#these might be... from more than a week ago.. <very forgetful
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The Heart of Your Home Pt 5
Summary: Arthur comes across a woman in need. What he thought was a simple good deed would take him down a much further path than anticipated.
Warnings: Some cursing and use of adult language
Word Count: 5,162
A/N: This one took a while. Enjoy!
“Arthur, come here,”
Hosea’s voice roused Arthur from his thoughts. He’d been standing at the shore of Clemens Point, watching the gentle waves of the lake shine in the late morning sun. He hadn't realized how deep in his own mind he was, realizing that the pink rays of the early morning had long since disappeared.
He turned and faced the older man, who was standing just before the edge of camp, looking at him expectantly. The shade of the ancient tree sheltering camp stretched almost to the beach itself. Arthur stepped away from the shore, joining Hosea beneath the shade. Relief from the sweltering sun was instantaneous.
“Hosea,” Arthur said in acknowledgment, his hands falling to rest on his gun belt.
“Arthur,” Hosea started. “Have you been feeling alright?”
The question caught Arthur off-guard. He gave Hosea a slight confused frown. “Yeah, why?”
“You’ve been quiet since we got here,” Hosea pointed out, his own frown of concern appearing on his lips.
“Ah,” Arthur responded with a small shrug. “I’m alright, Hosea.”
Hosea gave him a look Arthur knew all too well, one he often received in his adolescence and well into his adult life. It was clear the older man did not believe him. “Something’s on your mind, Arthur. You know very well I can tell.”
Arthur sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to another. It was true; in the craze of having to pack up and move from New Hanover in such a hurry, everything that’d been in the forefront of his mind had been slammed to the back like careless luggage in a stagecoach. He hadn’t anticipated running into the Pinkertons while teaching young Jack to fish on the river, which heavily compromised their once safe location.
Lemoyne was warmer than the previous state, though uncomfortably muggy and the land was unfortunately infested with Confederate apologizers. Three days have passed since settling in the secluded peninsula of Clemens Point, and while things are relatively quiet, Arthur felt an incessant tugging back toward the west.
It would be unwise to return so soon after his encounter, knowing the entire state might be crawling with Pinkertons on the lookout. The gnawing guilt in him didn’t quell, however, because he didn’t have the chance to check in on you one last time.
That tussle with the O’Driscolls and your hospitality painted a clear image in his mind. He’d made it a duty upon himself to wake up early a few days straight and ride by your house, on alert for any signs of trouble. He kept himself in the area by hunting deer and Pronghorn, turning pelts for profit and stocking up on more meat.
Everything was quiet, as luck would have it. There was no further sign of the Irish gang, no retaliation on his part.
By the third day, Arthur visited you properly. It took him those first few days to banish the lingering thoughts of the dream he had, although it was difficult to meet your gaze during the initial greeting. He provided you with some extra slabs of meat which you gladly cooked, allowing some normalcy between the two of you again. Your enthusiasm made him almost forget how he found you crying over your husband’s note.
“Is it Mary?”
The question startled him. He blinked and stared straight at Hosea with confusion. “What?”
“I know that look of longing,” Hosea pointed out with a knowing smirk. “And I know you met with Mary a few weeks ago.”
Arthur frowned. While it was true, Mary, his ex-fiancée, wrote him a letter which spurred a meeting between the two after years of no contact. Mary informed him that not only did her husband perish, but her younger brother had been swept into a cult and she needed Arthur’s help to rescue him. It wasn’t the reunion he once hoped for, and the entire experience stirred emotions both old and new that he couldn’t fully comprehend.
“No, not Mary,” Arthur said with a shake of his head.
“Someone else, perhaps?” Hosea supplied with a raised brow.
“No,” Arthur repeated, shuffling awkwardly in place, growing more wary of the conversation. “Hosea—”
“Now listen, Arthur,” Hosea interjected. “I know you very well by now, and I can tell when you’re thinking about someone.”
“There ain’t no one I’m thinkin’ of, Hosea,” Arthur sighed with annoyance. But the statement was only half-true, his mind tugging at the guilt for leaving so abruptly. It was the guilt that confused him, knowing there was no sound reason for him to feel that way. His visits to you were sporadic at best, with rarely any solid promise on when he’d come by again.
Perhaps it was because his last visits were a few days in a row, drawn back again for a good hot meal and decent company. You never once questioned his frequency, nor did he have a reason to state otherwise. He mentioned it was to ensure no intrusions from those slimy Irish bastards, but inwardly, he had to admit he grew fond of being your guest.
These past few days allowed an odd emotion to manifest in his chest. Too often he cast his gaze along the northwestern shores of Flat Iron Lake, traveling up to the craggy plateaus of New Hanover, toward that little homestead nestled in the forest just twenty minutes outside of Valentine.
“If you insist, Arthur,” the older man said with a smile that told Arthur that he didn’t believe him. “But if I may suggest, it’s rude to keep a lady waiting.”
Arthur's heart skipped a beat and before he could respond, Hosea stalked off toward the center of camp where Dutch seemed to be in a conversation with John. Arthur stared after him, confusion roiling deep in the pit of his belly.
He left shortly afterward, hoping to leave those thoughts behind by riding into the rolling hills just outside of Rhodes. Leaving physically, however, did nothing for the teeming thoughts in his mind. A distraction would be preferable. He supposed he could hunt to keep himself busy or scout the rest of the state for any potential large scores. He couldn't find the heart to perform either of these tasks, even though at any other given time he’d be more than happy to do so. Productivity should be at the forefront of his priorities, especially in a new, unfamiliar area. There were always new leads to follow, more jobs to acquire, more money to earn...or steal.
He paused on top of the hill, his hat the only shelter from the beating sun. A warm breeze caressed his face, providing minimal relief from the pressing humidity around him.
“C’mon, you idiot,” Arthur grumbled to himself, rubbing his brow free from sweat and hoping his words would ebb the growing reluctance within him. The breeze formed into a gust, carrying down to hills and swirling along the pathways of Rhodes, stirring up the red dirt to settle onto its rooftops.
He ought to at least start there, and he urged his stallion toward the town.
The initial search didn’t last long as he found himself in the Parlor House ten minutes later, the draw of alcohol outweighing the need of scouting for scores. At least it gave him a reprieve from the beating sun. He sat at the bar with a bottle of beer clutched in his hand, listening to the ambient sounds around him. It was still early enough in the day when it wasn’t busy aside from a handful of patrons.
A giggle caught his attention, and he glanced down the bar to see a couple— no, an older man with the arms of a pretty woman wrapped around his neck.
He did a double take.
It wasn't...no, couldn't be.
Upon closer inspection, it seemed a mere coincidence that this woman could've been your twin. She had the same hair and a similar facial structure, a smile upon her cherry red lips as she whispered something in the man’s ear, intentionally leaning over to give him a full view of her cleavage. She took the man’s hand, and Arthur watched as the man smiled and as if cast under a spell, stood up and allowed the siren of a woman to lead him away.
Arthur scoffed at himself, wondering how he even thought of such a thing. You were no working lady, especially not at the heels of your husband’s departure. You were too sweet, too kind, void of the calculation lingering behind the eyes of those other women, offering the promise of sex and sweet nothings to earn a quick buck.
But at that fleeting moment, he couldn't help the twist in his stomach when he thought it WAS you, draped across a man he knew wasn't your husband.
Or, wasn't—
Arthur abruptly shoved back from the bar, halting that thought instantly. His movement startled the bartender and another nearby patron, but he didn't care. He downed the rest of his drink and slammed the now empty bottle onto the bar before spinning on his heel and exiting the Parlor House. He couldn't explain that wayward thought, or the sudden need to mount his horse and ride all the way to New Hanover, just to ensure that the woman now most likely pleasuring that man behind closed doors was NOT you.
He cursed at himself, shaking his head and running his hand across his face in frustration. Why was he thinking like this? It was nonsensical and irrational, not to mention a spike of...what was that? Jealousy?
Jealous of what, exactly? Arthur stalked forward and leaned against a telephone pole in thought, his arms folding tightly. Envy was such a filthy emotion; one he’d experienced in his youth which led to situations that were less than ideal. He dug into his satchel, hands grabbing for a cigarette carton and glad to find one within. He pulled a cigarette out and proceeded to light it, taking a long drag of the earthy smoke to calm his nerves. He breathed out, slowly, focusing on the silver shroud spilling from his lips. It helped, marginally, but it allowed a moment of clarity.
His eyes closed against the beating sun, ignoring the stifling heat as he pulled another drag. The roiling emotions in his belly quelled to a simmer, and he sighed out another puff of smoke.
He then opened his eyes to see a young couple stride by, arm in arm, faces alight with laughter. Normally he wouldn’t give them a second glance, but something twisted in his guts. A dull ache radiated to his chest. It was a familiar pain, a reminder of what could’ve been a different life. He’d buried that long ago with any hopes that any sort of romantic relationship would rekindle.
Mary had been his love, a love burning so deep that it left a permanent hole following their parting ways. A hole he attempted to fill with Eliza, and the ache sharpened with her memory.
He stood up straight. “You’re a damn idiot, Morgan,” he grumbled. He’d convinced himself he wasn’t worthy of another chance at romance, not when he committed such heinous crimes and lost what was once precious to him as a result.
But that didn’t stop the want, the need. The weight of a soft body against him, the warmth between his arms, the feel of lips against his. The way he would tangle his fingers into soft tresses, his name spoken in such a manner he could hear it all day long.
Arthur swallowed hard, imagining exactly whose voice he’d love to hear his name being spoken.
It was a mistake to come here.
Finishing off the cigarette, he made his way back to his stallion.
---
The sun settled steadily lower into the sky, bathing Clemens Point in a subtle orange glow. The camp was beginning to settle with full bowls of stew courtesy of Pearson, the nearby campfire slowly roaring to life amidst the darkening surroundings. Arthur found himself at the shoreline again, resting on a thick piece of driftwood. The familiar worn journal rested open in his hand, a pencil in the other as he sketched.
It was the only thing that calmed his otherwise frayed nerves, delving into his inner thoughts. The light slowly faded with each stroke of his pencil across the smooth page.
“Arthur?” A feminine voice caught his attention this time, and he turned to see Mary-Beth approaching him.
Arthur smiled slightly at the young woman, tilting his head in greeting. “Mary-Beth,” he said.
She smiled in return, her eyes shifting to his journal as she drew closer. “Oh, who is the lady?”
He closed his journal and set it aside. “No one,” he answered.
Mary-Beth gave him the same look Hosea had earlier, the one that said: I don't believe you. Instead of prodding further, she said, “You just seemed more quiet than usual, I wanted to make sure you're okay.”
Arthur bit back a sigh, wishing his brooding thoughts were less obvious. Still, he couldn't blame her for asking; Mary-Beth was a kind woman, and he had no trouble speaking to her in the past about something that troubled him. “Not exactly,” he admitted.
Mary-Beth waited patiently for him to continue.
“I...” Arthur started, searching exactly for the words. “There’s someone...”
“That lady you were drawing?” She interrupted, her eyebrows raising.
He paused for a second. “Uh...” should he confirm or deny this?
She smiled softly at him. “Arthur, it's okay. You can tell me,” she reached over a patted his knee.
Arthur took a second, then matched her smile. Somehow, it was a little easier to speak to her than it was to Hosea. “It...is,” he admitted lowly.
Mary-Beth straightened with excitement written on her face. “Are you in love with her, Arthur?” She guessed.
The words made Arthur flinch. “No, no, nothin’ like that. I care ‘bout her though,” maybe more than he’d like to admit. He then took a deep breath. “When we was in New Hanover, I’d stop by her house on occasion. We’d have dinner and sometimes talked,” he shrugged.
“That sounds nice,” Mary-Beth commented, her smile remaining.
Arthur nodded in agreement. “But we left in such a hurry, I didn't have a chance to stop by. I know it's too risky to go back, but...”
“You feel guilty,” she finished for him.
Arthur sighed, his body sagging with the movement. “Seems real silly, but she’s all alone. Her husband took off on some sort o’ business deal and... we know what's out there.” He didn't have to explain the wolves, or the encounter with the O’Driscolls. Mary-Beth knew how unkind the world was to a woman alone. Hell, everyone in camp knew. It's what attracted them to the gang in the first place. It was a certain freedom that normal society couldn't grant.
He had the fleeting thought of imagining you here too, but the image dissolved in a heartbeat.
Mary-Beth's brow furrowed at this. “And she likes your company...without her husband?”
“Not like that,” Arthur quickly amended, his teeth gritting as those previous thoughts began to surface. “He...leaves often. She calls me her friend, can't really blame her, she's jus’ lonely.”
“And are you her friend?”
Arthur blinked at the question. “I... suppose,” he said hesitantly, remembering the way he discouraged the title at first, followed by your vehement disagreement. It still troubled him slightly, knowing that getting too close to him could be consequential. But he kept coming back... “Yeah, I am,” he finally added.
The young woman stared at Arthur with scrutiny for a long moment. Not judgmental but searching. Finally she said, “You're sweet on her,” it wasn't a question, but a statement.
“No,” Arthur immediately denied, though his stomach lurched.
“Arthur,” Mary-Beth said gently. “I can see it on your face.”
His hands, which were resting on his thighs, balled into fists. He wasn't angry, rather, anxious. He was ready to further refute her claim, but the words wouldn't come out. He looked away from her. “She’s married,” he reminded her, although it seemed as if he was reminding himself. It’d gone quiet between the two, and Arthur took a chance to glance her way again.
“I’m not one to judge,” she quietly said. “But it sounds like...her husband doesn’t love her like he should.”
Arthur was inclined to agree, especially after his early morning encounter with you. The sway of money did things to a man, and he knew that better than anyone. He truly hoped it didn’t lead to your demise due to Frederick’s negligence. Perhaps he ought to ride out to Saint Denis and seek out this man himself and remind him what sort of dangers lurk just outside their front door.
“Maybe...she needs a way out,” Mary-Beth added, gazing at him expectantly.
Arthur took a deep breath and shook his head. “No,” he said, knowing exactly what Mary-Beth meant. A woman like you was too kind for his world. “She don’t need to be here.”
Mary-Beth frowned slightly. “You know Dutch would--”
“I know what he’d say,” Arthur interrupted. Even for a gang outlaws, Dutch had a knack for taking in lost souls. Hell, Sadie was only with them for over a month now and she began to become productive around camp. Even Kieran started to show promise after spending the first few weeks with them as a prisoner. “But...it ain’t a good idea. Trust me, Mary-Beth.”
The frown remained on her face as she sat quietly, as if contemplating how to respond. She took a deep breath and uttered, “Then it sounds like you need to make a decision.”
He looked at her in bewilderment. “On what?”
“About her,” Mary-Beth supplied. “Either tell her your feelings, or let her stay with her husband,” her voice was gentle, but there was a finality in her tone. “And you’ll have to do it soon.”
She got up then, offering him a smile before turning to head back into camp. Arthur’s stomach churned as her words settled deeper, and he picked his journal back up to flip to the page he’d been sketching in. A woman was facing away, but her head was turned to the side with amusement playing on her open lips. She busied herself over a stew pot, but her stilled motion was captured as if she were in a conversation.
It was you, always chatting over your shoulder to him as you cooked the next delicious meal, and a small smile tugged on his face.
That night, sleep did not come easily. As the air cooled it did nothing to remove the dampness that hung heavy like a blanket. He tossed and turned on his cot, wishing for his eyes to grow heavy. But his mind was too awake, buzzing with thoughts that incessantly bounced back and forth.
Eventually he sat up, completely abandoning the idea of sleep now. He would like to blame the weather, mosquitos beginning their descent once the smoke of the campfires died, but he knew damn well that wasn't it.
Mary-Beth's words from earlier echoed, never ceasing entirely. They dimmed and heightened, tugging at his mind even when the beginning threads of sleep began to pull. Repeating mentally that one phrase that Arthur tried his hardest to push away.
You’re sweet on her.
He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. He’d spent hours trying to deny it, to banish those lingering thoughts. But the action felt wrong.
“You ain't sweet on her,” he mumbled under his breath, further trying to convince himself, a sour taste forming at the back of his mouth as he said it. It's as if those words were a poison he needed to spit out. “You ain't...”
Memories flashed through his mind like a film reel. Sweet, calm memories of hearty stew and roasted chicken and glasses of whiskey and wine. The savory smell comforting in a small cabin deep in the woods. The nicker of his horse upon seeing a familiar mare. A lovely smile and beautiful eyes lighting up at the sight of him, even though he didn't deserve it.
Arthur sagged, his head falling into his hands with the realization. No, not a realization. It'd been there all along, and he was tired of denying it. Relief flooded him like a wave, releasing the knot in his stomach but weighing him down at the same time.
He was sweet on you.
And that was dangerous.
Decisions warred each other as he considered what to do. He was a fool to think his confession would make a difference to you; you were married after all. And even though Frederick’s choices were less than ideal, he had no doubt you would choose your own husband over him.
Hell, who would choose him anyway? He wasn't worth your kindness, even though you endlessly provided it.
It would be easy to just never go back, force the distance until these damned feelings dissipated on their own. He’d done it before, after all, when Mary decided on a life without him in it. The pain was unmatched, but time thickened the wound like a callus.
But then he wondered what you'd think if he never shadowed your doorstep ever again. The way you worried over him the day you found him in the aftermath of the O’Driscoll massacre. You didn't have to treat his wounds, but you did anyway despite his efforts to deny the help. The way you insisted on feeding him with every visit, to allow his horse some rest as well.
You would think the worst. Even though he was pretty sure you didn't know what he was, he was also pretty sure you would assume he died. Wouldn’t that be best, after all?
Arthur slowly straightened, the thought settling uncomfortably heavy in his stomach. It wouldn't be fair to just disappear entirely, not without a proper farewell.
And that's what he planned to do.
A simple lie would suffice. He would tell you he’s moving further away, and although part of it was the truth, he wouldn't disclose the reason. Not to unveil his true self to you, and not to reveal his true feelings either. The mere thought of you finding out either of these made his heart thud.
Maybe it would be for the better. If you knew he was an outlaw, maybe that’ll make the distance much easier. He could almost imagine the look of horror on your face before demanding he leave your house at once, never to return.
That thought hurt more than he anticipated, but it was better than the ache gnawing at his chest since the trek to Lemoyne. That will disappear in time.
He stood up from the cot, his body now too wired to even attempt sleep. This had to be done, and he might as well start now.
---
A warm breeze fluttered across the busy street, carrying the scent of the lake water along with it. Your hair ruffled, stirring loose strands up from the bun you’d fashioned it into this morning. It was a gorgeous, sunny day in the town of Blackwater, a far cry from the perpetual chill that hung around your home in New Hanover.
Civilization was also a welcome sight. Your cousin, who was a West Elizabeth native, arrived shortly after sending her your most recent letter about Frederick‘s newest trip. That prompted her to take you to Blackwater for the weekend, a town of which you’d never visited but had heard about.
It reminded you of your home back East, and the memory brought along a feeling of nostalgia. You’d never thought you would miss the constant bustle of more urban areas; how busy it was at night compared to the sounds of nature that lulled you to sleep now.
It was wild to you how different your life was compared to just a few months ago. You missed normal civilization, sure, but there was something about being tucked away in the wilderness that grew on you, especially after learning what to avoid.
You couldn't help but to smile sheepishly to yourself. Having a close brush with death certainly changed your perspective on things, and it made you appreciate the sheer force Mother Nature had to offer. She was beautiful, but deadly.
The sound of your name pulled you from your thoughts, and you turned to face your cousin. She was staring at you expectantly.
“I’m sorry Rachel,” you say with an apologetic smile. “What did you say?”
Rachel scoffed and rolled her eyes, but the grin on her face told you she was amused. “I said, would you like to check this out?” She gestured to the theater you two stopped in front of.
You glanced up at the building, Blackwater Grand Theatre it was called, marquees boldly stating multiple shows. You shrugged and said, “I'm in for a good show,” you flashed your cousin a smile. “And lunch after?”
Rachel nodded with a grin and stepped forward to the box office. You followed suit, only barely paying attention as Rachel shelled out a dollar for two tickets and headed inside after.
Films were only something you’d witnessed once or twice in your life, there was a theater a few blocks from your old house that you managed to visit before marrying Frederick. Afterwards you'd been far too busy to even attempt, and you were glad to have another opportunity now.
The two of you sat midway in the theater, watching as the silver screen flickered to life with the black and white images. The acting of course was overly dramatized, enhanced by the music. You laughed and made quiet commentary for the five minutes that the motion picture lasted.
The end showed a couple passionately kissing on the screen. Your heart skipped a beat at the scene, and a sharp feeling of loneliness stabbed at your stomach. You curled into yourself slightly as if you'd really been injured.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asked after noticing your shift in position.
“Yeah,” you sighed, straightening back up to stand from your seat. An uncomfortable memory surfaced to the forefront of your mind; waking up to find Frederick’s letter which led to you sobbing in front of the fireplace. “I just miss my husband.”
Rachel gave you a sympathetic smile and placed a hand on your shoulder. “I know, but that's why you're here with me.”
You nodded at the reminder, grateful for this trip. The non-expectancy of it all was truly enough to busy your mind for a while, especially because you hadn't seen Rachel since your wedding. You followed her along the row of seats and toward the back end of the theater, melding into the small crowd that formed heading toward the exit.
The two of you shuffled slowly out, surrounded by hot bodies and the murmurs of others discussing the film or other matters. You paid no mind, just wanting to exit the stuffy building in favor of a fresh breeze. Soon enough you were able to take a deep breath of air as you stepped back into the bright sun.
Rachel then led you to a saloon for lunch. It wasn't what you expected for a meal, but the change of scenery was welcome. You'd gotten so used to cooking every day you'd almost forgotten what it was like to have someone else do it for you.
The ambience, although buzzing, was soon tuned out as you focused on your meal of roasted chicken. Some words were exchanged between you and Rachel between bites, but otherwise no other conversation ensued. A small group of men filed into the saloon, and there was a business-like edge to the way they were dressed and carried themselves. You glanced at them briefly.
“Pinkertons,” Rachel explained, catching your momentary curiosity.
You nodded, turning back to your food. You didn't know much about them other than they were dutiful to the law.
As you reached for another fork full of chicken, their conversation caught your ear. It was a quick mention, a name, really. Arthur.
Another pang of homesickness coiled in your stomach. Arthur, your friend. It’d been almost a week since you last saw him, but you missed his calming presence all the same. You hoped he would take the time to see you again when you got back home.
“Lost track of him after New Hanover,” you heard one of the Pinkertons say. “Bastard must've warned everyone to move.”
“Course,” another grumbled.
Huh, seemed like they were tracking down some criminals. Arthur was a common enough name, and you wondered if it had to do with the O’Driscolls.
“Hey, are you alright?”
Rachel’s voice almost startled you, and you realized you’d paused mid-fork. Glancing up to her, you nodded and finally resumed eating, turning out the rest of the Pinkertons’ conversation.
By the time you finished your meals, the late afternoon sun started to sink behind the buildings, casting long shadows and bathing the town in a golden orange glow. It was so pretty here, and the heat of the day began to cool to a comfortable temperature. Rachel’s apartment wasn't far from here, but there was more of Blackwater to explore before turning in for the night.
Rachel agreed to appease to your curiosity, pointing toward the Town Hall and mentioning how there was a small pier to have a better view of Flat Iron Lake, excitement grew and you started off, heading parallel of the Main Street as the day slowly darkened.
Soon enough you reached the end and took a right, the covered pier coming into view immediately just a few hundred feet away. Your pace quickened as you bustled along, passing by someone who busied himself placing up a flyer along a line of similar parchment covered flyers.
The stark contrast compared to the dark building wall caught your attention and you glanced, realizing the flyers were a cluster of wanted posters. Multiple men with high bounties for various crimes. You never bothered to look twice, wanting to avoiding immersing yourself in imagining whatever heinous crimes these lowlifes committed.
Except one that your gaze lingered onto for a heartbeat longer. Your feet slowed as you fully took in the information.
A man stood out from the rest. Wide shoulders, a chiseled jaw, stubble that dusted his chin. A worn black leather hat sat upon his head. Everything about him was familiar, down to the pair of eyes that even in the colorless photo you knew the exact shade of blue they would be if you saw them in reality.
And beneath it, read:
WANTED
Arthur Morgan
Reward: $5,000
Your heart sunk to your stomach as your eyes read the bold letters again, then shifting to his face, hoping to find any difference to refute...the truth.
But there was none.
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Magma doodles: Glamrock Chica and Roxy Edition!
#skizabaa scribbles#fnaf sb#fnaf#fnaf security breach#glamrock chica#roxanne wolf#fnaf roxy#fnaf glamrock chica#this was my first time drawing roxy! I love them both so much <3#also roxy is crouched down in that last picture <3#these might be... from more than a week ago.. <very forgetful#magma doodles
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pairing: aaron hotchner x reader
summary: your BeReal for the day is, perhaps, a little too real
contents/warnings: smut (18+, minors dni)
There's no mistaking the notification that chimes on your nightstand. It's BeReal, the unique sound lets you know, and you're not in the best position right now to answer it.
You're in the best position, period. You're sprawled out against Aaron's silky bedsheets, the fabric soothing and cool against your flushed skin. You're sweaty, hot, and bothered, your cunt begging for more as Aaron drives his cock repeatedly through your sopping folds.
"Fuck," You hiss, partially at the feeling of Aaron's teeth scraping at your collarbone, and partially because you panic at the sound, "Aaron, my- gimme my phone."
