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[trash-important]

cod men with fussy wives

cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT

synopsis. price, simon and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before

john price

john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.

he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"

he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."

your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"

his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.

"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."

you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"

he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."

your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."

you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.

he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."

his health's never been better.

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "

you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.

slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.

no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."

"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.

he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."

he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.

he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.

" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.

you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."

you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.

"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.

"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "

you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."

johnny "soap" mactavish

johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.

you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."

"...whatever tha' means."

you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."

he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"

"johnny!"

you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."

"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.

"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.

you kiss his forehead. "only a little."

he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."

"johnny."

"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"

"are you?"

"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."

you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."

johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.

you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.

but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...

"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"

he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."

you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.

weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"

you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.

he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.

you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."

you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.

you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.

that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."

you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.

"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."

while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."

your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."

"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"

you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.

his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.

he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.

his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."

you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.

he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.

he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."

simon "ghost" riley

simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.

"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"

he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.

you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?

you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.

your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.

you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.

he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.

he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.

he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.

"love. this shit's greasy."

"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."

"don't wan' hydrating."

you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.

simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.

you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.

simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.

"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."

you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."

you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.

" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.

"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.

"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on any empty stomach is the best idea."

normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.

"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.

you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.

he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."

you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.

"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"

you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."

he winces. actually winces.

"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."

"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.

he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.

he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"

he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.

"apologizin' to m'wife."

he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.

he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.

he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"

he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."

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Soap is sitting in the lounge, chatting with the guys abt something stupid, when u walk up. You dont say hi or even acknowledge the raised brow price gives you, instead gripping soaps face so hes forced to look at you.

"Open." His mouth falls open without thought, eyes already foggy. Pathetic. You spit into his mouth, watch him hold it there bc you didnt tell him to move "hm. Good boy. Swallow." He does, barely holding a whimper and not at all able to hide his sudden boner.

You hear gazs baffled "what the fuck, mate?!" As you leave, mentally wondering what percentage of the betting pool ghost will give you for that.

[trash-important]

blue and magenta!

[trash-important]

“a test of endurance - part one”

contains: smut, gn!dom!reader x sub!johnny x sub!ghost, orgasm delay/denial, anal (plug in johnny), hand job, simon remembers fucking johnny

this work is part of a small “kinktober” thing - i sadly don’t have the time to write a lot, so instead of posting something for each day in october, i decided to try to post something on each sunday in october and something on halloween!! here’s the second part

word count: ~1200

The first time you really tease both men is on a rainy Sunday evening. Both are sprawled across your sofa, wearing loose clothing, a picture of pure comfort - Simon is resting in Johnny's lap, skull mask still on.

You enter the room, smiling. ���Are my boys ready to be taught a lesson?” you ask, voice saccharine.

Johnny just hums, whilst Simon - ever the obedient one - immediately sits up straight, eager at the thought of being touched, to get the special attention that only you can dish out.

“I’m ready, love,” as always, Simon is the first to speak, his brown eyes glistening with adoration, like a dog that’s eager to get pet.

“‘m ready,” Johnny says next. His answer is shorter, less respectful - as usual.

+🎃+

Just twenty minutes later, you had one nude trembling man in your lap, and another wearing just his boxers, sitting before you on the carpet.

Simon, ever the obedient one, is holding onto your shoulders as you coo at him and stroke his cockhead. The featherlight touches are coaxing his sensitive dick to release a steady stream of precum, which you eagerly spread all over his cock. Still, it’s not nearly enough for the poor thing.

At a particularly mean touch - you’ve carefully pressed your pinkie finger against his slit, wiggling around a little, knowing exactly that the sensation reminds him of being sounded - Simon catches himself lifting his hips up in an attempt to meet your touch.

Immediately, he tries his best to counteract the movement, fingers boring into your shoulders as he forces his hips back down. “I’m s-so sorry, master…” he whines, nuzzling against your shoulder.

You kiss his neck. “It’s alright, baby. Can you grab the remote for me?”

Simon hiccups and nods, leaning over and handing the remote to you. You smirk as you take it, and then let go of his dick. He whines, but swallows down any complaints.

Noting his discomfort, you place one hand on his lower back and nip at his neck. “You can touch yourself. But, no cumming.” As soon as the words are out, Simon babbles out a string of ‘thank yous!’ and whines, lazily humping into his fist.

With your other hand, you menacingly hold up the remote, and the man kneeling on the carpet swallows as he sees it. His gorgeous blue eyes are wide open, disbelief and a hint of fear mixing with the anticipation.

With a tilt of your head and a mean smirk, you turn the vibrating plug nestled against his prostate off. Johnny wastes no time when it comes to protesting as his cock bobs, awkwardly spilling his creamy precum over his cock.

“Hah– you– sadistic fockin’ whore–” Johnny starts hurling curses at you, eyes narrowing as he sweats some more, skin glistening in the dim light of the living room.

He struggles to sit straight, catching his breath as a heartwarming, pitiful sob escapes his open mouth, a bit of drool joining the puddle of pre on the floor.

“Aww, were you close, love?” you mock, laughing as you toss the remote on the armchair, thus openly revealing that you've got no intention to activate the plug again. Johnny doesn't know if that's a bad thing or not.

You reach forward again, causing Simon to make a startled noise as the fabric of your shirt accidentally moves against his throbbing cock, marking it with his precum.

Paying Simon's whines no attention, you grab the bottle of lube, holding it in your dominant hand. The man in your lap bites his lip, holding out hope that maybe you'll coat your fingers in the lube and work him open, cruelly teasing his prostate until he struggles to speak.

But you don't. Instead, you click your tongue, thus immediately making Johnny pay attention to you.

“Come ‘ere, boy.” you instruct, and just for a second, Johnny considers getting up, and not crawling towards you on all fours like he's been trained to do. But he swallows his brattiness - God knows he's shown enough of that already - and obediently comes close to your outstretched hand.

“Grab the lube. You're going to take your plug out, pet,” you gently pat Johnny’s head, “and you better not cum during.”

Johnny whines at your command and peels his boxers off, the stained fabric clinging to his skin where he dirtied it with his pre.

He takes the bottle with a shaking hand and immediately goes to work.

Simon starts to tremble in your lap, cock twitching in interest at every strangled gasp that Johnny lets out, every wet squelch as he works the plug out of himself.

Simon doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but the prolonged teasing has made him a little delusional - perhaps you’re ordering Johnny to take the plug out so that there’ll be room for his cock? Maybe, just maybe, you’re going to allow Simon to fuck him?

He tries to banish the memory of the last time you made Simon fuck Johnny - how you had one steady hand between his shoulderblades, instructing Simon on just what he’s allowed to do.

“That’s it, baby, you can go faster, go on, Simon, work him open…” your voice echoes in his head.

‘Fuck fuck fuck,’ he thinks, as he notices himself getting closer to the edge. Still, he can’t help his mind from replaying your words, “You better not cum if you know what’s good for you. I swear, Simon, if you finish, I’ll make sure you can’t properly sit for the next three weeks-“

With a panicked whelp, Simon pinches the base of his cock, staving off his orgasm at the last second. It hurts, to edge himself like that, but disappointing you would be worse.

