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gloomwitchwrites · 10 months ago

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There was this tiktok trend where kids and their mums would pull a prank on their dads by telling their mums to shut up...141 with a teenage son who tries it?

Anon, I am very aware of this prank. If mom is in on it, I consider it all in good fun, but omg, these guys would be absolutely stressed if they heard their teenage son tell mom to "shut up." Heads would absolutely roll over that!

Price is certainly old enough to have a teenage son on the older side. I would even say the same for Ghost. Gaz is old enough for a younger teenage son. With Soap's age...that's stretching it. BUT SUSPEND DISBELIEF Y'ALL. I'm aging Gaz and Soap up a bit for this one.

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Task Force 141 x Female Reader (w/ children)

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, pranks, domestic, dad!141, brief suggestive themes, marriage

Word Count: 1k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Ugh. Shut up, Mum.”

There is a brief pause between mum and when the television remote hurtles across the room. Your son doesn’t duck in time, the hard plastic hitting his shoulder before bouncing onto the kitchen island with a loud clack.

Before your son turns, Kyle’s baseball cap with the Union Jack, soars through the air like a frisbee. This one your son manages to avoid, but it’s quickly followed by a slipper. It flies past his head, and you catch it out of the air before it makes contact with the front of the microwave.

You and your eldest son turn in Kyle’s direction as he manifests in the kitchen entryway, the other slipper in hand, poised to launch it at the first sign of any movement.

“Wanna repeat yourself, mate?” Kyle appears calm and poised, but you notice the subtle tension in his jaw.

“It was a joke, Dad! Promise!”

Kyle’s arm holding the slipper starts to rise.

“Kyle,” you say. His gaze flicks to you. “Just a joke. No harm. I was in on it.”

His shoulders immediately sag. Kyle shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. Heading for the fridge, he opens it up, grabbing a can of his favorite beer.

Kyle sets the beer down on the island, pointing the slipper at you and then his son. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out, just an exasperated huff.

Kyle snatches up the television remote and sticks it into the pocket of his grey sweatpants. Keeping hold of the shoe in one hand, and his beer in the other, he gives the two of you his back, heading into the living room.

“No one bother me until the game is over,” he says over his shoulder. “And someone bring me my bloody slipper!”

John Price

"Fucking hell, Mum. Shut it."

John is up and out of his seat so fast you hardly see him move. He strides over to his son, yanking him off the stool by the scruff of his shirt.

"John! It's a prank!" you say quickly, reaching for his arm.

The boy is dangling in the air, toes just shy of touching the ground. "A prank?" asks John skeptically.

"Mum is in on it. Promise."

John sighs heavily and slowly lowers his son to the ground. The moment his feet touch ground, he tries to step away, but John holds firm, keeping his eldest child immobile. He leans forward a bit. Lowers his voice.

"Prank or no, you never talk to your mother, your sisters, or any woman in that manner again. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy." John releases his son. "The lawn needs trimmed."

"Yes, sir."

Your son scurries away. It isn't until the door to the garage opens and shuts that John moves toward you. His arm drapes over your waist, hand landing firmly on your ass, squeezing hard.

"You're coming with me."

"To do what?"

He presses his lips to your ear. "For a different sort of punishment."

John "Soap" MacTavish

"You’re off your head, lad.”

With Johnny’s cold tone comes a tension to your son’s shoulders. He becomes rigid, sliding down into his chair like he can escape from his father by cowering underneath the table. Johnny comes around the corner, a bit of sweat on his brow. He's been building furniture all day for the nursery.

"Want to repeat that for me?" asks Johnny.

Your son’s voice cracks. "It was just a prank, Dad."

"It was what?" Johnny strides forward.

"It's a prank. I'm in on it. Promise," you say, attempting to soothe Johnny’s anger.

Johnny crosses his arms over your chest. "Is it?" He glances between the two of you and sighs, muttering, “Am pure done in.”

He disappears down the hall, returning with a stack of instructional manuals, dropping them into his son’s lap. "You're building furniture."

"But I—"

“You right scunner. C’mon.” Johnny yanks his son out of the chair, the stack of instructional manuals goes flying. Your son reaches for them all, desperately clasping them against his chest.

“Johnny," you call out, walking around the counter to intervene.

He glances over his shoulder, frown gown, sly smirk on his face. “Deal with you later."

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Oi, Mum. Shut it.”

Your son is a wonderful actor. You’ll give him that. Even you almost believe him. Not that he would—he’d never—but his delivery reminds you of a completely pissed football fan ready to throw a punch at a member of the rival team.

He should consider theater.

Simon, your husband, is watching a rugby match in the living room. The television is on but at a low volume.

Within seconds of the words leaving your son’s mouth, Simon appears like a phantom guardian in the entryway. In one he holds the remote like a weapon. The other arm cradles his infant daughter. She looks like a small bean. Slightly curved as she snuggles closer against Simon’s chest as she sleeps.

He's not looking at you. He's staring at his son, gaze intense and full of fire.

You’ve seen that look before.

Mission abort.

"He's joking, Simon. It's just a prank,” you soothe, knowing you need to get ahead of this.

Not that Simon would hurt you or his son, but he rarely takes any shit. This prank was a gamble, and you’re completely regretting it.

"Don't mean it, Dad."

Simon just stares for a long minute. His daughter squirms and that is when he glances down, severing the connection. Observing her must change something in him, because his gaze returns to the two of you, and there is a calmness now.

Sighing heavily, Simon shakes his head, completely exasperated. The eye roll is so apparent it’s like a shout.

In the moment he was pissed—livid. But now he’s over it, more annoyed and unamused than actually mad.

Turning on his heel, daughter still cradled in one arm, Simon returns to his recliner, settling back into the soft cushions to finish watching his rugby match.

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mononijikayu · 1 month ago

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thinking about volleyball player! sukuna getting upset because astrophysicist! reader doesn't wanna go with him in the shower after a long day of not seeing each other.

all volleyball player! sukuna wants is to hold your hand while he's cleaning his face for the night because he wants to feel you close after being touch starved.

because god forbid a loving devoted husband like him just wants to be with and feel his dear and beloved wife close to him after a long (heartbreaking) day of not being together. god forbid that this is his love language.

"are you actually mad at me?" sukuna pouts as he stands before you, still holding your hand. "do you actually not love me anymore?"

you sighed, looking at him. "my love, i did multiple labs today. i wanna be lazy right now."

"but i missed you." he whines to you, almost like a cat after not getting the belly rubs he wants. "come on, you can sit on the stool there while i look at you prettily at the mirror, still holding my hand."

"ryomen sukuna—"

"woah, just say you don't love me anymore at this point." he cuts you off, his face looking offended. "that's not my name. how dare you?"

"my love, really....." you sighed, rolling your eyes at his antics. you looked up and saw him glaring at you, like he was ready to cry. "its just the bathroom. you're just getting cleaned up."

"god forbid a man wants to multi–task." he huffs, shaking his head at you. his eyes looked like they were begging now. a sudden change from before. his hand squeezing your own. "come on, baby. just give in."

nearly a decade or so being together with such love with ryomen sukuna, you had always known that he was clingy but you never thought that he would be this clingy after getting married to you.

in some ways, marriage didn't really change your dynamics or your feelings for each other. that's just how it was when you've been so in love and continue to be in love after all this time.

but there was something about getting married that made the intensity of his desire to hold you, to touch you even more overwhelming. his life is incomplete when he's not feeling the warmth that completes the cold sweat that comes after he sits down and leaves the court for the day.

his body demands the warmth of you to complete him when the passion of the court cools down. because at the end of the day, he will walk out of that court. he will always go and in and out of it.

but you were the only one he could never leave. you were the only one that he will never resign himself away from. you were that only exception. because you bring him to life in ways not even the thunderous intensity of that ball hitting his palm ever would.

your warmth was more than anything that could ever be in this world. and he knows it. you knew it. so, yes, you could feel annoyed at the thought of him sulking and groaning and crying and moping with neediness for you and everything about you.

but it instantly goes away. because you love this man. and he loves you. that will never go away. annoyance is temporary but wanting to love him with everything despite it all is forever.

you looked at him for one more moment, seeing the tears threaten to fall down his eyes as though he was a little child about to have a crash out over not getting his favorite lollipop. you shake your head and started smiling and then laughing.

"alright, alright. just tonight, my love. after that, we'll go to bed."

you saw the threat of tears immediately disappear as he grins widely, almost as if his melt down had never happened. almost instantly, your husband became a golden retriever who has finally gotten a treat to enjoy.

he all but embraces you with everything in him, with you being nearly falling over as you get consumed by the warmth of his much bigger built. impressively, your hands are still locked in with his.

"my love—i'm about to fall!"

he laughs. "baby, you'll never fall. not when im here to catch you!"

and you like to think that's the case. he's never let you fall anywhere. he's never let you suffer or feel like he never cares for you or loves you. instead, he keeps you high above with him in the joyous clouds, enjoying the bountiful of the love he pours everything into.

when you both go to the bathroom, he's doing his facial with his free hand while his other one still remained wrapped against your own. you continued to listen to him talk about his day with enthusiasm, his bright scarlet eyes never leaving your own, which was full of love for him.

"did you know they're finally allowing me to have my uniform and shoes engrave the 'my love' on it?"

you blinked. "you requested it? and they approved it?"

"i mean, i've asked about it the moment i signed for them babe! been wanting to keep you with me at court if i can't wear my ring." he says, beaming at you. "but since im renegotiating my contract with the tokyo great bears and with the national team, it was the demand i asked for in my contract and they said yes!"

you could feel your entire chest feel warm and your entire body turn red as the blood in pumped high with pressure, feeling overwhelmed by the love your husband has for you. you use your free hand to hide your face in your palm, out of sheer flustered feeling taking over you.

how did you ever luck out in love in a world that has such a bleak look? how could one have such a big heart to love? how could you not love him and only him? how could every bit of everything that is negative just burst out in positives when he loves you like this?

"baby, why are you lowering your head like that—"

"ah, you're so...." you groaned at him, before looking up, still red. "you're so!...."

he turns around, moved closer to you and pressed a warm kiss on your lips. you were stunned as the smell of his vanilla creme echoes into your nose. you turn redder than before.

"love you too, baby." he whispered to you, his eyes blossoming in heartfuls.

how can he always just defeat you with his love?

".....hurry up, i'm getting sleepy."

"hey, don't sleep before i can!"

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harryspet · 5 months ago

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rough hands, soft chains [2] r.cameron

[warnings] dark!rancher!rafe x bimbo!cowgirl!reader, arranged marriage, rancher au, manipulation, size difference, DUBCON, loss of virginity, rafe is HUGE, breeding kink, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

a/n: i only tag people who reblog the fic AND let me know their thoughts, thank you :)

In which you meet your new family, the Camerons, and learn Rafe's true intentions.

word count: 5.1k

rough hands, soft chains masterlist

The spare outfit you’d packed for your failed escape attempt was a delicate two-piece set in white. The long-sleeve, cropped sweater that featured a soft ruffle trim that barely grazed your midriff, paired with a high-waisted, flowing skirt that swayed with every step. The lightweight fabric was a reflection of your usual preference for comfortable clothes. A handful of other items hung in the closet, clearly not yours, but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept whatever offering the Camerons had left for you.

After giving your reflection a look, you turned your attention your room. You floated over to the vanity, a rustic wooden display decorated with gold trinkets. You’d only packed the essentials, meaning you’d limited yourself to mascara, concealer, blush and lipgloss. You slid onto the matching stool decking to touch up your makeup, wiping away the smudged mascara and applying a fresh coat of lip gloss. Lip gloss always had a way of brightening your mood, even now. You certainly knew how to get dolled up, like Rafe said, and lucky for him, you liked makeup and clothes that made you feel breezy and feminine.

When the room grew quiet, Rafe’s words rattled around in your head. You’d always done what your father had said, let him lead you in all aspects of your life, because you trusted him. You couldn’t wrap your mind around how your father expected you to trust someone else. In the end, he was the reason you were here now. He’d handed you over to someone else, like, what? A trade deal? The whole thing was completely unreal.

Something caught your attention outside the large windows. Rolling pastures stretched out before you, dotted with fences and patches of wildflowers swaying gently. Your gaze drifted toward the yard below. Rain trickled down slowly but you realized the figures moving in the distance, behind a tall white fence, were Juliet and John B. Making his way to the fence’s edge, now adorned in a work jacket and dark hat to protect from the rain, was Rafe.

They were soon deep in conversation. Your eyes lingered on Rafe’s figure a little too long before shifting to Juliet, whose movements were graceful and unbothered. She had been alone for so long, your father had been forced to sell the other three horses your family owned years ago, and her care had undoubtedly suffered as your father’s health declined. Surely, the Camerons had at least a hundred horses and the resources to ensure Juliet was well cared for and had proper company. For a moment, you wondered if she might be happier here, happier than even you.

You were grateful for the distraction when a knock came at your door an hour later. You expected it to be Rafe, but a fleeting thought made you pause, would Rafe even bother knocking?

When you opened the door, you were surprised to find a dark-haired girl standing there, no older than fifteen. She was smiling, her eyes full of curiosity.

"Hey," she said, giving you a once-over with a playful look. "I’m Wheezie, Rafe’s little sister.”

So this was the other Cameron sibling? You smiled instinctively and offered your hand. "Oh, hi! I’m Y/N."

You blinked, studying her more carefully. She looked nothing like Rafe, and in that moment, she seemed almost... approachable. Less intimidating. Her warmth, however, felt almost out of place given the situation.

"I like your outfit," she said, her gaze scanning your clothes and makeup. "And your makeup. Ugh, I wish I could do mine like that. Sarah never has time to show me how."

“Sarah?” you asked, a little confused.

"My older sister," Wheezie explained, raising an eyebrow as if surprised. "Rafe’s never mentioned her?"

You shook your head, realizing she might think you'd known Rafe longer than just today. “Uh, no. He hasn’t.”

