#Reel Wrapping Machine

[artficlly]

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.

[i2rizz]

Did I mention I'm wildly in love with this deranged little bitch? Don't even ask where this idea came from-my brain's basically a cursed fanfic generator fueled by chaos, thirst, and questionable zero impulse control

Locked & Loaded

The alley was slick with demon blood—everywhere, sticky, and steaming where it hit the pavement. The stink of it clung to the night air, thick and metallic, crawling into your lungs even through the adrenaline.

Dante wiped his blade on his coat, standing over the remainings of what had once been a gangly, hissing demon.

"Ugly bastard" he muttered, nudging the corpse with the toe of his boot. "That’s the last time I take a bounty that pays in IOUs and moldy pizza"

You scoffed, stepping over a pile of broken crates. "You weren’t complaining about the pizza when you ate half of it"

"Low standards. Occupational hazard"

You shot him a look over your shoulder as you sheathed your own blade. The two of you made quite the pair—blood-splattered, sweaty, and absolutely unbothered. Dante had his usual swagger, that half-cocked grin that never quite left his face, and you? You were the calm to his chaos. Cool hands, sharp eyes, and a pistol always ready—until tonight.

Because, as fate would have it, both your guns had hit the ground mid-battle. His were kicked across the alley; yours had slid under a rusted dumpster in the middle of dodging a particularly aggressive hellspawn.

You figured you had enough time to grab them—until the second wave hit.

The growl echoed before you saw it. Low. Guttural. Disgusting.

Dante turned just as the wall behind you shattered, bricks flying. Something huge and snarling lunged out from the smoke, claws like meat cleavers and a mouth full of jagged teeth that glistened in the moonlight.

You both dove—instinct, perfect synchronization—but you hit the ground hard, knees scraping.

"Shit—Dante, your guns—"

"Gone" he grunted, rolling to his feet. "Yours?"

You looked under the dumpster. No glint. No chance. "Buried. We’ve got nothing"

The demon roared, charging.

Dante grimaced. "Alright. We’re doing this old-school"

But you held up a hand. Calm. Focused. And very much not panicking.

"Nah, twin" you said smoothly, voice cool as the metal you were about to introduce to the situation. "I got this"

Dante blinked. "Babe, unless you’re hiding a shotgun in your boots, I don’t think—"

You reached into your jacket, tugging at the zipper halfway… then lower.

He paused.

"Wait—are you—?"

And with one confident pull, you drew a sleek, silver pistol from right between your chest—tight holster, custom fit, hidden in plain sight. You cocked it without missing a beat, the click loud and sweet in the tense air.

Dante stared.

"Holy hell," he muttered, visibly stunned. "Is that where you keep it this whole time?"

You smirked, stepping forward with a roll of your shoulder. "Emergency backup, babe. You think I wear this top for style?"

The demon charged again. You raised the pistol.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots. Each one precise. The demon reeled back, screeching in pain as black ichor burst from its eye socket and shoulder.

Dante watched you—barely breathing, maybe because you looked like a literal fever dream. Bloody, glowing in the alley light, sweat clinging to your collarbone, your weapon still hot in your hands, smoke curling from the barrel.

He let out a low whistle. "You just became the hottest person I’ve ever seen"

You didn’t look at him—too focused, too in the zone. "Flirt later. Cover me"

“God, I love you” he muttered, dazed, as he grabbed a crowbar from the ground and dove in with you.

It was fast, brutal. You moved in tandem—one fluid, lethal machine. The demon never stood a chance.

By the time it crumpled into a pile of twitching limbs, you were breathing heavy, hands on your knees. Dante came up behind you, slow, still catching his breath.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"I’m not even mad about losing my guns," he murmured. "That was the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen. I mean, between the boobs? That’s genius"

You laughed, low and smug. "Told you I had it handled"

He nuzzled your neck, shameless. "You have me handled"

You turned in his arms, lifting the still-warm pistol and tucking it back into its secret holster. His eyes followed the motion like a man hypnotized.

"Stop staring"

"Can’t," he said. "My girl pulls a piece from her tits and kills a demon with three shots to the face. What do you expect me to do, not get turned on?"

You kissed him then—sweaty, blood-spattered, and giggling. He tasted like adrenaline and praise and something wild.

"You’re shameless" you whispered.

"And so hard it's concerning" he said against your mouth. "Now let’s go home. I wanna see what else you’ve been hiding under that top"

[octagonsolution]

Reel Stretch Wrapping is specially designed for packing paper, film, foil, and similar materials manufactured in reels through a Paper wrapping Machine, Paper Packaging Machine, or Paper Roll Packing Machine.

[octagonsolutions]

A Reel Stretch Wrapping Machine is used for stretch film wrapping for non-wovens, coils, paper rolls, rubber products, and similar materials manufactured in small reels. The reel Stretch Wrapping Machine helps reduce labor by automating the process of attaching, detaching, and pressing the film. To wrap a product, the operator simply places the item on the turn table and switches on the machine to operate.

[zeppelinlvr]

Taking a Walk

Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Summary: Sam, Dean and you get done with a hunt, you're starving and tired and Dean is happy to get you food and cuddle in bed.

Notes: guys I promise the end isn't supposed to be sad, I just feel like dean has trouble saying 'I love you' (so don't take it to heart), also thank you for the support on my previous fic!

Warnings: Fluff, cursing, suggestive language, gas station hot dogs

w.c: 1.4k

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You groaned as you got into the backseat of the impala. You luckily left the hunt with no more than the usual scrapes, expecting a few bruises to appear in the next day or two. Your legs burned like all hell and you wanted nothing more than to shower and get in bed. 

Dean got into the driver's seat and Sam in the passenger, the two bickering about something petty you didn’t care to pay attention to at the moment. 

Sam glanced back at you, sprawled out in the backseat, uncomfortably trying to lay down and rub your aching legs. 

“You alright back there?” He asked, a small laugh escaping.

“No i need some aspirin and a fucking gas station hot dog” you shot back

“Must be hungry, she never eats that kind of crap” Dean remarked, starting the car and unbeknownst to you peeling off to find the nearest gas station, he knew how you acted when you were hungry and tired and he didn’t want to let you get to that point. 

You found a wrapper that had been discarded in the backseat and threw it at the back of Deans head “if you would’ve let me bring my fucking purse I would’ve had my aspirin and my granola bar” you muttered, annoyed he made you leave your bag at the hotel. 

“Okay Mary Poppins, something could have grabbed that purse of yours and dragged you away” He told you, continually increasing his speed, trying to get to a gas station or somewhere with food as soon as he could. 

Dean barreled around a corner far too quickly making you groan “I get carsick be careful” 

“That's an excuse for pussies who want to sit in the front seat sweetheart,” Dean said, his eyes catching a lit up sign of a local gas station in the distance. 

“It is not, I really do get-“ you were cut off by the car reeling to a stop 

“Come on, we’re getting you your fucking gas station hot dog” Dean said as he opened his door, then yours, helping you out of the backseat. 

“Wait Sammy do you want anything?” you quickly asked as Dean wrapped his arm around your shoulder 

“God no” he said “thank you for asking though” he added giving you a small smile 

“Okay, don’t get kidnapped” you replied and teasingly blew him a kiss earning a scoff from Dean. 

You headed straight towards the questionable looking hot dogs rolling on a silver grill. Dean right behind you.

“This shit looks so good I can't lie” you said to Dean with a laugh.

“I don’t know if your vision gets warped when you’re hungry but whatever floats your boat sweet cheeks” Dean replied, giving you a look with a raised brow. 

You loaded up a few shitty hotdogs with all the condiments your heart desired, you were ready to follow Dean to pay when you noticed a slushy machine

“Oh my god I want a slushy” you squealed, definitely too excited over the frozen drink. 

Dean gave a small laugh at your excitement but he really did love how the smallest things made you so happy. “I’ll take your dogs, go get one” he told you

He didn’t have to tell you twice, you quickly made your way over to the machine, grabbing a cup and filling it with your favorite flavor, making sure every bit through the dome shaped lid was filled with the drink. 

“Didn’t know you were a pro slushy maker” Dean commented upon seeing your determination that the entire cup was filled.

“Got to get my money's worth” you shrugged 

Dean paid for your hot dogs and slushy and the two of you headed back to the car, you placed a quick kiss on his cheek and thanked him for getting you the food you desperately needed before you crawled into the backseat.

He handed you the hot dogs but not your slushy “I am not letting you get this sticky shit all over my backseat, Sam’s gonna hold your slushy and you can have it when we get back to the motel” he told you

You and Sam began to protest, you complaining it would melt and Sam not wanting to hold a freezing drink in his hand. 

“This is not a discussion, we're five minutes away, you big babies will survive” Dean said, passing the drink off to Sam then shutting his door and starting the car. 

“You seemed to have no problem with sticky shit getting on this backseat last night” you muttered before taking a bite of your hot dog.

“Ew what the hell” Sam exclaimed “you said you guys were going on a walk” 

“Sam when have either of us ever had any interest in going on walks” Dean said flatly 

Sam made a face that could only begin to show how sickened he was by the conversation.

“Dean I know you’re probably dying to listen to some Barry Manilow right now, but can you please throw in some Zeppelin or the Velvet Underground” you said, poking at the fact both of you hated Barry Manilow.

“Not in the mood for your hippie doo dah Velvet shit, you want Zeppelin 4 or Houses of the Holy?” 

“Houses of the Holy, please and thank you” you replied, squeezing his shoulder as an attempted emphasis on your gratitude. 

The tape started up on D’yer Mak’er, not having been rewound since the last time it was played. 

The song ended as you pulled into the parking lot of the motel. 

“I get the shower first” you quickly said

“Fine, but you have 20 minutes, me and Sam aren’t going to sit in stinky clothes for an hour while you take a long ass shower” Dean replied to you 

“Okay Dr. Seuss” you replied with a roll of your eyes.

“What about your slushy?” Sam asked fake annoyance lacing his tone. 

“I’ll chug it before I get in the shower, give it to me” you told him, holding your hand out, you began to quickly drink down the slushy as Dean unlocked the door to the room. 

“atta girl” Dean teased as he noticed your actions. 

Your head throbbed from the slushy but you managed to drink most of it, you discarded it then made your way to the shower. 

You heard a banging at the door as you were finishing up, you shut the water off then wrapped a towel around yourself and your hair. 

“I said 20 minutes sweetheart” Dean yelled through the door.

You opened the door, a cold wave of air hitting you in contrast to the warmth of the bathroom. 

“Do you mind if I do my hair and skincare while you shower?” you asked him

“Go right ahead” he replied, stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. He quickly began to undress, noticing you unable to take your eyes off his figure. 

“Like what you see?” he teased, a smirk playing at his face

You raised your eyebrows in response “we might have to go on a walk again” you laughed and pushed his shoulder slightly. 

He chuckled at your comment then turned on the water and hopped in the shower. 

You had gotten ready for bed and had your pajamas on by the time Dean got out of the shower. You laid in bed and read a book not involving some kind of entity, just one for your own pleasure. Sam went to shower and Dean climbed into bed next to you, heat radiating off of him from the warmth of the water, his hair still slightly damp. You set your book down upon feeling his presence next to you. 

“Thanks for getting me those hot dogs” you laughed “I’m sorry I was grouchy, I was really hungry” 

“It's okay sweetheart, I’m glad to get you food when you need it” he told you as he wrapped an arm around you. 

“You okay if I shut the lamp off, I’m really tired” you asked him. 

He hummed in response, pulling you into him after you had shut the light off. He wrapped his arms around your waist and your back was against his chest, you felt his breathing calm against you. You snuggled into him, wiggling your butt against his crotch in the process earning a response of “don't do that” from him, you giggled slightly at his words. 

“I love you Dean” you said as you shut your eyes. 

“You too y/n” he uttered out already half asleep, as he pressed a kiss to the back of your head. 

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[moonstruckme]

If you don’t mind what about poly!marauders (emts version) x reader where she hides a injury that’s kinda serious (idk like a cut that’s pretty deep or smth) but she doesn’t think it’s serious, so she tries to hide it from them to not feel like a burden since they are always busy with work. Basically just a mix of emts marauders and casual dominance

Thanks for requesting lovely <3

cw: mention of blood

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

You’re trying to figure out whether putting your shoe in the washing machine will damage it irrevocably when the bathroom door handle twists. 

You look up like a deer caught in headlights. Sirius’ gaze flits from the shoe in your hand to the bloodstained sock on the floor to your wide-eyed look. 

“Shut the door!” you whisper-yell. He must be reeling, because he actually does it, closing the door with a click and dropping down beside you on the bathroom floor. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. Again, his gaze goes to your once-blue sock, now marred by a dark red stain. “Are you hurt?” 

You see the moment Sirius notices the foot you’re holding, layers of toilet paper wrapped loosely around the arch. His eyes sharpen. 

“Don’t tell James and Remus,” you plead. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks again, sternly now. 

Your lip finds it way beneath your teeth. “Not really,” you say. “It’s not terrible or anything, I just can’t get it to stop bleeding.” 

“That’s not usually a great sign, sweetheart.” Sirius scoots closer, holding out his hands. “Let me see.” 

You know better than to argue, transferring your foot into his lap. He gives you an odd look about the toilet paper before starting to unravel it, the thin material tearing under his rushed handling. Your boyfriend relaxes slightly when the wound is revealed. It’s deceptively small for how much blood seems to come out of it, the cut only a couple of centimeters along the arch of your foot. 

Sirius adjusts his grip, lifting it to the light to see it better, and you try not to look so visibly flustered at the tender way he’s handling you. 

“It’s little, see?” you say. “No need to bother anyone else.” 

He lowers your foot to give you an amused look. “Darling, as much as I love to have our dirty little secrets together,” he says, “you know they’d kill me.” 

“They wouldn’t,” you say, half desperate. “They love you, and I’ll protect you anyway.” 

Sirius’ mouth pinches. He thumbs at your ankle apologetically. “James would have us both flat on our backs in under a minute. Admire your confidence, though.” He sucks in a breath. “Rem, James!” 

The TV shuts off, and then there are footsteps on the stairs. Sirius is impervious to your glare, only picking your foot up again and turning it this way and that to see it better. 

“What?” James calls. You can hear Remus grumbling about how your apartment is hardly large enough to necessitate this much yelling. 

“In here!” Sirius shouts back. 

The door opens a second later, your other two boyfriends crowding the already small bathroom. James is crouched in an instant, setting a hand on Sirius’ shoulder to steady himself. 

“Oh, lovie, what’d you do?” 

You open your mouth to respond, but Sirius says, “Can one of you grab the first aid kit and a pen light? I can’t see if there’s anything still in here.”

“There shouldn’t be,” you say as Remus goes for the kit. “I already took out the glass.” 

Both Sirius and James look up from your foot, eyebrows raised. 

“And what were you doing that you ended up with glass in your foot?” Sirius asks. 

Your shoulders gravitate towards your ears. “Cleaning up the glass that I broke.” 

Remus hums disapprovingly as he passes a pen light to Sirius, who clicks it on, shining it onto your foot. You do your best to pretend this doesn’t make you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“When did that happen?” he asks. 

“This morning.” 

“Sweetheart.” James’ disapproval is evident in his voice. You can’t bring yourself to look up and witness it in his face, too. 

“And why didn’t you say anything when you hurt yourself?” Remus asks. He sits down beside you, eyes on what the other two are doing though you can feel his attention on you. 

“Because I didn’t want to bother you,” you say quietly. 

He tsks, and he doesn’t need to say anything more. It’s plain enough you’re in trouble. 

For a few moments, the silence is thick and hot, torturous, but surprisingly it's Sirius who does you the mercy of putting you out of your misery. 

