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luveline · 1 year

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𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝? | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Your best friend Eddie tries to explain what a hickey feels like and finds he doesn't have the words. He could show you, though, if you want? [3k]

fem!reader, shy!reader, implied inexpereinced!reader, friends-to-lovers, pining, mdni heavy petting, hickeys, lots of hickeys, marking up, neck kissing, shoulder kissing, heat of the moment confessions, eddie being flirty but also a good friend, requested here

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Eddie strokes down the length of his guitar neck almost tenderly. You're focused on his hands rather than his mouth as he recounts last night's date to you, distracted by the deft movement of his fingers, which aren't exactly small. It's an oxymoron —paradoxical, even— that his thick fingers would move with such gentle precision.

You shift around where you're sitting on his bedroom floor, criss-cross applesauce with an uncomfortable heat rising from the bottomless pit of your stomach to your tight collar. The white button up you'd worn under your sweater vest is a size too small. You're really starting to notice.

You peel out of the vest and hope it'll help you calm down.

"She wasn't exactly sweet," Eddie says, plucking a string, listening to the sound, and tuning it this way or that depending on how he liked it. "I think she wanted to get it over with, which isn't really my thing. She was in my lap before I could make it clear I wasn't interested in anything quick."

You lift your gaze from his hands. He must feel you watching his face. He looks up in tandem and smiles reassuringly. "It's fine. I kind of thought she was getting into it, she was like a vampire on me at one point, but I wasn't feeling it and it's clear she wasn't either. Drove her home. How was your night, d'you watch that tape?"

You trace the coil of a black curl down to his shoulder, and can't force yourself to meet his eyes as you ask, "A vampire?"

"What?"

"She was like a vampire at one point, you said." Eddie's arm goes still. "What did you mean by that?" you ask.

He puts his guitar down on the floor. You worry you've said something truly dull for him to place his sweetheart in such a rush, but Eddie's like that. He can tell you're embarrassed no doubt, and he's giving you the answer to your question as swiftly as he can to soothe the wound.

"Here, look," he says. He pushes his hair away from his neck on one side and tilts his head, bearing a wine-stained curve of skin to you unabashedly. "She kissed me. She gave me a hickey, used a lot of teeth. That's why it's bruised so much on the edges."

Warmth you've never felt rushes in, like your blood has superheated, and it's written on your face. Eddie's room feels suddenly a thousand times smaller than before and more intimate, his poster wallpaper curving in, the space between you inching closer.

"Sorry," he says, "I know it's kind of weird to show you."

"No, I'm sorry," you say, mortified. "I shouldn't have asked you."

"Yeah, you should. You didn't get it and now you do. I don't mind telling you."

Eddie lets his hair fall back against his neck, a kinky curtain that looks ridiculously soft in the orangey light of his lamp. There's a butter smoothness to it, and the way he moves as he does is worse, his hand open and reaching for you. He doesn't hold your hand, doesn't even try, just lets his upturned palm hang off the edge of his knee as if to say, Ask me whatever it is you want to ask me. It's cool.

"Why would she do that?" you ask, gesturing to your neck.

"It's not her fault, I was flirting with her a ton trying to make it work."

"Not like that."

Eddie's hand turns toward his knee. "Like what?"

Your hand drifts to your own neck absentmindedly. You get kissing, wanting to be kissed and wanting to give them. You understand why she kissed his neck; if you'd been in her position, alone in the car with Eddie laying his charm on thick, you might climb the console and push aside his hair too.

"I know why she kissed you. I don't see why she…" You rub your lips together, your embarrassment turning sharp. You hate how humiliating this feels. "I know what a hickey is, Eds, but why would you want one?"

His turn to fluster. The tiniest tinge of pink paints his cheeks. "Are you asking me why I enjoyed it?"

"Did you?"

You despise yourself, truly. Worse when Eddie laughs, his chest forward, hair falling in his face as he chuckles sincerely.

"Yeah," he says, smiling at you "I liked it. Before she started trying to kill me I was having a good time."

He doesn't put you through the agony of asking what you both know he wants to.

You've never had one?

"It feels warm, and it's– you know how being kissed gives you butterflies, right? It's better than that. It's hot, and all her weight is on you and you have your hand on her back trying to pull her in, and she's as close as she can be without, you know." Something flickers across Eddie's face. Not longing, but a remembered pleasure. It makes you squirm.

"I don't see how it doesn't just hurt."

The hand that hadn't been reaching for you holds a pick. He flashes it between his fingers, a party trick, a nervous tic, his eyelashes tangling together as his eyelids inch closed. He scrunches his face up for a second.

"Don't hate me if I ask you something weird," Eddie says, eyes shut tight.

You don't think you could. You watch Eddie's face, knowing he can't see your analysis, and feel a shock of pins and needles in your hands when his eyes open and immediately lock on to yours.

"Do you want me to give you one?" he asks.

Your lips feel like they've been glued shut. You're aware of your breathing, how shallow each inhale has become, but you can't do anything about it.

He has the decency to acknowledge what position his question puts you in, "I know it might be weird but I can't describe it to you if you don't know what it feels like."

You surprise him. You surprise yourself. "Uh, yeah. Okay."

"Yeah?"

"It doesn't hurt?"

"Not unless you want it to." A hint of a smirk plays on his lips, though it fades quickly. "It doesn't hurt. That's not the point. But it can feel… foreign."

You nod jerkily, wishing you knew what to do.

The atmosphere is thick enough to cut through. Neither of you like it. Eddie gives you another type of smile, a familiar one that says, I'm your best friend, I always will be, so please chill out.

"You're gonna have to sit in my lap."

You actually laugh. "Eddie," you chastise, thinking it's a bad joke.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but it's that or the bed." His teasing tone is light, but he still adds, "I mean, we can do it sitting next to each other but it's difficult. Whatever you want, though."

You climb up on your knees. You're shy, absolutely, you always will be and especially when Eddie's teasing, but he really is your best friend, and the bed isn't happening.

He doesn't scare you.

He grins and ushers you toward him. "Alright, come here." He tugs one of your thighs over his lap and your breath catches. He grabs the other and any laughter between you abruptly dies.

You settle over his lap with an expression not far from pained. Eddie's hands rest against your thigh and your hip. He has to look up at you now, and he does as he encourages your weight firmly downward. You're more than conscious of where you're positioned.

"Do me a favour?" he asks.

"Yeah." You put your hand on his chest tentatively.

"Don't suffer through it if you hate it, okay? All you have to do is say something and I'll stop, but if you feel like you can't, a good right hook would work too."

"I'm not gonna hurt you," you protest.

"Me neither," he says. His hand lifts from your thigh to your neck, and he brushes his fingertips down the curve of it ineffectually. It would feel good if you weren't choking on air. "Relax, sweetheart. Please."

"I'm really warm."

"Your shirt's too tight anyway," he says, hand at your collar. He thumbs open your top button, a second, and exposes the flat of your chest. His fingers slide across your neck as he folds back your starched collar. They're cool compared to the raging heat he finds there.

You take a deep breath.

"You could put your hands in my hair," he says. Wishful thinking has hope colouring his tone.

You put your hands on his shoulders. The very tips of your fingers partition his curls.

He raises an arm above your mess of limbs to weave a hand behind your ear. It's then that you feel his callouses, so rough against the delicate skin of your scalp. Despite their texture, you find it feels good. He tucks his hand in tight, and slowly, slowly turns your head to the side.

"Look up," he murmurs.

You lift your head and stare at the ceiling with widened eyes.

He can't know but he does, and he says, "Close your eyes." The heat of his breath kisses your neck.

You shiver at the suggestion of his lips, and again when they press to your skin. Close-lipped, Eddie kisses the skin just under your ear where on the opposite side of your head his thumb strokes quarter circles. You're quickly overwhelmed by the duelling sensations. You don't notice his lips have parted until he's kissing a sloven path downward, his spit cooling in wake.

This isn't a hickey, this is straight up kissing, and you don't know what to do with how you feel. You hide your hands in his hair.

It tugs him forward. He reads your hands for enthusiasm, and if it is or isn't he pulls you closer still and opens his mouth against your skin. His teeth are impossible to ignore.

Your hand works further into his hair, getting caught in a tangle as he sucks your skin between his lips. His lazy mouthing turns insistent but still gentle, his teeth scratching ever so slightly at your pulse as it capers beneath his ministrations. You gasp at the warmth blossoming under your ribs. You cup the back of his neck a touch too tight.

He doesn't stop kissing you, only grabs your wrist to stop you from choking him out. You make a sound you've never made with him before, a mewl, all breathless and teary as the sensation worsens. Which is to say, betters.

He breaks a particularly rough kiss to suck in breath, his nose sliding up the curve of your neck as he leans back. "You okay?" he murmurs, half-lidded eyes locking onto your flushed face.

"Why does it feel like that?" you ask.

He drops his head, his nose level with your chin. "I don't know," he says, punctuating with a kiss right there, the closest bit of skin he can find. "Want me to do it again?"

You swallow and he must see it. He says nothing, wrapping his arms around your waist as he waits for you to respond. Your stomach pushes into his, your arms braced on his shoulder so you don't collapse into his front, limp with touch.

"Sweetheart, can I do it again?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say, quiet but enthusiastic. "Please."

He's slower this time. Eddie leans into your neck and doesn't kiss you at first, his lips so close to your skin that you can feel their phantom. You skin tingles from his previous scandalising, and it doesn't beg, skin can't beg, but you can, you curl your arm behind his neck and hook his head there, crushing his hair to the crook of your arm. He doesn't take much convincing beyond that. His lips smush against your neck and you feel every millimetre as they part, heat and warmth and wet spreading like budding flowers come to bloom. You melt into him soon after, and Eddie takes your weight in stride, hand at the small of your back and pulling you in so hard you can feel his ribs.

When you think you're used to it —not used to it, but expecting what can be expected— Eddie nips you. Tiny dainty kisses broken up with a nibbling you'd couldn't describe as anything but playful. He laughs at your gasping and does it again, again, giddy hot laughter mixed with one of the strangest feelings you've ever been subjected to. You're molten. You're dizzy with it.

Eddie pulls back enough to ask, "I'm gonna undo another button, okay? Just one. Is that alright?"

"What for?"

"So I can kiss your shoulder. Just your shoulder." He sounds pleading, desperately excited in a way you've never heard him and you want to know what it'll feel like, so you let him.

This next button unveils the top of your bra and the soft hills of your breasts. He doesn't look, barely glances at his hand as he tugs your shirts down your arm, diving into the juncture of your neck like he needs it to breathe. His kisses are proper compared to some of the stuff he's been doing, but then he opens his mouth and the flat of his tongue wets your skin as he kisses kisses kisses down your shoulder. His hand is somewhere under your shirt, fingers slipped under your bra strap and pulling teasingly at the elastic as he eases you down in his arms. You're shorter than him where you'd started taller, totally compressed in his arms and at his mercy.

When he pulls back, the slimmest ribbon of spit shines between your shoulder and his lips. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, his eyes glassy, and that hand cups your face. He pretty much grabs you, but there's not a lick of cruelty in his touch. Eddie's rough. Never cruel.

"You're on fire," he says. It's objective rather than joking. "You're so hot. Do you want to stop?"

"Not– not unless you want to," you say, trying to quieten your breathing. You sound like you've run a marathon. It feels like it.

"I'm gonna give you a real one, cool?"

"I didn't know they weren't real."

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, and his eyes are damning, a loving pity in the black of his blown pupils, "I was just warming you up."

Your mind blanks.

"Make sure I can hide it," you say.

You aren't thinking straight, concerned about hiding his hickeys but not what this means for the two of you. His unexpected hunger, and your willingness to let him eat you whole.

"I don't think you can hide it anymore," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

You look down at his lips. They're rosy, swollen from the pressure.

He sees you looking.

He yanks you in by the waist and sizes you up, almost, like he's calling your bluff, not spiteful but something mean about him as he stares at your mouth in return.

Like he doesn't want you to make the mistake. Like he knows you won't.

His hand tips your chin up high and he ducks his own down. An inch and you'd be kissing. That's all it would take.

"Is that really what you want?" he asks.

"I don't know," you say. Is it what he wants?

It has to be.

"Have you wanted to, before?" He draws a line down your cheek with his marriage finger. Fast as a heavy tear. "You want me to kiss you?"

"Yeah," you whisper, trying to make sense of this, your sudden confession, a secret want pushed into the light.

Eddie turns his hand and strokes down your cheek with the back of it, pushing any dampened baby hairs away from your skin. His gaze softens.

"Was that so hard?" he asks.

"You knew?"

He kisses you. He's smiling, and he doesn't take just one. He must kiss you four or five times, your lips parted enough to know he could push it further if he wanted, but he doesn't. These kisses are unhurried, missing the ravenous passion of his hickeying but not the fondness.

"You don't know how hard it is," he says after he's broken away, his forehead tipped against yours, "how hard it is to have someone look at you like you look at me everyday, like I'm something you can't have."

"I didn't know–" you knew. You felt the same. His kissing is evidence alone. it's confessional.

"I know. Guess I thought nothing good would come of it, but– but I don't want good. I want you."

He pulls back quickly, like you've said something confessional rather than him. He surprised himself.

"I'm not good?" you ask.

"You're good. You'll ruin me, that's all."

You don't have time to ask him what he means by that. He kisses you again, kisses your cheek, draws a line of crescent moons down along your neck to the mess he's made of you. He kisses– he sucks your neck so hard, so sudden, that goosebumps erupt and you can't stop yourself from saying, "Ohh," as you cling to his shoulders.

This is the vampire thing he'd talked about, the points of his teeth stark against your skin even now. There's another layer of vulnerability unveiled here, knowing that he could really hurt you and knowing he never would. He kisses you until you're overwhelmed by him. Heat everywhere. Sweat shining on your skin. You don't want anything else but this.

You squeak as the pressure turns from pleasurable to too much. Eddie hears the pain in it and pulls away, instantly sorry and willing to prove it, his hands cradling your face.

You pant. He shushes you gently.

"Sorry, baby." He pets your cheeks.

Your head falls back, too heavy on your sore neck. You feel wiped.

Wiped, but good. Lax.

"That was nice," you say breathlessly.

Eddie sits up and drags you with him, hand behind your neck to prop you up. He's laughing again, his awful sweet laugh that you've heard a thousand times before. It never fails to make you smile.

"You're like a dead fish."

You cover an eye with your hand. "I take it the romance is over."

"You thought that was romantic? Babe, I'm only getting started."

Eddie gives you a quick peck. Where his hickey had felt like the heart of a star growing hotter with each passing second, his smaller kiss feels like the sun through blinds, a dappling of warmth.

"Are you messing with me?" you ask.

He pushes his arms over your shoulders for a hug.

"No. Not messing with you." His nose rubs against the shell of your ear. "It's about time we talked."

You let your hand drift down the dip of his back.

"Okay," you mumble. Talking. You need to talk about whatever it is that just happened.

"...Maybe I'll get you a glass of water first," he adds.

"That's a good idea."

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider letting me know/reblogging, it means the world to me and makes a big difference!! ♡ NOTE: Eddie def pines back if that isn't fully clear, I tried to imply it with his date where he could've hooked up with someone but didn't go through with it, it was cos he's too in lurve

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #ish #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things

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frogchiro · 5 months

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Brought to you by the biggest snow storm I've seen in YEARS😭

Imagine that it's snowing so heavily that you barely see anything outside the window, a perfect snow storm but the insulation in the shitty apartment building is doing nothing to keep you warm, not to mention the one heater you had was barely holding on.

