#Noodle Bliss

[gorillaz-girl]

we could do so much better than this

[amethyst-halo]

So you haven't posted anything about this in a while so I don't know if you are still doing this AU but in the B&B AU do either Branch or Bruce get sucked into the disaster that was Barb's World Tour? (I rewatched world tour yesterday and your B&B AU came to mind)

ya im always doin b&b akjshh it just hasn't hit me in a while <:] twt is the part giving me the most trouble actually bc i can't figure out how to drag them into it yet! i have a concept of bliss running to vaycay after escaping barb and telling them what happened and maybe trying to get them to help her get the techno trolls back, but im not suuper sure yet! akjshdkjh

[selfspinninglies]

HOW DO YOU BOOP PEOPLE OUTSIDE OF THE BOOP BACK BUTTON IN NOTES .

[dromaeotrash]

.

[beloveds-embrace]

Hiiii hshsh

So I got this idea on a car ride late at night after going to an extremely loud pub!! Which gave me this idea:33

Poly!141 plus reader

None of them know how to cook because they're used to having premade meals at the messhall or rations on missions! so when reader comes along (they can be part of the task force or they can be civilian), and they cook for them the lads decide that they're theirs now!! :3

I love this idea anon 😩😩

You didn’t think much of it at first, truly.

Cooking had always been second nature to you- something soothing, something tangible in a life filled with chaos. And in the military, chaos was the only constant.

It didn’t take long to realize something alarming, though: none of your teammates knew how to cook.

Not even the basics.

Soap, bless his heart, thought instant noodles counted as a proper meal. Gaz once tried to scramble eggs and somehow set off the smoke alarm. Ghost? The man could survive in the wild for weeks but willingly lived off protein bars and black coffee when left to his own devices. And Price could grill, sure, but anything beyond that? No chance. And it wasn’t as if a grill was always available.

So, you cooked.

Not because they asked. Not because you had to, or were made to feel like you had to. But because the first time you made something decent- just a simple stew, hearty and warm, after a grueling training session- they all looked at you like you had hung the damn moon itself.

Soap groaned after his first bite, tipping his head back in dramatic bliss. “Marry me.”

Gaz, already going for seconds, nodded solemnly. “Seconded. You can’t just cook like this and expect us to let you go.”

Ghost didn’t say anything outright, but the way he cleaned his bowl and then, after a pause, slid it forward for more? Yeah. That spoke volumes.

Price took his time eating, but you caught the way his gaze softened as he watched you. Like he was making a decision.

You didn’t realize what that decision was until the next morning.

You woke up to find all four of them stationed in the kitchen, waiting. Gaz leaned against the fridge, Soap sat on the counter, Ghost loomed in the doorway, and Price stood at the stove like he had any idea what to do with it.

“What,” you mumbled, still groggy. “Are you all doing?”

Price met your eyes, calm and sure. “Waiting on breakfast. If you do wanna make it, that is.”

And that was that.

You should’ve known. Feeding a group of hungry, half-feral soldiers meant claiming them.

And, apparently, it meant they claimed you too.

The first time you all came back from a mission completely wrecked, it happened without thought.

Everyone was exhausted- cut up, bruised, dragging themselves through debrief with only the promise of a hard-earned shower keeping them upright.

You were just as battered. Just as drained. But the moment you stepped into the barracks and saw the half-hearted collection of protein bars and tasteless ration packs sitting on the counter, something inside you rebelled and cracked.

No. Not tonight.

Your body screamed for rest, but you ignored it, rolling up your sleeves and getting to work. It’ll be worth it, you kept telling yourself, and the promise of an actual meal kept you going.

You weren’t alone for long, thougg.

Kyle trudged into the kitchen first, watching with quiet amazement as you moved. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.” you murmured, but kept going. A warm, fresh meal…

Soap dragged himself in next, blinking at you blearily before rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re an angel, bonnie. A bloody angel.”

Ghost leaned against the doorframe when he came a little later, watching. He didn’t say a word, but when you swayed slightly from exhaustion, he moved- one steady hand pressing against the small of your back, grounding you. He didn’t tell you to stop, or get in your way- just stayed by you, a steady, comforting presence.

Also helped chop the vegetables when you asked.

John didn’t say anything either. But he sat at the table, waiting patiently, eyes tracking every movement like he was memorizing you.

By the time you put the food down- something warm, filling, real- they were too tired to talk, but their gratitude was written in every movement and shone through every appreciative sigh they let out

Soap sighed into his bowl like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “If I die tonight, at least I die happy.”

Gaz nudged your foot under the table, a quiet thank you.

Ghost, ever quiet, simply refilled your plate before his own.

And Price met your eyes across the table, something unreadable yet warm in his expression, before nodding once. “Good work, soldier.”

The second time, it was worse.

The mission had gone sideways, backwards, and right into hell.

It had been long, brutal, pushing all of you to the breaking point. When you finally stepped back onto base, none of you were unscathed- Soap’s knuckles were split, Gaz’s jaw was bruised, Ghost had a gash along his ribs, and Price carried exhaustion like it was part of him.

And you? You were running purely on fumes.

But the moment you made it back to your quarters and saw the way they all moved- silent, weighed down by the kind of tired that settled in your bones- you knew.

Without thinking, you made your way to the kitchen.

Soap’s voice, hoarse with fatigue, followed you. “You don’t have to, lass. You gotta rest-“

“I know.” You croaked out. And you still did it anyways.

The stew took time. Slow, steady, the scent filling the air like something solid. Something safe. It gave you enough time to lay your head down just a little, eyes slipping shut just long enough for you not to pass out.

They didn’t argue.

They didn’t tell you to sit down, to rest, to stop.

Instead, they hovered- Soap setting the table, Gaz nudging a chair toward you every time you leaned too hard against the counter, Ghost watching you in that way he did when words weren’t enough.

Price stood beside you near the stove, his hand brushing your shoulder in quiet appreciation.

And when you finally sat down, they made sure you ate first; Soap nudged the biggest portion toward you. Gaz made sure your glass was full. Price made sure you didn’t lift a finger once the meal was done.

Ghost was the last to move, reaching over to take your wrist, squeezing once. A quiet thank you in the way only he could say it.

That night, none of them let you leave, either.Soap pulled you down onto the couch between him and Ghost, resting his head against yours with a tired sigh, and Simon pulled your legs to rest on top of his thighs.

Gaz, already half-asleep with his back rest against the couch, muttered.” You’re stuck with us now, you know.”

And Price draped a blanket over your shoulders, the weight of it solid and grounding. He patted your head, then his hand slid down to squeeze your shoulder while your eyes slipped shut, drifting off into a much-needed sleep. “That’s how it works.”

[gurlzfr0m7eleven]

I’m watching!! You guys should too xD

Let's try again!!

I'm gonna stream on Kick in a moment!

here's hoping nothing goes wrong this time

[erikftglitter]

Terry Knows.. | Terry Richmond

After an exuberant, yet fulfilling, workout, Terry was ready to head back home. He had been jogging for the last couple of hours to clear his head before the sunset. His music supplied him with enough ammunition to turn around and head back home to you.

On the way back home Terry is thrilled to see you. These last two days have been bittersweet. You have been in bed sick and overwhelmed, and while he hated to see you sick, he loved having you to himself.

Terry closed the door carefully behind him, being sure to not disturb your rest. He made fresh chicken noodle soup before he left for his run but you were too fatigued to eat. He scanned the kitchen and realized that everything was still the way that he left it. You hadn’t ate or moved since he left. He was beginning to feel a tad bit guilty.

He removed his running shoes and began to strip out of his soiled clothes, but the appearance of your silhouette caught his attention. You were resting seamlessly in the bed that you two shared, but this time the blanket that you’d been adamant about sleeping with was rolled off of your body and abandoned on the opposite side of you.

You were wearing one of Terry’s shirts, something that was becoming routine for you. Terry approached your sleeping body, careful to keep his presence nonexistent. The shirt being slightly scrunched by your movements revealed your stomach to him.

Terry wanted to believe that he was seeing things, but he knew that he was not. Your hand was delicately placed on your stomach and the bulge in your abdomen couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. He wanted to curse at the cues that he missed but he didn’t want to disrupt your slumber. You hadn’t been able to keep any food down since you’ve been here. He assumed that you had a stomach bug and needed the comfort. How silly of him.

Terry tried to control his thoughts while he showered but he couldn’t help but to feel hurt. Why wouldn’t you tell him? How long had you known? He knows that he wasn’t one to discuss the future but he absolutely wouldn’t put you through this alone. Memories of your last encounter began to fill Terry’s head.

“F-fuck Terry! Yes!” You groaned into the pillow underneath you. Terry’s hands ghosted over your spine before he completely pushed your face into the pillow. His thrusts were consistent and unforgiving as fucked you to bliss.

“Mhmm. One more baby.” Terry growled as he heard the familiar cries underneath him. Your voice wavered whenever that familiar pit gathered in your body and you couldn’t be trusted to say anything but obscenities.

Completely turned on by your words Terry felt himself begin to unravel. The sight of your sex creaming around him was enough for Terry to abandon the idea of pulling out and cumming inside of you.

That had been almost three months ago. This is just what you and Terry did. You met years ago but the bachelor never came around to the idea of settling down. He was always there for a moment then gone in the next. You weren’t expecting to run into him again while you were in the town for work, but those eyes of his enamored you and soon you found yourself checking out of your hotel and into Terry’s bed.

The light sounds of water woke you up from your nap. You quickly pulled your shirt, well Terry’s shirt, down and sat up. You know that you needed to say something and that it was selfish to keep to yourself, but Terry wasn’t built for stuff like this. He doesn’t want a woman nor does he want a child. Terry liked to be alone and you weren’t fond of hurting your own feelings by allowing him to reject you and your growing baby.

As self absorbed as it may sound, you only agreed to stay with Terry for the weekend because it would be your last time seeing him. You were already on month three and it was starting to get difficult to fit into your clothes. Hiding a pregnancy was one thing but hiding your born child was not on the table. You needed this weekend as a form of closure before you figured out what was to come.

When Terry exited the shower you weren’t expecting his cold demeanor. He hadn’t said anything but his eyes always seemed to revel his feelings. You were now dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed that you made before he got out of the shower. As tired as you were you still were persistent about faking it.

“I see you’re dressed.” Terry spoke from his place near his closet. He dropped his towel as he moved to put on his briefs. He was unfazed by your presence and that confidence was something that you loved about him.

“Yeah. I need to head out now.” You reply as you scan the room for anything that you might’ve left. You’d be leaving your heart here but he didn’t need to know that. He wouldn’t care about that. You two were just friends that occasionally shared the same bed. He never wanted anything serious.

“I take that you’re just going to leave with my baby. Right?” Terry’s words are enough to make your heart drop. You blink rapidly in hopes of drying your eyes from the tears that were pooling up.

“I-I don’t kn-now what you’re talking about Terry.” You quickly gather your bag and attempt to head out of his bedroom and to dart out of the house, but you should’ve known that he’d outrun you any day.

“So you really were going to leave with my baby?” He asks, his arms extended in front of you blocking your path. Both his tone and facial expression were softer this time around.

“I know that you never wanted this Terrance. I’m just doing what’s best-“ The sound of Terry’s voice stops you.

“Yeah? And how do you know what’s for the best? You weren’t even going to tell me?” He was clearly hurt at your declaration. Who were you to deny him something that he rightfully created alongside you?

“Don’t do this.” You can’t hold the tears back this time as they fall down your face. This is definitely not how you imagined the evening would go.

“I’m not letting you go YN,” Terry says after a few moments. “I know that I haven’t been the best person to talk to, but I refuse to let you go again and especially not like this.” Terry removes his arms from around you and lift your face to make eye contact with him.

“You’re not doing this alone anymore. It’s me and you. Me and you.” He emphasizes as he brings your body closer to his.

[pseudowho]

How well do you think Nanami Kento would handle eating spicy food? What would his reaction be towards his girlfriend/wife who LOVES spicy food?

Domestic Bliss: Nanami Kento #6, Spicy

"Hey, Kento," you whispered conspiratorially into his shoulder, nuzzling him from behind, "that new ramen place just opened round the corner. I hear they have the biggest range of hot sauces going. Big. Huge. International."

Your bad impression earned you a scowl.

"And you want to try them," Kento intoned, flat as he flipped through his newspaper, "I assume."

You draped yourself over the armchair, pushing his newspaper away with your feet. Kento grumbled, trying to avoid their push, until his newspaper crumpled, and he rolled it up, hitting you with it while you laughed.

"I'd love to go," you sighed, dramatic, "but I know you can't handle spicy food." Kento's eyes narrowed.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, I never see you eat it."

"Because most extra spicy food relies on it being hot as its main point of attraction. I prefer my flavour palate to be a bit more sophisticated." Kento's eyes narrowed again, swiping over you. "Like my women."

"Ouch, Kento."

Kento reached into his pocket, the ghost of a smile on his mouth. "Silly games win silly prizes." He tapped on his phone. He was silent for a moment.

"Table's booked for 7pm. So you can eat spicy food, to your heart's desire...my love."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Pushing through the chest-level curtain, you and Kento were greeted by a bustling restaurant, vibrant, and enjoying its early success. Your mouth watered as a hot, umami rush of air hit your nose. You smiled, excited, not noticing how Kento read your every move, fizzing with your joy.

Perusing the menu in your intimate corner booth, you noticed the dishes were arranged in order of spice. You leaned over, pointing to Kento's menu.

"This is your side of the menu, darling..." You gestured to one side of the booklet, "...and this is mine." Kento pinched the sides of your knee under the table, smiling lightly, ungoadable.

When the waiter arrived, you requested a bowl of the spiciest ramen listed.

"We have extra hot sauces, too," offered the waiter, "if you like a challenge."

"Perhaps your top five hottest?" You requested, handing the menu back to the waiter, teasing Kento. "And a big glass of milk for my boyfriend."

"That won't be necessary." Kento replied, clipped. "I'll have the same as her, thank you." Your nose flared; a competitive edge.

