#T-shirt zone shop

[jargon-official]

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[bunnyb34r]

Yknow how yesterday I was lamenting how fucked up my area was at work? Yeah someone hit a powerline that ended up down the line being connected to our store and the power apparently was out from like 10am-8:30pm lmaooooo

So we had basically no shoppers. My area was exactly how I left it. Which good bc no customers touched it, bad no coworkers recovered for me. Anyway it took me like 3 hours to recover and stock the stupid ass mess that was left for me (and I have been upset ab since Sunday)

Anyway I'm gonna take that as Someone Up There really loves me sgdgdgd and was like "I got you baby" and closed the store so I wouldn't come in to a worse mess 💙 sgdgdgdggdgd

[choslut]

˖ ࣪ ، ◞ せ⌇ INKED. featuring s. geto.

↻ geto enjoys his job for this exact reason… he gets to give pretty girls like you your first ever tattoo.

tags : tattoos, slight masochism, dirty thoughts, suggestive actions, possessive behaviour, tattoo artist x florist trope, voice kink, dirty talk, praise kink, latex kink (if you squint), implied fingering, marking (literally and figuratively), implied virgin!reader, slight dubcon // wc. 1.1k

author's note : the longest one of the series… and possibly the longest author’s note too. i want to thank everyone who’s supported me throughout this event from the day i released the masterlist all the way up until the last work today!! i know i’ve said that every one of these have been my favourite but why not save the best ‘til last… this very specific image of geto haunts my (wet) dreams 🤤🤤 thank you again for all the support, because of you guys, i managed to go from 200 to over 900 followers !! 💓💓 i can’t thank you more, and i hope you enjoy this last work. this has been luna, and thank you for reading!!

pspsps …. you might want to stick around for my upcoming kinktober. it’s going to be a thriller…

“i would’ve never striked you as the type to want a tattoo, sweetie.” GETO looks at you over the frame of his glasses, eyebrow quirked as he confirms your appointment on his laptop. “and especially not one of this… calibre. is it your first time?”

you nod shyly, eyes averting from his gaze. he looks at the sheet of paper with your desired design on it, and the corners of his lips quirk upwards. a tramp stamp. totally not your type upon first glance. 

he’s looking forward to this. 

you’re a sweet enough girl. you wear denim miniskirts and baggy floral t-shirts, and your face is almost always bare, save for a few coats of mascara on your eyelashes and the occasional touch of lip gloss to make your features pop. you work in the flower shop across the street, and the only way geto can describe you is cute, and definitely not the type to want such a striking design tattooed on your lower back. it’s in such an intimate position, and he can’t help but feel a tiny bit jealous for the lucky fucker who gets to run their hands all over it whilst he-

“it’s not too… extreme, is it?” you bite your lip nervously. “my friends told me that i should do something out of my comfort zone, so…”

he tears his eyes away from the sheet of paper to look up at you kindly. “it’s beautiful. come this way, we’ll get started now.”

“since it’s your first time, i’ll try to take things slow.” you’re lying flat on your front on the table, skirt pulled down an inch and shirt riding up your stomach. geto stands beside you, rolling up his sleeves and donning his latex gloves before prepping the stencil. 

you have such pretty skin, he notes. beautiful and untouched, with such a pretty arch in your spine. he would’ve loved to imagine you positioned like this in different circumstances, but for now, he’s your tattoo artist and you’re his client, so his job is to make you feel as comfortable as possible. 

so, to soothe your nerves, he runs his latex-clad fingers along the arch in your spine, splaying his hands across your lower back and smiling when he feels you shiver as a disinfectant wipe comes into contact with your skin. 

“i’m just prepping the skin, and then i’ll transfer the stencil. it’ll feel a little cold at first, but hopefully it’ll help calm all those pesky nerves. does that sound alright?” you nod. “good girl.”

shit. it just slipped out, the praise, but then he notices that your muscles start to relax. you like praise. good to know, for next time. 

time seems to pass slowly as geto works his magic, plastering the stencil onto your lower back. it’s affecting him, your reactions, and when he finally reveals the potential placement of your totally out-of-character tramp stamp, he has to physically restrain himself from groaning out loud. 

the placement — it’s fucking dirty. 

geto decides to check up with you before finally starting to prep his equipment. “are you sure about this? it’s your first time, so it might hurt.” he chuckles lightly. “scrap that. it will hurt, but i’ll try to make it quick so that you feel the least amount of pain as possible.”

“i…” your voice dies in your throat when you feel his fingers trace the outline of your preeminent tattoo. “ ‘m a bit nervous. never done this before.”

“mm, i know, angel. you have such a beautiful body… i’d be honoured to mark it up some more next time.”

oh. you know (read: think) there’s no underlying intent to his words, but the way his honeyed voice purrs behind you has a stream of wetness start to build inside of you, and you try to discreetly clench your thighs to quell the dull ache in between your legs, praying that geto doesn’t notice. 

he does. if he wasn’t mistaken, this might just be your kink: being left merciless whilst someone toys with your body. he doesn’t overstep though, just teases, running his hands along your bare legs. “how about here next time? i could ink a pretty little flower on your ankle, or maybe some initials… yours, of course.”

geto rathers he mark his initials on your ankle, but again, boundaries. to stop himself from saying anything that’ll have you bolting out of the studio in a millisecond, he finally sits in his chair, picking up the needle and scooting towards you. “are you ready, sweetheart? this is going to hurt, so tell me if you want me to let up at any time.”

you won’t. he knows you won’t, because the feeling of his fingers on your skin is intoxicating for you given the way your toes begin to curl in your flats as he steadies his hands on your lower back. “relax, love. it’ll hurt less.”

the needle pierces your skin, ink blooming as geto begins his work. the feeling… it’s strange, given the fact that it’s quite literally repeated pinpricks on your back. but it feels strangely good paired with geto’s hands on your back, and his smooth voice praising you all the way through. 

“oh, you’re doing such a good job for your first time, love. i’ve never seen anyone react so well.”

“does it feel alright? wouldn’t want to cause any harm to this precious body of yours.”

“i’m almost finished. you’ve been such a good client, i wouldn’t mind inking you again.”

all of it goes straight to your head, and the pain of the needle is replaced with instant euphoria as your mind fills with lewd images of geto fucking you in this exact position, hands on your lower back in the same way as he eases inside of you. and his voice, good lord, his voice… he would totally talk you through it, his rich grumble echoing in your ear as he guides you to orgasm. 

“you’re taking it so well, aren’t you, baby? that’s my good girl.”

“fuck yes, angel, just like that… oh, you’re so damn perfect.”

“you’re close? cum for me, baby. need to feel you, atta girl…”

before you know it, a moan slips from your lips, and you immediately dread geto’s reaction. 

“did you just…?”

your cheeks are on fire. “n-no! sorry, it hurt a little bit there. i should be fine though, you can keep going.” 

he quirks an eyebrow. “well then, the fault is mine entirely. allow me to make it up to you? i’d feel horrible for hurting you, after all.”

your slight nod is all he needs and suddenly he’s finishing up and wrapping your tramp stamp before prying your thighs apart and slipping his latex-clad fingers into your dripping panties. 

PREVIOUS : SWEET TALK ft. choso NEXT : N/A

liked that? check out the WE’RE SO BACK masterlist.

© choslut 2024 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission. chain divider by @/cafekitsune.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

The Missing Piece

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~800

Warnings: fluff

Summary: Spencer is always leaving little gifts for you, mostly flowers that you use to brighten your apartment. There is always one flower missing, and you finally find out the reason why.

Square Filled: gift for @goodthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

This is one of those rare days when you wake up before your alarm. You had gone to bed early last night since Spencer went to bed early. He had a tough day at work, and since you don’t like to be up by yourself when someone is sleeping, you went to bed with him. Spencer is such a light sleeper that you’re afraid of making noise that will wake him. He barely gets enough sleep as it is.

You roll over in bed and bury your face in Spencer’s pillow. His side of the bed is cold since he left it to go to work a few hours ago. The blackout curtains do a really good job of keeping the light out so you don’t know if it’s barely sunrise or if the sun has been up for hours.

You get out of bed and peel the curtains back slowly to let in enough light for your eyes to adjust. You continue until the curtains are all the way open and the entire room is bright. Something Spencer loves doing is leaving little gifts for you like flowers or candy or your favorite coffee. This time, it’s a beautiful bouquet of flowers that’s sitting on the bedside table next to your phone. The bouquet consists of roses, sunflowers, and lilies that he most likely put together from the local flower shop down the street.

I hope these brighten your day. I love you so much - Spencer

You clutch the note in your hand with a smile and walk over to the closet. There is a box of every single letter Spencer has written you. You don’t throw anything out because you love keeping these little tokens of your relationship. The only thing you throw out that he has given you are the flowers.

You take the bouquet and walk to the kitchen to separate them into smaller bouquets that you can put all over the house. There are six spots where you put flowers to give the rooms a bit of color, so you remove the old ones and put the new ones in. However, there is always just one left over because Spencer never gives you a full bouquet. He always gives you eleven flowers instead of twelve.

You’re not sure why but you never ask him. You’re just grateful to get flowers.

You and Spencer always schedule lunch together unless he’s on an active case, and the B Team is in the field for this week. To pass the time, you get started on your morning chores. You want Spencer to come home to a clean house. He works hard so that you don’t have to. It’s not that you’re incapable of getting a job or unable to hold one down, you just love being a stay-at-home wife.

It gives you the opportunity to work on your art. You love sewing, embroidering, and knitting anything you can get your hands on. You have your own Etsy shop that you make things for, and a lot of people on Facebook Marketplace want to buy your items. By not having a normal nine-to-five job, it gives you plenty of time to work on your craft. You have a bunch of commissions to work on so after your morning chores, you get to work on one of them. Once you get in the zone, it’s easy to make two hours feel like ten minutes.

Around lunchtime, you set your work aside and get ready in something light and flowing. It’s a nice day outside and you don’t want to be stuck wearing jeans and a T-shirt. You take public transportation to work since Spencer took the car this morning, and you reach the BAU in thirty minutes. The receptionist knows you by heart so she checks you in with a visitor badge before you go to the elevator.

JJ and Derek pass by with files in their hands when you enter the bullpen, and they both smile at you.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

“I’m taking Spencer to lunch. Do you know where he is?”

“Yeah, he’s in Hotch’s office. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

They walk off and you approach his desk. Everything is neat and in order, not to your surprise. You sit down and twirl around before spotting a single rose on his desk. It’s the same color rose as the one that was in the bouquet he gave you this morning.

“Hey, I’m ready to go.”

“Is that the missing flower from my bouquet this morning? Which, I loved by the way. Thank you.”

“Yeah, I keep one on my desk so I know when it’s time to get you a new bouquet.” The feeling of love floods your body at the simple gesture. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you close. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, I’m always ready,” you grin.

He kisses the top of your head and leads you out of the BAU. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for this man and clearly, he feels the same.

x

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[delphi-shield]

OLD FOLKS HOME ↪ age gap hcs

the people you love & the shit they do that reminds you of the dreaded Gap (tm). characters included: leon kennedy, chris redfield, jill valentine, claire redfield, rebecca chambers no warnings to speak of. remember kids, if you're gonna date people in their 30s and 40s, you're gonna have different cultural contexts and, most likely, different senses of humor.

Leon is eight levels of irony deep. He started doing Old Guy Shit just to mess with you, and now it's all come full circle. 

It turns out he actually likes watching the weather channel. He’s monitoring storms that are miles and miles away from you, pointing out the feeder bands like it’s some kind of sporting event. 

He's genuinely invested in Ice Road Truckers. He asks you to TiVo it for him when he's gone. You do not have TiVo. In fact, you're pretty sure no one still has TiVo. 

Or you were, until Leon once again committed to the bit and got TiVo.

Really, genuinely annoying about old movies, actors, and directors.

”What do you mean you don’t know who Robert Redford is? The Candidate? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? C’mon. He was even in an episode of The Twilight Zone. You’ll know him when you see him.”

At least you get movie dates out of it.

Movie dates that he will pepper with trivia about the film, by the way. You don't need the commentary track. He is the commentary.

I'm so, so sorry about this. 🤪 is his favorite emoji. I know. I'm sorry.

Chris cannot fucking hear. To be honest, I think most of them have some degree of hearing loss - but Chris in particular seems to have very subjective hearing loss.

Yes, you were just having a full-fledged conversation. No, he didn’t hear you ask him to take out the trash. He didn’t forget, he just didn’t hear you. Sorry, you were standing on his right - come on, you know that’s his bad side.

Explains basic technology to you because he’s not sure if you know what it is. Then, in the same breath, crams in so many military acronyms he may as well be reciting the alphabet. Does not explain the acronyms.

Like, yeah, Chris. I know what a landline is. Dial-up internet, too. Now, what the fuck is an ORE?

Have you ever gotten ‘ok’ in response to a nude? You’re about to. Completely demoralizing, by the way.

He didn't know you wanted him to compose a poem dedicated to your beauty, okay? He tries to get better, but winds up sending shit like 'wow 👍'

Does the dad thing where he insists he's not interested in watching what's on TV and then stands with his hands on his hips in the middle of the living room, enthralled by the show.

Jill does not understand your music. She will not make an attempt to understand your music. If you see her tapping her foot to the beat, no you do not. She is not interested in expanding her musical horizons.

She only bought you tickets to that concert because she knew you would love it. She only went with you because you’re cute when you’re so into this stuff. She only bought that t-shirt because it would be a good souvenir, and eventually, a good grease rag.

Generalized distrust of social media. Do not show her a tiktok. She will ignore the video and lecture you about data safety. Jill, please. Just watch the fucking cat video.

And then she turns around and opts in to literally everything on the McDonald's app.

If there’s a rewards program, she’s in. Already sold. Didn’t even read the fine print. All that shit she was telling you about how you need to be more careful is right out the window for some free fries.

Anything for the thrill of a good deal. If she had more time on her hands, she would be couponing.

Buys in bulk. No, it doesn't matter if the two of you could not physically eat that much rice. It's cheaper to buy it like this. It's fine. It's good for you.

Gotta stock up on non-perishables, too. You gotta be prepared in case something happens. "Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it."

Claire cannot stop shopping from QVC. She's in the kitchen with David. It Takes Two with Mary and Sandra? Wrong. It actually takes three. Mary, Sandra, and Claire.

Infomercials have got her by the throat. You have so many gadgets and gizmos around your home that are just collecting dust.

Gets wine drunk and goes online shopping. Legitimately does not remember what she’s bought.

Absolutely will not let you open the packages. (“Some of this stuff could be for you, you know.” “Claire, last time it was a 10,000 count package of googly eyes.” “And I used all 10,000. You still haven’t found them all.”)

Uses every piece of technology until it’s about to fall apart. Absolutely not interested in having the latest and greatest. She’s one of those people who insists that as long as her phone can make calls and send texts, she doesn’t need a new one.