It was...awful. Hopeless even. You felt like you'd freeze to death in this shit hole and nobody would notice, maybe except...Your pushy and weird but strangely charming neighbour, Simon. He sure unnerved you with that blank, empty gaze that flashed with something whenever he looked at you or with his weirdly touchy behavior where whenever he had the chance to grab you by the hips to 'move you' but given the chance that his apartment woukd be even slightly warmer, you'd take your chances.

Imagine going slowly to knock on Simon's door, your warmest blanket wrapped around your shivering form and imagine the look in Si's eyes when he heard your shy, quiet request as if you were scared and ashamed asking if you could please stay for the night with him because the heating is broken in your apartment.

'Bloody fuckin' hell, she wants to kill me' he thought and almost too eagerly let you inside his apartment. It was...something, sure, with its almost spartan furnishing and the low light combined with the chipped plaster and slightly torn wallpaper made the place look unsettling, but at least it was warmer than your own and you felt like you wouldn't freeze to death :(

Imagine Simon dismissing your thank yous and almost growling lowly at your quiet assurances that you'll be out of his hair by morning and that you promise you'll keep everything tidy and not leave any mess behind. Imagine his borderline disgusted look when you asked him if you could sleep on his couch; what do you mean his couch? Oh you silly girl, you're not sleeping on that old, tattered thing! You're sleeping with him in his bed!

Your look of confusion and embarrasment send a pleasurable pulse into his tummy and made his cock stir in his sweats as he rumbled out that he'd never let his dear, sweet neighbour sleep there, plus it is cold enough to freeze his balls off and he wouldn't mind that extra heat♡

Imagine whining quietly with delight when you sunk under the covers in Simon's bed, even if it looked cold and hard, his bed felt like the warmest and softest nest in the world, not to mention the huge human furnace pressed close to you. You could feel the large male pressing close to you, his hard chest and tummy pressed against your back, his strong arms around your middle and when you were almost asleep, you didn't even register thet you nuzzled your nose and cheek against his stubble.

But he sure did♡

#kin speaks #i'm so so sorry for the silence lately #i've been feeling weirdly unmotivated and burned out #plus the stress at uni is getting to me :(#sleazy neighbour!ghost #cod x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley

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izukuisbaby · 1 year

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⊹˚.⋆ OUR FAVOURITE DILFS WITH A FAMOUS S/O - JUJUTSU KAISEN

℘. flora's notes : I've had this idea forever but I couldn't manage to write it UNTIL NOW. my idea was that reader is a model so it's kind of based on that, though you are free to be famous for whatever reason u want 💀

℘. send me a request ! : i would love to write this for other jjk characters (especially TOJI) but please give me ideas cuz i can't find anything :((

℘. gn, male, female reader 💓

m.list | comment and reblog if you enjoyed ! i am not posting at peek hours i would rly appreciate it if u could reblog w related tags 🥰

★ 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

℘. he 100% stalked you on your socials and knew everything about you

℘. it's also very likely that he slid into your DMs shamelessly

℘. something cringe like : " what a pretty human in a pretty restaurant, we should go there together sometime 😏"

℘. but we all know this mf, he didn't stop at ONE DM

℘. no, his name is elegantly followed by "9+ messages" all of them being cringe pick up lines to beg you to go on a date with him 😍

℘. and you eventually agreed but it was mostly for him to leave you in peace

℘. he was convinced you'd fall for his charms and unfortunately, he was right... can't blame you I would too

℘. and since your first kiss - which was an officialization of your relationship to him - he would not shut up about it

℘. everytime y'all are out in public he makes it clear he's your boyfriend for the paparazzis

℘. gojo loves attention... so he LOVES paparazzis

℘. he thinks y'all are the most goal couple to exist and brags about it

℘. "y/n, can you imagine what other people must think of us : "the strongest and the most famous (your job of choice), they were meant to be"

℘. you have 100% your own ship name and fanpages, you're labeled as the "hot couple" who is edited on tik tok 24/7

℘. I don't think I insisted enough on how he BOASTS about dating you to whoever shows a spark of interest in his life

℘. the poor nanami hears about it every second of the day and is FED UP with it, but his last straw was when gojo was talking about you to a curse they were suppose to eliminate...

℘. he has you and him on a fun fair date as a wallpaper and purposely leaves his phone on during meetings so everyone can see he's dating you... and also to get yet another occasion to brag

⊹

★ 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

℘. HE WOULD BE SO SUPPORTIVE

℘. he will attend all of your shows and interviews, always on the front row. sometimes walking for a show can be pretty stressful for you but seeing his angel face calms you down and gives you back your confidence in an instant <3

℘. ... he's very active on LinkedIn and he reposts your achievements/front pages with a professional yet sweet and admirative commentary

℘. he likes to go backstage before your shows so he can give you one last forehead kiss and compliment

℘. never hesitates to tell paparazzis to back off, he doesn't like his privacy invaded but he will gladly take pictures of you with a fan for them

℘. his favourite photo that he has everywhere is one a selfie you took before a show with a world renowned brand. you looked so stunning and confident, it never fails to make him smile when he looks at it

℘. i feel like he didn't really know you, just saw you from one or two front pages but it didn't click until you told him you were a (your job)

℘. i don't know why but i think you would have met on a dating app 😭 like nanami is tired of being single and he told gojo about it WHO OBVIOUSLY WAS KIN ON HELPING ! and he got to discover your personality first, which is the most precious part of you in his opinion

℘. because yes you ARE attractive but no one but him knows the part of you that is the most beautiful and he loves that

℘. i think he can't help but be a bit jealous that people simp over you so he would never refuse to take a cute picture for the world to see

℘. on your third date, he asked you to be his partner and gave you a ring as an officialization. since them, you've been wearing it as a lucky charm and you never take it off

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lxvvie · 5 months

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A relationship with Phillip Graves would consist of the following:

You wondering how in the hell you managed to get into a relationship with him in the first place.

The rest of Shadow Company knowing it's serious when he introduces you to the boys.

Also witnessing the duality of man in both Phillip and yourself. He's a father to his men, an end-justifies-the-means kinda guy, and slicker than a can of fucking oil. Conversely, he's incredibly affectionate, charming, and downright lecherous when it comes to you. And you, for the most part, don't know whether you want to choke him or kiss him breathless.

Graves making you his personal blanket. It's not uncommon to find him lying down, you situated comfortably between his legs, your head either resting on his thighs or on his lower stomach.

Finding out that he's a fuckin' connoisseur of barbecue, darlin', and would've loved to become a pitmaster if he hadn't joined the military.

Melting whenever Graves croons darlin' into your ear, oh so softly. Just because. Bonus points because he'll usually come up from behind you and wrap his arms around your waist.

He'll also kiss the skin behind your ear or your neck afterward, too.

Graves being in the doghouse more often than not because he's a fuckin' smartass of the highest caliber.

Aggravating each other as an expression of love. He does it because you're hot when you're pissed. You do it because you love to call him Phil in retaliation which earns you the most disgusted side-eye lmao.

Jokingly calling him Zoolander because he tends to make that signature face when he's either thinking, disgusted, caught off guard, or... all three. He doesn't believe you until you show him a picture of himself. Magnum all the way, baby. You also made said picture your phone wallpaper.

Claiming his button-downs as your own.

Him dreading Halloween because of the corny fuckin' puns you make about his last name.

Finding out he loves to watch Hallmark movies during the holidays. Like... A LOT. Family tradition he says.

#2queued4u.#call of duty: imagines #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty x reader #cod x you #cod mwii #cod mw3 #phillip graves #shadow company #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x you

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munson-blurbs · 1 month

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: What started as a quest to prove Eddie's 'manhood' ended with a gesture that had you hurtling towards your future--ready or not. (5.4k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, parental conflict, poverty, lots of bees, mention of parental illness, brief mention of sex work, finally some actual physical contact between them, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter five: float like a butterfly

For the first time since you’d started working nights, you didn’t dread the sound of your alarm ringing. You’d always appreciated its stillness, with only city noises and the occasional guest puncturing the perfect silence. There were some nights where you didn’t speak a word for the full eight hours of your shift; you just read or wrote or daydreamed until the clock struck six.

Except for last night, of course, when you’d passed the time by talking with Eddie and minimally contributed to wallpaper removal. Your mind flickered back to the way he’d placed his hand on yours. The sensation of his palm, calloused but warm, lingering a beat longer than necessary.

The whole moment could have been deemed unnecessary, in theory. Surely he could have modeled the action on his own and then handed you the tool so you could imitate him. Was it truly to show you how to scrape off glue, or did he have a more gratuitous intention?

Shaking your head, you eschewed the idea almost as quickly as you’d considered it. He was just being polite, a rarity among most of your male guests. Maybe that's why you were so hyper-focused on it; years of clipped conversations and crude comments had you mistaking kindness for something more flirtatious.

Speak of the Devil…

Eddie stood in the lobby, his guitar case slung across his back. He kept one elbow perched on the desk as he spoke to your mom. Whatever he said was making her laugh, a genuine one that brought a light to her eyes. She noticed you first, and when she waved you over, Eddie turned around to see what caught her attention. His smile shifted from open-mouth to close-lipped, more thoughtful and discreet without losing any of its charm.

Slinging your bag off of your shoulder next to the desk, you feigned a casual demeanor and asked, “What did I miss? Serenading my mom?” You nodded towards the guitar case, biting back a smile.

Eddie shook his head, his curls falling in his face. “Tried to make a couple bucks down at the subway station.” He shrugged, shoving his hand in his pocket. “Not enough for a ticket home, but it’s a start.”

Home. Obviously he was going home. New York had nothing for him, had chewed him up and spit him out like he left a bitter taste in its mouth. He had no reason to stay.

Oblivious to your disappointment, Mom laughed again. “Mr. Munson–”

“Eddie. Mr. Munson is my uncle.”

“Eddie,” Mom quickly amended, “was just telling me about the time he ripped his pants while he was on stage.”

Rosy red seeped into Eddie’s cheeks, evidently not expecting your mom to share that information with you. “And that was the last time I wore leather pants,” he said. “Lesson learned.”

Deeming this conclusion insufficient, you inquired further. “How exactly does one rip leather pants?” You stifled a giggle, just imagining him feeling a sudden breeze mid-concert.

“Well, ya see,” he started, crossing his arms over his faded Metallica t-shirt and smirking, “I’m what’s known as an enthusiastic performer. And as such, one might find that leather can be quite restricting.”

“So…you got really sweaty and they ripped.”

Eddie hid his face behind a curtain of curls, all but confirming your suspicions. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Heiress,” he warned with a smile, cocking his pointer finger in your direction.

Mom took that as her cue to leave, quickly clasping your hand and excusing herself. Thick tension set in without her there as a buffer. Her presence prevented any conversation from dipping too deep into flirtation; now, there was nothing stopping it.

Except, of course, the looming fact that he was a guest. And like all guests, he was a temporary fixture in your life.

“The new wallpaper didn’t come in yet,” you blurted out. Dad had insisted on ordering it from a family friend, saving money but forgoing the promises of timely delivery afforded by bigger suppliers.

Eddie shrugged, unbothered by the information. “I know.” He placed a cigarette between his lips and held out the pack in offering, but you shook your head. Without missing a beat, he put his own cigarette back and returned the box to his pocket. “Your mom was saying how excited she is for you to finish your classes and take over the motel.”

Panic flooded your lungs and constricted your breathing at the potential crisis he might have inadvertently caused. Did Mom seem upset? Her usual signs were noticeably absent: narrowed eyes, set jaw, lips painfully taut in a silent roar: we’ll discuss this later.

There was none of that. She was laughing. Happy. Not a hint of disappointment. Yet anxiety still hooked its claws into your skin, a stinging reminder of the anvil dangling over your head.

“You didn’t say—”

“Not a word.” Eddie waved away the thought. “Just smiled and nodded.”

Your chest went concave with relief, and you had to stop yourself from reaching out and pulling him into a hug. His arms held a surprising strength, as evidenced by his wallpaper removal abilities, and you wondered how they would feel wrapped around your waist. Did he hug tightly, not letting go until all of the air had been squeezed from your lungs? Or did he prefer a softer, lazier embrace, one with a hand free to stroke up and down your back?

Why did it matter?

“Is there a reason you haven’t told them?” he asked. The sound of his voice invaded your senses, pulling you back to reality in an instant. “I mean, they seem nice enough.”

Stooping down to grab your notebook, you nodded in agreement. “That’s part of the problem, I guess.” Your teeth scraped along your tongue as you considered your words. “If they were shitty, I wouldn’t feel so bad about letting them down.”

“Letting them down?”

You nodded, feeling that familiar pit that formed in your stomach whenever this subject arose. “Yeah. I can’t be a social worker and run the motel. And if I don’t stick around, they’ll have to close this place for good.”

Eddie breathes out with a low whistle. “Pretty high stakes.”

“You can say that again.” Resting your elbows on the desk, you buried your head in your hands. “How did your parents react when you told them you wanted to be a rockstar?” you asked, your voice slightly muffled.

He took so long to respond that you looked up, wondering if he’d up and left while you weren’t watching.

“My dad’s, um, not in the picture, and my mom died when I was a kid,” he finally said, using his left thumbnail to pick at the right.

“I’m sorry.” And you were: for his loss and for prying into his history. Mortification bloomed and prickled sweat under your arms, and you clenched them to your sides in a feeble attempt to hide any forming stains.

“S’okay. I mean, you didn’t know, so…” his shoulders moved up and down, his mouth drawn into a forgiving half-smile, “now you know.”

Now you know. A little slice of him, presented to you like one of the cakes the local bakery kept locked behind a pane of refrigerated glass. The ones you admired as a kid, reveling in their perfectly smooth icing and intricately piped pastel flowers. They’d always seemed too delicate to touch, so you’d skipped over them in favor of sprinkle-laden cookies.

Logically, you know that the cakes were made for consumption. All you needed to do was ask for a taste. But you could never bring yourself to ruin their beauty. Not then, and not now.

And so, as always, you stepped away and chose the easier path instead.

“Did you really rip your pants on stage?”

Eddie’s nose wrinkled at the sudden subject change, but he recovered quickly. “Sure did. Split right down the seam.” He puffed out a short laugh through his nose. “Poor Gareth got an eyeful that night.”

“Are you sure that isn’t the real reason you left the band?” Picking up the nearest pen, you poked the capped end into his forearm.

He play-winced, rubbing the spot the cap touched, and shook his head. “Nah, this was my high school band. Corroded Coffin.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Oh, yeah. We were terrifying.” Eddie widened his eyes in mock-horror. “The backbone of Indiana’s satanic panic, actually.”

You raised your brows. “Impressive.”

“Mhm. We only broke up because our bassist went to college out of state. Princeton.” He lowered his voice at the name as though relaying confidential information.

“Not the Ivy Leagues!” You pressed your hand to your heart, clutching metaphorical pearls.

Eddie grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”

“I’ve heard Princeton is known for their demonic studies program, so that tracks.”

This is nice. This is easy. No mention of schoolwork, or the motel, or parents—or lack thereof. You could do this all night.

A throat clearing followed by a hacking cough took you both by surprise. Peering over Eddie’s shoulder, you found Phyllis standing in the lobby doorway.

“There’s a wasp nest outside my window,” she said, tugging up one drooping shirt sleeve. The odor of stale cigarettes grew stronger as she walked closer to you and Eddie; even if she quit smoking today, the pungency would always cling to her.

Uncapping your pen, you reached into the desk drawer and grabbed the stack of Post-Its. “I’ll make a note to get some insecticide spray tomorrow,” you promised, poorly curbing your exasperation.

If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.

The older woman didn’t put up any argument, but Eddie was obviously displeased. “Like hell you will.” He glanced around, pent-up energy overflowing as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “You got a baseball bat around here?”

