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blank-potato · 15 days ago

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You Deserve It

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary:

Your landlord starts to turn away, then pauses, glancing over his shoulder with a look somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Oh, and one more thing,” he says, pointing a finger half-heartedly between the two of you. “Try to keep the noise down. Every time you two go at it, it’s like the whole building shakes.” Clark makes a strangled noise that might’ve been a cough. His face turns crimson. You blink, mouth falling open for a second before your brain catches up. Your landlord shrugs. “Just saying. I’ve had complaints from apartment 4D and 5B. They thought there was an earthquake.” Or Clark has a tough day so you decide to make him feel better. You both just hope your neighbours don't kill you with how loud the two of you tend to get.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, oral sex (male receiving), p in v sex, cuddlefuck, creampie, established relationship, Clark being cute and bringing you pie

WC: 4.5k

A/N: When I tell you I dove at my laptop as soon as I got home from the cinema to start writing about him. Hope you enjoy!

***

Clark was exhausted. He's finally on his way to your place after a busy day. He had saved a derailed train, stopped a bus from plunging off a bridge, and spent half his afternoon fighting a mechanical octopus that some genius decided to let loose in downtown Metropolis. All his deadlines for Perry were miraculously met. He needed to relax. And as always, his favourite pick-me-up was you, and your beautiful smile.

Even though he was tired, he'd gone out of his way, stopping by that little bakery in France you said you liked, just to bring back a pie for the two of you to share. It was only a quick flight, after all. And you? You were more than worth it.

Climbing the stairs to your apartment, box in hand, he was just about to knock when he felt eyes on him.

He turns and finds a man standing on the landing nearby, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His gaze sweeps up and down Clark like he’s scanning for faults.

“Can I help you, sir?” Clark asks.

“So this is the Clark, huh?”

Clark blinked. “You… know me?”

The man smirked. “You’re famous around here.”

The thought that you might’ve gushed about him, even just a little, made his stomach flip with happiness.

“She’s talked about me?” he asked cautiously.

The man let out a sharp laugh. “If you call her screaming your name for five hours last Tuesday talking about you, then yeah. She talked plenty.”

Clark has faced alien warlords, collapsing buildings, and a multitude of near-death scenarios. But he had never turned such a vivid shade of red in his life.

He cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting the bakery box in his hands, trying desperately not to combust on the spot.

“…Good to know,” he muttered.

Hearing voices outside, you furrow your brow and make your way to the door. You open it slowly, only to find your landlord standing there… and Clark, awkwardly frozen beside him, holding a very fancy pie box and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

“I was just coming to let you know there’s going to be some work done,” your landlord says. “The electricity guys are coming tomorrow around noon. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

You nod politely, though there’s… something in the air. A weird tension you can’t quite place. Your landlord starts to turn away, then pauses, glancing over his shoulder with a look somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, pointing a finger half-heartedly between the two of you. “Try to keep the noise down. Every time you two go at it, it’s like the whole building shakes.”

Clark makes a strangled noise that might’ve been a cough. His face turns crimson. You blink, mouth falling open for a second before your brain catches up.

Your landlord shrugs. “Just saying. I’ve had complaints from apartment 4D and 5B. They thought there was an earthquake.”

He walks off whistling, and you just want to hide in a hole. Maybe that’s why your neighbours were giving you the evil eye.

Clark clears his throat, eyes fixed firmly on the pie box in his hands. “I, uh… I brought pie.”

You stare at him, then burst out laughing. “You better come in, Earthquake.”

Clark steps inside, cheeks still flushed, pulling off his shoes and setting them neatly by the door. He watches your back as you walk into the kitchen, the soft hem of the oversized shirt brushing your thighs.

“Is that my shirt?” he asks with a lopsided smile, eyes narrowing playfully. It looks familiar, something he must’ve left behind weeks ago after a late-night visit, and clearly, you’d commandeered it.

“You don’t mind, do you?” you ask over your shoulder, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingers.

That’s the last thing he minds. It’s simple, it’s soft, and yet somehow it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. You, in his shirt, in his space, like you belonged there all along.

“You look…” he trails off, stepping closer, his voice rough from everything he’s held back today. “...like something I want to come home to every night.”

You blink, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. Your smirk falters into something softer. “Well,” you say, turning to face him, “I guess you’ll just have to keep leaving shirts here then.”

He closes the distance between you in two strides, one hand settling gently on your hip, fingertips brushing the hem of the shirt. “I’ll leave a drawer if it means I get to see this again.”

You giggle before your eyes land on the dessert box, the familiar design making you gasp. "Did you get that from France?" you ask, your eyes widening.

“Having Superman as a boyfriend has some perks.”

Your fingers trace the edge of the pastry box, still in awe. “You crossed an ocean for a pie.”

“I’d cross a galaxy if it meant seeing that look on your face,” he says, almost shyly.

Your heart clenches because you know he’s serious, you can tell.

“You didn't have to fly all the way out there for me. Thank you, Clark.”

You wrap your arms around him, warm and unhurried, and pull him in for a kiss. It’s sweet, just like the man in front of you. His free arm, the one not cradling the bakery box, slides instinctively around your waist, pulling you closer with a low, contented sigh.

For a guy who can lift entire buildings, he’s impossibly gentle with you. The kiss deepens just slightly before he murmurs against your lips, “Next time I’m taking the fire escape. Fewer witnesses.”

You laugh, and he grins, finally starting to relax.

But still feeling a little tension in his shoulders, you say, “Long day?”

“You can tell.”

“Always,” you smile back.

Clark always carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who could hold the world together and often did, even when everything around him was chaos. But you could tell he’d been through the ringer today, and you had an idea of how you could cheer him up.

“Come here,” you murmur, pulling him in by the tie, your eyes locked on his with a teasing smile.

“Is that an order?” he asks, already following as you step backwards down the hallway toward the bedroom.

“More like a light suggestion.”

The truth was, you could order him around all you wanted. Superman or not, when it came to you, Clark was more than happy to obey.

You both get to the bedroom, and it doesn’t even take a second before your lips are connected. It’s like you’d both been waiting all day for this moment. The tie slips from your hand, forgotten, as your arms wrap around his neck.

He lifts you with effortless strength, lips never leaving yours, and you gasp softly against his mouth as your back hits the mattress in a rush of motion. Clark follows you down, bracing his weight so carefully.

He shifts, smooth and sure, flipping your positions so you’re straddling him now, hands resting on his chest. You had to admit, you loved the view.

Those pretty lips, slightly parted from the kiss… his dark hair tousled just enough to be unfair, with that one perfect curl resting stubbornly on his forehead. You could stare at him for hours and never get bored.

You reach for his glasses, sliding them off playfully before slipping them onto your own face. You strike a mock-serious pose.

“How do I look?”

Clark’s breath catches in his throat, eyes softening as he takes you in.

You, in his glasses. He’s never seen anything so perfect.

“…Cute,” he says in complete awe, like you’d just stolen the air from the room.

“I’ll keep them for now, then.”

And Clark didn’t fight to get them back one bit.

His hands slide up to rest on your thighs, warm and steady, fingers pressing gently into your skin like he’s grounding himself, like you’re the only thing anchoring him right now.

And you, with a grin tugging at your lips, lean down to kiss him. It’s slow at first, before deepening and becoming more intense, feeling the way his breath hitches as your fingers expertly begin to unbutton his shirt.

“Your landlord—” he murmurs against your mouth, voice already fraying at the edges.

“We can be quiet,” you whisper, brushing your lips along his jaw.

“And your neighbours—” he tries again, even as his hands tighten on your hips.

“It’s okay, I swear,” you mumble, moving to kiss his neck, and take off all your clothes. With each touch and kiss, more articles of clothing are tossed aside until you’re both in just your underwear.

You start kissing your way down his body, taking your time, savouring the warmth of his skin, the way every inch of him is sculpted like he was carved out of something divine. He’s all strength and softness, breath shallow as he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes.

“You don’t have to…” he says quietly, a flicker of hesitation in his voice.

Clark was big.

Like really big.

Like make your jaw click big.

He never wanted to inconvenience you or hurt you, so for the most part, he shied away from blowjobs. But you loved it; struggling for air as you try to take as much of it down, tears welling in your eyes when it hits the back of your throat, hearing him moan your name as he fucks your mouth desperately.

But most of all, you wanted him to feel as good as he could make you feel. Wanted him to know just how much you appreciate him stretching you out with his cock and fucking you into next week.

You pause, looking up at him, your fingers toying gently with the fabric of his boxers.

“I want to, okay?” you whisper. “I want to take care of you. Will you let me?”

His eyes search yours for a second, then he nods, just once.

“I will,” Clark relents. He knew you just wanted to make him feel good, and who was he to deny you of that?

You pull down his boxers and pull out his hard cock, licking a few stripes from the base to the head. He gasps out your name, and it’s like music to your ears.

You loved the way his brow would furrow, that little crease between his eyebrows he got when you teased him just enough to toe the line. It was equal parts adorable and dangerously hot. His jaw would tense, his eyes would darken, and then he’d say your name in that low, warning tone that made your stomach flip.

“I’ll be good, Clark, don’t worry,” you’d say sweetly.

If you were in a more wicked mood, you might tease him a little more, but your main goal was to help him relax; you had to remember that.

You lick his tip a few more times before taking as much of him into your mouth as you can. Saying it’s a tight fit would be a gross understatement, but still, you venture on. Moving up and down his cock with hollowed cheeks, and jerking whatever you couldn’t manage.

His girth feels heavy on your tongue, stretching your lips as far as they can go, but it’s all worth it to see him like that. He’s fisting the sheets, his head thrown back against the pillow, trying his best not to moan too loud.

But you want him to, you want to hear him say it, to feel his voice raw with need. So you start moaning softly, the vibrations travelling up his length, making him tremble and let out a low, guttural sound. There’s no way he could keep quiet now.

“Oh please… just like that,” he groans, his hands lifting from the sheets to find their place tangled in your hair. He’s hungry for you, just like you like him.

Hearing that you take his cock even deeper in your mouth. You look up from where you are, and what you see is beautiful. Clark is usually calm, all discipline and controlled strength. Seeing him like this, glistening blue eyes and desperate like he’s about to cry, vulnerable, his body softening as he pulls you close, needing you like he needs nothing else but you, was perfection.

It was a side of him that few got to see. You adjust as he rocks hips up into your mouth, but can’t stop yourself from gagging when his cock hits the back of your throat.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, pausing for a moment, his hands moving gently from your shoulders to cup your face.

You look up at him, still wearing his glasses with wide, doe-like eyes and a small hum of reassurance, your mouth still occupied. Without breaking the connection, you take his hand and guide it back to your head, inviting him closer, letting him know that you’re more than okay.

All polite-like, he holds you by the hair gently, not pulling, but cradling the strands as he respectfully fucks your face.

“So good, too—too good,” he gasps.

Wanting to push him all the way to the edge, you deepthroat his cock. Taking him as deep as you can go, fighting off your gag reflex.

“Good…golly…” he groans, voice rough and breathless.

Your eyes flutter open, burning with tears from the searing intensity, the lack of air, but beneath it all, exhilarating.

The sloppy sounds fill the room as you suck him off with a kind of dedication that should be rewarded. His fingers curling in your hair, muscles trembling with the building tension. The sounds of ragged breathing, and your name echo in your head, which sounds especially good coming from him.

You’re flooded with sensation, swallowing hard as quickly as you can, your eyes rolling back, caught in the overwhelming rush.

He helps pull you up gently, both of you gasping for air, still wrapped in that beautiful haze that lingers long after.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, concern threading his voice as his fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead.

You nod slowly, a shaky smile tugging at your lips.

“Perfect,” you whisper, and you mean it. You could do that all day.

Clark doesn’t miss a beat.

He takes his glasses off your face and pulls you in to kiss you senseless. It’s a slow and deep kiss, your tongues teasing and tangling with one another, tasting him on your lips like something you’ve been craving for days. His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he pulls you impossibly closer, smiling into the kiss like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Clark—” He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, sucking on your tongue and dragging a moan from your throat as your brain turns into absolute mush. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he bites down gently, just enough to make you gasp.

In your time together, you’ve come to realise something very important: Clark Kent is much freakier than he looks.

He finally pulls away, lips swollen and breath shallow, one hand steadying your dazed, breathless self as he grins. “Sorry,” he murmurs, not sounding sorry at all. “You were saying?”

“I don’t remember,” you reply with a goofy smile, and you aren’t lying. Maybe that’s another superpower he has, kissing you so hard it gives you amnesia.

“Lie down,” he orders. It’s gentle, but with that unmistakable edge of command that makes your heart flutter.

You roll onto your side, and he follows, settling in behind you before wrapping his arms around your waist. His bare skin presses against yours, like a living shield around you. You melt into his embrace, feeling his breath against the back of your neck as he snuggles closer, one leg slipping between yours.

It’s been less than a minute since he came, and you feel his hard cock, pressing against your entrance.

“Can I?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you murmur, bracing yourself. Even after all this time you’ve been together, it’s still a sensation that takes your breath away, adjusting to his size, to the way he fills you completely.

Finally, he pushes inside of you, your walls stretching to accommodate him, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your arms reach back instinctively, your nails digging into his bicep.

“Clawing at me now?” he chuckles.

“You can take it, Superman.”

He pulls you closer by the waist, matching his thrusts to yours with a slow, steady rhythm that sends shivers down your spine.

“I sure can,” he murmurs, nuzzling against your neck. He guides your hips up and down, matching it to his own movements, moving you like you weighed nothing.

“Clark…” you whimper, voice trembling with need and affection.

Slow, deep thrusts follow, each one hitting you right where you’re weakest, unravelling you bit by bit. Your pussy flutters around him like it’s trying to suck him in, and Clark would love nothing more than to sink into you and never come out.

“I love you so much,” he mumbles into your ear, his voice thick with emotion.

“I love you too.”

Your breath hitches as Clark presses his hand gently against your stomach, feeling the steady rhythm of his moving in and out of you.

“K-keep doing that,” you whisper, voice trembling with need.

The little gasps and moans you let out spur him on. Nothing else feels so right, so electric, as being this deep inside you, your walls pulsing around him like they were made for each other.

“Just a little more…” you plead, voice breathless.

“I got you,” he promises, tightening his grip, holding you steady.

You feel so at home in his arms. You swear his arms were made for cuddling and fucking as well as lifting derailed trains and whatnot.

And then, finally, you finish, knocking all the air out of you, every shudder and sigh a perfect, messy symphony of release.

His release comes soon after, but he doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking you through your orgasm, the copious amount of cum he pumped inside of you, spilling out onto the sheets with each thrust.

“Love it when you cum inside,” you whisper breathlessly, your voice thick with desire.

He presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck, his lips warm and reassuring against your skin.

“I know,”

He slows to a stop, giving you a moment to blink repeatedly as you come back to yourself. Your heart’s still racing, limbs deliciously heavy, pussy pumped full but still wanting more.

You knew this wasn’t the end of the night. Not even close.

Without pulling out of you, he gently positions you on your back, strong hands guiding you with a tenderness that makes your heart stutter.

“I want to see you,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent as he settles between your thighs, arms braced on either side of you, caging you in.

He starts kissing you everywhere he can reach. Your cheeks, your neck, the curve of your collarbone. Each touch of his lips is a promise.

“You’re…” he whispers against your skin, planting a kiss just below your ear.

“So…” another kiss, this time over your racing heartbeat, his voice growing huskier as his body moves with yours.

“Beautiful…” he breathes, looking into your eyes as he presses deeper.

His pace quickens as he moves against you, the tension building with every breath. It’s hard to hold back with you, but even now, even with the fire in his veins, the last thing he’d ever want to do is hurt you. His strength is immense, but his control? Unwavering.

His hand slides up to cradle your face, eyes locking with yours, vulnerable in a way only you ever get to see.

“What did I do to deserve you?” he whispers, voice thick with emotion.

He could stay like this forever. Filling you up, again and again and again. Watching you whimper your way through another orgasm. It was overwhelming in the best way. He was overtaken by you, by your body, by the way you moved with him like you were made just to fit together. He could hear your heartbeat fluctuate with every kiss, every shift, every whispered moan, and he caught it all.

Nothing hit him harder than the sound of you like this: breathless, aching, saying his name like a prayer.

He knew your body so well, all its secrets, all its tells. The way your breath hitched when his fingers grazed that one spot on your hip. The tremble in your voice when he took his time. The way your nails dug into his back when you were close.

When he shifts, angling his hips just right, a sharp cry escapes your lips before you can stop it, his name, raw and desperate, tearing from your throat as your fingers clutch the sheets beneath you.

“Clark… Clark… Clark!”

It’s the only word you can remember, the only one that matters, echoing between you like a mantra.

No wonder your neighbours were pissed.

And the way he looks at you, utterly undone, you know he feels the same.

“Don’t stop—please, I can’t—” you beg. He’s fucking you so good, you don’t know which way is up. The sound of your bed’s headboard hitting the wall repeatedly echoed through the room, a steady, rhythmic thud, and you bet there’s another dent forming. Which is a shame since Clark took the time to fix it the first time you both put a hole in the wall.

“That’s it, Clark…” you breathe out, voice trembling, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body arches into his.

“Wanna be so full…,” you whine, need thick in your voice, every inch of you aching for him, for more, for all of him. If you were being honest, you wanted his cum spilling out of you for weeks.

He groans at your words, the sound deep and rough in his throat, control hanging by a thread. “You will be,” he promises. As if to accentuate your promise, you feel his large hand press gently down on your stomach, like he needs to feel how deeply he’s a part of you. And it’s deep.

“Just for you, Clark… just for you,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a breath as your toes curl and your body tightens around him, every nerve lit up and alive.

You’re so close, your body trembling, every breath coming in shallow gasps as the pressure builds, sharp and sweet.

“Clark…” you whimper, voice high and wrecked, so needy, so soft, so pathetic on your tongue, but it only makes his hold on you tighten.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, “Let go for me.”

That’s all it takes for you to give in. Your legs tremble as your climax washes over you in fierce waves, every nerve ignited and alive.

Feeling you tighten around him, he buries himself deep inside again, filling you up completely.

But again, this wasn’t the end of the night. You keep fucking into the early hours of the morning because Clark’s stamina is godly.

But you had accomplished your mission. Gone were any thoughts of the day before. All the stress, the exhaustion. All that mattered now was this. You and he, melting into one another with ease, with familiarity, with a kind of quiet devotion that needed no words.

After each orgasm, Clark kissed your skin with a reverence that made your breath catch, like every inch of you deserved worship, like he was reminding himself you were real, here, his.

***

After the dust settles, you and Clark lie together, coming down from your highs. Clark ought to have tough days more often if it meant having sex like that.

“I don’t think we stayed all that quiet,” Clark murmurs, brushing his fingers through his tousled hair, the faintest blush still lingering on his cheeks.

You groan, flopping back onto the bed. “Yeah, my neighbours are going to kill me.”

“There must be an alternative,” he says thoughtfully. “My place?”

You glance over at him, raising an eyebrow. “And have your neighbours mad at you? No thanks. Let’s keep one of our reputations intact.”

You pause mid-stretch, then slowly sit up, pressing a finger to your chin as if putting on an imaginary thinking cap. A mischievous smile begins to tug at the corners of your lips, the kind that always made Clark just a little nervous.

“I know that look.”

“We could always…,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively. You both knew exactly where that sentence was going.

Clark lifts a brow. “We can’t have sex in the sky all the time.”

You smirk. “Some of the time.”

“Okay… some of the time,” he agrees.

You lay back down and rest your chin on his chest, fingers idly tracing patterns on his bare chest. “What about your ice castle?”

“The Fortress?” he chuckles. “The flight there might be a little tough on you unless you want to land with frostbite.” He pauses, thinking. “Maybe we should look for somewhere with thicker walls, you know… together.”

You blink slowly, thinking, ‘Is this really happening?’

“Clark Kent,” you say slowly, voice full of suspicion and amusement, “is this your way of asking me to move in with you?”

“It is,” he answers resolutely. He’s only the slightest bit worried you were about to tell him to kick rocks, only slightly, totally not nervous at all.

The thought of having a place that felt as much yours as it was his. Shared routines, quiet mornings, and loud nights made something warm bloom in your chest. An assortment of both your books scattered across the coffee table, indulging his love of breakfast for dinner when you cook together, waking up tangled beside one another, no longer needing to say goodbye.

You shuffle your way around, draping yourself lazily across his body, your chin resting on his chest. “I’d love to move in with you.”

Clark’s eyes soften instantly. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” you say, grinning. “And I think that calls for a celebration.”

You slide back on top of him, straddling his waist again with a wicked smile.

He laughs, breathless. “You’re insatiable,” he says, right before pulling you back in for another kiss, arms wrapping securely around your waist.

“Wait, what about the pie? We could celebrate with that,” Clark says innocently.

“The pie? In bed?” you smirk, tilting your head. “What exactly are you planning to do to me, Clark?”

His eyes widen a little. “You know that’s not what I meant… I actually don’t even know what you’re insinuating—”

You shut him up with a kiss, slow and hot, fingers sliding into his hair. “We’ll eat it after,” you whisper against his lips.

“Dessert before dessert. Got it.”

Main Masterlist

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #superman #superman x reader #smut #superman 2025 #superman fanfiction #clark kent fanfiction #x reader #fluff #established relationship #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x you #dc fanfic #dc fanfiction #x female reader #clark kent fic #clark kent fluff #clark kent smut

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yasminawayne · 23 days ago

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in case of overload

SYNOPSIS: During a tropical storm, you make the brilliant decision to fix the fusebox alone. It does not go well. One wrong surge and you’re on the floor, half-burned and rattled. Now you're injured and both your boyfriends are absolutely losing it.

TAGS: GN!Reader, Electrocution, Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Protective Boyfriends, Mild Angst, Soft Recovery, Former Valvidian Electrician Reader, Reader Makes Bad Choices, Volt Glows When He’s Mad, An Angry Volt is a Sexy Volt, Slightly Inaccurate Electrical Safety (Sorry Electricians...)

NOTE: please send requests for date everything pls

AO3: yasminwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

"You scared the shit out of us," he muttered. Still working, still checking. "You didn’t just brush a line. That’s an exit burn. You’re lucky it didn’t arc through your ribs."

"You said ten minutes—" you whispered.

"I said ten minutes," Eddie repeated, "not 'go get electrocuted in the closet.'"

THE MUSIC TONIGHT WAS SMOOTH, low, and easy to ignore. Just the way you liked it when you were working. Jazz filtered through the ceiling like warm air through a vent, somewhere between syrupy and sleepy. You figured Volt was the one who queued the playlist. He always had a flair for whatever matched the mood.

The Breaker Box had been packed since noon. A busy crowd, full house. Even Dorian was sitting down with a drink for once. Laughter and conversation echoed against the club’s soft-lit walls. The electricity in the room was both literal and social.

Then thunder rattled through the floorboards.

The dateables jumped slightly at the sudden noise as the lights flickered overhead. You frowned, head turning just in time to see them stabilize again. The lights were steady again, but not confidently so.

Gnawing on your lip, you glanced toward the stage. There was that barely-there wrinkle in Volt’s expression. He was smiling, of course, but something about it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

There’d been a tropical storm hanging over your heads all week. Nothing you could fix, not directly. Power had been temperamental ever since. All anyone could do was ride it out.

Still, your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling. You started running through your mental list, instinctively cataloging all the things you might have to deal with. Hector was still keeping the place warm—bless him. Wyndolyn and Dorian were tucked safely inside, even with the storm. Wallace was holding steady, and you trusted him to keep the foundation solid. Freddy’s pantry stock could last another week if no one got greedy. Everything was holding.

But for how long?

Before you could get too deep into the thought spiral, you felt the press of a familiar thumb smoothing out the worry line between your brows.

"You’ve got that look on your face again," Eddie said, voice low as he slid a glass toward you. Clear soda, fizzy and cold, with a swirly straw already tucked inside. You took it with a sigh, leaning forward to take a sip.

"What look?"

"That look that says you’re about to do something stupid."

"Am not…" you mumbled, but it sounded weak even to you.

The soda was just sweet enough to cut through the buzz of nerves you hadn’t realized were building in your chest. You shifted deeper into your bar stool, knees drawn up against the rung, fingers tapping the condensation on the glass.

The overhead lights flickered again. Barely. But you caught it.

Eddie did too. You could see it in the way his shoulders went tense for just a second before he rolled them back.

The mental checklist flared back to life. The panels in the hallway. The fuse. The fridge temp. Eddie had patched the second-floor lighting loop yesterday but hadn’t looked rested since. Volt hadn’t slept more than four hours in a row all week.

"Don’t," Eddie muttered, like he could hear the thoughts scraping across your brain again.

You didn’t respond.

He leaned in, elbow brushing yours, and reached for the rag in his back pocket like he needed something to do with his hands.

"I didn’t even say anything," you murmured into your straw.

"You don’t need to. I know you." Eddie’s voice softened.

And then—without warning—he leaned in and kissed you.

It was gentle, brief, and entirely grounding. You froze, just long enough to feel it. His lips warm against yours, steady in a way that made the air go quiet in your chest.

When he pulled back, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The jazz was still going, curling through the bar like smoke. Volt had shifted the vibe. It was something lighter now, playful and bright. You could hear his voice from the stage, teasing and smooth, filling the room with practiced ease.

You leaned your cheek into your hand. "I just wanna get ahead of things, that’s all. Check the system, run diagnostics, and tighten the grounding lines. It’s not like I’m gonna climb onto the roof during the storm."

"You say that like I haven’t seen you do worse. Remember that time you tried to clean the roof?"

Your face scrunched. "That was one time."

"You nearly fell into the chimney and down into Dante."

"I didn’t! I—" you paused. "...Okay, yeah, I almost did. But that was months ago."

Eddie raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He didn’t argue. Just passed you a coaster and started wiping down the edge of the counter.

"You always think it’s your job to keep this whole place running. Storm or no storm."

You shifted in your seat. The ice in your glass crackled as it settled.

"I mean, I am the homeowner. Kind of comes with the territory, doesn’t it?"

Eddie made a sound—half snort, half sigh—as he leaned both elbows onto the counter beside you. "That doesn’t mean you’ve got to run yourself into the ground every time the lights flicker."

You didn’t answer right away. The soda fizzed gently between your hands, cool against your palms. Somewhere beyond the curtain, you could hear Volt sweet-talking Keyes into playing again. His voice was always so lilting, persuasive, impossible to say no to.

Eddie didn’t press. He never really did. He just waited, steady and present in the way only Eddie could be. After all, he was wired into the house as much as the breaker box was.

After a beat, you shrugged. "I don’t like sitting still when I know something’s off. You know that."

"Yeah," he said, voice low. "I know."

You both fell quiet again, letting the buzz of the bar fill the space between you. The soft glow of the club shimmered off the countertop. Overhead, the lights gave another little twitch, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But you noticed. And Eddie noticed you noticing.

You caught his eye before he could say anything. "Just let me take a quick look at the panel. Five minutes!"

He frowned, but only for a second. "Ten minutes," he said. "And if you’re late—even by a second, I’m locking you out of the club."

"Har har," you muttered, rolling your eyes as you slid off the barstool.

You were halfway to removing your glasses when Eddie reached out, catching you gently by the wrist and pulling you closer. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was soft, lingering, a silent plea buried in the touch.

"Be careful," he murmured.

"I will," you said, offering a small smile before finally slipping the Dateviators off.

The club vanished in an instant.

Velvet walls dissolved into drywall. Swirling lights became a single flickering bulb overhead. The hum of conversation and jazz cut out like a severed cord, and suddenly you were back in your closet.

