#Anyway this is just a thought I had today

[cathnospam]

When Bakugo is mad at you he pouts and stares.

Bakugo is kind of a brat, now that you think about it.

He never admits his anger he just waits for you to point it out. But unluckily for him you don’t and he always is the one to falter first.

You’re fresh out the shower and he’s laying on your bed just watching you. Angrily, Same little face he did when you smiled at him going in the shower.

His arms were crossed now though.

“I feel so much better now.” You speak your thoughts out loud as you toss your dirty clothes in the hamper, “felt icky all day.”

Bakugo doesn’t say anything, just looks at your figure facing the tall mirror, you notice, also noticing he was upset, and though you love him, his lack of communications skills can be a pain in the ass because you know once you ask him “What’s wrong” he’ll be bratty and say nothing.

So you instead decide to tease him, why not? You were kinda horny today anyway.

You take off your bun and scarf and let your braids fall down your back, while also dropping the robe that was loosely draped over your body anyway down to your ankles. In an instant you see Bakugo shift in his seat to try to look away.

“It’s so colddddd.” You fake burr while tip toe’ing to the thermometer, “Freezing in here.”

“Maybe because your tits are out.”

Finally. He speaks.

“I thought you liked my tits? You did last week, see. Still have the hockey for it.”

“Shut up.”

Smirking, you lightly prance your way over to him, he noticed the bed dipping under your weight and that damn intoxicating scent of your body wash bearing his nose, Bakugo knew if he turned he’d be face to face with you.

“Look at me.”

Only his eyes gracing your with a second glance he stays still for a moment until you take his chin and force him to.

“Put some damn clothes on.”

“Make me.”

Bakugo didn’t wanna accept defeat, his pride wouldn’t let him. No matter how sexy you look to him right now, how good you smell, or even how badly he wants to stuff his face between your thighs.

He’s still mad at you.

“Why are you mad at me? Did I do something?”

“‘M not mad.”

“Liar.” You bark back quickly, his graze went down to your chest, when you realize you adjust yourself on his lap, your bare damp cunt taking its place on his semi hard dick already through his sweats, “What happened?”

Your breath fanned his lips, Bakugo felt his will breaking, his determination to stay angry at you, but got damn you and those big doe eyes you have with such need and curiosity.

Those same eyes he wants tearing up under him again, “…..You…you didn’t notice.”

“Notice what?” You started to look and search over his face and body, no new haircut or anything.

“…I got the highest score on the final exam and you didn’t even congratulate me….”

Blinking at him he starts to grumble and shuffle in his seat, relaxing his arms to land on your hips his cheeks begin to flush.

You typically do praise him with every accomplishment he has whether big or small, but you didn’t mention it once today after you both left the lecture to check your scores. He don’t know why it made him so upset but it did.

And that was just so fucking cute to you.

“Oh baby…..” You practically whine out to kiss all over his face, “I’m so sorry baby c’mere.”

Your voice had some teasing undertone to it, but Bakugo didn’t care to point it out feeling on your naked body grind and press against him, he closes his lips with yours, almost greedily sucking your bottom lip and licking your own tongue in your mouth he holds you closer, lower growling, still annoyed feeling in his chest, but it begins to get ignored when your fingers traced against it.

“Can i make it up to you?”

He pulls away not saying anything, but watching you adjust your body between his legs, you pat his thigh to lift his hips, dick springing up embarrassingly to slap against his lower body with prickles of pre cum, your eyes practically glowing at the sight.

“Wait.” Bakugo uses the last bit of sanity he had to cup your cheek, “Turn around.”

“Baby….” Already knowing what he was implying he wanted to do you begin to get flushed, “That position is embarrassing.”

“Not to me.” Shaking his head he already begins to pull up your body to adjust yourself on top of him, nothing, but your pussy and asshole right in his face, “There we fucking go. Shit—- You just drooled on my lip Y/N-“

“‘Suki!” You whine, “You better watch your fingers too this time—aah!”

Shutting you up he latches onto your dangling little clit, aching for a suckle, you felt his hands spread your ass out further for more access, ignoring how slutty he must look right now you take as much of him as you could.

69 is typically Bakugo’s go to, he loves be smothered by you completely, the way you shake your ass in his face when he begins to tease you with the tip of his tongue only doing figure 8 shapes on your clit, when you moan on his dick when you’re close, the way he just sometimes gets away with licking your ass too, he was a freak, and he doesn’t care how embarrassed you might be because at the end of the day he really loves all of you.

Even if he gets mad at you sometimes.

[myrleius]

what remains when the sound fades — bakugo k.

timeskip bakugo k. x patient fem!reader│wc: 3.8k

synopsis: Bakugo’s almost deaf now. But at a hospital he never meant to care about, with a girl who falls asleep without warning, he learns that maybe silence isn’t the end.

cw/tags: fluff, angst, hard of hearing!bakugo, made-up illness for fem!reader, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers

The doors slid open with a sound Bakugo couldn’t quite hear anymore. He just felt the pressure shift in the air, a faint vibration under his skin. 

He stepped into the hospital lobby anyway, hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders drawn tight beneath the fabric.

No appointment today. No injuries or bruises to patch up either. But somehow, this visit felt heavier than the others combined.

His boots tapped against the polished tile—at least, he assumed they did. These days, sound was more of a memory. His hearing aids buzzed softly in his ears, letting in pieces of the world like light through cracked glass. Voices blurred, distant and muddled. Sharp one moment, swallowed the next.

He still wore them though. Most days. When he remembered.

He stopped by the reception desk. The nurse glanced up, clearly recognizing him. Pro-hero Great Explosion Murder God Dynamite wasn’t exactly subtle, even in civilian clothes. 

He didn’t bother speaking.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly wrinkled sticky note—bright yellow with a tiny inked flower blooming in the bottom corner. Yn had given it to him months ago, back when he'd muttered—half ashamed—how much he hated asking people to repeat themselves.

The message was simple:

Hi. I’m hard of hearing. Can you write things down for me, please?

He held up his phone next, showing a photo of yn—caught mid-laugh, paint smudged on her wrist, eyes shining with something quiet and untouchable.

The nurse smiled gently and scribbled something on a notepad, turning it toward him.

She’s on the third floor. Art event today.

He nodded his thanks and made for the elevator, the paper note folded carefully back into his pocket.

As he waited for the elevator doors to open, he let himself replay the conversation from this morning.

“I’m losing my hearing,” he’d said, blunt and brief. “It’s almost gone.”

He expected disbelief. Or pity. Or those strained silences people always gave when they didn’t know what to say.

But it didn’t come.

Kirishima just slammed a hand on his shoulder, grin bright and unwavering. “Damn, man. That’s rough. But you’re still gonna kick ass, right? You’ll figure it out. And if you need backup, we’ve got you.”

Kaminari blinked, then leaned forward, curiosity overtaking any hesitation. “Wait, so does this mean you won’t hear me when I’m being annoying? Sweet—uh, I mean, not sweet, but—can I learn sign language just to mess with you?” He grinned, dodging the half-hearted swipe Bakugo took at him. 

Sero snorted. “Dude, you already ignore us half the time. What’s the difference?” When Bakugo glared, Sero held up his hands. “Kidding, kidding. But seriously, if you ever need us to repeat shit or write stuff down, just say the word.”

Mina didn’t miss a beat. “Okay, new rule. We’re all taking sign language classes. Also, don’t think this gets you out of game night. We will mime everything if we have to.”

And Deku—the one who’s known him longest, who’s seen him at his worst and his best—didn’t even flinch. His eyes remained steady, analyzing, before he nodded once. “You’ve already been adjusting, haven’t you? The way you’ve been positioning yourself in fights, relying more on visuals…” Of course he noticed. “You’ll still be one of the best. And… if you want help finding resources, or training workarounds, I’m here.”

No one stiffened. No one treated him like he was broken. And that hit harder than he’d thought it would.

And now, standing alone in the quiet of the hospital, he wasn’t sure if it made the weight in his chest had eased or fucking doubled.

The elevator dinged.

He stepped inside, pressed the third-floor button, and leaned back against the wall. He wasn’t here for anything urgent. Wasn’t even sure what he planned to say.

He just… needed to see yn.

They’d met a few months ago when his hearing started going to shit. She was always here, a familiar figure in the waiting rooms and hallways, worn hospital bracelets like second skin. At first, she was just a girl with the tired eyes and bright laugh who somehow made the place feel less suffocating. 

But she was more than that. 

She understood, really understood, what it felt like when your body turned against you.

He hadn’t expected to find someone like that in the middle of this nightmare.

Yet there she was. Her presence, gentle and steady, made it easier to breathe. She didn’t pry. Didn’t talk just to fill the silence. And she knew exactly how to sit with this kind of slow pain that didn’t have clean answers.

But when he needed it most, she always seemed to know what to say to help him hold his shit together.

The doors open, scattering his thoughts like startled birds. Before he could gather them again, his feet carried him out.

The third floor was loud.

Not in sound—Bakugo barely caught snippets of laughter and the thuds of feet—but in color, in motion. The hallway was lined with drop cloths and plastic sheets taped across the walls and floor. Furniture had been pushed back. Paint buckets sat open, and kids ran by waving paintbrushes like flags.

It smelled like wet acrylics and masking tape.

Bakugo didn’t need to ask who was responsible.

“Hey! No paint in anyone’s eyeballs, got it?” came a voice from further down the hall. “We want windows, not lawsuits!”

He turned the corner just in time to see yn balancing a tray of mini palettes, swerving between kids and elderly patients like it was a practiced dance. A brush was tucked behind her ear. Paint dotted her sleeves. Her smile was effortless.

And then her eyes met his.

She brightened instantly. “Bakugo,” she called, walking over. “You don’t have an appointment today, right?”

Bakugo shook his head and signed stiffly, fingers sharp with feigned disinterest, “Had extra time. Figured I’d see what you’re up to.”

Yn didn’t miss a beat. She was fluent by now, between her own years in this hospital and months of chatting with him.

“Oh, so you missed me,” she signed back with a cheeky grin, handing him a clean smock. “Got it.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t refuse it. He slipped it on, its sleeves straining around his biceps, while surveying the windows. Every one of them, long panes stretching the whole corridor, was already a riot of color—splashes of sky blue, cartoon suns, stick figure heroes, one ambitious mural of a dragon and a bakery somehow mashed together.

“What the hell is all this?” he asked aloud this time.

Yn adjusted her stance, instinctively positioning herself so he could see her lips, just in case he hadn’t caught her words. They’d practice this enough that she didn’t even think about it now. 

“Window canvases,” she said. “They’re replacing the glass soon, so I asked if we could paint on them instead of just throwing them out. Figured it’d be good fun for the others. Plus, my friend’s gallery agreed to exhibit them, so they get recycled and displayed. Cool, right?”

Bakugo folded his arms. “Let me guess—you bribed the staff, didn’t you?”

“Hey! I got permission from the hospital director,” she said, wiggling her fingers. “Now quit stalling and help me out.”

They spent the next hour darting between stations. Yn played the ringleader—passing out fresh brushes, hyping up shaky stick figures like they were masterpieces. Bakugo kept a closer eye, steadying ladders, pulling kids away from spilled paint, reminding a particularly rowdy pair of teens not to paint each other’s faces again.

It was loud. It was uncoordinated. It was a mess.

And it was… nice.

He wasn’t giving orders or chasing down villains, but he could still do something here. Still be useful.

One of the older patients tugged on his sleeve, holding up a brush. She pointed to the top corner of her window, then mimed her arm not reaching.

Bakugo didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed a chair, climbed up, and filled in the empty corner with simple strokes of yellow.

When he stepped back down, the woman gave him a toothy grin and signed, slowly but clearly, “Thank you.”

He blinked. Then nodded, almost sheepishly.

Yn watched it all with a warm, quiet smile.

By the time the last of the patients shuffled off to their rooms, the floor had fallen quiet.

The sunset bled through the painted windows in long, glowing streaks. Everything was bathed in amber. Where once there was sterile white, there was now a wash of color—skies, forests, tiny heroes flying beside flowers, scrawled messages of hope and names written with confidence.

Bakugo stood at the center of it all, arms folded, head tilted back. Even the ceiling had caught a few stray splashes. The low hum of his hearing aids filled the silence, a steady static he’d grown used to. Tonight, it felt less like noise, and more like… presence.

Yn drifted to his side, her shoulder nudging his.

“Think they’ll let me do this again next year?” she asked, voice light and teasing.

Bakugo huffed. “Not if they see what you did to the walls.”

“They’re covered. Mostly.” She gestured to the plastic sheets still clinging to the walls, though tiny paint splatters had seeped into the creases. “Besides, they're repainting the whole floor anyway. I just… sped things along.”

He shook his head, a low laugh slipping out despite himself. He glanced over. Her hair clung to her forehead, cheeks flushed, fingertips stained in streaks of color. Despite the exhaustion weighing on her shoulders, triumph sparkled in her eyes.

“You did good,” he signed. Hands slower than usual, but sure.

She didn’t hesitate to sign back. “You helped.”

He looked away at that. His hand twitched at his side before he shoved it into his pocket.

A moment passed.

Then another.

“I… told them,” he muttered, more to the empty hallway than to her. Fuck if he knew why. Maybe just to prove it mattered. “The other heroes. Told ‘em I can’t hear for shit anymore.”

Yn didn’t react. She just waited, giving him space to let it out.

Bakugo stared out at the windows, jaw tight. “I didn’t think I’d be able to say it. But I did. Told ‘em I’m still learning sign, still working on reading lips. But I’d still… probably need someone to help interpret if my aids crap out. Might miss shit or mess up.”

A pause. And his throat worked again. “I didn’t expect them to—to take it so well. Just an, ‘Okay. We’ll adjust.’ They didn’t even look at me like I was broken.”

Yn’s hand settled on his shoulder, the touch feather-light. “Because you’re not.”

“But I’m slower now. I can’t do the same field work. Can’t hear civilians shouting. That used to fuck with me so much.” He exhaled sharply. “But they said they’d work with me. That they’d adapt or whatever.”

“Then that’s their call,” she said, shrugging. “They know what they’re signing up for. And they asked you to stay anyway.”

His gaze flicked to hers. Something tight and uncertain lingered beneath the surface.

“You ever think people say that shit just to be nice?” he asked, voice scraping low. “Like, they believe it now, but deep down, they still think you’re… a liability?”

Yn paused, thoughtful. Then tilted her head. “Would you?”

Bakugo blinked. His mouth twitched. “Fuck no.”

“Then why assume they would?” she asked, sliding her hand down his arm to catch his hand. “They’re not stupid, Bakugo. They’re pros. They know what a liability looks like. I don’t think they’d risk the safety of people on someone they didn’t believe in.”

His brow furrowed, mind scrambling to find the flaw in her logic. There had to be one.

As if sensing his spiral, she cut through with quiet certainty. “You’re not weak, Bakugo.” The word landed deliberately, dismantling his unspoken fear. “You’re just changing. That doesn’t diminish who you’ve always been.”

Bakugo was silent. He let her words sit, feeling its weight. Then, slowly, his hand turned, fingers lacing with hers.

“I just… I get scared,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “Not about being deaf. About being fucking useless.” His thumb brushed her knuckle, an unconscious plea. “I thought it meant I was done. That I couldn’t be a hero anymore.”

“You’re not done. You’re just learning a new way to fight,” she said, her voice was softer but the steel beneath it never wavered. “And if anyone’s stubborn enough to make it work? It’s you.”

She leaned in until their shoulders touched, forcing his gaze up. “Imagine it—first deaf hero in the charts. Kids with hearing loss seeing someone like them up there.” Then her smile widened, teasing again. “Unless… you’re actually considering retirement?”

He snorted, real and unguarded. “No fuckin’ way.”

“Then you’re not done.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Because you get to decide that.”

Her words sat in his chest like a live wire.

Bullshit. 

Heroism was supposed to be hard. He'd welcomed that—the broken ribs, the sleepless nights, the impossible choices. But this wasn't another challenge to overcome. It was a permanent fucking handicap. Deafness wasn’t an enemy he could punch. It was a door slammed in his face.

But.

His hands flexed against his thighs. The same hands that had once sparked with explosions now knew the shape of signs. The same body that had lunged into battle without hesitation now calculated angles, light, vibrations—workarounds.

Was that weakness? Or just another fight?

The hospital hallway stretched too bright, too quiet. He could still see the other heroes’ faces when he’d told them. No flinching. No whispers. Just nods, quick adjustments. They planned to work around it. Like pros. Like equals.

Bakugo slowly felt the warmth of her hand then.

He gritted his teeth. Fuck. A long-buried memory resurfaced—one he’d almost let slip away.

Heroism wasn't about perfection. It was about persistence. About dragging yourself through hell with whatever pieces you still had, just to keep the light in others’ eyes.

A breath shuddered out of him. Fine. Fine. If the world wanted to count him out over something like this, they’d learn the same damn lesson they always did.

Because Katsuki Bakugo didn’t lose. Not to villains. Not to fate.

And definitely not to himself.

He breathed out slowly. His heart beat steady in his chest.

And then, with absolutely no warning, he reached out and ruffled her hair with excessive vigor, fingers combing through the strands just to wreck them completely. 

“The hell?” he asked, voice full of forced insult, but his touch was gentle. “Since when did you get smart enough to say shit like that?”

Yn squeaked, batting his hand away. But she didn’t move far. Because she felt it, too—the way his hand hovered for a moment too long. Shaking, not from strain, but from everything it took to admit he was scared.

She could’ve called it out. Could’ve gone soft. Instead, she smirked and poked his cheek. “Says the guy who needed me to spell it out for him,” she fired back.

He scoffed, but his hand lingered, sliding from her hair to cradle her cheek. His thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone—lighter than his usual rough handling, but just as deliberate. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice dropping to something dangerously close to tender. “Guess I needed that.”

He barely heard it, but he saw her breath hitch.

“Oi.” His squint was all mock-suspicion as his thumb brushed the flush spreading across her skin. “The hell's this, huh? Sunburn?”

“Shut up.” She tried to twist away, but his grip shifted to her chin, holding her in place.

“Ain't wearing makeup,” he mused, leaning closer. “So unless you're running a fever—”

“I swear to god—”

“—must be me.” The smirk in his voice was audible. “Damn. That's embarrassing for you.”

She huffed, but didn’t pull back this time. Instead, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, right over his chest.

The light from the painted windows spilled across her face just then, making her eyes look like they were glowing. Blue paint smudged her cheek, a messy contrast to the red flush beneath it. And her lips, damn it, they looked so soft. So inviting.

He’d imagined this. More than he’d ever admit. Would she go all soft and sigh, feeling warm like her hugs or laughter? Or would it be all teeth and fire, like when she’d snap a comeback with that infuriating grin, leaving him itching for more? God, either would ruin him.

Bakugo leaned closer, their noses brushing. “Hey… I’ve been thinking—”

And then her body tipped.

His reflexes moved before his thoughts did.

He caught her easily, arms looping around her middle as her knees buckled. Her head dropped lightly against his chest, her weight sudden but familiar.

“Shit,” he muttered, adjusting her in his hold.

Her breathing was soft, even. Completely out like a light.

Right. Her sleep spells.

She’d explained them the first time it happened—some kind of neurological disorder with no warning signs or real triggers. One moment she was awake, the next she was out cold, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. She’d joked that her brain had a faulty “off switch.” Nothing dangerous, just… inconvenient. That’s what she called it.

But it still scared the hell out of him every time.

“Ruined the moment, idiot,” he mumbled, brushing her hair back.

She didn’t respond, obviously. Just nuzzled unconsciously into his chest like she always did when this happened.

Bakugo sighed and looked around.

The hallway was empty. Lit gold. Quiet

He stood there for a long minute, holding her steady, his heartbeat slow in his ears. Her weight wasn’t heavy. Just… warm.

This wasn’t the kind of saving he was used to.

No villains. No collapsing buildings. No flash of cameras or crowd roaring after.

But maybe… that was okay.

Maybe saving people wasn’t always about being the strongest. Sometimes, it was holding someone when they fell. Watching over a hallway of kids so they could paint suns. Catching a brush before it hit the floor.