"Well, there’s three of us," Wheezie continued, her voice casual. "And Rose, our step-mom."

“Oh, okay,” You nodded, taking in all of the information. You weren’t at all used to meeting new people, “It’s nice to meet you. Can I ask you if Mr. Ward is home yet? I kinda need to speak with him.”

Wheezie’s expression shifted slightly, a hint of disappointment flickering in her eyes. “Him and Rose have been gone all day. Cattle auction, I think. They probably won’t be back until dinner.”

You tried not to let the disappointment show on your face. It wasn’t urgent, but you had hoped to speak with Ward sooner rather than later. Part of you wanted to officially see the contract he’d wrote up with your father. Could two men really decide together that you should be married off? Was that still legal? Wheezie, sensing your hesitation, brightened up and added, “I could show you around the house in the meantime.”

You thought about it for a second, then smiled. “Sure, that would be nice.”

Joining Wheezie out in the hallway, your tour began. Wheezie led you to Rafe’s room first, just beside yours. “He likes to keep it locked,” she said with a grin, “Or else I’d totally snoop around with you.”

You liked her instantly. Moving down the hall, you passed Ward’s study, a room that felt both timeless and functional. It had a desk covered in papers and shelves filled with books. Next was the master bedroom, a room with dark wood furniture and soft linens.

Finally, Wheezie opened the door to the library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled the room, and large armchairs were scattered around a grand fireplace. It felt like the perfect spot for quiet moments.

You couldn’t help but feel small in this place. It held the warmth of a family home but it was massive, the ceilings too high, and had decor that screamed “we’re wealthy”.

Downstairs, the living room was the first stop, a grand space with towering ceilings. Soft leather sofas and enormous windows that offered a breathtaking view of the stretching land and mountains in the distance.

Moving through the open archway into the kitchen, you took note of counters made of polished stone, dark wood cabinets, and the appliances all state-of-the-art. The kitchen was bustling with a couple of workers, one chopping vegetables at the counter, the other pulling something out of the oven. You noticed a door that led out to a terrace.

“These are all Rose’s renovations. She’s really into interior design, and all that stuff.”

“And the people. They work here all the time?” you asked, intrigued.

“My Dad can grill, but Rose doesn’t cook at all. So they get help,” Wheezie explained with a shrug. “I think she likes having everything perfect, you know?”

“She does have really nice taste,” You spoke genuinely, fumbling with your fingers as you looked around.

Past the kitchen was the dining room, where a long, weathered table was set for what could easily be a dozen guests. The chandelier above was massive, its crystals catching the light and casting a glow over the room.

Wheezie led you into the garage next. The space was expansive, with polished concrete floors and a collection of vehicles parked neatly in their spots, sleek trucks, a few SUVs, and a couple of classic cars you assumed were more for show. Near the back of the garage, you spotted a few horseshoe-shaped saddles hanging on the wall, alongside an array of hunting gear. There were rifles and ammunition neatly organized on the shelves, a few pairs of boots stacked by the door, and weathered hunting jackets hanging from the walls. It was practical, but still had the polished look of the rest of the house, like nothing here was ever out of place.

“Do you ride?” Wheezie asked as you took in the details of the room.

“Yeah, I have a horse named Juliet,” you grinned. “Do you?”

“I can,” Wheezie replied with a shrug. “I’m not great at it. Sarah’s better, and Rafe—well, he’s good at things like that.”

“Does Sarah live here too?” you asked, curious.

“Yeah, but she’s been MIA for two days.” Wheezie’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You can’t tell anyone this,” she continued, glancing around before leaning in closer. “She and John B. are a thing. And she hangs out with his friends.”

“It’s a secret?” you asked, intrigued but still unsure of the family dynamics at play.

Wheezie nodded, her eyes flicking to the door as if checking for eavesdroppers. “My dad wants her to be with someone whose family is... more prestigious, if that makes sense?”

You processed that for a moment, nodding slowly. “But my family’s not... prestigious. But Ward wants me to marry your brother.”

A mischievous glint sparked in Wheezie’s eyes. She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, clearly enjoying the tension in the air. “Is it true that Rafe got you pregnant and that’s why you have to live with us?”

You froze for a split second, then blurted out, “I am not!” You suddenly realized how loud you’d been and lowered your voice, grabbing Wheezie’s hand as you whispered urgently, “I am not.”

“Other people don’t think I’m pregnant, do they?” You continued, “Because I don’t think I’ve done anything that could lead to that…”

You questioned yourself for a moment, feeling a pang of uncertainty. You’d learned about the birds and the bees just once, when you were eleven, and it had been before your mother died. After that, your education had been limited, and anything beyond what she'd explained was a blur of confusion.

What you were certain of, though, was that the kiss with Rafe couldn’t have led to that. You had never heard of anything like that happening from a simple kiss. To your knowledge, you needed at least to sleep in the same bed for that to happen, and you and Rafe hadn’t crossed that line. Before your mind could wander to that possibility, Wheezie spoke.

“I’m not trying to be rude, just curious,” She said with a smirk, her tone light and teasing. “No one around here tells me anything.”

A few hours later you entered the dining room again with Wheezie. You’d spend a good amount of time in her room and she’d explained more about her family, including more details about Rafe. You learned that she was Rafe’s soft spot. That he was cold to almost everyone except her. Ward had a lot of expectations for him and Rafe did about everything he could to appease his father.

“I think Rafe just wants to do things his own way,” Wheezie had mused. “But, you know, my Dad has other ideas. He’s been trying to get Rafe to be more... ‘like him.’”

Kindly, you’d accepted her request for you to help her with her makeup. You’d done hers like yours, with bright blush and shiny lipgloss. She was so excited that she practically skipped down the stairs after, her happiness infectious as she bounced in front of you. A part of you couldn’t help but smile. Was this what it was like to have a sister? The feeling was new and strange, but warm, like something you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

Rafe looked you over, as if he was offended by your choice in clothing, “What did I do?” You asked, innocently.

Maybe he didn’t think your outfit was cute.

“Come sit next to me,” he said, his voice smooth but laced with something possessive, as if he were commanding you rather than asking. He waved you over.

You hesitated, looking at Ward, who gave you a reassuring, welcoming smile, and then at Rose and Sarah. Sarah’s gaze was sharp, watching you with a kind of calculating curiosity, while Rose barely seemed to notice, her eyes distant and uninterested.

You exhaled slowly, making your way over to the seat next to Rafe. Your knees brushed against each other but he didn’t move his.

“Everyone, this is Y/N. I’ve known her family for years, and after that everything’s happened, she’s going to stay with us. She’s been through a lot.”

“Mm-hmm,” Rose murmured, almost absentmindedly. “It’s lovely to have you here with us.” Her tone wasn’t cold, but it certainly wasn’t warm, either.

Ward’s words seemed genuine, but you didn’t understand fully why he spoke so kindly. The two of you were practically strangers. Wheezie smiled brightly in reaction. Sarah, on the other hand, was looking you over even more closely than Rafe. You could see the thoughts swirling in your mind.

“I have a question-” She blurted out.

Ward interrupted, “I’d watch yourself, young lady.”

“I just want to make sure everything’s clear,” Sarah said softly, her voice quieter now. “I’m just... trying to understand why, that’s all. A marriage seems a little bit rushed, don’t you think? They didn’t even know each other before today.”

“They didn’t?” Wheezie raised an eyebrow.

The pressure in the room increased, “Sarah,” Ward began to warn her but it was Rafe who spoke up next.

Rafe’s voice cut through the growing tension, his tone firm, almost possessive. “It’s not rushed, Sarah,” he said, turning to look at her. “It’s just what it is. No need to complicate it.”

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the sharpness of Rafe’s gaze making you shift uncomfortably in your seat. He answering for you, as if you didn’t have a say in how things were perceived.

Sarah didn’t flinch. Her eyes held a quiet defiance. As if to change the subject, Rafe continued, “What is that on your face, Wheeze?”

“It’s called makeup,” She shot back, annoyed, “Y/N did it.”

Rafe turned his head towards you, “It’s a little much for someone her age, don’t you think?”

“I think she looks really pretty. I started wearing makeup way younger than her,” You responded quietly but honestly, “That’s how you, like, get good at it.”

“See,” Wheezie stuck her tongue out at her older brother.

Suddenly, you felt Rafe’s hand touch your knee underneath the table. The warmth of Rafe’s hand on your knee sent a jolt through you, and for a moment, you couldn’t quite focus on anything else. His touch was unexpected, as though he’d done it without thinking, and yet, there was something deliberate about the way he kept his hand resting there.

Dinner was officially served moments later. Rafe’s hand remained there on your knee as you all began to eat the carefully prepared steak, potatoes and asparagus. Your steak was already cut into a pieces, a luxury that you didn’t even know others experienced.

Sarah pushed around her asparagus, “How do you feel about moving in with us so suddenly, Y/N? I mean, do you really know what you’re getting yourself into?”

You paused, unsure of what to say, your gaze instinctively shifting toward Rafe. His hand was still on your knee, but the grip felt firmer now, like he was holding you in place, keeping you from saying something that might upset the balance of things.

You bit your lip, trying to gather your thoughts, but when you opened your mouth, it all just came tumbling out. “It’s kinda overwhelming,” you started, your voice soft but a little unsure. “I miss… I miss my Dad. And you guys have all this land, and this house is so huge, it’s hard to wrap my head around it all.” You glanced at Sarah, then back to your plate. “And, like, I didn’t think I’d get married this young, but… if it’s really what my Dad wanted…”

You trailed off, feeling a little embarrassed. Sarah’s gaze softened slightly, “It’s a big step. Are you sure you’re ready?”

Up until that point, you hadn’t realized you had a choice in all of this. You could see she wasn’t questioning you out of judgement. She almost looked concerned.

“Enough, Sarah,” Ward spoke sharply, “This is bigger than what one person thinks is right. I don’t expect you to understand but it’s about responsibility. Rafe is growing up and he’s decided to take on new responsibilities. I don’t see why you can’t be supportive.”

“I just think she deserves more time to decide,” Sarah said.

“There isn’t a rush. I’m not rushing them, that’s for certain. Rafe and Y/N will take the time to get to know each other.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. You could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you. You glanced at him and noticed the subtle shake of his head, as if dismissing the entire idea. “What’s the point in waiting? You can plan a wedding in a few weeks, right?”

“Rafe, son, don’t you think two should spend some time together?”

“No, Dad, we’ll get married as soon as possible. If Y/N wants to have a real ceremony, Rose can plan it, but I’d be down to just go to the courthouse.”

Your breath hitched in your throat.

“Rafe,” Sarah leaned forward in her seat, “Are you actually crazy?”

How did we get here? You had no answers, just a rush of emotions you couldn’t quite put into words. Maybe you should’ve said something, but the lump in your throat made it hard to think.

“We’ll figure it out” Rafe said, cutting her off. He turned his attention to you, his gaze intense but unreadable. “Right, darling?”

The way he looked at you made your stomach twist. It was as though he was asking you to confirm something you didn’t fully understand yourself. You opened your mouth to respond, but Wheezie chimed in before you could.

“Dude, that’s like, so not romantic!” she exclaimed, scrunching her nose. “You haven’t even proposed yet!”

Sarah seized the moment, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. “Exactly. At least ask her properly, Rafe. Or are you afraid she’ll say no?”

The air at the table grew heavier. You glanced at Ward, who looked ready to intervene, but Rafe beat him to it. His lips curled into a tight smile, though his eyes flashed with something darker. “You think I’m afraid of that, Sarah?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm.

All you could think about was the way Rafe’s hand hadn’t left your knee, his grip steady, as if anchoring you to him despite the chaos swirling around the table.

“Can we drop it, please?” Rafe asked, his tone deep and final.

“I want Y/N to stay,” Wheezie decided.

“We all want Y/N to stay,” Ward clarified.

“Well, good,” Rose chimed in, her smile polished and hollow. “Then it’s settled.”

At the end of dinner, Ward leaned back in his chair, addressing you, “You’ll find we take care of our own here, sweetheart. Anything you need, you only have to ask.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure what else to say.

“We should get going,” Rafe announced abruptly, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. His hand left your knee, only to find the small of your back as he helped you up.

Wheezie pouted. “But we haven’t even had dessert!”

“Next time, Wheeze,” Rafe replied, his tone firm. “Come on, Y/N.”

You followed him out of the dining room, feeling the eyes of his entire family on your back.

“Where are we going?” You asked, trying to keep up with Rafe’s long strides. He’d given you his jacket and asked you to put on your boots, before guiding you out the front door. You clutched the jacket tightly, the night beginning to turn cool. The sky was still heavy with the remnants of rain but an orange and pink sun began to lower in the sky, peaking behind soft, gray clouds, “Rafe?”

High grass tickled the bare legs hidden beneath your skirt as you walked into the fields, “Just for a walk. That okay with you?”

“You know, sometimes I think you really don’t care what’s okay with me.” Rafe flashed you an amused look, “Oh yeah? Maybe I like making decisions for you.”

You snorted in disbelief but your heart fluttered nonetheless.

"What's the real reason you brought me out here?" You asked, pushing the conversation forward despite the tension.

Rafe stopped and turned to face you, his expression unreadable for a moment. He studied you, like he was considering his words carefully. "Maybe I just wanted to see you without all the noise around us. No distractions. Just you and me."

The ranch stretched out before you, vast and quiet. The ground beneath your feet was soft as you walked, fast enough to follow Rafe’s steps. A faint hum of crickets began to rise in the distance.

A modest building tucked near the tree line, far from the main house came into view, “That’s the ranch hand’s quarters,” Rafe explained, “You won’t need to be over there, it’s no place for a woman.”

The sun continued to hang lower as you walked, casting a golden hue over the land. Rafe led you further into the sprawling escape, pointing out different landmarks, “This land’s been my family’s for generations. But my Dad was the one who made it what it was today. It’s very important to me. This land and all the hard work that’s put into it.”