"You don't have to buy it just because I do, Kento."

"I know that." He hummed, leaning back into his chair, his hands clasped over crossed legs. "But it seems we have some...misunderstandings to address."

Your ramen arrived. Its colour cried Danger. Tree frogs of its exact hue were known to cause certain death, and the hot sauces arrived in a rainbow most often seen in government-approved public warning announcements. Kento gave you a warm smile, chuckling as you snapped and rolled your chopsticks with gusto.

You took a noisy slurp of your noodles, Kento following suit. The heat was slow to build, but by your third slurp of noodles, your mouth thrummed with fire, climbing up your nose and filling your sinuses. You sniffled, laughing and dabbing your mouth with a napkin.

"Wow, they really weren't joking," you laughed, burning from the inside, in a way that was almost too much, "that really is spicy." Kento raised his eyebrows, seemingly unaffected. He reached for the first hot sauce.

"Is it?" He asked, mildly. "I think it could use a little something, actually." Kento splashed his ramen with hot sauce, enthusiastic, and offered you some. With a smile, and a nod, he did the same to your ramen.

"I don't see much difference, to be honest," you lied, the ramen now significantly spicier. You blinked the tears from your eyes as Kento patted your hand sympathetically. With a wan little smile, Kento reached immediately for the third hottest sauce, splashing it onto his ramen.

"Let's cut out the middle man, shall we?" Kento joked, squeezing your thigh affectionately under the table. You were starting to consider that you may have fucked up your last upfuck. You didn't stop Kento as he offered you the hot sauce, splashing a thin, acrid red glaze into your ramen.

The fumes hit you as you leaned over your bowl, and you coughed involuntarily. Kento shook more hot sauce onto his egg, slurping it up with a delighted hum.

"Eat up." He pressed. "It'll get cold." You took a hesitant bite of pork that didn't seem to have too much hot sauce on it. You were wrong. You must have swallowed lava, you thought, your eyes flickering over the restaurant as you chewed, as if someone could help you. Spluttering and praying for escape, you knew you would never live this down with your new lover if you threw in the towel.

"In fact, mine does seem to have cooled down a bit." Kento reached for the hottest of the hot sauces, in an unassuming little bottle with a skull and crossbones on the front. You were on fire, and nodded with tears flowing down your face, sweating, red, and coughing, when Kento offered you some. He was ever the gentleman, never pouring the sauce on your food until you accepted.

Kento was exceptionally uncrumpled, his navy dress shirt still just as pressed as it had been in the morning, his hair still neatly parted. Strands of yours stuck to the sweat in your forehead, and in a delirious haze, you lifted your bowl to slurp the broth, desperate to end this hellish ordeal.

You briefly saw God, before plummeting to the deepest circle of hell. There was no heaven. Life was a lie. Existence was meaningless. You felt the flesh melt off your bones, knowing death was nigh. Your hands shook, your smouldering lips puffy, mascara on your cheeks. You sat with your head in your hands, having just drunk acid. You dared one look up towards Kento.

...who seemed delighted by his meal, paying the waiter, and rubbing your thigh with those warm, gentle hands.

"There are people waiting for our table, darling. We'll go, hmm? My place, or yours?"

Your mouth numb, slurring, you babbled; "Me at, er-- mine...you at-- at-- yours--" You would surely be spending the evening in a bath of milk, retching into the sink. Kento pressed a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead.

"You're right. I'm always tired after a good meal, too."

After being driven home, you spent the night in an oven, wondering if you would ever get over challenging Nanami Kento to such a stupid, unwinnable fight.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"How's that new girl of yours, huh, Nanamin? Managed to impress her yet?" Gojo called from outside the toilet stall, tapping away in his phone with that everfixed smile. A low, nauseated groan rumbled out from the stall.

"--I...think she might dump me actually." More groans of agony sounded from the toilet stall, with Kento within, trapped in Satan's grasp.

Gojo had your number, of course. You and he had been chatting for weeks. Gojo held down the Record button outside Kento's toilet stall, ready to send you Kento's anguished moans.

Nanami Kento couldn't stand spicy food. He'd never let you know that. Thankfully, he had a friend who would sell him out at any given opportunity.

[cherryberrycheol]

Your Personal Caretaker | Choi Seungcheol | fluff

Pairing: choi seungcheol x reader

Summary: it’s a peaceful saturday morning and you wake up feeling sick (after a week of ignoring the symptoms and doing virtually nothing with it). seungcheol, who finally has time to not think about work, notices your state. being the caring partner he is, your husband is already on it and goes full ‘care’ mode before you’re even up

Word count: 2k

Genre/warnings: fluff, slice of life, established relationships, married couple, non-idol!seungcheol x non-idol!reader, reader is sick and seungcheol takes care of them, everyone is soft and happy no drama, domestic bliss at its finest, kkuma is there in the background and got some pats and compliments, seungcheol calls reader ‘pretty, baby, princess, silly girl’, i think i didn’t have any specifically descriptive words for appearance (let me know if you spot some), if i missed anything else let me know

A/N: if you hate being sick on your own then this fic is for you. I hate it myself, literally can’t operate on my own, need someone to think and make decisions for me. So it was a self-indulgent fantasy of what it would be like if Seungcheol was to take care of his partner when they don’t feel well and get too stressed to think on their own. Hope you like this piece of work as it’s the first one I’m posting for this account and in English too (⸝⸝º ^ º⸝⸝)

The text below isn’t proofread, proceed at your own discretion; if you see any mistakes I’m sorry, English isn’t my first language.

Masterlist

It’s a quiet Saturday morning. Seungcheol is lying splayed out on the sofa in the living room, enjoying every moment of this unrushed ecstasy. He’s been so busy with everything at work this past week, it being the end of the month with tie outs needed to be done and piles on piles of reports on end. He felt like he could give out any moment by Friday. But now that Saturday came and tranquility settled in he couldn’t get enough of this unwinding. No thought in his head, he just scrolled through his social media, chuckling at some silly no brainer stuff people posted there.

He woke up earlier than you today. Which he always does but usually on the weekends he likes to sleep in and stay in bed together for longer. Not today. Today he took it upon himself to bring you breakfast in bed. Despite having a devilish week himself he couldn’t help but notice that you were off yesterday when he came home and finally had the mental capacity to fully pay attention. So, spurred on by his own urge to take care of you today, he woke up as if it was any other work day. He had time to do so much stuff, like walking and feeding Kkuma, going for a jog to the gym nearby and back, taking a shower and having a brief breakfast himself. And you were still yet to wake up. Seungcheol knows that unsupervised you can stay in bed till past lunchtime without a blink of an eye. He wasn’t going to let you, but just another hour wouldn’t hurt. You looked so worn out after all.

After a couple more minutes of aimless doom scrolling he finds a breakfast recipe that he thinks he can manage to cook and goes to the kitchen to check out the ingredients, improvising with replacing some of them with those he currently has on hand. Seungcheol meticulously follows the instructions, really doing his best not to mess this up.

As he cooks he can’t seem to get away from this nagging uncomfortable feeling in his chest. A hunch that he knows what’s wrong. You two have been married for the past three years, dating for three more, and he knows you too well not to suspect that you’re probably falling sick. That’s why he’s cooking you a chicken noodle soup even though he knows you hate soups for breakfast for whatever reason. You always say that soups aren’t breakfast food but lunch. Seungcheol always smiles and lets you be with your silly cute opinions on food.

It’s when Kkuma suddenly lets out a quiet woof and pitter-patters to the closed bedroom door to sniff underneath that he knows you’re awake and probably out of bed. He feels slightly dissatisfied that he didn’t time things better to be the one to wake you up with cuddles and kisses but oh well, he’s going to have to deal with it.

The door opens and you step out of the dark bedroom where you didn’t even care to open the night blinds on the window. You’re wrapped in a blanket as if it’s a burrito-cape. You squint in the sunlight that hits you right in the eye with a small groan like a true night creature that hasn’t seen the light of day for years even though it’s only been one night. Kkuma wags her tail happily when she sees you stepping outside and pants, her pink tongue out. You look down at her and chuckle before crouching to ruffle her fur and give her pats and compliments.

“Good morning, pretty,” Seungcheol calls out from the kitchen and you stand up feeling as your head spins slightly and vision darkens for a moment. You just stand in place before walking over, enticed by the smell of food. You feel weak but still hungry, you’re definitely falling sick. “Did you sleep well? I wanted to wake you up myself but you beat me to it,” your husband glances up at your adorable disheveled state as you walk into the kitchen, still sleepy and blinking lazily. He assesses your state and can’t help a tinge of worry from emerging at the sight of your slightly pale face and silence. “Baby, you should go lie down if you’re feeling unwell.”

You let out a short whine of response and wrap your arms around Seungcheol, clinging to him from behind. He’s so much warmer than you even though it’s you who’s wrapped in the blanket. The heat of his body seeps through his oversized t-shirt and you sigh, shivering slightly. Seungcheol feels you shiver and frowns in concern. “Baby,” he finally turns off the stove as the soup he was cooking is done. Seungcheol eases your hold on him just enough to turn in your arms and face you, his arms come snaking around your shoulders, pulling you even closer. He brushes your hair off your face, tucking the strands behind your ears before he presses his palm to your forehead, lips pursed in focus. “You need to take your temperature…” he murmurs, turning serious and then presses his lips to where his palm just rested on your forehead. Seungcheol hums to himself in some sort of confirmation that sounds like ‘I knew it’ and leans away just enough to look down at you. “Go lay down on the couch, baby, I’ll bring the thermometer and then you’ll eat chicken soup that I cooked for you.”

”I don’t eat soup for breakfast, Cheol,” you protest albeit weakly. You know that you’re falling sick and it’s really not the time to be arguing Seungcheol. The man is going to take a week off if he needs to just to take care of you because he knows how helpless and small any sickness makes you feel. “Don’t argue, princess, just go lie down,” he insists, turning you around and pushing gently to go take the couch. You oblige and he goes to retrieve the thermometer. When he returns, he’s holding it in his palms to warm up so you don’t need to feel the cold thing against your skin.

While you take the temperature, lying down, eyes closed, shivering and feeling like you could drift off to sleep any second, Seungcheol goes over to the kitchen to pour you some soup in a bowl. By the time he returns and sets the bowl on the wooden coffee table by the couch, you’re staring at the thermometer with an increasingly helpless expression. “37.6C,” you mumble quietly when your husband sits down beside you, moving the blanket and your legs over his lap. He tucks you in better and helps sit up. “How do you feel?” He asks, picking up the bowl of chicken noodle soup and a spoon.

You list off the symptoms that you‘ve been noticing but ignored all this week while Seungcheol didn’t have the time to notice either, both of you have been busy with work this week. The man already makes a mental list of all the meds and other things he’s going to make you do all week to nurture you back to health. “Silly girl, how many times do I have to tell you that you shouldn’t ignore the signs? Tell me. If you feel even a slightest bit unwell, baby. I know you hate everything to do with being sick, I’ll always take care of you,” he says and brings the spoonful of soup to your lips. You let him feed you, feeling like a child being gently scolded. “I know. But you were so busy this week, I didn’t want to add on top of that,” you mumble guiltily. Seungcheol has been getting less sleep and coming home later with all the end of the month finalisations at work. Besides, you try to do some stuff yourself like drinking more hot tea. You tell him that and feel even more embarrassed and guilty under his gaze. Your face heats up and you avoid his eyes only to hear him sigh defeatedly and continue feeding you.

“You think I wouldn’t have gladly excused myself from work for this week if you told me you were falling sick, baby?” He asks suddenly, voice warm and caring. A little amused. “You could’ve given me such a great excuse just to leave the office and not show up there for a week straight. I would’ve worked from home with you,” Seungcheol’s voice becomes a little whiny and complaining, he sighs and pouts. You blink at him, stopping mid-chew because you can’t comprehend how your husband can be so serious and caring but also so childishly having tiny grudges against you for not giving him an excuse to work from home.

“Now you have an excuse to stay at home and not work at all next week,” you counter, giving him a different advantage. “Now I have to work hard to make you healthy again,” Seungcheol protests with a louder whine. “It’s still work,” the man mumbles and feeds you another spoonful. “I don’t mind though. I love taking care of you, princess,” your husband adds in a cooing tone, his expression morphs into one of unconditional love and adoration. When you finish the soup bowl he stands up to go wash it. You just stay on the couch wrapped up in the blanket, Kkuma curled up somewhere at your feet. It’s peaceful and your heart feels more at ease knowing you won’t have to deal with this sickness alone. It’s been like this since childhood. Your mom always took care of you whenever you would fall sick for as long as you can remember. Feeling unwell even the slightest bit always makes you uneasy and anxious. It doesn’t help that you’re an overthinker. As soon as something is off it’s like your brain goes into this damsel in distress mode or rather ‘I’m a baby help me’ mode.

Seungcheol was perplexed when he first found out you’re absolutely unable to take it on your own. It was an accidental discovery over the phone when he called you to see if you’d be up for a date but in the middle of telling him that you have fallen sick you suddenly busted out with tears. So, being the provider and caregiver he is, it didn’t take him long to figure out how to use it to his advantage when you first started dating. The man saw it as a chance and dashed to take it. Caring for you and comforting you until you get well again and turn into this ‘I don’t need anyone’s help’ girl that most people know you as. In your defence, depending on Seungcheol has always been an easy and effortless experience.

You’re almost falling asleep when Seungcheol returns to the couch, removes the back pillows and climbs to lie down beside you, making you unwrap the blanket and let him in. You don’t protest. “Sleep it off, baby. We’ll see if it goes past 38C after you wake up and whether you need to take a pyretic,” he tells you, voice soft as he wraps his arms around you and tucks you into his chest, his lips pressing gentle kisses at the crown of your head. “You’ll be alright. I’ll take care of you, princess, don’t worry and just sleep.”