You took a breath. Let your eyes adjust.

It always smelled like copper and old detergent in here. Always a little damp, too. It was like the inside of a forgotten washing machine. The fusebox stood open in front of you, wires fanned out like ribs, humming faintly in the quiet.

You knelt and reached for Tony by the handle.

He rattled in protest as you dragged him closer, the sound bouncing off the cramped walls like a warning.

"Just help me out," you sighed, giving his lid a fond pat before popping him open with a familiar, quiet click.

Inside was your usual mess of tools and knick-knacks. They were well-loved, slightly disorganized, but reliable. You got to work without hesitation, sleeves rolled to your elbows, fingers moving with the kind of ease that only comes from years of hands-on labor. It was muscle memory by now. Deep in your bones.

Back in Valdivian, when you worked maintenance for the old residential towers, they’d throw you into half-dead substations at two in the morning with nothing but a rusted flashlight and shitty instant coffee. This? This was nothing. No voltage rating too weird. No wiring tangle too impossible. You’d handled worse on four hours of sleep and a vending machine granola bar.

The breaker panel creaked open.

Inside, it was warm.

…Too warm.

You tapped the voltage reader to a grounding line and frowned. That was way too much draw.

"Okay…" you murmured, eyes narrowing. "Where are you bleeding from?"

You isolated the cluster and went in, easing the insulation aside with your pliers. At first glance, the wire looked fine—dusty, maybe a little worn, but intact.

Then you turned it. Just slightly.

It snapped clean through.

There wasn’t even time to react.

The spark hit fast and hard, punching through your glove like it wasn’t even there. Heat shot through your palm and then the pain followed; Tight, bright, and crawling up your arm like it was trying to burrow beneath the skin.

You jerked back with a choked gasp, slamming into the opposite wall of the closet. The impact knocked the breath right out of you.

"FUCK—!"

You crumpled halfway down the wall, hand clutched to your chest, breath coming shallow and fast. The pain pulsed up your arm, hot and deep. Your fingertips were tingling now, and not in a good way.

Something had torn through. Maybe an arc fault, maybe a surge from the backup line. Whatever it was, it hit harder than you’d expected.

Tony rattled behind you in alarm, one of his hinges clicking open like a gasp.

"I’m fine," you muttered automatically, voice too thin to be convincing.

Tony didn’t buy it. A screwdriver rolled out of his open mouth and tapped your ankle.

You exhaled sharply through your nose and shoved yourself upright again, ignoring the sting climbing up your wrist.

You flexed your fingers. Still moving.

...Eh, that was good enough.

"Right. Just let me finish," you hissed, more to yourself than anyone else.

Tony let out a long creak of protest as you bent back over the panel.

The wire ends blurred slightly as your vision swam, but you blinked it away. You worked one-handed at first. Then both, when you couldn’t reach the fuse clip without your dominant hand. The scorched skin near your knuckles protested every touch, nerves whining under your skin like a frayed cable, but you didn’t stop.

You were in too deep. Literally and figuratively.

The load was unstable, yes—but manageable, if you could redistribute it manually until the storm eased off. You adjusted one of the terminal screws, moving slow and careful to avoid another live burst. Your fingers trembled the whole time, but you forced them steady.

"I’ve got you," you whispered to the wires, not sure if you meant the house or yourself.

Tony squeaked again, louder now.

"Shush," you muttered, not looking back. "I’m already done."

Finally, with a slow exhale, you tightened the last connection. The screw clicked back into place under your trembling fingers, and you reinforced the grounding line with a fresh strip of tape. Your hands weren’t steady, but they were sure. It was done. Stable now.

Or at least as stable as anything could be, with the wind still howling against the siding and the gutters outside wailing.

Looked like the storm had knocked out one of the outdoor subpanels. It sent a surge straight back through the grounding loop. No wonder the readings were jumping earlier. Honestly, it was a miracle the club hadn’t gone dark mid-Volt’s opening.

You sagged back against the wall, letting out a low, shaky breath. "Alright. That should hold. Just need to monitor the current and—"

"Ow!" you yelped when something thwacked you in the shin.

You looked down just in time to see the Dateviators get nudged your way. They scraped across the floor and bumped gently against your foot.

You blinked at them. Then at Tony, whose lid had popped all the way open now, one tiny hinge trembling like a furious eyebrow.

"I know, I know…" you murmured, dragging the glasses toward you with your good hand.

You barely got them to your nose when the space in front of you shimmered. It flickered once and then Tony materialized, right where the fusebox used to be.

"You absolute manic lunatic, what the hell do you think you’re doin’? Huh? This what we’re doin’ now? Fryin’ your fingers like mozzarella sticks on a Tuesday? Do I look like I enjoy seein’ your nervous system light up like Lux!?"

You blinked up at him. "Hi, Tony."

"Don’t 'Hi, Tony' me. Don’t you even start with me right now! You shoulda been toast! I was five seconds away from launching a wrench at your forehead!"

You sat there on the floor, scorched hand cradled carefully in your lap, Tony’s voice ricocheting off the breaker box walls like a one-man riot.

He waggled a finger at you. "Oh-ho-ho, wait till Eddie and Volt sees this. They’re gonna short their whole damn panel—melt the floor—detonate, maybe! I should pop you like a lightbulb myself and save 'em the trouble—"

"Don’t tell them!" you blurted, tugging your jacket sleeve down to cover the burn. "Please, just—just let me fix it before they find out. I can wrap it, I’ll be fine."

Tony stopped mid-stride, arms folding over his strong frame. The look he gave you was somewhere between pity and rage.

"Look, sweetheart. Get your boys to yell at you before I do," he said flatly.

You hesitated. Glanced down at your hand again. The skin was darkened and red, the ache still pulsing from wrist to elbow.

You looked back at Tony. "...They’re gonna freak out."

He raised a brow. "Good."

The Dateviators sat heavy on your nose. Tony just glared.

You sighed. The long, exhausted kind that came from knowing you were very much not in control anymore.

Then you aimed the glasses at the fusebox.

And the world shifted again.

Velvet walls folded in back around you. Warm golden lights washed over polished wood. The club pulsed with life again. There was laughter, clinking drinks, and a low buzz of energy rising.

You swayed a little on your feet. The warp was sharper than usual. It was like the space hadn’t fully settled around you yet. Or maybe that was just the part where your arm still felt like it was on fire.

Tony was still stepping into the fusebox behind you, muttering something under his breath, but you didn’t wait. You slipped away, moving fast through the side hall, ducking through one of the back passages to avoid the club floor. The last thing you wanted was attention. If you could just make it to the storage room, grab some bandages—

"Live wire?"

Eddie.

His voice cut through the air like a breaker snapping back into place.

He didn’t speak, not right away. His boots scuffed once on the tile, and then he just stood there, staring. Like the air had been sucked out of the room.

His eyes found your wrist—burned, half-wrapped in your sleeve—then tracked slowly up to your face.

For a moment, his expression didn’t shift. It didn’t go soft or angry or worried.

It just… paused.

Then he crossed the distance.

"What the hell," he said, voice quiet and flat, and it was somehow so much worse than shouting. "What the hell is this, huh?"

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The adrenaline had worn off completely now. Your pulse was crawling, the burn was starting to throb in full force, and all the justifications you’d rehearsed in your head suddenly felt stupid and small.

Eddie didn’t wait for an answer.

"Sit down." He was already dragging a bar stool over, one-handed, like it weighed nothing. "Sit back. Don’t argue."

"I wasn’t gonna—"

"Baby, you're always gonna," he muttered, crouching beside you. His hands were already at work, digging behind the breaker cabinet where he always stashed an emergency kit. "You always do this. Can’t leave well enough alone, can you?"

"I had to—"

“You didn’t.” He didn’t snap it, but the sharpness was there—clean and cutting, wrapped in worry. “You just wanted to. Don’t twist it.”

You tried to explain, voice small. “I didn’t want the load to jump to the upper panel. Volt’s been compensating for the storm. If it caught the stage loop—”

“Oh, so now it’s his fault?” Eddie barked, louder now. “That your wrist looks like it brushed up against a goddamn arc weld? That you didn’t call anyone? You think we wouldn’t have dropped everything?”

“I think you’ve both been working yourselves sick for a week straight,” you said, biting back tears. “And the last thing either of you needed was—”

“Eddie? Live wire?”

Volt’s voice broke through the air like a wire snap. There was a pause, and then his footsteps followed.

"I heard something," he said, rounding the corner. "Tony said something was..." His voice faltered, then dropped.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

Volt’s eyes landed on your wrist—and he went still. The air around him shifted.

Then his outline flickered.

"What happened."

Blue.

Brilliant, sharp, electric blue. It crawled up his spine in jagged pulses, lighting veins beneath his skin like glass tubing, like lightning caught in a bottle. The whites of his eyes burned.

"Oh. No. No, no, no," he said. But his voice was warping now. It was buzzing at the edges, tinged with a crackle like voltage under strain. He stepped forward, and every step left behind the faintest scorched mark on the floorboards. "You’re joking. You’re—this is a joke, right?"

"Volt—"

"Live wire," he breathed. And your name, on his tongue, was a current. "You’re burned."

"It isn’t—" you started.

"Don’t." His finger pointed at you, trembling with charge. Arcs of light whispered across his knuckles. "Don’t you dare say it wasn’t that bad."

"It was just the panel—"

"Just the panel!?" he echoed.

The lights in the room surged then dipped low. You heard a crack-pop behind the wall. Somewhere behind you, a wire sparked.

You flinched.

Volt was glowing now. His entire form buzzed, casting a ghost-light onto the walls. Blue and unearthly. His voice, when it came, was low and shaking with something barely held back.

"You were working alone," he said, every word echoing, "on a surge panel. In a storm. While both of us were just floors away. And you thought that was fine? That we didn’t need to know?"

You curled in on yourself. His anger wasn’t hot. It was storm-born. Dangerous in the way of lightning you could feel before it hit.

Eddie saw your fear immediately.

"Volt. Calm it," he said tightly. "I let them go. Just didn’t think they’d be this reckless about it."

His voice wasn’t defensive, but it was a grounding wire. Eddie stood firm, and Volt, for all his buzzing edges, met the look and froze. Like he hit resistance.

"They're already hurt," Eddie said again, firm. "Don’t make it worse."

Volt blinked. The light in his skin flickered then dimmed. The hum dropped a few notches, no longer shaking the air.

He exhaled sharply, and the energy recoiled from his hands like it had been shocked. His glow softened to a simmer.

Then he dropped to his knees beside you.

His hand hovered, still faintly glowing. "I’m sorry, live wire," he murmured, voice ragged. "I just—Gods. When I saw your wrist—"

"I know," you whispered. "I just didn’t want to worry you."

Volt made a broken sound and sat down hard beside you.

"Sweetheart," he muttered, dragging his hand down his face. It left a trail of fading light. "That’s the only thing you accomplished."

Eddie didn’t speak right away. He focused on your wrist, peeling your sleeve back carefully.

"Let me see." His voice was back to its steady, quiet steel. "Pulse is fine. No full conduction. Burn’s surface-deep but could’ve been worse. We cool it now."

You hissed when the cold pack hit. Eddie braced your arm gently.

"You scared the shit out of us," he muttered. Still working, still checking. "You didn’t just brush a line. That’s an exit burn. You’re lucky it didn’t arc through your ribs."

"You said ten minutes—" you whispered.

"I said ten minutes," Eddie repeated, "not 'go get electrocuted in the closet.'" His glare wasn’t mean, but the exasperation in it ran deep, richer than sarcasm, heavier than anger. "You could’ve passed out. Alone. We could’ve found you goddamn hours later."

"Tony was with me. And I had it under control," you murmured, guilt crawling up your throat.

You blinked fast, trying to shake it off, but the tears came anyway. You hated crying in front of them. Hated the tight quiver in your chest, the way your breath wouldn’t stay even. But with Eddie bracing your wrist and Volt kneeling beside you, electricity still faintly humming through his skin, you couldn’t stop it.

"I thought I had it," you added, voice cracking.

Volt made a sharp sound and reached up to brush a tear from your cheek with the back of his knuckle.

"I mean, for someone supposedly in control," Volt said slowly, "you did come out looking like a fork that kissed a socket."

He tilted his head. "Oh, dear. If we weren’t the ones fussing over you, Daisuke would’ve had your head."

You let out a weak laugh, rough and wet. Volt’s grin softened, flickering to life again like a current catching.

"There you are," he murmured, tilting your chin up. "You know I can’t function when you cry. My circuits short. I start sparking in weird places."

Eddie rolled his eyes, but didn’t pull away. His thumb pressed softly into the crook of your elbow. "You need to lie down."

Volt nodded. "You've read my mind, darling."

He reached forward, one arm sliding under your knees as Eddie steadied your back. You let them lift you, careful and warm. Your injured arm stayed elevated, the cold pack still pressing against the burn.

"You can yell at us later," Volt said, adjusting you against his chest. "For now, let us take care of you."

"You’re just gonna lock me in your room," you mumbled into his shirt.

"Absolutely," he said, brushing a kiss to your temple. "Fuse privileges officially revoked. Until further notice."

"Indefinitely?" you croaked.

"We’ll renegotiate at the end of the fiscal year," Eddie muttered, brushing the back of your hand. "Assuming you survive your next bright idea."

They moved together, seamlessly syncing their steps. You sagged into their support, letting the last of the panic bleed out of you.

"Spark," Eddie said again, low and just for you. "Let us be scared. Let us be here."

You didn’t have an answer. Just another trembling breath—and a nod.

જ⁀➴ drop requests babe! this is my first date everything fic released to the fandom

#date everything #date everything volt x reader #date everything eddie x reader #eddie watts #volt and eddie #volt x reader #eddie x reader #eddie x volt #volt date everything #eddie date everything #tony date everything

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luvbabydoll · 3 months ago

Text

cod men with their wives on mother’s day ₊˚⊹ ᰔ (+graves)

phillip graves

you wake up to the smell of something burnt. your first thought is the boys got into the kitchen again.

you roll over, still wrapped in your lacey cotton nightgown, and find a card on the nightstand with a single daisy tucked inside. the handwriting’s messy — crayon and glitter, a backwards “M” on “mommy.” it makes your chest ache with how proud you are.

then the door creaks open, and there’s phillip.

hands full of pancakes that are half raw, syrup spillin’ down the side of the plate. the boys trail behind him, barefoot and loud, all grinnin’ with syrup on their cheeks.

“look at that,” phillip drawls, grinning like the smugest man alive. “still sleepin’, baby? it’s noon.”

he sets the plate down and leans over to kiss your forehead, then your lips, then lower — a slow line of kisses down your throat.

“got the whole damn house runnin’ around for ya. reckon that’s what happens when you give a man sons and softness and a wife who don’t raise her voice unless she’s got to.”

he cups your face with one calloused hand, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“you were made for this. don’t matter how dumb you act or how many times you forget where you left the car keys. you’re mine, and you’re a mama. that’s all you gotta be.”

you’re flushed before you even sit up, clinging to the blanket, and he just chuckles.

“eat your pancakes, sugar. and after that, i’m puttin’ another baby in you for being such a good little wife f’me.”

johnny “soap” mactavish

it’s pure chaos, like always.

johnny’s got a toddler slung over one shoulder, another one makin’ a mess on the counter, and the dog’s got the wrapping paper in its mouth.

“oi! that’s mum’s, ya wee beast!”

he snatches the slobbery card out of the dog’s mouth and plasters on a big, cheeky grin when he sees you watching from the hallway, eyes still puffy from sleep.

“well, well, well. look who finally woke up.”

he kisses you hard, grinning into it, his hands already tryin’ to slide into the pockets of your sweatpants.

“y’look like a dream, hen. all sleepy n’ soft. s’good thing you’re pretty, ‘cause yer boys definitely didn’t inherit their cookin’ skills from you.”

you huff, swat at his chest — he just laughs and hands you the mess of a card.

“happy mother’s day, birdie. thank ya for lettin’ me fill this house with gremlins. wouldn’t wanna wake up to anyone else yellin’ at me to stop feedin’ ‘em chocolate for breakfast.”

simon “ghost” riley

it’s quiet when you wake up.

simon’s already up. he always is.

but today, he didn’t leave for a mission.

today, he stayed.

you pad into the kitchen barefoot, one of his shirts hangin’ off your body, eyes barely open. and there he is. your boys in their little chairs, drinkin’ juice, while simon cuts fruit and sets the kettle on the stove.

he turns when he hears you, and his eyes soften.

not a word, not yet. just walks over and wraps an arm around you, kisses your hair, your temple.

“happy mother’s day, love.”

you whisper something back, quiet and sleepy, and he just brushes your knuckles with his lips.

“you made this house a home. all i did was put babies in you. you? you gave ‘em a reason to laugh.”

he pulls out your chair for you. lets the kids pile gifts into your lap. watches with that rare, almost-shy pride in his eyes.

“you look good, y’know,” he says, real low, when the boys are distracted.

“in this kitchen. all soft n’ warm. it suits you.”

john price

“up. c’mon, love. got somethin’ for ya.”

you blink awake to the smell of tea and toast. price is standing by the bed with a tray in his hands and that smug, crooked smile on his face. your youngest clings to his leg, holding a rose that’s half broken.

“got you brekkie. even made sure the lads didn’t set the bloody toast on fire this time.”

you sit up, cheeks warm, and he puts the tray down and cups your face in his hand.

thumb strokes over your cheek. his voice goes quiet.

“never thought i’d have this. house full of noise. woman like you in my bed. little ones screamin’ for your attention. but hell, i’d take ten more of ‘em if it meant you’d smile at me like that every mornin’.”

you lean into his chest and mumble that it’s the best day ever.

he grins against your temple.

“you deserve every minute of it, sweetheart. reckon this house’d fall to pieces without you.”

kyle “gaz” garrick

you’re still in your nightgown, sittin’ on the couch with your knees tucked under you, when kyle comes in holdin’ a tray of pastries and a bright pink mug.

“oi. there’s my girl.”

he kisses the top of your head, sets everything down, and hands you a tiny homemade card signed in three different colors of marker.

“they worked on that for hours. like proper artists. nearly glued their fingers together.”

you laugh, soft and sleepy, and he just watches you with this look — like he still can’t believe you’re real.

“you’ve got ‘em wrapped around your finger, y’know that? you’re like… the sun in this house. they all orbit you.”

he leans down, kisses you slow.

“and i’m not any better.”

he sits beside you, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you close.

“happy mother’s day, babe. you’ve given me more than i ever deserved.”

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sp0o0kylights · 2 months ago

Text

“Alienate.” Flo mutters, the first thing Phil Callahan hears when he enters the station. “No, that's eight letters. Darn.”

“How’s the crossword, Miss Flo?” He asks, as he always asks, every morning.

It’s part of a little routine he’s established with their doting receptionist, partly out of boredom, mostly because she sometimes asks him for help.

If there’s one thing Phil enjoys doing, it’s helping.

(It’s why he became a cop, after all.)

“Hi, hun. I’m stuck.” Flo responds, staring down at the New York Times spread out before her.

It’s a quiet Friday morning and a quick glance at the open and dark-empty office of the Chief says the man’s not in yet, and so Callahan rounds the big wooden desk to stare at the puzzle over Flo’s shoulder.

“Which one?” He asks, seeing most of it’s already been filled out.

Flo jabs a finger at the offending clue, her nails painted a light pastel blue. “Pushed away through inattention.” She reads dutifully, then traces her finger to the blank section of the crossword, tapping at it. “Nine letter word.”

Phil cocks his head, thinks it through.

“It wasn’t alienate.” Flo says, non-helpfully.

“Ignored?” Phil tries.

“That’s seven letters.”

They both stare down at the puzzle, the black and white squares taunting them.

“Neglected.” Phil says suddenly, triumphant. “It has to be neglected--the word has to end with a D to make sense in the puzzle. See?”

One of two words that crosses over with their missing piece is ‘abandoned’, which fits nicely with the apparently gloomy theme of today’s crossword.

“Doesn’t work with the other word that goes through it though.” Flo points out, defeating the proud little glow that had been building in Phil’s head.

The other bisecting word is ‘isolated’, making him wonder if the puzzlemaker is in the middle of a rough divorce.

(Or maybe just a rough day, and he’s the one projecting…)

“Well, hell.” Phil grumbles, staring down at it.

“Try estranged!” Powell calls as he passes by with a mug full of coffee.

Flo carefully pencils in ‘estranged’ and makes a pleased noise when it fits.

“Thank you, hun!” She calls, and Phil huffs at himself for not seeing it, but also refuses to let Powell’s one upping ruin his day.

The man himself offers their receptionist a smile, before tossing a casual reprimand Phil’s way.

“Callahan, get to work, would you?”

“Yeah, yeah, smartypants.” He says, going to fetch his own cup of coffee. “Save the bitching for the Chief.”

Powell rolls his eyes at him, and Callahan makes a face back, and the two of them go on to have a very boring, small town cop sort of day--right until a legitimate call finally comes in.

Well.

Sort of.

“The Harrington residence is having a too-loud party again.” Hopper says, having finally shown up sometime between nine and noon. “Drunk teenagers are throwing up in people’s lawns.”

“It’s not even dark yet.” Powell mutters, staring at the clock as if he couldn’t imagine a party taking place before 8 pm.

“Teenagers don’t care about that shit, that’s why they’re getting the cops called on them.” Hopper snips back. He’d been in a mood all day, and not the fun, jolly kind.

“Come on Callahan, let’s go remind Harrington Jr. that it’s his daddy that owns this department, not him.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” Phil says as he follows Hopper out the door, waving goodbye to Flo as he goes. “People are going to think you’re serious.”

(Sometimes, Phil thinks as he swings into the patrol truck, that Hopper is serious.

That they are being paid to look the other way.

Then he takes a sip of their god-awful coffee and hears Hopper’s ancient truck cough to life, and figures, if anyone was getting cash here, there would at least be evidence of it.)

xXx

Harrington Jr.’s party isn’t quite the chaotic disaster it was made out to be, though there are a handful of tipsy teenagers stumbling around the lawn.

“One of these idiots is going to drown in that damn pool someday.” Hopper complains through gritted teeth as he storms up the driveway, kids scrambling into action the second they spot him.

One loudly screams; “Cops!” and the rest of them scatter, running in so many directions it makes Phil’s head spin. He briefly moves as if to give chase before deciding there’s simply too many to bother.

(Knows that it’s unlikely they’ll arrest anyone but Harrington tonight, anyway.)

“If the right kid bites it, Dick Harrington might even have to come deal with it personally.” Over his shoulder Hopper tosses Phil a shark’s smile, barging up the porch to bang hard on one of the two front doors. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”

“No, not really.” Phil says, because he’s thinking about dead teenagers in pools.

“Also I don’t think Richard likes to be called Dick.” He adds cautiously, just in case the man himself happens to be home.

It’s unlikely, doubly so given all the drunk minors, but that just means Phil isn’t surprised when it’s not the Vice President of Indiana Corporate Consulting, LLC that opens the door but his son, Steve.

“Officers.” The kid drawls, shirtless in swim trunks, not a single strand of his perfectly styled hair out of place. “What can I do for you?”

He leans casually in the doorway, as another kid screams out a warning inside.

“You can cut the shit.” Hopper says. “You know the drill. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Harrington does neither of those things, instead tilting his head and making a face like he just smelled something foul.

“I’m not drunk. And anyone who is drunk brought it without telling me. You should go arrest them.” Steve jams a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the rapidly emptying house.

Then he smirks at both of them, every inch the newly crowned King the kids insist on calling him.

“You think your old man is gonna believe that?” Hopper snarls, infuriated. He never was one that dealt well with teenagers. Or at least, these kinds (and that damn Munson kid, who just loved stealing everybodies lawn flamingos.)

“I think you’ll find ‘my old man’,” Steve mockinly mimics, “doesn’t care.”

“He will when the neighbors start calling.” Hopper tosses back as Phil pushes past Harrrington Jr. to begin the process of trying to wrangle drunk teenages. “That’s Janet Wilkinson’s prized hydrangeas Hagan’s been throwing up in. You wanna see what happens when she talks to your mother?”

“She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.” Steves snarks, instead of pulling out his usual charm. “Why do you think she called you instead?”

This isn’t Phil’s first call to the house, but it is the first time Harrington Jr. has been this combative. It’s new, but not exactly unexpected.

Not when Steve Harrington has been hurtling towards this ever since he started hosting parties.

“You think your parents won’t care when I call them?”

“Well they haven’t before, so--”

Phil rolls his eyes as the kid and Hopper trade more barbs, the adult’s growing sharper and sharper as Steve makes a couple of arguments about being held accountable for other people’s actions (and something else about unreasonably high standards and making his own bail.)

Let's them argue it out as he quickly realizes he will definitely not be catching teenagers, and pivots to scanning for too-drunk stragglers in need of help.

“Keep running your mouth, Harrington, and I’ll let you cool your heels overnight in a jail cell. That what you want?”

“You already did that, remember? Swore you’d never do it again because I was too annoying.”

“You can’t annoy me if I’m not the one there watching you--”

Phil tunes out the rising voices, his attention snagging on something else.

The Harringtons’ entryway was sparse, and the rooms beyond weren’t much better. The whole house had the sterile feel of a museum; untouched and unlived in.

Not even a swarm of teenagers had managed to leave much of a mark. Or at least, not in these few rooms, anyway.

Which is what makes the scraggly note stand out.

It’s taped to the wall right above the phone, but slightly askew, like it’d been thought of last-minute. A little crumpled, like someone half-heartedly tried to peel it off before giving up and pressing it back down.

‘Who puts a phone in the entryway?’ Phil wonders, but then, it is the Harrington’s.

Maybe they need it to find each other in this huge fucking house.

He leans in to read the note, spotting the bold letters at the bottom informing everyone the entire notepad had been custom ordered for RICHARD HARRINGTON, VP.

‘Darling,’ beautiful cursive starts, at odds with the footnote, ‘Sorry that we couldn’t get a hold of you. Your father had a business opportunity, you know how important those are. I’ll send you a postcard. Take care of the house, remember that Martha is coming on Wednesdays now to get the dry cleaning. Do something fun for your birthday!’

It’s signed XOXO, Muffin.

Muffin is, of course, Richard Harrington’s wife, and also a walking punchline. Or at least she is when people aren’t tripping over themselves to stay on her good side.

Weird that she signed it as such instead of with ‘Mom’, but then Muffin always has been a bit…much.

More importantly (besides the fact that they skipped out on their own kids birthday) is the date at the top, which says the note was left Tuesday, March 17th.

It’s currently the middle of May.

Flo’s crossword springs to mind, each guessed word clicking into place beside Steve’s own, still warm, spoken just moments ago.

Abandoned, and ‘She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.’

Ignored and ‘I think you’ll find my old man doesn’t care.’

A cold realization sweeps through Phil, as he recalls the things they’ve all heard other kids say about Steve.

No parents.

Big house.

Always down for a good time.

(‘Neglect is the failure to give somebody proper care or attention.’ Powell had argued on their lunch break, as Phil complained that ‘neglected’ fit the stupid crossword better than ‘estranged’ had.

“Estranged works because it’s when you’re not really talking to someone. Hence the pushing away part. They’re different. Similar! But different.”

“That’s dumb.” Phil argued back.

“You’re dumb.” Powell replied, then laughed when Phil gasped in mock offense. “It’s why you’re getting taken to the cleaners in your divorce!”

“Hey man, come on, too far!”

“Sorry, sorry--” )

All cop’s develop intuition, even the small town ones, and Phil’s kicks in as he stares at the note.

Neglected might be a hard sell for a fifteen year old that drives a BMW, but estranged definitely fits the bill.