“It doesn’t look like you’ve got any more glass in here.” He clicks off the pen light, and your hamstrings sigh in relief as he lowers your foot to rest back in his lap. “That’s lucky,” he tells you severely. “You can’t always rely on just picking out the big piece and having that be that.” 

“Stitches?” Remus asks, and you tense. You hadn’t even considered that. 

“I don’t think so,” Sirius says, but he sounds uncertain. “It’s just barely deep enough, though.” 

“Let’s see.” James holds out his hands, and Sirius hands it off to him. You try to ignore the fact that your foot is being passed around like something a child brought to show-and-tell. James takes up the pen light, peering at it for a few moments before nodding decisively. He pats the side of your foot. “I think you should be safe.” 

You must look as relieved as you feel, because James smiles, squeezing up the length of your calf. 

“What I really don’t understand,” he says lightly, “is why the hell you’ve been keeping it wrapped in toilet paper.” 

You can’t help but return his smile sheepishly as you shrug. “It works,” you say. “Plus, Remus gatekeeps the first aid kit.” 

“It’s only in the cabinet above the toilet,” Remus sighs. 

Sirius scoffs, and James reaches across you to pat him on the thigh. “No one can reach it up there but you, love.” 

You look over in time to catch your boyfriend’s eye roll, paired with the smirk he tries to hide. “Regardless,” he says, “it seems as though it wouldn’t be an issue if anyone who can’t reach it,” his eyes slide to yours, and you find new interest in the floor tiles, “would just ask someone else to get it for them, rather than being secretive.” You can feel his gaze searing into the side of your head, but you refuse to look up even when Sirius snickers and pinches your leg meanly. “If you didn’t have the kit, how did you clean it, dove?” 

“It’s clean,” you hedge, but make the mistake of looking up into Sirius’ stern gaze. He cocks an eyebrow as if to say Go on. “I ran it under the tap in the bathtub.” 

Remus sighs, Sirius groans, and James lets his head fall fully forward onto your knee. 

“Sweetheart,” James presses a kiss to your shin, “my love, I know you mean well, but this is why you need to tell us things.” 

“What’s the problem?” you ask as Remus moves to sit by Sirius, opening up the first aid kit. “Water’s just as good.” 

“It’s really not,” Sirius says, “seeing as water doesn’t actually kill bacteria. Do you want to stay where you are or sit up on the counter, darling?” 

“I’ve got a better idea.” James scooches over by you, lifting you by your waist and setting you in his lap. “There. Far more comfortable, don’t you think?” 

“Much.” You grin, turning your head to kiss him. “Thanks, Jamie.” 

“Spent a whole day keeping secrets and still getting the princess treatment.” Sirius’ tone is equal parts teasing and affectionate as he smooths a hand up and down your calf. “We must really love you or something.”

[ellaa-writes]

Gym rat König who fucks you in the locker room shower. (not edited)

He saw you first, walking up to the squat machine. Wearing tight black legging and just a sport bra. It was nearing midnight, König only came to the gym at night. Like a creature out of a horror movie, emerging from his crypt to do some weight lifting.

He couldn't stop staring, you must know he was staring. You probably did it on purpose, with the way your dressed, out late at night. Setting your water bottle down beside the machine you.

Watching you has you worked out, König long forgot what he was even doing to begin with. The heavy weights still in his hands, he let them drop to the floor without a thought. A loud thud rang though the gym, making you flinch and reel your head in his direction.

This was his opportunity, pulling at the bottom of his tank. He lifted it up to wipe off the sweat building on his forehead. Making sure his abs and chest were on full display. Hell he even flexed a little just to make sure you were looking. Hook, line and sinker, you snapped your head away as a blush crept up your chest to your face.

Today wasn't leg day, but for you it sure was. König sauntered over to the leg press machine which so happens to be right beside your machine. Giving it a quick wipe down before he looked in your direction and did his signature goofy smile, gummy and all.

"Haven't seen you here before." he called out to you, his accent thicker than usual. He was really laying it all on you. "I've been a few times but usually to busy." you replied back in between grunts. König watched has you worked up a sweat. Noticing your poor form and using that has an excuse to get closer.

"You're going to hurt yourself that way." he said nonchalantly, pointing to your back. You let the weights gently down as you sat facing him. "Leaning forward to much, watch I'll show you." he rose from his machine. Reaching you in one big step, he was so much bigger closer up. Like a skyscraper kissing the clouds, he had a surgical mask over the lower half of his face. But you still heard him like he was whispering in your ear.

You stepped back has König showed you the proper form. Doing one squat before he ushered you back to the machine. Helping you get the bar on your shoulders. His hand on your lower back, so big and wide and warm as hell. His other hand resting on your lower stomach, telling you to squat and you did. Feeling no pain as you did so, König asked "Better?" hands still on you. You just nodded your head, to dizzy to answer.

He stepped away but not far before you called out "If you don't mind, can you do that again. So I can get a better idea." König's heart started to pound as another sleezy smile spread across his face. He could show you a few more moves if you wanted, he said with a raise of an eyebrow.

Lucky for the both of you the gym was quiet dead that night. You, him and three others. He followed you back to the locker room, and into the showers. You shoved him in first, before following after and closing the curtains tight.

Konig had your leg slinged across his shoulder, your back pressed against the shower tile. The hot steam of the water filling the small enclosure. You other leg wrapped around his waist has he pounded your pussy.

He's whimpering and babbling in German, peppering your neck and chest in small kiss and bites. You nails digging into his back, panting like a bitch in heat. His thick cock hitting all the right spots, the tip bullying against your spongy cervix. His magic fingers working the bud of your swollen clit, rubbing tight circles.

The door to the locker room swung open, both you and König froze. His cock twitching inside your warm wet pussy. Listening to the sound of someone walking around, rummaging in their belongings before the always started up a shower.

Konig began to lazily pump his cock into you, slow thrusts that made your whole body buzz with need. You whined out causing König to cover your mouth with his hand. Leaning into your ear to shush you. And you tried, oh god you tried.

Letting his hand fall back down between your bodies. Working your clit once again and his thrusts became more focused and hard. The sound of the water pelting against the tiles drowning out the lewd noises coming from your stall.

You were so close, he could feel it. He was right their with you, snapping his hips harshly into your own. He was building you up until it all came crashing down. You bit into his shoulder to muffle your moan, your pussy convulsing around his cock. König could help himself, pumping his thick load into you. Grunting out before he bite his own tongue.

After a few silent moments between you to, the shower a few stalls over turned off. The curtain being yanked open and a few minutes later you bother were alone again.

He slowly washed his cum from your cunt, down on his knees. Looking up into your eyes he asked "Wanna go have a bite to eat?"

Thank you all for 600 followers!!

[4linos]

already gone pt. 2

kim seungmin x f!reader

synopsis: to the world, you’re the perfect couple: the rising athlete and the woman who stood by him. but behind closed doors, something is shattering. the MLB offer. the agent. the betrayal you never saw coming. now your home is no longer a refuge, but the battleground where truth and love fight for survival.

warnings: angst, emotional distress, implied infidelity, trust issues, miscommunication.

wc: 8086

[already gone part 1]

The ache in your head was the first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes. A deep, dull pounding, as if your thoughts from the night before had hardened into something physical, a weight pressing against the inside of your skull. You winced, pulling the blankets tighter around you, wishing for a moment that you could sink into the mattress and disappear.

But reality wouldn’t let you.

You didn’t know how long you’d been awake, just that the light creeping in through the window was gray and cold, that strange shade that comes just before sunrise. It felt too early, and yet too late. Sleep hadn’t come easily the night before. You remembered lying there, turning from one side to the other, tangled in sheets soaked with quiet, bitter tears.

The confrontation with Seungmin kept playing in your head over and over, like a broken reel. His voice, raised. Yours, breaking. His lies, half-formed and crumbling the moment they left his lips. And then the door, slamming shut behind him. The silence afterward had been deafening.

You sat up slowly, careful not to make too much noise. The last thing you wanted was to wake Minjoon or Iseul, not yet. You needed a moment. Just one moment to yourself. Some air, some quiet. Some clarity.

Your feet hit the cold floor, grounding you instantly. You moved on instinct brushing your teeth, washing your face, tying your hair back. Each motion was mechanical, like your body remembered how to go through the motions even when your mind didn’t. You tugged a hoodie over your tank top, one of Seungmin’s old ones that still smelled faintly like his cologne, and padded softly toward the nursery.

First Iseul.

You peeked into her room, and there she was, your baby girl a bundle of calm in her crib, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Her tiny fists twitched now and then, as if she were dreaming. You stepped in just long enough to check her temperature with your palm, to make sure she hadn’t kicked her blanket off. Satisfied, you backed out slowly.

Then Minjoon’s room.

He was on his side, one leg flopped over his stuffed tiger, his chubby cheek pressed into the pillow. The nightlight cast a faint orange glow across his small face, and you felt your chest twist in that quiet, aching way it always did when you looked at him. So small. So unknowing.

So safe, for now.

You shut his door with the care of someone handling glass, and only when you were back in the kitchen did you finally exhale.

You brewed your coffee in silence. No background noise. No morning show, no baby monitor, no cartoons. Just the drip, drip, drip of the machine and your breath, slow and steady. You sat down at the kitchen table, wrapping both hands around the mug like it was the only warmth left in the world.

Then you opened your phone.

You didn’t plan to. At least, you told yourself that. But your fingers moved like they already knew where to go. The browser opened. You typed in her name.

Madison Lee.

You stared at the results, heart thudding a little too hard, a little too fast. The headache throbbed behind your eyes, but you ignored it.

Her LinkedIn was the first link. Clean, professional. UCLA graduate. Top-tier agency in L.A. Negotiated major sports contracts, specifically with international athletes looking to transition to the MLB. All of it lined up.

You moved to her Instagram next. Public profile.

Your breath caught the moment her photos loaded. She was beautiful sharp-jawed, clean lines, bright white teeth. She wore heels and tailored blazers like armor. Her captions were neat, professional. “Proud to represent some of the best in the game.” “Another day, another diamond.” Posing with athletes. Posing at dinners. Posing at events.

You scrolled faster.

The deeper you went, the more your stomach curled in on itself. There was one photo, taken two months ago that made your blood run cold. It was from a private dinner, tagged in Busan. Madison was smiling, wine glass in hand. The caption was simple: “Celebrating hard work paying off.” The comments were vague. But one of them… one of them was from Seungmin’s teammate.

“You two make a good team.”

Your throat went dry.

You stared at the comment for far too long, your mind rushing to connect dots that weren’t supposed to be connected. You remembered Seungmin’s deflections. The way he tripped over his words. The quiet “it wasn’t like that” before you’d even asked him what “that” was.

You hadn’t accused him of cheating, not then. Not even now. Not really. But somehow, he had still gotten defensive. Still shaken. Still ready to deny something before you could name it.

And now this.

The way he never told you about her. The way he downplayed everything. The way he didn’t mention the U.S. deal until it was practically out in the open, a secret dragged into the light by a journalist.

And this woman. This sleek, powerful, picture-perfect agent. She was everything Seungmin never mentioned.

Your thumb hovered over the screen. You told yourself to stop. Told yourself to close the app. To let it go. But your heart had a different plan. Your fear did. Your instinct, the one you had learned not to ignore since becoming a mother.

You clicked on Madison’s tagged photos.

One showed her seated next to Seungmin at a conference panel, his body angled slightly toward her. Another, taken from behind, showed them walking together through an airport terminal, not holding hands, but close enough. Too close, maybe.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until your vision blurred and you blinked, chest tight.

Your phone nearly slipped from your hands when a tiny voice broke the silence.

“…Mommy?”

You froze.

Minjoon.

You turned slowly, eyes finding his small figure at the edge of the hallway. He stood there in his blue dinosaur pajamas, rubbing one eye with his fist, his hair a messy puff. His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

“What you doin’?”

You blinked again, your phone dropping face down onto the table with a soft thud. The sudden reality of his voice so innocent, so real was like cold water down your back.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood, wiping your face quickly with your sleeve, hoping he hadn’t noticed your red eyes.

“I’m just… having coffee, baby,” you said softly, crouching down to his level. “Did I wake you up?”

He shook his head. You nodded, reaching out to cup his cheek. His skin was warm. Solid. Comforting.

He looked at you for a moment longer, his eyes filled with a curiosity you didn’t know how to protect him from.

“You sad?”

Your heart splintered.

You didn’t answer him. You just pulled him into your arms and held him close, your chin resting on the top of his head.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, your voice thick. “Mommy’s just tired.”

He didn’t respond. He just curled into you the way he always did when he knew something was wrong silent, present, offering comfort in the only way a two-year-old could.

You held him like that for a long time, your coffee growing cold on the table behind you. Madison’s face still staring out from behind the locked screen of your phone.

But in that moment, none of that mattered.

Because your little boy was watching.

And you didn’t want him to learn what it looked like to fall apart.

Not yet.

The knock-off hotel alarm clock glowed dim red in the half-dark, the numbers shifting sluggishly from 5:41 to 5:42 while drops of water slid from Seungmin’s hair and pattered onto the threadbare carpet.
He had taken a five-minute shower on the coldest setting the rusty pipes could manage, hoping the bite of frigid water would shock the exhaustion and the shame, out of him. It hadn’t. His head still throbbed, his eyes still burned, and every breath still tasted like the silence that had filled the house after he slammed the door.

He toweled off in jerky, impatient motions, the towel snagging on the thin chain of the wedding band he’d looped around his neck at some foolish hour of the night. Too raw to keep it on his finger, too terrified to take it off completely.

The room smelled like industrial soap and last night’s cheap coffee. His duffel bag lay open on the bed, half-packed: a spare pair of jeans, two t-shirts, a hoodie that still smelled faintly of your laundry detergent. He shoved his travel-size toiletries kit on top, then hesitated, palms braced on the mattress, head hanging.

Go home, he told himself.
Say you’re sorry, really sorry, no excuses, no half-truths. Just beg her to let you talk.

But every time he tried to picture the conversation, Madison’s name pushed in like static.

Three months of avoiding her calls, her emails, her marketing decks promising “seamless transitions” and “lifetime earning potential.” Three months of pretending he could outrun that night in the Los Angeles hotel bar, pretending the almost-kiss hadn’t happened at all.

It had happened. Quick, sloppy, drunk on victory and adrenaline after scouts bought a round of champagne. She’d leaned in, laughing at something he barely remembered saying, and before he could dodge, her lips grazed the corner of his mouth. He’d flinched back so fast he nearly toppled his chair. She’d apologized smooth, professional, but the gleam in her eyes told him she wasn’t sorry at all.

He should’ve fired her on the spot.
He should’ve called you from the lobby, confessed everything.
Instead he buried it because you were six weeks postpartum, surviving on ninety-minute sleep cycles and sheer determination. He told himself you didn’t need another worry. He told himself it was one slip. It would blow over. He could fix it later.

Only later never came. And the silence turned into omission, and the omission into a lie so sprawling he’d lost track of all its edges.

Seungmin scrubbed both hands over his face, then yanked the zipper of the duffel shut. He slung the strap over his shoulder, grabbed his phone and room key, and headed for the door.

The screen lit up just as his fingers closed around the handle.

Madison Lee – Incoming Call

The name glared at him like a warning flare.

His thumb hovered over Decline.
Then stupid, reckless curiosity he hit Accept and lifted the phone halfway, not bothering with the speaker.

“Seung? You finally picked up.” Madison’s voice was syrup-smooth, a practiced mix of concern and authority. “I was starting to think you’d ghosted me for good.”

“It’s six in the morning,” he said, voice rough.

