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hairmetal666 · 3 days

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It's 3am. It's pouring down rain. Steve's soaked to the skin, been wandering the city for most of the night, hasn't slept in almost 24 hours, thinks maybe he's on the brink of delirium, and then a truck hits a pool of ponded water, sending a muddy wave cascading over him.

He just wants to go home but Dustin lost his dog and he can't leave a puppy out in this weather.

Steve steps off the curb, and what looks like a shallow puddle turns out to be a water-filled hole. He crashes towards the pavement, nothing he can do to stop it. As fast he's falling, he's miraculously not, arms wrapped around his waist. It takes a second for his brain to catch up, to understand that he's being held upright in an old-fashioned, romantic dip.

"Careful, sweetheart," a deep and smoke raspy voice says from above him.

it sends chills down his spine, the good kind, and warmth slips through him. His rescuer is a solid 10 knockout. Long, curly hair; eyeliner; decked out in leather and studs and chains. He smells like booze and cigarettes and weed, and it's intoxicating. Steve has to fight the instinct to nuzzle the guy's leather jacket. He's beautiful, holds Steve with the swagger only a guy with rings on every finger could pull off.

And Steve is a mud soaked mess in sweatpants and a threadbare Hawkins High tee. But the guy holding him isn't letting go. He stares down at Steve, brown eyes wide.

"Steve!" A voice calls over the patter of the rain.

"Dustin?" He says at the same time that the man holding him says, "Henderson?"

"Eddie?" Dustin asks.

"Wait, dnd Eddie?" Steve gets his feet under him, but Eddie's arms don't drop.

"You're the famous babysitter Steve I've been hearing all about?"

They gape at each other until Dustin reaches them.

"What are you still doing out here?" Dustin shouts. "We found Dart hours ago."

"Dustin!" He thinks he might cry. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You weren't answering your walkie!"

"Fuck." Steve drops his face to his hand. The walkie. Which is on the table by the front door where he and Robin leave their keys.

Steve swallows his frustration, the misery of waterlogged shoes, having to be up to open the store in a few hours, meeting the hottest guy he's ever seen when he looks like a drowned rat.

"I promised I'd find Dart, didn't I? Now what the hell are you doing out so late?"

"Mom and I were looking for you!"

"Let's get you back to the car, man, okay?" Steve says to Dustin. He wants to end this weird, terrible, embarrassing night before it gets even more humiliating.

"I can give you a ride home," Eddie says. He's got this weird, intense look on his face, staring at Steve.

"I'm only a few blocks away. I'll be fine. C'mon, Henderson."

"Oh, I can walk him. You head home."

He nods, starts towards his apartment, but turns back just in time to see Eddie and Dustin share a look he can't parse.

---

A few days later, Dustin's following him around at work, chattering about dnd as Steve shelves books, and without taking a breath during a soliloquy about owl bears, says, "Eddie's running a one-shot for us next week. You should come! It's a great way to get into the game."

"I'm not playing dnd," Steve answers. He slides a book onto the shelf. "I've told you this."

"Yeah, but you liked Eddie, right? He'd help you out!"

Steve squints at the kid. "I didn't really meet Eddie to know. Anyway, I'm sure he doesn't want a newbie crashing."

Steve is pretty sure Eddie doesn't like him, based on their short introduction, so he's not interested in forcing himself into the guy's dnd club. The night they met was humiliating enough, Steve in all his dorky glory.

"No, he totally wouldn't care. C'mon, Steve!"

"No can do." He ruffles Dustin's hair as he walks away.

He thinks that'll be the end of it, but every few days, for weeks Dustin and all the rest of the kids stop at the store to beg him to join their dnd club.

---

Steve is working the register and he hears the shuffling clank of a customer, looks up and finds Eddie. He's staring at Steve with that same look from the night they met, intense and piercing, cutting straight through the heart of him. He feels himself start to blush.

The first thing out of Eddie's mouth is, "Wait, this is your store?"

"Yeah?" Steve asks. "Is that--is that weird?"

"No! Not at all. It's a good store. Cute." His nose wrinkles when he says it and Steve's blush grows hotter. He knew Eddie thought he was a dork.

"Cute. Yeah. Right. Can I help you with something?"

Eddie rocks back on his heels, hands going to the pockets of his leather jacket, sending his chains jingling. "Oh, so, actually I wanted to see if you were busy?"

"Yeah, man. I'm busy." He laughs, doesn't intend to be mean about it, but he and Robin only opened the store six months ago and both take night classes at the local community college. Plus, everything he does with the kids.

Eddie's face flushes bright. "Oh, sure, of course. Yeah, I--I'll see you around."

The door thunks to a close behind him, and a voice immediately pops up to ask, "What the hell was that?"

He turns to find Max Mayfield hands on hips, glaring up at him, Robin close behind.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

Max rolls her eyes and strides up to the counter. "Why were you an asshole to Eddie?"

"He started it!"

"I highly doubt that."

"Okay, Ms. Know-it-all, why don't you tell me what happened?"

"I know for a fact that Eddie came in today to ask you out. So, tell me, Steve Harrington, why he rushed out of here looking like a kicked puppy?"

"What?" He yelps. "Eddie doesn't even like me!"

She glares. "Doesn't like you? He's been pathetic about you since you met."

He gapes at Robin. "Don't look at me," she shrugs. "But that guy was definitely here to ask you out."

"Fix it." Max commands as she stomps out the door. "He bar tends at that metal place on 68th."

---

It's just after 9pm and he's at the metal bar on 68th, decidedly out of place in the yellow t-shirt and jeans he wore to his business accounting class.

It's fairly busy for a weeknight, but Eddie's not hard to find. He's obviously in his element, bobbing his head to a song Steve's never heard as he mixes a drink.

With a hard swallow and a healthy dose of humility, he walks up to the bar.

"Be right--" Eddie starts, balking when he notices Steve.

"Can we talk?" he shouts over the music.

Eddie's eyes widen a little, but he nods, slips out from behind the bar to guide him to an employee exit.

"What's up, Steve?" Eddie asks. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders bowed in.

"I wanted to apologize."

"What for?"

"Earlier, I--when you said the store was cute I thought you were making fun of me."

"But--why?"

"I thought you didn't like me." Steve cringes at the admission.

"What?" He laughs.

"I don't know. We met in the middle of the night and I was covered in mud looking for a dog that wasn't lost anymore."

"Steve. Holy shit." Eddie shakes his head. "You looked gorgeous that night. The way your clothes were sticking--you know what? Never mind. Did you think I wanted you to come to dnd because I hated you?"

"You wanted me to come?"

"Dustin didn't..."

"No! And he's been asking me to play dnd weekly for the past five years."

"Jesus Christ," Eddie slumps agains the brick wall at his back. "No wonder you turned me down today."

"To be fair," Steve slumps next to him. "If I had realized you were asking me out, I wouldn't have turned you down."

"No?" Eddie asks. His brown eyes gleam.

"Definitely not. I've had a crush on you since that night. Sort of devastating since I thought you didn't like me." Steve runs his hand through his hair, watches Eddie track the movement.

"The store is cute, Steve. I--uh--I've been a few times. Back before I knew you were the owner! I just kept seeing a hot employee with great hair and a perfect ass, and the vaguely mean lesbian barista gives me free drinks."

"That's Robin," Steve says. He's smiling so hard.

"I know that now," Eddie smiles back. "Sorry for being an idiot."

"Me too." Steve nods. "Do you--could I still come to dnd? Or take you out sometime?"

"Why not both?" Dimples pop on Eddie's cheeks, and Steve's heart flips.

"I like both." They're still against the wall, but drifting into each other's space.

"So Dustin said."

It surprises a laugh out of Steve. "I'm gonna kill him."

"Too bad. He's a nice kid."

"Eh, we've got six more to choose from."

"I have a few more hours here, but there's a diner down the street that does some of the most mediocre pancakes I've ever tasted. Meet me there? Around 2?"

"A thousand lost puppies wouldn't make me miss it."

The next time Steve is out at 3am he's pressed against a building, Eddie kissing him so thoroughly he knows he's never recovering from this one.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #fluff #meet ugly #misunderstandings #feelings confession #mutual pining #idiots to lovers #hero eddie munson #damsel in distress steve harrington #steve thinks eddie is disgusted by him #meanwhile eddie is down bad crying at dnd #the kids try to do matchmaking and only max is successful #bookstore owners steve and robin #bartender eddie munson

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pathologicalreid · 2 days

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separation anxiety | S.R.

spencer's first case back from paternity leave involves children, so a concerned party reaches out to you for help

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: mom!reader, dad!spencer, vaguely described breastfeeding, word count: 1.28k a/n: this is technically the reid family from cryptic, but you don't have to read cryptic in order to understand this fic.

Your book rested in your lap as you pinched the thin paper of the novel between your index finger and your thumb. You had one foot on the ground, and the other was on the bottom of your daughter’s stroller, effectively rocking the stroller in two-four time so the infant would stay asleep.

Just because the A-Team wasn’t around didn’t mean there weren’t people working in the BAU. A crying baby would certainly disrupt the workflow in the bullpen – even if the baby belonged to a member of the BAU. Although, you had already fed her – mostly covered – at Spencer’s desk, so maybe you were past the point of no return.

You and baby Nellie had just been staring at each other at home – she was doing tummy time – when your phone went off. A mysterious text from Derek Morgan had popped up on your phone screen.

Derek Morgan: Got a sec?

It wasn’t that you and Derek never texted, it’s just that it was usually under the realm of “on my way” messages and, more recently, baby pictures, but you usually communicated indirectly using a massive group chat that was created by none other than Penelope Garcia.

So, when you answered and he asked if you’d be able to meet the team when they arrived at Quantico, you hesitantly said yes. He explained more once they were on the jet, the case that they had been on involved young children, and there was a little girl that had struck a particular chord with your boyfriend – who was on his first case back from paternity leave.

Eleanor was three months old, and you weren’t sure who’d have a harder time being away from one another – her or Spencer. You hadn’t considered how Spencer would feel when confronted with a case involving children now that he was a father. Quite frankly, you had hoped that he would’ve had more time before he needed to face a situation like that.

You waited, still using your foot to rock Nell’s stroller as the cover diffused the fluorescent light, you could hear her moving now, likely having woken up from her nap, but if she wasn’t crying, you saw no reason to stop her from playing with the colorful toys that dangled above her.

Sighing, you peered up from your book to see the elevator opening on the sixth floor, revealing the team behind the steel doors. Morgan clocked you first, winking as he passed through the glass doors to the bullpen.

Spencer hadn’t noticed the two of you yet, so you slowly opened the cover of the stroller and picked your daughter up, holding her gently to your chest. The infant fussed a bit while she was being moved, effectively gaining the attention of her father, whose face lit up at the sight of his family waiting for him at his desk.

Pushing past the rest of the team, who had also noticed the small being in the room by this point, Spencer approached his desk, haphazardly dropping his bag on the metal surface before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. Before even bothering to separate your lips, he was taking the baby from your arms.

“Hey,” he murmured, pulling away from you slowly as he secured the baby in his arms, bending his neck to place his lips on the crown of Nell’s head, “I missed you, angel girl.” His voice was gentle as you looked on fondly, she reached out a small hand and gripped the collar of his shirt. “How are you?” He asked, turning his attention back onto you.

You smiled at the two of them, using a cloth to wipe the drool from her chin before Spencer took it from you, deftly draping it over his shoulder in case he needed it shortly. “Good,” you answered, “tired,” you added.

Across the bullpen, Emily waved at Eleanor, grinning broadly as she walked over to her desk with JJ. To her enjoyment, the baby responded by letting out a coo and smiling before turning her attention to her dad, nuzzling her face in his chest, “Did I miss anything?”