You sigh, his familiar scent engulfs you with his warmth as he cuddles you close on the couch, Kkuma still resting somewhere at your feet, content that her owners are at home and close by her side. “I love you, Cheol,” you murmur, sound muffled into his chest. You could try and tell him this a hundred times a day all year round and it wouldn’t be enough to express how much he means to you. Seungcheol smiles, his hand threading through your hair as he soothes you to sleep. He can feel his heart swell at the simple words. “I love you too, princess. Just rest and don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got you,” his lips press to the top of your head once again and he inhales your peach and orchid shampoo scent. He feels you relax into his arms as you drift off back to sleep. It’s going to be a long week but he will do everything to help you recover as comfortably as he can. “My sweet helpless baby,” he whispers a chuckle and sighs, listening to your even breaths.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!

Masterlist

[nikkento-writes]

You always love watching Nanami test out his new gadgets in the kitchen. He’s a different type of sorcerer when he’s in here. A dish towel draped over his shoulder, an apron tied securely around his waist, his brows relaxed, a soft smile on his face. His mission finished early tonight, so he finally has a chance to put his new pasta maker to use to prepare dinner for the two of you. As he carefully feeds his first sheet of freshly rolled dough through the cutter, his tongue sticking out ever-so-slightly in concentration, you can’t help but giggle at him as you watch from the kitchen sink, removing the gloves from your hands. His gaze meets yours briefly, his smile growing when he catches you. “What’s so funny?”

You turn to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Nothing. You’re just so focused.”

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he states, the pasta coming out in beautiful strands draped over his palm. 

You step closer to him, marveling at his work. “Looks perfect.”

“Well, we have to see how it tastes. I think I kneaded it too much,” he huffs, carefully twisting the noodles into a pile, setting it aside to make more. He’s always his own worst critic.

“Can I help with anything else?” you offer, looking around for something to do.

“Could you please add a bit more salt to the water? And please check that the sauce is at a low simmer.”

Understanding your duties, you turn to the stove. You open your salt cellar and pinch a generous amount to sprinkle into the already boiling water. Beside it, you inspect the homemade tomato sauce which he’s perfected, the scent of garlic strong, just the way the both of you like it. 

“Okay,” he announces, standing stiffly with two heaps of pasta in both his hands, as if carrying precious treasure. “We’re ready.”

You make room for him, not wanting to disturb the master at work. Finding something else to do, you leave him to sneak off to the balcony, where you quickly snip a few leaves of basil from your mini herb garden, expecting him to be looking for it shortly after he’s finished cooking. You take a short moment to admire it, remembering fondly the times the two of you spent out here together, making this place home. 

When you return to the kitchen, Nanami has already cooked the noodles and is now expertly swirling it in the pan with the sauce. The smell is incredible, and so is the sight of your husband with a pleased look on his face, satisfied with his creation. You retrieve two plates, placing them beside him on the counter. He serves a portion on each plate, then conjures a pair of long metal chopsticks to twirl it into a lovely shape. With the corner of a paper towel, he wipes any excess splatter around the edges. He searches frantically, until he sees you presenting him with the basil. He instantly relaxes, smiling at you. “Thank you, sweetheart.” This time, he uses a pair of cooking tweezers to meticulously place the garnish atop, completing his masterpiece.

He stands there proudly as you admire his work, already snapping too many pictures of it to show off to your peers. “It’s gorgeous, honey!” you rave at him, giving him the biggest grin. 

This time, he accepts the compliment, blushing slightly. “Thank you, my love,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Shall we?”

He takes the plates to the dinner table while you retrieve two wine glasses and a bottle of Chianti you’ve been saving for special occasions like this. You sit across from each other, give thanks for the meal, and dig in, Nanami waiting for you to take the first bite to see your reaction. The second it’s in your mouth, you can’t help but close your eyes and let out a soft moan, in utter bliss. It’s luscious and rich, the sauce coating your tongue in an explosion of flavor. How he manages to create such depth with just a few simple ingredients continues to blow your mind. You savor it, chewing slowly, appreciating the perfect tenderness of the noodles that he made all by hand. The love and care he put into it is evident in the texture, the taste, the presentation, every single little detail. 

You pamper him with compliments, which he unabashedly welcomes, sipping his wine between bites with a small grin on his face. And when you’ve just about licked your plate clean, you give him a big smile, holding your hand out to touch his. “Thank you for all the hard work you put into making this wonderful meal.”

He brushes his thumb over your knuckles, gazing at you. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

You scoff, knowing that’s untrue. “I didn’t do anything.”

Memories of Nanami’s life before you flash through his head. Half empty take-out containers in his refrigerator, a variety of instant ramen wrappers discarded in the trash can, the loneliness of eating alone on the kitchen counter. It was mundane, all of it just enough to sustain himself another day. It was never worth it to explore a new recipe, for him to buy groceries he would have to eventually throw out because it would go bad before he could use all of it. With you, however, he feels motivated. Inspired.

He smiles at you, leaning in closer, his hold on you tightening. “You’re the reason I enjoy doing this. You make it worth doing.”

[springgirlshowers]

could you do joost x gn reader, but it’s literally just them cuddling in bed during a thunderstorm??

Monsoon Season

Pairing: Joost x GN!Reader (no pronouns used)

CW: none!

WC: 726

AN: such a cutey cute lil concept!! fun fact: i wrote this as it was storming hard as hell outside lmao

Just as you were about to send Joost a text, asking how far away he was, you heard the front door open behind.

As you sat up from your spot on the couch, you were met with Joost standing with grocery bags in his hands, absolutely drenched from the rain.

It had started storming about ten minutes ago and Joost must’ve got caught in the middle of the rain on the way back from a recording session.

“I got the stuff you said we needed for dinner.” Joost gave you an amused smile as he held up the bag.

You immediately got up and went over to him, as much as you tried not to, you giggled at a bit at his soaked state.

���Thank you.” You smiled, giving him a small kiss, “Now, I’ll put these away, you go change.” You said as you took the bags from his hands, he just nodded and kicked off his shoes, walking down the hallway into your shared bedroom to change into drier clothes.

You put the groceries into the fridge and kitchen cabinets while waiting for Joost to get finished changing.

You were already done putting everything away by the time he returned, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a green hoodie, camouflage patterns on the hood. His hair had dried a bit more, now messier.

Joost walked up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Better?” You asked, putting your hands on top of his.

“Mhm, much.” He let out a happy breath. It felt so peaceful in the apartment, the hard rain from outside with the warm light from the lamp in the living room made the perfect cozy atmosphere.

Until a flash of lightning and loud rumble of thunder struck outside, scaring and making both of you jump of you a tiny bit.

“The weather app said it’s gonna be like this for the next few days.” You sighed, turning around in his grasp.

“I guess we’ll be stuck inside for the next few days then.” He moved his hands from your waist to the sides of your face, you nearly shuddered when felt how cold his palms were.

“You’re really cold. You’re sure you feel better?”

“I could use some warming up.” He shrugged, a knowing smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes playfully, letting him take your hands and drag you into the bedroom.

You got into bed first, shuffling under the sheets while Joost followed, laying on top of you.

“I’m so tired. Today was so exhausting.” He mumbled against your chest. Joost enjoyed making music, but this feeling wasn’t uncommon for him after being at the studio for hours on end.

“How’s the album going?” You hummed, pulling the blankets up over the both of you.

“Its frustrating. Nothing is turning out the way I want it to.” He let out an annoyed sigh at the thought of it. “I’m honestly just thinking about scrapping most of the songs because of it.”

“Oh come on, you’ll get them how you want them eventually.” You frowned. “You always do.” You added, hoping it would bring some relief.

“You really think so?”

“I know so.” You ran your hands through his hair, he let out a pleased breath and wrapped his arms a little bit tighter around you in response.

Even though you didn’t have a good look at his face, you could feel his smile against your skin.

The sound of the rain hitting the window and soft thunder in the distance with the warmth of your body against his and you raking your hands through his hair made him feel the most relaxed he’s been in weeks.

It didn’t take long after for his eyelids to become droopy, eventually shutting his eyes in complete bliss.

“I was thinking dinner tomorrow could be pasta. But you might have to go back into the rain again to get the noodles.” You joked, there was no response from Joost.

“Joost?” You said softly, no response again.

Craning your neck a bit to get a better look at his face, you could see he was absolutely knocked out.

His eyes shut, lips slightly parted, face completely relaxed. You smiled to yourself, deciding maybe you could let him sleep for a little bit before you got up.

[adore-laur]

DAD HARRY: PART ONE

— just harry being a doting dad & husband 🍓

——

Saturday nights haven't been this peaceful in a while. Harry and your daughter left home about an hour ago to attend a father-daughter dinner organized by a group of parents at the daycare, so you're left by your lonesome to enjoy a relaxing time without your child's newly developed and daily tantrums. She's two-and-a-half years old, meaning it's out with the newborn bliss and in with the "Terrible Twos" phase every mom has warned you about. 

She was always an easy baby; she never cried for too long or was fussy too often. There's no doubt that she's still the sweetest little thing, but some days, it can be a nightmare to deal with her. You're thankful for her otherwise reserved nature, but even then, a toddler will do anything to get what they want, and your daughter is no exception. 

Nonetheless, you and Harry handle it as a team. Both of you choose to deal with her sudden outbursts by using a calm and understanding approach. She listens most of the time. If she got one trait from her father, it's the ability to be an annoyingly good listener and hang on to every word you speak. With Harry, it's always complete eye contact, well-placed affirmations, and asking all the right questions. You suppose it's because of his job, but he claims he was just naturally born with it. 

Having been together for six years, you and Harry have lived a beautifully intimate life on the coast of southern California, consisting of no neighbors, a secluded beach, and your little family of three. Harry works as a sous chef at a restaurant on the outskirts of town. He used to be the head chef before your daughter came into the world, but the wearisome hours he worked then would have never worked out with being a new father. He still hasn't accepted his old title back, much to your secret dismay. When he decided to demote himself, he suffered from a salary decrease and disappointed comments from co-workers. He didn't care, though. He told you that if it meant he had more time to spend with you and the baby, he would selflessly accept the consequences. 

During your postpartum days, he promised never to have a shift that had him arriving home after five in the evening unless necessary. It was a promise to always be with you for dinner, to watch the sun dip down the horizon, and to fall asleep next to you. He sometimes comes home in a palpable mood of frustration after a hectic shift, but as soon as he walks through the door and sees his girls, it's like magic the way his visibly tense shoulders sag with relief. 

There are instances when both of you need an independent getaway, but most of the time, it's the three of you together in your domestic bubble of love. You've never known a man quite like Harry. Nothing compares to his heart or drive to be the best possible husband, dad, and son. Also, you appreciate how he's so attentive and gentle with every part of your lives and how he'd go against that gentleness if needed to fight tooth and nail for his family. You've built a life worth living with him. He's yours entirely. 

And yes, his daughter has stolen some of that love, but each night before you fall asleep, it's like he can transfer every ounce of love in his precious heart to you with a simple touch. Or a single glance topped off with the softest kiss. 

As you sit alone by the blazing fire, you realize that nights spent by yourself no longer appeal to you. You want your family next to you all the time. You want your daughter to ask a million questions, mostly incomprehensible blabbering, but it melts your heart anyway. You want to watch Harry cook dinner, always putting on his actual chef coat and reading a recipe in a terrible French accent, just to make your daughter laugh. You want to watch him put a spaghetti noodle below his nose to act as a mustache, or watch him keep your daughter on his hip while letting her add an ingredient to a dish. Then, when she does, he looks at her with faux surprise and tells her she's better at his job than he is. 

Yet when your chef husband isn't home to make delicious food, you're stuck making frozen pizza. You considered having a glass of wine with it but decided not to because waking up on a Sunday morning with a pounding headache and a cranky toddler at the breakfast table is not something you want to deal with. 

With a reminiscent glint in your eyes, you finish the last slice and think about what they could be doing now. It's a little after seven, so you assume they're done eating dinner and socializing with the other dads and kids. Harry had said the restaurant was connected to a botanical garden, so they might be walking through it. Your daughter is probably exhausted. She woke up at five this morning and has been hyper all day, asking if she could go to dinner now, even if it wasn't lunchtime. 

You decide to text him and ask if he could take some pictures in the garden. Your and Harry's camera roles are filled with images of your daughter. 

I hope you guys are having fun! Please take some pictures of you both at the botanical garden. Miss and love you. Get home safe. 

You shut your phone off and stare at the moonlit water, waiting for your favorite people to come home. 

—— 

Harry is waiting for the check when he gets your text message. His phone screen lights up, displaying his lock screen, which is a photo of him and his baby girl on a hotel bed in Italy. They're both wearing fluffy white robes and are passed out from a long day of swimming under the sun and eating a boatload of food. 

That family vacation was six months ago. It was her second birthday, so he wanted to go somewhere special. Let's just say that being a chef at a nice restaurant has its perks. He had saved a lot of money after he started working more hours. Then, one day, he secretly bought three plane tickets to the Amalfi Coast.

Harry wants to go back more than anything. He has never felt more content and full of love (and carbs) anywhere else except for Italy. He swears he gained ten pounds from that trip alone, and he blames it on his daughter, who begged for raspberry gelato and ciabatta bread every chance she got. He had wanted to go back to the gym to lose weight, but you changed his mind when you told him on the last day in Italy that you found his new body attractive. You had also whispered in his ear that his thighs were thickening, and it was making you hot in the face. 

So, naturally, he took you into the shower, had you ride his thigh, and then made you come twice in twenty minutes. 

But that's beside the point. 

Harry reads your text, smiles, and then types out a response. Of course, love. We'll be home soon. We're full of spaghetti and love you very much. 

It's getting late, so he settles on taking the little rascal for a stroll through the gardens before she zonks out. He untucks his black shirt from his trousers, leans back against the chair, and rubs his hands over his stomach. It was a spaghetti dinner with seemingly endless garlic bread, so they are both now feeling the after-effects. 

Harry lets out a dramatic sigh that catches his daughter's attention. "Are you full?"