“In L.A. it’s one p.m.,” she answered breezily. “Look, I know things exploded online yesterday. I wanted to check in, see how you’re handling the press.”

Press. As if the fallout were a headline problem and not a marriage imploding.

“I’m fine,” he lied. He rubbed the knot forming at the base of his skull. “Nothing to talk about.”

“Seungmin.” The shift in her tone was almost imperceptible, businesslike turning coaxing, coaxing turning possessive. “We had momentum before you went dark. The Padres and the LA Dodgers both asked for new videos. If we get them preseason tapes this week, your offer numbers stay strong.”

“It’s over, Madison.”

A pause, a single beat where he could almost hear her recalibrating.

“Over?” she echoed, polite disbelief layered over steel. “The KBO is wrapping. You’re twenty-six, you’ve got prime velocity, and you’re about to start losing leverage. Over is not a strategic—”

“My marriage might be,” he snapped. “The contract can wait.”

Another pause, this one brittle.

“You told me she supports your career.”

“She does.” His throat closed. She did. Before I broke it. “But she also deserves the truth, and I haven’t given her that. I’m not signing anything until I fix what I can at home.”

“Seung—”

“She’s more important than baseball,” he said, and the second the words left his mouth he realized how painfully, perfectly true they were. “And she’s definitely more important than a contract built on secrets.”

Madison exhaled, an annoyed puff disguised as a sigh. “I understand you’re emotional right now. But you need to think long-term. Opportunities like this don’t sit on shelves.”

That familiar, silky persuasion the same tone she’d used that night in L.A. before leaning in. Guilt flared hot in his chest.

“This call is over,” he said, and hit End before she could respond.

For a moment he stood motionless, phone slack in his hand, heart hammering. Then he shoved the device into his back pocket, yanked the door open, and stepped into the hallway.

6:07 a.m.

The corridor smelled of disinfectant and stale cigarettes. His sneakers squeaked on the cheap vinyl tiles as he jogged toward the elevator, duffel thumping against his hip. In the chrome doors he caught his reflection, hair still damp, eyes rimmed red, hoodie askew. He looked like a man who’d spent the night running from ghosts and found them all waiting in the morning.

No more running.

He thumbed a rideshare request with shaking fingers. Twenty-four minutes to the house. Long enough to practice the apology again and again until the words stopped sounding useless.

But words, he knew, wouldn’t be enough. He would have to show you, prove with every action that the silence was finished, that the truth, unvarnished and ugly, was finally on the table.

The elevator dinged. He stepped inside, pressing L, knuckles white around the strap of the duffel.

As the doors slid shut, he whispered into the empty space, half-prayer, half-promise:

“Please let me still be her home.”

He rehearsed the truths, over and over, until the rideshare pulled to the curb in front of the house quiet, blue-gray in the dawn. Lights were off except one faint glow in the kitchen window. He imagined you there, a mug between your palms, the kids still asleep upstairs.

Please open the door, he prayed silently, stepping onto the walk.
Please let me tell you everything.

The sun hadn’t fully risen when Seungmin stepped inside your home.

The door creaked slightly as he opened it, just enough for the morning light to creep over the threshold and land across the living room floor in narrow slants. He held his breath for a beat as he closed the door behind him, the silence of the early hour wrapping tightly around him like gauze. There was no welcome. No warm light. No scent of breakfast or soft hum of music like there used to be when things were okay.

But the house wasn’t silent.

The first sound that hit him was the tiny, sharp cry of Iseul raw and distressed, unmistakably the kind of cry that had lasted more than a few minutes. It had that edge to it, the exhausted kind that said she had been fighting sleep for a while now. The second sound, softer, more familiar, was the rustle of Minjoon on the couch, feet kicking at the blanket around him as his favorite cartoon played on low volume. The third sound unspoken, invisible was the throb of emotion in his own chest.

Seungmin set his duffel bag quietly by the door, his movements slow, deliberate, like approaching a wound he wasn’t sure how to treat. His eyes found you immediately.

You were pacing the living room, hair pulled back hastily, dark circles beneath your eyes, one hand clutching Iseul against your chest while your other rubbed her back in practiced, instinctual circles. Your lips moved every now and then hushed words, gentle reassurances, but your eyes looked blank. Not empty. Just… spent. Like a body operating entirely on instinct. On routine. On the kind of fatigue only a mother running on fragments of sleep could understand.

He wanted to crumble then and there. He didn’t deserve to walk into this into you, carrying the weight of everything on your own again. And still, you did. You always did.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice breaking the stillness.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even look up right away.

But when you finally did, your eyes flicked to him in a way that made his heart ache. Not startled. Not angry.

Just… tired.

“Iseul’s been crying for over an hour,” you said, your voice thin. “She keeps waking herself up.”

He nodded, already moving toward you, his arms out. “Let me.”

You hesitated, gaze locking with his for a fraction of a second longer than he expected. Not because you didn’t trust him with her. But because this was the first time he was this close to you in days physically, emotionally. After everything. And he knew you were wondering whether you’d even be able to stand it.

But finally, wordlessly, you passed Iseul into his arms.

The baby girl fussed as the transfer happened, her cry catching in her throat, but the moment she settled into his chest, the crying slowed. His hand cradled the back of her tiny head, and he swayed slightly on instinct, rocking side to side in that barely-there rhythm she liked. Her hiccuping breaths began to slow.

“She missed you,” you whispered, voice fraying around the edges.

Seungmin pressed a kiss into Iseul’s forehead and closed his eyes.

“I missed her more,” he whispered back.

He glanced at Minjoon, who hadn’t moved from the couch but had clearly noticed his dad’s arrival. The little boy looked over with sleepy, cautious eyes, milk bottle in hand, stuffed tiger tucked into his lap. His cartoon was still playing in the background, but Seungmin could see the tension in his small shoulders.

Guilt rose again like a wave.

“Hey, Min,” he said gently.

Minjoon gave him a half-hearted smile but didn’t speak. Seungmin wanted to go to him, to kneel down and wrap his boy up in his arms too, but this moment wasn’t about repair with the kids, not yet. First, he needed to repair what had been broken with you. The children needed stability. Trust. They would get that once he gave it to you again first.

“Can we talk?” he asked quietly, finally looking at you again. “Please?”

You looked at him then, really looked. The dark shadows under your eyes, the exhaustion carved deep into your features, the subtle bite of suspicion still lingering behind your gaze, it all told him exactly what kind of damage he had done. You didn’t nod right away.

You looked back at Minjoon. At the clock.

Then back at him.

Finally, you said, “Okay.”

-

He followed you to the bedroom after he handed Iseul back to you, now dozing lightly against your chest, still sniffling now and then. You laid her down carefully in her bassinet by the window and checked twice to make sure her pacifier was in place before turning back to him. You sat down on the edge of the bed, your hands resting in your lap, unmoving.

He stood for a long moment, unsure where to begin. The truth was ugly. The silence, worse. But nothing could be worse than watching the way your fingers were trembling now as you waited.

So he sat, hands resting on his knees, and breathed once before diving in.

“I didn’t cheat on you.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. But he saw your shoulders tense.

“I know,” you said after a pause. “I never said you did.”

“I know,” he said back, guilt crawling into his voice. “But I acted like someone who did. And I need to tell you why.”

You looked away, staring out the window.

He continued.

“Three months ago… after a showcase game, Madison tried to kiss me.”

You flinched this time subtle, but real.

“I didn’t let her,” he said quickly. “I swear. I pulled away, told her it was inappropriate. But I didn’t fire her. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t come clean, and that’s where I screwed everything up.”

You inhaled sharply, but still said nothing. Your silence screamed louder than anything.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought I was protecting you. You were still recovering, you weren’t sleeping, the kids were barely giving you a moment to breathe—”

“And you thought I couldn’t handle the truth?” you interrupted quietly, looking at him now, eyes sharp. “You thought I’d break?”

“No,” he whispered. “No, I just… I thought if I told you, you’d see me differently. Like I’d let it happen. Like I’d opened that door. And I didn’t. But I—, I still didn’t tell you. And that’s just as bad.”

The words hung in the air between you, thick and heavy.

“I felt like I was being pulled in two,” he went on. “One side of me wanted that contract—so badly. I wanted to prove I was good enough. That I could play with the best. But the other side of me…”

He trailed off, voice cracking.

“The other side of me didn’t know how to chase that dream without hurting you. And instead of being honest, I started lying by omission. I thought I could balance both. But the second I hid Madison’s attempt to cross a line, I was already letting it fall apart.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and he could see the pain etched deep into your features.

“She wasn’t just your agent, Seungmin,” you said, voice shaking. “She was part of a secret you were keeping. That’s what hurts. Not the kiss that didn’t happen. Not the job offer. It’s that you made choices without me when we promised to do this—life—together.”

His eyes welled up. “I know.”

“Do you?” you asked. “Because you left. You didn’t talk. You didn’t fight for us last night.”

“I didn’t know how,” he admitted. “I was ashamed. I kept thinking… if I didn’t say anything, maybe it would fix itself. But I’ve been lying to myself too. And I can’t anymore. If you hate me, if you don’t forgive me, I’ll accept that. But I had to tell you. I have to be the man you and the kids deserve.”

You didn’t respond right away.

You stood up slowly, walked over to the window, and wrapped your arms around yourself as you looked out at the pale morning sky. He didn’t follow. He just waited.

Finally, you said, “I don’t know what this means yet. I don’t know what comes next.”

Seungmin nodded slowly, his voice almost a whisper. “Whatever you need. However long it takes.”

He stood, stepping closer, slowly, like you were a cliff edge he was terrified to fall from.

“Let me help again,” he said, gently. “With the kids. With the house. With you. I don’t want to be a visitor in this family. I want to come home.”

Your breath hitched.

You turned toward him, tears brimming now, but still not falling.

“I want that too,” you whispered, voice cracking, “but I need to believe you again. That’s going to take time.”

He nodded, one tear finally slipping down his cheek.

“I’ll wait,” he said, softly but with conviction. “I’ll wait for as long as it takes.”

And for the first time in days, maybe longer, you nodded back.

The off-season came with quieter mornings, slower afternoons, and a noticeable shift in the atmosphere of the house. Not peaceful, exactly because healing wasn’t immediate, and the weight of everything that had happened still lingered in the walls like a draft you couldn’t quite seal up, but there was space now. Space to breathe. Space to try again.

And for Seungmin, that space meant relearning his role in his own home.

He was always a good father. Attentive when he was around, gentle, patient. But “when he was around” had become a luxury during the season. Days blurred into flights, games, hotel beds, away stadiums, and practice fields. FaceTime calls with Minjoon that ended with the toddler smashing the screen in frustration because it wasn’t the same as a hug. Missed milestones, first steps, first words that you had recorded and sent to him with a bittersweet caption and a quiet ache behind your smile.

But now, the Lotte Giants were done for the year. The glove had been hung up. And for the first time in months, he wasn’t just a guest who dropped by with gifts and apologies. He was home.

And he was trying.

You noticed it right away. The way he hovered behind you during breakfast, watching how you made Minjoon’s pancakes into small shapes to make eating fun. The way he squinted when you measured out Iseul’s formula and checked the temperature of her bottle on your wrist. The questions that followed you around the kitchen like a soft echo:

“Do we cut the apple slices like that so he doesn’t choke?”
“How many ounces is she drinking now?”
“Does Minjoon still hate that one blue cup?”

There was hesitation behind all of it, a nervous energy that said he didn’t want to screw anything else up. Not even the smallest task. And even when you didn’t answer too tired, too wary, too heart-heavy, he found ways to try.

It was endearing, if not occasionally clumsy.

One particular night, you had just put Iseul down in her crib after a feeding, and the house was finally quiet except for the faint sound of Minjoon’s toothbrush scraping across his tiny baby teeth. You leaned against the hallway wall outside the bathroom, arms crossed loosely, head tilted as you listened.

Inside, Seungmin was kneeling on the bath mat in his hoodie and sweatpants, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, watching Minjoon brush his teeth with great concentration.

“Okay, buddy,” he said gently. “That’s good! You got the top teeth. Now get the bottoms. Can you say bottoms?”

Minjoon garbled a half-word around the toothbrush and grinned.

“Yeah? Okay! Cool. Um—after this, what do we do next?” Seungmin asked, clearly unsure but trying to make it sound fun. “Do we put your pajamas on now?”

Minjoon frowned like Seungmin had asked if he wanted to eat spinach for dessert.

“No,” the toddler mumbled, pulling the toothbrush out dramatically. “Mommy do face.”

Seungmin blinked. “Mommy… what?”

“Mommy,” Minjoon repeated very seriously, pointing to the towel hanging on the hook. “Mommy wash face. First. After brush. Then jammies.”

You bit back a laugh and pressed a hand to your mouth.

Inside the bathroom, Seungmin stared at the towel like it was a final exam question in a language he didn’t study.

“She washes your face?” he repeated. “After brushing?”

“Yah,” Minjoon replied, nodding with the unwavering confidence of a two-year-old whose world made perfect sense.

Seungmin let out a soft, amused huff and reached for the towel. “Okay, okay, little boss. Face wash it is.”

You heard the soft sound of water running, then a wet towel being wrung out. A moment later, the giggle of Minjoon as Seungmin dabbed the warm cloth over his cheeks.

“Is this how Mommy does it?”

Minjoon nodded again. “Warm, warm.”

“Warm. Got it. Anything else, Mr. Routine Expert?”

“No soap,” Minjoon added decisively.

“Noted,” Seungmin said, and your heart ached just a little. He really was trying.

The small exchange warmed something in your chest that had long been locked in ice. It didn’t erase the tension. It didn’t undo the past few weeks. But it added a softness to the air. A reminder of who Seungmin used to be and who he was still trying to become again.

He carried Minjoon out of the bathroom a few minutes later, the toddler now wrapped in spaceship-themed pajamas, holding tightly to his little stuffed tiger. When he saw you standing by the wall, Seungmin gave a sheepish shrug, like he’d been caught cheating on the test by asking the kid for the answers.

You smirked, arms still folded. “You let him boss you around?”

Seungmin met your eyes, and for the first time in days, his smile came with no walls. “If it means doing it right… yeah. I’ll take the help.”

Your smirk faltered slightly as your gaze lingered on him holding your son with such care, with such openness. You nodded, voice quiet. “That’s good. He’s… routine-oriented. He likes things a certain way.”

Seungmin shifted Minjoon in his arms and gave you a slow nod. “Just like his mom.”

And the look you gave him in return wasn’t soft, exactly. But it wasn’t cold either.

Progress, in its rawest form.

He carried Minjoon off toward the toddler bed without another word, and you heard him whispering a story about a dinosaur who played baseball and forgot his bat. It was silly and charming and full of nonsense, but Minjoon was giggling by the end of it. It filled the quiet of the house in a way that you had missed more than you’d realized.

You stayed leaning against the wall long after the house had gone quiet again. Long after Seungmin had tiptoed back down the hallway and passed you with a tentative glance. Neither of you said anything. He didn’t try to reach for your hand. He didn’t try to fix everything all at once.

But that night, he didn’t sleep on the couch.

Not because everything had been healed.

But because you’d left the bedroom door open.

-

The room was dim, bathed in the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp. Outside, the early winter wind tapped against the windows rhythmically, brushing dried leaves along the glass like it was trying to soothe the tension inside.

You were propped up against the headboard, knees tucked under the blanket, phone in hand but not really reading anything just scrolling through article titles, social posts, bits of news that couldn’t quite penetrate the fog in your head. Your mind was elsewhere. Stuck somewhere between the memory of Madison’s name on that leaked article, Seungmin’s broken explanations, and the sharp echo of your daughter’s cry the morning after it all came crashing down.