(He’s pretty sure neglect does fit the fucking bill no matter how much money the kids parents have, but he’s been on the force long enough to know how these things go.)

He turns on his heel and marches over, sticking himself right in between his boss and the only remaining teenager.

“Where are your parents at, again?” He asks, right over whatever point Hopper was butchering.

“What?” Steve and Hopper both say, before giving the other a look for it.

“Do you know where your parents are at?” Phil asks again, switching up the wording a little just like they’d taught him in the academy.

“Uh…No?” Steve says, seeming too startled to lie. “You’d have to call dad’s receptionist.”

“Okay. And when are they coming back?”

This time Steve tosses a look at Hopper, like Phil’s the one being weird here.

“When they get back.” He says, and it’s like he’s trying to still sound tough, to put forth that King persona, but is fumbling a little now that it’s not Hopper who's asking the questions.

“So you have no idea, at all.” He clarifies, and feels his stomach sink a little.

“I mean, I could also call dad’s receptionist.” Steve says, like that makes it better.

“Whose in charge of you while they’re gone?” And yes he knows it’s a stupid question, knows that Steve is fifteen (he thinks, anyway) and is perfectly old enough

“...I am.” Steve says, right over Hopper’s annoyed; “What the hell, Callahan.”

“Chief, can I talk to you?” He says, turning to face his boss.

Hopper stares back at him in disbelief, before making a show of summoning the last of his patience with a loud sigh.

“You.” He points at Steve. “Sit. Stay.”

“Want me to shake too?” Harrington Jr calls out in an attempt to recover, but Phil’s got a hand on Hopper’s elbow and is dragging the older man away before he can get sucked back in.

“You better have found something good Callahan.” Hopper warns, as Phil snatches the note on the wall as they pass by.

“Hopper,” Phil says quietly, leaning in as he pulls Hopper all the way into the kitchen, kicking empty solo cups as he goes. “I don’t think his parents have been home in a while.”

He shoves the note in the Chief’s face.

“No shit, kid.” Hopper spits, and the nickname sits badly, now that Phil’s heard it spat at Steve the same way.

(Hopper doesn’t mean it, Phil knows he doesn’t.

Hopper’s the best boss Phil’s ever had. The guy’s just a little rough sometimes, gets lost in the little things and needs to be brought back down.

‘He’s got a lot going on, hun, but we’ll get him there.’ Flo says when he’s been really mean, and Phil knows they will, he’s seen it himself, but sometimes he wishes whatever the Chief was healing from would let him go a little faster.)

He grabs the note, eyes scanning over it, and Phil talks a little faster.

“No, I mean, look at the date, Chief. They’ve been gone for months.”

Hopper looks up from the note and gives him the world’s flattest state. “So?”

Phil gapes a little at him. “Isn’t that abandonment?”

In response, Hopper simply steps more into the kitchen, then throws open a door next to the stove. Reveals a huge, walk-in pantry, piled high with all kinds of food.

Stands next to it like it’s a party trick he just unveiled.

“Given the lights are on and that fancy little car of his seems to have gas, I’d say they’re providing for the kid just fine.” He says crossly.

Which isn’t wrong exactly, but it’s not right either.

“Yeah,” Phil protests, “but--”

“Trust me, things could be a lot worse.” Hopper cuts him off. “Save all the pity for someone who actually needs it, and not a kid whose parents’ lawyers will cut both our balls off for even suggesting they don’t care about their kid.”

“Harsh, Chief.” Phil mutters, stung. There’s a small, growing voice in his head that says Steve Harrington does kind of need someone.

That a kid, even one as old as Steve is, shouldn’t be left like this.

“Life’s harsh. Now unless you’re volunteering to watch the kid all night in a cell, I say we call the brat’s parents and this time, we’re gonna hit them with a citation when they get home. See if they ignore that.”

“Please do!” Steve calls loudly, from where he’s still seated on the couch. “It’ll be funny, trust me.”

Hopper goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, before glancing sideways at the island counter covered in solo cups and bottles.

Changes course to pluck an unopened whiskey bottle from the pile, tucking it under his arm.

Storms back out to whatever the Harrington’s call the room Steve’s in, pausing only to stop in front of him.

“Hey.” Steve says, spotting the bottle.

Hopper holds it out. “Oh, I’m sorry, is this yours?”

Steve’s mouth opens, before he catches Callahan’s shaking head. Thinks better of it, and slams it back closed.

Grumbles; “No, sir.”

“Oh it’s sir now, is it?” Hopper says with a snort. “Since you’re so good at eavesdropping, you already know what I’m going to do. Congratulations Harrington, you get out of jail tonight, but,”

He leans forward, putting himself almost nose to nose with the surely teenager, “I will be making sure that this time, your parents pay attention.”

Quick as a shot he’s up and out the door, slamming it close behind him like he forgot Phil was there.

“Good luck!” Steve shouts after him, but it’s clear even he thinks the Chief won their little sparring match.

“Have your parents really been gone since March?” Phil says when the coast is clear, and watches Steve blink at him like he hadn’t realized the younger officer was still there.

“Yeah.” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Every kid’s dream.”

It’s not. Even Phil can tell from the way Steve’s face looks just then, that he knows it’s not.

He doesn’t know what exactly posses him, but the next words out of his mouth are; “You ever get too lonely here, you can stay with me.”

“What?” Steve says, eyes snapping right to Phil’s face like he misheard him.

He’s embarrassed for two entire seconds before deciding, fuck it.

He already offered, he’s not taking it back.

“It’s a big house, kid. You shouldn’t be alone for that long.” Phil thinks about his impending divorce. On the emptiness of the house, with his soon to be ex wife long gone. How that eats at him, sometimes. Adds; “No one should be.”

Harrington Jr. stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Whatever.” He scoffs, but it’s not quite the waspish tone he’d used before.

“You ever need help either, you call me.” Phil says, because that seems important to say too.

He points up at one of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, impossibly high over both their heads. “Even if it’s just to hold a ladder to change one of those lightbulbs.”

Steve’s eyes go up with him then back down, like he’s still not sure this isn’t a joke being played on him.

“I mean it.” Phil says, right as one of the front doors whips back open. Reaches into the pocket of his uniform, and pulls out his card. “You need me, you call.”

“Callahan!” Hopper bellows, and Phil calls out a loud; “Coming!” before making eye contact with Steve once more.

“Take it.” He says, holding out the card, and hopes he sounds like a proper adult when he does.

(Phil often does not feel like an adult, least of which because he’s the youngest in the department by two decades, nevermind the failed marriage.)

“Okay.” Steve says dismissively, but he reaches out.

Takes the card.

It feels like a victory and Phil lets it be one as he leaves the Harrington residence and Steve behind with it. Feels the rot of that be soothed by the fact he at least did something.

(Also see’s Hopper didn’t wait for him, but is instead sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck.

Knows his boss is gonna be pissed at him, but faces the noose anyway.)

“Puppies are expensive.” The Chief tells him darkly, the second Phil opens the door. “And they shit all over the floor.”

“What?” He asks, not always used to his bosses nonsensical ramblings.

He eyes the thermos the Chief’s holding, and wonders if already dumped the whiskey he stole in it.

They all thought the Chief had been getting better, but maybe not…

“Puppies,” Hopper stressed, jamming the hand holding the thermos in Phil’s face (no liquor smell, thank God.) “who have very rich owners, are typically well cared for, even if their idea of care and your idea are different.”

Phil’s face contorts in confusion, eyes following Hopper’s finger pointed middle finger to the fading tail lights of Steve’s BMW.

It takes him a second, but he gets there.

“Steve isn’t a puppy.” He says instantly offended, because teenagers and puppies are very, very different, thanks, and yes okay, he knows it’s a metaphor, but it’s a stupid one.

“Acts like one.” Hopper says, before taking a noisy sip of the thermos.

“He really doesn’t?”

Phil wants to say he complains right back at his boss, but really it comes out as more of a question--because Steve Harrington has never acted like a dog. The kid’s not clingy, or whiny or even loud.

He’s a kid, sure, a teenager that’s obnoxious, but aren’t all teenagers that way, by default?

Phil’s mother certainly said so, though she’d been teasing about it.

(She also said something about how kids who can’t get what they need the right way, will revert to trying out the wrong ways instead.)

“Whatever. Just don’t come running to me when you get too close and Mommy and Daddy show up to remind you it’s none of your business.”

Hopper starts the cruiser, expecting that to be that.

And normally it would be. Phil would leave it alone, even if he disagreed, but today he finds he can’t.

Not when the words from Flo’s crossword are still haunting his head, ‘abandoned’ and ‘neglected’ and ‘pushed away’ lighting up like little warning signs, all pointing towards one very sad kid.

“If they come back.” He finds himself saying.

“Oh, they always come back.” Hopper snorts right back. “Just not when any of us ever want them too.”

Phil doesn’t like that answer, but this time he does leave it alone.

Figures the best he can do for Steve is what he already did. Let him know he saw him. Let him know he understood.

If Steve needs someone, he now knows Phil will come.

He won’t let anyone make him feel bad for offering that, either, because this is the exact thing he signed up to do, when he became a cop.

Even if Harrington never reaches out to him, at least Phil can say he did something. At least he can live with himself.

xXx

Weeks go by.

A month.

Two months and more.

By a year Phil has kind of forgotten about his promise to Steve Harrington, and by the time the Chief has gotten them all involved in some kind of--poisoned pumpkin patch problem, he’s too caught up in trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Hawkins to really think about it.

That is, until the kid himself shows up on his doorstep, with a black eye and a hand hugging his ribs.

Which would be concerning on its own, but it’s worse given that known lawn flamingo thief and constant pain in the police department’s ass, Eddie Munson, is right there with him.

“Hi Officer Callahan.” Munson says, and he, Phil quickly realizes, looks perfectly fine, despite clearly being the only reason Steve seven on his feet. “Uh…Harrington said I should take him here?”

He does not sound certain, and frankly, looks two seconds from bolting.

Given how much Steve is bleeding on him, Phil can’t blame him for it.

“What the hell.” He says, shocked and loose tongued for it. “Did you two get in a fight!?”

“No!” Munson yelps, then immediately stills when the act of it jostles Steve. “I found him like this. He was fucking trying to drive and was weaving all over the place--I got him to stop, and get in my van, but the only thing he’ll say is that I needed to bring him to you!”

Like it wasn’t bad enough the chief had been out of contact all night or that there had been weird people swarming all over town, nevermind all those damn phone calls about loose dogs and--

“You said.” Steve interrupts Phil’s spiraling thoughts, voice sounding oddly strangled, and he'd pay more attention to that if he wasn’t finding new and concerning injuries every second he looked.

“You said I could go to you, for help. If I needed it. Cause Hopper--Hopper’s busy,” Steve’s slurring, Phil realizes and oh god a lot of that blood is on his head, “An’ I didn’t want the kids to worry, but I think…i was wrong, I don’t--I think I’m…I don’t wanna be ‘lone--”

“Okay, okay.” Phil reaches out, tries to take Steve’s weight off of Munson. “Get in here. You too, Munson.”

Expects the latter to protest and is a little surprised to watch as the kid instead helps Steve hobble inside.

“Put him on the couch while I get my first aid kit.” Phil orders, trying not to panic and failing. He has first aid training--more than, actually, because he took it as an elective back when he thought he was going to go to medical school, but that was years ago and Steve looks like he went head first through a blender.

‘Stabilize him now, panic later.’ He orders himself, as Munson settles both of them down on the couch.

“Am I dying?” Steve asks vaguely, to Munson’s increasingly panicked face.

“Nope.” Phil says, voice as firm as he can make it. “Not today.”

He comes over, looking over Steve once again

“You staying Munson?” He asks, more an out for the kid than anything else.

Watches as the older teen clocks that for what it is.

See’s Steve unintentionally lean into his chest, breathing a little weird.

“No man, you’re going to need an extra hand.” Eddie says. “I’m staying right here.”

“Me too.” Steve slurs nonsensically.

“What the hell, me too.” Phil says, just to lighten the mood a little.

Then he drops to his knees and goes about stabilizing Steve.

(At some point Munson decides to help tell his latest flamingo heist story. Phil let him, even if no one had realized he’d pulled off another one again.

He got Steve to laugh, so Phil figures it was worth it, at least. )

Part Two

874 notes · View notes

tsuy4n · 10 days ago

Text

The Artist Who Lives for the Plot

Warning/s: Fem!Reader, Mild language/swearing, Still Chaotic™, Verbal bullying disguised as flirting, petty drama, reader still very much suffering (comically), Unwilling reverse harem, Reader is done with them all (not really)

[a/n]: Woo, Saja Boys! I have nothing important to say... Yeah, enjoy.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, >Part 7<, Part 8

You woke up with a very specific kind of dread.

The kind that coils low in your gut and refuses to leave. The kind that whispers today's the day—and for once, it wasn't being dramatic.

You didn't need a vision. You didn't need tarot cards or the stars to align. You felt it in your bones. This was the day they'd come for you.

And not with knives.

Worse.

With words. With teasing. With war.

You should've known something was off the moment your phone started vibrating like it was trying to escape the counter while you were making breakfast.

A stream of unread messages from your friends (all clinically insane), your manager (marginally more functional), and one particularly concerning voicemail that simply said:

"Are you alive? Blink twice. The group chat is on fire."

You snorted.

Ironic.

You know what else had been on fire? Your apartment building.

You were tempted to reply with that, just drop it in the chat with no context. Let them laugh. Let them panic a little. Maybe both.

Yeah, you'll do that after finishing up your task.

You will, however, message your boss now. You can let your staff job end, but not the artist one. You didn't risk your life for the tablet and sketchbook just to let that career be done with after all.

Though, the real question was: Why the hell was your phone alive?

You'd gone to bed with it stone-cold dead—thanks to five fully grown men who all, very suddenly, refused to lend you a charger. Just for a few minutes. Just to send a single message.

It's not like you were going to report them to the police for emotional damage or something. (Though after their insults, you considered it)

All you needed was to text a friend. To ask if you could crash at their place.

To let someone know your place, and your charger, had both flatlined.

But no.

Petty. All of them.

But despite their words, here it was. Alive. Glowing. Thriving.

Weird morning. Especially because someone had knocked earlier. You opened it despite expecting it'd be one of those annoying boys who wanted nothing more than to already ruin this 'perfect' morning.

Instead?

No one. Just a charger that was neatly wrapped. Sitting there like a peace offering from the universe.

You stared at it for a solid ten seconds before picking it up. No note. No threatening aura. Just… a charger. New. Untouched. Slightly warm.

Whoever the hell left it—angel, ghost, early Santa, or tech fairy, you weren't going to complain.

You stopped believing in Santa years ago, but hey. If he was real and into USB-C now, you weren't about to argue.

You didn't ask questions and simply just took it with the thought: Whatever brings your phone back to life.

After checking your wound and changing the bandages, you made breakfast.

Left it in labeled containers, all carefully stacked in the fridge like some domestic housewife. Or maybe a single mother of five demonic children.

Speaking of five, they were out early. You didn't hear any ruckus or something...

You were probably just knocked out cold. The bed is comfy which is why you took it as them finally acting normal for once.

Who knows? Maybe they're at work, rehearsing like hell.

...

Hilarious.

They came back by noon.

You heard them the moment the front door slammed open—not closed, slammed—like their entrance needed to register on a seismograph.

Thudding boots, raised voices, obnoxious laughter. Not a conversation in sight. Just noise.

It wasn't "we're home."

It was we've returned to ruin your peace.

They'd arrived home loud, clearly on purpose.

Five hours of non-stop rehearsals (thanks to Jinu's tyrannical 6AM call time) and yet somehow, they still had the energy to cause problems.

Baby had flung the door open like a man returning from war, Abby dramatically limped inside like rehearsal had physically wounded him, and Romance whined about needing a new spine. Mystery just slipped through the doorway in silence. Classic.

But you hadn't come out to greet them.

That was weird.

Romance was the first to notice. He paused by your door, leaned in. No footsteps. No rustling. Not even your soft grumbling about noise levels or humanity's many flaws.

"...She asleep?" He murmured, only for no one to answer.

Mystery appears beside him and also copies his action.

Baby went into the kitchen to get a drink, only to stop dead when he noticed a note taped to the fridge. Sloppy handwriting. Quick.

'We're out of chili oil because a certain idiot poured the last bottle on popcorn. You know who you are. P.S. I'm not dead, just busy. Don't knock.'

"Uh…"

Baby didn't even get to finish his sentence before Abby appeared behind him, clearly sniffing around for leftovers. He read the note over his shoulder and blinked. "So she was here. We were gone for five hours."

"Looks like someone didn't miss us." Baby said, acting cool like he hadn't been waiting.

"Not even me?" Abby gasped.

The former scoffed, eyes flicking to his phone like he wasn't checking your activity again. "Romance gave her that charger for what, exactly?"

Jinu entered next, took one look at the note, and scoffed. "Fine. If she won't come to us, we'll drag her out by sheer emotional violence."

And thus, the siege began.

They stomped down the hallway like it was a runway, deliberately letting each step echo off the walls. One of them (Jinu, you'd bet your left kidney) even let out an exaggerated yawn as they passed your room.

"Oh nooo," He groaned, too loud, too fake. "I forgot what silence sounds like. I think I miss it already. Abby, can you mourn for me?"

A knock—just once, knuckle to wood, like a test. A challenge.

You didn't answer.

So they tried harder.

"You think she's still alive in there?" Jinu muttered, eyes fixed on the door like it owed him answers. "Or did she ascend after sketching us...ugh, kissing?"

Abby let out a low whistle, flipping through the sketchbook again with the delight of someone finding blackmail material. "That shading, though. Real passionate. Her lines screamed yearning."

"I'm gonna throw up." Jinu said flatly before shooting them a warning look. They were at it again.

It seems like all those practice they did in the morning weren't enough considering they still have some energy and the audacity to try again.

"You're just mad she captured your good side." Romance chimed in, grinning as he leaned over Abby's shoulder. "Look at you, all soft and pretty. You even clutched his shirt like it was life or death."

Baby didn't blink. He simply leaned back in his chair, smug as ever, resting one ankle over his knee. "Don't be jealous I photograph well. Besides, he was the one looking like he'd melt if I let go."

"I'm setting it on fire." Jinu muttered, voice sharp.

"Don't you dare." Abby hugged the sketchbook protectively. "This is historic. I'm framing it."

Baby just smiled. But his eye twitched.

Cue more dramatic wailing. A fake sob. Someone began slow-clapping—probably Abby. Someone else (definitely Romance) made a gagging sound.

You could hear them moving past your door again, one set of footsteps deliberately dragging like a corpse being hauled across the floor.

"Oh! Oh! Mystery." One of them crooned. "Hey, remember when she called you baby? That was so special."

If you didn't know any better, you'd think Romance was setting you up for some even more shit. That he is.

Another loud knock. Then a pause. Waiting.

Nothing from you.

They persisted. They wanted to see your face. Wanted to hear the click of your door. Wanted you to snap.

"Do you think if I cry enough, she'll call me baby? No? What about 'cursed little meow-meow'?" Romance tried, far too casually for someone begging. "I'd settle for that."

He sounded so sure. Like this was a reasonable negotiation. Like this wasn't the third time this week he tried to emotionally blackmail his way into affection.

Abby scoffed from behind him, arms crossed. "Mystery didn't even ask. She just favored him. Like some divine right.”

There was venom there. Not real, not deadly—just the kind that bubbled out when pride was bruised and someone else had been crowned king.

Jinu leaned against the wall outside her door, voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Must be nice, huh? Getting your favorite sketched like he's some tragic Greek hero."

Baby nodded solemnly, tapping on the door. "Some of us get drawn in traffic. He gets drawn in lighting."

Jinu sighed. "You ever see how soft the shading was? She shaded his jawline like she loved him."

"Meanwhile, I looked like a tax scam with legs." Baby added, a quiet hum of betrayal in his voice. "My hands weren't even finished. Scribbled. Like an afterthought."

Jinu cupped his mouth and turned to the door. "Hey, [Y/n]? I get it. You've got your muse. But he better be paying rent for that kind of favoritism."

From the living room, you could hear someone snort. Probably Romance. Abby muttered something about needing popcorn.

Mystery didn't flinch. Reclined on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, he looked like the picture of disinterest, arms folded, a slow, steady breath. Unbothered.

But the others were watching him.

They didn't say it, not outright, but it was all over their faces. Jinu tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out what game Mystery was playing.

Baby had gone quiet, unusually so, a little wrinkle forming between his brows. Romance narrowed his eyes just slightly, like he could read something in Mystery's posture that he didn't like.

And Abby? He looked like he'd bitten into something bitter.

Mystery didn't gloat, didn't rise to meet their silent accusations, didn't need to. He was calm. Maybe he was smug. Maybe he was just still. Either way, the others noticed.

Silence was a power move. Still, he glanced toward the hallway, just in case.

Baby gave your door one last mournful pat. "At least tell me—was it a kiss with meaning? Or just for shading practice? Because I need to know if I should feel violated or flattered."

Jinu muttered, "We weren't even posed right. My hand was—why was my hand on your thigh, man?"

Baby didn't look at him. "Don't speak to me."

At the other side, your grip on your pen tightened.

So this was the game.

A full petty-voiced, hallway-stomping, emotionally-damaged-circus-level bait operation.

Fine. You have time for this game. You talked to your friends, and you've already announced you're going on a short hiatus on your story.

You've buried men for less.

And yet, you didn't fall for it. Not immediately. Not when they started sighing like they were dying. Not when Baby fake-cried like a wounded anime sidekick.

Not even when they escalated into what could only be described as a coordinated psychological operation powered entirely by delusion, desperation, and unchecked male ego.

For exactly sixty-three minutes and forty-nine seconds, you waited.

You listened.

Every dramatic thump against the wall. Every exaggerated groan. Every insult flung at each other with the kind of flair that only heartbreak, insecurity, and mild art critique could birth. And worse? The teamwork.

Despite everything, they were still outside. Obviously.

Baby was sprawled on the floor like he'd been personally wronged by art itself. One leg twitched lazily as he nursed an imagined injury, muttering to no one in particular.

Jinu sat beside him with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his whole posture radiating indignation. "It's the proportions for me," He said. "Like—why would she give you a back like that? You look like you lost a fight with a baguette."

"No." Baby replied deeply, still staring at the ceiling. "She did that on purpose. I can feel it. That was targeted."

Romance didn't even respond. He was halfway through braiding his own hair with mechanical precision, each twist tighter than the last, as if his anger could be woven into rope.

Abby had gone eerily still. He sat with his arms propped on his knees, hands folded together like he was at a funeral. His eyes were locked on the door. No smirk. No commentary. Just quiet calculation. He hadn't blinked in minutes.

And Mystery… was curled into the far end of the couch, phone in one hand, thumb scrolling idly. He hadn't said a word since they'd started complaining, but his eyes flicked to the hallway every so often. Like he was listening for footsteps. For you.

You haven't come out no matter how much they tried to lure you. They were starting to get restless. At this point one of them was considering breaking down that door.

Or maybe they all did—

Click

The sound of the door unlocking sliced through the silence like a shot. Every head turned.

The door creaked open.

You stepped out, expression unreadable, a pad of paper cradled in one hand like it was something holy. Or dangerous. No fanfare. No apology. Just a quiet, steady calm that made the air feel heavier.

The boys stared.

Your eyes swept over them one by one, patient and clinical, as if you were observing a still life instead of a group of deeply offended demons.

Jinu squinted at you, like your existence alone was a personal attack. His arms were crossed, one brow raised, but his posture was too stiff—like he'd been waiting too long to act casual about it now.

"Oh, wow." He said, his tone all airy mockery. "Look who finally showed up. Should we clap? Or are you saving that for your next emotionally damaging masterpiece?"

You paused, eyes flicking over him in that slow, indifferent way you always did when he was performing. And he was performing.

Trying too hard. Smiling too wide. Letting his voice lift just a little too much on the sarcasm.

Jinu hated that about himself.

That whenever you didn't seem to care, whenever you looked bored or distracted or like your mind was somewhere else—he tried harder. Louder. Sharper.

Like if he could just say the right line, pull the right face, maybe you'd stop looking past him.

It was pathetic.

It was compulsive.

It was you.

"I mean," He added with a little shrug, voice curling at the edge, "if you were aiming for psychological terrorism, the 'kissing-Baby' bit really was inspired. Or do I need to thank you for exploring my sexuality for me?"

You blinked once, slowly. Then took a step forward.

It was so small. So casual. But the hallway shifted with it.

Jinu's mouth opened like he was about to keep talking, but his breath hitched just slightly. He didn't move. Didn't blink.

He thought maybe you'd say something sharp, something mean.

Instead, you just looked at him with a calm that felt unfair. Like you'd already won. Like you didn't even need to try.

"I think," You said, voice calm and thoughtful. "I need to push my art more."

The hallway went still.

The kind of still where even the walls seemed to hold their breath. Your tone hadn't been aggressive, but it carried the weight of certainty, like someone casually preparing to make a deal with the devil and fully expecting to win.

Romance's fingers halted mid-braid. Jinu's mouth hung open slightly, unsure whether to laugh or argue. Abby blinked once, very slowly, like he was rebooting.

Baby's smirk was gone.

He stared at you, not in anger, but in something far more unsettling—stillness. The kind of stillness that predators had when watching something unfamiliar walk into their territory. He wasn't unnerved. But he wasn't amused anymore either.

You took a step forward, just one, but it was enough. Baby straightened automatically, as if something in him recognized the shift even before his mind caught up.

You met his gaze and didn't look away.

"I'm thinking something more textured next time." You said quietly. "Maybe oil. Or charcoal. Something that clings to the page. Something that… glistens."

Jinu let out a breath like he'd been punched in the stomach. "What? No. No glistening. We are not glistening."

You tilted your head slightly, gaze flicking toward Baby. "You wouldn't mind modeling, would you?"

He raised an eyebrow slowly, his expression unreadable. "You sure you want to test that?" He asked, tone flat.

"I'm very sure," You replied, your voice smooth, unhurried. "Because I'm good at capturing the details people try to hide. And I think you have a lot of them."

For a long moment, Baby didn't answer. He just stared back at you, the usual glint in his eyes dulling into something colder, something quieter. Not quite respect. Not quite challenge. But close to both.

Then he shifted his weight back, jaw tightening just slightly.

You smiled. "There it is."

That was when your tone shifted, light and syrupy. "You gonna say something stupid again with that pretty mouth, sweetheart?"

It hit like a slap. Jinu audibly choked. Romance blinked. Mystery...he's Mystery. Abby turned his head so fast his hair fell into his eyes.

Baby still didn't react—not in any obvious way. But his mouth parted just enough to speak, then didn't. He breathed out through his nose.

The eye contact broke only when your gaze went to the paper in your arm. They still had the sketchbook, taking turns in getting to look at it over and over again like something so sacred, keeping it to their room like it rightfully belonged to them.

No matter. As long as they're careful in handling it, it's fine.

Besides, you'll take it back eventually.

You looked up with polite interest, like a doctor calling the next patient.

"Well then," You said, smiling sweetly like some psychopath. "Who's first?"

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then, in the hushed horror of what had just transpired, Jinu went and leaned slightly toward the others and whispered, "Did she just flirt?"

"I think?" Romance asked, blinking like he'd been hit with a flashbang.

Abby squinted. "I feel like I should be taking notes. That felt like flirting and a felony."

"She called me sweetheart." Baby appeared beside them. He blinked once. Slow. Like a program was loading.

Then he tilted his head, lips quirking into that faint, unreadable smirk. "Huh. Didn't know we were doing pet names now. Should I start calling her 'pumpkin' or would that get me stabbed?"