He looked back at the art. 

At the handprints. 

The names. 

The hope.

Bakugo exhaled.

Yeah. He could still be a hero like this, too.

When yn woke up, the first thing she noticed was the dim lighting. It was night outside, the curtains pulled but still faintly glowing at the edges. The overhead light cast a soft halo around the room—just enough to see by.

The second thing she noticed was the dry taste in her mouth and the dull ache in her back, which meant she’d been out for a while.

The third thing she noticed was the very broad figure slouched in the chair beside her bed, arms crossed and chin tucked low against his chest.

Bakugo.

He was fast asleep. His hearing aids were out and tucked into a little case on the table beside her water cup. His hair was messy, a smear of green paint still streaking one forearm like a leftover memory of the day.

Yn blinked at him, a slow warmth blooming in her chest.

“You could’ve gone home, dummy,” she whispered.

He didn’t respond. Of course not.

She pushed herself up slowly, limbs stiff but cooperative.

The motion must’ve stirred him, because Bakugo’s eyes cracked open a second later. Red, sleep-heavy, a little bleary.

He blinked, squinted at her. Then straightened with a quiet grunt, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re up.”

“Was I out long?” she rasped, reaching for the water.

He grabbed his hearing aids and slid them in. “Five hours.”

“Mm. That’s not bad.”

He gave her a flat look. “You missed dinner.”

She smiled, unbothered. “Worried I wouldn’t get my pudding cup?”

“I ate your pudding cup.”

She laughed. “You thief.”

“It was melting,” he said, smug.

She looked at him for a long moment.

The curve of his shoulders. The stupidly hot smirk. The stubborn warmth in the way he always stayed, even when it wasn’t convenient.

Then, she held her arms out with all the drama she could summon. “Pity hug. Now, you monster.”

He gave her a look—half amused, half exasperated—but stood up anyway and leaned down to hug her, arms looping around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hands found the back of his neck, fingers toying lightly with the tips of his hair.

He didn’t pull away. Just rested his forehead against hers, eyes half-lidded and soft.

“Did I miss anything?” she murmured.

“Mm. Something pretty major,” he murmured back. “Life-changing, even.”

She chuckled. “Can I still experience it? Or was it a one-time thing?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “It’s a lifetime thing.”

Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect. There was too much grinning, too many half-laughs between presses of lips. But it was good. Warm. A tiny pocket of peace carved out of everything else.

And then, it changed. Just a little. He leaned in again, his hand sliding lower, and lips parting with unsubtle intent.

Yn made a sound of protest, half chuckle, half warning, and pressed a hand to his chest.

“Hey,” she said, breathless. “We are in a hospital.”

“No one’s watching,” he muttered, cocky. “I’ll be quick.”

“Bakugo,” she warned, trying to look stern.

His grin went lopsided. “Be glad I waited ‘til you were awake. I was tempted earlier.”

She groaned. “Oh my god.”

But she was still tangled in him, still laughing, and he looked unbearably pleased with himself.

A knock at the door interrupted the moment—gentle, polite, and clearly a nurse’s way of saying wrap it up, Romeo.

Bakugo sighed dramatically. “There goes our chance…”

“Text me when you get home, all right?” she said, hand still on his chest, ignoring his whining.

He leaned in, kissing her forehead. “I can smuggle you out, you know.”

She flicked his arm. “Out. Go. Before they revoke your visitation rights.”

He laughed and headed toward the door, pausing just before he stepped through.

“Oh,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder. “By the way. You’re my girlfriend now. Just letting you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh. That’s it? No asking?”

He shrugged. “I figured the kissing made it pretty clear.”

She tried not to smile, but failed. “Fine. But you’re buying me pudding next time.”

“Noted.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

Yn lay back against the pillows and let the silence settle.

Officially dating a half-deaf, overly-confident exasperating pro hero with a pudding problem.

Not exactly how she thought the day would end.

But it felt good. Solid. Like something she could lean into without fear of breaking it.

And even if he was a thief… At least he’d finally stolen something she’d wanted him to all along.

[ragnarockz]

Sweet Tooth (Sugar Mommy!Agatha x Sugar Baby!Reader)

Synopsis: Agatha takes you out on a date because she loves being with you and spending her money on you (and showing off just how much money she has). Her cravings for you aren't fulfilled during your date which only means, she needs to take a bigger bite of you back at home.

Word Count: 3K

Fandom: Marvel - Agatha All Along

Characters: Agatha Harkness, Reader

Rating: NSFW

Warnings: Age gap, Sugar Mommy/Sugar Baby relationship, Mommy kink, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, smut, size kink, swearing, PDA, strap-on sex, money for favors/sex, descriptions of sexual acts

A/N: Commissioned piece for @aubreyplzbemydaddy 🩷

Music Inspo: Mrs. Robinson - Simon & Garfunkel, Royals - Lorde, Gimmie More - Britney Spears, Sweet Spot - Kim Petras, Dirty Cash - PAWSA

Agatha peers at you from behind her designer sunglasses as she sits a little too comfortably in her favorite seat at the café. It's a frequent haunt for the both of you; someplace where you can steal a few hours together. It's usually quiet there; usually just the two of you during the middle of the day as most people are at work and those who aren't, simply can't afford this place anyway.

It's way too overpriced for a café and you're pretty sure it's only open still because of Agatha Harkness. She sits there now, with her right knee over her left and her designer purse is placed in front of her on the table. Her eyes are on you, the back of you, as you stand at the counter and order yours and her usual. The barista relays your order and then the price and you, silently sigh in some relief, not because of the total but because the last time you were here with Agatha, you had to correct the barista on a question they posed.

"Do you and your Mom need anything else or will that be all for today?"

You had to bite your tongue then. No, Agatha was not your Mom. Yes, Agatha was your Mommy.

It made you feel dangerous and excited; all those emotions rolling over inside of you as you simply answered 'no thank you' before turning away from the counter.

You assume this time around, the barista remembered that no, the hot older woman sitting at your preferred table was not your Mother. Not in the way they probably thought she was.

The barista coughs gently now before announcing your total once more as you snap back to the present.

Money.

Right.

You owe the café money for your order. You pat your pockets and know there's nothing in them. You don't need anything in them that isn't your phone and maybe some lip balm.

Agatha has that all covered.

She always does.

And so now, you nod your head in a semi-sorry silent apology towards the barista as you turn your back on them and make your way over to your table. Agatha's eyes are still on you, following you, soaking you all in in the pretty little outfit she picked out for you that morning to wear. You look young but not to the point of undesirability. Young and fresh and naive; someone Agatha can boss around and feel as if she has the upper hand.

Let Mommy take care of it, Baby.

Agatha smirks at you now as she takes off her sunglasses and hangs them onto her shirt. She gives you an amused lopsided grin and knows exactly why you've come right back to her empty handed.

"Umm...I need to pay for our order, so..."

You hear Agatha blow out air through her nose as she lifts her head and smiles tight lipped. She's waiting for you to say the magic words; the one she's conditioned you to say to her whenever you're asking, begging for something from her.

It warms your insides and makes you feel flushed all over.

"Please...Mommy...can I have your credit card to pay?"

She pokes the inside of her mouth with her tongue before she licks her lips and reaches for her purse. Taking it into her lap, she takes her time knowing that you and the barista won't rush her. Not with all the money she throws around here on the daily. She takes out her designer wallet and pulls out one of her various credit cards before handing it over to you.

"Here you go, Baby..."

The plastic feels like it's worth something when you get it between your fingers, holding it tight. You give her a smile as you turn away from her and head back to the counter. Agatha's eyes never leave your body; following every move you make.

All you need to do is make one single tap and your order is paid for. Your face flushes at the thought; how easy all of that was and what lengths you had to go to get there. Sure, you could order whatever you liked and wait as patiently as you could, find a nice seat and you'd still have to ask Agatha to pay for it all with her money.

One. Single. Tap.

You take your order and meet Agatha back at your table; putting down your drinks and food before you hand back her credit card which she tucks back into her wallet, the wallet slipping back into her purse.

"Thank you, Mommy..."

She nods her head at you as she moves her purse away to give the both of you more room. Agatha grabs her coffee cup and leans back into her seat, cool and collected and oozing dominance.

You stare at her in awe and desire; lust filling up every tiny crevice of your body as your hand shakes as you pick up your own coffee cup. She watches you so intently you wonder if she can see right through you, inside of you. You wonder sometimes, if Agatha can read all your dirty little thoughts.

God, you think as you take a sip of your drink, you hope so.

Agatha watches you intently as she slowly sips her coffee; relishing in the expensive brew. She can afford to sit here and take her time with you; study you in all the ways that some people would deem inappropriate in public. She makes it a point to undress you with her eyes; smiling into her drink before she pulls it away from her lips.

"Thank you for the coffee, my Sweet Girl...you always do such a good job remembering my order for me...for Mommy..."

She watches in pleasure as you almost choke on your drink; pulling it away from your mouth and setting it down onto the table. Her eyes catch yours as you look up at her and bite your lip in response. Agatha grins with her teeth as she points her chin up slightly. Her gaze drifts down from your eyes to the low-cut hem of your shirt.

She's eating you alive with only her eyes and her pretty words.

"You're welcome..."

Your voice is a whisper as you slowly lean your upper body forwards towards the table. Your fingers grip the edge of it so you can push forwards a little more; giving Agatha a better view. You hear her suck in her breath and clear her throat, try to gain composure as if she's suddenly just remembering you're both in public and her eye-fucking your chest isn't something readily accepted on doing.

"You're welcome...who?"

Your gaze flutters up to her eyes before it quickly goes back down to burn holes into the lid of your coffee cup. You trace the outline of your tinted lip balm over the plastic.

"You're welcome, Mommy."

"Now, that's a Good Girl."

You pointedly sit up straighter; try to appear more elegant. More poised. More desirable. More ripe for her taking. You reach for your coffee once more but Agatha is quicker with her reflexes. Agatha's hand falls over yours and gives you a reassuring squeeze before you lock eyes and her hand pulls away.

She takes your cup and you watch her with eager, hungry eyes. She brings it up to her own lips and takes a sip and you envision her mouth pressing over your lip balm stains as if she's really pressing her mouth to yours in public.

Your brain drifts away for a second and wonders if she can taste you while she tastes your coffee.

And, will you be able to taste her when she gives you back your cup?

Agatha pulls your drink away and licks her lips in a dramatic showing; the paper bottom of the cup makes a loud sound as she places it back down on the table in front of you.

"So sweet, just like you, Sweet Girl. Exactly like you."

You almost knock over your cup as you clutch it fast and quickly bring it up to your lips. You're dying to taste her; any trace of her. She had been pretty distanced this morning before your café date. Maybe she was saving you all up for later. It wouldn't have been the first time.

She keeps her gaze on you as she watches you finish your drink. Her hand dips into her purse once more and her wallet opens for a final time as she pulls out a hundred dollar bill. She places it gently on the table between the both of you and you know what she's asking you to do without words.

Agatha doesn't need to use her words with you; you've been with her for long enough to know what she expects of you.

You reach for the crisp flat bill and pick it up before turning yourself in your seat to get out of it.

You glance over your shoulder at her and feel the tight pang between your legs at the way she's watching you. It's almost like you're some sort of prize she likes to dangle in front of others; showing you off to make them feel a twinge of jealousy. You wonder if the barista feels that way about the two of you as you hand them over the bill and tell them it's a tip.

You watch their hand shake as they take your money...no, Agatha's money, from your hand. You've lost count of how many times their hand has shaken as they take the tip from you. You can't even remember now how many times Agatha has taken you here to indulge in this little ritual she's set up for you both.

A taste of artificial sweetness for a price before she takes you back to her home and indulges you in something money truly cannot buy.

Agatha Harkness herself.

-

You're back into to lionesses den as you trail right behind her. Agatha packed up your food and hers from the café for you both to enjoy later. Now, as she leads you without a word into her bedroom, you can tell she's hungry for nothing but you and that sweetness only you can offer. Sugar dissolving her teeth in which, the sugar is you.

"Such a Good Girl for me this afternoon; you looked so perfect sitting there...showing off to Mommy what I love so much..."

She's talking to herself as you drift into her room and make yourself comfortable on her bed. You sit on the edge of it; watch and listen as she opens and closes drawers. You watch and listen to her in silence; eyes as wide as saucers as you try to soak Agatha all in for yourself.

There's something so alluring, so addicting to watch this woman who is definitely old enough to be your mother be so desirable before you. The natural signs of age cover her well. Beautiful and sharp crows feet at the corner of her eyes. That forehead wrinkle you can't help but trace with your fingers when given the chance. Faded stretchmarks on her body from simply aging and changing and a secret you know she keeps from you and everyone else.

You want to paint her like a picture in your mind and keep her there forever; a snapshot to look back upon as she starts to undress in front of you.

Agatha looks over her shoulder at you to make sure you're watching. Of course you are; your focus could be nowhere else when she's in the same room you're in. She breaks into that smile that makes her eyes squint shut and something dangerous lurks behind her eyes.

You've sensed it many times before when Agatha smiles this way; almost as if she's running through every depraved thing to do to you in a matter of seconds.

"Mommy has a new toy for you...I hope you don't mind if we change this up..."

She speaks to you even though she turns her head back forward; paying attention to what she needs to do.

You follow her legs up to the curve of her ass; the way her expensive, deep purple lingerie hugs at every curve and your fingers itch with the need to rip it off of her. The slight muscles in her back ripple as do the muscles of her biceps as she bends her upper body to lift her legs to pull up her harness.

Your blood runs cold then burning hot and you feel a sudden pooling of saliva in your mouth.

The reveal almost takes your breath away but it sure allows you to slip up as a moan escapes your lips. Agatha smiles smugly at you as she puts one hand on her hips and lets the other hand hang freely by her side before she brings it to stroke the long length of her cock between her legs.

It's bigger than any other toy she's ever used for or with you before.

"Get yourself comfortable for Mommy, Sweet Girl..."

Agatha's words drip like honey from her mouth as you do as she says.

Because you always do what she says; always what Mommy asks Baby to do.

You move off of her bed and turn yourself around. Your back is to Agatha now and you know the drill.

You know just how she likes it, likes you.

You lift your shirt up but don't take it off and do the same with your bra until your breasts are hanging and no longer restrained from your bra. You do the same with your bottoms, pulling them down until they hit your ankles and you kick them off and away from yourself. You don't touch your underwear at all. That's for Agatha to determine what she wants to do with them today. You hold your breath and count to three in your mind.

"Oh...look at you...just like a little present for Mommy...such a good girl for me, always..."

She whispers under her breath as you feel her close. Her body heat is radiating and you can feel her; the ghosting of her long hair tickling your back and behind your arms. You feel the tip of her new toy pressing ever so slightly against your folds through your underwear and you wonder just how much you'll be able to take her inside of you.

The thought makes you gasp and then moan which, of course, tips Agatha off.

She grabs your left wrist with her left hand and presses herself into you; the head of her cock pressed hard against your underwear. She's not inside of you, not yet, just teasing dangerously with the promise of what's to come.

"A...Agatha, please..."

"Sorry? Who?"

You swallow hard as you lean down further and push your hips back. You're begging her with your body and the complete hand over of permission to use you how she fits. You clear your throat and turn your head to the side so she can hear you; so you're not muffled against her bed sheets.

"Mommy, please...please fuck me...with...that huge, throbbing cock...please..."

Agatha's grip around your wrist only gets tighter as you buck back and try to take her inside of you. She laughs as her free hand comes up to stroke her nails up and down your back. She watches as you shiver underneath her touch before those nails and those fingers keep moving down to follow the curve of your ass and then farther still.

She flips her palm over so those fingers can swipe at your wet slit. She becomes suddenly frustrated with the fabric that remains between your skin and hers. She pulls it down just until it stays under the curve of your ass. Agatha moans in satisfaction deep in her throat.

"Oh, Sweetheart...you have no idea what you're asking for, do you?"

You never get the chance to ponder this question fully as Agatha breaks any semblance of thought in your brain as she uses her fingers to guide her cock into you. Inch by massive inch.

Your eyes slam shut and your face presses against her bed; stars burning away behind your eyelids as you gasp for breath and feel Agatha stretching you out to an extreme you've never felt before in your life. You whine for her in a way you hope sounds pretty and of course, it works. Another inch you take of her and feel your inner muscles try to clench around her cock.

"...M...more Mommy...please...please more...I want all of you..."

You can barely take how much of her is inside of you now; not even at the point of her rutting into you yet you feel like it's all too much. You choke back a sob as she uses that wrist of yours, still in her grasp, to pull you up a little straighter as she guides herself deeper now.

"Of course, Baby girl, of course...you deserve it all, don't you? Being so good for me, to me...so good for your Mommy...you deserve all of my cock, don't you?"

Her cooing makes you feel feral underneath her and you make the split decision to push your hips back. The sudden sensation that rocks through your core and makes your clit throb is almost enough to make you cry out a sob.

It's Agatha who starts to roll her hips towards you; ever so slightly and just enough. You barely coat over her entire length; far too long for it to ever be covered. But, Agatha muses as she keeps a trained eye on watching your pussy take her in as much as you can, that's the beauty in it all.

Agatha makes you feel like you could take in every single inch of her even though you know, and she knows, it's near impossible. The sheer will, the devotion you have towards her, your Mommy, is good enough.

"Oh, god...Mommy, please...please I'm so close...I'msoclosetocoming...alloveryourcock...please..."

You can feel Agatha smiling above you and you know the words that are about to fall from her lips. They're words she's uttered before; into your ear or against your dripping pussy right before she stuck her tongue up inside of it. Words that would make you feel sick to your stomach but because it's her, because it's Agatha, because it's your Mommy...well...

"You come on Mommy's cock, Sweetheart, and Mommy'll give you..."

She pounds her hips into you, making you falter harder into her bed. You're so close you can taste it on your lips. Your eyes snap shut once again.

"...some spending money so..."

Agatha pulls back and then slams back into you; watches as you spasm around her and your legs start to wobble underneath her, against the side of her bed.

"...you can buy whatever you want and..."

You throw your head back and try to look at Agatha from over your shoulder. You stare at how her lips are turned upwards in a smile as, of course, she's enjoying every second of fucking you this way. You struggle to keep your eyes open as you feel yourself unclench and a wave of release fills you, coats her.

"...make yourself all pretty for Mommy."

Agatha watches in satisfaction as she pulls her hips back and notices the coating, semi-transparent, on her cock. Your body still shakes; going through the motions of your orgasm as it rolls through your body. You want to give her more, so much more but your body has cut you off. Too much stimulation in such a quick time.

Agatha doesn't pull out of you, rarely if ever after your orgasm she does. She loves being inside of you, reminding you of who you really belong to. You muffle a moan but fail; wanting her to hear just how good she's made you feel.

You want your Mommy to know because, you know, that it pleases her just as much as it pleases you.

Always a good girl for Agatha. Always a sweet thing for Mommy.

[olive-fics]

Cold Front.

𖦹 Synopsis: You never expected to be reassigned to the same WLF unit as Abby Anderson. — WLF's most popular soldier. . The same one who floods your thoughts at night and when you're most needy. . .

Content Warnings: NSFW, depictions of possessiveness power dynamic (??) WC:2107,slightly proof-read..

You’d been part of the WLF military for nearly a year now. You’d learned the ins and outs — who ran the patrols or which guards never missed a beat. You knew almost everyone... except for one. She was one of Isaac’s favorites. The girl with the long braid that nearly brushed her lower back, broad shoulders, and a stare sharp enough to cut through steel. The first time you saw her, she had a guy twice her size pressed into the dirt outside in the training ranges. You’d watched as the man tapped out quick, both of them bursting into laughter afterward. She was like the WLF’s own jock. You weren’t stupid. You kept your head down, focused on your assignments and drills. Staying quiet was safer.

