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whorekneecentral · 1 year ago

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Tis' The Season

Lewis Hamilton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: old friends reappear, flashbacks in italics, complicated relationships, expensive gifts cause it's lew lew duh, uses roscoe as an in, brocedes mention, alcohol and the consumption of, sexual tension, oral (f!receiving), degrading, the use of 'slut' in a sexual context, penetrative sex (p in v), choking, creampie, soft moments at be end.

Word Count: 2,668

Author's Note: love me some lew lew and he gives fuckboy turned lover boy so here we areeeeee

merry smutmas series

An old friend finds his way to your front door and no matter how much you try to get rid of him, you can’t.

A knock on the door startles you as you hung the ornament on your Christmas tree. You shout that you're coming, grabbing your wallet out of your purse, as you jog to your front door. You assumed it was your take-out delivery guy and that's not who it was when you opened the door.

The man smiles at you, bags in hand and puppy between his legs. "Hi beautiful," Lewis smiles at you, bundled up in his winter coat.

You huff, looking at him. "Hi Lewis.. what are you doing here?"

He lifts the bags, showing you. "Happy holidays, y/n. I come bearing gifts."

"Seriously?" You hold back the urge to roll your eyes, Roscoe barks and gets your attention, you crouch down to pat his side, the dog leaning into your hand before waddling his way into the house. Lewis doesn't stop him, smiling at you.

"Are you gonna let me in, love? Roscoe is already inside, it'd be rude to let me freeze out here."

You don't have the heart to let them freeze, especially since you know how Roscoe loves him so much.

You let Lewis in, the man takes his shoes off by the door and follows you down the hallway to the living room. Roscoe had already made himself comfortable, shaking off the cold, and lying down by the fireplace. Despite you and Lewis not talking for years, you had left Roscoe's dog bed by the fireplace, as it had always been, picking it up to clean and setting it back in its spot.

Lewis sets the bags on the coffee table, hanging his coat off the arm rest of your couch. "I didn't know if you still live here."

"Well now that you do, I'll have to move, won't I?"

He chuckles, smiling to himself - nice to see your sense of humour has remained.

"Go on, open 'em." He nods towards the gifts on the table. You were adjusting an ornament on the tree, "I don't want it, Lewis."

"Oh hush, don't be annoying, y/n. Just open it."

You rolled your eyes, sitting across from him on the couch and picking up the first bag, the shape was a give away. Carefully, you pulled the bottle of wine out of the bag, some expensive French wine that you two had once upon a time when you took a trip to France. You read the label, setting it down on the table gently.

"Expensive," you eye him and he smiles. "Open the other one." He says quietly, watching as you tear the wrapping paper.

You freeze, the orange box staring back at you, the signature black and white ribbon around the box; Hermes Paris written across the top.

"Lewis.." You look at the man and he nods, waiting for you to go on. You carefully undo the ribbon, taking the lid off of the box. There's clearly a bag in the box, wrapped in a dust bag.

You feel underdressed and dirty, as if you should have showered before opening such a gift. You take the purse out of the dust bag, a Birkin in Bougainvillea - the same shade you had seen so many years ago.

His arm rested over your shoulders, the two of you cuddled on the couch as Lewis flipped through the tv channels. Formula One had wrapped up for the 2008 season and your dearest friend Lewis was now a Formula One world champion.

You, on the other hand, were still in med school.

Lewis had come home for the holidays, a yearly tradition of trashy Christmas movies and Chinese take out had commenced, Lewis picking out something for you two to watch as you flipped through the magazine.

"This one," you tell him, nudging him with your shoulder. "I want this one." You show him the bright pink Birkin bag - in the shade Bougainvillea. It's unrealistically, shockingly pink but it was the newest colour in the collection and you wanted it.

"I'm gonna get this for myself when I finish med school and I'm a rich surgeon."

Lewis smiles, "I'll get it for you, love. No need to wait so long, consider it your med school graduation gift." He kisses your head.

They don't make this colour anymore, you're sure it must have cost Lewis a fortune. "How did you even.. they don't make this colour anymore." You examined the bag, setting it back into the dust bag carefully.

"I know people, y/n."

You hum, "it's too much."

"It's your gift, y/n. I promised you, didn't I?"

You smiled, nodding as you carefully set the bag back into the box. "Thank you Lew, really."

The man smiles, it's been years since he's heard you call him Lewis. You two had a falling out a while back, right after his first championship win with Mercedes - you didn't like the way he treated you, pushed you off to the side as if you hadn't been there for him through it all. Lewis was and still is career driven, it has and will always take first priority to him but it ruined your friendship and it had ruined the same special bond he had with Nico.

In this moment, you let all that go.

The doorbell rings, intruding on your thoughts. "Expecting someone?" Lewis asks, glancing at you as you set the Hermes box on the coffee table.

"No.. oh wait yeah, the take out guy." You say, getting up. Lewis waves you off, getting up and fishes his wallet out of his pocket. "I'm not a broke med student anymore, Lewis. I can afford to pay for dinner."

"As can I, so hush." He says, making his way down the foyer to the front door, paying the man.

You can hear bits and pieces of their hushed conversation, the man thanks him before the door shuts.

The bags are taken to the kitchen and you see him looking around, clearly looking for something. You decide to put him out of his misery, getting up to help him look for plates. Lewis stops, leaning on the counter as he watches you get the dishes out of the cupboard.

"I'm sorry." He says, his words catching you off guard.

Your brows furrow, looking at him. "What for?"

"For everything. What happened in the past… That was between us and I know that it was my fault, and I shouldn't have said what I said, but I truly am sorry. You don't have to forgive me, but I would just like to start over if you give me the chance."

"Okay," you nod, setting the plates on the table.

"Okay."

He joined you at the table, the two of you sitting quietly and eating dinner like you've done many times over the years. Tonight was different though, there was a sense of relief in the air as if this tension had been lifted off your shoulders after so many years. The quiet sound of cutlery clinking against the dishes and Roscoe's snores coming from the fireplace filled the house.

At some point after dinner, you were putting the dishes in the sink and Lewis asked if he should open a bottle of wine that he brought. You shrug, reaching into the cabinet to get the glasses while Lewis pulls the cork out of the bottle before filling the glasses half way.

The house is quiet as the two of you sit on the couch, Lewis handing you a glass of wine. It's a comfortable silence, Lewis takes a sip of his wine as he looks over at you; he can't help but notice how you've aged beautifully over the years, not in a you look old sort of way but the maturity you've come into seems to suit you perfectly.

Next to him, you seem to make the same realization but with him. Lewis what is a baby faced, starting to find himself boy when you two had you falling out. Now he was grown, and even more handsome than the day you had walked away from him.

You take the first step, setting the glass down on the coffee table before reaching for Lewis's glass, setting it with yours.

The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife, the two of you sitting there in silence, inching closer and closer with each passing second until he finally closes the gap between the two of you.

Lewis's hands find your hips, the man pulling you onto his lap. You settle against him as if you had always been there. His lips trail down your neck, hands slipping under your shirt.

"No," you whispered, your hands wrapping around his wrists. Lewis looked at you confused, wondering if he had done something wrong.

"What?"

"We can't do this here."

"Why not?" He asks and you nod towards Roscoe, the dog still fast asleep by the fireplace.

Lewis can't help but laugh, his forehead pressing to your shoulder. "Love, he's asleep. It's fine."

"Oh my god," you smacked his shoulder, "that doesn't mean we're gonna fuck in front of him."

He raises an eyebrow, "we're gonna fuck?"

"Don't be a fuckboy, Lew." The man ignored your words, his arms wrapping around you, picking you up with ease, carrying you down the hallway to your bedroom. Despite the years he hadn't spent there, nothing's changed.

Lewis drops you on the bed and you propped yourself up, watching him get undressed before he sits next to you, his hand cups your jaw and you smile at him. “Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he smiles at you, leaning down to kiss your nose and you scrunch it in response. “You’re cheeky.”

“You love it,” he says, kissing your nose again.

Lewis leans down a bit more and kisses you but you pull away, sliding off the bed. “We can't.” You tell him, about to walk away but he grabs your hips, pulling you to stand between his legs.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, sliding up to rest on his jaw. His beard tickles the palm of your hand as you look at him. Lewis doesn't have to say anything and all the worries seem to slip away in the moment, it was as if you hadn't spent a single day apart.

The man pulls you down on top of him, his hands sliding down your back to rest on your waist as you sit yourself on his lap.

“We-” you go to remind him once more but he cuts you off with a kiss. Lewis flips the two of you over, letting you lay on your back when he gets off the bed, he pulls you to the edge of the bed.

Your eyes fixed on the man between your legs, looking at him in awe. Something about Lewis always fascinated you; you could never put your finger on it but he was always an object of fascination, of desire.

He can feel your eyes on him, he reaches for the lace you’re wrapped up in under your clothes and tugs it down your legs, letting it fall to the floor. He shifts to sit on his knees between your legs, leaving a trail of kisses as he works his way up to your cunt.

Your eyes meet his, he knows you’re looking; he wants you to look at him.

Your hips buck when you feel his tongue against your clit, your hand gripping on his hair.

Lewis knew you like the back of his hand, gripping your thighs to keep them in place as his tongue lapped your clit. Your hips buck, your way of saying you want more and Lewis gives in.

