it was merely three (nearly four) years ago — he would have planned for a more adventurous meal. perhaps sought out a bottle of fine aged wine for you both to enjoy on the balcony and even gotten a dessert to sweeten the date in. but now, you both had more than two hungry tummies to worry about, and bottles of wine could only be purchased when the little one was off with her uncle satoru.

“no, i wasnt. i don't believe that’s come up in discussion before,” your dark haired lover turns his narrow gaze to the giggly little girl swaddled in your arms — her chubby cheeks and dark, curious eyes just peeking out of the fluffy duck-themed towel you’ve wrapped her in. bath time is usually after bed, but someone got into the paint pots at nursery school and managed to get blotches of blue streaked through her hair and under her fingernails. “care to elaborate sweetheart?”

suguru taps the wooden sauce spoon against the side of the pot and swipes his hands on a nearby tea towel before allowing them to rest on his hips, look of faux irritation settling on the contours of his face and slopes of his features. thin brows draw together like closed gates in the middle of his forehead — the expression earning airy light and squealed laughter from your baby girl.

“nuh uhhh! not my boy-fend!” she babbles her way through the big girl word, missing a few syllables here and there, but geto still grins with pride — happily leaning forward to press enthusiastic kisses to his little angel’s damp forehead. “no boy-fend papa!

bouncing your daughter slightly, you cock your hip out to hold her weight and cheekily roll your eyes. “such a daddy’s girl, lying to him already? he’ll let you get away with anything if you keep that up,” though you muster up a pout to rival the toddler’s, the uncanny resemblance warming the cockles or your husband’s heart, your tone is playful and adoring — it’s lilt full of love for the baby girl you made together. you pinch her chubby cheek, waggling it from side to side as more of her childlike laughter tangles with the scent of pasta in the air. “we bumped into the fujioka boy and his mother at the gates this morning, he held her hand all the way up to the classroom. it was quite cute. you had to be there, love.”

“i’m sure,” he responds, gentle mirth and protectiveness swirling in dark framed eyes.

you relay the information to your husband as though it’s hot gossip fresh from the press, whispering over your dark-haired daughter’s head not so secretly. even with the hair and eyes to match suguru’s, she’s still just as much your carbon copy as she is his — he tends to say all of her spirit comes from you, not to mention the way she laughs and smiles.

shaking her head between you, both — your baby chimes in brightly. “noooo mama!! boys are gross, i don’ hold hands with boys.”

this time suguru manoeuvres to pinch her other chubby cheek, clicking his tongue as he does so. “not even papa?” he pretends to pout, crouching down with his hands on his knees to coo into her sweet little face.

“nuhhh, papa isn’t gross!! papa is my favourite boy!” she quickly tacks on with a dribbly smile.

“that’s right. i’ll be the only boy in your life always, just you and i princess,” your husband reaffirms with a firm shake of his head and presses a promise in the form of a kiss to your daughter’s nose. her chubby little hands, still wet from bath time, smack either side of suguru’s face and keep him close — close enough for her to plant a soggy smooch onto his forehead affectionately. a wet kiss only a father could love. “that settles it, i’m no longer sharing my kisses. papa says no boyfriends until you’re ninety.”

once your two loves are done sharing their candied affections, you seat your daughter on the edge of the kitchen table to allow geto the room to finish up with dinner. the comforting symphony of baby babbles and kitchen utensils clanking and food boiling fills the steamy air, it makes you smile. it feels like home. “oh come on suguru, they’re only three. don’t you think it’s the tiniest bit adorable?” you say with a sing-songy voice, entertaining both your little one and her father.“they even share their animal crackers during break time and crayons when it’s time to colour, one of the supervisors told me.”

with his back now to you as he stirs through the pasta sauce one final time, you hardly miss the way suguru’s shoulders tense at the mention of the little boy your girl has taken a liking to. he wouldn’t dare frown about it in front of her, what upsets daddy upsets baby too. that’s why he’s always smiling for her, and you find the man’s subtle jealousy endearing. it’s always supposed to be suguru and his princess, with no room for anyone else ( aside from you, of course )

“nope, no boyfriends. no amount of cuteness can convince me otherwise.” voice falling tight and flat, suguru reaches into the cupboards for plates and bowls to dish up his lovingly prepared home cooked meal, slamming them into place at the table with a little less patience than before.

the idea of some… little boy chasing after his daughter’s heart? over his dead body.