Every year, Isaac made most soldiers move dorms due to storage needs or renovations around the base. You weren’t expecting to be reassigned, especially since your current dorm was barely bigger than a suitcase. It didn’t need fixing or changing. But your heart clenched the moment you saw your badge number next to a familiar one... You were finally getting a roommate. Packing a bag and carrying a small box of your current dorm stuff, you climbed the flights of stairs to your new room — number 203. Your new roommate hadn’t arrived yet. The room was completely empty and colorless, stripped down to bare walls and cold carpet. You set your boxes down onto the floor, then decided to grab something for breakfast since you had some time to kill. No drills or assignments today—just catching up on sleep and unpacking your new space.

Taking your time in the mess hall, you waited in line for nearly fifteen minutes before finally getting a sad, tiny serving of food. Looked like everyone had the same idea, half the base was crowded in, moving their stuff, catching up, or socializing. Seattle's overcast sky barely bled through the WLF base's skylights, putting dull, pointless shadows across the floor. Eventually, you got your breakfast burrito and a small cup of watered-down coffee that tasted as tired as you felt. There was no reason to sit in the mess hall. You weren’t much of a talker anyway — why sit around and look awkward when you could be unpacking instead? By the time you made it back to dorm 203, a bag had already been tossed onto the bed across from yours, a heavy-duty WLF duffel, halfway unzipped and slumped open like it had been thrown from the door to the bed. Then you heard it. The low click of the bathroom door. Your stomach twisted. You didn’t need to see her to know who it was. You could feel it — the air had shifted the moment you stepped inside. Sure enough, when the door opened, there she was. Abby Anderson. A towel hung loose around her neck. Her face was still damp, hair slicked back but braided messily. Her eyes met yours immediately. “Hey,” she said. You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around your burrito. “Hi..” Her gaze didn’t move. “Didn’t know they were putting anyone with me.” “Didn’t know they were putting me with anyone either,” you replied softly. She stepped further into the room, beads of water still dripping from her shoulders. She shrugged, then collapsed onto her bed, arms tucked behind her head. “I don’t snore,” she added. Her tone was dry, almost deadpan but something in her hinted at a smirk. “Good to know,” you muttered, sitting on the edge of your bed. The silence that followed wasn’t exactly... awkward. It was more dizzying. Quiet in a way that made you too aware of your own breathing. You stole a glance at her. She wasn’t looking at you anymore — just staring up at the ceiling like this was any other day. Like you weren’t strangers who would live together until switched. You peeled back the foil on your burrito and took a bite, pretending not to notice her presence. Abby Anderson. You’d heard plenty about her, seen her in passing, always surrounded by noise, voices, movement, power. And now you shared a room with her. Night came quickly. The clouds outside stayed thick, making the base dim even before sunset. Your side of the room was mostly unpacked. A few shirts folded into the drawers, boots tucked beneath the bed, photos hung up, etc. Across the room, Abby didn’t bother unpacking much. Her duffel remained half-zipped on the floor, her only real addition to the room being a spare towel hanging from a hook and the scent of her pine soap. She moved with quiet confidence. not loud, not cocky. Just aware. You noticed it in the way she reached for the light switch, how she didn’t ask if you were ready for bed before flipping it off. You didn’t mind it. The dark made it easier to breathe. You lay there for a while, turned toward the wall, staring at a crack in the paint that curved just slightly. You couldn’t sleep. Not with her so close, but yet so far. The room was silent, but not still. You could hear Abby shifting, the fabric of the blanket rustling, the creak of the mattress under her weight. .

“You’re not sleeping,” she said, her voice low. Not accusatory. Just… knowing. You hesitated before answering. “Neither are you.” A beat passed. “Long day,” she muttered. “New roommate, guess I’m adjusting.” You let out a small huff. “Sorry to ruin your space.” She shifted again. “Didn’t say that.” You turned to lie on your back, staring at the dark ceiling. “I’ve seen you around before,” you admitted, voice just above a whisper. “Everyone talks about you.” There was a pause — then the faintest hint of a smirk in her voice. “Yeah?” “Supposed to be scared of you, I think." The silence that followed was thicker than before. Again, not awkward — just weighted. Like something unsaid was settling between the two beds. Like you were both suddenly aware that the stretch of air dividing you wasn’t as wide as it had felt before. You could practically feel her looking at you now, even in the dark. Her stare had weight. You cleared your throat. “Do you always talk to your roommates at night?” Abby’s voice was quieter now. “Only the interesting ones.” You couldn't help but smile, interesting? Abby. found You? interesting?

That shouldn't have made your chest feel tight. Or your skin warm. You rolled onto your side, back facing her now, hoping the darkness hid the way your lips were still twitching with amusement. “Didn’t think I was your type.” She let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “What makes you think you know my type?” You shrugged into your pillow. “Don’t. Just a guess.” “Guess again,” Abby said, and this time, her voice was lower. Less guarded.

That sent something sparking straight down your spine.

You stayed quiet, not trusting your voice, not trusting the way your mind was starting to wander just like it used to when you were all alone in your last dorm, touching yourself to just the thought of Abby's strength.. You heard her shift again in the dark, the rustle of sheets, the faint creak of her bed. “I don't bite,” she said. “Unless you ask.” Your heart skipped. You didn’t respond right away. .because what the hell was that ?? Your pulse was quick now. Drumming right against your ribs. Then, lightly, almost breathless, you ask, “That supposed to scare me Anderson?” There was a pause. Then, with that same maddening coolness, Abby muttered, “No. I think it turns you on.” The sheets felt too hot. The air too thick. You’d shifted at least five times, pulse still thudding from that last exchange. Abby hadn’t said another word since. But she hadn’t fallen asleep either. You could hear the difference in her breathing; Shallow. You stared at the ceiling, biting your lip. Every inch of you was wired. Your mind racing through things you shouldn’t be thinking. Then you heard it. The sound of her bedsheets moving. Of skin against fabric. Of breath catching—just once.

You froze.

You hear her again, barely above a whisper. “You still awake?” You rolled to face her, trying to sound bored. “Couldn’t sleep.” A beat of silence. Then: “Yeah. Me either.” You could barely make her out, but your eyes had adjusted enough to see the way her body shifted under the blanket. Her arm draped lazily across her stomach. The rise and fall of her chest “You keep making those little sounds,” she said. “Like you want me to hear you.” You blinked. “What sounds?” A low chuckle. “You know which ones.” Your breath hitched. She sat up slowly, the blanket sliding off her shoulders, revealing her toned, bare arms. “I’m not gonna touch you,” Abby said, voice thick with something heavier now. “Not unless you tell me to.”

The room spun. Or maybe that was just you because now she was standing. Stepping closer. In a breath, she was kneeling at the edge of your bed.

“You said I’m not your type,” you murmured, tilting your head. her lips parted. But no sound came out. Your thighs clenched under the blanket. She leaned in just enough for you to feel the heat rolling off her. . Abby then whispered, "Definitely my type."

Abby’s smirk curls into something darker in her eyes. Before you can think, she reaches forward and tugs the blanket down, the thin layer pools at your waist. The chill of the room grazes your skin, making you shiver, but the warmth of her gaze thaws every nerve. She leans in, and you feel her breath on your inner thigh, warm and intoxicating. Her fingers press lightly against your hip, hitching your pajama shorts just enough to expose more skin. Your pulse spikes as you instinctively part your legs, offering her the space she wants. Her other hand trails up your thigh, fingertips ghosting over your sensitive skin. You can’t see her face clearly, but you sense her tilt her head, catching the faint moonlight through the window. Her lips brush along the same path from your hip to where you ache most. .

When her mouth finally meets your skin, it’s electric, soft and intentional. She works slow, her tongue tracing the crease where thigh meets pelvis, teasing just the edge of your panties. Your back arches into the mattress without thought, nails dragging along the sheets as the warmth of her mouth sends heat straight to your core. She lifts her head, eyes glinting in the dim light. There’s a hunger there, a raw need that presses down on you like weight you didn’t know you’d been holding. Abby’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pajamas, brushing over damp skin. Her fingers trace circles over your soaked folds, gentle at first, slowing your breathing. You whimper. Your head tipping back against the pillows as she curls one finger inside of you, moving with slow, measured strokes. You hadn't realized how much you’ve wanted this, how much you’ve craved her touch, her taste. .

Abby doesn’t hurry. She holds you apart with one hand, her fingers sinking deeper. She pushes you closer to your edge, steady and relentless. You grip the mattress, knuckles whitening, back arching again as she finds just the right spot. When she withdraws that one finger, you feel empty, aching. But the moment is saved by her other hand slipping beneath the edge of your shorts and brushing over your clit, rubbing slow, firm strokes that make you whine. The friction builds, you can feel the heat pooling as her tongue returns. When you finally come, it’s a shuddering rush, a wave of heat and sound that has you clenching around nothing, shaking beneath her, your breath ragged. Abby murmurs softly into your skin, listening to every small cry and whimper you give her. She stays close, breathing on your inner thighs as you ride out the orgasm. Her mouth gently tasting you until you’re trembling with satisfaction and bliss. When Abby finally pulls away, you feel spent.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You lie there, chest heaving, eyes closed, Abby still tasting you on her lips. Abby slides back up the bed beside you, draping an arm across your waist, fingers brushing over your covered stomach like she’s afraid to let go.

“Thought you weren’t my type,” you whisper, voice thick with satisfaction and something softer, something like admiration. She is everything you never knew you needed. .

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | extra

rafe buying reader a gift at the gas station

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- C H . 1 7 | C H . 1 8 ->

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive themes and implications, awkward!rafe, cougar behavior from an older woman (age appropriate but still gross), mention of alcohol consumption (flashback), one-sided flirting, kinda ptsd!rafe lol, rafe going insane (again)

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 2.8k+

✿ A / N ✿ thx @wefelldowntherabbithole13 for requesting this. hope you guys enjoy this little extra and lmk what you think <3

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

// READ CHAPTER 17 BEFOREHAND IF YOU DON'T WANNA GET SPOILED

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

W E E K O N E // S A T U R D A Y 2 : 5 5 P M

Rafe was so close to ripping off the fucking gas cap of his fucking Benz because why the fuck wouldn't it close, HUH?!

Or better yet: why the fuck did this stupid shit piss him off so goddamn bad in the first place?

OH RIGHT. Probably something to do with how he’d just dropped you off in the fucking Cut, at that rat-infested shithole where his stupid sister and her loser rat friends always hung out.

FUCKING GREAT.

No. No, you hadn't exactly told him who’d be waiting for you there besides your loud-ass friend and some dude she apparently needed help with. Seriously, Rafe still couldn’t wrap his head around how you of all people were supposed to help her. You could barely grasp the concept of flirting—how the hell were you supposed to be of any help besides driving everyone in a five-mile radius absolutely insane with your crazy head?

Rafe exhaled. Finally punched the damn gas cap shut with his fist.

Knuckles throbbing, he rubbed at them, though it hurt less than his damn head.

Like, Jesus fucking Christ, that stupid-ass conversation you two had just minutes ago? Rafe didn’t even know how the hell he’d managed not to crash the fuck out. He deserved a fucking gold medal or trophy for keeping his cool and actually calming your crazy ass down.

And the best part? Not even a whole fucking minute after he’d defused the ticking bomb that was your brain, you were already ready to ditch him.

Seriously, was Rafe just some fucking joke to you?

Sure, yeah, okay, your friend had indeed called, and apparently you’d promised to hang out with her anyway today. But that wasn’t exactly a solid reason to dip immediately. You could’ve stayed just a little longer and… yeah. Done what, exactly?

Under different circumstances, it would've been late evening, and Rafe would've gone to your place because no way in hell was he bringing a girl around his nosy-ass family. And of course, you'd have the house to yourself—Rafe had zero interest in dealing with a random girl's parents (except that yours actually were pretty chill). You'd have giggled at the door, walked in, one thing would've led to another, and he'd have you moaning into the sheets. Or well, not moaning, considering at this point he’d rather shut you up and feel you choke on his—

Fuck, he really didn’t need to get hard at a damn gas station.

And yeah, just like with his occasional (!!!) hookups (again, he wasn't a fuckboy, alright?), he’d either crash at your place, too lazy to drive back, or show up at Kelce’s or Top’s, do a line, and pass out on the couch.

That’s it.

But those hadn't been the circumstances. It had been the middle of the fucking day, and Rafe knew better than to expect some quick fun with you. Hell, he’d be out of his fucking mind if he even tried making a move. You’d probably lose it, that whole exhausting conversation would start all over again, and even more likely: You’d freak the fuck out, dip, and that’d be the end of whatever the hell this was between you two.

Oh right, now there actually was a label. Apparently you were aiming for a friendship, or rather you thought he wanted one.

Cute, really. You two had barely known each other for, what, a week? Not even? And you’d already pressured him into deciding where things were going after the project because apparently, your brain needed to "make space for new people if they decided to stay" otherwise your anxiety would eat you up.

Aight.

Like, dude. Chill the fuck out for once. Why couldn’t you just live in the fucking moment for a second? But no, you had to constantly leap a thousand steps ahead and dissect every possible outcome.

You were literally the least chill person Rafe had ever met, and somehow, he still couldn’t bring himself to dislike you. How? He didn’t fucking know. Probably better if he never figured it out, because unlike you, he didn’t need every single answer to every goddamn situation.

Jesus Christ.

But yeah, sure, why not. Rafe loved collecting annoying people as his friends for a living. One more wouldn’t kill him. Bonus points to you, though, because for some fucked up reason, he actually had fun with you. Sometimes more than with Kelce and Top. And well, he didn't have the option to flirt with those two. But with you? Shit, it was his new favorite activity.

Which brought him back to the original question: What the fuck was Rafe supposed to do with a female friend?

Like, with Topper and Kelce, he’d hit the country club, hang out at one of their places, smoke some hookah, hit some beach bar or the gym.

Wait. On second thought—dragging you into the gym, you wearing tight leggings, squatting in front of him, and—

Rafe rubbed the bridge of his nose. He seriously needed to think of some other shit.

Another reason he desperately needed a fucking line right now. This whole situation—he was actually going insane.

First things first: pay for the goddamn gas.

The Benz gave two clicking sounds as Rafe locked it and headed into the station.

Good thing he’d driven back to the north side of the island. No way in hell he was about to get robbed by some cracked-out junkie at a Cut gas station where they probably laundered money and sold kidneys on the side.

“Pump Three,” Rafe said as he stepped up to the counter, eyes on his wallet, fumbling to get that fucking credit card out of the sleeve. Seriously, his patience was really being tested today.

“Oh, honey, what happened to your face?”

Rafe looked up—and his heart dropped.

Fucking shit. Not her.

Agatha Woods. 44, widow, Pogue, and the fucking woman Rafe had almost hooked up with last year at a bonfire party.

She’d been working the bar (which—let's be real—grown woman hanging out at a teenager party? Fucked-up), and Rafe had been doing shots one after the other with Top. And then Topper—holy shit, that was the party the idiot almost hooked up with your friend—dipped, and Rafe got left behind. And for some goddamn fucked-up unexplainable reason, he'd stayed at the bar with cougar Agatha and let her keep pouring him drink after drink.

Fucking shit, he'd been so wasted and desperate anyway because he'd dropped Gracie a week before and then there had been fucking Agatha with her triple Ds, her purring at him and fuck, Jesus Christ, his whole body literally tensed at the memory. His horny, almost-blackout self had almost followed her to her truck if Kelce hadn’t intercepted him.

Actually no, Rafe's entire skin was covered in goosebumps right now.

Shitshitshitshit. Just ignore her. She won’t remember. She probably pulls this shit on every guy who'd just celebrated his 18th birthday.

He shook his head and shrugged like it was no big deal, avoiding her eyes. “Golf club accident.”

Now Rafe was forced to meet her eyes, only because he was trying so fucking hard not to look down at her way-too-exposed cleavage as she leaned forward on the counter.

“I’m off soon, want me to take a look at that?” she said, fluttering her lashes in that sweet—actually, no, raspy smoker’s voice of hers.

Rafe kind of wanted to go back to Barry’s and let the guy shoot his brains out, because what the actual fuck. Why was he getting hit on by a woman twice his age? For the second time.

He just shook his head, letting out a tight chuckle. “Nah, I’m good. So, uh ... Pump Three.”

“I heard you just fine the first time,” Agatha said with a smirk, leaning back. “Just thought maybe you’d wanna pick up where we left off last time.”

Please just let me fucking pay. Holy shit.

Rafe gave a strained smile. “How much?”

Agatha chuckled. “Oh, sweetie, this is a gas station, not a brothel.”

What the—fucking shit, what?

His neck and cheeks were suddenly burning, and for a second he genuinely considered walking out and setting the entire gas station on fire, himself included.

Jesus Christ. This day was just getting worse by the goddamn second.

“I’m well aware,” he replied but his fucking voice cracked, and FUCKING HELL.

The hunting knives on the counter suddenly looked way too inviting, even though they were sitting right next to a blindingly pink stand full of glittery, oversaturated plastic bags with little rainbow-colored horses printed on them.

Okay. Seriously. The fucking universe—or whatever sick fuck ran it—was messing with him, because guess what was printed in bold letters on that stand?

Friendship Bracelets: Pick Your Pony, Share The Sparkle.

What. The. Fuck.

This had to be some serious joke. Hadn't he just made fun of the idea of making you a friendship bracelet a few minutes ago, just to shut you up?

“Four bucks.”

Startled, Rafe snapped his eyes back to the cougar, blurting out, “Huh?”

She laughed. “Looking at that thing with that big eyes of yours. You got a friend you wanna share the magic with?”

“Girlfriend, actually.”

The words had left his mouth before his brain could even catch up.

Shit.

Even worse than calling you his girlfriend in front of the cougar trying to bag him: he seriously considered buying one of the dumb bracelets.

See? This was your fucking fault. Riling him up with your psycho brain, then bouncing to Sarah’s rathole where she was most likely also hanging out. And now, here he was, about to buy you some glittery-ass children’s bracelet just to… fuck, he didn’t even know. Just the idea of you owning something he got you, it made his blood rush in a way that genuinely concerned him.

Well. One upside to the sudden topic shift: Agatha was backing off, now that she thought he was taken. Just like he’d intended, of course.

Guess she has some standards, at least.

“All grown up now, got yourself a girl, huh?,” she said with a giggle. “You oughta invest in a real bracelet then. Ain’t no girlfriend gonna want some kids’ toy meant for little girlies.”

“Nah,” Rafe muttered with a frown, cheeks warm. “She’ll like it.”

You loved sending fucked-up, crazy-ass crackhead pics to express your emotions. You’d absolutely love some discolored, shitty plastic bracelet from some shitty-ass horse cartoon.

And the fact that Rafe even knew that fucking cartoon in the first place was reason enough to buy one of the hunting knives as well and end his misery right here. Wheezie used to watch that crap when she was younger. He remembered those smiley, ugly-ass horses now.

Nonetheless, Rafe stepped closer to the stand, scanning the different packages. Apparently, each bracelet was themed after one of those LSD-tripping ponies.

There—that one. The obnoxious blue one with rainbow hair. He hated that smug, loud, egotistical piece-of-shit horse. Friendship bracelet for the Rainbow Dash in your life.

Yeah, no thanks. He wasn’t putting that asshole on your wrist.

“You need help choosing?” Agatha asked with a chuckle. “Otherwise move that sweet little ass of yours. Got another customer waiting.”

Rafe furrowed his brows and moved to the side, trying his best to ignore the heat crawling up his chest. First thing he’d do once he got out of here was a fucking line in the car, because fuck this day.

Okay. So what shitty-ass horse should he even get you?

He remembered the purple one with the emo bangs and that dumb little dragon sidekick. Wheezie’s favorite. Twilight Sparkle the package read.

Jesus, how the fuck did they all have shitty names like that?

Then there was the pink one. Of fucking course, she was called fucking Pinkie Pie. Rafe remembered her being all over the place and screaming and bouncing and just... no. That bitch reminded him way too much of Kelce for some reason. Or your best friend. Which was basically the same thing. Hard pass.

The weird cowgirl-looking horse just looked straight-up ugly. No way he’d let you wear ugly shit like that. Plus, it gave off full-on Pogue energy, so yeah, fuck that too.