Two fingers pushing into you, Lewis glances up to see your head tossed back onto the pillows, eyes fluttering shut and your free hand groping your tit.

Between his fingers and his tongue, your orgasm was teetering on the edge; he knew that much. Lewis pulls his hands away, the sticky fingers on your thighs. A whimper leaves your lips at the loss of fullness.

Your chest heaving, your grip on his hair loosening now that you’re right on the edge, you’re almost there and he just has to - he’s stopped.

“Why'd you stop?” You sit up, a pout on your lips when you look at the man between your legs.

“Shush, you love hanging on the edge,” Lewis tells you with a smile, unbuttoning his pants.

He lines himself up with you, and Lewis lets you take him little by little, pulling out almost all the way each time before finally pushing into you all the way. He's in charge and you both know it, letting him set the pace; slow and steady and it was driving you insane.

You needed him.

You didn’t want slow, you wanted it hard and messy, the type of fuck where you couldn’t keep your hands off each other.

“Lew, come on.” Your hand reaches to rest on his hand that’s on your hip. “Need more.”

“Do you?” He hums, moving a little faster.

You know giving him attitude won’t help but you can’t help but roll your eyes, “more than that.”

“Needy,” he calls, pulling you closer by your legs.

Finally, you get what you want, Lewis’s hips hitting the back of your thighs, he leans over you and your arms are pinned about your head, both legs up on his shoulders now. The angle was enough to push you over the edge but he didn’t care.

“Lew please-” you tried to wiggle your hands loose but he didn’t budge.

“What’s wrong baby?” he asks, mockingly, “isn't this what you wanted?”

“It is, but-” your head tosses back, back arched when he hits the spot he was looking for.

“Oh,” he coos, smiling at you. “Is my baby so fucked out, she can’t even tell me what she wants?” His thrusts are sloppy, you knew he was just as close as you were.

“Gonna cum-” you barely get out between strangled moans. Lewis finally lets go of your wrists and one of his hands has wrapped around your throat.

“C’mon sweetheart, want you to cum for me.” He says, knowing it won't be long more.

He watches as your eyes flutter shut and he reaches for you with his other hand, holding your jaw and pulling you up a little, your elbows holding up the weight of your body.

“Look at me when you cum.”

You’re forcing yourself to keep your eyes open, focusing on him. A few more sloppy thrusts and between that and his fingers, you’re over the edge. He kisses you, muffling the noise you were making. The wetness wrapping around his cock, and with a few sloppy thrusts, Lewis follows behind you.

The two of you are still tangled together, laying in bed next to each other. Lewis looks over at you, you look back at him with a sleepy smile on your face.

"Should I.."

"Should you.." you trailed off, waiting to hear what he says. Lewis shrugs, "should I go home?"

You take a moment to think, not about kicking him out - that was never an option but perhaps the things that lead you here.

There's a noise from outside the door, a sort of scratching. Seems like Roscoe had woken up and came looking for you two. Lewis takes the hint, getting up to open the door for the dog. You put on your shirt and your panties and Lewis lets Roscoe in, the dog jumping up on the bed with some assistance from his dad.

Lewis gets under the covers with you, Roscoe settled at the edge of the bed. You look over at Lewis, his hand resting on yours.

"I think you should." You tell him quietly and Lewis's brows furrow, a pout forming on his lips. "I should?" He asks.

You nod, "you should stay."

Lewis lets out a soft sigh, smiling. His hand squeezes yours gently. "I'll stay."

---

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#merry smutmas xoxo #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 smut

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godihatethiswebsite · 8 days ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Five - On Trial

Apologies for the delay as there were a few speed bumps that my foggy brain just did not want to hump over. This chapter gave me some grief, but I'm still happy with how it turned out :)

Trigger Warnings: religious imagery, ptsd, angst, brief mentions of rape/incest/assault/drugging/coercion/miscarriage

Flat deadened eyes bore chasms through your own.

They peeled away the impregnable shroud of shame masking the abhorrent malefactions of those you’ve wronged.

In a split second of time, those eyes foisted judgment upon all your heinous sins with an executioner’s toll. Damning you to an endless oblivion amongst the cacophony of wailing souls eternally condemned to the River Styx.

Behold! The face of your adjudicator!

Blackened barbed wire constricts the fat of his gluttonous form. Exposed sickly ashen skin held together by threaded catgut, bursting at the seams with bone-white mold. Hellfire caged in little glass vials illuminates the agonized expression glued to a visage of perpetual torment, standing against a backdrop of towering decayed limbs, basking in the multitude of jewel toned offerings left by those who worship at the base of this miserable creature’s sacrificial altar.

…Of all the cheerful residents from the Hundred Acre Wood, who on god’s green earth decided that Eeyore of all things would be the poster boy for Christmas?

The melancholically predisposed cartoon character was a mess of tangled Christmas lights, having apparently failed in his endeavor to liven up the wilted excuse of a barren evergreen behind him and somehow succeeding in trapping his own pudgy form in the decorations instead – the ‘D’ in December knocked crooked in his fruitless struggles.

A paltry souvenir magnet from someplace sunny holds the calendar aloft, Winnie the Pooh designs posted on the side of your fridge with thick glossy sheets. A gift from your fathers; a new one included in their holiday care package every year.

You’re sure the overstuffed box currently shoved beneath your kitchen table for lack of anywhere more reasonable to house it has its plastic-wrapped replacement buried amongst the other contents. Previous years involved such colorful settings as early 2000’s internet memes or a compilation of fun facts regarding the world’s different varieties of cheeses. Not for your own enjoyment, of course, but for the chagrined expression your family insisted on basking in come Christmas morn.

Not that you admitted to liking this past year's theme of childhood whimsey…

The curlicue numbers on the wintery grid mark the passage of time – crossed out with dry streaks of red ink. Christmas is naught but five days from now, the emphasized date stamped in the upper righthand corner with a glittery ribbon as if the holiday needed even more call for attention. It means almost nothing to you outside of a familial facetime over a microwaved breakfast of cheap eggo waffles.

You’ll suffer congenially through the good natured poking and prodding. Chloe will send a text; Alex won’t. And the day will pass by in a whisper of silence – the magic of miracles stored back in their damp corporate box for cheapened rehashing the following year.

Holing away in the confines of your solitary habitat came with the added benefit of only exposing yourself to the overhyped celebration on a reasonable once-weekly basis, driving to and fro your therapist's office; painfully ignoring the garish spectacle of such yuletide enrichment as fuzzy wonky reindeer antlers wedged atop sticker splattered minivans, off-key fourth graders caterwauling carols in the backseat, tinsel and fiberglass grating on your teeth.

At least, your antisocialness normally would save you from such headaches.

When the pharmacy didn’t bungle communications with your primary care physician and refill your prescription two weeks early.

The voicemail left on your phone this morning was a little more than a minor annoyance. You’d only just finished chasing the taste of bile with citrusy mouthwash, leaning your leaded weight against the cold marble of the sink, stomach still spasming with painful braxton hicks-like contractions. Shaky hands splashed tepid water on your face, wicking away the evidence of exertion and clearing your chin of digested chicken noodle.

You’d only half paid attention to the robotic voice droning over speakerphone, wiping off your face with a disgruntled glare at your reflection and muffling a groan into the pilled fabric of your hand towel at the automated message. This was not a day to be playing at adulthood. This was a day for warm chunky socks and Disney movie marathons.

And now because some overworked new hire chugging Red Bulls probably keyed in the wrong refill date in an over-caffeinated zeal, you were once again paying for someone else's mistake.

(A running theme for your life.)

You shook off the bitter thought with a weary sigh, hanging the damp towel from the plastic command hook on peeling wallpaper. The buzzing of the keypad rattled the counter as you’d cleared out your phone’s voicemail, scooping up the device and trudging back around the corner to begin what should’ve originally been an easy day.

Now, a few hours of lounging had garnered you enough gumption to voyage out amongst proper society once more, rinsing your chubby dinosaur mug from earlier in the sink as your eyes flick up unwittingly to the calendar nearby.

You know what you’re counting even as you abash yourself for it.

The crumpled bag of mostly full coffee grounds has been sitting in your bin for the past two days, put there in an abstract protest to the blatant disregard of your feelings by a caustic alpha. The taste on your tongue has become as phantom as the scent that once clung to your coat rack, wafted away by a bottle of descenting spray the same way you wish to purge his lingering effervescence from where it's taken root in your spine.

The offending bag collects dust at the top of the pile, placed there in a huff at the start of every morning. When its existence mocks your suffering and the grief of a life you’ll never get to live is at the forefront of every painful heave into grimy porcelain, forced onto your knees like the flaccid servient creature that beast has morphed you into.

Still, there’s no sign of refuse or food waste on the flimsy outside packaging. It never stays put long enough to accumulate filth or bury itself in neglected disuse. At the end of the night, when the wounds of before are wrapped in a somnolent layer of protective padding, it returns to its spot amongst the clutter of your countertop, a pitiful idol to the foolish part he’s allowed to fester against your better judgment.

God, you’ve tried so hard to ignore it – you really have. With what little there is to occupy your mind in this lackluster environment, the labor of staying detached is proving arduous. John’s memory agitating the stripped-bare axis of simple order your world rotates upon.