You, ever observant, have paid close attention to Simon’s struggle, and immediately hug him and kiss his neck. “That’s my boy. Good job!”

He keens at the praise, happy to have made you proud. Still, he’s close to the edge, and has to pinch himself again at Johnny’s slutty moan as the man finally works the plug out.

You clap your hands. “You boys did so good!”

Wait. Johnny blinks up at you. Usually, you only say this sort of thing when you’re done with the scene. But the scene can’t be done yet, can it? Simon and him haven’t cum yet, and-

The sadistic gleam in your eyes confirms both boys’ fear.

Simon whimpers and sighs, head hanging low, his shoulders slumped as he wordlessly accepts your silent instruction.

Johnny wants to fight, to argue, but he knows it’s useless. Besides, he knows that he and Simon asked for this, get off on being denied, and if it truly gets unbearable, there’s always the safeword.

Johnny sets the lube down on the table and blinks again. “Master, may we shower? Cold shower, maybe?”

You nod. “Yes, you may.”

Thank you for reading!! here’s part two ! ❤️

masterlist is here

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HURRY HURRY I NEED 100 CCs OF SIMON AND HIS PLUS SIZE WIFE STAT!!

💉On my way with it

To start I think big scary Simon has the biggest sweet tooth. To the point where price was worried bc he only ever saw him eat sugar. So the two of you are on a hunt to find the best dessert/pastry in your city. It’s your Sunday morning tradition to go try a new treat

Bringing home cute new throw pillows for your couch and telling him “Si feel how squishy these pillows are” his hands move right past them to grab your thighs “mmm perfect”

He sends you videos of him at the gym captioned “you” where he is making eye contact with the camera while lifting your weight over and over (Johnny is hyping him up in the background)

Please fall asleep on this man. He needs to hear your lil snores and see your cheeks pressed to his chest

Also I think he is emotionally stunted when it comes to any “stereotypical woman” feeling and is so genuinely confused if you have a bad body image day bc??? “But you look so good why are you sad” and his legit confusion and absolute befuddlement def helps you feel better bc you know what he’s right

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Uh more please?

what if…smoke has a submissive side? modern au! edition

warnings: 18+ (MDNI)

smoke was in heaven.

you were on top of him, riding him like the goddess you were. brown skin brushing against brown skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, breasts bouncing against his chest with dark swollen nipples that were a victim to his persistent mouth. the scent of your vanilla perfume mixing with your natural pheromones and your body heat was the cherry on top to heighten his senses of euphoria. 

he wasn’t the type to let you take the reigns often, not because of preference (you loved being taken care of during your deeds) but he just never…asked. never considered it. but him being so stressed out with the new club him and stack bought? you being oh so sweet and patient, rubbing his shoulders and kissing his temples delicately, he could not say no to your glossy pouted lips asking to take care of him.

but now he was mad. mad that he missed out on the warm, gummy walls of your tight pussy clinging onto his cock like a vice while you bounced to your own rhythm in his lap, coaxing every moan and groan out of his kiss swollen lips, gently holding your waist. if he knew how natural it was for you to take control, he would let you have your way with him in any way you wanted, sore dick be damned.

“feelin’ better ?” you murmured sweetly, teasing laced in your tone  as you slowed your movements, hips rolling against his pelvis, drawing out the pleasure. 

all smoke muster out was a chuckle that turned into a partial grunt when you purposely clenched around his length. “hell yeah…goddamn that pussy grippin’ me like she don’t want me to go nowhere..” he groaned, his hands gripping your ass with a firm squeeze making you mewl. 

“i just wanna make you feel good…” you purred against his lips then capturing them, picking up the pace you set before. the sweet muffled sound of his moans, the curve of his dick kissing your g spot and the occasional spanks he cracked onto your ass was pure motivation. 

you broke away from the kiss, peppering kisses along his jaw. “am I makin’ you feel good, ‘lijah?” you cooed into his ear, licking the tip of his lobe before gently biting down on it coaxing a delicious whimper out of him that almost made you cum on the spot. “f-fuck baby..yeah you doin’ so good.”

“that’s my good boy.”

those four words made him come undone, shooting his warm load inside you and burying his face in between your breasts as he sung his praises to you. 

sinners taglist: @cafeluvs @cremeful

if you'd like to be a part of my taglist, sign up here to be the first to see my newest drops! 🫧 (I updated my taglist for the smokestack twins, if you'd like to be tagged in my smokestack drabbles/one shots/series and you are already on my taglist just let me know by commenting or messaging me🙂‍↕️🎀)

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Men who talk about wanting a “Morticia Addams” fail to realize what even made Morticia love Gomez in the first place. Gomez is catastrophically in love with Morticia and is extremely devoted to her. He genuinely worships Morticia like a goddess. She is his entire religion. Morticia did not choose Gomez for his cool indifference.

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A quick part three to my reader and her dog riley post :] reader scolds riley😔

(part 4 here ig)

You start bringing riley to the base more often. The boys love seeing him when they drop off papers for you, and it eases some anxiety to be able to see riley safe and happy while you correct forms and whatnot.

At some point or another a dog bed appeared in the room, like a really nice dog bed. Better than the one you have for him at home and five times more expensive. You tried asking soap about it, but he just shrugged, and said something about another dog on base. So...useless.

Either way, riley has been comfortably hanging around your little office, gladly accepting pets (and treats that you pretend not to see) from the guys. So when ghost and soap walk in, youre not shocked at all that soap hardly says hi before kneeling down to riley.

You see whats going to happen before it does.

Soap sets down a half-drank water bottle so he can properly bury his mits in rileys fur, and you stand up to warn soap but its too late. Your beloved dog, light of your life, lunges for the plastic like a man on a mission. You know from personal experience that thing will be shredded, water all over the floor, with an upset riley because he hurt his mouth on plastic.

"Riley! Drop it!" You command, voice stern.

The bottle drops to the floor with a muffled thud, followed by a much louder slap as the small pile of papers ghost was holding also drop to the ground.

You hardly notice, jumping around your desk and prying your dogs mouth open. God, you love him but hes so clueless sometimes! You need to make sure he didnt cut himself on the plastic.

"Bad dog!" You scold, voice stern but not angry "you know better, riley!"

You dont see the red flush creeping over ghosts face, visible even with the mask. You dont see him silently exit the room, and you certainly dont see the boner hes sporting.

Soap does. The scot merely grins to himself, happy that his plan worked, though it would've been better if you actually noticed ghosts reaction. Oh well, guess soap will just have to try harder next time....