Speaking of texts. Somehow, she got it into her head that a read receipt is equivalent to a reply. She doesn't get what the problem is. You know she saw your text. Why does she have to reply?

Genuinely doesn't mean anything malicious by it - but also, if you did that to her, you would never hear the end of it.

Rebecca legitimately has facebook humor. They all have some degree of facebook humor, but she's got it the worst. 

Will blow up your notifications tagging you in shit that is just straight up not funny. I’m talking full on tagging you with “😂😂😂”

Unironically sent you a minion meme once.

It's not that she's disconnected. She teaches undergrads. She knows what’s in, even if it’s only from the periphery. It’s just that she doesn’t care. She has no interest in keeping up with trends just for the sake of it. She’s so used to being the youngest person in the room and having to keep up expectations that she just absolutely does not care anymore. She's glad she's not one of the kids anymore.

If it made her laugh it made her laugh, her enjoyment isn’t shackled by feelings of shame!!

If you have a group chat on any platform with your friends please invite her. She's just happy to be included. She'll make a discord if she has to, and she'll brag about it to her students.

Yeah, she says pupper and doggo. She does. Look at her.

[caitified]

MOVING DAY

KATE MARTIN X READER

notes: more kate requests please!!!

moving again so soon wasn’t exactly in the plans. you and kate had barely had time to get settled in vegas—found your favorite coffee shop, figured out the best times to avoid traffic, memorized the drive to the aces’ facility—before everything changed again.

kate had just finished her rookie season, and after working her ass off to prove herself in the league, she had been traded to the valkyries in the bay area. it was a huge opportunity, a chance for more minutes and a bigger role, and you were so proud of her. but it also meant uprooting your life for the second time in a year.

so, yeah. chaos.

packing day

you stood in the middle of your apartment, hands on your hips, staring at the disaster zone in front of you.

half-packed boxes were scattered everywhere, open suitcases sat half-zipped on the couch, and there was an entire pile of kate’s sneakers in the corner, completely unboxed and unorganized.

kate strolled out of the bedroom, a half-eaten granola bar in her mouth. “this isn’t so bad,” she mumbled around a bite.

you gave her a look. “kate.”

she grinned, shrugging. “okay, maybe it’s a little bad.”

you sighed, grabbing a roll of packing tape. “we have to finish this today. tomorrow’s our last day here, and we still need to get the moving truck.”

kate plopped down on the couch, tossing her legs over the armrest like she wasn’t supposed to be helping. “we’ll get it done.”

“not if you just sit there.”

kate groaned but got up, wrapping her arms around you from behind. “babe, we’re fine. we’ll do a little now, get breakfast, and then finish up after.”

you leaned into her, exhaling. “breakfast first?”

kate smiled against your shoulder. “always.”

breakfast stop

twenty minutes later, you were sitting at your favorite little café, plates full of eggs, pancakes, and hashbrowns. the place had become your go-to ever since moving to vegas, and it hit you all at once that this was one of the last times you’d be eating here.

kate noticed the look on your face and reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “you okay?”

you nodded. “just… i’m gonna miss this place.”

she gave you a small smile. “me too.” then she squeezed your hand again. “but hey, new favorite breakfast spot in the bay? we’ll find it together.”

you huffed a laugh, squeezing back. “you better hope they have pancakes as good as these.”

kate dramatically gasped. “nothing can ever compare.”

you rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed on your face.

back to packing (aka suffering)

after breakfast, you were determined to get everything packed. kate, on the other hand, kept getting distracted.

“babe, look at this,” she said, holding up one of her old iowa shirts.

“kate.”

“oh my god, remember this game?” she asked, pointing at a game program she had found buried in a drawer.

“kate.”

“wait, should we really get rid of this?” she held up a ridiculous souvenir cup from some vegas show you went to months ago.

you took it from her and tossed it into the trash pile. “kate.”

she pouted but finally started taping up some boxes. “you’re mean.”

“i’m efficient.”

after several hours of sorting, folding, and boxing up your lives, the apartment was finally looking… somewhat put together. it was still a mess, but at least there was some progress.

kate collapsed onto the couch, pulling you down with her. “we crushed it.”

you snorted. “you found old t-shirts and told me stories for half the time.”

she grinned. “but you loved it.”

you just shook your head, resting against her. “yeah, yeah.”

kate pressed a kiss to your temple, arms wrapping around you. “bay area, here we come.”

you sighed, a mix of exhaustion and excitement filling you. moving again so soon was a lot, but as long as you had kate, you knew it would all be worth it.

notes: this is horrible… sorry

[cowgirlcherrie]

florist! abby Headcanons ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

a/n: something quick n sweet you knowwwww got this random thought and had to write it I couldn’t resist I couldn’t. I also saw that no one done florist! abby(?) so I wanted to be the first to hop on! plus I missed writing for Abs — my baby, so enjoy ♡

warnings: 18+, MDNI, some fluff, gets smuttier halfway in, strap, blowjob (strap), eating you out, mentions of obsessive behaviors, polaroid nudes-ish, fingering, edging, public-sex-ishh, soft dom! Abby, tatted! Abby. Hinted at smoker Abby if you squint, petnames, fingers in mouth, masturbation, use of the word mommy, use of the word pussy, fem reader.

divider creds here

ೀ florist! Abby wears a basic white cropped t-shirt and black dickies under her beige apron. Her apron has a rainbow flag pin, with black pliers in one pocket. Doc Martins on her feet, tied miserably into a bow, it’s a miracle she doesn’t trip around the flower shop. She has a carabiner on her belt loop that jingles every time she walks. 

– apart from smelling like the flowers (obvi bc of where she works) smells like heavy pine and fresh soap, like forget the additives – just clean if ykyk

ೀ florist! Abby gets little patchwork tattoos in random places: a dainty lavender tattoo on her wrist, a little crescent moon behind her ear, paw prints on her bicep for her late dog Alice, a ‘gentle artist’ in bolded times new roman font – but dainty on her forearm. Her knuckles are tatted spelling out “FUCK YOU”.

ೀ florist! Abby that has a ‘Save the Bees!’ sticker on the back of her phone case. Super Bee activist.

ೀ florist! Abby who spends all day in the floral shop, playing music from her playlist on the shop’s aux, slightly swaying to the music as she works on a bouquet. She works with such prestige, god her hands work so quickly at building arrangements but the outcome is so beautiful and that’s why she has many customers. She definitely uses any leftover flowers as bookmarks for her books.

ೀ florist! Abby who’s aux will go from Lauryn Hill to Boy Genius to Mac Miller — she gets compliments on her music taste by customers all the time.

ೀ florist! Abby stops working on a bouquet when you walk into the store because of how confused you look. Wanting to save a damsel in distress. Abby moves from her place at the counter walking over to where you stood looking at the different types of flowers, creeping behind you. You smell divine to her, driving her head crazy knowing that your scent alone will be stuck in her head all day. The floral shop is a slow yet steady business, so Abby definitely doesn’t forget a face or a smell. The form-fitting dress you wore that day, the way your hands bunched at the fabric in confusion had her head spinning!

“Beautiful aren’t they?” Abby whispers from behind you,

Actually scares the living shit out of you when you see her standing behind you, but the way the sun was hitting her face from the big window panels made you less nervous. Rather in awe at the beauty in front of you. Her sunkissed skin, and silky blonde mane, were raveled in a delicate braid with wispies around her face. The raspiness from her voice – which honestly sounded like a smoker's voice now that you thought about it. 

ೀ florist! Abby who makes small talk with you while making your boquette for you (taking her slow sweet time), asking you where you’re from and what you’re doing in town? Absolutely praying that the flowers aren’t for some significant other of yours, Abby letting out an exhale when you say that they’re for your mom who you are visiting for dinner. When you mention you are unsure of what flowers to get don’t worry Abby will help you!

“So pretty girl, are you more minimalistic, talking Lilies, Gardenia’s, Jasmine – which is over there...or colorful? Which I think your beautiful self enjoys a nice Orchid, Camellia, or Begonia?”

Definitely shocks you with how well she knows her stuff

ೀ florist! Abby zones out when you are speaking and stares at your lips for far too long, looking at the way your pink gloss shines wondering how your pretty lips would look taking her strap. Percase covered in spit, from your saliva that has built up from blowing her off. Abby wanted to do nothing more than take the pretty little fabric ribbon from your hair and tie it around your hands as she went down on you while you beg her to touch you in all the right places – it was all a dream to her. Wet dreaming with you right in front of her.

Undeniably horny and touch deprived…she spends so much time in the floral shop she doesn’t have time for dating apps and finds shit like Tinder CORNY LOL. 

Meanwhile, you are trying your hardest not to stare at the way her arms are flexing or how her fingers are paying delicate attention to your bouquet, mentally laughing at the “FUCK YOU” on her knuckles, it contrasted her soft nature so much.

ೀ florist! Abby who slips in a little note into your tote back when you’re not looking, with her number on it, hoping that you would find it and call her soon, Which you do find when you are scrambling for your keys on your way back to the car. Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to give the overly, steaming attractive florist a call. 

ೀ florist! Abby when the two of you start dating, she would teach you how to make a bouquet, standing closely behind you – her body right up against your back as you feel her breath tickling your ear as she whispers to you what to do

“Atta girl, look at that my sweet girl – woah! watch your hand there’s a thorn baby.”

Will definitely put her hands over yours as she works with the knife to make sure there isn’t any thorns so you don’t prick yourself. 

ೀ florist! Abby fucking you in the flower shop, when the shop is closed. Having her head in between your thighs, as her jaw slacks – the sound of your juices sloshing against her mouth as she sends hums into your pussy making you let out low mewls. Bringing a hand up to cover your mouth but she slaps it away so that she can see you

“Don’t hide from me baby, I wanna see you…look at how beautiful you look whining for me doll”

ೀ florist! Abby who kept your lace underwear in her pocket after she fucked you in the floral shop keeping it for safe-keeping (pft…we all know what she is doing with that)

ೀ florist! Abby who shows you her small pocket-sized notebook full of different flowers and arrangement ideas she had. Even the sketches of a flower bouquet that she made inspired by you and all your favorite flowers.

ೀ florist! Abby definitely tucks flowers behind your ears, specifically a white or light-pink Carnation. Especially loves putting one behind your ear as she fucks you with her strap, missionary style so she can see your face – just loves your face honestly. Bending down to kiss your lips, her cheeks dusted red with the pressure she applies.

Tucking her head into your neck swiftly smelling the carnation that she put behind your ear driving her even further insane as she drills into you — makes her go faster.

ೀ When she starts teaching you more about flowers, Definitely uses sexual enforcement to get you to remember it. Will have you sat on her counter as she stands in between your legs – locking you in as she lunges two fingers into you, edging you and not letting you cum until you say the right name of the flower that she taught you. But you could hardly focus staring at her inked knuckles as they pump in and out of you which only makes you reach your climax even further. 

“You wanna come don’t you my sweet girl? I know you want to…just say the name– awh don’t whine at me…I know you know it dollface, I don’t buy that you don’t.”

Sometimes she’ll give you a hint if the flower starts with one of the letters on her knuckles she will stick the corresponding finger into you, working at getting you just about there as her finger curls into you. Your vision is blurry as you can hardly tell what the letter is, moaning out as you try to focus on the order of the letters on her knuckles to catch the hint.

“C’mon baby I’m giving you a hint…pay attention sweetheart– focus!”

ೀ florist! Abby when you get it wrong and she finally lets you come — is fake-mad at you, shoving the lettered finger down your throat as you gag on her fingers covered in your juices.

“Baby the hinted letter was C, and the other finger was U, flower: Curcuma. You’ll get it right next time right sweetheart? You won’t let mommy down hmm?”

ೀ florist! Abby is definitely a soft dom just saying… soft as hell, loves when you hold her – kiss her, and skin-to-skin contact is important as hell she just wants to feel you and loves when you baby her. 

ೀ Definitely keeps a Polaroid of you holding flowers in pink floral lingerie in her beige apron and another one of you in her wallet, that way she has you on her at all times (honestly probably touched herself to blow off some steam after a hard shift while looking at it)

ೀ Depending on how far the relationship goes, especially if y’all start talking marriage will get your favorite flower tatted and not tell you until you see a dainty tattoo of your favorite flower on her collarbone slightly above her heart as she is filling you up, you questioning her in between moans about it.

“Mmhm…fuck is that new? Shit..abbyplease – wait is that my favorite flower?” You ask, as she grinds into you – your finger dragging against the tattoo

“Yes baby, you’re all mine. Mine…mine…mine” As she pounds harder into to you each time she says mine. Obsessive, possessive + territorial, let’s talk about it 

ೀ florist! Abby is overall just a sweetheart who loves you so much and just wants you to be her pretty flower – her muse, you definitely inspire most of her bouquets and she is so happy you ran into her shop looking for flowers that day.

[honestsycrets]

playing house | single parent au: mechanic!miguel x teacher!reader

❛ pairing | mechanic!miguel x teacher!reader; single parents au

❛ type | oneshot, explicit

❛ summary | gabi's on a hunt to get a mami. miguel doesn't really need help with it. or, Miguel trades mechanic work for love.

❛ tags | explicit, mechanic!miguel, first grade teacher!reader, some mention of hurt, heavy themes of voyeurism (both ways), single parents, unhygienic sxconditions, Spanish not translated, very domestic fic, f!reader, protective miguel, very light mutual jealousy.

❛ request fulfilled | Miguel is a single dad, Reader is his daughter's kindergarten teacher, and he is both very obviously crushing on her and very reluctant to say it. Fortunately, his daughter isn't! "Did you know my papi likes you?" Cue flustered Miguel. + BROOOO mechanic!miguel is hot please tell

❛ sy's notes | flashback to that one time a car fell on my tio. 😅

The job was a simple part replacement. A fizzled-out chunk of metal that would cost any single mother more in labor and puff costs at any mechanic shop. But not with Miguel, who was known around the barrio for his begrudging care. He’d do any job Lyla brought to him for any madre around who needed him.

He wrung his hands out on his stained top and lifted his head out of the hood of an old but faithful car. After a click and a lock, he turned his eyes toward the dusty cover. Syncopated beats trill from a radio ring background static that he’s long since zoned out to focus on his work. He wiped his forehead and looked at the trampled grass underneath a cheap plastic pool.

“Gabriella, bring me the manguera,” he called out to his little girl, who looked at the hose in her little pool bobbing with poppy bright toys. The older she got, the worse her loneliness became. Not due to any ill-doing of Miguel who always tried his best to be present. For some reason, Miguel couldn’t bring himself to date in anything but short bursts.

“Papi, look across the street. New neighbors!” Gabriella cooed delightfully. She splashed out of the pool with the long emerald green hose in hand, bobbing over on her long skinny legs. “It’s a girl. A pretty girl! And she’s looking right at you!”

Like that was a new occurrence. Miguel turned his hand over his sun-bright daughter’s short, sodden braids that whipped just over her shoulder. She stood in place, bouncing delightfully over newcomers. There were many viejitos in the cul-de-sac, but not enough kids.