Your “Uh, no,” overlapped with Phyllis’s nonchalant, “Yeah, of course,” and she left to fetch it.

A sigh escaped you, hinting at your mounting irritation. “Eddie, absolutely not,” you insisted. “Just wait till I get the spray and you can do it then.”

He clicked his tongue with a note of condescension that you didn’t particularly appreciate. “Don’t worry about it, Heiress. I’m from the Midwest; our wasps are like your rats. This’ll be nothing.” When you remained unconvinced, he adopted a teasing grin. “I don’t tell you how to do your nerd stuff, do I? So leave me to my man stuff in peace.”

You nearly choked on your own saliva. “Your man stuff?”

“Yes. Very strong and burly.” He flexed a bicep for emphasis and you threw your hands up in defeat, trying to ignore the soft fluttering in your stomach at the vein bulging through his skin.

Phyllis returned with the bat, the wooden neck clenched between arthritic fingers. “It’s right around the side,” she told Eddie. “Just look for the giant nest. And don’t forget to give this back when you’re done; I’m working tonight.” She thrust the bat into Eddie’s hand and padded back to her room, slippers thwacking against the linoleum.

Eddie twirled the bat, threading it through his fingers and catching it smoothly. He smiled, unable to camouflage his pride. “See? I got this.” His grasp was determined without a hint of tenderness, a stark contrast to the way he’d held your hand the night prior. Tucking it underneath a denim-clad arm, he took a deep breath and pushed through the front door like he was preparing for battle.

You watched him leave, shaking your head. Evidently, he had a point to prove, but you doubted the chances of his success. Part of you wished you could leave the desk to watch him in action. Another part was relieved that you had the excuse to avoid witnessing this disaster as it unfolded.

As you predicted, not even half a minute had passed before you heard Eddie yelping, his footsteps thudding towards the motel’s entrance. He flung the door open with enough force that it smacked against the wall, scrambling to slam it shut behind him. His chest heaved under his jacket as he tried to catch his breath.

“Shit, shit, shit.” He swatted around his head at some lingering wasps. “Son of a bitch!”

Sucking your tongue to your front teeth, you bit back an I-told-you-so. “How’s your ‘manhood’ or whatever?”

Maybe that wasn’t much better than outright gloating, but you couldn’t help yourself.

Eddie made a closed fist with only his middle finger sticking up, and he winced almost immediately. “I think one of those little fuckers got me.” He cradled one hand in the other as you walked towards him for a closer inspection.

Sure enough, a stinger was poking out from the side of his forefinger.

Phyllis came shuffling back from her room, pink lipsticked mouth pursed in concern. “Jesus, kid. Were you trying to piss them off?” The loose skin under her neck wobbled when she chortled. “You swung at that nest like you were Babe Ruth!”

Through a tense smile, you asked her to get a soapy washcloth so you could clean out the wound before it could spark an allergic reaction. “Unless, of course, that interferes with your man stuff,” you said to Eddie, all-too happy to throw his words back in his face.

“Fuck off.” A traitorous chuckle broke through his stoic exterior despite his very real pain. His eyes followed your movements as you grabbed the first aid kit.

You took his warm palm in yours, gently turning it to assess the afflicted finger. The stinger was lodged under his skin, already turning the surrounding area an angry red.

“Oof, he really stung you good, huh?” Your tone was all sympathy; you figured he’d gotten enough jabs from the wasps.

Eddie gritted his teeth as you gingerly scraped at the stinger with the edge of your notebook, taking care not to squeeze out any of the venom. You tightened your grip to keep his hand in place, feeling the soft but steady thrum of his heartbeat between his wrist and his thumb’s tendon. It had a melody of its own.

Slowly, meticulously, you eased the stinger out from where it was wedged.

“Sorry,” you said softly, noting the way his eyes clamped shut as you drew out the stinger and brushed it onto the desk.

“S’okay.” He managed a small smile, one you returned without hesitation.

The night was still for a moment before he spoke again, his voice soft but eager.

“Tell me more about Izzy.”

Apparently, you weren’t the only one with a penchant for rapid subject changes.

At once, your head was filled with memories of her: the pigtails held in place with thick rubber bands, the popsicle juice-stained pink t-shirt, the giggles that melted away your stress from a succession of ungrateful customers. He said something else, but you were too engrossed in your own thoughts for the words to register.

“Hmm?”

“The little girl you helped.” Eddie cocked a quizzical brow, suddenly worried that he’d remembered incorrectly. “That was her name, right?”

You nodded. “She was only there that one day. I didn’t see her again.”

Her mother was probably too embarrassed to stay any longer and found another motel. If you could go back in time, you would have reassured her, maybe even offered to watch after Izzy while she worked. You might have informed her of programs where she could find a job that didn’t put her or Izzy in harm’s way.

Eddie continued talking, for some reason persistent in his quest for answers. “But you said she talked to you while she was drawing. About her favorite stuff?”

Phyllis returned with cloth before you could answer him, and she rested it on the desk with a sigh. “I’m gonna head out,” she said, pointing at Eddie, “but my bat better be in my room before I get back, Yogi Berra.”

He nodded, absently massaging the nape of his neck. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” One burgundy-painted fingertip pointed at Eddie, then at you. “I like this kid.”

How do you even respond to that? An honest, ‘me, too’? An overly sarcastic, ‘he’s alright’?

You opted for a small, unassuming smile and the reminder to be safe, which was absurd when you really thought about it. Phyllis had been doing this, as she put it, “since my tits were above my belly button,” yet you were telling her about safety.

Bringing your attention back to the sting, you clutched the sopping wet washcloth. Phyllis apparently hadn’t wrung it out; water dripped down the side of your fingers and splashed onto the floor in an uneven plop-plop-plop.

With an abundance of care, you swiped the cloth over the sting site. It was already starting to swell, the skin raised and angry.

Eddie reflexively pulled away, the tension evident from the way his front teeth formed grooves in his lower lip.

“Fuck, that hurts.” His free fist pounded into the desktop with so much force that, for a split second, you worried that he might leave a dent.

“I know, but we have to clean it out,” you said.

He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath; you weren't sure you even wanted to know what he said. “Yeah, yeah.” He winced as the frayed fibers grazed him again. “So…Izzy?”

“There isn’t much to say,” you answer honestly. “I mean, she just told me she loved McDonalds french fries and Muppet Babies. Especially baby Fozzie Bear.”

“Anything else?”

You thought back for a moment. “Her favorite animal was dogs, but only the little ones. She said the big ones scared her because they barked too loud. Oh, and her favorite color was light purple.”

The memory is bittersweet, bathing you in both comfort and a dull ache. It was almost six years ago but the little girl had made herself at home in your mind. You thought about her on a daily basis, wondering if she and her mom were still bouncing from motel to motel, or if they’d found a permanent place to settle. Every ounce of optimism you possessed worked to help you believe that they were safe and that she didn’t remember when safety wasn’t guaranteed.

“I knew it.”

You looked up from applying calamine lotion, dabbing the pink-stained cotton ball over any excess dripping off of his finger. “Knew what?”

“I knew you’d remember everything she told you.” His thumb relaxed and fluttered down until it rested on yours, the pad of his finger on your knuckle.

You reached for a Band-Aid before realizing that opening it required two hands. With more hesitation that you anticipated, you let go of him. “And what makes you say that?” You wrapped the bandage around his finger, careful not to press too tightly around the sting. “There. Good as new.”

Eddie smiled his appreciation. “I, um, had a similar experience when I was a kid.” He swallowed, picking at the Band-Aid until the adhesive side began to bunch up. When he allowed himself to glance at you, he saw you looking back at him, silently encouraging him to tell his story.

“My mom got sick when I was in kindergarten. The treatment made her tired and nauseous, like, all the time; when she wasn’t sleeping, she was throwing up.” His eyes clouded over and his voice cracked slightly; he cleared his throat and continued. “I was at school one day, and the social worker asked me if I had anyone at home who washed my clothes for me. And when I told her no, she asked me to bring any clothes I needed cleaned with me the next day. So I did, and after school let out, she took me to the Laundromat.”

If you told him that he didn’t have to keep talking, he'd stop. He’d wipe away any residual tears and excuse himself, and you’d once again spend your shift alone. And so you didn’t say anything, just stood there as his gears turned in recollection.

“She had this game: she’d hold up a piece of clothing and ask if it goes in the ‘lights’ or ‘darks’ pile, and she would get faster and faster until I was laughing too hard to answer.” Eddie exhaled a short laugh and swiped his tongue over his top teeth. “The whole time, I’m thinking that it’s all fun, that this is a normal thing that every kid did. I didn’t realize until years later that it was because my clothes smelled, y’know?”

Sheepishness colored Eddie’s face in pink splotches as he shifted from man to boy and then back again.

“Anyway, your story about Izzy kinda reminded me of that. And she might not remember your name or even what you talked about, but she’ll remember someone being there for her. Someone who didn’t act like she was a bother or a charity case. Just a kid who wanted to play.”

His words left you without any of your own. There was so much to digest; chiefly, your newfound glimpse into Eddie’s past. And though you’d only ever known him as an adult, you were still picturing him as a child. He sat atop a counter where others folded their clothes, his brown eyes–looking even bigger than they did presently, given his small stature–gazing up at the woman in wonderment as he giddily sorted his laundry.

And then, of course, there was the delicately embedded compliment. The reassurance that you had been a positive force in Izzy’s life, even through one brief encounter.

It was the only part that you could elaborate on without intruding on his privacy. He’d shared something so personal, and while you were desperate to learn more about him, you didn’t want to barge past the boundaries he had so carefully constructed.

“Yeah, I…just wanted her to feel safe, I guess.” You’d devised a plan while you drew flowers and Care Bears in case no one showed up to find her. Everything had to be done so that she remained in the dark about the situation’s severity; you’d have Mom or Dad check the room, only calling the authorities if Izzy’s mom was unresponsive—or worse.

In the end, there was no need for you to worry. Her mother was alert and Izzy herself was none the wiser that anything was wrong. You hadn’t even told your parents about the situation despite their potential involvement. Eddie, of all people, was the only other person who knew.

He nodded and reached over, giving your hand a subtle, tender squeeze.

“You did.”

Reassurance drifted through the air and clung to you like the sharp scent of tobacco on his jacket. Receiving compliments wasn’t your strongest suit, so you pivoted topics to avoid stretching the ensuing awkward silence any further.

“The calamine lotion should help with the itching, but you can take some Benadryl if it’s still bad.” Rummaging through the first aid kit, you searched for the medication but only managed to scrounge up a bottle of expired ibuprofen. “There’s a pharmacy a few blocks down. They’ll have some there.” A little mom and pop shop that sold candy and cheap wine in addition to different over-the-counter medicines, it had been a community staple since before you were born.

The corners of Eddie’s eyes crinkled, lips turning upwards in amusement. “An heiress, a social worker, and a nurse? What can’t you do?”

That was a loaded question, and you were relieved that it was rhetorical so you wouldn’t have to list all of your shortcomings. You settled for flipping him off with an accompanying smile of your own.

“I should probably get that bat before she gets back,” he said, glancing towards the older woman’s room. He lowered his voice and continued. “She kinda scares me.”

“Oh, I definitely would not get on her bad side,” you agreed. “Phyllis’s wrath will make that wasp sting feel like a walk in the park.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” His laugh was music that stirred up a desire to dance, to be carried by the melody like a strong gust of wind, and then he was out the door.

Immediately, you were inclined to find something new to talk about when he walked back in. You’d had two days of companionship and had been spoiled by it; the thought of another night in solitude suddenly seemed lonely.

You couldn’t ask about his parents or the social worker who’d taken him to the Laundromat; that was too personal, too soon. Same with his old band. But music–his favorite songs, musicians, albums–that might be safe enough to explore.

The door opened and brought with it a cool evening breeze. Eddie returned much more confidently than he had the last time, Phyllis’s bat slung over his shoulder.

“Apparently, I actually managed to knock the nest down,” he reported, sounding as surprised as you felt.

He stifled a yawn, denim creasing at the elbow when he lifted his hand to cover his mouth. It was then that you noticed the way sleep tugged at his eyelids, dashing any remaining hope of having a conversational partner this evening. Asking him to stay awake for you was just selfish.

“I’ll see you around, Heiress. Let me know if there’s any more man stuff you need from me.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk twice in quick succession and started towards his room.

“Night, Eddie.”

Opportunity slipped through your fingers as he walked away, the sound of his footsteps eventually too muted to hear. You shoved your disappointment beneath the surface. Eddie wasn’t your friend; he was a guest who happened to be friendly. Asking him to stick around and chat would be unprofessional.

If he happened to stop by the desk while you worked, you could make small talk. Otherwise, it would be business as usual.

Minutes were hours and hours were days. Another trucker needed a room for the night, and you checked him in around four o’clock.

You thought about the certainty in Eddie’s assurance that Izzy had felt safe with you. He didn’t know her; he barely knew you, and he wasn’t even there when it all happened. Yet his approval illuminated from the inside out and you replay it over and over.

You did. You did. You did.

Izzy was safe with you and she knew it. If you swallowed your fears and forged your own path, you could help other kids just like her. But it would come at a steep cost unless your parents could somehow miraculously afford to hire a new employee.

Your stomach turns just imagining the motel’s windows shuttered, a For Sale sign propped up in the door, ready to be snapped up by a major hotel chain for a mediocre sum that would barely pay off the overdue bills. It haunted you.

How long could you do this? How long could you push off your own dreams in favor of your parents’? At what point did you cross that fine line between selflessness and martyrdom?

Exhaustion crushed your body, strong enough to overpower the churning anxiety. Still, your sleep was fitful, and you woke up before your alarm feeling wholly unrested. Achiness radiated through your bones as you dragged yourself out of bed.

You knew what you had to do.

Dad noticed your earlier departure, so used to you leaving at 1:45 every day like clockwork. His brows pinched with perplexity as he determined whether he’d forgotten about a change in your schedule.

“Just running an errand before class.”

His confusion faded, replaced with a grin. “Thought I was losing my mind.” The way he stood under the lighting accentuated the gray flecks in his hair and mustache and solidified that he was, in fact, aging. His eventual retirement loomed closer, more of a when than an if with each passing day.

“Can’t lose what you never had,” you teased weakly. Dad met your joke with a wink; if he had picked up on the falter in your voice, he was gracious enough to ignore it.

You took a slight deviation from your usual route, walking past the bus stop and turning the corner until you reached the mailbox. It beckoned you, taunted you, sneered at your cowardice. The stamped envelope mocked you tenfold; innocuous on the surface but held the weight of betrayal.

It contained your admissions letter to NYU with the “accept” box marked and a deposit check that nearly drained your savings, ready to go.

The mailbox hinge creaked open so loudly that it seemed to echo. All you had to do was drop the envelope down the chute and pray that you made the right choice.

Regret surged through your veins the moment the envelope left your fingertips. You acted on instinct, shoving your hand back down the box to reclaim your letter, but you knew it was a fruitless effort before you’d even failed. It was already lost in a sea of bills and birthday cards.

“Shit!” Yanking your arm out before someone accused you of mail theft, you tilted your head back in an attempt to stop the impending tears.

With one stupid decision, you’d heaved a shovel into the dirt and begun digging a grave for the family business.

What the hell were you thinking?

As though it had a mind of its own, your foot swung out and smacked against the tin drum with all of your might. It took a beat for the pain to hit, the throbbing in your toes matching the reverberating metal.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You didn’t care who saw, who heard. Anger and self-loathing bubbled over like boiling water and scalded you in shame. Everything was so far out of your control, and you couldn’t rein it in. The world kept spinning fast, faster, too fast—

“Kicking it won’t make the mailman show up, y’know. ‘S not like rubbing a genie’s lamp.”