Raising your eyebrows, you shrugged, leaning back and sitting on Spencer’s desk, “She pushed herself up on her arms yesterday.” It wasn’t a massive milestone – you were still grateful that Spencer had been present for her first real smile.

“Oh, yeah?” He responded, proudly looking down at his daughter, who had moved on from nuzzling and was now trying to see just how much of her hand she could fit in her mouth. “Did you know that babies usually go through a sleep regression right before they learn a new skill?” He asked, directing the question at Nell, “That must be why your mama looks so tired.”

You waved him off, crossing your arms in front of your stomach, “She’s lucky she’s so cute.”

The familiar click-clack of heels notified you that Penelope Garcia had made it to the party, likely signaled by another member of the team, “The cutest little girl in the world!”

Even though every member of the team had held your daughter at one point or another, you weren’t entirely comfortable with her being handed off like a hot potato. This, combined with Spencer’s aversion to germs, led to an unspoken rule: wait until one of her parents offered to let you hold her.

“Did you want to take her for a bit?” You offered, looking over at Spencer as you did. He needed time with her, it wasn’t your intention to deprive him of that, but you needed to check in with him without the distraction of the baby. Handing her off, you spoke up, “Watch your earrings,” you tapped on your earlobe, “She will grab them.”

As Garcia held the baby, she made her way around the bullpen, allowing Eleanor to make grabby hands at everyone and everything.

Keeping an arm around his waist, you looked up at your boyfriend, “Are you alright?” You asked, keeping your voice low as there was no sense in airing your concerns to the now bustling office.

Spencer’s smile faltered ever so slightly, “They were just kids. There have been kids before, but now…”

“Now you’re a dad,” you finished for him. “It’s not just something that you could see happening to someone else; it’s something you could see happening to yourself.” Pinching his side slightly, you smirked at him knowingly, “You know, your levels of empathy and sensitivity increase when you become a parent. Your brain adjusts to make yourself a better parent.”

Rolling his eyes slightly, Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, “You know, I vaguely remember telling you something very similar last week when you were crying at an ASPCA commercial.”

You reached up to ruffle his hair, “Nice try at sarcasm, babe, but you and I both know you never vaguely remember anything.”

“How did you know to come here? That I’d need to see her?” Spencer asked, watching as Penelope continued to parade around the BAU, now taking her up the stairs and through the roundtable room. “Was it a mother’s intuition?” He suggested, taking up a lighter tone.

Turning around, your eyes followed Garcia as she walked with Eleanor, “I was contacted by a concerned party.”

Spencer followed your gaze, “I’ll thank Garcia when she gives our baby back.”

You hummed, “Actually, it was Derek, he-“ Your voice cut off abruptly, “Oh, Penny, I told you she’d grab them!” You called from Spencer’s desk, but Garcia was already on her way to return Eleanor, holding one hand to her ear as she handed the baby back to Spencer.

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pinkflower2003 · 3 days

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Can you do an imagine where reader is heavily pregnant and overdue. She’s grumpy and sore and just overall not feeling too good so (driver your choice) comforts her and tells her how amzing she is? 😩

Overdue Love - Lando Norris x Reader

a/n: Thank you so much for your request my love!!🍓 I loved working on this one, such a cute idea! I have no idea why I wrote for Lando, but I thought he would be such a good girldad <3

Send in your requests!

Masterlist

Y/N sat on the couch, shifting uncomfortably as she tried to find a position that didn’t make her sore back ache. She was heavily pregnant, overdue by a week, and every minute felt like an eternity. Her swollen belly seemed to defy gravity, and the heat of the afternoon didn't help. She sighed deeply, glancing at the clock and wondering if this baby would ever decide to make an appearance.

Lando, her loving and supportive partner, walked into the living room with a gentle smile. He had just finished a video call with his team, but his thoughts were entirely with Y/N. Seeing her discomfort, he immediately came to her side, his concern evident in his eyes.

“Hey, love,” he said softly, sitting down next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “How are you holding up?”

Y/N sighed again, leaning into his embrace. “I feel like a beached whale, Lando. Everything hurts, and I’m so ready for this baby to come out.”

Lando chuckled lightly, his fingers brushing through her hair soothingly. “You’re doing amazing, you know that? I can’t imagine how tough this is, but you’re handling it like a champion. Our little girl is just taking her time, getting ready to meet the most incredible mom.”

Despite her grumpiness, Y/N couldn’t help but smile at his words. Lando always knew how to make her feel better, even in the most uncomfortable situations. She placed a hand on her belly, feeling the baby’s gentle kicks.

“She’s already got a sense of drama, just like her dad,” Y/N teased, looking up at Lando with affection.

He laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Well, she does have a flair for the dramatic. But she’s also got the best parts of you. I can’t wait to meet her.”

Y/N tried to shift again, her face contorting with discomfort. “I can’t find a position that doesn’t make me feel like I’m being crushed.”

Lando got up and fetched a couple of pillows, arranging them around her to provide some support. “Here, try these. Maybe it will help a bit.”

As Y/N settled into the new arrangement, she sighed with a bit more relief. “That’s better, thank you.”

“You know,” Lando began, sitting back down beside her, “I’ve been thinking about how strong you’ve been through all of this. The morning sickness, the cravings, the sleepless nights… You’ve handled everything so well.”

Y/N laughed lightly, though it was tinged with exhaustion. “I don’t know if I’d call it handling it well. More like surviving.”

“Well, to me, you’ve been amazing. I’m in awe of you every day,” he said sincerely, his eyes shining with admiration.

Hours passed with Lando staying by Y/N’s side, making sure she was as comfortable as possible. They watched movies, reminisced about the past, and talked about their hopes and dreams for their little family. Despite the discomfort, Y/N felt grateful for Lando’s unwavering support and love.

As evening turned into night, Y/N began to feel the first twinges of contractions. At first, she brushed them off as more Braxton Hicks, the false labour pains she’d been experiencing on and off for weeks. But as the contractions grew stronger and more regular, she knew it was finally time.

“Lando,” she called out, her voice tinged with both excitement and nervousness. “I think it’s happening.”

Lando’s eyes widened, and he immediately sprang into action. “Alright, let’s get everything ready.” He had been preparing for this moment for months, and his excitement and nervousness were palpable.

They grabbed the hospital bag, which had been packed and ready for weeks, and headed to the car. Lando drove carefully but quickly, glancing over at Y/N every few seconds to make sure she was okay.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, reaching over to hold her hand.

Y/N winced as another contraction hit. “It’s intense, but I’m okay. Just keep driving.”

They arrived at the hospital, and the staff quickly ushered them into a room. Lando stayed by Y/N’s side the entire time, holding her hand, encouraging her, and reminding her to breathe. The hours of labour were gruelling, filled with moments of pain and anticipation.

Y/N squeezed Lando’s hand tightly as another contraction rippled through her body. “This is so much harder than I thought it would be,” she admitted, tears streaming down her face.

Lando wiped her tears away gently, his own eyes glistening with emotion. “You’re doing great, love. Just a little longer, and we’ll have our baby girl in our arms.”

Y/N nodded, taking a deep breath and trying to focus on Lando’s soothing voice. He talked to her about their future, about the first time they’d bring Poppy home, about all the things they would do together as a family. His words were a lifeline, helping her push through the pain.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the moment arrived. With one final, powerful push, their daughter entered the world. The room filled with the sound of her first cries, and Y/N collapsed back against the bed, exhausted but overwhelmed with joy.

“She’s here,” Lando whispered, tears of happiness streaming down his face. “Our little Poppy.”

The nurse placed the tiny, squirming baby on Y/N’s chest, and she looked down at her daughter with a mixture of awe and love. “Hi, Poppy,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “Welcome to the world.”

Lando leaned in, kissing Y/N’s sweaty forehead and then the baby’s tiny head. “You did it, Y/N. You were amazing.”

Y/N looked at Lando, her heart swelling with love and gratitude. “We did it,” she corrected him, her voice filled with emotion.

The next few days were a blur of feedings, diaper changes, and sleepless nights, but through it all, Lando and Y/N were a team. They took turns holding and comforting Poppy, marvelling at every little coo and movement she made.

One night, as they sat together on the couch with Poppy sleeping soundly in Lando’s arms, Y/N rested her head on his shoulder. “I can’t believe she’s finally here,” she said softly.

Lando smiled, looking down at their daughter with a tender expression. “She’s perfect, just like her mummy.”

Y/N laughed lightly, though she was still tired from the labour. “I think you’re a little biased.”

“Maybe,” Lando conceded, “but it’s true. You’re amazing, and Poppy is amazing because of you.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, simply enjoying the peace and quiet. Y/N felt a sense of contentment she had never experienced before. Despite the sleepless nights and the challenges of being new parents, she knew they were incredibly lucky.

“Do you remember the first time we talked about having kids?” Lando asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Y/N nodded, smiling at the memory. “It was on that trip to Italy, right? We were sitting by the lake, and you said you wanted a big family.”

“Yeah,” Lando said, his eyes distant as he recalled the moment. “I remember thinking how perfect it would be to raise a family with you. And now, here we are, starting that dream.”

Y/N felt tears welling up in her eyes again, but this time they were tears of happiness. “I’m so glad we’re doing this together, Lando. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Lando leaned over and kissed her gently. “Me neither, love. Me neither.”

As the weeks passed, they settled into a routine, learning the ins and outs of parenthood together. There were sleepless nights and moments of frustration, but there were also moments of pure joy and love. Lando continued to be a supportive and loving partner, always ready with a kind word or a helping hand.

One evening, as they were getting ready for bed, Y/N looked over at Lando, who was gently rocking Poppy to sleep. “You’re such a natural with her,” she said, admiration clear in her voice.

Lando looked up, smiling. “I’ve had a great teacher,” he said, nodding towards her. “You’re an amazing mum, Y/N.”

Y/N blushed slightly, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “We make a good team, don’t we?”

“The best,” Lando agreed, walking over and placing Poppy in her crib. He wrapped his arms around Y/N, pulling her close. “I’m so grateful for you, for us, and for our little Poppy.”

Y/N rested her head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “Me too, Lando. Me too.”

#formula one imagine #f1 imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris #formula one x reader #formula 1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #ln4 #ln4 imagine #baby imagine #pregnancy imagine

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 days

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Locker Room

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, enemies-ish to lovers, sexual tension, arguments, suggestive themes, intimate touching, teasing, dirty thoughts

A/N: For @glitterypirateduck 's Ghost Writing Challenge. I used prompts 43, 97, & 99. (I had so much fun challenging myself to do this all in one go. I set a timer and everything.)

After finding an infuriating note on your desk, you confront Simon in the communal locker room.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

Beneath your skin is an inferno.

It’s not the kind that blazes for another, or burns in tandem with a deep yearning. This is just seething anger and blunt frustration.

You’re ready to knock out some fucking teeth.

How dare he? Who the fuck does Lieutenant Riley think he is?

When you return reports to Captain Price, you point out all the inconsistences and errors. The lack of accountability and absolute carelessness has been scratching at you for ages, and this time you had enough. Usually Price shrugs, fixes whatever you’ve marked—to a degree—and then returns them without argument.

This time? Price took one look at them and told you to talk to Simon.

Not a problem. No issue at all. You and Lieutenant Riley have always been on good terms. Sometimes, it’s been more than good. You’ve caught him staring for far too long, or he stands a bit too close as if the two of you are a couple and not coworkers. And while you’ve internalized the fantasy, it’s not like you’ve ever acted on it.

But now you’re just irritated.

You handed over the files yesterday evening, and this morning you found them back on your desk. It’s not the turnaround but Lieutenant Riley’s audacity of placing those files back on your desk with a singular sticky note.

The reports are just fine, sweetheart.

Sweetheart. Sweetheart?

The other day you imagined what it might be like to have the burly, masked man call you a pet name, but this is just fucking condescending.

