#candy apple red paint | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gutsby · 1 month ago

Text

Stupid Prizes

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Before you head back to college, your dad wants to go on one last family outing: the county fair. The only problem? Your secret fuckbuddy, Joel, is there.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky, unprotected p-in-v. Joel pining for you while your dad is beside him, oblivious for now. Semi-public sex (on a ferris wheel—don’t ever do that). Gross misuse of a candy apple. Age gap. Jealous Joel. Teasing. Angst(!) Mentions of infidelity/abandonment.

Word count: 10.0k

The gingham dress was your best idea yet.

For Joel, nothing could’ve been worse.

He’d cum down your throat no more than ten minutes ago, and with just a glimpse of your new getup bounding down the stairs—you’d had to change after he painted your last one white—Joel almost inhaled his Heineken.

He coughed and sputtered and hacked the beer back up while you strolled past the sofa and grinned at your dad.

“Ready to go, old man?”

It was just a short red frock with a sweetheart neckline.

The fabric cinched at the waist and flowed with every step you would take. Turning slightly to toy with the hem, and teasing the only eyes on you, you corrected yourself:

“Sorry…old men, I mean.”

Something like amusement flashed in Joel’s eyes.

Didn’t seem to mind this old man’s cock down your—

“I was born ready, kid,” your dad answered, still messing with something on his key ring, “How ‘bout you, Miller?”

“Yessir.” Joel stood.

He recalled you saying something similar before opening your mouth in the guest bathroom just fifteen minutes earlier. Joel’s cock twitched in his jeans at the memory, and his cheeks might’ve tinged a little, remembering how fast he’d cum. You’d only smiled and sucked your thumb, getting a taste of the residue that had missed your chest.

“Quite a mess you made there, Joel.”

And you repeated those words, at length, with only you and him to know what it had meant to you both before.

You gestured to the smattering of crushed potato chips on his shirt, and your grin got bigger. Joel grew redder.

“Yeah…” he mumbled, brushing the crumbs off his front. He wasn’t nearly as fast with the comebacks as he was with other kinds of comings and goings, and he knew it. He set the bag of Lays aside and seemed ready to leave.

But when he’d licked the salt off his lips and caught you staring—when he saw his friend go back to the kitchen:

“I had to be quick,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, “You know better’n anyone what a messy eater I am.”

Of course you knew that. Joel winked at you, and you winked back, mostly making fun of the boomer move. He reached for you—the edge of your skirt scarcely hanging a fraction of the way down your thighs—and he opened his mouth to speak again, when there was the sound of heavy boots at the threshold of the room. Joel leaned past your body and snagged the bag of chips instead.

“Food for the road?” He turned to his friend.

“All you,” your dad replied, smiling and waving the chips off as he went for the front door, “I swear your stomach’s a bottomless pit, man. Eatin’ me outta house and home.”

Joel looked at you when your dad was past you both.

House and home ain’t the only thing I’m gonna—

“Let’s go,” you chirped, fast, “I call shotgun!”

This would be a long, long day, no doubt.

The county fair had been his friend’s idea. One last day of ‘family fun’ before his little girl went back to school out East, and Joel hadn’t seen Bellville in years, so he’d asked him if he wanted to join. After a shared, brief stint in abstinence camp, the answer should’ve been clear:

‘NO.’

But Joel hadn’t learned very much from the Fireflies in the less than 72 hours he’d spent living—and also fucking you—there, so he’d nodded and said ‘Okay.’

Now you were twenty minutes out from the fairgrounds with a near-depleted tank of gas in the truck, obliged to make a quick pit stop at a Texaco. It was the first time he’d been alone with you since you’d set off from Austin. The second his friend was gone and headed inside to buy a pack of smokes, he heard a seatbelt come undone.

Earlier, he had raced you and beat you to the car to lay claim on the passenger seat, so you’d been in the back this whole time. He barely saw you before he felt you, climbing over the center console and then into his lap.

Straddling him while the Eagles played faintly overhead.

“Feel fucking insane not being able to touch you right now,” you huffed against his lips, kissing him hungrily.

Joel groaned. Felt your lower half grind into his. Almost rutted his hips up and yearned to have you seated on something other than just his denim-clad crotch when he sucked in a breath and remembered where he was. He nudged your hips and fisted the fabric in his hand.

“You in this dress ain’t helpin’ me either,” he growled.

You grinned against him, then hiked the red-and-white material up your legs a little more. Joel felt something like a shockwave when he saw what was underneath it.

Or, rather, what wasn’t there at all: your panties.

“Bathroom quickie?” you said, already breathless, “I’ll tell my dad I got cramps. I’ve been so wet this whole ti—”

“Darlin’.”

Joel’s eyes had drifted down to the place where your body and his were touching—rubbing—now. Even from this limited vantage point, he could see a glistening patch sticking from your bare seam to his jeans, and it was pooling on the fabric. Practically oozing out of your cunt while you rocked your hips and begged him please.

“Please, just one. I’ll be good the rest of the day, daddy.”

“Fuck,” Joel hissed.

His pupils were wide, and his mind was seriously considering it. Stupidly so, he reckoned; your dad was bound to be back any second, and surely you couldn’t both be gone for more than five minutes without raising suspicions. It was a reckless endeavor, he already knew.

And when he saw his old friend strolling out the front doors of the Texaco, his decision was made for him.

He watched you scramble off his lap and back to your seat, body quick and lithe and giggling the whole way.

“Gonna get me murdered, girl,” Joel panted, gruff.

Your own smile didn’t waver; you just settled back into the middle seat and let your gaze trail out the window, trying to fix your eyes on something to calm you down.

You already had the sense that nothing would. Your teeth bit your bottom lip between them to forestall the threat of another laugh while your dad approached the vehicle.

From the radio, ‘Life in the Fast Lane’ kept playing.

As old as they were, Joel Miller and your dad had a funny way of acting more like kids than you ever had, at any age. As your trio approached the wide, gleaming gates of the Austin County Fair, you saw your dad nudge Joel, and Joel shoved him back, and somewhere in the midst of all the ribbing, you heard your dad say, clear as day:

“If I’m takin’ a whole day off work, I’m gettin’ hammered.”

You knew by that tone this would an interesting afternoon, to say the least. You held your ticket tighter.

And for a moment, you wished you’d worn underwear. It’d been a split-second decision to peel them off before skipping downstairs, and it had worked well enough—Joel walking with a limp all throughout the parking lot and trying to shield the tent in his jeans—but now you were the one in greater danger still. Seeing your secret family-friend-with-benefits in his tight, light, heather grey shirt and jeans, hips adorned with a hefty belt and moving deliciously with each new step he took, you were transfixed. Left to watch him and gawk and grow wetter between the legs with every passing second, there was nothing you could do about it now. Likely sensing this, Joel raked a hand through his grey-flecked hair and hummed to himself. His bicep bulged through the sleeve.

“Nice little view, ain’t it?” he asked, nodding to the outline of a dozen shining rides and attractions ahead.

Go fuck yourself, Joel.

“Can’t wait to ride that.” You pointed to the ferris wheel, though the finger in your mind was aimed closer to him.

“Funnel cake,” your dad beamed, eyeing a nearby stand.

The three of you weren’t walking for much longer before he insisted on buying one. Joel had had a hankering for lemonade himself, so he’d fallen in line behind you and your dad. When it was your turn to order, you paused.

Then, pointing again:

“Can you get me one of those?”

You’d had to stand on tiptoes to see it inside the display, but from Joel’s own height, he was certain to have seen what you meant. While your dad shilled out the cash, not batting an eye, the man behind him clenched his jaw.

Candy apple, hon? Real fuckin’ mature.

Your eyes met his as soon as you’d turned, treat in hand.

I thought you liked seeing big things in my mouth, Joel.

He would’ve scowled if he wasn’t next in line—and your dad wasn’t walking so close behind, sniffing his food.

Joel ordered his drink, drank it fast, and found his thirst no better quenched than when he’d started. You’d sat across from him at the table and made sure of that.

You dragged your tongue up the sugar-coated apple just like you’d done to his shaft that morning and blinked, savoring the taste. Feigning innocence as he looked on.

And what else could he do? If not watch you, then peer at your father, furtively, and make sure he wasn’t able to see so much as a second of this little show you were putting on now. Joel glanced around you, too. No one else seemed to notice what was going on, even when your lips left a soft, sweet suction near the top of the apple, and he could’ve sworn he’d heard you moan.

It was just in his head. He was remembering how you’d done it that morning, mouth sinking down his length and whimpering when you’d reached the base. The way your eyes had watered, your free hand had reached between your legs, and your lips had welcomed him in; it was all burned in his memory, and not retreating any time soon.

Neither was the blood rushing to his dick, he reckoned.

You didn’t seem to care. Even when a bright pink river of spit and sugar trickled out of your mouth, you didn’t flinch. You let it slide down to your chin. Right before it reached the end of your face, and you were certain Joel’s gaze was glued to the spot, you licked a little bit of it off. You didn’t get it all in one go, so you shifted your snack to the other hand and then swiped your thumb under your lips. You brought it up to your mouth and sucked it, just like you’d done with Joel’s cum on it earlier that day.

Joel chucked his cup in the trash. Your dad took another bite of his deep-fried pastry and, talking between chews:

“That was fast.”

“Need’a stretch my legs,” Joel announced, abrupt.

He turned to you, and your thumb came out of your mouth. The frown on his face was unmistakable, though your father probably thought it was just from having to squint against the sun. Not because he was incensed.

Out for revenge.

“Ready to get wrecked, kiddo?” he asked you.

Your eyes widened, and your tongue quit licking.

What?

Then you saw him nod to some spot over your shoulder. You didn’t have the nerve to follow his gaze as he did.

Faintly, you could make out a smirk crossing his lips.

“Arcade’s over there. Unless you’re too scared.”

Your dad raised a dumbass, not a quitter.

You’d accepted Joel’s proposal without a second thought, and your father seemed pleased to have the chance to peruse the food stands and beer carts to his heart’s content. You’d set off quickly. Your candy apple was still in your hand when you saw your friend lean over.

Joel opened his mouth, and he took a big, angry bite.

“You’re insane,” he said after, words muffled by fruit.

You took your first steps inside the dark, cool building littered with machines and fun activities of every kind, and deep down, you were happy you’d had that treat. You took a bite yourself, then discreetly patted his ass through his jeans and told him, ‘Only for you, Miller.’

You weren’t sure why you’d said it. As soon as the words came out of your mouth, you regretted it, no matter how stupid and playful the message was meant to be read. But then Joel nudged you back—actually wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side.

His mouth was close to you, and you could feel the smile:

“Just how I like it.”

Your cheeks heated a little. You weren’t so fond of the intimate move—in public like this, even as dark as the arcade happened to be—but you couldn’t deny the flutter in your stomach. You swallowed the rest of your apple, and with it, any shred of emotion, or so you were hoping. You nudged Joel off of you under the guise of trying to point to something new, and his eyes followed.

“C’mon. At least pick something you’ve got half a shot of winning,” he said, swiftly. Sounding smug as he spoke.

You plodded on anyway, not hesitating at all.

“I’ve got more than half a shot,” you assured him, tone arguably twice as conceited, “Now if you’re scared—”

“You can’t use my own lingo against me, little girl.”

“Then nut up or shut up, old man.”

Joel scoffed. You chewed. The two of you approached the Skee-Ball machines with near identical looks of ambition and zeal, and sensing this tension wouldn’t dissipate with any more shit-talking, you got to work.

The first game was close. You beat him by less than ten points, and you guessed that that had been due in part to Joel’s own will. You saw him make more than two pitches so outrageously bad that you’d had to have guessed he was going easy on you. As soon as you felt that, you’d scowled. Pointed angrily at the scoreboard.

“You can’t just let me win, Miller!” you said, shrill.

Joel’s hands went up, and you knew he’d deny it all.

“No need to gloat, now, honey—”

“Fuck off,” you snapped, all while fighting back a smile, “Gimme your A game or don’t bother playing, honey.”

And he did.

The next game left you destroyed, roughly 900 to 320. You stepped back from the machine, feeling a frown start to form on your lips but knowing you’d asked for this, and just as Joel was about to lean in to offer a conciliatory hug, he had to stop. Both of you turned.

Somewhere behind you, you’d heard a voice.

It was young, male, and audibly amused.

“He really whooped your ass, huh?”

Your eyebrows raised as soon as you saw the source. Your scowl morphed into a smile, and your eyes were bright—too bright, almost. You ran over to hug the boy.

He was a boy, after all. Likely no more than half Joel’s weight soaking wet and wearing the biggest, dumbest grin that could only belong to a guy your age. He hugged you back, and his arms tightened around you. Comfily.

“Wade!” you gushed, squeezing him hard. You stepped back and looked him over, as if in shock, “It’s been…”

“Forever,” Too-comfy-cozy Wade finished for you.

Joel frowned.

“And here I thought you were gone away for good!” you laughed, “Went off to get that fancy Stanford degree—”

“—and you, in Boston—” the boy chimed in.

Before the reminiscing could go on much further, you remembered yourself and turned back to Joel. Still beaming as bright as you’d been when you first saw the kid, you gestured indistinctly, tongue-tied for a second.

“This— Joel, this is Wade Pritchett, one of my friends from high school,” you introduced him. Letting the two men—or, rather, mustached boy and muscled man—shake hands. Evidently, you were too stoked to notice.

“He moved out to Sacramento our senior year, and none of us thought— well, we— we figured we’d probably never see him again. Fuckin’ west coast hot shot he is.”

You smirked as you nudged his ribs, and something in Joel turned to month-old milk: sour, rancid, and heavy. His stomach turned inside him, and he hardly knew why. All he noticed was that he didn’t like the eyes you were making at him, and he hated the face Wade had for you.

Joel was just looking out for you, really.

You could do so much better than this douche.

“This is my friend,” you said to Wade, motioning back. Then, reconsidering just a second, “My dad’s friend.”

Joel didn’t like that.

Wade gave him a brief once-over and hardly seemed to see him at all. In that millisecond of a look, Joel saw it:

‘Old family friend. No worries there.’

Foolishly, Joel wished the chump could’ve seen what you’d been doing the night before—impaled on his cock and riding him as hard as your knees would allow you:

‘Daddy, please, daddy, daddy, daddy.’

“Joel?” Your voice cut in his mind like a knife.

Joel blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Okay if Wade joins?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

Not that it mattered now. Royal pain-in-the-ass Pritchett was already getting the machine next to yours set up.

Joel eyed him once more and tried to swallow his pride.

Somewhere along the way, it got stuck in his throat.

Three rounds was all he could take.

You on Wade, Wade on you—goading each other on in the most sly, flirtatious ways. Or maybe it was just Joel imagining that. Regardless, the man didn’t feel guilty at all when, at the conclusion of the third game, he’d tried to feign a casual tone and told you your dad would be expecting you back any minute, better wrap things up.

“He texted me like twenty minutes ago saying he’d be neck-deep in craft beer for an hour. I think we’re good,” you replied, and the indifference in yours didn’t have to be faked. You grinned at Wade, and Wade grinned back.