Eddie stood on the other side of the mailbox. A plastic bag dangled from his hand, the box of drugstore brand antihistamine peeking through its translucence. His playfulness morphed into concern when he noted your dewy lashes. “Heiress? You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” You swiped at your cheeks and sniffed back the mucus that collected in your nostrils. You probably should have been embarrassed that he’d caught you in such a state of distress; maybe you would be once the dust settled.

He wrinkled his nose dubiously. You couldn’t blame him; why would he be convinced when you were assaulting mailboxes and swearing at the air?

“Seriously. Just having a bad day.” And it was going to get even worse if you missed your bus—again. “Thanks for asking, though.” You managed a grateful smile to prove your sincerity.

Grabbing your backpack from its spot on the ground, you zipped it back up and hoisted it over your shoulder before starting back towards the stop.

“Hey, wait a sec.” Eddie called out to you, shuffling over until he was by your side. “You, uh, your makeup…” He trailed off bashfully, raising his thumb but stopping before it touched your skin. “May I?”

You nodded, breath hitching as the pad of his finger grazed just below your eye. He gently rubbed, tongue poking between his lips while he focused on removing the smudge without hurting you.

He was close, almost too close for comfort. There was a small cut on his chin where he must have nicked himself shaving, and you forced yourself to stare at that instead of his wide eyes.

“There…we…go.” He held up a mascara-stained thumb as evidence. Without thinking, you pressed your own thumb to it. The knuckles of your remaining four fingers slotted between his until you pulled away.

Eddie laughed, apparently amused by the odd gesture. “I’ll take that as a thank you.” He wiped the residue on his shirt, not caring if it left a mark. “Don’t miss the bus; wouldn’t want you to be late for your nerd stuff again.”

“Mhm.”

You harnessed all of your strength to unglue your feet from the sidewalk. Your body operated on autopilot to its destination while your mind only thought of the heat that leapt from his thumb to yours, or maybe yours to his.

It was cyclical, you surmised as the bus approached, with no clear beginning or end.

taglist (now closed ♥):

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selfishdoll · 6 months

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❛ HIS FAVORITE FAN...❜

You're my four-leaf clover | I'm so in love, so in love ⁺ 𓂋 𓈒 ♡ JAPANESE DENIM.

ཐིཋྀ ⊹ 𓈒 SUMMARY.

hcs of pro gamer! gojo satoru & his favorite fan, you.

ཐིཋྀ ⊹ 𓈒 CONTENT WARNING.

ooc gojo, cocky gojo (ofc) mature themes in some of them, him being a little shit, fluff, geto & shoko mention, etc.

ཐིཋྀ ⊹ 𓈒 NOTE.

will make an actual fic later. these are messy, sorry for that </3

pro gamer! gojo wasn’t someone you got along with at first. he was cocky, arrogant, and didn’t like following the rules. over extending when playing with his teammates, you just hated watching him play. you remember commenting something on a stream of his, the man eager to go back and forth with you for a while before you decided to leave the stream all together. yet, instead of letting that drop you suddenly received a message on your social media.

“didn’t have anything else to say?” was what it read, a shit-eating grin emoji placed beside it. and well, the rest was history. how you got swept into his arms was beyond you, really.

pro gamer! gojo who has a picture of you as his desktop wallpaper. but not just any picture, a pin up of you in a bikini. he saw a fellow gamer with one and practically begged you to do it, declaring he would pay for it. everything. your hair, bikini, the photographer. all you had to do was bring your pretty ass there, (he proclaimed). after some playful reluctance you gave in, the man basically buzzing with anticipation waiting for the pictures. the moment gojo received them he was uploading it as his wallpaper, cropping it perfectly so your plump ass rested just below his favorite game.

the man has, accidentally clicked off a game to his desktop when on stream, declaring he had to check something. really, it was a message to anyone interested in him or you.

pro gamer! gojo who encourages you to come with him when traveling for events. promising to spend some time with you personally and that he just needs his lucky charm there. most times you’re able to take off work in time, others you aren’t— leaving the poor man upset. satoru will still go to the event, but his heart is definitely not in it; pouting like a child. you’ve gotten messages from geto, complaining about his behavior and making you promise to come to the next one.

pro gamer! gojo who is so good at multitasking it should be a crime. who’s able to have you on his cock, crying and being stuffed full; all while clutching his matches. face cam off, switching his mic on and off between your gasps and moans, rising his hips to adjust in his seat— grinning at the way you nearly toppled into his chest. pressing you against his desk when the match gets intense, shushing you softly when you whined.

finally after the match is done he’s releasing his controller, hands falling to your waist and bouncing you up and down his length. with the cockiest grin ever he’ll say; “you’ll have to hurry and come, baby— the game’s starting soon.” yet will slow you down, just to watch the frustrated tears build in your eyes, and the dreaded sound of the game starting again. so quick to release you, attention turning back to the game as if nothing happened. the cycle continues for so long you swear you’ll break, face pushed into his neck as soft gasps escaped you.

the torture would finally end when the last match of the game is finished, gojo tossing his headphones off his hair, grabbing your hips whilst standing. he would waste no time in turning around, heading towards the bed to drill you into the mattress. satoru just loves the way you beg and beg for a release, all while pretty tears trickle down your face and the gold plated anklet of his name jingles right beside his ear. yeah, he’s coming in minutes, stuffing you so not a drop escapes.

there have been a few times gojo has tossed his headphones a little too hard, rendering geto’s and shoko’s poor ears to your activities. the pair now know to click off the call quickly when they know you’re home.

pro gamer! gojo who feels his heart swell when he sees you at his tournaments in the front and wearing a shirt with his name. it’s cheesy, he would tell you, earning a playful slap on his shoulder. yet satoru loves it, happy you’re there to cheer him on. definitely try hards just to hear you praise and scream for him.

pro gamer! gojo who is pretty cold with his female fans. he’s nice, sure, but with every conversation he’s somehow bringing you up. “oh, my girlfriend likes that color..” “yeah, my girlfriend loves that band.” “no, my girlfriend wouldn’t like that.” constantly reminds them he’s taken and happy. doesn’t entertain anyone that flirts.

pro gamer! gojo who teaches you how to play, mostly fighting games and will be a sore loser if you somehow beat him. the type to bump into your shoulder, smack your controller out of your hand, or even tickle you. also will definitely ask for a rematch, claiming he wasn’t ready (he was).

pro gamer! gojo who will drop a stream just for you, doesn’t matter how little the request is. doesn’t care who’s annoyed by it. you’re priority to him.

pro gamer! gojo who has threatened to fuck you on stream before. maybe you’re waving at his face cam and talking too sweetly to his fans, maybe you’re walking in the camera in your cute little shorts, or maybe you’re just breathing around him. gojo is quick to snake an arm around your waist, pull you close, and whisper the threat right into your ear— all while smiling innocently. it takes everything in you not to challenge him, as gojo satoru, never backs down from a challenge.

pro gamer! gojo who has his issues, but loves you dearly, much more than any video game.

#mani writes ━━ ★#black!reader #jjk x black reader #jjk smut #jjk x fem!reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo fluff #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo smut #gojo x you #gojo x black reader #gojo x black y/n #gojo x female reader #gojo x black!reader

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byeolbeloved · 3 months

Text

Make me forget -choi san

pairings 》 mafia!san x reader

genre 》 mafia!au, smut, angst, tiny fluff, forbidden love

warnings 》 mention of guns/violence/blood/abuse, cheating (not on reader,) sexual content, MINORS DO NOT READ

summary 》 choi san was a cold, feared mafia boss who knew nothing outside the world of gore and killing. Thats when he met you, the girl who showed him love. But what stands in his way between having you to himself is his arranged marriage. That still does not stop his feelings for you.

Everyone feared San.

Apart from him being in the Choi family- one of the biggest mafia family trees in the world, San was a nightmare. His reputation was filthy ever since he was young. He trashed anywhere he’d step foot at, petrified whoever he spoke to and spat on his victims lifeless bodies after smothering their blood onto the walls- all with an emotionless look on his face.

But San feared you.

He feared you because of how lovable you were. How easy you smiled to people. How you’d drop anything you were doing to help people. How you cried at other people's pains. But most importantly. He feared how you weren’t scared of him. He knew if he were to ever pull a gun to your head, which god dammit he would pull it to his after, you’d smile at him. That smile that made his black heart excited. The only smile he could smile back to. The only time he smiled.

It was moments like these where he’d realise, although he has seen all the horror and gore of the world, he knew nothing about living.

Laying you down on your baby pink bed sheets, throwing some plushies that got in the way off the bed for you to pick up later. Your bright bedroom. Your simple quiet life contrasted his. His life of screams and gunshots. He liked it. He loved it. Because with you he felt like a man able to feel. Able to love.

He didn’t think it was possible for a human being to be this cute. The way you whimpered at his nibbles and breath on your neck. Your back arched, full body touching his when he played with your nipples. Your trembling hands gliding his back when he connected his lips to yours.

Cute was never in San’s vocabulary. But ever since that day he saw you at the cafe, serving pancakes to a customer with a bright smile, holding your belly as you lightly giggled, he used that word for the first time in his life. “Cute.”

His legs moved on their own. His hand pushed the door open on its own. Suddenly there you were right in front of him, the same smile on your face as you asked what he wanted to order. Although now, he could see the way your cheeks puffed up with a light blush, your nose scrunched when thinking about what to make him when he told you to order for him, the way your eyes sparkled. So shiny he could see his reflection through them.

His dirty, filthy, monstrous reflection.

But that was far from what you thought of him, after you handed him a cappuccino with a cat drawn on the foam with cocoa powder. “No need to act tough, I know you think it’s cute too” you told him with a giggle. And yes. He thought it was very cute. He thought you were cute. You wouldn’t think a man dressed in an all black, gelled back hair, tough build with sharp facial features could be in a cafe with pink wallpapers and flowers decorated on the walls. But for the next 4 weeks, San came to your cafe everyday. Ordered the same things. Sat at the same table. He’d stay until closing time and you two chatted anytime you weren’t preoccupied with other customers or cleaning up. He was surprisingly very charming and funny considering his dark visuals. You naturally felt comfortable with him which led you to venting about anything and everything to him. Whether it was about how you think mint chocolate is underrated or how complicated your love life is. He listened to everything. Soon later he started dropping you off at your house. Always walking you up to your apartment and occasionally giving you a kiss goodnight on your forehead.

San was never this slow with anyone. He could get any girl he wanted just from eye contact. But with you, he wanted to be proper. He wanted to feel you slowly, afraid he might break you from how fragile you were. He wanted all of you. But there was something that got in his way from that.

San was a married man.

“Did she…. Did she do this to you?” you said with a horrified expression, afraid to touch the burn mark on his back. San sighed sitting up from the bed facing you. “Y/N… it’s nothing, I’m okay” he gilded his thumb across your swollen bottom lip from your makeout session a minute ago. “San, look at your back! You barely got any skin left!” you lightly raise your voice in concern. “You’re not going back to that house. You can’t let her do these things to you San, you can’t!”

Park Seoyoon. Daughter of Mr.Park- one of the most feared Mafia leaders in the game. She was a fox. Elegant on the outside. Everyone loved her because she was so beautiful and bubbly. Her pale-milky skin stood out from her dark black hair. She was tall and slim. Her face was next-level beauty- although also 50% cosmetic. Everyone thought of her as the perfect wife. But under that mask she was nothing but a sly manipulator and abuser who got whatever she wanted.

Their fathers arranged their marriage for money and power. Which is why they are so respected as a couple in the mafia world.

San hated her. Despised her. She’d bring home multiple guys throughout the day. She threw water at her servants. Her voice was obnoxiously loud and annoying.

The beginning stages of their marriage Seoyoon tried her best at seducing San. Only to get ignored by him so she did everything to ruin his life. She knew he could not fight back at her, because one word to daddy and San would be dead meat.

First it was teasing- hooking up with his friends and purposely getting herself into trouble. Then verbal abuse- which didn’t do much to him since San never reacted to harsh words so it quickly turned physical. Her tantrums included throwing plates in his way but this time was too far when she threw boiling hot water at him neglecting whatever she said she wanted.

“I want to help you Sannie…” you felt helpless seeing him come home with bruises you couldn’t stop him from getting.

“You’re doing enough Y/N, being in my arms is enough baby” he pulled you from your waist to move closer to his body, never breaking eye contact with you he tangled his hand into your hair. He has you on his lap now slowly grinding your bodies on one another.

“W-wanna make you feel good” your voice was above a whisper, gently gliding your nails on the back of his neck sending shivers down his spine.

“Make me forget Y/N… Make me forget her and show me you’re mine” he says before clashing his lips onto yours, not roughly but passionately with hunger, as if he has been starved from your touch for decades.

Clothes were off in seconds. Both of your body heat grinding on each other could start a fire. A fire that will destroy the world. Destroy this world for not allowing you two to write your story. For not allowing him to hold your hand out in public and show you off to all his friends. For not allowing you to show him off. For not allowing you to plan your kids names and whose eyes they’re going to have. San could burn the world for you. Maybe it would be better for you two. Maybe you could finally do the things you wanted to do.

That fire could turn the world into the sun after you slowly slide yourself on him. Adjusting to his length you rest your forehead on his and whisper “Use me San… I w-wanna be yours in every way…c-claim me.”

Without another word he pushes you up, only to guide you down again causing your whole body to shudder. This goes on till he’s now thrusting into you from below, grunting at every thrust.

Your body rocks at every thrust, holding onto his shoulder for support, hair bouncing as he moves the strands from out of your face, looking at you with nothing but pure love in contrast to the lustful movements he’s doing beneath you.

“You’re so good to me Y/N fuck mine. mine. all mine yea I don’t deserve you like this fuck”

He doesn’t mean it. San has never felt insecure in his life. But part of him hurts knowing he can’t be a normal lover to you. It hurts him that he can’t live a normal life with you- because his life is far from normal. You’ve told him many times in the past how you don’t care. You like the way things are between you two. Because you love him and that's enough for you. But part of him can’t believe he could ever be loved.

“I love you San” you manage to get out between moans. His pace is now rough, fast, hard. Your walls are clenching onto him. Afraid he’ll slip out. Afraid he’ll go. Afraid it’ll end. But he holds you. He pulls you closer to his chest, face in the crook of your neck as he bites down.

“I love you my Y/N”

#ateez san #ateez san smut #san smut #choi san smut #san x reader #san x y/n #ateez imagines #san angst #choi san #choi san imagines #san hard hours

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octuscle · 1 month

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Fun on the not so fair ground

Where Darren was, Darren wasn't there because he was particularly clever or hard-working or charming. No one knew exactly how Darren had made it to division manager. And how he had remained division manager despite dissatisfied colleagues and customers. No one liked the arrogant, smug asshole. He was moody, incompetent… But he was divisional manager and because of some skeleton he had in the closet with some board member, he remained divisional manager.

One of Darren's most striking characteristics was his stinginess. And his resentment. He was annoyed that he hadn't won any tickets for the rollercoaster or the Ferris wheel in the lottery organized by the HR department for the company outing to the fair. But he was all the more delighted to win a ticket for the ghost train. Everyone else had always won two tickets. He suspected that the ghost train was so expensive that there was only one ticket for it. And he had it.

For Darren, going to the fair was more of a chore. Having to deal with his colleagues in the evening was an imposition. But since he had won the ticket, he had to go. And he especially had to go on the ghost train. His colleagues wished him a lot of fun, the meeting was in a beer tent in half an hour. Darren joined the short queue. The ticket taker looked at his ticket. "Oh, the special tour!" he said with a grin. His eyes just lit up red for a moment. Must be some kind of special effect, Darren thought to himself. The bar on his gondola closed. The ride started.