Distraction eludes you at every attempt to forget. The warmth of your nest is the comfort of his leather embrace, the Zofran on your tongue the calloused paw at your nape grounding you in tempered reality. Soft boar hair bristles are his fingers, the zest in your meal his vigor. His face is in the deep prussian sweater jailed to the back of your closet for the sole crime of coming too close to the cerulean shade that haunts your waking memory.

You thought you already knew what it meant to belong to another. To be branded with someone else’s signet like a bored kid in history class taking chunks out of his desk until it was too desecrated with graffiti to be regarded as anything other than his unofficial property. No one wanted to touch what the school bully had already sullied.

Until John.

It didn’t matter that the seat was already occupied. He just scratched out the nameplate with safety scissors and staked his claim with a wad of gum beneath the chair.

He was dark matter wedging its way to take up space between condensed molecules, bullying the other elements into submission until his chemical makeup twisted you to something there was no coming back from. Sweeping in with the strength of a category five and the persistence of the big bad wolf.

You despise John for the damage he’s incurred to your house made of straw – all of them really – but you detest yourself even more for the gnawing disappointment flooding your gut that he hasn’t shaken the foundations further.

The hiss of pain between your teeth as you adjust the abrasive scarf around your neck serves as a sobering reminder of the real cancer infecting your cells. Even if the claim was buried under layers, it didn’t mean your flesh didn’t still carry the scars from its etching.

Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you take to the task of unlocking each of the bolts guarding you from the true terrors of an alpha’s altruistic attention.

Please just let this be quick.

The sneer from the old crone in aisle two has you ducking the latter half of your face in the itchy fabric that hides the one thing you’re currently being judged for.

You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her outside the steps of your apartment enough with her hellspawn of a pomeranian to know she lives in your building. The grey curls of her poodle cut perm do nothing to hide the splotches of alopecia that come with age. Tissue paper skin dappled with sun spots begs for the youth of collagen, gaunt around her cheekbones and only highlighting her witchy exterior, a moth eaten shawl hanging loosely over the quasimodo hump keeping her from standing at a height taller than that of a twelve year old child.

The grouchy bat is clever, though, you’ll give her that. There’s a discerning eye behind those tortoiseshell frames that speak of a bygone prime filled with intrigue and gossip that’s followed her well into her twilight years.

She’s honed her intellect well.

And she knows.

Your skin crawls with maggots under her heated glare, boring subdermal tunnels that reach beyond the capabilities of a simple itch. The writhing anomalies only add to the growing discomfort of waiting in the pharmacy queue for far longer than need be. Ten minutes you’ve been behind the same middle aged man – too diffident to interrupt the conversation going on ahead of you – as what should’ve been a simple snatch and grab of his blood pressure medication turns into three decades of catching up with a bygone acquaintance from primary school.

“–when Janine drank some weird concoction back at Jimmy’s place. Fucking health nut has his own carbonator in his kitchen and she got the bright idea on six shots of cuervo to run a glass of milk through the damn thing. Ended up spewing all over Crystal’s pants.”

To their credit, the pharmacist had at least been working on filling prescriptions as he prattled on with the bald spot beta in front of you, bustling between stocked aisles of jarred substances and counting out little white tablets with every ping from the database. He just didn’t seem to care about the goings on inside the store. “Adam mentioned that when I ran into him at the football match last June. Isn’t that O’Hara’s omega? The one who used to save her gum in a giant ball after she was done chewing it?”

Eww. Seriously?

“Nah, that’s Abigail. Crystal was Billy and Carter’s girl.”

That seemed to catch the other alpha in his tracks, a quizzical brow replacing one of mild interest as he paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Was? What happened to her?”

“Fucking up and left them, that’s what. And right after they supported her through that unfortunate miscarriage too. Came home one day to an empty nest and a note on the table telling them she was done. Poor guys never even saw it coming.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be one of them?”

“Yea,” the beta’s tone turned sour. “Unfaithful bitch.”

The Unfaithful.

That’s what they call you now.

Those who have forsaken their oaths and disgraced the name ‘omega’. The sanctity of packdom desecrated by egocentric bond breakers. Scheming harlots abandoning their worshipful protectors– denying them their designated rights and withholding the gift of eternal peace upon those alphas worthy enough to be chosen.

False omegas. Government apostates to how things are supposed to be run.

Doesn’t matter that those who claim to be victims before the courts are the same conniving bastards stripping us of our bodily autonomy. Nothing is impermissible.

Rape. Incest. Assault. Drugging. Coercion. Words that carry weight become cotton candy deadlifts in the face of a mating bond. It has no undoing – no magic words or medical procedures. There is no running towards the arms of a better pack in hopes of a brighter future; no room for another in the tether of your soul. That anchor has taken root in the rock bed and cannot be claimed outside the mysticism of a scent match.

Crueler parts of the world would hunt you down like the runaway slave they’re too cowardice to admit they perceive you as, a bounty placed upon your head and welts on your back for disobeying, brittle nails clawing at the dirt in a last attempt at freedom, dragged back to your master in an iron wrought collar displaying the shame of your sins.

Suppose you should consider yourself lucky that here, amongst the dredges of refined society, your kind are merely shunned.

Bosom friends all turn their backs, work desks empty into a cardboard box under the guise of ‘performance issues’. The deli at the corner claims they’re closed, red blocky letters drawing blood by the gallons as the patrons inside regard you like you’re nothing more than a sopping wet stray begging for scraps in the rain.

There are no laws that protect from discrimination for people like you. The lease in your fathers’ names and the lie from their lips are the only things sheltering you from homelessness. Others are not so fortunate as to have the word of an alpha keeping them off the street.

The forlorn promise of a better tomorrow is all that greets you now in the wake of devastation. There is no higher contract than the bite marks on your neck.

The scathing look from the disgruntled woman would be warranted by those around you if they were privy to the same suspicions she carried. The signs were all there if they only knew where to look.

“Miss?”

You hardly notice when they end their interaction, the off-putting customer service smile from the alpha behind the counter making the pit of your stomach rumble with unease as you scurry to the front, quietly offering up your personal information as you place your ID on the counter.

If he only knew he had the power to blacklist you in his hands…

You fork over the cash in far shorter time than the previous customer did, spending less than two minutes to his twenty before you duck away from the substantial line that’s formed in the time since your subsequent arrival.

It’s your luck the old hag is three guests behind you, averting your gaze to the task of stashing your meds to try and keep from further interaction. Too bad a half century’s worth of smoking comes out in the rasping slur she spits at you from underneath her breath.

“Fucking glitch.”

You’ve heard the words directed at you once before, only far more cutting and uttered from a far different mouth. That didn’t stop the insult from piercing through to bone, a deep ache in your ribs that slows your gait and gives you pause beside the basket drop-off.

A quick glance around confirms a lack of disdain from your fellow shoppers. You’re surprisingly fortunate that her biting remark hadn’t been made any louder. You frequent this shop often enough to be recognizable to most of the staff – though not on any sort of conversational terms. Being blacklisted here wouldn’t just result in an inconvenient trek farther for medical service, but a mark that would deny usage no matter the location.

Every step out your front door is a chance for your past to catch up to you… in one form or another.

A shock of cold jolts you from your far-away stare, startling a yelp that draws brief attention as you jump back from the unwanted contact, hand retreating away at the abrupt offense. Cradling it to your chest, you’re met with cobalt eyes and sunshine hair, a bright eyed pupper beaming up at you from its spot perched at your feet.

“Sorry about him!” An apologetic voice squawks to the left of you, calling your attention to the hobbling beta woman at the other end of the leash. Her neon green marshmallow puffer greets you before her dark curls and round cheeks, a prosthetic hand keeping grip on her furry friend. “He’s a well behaved boy I promise! Ain’t gonna bite ya or anything.”

“Oh no, he’s fine!” The tremble in your words is more from social awkwardness than anything, having been caught off guard in a place far too crowded for your tastes, rolling your shoulders to halt the impulse to scratch. “Just wasn’t expecting a wet dog nose is all.”

The beta, on the other hand, has no problem running a knitted mitten over the back of her neck. “Yeaaaah, it’s not often he gets away from me like that. You see, he’s my service animal.” She calls attention to the black vest around his body, a litany of bright colored patches and big blocky words adorning the functioning harness that you hadn’t quite discerned upon first glance. “He uh… was just alerting to you.”

It takes you a moment to process the words, blinking down at the panting canine regarding you with eyes more keen than the pea-brained expression would suggest.

Good to know even a dog can sense you’re nine different levels of fucked up.

“You can pet him if you want,” comes the gentle offer upon spying the embarrassment painting your features, taking her faithful companion’s inattention in stride. The quirk of her mouth gives you a green light even if her words already did. “Far be it for me to disagree with the boss here when he puts his mind to something.”

The words of declination rest limp on your tongue, a moment’s hesitation giving way beneath the understanding gaze of an impartial animal whose sole purpose is to provide the comfort of love. Crouching down to its level – uncaring of the salt trekked state of the tile – it's almost instinctual to wrap your arms around the retriever for an act that seems so much more dangerous coming from any other being. The muzzle that finds home in the junction of your shoulder roots you through the floor, going beyond solid concrete foundation and miles of serpentine pipeways, winding through terraceous cracks unyielding to the progress of man to find purchase in the damp soil unseen for thousands of years, unbowing to the anything but the turn of the earth.