"She's never called any of us sweetheart." Jinu remarks, trying to snap him out of it. "She usually calls us things like 'emotionally bankrupt' or 'a waste of good paper.'"

"Maybe she really hit her head." Romance suggests the thought.

Abby wheezed then glanced a concerned look towards your way.

Meanwhile, you gave them all a pointed once-over, chin tilting up, the smugness practically glowing off you like a sunburn of pride.

"Thought so." You said with a casual flick of your wrist, like they were beneath you artistically and evolutionarily.

And with that, you turned and disappeared into the kitchen like a final boss retreating to your lair.

The five of them stared at the doorway long after you were gone.

"…So we all saw that, right?" Jinu whispered.

"Yeah." Romance said with a blink then nod. "Yeah, we saw her unlock something. In him."

Baby didn't speak. He just picked up the sketchbook that was on the couch like it was holy scripture, and followed after you.

"Don't do it." Jinu called after him.

"I'm not doing anything." Baby replied, voice airy, innocent. Not turning around. Not slowing down either, as he padded toward the kitchen like a man on a mission.

"You're gonna do something." Mystery said flatly. He didn't even sound annoyed—just resigned. The same tone you'd use watching a cat slowly inching toward the one fragile thing on a shelf.

He knows his friend after all.

Baby didn't answer.

But Abby shifted. He slouched, he stretched one leg across the couch like he was settling in for a show, then spoke without looking at anyone.

"He's not special." Abby muttered, eyes fixed on the large window or the view outside. The words came out too fast, too flat—like he was trying to convince someone. Maybe them.

Maybe himself.

But the bitterness slipped through anyway, quiet and sharp like a splinter. And he didn't take it back.

Because he was the one you handed the sketchbook to. You trust him.

So he sat back like it didn't matter. Like he hadn't just clocked the way Baby lit up, or the way the others went quiet.

If there was a race, Abby was already ahead. He just had to make sure it stayed that way.

And from the corner, Mystery turned.

No words. No sound. Just that slight shift. That impossible-to-miss stillness.

Abby didn't look at him. Didn't need to. He could feel it, the weight of that stare, even with Mystery's face half-buried under that wall of hair.

You could never tell what he was thinking, but somehow, it always felt like he knew everything. Like he saw the crack before it even formed.

The glance wasn't sharp, or cruel. But it landed. Quietly. Deeply.

Abby felt it slice clean through the confidence he wore like armor. He exhaled slowly, jaw tight.

Inside the kitchen, you were mid-sip of your drink, leaning against the counter with the kind of smug satisfaction usually reserved for cartoon villains.

Your expression froze the second you noticed movement. And then you sighed.

"Oh god. I can feel the stupid from here." You muttered, not even looking up. "What do you want now?"

"Peace." Baby said innocently. He stepped into the light, sketchbook still hugged to his chest, his eyes wide and glittering with the kind of faux-humility that could only mean trouble. "Forgiveness. Maybe a hug."

Your stare didn't falter. "You want me to kill you. Got it."

He clicked his tongue and grinned. "C'mon, don't be shy. I bring holy artifacts and everything." He waved the sketchbook vaguely before tucking it under his arm.

You raised a brow, unimpressed. "So now it's holy?"

"To me, yeah. It has my face in it. Multiple times."

"Defaced, you mean."

He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. "Only because you see me as art, and art demands suffering."

You made a noise between a scoff and a laugh, and he seized it immediately.

"Oh?" He leaned closer now, elbow on the counter, chin on his palm. "Did you just giggle, Sunshine?"

You visibly recoiled, feeling a sense of deja vu. "Don't call me that."

"But you like it." He said, eyes lighting up. "Remember the face you made when I first called you that? Priceless. Like you'd just been personally victimized by verbal affection."

"I will throw this cup." You sweetly tell him.

"You won't. You like me too much."

Arrogant bastard. But you didn't deny it... idiot.

You went quiet. The slow blink. The blank expression. The subtle reach toward the drawer where the knives lived.

Baby grinned. "See? That's the face. You do like me."

He's repeating lines from that day.

But of course, you didn't flinch. Didn't blink. You just lifted your drink and sipped it like it was wine and not sad powdered juice from the pantry.

"Like is a strong word."

"I'd settle for 'tolerate,'" He offered, smile still sharp, cocky. "Or 'secretly obsessed with but emotionally repressed and incapable of showing it without threats of violence.'"

You raised a brow. Then snorted.

"Believe what you want, Captain Ego."

Baby's smile twitched but before he could make a comeback, you had stepped forward and without ceremony patted his head. Twice. Right on the crown like a kid, or a gremlin, or a cat who'd just bitten someone and was now pretending it hadn't.

"There. Gold star for effort." You said, voice mock-sweet.

Baby visibly froze.

Not just paused. Froze.

His body was still but his brain? His brain was running emergency diagnostics in real time.

System reboot. Confidence overflow. Cooldown: 6–8 business days.

And of course, of course, this was when the others decided to show up.

From the open kitchen archway, four heads peeked around the corner like nosy neighbors.

Romance's eyes narrowed. "I'm the one who wanted head pats and he gets it?? Unbelievable."

"Favoritism." Jinu muttered beside him. He didn't know how many times he'd said that word this week, but he was prepared to keep repeating it like a broken record until he got a turn in that sacred spot. Soon. (Hopefully.)

Beside them, Abby scoffed, casually adjusting the hem of his fitted floral shirt as a breeze (conveniently) fluttered by, lifting the fabric just enough to flash the golden ratio of abs to skin.

"Can't say I blame her." He said, voice smooth, that same faint smirk curling his lips. His gaze softened, just a bit when he recalled something sweet from last night.

"But if it's abs she's into..." He glanced at Baby with something that wasn't quite disdain, but close. "She's already seen the best."

Mystery looked at him, expression unreadable as ever with all those hair. "You've said that three times today."

"And I'll keep saying it." Abby replied, his tone light but far-off, as if reliving the scene in his head all over again. "She gave me the sketchbook. Out of all of us."

Romance groaned. There he goes again. "You're reading into it. She just handed it to whoever was closest."

"I wasn't the closest." Abby's voice dipped just slightly, enough to sound almost wounded. "She chose."

"Okay, Narcissus." Jinu muttered. "Maybe let go of the echo and step into reality."

But Abby was already lost in thought, or was just ignoring him.

From the back, Mystery looked vaguely offended on principle. Meanwhile, Jinu looked like he was about to start a petition.

And Baby? Still frozen in place, one hand hovering over his hair like he'd just witnessed a miracle.

You gave them a saccharine smile. "Try harder." You sing-songed, walking past like you hadn't just emotionally defenestrated someone.

As you disappeared back into the living room, Baby finally moved—lifting a hand to his head like the phantom touch had short-circuited him.

"She touched me." He muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Romance shoved past him. "Good. Move. It's my turn in the emotionally confusing spotlight."

You were curled up on the couch now, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling through your phone like a queen basking in her hard-won victory.

The living room had settled into a temporary calm—no more chaos, no more weird interrogations or backhanded compliments. Just you, the couch, and sweet, sweet digital nothingness.

That is, until a shadow fell over your screen.

"Hey." Romance said, stepping into view like he was making his grand entrance in some drama. His smile was soft. A little dreamy. Uncharacteristically quiet.

You blinked up at him, half-expecting another dumb line or one of his dramatics. After all, he had been thick as thieves with the three stooges who tried to ragebait you earlier.

But the expression on his face wasn't smug or teasing. It was… expectant. Like he wanted this to go right.

From behind his back, he pulled out a paper bag—worn on the edges like he'd been handling it too long or many times.

You raised a brow, suspicious. "If this is another prank, I'm letting Abby shoot you."

Romance snorted, but the way he sat beside you felt careful. Like he didn't want to ruin the moment before it began. "Relax. It's not cursed or anything. Just saw something online and thought of you."

You peeked inside.

And stopped.

Inside were art supplies—sketchpads, a pristine set of colored pencils, technical pens and pencils. High-end ones, too. The kind you used to stare at behind glass or scroll past with a sigh.

They looked expensive, sure, but that wasn't what made your chest ache.

It was the fact that someone thought of you at all.

You hadn't held materials this new in... you didn't even know how long. Just that it felt like forever. Long enough to forget what it felt like to be seen.

Your throat tightened. You blinked hard and swallowed it back.

"This—" Your voice cracked, embarrassingly thin. You cleared it fast and tried again. "This is for me?"

Romance nodded, feeling a bit shy under your gaze.

"For our artist-in-residence," He said, voice lower now. Gentler. "Figured you might want these. You know... since you lost your stuff."

You stared down at the contents, and something lodged itself in your throat.

He wasn't being flashy. Or flirty. Or insufferable.

Just… kind.

You turned your head away quickly, as if you were just adjusting your seat. But Romance stilled. For one agonizing second, he thought he'd messed up. That maybe it reminded you too much of everything you'd lost.

But then he saw you turn back, beaming like he just gave you the stars. A smile so real, so bright, so enchanting, it nearly bowled him over.

"Thank you, Rome."

Rome. A nickname. A soft one. He swore he heard distant bells.

Romance practically sparkled. "That's it? No 'good boy'? No head pats? Nothing?"

"Don't push it, Valentine." You said with a playful side-eye.

He clutched his chest like you'd wounded him, then burst into a warm laugh that filled the space between you.

"Want me to pose for your first masterpiece? Maybe shirtless? With grapes?"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you hugged the bag to your chest.

"Go touch grass."

Jinu leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed, a permanent scowl on his face. That bag you were holding looked like it belonged in a museum the way you were staring at it.

"That traitor." He muttered under his breath—low, like a hiss. But the bite in his voice dulled when he saw how soft your eyes had gone. His shoulders dropped a little.

Mystery stood beside Baby. No one could tell what kind of look he was giving you and Romance, but he did let out a little growl.

For some reason he feels threatened.

"Well played, Romance." Abby's voice came from the back. He huffs with his arms folded in front of his chest.

Baby squinted at the both of you like he was watching a scene from a cheesy romcom.

"What's next? Gonna feed him strawberries on a chaise lounge?" He scoffed, lips twisting into a pout that was 30% judgment and 70% hurt ego.

The living room was peaceful for exactly three seconds.

Then Jinu flung himself onto the armrest beside you like he was auditioning for a tragic opera. One hand over his heart, the other gesturing wildly.

"There she is," He declared, loud enough to summon ghosts. "The artist. The Rembrandt of betrayal."

You didn't even blink at his appearance. "Oh, sorry— I didn't realize the victim complex had legs."

Abby blinked. Baby choked on a snort. Romance discreetly turned his laugh into a cough. Even Mystery looked mildly entertained.

Jinu gaped, hand flying to his chest. "Excuse me?!"

You twirled your pencil like a knife. "You heard me, Kissyface."

He rose to his full height, indignant and dramatic. "You think just because you can smudge graphite like some charcoal-stained oracle from a crumbling dynasty, you have the right— the audacity— to pair me with him?!"

"Face it." You said coolly, resting your chin on your hand as if this was a courtroom drama and you were the judge. "You two had chemistry."

Baby scrunches his face in disgust.

Jinu looked like you'd just accused him of catching feelings (towards you, yes). "Chem—chemistry?! I was leaning in to threaten him!"

"And he leaned back." You replied, all sugar and venom, hands clasped like you were praying for his downfall. "With trust. And yearning."

He pointed at you like a scandalized noble on the verge of a duel. "I want a redraw. And I want it ugly. I want veins. Put rot in my eyes. Make me look like a cursed oil painting someone keeps in a locked basement."

You tilted your head. "Oh? Going for realism, are we?"

"No!" He snapped, flinging his arms up. "I want to haunt people. I want parents to shield their children. I want to be the reason someone drops their croissant."

"Aww~" You cooed, lashes fluttering. "I didn't know you wanted a self-portrait."

The boys oooohh'd like it was a street fight with no ref. Even Mystery coughed behind his hand.

Jinu narrowed his eyes, stepping closer until his knee brushed yours. "You think you're so clever, huh?"

You stood up slowly, letting the tension build between you. "I don't think," You smirked, flicking the chain around his neck just to watch it swing. "I know."

For a moment, neither of you moved. It was all smirks and sharp gazes, tension thick enough to carve names into.

Jinu didn't flinch. He leaned in like he was about to whisper a secret, voice low and wicked. "Careful. You keep poking around like that, you might wake something up."

You didn't back down. "What, your ego?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, sharp and reluctant. Like he hated that he liked the way you talked to him.

Too close. Too loud. Too much.

You were too much, and it was starting to get under his skin—in a way he couldn't shake off. Not since you got his attention that day and actually looked at him like he was human.

Or when you sympathized with him, like you understood something unspoken in him before he even realized he wanted someone to.

And definitely not since you smiled. That one smile. Casual. Soft. Stupidly bright.

It had no right to stick to his ribs the way it did, replaying in his head like a curse.

"I—" Jinu blinked, caught off guard by his own voice. His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up.

He didn't know what he was about to say. Maybe something dumb. Maybe something true. Maybe something that would ruin the game you two were playing.

But before he could speak again, you were lifted.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

One second, you were standing your ground like someone ready to square up. The next, your feet left the floor abruptly, without warning, and a solid arm hooked under your knees like you were some stray kitten getting evicted from a crime scene.

"Up we go." Abby muttered, casual as ever, like you didn't just shriek in protest. Like this wasn't your emotional high point being hijacked in broad daylight.

"ABBY—!"

No response. No guilt. Just him adjusting your weight midair and—god—flipping you around until your arms were over his shoulders like a human backpack.

He moved toward the couch, posture unbothered, eyes half-lidded as he cast a quick glance at Jinu, who still hadn't moved. But his eyes? They were darker than before.

"Looked tense. I'm saving your life." Abby added lazily, as if he were rescuing you from something dangerous.

He settles you down beside Baby like you were cargo being relocated.

The said person (demon) made a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. "...You pick her up every time you feel threatened. It's getting predictable."

He swung one leg over the other and looked like this was all deeply exhausting to watch. Then he smirked, leaned in, and wrapped an arm around your shoulder.

"Bold of you to assume I ever feel threatened." Abby called back, unbothered by the sight.

Whereas, Mystery appears just as smoothly, slipping into your other side like he'd been waiting for his cue. He said nothing, just reached down and took your hand.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it belonged there.

He laced your fingers through his, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

You glanced at him, questioning, maybe even accusing—but he didn't look back. Only watched Jinu, eyes narrowed just slightly, as if calculating whether he’d need to step in again.

"She looks better over here anyway." He said under his breath, voice light but just smug enough to needle.

"Oh, come on." You groaned, trying to shift under the weight of Baby's arm and Mystery's hold. "What is this, a security protocol?"

Romance and Abby now flanked Jinu, all three of them watching with a flicker of amusement like this was some kind of sitcom. You glared at the black-haired boy in the middle.

He's lucky he's got his underlings, otherwise you would've gladly made him eat his own medicine.

Seriously. What the hell was happening?

Was the world ending? Were you dying? Why were they all so touchy all of a sudden?

No—on second thought, this looked less like a tragedy and more like a magazine cover. You felt like you were five seconds away from a reverse harem photo shoot.

And honestly? It was never not flattering to be surrounded by beautiful men.

Even if said beautiful men were absolute children half the time, dragging you into their playground-level power games with zero warning.

The chaos, of course, did not end there. That had only been the opening act.

Because for the rest of the day, the boys turned it into a group effort. They were teaming up now.

Nothing new but it was still horrifying in itself.

Abby kept flirting like he was God's favorite creation. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to showcase the beginnings of his abs (he swore it was just hot in the kitchen, but you knew better), throwing wink after wink like he had them on a timer.

At one point, he leaned against the fridge and actually said, "Go ahead, babe. One-time offer to touch perfection."

You didn't even hesitate.

You pressed a palm to his stomach like a scientist taking samples, all business.

"Good texture." You said calmly as if this was no big deal. "I'm using you for a villain character. Thanks."

Abby froze. Romance choked on his orange juice.

Mystery was subtler. Of course he was. That was his whole thing—sly smiles and thoughtful little gestures that he always passed off as nothing.

He lurked close but never too close, brushed your hair back from your eyes with an excuse about ink smudges, handed you your favorite mug without being asked, adjusted the hoodie on your shoulder like it was a cape that needed fixing. (It just came to you that you needed your own clothes)

When you called him out for trying to "boyfriend" you, he blinked and just gave you a tiny smile without walking away.

You didn't know how to react so you walked away.

Now, Romance was the real threat.

He didn't need volume or antics. He simply existed and said sweet things like he was breathing them out. Flirted because he felt immune. Like he'd earned some sort of title—King of [Y/n]'s Soft Spot, or something equally ridiculous. You suspected he was right.

The others definitely felt it. Especially when you prepped some fruits and left out a personal plate for him.

Mystery saw it. He felt a sense of betrayal.

Because it felt like just yesterday—actually, it was yesterday—when no one was happy about him being the favorites. And now? Now you were just hand-feeding the enemy.

Which is why Baby had thrown himself across your lap for absolutely no reason.

"I think I'm dying." He muttered, flopping dramatically, cheek pressed to your thigh. "My head hurts. I need someone warm and comforting."

"You need a lobotomy." You replied flatly, not budging. "Get off."

He didn't. And maybe out of pity, maybe out of distraction, maybe just because you were scrolling through your phone and not really thinking—you started carding your fingers through his teal hair.

You didn't look down, didn't pause. Just kept scrolling as your nails gently scraped his scalp. You felt him freeze for a moment, then slowly relax.

Then came that smirk. The lazy, smug one.

You didn't look, but you knew. If he said a single word—

"Try. I swear I'm throwing you across the room."

He snorted. "Kinky."

You tried to shove him off, but he only let out a deep laugh, hooking his arms around your waist—or was that a hug? You weren't sure, only that his grin got wider.

They were relentless, but so were you. Always had been. Ever since day one, and you weren't about to roll over and let them have all the fun.

They wanted a rival? They got one.

Sure, they tried to bring you down. Ragebait you. Pick you apart piece by piece until you snapped. But you’d learned from the best.

His name was Gumball Watterson.

After all their shenanigans, you were starving. Which brings us here.

Currently stationed in the kitchen, you were handling dinner prep—volunteered, basically. It just didn’t sit right, letting the sketchbook pass off as payment.

Sure, they were rich, but you didn't like being indebted. Not for free food. Not for hot baths. Not even for reliable Wi-Fi.

You told yourself that until you had money in hand and could confidently slap it down with a smug little grin, you'd pull your weight in the kitchen.

You were in your own world.

The kitchen felt too big for one person, but you weren't complaining. Sleek marble counters. Gas stove. Cabinets that opened like magic with the slightest push.

It was the kind of kitchen you used to pause TikToks over just to stare at the layout. The kind you'd sketch in notebooks when you were younger, dreaming of "someday."

And now, you were in it. Living in it. Okay, temporarily, but that didn't kill the magic.

You moved with purpose, multitasking without missing a beat—slicing vegetables with precision while mentally narrating scenes for a cooking vlog you'd never make. Something about "effortless meals in an effortless life," which was a lie, but you liked how it sounded.

And then, of course, you felt it.

A presence behind you. Soft, but deliberate. A little too close.

You didn't even need to look.

"Don't try me, Jinu." You warned, voice light, but sharp enough to pass as a threat. "I have a knife."

(You did. And maybe you were smiling a bit too much while saying that)

"So violent." His voice dripped with mock hurt, eyes wide in faux innocence. "And here I was, hoping to be greeted with a smile."

You turned, finding him leaning against the counter like this was his show. That stupid smirk on his face, eyes scanning the kitchen like he owned the place.

(Which, technically, he did. But you refused to give him the satisfaction)

"I came to assist." He added, still putting on the act, hands held up like he was unarmed and misunderstood.

You squinted at him. "You mean sabotage."

"I'd never." His voice was mock-hurt. "I'm deeply offended. Chef."

That last part was added with a slight bow and a flourish of his wrist, like he expected applause. You stared at him, unimpressed.

Still, you handed him a cutting board.

"Fine. But if you ruin this, I'll force-feed it to you and make you rate it out of ten."

"Is that a threat or a date?"

You pointed your knife at him. He wisely said no more.

You were attempting a Korean-Chinese dish you'd seen online: jjajangmyeon. Rich, savory, dark. You'd always wanted to try making it from scratch, but the ingredients were pricey, and the time? Yeah. Who had time?

Apparently, you did now.

There was something satisfying about the way Jinu moved around the kitchen. Efficient. Almost graceful. He didn't hover or get in your way, didn't try to take over. Just peeled and chopped quietly, following your lead. The rare type of kitchen partner who didn't make things harder.

You kept side-eyeing him, suspicious.

And yet—no salt where sugar should go. No "accidental" spills. No dumb prank involving wasabi and dessert.

Huh.

You caught yourself smiling, just a little. Just… enjoying it. The peace. The normalcy. A warm kitchen and the sound of bubbling sauce, someone next to you who wasn't trying to ruin your life.

Your fingers reached for the drawer to grab a ladle—

And stopped. A hand was already there.

Yours, and his.

You both looked down at the same time.

Silence.

His hand was larger than yours, but not by much. Calloused and warm. There was no weird tension, just a… pause.

Only this time, his fingers didn't freeze. They moved, slightly. As if hesitating between retreat and—

He noticed. The bandages.

The humor in his face faltered. Jinu's thumb barely skimmed your wrist before he gently turned your arm just enough to see the edge of the wrappings peeking past your sleeve. A light touch—quick, but careful.

You blinked at him.

He didn't say anything. Just stared at your forearm, then back up at you. Like he was assessing damage. Like he gave a damn.

Your brain short-circuited.

You looked at his hand still holding your arm. Then his face. Then back to his hand. Straight-faced. Frozen. Processing.

Jinu suddenly looked like he'd just realized he was touching a live wire.

He jolted upright. He retracted his hand so fast it almost looked rehearsed, like some mental protocol kicked in. His arms snapped to his sides, stiff like he forgot how to function.

"Ladle's all yours." He said coolly, stepping back like a gentleman. Like nothing happened. Like he hadn't just glitched in real time.

He was trying not to look at you, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder like the ceiling fan had just become fascinating.

You didn't say anything. Just took the utensil and turned back to the pot. His touch lingered yet instead of being flustered you were trying not to laugh because what was that?

The whole thing felt like it crawled straight out of some cringy romance show.

Okay, maybe a little cringe. His hand was nice...and there was a flicker of worry in his eyes.

Jinu hovered for a second longer, then busied himself with wiping down the counter like his life depended on it. Like the silence had teeth.

He cleared his throat, voice a little stiff, ears betraying him with the faintest flush. "So… how's the sauce?"

You didn't look up. "Thick. Like your skull."

He blinked once. "…Solid burn."

A smug little smile tugged at your lips. He smiled behind your back, trying to look unfazed, but the curve of his mouth was just shy of flustered.

And just like that, the moment passed. Sort of.

You went back to stirring like nothing happened. No big deal. Just another normal cooking session. No hand-touching. No lingering eye contact. No weird pauses.

Behind you, Jinu hovered. Too quiet. Too still.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He was staring at the back of your head like it had personally betrayed him. When you caught his eye, he jumped slightly—then played it off with a clumsy stretch and a quick tug at the collar of his shirt.

"Whew. Hot in here, huh?" He blurted out, voice louder than necessary, already fanning himself. "Is it the stove or… chemistry?"

You blinked. Slowly. "What."

He coughed into his fist, looking like he wanted to crawl into the nearest drawer. "I mean— the stove. Definitely the stove. Ha. Ha… ha…"

You stared and he did the same.

You squinted at him. Jinu didn’t move, but his posture suddenly screamed guilty statue. "…Did you just flirt?"

His brows snapped together, and his ears flushed crimson—traitorously loud against the usual smug mask.

"No." He said a little too fast, voice climbing like it had something to prove. "Maybe— Shut up."

You blinked, like you couldn't believe what just came out of his mouth. Then, with all the grace of a daytime soap actor, you raised the ladle like it was Mjölnir and you were worthy.

"Oh my god. You did." Your eyes were wide at first, stunned, then narrowed with teasing delight.

"Okay, wow." He stepped back, hands raised like you were about to throw something. "Hostile kitchen energy. I am being persecuted for helping and also being hot."

You grabbed a stray green onion and flicked it at him.

He caught it with a dramatic flair—spinning it like a baton. "Still got it."

You shake your head. "Get out."

"I was already leaving!" He declared, pointing toward the door like a man who had made an executive decision. "Too pretty for manual labor anyway."

Your brow arched. A small scoff slipped out as you turned back to the pot, that tiny smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Idiot.

He paused in the doorway, half his face still in view—grin cocky, but eyes flicking uncertainly toward you, like he was waiting for some kind of cue.

"You're welcome, by the way."

You looked at him, unimpressed. "For what?"

He shrugged, like it was nothing. "Not ruining dinner. And uh… for the—" He wiggled his fingers vaguely. "—hand-holding."

Your eyes narrowed. "You touched my hand and froze like the WiFi cut out."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. No words. Just existential regret.

You waved him off with your ladle. "Shoo."

He faltered.

"Okay, bye. Uh—b-bye." He stammered, throwing up awkward finger guns like his body couldn't decide what to do. "I'm leaving. Yeah." He spun around to go, paused, then spun back in, pointing vaguely at nothing. "Cool. Chill. Uh—"

You didn't even look up. "Door's that way."

"Yep. Knew that. I live here, by the way." Realizing he rambled on, he whispered his scolding to none other than himself.

And just like that, Jinu disappeared—like he was trying to physically outrun the memory of the past thirty seconds.

You stirred the pot again, fighting off the grin. But the way your shoulders trembled betrayed you. You bit your lip. A tiny laugh escaped.

Then another. A louder one.

You wiped at your eye as the laughter rolled out, helpless now. It wasn’t disappointment, not really. Just this dumb warmth bubbling under your skin like the simmering stew.

Loser, you thought, chuckling to yourself.

…But you kind of liked him.

Somewhere down the hallway, Jinu had to stop.

He didn't know whether to curl up in a ball, run into traffic, or just lie face down on the tile for the next century. So instead, he leaned back against the wall, running both hands over his face, groaning into his palms like he was trying to physically erase the memory.

You laughed.

Not just laughed. Full-on cackled like he was a walking sitcom special.

He'd take it as a win—if it didn't feel like his dignity had just thrown itself out the window. His face was so red it practically glowed in the dim lighting. He stayed there for a minute. Maybe two.

"Smooth, Jinu." He muttered under his breath, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Real smooth."

Eventually, he marched past the living room without saying a word. The others were sprawled on the couch, probably heard everything by how they stared at him like they wanted to say something but valued their lives too much.

He ignored them.

Straight to his room. Door shut. Goodbye world.

—

Dinner passed in a blur of teasing remarks, second servings, and the chaotic clatter of utensils as the boys tried to act like your cooking wasn't the best thing they'd had all week.

It was.

The gochujang sauce hit hard—too hard for some.

Abby coughed through the first bite, eyes watering, muttering something about betrayal while still reaching for another piece.

Romance tapped his chest like it might calm the burn. Mystery didn't say a word, just kept eating with quiet endurance. Jinu kept sipping water between bites, red-faced but determined.

Only Baby seemed unfazed, clearing his plate with calm efficiency and even spooning extra sauce on top.

You watched him with faint amusement, secretly pleased that someone was genuinely enjoying your creation. He looked effortlessly cool even now, casually blowing on a steaming bite before popping it into his mouth. Cute.

"You guys asked for a surprise." You said, biting back a smirk and trying to act all poised. "This one bites back."