It was a terribly boring ride. Only small children would be frightened on something like this. Darren was happy when the ride was over and the bar opened again. He walked towards the exit. Suddenly a door slammed shut in front of him. And a hidden wallpaper door creaked open. This had to be the part with the special tour. But here too: Lame, boring effects. Some of them were obviously broken. And the dust and cobwebs seemed to be real. Darren stood in front of a picture with the caption "Your greatest horror". Well. Biggest horror. It showed a young man with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and obviously no future. Darren wasn't afraid of people like that. He ignored people like that. There was a mirror next to the picture. It was captioned 'Your future'. Darren saw a young man with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and clearly no future. Fuck! He grabbed his face and the reflection did the same. His skin, which had just been flawless for a man in his late 30s, was blemished. As if from too much alcohol and nicotine. And too little care. Maybe it was the remnants of acne, because the man in the mirror was younger than Darren. Maybe in his early 20s. Badly shaved. His hair styled in a preppy undercut. And he stank. That couldn't have come from his reflection. The jacket was made of cheap, badly tanned leather. Sweat. Cheap deodorant. Nicotine. His fingers smelled like those of a chain smoker. And his teeth were yellow like a chain smoker's. In a panic, Darren looked for the exit. He found himself behind the ghost train. There was a "Staff only" sign above the exit. Darren tried to open the door. He rattled the handle. A man opened it for him. Behind the door was a small staff room. The man asked if he wanted to apply for the position of young man to travel with the fair. Darren ran away in a panic.

Where to now? To the beer tent? What would his colleagues say? They wouldn't recognize him. He tried anyway. The bouncer turned him away. For invited guests only. Darren had an invitation. He used to have an invitation in the inside pocket of his jacket. Now he had an almost empty pack of filterless cigarettes and a battered Zippo. His wallet hung on a chain from his torn jeans. With a bit of cash. A ten-ride bus pass that was almost used up. And a driver's license. For big trucks and tractor-trailers. Bloody hell! He still had to be on this ghost train. It was better than he thought. But he didn't feel like it anymore. He wanted a shower and then to get into his silk pyjamas. But his car key was gone. And where his car had been, there was now a completely different one. He had to walk, Darren had no idea how he was going to get home on the bus and he didn't have the money for a cab.

He had been walking for almost half an hour when he finally got home. In the dark windows of his elegant old apartment on the mezzanine floor, the "For Sale" signs were covered with "Sold". The. Is. A. Cursed. Nightmare! Darren no longer had a key for anything. Not for this apartment that used to be his, not for a missing car, not for his office. He had no cell phone, he had the few things he had on his person. A nightmare! His worst nightmare! His biggest horror! Darren climbed over the fence. It was surprisingly easy. His new body was athletic. He had already noticed that on the way here. There was a Victorian summer house at the back of the garden that belonged to his apartment. And he always hid a key there. Under a flower pot. A flowerpot that no longer existed. Everything on the porch of the garden shed was an army duffel bag. With a rucksack in it, a tracksuit, underwear. Everything wasn't quite clean anymore. But it was obviously his. Darren picked up the duffel bag, walked over to the fence, threw the duffel bag over and climbed in after it. A policeman shouted "Freeze!" And Darren ran for his life.

It had taken him three quarters of an hour to get back to the fair with his duffel bag. No idea why he had come back here. A few drunks staggered out of the beer tents. Darren didn't recognize any of them as colleagues. Most of the rides were just closing. "Son, can you give me a hand?" Shouted an older gentleman struggling on the bumper cars. "A few dollars, a bowl of soup, and by the look of you, you could use a place to sleep." Darren took a deep breath, grabbed his duffel bag and helped the man push the bumper cars together and lock them up.

The first few days were hell. Darren wasn't used to physical labor, even though his body was. The little money he earned was enough for cigarettes and pre-paid cards for a cell phone. And the guys he had to share the trailer with snarled and stank. But Darren probably snarled too. And he certainly did stink. The only thing he enjoyed was sex. Plenty of sex. Apparently there were lots of girls and boys, young and old, who liked the fairground rebel type. Darren had stopped counting how many cocks he had sucked between the frames of the rollercoaster, how many asses and pussies he had fucked. Sometimes for free. Sometimes for a handful of dollars. He could put that money to good use. A buddy had a booth at the fair where he did tattoos. Real works of art. Of course Darren got a special price. But even among the bros here at the fair, nothing was for free. The first few days went by. The first weeks went by. Darren, who everyone had long since just called Daz, had gained routine in building and dismantling "his" rollercoaster. The other guys who helped out here were runaways, vagrants… They were usually gone again after a few days. Not Daz. This was his home. This was his family. He loved his job. And he was damn good at it.

When Daz took over the management of the small fairground company with a rollercoaster, a bumper car and a lottery booth a few years later, nobody was surprised. Daz belonged here. Always in a good mood, always ready to help. And always horny!

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #inked man #tank top #age reduction #leather tf #white to blue collar tf #ai image

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hxltic · 9 months

Note

i have a request for a “strawberry/cutecore/hello kitty” girl x ghost 🤭. basically everything is pink and cute stuff <33

(this is not proofread and i didn’t know how much to write lol)

Ghost has seen his fair share of tragedies in all his years of working the military. In fact, they continuously remind him of the atrocities his own hands have created, ones that return in vivid nightmares to eat away at him in his darkest times. Dismantled bodies and the seemingly permanent blood stained on his hands that may be his, his comrades, or another brutal soldier’s haunts him, and the worst, the image of his own family.

He prays he doesn’t forget himself and get lost behind his mask, the one everyone fears and associates with the word “monster.” He prays he doesn’t forget that he’s a son and a human, Simon Riley. It’s his biggest fear.

So when you come along, all happy and young and inexperienced, it’s a cool breath of fresh fucking air. You wore a pink miniskirt that was way too short to be worn in any building, especially not outside with a gust of wind. Your white, printed top barely covered your breasts, matching the studded white belt thrown over your hips. Hell, the belt and the skirt were the same size.

You had a belly button ring with a shiny charm on it and dangly earrings, with pink platforms that were laced with pearls almost covered by shin high leg warmers. With the heels on, you were still almost a foot under him.

Your body was matured in contrast to the way you dressed, and what had him hooked when you met was how you acted.

Of course, it was in a candy store; you had a pink lemonade sucker dangling out your mouth. You watched the hunk of a man stroll in, and you could care less if it was bad to say the first thing you were attracted to was his size.

He wouldn’t sit down with his plain vanilla in a cup, but you bought yours that was filled to the brim with sweets, screaming diabetes. You sit next to him as he leaned on the wall. Your legs aren’t crossed either in the cute mint green chair, but maybe it was on purpose.

“What are you doing in here big boy?” You tease.

Ghost was already surprised by the fact you just casually sat by him with plenty other seats around, but he thought talking to him as well was absurd.

“A man can’t have a sweet-tooth?”

His low drawl was so sexy with his accent, looking down at you with a glint of playfulness in his eyes. He believed the stoic expression he usually carried would be too harsh for you.

“I just didn’t think I’d see someone like you here.”

“I was sure I’d see someone like you here,” he retorts with a chuckle. It was a heavenly sound from his throat.

Your glossy, plump lips wrap around a gummy bear, then attach your attention back to him. He was already watching silently, just waiting for a bite of the cream to slip out of your mouth. He knows you wouldn’t get up and find a napkin.

When it happens, he wasn’t as ready for it as he thought he was, a small portion of the pile of whipped cream dropping to your chin. Your manicured thumb swipes away at it and slips it into your mouth.

It was an innocent act, and Ghost almost feels bad for watching so intently.

Ever since then, he’s used his dominate nature to take care of you. Nobody would say anything to, or about you, and he made sure of it. Even when walking down boulevard.

The same way you met, you skip way too high for your clothing, almost bouncing as he walks leisurely behind you. You use the privilege of his aura.

You walk into the mall and take a peek at a luxury store. The both of you walk in and look around, more so you gawking at things until one bag takes your eye. Soon enough you’re walking out with it on your arm, Ghost’s card tucked somewhere in your bra, holding his hand and thanking him again and again.

You almost cry when you can’t stay over because he’s going out for work, but he walks you home and says he’ll make it up to you.

The bedroom called yours is covered in a pink wallpaper, small bed perfect for your size with perfectly aligned plushies that reach about half the comforter. Figurines stack your shelves. You loved Ghost’s room because it was a contrast to yours, extra modern with grey, ash walls and black sheets that he’s rarely in. You really loved his shower too.

The large man picks you up and throws you down, so you’re in a fit of giggles when your legs are being spread open and your pretty pink panties are being pushed to the side. His hunger displays as he grunts lowly.

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undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

this year's love.

simon ghost riley x f!reader

wc: 5.5k warnings: angst. fluff. smut. feelings. usual jo things. summary: And then you begin calling him Riley. It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful. Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips. an: from the drabble where ghost 'dates' a non-militant he meets in a pub. this is dedicated to @yeyinde for reminding me why British pubs are adorable, and also to @guyfieriii because she hates my angst, but loves my fluff, and makes me want to write better.

simon ghost riley masterlist

He suspects he should stay away.

As soon as he began to crave the sight of you. Ignoring the fact he’s heard This Year's Love by David Gray three times already—and he has only been here an hour. The condensation beads from his glass pools on the picked-at-bar mat, drenching his fingers and wrist.

Not that he cares.

Ghost—

Simon knows it’s all part of the charm.

It has been since the day he turned eighteen and his boss at the butchers took him for his first pint.

The place hasn’t changed since. Everything from the same ten to twelve songs which crackle through the worn and tired speakers. The smokey air, and discoloured, yellowing wallpaper.

Things don’t get replaced either, the chipped glass ashtrays are the same as the ones he remembers. The same chipped mahogany tables with the ill-matching chairs and stools that are wobbly.

The scent in the place is familiar, a mix between festering ale and Mr Sheen, working men and cheap perfume, fust and smoke—both from the crackling winter fire and cigarettes—even if one hasn’t been smoked inside of it for years.

The place, to outsiders, would look like any stone-walled pub on the corner of two streets they’ll never remember. Then they’ll step in, their eyes glancing over the peeling wallpaper, moth-eaten curtains (that never close) and the once-white nets in the windows, before questioning what they’ve walked into. That’s before they’ve noticed the white ball on the pool table is in fact another black ball and that the dart board triple 20 has been chipped out after Bald-Andy lost his rag.

The pub has been a real gem to those who know what real diamonds are for as long as Simon can remember. None of the regulars care that the bar stools have burns from cigarettes being stubbed out, they don’t care that the musty smell doesn’t vanish even with Febreze and sheer will. It’s expected, just like how the bar is always sticky and the energy always feels right.

Here, he can relax.

When he’s home, he feels purposeless. A man with a map but no direction. But, he can unfurl his shoulders from his ears, even let his hood slide to the back of his neck.

Because in this place, strangers aren’t welcome. It’s a local pub, for local folk. Those who wander in, thinking the pub on the corner of quaint and quintessential will provide them with a typical British evening, normally leaving before Freddie Mercury has reached the bridge of whatever song is on rotation.

But, Simon isn’t just here for the bourbon or the ale, he’s not here because the wooden fire licks every wall of the place. He’s not here because it feels more like home than his actual home.

He’s here because there’s one thing that has changed, and it’s you.

You with a rosy, sweet laugh that usually accompanies a smile which makes his heart gallop. It calms whatever storm rages inside of him when you look at him—when you bore your pretty, fucking eyes into him before you lean over, hand on the beer pump as you call him Simon.

Simon.

His name has never sounded more serene than when it falls from your lips. The way you say it makes it seem less than ordinary, almost unique. Humour sways in your eyes, a glint he knows there’s more too—and wants nothing more than to explore.

You’re a vibrant surprise in the middle of my mundane, and it took him all of five minutes to discern you’re both difficult and charming all rolled into one.

And then you begin calling him Riley.

It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful.

Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips.

Women haven’t tended to last here—except Tracy. Tracy, who like the urinal cakes, has been here since Simon’s first pint. Her lines had deepened in her skin over time, but her hair has remained that putrid blonde she tries to claim is natural.

You, on the other hand, are far younger—kind, soft, unless someone gets lairy and then there’s a ferociousness to you that’s packed into something so small. He suspects you know what the men at the bar look at when your eyes aren’t looking, and it’s not the way you command the small space stuffed with offerings and glasses.

He’d paid no mind initially. Tried not to, anyway. He’d decided it would be for the best. Then you’d bite back at Dave that you may be too young to remember a song, but you could still get down on her knees without them creaking.

He had smirked at that.

Deciding his new seat at the bar, on the rickety bar stool was his new favourite seat.

To this day, you always smell floral, but the accompanying scent with it changes. Sometimes you’re sultry, sometimes you’re just sweet. Each time he is able to return ‘home’ he’s never sure which one he’ll get—but it burns a place in his nose all the same.

Hard to shift, difficult to smother, not that he wishes to do either.

Their first exchanges were simple. Contractual. Another? Yes. Your usual? Yes. Then you had placed a deck of cards in front of him, a teasing smile on your face in the quietness of a Wednesday evening.

Keep me company.

It was difficult for him to grasp how soft your eyes were, how it made his mind blank and his heart both hammer and stutter all at once.

Now, it’s normal.

He’s used to it, fucking welcomes the way they land on him. He thinks about them on the plane ride home, how Alan—the chef who’ll serve anything off-menu for a packet of fags—makes a mean all-day breakfast sandwich. But mostly, it’s you.

“You back for long, Riley?”

“No.”

“Never are.”

“You sound disappointed, sweetheart.”

You always smile the same when he calls you that. Always half-roll your eyes before shaking your head, as though flirting with you is oh so wrong.

Especially when you start it first.

“What would you do if I was?”

That’s new.

His fingers pick up a crisp, watching you lean on the pump in front of you. The star earrings hanging from your ears, catch the bar spotlights, making it seem as though you’re literally glowing.

But then, you are—to him at least.

Someone calls for you, pint raised in hand—saving him from answering. You wink, and mumble you’ll be right back, the words lingering in the space you once stood.

You’re too good for him.

Too normal. Too unscarred and untouched. He suspects a bad thing has never happened to you. You’ve not plunged a knife into someone’s throat, not shot a moving target with a precision that most try to replicate on their controllers and headsets.

For that reason, and that reason alone, he knows he should stay on this side of the bar. Even when it takes all of his self-restraint to do so.

It’s hard though.

More so when you give him that look—that one which makes his cock twitch and his thoughts turn feral.

Because the nice girl from the pub may have a sweet, soft voice, but fuck he knows you’re anything but.

You’re all red lips and righteousness, a siren and enchantress who chooses floral perfume to try and disguise the way your eyes undress him.

Not that he complains.

He’s done the same.

Fucked his own fist to the thought of the noises you’d make and how you’d feel enveloped around his cock.

Tonight he’d likely do the same.

Winter is in full effect when he next returns.

Snow was thick on the streets, the roads a horrid mix of ice, slush and asphalt.

You’re behind the bar, Bald-Andy and his wife in the corner near the fire, and the crackling, gruff voice of Oasis is playing. You look up, lips smirking, eyes glistening.

“The usual?”

He considers it. Sweet, caramel and vanilla notes hit his tongue in memory. But he shakes his head, pulling out a stool, and sitting opposite you as your perfume greets him.

“Surprise me, sweetheart.”

You stand fully, hair falling around your face, making his heart lurch and his stomach burn.

“Living dangerously, I see,” you say, turning your back to him as you pull at spirit bottles.