Your heels clack sharply against the linoleum floor. Perhaps it’s the rage in your face, because every person you meet on your rampage steps out of your way, their gaze averted. Rounding a corner, you exit through a side door and into one of the hangars. A few people glance up, frowning, but return to their job.

Sighing heavily, you approach the nearest person. “Where’s Lieutenant Riley?”

The young man—who looks right out recruitment—glances up. He swallows and peers over his shoulder as if he’s not sure he’s supposed to say. “Locker room, ma’am?”

“Thank you,” you reply sharply, turning on your heel and heading for another door leading to the communal gym.

“But—” he begins, stumbling to his feet as you charge on. “Ma’am! You can’t—”

The door slams shut behind you and you don’t look back.

This is one of several communal spaces. There are the usual training areas on base but there are also a few gyms for those that want to get a bit of extra work in. Every head turns toward you and many don’t look away. This one is just for the men, and you’re the odd duck.

And fuck it. You don’t care. You’re too fucking mad right now to think of anything else but giving Lieutenant Riley a piece of your goddamn mind.

With everything pumping in your veins, the reality of you storming toward the locker rooms hasn’t even dawned. Hasn’t clicked. Fury laces your every step, and even here, where you’re not supposed to be, the men in your path move as if they sense the rage.

When you burst through the door and meet a wall of steam, all the heat suddenly extinguishes. Glancing around, you’re met with wide-eyed stares and surprised expressions.

Keeping your gaze as upward as you can, you clear your throat. “Where is Lieutenant Riley?”

There is only silence. Maybe if you stare at the top of the lockers for long enough, you’ll somehow gather your courage again.

“I asked where Lieutenant—”

“I’m right here.”

You turn abruptly and freeze.

Lieutenant Simon Riley stands before you in nothing but a towel. It hangs low on his hips. Other than that, the bottom-half of his face is covered up by a black mask and his dog tags dangle from his neck. His hair is a wet, tussled mess, and his chest glistens with water like he just stepped out from the shower.

Simon simply stares at you for a moment as you stand in utter silence. His gaze, which is piercing and fierce, slides away to scan the room. He doesn’t have to say anything. The rest of the men in the room grab bags and clothes, rushing to exit through the door you just entered from.

When the last man leaves, Simon rolls his shoulders, straightening his spine. It makes him appear larger, more intimidating, and that one movement draws forth a heat in your belly. This isn’t anger. This is need.

“I know what you came here for,” he says, and it’s so casual a tone that the earlier rage comes rising up.

“I’m sure you do,” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest.

Simon says nothing. His dark eyes remain on you, unmoving and cold, yet pinning you to the spot as if you’ve been impaled by a spear.

“Are you going to apologize?”

“Why?” he asks automatically.

You scoff. “Are you fucking serious?”

“You didn’t come here for an apology.”

You uncross your arms and hold them out in front of you, bent at the elbows. “The reports—”

“The reports are fine.”

You roll your eyes and throw your hands up in the air. “There are inconsistencies everywhere. I can’t submit them as they are.”

Simon rolls his neck and then strides forward. Instinct has you stepping back, moving away, but you bump into a row of lockers. He doesn’t stop until he’s leaning over you, one large hand pressing into the metal to the side of your head.

“You’re nitpicking,” he replies.

“About lazy writing?”

“Oh, love. I assure you. I’m thorough.” At that, Simon leans in, and your hands rise instinctually, pressing against his firm chest.

Simon’s gaze doesn’t drop from your face. His entire attention is on you and that heat is back, twisting in your stomach, stirring up a slickness between your legs.

“Lieutenant,” you breathe, wanting the need between your legs to leave but also loving how close he is.

Sure, you’re pissed off but my god. The fresh scent of him is intoxicating, and you’re doing everything in your power not to lean in and lick up the droplet of water running along the side of his throat.

“Why did you come here?” He waits a beat, and when you don’t reply, Simon continues. “To argue?” He lightly pinches your bottom chin, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip, dragging it down a bit. You open your mouth involuntarily and Simon makes at sound in his throat that makes your legs weak. “To see me?” He leans in like he’s about to kiss you. “To be alone?”

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whisper.

Simon has you caged in. Pinned. The only thing separating your body and his is that towel.

“Why do you think everyone left when they did?” Simon’s thumb drops away from your lips only to press at the hollow of your throat. “It’s not because you walked in.”

“Why?” you ask, as Simon’s thumb drags lowers over your top to the space between your breasts.

“Because you’re mine. And they know it.”

“You—what?” Without anywhere to go, you can’t escape his intense stare.

“I’m staking a claim.”

“Lieutenant—”

“Simon,” he growls. “Call me Simon.”

“Simon,” you say, and he groans.

His dog tags brush against your fingers. The metal is slightly cool and damp. You curl on finger around the chain, and tug, bringing Simon’s face down to yours. If he can tease and touch, you’re going to do the same. He can’t have all the power.

Your lips brush against his through the mask, and Simon��s eyelids begin to close, revealing his gentle submission in this moment. Deepening the movement, you kiss him as if there were no barrier. This time, he truly groans, and you’d give anything to remove the barriers between you and find out what it’s like to feel him deep inside.

Fisting his dog tags in your hand, you shove him away, but only enough that there is a fraction of distance.

“Fix the fucking reports, Simon.”

Instead of kissing him again, or even touching him, you unclench your fist, releasing the dog tags. Slipping under his arm, you exit through the door and out into the gym, leaving a trail of steam in your wake.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth

@miaraei @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666

@unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @enfppuff

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@therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf

@lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien

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@contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic

@suhmie @tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior

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gojonanami · 8 hours

Text

“ A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME ”

pairing: satoru gojo x reader

summary: you come home after a long day of work unable to find the person you call home anywhere — until you reach the bedroom.

warnings: 18+ suggestive, fluff, comfort, some angst, implications of the shinjuku showdown arc, implied gojo is no longer a sorcerer, gojo is your househusband, taking a bath together, taking care of him, copium really, satoru being a silly man

w/c: 1,184

I’m home!” you call into your home, the clatter of your keys and shoes as you shedded the things that chained you to the outside to submerge yourself in your oasis and into his arms. But as you got no reply, you stepped into your living room, scanning over the kitchen, to find no one.

Now where was your home?

“Satoru?” you called, heart skipping a slight beat, he was always waiting for you when you got home, usually on the couch or maybe in the kitchen the clank of the knife as he chopped away. Or even the many times that he was waiting by the door to only ambush you with kisses. But this time, nothing.

You rounded the corner to the hallway and peeked into your bedroom to find him asleep. You crept closer, careful not to wake him, and yup, he was fast asleep. His pretty snow white lashes resting against his cheeks, his chest slowly rising and falling as the soft sounds of his breaths parted his lovely lips.

You could watch him sleep for hours. You knew he never did enough of it before, and you’d argue he still didn’t do enough of it now. He always said he was fine sleeping 6 hours since it was twice as much as he usually got — and now he was working at home, so he could be ease.

But even so, you know he needed more.

As if he senses your thought, he stirs, starry blue eyes finding yours as he flutters sleep from his gaze, “sweetheart?” He’s murmuring, voice still beautifully raspy from sleep, “when did you get home?” He’s shifting to get up, but you use gentle hands to ease him back, “I haven’t started on dinner yet, sweets—“

“I got it, Toru,” you’re running your fingers through his hair, “just rest, baby,” and a protest is already on his lips, “let me guess what you did today — cleaned the house from roof to floor, stocked us on groceries, cooked lunch for me for the week, and probably a million other things,” you lean down to press a kiss to his forehead, “I think I can handle dinner for one night at least,”

He’s pouting now, “but you just got home from work, Princess, what kind of househusband would I be—“ and you can’t help but laugh, he loved his self appointed title of househusband, especially since it was one he had chosen for himself, and he took any opportunity — even now to call himself that.

“I think even the absolute best househusbands need a break, and should listen to their wives, since I’m the one you want to pamper so much,” and his lips party in protest, but you’re leaning down to kiss them and his pout away, “let me take care of you, Toru,”