Calm is not the word; the pounding pulse in your ears and the headrush of being out in public still ring through the chittering bustle of checkout lanes to keep you on your toes. Yet the ache in your soul feels less like a boulder and more like a handful of a pebbled shore.

Pulling away from the smell of damp fur, slobber greets your face in the form of affection, features pulling taut against the playful onslaught trying its best to intrude between the cracks of your mouth.

“Easy does it, bud.” A soft yank on his harness serves as a gentle reminder, turning from loveable pup to esteemed gentleman panting in perfect submission. “No one wants to taste what you had for lunch earlier today.”

You flash her a grateful smile for the interference, fingers moving next to scritch around the bright red collar mostly hidden by dense hairs, a glinting dog bone with cursive scrawl clacking against the knuckles of your hand. “Rocky, huh?”

“Yea,” she chuckles. “Don’t judge, but he was actually my favorite power ranger as a kid.” Her mittened hand joins yours in the thick pelt of his neck, scratching at some secret spot that gets his tail thumping, the appendage a whirling propeller trying in vain to achieve liftoff. How long they must’ve been in each other’s company for such familiarity. “Figured since this little guy was gonna be my hero too, he deserved a name befitting the courage he inspires.”

Her sincerity sparks something in you as you reach back to your own childhood, the sizzling of pancakes on the griddle against a backdrop of Saturday morning shows. Your smile warms at the memory. “Hey, no judgment here. After all, mine was Tommy.”

The moment breaks with shattered glass somewhere off to the right, the both of you reacting with varying degrees of frazzled nerves. You don’t miss the way her hand strikes out with practiced swiftness towards her hip, something nonexistent bumped away from flexing fingers by a patience nudge. Wide eyes glance down at her stalwart companion, already staring back with all the surety of his namesake, pushing her palm further against the smoothness of his head, urging her to stay with him in the safety of the moment. You don’t know the ghosts that haunt her–doing your best to avert your gaze from the glimpse of carbon fiber–but you watch as they retreat with calming breaths back to the place where they were born.

She shoots you a look you know she rather wouldn’t, an unspoken apology wrapped in embarrassment as familiar to you as it is to her, understanding passing between mirrored irises. There’s a shuffling of feet as you both scurry on your respective ways, you towards the outside air while her path takes her further inward. A quick glance over your shoulder finds him pressed against her side, snout turned upwards with a lolling tongue and dopey smile, eyes on the caregiver staring back at him with fond devotion. To have something that loves you that much…

Your gaze softens along with your words. “Good boy, Rocky…”

Fire ants bite into your cheek as the sharp crack that accompanies them leaves an outline of lava, the slap mark on your face glowing red hot and searing with the weight behind their assault. It dulls as the molten rock cools, a beating heart on the surface kept in time with the now racing pulse in your neck. The shock of it is almost as painful as the protruding iron shelves getting knocked against your spine, blowback jostling the festive display contents some poor stocker worked so hard on as cardboard cubes of kleenex clatter like ornaments to the muck-stained floor.

The outcry from your lips is muffled in comparison to groaning metal shifting under your weight, hand instinctively flying up as a wall to protect from further onslaught. Heat blooms again even under your careful touch, hissing in a gasp as wide eyes filled with glistening saline catch up a moment before your nostrils take in a familiar decadence.

Her omega scent of rich warm brownie, fresh out the oven – but swallowed from the edges by the beginnings of char. Too high a temp getting cooked for too long, potent in its fury as it cracks and concaves. A sickeningly sweet outer shell transmuting under pressure, turning perfect gooey fudge into bubbling tar.

The visage that greets you is tempered by dread; a mixture of refined beauty and smoldering hate.

White fluffy earmuffs contrast against long chocolate waves spilling like molasses over a matching pristine peacoat – as if not even fate itself dared to sully such purity. If the air of refinement somehow doesn’t outclass you than the designer handbag does. No pack could ask for a more exemplary omega.

You’ve seen those cheekbones on the cover of magazines, that glassy skin splashed clean in luxury skincare ads. Perfect porcelain as artistically rendered as fine chinaware. Every model you’ve ever envied taken shape as your worst nightmare. Dark bambi eyes red-ringed with acidic tears, button nose flaring with each heaving rise of her trembling shoulders. Full pouty lips quiver under the enormous weight of emotions that threaten to claw almond manicured nails through your skin like chainsaws.

There is anger, but there is also pain.

And you caused it.

You do not know which response consumes you more: panic, or shame.

“You–” her voice breaks like her heart, delicate wind chimes in a spring downpour. “You s-stay away from them…” Her words come in a struggle, fighting for stability whilst she hangs onto her composure with a thread as thin as spider silk. “They’re not yours… so… so just– just leave us alone!”

Gone is the lighthearted vision spun in innocent etherealness from that day in the store. Sparkling doe eyes now filled with scorn don’t suit the unblemished being not a foot in front of you. There’s an ingrained sweetness in her now pitiful form that so easily calls to an alpha’s protectiveness, a creature that deserves to be cherished, adorned; royalty reincarnated to a modern day princess.

There are only traces of that now standing a few feet in front of the automatic sliding doors, a smashed box of tissues keeping the mechanism from closing and sending a chill over the entire conversation.

You shrink in on yourself, lowering your gaze in a meek show of submission that speaks where your own voice fails. How could you continue to look her in the eye when you are the reason this woman is suffering? When you are the bad guy in every sense of the word?

Filth. Sullied. Poison. Suffocating her with your very presence as if your own tainted pheromones could overcast hers.

You expect more–deserve more–but she turns on her heels, the sensors allowing passage as she hurries back out the way you suspect she only just came.

You’re as stunned as the bystanders around you, blinking at her retreating form into the small parking lot beyond. You can’t help but watch as she races across the asphalt, thoughts of her own task left behind in a trail of her own tears. Badly muffled whispers start in earnest at the display. Chorused words of ‘wicked woman’ following you out onto the pavement. Tongues lashing into open wounds kept bleeding by your own shame.

That pain is nothing in the wake of the familiar figure of a towering form.

He meets her halfway, hulking mass climbing out from the cab of a blackened range rover at the first sign of her obvious distress. From this far away you can only make out the sounds of heaving sobs, watch as dainty hands clutch the dark material of her protector, the furrow of his brow as he searches for answers to her suffering.

Whatever she responds, you find yourself once more snapped in place by the weight of his stare, looking no less worse for wear than the first time he did.

Logic says the phantom tartness on your tongue is a hallucination ingrained from previous exposure, but the inner omega whining helplessly to be understood doesn’t comprehend the self inflicted wounds she scores with brittle claws at the first chance to taste. In many ways, designative instincts retain the innocence of youth: purely reactionary in their naive disregard. They’re doe-eyed five year olds holding up the mangled body of a broken baby bird and proclaiming ‘they can fix it’. To them, they don’t realize the damage that comes with wishing for a bite of lemon zest when they know that cupcake is theirs, deaf to the scolding of a parent who knows better.

After all, what gives you the right to take what hasn’t been offered? For wishing for the comfort of an alpha’s scent that doesn’t belong to you? All it does is make you feel like the shameful thief the people in the shop think you are.

So you keep your distance from the alpha and his mate, once more stuck in a whirlwind of unintentional trouble. He’s too far away to make out the hues of his eyes, but his body language tells you exactly where he stands in all this. Fingers flexed in a possessive grip, the placement of his hand curled around her mid back, the subtle hunch he takes as he tucks her tearstained face beneath his covered chin.

A choice.

Conceal. Protect. Intruder.

You once wondered at the outcome if you hadn’t run that night; if the call that beckoned you ‘wait’ had kept you rooted to the floor. How would this mammoth have reacted - the one who only watched in pure neutrality as your world crumbled apart? Would he have let his friend make the first move forward? Would there have been an altercation? Spoken words and awkward introductions such as with their Scottish brethren? Did they care about your cowardice? Did the alphas give you chase? Lose your scent in the produce aisle and catch their breaths in the crisp night air?

At last you have your answer.

The judgment he passes as he turns his back to you has far more gravitas than the mopey donkey on your fridge. The conjured images of morbidity that entertained you earlier this morning feels like a holiday in comparison to the way your arteries shrivel from necrosis; down another size and a half by Grinch standards.

(Would it ever grow again?)

Closing your eyes against the sight is all you can do to maintain your sanity.

“Lass!”

As if life hasn’t finished causing you torment enough, the rough brogue catching your ears has your eyes peeling back open, the depression gluttoning away at your insides taking note at the promise of further feast, cackling gleefully at the tousled mohawk rounding the the opposite side of the vehicle his companions are approaching. Concern sits heavy on his brow, footsteps sure of their path as the pair sidle up along the drivers side of their SUV, lemon shuffling his omega through the open door he holds and into the relative safety of the back seat. You expect John to join them – to fuss and coo over her the same way he did for you in the cafe. Your masochism soaks up the envy like a yorkshire pudding at Christmas dinner.

But he makes no move to join his mate, blazing a path that leads beyond.

It’s not her he’s calling out for. It’s you.