Which left him with two fuckers called Rarity and Fluttershy.

And for some reason, Fluttershy just... felt right. Rafe couldn’t explain it, but he knew that was the one. Soft colors, none of that oversaturated eyesore bullshit. And her smile on the packaging—kinda sweet, kinda shy (well duh, the bitch was called Fluttershy for a reason), and she just radiated your vibe. Quiet, soft, but like... deep (in thought about some unnecessary bullshit probably).

He even remembered her being eerily like you. Awkward, kind, and anxious.

Jesus Christ, why the fuck did he even remember that?

Rafe grabbed the package with a grimace. It read Friendship Bracelet for the Fluttershy in your life. He seriously questioned his fucking sanity as he dropped it on the counter.

“Oh, so you finally picked one,” Agatha said, scanning it in with a smirk and raising an eyebrow. “I’m just gonna assume your girlfriend’s of legal age.”

HUH WHA—FUCKING SHIT, EW.

The audacity of that woman to say that of all people.

Rafe smiled crookedly, holding up his card. “Listen, lady, I’m in a fucking hurry, alright?”

Agatha chuckled again, holding out the reader. “That’ll be 110.55 then.”

The moment the confirmation beep rang out, Rafe snatched the bracelet and bolted the hell out of that goddamn gas station slash cougar pit. Before he ever stepped foot in there again, he’d rather make out with a fucking Pogue or shoot himself in the face.

In the car, he dropped the plastic package along with his wallet and keys into the center console and slammed on the gas. He needed to get out of there before that cougar actually chased him down.

And then the overwhelming urge to just crash his car into the nearest wall or tree rose up because:

Did he seriously just buy a fucking horse bracelet for a girl who was driving him completely insane, which also had the most fucked-up brain he’d ever witnessed?

Oh, and the worst part? He knew damn well he wouldn’t get anything in return. No sex. No blowjob. Not even a basic makeout. Probably just some awkward little smile and a confused “Thanks". Worst case? Another fucking discussion about what this meant, what Rafe’s intentions were, whether he was just trying to get in your pants, blah blah blah.

And the most fucked-up, goddamn infuriating part? He didn’t even seem to mind.

Sure, if you'd show him your gratitude on your knees, he wouldn’t complain (shit, just the thought almost made him hard), but Rafe had pretty much (almost) accepted that nothing like that was ever gonna happen between you two.

And guess friends without benefits didn't do this kinda shit, right? Like, Top and Kelce basically fit into this category and he'd never in a million years...just fuck no, what. Then again, they didn't have tits and a cute ass like yours, so. And moreover, Rafe would never ever gift them a cringe-ass fucking friendship bracelet. And definitely not one week after getting to know them.

Shit. The bracelet wasn’t supposed to mean anything anyway. Rafe just felt like he needed to make his point clear one more time, once and for all because he had this gut feeling that words didn’t cut it with you. Two days from now, you’d be whining again because Rafe made some harmless flirty joke, and your fucked-up head would twist it into some manipulative scheme of him wanting to get in your pants.

So when he'd give you this dumbass bracelet, he’d make fucking sure you read what it said:

F-R-I-E-N-D-S-H-I-P Bracelet.

Unfortunately, the gas station didn’t offer a bracelet that read “For the girl I got stuck with in a school project, who I kinda wanna bend over but I'm also fine with not doing so, even though she’s batshit crazy and wants a label six days in for a FUCKING HANGOUT, and for reasons only God knows I’m still putting up with her shit and guess I'm her fucking friend now and buying her this crap just to shut her spiraling brain up AND to make it loud and clear I'm not toying with her crazy ass”.

Jesus Christ.

He was losing it. He was actually going insane.

And the only reason for it?

You.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- C H . 1 7 | C H . 1 8 ->

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

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[jennxxe]

She told me…

pairing — bobby campbell x fem! reader

summary — you find bobby’s diary and you read it because you’re a nosy ass bitch (same). the first few pages start off sweet.. then it turns into him detailing his deepest fantasies and kinks. being an amazing girlfriend that you are, you decide to make his wet dreams come to life.

warnings — 18+, p in v, longing, romance, power play, bondage (you tie him up), he calls you ma’am, sub! bobby, face sitting, he cries, because of orgasm denial, praise kink, edging, unprotected sex, cursing, whimpering, aftercare ofc, breach of privacy ig but bobby doesn’t mind </3, HE’S A LIL DYSLEXIC BUT THAT’S OKAY

a/n — this man is so adorable nd i will not stop saying that.

You weren’t trying to snoop.

But Bobby was at practice and the late afternoon light was spilling into his room like honey. You came to his house a bit earlier than expected and his mom let you in. You were mostly on your phone in his bed, waiting for him and rolling your eyes at the way he never properly organized his drawers. The drink in your hand managed to somehow slip a bit out of your grasp, ending up in your shirt being soaked and a quiet “Fuck.” from you.

You decide to take one of his shirts and that’s how you find it, tucked under a stack of old shirts, navy blue cover, slightly frayed on the corners. A small, unassuming notebook, nothing labeled, nothing flashy. If it weren’t for the way it had clearly been shoved deep into the drawer, you might not have given it a second thought.

But it was his and Bobby wasn’t a notebook guy. He barely remembered to take notes in class. The boy lived in the moment, by instinct, sunshine and impulse.

So you paused. Sat down on the edge of the bed with it in your hands. Thumbed through the edge of the pages. You almost decided to respect his privacy but you were pretty curious.. And you opened it.

Page one.

Small, slanted writing. You recognized it immediately. His lowercase i’s dotted with soft little circles. The first sentence made your heart stutter:

“She’s so pretty I think my chest hurts sometimes.”

You blinked.

The page creaked as you turned it slowly.

Page two.

“Today we made pancakes and I forgot the butter but she kissed my cheek anyway. I think she likes the way I say her name. I hope she never stops saying mine. She told me I smell like summer. I almost said 'I love you' right then. I almost said it. what if she knew. what if she knows already."

Your fingers tightened slightly on the edges of the paper. You could hear his voice in your head, saying these things softly into the air, never brave enough to tell you aloud.

Page four.

There were doodles here. Little hearts. A sketch of your initials and his, inside a lopsided heart.

Page ten.

This one was more chaotic. Scratched-out words, half-sentences, like he’d been writing in a rush, mid-feelings.

“She wore that dress again. I coudnt stop stareing. I hope thats okay. I wanna tell her how much I think about her but— idk. What if its too much?? What if Im too much. I just... I think about her so much. Its probbly weird. GOD. Im so dumb.

That last one made your chest ache. You could see him writing it; brow furrowed, lip caught between his teeth, pen trembling slightly in his hand. You flip through the pages, staring at the messy scribbles. At all the pieces of him you hadn’t seen, his quiet wonder, his soft obsession, his boyish insecurities tucked behind every lovestruck line.

You should’ve put it down. Should’ve respected his privacy. Left it tucked under his shirts where he thought it was hidden.

But it’s Bobby.

Your sunshine-soft, broad-shouldered golden retriever of a boyfriend. The boy who looks like he got lost on his way to football practice and stumbled into your life instead—blinking, blushing, and absolutely at your mercy.

And he writes about you like he’s never loved anyone before. You flip ahead. Later entries. The pages are more worn there, messier. Like he couldn’t write fast enough.

“She wore those little shorts today. I couldn’t think straight for the rest of the afternoon.”

“She streched stretched and her shirt rode up. I almost moand moaned (I’m writing this fast, okay?) . What is wrong with me.”

“She sat in my lap and kissed me like she knew what it does to me. (She knows. She definitely knows.)”

You do. Of course you do.

You felt the way he tensed when your thighs brushed his. You heard the way his breath caught when your fingers slid into his hair. The little gasp when you tugged.

You flip again. This one’s messier with little hearts scrawled in the corner, your name in the margins like a chant.

“Last night we… god. I can’t even write it. I came so fast. She didn’t laugh. She just smiled. Like she liked it.”

“She said I sounded pretty when I whimper. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“She called me a good boy today and I got all flustured—flusttered?? flustered. That looks wrong. whatever. She made me dumb."

Another page. You’re in too deep to stop now.

“She sat on my face. I thought I was gonna die. (Best way to go.)”

“She said I was good. Said I made her feel amazing. I’ve never been prouder.”

“She tilted my face up and told me to look at her. I almost cried.”

You bite your lip. Hard.

Because God, this boy. This sweet, overstimmed, desperate-to-please jock who writes about you like you’re his religion.

He still hasn’t come into the room.

You can hear him come home though, footsteps in the kitchen, the soft clink of a glass, probably drinking straight from the jug like always. You’ve got seconds. Maybe a minute. And that diary? Still open, still bold, still begging to be read.

So you turn one more page.

It’s the last one.

No date. Just a smear of ink at the top where he must’ve pressed too hard with the pen. Like he sat there for a while, hesitating. Like he didn’t know how to start. Like the words felt too heavy to say out loud but not too heavy to bleed onto paper.

Eventually, he starts.

"Idk why Im writing this. maybe bc I cant say it. not yet. sometimes I think abt her tieing my wrists. I dont think she knows how bad I want it. I want her to pin me down. not like—rough, just… like, on purpose. the way she looks when she’s serious. fuck. I like when she tells me what to do. when she touches me like I’m hers. like I belong to her. I wanna beg. I think I’d be good at it. is that fucked up? I just— idk. I wanna be good for her. I’d do anything if she just told me to."

The same boy who blushes when you call him pretty, who can’t stop kissing your neck when he’s flustered and here he is, writing about being ruined with that same gentle reverence. Your fingers drift down the page, following the curve of his scrawl like a lover’s touch.

Then, another line, ink heavier here. Like he stopped, then came back, needing to get this next part just right.

“I think I want to call her ma’am. Just once. See what she does.”

You pause. Then grin. At the bottom, scrawled like he ran out of nerve halfway through:

“I hope she NEVER!!! reads this.”

Too late, sweetheart. But it doesn’t feel like crossing a line. It feels like entering a home you already lived in.

Because this isn’t snooping. This is knowing. And now you know it all; the want, the fear, the desperate little pieces of him he was too shy to say out loud.

And the best part?

He doesn’t know you want it, too.

Not yet.

You glance toward the door. Still no Bobby. Still distracted.

Good.

You reach for his pen, flip to the back page, and write in neat, steady script:

“You’re already mine. But if you call me ‘ma’am’ again, I’ll make sure every page you wrote turns into a memory you beg to relive. Sound fair?”

You place the book exactly where you found it and lie back on the bed like nothing happened. When Bobby walks in a minute later, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, hoodie clinging to his broad shoulders, unknowing.

A day later you’re in your apartment. It’s barely noon when you hear the knock. Soft. Hesitant. Like he considered backing out halfway through and only knocked because momentum carried him.

You open the door and there he is.

Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, cap low on his forehead, cheeks burning red. He’s not even looking at you properly, just staring somewhere near your collarbone like it’s safer.

“Hey,” he mumbles. Voice thick, like it got caught in his throat on the way out. “Uh… hi.”

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, lips curled in something far too close to a smirk. “Hi, baby.”

That makes him flinch adorably.

He shifts his weight, sneakers squeaking faintly on your floor, and then lifts his hand to scratch the back of his neck. “I, um…” He swallows hard. “So. About the—the thing.”

You blink slowly. “The thing?”

His face goes redder.

“The… diary. I know you read it.” He glances up at you, then away again just as quickly. “The.. thing you wrote in it—I can’t stop thinking about it and I—uh. I just wanted to say—”

You tilt your head, pretending not to notice the way he’s squirming. “Wanted to say what, sweetheart?”

He whines. Not loud. Not on purpose. But it slips out.

“I wanted to say I didn’t mean for you to read all of it but I’m also glad you did and I’ve never been this embarrassed in my life and also you looked really good when I came in and then when you left I went to write something about it and then I saw it and I kind of haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

It all spills out in a rush.

You watch him. Calm. Patient. Hungry, maybe, in that slow-burning kind of way.

Then you step aside.

“You wanna come in, baby?”

He nods. Fast. Practically trips over his own feet doing it.

You close the door behind him. Then lean close, breath warm at his ear.

“I liked reading it, Bobby. You write about me so pretty.” You brush your fingers along his jaw, feel the way he tenses. “Next time, don’t hide it in a notebook. Just tell me.”

He makes a sound. Something between a whimper and a sigh. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know whether to pull you close or bury his face in them and disappear entirely.

You take his hand instead. Lead him to the couch.

“Let’s talk, golden boy,” you murmur, tugging him down beside you. “Starting with that little ‘ma’am’ fantasy…”

And just like that, Bobby folds again; soft, sweet, and utterly yours.

The couch isn’t even that comfortable, but Bobby doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy looking at your mouth like it’s the answer to a question he hasn’t dared to ask out loud.

You’re straddling his lap now. Your fingers trace up under his hoodie, skating along the warm skin of his sides, and the way he shivers? Delicious.

“You sure you’re ready to talk, baby?” you murmur, voice low. “You came all this way blushing like I’d eaten you alive in your sleep.”

His breath hitches. “I—yeah. I just. You said—”

“I know what I said.”

You reach behind you, grab something from the little drawer by the couch. A soft length of black fabric. The moment he sees it, his eyes widen.

“Color?” you ask gently.

He nods. “Green.”

You take his wrists, bring them up above his head, and tie them. Not tight, not mean.. just enough. Enough to make his breath catch and his shoulders roll against the cushions like he’s already overwhelmed. He’s blushing so hard it reaches his ears.

“You think you’re good at begging, huh?” you tease, leaning down until your nose brushes his. “Wanna show me?”

But he can’t answer. Because the second your mouth touches his, everything else disappears.

It starts soft, just lips brushing lips, slow and lazy. But you deepen it fast, pulling a little whimper from his throat as you kiss him harder, as your tongue licks into his mouth like you own it.

His hands are twitching in the restraint, hips shifting beneath you, needy and trembling and utterly lost in the way you’re kissing him like you’ve been starving for this.

You pull back just a breath, barely enough to speak.

“You know what I read in that diary, Bobby?”

He nods, pretty green eyes glassy.

You press a kiss to his jaw. “I know everything you want now.”

Another to his throat. “And I plan to give it to you.”

Then you drag your teeth lightly against his neck, and he gasps; head falling back, wrists straining just a little, mouth parted like he’s waiting for more.

God, he’s beautiful like this. Tied up and melting for you.

Bobby’s wrists are still tied above his head, fabric snug but not cruel. He could pull away if he really wanted to. But he doesn’t. Not even close.

He’s flushed completely. Neck, ears, chest under that hoodie. You’re slowly grinding in his lap, one hand braced on his chest, the other cradling his jaw, keeping him right where you want him.

You murmur against his lips, “Such a good boy… letting me kiss you like this.”

He whimpers, tries to kiss back harder, but you pull away just enough to keep control.

“Ah, ah,” you whisper, pressing your thumb under his jaw to tilt his face up. “Let me lead, baby. That’s what you like, isn’t it?”

His eyes flutter, and he nods, whispering, “Y-Yeah.”

You kiss down his neck, slow and wet, just to hear the sounds he makes when you drag your teeth across his pulse point.

“You’re always so eager,” you murmur against his throat. “So soft for me. You wrote about it like it’s your biggest secret—but it’s written all over you, sweetheart.”

He lets out a shaky breath, tied hands flexing above his head. “I—I didn’t know you’d ever actually…”

“Oh, but I am.” Your voice drops, lips ghosting up to his ear. “And I want to hear you say it. That word you like. Come on, Bobby.”

He freezes. Swallows. Whines.

You kiss the corner of his mouth again, sweet and slow. “Say it, baby. Be good.”

His breath hitches. Then, barely above a whisper:

“…Ma’am.”

You melt.

“Good boy.” You crush your mouth to his again—hotter this time, rougher, your tongue licking deep and slow, like a reward.

He moans into you, every muscle under you trembling. You kiss him until he’s breathless, until all he can do is squirm and gasp against your mouth like he’s about to cum just from the way you’re talking to him.

And when you pull back, finally, you let your thumb trace his spit-slick bottom lip and say softly—

“Next time you say that, I want it with confidence. Understood?”

He nods fast, panting, wide-eyed, completely undone.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bobby’s wrists are still snug in the soft restraint above his head, and when you guide him down so he’s laying on the couch, you do it slow like you’re tucking something precious into bed. Because you are.

He watches you with wide eyes, breathing ragged, lips kiss-swollen and still trembling from your last command. His chest rises and falls in quick, eager little stutters, and there’s this look on his face like awe.

You kneel over him, hands braced at either side of his head, letting your weight settle onto his stomach first. Testing. Teasing.

“Still with me?” you murmur, leaning in close.

He nods, quick. “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

Oh, he’s learning.

You smile and kiss the tip of his nose. “Good boy.”

Then you shift. Just enough for him to get the idea.

And when his breath catches, when he finally realizes what’s happening, when his lashes flutter and he tilts his head back like he’s ready to *devour* whatever you give him?

You take your time.

You hover just above his face at first, one hand reaching back to stroke through his hair, the other resting on your own thigh for balance. His hands are still tied. His eyes? Blown wide. Pleading. Desperate.

“You wanna be good for me?” you ask, hips rolling slow and deliberate as you sink down just a little closer.

He gasps. “I do. I—please.”

You hum. “You know what to do.”

You give him what he’s been begging for, lowering yourself onto him until his lips touch your folds.

He moans into you, like he’s overwhelmed just by the taste of you, by your weight on him and the way your thighs frame his face. You keep your grip gentle in his hair, your voice a soothing rhythm of praise between every twitch and cry he lets out.

“Aah.. fuck— That’s it, baby,” you whisper. “So good. So eager. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

He nods into you and you smile. He’s eating you out like it’s his last meal; eyes closed, head tilted slightly back, his hands forming fists and his hips bucking up ever so slightly.

His mouth is a mess against you, so needy, like he’s trying to make up for every second he hasn’t been here. You’re calm. In control. Sitting pretty right over his mouth while your hand reaches down, trailing over his stomach until your hand goes into his boxers and your fingers wrap around his cock.

He moans against you at the first touch. The sound vibrates through you.

“Mm,” you murmur, voice smug. “You like multitasking, huh?”

His hips twitch up and you laugh softly, stroking him once from his base to his tip, slow.

“You’re doing so well down there,” you whisper, thumb teasing at the tip. “But don’t get greedy.”

He whines. You feel it in the way his mouth falters, like he can’t decide where to put all that desperation. It’s thick in his breath, in the tremble of his thighs, in the way his hips roll up into your touch like he needs more.

You stroke him again and again, just enough to push him to the edge and then let go.

He moans, frustrated, panting against you.

“Aww,” you coo, grinding your hips gently back down onto his mouth, “that close already?”

His reply is muffled, frantic. You can feel his tongue working harder, more desperate now, trying to stay useful even while you toy with him like he’s your favorite thing to play with.

“You know you’re not allowed to finish yet,” you say softly, reaching down again, stroking just enough to make him tremble. “You’ll wait. You’ll take care of me first.”

Another edge. Another release. His body arches, breath ragged, and still he keeps going, broken open beneath you with his wrists tied and his pride forgotten.

“Such a good boy,” you whisper, voice like velvet against the haze in his head. “You’ll keep going, won’t you? Even if I make you wait all night.”

And from beneath you, voice wrecked and whiny and so sweet:

“Yes, ma’am.”

You shift off of him slowly, lifting your hips with deliberate care. His lips are slick, his cheeks flushed, eyes wide and already glassy. Bobby’s a wreck beneath you, chest heaving like he’s been sprinting, not worshipping you for the last however many minutes.

You trail your hand along his jaw, tilting his face up so he can look at you.

“You did good,” you murmur, letting just a hint of sweetness slip into your voice. “Really good.”

He tries to say something; thanks, a plea, your name maybe.. but it comes out breathless and broken. He’s too far gone. Perfect.

You drag your hand down his chest, over his stomach, until your fingers wrap around him again, just a teasing stroke now, but even that makes him jolt. He’s right there. You know it. You’ve kept him teetering on the edge for so long, the tension wound tight in his body like a live wire.