He’s sighing, as he leans up to press his forehead to yours, “and does your offer include a bath, sweetheart?”

~~~

“Y’know sometimes I feel guilty,” and you pause in your massage of his head, fingers tangled in his hair, suds from the bath you’d drawn for him covering both of your bodies as he leans against you in your tub, back pressed flush to yours.

“Guilty about what?” you ask, holding your tongue on the million reasons why he shouldn’t.

“For so long, I was the strongest,” he gives a small chuckle, “and it was fun, sometimes. But it was mostly lonely,” he leans back to look up at you, a small grin on his lips, “except when I was with you,” your lips curl, “and now I get to be with you, and I get to stay home — and the worst thing I have to do are the dishes,” and you snort.

“I told you I’d do them if you hate them so much,”

But he’s shaking his head, “Sometimes I think trying to deal with our cast iron is worse than fighting Sukuna—“ and you roll your eyes, “but there’s always this urgency that I have to be doing more. Telling me to keep going, moving, fighting—“

“You’ve done enough, Toru, more than enough,” your fingers cup his cheek, “too much, honestly. It’s okay to rest now. You’ve done your part—“

“But—“

“Didn’t you or someone say jujutsu is like a marathon, a baton pass?” Your fingers run through his white locks, before you shift yourself to sit in his lap instead, “the marathon is over, racers have packed up and gone home, and the finish line has been crossed,” your fingers rest on the back of his neck, tracing his undercut, “and that’s because of you and all you did to fight and raise up the next generation,” you say softly, and he’s pressing his head to your forehead.

“Is it okay for me to rest now?” and you’re pulling him into your arms, hoping your touch conveys what your words can’t.

“Yes, it is, Satoru,” you’re pressing soft kisses to his neck, “you don’t need to be the strongest. You’re Satoru Gojo, and that’s all I want,” and he leans back, “you’re all I want,”

“Is that a proposal?” And you snort.

“We’re already married, weirdo—“ and his lips find yours, as they always did, his arms around your bare waist, as the water shifted and splashed, but you could barely feel anything except his lips against yours and the circle of his thumb against the small of your back.

He finally pulls away, a genuine smile on his lips, “And you married this weirdo,” and you chuckle, tracing his jaw with your finger, “you’re stuck with me for life,”

“Promise?” And he’s kissing you again in an instant, stealing your breath like he did the first time you met him all those years ago at jujutsu tech. And you knew you’d never love anyone else — not like him.

“Promise.”

Bonus:

Satoru’s arms wrap around you from behind as the two of you towel off after your bath, “what are we having for dinner?”

“Well someone insisted on me being in here with him, so I had to order out,” and he’s grinning, as he nuzzles your neck.

“Whoopsie, hehe,” and he’s humming, as he tugs your hips against his, the friction drawing a gasp from your lips, “can we have dessert first?”

“It is dessert. We’re having ice cream for dinner—“ and he’s kissing you again, but this time it’s languid and messy — all tongue and teeth, until he’s pulling away with a smirk at your breathless face.

“I want something sweeter, wife,” and you smile.

“Think you can finish before the delivery gets here?” And he’s already picking you up with ease in his arms, pinned under him in a moment, as his ocean blues flash with mischief from between your thighs.

“I can, but I don’t know if you’ll be done by then.” He says cheekily, as you only sigh.

If there was one thing that would always be true is that you would always be weak to Satoru Gojo — but not his abilities, but who he is.

Your husband.

“Let’s see, hm?”

a/n: I’m real upset about the leaks and this is my coping. I needed this.

taglist: @staryukis, @cloverlilies, @asgoodasdead666, @strawmariee, @chuuyasboots, @forest-fruits-jam, @catsgomurp, @rat-loves, @hanlay, @risuola, @spider-fan72, @sunamatic, @difficultdomains

#sab [mlist]#satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo fanfiction #gojo satoru smut #jjk x reader #jjk fanfiction #jjk smut #gojo x reader #gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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charliemwrites · 3 days

Text

Part 1

Finally finished this! I think I put way too much pressure on myself to get this just right and it gave me some major writer's block. Anyway, please enjoy!

Content: Wet dreams, Somnophilia (sort of), Identity Porn, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy (through dreams), Uncomfortable Situation, Pushy/Predatory behavior (brief)

“Bad dreams again?”

Drowsy and sluggish, you blink at your aunt. She’s as sleek and coiffed as always, pressed business attire and shiny hair. Shoulders back, spine straight. A woman people respect and heed without question.

Your mother’s voice whispers in your ear, that lovingly patronizing tone. See how professional she looks, dear? Isn’t that nice?

It’s not Aunt Katie’s fault though. She does look professional, and it is nice. It suits her.

You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “They’re not bad, really. Just… intense.”

She hums, elegant fingers tracing the edge of your borrowed desk. “They can’t be very good if they’re keeping you up.”

You’re tired enough that you almost correct her a second time. The problem is that the dreams are too good. You wake up panting, sweating, halfway to – well. You’re not about to discuss the finer points of a kinky wet dream with your CIA aunt. Besides, it’s silly to get so defensive of something that affects you seemingly negatively.

“Maybe,” you reply, rubbing at your heavy eyes. It feels like you’re trying to look through clear jelly.

“Why don’t you take a break?” Aunt Kate suggests.

You frown, a pang of guilt striking your empty tummy. “No… no, I’m okay. It’s not even lunch yet.”

She smiles at you. The same fond smile she’s always graced you with, on holidays and birthdays, whenever she could escape the secretive walls and red tape to be with family.

“You’re already ahead on paperwork. You’re not a bad employee for getting a little sun.”

Your eyes flick longingly to the door.

Apparently, the government doesn’t believe in things like windows or sunlight. Your little desk is at the very end of a long, half-empty hallway in the middle of a concrete cube and drowning in awful blue fluorescence. You can’t even bring yourself to drag a plant to this crappy little island because you’d feel too guilty putting it through this.

“Okay… maybe just for a few minutes,” you allow.

Her smile widens as she nods for you to follow. “C’mon, I’ll walk you out. I think the dogs will be free for some enrichment.”

Well, that certainly gets you out of your squeaky office chair.

Honey sunlight drizzles over your neck and shoulders, dripping syrupy-slow down your spine. It diffuses through your chest, chasing away the artificial chill of the office. The sleepy haze retreats like frost melting from glass.

You sigh into the fresh air, ignoring the tang of gunpowder lingering on the breeze, and turn your face to the sun. Summer is coming to an end, the heat broken into mellower warmth. There won’t be many days like this left before autumn bites down and shakes the leaves from the trees. A shame you’ll likely waste most of them in your administrative prison.

The dogs stretch out in the grass around you, tongues lolling and eyes bright, keeping you company. A furry bouquet of black and tan in the manicured grass, their ears and tails like stalks to strange plants.

You bury your fingers in Zeus’s coat and get a fuzzy white tummy for your efforts. He’s a young and handsome thing, the newest addition to the K-9 unit, still a bit fluffy around the ears. You try not to think of how that will fade and harden, just like the older dogs in the unit, just like his human counterparts. Just scratch at that itchy spot by his ribs and smile when his hindleg kicks.

Friga stands and stretches on your right side, leaning her shoulder into yours. Then picks her way around the others to sniff at Zeus. Offended by her interruption, he flails onto his stomach and nips at her, one big forepaw thumping the ground.

She goads him into playtime, and you watch with the older pack members as they begin to romp. They tumble and grumble around you, heedless of bumping into any of the others. You laugh, bright and loud—

The back of your neck tingles.

You glance around, not even sure why. Until you see a figure across the field. He’s standing by the track where about two dozen men are jogging. Recruits, you guess. But he’s not observing them or barking orders. No, he’s clearly turned to face you. It’s too far to make out any features, apart from what seems to be an unusual haircut.

You quickly glance away, surreptitiously trying to determine if the man’s attention was on something else that happened to be in your direction. But there’s little else but you and the dogs in this field, the kennels noticeably off to the left.

Then again, someone sitting in the grass with half the K-9 unit is a bit unusual. He’s probably trying to decide if it’s something that needs investigation. You hope it’s not.

Still, you can’t shake the discomfiting sense that he’s looking at you.

You ignore him until it’s time for the dogs to go back - but that prickly feeling of being watched never subsides.

That night, in the guest room of your aunts’ house, the dreams take on new life.

It starts as it always does. A dark room. A lush bed. Silky sheets. Moonlight seeping through blinds like smoke. And him.

He’s behind you. A broad body so solid you’d think he was a wall if not for the heat. It’s so intense this time, like a wildfire raging out of control, crawling from his skin beneath yours. You sense more than feel the big hand around your jaw. Rough fingers clutch at the plush of your thigh. Hot breath fans across the back of your neck, rippling shivers down your spine.

There’s a voice in your ear. No words you can discern, just a thunder-deep rumble with smoky edges. Stubble scrapes the delicate skin of your neck and catches in your hair.

A thick, heavy cock is buried deep inside you, kissing the entrance to your womb. Your pussy twinges a sweet-sharp ache with each deliberate grind of his hips. He’s spreading you open to get as deep as he can, throbbing balls pressed up tight to your sopping entrance.

Your own hands are all but useless. One twists desperately in the sheets, the other clutches at the meaty swell of his ass. Pleasure upends anything like sense or thought, even hazy dream logic. There is just this man fucking you like he owns you, two of his fingers in your drooling mouth, petting your tongue. A ring clicks against your teeth.

“Found you,” he whispers.

You jolt, eyes flying open. The powder blue ceiling of your borrowed room greets you. You’ve kicked the cotton sheets into a tangled mess around your ankles, tiny shirt ridden up your chest. Your panties are soaked.

The taste of metal lingers behind your incisors.

It’s a busy day. For once, you’re free from the confines of your sad little nook. Aunt Kate must have taken pity on your sorry state the day before and has procured busy work. Files that need hand delivery, or physical reports for you to gather. You don’t care if it’s just something to get you out of the office, you relish the stolen moments outside between buildings.

If there’s a downside, it’s the glances you attract. Everything about you projects civilian, despite the access card prominently pinned to the lapel of your blazer. It draws curious once-overs at best and suspicious scans at worst – or speculative appreciation at the very worst. Every time a fresh-faced recruit or overly decorated middle-aged man lingers as you pass, you hear your mother’s voice again.

Don’t you know what those military men are like? Practically animals. I couldn’t possibly let you be exposed to them.

It’s long ingrained to keep your eyes forward, head level, and try to keep your hips from swaying as much as possible. You’re grateful for whatever bit of paperwork you can clutch to your chest, just to hide your figure and have something to do with your hands.

You’re picking up some personnel files from the infirmary, smile brightly at the receptionist as she passes them over. Mallory is only a couple years older than you, and she’s been working here a year already.

“Lunch in the mess today?” she asks, spinning a pen between her fingers.

“As if you even need to ask,” you tease. “Noon?”

“I’ll meet you there.”

She blows you a kiss as you leave, counting the number of files to be sure you have them all. Your eyes skim over one of the names, a white label on the folder fin. “MacTavish, J.” in blocky typewriter font. You shuffle them back into a neat stack and pivot for Aunt Kate’s office.

You’re not in the moonlit bedroom this time. A half-moon grins down from a starry sky, wearing smoky nebulas for lipstick. Beneath you lays cool grass and soft earth, rich and loamy in your heaving lungs. Petals blooming in the dark kiss your overheated skin, little relief for the burn in your veins.

The change in scenery is almost as dizzying as the man between your thighs. Almost.

But it’s not the dew-saturated breeze that muddles your bewildered thoughts. It’s the hot, wet, clever tongue lavishing your drenched pussy. He licks in broad stripes from your aching hole to your throbbing clit, only ever pausing to indulge a slow suck to the bundle of nerves, before resuming that hypnotic circuit.

One thigh is hooked over a wide shoulder, your heel dug into the flexing muscles of a broad back. The other is spread by a big, calloused hand, giving him unfettered access to the softest, neediest parts of you.

You mewl desperately, hand darting down to his bobbing head. Your nails scrape shorn stubble, eliciting a gravelly groan that sends electricity up your tingling spine. It’s nothing compared to the growl you earn when your fingers twist into the longer, soft strands at the top.

For the first time, you’re able to voice more than helpless moans and wanton whimpers.

“Please,” you sob softly, “please.”

You feel him smirking, a wicked curl against your fluttering cunt. Then he focuses the tip of that awful, dexterous tongue on your clit, flicking in purposeful little strokes.

M-A-

“S-so close,” you whine, hips twitching. He pins you flat, pace never faltering.

V-I-

You shudder as your pussy clenches and spasms, finally, finally—

You wake with a sharp sound, head spinning. Your orgasm washes away like the tide, leaving disappointment and exhaustion behind. You nearly scream into your pillow as you press your thighs together. Still half asleep, it even feels like you have beard-burn.