“My dad’s tough on me but it’s his legacy, you know? It’s more than just making money or raising cattle. I don’t know, I just want to protect what I have. Make sure my kids and my grandkids have it, ya' know?”

He didn’t look for your understanding, his words genuine, but the look on his face was guarded. He paused, his jaw tightening slightly, “You don’t to get to be part of something big and not feel like you’ve got to give everything you have to it.”

“What if…” Your voice trailed as you tried to collect your thoughts, “How do I know it’s something I want to be apart of?”

“As my wife, you’d stand beside me. You’d build with me. Raise our children. Make a home. You’d make everything that I’m working towards, worth it. That’s a life with purpose, yeah?”

As he spoke, his voice deep and steady, you found yourself drawn to the way his features seemed to soften, despite the intensity of his words. Those blue eyes were focused on you with an intensity that made your throat go dry.

He stood taller now, the weight of his words pressed in on you and you could see the full picture he was painting. It wasn’t just the land. It was you. It was him. It was a family.

“Yeah,” You agreed, the word leaving your lips before you could stop it. Your gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, to his lips. They were slightly parted, the edge of his mouth curling just a bit as he spoke, and for a moment, you forgot where you were.

“Yeah,” Rafe agreed, a knowing look on his face, and his hand found the small of your back, “I owe you something, don’t I?”

“Owe me?” Your voice faltered. What was he talking about?

Rafe didn’t answer right away. Instead, he simply pulled you forward, his hand firm against your back as he guided you through the tall grass. You didn’t have time to question him before the two of you reached a secluded barn, tall and clay-colored, tucked far away from the main house. The air smelled faintly of hay and wood, the earthy scent of the ranch settling around you. But you barely had time to take in your surroundings before Rafe was pulling you into him. His hand slid to the back of your neck, drawing you closer, until his lips were on yours.

The kiss Rafe Cameron had promised you.

All those thoughts you had about the land, the future, everything he’d said, it all slipped away.

Someone, something, had overtaken you. Something ached inside of you, a part of your very being that had never been satisfied. You felt like an animal, desperate, grabbing at Rafe’s shirt, wanting him closer. He was already pressed tightly against you but deep down you wanted more.

His lips weren’t as gentle as you remembered, they enveloped your mouth, his tongue tasting you, his arms keeping you where he wanted as he explored you.Without warning, he tugged you into an empty stall, the scent of hay and leather thick in the air. His hands were at the edges of your jacket now, pulling it open, his fingers brushing against your skin as the cool air of the barn nipped at your exposed flesh.

A startled yelp escaped your lips as you felt his hands bunching up your skirt, the fabric sliding higher until it was gathered above your hips. Your eyes flew open, but Rafe was relentless, his mouth still claiming yours with fervent, unyielding kisses. You didn’t know exactly how babies were made but you had a feeling you were getting closer than you’d ever had before. Before you could process it, Rafe lifted you effortlessly, his hands sliding to cup your bottom as he held you tightly against him. Part of you began to panic.

Then, with deliberate care, he laid you down. not on the rough ground but on his jacket, which was spread beneath you. Darkened eyes met your panicked ones. This was much more than a kiss. Although you’d enjoyed that part of the exchange, you weren’t sure you wanted more, “Rafe,” You whispered, your voice uncertain, as he moved his mouth from your lips to the sides of your mouth. Your mind raced, trying to keep up with the whirlwind of sensations. You pushed at his chest and felt you were pushing against a boulder. There would know way to get from underneath him, even if you tried, “Are… you gonna put a baby in me?”

He paused, lifting his head to look you in the eye and you had to remind yourself to breathe in that moment, “Jesus Christ. You’re something else, you know that?” Rafe grinned and some of your uncertainty went away. His reaction made the moment feel more lighthearted, like there wasn’t a boundary being crossed, like his intentions were innocent.

“I like the kissing,” You admitted, “It feels good b-but I’m scared–”

Rafe shushed you, peppering gentle kisses along your jawline, until he reached the side of your neck. Your thighs clenched tightly, your head tilted back, and you couldn’t control your moaning. Rafe spread your legs with his own, his jeans brushing against the smoothness of your thighs. He pressed his lower half into you and you felt something as hard as a rock, rubbing against your panties. It was then, your core started to feel like it was on fire.

“Don’t be scared, it’ll just hurt for a moment,” Rafe spoke against your skin, huskily, his voice almost sounding like he was in pain, “You’re just gonna lay still for me, I need you to help me to take care of something.”

“Hurt?” You questioned, your mind hanging on that word. Then you thought back to your question. He hadn’t really answered.

He seemed to ignore you again, his mouth moving lower on your body. He pulled your shirt down, and as your breasts spilled from their constraints, he left kisses on your nipples. Your head tilted back again when he took one of your nipples fully into his mouth, “Rafe,” You whispered but the sound of his name only seem to push him further. His fingers traced the edge of your panties before he slipped his fingers inside, brushing over your folds. You were wet down there, you realized, and mostly out of embarrassment, you started to pull away, “Please don’t touch me there.”

You watched his pupils dilate as he stared down at you intently. He kept one hand in your underwear and wrapped his other around your throat, quickly, as if his body was reacting instinctively to your defiance.

“Don’t tell me that,” Rafe said, almost growling, and your hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to push away his hand as you struggled to breathe, “I have to touch ya' here, darlin’. I’m gonna be your husband. This belongs to me, understand?”

Your eyes widened as he rubbed circles over your sensitive skin. Your hips bucked in reaction and you silenced your moans, knowing you only had so much air to breathe, “Say you understand. Say yes.”

You nodded your head quickly, “Yes,” You whispered.

You were grateful when he loosed his grip around your throat, “It’s a good thing you’re wet. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just means this is what your body wants, baby. You already want to make me happy.”

You weren’t quite sure at what moment your body decided to freeze. Your nerves were overwhelmed, of course, and it seemed like you’d come out less scathed from the situation if you did as Rafe said. You could stay still and take it. There was something happening with Rafe you didn’t understand but he was acting as though he needed something and you were only one who could provide it. You could stay still and take it if it would make him happy, right? It’s a good thing to make other people happy.

You focused on the kisses on your lips, the way his soft mouth moved methodically over yours. The faint jangle of metal pulled you back to the moment, a sound you barely registered until you felt the press of something impossibly hard, slowly pushing against a place you hadn’t realized could take him. His manhood, you assumed, what made him different from you. It hurt like he said it would but not for just a moment. Were all manhoods this size? This is what your body really wants?

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing despite the edge of strain. His hand brushed over your trembling thigh, steadying you as your body tried to accommodate him. “You’re okay. I promise.”

He started to rock into you once you felt completely full to the brim. Initially, it felt even worse than him pushing all the way inside you. Tears fell and your breath grew rapid, “It hurts,” You whimpered, “It really hurts.”

“It’s okay,” He said, maintaining his pace, “You’re okay, darlin’. You’re doing great. It’s just your first time. Gotta get used to me, that's all.”

“Are-are you putting a baby in me, Rafe?” You asked, your voice an innocent whisper. His grip on you tightened as his rhythm grew more deliberate, his words spilling out in a low growl.

“Fuck yes, darlin’,” he said, his voice thick with unrestrained desire. “I’m gonna put a baby in you.”

His hands, his words, the pain between your legs that was slowly turning to pleasure, it made you dizzy, and you couldn’t keep track of your thoughts. You belonged to him? A baby? It didn’t make sense, but part of you felt comforted by the intensity of him. You trusted he knew more. Everything’s okay. You were okay. It felt like something you were supposed to be, so you let go and let him have you.

a/n: i only tag people who reblog the fic AND let me know their thoughts, thank you :)

#rafe cameron #rafe fanfiction #rafe smut #dark fic #rafe fic #rafe obx #obx rafe cameron #black!reader #rafe cameron x black!reader #sarah cameron #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron x reader

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yandere-daydreams · 8 months ago

Text

Screening: Nightmare on Elm Street (1984).

Pairing: Yandere!Capitano x Reader (Genshin)

Word Count: 2.6k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Somnophilia, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Fingering, Size Kinks, Arranged Marriage, and Obsessive Behavior. Mild Spoilers for the Natlan Story Quest.

Capitano only ever visits you at night.

Part of it is merely the reality of Harbinger’s schedule. If he’s in Snezhnaya at all, let alone lodging within his own estate, it’s a given that he’ll still be working tirelessly to carry out the Tsaritsa’s will, whether that means training incoming soldiers or busying himself with the paperwork deemed necessary by more bureaucratic types, like Pulcinella and Pantalone. It’s rare for him to return home (if it’s fair call that lifeless, desolate place by such a sentimental name) early enough to speak with you properly, and when he does, you only seem to hurry off to bed all the earlier. He’s not a fool. He knows you aren’t fond of him, that the company of your husband brings you little comfort. There’s no doubt in his mind that you assume yourself to be as ornamental as his manor, as his medals, as every other gift from his archon that he displays and maintains not out of gratitude, but polite obligation. He’s never corrected you. From what he can tell, the thought that he bears no great fondness for you has only ever eased your mind – eliminating such troublesome thoughts as those of a loving husband or happy marriage.

No, you don’t believe he loves you, and as far as he can tell, you’ve been given no reason to love him. Thus, he visits at night.

In plainer words, when you’re not in a state to remember he came to you at all.

You don’t share a bedroom. He has his barracks, attached to his office and furnished with only the barer essentials, and you have your nest – a small bedroom tucked into the tightest corner of the highest floor, just large enough to allow you to hoard all the softened, frivolous things you think you’re collecting behind his back. He’s careful not to brush against the woven tapestries crowding your walls as he crosses the threshold, not to disturb the careful arrangements of heaped blankets and silver trinkets you tend to leave scattered across your floor. He only pauses in front of your vanity – removing first his helmet (which, he notes with an inordinate amount of satisfaction, slots perfectly into the space left between your many combs and perfumes) then his coat, left draped haphazardly over the velvet-cushioned stool. He had the foresight to have the metal of his helmet tinted, to allow silver adornments of his uniform to tarnish beyond the point of reflectivity, but your mirror provides fewer safeguards. His vision catches on his own face and despite his better reasoning, lingers there.

The rot is no better or worse than it was when he first came to Snezhnaya, and yet in the dim light of your bedroom, it always seems a little more progressed. A jagged line of decay connects the corner of his lips to the point just above his ear, discolored flesh contained on either side by thick barriers of frostbite giving way to pure, abyssal void where there should’ve been bone. The skin around the corner of his mouth had gotten the worst of it. Grit teeth catch dull moonlight where his lips pull away and char, red viscera visible where the rot had nearly been allowed to take its toll. He’s thankful, in moments like this, that you keep your distance. Surely, it’s better to think yourself married to a monstrous man than know you were bound to monster merely masquerading as one.

Letting out a shallow breath, he forces himself away from the mirror and toward his true destination, your bedside. It’s with only the upmost care that he brushes away the sheer curtains, that he kneels onto the down-stuffed mattress – careful not to wake you with unnecessary noise or thoughtless movement. He finds you as he often does; slumped against your headboard, your sheets clumsily thrown to the side and the book you must’ve fallen asleep reading still spread open in your lap. It’s a good thing he cares for you more than he appears to. Snezhnayan nights are unforgiving, and without his daily visits, you most likely would’ve frozen to death by now.

Your book is closed and placed on the neared nightstand, your body drawn carefully onto the mattress, where you roll unconsciously onto your side. Your nightgown (your favorite, judging by how often you where despite the vastness of your collection) is long enough to reach your ankles, and yet, your fitful sleep and his disturbance has the skirt pooling at your waist. Your body is no stranger to him, and yet, impatience pricks as the back of his throat as he moves closer, as his fingertips graze over your ankle, then your thigh – so plush in comparison to his hardened, calloused form. It’s only when he reaches your hip that he thinks to remove his gloves. There aren’t many things he’s willing to risk exposure to feel, even fewer he lacks the self-restraint to resist, and yet, he never seems to be capable of that same control when it comes to you.

His hands were, thankfully, spared from the worst of the corruption’s wrath – his skin in-tact save for a small patch of exposed bone near the jut of his left wrist. You stir slightly as he traces aimless patterns into your waist, but your anxiety passes with time, and he waits until you’ve gone still to slip two fingers bellow the hem of your panties, dragging the thin material down just far enough to cup your sex properly. One day, he may grow brazen enough to take more time, to undress you completely and take in your body as a whole, rather than dividing it into such meager bits and pieces, but tonight, he contents himself with the slick heat of your cunt, the raspy breath you let out as he rocks the heel of his palm gently against your clit. It only takes a moment for you to reposition yourself, settling onto your back and parting your legs, making room for him in your bed where your heart remains closed. He knows nothing you could do in such a state would ever be considered intentional, but he spares a small smile as he leans forward, kissing the top of your head to the best of his limited ability. Despite himself, he cherishes the rare moments of faux-mutual intimacy he shares with you. Your mind, of course, would never let you take a walking corpse as a husband, but your body isn’t quite so discerning.

You’re sensitive, dampening quickly under his dutiful touch, and not for the first time, Capitano is reminded of why he grew to love you. He knew you were a delicate thing from the moment you were given to him – a former servant of the Tsaritsa, rewarded for your years at her beck and call with a hasty betrothal to a masked stranger and a sudden dismissal from your post. He’s sure one of the other Harbingers had something to do with it – the Doctor with his cat-like grin and morbid sense of humor, or perhaps Columbina with her warped idea of romance – but he had no reason to refuse, and you were never going to try, even if you’d been sobbing too violently to speak on your wedding day. No, he wouldn’t hear your voice until weeks into your marriage, after you’d begun to settle into your new role. Even then, you’d trembled through every word, your eyes never leaving the floor at your feet.