If only you knew.

He suspects something sweet when you place the glass in front of him. The sound of it meeting the worn wood so loud, not that the other two patrons look over. As though it’s just the two of you. No one else. His eyes lift, hooking themselves into yours—unwilling to let you tear them from him as he tries to bury the aches of war and fighting.

It’s caramel coloured, darker at the bottom of the glass than the top. Ice. So much ice.

“Go on, try it, Simon.”

And he does.

It’s sweet, and zingy. It’s mellow but spicy, and he tastes the hints of ginger and rum as the cold hits his teeth.

“What y’made me?”

“You like it?”

Yes.

The tip of your tongue swiping across your bottom lip, watching you lean smugly. “Dark and stormy… the epitome of you.”

A groan leaving his lips, your laugh tasting of sunshine and happier days.

A long moment stretches between the two of you, one that makes the air thrum and him having to shift his jeans. A continuous voice in his head, telling him no, telling him to put a stop to this now.

He drinks it. He even orders it again.

Time ticks fast—too fast. He wants it to slow. Ever since their first flirtation, if you’ve finished when he’s there—he walks you to your car.

You drive something small, your entire backseat is always covered in coats, shoes and books. Something normal, and so typically you.

He does the same tonight, hands in his jacket pockets, periodically scanning the area as you lock the big wooden doors of the pub. You shake them, ensuring you have, pocketing the keys before turning to nudge him.

Simple. Soft. Each gesture in the short walk is always seemingly effortless. You don’t worry he’ll take offence, that he’ll shatter or snap.

Not that he would.

His arm lifting, letting your small hand slide around it for stability as the snow falls thick and fast. It paints the streets in a blanket that crunches under their boots. And there’s something about the snow landing in your hair, on the tip of your nose, even on your lower lip.

He wants to brush it from your mouth, and trace the bow of your upper lip with his thumb.

Because it’s all a contradiction. Snow makes you look innocent, something close to a character from a movie or a Disney film. And, you’re not any of those things.

You’re snarky, huffed whispers and quick retorts when drunkards try to hit on you; you’re witty, funny and boldly brilliant.

So much so, he’s never sure why you work there. He knows you’re studying, knows you’re trying to better yourself. You’ve told him as much over a Pepsi Max in your hand and something stronger in his.

He knows it’s odd to keep staring at you. Your eyes staring up, making your eyes seem wider and bigger than they actually are—pretty sure the flurries of snow, stars and moon are shining in them. But it’s his treat—his reward. The thing he thinks about when he’s knee-deep in mud or covered in blood, sweat and bruises.

Your feet stop at your car, unlocking it—the beep and flash of your headlights casting light across the car park.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

Smiling, you lean against the rear window. “Never are.”

It’s a pattern, a habit. An exchange that has become the norm for the two of you as much as hello and goodbye.

Then, you sigh.

Something you rarely do, not to him—not with him. His brows knitting, tightening, heart thundering in his throat as you drag your eyes up his chest, and neck and land on his face.

“Do you know how perfect it would be, if you grew a pair and kissed me in the snow, Riley?”

Your hand slides into the handle, opening it as your smirk turns into a grin. One which is brighter than your headlights, the moon—hell, the fucking sun.

“Guess I’ll have to wait for a shooting star, instead.”

And, you laugh, leaning your back against the car—expression blended with vulnerability and searing heat that should melt the settling ice on your face.

“Y’seem like the sorta woman to make me work for it.”

“Oh yes, because eighteen months of will-they-won’t-they hasn’t been tedious enough.”

He grabs your elbow, roughly pulling but finds you fall into him with far too much ease. The snow continues to fall, leaving soft cold kisses on his face, but he doesn’t feel cold.

How could he? You’re staring up at him with the searing heat of the sun.

“Y’want me to kiss you, Sweetheart?”

“More than I want to go home and sleep, Riley.”

His hand cups your cheek, warm meeting cold as he pulls your lips to his. Cold, soft lips slide against his, and he tastes the orange from your cordial swirling with his bourbon-covered tongue. Your car groans when he presses you against it, your hand clutching him with the same desperation as he’s flush with your body.

Your cheeks are warm against his hands, eyelashes fluttering open as the two of you break apart.

“You… you want to come back to mine?”

Yes. Fuck yes.

But—

“Next time.”

“Yeah?”

His fingers brush down your cheek, and he nods.

He got your number.

For convenience. You tell him he didn’t need to come in and drink one of your piss-poor beer pulls just to get in your knickers.

So he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text when he first lands. He gives himself a day—a moment to shed the Ghost and become Simon. When you do you don’t reply with anything witty, just straight-laced—just like he likes it.

A time. An address.

He expects you to size him up at your front door, even bracing for a changed mind. You don’t do either. You let the door open, standing two steps inwards dressed in something lace and rippable.

Fuckin’ fuck.

It’s the only thought he has before he slams your door behind him, striding towards you and practically throwing you over his shoulder.

You don’t taste like what he expects—it’s better.

His tongue flattens against you, two fingers inside your warm cunt as you whimper. You reluctantly still clutching to the promise you’d made earlier. The one where you informed him it’ll take more than a few fingers and a skilled tongue to make you scream.

So he sucks. Bites. Nips.

He finds that squishy part, stroking it as your thighs twitch by his ears.

It’s then he grants himself the chance to look at you, finding your lipstick spread in a way which seems deliberately chaotic—even if he knows it isn’t. Your lashes wet, eyes clamped shut as you try and try not to give in.

So fuckin’ stubborn.

Your hands, all smooth and soft, clutching your breasts, the pink of a nipple poking out between your index and thumb as your chest rises and falls as you fight calling out his name.

He likes that you have convictions—it gives him something to break.

His tongue swirling, knowing already what he needs to do to undo you.

And then—

Simon—fuc-k, Simon.

It’s better than classical, better than whatever is number one on the fuckin’ charts. The sound of you coming hard, and fast, trying to bury it in a whisper than the scream you actually want to release. All of it is a better sound than his knife plunging into some unsuspecting op—because he will make you scream.

He laps up every ounce you give him, your pleading whimpers and nails in his hair making him groan against your cunt until you almost snap his neck—or try to.

“Take them off. Now.”

He doesn’t like orders.

He fucking detests them. He gives them. Normally loud and booming. But your voice, all sweet and high-pitched, trying to give stern eyes when your lashes are coated in tears he’s caused…

Your eyes widen when he stands naked. And he knows he’s big.

He’s very fucking aware of it. He’s seen plenty of evidence to support the fact in the wild, surprised eyes of those who he’s dropped his trousers for.

You now being one of them.

But fuck, he fits in you perfectly. So much so, he wants to mould your insides to match him, to ruin you for every other person who thinks they stand a chance with you.

Because they don’t.

But then neither does he.

Not that he’ll squander a moment to fuck with heaven—to hear the cadence shift when he hooks your leg over his hip as he drives his cock into you all the way to the hilt.

He coaxes another out of you, your tight cunt like a vice around him as your manicured nails leave scratches on his back. His tongue swipes across your jaw, before haphazardly capturing your mouth.

You taste like mint polos and sex—a taste he is already sure he’ll crave.

And he wonders to himself if you know how fucking perfect you are. If you have any idea of how stunning you truly are.

Especially like this. Your body shimmering with sweat, each thrust making your breasts bounce as your fingers tease his hair at the nape of his neck.

And then he wonders about something else.

Something far from coating your walls in his come.

Would you fit in his life?

Would you fit as well in it, as he does inside your cunt?

And then you’re clenching, hips lazily trying to meet his as you whimper, moan—

And then you scream.

Not Riley.

But Simon.

Mission accomplished.

It has become a habit.

You have become a habit.

He lands. He waits a day. He fucks you until you are raw, sore and breathless. His lips are on yours, hands still on your hips as he hears how hoarse your voice is.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

But this no is different.

It’s tinged with half a teaspoon of regret and sadness.

You hide your face when he answers now. Sometimes by slinging your arm to shield him from your eyes or by turning from him. It’s like you know he likes them. Likes being able to see each infliction of emotion in them—shimmering, dancing, storming across in front of him.

Somehow, you’ve fit into his life too well—cutting yourself a hole, forcing your way in, and making it seem as though you were always there.

Simon lets you be, too.

You have one of his t-shirts, baggy, black and covered in your perfume. He finds he has one of your hair ties around his wrist, not even realising until he slides on a pair of gloves. Flicking it against his wrist as he thinks of you, something he only allows himself to do briefly.

Things have changed. Shifted.

But the Earth hasn’t fallen off its axis and he’s not fucked up a mission. So he counts his blessings. He doesn’t know if he believes good things can happen to him, but he could be persuaded that he can have nice things. A belief he even starts to accept. A reality he begins to wish for, rather than keep at arm's length.

You’ve left the pub. You hadn’t been working every night for a while. Your studies had ended—receiving a photo of a cap and gown without your face when he was in the middle of a desert.

Now you’re working a better job, one you deserve more—it’s creative, more you. You make the world brighter, and better while he’s getting dirty and riding the world of darkness. You text him once, the day you got paid, that you bought him something nice.

Something he ripped with his teeth when he landed—much to your annoyance.

You’re no longer the girl in the pub. You’re perfectly applied make-up he fucks off your face. You’re high heels and pencil skirts—and sometimes fitted trousers that hug your arse so beautifully, he’s almost a bit jealous. You’re the pink sky at night, laughter that warms his chest, and a smile he thinks about as he falls asleep.

“What would my alias be?”

Your hand slides over a plate to him. Cheese on toast. Nothing big, nothing major, but he stares at it all the same. Because you’ve made him something.

You’ve been doing it for a while, and each time is as perplexing as the last. His brain is unable to figure out how, why and what he’s done to deserve it. Even if it’s toast, a sandwich, or a fucking meal.

Because it’s something outside of sex. It’s outside of holding the back of your head as he fucks your throat; outside of him pinning you against the dark alleyway of the pub he first saw you in, making you both cold and warm all at once.

Even if he knows—constantly turns it over and over in his mind—that this isn’t just sex. He’s not entirely sure what this is. Except…nice?

You take a bite of your own, the crunch filling the air, crumbs littering your top—his top. “My call sign.”

Simon isn’t sure why he told you about what he did. You were in his arms, warm, smelling of sex, flowers and something sharp. And, it fell out of him. Still drunk off your cunt, lost in the tenderness of your fingers on his chest, playing it a pattern with your nails.

Not everything. Fuck, he couldn’t tell you everything—wouldn’t. But you know enough.

Enough for him to know you’re not running, that you still want him knocking on your door whenever he lands—whether it's morning, noon or night.

Now, you’re making him food. Legs long, his black t-shirt skimming your thighs—all his. Looking ever so inviting, making it hard not to push you up on the counter and give your neighbours something to talk about.

“Egg.”

You snort, sharp and light. “Egg?! You’re fuckin’ rude, Riley. Egg? No, that’s shit, give me a better one.”

“But, true. You’d shatter, you’re more yolk than shell, you.”

“C’mon, be serious.”

He gives you a look, finding the one you’re giving him sultry, teasing—demanding.

“Snow.”

You stare for several seconds before you hum, crunching the corner of your food with your teeth. “Lemme guess because I’m oh-so-delicate?”

No—

It’s because you’re fucking perfect.

Because you’re his favourite season and favourite moment.

On some deeper level, he suspects it’s because you’re pure. That you’re unruined. Untainted. Your body has no scars—except the one from chicken pox and one on your hand from a glass bottle shattering. But, that’s it. He’s kissed every inch of you to know, to be 100% sure.

You’re Snow because each time he sees it, he thinks of you. Those red lips, all that fucking audacity and the way you kissed him, tasting as warm as bourbon and as sweet as sugar.

“Yeh, ‘cause you’re all pure and innocent, Sweetheart.”

You laugh, richly. Head thrown back, perfect thin neck exposed to the air—to him.

And he wants to kiss you.

He wants to taste your laugh and smile, let his hands run around the back of your thighs and feel you against every inch of him.

That’s when your eyes land on him again—all full of questions and spice. Your tongue drags across your plush bottom lip, wiping up the grease from the cheese as he swallows.

His throat suddenly dry.

Because the girl he met in the pub—the one standing before him—is standing in his t-shirt. Looking every bit delicious, good enough to eat and never come up for air.

And he thinks—

Realises, he actually, might—probably—miss you when he goes back to Price.

It’s stretched on for months. A year.

He lands, uses the key you gave him and stamps the snow from his boots, half smiling to himself as he does. Whenever he gets here, he doesn’t wait, he finds his way to whatever room you’re in.

Sometimes he doesn’t get far, your body colliding with his. All curves in his hands and arms around his neck, and he’s not sure what the fuck this is, but he likes it.

Loves it.

It’s something like a song about falling in love and a peaceful Sunday morning; it’s those moments you see in movies that make your eyes swell with tears as he stares at you, wondering how on earth you’re so goddamn amazing.

It’s familiar, and yet he has no idea what is happening next or why.

Mostly, though, Simon knows it’s something because he said your name to Johnny.

Not because he was dying, not because he was hurt. But in the middle of a normal conversation, one exchanged on some dark rooftop, stars twinkling, and eyes fixated on a building down a scope.

Normally, he wouldn’t have answered. Would have ignored him.

If y’could be anywhere, right now, Lt. Where’d y’pick?

He didn’t need to think.

He didn’t say home. Because home wasn’t his place, the pub or even the fuckin’ city he’s always ever known. It’s wherever you are. It’s where your heart beats and your bed is placed; it’s where your annoying, shitty music taste is blaring and that sleepy smile is when he wakes up next to you.

So, Simon said your name.

Simple. Easy.

Except it wasn’t simple or fucking easy. It was messy, and complicated. Because Johnny tilted his head, in that obnoxious way he does, demanding more information than he is ever prepared to ever share.

‘Fuck off, Johnny, before I punt y’off the rooftop and tell Price you’d been a cunt.’

Because you are locked away when he’s here. You are chained inside his chest, the deepest fucking secret—one no one will ever fucking take no matter how much they dig, how much they push him too.

You are his.

Something only he gets to enjoy—gets to see, hear and taste.

He’s done all of that for the last hour. Getting some sick satisfaction from edging you until you’re pleading with him, begging him with every breath you have to let you come as you wriggle and wiggle, urging him to lift your legs—just like he likes it, how you like it, and make you see fucking stars.

Now, you’re barefoot.

A different t-shirt of his hiding the welts he’s left, the growing bruises from the way he’d needed to hold you in place. Watching, observing—admiring—the oddness to your steps as you flick on the kettle. He’s always close—looming in the sun’s shadows across the kitchen he knows better than his own.

He has to be. Wants to be.

You’ve not just carved a place in your life, but in his chest—his heart. You’ve seeped into his skin, into his soul, merging and bringing to life something he thought had wilted and died. He doesn’t care that he’s vulnerable, that he’s not jagged edges and sharp stares.

“You wanna go out with me? Tonight?”

You pause, tea bag in hand, looking over your shoulder at him as if he’d asked you to slaughter a pig, a child, a whole bloody family.

The moment is tender, almost fragile.

It trembles under the weight of his question and the silence of your thoughts.

Then it stills—

“You don’t… you don’t have to do that…”

“What?”

Dashing the tea bag into the cup, you turn. Hips leaning against the counter, sigh falling from your swollen, pink lips as your arms fold. The air scented with that familiar smell your home always has—jasmine and pineapple, the sun kissing your toes and legs as your face shows thunder and rain.

The air shifts, changing. It’s speckled in ice with a cold breeze punctuated by you suddenly not able to meet his eyes.

“Date me. Change… this. I know that you… I know you don’t have time for that.”