And that’s exactly how you want him.

You rise up over him, straddling his hips and guiding him between your thighs as you sink down on him so he feels every second of it. His mouth falls open, a choked gasp slipping out as his head tips back against the couch pillow.

“Mm-mm,” you warn, your hands pressing gently to his hips to still him, “don’t you dare finish.”

He nods desperately, but you know better than to trust him now. He’s too wound up, too lost in you.

So you lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper:

“You don’t cum inside me. Understood?”

He shudders. Whines. Nods again, frantic.

“I mean it,” you murmur, rocking your hips just enough to feel him repeatedly twitch inside you. “You lose control, and we won’t continue. Understood?”

You sit up again, spine straight, thighs tightening around him as you start to move; measured, controlled, every motion designed to ruin him. His eyes roll back, his mouth drops open, and he’s already trembling like he’s going to break.

You know he won’t last long. You’ve got him wound tight, every roll of your hips hitting just right, every soft command dropping like lightning in that overheated head of his. And Bobby? He’s gone.

He’s moaning loud, not even trying to hold back anymore, gasping your name with that helpless, shaky edge. He knows he’s not allowed to finish and can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Please,” he whimpers, eyes glassy, blinking fast, “please, ma’am, I—I can’t, I’m—” His words dissolve into another moan as you move just right, and that’s it.

He’s crying.

Soft, desperate tears slip down his cheeks, frustration and need twisting through every line of his body. He’s still trying so hard to be good for you—tied up, trembling, flushed pink all over—but he’s breaking.

And something melts in you. You lean in, one hand brushing his damp hair back, the other resting over his chest to feel the way it rises like he’s just run a marathon.

“Hey, hey, look at me, baby” you whisper, voice gentling. “You’re doing so good. So damn good.”

His lashes flutter. His breath hitches.

You kiss his cheek, your thumb swiping away a tear as your hips keep moving but slower now, more intimate. “You wanna come, baby?”

He nods hard, almost frantic. “Yes, ma’am—please, I c-can’t hold it—”

You smile against his skin.

“Okay, sweetheart,” you breathe, lips brushing his ear. “You can come. Go ahead. Let go for me.”

The sound he makes isn’t even a moan, it’s a sob punched out of him as he finally, finally tips over the edge. His whole body arches beneath you, hands pulling against the restraints just for something to hold, and he shatters with your name on his tongue.

You ride him through it, tender now, holding him through every twitch and gasp, whispering praises into his ear.

“Good boy… That’s it. You did so good for me. So pretty when you cry, baby…”

He’s still shaking. Not from fear, not from pain but from the way you unraveled him. From how hard he came. From how deep you had him.

You’re already moving gently, even as his chest rises and falls in stuttering waves. You untie his wrists with careful fingers, not saying a word yet, just pressing soft kisses to the skin once it’s free. You bring his hands to your mouth and kiss each one, like you’re thanking them for holding on.

He blinks up at you, eyes still glassy. There’s tear tracks drying on his cheeks and the sweetest kind of vulnerability in the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the sun and he’s not sure if he deserves to be this warm.

“You okay, baby?” you whisper, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead.

He nods. Then hesitates.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Just… holy shit.”

You smile, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Holy shit good?”

A soft laugh bubbles out of him, exhausted and wrecked and full of adoration. “Yeah. So good. I—I think I blacked out a little.”

You laugh too, pressing a longer kiss to his lips this time, slow and soft and full of promise.

You help him sit up, wipe him down gently, every touch a quiet reassurance. And when he starts to shiver, whether from the crash or the vulnerability, you don’t ask. You just wrap him in your arms and pull the blanket around both of you.

He clings. Melts into your chest like he always does, like your body is home and safety and everything good all at once. One of his hands finds your waist. The other tucks under your arm.

You rub slow circles into his back, nuzzling into his hair.

“You did amazing,” you murmur. “Took everything I gave you. So proud of you.”

He buries his face into your neck. “I just wanted to be good.”

“You were,” you say. “You are. Always.”

A beat of silence. Then, quieter:

“I cried.”

You smile into his hair. “I know.”

“You didn’t make fun of me.”

“Why would I?” you murmur. “It just means you trusted me enough to fall apart. That’s everything, Bobby.”

And for a while, you just hold him.

No teasing. No tension. Just skin and warmth and safety wrapped in the sheets between you… Of course, that didn’t last long.

He’s half-asleep when you say it and you’re playing with his hair, light little twirls between your fingers, when you lean down and whisper against his ear:

“So… gonna write about this one in your diary?”

Bobby stiffens. Just slightly.

Then he groans.

You feel it vibrate against your chest. “Oh my God” he mumbles, dragging a hand over his face. “Can we not talk about the diary right now?”

You smirk. “What? I’m just wondering if tonight’s going to get its own page. Maybe two. Little hearts in the corner again?”

“I knew you saw those,” he mutters, face burying deeper into your neck.

You laugh, absolutely delighted. “Bobby, you drew my name in the margins. With a crown on top.”

“I was feeling inspired,” he says defensively, voice muffled by your skin.

“Aww,” you coo, grinning. “You gonna write “she made me cry and then held me like a princess’ orrr…?”

He groans again, but you feel the smile he’s trying to hide against your collarbone. He’s blushing so hard it practically radiates heat.

“You’re evil,” he mutters.

You kiss the top of his head. “Yup. But you love it.”

He doesn’t argue.

He just snuggles closer.

...Which is basically a yes.

So yeah, this one's definitely getting a page.

[reesereadsalot]

Reader is the daughter of a ranch owner. She’s secretly pregnant and already married to cowboy!Rafe who put a ring on it the second he found out (mostly because a) he doesn’t want his boss, said ranch owner, to kill him and b) he knows that reader has been desperate to break away from her overprotective father and gave her this out. Told her he would protect and support her choice no matter what she chose to do about the baby.)

Maybe her family finds out because her niece overheard and accidentally blabs to the whole family not even knowing what she’s saying and they have to deal with the fallout.

They really are in love and willing to try and make it work for their family.

Thank you for the request! I’m going to release a follow up further into readers pregnancy with cowboy!rafe soon!

cowboy!rafe when you wind up pregnant . . .

warnings: swearing, yelling

word count: 575

When you found out you were pregnant, the last thing you expected was for Rafe to suggest marriage. You were practically breaking down in front of him when he told you.

“Getting married?” You echoed his words in a question.

“Well, I’m not gon’ let you have my baby without a ring darlin’.” Rafe told you his southern drawl was even more prominent.

“My dad is going to kill us, mainly you.” You joked to him, but Rafe’s face went pale.

“Let’s not tell him so soon, yeah?”

“I agree.” You had said to him.

Now you were here, getting eloped, secretly you might add. You didn’t want an extravagant wedding or something big, you just wanted it to be Rafe and you. He liked that idea. He also liked not having to tell your overprotective father even more.

You knew you could’ve gotten an abortion but it didn’t feel right to you. Rafe—of course—would support any choice you made. But, you were actually happy to have a child with him. It was going to happen sooner or later anyway. He was it for you. And you were it for him.

All of your secret happy thoughts came crashing down when your niece who is the sweetest little thing blabbed at the dinner table. Rafe was here. You had talked earlier today too.

“What are you going to name your baby, y/n?” Your niece, Isabella, asked you. You froze, face paling. You were only two months along. You had married Rafe a month ago. You weren’t showing at all. How did she know? You looked over at Rafe who had the same look that you had on your face.

Your dad hated Rafe, hated him. But, he tolerated him for you. His pride and joy. He was so overprotective at times it aggravated you. Why couldn’t you date anyone without judging him? Rafe was more than perfect to you and he dismissed that.

“What?” Your dad snapped, whipping his head to look at you. You didn’t know what to say. You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “Spit it out girl.”

“Daddy—“ You said, ready to say some excuse but your father interrupted you.

“Are you pregnant?” He asked harshly.

“Surprise.” You whispered with a sad smile.

“Are you serious? Is it Rafe’s?” Your dad was getting louder now. You nodded, eyes in your lap. Tears were forming in your eyes. Damn hormones. “You’re not even married!” Father yelled. Your head snapped up and his eyes widened.

“You are?” He asked quietly, glaring at Rafe.

“Daddy, you have to know—“

“When were you going to tell us, huh? Just be married and pregnant and hold it off? Are you fucking kidding me?” He yelled, his fists pounding on the table. You flinched when his fist hit the table, shaking it.

“Sir, we were planning on telling you—” Rafe tried to de-escalate the situation.

“I’m not talking to you, boy.” Your dad looked back at you. “You’re so young.”

“I know daddy, but we’ve been planning,” you looked at Rafe and he nodded for you to continue. You looked back at your father. “We’re prepared for a baby.” Your father didn’t look convinced. “And—and we love eachother very, very much. So much. We can do this.”

“I just can’t believe this.” Your father mumbled, raking a hand through his tousled hair. Rafe placed a hand on your thigh. A silent reassurance.

You were ready for a baby and you weren’t going to spend forever convincing your father.

[sugardollcurse]

Could you do a john x reader where the readers the bands assistant and at first he cant stand the reader but slowly falls for them?<3

𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 | john lennon x reader

𐙚 summary ; john thinks you’re uptight, nosy, and irritatingly good at your job. you think he’s an arrogant, lazy sod with a nicotine addiction. somehow, falling in love happens anyway.

𐙚 note ; i love this dynamic. john being emotionally incompetent!!?? yeah i’m gonna eat it up xoxo

“Tell ‘em to piss off, would you?”

You weren’t even fully in the doorway before John had flung that at you, voice echoing over the piano keys like he was hoping it’d bruise on impact. You blinked, unfazed, balancing the clipboard against your chest like a shield.

“They’re your interviewers, not mine.”

He slumped deeper on the bench. “Don’t care. They’re wankers.”

Paul looked up from the mixing console, brows lifted, waiting. You didn’t flinch. The stack of studio notes in your arms didn’t either. George was half-asleep on the floor, eyes shut and legs crossed, clearly trying to pretend none of this was happening. Ringo was eating crisps behind a partition. John hadn’t even acknowledged you yesterday. Today, he was yelling before you opened your mouth.

“Lovely seeing you too, Lennon,” you said flatly, brushing past him to drop the notes on the table. “I’ve got the revised track timings, the itinerary for tomorrow, and a list of people you’re allegedly supposed to be nice to this week.”

“You’re one of them?”

“Not a chance.”

Ringo snorted. Paul grinned.

John looked up slowly. He had the cigarette still dangling from his mouth, barely lit, and his eyes were bloodshot behind those stupid yellow glasses he wore indoors. You didn’t know if he was drunk or just pretending to be, but either way, his glare slid down you like he was trying to x-ray you for weaknesses.

“You’re that new one,” he said, like it was an accusation. “The one with the attitude.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who called me a parasite on day one.”

“I said the lot of you were parasites. Don’t get big-headed.”

“Thanks for the clarification.”

He sneered. You smiled. There was no real heat behind it, just the static of two sharp things scraping too close together. You turned on your heel and walked out before he could say something clever.

The door clicked shut behind you. He exhaled smoke through his nose and muttered, “Who hired that one?”

“You did,” Paul said, laughing. “Well. You insisted you wanted someone who wasn’t a ‘yes man.’”

“Well, fuck me, I got one.”

You started seeing more of John after that, unfortunately.

He was always the last one out of the studio and the first one to pick a fight. When things went wrong, he found you. When things went right, he found someone else. But you started noticing patterns in his tantrums. He only really snapped when he hadn’t written anything good in a while. When he walked in silent and stiff-shouldered, he’d pick a fight within the hour. When he was buzzing, humming with ideas, he barely noticed you were there.

Sometimes he’d mutter lyrics to himself. You started jotting them down without being asked.

“You writin’ down my thoughts now?” he barked one afternoon, catching you scribbling something about “a fish and a god and a yellow sky.”

“No,” you said, “just your ramblings. Figured I could blackmail you someday.”

He stared at you, lips parted around his smoke. Then, to your surprise, he grinned.

“…you’re mental.”

You shrugged. “So are you.”

That grin stuck with you longer than it should’ve.

You caught him watching you a few days later. Middle of the afternoon, everybody out for lunch except the two of you. You were going over press releases on the floor, cross-legged, red pen tucked behind your ear. You felt his gaze before you saw it.

“You gonna keep staring or help me highlight?”

He didn’t blink. Just sat there with a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, arms crossed, and said, “You talk to me different than the others.”

You looked up. “Yeah?”

“You don’t give a toss.”

“About what?”

“Me.”

You stared at him for a beat. Then went back to your notes.

“I give enough of a toss to keep your schedule from collapsing. Anything beyond that’s a risk to my mental health.”

He laughed, soft and throaty. “See, that’s what I mean.”

“You want me to care?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Just...” He squinted at you. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

“I’m scared of things, sure,” you muttered, underlining a sentence. “Just not irritable Liverpudlians.”

“You should be! I bite.”

“You sulk.”

His mouth twitched. You didn’t look at him again, but you felt the tension shift. He didn’t leave the room. Didn’t snap. Just sat there, quiet. Thinking.

He started asking where you were.

He never did it directly, John Lennon wasn’t sentimental, obviously! But when you were late to the studio one morning, he cornered Ringo.

“That assistant of ours, yours, where’d they go?”

“Dentist,” Ringo said through a mouthful of toast. “Why?”

“Just noticed it was quieter.”

“You miss ‘em?”

“Miss the arguments,” John muttered. “S’good for the blood.”

When you came back, he didn’t say anything, but the whole day passed without a single insult.

You almost missed them.

It was late when it really shifted.

A Friday. Rain slicked the windows, and the others had left hours ago. You were still fiddling with the week’s expenses when you noticed him, curled on the couch with his guitar across his lap, staring at the ceiling.

“You’re not playing anything,” you said, not looking up.

He didn’t answer right away, just kept flicking the strings with a pick he wasn’t really using. Lazy. Aimless. His foot tapped, heel against the couch cushion, and you were about to repeat yourself when he muttered, “Yeah, well, maybe I’m just sittin’ with it.”

“With what?”

He glanced over, hair falling in his eyes. “The fact that we’ve written the same fuckin’ song four times this week.”

You laughed under your breath. “You’ve said that every week.”

“Yeah, and it’s true every time.”

You stood, stretching your arms over your head. “Want a drink?”

“No.” He shifted, leaned back against the couch, fingers now just resting on the strings. “Don’t want much of anything, really. Not when I’ve got three producers tellin’ me which note’s best and a tape operator breathin’ down my neck.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“It is hell,” he muttered. “But it’s also... I dunno. Not like I’d be anywhere else.”

You crossed the room and sat near the end of the couch, not quite close enough to touch. “You like pretending you hate it.”

“I do hate it.”

“You love it.”

He narrowed his eyes, flicked his gaze at you. “You don’t know shit.”

“Mmhm.”

He sighed, dramatically. “Can’t even sulk in peace around you, can I?”

“Nope.”

“Fucking menace.”

You smiled at the floor. Then, quieter, “You want to talk about it?”

He arched a brow. “Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s chewing on you.”

He sniffed, scratched his temple. “It’s called a band.”

“You’re the one who insisted on staying this late.”

“And you’re the one still here, clipboard-for-brains.”

You flicked a crumpled receipt at his knee. He swatted it away.

“Listen,” he said after a moment, voice slower, less sharp, “not every night has to end in an epiphany, y’know. Sometimes a bloke just wants to sit and be miserable in peace.”

“You’re doing a fantastic job at that.”

He glanced at you sidelong, and for a flicker, just a second, you thought you saw something like relief pass over his face. Like your refusal to pry too deep was the nicest thing anyone had done all day.

He shifted again, looser now, guitar across his lap like a blanket instead of a shield.

“You’re not bad, y’know,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

You sat back, eyes squinting like you were analyzing a riddle. “You mean that as a person or as an assistant?”

John lit another cigarette. “Either.”

“Wow,” you said, mock-dramatic. “Praise from Caesar.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

━━

You started noticing when he didn’t fight. That was the real tell. The days when John just sat at the piano and let his fingers drift across the keys, absentminded and raw, were worse than when he exploded. The quiet was heavier. Less self-important.

One evening, you came in early. Thought you’d beat the morning circus. Instead, somehow, you found 'Mr. Lazy Always Getting Everybody Late TO EVERYTHING' already there, coat still on, hunched over a notepad like it had done something to offend him. He didn’t hear you at first.

“I thought geniuses slept in,” you said, setting your bag down.

He looked up, startled. “Thought assistants knocked.”

“I did.”

“Not loud enough.”

You shrugged, crossed the room to refill the empty kettle. “You ever try just writing something bad to clear the pipes?”

“I don’t do bad.”

“You do nothing, though.”

He glared. “Helpful.”

“You’re welcome.”

A pause. Then: “You always this bloody cheeky, or just when I’m creatively constipated?”

“Must be something in the air.”

He huffed, but didn’t argue. When you handed him a cup of tea, he took it without comment, and for a few breaths, you both stared at the same spot on the carpet, neither talking.

It started happening more often, these accidental mornings, these in-between moments. You’d linger after hours finishing paperwork, and he’d drift to the couch and play the same three chords over and over, cigarette burning down in the ashtray. Sometimes you’d catch him tapping lyrics into the notepad with the end of a pen like he was interrogating the paper itself.

Once, he asked you, “What rhymes with ‘anhedonia’?”

You blinked. “Is that even a word?”

“Apparently.” He groaned and dropped the pen. “I’m a fraud.”

“You’re a rich fraud.”

“That doesn’t help.”

You chuckled. “Try ‘California.’”

He snorted. “Too obvious.”

“You asked.”

Later, you caught him using it. Not the rhyme, but the word. In a line buried two stanzas deep in a demo you weren’t supposed to hear. He hadn’t told anyone he was recording again.

“Thought you were dried up,” you said when you passed the booth the next day.

“Must’ve found a better muse,” he replied, eyes fixed on the console.

You froze for half a second. He didn’t look at you.

After that, the air changed.

You never talked about it. But something unspooled between you, less tension, more elasticity. He got less cruel when he was angry. You got less guarded when you were tired. You shared biscuits, half-hearted complaints, knowing glances when the press came sniffing around. Once, he asked you to help him smuggle a reel of rejected mixes out of the building because he didn’t want “the bloody suits” to have final say.

“Is this legal?” you asked, holding the bag like it might explode.

“No, but it’s funny.”

“You’re going to get us fired.”

“You’d land on your feet.”

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Some nights, you stayed too long and forgot why. He never told you to leave. Once, you fell asleep on the studio couch with a file folder on your stomach. You woke up to find a blanket over your legs and a fresh cup of tea on the floor beside you, still warm.

Another time, you had a headache and couldn’t shake it, couldn’t focus, couldn’t listen to one more half-formed chorus. John took one look at you, cursed under his breath, and tossed you a packet of paracetamol from his bag like it wasn’t weird he’d thought to keep some.

“You’re just trying to keep me working,” you muttered.

He leaned on the wall beside you, arms crossed. “Can’t keep up without your clipboard, can I?”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll think you miss me when I’m gone.”

He didn’t respond.

━━

The next day, you were balancing a stack of mail and two chipped mugs of tea, trying not to trip over a stray cable someone had left running across the hallway, when the door creaked open behind you.

John slipped in like he'd forgotten how to use hinges, quiet but not subtle, wearing the same rumpled button-down from yesterday, collar askew, one sleeve halfway rolled, as if he'd started getting dressed this morning and lost the thread halfway through.

You didn’t even turn.

“You’re late, again” you said through clenched teeth, edging toward the table where you could offload your cargo. “I was five seconds from drinking your tea out of spite.”

“Oi,” he said. That voice of his, thick from sleep or smoke or both, caught the back of your neck like a hook. “You got a minute?”

You raised an eyebrow as you finally set everything down, the mugs clinking onto the desk, the mail sliding half-off the edge. “What, did I schedule you too tightly again? Paul complained about-”

“Come with me to dinner.”

You froze halfway through straightening the mail. Looked up. “What?”

“Dinner,” he repeated, scratching the back of his neck like he wanted to claw something out from under his skin. “Out. With me. Food.”