“Well, he texted me a second ago that he was holding a spot for us in line at the ferris wheel, so let’s roll, kid.”

That was a lie.

Joel didn’t like himself for doing it. But, again, he didn’t like Wade Pritchett even more, and he reasoned that he was doing you a favor, anyway. He searched for the exit.

“It’s alright, my mom’s probably looking for me, too.”

We get it, Pritchett. You’re a mama’s boy.

“Ah, okay.” You almost sounded sad.

Don’t be, baby. You’re daddy’s girl, remember?

Wade pulled you in for a hug; Joel wanted to deck him.

“I’ll be in town all week if you wanna—”

“I wish. My flight leaves tomorrow,” you cut in. Now your tone was really despondent. Your mouth was pouting.

It was just Joel’s eyes. He was seeing things. He was thinking you cared for this guy more than you probably ever did, and he was getting himself worked up over nothing. He clenched one hand into a fist by his side and waited for the anger to subside. Sadly, it was slow to go.

“Maybe we could…go out for drinks later or something?”

That suggestion didn’t make things any easier on Joel.

“I’d love to.”

Your reply didn’t exactly set his mind at ease, either.

At last, he decided he’d had enough. Turning on his heels, he bid a terse goodbye to shithead Pritchett and walked out of the arcade. He didn’t stop until he’d hit one of the bar carts your dad had been raving about outside.

He contemplated buying a drink. Maybe two. In fact, he’d just been eyeing three cans of Coors Light and was fishing for his wallet when he heard your voice again.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?” His tone was clipped.

If you felt it, you didn’t show it.

“Are we riding the ferris wheel or not?”

He probably should’ve given a verbal answer in the affirmative. Instead, he’d just nodded his head and started off the other way, expecting you to follow.

The walk was short. You’d had to weave through a sea of fairgoers, including schoolkids, college-aged drunks, and more than a fair share of loved-up couples, but that wasn’t too bad. Joel just ignored each one and didn’t stop until you’d reached the line for the ferris wheel.

Or what was left of the line, anyway.

Unlike what Joel had told you, there was no wraparound queue for you to join. Your father wasn’t there. Once you’d passed a look over the dozen-odd people waiting patiently for it to be their turn on the ride, you felt your stomach turn. Joel had never texted your dad at all.

“He’s not coming, is he?” Dispensing with the obvious.

Joel still wouldn’t look your way. He’d just sidled up behind the last people in line—a group of older folks who all seemed eager to get on the ferris wheel. You scoffed when you saw Joel’s expression harden, and you planned to turn away. Then the people up front started to move. For a moment, you were torn between telling him off and leaving him there. At length, you settled on saying, low:

“You lied.”

Joel followed the moving line, and a few more people started to trickle in behind you. Before you could even think to speak again, you were nudged ahead by the force of that crowd, and had only to keep glaring.

“Hey—” you hissed, only five steps away from the platform now. The ride attendant was scanning the line, appearing to count the people approaching the gate, and when his eyes landed on you, you made out a little grin.

“Aww, your daughter scared’a heights or somethin’?”

He’d said it to Joel, sounding cheeky. His teeth gleamed in the light of a hundred different neon bulbs, and you had to avert your face to keep from revealing its disgust.

So everyone else still thinks he’s my dad. That’s nice.

You couldn’t see Joel’s expression, but you imagined it looked the same. You shuffled ahead, reluctantly, and heard a lady behind you laugh; the sound had a tipsy lilt.

“My kid’s the same way—you’ll be fine, hon,” she slurred.

Heights aren’t the issue here, you’d wanted to snap back, for no other reason than your own disdain for Joel and the present situation. He walked in front of you, still refusing to meet your gaze, and soon you were perched on the platform, sandwiched between two semi-rowdy throngs of fairgoers with no clear means of escape. You crossed your arms and stared up at the back of his head. The look you gave him probably could’ve burned holes in his skull if irritation had been the means of achieving it.

You were seated on the ride in minutes. The compartment was surprisingly large, and its walls high, with glass on every side. Under a waning afternoon sun, the views you expected to see were bound to be pretty. All that was left to detract from its splendor was Joel— hunkered down opposite you and manspreading. Wide.

Sitting in total silence with his denim-covered legs split in a ‘V’. Watching you and rubbing one thigh, absently.

“You’ve got some nerv—” you started in.

“Yeah, no. No. That kid was gettin’ on my nerves—”

It amazed you how fast Joel was to return your words with a hostile quip of his own, anger flashing in his eyes.

“What’d he even do?! He’s my friend— my best friend—”

Fury flitted to something like discomfort, momentarily.

“Oh yeah? Just friends?”

“What the fuck does it matter to you?”

In your own expression, rage flared unchecked. You didn’t particularly care what Joel thought now if he was immature enough to act like this, and the walls of the compartment were thick enough to prevent anyone else’s hearing a word of it. The ride continued to rumble along, letting on new passengers with each new stop.

Joel might’ve paused. Could’ve stared out the window for all you knew—everything but the wheel itself seemed to be moving at lightning speed, and time was sliding.

“Because I— I— I give a shit, kid. I care.”

“And that makes lying to me alright?”

“I was just worried for your—”

“Bullshit. What would you need to be so worried about? Me playing Skee-Ball with an old friend and maybe getting drinks? You can fuck right off with that.”

Joel opened his mouth to speak, but he shut it when the ride suddenly jolted to a stop. It sputtered. Then, after a long, tense moment, it slowly ascended again. You took this lull in speech as your own chance to re-intervene:

“That’s not ‘care.’ Or ‘worry,’” you continued, words dripping with condescension, “That’s controlling.”

“Controlling?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Joel Miller always did.

“It’s not—”

“It is—”

“Protecting you from assholes like him—”

“—he’s not—and I never asked you to do that!”

“So I just sit by and watch him touch what’s mine—”

“I’m not yours, Joel!”

Your last words echoed through the car like a shotgun’s report. You’d said it with such force—so emphatic for him not to be mistaken in what this was, or whose you were—when you hardly even knew how you felt yourself. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that Joel knew only too well. The last time you two fucked, he’d begged the same: ‘Say you’re mine,’ and no matter how close you’d been to release at the time, you simply couldn’t say it. Now, clear-headed and mostly clothed, you still despised those words. Emotions. Uniquely juxtaposed with Joel’s jealousy over Wade, you’d never wanted to say it louder:

“I’m not yours, and I never will be. So just stop.”

More cruel.

“Are we clear?”

The car came to a halt near the top. When Joel still hadn’t deigned to answer, you leaned in closer.

“I said, are we fucking clear, Miller?”

Then you didn’t have to wait.

“I hear you.”

Of course he heard. His face was hard. His eyes were like two brown stones in the sockets, and the line of his mouth was tight. Whatever use you might’ve had in trying to decipher that look was ignored for the time being; you were still too angry. And, perhaps owing to this state—with a white-hot look fixed on him and your head full of blinding, bitter thoughts—you were more than susceptible to surprise. You jumped when you felt it.

Felt him with a hand moving from his leg to yours.

It went quick but was almost too ridiculous to fathom—how swift Joel was in reaching for you, hoisting you into his lap, letting your limbs straddle his hips with all the ease of old, welcome habits. It might’ve worked just as well, were it not for the tension in your legs. The short, sharp, ‘Joel’ and a look flitting out to either side of you.

“What?” he grunted.

You heard a fly unzip.

“We’re on a—”

Before you could finish, and as if to furnish the answer for you, the ride shuddered back to life. Its descent was slow, but any movement now made your stomach churn. It didn’t matter that most of the cabin was encased in metal, the rest semi-tinted plexiglass, or that your space was almost entirely shielded from the view of other cars—it was too much of a risk, as was everything with him.

Joel remained blind to it all. Your cabin came to a stop, still high in the sky, and then you felt him grip something between you. In one swift motion, he had the head of his cock rubbing your seam. You sighed; his eyes were cold.

“C’mon then…show me what ain’t mine,” he murmured.

His voice was low. You hated those words. This was more than just that. Your cunt slid and accepted him anyway.

For a second, your gaze was level with his. Your hips hadn’t stirred, and he was crawling inch-by-inch inside you, pulling you down. The act could’ve been intimate, had the words that passed before not been so harsh—and the place not been a fucking amusement park.

When the ride resumed its slow, rumbling circuit, he didn’t make your bodies part, but instead flipped you around. Your back was flush with his front, and by all appearances, you were innocently perched on his lap.

What the tens, or dozens, or hundreds of strangers ambling around down below couldn’t see was that a cock was nestled inside you, too. That with every gentle bump of the wheel, a man several decades your senior was filling you to the hilt, sending waves of pleasure through your body and his while he stuffed you tight. What your dad didn’t know was that this was his friend. That the nose nudging the skin between your sleeve and your neck belonged to Joel, and his breaths were short.

Trying to calm the flutter of his pulse and the pull of his lungs, he flattened his hands on either one of your thighs. He rubbed his palms back and forth, and you glanced down to find the insides of your legs extra shiny.

Slick, pretty, and full of him. He tilted your chin back up.

“Nice and quiet for daddy—nice and still. No squirmin’.”

He nudged your hips forward, and his cock brushed a wet, spongy ridge inside you. You had to purse your lips to swallow a noise. You felt your cunt drool even more.

The car swung low, in the line of sight of far too many eyes, and then it stopped again. You weren’t at liberty to move at all, and still, the feel of Joel inside you was raw.

Grating, almost.

It made the prospect of conversation seem the tiniest bit easier, though—forced to face away from each other and act civil now. Right before the ride started up again, you gripped the armrest and anchored your feet to his boots.

“Feels…good,” you whimpered.

“That so?” Joel murmured back.

“So—oh.”

Your words fell apart at the next brush of his hand, sliding down to your heat and taking his index and middle fingers to the precious, pulsing bud in between.

Soon the car was up at a comfortable height. You sighed.

Your legs pressed together over Joel’s, and you felt him rub the tips of his fingers even harder, circles tighter.

“I know,” he said, sensing your words before they came, “I know it feels nice, baby. Keep that chin up for daddy.”

Don’t let them know I’m inside you. Stay quiet.

But his girth was so much. The tug of his smooth, throbbing manhood between your walls was almost more than you could take. You laced the fingers of your free hand with his over your thigh, and you held them tight as your hips wriggled back. You couldn’t help it, feeling a welt of pleasure start to blossom in your belly.

“Joel—” you started.

“Don’t talk,” Joel grumbled, stern, “It’ll draw attention.”

You sensed there was more to it than that. Your fingers threaded even deeper through his, and he squeezed them back. Between your bodies, there rose a soft, gentle tap, tap, tap with the thrusts Joel was able to deliver now that you were back up high and out of sight. If there was any time to speak, this was your window.

Joel probably wished you hadn’t, but you tried, anyway.

“You know it’s been years since—”

“Since?”

Now you didn’t want to say it. But you knew you had to.

“Wade’s been my friend since—”

Another influx of something soft and tender inside you. Joel holding your hand, pushing himself deeper, and trying not to groan when you clenched around him. Hating that he had to hear that name, most likely.

You despised the words even more before you said them:

“—since my mom left.”

It was an awful time to be bringing this up, admittedly. Both of you on the brink of release with Joel’s cock buried as far inside you as it would go, his fingers entwined with yours, and the ride drifting lower.

And lower, lower, lower still. Joel’s breaths picked up.

The car shuddered to a halt almost halfway down. You didn’t have to see his face to picture it a little more rigid than it’d been before. He’d known your dad long enough to remember the time his wife had walked out on him.

“When we were, like, thirteen—” You continued, as if you needed to remind him of any of the particulars. Joel hardly knew you back then, though, “—he was my friend. Wade’s been one of my— my closest— he was there—”

You couldn’t be sure if it was the subject of discussion or simply how close you were to cumming that kept your tongue from forming a coherent string of words, but here you were. Joel’s grip on your hand had loosened, and the movements of his hips had slowed considerably. You hoped he’d be too lost in his own pleasure to care.

“I remember,” he returned quietly.

That was all he said for a moment. Out of habit, your legs parted more for his touch, and you whimpered, feebly, as the fingers kept circling your clit. The ride started again.

“You don’t have to—” And again, his voice was low.

“I’m not saying that as an— as an excuse or anything.”

You didn’t know why you were saying it at all. You just wanted Joel to know he didn’t need to be jealous. That Wade had been a friend through a dark and bleak season of your life, and that was all it had ever, or would ever, be.

While the car was still suspended in air, and the sights below all relatively small, you got the sense you’d have to deal with this budding bliss inside you a bit quicker than anticipated. Joel was all wordless encouragement. You almost wished you could’ve seen his face as he urged you to come undone, keep making yourself feel good, that’s it, cum for me, but frankly, it was probably for the best you couldn’t look him in the eye right now. Beyond just needing release, you wanted him to see you in a more vulnerable light than you’d ever been—facing away seemed the least painful position to have that happen.

With your fingers and his still interlaced and your hips moving a little more quickly, Joel could feel your pleasure soaking his jeans, and he pulled you down closer to him.

He nudged the back of your neck with his nose. He panted against it gently, tenderly. Then he kissed it.

“Don’t need’a say anything else, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

Under any other circumstances, an apology from a man would have been the last thing to send you over the edge, but today, you couldn’t help it. Just as the car started up again, you hit your peak with Joel still stuffed inside you, and you gripped his hand as hard as you could. You fought to keep the moans contained behind your lips, but it was hard—and Joel’s constant, tender caresses with his lips and fingers made it that much worse. He trailed kisses down your neck and shoulder and told you gently, ‘That’s it, good girl, that’s my girl.’

My girl.

Again.

You almost didn’t mind it being said this time around.

Almost.

In truth, you didn’t have half a mind to think much of anything in that moment. You just curled your toes and pressed your back into Joel while the warm, euphoric waves coursed through you, and you let yourself be content with what he’d said. Whatever he meant by it.

In the minute that followed, you sensed he was perilously close to finishing, too. So, as soon as you’d made it down from your high—and the ride, too, was circling back and making its way through the final cycles—you crawled off of Joel. You got on your knees. For the first time in what seemed like hours, you locked eyes with him; your mouth moved lower still. You’d barely latched your lips onto the head of his cock before he was shooting off rope after rope after rope of his cum. Warmth splattered down your tongue and throat, and you swallowed it all obediently.

You didn’t need to be told when the ride was over. You heard a buzz, felt it jolt, and, unfortunately for you and Joel, your car was one of the first to be let off. You had to hurry off your knees and back into your seat, across from your panting, silver-haired friend, just seconds before the door to your left swung open. You began to stand.

Joel followed you out. His spend was still stuck to your throat in some places, the scent of his skin and his stubble and his extra heavy load all fresh to your senses. You wiped one corner of your mouth and kept walking.

And it was in this state you remained another second or two. You were just about to take your first steps off the platform, mind floating over somewhere tranquil and warm, when your thoughts were presently interrupted.

Your steps, too, were cut short. Joel had stopped you.

Then he grabbed your face, and he kissed you.