Except he doesn’t hear that, he hears me.

He suspects you don’t say it to hurt him.

But it does.

It wounds—

It fucking burns. It’s on par with a bullet or a rusty knife, twisting and twisting until it’s hitting nerves and making muscles quake.

It worsens when the kettle clicks, ready—waiting. It blows steam under your cupboards, billowing out around the edges before it rushes to the ceiling. Twisting, turning, desperate to escape the uncomfortable space between the two of you.

But, he just wants to pull you close—impossibly close. He wants to cradle and fucking hug you, even if he never hugs anyone. Simon wants to tell you that he hasn’t been doing this with anyone else. That it’s been over a year of this, and even he knows it’s something.

Admittedly, yeah, he didn’t think he’d have fucking time for someone, and then you came in and blew that all to shit. But, on some level inside of him, he knows they aren’t the words he should be saying. So silence fills the space instead.

Doubling. Tripling. Expanding like foam and smoothing over crevices as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

And he knows he should just ask again.

Softer. Maybe with a bit more emotion. Counting in his head. One. Two, fucking Three.

Your body turning, holding out a mug you got him—big, black with tiny ghosts on it. Because you’d pestered and pestered to know what he was called. What his alias is when he shoots people. The mug made you grin when you handed it to him last time—tired of him taking your favourite. The one with a quote from a television show you keep promising to show him. Sarcastic. Almost makes his teeth show when he smiles. He almost does the same when he takes the mug, and you turn away from him.

Now when he takes it, your eyes drop to the floor. To the space between the two of you.

The one which feels vast, and far larger than the bar ever felt.

All Simon wonders is why there’s a pit opening inside of him—why it is filling him with a feeling he wants to cut out of himself. It’s not light or nice, it’s dark and twisty.

Because he’s the same person who goes on stupid solo missions where the percentage of survival is low, and still fucking comes back to base with whatever was asked of him. He’s Ghost—a man who many fear. Who is often coated in more of other people’s blood than he is dirt.

And yet this—

You.

Terrify the living fuck out of him. Not that he’s showing that. He knows he’s stood with a stiff back, and a face devoid of any emotions.

“You said it when we first… Just… I know your job is important. I know you can’t commit and I respect—”

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes meet his. Teeth biting your lip, arms crossing over your chest.

And shit, he hopes to never see this face ever again. This nervous, unsure face that he’s put there. One which complicates everything and pulls on every string inside of him.

You are an enigma, and he’s not even sure you know it.

You’re something he never deserves, something he never thought he’d have, get, or keep.

Yet, here you are.

Someone who has seen every inch of him. Knows what he does. Where he goes. You even know brief moments of his past, the parts of him that he’d rather take to the grave.

You are important. You matter.

He’s falling—free-falling, in fact—and has been for a while, he didn’t even acknowledge it. Pushing it down, letting it sit with all the other things he doesn’t want to deal with.

“Do’ya wanna go out with me tonight?”

Each word hits you, strokes you. He watches as each syllable lands, your eyes reading him.

“You back for long, Simon?”

His lips twitch. “Little bit.”

And then you smile. All devious and cunning, lips twisting as you unfold your arms and adjust your stance. “I think I’d prefer a takeaway. Keep you to myself, while I 'ave you.”

Standing, crossing the small space of your kitchen as he cages you in. Your hand clutching his cheek, soft, gentle, and more than he fucking deserves.

His head lowers, lips close to your ear as you curl your body into him as he whispers, all gruff and quiet so only you—and not a fly or spirit could hear—says, “I’ve always been just yours, sweetheart.”

Simon doesn't expect a response. More a kiss. Maybe even a roll of your hips.

It's why he doesn't expect the words, "I'd hoped so", or the way they make him feel like he's walking on air.

2K notes · View notes

ushiwhacka · 1 year

Text

husband! gojo satoru + fem! reader | 1,285 words | mdni | spit kink, slight dacryphilia, overstimulation, gojo is obsessed with you and it's sickeningly sweet <3

the nights when he comes home just before daybreak are usually the hardest. when the sky is murky and unsettling and the edges of the furniture seem obscured in the light. when he doesn’t take his blindfold off before crawling into bed and under your oversized shirt. when the rest of the world washes away as he rests his head between your breasts. and he feels his lungs expand and fill with air. and he can breathe again.

satoru presses his nose into your skin, all he wants to feel is you. this time his duties have kept him away from home for too long. two weeks without feeling your supple flesh spill in his hands. two weeks of falling asleep without you in his arms. two weeks without his very life force, the gravitational field that keeps him tethered to this world. all he needs is a kiss, to feel the love seep from your lips and into his skin, to be reminded that he belongs etched by your side.

he feels nimble fingers scrape across his scalp over the worn-out fabric. “you’re stinky.” the words drag from your throat, slow and heavy with sleep. thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the base of his neck. “you can’t sleep like this.”

“‘m sorry for waking you.” it’s barely even a mumble, and you both know he doesn’t mean it. “i missed my wife.” that he does mean, more than anything in the world and more than anyone could ever comprehend.

arms circle around your waist and pull you up with him, manoeuvre your drowsy body until you’re flush against his chest. it’s clumsy and a bit too tight, but it’s perfect. “and i missed my husband.” your fingers slip beneath his blindfold, lifting it gently and slipping it over his head. and his eyes almost shine in the darkness as he looks at you. eyes that hold the entire universe. eyes that are tired and strained. eyes that brim full with happiness when you place a feathery kiss over one eyelid and then the other.

“you forgot handsome.”

“hmm?”

“your handsome husband.”

“will my handsome husband please go and bathe?” pretty pink lips brush against yours, a kiss so soft and sweet you feel your face burn. and when he returns, hair still damp, he falls asleep with his face buried in the crook of your neck and his arms looped around your tummy. holding on a bit too tight.

gojo’s love is overwhelming and needy. a little bit obsessive. it needs to be indulged and coddled. it’s clingy. too much. and he had tried so hard to hold back, the panic rising and thumping in his ears. he had tried so hard to not pour all of himself into you. but your meticulous fingers wrapped around him, wrangling and twisting, squeezing every last drop he had to offer. and he was brought down to his knees in front of you. and then just one knee. and then standing at the altar, letting big, crystal tears fall freely as he watched you walk toward him, not a single doubt in your mind. none of it too much for you - not the burden of his name, his position, the duties of a life he hadn’t chosen for himself. not even his barely tolerable personality.

satoru becomes even less tolerable when he’s with you. getting ready for work together every single morning. standing in front of the bathroom mirror, each with a toothbrush in hand, stealing glances at the other as you’ve only just met. so in love it’s a little bit stupid. there’s toothpaste dribbling down your chin, and his heart swells. soft cheeks give way to his fingers as he crashes his lips against yours. it’s messy and minty and a bit ridiculous.

“people think we’re gross, you know?”

“mmmm don’t care,” he shrugs. “i love being gross with you.” and the lopsided grin that stretches his features is too charming to bear.

you’re still on his mind when he’s supposed to be doing paperwork but he can’t stop staring at his new wallpaper - a picture of you all pretty and smiling, your nose slightly crinkled. then the phone is just inches away from nanami’s face. followed by wistful sighs and proclamations of “nanamin, look at how beautiful my wife is!” and “i’ve never seen that speckle in her eye before…” and “can you believe she married me?” nanami can’t believe you married him. but still, there’s something endearing about how he dotes on the loving notes you put in his lunch. little heart-shaped post-its that he reads and rereads and keeps safe in his desk drawer. he doesn’t care how pathetic he looks, not when the reason for it is you.

all that matters is that his life is filled with moments like this. sitting at the kitchen table, a delicate strawberry cake between you. layers of shortcake and cream and strawberries perfectly arranged. only to be ruined by greedy hands digging into it. he insists on hand-feeding you desserts. there’s airy filling and strawberry juice smeared all over his hand as he shoves a bite that’s just slightly too big in your mouth. and he huffs in surprise when he feels teeth nipping at the tips of his fingers.

pouting, he snatches his hand back. “no biting, you beast!”

“i just wanted a little taste,” you giggle, pulling him back towards you to leave gentle kisses over the bite marks

and he gives you a taste. hand wrapped around your jaw to keep your mouth open. he’s looming over you as he lets spit dribble from his lips, shiny and glistening in the moonlight peeking from your bedroom window. your eyes are glazed over, mind fuzzy with the slow rhythm of his hips rutting into you. the string of saliva rolling down your tongue, and he still tastes like strawberries and cream. you take everything he gives you, and so willing to give him all of yourself. “my perfect little wife,” his hand moves down to your neck as he kisses you. it’s sloppy and wet, forceful in the way his tongue slides against yours. like he’s claiming you over and over again. you’re both drooling and breathless when he pulls away, but that doesn’t matter. you don’t need air when you have this.

satoru is so loud as he whines into your mouth. almost incoherent watching his cock disappear inside you, sticky where your bodies connect. “this pussy was made for me, yeah?” he thrusts hard enough to make you squeal, gripping the sheets tighter to ground yourself.

“y-yeah,” hips grinding so close against yours, the tension in your thighs edging on painful, “only for you.”

he’s being so mean. so greedy. long, languid strokes force you to feel every inch of him. you’ve lost count of the times he’s made you cum. lost all sense of time and place. all you know is him and his reverence. little chants of “fuck, baby, you’re so good for me.” and still he demands more, panting "just one more time, please." but how could you expect him to stop? he can’t when your pussy is drooling and squeezing his length so tight. despite how raw and sensitive his cock feels, he needs to keep fucking you. he needs to make up for all those nights he’s had to suffer your absence. he needs to lick the tears off your cheeks and savour the saltiness. he needs to watch your eyes roll back, to hear you whimper and whine. he needs you for as long as he can have you. for as long as you’ll have him. and you already promised you’d have him forever.

this was completely inspired by char (@utahimeow) and our very normal conversations about gojo 🤎

thank you for reading! interaction is very much appreciated! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo fluff #gojo smut #jjk fluff #jjk smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo x reader

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btdemaru · 1 year

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Obey Me! Dating fluff headcanon.

ft. The 7 demon brothers seperate

(obey me brothers x GN! Reader)

Note : these r just the headcanon + love language that i think would fit them, if it's abit ooc i apologize!

Warning : slightly suggestive

Lucifer

his love language is definitely acts of service and quality time

Opening doors for you, pouring you a cup of coffee he made just for the both of you

Whenever he's doing work and you're in the room with him, he'd probably pull you onto his lap

Lucifer loves and always enjoys the times you spend together frfr

Even if it's just in his room, going for night walks, fancy dinners and so on

If you guys go out for dinner or just grocery shopping he would definitely put his hand around your waist just to show everyone there that you're his

He'll say that hes a little overprotective.. even tho 'little' is far from how protective he actually is 💀

Tends to overwork himself so you have to force him to get his ass to bed whether you drag him or not

Is too prideful to admit that he craves your hugs and cuddles every night

Mostly calls you 'my love' or 'my dearest'

If you disturb him while he's working on a deadline or just giving him an attitude he'd definitely be pissed and wouldn't hesitate to put your bratty attitude in place

Loves kissing your lips and neck

Mammon

I think his love language is gifting (more to receiving gifts lmfao) and physical touch

Will make you his lucky charm when he's gambling 😉

If he won, you're in for a treat! Would spend the money he won on you by buying you new clothes, shoes, jewelry or even a lingerie (more of a gift for him tbh)

Mammon is very caring towards you so when he sees that you're down or upset he'd definitely will try his hardest to cheer you up

Which probably is easy since he's such a fun demon to he around with so you're never bored with him around

I think his nicknames for you that he uses alot is probably 'stupid' or 'human'

Ofcourse he doesn't mean it when hes insulting you though

If he hears anyone insulting you he'd make a scene which sometimes mostly isn't really needed if you dont give a shit about what other demon/people say.

Favorite parts of you he likes to kiss is your cheeks

Leviathan

I've always imagined him as a sweet boy (so breedable)

His love language? Quality time and maybe physical touch <3

He's mostly in his room, so when you invited yourself in and started talking about how you like his interest he'd burst right there and then.

Loves your touch, perhaps abit clingy..? Typa guy who'd snuggle with you in bed while he's playing games or sitting on your lap while he's fighting bosses 👌

has difficulty accepting that you choose to spend time with him or even dating him

If you decide to cosplay just for his eyes only his brain would malfunctioned, face and ears all red flushed

Tbh he'd get just a teeny tiny bit jealous when you pay more attention to henry 2.0 than him but he thinks it's cute that you also care for his little goldfish.

Would call you 'normie' or just by your name

Loves when you reassure him no matter the situation, when he has nightmares or his self-esteem isn't good or more.

Kisses your inner thighs or hand

Satan

Maybe word of affirmation?

Satan would write and reads the poems he made just for you

Most likely he'll read you stories if you're struggling to sleep or has insomnia

he will let you read him the book he's reading while he lays on your lap demanding his head to be stroked as well

Favorite activity with you is reading together in bed the whole day or going to a cat cafe, taking pictures of you holding a cat (would probably make it his wallpaper)

He can be harsh sometimes especially when he just had an argument again with Lucifer and would apologize dearly when he lashes out at you.

Not much of a PDA fan but will hold your hand when the you're going out together

Idk abt nicknames but probably 'kitten' (?) Or 'darling'

Satan will keep every cat item you gave him (keychain, plushie ect)

Kisses your right hand alot along with your lips

Asmodeus

Physical touch 🔛🔝

We all know he's flirty and he won't hide it

He loves PDA so be prepared lmaoo, he'll hold your hand/waist or give you random kisses here and there whether it's on your lips, neck, hand anywhere!

You guys would go on shopping dates ALOT, he loves picking clothes for you and once even tried going in to the changing room with you to "help".

Shopping with him takes pretty long- after buying clothes he goes to buy perfume then shoes then nail polishes then this and that, but no worries he'd spoil you to buy whatever you want there

Asmo buys alot of matching outfits for the both of you

Without you noticing he'd probably buy new toys every now and then for the both of you to try (iykyk)

Another favorite activity he likes to drag you into is warm steamy baths together, just the thought of your bare body touching gets him excited!

Has plenty of nickname for you its uncountable 'sweetie', 'love', 'darling', 'dollface', 'hottie' and 'sexy'

Beelzebub

quality time

This big boy melts like putty when you cook for him, whether it's a dish from where you came from to his favorite foods

Likes to cuddle with you while eating chips, the crumbs tend to get all over you but he has no problem cleaning it up with his mouth

Ask you on a movie date alot (bringing snacks and food is a must!!)

Loves when you're watching him exercise and would be happy if you join him

He'd blush hard if he notice you staring at his body (who wouldn't tbh)

Sometimes but rarely ask his twin brother to join on sleepy dates

Usually would walk behind you or hold your hands, nobody would dare to do anything to you if he's around- he would throw hands if you got physically hurt by someone- so you'll definitely feel safe with him

'honey' or food based stuff is probably his favorite nickname to call you.

I think he'd bite you softly more than kisses, but if he does kisses you it's mostly collarbone or forehead

Belphegor

Like his twin beel, loves quality time with you!

Your dates with him would probably 99.999% be sleepy dates and cuddles

Always ask you to sleep next to him, bodies tangled together and just so comfy he LOVES it!

I personally like to think that he purrs- so imagine him purring loudly while you give him head pats and sleeping on your chest.

Gives you the right airpods/headset so you both can relax while listening to music together, just enjoying each other's company

His body temperature is ice cold so if you're a warm person expect him to cling to you everywhere

If you aren't there he'd probably pouts while hugging his pile of stuffed animals and pillows until you get back

Hogs your lap purposely if you're having a conversation with beel, belphie pretends to be asleep tho he's listening to both of your convo.