“¿Y qué, mi vida?” he asked her. His hand shipped free from her hair. “She’s probably taking in the barrio.”

“I think she is! You!”

He threw a glance over his shoulder only to find your prying eyes eating him up from across the street. You speak to a pair of movers-- but your eyes slipped away from theirs, where he stood with his little girl. The hose dumped water onto the street. Water that he’d usually be extra concerned about wasting. Today, he was more interested in a game.

His dirty white t-shirt is matted to his back, soaked in the sweat of the day. He gripped the bottom of his t-shirt on either side and tugged it over his head. It pulls on his well-corded arms, protesting its release from his body. Miguel slipped it over his shoulder and proceeded to release bits of sweat from his thick hair. An adorable gasp fell free from your lips, replaced by your hand over your lush lips, snapping back to attention.

“You’re right, Gabi.”

He took the sputtering hose from her and cracked a begrudging smile. Gabriella waved eagerly-- and to his surprise, you waved back. If it wasn’t the hot sun beating down your face, it was the embarrassment on your face. You settled the sunglasses on the cute crook of your nose. With that, Gabriella helps him wash the car until her most hated part, drying it with old towels and bits of Miguel’s ripped old shirts.

“Hola!”

“Coño,” Miguel cursed in surprise, turning around to face you. In your hand was a clear plastic bag stuffed full of the filled corn husks, warmth steamed its sides. Miguel glanced down at the bag in your comparatively soft hands, drawing his sweaty shirt over his cut muscles to wipe away the sweat that slicked his dusky skin.

“I brought you and your lindita tamales.”

“Tamales!” Gabriella cooed, her hands cradling a limonada. They made it together, like clockwork every Sunday. “I love tamales!”

“Don’t old neighbors bring new one’s food?” Miguel bit out, a bit annoyed. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate food, it would save him countless bright-ass early meals dragging himself out of bed to make Gabriella something with school right around the corner. He’s annoyed at that star-bright smile you have whipped across your face. It stirred excitement he thought he killed a long time ago. “Or are you just a show-off?”

“I teach first grade at the school across the street,” you ignored his snark and looked none the more bothered by it. There’s some magic in a woman that didn’t feed into his shit. You provided Miguel with a name that felt familiar to all the orientation packets he received just this week. “Ya tú sabes, umm, at Carillo’s.”

Of course.

“That’s where I go!” Gabriella beams. “I’m Gabriella O’Hara and I’m going to be in first grade, right papi? This is my papi. His name is Miguel.”

Damn it all. Miguel slaps his sweaty shirt on the top of the car. You kneel down, offering her up the tamales instead of Miguel. He blinks through his sudden irritation, realizing that he’s fucked now. Gabriella grabs the plastic bag, giggling delightfully over them.

“Then maybe you’ll be in my class, Miss O’Hara.”

When he checks her orientation paperwork-- there it is. He suddenly felt the pressure of the ordeal, of the pretty next-door neighbor who wore flowy dresses and apparently, loved muscles. His eye darted out to the window, the movers zipping off in a whir of color, leaving you just there, spinning around in the driveway of your new home, nearly too sun-bright.

Maybe it’s tied to being a father, but Miguel notices little things you do. Some are ineffectual. Others are dangerous. You leave your bedroom window wide open as you change. Miguel sat outside on Gabriella’s swing on his second cup of coffee for the day when he noticed it for the first time.

You come in from your shower and scurry about your room nearly naked. Then, cupping your breasts between your hands, you whirled around for a set of underwear. From this far, he can’t quite make out the color. It might be red. Not a poppy red, but a deep, soothing red he recognizes from his dead wife’s wardrobe.

He wasn’t sure why you wouldn’t just change in the bathroom, but in any case, it was… dangerous. Any freak walking by could see you changing. Mimi’s room had very well-used blinds and yours did not. He turns his attention back to the newspaper on his lap. Nueva York stalker confesses to stabbing murder in five-year-old cold case. He scrunched his nose at the news and drank a coffee that had long since gone cold.

Sometime later, your front door swung open. Mimi busted through, a little girl with long black twists and black eyes that held a similar excitement for the weekend. It was her papi time. Gabriella doesn’t have that luxury, two homes full of warmth. Just one, with a papi who loved her more than life itself. Miguel hopes it’s enough. He left his newspaper on the bench as you settled her in the car, making his jog across the street.

“You should buy blinds,” Miguel said the second you shut the door. You jumped, your hand on the locket on your chest.

“Ay dios, it’s just you. You shouldn’t walk up on a woman like that, Miguel,” you laughed. “Especially not a single mother.”

“You’re painfully oblivious. Buy some blinds for your room. It isn’t safe.”

Dry as his tone was, it was laced with concern. If there was no one in your life to tell you what he thought was obvious, he would. “You saw me? How much did you... see?”

He responds with a dull stare, his gaze falling to the red strap of your bra that set slightly off-kilter along your slight shoulders. You sucked in a breath to calm yourself, your heart beating at a rapid pace behind your modest shirt. You reached up to hide the strap. A frown marred his contrite features.

“You look beautiful in red,” he found himself muttering, pushing off of the back of the car without another word. He beat himself up for that-- stupid, stupid response. Because of course you know you look gorgeous. He didn’t need to say it out loud.

“Gracias, papi,” you called after him.

He hoped he was not flung into the creep category after that winning display.

You bought blinds for your window and a swing for Mimi’s new, sturdy tree. Its long arms offer some reprieve from the heat, casting a shadow on the small house. It wasn't long before you spent days on heaps of homework from the kids and a glitter-bright pen to grade spelling tests.

It's nice to have a little bit of company as he works on cars and yard work, even if you watch him like a voyeur, blushing if he notices, gasping if he plays into this new little game. At some point, he voided his shirts altogether. It’s not long before Gabriella has a game of her own to play.

“Psst, Lyla. Vente, Lyla.”

Gabriella sits boredly in the shop after school. Sometimes in his office, other times in the shop during breaks. One of his technicians, Lyla, sat on an upside-down bucket by Miguel’s side as he worked on a car. This time, it was a stupid simple fix. The idiot ripped off their bumper parking too far on a curb. Lyla sat in gold coveralls, undoubtedly grinning behind that black mask slapped across her face. He didn’t need to look away from the clips he was applying to know they were both up to shit.

“Yeah?”

“Papi has a crush on my teacher. I think she could be my new mami. If--”

“Miguel has a crush?” His other tech, Peter chirped up with a hunk of sandwich in his fingertips. How was he always slacking off and eating? Miguel didn't know, but he was. “I can't believe it. He hasn’t had a crush since Tem--”

“I don’t have a crush,” Miguel responded. “Less scheming, more homework, kid. She told me you’re behind on schoolwork.”

She does so well on spelling tests, Miguel, you told him at parent-teacher conferences. But she never turns in homework.

Gabriella was not behind because she was stupid. She was behind because she was a stubborn little child who, Miguel knew, was trying to set him up. Lyla abandoned the bucket to walk over near Gabriella’s unicorn table, pulling out a microsized table and looking down at the stupid simple homework. Single-digit numbers were a painful waste of time to a kid who loved math.

“She’s single?”

“Yup,” Gabi chirped, scratching away at her coloring page with a fat purple crayon. “Mimi told me.”

“No boyfriend?”

“No boyfriend. I double-checked. And get this, she said she would come help me with homework.”

“Lyla.” Miguel shoved the opposite end of the bumper in place, securing it carefully. Lyla was bent down by Gabriella. So Papi has more time to see her! Gabriella whispered. He may not know what you’re saying, but he knows it’s bad by the way she looks at him. As though she were a cat might with a glass it was about to shatter on the floor. “You can go home now.”

His daughter doesn’t need any more of her devilish attributes.

“You fucked it alright, mujer. What did you hit?”

Miguel twisted a bit of the sidewall between his fingers to gauge the depth of the hole. Never mind that the back passenger wheel whistled away until it ran flat. It wasn’t the first time someone brought him a car that was fucked. It was the first time you had.

You never asked him for anything, not at the price of your pride. You simply… made it work. Just like Miguel made childcare work by leaving his shop to pick Gabriella up and leaving her bored as fuck every weekday until he could close up shop.

Today, Mimi and Gabriella were inside, playing with dolls after a warm dinner of arroz blanco and fatty pork chops. He wasn’t much a fan of your sickly sweet platano, but he tried it tonight after Gabriella hounded him. Don’t be rude, papi! He’s gotten used to coming home on Wednesday to dinner. It’s something that he realizes he’s missed: having someone to come home to.

“A pothole,” you murmured shyly. His forehead rippled into wrinkles, holding the chunk of broken-off rubber between his fingertips. He rubbed the exhaustion out of his dark eyes, minding the nervous twiddling of your fingers.

“A pothole,” he repeated after you. No matter how many times he considered it, it did not fit. His body was ripe with aggravated energy. He’s too tired for this. The shit he’d seen in his shop and you expected him to believe that you hit-- a pothole? “Qué mierda.”

Miguel set his hands on his hip, rolled on his heel, and stepped back to inspect his future work. His body thrummed, a tightness pulling with the sight of your shy smile. The truth tittered on your luscious little lips.

“I may or may not have hit those rocks by Doña Díaz’s casita.” One look around the street revealed the chunky, pointy rocks you referenced. Miguel flicked the bit of rubber onto the top of the car and looked at you. You were guilty as the day was long. “They weren’t that far off the curb before! I know that it’s bad. Do you think you could-- fix it?”

“You’re going to have to replace those two,” Miguel gestured. “What, did you not see the massive rocks on the side of the road? What were you doing? Eres una mama, you have to pay attention, por dios. You could have been hurt.”

Your eyes darted to the wheels. The nervousness was strong, nearly all-consuming, bidding you to shut up. Though it was a good question, the shame that flecked your eyes was enough to cause Miguel to move on. He knew you were likely inattentive, your mind hovering somewhere else than the quiet cul-de-sac.

“I… had a bad date, Miguel. I was upset and dizzy and… Don’t tell anyone, please.”

The pain of being a woman. His eyes soften as he reaches out, his large hand warm on your slight shoulder. A pulse of warmth rushed through his hand as you leaned in, your cheek plastered to his stained top. He smelled of oil and sweat, but somehow, you find it comforting. Your hands come over his back, tugging on the dark coveralls.

“It’s alright,” Miguel sighed. He'd tell you not to pick shit men-- but sometimes, as he knew, that didn't matter at all. “I’ll have it fixed.”

“I don’t have that much money, Miguel,” you began. “I have to take care of the kids, my house, Mimi. I…”

“No te preocupes. You can do something else for me.”

You drew in a small, choked breath. The type that settled in your chest and did not leave. Not until Miguel’s arms wound over your waist to soothe you through the pain and pressed a kiss that lasted entirely too long to the top of your head. It’s the first time he wants another.

“She is dating,” Peter said. “You know what that means? It means you’re on a time crunch. She could always meet the one!”

"I'm not concerned about it."

The one, Miguel shook his head as he paced past the car he was propping up. He never heard anything more ludicrous. There was no such thing as the one. There was only a range of possibilities to pick from. At any point, life can happen. Then your one is gone-- and you’re left with only the memories and a body to bury. Still, as he clambered underneath the car, he found that he quite didn’t like the thought of you out with anyone else... especially not men who may or may not spike your drink.

“You should ask her to a date. Like, more than playing house with sticky kids and lasagna.”

“She’s never made me lasagna.”

Peter sloppily suckled on his fingers, the juice running down his thin wrists. “Then what was lunch?”

“Pastelón,” he answers bitterly. “It’s… plantain lasagna.”

“Okay, I thought you didn’t like--”

“I don't-- I eat it because she spends time on it.”

Peter sucked in a breath, eyes wide. He’s about to say something terribly unuseful, something like how Miguel has it bad. Miguel knows he does, half-formed images of what a family could be every day he went to pick Gabriella up, homework done, and happily fed. A feat in itself.

In place of that, though, were the car’s melded, mechanical squeals. He has but a moment and a half-formed plan that goes up in smoke the next second that it falls on his arm. He hears Peter’s half-formed, panicked shout to Lyla and recalls the flurry of steps and medical attention sometime later.

Admittedly, he did tell you to be careful.

When he wakes up, so does everyone else. Lyla chastizes him with her hands balled up on her hips, Peter sobs almost twice as much as Gabriella does until the two are dead asleep against his bed. Miguel’s eyes have rolled way too far.

“Is he finally asleep?” you peep into his heavy hospital door with a ginger knock of your knuckles. Miguel throws a look at Peter’s squishy face, half slumped over.

“Hermosa, I thought he’d never stop,” he grumbled.

“You scared him.”

Tch. Miguel watched you pick up Gabriella, settling her on the stiff pull-out bed. He foggily asked you what time it was, close to the end of visiting hours. He’d need to arrange something for Gabi with Lyla taking care of the shop. It itched at his throat.

“Gabi too. Should I…”

“Take her home for me,” he grumbled. “I’ll be back tomorrow. It’s just a broken arm.”

“You coughed up blood, Miggy. You could have died if Peter wasn’t there.”

Miggy. You finally used the nickname somewhere between Wednesday dinner dates and a car slumping on him. Miguel throws a growl to the side, using his non-fucked hand to pet the top of Peter’s head. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew you were right.

“What happens if… something happens to you?”

“With Gabi?” he asks.

"Sí. With everything."

You nod, looking idly at his little daughter, still in her school clothes. You brought her as soon as school was over, soothed the panic in her voice, the thought of becoming an orphan just because the car had cracked his arm. She wouldn’t have remembered her mother’s death, it was far too long ago now.

“Lyla. Why the face? If you’re jealous, know that was the agreement with my wife before she was murdered.”

You hadn’t known you were making a face, but you were to the trained eye. Some small pout of your lip, tears welling at the corner of your eyes. Miguel shoves himself up on the bed, straining sore muscles. It was going to be a long night. A longer month or two until he was up and running again.

“I’m not making a face. It's just... You were reckless when you're usually so careful. I'm wondering why. I'm sorry.”

"It's fine," Miguel urged you to come closer. "Come here."

You slid into his chair, tentatively sneaking your hand on top of his. Miguel wanted to tell you more. There was not another friend nearly so close, one that would take care of everything and anything he needed. He's suddenly aware of his situation. It would be difficult to make a woman secure that he'd not tied down yet. You clearly care-- based on the insecurity in your eyes.

You’re on a time crunch. She could always meet the one.

He doesn't want to miss his shot. He brought your hand to his lips, straining with a pained little grunt. You stood up to help him, allowing his lips to flutter over the back of your hand in a small kiss at his urging.

“Trust me. She’s not a threat,” he said. “You’ll take Gabi with you?”

“Of course, Miggy. Anything you need.”

Securing a relationship would just have to wait.