Your request had been a simple one – to have one of his soldiers help you bury the dead rabbit you’d found in the manor’s gardens that morning, while you were tending to your evergreens. When he mentioned that it would be difficult to bury much of anything this deep into winter, that surely the task would be better off left entirely to his soldiers, you only bowed your head. “I know,” you’d said, wringing the fabric of your skirt. “I… I don’t think they’d treat it with much care, though. I’d rather handle the poor thing myself.”

…

His first visit to your bedroom would come a little more than a month later. He still fucks his fist to his memory of your expression, from time to time.

Two of his fingers slip into you with ease. Your lips part at the sudden intrusion, a high-pitched mewling sound escaping from somewhere deep in your chest as he curls his digits against your clenching walls. Upon further thought, it must’ve been the Doctor responsible for your engagement – no other Harbinger would have a sense of humor cruel enough to see such a delicate creature paired with such a beast, to know how your thighs would twitch and shake as you struggled to take his fingers and still think it to be a fitting match. He really does try to be gentle with you, but he’s still human, still at the mercy of his vices, and the way your breath hitches as he thrusts a third digit into you is worth more to him than any amount of gold or gems or angels’ song.

His free hand is braced beside your head, his wrist angled to better allow him to fuck knuckle-deep into you, but his eyes remain fixed on your face as your features scrunch and relax in turns, as your lips purse only to fall open for every little, pleasured noise that bubbles up inside of you. The loose collar of your nightgown falls off of your shoulder, and his mouth finds your exposed collarbone, tongue lapping greedily (but harmlessly, he reminds himself, harmlessly) over your chest. It’s strange, how drawn he is to you, but not unexpected. Rot always spreads the fastest when fed with fresh meat.

You arch your back, crying out as his fingers curl inside of you, and his head dips lower – latching onto your nipple and sucking gently, gently, his teeth barely grazing your skin. Your hands knead satin sheets mindlessly, and against his will, his mind drifts to how you’d look if you were ever forced to take something more substantial than his fingers, if you’d paw at his chest the same way as he eased you onto his cock. The thought alone has his digits pumping into you with a reckless sort of haste, his palm grinding sloppily against your clit until you stiffen underneath him, until your pretty cunt spasms and drips around his fingers.

Ultimately, it’s not your climax that wakes you, but his own weakness. You buck against his hand and, with a deep groan, he slips – teeth burrowing into the supple curve of your breast with just a touch more force than he’d ever used, before. His eyes dart back to your face just as yours blearily flutter open, still weighed down by sleep and clouded by exhaustion. In the place of panic, displeasure, you portray only confusion – the corner of your lips quirking downward as you struggle to make sense of the sight in front of you. It’s only as he draws back, carefully removing his hand from the space between your thighs and resuming a more dignified position, that you seem to remember how to speak. “…my lord?”

“It’s only a dream, my love.” He cups your cheek, tilting your head back and pressing another feather-light kiss into your forehead, then your cheek. “Close your eyes and rest.”

Your gaze remains fixed on him for a second longer, but with time and coaxing, you retreat back into yourself, letting your eyes close and your head lull into his hand. With an airy laugh, he lays you down, righting your nightgown and covering you with the sheets and quilts you neglected, when trusted with the task on your own.

It only takes him minutes to don his helmet and slip out of your bedroom and yet, by the time he crosses the threshold, he’s already longing for tomorrow’s visit to come all the sooner.

You can count the number of times you’ve sought Capitano out on a single hand. You try to limit how often you speak to him, how many reasons he has to re-think the convince of his marriage to you, but doing dangerous things is sometimes necessary. You hope that, one day, you’ll grow a bit braver and those dangerous things won’t be so hard to do, but that’s not a reality you currently live in and, thus, not a reality worth entertaining, at the moment.

(You also hope that, one day, you won’t consider it dangerous to speak to your own husband, but as you’ve already explained, fantasy is something you rarely had time for. Best not to focus on something so romantically outlandish and devote your attention to crueler truths.)

You find him in his war room of an office, where he almost always resides when he’s home. You can hear him muttering to members of his legion as you approach, but by the time you reach the doorway, they’ve been sent elsewhere – out of earshot. You’d planned to hold your composure, to meet the void where Capitano’s eyes should’ve been, but it’s one thing to plan to be daring and another to try and force yourself into the pit of endless blackness existed beneath his helmet. Ultimately, you settle for keeping your eyes narrowed at your own feet and your shoulders squared as you break the quiet.

“Good morning, my lord. I’m so sorry to bother you, but…” Suddenly, your throat feels dry, your legs unsteady. You risk a quick glance toward him, but regret it in an instant. You wish he wouldn’t wear that helmet, not at home, not around you. You’d heard that his face was no great work of art, that he’d been left scarred by some ancient battle, but it couldn’t have possibly been worse than the blankness he expects you to satiate yourself with, in place of anything more substantial. Many people had scars, but very few thought to hide them underneath such punishing masks.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to go on. “Were you in my bedroom last night?”

His back straightens, and for a moment, you’re able to convince yourself that, if you’d been able to see his expression, he would’ve looked taken aback. “Of course not,” he says, and you take pains to convince yourself that the note of condensation you hear is simply a product of your imagination. “Why do you ask? Did something disturb you?”

You try (and fail) not to recall the distorted fragments that’d been haunting you all morning – all broken, all confused, too ungrounded to be called a memory yet too vivid to be written off entirely as a dream. A sharp pressure in the pit of your stomach, a damp heat dripping down your chest, a man with a scarred face and your husband’s voice laid over you; none of it makes sense, but you can see it in your mind clear as day, feel its realness in the soreness of your chest and the ache between your thighs. Capitano has never shown an interest in, uh, consummating your marriage, and even if he did, you would never think him capable of something like… like that. He’s a Harbinger, a leader, an honorable man – albeit, a very cold one, too. Even if he’s never been particularly kind to you, he isn’t a monster, and you would be ashamed to think of him as one.

“No, no, it was my mistake. I—I think it was just a bad dream.” You force yourself to laugh, falling into a shallow courtesy. Of course. Of course. It’d only been a dream. It was foolish of you to come to him at all. “I’m sorry to waste your time on such a petty matter, my lord.”

His solace comes in the form of a curt nod, a silent dismissal. You take that as a sign to make your escape, retreating before you can say anything else to make yourself seem paranoid and foolish.

Hopefully, tonight will prove to be more restful.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact imagines #yandere capitano #capitano x reader #capitano x you

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dirtyvulture · 4 months ago

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The Maid - Part 3

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 3973

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: I am so glad everyone is enjoying this fic! Now we get to see who's guesses from Part 2 were correct...

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

Things with Wanda have become increasingly difficult lately. Your temper inches shorter and shorter with every argument the two of you have, which seem to be almost every conversation now. After your night out with Natasha, which felt dangerously normal, you realized what you were missing with your own wife. But the two of you had been together for nearly a decade–surely there were bound to be rough patches, right?

“I have to work late tomorrow night,” you say as the two of you get ready for bed, and as soon as the words come out of your mouth you regret it.

“Late again? Really, Y/N?” Wanda shoots back. “I already made the reservation for our dinner. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Reschedule it?” you suggest, trying to hide your frustration. How many dozens of dinners (and anniversaries) had she stood you up?

“That’s ridiculous. I’m not doing that,” Wanda says, angrily climbing into bed and turning away from you. “If you can’t put the effort in to remember when we have dinner dates, then we’re not going to one.”

“You literally forgot our anniversary,” you respond, finally losing control of your temper.

“I did not forget,” she argues. “I had other plans that you forgot. And don’t use that tone with me. You’re not the one who should be annoyed right now.” Anger flares up inside you, but you hold your tongue. Arguing further with her would be pointless. You crawl onto your side of the bed and look over at your wife, balled up and small-looking under the covers.

You loved her. That was never a lie. But sometimes you wonder why you allowed her to cause you so much pain. Was it just to further prove your love to her? And how much more of it could you take?

***********************************************************************

After Natasha returns from picking up Wanda’s dry cleaning, she neatly hangs up the half-dozen dresses in the closet and begins dusting the house from top to bottom. It’s not an exciting chore, but due to the vastness of your home and the few people living in it, a lot of dust has accumulated and even she knows Wanda’s not exaggerating when she complains about her allergies acting up.

Natasha starts in your bedroom, carrying around a small stool to help her reach high places. She gently pats the dust off a plush teddy bear sitting on your dresser. She gets on her knees to brush the floorboards running along the perimeter of the room. Although the work is painfully dull, she finds satisfaction in the way her duster fibers turn grayer and grayer. She cleans the glass doors of the china cabinet with a special wipe, smiling at a little ceramic turtle perched on a shelf at eye level. She waltzes through the kitchen, which needs the least cleaning because she spends the most time there, but pauses to give special care to the rainbow-colored plastic cow looking out the window.

In the living room is a massive bookshelf that takes up an entire wall’s worth of space.Natasha doesn’t even know where to start, but she hops onto her stool and begins dusting the spines in every row. When she gets to the end of the fourth row, a title catches her eye: Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. She had read the book for the first time in its native Russian, and while it may not have been a child-friendly novel, it did bring back more fondful memories of her childhood.

She takes it off the shelf, surprised at its weight. It’s over 500 pages, but much heavier than she remembers. The front cover swings open and something big and metal falls out, nearly landing on her foot. Natasha gasps in surprise as she pulls her leg back, her eyes widening as she stares at the revolver on the floor.

She opens the book, finding a huge rectangle cut out of the center of the pages to house the weapon. Whose gun was this? Neither you nor Wanda struck her as physically violent people. Maybe it was for protection?

The garage door rumbles open.

Natasha scoops up the gun with shaking hands and puts it back in the book, shoving it onto the shelf again. She grabs her duster and continues to dust the shelf.

“Natasha? Are you here?” Wanda’s voice rings out.

“In the living room! Good afternoon, Mrs. L/N!” Natasha responds, not turning around and staring at Crime and Punishment as if the gun will go off on its own.

“Why are you dusting our bookshelf?” Wanda asks.

“I’m dusting the whole house,” Natasha answers. “Just want to make sure every area is clean–”

“You read?” Wanda interrupts.

“I can, yes.” Natasha has no idea where the conversation is going and her stomach twists in knots.

“I mean, do you read for fun?”

“Yes,” Natasha lies.

“You ever read Crime and Punishment?”

Natasha just wants Wanda to leave her alone. “Yes.”

“A little advanced for you, don’t you think?” she says, and Natasha doesn’t even feel the need to defend herself from the cruel comment. She still hasn’t faced Wanda and wonders if she’s holding another revolver pointed at her back.

But Wanda is still waiting for an answer, so Natasha draws herself taller and says, “I’m Russian. I read it in high school.”

“Of course.” Wanda shifts her weight and the floor creaks. Natasha tenses and closes her eyes. “Well, I pay you to clean my house, not read my books. So keep your hands off my copy. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Footsteps indicate Wanda is going to another room.

Natasha has never been genuinely scared of Wanda until now.

***********************************************************************

It’s laundry day in your household, another chore Natasha completely despises due to the sheer amount of bedding you and Wanda seem to accumulate. Wanda insists that she wash the sheets in every guest room, despite the fact that you and her only sleep in the master bedroom. While Natasha is certain she knows the real reason, she overheard her telling you it was to prevent bed bugs.

Still, Natasha knows better than to question your wife and falls into the routine of stripping every bed, washing one load at a time, and redoing all the beds. The laundry machine is so noisy, she doesn’t hear the garage door open, nor the footsteps down the foyer. She doesn’t listen to music while she works, afraid Wanda will accuse her of being distracted, so she hums the soundtrack to Mamma Mia.

When the next load finishes, Natasha gathers up the bedding in her arms, almost smothered by the heat from its tumble in the dryer. She precariously walks up the stairs, trying to remember which bedroom the sheets are from, when she hears a thump from the master bedroom.

Natasha freezes. She thought she was alone in the house. Maybe you had snuck by while she was in the laundry room, and clearly she didn’t learn her lesson from the last time she walked in on you and Wanda to stay away. Heart pounding against her chest in anticipation, Natasha inches towards the door and peers through the crack.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck me,” Wanda moans, followed by the repetitive banging of the headboard against the wall. Natasha shifts around to get a better view of the room, straining to see what’s going on. She catches a glimpse of Wanda on her knees, moving in and out of her view, someone holding onto her waist from behind.

“I want you to put a baby in me,” Wanda pants, and her partner grunts in response.

While the two of you had no children that Natasha was aware of, she wonders if that was an intentional decision or perhaps you two were waiting for a better moment. Kids would certainly give you a reason to stay with Wanda, and maybe that was exactly what she was planning.

Natasha hates the way she keeps watching, wanting more material to fuel her never-ending fantasy of being betrothed to you.

“Honey? Are you here? I’m home!”

“I’m upstairs!” Natasha calls. She hears you tramp up the steps as she patiently waits for you in the bedroom. You poke your head through the door first, the top few buttons of your shirt undone, and although the exhaustion from work is evident on your face, you perk up when you see her.

Especially with what she’s wearing, or lack of it.

“I hope you had a good day at work, baby,” Natasha says, turning around to face you. She’s wearing the red lingerie set you bought her for her birthday. It hardly leaves her assets to the imagination and she can feel your gaze lingering on her body. She’s never felt so appreciated or wanted before.

“It was a good day that’s only getting better.” You step into the bedroom, hastening to take off your clothes. Natasha comes over to help you and you easily scoop her up in your strong arms, and she wraps her legs tightly around your hips. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you whisper, your mouth hot on her neck as you nip at her skin.

You walk forward until Natasha feels her back bump into the vanity. You rest her on the edge and spread your legs to jerk yourself to full hardness. Natasha struggles against the impatience in her core, wanting nothing more than for you to fill her to the brim. She watches the veins in your muscular arm pop out as you move your hand back and forth faster, your cock swelling to its large size.

Finally, Natasha cannot wait any longer. “I need you,” she begs, swatting your hand away and sliding forward, ready to practically fall on your dick.

