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princessbrunette · 2 months

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˚˖𓍢ִ🐰໋✧˚.🎀୨୧ ⋅˚₊

let’s go back to my roots. let’s talk about girly, prissy, spoiled bunny!reader with rafe.

you’re untouchable, kook royalty just for your attachment to the cameron’s but you don’t even care about all of that. all you care about, is rafes time money and attention.

he loves you a lot, but more so — he puts up with your shit. whilst you don’t have much of an attitude, soft in all corners of your life, you can still manage to be a nightmare. you clutter his sink with your makeup and skincare, decidedly a maximalist when it came to your self care and beautification rituals. he plucks a clump of mink eyelashes from the side of the sink, something he nearly mistook for a spider and sets it aside— only calling out a “jesus chr — bun, told you to clear out your shit. my bathroom looks like fuckin’ sephora. in here, now.” before he hears the soft padding of your feet come tottering along, happy to do as your told.

if that’s not making him huff and puff — it’ll surely be the outfits, moreso scraps of fabric you parade around in. expensive, according to his black card, for items of clothing that cover so little — and he can’t say you don’t get your moneys worth, toddling around in strappy powder pink dresses that leave nothing to the imagination or white mini skirts that cling to the fold of the bottom of your ass cheeks, giving not only the chumps at the country club a good look — but his closest friends too. his life had become a sequence of tugging down your hem, manhandling you to be decent. “you—y-you think i need my fuckin’ friends getting an eyeful of your pussy each time you move? are we gonna have to have another talk about what’s appropriate, bunny girl? huh? or maybe the belt will help you learn a valuable lesson. fuck.” he sulks, stomping around after his threat. you’re clung to his bicep with a dazed smile only five minutes later because his mean treatment usually flew through one bedazzled ear and came out the other. soft and dopey as ever.

back to him ‘putting up with you’, there’s a ton of reasons why that is. like aforementioned, he does love you a lot. you’re his little prized possession, his trophy. you were soft in all the ways that mattered and understanding, always listening when no one else would, even if he was admittedly in the wrong. that, and you really did fuck like a bunny rabbit.

you had a libido that was constantly set to high, all hours of the day. you were a chronic pillow humper when rafe wasn’t available to sate you, the man often times walking in to find you teary eyed with a white lacy thong binding your spread knees, pulled down just enough to grind your messy, glossy pussy against the fluffed white pillow from his side of the bed. because really, you were a chronic rafe humper— but you were well behaved enough to know that sometimes he had to handle business and didn’t have the time to feed your greedy cunt.

you’d grown accustom to taking him in any position too, whether it was in doggy style — waving your plush ass in the air, pointing that fluffy pink bunny-tail butt plug straight at him as you mewl into expensive pillows, or you’re crouched on his lap on the couch, feet planted either side of him, a high pitched whimper punched out of you each time you slam your hips back down on his cock, mushroom tip thumping your cervix. you said you liked the pain, liked when it bruised, liked when you could still feel him the next day when you missed him. reminded you of how grateful you are to have a boyfriend who dicks you good.

you had a little obsession that was serving as a problem though— having to give you plenty of ‘sit down talks’ when he talks to you real slow like you’re stupid because you keep begging him to breed you. it seemed no amount of “sweetheart, i’on know how many times i have to say this to get it through that head, but you are too young for a baby. i—i gotta get my shit together first, alright? promised you as many babies as you want after i secure tannyhill did i not? i…i really need your patience… okay?” would stop you from bouncing on his cock with a feverish and determined look in your eye, or locking your legs around his waist when he’s about to nut— babbling tearfully as you beg “please daddy, please gimme a baby. please want — want your babies!”

you’re lucky he was so much stronger than you, often wrestling you down to straddle your face and aim his cock at your mouth before he blew his load, gritting out a spiteful “well you’re gonna have to fuckin’ swallow them ‘til the time comes. fuck.” through gritted teeth as you mewl miserably (but lap it up nonetheless)

you gave him trouble, but nothing he couldn’t handle. he wouldn’t trade his spoiled bunny girl for the world.

˚˖𓍢ִ🐰໋✧˚.🎀୨୧ ⋅˚₊

#rafe cameron prompt #bunny!reader

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munson-blurbs · 6 months

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Best friend!Eddie x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your best friend gets a lot more than he bargained for when he walks in on you wearing only your Hellfire Club t-shirt.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), dry humping, thigh riding, cumming in pants

WC: 1.2k

A/N: Reader is described as wearing an oversized Hellfire t-shirt. This is her shirt, not Eddie's. There is no indication of her size whatsoever.

Once I had a love and it was a gas

Soon turned out had a heart of glass

Your toothbrush is clenched in your hand, but instead of cleaning your teeth, it serves as a microphone while you dance around your bedroom. The stereo is playing loudly; you can’t even hear the creaking staircase floorboards over the music.

Seemed like the real thing, only to find

Mucho mistrust, love’s gone be—AAAAH!

Your palm flies to your chest when you see Eddie standing in your doorway, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“And here I thought I was the rockstar in this friendship,” he smirks, arms folded across his chest.

Your heart rate slowly returns back to a pace that won’t send you to an early grave. “Jesus, Eddie! What are you doing here?”

“Figured I’d stop by,” he replies nonchalantly. “Y’know, you probably shouldn’t leave your front door unlocked while your folks aren’t home. Anyone could walk in off the street.” He flops onto your bed with an exaggerated exhale, looking pointedly in your direction. “Nice pants, by the way.”

Nice pants? You’re ready to sleep; an oversized Hellfire tee serving as your pajamas. You’re not even wearing—oh.

You tug at the hem, but even after years of wear, it doesn’t stretch below your thighs. Heat blooms in your face. “Yeah, well,” you sputter, “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

Eddie pouts. “You mean you didn’t wear that ‘specially for little ol’ me?” He ducks as you hurl your toothbrush at his head. He opens his mouth to say something before quickly clamping it shut, but not before you notice.

“What?”

“N-Nothing.”

You cross your arms, more firm this time. “What?!”

“When you, uh, threw the toothbrush…your shirt…” His face turns bright red as he scrambles to explain. “…it, uh, kinda rode up.” His Adam’s apple bobs nervously.

“It’s just underwear. You’ve seen me in a swimsuit before.” You try to hide your own embarrassment, playing it off coolly, but all you can think about is the fact that Eddie Munson saw your panties.

He nods, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Right, yeah. Totally the same thing.” He clears his throat. “Well, I should get going.” He pushes on his knees, starting to stand up, but abruptly stops. “Actually, um, maybe I’ll hang out here for a bit, if you wanna maybe put…put something else on.” Pink embarrassment blooms in his cheeks, spreading down his neck.

“No, I’m going to bed, and you’re leaving. We can get breakfast tomorrow morning or something.” You sigh when he doesn’t move, making your way to where he’s sitting. “C’mon, time to—”

Eddie attempts to hunch himself over, but there’s no hiding the hardening bulge straining behind his zipper.

It’s only natural, you tell yourself. He’s a twenty-year-old guy; he’ll get a boner if the wind blows the wrong way. It doesn’t mean he’s into you.

“Shit, I’m sorry. This is super weird, and I shouldn’t have come in without knocking.” He buries his head in his hands. “Just…give me a sec, okay?”

“Okay.” Now’s your chance. If there’s any time to find out if he’s into you, it’s when he’s sporting a stiffie in your bedroom. “Or…I could help you with it?”

His head whips around so fast that his curls are a blur of brown. “Wh-What? Like, help me…?” He’s desperate for you to finish his sentence, not wanting to say something that makes the situation even more awkward.

“I can help you get off. If you want. Or you can just use my bathroom and, I dunno, rub one out.” You cringe at the phrasing. “No pressure.”

“Um, yeah. No pressure.” His thumbs circle each other, an anxious habit he’s had for years. “So if you were gonna help me out, what would that look like?”

You shrug, a half-smile gracing your lips. “I guess I’d do this first.” You place one hand on each of his shoulders, straddling his waist with your bare thighs. “And then I’d kiss you?”

“Mhm, please.” Eddie grips your hips as you lean in, mouths finding one another in unhurried splendor. He tastes like stale Camels and spearmint gum, only breaking the connection to trail his lips down your neck.