The first day back, Miguel sent Gabriella off with Lyla. Mimi is off with her papa, leaving you with nothing but time. He finally saw his projects through without Peter loitering over his shoulder, revitalizing cars with bad radiators and fizzled-out air compressors. As if Peter was the boss and he were the employee. The grease under his fingers feels more like Miguel than any squeaky clean shower you’ve helped him take. Yes, you’ve helped him take. He could have asked Lyla or Peter, but why over-extend their lives when you lived in his home for the past month to take care of Gabriella anyway?

He wonders what you thought, stripping him down to nothing, seeing his naked thighs, watching him clean sensitive bits that, as you lied, you were not looking at. He finds it cute, the way you tried to look away, but of course-- you always snuck a look. You’re nosy by nature. He’s never been ashamed of his body, though. For all the work you did, he thinks you deserve a look.

“Miggy,” you slipped through the side door, your heels clicking over a greased-up floor. He hopes you don’t fall, arms deep in the hood of a shiny dark blue convertible. It’s nearly perfect. “I got your message. You said we need to talk?”

“Don’t slip.”

Miguel whirled a wrench into its place, slammed the hood shut, and rubbed the grease on his hands together. Like it will come off his callouses. Miguel meets you half way, offering you his greased up hand. You look down at his hand, then up to Miguel again. He half thinks you won’t take it, but you do, allowing him to whirl you in a spin before lifting you on top od the hood of the car.

“Ay Miggy--” you cursed, looking down at the car. It shone bright, its smooth metal cold under your bare thighs. He pins you in place as you attempt to wiggle off, nearly jiggling your way onto his lap. “The owner will be mad--”

“It’s mine and I’m not.” He explains. “I know what I want.”

“You want…?”

“For the work on your car.” It’s cute how clueless you act, holding your breath as his fingers course past your bare thighs. You barely manage to choke the words out, your hands inching on his. He replaces himself between your thighs. You both know that you more than made up for the few hundred dollars in repairs with the work you’d done for him in a month. Holding your breath, you nod.

“Tell me.”

“I want a night with you.”

You didn’t know what to say, leaning your trembling fingers up to the bits of dark brown hair that accentuated the wrinkles on the corner of his eyes. You met his eyes, trained on your own, challenging you to respond. Words formed in a mishmash of nonsense on your tongue. You take the chance to press your lips on his, your hand suddenly cradling the side of his face for some stability. You were hardly comfortable on his car, but Miguel didn’t seem to care, biding your lower lip to open and let him in. You relinquish, savoring the distant taste of roasted coffee on his tongue, his fingers teasing along your thighs.

“That’s not an answer,” Miguel pulled back from your lips for an instant. He graces your neck with soft kisses, leaving the occasional bite and tug just in case-- he doesn’t need another man thinking he has so much as a chance. Your big man pins you down onto the car like you were weightless, any willingness to inch away tempered by his mass.

“Depends,” you answered. “I want this to be an every night kind of thing.”

“Consider it a trade.” He chuckled against your neck, the heat from his lips traveled across the valley of your breasts. You complied with his desire and let him slip your breasts free from your romper. His mouth closed his mouth over your nipple. His greasy hands melded your breasts between his desperate hands, tongue prodding your nipple fat. Your legs met his hungry performance by pulling him forward, his scratchy belt against your clothed cunt.

“Careful,” he teased. His hand fell to his bulge, unbuttoning his stained pants. You watched him pull himself free, pulling panties and romper alike to the side of your lips. Your lips parted, much like that very first day you met him, sundered by the sight of his cock. This time, fully hard. He doesn’t enter your cunt-- no, he’s patient, slotting himself between your folds for a teasing grind. His dick twitched in response, eager to finally fuck you. “You’ll fall off.”

“It’s your fault. You could have asked over dinner.” He greets your complaint with a nod, flicking your other breast. He envelops the other nipple between his mouth, his teeth grazing along the sensitive skin. You take a long breath, hips leaning up against his firm length.

“Like that would be anything new. We always have dinner,” Miguel murmured in protest. “A far better use of our time is soaking your pretty cunt with my cum on this car before dinner.”

He felt your cunt clench at nothing. His hips, thrusting against your mound, nudged over your wet little folds, knocked against your greedy clit. Before you could respond, Miguel popped off your nipple again, “You like that thought? Going to dinner leaking?”

“Miggy, por dios,” you complained. “Stop dry humping and give it to me.”

He huffed darkly, snatching one of your thighs and leaning back. He spreads your lips, inspecting his work. You were wet, but not just wet, soaking his car. Miguel brought his other palm to wipe your wetness away, jerking himself with the fluid. He tests your reaction by nudging the head of his cock against your unprepared hole.

“Miguel,” you bit out, this time a warning.

“Ya te oigo,” Miguel loomed over you, pinning your shoulder back to his glistening car. You don’t debate him on that, allowing him to say whatever he wants if it would just get him inside. Miguel relinquishes control, pushing inside of your tightness. He bit back a groan, pushing past your body’s resistance, throbbing against your core. Your hands fisted his dirty shirt, cunt split wide on his cock, and glad for it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his hands securing themselves on your hips. He gives you a moment to catch your breath before he pulls nearly free, slamming forth just a moment later. Breath punched out of your throat, his cock rocking your cunt nice and full. You loved this-- looking beautiful and full just for him. He knew it too, “Hermosa.”

Miguel held his arm tight around your thigh, holding you flush against his rutting hips. His balls slapped your ass, pulling tight. You were distantly aware of his thumb at your clit, leaning your hips into his thrusts the best you could. You could only squirm to keep yourself upright on his car despite feeling your body sliding into his. His thumb worked in insistent, tight circles, forcing the pleasure to burrow in your low belly, tightening over him. It’s no marker of your performance, you think, hoping he’d give you another chance to be anything but a toy on his cock.

“No, no puedo--” you whined, your hands dipping under his shirt to scratch at his finely cut muscles, knowing you were about to gush.

“Do it,” Miguel grunts in response, his thumb more insistent. You’re not entirely proud of the way you came, creaming his cock desperately. He held strong, smothering his own groans if only for the pleasure of hearing your passionate cries. You come to moments after, Miguel’s thrusts now intent on his own pleasure.

“Come on, papi,” you worshipped. “Cum in me.”

“Fuck,” Miguel complied, his dirty nails causing sharp indentions on your thigh and hip. His sticky cum fills you in a few deep thrusts, each more forceful than the last, and he’s spent. If he was dirty before, he was filthy now. Miguel catches your lips in a lingering kiss, going soft in your body. He knew the second he pulled out your cum was soaking his now-dented car.

His eyes peeled open to find your gaze on him, tracing fresh superficial scratches on his belly. Of course, you are-- you’re a hungry addict. Miguel pulled himself free and looked for a cloth that wasn’t grease soaked to clean your cunt with. You piece yourself together and slide off his car.

“Let’s go.”

“¿Qué?” he zips himself back into his pants.

“You promised me dinner.”

He sighs-- just as long as it wasn’t lasagna.

There’s something attractive about your love of children.

He thinks it’s likely because he’s never had that himself. His mother was a beast of a woman. Never affectionate. At least, not with him. After his wife’s subsequent death, life proceeded in a vacuum. The years passed: first one. Then six. Then he was here, holding a bundle of jewel-bright roses against an uncharacteristically clean button-up, walking down the dull blue carpet of the beige hallway to the pod that usually held the kids. For all the days you tolerated him smeared and slathered, you deserved a good display.

They were usually alight with noise, rambling on about their latest toy or prattling on about a mommy that Gabriella just did not have. The more she grew, the more important it became to have that for her-- maybe it was more for himself. Today, that hall was dead of life.

“Gabi, I hear your papi,” you called from somewhere inside. He hears her subsequent pitter-patter of feet across the carpet, popping out with Mimi from the door before he can open it. Miguel cocked his head, a sigh working on his lips. They whirled the door shut. Gabi bolted to your would-be desk and slapped her tanned palms on the tabletop.

“Maestra, maestra!”

Ah, damn it all. Miguel’s hand hovers around the knob, chewing on the next thought. He couldn’t really blame the kid for what she was about to say, because he knew exactly what she was about to do.

“¿Mande?”

“I have something to tell you, it’s really important. Papi likes you, did you know my papi really, really likes you?”

There’s a pause. Then a slight, amused giggle from Mimi. It’s short-lived as he pulls open the door, loathing this dumb thing called Teacher’s Week that leaves him with a bundle of flowers and instant regret.

“Sí, Gabriella. I know he does. I like him too. He’s so cute.”

If he weren’t so dark, he’d worry about the flush in his face with the embarrassment of being outed by his little girl. He stares at your hands on Gabriella’s, then at the small sea of desks and colorful name tags to break some of the tension, hardening his face to shield it from the embarrassment. Was he really so obvious?

“Hola Miggy.”

You scoot out of your chair.

“Hola,” he sighs, remembering he was holding flowers. He slides them into your hands, hooking his hands on his slender hips. “This is… Gabi wanted to give you flowers.”

“I never said that,” she chirped, bouncing his way. “You said--”

“Gabriella.” Miguel hisses, his tone sharp at her interjection. She goes dead silent by Mimi's side, staring up at him with watery eyes. He jerks his head in the direction of the quartet of desks she sits at. “Go get your things.”

“I think Papi is embarrassed,” you whisper, crouching down to rub her little back, soothing down her milky white top. “I’ll talk to him and make it better, okay? Go with Mimi.”

“Okay.”

Mimi bounded off behind Gabi, stuffing her bag with her colorful work and chunky crayons. Miguel exhaled air, staring at her powdery blue backpack for something other than the complete and utter embarrassment that yet someone else had called him out. If it wasn't Peter, it was his daughter.

Had he been this obvious the whole time?

“Don’t be too hard on her tonight,” He peered down at you, small in the grand scheme of his height and musculature. You pecked a small kiss on his lips, stroking his week-old stubble, just enough to cool Miguel’s teetering nerves. “It’ll be better when she finds out.”

[itadores]

thinking abt him modeling some clothes for reader .. this cutie needs a shopping day of his own ! - 🩺

note: wah thank u for the suggestion!! i was actually thinking about shopping for sakura as i was writing some of my other drabbles

pairing: sakura haruka x gender neutral reader

word count: .8k

tags: gender neutral reader, established relationship, fluff

sakura doesn't know how he ended up in this position- in a fitting room, trying on an outfit you picked out for him like some sort of doll.

sakura was initially under the impression that this shopping trip was meant for you. looking back on it, however, you never explicitly said it was. although, sakura thought it was implied, considering whenever you ask him to go shopping it’s so you can do so as he follows you around from store to store. he didn’t realize that this time you wanted to go shopping with the intention of picking out clothes for him.

he tried to protest when you revealed your true intentions, but they quickly died down when you gave him a look, batting your lashes at him and jutting your lower lip out in a pout, and said that it would make you really happy if he let you shop for him. even if sakura knew you were playing up your reactions and being overly dramatic, he couldn’t deny you and reluctantly agreed.

he thought that you would pick out a few shirts and maybe a pair of pants for him and that would be all. but sakura guesses he should have known better, considering he's more than familiar with your personal shopping habits. as you moved throughout the store, you ended up amassing a pile of clothes, which you handed off to sakura. he grunted under the weight of it. how could clothes be so heavy?

you plucked different articles of clothing from the pile, holding them up to your own body as you showed sakura how you thought they should be paired together. he didn't really understand the importance of matching certain pieces together, used to just making an outfit out of whatever was clean in his closet, but he did his best to follow along to what you were saying.

after you've gone through all the different outfits he can make with the pile of clothes gathered in his arms, you usher him towards the fitting room before he has a chance to process what's going on.

which is how sakura has ended up in the fitting room, dressed in clothes that you paired together for him. he looks at himself in the mirror, his reflection staring back at him. it's weird. the outfit isn't too far out of his comfort zone, a simple plain gray t-shirt and a pair of black slim-fit jeans, but he still feels strange seeing himself in the mirror. maybe, it's because you picked out the clothes for him. it makes him feel a little like a doll that you're playing dress up with.

and the fact that sakura has to go out into the waiting area and show you what the outfit, which you specifically picked out for him, looks like really doesn't help that feeling. sakura doesn't necessarily want to leave the fitting room, but he's been in your position many times and knows that you're probably getting impatient by now. sakura's been in the fitting room nearly as long as you typically are.

sakura shakes his head. what is he so afraid of? it's just you out there. he decides to stop being such a coward and sucks it up. he inhales sharply and exits the fitting room out into the waiting area before he can second guess himself.

you move at breakneck speed. you jerk your head up so quickly upon hearing footsteps that sakura thinks you must have pulled something in your neck. you spring up from your seat to approach sakura.

sakura doesn't know what else to do besides stand there awkwardly. he feels a little bit like a bug under a magnifying glass with the way you're looking at him.

“haruka, you look so good! like really really good!” you exclaim, looking him up and down appraisingly. "the shirt and the pants fit you so well! better than i expected honestly!"

sakura's face becomes increasingly red with each word that falls out of your mouth. you've never held back from complimenting him before, but the constant stream of praise flowing from you is too much for him to handle.

"okay i get it!" sakura abruptly says, unable to take much more. his face is aflame already. you appear to be startled by the interruption, but you quickly recover.

"oops, did i go a little overboard?" you rub the back of your neck, a guilty smile stretching across your cheeks. a little is an understatement. "i couldn't help myself, you just look so good, haruka!" you motion towards his body as if he's the one at fault for your reaction.

“i get it,” he grits out, ears burning. any more of this, and sakura thinks he might just die of embarrassment.

“okay, okay, i’ll stop teasing now.” you put your hands up in surrender, but the grin doesn’t leave your face. “the outfit’s nice, now go try on and another one for me!”

sakura doesn’t think he’s going to make it out of this shopping trip alive.

[fafnir19]

The lingerie boutique

Leif stood at the threshold of the lingerie boutique, an unfamiliar nervousness pricking at him. His girlfriend's incessant chatter about her friends' partners embarking on risqué escapades for special occasions echoed in his mind. "Sexy photos, Leif. Sexy surprises! That's what other guys do," she had pouted, twirling a lock of her hair in that alluring way that always made his heart race.

Leif, a man in his early thirties with a burgeoning beer belly that spoke of late-night pizza indulgences, found it absurd. Despite his skepticism about the "sexy" trends of middle-aged men in lace and leather, Leif decided to take the plunge. His mind echoed with her words, urging him to step out of his comfort zone. So here he was, on a mission to find something "sexy" for her birthday.

Pushing his doubts aside, Leif entered the shop, greeted by a universe of lace and silk. He couldn't help but feel out of place amidst the sea of women browsing the intimate garments. His eyes darted around the shop, trying to avoid the judging gazes of the ladies as he tentatively made his way towards the men's section tucked discreetly in the corner. Among the crowd of women, he noticed only one other male in the shop, who exuded a confidence Leif could only dream of.