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WOULDNT EVEN BE MAD! THAT MAN CAN STAY!

imagine your ex-boyfriend being so annoying, spamming your phone, and randomly showing up at your apartment, begging you to give him yet another chance.

at first, you felt pity for the guy.

even thought of letting him in a couple of times.

you didn't, but the guilt that gnawed at your throat nearly became too much to bare.

your hand drifted eerily close to the handle as you heard his pleas through your door.

the only thing that made you come back to reality was the pounding of a broom stick on the floor beneath, shouting for the man to shut the fuck up.

that was some days ago, but now, instead of feeling pity or guilt, you’re starting to feel just plain creeped out.

scared he might act on impulse and break into your apartment in the depths of the night.

you're sleeping has taken a plummet, even with a knife by your bed, nothing seems to coax you into relaxation.

that is, until you have the brilliant idea to go next door to your tall, scary, military neighbor, who goes by simon.

you don't know his last name; hell you barely knew his first.

the only reason you knew it was because you heard some girl he brought home moan it through your thin connecting walls.

you felt guilty as you pulled out your small vibrator, goading your sweet release as you heard him groan and curse with every harsh thrust.

even the guilt that swirled in your stomach couldn’t take away the guttural effects he was having on your body, even from so far away.

you ducked your head, avoiding his gaze from then on, until one day, while having trouble unlocking your apartment door, he trudged to your door after examining you for a moment, gently scooting you away and fixing it right before your eyes.

you claimed he was a magician.

he chuckled, deep and gruff, before his name fell off his tongue in greeting, making your thighs clench together.

you hurriedly introduced yourself, before rushing into your apartment, shutting the door behind you, and sinking onto the ground with a deep sigh and hot skin.

pathetic, really.

but, he didn't mind.

he thought you were cute—odd but cute—and you brought him cookies the next day as a thank you, so how could he think ill of you?

so if anyone could help you, it was simon.

“hey, neighbor,” you greet him when he opens the door. he is wearing a simple black long sleeve shirt and dark cargo pants.

he nods towards you. “hello.”

you smile brightly at him, somewhat forgetting your dilemma.

he tilts his head to the side, quipping a brow. “any particular reason you’re here?” he asks, voice rough as always.

you rock on your heels, fidgeting with your fingers. “i need your help.”

he leans against the doorframe. “go on.”

“i’m sure you’ve heard that guy that comes around,” you start, watching his squinted eyes.

“who hasn’t? that bastard is always here,” he says gruffly.

“he’s my ex,” you admit, cringing.

simon stiffens, eyes opening wider slightly.

“he’s, uh… become an issue. he won’t leave me alone, and i’m scared he’s going to break into my apartment while i’m sleeping,” you say, shaking your head, the tension in your voice evident.

“he’s not going to do that,” he shrugs.

your eyes widen at his dismissal, feeling slightly hurt. “how do you know?”

he turns to grab a backpack off a hook beside him. “because i’ll be there. won’t let him through the door,” he casually mutters as he steps out of his apartment, closing it behind him.

you feel a flutter in your stomach at his taking on the role of your protector so quickly—no enticement necessary.

“i really appreciate it, simon.” your voice is full of gratitude.

“don’t mention it, sweetheart,” he shakes his head, heading towards your door. “key?” he asks, reaching for your painted key hanging around your neck.

you hurriedly lean forward, mind completely fogging at the endearment.

his lip quips as he tugs the key up and over your head to unlock the door.

once he unlocks the door, he pushes the door wide open, stepping aside for you to go in first.

“and they say chivalry is dead,” you can’t help but joke as you slip in, a teasing glint in your eye.

he matches your humorous smile with one of his own. “do they? hadn’t heard that,” he murmurs, closing the door as he steps in.

you spin your head away from his gaze, opting to stare at a lonesome flower pot with a dumb grin on your face.

the next two hours are spent lazing until you find yourself on the cushion right next to simon on the couch as he occasionally glanced at the door, while you picked and prodded at reality show stars on the television screen.

But you and simon both stiffen when you hear the familiar hard knock on the front door, followed by a strained male voice pleading.

you look at simon who's already stalking over to the door; you uncross your legs and walk behind him.

with annoyance, simon pulls open the door, and you see your ex’s face whiten and his body sag at the sight. “can we help you?” simon gruffs, cocking a brow at his pathetic demeanor.

your ex stammers, stumbling over his words as he looks between you and simon. “who the fuck are you?” your ex demands, though not daring to try and overpower simon because simon easily has fifty pounds and eight inches over him.

simon crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging bigger as he does so. “you should lose this address,” he urges, voice so gruff and commanding it sends shivers down your spine. “i don’t take too kindly to guys stalking my girlfriend,” he says with an ease that makes you lick your drying lips.

“girlfriend?” your ex chokes out, unable to comprehend what he is hearing.

“that’s what i said, isn’t it?” simon almost sounds disinterested.

your ex’s eyes wander to you. “you're dating this guy?” he almost sounds hurt.

you shift under his gaze, feeling awkward.

“don't talk to her. talk to me,” simon interjected, feeling your unease.

“you can’t—you aren’t dating,” your ex begins, narrowing his eyes. “you’re just doing this to make me jealous, aren’t you?” there is venom behind his words that pisses simon off.

simon’s lips flatline, and just as you go to speak, simon turns his head, hand coming to cup your jaw to kiss you deeply, possessively.

your ex releases a short breath as the sight.

simon’s tongue moves across to skim your teeth, making you whine into his mouth, as his fingers tangle in your hair for deeper contact.

you shallow a whimper of protest as simon pulls back, enjoying the sight of your ex so shell shocked.

simon tilts his head forward, looking into his eyes intently. “this is my girl, and if i find out you’ve been botherin’ her, i’ll make you a dead man. you hear me?” his voice is so lethal it makes you squirm, but in a completely different way than your ex.

your ex’s eyes look like saucers as he nods his head fervently.

“good choice. now leave,” simon instructs.

without another word, your ex spins on his heels, looking like a hurt lamb as he leaves the complex.

simon lets out a dry laugh as he shuts the door behind him.

“thank you,” you murmur.

he gives you a brief smile, gesturing for you to sit back on the couch. you both go back to lazing around now, watching some cooking show you put on.

later that night, he insisted on setting up shop in your living room for tonight… or just the next two!

it’s really not a big deal.

he just wouldn’t be able to continue on if something happened to his cute neighbor!

that’s all.

and you’re so sweet and still shaken up by the interaction, you let him stay the night.

…and the next one.

…and the one after that.

you’re starting to think he never really counted on staying just one night.

you don’t say anything, but after the second week passes and simon is still around, you find yourself reeling as you start to see his socks and shirts tucked nicely in your drawers.

his coffee mug now kisses yours in the cabinet, and some magnets of the countries he’s visited cling to the fridge.

there isn’t a crevice in your apartment that simon hasn’t explored, or left a piece of himself in.

you should have known better than to invite simon into the same place he had fantasized about for the past six months.

the very place where he listened to your sweet moans, so loud, so tempting.

every. single. night.

he kicked his friends out of his place every time he heard your vibrator start up, so that they couldn’t listen to your breathy whines and so he could sneak away to his room, where your thin walls meet, to tug away at his cock imagining it was you stroking him until he came all over his hand and sheets.

such a sweet girl, you are.

letting a dog into your home to roam free, unaware of the way he watched you with a slobbering tongue and a primal hunger.

oh, sweetheart, you never stood a chance.