You’re in line at the mess with Mallory, listening to her complain about some rude colonel that just had to share his opinion about her acrylics. She does the best impressions, and you’re grinning and laughing as the two of you shuffle through the options. You’re reaching for a scoop of rice when the conversation behind you catches your attention.

“—came in a couple days ago.”

“The whole squad?”

“With Braveheart himself.”

A snort. “You better not let MacTavish hear you say that. He’ll—”

“Helloooo?” You blink at Mallory, who arches her brows and waves a bagel at you. “Want one?”

“Oh, uh… sure, why not,” you answer.

“Atta girl!” she cheers, tossing it in the toaster. “Carbs for days.”

You giggle but can’t help glancing behind you. The two men have already moved on though. Not that it was any of your business – or anything interesting. You’re not sure why that caught your attention. Men are just loud, you suppose, snatching a couple to-go packets of cream cheese.

As you’re leaving the mess, you happen to glance over your shoulder. A pair of sharp blue eyes catch yours from one of the tables. A group of men, just about to sit. Mallory tugs your shirt to keep you from clipping the doorjamb and you hurry after her.

There’s heat at your back. Not from a body this time, but a fire burning low and hot in a hearth. No, the body is in front of you this time, filling up your watery field of vision. Peachy skin and coarse dark hair, an old scar slashing across a sharp hip, miles of lean muscle.

Not that you have much opportunity to ogle with tears blurring your sight. The fat cock bullying the back of your throat makes it hard to do anything but choke. You dig your nails into a thick thigh and pull back, writhing your tongue along a puffy vein as you go. The leaking head rests on your drenched tongue as you catch your breath. Smoke and leather and musk saturate your lungs, cloud your empty head.

He smells so good; you don’t even like cigars.

A rough thumb caresses your cheek, a silent request for you to continue. You can practically feel the lust-drunk moans vibrating in his chest – so deep, they’re barely audible over the crackling fire.

You hiccup as deep a breath as you can manage and swallow him down again. He’s silky on your tongue, you sigh softly through your nose as the blunt head flirts with your gag reflex. You slacken your jaw despite the ache already crawling into the joint. Even then, your teeth scrape the base a bit, but that only makes him twitch against your soft palate.

“Look here, love.”

Your lashes flutter as you try to focus your gaze, scrolling your eyes up his body. Most of the details are lost either in the haze of desire or the vagary of dreams, but the blue eyes that greet you are sharper than real life.

You jolt back to consciousness with a dry cough, the scent of him still haunting your senses. You stumble to the restroom for water. Don’t even realize that you’re glancing in the mirror over your shoulder, expecting someone to be there, until you realize you’re alone.

Oddly bereft, you trudge back to bed and try to focus on the clean soap smell of your aunts’ detergent.

In moments like this, it’s hard not to blame yourself.

Not because you’ve done anything wrong, or even feel like you have. It’s because the situation is so frustratingly out of your control that it’s almost easier to tell yourself that one decision or another would have avoided this outcome. A sharper response, a frown instead of a smile, a different walking route.

(There’s also your mother’s voice, always. Saying to be smart, to pay attention, to not “put yourself” in a vulnerable position. You silence that voice viciously this time.)

Still, the fact of the matter is, there’s no personal choice you could have made to keep Corporal Callahan from cornering you in this supply closet. You just wanted a box of tissues.

“Look, I know you’re Agent Laswell’s niece, but I don’t see why we can’t go out because of it,” he reasons. As if that’s the reason you’ve been trying to gently dissuade his attempts.

“It’s not that—” you begin, shifting. He’s standing too close, but you refuse to back yourself any deeper into this tiny space. The doorway is right there, he’s just taking up all of it.

“Then just say yes,” he chuckles. His tone is all smooth and easy, meant to be charming maybe? “Just one date, that’s all I’m asking.”

Except you’re not asking, you think with helpless frustration. The sharp words get trapped behind your teeth, cutting up the roof of your mouth. Your heart is beating so hard and loud you can barely hear his “romantic” overtures.

“I’m not really…” You’re not even sure what to say this time; you’ve already told him you’re not looking to date. He’d said some vaguely predatory line about changing your mind.

In the absence of a finished statement, Callahan takes the opportunity to continue cajoling.

“C’mon,” he sing-songs, “I’m not letting you out of there until you say yes.”

You pry your jaw open, about to agree to it just for the sake of getting free. Deal with the fallout later.

There’s a rush of air and suddenly the doorway is empty. You briefly see Callahan against the opposite wall, face blank in unpleasant surprise. Then a big body blocks your view of him. Broad, bunched shoulders and thick thighs. A shock of brunet hair shaved close at the sides and long at the top. Your entire body locks up.

“You come near her again, they won’ stop findin’ pieces of ya, aye?” A growl, low and rough, Scottish accent thick. You shiver.

Callahan stutters something, a few garbled syllables through a strained and winded voice. You think you might hear “captain” in there somewhere. The bigger man shifts, you hear a muffled thump – Callahan hitting the wall again, you think. Then, with seemingly no effort, your savior tosses Callahan to the side like trash. He stumbles, catches himself.

“Away ‘n bile yer heid.”

Callahan flicks one last frightened glance your way then hurries off, proverbial tail tucked between his scrawny legs. You don’t even watch him go, eyes glued to the stranger’s muscular back. He rolls his wide shoulders, cracks his neck, and finally turns.

Familiar blue eyes pin you in place as he steps closer. The scent of cigar smoke and leather teases your nose.

A voice you’ve known for months rumbles in his chest. “Found you.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #hades and persephone inspired #soulmates #john soap mactavish #captain john mactavish #kate laswell

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loveinhawkins · 3 days

Text

a cherished headcanon I keep coming back to is that Eddie is very much invested in the school basketball team right up until the graduating class of ‘85 leaves. By an incredible series of mental gymnastics, he tries to convince himself that this has nothing to do with Steve Harrington’s presence on the team.

(And maybe Eddie avoiding the championship game of ‘86 in the near future will have more to do with Jason Carver being on the team, but that’s a sadder story for another time.)

The thing Eddie can easily admit he loves about the bigger games is the fleeting anonymity: while he’s got notoriety in Hawkins High, as soon as there’s a rival school involved he can blend into the crowd for a couple hours, lost in the roar of support.

It’s nearing the end of just such a tournament game when the ball accidentally goes flying into the crowd. Eddie’s reflexes kick in and he manages to catch it before it can take out the back row of the marching band.

The clock’s been stopped for a timeout—a kid on the rival team is injured—so more eyes are drawn to Eddie than normal as they find where the ball ended up. He feels acutely like a spotlight’s on him—holds the ball to his chest almost like he’s a part of the game himself.

A whistle cuts across the court. Steve Harrington.

He’s looking right at Eddie, raising his hands for the ball.

He has more than enough time to say something, some jeer that would well and truly break the spell of anonymity. But Eddie knows underneath the knee jerk worry that it’s not Steve’s style; it’s more the kind of thing Billy Hargrove and his ilk would do, and he’d thankfully been benched at halftime.

Eddie inhales then throws the ball, praying that he doesn’t end up smacking Steve in the face.

He doesn’t, thank God; Steve catches the ball smoothly, manages a thumbs up in thanks before the spotlight shifts back onto the game.

Eddie quietly sighs in relief, loses himself in cheering again.

They don’t win, but it’s still a good game. It’s like Eddie’s reasoning for campaigns: not everything needs to be an all-out victory for it to be entertaining.

The parking lot is a nightmare so he contents himself with waiting it out by his van while the worst of the crowds clear. It’s only when he hears a car door opening and closing nearby that he realises Steve is parked right next to him. Of course, of course he—

“Good catch back there, Munson,” Steve says, tossing his gym bag into his car. He notices something on one of the seats—Eddie can’t tell what it is, but he hears Steve mutter under his breath in benign exasperation, something about, “Dickheads, I keep telling them not to…”

“Yeah, thanks. All my years of training finally paid off.”

Steve makes a face at the build up of cars, chatting parents leaning out of their windows. “You could’ve been on the sub-team.”

“Kinda resent that you don’t think I’m star player material, Harrington.”

There’s the beginnings of a grin on Steve’s face. He has no right looking that smug for someone who’s just lost a game, Eddie thinks.

“Dude, I can hear you. You’re loud.”

Eddie wills his face not to flush. “You’ve got no proof.”

“Nah, just firsthand experience.”

“What, do you have ears like a bat?”

“Nope. Don’t need that to pick you out.” Steve chuckles to himself as he gets in the car, sits side-on to face Eddie as he speaks. “You’re worse than Tammy Thompson’s singing.”

“Uncalled for,” Eddie says, firmly locking away the part of his brain that’s screaming in embarrassment, because if he’s unable to fire off a comeback, he’ll actually never recover; he might as well go and tell Higgins that next year is already a wash, because he has to go and live in the woods—

“Hey, c’mon Munson, I didn’t say it was bad.”

“You implied it,” Eddie says, totally overselling the entire thing, like he’s been greviously wounded.

It works; Steve laughs, shakes his head.

“I didn’t,” he insists as he reverses out of his space. “I just meant it’s… distinctive.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

“That’s your whole shtick, man, don’t act like that wasn’t a compliment.”

“Sure. Eddie ‘Distinctive’ Munson, that’s me.”

And post-game sentiment must be in the air, because as Steve leaves the parking lot, he calls out the car window, bright and teasing, “Hey, maybe I’ll miss the cheering!”

But Eddie can’t be sure. Unlike Steve, he might be mishearing things.

#what if we noticed each other in high school but pretended not to and nothing mattered but also everything kinda did ❤️#pre steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie

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lemonlover1110 · 2 days

Note

can we get Toji reacting to reader's pregnancy

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Warnings: Pure Fluff

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Ever since finding out that you’re eating for two, you’ve found yourself distressed. Not because this isn’t something that you were planning– Well partially because of that, but mainly because you don’t know what your boyfriend thinks of having more kids. You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re expecting.

You don’t know how you’ve never had this conversation before, especially since you’ve started to talk about getting married. You know that he has a teenager, and probably he’s done with that part of his life. You also know that you’d be delighted to have kids, but if Toji wouldn’t want to have a child, you’re okay with that too. Your pregnancy changes everything though.

“Aren’t you two here early?” You ask, staring at the front door as Megumi and Toji walk in. Toji has a frown in his face while Megumi walks ahead, not a care in the world. You notice a stain on his school uniform and you tell him, “Put it in the washer, I’ll take care of it, Megs.”

“No, he can deal with the consequences of his actions in his little vacation.” Toji quickly speaks up, making you cock an eyebrow. You look back and forth between Toji and Megumi, hoping someone is going to fill you in. “Go to your room, Megumi. I can’t stand to look at your face anymore.”

“What happened?” You direct your attention to your husband since Megumi listens to his father and goes to his room. Toji sighs, walking over to you and pressing a kiss on your forehead. “Don’t tell me he–”

“Got into a fight. Got called in the middle of work to deal with his ass– Hey, at least he won.” Toji can’t help but chuckle because even though he’s mad, part of him still feels oddly proud. His kid is somewhat of a troublemaker, but hey, at least the kid can fight. He says something that makes the thoughts of worry that you pushed to the back of your mind, come back and even stronger. “Just glad I don’t have to deal with this much longer.”

“Right.” You awkwardly laugh. You follow Toji to your living room, and take a seat beside him on your couch. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, you do this all the time, but Toji immediately knows that something is off. Your face wastes no time in telling on you.

“You okay? You look a little off.” Toji comments, throwing his arm over you and bringing you closer to him. You’re a little far today when you’re usually all over him. The man loves his personal space, but not when it comes to you.

“Weird day… Weird week.” You mutter the last part, but Toji hears it loud and clear. He kisses the top of your head before asking,

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” He proceeds to kiss the top of your head, and you bite down your lip. You have to tell him eventually, and you know that maybe this isn’t the right time to tell him, but he senses something is up.

“What do you think about having kids with me?” You speak a little fast, and if he wasn’t listening closely, he would have to ask you to repeat yourself. Toji takes a moment to think about it, acting perplexed. His silence is killing you and just when you’re about to repeat the question, he speaks up.

“Is this about the pregnancy test I found in the bathroom?” Toji mentions, and your eyes go wide. He’s known? He’s known all this time? He ends up kissing the tip of your nose before pecking your lips, “I’m happy with anything as long as I get to do it with you.”

“What about the comment that you made–” You begin and he interrupts you.

“Was about Megumi, I’m making sure this one isn’t a troublemaker.” Toji clarifies as his hand goes to your lower abdomen. “I’m excited about this. I was wondering how long it’d take you to share.”