Your world froze a moment. You didn’t have time to think, or react, or even kiss him back, so you just stood there and let him hold you to him. It was over in a blink.

And one glance over Joel’s shoulder after he did it, to the ride attendant and nearly every last person in line, said they were just as stunned. Some sick, by the looks of it.

‘He’s NOT my dad!’ you wanted to yell, out of habit.

Seeing the eyes Joel had fixed on you—the smile that followed—their suspicions didn’t matter to him at all.

You walked off together, still considering those words:

My girl.

A month wouldn’t be so bad. Two was tolerable, even.

The next few hours spent with Joel made it seem like you could go a year or longer without seeing his face, and nothing between you would change too much.

He was a friend. A good friend. Not just your dad’s old companion, but your own. Whatever else was left beyond that could be explored down the road, but for now, you were content to just let him hold your hand in places you weren’t likely to be seen, and kiss you in those he hoped your dad wouldn’t be. Maybe fuck you on a ferris wheel.

At the thought of going back to college tomorrow, not seeing him again until Thanksgiving or Christmas at the earliest, you didn’t feel too sad. You did get an extra burst of yearning when Joel’s hands would find your hips and push you off to some shaded, semi-discreet area and he’d tell you, softly, ‘I don’t know what I’m gonna do without ya, kid’ before kissing you with a hunger all over again. That made you think you might miss him a little.

You’d warned him not to lie to you again. He promised he wouldn’t. You believed him, at least as far as your general mistrust of men would allow, and you had left it at that.

Now the tips of his fingers were brushing your own, and his mouth was grinning—coated in all sorts of sauces from the barbecue you two had been devouring. It was approaching six o’clock. He held the last Carolina-style pulled pork slider up to you, and you shook your head.

“I’m stuffed,” you said, pained.

Really, you were. You and Joel had decided to join in on the fair’s 25th annual BBQ and Chili Cook-off an hour ago, and now your stomachs were suffering immensely.

You made a face in disgust when he tried to push it closer, ‘Joel, I’ll projectile vomit if you don’t— don’t—’

You squealed when he leaned in, thinking he was planning to smush the patty in your face—you’d done that to him with some coleslaw not too long ago—but instead, he dropped the burger. He pressed what non-sticky parts of his hands he could get on your face and, cupping your cheeks between his palms, he kissed you.

Then he kissed you again, and again, and again.

This time, it felt more like an attack. Not an attempt at being affectionate, which he’d shown himself amply capable of all day, but really just a way to smear your lips and chin with sauce and get you extra pissed off at him.

It worked. You bit his lower lip at the last kiss.

And, instead of wincing in pain or biting you back, Joel surprised you by groaning a little bit against your mouth. His grip loosened from your face, and he leaned back.

‘Behave’ was all he said. Smirking.

If any one of Joel Miller’s quasi-fatherly lectures had ever met with success before, this would not be one of them. You only rolled your eyes and were about to reply with some variant of ‘Make me’ when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out to see the new notification.

Nothing more than a reminder to check in for your flight. But that sight also roused some awareness in you that it was just then starting to get late, and you hadn’t heard a word from your father in hours. You and Joel had been extraordinarily fortunate that day in hearing that your dad happened to run into some friends at the livestock show, and had been occupied—plastered, most likely—ever since. You hadn’t thought to question it before, just happy to have your dad out of your hair for the afternoon, but now that it was late and all the shows were long since over, you had to wonder if it wasn’t time to shoot him that text. Bring your last happy, fun-filled night with Joel for the next two months to an end, and head home.

You started to send him a message. Joel peered over your shoulder, absently wiping his hands on a napkin.

“He said he was headed over to a concert last time we talked. Some band he likes,” he hummed, “Wanna go?”

You weren’t too keen on seeing the likes of any Creed-adjacent artist your dad so loved to listen to himself, but if it gave you an excuse to stretch your time with him and Joel, you didn’t mind. You nodded, then deposited your phone back into your pocket. You were just about to stand when Joel held you back. He’d snagged your hand.

“Hang on, ya got a little—” he said, soft. Then he lifted his napkin and started wiping at the sides of your mouth. His motions had all the crude, brute force of a man who’d never wiped a person’s face before—he seemed more concerned getting the vinegar-based glaze off your cheeks than impressing you with how tender he could be—but the gesture was received well enough. For once, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes and just smiled.

“You’re taking me to the airport tomorrow, right?”

“Long as it’s alright with your dad.”

“You could spend the night, too.”

Joel paused. He flitted a look from your lips to your eyes, then, finding a sly playfulness in both, only hummed. Stopped wiping long enough to kiss you on the cheek.

“We’ll see—”

“I’ll be real good—”

“Oh, I bet you won’t.”

But by the end of it, Joel was grinning too. He didn’t protest when your lips returned the favor from his, and they left an equally sweet and clean kiss on his cheek.

He didn’t bat an eye when your hand slid up his leg either. He just squeezed yours back and helped you up.

“Gonna get me murdered, I’m tellin’ you,” he murmured in your ear as you stood, just like he’d said to you earlier.

You figured if he’d had his pick of ways to risk his life, sneaking into your room tonight wouldn’t be the worst possible option. You threw your trash away and started off for the entertainment pavilion, following the music.

It was almost like you could feel Joel contemplating whether to sling his arm over your shoulder while you walked. Not once, but twice did his fingers twitch beside him, and he looked around you both from side to side. He decided against it, at length, and contented himself instead to just nudge your elbow and tell you that he liked that dress a lot—he hoped you would wear it again.

Come up for a football game, and you might see it then, you’d urged him back. The red of your dress wasn’t quite the perfect match for your school’s hundred-year-old crimson and black color scheme, but that was alright. You’d bend the rules for him. The two of you were just approaching the outskirts of a big, noisy crowd when Joel was about to respond. Your eyes glazed over a sea of people, surprised by its size, when you cut back in:

“We’re never gonna find him in here.”

Joel assessed the crowd. Checked his phone. Heard the wail of a guitar from somewhere up at the front and instantly surmised this was a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band—and that your dad wouldn’t leave until he’d heard every song. Silently, he kicked himself for suggesting coming to look at all. He could’ve taken you on a few more rides, filled your overstuffed belly with a little more cotton candy, popcorn, or ice cream, if you’d been up for it, but instead, you were obliged to find your old man. It wouldn’t have been awful if it wasn’t so hot and—

“Hey,” Joel broke in, before he could think.

His eyes had landed on a person—a pair—in the crowd that you hadn’t seen, and his heart clenched in his chest.

You’d barely tilted your head to him, “Yeah?”

“We should go,” he told you. He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out so rushed, or strained, but it was.

He couldn’t help it, especially when your gaze had shifted fully to him. Your eyes searched his, curious.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I…” Joel trailed off, looking around. Scrambling to procure an excuse of some kind, “I gotta…go piss.”

“Then piss. I’ll wait here,” you replied.

You didn’t get it. Really, there was no way you could. You hadn’t yet seen the short-sleeve, turquoise-colored PFG shirt at the back of the crowd, the beaming face Joel spotted above it. You hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the man’s profile, much less the full, wide smile on his face, the beer in his hand, or the woman by his side. She was either laughing, or singing, or nudging his hip. They looked happy. And yet, you shouldn’t see it.

Joel would kiss you—that was it. It would be the riskiest thing he’d done, but at least it’d save you from seeing.

So he tried. Joel leaned in and ventured to press his lips to yours, gripping your face, but the second he did, you pushed him away. Your eyes were wide. Cheeks heating.

“What the hell, Joel?” you hissed, “Dad could be—”

Your gaze darted to the side, and then you stopped.

The eyes grew wider. Your lips stayed the course, as if to keep going, but no sound came out, and all that was left of your mouth was a round, stunned ‘o.’ You blinked, like you couldn’t believe it: the two people were kissing now.

Joel reached for your arm, but you were far too fast. You shot off to get away, toward them, and didn’t stop until you’d made it to the edge of the crowd where they stood. The music was loud, the audience was rowdy, but still, even at a distance, Joel could hear you as clear as day:

“Dad?!”

The man and the woman split as quickly as they could.

You were standing there, watching them watch you in utter shock for a second or two. Joel wasn’t counting, but he did find himself next to you before he could blink. He was reaching for your arm again, then stopping. Looking to his friend, whose gaze was plastered on his daughter with all the markings of awe. Embarrassment.

“Honey—” he started.

“What the fuck is this?”

Bad question. Terrible timing. Joel knew what it was—clearly his friend knew it too, but you weren’t supposed to find this out yourself for at least another month or two. That was what he’d told Joel back then, anyway.

“Sweetheart, this is my—this is Helen.”

You looked like you wanted to be sick.

“I know who she is!” you spat. You waved an angry, inarticulate hand in Helen’s direction. Helen looked away.

“Why don’t we go someplace quieter?” That was Joel, cutting in over the thumping bass and the strain in the air like he might’ve been a father to you himself. Wanting to shield you from what was coming next if he could help it.

Once more he reached for you, and still inflamed, you shoved him off. Your eyes were too hurt to turn away.

“What? This is y—your—” you started back, stammering.

“We were going to tell you, honey, I swear.”

In all the years he’d known him, Joel had never seen his friend look so contrite—or fucking moronic. The man had ditched his beer, was wringing his hands trying to pace a little more carefully your way while he spoke, but you weren’t having it. Or anything, really. When Joel brushed his touch against your elbow the slightest bit, about to murmur words low in your ear, like, ‘We’ll talk. C’mon,’ you’d jerked your arm away from him entirely.

He didn’t need to see your face to hear the pain in:

“Fucking stop, Joel!”

That caught your father off-guard. He didn’t hesitate before he cut back in, looking more pointedly at you.

“Hey. You don’t talk to your Uncle Joel that way,” he said, sharp. Joel winced. He went on, “I’m the one who told him not to say anything, okay? Now just calm down—”

And whatever effect his friend had intended to produce created just the opposite in you. Instead of focusing on your dad, your eyes shot to Joel, and in an instant, your body was turning. Your face was half-hatred as you did.

“You knew?!”

“Honey, I told him—” your dad tried saying.

But your look was too enraged. Your jaw was too tight. Your mouth could barely form the words you wanted to say, and your eyes were like two bloodied daggers. Joel was amazed you could speak a syllable at all, but when he heard it, he got a sense for why that was. He had to.

“You knew?”

You were hurt.

When you left, he followed. He wasn’t sure what he’d bothered saying to your father as he did, but it sounded like an excuse—‘It’s fine. I’ve got her.’ He didn’t, though. You were gone quicker than he could turn around, and by the time he’d made it far enough away from the crowd to yell your name, you were too removed to hear it. He saw the top of your head through a whole new cluster of strangers, and he yelled it again. You kept walking.

Joel was fast, but you were adept, all things considered. You slipped through the crowd with ease and gained more and more distance than he could attain in twice the time. Joel bit the inside of his cheek and kept going. He didn’t reach you until you were approaching the front gates, when he called out for you again, out of breath.

You probably wouldn’t have turned if you’d had a choice. But as it was, you were up against a bottleneck effect of more people trying to leave than the exit could fairly handle at once, and everyone at the back was at a standstill. Your jaw tightened when he said your name.

“Darlin’— hey— baby, just let me—” Joel had weaved his way around your neighbors, but the area was cramped.

You didn’t move. Your gaze was trained elsewhere.

“—explain. Let me explain, and I promise, I didn’t—”

The line shifted forward, and you moved with it. Your body was turned; while you kept walking, shuffling, Joel earned a few uneasy looks from the people around him.

“I didn’t mean—” he forged on.

But as soon as he reached for you, he knew he’d overstepped. Confirming every onlooker’s suspicion that you didn’t want to be disturbed, you snatched your arm away, and your eyes flared with anger. You faced him.

“Fuck you.”

Before he could reply:

“Leave me the hell alone, Joel.”

And, while the words were still fresh on your tongue and no one else tried stepping in themselves, you walked off.

You left him again—for what other place, Joel wasn’t sure. You just made off the other way, breezing past carts and stands and now-shuttered booths and more faces than either one of you could count. You kept walking until you found an open space a tolerable distance away from all the noise, then went further.

Your face was fixed in a hard, immutable stare when Joel approached you again. The look behind your eyes was worse; he could tell in a second you were about to cry.

“Darlin’—”

“You knew this whole time,” you said. Seething.

“I didn’t—”

“My dad’s been dating the woman he cheated on my mom with and you didn’t think to fucking tell me?!”

“I thought—”

“Not ONCE?! Huh?” you screamed it this time, “Known you my whole goddamn life and you hide that from me?”

Joel winced. He knew the tears were coming before they even filled your eyes, but the sight still made him hurt. You wouldn’t let him near you, either. You just shook your head and swallowed a lump and blinked hard, and he felt stupid. Whatever favor he’d thought he was doing your father—and you—seemed infinitely small to him now.

That knot you’d tried pushing down in your throat kept you silent for a minute. Joel opened his mouth to insert a word or two himself, but then you looked keen to keep hold of the conversation, no matter how much it hurt, and you were starting again. Blinking harder. Hating it.

“She’s the reason mama left,” you said, hoarse, “Helen was her best friend, and then she went and— and— and— fucked my dad, and because of that, I didn’t have a family for half my fucking adolescence. You knew that.”

Another beat. Joel’s own throat constricted considerably as he considered his next words, but there was no need.

“You saw how much I hated my father, and her, and myself for years, thinking there was something just…wrong with me not being enough to make her stay. And you knew all that, and you still kept it a secret from m—”

“I know, baby. I shouldn’t have kept it from you, I know.”

He’d also known your dad was in the wrong. That hadn’t stopped Joel from trying to rationalize his friend’s actions while they happened: it was a one-time hookup with Helen, then a casual, no-strings deal that the man only indulged when he was feeling extra lonely, then a thing, a relationship of two, three, six months now. Joel had known all along what kind of profound ramifications these decisions would have if you were to ever find out. But his friend wasn’t so easily swayed from old habits, and Joel couldn’t stomach having to break it to you.

Then the roadtrip from Boston happened.

You seemed to be remembering the same.

“Was fucking me a way to make yourself feel better?”

Your words had never struck Joel with more deliberateness or force. He croaked ‘No’ in a moment. You took a step back, and there came the look again—more spiteful than before and repulsed to its core.

“Is that why you offered me a ride back in the first place? Just felt guilty for all the stuff you knew my dad was—”

“No. No, no, honey, I would never, ever—”

“Then why hide it?! Why all this? Why bother?”

You gestured between his body and yours; you didn’t seem to know what you meant. Your cheeks were wet with tears. You had to scrape your palms down your face, sniffling and struggling to clear your own vision, but the efforts appeared to be in vain. You couldn’t stop crying.

“For you,” Joel said, and he hated the way his own voice was splintered. He didn’t know how to make it better, “You were off at school when it started, then— then Boston. Just thought it’d be safer…for you…for us—”

Somewhere in his brain, he’d meant to say that he didn’t want the news of your father to hurt you, or else jeopardize a shred of something Joel had had with you.

It was stupid. Your instantaneous reaction said as much.