Beside you, Seungmin sat on his side of the bed, legs stretched out under the covers, a respectable distance between your bodies as if he was afraid even the smallest touch might rupture the fragile stillness you’d managed to build over the last few days. He’d just come out of the bathroom in his familiar gray cotton pajamas, towel drying his damp hair like he always did before bed. It used to be a comforting routine, watching him pull the towel away from his head, ruffle his still-wet hair, and crawl into bed beside you with a sigh of relief and whispered complaints about practice. But now, even that normalcy felt like borrowed nostalgia.

He hadn't said anything yet, and neither had you.

But he was watching you.

Not the way he used to, when he'd sneak glances because he couldn’t help it, because loving you had always come as naturally as breathing, but in the way someone watches a candle flicker in the wind, terrified of the moment it might go out.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was low. Raw. The weight behind it made you stop scrolling before he even finished the sentence.

“What happens next… with us?”

You didn't move. Not right away. Your thumb hovered over your phone screen before you let the device slowly drop to your lap, its glow disappearing into the folds of the blanket.

He turned more toward you, though he didn’t close the space between you. His gaze dropped briefly to his hands fingers fidgeting, like he needed to do something with the nervous energy. When he looked back up, he exhaled through his nose and said, “Because I can’t keep pretending like we’re okay when we’re not. And I know it’s my fault that we’re not.”

You swallowed, jaw tightening.

“I was wrong not to tell you,” he continued, his voice thick. “About the MLB talks. About Madison. About… everything. I just—” He paused, eyes glossing over for a second before he caught himself. “You’d just had Iseul. You were barely sleeping. You were already carrying everything. I didn’t want to add more weight to your shoulders.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” you finally said, voice hoarse and sharp around the edges.

He nodded quickly. “I know. I know that now. I was trying to protect you, but I wasn’t honest, and I made it worse. And when everything blew up, I—” His voice cracked slightly. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I’ve never been this scared before. Not even when I tore my shoulder. Not even when I thought I’d never pitch again. This… you and me… the kids… this is what matters.”

Silence stretched, thick and heavy between you. His words hung in the air like a trembling branch.

“I don’t want Minjoon and Iseul to grow up in a broken home,” he added softly. “I know I’ve already cracked the foundation, and maybe you’ll never be able to forgive me for lying, but if there’s any way to fix what I’ve broken, I want to try. I need to try. Because I don’t want to lose this.”

Your chest ached at his words. There was desperation in them, but there was something else, too earnestness. A sincerity that you recognized. A part of the man you married that had been buried beneath months of silence, distance, and secrecy.

You pulled your knees closer to your chest, the blanket sliding with you, and looked at him for a long time.

“You weren’t just protecting me,” you said, voice quieter now. “You were protecting yourself. You were afraid I’d leave you if I knew what she did. You were afraid to look like the bad guy, even if it was just a kiss that she tried. You didn’t cheat, Seungmin, but you lied. You let that woman stay in our life after she crossed the line, and then you covered it up like it wouldn’t matter.”

He winced at your words. But he didn’t deny them.

“And what hurt the most,” you continued, blinking back the sting behind your eyes, “was that you made that decision alone. You stopped trusting me to handle the hard things with you. That’s what broke me.”

The room went silent again.

You looked down at your hands, turning your wedding ring absentmindedly on your finger.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you whispered. “I don’t have the answer. I know I love you. I know I don’t want to lose what we built. I don’t want our kids to feel this tension either. But I can’t just… go back to normal like it didn’t happen.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Seungmin said, voice low and steady. “I just want a chance to rebuild. Even if it takes time. Even if it’s slow. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Then, after a long pause, you slowly shifted your weight and lay back against the pillow, turning to your side to face away from him.

“Then don’t leave again,” you murmured. “Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m angry. You stay.”

He nodded, even though you couldn’t see it.

And after a minute or two, the bed shifted gently as he lay down too. Still not touching you. Still giving you space. But he was there. In the dark. Quiet and present.

It started with a note.

Folded twice, written in Seungmin’s tidy handwriting, and left by your favorite mug on the kitchen counter one early, quiet morning. You found it while reaching for your coffee, your eyes still heavy from sleep and your arms sore from holding Iseul during one of her longer crying spells the night before.

You stared at it for a long second, cautious.

Then you opened it.

“Take the morning off. Dress warm. No kids. I’ll handle breakfast, diapers, tantrums, and all. Please. just trust me.
– S.”

You blinked at the page. Once. Twice. Your first instinct was suspicion, what was he doing? What did he plan? Could you trust it?

But it was followed, surprisingly, by a quiet sigh of curiosity.

It had been weeks since he started rebuilding slowly, like a man afraid of stepping on glass. Weeks of learning the kids' routines, of showing up even when you were too angry to acknowledge him, of sleeping on the edge of your shared bed and never asking for more than what you were willing to give. You saw it in the way he watched you with exhausted, apologetic eyes. You saw it in how he parented: fully, wholly, learning how to care for Minjoon and Iseul like he should have all along.

Maybe… maybe he was ready now to do more than apologize.

You moved through the motions of the morning cautiously, your heart beating too loudly for the silence of the house. The kids were already downstairs with him, Minjoon’s giggle echoing faintly from the living room, Iseul’s soft baby babble cooing in between. You trusted him with them, of course you did. It had never been about the kids.

It was about you.

You took a shower. Got dressed in something warm, a long wool coat, scarf, your gloves tucked in your pockets. Then, stepping carefully through the kitchen, you spotted another note next to your keys.

“There’s a driver waiting. Just follow the instructions. I’ll see you soon.”

You raised an eyebrow, but curiosity won out.

The driver was polite, quiet, and refused to tell you where you were headed. You stared out the window as the city passed you by, watching the buildings give way to open spaces, the grey of winter brushing along every surface like a forgotten memory. Thirty minutes later, you pulled up to an empty baseball field.

A public park, technically, but the field was immaculately maintained. You stepped out of the car slowly, hesitant, confused.

And there he was.

Standing near the pitcher’s mound, bundled up in his hoodie and warmup jacket, hair ruffled by the wind. A single bench sat nearby with a small thermos of coffee on it. Yours. The same hazelnut syrup you loved. The same milk-to-coffee ratio he had memorized long ago.

He waved when he saw you, and you didn’t wave back. But your feet moved anyway.

“What is this?” you asked, as you came to a stop a few feet away.

Seungmin’s breath fogged in the cold morning air. “A place I come to when I need to remember who I am. And… who I could’ve lost.”

You stared at him, unsure what to say.

He took a deep breath. “This is the first field I ever threw a ball on. Before the scouts. Before the league. Before the Giants. My dad used to bring me here. Just me and a bucket of balls. He’d stand where you’re standing now and say, ‘Show me who you are, Seungmin.’” He chuckled softly. “I never knew what he meant back then.”

Your lips parted slightly, but the words still wouldn't come.

“I lost myself this season,” he said quietly. “In the pressure. In the silence. In trying to be everything for everyone except the people who matter most. I thought I could control it all what to hide, what to protect you from. But the truth is, I was afraid. Of failing. Of losing you. Of not being enough for the kids.”

The wind blew gently, carrying the soft scent of pine and earth.

“I’ve been talking with the MLB agent,” he said, not flinching this time. “Madison was out of the picture the moment she crossed that line. But I should’ve told you. I should’ve come to you first. I didn't, and I will always regret that. I’ve declined their offer. Formally. I told them I wouldn’t uproot our life, not without your trust. Not without your voice in the choice.”

Your eyes widened. “You… declined it?”

“I did,” he nodded. “Not because I’m giving up on my dream. But because I forgot the first dream I ever had, us. This family. You and me. Minjoon, Iseul. I don’t want to go anywhere they can’t follow.”

You felt your hands tremble slightly in your pockets.

“I’m not trying to win you back with some big gesture,” he continued, stepping a little closer. “I’m showing you that I meant it. When I said I’d do anything to rebuild this. I’ll work as hard as I did to become a pro. Every single day. I’ll be here. Not just for the kids. For you. Because I love you.”

Tears welled up behind your lashes before you could stop them.

The wind, the cold, the weight of everything, it all collapsed into that one still moment. And you realized: he meant it.

Not just the words.

The action.

The choice.

For so long, you had been the one to make the sacrifices. You had been the one to carry the weight of parenthood, of loyalty, of silence. And here he was finally choosing you, even if it meant risking his own legacy.

“I hate that it took this for you to get it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “But I believe you.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t touch you. He waited.

And then you took a step closer. Just one. But it was enough. Enough for him to know he was forgiven, if not fully, then at least with the promise that one day, you would be.

And for the first time in a long time, you saw your future again.

Together.

-

The house was still when you both got home. Not quiet in the lonely way it had been in the days after the team dinner no, this was a different stillness. The kind that settled after a storm had passed. The kind that let you breathe again without choking on the silence.

Minjoon was fast asleep in his little bed, the soft hum of his nightlight casting gentle blue shadows on his blanket. Iseul had tired herself out after a long afternoon with Seungmin’s mom, and she lay curled in her crib, the tiniest fist tucked against her cheek, her chest rising and falling peacefully. You stood for a long time in the doorway of her room, your arms folded against your chest, watching the little miracle you had brought into the world, twice now and wondering how your life had shifted so drastically in such a short time.

Seungmin stepped behind you, careful not to make a sound. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was warm, grounding. When you turned your head just slightly and caught his eyes in the soft light, something unspoken passed between you mutual exhaustion, yes, but also something tender. Fragile. Real.

When you both made your way to the bedroom, neither of you turned on the main light. Just the small lamp on the nightstand, bathing the room in amber glow. You took off your coat slowly, the weight of it replaced by something heavier in your chest. You felt raw. Exposed.

Seungmin changed quietly into a plain white T-shirt and sweats, moving through the room with an uncertain hesitance, like he didn’t want to do anything to break the calm that had settled between you.

You slid under the covers, and after a moment, so did he. For the first time in weeks, the distance between you was gone. Your bodies weren’t pressed together, not yet, but there wasn’t that cautious gap anymore. You were facing each other. Close enough to feel each other’s breath.

Seungmin looked at you the way he had when you were young and newly in love like you were both everything and the thing he could never quite believe he deserved.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “About rebuilding. About choosing us.”

You nodded, your fingers curling into the blanket. “I know.”

He reached for your hand beneath the sheets, and this time, you didn’t pull away. Your fingers threaded together with his slowly, and a soft breath left him relief, maybe. Or hope.

“I don’t deserve how much you’re still willing to give,” he murmured.

“You broke my heart, Seungmin,” you said softly, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to hold it steady. “But you’ve always held it, even when I didn’t know you were.”

His eyes welled, and before either of you could say another word, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t perfect.

It was real.

Warm and aching and full of tears that escaped down both your cheeks. His hand cradled your face gently, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held too tightly, and you kissed him like the ache in your chest could be healed by the shape of his mouth. It was the kind of kiss you give when words have run out, when all you have left is the truth inside your chest and the hope that the other person still wants it.

And then, suddenly, you broke away sniffling, crying harder now and smacked his chest with the side of your fist.

He blinked. “W-What—?”

You hit him again, softer this time, frustration and heartbreak rolling off you like a wave.

“You gave it up,” you cried, your voice cracking. “Your dream. You gave it up, Seungmin. For me.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, mouth parting in protest. “But I thought—”

“I never asked you to do that!” you snapped, even as more tears ran down your face. “I was mad you didn’t tell me, I was hurt, but that doesn’t mean I wanted you to give up everything you’ve worked for. You love baseball more than anything, and you were finally about to reach that next level. And you just—” Your voice faltered. “You gave it up like it didn’t matter.”

He sat up, slightly, hand still gripping yours as he searched your eyes. “It does matter,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “But you and the kids… you matter more.”

“I don’t want to be the reason you let go of that dream,” you whispered, tears falling silently now. “You’ll regret it. One day, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually you’ll look at me and wonder what could’ve been. And I can’t live with that. I won’t.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Just the sound of both your uneven breaths, the way your hands trembled together.

Then he reached for your other hand and held both in his, warm and steady.

“If I call them,” he asked gently, “if I tell them I made a mistake, if I take the offer… would you come with me? Would you follow me?”

The question hung in the air like a single note.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, your heart pounding with something new and terrifying. You opened your mouth and closed it again, trying to form the words. You imagined the move. The packing. The loss of familiarity. The kids adjusting to a new world. You imagined yourself in a place where you knew no one, far from your support system, away from the life you built together.

But then you imagined him on the mound, beneath the bright lights of a stadium you’d only ever seen on TV. His name on a jersey that echoed the legacy he’d worked so hard for. And you standing in the stands with Iseul in your arms, Minjoon bouncing on your hip, cheering for their father.

You saw it.

You saw him.

You saw you, a different you, maybe, but a braver one.

And you nodded.

“Not at first,” you said, voice soft and sure. “I’d stay here with the kids while you got settled. But I would come. Once we’re ready… I would follow you.”

Seungmin stared at you for a long moment, something deep in his chest breaking open with relief, with emotion, with love that hadn’t diminished despite all the cracks.

He leaned forward slowly, brushing his forehead against yours. “That’s all I need.”

And in that quiet, broken, slowly-mending space, the two of you sat, still holding hands, tears still drying on your cheeks and for the first time in weeks, you felt something other than fear.

You felt hope.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[already gone. taglist: @piscesrising01 @troublemaker02 @bearseuming @hanniebunch @ready2readnwrite @mbioooo0000 @puppymsworld @linosgrape @devoured3him @chaosandcandies @itvenorica124 @bonesawce @maddy24207 @vixensss]

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms ..]

[pearlzier]

────⠀ BULL RIDIN' w/ COWBOY!MATT.

NOTES ,, idk this is kind of pwp but with a little plot ??? LMFAO cowboy!matt my dearest.... uhhh minors dont interact !!! this. is smutty n stuff 😞 ive seen so much negativity n its makin me so ☹️ like. please be nice to eachother idk bro its not hard.. ANYWAY ENOUGH YAP FROM ME let me know if u wanna be on the taglist <3

matt's obsessed with how you look perched up atop that mechanical bull, straddling it so prettily. his eyes rake over you as he leans against the railing surrounding where the bull is. it feels oddly intimate to him, seeing the way your thighs squeeze against the sides of the machine, how you have to hold on tight to stop yourself from being thrown up—inadvertently causing your tits to bounce beneath the soft cotton of your shirt. which in turn, has his eyes locked to the area for a moment before he snaps out of it.

he's sure every other guy in the roadhouse is staring at you, getting the same ideas that he is. you look perfect up there—having the absolute time of your life. even the guys beside him as he looks up at you are getting their fill, as much as it makes him wanna throttle them, he keeps himself at bay so that you can simply enjoy yourself tonight. and besides, he's the only one your eyes are on in the first place. with every buck of the bull beneath you, you're glancing up at matt as if to say 'look at me!'

it has a smile settling on his face, practically plastered on as he looks up at you, his arms folded against the railing with his chin resting against them. when he can, he gives you the occasional wave, just wishing to see that beaming smile adorn your own face like it is for him. as much as he's lovin' seeing you ride, he glances over at the worker controlling the bull to see when it's time for you to hop off, and well, time for him to get his hands on you.

quite honestly, he zones out just looking at you, in thought—he's only snapped out of it when he hears the patrons all erupt in applause, your turn on the bull coming to an end. before he even knows it, you're practically running at him and throwing yourself into his arms. "woah, hey there," a breathless laugh escapes him at the sight of you all giddy, and he easily wraps his arms around your middle.