"Don't you think this is a little more important?" He grunts, nearly knocking his skull into your jaw as he lunges for a kiss. He takes you by surprise, and you're nearly pulled away from your urgency to post when his tongue practically slips down your throat.
You nearly gag on it, and your nails take a break from scratching up his back to weave through the short strands of hair at the back of his neck. It's not long enough to tug, but he huffs at the feeling of your nails scraping across his scalp, and rocks his hips into yours slightly faster.
"Oh, fuck, Aaron," You pant when he finally lets you breathe, burying his head in your shoulder to bite at the skin there instead, "Aaron this is so hot, I wanna- please, I wanna post it."
"No face," He instructs, and you're more than happy to choose a different area of his body to focus on, "Don't need Garcia figuring us out."
The moans that escape your mouth, albeit muffled by Aaron's own, are so pornographic that you're paranoid they'll somehow be captured in the photo you snap. When you finally get your hands on your phone you aim it at Aaron's back, as well as the red stripes left by your newly manicured nails, and snap a photo. Then, with the front camera, your jaw that's been sucked sore by Aaron, and in the corner of the shot, his short black hair and strong jawline nestled against your skin. You keep it just as he's instructed, vague enough of a profile so that your coworkers shouldn't be able to figure out that it's him, and his post without a second thought. You feel the buzzings of replies soon after, but you're no longer capable of caring about them while they vibrate against your nightstand, much happier to focus on Aaron's relentless jackhammering into your pulsating cunt.
--
Gathering in the conference room the next day means that you get a lot of shit-eating grins. You'd expected it, what with the soft porn you'd posted, and you're surprised when even Rossi offers you his congratulations.
"Nice going, kiddo," He knocks elbows with you, and you laugh sheepishly.
"You saw?"
"Morgan filled me in," He nods, "Garcia was the first one to know, of course, but it spread very quickly."
You don't have it in you to be embarrassed in front of your team too badly. You're all adults, and they're more proud of you than anything, even if Reid's smile is extra awkward today.
"Just be glad Hotch doesn't have the app," Emily laughs, and for a moment you forget that they don't know you're together. But you play it off with a wry smile towards her as your Unit Chief walks through the door, and you're happy to let your attention drift to him as he speaks.
His tone is authoritative, like always, and you fight to stop something from stirring between your legs. You tune into what he's saying instead, something about a double homicide in Kansas, and that helps dissuade any distracting thoughts you might have had.
"-and those pictures are... not on the monitor." Aaron narrows his eyes at the black screen, and Garcia nearly breaks the remote trying to get it to respond.
"Sir, I'm trying! I'm sorry," She frets, mashing all of the buttons at once in her panic, "It's not working, I- I think the batteries might be dead?"
"I changed them two weeks ago," Hotch shakes his head while taking the remote from her, stepping up towards the monitor to fiddle with the buttons beneath it, "It's alright, Garcia, it's not your fault."
He cranes his head down to peer at remote in his hand, intent on making sure no acid has leaked from the batteries, but when he does so, the back of his neck is no longer covered by his shirt collar, and it's bright red.
There's clear marks from your nails, red streaks that haven't faded in the mere hours they've been left alone and probably won't for another day. It barely takes any time for a room of profilers to connect two and two, and Penelope's position as technical analyst doesn't hinder her realization.
Your hand shoots over your mouth as the rest of your team exchanges incredulous gasps and jeers, all looking rapidly between you and Hotch. He turns to raise an eyebrow at them all and his eyes land on your bashful grin.
"Remind me to rub some aloe on the back of your neck when we get home," You mumble sheepishly, and there's only more scandalized comments made about how you two go home together.
Aaron's jaw clenches and he sighs defeatedly at the realization that you've both been caught, a hand flying up to cup the back of his neck.
Everyone waits with bated breath to hear what he has to say for himself but he can't manage to muster up anything to save the awkward situation.
"We'll look at the details on the jet," He grumbles, setting the faulty remote on the counter and snatching his bag off of the ground beside his chair, "Wheels up in thirty, and we never speak of this again."
#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner imagine#aaron hotchner scenario#aaron hotchner oneshot#aaron hotchner one-shot#aaron hotchner one shot#aaron hotchner headcanon#aaron hotchner headcanons#aaron hotchner hc#aaron hotchner hcs#aaron hotchner fanfiction#aaron hotchner fanfic#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotchner blurb#aaron hotchner drabble#aaron hotchner dialogue#aaron hotchner fluff#aaron hotchner x reader fanfiction#aaron hotchner smut
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Demons and Humans not understanding each other
Inspired by several other posts I read about this same thing <3 honestly even if the brothers insisted it was safe, I would consult Satan, Lucifer or Barbatos
this is mostly mammon freaking out
Humans think the deadliest things are like, adorable, like Cerberus. Mammon especially does not understand why Mc wants to run towards the very dangerous, very mad three headed dog. A few times he has had to throw Mc over his shoulder to keep them from staying behind
“MC CERBERUS BEING THE BEST BOY DOES NOT JUSTIFY HIS ACTIONS HE WANTS TO KILL US”
“But he’s so cute! He just needs a snuggle buddy”
Humans can also be very stubborn if they’re too hot or cold but refuse to admit it. It’s fine with Lucifer does it because he’s one of the most powerful and therefore resilient demons in Hell, but not so much when Mc does it. Beel and Mammon love playing in the Devildom snow, but given that it’s the Devildom, it’s definitely a lot colder than it is in the human realm. Even after ten layers, Mc is still freezing but refuses to admit it.
“Mc, are ya shivering? I thought ya would be too warm under all that”
“I’m sweating with this one jacket”
“I’ll live! Let’s go back to the snowman”
“no I don’t think you will”
On the same note, sometimes demons forget humans can’t withstand crazy temperatures. Asmo will invite Mc to a popular bathhouse, sauna or hot springs, forgetting that the temperature would literally boil Mc alive
“Hey Asmo this is the place you wanted to go, right?”
“Yes! Isn’t is cute?”
“Everything except the part where I boil alive”
“what!”
Some foods can kill humans just by being near them so imagine how the brother would feel when they learned this, it’s giving that lunatic pudding incident with Diavolo from that one card
“Mc! You’ll love this. Open wide!”
“Asmo I feel funny”
“DO NOT FEED MC THE TAKEOUT LUCIFER SAID ITS DEADLY FOR HUMANS IN LARGE AMOUNTS”
“FUCK NOT AGAIN”
In retrospect, humans probably sleep a lot compared to demons. Some demons probably don’t sleep at all, except Sloth demons. Setting aside about eight to nine hours of the day just to sit idly might not make sense to them until they learn they will shut down without it
“How are you feeling about the exam we just took? Exam week is finally over.”
“Mc? Mc, Satan is talking to you. Why are you on the floor”
“MY HUMAN IS DEAD”
“No, I think they’re just asleep idiot”
“oh. wait, THEYRE ASLEEP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HALL lucifer is gonna kill me”
I’d say both demons and humans are social creatures, but humans will go insane without social interaction. Yeah a demon would probably be upset if they didn’t talk to someone for thousands of years but I don’t think a human could last more than ten without losing grip on reality. Humans tend to copy each other, which is probably bizarre to demons. Humans don’t even understand yawning so demons definitely won’t
Going back to the food thing, demons can probably go ages without eating, besides Gluttony demons. Humans need to eat so frequently compared to them
“So you’re tellin’ me that if Mc doesn’t eat for a whole week, their insides start to eat themselves?!”
“Yes. But, Mc ate a few hours ago.”
(Mammon was already gone when Satan turned back around)
Demons probably also play game that would definitely kill humans. My brother and I used to play crazy games when we were little (our favorite game didn’t have a name but we would put Barbies in the toy train tracks and see what would happen when different Thomas and friends character would hit her. The train tracks would glow in the dark! I did not let him put my favorite doll in the train track and he had to listen since I was the older one, she was not a barbie and had bendy feet? that’s not for now) but we never seriously got at each other throats. I cannot imagine what games demons and demon children must play. Satan was born fully grown but imagine if he was born little and the brothers had to play his favorite games with him. I feel like they would find the Barbie game I played a little weird too. Like, they would probably tell me that I should’ve done it in real life since that would be better experience or something batshit like that
“Aww, Satan, do you remember all the times we played “Five minute eye stab” with Lucifer? You were so cute. Sometimes I think Luci let you win.”
“Do not talk to me Asmodeus.”
“I’m sorry, you played what?”
“One time we gave him an actual knife by accident and since he was good, he ended up stabbing Lucifer’s eye.”
“You’ll be next if you don’t shut up and let me read”
“HE WHAT”
“Oh he’s fine now, clearly. Only took him a few hundred years to regain normal eye functions”
“Can we not talk about this anymore?”
Babe it is a miracle Mc is still alive
#obey me#obey me!#obey me belphie#obey me satan#obey me asmo#obey me beel#obey me levi#obey me mammon#obey me luficer#obey me x reader#obey me x you#obey me x mc#obey me mc
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heartbreak hotel
- gojo satoru x reader
so you're going on a three-day-two-night getaway trip with the one and only Gojo Satoru. the catch? you two have just broken up.
genre/warnings:
crack, jealousy, a dose of pettiness, hurt/comfort, fluff, zero angst i promise, suguru being a good buddy to his boyfriend best friend
notes:
inspired by a very real life story :))) anyways, it takes place in an au where suguru never left and all is well with our little meow meow catoru
the wonderful colored manga panel by the talented @redbluenight!
this was so much fun to write (that it turned into a whopping 3k+ word, so sorry) and i even made a playlist while on it ;)
series masterlist | oneshot masterlist
"He's intolerable!"
There were many things that led to the end of your relationship with Gojo Satoru, but if asked one word to sum it, then that was it.
When you started this thing with him, obviously you had never planned on how it would end―who started a relationship with that sort of mindset anyway? But if you could choose, you definitely wouldn't want it to end with dramatic shouting match that left you in tears.
Anyways, some things were just not meant to be. You refused to spend your whole life crying over that smug bastard, and so you moved on.
However, if there's one thing you've learned about plans, it is that whenever you already make a foolproof one, the world always has some funny way to mess it up.
Like this time.
"I... I remembered saving for months," you stammered dumbly, staring blankly at Shoko in front of you. The realization felt like a spiritual ascent. "I paid for that damn plane ticket and hotel with my whole saving. I can't just throw them away."
How could you possibly forget about this? This graduation trip that had been planned between your group of Satoru, Suguru, Shoko and yourself for months now. It was meant to be a getaway, a celebration of your most significant achievement after four years of barely getting by on exorcising curses and not dying in the process. This was supposed to be the ultimate milestone celebration in your life.
"Then don't," Shoko replied simply, twisting the cigarette in her mouth. "I'm still going though. No way I'm wasting that money."
"But!" you vehemently hissed. "He will be there. It means I have to see him for three days straight!"
Your cringeworthy breakup happened just barely a week ago. You had sworn in front of Gojo Satoru that you didn't want to see his face again, and yet in less than a week from now, you and him would literally share the same space―again?
"Can't I get a refund?"
"This late? Nah, it's like yay or nay at this point."
You slumped in frustration. Were the gods making you swallow your own words now? You were left with no other choice. Your frugality and tendency to get broke often compelled you to make the decision.
You were going on this trip whether he was there or not.
Meanwhile, on his end, the said smug bastard was brooding, groaning and pacing over the same predicament. Satoru had two options and had weighed them all, and somehow he still arrived at the more seemingly no-good decision.
"I'm going, duh!"
"You are?" Suguru asked with a hint of surprise in his voice. "Well, might be the first time I've seen someone agree to go on an overnight trip with his ex..."
"Hmph. I just don't like squandering money."
Suguru snorted, unimpressed. “Satoru, you have an entire fortune. The airfare is just an amount you'd donate to charity. Besides, you have wasted more than that.”
“Well, I want to enjoy my youth too! I’m going—who cares if she’ll be there!”
He was still miffed, recalling the day your argument spiraling out of control. How could you say those hurtful things to him?
“You never take things seriously—heck, I’m not even sure if you’re ever taking me seriously at all! Satoru, you’re always acting all high and mighty, but you’re just a selfish little twat!”
No way. The last time, he was left in the dust, not being able to say anything in his defense. So now, he would use this chance to be the one who had the last laugh. He was going, because he was 70% sure that you wouldn’t let your hard-earned money go to waste.
And he was right when two days later, he found you at the airport with a bitter scoff upon seeing him.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he moistened his lower lip in that obnoxious way. “Missed me?”
You walked past him, tone lacing with disdain. “Get lost, Gojo.”
He couldn’t help the prickling sensation in his chest when you dismissed him just like that. And the use of his last name—whereas you used to call him with all sort of available pet names? Now that was just low.
“Nah, you can’t get away from me that easily, Y/N,” Satoru sniggered. “You’re going to see me for the next three days, so suck it up and enjoy the sight,” and then the idiot proceeded to pump his fist in the air. “Wooo! Kyushu, here I go!”
Suguru and Shoko merely observed your icy interactions in silence, occasionally exchanging glances from time to time.
ITINERARY ::: DAY 1 — BEACH DAY @ SEASIDE HOTEL
After the three-hour flight, the four of you arrived at Karatsu, one of the main highlights in your trip—or back then, one you and Satoru handpicked yourselves.
You swore you still had your heart frozen for him, so you didn’t know what stirred it when you saw him giggling and doubling over in carefree delight, surrounded by those beach girls in skimpy bikinis.
“Hey, handsome~ is this even okay?” one of the girls in pink thong scooted closer to him, asking him with this cheap seductive grin. “Won’t your girlfriend be mad?”
At that moment, you could’ve sworn Satoru threw you a glance from the corner of his eye before replying with a triumphant bark. “What girlfriend? I’m wholly and happily single!”
The hell?
A rush of squeals grated your nerves as they swarmed your ex-boyfriend, prompting you to stalk away in irritation.
Absolutely not. You wouldn’t let this fine establishment be your heartbreak hotel any longer.
Gojo Satoru knew fully that he was petty. He let you see that on purpose just to rile you up, because frankly, he still felt like he didn’t deserve your messy breakup at all.
But when you were no longer in his eyesight, suddenly the urge to entertain these strangers dissipated, and what remained was this hollow sensation in his chest. You not paying him attention somehow made him crave it all the more.
He recalled how you pointed out that playing in the clear waters would be your ideal graduation gift. He specifically recommended this place himself and you had agreed. He remembered planning all of this, dragging Suguru and Shoko too just to make it merrier. To keep that cute smile on your face.
You were supposed to fool around with him in the clear waters of Matsubara Beach, splashing and pulling him underwater.
And yet in reality, he was toying with these questionable women and in your eyes, he was nothing but an irritable twat.
He didn’t see you again until evening, during dinner time. And the sight before him made him want to pull Suguru to the side and trap him inside his unlimited void.
"Really?" Your clear voice rang in his ears, every bit the same as when you would energetically question him with those doe eyes of yours, as you peered at Suguru. "We should go together tomorrow then!"
His eyes twitched.
What has his life come to? Reduced into seeing his ex-girlfriend possibly going on a date with his best friend?
He almost hoped that you'd stage up your pettiness level. It was worse because unlike him, you didn't make this up just to gauge his reaction.
That night, in their shared hotel room, he ignored Suguru completely, as well as silently waiting for him to divulge where he and you were going tomorrow.
"Hey Satoru—"
"Shut up, I'm trying to sleep."
It was obviously a wrong move, because Suguru apparently caught the hint and stayed quiet as a mouse throughout the night.
ITINERARY ::: DAY 2 — HOT SPRING @ KUMAMOTO
Or at least, last he remembered, that was the agenda.
Until he saw that only Shoko who was there, idling around at the hot spring area.
"Where are the others? Why is it only you here?"
She shrugged. "Geto said he's going to try the local specialties. Dunno where. As for me, I'm going to enjoy this onsen to the fullest."
Shoko noticed his irritated scowl, and a sly grin crept across her face.
"Heh, jealous much now, Gojo?"
Meanwhile, you and Suguru went to various dessert shops in town as per his invitation. Perhaps he took pity on you because you really seemed not to be having any fun at all after you stormed off from the beach area yesterday.
"Mmm! This is tasty!" you remarked, munching away the three-colored dango happily. You were so engrossed in eating today that you no longer had any room to think about anything else, which was a good thing.
Suguru smiled. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself now." However, he appeared to have something on his mind, prompting you to hum and tilt your head in curiosity.
"No, it's just... so it's really over between you and Satoru?"
You let out a snort. "Yeah. Totally. He's an ass."
"He really is miserable, you know..."
"Nah, he doesn't look like it."
Your friend sighed. "Honestly, what was the argument even about? Both of you usually didn't take it this far."
You didn't want to go back to that topic, really. But Suguru was always the one with cooler head, and after his kindness today, maybe you could spare him a detail or two.
"It's a lot of little things that have piled up, you know," you mumbled. "It's probably just how he is, and I know. But I finally reached my boiling point. Why can't he try to see things from my perspective? Everything that's important to me doesn't seem to matter to him, and relationships need two people, not just one who resigns and the other who does anything he pleases."
And until now, you doubted if Satoru even realized what he did wrong. That was what hurt you the most. Like you were so small in his eyes, like he could toy with you and get away with it.
As you expected, Suguru would understand your point. "So that's how you feel... Yeah, I think I get it."
You thought he would end it at that, but then he went on. "I'm not defending him, Y/N. I think some time away from you would do him good, but later, maybe you can talk this to him? See if he will understand?"
"I already did, so many times." You narrowed your eyes at him. "Not to offend you, but it awfully seems like you're defending him, Suguru, despite you saying otherwise."
"I'm saying this because sometimes we can forget that Satoru is different," he explained sympathetically, and to be honest, you were surprised by his statement. "He is born exalted. He has a hard time comprehending things that come to us naturally. I just think it's a pity if... you can actually fix this, but just because bad communication, you lose the chance to."
Have you properly communicated this to him? Now that you thought about it, most of the times you would just get mad and point at the little things he missed, but never actually told him how it made you feel.
Your mind was still muddled with the fact Suguru had shed light on even after you got back to ryokan where you were staying for the night. The two of you were in for a surprise though as apparently there was a festival happening there.
Everything seemed to spark with glitters. The bamboo lanterns, lights, the gentle breeze. It created an undeniably romantic ambiance, to be honest.
You didn't know when Suguru slipped away, but suddenly, you found yourself alone amidst the visitors and dim lights.
And you found yourself to be immensely lonely.
Satoru spotted you in all your solitary glory amidst the sea of people in this godforsaken place.
No, actually it was a pretty great inn and attraction, but this trip had been horrible so far, and so he just felt everything was bad.
But at that moment, bitterness no longer clouded his mind, because you were so beautiful, bathed in the glow of the lights that Shoko had forcibly dragged him to see. If it were up to him, he'd spend the last night sleeping his heartbreak away, but now that he was here, he was thankful to see the dazzling sight of you that reminded him once again just what made him hopelessly in love with you.
And why he didn't get his sorry ass back into your good graces faster.
He retraced everything had brought both of you to this point. Your last fight was about what again? Him not telling you any news when he would be back from a mission?
No matter how he thought about it, it was a trivial matter. So what made you mad? He kept thinking, and then he imagined switching places with you. What if you didn't text him at all for three days straight? How would he feel? Oh, he would be despondent, of course.
Now he was starting to understand. He had done that so many times he could no longer keep count. Granted, you would be angry.
Satoru suddenly know how to rectify this. He can make things right. He would be damned if he didn't. He just had to pull you aside, and he was going to when he lost sight you in the crowd.
Okay, now he was frantic, as the longer he didn't see you, the more his opportunity to make amends slipped away. He moved through the crowd, pushing people in the process, earning ire and questionable glares and yet he cared none for it.
He nearly cursed at how his phone kept vibrating incessantly inside his pocket. Begrudgingly, he took it out and almost gasped.
You are calling him.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
It was so incredibly stupid. You just went to pee for a bit and then somehow got yourself locked in the toilet. It might have been fine, but then the lights unexpectedly went out, scaring the shit out of you.
How could such a upscale inn experience a sudden power outage and have doors that wouldn't budge? It was worse when no matter how many times you punched the switch or banged the door, it refused to turn on or open.
You were trapped. Honestly, it took everything you had not to cry.
And so you did the next best thing aside from forcing your way out. You called your friends. First, Shoko, and then Suguru, but both of them somehow didn't pick up the call even after you had called them three times each.
That left you with one possible person left. In your frenzied mind, it didn't even register in your mind what you were doing as the line connected and the last person you'd call on the other side answered.
"Satoru," you shakily breathed out, almost crying—or were you already? You didn't know as you focused on his sharp intake of breath, most likely surprised at how rattled you sound.
"Y/N? What? What is it?"
"I—" you wheezed, hating how helpless you sounded, yet still forced the words out. "I'm locked, it's dark—and it's just so—help! Help me please! I tried getting Shoko but she didn't—"
"Okay, sweetheart, calm down. Calm down, okay?" Satoru's voice brought you some comfort and it helped to reduce your tears, missing how he slipped up by calling you with his usual pet name for you. "Tell me. Where are you?"
"The women's restroom… I think it’s in the east wing."
"I'm coming, okay? Don't panic. I'll be there. Just stay on the line."
You heard his ragged breaths as he muttered several "coming through!" and "excuse me!" from where he was. It made your heart lurch. Despite the spiteful breakup, he rushed to your aid as soon as he realized you were in some kind of trouble.
Was this okay, to let your relationship end just like that?
"I'm outside." And then you heard his voice, much to your relief. "Y/N? Are you there?"
"Yes!" you shouted over the steel door.
You then heard how he rummaged to get the door open, and faintly hear him cursing it. "It won't open."
You wanted to sob, but then Satoru told you with an absolute tone, sounding so sure and demanding that compelled you to comply. "Get away from the door. As far as possible. Take cover."
Oh God, was he going to do what you thought he might do?
...he did. The next thing you knew, the door—and much more than that—was destroyed, and a rush of cursed energy was everywhere. After the blast subsided, you instinctively made a run for it, and you didn't know how, but you ended up stumbling into him.
Satoru caught you in his firm embrace.
"It's okay. You're okay," he cooed, whispering in your ear gently, urging your shivering body to calm down. "You're safe now, Y/N... I'm here. You're safe."
There was always something about your trembling form that made him want to tear down everything and anything in his path just to make you feel secure. And there was always this sense of rightness whenever you snuggled in his arms. Both desires clashed in a contrasting need and want and Satoru could do nothing but keep you close to him, torn between the two.
He kept his hand on your spine, and you clung on him, burying your face in his broad, sturdy chest.
Nevermind the fact that you technically broke up with him. Nevermind that ever since this botched trip started, it was the first occasion in which the two of you held a proper conversation without spewing bravado or sarcasm.
Afterwards, he led you away from the site, and he figured it would be best to go somewhere quieter rather than the festival, and so here you were, at the deserted lounge.
You had calmed down for the most part, and slowly you felt heat in your cheeks. In hindsight, you could've tried using cursed energy to blast the door too, why didn't you think of that earlier?
And yet, unaware of your internal musings, Satoru's thoughts were occupied with another matter entirely, and blame it on his insensitivity—he chose this moment to drop it without hesitation.
"I want you back," he declared, void of any hesitation. "I'll be better, I promise. Those things you hate—tell me, and I'll make sure not to repeat them again."
He wasn't the sharpest when it came to picking up on your feelings, but Satoru vowed that if it bothered you that much, then he would do his best to avoid doing it.
But you... you were still trying your best to grasp the situation. Amidst the plot twist you just experienced tonight, his blatant proclamation was the last thing you expected so you only managed a "What?"
He held your gaze, eerily serious. “I don’t want to break up. It’s hell. We can—I can still fix this.”
He looked sincere, unlike the usual empty promises he’d give you after you went off on him. And suddenly, you understood.
“…really?”
“Yeah. Just give me another chance. I’ll prove it to you,” Satoru said, visibly impatient now. “I won’t give you up. This literally is the fight of my life right now.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle, despite yourself. If there was anything that you had learned tonight, it was that apparently you and him were still salvageable.
“And how will you prove it?”
“Just so you wait and see, sweets. I’m gonna relight your feelings!”
It was beyond corny that he took a line from your favorite song. And both of you burst into a laughter at the sheer silliness of it.
You sighed, but this time of relief, in stark contrast to your earlier sighs that afternoon. You were giddy as a smile perched on your lips. “Fine. Let’s give this another shot.”
Satoru felt the tension in his shoulder melt with your answer. A genuine, wide smile emerged from the bottom of his heart and lit up his face.
“Now, this whole trip has been kind of terrible so far, don’t you think?” He made a brief pouty face for a moment before reverting to his mischievous grin His remarkable expressiveness—reminiscent of a child's, in your opinion—never ceased to fascinate you. “I have a pretty good idea where we should go next.”
You furrowed your brow in confusion. “What do you mean? Tomorrow’s our last day.”
“No freaking way!” he exclaimed, whipping out his phone to launch the travel agency app. “We are going to redo our graduation trip. This time just the two of us!”
There were many things that led to the end of your relationship with your dork of a boyfriend, but as you reflected on it, you realized that there were also many reasons for you to stay together, especially when he reached for your hand and held it firmly in his grasp.
You were unable to contain your excitement and bubbling with melodious giggles that he adored so much as he whisked you away from Kumamoto in favor of the last bullet train to Kyoto, where your long-awaited true vacation would begin.