Something smothers in your chest at the meaty glove that yanks him backwards, the heft of his brawn outmatched by the iron grip stopping him from advancing any further, shoved back against the shiny black of the range rover. The suspension creaks from the sheer force of the impact, giving you a hint as to the momentum which was suddenly reversed and applied to the hull, vehicle tilting a few centimeters off its wheelbase before thudding back down to settle on its chassis.

Charged static fills the air as overwhelmingly as the growl ripped from their chest – from which alpha you aren’t sure. The palpable anger that must be flaring in their scent chokes those unfortunate few nearby into hurrying along, a group of teenagers giving wide berth as the old man a few cars over shoves something fragile into the boot with a telltale crunch, slamming the latch shut before climbing over his center console to the steering wheel from the opposite side. No one wants to get involved in pack business, much less find themselves collateral damage in a showdown between behemoths.

Where lemon’s mouth is obscured, John’s isn’t, giving you unfiltered access to the snarl he spits up at the man a few inches taller than him. He makes his displeasure clear in a volume still too quiet for you to grasp, but his argument is apparent in the gesturing of his arms, the wildness matched by the heart he so clearly wears on his sleeve. His packmate stands in complete opposition to the outward show of aggression by the former, striking in his marble-like appearance, firm against the blunted chisel of whatever’s being discussed. The only sign that he’s participating comes in the form of the other’s interrupted pauses.

Your thoughts turn to the omega inside overhearing all of this. The discontent she must feel down the bond from those she loves most has to be just as painful as the ability to hear the quarreling itself. What must she be going through–huddled alone in the shadows by herself–having to listen to what you assume is an argument over another woman… one that a mate is clearly defending?

What consumes her more? Is it rage? Betrayal? Anguish? Abandonment? Jealousy? Your heart goes out to her at this moment in a way you’re not sure her packmates are knowing or even empathetic to.

You suddenly flinch as if being struck by the accusatory finger pointed in your direction by the up-until-now stoic alpha, nose to nose with a man he’s spent nights pressed even closer against. Whatever point he makes, there’s no rebuttal from the Scot this time – only a strained moment’s silence.

At last John shoves away the arm holding him, straightening his jacket with a look that says this isn’t over as his companion walks away to the driver’s side door. You don’t pay him further mind though as John huffs out his anger like a bull, raking a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze with far more softness. He sees it in your eyes the same way it reflects in his. Two pained apologies spoken without words.

Dark tint keeps you from seeing them as they enter the vehicle and drive off, peeling away with a nod to the discomfort inside but with enough self control to not endanger the ‘precious cargo’ in the back seat.

You knew the other day was too good to be true. It’s clear now the damage you’ve incurred in your foolish desire to forge a connection. The lies John told you to placate his unthinking selfishness. Why the radio silence has been deafening your apartment.

Nothing is alright. Everything is broken. You’ve ruined god knows how many years of passion and devotion by the sole act of your own pathetic existence.

You’ve robbed her of that–robbed them. Another reminder that they cannot give it to you. She has taken your place. They cannot claim another.

It’s your fault. Your fault.

Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault…

You can’t breathe.

Something’s crawling up your throat. You can’t–

As customers pass the threshold of the automatic glass doors, no one pays any mind to the sounds of retching in the dumpster.

<< ✿ Previous ✿ <<

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queenimmadolla · 7 months ago

Note

Could you do a blurb where reader rolls a joint for Eddie for the first time with all her cute papers and stuff and he loves it?

Happy Stoner Christmas!

happy 4/20! 😶‍🌫️💚

“Well, if it isn’t for my favorite customer.”

You hear him before you see him, and sit up straighter as you look up, torso twisting around to face Eddie.

He’s walking through the tree line that acts as the ‘fence’ to your backyard. Not exactly born into wealth, your home is on the edge of Hawkins and lacks the white picket fence and concrete driveway, with nature and gravel filling in. Just down the street is Jonathan Byers’ home.

Confidence radiates off of Eddie as he approaches the picnic bench you were waiting on, his curls sway a little. He’s rocking a band shirt today—long sleeves rolled up his forearms—and some dark jeans. You try not to squirm under his stare, the wild grin on his face stirring something in your tummy.

You knew you’d end up crushing on him after the first time you went to him for weed instead of Rick. He was cute.

Eddie was so freaking cute and charming and funny. You probably would have been fine if he had just been cute and charming, but the humorous trait was your weakness. You loved funny guys.

Sure enough, by the fourth time he dealt to you—his tongue was in your mouth. And the fifth time, you’d gone to third base. Now, whatever happened when he came around just happened. You accepted it, even if it makes you a little nervous because you know very well you’re interested in more than just the benefits that come with your encounters.

You want him. Like, boyfriend him. It’s kind of tragic, actually, because you don’t even know if you’re the only one of his clientele he treats this way. Eddie can be fucking the rest of them for all you know and it drives you insane because you want to ask—you’re just too chicken shit.

“You say that as if this wasn’t prearranged.” You laugh out and Eddie snorts, dumping his black lunch pail on the leaf riddled bench top next to your scooby-doo lunch box with a metal clang.

“I’m trying to be cute and you’re ruining it.” When you laugh again, Eddie’s eyes squint in triumph, “And I’ll have you know I have been waiting—no, yearning for you to call upon me. Moved my bed over to the phone and everything. Thought you forgot allllllll about me.”

“Me forget about you? Impossible.” You declare in a joking manner, though you truly mean the sentiment. Your mental health might be better if you could forget him. Then you wouldn’t be able to make yourself sick over the idea of him kissing other people.

“You better mean that.” He jabs an accusatory finger, silver ring glinting, in your direction as he settles in across from you, “The usual, my sweet?”

UGH! SEE?! Too damn cute.

“Please?” You’re too busy opening up your own lunch box full of supplies to notice the heated look he fixes you with right then.

Eddie clears his throat, tongue darting out to swipe over his lower lip as he pops the lid of his lunch pail open, pulling out a little baggie with your favorite strain of buds. He eyes it with a glint in his eye before it’s held out to you, dangling from his fingertips.

You look up once you realize it’s being offered, and pinch the top of the baggie as your other hand holds out the folded bills. Eddie flicks them out of your loose grip, and it goes flying to land in your lap while you jump in surprise.

“My bad,” he snickers, his pretty teeth gleaming, “it’s on the house.”

You pick up exactly where he wants you to, “In that case, please accept my offer to smoke you out with my newly acquired goods.”

That feeling in your belly—butterflies—intensifies at the slow and large smile that spreads on his face, forcing his little dimple to make an appearance.

It always goes like this now.

Eddie comes over (or you go to him), weed is exchanged and when you try to pay him for it, he refuses. Then, you invite him to smoke weed with you (and he’ll always pull from the extra inventory he carries around—never from what he’s just given you), the two of you get high and you finally feel brave enough to make a move because you know he always waits for you to do it. Gives you the power to start things, your own comfort, though he takes full control once you get going. He’s always so keen on taking care of you. You’d once thought that maybe he didn’t want you as much as you wanted him, since it was always you initiating things, but the way he’d beg for you, ramble about how much he wanted you, how desperate he was for you and his ‘finally, I thought I was gonna die’s on just your kisses alone, soothed that insecurity.

“I’d be delighted to! But─”

“Nope.” You interrupt, having seen his hand reaching into his pail. “My weed—not yours.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise and when you don’t back down, both of his hands are lifted in surrender before one is extended to you out on the bench, palm up. Eddie’s waiting for you to give him your grinder and the weed so he can start rolling but you low five his palm instead and he chuckles, skin tingling from the contact.

“That’s not exactly what I meant.”

“I know, but I’m also rolling today, too.”

Eddie scoffs and smirks, fixing you with that heated stare again and you quickly divert your gaze, pulling out your pretty purple grinder and getting to work. You are not gonna let him make you nervous and fumble around, “Baby…”

Oh, god. The way he coos it out, nice and low—you’re instantly taken back to other times you’d heard him say it like that. You’d been bent into all kinds of positions as it was rasped into your ear, the sweat from both of your bodies plastering Eddie to you. Your hand twists the top of the grinder on autopilot as you stare at nothing, gaze vacant.

Eddie knows exactly where your mind has taken you and his smirk widens.

“You can’t roll for shit.”

That snaps you out of your stupor, mouth dropping.

“I can, too! You’ve never seen me put in the work.”

“I have, that’s why I roll.”

And you cringe as you recall the first time you’d try to roll a joint. It had been the second time Eddie sold to you, having only used pre-rolled cones prior. Those only meant you had to pack the wrap in with weed, kind of like a funnel and then twist the end closed before partaking.

Rolling from start to finish was a whole other endeavor and you’d failed so badly, Eddie had rolled around on the floor laughing. You didn’t take any offense, too busy jumping up and down inside at having made the cute, charming funny guy you liked laugh.

“I’ve been practicing,” You pout, placing the grinder down after you’re sure the nug of the bud you’d placed in it was now almost powder-like.

“You tryna impress me, hm?” He hums out, and you refuse to look up, knowing those pretty brown eyes of his are gonna be lidded and it’ll do you in early. You’ll have to jump him right there, “Been practicing to show me what you can do?”

You ignore him, focusing instead on the rolling papers you had.

Eddie places his chin in his hand, watching you intently as you frown in concentration before it breaks when you select a rolling paper, cherries decorating the white sheets. You pull your small rolling tray out and some part of Eddie throbs. You hadn’t had that before.