"Maybe he's buying something for his girlfriend," Leif thought, feeling a pang of insecurity as he fingered a delicate lace brief. This man was a stark contrast to Leif's own self-image, muscular and undeniably handsome. This type of guy seemed to belong in the sensuous garments adorning the displays - not Leif.

Gathering his resolve, Leif made his way to the changing rooms, his mind swirling with thoughts of how ridiculous he must look with his chubby frame and hairy chest. Once inside the changing room, Leif stripped down and reluctantly put on the lace briefs. Looking at himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but cringe at the sight. "I look ridiculous," he muttered to himself.

Tugging at the fabric, he realized it clung to him stubbornly, refusing to budge. Panic welled up inside him, and he made desperate attempts to free himself from the unforgiving lace. Frantic now, Leif made a decision born out of frustration. With a sudden burst of strength, he tried to tear the briefs off, only to be met with excruciating pain that shot through his body like a lightning bolt. The room seemed to spin as agony consumed him, and he closed his eyes against the relentless torment. It was as if tendrils of magic seeped into his being, reshaping him from the inside out.

Moments later, as the pain ebbed away, Leif cautiously opened his eyes and glanced at his reflection once more. What he saw left him speechless. Staring back at him was a young man in his twenties, chiseled features and a physique that seemed sculpted by a divine hand.

A mixture of shock and disbelief coursed through him as he whispered, "What happened to me?" In a daze, Leif hastily donning his old, oversized clothing over the lace briefs. However, to his horror, his t-shirt began to tighten around him and the fabric of his t-shirt transformed before his eyes, changing from drab cotton to elegant white lace. The cut of the shirt reshaped itself into a stylish button-down shirt, and as if by magic, the sleeves rolled up on its own. Buttons of his button-down shirt slowly unfurled, unveiling a smooth, hairless chest that bore no resemblance to the man he once was. The transformation didn't stop there. His jeans shimmered and turned into tight luxurious silk pants. The silky texture against his now slender thighs and sculpted buttocks elicited an unexpected sensation of arousal, causing a soft moan to escape his lips involuntarily and shocking Leif to his core. "That's not me. I need to get out of here," he whispered to himself, a sense of urgency driving him to leave the changing room. Finally his worn-out trainers transformed into stylish loafers, completing his new look, showcasing his now naked ankles and leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Overwhelmed and confused, Leif stormed out of the changing room, intent on escaping the eerie enchantment of the shop.

In a twist of serendipity—or perhaps cruel irony—Leif collided with the other male customer in the shop, a man named Brandon. Brandon smirked at Leif, his green eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Leaving so soon, my handsome boy?" his smooth voice resonated in the small space, sending shivers down Leif's spine. Startled and unsure how to react, Leif stammered, "I-I... I need to go." But Brandon's hand reached out, gently touching Leif's arm. "How about we grab a coffee? It's the least I can do after causing such a commotion." His grin was playful, enticing.

Leif was taken aback, unsure of how to respond to such an unexpected proposition. His initial reaction was a mix of alarm, disgust and discomfort at the suggestive undertones in Brandon's words. “This imposing man sees my young and delicate silk- and lace-clad form only as an invitation to bring me to suck his cock," Leif mentally recoiled, trying to find a way out of the situation.

As Leif crushed his mind about an non-offensive response and gazed incidentally at Brandon's muscular frame, a wave of envy washed over him. Brandon exuded confidence and power, a stark contrast to Leif's own insecurities. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at Brandon's commanding presence, his own sense of self-doubt magnified in comparison.

Leif felt a rush of conflicting emotions flood his mind – despite a tinge of jealousy at Brandon's apparent confidence he also felt admiration for the man's muscular physique and his intense green eyes.

Thoughts raced through Leif's mind like a wild stallion, each one more scandalous than the last. He couldn't help but notice how impeccably dressed Brandon was and how good he was looking. His tailored suit hugging his muscular frame in all the right places. The younger version of Leif felt a tingle of attraction towards this dominant man standing before him. But then, a scent caught Leif's attention - the pleasant, manly smell of Brandon's cologne. It enveloped him like a warm embrace, stirring up desires he never knew he had. Images flashed through his mind like lightning, each one more erotic than the last. He imagined what it would be like to kiss Brandon, to feel the roughness of his stubble against his skin.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, a shocking confession slipped past Leif's lips before he could even process it. "Yes, I want to suck your cock, Brandon!" he blurted out, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment as soon as the words left his mouth.

Brandon's lips curled into a sly smile, a predatory glint shining in his eyes as he seized the opportunity presented to him. Without a word, he guided Leif into a secluded changing room, the air thick with anticipation.

The small confines of the room felt suffocating yet thrilling, the quiet rustle of fabric the only sound between them. Leif's heart pounded in his chest, his body responding to the primal call of desire. Kneeling before the man whose dominance seemed to awaken a submissive side within him, Leif delved into uncharted waters, his actions guided by a primal urge he had never acknowledged before.

The taste of danger lingered on his lips as he took Brandon in, exploring a side of himself he never dared to acknowledge. Brandon's fingers tangled in Leif's hair, guiding him with a firm yet gentle touch. Leif's breath ghosted over Brandon's skin, each whispered touch sending shivers down his spine. Pleasure mingled with trepidation as Leif traced his tongue along the length of Brandon's cock, savoring the salty sweetness that teased his senses. With each passing moment, Leif found himself consumed by a heady mix of apprehension and exhilaration as he pleasured Brandon.

After the storm of passion subsided, Brandon's fingers threaded through Leif's hair, a silent gesture of approval and satisfaction. With a whispered "Thanks, boy," Brandon left the changing room without a backward glance.

Leif was confused and still kneeling there, as a sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. Despite the raw intensity of the moment, he couldn't shake the feeling of being used, of being reduced to a mere object of desire. Nevertheless, his relationship with his girlfriend, once a cornerstone of his existence, now seemed like a distant memory.

[levismoker]

To my hot friend @cigarboii

Luke and I have been online friends for a long time. I don't remember when we started chatting, but I suppose we met on Recon or fetishmen. We share plenty of kinks and we are both passionate smokers.

As I live in Mexico most of the year, only when I return to Europe we can meet, but for one reason or another, we had never met yet. So finally last month, once I was visiting my family in Barcelona he invited me to spend a weekend with him.

I was fucking excited because although we have jerked off online plenty of times, I was eager to finally meet him and play together in person. We perfectly know one each other and what we like.

Although I was going for just 3 days, I took all my gear for the occasion, leather, Adidas and denim, and I really hoped he let me use his skinhead gear that is still missing in my closet. Once I was at the airport I bought a couple of cartons for him as gratitude for inviting me. We are both heavy smokers, but that weekend I already knew that we would completely fuck our lungs. Luke was joking telling me that he had an oxygen mask so we could stand up on Monday.

Once I arrived to Brussels he was going to take me in the airport. Once I took my luggage, I want out to the parking zone. I looked for the smoking spot and I send him a pic with my first red in the country. Five minutes later he arrived to fetch me. We hug one each other as old friends.

He was wearing his TN, Adidas t-shirt and jacket and leather pants. And obviously he had a red waiting in his ear. As always, he made me get hard. My cock was already pressing my Levi's. I also was wearing my red Adidas t-shirt but with my leather jacket and Levi's.

The plan was first go for dinner and then party in Brussels. Then we would go to his village and next day to Antwerp.

We sat in his car. It was a completely mess. There were butts and ash everywhere. And was plenty of empty packs.

-i always keep them because sometimes there still reds inside. By the way bro, I have forgotten my carton at home and I have just two reds left in my pack, I have to go to to a tobacco shop first.

I took my bag and I opened it.

-this is for you, dude, it's my way to thank you- I said giving him the two cartons of Marlboro- I know that here is much more expensive so I have come well provided.

-wow man! Thank you! You know how to make me happy!

He then light his red and started riding to the city center.

-i should put my gear, bro! - I told him.

-you don't need more, Pep. It's perfect what you are wearing. I love your trashed Levi's and your red Adidas t-shirt.

-i mean, as I had to go through the metal controls I saved my harness and jocks in my luggage. But I would love to wear it for Brussels party night.

-oh, sure bro! I'm wearing them too. I think it's better if instead of carrying your bag looking for a toilet once we park and you put your gear on.

We ride for 15 minutes more. We were chaining all time. Everytime we finished our reds, I took 2 from the pack, spark up them and give it one to Luke.

I coughed a little after doing a couple of deep drags.

-you should quit bro! - said Luke ironically, laughing with his red dangling.

-once I die, I will stop smoking!- I said exhaling the smoke on him.

The smoke inside the car was so thick that Luke told me that he had poor driving visibility.

We finally arrived to the parking spot next to the city. There was no people in the streets and just a lonely park with some benches with few young men making fuss. I then took my gloves, my harness and jocks from my luggage and put it on.

Luke took his Adidas jacket and I put my leather jacket.

-are we going to come back to the car before the club?

-We can go directly, I would take now all you need.

-ok I will take another pack then- I opened my carton to take one more pack for the night. I was already wearing one still full and the other one almost finished, so it was better to go well stocked.

He did the same, and took two packs from the carton I had given him.

Watching him made me fucking crazy. I grab my red from my lips and I balanced on him, kissing it and swapping my smoke.

We kept kissing five minutes. Everytime I wanted to breathe I sucked the smoke from his mouth, and he did the same. Our cocks were completely hard. It was the best way to start the night.

Finally we decided to move and go for a bench in a less exposed zone. He gave me a plastic bag with 6 beers and he closed the car.

The plan was start drinking in the park. We are not rich men, so he told me that we could drink there and arrive to the club already happy. Besides we could be free to smoke there too.

We finally looked for a bench, we sat there and we opened our first bottles of beer.

We started talking about our lives as two good friends. There were few people in the park, but twice young men came to ask us for a cig. It's polite in the smoker's community to calm the cravings of a brother needing a cig. We all have needed it, and its really strange that another smoker don't offer you a cig. We were there for one hour until we finished the beers.

Then we decided to go for something to eat before going to the fetish bar. Once we sat on the terrace, the waiter came and we both ordered burgers and beer. The waiter brought us a clean ashtray after we put our opened packs on the table.

Once we finished our burgers, Luke told me:

-bro, I also have a present for you

And then he opened his fanny pack and took two wide gars.

-yeah! Thanks bro!- I said doing the last drag of my red.

Although I rarely smoke gars, he is a great "aficionado". I had always ask him to teach me to learn to enjoy a good gar.

Once we had our gars lit we decided to post a pic on Instagram to see if any friend was going to join us later.

Although I definitely prefer my reds (perhaps just because I'm used to it) I loved the natural scents and taste of the gar. I have always felt strange by not inhaling the smoke and just taste it in the mouth, but anyway it was a big present. Around 30 minutes later we finished our gars, and after doing two rounds of shots, we paid the bill and finally we went to the fetish club already a little bit drunk and with our lungs fully charged. Actually we were like 15 minutes without sparking up, the largest span of time of the night.

We didn't walk much until we finally made for the pub. As Luke expected there were quite fetish men gathered there because there was the skinhead night. Inside the pub smoking wasn't allowed, so we joined the other smokers that were standing up next to the door surrounding a big ashtray that was already completely full of ash and butts.

There were three skinheads with cigs on one hand and a beer on the other. Although we love our Adidas gear, we damned not going with our skinhead gear too. At least, although I wasn't wearing bleachers, I was wearing Levi's as almost all men in the party.

[minnophee-writes]

Right Where You Were Meant To Be

Fandom: Avengers [Marvel]

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Plus-size Reader

Summary: The reader has a crush on Bucky the second she looked at him but she also has feelings of self-consciousness about her body and doubts she’d ever end up with Bucky or any guy like Bucky. That all changes one night at one of Tony’s parties.

Word Count: 2,760 words

A/N: This is a cute little one-shot idea I had and just wanted to write out. I feel there aren’t many plus-size!reader stories so I wanted to make my own. I’m a chubby girl and felt like I needed some love, lmao. Any mistakes I take responsibility for, this story wasn’t beta read, so I apologize for any mistakes. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!!! <3 <3 <3 [edit: this is an old fanfic lol]

It all started when you looked at him for the first time. He had just moved into the Tower, and you had just gotten the job as Tony's new assistant since Pepper had become CEO of Stark Industries. Because you worked in an environment with superheroes who were very fit and healthy, you had become self-conscious of yourself; whether it would be what you wore, the things you ate, or just how your body looked in general.

Being a bigger girl, it often took a toll on your mental health when you would notice the glances, the whispering, the judgmental stares, and how shopping for clothes in your size was difficult, and it made you feel like you had to lose weight to fit in and belong. You felt alone and isolated.

You didn't have any friends; you didn't even talk to many of your co-workers, and just kept to yourself a majority of the time. When Bucky moved in, you noticed he did the same. He didn't speak much to the rest of the team, he mostly stayed in his room, and only hung around Steve. Bucky was very fit, and his muscular body showed it whenever he wore tight-fitted clothing. You would never wear tight-fitted clothing for fear of having your plumpness accentuated.

After five months working for Tony and having a more friendly relationship with the rest of the team, you had built a few close bonds with some of the heroes. Wanda and Natasha were your closest girlfriends and would regularly have 'Lady's Nights' every Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Tony, Clint, Sam, and Steve were like your older brothers and would look out for you.

You and Steve made it a routine to do small exercise and yoga in the afternoons just after 4 o'clock. How this all started was because you wanted to accomplish small goals for yourself, as Sam told you to do to help with your mental health.

"Steve," You called out as you stepped into the Tower's gym, the one place you knew where to find Steve if he wasn't in the common room.

"Oh, hey (Y/N)! What's up?" Steve turned to face you as he held the punching bag still while he watched you walk closer to him, noticing you fidgeting with your fingers nervously.

"I just... I wanted to start doing light exercises, you know, to boost my endorphins, and so I have something to do in the afternoons when I've finished with work." It wasn't a complete lie, but it just sugar-coated the fact that you just wanted to lose weight to gain confidence in yourself.

Steve had agreed to help you; he wouldn't push you too much either because he didn't want you to strain anything and not push you out of your comfort zone too much. Both of you would exercise for an hour each day in the afternoons. This routine had been going on for six weeks, and you were enjoying it. You felt better about yourself each week when you would check your progress and write down how much you lost during the week; you were more confident than you were all those weeks ago before asking Steve for help.

During one of those afternoon exercises, you and Steve were both in the Adho Mukha pose with Steve wearing his usual tight t-shirt, that you swore was a size too small, and shorts while you wore a loose, black tank top, and tight-fitted leggings that complemented the shape of your plump ass. You were so in the zone that you hadn't heard the gym doors open and the sound of footsteps coming closer to you. Bucky stood behind you and Steve, him getting an eyeful of your butt while he cleared his throat to catch his best friend's attention.

"Hey, Bucky! I didn't notice you were there. (Y/N) and I were doing some yoga, would you like to join us?"

You. Were. Mortified. You quickly stood up beside Steve and looked down at your feet, trying to avoid looking at Bucky after having your ass practically in his face.