She mimics his position while nodding with a pout on her face. He laughs and starts folding his sunglasses in his shirt pocket, which he wore before it started getting dark out. He pushes their dirty dishes toward the middle of the table to make things easier for the busser. He then leaves a fifty-dollar bill as a tip. 

Reclaiming his credit card from the checkbook and putting it between his teeth, he grabs the coloring sheet the restaurant supplied and tucks it under his arm. He knows she'll want it on the fridge. 

He returns his credit card to his wallet and asks, "Ready to see the pretty flowers before we leave?" She hums a yes, and he can't help but reach across the table to pinch her cheek fondly before standing. "Let's go, sleepy girl." 

She lifts her arms in a request to be carried, and Harry picks her up with a groan. He's only thirty, so he really shouldn't be struggling to carry his daughter, who weighs the same as a sack of potatoes. He supposes that working in a kitchen and hunching over counters all day for the past decade might have something to do with it.

He hikes her up on his hip while she snakes her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder. She'll be asleep in a matter of minutes. 

After he pushes their chairs in, he waves goodbye to the other daycare fathers before making a beeline for the commercial kitchen to bid adieu to the staff. He's friendly with some of them since he's a local chef himself, and he always tries to show his appreciation to chefs. He knows firsthand the hard work and stress of successfully running a restaurant behind the scenes.

Harry pushes the door open using his elbow and quickly catches the gaze of the head chef, whom he has talked to a few times at past culinary conventions and events. He takes his free hand and covers his daughter's exposed ear since it's noisy in the kitchen, with metal clanging and orders being shouted.

"Hi," he says, smiling politely at the head chef. "We're heading home, so I just wanted to give my thanks. The food and service were excellent." 

"Harry, it was good seeing you!" he replies cheerfully, reaching under a stainless steel countertop. "Stop by again soon. We love having your family here." 

"Will do, man. I'll bring my missus next time." 

Harry plans date nights every other week, usually finding restaurants he's never visited in the SoCal region. You've told him he gets endearingly talkative when explaining certain establishments' different cuisines and recipes. The restaurant he's at tonight has always been a favorite because he's taken you there a handful of times when the both of you were still in the early stages of dating. He even worked there as an assistant chef for two years. 

On the third date he took you on, if he remembers correctly, he may or may not have convinced his boss at the time to let him take you back to the kitchen so he could show you how to make chocolate-covered strawberries. You'd told him you had made them before, and he blushed while mentally facepalming himself; he thought he was being clever. That didn't stop him, though, because he ended up pulling something out of thin air. Turn up his charm, so to speak, by saying that his version of the classic recipe was extra special. 

Well, he had lied. 

They were just regular chocolate-covered strawberries, but he pushed up his sleeves (metaphorically and literally) and used fancy chef jargon to try to impress you. It worked—at least he thought so. Later, you admitted that you were actually just ogling his biceps every time he dipped the fruit into the melted chocolate. 

Once the strawberries were finished, Harry wrapped them up nicely and drove you home from the date. He fed you one before you got out of his beat-up Subaru, the only thing he could afford as a broke assistant chef. He will never forget you walking to your front door, half the strawberry still in hand, and then seeing you suddenly turn around to return to his window to feed him the last half. He had taken it in his mouth, chewing after taking a strangely erotic bite. He smirked at you and glanced down at your lips, which were stained a glistening red from the tart juices. 

"You're something else," he'd said sincerely, his voice raspy from work. 

"And you just scored another date with me."

From that moment on, he was gone for you. 

After shaking hands with the other chefs, Harry leaves the restaurant and walks to his Bentley. He rationally decides to skip out on the botanical garden tonight because he wants her to be fully awake to see the blossoming flowers. 

He unlocks the back door and gently straps her in, tucking her favorite blankie under her chin as she sleepily blinks at him. His heart melts into a puddle. "Let's go home to Mama, okay?" he murmurs, brushing her wispy hair back with a delicate sweep of his fingers. "I had such a fun time with you tonight." 

She yawns as ferociously as a toddler physically can, then lunges her arms forward for a hug. Harry hugs her the best he can with her in the car seat. He inhales her apple-scented shampoo while pressing kisses to the side of her head and then pulls away, poking her button nose with his thumb. 

"I love you this big," he says, spreading his arms as wide as possible. 

She giggles and copies his gesture. "Love big too," she replies brokenly with her sweet voice. 

Harry puckers his lips and kisses the air before sliding into the driver's seat. He takes out his phone to send you a quick update: She's in a spaghetti coma, so we're coming home now. We can go to the garden as a family next weekend. 

Pressing send, he smoothly pulls out of the parking lot and drives along the coastal highway with slightly cracked windows. He listens to his daughter's soft snores and thinks of you the entire way home with a dreamy smile.

—— 

You're still sitting by the fire, its flames dying with flickering embers, when you hear the garage door grinding open. You grin, immediately feeling warmer now that they're back home.

You had briefly gone inside to get a juice pouch for your daughter, just in case she came back awake. You also spontaneously decided to make chocolate-covered strawberries since you felt sentimental while reminiscing about the honeymoon phase of your relationship with Harry. 

The sound of footsteps sifting through the sand makes you turn your head. You find your husband with a sleeping angel clung to his side, his shirt untucked, and no shoes or socks on; he probably didn't want sand in his loafers. The shadow of scruff on his face is more noticeable, and the orange light from the campfire dances off his features. He looks at you, a soft smile gracing his lips as he carefully treads through the beach grass to reach you.

"I've got a delivery," he whispers, sitting next to you on the blanket you spread out. "She's unconscious and full of spaghetti, so I don't think she'll be useful to you." 

You laugh quietly and stare at your baby, who is sleeping peacefully. Your knuckles stroke her round cheeks as you ask, "How was it?"

"Good. I ate my weight in pasta and bread, but it was worth it. We had fun." 

You sling your arm around his waist and pat his stomach. "I'm glad you guys spent some time together." 

He hums thoughtfully, unbuttoning his trousers to release the strain. "I need to start watching what I eat and cut down on the carbs. Otherwise, I'll look like Santa in five years." 

He says it like he's joking, but you know he's been insecure about his weight since you were pregnant. He naturally put on sympathy weight during the nine months you carried the baby, and then afterward, it simply reached a point where he never had time to work out, whether being too busy working or spending his free time with you and the baby. He ate healthily, but some nights, he caved and ate carbs like there was no tomorrow. Plus, he's a chef, so you can't necessarily blame him for enjoying food.

When you met him seven years ago, he was twenty-four and had skinny legs and a slim torso. But if one thing hasn't changed about his body, it's his strong arms. They've held you through several situations — hugging you whenever you needed a companion, feeling the natural warmth radiating from him. Or holding your baby girl for the first time, his black tattoos beautifully contrasting the precious pink blanket that swaddled her. He could easily cradle her in one arm, fitting perfectly in the crook of his elbow like she belonged there. She still does. 

Or, arguably, your favorite, which is when he holds your body up, your back pressed against his chest, as he fucks you like no one else can. His bicep across your collarbones, his hand gripping your shoulder like he's physically claiming you, and his other hand gripping your hip, your inner thigh, your stomach...

You're getting carried away. 

The point is that his body is lovely. He still has abs from being generally fit and strong thighs that can chase after your daughter during playtime. His back muscles are masterfully sculpted from the physical exertion that goes into being a chef. His flawless face, too, but that goes without saying.

"I love your body," you say, wanting him to feel good about himself. "No matter the changes it's gone through, I adore all of your soft parts." 

He looks at you, trying to hold back a smirk. Of course, his mind immediately went to a dirty place. 

"I'm being serious. You're allowed to have insecurities. Remember when you felt bad eating all those carbs in Italy? What did I tell you?" 

Harry gazes at the ocean tide. "I was thinking about that at dinner tonight. When I saw my lock screen, I thought about that trip." He sighs and adds, "I don't know why I'm insecure when you're the only one I try to impress." 

You stare at him with nothing but adoration swimming in your eyes. "Are you feeling these insecurities because of the dinner? With all the dads there?"

He leans forward and kisses your forehead. "Why are you so fuckin' smart? I swear you're too good for me," he says with a breathtaking smile.

"I just want you to talk through these things," you explain, touching his neck. "I know how miserable it can be to keep those thoughts bottled up until the bottle breaks." 

Your thumb strokes along his jaw as you continue, "You're thirty-one. It's never too late to realize those insecurities and either come to peace with them or work on them. You know I'll always help you with whatever you decide." 

Harry exhales through his nose and settles his forehead on your shoulder. "Never stop talking to me," he says sincerely, kissing your skin tenderly.

You pinch his chin with your thumb and pointer finger. He moves his head to gently nip the pad of your thumb before kissing it. "I love you." 

"I know it," he whispers. "I just compare myself to rich, douchebag dads that own literal corporations and would probably ask me to be their personal chef in their ridiculous mansions if they knew what I did for a living." 

You offer him a sympathetic smile. He shouldn't look down on his career. It pays well, but it's nothing compared to the So-Cal dads who own Lamborghinis and have a million different job titles. 

"Harry, don't make me use my mom voice," "you say in a scolding tone. 

He grins delightedly. "I don't mind." 

"I've been with you for seven years. I was your girlfriend, married you, and pushed out a baby because I wanted a family with you. Your job doesn't matter to me in the way you're thinking. I love that you're a chef. When you first told me, I told my friends how hot I thought it was. I still find it hot." 

He's full-on blushing now. You continue, "You come home and are in such a good mood most days. Do you know why? Because you love what you do. You love the people, the food you make, and the environment, which matters most. Not money or how many cars you own. Without hesitation, you made the difficult decision to step down from being in charge so we could start a family together. You have no idea how much that meant to me. Now you have a daughter who watches you cook her favorite meals and loves you insanely. That's what you should be proud of. And that's what all those other dads should be jealous of." 

Harry's gaze flicks between your eyes before he kisses you with so much passion that you feel dizzy. You kiss him back, and he inhales like he's breathing you in. Your daughter is still asleep, so you pull away before it escalates. 

He finishes with a big kiss on your cheek, then rests his cheek against yours. "I love you so much," he whispers into your ear for only you to hear. "I'm pretty sure you just gave me a love boner." 

You laugh, feeling his dimple form against your cheek. He leans back to look at you and shakes his head. "No joke," he says, infectious laughter crawling up his throat. "You just made me hard by telling me how much you love me." 

You roll your eyes playfully before standing and stretching your back. "Yeah, yeah. Let's get her to bed." 

Harry stands and hikes up your daughter a little. With a frown, he glances down at his pants when he realizes they're still unbuttoned. He obviously can't button them with one arm preoccupied with sleeping beauty, so you help him. You lift his shirt an inch to kiss his soft stomach first, then rest your chin on it and look up at him with a smile. After admiring his handsome face for a moment, you button his pants.

Your daughter is carefully passed from his arms to yours for a brief cuddle session before she has to be tucked into bed. Harry throws an arm around your shoulders and guides you inside the house. His steps falter when he retrieves a coloring sheet and gives it to you. It's a simple one that restaurants provide, and this particular one has a scene of two bunnies frolicking in the grass. It is what it is for a toddler with no concept of artistry, and you smile proudly when you take it from him. You'll hang it on the fridge with her other scribbled creations. 

Harry opens the porch door and lets you inside first before locking it. He turns on the lamp in the living room. Then, as if reading your mind, he grabs tape from the junk drawer and attaches the drawing to the fridge. While he tidies the kitchen, you head in the opposite direction toward her bedroom.

After a few minutes, you see Harry in your peripheral vision and pat the floor in invitation. He kneels beside you, his knees cracking. He dramatically lets out a fake cry of pain, and you silently laugh while flicking his chest. He opens his mouth in offense, acting as if you just insulted him, to which you just shake your head and gesture zipping his mouth shut. He slyly smacks your ass, and you give him a warning glare before standing and kissing your daughter goodnight. 

Before you leave the room, you get revenge by tickling Harry's sides from behind and then quickly running out of the room. You know how much he hates being tickled, but you were feeling the mutual playfulness that always trickles around bedtime. You reach the bedroom, hearing his heavy footsteps down the hallway. He pokes his head past the doorway to the master bedroom. You look at him with wide eyes and sit at the edge of the bed, waiting for his next move. 

Harry saunters through the doorway while looking around and nonchalantly whistling a tune with his arms behind his back. He walks to the connected master bathroom, your eyes trained on him the entire time. He turns around to close the sliding door just enough so that you still have a partial view of him.

"What?" he asks innocently, catching your eyes in the bathroom mirror. He's messing with you. And making you sweat.

"What are you doing?" you retort, crossing your legs partly to act unaffected and to ease the ache between your legs. 

He casually leans against the jamb. "Let's see... someone left me with quite a problem, so I thought I'd take care of it before bedtime like the gentleman I am," he says smugly, maintaining a stellar poker face. 

"What do you suppose I do while I wait?" you reply, confident enough to play his game. 

He deeply hums while standing straight and removing his trousers. With his thighs on display, you admire the tattoos there—a tiger on one and your name on the other. "I suppose you could get some sleep. Perhaps read. Whatever you'd like, darling, I'm not picky." He now stands in black boxers and a loose T-shirt. So cocky. 

"And what will you be doing if I decide to sleep or read?" you challenge, sliding up on the bed to lean against the headboard. 

Harry lets a smirk take over his face as he says, "What would you like me to do, honey?" 

"I'd like you to not be in there alone." 

"Will you be a good girl while I take care of the little problem you gave me?" 

"Of course, baby. You know I always am." 

One side of his mouth tugs up as he slowly nods, seemingly agreeing with you. "Always so good," he whispers, just loud enough to hear. He inhales deeply before turning around frustratingly slowly, finally pulling his shirt and boxers off. He's tan from the daily sunshine, and his back muscles flex with each subtle movement. Your mouth quickly goes dry. 

He disappears to turn the shower on but leaves the door open, which you know is an invitation. You had already changed into your silk pajama shorts and a tank top while he was in the kitchen, so you shut your bedroom door before entering the bathroom. 