You quickly scrunch a filter together, folding the rolling paper and placing the filter at the edge of the fold before you unscrew the grinder and begin pinching the green within to sprinkle on the paper. Once it was full, and Eddie notices with wide eyes that you’ve packed it with a significant amount, you use dexterous fingers to carefully roll it together, tongue poking out as you take diligent care to ensure no fall out. Once the green flower is properly contained, you lick the free edge and fold it over the rest of the joint before you pinch and twist the end.

After a few moments of intense scrutiny, you hold it out victoriously, “Taduh!!! For you.”

Eddie takes the joint, turning it this way and that as he marvels. You really had been practicing, it was beautiful. He feels an intense amount of pride bloom in his chest and something else. Always for you, only ever for you.

“Did I do good?” You ask, voice shy as you bite your lip and this time you don’t look away when that heavy stare focuses on you. You wanna faint, but you don’t. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you know where tonight is gonna lead.

“Baby,” There’s that rasp again that makes you want to drop dead and smash your mouth to his at the same time, “I’m gonna need you to come over here now. Don’t think I can wait.”

#I got this request before i made the prompt post shhhhh #Queenimmadolla’s smokesesh #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson blurbs #eddie munson fanfic

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candycandy00 · 5 months ago

Text

Jujutsu Kaisen Master List

A master list of all my JJK fanfiction, arranged newest to oldest (in each category). All fics have Fem Readers and contain smut unless otherwise noted! My works are for adults only!

Sukuna X Reader

Once Upon a Time (Fairytale AU, Sleeping Beauty, Plot, Somnophilia, Rough Oral) (Three Parts!)

Dancing With the Devil (AU, Sukuna as a Priest, Praise, Breeding)

The Maiden’s Voyage (AU, Sukuna as a pirate captain, Rape/Noncon, Rough Sex, Violence, Sukuna is a cruel monster) (Four Parts!)

Father Sukuna’s Discipline (AU, Sukuna as a priest, spanking, rough sex, reader as a nun)

The Doll House (AU, BDSM, Erotic Torture, Needles, Clamps, etc.) (Four Parts!)

Breaking You (Rape/Noncon, Blood, Torture, Humiliation, Double Penetration)

Serve Me, Save Me (Reader is a Rape Victim who joins Sukuna’s Harem after he inadvertently saves her) (In Progress!)

The Offering (Dark, Dubcon, Blood, Rough) (Five Parts!)

Gojo x Reader

Once Upon a Time (Fairytale AU, Cinderella, Rough Sex, Spanking, Praise, Plot) (Three Parts!)

The Doll House (AU, Dubcon, Chubby Reader, Pet Play, Anal, Bullying) (Four Parts!)

In The Library (College AU, Gojo and Geto bully Reader, Rape, Dark)

Promotion (Power Dynamics, Reader wants Gojo to promote her to Grade 1)

Christmas Past (Fluff, Drabble, Gojo x Geto in flashback) NO SMUT

Pick Me Up (Gojo x Reader x Geto, Halloween fic, Serial Killer AU) (Five Parts!)

Human (Rape, Torture, Blood, Dark, Reader is a cursed spirit) (Two Parts!)

Little Miss Nobody (Plot, Rough Sex, Gojo is an asshole) (Three Parts!)

Geto x Reader

The Sweetest Torture (Mafia AU, Edging, Handcuffs)

In The Library (College AU, Gojo and Geto bully Reader, Rape, Dark)

The Doll House (Dubcon, Humiliation, Public Nudity, Dom/Sub Dynamics, AU) (Four Parts!)

Pick Me Up (Gojo x Reader x Geto, Halloween fic, Serial Killer AU) (Five Parts!)

Toji x Reader

Catch You on the Outside (AU, Toji in Prison, Rough Sex)

Forest Guide (Toji as a Werewolf, Rape, Breeding)

His Favorite Target (Toji is hired to kill you)

The Doll House (AU, Size Difference, Age Difference, Cock Drunkenness, Use of Aphrodisiacs) (Four Parts!)

Nanami x Reader

The Stranger at the Bar (AU, Degradation, Size Difference)

The Doll House (AU, Daddy Kink, Spanking, Hair Pulling, Reader is afraid of men.) (Four Parts!)

Choso x Reader

Once Upon a Time (Fairytale AU, Rapunzel, Plot, Yandere themes, Bondage, Imprisonment) (In Progress!)

Best Summer Ever (Suggestive, Fluff) NO SMUT

The Doll House (AU, Dom!Reader, Sub Choso, Teasing, Collars, Pegging) (Four Parts!)

Multi-Character

JJK Men as Pervy Mall Santas

Finding Love in a Zombie Apocalypse (Halloween 2024 Event, In Progress!)

#gojo x reader #sukuna x reader #geto x reader #toji x reader #nanami x reader #choso x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #x reader #gojo smut

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fujoshirat · 10 days ago

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When the Shouto Todoroki saves you and your kindergarten students at the aquarium during a villain attack, you can't seem to get him out of your head. Bonus: you're quirkless and he's a pro hero, so you live in two different worlds. The glue? His cute nephew that's obsessed with rocks and that just so happens to be in your kindergarten class.

In short: You've become obsessed, you suppose. But that's all right, you're not the only one that's obsessed.

WARNING: Todoroki family troubles (in the eyes of Kaoru); Kaoru's rock collection hyperfixation! Please note that this chapter is written in lovely, little, mature, and smart Kaoru Todoroki's POV ♡ (so the improper grammar is intentional I promise 😓😖)

Note! "Oji-san" refers to Shouto, Kaoru's uncle. "Ojii-san" refers to Enji, Kaoru's grandfather. "Baa-chan" refers to Rei, Kaoru's grandmother. "Oba-san" refers to Fuyumi, Kaoru's auntie.

Part 1! Part 2!

3 - Things That Kaoru Loves

Kaoru loves his oji-san. Oji-san was the most coolest, most specialist person he knows. He could make fire dance in his palms-so cool! And then FWOOSH-he can make ice appear too! Kaoru liked to pretend that he could do that. When he gained his quirk on his fifth birthday six months ago, he knew that he wanted to be just like his oji-san. He wanted to learn from his oji-san how to use his ice quirk. Sure, Kaoru loved his dad and wanted to learn how to control his ice from him too, but oji-san? Oji-san was ultra cool! Oji-san was friends with cool people too. He told Kaoru stories about Deku and Dynamite, about his ojii-san before he retired, about the super cool All Might!

Kaoru loves his teacher. Y/N-sensei always smiled at him in the morning and helped him tie his shoelaces. Y/N-sensei's voice was soft. She wasn't noisy like his teacher last year (so stinky and mean). Y/N-sensei smelled like the peaches (his favorite) at the store that his dad always takes him to so they have dinner. She didn't have a quirk, but Y/N-sensei was one of his heroes, too. When she would give him a piece of candy and a bright smile for completing his work correctly, Kaoru's tummy would feel warm and happy. Most of all, Y/N-sensei thought his rock collection was so cool. "Y/N-sensei, my oji-san got me a new rock." "Oh really? That's so cool! You should bring it for show and tell tomorrow!"

Kaoru loves his rock collection. On his fourth birthday, his dad gave him a little wooden box with a few shiny rocks inside. When he lightly shook the box, they made a clinking, rattling sound.

"Kaoru-kun, do you know what these are?"

"Rocks."

"Yes, but, their special rocks. Do you notice anything about them?"

Upon further inspection, the little boy noticed that they had swirls of color and shone like tiny treasure in the light. Each rock was different: some were smooth, some were jagged, some had multiple hues while others had only one vivid color. Since then, Kaoru's made it his mission to find more rocks. Anywhere he went->the grocery store, baa-chan's backyard, the beach->he would pick up a special-looking rock and add it to the little wooden box of treasures. He didn't care of some of the rocks he found were "dull" (that's what Taro-kun said, but he doesn't know anything about rocks). All of Kaoru's rocks had a story, just like how his oji-san always had a story to tell him whenever Kaoru saw him at his house. His oji-san sometimes brought him rocks too. He'd gift them to Kaoru for Christmas or after missions. Kaoru's collection had grown so big that his oba-san bought him a new box for his fifth birthday. Now, he could fit his newer rocks in plus his super cool new fossil that his oji-san got him when he went to America last month.

Kaoru doesn't understand grown-up stuff. He doesn't understand why baa-chan and ojii-san never hug like the grandparents on Bluey, or why he doesn't have a mom like Mio-san. He asked his dad once, when it was bring-your-kid-to-work-day at the clinic, but his father just smiled at him. "Papa's got his hands full with you and his clinic. Besides, you've got me and all of your family. Isn't that enough?" Kaoru thinks that it's enough, he loves his dad more than anything in the world. More than more than Y/N-sensei, more than his oji-san, more than his rock collection. However, that didn't quench his curiosity. He still occasionally wondered why he didn't have a nice mom to bring to the school play or put little notes in his lunchbox like his friends did. Dad was too busy to do that. He made yummy food and tucked Kaoru into bed and went to all of his school events, but his doctor job at the clinic sometimes took him away from Kaoru.