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!LT simon! x !reader!

Simon Riley, the strong lieutenant, having a soft spot for you? Ha! Never. But deep down, in the quietest part of his heart, he couldn't fake it anymore. Maybe—just maybe—he did have a slight soft spot for you… but who said you had to know that?

You didn’t.

Then one day, as you were casually walking past his quarters, not paying much attention, you bumped right into him—into his broad, solid chest. You looked up quickly to see who it was.

Oh shit.

You just bumped into Lieutenant Riley.

Panic rushed through your chest. You were afraid of getting chewed out or written up, so you stammered quickly, “S-Sorry, Lieutenant…” Your voice was small, shy, barely above a whisper.

Simon looked down at your smaller frame and muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, “It’s fine. Just be careful next time.”

And then he walked past you.

You stood there for a good minute, frozen, brain still trying to catch up with what had just happened. You were so confused… but he was so fine that you immediately forgot about the awkwardness.

You shook your head and made your way to the mess hall, eventually plopping down onto a cold metal bench. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it would do.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lieutenant Simon Riley sit down right next to you.

Your brows furrowed. Why was he sitting with you? This was the second encounter today… and in the mess hall of all places? That never happened. Simon never mingled like this. This was weird.

Was he doing this on purpose? Or was it all just a coincidence? Maybe it was an accident? You didn’t know what to make of it. So finally, curiosity got the best of you, and you turned to him.

“Mr. Riley… are you purposefully coming up to me?”

He glanced at you, cool and unreadable, and replied with a short but steady tone: “No. Just a coincidence.”

And he knew damn well that was a lie. He wanted to see you. Every single day. He didn’t even know why he felt so possessive over you—but he did. He wanted you. He needed to claim you.

Meanwhile, you were just sitting there confused as hell, unsure what to make of any of this. You ignored it, stood up, and walked out of the mess hall. There wasn’t much to do there anyway. You made your way toward your quarters, only to hear the overhead speaker blare:

"READER. SIMON. COME TO MY OFFICE."

You sighed and turned on your heel, heading toward Price’s office.

When you got there, Simon was already standing inside. You stepped in and quietly shut the door behind you. The room was heavy with silence. Price motioned for both of you to sit across from him, and you did—nervous, waiting for whatever this was.

Then Price spoke, voice sharp, straight to the point: “So. We’ve got too many recruits on base. We’re doubling up rooms. You two are the first pair. Hope you understand.”

The silence that followed was thick.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Simon beat you to it.

“Yes, sir. Which quarter is it?”

“Room 653,” Price replied simply.

Without another word, Simon stood up and began walking toward the assigned room. You stood too, following closely behind. His steps were purposeful, loud. Dominant.

When you got there, Simon opened the door.

The room was small—standard issue. A bunk bed in the corner, one nightstand, a rug on the floor, and plain-painted walls. No decorations. Nothing personal.

This wasn’t a princess castle. This was the military.

You both took a moment to look around, then you spoke, “I’m taking the bottom bunk.”

Simon let out a soft chuckle. “All good.”

You each began unpacking your things. You silently hoped Simon wasn’t the messy type—you hated mess. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to settle in, and the room stayed neat.

You sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “It’s actually kinda comfy…”

Simon looked over and replied, “Is it now? Well, that’s good.”

The air was a little awkward at first, but eventually, it softened. You talked until about 8 PM, and by then, it was time to get some rest. You both settled into bed.

But by 1 or 2 AM, you were still wide awake.

Frustrated, you quietly climbed up the bunk ladder and reached Simon, gently shaking him. No response. You shook him a little harder.

He groaned, eyes blinking sleepily as he rubbed his temples and sat up.

“I… I can’t sleep,” you whispered shyly.

He sighed. “Well, just use the military method. You already know it.”

“I tried, Simon. It won’t work. I tried multiple times!”

He sighed again, more deeply this time, and turned his back toward you.

You frowned. “Simon—! I wanna sleep just as much as you do. Please…”

Something about the way you said please made something shift in him.

Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, spooning you gently but firmly. “This means nothing… it’s just friendship,” he muttered.

But he knew damn well that was a lie.

It meant a lot more than friendship for him.

pt 2 when🤨? i loved this sm you guys DO NOT know

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Kicking my feet and giggling rn babe. You always provide!

𝐏𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐬

Pairing-ModernAU-Smoke&Stack x Bookworm reader

Request-SmokeStack twins with book worm reader. I would love to see the contrast between her and them like they bring her to make plays, hanging with the gang and she’s just reading not hearing a peep.

A/N- hope you like it pumpkin

You weren’t supposed to be in their world.

Not the backroom meetings. Not the corner politics. Not the smell of rubber soles scuffing concrete and burner phones buzzing with coded tension.

You were supposed to be at home—curled up in bed with a candle lit, sipping tea, annotating chapters like they held the answers to life.

But somehow, you ended up in the thick of it. Caught between the two wildest men the South Side had to offer.

Smoke—the quiet one. Sharp jaw, darker eyes, slick with that slow Southern drawl and a stare that made grown men stutter. The mind behind the movement. If Stack was fire, Smoke was the shadow moving through the smoke after it burned.

Stack—his louder twin. Flashier. Mouth slick. The kind of man who laughed during shootouts and flirted between shootouts. Gold in his mouth, heat in his waistband, and a habit of turning anything boring into a party.

And then there was you.

Wearing soft sweaters in rooms full of cracked leather and gun oil. Sitting cross-legged on trap couches with your paperback open while stacks of cash were being flipped behind you.

You didn’t blink when the doors slammed.

Didn’t flinch when the guns clicked.

Didn’t even pause your reading when someone got to yelling about re-ups and bad product.

“Bruh,” Stack said one night, watching you over the rim of his solo cup, “she really sittin’ here reading Jane Austen like we not plannin’ a lick.”

“Pride and Prejudice,” you corrected, not looking up.

Smoke smirked from across the table, where he was cleaning his pistol. “She just like her peace.”

Stack snorted. “She with us. Ain’t no peace in this.”

“She got peace ’cause she with us,” Smoke said calmly, sliding the magazine back into place. “Ain’t nobody gon’ touch her, ain’t nobody gon’ speak crazy, and ain’t shit gon’ interrupt that chapter.”

He nodded toward you, and Stack followed his gaze—watching the way your lips moved while you read, your lashes low, your body relaxed like you were a thousand miles away from the war room you sat in.

⸻

You weren’t dumb.

You knew who they were. What they did. What they were capable of.

You just chose not to be scared. Chose not to ask questions. Chose to be something else in their lives.

Because everybody wanted a piece of them. The streets, the girls, the gang, the game. But no one ever gave anything back.

You gave them quiet.

Unbothered, unshaken quiet. The kind they didn’t even know they craved until it was already sitting cross-legged beside them, correcting their grammar and dog-earing chapters they didn’t understand.

⸻

They started bringing you everywhere.