Oh. 

The sight has your breath hitching. Harry's silhouette is behind the steamed, see-through shower door. One hand on the wall, the other... well, he didn't even wait for you. He has already started. You hear his quiet groans being stifled by his mouth buried in his arm, causing hot and bothered tingles to prickle your skin. 

You don't think he sees you yet, so you take your pajamas off and quietly close the bathroom door. For some reason, you suddenly remember you have chocolate-covered strawberries in the fridge. You leave him to his fun and quickly grab a towel to wrap around you before walking to the kitchen. You open the refrigerator, grab two strawberries, and then shuffle back into the bathroom. As you drop the towel, you realize he's still going. You didn't think you got him worked up that much just by talking about how good of a person he is. Each to their own. 

After hastily eating one of the strawberries, you gently knock on the glass. Harry stops abruptly and rests his face on his arm. He slightly cracks open the door to see and hear you. It takes everything in you to not look down. 

"Hi," you say quietly. "I'm here." 

He's breathing heavily, water dripping down his slick body. Wet strands of hair fall over his forehead as his eyes bore into yours. "You are, aren't you?"

You subtly glance down at the problem you gave him; it's throbbing and needs assistance. You're sure he will disapprove of you interrupting his session with a dessert offering. 

With your eyes focused on the floor, you absentmindedly draw a heart in the steam evaporating on the glass shower door and say, "I made dessert when you guys were gone." When spoken out loud, your sentimental baking idea seems stupid. "I almost forgot about them and then remembered they were in the fridge, so I brought you one. I was reminiscing about when we started dating and thought about the strawberries. Anyway..."

You're rambling too much. He was pleasing himself, and here you come, waltzing in with dessert while stumbling over words like you just met him. You need to get it together. 

Harry is still looking at you with his chest heaving, his left arm taut, and his large hand pressed against the shower wall, while his other hand still grips his cock. His piercing eyes have become darker, and they peer down at your hand holding the strawberry. The chocolate at the tip is gradually melting. His eyes travel even further down to your bare legs, then to the heart you drew. His lips twitch. 

When his gaze meets yours again, his tongue presses into his cheek before he straightens his posture. He steps toward the crack in the door and leans slanted against the shower wall, his naked body shamelessly in full view. 

You wait for him to interact with the Strawberry of Nostalgia, but he just looks at you smugly. Jutting your hand further, you indicate that he should take it again. It feels like he's secretly judging you. He's barely said anything, and now he's gazing at you like he wants to eat you for dessert. 

"The chocolate might melt off since it's pretty steamy in here," you mention with a nervous and breathy giggle. 

Harry regards the strawberry again before moving his head toward you. "Yeah?" he says with a wicked smirk. 

"Yeah," you reply, refusing to look into his eyes. "They haven't been in the fridge for very long." 

He laughs huskily, then clears his throat. "Well, I'm waiting right here, darling. I'm not a huge fan of melted and mushy chocolate-covered strawberries." 

So, he wants you to feed it to him. Like you did all those years ago when you first realized you were so gone for him. Good lord.

The steam in the bathroom is not helping your feverish body temperature. You take a few deep breaths before touching Harry's swollen lips, which you assume he's been biting on to suppress his noises. He maintains intense eye contact with you as he slightly opens his mouth. You guide the strawberry into it, and he bares his teeth while sensually biting the fleshy fruit. 

Once half of it is in his mouth, he tilts his head and chews slowly. He groans, his eyes rolling back. "So fuckin' good." 

You eat the other half to move the tension along, then throw the leafy stem on the ground. On trembling legs, you step away and admire the water droplets on Harry's lips that turn pink from the juices. 

His thumb and pointer finger wipe the creases near his mouth. He then reaches through the door's crack and brushes his slick thumb across yours before sucking on it. In desperate need of relief, you clench your thighs and shakily exhale. 

"I'll be good," you plead, utilizing your angelic eyes to get him to give in. "I won't touch you, but please let me watch." 

Harry tuts. "Are you sure you'll just watch? Or are you going to be a brat like you were with that little stunt you pulled earlier?" 

It's no surprise he's still hung up on the tickling. His ego can't take what he dishes out. God forbid he teases you because you know his precious pride will be crushed as soon as you do it back.

You bite your tongue and promise yourself to be good for him. "I'm sorry for doing that. I didn't mean to be a brat. I swear I'll behave this time." 

He beckons you by curling his fingers inward. "Come here, then."

You slide open the door further until you can squeeze through, then shut it tightly before standing across from him. The shower is spacious with a built-in bench--both of you have done your fair share of indecent activities on it. 

"Hey," Harry says lowly. "Be my good girl and sit. No talking or touching, okay? Watch me until I finish."

Nodding, you obediently sit on the bench and cross your legs to relieve the subtle pressure growing between them. You glance at Harry with innocent eyes that you know will weaken him. He gives in for a split second when he leans down and places his hands on either side of your thighs, nudging his nose against your cheek before kissing it roughly. You try not to smile at his momentary infirmity. 

"Stay put, or I'll walk out of here and go straight to bed," he warns, resuming the position you walked in on, except this time he's right in front of you. His palm on the shower wall is closest to you, with his other hand gripping his cock. 

This is going to be torture.

——

[art-outlaw]

Private Number # Chapter Twenty Two

Daniel Ricciardo x Aero Engineer!Reader

Summary: You didn’t like him. That much was clear to both of you. He was cocky and arrogant and totally oblivious to all of the work you and your team did for him. No one else saw him for the egomaniac he was - only you. You were forced to work for him but that didn’t mean you had to fall under the spell he had trapped everyone else under. And you made sure that he knew that.

Chapters: 22/?

Warnings/ Rating: Swearing. Degradation of main character.

Word Count: 3574

Posted: 25 Mar 2025

It wasn’t a chore to domestically exist with Daniel Ricciardo. 

He was housetrained: he cooked, he tidied up after himself, and made sure that you were never left wanting for anything. Anything. And you weren’t speaking of materialistic things. 

You were pretty sure that in the last twenty four hours alone, the two of you had practically christened every surface in the house so much that if a crime scene team ever came in here with a UV touch, they’d be skittering away from your place faster than they could ask ‘what the fuck?’.

And it was… blissful. 

God, how had you been so oblivious for this long to realise that he was so much more to you than the driver of your car and an incessant pain in your ass?

But your pain in the ass was now standing – shirtless, good lord that man had a body – in the kitchen, loudly humming away to the country song he had overrun your speaker system with as he cooked you dinner. And you were just fondly watching him, waxing teeth-achingly sweet poetry about him in your head. How had you never realised how empty your house felt until his presence filled it totally?

His car keys on the bench, his shoes by the door, and his jacket thrown so carelessly over a kitchen stool, breaking up the clean perfection that was your previously dull life. Those little things that you hadn’t experienced from anyone in such a long time. Had you ever actually experienced it? Your dating life had been extremely limited before him – dedication to your work had put a pin in that particular balloon of your life for the longest time. But now you had him, someone that would so openly understand the world you lived, because he lived it too.

“So,” You started, as one song faded out to the next. “Are you just planning on being here to cook for me every night? Because I’m already getting used to the idea of not living on cup noodles or eggs on toast anymore.”

Daniel chuckled, still facing the stove. “If this is your way of asking me to move in, its a piss-poor excuse for it.”

Warmth flushed your face. You hadn’t even considered how that would’ve sounded to him – you’d only been together officially for 24 hours, moving in was out of the question… right?. You stumbled and stuttered a response, watching with growing relief as his laughter shook his shoulders. “Asshole.” You muttered under your breath.

Daniel only laughed harder. “As long as you want me here, cooking your dinner and serenading you, I’ll be here, honey.”

God, you just melted when he called you honey. 

“So,” he continued. “You didn’t get the chance to tell me how today with Christian and Bianca went today–”

“Bianca! Shit! That was her name!” You exclaim, smacking your forehead. Fuck, how could you not remember that? Daniel only quirked an eyebrow. “Um, yeah, the meeting went…well, I guess? Not for them, but definitely good for me. Pretty much told them to shove it, keep their nose out of my family business and focus on the work I do as lead aero-engineer. So a successful meeting in my books.” 

You finish with a shrug.

“Told ya,, the ‘fuck ‘em all’ approach: works like a charm every time.” He glanced over his shoulder to flick you a shit-eating grin. He flicked his head to the side, “Also, hope you don’t mind, I cracked a red for the recipe and figured you might want a glass or two depending on how your day went.”

Without saying anything beyond “A man after my own heart,” You strolled over to pour both of you a glass. Before you could chicken out, you continued, “You know, if you don’t have your own place near the factory you are more than welcome to stay here. With me, obviously. But if you do have your own place that’s obviously totally fine too, I’m not trying to pressure you to–”

He cut you off with a smacking kiss to your temple, and cooling the burning heat that had very quickly been flushing across your cheeks. “Saves me from booking an Airbnb every time I have to do sim work… Plus, you’re right, I’d be with you, obviously. ” 

He finished with a smirk, clearly drawing some level of amusement from your bumbling words. You almost flushed again from his quirked mouth, a flash of a memory coming to mind of exactly what he had done with that very same mouth the night before (and that morning, and again in the shower you had shared).

“Good.” You managed to choke out, taking a large swig from your wine to hopefully cover how you croaked out your response. Daniel only let out a chuckle, and turned back to the stove.

“You know,” He said casually, stirring the pot of the chicken cacciatore – oh lord, you needed to marry this man – bubbling away. “I had a very interesting run in with Penny from HR this afternoon.”

You felt your shoulders tense ever so slightly. You and Daniel hadn’t specifically said when you were going to announce your relationship to the people it needed to be, but you had a feeling you knew where this was going. 

“She said that she had a particularly stimulating conversation with Christian when he came to see her. He mentioned needing to pull out a policy that he’d need me to sign. Something about intra-working relationships, specifically for senior members of staff, that sort of thing. Do you know anything about that? He said that it was apparently already ‘pretty serious’ and would need to be done quickly.” Even with him turned away, you could feel the smug grin on his face.

Immediately, you groaned. Daniel’s barking laughter covered the sound of Zac Bryan’s crooning for a moment, and you felt like crawling under the dining table in embarrassment. “I might know something about that?”

Daniel hummed non committedly. “Apparently it was a real shit day for Christian. Lost his PR marketing strategy in you, and then the most marketable, ruggedly handsome, single driver on the grid. Bad morning to be Christian Horner, huh?”

Finally Daniel turned back to you, and confirmed the grin you had suspected was there. He kept talking, his smile widening with every word. “So I would say that your meeting was productive in more ways than one today, huh?”

You sucked in both your lips to hide the smile creeping over your own face. Making sure that the team principal’s day had been a shit show in more ways than one was most definitely a highlight of your career. Daniel’s eyes met yours, and you both cracked into rib-splitting laughter. “Oh, man, I would’ve given anything to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.”

You laughed again. “His face was the most remarkable shade of red. It was like a ripened tomato! I’ve got a feeling that Geri will make sure that man is on heart medication with how high I think his blood pressure hit.”

Both of you burst into cackles again, and the warmth of your homecoming hit you all over again. It had been so long since you had come to your place and felt at home. Whether it was the place itself, or the man standing before you giving you a plate of chicken cacciatore and a kiss, you weren’t sure.

But you had a feeling it wasn’t the house.

######################################

You should’ve known better than to expect the blissful reality you were living to last. It was always like this in your life; things were going well and then the universe decided to send you a ‘fuck you, sit down’ type event to make sure you never forgot where you stood in your own life.

The day had started perfectly: you had woken up to the sight of the man you adored with his head planted firmly between your thighs and your breaths coming out in a gasp, then he’d cooked you breakfast. Then you’d shared a shower, with you firmly pressed up against the glass door and Daniel behind you, taking you so hard  that you were sure your neighbours a block over could’ve heard the cacophony you were making.

And then you’d done something neither of you had done before: you drove to work together. He finally had the chance to drive your old school Aston Martin DB4 that he had no-so-secretly coveted all those months ago. You had laughed at him wildly as he sat in the driver’s seat and stroked the wheel with pure reverence in his eyes.

And when he had finally pulled out onto the road and turned to meet your eyes, you could see more than just adoration for the car in his eyes. Even more so when his hand slipped across the middle console to grip your thigh. You rolled your eyes at the cliche, but shimmied over closer to him anyways. You were such a sucker for the man.

When you had finally pulled into the Red Bull Milton Keynes headquarters parking lot, he’d gotten out of the car, shot you a glare as you made to open your own door, to come over and very gentlemanly help you out. Again, you had rolled your eyes at him with your lovestruck grin hidden between your teeth, and made some sarcastic commentary about women’s suffrage that had him laughing too.

Hand in hand, you entered the foyer of the main building, and ducked your head as people turned to stare open-mouthed and wide-eyed as you made your way to the elevators. And when you had successfully made it across the gauntlet of impolite stares, Daniel swept you into his arms and pressed a long, smacking kiss to your forehead before walking away, leaving you a blushing mess.

“I’ll see you for lunch!” He shouted over his shoulder. Mouths still agape, it was almost comical watching people’s heads turn between you still flushing by the elevators, and Daniel swaggering away. 

You spun back to the elevators, frantically punching the button repeatedly in the hopes the elevator would hear your mental pleading for it to get here faster. 

And that’s where the blissful bubble of fantasy you were living in ended.

A small, feminine throat clearing sounded behind you. You shut your eyes, and prayed for any deity to answer your prayers that it wasn’t who you thought it would be. With a politely bland smile on your face, you turned to face Bianca from marketing or PR or whatever soul sucking part of the business she worked in. 

“Good morning, Bianca.” 

All you received in response was a hum of acknowledgement. And then in the most simperingly annoying tone possible, Bianca asked, “Have you spoken with Christian this morning? I believe he has some things to discuss with you. There were a few things we didn’t get to touch on before your departure, but I figured I’d see if he had managed to catch you up on them since then.”

“No,” Your teeth were gritted behind the aching muscles of your forced smile. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning, when I made my opinion of your next PR stunt pretty clear.”