The thing that Kaoru doesn't understand the most is why his oji-san and L/N-sensei weren't together. They liked each other, right? Oji-san looked a little silly whenever he saw Y/N-sensei. His ears would turn red and he would stutter. Y/N-sensei would smile extra cheerfully and play with her skirt. That's how you knew that someone likes someone, right? Himari-chan taught him that when she was practicing her reading at school.

"Kaoru-kun! The book says that if someone likes someone, they turn red and stu-stu- uhm...How do I say this?" "Stutter?" "Yeah! And smile super bright!"

Kaoru's curious about the world around him, but it doesn't matter. As he takes a bite out of his strawberry ice cream, he looks up at his uncle, who's also holding strawberry ice cream. Oh well, he supposes, that's why he's only five.

But then, Kaoru gets the most coolest, genius idea ever for a five-and-a-half-year-old.

"Oji-san," he swallows some ice cream, "you should give Y/N-sensei a rock." The tall man's eyebrows lift slightly. "...A rock?"

"Mhm." lick. "Like the Adelie penguins." lick. "Adelie penguin boys give a girl penguin a rock because he loves her," he recites word-for-word, exactly what he remembers his teacher telling him. Shouto's cheeks flush red as he finishes his ice cream.

"How can you tell that I like her?"

Kaoru kicks at the concrete under his feet, continuing to eat his ice cream. "Your ears turn red and you start stuttering. And then when Y/N-sensei sees you, she starts smiling a lot and playing with her skirt, like oba-san does when she sees her boyfriend." The five-year-old can't help but grin when he sees his oji-san's jaw drop.

"You're... very observative."

"That's what Y/N-sensei says."

Shouto smiles at that. When he begins speaking again, his voice is gentle. "Kaoru-kun, it's more complicated than giving someone a rock."

The little boy finishes his ice cream, a small frown appearing on his face. "But why?" The pro hero hesitates for a second. His voice comes out softly, almost like a whisper. "It's not easy to tell someone how you feel, even if you really like them." 'But if Y/N-sensei sees a pretty rock, she'll be happy,' Kaoru thinks to himself. Scanning the few pebbles nearby, he absentmindedly picks up a smooth, speckled stone.

"Oji-san, what if someone else gives her a rock before you do?"

Kaoru's words seem to hit something in his uncle, because suddenly his eyes widen and his left side twitches. Shouto's nephew watches him take a breath before smiling again, reaching down to ruffle Kaoru's hair. He whines in protest: "Oji-san!" Shouto chuckles and crouches down to the little boy's level.

"You're smart, Kaoru-kun. You're a good kid. Don't ever change, okay?" The man's eyes wander to Kaoru's right hand, where the spotted stone rested. He quirks a brow at the sight.

"You should give her this rock, oji-san. She'll love it."

Shouto laughs warmly, eyes crinkling slightly and hand patting his nephew's shoulder. "Alright, I'll do it." Kaoru's eyes widen and sparkle, and he eagerly hands Shouto the rock. He jumps up and down excitedly, the most excitement he's ever shown in his life.

"Yes!"

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

Shouto loves his nephew. He doesn't think that his rock collection obsession is weird, he thinks it's cute (it gives him nostalgia about Izuku's All Might hyperfixation). Shouto's frankly impressed by how smart and perceptive Kaoru is. He definitely did not expect Kaoru to pick up on his crush on L/N-san. 'Am I that obvious??' Kaoru's a smart boy too. According to to Natsuo and the beautiful L/N-san, Kaoru's top of his class even though he doesn't like talking much. Shouto doesn't understand kids, but he understands Kaoru. He understands how excited the little boy gets when he finds the perfect rock. Shouto thinks-no, knows-that you're the perfect gem. You're caring, sweet, attentive, bright, positive, everything he thinks he lacks.

And maybe Kaoru sees your real beauty, too, because here he is, telling Shouto to give the most perfect woman a rock.

To treasure the finest treasure that he's found: you.

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

A/N: That's it for part 3! I hope you enjoyed it (˶◜ᵕ◝˶) Thank you so much for reading this part and the entire series so far!! I love love love the cutest little Kaoru Todoroki ToT It was a challenge writing the POV of a five-and-a-half-year-old, so I apologize for making him REALLY mature! I did envision him to be a mature and smart kid (like ShouShou <3), but I think I overdid it ><

Anyways! Thank you for your patience regarding this part and all of my works in general! I hope that the wait wasn't too long, and that this made up for it ♡\(´･ᴗ･`)

And finally: THANK YOU SO MUCH EVERYONE FOR ALL OF THE LOVE AND SUPPORT! Parts 1 and 2 really blew up, Part 1 reaching over 300 likes! When I first made this account, I would have never expected to reach that many people. You all really make my days and I'm just so thankful for the positivity ദ്ദിദ്ദി(˃̣̣̥ᯅ˂̣̣̥) If you couldn't already tell, I am an amateur writer. I've been in this fandom and Tumblr for a LONGGG time, but have never found the motivation to write until now. Receiving this much love and positivity is really amazing and I hope to continue making good works and content <3

Just like before, I hope you look forward to the next part! I'll try to get it done as soon as possible depending on my schedule. If you'd like to be added to the taglist, feel free to let me know!

TAGLIST: ♡♡ @roseapov @brittanylikesstuff @stanseventeen @qardasngan @jastoo46 @kysoshir0

#shoto x reader #shouto x reader #shoto todoroki #shouto todoroki #shoto todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #love #romance #pro hero shoto #pro hero shouto #mha x reader #todoroki shoto #todoroki shouto

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michelle-is-writing · 1 month ago

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Halloween Decorating, Spencer Reid

I wanted to try and write something different, so this is my first piece using the second person point of view.

Skip if you don't celebrate or like Halloween, but if you're a Halloween lover like me, then I hope you enjoy 😊

Word count: 800~

So far, living with Spencer has felt like a dream for you. You and Spencer hardly got into disagreements when moving in, and when it came to combining each other's things, Spencer had no problem moving his things around to make room for yours. For someone who had never really lived with anyone else, this was a massive step for Spencer, but it wasn't hard for him to make that step for you.

Your combined furniture gave the place a unique look; now two couches in place of one, and two side tables next to them differing in height and shape. More than half of his closet was filled with your clothing, and most of his bathroom countertop was now covered in your various makeup and beauty products. The sight of this actually made him happy as it was a stark contrast to the lonely toothbrush and hairbrush usually adorning his counter.

However, that happiness only grew upon opening an unlabeled box filled with what looked to be pumpkins and other various decorations. Upon opening the other unmarked totes, Spencer found himself excited as if he were a child on Christmas. Five totes full of nothing but Halloween decorations, and Spencer couldn’t help but practically gush over everything.

When you are done with putting away all your kitchen stuff and other dishes, you walk in and find him already setting out the decorations as if they were year-round. Although, you can't help the smile on your face as you see all the other boxes open and ready to be emptied. Only then does he notice you, a grin taking over his face. "I know it's only the first of September," He explains, beginning to walk over to you. "but as long as you don't mind, maybe we can start putting up the decorations now?"

A few seconds pass before you chuckle and nod excitedly, happy to decorate for something you love so early.

After emptying every tote and decorating every surface, you two are left with a home that looks like it came straight out of Halloweentown. Skulls and ravens adorn every surface in the house, candy-corn-themed lights are strung along the walls, and the couches are filled with fall themed throw pillows and blankets. Even the kitchen didn't go untouched with various spooky hand-towels and oven mitts decorating the cabinets.

Finished, you two step back and gaze at everything with smiles stuck on your faces. Finding Spencer's hand, you give it a little squeeze to gain his attention which works. Looking at you, he swears he feels his heart skip a beat as the orange light surrounding you two frames your face in a soft glow. Meanwhile, you're busy thinking about the fact that you actually found someone who loves Halloween like you do.

Yes, you owned all of the decorations before you even met Spencer, but you never really put everything up at once like this. When you lived by yourself, it didn't seem worth it to decorate like that when no one else would be able to enjoy it besides you. Plus, you would have never thought to decorate certain things the way that Spencer did as his height gave him a bigger advantage with the leaf foliage and fake cobwebs.

"I love everything so mu-" you go to say a compliment, but Spencer cuts you off with a kiss. Granted, it wasn’t on purpose. It just happened to flow that way as Spencer felt himself leaning closer to you the more he thought of how far along you two had grown together.

Pulling away from each other's lips after a few seconds, a giggle escaped your lips at Spencer's sudden boldness, his arms now beginning to wrap themselves around your waist and hold you tight. You found yourself doing the same as you rested your head against his sweater-covered chest. As you held each other close, you could practically feel the both of you physically relax in your holds before leaning your head up at Spencer.

"Thank you for being my Halloween buddy," you gently murmur to him, careful not to dig your chin any further into his chest. At the same time, you could begin to feel Spencer’s heart beating faster in response. He had always loved Halloween, but to find someone who loved it just as much, if not more than him? He couldn’t have been happier.

"Thank you for being mine too," he replied, leaning down to connect your lips once more. For the rest of the night, the scary movie you had put on your laptop played in the background abandoned while your focus kept being diverted to one another rather than the TV. You and Spencer both loved Halloween, but as the night grew longer and the more you stayed in each other’s holds, you both realized you loved each other even more.