Epilogue
“I told you this was a horrible idea. I fucking told you.”
"Can you blame me? Dude was about to throttle me in my sleep."
"Geto," Shoko scowled, her disbelief at his simple answer evident as she gestured wildly with both hands towards the wrecked lavatory, emphasizing her point. "Look—now that he had gone and done it, we're the ones footing the bill for the destruction of property!"
Gojo had blasted the washroom with a freaking Red. And the innkeeper promptly held both Shoko and Suguru responsible since their roommates were captured on CCTV and had vanished without a trace.
Suguru rubbed his neck sheepishly. "I genuinely thought it was a good idea. I didn't expect Satoru to go overboard though," then he threw her a stink eye. "And hey, you were complicit in this too!"
Shoko mumbled a string of curses as she pulled out her phone, snapping some pictures of the undeniable evidence of Gojo’s doing, and then made a call. Suguru frowned.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm reporting him to the headquarters!"
#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen x reader#gojo satoru fluff#gojo satoru imagines#gojo fluff#satoru gojo x reader#satoru gojo fluff#jjk x reader#jjk imagines#jjk x you#jujutsu kaisen imagines#jjk fanfic#jjk fluff#hurt/comfort#jjk gojo#gojo angst#gojo x reader#jujutsu kaisen fanfic#jjk gojo satoru#jujutsu kaisen x you#gojo x you#jujutsu kaisen fluff#geto suguru#ieiri shoko#super shy at the beginning until airport is so uncanny idk why#and then seven when gojo fools around at the beach too#jjk fic#satoru x y/n
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will you remember my name when the sun comes up?
[ft. gojo satoru] [angst]
ten months ago, your doctor had diagnosed you with early onset dementia, ten months later you've begun to forget aspects of your life you'd wanted to cherish.
or gojo satoru spends the night worrying if you will still be his wife when the morning comes around.
content warning: dementia, angst, miscarriage.
word count: 2.6k
The moonlight bounces off your skin, illuminating the curves of your sleeping figure in a yellow-tinted glow. The scene is reminiscent of most nights when he stayed up gazing at your sleeping face after hours of making you his. The night is silent today, the air is hotter too; he cannot tell if it's the heat of the summer air that is suffocating him or if the fear of your possibly doomed future is choking him to a premature death.
He looks at your face, peaceful, as you snore through the night, your eyebrows twitching here and there. He wonders what dreams you might be having tonight. Gojo likes looking at you; it is probably his favorite thing to do, and he enjoys it the most. Your resting face brings him joy, hope, and with deep shame and guilt, it also brings him happiness. An almost nostalgic feeling strikes him as he gazes at your sleeping form. Your expressions in the moment fall in such contrast with the mask you wear during the day, one of helpless confusion and anguish that it baffles him and makes him want to break down, scream and claw his heart out to cease the empty feeling that takes over his existence.
He remembers, with utter vividness, your face the first time he saw you. Looking more beautiful than anyone he had ever laid eyes on, you were cladded in a pink summer dress — you later told him was your favorite (he had followed through with buying you a dozen of those dresses you liked to wear so much in the first month of your relationship, albeit with resistance and scoldings from you.) — you were buying pastries in the streets of Harajuku. A hearty chuckle ignites from him at the memory, lucid as if it were last week when he had met you.
It was a Wednesday, he remembers, boring as every other day of the week. Gojo thinks he had been bored after Geto had forsaken him in Shinjuku, but your presence had brought with itself euphoria that he loved to indulge and drown in.
You had bought the very last of his favorite mochi, Kikufuku. Well no, let’s let him correct himself over here, you had bought all but one Kikufuku, and Gojo Satoru — true to the nature and entitlement that came with being the only Gojo Satoru — had tried to jestly dispute with you over the ownership of the said dessert. But one look at your puzzled face and his tantrum was forgotten. He had physically felt his annoyance melting away as his heart skipped one too many beats.
And God he remembers you, yeah? He does. Ever the sweet you, who had felt terrible for having bought the very last of his treasured Kikufuku, so you had offered two of your five pieces to him. Your brows furrowed in confusion and sadness at having to give away your portion of the dish, and for the very first time in his life, he had refused to accept his favorite mochi. But you had insisted, not taking no for an answer, it was your first salary you had told him. You said you didn’t want to make anyone sad by your first purchase.
“Please take them, please?” your sweet voice had reverberated through the crowded streets. He doesn’t think your voice was loud, but he remembers it being saccharine, akin to bells tinkling at a shrine, but bells he would want to wake up to every morning, bells he would want to lull him to sleep every night.
You had looked up at him with the most adorable puppy-eyes he had ever witnessed, little Megumi’s supposedly threatening face had fallen in surrender to that look. Oh he sounds captivated by you, and he swears by his six eyes, that had frozen in on your face for moments too long, far too many times, that he was and he will always be.
At the end, Satoru had relented, but he had asked convinced you to enjoy those with him at the end of the street. And unbeknownst to him, he had spent another two hours just chatting up with you. This was the happiest he had been in months, years even. You did not ask him to stop talking, or to keep his voice low. No, in fact you had been excited, not like the random women he met at the bars on rare nights, not even like–
Oh, you reminded him of Suguru at that moment. Talking to you felt nostalgic, he felt at peace the same way he did with Suguru, his one and only. His best friend. He can still recall the guilt that had engulfed him in that moment, the fear of possibly replacing Suguru with a non-sorcerer, the kind his best friend hated. And it all sounded too impractical, too reckless, he needed to pull back. To cower away from your touch. He wanted to, but you had been too captivating, too addictive.
He would have pulled away, would have left you to become another faceless woman he had met, would have let you become a memory bound to be forgotten, but you–
“So is this a date?” you blurt out. Satoru knows the words are thoughtless, spoken in the spur of the moment, he can see you recoiling, he six eyes can perceive the fear of possible commitment clouding your senses, “Oh my God, that was so–”
“Only if you promise to go on a second one with me,” he cuts you off, his own offer an impulse, just as reckless as yours.
Those dates turned into a hundred more and then a series of events that led to today, where you lied in his bed, as his lovely wife. And tomorrow you might not remember him, your husband.
He remembers all your dates, your smile, the first time you met the kids, how gracefully you had made his almost family your own. His six eyes remember you far better than you remember yourself–
Gojo chokes at the thought. The pain is unbearable for him, the fear of oblivion takes up the space next to him in the form of his own wife.
Gojo Satoru has been hailed as the strongest in this world, nobody has ever surpassed his strength, he can vaguely recall Jogo’s words to him before he was sealed on that fateful night.
“Is there anything you cannot do, Gojo Satoru?”
He feels like a maniac wanting to laugh at the words of an arrogant curse, one he could have easily squashed. He is the strongest after all, there is nothing he cannot do.
He knows he tampered the balance of the world when he was born. He also knows that within this universe among curses and sorcerers: he is all alone. The honored one. The man nearest to the glory of God. Gojo Satoru knows the world better than most do, and yet as he looks at your sleeping face, he cannot even reassure himself if his wife of seven years will remember him next week or next morning.
He wants to pray.
But who does a God prays to listen to his pleas?
Gojo Satoru doesn’t know if he’s a God or an undefeated monster.
But who ever prays for the devil to be forgiven for his sins had he committed an act of treachery?
Gojo Satoru cannot make his wife remember him if she forgets him, and the fear keeps him up every night.
It is very lonely at the top, and he fears come tomorrow and he might forever sleep in isolation, albeit beside the one he cherishes and worships like the goddess of the mightiest glory.
Life was not supposed to be difficult, not like this, it was supposed to be simpler. You were supposed to be sleeping with him beside you, and Satoru was supposed to be less anguished.
You were supposed to have twins. Crying in the room beside yours, keeping the two of you up at night, he had promised you he would be the one changing diapers, because in the initial stages of your relationship you had playfully told him a baby would require changing diapers so you didn’t want a kid.
And no, they weren’t a part of your family planning, Megumi and Tsumiki were enough. But they came, and you learned to love them, a welcoming thought. He did too, but he feared for you, you were weak and they were the children of the strongest.
You were six months into your pregnancy, when you felt a sharp pain in your abdomen, you tried calling him while he was stuck fighting a special grade. He got off to see the twenty-four missed calls from you, and seven from an unknown number. He tried calling back to you, his heart getting heavier with fear and anxiety as he got sent to voicemail, one that you recorded with him screaming in the background. He dialed the unknown number, the words of the woman on the other line still scare him just as much.
Gojo Satoru has only ever felt fear thrice in his life: once when Toji Fushiguro killed him for the first time, the second followed with the exit of Geto Suguru, and the third came as a curse in the form of his said best friend appearing in front of him to seal him into that cursed box, all while he thought about you.
Yet none of them could’ve compared to that moment when he heard those fateful words for the first time, you had been into a life threatening accident, everything that followed after it was a blur.
“Your kids did not make it,” the doctors told him they had passed away much before the accident, that your car collided with a tree and toppled over from the possible shock of that incident.
Gojo had tried his hardest to restrain himself from cursing his unborn children, you would want better, he had told himself and he still does to this day.
The relief that followed him as the doctor informed him that you will soon wake up was only partially taken over by the grief of losing his unborn children. And he wishes to curse himself for it still, but he cannot as he looks back at your sleeping face.
The signs were unnoticeable at the beginning, they started out slow, with small things.
You didn’t remember where you kept Megumi’s uniform (he lived at the dorm), but you had both shrugged it off at the time.
You couldn’t remember where you had kept the flour in the cabinet (Satoru cooked), you both shrugged it off again as a possible confusion in case you had tried cooking without letting him know, you didn’t even think about it.
But then you started to forget the names of his coworkers. You couldn’t recognise Utahime, you had both once, a long time ago bonded over teasing him about the silly, little schoolboy crush that he used to harbor for her in his high school years. An information that was passed to you by Shoko. Utahime was one of your closest friends before the incident.
Then you forgot where your bedroom was in the house you both shared together, and he remembers watching your lips quiver and he told you that you will see the doctor in the morning.
And he remembers the doctor breaking the news to you, two days later, you had early on-set dementia caused by your head injury.
And he remembers–
God, he too wants to forget, there’s so much he’d like to forget, like the look on your face as you realize you might lose your memories in the way you had not planned to. Who even makes plans for a possible dementia?
He remembers watching you lose yourself time and time again. Moments where you would gaze into an abyss not being able to remember where you were, instances when you would look into the mirror and try to recognise yourself.
Nobody had ever watched him weep. But that first night when you weren’t able to remember you were both married, he had left your shared bed after you had fallen into a deep slumber, and had spent about thirty minutes crying in the shower of his guest bedroom.
He wailed. He screamed. He punched his tiled wall until he bled, and he didn’t heal the wound, You had asked him how he got it in the morning and he lied to you that he slipped. You didn’t remember his infinity. You probably hadn’t for a long time. You possibly also forgot about his reversed curse technique.
He wishes his RCT could heal your brain injury.
He looks back at your sleeping form again, and a familiar grief pools into his heart as he realizes you will one day lose all cognitive function, that one day he might lose you to this illness.
“She has about eight years to live before she will most likely forget basic functions like eating, sleeping, or even–”
“What are you trying to imply?” he cuts off the doctor, very rudely one must mention.
“I am just saying that she might lose her life to this.”
The doctor’s words haunt his mind, keeping him awake at night. As does his fear that tomorrow you might not be able to recognise him anymore.
He shudders as the memory, fresh from the morning, seeps into his head. You didn’t remember your–
“Where are the kids?” you ask him, perturbed and frazzled as if you had spent hours looking for something important. A lost memory, another unfamiliar instance.
“Megumi is at the dorm–” he speaks, vision hazy with sleep.
“I’m not talking about them, I am asking you where my– our babies went,” he felt his heart drop in that moment, because in another such moment he had held you as you sat on the hospital bed, wailing and screaming for your babies.
“Baby…” he begins, his own voice soft with grief, one that is much different than your own. How many times will he have to break your heart before it is too broken to ever heal?
“Yes?” you speak, confusion clear through your voice, as your face wears that same mask of pain and puzzlement.
“They didn’t make it,” he tells you once more, as he scoops you in his arm, in order to save himself from watching you die all over again. He goes through the pain of it all once again, as do you. But only one of you remembers.
It’s only ever just one of you grieving the loss of life, a tragedy always gone unforgiven.
He remembers the promise you made him to always be with him on the day before your wedding vows.
But, a promise is a promise until one of you forgets.
He looks at the clock beside him, 6:49 AM, he can only hope that when you wake up this morning you’ll remember who he is. That the diary you keep will help you never forget him.
He needs you to remember him, he doesn’t think he can survive a day where you do not know him. It is a necessity. You are his light, and you have slowly been shutting the door to your embrace close on him, you can barely see him trembling in this darkness that you leave him in anymore. He does not want to be left alone, but he knows that once you leave him alone, he will still be visiting the grave of the love that the two of you shared; one where you had thrown away all your memories, if only to look down at the forest of your remains or perhaps to find you running across the field with all that you once cherished.
a/n: idk why i wrote this. this wasn't proofread, because we die like everyone in jjk, and also because my adhd-suffering-self could no longer keep up with this, and i really wanted to go back to writing houses without fathers.
@nanamis-baker had a sneak peak!
credits: @/benkeibear, @/firefly-graphics.
#gojo x reader#gojo x you#gojo angst#jjk angst#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jjk gojo satoru#gojo satoru#jujutsu kaisen angst#gojo x y/n#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru angst#gojo satoru x y/n#jujutsu kaisen x y/n#jjk gojo#gojo imagine#satoru gojo x reader#satoru gojo x you#flower writes
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hello! i absolutely love your writing could i request smth like fem! reader with miguel where she buys a suggestive nightgown/lingere set or outfit for him and how he’d totally melt when he sees it? thank you :))
for your eyes only
pairing: miguel o'hara x wife!reader
warnings: smut, fluff, established relationship, piv, creampie, unprotected sex, spanking, slight body worship, tiddie sucking?
summary: miguel has been overworking himself, and you buy a new lingerie set to help him release some stress
divider by @cafekitsune <3
You and Miguel are on a vacation.
He had been more than stressed lately with the aching duties of leading the spider-society, but the very last thing he intended to do was to neglect you.
So naturally, he thought of ways to spend more time with you, yet every time you two would finally get into the mood, right when he was about to make you his all over again, an anomaly or a system malfunction at HQ would interrupt you, leaving you with your heart racing and him with terribly uncomfortable blue balls.
He had had quite enough.
He surprised you with the tickets several weeks ago, on one of those rare occasions on which you two happened to be alone in the intimacy of his house.
To say that you were overflowing with joy is an understatement. He assured you that while he is gone, Jess would remain in charge so things don't go downhill.
So now, here you are, packing for a long-awaited, honeymoon-replica with your beloved husband. You feel enormously grateful for his effort to make you a priority, even more so when you remember how anxious he was about abandoning his job for a while.
You want to make it worth it.
You want to make him forget about all the stress and worries. You want to be there for him, to help him, to comfort him,
to pleasure him.
After assessing all options, you decide you're more than happy with the results.
"What's gotten into you?" he inquires playfully in between your hurried, passionate kisses as you drag him into the hotel room, excitement evident in your movements.
He's clearly more than pleased to see you clinging onto him like a lifeline, his ego undeniably boosted by the desperate make out session you just pulled him into right in the hallways. The knowledge of still being able to drive you crazy so effortlessly makes him smirk into the heated kiss.
"Told you." you gasp shallowly, parting from his swollen lips as you pull at his shirt, seeking to take it off. "I have a surprise."
Taking the hem and tossing the shirt out of your way, he bends down slightly, his massive shoulders bringing his shadow upon you, intimidating but so hot.
"Tell me about it." His voice is an octave lower, deep and provoking. You have to actively fight your brain from melting into lust and hunger for him in order to remain conscious and stick with the idea.
"No need.", you push at his biceps and he complies, backing off, an eyebrow raising in slight confusion mixed with surprise.
"You just have to take a shower first."
"Ah." his mood shifts abruptly, his head tilts to the side as if to check if he really needs one.
You can't help but burst into a hearty chuckle. "No, not because of that! I just need you away for a couple of minutes."
Your eyes squint, suggestive. He doesn't fail to catch on to your request, the ideas of what you might be up to already taking form in his mind, making his eyes shine a dark red glow.
Stepping back, he heads to the bathroom, turning back to you before shutting the door.
"Be quick. I won't be long.", He warns, almost threateningly, and you can't stop yourself from growing wet at the thought that he would take you the second he's out, no matter if you're ready or not.
Coming back to your senses, you hear the water running in the shower, yet sense no movement. You know he's listening in, but you couldn't care less. Enhanced senses or not, he wouldn't possibly be able to tell that you're rushing to the luggage to snatch the lingerie set you brought just by the shuffling alone.
Or can he?
You're fast to discard your evening outfit, slipping into the set. Glancing at yourself in the hotel mirror, a nearly evil smirk takes over your face imagining his reaction. Adjusting everything in place, you look at the bright red straps around your thighs, ever slightly too tight, just to make the flesh look plumper, ready to pop out of its confinement; you look at the thin panties, inviting and bold, leaving your ass bare for his hands to play with. And finally, the pièce de résistance, the bow tie holding your breasts together, the only thing covering them.
Fixing your hair and doing the final touches to the bed, turning the lights off and lighting a couple candles, you take your place on the soft mattress.
You feel your heart racing like it's your honeymoon night, your nervousness not aided by the sound of the water tap falling silent and of him stepping out of the shower.
It only takes him a few seconds to tie a towel around his hips and push the door wide open, the bright light creeping into the room through a barely-there cloud of condensation.
The moment he spots you, he stops dead in his tracks.
"Ay, mierda.." He mumbles, more to himself, his eyes scanning your body up and down, from head to toe and back.
"So beautiful," he concludes, tone heavy with need as he approaches you slowly, eyes still not meeting yours. "And all mine."
Getting up from your spot, you meet him halfway, kneeled on the edge of the bed. Your hands fly to his massive shoulders, moving up his neck to tangle in his damp hair. He grabs your waist, the heat of his palms on the bare skin of your middle sending shivers up your spine like it's your first time together.
Nearly getting lost in the sight of him, half naked with droplets of water running down his chest, you bite your lip, breathing quickened.
"What did I do to deserve this, hm?" He whispers, eyes half lidded and voice low and sleepy. "Eres demasiado buena para mí." (You're too good to me)
He leans closer, his hot breath fanning your face.
You find it hard to gather yourself and focus on what he's saying.
"You've been working so hard lately." your voice drips into an exaggerated praise which he drinks in with the most obvious interest. "Coming home late, barely getting any time to yourself."
He leans even closer, keen on listening to you.
"You hold it all together so well," you mirror his own past voiced complaints. "You deserve so much more than a vacation."
"¿Ah, sí? ¿Cómo qué?" (Oh, yeah? What do you mean?). He insists smugly, one inch away from tasting your lips.
He wants to hear you say it.
You take his hands from your waist and pull them to slide upwards; he doesn't waste a second before he places them on each side of your breasts, pushing them together softly.
"Anything I can give you." You speak quietly, toying with the superficial knot of his towel. He closes the gap between you, his lips moving against yours with unmatched passion and want, his breathing already hot and laboured. His bare chest rises and falls against yours as he finally pulls away only to get rid of the cloth around his waist, flashing you with the image of his hardening fat cock.
Towering over you, he slowly and carefully pushes you to lie back down on the bed, crawling on top of you.
His mouth latches on to your pulse point, kissing and nibbling the sensitive skin, while his warm hands travel up and down your body appreciatively.
Your eyes roll back at the feeling of his cursory palm caressing your thighs, the curve of your hips, up to the soft mound of your tit, all the while his lips remain on your neck.
"Miguel-!" You moan mindlessly, and his cock twitches on your thigh, hard and heavy.
Suddenly, his hands grip your waist firmly and he flips you over so that you're on top of him.
You brace yourself on your elbows on either side of his head, arching your back. He plants a wet kiss on the tops of your breasts, still concealed by the red bow, as one of his hands moves to deliver a slap to your ass.
The hot palm maps your body like a vice, you feel as if the skin will burn and sting once his touch departs from you. He shifts and presses his lips to yours, indulgent and tender. It’s different, not nearly as greedy as before, it’s more intimate, as if you’re trading parts of your souls to each other, never to return them nor want to do so. You arch against him, crushing your chest onto his.
The second you part from him with a gasp, blissed out with the taste of him still on your lips, you shiver at the sight of his half lidded eyes, dark cocoa alight with the crimson tide you know so well, full of need and desperation.
His hands come up to your front, pulling the tie loose with a dumbfounded, sleepy smirk.
Your breasts bounce free from the blood-red ribbon. His broad hands slide to your back, pulling you into him as he takes one tit in his mouth, sucking and kissing, groaning with every breath he stops to take. You feel each sound he lets out, vibrating deep in his chest.
Breathing shallow and quickened, you let your pelvis lower until the girth of his hard cock brushes against the silky fabric of your thong.
His hips buck into you reflexively, eliciting a soft whimper out of you.
Detaching from the tender flesh of your breasts, he pulls you down to taste your lips once more, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat with the way he swallows every whisper of his name that rivers into the kiss.
Unbeknownst to you, he hooks his fingers around the elastic straps around your ass and thighs, pulling on the strings only to release them, making them whip your skin with a loud smack.
You arch your back further into him, grinding into his erection in the process. He grunts abruptly, no longer able to hold back.
With expert ease, he drags at the straps holding your panties, ripping them at the joints. Before you can yelp and protest, he pushes the mushroom head of his already leaking cock into your folds.
You clench at the contact, anchoring your hands on his stout shoulders as you sink onto his dick. He watches your greedy cunt swallow him, inch by inch, until he bottoms out, his pubes brushing right against your clit.
You start rolling your hips, feeling his whole dick slip out half way only to push back in against your guts, grazing every mind-numbing nerve in its wake. You’re utterly delirious, and so is he.
His vision targets your breasts, softly swaying in his face with every mount of your body on his. He stills you momentarily, his massive arms sheathing you in a spine-tingling hold.
Muffled, pleased hums resonate in his chest, echoing against yours as he squeezes you into him, your tits pressed flush right above his collar. You let a moan crawl out of your throat as he plants rushed, desperate pecks on every spot he can lay his mouth on; your neck, your shoulders, the tops of your breasts.
The heat of his profound exhales washes over your skin, kindle to a fire. Heedlessly, you arch your back into his hold, pushing yourself into him, your body marinated into his arms the way he loves so much. He thinks he might come right then and there, no friction, no nothing. Just the feeling of you, soft and tender, mollifying further into his possessive touch with every kiss he places on you.
But soon the need for more friction gets the better of him as he starts thrusting into you from below.
You let yourself fall into his forceful arms as he drives his cock in and out of your weeping cunt, face contorting into pure pleasure, eyebrows furrowed and fucked-out eyes squinting.
The bed squeaks under his weight, the bedframe hitting the wall with ever violent push of his cock into you. You feel his abdomen flex against your stomach, his biceps pulling you impossibly close against his feverish skin.
Burying his head in the crook of your neck, his pants turn into moans as his thrusts lose rhythm and strength. It's the hottest thing that's ever reached your ears, and you moan in tandem with him as you reach your climax.
When he doesn't stop, your whole body starts burning, a blinding firework scattering on the sky.
Pushing hard into you, as deep as he can be, with a pained, breathless groan, he comes inside your still fluttering pussy. His cock pulsates into you, staining your insides white, the feeling of his warm seed short circuiting you in an aftershock.
Both of your heads nestled into each other, feverish bodies moulded together in a suffocating embrace, his lips start ghosting over your neck, a silent praise for taking him so good.
"You should wear this more often, mi vida." he breathes into your mouth.
"I would, if you hadn't ripped it." You tease back, evidently turned on by his antics.
"No te preocupes. (Don't worry.) I'll buy you more."
a/n: yes im obviously in love with the vacation with miguel trope, hope you like this<33 it turned out longer than expected
#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel ohara x reader#miguel o'hara smut#miguel ohara#miguel o'hara imagine#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel o'hara x reader one shot#atsv miguel#miguel o hara#miguel o'hara x you#miguel o’hara smut#miguel spiderverse#miguel spiderman#spider man: across the spider verse#spiderman 2099#spider man 2099#spiderman 2099 x reader#across the spiderverse
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TITLE: Venom Biter
PAIRING: Minho x reader
SUMMARY: The end of a relationship between you and Minho turns as sour as it could ever get. A lovers to enemies trope.
WARNING: minors DNI with this post or my blog. I create NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won't be able to regulate every single interaction with those posts so please do not engage with my work or page whatsoever.
TAGS: breakups, hate sex, post-breakup sex, unprotected sex, swearing, angst, manhandling, push and shove, spitting, choking, oral sex (f!reader receiving), angst, strong hints of degradation, use of degrading names such as 'slut' and 'whore'.
A/N: this was originally meant to be for one of the days I had planned for Kinktober but I was up to my neck in work and I didn't want to post something sort of half-assed so I had to hone down on most of the work for this piece.
MASTERLIST
“Broke up?” Chan’s eyes refuse to blink. “You two broke up!?”
His confused filled stare shoots for the direction of his best friend, Minho, who quietly sits opposite him across the table. He looks slightly withdrawn or…off colour. It can’t have been the gruelling two hour lecture they finished before heading out to lunch. If it were that, Minho would be complaining his head off saying how boring it was or cursing himself for not changing his minor earlier.