“Us?!”

Joel blinked. The eyes across from his were alight.

“Us, Joel?! Are you fucking kidding me? There is no us.”

Their brilliance wasn’t appreciative by any means. If anything, the words made the flow of your tears even worse. You pressed your hands to your face, rubbing your cheeks and trying to shield your eyes, and saying again, ‘There is no ‘us,’ Joel, that’s not an excuse—you knew!’

With his insides in knots, Joel wanted to hold you again. You were still in pain, and your scowl wouldn’t move, and when he tried to touch you, you stepped back in disgust.

He knew better than to think he could reach you now.

“Whole thing was a mistake,” you spat, unfeeling.

“Baby—”

“You and me. Dad and Helen.”

“You don’t mean—”

“Anything you need to keep a secret probably isn’t worth keeping at all, right?” And when you said it, he could tell you’d meant it to hurt him. As if the tears and the time and the sheer resignation in your eyes didn’t say enough.

Now Joel felt an ache in his bones, worse than it’d ever been, and he still couldn’t touch you. Where the heart demanded comfort of a kind you couldn’t give, the head knew better than to ask, and his hands fell limply at his sides. He saw you cry and had only himself to blame.

You turned back to the fairgrounds’ exit. The crowd was as big as it had ever been, but anywhere away from him seemed to be as welcome as anything else, Joel guessed

He’d try something stupid. Again. Even more desperate.

Never in his life had he said the words to someone else, and he sensed it wouldn’t do a thing to change your mind right now, but he’d say it anyway. If not to extricate himself, to let you know what he felt beyond every thing that had taken place tonight. He reached for you again.

“Darlin’, I lov—”

But before the words could register with you, the simple act of pressing his fingers to yours made you blanch. You hadn’t heard him at all, and seemed only concerned with jerking yours away as fast as you could, then shrieking:

“I HATE YOU, JOEL!”

Then you choked back a sob, trained your glossy gaze on him in one last pitiless look, and left him. He didn’t move. He didn’t try to. Sights and sounds and the ground underneath him seemed apt to swallow him whole, and still, he couldn’t move an inch. Somewhere ahead of him—too serendipitous, really—he heard you call a name.

Of course, it wasn’t his. You weren’t running to him.

It wasn’t Joel in the crowd making its way out the gates. It wasn’t him standing a little ways off to the side, eyes wide and confused as he watched you rush over. Almost stumble over yourself falling into his arms and hugging him, burying your face in his chest. Joel watched it all with a raw and hollow heart and wished it were him.

But it was Wade.

Wade hugged you back and held you close, and the look on his face was too bewildered and distraught for Joel to blame him. He hadn’t been the one to hurt you. Joel had.

He watched you leave.

There was nothing more to say.

#HAHAHAHAHAHAHAi’mgonnashitmyselfHAHAHA #dbf!joel you will always have a special place in my heart #and my *****#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller #joel miller fic #joel tlou

1K notes · View notes

twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 11 months ago

Text

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

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

word count; 4.6k

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

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

”holy shit!”

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

”satoru, it’s too early for this...”

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

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

(snowing.)

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

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

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

it’s beautiful.

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

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

the first snow of the year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”never.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what more could a man want?

”hey, idiots!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

suguru sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(i'm sorry, you big baby.)

satoru grins.

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

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

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

”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”

”and don’t play dumb, either.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

”hmph.”

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

and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again.

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

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

(married.)

sometimes he still can’t believe it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”

”— you’re disgusting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

”… santa can only do so much, baby.”

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

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

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

”of course not! blasphemy.”

a moment passes.

”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

he hopes it never goes away.

#genuinely fucked up that suguru geto isnt in my kitchen rn </3 #i just think sugu is such a caretaker. makes u breakfast and peels ur satsumas w/o u even asking. bc it makes him happy :’3 hes so Mother #i think he lowkey gets just a little bit uncomfortable when u or gojo try to do the same for him… he likes doting on u #but obv he deserves to be pampered too!! just gotta ease him into it #and i think gojo has a hole in his heart where love should be. bc he wasnt given enough as a child #im not sure what to think when it comes to his parents (since we know literally nothing abt them) but...#the idea of him finding some comfort in the memory of his mom…. maybe not realizing that he misses her…..… i think its very sad. and good.#listened to ricky montgomery while writing this i think it mightve healed me #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo x reader #geto x reader #geto x reader x gojo #gojo fluff #geto fluff #satosugu x reader #satosugu x you #satosugu x y/n #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #……… thats… a lot of tags.

4K notes · View notes

thebestsetter · 2 months ago

Text

He was born to be by your side. It was his greatest desire, what he was meant to do. It's like being next to you came naturally to him, and he can't even remember how his life was before he met you. But what he can remember are the days you both spent together. Ridiculous conversations that, somehow, made so much sense to the both of you. So random, but yet holding so much meaning.

You were both laughing so hard. Walking by the shore, hand in hand. The sunset painting the sky with red and orange. Beautiful. So, so beautiful.

"When we grow up, we'll have a house by the beach" you said, swinging your arms together

"Says who?"

"Says me!"

He grabs your sun hat and puts it on his head, earning a small "Hey!" from you.

"And then we'll buy a cotton candy machine and make lots of cotton candies." He completes your thought while taking the final bite of his popsickle. You clean the side of his mouth (which was all smudged from the cold treat) and smile.

"Yeah, we can do that too."

You used to talk about your future a lot. More than the average couple, actually. Sometimes, you both reunited at your favorite cafeteria just to talk about life. How it was gonna be. How was gonna be your life together.

"A caramello cappucino with apple pie and a mint and chocolate milkshake, please" you said, and just hearing his typical order coming out of your mouth made him smile. Somehow, knowing you memorized his order made him happier than he could put into words.

After he paid (of course, he can't let you pay for your snacks. What kind of man would he be?) you both went to sit on a table right beside a window (you always loved looking out a window while talking, and he knew that. He knew you like the back of his hand). And like you couldn't handle the sound of silence, you started talking (and he'd never complain about it: he loved hearing you talk)

"We can have 3 kids, how about that?"

"I don't like odd numbers. Why not 4?"

"4 is too much" you said, sticking your tongue out and frowning your eyebrows (you looked so cute) "We can have 2, if the problem is odd numbers"

"2 is too little" he argued, and then sighed jokingly "Okay, fine, we can have 3"

You smiled, taking a sip from your milkshake

"Maybe after the third one, we can consider having a fourth, if you'd like"

And you knew he wanted to. Of course he did. He wanted to form a big, happy family with you. He wanted his future to be by your side. He couldn't picture a future without you. Which is why it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.

"What's your favorite color? Mines yellow"

It hurts. He hates this. He hates this shit so freaking much. His heart feels like it's breaking, and his lungs are gasping for air. He can't look at his date without feelong absolutely sick, like he could literally throw up at the very moment. He can't help but think of you. How you were already talking about how many kids you'd like, and now he's back on the "knowing each other stage". It was so strange not seeing you.

"I'm sorry, please excuse me"

He can't spend a single minute here anymore. He's on the verge of dying, he's sure. And as if his body already knows exactly what makes him feel better, his feet take him to your house without him realizing.

His hand hovers upon the door, ready to knock on it. Life without you is meaningless. He needs you. He loves you. He loves you so fucking much.

"HHAHAHA Stop it!! Love, I swear, tickle me one more time and I will... HAHAHAHA"

He lowers his hand and walks away.

He loves you, that's why he's letting you go. He needs to let you go for your own good. You need to get over him (even though he's sure he'll never get over you)

He can't do this to you. Not when your new boyfriend treats you so well. Not when he fucked everything up. Not when he was the reason why you two broke up. He doesn't deserve you. He always knew you were too good for him. But now, he's doing you this favour to repay you for all the times you helped him. He's not going to disturb you.

Well, back to the talking stage, it seems.

GOJO SATORU, MEGUMI FUSHIGURO, CHOSO KAMO, Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, TSUKISHIMA KEI, Kageyama Tobio, Oikawa Tooru, KUROO TETSURO, TODOROKI SHOTO, Bakugou Katsuki, Aizawa Shota (kinda???), SHINSOU HITOSHI, RIN ITOSHI, SAE ITOSHI, BACHIRA MEGURU, Chigiri Hyoma, KUNIGAMI RENSUKE, REO MIKAGE + any character you think fits this!!

~ A/N: not proofread!!

Masterlist

744 notes · View notes

mostly-imagines · 4 months ago

Note

but who’s the better husband: jay or dick?

18+ content below

apples, oranges…it’s all about preference babey

dick is a traditionally romantic kind of husband. buys you fresh flowers every week, insists on carrying all the groceries inside himself (all in one trip btw), opens doors for you and pouts when you beat him to it, lays you down and eats you out proper when he gets home from work. he loves to spoil you when you least expect it, taking you out on surprise dates or paying for you to get your nails done after a long day. he likes to constantly remind you and anyone that’ll listen that he’s your husband and that you’re his wife. really wouldn’t shut up about it after you’d first gotten married. i think deep down he’s a white picket fence kind of guy and he’d save up the whole time you’re engaged (and honestly for a while before that) to buy a nice little house for the two of you. you painted the walls together and he moved the furniture and decor around wherever you wanted. you start up your own little traditions as time goes on. on the last friday of every month you and dick experiment with new recipes, usually baking per his request. more than half the time it ends up inedible and quite literally falling apart, but you value the flour fights and post-taste testing messy kisses more than the leftovers or lack thereof. you like to handout candy on halloween to the neighborhood kids together and tidy up the house together when it’s needed.

jason’s main priority as a husband is making sure that you’re taken care of. he’d give you everything he possibly could and would find a way to compensate for what he couldn’t. he’ll get you the prettiest ring you’ve ever seen and he has a thing about holding your hand and watching it shine in the light. jason really is mr. domesticity and he would straight up build you a house. it would be a big plot of land, pretty isolated with trees all around. it’s probably like 30-45 minutes outside of gotham and well out of the typical range of danger. he’s more than happy to help you fill it with babies of your own and anything you could have dreamed of having when you were little. forever night owls, you’re prone to midnight parties with just the two of you and moonlight walks around the property. not to mention, he absolutely loves having a whole house worth of space to fuck you wherever and whenever he wants—it’s opened you up to a lot of new experiences. i also honestly think he would give up being red hood to settle down with you, at least for the most part. he’ll still suit up to help when there’s bad emergencies in gotham or his brothers need his help but he’s like 80/20 retired.

#for me personally #jason is probably my ultimate cup of tea #dick grayson thoughts™#jason todd thoughts™#dick grayson is obsessed w his gf #jason todd loves his gf #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader

980 notes · View notes

lovebugism · 1 year ago

Note

Ok but what about Eddie dating a reader who snores and the gang is like wtf but he finds it cute.

ty for requesting anon! this is dedicated to everyone who gets sleepy at 5pm like i do hahah — eddie's girlfriend falls asleep during movie night and it's a big deal in the sweetest way (sleepy gf!reader, established relationship, 1.4k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

A masked serial killer slaughters a group of pretty teenage girls. Their screams are high-pitched and painfully artificial. The murderer’s chainsaw is way too loud and far too dramatic a weapon. The bright red blood splatters across the baby pink bedroom in several obnoxiously vivid splotches.

Eddie Munson has never been more grateful to be alive in the golden age of slasher films — the absolute peak of godawful cinema.

He turns to the pretty little thing dozing on his shoulder and grins quietly to himself.

You’re the purest essence of beauty in all forms, but especially compared to the barbaric horror flashing across the television screen across the room. In the darkness, the neon glow paints you in varying shades of blue, green, and dark red.

You’re so pretty it hurts.

Eddie didn’t think he could love anything more than dumb slasher movies. Not until he met you, anyway.

“Tired?” he whispers to you when your lashes flutter across the apples of your cheeks.

It’s hardly seven o’clock — the sun has just barely set over the horizon — and more than anything, the tiny trailer is filled with fake screams and faker blood. Most people would be too horrified to be so drowsy. Not you, though.

Everyone’s always admired your relationship with sleep, but maybe just a little extra now.

Your features are blurry with the longing of slumber. They scrunch in refusal when you shake your head, cheek rubbing against the soft cotton of Eddie’s thrifted tee. “No,” you hum with a softness that says otherwise. “‘M just cozy…”

Everyone knows what that’s code for.

All the gang was over for movie night — some more begrudgingly than others (Steve, namely). The brunette boy shares a side eye with Robin on the other side of the couch before both of them turn to look at you.

Lucas sits on the floor and stuffs his face with popcorn, which he almost chokes on when he laughs. Max giggles at the boy in response from where she’s sandwiched between him and Dustin.

Each of them can practically count down the seconds until you’re fully asleep.

You inhale once — deeply, sharply. The curly-haired boy turns his wrist to check his watch.

“7 p.m…” Dustin observes with raised brows. He nods to himself like he’s impressed. “That’s gotta be some kinda record, right?”

“I’m pretty sure she was out by six when we were at Steve’s yesterday,” Robin tells him as she leans over Lucas’ shoulder for the popcorn bowl he’s holding hostage.

“Full on snoring by six-thirty,” Steve concurs through a mouthful of candy. “And her legs were on my lap, too, so I couldn’t move for, like, two hours.”

“What about last movie night?” Max questions with pinched brows. “I’m pretty sure she was asleep before it even started.”

Lucas shakes his head. “She was just napping, right? I’m pretty sure she woke up, like, halfway through.”

Dustin nods — the official connoisseur of you and all your sleepiness. You had been asleep by the time Steve turned The Outsiders on, but your internalized love for Dallas Winston had woken you part of the way through.

“It had to be scrubbed from the records,” the boy explains like it’s something a whole lot more official than you just being tired. “It only counts if she stays asleep.”

“What if her eyes are closed, and she’s using your arm as a pillow, and you don’t have any feeling left in your fingers?” Robin questions with narrowed eyes, recounting the events from the last movie night in question. “What about that?”

“Still doesn’t count,” Dustin shakes his head with a feigned sympathy.

Eddie listens to them with a distant smile on his face. They’re not making fun of you exactly, just noticing all your little idiosyncrasies that he loves so much. It’s what makes you you — the quiet, sleepy girl that’s all but the glue of the group.

If you’re somewhere else when everyone’s all hanging out together, and not snoozing on someone’s shoulder, something just doesn’t feel right.

“Isn’t she the fuckin’ cutest?” the boy muses amidst the light-hearted banter, the horror movie long forgotten.

His bright smile and twinkling eyes are met with a group of deadpanned stares.

It isn’t because you aren’t cute, because you are. Why else would Robin and Steve let you use them as pillows even after their appendages have long gone numb? You’re like a cat sleeping on their stomach — it’s too much of an honor to wake you.

Their dumbfounded gapes are more so a result of Eddie’s adoration for you. Because you’re you, and Eddie’s… Eddie.

You’re polar opposites.

You’re quiet and sweet and gentle, and Eddie’s never been any of those things once in his life.