"Yeah, well—it bit me first." Abby croaked, reaching for his fifth glass of water. "You could've warned us!"

"I did." You replied innocently, barely holding back a smirk. "I asked what you all wanted for dinner. You said, 'Surprise us, princess.'"

Romance let out a long, betrayed groan and collapsed over the table like the spice had just ended a long-term relationship with him.

"This isn't food." He whimpered, face buried in his arms. "This is a punishment."

Jinu, red-faced and hiccupping like a malfunctioning kettle, struggled to maintain what little pride he had left. "Well—the, uh, texture. The tofu. Very silky. Great mouthfeel."

You blinked then held in a laugh. "Did you just say mouthfeel?"

He looked like he regretted everything. Again.

Mystery? Still eating. Quiet. Stoic. Suffering in silence.

Dinner continued in loud chaos—chopsticks clattering, water being poured and spilled, praises slurred through mouthfuls.

You only rolled your eyes and told them to shut up and eat.

And they did.

—

Later that night, you were curled up in bed, phone balanced in one hand, your other leg bouncing lazily under the covers. The group chat was going feral—your friends all-caps screaming over Huntrix’s newest drop.

🎧 GOLDEN IS OUT‼️ GO LISTEN‼️ IT'S A MASTERPIECE??? I LOVE MIRA. RUMI. ZOEY. HUNTR/X NEVER MISSES.

You laughed under your breath, replying with a flurry of emojis before clicking the link.

The song opened with a slow build—soft synths shimmering like city lights underwater, pulsing gently in your ears. Then came the beat: steady, unhurried, like a heartbeat finding rhythm.

And then that voice. Smooth, aching. Familiar in the way favorite songs always are.

I was a ghost, I was alone Eoduwojin apgilsoge (Hah) Given the throne, I didn't know how to believe (Hah)

Your gaze drifted up to the ceiling, where the soft glow of your nightlight stretched long shadows across the room.

From the living room came the muffled sound of laughter—familiar voices, the clink of glasses, someone shushing someone else far too loudly. The boys were still awake.

You exhaled, quiet and long.

Then your eyes fell to the bandages wrapped around your forearm, and for a moment, you replayed the memory in your head—reaching for the ladle, Jinu's hand brushing yours, the way he froze like his brain had blue-screened.

And how, instead of teasing you for once, he looked at your arm. Just looked. Like something fragile. Like it meant something.

Then your gaze flicked to the desk—Romance's gift bag sat there, still safely hidden inside it. You'll organize them tomorrow.

Today had been… chaotic. Noisy. Dumb, even. Baby had flung himself across your lap like a sleepy cat, groaning about a "migraine". You're still under the impression he only just wanted to be coddled.

Abby had picked you up earlier like it was nothing, making you yelp in surprise—and then just stood there, calm and sturdy, as if to say I've got you without needing the words.

Even Mystery, quiet and unreadable, had wordlessly placed a glass of water beside you when you thought no one was watching.

They'd teased you, poked at your patience, baited a meltdown—but underneath all the ridiculousness was something softer. Something steady. Like they'd made room for you without needing to say it aloud.

And you felt it.

For once, your life didn't feel like it was slipping past without touching you.

It felt alive.

Like maybe this noise, this mess, was something worth holding onto.

Your eyes softened as the chorus rose, swelling bright and full in your ears.

You know together we're glowing Gonna be, gonna be golden…

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe it.

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #saja boys #saja boys x reader #reverse harem #female reader #reader insert #baby kpdh #jinu kpdh #romance kpdh #abby kpdh #mystery kpdh

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lacobus · 2 months ago

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[ nsfw ] fun and games

tags: groping and teasing + mark using his strength to his advantage and your entertainment

☆ ... biting off more than you can chew is always fun with mark.

it's a lazy afternoon. mark hasn’t heard from cecil in hours, and he intends to take advantage of the radio silence while it lasts.

he lets himself drift in and out of shallow sleep. feeling the high noon sun fall over one of his outstretched legs. only barely hanging off the edge of his mattress and deliciously warm.

you’ve effectively glued yourself to him without much effort. clinging to his side and murmuring about something he can’t quite understand. your stories usually reel him in, but because of the precarious (lazy and cozy) circumstances, he finds himself compelled to close his eyes and lie so still he can feel the earth rotating on its axis.

whenever he closes his eyes for too long, you run your hands across his body. squeezing and groping the sinew of his muscles— playful and ridiculously endearing.

mark doesn’t think much of your hands and the way they roam his body. featherlight and curious as you appraise every part of him. his biceps first, then his pecs and then down to his abs.

he jolts when he feels one of your featherlight hands skim across the edge of his boxers. a finger tracing a line over his waist back and forth. coyly lifting up the garter band before letting it snap down.

he catches your offending hand, “whatcha doin’ ?”

you purse your lips, trying not to smile but failing. a lip splitting grin spreading across your face as his hand only tightens around yours.

“just exploring,” you sheepishly smile up at him.

he snorts, bringing up his free hand to rub the short lived sleep from his eyes. “totally nothing you haven’t felt or seen, yeah?”

“oh shut up grayson,” you wriggle to get even closer like you aren’t plastered to his side.

he still hasn’t let go of your hand, and you aren’t exactly backing down either. your free hand attempts to continue fiddling with the garter of his boxers but he easily engulfs your hand with his again.

“yeah,” he smirks at you with half lidded eyes. “two can play at this game too.”

with little effort he flips both of you so that you’re totally flat on the mattress.

“mark!” you exclaim when you feel his hands cup the figure of your waist.

he doesn’t look back up at you, instead he slides his thumbs into your shorts and hooks them into your underwear. teasingly tugging downward which makes you squirm.

“hey i’m just playing along,” he laughs in your face. “isn’t this what you wanted?”

you stick out your tongue, “well you aren’t really playing fair are you?“

he shakes his head, but shifts upward to kiss you on the forehead and then on your lips. “nah, but it’s fun isn’t it?”

mark only laughs— an incredibly sweet noise —when you let him take off your shorts and underwear in one fluid motion. only then does he let you fully dip your hand into his boxers.

#who ; mark #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #maybe mark is ooc here but ill just say he's playful here #btw lfmaofofo my 2nd piece on teasing free me!!!!!

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ittybittyfanblog · 9 months ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 2

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a–less–oblivious player. That’s it, that’s the plot. A/N: Ok, I’ve decided to make this by series, so this one’s just going to be purely Sylus. I hope nobody minds the specific names/places/etc. I wanted to create a personality for the “player” and add a bit of backstory work (loosely based on yours truly lol) for the sake of storytelling, but there won't be any distinct description of the player’s physical appearance <3 Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, bouts of delusion

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

Riiiiing– RiiiNGGGGG––

...

“Huh… whazat—?”

A shrill—earsplitting, headache-inducing, completely fucking loud—noise wakes you up rather rudely from your peaceful slumber at… Jesus Christ, what time is it?

You blink your bleary eyes open, once… twice—fuck, all you know that it’s too goddamn early for all this ruckus. Groaning, you clumsily try to find the source of the unexpected wake-up call. Quite literally in this case.

Your hand bumps the vibrating phone straight off the edge of the mattress—along with the charger cord still attached to it—and you cuss up a storm when you hear it clatter on the hardwood floor.

The ringing finally stops, and you’re perfectly content to leave it there and fall back to sleep when, not even ten seconds later, the blasted thing rings back to life, taunting you awake.

Angrily, you wrestle against the threadbare blanket wrapped around your body like a warm cocoon, pushing yourself out of bed with all the rage of a sleep-deprived insomniac who’s been up til the buttcrack of dawn to grab your—huh, relatively intact—phone off the ground, while the charger cable swings haphazardly from the weight of the power brick on its tail end.

Without checking the caller, you swipe right to answer. “What?”

“Don’t use that tone on me, young lady,” Your mother grouses on the other end of the line. “It’s almost noon! Did you just wake up?”

Barely five hours of sleep. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you shut your eyes and sigh. “No, mom. Sorry, just had a late night,” you clear your throat in an attempt to sound more composed. “What’s up?”

“Oh, dear. Is it because of work again?” Something akin to sympathy replaces the sternness in her voice, and you dread the all-too-familiar spiel that comes next. “You know, honey, there’s a job opening for a– what was it again? I have to double check, but it’s where your Auntie Helen works. You know your Auntie Helen—”

“Mom,” you interrupt, before she could go off on a tangent. “Work is fine, don’t worry. Why d’you call?”

“Should I need a reason to call my daughter who's living by her lonesome, a country away from—”

“Mom!”

“Oh, alright,” she finally relents, sounding slightly exasperated. “Were you able to book me and Jodie the roundtrip flight to Orlando? Your cousin’s wedding is barely a month away and I want all the documents ready by now, sweetie.”

Shit. “Ah— yeah. I’ll email you the flight itinerary in a bit, I’m just–” you catch sight of your protruding hamper, innocuous but an eyesore nonetheless, right by the doorway of your humble studio unit. “I mean, I just left the condo. To do errands and stuff. I’ll send the details to you when I get back home, okay?”

“Okay, honey,” she sighs. “You stay safe outside now. Don’t talk to strangers.”

“I am a perfectly responsible adult—” The call disconnects. “Hello? Great.”

You rub away the remnants of sleep from your eyes, fully aware that your day’s already started, despite your reluctance. Might as well get a head start on today’s agenda.

First thing’s first– brunch. Oh, it’s almost one. Lunch, then. I could maybe grab a hotdog from the corner store before heading to Landers. Oh wait, laundry. Gotta pass by the laundromat downstairs, too. Ugh, c’mon, chop-chop.

Just as you’re about to stand up from your supine position on the floor, another ping! pulls your attention back to your phone. “Mom, I swear–”

Ah, you’re finally awake. You’ve had a very long night, kitten. Take it easy for the day – make sure to get enough rest between errands.

I’ll know if you don’t.

Your heart skips a beat.

Oh! Um. That’s… new.

… Apparently another one on the growing list of “new features” from the latest update. It doesn't sound like an invitation for you to open the game, strangely enough. It's not a call to action to claim your daily stamina, nor a prompt for you to check your Galaxy Explorer rewards.

It’s nothing more than a greeting, really. Just one that’s particularly targeted at you, with unnerving accuracy.

You recall the weird (?) events from last night, and the now-erratic beating of your heart suddenly picks up a notch. From the unexpected dialogues to the outrageous amount of dias you’ve somehow ended up with—something you still think is some kind of glitch in the system—you can’t shake the feeling that you’re living out the plot of a Black Mirror episode, as fucking dumb as it sounds.

Not to mention during Quality Time, Sylus_v2.0 (as you so lovingly dub this version of him in your mind) had been acting more aware of you.

And you’re not talking about the pre-programmed glances that you usually get. No– it’s like he actually hears you.

He doesn’t say anything. But whenever you make a comment, or utter something under your breath, he reacts with a huff or a hum—depending on the context. If it’s a slew of expletives aimed at your boss, the reaction you’re met with is one of amusement. A snort; sometimes a quiet laugh, if you’re lucky. When you say something self-deprecating, however, it elicits the heavier sighs, the sharp clicks of the tongue.

At one point, you heard him make a low sound of dissent, something close to a... growl, almost, after making a casual joke about being just another cog in the machine and how offing yourself wouldn’t really matter in the grand scheme of late capitalism. As you oft do.

Your eyes met, and for a split second, it felt like you weren’t looking at just pixels. His gaze weighed heavy on you—almost accusatory.

It made you feel… naked, somehow. Perceived.

You recall how quickly you averted your eyes from his, face flushing hotly from a feeling you couldn’t put into words.

Bone-tired from last night’s (morning) overtime, you didn’t have the time to look up the news on this recent version update—although you really don’t remember any notifications in-game—so you quickly Google, “sylus acting sentient in rcent update loveamd Deepspace???” on your phone browser.

You scroll down for a bit, but none of the search results yield any relevancy, nor are they in any way similar to your current… predicament.

(Okay, so calling it a predicament is a little unfair. You’re not exactly complaining about anything per se. No complaints from you. At all.)

Deciding that you’d do a deeper dive on Twitter (X) at a later time instead—probably tonight when you do your daily login—you briefly press the side button to lock your phone… not without a final peek at the banner notification from Sylus.

You press your lips together in an effort to hold back the stupid giggle bubbling up your throat.

Unfortunately, all the self-control in the world can’t help you and your need to have the last word—from what even—so you ask aloud, to no one except the person you've deluded yourself into thinking is a valid recipient of your one-sided conversation:

“... Yeah? And what if I don’t?”

You’re not really waiting for a response (or were you?), but the nervous flutter in your stomach betrays the impatience you're trying to mask with casual indifference. It’s small, unassuming—but there.

Impatient for what, exactly, you’re not sure. But maybe, just maybe—

Feeling a bit braver now, are we? How bold. Care to say that to my face, sweetheart?

Oh.

An inhuman noise escapes your throat, embarrassingly loud, almost a keen, and you fumble with the device in your hand; the new banner notification still in full view—taunting you.

You don’t know what to think, you don’t know how to feel. You–

Spring up, like an agitated jack-in-a-box, and the sudden rush of blood in your head leaves you dizzy. You’re a molotov cocktail of emotions; one more bombshell surprise and you might just blow.

“I’m– later, okay? Uh,” Whew, girl, keep it together. “I need–I need to go.” You almost stumble as you speed walk towards the bathroom.

If you hadn't switched your phone to silent, hadn't made the conscious effort to ignore any incoming messages, notifications, and whatever else, in a rush to get dressed and go about your day as if it's just like any other weekend—nope, nothing unusual here—you would’ve seen one last cheeky reply:

Of course, sweetie. You take care now.

Don’t talk to strangers. X

Endnote: This one's pretty short, but I’m world-building, trust.

Thanks for reading!

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus x oc #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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meadowfics · 14 days ago

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twenty-four seven

namgyu x f!barista!reader

synopsis: working at a coffee shop on an overnight shift never attracted the normal crowd. well, you weren't normal either.

warnings: yearning! fluff! one mention of drugs.

a neon sign, 'sunset brew cafe' glows above with orange and purple neon lights as you push open the heavy glass door to your job.

the familiar chime of the bell above signals the start of another overnight shift. the air inside is tinged with the rich, earthy scent of freshly ground coffee beans. its nice, and the faint sweetness of pastries baking in the back of course.

it’s 9:50 pm, ten minutes before your shift officially begins, but you’re already getting into the rhythm for the overnight.

sipping on your needed three shots of espresso with oat milk and lavender splashed in, your café hums with a quiet energy. the dim amber lights cast soft shadows across the worn wooden floors and matched wooden tables.

outside, the city glows with streetlights and the distant noise of nightlife clubs that are blocks away.

in here, it’s calm that thrives when most of the city sleeps or parties.

you love the overnight shift.

it’s not for everyone since most of your coworkers dread the late hours. some of your coworkers who come into work at the time when you get off wonder how you can do it.

the upside-down schedule that has you sleeping through daylight and waking as the sun dips below the horizon. for you, it’s perfect. there’s something about the stillness of the night, the way the world feels softer, quieter, that suits you.

you don’t mind the solitude of sleeping while others are at work, or the way your internal clock has shifted so dinner feels like breakfast and midnight is your noon.

the overnight shift at sunset brew is a sanctuary that get paid to be in.

the café itself is a cozy space, open 24/7 to cater to the city’s nocturnal creatures. its walls are lined with mismatched art like vintage 1960s posters, local paintings, and a chalkboard menu that hasn’t been updated in weeks but still gets the job done. the counter is a long stretch of polished wood, scratched and scuffed from years of use, with three gleaming espresso machines at one end and a glass case of pastries at the other, the ovens behind.

your schedule is steady: monday, tuesday, thursday, and friday, 10 pm to 7 am. nine hours of pouring drinks, wiping counters, and making small talk with the night owls who pass through.

the overnight crowd is a predictable mix.

nurses and doctors, their scrubs wrinkled from long shifts, come in for quick espresso shots or iced lattes to keep them going. police officers, bleary-eyed from patrolling the city’s darker corners, order black coffee and maybe a donut if they’re feeling indulgent.

then there are the partygoers, spilling in from the club district a few blocks away, their laughter loud and their outfits glittering under the café’s soft lights.

they’re usually tipsy, sometimes messy, but they tip well and keep the night interesting.

then there’s namgyu.

he’s a regular, one of the few constants on your overnight shifts.

you see him four times a week, like clockwork, usually just before midnight. he slips through the door quietly , his long hair falling in soft waves around his face, and orders the same thing every time.

a 15ounce iced cold brew with one packet of raw sugar.

you remember the first time he ordered it, months ago now.

you’d suggested liquid sugar, explaining how raw sugar tends to sink to the bottom of iced drinks, undissolved and gritty.

namgyu, calm, had just shrugged and said, “raw sugar’s fine.”

the guy's voice was smooth, like he wasn’t in a hurry to explain himself.

you’d nodded, a little flustered by his nonchalance, and made the drink exactly as he asked.

since then, it’s been the same routine.

he comes in, orders his cold brew, sometimes adds a pastry...a pumpkin loaf slice if he just needs to force himself to eat, or a lemon pesto sandwich when he’s feeling hungry and leaves with a quiet nod.

namgyu doesn’t linger, doesn’t chat like some of the other regulars who lean on the counter and tell you about their shifts or their nights out.

there’s something about him that draws your eye every time he’s in the café.

maybe it’s the way he moves, or how he wears black all of the time, or the sharp angles of his face that somehow manage to look soft, like a painting you can’t stop staring at.

namgyu's features are pretty. high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes that seem to look soft.

you’ve always thought he looks like an expensive cat, sleek and graceful.

namgyu's hair is another thing you’ve noticed.

when you first saw him, it was just past his ears, dark and slightly tousled.

over the months, it’s grown longer, now brushing his shoulders, and it suits him so well you can’t imagine him without it.

you’ve caught yourself watching him as he waits for his order, standing by the window or scrolling on his phone at one of the tables.

you’re careful not to stare too long, or so you thought.

your glances felt subtle, quick darts of your eyes when you thought he wasn’t looking.

last night, when you called out sickroom work because of a fever, something happened.

you’re in the back break room now, tying the strings of your black apron around your waist, the familiar routine grounding you as you prepare for another shift.

the room is small, cluttered with a fridge stuffed with oat milk and nonfat creamer, a rickety table, and a couple of chairs that have seen better days. the fluorescent light overhead buzzes faintly, but you’ve learned to tune it out.

you’re just finishing the knot when dev, your coworker and self-proclaimed gossip queen, saunters in.

he’s tall, lanky, with a mop of curly hair and a grin that screams messy. you two bonded early on over your shared love of dissecting pop star drama and rating the attractiveness of the café’s male customers, a game that’s kept you both entertained during slow shifts.

“soooo, guess what happened last night?” dev says, his voice pitching up in that teasing, singsong way he uses when he’s got something juicy.

he leans against the fridge, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

you roll your eyes, already expecting some workplace drama.

“jennifer and eun-ju got into a fight on the floor again?” you scoff, picturing the two baristas who can’t stand each other but have a history that’s way too complicated for coworkers.

those two and their arguments are legendary, usually fueled by petty grudges and what you’re pretty sure are unresolved hookups.

“nooo,” dev draws out, his grin widening.

“do you know namgyu? the regular that comes in?”

your heart does a little flip, though you try to keep your face neutral.

“i do,” you say, keeping your tone casual even as your curiosity spikes, “what happened?”

dev’s eyes gleam with mischief, “don’t be scared, but i think he likes you.”

your eyebrows shoot up, and you let out a disbelieving laugh.

“shut the fuck up.”

“no, i’m not kidding,” dev insists, practically bouncing with excitement, “he came in last night and was, like, looking around the café, all confused. i took his order, and made his drink aka an iced cold brew, one raw sugar... you know the drill... and when i handed it to him, he asked where you were. i told him you were sick, and he just nodded and left but, like, he was looking for you.”

you laugh again, but it’s nervous this time, your cheeks warming despite yourself.

“you’re overanalyzing it,” you say, trying to brush it off, but your smile betrays you.

it’s wide, uncontrollable, and dev clocks it immediately.

“oh my god, you’re cheesing!” he squeals, clapping his hands together, “no, i’m telling you, your crush has a crush on you and...get this... he works at club pentagon, you know, that spot where thanos hangs out?”

you pause, processing this new piece of information.

club pentagon is one of the biggest clubs in the club district, a sleek, purple neon-lit venue where the city’s nightlife elite like rappers, influencers, and the occasional celebrity... go to party or get high.

you’ve never been, but you’ve heard stories from coworkers who’ve ventured there on their nights off.

“thanos, the rapper?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, “namgyu knows him?”

“yep,” dev says, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis.

“i’ve been there with matt and ji-ho, and i’ve seen them talking. they’re, like, acquaintances or something.”

you smirk, seizing the chance to turn the tables.

“so you’ve been hanging out with ji-ho again, huh?”

dev’s face flushes, and he waves a hand dismissively.

“don’t change the topic. you know namgyu is coming in tonight to get a booster before his shift, and you’re going to talk to him.”

“no, i will not,” you say, shaking your head as you finish tying your black apron, “i’m such a puss, dev.”

“come onnn,” he protests, following you as you grab the broom and head out to the bar floor, “it’s clear he’s attracted to you.”

“i’ll think about it,” you mutter, more to shut him up than anything else.

you start sweeping the floor, the rhythmic motion calming your nerves even as your mind races.

namgyu, asking about you?

it’s probably nothing, just polite curiosity.

the thought of him noticing your absence, maybe even missing you, sends a thrill through you that you can’t quite shake.

when you step onto the floor,a small sound of music from the cafe speaker plays. tyler the creator's 'boredom' plays.

you settle in and sweep behind the counter, the bristles of the broom scraping softly against the floor.

the espresso machine grinds the coffee that dev is making for a mobile order.

you glance at the analog clock on the wall...10:02 pm.

your shift has officially begun.

the first hour passes in a blur of small tasks with restocking cups, refilling the sugar caddy, wiping down the counter.

a couple of nurses come in, their voices tired but friendly as they order their usuals.

you make their drinks with practiced ease, chatting about their shifts at the university hospital down the street. right before the nurses leave, a group of partygoers stumbles in, their laughter loud and their eyes glassy from a night of dancing.

they order a round of iced mochas and tip you generously, leaving a trail of glitter on the counter that you’ll have to clean up later.

whatever.

all the while, you’re hyper-aware of the door, your eyes flicking toward it every time the bell chimes.

you’re waiting for him, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.

namgyu usually comes in around 11:30, maybe 11:45 if he’s running late.

you wonder what he does at club pentagon.

is he a bartender? a bouncer?

maybe a DJ, spinning tracks for the crowd while thanos raps on stage.

you try to picture him in that world, surrounded by flashing lights and pulsing music, but it’s hard to reconcile with the quiet, reserved guy who orders his cold brew and leaves without a fuss.

at 11:20, the bell chimes, and your heart skips a beat.

you glance up, expecting to see him, but it’s just a cop, his uniform crisp as he orders a black coffee and a blueberry scone.

you force a smile, hiding your disappointment, and get to work.

get it together, y/n.

the minutes tick by, and you start to wonder if maybe he’s not coming tonight.

maybe he’s off, or maybe he’s at the club, caught up in whatever it is he does there.

at 23:37, the door swings open, and there he is.

namgyu steps into the café, still quiet but casual.

he’s wearing a black hoodie tonight, the hood up, and his long hair spills out from under it, framing his face.

the man's eyes scan the room briefly before landing on you, and for a split second, you swear you see a flicker of something...relief, maybe? before his expression settles back into its usual calm neutrality.

he approaches the counter, hands in his pockets, and you feel your pulse quicken.

“hey,” you say, your voice a little too bright.

you cringe internally, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“the usual?”

he nods, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile.

“yeah. iced cold brew, one raw sugar.”

you turn to start his order, your hands moving on autopilot as you scoop ice into a cup and pour the cold brew from the pitcher. you rip open a packet of raw sugar, the grains glittering as they fall into the dark liquid.

you give it a quick stir, knowing full well it won’t dissolve completely, but it’s what he wants.

namgyu leans lightly against the counter, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black hoodie, watching you when you turned to grab the pitcher of cold brew from the fridge behind the register.

your movements are practiced, but there’s a quiet grace in the way you navigate the small space, the hem of your apron swaying slightly around your hips as you reach up.

a glow from the café’s amber lights catches the curve of your cheeks, and he notices the way a loose strand of your hair sways, brushing against your cheek.

namgyu's fingers twitch, like a fleeting impulse to reach out and tuck it behind your ear, to see if your eyes would flicker to his with that half-shy, half-playful look you sometimes give when you think he’s not paying attention.

you’re focused, unaware of his gaze, pouring the cold brew over ice with a steady hand, the liquid dark and shimmering in the plastic cup.

namgyu’s eyes linger on the small details.

the way your lips press together in concentration, the faint smudge of coffee grounds on your wrist, the effortless way you move like this late-night world belongs to you.

he’s always noticed it, the way you seem to glow in the nighttime. this is what he likes to see.

the cold brew isn't the booster before his shifts as a club promotor, its you.

he shifts his weight, the faintest smile threatening to pull at his lips, but he stays silent and straight faced, letting the moment stretch, his thoughts caught on the idea of saying something more than his usual order.

you come back and slide the cup across the counter, the ice clinking softly.

“anything else tonight?” you ask, hoping your tone sounds casual.

he hesitates, his eyes flicking to the pastry case.

“uh, yeah. can i get a pumpkin loaf slice?”

“good choice,” you say, grabbing a pair of tongs to retrieve the slice. you plate it neatly on a small white plate and slide it over to him, “that’s 10 thousand won.”

he hands you the money, a bigger bill, but you make change.

your fingers brushing his for the briefest moment as you hand him the coins. namgyu's skin is warm, and you pull your hand back quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the way you gave the tiniest smile.

“thank you,” he says, his voice soft.

he takes his drink and pastry and moves to a table by the window, his usual spot.

you watch him out of the corner of your eye as you wipe down the counter, trying to focus on the task and not on the way you like his black hoodie on him or the way his hair catches the light.

dev appears at your side, nudging you with his elbow.

“talk to him,” he whispers, his voice low.

“shut up,” you hiss, swatting him away.

your eyes drift back to namgyu, who’s sitting quietly, sipping his drink and scrolling on his phone.

you wonder what he’s looking at.

maybe texts from thanos, or a playlist for the club.

maybe he’s just doomscrolling like everyone else, like you do before work shifts.

you want to ask, want to say something...anything...to break the silence between you. however, the words stick in your throat and you turn back to the counter, grabbing a rag to wipe down the espresso machine.

you serve a few more customers...a doctor grabbing a cup of four shots of espresso, a group of club kids giggling over their iced chais. you noticed how one of the kids, a guy, dapped up namgyu and asked if he was 'going to be around tonight'.

namgyu is pulling your attention, and you notice his pastry half-eaten.

you wonder what it would be like to sit across from him, to ask him about his night, his job, his life.

you wonder if he’d even answer, or if he’d just give you that calm, unreadable look and change the subject.

you’re restocking the sugar caddy when dev sidles up again, his grin infuriatingly smug.

“you’re staring,” he says, keeping his voice low.

“i’m not,” you lie, shoving a handful of sugar packets into the caddy with more force than necessary.

“you so are,” he says, leaning closer, “just go talk to him. say, like, ‘hey, heard you were looking for me last night.’ see what he does.”