“boy-fends are gross!” but your daughter is forever a daddy’s girl, furrowing her brow and crossing her tiny arms in an act of defiance — supporting her papa’s cause. boyfriends are bad!

fuelling her excitement and even more support for papa — food is served shortly by your husband, who plates up as best as he can with toddler safe dinnerware. you adjust your little girl into her high chair at the table, giggling to yourself softly when she cranes her neck to keep an eye on suguru. “does that mean papa’s gross? he’s technically mama’s boyfriend.”

“husband, love, there’s a difference.”

three plates of hot, aromatic spaghetti are organised in a table — each a domestic reminder of the family suguru geto has been blessed with. in that moment, he thinks he would be happy if he spent the rest of his life as just the three of you. briefly his mind wonders to setting a fourth place at the table in a decade or so’s time, once his daughter truly is old enough to date. the very thought makes him feel ill.

round, doe eyes dart between you and suguru as you take your seats either side of your darling daughter at the table — she mimics you both with fumbling little fingers that reach for her baby fork and concentrates as she attempts to repeat your husband’s words. “can i have a husbsband-love?”

you laugh and kiss her cheek, helping her to gather a bite of pasta on the full end of her fork. “husband. just husband, my love. make sure you blow on your food please!” she follows your instructions with a comical air, cheeks puffing and breath huffing while you explain why her father is a second away from blowing his top. “good girl. husband’s aren’t for babies, baby. and i think papa might not like it if you got one now.”

“if you got one ever!” suguru interjects, eyes narrowing while he fights with his lips to avoid a scowl. “the answer is still no, princess. no husbands and no boyfriends until papa is old, cold and in the ground.”

now that your hands are free, you grab the nearest tea towel and wind it up in your grip — launching its tail end at geto as though to swat at him. he jumps in surprise and your daughter shrieks in amusement as she begins babbling again. “don worry, papa!. fujioka is no my boy-fend!!” she says over food in her mouth and happy tummy. geto wipes over her face again. she’ll definitely need another bath later. “hasegawa is!!”

the pair of you share a look and this time, you really think suguru might just throw in the towel.

how could he compete with pre-school love and paint pots shared over playtime gossip?

“two boyfriends? oh god, love… i think need some air.”

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baeshijima · 7 months ago

Text

— within uncertainty

sunday reflects on his limited time thus far on the express, only to find himself distracted by a face he has unknowingly become fond of.

CONTAINS : 1.2k wc, gn!reader, astral express member!sunday, fluff

A/N : chat have we seen the lc and gameplay leaks…? throwing up.

When Sunday first arrived on the Astral Express, a miniature gold and crimson ticket attached to his apparel, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

A new start; that much he was sure of. But with these people who instilled a newfound hope and courage to face the future, there was no shadow of a doubt within his heart and soul that he would encounter the unexpected more times than he can keep track of.

Sure enough, the unexpected came in many ways.

For one, March 7th’s uncanny ability to look at the bright side of things appeared so natural to her, so easy and simple. In recent times, he has found himself thinking about situations in a more positive light, no doubt a side effect of having spent time with her bubbly self.

He discovered Dan Heng’s aloof demeanour barely concealed his great care and affection for the crew— the Astral Express family. Even with what seems to be passive quips and dead-eyed stares, Sunday has begun to note the differentiations in his tone and body language, and all the subtleties he only shows with them.

He discovered the Trailblazer was every bit of a jokester as they are courageous, often finding himself staring blankly at some of their… seamlessly timed quips, to put it lightly. Even so, he’s oftentimes caught himself mid-admiration when they take charge in what they believe is right, wondering if he, too, could be like them in that aspect.

He found that Welt, while still retaining the righteous and strong spirit he displayed while in penacony, had a rather unprecedented charm. Sitting down for hours on end listening to the elder ramble passionately about animating, the arts, and endless theories about this universe wasn’t something he had ever planned for, but his heart warmed all the same at the burst of energy.

He came to realise the Express’ Navigator, Himeko, was certainly a… character. Brave, wise and humble were what he would use to describe her, even more so after her warmly welcoming him into the family. However, Sunday realised he could do without that… concoction she dubs a coffee.

He also never realised such a creature existed until he met Pom-Pom, much less one being a sentient conductor. Their nags are backed with overflowing affection for the members of the Express, often displayed through the meticulous care taken in the tailored meals and rooms and experience. There is so much love of the Astral Express, and Sunday wouldn’t be surprised if he were told most of it came from the Conductor.