Bianca let out a smug sounding hum, but there was nothing but cold malice flashing behind her eyes. “Yes, you made your position quite clear. Good thing that your contract had a few workarounds for us to… you know, work around. Anyways, enjoy your day!”

And before the sinking feeling in your stomach had fully landed, Bianca had already spun on her stupidly high heel and trotted away on the echoing linoleum foyer floor. Buzzing filled your ears, and you got onto the elevator on auto-pilot. 

They couldn’t have.

Surely they wouldn’t have.

They would have.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to your floor, where you watched like an outsider looking in, as your entire team turned to face you. Expressions ranging from awe to distrust shone out to you. But there was no mistaking the shock underlying each one of them. The entire floor of employees went silent.

Tentatively, you stepped out onto the aero-engineering floor and moved towards your office, hand scrabbling through your handbag for your phone as an excuse to keep from seeing all their staring eyes. Finally, as the glass door to your office swung shut behind you, you pulled out your phone. Hands shaking, you searched up the Red Bull social media pages, where you could see the same video had been posted across every platform.

Your face, the poster image of the bombshell news that had just rocked the motorsporting world. Every single aspect of your life that you had worked so hard to keep under wraps, now aired for anyone and everyone to see. 

The video was only just over a minute long, but watching felt like hours had passed by. They hadn’t gotten a direct interview with you, but the snippets of press work you had to do over the years were cropped in between shots of you working on the car or in the team. You working inside your office. You on the pit wall, pointing at data points and graphs with the team engineers looking over your shoulder. You laughing with drivers and pit crew.

All so complimentary to the work you had done - the invaluable part you had played in their success in building the team up to the formidable and almost unbeatable monster they had become this season.

All of that would’ve been fine, right up until the video flicked over to none other than Mr Christian Fucking Horner himself. Where he, in the backdrop of his stupidly glossy office, announced what an honour it had been to be a part of the continuation of your father’s legacy through you. That whilst you had hidden away from the public eye, racing blood was in your veins. Buzzing nothingness filled your ears, and Horner’s voice faded out as the rush of blood through your body took over every other sense. 

Without another thought, you clicked on the comments and began wading through the sea of shit that was people’s commentary on your life and your lies.

“Wow talk about nepotism as a disease. Can’t find a job anywhere in F1 where its not about what you know but who you know”

“Fuuuuuck no way!! Always wondered about that. Thought she must’ve died with them and the press just didn’t report it.”

“Raw and not even for the money. Next Question”

“Damn if I were here I wouldn’t even bother working, she must be fucking loaded with Shelby’s money”

“Yea, I’d tap that”

On and on, people’s comments flooded your screen. Commentary about your work was minimal - it hadn’t mattered all that had been said about your work. You had been reduced, with one ninety second clip, to the daughter of an F1 legend and nothing more. No matter that you nearly single-handedly developed technology that pushed the car’s aero-specs into the next stratosphere of technological advancements. It was suddenly no matter that you had been working behind the scenes, without a single mention of your father’s last name or his money or world championships. 

You had been reduced to nothing more than the product of someone else’s efforts.

Your screen went blurry, the tears that had been steadily filling your eyes spilling over. You sat down on your chair with a heavy thud, spinning it till it faced away from the rest of your team on the other side of your glass door. You wouldn’t be able to handle the looks of absolute betrayal that was surely on all of their faces. 

Even with the heavy panelled glass separating you from them, murmurings made their way through to you, even if the words themselves couldn’t be made out. 

The video played through for the fourth time. It was like a trainwreck you couldn’t look away from. 

And then the phone started vibrating. The words flashed across the top of your screen- incoming call from: Daniel The One and Only Sex God

Even with everything going on, you barked out a wet laugh. Clearly Daniel, between last night and this morning had taken your phone and changed his contact name. You weren’t sure what you had him down as anymore; had you ever actually saved his number? Or was it still the private number that had put all of these last few months into motion?

Dragging your finger across the screen, you picked up the call. Daniel’s heavy panting immediately came down the phone line. “Did you change your name on my phone?”

You don’t know why it’s the first thing out of your mouth with everything going on, but it is. He pants out a laugh, clearly as taken aback by the left-field questions as you are. A vague part of your brain wonders why he’s so out of breath. “We can come back to that, baby, I’m a little more worried about some other things going on right now.”

A watery, sad laugh makes its way out of you. “Guessing someone filled you in on the videos that dropped this morning then?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Where are you? I’m on the exec level and I can’t see you.”

You chance a glance around your chair, back out towards your team. You only look long enough to see a few people still looking your way. They’d formed a group now, huddled together and presumably discussing the news.  Whirling back around you say, “Hiding in my office. Deciding how long I’m going to have to live in here before all of this dies down. That, or whether the angry hordes will come after me with pitchforks screaming ‘down with nepotism’.”

“What angry hordes are going to come after you?” You can hear the whirring buzz of an electric drill in the background of the call now - clearly Daniel had moved on to another part of the factory. Inevitably making his way to you. “Pretty sure security would stop them before they got past the parking lot, honey.”

“Doesn’t help if they're already in the building.” You whisper. 

Daniel huffs down the line, and then the call cuts out. Right at the same time as the soft ‘whoosh’ of your door opening. You don’t turn around. You already know who it is.

He comes around to kneel in front of you, placing his hands on your knees, gentle but grounding. Tears start to fall again, and rather than sobbing you try to focus on all the small knicks and flecks across his knuckles and hands - the ones that tell the story of him. He leans forward to press his lips to your forehead. “I think you need to talk to your team.”

“Daniel, they think I’m a liar - which I am!” 

He hushes you gently, moving his hands to wipe the tears that haven’t stopped falling.”Even still,” he says softly, “They’ll want to hear it from you, not from some stupid post on social media.”

You look up at him and sniffle. “They’re going to hate me.”

Daniel smiles, and drags his finger under your eyes again. Swiping across your cheeks and down across your lips. “I think you underestimate the kind of leader you are. And overestimate the number of people who you think hate you.”

You shake your head, but he keeps you from moving away. “And,” he continues. “I think you forget that even if you hadn’t moved heaven and earth to be where you are today without using your father’s name, his name and his legacy…it’s not something to be ashamed of.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off again. “And, if anyone gives you shit–” he breaks with a peck to your tear streaked cheeks. “-- I’ll break their face.”

You have to laugh at that. There wasn’t a universe where you could see Daniel beating anyone up, but the sentiment warmed you. You knew what he meant: he was in your corner. He would be there to back you up, no matter what people said or did.

A soft echoing knock broke the bubble Daniel and yourself had built in the two minutes he’d been in your office. A young engineer, a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed recent uni graduate you had taken a chance on hiring last season, poked her head through the door with an apology in her wide eyes. You liked Jessie, she had reminded you of yourself when you were younger. But she was so much smarter, fresh and forward thinking. You had never had a reason to doubt your decision in hiring her. But the look in her eyes now had your stomach sinking.

“Hey, I’m seriously so sorry to interrupt, but uh, the team wants to, you know, speak to you. Out here, if that’s okay.”

You look past Jessie out on the aero-floor. The team that had been huddled before was now spread out. Some seated, other’s perched on their desk or standing tall with arms crossed, all staring at you expectantly. 

Daniel reached forward and pried the phone from your hands, locking it and finally shutting off the grating sound of Christian’s voice filling your office. Leading you out of your chair, he smiled gently. “Time to face the music.”

######################################

Soooo, I guess, hi everyone? It's been a while, you look good.

Let me first say that whilst it has been a lovely long break from this platform, that I felt I needed, I will say sorry for those who have been ever so patiently waiting for updates that never came. I have set myself a small resolution this year of getting this story finished so I can remove it from the intrusive thoughts I have at night. I too, it seems, need to know how this story ends.

Welcome back, I hope you missed me like I all missed you. Cheers to more updates in future.

######################################

@seasidepierre​ @haterpenny​ @summertimemadness​ @sarcastic--bitchy​ @weirdestmentalityphilosopher​  @its-astrotea-love​ @marvelgirlswwe​  @miahelen​ @noope306​ @hockey-and-wine​ @isntmadrid​ @feminismisaflawlessbitch​ @awalkinthe--park​ @tee-jay-ell​  @anaxlivia​ @earth-to-lottie​ @honeybadgerstan​ @riccardoshoey​ @colourofinfinity​ @midnightroses07​ @kissingvalentino​ @gingerxarmy​  @itsreigns​ @okayleafs​ @thinemineours​ @hellolipoops​ 

@thatchickwiththecamera​ @mjuikoli​ @angryhamsterenergy​ @loverofallthingsdannyric​  @tall-tanned-tattoo​  @ohpuckyeah​ @danielxricciardo​ @ggaslyp1​  @cjbarnesss​  @one-oblivious-nerd​  @harley-sunday​  @damndanielricciardo​ @lharrietg​ @breeze-bloks​ @sugardontbesweet​ @sabsi2222​ @rule107​ @defnotsobbing​  @theworldofemmy​ @dr3-merclaren​ @japanesekel​ @j-brielmalfoy​

@paarraanoid​ @reidslefteyebrow​ @superdeath​ @yeehawdaniel​ @lewispool​ @monte-carlando​ @wonderlandofsu​ @urafakebetch​ @icemanhoneybadger​ @dizzysight​ @iamemy4​ @sincerelywithheart​ @f1ck-em-all​ @statisticlytimmy​

@mk15x​ @theplobnrgone​  @readerselegance​ @eitak-t​ @sad-fridge2323​ @danielricciardo3f1​ @darkice99​ @fixthatcanon​  @galaxymacbeth​ @rachaeldonnaspiteri1​ @pukklv​ @little-emmie-bear​  @ourlazydetectivekitten​ @the-lazy-leprechaun​ @mightychar​ @macaronnv​ @brithishamericangirls-blog​ @alphalib22​ @xaviersgifted​ @prettybiching​ @letsthedogpackandthecats​ @dr3lover​ @fan-of-many-bands​ @sugardontbesweet​ @lovebynorth @mishaandthebrits

[themareverine]

— Toy Soldiers, part 1

worst!wolverine x namelessfem!OC

synopsis: He was just a one of those fast food kid’s meal toys from 1993—key word, was. now he’s Hugh Jackman incarnate, standing in the master bedroom of her midwestern apartment, lost in time and infinity. she’s gotta get him back to his world, where he’s the worst Wolverine, where he belongs—or, maybe not?

tags: Indian in the Cupboard themes (iykyk), fluff, AU, not entirely sure what else at this point, nameless!femOC with blue eyes could be interpreted as reader, mentions of a best friend named Rose, etc, literally based on this silly little toy I rescued and now have crafted extensive lore for.

a/n: i didn't ask for this to become a multi-chapter thing. i really didn't, ok? this got away from me, but i really love these two so much already. this was fun to write, and she's a fun character to develop. worst!wolverine is just occupying too much brain space.

★ MASTERLIST ★ SERIES MASTERLIST ★ NAVIGATION ★ NEXT

Dreaming in color is a pro, when you weigh it against the cons—usually.

She’d been dreaming in movie-like quality since she was a kid, could pinpoint almost to the exact timespace when she first realized her dreams were akin to Hollywood flicks roving about her brain like Spielberg classics.

She’d been six, maybe seven. A hopeless crush on Wednesday night’s Steve Irwin had somehow twisted the innocent power of her brain—the only, almost divine dreamstate visit to Australia she’d ever taken.

Still she can taste the hot air, thick with sweat and arid desert, from the back of an obscure Land Rover, jostled and bouncing along forgotten roads and who-knows trails. Eyeballing open sky and endless outback sands, the Crocodile Hunter and his darling wife, Terri, vivid imaginations to a childhood fantasy yet, mostly, unlived. 

And ever since this God-granted, she’d always assumed it was a gift and thus titled it so, she’d been dreaming vividly most of the last twenty four years.

Forgetting her dreams was the exception, black and white—unheard of.

Tasting, speaking, reading, touch was wrapped up in REM and weighted blankets, vicarious life she’d never, really, lived in her waking moments—everything from the supernatural to gut-wrenching. Martial bliss and familial tragedy. Combat she could only ever hope wasn’t accurate. Fame and fortune. R rated filmstrips that left her stomach light and fluttery every morning, promptly, at 4:45—alarm shrieking in her ear, viscerally ripping her back to the land of the living with frothing teeth, the Greatest Showman custom alarm all but a slap in the face.  

It’s, as usual, dark when the numbers on her phone roll over to 4:45—sucked out of a dream like the vacuum of space itself lays claim to her soul, her eyes flutter open heavily to stare at the alarm.

Hugh Jackman would never be so unwelcome as he is now, blaring from little iPhone speakers—she manages to lift a noodle-esque arm to slap at the noise hanging out in the darkness around the vicinity of her nightstand. 

Fingers locate the smooth screen, swipe away the prompt for snooze. Roll over. Hand over her eyes—it’s Saturday

The day after Friday, her first day alone all week.

World beyond is closed away behind walls and empty schedules, priorities otherwise left-fielded for such days as this.  

Warmth simmers beneath heavy weighted covers, trapped against her body. Clawing up through her mattress, threatening to pull her back into oblivion. Pharaoh’s hadn’t been so mummified, entombed as she is now, but that’s the beauty of a queen mattress left unshared—solidarity.

Armies only wish they held such control over real estate as she did these sheets, this bed frame—very little could remove her from the ecstasy that is this Eden, the one place that did not require compliance, performance, untenable perfection.

Here she could rot for hours, engage in adventure that the earth would never understand—that man would jeer. 

Heaving a sigh melts her deeper into her astronaut-designed mattress, stomach suddenly flatter than it’s ever been as gently fingers tease at the strip of skin exposed. Back arching, stirring nearly-paralyzed muscle. Toes skip over warm satin sheets as she navigates to her side, arm tucking beneath her pillow.

Drawing blankets to her chin, another deep breath closes her eyes, shuts off her brain—all but ready to return to dreamstate, the screen on her phone illuminates again—diiiiing.