You’ve brought out a softer side of him — one that none of them thought a brash metalhead like him could ever have. He talks to you far sweeter and far more gently than he’d ever speak to the rest of them. Mostly because he knows you get spooked too easily and that you always wince whenever people yell. And his PDA is an innocent kind, full of held hands and forehead kisses and boops to the tip of your nose.

Eddie Munson is so soft for you that he lets you drool on his shoulder and unknowingly steal all the covers from him when you fall asleep during movie night.

He’s so far gone for you that he’ll let you drag him to bed when most people his age are heading out to party for the night — just so you can drool on him and take all the covers from him in his bedroom, where you can sleep more comfortably than on the couch.

It’s all so sweet, it’s downright disgusting.

“It’s gross how in love the two of you are,” Steve monotones, the only one brave enough to say it out loud even though they’re all thinking it.

“I know,” Eddie affirms with a wide grin. “It’s amazing, huh?”

They all grumble under their breaths about it, obviously not as mushy with adoration as he is.

It isn’t his fault they’re miserable because they don’t have their own soulmate who gets tired at 5 p.m. and snoozes on their shoulder accordingly. They’d be a lot less crabby if they had someone like you to gush about.

Not you, though. ‘Cause you’re his and everything. But someone just like you, maybe.

Everyone dissipates when the credits of the movie start to roll — either to get more food, or use the bathroom, or stretch their aching limbs.

Eddie stays unmoving. He doesn’t want to wake you up.

You begin to rouse on his shoulder, shifting as you wake with a deep inhale-exhale. Your eyes flutter slowly open, and through the haze of sleep, you notice the empty living room and the scrolling names on the television screen.

“’S the movie over?” you question, slurred with the heaviness of slumber.

Eddie nods lazily against the couch.

He’s about as tired as you are now, with his legs cocked up on the coffee table and his head lolled back against the cushions. “Yeah. It’s okay, though. You didn’t really miss anything,” he assures with a crooked smile.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep…” you murmur, like you’re embarrassed to have slept so soundly.

“I know,” the boy hums softly to you. “’S okay…”

Your temple rests against his shoulder once more. “Wake me up before you start the next movie?” you ask when Eddie presses a lingering kiss to your hair. Your eyes are already fluttered shut again.

“Sure,” he answers, despite lacking any real intention to wake you.

He’d much rather let you sleep. He knows you need it. He doesn’t mind that you get tired before the sun has set, even though he knows how much you hate it. He couldn’t love it more, personally.

So, he lets you fall back asleep on his shoulder and tries to ignore how much it makes his heart swell. His ribcage shakes with the intensity of how much he loves you — how privileged he feels that you trust him enough to drool on his shoulder and not be embarrassed about any of it. You know he loves you too much for any of that.

“She still asleep?” Steve questions when the gang settles back in the living room. He rattles M&Ms in his palms before chucking a handful into his mouth. When Eddie nods, the boy snorts. “I’m glad it’s your arm falling asleep this time and not mine.”

Eddie’s glad for it, too.

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble #event: fictober!

2K notes · View notes

icarusredwings · 2 months ago

Text

What things smell like according to Logan Howlett/ The Wolverine. A series of smell based headcanons. Do with these whatever you want :)

People:

Ororo: burnt marshmellows, rain, chunky chocolate chip cookies, protien shakes, spansih rice, chillies, and cocoa butter. She always smells great.

Scott: cucumber shampoo, the remaints of a bonfire the next day, fresh dry cleaning, axe shower gel, lavender sheets

Jean: caramel latte, lavender sheets, vanilla spiced chai, books, mint ice cream, fruit smoothies, stinky hair product, lemon poppy seed muffins, sassafras

Hank: Books, sanatizer, various chemicals, a very specifc fur dander, kinda musky but in a 'im covered in fur and sweaty' kind of way.

Rouge: "Dolly Parton", brick and concrete dust, cherry blossoms body spray, freshly engraved wood, strawberries and milk conditioner, spicy gaucamole and freshly sizzled sausages.

Gambit: tv static, a fresh deck of cards at the casino, spicy jumbo, gin, lime jello, hair gel, "suprisingly good actually"

Kurt: brimstone, smoke from franckinsense, myrrh, a less smelling dander then hank, Holy chrism oil (olive oil and Balsam made by catholic priests), metal, and blue raspberry. Fur/ beard pomade sometimes for special ocassions.

Morph: even when changed he can smell is sandlewood shampoo, he smells like how "Jack Outta smell", latex, pine and cedar, clear nail polish, "that ugly quilt that your grandma kept on the back of her couch that was the warmest, softest thing you've ever slept with."

Charles: Old man fart, metal, chalk, shoe polish, nutmeg, wool, "a trusting hug", books, mahogany, expensive champagne.

Laura: "teen spirit", a shitty cheap "girl power" deodorant that doesn't do well hiding the sweat, apples and peaches, kinda woodsy.

Wade: Cancer, gun smoke, citrus dish soap, blood, oranges, taco sauce, infected skin once in awhile, red dye 40, slight over cooked and crispy apple pie, sugary cereal

Puppins: wet dog, dog dander, oatmeal senstive skin puppy shampoo, chicken, "the dirtest trash she can find to roll in on her walk"

Althea: Old lady, way too strong perfumes, butter biscuits, tea, peppermint candies, more cocaine, "baby powder", lanvender linens, cotton and daisy's Landry detergent.

Feelings/emotions:

Big/serious lies: smell like Gasoline and salty sand near the sea.

Small fibs/playful/ teasing lies: smell like Anise

Lies with decent intentions/are bent truths: smell like honey

Those two are easily mixed up.

Innocent (the person truly believes it. Ex. A child saying dinos are real) truth: smells like thick vanilla creamer.

Filling, whole truths (the person knows for a fact its a truth) smells: like fresh baked rolls/buns

Cancer smells vary like: urine, nail polish remover, some people have a pungent semi sweet smell like rotting fruit, and tar is another smell, depending on which part of the body. If already in late stages, one can smell like cadavers. Even spicy almost.

Pregnant people vary in scent but he can smell the rise of different hormones: Some hormones sweeter then other. If you asked him he would say cinnamon or dying roses. If you're later in your term the scents are more soft like lotion or custard. Lemon ussually.

Serotonin; cheese, lemon cakes, fruity, a bit light, and flakey like a pastry. Marshmellow fluff.

Dopamine; sweet fresh coffee, doritos(?), cocaine. Don't ask why he knows what cocaine smells like. He was alive during coke cocaine.

Endorphins; Sweaty Sex, mint, dark chocolate, violets, chemicals, varies by persons pheromones

Oxytocin; "playful cherries", freshly washed cotton pillows, the warmth of a bath, skin on skin hugs, strawberries

Joy/relaxation/relief: Jasmine, vanilla sugar cookies, fresh soup.

Anger/disapproval/hurt: smoke, the back end of a cigarette, spicy curry, iron, blood, "spoiled raw chicken left out too long"

Fear/excitment/anxiousness: Adrenaline smells like oil, paint, salty pretzels almost.

Tears: Oceans, lillies, fresh water lakes

333 notes · View notes

another-lost-mc · 7 days ago

Text

Diavolo’s birthday is one of the most family-friendly celebrations in the Devildom, at least by demon standards. There are still plenty of demons that don’t necessarily agree with his efforts to bring the three realms together peacefully, but the naysayers can’t resist the lure of extravagant parties that silence their doubts and criticism - if only for a short time.

Halloween traditions from the human world amuse and amaze Diavolo and he vows each year to embrace them as part of his birthday celebration. The added bonus, if only a subtle one, is that the Devildom’s most deadly destructive mischievous demons have something else to keep them busy so that the human world can celebrate their version of Halloween with less chaos and bloodshed. Usually.

(The number of unsanctioned hauntings, accidental summonings, and demon-related deaths have steadily decreased in recent years.)

The Demon’s Lord Castle is decorated top-to-bottom in time for a legion of demon children visit in costumes, all of them hoping to trick and treat their way through the palace. The Little Ds enjoy dressing up too - or maybe it’s just an excuse to throw toilet paper all over the place (and each other) and pretend they’re dressed as mummies for the day. Lucky guests can spot Barbatos sporting some elaborate costume of his own design while handing out poison apple cider and warm cookies fresh from the oven. If you follow the echoes of delighted laughter, you’ll eventually stumble on the prince himself, weighed down by little demons hanging off his back and from each limb, dressed as a vampire lord wearing an impractical cape and his face painted with fake (?) blood.

(Diavolo’s costume inspiration is something he saw in a human world film once, but the threat of blood-sucking doesn’t scare demons nearly as much as it does humans. Even the youngest demons only giggle at the prince’s strange antics, not at all frightened by his elongated fangs. His lips and chin might be stained red for dramatic effect, but his sharp teeth and even sharper claws are very real.)

Later on Halloween night, Diavolo’s staunchest supporters gather in the lavish ballroom for a night of fine food, music, and dancing. It’s a rare occasion that demonic offspring, such as Mephisto’s kid brother, are invited to attend as well. Mephisto is teary-eyed at his lord’s most gracious gesture, so much that he doesn’t realize his family is seated at a table close to the residents of Purgatory Hall. Mephisto and Simeon are unofficial babysitters for Luke and the other underage guests for the night, even if they don’t know it yet. Any complaints are half-hearted at best and as far as babysitting goes, this isn’t a terrible hardship either. The young ones are kept busy with small gifts and served dishes made specially for their picky tastes. Bottles of sparkling juice, similar in appearance and but sweeter than real Demonus, are passed around and poured into plastic wine goblets. Little luxuries for little demon lords (and little angels-in-training).

When Luke and the demon children inevitably disappear at some point during the party, it doesn’t take long for their concerned chaperones to find them passed out underneath one of the tables in a cuddle pile of costumes and candy, exhausted from an entire day of excitement and far too much sugar.

#obey me #obey me diavolo #obey me headcanons

300 notes · View notes

cjsoleil · 18 days ago

Text

You’re My Angel Baby (Mingi x Reader)

Summary: Y/N goes to a Halloween party and ends up taking care of a cute, drunk cowboy outlaw. Mingi wakes up in the morning with a vague memory of a girl dressed as an angel, and decides he has to meet her.

Halloween night, and somehow Y/N got swindled into joining her best friend, Seonghwa and his boyfriend, Hongjoong, to some party one of their friends planned. It took a lot of convincing, and even more bribery, but she did agree to go. She's dressed in a all white, a flowey long in the back short in the front dress with pure white boots. She put a silver, sparkly and floral headpiece in her hair and beside her sits a pair of fake white angel wings that she’ll put on when she gets out of the car. A cliche yes, but it was a little last minute. She borrowed the wings from a friend.

“Again with the pirate costume Hongjoong?” Y/N teases from the backseat. Hongjoong is wearing a bandana, white jeans, white shirt that is kinda like a blouse and a jacket. Clearly a pirate, “Is that three years in a row now?”

“Shut up.” Hongjoong snaps his usual comeback.

“You should appreciate me more Joongie.” Seonghwa pats the hand resting on his thigh, “I’ve been adapting my costumes to fit yours for years.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want couples costumes!” That’s true, Seonghwa dressed up as a pirate too a few years back, then a parrot, now the mermaid, well, more like siren. He did his make up to suit his look, wearing a sparkly dress with baggy pants and he painted little scales around his ears, neck, and hands. It’s very much a DIY costume, but still very pretty. He’s going to run out of ideas soon. Y/N zones back in to see the car stopped at a red light and the two boys smiling at each other all cute. She groans and wonders how she’s ended up being these two perminate third wheel.

“Do I really have to come?”

“Sorry dear.” Seonghwa coos and looks back at his friend, “But we need a sober driver.”

“Besides. Your a nursing student, you can stop people from dying from alcohol poisoning.” Hongjoong adds.

“I cannot. You better not bring some shit faced frat boy to me and expect me to take care of him. Or her. Anyone. It’s not my job to take care of people outside my placement.” Because Y/N is not interested in dealing with whatever asshole drank too much. If they get alcohol poisoning from being stupid, it’s not anyone’s problem but their own.

“Whatever you say ratchet.”

“I’ll show you ratchet, Hongjoong.”

“Be nice you two.”

At the party, Y/N makes sure to stay close to Seonghwa and Hongjoong, and she smiles pleasantly at the people they talk to. Luckily it’s not all bad, Jongho and Yeosang are there too, so at least there’s some people she knows. She watches over her friends while they drink, making sure they don’t do anything very stupid. She can condone a little stupidity. It’s all very boring. She doesn’t have a lot of people that she can talk to, and she doesn’t have anything to really do. There’s some people dancing on the open floor, but she’d honestly rather die than become involved with that. On the bright side, someone had the decency to provide food. So after telling her friends, she wanders into the kitchen area and looks at what they have. There’s candy in a big bowl on the counter, and obviously a shit ton of alcohol she’s not able to drink, nothing great. She wishes they had cinnamon doughnuts or something, when a plate on the counter further away catches her eye.

“What the hell!” She whispers shouts, going over and grabbing an candy apple. There very clearly bought by an actual place that knows how to make them based off how well made they are. So she eats one. Or four. Who knows. Fuck she wishes they had a caramel apple too. Those are the best fall treats.

Someone else wanders into the kitchen, Y/N ignores him. Then the sound of glass breaking catches her attention. She turns her head to see a boy dressed as a cowboy staring at the broken cup on the floor, the cupboard at his head is open. He’s wearing a hat and a mask that covers the bottom half of his face, a leather jacket and tight pants. Despite not seeing much of his face, the boy is clearly drunk based off his heavy movements and pink ears. He’s also, Y/N must admit, very attractive. Maybe it’s the effect of the mask, but she just knows a pretty face hides under the mask. She watches as he kneels down, about to pick up the glass.

“Stop.” The boy looks up at her, stopping his movement, “Stay still. You're going to hurt yourself.” After making sure the boy is actually listening to her, Y/N looks around the kitchen for a broom or something. She doesn’t end up finding one, but she does find a rag, so she goes back to the boy, rag in hand just to see him with large pieces of glass in his hand.

“What did I just say?” Y/N sighs and cleans up the glass around the man and taking the piece from his hand, throwing it all out. She goes back to the still kneeling cowboy and crouches next to him, seeing his hand is bleeding. She cringes, not because of the blood, she’s used to that, but just because she imagines it hurts.

“Look at this. You should have listened to me.” She scolds, and the boy has enough sense to be ashamed, looking down.

“Sorry Angel.” He says, speech a little slurred and she can tell he’s pouting behind the mask, “Help me? Please?” Y/N sighs, looks like she’s playing caretaker tonight after all. At least he seems to be nice. She helps him stand up, which is a little hard because he’s much bigger than her.

“What’s your name?”

“Mingi.” She introduces herself as well.

“Well Mingi, let’s get to a bathroom so you can stop bleeding all over the place.” Y/N walks with Mingi, keeping a hand on his back and stabilizing him when he stumbles. Mingi cups his good hand under the bleeding one, but a few drops still get on the floor. She just ignores it, not her problem.

Y/N notices that people are watching her and Mingi, but she just gives them a dirty look when they catch her eye.