"it was so good, i felt so tall—" you're beaming, clinging to him as if he's your lifeline. with your arms thrown around his neck, your body presses up against his. he groans at the close contact, having to loosen you a little to adjust his jeans so you don't feel the gradual tenting against you. "it was so fun, i wanna go again, 'n' again, m'tellin' you," it felt almost empowering in a way, all those people looking up at you ane clapping, cheering, whistling for you.

most important part was him, though. this has easily been the most fun you've had in weeks, months, maybe even years. the ranch couldn't compare to this, not at all. "yeah, had fun, baby?" he smiles softly, drawing you in closer with his hands running up and down your back. occasionally they dip lower and cup at the curve of your ass, thumbs stroking over the denim material idly.

"so much fun," you agreed, practically burying yourself into him. you're so damn pretty, he's weak. you looked so nice like this, but you'd look so much nicer riding something else, huh? he's reeling at the thought, eyes fluttering over your figure silently for a moment before he looks up at you again, not wanting to get caught with his thoughts. "that's good, darlin'," matt agrees quietly, a little distracted by the sight of you.

"you're so pretty, y'know that?" he can't help himself, his hand on your ass squeezing gently before he slides it up to your jean clad thigh, squeezing as well as he holds onto it. whilst he feels up your thigh, his free hand that stayed on your waist slides up under your shirt. the warmth of your skin makes him groan under his breath, his eyes lifting to yours. "just a little doll, ain't you?"

matt does this a lot—get all touchy and loving on you, and even so, you never get used to it. it always has your skin growing warm, eyes even dilating a little. "you're jus' flatterin' me. you do this with every pretty girl?" matt scoffs at your words. being cooped up in that farmhouse of yours made you sassy, watchin' all that television. he loved it, though, how you fired back with him.

"no, ma'am," he smiled gently, drawing you closer. "jus' sayin'.. you looked real nice up on that there bull," leaning in, he let his nose brush against the crook of your neck for a moment. the feel of his warm breath against your skin has you shivering however instinctively leaning into his touch. matt hums quietly, the urge to find some quiet area of the roadhouse and really give you a ride growing more and more each moment. "you're good at ridin', hm?"

"mhm," you hum in return, your lips parting with a soft sound as he squeezes all over your body. you can practically feel him hardening against your thighs, and he draws you closer once more. although, his gaze flutters up and around the bar for a bit. he looks back at you, biting his tongue for a second. "how 'bout," he starts, "you test out those skills for me? gotta put 'em to good use so you don't get rusty, darlin'."

"we wouldn't want that, would we?" a warmth floods through you as you speak, your eyes darting up to his. a lazy smirk crawls its way over matt's lips and he easily hooks his arm around your waist again. his hand slides into the back pocket of your jeans, curling over your ass as he draws you close and over to a quiet, partioned part of the bar. "mm, no, we wouldn't," he coos.

glancing around for a minute, he checks to see whether the coast is clear before he sits himself down. leaning back against booth, he glances up at you, watching how you stand there with your hands on your hips. "baby, you gonna stand there or come get to work?" matt muses, patting his thighs for a minute before he starts undoing the buttons and zip of his jeans.

"don't tell me what to do," you watch for a moment as he undoes his jeans, the way he easily rolls them down his thighs. he notices, his smirk widening a little. "but baby," matt croons, his head tilting to the side a little bit. "you like when i tell you what to do," and he's right, yeah. you really do. you're already unzipping your own jeans, pushing them down your thighs, and then off your body completely to give you room to move around.

"that's it," matt mumbles, eyes raking over you. the sight of you in just your panties and that pretty top has him groaning m, his hand sliding down to palm himself over his boxers for a moment. his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, jerking his chin in his direction with his free hand held out for you to come sit yourself down. "c'mere," his voice holds an almost whiny quality to it, his blue eyes lifting up to yours instinctively.

"m'comin'," you murmur quickly, glancing up at him. those blue eyes of his quite honestly make you weak. making your way over, you stand between his spread legs for a moment. this gives him room to shimmy off his boxers a little, freeing his aching, throbbing cock with precum oozing from the tip. he quickly moves his hand to stroke himself, getting himself ready to line up against your entrance and push inside you. he'd been waiting for this for a good hour or so now, honestly.

matt's hand stays lazily pumping his cock, but his other hand slides over to your hips and squeezes for a moment, before he draws you closer. it moves over the curve of your thigh, grasping at the meat of it and easing one leg over his hip, then he moves the other one to do the same. "you alright? still want this?"

"just—" you roll your eyes at his words, reaching a hand down to push your panties to the side a little. a little gasp escapes you at the feel of the different air against your wet folds, and matt scoffs in amusement at your reaction. if you could make such a pretty sound because of that, he knew your sounds would be even prettier when he had you riding him to high heaven.

you stare at matt for a minute, seeing the scoff, and you shake your head before you scoot so you're lined up with his tip. matt watches you intently, his eyes locked on the sight of you so pliant yet headstrong above him. he leans back against the booth, hands grasping at your soft thighs, grip tightening instantly when you ease yourself down on him. "fuck," it takes everything he has to not start bucking up into you already, but he knows he has to take his time and let you adjust.

"so tight around me already, sweetheart," being atop of that mechnical bull had already given you some real good friction if you were being completely honest, so you were wet enough for him to just ease inside without much resistance. your hands instinctively lift up to his shoulders, steadying yourself as you sink down. he's so warm, so close, his hands squeezing at your thighs tightly. "there we go.." when you're finally settled, he shuts his eyes for a minute, the feeling of being buried deep inside you making his heart race.

"open your eyes, please?" you love looking at his face when you lift your hips up and down, bringing yourself off him just to the tip before you slam back down on him again. he can't say no to you, not at all, so when you ask him to, his eyes open again. they're a little hazy, dilated from the intoxication of being beneath you. "mmh," you hum, taking the look of his eyes and just the way he's holding onto you as a sign to go ahead and start moving.

slowly but surely, you lift your hips up with the help of your thighs, and his hands, till your almost off him before you drop back down again. a throaty sound slips from past his lips, almost a whine. "look so good on top of me like this," he pants, drawing you even closer as you start to gain a pace that both of you like. you just let out the prettiest sounds as his cock drags against your walls, your thighs trembling a little with every bounce that you make.

feeling as though you don't need much of his help to gain rhythm, he lets go of your thighs and lifts his hands to your chest, palming your tits through the soft fabric of your top. "can't forget these, huh?" he muses, words shaky as his hips slowly start to thrust up to meet your motions. all of it has you whining above him, pretty little sounds escaping you with every one of his and your own movements. "ca—can't forget about those," you agree breathily, lifting a hand to move over top his as he runs his fingers over your nipples idly. "matt, oh my—"

it's a lot—the difference in how full you feel when he's buried in you to the hilt, and how you feel when you're lifted off him, god, it's stark, and yeah, every downward thrust has you crying out in soft moans whereas every upwards movement has you whining for more. "so greedy for me, aren't you," matt tuts, smiling gently at the sight of you looking so pretty and breathless, so needy. his hands find their way back to your hips again and he squeezes, taking that opportunity to start thrusting his hips upwards a little harder. his page picks up, your thighs shaking at the building pressure.

"that's all you needed, hm?" one of his hands slips down between your legs, beneath your panties, and his thumb starts working at your clit to get you over the edge. he draws firm circles around the bundle of nerves, his eyes lifting up to yours once more whilst he simultaneously pounds his hips up against yours. "making me feel so good, baby." but he'd get you there first, he'd make sure of it. you're practically soaking him, especially when that knot of pleasure bursts and you feel that familiar bliss wash over you.

it was a combination of his hips snapping up against yours and his thumb circling your clit, plus just the proximity of his body against yours and his eyes meeting yours on occasion that had you coming undone. "that's it, makin' a right mess on my cock," he coos, easing his thumb off your clit as to not overstimulate you and slowly sliding his hands back to your thighs to draw you a little closer. "just a little bit more, darlin'. you can take it, can't you? just a bit more for me?"

"just a little," you mumble in agreement, arms slowly wrapping around his neck as that fuzzy, warm feeling takes over a little. this is familiar in the best way, the rhythmic movement of his hips, his cock pushing in and out of you at a firm but easy pace. the wet sounds of skin against skin, it has you whining against him and practically holding onto his flannel for dear life.

he grunts low under his breath, "ain't gonna last long with you squeezin' the life outta' me like that," you can feel his thighs tense beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening as his thrusts start to stutter a little. his head tilts back and he lets out a guttural growl, eyes squeezing shut the moment he starts painting your insides white with his cum, his grip on you tightening impossibly so as he rides the waves of pleasure. "fuck," he wraps his arms around your waist, drawing you closer.

it's so warm, everything's so warm, the feeling of his release oozing down the insides of your thighs as he holds you there. a soft moan escapes you, your head nuzzling into his neck. his eyes flutter open after a minute, gaze meeting yours in an instant. had you made a mess? yeah, definitely, but was this completely worth it? a hundred percent. "swear you're turnin' into my very own cowgirl with skills like that," his words come out breathy, and an airy laugh of your own slips past your lips.

"might have to go ridin' again, actually," one of the things he loved most about you: your insatiability. you never really do get enough of him, huh?

ִ ֹ ★ @mattybsgroupie, @dayzeandhaze, @mattslolita, @stellasturns, @stevelacylovebot, @55sturn, @jetaimevous, @phone4pills, @aesthetixhoe, @venusiers, @chrissdollie, @stvrnmc, @sarosfilms, @beetlejenna, @funkycoloured , @v3nusasagrl, @imwetforyourmom, @deansbite, @beridollie, @https--roman, @sincerebabydoll, @pillwebb, @cayleeuhithinknot, @j2ss7 ִ ꒱

[diejager]

Hello there, love your stuff! How would the monster au boys react to their human reader being on their period? Because I can totally see Soap smelling blood on the reader and thinking that they are injured, but then getting confused when they tell him it’s a period. ☺️

Sweet blood Cw: blood, period, tell me if I missed any.

I completely agree, Soap, even with the intellect and understanding he needed to be a demolition expert, dismantling and building explosives and weapons from nothing, he’s oblivious of some things. Despite his skillful in sights and decisions, he falters in some aspects in a domestic scene and anything related to it. He struggled at first, trying to understand why there was a smell of sweet blood waffling off you as if it clung to your clothes, the smell ingrained in every little groove of your body —you smelled much sweeter as well.

It made something on his mind swoon, instincts reeling for unknown reasons until he asked you himself after someone found him sniffing the air like a mutt and following you like a lovesick pup. He seemed so confused with the notion of you bleeding once a month and only understood when you told him it was your period - or menstruation in more technical terms - and that it was all natural. He brought up to you a memory of his older sister smelling of blood, old yet new, unripe yet ripe, it followed a lunar cycle and that made it easier to understand.

Unlike Soap, the other’s are more knowledgeable of your plight, coming prepared to help you with whatever you would need. Despite their inexperience with menstrual cramps and cycles, they knew the gist of it, what it entailed whenever someone had one, few of them actually had first-hand experience with it. Ghost had Beth and his mom’s experience, their grumbles and annoyed sounds. Gaz from the few girls he dated in high school, soothing their pains when they curled forward, holding their abdomen. Alejandro and Rudy knew of it from the girls they grew up around in Las Almas as children, running around and skipping school when they didn’t feel well. Price - despote his busy life - had a few flings and Laswell’s grumbling to sit through when their cramps started. Horangi and König both saw and heard from the women in KorTac, their swift mood swings and short tempers once a month made them prepared.

If you needed a heated pad warmed in the microwave, Rudy and Gaz were already there with it in hand, wrapped in a fluffy towel to prevent yourself from burning your skin. If you needed water and painkillers for your unbearable cramps, Ghost and Kónig would gladly get you a cup of water and a few pills from their own bottles, strong painkillers for headaches and muscle pains that were probably weaker than the cramps you felt. If you needed a massage, something to soothe the ache in your back and limbs from your hormones getting out of control, a chaotic mess around your body, Price and Alejandro wouldn’t mind setting aside their work to give you a massage, to press and burn the ache through experienced and warm hands. If you needed a distraction from the whole nausea and sickness, Horangi and Soap would jump at the opportunity, a cuddling feline holding you down with his whole body or an enthusiastic and praise-hungry wolf making tricks to please you.

Alone, one could do a lot to help you through your period, reminding you in advance to take your med, bringing you whatever you would need and taking care of you, but together, they worked like a well oiled machine, every member fitting in like a cog, moving in synchrony. They went over and above to satisfying you, dropping their duty to rush to your side at the slightest sound of displeasure. There’s nothing they wouldn’t do for you, from going to a drug store miles away for a specific med to carrying you around in their arms or back.

From that first occasion, Soap goes around with his nose raised and mind ready to help you at the drop of the hat if he gets a whiff of sweetened blood from you. He even has a bag in his room with pads, painkillers, soft towels, fluffy blanket, heated pads and a list of food you crave during your period.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi

[chuuyaspinkmotorcycle]

Day 21: Arcade

Chuuya watches the blinking red ‘Game Over’ screen in front him, the feeling of defeat infesting his insides once again as Dazai cackles from the other side of the gaming machine. 

Hands fisting with rage-induced tremors, he springs up, knocking his stool aside and looking over the top at the brunet. “Rematch, you cheating bastard!”

Dazai giggles, a smirk on his lips as he meets Chuuya’s eyes. “But Chuuya, that’s what you said last time. And the time before that and the time before–”

Chuuya screeches, dropping his head onto the machine and groaning out the rest of his frustrations. It is true, much to his derision, he has lost the last… four (?) matches. All he knows is that the score is 1-to-5 in Dazai’s favor, meaning the mackerel is the winner of this versus session.

After venting his not-so-kind thoughts into Dazai and the machine, he stands straight to cross his arms as narrows his eyes at Dazai. “Alright, what’ll it be this time?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Let me think about it,” Dazai says, getting up himself.

“What?! You had this whole time to think about it, are you shitting–”

Dazai grabs Chuuya’s hand suddenly, pointing across the arcade to something that Chuuya can’t even see thanks to a different machine in his way. Stupid beanpole and his stupid height.

“I want that! Chuuya has to get it for me as punishment!” Dazai does a little hop, whining more as he keeps pointing.

Of course he couldn’t clarify what it is. Chuuya doesn’t know if he’s about to agree to paying for a dumb trinket or the whole arcade.

“Stop that,” Chuuya starts, grabbing Dazai’s outstretched arm to reel it in before he smacks some unsuspecting person. “Tell me exactly what it is and what you want me to do. I’m not being forced to do extra work again because you didn’t specify the rules.”

Dazai rolls his eyes, snatching Chuuya’s wrist and practically dragging him to his destination before Chuuya can even react.

As they keep twisting and turning, Chuuya’s beginning to wonder how the bastard even saw whatever he’s aiming for.

And then he sees it.

It’s in one of the claw machines on the top shelf where people with no self-control are supposed to stick the claw’s handle through an itty-bitty hole.

Chuuya does have to admit, though – it IS cute. Very much so. And fluffy enough to have those blankets stores only bring out for the holiday season fucking jealous. 

Staring back at Chuuya with beady, shining eyes is one ginger, stuffed-plush cat big enough to fill Dazai’s greedy arms.

He’ll give it to Dazai – this is nowhere near the worst punishment he’s given. That doesn’t mean Chuuya has to be happy about it as he yanks out his wallet, though.

With even more grumbles, he inserts his first bill of the night, watching with the most deadpan expression he can make as the machine lights up, LEDs going wild in front of them at the prospect of another sucker.

Unfortunately, Chuuya knows how this part of the game goes. Dazai’s grip is tight on him, eyes laser-pointed at the item of his desire. 

Chuuya takes a breath, trying to focus as he feels the heat of Dazai’s hands seeping through his clothes. With a blink, he moves the stick controller, bringing the key towards the little hole on the other side of the glass. He pauses.