He’s just not his usual self. In other social settings, he could talk until the cows came home. But the entire hour that they’ve spent together at lunch, Chan has been doing all the conversing and only receiving vague one-word answers. It wasn’t until he asked what was up with Minho that his friend dished out the news that he and his girlfriend - you, had split up.
“Why?” Chan proceeds, still swimming in shock.
A sigh leaves Minho’s mouth. He truly doesn’t feel like revisiting this subject. When he even thinks about the answer, all he can recall is the firey shouting match you both had the day things crumbled.
“It’s messy,” he replies with a cloudy and ambiguous answer.
“If you talk about it, then it might help you make sense of it all.”
He groans this time, “I really, really don’t want to do that. What’s done is done.”
“Done?” Chan questions, still not letting up on an interrogation. “You were in a relationship with Y/N, for years. You guys talked about a whole future together. That’s not something you just sweep under the rug and forget about.”
If there’s one thing he almost did forget about, it’s that you were friends with him - not just Chan, but the seven others as well. After all, it was Minho who introduced you to those select people whom he calls his brothers. They would’ve found out eventually if Minho refrained from telling them who you were dating all those years ago.
Though naturally, you became very close with them.
“We’ve both chosen to do that so there’s nothing really much left to dispute.”
Chan’s eyebrows furrow, realising he left out a crucial question to the situation, “why did you guys break up in the first place?”
Minho feels like he’s going to run out of sighs, “she doesn’t love me anymore and I don’t love her anymore. That’s literally all there is to it.”
“You’re telling me you both fell out of love - at the same time,” Chan responds, still having a difficult time trying to comprehend his friend's situation.
“Pretty much,” Minho confirms with a nod.
Chan finds that extremely hard to believe from his friend - the very person who would enter a different realm whenever he was in a five centimetre radius of you. His eyes would glaze over as if he were possessed; always fixated on you, he’d smile more than he usually would, and was comfortable in the space around you.
There had to be another reason, surely.
But it had almost been three weeks since Chan dissected the news out of Minho, and it was almost like pulling teeth trying to dive for the details. Each attempt was as fruitless as the next and in the end, Chan just plucked the same answers.
Regardless, it seemed to play out better than expected. Minho saved himself from having to dish out explanations as to why you wouldn’t be around anymore. As a result, telling Chan was the best option and since the others didn’t know, Minho was okay with him telling them so that he didn’t have to.
In saying that, Minho left out very central details of what happened leading up to the breakup. He never mentioned the constant fighting, the lying, the false accusations, the shouting matches, up until the point where you were both swimming in the toxicity the pair of you created.
He also absconded from the fact to Chan that not only did you both separate, but you’ve also both come to view the other differently and not through a good lens. Minho shouted it in your face the other day to which you did the same; “I hate you.” And that was that.
But his friends probably didn’t need to know all of that.
Since that day, you’ve been in the process of trying to find an apartment for yourself which isn’t easy. You want to remain in town and not too far out so that you don’t have a long commute to work, and at the same time, you don't want to break the bank trying to find a nice place to rent in the city. All in all, it was tough, but you were ready to just leave.
Having packed up the majority of your stuff in boxes, all you had to do was wait for landlords to contact you back about possible vacant apartments. Thankfully Minho was lenient in allowing you to stay until you found a place.
You slept in the spare room, mainly keeping to yourself and the boxes of things surrounding the space. Occasionally you would have to lock yourself in there and throw on some noise-cancelling headphones whenever Minho brought around another woman to sleep with.
It was his house, you knew that and now that you have no ties to him and he’s letting you stay, it was never your place to question his actions.
Still, that could never lessen the hurt. It was painful which is why you hated him so much. You don’t know how a person could move on so quickly after so many years of being told how much you’re loved. It was like he never meant it. With that being said, when you eventually managed to find a decent place, you were free from Minho.
All of your items were ready to be moved out, taking a couple of days to actually get them to your new place. In the tiring process, you also had to factor in your work schedule which meant it would take longer to continue moving your stuff. Nonetheless, you had the majority of your boxes out of Minho's house with only a few remaining that you needed to swing by and pick up.
"Something wrong?" he wears a blank look on his face when you arrive on the doorstep to his house.
"Some of my stuff is still here, can I come in to grab it please?" You ask politely. He gives a silent answer in return by opening his door wider for you to walk in before he goes back to whatever it was he was doing.
You make your way into the spare room where the last of your things remain, but there is one odd detail you notice as you approach the items. What was supposed to be taped down lids to the boxes had in fact been opened; not in the state you had originally left it in.
"Minho," you call out, hoping he heard you.
Sure enough, he did. Minho walks into the spare room with a puzzled expression, wondering why he's been summoned, "what?"
“Why are these open?” You ask, lifting one box off of the other to check if the rest were open as well. “Half of my stuff isn’t in here.”
“You were coming back for those?” he replies with a question.
“What the hell else would I be coming back here for?”
“That's what I thought when you got here,” he says. “I thought it was for other things that you left behind, not ones in these boxes."
Your eyes never leave his face, tracking any sudden shifts in his muscles to try to figure out if he’s actually telling the truth or not. Even though you and Minho aren’t together, you're sure he wouldn't do anything malicious out of spite.
“So why is half my stuff missing?”
Minho pinches the bridge of his nose, “I thought you didn’t need any of it and that you left it here on purpose for me to deal with or throw out.”
“So what…” you trail off, expecting his answer. Minho hesitates for a few moments, sitting on the fence about whether he should actually tell you or not. But the least he can do right now is be honest.
“I told the…girl I bought around the other day that if she wanted anything-“
“No you fucking didn’t.”
“-she could have whatever was left in the boxes,” Minho finishes the rest of his sentence which would’ve been better for you not to hear.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you for leaving them behind in the first place!” Minho argues back, trying to defend himself here even though he knows he’s in the wrong. “You were gone for a few days Y/N, I thought you just left!”
“I never left them behind! I told you how long it was going to take my things to move!” You shout at him, tears brimming your eyes. “Now my stuff…”
The hurt genuinely sets in. Minho feels a sharp stab of pain in his chest when he sees how visibly upset you are. He knows that he’s been nothing short of a dickhead within the past month and now he’s gone and made things worse. It’s no point in him now to say that it was an honest mistake.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know, truly.”
You shove him backwards into the dresser, knocking down some of the empty photo frames that were once homes for pictures of you and Minho, “you’re not sorry. You’re the fucking worst.”
Taken aback by your actions, Minho turns behind him to see the frames flat on the surface then looks back at you, “seriously Y/N, I would not have done that out of spite.”
“But it’s the fact that you still did it!” You raise your voice at him and shove him back again. “You didn’t bother calling or texting me about it when you should’ve!”
Minho predicts your next move and catches your arms to stop you from pushing him back impossibly further into the dresser. He shoves you back, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed which causes you to land on it behind you.
Before the surprise kicks in, Minho is kneeling on top of you, nearly straddling your lower half as he starts pinning your arms to the side of your head. Yet with a split second of momentum to break free, you struggle but manage to flip the tables and pin Minho on his back.
You mount his hips before your mouth comes down to kiss Minho so aggressively that it takes him a moment to react. With any other woman that he’s slept with so far, he would allow them to be on top. But because it’s you, and supposedly hates your guts, not to mention his untapped pride, it’s not going to happen. So Minho fights back, kissing and biting nearly every part of your upper body in the process until you’re under him.
He sucks large, deep, red hickies into the skin of your neck, in places where everyone would be able to see them. Minho would want people to know that you’re just a whore he uses. Especially for the next guy you sleep with who would go down on you and see the myriad of hickies that Minho would eventually put between your thighs when he rips your pants down.
“Wanna play this fucking game with me,” he rasps before yanking down your off.
Despite being a dickhead Minho will still eat you out for prep. But it’s not soft and teasing when he does go down on you. It’s tongue and finger fucking you until you’re dizzy from how hard you’re about to cum. It gives you the opportunity to pull and tug on his hair until his scalp starts burning, forcing you to be as vocal as you’ve ever been.
His fingers curl up into that sensitive spot while his tongue and mouth work simultaneously. He’s always been good at giving head, but unusually better now that he’s relatively angry. In the back of your mind, you supposed it helped having not slept with anyone for a month, making it easier to reach that peak of delicious, eye-rolling ecstasy.
“Fuck!” you scream out, voice projecting throughout the room as Minho sucks on your clit. “Fuck you…you’re gonna make me cum.”
Those words are something Minho could never get tired of hearing you say. Even in the headspace that he’s in now, he wants nothing more than to hear how good he’s making your body feel. However, he doesn’t need verbal confirmation from you to know that you’re about to cum. When your walls seize and clamp around his fingers, when you’re trembling around his head, Minho knows what that means.
The quick drag of his fingers is only light work for him, pumping at a pace that has you panting to try and keep up with it. As a result, it’s not long before Minho brings you to your sweet release; a toe-curling burst of euphoria that has you silently creaming around his fingers.
He has no patience for you to descend from your orgasm, sucking his fingers clean as he pulls away from your pussy. He gets to unbuckling his belt faster than he can even comprehend that this is still happening.
“H-Hurry,” you whine, trying to quell the hunger for Minho’s cock while you wait.
His eyes squeeze shut, hissing as he coats his length with your slick, “shut the fuck up.”
Despite being in a haze post-orgasm, you manage to sit up quickly to turn and push Minho down by his shoulders. You find yourself straddling his hips once more, reaching down and behind for his cock, aligning it with your hole. Minho allows you to work for it yourself, watching his cock vanish by the second as you sink down.
“Mmm…f-fuck,,” you whine, unable to come to grips with how much you miss him filling you out.
Taking a couple of slow strokes up and down allows you to realise that never in your wildest dreams could you ever imagine hate sex with Minho would be this…rough. Both of you pushing, shoving, and manhandling each other around, speaking to each other with such disregard for the other person's feelings – beyond the point of degradation.
“Come on,” Minho grunts, fingernails embedding themselves into your hips so that the indents remaining become as equally as vibrant as the hickies blooming on your neck.
You look down at him with disgust before your hand lowers to his throat, choking him out by the sides of his neck. That familiar feeling of restriction to Minho forces him to repress his sick enjoyment of it, even more so when you start really riding him.
“Fuck you,” you strain out, trying to assert some degree of control even though you’re battling with oversensitivity from your previous orgasm.
You slam your hips down repeatedly, building up a good pace and rhythm that’s enough for small moans to force their way out of your mouth. With a cock like Minho’s, it’s impossible to keep quiet no matter how much you try. However, as you work for your own orgasm, you don’t want to give him any satisfaction by making him think that he’s the one doing it; yet in reality, he is.
Nonetheless, you continue to use him just as much as he’s using you until the luxury of pleasure accelerates in the pit of your stomach. In saying that, it doesn’t take long for Minho to find that information out as you continue to ride him. The observation is clear-cut;
“Nobody’s fucked you since me haven’t they?” He asks you breathlessly, watching you roll your hips deliciously over his cock. “Know how I can tell? Because you keep fucking clenching around my dick.”
Your eyebrows furrow, struggling to find an answer for him because he is right and that’s not your fault, “s-so what? Want me to stop?”
“Didn’t say that, did I?” He argues back, too proud to say ‘no’. “Just…just keep moving.”
A firm hand of yours catches his taut jaw, and while his mouth is open, you lean down and spit right in it.
You curse right at him, “fuck you.”
His eyes lock with yours and for a moment, Minho is shocked, but not in a bad way. In that moment you despised him so much that he made you do something a normal person would find disgusting. Although it’s not long before a sick smirk spreads across his face, failing to pretend as if he didn’t just enjoy that, swallowing it back.
“Course you’d be into that you fucking whore,” he rasps, his body jolting every time your hips slam down.
“I’m not the whore who’s taking it,” you snipe back at him.
Your comment riles Minho, resulting in him nearly bucking you off his body before flipping you onto your stomach. He yanks both of your hands behind your back as something for him to latch onto when he pushes his cock back into you, and starts fucking hard and fast.
“Yes, yes, yes, fuck…” you whimper, eyes fluttering shut.
The new angle makes his dick slip in just that extra bit deeper, achieving a sensation which you miss all too much. With the amount of relentlessness that Minho puts behind his thrusts is nothing but a fast, brutal, and unforgiving type of fucking. He’s not holding back with you, no matter how much you hate him and he hates you, he will fuck you to tears.
“Such a fucking slut,” he drives forward nastily. “Needy, loud, slut.”
Your choked moans and whimpers are typical responses to hearing him call you that name again. In bed, if you weren’t his lover, you were his slut. Minho wouldn’t care less if the bed broke beneath him trying to fuck you like the whore you always wanted him to treat you as. But it was phenomenal.
Now, that’s only a distant memory clawing to come back.
“Make me cum…make me fucking cum,” you demand, acknowledging how close you are to the cliff of ecstasy.
Minho's breathing picks up from hearing the pure desperation in your voice, and so does his pace. His only release is not but a minute away, respecting that and also his motive to continue rearranging your guts.
Yet the possibility of keeping up any longer draws to a short term. Minho’s hold on your wrists behind your back becomes a solid death grip with no chance of escape until the wet heat from your pussy has his hips jumping out of rhythm.
His head tilts to the sky, the pleasure screaming at him from the base of his cock, “y-yes, fuck I'm cumming.”
At that very instant, Minho’s release rocks him over. His hands let go of yours in lieu of grabbing onto your ass instead. The pain and sting of his fingernails scraping deep into your flash forces strained whimpers and mewls from your throat, helping to push you over the verge of your second orgasm.
“Y-Yes, cumming, oh fuck-” you cry out with a shaky voice, stiffening while your hole seizes rhythmically around Minho’s length.
The pleasure is throat-gripping, making you forget the words to express how good you feel. Except, in the vapour of your orgasmic haze, you still don't want to accept the fact that it's Minho who makes you feel that way.
He pauses for a moment then thrusts hard back into you, making you keep the warm load that you were so undeservingly given, regardless if your walls are spasming and contracting it out. Then just as he was fast to try to get inside you, he's just as fast when he pulls out and flops beside you.
The air in the room becomes breathable again now that your heart rate isn't racing to the heavens, but picks back up quickly when you decide to hop off the bed and get dressed. You couldn't care less if you were sore and unbalanced. The thought of staying in the room with Minho any longer was suffocating.
“About your stuff,” he starts, filling the silent void with an exasperated voice. “I’ll try to get it back.”
You zip your jeans up, “don’t bother. I know you did give it away for whatever reason, but for what reason is something I’m betting you’ll take to the grave with you.”
Minho is up and now following suit by putting his clothes on. If now is the time to get one thing off of his chest, it’s now. Since the day you both separated, there has been no proper conversation. Both of you are too stubborn to admit wrongs and fix rights, but in your eyes, it's too far gone. There’s no going back to a good thing that was once more.
"I won't if we can just talk it out," he offers the opportunity to you.
“Minho, the nights that I had to listen to you fuck someone else in the next room right after we just broke up was a clear sign that we did not need to talk it out. All it made me do is realise that you didn't actually love me."
“That’s not true,” he shakes his head as you hear a twinge of desperation in his voice like he's pleading his case. "That's not true at all."
"It is though," you correct him. "You were free to sleep with whoever you wanted to because we had broken up at that point, but not a day after that did you wait."
Minho follows through with his explanation, “I was trying to get you out of my head. Spending too long just thinking about you makes me want to lose it. It didn't mean that I never loved you before."
“So you’re just going to continue being delusional? To fuck your way through trying to forget me?” You question, nearly laughing. "I honestly think you're just being pathetic."
He shrugs, “if it means that I don’t have to feel heartbreak, then yes.”
Part of you gets it. Minho’s found a vice and is using it as a tool to deal with his pain. But you’re in pain too, and you haven’t done anything to upset him ever since you split. Maybe it is as bad for him as he says it is. Maybe he doesn’t truly know how to navigate himself out of this like you’re attempting to.
It’s almost a rebuttal to your statement about whether he truly loved you or not; if he’s using other people to drive the thought of you out of his brain because it’s too painful to deal with, then maybe you were more than just a lover to him.
"I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I cannot stand being around you anymore because of how much it hurts to know that you're not actually with me. I'd rather try to forget your existence in order to not feel that type of heartbreak," Minho explains, his words coming from a place inside him that must've just opened up.
But he continues, "the second we split, I needed every last memory of you out of this house. But I know that this hurts you too and that this past month I’ve hurt you and that’s no justification to say that my reason is because you mean more than my entire life.”
There’s an ache in your chest that you’ve never felt before, a blend of all the emotional pain that could’ve been prevented had the two of you just talked. But that ache is fuelled by the fact that you can hear the waiver in Minho’s voice, and even though his back is still turned to you while he sits on the edge of the bed, you’re sure he’s crying.
-
A/N: Dare I say that I want to make a part 2 to this where Minho and reader try to rekindle, things are pretty tender but they sort of want to make it work...
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feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART ONE
"trying to play it coy, trying to make it disappear"
⚠️ new series alert! ⚠️ and also my 1k follower celebration!!! (altho it might as well be the 2k celebration now considering how fast my following has grown. thank you ;-;) i polled my followers a little while ago to choose between 3 different fic premises and this one was the winner! it was originally meant to be a stand alone but i'm actually more interested in making it a brand new series, so i hope you guys enjoy! i'm not exactly sure how many parts this will be yet, i'll let you know when i do. title and lyrics are from 'bad liar' by selena gomez.
summary: you're back from college for the summer, staying with your devout catholic parents in your childhood home while they order you around and try to keep authority over you. as an act of rebellion you ask your new neighbor mr. miller to teach you how to play guitar, but it turns out there's a lot more he wants to teach you. (no outbreak, no use of y/n)
rating: 18+ explicit (minors, do not interact)
warnings: (for this fic in general) age difference (reader is in her 20s, joel in his 50s), innocent/inexperienced reader, dirty old man joel, corruption (but it's consensual), praise kink, dirty talk, general smut, mentions of religion (reader's family are very catholic) -- (for this chapter) wet dreams, mentions of masturbation.
word count: 5k
ao3
The sun is warm and pleasant on your bare skin as you lay out in the freshly mown grass of your backyard, absorbing the heat and smiling languidly despite the humidity. You're grateful for your family's wealth on days like today, knowing that at any moment you could take a few steps and dive headfirst into the cool water of your pool, fresh and inviting. It's been about a month since you returned and you've spent almost every day outside among the green grass, the chlorinated water, the burning Texas sun. It's been heaven.
The backdoor suddenly swings open and your father's voice booms out into the backyard, "Family meeting," he states, loud and serious, "Five minutes."
Or hell.
With a groan you slowly sit up, hands digging into the thin towel laid out beneath you. You know better than to ignore an order like that. Being back from college for the summer has certainly had it's perks; no annoying roommates, no loud parties, a large backyard and pool to yourself, but having to deal with your parents again certainly isn't one of them. You'd thought coming back after three years might have softened them a bit, lowered their guard, made them less strict. Instead, it's almost had the opposite effect.
You slide into your flip flops and walk begrudgingly inside the house, making note of your mother standing anxiously by the stove with her arms crossed. What's the issue now? At least once a week your father calls these "family meetings", which always pertain to you and only you, seeing as you're their only child. Last week they'd spent half an hour berating you about forgetting to put the garbage out, the week before they'd tried to explain the importance of an early bed time to you, like you were seven.
You're a grown woman, a full fledged adult. Sure, you're only twenty one, you're unemployed, you're currently in the process of obtaining an arts degree that probably won't secure you anything tangible in the real world, but you're an adult nonetheless. You only have one year left of school before you can leave all this behind and start fresh somewhere else. You'd thought coming back home for one more summer would bring nostalgia and happiness, a few months of normality before life exploded in front of you.
Turns out your parents had pictured something different.
Your father gestures toward the kitchen table, urging for you to sit. You hate when they do this, make you feel small and childish while they both stand above you and reiterate rules they've had your whole life, rules that apparently you'll never grow out of. You wonder what rule you've broken now.
"We've noticed that you barely leave the house," your father begins, voice deep and authoritative, "We were under the impression that when you came home you'd be spending time with old friends, doing some volunteering again."
"Going to church," your mother adds beside him, a frown permanently etched on her face, "You've only gone twice since you've been here."
Call the cops, you think to yourself, forcibly holding back an eyeroll. Ironically your father is a police officer, and you highly doubt he'd ever come if you called.
"Instead, you just spend all your time in that backyard," he continues, nodding along with your mother, "We didn't invite you back to simply laze around all summer, there have been clear expectations you're not meeting."
You take a deep breath, feeling a hint of anger and stubbornness burning in the pit of your stomach. You shove it down, back to that secret hiding place you've cultivated throughout all these years of having to deal with them.
"I'm sorry, dad," you say, trying to sound as earnest as possible as you look to him and then your mother, "Sorry, mom."
"Sorry doesn't cut it, we need to see action," your father replies quickly, brow furrowed, "No more lounging around in the backyard on weekdays, that's a weekend activity from now on, we clear?"
You nod, "Clear."
"We want you to get involved in something," your mom takes a step forward, places her hand awkwardly on your shoulder, "Why don't you call Bethany? She's always looking for more helpers at Sunday School, or maybe Alice? I hear she's been volunteering at the soup kitchen for the summer."
You haven't spoken to either Bethany or Alice since you left for university three years ago. The thought of calling them, let alone having to work with them in either setting, makes you feel ill. You nod again, pretending to agree.
"That sounds good, I'll call them tomorrow morning," Both of your parents smile, appeased, "I think I'll go for a walk now, if that's okay. Clear my head, think about things I can do to improve."
"That's the spirit," your dad says, wrapping an arm around your mother, "Remember, be back before dinner or the door will be locked."
"I know," you nod, forcing a smile, "I won't forget."
--
Well, that's it, then. You'll have to leave.
It sounds dramatic to say that your parents telling you to get off your ass is enough to send you packing, but it goes so much deeper than that. You've spent your entire life doing everything these people say, nodding and smiling when you're meant to, apologizing for everything, doing anything you can to appease and impress them. You'd spent your high school years in youth choir, church group, organizing fundraisers, studying your ass off, tutoring, joining as many extracurriculars as possible until you had no free time. And even then, nothing ever seemed to be enough for them.
When you'd left for college they'd both cried at the airport, held you in their arms and told you with sincerity that they'd miss you so much. Your mother had kissed your face and held your hands and your father had hugged you for the first time since you were eleven years old. And because of their sudden burst of emotions, of affection, you'd actually missed them once you left. You remember you'd cried on the plane, scrolling through pictures of them on your phone until the battery died, thinking to yourself that maybe they weren't the horrible, authoritarian people you thought they were.
They called you once a week while you were at college, asking for updates, telling you they missed you, giving you neighborhood gossip that made you laugh and feel nostalgic for home. Being away from them, it was like they suddenly became two entirely new people, bonded together by their suddenly empty nest and seemingly trying to do right by you now, even if it felt a little too late. You'd thought about coming home a few times for a visit, but the memories that triggered the anger in the pit of your stomach kept you from doing so. You'd kept them at arm's length until you felt ready to come back.
And now you're back, and nothing has changed. They're the same people they always were, expecting too much of you, thinking they can control you, never quite believing that you're trying your best. You'd told them before you came that you just wanted to relax this summer, spend some time at home, maybe meet up with some old friends - keyword being maybe - and they'd seemed totally on board with the idea. There had been no mentions of keeping busy, no mentions of Sunday School or soup kitchens or rules. Then you'd arrived and realized how stupid you'd been to believe that they could ever change.
Your entire life you've been their perfect girl, their A+ student who volunteered and read bible verses and tutored the neighborhood kids, sacrificed your happiness more times than you can count for the sake of keeping them satisfied. But that's the thing: they're not satisfied, and they never will be.
Your flip flops smack against the concrete of your suburban street, sun beginning to set in the distance as you think about how exactly you're going to escape this hell. Yeah, you could just walk out the front door without a word, but it's not like you have anywhere to go or the money to do it. You have your plane ticket for your return flight back to school, but it's not 'til September and it's under your father's name. Your family might be wealthy but none of that wealth has ever gone directly into your pocket, and you doubt it ever will if you just bail on them in the middle of the night with no warning.
Your thoughts scatter when you hear someone call out your name nearby. Your head swivels and you see one of your neighbors, Mrs. Lillard, waving from her front porch. You wave back, give her a small smile.
"How's college treatin' ya?" she calls to you, taking a sip from a bottle of beer, "Got a boyfriend?"
Your cheeks warm immediately and shake your head, "Not yet!" you call back.
"I bet you're battin' 'em all away," her voice is slurred and you're sure that's probably not her first beer of the day, "Nobody's good enough for ya, huh?"
"I guess," you say awkwardly, continuing to walk and hoping she won't ask you to join her for a beer, "How's your husband?"
"Pain in my ass," she responds with a grunt and takes another swig, "Bet you can't wait to have your own white picket fence, perfect as you are."
Her words make you uncomfortable but you just give her your signature fake laugh and flip your hair, waving again, "Bye, Mrs. Lillard."
Your face falls as soon as you turn around, anger burning again. You've spent so much of your life being the picture perfect little suburban girl, doing everything your parents say, saying your prayers and reading to the elderly, killing yourself to get straight A's and only speaking when spoken to. Your reputation is widely known around the neighborhood; the sweet little girl, the pure and innocent God fearing angel. You've portrayed yourself as that girl for so long that you almost don't know which part of you is real anymore.