“Next time, speak up, I was scaring myself to death.” You lightly slap his chest, and he chuckles. You’re glaring at him, while he smirks at you. “You’re in so much trouble right now. Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

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pynkfairyheart · 3 days

Text

pairings: peircer eren x black reader

warnings: smut 18+, kinda pervy eren

Good girl

“Hello?” Your soft voice rang over the chimes as you entered the tattoo parlor.

The shop was quiet, seemingly empty besides the softening chimes of the door and surprised cursing down the long hall.

“Shit- yeah. Just give me a minute. My apologies” The culprit of the cursing called.

In the meantime, you took a look around the lobby. The reviews didn't do the place justice. The largest wall contained a bright colorful mural, contrasting beautifully with the dark floors and connected black walls.

While admiring the piece of artwork, heavy thudding from the long hallway turned your attention to the most gorgeous man you had ever seen.

You never believed in love at first sight, up until now. You hadn't even known the man's name yet, but you craved him. The reviews warned you the entire staff was attractive but they clearly left out that this man was a god.

His long hair was pulled into a low bun, strands falling in his face, the color contrasting against his pale skin. He was tall, with a full sleeve on one of his muscular arms, and his green eyes had you drowning immediately. He couldn't be Onyankopon, they said he was a brother. Maybe Connie or, Levi-

“Hi, I'm Eren” He introduced himself after swallowing the large knot in his throat.

While in your own trance, you failed to notice how he froze the moment he saw you. The bright light you stood under showcased the sparkles of your pretty brown skin.

Your legs were on display as a result of the simmering heat outside, thick thighs causing them to roll up slightly. The fitted t-shirt you wore allowed the hardened buds of your nipples to peek through, despite the hot weather.

Eren never considered himself a pervert but the way his mind instantly thought about sucking on them till you begged him to fuck you had him thinking otherwise.

“Hi, I'm [☆]. Is this a bad time?” Oh, he could have come on the spot, your voice sounded even better without the numerous walls separating you and god your perfume had him wanting to devour you on the reception desk.

“No, no I just don't know how much I can do for you, the AC is out in all the rooms but mine and I don't even know how long that's gonna last so if you're looking for an hour long tat session you'll have to come back” He crossed his arms, muscles contracting against the white tee.

“Oh no, I'm just hoping to get a few piercings but I can definitely come back another time”

“No, I can do a couple of piercings. What were you thinking?” He grabbed the paperwork from under the counter, praying one of them would be your chest.

“Uh well, I want the other side of my nose, belly button, venus dimples, and my nipples but I understand if you can't do all of that or the last one I'll just come back”

“No, no I can do it,” He said too quickly, clearing his throat awkwardly before handing you the paperwork.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

“Good girl. You're doing such a good job for me, pretty. Just hold on for one second, lovey”

He was currently doing your last dimple piercing. The pain was unimaginable at first but as soon as the praises left his mouth all was forgotten besides the growing stickiness that rested between your thighs.

He praised you after every piercing a variation of “Good girl” “You're doing such a good job for me” “That's it, baby. You did so good” flowed from his pink lips. You could never decide which throbbing to focus on, the one from your new piercing or the throbbing of your clit.

With three new holes in your body and damp panties, it was now time for the piercing both of you were dreading yet excited for.

“Do I just take my shirt off here?”

“Wherever you're comfortable, baby. You can go in the bathroom or stay in here and I'll give you some privacy” He felt like a teenage boy again. His dick twitching at the thought of seeing you exposed.

“No, it's okay you can stay in here I don't mind”

“Oh. Okay,” He perked up. Giving you some privacy he turned his back, pretending to be busy when in reality he was trying to think of anything but you getting undressed behind him. Despite his concentration, all he could focus on was the sound of your necklaces and bracelets clanking at the movements you made.

He knew your nipples were still hard, especially since he took advantage of the working AC and he wondered what your moans would sound like if he flicked his tounge repeatedly over the bud, or if he pinched them in front of the mirror while you begged him to fuck you as you pressed your ass against his hard-

“I'm ready” Your soft voice broke him from his thoughts.

If his self control was any less he'd have gotten on his knees to worship you. There you were. Looking everywhere but him, tits exposed. If it weren’t for the fact other men besides him would see, he'd tattoo this image of you on his bare forearm.

“Are you ready?” He suppressed a groan.

“Mhm”

“Okay stand up for me” He led you to the mirror where he prepped each bud. During the process, you felt as if you could crawl into yourself. The most beautiful man you'd ever laid eyes on had his hands on your breast. Despite the occasion being nonsexual, you were convinced your arousal would start running down your thigh at any second.

“Is this okay?” He stood behind you.

You gave a simple hum of approval, thoughts gone as he explained how the process would go. You convinced yourself you could handle it, that it would all be over soon.

That was until he rolled the bud in between his fingers, the whimper you'd been holding escaping you.

‘fuck’ ‘fuck’

“Shit, I'm so sorry I- I didn't mean to do that, please understand I had no malicious intentions I just” He stumbled over his words.

He was just explaining the step by step process of the piercing. He wasn't thinking, just craving. He wouldn't have realized his actions if it weren't for the sound you let out. The sound he knew he'd replay in his head the moment you left the shop, stroking his cock as he imagined it were you down on your knees in front of him.

“It's okay” You reassured him. Your big eyes staring up into his through the mirror.

“I didn't…I don't mind”

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Before you knew it you were bouncing on his cock. His moans muffled as his mouth engulfed your breast. Tongue slightly grazing your nipple with the flickers of his tongue before sucking harshly.

He was stretching you out so good, leaky red tip repeatedly hitting your cervix as his frenum piercing brushed against your walls. The added pleasure contributing to the pace of your bounces as you chased your high.

“E-eren please” You whined, attempting to push his head away from the assault on your breast. His hair was everywhere, the ponytail holder long gone the moment your hands entangled in his hair. Your buds were so sensitive, every suck and swipe of his tongue had you squeezing around him, every clench releasing your cream that pooled at the base of his cock.

“Fuck” He groaned, reluctantly giving your boobs a break. His hands gripped the soft flesh of your ass, groping the brown skin before placing a hard slap on your cheek.

“Talk to me, pretty. You like this? Like bouncing on daddy's cock hmm?” His arms wrapped around you tightly as he fucked up into you.

“Oh my- fuck” You gave him control. Your head resting on his shoulder as you let out pornographic moans into his ear.

“Answer me, mama” Another slap landed on your ass.

Before you had time to register the mix of pain and pleasure on your flesh, the gentle pressure of his finger rubbing circles on your puckering hole had you seeing stars.

“Fuck y-yes. I love it so much, daddy. Please don't stop” You whined. Tears of pleasure wetting the crook of his neck.

By no means was Eren a fast finisher but boy was he trying his best to hold on, you're pussy was just squeezing him so tight, the added tension on his scalp as you tugged on it every time he hit the spongy spot along your walls had his nails digging crescents into your skin.

“I'm so close, daddy, please”

“Let go mama” He pressed hot kisses along your neck and shoulder.

In that moment you came, your pussy tightening around the large girth of his cock. Clear liquid squirting from you in streams as he continued his thrust. Your arousal splashing and dripping onto the chair.

With sweat dripping down his forehead, and stray hairs sticking to him, his thrust became sloppy and his breathing became heavier.

“S-shit” He whimpered, head thrown back as he came harder than ever. Repeatedly pushing his load back into your pussy.

“Lemme take you on a date. Please” He panted once you both came down, his hands roaming your body as he looked down at you, green irises peeking out behind his blown pupils.

“Okay, yea- oh” A broken moan escaped you as he moved your hips up and down his length once again.

“Eren” You whined

“Don't tell me you're wiped out after one round, pretty girl. I know you have more in you, mama. Be a good girl for daddy”

for my eren girlies. this is probably the fastest I've ever wrote bc i just needed peircer eren. oh also how do yall feel about pegging bc i feel peircer eren can be a bit subby sometimes ttm. mwah <3

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auggieblogs · 23 hours

Text

freckle kisses ֶָ֢ | MV1

Max Verstappen x fem! reader

Author's note: Hello, lovelies!!! I hope everyone is doing good. This fic has been in my drafts for a while now and I finally had the motivation to edit it today. The Max brainrot is very real, I cannot stop thinking about his little freckle right above his lips. He is so beautiful🥹. Anyways, I hope you all like this piece. Happy reading<3

ALSO fun fact, I have a freckle that's right below my lower lip jshshdjdhs I don't know I think it's a sign!!! (im delusional)

―୨୧⋆ ˚masterlist

Max was used to the routine. Before the haze of sleep fully left him every morning, he would feel the soft, warm press of her lips against the tiny freckle above his upper lip. It was her unique ritual, a habit she had never skipped, and he had come to adore.

As the sun streamed through the blinds of their bedroom, she stirred beside him, her eyes fluttering open. Without missing a beat, she leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on his freckle. Max smiled, his heart swelling with love.

"Morning, love," he murmured, his voice still heavy with sleep.

"Morning, Maxie," she replied, her voice light and cheerful.

Every day followed this pattern. Whether Max was leaving for a race, taking a break between practice sessions, or they were about to make love, her lips always found that freckle. It was her little act of love, and Max never questioned it. He cherished it

One lazy Sunday afternoon, they were lounging in their living room, a movie playing in the background. She lay on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. Max absentmindedly played with her hair, occasionally pressing soft kisses to her forehead. She sighed contentedly, snuggling closer.

Max felt her shift slightly, and there it was again. Her lips met his freckle in a gentle kiss before trailing a line of kisses up to his lips. "I love you," she mumbled softly against his skin.

"I love you too," Max replied, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

He paused momentarily, a curious look crossing his face, "Why do you always kiss my freckle?"

She looked up at him with a shy smile, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. "It's silly," she said.

Max tilted her chin up gently, his eyes searching hers. "It’s not stupid if it’s something you do," he said softly. "Tell me, please."

She took a deep breath before explaining, "Well, my mom used to tell me that freckles or moles are spots where lovers used to kiss you in past lives. She said they’re like beauty marks, little reminders of love."

Max's expression softened, a tender smile spreading across his face. "That's beautiful," he said, his voice filled with genuine emotion.

She laughed softly, the sound like music to his ears. "I told you it was silly."

"It's not silly," Max replied, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles gently, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's one of the sweetest things I've ever heard. And I love you for it."

Her heart swelled with love as she looked at him, feeling incredibly lucky to have someone like Max in her life. "I love you too," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight. They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, the movie long forgotten.

Max chuckled softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "So, every time you kiss that freckle, it’s like you’re saying hello to my past lovers?" he teased.

She laughed, playfully swatting his chest. "Or maybe it’s just my way of marking my territory," she quipped back.

Max laughed, the sound rich and joyful. "Well, consider it marked," he said, leaning down to capture her lips in a loving kiss.

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cloudcountry · 2 days

Note

Could I request how would Cater, Jamil, Rook and Idia react to their (s/o)’s overblot? :0

SUMMARY: your significant other, who has been part of an overblot before, has to witness you going through the exact same thing.

COMMENTS: hi so im experimenting with yuu overblotting and so. you and grim are fusing because i said so.

yk after writing this i realize i was absolutely inspired by delicious in dungeon. if you get it you get it.

You’ll have to forgive Cater if he blurts out some stupid slang or a joke as he watches ink consume your body—as he watches you fuse with Grim. The result is a terrifying monster, blue flames shooting out of your very human face, ink pouring out of your eyes and mouth and nose as Grim's claws grow sharper and his legs grow longer.

He’s vaguely aware of Trey trying to get him out of there and Riddle throwing himself into a fight to attempt to disarm you and Grim—whatever you have become. Cater isn’t even sure if you’re separate anymore, but he hears your screams and the echoing growls of Grim, and the blue flames are searing his skin but he isn’t budging.

He shoves Trey off of him and goes running towards you, heart pounding in his chest. He has to save you. He has to help you. His signature spell is activating and he doesn’t even know he’s doing it—he just knows he has to get you back, one way or another.

Jamil knows what’s happening before anybody else. He can see the frustration at being treated the way you are, and he sees the way your hands shake. He tries to reach out but it’s not enough, and maybe it never would have been because he’s too late, and the air is hot with anger and longing for a home neither you nor Grim had.

