- SOFTIE -

After the two of you had, well, finished— rather, he finished— he was quickly out the door to wait backstage, satisfied with your help. You, on the other hand, were left to sit in that dressing room, listening to his show over the speaker system. You were stunned, like a bird that had just hit a window, left to think about what on earth had just happened, and, more importantly, why you liked it so much.

After roughly an hour of fixing your hair and incessantly checking your dull notifications, with breaks of sitting on the couch and coming to terms, you heard him begin his closing joke. It had been a good crowd. Reactive, but not interruptive. They hung on every word he had to say, and laughed in all the right places. You smiled when you noted that, if the night’s earlier happenings didn’t stroke his ego, this surely would.

You heard the hallway outside swell with some chatter, most likely a few technicians headed for the exit, and footsteps, and suddenly, when the door opened, you were right back to where you were an hour ago: a nervous, butterfly infested mess.

John had come back rather quickly, assuming you’d still be in the dressing room. You shot him a look. “Good crowd.” You note dryly, though a wry little grin infected your lips. He smiles at you, shutting the door casually behind him. “I thought you would’ve gone back to the hotel by now.” The brunet looks at you through the mirror, loosening his tie. To some, it was inconceivable to see him in anything but a put-together suit, but you knew well that he wore “real people clothes” more often than not.

You shrugged. “I think it would’ve been weird if I just.. left.” You chuckle wryly, leaning back into the couch. “Do you want me to leave?” You ask, chewing your bottom lip. John turned around, untying his tie, and leaned against the counter. “Why would I want you to leave?” He asks. It wasn’t rhetorical, it was a genuine question. Whether he was fucking with you or not was the mystery. Unsure of how to continue with your boss, you open your mouth and decide to just let your words pile up on each other. “Because I’m your assistant and I just gave you a pre-show blowjob, did we forget that?” His tie on the countertop, John folds his arms and hums. “No, I don’t think I forgot,” He chuckled, gesturing to you. “And you clearly didn’t.” You furrow your brow. “What do you mean ‘clearly’?” You prompt. You knew exactly what he meant, but it offended you, especially that condescending tone in his voice. Shifting his attention away from you, John took off his black suit jacket, leaving him in his dark button up as he tossed the jacket over the back of the chair that sat in front of the mirror.

“I mean that you definitely haven’t forgotten about it, because you would have left if you did.” Then, looking at you through the mirror, he gestured to your face. “You’re also blushing.” “I’m not blushing, I’m flustered.” John shrugs, rolling up his sleeves, revealing the veins that sprawled the backs of his hands, traveling up his forearm before disappearing. “Same thing.” You scoff, trying to act more upset than you really were. “Okay, well, now I’m going to leave.” Huffing, you shove your phone into your pocket and head to the door, but you stop when you don’t see him moving to halt you. It was a mistake. A display of weakness, because, now, he was looking over his shoulder at you, that crooked smile on his face. “What?” He asks, facing you, lazily crossing his arms again. You felt your cheeks burn. Aggravated beyond belief and yet intrigued past a point you’d care to mention, you roll your eyes, your sliding off the doorknob when you strode towards him. “I hate you.” You had said before reaching up and pulling him down into a crushing kiss.

He had unfolded when you’d closed the distance, his hands quick to find your hips and snake around to your lower back. He was smiling, just barely, you could feel it. He didn’t have a show in fifteen minutes this time, so you could run your fingers through his hair all you wanted. You heard the door lock click behind you, while you draped your arms up over John’s shoulders. He tastes faintly of smoke, and you love it.

It didn’t take much communication for you to hop up onto the counter behind you, aided with a hand under your thigh, as you wrapped your legs loosely around his waist. Amused by your eagerness, the brunet mutters underneath your jawline. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” He teases, kissing a smile out of you. It wasn’t a question. You bite your lip, a dazed grin on your face, tipping your head back to give him more room as you tugged his hair. “Clearly.”

He kissed you again, chastely, and sank back into the chair behind him, quickly joined by you straddling his lap after you’d slipped off your jeans. Now, his grip on your hips was far more difficult to ignore, snaking up your shirt to cup your breast through your bra. You were thanking yourself for wearing a matching set. “How long have you been wanting this?” John asks, shifting his kisses under your jaw as he pulled you down, slowly grinding into his lap.

You sigh, pulling his hair again and feeling him hum into your throat. “A while.” Was all you could give him— all you would give him, and it was enough to stroke his ego. “A while,” He parrots softly. “So, the whole time you’ve known me.” You smile, giving him a breathy laugh. “Sure, John, I—“ Your words were swallowed up in a heady gasp, as his hand slid between your bodies and wasted no time in targeting your clit. You instinctively curled your fingers into his hair and shoulder, holding onto him, and you could have sworn that the cocky bastard laughed. “C’mon,” he mumbled against your throat between kisses. “Keep going.”

The brunet urges into your skin, his fingers pushing your panties aside where he needed to and continuing to exploit that sweet spot. At some point, he’d rolled up his sleeves, leaving his forearms bare. You grabbed for words, and they fell flat against your tongue, leaving you speechless for an embarrassing amount of time. Finally, you hum a quiet “mm-hm,” giving up a bit of your territory and allowing him to win in that moment. You had thought about it, ever since you’d met him. Unable to help yourself, you bucked into his fingers, and he was more than happy to comply to your silent begging.

The sound of his pants coming undone made you stir, grinding down impatiently into his thigh. He didn’t bother to take your panties off, but used his free hand to pull your shirt over your head and toss it with the rest of your clothes. He took your mouth again. When he pulled you further up into his lap, you felt his cock rub up against your wet core, and the friction could have driven you up a wall. “Please,” you blurt, your words riding on your breath. “God, please, fuck me.”

The brunet didn’t speak, responding instead by biting the side of your throat and pulling you to sink down onto him. He hummed, an involuntary sound, while you were left gasping. “Fuck—“ “Be quiet,” John cuts you off, sucking the skin he’d just bitten into his mouth. His tone wasn’t mean, it was patronizing.

You started the pace, using your wiggle room between his lap and his hands on your waist to roll your hips, listening to him huff, head buried under your chin. Clearly, it didn’t satisfy him for long, as he started to control how you moved. He unbuttoned his shirt just one more button, shifting to control the pace with his own hips and pushing airy noises out of you with each thrust, and littering your skin with bites and marks. Before you could register what was happening, you were a mess; clinging to him, unable to quiet yourself and tugging hard on his hair. When you did, he groaned, unintentionally— you’d pulled it out of him. His name fell out of your mouth, and when you felt his hips stutter at the sound of it, it kept coming, and, in a matter of a few short moments, so were you.

You were breathless, only able to whine out his name once more before the pulses of your orgasm washed over you. He hadn’t expected you to tighten up like that, and you felt how his body reacted when he realized that he wasn’t going to last much longer. “Oh, fuck—” his words are lost in a sharp, guttural sound, before he sank his teeth into the crook of your shoulder and opted for finishing on your stomach.

For a minute or so after the fact, the pair of you simply sat, sinking into that chair and buried into each other, catching your breath as quietly as possible. Watching his chest rise and fall beneath the dark, undone button-down he was wearing was enough to ground you again. Enough to realize that he was staring at you.