It’s your favorite spot to be kissed, and the way his teeth nip at your flesh, tongue gliding over the mark as though sealing it in, has you grinding down on him.

“Christ, honey,” he breathes, “you look so goddamn perfect like this.” His fingertips dig into your asscheeks possessively before one hand snakes its way up your shirt. You expect him to lift it above your head to expose your breasts, but he doesn’t.

“Y-You can take it off,” you stammer, feeling silly as you say it aloud.

Eddie shakes his head in refusal. “Next time.” Next time. It’s a promise you hope he’ll keep. “I just love the way you look in this shirt.” And nothing but this shirt, he thinks to himself.

The friction of your cotton panties on his denim pants is delectable, providing just enough pressure to your aching clit. You’re greedy in your movements but make sure to give him what he needs, too. Your pussy rubs against his clothed cock; Eddie uses the hand on your ass to help guide your hips.

“Thassit, oh, fuck,” he grunts, teased with the beginnings of an orgasm. “Right there, baby. Ohmygod, I’m gonna cum in my fuckin’ pants.”

“S’okay,” you murmur into his ear, gently biting the lobe, “‘m close, too. So close, holy shit.”

Sweat beads along his upper lip, his groans more needy and guttural. “‘M coming, ‘m coming, ‘m coming.” He babbles pathetically as sticky, wet warmth floods his boxers. You follow his lead, finishing on his somehow still-hard cock.

The immediate aftermath is filled with panting breaths and sporadic giggles as the pleasure high fades and reality sets in.

“Did we just—” Eddie starts, eyes wide in disbelief.

You laugh, resting your forehead on his shoulder. “Mhm. We sure did.”

He rakes a hand through his curls, frizzy from perspiration and activity. “So, um, what do we do now?” There are many unspoken questions woven into it. What does this mean for our friendship? Do we even have a friendship anymore? Was it as good for you as it was for me?

“Well…” You sit up a bit straighter, toying with the chain of his guitar pick necklace. “We can throw your stuff in the wash, and maybe while we’re waiting, we can get started on that next time you’d mentioned earlier?”

Eddie grins, kissing you with a fervor like you’ve never seen. “What are we waiting for?” He tugs off his pants and boxers, unashamed of the way he’s painted them with cum. When he notices you staring, he winks. “‘S a lot, isn’t it? Imagine how much it’ll be when I’m actually inside you.”

It doesn’t take long for either of you to find out.

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things #fanfic #smut

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eddiesghxst · 1 year

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hello! here is something short about eddie being a dumbass <3

18+ — minors dni

————

like on some real shit, eddie is clumsy. and it’s embarrassing because the first time he has a pretty girl in his bed, looking at him with these brain melting fuck me eyes, he somehow ends up nearly giving her a fucking concussion.

it was really just a series of miscalculated movements. you’re on top of eddie, engrossed in a heavy make out that is sure to be leading somewhere further considering the way eddie’s pressing up against your core has you dizzy with lust. and eddie needs more, he needs to feel and touch and kiss and lick every inch of you. he needs to fuck you.

so he wraps one arm around your back to hug you closer before he shifts to flip you over. and it would’ve been a seamless process if eddie had been mindful of the hard ass fucking wall that serves as a headboard to his bed. long story short, the back of your head hits the wall…hard— hard enough for you to whimper out an ouch and have eddie pulling away with a gasp. he’s quickly scrambling to hold your head as he spews out apologies, “shit, shit, shit. fuck, are you okay? i’m so fucking sorry—“

he stops rambling when you press a hand to his chest, your other hand still holding the back of your now aching head. you stare at him for a moment and he just knows he’s fucked it all up because there’s no way you still like him after he’d nearly just sent your head through a literal wall.

but then you laugh. you fucking laugh, and eddie is looking at you like he’s seen a god damn ghost. “you’re laughing… why are you laughing?” he asks with a nervous laughter. and it only makes you laugh harder.

“i’m okay, eddie, i promise,” you manage to say between laughter. “but jesus christ, man. when i said i like it rough i didn’t mean toss me through a god damn wall—“ and now eddie is laughing and peppering fluttery kisses all over your face as you giggle.

he kisses you one last time before he pulls away and narrows his eyes at you, “y’sure you’re okay? i didn’t rattle anything in there too bad did i? how many fingers am i holding up?” he holds up two fingers in front of your face and you hum as you pretend to think. “um…three?” eddie’s face falls, “wait are you serious?”

you can’t hide the smile that creeps onto your face and has eddie deflating in relief before saying, “you’re sick, you know that?” and you snort before pain shoots through your head that has you wincing between laughter, a hand shooting up to hold your head, “don’t make me laugh too hard, asshole, it still hurts.” eddie winces and makes a face, “yeahh, i definitely rattled some shit in there.”

#eddie brings you some ice for your head and goes ‘so…no head?’#like a pest #eddie munson x reader #drabble #eddie munson #eddie x reader #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie x you

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toxicanonymity · 1 month

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busted (jailbird one shot)

2.5k WORDS, JOEL "JOJO" MILLER x f!READER SUMMARY: You roleplay as cop and sex worker. WARNINGS: I8+, no plot just smut, roleplay, manhandling, handcuffs, bj, unsafe PIV, creampie, fluff. writer chooses not to warn in further detail, read at your own risk. Read alone or see jailbird masterlist for relationship & reader history. NOTES: On hiatus, but this has been in my tumblr drafts since 3/20. Ty for the ask. They've both served time. This happens while Joel's aunt/your former cellmate is still locked up. Ty again to everyone who made me write cellmate's nephew (history) 💀. Divider by @saradika-graphics. @toxicfics for notifications.

Masterlist | Blog FAQs

You sit on Joel’s bed alone, wearing a short skirt, a lace bra, and fishnet stockings he already ripped wide open the last time you wore them. You finish lacing up your boots, tuck a wad of cash into your bra, and get a tictac mint from your purse. Then you put on the bag and close the bedroom door behind you as you leave.

As you walk into the living room, the front door opens. You realize you’re holding your breath and feel silly. Your heart skips a beat when he steps through the door.

He pauses long enough for you to take in his whole form. . .tattooed arms swelling out from the sleeves of his slutty, blue uniform. Your eyes fall to his crotch as he turns to face you. The tight polyester pants leave little to the imagination. The whole, massive outline is visible atop his thigh, straining the fabric. He smooths his mustache and tilts his head, checking you out. Then he keeps a straight face as he steps toward you and says,

“‘S’cuse me, miss. Can I see some ID?”

Your heart flutters. You’ve played the part so many times. Played lots of parts. You're used to being who the client needs. But here you are with a little stage fright in front of your boo. And Jesus Christ, there’s something about his prison tattoos bursting out of that uniform.

You stand still in the middle of the room and he slowly paces around you. A few feet away, but close enough to smell the cigarette he must have enjoyed outside and the cologne he reserves for date nights. The sight and smell of him makes you tingle. His touch might make you physically swoon. He clears his throat, and your face heats up. You lock eyes with him, and there’s a sparkle in his gaze, but he manages to hold firm, not breaking.

“I, um – I have it somewhere.” You rifle through your bag.

“What’s that in your brassiere, ma’am?” He takes a baton off his hip and gestures to your bra cup. Your chest is lightly dusted in a caramel flavored shimmer powder.

“Oh,” you stammer, looking away. “I dunno why I put this here when I have a purse,” you mutter, half out of character.

“Just what I was thinkin’,” he cocks an eyebrow at you. He begins to stalk around you again, getting a little closer with each step, closing in on you. Then, he holsters his baton and stands behind your back, close enough to feel his body heat. You turn your face to the side and his scent wraps around you.

His hardness lightly grazes you, and you push your ass back instinctively. His left hand comes to your hip as his right hand snakes around your torso. His voice is deep and gruff.

“I’m thinkin’ this is dirty money.”

He trails his fingers slowly up your sternum, then over the curve of your left breast to your black push-up bra. You watch the faded barbed wire flex on his hand as he slides two fingers into the bra cup, retrieving the cash. He lowers his volume and his lips brush the shell of our ear. “Real dirty, honey.”