You become one. He sees it and he can do nothing but watch as you sprout hairy arms and legs, claws tearing through your skin as blue flames shoot out from you. Ink spurts from your eyes and mouth, pouring onto the floor as you howl and wail. He can hear the echoing, pitched remnants of Grim in your voice as you charge, heading straight for the students. Jamil whips out his pen, pointing it in front of him and casting a barrier.

He needs to get everyone else out of here. He can’t be the one to fight you—he can’t do that to you. His ears are ringing and only now is he aware of Kalim rapid firing questions at him but he doesn’t have the time, he grabs Kalim and yells at him to leave, to get the Headmage, to get you help. You can’t die on him. You just can’t.

Rook thinks you’re beautiful. He always will, no matter what state you may find yourself in, no matter what form you may take. That’s part of the reason he stands there in awe, watching as you transform in front of his very eyes. Tears are rolling down his face as you scream out in pain, and his body reacts by running to you but someone is holding him back, his sobs mixing with you and Grim’s howls as you merge in a tornado of inky blackness.

People are screaming, someone is yelling that he needs to get out of there, he falls to his knees as your form—no, the form you’ve taken, writhes and screeches on the ground. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, it sounds like nightmares, it sounds like pain and suffering and like nothing will ever be okay—

Two backs appear in his vision, a perfectly manicured hand shielding his vision from the sight. Rook looks up, eyes locking with Vil’s. Epel is beside him, pen at the ready. “Can you stand?” Vil asks, and anyone else wouldn’t be able to hear the tenderness in his voice. Rook takes his hand and stands, breathing shakily as he stares at your form, vision blurry but locked onto you—he’s going to save you, no matter what.

Idia’s hands are shaking as you scream. He needs to go to you, to make sure you’re okay but he’s petrified, feet tripping over nothing as he stumbles to your side. He reaches out for you but you shove him away, a sharp NO ripped from your throat. Idia swallows his tears as he whips out his tablet, sending an SOS message to STYX as a familiar black ink splatters to the ground at his feet.

You tried to protect him. It makes him feel so worthless but he gets through it, knowing this must have been how you felt when he overblotted. Why can’t he do anything right? He went through the same thing and he can’t do anything to help you. Isn’t this his family’s business? He should know what to do by now!

He doesn’t leave from that spot, even when people are screaming at him to evacuate, even when STYX arrives to take you away, even when Ortho explains the situation to them because Idia can’t talk. The only thing he manages to say, with eyes glued to the malformed shape you’ve taken, is that he demands to be taken back with you to his home so he can oversee your treatment. He needs you to be better. He doesn’t know what he’d do otherwise.

#auburn's fics <3 #twst #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland #cater diamond #jamil viper #rook hunt #idia shroud #cater diamond x reader #jamil viper x reader #idia shroud x reader #cater diamond angst #jamil viper angst #rook hunt angst #idia shroud angst #twst angst #twisted wonderland angst

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elia-the-bibliophile · 1 day

Note

Hey I have this Charles x reader request in mind where they're in a backstreet relationship and someone is being rude to her while she's in Monaco? the rest of how the story goes is up to you:)

Protective Boyfriend Mode (Charles Leclerc x Female Reader)

Genre: Fluff Word count : 2,8k

Dating Charles Leclerc in secret has its perks.

For starters, Y/N doesn’t have to dodge the metaphorical tomatoes hurled by the public just yet. The judgment, the microscopic scrutiny, and the sky-high expectations that come with being a WAG? She’s more than happy to keep those at bay for now.

Y/N doesn’t mind that the world has no clue she's dating Charles. What really counts is how he treats her when they’re away from prying eyes. Who needs the world to know when she gets the best version of him, away from the cameras and the chaos?

His family, of course, is in on the secret and backs her decision to stay incognito. Honestly, Y/N doesn’t need the publicity circus that would erupt if they went public. She enjoys her peaceful, average life, free from paparazzi ambushes and social media execution.

Sometimes, Y/N can’t help but indulge in a little harmless online stalking of Charles’ exes—Giada Gianni, Charlotte Siné, Alexandra Saint-Mleux. These women look like they’ve stepped straight out of a magazine cover, and she has zero shame in admitting it. Envy is one of the seven deadly sins for a reason, and let’s face it, she’s only human.

What really gets her is trying to figure out why on earth Charles latched onto her after dating these goddesses. It’s like he stepped out of a sleek Ferrari and decided to cruise around on a humble bicycle.

She swings between feeling like the luckiest girl alive and wondering if he might need a stronger prescription for his glasses. The whole situation leaves her scratching her head and laughing at the absurdity of it all.

────────────────────────────────────

Today, everything grated on her nerves. Her hair looks like it could fry chips. Her skin is dull enough to blend into the wallpaper. The toaster has chosen today of all days to go on strike. To top it off, her co-workers keep bombarding her with Teams calls without even checking if she’s available. If she could rate this day, it would get a solid 0 out of 10.

“Can this day get any worse?” she mutters to herself, glancing at her reflection. “Y/N, you’re one bad hair day away from looking like Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Her laptop buzzes with another Teams call. She groans and answers, forcing a smile. “Hi, Harvey. Can I help you?”

“Hey, Y/N! Quick question—”

“Harvey, quick question for you: Did you check if I’m available?”

“Uh, no?”

“Exactly, so please, next time, do me a solid and check if I'm available before hitting that call button, okay?”

Just then, her phone buzzes with a text from Charles.

“Hope your day’s going better than mine! My helmet decided to play hide and seek.”

She snickers and types back.

“At least your helmet’s hiding. The toaster just gave up on life.”

“I'm really sorry about your day, ma chérie. But I promise to make it better. I'll swing by your favorite bakery and bring back a ridiculous amount of cakes just for you.”

That earned a smile out of her. Trust Charles to know exactly what she needs.

As Y/N tries to shake off the day's frustrations, she decides to distract herself by scrolling through Instagram. Among the posts, one catches her eye—a recent upload from Jasmine Tookes, her celebrity crush since forever. Jasmine looks stunning, as always, flaunting a gorgeous Yves Saint Laurent bag in cherry red that's absolutely to die for.

Y/N can practically feel the allure of the bag through the screen, and an idea sparks in her mind. The YSL boutique is just a short walk away.

“Maybe a little retail therapy is just what I need to salvage this day,” she muses aloud.

Without giving it a second thought, she grabs her purse and heads out the door.

────────────────────────────────────

As Y/N steps into the YSL boutique, she's greeted by the scent of a distinct perfume mingled with a hint of leather. The store is relatively empty, save for a few tourists browsing the shelves. Undeterred, Y/N scans the display case, her eyes searching for that coveted cherry-red bag she spotted on Jasmine Tookes' Instagram.

From her peripheral vision, she notices a couple of sales assistants giving her a once-over, but no one approaches her. She shrugs it off, relishing the freedom to browse at her own pace. Finally, she spots the bag she's been dreaming of and makes her way over to it.

“Excuse me,” she calls out to one of the nearby sales assistants politely. “Could you tell me about the stock availability and the price of this bag?”

The sales assistant approaches, but when she begins speaking in French, Y/N's heart sinks. She's not fluent in French, and she quickly apologizes, asking if they could switch to English instead.

There's a momentary hesitation from the sales assistant, who seems to be holding back an eye-roll, before reluctantly switching to English. The demeanor, however, turns chilly, and Y/N can't shake the feeling of being judged.

“I'm sorry, but that particular item is not available,” the sales assistant replies curtly, her tone dripping with condescension. “Perhaps you should try checking other stores that may be more suited to your purchasing ability.”

Y/N's cheeks flush with frustration, her jaw clenching as she tries to maintain her composure. She can't believe she's being treated this way in a store she loves. Taking a deep breath, she forces a polite smile, trying not to cause a scene.

“Excuse me,” she says as politely as she can muster, her voice trembling slightly. “May I ask what made you say that to me?”

The sales assistant's gaze hardens, her tone dripping with disdain. “Maybe you should look into a mirror and see your own appearance today.”

Y/N's eyes widen in disbelief. So what if she's just dressed in a plain t-shirt and linen pants? Is minimalism suddenly not cool anymore?

Y/N retorts, her voice edged with disbelief. “Are you seriously judging me based on how I look? Last time I checked, being a customer wasn't contingent on wearing a designer outfit.”

As she speaks, Y/N notices some discreetly filming tourists nearby, their expressions mirroring her shock and disbelief. She feels a surge of vindication knowing she's not the only one appalled by the sales assistant's behavior.

Y/N's fists clench tighter at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she struggles to contain her rising anger. The sales assistant's dismissive wave and condescending tone only serve to fuel the fire burning within her.

“Madame, this is a respected establishment,” the SA says, her voice dripping with thinly veiled contempt. “Please take your leave.”

Y/N's jaw tightens, her frustration reaching its peak. She opens her mouth to retort, to unleash the torrent of words building up inside her, but then she stops. What's the point? Arguing with someone who clearly lacks any sense of professionalism would only waste her energy.

With a deep breath to steady herself, Y/N turns on her heel and strides out of the store, her head held high despite the humiliation burning in her chest. She refuses to let this one encounter ruin her day, but she also knows she won't be returning to that boutique anytime soon.

────────────────────────────────────

By the time Charles arrived home, juggling two bulging shopping bags filled with an assortment of delectable cakes, he could practically taste the sour mood emanating from Y/N. Despite her attempts to shrug off whatever had bothered her, Charles refused to let it slide.

He set the bags down on the kitchen counter with a soft thud, his brow furrowed in concern as he approached Y/N. “Hey, bébé , what's wrong?” he asked gently, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

Y/N forced a tight smile, trying to brush off his concern. “Oh, it's nothing, Charles. Just a little hiccup. Not worth your energy, really.”

But Charles wasn't about to let it go that easily. He could sense her distress, and he wasn't one to stand idly by when someone he cared about was upset.

Before he could press further, Charles' phone rang, signaling an incoming text message. His eyebrows shot up in surprise as he glanced at the screen, seeing the name Lorenzo flashing across it. The text sounded urgent, almost concerned, and Charles felt a knot form in his stomach as he read the words: “You need to see this.”

Curiosity mingled with dread as Charles opened the message, his heart sinking as he watched the video attached to it. There, playing out on his phone screen, was footage taken by a tourist earlier at the YSL store. His jaw clenched in anger as he watched Y/N being treated with such disrespect, her humiliation on full display for the world to see.

He curses under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides as he paces back and forth in the living room. His mind racing with thoughts of how to address the situation.

Charles then gently takes Y/N's hands in his own, his expression softening with concern as he looks into her eyes. “Why didn't you tell me about this right away?”

Y/N's smile falters slightly, and he can see the sadness lurking behind her eyes, but she quickly masks it with a playful tone. “Ah, you know me, always trying to avoid unnecessary drama,” she says, attempting to brush off the seriousness of the situation. “Besides, sometimes people are just assholes, right?”

Her attempt at humor falls a bit flat, and Charles can't help but feel a pang of guilt for not being there to protect her. He squeezes her hands gently, his voice filled with determination. “You shouldn't have to deal with this alone, Y/N. I'm here for you.”

Y/N gives him a small, grateful smile, but he can tell she's still trying to downplay the situation. “Hey,” she says, her tone lightening, “at least people will think it's just a video of some random person being treated badly in a luxury brand store. They won't know it's Charles Leclerc's girlfriend, right? So, let's just let it go and move on.”

She tries to lighten the mood with a joke, but Charles can sense the underlying tension beneath her words. He knows she's just trying to protect him from the inevitable media storm that would follow if the video gained more traction.

But Charles can't shake the feeling of anger and frustration bubbling inside him. He wants to defend her honor, to make sure she never has to endure such treatment again.

Reluctantly, he nods, forcing a small smile of his own. “Okay chérie. Let's just focus on enjoying these cakes, shall we?”

────────────────────────────────────

The very next day, unbeknownst to Y/N, Charles decides to pay a visit to the YSL store. With a determined look in his eyes, he discreetly asks for the service of the sales assistant who humiliated Y/N.

Colette, the SA in question, practically beams with excitement and arrogance when she learns that Charles Leclerc has requested her personally. Straightening her posture, she approaches him with an air of self-importance.

“How may I be of service, Monsieur Leclerc?” Colette asks, her tone laced with enthusiasm.

Pathetic. Charles thought to himself.

He adopts a casual demeanor, pretending to browse the store as if looking for a gift for his girlfriend. “I'm looking for something special for my girlfriend,” he says casually, noting the way Colette's eyes light up at the mention of his romantic status.