“i’m not doing that,” you say, but the idea plants itself in your mind, taking root.

what if you did say something? what if you took the risk, stepped out of your comfort zone?

you glance at namgyu again, and this time, he looks up, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment.

your heart stutters, and you look away, busying yourself with the sugar packets.

nine minutes later the bell above the door chimes as namgyu slips out of the cafe, his iced cold brew in one hand.

you watch him go, your heart sinking a little as the opportunity to say something or anything slips through your fingers again. you wipe the counter for the third time in ten minutes, the rag moving in slow, useless circles.

dev’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the café, exasperated.

“ugh, you’re such a pussy!” he says, tossing his sharpie in a cup as he leans against the espresso machine.

“i told you that!” you shoot back, your voice light but laced with frustration.

inside, regret coils in your stomach like a tight spring.

you wanted to talk to namgyu, to ask him about his night or maybe even mention that you heard he was looking for you last night. unfortunately your throat clamped shut, the words trapped somewhere between your chest and your lips.

now he’s gone, melting into the neon-lit night outside.

you sigh, turning to restock the pastry case, trying to push the feeling away.

it lingers, heavy.

the hours between 2 and 6 am are quiet.

you and dev pass the time with half-hearted banter, debating whether a latest pop star scandal is worth caring about or ranking the best pastries in the case (you’re team mozzarella and chicken sandwich and he’s ride-or-die for the vanilla scone).

however namgyu’s quiet presence, his sharp features and soft hair, keeps flickering in your mind, like a song stuck on repeat.

you wonder what he’s doing now, if he’s spinning tracks at club pentagon or leaning against the bar.

by 6 am, the café is a ghost town.

the only sounds are the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of cups as you stack them for the morning crew.

your morning-coworkers for the day shift start trickling in, their energy a big contrast to your end-of-shift fatigue.

jennifer and eun-ju bicker over who gets to run the espresso machine first, their voices sharp but familiar, and you can’t help but smile.

you’re supposed to stay until 7, but the café’s under control, and the pull of your bed is stronger than the need to linger.

you untie your apron, the black fabric creased from a night of work, and shove it into your cow-print tote bag, already stuffed with your water bottle, a half-read book, and a crumpled pack of gum.

“i’m out,” you call to dev and the others, waving as you head for the door.

dev winks, teasing "see you at 10pm(22:00)!!" he cheers as you push through the glass door into the early morning chill.

outside, the sky is a deep indigo with the first hints of dawn smudging the horizon.

its warm outside thankfully, and the black shirt you wear clings to your skin. there is a train station is just down the street, your usual one that’ll carry you home to your apartment, where you’ll crash until mid-afternoon.

as you start walking, your thoughts drift back to namgyu, to dev’s teasing, to the club district he’s part of.

club pentagon is in the opposite direction of your usual station, closer to another stop that’s still on your line.

you hesitate, your sneakers scuffing against the pavement.

maybe you’ll just walk by, not go in, just… feel the energy of the place he’s tied to.

it’s not like you’re stalking him.

you’re just curious.

seven minutes later, you’re in the heart of the club district, and the vibe is a contrast to the quiet street where sunset brew sits.

neon signs pulse in every direction, their pinks and blues and greens casting a surreal glow over the crowded sidewalks. music spills from open club doors, a thumping bass that vibrates in your chest.

food vendors line the street, their carts steaming with the savory smell of korean corn dogs and tteokbokki, vendors barking at passersby to try their wares.

people are drunk and high, some dance for tiktok, others laugh with friends.

your tote bag bumps against your hip as you weave through the crowd, your blue jeans hugging your curves, your black nonslip shoes silent against the pavement.

you keep your pace casual, your eyes scanning, until you spot the sleek black facade of club pentagon, its purple neon logo flickering like a beacon.

you don’t stop, don’t stare, just keep walking like it’s no big deal.

when you see namgyu, standing just outside the club’s entrance, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, your heart races.

he’s with another guy, someone you don’t recognize, who’s lighting the cigarette for him.

namgyu’s long hair is loose, catching the neon glow, and his sharp features look softer in the hazy light.

he inhales, the tip of the cigarette flaring red, and then his eyes flick up, catching you mid-stride.

you almost freeze but you force yourself to keep moving, eyes forward, pretending you didn’t see him.

you can feel his gaze, though, tracking you....the way your black shirt hugs your frame, the curve of your jeans, the cow-print tote swinging at your side.

you’re almost at the escalator down to the train station when namgyu's friend speaks, luckily you didn't hear anything at this distance.

“she’s hot,” the guy says.

namgyu’s response is sharp, almost protective.

“don’t perceive her,” he says, hitting the guys chest once and quick.

gyeong-su, confused from the strange action from namgyu, speaks.

“you know her?”

namgyu doesn’t answer, as he watches you keep walking.

you step onto the escalator, your hand gripping the railing as you descend into the station, the neon glow of the club district fading behind you.

fourteen hours later you push through the glass door of your job at 9:48 pm, the familiar chime of the bell greeting you as you step into the warm air.

you’re wearing a black shirt again, tucked into dark-wash jeans that hug your frame a little closer than last night’s pair, the deep indigo fabric looking nice on your skin.

your cow-print tote bag swings at your side, stuffed with your apron and the usual odds and ends. the café is quiet, save for the soft hum of the espresso machine and the faint indie playlist drifting from the speakers.

you head to the back, where dev is sprawled in a chair, scrolling on his phone, his curly hair falling into his eyes.

“how’s your day been?” you ask, tossing your bag onto the rickety table and pulling out your apron.

dev looks up while grinning, “slept four hours, then got dragged to my niece’s birthday party. there was cake and glitter everywhere, i’m still recovering.”

you laugh, teasing, “aw, uncle dev.”

he rolls his eyes, "auntie dev, actually."

you laugh as dev leans forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially, “what’s ‘awww’ is how you’re gonna talk to namgyu tonight.”

you groan, tying your apron with a little more force than necessary, the strings pulling tight against your waist.

“i want to, okay?” you say, your voice quieter now, laced with the ache of longing you’ve been carrying since last night.

dev’s grin softens, and he sets his phone down.

“i’m telling you, he was looking at you last night. like, kept glancing over while you were grabbing his drink. it was so obvious he wanted to say something.” your heart skips, and you pause, hands still on the apron strings.

“really?” you ask, hating how hopeful you sound.

dev nods, emphatic, “yes, really!”

your shift starts slow, the usual trickle of nurses and clubgoers keeping you busy enough to distract from the nervous flutter in your chest. you wipe counters, restock sugar packets, and trade banter with dev, but your mind is on namgyu.

you keep replaying last night with his eyes catching yours outside club pentagon.

you wonder what he’s doing now, if he’s at the club, surrounded by neon and music, or if he’s thinking about you the way you’re thinking about him.

the clock ticks past midnight, and you start to worry he won’t show.

he’s usually here by 11:45, but it’s 12:11 now, and the bell hasn’t chimed.

your heart sinks, the yearning twisting tighter.

at 12:12 the door swings open, and there he is.

namgyu steps into the café, and your breath catches.

he’s wearing a white button-up with thin black stripes, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, paired with loose black jeans that make him look effortlessly cool.

most guys can’t even dress, but namgyu can. the guy's long hair is tucked behind one ear, and his eyes find yours almost immediately, sending a jolt through you.

you force a smile, stepping up to the register.

“hey, the usual?” you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

he sighs, a small, hesitant sound, and you can see something shifting in his expression, like he’s steeling himself.

“what do you usually drink?” he asks, his voice low, catching you off guard.

you blink, surprised, then recover.

“well… i just get three shots of espresso with oat milk and lavender,” you say, wondering if he’s actually curious or just making conversation.

namgyu's eyes flicker with interest, and he leans forward slightly, hands in his pockets.

“can i try that?” he asks.

your smile widens, a warmth blooming in your chest.

“sure!” you say, turning to the espresso machine, your heart racing with possibility.

as you pull the espresso shots, the machine hissing and steaming, you feel his gaze on you. you glance over the espresso machine and sure enough, he’s watching, his eyes tracing the way your hands move, the way your dark jeans hug your hips, the way your black shirt shifts as you reach for the oat milk.

there’s a quiet intensity in his stare, not predatory but yearning, like he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment.

you flush, but you don’t look away this time, letting the moment stretch between you.

“how do you do it?” he asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the hum of the machine, “work these overnight shifts, i mean.”

you laugh softly, steaming the oat milk with a practiced swirl.

“i could ask you the same thing,” you say, glancing at him.

“i don’t know, i just… like the night. it’s quieter, feels like the world’s more real or something.” he nods, moving his hands together in nervousness.

“yeah, the world’s better at night.” you say.

you continue, “oh yeah-- i saw you last night, by the way,” you say, your heart pounding as you take the leap, “on my way home.”

namgyu’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t flinch.

“i saw you too,” he says, his voice soft but steady, like he’s been waiting to admit it.

you pause, stirring the lavender syrup into his drink, and take a breath.

“you go to club pentagon a lot?” you ask, even though dev already spilled that he works there.

you want to hear it from namgyu.

he nods, leaning against the counter, his striped shirt catching the light.

“i’m a promoter there,” he says, and you can hear a hint of pride in his voice, “I-- um-- I just keep the place fun, get the right people in.”

“oh, okay,” you say, your mind piecing together the image of him charming crowds, and rubbing shoulders with people like that rapper thanos.

you finish his drink, the espresso rich, and slide it across the counter.

“here you go. if you don’t like it, i’ll make your usual for free.”

he takes the cup, his fingers brushing yours for a second, and sips it, then sips again.

you watch his face, the way his brows lift slightly, like he’s tasting something new.

“it’s different,” he says, pausing, “but i like it.”

namgyu's eyes meet yours, and there’s a warmth there that makes your pulse race.

“wanna try a new sandwich too?” you ask, feeling bold.

he glances up at the chalkboard menu behind you, his eyes scanning the options.

“is the chicken and mozzarella one good?” he asks.

you beam, nodding, “my favorite.”

namgyu nods, “then i’ll get that.”

you ring it up, sliding it into the oven microwave to warm, and notice the total comes to just five thousand won.

you’d applied a discount, a small gesture you hope he notices.

he does.

“oh, come on you didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice gentle, but you wave it off.

“it’s fine,” you say, your cheeks warm as you hand him his change.

you plate the sandwich, the bread golden and the cheese melty, and slide it over to him. he lingers at the counter, his drink in one hand, the plate in the other, and you can tell he’s hesitating, like there’s something else he wants to say.

you tilt your head, your heart in your throat.

“you alright?” you ask. he nods, but his eyes flicker with something nervous, something vulnerable.

“what time do you get off work?” he asks, the words coming out in a rush. you blink, surprised, then answer, “6:30.”

he shifts his weight, his fingers tightening around the cup.

“the club closes at 6. you, uh, wanna grab breakfast with me after?”

in his head, namgyu’s spiraling.

he doesn’t do breakfast.

most mornings, he’s too smoked out from the night, the hype of the club, and whatever drugs he’s taken to keep up with it dulling his appetite.

for you, he’s already promising himself he’ll stay sober tonight, hold it together to show up clear-headed, to give you the version of him you deserve.

the thought of sitting across from you in some diner, watching you laugh over pancakes or coffee, makes his chest ache with a longing he’s not used to feeling.

he wants this, wants you, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time.

you smile, your heart soaring, and nod.

“i’d love that,” you say, your voice soft but sure.

namgyu’s face lights up,and he gives you a thumbs-up, a little awkward but so endearing it makes your stomach flip.

“great, i’ll see you then,” he says, turning to leave.

the bell chimes as he steps out, and you’re still smiling when you hear dev’s voice from the back, high-pitched and giddy.

“i was doing dishes and heard all of that, ahhhh!” he squeals, rushing out to wrap you in a hug, jumping like you’ve just won the lottery.

you laugh, shoving him playfully, but your mind’s already on breakfast, on namgyu, on the hours ahead.

all you can think about is 6:30, and you’re silently begging the clock to move faster.

PART TWO LINKED HERE

masterlist

author's note: to say that I loved writing this one would be an understatement

820 notes · View notes

bernardsbendystraws · 8 months ago

Note

Imagine nick being away for the weekend and it’s just doll, Matt, and Chris cuddling up in bed 24/7. Lounging around the house all smushed together not leaving each others sides

Warnings: Fluff, smut, angst.

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Matt and Chris were usually a bit stressed when Nick ventured off to do solo things. The mental and emotional toll had faded though, especially since they knew they got to have you all to themselves, shamelessly.

They got an entire week. A whole, entire week---just you, Matt, and Chris.

[ Sunday ]

It's around noon when you all pile into the home after dropping Nick off at the airport. Matt is walking in with his keys in one hand and your hand in his other. Chris trots behind you two, still wrapped in a blanket with a tired look painted on his face. He didn't wanna wake up. He had barely gone to sleep at seven in the morning and his body just wasn't functioning. It's cute. However, by the pout on his face you can tell he wants something.

"Will you come cuddle with me? Just until I fall asleep, baby?" Chris asks.

You feel Matt's hand tighten around yours reluctantly. No part of you wants to go to sleep, you're not tired---but you know Chris needs sleep. So, you compromise.

"How about we cuddle on the couch? I don't wanna sleep and I kinda wanna watch a show or something," you respond.

Soon enough, you're burried in the couch cushions with Chris and his blankets on top of you. Matt is sitting close, his thigh brushing against your head as he looks over at you when the show on the TV says a joke or anything.

He really loves seeing you smile.

But, he also sees your nose scrunch as Chris's hair tickles against you. "You okay there, sweetheart? I can get him to move if you want," he says, gently brushing the hair to stay out of your face and petting over your soft skin with admiration leaking from his gaze.

Firmly humming a quick 'no,' you lean further into Matt's touch, smiling as you feel his fingers trace on your ear---a comforting sort of touch that feels nostalgic, almost like how a parent would soothe their baby.

It's just so....careful.

The perfect, lazy Sunday. With both of your boys.

[ Monday ]

A wet sensation on your cheek woke you up. Matt was drooling—on you. He was lying on his stomach, his arm slung over you as he snored peacefully. You couldn’t help but smile, a small huff muffling through your lips, the gentle sound making his eyes peel open with a sleepy look.

“Why’re you laughing, doll—gosh….s’warm,” he says, snuggling closer to you somehow. The comforting heat beneath the blankets is beautiful, the type of sensation that makes all your limbs feel loose and relaxed.

Then, you hear the door subtly creak open. Familiar brown hair and blue eyes peek through the crack—Chris. Matt’s already fast asleep again. His snores echo in the room as you make eye contact with Chris, who is already smiling just from seeing you so at peace.

Not wanting to wake Matt up again, you place your hand on his head, soothing your fingers through his hair before resting your palm on top of his ear, an attempt to drown out the noise of your words. “Chris? What’s—,”

Kneeling beside the bed to get on eye-level with you, Chris snakes his hand under the blankets. You hum as you feel his refreshing, cold fingers teasingly tickle and caress your bare stomach, crawling underneath an oversized T-shirt you had worn to bed. “-miss you, baby. Just…can’t sleep anymore and want your attention,” he whispers, trying to keep his volume to a minimum.

Contemplating your options, you try to scoot even closer towards Matt. The newly added space gives Chris the silent invitation—one he’s quick to accept by snuggling into bed right next to you. Chris doesn’t try to shove Matt’s hand off your shoulders. Instead, he simply places it on your stomach once more, his fingers dancing up the sides of your waist and soothing back downward in a repetitive notion.

“Chris?” Matt’s scruffy voice questions, his eyes peeping open once more just for a quick glance. “-what are you doing here? What time is it even?”

Pulling Matt’s head back down onto you, you shush him, “-shhhhh, just go back to bed, you don’t need to be awake yet.”

This soothes him enough to lure him back to an unconscious drift of dreams. In fact, the gentle touch of Chris’s hand on your stomach pulls you back into a sleepy state, your breath becoming perfectly even as you roam your unconscious thoughts.

Some time passes and Chris is getting antsy. He wants to shower you with affection and the small touch of his hand isn’t sufficing anymore. Matt has shifted, his hand now resting on your thigh.

It’s the small pucker noises that wake Matt up. He looks to see Chris delicately placing his lips in the crook of your neck and he loves the way your body moves as you slowly stir awake. He can’t help but let his hand on your thigh squeeze gently with reassurance, his own lips coming down to peck your cheek lightly.

You’re barely able to open your eyes. Every sensation is just so warm, so soft. Letting out a hum of relaxation, you smile as Matt pecks your lips.

“Morning, gorgeous.” Matt’s statement makes your lips hazily pull upwards.

“Goodmorning,” Chris gruffs, jokingly replying to Matt as if Matt was talking to him.

Matt gives you a deadpan look, but you can’t help but give a subtle shrug. “I mean,” looking over to Chris, your tone fills with honesty, “-he is pretty gorgeous….so are you though.”

The unentertained look on Matt’s face fades with your statement. A loving smile shades down you as he presses the tip of his nose to yours. “Does that mean I can kiss you some more?” he suggests, leaning in further as you nod.

It��s a perfect Monday morning as you feel two pairs of lips supply your skin with a nourishing relief of love and care.

[ Tuesday ]

It’s been a day. Matt and Chris had filmed—resulting in this.

“Stop coming in my room, we wanna be alone.”

Chris just kept snapping at Matt, but in all honesty…you could see how much Matt was struggling to keep his attitude in check. He just really wanted you. It was one of those videos where he couldn’t get a word out with Chris’s incessant yapping.

And—he couldn’t even hold his girlfriend. Even though he had let Chris come lay in the bed yesterday with the two of you.

It wasn’t fair.

This time, Matt doesn’t shut the door quietly. He doesn’t necessarily slam it either. You can tell he’s ticked off, but he’s still trying so hard to remain calm.

“Chris, I think I’m gonna—”

In an instant, Chris’s whole demeanor changes. In his mind, this is his time—his time that Matt is stealing by acting all angry. He doesn’t see that Matt has been building with frustration ever since the morning when Chris kept you under his own arm and guided you away from Matt.

“So you’re just gonna leave? Be with him because he’s throwing some sort of bitch-fit?”

He’s not yelling…but it’s not exactly calm either. It makes your stomach curl with unease. You don’t know what to say, you don’t wanna urge his anger on more, but…you don’t even wanna sit here anymore when he’s snapping at you without even listening.

“I’m gonna check on him and just…I’ll give you a minute,” you say, rushing up and out his door before climbing up the stairs to Matt’s room.

It’s quiet—too quiet. No videos humming, no subtle music. It’s almost never this quiet.

Knocking on the door, you peek your head in as it swings open just a crack due to not being fully shut. Your heart twists as you recognize the sight in front of you—Matt laying on his back in his bed with his hands splattered frustratedly over his face.

“Matt…?”

His hands fall as he looks over to find your voice. The frown on his face deepens, “Sweetheart…go back, I don’t wanna make you feel like you gotta be with me right now, I’m fine, just—just frustrated is all.”

Shaking your head, you lay right next to him. You swarm your arms around him, laying on your side as you hug his face into your chest—something he always loves. His hands grip at your waist, a soft sniffle and a warm wetness seeping through your shirt telling you how overwhelmed he really is.

“Hey, just let me be here for you, okay?” you say. Matt doesn’t respond. All he does is nod, hugging you closer as his cries whisper through the air.

You don’t even remember falling asleep. But, when you look down to see Matt still cradled in your chest, you’re happy to see him so peaceful.

You’re even happier to see Chris’s blanket thrown over you two, neatly tucked in to keep you warm. Hesitantly, you reach to grab your phone.

| Text Message | Chris : I’m sorry. I got insecure and I should’ve just said how I was feeling instead of making shit worse. Take a good nap and we can all talk later. Love you.

In that moment, you’re able to really take a deep breath, holding Matt just a little bit closer as you revel in relief.

It’s okay. It’s just another Tuesday.

[ Wednesday ]

Matt and Chris never stopped you from doing your own things. They wanted you to have the simple joys in life just like they had. Friends, events, going out…anything. You deserved to have fun and live.

A full day—you had been gone an entire day. They moped around slightly, playing video games together to kill time.

When you finally got back home later in the evening, it wasn’t even up for debate. They knew you wanted to go to bed, they had absolutely no issue with that. They just craved your attention—attention you didn’t have the energy to give.

“I’m tired, I…I wanna go to bed.”

The statement makes them both frown, but they understand. Sometimes though…they just wish they would be a little more selfish…

[ Thursday ]

Matt and Chris weren’t good in the kitchen, but they did always try. It’s around one in the afternoon, you’re giving them directions as you make some simple pasta for lunch.

However, they just can’t work efficiently. Not when you’re like this.

You’re wearing Matt’s cropped T-shirt. The pink Hershey shirt that you adore with a cute pair of flimsy pj bottoms.

It’s torture. How are they supposed to focus on anything besides you?

With one exchange of a glance, they both know what they’re planning. Matt’s the first to make a move, running off pure instinct as he walks up from behind you. You’re attempting to stick some of the dishes from the sink into the dishwasher—but that attempt fails. Miserably. In fact, you nearly drop the ceramic dish as you feel Matt’s hot breath on your neck, his chest pressing against with a racing heartbeat, and….god.

“You look so pretty today, doll,” Matt purrs, his hands gripping onto your side as he caresses the skin directly above the hem of the shorts.

“Matt….” you whine, moaning as he swivels his hips into your heat, the warmth in your gut swirling with an overwhelming sensation of longing as his hardened cock grinds into you.

Shifting to your side, Matt allows another set of his to start grasping at your skin—Chris’s hands. And it feels good. His cold fingers contrast against your hot skin, especially as he starts to trail his knuckles upward along your inner thigh, starting from your knee.

“Do you know how hard you make it for us to focus?” Chris questions, his hand cupping your clothed folds as he massages gently, “-maybe we should return the favor, hm?”

You know they’re not playing fair. But, you can’t help but let out a simple plea as you feel Matt’s hands grip your hips into place, allowing Chris’s ministrations to focus directly on your clit—the spot that makes you writhe unpredictably.

“Can we do that, sweetheart? Doesn’t that sound…” you feel Matt’s lips brush against your neck before he plunders sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along the skin, “---nice?” he rasps.

Nodding fervently, they both laugh at the desperation in your actions. But you don’t care—not when you feel the air brush along your pussy as Chris tugs your shorts down.

“Oh—” your mouth falls wide open. Chris gathers slick from your entrance, even spitting on his hand for extra as he glides his fingers through your heat. Your body tries to react on its own record, but Matt is helpful…he presses one of his hands on the small of your back, making you bend you over the counter and his other hand goes to play…

“Fuck—Matt, feel her….she’s so wet,” Chris husks.

A moan strains through your lips as you feel Matt’s hand trace along your pussy. Chris is focused on your clit, tracing the same, small circles as Matt keeps his hand on your lower back and lets his other hand wander right over your entrance.

“Matt—stop–stop teasing,” you breathe, letting out a pitiful cry as Matt, once again, circles his fingertips around your leaking hole, smirking as he feels your muscles contract. You’re clenching around nothing.

“Yeah? Am I bein’ mean?” he taunts.

Chris is infatuated by how much you’re squirming. Matt likes to drag things out, make sure you feel every single thing. But Chris…Chris feels just as desperate as you…he wants to see you writhe, hear you moan.

“Matt, listen to her. She’s so pretty, c’mon….gotta give her what she wants.” Chris adds.

The second you feel Matt’s fingers plunge slowly inside of you, you’re gone. He knows exactly how to curl them—the precise way to do the smallest movements while creating a slick friction against your g-spot.

“You’re right, you’re right,” Matt husks, licking over his teeth as he watches you try to move backward to collapse into his movements. “-she is very pretty. Especially like this,” he rasps.

It’s a sight to see, but it’s also a sight to feel. Chris’s mouth is watering ungodly amounts as he stares at your squelching pussy. Matt isn’t much better, he’s doing his best to keep his actions at an even pace, but he just wants you to feel so good.

“Oh—oh my god, I….”

You can’t get the words out. Your gut keeps clenching over and over again, harder and harder. The building of pressure in your gut is overwhelming but intoxicating. You want more. You need more.

Sloppy kisses are planted on the back of your shoulder blades from each side. Chris’s mouth is hungry trying to devour you. Matt is letting his teeth gently bite into your skin, a poor attempt of controlling himself as he feels your walls clench around his fingers.

“-so close, hm? You…” he’s breathless, ramming his fingers against the perfect spot and admiring how your moans start to choke up and become a bit more untame. “-you’re so fuckin’ perfect like this, sweetheart.”

The burning in between your thighs is only intensified. Every pulse under your skin is screaming for relief, your high building faster and faster.

“C’mon, let us watch you clench around his fingers, yeah? You—you got it, fuckkkkkkk….” Chris is mesmerized at the sight of your legs trembling and your pussy clamping around Matt’s fingers. Matt is too. He slowly rides out the motions, appreciating the cries that leave your lips.

“-so good, did so good,” Matt praises, gently easing his fingers out of you as he draws soothing circles on your back. You feel Chris pull your shorts back over your hips, sighing in relief as the after shock waves slowly ride out.

A sudden beeping going off pulls you back into reality.

“The pastas done, baby. What now?” Chris asks.

You’re astonished as you turn around, Matt still petting the sides of your arms while holding you against his chest, and Chris….Chris is running around the kitchen, grabbing the ingredients he remembered as if he didn’t just make your body gravel to pure euphoria.

Afterall, you were just making pasta….

[ Friday ]

A pre-filmed video that had already been edited put a lot of relief on both Chris and Matt. They couldn’t wait to watch this one with you—their “hear-me-out.”

You couldn’t stop laughing. Maybe it was because everything seemed so chaotic—yet genuine, or maybe it was just how contagious their laugh was.

Either way, your stomach hurt.

Matt was sitting on your right side, Chris on your left. They both basically watched you watching their video. One thing they really had in common was the absolute joy they got from making you laugh.

“Did we do good this week?” Matt teases, patting his hand on your knee as you try to take deep breaths to calm your laughter.

Chris leans further into you, his arm around your shoulder slugging you closer to him. “I’m glad we make you laugh so much, Nick rarely fuckin’ laughs for me. You’re a real boost of confidence,” he laughs.

Your gut is screaming for relief. Laughter falls silent as you puff for air, rubbing your eyes before nodding your head affirmatively. “Yes, yes—very much. I…this has got to be a new favorite of mine.”

The praise from your lips makes both their smiles widen.

It widens even further when you press replay on the video.

[ Saturday ]

Needy. Clingy.

You didn’t mind it, but both boys were attached to your hip today. Of course they wanted Nick back, they missed him. But—they were gonna miss this too. Having you so selfishly and shamelessly.

Usually you don’t cuddle all together. This isn’t a usual day.

You're spooned by Matt, his chest pressed against your back while Chris cradles you from the front. If you could suffocate in fresh air, this would be it. You feel two pairs of lips litter small kisses anywhere possible within reach.

“I’m gonna miss this,” Matt whispers.

Chris hums in agreement, his nose touching yours.

“We can do it again, it’s not like this is the last time you’ll ever have alone time with me,” you smile.

Matt and Chris could care less for whatever reasoning you have. It just sucks—they wish they could have it like this all the time, but they’d miss Nick too much.

“Ya know the video you like of me holding that baby raccoon?” Matt asks. Your neck craines until you’re able to look up at him. He provides a soft smile, his thumb rubbing circles onto your hip as he gives Chris a quick glance. “-maybe we should take you there. Just us.”

Only a moment of silence to process the offer occurs before your voice and Chris synchronize, “I agree.”

1K notes · View notes

mocharacha · 19 days ago

Text

-Sharks in The Shallow End-

💕: Bang Chan [Dad!Bangchan ] x Reader[ Mom!Reader]

✍️Synopsis: Parenting is Teamwork. Especially when Y/N and Chan juggle family life and upcoming birthday party preparations for their energetic toddler, as they balance work, parenting, and their relationship, they find joy in the simple, everyday moments that make their little family special.