“Careful, baby,” you warn with a chuckle, gripping onto her thighs and stepping forward to find the right angle to insert yourself.

Natasha sighs in relief when you enter her, holding onto your shoulders in case you get any ideas of pulling out too far. Her walls clench around you tightly, drawing a moan from you and you press your hips forward until your whole cock stretches her out. Natasha loves how much you fill her, how you soothe the empty throbbing in her. She must be the luckiest woman in the world to have you like this.

The vanity bumps against the wall with every thrust. Natasha squeezes her thighs tighter around your waist, trying to hold you in as long as possible. She runs her hands up and down your broad back, digging her nails into your shoulder blades when your thighs meet hers.

“When are you gonna put a baby in me?” she asks, her lips crashing heatedly onto yours.

You grunt with another deep thrust.

“You would look so beautiful carrying my child.”

Natasha’s blood goes cold when she hears Wanda’s partner. Because it’s not your voice.

It’s Vision’s.

She angles herself to see better and feels sick to see her stomach when she sees your wife and Vision tangled on the bed together. She can’t bear to watch another second and flees down the stairs, the bedsheets still in her arms, not even caring if they hear her.

She has to find a way to tell you. That was the least you deserved.

***********************************************************************

You stand in the dim hallway, watching as Wanda whips around, grabbing her coat and Louis Vuitton purse. “Where do you think you’re going?” you ask.

“I’m not allowed to leave the house now?” she bites back, not even looking at you.

“It’s Friday night,” you point out.

“So?”

“Friday nights are our nights,” you stress, and Wanda finally looks at you when you raise your voice. “It’s been that way for years, unless you’ve been so bored of me you haven’t noticed.”

“You can survive without me for one night,” she shoots back. “I have a dinner night with the girls–”

“Don’t go,” you say, your tone changing from anger to pleading. “Please. We hardly spend any time together since I started the new job here and–”

“That’s not my fault,” Wanda clips. “That was your decision. Moving here was also your decision, in case you forgot.” You don’t miss the way she stresses the blame on you. “You thought it would be better for your business, and you’re still in the red. I gave up my old friends and relationships to be here with you, and then you have the audacity to act like this is my fault.”

“I asked if you wanted to stay, and you said you were fine with moving,” you remind her, although you are uncomfortable at the truth of her words.

“I said I was fine moving because I thought it’d make you happy,” Wanda says. “But it looks like out of the two of us, I’m the only happy one here.”

You know it’s wrong, but you can’t help but be frustratingly jealous of your wife. Even waking up every day is now a struggle for you. You’re buckling under the pressure of work, unable to meet the deadlines or find the capital to pay your mounting debts. The only person you have to support you is Wanda, but she’s always off partying with her new friends or going to some made-up meeting meant to give her a false sense of significance. You’ve never felt lonelier, and it scares you that the only person you have may be slipping away.

“I’ll be back tonight.” Wanda whips out to the garage and clearly doesn’t want to hear any more protest from you. You stagger back and collapse onto a sofa, holding your head in your hands and feeling a burning sensation in your eyes.

Natasha peeks around the corner of the kitchen, wondering if you remember that she’s still here. “Y/N? Is everything okay?” she asks.

“No,” you say, forcing yourself to laugh. “I’m sorry if you heard any of that. That was very unprofessional of us.”

“It’s okay.” Natasha inches out so you can see her. You’re rubbing your eyes and she’s startled to realize you’re crying. Not knowing what to do, she retreats into the kitchen, grabbing a handful of rambutans from the bottom drawer of the fridge and a box of tissues and brings them to you.

You laugh when you see her offerings. You pat the sofa cushion next to her to indicate she is welcome to join you. “Have you had one of these before? I can show you how to eat them.” You peel off the furry red exterior, revealing a pearl-colored center. “You just eat this part. It tastes like a grape.”

Natasha takes one and follows your example. When she bites into the center, the taste is not as exotic as she expected but quite mild, reminding her of an oversized, fleshy grape. “It’s pretty good,” she says.

“My favorite.” You peel open another one, leaving the exterior on a pile on the table.

Natasha has another one and anxiously looks around the room, as if Wanda is still in the house. “Y/N, I need to tell you something,” she finally has the courage to say, heart pounding in her chest.

“Yes?” There’s a soft crunch as you bite through your rambutan.

“Wanda’s cheating on you with Vision,” Natasha blurts out, with no build-up whatsoever.

You are completely silent, chewing the fruit as if it’s the last thing you’ll ever eat.

“I saw them together in bed yesterday.” Natasha now realizes how foolish she sounds. What if you didn’t believe her? What if you thought she was lying in order to get you for herself? She could’ve taken a picture (as weird as that would’ve been) to provide actual proof.

“I know,” you say, to Natasha’s shock. “I know she’s cheating on me with Vision.”

“You do?” Natasha is stunned. She wonders how long you’ve known, and why you’ve never acted out on it.

“She’s cheating on me with half the fucking neighborhood.”

***********************************************************************

One month earlier…

“Need a hand?”

“No, I think I’m good, thanks!” You roll out from under your car, your arms and face covered in grease and oil. A skinny man stands on the sidewalk, surveying your propped-up car on the driveway.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asks.

“Not sure,” you respond, reaching for a rag in your tool bag and wiping off your face. “It won’t start though, so I’ll probably have to get it towed to the shop.”

“Need a lift?”

“Uh…” You glance back at your empty house. Wanda was out until nightfall, although you wouldn’t put it past her to be gone until tomorrow. Despite the brand-new house the two of you had just moved into, she didn’t seem to want to spend much time in it.

“It’s no trouble,” the man insists. “I live over at the end of the street. You can call me Vision.” He comes forward to shake your hand.

“Y/N,” you introduce. “Well, I’d really appreciate it. We just moved here and my wife’s out of town right now, so I don’t have many friends I can call on here yet.”

Vision waves off your comment. “You have neighbors! That’s what we’re for, right?”

You call a tow truck and join Vision in his purple Camaro with a yellow racing stripe along the center of its hood to tail your vehicle to the shop.

“What do you do for work?” you ask, genuinely impressed with his sports car. He didn’t seem like the type to own one.

“Oh, I’m retired,” he says, effortlessly shifting the gears and the vehicle purrs in response.

“Really?” He hardly looked a few years older than you.

“Corporate life just wasn’t for me,” he says. “It paid very well though, so I retired early and bought the house out here. It’s just me though, never found the right person to settle down with.”

“It’s not for everyone,” you admit, because sometimes you wonder if you even found the right person.

***********************************************************************

After the mechanics determine your car needs an overnight stay to repair, Vision drives you back home. He drops you off and speeds down the street to his own. You find him to be a little quirky, but harmless. You head inside for a much-needed shower. When you’re done, you wrap a towel around your waist and step into the bedroom to find some clothes. You pause when the front door creaks open.

Excited to greet your wife, you rush out to say hello from the top of the stairs, but stop in your tracks when you realize she’s brought someone in.

“Oh, Y/N isn’t home,” Wanda says, her voice carrying through the foyer.

“This house is huge!” It’s Steve. Your heart bangs against your chest and you retreat to the bedroom, unsure where to hide. The closet seems like a decent spot, and you nestle in between your hanging jackets as you hear Wanda and Steve stomp up the stairs together. You peek out through the crack in the door.

“Ours was built first, but it looks like this one has a lot of improvements that we could’ve used,” Steve goes on.

“Yes, yes, it’s very nice,” Wanda says. They walk into your bedroom, Wanda behind him with a mischievous glint in her eye you recognize all too well. “I wish Y/N could be around more,” she continues, and you fight the urge to burst out of the closet. “Like you said, it’s such a big house and it feels so lonely in it without another body to keep it warm.”

You see Steve’s gaze travel along the walls and over your furniture. To his credit, he does seem genuinely impressed with your home. He always struck you as a simple man, maybe even a little bit ignorant at times. But now you were about to see if his ignorance was true or an act.

Wanda approaches him so closely you’re sure her body is rubbing against his.

“Y/N isn’t here, but maybe you can keep me company for a while?”

“Hey, hey, what are you doing?” Steve jerks away from Wanda when she puts her hands on his hips.

“We can be quick,” Wanda insists, taking off her jacket. “No one has to know–”

“Wanda, stop it,” Steve says, sounding angry. “I have a wife and kids at home and you’re married to Y/N–”

“So?” Wanda replies, and it makes your stomach clench with how dismissive she is. “I’ve been married to Y/N for four years and I’ve been cheating since day one.” She shrugs. “Honestly, the only reason I settled down is for the thrill of it.” She holds her hand up, the wedding ring you gifted her with three months’ salary glinting in the light. “It’s much more exciting to get what you’re not supposed to have, right?”

“You’re disgusting,” Steve says. “Stay away from me and my family.”

He hurries out of the bedroom, but Wanda doesn’t go after him at first. She puts her jacket back on and admires her reflection in the mirror, clearly a little frazzled by Steve’s rejection. How many people hadn’t rejected her? You always had a hunch, but had never heard Wanda admit it outloud before. How could you be so stupid this whole time?

Your body starts to vibrate with rage and you accidentally knock a jacket off its hook. While the jacket falls soundlessly to the floor, you can’t see well enough to catch the hanger and it lands with a quiet thump on the carpet. You look through the crack, holding your breath as Wanda’s head whips towards the closet.

The next few seconds are so tense you want to vomit.

But then Wanda turns back to her reflection, fluffing out her hair, and leaves the bedroom.

***********************************************************************

Your paranoia kicks in like a drug that won’t let you rest. You buy cameras and sprinkle them all around the house, in the trinkets and knick knacks Wanda insisted on showcasing in every room. The teddy bear on your dresser in the bedroom. The ceramic turtle in the china cabinet in the living room. The plastic cow on the windowsill of the kitchen window. You monitor them religiously, but it doesn’t take long for more evidence to show up.

Vision is the most frequent offender, visiting during your long nights at work or sometimes in the middle of the day. Steve never sets foot on your property again, although sometimes the camera in the potted plant by the front door picks up the conversation of Wanda trying to convince him to come over. As nice as Steve was to turn down your wife’s advances, he never came to tell you what she had tried to do with him either.

There are some visitors you don’t even recognize. And Wanda isn’t a stranger to women either. She brings over Agatha, her supposed HOA nemesis, and many of the ladies who would greet you so kindly and fawn over you every time they saw you working in the front yard. You would bet money that she was also fucking some of her girlfriends on their trips away.

And now you have it all on camera, your wife fucking multiple strangers in your own home. The proof didn’t make you feel better; in fact, it made you feel worse. All that time, effort, and money you had spent trying to cultivate the perfect relationship with her when she would turn around and fuck the first thing that looked at her.

It made you so angry you couldn’t see straight. But you knew you couldn’t act hastily. You would formulate the perfect plan to get out of the marriage and leave Wanda behind, even if it meant leaving her for dead.

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

AN: Whomp whomp. So...was it who you expected? Or worse? 🤭And I think we collectively owe Steve an apology.

Next part is here!

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff imagine #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff x reader

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kairospy · 2 years ago

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More AFTG Twitter updates because Nora likes torturing me

- Thea will make an appearance but Nora is aware she’s universally hated… so there’s that

- Blond Jeremy

- Auburn Neil. Auburn. Not ginger

- Neil gives Andrew the first cheek kiss and the first forehead kiss (mostly because Andrew can’t reach Neil’s)

- she really likes the bond between Jean and Neil and hopes to explore that to some degree. She says their experiences laid the groundwork for an enduring friendship and they have a very special kind of intimacy

- there will be flashbacks to Jean’s abuse in TSC

- if andreil ever got married Neil would pick Matt as his best man and Andrew would pick Kevin

- Andrew still pampers Neil with gifts and clothes even after Neil learns some fashion sense

- the marriage between Mary and Nathan was arranged

- Ichirou is 24 in TKM, 25 in TSC

- Kevin likes Hamilton and Andrew knows the Le Miserables songs because he heard them once

- Kevin does indeed appear in TSC

- Renee has a few scenes in TSC

- Jeremy’s family makes an appearance in TSC

- she hopes TSC will be a standalone

- the twins got on the horses in TKM with kiddie stools

- when the newbies start bothering Neil post TKM, Matt starts checking them so hard they see stars and denies he’s being overly aggressive when he’s confronted by Wymack

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bowtiepasta · 1 month ago

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SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWGIRL ⛰︎ ོ you know what they say… only a woman knows how to treat a woman right. “got any cowgirl in ya? want some?” — SHOKO IEIRI

smut! 𐚁 minors and ageless blogs do not interact. indulging: afab and f!reader (she/her), arranged marriage, fingering, oral, thigh riding, drinking, you wear a skirt, #wlw

word count: 1,397

romy’s note: lesbians eat what?!

tomorrow, you’d be a wife. tonight, you were just a girl with shaky hands and a good liver.

“you planning to marry that poor boy hungover?”

her tracks are muddy, faint half-moons against the floor your mother scrubbed every morning. you wipe your palms down your skirt, eyes on the swinging doors, expecting a wobbly stray to storm through.

“I’ll rally,” you say, voice rough from too many shots of your father’s gutrot whiskey. “done worse.”

shoko hums, flicks ash out the window. the cigarette tip lights her profile soft orange. she smelled like everything familiar and terrible and good — like old afternoons, salty tears, and the stale shampoo they keep in the bunkhouse showers.

“you sure?” she mocks. “he’s gonna be real happy when you puke on his boots at the altar.”

“you shouldn't be here,” your fingers twitch toward the shuttered window out of habit. sherrif’s boys were known to stay out late wandering.

she shrugs like she wasn’t a dead man’s name on a dozen bounty posters pinned to fence posts from here to god knows where.

“came to wish you well,” she counters, a white lie. “and maybe get drunk enough to forget you’re marrying that twitchy little banker.”

you smile despite yourself. it made your mouth hurt.

“why?” you ask, voice cracking at the ends. “you didn’t stay to say goodbye the last time.”

her mouth pulls taut. something like guilt, or maybe just the bane memory of it.