“It’s nothing,” you shake your head, getting into a better rhythm.

“Lemme take this off your hands,” he offers and lifts the strap of your purse off your shoulder. He stuffs the cash in it and tosses the purse to Mabel’s easychair. The tictacs rattle as it lands. He returns behind you, and this time, both hands go to your hips.

“I’m thinkin’ we can work somethin’ out,” he murmurs. His hands meander up your sides, then back down. He holds onto your hips and pulls you back against him, lightly grinding his hard length against your skirt, making you throb.

“Fuck, Jo,” you whine in a whisper, pushing back on him like you shouldn't be. He exhales what you're pretty sure is a laugh. You can picture his smile. You're not ready to throw in the towel on this scene. You compose yourself and ask, “What are you doing?” You step forward, away from him, then turn around with a glare.

He slowly rubs his arousal and adjusts himself. Then he puts his hands on his hips and shifts his weight. He looks you up and down, slowly shakes his head, and clucks his tongue.

“Y’know, I didn’t wanna have to do this.” He reaches behind his back for his cuffs, and you head for the door.

He grabs you by the arm, and you continue to pull away.

“No,” you protest emptily, tingling at the thought of him getting rougher.

He wraps a strong arm around you and you keep squirming. He lets you pull away toward the door until you’re up against it. He presses his weight against you with a forearm on your upper back and warns, “Resisting arrest?”

He wrangles your arms behind your back, and the cold metal edge makes you shiver as your first wrist is cuffed. The second cuff clicks into place and he tightens them. Your cuffed hands desperately feel around the front of his pants, and he shifts his hips to help you find what you're looking for. You softly moan when your palm meets the hard length in his pants.

“So now ya wanna be good,” he taunts, then lets out a barely audible grunt, pressing his hips forward, arousal swelling against your palm.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, officer.” He takes your hands and puts them on your mid back, and you keep them there. He yanks the whole skirt up over your ass in one go, watching your ass drop, fishnet diamonds stretched over it. His hips push forward and his hardness makes you throb.

“Spread’em,” he commands.

You widen your stance.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, then wedges a hand between you and the door. Your palms rest on his tummy as he shoves his hand between your legs and feels how wet you are through the pre-ruined fishnets.

“Alright, let’s make a deal,” he growls, then cruelly takes his hand away without so much as putting half a finger in you.

He grabs you by one arm and pulls you over to the sofa. “Knees,” he murmurs, and helps you down onto the carpet. He pats your head then sits down on the sofa with a sigh, manspreading. He splays his arms out on the back of the couch and looks at you affectionately for a moment before his face hardens again. He takes off his fake utility belt in a hurry.

“Got five minutes to convince me not to take ya in,” he warns, "If ya can handle it." He lifts his hips, giving you a rush of arousal. He pulls at his uniform pants, and they snap open at the side. This must have been quite a hit all those years ago on stage. For you, he's not wearing anything under them. You glance at his hip tattoo. Yeah.

He frees his massive cock and wraps his hand around the clean shaven base. He squeezes it as he looks at you darkly. "Such a bad girl." He scoots toward the edge of the sofa. Your hands are still handcuffed behind your back, skirt still sitting up above your ass.

You lean forward, dip your head, and he feeds you his cock. You slurp the fat head into your mouth and he sighs, watching you with a softening scowl. "Fuck yeah," he breathes. His knees bracket you and help you balance with no use of your hands as you bob your head. He moans as you suck him. You stretch your jaw, sucking at the smooth, salty tip, then take a few inches into your mouth and hold it, feeling him throb. "God damn," he curses softly. You suck with the back of your throat and carefully take as much as you can, expertly swallowing his length. You take him so deep that your lips brush his shaved pubic skin, and your eyes prickle with tears.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Get up here.”

You slowly let his cock out of your mouth, and a string of slobber falls away with it.

He grabs your arms and helps you stand. He could stand to be rougher about it. But he's all but abandoning character, overtaken by the way you make him feel. The real you.

He helps you balance as you kneel onto the sofa, straddling him with your thighs spread wide. His breaths are heavy and getting heavier as he eyes your tits and the front closure of your bra.

He sits up straight. He wraps an arm around you and interlaces his fingers with one of your cuffed hands. "Doin' so good, baby." With his other hand, he swiftly unhooks the front clasp of your bra, and the cups break apart, letting your tits fall out. He takes a nipple into his mouth, then passionately licks and kisses his way up to your mouth. He palms one breast as he sucks the other and holds your hand behind your back. He pulls you right against him so your clit presses against his warm, hard cock and it makes him moan against your breast as he throbs against you.

He moves you, grinding his cock on your clit. He kisses your breast again, then drags his nose up your chest and feverishy kisses you everywhere on his way to your neck, where he sucks you long and slow. He lets go of your hand and slides his hand down, reaching under your ass to your cunt, where he slides his fingers through your slick then spreads you open for him.

He maneuvers you up to get clearance for his cock. He runs the tip through your slick, then massages your clit with it before notching at your entrance. You twitch at the contact, then begin to sink onto him and he pulls you down with a grunt.

"That's my girl," he breathes.

His lips find yours, and the kiss is long and slow with him seated fully inside you. He moves you on his cock, and his hips roll under you at a slow rhythm, stretching you with his girth, making you twitch already. You break the kiss with a moan.

You look down between your bodies, then purr, “is it hot in here, officer?”

“God you're fuckin’ hot,” he gushes with urgency. He reaches in his shirt pocket for the key to the handcuffs and wraps his arms around you. His cock twitches and he fumbles around as he uncuffs you. You rip open his snap button uniform top, then cradle his face and your lips smash back together and his tongue finds yours. He pulls you close. Your tits press into his chest and you moan into his mouth as you roll your hips.

You sigh and curse and moan against each other's mouths as you ride him.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “I coulda came soon as ya—fuck–the way you were clawin’ around for my cock just to feel it—ohhhh.”

He playfully plucks at the fishnets then kneads your ass as you fuck. He lets you take the lead, sliding his hands down to your legs, then your boots. He sighs, "Ohh, baby," as you ride him.

“Yeah,” you breathe, feeling sharply on the edge already, with his cock inside you and the ghost of it pressed up against you through those pants.

“Ohh, fuck,” he pants, “yeah.” His flesh fills yours so perfectly, stretching you around him. Your body wetly hugs his length as he smoothly thrusts up into you. He growls into your neck, “I can't get enough’a ya.” You card your fingers through his hair.

“God you feel good,” you gush. “So fucking good. He’s kissing your neck wet and sloppy now. You both breathe audibly. "God, I love this cock," you pant. Your breath is shallow with your pending peak. You grind against him, then let it overtake you. “Fuck,” you breathe as your walls flutter around him.

He groans as you come on his cock. As you finish your peak, he’s clearly holding back. You look down at his inked torso glistening.

You both watch where your bodies meet, and you tell him, “i want you to come.”

“c'mere” he takes your jaw in one hand, and brings your lips back to his. He holds you tight, kissing you for a few thrusts, then his lips fall apart to moan and breathe vocally as he fucks you.

He pulses inside, pinching his eyes shut. He groans into your cheek, and you finger his curls as he pumps you full. Then you relax into his arms.

You share a long moment without words, and he holds your head. Then he uses his chest to push you slightly off him. He looks you in the eyes, then does a double take down to your tits and dips his head to kiss one before returning his attention to your face.

You're still on his cock, and the stretch persists even as he slowly softens.

He looks back and forth between your eyes and blurts out, “you should move in.”

You laugh in shock.

“‘m’serious, baby,” he says with a smile. You bite away another laugh and his smile fades. He whispers, “Dead serious.”

He pulls you in for a kiss, then breaks away to await your answer.

You haven't thought about it, really. Not yet, anyway. But it doesn't feel out of the question. You glance over to Mabel’s chair.

“She knows,” he assures you. It doesn't make a difference right now, but you pray she'll get paroled sooner rather than later.

“Just think about it,” he offers.

You nod and bite your lip, running your hand through his hair affectionately, still plugged by his cock. "Tempting," you smile.

“I'm a lucky man either way,” he says.

Your face heats up, and you reflexively lighten the conversation. “Why’d ya cuff me if ya wanted me on top,” you laugh.