To the drop spots. The dice games. Even late-night stakeouts, where Stack played loud music in the front seat while Smoke sat silent, watching. And you? Tucked in the back, reading by the glow of the glovebox light.

“Yo, baby,” Stack said one night, eyes on the side mirror, “you hear what this nigga just said?”

“Nope,” you said, turning a page.

“Damn,” Stack grinned. “She in deep.”

Smoke cracked the window and said under his breath, “Good. Let her stay there. World’s too loud anyway.”

⸻

It wasn’t until someone tried to test the setup that things went left.

One of Stack’s ex-flings showed up at a party—loud, made-up, and mad.

She clocked you instantly. Sitting on a barstool, knees pulled up, reading in a crowd full of gang members and Instagram models.

“That’s who y’all with now?” she sneered, looking you up and down. “Girl look like she belong in a library, not a trap.”

Stack laughed. Laughed.

“Damn right,” he said. “And we the library cards. She checkin’ both of us out.”

The girl scoffed. “She don’t even talk.”

Smoke stepped up behind you, sliding a protective hand to your lower back.

“She don’t need to,” he said, voice low. “She listen. She think. She know more from a book than you ever did runnin’ your mouth.”

Then he looked to you. “You good?”

You closed your book, finally raising your eyes. Calm. Unbothered.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “She’s just mad I read more than receipts.”

Stack damn near choked laughing.

Smoke smiled slow.

And the girl? She disappeared before the next song started.

⸻

That night, the twins brought you home.

You laid between them—your book tucked on the nightstand, their arms thrown over you like guards at the gate.

Stack kissed your shoulder, mumbling, “Don’t ever leave us for some nerdy professor.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Smoke pulled you closer. “’Cause real peace only show up once.”

And you were it.

The calm after the shootout. The silence after the plan.

The only thing they never had to fight for—

Because somehow, they knew they’d lose you if they ever made it loud.

And you? You didn’t need much.

Just a quiet corner, a good book…

And two men who loved you enough to let you read through the war.

[trash-important]

Sinners x Hamilton, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?! This is tooooo good. Shout out to the creator fr 😮‍💨

[trash-important]

[trash-important]

You eat every time istg!

𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞

Pairing-ModernAU- Elijah*Smoke*Moore x Black reader

Summary-After months of silence and distance, Elijah “Smoke” Moore returns home to face the wife he’s been drifting from. With their marriage hanging by a thread, they must decide if love is enough to rebuild what pride nearly destroyed.

A/N-This is only supposed to be for the first part of the song

Even Stack could see that—and he never liked to get in his brother’s business when it came to women, but the way Smoke had been pulling up to the trap, quiet, jaw locked, eyes colder. That said, enough.

They sat in the back of the shop late that night, after everyone else had cleared out. Smoke’s blunt burned low between his fingers, eyes fixed on the concrete floor like the answers might be hiding in the cracks.

Stack leaned back in the chair across from him, sipping a Sprite, watching his older brother fall apart in slow motion.

“You good, E?” he asked finally. Nobody ever called Smoke by his first name—only Stack did when shit got serious.

Smoke blew out a breath, smoke curling around his gold grill. “I been seeing the signs, bro. All of ‘em.”

Stack raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like her not lookin’ at me the same. Like the way the house feel colder even when the heat on. Like I pull in the driveway and sit in the car ‘cause I don’t even know if I’m welcome in my own crib.”

Stack didn’t say anything right away. He let Smoke talk.

“Took a trip last weekend,” Smoke went on. “Just rode out to the lake. No phone, no straps, just me. Thought I needed air. Thought I needed space.”

“Did it help?”

Smoke looked at him, eyes low, heavy. “Nah. Came back feelin’ even more lost. And she still so fine, man… but it’s like I can’t reach her. Like I’m stuck on the outside of my own life.”

Stack tapped the rim of his cup. “Y’all talk?”

Smoke shook his head. “We tried. turned into a screaming match with her leaving, slamming the door. It's like when the baby came, she got more annoyed with me”, Smoke mumbled, sitting back 

“Damn.”

“Man, I don't think we’ll even make it.” Smoke said, almost to himself. “I don’t know if we can fix it. And if we are, it's not gonna be the same

Stack exhaled. “Far like… It’s already over?”

“Far like… I’m still actin’ like I don’t love her just to protect myself. Far like she cryin’ in the next room and I still don’t go in. Far like she sleepin’ next to me and I ain’t touched her in months.”

He paused. “Far like… I’m here—but I ain’t there.”

Stack leaned forward, serious now. “You want this to work?”

Smoke hesitated for the first time. His throat tightened. “Yeah… but I don’t know how to be no more. Ain’t no blueprint for this. I know how to ride for my niggas. How to get to the bag. But this? Lovin’ somebody when they tired of tryin’? When you tired too?”

Stack nodded. “That ain’t in the streets. That’s heart work.”

Smoke sat back, looking defeated. “With me bein’ wherever I’m at—trappin’, movin’ around—and her bein’ wherever she at mentally? Bro, we takin’ this a little too far. I’m scared we gon’ break something we can’t fix.”

Stack tapped his brother’s chest, right over his heart. “Then go home. Don’t just pull up and sit outside. Go home. Talk to her. Don’t let her feel like she’s fightin’ for y’all alone.”

Smoke looked at the time. It was late. But maybe not too late.

He put the blunt out, grabbed his keys.

“Good lookin’, bro.”

Stack nodded. “You know what to do. Don’t let your pride be louder than your love.”

⸻

That night, Smoke sat in the car outside the house again.

But this time, he turned the engine off, stepped out, and went inside.

Maybe their marriage was too broken to be fixed.

But he’d be damned if he let her walk away without trying to pull them both back.

The house was quiet.

Not peaceful. Just quiet. The kind that comes after too many arguments and not enough apologies. The kind that settles in like dust and grief—subtle, but heavy.

You sat at the dining table in one of his old hoodies, hands wrapped around a mug of tea gone cold. The baby was finally asleep, the monitor blinking faintly on the counter. But sleep wouldn’t come for you. Not when your chest was still tight with things unsaid, and your eyes were still fixed on the front door, waiting for a man you weren’t even sure would come back.

Then—you heard his key.

The door opened slow, almost hesitant, like even he wasn’t sure if he should be there. He stepped in, wearing that same black hoodie, face shadowed, shoulders heavy. He looked around the room like he was stepping into someone else’s life.

Until his eyes landed on you.

“I ain’t come here to argue,” he said quietly.

“Then don’t,” you said back, flat but tired.

He stood there a moment, like he didn’t know what to say next. Then he came further inside, resting his hands on the back of a chair like he needed something to hold him up.

“You were right,” he started. “I been gone. Not just physically. Emotionally too.”

You stayed quiet. He’d said this before. Once. Maybe twice.

But tonight, he sounded different. Raw. Like the words were hurting coming out.

“I thought if I kept the lights on, paid the bills, kept the streets in check—that meant I was takin’ care of y’all. But it ain’t enough, is it?”