“People need to mind their business.” She mumbles, looking around for wherever the bathroom could be. She doesn’t just want to open random doors. More out of fear of being traumatized than out of respect for the homeowners privacy. She doesn’t even know whose party this is, it wouldn’t matter if she chose to snoop a little. Well, that’s a little hypocritical considering what she just said.

“There.” Mingi points to a closed door and Y/N opens it to see a bathroom.

“Okay, wash your hand and go sit on the toilet while I look for a bandage.” Mingi obeys and Y/N rifles through the medicine cabinet. She grabs bandages and isopropyl, as well as a cotton ball.

“Hold out your hand cowboy.”

“Outlaw.” She hears him mumble as she dips some of the isopropyl onto the cotton ball.

“Hm?”

“Outlaw, not cowboy.” Y/N smiles, and gently grabs Mingi’s hand.

“Outlaw, this may sting a bit.” She plays into his words, because what is the harm? While she doesn’t know the difference between an outlaw and a cowboy, she’s not about to start an argument over it. Mingi only cringes a little when he feels the disinfectant. Then Y/N grabs the roll of bandages, wrapping his hand. Mingi stares at her as she works.

“Pretty Angel.” He mumbles out, and Y/N just barely catches it.

“What a charmer.” She laughs, not taking the words of a drunk man seriously. After a few more moments, she’s done with the bandage.

“There.” She pats his hand a few times, “Now there won’t be blood all over the place. Well, anymore blood. I feel bad for whoever has to clean that up.” She laughs and he looks up at her, staring with wide eyes. He keeps his hand held out to her, “What is it?”

“Kiss it better.”

“Huh?”

“Kiss it better please?” Now, anyone else and she would’ve said no instantly and walk away. But Mingi seems so genuine. And he’s so cute and sweet. So Y/N gives a quick kiss to the palm of his bandaged hand.

“Better?” Mingi nods excitedly. He’s still wearing his mask. He should probably take that off, what if he throws up?

“Mingi. Take off your mask please.” Mingi nods and lifts his good hand to his face, tugging at the fabric. But he doesn’t actually do anything efficient. Just how much did he drink? Finding this a little pathetic, Y/N decides doing it herself would be better.

“Mingi, how about I help you?”

“Sure.” She gets the mask off quickly, fingers just grazing against Mingi’s hot ears.

I was right she thinks when she sees Mingi’s face fully, he is hot. Okay, the stares make more sense now. She puts the mask on the sink.

“Thank you Angel.” He says, smiling at the girl.

“You do know that’s not my name right?” Based off Mingi’s confused look, it’s clear he does not understand that.

“Whatever. Do you have a friend to watch over you?”

“Yunho.” Mingi answers, a name Y/N is somewhat familiar with, “but he left. Don’t know where he is.” Y/N is irritated hearing that. Mingi’s friend just abandoned him while he’s clearly not in his right mind, what if someone took advantage of him? Or if he drank more and got alcohol poisoning, or made the stupid decision to drive? When this Yunho comes back, she’s going to give him a strong lecture on how to treat your intoxicated friends.

“We can hang out until he gets here then.” Mingi looks happy hearing that, smiling brightly.

“Thank you Angel.”

“You are so polite.” Y/N comments, and gives into her urge to pat his cheek gently. Then she helps him stand up again, but when he’s standing, Y/N notices that he looks a little off. She’s about to ask about it, but then she hears Mingi make a gagging sound.

“Shit!” She lifts the toilet seat and pushes Mingi to sit, just in time. Mingi throws up in the toilet, and Y/N rubs his back sympathetically. She takes off his hat and holds it in her other hand.

Once the sickness passes, Mingi leans back and is panting and sweating a little.

“Poor guy.” Y/N puts the hat on his lap before opening the drawer under the sink, grabbing a rag. She runs it over cold water and rings it out, before going back over to Mingi. She holds his chin and wipes his face gently. He hums in content.

“Feels good.” He hums again, Y/N compares him to a happy cat. When she’s done, she wets another rag and lays it over the back of his neck. She lets him be for a while, wanting the nausea to pass before even trying to move him again.

“Hey Mingi.” He looks over to her, blinking tiredly, “I’m gonna go do something real quick-“

“Noo.” Hands grab her wings, tugging at the fake feathers, “Don’t go.”

“It will only be for a minute.”

“Angel, stay with me please.” Y/N is left standing still. The sentiment means a lot more than it should, coming from a drunk man. She sighs, wondering whatever made her so soft hearted. Seonghwa and Hongjoong will just have to wonder where she is for a while. So she grabs the mouthwash from under the sink and fills the cap half way, giving it as well as a small cup she found for Mingi to spit in. When he does so, she cleans out the cup in the sink. Curse her for being so nice. And curse Mingi for being so cute. If he wasn’t, she probably would’ve just cleaned up his cut and let him be.

Okay, maybe she isn't really nice.

“Okay cowboy- sorry, outlaw.” She then clicks her tongue with though, “What am I going to do with you?”

“Want to go to my room.”

“Your room? Do you live here?” Mingi nods, stretching his neck.

“Yeah. With my roommates.” Well this makes things a little easier. She will simply bring Mingi to his bedroom so he can sleep this off, and he’ll wake up in the morning without any recollection of her, or anything else that happened tonight. As well as a massive hangover. He’ll probably have to skip class tomorrow, if he has any.

“Wait, do you know where you got those candy apples- actually don’t answer that. Are you feeling better?” Mingi nods, and Y/N squints her eyes at him, “Are you sure? Is your head dizzy, stomach hurting?”

“M’okay.” Well, he is definitely looking more alive than before, so Y/N choses to believe him.

“Up we go then.” She holds out her hands and Mingi grabs them, allowing her to hoist him up until he’s standing. Honestly, she’s pretty proud of herself for being strong enough to do that. When he’s stable, Y/N walks him down the hall until he points to a door, and tells her it’s his bedroom. She opens the door, and quickly ushers him to sit on his double bed that takes up most of the room. She understands the need though, he would never fit in a twin bed like her own.

“Tired Mingi?” The boy yawns in response, making her laugh. She helps Mingi with taking off his shoes and jacket, and Mingi takes off his own shirt.

Oh my god. Y/N has to stop himself from saying the words out loud. She can’t help it, he’s just so so hot. Like seriously, his face was beautiful enough as it is and his body- nope she can’t even think about it without feeling like a pervert. So she quickly pulls back the covers of the bed and gestures for Mingi to lay down there. Then she pulls the blankets over him. She stays standing beside the bed.

“There’s a place downtown that makes them.” Mingi says into the blankets.

“Makes what?”

“The apples. I don’t like sweet stuff very much, but I thought they’d be nice.” He yawns, “Expensive though.”

“I thought so.” Y/N laughs, before whispering playfully, “I’m pretty sure I ate like, half of them though. Sorry about that.”

“Did you like them?”

“Very much.”

“Then it was worth it.” Mingi smiles up at the girl, before patting the side of his bed. Y/N takes the invitation and sits.

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Ruining your night.” Y/N smiles, and pets Mingi’s dark hair. She had already put his hat on his nightstand.

“Believe me or not, but this was the best part of my night Mingi.” And really, it was. She’s not into parties, nothing about them is appealing to her. As much as she complained about it to her friends earlier, this was a much more pleasant experience.

“Angel.”

“Yes?”

“You’re so beautiful. And kind.” Mingi lifts a hand, grabbing her arm and really underestimated his strength, pulling the girl on top of him. Letting out a yelp, Y/N plants her hands on the sides of Mingi’s head on the pillow. This leaves their faces only inches apart, and Y/N can smell the alcohol on Mingi. That makes her break eye contact with him and start to push her arms upwards. Before she can get far, Mingi cups her face with one hand, thumb under her chin and fingers splayed out on her cheek. The action puts her in such a state of shock, she doesn’t react in time to move away from him as he lifts his head up, pressing his lips to hers.

Her eyes widen and she quickly pulls away before the kiss can be considered anything more than a peck. Mingi whines when she pulls away.

“Mingi, no.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” She parrots, frowning a little, “You don’t even know who I am.”

“You’re my Angel baby.” He grins, lets out a little laugh before surging forward, kissing her again. Her mouth opens a little in surprise at being kissed again, giving Mingi the chance to push his tongue into her mouth, the taste of cheep beer still present. And Y/N is just disillusioned enough to lean in for a moment, and she probably would have actually reciprocated if her mind was any more fogged up from a simple kiss. But she’s not about to kiss someone who can’t possibly understand what they’re doing. Maybe kiss someone more would be more accurate.

So she pulls away again, this time pushing a hand on Mingi’s chest to keep him laying down flat on the bed. Mingi groans a little, a complaint, but doesn’t say much more. Until out of nowhere, he mutters.

“We should go out tomorrow.” Only a little fazed, Y/N shakes her head at the question.

“Honey, you’re probably not going to be able to stand properly tomorrow. Just go to sleep.” She continues to pet Mingi’s head, until she’s sure that he’s asleep. Standing up, she grabs the trash can in the corner of the room and puts it next to the bed. Then she grabs a sticky note from his desk and a pen. She writes a quick note, puts it on the nightstand before leaving the room, making sure to close the door as gently as he can.

The party is dwindling down, Y/N notes. So she easily finds Seonghwa and Hongjoong.

“Where were you?” Seonghwa asks when he sees her, “I was worried sick!”

“Sorry Hwa.”

“What were you doing?” Hongjoong questions.

“Playing nurse. Are you ready to go?”

“What happened to ‘I’m not taking care of some drunk loser’?”

“I guess he changed my mind.”

“He?” Seonghwa grins, making Y/N get this sudden feeling of dread, “Who was it? Was he hot? Was he nice to you? Of course he was, you would’ve kicked him to the curb if he was mean-“ Seonghwa trips over nothing, Hongjoong just catches him.

“Careful baby.”

“Thanks Joongie.” Seonghwa leans over and kisses the younger boy. Y/N pretends to gag.

“Wait, why is your face so red?”

“Let’s just go! Please.”

“Fine. You have to tell us all about this guy though!”

“Yeah yeah.”

When Mingi wakes up, he instantly wishes to be asleep again. His head hurts, and he feels so sick he can barely move. God, he shouldn’t have drank so much last night. He sits up, only to be hit with a wave of nausea that has him nearly doubled over.

“Fuck…” he takes a few deep breaths before standing up, groaning as he does so. He notices the trash can by his bed, and wonders how he had enough sense to grab that. Yunho must have moved it for him. His jacket, shoes and shirt are off, as well as his hat. Yunho must have done that too. He takes off his shirt and puts on a pair of sweatpants before heading to the bathroom.

When he comes out, he goes to the living room where Yunho greets him.

“Hey man-“

“Shhh.” Mingi holds his head in his hands as he sits on the couch, “Too loud.” Yunho’s voice was really just barely above a whisper.

“How much did I drink yesterday?”

“I stopped counting after the second beer and the third shot.”

“I swear Yunho, I’m never getting drunk again.” He looks down at his bandaged hand, and tries to recall exactly what he did to hurt himself.

“What happened to my hand?”

“How would I know?”

“Weren’t you the one that wrapped it?” Yunho stares at him with a surprised face.

“Damn, do you really not remember anything from last night?” Mingi shrugs.

“Pretty much.”

“Well, I left around half way through with a few others to grab some beer and you insisted that you stay here. You kept on saying ‘I’m feeling great’ so I just told you to be careful and left. By the time I came back, you were tucked into bed and sleeping like the dead.” Mingi nods along, realizing he can’t rely on Yunho to fill in the blanks of his memory.

“Wait actually, I saw a note on your nightstand.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. Didn’t read it though.”

“Okay. Can you get me some painkillers or something?”

“Sure.” Mingi goes to his bedroom and there on the nightstand, is a bright pink sticky note. He grabs it and reads the words in black ink.

Hey Mingi,

I can imagine you have quite the hangover today, you were pretty drunk last night. Make sure to clean that cut of yours and wrap it up again, though it will probably be all healed in a few days (The power of a little kiss). Maybe I’ll see you around. Anyways, take care outlaw.

Yours, Angel.

Angel. Images of a woman with no clear face fills his mind. White feathers, the feeling of warm lips on his palm and a hand running through his hair.

Mingi comes out of his room, still holding the note.

“Yunho, did you see anyone dressed as an angel yesterday?”

“It was Halloween. Many people were. Why?”

“The girl that took care of me dressed as one. But I can’t remember her name.”

“What did she look like?”

“Uhh..” Mingi sheepishly scratches the back of his neck, “She was pretty? Look, I’ll know her when I see her.”

“Does that really matter?” Yunho asks, tilting his head, “I mean, yeah, I get that she took care of you. That was very nice of her, but do you have to meet her?”

“Of course I do.” Mingi lays back down on rhe couch, closing his eyes.

“Oh my god you have a thing for her. You have a thing for a girl who’s name you do not know, you don’t know what she looks like and know nothing about her as a person.”

“Not true.” Mingi objects, “I know she’s sweet, pretty, angelic.” Mingi snorts, “Oh, and that she likes candy apples.”

“Whoa Mingi, sounds like it’s time to pop the question to Miss Angel.”

“I wish she would’ve left her number.” Mingi complains, placing a pillow over his face.

“Well, I’ll ask around if anyone knows her, but it’s gonna be hard without knowing anything about her.”

“Thanks Yunho.”

“I’m heading to class, you staying in?” Mingi nods slightly, “Thought so. Painkillers are in the kitchen.”

“Thanks Yunho. See ya.”

“Later.”

The next day, Mingi actually does go to school. He was hoping that miraculously, Angel would be in one of his classes. Unfortunately, this was not the case for him. Yunho, like he said, mentioned her to some people but at last, no luck. Really though, he didn’t expect more. At the moment, he’s at a cafe near campus with Hongjoong and San, doing a little group review.

“Where’s your other half?” San questions Hongjoong, wondering where the older boy is.

“He’s in the library.”

“And you left him alone?” Hongjoong rolls his eyes.

“I would’ve followed, but Seonghwa said that I couldn’t since he and ratchet were studying for biology I think.”

“Ratchet?” Mingi questions.

“Y/N. Seonghwa’s nursing friend.”

“That is so mean of you.” San says, shaking his head at Hongjoong nicknaming this poor girl after a crazy murderous nurse. Mingi finds the name a little familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it, so he doesn’t question it.

“You weren’t in class yesterday.” San states.

“Yeah, i had this massive hangover. Felt dead.”

“What happened with your hand?”

“I don’t remember, but I think I cut it on a piece of glass or something.”

“Damn, you really were wasted.” Mingi can only agree.

“Please please please please-“

“Seonghwa.”

“Y/N please just tell me about this guy.” Seonghwa begs, shaking Y/N’s shoulders. She was supposed to tell him on the way home from the party, but he fell asleep right away. And yesterday they were too busy, “You don’t even need to tell me who it was.”

“Fine.” Y/N relents, shutting her text book, “He was tall, handsome and sweet.”

“Oh!” Seonghwa puts his hands over his heart, “All one could want in a man.”

“You only have two of the three.” Seonghwa kicks her but is still laughing.