Your head tilted. Your lips didn’t move yet. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You stared, one hand still on the tea, the other on a stray letter addressed in unreadable handwriting. “You're asking me out?”

He looked like he wanted to choke on his own tongue. “M’not askin’ for your fuckin’ hand in marriage, am I? Just-Christ, yes, alright. Asking.”

He said it like it physically hurt. Like the sentence was too intimate to wear in daylight.

You swallowed a laugh that was mostly disbelief. “I thought you hated eating in public.”

“I do,” he said. “Figured we could both suffer.”

For a second, you just stared.

There was something wrong about how still he was. No quips. No fake bravado. Just the jaw tight, his fingers twitching like they hadn’t decided yet whether to brace for mockery or a punch. He wasn’t doing the Lennon thing, wasn’t posing, or smirking, or sneering. He was just...waiting.

And it hit you then, how rare that was.

You glanced down at your clipboard, just for the sake of something to look at that wasn’t him. Then you plucked the pen from behind your ear, flicked it open, and started scribbling.

He blinked. “What’re you-”

“Adding it to the schedule.”

His mouth twitched, curved, slow and crooked like it couldn’t help itself, even if the rest of him was still holding its breath. “Suppose that means yes.”

“Don’t be late.”

He turned to leave, half a smile still on his face.

And just before the door swung shut, you called after him, “Wear a clean shirt this time, yeah?”

He shrugged you off without looking back.

You grinned to yourself and sipped your tea.

God help you.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince, @emz2092

[barnesmutt]

tease him

perv boss!bucky x perv employee!reader ᥫ᭡.

fic warnings: smut, nsfw content, groping, no protection, slight power dynamic, mentions of y/n, p in v, f!reader, not proofread.

kinda part 2 to the blurb, didn’t know what direction to take it

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀

your mind had been elsewhere, especially today, 3 days ago around lunchtime everyone was over-poured with work, you had already finished yours for the day, thus-far trying to help others, your coworker had asked you kindly to make coffee in the lunchroom, slightly rushing you had knocked a container of creamer over, increasingly frustrated your breath picked up before your boss, james, walked up behind you. pressing his pelvis against the back of you, grabbing the creamer and cleaning it up. “i’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

back to the present, today was practically the dead opposite, only half the workers really needed to come in, it was a quiet day and your mind was racking the entire time, especially being near bucky, his cologne only sending you straight back to the other day.

you wondered if he did it on purpose, jutted his hips against you in the middle of the day, just to throw you off. maybe he thought-

a snap of fingers in your face draws you out of trance. “hey? are you listening to me?” he groans at you, pinching his brows together. “i’ve been talking about our plan for 10 minutes, what planet are you on?”

“i-i’m sorry sir, i just didn’t get alot of sleep and-“

“sure you didn’t.”

slightly startled when you look up, he’s refusing to break eye contact, his breath heavy.

“stay late tonight, come to my office before you head out.”

that night, around 9pm, your heart racing as your last coworker says bye, grabbing her bags and leaving, you glance around, the lamp still on in buckys office, blaring thru the curtains. before you can even knock he cracks the door, waving you in desperately.

the second you’re inside his hands are around your hips tightly, staring down at you intensely.

“you gonna tell me why you’ve actually been walking around like you’re drugged, y/n?”

“I don’t k-“

“stop. don’t lie to me.”

“I just haven’t been getting rest, y’know stress and all sir..”

“it isn’t cause you felt how fucking hard i am for you?”

the silence instantly drags on, he should’ve known your throat would go dry.

“come on, baby, you’re always so good for me, don’t lose it now, is that why? you can tell me.”

despite your better judgment, and the fear of him firing you. (which he would never do anyways, not to his best girl as he calls you.) you nod, too nervous to look up at him.

“good, you know how hard it is to hold back when i see you? you weren’t wearing a bra that day.”

“i- huh?” you stiffle out, completely oblivious.

“yeah baby, running around helping everyone, could see your fucking tits thru that blouse all day.

so,, it was on purpose, he was doing it to fuck with you.

you’re bent over his desk, papers and pens scattered across the floor, a broken mug.

he’s fucking into you, raw on top of it, your skirt ridden up and your panties around your ankles.

he slaps your ass with one hand while speeding up, the other groping your chest. groaning loud enough you can tell he’s been dying to be inside of you.

“you’re the biggest fucking tease ever, think i can’t tell when you pout your fucking chest forward, i can see when you stare at my bulge baby, not even fucking trying to hide it.”

oh he was so right, you were just as sick, you even stole one of his ties before when everyone went home for the day, excusing “it’s okay, i can close up” just to press it against your face while fingering yourself.

on the other hand, currently he’s fucking losing it at every noise you make, rubbing your clit till you cum on him, which doesn’t take long before you breakdown. whining to himself anytime you twitch, sweat pooling on his forehead as his hand pushes you down roughly, spilling inside of you.

“ohhh fuckkk me baby you’re so good-“ he whines out shakily, panting in your ear and wrapping his arms around your stomach to keep you held up.

that night he ends up driving you back to his house, collapsing in bed with you after making you tea, contently falling asleep on him, trying to forget you literally just had sex with your boss.

—————

i need to recreate secretary (2002) with him..

also i hate this and wanna cry convince me it’s good before i lose it

[biteofcherry]

Not a proposal

part of Unbreakable Ties

mob boss!Curtis Everett x female reader

summary: A direct follow-up to this bit that started the whole universe of dark mafia boss Curtis. You're taken to Curtis' home - your future home and argue with him about his choice of a wife.

warnings: dark and soft-dark elements; arranged marriage; forced marriage; threats; dominant and possessive behavior; Curtis is too damn smart; also who doesn't love to live a spoiled wealthy life; brief mention of breeding kink

Author's Note: I had this scene in my head forever, but somehow couldn't get around to write it. Until today. Just sat down to it at morning and ten hours later here we are 😅

Curtis Everett Masterlist

Full Masterlist

Curtis Everett was a scary motherfucker.

For many, his position as the head of the mafia was enough to deem him dangerous and terrifying. His orders were behind many lost lives, disappearances, blown up places, companies going forever out of business.

Yes, that was enough to consider him scary.

But as you sat in the back of his car, eyeing him from the corner of your eye, you knew there's more to be afraid of.

Until today, you thought yourself to be disinterested in him and the aura surrounding him. Of course, being connected to the mob web, you were aware of who he was, how he looked, and how he operated. But you were rarely at the events he frequented. Your family was in the mafia, but not on the upper levels, not in the inner circle that would grant you such nobility.

Well, until he dropped the bomb with his decision to fucking marry you.

Out of all the available, better matched mafia princesses.

That term might suit you in the general way - a girl who was brought up in the mafia; but it wasn't a category you'd put yourself in as an adult woman.

The fact you were mostly on the outskirts of mafia social life was one of the reasons. All the more making the whole situation unbelievable, that Curtis would for some reason choose you.

This unpredictability, as well the fact he appeared to be two steps ahead with every move, made him that scary motherfucker in your eyes.

Lack of physical violence against you (aside from being tossed over his shoulder and carried to the car) was surprising, too.

Your father and uncle might have been good men when it came to treating women, but there were enough disgusting scumbags in the mafia who raised their hands on their wives or daughters. Who held them hostage in abusive households, while wetting their dicks in diamond-encrusted bitches that dared to look down on those scorned women as if they were better.

Yet, something told you Everett, despite being the law when it came to the conservative traditions gluing this dark world, wouldn't raise his hand on you.

Even as he hoisted you over his shoulder, he was careful with his force.

Oh, you hated him at that moment. So much. But a slightly breathless thought passed your mind when he put you in the backseat of the car.

That Curtis Everett was a man.

As primitive as it sounded. Shallow, too. Still, you couldn't stop that fleeting thought that no man before him was able to just lift you up.

Well, not the men you dated, anyway. Aside from a short fling with one of the young mafia soldiers back when you were barely eighteen. After that, your choices have been guys outside of the famiglia.

Nice guys. Charming, non-threatening, with safe passions and gentle hands.

For so long, you told yourself that's what you wanted. That's what was healthy and normal. You were still convinced of that, it's just that some part of you liked the brief moment of being manhandled by an imposing, lethal man.

A man sitting next to you in the confines of a heavy black suv, with his legs spread wide, tattoos crawling up his fingers from beneath the cufflinked sleeves of a pristine steel gray shirt paired with an equally dark suit.

In the small space of the backseat of a car you could smell his perfume. Pine and herbs and salty sea.

Funny, you would expect that the ruthless devil at the head of the most powerful mafia to smell of grime, gunpowder, and death.

Taking a deep breath, you smoothed out the fabric of your dress over your knees.

"I really think this is the wrong choice." You spoke up, keeping your voice confident, but not daring.

You had the will to fight for yourself, but you were aware of the workings of the world, especially this criminal one. There were repercussions for everything and it'd be stupid to think you could get away with disrespecting the fucking Don.

You also liked living, so you had no intention of chewing through your own arm just to get free, like a caged animal.

Curtis' pointed a single finger at you.

"That is exactly why you're the perfect choice." He said, with the same calm, polite finality he was talking with at the dinner at your family's place.

"What?" You frowned, confused. "The fact I don't want it?"

"No. Because you are furious, but able to control yourself. Because, despite trying for many years to stay outside of mafia workings, you know how to play that game."

"If you want a smart wife, I assure you there are quite a few to choose from. Not every mafia princess is a spoiled, stupid bimbo." Which wasn't their fault, either. It was how they were raised.

Who knows, maybe if your dad was up in the ranks and more influential, you too would be groomed to be a completely docile, sweet mouse.

"Each woman brings different advantages." Curtis said, not the least remorseful.

"I don't come with many," you countered.

Your family was a part of the mob. Your father, his brother, your brother and your cousins. They all were on mafia payroll, though they dealt with a small part of the whole crime machine.

Their influence and wealth were slightly above compared to middle class civilians, but not much compared to mobsters of higher status.

Besides, it's not like Curtis needed more money. He had the most of all.

Power, too.

"I disagree." He surprised you with his simple but genuine statement.

"But let's continue this at home." It was that moment you realized the car had stopped and you reached the destination.

Home. Curtis used that word purposely. Not his place, not inside the house. He called it home, reminding you of the inevitable fate.

As you stepped out, the materialistic part of that future spread before you in its glory.

The mansion was impressive. The grounds surrounding it, as well. Not a monstrosity, but a surprisingly warm classic, like an Italian villa. You bet there was a swimming pool.

Damn, you loved swimming. And sunbathing. And sweet cocktails.

You shook your head, getting yourself back on track as Curtis' hand touched your lower back and nudged your forward.

Inside, the interior was welcoming and stunning. You half expected an overabundance of gold and kitsch, but was greeted by classic comfort. This was a place that could really feel like a home, not just a statement on status.

Curtis guided you to a spacious room in which a wall of windows was interrupted by a massive, stucco fireplace.

"You may claim to be insignificant or not belonging, but I see it quite differently." Curtis opened a small wine fridge in the custom made bar and poured two glasses.

He handed you one.

"I'm confident in my worth as a human being," you took the glass from him. "But I don't see reason behind choosing me for a mob wife. For you out of all!"

If some soldier working under a Capo wanted to ask for your hand, it would be more believable. More likely a situation to fight and decline, too.

But the boss of bosses staking claim? Unbelievable.

Inevitable, too.

"Hmm, the Don is usually expected to marry for alliance." Curtis agreed. He stood opposite of you, neither of you sitting down. "However, at the moment, I'm in no need to form an alliance. Don't need to support the power using outsiders."

"What I'm in need for is to strengthen inner structure."

You took a sip of wine, mostly to wet your lips and throat.

"Okay, I get wanting to marry a daughter of your own men." You nodded in return. "It provides them with honor and respect, while further securing their loyalty to you. Still, it doesn't-"

"Lower ranked can be the weakest links when it comes to loyalty, but your family has been spotless for many years." Curtis explained.

"I don't believe you made that choice just to reward my family." Curtis may have been an honorable man, as far as criminals went, but even he wouldn't make such a big gesture for an insignificant last name.

"I didn't." He took a sip of wine, and you couldn't help but watch the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

"Your family's so called reward will echo through all the ranks."

Curtis' eyes glinted something cold and calculating. Instead of being only scared, you found yourself intrigued by the plan he was weaving.

"For the others on lower level it will mean hope for their potential promotion in the future. That their daughters will marry to higher ranks, or sons given positions under Capos."

"Sons... you mean my brother will-"

"He'll be working under McGregor." Curtis confirmed, the corner of his mouth curved into a smirk. "And with that new prestigious position and connections, he will get the hand of Giana."

It was shocking that the Don himself knew of such minor, gossip-level things like a foot soldier being in love with Capo's niece.

"Moreover, it will shake the upper ranks." Curtis continued in the same calm tone, only his eyes betraying heightening triumph.

"And sometimes, when you shake a branch, bad fruit falls."

Shit! He truly was two steps ahead. Of everyone.

Your breasts rose up in a quickened breath. You had a certain weakness for intelligence. A dose of fear spiked anew, too, for it meant Curtis definitely had a counter argument to every point you might roll out.

"If it comes to it, you'll find out which of your ups are greedy and power hungry enough to betray you." You concluded with a nervous swallow.

Curtis only nodded, taking another sip of his wine. Taking you as his wife wasn't just a whim for him, even if some might see it as it. Actually, it served him well, if most of people remained clueless.

"As for you," the cold in his eyes transformed into something ravenous that almost made you take a step back, "before you list me names of other unmarried girls from lower ranking families..."

You really were ready to come up with some propositions.

"You're fit to play the game and be a rightful queen by my side. Smart, confident, brave. And-" he sighed with relief- "a woman, not a child barely out of age."

Pressing your lips together, you almost laughed at his clear discomfort at the prospect of marrying and fucking an eighteen year old. You'd give him a point for that.

"What about the part of me not wanting to be a mob wife?" It had to be the wine that made you ask so boldly.

Or, perhaps, you were slowly accepting the unchangeable fate and merely poking at the bear.

"I would call it bullshit." Curtis shrugged.

"Excuse me?" You bristled.

You took a few quick steps over to the coffee table to put your glass down, then braced your hands on your hips. Curtis didn't move from his spot, only turned around to face you.

"You paint this picture of someone who's been trying to cut ties with the mafia, but you're still here. Sure, we can discuss how you'd probably be chased and brought to heel, but-" slowly, he took another sip of wine, completely unbothered- "would you, really?"

Before you opened your mouth to retort, he continued:

"You're very smart and resourceful, know how to talk people up and make connections. If you were truly determined to get away from it all, you would. And we probably wouldn't find you."

"Honestly, it's possible we wouldn't even put much power behind that chase. A daughter of a lower ranking mobster, we'd do it for the sake of your family's name, but named the case cold after a few weeks."

Your pulse quickened with annoyance. At his words, but more at the truth he was revealing and which you knew at the back of your head. Because, if you put all your effort into disappearing, you'd fucking succeed. For-fucking-ever!

"Still, you stayed." Curtis' voice was a smooth blade, cutting off your armour piece by piece.

"You ventured outside the lines of mob's web with your dates, but never formed close friendships with those not from the famiglia. Perhaps you'll claim it was to keep people safe, but I wonder if it wasn't because you feel more at ease with those who understand this life. Who understand certain comforts, dangers, and... cravings."

Your blood rushed south, pooling heat in your core at the mentioned thrill.

"You went all bold with the degree unusual for most mafia princesses to choose, and I admire that. Yet, here you are, not looking for a job in that field. You upgraded your family's small business, but it's nowhere near what you're qualified to do."

Because you wanted to be different. You wanted to be more than just a mold everyone else was cast from. You wanted to sate your ambitions and stimulate your brain.

At the same time, you couldn't imagine not being at your family's cafe.

"Actually-" Curtis paused to put his own glass on the table and took a step towards you- "you don't seem to have been doing much different things than other mafia princesses."

"You work more, yes. You spend less, yes. You don't frequent many brunches and cocktails, only Carmella's monthly spa spree. But you eat only at mafia owned places. You participate in Fiore's and Layton's community cookouts."

You wanted to scream at him that you supported the community, nothing else. But was it the sole truth?

It was also a habit. And, somehow, a distaste for anything that wasn't from the world you knew.

You could also admit that you acted spoiled on rare occasions. You couldn't afford to buy only brands, or to splurge on three bags full at Sephora. And you were fine with it. Still, you bribed Sabrina at Claude's boutique, to put away for you that short, pale pink faux fur they had in the upcoming order list.

Curtis' gaze slowly slid down your body then up again. It wasn't lecherous, yet felt like a dark promise of devouring you whole.

"Maybe you don't like to be called that, but you are a mafia princess. And you can be swooped away by the mafia king."

"You have it all figured out, don't you?" You huffed, frustrated with losing all reasonable arguments, beside just pure spite.

"Yes." He didn't gloat, he simply stated.

"Well, you haven't even really proposed! No getting on one knee and offering a ring!" You blurted out, throwing your hands in the air.

Mirth formed soft wrinkles around Curtis' eyes. His mouth widened in a grin that balanced between amusement and a shark's bite.

"Because it's not a proposal."

No, it wasn't. Proposals had the option of refusing. He wouldn't accept yours. Already didn't. It was quite magnanimous of him that he even entertained the whole discussion on the matter.

"But if it matters to you so much-"

His hands gripped your hips in a flash. He lifted you, so easily once again, then tossed you onto the sofa.

The world spun, before your gaze settled on the light wooden beams crossing the pristine white ceiling. Then your eyes shifted to look at the man hovering over you.

He pushed your legs apart, kneeling on the floor between them. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box.

Your pupils widened, and breath hitched in your chest. Though you weren't sure if it was because the motherfucker was clearly prepared for an actual traditional proposal, or if it was because of the way he had you splayed under him.

Curtis opened the box and a setting of blinding stones sparkled at you. The ring was stunning. Possibly worth half of this mansion.

You gaped as he took the ring in one hand. With his other, he lifted your hand, which somehow felt beyond your control. Slowly, he slid the ring onto your finger, all the while holding your gaze.

"I won't ask if you marry me, because you will." Curtis rubbed your knuckles with his thumb.

His other hand moved to your chest. Fingers brushed over the swell of your breasts then circled your throat.

"In six months." He leaned down, his voice lowering into a purr as he laid each new tile of your fate for you.

"Official announcement comes next week. We'll host the annual Christmas party for the famiglia as an engaged couple. A few other events before our spring wedding."

He pushed closer. You felt the heat of him between your thighs. Your clit throbbed with interest. His fingers on your neck tightened slightly and your pulse quickened beneath his thumb.

"I won't fuck you until our wedding night. I'm traditional like that. Plus, I don't want anyone to have any doubt about me choosing you. There won't be any claims that I did an honorable thing after knocking you up."

There was a mention of condoms at the tip of your tongue, nearly rolling out in a begging tone.

"Because when I fuck you-" his breath tickled your lips as Curtis leaned closer- "you will take me bare. Always. In every hole. You will leak with my cum and swell with my child."

Your pussy clenched around nothing.

The gasp that fell out of your lips wasn't of an outrage, nor mortification. Curtis read it for the need that it was, his eyes igniting with victory.

He slid his hand up your neck, until his long fingers bracketed your jaw. He held you in place, with a dab of force to remind you that he would always be holding the reins, even as his mouth took your lips in a soft, sensually maddening kiss.

[abigailovesz]

firstly, i love your writing so much ⭐️

secondly, could i request a drabble/story (whatever you think suits better) for a jj x reader where maybank will literally steal anything and everything just to see her smile - like maybe one day, he sees like a balloon for children at one of the shops and js steals it even though its a literal children's balloon

a/n: this is so cute! tysm for the request and sorry it took a little long

jj had stolen a lot of things in his life - wallets, sunglasses, chips from convenience stores, the occasional six pack from the gas station when he thought no one was looking.

but today? today he stole a balloon.

a pink one. heart shaped. floating a foot above the ground, still tied to a string that used to be in the chubby hand of a five year old currently distracted by a cotton candy machine and a balloon animal guy twisting a giraffe.

he looked around. no witnesses. then again, jj never cared much for witnesses anyway.

he strolled back toward you, who was sitting on the bench near the carousel. your legs were curled under you, and your eyes lit up the second they landed on him.

well, until they dropped to the balloon.

jj stood in front of you with a stupid little grin, holding it out like it was a diamond necklace and not something he may or may not have just snatched from a literal child.

you blinked once. again. then your lips quirked. just a little smile.