Behind him, he hears Dazai sniff, the judgement of it clear to Chuuya. The redhead whirls around.

“Bastard, fix it yourself–” and from the corner of his eye, he sees the key start to move forward, the timer having run out.

It misses by a centimeter. Chuuya growls, getting ready to insert the next bill.

Dazai continues his hold on him, this time going so far as to wrap his arms around his shoulders from behind and lean his head against the side of Chuuya’s.

The electric lights do their silly little dance again, and this time Chuuya makes sure to concentrate. This machine will. not. beat. him.

He lines it up, taking a moment to think. Dazai taps his chest twice, and Chuuya shifts the stick to the right the smallest amount he possibly can.

Just as he’s about to hit the button to get it to move, something bumps into Dazai and thus him, pushing him forward enough to hit the stick and the timer goes off.

Chuuya watches as the handle misses by more than just a centimeter.

And then a chill goes down his spine. He shifts in Dazai’s hold, glancing up and over his shoulder to see those black hole eyes pinpointed on a kid who didn’t even bother to apologize. Before the Demon Prodigy can cause anyone, child or not, to piss themselves, Chuuya shrugs him off.

He inserts one more bill. Just as Dazai moves to go back to his perch, Chuuya sticks his hand out to stop him.

The machine whirls to life again, this time with a red glow barely enveloping it. Chuuya brings the handle to where it was before using the actual stick, then from here he lets the machine do its thing.

As the key moves forward, he forces the machine to line itself up in the correct position, feeling the mechanics trying to go against him but they’re no use against the power of gravity.

The key fits perfectly, unlocking the glass box holding the plush and releasing it into a hole beneath it. A thunk near their feet alerts them to its delivery, and Dazai is quick to snatch it up and into his waiting arms, any traces of the Demon Prodigy long gone as he beams at Chuuya.

“Thanks, Chibi!” He squeezes the cat against his chest, and Chuuya tries to ignore the small thrill of butterflies flying around his stomach.

He frowns, looking away and crossing his arms. “Tch, whatever.”

He opens his eyes again. There, across from them in a corner of the store he couldn’t see earlier, is one of those shooting carnival games, this time with nerf darts to avoid any liabilities.

And above it, hanging from a little loop connected to the roof, is a black cat plush — reminiscent of Dazai’s new one to the point it could be from the same brand, a matching set.

He only spends a second staring at it, debating, before turning away. He’s got better things to spend his money on. It doesn’t matter how soft it looks or how cute. He’s not a kid like Dazai.

He makes a move for the exit, intent on getting out before he can rethink his decisions.

A foot to his shins has him almost hitting the floor. He knows exactly who did it as he catches himself. He couldn’t use his ability just then, after all.

“Dazai, what the fu–”

“Shh, there’s children in here,” Dazai admonishes, his trademark fake gasp popping out, albeit a little less dramatic. Before Chuuya can question it, Dazai’s twirling around to face the carnival-esque shooting game and marching forward, one of his hands wrapped around Chuuya’s wrist much like before.

“One round, please,” the brunet says, taking out his own wallet that Chuuya’s never actually seen until now and handing the cash over to the employee. With the nerf gun equipped, he glances at Chuuya for a split second and sends him a smirk. “Watch and learn, Chuuya.”

Chuuya really can only watch and learn as Dazai effortlessly hits five different targets in their bullseyes, one after the other. The electronics connected to them flash over and over with each hit.

And once a moment has passed for both the employee and Chuuya to pick up their jaws – mostly the employee, though – Dazai sets the gun back down and merely points up at the black cat plush.

The employee gets it down, leaving it on the counter for them to take.

Chuuya doesn’t immediately reach for it. Why would Dazai do this? It doesn’t make sense to him.

Dazai nudges his shoulder and he hesitantly reaches out to grab the plush.

Today is one of the few days he decided to forgo his gloves; the cat’s fur is just as soft as it looked. From here, he can tell that this one is a black version of Dazai’s, a duo set.

He’s never had a plush of his own.

“Why?” he asks, avoiding Dazai’s eyes as he stares into the black fur. Something in his chest is warming up. What, he doesn’t know.

“Chuuya wanted him,” Dazai says, shifting on his feet to sway from his toes to the balls of his feet. “And a thank-you for Slug.”

/That/ causes Chuuya to look up. “Hah?”

“What? He looks like chibi, doesn’t he?” Dazai shoves the orange plush into Chuuya’s face. “See, see?”

Chuuya scoffs, shoving ‘Slug’ out of the way. He sticks his tongue out. “If he’s Slug, then this one’s Mackerel.”

Dazai laughs then, high and airy – genuine – and Chuuya can only attempt to hide his reddening cheeks behind Mackerel’s head. He follows as the brunet leads them outside where the sun has begun to set.

And once they’re a few blocks away, when their lighthearted jabs fade into a comfortable silence, Chuuya gives his own thanks, earning the endearing sight of Dazai’s widened eyes and tinged cheeks before the other tries to wave it away.

[sweetheartsaku]

(BLLK) you plus me is three

𝜗𝜚 ITOSHI SAE: KNAUTIA.

a/n: [fem!reader] sae sae sae come home the kids miss you butt mention near the end ☹️ inspired by a reel i saw on insta!!!! ENJOY HUHU!!! ♪( ´▽｀)

to love,

"i'm home!"

the smell of comfort washes over your weary soul after another demanding day at work. as you take a deep breath, a bit of dusted cocoa, hints of cinnamon chai latte and just a smidge of caramel seeps into your lungs. whirrs of the dish washer, occasional rumbles of the washing machine and cicada chirps flood the energy in your brain, making your body feel limp. it feels like your ankles are about to give out as you take of your shoes while touching the wall to keep balance.

walking in, all the lights are warm and dim. unlike your workplace, walking in being greeted by a wave of cold air, where the lights are too cool for your liking. you let out an exasperated sigh, before looking from side to side to see of you could spot your husband, sae, or your daughter, fuyumi.

faux cosmetic products scattered the floor with its bright pink hues too vibrant to miss. occasional dolls here and there, with new hairstyles and plastic hair clips littered here and there. the tv has been left on pause, so it’s not like they’ve been away long. you smile to yourself. definitely didn’t get bored while mama was gone, huh?

to change,

you and sae had evolved from initial necklaces and hoodies, to wedding rings and shirts. slipping into something snug and soft, curiosity infects your heart once again and the feeling encourages you to keep searching for them. walking up the stairs, you feel the cold railing under your fingertips send little chills down your spine. the warm cocoa smell gets washed over by the overwhelming scent of your frangipani and coconut perfume.

“yumi~! where are you two silly little…” chuckling to yourself, thinking about what the two might be up to. you walk down the hallway, grazing your hand upon every doodle sprinkled door before ending up at you and your husband’s shared bedroom where the door was slightly ajar. before even laying your fingers on the handle, you’re greeted with a soft thud.

you suddenly gently bump into a familiar detergent. rosewood and jasmine. the subtle scent hypnotises you for a second, nostalgia washing over you until the friction of your husband’s hands meet your skin. he fumbles with his hands for a split second before effortlessly holding the base of your back, catching you with ease.

“hi sweetheart.” he smiles, sae’s hands slowly slip down to your rear, gently squishing a handful.

“hi, sa—“your sweet voice cuts off, spotting little stains of lips on his shirt.

“where did this come from?” you smile awkwardly, your hands on his chest moving to tug at the collar of his white blouse, noticing a couple of small pink kiss marks scattered near his neck, slightly dishevelled.

fuyumi’s little figure emerges from your vanity, your old lipstick in her small grasp. her rosy bangs which matched her father’s (slightly shorter than her eyebrows), small toothy smile and long lower lashes catching your eye. she wraps her little arms around you and sae’s leg, squeezing her face in between.

“meee!” she giggled.

and to become.

[sabrinasopposite]

game-boy !

red kryptonite!clark kent x reader

you got a cute face  and that kept me entertained and the way you said my name,  won't lie, it felt amazing.

summary: clark kent finds himself caught in a whirlwind romance with y/n in metropolis, his heart as unpredictable as a gameboy game. what starts as an exciting, addictive connection soon reveals itself as a series of highs and lows, with y/n unable to escape the emotional rollercoaster. as the game progresses, she realizes she’s been playing a losing game, constantly chasing a happy ending that may never come.

The flickering glow of the cinema screen painted Y/N’s world in shades of silver and shadow. The soft hum of the projector was her comfort, a backdrop to her quiet nights in the old theater nestled in the heart of Metropolis.

Here, stories came to life—perfectly framed, perfectly scripted. If only life outside the reels could be so simple.

“Popcorn for one, or is it two tonight?” she teased, turning to the tall, dark figure leaning casually against the concession stand.

Clark Kent grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye that made her stomach flutter despite herself. “You tell me, Y/N. Think anyone in this city could keep up with me?”

Her laugh was soft, polite—a practiced shield. “Plenty of girls would love to try.”

“Yeah?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “But I’m only here for the ones who can keep me guessing.”

Y/N froze, her cheeks heating against her will. She hated how he could do that—turn an ordinary moment into something electric. She tried to play it off, shaking her head as she handed him his ticket. “You’re shameless, Clark.”

“Guilty as charged.” He winked, brushing his hand against hers as he took the ticket. The touch lingered just long enough to make her heart skip before he disappeared into the theater.

Alone again, Y/N let out a shaky breath, her hands clutching the counter as if to anchor herself. She could feel the danger in his charm, the way his words wrapped around her like a velvet ribbon—beautiful, soft, but binding. Like when he said her name, it felt amazing.

She told herself she wouldn’t fall for it

But telling herself something and believing it were two different things.  

The week rolled on like an old film reel, each day blurring into the next. Y/N had her routine: school, work, a quiet walk home. And yet, Clark became the unexpected twist in her predictable story. He didn’t just come to the cinema—he lingered. Each visit brought a new quip, a new glance, a new spark of something she couldn’t quite name.  

“Let me guess,” she said one night as he approached the counter again, his broad shoulders framed by the golden light of the marquee. “You’re starting to think this place needs a loyalty card?”  

Clark grinned, his hands in his pockets as he leaned on the counter. “What’s the point? I already know the best part of coming here isn’t the movie.”  

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, and she ducked her head, busying herself with the popcorn machine. “You really don’t quit, do you?”  

“Why would I?” he asked, his voice laced with that same teasing charm. “You make it too easy.”  

Her lips pressed together, fighting a smile she didn’t want him to see. He was trouble, she could feel it. The kind of trouble that swept you off your feet and left you dizzy, unsure of where you landed.  

“You must have a whole book of lines like that,” she said, her voice light, but there was a trace of something real in her words—an edge of vulnerability she tried to hide.  

Clark tilted his head, his eyes scanning hers like he was searching for something. “Just the ones that work on you.”  

Her heart jumped, and she hated herself for it. She forced a laugh, shaking her head as she handed him his ticket. “Enjoy the show, Clark.”  

“I always do,” he said, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “See you, Y/N.”  

He brushed her hand as he took the ticket, the contact brief but electric, before he disappeared into the theater.  

Alone again, Y/N let out a shaky breath, her hands clutching the counter as if to anchor herself. She didn’t know what to make of him—the way he could make her feel special and off-balance all at once.  

The next night, she told herself she wouldn’t let him get to her. But there he was again, standing at her counter with that same easy grin, his presence filling the room like he owned it.  

“You must really like popcorn,” she said, trying to sound indifferent.  

“I like this place,” he replied, his gaze holding hers a moment too long. “And the company’s not bad either.”  

Her stomach twisted. How could someone be so effortlessly charming, so completely... unreal?  

It all started small. A passing comment here, a lingering glance there. Clark had a way of weaving himself into her days, like a melody she couldn’t get out of her head.

“Y/N, are you always this serious?” he asked one evening, leaning against the counter with a smirk. The last show of the night was playing, and the cinema was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of popcorn bags and the faint score from the theater behind them.

“I’m not serious,” she replied, wiping down the counter. “I’m just working. Some of us have to, you know.”

“Oh, come on.” He gestured at the empty lobby. “You’re saying there’s nothing fun about this job? Not even talking to me?”

She paused, giving him a mock glare. “You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he said with a grin. “But you haven’t told me I’m wrong.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “Fine. Maybe you make things a little less boring around here.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He stepped closer, his tone playful but softer now. “So, what do you do for fun, Y/N? Outside of this glamorous life of popcorn and projector reels?”

The question caught her off guard. No one had asked her that in a long time. She shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t really have time for fun.”

Clark tilted his head, studying her. “Then let’s change that.” She blinked. “What?”

“Come on,” he said, his eyes lighting up with that same mischievous glint. “After your shift. Let’s get out of here. You and me.”

Y/N hesitated, her heart pounding. She should’ve said no—should’ve reminded herself that he was a walking complication. But instead, she found herself nodding.

“Okay,” she said softly.

That night marked the beginning.

They went for late-night walks through the glowing streets of Metropolis, the city humming with life around them. Clark had a knack for finding hidden gems—quiet diners with the best coffee, rooftop spots with breathtaking views, street performers who played music that made the world feel still. He made her laugh, teased her endlessly, and listened intently when she talked about her dreams, her worries, and the stories she wished she could write for herself.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he said one night as they sat on a park bench, sharing fries from a paper bag.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You don’t even know me.”

“Sure I do.” He turned to her, his expression unexpectedly serious. “I know you’re kind, and smart, and way too hard on yourself. And I know you deserve more than this job you hate and this city that doesn’t appreciate you.”

His words hit her like a punch to the gut. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe someone like him could see her that way.

And so, she let herself fall.

The situationship unfolded like a dream, one where the edges were just blurry enough to ignore the red flags. Clark would disappear for days, only to show up with that same dazzling smile, pulling her back in with an inside joke or a casual touch that lingered.

“Miss me?” he’d ask, leaning against the counter at the cinema as if he hadn’t been gone long enough for her to question where he’d been. “Hardly,” she’d reply, trying to sound unaffected.

But it was a lie, and they both knew it.

The days turned into weeks, and Y/N found herself slipping further into Clark’s orbit. He was magnetic, always pulling her closer with that effortless charm. Their late-night escapades became routine—quiet pockets of time that felt stolen from a movie script.

One night, as they sat on the roof of a crumbling building downtown, the city stretched out like a glittering sea beneath them, Clark leaned back on his hands, gazing at the skyline.

“Why do you work so hard?” he asked, his voice low but curious.

Y/N glanced at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always at the cinema,” he said, turning to face her. “Studying, working. Don’t you ever just… want to do something for yourself?”

She hugged her knees, her breath misting in the cool night air. “It’s not that simple. I’ve got rent to pay, and college isn’t exactly cheap. Besides, who has time for themselves in this city?”

Clark frowned, his expression softening. “You deserve more than just scraping by, Y/N.”

His words struck a chord she didn’t know existed. She looked at him, trying to gauge if he meant it or if this was just another line in his endless repertoire. But his face was earnest, his blue eyes steady on hers.

“Not everyone can just…” She hesitated, gesturing vaguely at him. “Be like you. You act like you don’t have a care in the world.”

For a moment, Clark’s expression flickered, a shadow of something she couldn’t quite name crossing his face. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by his usual grin.

“Maybe I don’t,” he said lightly. “Or maybe I just know life’s too short to spend it worrying all the time.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. “Must be nice.”

“It could be,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his. “If you’d let yourself try it.”

It wasn’t all rooftop views and stolen moments. Sometimes, Clark left her hanging. He’d promise to meet her after her shift, only to vanish without a word. Days would pass, and just when she thought she might never hear from him again, he’d show up—apologetic, charming, and impossible to stay mad at.