“Hell if I know what I want,” he admits. He kisses your neck then murmurs, “Just want ya every which way all the time.”

thank you for reading, and thank you for your support. love you guys <333. my tag list is gone for real this time, sorry. I'm also on a break from writing & reading but had this in my drafts.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #jailbird #joel miller x female reader #toxicanonymity ☠️#joel miller x ofc #cellmate's nephew!joel #CN!Joel Miller #cellmate's nephew!joel miller

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2btheanswertothequestion · 1 year

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(part 2 of November Paramedic; part 1 is here.)

Steve's honey-sweet eyes, gleaming with confidence, ask 'why don't you take a bite?'

His pink mouth, deliciously curved, wonders 'don't you want a taste?'

His dark chest hair, leading a mouthwatering path down his pants, says 'you know you want to'.

And Eddie does. He really does. He would, if Steve was actually here. Alas, all Eddie has is the calendar photo currently staring at him from where it's propped on Eddie's dresser, and he's not biting into it. It's the only one he's got, you see; he won't be ruining it with bite marks and drool due to his intrusive thoughts.

If he had a copy machine close at hand, though? If he could make as many pictures as he'd possibly want? Oho, watch out, Slobbertown!

It's been one week since Steve the sexy paramedic revealed himself to be a real person and not just a dude in a softcore porn calendar. One week since he Florence Nightingale'd Eddie before vanishing in a flurry of bloody gauze and blinking blue lights, leaving both Eddie and Gareth breathless.

(Though in Gareth's case, it was due to laughing so hard he choked on himself.)

The calendar doesn't do it for him anymore. Don't misunderstand – he still uses it when beating the meat. In fact, it has exclusively become his primary masturbatory aid, and it has served him especially well the past few days. The moment those 48 hours were over and Gareth left, Eddie chucked off his sweatpants and went to, well, Slobbertown. But it's not the same anymore. How could it be, when he knows the real Steve's hair smells like a meadow and his aftershave like lemon and spice? When he's felt the pressure of Steve's fingertips on his jaw? When he's seen the faint scar running down Steve's chin from his mouth? When he can still hear Steve's voice use his name, give him orders, call him 'sir'?

It's impossible. Fuck, just whenever Eddie closes his eyes Steve's face appears, as vividly as if it happened yesterday. Of course, that might have something to do with Eddie already having made himself oh so familiar with Steve's face, and chest, and hands, and… everything else, for the past two years. Jesus damn it, if he knew this was where he'd end up he never would've bought the calendar in the first place.

Groaning, he throws himself back on his bed; then he shouts as his head thumps into the wall. Typical. He rubs at the spot to soothe it. No bump, though it hurts like a bitch. Pain (and suspicion he just aggravated the previous head injury) aside, he's comfortable, thus he sprawls out and stares at the ceiling as planned.

He's been distracted. He knows that because literally everyone has been on his case about it. Gareth gives him smug smiles that have turned alarmingly calculated as the week has passed. Jeff and Marv, having been filled in by Gareth, are rather more amused in a benign way. His boss almost sent him home to recuperate after catching him staring into space for the third time. Uncle Wayne noticed something was off through the phone. And Max has been giving him weird looks.

Ah, little Max. The only person in the complex who doesn't steer clear of him. She doesn't actually know what went down – not completely. She knows he got injured, because she caught him and Gareth as they stumbled home while she was exiting her apartment to toss the trash. Her sharp eyes zeroed in on the plaster, and on Eddie's arm that was slung over Gareth's shoulders for support (at Gareth's insistence).

"You got in a fight?" she asked.

With a grin he'd exclaimed, "Battle? You know me better than that! Nay, I did my utmost to escape the violence... but the ruffian got to me regardless."

"Huh. You okay?"

Gareth had rolled his eyes. "He's fine. I mean, listen to him."

"Don't worry about me, Red." Eddie tapped his own head. "This ol' noggin is harder than it looks."

A corner of her mouth twisted up, though if it was in amusement he couldn't tell in the dim hallway. They ought to team up against the super; maybe their combined whining will have him finally fix that broken light bulb.

"Make sure you don't take aspirin or ibuprofen," she said. "It can-"

"Yeah, I know. Paramedic already told me."

"Good. Is our lesson still on?"

"Certainly, m'dear."

And then he'd tipped an imaginary hat, she snorted, and Gareth hauled his ass to bed.

He didn't see Max again until Sunday afternoon, when she came by for their aforementioned weekly guitar lesson. Parking themselves on each end of the couch, his acoustic in her lap, he'd made her play the 'homework' from the previous Sunday. It sounded pretty good. She honestly won't need his help soon – probably doesn't need it now. She understands basic theory and is diligent about practicing. He'd be fine with awarding her temporary custody of the guitar for a while. She insists on coming over, however, claiming she has to be perfect by the time of the next open mic down at Connie's Corner Coffee.

The reason she has to be perfect? Well. Eddie is pretty sure it's to impress her boy. She hasn't confirmed that it's for her boy, or even that she has one, but it totally is and she totally does. He knows this because 1. she becomes flustered and grumpy (grustered? Flumpy?) every time he brings it up, and 2. if she was learning to play for herself he'd be subjected to a lot more Pink Floyd and a lot less Curtis Mayfield.

It's cute, to be honest. Picking up an instrument for a boy you like? That's romantic as fuck. If he hadn't been the Lord of All Losers he would've serenaded tons of boys when he was younger. Hell, he'd do it now, if only there were anyone willing to listen. But he hasn't had as much as a date in ages, and none of his previous attempts at relationships ever reached the 'romantic gestures' stage.

Maybe he should ask Max to set him up with someone. Why not? She probably meets dozens of people every day, at the campus, at the skatepark, wherever else she hangs. If there's anyone who could sort out his disastrous love life, it's Max Mayfield. She's so put together, and she's not even 20 yet. She's got her own place (in a supremely shitty building, but still a place), she's got a man (reluctant as she is to admit it), and she is halfway through her math degree. A fucking math degree, for Christ's sake! Math majors are built for solving problems!

Maybe she could even calculate how many times he'd need to injure himself before he'd meet the one paramedic he wanted to kiss… him better.

It was around that point of his daydreaming that Max shot a hair tie at his forehead and demanded he stop zoning out and correct her hand placement.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing deeper than usual. "Have you been resting?"

"Yes. For the prescribed 48 hours, and then some. I'm fine."

She'd frowned, scrutinizing him with those pale blue eyes. He squared his shoulders and met her gaze like a man. Easier said than done, to be truthful. He likes Max – she's fun, easily the most kickass neighbor he's ever had – but she can be intense. And when she gets her stare on? She's downright creepy.

"I'd prefer to cancel over you fucking up your head more," she at last said, posture stiff and chin jutting. 'Don't lie to me,' is what she meant.

Eddie sighed. "Red… I'm fine. Seriously."

And he was. Physically speaking, at least. Mentally, he'd always been a little off. Part of the patented Munson charm, really.

She must've realized that, because she relaxed, her expression going from 'active bitch face' and back to 'resting'.

"All right. Sorry for being overbearing. It's just." She shrugged a shoulder, gripping the neck of the guitar as it started sliding off her crossed legs. "One of my closest friends is a medical professional. Another one is studying biology. They've been discussing human anatomy and… I guess they've gotten into my head."

Damn his friends for caring. How was he supposed to sell this image of a dark, dangerous, rocker dude if he was constantly misty-eyed from how sweet his buds were to him? He leaned forward to pat her knee.

"I appreciate the concern, unnecessary as it is. But!" He drew himself back and pointed in the air. "We're not postponing! Open mic is less than a month away – you only have so many days left before you'll be on that stage, in front of aaaaall those people… and your beau."

He's certain that if she hadn't still been sorta concerned about his health, she'd have smacked him.

That was Sunday afternoon. Now is Wednesday evening. He is still hung up on Thursday. He doesn't even know why. Yes, he was face-to-face with the hottest guy ever. Sure, that same guy has been the star of his most critically acclaimed fantasies. Indeed, he hasn't gotten laid in eons. Of course, he's pent-up with sexual frustration and yearning for another man's touch.