You keep walking down the street, eyeing the sunset as you go and wondering what would happen if you just didn't go back home tonight. As your father had said, he locks the door every night after dinner; you don't have a key, you've never had a key. You're only allowed into your house on the basis of trust and good merit. If you just refused to go back tonight, how would they react? The thought of doing something like that sends a warm flush of rebellion across your skin, eyes bright with intrigue. But where would you go?
You turn the corner and your nose is suddenly hit with the delectable scent of a barbecue, smokey and delicious. You slow a bit, closing your eyes and breathing in the warm air, stomach growling. You suddenly realize that if you don't go home tonight you'll also miss dinner. Another rule broken. You keep walking, trying to follow the scent like some kind of bloodhound. Maybe you know whoever's cooking and they'll invite you to eat with them.
A few houses down you start to hear the sound of music. There must be a party going on, a birthday or some other special occasion. It's only as you get closer to the sound that you realize it's not being played from a speaker or stereo, but from someone's front porch; a real guitar, live and acoustic.
You approach the house in question and see a man sitting on his front step, guitar in hand as he strums a steady tune. He's looking down, watching his fingers, monitoring his movements, but you see dark brown curls with hints of grey peppered throughout, a stubbled jaw line and curved nose. You slow your speed, furrowing your brow as you try to place him. You're not sure you've ever seen him before.
His music is calm and inviting, a plucky sounding tune that seems vaguely familiar. You're suddenly filled with intrigue, trying to place the song and slowing to a complete stop in front of the house without meaning to. You watch the man's callused fingers pick away at the strings, fast and professional, like he's been doing this for years. He probably has.
You're still trying to place the song, biting your lip and swiping through songs in your mind like an invisible rolodex. Johnny Cash? Bob Dylan? It sounds like one of those songs your parents would forbid you to listen to as a kid, the ones with devil worship in their lyrics, sung by bad men who didn't believe in God. You'd always questioned this logic, wondered how songs about living out in the country or falling in love could be inherently against your religion. They didn't even listen to it, just blindly told you it was against the rules.
Suddenly the man stops playing and you realize the song has come to an end. He looks up then, notices you standing there at the end of his walk with your furrowed brow and flip flops. His eyes are brown, expression startled at first but then fading into something softer as he gives you a small smile.
"Been there long?" he asks, voice crackling slightly, like he hasn't spoken much today.
You shake your head quickly, "I'm sorry, I heard you playing and I-"
"S'alright," he replies strumming his guitar absentmindedly and giving you a shrug, "I don't mind an audience."
He's southern, definitely a Texan, but you're sure you've never met him before. His face and voice are unfamiliar to you, but certainly not unwelcome. He's older, probably in his 40s or even 50s, but he's handsome and slightly boyish in a way despite his greying hair and freckled skin. He reminds you of one of those men on album covers your father had slammed down one day in the record store when you were nine, yelled at you in front of everyone that the men who made that music were filthy sinners. It hadn't stopped you from listening to them, though, curiosity getting the better of you.
Is that who you're looking at now? A filthy sinner?
"You okay?" he asks slowly, tilting his head. You realize you're just staring at him, gathering your thoughts.
You shake your head again quickly, feeling yourself blush under his gaze, "Sorry," you repeat, "I'm uh, I was just passing by and I heard you playing that song. It sounded really familiar."
He gives you a crooked smile and a nod, "Tangled Up in Blue, Bob Dylan."
"I knew it was Bob Dylan," you say, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. That song was from one of the albums you'd listened to in secret, one of the only times you'd had to delete your browser history. You feel pride swell in your chest at the smile you elicit from the man in response, like he's recognizing a fellow music lover.
"Good ear," he continues to lightly pluck at the strings of his guitar, "You play?"
"Um, not really." It's a half truth but mainly a lie, you've never played in your life. You feel slightly disappointed in yourself and you're not sure why; it's not like you've ever felt any kind of urge to learn, especially considering your parents would've made sure you only learned appropriate songs. When would you have even found the time between all your extracurriculars?
"Well, it ain't difficult," he starts playing the song again, slower this time, "Pretty repetitive chord progression, room for some adlibbin' here and there once you get the hang of it."
You nod like you understand what he's talking about, suddenly lost in the way his fingers pull at the strings, make the music come to life out of nothing. His hands are big, fingers long and thick as they curve back and forth, up and down. It's hypnotic to watch. He stops again and looks up, catches you staring.
"How old are you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
You swallow, unsure what exactly the right answer is. Part of you wants to lie, tell him you're older than you actually are so he doesn't just see you as some bright eyed kid. This is the first person you've encountered since coming back who doesn't know who you are, doesn't know about your reputation. You could tell him anything, be anyone, and he'd take it at face value.
"I'm twenty five," you lie, but it sounds unnatural in your mouth.
He looks you up and down, eyes raking your body in a way you're unfamiliar with. Like a man. Like the way your roommates back in college get looked at, sensually and flirtatiously, being eyed up by drunk guys at the bar who only have one thing on their mind. You feel your heart begin to thrum quicker in your chest; is that really how this man is looking at you? This grown man, not a high school crush or a college fratboy, a real man?
"Sweetheart, we both know that's a lie," he says with a chuckle, eyes coming back to rest on your face, "I'd guess twenty."
You make a face, "I'm twenty one, actually."
He laughs again, putting his hands up in surrender, "My bad, twenty one."
You watch as he starts to strum once again, something new and unfamiliar. You listen for a few moments, eyes trained back on his fingers, watching him play.
"You wanna come in for a bit?" he asks, voice nonchalant, like he's asking you something completely casual.
And maybe he is, but the words make your eyes widen, your breath catching in your throat. The way he'd looked at you just then, laughed at your words, wanted to know your age... now he's inviting you into his house? You've never actually been flirted with before, not when it mattered, and you're not entirely sure if that's what's happening. But it feels like it, even though you can't imagine how someone like him could see anything sexy about a girl like you.
"...Why?" you ask quietly.
He looks up at you with another smile, still plucking the strings, "If you need to ask then maybe I read you wrong," he chuckles again, eyes trailing down your legs and taking in your short dress, the way it stops at your knees, "Now that I really look at you, maybe I'm talkin' to a good Christian girl."
"You're not," you say it too quickly, "I mean, I'm not. I'm not a good Christian girl."
"No?" he smirks, "Don't have a good southern daddy waitin' for you to come home? Momma waitin' with a pie in the oven?" he's not being serious but you feel your skin flush at the accuracy of his words.
"Maybe," you mutter, hand going down to touch your dress nervously, "But maybe I don't wanna go home."
He nods and stops plucking, licking his lips and thinking to himself. You have to admit, there's something about him that draws you to him, something masculine and new. He's much, much older than you but not in a way that creeps you out or makes you want to run away. You find yourself hoping he'll ask you to come inside again so this time you can give him the right answer, the one he wants to hear.
"You probably should," he finally says, then stands up on his porch steps and slips his guitar onto his back. The strap digs into his broad shoulders, accentuating his size as he suddenly towers over you on the step.
"Sh-should what?" you ask breathlessly, and you wonder if he can tell your heart race has picked up, see the thumping of your pulse in your exposed neck.
"Go back home," he says with a shrug, "I mean, if they're waitin' for you..."
"They're not," you say it with firm finality, shaking your head, "I'm twenty one, I do what I like."
He walks down the steps then, getting closer and closer to you until he's suddenly standing directly in front of you. His eyes cast downward, assessing your expression; you swear he looks at your lips and licks his own again.
"So would you like to come inside?" he asks again, peering down at you with a dark sense of desire that makes you swallow roughly, feel a light and steady thrum between your legs, "Let me teach you how to play that song?"
Here's your chance. Just say yes.
"N-no," you gasp, taking a step back from him, "Um, n-not today."
He smirks, almost like he knew that would be your response. He hitches his guitar up his shoulder and gives you one last smile before turning around and walking back up his steps.
"Well, I'm here if you change your mind," he calls back to you, reaching for the doorknob on his front door and peering at you with another side glance, still assessing you, "Would love to teach a pretty thing like you how to use her fingers."
You feel your lips part in surprise, an unfamiliar tingling sensation flooding your body as he gives you a wink and walks into his house, shutting the door behind him. You've still got that steady throbbing feeling in your underwear, something you've only felt a handful of times. You know what it is, you're not completely clueless, but you can't remember the last time it happened.
You take another step back slowly, heart still pounding in your chest as you stare at his closed door. Then you turn on your heel and speed walk back the way you came, flip flops slapping against the ground aggressively. You revel in the way your thighs rub together as you walk, soothing that ache.
Any thoughts of not going home have gone from your mind. You need to ask your parents who this man is. As soon as possible.
-
You get home right before dinner, giving yourself just enough time to formulate exactly how to ask your parents about the man with the guitar. You're slightly afraid that you might seem too eager, too curious, and that they'll see right through you; you can't imagine how they'd react to knowing their perfect little girl is getting butterflies over a middle aged man.
But that's what you have: butterflies. In your tummy, all over your skin, between your legs. Being talked to the way he did, being looked at the way he did, it's making you feel hot all over, itchy and uncomfortable but in a good way.
The last time you felt this way was during your first week of college, at a party you'd gone to with your roommate. You'd seen him across the room, tall and blonde, watched as he licked his lips and looked you up and down. He was gorgeous, an angel you were convinced God had placed at this party just for you. You felt that tingle between your legs, swallowed down the nervous lump in your throat and imagined what it would be like to be kissed by him.
Then he'd approached and you realized he'd been looking at your roommate the entire time.
Your mother is just beginning to plate the meal when you slip into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table beside your father. She serves you both with a smile and sits, then extends her hands to both of you.
"Bless us, O Lord, for these, Thy gifts," she begins quietly, and you quickly hang your head and close your eyes as she continues, "which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen."
"Amen," you and your dad echo, then begin your meal. Just the same as always.
"How was your walk?" your father asks.
Here goes nothing.
"It was nice," you say, nodding thoughtfully to yourself and hoping you sound nonchalant, "I said hi to Mrs. Lillard."
"We've been praying for her," your mom interjects immediately, "She's an alcoholic, you know."
Your mom stays on top of all the neighborhood gossip, part of the reason you feel she might know something about the mysterious man. With a nod of your head you continue, "And then I saw someone else, a man playing guitar on his front porch, but I've never seen him before."
"Oh, him" your mom rolls her eyes, "Mr. Miller. Piece of work."
Bingo.
Your eyebrows raise, intrigued, "How so?"
"Kindness, dear," your father says with a disapproving nod to your mother, "He's done nothing to us."
She sighs and shakes her head, "You're right, I'm sorry."
The conversation is definitely going somewhere but it's already taking a turn into dangerous territory; you're not one to question, to interfere or interject. Pressing them further might make them suspicious, but you have to know.
"What did he do?" you ask, trying your best to sound casual, "If you don't mind me asking?"
Your mother is about to speak but your father gives her a look, almost a warning. She closes her mouth and sits back in her chair, waiting for him to answer you instead.
"He didn't do anything," your father explains, "Your mother invited him for dinner and he declined, that's all."
"It's the way he declined," your mother sits forward again, voice curt and irritated, "He was very rude."
"Rude?" You can tell your mom wants to talk about it, dredge up something she hasn't been able to discuss for a while; you're surprised she hadn't already told you over the phone while you were at college.
"This isn't appropriate conversation for the dinner table," your father says sternly, and you're not sure if he's talking more-so to you or your mother, "End of discussion." As usual your mother folds in on herself, picking up her fork and starting to eat again.
"Your father's right," she says, though you know she doesn't really believe that, "Let's just eat."
You wonder what the man - Mr. Miller - could have said to make your mother react this way. It's not unusual for her to get stiff and bothered by people - it's pretty easy to push her buttons, actually, but the list of things that offend her is long and detailed. He could have said pretty much anything to set her off. The specifics are lost on you.
You resign yourself to defeat and eat your dinner, sincerely glad that the tingling sensations in your body have subsided. You do not need to be feeling like that with your parents in the room.
-
You dream about him.
It's muddled and confusing, taking place simultaneously back at college and in your childhood bedroom, but he's there. In both places, somehow. You're back at that first week of college party, but instead of the blonde boy it's him standing across the room, eyeing you up and down. But this time he doesn't go for your roommate, he walks over to you and looks deeply into your eyes, gives you that delicious smirk and brings his hands down to touch your waist. He's so big compared to you, so much older. He pulls you in with a strong grasp and holds you to his broad chest, runs his hands down your back.
Then you're both transported from the college party to your parent's house. You're on your bed, sitting next to him atop the covers and watching him play guitar. You watch his fingers, long and thick, hypnotizing you with their movements. He stops playing and brings one to your chin, tilts your head up to look into your eyes again.
"You're not a good Christian girl," he whispers in that southern drawl, breath ghosting across your face, inching closer and closer, "You're all mine, aren't you?"
You wake up with a start and immediately feel the dampness in your underwear, the butterflies back again with a vengeance as your pussy throbs and pulses. You've never felt anything like this before, grasping your chest and reaching for your bedside lamp in the darkness. You sit there in bed for a few moments, catching your breath and waiting for the feelings to vanish again, for your aching core to stop reminding you that it's never been touched, not once, even though you know it's absolutely begging for it.
With shaky hands you reach down and run a finger through your wet folds, shivering at the soft touch. You've never masturbated before, never had sex or anything else you've learned about from your friends at college. They'd looked at you with disbelief when you'd told them you'd never even had an orgasm; one of them had gone so far as to ask if she could give you one.
"No," you'd said curtly, "No thank you."
Now you sit on your childhood bed with your legs open and a finger pressed lightly against you within your underwear. You're not even sure what to do, where exactly to touch, how to bring yourself to completion. You're twenty one years old but you've spent your entire life being the good, pure, God fearing girl waiting for marriage like her parents taught her.
"Enough," you whisper into the darkness, "I'm done waiting."
You yank your finger out of your panties and lay back on the bed, switching off the lamp and closing your eyes again. You've already decided before you drift off that you'll be paying Mr. Miller another visit tomorrow, as soon as possible.
He told you he wanted to teach you how to use your fingers; you intend to make sure he does.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller x you#joel miller fic#pedro pascal fic#tlou fic#*#fic: feelings on fire
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LEAVING ME BREATHLESS
genre. fluff.
warnings. kissing.
pairing. leehan x fem!reader.
wc. 773.
request. requested by anon: Hi! I love your work, can I request first kiss with Leehan?
a/n. this made me a lil too delulu sigh........ hes just the standard??
Ever since Leehan had asked you out, your anxious mind couldn’t help but think of kissing him. You wanted to, probably more than anything. But you had never kissed anyone before. You were completely inexperienced with everything that had to do with relationships and dating and love. And even when you tried to get advice from your friends, your brain always went completely blank when you were in front of him.
The problem was that he was too pretty. Pretty enough to make you forget your own name. His hair had grown longer since you first met him and it made your heart race faster than the speed of light in your chest from the way it fell over his eyes. And when he smiled at you? You might as well be in your coffin already.
The thought of kissing him had been plaguing your mind for 2 weeks. He had officially become your boyfriend just 3 weeks ago, and after the first week passed by, you started to get used to being in a relationship more.
When was the right time for a first kiss?
When did he want to kiss you?
Did he want to kiss you at all?
No, that was a stupid question. With the way you caught him staring at your lips most days, you were sure he did. That made it even worse for your poor lovesick heart. To know that he was actually just as in love with you as you were him was a thought that made you almost dizzy.
Kissing couldn’t be that hard, right? You just had to put your lips on his. That was all there was to it… right? But what if it was more complicated than you had imagined? What if your breath smelled, or your lips were chapped, or you were awkward?
All of these questions raced in your mind as you walked up to the front of your house, hand tangled with Leehan’s. With the thought that you would have more time to think about it clearly when he said goodbye to you, you were able to clear your head enough to turn to him.
“Thank you for today. It was fun.” You offered him a big smile, and he mirrored it immediately. You caught his tongue slipping out to lick his lips, and in an instant, your calm demeanour was lost. Your heart raced in your chest and you tried to gulp down the new nerves. Your gaze couldn’t drift away from his lips, now moistened and looking very inviting.
But as much as you wanted to lean in right then and there, you were way too scared to make the first move. Leehan caught on to your nervousness immediately, as well as your stare.
“You thinking about something?” He asked, tilting his head to the side.
Your eyes shot up to his eyes instead of his lips, and you stepped back subconsciously. Was he always that close to your face?
“No, it’s nothing!” You smiled nervously and turned towards your front door, “I should go insi-”
You felt a hand on your shoulder, and the next thing you knew, you were spun around, your back resting against the door and the same pair of lips you had been staring at so intently pressed up against yours. You were completely caught by surprise, and let out a small yelp before all sound was lost in the kiss.
Your heart had never raced this fast. You closed your eyes, trying to memorise the feeling of his lips moving against yours; his hands holding your shoulders gently yet firmly against the door; a section of his hair falling down to tickle the skin on your forehead. His lips tasted like cherries, and they felt soft and plush. The feeling summoned butterflies to your stomach, and though you had been extremely nervous minutes ago, you finally relaxed into the feeling and pulled him even closer.
He pulled away, a soft chuckle leaving his mouth, and you slowly opened your eyes. The kiss had left you breathless, and with your mind in a daze, you could barely process anything except how beautiful he looked.
“I think I smudged your lip gloss.” He whispered, his eyes glossy and his lips upturned in a gentle smile.
You let out a laugh and reached up to try to wipe off any product that had smudged, “Did I get it?”
He hummed and shook his head, “You missed a spot.” Instead of wiping off wherever you had missed like you would expect, your boyfriend pressed his lips to yours, stealing all your breath once again.
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#﹒fics 𓈃 ⵌ#k-labels#leehan#kim donghyun#boynextdoor#boynextdoor leehan#boynextdoor kim donghyun#boynextdoor fic#boynextdoor fluff#leehan fic#kim donghyun fic#kim donghyun fluff#boynextdoor leehan fic#boynextdoor leehan fluff#boynextdoor x reader#boynextdoor leehan x reader#leehan x reader#fluff#fic#fanfic#bnd leehan#bnd fic#bnd fluff#bnd x reader#leehan fluff#donghyun fluff#donghyun fic#donghyun x reader
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Grand Gesture | eddie munson
summary: catching feelings for your best friend was never in your plans. when you start distancing yourself from him to protect your heart, eddie vows to do everything in his power to keep it forever.
“Come over for dinner tonight?” Eddie asks, trying to sound natural but maybe not being quite successful. “Wayne misses you, you know.”
It's a lie and he knows it — not that Wayne doesn't like you, far from it, but Eddie is painfully aware he's the one who misses you the most. He feels like a part of him is missing. His uncle, on the other hand, is a man of actions more than a man of words, and judging by the way he always ordered your favorite pizza flavor when you'd come visit Eddie, or how he'd give an understanding smile whenever Eddie did so much as mention your name, it was safe to say he considered you as much family as he did Eddie himself.
But that was before. Eddie now has to be quick if he wants to talk to you between classes. Most of the time you're no more than a blur to him — the ghost of his childhood best friend.
You look up at him very quickly — as if your eyes would burn if your gaze lingered too long, even — and you shove some books out of your backpack into the locker with little care. You smile, but Eddie knows all of your genuine smiles and this isn't one of them.
“Uh, well, I can't today,” you say. "Sorry."
"Tomorrow?"
"Busy too."
You seem to be calculating an escape route as you look down the hall. Eddie feels terribly pathetic when he asks again, "What about next week?"
“I have a test next week, I'll have to study.”
“Oh,” is all he manages to say.
Eddie doesn't remember any tests happening the following week. He twirls a ring around his finger nervously and tries to convince himself that it might be from a class of yours that he doesn't attend.
“Thanks for inviting me anyway," you close the locker and smile that same smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Say hi to Wayne for me, okay?”
“...sure.”
You're leaving once more. Eddie feels panic rising in his throat, swallows hard, and says, before he can stop himself, "You're still going to The Hideout on Tuesday, right?"
Tuesday. It was something you and him had agreed on a while ago; Corroded Coffin played at The Hideout every Tuesday and most Tuesdays you'd go see them, but if you couldn't make it every time, the deal was that you'd go at least once a month. And you hadn't been there for the last three Tuesdays, which made this your last chance to keep your promise.
You look over your shoulder at Eddie, saying, "I'll try." And wave before rushing off to your next class without looking back.
He immediately knows you won't come; it's remarkable how much distance you've managed to put between the two of you in such a short amount of time.
On the other hand, you know you can't go to The Hideout on Tuesday.
Not because you have an appointment you can't reschedule or because you've already made plans you don't want to miss…but because being in love with your best friend feels awfully like getting a thorn into your foot. You could go weeks without seeing him, slowly forgetting the thorn was there…and then you'd just spend 2 minutes with Eddie and the damn thing would re-enter your skin three times deeper.
So no, you can't go to The Hideout on Tuesday, you decide. Watching Eddie play guitar wouldn't do you any good.
And you don't go. Not this Tuesday, not the next, not the one after that. Time goes by too fast but somehow the days seem to drag on terribly. And then days become weeks, weeks become months. Well, month, singular, but Eddie feels like he's lived a lifetime during the time you're not talking to him. It certainly feels like months.
36 days. Not that the two of you are counting. Definitely not.
Eddie is sitting on his throne in the middle of a Hellfire session, babbling his lines and running the campaign almost robotically, when he thinks of you again. The Eddie from before, the Eddie who still had you in his life, would have been ecstatic as he awaited the day to share this campaign with his little sheep around this very table. Now he's having trouble keeping track of what's going on.
He remembers the general idea; a curse, some monsters, an object capable of saving the world that lies in the power of a female elf the party has to find and convince to help. Yada, yada.
It's the third time he's lost himself inside his own head.
"Dude!"
Eddie looks at Dustin as if he's just been slapped. "What?"
“You're being ridiculous. Just talk to her."
"How dare you-"
Dustin realizes Eddie is about to go on a rant about getting out of character mid-session. He's not sure where all this courage is coming from (maybe it comes from the fact that he really cares about his Dungeon Master's happiness) but Dustin reaches out and lowers the screen in front of Eddie.
“You gotta go find your elf, man,” he says, encouraged by the murmurs of agreement rising from the others in the room. "Like, right now. Looks like your world is coming to an end.”
Eddie has an answer on the tip of his tongue as he looks from face to face and back to Dustin's.
"I'm the Dungeon Master here, Henderson." He doesn't care if he sounds defensive or silly or if the other boys will realize he's purposely pretending not to understand what his friend means. He doesn't care in the least.
“Oh, for God's sake,” insists Dustin, apparently the group's representative now that the subject is Eddie's personal life. "You know very well I'm talking about her."
Eddie makes a move to lift the dungeon master screen once again in hopes of ending the conversation. Dustin pulls it out of his grasp with little care.
"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."
“You should go after her, man,” suggests Lucas, very quietly.
“Yeah,” Mike agrees, working up the courage to say something when Eddie doesn't say anything. “Believe me, it took some time to figure out my feelings for El, too. But at least I got it at some point, you know.”
“A grand gesture is what you need,” Lucas adds with newfound confidence. "It's what I do when Max doesn't want to talk to me."
He cowers slightly when Eddie looks at him, an appraising brow raised. Dustin is nodding his head emphatically in agreement, though.
“We want our Dungeon Master back,” Gareth says, trying to lighten the mood.
There is a silence that seems to last for years. Then, not quite realizing what he's doing, Eddie stands up, nearly toppling his throne in the process, and pretty much jumps toward the door.
Behind him, the boys shout words of encouragement and whistle with exaggerated excitement.
Grand gesture, huh?
"You should ask Eddie to go to the movies with you."
"Mom," you scold for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, helping her into her coat.
"I just don't like leaving you home alone."
"I'll be fine. I'm practically an adult now."
Of course, you are. The discussion is not about that and you know it. She knows it. But none of you say anything. This conversation has played out several times in many different ways over the past thirty days, and it doesn't look like she's going to stop insisting anytime soon.
Your mother gives you her best puppy dog eyes. "Are you really going to be okay?"
"Yes, yes!" You emphasize, gently pushing her out the front door and smiling as convincingly as you can. "I swear I will. Now go have fun!"
She smiles and kisses the top of your head affectionately.
"Lock the door behind me, okay?"
You do. But you might as well have left the damn thing open, because two minutes after you lock it and just a second after you sit down on the couch, you hear a knock.
You run to the door, key in hand.
"Mom, did you forget something agai-"
But it's not your mom.
"Eddie," you mumble, voice barely a whisper.
It shouldn't be possible, but he's right there in front of you, hands in his pockets as he looks at your face with a nervous smile.
"Hi," he says, voice husky and warm just as you remember.
You feel like your heart is about to find its way out of your rib cage somehow.
Clearing your throat, you finally find your voice. "Aren't you supposed to be at Hellfire?" you ask.
"I left halfway through the session," he says, as if that explains everything. Eddie Ditching Hellfire? When you don't say anything else, standing there looking like you want to slam the door in his face, Eddie quickly adds, "Can I come in?"
"I don't think it's a good idea."
"We need to talk."
"It's not a good time," you say without looking at him, a little upset because, damn, how are you supposed to forget a guy who keeps showing up?
You start to close the door slowly, almost without realizing you're doing it.
Eddie puts his foot in the gap to stop you.
"Please," he begs. "Ten minutes?"
No, no, no. Say no.
Cursing inwardly, you step back and let him in. "Five."