“No,” you said simply. “It’s not.”

He nodded. Took that hit on the chin. “I’ve been scared,” he admitted. “Of losin’ you. Of bein’ a bad father. Of showin’ up and not bein’ enough, so I just… stopped showin’ up.”

Your voice cracked. “Do you even understand how lonely it feels to have someone right next to you but still feel abandoned?”

“I do now,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I went out to the lake last weekend. No phone, no music. Just me. Tried to clear my head. And all I could think about was you. The baby. This house. The family we built… and how far away I’ve let it all get.”

You looked at him—tired, but not angry. Not anymore.

Just sad.

“I’ve been doing this by myself, Elijah,” you said, using his name like a weight. “I love you, but love don’t raise a child. Love don’t heal silence. You check in with your crew more than you check in with me.”

He flinched at that. Because it was true.

“I didn’t know how to handle this. How to be what you needed after the baby. How to say I was struggling too,” he said, finally sitting down across from you. “I felt like I was losin’ you and I didn’t have the tools to fight for us.”

“So why are you here now?” you asked, voice small.

“Because I’m done runnin’,” he said. “I’m done lettin’ pride ruin what we still got left.”

You looked at him. Past the chain around his neck, past the tattoos and the stress in his jaw, past all the nights he came home too late or not at all.

He looked like the man you fell in love with.

Worn out. But honest.

“I’m not askin’ you to forget all the shit I messed up. I just want a chance to fix what I still can.”

You swallowed hard. “And what if we can’t go back to the way things were?”

“We don’t have to,” he said. “I’ll take you how you are now. If you’ll take me—mess and all.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then, slowly, you reached across the table.

And he took your hand in his, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You didn’t forgive him all at once.

But you let him in.

And tonight, that was enough.

His fingers were rough against yours—warm, trembling slightly, like he didn’t know if you’d pull away. You didn’t. You just held his hand, staring at the lines in his palm like they might tell you if it was safe to believe him again.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he said, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “But I’m askin’ anyway.”

You blinked back the heat behind your eyes. “You don’t need to ask to be a father. You already are one. But to be my partner again? That’s gonna take more than words, Elijah.”

“I know,” he nodded. “That’s why I’m stayin’.”

He said it like a promise.

You studied him. His shoulders weren’t as square as they used to be. He looked tired—like the streets had been chewing him up and spitting him out. But beneath all that wear and weight… was the man who used to kiss your belly before bed. The man who held your hand through contractions. The man who held you when the baby wouldn’t stop crying, and you felt like a failure.

You remembered all of it.

The good hadn’t vanished. It had just been buried under the bad.

You let out a slow breath. “You say you’re stayin’… but that don’t just mean bein’ in the house.”

“I know,” he said again. “It means showin’ up. Every day. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m tired. Even when I feel like runnin’.”

He paused. “It means you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

Your throat tightened. You’d been carrying so much by yourself—bottles, diapers, fears, postpartum anxiety nobody warned you about. Nights spent rocking the baby while crying silently so you wouldn’t wake him. And all the while, Smoke was out, lost in a world that didn’t love him back like you did.

“Where’ve you been sleeping?” you asked softly.

Smoke shrugged, eyes dropping. “Couch at Stack’s. Car sometimes.”

You nodded, looking down at your intertwined hands.

“I didn’t change overnight, Eijahl. I just stopped waiting on the version of you who never came back.”

“I’m here now,” he said. “I don’t wanna be a ghost in your life. Or our daughter’s. I want her to see what real love look like. Even if we gotta rebuild it from the ground up.”

You looked at him for a long time, searching for a lie.

But there wasn’t one.

Just your husband. Raw. Worn out. Honest. Finally showing up.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” you whispered.

A beat passed. No joy, no celebration. Just quiet grace.

And for Smoke? That was more than enough.

He stood slowly and leaned down to kiss your forehead—light, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it, but needed it anyway.

You closed your eyes for the first time in weeks without flinching.

And maybe, just maybe, the hard part was over.

The healing would take time.

But it could start tonight.

With the door unlocked.

And him finally walking through it.

[trash-important]

btw if you’re fat and your partner doesn’t love you wholeheartedly, if they’re attracted to you “despite” your body, if they avoid touching you, if they look away from certain parts of you, you’re allowed to break up with that person. look at me. you can do better. you are not unloveable and you don’t have to settle i fucking promise.

[trash-important]

Stop I love this!

Lessons in Chivalry. (MBJ)

Summary: Michael has to train you to let him spoil you. No doors, no checks, no 50/50.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: romantic hand pops

the first of many ideas on my list!! been working on this all last week - it's been so fun to read everyone's feedback on the upcoming fics i have planned. thank y'all for your support! don't forget to send me asks if you have a request or fic idea.

He’s the gentle kind of sweet that made you roll your eyes, even though your stomach flipped like it was your first date all over again. The first time he did that thing, you didn’t think much of it. You reached for the handle of the restaurant door, and his hand appeared out of nowhere, gently smacking yours away like it had personally offended him. “Hey,” he murmured, one brow raised, lips twitching with amusement. “What I tell you about doors?”

You blinked, surprised, your hand suspended midair. “That I’m capable of opening them?”

Michael let out a soft laugh, stepped around you, and pulled the door open wide. “You are. But that’s not the point.”

“The point is…?”

He leaned down as you passed through, his breath warm against your skin, carrying the faint scent of mint and cedar from the cologne you loved. The heat of his chest hovered just inches from your back, and the rasp of his voice climbed up your spine. Your skin prickled, breath catching before you could stop it, the intimacy of the moment stealing your thoughts for a beat. “That if I’m with you, you don’t lift a finger. Not for doors. Not for checks. Not for anything.”

You scoffed. “Chivalry is alive and dramatic, I see.”

“Damn right,” he said proudly. “Get used to it.”

But you didn’t. Not immediately.

Because about a week later, at a boutique checkout counter, your card was already halfway to the reader before you realized he was watching you like you’d just betrayed everything he stood for. He didn’t even speak, just slid his hand over yours, plucked the card from your fingers like it was something fragile, and handed his own over with infuriating calm.

When the receipt printed, he passed your card back like a teacher returning a test. “You trying to get in trouble?” he asked, voice low and playful, head tilted like he already knew the answer. His fingers lingered on yours just a second longer, eyes scanning your face like he was daring you to try it again. “Because you know what happens when you don’t listen.”

“You weren’t even—”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eyes met yours, soft but firm. “Don’t reach first. Ever.”

It became a little game after that. You’d try to sneak your hand past his, get there first, test the boundaries. And every time, he’d catch you. He was very committed to the bit.

By the time you were walking into a hotel downtown, he caught your wrist mid-air before your fingers could even graze the glass of the hotel’s front door. “What did I say?”

“Michael, I was just—”

He stepped in close, mock-serious now. “What did I say?”

You tried not to smile and failed. “That I don’t open doors or pay for anything when you’re around.”

“And am I around?”

You pouted a little, but nodded.