“you were never gonna leave this place,” she says, tipping her head upward, where the piano had faintly started up again, crooked and sad. “I was.”

she pushes off the doorframe and walks in until she stands on the other side of the bar. the heavy smell of stale beer and woodsmoke lived in the bones of the place and seeped into your skin.

you swallow. the air between you stretches thin, sticky with all the words you hadn’t said two years ago when she first rode out and never came back.

“you could’ve asked me to go,” you breathe.

shoko leans close, palms braced flat on the wood, close enough you see the subtle scar along her jaw, new since you last saw her.

“you’d have said yes,” she says in an undertone far too lonely for your liking. “I wasn’t gonna do that to you.”

with her injured horse stabled down the street and nowhere else to turn, she figured a quick stop wouldn’t hurt. and boy, was she wrong.

she looks at you, as if remembering her own name.

“c’mere.”

a beat.

“c’mere, sweetheart,” she repeats, tired, thumb dragging over your knuckles. “one last time.”

you did. stupidly fast, pressing your forehead into her shoulder and looping your fingers into her belt loops.

her fingers fit into the dip of your waist like she’d known exactly where they belonged this whole time.

you yank her belt loose with clumsy hands, the heavy buckle thudding against her thigh. she laughs into your cheek, and you swear you feel your heart stop.

one hand braces at your jaw while her thumb rubs at the hinge of it, nails short and uneven from where she’d chewed. shoko tilts your face up and examines you, checking a calf for broken bones.

she lifts you back onto the bar stool — it rattles the screws. “you’re gonna get me killed.”

you smile, starting on her buttons.

“wasn’t planning on letting you live forever anyway.”

her palms leave dry prints on your hips, and when she kneels between your legs, the floorboards creak under her knees. the piano upstairs doesn’t stop.

outside, a dog barks once, sharp and distant. the fan keeps spinning. shoko doesn’t stop.

the bar digs into your spine, her hands already up your skirt, callouses skimming up your thighs. she works fast, but not rushed — the way someone does a job they know by heart.

“fuck,” she shudders, finding you already slick when she pulls your panties down. you kick them off blindly, heels dry-scraping the tablesides.

“gonna make you forget your own name,” she mutters, almost to herself. you hear it all.

her mouth is on you before you could say anything smart, biting a line up your legs, marking you like the goddamn animal she was.

you tug her hat off, toss it onto the floor. her hair’s damp at the roots, stuck to her forehead where the night heat had decided to settle.

“thought you were here just to drink,” you gasp.

shoko grins against your hip, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “changed my mind.”

she pushes a finger into you, palm grinding the way she knew you liked — the way she remembers.

it’s filthy, the wet sound of it, loud in the quiet remains of the closing hours. someone upstairs laughs— a sharp bark — makes your heart nip at your ribs and bottom lip bleed.

“stay quiet,” she shushes, kissing up your stomach, smudging her lipstick all over. “or don’t. might be the only good story I leave this town with.”

you bite your own hand to muffle the sound when her fingers curled just right, rough and sure inside you. she watches you the entire time, catching every little twitch, every whimper.

“still so fuckin’ pretty,” she slides up, kisses you again — deep, open-mouthed, desperate. so desperate.

your hands fumble at her pants and she helps, hitching her hips to shove them down for you.

you wrap your legs around her, dragging her in. the first press of her hips against yours punched a sound out of you that you barely recognized.

you shove at her until she gets the hint, letting you manhandle her onto the other stool. it creaks under her weight, one of the legs uneven — it’s been needing fixing for months.

shoko leans back, pants open, shirt rumpled, thighs spread loose. she cleans you off of her mouth, eyes glittering under the low lamplight.

“c’mon then,” she tilts her head, ever the cocky bastard. “take what you need.”

you climb into her lap, skirt bunched up around your waist, straddling one of her bare thighs. you move once, dragging your cunt along the muscle of her thigh, and your whole body jerks at how good it feels.

shoko hisses through her teeth, clawing at your hips, locking you down onto her.

“juuust like that,” she coos, voice wrecked.

you grind down harder, chasing the friction, the bone sliding right against your clit, relentless. the room tilts around you, too hot, too loud in your own head.

shoko slips a hand between you, fingers sliding through your folds, thumb catching you right at the top. she barely had to do any work with the way you were rocking against her.

“you’re dripping all over me,” she says, smug.

you come grinding against her thigh, thighs trembling, breathing like you’d been shot. shoko keeps her hand on you, pressing through every little aftershock until you sagged entirely spent against her.

but she wasn’t finished.

shoko steadies your thighs over her shoulders like she was settling into church pews.

her tongue laps through the mess she’d already made, nosing into the soft parts, tongue flicking away because she’s cruel — always has been. you whimper, try to close your legs, and she just tightens her grip, nails digging in enough to sting.

“you’re gonna be a good wife,” she sighs, bitter while inside you. “better get used to being taken apart.”

you barely hear her — too far gone, legs trembling, toes curling in your boots.

you come again, hips bucking up off the stool. she holds you down with her whole damn body. doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow, working you through it ‘till your thighs are spasming by her ears.

when you push weakly at her shoulders, she finally pulls back with a small, satisfied noise, chin glistening. she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning up at you like the kid she still was.

you gripped the edge of the bar behind you, the wood worn smooth from years of your father’s hands, and realized hers would never be allowed here again.

“you’re an outlaw,” you said matter-of-factly. “you’re wanted in three counties.”

“four.” she pulls the gold band off of your ring finger and kisses the bruise it leaves.

“but you always did love trouble.”

hello from april 28th i’m in the trenches and seasonal depression is kicking my ass. need a hot lesbian cowgirl to lasso me up and take me away asap. hope you enjoyed xo

side note i see all the comments you guys leave on my works i swear i do </3 trying to get better at replying to them but i see them weeks after they’re put up and i get embarrassed bc i’m late lmao. but i see them and appreciate them so so so much i’m sloppy kissing you all on the hot mouth rn

do not copy, edit, or repost, any of my works on any platforms.

#my girl ween hard #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #shoko ieiri x reader #ieiri shoko #shoko ieiri #shoko x reader #shoko x you #shoko smut #wlw fic #lesbians #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jjk fluff #romy is 5km away and lonely!#dirty vodka sauce #shoko shaped

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angel06babysworld · 10 days ago

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nhl!rafe x prettygirl!reader

All American Morning

The morning started before the sun even broke the sky.

The baby monitor let out a soft, rhythmic static—then a sleepy whimper. Isla was up. Again.

Rafe groaned quietly, rolling over. “I got it.”

She didn’t argue. Four years of marriage had taught her that Rafe Cameron in dad-mode was a machine. He could be half-dead from an away game in Calgary and still get up for a 3 a.m. feeding like he was born for it. Which, of course, he claimed he was.

She heard the faint creak of the nursery door, then the gentle hush of Rafe’s voice, deep and low, as he lifted Isla into his arms. It was always like that—soft in ways the rest of the world never got to see.

Pretty girl, pretty life.

She stretched, turning her face into the pillow with a smile, and listened to the baby settle.

Twenty minutes later, the sun finally broke through the curtains, and Rafe returned with Isla against his bare chest, one big hand splayed protectively across her tiny back.

“She’s back out,” he murmured.

“Of course she is.” She shifted to sit up, her sleep shirt sliding off one shoulder. “You’re her favorite person.”

“I better be. You think she knows I drop gloves for a living?” he smirked, laying the baby gently in her bassinet next to their bed.

“She thinks you’re a squishy bear who smells like cedar and warm milk.”

He came back to the bed and climbed in behind her, looping an arm around her waist. “So do you.”

She laughed into his chest.

It didn’t last long. The pitter-patter of feet down the hallway gave them a ten-second warning before Jamie launched himself into the room, all messy curls and boy energy.

“Dad! You forgot pancake morning!”

Rafe sat up, rubbing his face. “You wake up every day like it’s Game 7.”

Jamie grinned, victorious.

Pretty girl married the hot jock. Had the strong son and the sweet baby girl. But her favorite mornings were the ones where nothing glittered—just sunlit floors and sleepy kisses, the clatter of spatulas and Rafe in sweats with his hair sticking up.

They migrated downstairs, the baby in her arms and Jamie dragging his blankie behind him like a cape. Rafe beat her to the stove, flipping pancakes like a pro, while she moved through the kitchen barefoot, popping Isla’s pacifier back in her mouth.

Jamie was climbing onto the counter stool, legs too short to really make it up, but Rafe caught him with one hand, already pouring syrup with the other. “Protein first,” he warned.

“Daaaad,” Jamie whined.

Rafe gave him the look, then passed him a half-pancake with peanut butter spread across the top. “Fuel for future captains.”

From her seat at the island, she looked around: a mess of bottles, hockey gear in the mudroom, baby toys under the table. Rafe humming to himself, Isla in her lap, and Jamie loudly declaring he was going to be “the first kid to play in the NHL and also be a dinosaur.”

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t always pretty. But it was perfect.

And as Rafe slid a fresh cup of coffee into her hands—kisses her shoulder as he passed—she realized that love didn’t always live in roses or grand gestures.

Sometimes it lived in sleepy foreheads pressed to hers, pancakes on Thursdays, and the way Rafe still looked at her like they were 17 and he’d just won the game and the girl.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead

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adore-laur · 5 months ago

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Can you make a blurb focusing on the second baby? I don't know something like her needing a moment with Harry or her getting sick

IN SICKNESS & IN HEALTH

——

"Open your mouth, honey."

You obeyed, and Harry gently slid an oral thermometer under your tongue. When you closed your lips around it, the metal tip provided a coolness that briefly offset the fever blazing through your immune system. Frankly, you didn't need an official temperature check to recognize you were fighting a viral infection, but Harry had insisted every aspect of you be monitored closely. He was currently whisking around the bedroom, ensuring you were being doted on like a princess. In your febrile state, where surreal thoughts flowed freely, you wondered if he'd been a doctor in one of his past lives. Those large, veined hands in skin-tight exam gloves. Manspreading on a swivel stool while listening intently to a patient's concerns. Diligent, respectful touches during routine checkups. Was it deranged to be jealous of the faceless people in your fever-induced fantasy? Maybe. All you knew was that it heated your body even more.

A bout of rigors had roused you in the middle of the night, which left you violently shivering in Harry's embrace. While semi-conscious, you had thought nothing of it. Hours later, after miraculously falling asleep in a cocoon of two thick blankets plus a heated one, you had awoken in a pool of sweat with a fever on the horizon. Now, in the early morning darkness, there was no choice but to try to break it. You had plenty of fluids nearby, comfy pillows for your heavy limbs, and a husband who was at your beck and call. And best of all, the sleep-aid medication you had taken earlier was working wonderfully.

After a silent minute of Harry staring at you sympathetically with his knuckles pressed against your unusually warm forehead, the thermometer beeped. He took it out, and when he read the result, a frown appeared on his lips.

"Am I dying?" you asked hoarsely, your eyelids drooping shut. Every part of you felt weak with exhaustion. The sinus pressure was a sucker punch whenever you moved your head.

"One hundred point seven degrees. Not good." Harry sighed and quickly left the bedroom on a mission to cure your symptoms. You laughed a little, which turned into a wheezy cough. The only real cure was rest and hydration, so you were curious what his magical remedy could consist of.

Distantly, you heard sounds in the kitchen. Cupboards shutting and utensils clinking. Was he making something? Your illness diminished any appetite for breakfast. Granted, it was five in the morning, not the typical time you ate.

The girls were still sleeping, and in the intimate shadows before dawn, when only you and Harry were awake, it felt like the old days. Back when you'd kiss him goodbye in his one-room apartment before he left for work earlier than any man had a right to do. Young, scraping by, and smitten with each other. He'd shown you what infatuation felt like. In those otherwise minor moments, you'd seen glimpses of the promising years ahead. A man who'd be devoted to healing your wounds during every tribulation life presented. A gentle presence, full of pure intentions, tender love, and perceptiveness. And all of it had translated beautifully into marriage and fatherhood.

You drifted off with sweet thoughts prancing around your mind. An hour later, Harry returned. The subtle scent of ginger and garlic lured you back into consciousness. By the foot of the bed, he held a bowl of soup, and you sniffled while sitting up. A dizzying rush of blood pulsed against your skull.

"I want you to eat this and drink an entire glass of water before sleeping," Harry ordered, rounding the bed to your side. He set the bowl on the nightstand, steam wispily wafting up toward the amber lamplight. You decided not to tell him you already indulged in a snooze.

"Copy that, Dr. Styles," you said. Soup for breakfast? Sure, why not?

He met your gaze, unhumored. "I'm serious. The ginger will hopefully soothe your throat. There's lemon juice in it for some vitamin C. Red lentils for a protein boost. Let me know if it isn't savory enough."

You smiled to yourself, knowing he thrived off refining his culinary creations until they were nothing short of excellence. "I'm sure it's perfect. Thank you."

"It might be too hot to eat yet," he said, fluffing the pillow beside you and pulling the comforter further up your legs. "Can I get you anything else? Where's your cold compress?"

"Why are you so worried?" you asked. "You've seen me sick dozens of times."

He placed his hands on his hips, maybe as a way to stop himself from fidgeting. "Doesn't mean I like it. In fact, I hate it."

"It could be worse." You shrugged, thinking of all the times you had held a puke bucket. If you had one thing to feel good about right now, it was that you didn't have food poisoning. Hallelujah.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, the curly ends sticking up among his natural bedhead. "I'm wondering if one of the girls passed it on to you."

"Probably," you murmured. "All kids are germ magnets." Your eldest was currently getting over a cold. No fever, thankfully, just the sniffles and a wet cough that made you wince every time you heard it.

"I should check on them," he said, seeming hesitant to leave you. He gestured to the nightstand. "By the time I get back, I want half that water gone and three spoonfuls of soup in your belly. Okay?"