"Uh, I kinda have to get ready for 'Girl's Night' tonight, but I think Bucky can keep you company." You nervously spoke, having your words jumble out quickly due to your inner-embarrassment. "I'll see you later, Steve!"

You bolted out of the gym as fast as your legs could go and made it up into your room without another incident. When you flopped onto your bed, you let out a loud, exhausted sigh before closing your eyes shut tightly. 'Why did I have to act like a nervous wreck? You didn't even let him talk for Christ's sake!' After beating yourself up over the little incident, you started to get ready for 'Girl's Night' with Nat and Wanda.

~~~~~~

It was two hours into 'Girl's Night' and you, Nat and Wanda had, at least, drank four glasses of Kraken Rum and about three shots of Vodka. You were more relaxed and carefree, enjoying your time with your best friends while gossiping about an episode of Criminal Minds you all saw the other day together.

"Not gonna lie, I would love to have a man like Morgan. Have you seen his muscles? And how he kicks down doors like a badass?" You gushed.

"That is true, and I fully believe Morgan and Garcia should be together. They have chemistry and look so cute!" Wanda loved her Morgan and Garcia ship.

"Eh, I like to have a super cute genius but that's just my opinion" Nat took a sip of her fruity vodka drink while shrugging her shoulders.

"Of course you would, you're with Bruce and that's a little bias, Nat." You gently shoved your red-haired friend playfully.

You and Wanda giggled like school girls when Natasha scoffed before she pointed an accusing finger at you.

"Well, says you, (Y/N)! You practically drool whenever you see Barnes."

That shut you up quickly. 'How does she know?! Play it off...'

"That's very funny Nat, but I don't know what you mean."

"Don't bullshit me, (Y/N). I've seen the way your cheeks get all pink and how your eyes are glued to him whenever he walks by. You're so smitten it's grossly cute." Then Wanda turned to you with a small smirk on her face.

"Maybe you should ask him to work out with you and Steve!"

Flashbacks of your embarrassment earlier that day made your face go pale. 'Absolutely not'. You shook your head furiously, staring at your two friends with fear. There was no way you'd have the guts to do such a thing, not after how you acted around him before. Plus, you didn't want him to look at you with disgust when he looks at you working out. You shake off all the negative thoughts before finishing off your last bits of rum.

"I think I'm going to head off to bed now, gotta wake up early tomorrow. Tony wants me to help him organize and plan a gala party to celebrate his newest project. And when I say to 'help him' I mean I'll be doing most of the work while he hides away in his lab with Bruce." You said before walking off and waving the girls goodbye.

2 weeks later...

You had most of the gala planned out. You had booked a cute catering company to organize some food dishes for everyone and even hired a group of people to decorate one of the large common rooms that would fit all the guests on Tony's guest-list. You had even bought a cute new dress to wear for the party. The party was starting that night at 7:30 and you would hopefully get everything done while having an hour and a half to spare to get ready.

When the decorating and planning finished, you quickly made your way to your room and got showered and changed. You stood in front of your mirror for quite some time, nitpicking every flaw you could see, judging your appearance because you knew how the other women at the party were going to look flawless and have every man swooping in for them. A sudden knock on your door snapped you out of your negative thoughts.

"(Y/n), you ready?" Wanda's voice called from the other side.

"Y-yeah! I'm coming now." You dashed for the door to get away from the mirror so you can't put yourself down even more. Once opening the door, Wanda linked your arm with hers, and both of you walked toward the elevator.

Telling FRIDAY which floor, you both arrived just as a few of the guests were mingling around; drinking, eating, and chatting. You glanced around, hoping to see the familiar faces of your friends, spotting Sam, Nat, and Clint near the bar where Natasha was serving the drinks. Tony was standing next to Pepper and being an absolute flirt as always while Steve and Bucky were standing near a corner with drinks in hand. Before you could make your way over to the bar, Wanda told you to wait where you were while she goes to quickly touch up her make-up, disappearing before you could say a word. You stood there awkwardly and looked around, making sure everything was going swimmingly until you felt a presence behind you. A tap on your confirmed that someone was indeed behind you.

You turned around to see a group of two slender women and three muscular men staring at you with smug and cocky smiles on their faces.

"Can we get some more drinks? And make them with a little more alcohol this time." One of the men quirked an eyebrow, waiting for you to scurry off to grab their drinks.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not part of catering. I'm-"

"You certainly look it though, I mean, you're not dressed like you're here as a guest. The dress you're wearing looks like the other catering staff." A woman spat, her eyes narrowed at you. You started to feel self-conscious about your outfit now, realizing the color-scheme looked very similar to the catering staff.

"Plus, the dress isn't that flattering for your body hun. We can practically see your muffin top and panty lines with how tight that dress is on you." The other woman commented while she leaned to the side to glance at more of your plush figure.

A stinging sensation began to appear behind your eyes, feelings of doubt, and an anxiety attack began to make themselves known. So looked away from the group and quickly made for the elevator, shooting Wanda a quick text saying you weren't feeling too well. 'How stupid of me to think I even looked good or that I could fit in at the party.' By the time the elevator doors reached your floor and the doors opened, hot tears were falling down your cheeks as you tried to furiously wipe them away with zero results. The tears kept flowing down as you began to walk down the hallway to your room; quiet footsteps barely making noise as they followed you. Just as your hand settled on the door handle, a warm hand clasped onto your shoulder gently. With a yelp, you spun around with a jump to look at your "attacker", only to find a pair of stormy blue eyes staring at your teary eyes intensely.

Bucky's eyes held hints of concern and worry, but it was hard to see because he was good at hiding his emotions, and the fact that your eyes were blurry from crying.

"You okay, (Y/n)? I saw you leave the party quickly and noticed how fast your breathing was." Bucky had to look down at you because he was so tall, or was it because you were just very short?

"I'm fine, Bucky. I just don't do well in crowded places or with so many strangers. I got a bit overwhelmed but it's fine now." You weakly smiled but he could see right through it, he always did.

"You had a panic attack after speaking to a group of people and judging by the looks they gave you while talking to them, I can only believe it wasn't a pleasant conversation." Bucky then brought both his flesh and metal hands to cup your face while he peered into your eyes more. "Tell me what happened, doll."

You sighed, you knew he wasn't going to let this go. Even though you both barely spoke to each other, he still cared for you like the both of you knew each other for years. Something about his calm voice and caring nature helped your nerves settle.

"They thought I was part of catering and asked if I could get them more drinks. I told them I wasn't catering, only for them to make snarky comments about my outfit and body. But it's fine, I'm used to having those comments made to me, I've dealt with those types of people all my life." Your hands gently held his and tried to move them away from your face but Bucky didn't budge.

"You don't believe them, right? I mean, I think the dress looks good on you. It shows off your curves and any man who doesn't get blown away is blind."

You gave a humorless laugh and shook your head at Bucky, looking down at the floor.

"You're just saying that to be nice to me, Buck. We both know girls like me don't belong in a place like this, or a party like that. You can go back to the party, I don't want to waste more of your time." You went to turn away when Bucky held your upper arms tightly.

"Not a chance, doll. I'm not a fan of crowds myself and was about to leave the party myself until I saw you run away. I'd rather spend my time with you and making sure you don't ever think that you don't belong."

You both stared at each other for a few seconds, his stare was intense with adoration and love while you stared at him in shock that he'd want to spend time with you. Before you could blink, Bucky leaned down and you felt his soft lips on yours, his arms wrapping around you and caging you into a warm and gentle embrace. Your hands rested onto his firm chest while his hands rested on your lower back, just above your butt. At first, you were in shock but then you gave in to the kiss and snaked your arms around his neck, your fingers embedded into his long hair.

The kiss was full of passion, and so much love that you didn't think it was possible. When the need for air was too much, you both separated and looked into each other's eyes once again.

"H-how? Why me? We barely know each other!"

"Because, (Y/n), I've been smitten for you since I first laid eyes on you but didn't have the guts to tell you. Steve's been a punk and trying to get me to join your work out sessions for weeks but I was too nervous to do it." Bucky's cheeks tinted red as he chuckled.

"And why's that? I was scared that if saw me working out, that you'd be grossed out by my body." You explained, chewing on your bottom lip.

"I could never be grossed out, sweetheart. I love a woman with curves and plumpness to her. I was nervous that if I watched you work out, I would try to make a move on you too fast and scare you away. I didn't want that to happen." Bucky grabbed your chin and leaned in again, his lips almost touching yours. "And you looked downright sexy in those tights, they shape your ass well."

You gasped and lightly smacked his shoulder while he smirked at you. His playfulness coming through. You made the first move this time and got onto your tippy toes to kiss him. It was quicker than the first but still held the same emotions. With so much strength you underestimated he had, Bucky lifted you up - your legs wrapped around his waist - as he opened your door and carried you over to your bedroom. Both of you watched a bunch of movies in your room; many kisses were shared before you both passed out, cuddled up under your fluffy blankets, safe in Bucky's arms. 

Right where you were meant to be all along.

[deadratdonoteat]

Based of the song Casual. Friends with benefits but on if you caught feelings.

Roronoa Zoro x reader

Tags- angst but fluff

W.C= 1.7k

The beating sun brought sweat to my skin. The thin t-shirt I was wearing didn’t cool me off enough. Even the jean shorts weren’t enough. The ship swayed with the waves. “This Sucks,” I complained.

“Shut up, loser!” Nami shouted at the small table we both sat at, “Don't call me that” I glared. She scooped up the few coins on the table into her shirt.

“Well you keep losing, so you're a loser!” She chimed. Sighing, standing up, I began to walk away. “Going to your swordsman?” I could basically hear the smugness of her. Ignoring her I walked to the front deck, where I knew he’d be. And there he was, lifting weights. Leaning on the wooden rail to watch. His muscles flexed as he raised the weight. Sweat shined down his forehead.

“Creep,” he mumbles purposely loud enough for me to hear. I chuckle at his words. A small smile grows on his face.

“You know you love it when I watch you,” I roll my eyes at him. He shrugs his shoulders but you know it's true. Honestly you hoped he loved you. You two were more than friends. Though it was never official, how you two act with each other is more than friends. The countless times you've been alone together, pressed against walls in a flurry of hushed touches and kisses. None of the crew knew that when you and Zoro were alone, you’d basically makeout instead of doing what's needed. Zoro's voice cut me from my thoughts.

“Staring at me like a lover,” he laughed. I guess when I zoned out my eyes stayed on him. Him saying that hurt a little but it was just a joke. I laughed along with him but what he said cut deeper, “We're not together..” He looked away and continued working out. Why would he say that? It’s not like I said we were or tried to argue with his previous statement. Was he purposely trying to hurt me?

-

Zoro and I were left alone to guard the ship. Nami knew what she was doing with leaving us alone. Me and him watched as the crew's figures disappeared. As soon as they were no longer in sight, I turned to ask something but was cut off by the moss head’s lips crashing into mine. My eyes widened. His hand cradled the back of my head, his other hand on my waist. He had never been this needy. Who does he think he is doing this after saying such hurtful things earlier? As he pulled away something in his eyes told me he wanted more. He enjoyed it so why was he denying it?

“No attachments, baby,” He said while walking into the kitchen. I was left alone. My eyes are still wide but not with surprise. Did he really say that? He really said ‘No attachment’ right after pulling me into a kiss? I'm so confused.

-

The crew sat at a restaurant. Luffy demands meat and making Usopp pay. Sitting next to the swordsman like usual. EVeryone would know something was wrong if you didn’t.

“Y/n, open wide,” a deep voice spoke. Turning to look at the green haired man, his fork was right in front of me with a slice of meat on it. I could see Nami’s smile from the corner of my eye. If some stranger saw me and him they’d definitely assume we were a couple. After he fed me the meat, Liffy started asking Zoro to feed him his meat too, which ended with yelling.

After leaving the restaurant with full bellies and Usopp’s empty wallet. The moon shined bright enough to light up the paths.

“I’m headed to get Sake,” Zoro declared, grabbing my arm and heading to some shop. I could hear Sanji call out to keep me safe, but Zoro just scoffed. The small shop smelled awful, probably a smell Zoro loved. At the checkout counter, the old man started small talk.

“What a lovely couple,” he said slowly. He was a small man. Zoro placed what he wanted on the counter, and looked at me expectantly.

“Want me to pay?” He nodded, “Is that why you brought me along,” he nodded again at my question. I thought he wanted company. The cashier cleared his throat. When I was about to answer, Zoro cut me off.

“We're just casual friends,” he claimed. It was weird, he was starting to do too much. The old man just looked at my expression of confusion. I’m sure he knew what was going on.

-

I left the deck to grab drinks for Robin and Nami. As soon as Nami made sure I was gone she turned to the swordsman.

“Alright Zoro, what are your feelings for Y/n?” Nami asked with frustration, she was tired of seeing her close girl friend be sad over a guy. Zoro looked at the navigator with his brows furrowed.

“WHat are you talking about?” He asked. Robin was listening into the conversion, just acting like she was reading. Nami sighed in frustration at his thick skull.

“Y/n! The super pretty chick, the seamstress that fixes all our clothes, the one who always accompanies you so your not lonely, and even carries your ass when you black out from battle or from drinking?” Nami dragged on, making sure he got the concept. Zoro had sometimes wondered how he’d wake up in a soft bed with water next to him and you’d always be there to make sure he's okay.

“Yeah? What about her?” He rolled his eyes and turned away from the two girls. He could feel Nami’s anger boil behind him. He was about to tune out everything until he heard laughter. Your laughter. He would be able to find it in a crowd, his knees would always go slightly weak when you laughed. He turned around to see what was making you laugh, but the sight made his blood boil.

Sanji was carrying a tray with tropical looking drinks, while fawning over you. Your cheeks were slightly pink with blush. That damn cook was making you laugh and blush? Zoro gritted his teeth. Oh how badly Zoro wished to punch that piss head away and carry you away in his arms. Zoro stopped himself. WHat was he thinking? Take you away? And then what? Get a small house by the sea and he’d get to show you off to everyone? God it sounded nice. Zoro shook his head. These thoughts are why he needs to get away from you. Even in the middle of battle zoro would only think about you. If you were safe or when the next time he’d be able to kiss your angelic lips again. He was starting to sound like the cook. A shiver went down his back just thinking about it.

The first time he kissed you was because he could hold it back anymore. You're just so beautiful, smart, and stupidly charming. That night when you both had watched together. You looked like a goddess in the moonlight. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning in and he was thankful when you didn’t pull away. SInce then he struggles to not touch or kiss you everytime he sees you.

-

“Y/n, we need to talk,” Zoro spoke slowly. Walking through the woods to get to the others after Zoro insisted he knew the way. Your heart sank. What was he going to talk about? A million thoughts swarmed your head. He stopped in his tracks, you stopped right behind him.