“Sorry, got caught up with some work stuff,” he’d say, his voice tinged with just enough sincerity to make her believe him.

And she did. Every time.

Because when he was with her, it felt like the world stopped spinning. Like nothing else mattered but the way he made her laugh, the way he looked at her like she was the only person who existed.

But there was a cost.

One evening, as they sat in her small apartment, the city’s glow seeping through the curtains, Clark leaned back on the couch, tossing popcorn into his mouth.

“You’ve got this whole place to yourself?” he asked, his tone teasing. “I was expecting roommates or something.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Nope. Just me. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have a rent-controlled unit in Metropolis.”

“Lucky?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’d call it resourceful. You’re full of surprises, Y/N.”

She rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest spread at his words. He had a way of making her feel seen, even when she didn’t want to be.

“What about you?” she asked, curious. “You’re always showing up out of nowhere. Where do you even live?”

Clark’s grin faltered for a split second before he recovered, tossing another piece of popcorn in the air and catching it. “Oh, you know. Here and there. I’m a man of mystery.”

“Clark…”

He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “What’s the fun in ruining the illusion, Y/N? Just enjoy the ride.”

She wanted to push, to ask the questions bubbling in her mind. But instead, she nodded, biting back the words.

Because that was what it felt like—a ride. Fast, exhilarating, and impossible to get off, even as she felt herself losing control.

Y/N had never thought of herself as impulsive. Her life had always been a series of calculated steps, careful decisions made to keep her afloat in the chaos of Metropolis. But with Clark, everything was different.

Their moments together were often fleeting, stolen pockets of time that felt more like dreams than reality. She didn’t know when it started—the first time he reached for her hand, or the night he walked her home and lingered on the doorstep just a little too long.

“Goodnight,” he’d said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss she’d seen in the movies she played every night at the cinema. It wasn’t choreographed or perfect. It was real, slow and searching, his lips brushing hers as if he wasn’t sure she’d let him. When she kissed him back, his hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, and for a moment, the city disappeared.

After that, the kisses came more easily. Quick pecks when no one was watching, longer ones that left her breathless when they thought they were alone. She didn’t let herself think too much about what it meant, afraid that if she did, the spell would break.

As their situationship deepened, Y/N found herself holding on to the moments that felt real—his unexpected vulnerability, the way he’d light up when he talked about the stars or how he’d brush her hair back from her face when she laughed too hard.

But even then, she couldn’t ignore the cracks. The unanswered texts, the fleeting glimpses of his phone when he wasn’t looking. The nights when she’d watch him leave, wondering if he was going to someone else.

And still, she stayed.

Because despite it all, he made her feel alive.

Y/N couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when the feeling started—when the quiet nagging in the back of her mind grew too loud to ignore.

It wasn’t like Clark made it obvious. In fact, his charm was part of the problem. Every time he smiled at her or pulled her close during one of their stolen evenings, the doubt seemed to shrink, fading into the glow of the moment.

But it always crept back.

One night, as they sat in her apartment, Clark sprawled comfortably on her couch while she worked on a paper at the small dining table, she noticed it.

His phone buzzed once, then again. He was scrolling through something, his expression as casual as ever, but her gaze lingered.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen his phone go off before—it always seemed to buzz with some notification or another. But tonight, something about the rhythm of it tugged at her curiosity.

Clark caught her looking and raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s with the stare? You jealous of my phone now?”

She rolled her eyes, forcing a laugh. “Hardly. Just wondering if I should start charging you rent, the amount of time you spend here.”

“Ouch,” he said, mock-wounded as he tossed his phone onto the coffee table, screen down. “I thought you liked having me around.”

“Sometimes,” she teased, though her smile felt tighter than she wanted it to.

The next time she noticed was when they were at the cinema after her shift. Clark had offered to walk her home—something he’d started doing more often lately, as if trying to cement his place in her life.

As they stood in the empty lobby, his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen briefly before tucking it back into his pocket.

“Who’s that?” Y/N asked, her tone casual, though she wasn’t sure why she was asking at all.

“Just a friend,” Clark said smoothly, not missing a beat.

The words were innocent enough, but the way he said them left a strange taste in her mouth. She told herself she was overthinking it. She had no reason not to trust him—or at least, that’s what she wanted to believe.

But the moments kept piling up.

Once, as they sat on a park bench sharing ice cream, his phone buzzed on the table between them. He didn’t pick it up, but Y/N’s eyes flicked to the screen before she could stop herself.

The name Lana flashed briefly before the screen dimmed.

Her stomach dropped, and she quickly looked away, trying to focus on what he was saying. Something about how the city looked different at night, how the lights felt like they told their own stories.

She nodded along, forcing a smile, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

Lana.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t even react. But the name lingered, repeating itself like a line of dialogue she couldn’t quite shake.

The turning point came on a quiet Sunday afternoon. They’d spent the day wandering through Metropolis, stopping at a food truck festival where Clark had charmed his way into getting her an extra serving of her favorite dish.

Later, as they sat by the river, watching the boats drift lazily past, his phone buzzed again. He picked it up this time, his fingers moving quickly as he typed out a response.

“Busy?” Y/N asked lightly, trying to keep her tone even.

“Just catching up with someone,” he said, not looking up.

The words stung more than she wanted to admit. She tried to brush it off, telling herself it wasn’t a big deal. He wasn’t hers—not really.

But the more she tried to ignore it, the more the doubt festered.

Over the next few days, the pieces started to come together. She’d catch glimpses of his screen more often than before—names she didn’t recognize, messages that seemed to come at odd hours.

Clark’s behavior hadn’t changed; he was still the same playful, charming presence in her life. But for Y/N, it was as if a curtain had been pulled back, revealing something she couldn’t quite unsee.

And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to confront him.

Instead, she told herself she was imagining things, that she was looking for cracks where there weren’t any.

But late at night, when she was alone in her tiny apartment, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was holding onto something that wasn’t hers to keep.

It was a rainy afternoon, the kind where the city’s usual hum dulled into a soft, rhythmic patter against her window. Y/N had the day off for once, and she spent it curled up on her couch, a blanket draped over her legs and an old Game Boy in her hands.

The screen glowed faintly, and the familiar 8-bit theme of a puzzle game filled the quiet space. She hadn’t touched the thing in years, but nostalgia had called to her, and for a while, it was comforting.

Until she started losing.

“Come on,” she muttered, pressing the buttons a little harder, as if that would help. The pieces weren’t falling into place the way they should. She kept making mistakes, and the game wasn’t forgiving.

By the time the little pixelated “GAME OVER” flashed on the screen, Y/N let out an exasperated sigh, tossing the Game Boy onto the cushion beside her.

She sat back, staring at the ceiling, the lingering frustration from the game mingling with something deeper. Her mind drifted, as it often did lately, to Clark.

He was like that Game Boy in a way, she thought. All bright and addictive at first, easy to pick up but impossible to put down. Every button press, every move, felt like it mattered. But no matter what she did, she was always one wrong move away from losing. 

The thought made her stomach twist.

She reached for the Game Boy again, turning it over in her hands, tracing the edges of the faded plastic. The thing was so old, yet it still worked perfectly—reliable. Clark, on the other hand...

Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. Reliable wasn’t the word she’d use to describe him.

He’d been MIA for the past two days. No texts, no calls. She’d tried not to overthink it, but every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt—only to sink again when it wasn’t him.

She hated how much space he took up in her mind, how even when he wasn’t around, he lingered in the buzz of her phone or the gaps in her schedule. Two days without a word, and it felt like the world had shifted just enough to make her stumble.

Y/N powered the Game Boy back on, more to distract herself than anything. But as the game’s cheerful chime filled the room again, the metaphor struck her with full force.

Clark didn’t just remind her of a Game Boy. He was a Game Boy. She was the one pressing all the buttons, trying to figure out the right moves, while he stayed the same—unchanging, unbothered. And the worst part? He made her feel like winning was possible, even when the game was rigged.

The thing about the game was that it didn’t care how hard you tried. It followed its own rules, punishing every misstep without hesitation. No second chances, no rewinds. And yet, she couldn’t stop playing, hoping that maybe, this time, she’d get it right.

The thought stung more than she expected. She hit “Start” on the game, more aggressively than necessary, but her focus was already elsewhere.

Later that evening, when Clark finally called, his voice warm and playful as if nothing had happened, Y/N couldn’t shake the lingering bitterness from earlier.

“Miss me?” he asked, his tone as casual as ever.

She hesitated, the words caught in her throat. She wanted to call him out, to tell him how it felt to be on the other side of whatever this was. But instead, she forced a small laugh.

“Maybe a little,” she said, her voice quieter than usual.

Clark didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

As the call ended and the room fell silent again, Y/N picked up the Game Boy one last time. She stared at it for a long moment before setting it back down.

Maybe it was time to stop playing altogether.

Yet, she couldn’t stop. It was like an addiction to this game, she didn’t want to play but she wanted to reach the end, the happy ending. 

Y/N had grown accustomed to the uncertainty. The missed calls, the unreturned texts, and the occasional days when Clark would vanish altogether. But somehow, when he did show up, it always felt like enough to keep her hooked.

She told herself it was temporary—that whatever it was between them, it would find its footing. Clark wasn’t perfect, but who was? She liked the way he made her feel when they were together, even if the gaps in between left her spiraling.

Late one evening, they found themselves at her apartment again. Clark had breezed in like he always did, with that easy charm and a bag of takeout in hand.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting the bag on the table.

Y/N smiled, pushing down the familiar ache in her chest. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” he replied, leaning against the counter. “Gotta keep you from wasting away, right?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head, but as they ate, she couldn’t ignore the buzzing of his phone on the table between them.

“Popular tonight?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

Clark glanced at the screen but didn’t pick it up. “Just stuff,” he said, brushing it off.

She nodded, not pressing further. But the tightness in her chest remained.

Yet it was like finally reaching the end of a level in a game, only to see the mistake you’d been overlooking all along.

The city was a hush of soft shadows and distant lights when Y/N found herself walking through the park. Her shift had run late, and the cool night air was both soothing and unsettling in its emptiness. The rhythm of her footsteps echoed in the silence, a lullaby of solitude that matched the slow beat of her heart.

She had no intention of looking for him—not tonight. But then she saw him, standing beneath the streetlamp like a figure she could never quite forget. Clark.

For a fleeting moment, her chest fluttered, the warmth of seeing him grounding her in a way she couldn’t explain. But that feeling faltered when she saw her.

The woman.

Y/N’s heart stuttered, and her mind scrambled to make sense of the scene unfolding before her. Clark stood with her, his figure tense, his back slightly turned. It didn’t take long for Y/N to notice the subtle shift in the air—how Clark’s posture had become a cage, arms crossed tightly, his body angled away as if protecting something fragile. The woman stood too close. Too comfortable.

Y/N’s feet froze on the path, as if the ground itself had turned to quicksand. She wanted to look away, to deny the scene before her, but her body betrayed her, drawing her closer to the shadows of the trees where she could no longer pretend she wasn’t watching.

“I’m not leaving until you listen to me,” the woman’s voice cut through the night, sharp and demanding.

Clark didn’t respond immediately, but his gaze dropped to the ground, the weight of his silence heavier than any words he could have spoken. Y/N’s breath hitched. Something in the air shifted again—tighter, colder—and the world felt as if it were held together by the thinnest thread.

“Clark…” The woman’s voice was softer now, laced with something deeper. Familiar. “You’ve been acting like a completely different person. You don’t get to just pretend everything’s fine.”

Y/N felt the tremor in her chest. She was a witness to a story she hadn’t known she was part of. Her heart pounded a frantic beat, the pulse of something unraveling. Her eyes stayed locked on them, unwilling, unable to pull away.

Then came the name, sharp and clear, ringing through the night air like the crack of a bell.

“Lana.”

It was just one word, but it crashed over Y/N like a wave—cold, relentless, pulling her under. She gasped, instinctively shrinking back behind the tree, but she couldn’t escape the force of it. The name had weight, had history, had meaning she could never understand. A name that tore through the quiet between them, carving itself into the space where she stood, invisible but not unseen.

Clark’s lips parted, but it wasn’t the words Y/N was listening for. It was the tremor in his voice, the falter in his breath.

“I’m fine,” he said, but there was no conviction in it, no strength. Only a thin veneer of something that felt like a lie.

Lana didn’t flinch at his words. She stepped closer, her hand light on his arm. The touch felt like a declaration. “You’re not fine, Clark. You’re not the man I used to know.”

Clark stiffened, but Lana didn’t let go. The grip of their conversation tightened around him, around them both. She wasn’t letting this go.

Y/N’s stomach twisted, a knot of disbelief gnawing at her insides. She could almost feel the pull of the gravity between them, a force too strong to escape.

“Maybe I don’t want to be that guy anymore,” Clark finally said, his voice barely a whisper, a secret too heavy for him to carry alone.

That guy. The words echoed in Y/N’s mind like a cruel whisper, and with them, the realization broke her like a tidal wave. She wasn’t even part of the equation. She was never meant to be.

Lana’s next words were the ones that would haunt Y/N long after the night ended, long after she walked away, trying to escape the truth.

“You’re my boyfriend, Clark,” Lana said softly. The words wrapped around the air, thick with a kind of finality Y/N couldn’t ignore. “And I’m not giving up on us.”

Boyfriend.

It was the word that shattered the glass, the weight that crushed her chest, the sharpness that split open the place inside her she thought was invincible. The pain bloomed from her heart, a wildflower of confusion and bitterness. She should have known. She could have known. But somewhere along the way, she had let herself believe in the game.

Her hands shook as she took a step back, retreating into the shadows, every part of her wanting to scream. Why hadn’t she seen it? She had known all along, hadn’t she? This was never hers to win. She was just another player, another hand on the controller.

But now, the game was over.

That night, Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, her thoughts replaying the scene in vivid detail. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to hate him. But all she felt was the weight of her own foolishness.

She’d been a chapter in a story that wasn’t hers, a subplot in a life already entangled with someone else.

Clark didn’t come back. Days turned into weeks, and the silence stretched like an endless road.

Months later, as she sat in her apartment, the Game Boy in her lap, Y/N realized something. Clark had been like the game all along—an unpredictable rush of highs and lows. And like any game, it had an ending.

The difference was, this time, she wasn’t hitting “Start” again.

As she set the Game Boy down, her phone buzzed on the table beside her. For a fleeting moment, her heart leapt. But when she looked at the screen, it wasn’t him.

It never was.

And maybe, she thought, it was time to stop waiting.

She didn’t want to play anymore.

AHHHHHHHHHH!!! its probably one of my fav stories. along with ,star of the show'---- maybe.

pt 2: game-boy: resume?

ps: stream the song ,gameboy' by rosé to have a better vision of the story :)

💌taglist: @blackynsupremacy @angelsgalore @alelo23

[dee-writes-anime]

First Meetings with Megumi Fushiguro

FEATURING Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

SUMMARY Megumi meeting your daughter for the first time

CONTENT WARNINGS pregnancy trope, vague mentions of childhood truama, nervous/scared megumi, cuteness, descriptions of facial features (on the baby).

AUTHORS NOTE It's been too long since I wrote my cute little grumpy guy, feast my loves!

SERIES MASTERLIST

The room felt suffocatingly hot, over a million degrees by your calculations, but you had only just given birth, so you figured you weren't the best judge of temperature considering the layer of sweat that clung to your skin. Once you finally willed your tired eyes open, you were met with the soft, golden glow of the afternoon sun as it peeked through the half-drawn curtains. The quiet hum of machines filled the space once your ears stopped ringing, an occasional fuss or crinkle from hospital bed sheets seeping through. Your entire body felt like it was on fire from the waist down if you excluded the sharp sting of sore ab muscles and you could feel the crushing weight of exhaustion from hours of labor pushing you deeper and deeper into the thin mattress.