But still. He's not an animal or a sex-crazed teenager. He's smart enough to know that nothing good will come of this. It's not like he'll ever see Steve again. That'd be so unrealistic.

A knock on his front door reaches his ears. Eddie makes no effort to get up and answer it. He's not expecting anyone – whoever it is will have to return another day.

The knocking turns into a pounding, followed by yelling.

"Eddie! Let me in, asshole, I know you're there!"

Ugh. What does he want? Hasn't he heard of texting?

Eddie drags himself off the bed and toward the door. Yanking it open, he's met by Gareth's self-satisfied visage.

"Good evening," he says, heedless of Eddie’s glare. "I come hither with your solution."

"My solution?" Eddie mutters as he stalks to his couch to crumple into another heap.

Gareth follows him inside. "I have a plan to get your man!"

"What? Who? What?"

"Steve. November-paramedic," Gareth says, like it's obvious, which, what the actual fuck?

"He's not my man?"

"But he could be."

"Gareth, what the fuck-"

He moves to sit up, but Gareth's palm hits him square in the diaphragm and pushes him back down.

"No, listen: you are a terrible patient."

"I'm not-"

"Remember back in high school, when that asshole rear-ended us in the intersection at Hickory and 5th?"

Eddie grimaces. How could he forget? They'd stopped at a red light when a drunken motherfucker plowed into them, sending them careening into the T-junction. One car managed to break before hitting them; another veered only to crash into a fourth car. The result was, for them, whiplash injuries and, for the people who collided, bruises, sprains, and a dislocated joint. It had been the scariest moment of Eddie's life, and the neck pain had been excruciating. That wasted piece of shit was lucky no one died.

He says, "Yeah?"

"You were so snarky with that poor EMT."

"Okay, first off, I was a snot-nosed brat back then-"

"Dude, you were nineteen."

"-and she was rude to me first."

"She was following protocol!" Gareth shakes his head. "The point is that you never follow orders or instructions, not even when a doctor tells you to. But November-Steve? I've never seen you be so pliable."

"I-"

"And after, when I had to babysit you for two fucking days? I expected it to be difficult. But you were so busy sighing and yearning-" he says, ignoring Eddie's indignant sputtering, "-and replaying him tenderly caressing your face with his big, manly hands and holding your gaze with those big, manly eyes-"

"Do you want to fuck him?"

"-that you forgot to complain or be a contrarian about everything." Gareth smiles, sweet as cavities. "It was great. I'd like to recapture that. And if November-Steve is the one to bring it out of you, well!"

Eddie glowers at him. No, really! With the metaphorical thunder clouds swirling over his head and everything! His world has been shook. It is tilted off its axis, and it's his best friend's duty to mock him relentlessly for it. But this? Trying to encourage him? Give him hope? That's going too far.

Gareth notices. Of course he does; curse the heart on Eddie's sleeve. The sickly-sugary smugness evaporates off him, and he takes a seat on the dingy couch seat.

"Eddie," he says with a softness reserved for a select few individuals. "Seriously. You've been all moon-eyed for a week. You've been thinking about him. Really thinking."

Eddie balloons his cheeks and huffs out the air. "Well. If you spend two years jerking it to a guy-"

"Gross."

"-and then he suddenly appears before you, in the flesh? I've been fantasizing about it. He's a fantasy. And when it actually happens, that's…"

He trails off. Gareth knocks their shoulders together.

"He seemed nice."

Eddie scoffs. "I spoke to him for fifteen minutes. Tops."

"Fifteen nice minutes. You haven't dated in ages. Maybe this is a sign?"

Chuckling, Eddie slumps his head onto Gareth's shoulder. They're the wrong heights for it, so it's awkward and strenuous on the neck. He remains.

"You're just looking for another opportunity to embarrass me," he says.

"Embarrass you and improve your life. Like only true friends strive to do."

Eddie hums. "So what's your fucking plan?"

Gareth shifts, turning toward Eddie, but doesn't say anything yet. Glancing up, Eddie is met by a zoomed-in, upside-down view of Gareth's pointy grin, his canines gleaming.

"The university!"

------------------------------

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Part 3

#no steve this time (he's there in sexy spirit) but you get more gareth AND some max #steddie #steddie fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson #gareth stranger things #max mayfield #my writing #steddie fic: november paramedic

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mitsies · 1 year

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sick days ; satoru gojo

when 8-year-old megumi falls sick, you and your co-parent / maybe-boyfriend go down a rabbit hole.

gojo satoru x gn reader fluff, child-rearing, confessions, mutual pining (reader & gojo are school friends in their early 20s!)

'regret' was a word you have exiled out of your vocabulary.

it was a part of being a new (unwilling) parent to 2 overly intelligent kids, you supposed; you couldn't regret things.

'regret' was a word that would eat away at their little kid brains and latch on to the wormholes of insecurity in their heads, stretching them out and out into big voids that would probably take over their short, sweet lives. (it was like saying you regret anything would instantly equate to you regretting taking them in, and you couldn't have that.)

generally, your journey navigating the raising of toji fushiguro's children after his death wasn't difficult save for the obvious mental health issues he'd inflicted on his young kids. (you hadn't known the extent of it until megumi pretended he wasn't crying when you forgot to pick him up from school once. it was a real eye-opener.)

but it wasn't like you needed to establish authority. megumi and tsumiki generally followed your word and looked up to you- there were no issues there.

the real root of the problems was your silver-tongued and stupid-looking accomplice, gojo satoru.

you'd never regret taking tsumiki and megumi in. you'd never regret the actions you'd allowed gojo to take against their father. the only thing in the world you really did regret was giving gojo satoru your spare house key.

"who wants cake?"

you return from picking up megumi and tsumiki from school to a kitchen that seemed like it'd been through many small explosions. the smell of smoke hung faintly in the air. gojo loomed behind the counter like a bad omen and you scooted the children behind you warily.

"satoru," you began as if you were scolding a petulant and sulking child, "what are you doing in my house again?"

yes, again. because this was the 3rd day in a row gojo had blown off his missions and all his deep, deep piles of shit at jujutsu high to deal with to come harass you.

"why do you look so upset to see me!" gojo whines as his posture drops dramatically. he feigns a sigh with a hand over his heart. in doing this, he drops the skillet (why does he have a skillet when he's making a cake?) on his toe.

instantly, a stream of firey profanities and angry curses spews from his mouth as he hops around clutching his foot. tsumiki covers megumi's ears. he can still hear everything.

"satoru," you hiss, "not in front of the fucking kids, dude."

the tall man rises back up and shrugs, nonchalantly trying to pretend he hadn't basically been rolling around crying a second before.

despite this being a regular tri-weekly occurrence at this point, you still berate gojo. and by berate him, you just curse him out. megumi and tsumiki shuffle out from behind you with their schoolbags, and gojo beckons them toward the kitchen and to him.

"you're so irresponsible, you dumbass!" gojo places a piece of sweet red velvet cake onto a paper plate for tsumiki. he nods to you sweetly, as if encouraging you to keep going.

"why are you always here, burning down my house, when you have mountains of paperwork to do back at the school? you are a grown-ass man child." another slice is served to megumi.

"you need to get out. now." megumi and tsumiki scurry off to their rooms. gojo has emerged from the kitchen now, and he's nodding encouragingly. he's got an apron on and his sunglasses are shoved in his hair and he looks so strangely domestic that you don't bat an eye at first when he comes behind you and massages your shoulders.

"let it out," he says, and you sigh because his hands really do work through the knots in your back, and jesus christ, is there anything he's not good at?

hold on. just what is he doing?

you flip your hand back, effectively smacking him in the face as you storm into your kitchen and start angry-cleaning. you'd like to curse him out some more but you're so embarrassed and flushed and you know gojo well enough to be certain that he'd notice if you spoke.

"let me help you clean." you don't protest as he starts picking up his own mess alongside you, and there it is again: that familiar premonition, that tick in your chest, and that honey-sweet scent you've grown to call in your mind the 'gojo-sense' because it was a sensation you've only observed around him before.

you've known gojo satoru since day 1 of your schooling at jujutsu technical college, and you've known him every day since then, much to your discretion. unfortunately for you, he was one of your closest friends- so close, in fact, that he'd so kindly offered megumi and tsumiki to you after he found (kidnapped???) them post-toji's death.