“Then relax.” He kissed your temple. “Be the beautiful, spoiled woman I insist you are.”

“I’m gonna forget how to function.”

“Nah,” he said as he pushed the door open. “You’re just gonna remember what it feels like to be treated how you deserve.”

So you did. For two days. Maybe three. Then, as always, your instincts kicked in. A door handle. A brunch bill. A quick swipe of your card before you thought he could stop you.

But of course, he always beat you to it.

Before, it was gentle. A soft tap. A warm palm curling around your wrist. A low, “Nah, I got it, babe,” as he handled the moment with ease. He kissed your cheek after, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t actively retraining the way you understood care.

Then came the test. It was a Saturday morning. You were downtown, still wrapped in his hoodie, half-awake but smiling as you reached for the boutique door. He was a few steps behind. Before you could touch the handle, his hand landed on yours. Not hard, just firm. A definitive pop! that made you whip around. “Michael.”

His eyes widened with fake innocence. “What?”

“You popped me.”

“You reached for the door.”

“I thought I had rights.”

“You do,” he replied, stepping ahead of you, holding the door open with a slight bow. “You’ve got the right to be cherished, pampered, and treated like royalty when I’m around.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Inside, you browsed, danced a little when your song came on. And when it came time to pay, you reached for your card … just to see what he’d do.

He was across the store, deep in conversation with the stylist. But he saw you move. His head turned fast. Five quick steps, and he was there, hand slipping around yours, gently guiding it down. “Don’t.” His voice was calm. Certain.

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” He brushed his thumb over your knuckles, then kissed them. “If I’m here, you don’t do anything. Got that yet?”

And the thing is, it wasn’t about money. It wasn’t about doors. It was about what it meant. The quiet, steady promise stitched into every small act.

That same night, it happened again at the hotel. You were laughing, caught in the rhythm of his jokes, when your hand reached for the gold handle of the revolving door. He caught your wrist. “Aye.”

You turned, surprised. “What?”

“What did I say?”

Your breath caught, immediately knowing the answer to the question but choosing to remain silent like a scolded toddler.

“Am I around?” He asked after a brief moment.

“Clearly.”

“Then act like it.” He opened the door, his hand resting at the small of your back as you stepped inside. And once you were through, he leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m not doing this because you need me to. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve to move through this world like somebody’s got you. Like you can finally exhale. Let me be that.”

You noticed everything after that.

The way he carried your work bags without asking. Checked you into hotels and trips without needing a word. Watched you like you were wild and delicate all at once; worthy of care, not control. Reverence, not rescue.

“No doors. No checks. No questions,” he murmured, kissing your temple as the elevator doors closed. “You’re mine. Let me act like it.”

It didn’t stop at dates. Or hotels. Or dinners where you weren’t allowed to even glance at the check. When Michael said, You don’t lift a finger when I’m with you, he meant it. Especially when you traveled.

From the second the trip began, you weren’t your own responsibility anymore. You were his. Not in a controlling way, but in that careful, deliberate, I got you so completely it’s second nature kind of way.

The trip, for him, started at home, when he told you to sit down and sip your coffee while he brought your suitcase downstairs. You offered to help once, halfheartedly, because you already knew the look he’d give you, and sure enough, he paused mid-stairwell with a sharp eyebrow and a smirk. “You tryna get popped again?”

You held up your palms in surrender, laughing. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“I don’t need help. I need you to relax. Matter fact,” he set the bags down, crossed to you, and kissed your forehead. “that’s your only job for the next four days.”

At the curb, it continued. He opened the Uber door before you could reach for it, helped you in with a hand on your lower back, then rounded the car to load both of your suitcases into the trunk by himself. You tried again, leaning out to ask if he needed anything, but he didn’t even look up. “Get comfortable,” he said. “Turn your heated seat on. I’m almost done.”

By the time you got to the airport, you’d already been relieved of your travel documents. He held your passport, boarding pass, and ID in his back pocket, patting it every so often just to reassure you.

“I can carry something, you know,” you teased.

He looked at you like you’d cursed in public. “You do not carry,” he said, hoisting your carry-on with one hand and taking yours with the other. “You glide.”

At TSA, he had it down to a science. He pulled the bins before you even spotted the stack, laid out your coat, shoes, and electronics with quiet efficiency. As you stepped up, he tilted his head and held out his hand. “Bracelet, too, baby. You know they gon’ make you take it off.”

You slid it into his palm, biting a smile and rolling your eyes, and watched him place it gently into your bin like it was fine china. When it was time to walk through the scanner, he waited on the other side, arms open for you to walk into as soon as you cleared it.

“Easy,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just like that.”

At the gate, he had your favorite snacks ready, somehow remembered from a trip the two of you took three months ago. He’d already scanned the seating chart to make sure you had the window like you liked, and when boarding started, he carried your bag and his, scanned both passes, and guided you down the jet bridge with that steady hand on the small of your back.

You barely touched a thing. And when you tried to joke about it, a little overwhelmed by how seamless he made it all feel, he just shrugged and looked at you like the answer was obvious.

“You do so much, baby. Every day. For everybody.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping just for you. “So if I can give you a couple hours where you don’t gotta think, where you don’t gotta lift, or plan, or worry about a single thing. Just let me take care of it. Let me show you what it feels like to be taken care of right.”

The rest was gradual. There were little shifts, little gestures that you didn’t think much of until one day you realized: you hadn’t driven yourself anywhere in weeks.

It started with him grabbing the keys before you did. At first, it was just casual: “Nah, I got it, come on.” But it became a pattern. 

Before you could blink, Michael was always behind the wheel, adjusting the seats, curating a playlist you didn’t even know he’d noticed you loved. Making sure the A/C hits your legs just right. He’d swing open the passenger door with a smooth, practiced grace and tap the roof before helping you in like you were stepping into a chauffeured town car instead of your own vehicle.

“You good?” he’d ask, one hand still lingering on your thigh before he circled around to drive.

You’d nod, half-melted, every time.

Because who would want to drive when the man next to you makes you feel like royalty on a cross-country tour just to go to brunch?

And it didn’t stop there.

You’d be in the middle of your day when a casual text would come through: Taking your car to get detailed. Left the Range for you in case you NEED it. I’ll be back in an hour.

Or, Oil change done. Full tank. Tires checked. You’re welcome. :)

And the most you could do was send back a heart emoji or a voice note calling him annoying, because any attempt at gratitude would get deflected with an “Aight, relax. That’s what I’m here for.”

But the gas station? Oh, the gas station is where the line got drawn in thick, permanent ink.

Because one afternoon, he pulled into the Shell station after a long day, parked, and hopped out while you unbuckled your seatbelt.

Just as your fingers wrapped around the door handle, you heard it.

“Don’t.”

You froze. “What?”

Michael whipped around the pump with a look so disbelieving, you’d think you just tried to fight him. “You thought you were about to get outta this car and pump gas. With me right here.”

“I was just trying to help—”

“No, see,” he said, pointing, “this is why I have to retrain you. Every time you do something like this, it’s like you forget I exist.”