"really?" you murmured, taking the string between two fingers.

jj shrugged one shoulder, trying to look cool. “It was just sitting there. lonely. begging to be liberated.”

your eyes stayed on the balloon for a second, then flicked up to his.

“you’re a menace.”

“your menace, so its fine right-”

Instead of scolding him - like you usually did with that whole "jj, seriously, stop stealing. like actually." tone - you just leaned up on your toes and kissed him. a quick, gentle press of your lips to his. like it was nothing.

jj blinked when you pulled away. “wait,” he said slowly, voice almost confused. “that’s it? no lecture? no ‘dude, don’t steal from literal children?’”

you smiled again, holding the balloon closer to your chest.

“nope.”

and jj stood there, stunned silent for a second, before a crooked grin stretched across his face. “damn,” he whispered. “I should steal balloons more often.”

[jinxposting]

Two Of A Kind - chapter 2

Mohawk Mark x Jinx! reader

Taglist: @1abi @mexxs-xs

"... y/n?"

You feel like you were just drenched in a bucket of ice water. You held your breath for a moment before it came back out shaky. In and out, faster and faster. You didn't think, you just acted.

You raised your pistol to the alternate Invincible. A soft whir could be heard as the device powered to life.

"How do you know that name?"

The man stared at you. His eyes only glanced at the weapon once before returning to your face. He wasn't the least bit perturbed by the threat. Instead he continued to gape at you, disbelief etched in his features. He raised his hand towards your face again but you quickly stumbled back, your gun remaining fixed on him. Logically you knew the chances of it doing any notable damage to him were slim to none. But you weren't being logical right now.

Your whole body was shaking with rage and a sickly embarrassment. Every fiber of your being was screaming to kill this guy. Even if you knew you couldn't.

"Tell me!" You demand again.

He continues to stare but you can see his eyes searching you. Analyzing. Looking for something. You assume something he couldn't find, given the bitter chuckle that escapes him. He closes his eyes for a minute and when they reopen they feel different. Tired, maybe.

"That's a long story."

"Give me the Cliff Notes."

He sighs, a sullen smile hardly masking a pained expression. "You told it to me." You must have looked as confused as you felt because he was quick to elaborate. "The you in my universe."

His eyes were unfocused, gazing off into the distance. "In my universe we met in college. I was struggling to pick a major so I snuck into a few classes to see if anything caught my attention. Then one day I snuck into Mechanical Engineering. Honestly I didn't understand much of anything." His face softened. "Then I saw you. You were so fascinated by everything. The way you'd light up whenever there was some kind of demonstration was so..."

He took a deep breath before continuing. "Anyway, you were super smart. But whenever math was involved? Forget it. You were immediately checked out." He laughed wryly. "So I figured that'd be my excuse to get to know you. I offered to tutor you and you accepted."

You let the information sink in. Or at least tried to. How were you supposed to react to that? Oh cool, this mass murderer and I were besties in another life. This is very normal.

While you were busy processing this new knowledge the alternate Invincible cautiously approached you. "Wait... What are you called here?"

"Huh?"

"You acted like I stabbed you when I said your name. Did you change it?"

You blinked. With a sigh you finally lowered your pistol. "Jinx. That's what I'm called now." You fixed the man with a deep glare. "So do not call me y/n. She died a long time ago."

He was taken aback by that. His eyes squinted in thought, a mix of confusion and hurt painted his face. "What does that mean?"

"Long story."

He smirked. "Give me the Cliff Notes."

You hated yourself for smiling at that. You shook your head in an attempt to mask it but judging by the man's beaming expression you failed.

"Not anything special. Had a shitty childhood, became a terrorist, almost died, got experimented on, and here I am." You shrugged.

"... Okay, I'm gonna need more than that."

"Too bad. I don't make a habit of spewing my guts to strangers."

"Strangers? So we don't even work together in this world? This place just gets lamer and lamer."

"Sorry to burst your bubble but I don't even know your name. Hell, before today I didn't know what you looked like without the mask."

He gave a smug look, leaning in closer. "Oh? And do ya like what you see?"

"Pfft! Don't flatter yourself, pretty boy." You rolled your eyes.

"So you think I'm pretty."

"I might be crazy but I ain't blind."

The man stared at you in shock before he turned away. A hand over his mouth disguised what you presumed to be a smile. "Just as blunt."

"What?"

He cleared his throat. "Nothing." Turning back, you now had a full view of his lightly flushed cheeks. Cute.

"Mark, by the way."

"... Mark?"

"My name. Use it."

"Alright, Mark," You tested the new name on your tongue. "What exactly are you and your... clones? Associates? Whatever. What are you guys doing here?"

His smile fell for a split second - imperceivable to most - but quickly returned. "We each made a deal with this guy who can open portals. We help him with his revenge and we each get something we want."

You waited for him to continue but he didn't seem too keen on sharing details. Still, you had to ask. "And what do you want?"

Mark hummed. "Originally? New worlds to conquer." You attempted to school your reaction but knew you failed at the sound of his laughter.

"You should see the look on your face!" He cackled.

"How do you expect me to react to that?!"

"Well, in my world you were pretty open to the idea. I mean- Don't get me wrong. You had more... righteous motivations than me but you were still down."

You were prepared to argue but it didn't take long for a revelation to dawn on you. Would you be opposed to world domination? You did want to dismantle the current government and justice system. All the systems had to be reworked, really. And if you were given the opportunity to do so, why wouldn't you?

"Hm... Yeah. That sounds like me actually."

Mark gave a proud grin. "So...?"

"So?"

"Join me."

"Join you? In what? Getting revenge for some guy I don't even know?"

"No, join me in conquering worlds!" He grabbed your free hand with surprising care. Pulling you in closer, he rested your palm against his chest. "Think about it. You hate working for those asshats at the G.D.A. right? And if you're anything like my version of you - which I know you are - you hate how things are run in this world. Just imagine what we could do together."

This wasn't right. You knew it wasn't. The crazed, borderline manic look in his eyes was enough to tell you this was wrong. But it was hard to see it through the hope and desperation that was equally evident. Both in him and you.

You weren't dumb, you knew he was using you as a surrogate for an alternate version of yourself. One you could only assume was long gone. You knew he was projecting a memory of someone else onto you. Yet you couldn't bring yourself to fault him for it. His honeyed words held truth to them. You did hate this world. You always had. And the promise of being able to reshape it in your own ideals? Who wouldn't be tempted.

Several emotions were whirling inside you. Elation at the thought of achieving your life's goal. Resentment that someone knew you so intimately despite having just met. Fear that once he realized you weren't the same person he knew he'd abandon you. Disgust in yourself for even caring.

You closed your eyes and breathed. You felt the thump of Mark's heart against your palm. The gentle yet firm grip he kept on your hand. Steeling your nerves, you opened your eyes.

"You know I'm not her. I'm not... y/n."

The excitement in his eyes dulled. His fervor dissipated like smoke. Solemnly, he nodded. "I know." He rested his forehead against yours.

"Everything you remember about her, everything she knew about you... Those memories aren't mine."

"... I know."

A soft breeze blew past you. It was calming in a melancholic sort of way. Mark's eyes were closed. Those dark circles beneath them somehow appeared deeper now. He was grieving all over again.

"I never went to college. Can't even begin to imagine a life where I could. I'm probably not as smart as she was. Or nice. I'm probably a worse person through and through." You holstered the gun you'd been holding up until now. You raised your newly free hand to cup Mark's face. "Knowing all that. Would you still want to know me?"

He opened his eyes. Dark and swirling with just as many conflicting feelings as your own. Mark stood there, silent, for a long while. You didn't rush him either. Eventually he mimicked your gesture and brought his hand up to your cheek.

"Always."

[callsignpxnguin]

Hey I was wondering if fic reqs are open? If so, would it be possible to request a John Price x wife!reader, where wife is dealing with serious stress/feelings of insufficiency at work? I’m really struggling w it rn due to something an ex said to me recently (hence the ex)

If reqs are closed then no worries :) Thanks either way!

Fic reqs are most definitely open! And that’s actually a really sweet idea, so allow to me to indulge haha... (but sorry that happened and glad they’re now an ex, hope you’re okay and feeling better xx)

John Price and his Stressed Out Wife

John wasn’t a man that lived in luxury.

That much was obvious in a lot of his aspects, like his uniform treatment of everyone, regardless of their social standing. Or his job, which often required months of sleeping on the floor. Or even just his general reluctance to spend more than he had to on himself.

However, he would admit that over the years he had slowly gotten used to returning home from deployment to a sparklingly clean home, a hearty meal, and a beaming wife. One of his few indulgences, if you would. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve to relax every once in a while.

And today, it was almost like normal — when he walked through the door, he was greeted with the sight of a spotless hallway, and the heavenly aroma of what could only be a feast wafting up to him enticingly.

The only problem was, when he pulled off his shoes and walked into the dining room, beaming grin on his weary face, there was no you to welcome him back.

He blinked in confusion, assuming that you had popped to the bathroom or something, and called out, “Sweetheart? I’m home!”

From upstairs, locked away in your bedroom, you froze — tears still streaming down your flushed face. You thought you had more time. More time until your husband arrived home to find you curled up and sobbing on the bed.

You quickly sat up and wiped at your cheeks furiously. You knew him too well — which meant you knew he’d absolutely call the police if you didn’t appear in the next few minutes.

“Coming!” Was the only response you could manage.

Your voice was a little hoarse, and shook at the end, but it sounded normal enough — and thankfully didn’t make the state you were currently in obvious, even to your scrutinisingly protective husband.

John instantly relaxed. “Okay, sweetheart,” he grunted back up, but there was a dopey smile on his face as he awaited the arrival of the sole person he had ever loved.

You slowly straightened, and tiptoed to the bathroom to splash water on your face and wipe your running nose. Immediately, excuses popped up in your head.

‘Got into a family fight…’

‘Neighbour’s cat died…’

’My TV show finished…’

When so many came to mind, you almost snorted. You could say anything convincingly enough, and he’d believe you. People cried over lots of things. You didn’t have to reveal to him what really caused your restless nights and constant anxiety.

It was stupid, anyway.

And so, with a deep breath, you turned to leave the bedroom, going down the staircase until you reached the bottom, where you ended up face-to-face with your husband.

You froze. Unfortunately, your attempts at calming yourself didn’t work. Not a single one.

Because the minute he saw you, eyes still red and puffy, his once-beaming face dropped. “What happened?”

A weak laugh left your lips. “What do you mean?”

Use the excuses, use the excuses, use the excuses…

“Don’t play dumb with me, lovie. It may work in the bedroom, but it won’t when you’ve obviously been cryin’. What the hell happened?”

I can’t do this.

The façade couldn’t be held up any longer. You hung your head as hot, heavy, guilty tears once again welled up and streamed down your cheeks, as your body shook with the force of your silent sobs.

John immediately froze. “Oh, love…” Strong, warm arms were wrapped around you, one around your midsection and urging you closer, whilst the other cradled your head into his chest.

“I’m so u-useless,” you hiccuped, as he urged you down to sit on the floor in his lap.

“You aren’t useless. Don’t you ever say that,” he grunted, lips ghosting your ear with a kiss as he pulled you in even tighter. “You’re perfect. Who’s been telling you that you aren’t, hey?”

You sniffed. “You’re gonna be upset.”

He stiffened a little, but otherwise kept soothing you. “I can never really be upset with you, sweetheart. But I might be if you don’t tell me soon.”

Your breathing was unsteady.“It’s… it’s just work.”

You knew what he was going to say before he even said it.

”And I— I know I don’t have to!” You quickly cut him off, before he could respond with his usual spiel. “I know… you do enough for the both of us. But it makes me feel secure… even when it’s stressful…”

John sighed. You could tell he wasn’t the happiest man in the world, but still, his next words were gentle. “So, you’re sayin’ something — or someone — at work is being a cunt. And it’s really messing you up. That it?”

You nodded slowly, looking up at him from behind wet lashes soaked with tears.

He kissed your temple lightly, almost reverently. “I say you’re too good for them, but since you’ve made it clear you won’t change jobs, I can only offer moral support. That support being that I know you work so hard, and how you should know it’s okay to take a break and relax every now and then. If you never relax, then you can’t wake up refreshed, and that just carries into work and whatnot. Some sort of vicious cycle. So, that’s my advice — assure yourself of the work you do, and know when to stop.”

“How can I do that when you’re not here?” You asked quietly, still feeling your heart pounding in your chest.

He smiled warmly. “Sometimes we all have bad days. But my advice for that is to never think about it too much in the evenings, because you’ll always work yourself up, and tell yourself to save the worrying for the mornings. Because by the time you wake up, chances are, you’ve forgotten about it. But if you’re ever cryin’ like this again, always give me a call.”

“…Okay,” you whispered. “Sure. I’m… I’m sorry. This is dumb.” “Hey, that’s my beloved you’re insulting and apologising for. And they have done nothing wrong. Look at me.”

With a shaky breath, you met his chocolate gaze again, and his large palm went to stroke your cheek. “Everyone gets stressed. Everyone needs to talk about stuff from time to time. And I’d much rather you vented every day to me than bottle it all up and end up in a state like this again, yeah?”

“…Yeah,” you repeated.

”That’s it. Now, I think you deserve to have some of that delicious food you made. I certainly wouldn’t want to waste that masterpiece.”

You squinted at him suspiciously. “Are you just saying that because you’re hungry?”

“Obviously. Please, lovie, if you don’t let me have some in the next minute I’m gonna melt…”

You giggled as he grinned at you, and kissed you quickly before pulling you to the dining room.

[phoenixblaze1412]

Thought on Dottore x wife and assistant fem!reader who is like... Working as a real preoperative nurse but shy with everyone and the surgery team so she quit and work for her husband instead because it's make her more comfortable, sorry i'm kind of a lil delusional here :')

Thank you for readingg! Have a good day<33

The antiseptic scent of the operating room never quite left you—not even when you were no longer clocking in at the hospital.

You had once been a pre-op nurse at one of the top medical centers in the country. Calm hands. Precise. Professional. But there was always one thing that shadowed your ability: people.

You could prep a patient blindfolded, organize surgical trays to perfection, but… speaking to the team? Being in that loud, fast-paced arena where every glance felt like pressure and every sentence felt like judgment? It wore you down. You hated the sound of your own voice in the breakroom. You hated the eyes, the expectation to keep up a social rhythm you didn’t know the steps to.

So when you turned in your resignation, you weren’t expecting anything but guilt.

What you didn’t expect either was your husband—Zandik, known to the world as Il Dottore—to offer you a new position. One he had never extended to anyone else.

“Be my assistant,” he said, expression unreadable, “You’re the only one I trust in a sterile field anyway.”

That was his version of affection. You’d learned to translate it.

—

Working in his private clinic was different.

Here, you didn’t have to speak to a dozen nurses or surgeons. Just him.

You handed him scalpels in silence. You organized his files, set up the tools, sterilized, documented, observed. You never had to talk if you didn’t want to, and he never forced you to.

To the rest of his surgical research team—fellow doctors, residents, biotechnicians—he was the usual Dottore. Cold. Dismissive. Borderline robotic.

“You’re dismissed.”

“I told you already. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“That level of incompetence would be laughable if it weren’t on my time.”

They feared him. Respected him. But no one liked him.

Except you.

And you were the only one who ever saw him pull off his mask at the end of a procedure, sigh, and ask, quietly, “Are your hands sore today?”

Or who felt his hand briefly graze yours during prep, a silent signal of reassurance—he was proud of you.

You were the only one who ever got to lean against him during break hours, his long fingers tangled in your hair while he scrolled through clinical reports with his other hand.

No one knew how gently he spoke your name when he thought no one could hear.

No one else had ever seen the way his tone changed entirely when you made a mistake—not sharp, not cold, but low and measured:

“You’re okay. You didn’t ruin anything. Try again, love.”

You weren’t sure when he started calling you that at work. “Love.” As if it were a secret only he could say behind the safety of closed doors and double-locked labs.

—

One afternoon, you stood by the surgical table while he wrapped up a long robotic-assisted demonstration with an audience of international fellows. Everyone had their questions, and his answers were clipped and scathing, unimpressed by their awe.

Then his eyes flicked to you.

You were standing behind the glass window, waiting for your cue to sanitize and help with cleanup. His gaze softened—not obviously, not something anyone else would notice.

But you noticed.

He nodded. Just once.

The signal was clear: You can come in now. It’s okay. You’re safe here.

You stepped inside, hands steady, chest calm. No fear. Not like the old days.

And as you passed by him to sterilize the console, his voice dropped, so quiet only you could hear.

“You did well today. I’m… glad you’re here."

Your face flushed. He didn’t look at you when he said it. But that was his version of a kiss in public. And it meant everything.

—

Later, at home, you curled up in bed while he reviewed reports beside you. You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Do you miss the hospital?” he asked.

“No,” you said truthfully. “Too many people.”

He hummed. “Good.”

You peeked up at him shyly. “You don’t mind working with someone like me?”

That made him pause.

Then he turned, gently tilted your chin, and kissed your forehead with surgical precision—soft, deliberate, and reverent.

“You are not someone like you,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re mine. And there is no one else I’d rather have at my side.”

[somedaylazysomeday]

Broken

Reader (no pronouns used, but reader has a vagina) x Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Captain Price (separately, but could be read as poly if you want)

Reader-insert character(s) deals with various symptoms of vaginismus with support from her boyfriend(s).

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 3,750

Warnings: Vaginismus (involuntary tightening of the vagina when anything is placed inside), frustration, self-loathing, disparaging self-talk, tampon use, discussion of periods, piv sex, sexting/video chatting, sex toy use, use of a vaginal dilator

NOTE: This is a very personal fic and probably won't mesh with everyone's idea of what the 141st would be like as partners. I read a fic similar to this one years ago (so long ago that I don't remember the author or even the fandom), but it made me feel so much less alone. I want to do that for someone else. Please, be respectful in your comments/reblogs or skip this one, friends.

Masterlist

---

You weren't sure which bothered you more - the humiliation or the waste of it all.

Tampons weren't cheap, and you had just gone through three. They were collected in the bathroom trash can, applicator tips bloodied and cotton in various stages of pushed out. You hadn't managed to get any of the applicators where they needed to be before your traitorous muscles had clamped down, keeping everything out.

You had cleaned up as best you could. Your hands were washed, your pants were up, and your pad was securely in place. There was no sign of your struggles, other than the discarded tampons and a few bloody wipes.

And your tears, of course.

Crying wasn't going to help any of it, obviously. If vaginismus could be cured with a good cry about it, you would have been able to put in a tampon years ago. And use that one vibrator you had bought when you were feeling ambitious. And have sex with your boyfriend.

Your incredibly kind, incredibly encouraging, incredibly patient boyfriend. Thinking about him made you cry harder.

The dating situation had been brutal. The instant your potential boyfriends had learned that penetrative sex was off the proverbial table - at least, for the moment - they had disappeared faster than you could say, "I give an amazing blow job."

But Simon had been unbothered. "'m too big for most women, sweetheart. Even if we never fuck, there are other things we'll like just as much."

He had been okay with the status quo since he had arrived in your life, but you couldn't help but feel like a failure. Like something was deeply wrong with you and that you were inconveniencing him. Why should you have a boyfriend at all if you couldn't have sex with him? Especially someone as wonderful as Simon. You were just keeping someone else from having him-

"You good?"

Simon's deep voice cut through the door easily. You knew that you had been in the bathroom too long for him not to notice, but you swiped at your nose and cheeks anyway. In a voice that was almost normal, you called back, "All good! I'll be done in a minute."

There was a pause just long enough for you to know that he hadn't believed you. Maybe your 'almost normal' voice had been less normal than you'd thought.