🔢Wordcount: 3,8k

📖Genre: Marriage AU, Family AU, Domestic Fluff, mildly suggestive ❗Warnings: The romantic/sexual innuendos are mild and non-explicit. food mentions, parenthood/parenting themes/ mentions of family planning and pregnancy, Chan calls the reader "sweetheart", reader is called "eomma" by the kid, mentions of sharks

☕A/n: This started with imagining Bang Chan holding a toddler while also holding a grocery bag, biceps, and forearms…. Can you blame me?

Reader is an Event Manager (who recently started working part-time again) and a former idol! Chan (now music producer for the new Generation of Idols), their son, Dae-min is a toddler and likes sharks.

-[Masterlist]-

The distant squeak of the semi-broken shopping cartwheel told you that Chan and Dae-min weren’t far off, that and the race car noises, your toddler omitted from their lips, while your husband pushed the cart through the aisles of the grocery store.

You glanced up from the instructions of the vanilla butter crème mix, checking the ingredients you needed to add, and decided to add it to your shopping. Just in case, a backup if your homemade recipe didn’t work in the early August heat.

It was Sunday, barely past noon and since your husband was home and not stuck in the studio producing the newest hit for the recently debuted girl group, you decided to use his muscle strength to get the monthly groceries done early before you got busy during the week to prep for your little boy’s big day next weekend.

The bouncy castle would arrive the day before, and the grandparents were flying in the same day to help with preparations. You need to check on the guest rooms and possibly call the pool guy to confirm the water quality by Wednesday, and also deep clean the second freezer.

Party planning had been your livelihood before you had Dae-min, and what use would that be if not for your son’s birthday party?

“Sweetheart,” your husband’s voice got you out of your planning reverie, overthinking, he calls it. He had momentarily stopped turning the grocery store into the Formula 1 Grand Prix and looked at the Items in your hands, “Are we almost done? It’s his nap time soon, and we have yet to have lunch…”

“Right,” you said dropping the Items in the carts and ran a hand over Dae-min messy curls he got from his father, “we don’t have any freezer items that could go bad…so I was thinking we could get some of that rotisserie chicken from the shop outside …and Dae can start his nap in the car on our way back…”

Chan's eyebrow rose for a moment. “Rotisserie chicken?”

“Yeah, hadn’t had that for a long time…”

His lips tugged into a sheepish smile, amused, “Sounds good, babe.”

A few moments after paying, your little family settled into a cozy booth nestled in the corner of the food court. Now that he had won the Grocery Aisle Grand Prix, the almost three-year-old suddenly discovered another urgent sensation: hunger. And once that realization struck, there was no stopping him.

Dae-min, once he spotted the chicken rotating, kept yelling, “Uncle Bboki, Uncle Bboki” flailing his limbs around with wild enthusiasm, conducting a chaos orchestra….

” Uncle Bboki, Uncle Bboki!”

Uncle Seungmin probably had taught him that…

As you reached for Dae-min’s toddler legs, which were bicycle-pedaling now, as he still kicked to join his father, to fit into the horrendously impractical kids' seat.

Whoever designed them didn’t think that kids thought sitting down to eat was the worst thing on earth.

Chan got your guy’s order, of chicken, drinks, fries, and…coleslaw, you didn’t remember telling him that you wanted some…but he somehow knew you’d like.

Dae-min’s excited eyes glowed when he saw the spread, ignoring the chicken for the fries his appa was cutting into smaller pieces for him, holding out his arms, pudgy hands opening and closing in rapid motions that matched his kicking feet, “Gimme Gimme Gimme”

“Bahng Dae-min, how do we ask appa nicely?”

“Appaaaaa” Dae said, lengthening the last syllable sweetly and using a combination of his boba eyes and dimples, “may I please have Flies!”

Chan chuckled at his mispronunciation.

“Yes, Baby, you may have Flies.” he mirrored his inflection and added, “I’ll give them to you once they are cool enough so you can eat them.”

You use the time to get on your phone to put some things from your mental checklist into your notes app. There was still so much to do and organize before Dae-min’s first day, and in addition, you had to coordinate something for an upcoming wedding of a client until Thursday, too.

Getting back to work as an event manager after having an active child that kept up most of your brain’s capacity captive…that and the heat of summer was making the cogs in your brain turn even slower.

A cool touch to your cheek made you come back into reality, and you saw Chan holding a cold drink to your face

“She’s back again…” he smiled, and put the drink in front of you, with a small command, “hydrate…” Before pulling off part of his chicken for Dae-min, “Y/n I don’t want you stressing so much, darling…. Remember, it’s going to be fine…we outsourced a lot of the side dishes to our friends…my parents are going to help with the prep… Dad’s even said he’s gonna prep the barbecue…you know that he doesn’t let anyone else go near his meat prep.”

“Yes…I know“ you said starting to eat from your chicken, dang this tasted good, “But it’s Dae-mins’s first birthday, he’ll actually remember.”

“Yes…” Chan added and pushed the coleslaw towards you, “but I also want you to enjoy the day…and not crash, after our guests left on the sofa like last year….”

He sighed, “I’m helping you this year…remember that…we all are….. Hyunjin and Jisung even volunteered to do the Balloon Arch.

“They are gonna fight like they are their pre-debut selves again.”

“They are adults…they can handle arguments now.”

“Well… They’re gonna cry…..just warning you…”

“I’m used to dealing with crying…. Aren’t I buddy?” he glanced at his son, who looked up, clearly not having a clue about the conversation they had just had, but nodded, beaming because it was his dad he was looking at.

“Yes, appa…. May I have Uncle Bboki?” he gestured to the chicken.

Chan laughed, “We really have to stop letting Seungmin teach him those things when he babysits.”

As predicted, his belly full, Dae-min fell asleep just as he was buckled into his car seat, despite his protest that he wasn't tired at all, another thing he got from his dad. Chan showed you the demo of the newest song he was working on the way back, wanting your opinion on the matter. You left the AC in the car running while bringing in the grocery bags with Chan, the heat outside making you start to sweat.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you go inside and start putting things away while I get the last bags and Dae…..get inside you look like you’re melting…”, he said and tapped your behind for good measure, “I got this…”

While putting away the groceries, your mind drifted back to lunch, the taste of the chicken still lingering in your mouth, making you want more; maybe you should go back there tomorrow.

“Say babe…” You said when you heard the shuffle of Chan getting back into the house, “We used to have this chicken a lot a while ago….why did we stop having it again?”

You lifted your head and watched as your husband came into the room, Dae-min nestled against his neck on one arm, while he patted your son’s back. In his other hand, he carried grocery bags, carefully balancing as he moved.

His Muscles? ….bursting

Him?…..subtle flexing

The veins in his forearms?….popping.

Your brain?..... rotting

He caught your gaze, and the corners of his lips twitched into a smile. “Care to help me out so I don’t drop our son?”

“Y-you’d never do that anyway,” you murmured, but took the bags from his hand so he had it easier to carry Dae.

“Never,” he said sincerely but softly, shifting so Dae drooled on his shirt and not into his neck, “I’ll be right back…” He said, and then went to put his son down in his room.

Halfway through the groceries, you decided to fix a refreshment and put pineapple and watermelon into the mixer to get some juice.

The buzz of your phone, a confirmation about the delivery and setup of the bouncy castle, and the people around you made you go into planning mode again. You still had to get the party favors for the few kids that would be there from Dae-min's playgroup, and had to make sure that the members of Stray Kids also got some shark-shaped water guns Dae-min carefully selected to be part of the favors.

A gentle hand on your lower back called you back to reality, “Daydreaming again, my sweet?”

Chan was back and set the baby monitor on the kitchen counter.

“Yeah, sorry, I think this weather is doing something to my head…” You said and offered him a glass of freshly made juice.

“Yeah, you looked kind of thirsty…” he smirked and sipped. “This is nice…especially after the food…” He glanced over the shopping, half of it already put away, “Let’s get this done…”

It was a comfortable quiet with the two of you putting away the chaos, tag teaming in silence, only occasionally disrupted by the sipping of juice. You caught his glances, watching you with a careful interest, probably trying to catch you in the moment of daydreaming again.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, pushing back the hair that fell into his face.

“Lunch,” you said honestly, “The chicken was so delicious.”

Chan laughed, “Dae said the same thing when I tucked him into bed….glad we don’t need a DNA test to prove he is yours.”

“Good since he is a mini-you…” You murmured, “Ditto-copy dimples and all...”

His eyes softened when he looked at your son in the image displayed on the baby monitor. Dae turned in his sleep to hug his Sharkplushie, which he recently got.

“He was pumped to go swimming in the pool with you,” you murmured, wrapping an arm around Chan’s waist, digging your nose into his back, “So better be ready to hop in after his nap….

He turned around, arms embracing you, “Aren’t you gonna join us?”

“You and I know that we bought this house with a pool for you and you only…. I might dip my feet in, but you and your son are part aquatic animals after all….”

“Sharks…” Chan smiled, dimples showing, “Daeminnie insists.”

“Right… Sharks”

A while later…

You sat on the little piece of carpet right by the coffee table in the living room, laptop between your legs, hair up in a bun, and some files scattered around you like petals in spring. Your work phone, regularly buzzing with updates, and next to your private one, receiving messages now and then from people who ask if they could help you out in any way.

Naa you were good, AC in the house plus sitting to proximity to the cooling tiles….a drink…you were fine, this was fine. The tapping of little (and big) feet let you know that your son and husband were making their way over to you, and you glanced up to look at Dae, in his post nap glory, dressed and ready for his pool afternoon with his appa. Behind him, in hot pursuit, Chan, swimming trunks on, as per usual, was allergic to any type of shirt in the vicinity of the house.

Not that you minded.

You ogled.

God forbid, a girl had hobbies.

“Dae-min-ah,” Chan said, struggling to get the clasp on Dae-mins swim vest to open, “Come here so I can put this on you buddy…”

“Nooo…I can swims…harabeoji taught me,” the toddler insisted. Fair, having your swimming coach grandfather teach you since he was small was a bonus.

“It's not about ability, Daeminnie …but about safety.”

“But its…its…” Dae stopped his little mind trying to find the words to formulate the issues he was having with the garment, lips pouty, and you saw that he was struggling to find the words in both Korean and English.

“Deep breaths, Sarang,” you gently encouraged him…” What's wrong with the vest?”

“It does this…” Dae-min said, his thumb and pointer finger moving towards each other like a crab’s claws would. “Here!” he added, pointing below his armpit and neck.

“Oh, it pinches you,” you said and took the jacket from Chan’s hands, overseeing the straps, then held it out in front of Dae. “Yeah…this might be a little tight….I think you grew again….”

“With the amount he eats,” Chan kneeled to observe the size issue with you, “You are growing so quickly you might stop being fun sized buddy…”

“Snack time is important,” Dae-min defended himself, kicking his feet, “Can I go into the pool now?”

“Not yet, Buddy…” Chan looked at you,“ I think it's time….. I know the surprise was for his birthday but… I’d rather buy him something else next week than have a toddler that's too hyper to go to bed tonight because he didn't get his energy out during his swimming time….we have plans tonight…”

You sighed, ignoring the blush caused by Chan uttering the last sentence in a very Christopher way, “Yeah, we might as well…. I just have to remember where I hid it….”

You tried to remember where you had hidden Dae-min's birthday presents from the curious toddlers' hands…there were several places in the house, but your mind wouldn't let you access the memory storage.

“It’s either in the sock drawer in our closet….or behind the pasta….” Chan helped. “That’s where you last stored the Christmas presents….”

“Right….it's in the sock drawer… Keep him occupied and happy.” You snapped your finger and moved to retrieve the item.

Chan saluted.

When you returned a few minutes later, your husband and son were breaking it down to the sound of Baby Shark, the cursed song that has been on a loop in this house ever since Dae-min was small. No wonder he loved Sharks so much.

“Look Dae-min-ah,” you said, holding out the vivid blue swim fin swimming aid, “This can help you stay afloat in the pool and looks…

“Awesome!” Dae-min yelled out, beaming, “I can be a real shark now! Hunt appa!”

“Right…but remember no biting…” you chuckled and moved to put it on him, “This will be a little different from the vest Sarang….so you need to get a feel for it in the water….its usually for big kids but appa and I know that you can swim well and would tell us if you get tired or feel weird right.” “Safety first,” Dae-min parroted the phrase he had heard lots of times, but the wiggling of his toenails told you how excited he was.

“Remember, appa will keep you safe,” you said, adjusting the strap of the swimming aid.

“Always,” Chan added, ruffling Dae-min's hair…” Now sun protection….I’ll get you while eomma gets appa’s back…what about it?”

“You could just wear a UV shirt, you know…” You sighed but reached for the sunscreen nonetheless.

The joyful screams and splashing distracted you from your work, so you eventually succumbed and closed the laptop, put away the work phone, and came out to sit in one of the lounge chairs after fixing a snack for your boys.

When you got out, you were balancing a tray with an assortment of snacks.

Dae-min was in hot, sharky pursuit of his father, paddling through the pool with fierce determination. As soon as he reached him, Chan scooped the boy up and, with a grin, tossed him gently a few feet away, back into the water. Dae-min landed with a splash, erupting in gleeful giggles.

“Oh no, you almost got me…” Chan cried in mock horror. “These shark-infested waters are terrible!”

“Would the sharks mind a little refreshment?” you asked, hands on your hips and dipping your foot into the water. “I got blueberries, watermelon, and goldfish crackers.”

“Shark-min likes goldfish,” your son exclaimed, and paddled himself to the shallow end of the pool to the edge and lifted his arms, “eomma….uppies?”

You grabbed a big towel before kneeling and lifting him out of the water, embracing him in Turkish cotton.

“Did you have fun?”

He giggled, pressing a kiss onto your cheek, curly hair dripping with pool water as he shook his head like a dog, trying to get dry, “Lots …appa didn’t have a chance, I am too fast…”

He made race car noises again, gesturing wildly.

“Your appa is getting old,” you nodded, carrying Dae-min over to the lounge chairs, and sat down to pat him dry.

“Betrayal by my own wife and son,” Chan said, getting out of the water, the UV tank he somehow bothered to put on, clinging to his body. When he caught your gaze, he smirked, and did it even more slowly, and you realized that it had been for this exact moment he put it on in the first place.

“How did he do?” you said after Dae was busy devouring his snacks, and you made sure Chan got the wrap you plated for him. “With the new aid and all”

“At first, it was a little strange for him to move…. This gives him a lot more freedom to move than the vest, but he’s a tough guy and tried it out, and it worked. Usually, kids older than him have trouble swimming with that…. He’s a great kiddo…but I am biased.”

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. It was getting long again.

Yeah, you are biased too…

Later, after some snacking, rest, and reapplying sunscreen, the boys returned to their aquatic habitat while you watched from the safety of your lounge chair. Eventually, you went inside to start preparing dinner while Chan and Dae rinsed off by the pool. After dinner, you tucked Dae into bed for the night.

His eyes were fighting to stay awake, arms tight around the shark plushie.

“Eomma….may we have Uncle Bbokki again when I wake up…and play sharks with appa?” he murmured, squishing the plushie to his chest, “and cuddles with eomma…. Sharks are cool…”

He kept babbling until his breaths slowed into that familiar rhythm that told you he was fast asleep for the night.

Baby monitor in tow, you made your way back to the kitchen, where Chan was cleaning up the dishes from dinner. He looked up from the plate he was putting away.

“That was quick…he usually takes longer.”

“Baby Shark was exhausted,” you said with a yawn, and stretched, “He kept babbling on how much fun today was…”

“Yeah, he does that,” Chan chuckled, “His tired babbles are the best…only second to yours.”

“I don’t babble when I’m tired…”

“Sure Y/n…”

You rolled your eyes, glancing around the kitchen, “Damn…you’re all done…”

“What can I say… I am efficient…” he reached out to pull you close by your belt loops, “I see someone else being very tired…”

“It’s the weather….” You yawned against your will. It was hot, and the fatigue made you want to just crawl into bed…. Maybe you should do afternoon naps too…Dae seems to like it. That sounded like a good plan for tomorrow. Work from home, getting some rotisserie chicken again, then napping…

Chan’s eyes observed you carefully, “Are you thinking about chicken again?”

Your eyes widened, caught “Yeah…Dae wants a do-over of today…chicken and pool.”

“Sounds good…” your husband chuckled and nuzzled your neck, “But now I want attention and cuddles from my wife…you keep being distracted and not paying attention to me.”

“Gosh, you are so much like Dae-min…same pout…”

“Meanie….” he murmured against your neck, “And no, he might look like me, but he is like you…. Proof one...you both are obsessed with rotisserie chicken. Proof two, I’m obsessed with both of you…Proof three….you both snort the same way when you laugh.””

“Now you’re the one being mean,” you said, wiggling out of his grasp, giggling, and snorting when his tight hold proved true.

“See…and now I need your attention,” Chan moved swiftly to pick you up to carry you to your bedroom. “I was thinking since we have a visual mini me…how about a mini you next…”

“I just started to get back working again,” you laughed, squeezing his arm.

“Boo, work is bad for your health…quit…” he complained, finally setting you down on your bed and stepped a bit away.

“Says the workaholic,” you reached for him, your hands opening and closing in rapid motions, …then paused because Chan was looking at you. Again, curious and calculating.

“Say…sweetheart….you asked me earlier today…why we didn’t have rotisserie chicken for the longest time…”

“Yes….it really was a long time ago we had it…and at the time pretty frequently….when was it…”

The energy shifting into something uncertain made you nervous, causing you to fold your hands in your lap.

“You’re a smart girl…try to remember…”

You tried to fight through the discombobulated swirl of thoughts. It had been a while… and that particular rotisserie chicken? You’d only had it when Dae was tiny… wait, no…. Dae hadn’t been born, actually…not yet.

Oh.

“This was a craving I had when I was… pregnant with Dae…” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, rubbing the soft fabric of the duvet, “I craved it quite often actually and suddenly didn’t anymore when he was born….”

Your hand paused mid-motion, eyes widening as the realization hit.

You slowly lifted your head to face him.

Chan had dropped to a casual kneel in front of you, arms resting loosely on his knees, eyes studying your face. A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gave a single, slow nod, “Yeah…”

“You think?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, uncertain and breathless.

He pushed off the ground and sat beside you, his expression softening as he put an arm around you, grounding you against his warmth, “I’m assuming... the fatigue, the distractedness,” he said gently, rubbing your shoulder. “Could be a coincidence...but we should make sure.”

Your pulse quickened. You stepped back with a nervous laugh, your hand going instinctively to your belly, “I’m gonna check in the morning… I think I still have a test!”

Excitement tangled with a thread of fear, and a swirl of nervous energy bubbled up in your stomach.

“We just got out of the diaper changing age….Dae finally sleeps through the night…. Are we ready to do it all over again?

“With you and me...we’ve got this,” he said softly. “Us against the tantrums and the chaos and...whatever else comes with it. We’ve had plenty of practice in that department.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling with quiet hope, and added, “I’m secretly hoping for a girl next…”

A sudden doubt clouded your mind, “What if it's just a coincidence? What if I am not…”

Chan’s lips curved into a sly smile as he leaned in closer to kiss you behind your ear. “Then we’ll just try… we’ve had plenty of practice in that department too...”

You snorted, he laughed, and pulled your head into his lap.

“One way or another, “Chan mumbled, stroking your hair. “We got this….”

The quiet stretching around you, air filled with future possibilities. More little feet running, grocery aisle Grand Prix, plushies, giggles, lullabies, and dance moves to nursery rhymes.

Chan let out a happy sigh. “Sounds like our shark tank might have a new little fish soon.”

And you were excited about it.

-[ Reblogs, comments and/or keyboard smashes are appreciated]-

#stray kids #skz #stray kids fanfic #bang chan #fluff #oneshot #domestic fluff #dad!Bangchan #dad! chan #chan x reader #chan fluff #bang chan x reader #bang chan imagines #kpop x reader #bang chan x y/n #dad!skz #dad!bangchan

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colouredbyd · 20 days ago

Text

Six Hours Too Long

poly!marauders x fem!reader ☀︎ 2.3k

synopsis: in which you spend hours at the beach, come home sunburnt and sore, and return to your boyfriends—james, sirius, and a fretting remus.

cw: sunburn care, mild pain, domestic intimacy, physical touch, shared bed, casual nudity (non-sexual), excessive doting, remus being lovingly exasperated, reader being spoiled rotten by the marauders (mostly remus)

a/n: this was based on the sunburn i got today ;( masterlist

“Owww,” you whimper, barely shifting in your seat as the car bounces gently over the old coastal road.

Even that small sound carries too much pain, pulled from somewhere between your scorched shoulder blades and the aching bend of your knees.

Sirius, in the passenger seat,, twists around to stare at you with wide, horrified eyes. “Oh, sweetheart, no. That sounded like a death rattle.”

You glare weakly at him through your sunglasses, which are now more for emotional shielding than sun protection.

“Don’t make me laugh,” you croak, voice hoarse from both dehydration and what you’re pretty sure was at least two solid hours of screaming Taylor Swift into the pool float. “It hurts to breathe.”

From the driver’s seat, James lets out a low whistle, his curls still damp from the ocean, droplets catching light as they cling to the edge of his jaw. “You told me you were reapplying,” he says, not accusing, just baffled.

“I did,” you groan. “I just… forgot after the second hour. And then I thought the tanning oil would, like, help.”

Sirius lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a bark and a gasp. “You put oil on your skin? In July? At noon?”

“It smelled like coconut and carrots,” you whisper miserably, attempting to shift in your seat again before immediately regretting it. Your thighs are sticking to the seatbelt like industrial glue.

James shakes his head slowly, one hand on the wheel, the other finding your knee with practiced ease. He rubs circles into your skin, careful, gentle, like you might combust on contact. “We’re gonna have to carry you upstairs, huh?”

“Unless you want me to scream bloody murder and traumatize the neighbors.”

Sirius groans, dragging his hands down his face, then rakes them through his salt-mussed hair.

“When Remus sees this he’s going to murder us. Proper murder. Like, drag our bodies into the woods and never speak of us again kind of murder.”

You give him a sideways glance, trying not to smile and failing. “Why you? I’m the idiot who roasted herself.”

“Exactly,” Sirius mutters, folding his arms over his bare chest, suddenly looking very put-upon for someone who spent half the day feeding you fruit while you floated on a pink inflatable flamingo.

“You’re his precious ‘dovey’. He’s going to think we were being irresponsible man-children. Which, fine, we were, but he doesn’t need more evidence.”

“He already doesn’t trust you to handle the kettle,” James adds, half-laughing. “You almost set the kitchen on fire trying to make noodles last week.”

“That pan was broken,” Sirius says, straight-faced, before looking back at you again, this time with open concern softening his features.

“Hey, darling. Do you need water? A cold cloth? James, can you pull over?”

“No,” you groan, eyes fluttering shut. “I just want to get home and die dramatically in the tub.”

Sirius leans across the console and brushes the back of his fingers against your cheekbone, careful not to touch anywhere that might be burned.

His voice dips, velvet and worried. “You’re not dying on my watch, love. You’re getting aloe, hydration, at least ten forehead kisses, and then we’re putting you in a cool bath until you look less like a lobster and more like a person again.”

“She looks like the most delicious lobster,” James mutters under his breath, then yelps when you kick the back of his seat.

“You’re all bullies.”

“Affectionate bullies,” Sirius says brightly, then sobers again as he studies the line of your shoulders.

“We’re taking care of this, alright? You’re not doing anything but lying back and letting us fix it. When we get home, I’m running that bath. James can carry you upstairs and Remus can—well. He can lecture you later.”

“I’m scared,” you mumble into your arm. “He’s gonna be so disappointed, Sirius! I promised him I’d take care of myself.”

Sirius smiles, brushing a strand of damp hair from your forehead.

“He’s gonna be worried, love. But after he stops fussing, he’s going to pull out his ridiculous little aloe stash and nurse you back to health, and will take care of you, alright?.”

James hums low in agreement. “You know he’s already home. Probably has the fan running and is most likely building Regulus’s new lego set.”

“God, I love him,” you sigh.

Sirius chuckles. “We all do, sweetheart. Now stop talking before you overheat again. Five more minutes, then you’re ours to fuss over.”

The car hadn’t even fully rolled to a stop in the villa’s shaded driveway before Sirius was unbuckling his seatbelt with a sharp click, shoving the door open and practically launching himself out.

Gravel crunched beneath his bare feet as he rounded the car with the kind of speed that made James laugh softly, but there was no teasing in it—just affection for the sight of Sirius sprinting toward your side.

“Alright, love,” Sirius said quietly as he opened your door. “We’re home. I’ve got you—just lean on me, yeah? I’ll be careful.”

You let out a watery laugh, then immediately regretted it as the movement stretched something angry and stinging across your ribs. “Everything hurts,” you whined, slumping toward him helplessly.

“I know, I know, baby,” he said, cradling your elbows as if you were made of spun sugar, eyes narrowing as he clocked the new wince at your side. “Love, you are criminally pink.”

“Oh god,” you mumbled.

James came around the car just as Sirius helped you out, one arm braced under your back, the other guiding your legs so nothing scraped.

Your feet barely touched the ground. James took your bag from the trunk and slung it over his shoulder, pushing the front door open with one hand and calling out, “We’re back!”

The villa was cool with the windows thrown open, the linen curtains billowing gently in the breeze. Inside, Remus stood in the hallway with a book in one hand and a glass of something cold in the other, his hair mussed from sleep and his glasses low on his nose.

He looked up at the sound of the door—and froze.

“Remmy,” you breathed in relief, your voice a fragile thread, and Sirius muttered something that sounded suspiciously like fuck under his breath as Remus’s gaze locked on you.

Remus did not speak. He kissed James first, brief and warm, hand curling into the front of his shirt, then took in the rest of the scene—Sirius half-carrying you, your skin flushed a deep, alarming red, your limbs moving stiffly, carefully, as if one wrong shift would tear you in half.

His face shifted slowly from confusion to horror to something bone-deep and sharp.

“What,” he said slowly, turning from you to James, then to Sirius, “the absolute hell have you done to her?”

“Don’t yell,” you whispered, clinging to Sirius as he helped you inside. “It was my fault. I just—lost track of time. And forgot the sunscreen. And maybe used a little tanning oil.”

“You what?” Remus hissed.

“She’s fine,” Sirius said quickly. “A little crispy. Possibly medium-well. But we’ve got aloe and hydration and a full service recovery plan—”

“Out,” Remus cut in, his voice quiet, deadly. “Both of you. Out of the way.”

Sirius backed up instantly, palms raised in surrender, while James offered the overnight bag.

Remus was already at your side, hands cool and steady as they found your waist.

“Oh, darling, what have you done to yourself,” he murmured, his voice thick with worry. “Six hours without me and you’ve gone and roasted every inch of your skin.”

You barely managed a breathy laugh before he was slipping one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back, lifting you with the kind of care reserved for fragile things.

You curled into him instantly, burying your face in his neck, the familiar scent of cedar and linen undoing you more than the sting of the burn ever could.

“I missed you,” you whispered, clinging to him like he might vanish. “It was too long. You weren’t there and I—Remmy, I missed you the whole time.”

His arms tightened around you, breath catching as he pressed a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. “Oh, love. I should’ve come with you, I knew it. I knew something like this would happen. My sweet girl left unsupervised, thinking tanning oil counts as protection—God, look at you.”

You sighed into his shoulder, your voice muffled but sheepish. “I just wanted to look tanned, like James.”