Light explodes, lighting up the area of her nightstand just enough to give purpose to her surroundings. 

Nose scrunching in an effort to unhear and forget the notification, her eyes slowly pull open as she considers the phone.

It’s her best friend, she knows it is—Rose is up early. All the time.

Taking care of her little family at the base of the Teton mountains, as if this is Little House on the Prairie and such things were the norm.

Her inability to ignore anything from Rose props her up on an elbow, has her reaching for her phone—thumbs the passcodes. Opens the text, eyes scanning the message from last night. 

It’s a photo message. She’d sent it last night, proudly showing off the latest addition to her childhood nostalgia collection—a thrift store find, the little McDonald’s toy is hardly noteworthy.

Scuffed and worn, it had seen adventures, surely, in its pre-her-possession life. Surprise had knocked her between the eyes like a stone when she’d managed to spy 1993 printed on the little action hero’s foot, in barely-there legalese. 

At thirty-one years old, one may have expected the little five-cent made-in-Taiwan to end up in the landfill, rotting alongside near-radioactive diapers or kill-the-turtles plastic straws.

Nope, not this one—Marvel’s very own little Wolverine. Dolled up in a cute little sci-fi bronze suit, ready for a fight. Retractable claws, the hardly-scuffed cowl, a proud encircled X in all its glory—wrapped up in a little sandwich baggie marked down at the thrift.

She’d almost felt sorry for him in that cute aggressive way. 

And almost giddy at the fluke cocktail of age and condition, she’d pocketed the little guy. A pleased smile, her very own little Wolvie nestled in the leathers of her jacket, then the bottom of her purse.

He’d adventured to work with her accidentally on Friday, plastic eyes watching her pass the time at the office from his little perch beside her keyboard and Starbucks.

Almost had forgotten him, poor thing—he’d landed on her nightstand among the other needs-put-away items for the weekend, proudly standing in his posed little battle stance.

All he needed was matching Sabretooth, maybe Magneto, and he’d be good to go. 

Looky who came home with *me*, shot over to Rose with a little thrill, a Snapchat-like photo of him perched alongside her night cream and phone charger. More of a proud sentinel guarding her bedside table than anything, she’d regarded him playfully, like a child—had told him to close his eyes when she’d undressed.

Had asked him about a movie to watch in bed as she managed hip-opening exercises, relaxing breathing techniques.

All but kissed him goodnight, promising to get him settled among her other collectable childhood wonders in the morning.

After coffee and cardio, wouldn’t Hugh be proud. 

Rose’s LOL text all but smiles back at her, and she’s a little cross-eyed from the brightness of her phone. It improves when her eyes skate away from the phone, to the little Wolverine—wait.

Brow furrowing, his absence from the nightstand sparks more panic than she’d be willing to admit in therapy—she bends over the side of her bed, fingertips skating the floor in search of her little plastic wonder.

Nothing but plush carpet, abandoned laundry she’d failed to relocate to her drawers—her phone slips from her hand as she hauls herself over the bedside, to peer beneath.

It’s dark, duh, and she fumbles upside-down with the flashlight on her phone. Sun levels of intense light, she makes arching passes beneath her bed, but no dice.

Nada.

Zilch–zippo on the Wolverine toy. 

“Well this is just a little ridiculous,” her mumble rolls off a dry tongue, from messy hair as she works herself back up from hanging over the bedside. 

Forcing off her weighted blankets has never felt more urgent, importance spiking her blood with ill-placed adrenaline she doesn’t understand—why she cares so much about a little three-decade-old McDonald’s toy she’ll never understand, but the thought of him lost in the abyss of her house is more unsettling, again, than she’d admit in therapy.

Legs swinging over the bed, she plucks her glasses from the tray on her nightstand, grabbing for the light robe dragging the floor from one of the nightstand’s knobs. 

Wrestling a steer would’ve been easier than un-inside-outing the garment, still hazy and half-asleep and wholly uncaffeinated, but she manages.

Another scout under her bed reveals that, no, little Wolvie isn’t among the dust bunnies and lint of her carpeted under-bed floor.

Brow furrowing, her glasses slip down her nose as she hauls herself back to her feet, sleep-stiff muscles protesting as she massages the back of her neck. 

Hands on her hips, she reaches for her phone.

“Had I known you had teleportation powers, little Lo, I’d have sold you off to NASA—come on,”

Triggering the flashlight on her phone again, she dives to check between the headboard and mattress, to see if her Logan lookalike decided to magically dive headfirst into the almost-abyss—

“—you make a habit of talkin’ to open air, girlie?” 

Two things happen immediately in her body. 

First. Alarm jumps up in her chest like a devil, deep claws sinking into the meat of her chest only to rip away any sense of safety taking up residence behind her ribs, in her bones. Heart forgetting to throb, blood all but stands still in her veins, asystole in her arteries—she can feel the lining of her stomach twist into a viper-like coil so cold, she fears frostbite has set into her organs.

Fear knocks hard on the door of her sternum, ripping the wind from her lungs. Terror opens up her vocal cords and bludgeons a song from her throat, but it’s so dry in her apartment that the fleshy membranes of her mouth have all but become cragged Sahara sands.

Tongue swelling to the size of her fist, she fears she’ll choke on it. Forces it against the back of her bottom teeth, jaw clenching with enough force to break open the world. 

Legs somehow managing to propel her up onto her mattress, across the bed, to the farthest corner of the space.

Cold sweat raises to a dance across her skin, satin sleeping pants clinging to the flesh of her thighs as sapphire eyes attack the figure cutting through the threshold of her door—hands low and open, in placating surrender.

Brow furrowed with canyon deep lines, dark eyes flick over her frame as she takes a step back for each of the ones he cautiously makes into the room. Invading her privacy, an unwelcome intruder. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” early morning gravels his words, which hang low in baritones not at all unfamiliar, “‘m not gonna hurt you. You breathin’ ok?” Genuine concern passes through his eyes, deep and alive, but—not in a bright way.

The corner of his lip tips up, “Don’t mean to scare ya, pretty.” 

Pretty? Sweetheart? Who the hell is this—?

Any familiarity his face holds is lost to the bite of adrenaline, slavering teeth trenching into the back of her brain. Seeming to lap at the spinal fluid all but bubbling down the length of her back.

Chest heaving with effort, she fears her ribs might break. Cardiac muscle behind her chest bones all but explodes with every heavy heartbeat, reminding her to stay alive.

That she, still, is living. 

Stomach sour, twisting like corded steel, she lunges for the foot of her bed—snatched the first thing she can retrieve. Face all but a blazing inferno of heat, nails all but pike into the soft plush of a stuffed animal. Her favorite.

Or, rather, was—now little more than a weapon, it stands between her and the invasion like a fortress. 

“What the hell are you doing here,”she challenges, taking a half step back. Memories of kickboxing classes, somewhere in her youth, escape through the fingers of memories in the back of her head.

More boxing posture than anything, she lifts her arms to chin level. Fingers tear into the stuffie like it’s a lifeline, like it’s protection.

And for now, it is. 

Not giving him the chance to answer, his mouth hangs open in muted response.

“This is my apartment—you can either leave or I’ll–I’ll forcibly remove you.” It would take a 911 call—it would mean grabbing her phone from the nightstand, punching the emergency button, and staying away from him during response time.

All unlikely, given proximity. The size of the apartment. How he blocks the only damn exit with his huge-ass frame. 

Jaw snapping closed, a thick brow pops up. He chuckles.

He thinks this is funny.

“Whoa, take it easy, bub—” 

“—shut up! Stop talking!” Pointing a strong finger at him, she shuffles back on light feet. Bobbing as best she can, trying to appear light. Prepared.

But everything in every manual in the world wouldn’t have prepared her for home invasion—all those home defense classes. The hours shooting clays and targets with her father.

Worthless. 

I am so going to die. 

Another step into her sanctuary, holy of holies.

“Quit moving, damnit!” 

The stranger stops mid-stride, brows arched in surprise at her tone of voice. Squinched nose, and tightly shut eyes add to what must be a comical look on her face. Coupled with crimson cheeks and the shake setting into her hands, she surely looks—well. A sight, if little else.

Realizing nothing short of an eternity has lapsed in the cool peace and blissfully ignorant darkness of closed eyes, hers pop open. She watches has near-pawlike hands, mapped with raised veins and pronounced callous, drop to his sides for all of a minute.

Her heart cuts against her ribs like an ax laid to roots, willing to break something loose—he chuckles. Laughs. Some faraway light catches the darkness of his eyes, brightens his face in a way that only ever seemed so Hollywood, but is now real. 

And he laughs with his entire body for all of a few seconds, wrinkles at either side of his eyes deepening into canyons that seem to fill with his amusement, at her expense.

Mind short circuiting, her toes curl into the carpet, calluses on her heels catching frayed fibers as she does her best, again, to stay light on her feet.

Nothing about her is light, certainly, and she attempts to calculate distance, how many seconds it would take her launch her body forward, toward the door.

Past him, into the corridor, out the front door.

 HIs hand extends, palm up. Waving her forward, as if she were some thing to beckon—

—until her stuffie chucks directly at his face, a blur of hot-pink fur and fluff. 

The moment she arched her arm and sent Mr. Hearts on his first-ever attempt of flight, her feet springboard off the carpet, launching her forward at a speed she never thought possible.

Adrenaline jumpstarts every one of her cells, lacing through her veins like rocket fuel—and the world spins by in a blur of color, her chest racked with pain as her heart racehorses behind bones that are no less than temperatures akin to magma. 

Tunnel vision blocks out the world, save the nearly sparkling promise of the room’s exit. Tears bubble up on her lash line, hot and intruders on any clarity of brainspace she’s trying to will forward.

Hot, breathy fear closes her throat, nothing but blood rivers through her ears—nothing except the ache of her throbbing heart, the painful push and pull of her lungs expanding and retracting. 

They say hearing is the last thing to go when your soul begins to fade into death, but it’s a lie—she can’t hear a damn thing. And she’s more than alive.

Missing completely the soft snikt!, the what-would-usually-be unmissable split of skin, there’s a muffled tearing of fabric as once beloved Mr. Hearts suddenly becomes two halves of himself.

Puffy stuffing explodes into the air, faintly she can feel her beloved stuffed animal hit the floor mutedly. In some back door of her brain she knows what’s happened, but survival carries her feet—pumps her arms.

Zeroes her gaze on the door, blocks out anything other than the gut instinct to run, run, run hard. 

Finger reach to grab the doorway, hurl herself around the corner—but it’s too late.

Electric movement snaps through the air, a microsecond passes before a thick, heavy arm catches her around her waist. Hauls her backward, sucks her from the door like something from Star Wars, the world spinning by in a Picasso of color and tears as she’s manhandled, forced back.

Kicking her feet into the air, she wills him to break, throwing her body mass back, against him. Arches her back. Wrangles and claws at the hair on his arm, the muscle that is taught against her rebellion.  

Throat splitting with a shriek, she’s silenced when his enormous palm claps hard over her mouth.

It feels like centuries have passed, but in reality, it’s been seconds. Breaths and heartbeats. Tears trailblaze hot down her face, her throat all but reverberating with sobs. Body heat wraps around her, butter down her spine as the arm around her middle pulls her tighter. Closer.

Keep your enemies close—

And he’s tall, legs anchored behind her. Like a brick house. Snot begins to empty her sinuses in a slick, sticky mess. Her mouth attempts to open behind the palm of his hand,all saliva and spit. Doesn’t seem to do much.

Digging her heels into the floor, her foot skims the floor. Looks for one of his.

Finding it, she slams her heel against would-be soft bones, and he hisses. Grunts like an animal.

“Knock it off,” his baritone rumbles, a dangerous growl over her ear, “not here to hurt you, darlin’.” A lie.

She doesn’t believe him, digs her heels farther into the soft flesh of his feet. Buries her nails into his muscle, the soft flesh of that tender spot under the wrist. Veins, lots of blood there. 

Something obscene slips past his lips.

Fighting back more stinging tears, his fingers curl around her wrist bruisingly, and with herculean strength, he whips her about-face, suddenly chest-to-chest with her as his fingers fist in her hair.

Pulls sharply.

“Fuckin’’ hell—calm the fuck down,” his fingers fall from her hair, instead grab her chin with an almost bruising grip, “stop bawlin’, for Christssake,” 

Her nails milk as they dig into his wrist, deep red lines canyon the hand holding her face with a patience lost to most members of his sex.

Hard, dark eyes hold hers with a fierceness that numbs her intestinal tract.

For a moment, an arctic swirl is born and dies in his gaze, resurrected instead a hint of grief and—empathy, maybe. A lostness she can’t describe.

Confusion punches lines between his knitted brows, etching deep into ruddy, masculine features a kind of unwordly handsome, had he not been sent to kill her. 

Oh God, please—

Shaking, her eyes pinch closed again, unwilling to let him see any more of her soul. More snot and tears, saliva pearls between the seam of her lips as she tries, and fails, not to blubber. Knees buckle.

Hangs there, full weight of her body supported on her chin between his fingers, jaw suddenly alive with inferno pain. It lasts seconds before he lets her go, and she sinks to the floor, slackdoll and sobbing.

Staring across the floor, her cheek burns against the harsh fibers of the floor. 

Her belt. Abandoned, on the floor last night after a work dinner.

It’s the only thing, and her brain conjures images of just exactly how she’d use it, suddenly Jackie Chan or GI Jane or some shit she’s seen a thousand times on film, has never executed.

Hiccuping in short breaths between sniffles and sobs, tears leak into the carpet off her cheek. Her heart pumps blood that may as well pool into her chest, leak between the cracks in her confidence. 

Stepping back, he looks at her. A cocktail of surprise and irritated, he sinks to a crouch. Shakes off red marks that still linger on his arm, wipe her snot and saliva on his—are those yellow?—pants.

No time to notice, to care—her nails catch against the fibers of the carpet. Begin to push her bodyweight up, on an elbow. 