(you're pretty sure megumi and tsumiki hadn't been kidnapped. you've grown close to them in the year-ish you've been raising them and you think they'd tell you if they were. you think.)

in all your years of knowing gojo, you could count the times you've felt like you truly understood him on one hand. the count lies at 2.

the first time dates back to his very first time trying alcohol. it was almost the end of your 3rd year, and shoko had snagged a bottle to share with your little group.

you remember gojo being pensive about trying it, and trying to bluff his way out. and you remember the confession that followed, that he'd never tried it before. shoko and geto laughed. you don't remember if you did, too, but you remember gojo looking at you hesitantly before he took his first shot.

and then he almost threw up.

again, your other friends laughed and teased, but you were too caught by the question of 'why did he look at you' to bother.

it didn't help that, during this time, you had a major crush on him. it was gone now, though, you swear.

the second time you think you understood gojo satoru was the night of riko amanai's death. it had happened so fast. you remembered his smile and then you remembered his tears as he cried for the first time in front of you. you remember holding him, your best friend, and then you remember not being able to as infinity filtered between your fingers and blocked you from his skin.

that was the night that gojo satoru vowed to never let anyone through his walls again. you would not be an exception. but unfortunately for him, you were already in his secret garden.

so despite you thinking that gojo had closed you out of his inner world forever, he had a place for you all along. you just didn't know.

the two of you remained heavily ingrained in each other's worlds, despite this rift. you were a package deal, and more often than not gojo could only be found when you were nearby, much to your irritation- and much like right now.

"you still need to get out of my house," you grumbled, but with less drive. this is how it goes every day- gojo appears. you try to get him to leave. he does not. you give up. repeat.

"you gave me your key," he reminds, and you're not looking at him but you can hear his smile. "and i could get in without it, anyways. you can't really do much."

"thanks for informing me about how you're a master burglar. i should report you to the cops."

"as if i couldn't take the police," gojo scoffs. you almost smile.

"regardless of whether you could take the police or not," you say, waving a crusty whisk in his face, "you couldn't take me. so you'd better leave."

(you probably couldn't take gojo in a fight. not that he would ever hurt you but there is no competing with the strongest. but he always listens to you, just like he does at this moment.)

"okay, okay, fine," he relents. he finishes helping you clean and is gone in a blink with his stupid little teleportation ability, and you know you're the one who wanted him to leave but you can't help but feel a little empty now that he's gone.

you know he'll be back soon enough, though. and you're proven right because your phone buzzes with gojo's special ringtone and he's already informing you that he'll be home for dinner and to not finish the cake. this prompts you to glance over to the kitchen counter, where said cake was not there.

you blink, before concluding a ghost probably got it. weirder things have happened in your household. you do feel a little sympathy for the ghost's stomach, though- that amount of sugar would be enough to kill them again.

you shrug your shoulders before carrying on with your life, sitting on the living room couch with your laptop to type out a report about some bullshit you don't care about and how it'll affect sorcerers and whatnot.

it's not until you call megumi and tsumiki out of their rooms for dinner do you realize that it was, in fact, not a ghost that had eaten the cake.

tsumiki arrives at the dinner table first, ever-so-polite, helping you set up 4 places (the extra in case gojo made good of his word and dropped by to eat.)

megumi doesn't arrive until a few minutes later, just as you were about to go collect him from his room. he stumbles out of his door like he'd just fought 7 wars consecutively, his face paler than death and his 4-foot self shaking like a leaf in the wind.

he almost slams into you, with the way he staggers through the hallway to the kitchen. he doesn't meet your eyes as he apologizes profusely, flopping onto a chair like a fish.

almost instantly, the poor boy passes out face-first on the table. you and tsumiki exchange a worried look as you press the back of your hand to his forehead, only to feel that megumi was burning up.

"surprise! did you miss me?"

you shoot gojo a glare as he materializes in the kitchen a few feet away. at his loud and rather irritating voice, megumi usually would've woken, being a light sleeper- but the 8-year-old was still knocked out with his face on his plate like it was a pillow.

"satoru, no offense, but could you keep it down?" tsumiki, ever-the-saint and ever-so-helpful, inquired politely. "megumi's sleeping."

at this, gojo furrows his brow, turning his head to the sleeping child.

"oh."

you can almost see the cogs turning behind gojo's thick skull before he asks: "what's wrong with him?"

you blink at him. "connect the dots, dumbass."

tsumiki laughs awkwardly, quickly grabbing her plate of food before speedwalking away to her bedroom, calling out a quick, "i'll be in my room if you need anything!"

you sigh, unable to blame the poor girl. if you had a choice, you wouldn't want to deal with gojo either.

gojo turns back to you with raised brows. "our family is falling apart. our daughter is running away, and our son is dying."

"that wasn't funny in the slightest."

"i think it was."

you exhale, a half-smile forming on your face. "okay then, mr. comedian, could you help get megumi to his bed?"

gojo doesn't need more prompting. he's already carrying megumi like he weighs less than a feather, with a gentleness you often forget he has. you're even more surprised when you see that gojo's hand actually touching the fabric of the boy's clothes- his infinity is off.

you don't mention it, even though you're sure that gojo knows that you've noticed. you try to ignore the way your heart thunders as you watch from the kitchen as gojo carries megumi to his room, observing from afar as he tucks the boy into his sheets carefully and ruffles his hair. you try not to smile like a fool but you think you do a poor job of hiding it.

when gojo returns to the joint kitchen and living room of your apartment, he pulls himself onto the counter next to you to sit, ignoring the various seats at his disposal.

"well, he's sick."

you snort. "yeah, no kidding."

you're still watching megumi's bedroom door but you can feel gojo's gaze land on you, as it often does. "he'll be okay. don't worry about it too much."

a certain softness warms your heart and you release a breath you didn't know you were holding. "yeah. you're right. it's no big deal, he'll be fine."

megumi was not, in fact, fine.

at 6 in the morning, you feel a soft, incessant tapping on your arm. you stir groggily, only to hear a familiar child's voice- megumi's voice.

you sit up, rubbing your eyes as your vision adjusted. you realize you weren't in your bedroom- you were on the living room couch. and gojo satoru was curled up close behind you.

you'll deal with that later, though, because megumi looks like he's on the verge of tears. wordlessly, instantly, you put a hand on his back and kneel down to his eye level. you can see tears welling up in his eyes and concern burns your lungs.

"is everything okay?" your whisper is met by sniffles and you pull the boy into a hug, which he allows, burying his face in your sweatshirt sleeve.

"i'm sorry. i threw up and i don't feel good. sorry."

you might cry too, as you hold him close and rub his back.

"it's okay, don't apologize. i've got you."

at some point, megumi falls back asleep. you hold his sleeping form on your hip as you shake gojo awake. he grumbles and groans until you smack his arm and he stirs.

"what? is everything okay?"

you're almost impressed with how gojo instantly scopes out the situation- from the sleeping, sickly child at your side to your tired, worried expression.

"i have no idea what to do."

you're whispering but you don't have to be, as your guilty confession tumbles out. you're hardly 20 and your child who you got roped into raising is sick. you could hardly function properly yourself, and then you became a parent-ish, and then your kid got sick. to say you were stressed was an understatement.

gojo blinks. you think he understands the weight of your words because he stands swiftly, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"i'm not sure either," he whispers back, "but we can figure it out."

the two of you devise a plan, consisting of googled remedies from mom blogs and random doctor's offices, and gojo's childhood experiences with getting sick.

while he cleaned megumi's room (a task you'd assigned him, seeing as you were already holding megumi and didn't want to wake him, and not because you just really didn't want to), you shuffled through your kitchen to riffle through cabinets and drawers, in search of flu medications, cough drops, or anything that might help.

ultimately, all you came up with were bandages, gauze, and iodine- the lifeblood of a jujutsu sorcerer. you sigh, fighting the urge to slam your head into the wall.

gojo shows up next to you, running a hand through his hair. you'd be flustered if you weren't so irate.

"nothing?"