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touyyes · 2 years ago

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santa!toji who appears in your house, horny and desperate to find his ms. claus. just imagine you coming downstairs and you see him eating the cookies and milk, making him look up at you. knowing that he shouldn't fuck a mom while children are asleep, he ends up fucking you until he fills you up to the brim. the next morning, you don't have any recollection of the previous night's events — maybe you thought it was a dream, until you saw a note. santa!toji said that you're his ms. claus and will continue to come to your home and dick you down.

my brainrot for toji is so real 😩

didn't get to answer it before, but since its Christmas, im answering it now hehe

Santa! Toji who only visits the neighborhood milfs moms because even though tonight is his job to give presents to children, Santa needs a little gift of his own too. It's not easy working overtime!

Santa! Toji who stumbles upon you on his third home visit, seeing you clamber down the stairs from the sudden noise in your silk pajamas, catching him eating the cookies and milk you left for him

Santa! Toji who quickly gulps down half the milk at the sight of your arrival, imagining himself using the rest to pour down your tits that are currently peaking through your disheveled top

Santa! Toji who looks you up and down, taking in your form. 'No ring, huh?' He thinks. Even if you had one, he could care less but this just makes things a lot less of a hassle

Santa! Toji who beckons you over to him and you walk forward, in a trance, in a daze from your shock that Santa is a stupidly hot man that isn't like any of the beer bellied, crumb storing in his beard men that's advertised everywhere during the season

Santa! Toji who tells you to kneel down in front of him and you do, of course. Pushing his red slacks down to rest right underneath his balls as you lick his cock like a candy cane. And with how you think you're currently going insane 'I'm sucking Santa's dick oh my god', you think it does taste like a candy cane.

Santa! Toji who pulls you back up by the shoulders and leads you towards the couch, pushing the front of your hips to rest against the armrest, pulling your silk pajama pants down till they hang off your ankles. Calling you a slut for not wearing any panties, and how you must've prepared for his arrival

Santa! Toji who wastes no time coming face to face with your pussy and spreading your lips and folds open as he goes to town on your sweet taste

Santa! Toji who sucks and bites every surface of your ass cheeks, licks and swirls his tongue on every crevice of your pussy and ass. Savoring the flavor of you

Santa! Toji who thinks you're being such an obedient mommy for keeping your moans to a minimum to not wake your kids, finally granting you peace by the lining his cock up with your clenching hole and pushing in slowly. Complaining about how tight its grasp against his cock is but it won't be for long once he's done with you

Santa! Toji who puts you in 3 different positions on the couch, making you come for the 4th time tonight, and finally finishing off in your tight, wet throat with your head hanging upside down off the edge of the couch

Santa! Toji who quietly tucks you back in your bed after you passed out from exhaustion, taking care to put your pants back on and leaving a note for when you wake up: "Thank's for the cookies and milk, sweet thing."

#𝒊𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝑬𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 =͟͟͞͞♡#⋆˚ఎ ☆ ໒˚⋆ — 𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐒 #this was very halfassed 😭😭#should i even tag this as toji x reader?? idk #i will ig #toji x reader #toji smut #toji fushiguro smut #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji x you #jjk smut

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sweets3rial · 10 months ago

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friday, i'm in love

inspired by the request

di!leon x gn!reader

summary: your favorite agent surprises you with a very unexpected home coming.

tags: domestic fluff, no smut, sexual innuendos, reader is a good cook, reader uses pimple cream, mentions of a future family (give leon his family pls), leon is a horny freak, the song 'Friday, I'm in Love' by The Cure

word count: 1.2k

bass and drums echoed off the walls of your kitchen, the rhythmic lyrics and uplifting guitar put an instant smile onto your face as you jumped around with a spatula in your hand. you shouted out the lyrics, singing with your heart's content.

occasionally going back to flip the chicken breast, tender and juicy on the inside with a nice crunchy crust on the outside. today was one of those days when you were finally able to muster up the energy to cook a homemade meal.

both you and your boyfriend's favorite, chicken alfredo. a staple in your household and one you’re especially good at. you enjoyed being in the kitchen, you didn’t mind it actually. cooking was one of your hobbies and some people say you were just naturally born to cook … and well dance.

jumping around in circles, in your pajamas, with the smell of chicken and pasta in the air.

your lovely boyfriend was away on a mission, risking his life for the world and you couldn’t be more prouder. but you also couldn’t be more worried. every night that he was not in your bed only added to your anxiety.

you were always in a slum when he was away. dragging yourself around the house and cuddling into his pillow that smelt of his shampoo. though, this morning after receiving a prompt text that he was to be back tomorrow, you were instantly pulled back into a better mood.

he was as well. he didn’t expect to finish so early, the nurses cleared him and his reports were done. he was going to be going home to the love of his life. the whole drive home, he was occupied with the thought of what you were going to be doing.

you always had a surprise up your sleeve for him.

will you be sleeping? or would you be on the couch watching your favorite show? would you be out? would you be home? (most likely) would you be in bed waiting for him? with that gorgeous lace set he bought you the other week.

goosebumps ran down his spine at the thought of you waiting in bed for him. if so, his clothes would disappear from his body in a blink.

as he pulled up into your shared condo, he could hear the faint sound of music. was it from someone's radio? upon getting closer to the condo, he realized, it was probably you.

the song, ‘Friday I’m in Love’ by The Cure played on your speaker, the one he got you for Christmas. he smiled to himself, and he could practically hear you singing wailing at the top of your lungs.

you were so occupied, that you didn’t hear the jangle of keys coming from the other side of the front door. so occupied in singing at the top of your lungs rather than paying attention to everything around you, including your cooking.

as you were taking out the chicken breast and cutting it into slices. so-called lovely boyfriend walked into the house, shouting out, “babe?” he was sure you couldn’t hear him, given the fact that he could hear the bass and faint lyrics coming from outside of your condo.

he peeked inside, following the sound of music and your voice into the kitchen — along with the smell of salty and garlicky goodness. he smiled, slowly creeping into his own house.

his heart was beating with anticipation and he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. once he rounded the corner and into the kitchen, he was welcomed with the view of you rocking your head back and forth, whilst cutting up food.

your back was turned to him and you were singing at the top of your lungs. his little bird, always singing. whether it was in the shower, or the kitchen, or the yard. music was your second most favorite thing after him.

he leaned onto the counter behind you, admiring the way you just existed.

hair messy and frizzy, fuzzy socks on, detailed pajama bottoms, just you. being home and doing your own thing. he loved it.

he loved coming home to you. it didn’t matter if you were awake or sleeping. mad or sad. he just loved coming home to you, to be around your beauty and your grace. even in your three-day-old pajamas with a few dabs of pimple cream on your cheeks and forehead.

slowly, he stalked behind you. opening up his arms widely, before clamping them shut around you.

first, you felt someone grab you. they muscular arms with a tight but gentle grip, holding your wrists and hugging your arms to your sides.

then, it was a loud shout of the words. “it’s Friday! i’m in love!”

you shouted out, jumping about a whole foot off the ground. your reaction earned you a throaty laugh from your captor, or in other words your boyfriend.

you were quick to recognize his laugh, whipping around with knife still in hand, you were met his his wide grinning face and head of brown hair.

“you asshole!” you shouted over your music, slapping him with your free hand while the other placed your knife down. his hands found the purchase of your hips, pulling you closer to him and nuzzling his nose against yours.

you jumped up to wrap your arms around his neck, practically knocking him over, “when’d you land? i thought you were going to be away for another day!”

you pulled away, looking him in the face and instantly checking for any injuries. thankfully, there were none.

“i landed early,” he took a small pause, taking in the look of your wide eyes and your fluttering lashes.

“you didn’t hear me come in, sweets?” he asked, cupping your cheek.

you shoved him away, “no, i could’ve stabbed you.”

“which is why i held you down.”

“i know! but don’t do that!” you whined, tempted to hit him again.

he couldn’t help but smile wider, leaning down and placing a long and deep kiss over your lips. god, he loved coming home to this. coming home to you. he couldn’t wait for the day you’d make him a father. the day he’d not only come home to one, but to two.

a little mini you or mini him, running around the house, babbling out incoherent words. he’s had dreams, the little baby would have his eyes and your hair. your nose and your cheeks. he’d have a whole nursery set up just for them.

boy or girl, it didn’t matter to him. as long as he was blessed with the title of being their father and being your husband.

one day, he said to himself. one day.

he pulled away, placing another kiss on your nose.

“you look so beautiful, y’know that?”

“stop, i have my acne cream on,” you said with a crinkle of your nose.

“but it’s lovely,” he hummed, tickling at your sides.

you elbowed him away, still annoyed at the fact he scared you, but also happy that he was home. you missed him, you always do.

“i’m making your favorite,” you told him, turning around. he instantly caught you again, wrapping his heavy arms around you and leaning his body weight onto you.

his head sunk into your shoulder, taking a deep breath of your softener along with the scent of butter and seasoning. he sighed out into you, his hot breath seeping through your sweater and onto your skin.

“what do you want for dessert, hm?” you asked, turning your head to face him.

you watched a smirk slowly spread over his cheeks.

“you.”

“god, i can’t catch a break.”

(divider creds to @saradika ,, photos off of pinterest)

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x you #death island leon #resident evil #leon kennedy fic #resident evil fic

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