You gesture for him to sit around the small kitchen table and lean against the counter, keeping a safe distance from him, your arms crossed tightly in front of your chest.
You ask him if he'd like something to eat or drink and he denies, hating how he's become a guest at your place, an outsider, someone you no longer have that familiar intimacy with.
You're staring at the floor like it's the most interesting thing you'd ever laid eyes on. "What did you want to talk about?" you ask.
Eddie places both hands on the table, twirling the rings around his fingers anxiously.
"I want…I need to…." he licks his lips and looks at your face, trying to turn thoughts into words and not understanding why it's suddenly so difficult to do so. "Why do you suddenly hate me?"
You can't say you didn't expect to hear a question like this at some point. That doesn't mean you don't get slightly lost when you actually hear it, though.
"I don't hate you, Eddie."
"You didn't talk to me in weeks, you didn't come to see my band," he holds up a finger as he points out each of your actions, "you run the other way whenever you see me in the school hallways…"
His gaze diverts to the space beside you.
“Christ, you even ripped our picture out of your fridge, apparently,” he lets out a completely humorless chuckle, a hint of sadness behind the irony you know all too well.
You look into the empty space he's indicating and suddenly feel guilty. A picture of the two of you the first night Eddie played at the Hideout with the band used to be there.
"I don't hate you," you repeat, silly. "I'd never hate you."
"You don't even look at me."
"Of course I do." You weren't looking until now, but you force yourself to do so even though it's hard. There's something very intimate about looking Eddie in the eyes, you think, something awfully familiar. "I'm looking at you right now."
"Yeah. For 2 seconds, I bet."
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, take a deep breath, and try to keep your thoughts clear.
"Did you come all the way here to tell me to look at you?"
"No," he says. "I came all the way here to say I miss you."
A very long time passes without you saying anything, your chest rising and falling faster than usual. Eddie realizes he's surprised you.
A spark of happiness you shouldn't feel warms your heart. You try to smother it.
In a small voice, he insists, "Don't you miss me?"
Your heart screams yes, but you don't say anything. Eddie stands up, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor sounding alarming to your ears.
“We've been friends for…what? Twelve years? And you're going to tell me that you've simply decided that you don't like my company now?”
“Eddie,” you finally say. "Stop."
You uncross your arms, using your hands to lean against the kitchen counter behind you instead, fighting the urge to run. Whether in Eddie's direction or the opposite, you're still unsure.
"Why? So you can go back to erasing me from your life again without saying anything?” he asks, putting the chair back in place before moving towards you. “You can say it to my face, then. Say you hate me.”
"I don't hate you."
"You certainly don't like me."
"I-"
“Or think of me.”
“I never said-”
"If you tell me to leave now, I swear I will and I won't come back," he promises and you know it's true. But then, slower, lighter, almost whispering, he adds, “…but that's not what I want.”
You should tell him to go away, to leave. You know he won't give up if you don't tell him to do so, but you can't bring yourself to be cruel to him, not even to protect your own heart.
So instead, the spark of hope becomes a flame inside your chest and you find yourself asking, “And what do you want?”
For a good five seconds, Eddie looks at you like he's facing a crossroads. Then he comes closer and places his hands over yours, one on either side of you, any definition of personal space momentarily forgotten as he moves his face closer to yours.
“I want…,” he begins, and it's thanks to the way you can feel each word that leaves his lips that you're made aware of how close you are, that you're between him and the kitchen counter. That he's about to kiss you. “I want to-”
His forehead rests against yours, his eyes slowly fluttering closed. The words he wants to say never make it past his mouth.
He is about to kiss you, right?
“Eddie-”
Eddie leans back just enough to consider the expression on your face, eyes big and brown and warm.
"You want me to go?" he whispers.
“No,” you're not surprised at how quickly you respond. Your hand slips from under his to brush a dark curl out of his eyes. "I broke our promise, though."
"It's okay."
He leans in. You feel his lips at the corner of your mouth and let out a sigh. "I'm sorry. I'll go to every single one of your gigs from now on-"
“Please,” he begs, a distinct hint of affection behind his words. "Stop talking."
"What you're doing?"
His upper lip touches yours. You can feel his reluctant smile when he says, “A grand gesture, I hope.”
And then, Eddie closes the gap — your breath catches the very moment his mouth meets yours, his kiss gentle, slow, a step too big to be taken all at once. He leans in and you feel his chest against yours, one hand sliding to the small of your back and pressing you even closer, another moving up your arm, over your shoulder, to the crook of your neck and your jaw. He holds your face and you sigh against his mouth, your lips parted invitation enough for him to deepen the kiss.
And God, being kissed like this does feel like a grand gesture.
He tastes exactly like you thought he would and somehow entirely different at the same time — something familiar, something safe, but also something new and fiery and wonderful.
You're breathing heavily — Eddie not much different — when he finally breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.
“Tell me to stay,” he whispers. In the silence of the empty house, it's more than enough. “Please tell me you want me to stay, sweetheart, 'cause I have no fucking idea how to stay away from you.”
You're still coming to your senses, all too aware of the hand he keeps tightly on your waist, of the gentle movement of his calloused thumb against your cheek.
You wrap your arms around his neck and smile the most genuine smile he's ever seen on your face.
“As if I’d ever let you go after this, Munson.”
#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson angst#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fluff#eddie x reader#eddie munson#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#stranger things#eddie munson drabble#eddie munson x female reader
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Comfort
Pairings: R4! Leon x Fem! Reader
Summary: Your husband is glad that he has you, just like he's glad to have his little family.
Wc:4.8k
Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, p in v, mentions of ptsd, mentions of birth and pregnancy, soft sex(nothing too kinky), oral sex(f receiving), just Leon being a sweetheart.
An:So, this week has been very busy for me. As I've been saying in my last few posts, university has been taking up a lot of my time, as well as my mental health being pretty messed up. I didn't manage to finish the chapter of 'Between Love and Vows' so I probably won't post anything new until next week. In compensation, I'll post another one of my drafts (smut), I'll make a poll so you guys can choose. And next week I'll post two new chapters of the series! Thanks for your love and understanding <3 If I haven't answered your comment, ask or request, don't worry, I will eventually🫶🫶
MDNI
Sleepless nights, the nightmares that kept tormenting him, his mind that was in turmoil all the time. Leon was used to all this, he had already realized that these were sensations he would carry with him for the rest of his life.
His trauma, ptsd that haunted him every day. Things he had seen and heard, all so fresh in his memory, so vivid. Things that no matter how hard he tried to forget, he couldn't. As if it were a mark stamped on his soul.
But he coped, as he always does with everything in life. Little by little, he understood how to deal with panic attacks, how to calm down even when he was about to collapse. He learned all this, but that didn't make things any less worse than they were.
Although he thought he had everything under control, that it wouldn't affect him as much as before, he was wrong.
His last mission in Spain proved it, he went from hell to heaven to save the president's daughter. Everything worked out in the end, but that doesn't erase what he experienced or saw.
Many times he could have sworn that if it hadn't been for you, he would have gone mad a long time ago. Even if you weren't able to end the pain he felt, you were there to be the light at the end of the tunnel for him, the clarity to his own insanity.
All this because every time he returned from a mission, he came home first, not caring if he was all dirty with mud and dirt, even blood. His safe haven was here, with you.
That was the only reason he always came home, no matter how difficult things might be for him. You were what he needed, you were the person who healed all his wounds, and he couldn't be more grateful.
If it had been anyone else, he would have left you by now, but you understood him. You listened to him even if he didn't make any sense, you were still there.
Your love was the remedy for all his problems.
And if he was being honest, it was the reason he woke up every day, the only reason he had a place to call home. You, simply you.
And that night, he found himself on another one of those nights when he couldn't sleep, and there he was, pacing around the house, finding something to occupy his mind.
It had been two weeks since he had returned from his mission in Spain, and he was still terrified by everything that had happened, even though he was safe and sound in the comfort of his own home.
He woke up from a nightmare, yet another one. And in order not to wake you too, he preferred to get out of bed. You were already tired enough to have to deal with him in the wee hours of the morning.
He was so careful with you, even though you had told him several times that it was okay for him to wake you up if he needed to. But he was stubborn enough to say no.
As he made some tea, just to see if it would calm his nerves, he watched the rain falling outside, the gentle drips hitting the window.
In that silence he began to have some sweet memories, it always helped to calm him down a little. One of those memories was when he asked you to marry him, God, he still remembers the nervousness that ran through his whole body. The trembling hands that held the box with the ring, the words that he had rehearsed so much and still came out messy. He was so afraid of being told no, but his heart calmed down when you smiled and threw yourself into his arms, saying yes again and again, making his heart melt each time.
That night he fell even more in love with you, if that were possible.
When you started living together, every time he came home he was greeted with a hug, you welcomed him with love and affection. He felt his cold exterior crumble at the same moment, words couldn't describe how much he liked it. Every little gesture that came from you, no matter what, he always took it to heart and considered it with all his soul.
He still vividly remembered a conversation he had with you as soon as you moved in together. It never failed to crack a smile.
"Darling, did you let something burn?" Leon asks as he feeds himself, looking around the kitchen.
You look at him with a laugh, seeing that he arrived so tired that he didn't even realize he was still in his work clothes. And then you answer, "No, why do you ask?"
"Nothing, it's just that something stinks." He says quietly, focused on finishing his food.
You can't help yourself and a giggle escapes your lips, "You haven't showered yet, sweetheart."
"Oh..." He mumbles, looking down at his state.
He was so entertained that he only noticed a baby crying from one of the bedrooms, it was you guys son.
He didn't hesitate to go into the baby's room, watching the little one whimpering in his crib, even though he was warm and comfortable in his blankets, the little boy was still bothered by something.
Leon imagined that he wasn't hungry, since you had fed him not long ago. Then he thought it might be his diaper that was dirty, which he soon confirmed.
So the baby was in his arms the next second, he put the little boy on the changing table and changed him properly, not forgetting a single detail, from carefully wiping him down with a wet wipe, to the ointment he had to apply to prevent diaper rash.
He checked the diaper to make sure it was fastened properly. Once he'd checked everything, he rocked the baby in his arms until the little one fell asleep again.
He even sang a lullaby, one of the little boy's favorites. He still thought it sounded ridiculous, but he didn't care as long as it soothed the baby.
Every time he looked at the little one's face, he couldn't hold back the loving smile that always appeared on his lips. It was still hard to believe that he had his own little family.
It's still clear in his memory when you announced that you were pregnant, the uncertainty and fear that consumed him. The anguish he felt, the apprehension of being a bad father. As well as the shock he felt when he received the news, since it wasn't something either of you were expecting. Not least because you had just started living together, so it was a lot all at once. But nothing that shook the relationship, quite the opposite.
But every time he saw you laugh, every time you came home with a little baby thing, whether it was clothes, shoes or even a toy. He couldn't contain his joy at the thought that he was going to be a father, that he was going to have a child.
It wasn't long before he started buying lots and lots of things for the baby, rattles, diapers, baby cloths, various types of educational toys, plush toys and everything else.
In a matter of weeks, the spare room in the house was full and ready to receive the baby, even if you weren't that far along in your pregnancy.
Not only did he become even more protective, the kind that wouldn't even let you lift a thing, but he accompanied you throughout your pregnancy. From start to finish. Even though he sometimes had to leave for work, he never failed to call you, even if it was late at night.
He always made video calls to see how you were doing, even talking to the baby in your belly on the phone. Even if they were quick calls, he still made sure they happened.
It was obvious that he wanted to be there for you, and he made it clear whenever he could, because he did everything for you, simply everything. Craves? He'd arrange anything you wanted. Going out late at night to buy a slice of cake in a particular flavor? Well, he was there. He would go to the end of the earth to find whatever you wanted.
When you were uncomfortable he was there, always whispering kind things to you, always trying to calm you down and relax in his embrace, trying to give you all the security you could have. He still remembers when your water broke, you were so calm, and he was about to have a heart attack.
Yet he was with you the whole way, holding your hand as you went into labor.
But all his worry went away as soon as he heard the baby's cry, the little being that had just come out of you. He still remembers the unconditional love he felt as soon as he laid eyes on the little one, as soon as he saw you cradling the boy in your arms, crying with exhaustion and joy. Just as he was crying as much as the baby, he felt so happy that he couldn't imagine being anywhere else but there with you and your bundle of joy.
"What are we going to call him?" Leon asked through tears, wiping away his own with the back of his hand.
"I don't know, sweetheart, we agreed that if it was a boy you'd choose." You say in a whisper, giving him a small smile. Rocking the newborn in your arms.
"No, I'd rather you chose." He says softly, running his fingers through the baby's thin golden strands, which by the way had the same hair as his father.
"Leon-," he doesn't let you finish, giving you a kiss on the lips. Letting his forehead rest on yours, looking at you with tear-filled eyes and a sweet smile.
"You've already given me one of the greatest joys of my life. Nothing could be fairer than for you to choose any name you like." Kind words that made your heart melt, and you just nodded.
At that moment he realized that there was no better place in the world. That there was nowhere else he wanted to be, all he needed was you.
While he was lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice that the little one had already fallen asleep, making cooing noises, his mouth hanging open while he slept peacefully. Even the way he slept was like Leon's, it was funny to see how similar the two of them were.
Then he slowly placed the little one in his crib, tucking him into the covers and making sure he was warm and comfortable for the rest of the night.
He stayed for a few more minutes, humming some more until he was sure the boy wouldn't wake up too soon.
After that he moved into the kitchen, where he found you awake, which was enough to make him wrinkle his eyebrows.
"Love?" He asks softly, moving towards you.
You answer him with a smile, giving him a hug, "You should have called me."
He shakes his head, kissing the top of your head, "I didn't have to."
You pout, giving him a playful pat on the shoulder.
"Here, I've made your tea. I've also put out a slice of cake for you." You murmur with a smile, pointing to the plate on the table.
He chuckles, holding your face and kissing the tip of your nose.
"You're amazing." He whispers before walking over to the table and sitting down, taking a sip of tea and eating the cake, which, by the way, was his favorite flavor.
So you sat next to him, waiting for him to finish eating silently.
"Your food is fucking good." Leon says, taking a bite of his cake and smiling at you.
You couldn't help but giggle, knowing that even if you burned the food, he'd eat it and say it was good.
"No, you're just being nice." You say softly, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
He laughed genuinely, entwining his fingers with yours. Then he lifted your hand and kissed the back of it.
You were always amazed by his loving gestures, which he always made towards you. And so the two of you remained until he had finished eating, rubbing his thumb against your hand to give it a gentle caress.
When he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking at you with a smile. But you couldn't help noticing the dark circles under his eyes, just as he still had a few scratches and bruises all over his body. As well as the scars, some new, some old. All a mark of his profession.
"Did you have another nightmare?" you ask, running your fingers along his cheekbones, smiling softly.
He nodded with a tired sigh, leaning into your touch, "No big deal."
You knew that he always hid these things from you, not least because it took time for him to feel comfortable sharing the events of his mission with you.
"You can tell me, smartass." You said smiling, rubbing your nose against his, letting his hand rest on the small of your back.
His lips curved into a small smile, just as his eyes met yours. And that was enough to make you blush slightly, no matter how long you'd been together, he always had that effect on you.
The rain began to fall harder outside, enough to make you both look out of the window. The rain left a comfortable atmosphere in the kitchen, just the two of you sharing the warmth of your bodies, making that cold night a little warmer.
You picked up the dishes and took them to the sink, taking the opportunity to wash them right away. And it wasn't long before you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, just as he rested his chin on your shoulder, his warm breath beating against you.
"I swear to God I love the smell of your lotion." He purrs, rubbing his nose against your neck, hugging you tightly.
You smiled, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. Even if it was late at night, those moments were so precious to you both. A little intimacy was always nice.
But even with all the affection coming from him, you could feel how tense his muscles were, how his breathing wasn't very regulated. Every time he had these nightmares, they took a while to wear off, and he was still scared for a good few hours.
You then turned to him, held his face in your hands and looked at him seriously, "You should have called me."
He knew how this conversation would go. But to be honest, he wasn't paying attention to your speech, only to the way your lips moved as you spoke, your sweet voice entering his ears. Even if it was you scolding him.
All he could do was give you a silly little smile, stroking your cheeks with his thumb. No matter how much you talked, he would forget the next day. He just didn't want to worry you with his work matters.
Gently he put his index finger to your lips, whispering, "Why don't you hush, darling?"
You widened your eyes, preparing to protest, but he interrupted you, giving you a loving kiss. The kiss was full of affection and tenderness, just as he wasted no time in wrapping his arms around your waist once again, gluing your body to his.
Without giving you time to say another word, he carried you in his arms, taking you to your room like a princess, as if you weighed nothing, he did it with the purest ease.
His grip was firm, as if he didn't want to let you go, he wanted to have you there, in his arms.
Your room was dark, lit only by the faint light of the moon, while the rain continued to fall outside. It wasn't long before he laid you down on the mattress, letting you sink into the soft surface.
The door locked, the baby asleep, just the two of you in that room. The perfect moment for what was about to happen.
No matter how many times Leon looked at you, he always lost his breath, his breath caught in his throat.
You were so beautiful, so perfect, he didn't know how he had been so lucky to have found someone like you, and he couldn't thank you enough for that.
His hands began to move slowly up your thigh, callused fingers caressing the soft skin, letting his hand wander over the flesh, touching you with all the passion he had to offer. And he would do this for the rest of your life.
His mouth finding your neck, his hot breath making you gasp, letting him do whatever he wanted with you.
Soon the wet kisses began, leaving his lips hovering over the weak spots that he knew, he knew exactly where to touch, because he knew well that every touch of his made your body shiver with desire.
"You're beautiful." He whispers, giving your thigh a light squeeze, feeling the soft fabric of your nightgown on the back of his hand.
You give a sly smile, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close.
He soon understands what you want, and he gives it to you right away. A tender, passionate kiss, gently capturing your lips.
You don't know how, but he always manages to show his devotion to you with every kiss, every touch, every night of love. He makes it seem like the first time, always showing you how much he loves you.
His fingers keep tracing your thigh, feeling how warm your body gets from his touch. Your body reacting under his, squirming and shivering, an incentive for him.
When he pulls away from you a little, just to stop the kiss. He nibbles your lip, lifts your leg and grabs the back of your thigh.
Making a point of giving you wet kisses all over your neck, shoulders, collar bone, all to hear the sweet sounds that escaped your lips every time, the way you begged softly for him to continue.
"Oh, fuck Leon..." You whimpered, watching his fingers purposely wrap around the strap of your panties, he was taking his time.
As he always did, because he wanted to make sure he gave you all the affection he could give.
As soon as their trail of kisses went down to your chest, he spared no effort in giving little kisses to your nipples, which were already hard, crying out for any kind of touch and attention.
It was more than enough for you to let out several moans and low squeaks, letting your hands nestle in his golden strands, feeling the softness they contained.
Both his hands slid under your nightgown, and before long his fingers were playing with the waist line of your panties, fingering and stretching, all the while keeping an eye on your every reaction.
The look he had in store for you was yours alone, he had never looked at anyone else like that. Nor would he ever, you were the only one capable of bringing it out of him. The only one.
Just as you never tired of looking into those gentle blue eyes, similar to the color of the sky, or even the ocean. You lost your breath every time.
And there he went, slowly dropping wet kisses over the thin fabric of your nightgown, feeling your body tremble beneath his, just as he made a point of running his fingers over the wet surface of your panties, only to give a smug smile, knowing that he could get you soaking wet for so little.
As soon as he reached your navel, he lifted your nightgown completely, exposing your lower body, which was enough for him to let out a low noise, excited by the image in front of him. Which only fueled his cock to throb even more under his pants.
"I wonder what I did to make you like this." Leon said with a sly, mischievous smile, sliding his index finger down your slit.
Did he know the answer? Of course he did. But it was nicer to hear it from your mouth, your sweet voice echoing through the room.
"You know, you just need to touch me..." You said with a pout, looking at him with piteous eyes, a look he already knew well. And yet it broke his smile every time.
"Because of me?" He purrs, pushing his fingertips against your covered pussy, teasing you as far as he can.
You whimper, spreading your legs as if it were an automatic reaction from your body. Understanding the signal, he pulls you a little closer to the edge of the bed, taking off your panties and sliding them down your legs, soon the garment was lying in a corner of the room.
You were there, completely exposed to him, legs dangling from his shoulders, clit throbbing and begging him to do something.
It felt like magic, every time he touched you he was able to drive you crazy with the smallest things. You often got wet just watching him, seeing the way the muscles in his arms flexed every time he held your legs tighter.
Or the way he always looked at you throughout the process, as he positioned his face close to your center, biting and licking your inner thigh, making sure to leave soft marks all over the area. He loved looking at the love bites the next day, not least because you looked beautiful with each one.
"You're all mine, aren't you?" He asked in a whisper, which sounded more like a question to himself. Especially because he didn't even need to hear the answer.
You were about to answer, but your mind turned to crumbs as soon as he started planting wet, caressing kisses in your folds, letting his tongue linger in certain spots.
His wet muscle slid into your wet pussy, making you arch your body and tremble under him. The tip of his tongue brushed against your clit, swirling around your sensitive part, enough for you to roll your eyes and moan a little louder.
"That's so good, so good..." You mumble, biting your lower lip to hold back your moans.
Every time he eat you out, he didn't hold back with the noises he made, he didn't even care about the slurping noises he made, or the way he did it in a completely sloppy way.
Not least because he never wasted any time, it wasn't long before he was fucking you with his tongue. Moving in and out, hitting all your sweet spots.
It didn't take long for you to be a mess, moaning and whimpering, your sounds echoing around the room. Your hands nestled in his hair, pushing his head against you, letting him get buried in your thighs.
Despite this, you couldn't help but crave his cock, a need to have it inside you, you needed him fucking you.
"Leon..." You called out, rolling your hips against his mouth, you could already feel your orgasm approaching.
He smiled sideways, kissing all over your intimate area, making a point of running his tongue over it in the process. The way he did this so masterfully left no doubt that he knew exactly what to do to bring you to the edge, he knew exactly.
As soon as he started tongue-fucking you one more time, it was enough for you to come apart in his mouth, gushing out all your climax. You could feel your body hot and bothered, your mind confused and without any other thoughts. It was surreal the way your orgasms with him were always that intense.
Just as he spared no expense in giving you sloppy, wet kisses on your wet folds, as if he were smoothing the area, taking the opportunity to clean up the mess that was between your legs. Even though he was about to make another one.
"It tastes fucking good, love." He purrs, licking his lips and lifting his head.
Having the beautiful image of you, with your legs spread, sweaty body, chest rising and falling. The way your eyelids were closed and your lips were open was more than enough to send a wave of electricity to his cock. Which, by the way, was already leaking pre-cum, the wet spot on his sweatpants was already clearly visible.
He wasted no time in removing his pants and underwear, letting his cock pop out. Which was a divine sign for you, seeing every inch of his shapely body, the way he was hard as a rock.
His cock resting in his palm, as he gave it a few small pumps, watching the precum drip down a little. Despite this, his eyes were focused on you, the way you bit your lip and stared at him.
"Please?" You ask in a whisper, spreading your legs even wider for him.
In response, he gives you a puffy smile, rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit, his sticky liquid pooling with your own juices.
You whimper and pout to get him in at once. As if on command, he obeyed, lifting your legs over his shoulder and fitting himself into you. Hissing once he was all the way in, the way your walls clenched around him was enough to elicit a grunt from him.
"So fucking eager..." He whispers in your ear, taking the opportunity to nibble on it. Making you gasp easily.
"Oh-Oh, so deep!" You moan, your nails sinking into the muscles of his back, a reaction he loved every time.
You can't say how, but he thrust into you in such a sensual way, his hips rolling with a dexterity you couldn't even describe in words. It was calm, sexy, who knows how you could describe it.
His eyes never left yours, he could reach all your weak points, all the places where he made you roll your eyes and curl your toes.
At that point, he didn't even try to understand you. Not least because you could only mumble half-words, whimpers or moans, and he couldn't have been prouder to leave you in that state. Your mind so foolish as he fucked you numb.
"Are you going to come already, love?" He asks softly, kissing your cheeks and pulling you even closer.
"Mhmhm." You hum and nod, feeling your walls tighten around him. Just like the feeling of butterflies in your stomach that you were beginning to feel.
He chuckled, speeding up his thrusts, making an even louder sound of skin hitting skin. He wouldn't be long either, he'd probably come right after you.
And there you went the moment he started making circles with his thumb on your clit, you're sure you went to heaven at the same moment.
Your lips parted only for you to let out a silent scream, a noise that came from deep in your throat. He was quick to pull you into a hot, thirsty kiss, moving at a much faster speed than before.
He wanted to get there now.
In and out he went, feeling his cock throb with each jerk of his hips. On the last thrust he came, thrusting deep, spilling all his seed into you, as deep as he could.
He let out a grunt through your lips, holding your sides tightly.
By the end you were panting, covered in a thin layer of sweat. When the kiss ended, he rested his forehead on yours, giving a silly, tired smile.
"Sore?" He murmurs under his breath, trailing kisses down your cheek.
"Maybe a little." You whisper, closing your eyes and sinking into the mattress.
He then gets off you and places you properly on the bed, rolling you under the covers, and then doing the same. He hugs you from behind and cuddles you, giving you massages in the places he knew would be sore. He loved worshiping your body, and you couldn't complain.
"I love you." He says, full of love and tenderness.