"nope."

gojo sighs and you're reminded for a second about how scary this must be for him, too. he's only your age, and just as powerless as you. helplessness is not a feeling he must encounter often, so it must be particularly awful when it happens.

you almost feel bad for him, but then a playful grin cracks his face, and he pulls out jingling car keys from his sweatpant pockets.

you narrow your eyes. "oh, no. you are not driving anywhere, not at this time of day. it's still dark out."

gojo clicks his tongue and starts walking to the door. "i'm not driving. we are. think of it as... a road trip! i think i have some medication at my place."

you wave your hand in the air dismissively. "just.. teleport us there, or something? i'd rather die than drive with you again."

"i told you! i'm a good driver! i was just messing with you!"

"you crashed your car into a tree, satoru."

you startle yourself with your use of his first name, but you don't think he notices because he bounces right back.

"it was funny!"

you shake your head. "not happening."

"i can't teleport us."

"why not?"

gojo looks a little guilty at this. you soften. "i don't really trust myself with my abilities anymore. i don't know. it's kind of stupid."

"no, it's not stupid. i mean, i trust you," you try hesitantly, "but if you don't, we can drive."

you put aside your fears of gojo behind the wheel and you're glad you do because he looks at you in a way that makes you feel like the only person alive. "i'm a good driver. swear."

gojo is, to your surprise, not a horrible chauffeur. unlike the first time and last he drove you somewhere, there are no crashes or screaming or anything of the sort.

the streets are quiet with only the occasional car buzzing past. you don't think you've been to gojo's apartment. yours has been the go-to spot for whenever he or shoko would want company.

it's almost a calm ride, with gojo steering wordlessly and megumi snoring softly in the backseat. you're honestly impressed he hasn't woken up yet. you thrum your fingers against the dashboard, pulling one leg underneath you as you sat.

"we're here," gojo states. you glance at him drowsily from the corner of your eye, watching him leave the car and head to the backseat to retrieve megumi. your follow suit and leave the car, gazing up at the towering, swanky apartment building before you.

"this is so above my pay grade," you breathe, "are you sure they'll allow us commoners in here, my liege?"

gojo laughs softly, "no. you might have to wait out on the curb."

the building's lobby is a boring beige, with glass chandeliers providing a dim white light. it feels plasticky and stuffy and you're a little afraid to touch the elevator's buttons because you don't want to break them.

gojo's apartment is no better. the decor is minimalistic, and it hardly looks lived in. the only signs of life are the coffee mugs in the sinks and the jars of candies on top of the fridge.

his apartment might be big and high-end, but it feels so devoid of life, and you suddenly realize why gojo spends most of his time at your place.

it might be small and cluttered but it's warm, and cozy, and lived-in, and god knows that's what gojo needed. you can't imagine how isolated he must be in everyday life. your heart aches.

gojo sets megumi down on the couch with the gentleness of an angel, not that it was needed because in his current state, the boy could sleep through 12 nuclear explosions and then some.

wordlessly, gojo beckons you to follow him to a room situated at the end of the hallway. it's big and just as empty as the previous rooms, with only a dresser and a bed pushed into separate corners.

gojo rustles through the dresser drawers, presumably in search of medicine, but your gaze wanders to something else- the only real decor you've seen in the house.

there are two framed photographs sitting on top of his dresser. you take one in your hands, squinting to make out the image in the dark. you recognize it as yourself, laughing and looking behind the camera. geto and shoko are in the background, walking together on the pier.

you remember this day. it was the last mission of your first year at tokyo jujutsu high, and the four of you had decided to go out and get ice cream. it had begun to rain, but you hadn't cared. in the photo, your hair was clinging to your face but your smile was bright.

you remember the joy of that day more than anything. apparently, gojo did too, because he kept this photo despite it being years in the past.

the second frame contains a blurry photograph. you can't tell what it is at first, but after staring for a moment you realize: it's megumi, you, and tsumiki. megumi is younger in this somehow, despite the fact that it must have only been a few months ago. he's sprawled across your lap, and you just know that he would hate this picture.

tsumiki is sitting on the floor with you attentively, listening to you, as you show her something on your phone. she's smiling and looking at you with such reverence and admiration, and you feel a strange sort of pride.

you put the photo down and feel gojo staring at you. you turn to him, and he holds up a blue bottle- ibuprofen. "i get headaches."

you blink at him. "i like these pictures."

he smiles awkwardly. "yeah, me too."

and maybe it's the fact that it's encroaching on 7 in the morning, and you're delusional from the stress, and maybe this is a bad decision but you turn back to the pictures and smile and say, "i used to have a huge crush on you back in school. like, around when this picture was taken."

gojo doesn't react, staring at your hand as you point to the photo taken in high school. it's silent for a few moments before he speaks. "that's funny, y'know, because i liked you in this one."

you blink as he gestures to the recent photo. you laugh.

"you're so lame. how do you manage to always have the stupidest pick-up lines?"

you wait for gojo to laugh with you, but he keeps looking at you, and you cease your laughter.

"satoru? is everything okay?"

he takes a minuscule step closer and suddenly you're hyperaware of everything- your heartbeat, his face, your skin, you can feel it all.

"i wasn't joking," he says.

"oh."

you feel your heart thunder in your throat. gojo's eyes stare into yours and you look back into his and you have never been more lost for words than you are right now.

gojo takes your silence as a cue to continue.

"i liked you then, and that hasn't changed. you've been with me through basically everything. i don't know how to say this," he fumbles over his words now and you're reminded that you were only a teenager a few years ago, "but you make me feel less alone than i ever have."

if you were to speak at this moment, you wouldn't be sure what would come out of your mouth. so you place your hands on either side of gojo's face and plant a chaste kiss on his lips.

it's brief and easy, and it's over before gojo's fully processed what's happened.

but apparently, it was far, far too long because a little voice speaks from the doorway, sounding exasperated beyond his years. "can you guys figure this out later, i feel like i'm dying."

amused, you watch as gojo stumbles to the door holding the blue bottle, and watch him usher megumi over to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

you follow from a few feet away, watching as gojo tries to battle his embarrassment, and savoring it because you're certain that, come morning, he will be absolutely shameless.

you were right. by the time you arrive back to your own apartment, with megumi again asleep in the backseat, he's already discussing pet names and marriage and boasting about how you're lucky because he's just such a good kisser.

tsumiki is near-frantic when you return, and you mentally facepalm for not remembering to shoot her a text explaining your absence. you and gojo spend a good 5 minutes consoling her after placing megumi in his room yet again.

her confusion is only halted when a bolt of realization passes through her, and she manages a smirk that you didn't think she could be capable of.

"why are you guys holding hands?"

you blink, and look down at your right hand, which was currently intertwined with gojo's. you snatch it away and roll your eyes with a dramatic huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

gojo looks shattered.

"what betrayal," he wails, slumping onto you like his bones turned to jelly. you push him off and he lands on the floor sprawled out like a starfish.

"my own partner," he huffs from the ground, "hates me. my life is so hard."

tsumiki's eyes pop out of her skull. "partner? oh my gosh, what did i miss?"

you groan and cover your face with your hands.

a 4th voice chimes in. "don't worry. it wasn't pretty."

megumi stands in the hallway, looking fine as ever, and decidedly not sick.

you blink at him. tsumiki stares. even gojo raises his head off the floor to make sure that the boy was not, in fact, a ghost.

"aren't you sick?" gojo asks.

megumi rolled his eyes. "well, i was, but i'm better now. i think that was your cake from last night. it was so nasty it made me want to die."

you look at gojo. he sits up and shrugs sheepishly.

regret was not a word you use lightly. but right now, you really, really regret letting gojo satoru into your apartment.

author's note: dont think abt the timeline of this too much pls

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojou x reader #satoru gojou #gojou satoru x you #gojou satoru #jujutsu kaisen gojou #satoru x reader #satoru gojo #jjk fanfic #jjk #jjk fluff #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu kaisen #reader insert #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru

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the-soliloquies-of-sadists · 2 months

Text

#391

“What? You think you are done faggot? Get back into place. I said, ‘Faggot, get back into place.’ No, no, no, you ain’t Kevin no more, not after I saw four men take turns spit roasting you. You are Faggot from this point on. Now it’s my turn to bust my nut….