“It’s gas, Michael.”

“It’s my job,” he corrected. “Sit there and be cute. Matter fact…” He leaned into the window. “Try it again, and I’ll block your card from working at gas stations. Don’t play with me.”

You laughed. He didn’t. Not until he got back in, slid a hand over your thigh, and kissed your cheek. “Now change the playlist. I’m feeling something old school.”

Not when he took your car before you could even notice it needed to be touched. Not when he reached for your keys with a look that said don’t make me embarrass both of us. And definitely not when he stopped you from pulling open the car door with that same firm, gentle hand on yours and a single question, low and amused: “You tryna get popped, baby?”

No. No you were not.

You were the passenger princess. And he made sure you wore that crown daily.

And it was always funny… until it wasn’t. You’d mentioned it casually the first time, over cocktails with your girls, legs tucked up on the patio seat as the sun started dipping behind the skyline. “I swear he’s training me, y’all,” you muttered, laughing into your glass.

Tati nearly snorted her mojito. “Training you to do what, exactly? Sit pretty and let him open doors?”

“Pretty much,” you shrugged.

“Oh, come on,” Kris groaned. “Ain’t no man out here walking around with a syllabus and a PowerPoint for how to love you.”

Nas grinned, skeptical. “So what? You don’t open your own doors now?”

“I can’t,” you said, deadpan. “I tried at the hotel last week and he smacked my hand like I touched something hot.”

Lex was already cracking up. “Oh my God.”

“He takes my keys. Pumps my gas. Carries all the bags. I haven’t paid for anything myself in months.”

They thought it was cute. A little fantasy. A joke with real rich-boy flavor. Until they realized you were serious. And what got them to make the connection: your phone lit up with his name and the ringtone he picked out himself.

You answered with a soft, “Hey baby,” already knowing what was coming.

“You still at the rooftop spot on Grace?” Michael asked, voice smooth as ever.

“Mmhmm.”

“You on the side with the valet entrance or the front?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Front.”

“Aight. Be there in five. Don’t move.”

“Kay.” You hung up and turned back to find four pairs of suspicious eyes locked on you like they’d just witnessed a twist ending in a thriller.

“He’s picking you up?” Kris asked slowly.

“He just calls like that?” Nas added, mouth open.

You nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. “We share our locations. I don’t even try to beat him to the pickup spot anymore. It’s a waste of energy.”

Lex pointed at your drink. “You’re not paying for that either, are you?”

You just slid the heavy black card across the table like a mic drop. The one with your name under his. The one that buzzed your phones every time you used it because he insisted on keeping the notifications on. Just in case.

“You’re joking,” Tati breathed, lifting it with reverence like it might dissolve if she stared too long. “He let you on his account?”

“Didn’t ask,” you said with a laugh. “He just handed it to me one morning and said, ‘Use this. Stop touching your own money. I mean it.’”

“Okay, but like… why?” Nas blinked.

“Because it’s easier,” you admitted, sighing dramatically. “Do you know how exhausting it is to hear a whole damn lecture because I paid for a $12 salad with my own debit card?”

Kris gasped, already laughing. “No he doesn’t—”

“Oh, he absolutely does,” you cut in. “I was just going to lunch with my coworkers last week. I thought it didn’t count. He called me mid-chew to ask why he didn’t get a notification.”

Tati was wheezing now. “He knows when you use your own money?”

“He doesn’t track my spending but I swear it’s like he can feel it,” you said, dead serious. “I have receipts. He acts like I’ve personally disrespected him and his ancestors.”

Lex wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “Okay, I'll take it back. This man has a training regimen. You’re not being dramatic.”

“I told you,” you grinned, sliding the card back into your purse. “I’m not allowed to lift a finger. If I try? It’s a whole thing. A ride-home lecture thing.”

Sure enough, five minutes later, a blacked-out SUV pulled to the curb, and there he was: leaned against the hood, phone in one hand, other hand already lifting in a beckoning wave like let’s go, baby.

He opened the door before you even said goodbye, hand outstretched for yours.

And as you walked away, you heard Kris whisper behind you, “…Nah, he really is training her.”

You waited until the car doors were shut and the engine hummed beneath you, the soft R&B playing low in the background. His hand had already found your thigh, like it always did, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles just above your knee as he pulled away from the curb.

You watched him for a minute. How relaxed he was. The way his jaw shifted when he checked the mirrors. The tiny crease between his brows as he merged into traffic with one hand.

Then you turned to him, lips curled into a smirk. “You know the girls think it’s hilarious that you’re ‘training me.’”

Michael didn’t even look over at first. He just let out a quiet, knowing sound, deep in his chest. “Do they now?”

“They’re like, ‘Is he building a custom housewife? Teaching you not to open doors or touch money?’” You laughed softly, head falling back against the seat. “I think Kris said you must have printed out a whole syllabus.”

That made him chuckle. Finally, he glanced your way, a smug little tilt at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t need a syllabus. You were already perfect. Just needed a little… refinement.”

You gave him a look, lips parted like you couldn’t believe him. “Refinement?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with learning how to be treated right. You’re too used to doing everything yourself. I’m just reminding you that you don’t have to.”

“I know that,” you muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

He gave your thigh a squeeze. “Do you, though? Or do you still feel guilty when you don’t split a bill or carry your own shit?”

You were quiet for a beat. “…A little.”

“Exactly.” He shook his head with a tsk. “You've been holding it down so long you think that’s normal. But not with me. Not ever with me. If I’m here, I’m handling it. All of it.”

You glanced over at him again, your chest pulling tight in that stupid, swoony way he had mastered. “Still,” you said, biting back a grin, “the girls think it’s giving 1950s husband with a modern credit limit.”

Michael laughed out loud at that. Deep, warm, proud. “Good,” he said. “Tell Jamal and them I said they should take notes. I got mine trained and spoiled.”

You shoved his arm playfully, cheeks burning. “I am not trained—”

“Really?” he said, buzzing into the front gate of your home, pulling slowly into the driveway. “Whose card did you use at lunch?”

You groaned.

“Exactly.” He cut the engine and looked over at you fully now, expression softening. “You don’t have to prove nothin’ to me. Not your independence. Not your strength. I already know who you are.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple. “So let me show you who I am. Again. And again. Until you stop fighting it.”

“…So you’re just gonna keep lecturing me every time I use my own money?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, dead serious. “I will nag you to death, baby. You will pray for peace and find none.”

You laughed, fully exasperated and fully, hopelessly in love. “Ugh. Fine.” 

“Good girl,” he whispered, slipping out to open your door. He circled around the car with that confident stride, opened it smoothly, and held out his hand like he always did: palm up, fingers slightly curled. You took it, stepping out as his other hand slid to your waist, steadying you. His eyes didn’t leave yours for a second, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in just enough to make your breath catch. “You know I got you, right?” he murmured.

You nodded, heart thudding, and he closed the door behind you, hand never straying far from the small of your back as you walked inside together.

Because yeah… he was training you.

But you had to admit: you kinda liked it.

-

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