"I love you too." You return, kissing his hand.
You fell asleep a few minutes later, and he watched you sleep as always, giving you kisses and caresses from time to time.
He loved you so much he couldn't explain it, you were his comfort. Everything he needed most. You and your son were his adored little family.
And the way he loved you, he knew that you would be the death of him.
Oh God, how he loves you.
#leon kennedy#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy x y/n#leon kennedy x you#leon s kennedy#leon x reader#leon x y/n#leon x you#leon resident evil#leon kennedy smut#re leon#resident evil leon#leon scott kennedy x you#leon scott kennedy x reader#leon s kennedy smut#leon smut#leon re4
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delicates — s. gojo
content warnings: perv!gojo, fwb!gojo, panty-stealing, panty-sniffing, jerking off with said panties, increasingly mild jealousy, male masturbation
author’s note: some horny desperate gojo to perk those holiday spirits. love y’all 💋🫶🏽🤍
“satoru, have you seen my pink panties?”
he had barely gotten the phone up to his ear before nearly exclaiming, “your what?” through the dwindling cell phone static, gojo could hear the frantic zipping and unzipping of suitcases, opening and closing of drawers, and the stress in not only your breathing, but your question: have you seen my pink panties?
at the words, “pink panties”, bells begin to sound in satoru’s head. they’re tiny, lacy, and cotton candy pink almost all around, apart from the hem, which is decorated with a little white bow. the first time you’d worn them, they’d proved to be an issue for satoru’s restraint. much too pretty to ruin by tearing off your legs, but still a hindrance to him in the animal-like mood he was in. he could recall you gasping as he moved the thin material to the side so he could curl the tip of his tongue up against your clit for the first time of many that night.
“oh, nothing. forget i asked.” it was more than obvious you were stressing yourself to hell and back over the imminent (and very mandatory) conference trip to new orleans. it’s evident now, and it was more than evident about a week ago when you invited satoru over to your place with the intention of letting him ease the worry away. and he did, one salacious orgasm at a time.
crackly phone static sobers gojo instantly, and he’s back with you—present day you—and your current dilemma. “but, still,” he hears you defeatedly slump into the cushiony spring of your mattress. “where’d they go so fast?”
your new question makes him sit up in his bed. “well, uh,” gojo hardly stuttered, but you managed to catch him at an impossibly bad time. “when’d you see ‘em last?”
“they were in a stack of laundry on my dresser, i swear.” like magic, satoru’s mind conjures an image of what you might look like on the other end of the phone. lying across your bed, perhaps twirling a lock of hair up and down your finger or fidgeting with the golden initial necklace that always hung so delicately around your throat. he imagines a cartoonishly big question mark floating above your head as you work the plushness of your bottom lip between your teeth. the mental sight was a pretty one, albeit rather funny.
you resume your recant with, “then, just like that, poof! gone.” a sigh passed between your lips. “i mean, what am i gonna do now? i wanted to bring those with me.”
“those?” satoru hesitantly flicks his bedside lamp on now, hoping seeing will help him understand. “on a work trip?”
you sighed again, this time exasperated. “oh, please. it’s new orleans. did you think i was a nun or something?”
“whatever,” with a blink of his eyes, he tried to brush away the nagging, envious feeling that tugged at his navel and nearly led him to nausea, but it wasn’t at all that simple. “why’d you call me, anyway?” were you calling all your recent lovers and alerting them to be on the lookout for a pair of frilly pink underwear? the thought of it was funny only before satoru fully registered the idea of you having any other lover that was not him.
“well, i just thought that maybe…” your words trailed off in a way that indicated you’d lost them on purpose. your acrylics could be heard nervously clicking together on the other end.
gojo scoffs with the incredulity of a completely innocent man. “what, you think i’m the panty thief?” at the sound of air sucking between your teeth, and otherwise dreadful silence, he wants to roll his eyes. “i can’t believe you. you ever stop to think it was your freaky ass housekeeper?”
a sharp gasp crackles through the receiver. “rosmerta would never!”
“yeah, yeah. just call me when you think better of me.”
“then i guess i won’t be calling for a very long time.” you say, and a stiff dial tone fills gojo’s ears.
his conversation with you should’ve sobered him up completely. he should’ve been shamed into flicking his lamp off and falling asleep (even though he couldn’t if he wanted to). but hearing your voice only fueled his fire further. all day, your panties had burned a titillating hole in the top drawer of his dresser, and he’d had more than enough of denying himself.
when the sun sank beneath the clouds and it was finally dark enough to abate any oncoming feelings of guilt—although, there was a shamefully small amount of it—satoru had your pretty pink underwear splayed out over his lap, teasing it over the growing bulge in his pants.
he had felt like such a perv when he plucked them off your dresser’s tower of laundry and stashed them within his pocket. and he’d felt like even more of a perv when he kissed you out of your early morning slumber to tell you he was on the way out. “gotta go, baby. early shift today.” satoru whispered into your soft skin.
immediately, you’d attempted to rise from the comfort of your bed. “i’ll walk you out,” you yawned.
smoothing a hand over your cheek, satoru’s eyes softened at the sleepy tenderness in yours, and he’d wanted to collapse back into the mattress without a second thought. “no, you stay here and rest, alright.” but he simply could not bring himself to rest alongside you with such a dirty secret in his pocket.
and so now here he was, touching himself through his underwear like a virgin schoolboy as he brushed the fabric over his nose. the wholly clean scent of them couldn’t have stopped him from envisioning all the times you may have gotten them a mess with the slickness of your arousal.
you were wearing a dress that first time satoru had fucked you in these. and you weren’t shy at all about letting him bend you over the edge of your bed and push the skirt up over your hips. he was practically salivating at the sight: the thick globes of your ass on perfect display for his starving hands, and the damp plumpness of your cunt on perfect display for his starving mouth. thin ribbons of arousal had dripped their way down your labia and come to a head at the bulbous tip of your clit, while of course staining the almost transparent material in its wake.
the memory makes gojo abandon all efforts of teasing, and he’s letting his cock spring free from his underwear. he lets the angry mushroom tip graze against the crotch area of the thong, precisely where your slit would be. if he closed his eyes for long enough, he could imagine he was doing just that—rubbing himself up against your leaking slit until you were weak with pleas.
when his eyes flutter open the tiniest bit, he could see a fresh bead of precum dotting the material. “so good,” he murmured as he remembered how easily your chubby cunt swallowed up the fabric. your eyes, lidded and framed by fluffy lashes, sat teary and reddened in your head.
satoru had grown fond of how worked up you tended to get when teased. your manicured hands had cupped over the round peaks of your ass, spreading yourself apart with the hope of being filled. “please,” you had whimpered, and he couldn’t help himself at sight of your slick soaked lips virtually calling out to him. relief filled your eyes as he pushed the dainty cloth to the side, and then ran an impatient finger tantalizingly down your slit.
fresh saliva filled the underside of his mouth almost immediately, haunted by the memory of your slick bursting over his tongue in all the best and worst ways. there was no way gojo would be able to stomach the idea of another man peeling these off your skin just as he had that night. could he get you as loud for him as you were for satoru? could he tease the head of his cock over your hungry entrance until you were practically dying for it? could he spring your pretty eyes with tears after every thrust? gojo didn’t think so.
dampening the palm of his hand with a pearl of spit, gojo began sliding it up and down his length, murmuring small curses to himself as the picture of you bled through his mind. “so fuckin’ nasty.” he grunted when he remembered how you’d always time the movements of your hips perfectly to match his thrusts and fuck him back. “am i doin’ a good job, daddy?” you would look back at him and ask, smearing your juices over his pelvis with the increasingly weakening pushes of your hips.
“makin’ daddy so proud.” satoru hummed to himself, tightening his grip just over the head of his dick and imagining the very same hold your pussy seemed to have on him.
“i’m gonna cum,” you would tearfully whisper, just a split second before your body collapsed under the weight of the pleasure your lover was inflicting on you. usually immediately after, gojo’s release would follow upon him seeing the fervent manner in which your pussy spasmed around his cock as it drooled out thick rivulets of milky finish.
satoru felt himself twitch, inching closer and closer toward his own release as he teased the flimsy garment to and fro over his cock. but it just wasn’t enough.
in an act of utter desperation, or perhaps madness, he brought your panties up to his face and allowed his nose to brush up against the crotch. he was almost ashamed of the shiver that coursed down his spine. although the smell was relatively harmless, the mere idea of suffocating in you worked his nerves without relent.
“please,” gojo begged no one in particular. if he could, he would hold you against his face forever, smothering himself in the warmth of your skin until he was one with you. if he could, he would be en route to your apartment this instant to tell you the truth. “i love you.”
with a choked whimper that followed his untimely confession, satoru slipped over edge and into the blissful abyss of orgasm. the tugs on his cock became haphazard and sloppy with the gradual spurts of cum oozing from the head of his dick. it wasn’t until he opened his eyes and removed the rose colored panties from his face did he realize the gravity of what he had admitted. he loved you.
#nikki writes ✶#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x black reader#jjk x poc!reader#jjk x black reader#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk#satoru gojo#gojo satoru#jjk gojo#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x black!reader#satoru gojo x reader#satoru gojo x you#satoru gojo x black!reader
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In a Place Just Right
Summary: It's your first year hosting Thanksgiving in San Diego for the Daggers and Bradley can tell you're a little nervous about it. But he already knows it's going to be one for the books, because any holiday spent with you better than anything he could have imagined.
Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Female Reader
Length: 5K
Warnings: fluff and allusions to smut (minors dni)
(author's note: this fic is set in the 'Like I Can Universe', but can be read on it's own! Happy Thanksgiving, friends!)
For the last six years Penny has been the one to host Daggersgiving, but this year hostess duties had fallen on your plate. Needless to say, Bradley knew you were more than a little stressed about it.
When you had asked him about his opinion on the merits of canned cranberry sauce versus homemade he’d blinked at you a few times before asking, “Is this a thing people care about?”
He’ll never forget how adorably aghast you looked to learn that he had no preference on the matter. And maybe if you had asked him when the sun was up instead of at 3 AM he might have known better than to give you such a noncommittal answer.
“Both, we’ll have both,” you’d stated resolutely.
“Whatever you want, kid," he’d murmured as he’d pulled you to his chest and wrapped an arm around your stomach. His smart and beautiful wife. "Now go back to sleep, you’re supposed to be dreaming of sugarplums not cranberries."
“Wrong holiday, Bradley,” you’d sighed contentedly, relaxing against him. And it hadn’t taken you long to fall back asleep with that cranberry crisis having been averted.
But now people were due to show up in less than an hour and you are frantically fluttering and huffing around the kitchen like a madwoman in a very pretty green dress, "I knew that quickie was a bad idea. You're never quick, Bradley."
He’d been away and missed many holidays over the years due to his career.
Your mom had always made it clear that he had an open invitation to join in whatever merry festivities were happening with your family, but more often than not it rarely aligned with him being stationed all over the world. But he’d always been happy to get to have a phone call with you and eat the homemade cookies you’d sent him on those years spent apart.
But now Bradley got to look forward to spending every holiday with you in the home you shared with him.
Over the last week the house had slowly but surely transformed into something that was straight out of a magazine.
There was a display of pumpkins, ribbons, and a garland of strung dried orange slices that decorated the fireplace. And overpriced candles from your favorite store flickered cheerfully on every surface that wasn’t a fire hazard to a bunch of enthusiastic Naval aviators. The dining table was dressed up to the nines and everyone spot with their names painstakingly written in your pretty script on a place card sitting in a pinecone.
You had even made some oversized confetti in the shape of oak leaves out of some old books, the copy of ‘Why Men Love Bitches’ that Nat had given him years ago as a joke was finally repurposed and recycled into something more festive over where the beverages had been set up.
The whole house smells amazing. Warm cinnamons and nutmegs mixing with bright citrus and rich vanillas. The kitchen island and countertops were filled with various plates and platters and bowls of dips, charcuterie, fruit and vegetables, nuts, and other savories. All the other dishes were being kept warm in the ovens for when everyone arrived and was ready to settle around the dining table for dinner.
Bradley was positive that no one would leave feeling hungry. He also wasn’t entirely sure where the things his friends are bringing were going to go, but there were worse problems to have.
Penny had taken Amelia with her to visit her family on the East Coast. They’d decided it would probably be better for Mav to hang back in San Diego for the holiday, those tensions with her dad were still a bit strained even though they’d been married for almost four years now.
Which is how the Bradshaw’s were hosting their first Thanksgiving for everyone.
This morning had been organized chaos. Some of the last minute-things had only managed to be checked off with the assistance of strong coffee and a good playlist.
However, he’d still managed to sneak in the opportunity to spin you around the kitchen to your wedding song when it came up on shuffle. After all the cranberries were still popping and boiling down; there was time for it, he'd always make time for it.
But that was then.
Now, you are glaring at him like you’d been personally victimized by him and his cock.
“You complaining, sweet girl?” he asks with a smirk, leaning his hip against the kitchen island watching as you briskly stir the gravy heating up in the copper sauce pot on the stove. “Don’t think that’s what I was hearing thirty minutes ago when we had that pretty green dress of yours bunched around your hips. Sounded something like ‘more, Bradley, more’ to me.”
You shoot him a look that would make a weaker man wither, but he’s built up an immunity to it over a lifetime of having it directed at him.
“I think that’s quite enough out of you,” you reprimand, but he sees the amusement in your eyes even as you fight to keep the annoyed façade on your face. “We’re behind schedule now. I thought I buffered in enough time, just in case-”
“Just in case you begged me to give you an orgasm to, and I quote, ‘help me chill out’?”
“I was kidding,” you say, stopping your agitated whisking to go fluff the stuffing instead.
“All I’m saying is that if my beautiful wife is begging for me, I’m certainly not going to say no. I’m only human,” he says with an all too pleased shrug.
Bradley grabs the can opener and works on opening the canned cranberry sauce. He reaches for a couple plates, holding them up for your approval and you point to the one on the right. The scalloped white one with gold rim it'll be.
“For the record, I certainly did not beg,” you say primly, glowering into the homemade stuffing that you’d had him get the bread from the nice bakery across town for.
“Sure, sure,” he drawls, the smirk growing wider on his face as he sets to freeing the jelly from its rippled container.
He knows he shouldn’t tease you right now, but you’re so cute when you get huffy that he can’t help himself. He’s known that petulant raise of your chin his whole life. And sometimes when he looks at you he can so clearly see the little girl he’d been forced to entertain for hours when your moms were hanging out.
You went from being his favorite nuisance to his best friend to his everything.
“Do I still look ok? Or do I need to do a quick refresh before everyone gets here?” you ask. You turn to fully face him, tilting your head one way and then another for his inspection.
He would happily stare at you all day if you’d let him. He loves your pretty eyes and what you’ve done with your hair.
“You’re beautiful,” he grins, “And if anyone asks, we can just say you’re flushed from all the cooking.”
“Bradley,” you whine setting down your wooden spoon down on the counter with a sharp thwack.
“Ok, ok. I’m done, I promise,” he says putting his hands up in surrender with a chuckle.
He pushes off the counter and grabs a glass off of one of the floating shelves and fills it with some ice water.
“Good,” you tut haughtily, as you fiddle with the white and orange striped kitchen towel hanging on the oven door, “I was about to threaten to make you sleep on the couch tonight.”
“You wouldn’t.” Even the thought of it makes his stomach feel unsettled.
After nearly two decades of hard beds on foreign bases and on lumpy carrier mattresses, he’s never slept as well as he did since the two of you found your way to each other.
His peace was found under a fluffy green duvet on a wooden canopy bed with you tucked under his arm.
“No. No, I wouldn’t,” you agree, leaning in to place a soft kiss to his cheek in thanks when he presses the cold glass into your hands.
Bradley tugs you away from the warm stove and you reluctantly follow and sit on the barstool he’s pulled out for you on the other side of the kitchen island.
He runs his hand up and down your back comfortingly as you take a few sips, “We’re in a great place, sweet girl.”
“Mhm, yeah. Sure, of course.” You couldn’t sound less unsure if you tried. “It’s just… I’m nervous about the mushroom and leeks bread pudding. I’ve never made it before. And what if we run out of wine?”
“What’s been our motto?” he asks, taking over the helm at the stove whisking the gravy together as it begins to thicken.
“‘In Ina we trust’,” you say with a serious nod of your head.
“Atta girl, we sure do. And Nat said she’s is bringing a few bottles she picked up from when she went to Napa, the good shit. It’s going to be great. Trust me,” he says giving you a warm smile. “Will it make you feel better to go over everything again?”
“Yes, please,” you say, anxiously drumming your fingers along the side of your water glass.
He’d stepped up where he could like making sure the house was pristine and cleaning up the yard by blowing off the wrinkled remainders of the yellow Tipuana flowers. He’d even been able to source and rent some more chairs to make sure that everyone would have a seat at the table.
Bradley wasn’t a schlump in the kitchen. He knew his way around a cookbook and a stove. His knife skills were pretty damn good too, if he did say so himself. But he also knew when somethings were out of his wheelhouse. So he’d taken to being your sous chef, and had taken to washing and prepping the ingredients for you so that all you had to do was toss them in whatever shiny pot they were destined for.
He even made his mom’s favorite pie. It had been years since he's had it, and he was excited to share it with everyone.
Your mom had mailed the copy of the original recipe she had that was written in Carole’s rounded, flourished script. You had made a photocopy of it to use so that the original didn’t get ruined, and then pointed out a spot on the wall where you said you’d thought it would look nice in a frame hanging in the kitchen. And he'd fallen a little more in love with you.
“Ok, hit me with it,” he says turning the heat to low for the gravy and putting the lid on.
This was a partnership through and through, he was going to give you all the support you needed.
“The turkey?”
Bradley picks up the fancy digital meat thermometer he’d bought for the occasion to check, “Big Bird has an hour and twenty more minutes to work on his tan and then he’ll rest for another thirty. Giving people time to graze and mingle and get some drinks in them, just like you wanted.”
You nod and hum contemplatively, “I’ve been thinking we need a salad. I don’t feel like we have enough vegetable options.”
He knows better than to point out that you’re currently snacking on snap peas from not one, but three, of the veggie platters the two of you had put together the night before.
“We’ve got the crispy brussels sprouts, the garlic and hazelnut green beans, and the honey glazed carrots with lemon. We’re more than fine on the fiber and beta-carotene. Michelle Obama would be proud, kid.”
That gets a little laugh from you.
“Well, as long as you think Michelle would be happy than we’re probably fine,” you say with a smile around your water glass that tells him you know exactly what he’s doing invoking your favorite First Lady.
“What else are you thinking about?” Bradley asks peering in the lower of their double ovens, where foiled covered dishes are lined up in perfect symmetry are warming away having been prepared in advance.
“Do you think two bags of rolls will be enough? Or should I text Mav and ask him to grab one more?”
He doesn’t miss the way your eyes dip down to his ass in his gray slacks. So he might linger as second longer than necessary to let you enjoy the view, since it’s for the female gaze and all.
He’s never understood wearing the most restrictive clothing on the holiday that involves the most eating, but that was Penny’s tradition to have everyone dressed in their nicest and you had insisted on keeping it going even if she was on the other side of the country.
You’d teased him earlier when you’d seen him emerge from the bedroom wearing the short-sleeved green cashmere polo you’d gotten him a couple years ago. It fit a little more snug that he remembered it, but he thought he still pulled it off well.
“When did we become the couple that matches?” you’d asked gesturing to your dress as you gave him an appreciative onceover.
If the past was anything to go off of, you would be running your hands over the soft material covering his chest and back all night.
“I just like reminding people who I belong with, sweet girl.”
He might have had something else in mind to wear for the evening before he saw you in that dress, had ironed the shirt the night before and everything, but last-minute pivot it was well worth it when you looked at him like that.
When he stands back up, he gives you knowing wink.
And in return you throw a baby carrot at him with a laugh.
Bradley isn’t surprised in the least to hear the quick clack-clack-clack of nails on the wood floors as their fluffy black and white Portuguese Water Dog rounds the corner. Having been summoned by the sound of food hitting the floor from where he had been dozing near the fireplace in the living room.
The carrot is gone in an instant and he comes to sit at Bradley's feet by the stove, looking up at him from under his curly eyebrows clearly hoping he'll get another snack.
“Nah, bud. You’re barking up the wrong tree over here,” he says leaning down to scratch his floppy ears.
“Ah, come here, Duck,” you croon, calling him over to your side of the island. “He’s so mean for a man who claimed he just saw God not too long ago, isn’t he?”
Bradley snorts and shakes his head at you amused.
He still doesn’t know how he ended up with a dog named Duck.
At the dog park, more often than not people mistook it for ‘Buck’. And you were usually off to the side more than happy to let him take the lead, biting your lip to keep from laughing at his less than enthusiastic expression when he’d have to warily explain yet again It’s Duck like quack.
You’re not even subtle about the piece of cheese you pull from the charcuterie board to feed him.
“I saw that,” he says, giving you a pointed lift of his eyebrow, “You know Bob is going to be spoiling him all night.”
“It was just a little piece of cheese. Plus, I don’t know who you think you’re fooling. I saw you go over there and deliver him his own little veggie platter with some of the leftovers we had while I was making the apple cider sangria.”
“That’s different, that’s good for him,” he says rounding the island, reaching over and snagging his own slice of cheese to snack on.
“And cheese is a protein. He’s just a baby, Bradley, what am I supposed to do? Not give him a piece of swiss?” You slide off your chair to squat down and rub Duck’s belly, you’ve always been his favorite.
“He’s almost five,” he replies flatly.
“A youth!” you exclaim, “He’s a growing boy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bradley says affectionately with a little roll of his eyes. He knows a losing battle when he sees one.
He offers you his hand to help you stand back up, but you wave him off and pull yourself up using the edge of the island. You take a moment to readjust your dress before making your way to the sink by the big windows that look out into the backyard.
“Speaking of Bob, do you know if he’s bringing his fiancée?” you ask from over your shoulder as you wash your hands.
“Not this time, sweetheart. I guess she volunteered to cover a shift in the NICU when she heard they were short staffed.”
“Oh that’s too bad, I was excited to see her ring in person,” you say drying off your hands and heading to the pantry.
“It’s all he can talk about at work. I guess they’re thinking about a Spring wedding next year. They don’t want to wait too long to get married.”
“I’m so happy for them,” you say, digging around for a moment and then emerge with a stack of some sturdy plastic plates and set them on the last free spot on the countertop. “Don’t let me forget to make them up a couple plates that he can bring home for her, before Fanboy declares it time for ‘second dinner’ and eats all the yams like he did last year.”
“I won’t forget, promise,” he says fondly.
If you were facing him, he knows you’d probably tease him for the look on his face and just how gone he is for you.
You’ve always been so generous, it’s one of the things that he loves most about you.
You were always good about hustling him out of his well-earned money from is part time job scooping ice cream in high school, like with the fundraiser you did for the local soup kitchen and the one for the elementary school summer arts program.
He’s always been wrapped around your finger, it just took him awhile to realize why.
It’s the same reason why there’s been a donation that comes out of his bank account every month for the last five years for one of the San Diego animal shelters.
Bradley had made a rather sizable donation and then set up a smaller reoccurring monthly one after the chaos that was the time Bob had set you up with his friend who worked at the shelter, back before the two of you had gotten together.
Even after all these years, he still can’t help but get a little irritated every time he sees that guy’s face in the monthly newsletter that comes to his email. He’s pretty sure Casey still might have a little crush on you, but Bradley can’t blame him. He’d have a hard time getting over you too, so it’s a good thing he’ll never have to.
On newsletter day, Bradley always finds himself giving Duck extra treats.
You are his wife. And Duck is his dog. Ridiculous name and all.
He couldn’t wait to surprise you with the golden tennis ball that the shelter sends out as a thank you after a decade of donations.
Only five more years to go.
You’re over by the bar that’s been set up off to the side, straightening the already very straight rows of gleaming wine glasses when he hears you suck in a sharp gasp.
Bradley drops the dish cloth he had in his hands as he attempted to give what little counter space there was left a final wipe down and is in front of you in half a heartbeat. Was there a fluke with some faulty stemware? Are you bleeding? There’s a reason Thanksgiving is one of the busiest days at the hospital.
“The butter!” you cry out as you whirl around, your pretty eyes welling up with tears, “I let you fuck me and I forgot to pull the butter from the fridge. It’s going to be too hard for people to spread now!”
He knows it’s more than just hosting jitters that’s got you like this, but it still catches him by surprise sometimes.
“Woah, woah,” he says as he catches you on the way to the fridge and pulls you to his chest, “C’mere, my sweet girl.”
You make a distressed noise but allow him to keep his hold on you, “But the butter…”
“I already pulled the butter, see?” He points to the sticks that are already softening away on the counter. “Will you take a couple slow breaths for me, please? This place looks and smells amazing. We did good, baby.”
Bradley feels the moment your body relaxes into him.
He presses a kiss to the side of your temple as he smooths his hands down your soft, pretty green velvet dress and the warm, firm curve of your rounded stomach soothingly.
“Ugh, I’m sorry. It’s the hormones,” you sigh, as you lean your head back against his shoulder.
He hums empathically as he sways gently side to side with you in his arms.
“I would like to go on the record saying that I like pregnancy hormones, especially the ones from earlier,” he jokes lightly.
“That makes one of us,” you say with a watery laugh, “Just wait until I am waking you up at 4 AM because I am craving something from a drive-thru that’s not open.”