"Wow, you're a no-nonsense doctor." You picked up the bowl of soup, its warmth spreading across your palms. It smelled deliciously herby. "Mmm, and a very talented chef. Have you ever thought about becoming one?"

Fondly, Harry shook his head with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're strangely vivacious for a woman bedridden with a fever."

"Maybe I just like it when you dote on me," you said candidly. It was often outwardly shown through his actions, like today when he cooked soup from scratch for you and kept track of your symptoms, but his subtle attentiveness was your favorite. As a husband, it was how he would lead you through a crowded room, his hand tightly grasping yours to ensure you never strayed far. How he would carve out time for conversations together, whether they were ones of reminiscence, ones revolving around the future, or ones of harmless banter. How he would touch you with purpose, making you feel safe, adored, and most of all, like the most important person in the world. In public and at home with no one watching. He had chosen you in this life, and you reaped the benefits of his devotion every day.

"Just fulfilling my marriage vows," Harry replied, grabbing the baby monitor and turning to leave. You smiled, set the soup back in its place, and sunk into the mattress, feeling the strong urge to sleep the day away. It would take too much energy to lift a spoon or glass to your mouth, so you disregarded Harry's sensible advice and closed your eyes against the rising sun.

——

Harry took slow steps down the hallway while typing a note on his phone that reminded him what time he had checked your temperature and the unfortunate result of 100.7 degrees. You'd been right about him witnessing you under the weather on many occasions before—from the flu to hangovers to stomach bugs to pregnancy nausea—but it still pained him to see you weak and lethargic. He was doing everything he could to nurse you back to health as soon as possible.

A sound coming from the baby monitor wedged under his armpit stopped him dead in his tracks. He heard a couple of coos, followed by the buildup to a piercing cry that made his heart drop. They weren't the usual cries that his six-month-old baby girl woke him up with. And considering it was still before six a.m., the time she commonly needed a feeding, something was amiss.

Rushing to her nursery, Harry's mind went to the worst-case scenario. Had she escaped her crib? Was there a chance she had hurt herself? It had been nerve-wracking enough transitioning her from sleeping in a bedside bassinet to her own room. Harry feared not being right next to her during the night, but the positive was that it allowed for a smoother bedtime routine—both girls in their separate rooms, away from noise and other distractions. His mantra to help him sleep at night was, They're safe, they're safe, they're safe.

When Harry reached her crib after turning on the ceiling light, he was relieved to see her still there, looking mostly the same as the last instance he checked on her a few hours ago. This time, though, her face was screwed up as she wailed at full volume. She was communicating a need he wasn't sure of yet, and while he prided himself immensely on being able to translate her cries and swoop in with a remedy within seconds, this one was foreign. It alarmed him.

"What's the matter, my love?" He picked her up, and instantly, the answer became clear. The damp spot on her sheets. Her skin warm and clammy to the touch. Her refusal to breastfeed at her usual schedule yesterday. "Oh, no."

He had hoped the infection wouldn't be contagious and spread to everyone in the family. But, like you'd said, kids attracted germs from just about anywhere and anything.

"Please don't tell me you have a fever," Harry whispered, cupping her head and pacing around the room helplessly. "I can't handle all of my girls being sick."

She continued crying, and Harry pinched his eyes shut as he mentally went through a list of how to reliably bring her fever down. The first step was to take her pajamas off—the precious fleece onesie with snowflakes that he'd bought for the winter season. He set her on the changing table and undid the snap fasteners until she was left in only her diaper. The fever was apparent in the way she was flushed from head to toe.

"Let's ask Mommy what to do," Harry murmured to himself. He didn't want to proceed with any remedies without your consent, so he placed his daughter back in his arms and walked out to the hallway. "We'll make it better, I promise."

Unsurprisingly, you were already halfway to where he was, no doubt having heard her crying lasting longer than normal. You looked dog-tired, but the motherly instinct you possessed always overpowered it. "What's going on?" you rasped.

"I think she might have what you have. She sweat through the sheets and is burning up."

Your expression transformed into guilt as you slumped against the wall. "Great."

Harry came closer, bending to meet your eyes. "Hey," he said softly, "don't blame yourself. It's hard to avoid."

"I know, but... I really tried to be careful." You sighed, stroking his daughter's back. "I washed my hands before I touched her. Bathed her twice a day."

"You did everything right, baby," he assured. "She has a tiny immune system that's still developing, so it doesn't take much to catch a bug."

When you didn't respond, he said, "Let me take care of her. You should be in bed resting. Did you do what I asked?"

"No, I fell asleep," you muttered with a rueful wince.

Harry couldn't bear to be disappointed when you looked so miserable. "It's okay." His baby girl released another cry, and he pivoted to the serious matter at hand. "I was going to take her temperature."

You sniffled and rubbed at your forehead, which was probably aching with pressure. "If her temperature is higher than one hundred, we need to call the doctor. For now, open a window and feed her a bottle. If that doesn't cool her down, let me know and we'll try giving her some Tylenol."

Harry nodded. A part of him knew all of this information by heart, but he always sought your advice in these urgent moments. As the old saying went—mother knows best.

He kissed your cheek while gently squeezing your wrist in gratitude, not caring if he got sick—it was inevitable at this point. "Water and soup, please. Then rest."

"I promise."

Heading to the kitchen with a fussy, feverish baby wriggling in his arms, Harry opened the patio door to let the crisp January breeze in. The first streaks of light were brightening the space little by little. He got to work by taking a bottle of breast milk out of the refrigerator. He took her outside on the porch, positioning her in the crook of his arm to feed. To his relief, she latched onto the nipple and began drinking. She recently learned how to hold the bottle by herself, so Harry used the opportunity to get the ear thermometer from the bathroom.

Back outside, he took her temperature on the wicker patio chair. After a few seconds, it gave him a reading of 99.3, which thankfully meant no doctor visit today. Harry could breathe a little easier as he slowly rocked her in his arms, observing her behavior. The milk seemed to help hydrate her and alleviate her distressed cries. Her skin was still warm, and he felt like natural remedies only worked to a certain degree. He planned to give her a dose of medicine before her next nap. It would cure what he couldn't.

Once the bottle was half empty, Harry stepped back inside and closed the door behind him. He was working up a sweat with all this running around the house, but he enjoyed tending to everyone's needs.

He returned to the bedroom. The sunrise's soft glow shed over your frame curled up under the comforter, and he could see that you were awake. Looking at the nightstand, he smiled when he noticed a good portion of your soup and water gone.

"I think she'll be all right," he said quietly, setting the empty baby bottle on the dresser and sitting beside you on the mattress. His daughter whined, but for now, her shrieks were no more. "Just a low-grade fever. We'll keep an eye on it."

You nodded and whispered, "Thank you for everything."

Harry didn't say anything in response. He didn't have to, because this was what a family did—take care of each other in sickness and in health. And he had vowed to do it for a lifetime.

——

#harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #dad!harry #dadrry #harry styles au #harry styles fanfic #harry styles #adore-laur #i wrote this while sick 🤧

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the-avengers-not-the-nazis · 1 year ago

Text

My wife, even better

Summary: Dean can’t stop talking about you, his wife.

Word count: 0.5k

A/n: Not really any use of Y/n, but it is pretty cheesy. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. ;)

༺═────────────═༻

“And she has theses eyes, wow.” Dean let out a sigh, his own eyes practically in the shape of hearts as he continued to talk to the bartender. “I mean, look, if you’ve ever seen them, then you could see all these different shades mixed into one. It’s awesome.”

The bartender just nodded her head, the damp rag moving quickly back and forth on the counter tip. “Mhm.” She hummed, not even listening to what the love struck man was even saying.

“Plus, the way she talks is so beautiful, if I were to listen to one sound the rest of my life it would be her voice.”

“Yep.”

The bartender then turned her back to the man, trying to focus on her work and not on the man that had been rambling on about you since he sat down. With nothing else to do Dean just let his eyes wander through the bar, catching his brother and you talking to a few people about the case that you were working on.

Dean played with his empty beer bottle, watching as the light reflected off the glass. His thoughts wandered over to you, not that they weren’t on you to begin with. But, he thought of how just days ago you were his simple girlfriend, how you and him used to tease and flirt with one another before you were officially together.

And now, now you were Deans forever. Til death do you part, in both sickness and in health. You were his wife, and he was your husband. The thought made a smile drift onto his face and warmth creep up the back of his neck.

“Hey,” You suddenly said from behind the man, dragging him out of his thoughts. “Sam and I have some intel on the case.”

Dean quickly turned back to the bartender in front of him, who had her hands busy with cleaning the glasses and counter for the night. “What did I tell you?” He asked her, dragging her away from her work. “The voice of an angel.”

The bartender gave a quick nod before getting back to work, not even sparring the two a second glance as she walked away. You hit Dean with the back of your hand, not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to let him know that he needed to focus.

“I told you to stop that.” You gently scolded, your ears slightly turning pink. “Nobody wants to listen to you talk like that.”

“But, I want to.”

“And that’s amazing, D.” You pulled his hand in yours, giving it a tight squeeze. “But, not everyone wants to hear about our marriage.”

“But, how could I not tell the world about you?”

You gave him a light peck on the cheek, pulling him off the bar stool and towards the exit. “Do you know how cheesy you sound?”

“Very, but I love you.” Dean quietly told you, leaning down to give you a kiss on the lips. “And I want the world know that, my beautiful wife.”

“And I love you, my gorgeous husband.”

#dean x y/n #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean x reader #dean winchester #sam x y/n #sam x you #sam winchester x reader #sam x reader #sam winchester #castiel x reader #castiel #crowley x reader #crowley #lucifer spn #lucifer supernatural #supernatural #spn fanfic #spn rewatch

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purinbunnii · 2 months ago

Text

“Good morning, Mrs. Gojo.”

⸻

The first morning as husband and wife began with a thud.

“Who the hell puts a laundry basket there?” Gojo’s groggy voice echoed through the hallway.

You groaned, not bothering to open your eyes. “You did, yesterday, when you said—and I quote—‘this is strategic placement, babe, trust me.’”

There was a pause. Then: “Okay, but past-me was clearly a moron. Newlywed immunity?”

You chuckled into your pillow, finally rolling onto your back to squint at the sunlight bleeding through the blinds. The bed still smelled like your body lotion and a faint whiff of Gojo’s cologne—woodsy and fresh, clinging to the sheets and your skin. You were already too soft for him.

He padded in barefoot, hair sticking out in five directions, one sock on. He looked like a sleep-deprived anime character—ironic, given the sheer perfection he usually walked around with.

Gojo squinted at you, then dramatically flopped onto the bed, burying his face in your stomach. “You smell too good. It’s offensive.”

You carded your fingers through his snow-white hair. “I showered last night. You should try it.”

“I was going to, but then someone seduced me with marriage vows and fuzzy pajamas.”

“Those pajamas have cats on them.”

“Exactly. Irresistible.” He lifted his head to grin at you. “Morning, Mrs. Gojo.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that—Mrs. Gojo. It sounded ridiculous. It sounded like magic.

You grinned back. “Morning, Mr. Gojo. What’s for breakfast?”

He gasped. “What, I have to cook? Isn’t there a honeymoon clause where you feed me grapes in bed for the first month?”

You sat up, poking his cheek. “If you want grapes, go to the store. Also, there’s no clause. I read the fine print.”

“Ugh. The betrayal. The treachery. The hunger!” He rolled over and reached blindly for his phone. “Fine. Pancakes it is. But only because I love you.”

“You can’t cook pancakes.”

“I’ll prove you wrong.”

“You almost set the toaster on fire last week.”

He stood dramatically, shirtless and undeterred. “That was a toaster’s fault. Today, we fight fate.”

You watched his retreating back, all lean muscle and chaos, and called after him, “Please don’t fight fate with the stove!”

He waved you off and yelled from the kitchen, “This is the sound of a domestic king rising!”

And twenty minutes later, there were slightly-burned pancakes on a plate, topped with strawberries he cut himself and arranged like a smiley face.

You sat cross-legged on the kitchen stool while he stood behind you, chin on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist.

“They’re ugly, but they taste okay,” he mumbled.

You giggled, mouth full of sweet syrup and warm batter. “Just like you.”

He groaned. “Ouch. I let you take my last name for this?”

“I earned it. I endured your wedding vows. You quoted Beyoncé.”

“That was romantic!”

“It was a karaoke version of ‘Crazy in Love.’”

“Exactly! A love anthem for the ages.”

You turned to face him, nose brushing his. His eyes softened, no teasing now—just quiet affection, filling the space between you like sunlight.

“You’re a disaster,” you whispered.

“And you married me.” He kissed you, syrup-sweet and lingering. “Guess you’re stuck now, huh?”

You melted into him, fingers curling into his shirt. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The house was quiet. Not in a lonely way, but in a “we live here now” kind of way.

Soft jazz played from your phone speaker, mixing with the sound of simmering pasta sauce and the occasional clink of cutlery. You stood at the stove, lazily stirring the pot, wearing one of Gojo’s t-shirts that hung off your shoulder and barely covered your thighs. He hadn’t stopped staring since you walked out of the bedroom in it.

“Hey.” His voice broke through the kitchen’s cozy hush. “You know how people say domestic life is boring?”

You glanced over your shoulder. Gojo was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, smirking in that effortlessly cocky way that made you want to kiss him and flick his forehead at the same time.

“Yeah?” you said.

“They’re wrong. You cooking in my clothes is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen me shirtless in mirrors a lot.”

You rolled your eyes and threw a wooden spoon at him. He caught it with one hand and kissed the handle. “Satoru,” you warned.

“What? I’m appreciating my wife.”

“My very tired wife. Who worked all day and is still cooking dinner because you tried to make garlic bread in the microwave.”

“I thought it would be faster!”

You laughed—soft and easy, the kind of laugh that only came out with him. He crossed the space between you, arms sliding around your waist from behind.

His lips brushed your temple. “Let’s just order takeout next time.”