When he said, "Open the door, sweetheart," you knew he had you figured out.

Reluctantly, you opened the door, trying to act like everything was fine. Just a time-of-the-month cry. You'd been known to have one or two of those in the past.

"What's going on?" Simon asked, leaning casually against the counter. His gaze was far sharper than his tone, searching across your face as if he could read your mind through it. You wouldn't put it past him, honestly.

"Just a bad day," you explained away with a shrug. "My period is heavy today and I'm sick of it."

He hummed noncommittally. You took a few deep breaths, trying to get rid of your post-cry hiccups. While you waited for that to work, you dug for some hydrating lotion to soothe your inflamed face.

"Your bad day doesn't have anything to do with the tampons in the bin, does it?"

You glanced up, startled, and met Simon's eyes in the mirror. The knowing look on his face was tempered with an equal amount of sympathy, and you dissolved into tears again.

His arms were around you, holding you close as he rocked gently back and forth.

"I'm so frustrated," you explained when you calmed down enough to speak. "I've put in a lot of work to be normal and I still can't-"

"Hey," Simon interrupted. "Normal is bullshit and you know it. Everyone's got stuff they'd change. I know how much you've done. You can take one of my fingers now. You couldn't do that when we first started dating."

That almost made you cry again. "One finger. Why do you put up with me? There are other people you'd actually be able to have sex with. I don't want to hold you back."

Simon stared down, eyes going distant and cold in a way that reminded you that the Ghost persona was still in there. "Because I don't want another person. I'm not with you for the sex. If you want me to leave, you're gonna have to tell me. Don't pretend like it's something you're doing for my sake."

"I don't want you to leave," you admitted. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to stay with someone broken. Not when you could-"

His hand covered your mouth, brown eyes warm once more. "Enough of that. I'm not going anywhere. We both know this is how it goes. You get better for a while, then you have a setback. That's life."

You nodded miserably, but he didn't let you get away that easily. He caught your gaze again, amusement in his voice as he added, "'Sides, if I left, how could I find someone else who understands my jokes?"

You rolled your eyes, tugging his hand away from your mouth. "People don't laugh at your jokes because they're not funny, not because they don't understand them."

"Then why do you always laugh, sweetheart?" he asked, bending down obligingly so you could press a kiss to his lips.

The answer, of course, was that you loved him. And deep down, you knew that was the same reason he stayed.

---

"H- Uh. Wait, I need to… Let me just-"

Johnny withdrew from you, moving back enough for you to sit up. He flopped comfortably into the space you had just left, erection pressing against his lower stomach as you straddled him.

He knew about your issues. Some days, it wasn't a problem. Just a little extra foreplay and you were good to go. Other days, you had to get creative to keep sex from hurting. This was one of the latter.

Fortunately, Johnny was easy to please.

"Mmm," he hummed appreciatively, hands running up your hips to sink into the soft skin at your waist. "Can't say I'm upset about this view, hen."

You believed him. Johnny's expression was blissful as his hands kept moving upward until they were playing with your breasts. He was hard as ever. Clearly, the change in position hadn't bothered him any.

You held the base of his erection in place as you sank down onto it. Or tried to.

By your best estimation, you had just gotten the head of his cock inside of your pussy before your inner muscles locked down. The burning was actually worse in this position, and you paused, thighs screaming at the effort required to hold yourself halfway between kneeling and sitting.

"You're so tight," Johnny grunted, a blissful edge to it as his hands fell away from your breasts.

You caught one hand, pressing it back in place at your chest. He obliged you by tweaking one of your nipples. The sensation brought a fresh flood of wetness between your legs, and you sank a little further.

Then the pinch came, accompanied with burning so intense that you froze in place. It took an immense amount of effort to keep from tearing yourself up off of him. In fact, the major thing stopping you was that you were afraid it would hurt worse to feel his length pulling out of you.

"Hen?" Johnny was staring up at you, concern in his eyes. His hands had gone from your chest to your hips, bracing as if to lift you up.

"Just need… need a second," you insisted, hands grabbing his. You moved one back to your breast and the other between your legs. "Touch me a little more."

"Never a problem," he assured you, fingers moving dexterously to ease that horrible pinching in your pussy. "But we can stop if you need. I know being on top can hurt you if you're not-"

"I can do this," you insisted. Your optimism was slightly undermined by the way you gritted it out through your teeth. "I want to do this."

With the new wetness he had coaxed from your body, you sank a little deeper on Johnny's cock. The pinch came back with a vengeance, accompanied by a burning so intense that your legs stiffened on instinct. The feeling of Johnny tugging free of you was as bad as you feared, forcing a gasp out of you.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I just-"

"Easy there," Johnny soothed, catching at your waist and easing you to lie down on the bed beside him. "Everything is all right."

You nodded, afraid to say anything in case you started crying. To cover your welling eyes, you tossed your arm across your face. You tried to subtly wipe the tears against the crook of your elbow.

"Look at me, love."

The softness in his voice made you cry more, a tear slipping past the barrier of your arm.

"Hey, now," he wheedled, tugging at your wrist. "None 'a that. We tried something and it didn't work."

"I'm sorry, Johnny," you offered, letting him pull your arm away from your face. He clucked sympathetically, wiping at the tears. "I don't know what's wrong with me today. I can't-"

"Today?" he repeated with a snort. Your heart sank at the reminder that this was hardly rare for you. "I know exactly what's wrong with you: you don't let me do enough for you, you make me laugh when I'm raging, you always wear too many clothes for me to see your pretty body…"

You were smiling despite yourself and he leaned down to steal a quick kiss. "But if you're talking about this? Not a thing wrong, hen."

"Still, I'm sorry we had to stop," you said, smile fading under the guilt. "If you give me a few minutes, we can try again."

"Nah," Johnny said cheerily, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. "Was getting hungry anyway."

He wriggled his way down the bed until he was between your legs. You put your hand against his forehead when he tried to lick your pussy. He let out a grumble. "Just thought of another thing wrong with you, but we can fix it quick enough."

"I don't want you to just get me off," you protested. "I want to make you feel good, too."

"Don't think you understand how much I enjoy this, love." You stared at him stonily and he grinned. "If you wanted a taste, all you had to do was ask."

In a moment, he had flipped around on the bed and tugged you on top of him. Johnny buried his tongue in you, thumb flicking at your clit. You stared at his still-slick cock from point-blank range, mouth watering even as you groaned for him. The instant you caught your breath, you were going to make Johnny see stars.

---

"Miss you, love."

You smiled at the camera. "I miss you, too! Wish I could be there."

Kyle glanced over his shoulder as if he could see anything past the white-painted cinderblocks that made up the walls of the room. "Nah, you don't."

"Okay, I wish you could be here," you amended.

Kyle smiled, teeth flashing white in the darkness. "Better."

The silence stretched for a moment longer than was comfortable as you searched for something to say that didn't sound like you were pining away while you waited for him to come home. He wasn't even on a mission or anything vital - you would never be able to video call him if he were - just a routine training at another base.

Before you could come up with some brilliant conversational segue, Kyle leaned a little closer to the camera and flashed a charming smile. "Those pajamas look very uncomfortable."

You glanced down at yourself, unable to fight back a laugh. "These are my softest ones and you know it."

"Yeah, I do." For a second, you thought that would be the end of it, but he waggled his eyebrows - a habit he had picked up recently from Soap. "Must be whatever you've got underneath them."

"Kyle!" you admonished, feeling a little breathless with daring. "Aren't these connections monitored?"

"Yes, but how close are they really watching? It's a video call and it's not like we have enemies invading." Your expression must have looked totally unconvinced, because he brought out the puppy dog eyes. "C'mon, love. You don't have to show anything. I just want to hear you enjoying yourself."

You bit your lip. It was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea. You were just finding it a little difficult to convince yourself of that at the moment.

Less than two minutes later, you were fully naked under your sheets, phone carefully angled to keep yourself mostly hidden in the darkness. Kyle was far less worried about the potential of being monitored than you were, and the sight of his hard length was making your mouth water.

He had been murmuring sexy little things into the microphone long enough to push you toward a reaction. Normally, dirty talk made you cringe, but your body must have been particularly desperate for him. You were undeniably wet, fingertips slipping when you finally brushed them over your clit.

The gasp that pulled from you made Kyle groan. His hand closed around his cock, and his head kicked back at the friction of his own palm. "Use- ah. Use your rabbit. I know how much you like it. Not gonna last long. I want you to come with me."

Obediently, you retrieved the rabbit vibrator from the bedside drawer. You grabbed the small bottle of lube on reflex, but it was never a bad idea.

However, even after lubing up the toy and yourself, things were going poorly.

Your breaths were coming faster - not from pleasure, but frustration. The toy that you had taken so easily only days before just… wasn't fitting inside of you. You pressed harder, pushing out a breath to relax your inner muscles. All you got was an impassable pressure that threatened to turn into pain if you kept forcing it.

You turned on the vibrator to the lowest setting and ran the tip of it around your entrance. Maybe you could coax your pussy into relaxing enough… Even so, the thoughts wouldn't stop circling.

You didn't have much time with Kyle. He had wanted you to do this one thing and you couldn't. And what if there was someone watching? They couldn't see you, not really, but they would be able to tell that there was something wrong. Because there was something wrong. Something with you. Other women could do this. Most women could do this.

"Get out of that head, love."

Kyle's warning brought you back to yourself, helped you realize that only moment had passed since your pussy had locked down against the vibe.

"I can't get it," you admitted, hearing the defeat in your own voice. "It's just not going to happen today. I'm sorry."

"Stop that," he ordered. "I want to hear you come, love. Doesn't have to be on the rabbit. I don't care about how you get there, I just want you to feel good. Use your bullet, then. Nothing that pretty clit likes better than some attention."

You obeyed, reaching over to grab the bullet vibrator from the same drawer that had held the rabbit vibrator. Kyle groaned and you glanced back at the screen to find that the sheet had fallen away from your body. One of your breasts was visible in the dim glow of the computer screen, tightly budded nipple on full display. You snatched the sheet back up to your chest, but Kyle's eyes were fixed on the screen, hand moving quickly under his own blankets.

When you were settled back in place, Kyle leaned forward slightly. His pupils were blown wide and his breath was coming faster. You were sure you looked the same way.

"Now, let's get you feeling as good as I do," Kyle urged. "Let me hear you."

Your eyes closed as you pressed the buzzing silicon to your clit. Kyle wanted to hear you, and your body was only too happy to oblige as you hurtled over the edge and into a toe-curling orgasm.

---

You were having a lovely dream, but your bladder was prompting you to wake up.

You managed to push away the need once, twice… but eventually, you couldn't sleep comfortably.

Normally, getting up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night wasn't the worst thing. You fell asleep again fairly quickly, especially when John was there to keep you warm and cuddled. This time was a little different, and there were a few different steps you would need to take…

Just before you had gone to sleep, John had propped himself on one elbow, leaning over you and holding up your largest dilator. The bright yellow piece of silicon looked faintly ridiculous in his hand, and you found yourself glancing between it and John's eyes as you tried to figure out what was happening.

"Might fancy a bit of fun tomorrow morning," he teased. "Maybe you should sleep with it in so you're ready."

It was presented as a joke, the quiet amusement in John's eyes telling you that he expected nothing to come from it.

So, naturally, you had grabbed it from him and shoved your hand into your underwear. "Great idea. If nothing else, it'll make sleeping interesting."

John had taken it back from you immediately, sliding down between your knees and inserting it with a care that you were likely to skip these days. You had grown used to the dilators, and they didn't make you feel so achingly stretched anymore. The tenderness of John's touch made you melt all the same.

Despite what you had said, you fell asleep quickly and deeply. Your dreams, unsurprisingly, were horny and desperate, but no less deep. It had been - in short - an excellent night so far, but now your last drink was haunting you and you dreaded having to remove the dilator to use the toilet.

You laid there, half-awake and indecisive, until your bladder gave a firm throb of warning and you slid to the edge of the bed.

It was jarring when everything seemed to slide forward, but you recognized the arms that wrapped around you. John was forever a cuddler and he didn't take kindly to you leaving the bed in the middle of the night. He pressed an uncoordinated kiss to your temple, muttering something that might have been, "Where are you going?"

You wriggled a bit, trying to assure your body that you really were on your way to empty your bladder. "Bathroom."

It would be easier to take the dilator out in the light and privacy of the bathroom, you decided, and had started for the edge of the bed when John's arms tightened again. The silicon shifted oddly inside of you as John pulled one of your legs backward and over his hip, opening you up. Before you could protest, he snaked a hand into your panties and removed the dilator easily.

You were still gaping about the ease and painlessness of it when he patted you on the ass. "Hurry, love."

When you had finished relieving yourself, you stared at your reflection for a long moment. Surely John didn't want to have sex with you now, right? The dilator had stretched you, but not enough. Trying to take his cock now would hurt, plain and simple. Would he be upset if you told him you couldn't right now? Would he take it as a rejection of him instead of a request for more time?

You would just have to explain it to him, you decided, drying your hands and applying a thin layer of lotion. It wasn't as if John were the first boyfriend you'd had to explain this to. And if it went poorly, he wouldn't be the first one to get his feelings hurt by the situation.

A deep breath left you feeling calmer, but still dreading the conversation. You snapped the light off before you opened the door, hoping beyond hope that John would have fallen asleep again before you made it back to bed.

Not only was he awake, but he had switched on a light. In the warm golden glow of the bedside lamp, he lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head. The dilator was propped on his lower abdomen, rising and falling with his gentle breath. The slight movement made the light glisten off a fresh coat of lube. A bubble of laughter rose in your gut at the sight. The positioning of the scene almost made it look like he had a particularly unimpressive and fluorescent yellow erection.

When you made no move to come back to bed, John lifted his head to look at you. "Come here. We'll put this back in and go back to sleep."

Your relief at not having to explain your body to him made you lightheaded. You stumbled giddily back to the bed and scrambled onto it in an uncoordinated sprawl.

John leaned back onto his pillow and patted his stomach beside the dilator. "Need any help getting it back in?"

"I think I will," you said gravely, stopping his hand when he moved to pick up the silicon cylinder. "Keep it steady for me, won't you?"

With John's hand wrapped around the base of the dilator, you were free to move your panties to the side and lower yourself onto it. The position wasn't always something that worked for you during actual penetrative sex, but you liked that this was allowing you to control the pace. You were relaxed with sleep, an empty bladder, and laughter, and you found that the dilator went in without a problem.

When you were straddling John's waist, pussy pressed flush against his stomach, you looked down. John was chuckling back at you, eyes warm. "Proud of you, love. Let's go back to sleep, yeah?"

"Please," you agreed, laughing when he pulled your chest down to his, rolling you until he was happy with your position.

You ended up on your side, face tucked into the warm curve of John's neck. His thigh was firmly between yours, pressing the dilator into you. The resulting pressure against your clit sent little thrills through you even as you felt yourself slipping back into rest.

You couldn't wait for the morning.

---

Author's Note - I'm sure we've all seen the tumblr post about vaginismus and how isolating it is. If you skipped the note at the top of this fic, I read a similar fic a long time ago that helped me deal with my own stuff. I want to do the same for other readers.

If this was familiar, or you already know you have vaginismus, please remember that it doesn't define you. It is treatable with dilators and potentially physical therapy in certain cases. Find someone to speak to. Sex shouldn't hurt and you should be able to put in a tampon. And if you decide not to treat it at all, none of that changes your value as a human being.

Anyway, thanks for reading! :)

[aussie-engene]

Boyfriend!Sunghoon x gn!reader

Fluff

Warnings: kisses, guy is flirting with y/n, jealous Sunghoon

Sunghoon is the type of boyfriend that is taken as cold from strangers. Only people who have talked to him know that he isn't as cold as he looks. You, on the other hand, are pretty loveable from the start. You smile a lot, and people think that you're extroverted even if you're not, and that's what makes many people like you... or even...wanna flirt with you...

It was a warm Sunday morning. Today, Sunghoon was gonna take you out for a walk and get you ice cream just like always. You got ready and made sure to be extra pretty just for your loving boyfriend.

When the time came, Sunghoon texted you that he was waiting outside, and you sprinted to the front door.

Once you opened the door, you were greeted with the cutest smile ever. You melted on the spot. 'How can he be so cute~?'

"Hi princess." Oh, that damn nickname. It slipped so easily out of his mouth without knowing how much damage it caused to your heart

"Hello, pretty boy." You smiled at him as you stepped right next to him

"Ready to go?" He kept smiling, and you just stared at him features

"Baby" he chuckled. "Are we gonna leave, or are you gonna stand there and stare at me?"

"You're too handsome...can't help but stare" ooooh he was blushing. All because of a small compliment that was just pure honesty

He cleared his throat and gently took your hand in his guiding the way

"So how has your day been?" He asked just to strike a conversation

"Oh, you know, just woke up, couldn't wait to meet a certain boy... you know basic stuff. What about you?" You gave him a teasing smile

"Oh well, pretty much the same, got up and wanted to see a certain smiley face"

"Cute~" You said while pincking his cheek, making him chuckle and pull away from your grip

Once you reached the ice cream shop and got your ice creams, you went to your regular spot near a small fountain. You were so interested in your ice cream that you didn't notice that you had ice cream at the corner of your lips. Sunghoon noticed, and he was debating on whether he should just help you out with his thumb or...well, thought number two was much better since he just went straight for it.

He just leaned in and pecked your lips, tasting your ice cream right from them. You were shocked and quickly blushed at his actions. Of course, he noticed that too and couldn't help but chuckle at your cuteness.

"It's pretty hot, isn't it?" You just hummed agreeing to his question while you continued eating your ice cream.

"How about I go get us some water, hm?"

"That would be nice, actually." You smiled at him

"Be right back"

As you watched him leave you suddenly felt a presence close to you

"Hello" the presence said. You looked up and found a guy looking at you with a not so friendly smile. More like a flirty one. The ones that you couldn’t stand.

"Um, hello," you reluctantly said

"I don't wanna sound like a creep, but I was looking at you for a while and hoped for that cold dude to leave you alone for a bit"

"Cold dude?" You raised a brow

"Yeah, that guy that was with you. Damn he had a stare. He literally had a beautiful being next to him, and he was cold as ice. " You started to get angry but controlled yourself, knowing that even talking to him was pointless.

"Anyways, I think that you are really pretty and wanted to ask you out so I could show you how someone should treat you right"

'Oh wow, he has some nerve'

You were about to answer. Probably rudely, but you didn’t get the chance since someone else did for you

"The only person that can treat them right is someone who loves them and not someone that is just seeking for attention"

Okay, Sunghoon was mad mad. 'Why so hot? Wait, that's not the point' you thought to yourself

"Wooow, and do you happen to know someone better than me? You literally had them next to you and never made a move on them. " The guy was getting mad, but Sunghoon was insanely calm. Scary and hot. Enough with those thoughts!

"Well, I don't have to" Sunghoon said with a straight face

"And why is that, huh?"

Sunghoon didn't respond, just leaned down and kissed you. Not too hard but hard enough for the guy to understand that you were taken

Once he pulled back, he smiled cockily at the guy

"Does that answer your question?"

The guy didn't say anything, just left cursing under his breath

"That...was...hot..." You quickly covered your mouth. The one thing that you were thinking about this whole time and certainly didn't wanna say out loud just slipped out.

"What?" He was just staring at you with a...small smirk on his face?

"Nothing!" You quickly said already red

"You think that I am hot?"

"Well...no"

"No?"

"Yes!"

"Decide" he chuckled at the way you were trying to cover your words

"Well, YOU were jealous." You pointed a finger at him

"No, I wasn't. I just don't like it when people think that they can have..." he leaned closer to your face. "...what is mine" he smirked at you, knowing the huge effect he had on you

"You-you ughhhhh" You gave up. There was nothing you could do at this point. The only thing that you could do was think of jealous Sunghoon and how down bad you were for him. He might have denied it, but it was obvious that he was jealous... and you loved the looked that he had on his face...mad...hot...protective...hot... possessive...did I mention hot?