Before Remus could respond, James appeared bbehind you both, towel slung over his shoulder, cheeks still faintly sun-warmed. “Oh?” he said, pausing mid-step. “Are we blaming me for this now?”

Remus didn’t even glance at him. “Yes,” he teased.. “You and your reckless encouragement.”

James ignored him completely, crossing the hall and pressing a soft kiss to your temple with a low hum. “You look beautiful,” he said warmly, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

You winced and gave a tiny squeak. “Ow—Jamie, not my cheeks. They’re burnt!”

He chuckled softly, eyes full of nothing but affection. “Even burnt, you’re still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You mumbled something incoherent against Remus’s collarbone, and he kissed your forehead again with a sigh.

Remus qcarried you down the hall toward the bedroom which was dim and cool, the fan already whirring in the corner, and a bottle of aloe vera waited patiently on the nightstandd like Remus had seen this disaster coming before any of you had.

“Alright,” Remus said, setting you carefully on the bed, hands already moving to the hem of your sundress. “We need to get this off you.”

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he peeled the fabric back with excruciating gentleness, inch by inch.

The dress stuck in places, clinging to sweat and suncream and skin that had gone taut with heat, but Remus never faltered. Every movement was careful.

By the time he’d gotten you stripped to your bra and underwear, your cheeks burned with something other than sun, but he didn’t falter.

Neither did Sirius, who reappeared with a glass of iced water.

James sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for your hand as Remus knelt beside you, unscrewing the aloe and rubbing it slowly between his palms to warm it.

“You’re gonna feel a little cold,” he murmured. “But it’ll help.”

“I trust you,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut.

Remus began with your collarbones, then your shoulders, smoothing the cooling gel in slow circles, muttering under his breath about UVA and SPF and people who can’t be left unsupervised in direct sunlight.

A soft voice piped up from the door. “That bad, huh?”

You turned your head slightly and saw Regulus leaning in the doorway with a slice of watermelon in one hand and an expression that didn’t quite match the dryness of his tone.

His eyes dragged over your figure, taking in the mottled skin, the sunburn lines, the look of exhausted bliss on your face.

You smiled at him, lazy and lopsided. “Hi, Reggie!”

He raised his melon in a solemn toast. “Hi, boiled shrimp.”

Remus let out a sigh but didn’t even pause in his work.

The aloe trailed lower, over your ribs, your stomach, the line of your hips, every touch steady and devoted, as if your pain was his own.

Your skin still stung in places, but the raw ache had softened under his patient care and the boys’ hovering attentiveness.

It was ridiculous, really, the way all three of them had made a mission of your comfort—as if sunburn qualified you for royalty status.

“So,” Remus Remus said, voice low and curious, “what exactly went down at the beach?”

His hand moved lazily through James’s curls, slow and absentminded, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

James, sprawled beside you with one leg draped over yours, looked up with a grin.

“Got there just after ten. Marlene and Mary already set up camp—Marlene brought this obnoxiously big umbrella, but of course no one actually sat under it.”

From your other side, Sirius gave a snort. He was curled into Remus’s side, practically melted against him, and his fingers brushed lightly along the inside of your wrist in slow, wandering strokes.

“Everyone was in the water within fifteen minutes,” he added. “Barty was being annoying, as usual, and Pandora threw a towel at him.”

“I thought she was going to drown him,” you said with a faint smile, shifting just enough to press your cheek to James’s shoulder.

Remus glanced down at you, taking in the slight wince you gave when your skin brushed the sheet. “And what about you? I assume you were being perfectly reasonable?”

“I was floating,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Talking to Pandora, eating crisps, all while I forgot sunscreen.”

Sirius gave a little groan but didn’t stop stroking your wrist. “You looked so peaceful,” he said. “Couldn’t bear to break the vibe.”

“Helpful,” Remus muttered, but his voice held no bite.

He leaned back slightly, resting his head against the headboard, and you noticed one hand still loosely holding Sirius’s waist while the other settled on your shin, warm and grounding.

“And what did you two do, then?” you asked, tilting your face up towards Remus. Your voice was soft but eager, like you hadn’t seen him in days, not hours. “You and Reg?”

“We stayed in,” Remus said, and his thumb stroked a slow line up your calf as he spoke. “Finished that Lego set—finally. Reg let me do the last section while he made tea.”

James hummed in approval, his hand finding yours beneath the sheet.

“Then we sat on the balcony with sandwiches and books,” Remus continued. “He read some strange new poetry collection and I made that lemon pasta for dinner—the one you like.”

Your eyes fluttered open at that. “With chicken and basil?”

Remus nodded. “It’s waiting for you in the fridge.”

You leaned your head back against the pillow, already picturing the bowl of it, cold and perfect after all the heat. “You’re unreal.”

He smiled faintly. “I do my best.”

Sirius yawned, eyes closed now as he shifted further against Remus’s chest, your joined hands still resting over your stomach. “Don’t drag me. I missed him.”

“I missed you too,” Remus murmured, and bent his head to kiss the crown of Sirius’s hair.

The silence that followed was thick with the scent of aloe, linen, and the last of the sea salt still clinging to your skin.

It was warm without heat, heavy without weight.

James was now tracing idle shapes against your hip, and Sirius had started playing with the hem of Remus’s shirt, half-asleep already.

“You’re not allowed to stay home next time,” you said quietly, eyes half-lidded as you watched Remus’s hand drift lazily up James’s neck.

“None of this supervision from afar. I almost died.”

Remus laughed under his breath. “Next time I’ll come,” Remus said simply.

You exhaled slowly, letting the quiet wrap around you as the weight of the three of them pressed in gently on every side.

And in that bed, with your sunburn easing under their hands and Remus finally close again, you realized you didn’t mind the burn so much after all.

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nebulaeternal · 6 months ago

Text

「 ✦ One More Time ✦ 」

―୨୧⋆ ˚GENRE/WARNING: porn w/no plot, f!xm, evol use, absolute fucking brainrot, praise, overstim, squirting, pre-release Caleb

―୨୧⋆ ˚SUMMARY: There is no summary, Caleb is just tryna see how many times he can make you cum before he does.

―୨୧⋆ ˚WORD COUNT: 0.6K

―୨୧⋆ ˚A/N: Hi yeah so...This man has not left my brain since his trailer dropped and the brainworm is getting worse, exponentially worse. This is written prerelease so don’t take it to heart or anything, so enjoy this short fic that is pure brainrot. Please get him out of my head-

―୨୧⋆ ˚LINKS: AO3 Ver. , Twitter, Taglist Sign-up

―୨୧⋆ ˚TAGLIST: @voidsylus, @noone-png

You lay there, lip caught between your teeth, stifled moans as Caleb’s dog tags dangled in your face, the cool metal serving as a contrast to your hot skin.

The bed below you creaked in protest as he drove deeper, the girth of his cock stretching you out in ways you couldn’t imagine. Your eyes screw shut, too overwhelmed by the sensation.

Caleb swung his dog tags onto his back, moving them from your field of view, the loss of contact made you whine and peek out at the man above you.

He had already wrung out three orgasms from you, relishing how your body trembled beneath him as he tried to pull out a fourth. “Caleb please~” You whined out, your body jerking in protest, all an attempt to escape his clutches.

His evol weighed on you, pinning your hips down with an unmovable force while he continued to plow into you mercilessly. Your wrists pinned above your head, each thrust sliding his dog tags off his back and slowly towards your face once more.

Your body was writhing and fighting back the impending orgasm, the cool metal hitting your skin once more as you arched into him. “Such a needy little thing you are.” He cooed, seeing how desperate you were for release.

“Caleb—too mu—ah!~” Your orgasm hit you like a truck, body twitching and spazzing while he worked you through it, desperate calls of his name falling from your lips like a mantra as he continued to fuck into you.

“That’s my good fucking girl.” He hisses, feeling you clamp down on him. His pace begins to slow down, drawing out your climax till he comes to a complete halt and pulls out of you. You whine feeling yourself now empty.

But he wasn’t done with you. He flips you over, lifts your hips up against his cock, and slides easily between your folds that are still slick from the last release. The moan that left your lips was almost inaudible with how high pitched it was.

“God you feel so good, princess.” He then proceeded to grab your wrists, crossing them behind your shoulder blades, and pushing your upper body down into the mattress.

Hiking one of his legs up, he plants his foot firmly into the mattress, using that as leverage to fuck deeper into you. “Look so good taking my cock like that—you can give me one more, yeah?“ he grunts out, thrusting into you with no abandon.

“No more!” You moaned loudly, you knew your safe word yet you refused to use it, too addicted to the feeling of his cock plunging in and out of you.

“You know what to say to make me stop.” His response was only met with more moans, not a single attempt to speak. “That’s what I thought.” The sound of skin slapping filled the air as you both began to approach your highs.

“Fuck, princess—“ you clamped down on him, shoving your face further into the mattress as you came, an immense pressure bursting from within you. Caleb groaned at the way you squirt on his cock, each thrust making you gush around him.

He wasn’t too far behind, the obscene noises emitting from your bodies spurring him on further. You were already fucked beyond stupid, taking what he gave you as he chased his high.

“Princess I’m—“ his hips stutter, slamming into you one final time as he painted your walls white. Caleb hadn’t cum that hard before, each thrust of his hips only had him spilling more of his cum into you.

When he finally pulled out, you were left a mess. His cum dribbled out of your hole and ran along your slit till it spilled out onto the mattress. Through pants and heavy breathing, he spoke. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

#lads #lads fanfic #love and deepspace #fanfic #lads smut #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #caleb lnds #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #lnds #―⭑❤︎.ᐟ nebulawrites

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pomegranatepip · 5 months ago

Text

"Lazy" Mornings?

synopsis: zayne is a textbook workaholic but if it comes down to choosing between extra work and spending time with you. well. he's a weak man.

pairing: zayne x gn!reader

wc: 1.1k

content tags: fluff, zayne thinks he's funny (he is but noone tell him)

a/n: written for @ollieneedsamilkshake for @unintentionalseductress 's valentine's day event ^-^ sorry for making it banter heavy, i love zayne's sense of humor xD hope i did it justice

ao3 link

The bed is empty when you wake up, Zayne's side long since cold. You groan and shield your eyes against the onslaught of sunlight directly on your face through the bedroom window, before pulling yourself away from your cosy nest of blankets. You stretch, your joints stiff, and look around for any telltale signs of your husband.

He can't have left for work, can he? It was one of the rare days both of your days off from work aligned, though it was entirely possible he had been called in for an emergency given the nature of his job.

Sighing, you trudged into the living room. Noticing the study door was ajar, you made to close it when you noticed the light was on inside. When you peeked in, you saw Zayne still in his pyjamas, his back to the door, typing away on his laptop.

You smile exasperatedly. Of course he was working on his day off. You slipped into the room and tiptoed over to him before slinging your arms around his neck and dropping your head on his shoulder. He stops typing for a second to look back at you.

"Good morning, my love. Why are you up so early?"

You give him a noncommittal hum in response. "I could ask you the same thing. Why are you working on your day off and at-" you squint at the penguin shaped clock on his desk- "8 in the morning too? You should be in bed with me," you whine.

He smiles at that. "I just had some reports to review which I couldn't do yesterday. I thought I'd get them done early so I could enjoy my day off without any worries. Also," he adds, taking one of your hands into his own, "It's 7 a.m., not 8."

"You do realise you're not helping your case, right?" You lift your head to look at him and he uses this chance to press a chaste kiss to your cheek.

A wry smile from him. "I'm merely pointing out that it's unusually early for you to be up so early on a weekend; you know it's routine to me."

You give up. "Fine," you concede, "you can finish your reports. But make it quick. I'll go start breakfast."

"Yes, ma'am."

Pleased with his response, you nip at his earlobe and laugh at how quickly it turns red along with his cheeks, and finally make your way to the kitchen.

Zayne pores over the file he's reviewing and sends it to Greyson after he's ascertained there are no changes for him to make. He takes his glasses off and leans back, his eyes tired from the strain of staring at his laptop screen. Just a few more, and then he'll be done.

From the kitchen, he catches the faint sound of humming alongside the noises of you making breakfast. He thinks he recognises the melody- it's the same song you've been singing for the past couple of weeks and inadvertently got stuck in his head too. He recalls your gleeful laughter and teasing when you caught him humming the tune to himself one day, and smiles in spite of himself.

The scent of pancakes wafts into his study, and he looks back at his laptop. Maybe the reports can wait.

You're flipping pancakes when you feel Zayne drape himself over you from the back. "Smells good," he says.

"Finished with your reports already? Or did you just miss me?" you tease.

"Neither. I got hungry."

"Wow. I'm going to be having this entire stack of pancakes by myself now. You can eat cereal while you think about what you did. And it's the plain kind too," you huff.

"You wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't I."

He watches you plop the last pancake on the plate and turn off the heat, and then spins you around to face him. "My apologies, miss. Allow me to make it up to you for my thoughtless words."

"Oh? And how are you planning to do that?" You make a show of being offended, but the barely concealed smile on your face gives you away.

A smile Zayne matches as he leans down and whispers, "Like this," before pressing his lips to your cheek much like earlier, except this time he didn't stop after just one. He tilts your face slightly to kiss the other cheek, and then trails down to kiss the corner of your mouth. He ghosts over your cupid's bow and a little involuntary shudder passes through you, making him chuckle quietly before he leans in.

He's gentle with the way he kisses you, his hands warm as they cradle your face. His earlier playfulness manifests in the form of a succession of soft pecks to your lips, eliciting giggles from you. He pulls back to spin you away from the stove and presses you back against the kitchen island, his hands splayed on your lower back and hip as he claims your lips with his own again.

After a minute or so, he breaks away. "Did you add nutella to the pancakes?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah, I did. How did you know?"

"I could taste it on you." He swipes his thumb on your cheek before one last sweet press of his lips to yours.

You roll your eyes. "Sue me. Besides, didn't you finish a whole jar all by yourself last week? I had to have my smores with chocolate syrup and it just wasn't the same," you mourn.

"I offered to run to the store to get more, but if I recall correctly, someone was too impatient to wait," he deadpans.

"It's not the situation, it's the principle. I was looking forward to that specific jar of nutella on my smores and you took that away from me. You need to apologise for that too," you say, hoping he'll take the bait.

He narrows his eyes. "You're playing tricks on me, aren't you."

"Who, me? Whaaaat. No way."

He sighs. "Alright. We can go to that new dessert place you've been mentioning for a while. How does that sound?"

"…you mean the dessert place you've been mentioning."

"I see it as a win win, no?"

"Of course you do."

"So you don't want to go?"

"No! I mean. That's not what I said."

Zayne smiles inwardly. "There's that new movie they're showing at the theater near the park too," he says as he finally gets to setting the table. "An adaptation of a book you were reading? We can go watch that and drop by the dessert place on our way home."

You sit down and pile pancakes onto your plate and his. "So you're not going to work on those reports today?"

He makes a show of weighing his options, though the hope sparkling in your eyes made his choice laughably easy.

"The reports can wait."

#zayne x reader #zayne fluff #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace #ncs valentines day #blind date matchmaking #pomegranatepip writes

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sailornymph · 6 months ago

Text

slut me out; naruto various

synopsis — how naruto, neji, gaara, & kiba are in bed

content warning — bondage, exhibitionism, established relationship

a/n — all are adults, they just looked better in shippuden

♡︎ naruto uzumaki

— 6 inches, he’s slightly above average, but that isn’t bad!! he knows how to use every inch

— this man is embarrassingly loud, without an once of shame, 10x worse than madara

— he likes your legs on his shoulders, giving him perfect access to pound into your cunt

— he has the stamina of a beast, thanks to kurama, literally wanting to go all night

— he loves foreplay, playing with your clit as he kisses your neck, you giving him a titjob, or just dry humping each other

— eating your pussy in his office, telling you to cum before someone interrupts

— the pace depends on the mood, if it was a hard day, then he may be a little rougher, but something like morning sex, he is gentle, handling you with the most care

— he is another one who didn’t know the importance of aftercare, but once getting with you, he takes care of you in every way

“n-naruto, we have to hurry,” you moaned, the back of your hand pressed against your mouth.

laying on his desk, the fear of anyone interrupting far from your mind, too clouded with lust to stop him from pounding into your soaked pussy. how did you end up in this position? you were only supposed to be bringing naruto his lunch when he began to whine about how he missed you.

“i know, i’m almost there,” he groaned, leaning down to motorboat your breast. gods, you had to be a gift from the gods, absolutely perfect for him.

“right there,” you cried, as he rubbed your clit. he had a meeting in twenty minutes, meaning he had less than ten minutes to make you cum.

“i’m about to cum,” he told you, grunting loudly, as you began to moan, releasing all over his cock, covering your mouth in the process.

“that was great, let’s go again,” he smiled.

“we can't, did you forget that fast that you have a meeting?”

“i’m thinking of skipping, just this once, and taking you home,” he chuckled, as you kissed his lips, accepting his hand, and getting up to fix your clothing.

just as your dress was fixed, there was a knock, making naruto, raise an eyebrow in confusion, but walking over to answer.

“lord seventh,” shikamaru said, extremely flustered.

“what is it?” naruto asked.

“your meeting was supposed to be at noon, in your office,” he said, shifting his eyes as you came into view.

“that can't be, y/n has been here since then, i thought you said after noon,” naruto said, scratching his head, as you realized what happened.

“the shinobi came to his office?”

“yes, and they heard a disturbing noise, so i decided to come to see for myself, but i realize, you were a bit busy,” shikamaru said.

“oh my-they heard us,” you covered your face, moving away from the door.

“sorry about that, shikamaru, you know how it is when you haven't seen your woman all day, could you see about rescheduling?” naruto asked, sheepishly.

“will do,” he nodded, while naruto reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips.

“there's nothing to be flustered about, you were amazing,” naruto grinned, leading you out of the office, to walk you home.

♡︎ neji hyuga

— he has nearly 7 inches and is on the skinnier side

— muffled moans and grunts because he can’t bring himself to make such noises, but he is into degradation

— he is into bondage and finds pleasure in making you his ragdoll

— tying your hands over your head, your legs around his waist, as he fucks into you

— he treats your relationship like a reward system, if you can take all of his cock like a good girl, then he will reward you with his tongue

— claims to hate foreplay, but the sight of you on your knees in front of him, begging to be fucked, he can’t help but reach out to hold, caress, & kiss on you

— despite how rough he may seem, lightly slapping your cheek, when you’re not sucking his cock like a good girl, he is incredibly gentle, when fucking you. he comes off as mean to many, but he is very in love with you and likes to show it through intimacy

— aftercare is very important to him, he is able to express his love, by catering to your body, after the long session of pleasure

“neji, please, i need it,” you whined, thrusting your hips up, craving more pressure from the vibrator held to your clit.

he hadn't seen you in a few weeks, and he missed you dearly. however, when he approached your house, you sat outside, speaking with sai about his drawing. he had no right to be jealous, he told you from the beginning, that being with him meant secrecy because he wasn't allowed to be with outsiders. still, now that he had you alone, he couldn't deny that he was releasing a bit of his frustration.

“but do you deserve it?” he asked, his pale eyes set on you, nodding earnestly.

“yes,” you whined when he pulled the toy away, furrowing his eyebrows.

“tell me how much you need it, and i will consider putting it back,” he said, turning the toy off.

“i want to cum so bad, i can't take this,” you shook your head, closing your eyes in frustration. however, you quickly opened your eyes, feeling his fingers pressing against your clit, rubbing slowly.

“there is no need for you to become so frustrated, love, use your words, what do you want me to do?” he asked.

“fuck me, all i want is your cock inside of me, please,” you squirmed.

“only because you asked so politely,” he smirked, removing his clothing, and climbing into your bed. stroking himself a few times, he began to push himself in, humming as he went into your comforting hole.

“i love your cock so much,” you moaned.

“shut up with your babbling, love,” he chuckled, kissing your lips. reaching to hold your hips, lifting your lower body into his lap, he began thrusting.

moaning loudly, the palms of your hands nearly red from how tight you squeezed the rope. your eyes rolling back, as neji continues to kiss your lips, moving down to your neck. you only pant, wrapping your legs around his waist, when he pulled away.

“wh-

you stopped, realizing that he was reaching to loosen the knot, releasing your hands from the ropes. immediately, your hands were around him, moving his soft hair from his face.

“i love you, neji,” you panted, lewdly staring into his eyes, smiling at the pink tint on his cheeks.

“i love you too, beautiful,” he whispered, as your fingers moved up his chest.

“i’m cumming,” you moaned, your mouth going into an ‘o’ shape, as he moved his mouth to your breast. lifting, he began grunting, eyebrows furrowed, but concentrated, as he came inside. sighing, he pulled out, laying on top of you.

“what made you untie me so early?” you questioned, your fingers running through his thick, but silky brown hair.

“i’ve missed your embrace is all,” he sighed.

“are you alright? do you want to talk about it?” you questioned, making him grin. how could he even get jealous or question you, when you were so loveable?

“i’m fine, i just want to hold you a while longer”

♡︎ gaara

— this man is packing and he’s so shy about it

— he stays quiet, you are his first and he is completely unsure of what noises are or aren’t acceptable

— he doesn’t know what position he likes, but he’s willing to try anything you’re willing to teach him

— he does know for sure he likes when you suck his cock, on your knees, it is such a beautiful sight

— he’s awkward during foreplay, and you have to guide him on where to lick or touch, but once he understands, he’s a pro

— you never knew sex could be so gentle, until getting with gaara. he has hurt so many people and he could never hurt you, even if it was supposed to be pleasureful

— he speaks so lowly, you usually think he is completely silent, but sometimes, you can hear him whisper words of praise and encouragement

— to say he doesn’t have any prior experience, he is really good at aftercare. he insists on catering to you and promising that it brings him joy to do so

“oh gaara, i’ve missed you so much,” you moaned, propped up on your elbows, your kimono open. gaara was eager as ever, peppering kisses along your neck and breast.

“i apologize, my role as kazekage is more demanding than i thought it would be,” he pulled away, answering seriously.

“it's okay, i understand, i just miss having you home sometimes, to kiss me, love me, fuck me,” you said, in between kisses. reaching for your panties, you lowered them, allowing him to pull them from your legs.

leaning forward, you kissed his lips, while opening his pants. his cock sprang free, veins visible, leading up to his pink tip — his precum dripping onto the sheets. biting your lip, you began to stroke his cock.

“fuck me,” you whispered, as he kissed you again. moving his hand on top of your own, he began to stroke his cock, as you let go.

laying back, you stared into his eyes, as he moved to hover over you. rubbing his tip against your slit, he began to push in. biting your lip, you shut your eyes, allowing yourself to adjust to his size. however, gaara immediately froze.

“am i hurting you?” he asked, sounding scared, about to pull away.

“no, never, you’re perfect, i am just adjusting to you-

“i’m hurting you because it’s too thick, i’m sorry, i-

“gaara, what did i tell you? we’re compromising. you like to go slow, so you don’t hurt me, and i like the feeling of you stretching me to your size. you’re fine, i know you wouldn’t intentionally hurt me and i would let you know before we could get to that point,” you explained, reassuringly, reaching to hold his cheek.

staring into your eyes for a moment, he leaned down kissing your lips, before continuing to fit the rest of his size inside. he squeezed his eyes shut, the idea of you hurting, crushed him. pulling away from him, you moaned loudly.

“oh my god,” you slurred, a lazy smile on your lips.

gaara never knew he could be so passionate about someone, until you. even if he didn't care about how hard he pounded into you — he found himself in love with the action of lovemaking. he still struggled with expressing himself, but perhaps you could understand how much he loved you, by his decision to move slowly. you could feel every inch, taking it all on to make it cherishable.

“so beautiful,” he mouthed, taking slow strokes. his hands on the sides of you, watching in amazement as you unraveled before his eyes. your eyes rolling back, your airy moans, occasionally gasping. god, how did he end up with such a perfect wife?

"you're going to make me cum too fast," you whined, throwing your head back, as he continued thrusting, staring in amazement. perfect. perfect. perfect. everything about you was the epitome of beauty.

“how does it feel, baby?” you continued, leaning to kiss his jaw, through your moans

"you feel amazing," he said, trying to hold back his noises.

“you can make as many noises as you'd like, it’s just us,” you whispered, smiling as the tiniest moan escaped, his face becoming flustered.

"please make me cum, gaara," you moaned, as he kissed your lips again.

"i love you," he said, lowly, smiling as you pulled him into a hug, while he continued moving his hips.

"i love you too," you whined loudly, as his thrust became uneven. you were creaming all over him, as he moved his hand down, slowly rubbing your clit, until your leg started shaking.

"j-just like that," you moaned, nodding, as the knot in your abdomen finally was released. pulling out, gaara jerked his cock a few times, reaching for his handkerchief off of the counter, you tiredly watched as he came on it, closing it up. once done, he had a sheepish expression on his face. he had been pulling out, since the two of you became intimate, out of fear of becoming a terrible parent, but unlike what his thoughts said, you didn't judge him.

“would you like a shower, love?” he asked.

“only if you are joining me,” you bit your lip, satisfied at his shy nod.

♡︎ kiba inuzuka

— oh my, this man has a force to be reckoned with in his pants lol, and it's very girthy

— he is almost primal, grunting and growling, as he fucks your beautiful pussy

— doggystyle or spooning, it doesn’t matter, but he is a bit of an exhibitionist, he adores fucking you anywhere outdoors

— he eats pussy so good, will have your legs shaking and loves spanking you

— something about seeing your ass all sensitive, your legs clenching to hide dripping pussy, turns him on in a way beyond words

— no lovemaking for him, instead he fucks you, each touch as desperate as the last to get you off

— he’s kinkier than neji, spitting, slapping, bondage, anal, he loves it all

— on his own, he is terrible at aftercare, but he likes to think of it as a partnership. as a team, catering to each other (and with you walking him through each step) he is much better

“keep quiet, wouldn’t want everyone to see how much of a slut you are,” he laughed, pressing his thumb against your second hole, making you moan louder, rushing to cover your mouth.

“ugh, baby, you’re fucking me too good,” you cried to him, your right hand muffling your moans, while your left squeezed the green grass.

the two of you intended to only spend some time together after constantly working, but it was so hard to keep your hands to yourselves.

“you’re so hot, babe, you’re taking my cock like a good girl, yeah, you like when i fuck you like this, huh bitch?” he said, his canine teeth showing, slapping your ass.

wincing you tiredly fucked him back, when he sat on the grass, pulling you into his lap. throwing your head back, as he pushed his cock into your pussy, he bit your nipple, lightly tugging.

“oh kiba, i love it so much, don't stop,” you moaned, as he slapped your ass again.

“i won't, not until you cum all over my cock,” he grunted. he was unashamed, grunting and growling like he was in heat. for him, he was mating, and he certainly intended to get stuck to you.

“i-i’m go-ing to cum, baby,” you moaned, as sped up, thrusting, as he squeezed your ass. your breast bouncing in his face. he couldn't help but feel like the luckiest man around, you were the people’s princess, and only he could get you to act like a primal slut and you loved every moment of it.

“fuck,” he hissed, cumming, as your pussy clenched around him, repeatedly, as you came. holding onto his shoulder, you kissed the side of his mouth, before fully connecting with his lips.

“that was fun,” you said, both of you sharing a laugh, as he stood up, still holding you, before he let your feet touch the ground, then pecked your lips.

“what do you think about ramen and then a nice bath?” kiba asked, as the both of you began dressing.

“sounds good to me,” you agreed. after he finished, he waited for you, crouched down.

“hop on,” he said, standing up, and headed towards the village with you on his back.

#naruto x reader #neji x reader #gaara x reader #kiba x reader #naruto uzumaki #neji hyuga #kiba inuzuka

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