You hummed, leaning back into him. “Only if you pick something that isn’t sushi again. You always forget the wasabi.”

He gasped. “The slander in this home!” Then he added, quietly, against your neck: “But I’ll remember next time.”

Dinner turned out edible. You ate on the couch, legs tangled, your plate resting on Gojo’s thigh while his head was tilted back, mouth open dramatically.

“Tell me this isn’t peak romance,” he said between bites.

You grinned. “You’ve got sauce on your chin.”

He turned to you, lips puckered. “Clean it for me?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and sweet. “There. Better?”

He looked dazed. “I forgot what we were talking about.”

Later, dishes done (by him, as penance), the two of you lay curled up in bed. The windows were cracked open, letting in the sound of cicadas and the smell of summer. His hand rested on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles.

“Hey.” His voice was barely a whisper now, breath warm against your ear. “I know we joke a lot, but…”

You turned toward him, curious. His expression had softened, his eyes shining even in the dark.

“This,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle down your cheek. “You and me, like this. It’s everything I never thought I deserved.”

Your throat tightened, heart stuttering with the weight of his words.

You kissed him gently—once, twice—then buried your face in his chest. “Well. Too bad. You’re stuck with me.”

He smiled against your hair. “Good. I was planning on staying the night forever anyway.”

And in the hush of your shared room, limbs tangled under soft blankets, you both knew: this was home.

————

The morning sun streamed through sheer curtains, painting gold across the floorboards and your bare feet. You blinked awake slowly, the kind of wake-up that only happens on Sundays—no alarm, no rush, no makeup, just the weight of a warm blanket and the man snoring softly beside you.

You turned your head.

Satoru Gojo was half-sprawled on his stomach, mouth open, hair defying gravity even in sleep. One of his long legs had somehow kicked all the covers to your side. His cheek was squished against the pillow, and he was absolutely drooling.

You grinned. “So majestic,” you whispered.

He cracked one eye open. “Mmm. I heard that, wife.”

You leaned down and kissed the tip of his nose. “How unfortunate.”

Gojo groaned and pulled you down beside him, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck. “Let’s never get out of bed. We live here now. Bed people.”

“Tempting, but someone promised me pancakes.”

He groaned louder. “Why do I open my mouth.”

“Because you like to flirt, exaggerate, and make promises you can’t keep,” you said sweetly. “Also, you said it twice. In writing.” You gestured to the napkin taped to your nightstand that read in his handwriting: “Sunday Pancakes, I swear on my six-pack. Love, Husband.”

Satoru looked betrayed. “That was a romantic gesture!”

“That was a contract,” you said, already slipping out from under the covers. “Come on, Chef Gojo. Let’s see what you got.”

—

Thirty minutes later, your kitchen smelled like heaven and chaos.

Gojo was wearing an apron with a cat on it that said ‘I knead you’. His hair was tied up in the worst man-bun you’d ever seen, and there was flour on his cheek.

You were seated on the counter, one leg swinging, sipping lukewarm coffee and watching him flip pancakes like his life depended on it.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, flipping another onto the stack. “You only married me for my mediocre cooking skills.”

You held up your hand and made a small gesture with your fingers. “Mmm. Fifty percent.”

“And the other fifty?”

You tilted your head. “The way you look in this apron. Obviously.”

He grinned and crossed the room, sliding between your legs and resting his hands on your thighs. “Well, I knead you too, kitten.”

You groaned. “Why are you like this?”

He leaned in, voice low and warm, “Because it makes you smile like that.”

You melted. It wasn’t fair—how easily he could unravel you with something soft and simple.

“I love you,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know.” His thumbs stroked lazy circles on your legs. “You married me, remember?”

The pancakes were a little overcooked. The coffee was a little cold. He forgot the syrup.

But you ate together anyway, toes touching under the table, his foot trailing up your ankle. He stole bites off your plate. You stole kisses between chews. The crossword lay unfinished beside your mugs, a few random guesses scribbled in Gojo’s handwriting.

And when he looked at you with that stupidly tender smile, all soft lashes and sleepy love, you realized:

This was the good part.

Not the wedding. Not the honeymoon.

This. Burnt pancakes, bed hair, newspaper smudges on your fingers, and him—your husband—dancing with you barefoot in the kitchen when your favorite song came on.

Just life. Sweet, stupid, perfect life.

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cottonlemonade · 3 months ago

Text

Marriage Of Convenience [Part 2]

word count: 1926 || avg. reading time: 11 mins.

pairing: post-time skip!Kuroo x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff, friends to lovers, slow burn, slice of life

warnings: spoilers

synopsis: Marriage is not a big deal, right? Anyone can do it and it comes with a whole lot of benefits! That’s why your friend proposes to you one morning with all the elegance and romance of an empty pudding cup.

[Part 1]

While it was Tetsuro’s turn to host lunch the following Saturday, you sat at his kitchen island on his laptop, pouring over yet another form.

“Who knew marriage came with this much bureaucracy?”, you huffed out.

This one was from JVA’s HR department who wasted no time wanting you two to update your name, emergency contacts, marital status, and home address.

He hummed in agreement as he diced an onion, trying his hardest not to breathe and just squint at the vegetable to avoid any sting in his eyes.

After successfully transferring it into the hot pan without a single tear, he turned to you, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. You were still filling in boxes here and there when he stepped behind you and studied your entries thus far.

“Why did you put your apartment as our home address?”

You swiveled your stool, challenging eyebrow raised.

“Because my place is better.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“Because you come over every morning for breakfast, that’s why.” You began listing, counting on your fingers for emphasis, “It has a balcony, a great kitchen, big friendly windows,”

“You make it sound like my home is a prison.”

“Mine is closer to work-“

“By like three minutes!”

“Our favorite bakery is right across the street and the rent is just about the same. There is no contest, really.”

“I have an extra room.”, he said simply, walking back to the stove and stirring the onions now with a wooden spoon. Your eyes followed him as you spun back around.

“Why would that be a good argument? I’m not planning on reproducing with you.”

“Okay, rude. And also, so you want to sleep with me in the same bed, is that it?”

Your fingers froze over the keyboard and your superior smile, formed by sure, premature victory, fell and a pout took its place.

“Man…”, you tapped the backspace repeatedly to clear the designated line, muttering, “I didn’t wanna move, it’s so much work.”

“That’s what you have such a big, strong husband for.”, he grinned and straightened up to showcase how broad his shoulders were, then kind of deflated back into his normal posture as he peeled potatoes, “And besides, we can do that during our honeymoon.”

You shrugged and nodded in defeat as you put down his address. Upon learning of your marriage, the company had swiftly provided three extra vacation days for this coming week as a gift to the newlyweds - this was no surprise to you as it had been one of the highlights in the marriage presentation.

With an overly loud groan, Tetsuro placed the last box on the floor by your bed, only to immediately collapse onto your mattress. It was still wrapped in heavy plastic to protect it during the move and crinkled when he sat up on his elbows.

“You know, I think now is a fantastic opportunity to revisit our plan for the office.”

You pulled a couple of books from a box, thinking if maybe it was time for a new sorting system of the shelf.

“Wifey? You there?”

“You really gotta stop with that.”

He smirked when you rolled your eyes, “But why, if it annoys you so much?”

You ignored him and pondered, weighing a book in your hand, “Okay. Office. Hmm… To be fair, what is there that we don’t do already? We go for lunch together most days, we talk, we joke, we go home. It’s not like Japan is known for its PDA.”

“True true. But instead of walking in as per usual, we could hold hands. I really can’t have people think I’m not affectionate with my-“, he paused upon your glare before ending with, “oh so lovely wife.”

“Okay. Hand-holding is permitted. - What do we say to friends?”

“You can tell them whatever you want.”

“Even Asana?”

She was your best friend in the entire world after all and even the one who introduced you to the recruiters at JVA a couple of years ago. Now she sat at the desk next to you in the office.

“Sure, as long as you swear her to secrecy.”

“I’ll even pinky swear if that makes you feel better.”

“Actually a lot better, thanks. - Ugh.”, he dropped back down with an exhausted sigh to fully starfish on the mattress for a moment, then sat back up, “Alright. Imma take a shower and then be a good hubby and get started on dinner. Just tell me, if you need any help.” He got up and walked towards the door, then stopped and flexed unnecessarily, “Especially with building stuff or changing light bulbs.”

“All good, I can manage.”, you replied without looking up.

Tetsuro tilted his head, “Over dinner, we’ll need to have a serious conversation about your aversion to this whole marriage role-play.”

You laughed and used the door in his back to push him out.

On Thursday then, the first day back at work, you tried your best to peek around the giant gift basket your coworkers had gotten you. To not look ungrateful by putting it below the desk on the ground, you had resigned yourself to push it as far to the table’s edge as possible, but it was simply so big that it was still somewhat in the way. At least now, it was only slightly limiting your ability to do your job. The huge flower bouquet that had accompanied the basket was no longer covering half your screen since Tetsuro, under many bows and thank yous, placed it in a pitcher with water on the window sill.

“Here.”, Asana said, rolling over a little cabinet that previously had stacks of important documents on top of it. Those documents were now precariously placed by an already wonky mountain of binders.

Together with her, you heaved the basket onto the cabinet where, although centered, it hung over on all sides.

“I’ll never get this back home on the train.”, you observed, while Asana leaned against the corner of your desk.

“Don’t you mean we, darling?” Tetsuro just came back from the break room and replaced your empty cup of coffee with a new, steaming cup of tea. You rolled your eyes and Asana laughed - you had filled her in the moment she came into the office that morning, pouting that she hadn’t been invited to the wedding. Safely hidden in the supply closet, you had explained to her in urgent whispers, how the whole situation came to be in the first place and detailed how just that morning you and him had stood in front of the office building, looking up at the many windows reflecting the early light. After a moment’s silence, Tetsuro then adjusted the bag that hung over his shoulder and held out his hand to you expectantly, and you had taken it with minimal hesitation. You had held his hand before a few times when you two maneuvered a crowd at a fair or in a shopping mall, but this was definitely not the same. And he wasn’t satisfied with just holding your hand, but instead slipped his fingers between yours. Apparently, he had read somewhere that couples in an equal, loving relationship held hands this way. You felt your palm getting sweaty, nervous about the impending charade. It was a perfectly valid, legal marriage, of course, but you knew that if anyone found out about the motive behind it, raised eyebrows would be the least of your worries. You told Asana how you thought everyone you passed was staring (they were not) and how people must be whispering about you to one another (they weren’t). In reality, no one even noticed until you reached your department, and that’s when the party poppers and cheers erupted.

Now, Tetsuro fished a stray piece of confetti from your hair and balanced it on his fingertip in front of your nose.

“Make a wish, darling.”

You cocked an annoyed brow, a gesture that had risen exponentially in use ever since you’d moved in together.

“That’s for eyelashes, you dork.”

“If my wife wants something, she shall not be limited by arbitrary things like eyelashes and shooting stars to wish on.”

You sighed and unceremoniously puffed the confetti off his finger.

“Go away.”

Under another snort of Asana, Tetsuro bowed and as he did, began walking away backwards.

“As you wish.”

“That’s who you married.”, Asana pitied with a chuckle.

Under your breath, you muttered, “Don’t remind me.”, sending both of you into another wave of silent laughter.

“Miss L/N. Oh! Apologies, Mrs Kuroo. - Ha, that will take some getting used to.” Your boss sauntered over, causing Asana to quickly detach herself from your desk and return to her own seat, pretending to be busy while listening in, “I was just talking to your husband.” He unnecessarily waved in Tetsuro’s direction a few meters away, and he waved back with a wide smile, “I suggested to him that to properly celebrate these wonderful news, we should all go out tonight for a drink. And he told me to ask his wife for permission.” You threw a quick glare past your boss to Tetsuro, who was still waving idiotically.

“Of course, sir. That… that sounds nice. Thank you very much.”

“Wonderful. I’ll make reservations right away. Don’t you worry about a thing!” And with that, he practically skipped away.

It took about two more weeks for the excitement around the newlyweds to die down. Gradually, people stopped emphasizing your new surname or ooh-ing whenever you two went to lunch together, now awkwardly holding hands. Day by day, normalcy returned to the JVA headquarters and even casual closeness to Tetsuro came much easier to you. The performance was mutually dropped as soon as you left the company parking lot, and you hardly missed your apartment anymore - only when Tetsuro loudly sang in the shower. One Friday evening, you shuffled home alone, having had to work overtime for a project you were in charge of. After reassuring him you had it under control, you sent Tetsuro off to his workout routine, promising to meet him at home with dinner ready. For once, he spared you an overly teasing comment about how domestic this was of you and instead left with a simple, “Thank you. See you later, darling.”

You couldn’t wait to be home and slip into something more comfortable than the tight pencil skirt you wore today, the waistband of which always pressed uncomfortably into your handfuls of tummy chub, especially after spending so many extra hours hunched over proposals and schedules. Letting the sweatpants snap into place, you let out a happy sigh and made your way to his - to your - kitchen to see if you could find something to snack on while cooking.

The string cheese was slowly getting hoovered into your mouth while you poured the marinade over Tetsuro’s beloved mackerel when keys jangled at the front door.

“Kitchen!”, you called before he had a chance to look for you. Shoes were kicked off in the entryway and a moment later Tetsuro rounded the corner, taking a seat at the island.

“I have good news and bad news.”, he said instead of a Hello.

“Oh no.”

“The good news is, I met Mr Maeda at the gym and can easily outlift him.”

You snorted, almost losing your cheese, and frowned. Your snack safely tucked in the corner of your mouth, you asked, “And the bad news?”

“He invited us to a double date with his wife.”

art: @freaka_loonyz on Instagram, X, Pinterest and TikTok

taglist: @etsuniiru @nocaffeineallowedtome @princessshart

a/n: Once again, thank you to @haikyu-mp4 for keeping me sane while working on this and for helping me edit.

[Part 3]

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