“He asked if he could go out with me?”

“What? You said yes right?” Y/N shrugs.

“I didn’t say anything. It was just talk anyways. He was drunk.”

“Either way, you should have left your number with him.”

“No point, he didn’t even know my name. Just called me Angel the whole night.”

“That is so cute but unhelpful.” Seonghwa sighs, “What did you guys even do?” She tells her friend about the boy cutting himself by accident and having to clean up his cut, and tuck him into bed.

“So cute.” He analyzes his friend for another moment, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar. I can tell. What’s up?” Y/N dramatically groans and puts her heads in her hands, mumbling her words, “Excuse me?”

“We may have… kissed.”

“You kissed!” Seonghwa exclaims, Y/N is quick to shush him.

“Shut up!”

“Sorry this is just crazy to me.”

“What is? That guys only want to kiss me when they’re drunk?”

“Ha. Who initiated it?”

“Him obviously.”

“Come on! Give me the details.” Y/N can’t refuse.

“He kissed me, I said that was irresponsible, he kissed me again and fell asleep like five minutes after.” Seonghwa aw’s as Y/N dramatically rests her head on her arms.

“Wait, is this not cute? Were you not okay with it? If not, I’ll find him and beat him up.” Y/N looks up at him, “Fine, Hongjoong will beat him up.” A long pause, “Jongho will beat him up.”

“There you go. But no, it was… fine? Really, If he was sober, I probably would have actually kissed him back.” Though if he was sober, she’s sure neither of them would have paid the other any mind whatsoever.

“You know if you tell me his name I could probably find him and you set you guys up.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Noo.” Seonghwa pulls the girl into a hug, “We love you.”

“If you do, can we stop talking about this and study.”

“Fine. I have to go soon though, I said I’d meet up with Hongjoong later. Would you like to accompany us?”

“Ew.”

“You won’t be saying that when you and mystery boy get together. We can go on a double date!”

“Stop pushing your couple agenda on me.”

After a few hours of studying at the café, the two boys start to back up their bags to leave. San has already left. They hear the bell at the door ring, and Mingi’s sees Seonghwa make his way towards the table.

“Hey Joongie.” Seonghwa greets Hongjoong, leaning down to kiss his cheek before saying hi to Mingi.

“How are you guys?” He asks while sitting down.

“Good.” “Slightly hungover.” Seonghwa snorts at Mingi’s comment. But his laughter stops when he sees the bandage on Mingi’s hand.

“Hey, what happened with your hand?” Mingi looks down at his hand.

“I think I cut it on something, but I don’t really remember.”

“Huh.” Seonghwa hums for a moment before his eyes lighten up.

“Mingi, do you remember anything from your party?”

“A little bit yeah, why?”

“Did you spend anytime with a girl there? She-“

“Angel?” Mingi asks, wide eyed. He was planning to ask Hongjoong about her before they left.

“She was dressed as an Angel yes!” Seonghwa claps his hands in joy, “I’m so smart, I thought this would take longer to figure out.”

“Ohh.” Hongjoong says, just clueing in, “Mingi was the guy Y/N watched over at the party? Man, you didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t know who she was! I was gonna ask you if you knew a girl dressed as an angel.”

“Small world.” Seonghwa smiles, “She said you asked her out, is that true?”

“I really don’t know, sorry Hwa.” Mingi runs a hand through his hair, “But I’d love to actually meet her, thank her in person at least. Could you give me her number?” Seonghwa shakes his head.

“No, she’d be upset if I did that.” Patting the table, Seonghwa thinks, “but… if you did happen to run into her outside class, well that would be fate.”

“Would you?”

“I’ll text you her next class right now.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. You’d be good together.”

“What?”

“Let’s go Hwa, bye Mingi.” Hongjoong and Seonghwa leave, and Mingi choses to ignore Seonghwa’s comment.

He leaves the café and starts walking back to his place. The street he’s on has a ton of little shops and bakeries, so he window shops a little as he makes his way. The a sight makes him stop. There in the window, is a display case of different candy apples. A picture plays in his mind, of a pretty girl in an Angel costume eating the candied fruit in his kitchen. His phone buzzes from his pocket, and he pulls it out and sees a text from Seonghwa. He texted the younger the building, classroom number, as well as the start and end times.

Are you sure she won’t mind?

It’s fine! Tell her I sent you

I’m glad I can blame you

Great. Have fun ;)

Mingi looks at the display case again, before stepping inside.

I hate kinesiology Y/N thinks as she steps out of her classroom. She makes her way out of the building, weaving through the crowd of people. When she’s outside, just a few meters away from the building door, she feels someone tap her shoulder. Turning around, she sees a sight she wasn’t expecting to see so soon.

“Mingi?”

“Hi Angel.” Mingi grins with a small blush on his face, one hand held behind his back.

“Isn’t this a surprise.” Y/N can’t help but smile.

“Yeah, um, I just wanted to thank you for taking such good care of me the other night. You didn’t have to.” Y/N shakes her head, waving a hand in the air.

“No problem. I’m surprised you remember me.” Mingi blushes more, and shifts his feet.

“Well, I kinda didn’t. But I saw your note and remembered a girl dressed as an angel, but not what you looked like.”

“Hm.” Y/N hums, and crosses her arms, shifting her weight to her right leg, “Disappointed?”

“God no.” Mingi answers immediately, “You’re pretty.”

“You said that.”

“Did I?”

“Multiple times. Thank you. How do you know who I am though? If you didn’t know what I looked like.” Mingi looks a little flustered and avoids eye contact.

“I ran into Seonghwa and he figured that you were the one who took care of me because of, well, this.” He lifts his own bandaged hand, “He told me your name and that you were here and that your class would be ending around this time so I came by to see if I could catch you. And I knew I would recognize you once I saw you. Even without the wings.” He spoke so fast, Y/N barely caught all of his words.

“I see. How’s the hand?”

“Good, uh, I was wondering what you meant, by your note?”

“The kiss comment?” Y/N laughs uncomfortably, pulling at the ends of her hair, “Well, um, you did ask me to kiss your hand better…”

“And?”

“You- don’t be upset please- you did kiss me. Twice.” Mingi looks ready to combust from the embarrassment he’s feeling.

“I did? Fuck, Y/N I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. You were-“

“Please don’t say I was drunk. That’s no fucking excuse.” Y/N smiles softly.

“Fine. I forgive you.” Mingi laughs.

“You shouldn’t give in so easily. Here.” He pulls the box from behind his back and presents the caramel apple to her.

“For you.” He tells her, watching as the girl gives him an expression of pure joy.

“You-“ Y/N starts, taking the boxed caramel apple from Mingi’s hand, “Are the sweetest.” It seems that Mingi remembered a little more than she thought.

“Seonghwa said that I apparently asked you out.” Y/N nods in agreement, Mingi takes a deep breath, “I wanted to let you know that the question is still open, I’d love to go out with you.” Silence is all he gets in response. He feels a sense of dread in his stomach, but that soon leaves when he actually looks at the girl to see that she looks… flustered?

“Really? Um, yeah that- that would be nice.”

“And…” Mingi takes a breath, stepping closer to the girl. He slowly lifts his hand and rests it in the nape of her neck.

“If it’s not too much to ask, could I get a little reminder of what I forgot?” Blood rushes to Y/N’s ears and her heart beats faster. She brings her hands to his shoulders, grabbing onto the fabric of his shirt.

“I suppose I can.” Mingi leans down and brings his face close to the girl. Before his lips can meet hers though, Y/N covers his mouth with her hand, “Not now.” Mingi grabs her wrist and kisses the palm of her hand.

“After an actual date.” Where I don’t witness you throw up. She doesn’t say that know. She doesn’t want to embarrass him too much just yet. With a quick motion of his wrist, Mingi links their hands and brings them down.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“On a date. Duh.” Y/N grins.

“Aw, our first, completely sober date!”

“I’m never drinking that much again.”

When Halloween rolled around the next year, Mingi did, in fact, drink that much again. It’s okay though, he still had an angel to take care of him.

202 notes · View notes

mothandpidgeon · 12 days ago

Text

Trick or Treat (Joel Miller Halloween drabble)

Character: Joel Miller

Words: 200

Summary: Just a drabble about Halloween in Jackson

---

Halloween comes to Jackson and it’s just like everything else here— the same but different.

There’s a party in the dining hall. Hot apple cider and little paper pumpkins while an old, scratched up cd plays "The Monster Mash."

The kids are sent out for trick or treating. The treats are home made— popcorn and maple sugar candies— but the children love the novelty of it all. Joel gives out little toys he whittled from scraps of wood.

The costumes have the same DIY bent. Paper mache crowns for little princesses, sticks painted to look like swords. Sarah used to beg for store bought costumes. Twenty bucks for a thin polyester Power Rangers suit she’d only wear once but nothing else would do.

He’s just about to call it a night and turn off the front light when the doorbell rings again. On the porch is another nostalgic sight— a group of teenagers with open pillowcases. Their costumes leave much to be desired, too cool to dress up as cowboys or ghosts.

“Trick or treat.” Ellie stands at the center of the group trying to conceal a mischievous smile.

Joel realizes that her face is painted with red and purple lines. Around her hairline, there are bits of paper and cardboard glued to her forehead so it looks like there are mushrooms growing out of her skull.

“Infected, seriously?” Joel asks.

“What? Too soon?” she replies.

Joel shakes his head with a sigh.

“Actually, that’s the scariest costume I’ve seen all night.”

#joel miller #tlou #tlou fic #joel miller fic #jackson!joel #jackson!joel miller #drabble

81 notes · View notes

thetriumphantpanda · 1 year ago

Text

i work from nine to five; hey hell, i pay the price | Marcus Pike

Summary | You use the office halloween party as a way to prove you can push yourself out of your comfort zone. You didn't expect that to mean that the apple of your eye, Marcus Pike, would take an interest in you.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Plus Size F!Reader

Word Count | 4.4K

Warnings | Explicit smut, workplace 'romance', negative talk about bodies, body issues, plus size reader, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PiV sex, dirty talk, mention of food and alcohol, halloween vibes, costumes, pet names, but nothing else.

Authors Note | I told myself I wasn't going to do halloween writing, and then I had a very vivid image of Marcus Pike bending me over his desk at a work party.... So I did some halloween writing. As a woman who lives life in a bigger body, this one goes out to everyone else who has felt the way reader has felt. These are MY OWN experiences, attitudes I've had given to me, and given to myself, they aren't universal, we all feel differently about ourselves, but if you've ever been made to feel less than because of the way you look, just know I see you and that Marcus Pike would absolutely take you apart regardless of how thick your thighs are. If you liked this, please consider supporting me through my Ko-Fi.

Divider by @saradika

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

You tug at your skirt a little, trying to pull it down over your thighs. It seemed like a good idea at the time, to choose something skimpy for the office Halloween party. A way to challenge yourself, finally start to work through the years of bullying at school, and the off-hand comments from your almond-mom who had always told you things like, ‘you could stand to lose a few pounds’, or ‘surely a salad would be a better idea?’.

It had been such a relief when you’d gotten this job two years ago, finally earning enough on an FBI salary to move out of your family home and into your own space. A space where you weren’t judged for how many fries you had on your plate, or how the pair of trousers you’d chosen to wear made your belly look. It had been good for you, and ever since, you’d been trying your best to challenge yourself to do things you never thought you’d ever have the confidence to do.

Things like standing in the office, in a pair of fishnet tights, with a skirt so short that if you bent over, Dave from Finance would get a complete eyeful. Looking around though, you couldn’t help feel like it had been a terrible idea. Amy from HR looked absolutely phenomenal in her devil outfit – a red bodycon dress that looked like it had been painted on, showing not a single imperfection on her body – and Jessica, who worked reception, in a Catwoman jumpsuit that hugged her figure perfectly. You don’t think it would ever go away, the comparing yourself to everyone else, even though you knew that Amy and Jessica would totally have their own insecurities about things.

You were trying to make yourself at small as possible, crowding yourself into the corner of the room, hand clutched around a plastic cup full of ‘spooky punch’, that Hannah, the office manager had put together, which comprised of mostly vodka, some orange juice and what looked like a whole bottle of green food coloring, with some eyeball candy floating around in it. She’d put together a Halloween playlist, which was currently blasting The Monster Mash at a decibel you think should be illegal, and everyone had contributed to her spooky buffet, which was just normal food cut into shapes – like your addition of frozen pizza that you’d cut out with a ghost-shaped cookie cutter. You know you should go and mingle. Adam, on your team has already tried twice to get you to join their little group, so you relent, and walk over, giving everyone a warm smile. It’s all going well, until Alison, nods her head in your direction and stats speaking.

“Did you work late?” She asks, to which you shake your head.

“No, why?”

“Oh,” She grimaces, “I just didn’t think you’d dressed up, is all.”

And you know it’s mainly because she’s oblivious to mostly everything, but it smarts. Sure, the orange turtleneck is something you’d worn to work before, as are the black platform heels, but the skirt that ghosts the bottom of your ass and the fishnet tights that are still probably one size too small are not something you usually wear, nor are the fake glasses, with thick black frames, or the fucking magnifying glass you’re clutching. You sigh, make your excuses and walk over to the buffet table, picking up one of the slices of pizza you’d brought. Once you’ve eaten that, you reach for one of the cupcakes at the back of the table. It’s iced like a pumpkin and the cake looks to be chocolate, which is your favourite. You’re peeling off the wrapper and about to take a bite when someone interrupts you.

“They’re delicious.”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Marcus Pike. Head of Department. Not your boss, but your boss’ boss, and the most beautiful man you think you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d sat in on meetings that he chaired, supposed to be taking notes but instead focused entirely on him and how he commanded the room. The way he talked with his hands, and how much you wish you could have him run those over your thighs. Or the way he would chew on his bottom lip when he was concentrating, wondering whether he’d like it if you did that if he were to ever kiss you.

“Oh.” You exhale softly, suddenly uber aware of the fact he’s probably just watched you eat the ghost-shaped pizza, and now, not a minute later, getting ready to bite into the cupcake, you go to set it down on the table, but he stops you, hand gently holding onto your wrist.

“Please,” He says softly, “I made them, so I need the ego boost.”

You smile a little, finally meeting his eyes, “You just said they were delicious, what do you need my opinion for?”

“I remember the raspberry muffins you made last week,” He smirks a little, “And the apple turnovers the week before those, and everything else you bring in, I need to know what the office star baker thinks about my effort.”

You’re going to refuse, say you’re already full, despite the pizza being the first thing you’d eaten that evening, that you’ll take it home with you and report back on Monday, but his beautiful brown eyes are soft, almost pleading, so you sigh, peel the rest of the wrapper off and take a bite. It’s actually delicious. He’s put some kind of orange flavouring in the icing, and the cake itself is really good.

“You were right,” You smile, “It is delicious.”

He smiles, like he’s won a prize and it makes you feel a bit fuzzy inside, that this man next to you has been affected by your praise.

“Great costume, by the way.” He compliments, and you don’t miss the way his eyes trail over your body.