(Though he does recall being warned by Dan Heng in particular to not anger the Conductor, an experience he is both curious about but also content in not knowing what exactly would transpire.)

And then there is you.

Sunday only caught a glimpse of you during the final moments of the conflict, much like with Himeko, so he didn’t have too much to go off of other than the fact you, just as it seemed to come with being a part of the Astral Express, were brave and fought for what you believed in.

(With you in particular, he found himself unable to forget your gaze — how it held a sparkling resolution and commanded his full attention, completely and utterly drawn in.)

Of course, that’s not to say you don’t embody those aspects now that he’s gotten to know you. Rather, you are so much more than what he could have ever imagined.

“Wow… they’re way softer than they look!”

…In more ways than one.

Sunday doesn’t really know how this situation came to be. He was merely idling around the Express in search of something to pass the time until you took note of his predicament, swooping in like the graceful saviour you are (self-proclaimed by you).

Somehow, in some way, that brought you both to his room.

It’s times like these where Sunday wholeheartedly believes the most forward member of the Astral Express isn’t that racoon-like Trailblazer, but rather you instead.

Seriously. How are you not embarrassed by this… this compromising position you’re both in?! He can practically feel the radius in which the heat from his face permeates!

“Do you, like, have a care routine for them or something?” you ask while gently thumbing individual feathers, because obviously this is only affecting him and him alone. “I refuse to believe your wings are like this naturally.”

He knows he gave you permission to touch them, but it doesn’t change the fact his wings are still sensitive. Aeon knows what you would do with that information; well, assuming you haven’t already picked up on his reactions towards your… ministrations.

“I do have a routine. I go to great lengths pruning and trimming my feathers. More than that…” he trails off, opting to ignore your mumbled comment of “Wow… you’re just like a bird then…”. He coughs, averting his eyes from your intensely gentle gaze, raising a fist to cover his lips. “Are you this forward with everyone?”

You blink. Once, twice, thrice. Somehow, the action makes Sunday fluster even further.

A hum leaves you as your lips purse and your head tilts in thought. “Well, I wouldn’t say everyone, exactly. Just those I consider to be very close to me. Oh,” you begin, as though realising something, “does it bother you? I’m so sorry!”

No— wait— why are you apologising?

“I didn’t realise I was making you uncomfortable! Oh gosh, I did it again…!”

You make a move to scramble away from him. Is it your frantic and unfocused eyes, or perhaps this uncharacteristic side of your usual confident and unabashed self which makes his heart lurch?

“I’m so, so sorry! I’ll keep my distance from now on and—!”

He acts before he can think.

“No!”

There’s a surge of panic which shoots into him. It makes itself known in the raw strain of his voice, in the shaky wide-eyed stare at the thought of you leaving, in the trembling grip he has your arm in.

Really, Sunday doesn’t know what he’s panicking about. He just knows a part of himself would never forgive him for unintentionally pushing you away like this.

A gasp escapes him after a few tense seconds which felt much more like an eternity. With haste, Sunday tears his hand away from your arm. Despite that, he remains in close proximity to you, mustering the courage to look at you once more.

“I… I mean, no, you’re not making me uncomfortable.” Sunday prays you didn’t hear the stammer in his words. And, if you did, then he hopes you don’t bring it up. “If I were feeling as such, I would have told you outright.”

The silence is absolutely suffocating. Even so, Sunday doesn’t dare look away from your stunned expression, not even when he’s almost positive his face is about to melt off from the sheer heat radiating from him.

“Oh.” You blink, expression falling into that of neutrality. A nod of understanding is your next action; understanding of what? Sunday has no clue — he’s not sure he even wants to know. “So you’re that type, huh. I see now.”

Nevermind. Maybe he does.

“…What does that mean? Wait— [Name], come back here! Explain what ‘that type’ means! Are you listening?!”

Suffice to say, Sunday never received a verbal response from you. Only your cheeky grin before you left and a plethora of butterflies fluttering amok within his stomach are all that remains.

Yeah. Sunday didn’t know what to expect when joining the Astral Express; in fact, he still doesn’t know what to expect. Despite being thrown into the unknown, he finds himself thinking this situation to not be so bad after all.

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

#sunday x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #sunday x you #honkai star rail x you #hsr x you #honkai star rail imagines #hsr imagines

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