“This changes everything between us. About time it does. I’m tired of hearing about Jesus. When my right-wing cousin asked me to take the 20-year-old son of a friend of hers along with me to see if he would like truck driving, I was reluctant. She told me you were a quiet boy who needed to come out of a shell. I filled out all the paperwork with the company so you could ride with me.

“Bend over the picnic table with your cunt pointing at that garbage can.

“When we met, I knew you were a faggot right away. You followed me into the men’s room. I started to get a boner right there. I saw you glancing at my dick at the urinals. I knew it was going to be a great two weeks together. But not ten minutes in my cab, I was hearing how much you love Jesus, and I knew this was not going to be good. And we hadn’t even started rolling.

“Now pull apart your cunt lips and push some jiz out.

“So before we left, I called my cousin. She told me that you are the son of her Baptist preacher and it would be a great favor to her to take you out and show you real America. Now my cousin doesn’t know that I’m a total fag fucker. So instead, I called two of my fellow drivers, Barry and Jimmy. You just met them; Barry was the first and Jimmy was the third guy to spit roast you. We drive for the same company on the same route on the same day. As you are Barry’s type, he wanted you ASAP. That’s why we are here at this rest area. That and this spot has this picnic table out back away from the eyes of the casual traveler.

“Push some more out. I want a good glob on my cock head. Damn, this cunt has been used before. And I’m not even talking about just today. It’s obvious that you also have experience in servicing and serving men. Your second fucker was this trucker that followed you and Barry back here. And he was slapping your face when Barry was plowing your cunt. And it wasn’t a love tap; it was a man properly using and abusing a faggot. He even used a fistful of you your hair as a handle. You seemed to take that roughness like it was nothing.

“So, I can reach over and pull you off the picnic table and push you on your knees…. Like that. Faggot, this is natural for you, isn’t it?... Where did you learn that you need to be treated like shit?...

“…You met older men from those kink sites?... …So I have a faggot to use as my personal cunt for the next few weeks?

“That face slap is for not addressing me with respect. That’s ‘Yes Master.’ You refer to all men as ‘Sir.’ You got that faggot?... I’m really going to like smacking you around.

“See that glob of driver cum on my dick head? Using only the tip of your tongue, scoop it in your mouth, but don’t swallow it.

“Now say, ‘I am a faggot whore whose only existence is to be abused by real men. I live for cock and cum….’ …Say it again…. …Again…

“You got me leaking. Turn your head to face the garbage can. I want to wipe my pre-cum on your cheek. Swallow that spunk and keep saying it.

“That’s good. Mmmm. Now say that you want to be abused without mercy…. And say that you don’t want to have a safe word…. So you do not want to have any say of what I plan on doing to you, and that your pleas to stop must be ignored…. Don’t look back at me; say it to the garbage can, cause that’s what you are, garbage.

“…Good that’s done. Now suck on my dick.

“Listen up faggot. I was talking with that second driver—the one that roughed you up while Barry was plowing your cunt. He left back here and made a bee line to his cab. When he came out, he looked pissed. He had a belt already doubled up, and he was heading back here to beat the shit out of you.

“I stopped him. He was pissed at you. He recognized you. He showed me his phone. It had a news article with a pic of you standing next to your father as your preacher father was going into the state’s senate to fights against gays. Now I tend to stay out of politics, but even I know of your dad’s name.

“I told him that you were being fucked by Jimmy and that random fourth guy that came out of nowhere. He wondered how I knew the details of what was going on as this area isn’t seen from the parking lot….

“I told him to look at my phone. Faggot, pull off my cock and look up. Damn, you are one hungry cunt. You don’t care about anything I have to say. That would explain why you don’t seem interested in how I knew about everything and every guy you were doing back here.

“If you look at my phone you will see a faggot kneeling in front of a man, both next to a picnic table. That faggot is you…. Yes, I have been watching you through my phone. The camera is located inside the opening to the garbage can there.

“Now it’s hitting you. Yeah, I told Barry to come up here and set it up. He has a lot of cameras in his truck. He streams his fuck sessions in his cab and makes a shit load of money on-line. By default, he has a copy of the video and so do I. So going after my phone won’t do you no good. So get back on your knees.

“It’s interesting, I did this to blackmail you into being my total bitch the seventeen days you are with me and to get you to stop with the religious shit. Barry was definitely game, as likes young fags like you. Jimmy just likes to fuck. This here was going to be a simple picnic table fuck.

“That all changed when Chuck—that would be the second driver—showed me his phone….

“…Don’t fucking say another word. I will smack you again. You are in a shitty spot here. First, you are naked as a rest stop, loaded up by four men, soon to be five with mine. Don’t bother looking for your clothes. Barry picked up your shit and put it in his cab; you were oblivious being spit roasted.

“When you leave this area, you will walk back to a row of semis buck naked. After my fat hog fucks you, your gape will be more pronounced, so you will have jiz running down your legs like some goddamned whore. Next, you were filmed doing and saying nasty things, things your Papa wouldn’t approve. So doing something stupid like running away is not going to go well for you, as that video can be edited to hide us but showcase your talents. Videos are easy to disseminate. You are kinda stuck in this situation, subject to whatever sexual whims that should come to mind.

“You are going to be filmed doing nasty shit going forward, but doing one video will have the same as ten. You understand your predicament?... Good. Good.

“Now get up and lean over the picnic table. I need to drop my seed.

“…Fuck, you are sloppy back here. The guys stretched you out enough, so you aren’t strangling my dick. And cum lube is the best…. Oh yeah, clamp down like that. We need to be very quick. There’s a timetable that needs to be met. We all are meeting up at a particular spot up ahead for our 10-hour DOT rest.

“The things that are planned for you..., I’m getting close just thinking about it. You are going to be used by so many men these next two weeks.

“Damn your hair was made to be used as a handle. Arch your back. Try almost to stand.

“Fuck that feels good. You ready for my load? Of course you are. You are cum dump faggot who lives to take load after load. You don’t give a shit who is fucking you, just as long as they breed you. You fucking slut. You whore.

“I’m gonna cum. I’m going to flood your guts with more cum. When I am done, you are to clean me off like a good faggot.

“Get ready. Here it cums! Here it cums! Here it fucking cums! Ahhhh Ahhhhh Ahh!... Fuck! Goddamn, your cunt is just what I needed.

“…Atta boy. Tastes nasty hunh? That’s the flavor of four men’s loads. Yeah you are a fucking pig. I knew it.

“…Let’s head on out. Hold on. Let me get that camera from the garbage can. …OK, let’s go.

“No. No. You are walking in front of me. I want whoever is in the parking lot to see a naked cum whore faggot. Walk slowly. Better yet. I got a fistful of your hair. I’ll control the pacing.

“Damn. Everyone’s gone except for me and Chuck. Barry split and he has your clothes… and probably your phone too. Don’t worry, you’ll get it back tonight.

“Let’s go over to Chuck’s cab.

“Hey Chuck!... I got the faggot here for ya! Naked and loaded up! Are they going to be there?... Fucking awesome!

“OK faggot get on up. You are riding with Chuck for the rest of today…. Awww shut the fuck up. I don’t care what you have to say. Chuck has arranged to have a gay biker gang join us tonight. His condition for arranging this was he gets you tied up in his cab for the day. Seems like a fair exchange….

“…I said for you to shut up. Keep insisting you have something important to say, and I’ll do a lot more than slam your faggot face against his cab.

“Listen here shithead. I don’t give a shit about you, or what happens to you. I don’t give a fuck about my right-wing nutjob cousin. And I don’t have any sympathy for your father and his evil fucked up ministry.

“I control what happens to you. And you are going in the cab of a fellow fag fucking driver, a man I just met, a man that has bondage equipment installed inside, a man that knows a biker gang. And I’m fine with all of it.

“Chuck, get down here. The faggot needs convincing getting up into your cab. Bring your belt. I can stick around to help you turn this sissy girl black and blue….

“Change your mind? Good. Get up there.

“He’s all yours Chuck.

“I hope to catch you later faggot… “…Oh faggot! I forgot to say, ‘Praise Jesus!’”

This story continues in Story #396.

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