Yet none of it mattered, it barely registered as you stared in awe at the tiny bundle cradled in one of the nurse's arms. They had yet to clean her up much, really, still covered in blood and various other fluids, but they had wiped her face quickly with a different blanket than the soft pink one she was wrapped in now.

Noticing the lack of movement from the nurse as she looked toward the window, you followed her gaze and quickly noticed why. There Megumi stood, his back rigid and hands shoved deep into his pockets. He hadn't said much since birth, come to think of it, he hadn't said much since you arrived at the hospital, just stoically holding your hand as you screamed and ran his fingers through his hair in a panic. You could practically see the tension radiating off of him in waves-- from the slight bounce in his heel to the way his fingers played with the fabric of his pockets.

"Gumi," you called softly, your voice hoarse, cracking slightly, but still full of warmth.

He turned immediately, shifting his almost fearful expression from the nurse to you, his gorgeous, dark eyes catching yours. The moment stretched as he stared, his eyes letting go of the flicker of mania to a gentler, softer look at seeing your face, seemingly reassured that you were okay.

"You get to hold her first, remember? Like we talked about?" you murmured, motioning to the nurse with a shaky hand who had moved closer to Megumi while he had been distracted, treating him almost as if he was a cornered animal.

His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, you could see where the nurse was coming from. His expression was almost comparable to the fidgety, grumpy teenager you had met all those years ago. "Me?" he asked after a long stretch of silence, his voice a fearful whisper.

"Yeah, honey, you wrote it in the birth plan, hm?" you coaxed, "took you a lot of convincing and feet rubs to pull it out of me." A smile pulled at your lips despite your exhaustion. Megumi had been weirdly adamant about wanting to be the first to hold her since you both agreed to start trying for a child and you were still unsure as to why, but if that was the one thing he wanted, you weren't going to deny him. "C'mon, Megs. She's waiting for her dad."

He hesitated, glancing at the nurse and then back at you, his fingers flexing nervously as he tried to hide the slight tremble in his fingers before he let out a deep breath and finally stepped closer.

The nurse handed him the baby with a gentle, understanding smile, softly guiding his hands to support her tiny head and body. Megumi froze for a moment, arms locked awkwardly outward as soon as the weight of your daughter settled into him, his breath catching audibly. Your girl fussed for a moment, uncomfortable with his unsteady, rigid grip and you watched as Megumi slowly, gently reeled her closer to his chest. It looked so smooth, so inevitable-- like a wave crashing upon the shore.

"She's so... small," he said quietly, and you knew he was trying to hide the emotional crack in his words as his heart swelled ten times in his chest, eyes swirling with wonder and fear.

Megumi gently adjusted her then, his trembling arms ever so slowly steadying as he stared at her face, his eyes, dark and wide, were drinking in every small detail they could find. From the tiny freckle in the corner of her eye to the plump swoop of her lips, her strikingly similar eyes to yours to the black of her small tuft of hair, and finally her sweet button nose to the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Alive.

For a moment, you watched as Megumi lost himself in thought. His brows furrowed, a spark of something unspoken passed over his face and that's when you knew. When you realized why he had been so adamant about holding her first. It was the final nail in the coffin of his child, an ache in his chest that he no longer wanted to carry into his daughter's life, something he seemingly needed to let go if he were ever to be a good father. You knew he was wrong, that Megumi could never, ever repeat past mistakes made by his own parents, but you let him have his moment. You let him feel his pride at overcoming the weight of everything he had endured and then you let in settle in the disbelief that he could have something so gentle and pure in his arms.

"She looks like you," he breathed, finally, his voice weighed down by the thick emotion in his throat and then he glanced up at you, his lips twitching into that beautiful, shy smile you had fallen in love with. "Thank God."

You couldn't help but laugh, tears falling down your red cheeks, "You both have that same freckle by your eye," you smile, reaching out a shaky hand to gently caress his arm.

Megumi shifted closer to you, his gaze falling back to your daughter as his thumb traced mindless circles on her blanket. "Hello," he whispered awkwardly, "I'm.. I'm your dad."

You felt your heart swell at the sight of him, this usually stoic man who now looked utterly unguarded. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he bent closer to her, his expression tender in a way you’d rarely seen.

“I promise…” he began, his voice barely audible. “I promise I’ll protect you. No matter what.”

Your tears finally spilled over, and you reached up to wipe them away. “Megumi,” you choked out, your heart bursting with love for both him and your daughter.

He glanced at you, his eyes shining. Without a word, he leaned forward and pressed a soft, hesitant kiss to your forehead. Then, as if she sensed the moment, your daughter let out a small, sleepy sigh, her tiny lips curling slightly.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You nodded, resting your head against his shoulder as the three of you sat there, wrapped in the warmth of the moment. For the first time in a long while, everything felt right.

As your daughter’s breathing grew slower, her little body curling into Megumi’s chest, he finally let out a shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing.

“I never thought…” he began, then stopped, shaking his head. His voice was quieter when he continued. “I never thought I’d have something this good.”

You reached up, brushing a hand through his hair. “You deserve this, Megumi. We both do.”

The room grew still, the soft sounds of her breathing the only thing breaking the silence. In that moment, nothing else mattered—no fears, no past, no uncertainties about the future. It was just the three of you, a new family, basking in a love so profound it left you both speechless.

TAGLIST

@makingtimemine @strawbrrycat @soraya-daydreams @shokosbunny @saltypuffin1040 @danilights2021 @startwithrecords @obeythebutler @sparklykeylime @surielstea

[revelboo]

i love your writing so much thank you for feeding us!!! do you think you’d ever write for ultra magnus/minimus? feel free to ignore this if not!

18+ 🌶️

The Conversation

Ultra Magnus x Reader

• How many is that now? Servos drumming on his desk, he grimaces. Five counting Swerve’s find the day before. That one had to have appeared after Rodimus and Megatron had destroyed the machine. Brainstorm’s only response had been to wave his hand and mutter about lingering temporal effects. Which is complete lunacy. Science has rules, it must. Whatever Brainstorm had done isn’t following them, though.

• Leaning out from the ladder, you stretch an arm out and your fingertips can just barely brush the top of the book. Tipping it and lunging to catch it before it can fall to the floor below, you feel foot slipping on the ladder rung as you reel back and bang back into it, feet scrambling until your footing is secure again with the book clutched to your chest. And heart racing, your stomach drops. It’s not like you haven’t fell before, but this is different. Cold sweat breaking out all over your skin, your head feels like it’s splitting open. You can’t hold onto the ladder, can’t feel your fingers at all as your vision goes gray at the edges and pain hammers you.

• There’s a feeling like a shift in air pressure that prickles over him. Bringing his head up in time to see the small form just materialize in the air. Reaching without thinking as that limp form begins to fall and he catches you. Another one? Venting raggedly at how warm and still you are in his palm, he reaches out a servo of his other hand to gently nudge you. Can feel your heart beating and see the rise and fall of your chest. Alive, but if you’re anything like the others, that pain would have been crippling.

• When you come to, it’s to your head pounding and a foul taste in your mouth. Everything hurts, like you’re one big bruise, but whatever you’re laying on is warm and there’s something soft wrapped around you. And you just want to sleep, curling tighter against the ache you can feel down in your very bones.

Next

Happy turkey day- visiting my grandma in the land of no cell service

[dominterlude]

how about then

pairing: arthur hill x fem!reader

summary: an insecure admirer with not-so-discreet habits and a pretty barista who he doesn’t realise notices most of his visits.

cw: stalker-ish tendencies, fear of rejection, self-conscious thoughts, second-hand embarrassment. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 1.7k

he watches, unashamed, yet teetering on the edge of not wanting to be seen.

welcoming eyes as you greet each customer, a peek at the pink of your tongue as you cautiously try to pronounce names you’re unfamiliar with, soft smiles on the curve on your lips when you ask them to take a seat until their order is ready. almost everyday, it’s the same.

arthur sits alone, illuminated by the bright light of his open laptop screen, surrounded by remnants of food belonging to whoever sat down before him. today it’s a half-drank camomile tea, crumbs of a pastry flaked on the coffee table instead of the dark green plate it was served on, and the smallest jar of honey. he hasn’t ordered yet.

he rarely ever orders.

opting to exist amongst the casual murmur of blurred conversation flickering in the background of the obvious humming from the espresso machine and occasional clinks of silverware. the sound of ceramic smashing is out of place in the familiarity of the café.

he jumps slightly on the worn, cherry red sofa, his stare moves from the softness of your lips, to the sudden shock in your wide eyes, and then to the homemade mug lying on the tiled floor in a disarray of pieces. it’s silent for a moment, everyone glancing to the source of the noise, before immersing themselves back into whatever they were doing.

you look around, embarrassed that you’d been spotted knelt down in the midst of the shards, but grateful that no one’s wandering eyes have stuck on you. then they meet his and your face warms, turning the same colour as the sofa he hasn’t moved from.

he looks away like he hasn’t already been caught.

his gaze shifts to his screen for the first time since he’s sat down, feigning oblivion, but his own face is burning. reminded of the day his earphones disconnected and everyone heard. regardless, you don’t know what he’s thinking and the snippet of the song you picked up hasn’t left your memory.

you gather the pieces, careful not to pierce your skin with the jagged edges of the shattered ceramic. you’re used to the occasional accident, and maybe the feeling of his eyes on you, but not when you know he’s trying not to look.

you stand up, brushing off the dust of sugar from your apron and make your way to the counter, trying to ignore the heat in your cheeks. your mind races with the possibilities of what he might think. you’ve never exchanged more than a few words, but you’re left reeling from the clumsiness.

the café’s buzz is usually a form of comfort, but today it feels like it’s wrapping too tightly around you, suffocating any attempts at ease. you take a deep breath and force another smile, hoping to convince yourself more than anyone else that you’re fine.

you’re not all that surprised that lina, your co-worker and friend, can see right through it.

“another day, some more shy guy?” she says with a knowing smirk and a sideways glance, typing in the customer’s total on the coffee shop’s card machine.

you roll your eyes at her playfully, trying to shrug it off as you toss the broken mug into the bin. “ what are you talking about?” you ask, feigning ignorance.

lina’s smirk widens. “oh come off it, i’ve seen the way you blush every time he walks in. you think i’m blind?”

you laugh. a bit too loudly, and unfortunately unconvincingly, busying yourself with wiping down the counter. “i don’t know what you’re talking about, i’m just doing my job.”

she arches an eyebrow, but lets it go, turning back to the customer with a professional smile. as they leave, she leans closer to you. “i’m just saying, maybe you should talk to him, or at least serve him something other than the usual eye candy and awkward glances. he’s obviously into you, and you can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way. that blush gives you away every time.”

you feel the heat she’s referring to rise again, and you can’t argue with her. she’s known you since school, and she’s always had a knack for reading you like an open book. but talking to him? that’s easier said than done. you’ve built this invisible barricade around the both of you, a silent dance of glances and unspoken curiosity, one you’re afraid of bulldozing through with the wrong thing.

you start to shake your head again, parting your lips, but before you can get a word out lina’s already began. “if you don’t want to listen to what i’m trying to tell you, i can’t make you. but make me a promise, alright?”

her eyes are so intense, so serious, that you nod without really understanding what you’re agreeing to. “what?” you ask, curiosity piqued despite your skepticism.

lina’s grin is swift and mischievous. “promise me you’ll finally talk to him before he leaves today. ask him his name, or what he’s working on, or why he’s always here when you are. anything, just break the weird-awkward tension you guys have going on, okay?”

you sigh, feeling the weight of her stare. she’s relentless when she’s made up her mind about something. “fine, i’ll try,” you concede, hoping she’ll drop it.

lina’s eyes light up with excitement. “yes, you will!” she says, clapping her hands together. “and i’m going to hold you to that promise because i’ve got to head out, so it’s just you and him for closing tonight. no excuses!” she winks before undoing her apron and disappearing through the back door, leaving you alone with your nerves and your jaw slack.

she was right. it was just you and him for closing. the last of the customers leaving close to an hour ago once you’d flipped the sign hanging on the door.

just you and him. him hitting keys on his laptop and oblivious to set of eyes on him that would stray if he looked up. the light of his screen reflecting off his skin, highlighting the length of his fringe and strands of hair that poked at his eyebrows. you wondered what he saw when he looked at you, something pretty enough to make him stay?

his posture was rigid, slumped over the keyboard like he was about to fall asleep. lina’s words kept replaying in your head at the sight, stuck in your own mind like the residue of a spilled sugary drink on the countertop.

you took a deep breath, trying to swallow any reservation you held that what you were thinking about may go south and replace it with something positive — you might finally learn the hazel-eyed stranger’s name.

“hi, sorry, but we’re closing soon,” you started, an apologetic smile curving your lips. a slightly damp cloth in your hand and your other adjusting the notepad in your waist band, “is there anything else i can get you before..” you trailed off, entirely too distracted by how intensely he was staring at you. unexpected and unwavering.

he shook his head, waves of hair shaking like his nerves, clammy palms wiped on the thigh of his trousers. “uh- no. i think i’m set.”

if you thought you were disappointed with his answer, you deflated at how quickly he shut his laptop. you nodded, dejectedly, offering one last smile that didn’t reach your eyes and turned. silently criticising the tone of your voice, speed of your speech and about everything else you could nit pick.

your steps were light, but they felt as if you were being weighed down by every single thread of rejection that had stitched you into a version of yourself that shook at the first shake of someone’s head. you sighed, removing the last of the food from the glass display case and decided to try again.

“are you sure? if not, these will just go to waste and not to brag or anything, but these are our best.”

“how is that bragging?”

“i made them!” you informed defensively.

he laughed, eyes bright. “well, in that case-“

you cheer excitedly, clapping your hands underneath your chin. placing the dessert you’d perfected into a small to-go box, “so, what are you always working on?”

he looked taken aback at your question, stuttering out a ramble of words into a sentence that you didn’t think made any sense. you’d noticed his presence before today and now it was his turn to turn cherry red. “i make music.”

“oh?“ it’s all you pick up as you abandon the tongs on your worktop. “are you a dj?”

“god, no!” he laughs again, disbelief bleeding through his bashful attempt at telling you about his work. “i guess it’s more like pop, but not really.”

your eyes widen, “no way! is it serious? your livelihood depending on it type of stuff?”

“sort of.” he shrugs half-heartedly, diverting his attention to the curled corners of peeling stickers on his closed laptop, and you decide not to ask anymore questions. confusing his inability to answer honestly with discomfort. you’re mentally scolding yourself for being the cause while arthur’s wondering if being a content creator is as off-putting as it sounds in his head. “can i get a drink too?”

“i thought you didn’t want anything.” it’s light-hearted, teasing. something so fittingly sweet it’s almost sickly when he blushes again.

“might as well,” he reasons when he gives his order, not that you minded. it’s more money for the cafe — not that you’ll end up charging him — and selfishly, an excuse for him to stay maybe two or three minutes more.

you agree and as your about to reach for a disposable cup, you pause. “iced?”

he hasn’t made the connection that you have, absentmindedly bobbing his head in tune of the tick of the clock on the far wall. admiring you as you work.

you’re reluctant to maintain the speed you’re used to. dragging out the seconds left until his drink is finished and he can finally leave. hoping he doesn’t notice your hesitance at every step, dreading that you’re at the last one when you uncap the marker.

then he’s at the counter and out the door with the exchange of a smile, the graze and burn of your skin against his now ink stained fingertips. smudged numbers and a name branding the transparent plastic and his mind.

you suppose you did learn his name.