Colette tries to contain her excitement, feigning nonchalance as she responds, “Oh, I wasn't aware you had a new girlfriend since your breakup with Alexandra Saint-Mleux. She is also a regular customer here.”

Charles decides to play along, a dangerous glint in his eye as he says, “Yes, my current girlfriend is a very private person. She prefers to stay out of the spotlight.”

Curiosity getting the better of her, Colette can't help but ask, “May I see a picture of her? Just in case she happens to come by, I'd love to be able to assist her.”

Charles smirks inwardly, knowing this is his moment to turn the tables. “Sure, why not?” he replies, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his gallery.

As he shows Colette a picture of himself and Y/N together, he watches with satisfaction as the color drains from her face, her eyes widening in shock and recognition.

Colette's apologies pour out in a torrent, her voice trembling as she stammers out excuses. “I-I had no idea, Monsieur Leclerc! If I had known, I would never have acted that way. Please, forgive me!”

Charles maintains a cool and collected demeanor, but his words are razor-sharp as he addresses Colette. “Your behavior reflects poorly on the brand,” he says icily, his tone dripping with disdain. “Perhaps they should consider terminating your employment for such unprofessional conduct.”

Charles's threat hangs in the air like a storm cloud, and Colette's eyes widen in alarm as she realizes the gravity of her mistake. She scrambles to salvage the situation. “Monsieur Leclerc, please, I assure you, this is not how we typically treat our customers. I'm deeply sorry for any inconvenience I've caused.”

But Charles remains unmoved, his defensive stance unwavering as he delivers his next line with a sharp edge. “I suggest you think twice before treating customers so disrespectfully in the future,” he says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Colette can only nod, her eyes downcast in shame as she mumbles yet another apology.

Seeing the tension escalate, the store manager, who has been discreetly observing the commotion, rushes over to where they are. He offers his own profuse apologies, his tone filled with urgency. “Monsieur Leclerc, I am terribly sorry for the behavior of my staff. This is unacceptable, and I assure you, Colette will be disciplined for her actions.”

Charles raises an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “Disciplined, you say? Well, I suppose that's a start. But perhaps I should take my business elsewhere, like Dior or Chanel.”

The store manager's eyes widen in alarm at the suggestion of losing such a high-profile customer. “No, Monsieur Leclerc, please, we value your patronage! I assure you, this will not happen again. Please, allow us to make it right.”

Charles offers a tight-lipped smile. “I appreciate your swift action, but I do hope this serves as a lesson for your staff moving forward.”

He then gestures towards the display. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to purchase the bag my girlfriend had her eye on.”

The store manager nods hurriedly, signaling to a nearby assistant to fetch the bag. As they scurry to fulfill Charles' request, the manager returns with a bouquet of peonies wrapped elegantly.

“Please accept these peonies as a gesture of our sincere apology,” the manager says, offering the flowers to Charles. “We hope this helps to make amends for the madame.”

Charles accepts the bouquet with a nod. “Thank you,” he says, his tone clipped. “I'm sure my girlfriend will appreciate the thoughtfulness. She's far more forgiving than I am, fortunately for you.”

────────────────────────────────────

Y/N is furiously typing away on her laptop when the front door swings open. She squints at the figure entering the room, only to catches sight of her boyfriend holding something suspiciously behind his back.

“Baby, what are you up to now?” she teases, a grin spreading across her face.

He feigns innocence. “Oh, just a little surprise for my favorite woman.”

Y/N's eyes sparkle with anticipation as she eagerly stands up, her curiosity piqued. “Oh, do tell!”

In a dramatic motion, Charles presents her with the unmistakable YSL bag. Y/N's jaw practically hits the floor as she exclaims, “Oh, no, you didn't!”

Charles chuckles, unable to contain his amusement. “Oh yes, I did, chérie. And just wait until you see what's inside!”

Excitedly, Y/N opens the bag, her eyes widening in awe as she pulls out the coveted item. She tries it on with exaggerated walk, striking poses as if she's on a runaway.

Charles watches her with a mixture of adoration and amusement, his heart swelling with love for this wonderful person.

But then, amidst her excitement, Y/N's expression turns serious as she asks about the sales assistant.

Charles adopts a mock serious tone, his eyebrows shooting up in faux concern. “Well you know, she's just taking a little timeout to contemplate the error of her ways.” he replies, his gaze flickering with a hint of satisfaction.

Y/N's eyes widen in surprise, but before she can inquire further, Charles pulls her into a warm embrace, his arms wrapping around her tightly.

“And also,” Charles adds, “they threw in some peonies.”

“Peonies? Are they trying to bribe me with flowers now?”

Charles chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, considering the ordeal you went through, I'd say they owe you a bouquet or two.”

Y/N playfully rolls her eyes. “I hope they at least remembered to include a card with a heartfelt apology from the SA.”

Charles raises an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “You mean the 'Sorry we were jerks, here are some flowers' card?”

They both dissolve into laughter, the absurdity of the situation not lost on them. It's moments like these that make even the most frustrating experiences worth it.

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rafecameroninterlude · 3 days

Note

rafe + gun play 🫠

warnings: dealer!rafe, bratty!reader, gunplay, a little self discovery lol

“will you put that down already? jesus, you’re going to kill somebody.” rafe took the loaded gun out of your hand, his tall figure towering over your own. you two had been stuck here at barry’s dingy trailer for about an hour already, rafe’s business partner leaving your boyfriend in charge of looking after his shit while he ran a few errands. “i’m bored! what are we supposed to do here, ray?” you followed rafe back inside, plopping down on the couch with a sigh.

“just sit and look pretty. barry should be here soon.” he emptied the chamber of the gun, placing it on the kitchen counter. “but i’ve been doing that!” rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, “y/n..” his tone was firm, a warning for you to stop giving him a hard time. ultimately surrendering, you fiddled with a loose thread on the hem of your denim skirt. you two sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes until rafe joined you on the couch.

“what’s your sudden interest in my gun about? i thought you hated that thing.” he draped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side. you smiled, knowing he was warming up to you because he felt bad for getting stern with you earlier. “i did.. but i saw you use it the other day and i wanted to see how it would feel in my hands.” your hand was under his shirt, fingertips tracing shapes into the soft skin of his abdomen. “and what did you think?” he hummed.

“well, i don’t know. somebody took it away from me before i could figure out how i felt about it.” rafe shook his head, retrieving the gun before cautiously handing it over to you. running the pads of your fingers across the cold metal, you shivered slightly when your mind went back to the cracking noise it made when you first saw rafe fire it. “so?” he leaned in, the stark contrast between your pink manicured nails, and the black color of steel, making a humored smile form on his lips.

“it’s heavy..” you held it up, with rafe’s assistance of course. “it’s heavier when there’s ammunition in it.” he placed his hand over yours, making you grip the handle. “ammunition?” your eyebrows knitted in confusion. “bullets, babe.” you giggled, “oh, right.” rafe pressed a kiss to your temple before bringing you up to your feet. “you see that beer can on the table? aim at it.” you tried to ignore the way the buckle of his belt pressed against your ass, a shaky breath leaving your lips once you had the gun pointed at your target.

“pull the trigger.” your heart was beating in your ears as you slowly pulled, flinching once you heard the hollow click of the barrel. “see? it’s easy.” you sighed in relief, jumping excitedly as rafe laughed along with you. “can we load it now?” rafe stopped abruptly, clearing his throat. “no.” he reached for the gun, making you move away before he had the chance to take it again. “give it, it’s not a toy-” he froze when you pointed it at him. even though there was nothing inside the damned thing, the sight of you smiling with a weapon in your hand was unsettling… and kind of sexy?

“aw, are you scared ray?” you pushed the metal into his chest, “sit down.” rafe did as he was told, holding his hands up defensively as he settled into the couch cushions beneath him. you couldn’t help the satisfied feeling that pooled in your belly from having your usually dominant boyfriend now bending at your will. “take your shirt off.” the corner of rafe’s lips lifted in a smirk. surprisingly for him, he was enjoying every second of you thinking you had the one up on him.

he slipped the garment off, your eyes traveling down his torso. god, your boyfriend was glorious. rafe leaned back, manspreading as you stood between his thighs. “what do you think you’re gonna do with that?” you shrugged at his words, trailing the gun up his thigh “i don’t know.. maybe make you take your pants off next.” your next move was a bold one, but it riled up rafe in the best way possible. with the firearm now pressed against his erection, he was practically buzzing with the need to flip the script on you.

as if on cue, you heard the motor of a dirt bike riding up the dirt path to the trailer. rafe took your moment of distraction as a chance to grab the gun out of your grasp, which was deemed successful when he pulled you down onto his lap, the steel now digging into the skin of your thigh. “thought you were tough shit, huh?” you whimpered at the slightly painful sensation, his arm draped over your chest, holding you in place.

“no!” you squeaked, a shiver running down your spine as he trailed the gun between your legs, briefly touching your clothed cunt before bringing it up to your chest. “still think we should load it now?” rafe teased. you shook your head, confused as to why you felt horny with a gun pointed to your cheek. just as you grinded yourself against his hardened cock, barry walked in with a duffle bag. “what are y’all freaks getting into now?”

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dumbbitchgalore · 2 days

Text

tf141 hanging out together and finding out that old man!Price has a girlfriend 💫

The crowded pub bustles with the commontion of drunkards of varying degrees. Some slightly tipsy while others have decided to forgo their pants in the name of the King.

And then there's a group of men occupying a table at the corner of the pub. Simon with his balaclava on, Kyle with a cigarette between his fingers savouring the arcid flavour and Johnny ogling some girls on the other side of the pub.

All that was left was John, who makes his way to the table with four pints of beer. He sits down at the table with a grunt as he passes each on of the boys a glass. They all start chatting and catching up about everything's thats happened after Price's retirement.

Johnny begins to bitch and whine about the new captain saying how uptight he was critising everything the squad does that John would've probably turned a blind eye to.

John chuckles slightly, listening to them all talk about what's is going on with the taskforce. Despite the smile on his face, there is a bitter resentment inside of him, gnawing at him.

Useless, useless, useless

He takes a swig of his drink hoping that it'll calm his worries down. And lo and behold he receives a call from you, his baby. He smiles to himself and picks up the phone.

"Hey birdie, doing okay by yourself at home?" He asks softly.

That one sentence caught the attention of the other boys as they give each other quizzical looks. Who the hell could their former captain be talking to?

His mother, maybe his sisters? Nah, he wouldn't call any other birdie.

They listen to John's gravelly voice and breathy laughs as he talks to the mystery person on the phone.

What felt like hours to the boys and a few fleeting seconds for John, he hangs up and faces the group. He raises an eyebrow when he sees their faces contorted into expressions of confusion and curiosity.

"What?" John asks slightly defensively

"Who's the birdie, Captain?" Johnny asks with a tooth grin.

John shakes his head, "my girlfriend." he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Their jaws drop to the floor. Shocked would be an understatement as to what they were feeling and thinking right now.

"You sure it's not schizophrenia, sir?" Kyle asks.

John huffs in annoyance. What the hell? Couldn't they just accept that John finally had someone in his life. A perfect little doll who patiently waits for him at home.

They all start to laugh obnoxiously, barking and howling as if they were witnessing a circus show. And John's irritation grew tenfold and he huffs a sigh of annoyance.

"Oi captain, why don't you show us a picture of your birdie and then maybe we'll believe ya. Or well just keep thinking that the sarin gas is still in your system." Simon says, followed by a cackle.

John rolls his eyes and opens his photo gallery and shows the trio a photo of you and him. The picture is of the two of you in bed, with you resting your head on his shoulder with a smile on your face as John is still fast asleep. Evidence of the previous night's lustful tendancies still apparent on both of them.

This time their jaws drop for certain as the tangible evidence is placed in front of them. You're beautiful, and that fucked-out, post orgasm face is something else. This isn't fair. How did Price get blessed with a beauty such as yourself.

Soap scowls and scoffs looking away and crossing his arms in annoyance. While Kyle gushes about how lucky Price his to hide his jealously rearing its ugly head. And simon simply stares at the photo with a discerning expression on his face.

John smiply smiles, his ego fuelled and his pride sky high.

"Well boys, I gotta get back to my doll. Maybe next time I'll bring her along." He exits the pub, leaving the boys all confused and jealous.

#john price #john price cod #john price smut #john price x reader #captain john #cod smut #tf 141 #tf141 smut #captain price #john price x you #ri's rants

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