“Nami tol dme something,” his words made your heart stop. Did Nami seriously rat you out?

“What is it, Zoro?” you asked timidly. Sure you can fight devil fruit users, get shot, almost drown and not think anything of it. But the second you're alone with Zoro everything is thrown out the window. He turned around to look at you, his head tilted down to fully see you. As you looked up you could sense where this was going to go.

“Nami talked to me about some feelings you had,” He confessed. His eyes looked away. Your face heated up from embarrassment. “ANd i think I need to straighten some things out,” he continued, “Y/n I-” “You see me only as a casual friend, I get it,” you cut him off coldly. You didn’t want him to say it. It would hurt too much. He sighed. Your eyes started to water. The guy you were basically in love with just rejected you, even after weeks of kissing each other like lovers. He’s going to blow you off like this? His left hand rested on your shoulder, his right one coming up to your chin.

“That’s not what I was going to say,” he chuckled. He raised your head to look at him, your eyes widened. What could he possibly want to say? The moon casted a halo around his taller frame. He looked angelic. He leaned in close, his breath hitting your ear.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to be more than ‘casual friends’” his warm breath heated my neck. My face felt hotter from his confession. Was this a dream? He pulled back and looked into your eyes. “Is that alright baby?” he asked. Your heart skipped a beat.

“Yes! Yes, yes a million times ye-” his lips crashed into yours.

-

Bonus-

After agreeing to keep it a secret from the crew you two got back with them. The ship rocked as you all boarded.

“What's that on your face, Zoro?” Nami asked with her usual smug smile. The crew all turned to look at him. Sanji’s jaw dropped to the floor as he looked between the two of you.

“FInally,” Robin sighed, walking to the upper deck. Both yours and Zoror’s eyebrows were raised. WHat were they talking about? Turning to look at each other, you froze. You may or may not have forgotten you were trying out a new red lipstick tonight. Zoro’s lips were stained red as well as kiss marks all around his face. Your cheeks flushed. Zoro’s eyes widened at your smeared lipstick on your lips, he could put two and two together.

So much for keeping it a secret.

<3

[thevampiremarie]

Heartless

🔞 Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, smut in the next chapter (and the chapters after).

Reader is disabled/chronically ill (and so is the author)

You need health insurance. Ghost is sick of sharing living quarters with the rest of the 141. Soap, your childhood friend, thinks the two of you can fix each other’s problems.

Or, Ghost and you have to convince his command that you didn’t just meet each other and your marriage is totally, completely, 100% legit. Not for any, more practical reasons. And, of course, your married-couple accommodations only have one bed.

Chapter 1:

This will either be the stupidest decision you’ve ever made or the greatest stroke of brilliance you’ve ever had. And there is no in-between.

When Soap ducks his head into the coffee shop, you’re more than a little relieved to see him in one piece, plus or minus a few silvery scars scattered across his face and peeking out of his sleeves, the collar of his jacket.

And the dumbass aviators you bought him as a high school graduation present hang from the dip of his shirt. You know Soap thinks he looks badass, but the placement reminds you more of ‘Patagonia dad who likes hiking’ than it does ‘mysterious hardened special forces dude.’

He’s so built that he has to carefully pick his way between crowded tables, just so he doesn’t knock over someone’s drink or trip into a random stranger’s elbow.

You more or less tackle him into the biggest hug you can. “Soap! You’re not dead!” Ever since he joined his super-duper-top-secret whatever the fuck, you’ve gotten used to the communication dead zones in your years-long friendship. The silence never stops worrying you, though.

Johnny chuckles and practically lifts you off your feet. “Neither are you! Congratulations!” You know he’s relieved to see you as well by the way he ruffles your hair.

You fucking hate it when he does that, which is, of course, why it’s become a tradition every time you see him.

He pisses you off, you piss him off. “Twinning!”

The glare he tosses your way has all the menace of a kitten attacking a curtain. “Fuck does that mean? You know I can’t keep up with your American slang.” You’re a good friend who pre-ordered his ridiculous caramel latte with extra caramel, and Soap sits happily in front of it.

He learned that he enjoyed heart-stoppingly sweet drinks on accident - a case of mistaken identity where you unintentionally grabbed Soap’s macho Americano, and he drank half of your caramel latte in revenge. And here you are, years later, watching him slurp down a milk foam heart.

“Awww, too much for the brain cells you have left?” Teasing him as easy as breathing and a welcome distraction for the anxiety attack-inducing question you must ask.

The general coffee shop ambient noise swells in your ears. An espresso machine malfunctions, almost loud enough to make you jump, and you try to disguise it by sipping your iced tea. No caffeine; you’re nervous enough without it.

“I could have you arrested for that,” Soap quips. Please. As if you’d let him try. One call to his commanding officer about his pre-service shenanigans, and you’d have his ass court-martialed.

“Abuse of the power of the Armed Forces? Very ethical.” You raise an eyebrow and lace your voice with haughtiness, even flicking some hair over your shoulder.

Then you need to pass Johnny a few napkins to mop up the latte dripping from his nose out of laughter. “I’m glad to see you,” He tells you, and the sober, knowing look in his eyes makes your stomach drop out. He doesn’t miss a thing. He’d probably be dead or fired from his job if he did. “Though I know this isn’t a social call.”

Well. You’re in for it now. “Yeah, unfortunately, it isn’t.” The words taste like dust in your mouth, and the lemony-black tea barely washes it out. Just to give yourself something to do, you pop the plastic lid off and tip a couple of ice cubes into your mouth before chomping down.

“What’s going on?”

How do you summarize the horrifically, brutally stressful whirlwind of the last few weeks without inspiring the annoying, patronizing pity you’ve gotten from literally everyone else you’ve vented to? You’re not a victim to be coddled or a child to be given advice you’ve already thought of, tried, and failed at.

“I’m losing my health insurance at the end of the month” is what you decide on in the end.

He knows exactly what that means for you. For your future. Soap shakes his head ruefully. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You’ve been sick for a while, diagnosed the year after the two of you graduated high school. The kind of sick that is simply a freak accident of nature, causing your body to attack itself over and over until the day you’ll drop dead from complications. It wouldn’t take much; maybe a regular infection burning you alive with a fever your crippled immune system can’t stop, or a benign cut from a kitchen knife that will bleed and bleed until you’re halfway to the coroner’s office.

And then there’s your shitty, damaged, degenerated spine that keeps you in bed for weeks at a time with crippling, numbing pain.

Without health insurance, things won’t look good for your quality of life. And you like your quality of life to be decent. You’d settle for passable.

Really, it sounds worse than it is, and you try to console him. “It’s okay. It was eventually going to happen. I had hoped to have a little more time, though.” You remember the call from the insurance company like it just happened yesterday. You were loading dishes into the dishwasher and listening to Fleetwood Mac on the radio. And some poor customer service representative told you they were increasing your monthly payments beyond what they knew you could afford, so they’d have to drop you.

You watch him open his mouth as if to tell you that you should’ve said something sooner. But he’s been deployed for the past four months. He pauses and resets to something a little more helpful. “How can I help?” That’s something you have liked about Johnny a lot since you were kids. He cares more about what he can do.

Your anxiety permits your lungs to take one big, fortifying inhale. “Well…” Dragging it out will only make this worse, you know, but you really, really, really hate that it’s come to this. “This is fucking embarrassing.” You tried to find a way to pay the premiums; you really did. But you work forty hours a week already and trying to get more shifts, maybe find a new job, do this, do that, appeal, all of that has been futile and draining. “Will you marry me?”

He drops his half-empty cup on the table, forceful enough that some of the coffee spills out. “What?”

Soap’s partially-scandalized shock is not what you hoped for as a reaction. But you suppose you shouldn’t have expected anything better.

The worst part of this conversation is over. It can’t get more nerve-wracking. “Marry me. Like. Get legally married. I could get on military benefits, and my meds would be covered.” He doesn’t swing your way, but surely signing some paper and standing before a judge is, like, not the most terrifying thing Soap has ever done. “And- and I know there’s stuff in it for you, too, like a better apartment or whatever. I can cook. Better than you, that’s for sure.” One of your friends had to teach him how not to burn water.

He just sits there in silence. “Please,” You add on softly. Desperately. This is your last-ditch attempt, your Hail Mary.

At last, Soap’s shoulders slump, and you know, from that alone, that he’s gonna say no. Miracles are rarely performed for ordinary people. “I would if I could, but… I’m sort of already married,” He sighs, then winces, waiting for your inevitable unhappy outburst.

…

You blink a few times, brain furiously recalibrating everything you know. John got married, and he didn’t even invite you? Or tell you? You’re supposed to be his friend. That’s so rude, ouch. You would have even gotten him some expensive shit off his gift registry.

A fucking Keurig, for God’s sake. “What? Who?” You demand, more outraged that he would leave you out of his life than you are over him declining your proposal

Underneath that deep, sunburnt tan, you see Soap blush. “Jeremy from final year.”

You’d throw your empty cup at him, but he’d just duck. “I knew you were fucking him! I knew it! You tried to gaslight me and say you weren’t, but I saw the hickies on his neck!” There were only so many times Johnny ducked out of a math classroom covered in sweat, followed shortly by your classmate, before you put the pieces together.

Oh, but the rest of your friends called you a conspiracy theorist and told you to mind your business. Now, who’s laughing?

Soap holds his hands up in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ sign. “He needed health insurance. We’re married on paper. Haven’t seen him in a few years, but I know he’s doing alright.” Naturally, he’s already selflessly committed marriage fraud. You honestly should’ve seen that coming; that’s why you wanted to propose in the first place and figured you’d have a slim chance of success.

“Shit.” Now you’re back to square one. And it’s a shitty square, with walls that close in around you with every passing second.

The regret in his eyes overflows when he sees your slumped shoulders, how you’re picking at your cuticles hard enough to bleed. “‘M sorry. If I wasn’t locked down, you know that I’d do it for you in a heartbeat.” The worst part is that you know he’s being sincere, not just parroting empty platitudes.

Right. Well. That’s it, then.

You rub at your closed eyes, then at the stress wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Fuck. It’s fine, I know. I will… I’ll figure it out,” You sigh. Less than convincing, but it doesn’t need to be.

There are probably options you just haven’t thought of yet. Or maybe you can work something out with your doctor, where you only get your meds every other month. “I got it covered. Don’t worry about me.” You instantly see Soap rush to shake his head, to tell you that he’s always worried about you. You want to chastise him, tell him that he has plenty of things to be worried about in his own life. “Shush. It’s fine.” But you don’t have the heart to rake him over the coals for it now, so you settle for that.

You should go. You have things to do, things that include crying in your bed with the curtains drawn and urgently refreshing your email to see if anyone's gotten back to you. New jobs, aid organizations for low-income people, any further bad news.

Soap catches your wrist before you can say the appropriate goodbyes and rush out of the cafe. “Look- hold on- let me… let me ask my… friends.” He wrinkles his nose as he says it with an odd, stilted tone. Like ‘friends’ is a replacement for something he can’t say out loud in a civilian setting.

You can put the pieces together. “Is that what you’re calling your coworkers?”

“That’s classified, shut up.” His Scottish accent pops out there stronger than good malt whiskey. Hope is an easily-caught flame and far more difficult to extinguish. When you smile at him, you find it’s not entirely false. “Let me ask around, okay? They’re good guys. You might need to do the heavy lifting with your sparkling personality, but I can try.”

‘Sparkling personality’ is sort of ominous. ‘Don’t give them shit,’ is what he means to say. That’s fine, you’ve worked in customer service before. You can be on your best behavior.

You’re not exactly sure what kind of dude would be willing to marry a stranger, even if that is the kind of dude you want to marry.

But desperate times, desperate measures. “Thank you. Really. It would mean the world and…  would probably save my life.” You didn’t mean to get as choked up at the end as you do. No one else has been willing to help you, though, and Soap’s answering hug feels like desperately needed hope reviving itself in your chest.

“I’ve got you. And I hope I can help in the end, even if it’s not what you originally had in mind.”

-

Soap runs through his team members in his mind as he waits for the gate guard to scan his ID, trying to recall who’s tied down and who isn’t.

Captain’s got a wife, he thinks, and he’s a wee bit too old for you anyway.

It takes a second for the starry-eyed guard to hand him back the card and lift the gate.

You picked a good time to call him up; not only is he in town, menacing the local army base, but so is the rest of the 141—a rarity.

Vargas would certainly charm you, but Soap trusts Alejandro with you about as far as he could throw him.

Out of all the idiots he went to school with, you’re the only idiot who stuck around through the early years of his service, and you pursued your friendship like a hound after a fox even when he couldn’t properly reciprocate.

So John feels some responsibility for looking out for you, as you’ve always looked out for him.

Garrick wouldn’t be a half-bad choice. Dependable, responsible. Friendly, so your sham marriage would at least be enjoyable.

His mind drifts to his own errant mostly-platonic husband as he parks the borrowed car in his numbered space. Jeremy. The last time they spoke was over three years ago? Maybe four. Jeremy had found himself a new boyfriend and called to let him know, asking if Soap wanted a legal divorce. He was moving to some godforsaken corner of America. Florida? Maybe. That place has got too many fuckin’ states for him to remember them all.

They worked it out - they’d stay married, and Jeremy would keep out of his way. No love lost.

Roach could do it for you in a pinch as well. A little quiet, but maybe you’d work out something like him and Jeremy. Staying out of each other’s way.

Soap dismisses Lieutenant Riley without a second thought. On his best day, Ghost is about as inviting and amenable as a particularly hungry great white shark. And even if God himself came down from Heaven and changed Ghost’s heart to be interested, Soap would worry about you.

A lot. Even more than he already does, since the day you sobbed in his arms after school when you were first diagnosed. Since that day he had to help you out of bed because you could neither walk nor miss any more class.

Does he trust Ghost enough to fight alongside him? To have his back when there’s a gun against his head? Absolutely. Does he think Ghost would treat one of his oldest friends properly, befitting of the funny, kind, vibrant person you are? Abso-fuckin’-lutely not.

So that puts Gaz and Roach in his top choices for you and Vargas as a last-tier resort.

Armed forces worldwide, in Scotland and America, are all about efficiency. Eliminating redundancy.

And if that’s the excuse Johnny uses to justify blindsiding his whole team at once, so he doesn’t need to have this conversation three damn times and hear three separate rejections? That’s between him and God.

He herds them like sheep, plucking the Captain from his office, Garrick and Alejandro from conditioning in the gym, disturbing Roach’s book. Ghost appears out of nowhere as if summoned by the disturbance and falls in behind Soap. Not a single damn sound, of course. While that’s useful on deployment, he still has to tamp down on the instinct to jump every time he sees a skull mask hovering out of the corner of his eye in everyday life.

No matter. The lieutenant will likely wander out when the subject matter is revealed. It would raise more red flags if he told Ghost off.