Nicknames? I think he'd just call you by your name.

Sleepy kisses on your lips, sometimes sloppy makeout sessions.

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stellar-skyy · 7 months

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DANCE WITH ME! - Platonic Freminet & reader

i. SUMMARY: Freminet dances with his sibling. ii. CONTENT WARNINGS: Implied sensory overload. iii. NOTES: STRICTLY PLATONIC, found family, older sibling!reader, fluff, slight hurt/comfort(?), gn!reader, they/them pronouns used, 1.5k words. iv. A/N: I really wanted to get this out because it's the last time I have time to write for like a week, so I'm sorry if it seems rushed. ;-; This is technically a continuation of my other Freminet fic, the warmth of home, set much further in the future.

Freminet stood against the furthest wall of the ballroom, holding a glass with both hands and hoping if he huddled close enough into the corner he would become one with the wallpaper itself.

Lyney was dazzling guests on the other side of the room, a luminous smile on his lips and no shortage of charm dripping from his words. A clever magic trick here, a whisper of sweet words there, and half of the party had fallen for him. Lynette stood beside him: silent, but still carrying her own unique charm. She might not be as flashy as Lyney, but she still was one the guests fawned over, for her quiet charisma and peculiar demeanour.

Freminet wasn’t originally on the guestlist of the party, only being added at the last minute as a ‘thank you’ from the hotel owner for fixing some bits of machinery within the walls of the hotel. And even then, it took Lyney convincing him to make a polite appearance to drag him away from the sea—the place he was planning on spending that night instead.

They’d arrived as a group, being greeted warmly by the host. It took about three minutes for Lyney to be swept away by a crowd of adoring fans of his performances, Lynette following close behind as she always did, and Freminet—

Freminet was left alone.

It wasn’t as if being overlooked was a new experience for him. Lyney and Lynette thrived in the spotlight, while all Freminet did was wilt, so they were content keeping the attention away from him. It was easier that way; he could blend into the shadows and retreat back into his own mind, where there was no one to disturb him. He didn’t care about being ignored by the guests.

(He just didn’t want to be ignored by his siblings.)

Freminet clutched the glass tightly in his hands. He was still too young to drink, so when he was handed the glass of wine by a passing waiter, Lynette was quick to swoop over and swap it with a glass of water instead, before returning to her twin’s side.

The music had gotten louder, the orchestra playing a more upbeat song than the ballad that had preceded it. It was an enjoyable sound in theory, but the sheer volume of it—combined with the overlapping chatter in the room, thick smell of wine, and bustling crowds—made it sound like they were playing their violins with knives. They scraped along the strings, a metallic screeching echoing across the ballroom.

Why didn’t anyone else look bothered by the noise? Was he the only one who could hear it?

“—eminet? Freminet?”

The voice cut through the other noise in his ears, letting his attention fall directly on the concerned look of the person in front of him. He stumbled backwards slightly—when did they get so close?

“Freminet, are you okay?” (Name) repeated, a furrow in their brow. “I’ve been calling for you and you haven’t responded.”

“I-I’m okay, it’s just…” He swallowed, looking back down at the glass of water in his hands. “…very loud.”

Their eyes widened in understanding. “Do you want to me to take you somewhere quieter?”

He nodded, shrinking back into himself. Disappearing acts were more his brother’s specialty, but he wouldn’t mind being whisked away for a while. And of course, it wasn’t polite to make his sibling escort him out of the party, but the noise was so dreadful that he couldn’t even bring himself to feel self-conscious about it.

(Name) brought him through the crowd, dodging both guests and waiters as they led him past the dancefloor, up the stairs and out a set of double doors. The two emerged onto a balcony, almost being knocked back by the biting wind.

“Here. We can stay as long as you like.” They said, sliding down against the railing to sit cross-legged on the floor. Cautiously, Freminet did the same.

“It’s much quieter here.” He muttered to himself, before addressing (Name) again. “Won’t you be missing the party?”

“It’s okay,” they said easily. “I was pretty tired myself.”

The music was still audible through to the balcony, reverberating through the walls in a muted symphony. As minutes passed, it shifted in tone from joyful melodies to a slower waltz.

Through the window they could see through to the bottom floor, where Lyney still entertaining guests. As the music changed, he looked over at Lynette with a tilt of his head. She blinked back at him and nodded slightly, taking his hand as he extended it to her. Their ability to communicate without a single word was always something that puzzled Freminet, but seeing the guest’s confused reactions made him think it was just something that only made sense to the two of them.

“What are they doing?” Freminet mumbled, watching Lyney lead Lynette to the centre of the dance floor.

“They’re going to dance together.” (Name) replied, also observing the pair. Sure enough, Lyney let go of Lynette’s hand long enough to shift it to the middle of her back, clasping their other hands together and sweeping across the floor.

“They look so elegant…”

(Name) hummed in agreement.

“I think I would have liked to dance. Not in front of everyone, though.” Freminet said quietly. (Name) was quiet for a beat, before abruptly standing up.

“I guess it’s good we’re alone out here, then.”

“Huh?” He blinked at them.

“Dance with me!” They stuck out their hand, a grin across their face.

“R-Right now?” He glanced around himself, as if there were guests loitering around the corner, ready to scoff at him at any moment. “But we’re outside, and I don’t—”

“We can still hear the music from out here,” They reasoned, not moving their hand. “It’s just me. There’s no one out here to stare at you.”

“I’m not that good.” Freminet frowned, looking back at Lyney and Lynette twirling across the floor. More guests had swarmed to the dancefloor following their lead, pairs spinning and dancing across the ballroom. The dance seemed easy enough to follow, and Lynette had run him through the basic steps of the waltz ‘in case of emergency’…

Before he could think about it too hard, Freminet had laced his fingers around his siblings and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. (Name) rested their other hand in the middle of his back, while he hesitantly placed his on top of their shoulder.

In time with the music, Freminet was pulled across the balcony in a gentle rhythm. They glided round in a gradual circle, in time to the tempo of the music echoing outside.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

On the third beat, Freminet faltered, almost stepping on (Name)’s feet before he caught himself. He ducked his head in embarrassment, watching his feet carefully to make sure he didn’t accidentally stumble.

The dance was slightly awkward with their inexperience, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The music was faint in his ears, the crowd was a distant memory, and all he could pay attention to was how light he felt. This must be how Lyney and Lynette feel when they’re together; like he was free to let the weights slide off his shoulders and just simply exist, without worrying about the other’s judgement. He’d never have his other half like they had, but he had (Name) and that was good enough.

They let go of the hand across his back, stepping back to spin him around in a twirl. The movement made him slightly dizzy, but they were right there to grab onto him and make sure he didn’t fall. To think, his plans changed from diving into the ocean and not emerging until the early morning to dancing a waltz on a balcony with his sibling. The entire thing…

It was rather absurd, wasn’t it?

A giggle escaped his lips, then another and another until he could hardly breathe through the laughter. His sibling was staring at him like he’d gone mad, and with good reason. Freminet wasn’t one for emotion—he liked to think of himself as an impassive and cold, free from needless feelings. It wasn’t in his nature to smile often or laugh.

But (Name) soon fell into their own fit of giggles, as if catching a contagion. Their steps stumbled and faltered, until they’d collapsed against each other. Freminet looked up at them, an open smile twisting his features into something almost unrecognisable. There was a warmth spreading across his chest, akin to the exhilaration he got whenever he first dove into the water.

“Do you want to go back inside?” They asked, stepping back to lean against the railing. Freminet hesitated.

He could see through the glass that the twins had finished their dance, Lyney whispering to Lynette while scanning the room in a look Freminet knew to be the face he made whenever he was hiding how troubled he was. His eyes swept around the guests—looking for the two of them, it seemed. Logically, he knew he should go back inside to at least let them know he was okay, and hadn’t just vanished into the sea like he usually did. It would be the polite thing to do.

But he had his sibling with him. And the wind was a pleasant coldness against his cheeks.

“It’s peaceful out here.” He said quietly. “Let’s… stay a little bit longer.”

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

#✒️ — writing #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #platonic genshin impact x reader #platonic genshin x reader #platonic x reader #freminet x reader #genshin freminet x reader #platonic freminet x reader

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suzuran777 · 1 year

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Nitro Chiral April Fools’, 2005 - 2021

Nitro Chiral recently announced that they will probably not create any new content for April Fools’ in the future. I remember really looking forward to this every year, so I was a bit sad to hear that...! They mentioned that they might change this decision again some day, so we will just have to wait and see... To remember all of the fun jokes they’ve created throughout the years I wanted to make a fun compilation of all their previous April Fools’ jokes (or at least the ones I remember and took screenshots of). Maybe someone already posted something similar, but I had a lot of fun looking at these old pictures again!

2005 Togainu no Chi 'Vischio Jack'. This was just one month after Togainu no Chi was released! Nitro Chiral’s website was filled with Arbitro’s hobbies. He announced that the next game will be called ‘Makeinu no Chi’ which means ‘blood of the losers’... The new main visual also shows all of them bleeding from their noses lol.

Some interesting new items... the Shiki body pillow?

2006 A year later Arbitro hijacked the official website once more and comments on each Lamento character. He seems to be a fan of Konoe but the others aren't his type... This blog describes it in greater detail (Japanese only). Second part of the website teases the Togainu no Chi fighting game (咎狗の血餓狗 Mark of the Dogs). I kind of wish they really made this game because the description of it sounds fun.

2007 Lamento Love Love Gakuen, which was later made into a real drama CD also started as an April Fools' joke! Asato is Konoe’s childhood friend in this, Rai the student council president and Bardo’s a health education teacher.

You can still listen to some of the audio clips from the original page here! The plot doesn’t seem much different than the real drama CD they ended up making later.

2009 Nitro Chiral mentioned they couldn’t do anything for April Fools’ 2008, but they were back in 2009 with..one of the weirder ones. They posted a teaser of their new game, ‘Sweet Potchari’ which literally means ‘sweet chubby’ and as the name suggests, they posted art of all of the sweet pool characters, but this time they’re chubby.

You could check the profile description of each character and Kunihito’s description mentions that he’s very charming and “both men and women love him” lol. I unfortunately don’t have any high quality versions of these wallpapers anymore. Someone also recorded the voice lines, though listen to it at your own risk.

2010 This time Nitro Chiral announces a new project called 'YO! Akira'. It’s Togainu no Chi except all of the characters are replaced by mannequins and they’re kinda terrifying. They made videos in which they re-created part of the opening and the game, which someone actually saved and uploaded, so you can still watch it here...! The whole thing is a parody of Japanese sketch comedy series 'Oh! Mikey!!' which focuses on an American family living in Japan, but all the characters are played by mannequins.

This blog has some more pictures of what the website looked like. The day after this Nitro Chiral made a blog post about maybe spending too much time creating these April Fools’ jokes, but it seems like they had fun! They also had no idea what to do with the mannequins after this.

2012 I think they skipped 2011 because I cannot find any information about it, so let’s move on to 2012! Arbitro took over the Nitro+Chiral website again and changed it to Bitro+Chiral...

You could play this short visual novel on the website in which Arbitro introduced his new product line-up. A hataki (feather duster) shaped like Konoe’s tail, a life-sized Akira statue made of chocolate, Onnushi-sama's curry, and blue butter which is supposed to decrease you appetite so you don't have to eat anymore. After looking at these last two pictures I think I don’t feel hungry anymore...

This is also the year DRAMAtical Murder was released, so they changed the website too! Now it’s DRAMAtical Mother, which is of course referencing the Mother series (Earthbound). You can find some more screenshots and information here.

Aoba got his own Twitter account too this year, which someone also archived here! The Twitter account actually still exists but I believe they locked it after April Fools’ ended.

2013 This year they focused on DRAMAtical Murder too! They transformed the website into Junkshop Heibon's webstore (the store Aoba works at in the game). It feels kind of nostalgic...

That same year they also released a radio show in which Aoba and Mizuki work for Midorijima Radio Station. They invite Koujaku, Noiz, Clear, and Mink as special guests. This has been uploaded and fan translated, so I definitely recommend checking it out here! They also ended up selling this as a CD later.

2014 This is one I remember very well because I remember playing the short game they released. It's called ‘Osu-Boys!! ~Ikemen Ryoujoku ☆ Paradise~’ and it's a short visual novel which features the four protagonists, except they're all really clumsy and end up in some really embarrassing situations... I am guessing the artstyle is supposed to be similar to KyoAni’s Free! anime.

I don’t think I can show the full pictures here because the CGs of this game are quite NSFW, but you can probably still find them somewhere online. Aoba worked at an adult goods shop in this game though, nice new job (?). Unlike the browser games, this one could be downloaded, so some people probably still have it.

2015 Arbitro once again returns and opens his own 'hentai' museum.... yeah. Someone uploaded the theme song they made for the website, you can find it here. I believe it’s supposed to be a parody of ‘Atami Hihokan’ (an adult museum).

The website shows a map of the museum and its facilities, some more pictures can be found here. I think the art of the mascots is pretty cute this time...

You could also play this minigame on the website which also featured the four protagonists. There’s still a video of someone playing through the game, so definitely check it out if you’re interested. The artstyle has a bit of a retro feel.

2016 This year the website turned into the 'Raira-ryuu honpo' official homepage, an art school that specializes in the traditional art of ...boys love. All of the characters are drawn like famous Ukiyo-e paintings.

All of the ones above are Tōshūsai Sharaku paintings, so it was pretty easy to find which ones they were referencing!

They also re-drew all of the game covers too and the descriptions of the games were pretty funny. Midorijima was transformed into a big red-light district and the people who lived there were kicked out and are now living in poverty. I hope you’re surviving, Aoba...

This time there was also a flash game which could be played on the website, a shunga (erotic painting) puzzle. You can find all of these pictures here. Like the previous year they are heavily censored and not really NSFW.

2017 This time the April Fools’ joke is a parody of 'The World of GOLDEN EGGS', a Japanese animation series set in an American-style fictional town, except this time it’s called ‘BOYs LOVE Nitro+CHiRAL’. I’m assuming most people who have been in the fandom for some time remember this one. They created a short YouTube video series and it had English subs. You can still find the videos if you look for them on YouTube so please watch them...! It’s all worth it for Konoe singing ‘I’m in Blue’ and the Rhyme fight.

Youji is always the victim of these awkward conversations... Some more pictures here! You can find the YouTube videos by just searching for the title of the series mentioned above.

2019 After 2017 they stopped updating their website on April Fools’, probably because they were busy working on Slow Damage, but in 2019 they did post some extra illustrations. Not the most happy kind of illustrations, featuring the protagonists and Naito-kun apologizing because they couldn’t do anything for April Fools’ that year...

2021 Unfortunately this is the last one! 2021 is the year Slow Damage was released, so it makes sense the final April Fools' joke focuses on them. It's called 'Warau Euphoria', which means ‘laughing euphoria’. It’s a reference to Japanese series 'The Laughing Salesman', so they're also drawn in a similar artstyle.

The website has a warning that you need to be over 35 years old to enter instead of the usual 18+ warning lol. They also got Towa’s voice actor to record a couple of new lines on the webpage, if you click here you can still listen to a recording of it.

I’m a bit sad they might not do any of this stuff anymore in the future, but I’m also glad many people recorded videos of the old websites and minigames so we can still enjoy them even now. I couldn’t include every single screenshot in this blog post, so I tried my best to link other pages with more information.

I had a lot of fun checking out their website every year and I really appreciate the effort they put into all of this. I might update this blog with some additional info later!

#nitro chiral #slow damage #lamento #lamento beyond the void #sweet pool #togainu no chi #chiral #nitroplus #april fools #dmmd #dramatical murder

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