“You mean you don’t think I ran out of time and came in my office clothes?” You tease.

“You’d wear that skirt to the office?” He’s smirking at you, and also offers you a wink, which has your hand dropping to the table, holding yourself up, why on earth was Marcus Pike flirting with you? “It’s good, Velma, right?” He motions to the magnifying glass abandoned on the table.

You chuckle a little, “First prize, got it first time,” You then take a moment to take in his costume, he’s wearing a brown jacket over one of his usual shirts, a brown satchel is draped across his body and he’s got a hat on, but it’s the whip that really gives him away, “Indiana Jones?” You say quietly.

“The one and only.” He smiles, opening his arms a little.

You think it must be the amount of vodka that Hannah put in the punch, but even so, your next question shocks you, “Do I ask where you got the whip from?”

He looks around dramatically, “Just checking Amy from HR is out of earshot,” Then he leans in a little closer, “It’s from my own personal collection.”

You reach your hand out, letting your fingers run over the material where the handle is holstered in his pocket. It feels expensive, although it’s not like you have much experience with them to pass judgement on what’s expensive and what isn’t.

“Feels expensive,” You hum, “Guess that head of department salary has to get spent on something.”

He reaches down and takes your hand in his gently, running soft circles over the skin on the back of your hand, “You really do look lovely tonight,” He speaks softly, “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

And then as quickly as he was stood in front of you, he’s gone. You let out a breath that you didn’t realise you’d been holding in, focusing on the way your chest is heaving and you can feel your pulse in your head. You pick up your plastic cup and down the liquid that’s left in the bottom, wincing at the strength of the vodka, then deciding you need a top up.

You mill about for a little bit longer, but still feel like a bit of a spare part. You’ve shown your face, spoken to everyone you should have, and now there’s a glass of wine and a bubble bath with your name on it back home. You pick up your coat from the back of a random office chair, grab your bag from your own desk, and sneak out as quietly as you can. You’re halfway down the hall, almost to the elevator, when you hear a voice from behind you.

“Running away?”

You turn around, Marcus Pike is leaning against the doorframe to his office. He’s taken the satchel off, and the whip is no longer in his pocket. He’s crossed one ankle over the other, arms crossed over his chest.

“Feeling a little like a spare part,” You shrug, “And there’s a glass of wine calling my name at home.”

He nods in understanding, “You drink whiskey?” He asks.

“If I have to.” You answer back.

“Well, how about you stay and have one with me,” He offers, “Leave that wine for another day.”

You shift awkwardly from foot to foot, because why on earth would Marcus Pike want to have a drink with you? It feels like someone somewhere is having a good old laugh at your expense, but you feel your feet leading you towards him, brushing past him and into his office.

You’ve been in here a handful of times before, mainly to drop of reports and papers, and only once whilst he’s been there. It’s been a very professional relationship up until now, no flirting, nothing inappropriate. You drape your coat over the arm of the small couch he’s got there – you imagine he sleeps on it when he hasn’t got time to go home during crunch time of investigations. Your bag sits on the floor next to it.

He leaves the door open, giving you an out if you want it. He points to the couch, tells you to sit down, which you do, pulling once again at the tiny skirt, trying to cover the way the skin of your thighs bulge through the holes of the fishnet tights, ultimately failing, as Marcus reaches into one of the drawers of his desk, pulling out two crystal tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He fills them both equally, handing one to you, but he doesn’t sit next to you, he just leans against the edge of his desk.

“I always thought it was a myth,” You muse, “Agents with whiskey in their desks.”

He smiles at you, “It’s in there for big wins,” He explains, “Cracking cases and that kind of stuff.”

You nod your head, taking a small sip of your drink, wincing as it drags down your throat, “What’s tonight’s big win?” You ask, fluttering your eyelashes and then cringing a little at yourself.

“You looking that sinful.”

You’re taking a sip when he says it, so you end up spluttering quite unattractively at his words. Is he serious? You dab at the corners on your mouth, setting your glass down on the floor, “Sorry,” You mutter, “But are you for real?”

He smirks, “As real as you and I.”

He pushes himself off the desk, puts his drink down on it as he moves. He takes three wide strides until he’s stood in front of you. You look up from where you’re sat, hands folded in your lap. He reaches out, drags the fake glasses from your face, throws them absentmindedly onto the couch next to you. You’re breathing heavily as reaches out with one of his hands. The flat of his palm cupping your jaw, whilst his thumb traces along your bottom lip.

“Do you want me to close the door?” He asks, voice lower than you’ve ever known it.

You have no words, your tongue refusing to work, so you nod instead, because as much as you’re still thinking someone is going to come in and tell you you’re being pranked, you also want to know what he’s going to do next. He’s back to you in moments once he’s closed the door and turned the lock. The light above is harsh, but it’s needed, because the blinds are closed.

He's standing in front of you again, this time both his palms are cupping your cheeks, and he’s leaning down, ever so slowly, until his lips are a hairs breath from yours. God, you want him to push the last few millimeters and kiss you, but he’s stopped. Waiting. And you don’t want to break first. You’ve done it before, gone to kiss someone, and then felt them laugh just before you can, because why would they want to?

“You gonna kiss me, pretty lady?”

“I want you to kiss me first.” You admit on a shaky breath.

You’ve got your eyes closed, so you can’t read his eyes, look for the sense of regret in them, so it’s a shock when you feel his lips on yours. It’s so soft, barely there, before he’s pulling away, still close enough to feel his hot breath over your skin though.

“There,” His thumbs are moving across the skin of your cheeks, “Now you.”

So, you do. You reach your hand around to the back of his neck, pull him into you and really press your lips to his. His bottom lip slots between yours and you suck it gently into your mouth. You smile a little at the sound that comes from his throat, then he’s opening his mouth against yours and you’re following, doing exactly the same, letting his tongue behind your teeth as it melds with your own. His hands are dropping from your face, trailing down your shoulders. He leans forward into you a little, his hands under your arms to tug you up.

You drag your mouth from him to stand up, his hands dropping to your hips to guide you behind his desk. There are nerves bubbling under your skin because you know what he wants as he pressed your ass into the wood. He wants you to sit on it. To be fair to the department, it’s a sturdy looking desk, but the thought of the way it’s going to creak under your weight makes you want to crawl into a hole. Marcus doesn’t push though, just brings his mouth back to yours, letting his hands wander a little, dragging them back up your body to palm your tits through the layers you’re wearing.

“I think you did this on purpose,” He speaks against your mouth, “Like you knew this woman had always driven me wild.”

You don’t mean to, but it makes you laugh, “Don’t tell me Velma from Scooby-Doo was your sexual awakening?”

He laughs back, doesn’t confirm it, but doesn’t deny it either. He’s looking down your body, having pulled back a bit, “Fuck,” He mutters, “Every time I look at you, it gets better.”

“The magic of a slutty Halloween costume.” You shrug.

He nods his head, but speaks again, “It’s not just that though,” He’s speaking softly now, “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, wandering around the office all the time, driving me mad.”

This would normally be the time that you’d try and fight against the compliments being thrown your way. Tell them they must be lying, or joke that they need to get their eyes tested. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like you should do that here. There’s something about Marcus that makes you think he wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t string you along this far just to have a laugh at your expense, so you don’t do it, for the first time in your life.

You reach up to his shirt, undo two of the buttons, “You know,” You hum, “I think exactly the same as you, with your whip or not.”

He breathes out, taking hold of your wrists to stop your movements, “Let me make you feel good?” He asks.

You meet his eyes, feeling heat rise across your face, but you nod anyway, because you’ve come this far, and you can already feel wetness pooling in your panties. He drags his hands down your body, grips your hips and forces you to sit on the edge of the desk, dropping to his knees in front of you. He’s looking you straight in the eyes, as he pushes the material of your skirt to gather at your waist. Your legs open further, and Marcus groans when your movement reveals the see-through black lace of your panties. It hadn’t felt right to dress as a sexy Velma and wear your normal underwear, is how you justify it.

You’re expecting him to tell you to lift up so he can drag your tights off you, but instead, he hooks a finger through the material at your groin and fucking rips them apart. It makes you gasp. You’d chide him for ruining them, but at this point you don’t care. They were cheap, and if it means you’re going to have his mouth on you quicker, then you’re not going to complain.

Marcus leans forwards, you can feel the heat of his breath splaying across the lace material, and then he drags his tongue across the length of your folds over the lace of your panties. Even with the material barrier between your skin and his mouth, you’re tipping your head back in pleasure, letting out a breath as he repeats his movements, dragging his fingers just behind his tongue on his last pass of movements. It’s not enough.

“Please, Marcus.” You beg quietly.

“What do you want, pretty lady?” He asks, looking up at you with angelic eyes, as if he couldn’t possibly think what it is you want from him.

“Your mouth.”

“You already have it.” He points out, proving his point by licking another stripe up your panties.

“Marcus,” You sigh, “Move the… fuck… move the damn material out of the way.”

He lets out a huff of amusement, “See,” He says, doing exactly as you ask, hooking his fingers under the material and moving it to the side, “All you had to do was ask.”

He doesn’t waste any more time now. Letting his tongue dip between your slick folds, dragging the wetness that’s pooled at your entrance up to your clit, where he flicks softly with the tip of his tongue. You feel his thumbs spreading the lips of your cunt, baring you to him so he can really start to work you up. He presses the flat of his tongue to your clit, working it gently as your hand settles into the curls on his head, anchoring him there. He’s doing all the things you love, moving between wide stripes of the flat of his tongue, and quick flicks with the tip, until your hips are grinding against his face and you’re biting down onto your bottom lip to keep quiet.

“You taste so fucking sweet, pretty lady,” He speaks against your skin, surprising you a little as he pushes not one, but two of his fingers into your soaked cunt, “Feel good?”

“Oh God,” You breathe out as he hooks his fingers inside you, pressing against a spot you had no idea even existed inside of you, “Don’t stop… don’t fucking stop.”

He doesn’t, the obedient man that he is. He starts dragging his fingers in and out of you, whilst his lips wrap around your clit, pulling it into his mouth, laving it with attention from his tongue, which sends you over the edge.

Your thighs are clenching around his head as your body convulses. All you want is to cry out, call his name into the room, but even though you can hear the music from the party down here, anyone could be walking past, and it would be just your luck that it would be Amy from HR. His mouth is working you through those aftershocks as your thighs ease the pressure around his head.

He's breathing as heavy as you are when he stands, slotting himself between your open legs. You can feel the hard length of him pressing against your silken center, as he dips his head to kiss you again, your taste intoxicating on his tongue.

“Can I fuck you?” He asks, almost desperately, “You gonna let me?”

“Please.” Is all you can get out, as he drags you off the desk, flipping you around so your front is pressed against the wood of the desk.

He’s got his hand on the nape of your neck, pressing you down. You can hear him undoing his belt, dragging the zipper of his jeans down. You shuffle a little, widening your stance as he takes his place behind you. You can feel him dragging his cock through your folds, gathering the slick he’s pulled from you, before he’s plunging into you in one go. It takes everything you have not to scream. He’s big. Stretching you like no-one has before and it feels so fucking good.

Marcus is still gripping the back of your neck as he starts moving, his other hand gripping the plush cheek of your ass, spreading you open even more as he slowly drags himself in and out of you. He’s going slowly, and you think that the way his breath is hitching in his throat means he’s struggling to keep his composure, so you decide to have a little fun.

When he’s pulled almost all the way out of you, you turn your head as much as you can with his hand resting there, looking over your shoulder at him as you wiggle your ass, slowly backing into him, letting your cunt suck him right back into you again.

“Baby, you can’t do that,” He pleads, his fingers digging into the skin of your ass, “Carry on like that and this will be over before it’s begun.”

“Don’t care,” You mutter, “Harder, please.”

He starts pounding into you now, the sound of his skin slapping against yours is obscene. You’re both trying as hard as possible to keep the moans and groans as quiet as possible, and you can’t help but wish he wants more, that he’ll take you home sometime, unwrap you and let you scream for him, but you decide to focus on the here and now.

“Touch yourself.” You hear demanded from behind you, “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

You snake your hand underneath you, pushing the discomfort of how your arm is trapped between your body and the desk, and start tracing quick circles over your clit. You’re already sensitive, hanging on the edge from his mouth, so you press harder, move your wrist faster.

“Feel so fucking good, baby,” Marcus groans behind you, “Close, ain’tcha?” He asks, “Go on baby, let go for me, let me feel you.”

And it’s his voice that does it, that finally tips you over the edge, has your cunt clenching around him, walls fluttering and teeth biting into your bottom lip as your knees give way. Thankfully, Marcus is gripping at your hips, which helps to keep you upright.

“Where, baby?” He asks, voice strained, and you don’t catch what he means, “Quick baby, where do you want me?”

“Anywhere.” You groan out, “I don’t care Marcus, just come for me.”

You think for a moment he might stay inside you, which would be fine, you thank the implant under the skin of your arm, but at the last minute he’s pulling out of you, feeling the hot slick of his cum on the skin of your ass as he lets out a low groan out of his mouth. He’s breathing heavily behind you, pulling his jeans back up. You try and move, to push yourself up, but you’re worried if you move further you might collapse.

“Stay there.” He says gently, leaning over you to pluck a few tissues from the box on his desk, gently wiping away the mess he’s caused, pulling your panties back into place and letting your skirt cover as much of your ass as it can in your position.

“You okay?” He asks softly, helping you to stand, tucking a bit of your hair behind your ear.

You nod, because you are, you’ve never been fucked so thoroughly, never been made to come so hard in your life, but there’s an anxiety settling in your stomach. What always happens now is they’ll tell you they had a great time, but don’t think they want to see you again, which is going to be even more embarrassing because you have to work with this man.

It's almost as if he can sense your anxiety, because he’s cupping your cheek again, leaning to give you a soft kiss on the lips, “Would you maybe want to go out sometime?” He asks, “I know we’ve done things out of order, but I’ve wanted to ask for a while.”

You smile, because it does make you happy, that the man you’ve fancied for the best part of a year actually wants to take you out, “As long as you promise to take me back to yours after and let me see you naked?”

He blows out air from his mouth, but his eyes are twinkling, “You drive a hard bargain,” He muses, “But you’ve got yourself a deal.”

He’s moving from you now, over to the couch, picking up your coat and your back, motioning you over so he can help you into your jacket, hooking your bag onto your elbow, then moving to gather his own things, “Wait, right now?” You ask, sounding surprised, as he shrugs his jacket on.

“I know a great diner just down the road.” He shrugs, picking up his satchel.

He’s walking back to you, but you put a hand on his chest, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” You ask, watching a confused look fall over his face, you dart your eyes to his desk, where the whip from earlier is lying abandoned, “I’m only coming back to yours if you bring that.”

You watch as a smirk splays across his lips. He snatches the whip from his desk, shoving it into the satchel, “Well, pretty lady, lead the way.”

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike fic #Marcus Pike fanfic #Marcus Pike fanfiction #Marcus Pike fluff #Marcus Pike smut #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #Pedro Pascal #The mentalist #the mentalist fic #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #plus size reader

477 notes · View notes