“Mm, can’t wait,” he murmurs before dropping a few kisses along the soft line of your jaw.
Bradley still can’t believe he gets to be this lucky in life.
He doesn’t want to forget a single moment of this. With you, with his family.
“We did a really good job with this one,” he whispers into your ear, still stroking your stomach, not wanted to disturb the magic in the domesticity.
“We really did, da--” Bradley groans and cuts you off with a kiss. He can feel the impish smile plastered on your lips as he kisses you. His favorite menace.
He knows you’re pretty sure it was the spontaneous hook up in the storage closet at the Hard Deck on the Fourth of July that’s responsible for the noticeable bump you’re sporting. Call him a romantic, but he likes to think it was that night in the Bronco overlooking the ocean when he’d taken the long way back home.
You pull away all too soon for his liking to grab his left hand. He sees the flash of the two diamonds on your engagement ring, one from his mom and one from yours, as you take it and press it to a spot near your bellybutton.
The feeling of the fluttering under his palm will never get old. He’s not too proud to say he’d shed a tear or two the first time he’d felt it.
Bradley lets himself bask in this moment as he two of you stand there in the kitchen of your dream house.
There are a few pops from the wood in the fireplace, the refrigerator is humming away in the background, and he can just hear the sounds of a melodic piano from the playlist he queued up earlier playing over the speaker.
Of all the delicious scents that waft through the house, the smell the floral and musk notes in you perfume is still his favorite.
There are times in the soft quiet of night, usually when you are asleep and his mind won’t quite settle, that he sometimes thinks he was put on this Earth to hold you.
It’s the only reason he can think of that explains why you fit so perfectly against his body.
Why his palms can fit so perfectly over your rounded stomach.
Why it’s his hands that you have trusted to protect your heart.
And he’s still holding you in the warmth of the kitchen when he hears the front door open.
Bradley knows he’s going to have to play host soon and he just wants to keep you in his arms for just a little longer.
“Hey kids, I brought the turkey,” Mav calls out from the entry.
You spin in his arms, looking at him wide eyed and confused as you two exchange a look. He presses one last kiss to your cheek before letting you go.
“Thought you were going to bring the rolls, Mav,” Bradley calls out just in time to see him round the corner.
Pete stands there proudly grinning holding a few bags of bakery rolls in one hand and a turkey in the other.
The sound of your delighted laughter makes his heart swell in his chest as he takes in the sight.
“Cooper Mitchell Ford Bradshaw, you are without a doubt the cutest turkey I have ever seen,” you gush as you go to greet Mav with a warm hug and a kiss on his cheek. Your son’s chubby arms reaching out for you.
Mav has dressed your almost two-year-old son in a soft, plush turkey costume that is complete with tailfeathers and a beak. He’s clearly a fan of the outfit too because he is grinning widely, showing of the more of the baby teeth that have come in over the last few months.
Mav had swung by early this morning to take him off your hands to get ready for Daggersgiving without chasing an almost-toddler around. While it was nice to have some time just the two of you while you got the place in order and took care of the last-minute things, like that homemade cranberry sauce, but he’d missed not having his son around.
The sweet sound of Cooper’s giggles and your coos fill up the kitchen as he watches you pepper his face with kisses. You bounce him a little and do a little spin, making the little boy laugh even more. The two of you in your own little bubble.
“You doin’ ok over there, kid?” Mav asks, a soft grin on his face as he sets the rolls on the counter to pull him in for a hug.
The two men had made their way back to each other over the last few years, just another thing that Bradley was grateful for in his life. The man had always been his father in everything but name. That is until he’d seen the man who raised him hold his son for the first time.
“Yeah, Dad,” Bradley says, clearing his throat a bit, “Everything’s perfect.”
From there it’s a flurry of activity as people start to arrive.
Nat comes with her longtime girlfriend and the extra bottles of the fancy Napa wine she promised to bring. Only handing it over once he promised to give her the name of the contractor the two of you had worked with and the exact shade of green that was used on the lower cabinets during your kitchen renovation.
Payback and Fanboy and their wives show up wearing oversized turkey hats on their heads each carrying a bakery box of pie.
Bradley isn’t surprised when Duck ditches the attention that Coyote was giving him the second Bob shows up with the famous Floyd family scalloped potatoes. Bob has always been a sucker for a pair of puppy dog eyes.
And in between checking on people’s glasses, swapping out empty appetizer trays for fuller ones, and making sure Jake doesn’t tamper with his perfectly cooked turkey, he’s got his eyes trained on you.
There are no words for the pride and love that washes over him every time he looks over and sees you with his son propped up on your hip and the way your pretty dress stretches around your growing family.
He had missed this stage of your pregnancy when he was deployed and you were pregnant with Cooper. He was determined to savor every second of this one. Every butter related freak out and every late-night milkshake run.
Being in his house surrounded with all the people he loves, minus a couple who are here in spirit, isn’t something he could ever take for granted. It’s more blessings than he ever hoped to receive in this lifetime.
You look over your shoulder at him and everything about the way you’re looking at him is picture perfect.
Your smile sunshine gold and just for him as you hold his gaze for a moment as time ticks on around the two of you. You send him a little wink before turning back to Mav who has his phone held up for a FaceTime call with Penny and Amelia.
Bradley sees his son peek his head up from where it had been nestled into your neck. Cooper grins when he sees him, his tiny hand reaching out for his dad. For him.
As he makes his way over to the two of you with his heart full, he makes a mental note to ask Mav later where he got that costume. He’s already planning on running out tomorrow to see if they have any more in stock now that it seems they have a new Bradshaw tradition on their hands.
He’s going to have three little turkeys running around this time next year and he couldn’t wait.
Cooper and him were going to be outnumbered soon.
The two of you had found out earlier in the month that Everly Caroline Bradshaw and Olivia Saylor Bradshaw were going to be the newest members to join your little family.
His girls.
It was an announcement the two of you were excited to share later tonight with everyone else when the slices of pies were being passed around.
He scoops up Cooper from you with one arm, dropping a kiss onto his little boy’s perfect curls as his small fist clutches as the soft fabric of his shirt. And then Bradley kisses the crown of your head as he wraps his other arm around you, his thumb stroking the swell of your belly.
With you- because of you- he gets to have it all.
The wife. The family. The house. The dog. The life. The dream.
He’s right where he wants to be.
He’s right where he’s supposed to be.
Happy Thanksgiving! This was such a joy to write, thank you for reading!
It might not be Carole Bradshaw's famous pie, but it's one of my favorites! And who better to share it with than you! Cranberry-Lime Pie
If you haven't read the 'Like I Can' series you can read it here!
You can read my other stories here!
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𓆩♡𓆪 “wetter than umbrellas and stickier than apple pie,” — jock!jk
·˚ ༘ 💌 TAGS — fingering (brief), unprotected sex, creampies, attempted quiet sex, reader’s WAP, messy sex, squirting (mentioned), some dirty talk, possessive!jk, jealous!jk + jennie, jennie makes an appearance woooo, voyeurism on her part, she wants you, sexual tension(?), oc is a dumb puppy: confirmed
You’re just so so pretty… Jennie is utterly in love with you. How could anyone not be? You’re the sweetest thing that’s ever walked this earth; it'd be a crime to not like you. It made Jennie just want to wrap you up in a little cocoon and never let you back out, you were too good for this place (too good for Jungkook too in her humble opinion).
She’s always harbored a tiny crush on you, it never got too serious because she knew you probably didn’t swing that way anyways. There were no hard feelings between the two of you anyways which she was glad for. Jennie however was irked by Jungkook as of lately (when was she not irritated with him though?). More than usual might she say.
The thing was Jungkook had a big mouth, he was shameless and was always letting shit slip from his lips. Jennie despised him for putting images of you, her little cutie pie dummy, in the most vulgar positions known to man all because of his mouth. Up until now she hadn’t really thought about you in that way, even if the walls were a little too thin and she might have heard a thing or two.
“Oh I’m sorry,” you’d say with those cute puppy eyes of yours, “I promise I’ll keep it down!” Jennie knew you’d forget so she didn’t hold you to that.
It all started about a week ago when Jennie had met up with Jisoo and the older girl accidentally let it slip about you and Jungkook. “I can’t believe they talk about our sex lives, I did NOT need to know Jungkook eats ass for fucks sake.” Jisoo spits out in embarrassment, covering her mouth as she tries not to laugh too loudly.
Jennie’s brow quirks up, “He eats ass?” She peers over at Jisoo, “Who the fuck told you that.” She snorts.
“My boyfriend duhh, who else Jennie?” Jisoo shakes her head and rolls her eyes fondly, “He hung out with him like last week and they were talking about shit they’ve done or what they like and don’t like.”
Jennie stops listening once Jisoo starts complaining about Yugyeom spilling the beans. She looks down at the ground while they walk, zoning out and getting lost in her thoughts. Her not so holy thoughts at that.. Now she can’t stop thinking about how you’ve probably gotten your ass ate.
(It’s what you deserve of course. Jennie’s surprised her mouth waters a little at the thought.)
Since then Jennie starts noticing a lot more things she once didn’t think were sexual or shit she just flat out ignored like your unabashed nudity and silly little shows of affection with her. It makes her realize what a little minx you are, and the very painful fact that she’s attracted to you more than ever.
“Jennieeeee!” You happily whine and throw your arms around the girl, “Are you proud of me I made dinner for us.” You rub your cheek against her own and pout at her, “I didn’t forget to push down the lever on the toaster this time either!”
Jennie hesitantly slides her hands around your (soft?) hips, resting them right there as she balances herself because she’s got an arm full of you. “Really? That’s good y/n,” she squeezes your cheek and smiles. Jennie gets an eye full of tits right in her face she literally has to force her eyes away as she grimaces.
“What’s wrong?” You tilt your head, eyes full of wonder and lips still set into a small pout.
Jennie shakes her head, “Nothing, just hungry.”
“Let’s eat!”
Things get worse when Jennie comes home one night late from work, she had seen Jungkook’s car parked out in the front and she dreaded his presence already. “I’m home.” She calls out while unlocking the door, not wanting her entrance to be a surprise just in case you two were getting busy.
“Hi,” you turn your head and send her a soft smile, “you okay? I left some take out in the microwave for you.” You turn back around and lay your head back on Jungkook’s shoulder again. Jungkook’s busy still watching the movie so he waves his hand in acknowledgement.
Jennie rolls her eyes and passes by, but not before smacking the back of Jungkook’s head, ���I thought I told your ass to stop parking your car so near the fucking line. I can’t even get out of my own damn car.”
“Fuck off no I didn’t,” Jungkook laughs, “you fuckin’ liar always trying to hate on me for no reason.” He says and throws a balled up napkin at Jennie who yells ‘Hey bitch!’ in surprise, “y/n tell her something, she’s being mean to me.” Jungkook buries his face in your face and leaves small kisses there.
Before Jennie can make a face of disgust you turn to her with that pretty face of yours, “Jen, I already told you that it’s not nice being a meanie. You pinky promised me you were going to be nicer.” It’s sickening how gagged you have her.
Jennie surprisingly lets it go and heads over to sit down on the opposite couch. She grumbles in annoyance and tosses a dirty look at Jungkook, who’s smug as a motherfucker right now. Her eyes lower down to your smooth pretty thighs, not a hair in sight (must have waxed..) You’re wearing a pair of pink sailor moon socks and from this angle she catches a glimpse of your panties which are completely lace..
You’re curled up on Jungkook’s side, tucked away and hidden by both his big ass and then the oversized shirt you assume belongs to him (given the lack of clothes on his ass). The collar is slightly disheveled and pulled down off to the side, exposing your hickey covered neck looking like he mauled you. Jungkook looks so nonchalant as he rubs your thigh with his hand, squeezing and gripping the soft looking flesh.
Jennie hates to admit but you two look so fucking hot together. Now she sees why people think you two make a fit couple, you make everyone else look like shit. She ends up sulking even more in her seat and decides to watch the movie instead or else she’s going to be more annoyed at him.
Half way through the movie Jennie hears you yawn softly and that’s when it’s Jungkook’s cue to move. He picks you up like nothing and starts to head out to your room. “Night Jennie.” You softly whisper, “I’ll see you tomorrow ‘kay?” You smack your lips together as you smile sleepily at her.
Jennie waves, “Night.” She decides to stick it out and watch the rest of the movie alone.
She doesn’t exactly count on falling asleep then and there, only waking up when the tv’s light blares in her face with the stupid “Still watching?” screen displayed. “Fuck what time is it?” She whispers to herself and grabs her phone, hissing at the brightness and closing her bleary eyes, “Three?” She grunts and rolls off the couch.
Jennie turns the TV off and heads down the hall to her room, blinking the blurriness in her vision away. She sees your door cracked open and makes a mental note to shut it for you after she finishes using the restroom. It’s when she’s washing her hands that she hears…it. She frowns in confusion and stops for a moment, hearing a rhythmic thudding noise against the walls.
“What the fuck..” Jennie whispers and dries off her hands, stopping for a few seconds as the sounds continue. “So I’m not trippin’.” She concludes and steps out quietly.
The noise is more clear when she steps out into the hallway and Jennie already knows what the hell you two are up to. It pisses her off more that the door is left open and now she has to fucking sneak into her room without being spotted. Just her luck honestly.
+
“Mm..mmm..” Moans slip past your lips as Jungkook’s hands hold your waist steady while fucks into your wet cunt over and over again. He’s not completely bottoming out to avoid making any unnecessary noises like your skin smacking against each other etc.
Jungkook’s eyes are settled down on your bouncing and jiggling tits, your nipples are perked up begging to be sucked on. He told you that you both needed to keep quiet but honestly it’s getting a bit harder with how good you wrap around his cock. Your cunt’s so fucking creamy dollops of slick coat his cock and form a ring around the base, which disappears everytime he slips back in to your dewy little pussy.
“Shit baby,” he grunts under his breath, “ ‘member we gotta keep quiet?” He bites down on his bottom lip and resists the urge to fuck into you harder.
You mewl softly in return and reach up to grip the pillow you’re laying on, “..trying,” you weakly huff, “just feels so good.” Your eyes are hazy and your speech comes out a little slurred, Jungkook already knows you’re about to start drooling at this point.
“Be a good girl for me.” He moans quietly and grips your chin tightly, pressing your cheeks together and making your pouty lips pucker up for him. “I know you can.” He whispers as his eyes drop down to where you’re both connected, a string of creamy slick already coats his pelvis and he curses at how much wetter you just got.
You gasp quietly and arch your back when his cock strikes your g-spot, perfectly rubbing up against it with his coordinated thrusts. You greedily roll your hips up into his and gurgle on your moans. “More,” you slur out, “wan’ more Jungkookie.”
He moans a little too loud as his hips stutter in their movements, he finds himself pressing in and rotating his hips in small circles. You’re just too fucking sexy for your own good, had his poor cock throbbing and everything. As Jungkook grinds in deeply, he listens to the sounds your cunt makes. It’s like macaroni in a pot.
“Holy fuck, you’re gonna make me cum baby.” Jungkook’s mouth falls open in a silent moan as he shudders, “Soaked lil’ pussy makin’ a mess on my cock, you gonna clean it for me?” He gasps quietly.
You nod eagerly and whimper for more, “C-Cum, cum in me.” You whisper out as your hand travels down, fingers parting in a ‘V’ right where his cock slides in and out. “P-Promise I’ve been good..!” You moan out, “Been the best girl for you.”
He loses it when your little fingers slide against his shaft everytime he backstrokes and then pushes back in. His balls ache and he fucks into you for a couple more seconds until he’s coming and filling your pussy to the brim. “Shit,” he releases a long sigh as he pants quietly and looks down, “fuckin’ hell.” Jungkook bites his lip and muffles his moan as he slowly slips his sensitive cock out of you with a wet plop.
You happily curl your legs towards you, hands coming under your thighs to hold them up so not a drop of cum is wasted. “Did good?” You sleepily ask.
“Perfect.” Jungkook licks his lips and leans up to kiss you as he trails a hand down to your slicked up pussy, fingers dipping into the mess you created down there. He intends on getting you messier, good thing you have all night long.
+
Jennie doesn’t sleep at all after that night. She remembers lying awake in bed as images flashed through her brain like a sequence. She thinks about your messy thighs and how your pussy stretched around Jungkook’s cock. Needless to say she went to bed uncomfortably hot down there and a pair of wet panties.
She doesn’t look neither you nor Jungkook in the eye the next day when she goes to get breakfast. You’re as clueless as ever but something about Jungkook’s dark eyes having this knowing look in them tells her he did that shit on purpose. She chooses to ignore it and continue like nothing happened. Maybe it was time she took Lisa up on that offer on being fuck buddies.
A couple of days later Jungkook breaks the ice between them two. Jennie had been home early from classes when a knock on the door broke her out of her thoughts. She opened up and came face to face with Jungkook, “What do you want?” She deadpans, even though her actions say another thing as she steps to the side for him to enter.
“If you’re here for y/n she ain’t here, though I’m sure you don’t need my help in finding her since you’re always with her and shit.” Jennie waves her hand as she walks off without looking back at him, “Don’t fuckin’ make a mess or touch my shit.” She fully intends to go to her room but Jungkook calls out to her.
“Enjoyed the show last week?” Jungkook calmly replies.
Jennie stops in her tracks, “What show? You mean the movie we watched together?” She turns around and eyes him in distaste.
“You know what I’m talking about you little pervert.” Jungkook smirks, “I’m not fucking blind to the way you’ve been looking at my girl, and it’s not like I didn’t hear you go into the bathroom and just never go to your room after that.”
Her face heats up in embarrassment as she glares at Jungkook, “Fuck off Jungkook.”
“No really, did you enjoy watching her squirt all over my fingers and soaking the bed sheets? I bet you really wanted a taste of her creamy lil’ pussy. Bet you thought about how tight she’d feel around your fingers, makes you wanna have a taste for yourself don’t it?” He grins.
Jennie’s mind screams yes and for a second she nearly gives in and confesses. However, she’s just as prideful as she is horny, “The day I fuck her Jeon is the day you’ll be wishing you never spoke about it. Because just like that she’ll be playing for both teams when I’m through with her.” She watches his face fall and turn into something more serious, like he’s feeling threatened, “They always wanna come but they never wanna leave.” She winks and heads into her room.
.
“J-Jungkook..!” You cry out, voice high pitched and breathy as an even louder squelching noise resonates in the background.
He’s got his fingers knuckle deep inside of your slicked up pussy, thrusting them in and out at a mad pace. It’s so quick that your squirting out bits of slick whilst he fucks you with his fingers. Jungkook’s hell bent on getting you to cum for him, he looks pissed off and you can’t help but wonder why.
“Mmmm..!” You squeal out and shake under him, “S-Slow down Jungkookie,” you whimper out, “ ‘s too much!”
Jungkook does the complete opposite of what you asked and only speeds up, “Pussy’s all mine isn’t it baby? Say it for me, whose pussy is this?” He curls his fingers and searches for your g-spot, intending to abuse it.
You throw your head back and scramble to grip his wrist tightly, “Yours! It’s yours,” you sob out, “p-please..!” You feel tears well up in your eyes, “Jungkookie!”
“That’s right, all fuckin’ mine baby,” he growls and leans down to bury his face in your thighs, “all mine.” He repeats and takes your throbbing clit into his mouth.
You literally die and go to heaven. (And Jennie sits smug in her room because she’s the reason for your passing.)
TAGLIST: TAGLIST: @fragmentof-indifference @jungkooksseuphoria @kooliv @angelarin @jjeonjjk7 @lilliankoo @pb-n-juju @ellesalazar @saweetspoiled @laylasbunbunny @prettyprincejk @cherrysainttt @hyunjinswifeee @joongraduatewithonor @hellbornsworld @leire-mia @m1sss1mp @lissful @winkii @lifeless-firefly @exactlygreatcoffee @taestoess @ayalies @floweryjeons @softtcurse @lilspinachwrld @tearyjjeon @littleobsessedkitty @lovelovelovebts @angeljmnie @rerefundslocals @bangtans-mama @thvhoe @maddkitt
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———
She brushes another kiss to his hidden face and settles against the car door, holding him. She thinks for a moment and decides on something old, a tune she heard on the radio once upon a time and never heard again; she’s warped it, now, no doubt about it, humming it from memory so long it’s changed to whatever she has made it. But Will recognises it from years of lullabies, picking up on the swooping baritones and mumbling the words into her shoulder.
“You know, that Han Solo shrine up in your room makes a lot more sense, now that I think about it.”
The melody dies in his throat.
“Mama.”
“I’m just saying.” She bites back a smirk, swatting away his smacking hands. “There was a point in time I thought it was admiration, you know, but you have a lot of posters of that open vest —”
“Mama!”
She acquiesces, this time, never having seen his poor face so scarlet, trying and failing to keep her laughter to herself. The tear tracks have long since dried and his breathing is steady, now, gangly limbs tucked into her ribs and hanging off the bend of her thigh. Flopped all over her like he used to to when he was young and she was still touring, when the world was too loud and too bright and too mean and she hid him from the sun. Her hands in his hair are to touch instead of soothe.
“Who’s the boy?”
“No.”
“C’mon, babydoll.” She pokes at his ribs, grinning widely when he rolls his eyes to hide his smile. “Tell me.”
“It’s nobody, Ma, gods.”
“Yeah, right. Not like you were comparing having a crush to killing someone in cold blood twenty minutes ago. Clearly it’s somebody.”
He, very pointedly, doesn’t answer.
Unfortunately, he forgets that he gets his stubborn from her.
“Hm. Can’t be anyone I haven’t heard of in a few weeks, or else it wouldn’t be bothering you. What names have you mentioned?”
He looks at her in horror. “You wouldn’t.”
Absolutely, she would. Her smile widens.
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess it ain’t Chiron, ‘cause then I’d have questions —”
“Oh my gods! Stop!”
“— an’ I doubt it’s that security fellow, with the eyes, although if it is no judgement —”
“I’m throwing myself out of this car! Right now! I’m gonna lay on the road ‘til someone hits me!”
“— Lord, you don’t mention many names. You’re a recluse, baby. You gotta make more than two friends.”
She stills. Will, perhaps guessing where she is going, makes a noise of deep, personal agony.
“Oh my stars, is it Cecil?”
“Ew, Ma!”
He strains against her hold but she tightens, hooking her elbow around his shoulders and flexing her other hand, pretending to examine her nails.
“It is, isn’t it? I mean, he is a very handsome young man. And he has a good heart, too, despite the — how to put it — distaste for the law —”
“I just threw up in my mouth! Right now! Stop it!”
“I should probably stop letting him stay in your room when he stays over, huh, that one’s on me —”
He wrenches himself away from her, finally, clambering over the seats and gagging like the mere idea makes him nauseous.
“Ew! Ew! I do not have a thing for Cecil, oh my gods, I might as well marry my cousin! Augh! I’m gonna throw up for real! Why would you even say that, oh my —”
“Alright, alright!” she laughs, kicking his rapidly repeating shoulder. “Holy Jesus, you are dramatic. I should call up camp and tell him you’re out here retchin’ at the mere thought.”
“Good,” Will says darkly, voice muffled from how deeply his head is buried in his hands, “make sure to also tell him he is a weasel.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And that I am going to deface his vintage Hot Wheels collection.”
“Y’all have a strange friendship.”
“He’s not my friend, I am stuck with him via circumstance and because he refuses to leave me alone.”
She holds up her hands in surrender, refraining from pointing out the friendship bracelet he is currently wearing with a CM on it and that has not left his wrist in four years.
“Alright, alright. Not Cecil.”
He scoffs in agreement, ignoring her rolled eyes.
She wracks her brain for other boys he’s brought up in their phone calls, aside from people in passing. Mostly he mentions patients, really, answering her endless inquiries — it will never stop astounding her that he baby can practically sew heads back on bodies; she tells people he’s in med school and preens at their wide, impressed eyes — but there are other people he mentions, in between that and the pranks he’s frequently pulling with his friends.
“There was that boy you were so excited to keep around. Nick?”
“His name is Nico,” he corrects, and then immediately goes scarlet. “I — I mean, I have a friend, named Nico, not that —”
Her grin gets sharp as nails.
“He is — unwell! He’s travelled a lot, he needs monitoring so I am — monitoring him, you know, out of concern for his safety —”
“Nico and Wi-ill, sitting in a tree —”
“Oh my gods are you five —”
“You are steaming! I can actually feel the heat pouring off of you right now! You love him, you want to kiss him, you —”
“I am never telling you anything again in my entire life!” he hollers. “Never! Next time I think I should tell you something I’m just gonna — swallow glass!”
She snickers. “Drama queen.”
He sticks out his tongue as she situates herself back in her own seat, turning the keys in the engine. His puts his dirty converse on the dash despite her grouching, reaching over to fight her for control of the radio, flapping his hand excitedly when she lets him win and something bright and overdone starts playing. His bandage stays where it is, tied loosely around his wrist.
“I’m glad you told me, you know.”
He smiles, small and genuine, leaning into the palm she cups around his cheek. The dimple in the centre of his right cheek is back, the scrunch of his freckled nose. She presses a lingering kiss smack dab in the centre of his forehead and he leans into it, trusting.
“I know.”
#okay THATS it#do i like this as much as the first part? no it’s less impactful. but it is fun so idc#pjo#percy jackson and the olympians#hoo#heroes of olympus#pjo hoo toa#will solace#naomi solace#will solace & naomi solace#solangelo#fluff#my writing#fic#longpost
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