He barely gets Lt. Riley through the pool room door before Captain jumps him. “Sergeant. What’s the trouble?”

That’s fuckin’ rude. “Why’d you assume I’m in trouble?” He indignantly replies. Except… yeah, there was that time he borrowed a humvee he had no permission to touch, and Captain covered for him to Laswell. Shit. “Well, I’m not.” At least, not this time.

Soap opens his mouth to argue this because it’s hardly fair for Cpt. Price to point fingers only to be cut off. “What is it?” At least Price has the decency to file the sharp edges off of his voice this time.

Right. He almost feels guilty getting sidetracked over something so stupid when he’s gathered everyone here for an infinitely more important reason.

Where does he start? How the fuck does he proposition them without sounding absolutely mental? “I… Hear me out.” Instantly, Garrick shakes his head ‘no,’ and Cpt.’s face remains as unmoved as a brick wall. Definitely not how he should have opened. “Wouldn’t be asking if the situation wasn’t desperate.” Soap opens his hands in the vain hope that the gesture will make them listen, at minimum.

You loathed hospitals and doctor’s offices when you first got sick. Now, you see the inside of them so often that it hardly fazes you. Still, Johnny always went along when you asked. So you wouldn’t have to be alone.

The countless memories of holding your hand as some faceless nurse sticks an IV in your elbow is the motivation that steps on the gas. “I have this friend,’ He tells them.

“You have friends?” If Vargas weren’t separated from him by the pool table, he’d reach over and stick an elbow in his side. What is it, official ‘piss off Sgt. MacTavish’ day?

They get in a laugh at his expense. “Shut up, you reprobate.” He puts enough bite in his tone to cut through the ruckus with the keenness of a knife. “I have this friend. Since I was a lad. She’s a good girl, good person. She needs our help.”

Everyone knows what he means by ‘good person,’ and the mere mention of a civilian girl in distress softens Gaz’s scowl and Alejandro’s scorn.

Their Captain nods, now significantly more amenable to this conversation than he was at the beginning. “Help?” Progress is progress, and for the first time, Soap allows himself to think he might be able to persuade someone.

“Yeah, well… you know these fuckin’ Americans. They don’t give a damn if people die like dogs in the streets. She lost her health insurance, and she’s… She’s ill. She’ll be ill for the rest of her life.” That’s something Johnny will never understand about this side of the pond. The NHS was never good, but at least it exists. All that freedom and shit, for what?

“Sorry to hear that. Fucking shame,” Price murmurs. 

“I was wondering if any of you might be interested in marrying her. For the fuckin’... benefits. I dunno know what exactly they are, but she mentioned new living quarters for her soldier.” He really ought to have looked this up beforehand and found some other things to sweeten the pot. “I’m already married. Had to turn the poor lass down, and I told her I’d at least ask you lot.”

Their captain gets up and off his ass like the stool’s on fire. “Alright. MacTavish, I’m leaving the room now. I’m going back to my office, and do not disturb me until you’re done,” He orders, mustache practically fuckin’ bristling with urgency. “I didn’t hear or see a thing.” With his parting words finished, Johnny watches the man book it out of the pool room in double time.

While he understands and appreciates the discretion, was that truly necessary? They’ve all done exponentially worse things than this.

His first choice makes a break for it, too. “Sorry, Soap,” Garrick declines. “I’m out. I’m sure she’s a delightful person, though being friends with you doesn’t speak highly of her life choices. But that’s a big ask, and I just don’t know her.” The sergeant taps him on the shoulder as he walks out in a silent show of support.

“‘Course.” With each man who leaves, his worry increases.

What voicemails will await him after he returns from the next mission? That things went horribly wrong, and you’ll be hospitalized for the rest of your life, or maybe even dead?

Whatever it is, there won’t be anything he can do by then. That’s the worst part.

“Yeah, can’t do it either, Sarge. I got a girl already.” Right. There goes Sanderson.

At least Alejandro has the decency to look genuinely sympathetic. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

Soap watches him leave and wonders if you’re still awake. It’s not late for him, but who knows? Maybe you keep normal hours now. “Yeah, I will.” You’d prefer to hear the bad news as soon as possible, but he would hate to wake you for it.

But he can’t ignore the ghoul haunting the corner any longer. “What are you still doing here, Lt.? I’ve gotta tell her I can’t help, and I don’t think you’d care to overhear that conversation.” His voice is a little sharper than is nice and proper, overflowing with prickly irritation like too much tea in a cracked cup. Of all the times for Ghost to not mind his fucking business…

“…what she look like?”

“What?”

And Riley’s got the audacity to repeat himself, slower, as if he’s stupid. “What does she look like? Got a picture?”

“Is this a joke?” Simon should stick to shitty quips about goldfish. At least those are tasteful.

The man doesn’t laugh, shake his head, or leave now that he’s successfully rattled Soap. He just stands there, as grave as always. Motherfucker. He means it. “Fuckin’… yeah, hold on,” Soap sighs as he fumbles for his phone.

He’s desperate because you’re desperate. He tells himself that, over and over, as he looks for a half-decent selfie. You’re a big girl, you knew what you were risking when you asked him for help.

Ghost takes his phone in his gloved hand. “Not bad,” He murmurs after a while. “I’ll do it. Marry her.”

A beat passes. Soap lets another one go.

Alright. The grace period is over and done with. “This is a really shitty, serious thing to mess around about. Genuinely. Don’t do that to her or me. This is about her health. Her life.” Johnny likes Lt. Riley. Really, he does. Even under all the freaky mask shit.

But this is mean-spirited. It would almost be out of character. It’s one thing to be careless if his sparring partner walks away with permanent nerve damage. This is fucking cruel if he doesn’t mean it.

Ghost can read minds now. “I mean it.” His chuckle makes Johnny fix his surprised expression into something more stern and imperceptible. “She’s desperate, isn’t she? I’ll do it.” When he walks closer, the changing light makes that skull on his face flash in and out of existence.

“Why?” If he can’t come up with a somewhat satisfactory answer… Soap’s fist can probably reach him fine from here.

And in a rather remarkable show of humanity, he watches Ghost pinch the bridge of his nose through his mask. “Think I like listening to you snore? Or fuckin’ Roach chattering on Discord at four in the morning?” Johnny never knew Ghost was such a little princess about that. Who would’ve thought?

The other man huffs a laugh. “Need my beauty sleep.”

“Yeah, you do, the mask’s not doin’ you any favors,” Soap retorts as if on autopilot. That’s only their longest-running tiff. You’ve got your work cut out for you to deal with that ugly mug, he thinks.

“You want me to help her or what?”

Right. Right. “Sorry.” He examines Ghost’s body language, searching for any hint of dishonesty. “If you so badly want out of the shared bunks, how come you haven’t found someone else yet? Or some other way?”

“You think girls are lining up outside my door proposing marriage? You can’t even find me off duty. Now I ain’t gotta find… some other way,” He says before leaning back against the wall, at ease now that his argument’s been made.

“Fair point.” Fair, but fucking dumb. “I’ll tell her. She’ll say yes, I know she will.” Jesus, does he wish he’d been able to persuade Garrick.

Soap considers exactly how much you should know about your intended before this shit goes down. On the one hand, it might be better for you not to know much, other than that he’s found someone relatively trustworthy and willing. On the other hand… interacting with Lt. Riley is something that should only be done after signing a covenant not to sue.

“Whatever you do, don’t hurt her. She’s been through enough already. And I meant it when I said she’s a good person. Too good for either of us.”

Nobody gets through secondary school untouched. Especially not at that prissy international school you met him at, filled with over-privileged rich kids and army brats scraping the bottom of the barrel. Like the two of you.

When you were fourteen, you picked him up by the scruff of his Scottish neck with a smile on your face, then hit the bastard who hit him first. Thick as thieves ever since.

“And if you can’t find it in you to be nice, just… promise you’ll leave her alone.” At least you’re more than capable of making Ghost’s life a living Hell if he fucks with you. He takes comfort in that and a healthy amount of glee at the possibility of watching that play out. He’s got a front-row seat, after all.

Riley shakes his head. “As long as she ain’t a burden, MacTavish, no need to fuss and cluck.”

For a moment, Soap almost pities him.

“Don’t hurt her. Promise me that, right now,” He stresses. Just in case. At least eliciting this agreement might remind Ghost in the future to stay his hand.

The other man sighs. “I won’t,” He says at last. And Soap can tell he means it.

“Get out. I’ll let her know.”

[haddonfieldwhore]

sweet dreams - mike schmidt

mike schmidt x gn!reader

pt.1 here

warnings: a bit more angst, nightmares, brief mention of blood, i don’t know fnaf lore super well so if anything is inaccurate i apologize!! i’m trying my best

word count: 965

groaning as the alarm on your phone blared for the second time, you rubbed your eyes as you sat up in bed. reaching for the screaming device, you shut off the ringer and looked at the time - 5:45. shit, you thought, jumping up out of bed, nearly slipping as the covers tangled around your feet. mikes car was in the shop for a flat tire and you were going to be late to pick him up from work. sliding on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, you threw one of mikes hoodies over your torso and sorted out your hair quickly before grabbing you phone and bag and running out the door. the cold weather prickled at your skin and you pulled the sweater tighter around yourself, the faintest scent of mikes cologne wafting into your nose. it was only about a 10 minute drive to the pizzeria, but still you were cutting it close and didn’t want to leave your boyfriend standing outside. starting your car, you turned the heat up to keep the cold morning air off of your tired body.

as you pulled into the parking lot, you noticed mike already sitting against the building, and you checked the time - 6:01. you were relieved that you hadn’t kept him waiting outside, and pulled up next to him. he jumped slightly as the car stopped in front of him, as if he hadn’t been paying attention or had been too zoned out to see you pull up to the building. standing up and dusting off the seat of his pants, he opened the passenger door and got in.

“hey,” he sighed, giving you a small smile.

“hey mike,” you smiled warmly back, leaning over to kiss his cheek gently, the shirt stubble there tickling your face. “i mean this as someone who loves you, but you look terrible.” he laughed under his breath.

“just tired,” he brushed it off, but you took a closer look at his face. there were dark circles under his eyes, and you noticed a cut above his eyebrow that was still bleeding a little. you grabbed a tissue and gently dabbed at his temple. “what are you- ah,” he hissed and you muttered an apology.

“baby, you’re bleeding. what happened?” mike touched his fingertips lightly to the injury, inspecting the crimson stain left on his hand.

“i must’ve hit my head on something… i’m okay.” he gently held your wrist as you tried to wipe at the blood again. how could he tell you the truth; that an animatronic animal had clawed him while trying to get into his office to stuff him into a costume? “really, i’m fine. you worry too much.” you sighed, not satisfied with his answer, but nevertheless put the car back in drive and finally pulled away from the building. out of the corner of your eye you noticed your boyfriends shoulders relax slightly as you left the parking lot.

“mike you promised me if anything weird happened-“ you pleaded.

“i know i know baby. but it’s only been like 4 days since i started. i’m just … getting used to the sleep schedule still. that’s all,” he assured you, but the uncertainty in his voice wasn’t very convincing.

“you mean the not sleeping schedule? mikey you haven’t slept more than 2 hours without waking up in days.” mike shuddered, trying to cover it up with a cough, but he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“y…you’ve noticed?” he mumbled.

“of course i’ve noticed.” you sighed. “it’s hard not to when you sleep next to me.” you laughed softly.

“i’m sorry-“ he began to apologize but stopped when you gave him a sympathetic look.

“you don’t have to apologize for having nightmares.” he nodded slightly in response, before looking out the window at the passing surroundings. he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. you focused your attention back on the road for a second before out of your peripheral vision you noticed mike drift off to sleep, his head falling over towards your side of the car before you caught him with your hand. the gentle impact shook him awake, and he looked around to figure out where he was, a scared look on his face.

“what-“

“mike you’re still in the car with me. we’re almost home,” you gently stroked his hair as he leaned into your touch again.

“sor-“ he began to apologize again. “right.”

arriving at the apartment, you parked the car and got out, walking arm in arm with mike into your flat, sliding your shoes off and dropping your bag on the floor. you locked the door behind you as mike, too tired to walk to the bedroom, flopped onto work out couch in the small living room. you checked the time on your phone - still having a few hours before you had to leave for work. you set an alarm on your phone before walking over to the couch and cuddling up next to mike, who’s arms wrapped around you tightly so you wouldn’t fall.

“don’t you have to go to work?” he mumbled in your ear, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“hmm not for a while. and i think i might take a personal day anyway,” you sighed, nuzzling closer to him and you felt yourself drifting off to sleep. “if you have any nightmares just wake me up okay? anything that’s trying to get you has to go through me first,” you promised, and mike chuckle slightly, sending a vibration through his chest.

“okay, i will,” he mumbled, nearly asleep already as he kissed your neck innocently, although he felt a pang in his heart as he thought to himself

you have no idea what you’re signing up for

[coochiekrab]

I'm sorry if this is a weird question or if I have the wrong impression of the situation, but do Rumi and Evan ever wish for better for their mom? Like, obviously Kuri's adult life isn't terrible and she's living within her comfort zone. But I feel like from the perspective of her children it must be difficult to watch your mom struggle like that, growing up when my mom would have trouble leaving the house or taking care of herself I would find myself wishing that her life was easier, that my grandparents had been better parents, that she had more friends and more of a support system. Like I know Aubrey loves her and he seems like a very supportive guy but it feels like there's also a lot of imagery of Kuri being swallowed up in his shadow in a way, and it makes it very hard to not think about the way her upbringing seems to choke her sense of independence, it makes me wonder if Rumi and Evan pick up on that and how it makes them feel. Sorry if I'm misinterpreting or reaching about any of this, I'm a little new here but very invested, you're a wonderful artist/writer.

i think both of them would be very aware that shes a huge shut in and i think they would "pity" her to a degree but in different ways, and they def wouldnt have a Good Faith grasp on it until adulthood.

rumi i think would be frustrated by the way kuri never wants to do anything; she would want to go shopping with her mom and go on fun trips with her, not necessarily because she wants her mom to have fun and enjoy life but because she needs her moms permission to go somewhere or do something lol. she would want to bond over dressing up or doing each others hair and makeup but kuri rarely wears anything fancier than a t-shirt and leggings and hasnt seen makeup since her wedding day. she would want to buy her mom luxury gifts for her birthday or mothers day but kuri has never needed a purse a day in her life because she doesnt go anywhere. she Does pity her but in a kinda selfish spoiled teenager kind of way

evan i think really wouldnt pity her until adulthood, from like age 15-19 he wouldnt even like her at all. he would expect a mother to know how to discipline and nurture her kids but realize shes about as useful as a Wet Napkin. Clueless and helpless. as a father he would feel.........something. about the way he can watch Kuri be a "better" (more prepared) mother figure to Freak Thang than she was to him. maybe bittersweet. i think he would feel very guilty about the way he felt about her when she was only trying to (figuratively and literally) survive

i dont think evan. rumi, or even aubrey would know what her dad did to fuck her up so badly. the babies would just know that she doesnt know her mom nor talk to her dad, and aubrey would just know to be gentle and how to pick up the pieces