Unburdening a sigh, his hand scrubs his face as hers darts across floorspace. Snatching the belt with a speed she’s never fostered, he doesn’t even have time to put two and two together before the leather snaps like a whip, thick silvers from a rodeo buckle landing fully on the bone of his jaw. Cuts a deep line that flashes scarlet, rips open flesh like a fillet knife. 

“Fuck!”

It’ harsh, bestial.

Reeling back, she finds time to scramble to her feet like a clumsy foal, looping the belt around her fist once as he pops tall.

Backpedaling away from arm’s length, she pistons towards the door, on fire and pumping adrenaline like a sieve. 

And she flies.

Out of the bedroom. Down the corridor. Somehow she manages to find her keys on the kitchen table as his heavy, earthshaking feet pump down the hall.

Fumbles over her own feet at the front door, slams into it hard, bounces off.

Fingers suddenly unable to communicate coherently with her brain, the chain lock on her apartment door is all but burning as she tries, and fails, to work it just so. 

“Come on, come on! Work, you piece of shit—” she’s never sworn more in her life than she has now, and it’s sour, like bile splashing up on her back teeth.

But it rips from her throat all the same, bitter and hot, as she mutters fuck, fuck, fuck me! under short, airy breaths that do nothing to put oxygen back into her body.

May as well be a drowning soul, the way she sucks in air. Gasps for breath.

Drowning, or an emphysemic. 

Ignoring the hard breathing behind her is impossible. Whirling around on the ball of her foot, he’s close enough to lock her against the door. Her head falls back hard enough to knock against the door, rattle her teeth.

And as her vision begins to settle from the bouncing in her cranium, she sees the three blades bury to the knuckle—the knuckle?—in her heavy, pristine oak front door.

Rattles the wall, splits the sheetrock. 

Pupils blown wide, she can feel all the blood leave her body. Terror locks her spine between slavering, hungry teeth.

Gaze welded to the blood pearling from fresh wounds between white knuckles, the hinge of her jaw fails.

Her mouth opens mutedly, enough for him to count her teeth if he so desired. 

And maybe he does.

“Goin’ somewhere, honey,” it isn’t a question. That grin is animalistic. “Stay awhile, huh?” 

He closes in. Her head snaps forward to find him. Nose to nose, he sneers at her, and her eyes think to move to the fillet of open flesh her attack has left on his jawline—or, had.

No evidence of even so much as a mark on the sharp line of his jaw, just dark facial hair and sweat that’s bubbling up on his skin, angry red that fans up his neck.

Swearing to God she can see the vein in his temple throb with blood, her grip on the leather belt tightens before reality sets in. 

Ohmygod.

“You’re—” her stomach resurrects up her throat. ”—Jesus,” and it isn’t so much a curse as it is a prayer, a hope.

A lifeline—grasping at straws, praying something sticks.

Reality begins to fall away, through boneless fingers. Feeling the belt slip from her control, her throat suddenly constricts to the point of oxygen deprivation.

Gaping like a fish, her tongue swells to a thick cotton she can no longer feel. 

Numb—everything buzzes with that painful, white-noise needling. 

And she does the only thing her body can manage. Shoves past him just enough to upset a chair—

—and throws up. 

[gremlin-girly]

Grass

Part of the Green collection

Curtis Everett x f!Roommate! Reader

Banner by me, made in Canva w/ Curtis' pic sourced on Pinterest. Dividers by @/kodaswrld and MDNI/Reblog Banners by @/saradika-graphics

WARNING: This fic not only contains smut but also consumption/use of marujuana. If that's not your bread and butter (or if you are a minor) please do not read.

Additional tags/warnings: roommates to lovers (back with this again ik), blowback, use of a bong, inexperienced reader (with the bong lmao), making out, p-in-v (wrap it), creampie, inebriated fucking/fucking while high, sex while standing, standing carry, fucking in the kitchen, mutual masterbation, post-sex cuddles, petnames (sweetheart, bunny)

Not beta'd and I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.

Summary: Your roomie convinces you to take a hit, leading to some fun in the kitchen.

Word count: ~3k (on mobile sorry)

A/N: sorry it took so long! I had ideas for two other fics while doing this one but there's going to (hopefully) be a double whammy of the Green Collection this weekend 👀

Green Collection | Curtis Everett Masterlist | Navigation

Coming home from a long day at work was nothing short of bliss, especially knowing your roommate was home. Curtis was a perfect roommate, an all-round great guy too, which was why you enjoyed spending time with him when you could.

Curtis worked odd hours, which meant that on your days off he could either be sleeping or at work, however, you both had a system that benefitted you both; he cleaned, you cooked and prepped lunches, both of you would take turns to do laundry. This meant that you didn't have to worry about anything pile up of dishes and Curtis didn't have to eat noodles five days a week and take out on weekends.

The times that your days off synched up, you'd usually do something together. Be it shopping, or a movie, it didn't matter. The only thing you could possibly think of that would make Curtis a bad roommate was the fact he smoked grass on his days off.

He was kind enough to light a candle or to smoke in his room if you were home, and despite the smoky smell, you didn't mind. He had a high-stress job so it was nice to see him relax at least once a week. You couldn't blame him for wanting to take the edge off.

On your way home this particular day, one of your best friends called you up, asking for you to join them for cocktails at a bar across town.

"Can't," you say, fishing in your bag for your keys. "Curtis is off and we've already agreed to watch a movie."

You can hear the groan on the other end of the line.

"You mean your boyfriend?" Your best friend sneers.

"He's not my-" You begin defensively before backing down. "We made plans last week. I can't just ditch him."

"If he's not your boyfriend, you can."

You want to snap at her that you can't; you made a commitment to Curtis first... but part of you knows she's got a point. Even it is a miniscule point. Curtis was a great roomie. Reliable. Fun to be around.... hot.

You shake your head as you pull your keys out. "I can't."

"Alright," she chuckles. "Have fun with your hot roommate. And tell me if anything juicy finally happens."

You frown at your phone as the line goes dead, cheeks warming as you open the door to the apartment. Curtis is leaning against the kitchen counter, grinder in hand, bong already set up beside him.

"Hey," He greets with a short nod.

"Hey." You reply, feeling your chest tighten. He's in his cosy clothes but, sweet mother almighty, he looks delectable. Baggy, dark wash wash jeans that hang low on his hips, tight white t-shirt with a light oversized grey patterned hoodie with a deep v-neck over it and, of course, his signature black beanie. You wished he didn't look so hot; it would give your best friend less ammunition saying he was the reason for your lack of a boyfriend.

"Leftovers were good." Curtis says watching you unload your bag and place your dirty tupperware in the sink. "Thanks."

You can hear the grinding of metal on metal as Curtis twists his grinder.

"It's no problem." You grin, turning on the sink tap and unloading an ungodly amount of dish soap into the bowl. "You need to stop thanking me for it though, Curt. I've been doing it for months."

"Yeah, I know." He grins back at you and you have to steady yourself against the sink so your legs don't give out. "But I want you to know I'm always grateful for it."

Stomach full of butterflies you turn back to the sink, dipping your hands into the hot suds and wishing whatever God was listening to throw you a boon. The flick of a lighter and the bubbling of the bong snap you from your explicit thoughts and you're lucky enough to catch Curtis blowing smoke rings before the smoke disperses.

Fuck me.

You don't know if it's a curse or a wish at this point. Curtis catches your gaze and offers you the bong, large hand over the mouth of it trapping white smoke in the chamber. You shake your head and hold up a soapy hand.

"No thanks."

"Just one drag. Try it." He wiggles the bong at you with a sweet, begging expression. "Please?"

Pursing your lips you consider your options. You'd never done it before, so the opportunity to try it in a safe environment with a 'professional' was a good start. On the other hand, you didn't know how weed would affect you. Would you be a drooling mess? Would you not remember a thing? Would you, as your best friend had described, be so fried out of you mind you would just lie on the sofa and have a minor existential crisis?

You can't lie and say you hadn't been tempted before now but Curtis made it look so easy. The thought of embarrassing yourself in front of him nagged at your brain but the want of the experience under your belt won out. You'd be safe with Curtis. Existential crisis and drooling be dammed.

"Fuck it. Fine." You sigh, taking the bong from him and holding it awkwardly; scared to drop it and unsure how to hold it correctly.

"Hold the top and the base." Curtis instructs with a smirk, watching you frown worriedly as you changed your grip. There's something phallic in the entire procedure that makes your cheeks heat and you feel entirely stupid for thinking it.

"Put your lips on it." Curtis' voice sounds low and breathy, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to steel your thoughts.

You move to do as he instructed but you're obscured by a stray piece of hair that won't move out of your way no matter how much you shake your head. Curtis chuckles and you can feel warm fingers brush along your forehead, removing the stubborn piece of hair, and tucking it behind your ear. His eyes meet yours as you peek up through your lashes, bottom lip pouting against the lip of the bong. The kitchen suddenly feels a lot hotter and you don't know if Curtis can feel it too.

"Try again." He says quietly, trailing his fingers through your hair as he pulls his hand away. You hadn't even noticed his fingers lingering against your skin but now that they were gone, you wanted them back.

Placing your lips into the mouth of the bong, holding it tight, you meet Curtis' eyes expectantly. Curtis' lighter flickers to life as he burns the ground weed on the other side and after a few seconds, instructs you to suck in as much air as you can.

You try, you really do, watching the smoke twist in the chamber and burn your lungs as you take the deepest breath you've possibly ever taken.

But it still ends with you coughing and sputtering.

"You need to take it into your lungs." He says, patting your back softly. "You don't have to do it quickly. Just like taking deep breaths."

You nod your head as he flicks his lighter again, waiting for your signal (another nod) to light it again.

"Now, inhale."

You breathe in and the bong bubbles angrily, putrid smoke invades your lungs and makes your mouth drier than a desert. Your lips break away from the bong and you cough hard, your lungs screaming at you as you try to breathe. You try to suck in as much air as possible, feeling lightheaded as you continue in your coughing fit, letting Curtis remove the bong from your grasp. Once your breathing is finally steady, Curtis is already blowing another smoke ring smirking over at you.

"You did alright for your first time." He chuckles.

"Show off." You whisper hoarsely, giving him a watery eyed glare.

Curtis clicks his tongue dismissively and lifts your chin gently with one hand, thumbing tears from your cheeks. His thumb lingers a moment, brushing the softness of your skin before he moves his hand away to light the bong for another hit.

"You'll get better with time." He says nonchalantly, sucking in smoke. You're still trying to wrap your head around what just happened. Maybe there was a God offering you a boon.

"I don't wanna do that again," you grumble, your voice still raspy. Curtis exhales slowly, no smoke ring this time but he looks over at you curiously, as if contemplating asking you something.

"What?"

"I could always give you secondhand smoke?" Curtis suggests, inhaling the smoke again. When he breathes out, he pushes the smoke towards you, but you srunch your face at the smell. Curtis laughs at your cute expression.

"You've got to suck in the smoke."

"But it smells gross." You whine. "Is there another way we could try?"

"Actually..." Curtis' eyebrows raise as an idea forms and he beckons you closer. You shuffle forward, an inch or so between you.

Curtis lights up the bong again, and holds the smoke but before releasing it, he takes your chin in his hands delicately and kisses you. You gasp in surprise and Curtis takes the opportunity to blow the smoke into your mouth; you cough and sputter less this time but your lips tingle from the kiss. Curtis watches you closely, waiting for your reaction.

Your mind draws a blank; fuzziness setting in and you don't know if it's him or the contact high but your smiling up at him regardless.

"Could we keep doing that?"

Curtis breaks into a radiant grin. "Yeah. Of course."

The kisses start gentle and tender; sweet pecks that make your body feel tingly and light. It works well; after every kiss you inhale the smoke he blows into your mouth, slowly getting used to the feeling of his lips against yours and having him so close.

Then one kiss lingers for longer than a moment.

You're both a little breathless, only millimetres apart when you break for air, and it takes one millisecond more for your eyes to meet before the floodgates open. Curtis' lips crash into yours, and you welcome them, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing embrace. Your hands rip his beanie from his head and toss it somewhere on the floor, raking your hands through the short, soft buzzcut. Curtis rumbles a chuckle but doesn't stop kissing you.

There's a harsh clink as Curtis sets down his bong and his hands begin to freely wander up and down your sides. Mimicking his actions, you allow your hands to feel along his chest and collarbone. It's harder than you expect; thinking there'd be a slight softness under all his jumpers, not that you care either way. Your hands slip under the layers of his jumper; mapping out every defined muscle your fingers trailed moments before. Muscles twitch under your touch and Curtis sucks in a sharp breath, hands squeezing at your hips.

"This okay?" You ask quietly, gently running your palms downwards against his hot skin, stopping above his belt. Your gaze flickers to his, waiting for confirmation to continue. Which it does - in the form of a low groan as he cranes his neck to kiss you quickly.

"It's more than okay."

Your head's already starting to feel heavy but you can't tell if it's because your being kissed senseless or if the smoke has finally hit you. A large hand knots in your hair, the other making quick work of unbuttoning your jeans, a thick finger dipping under the fabric of your panties to rub tight circles against your clit. You gasp in surprise, your own hands fumbling with his belt as you try to concentrate, but that's all that Curtis needs to push his tongue further into your mouth, deepening the kiss. Curtis' tongue is hot and tastes like the smoke that made you gag not five minutes ago but you don't care; taking a hit of him is better than any bong.

"Already wet for me, huh?" He murmurs against your lips, index finger swirling your clit with your own slick. A moan hitches in your throat making him chuckle, peppering more kisses along your cheek. You can feel your pussy squeeze around nothing, a familiar sensation building between your legs.

His kisses are sloppy but no less passionate. Curtis chases your mouth with his at every pathetic whimper you make in an attempt to keep yourself quiet. You, on the other hand, are a breathless mess as you manage to undo his belt and jeans. Palming over his cock teasingly gets you a firm press against your clit that makes your thighs squeeze around his fingers.

"Don't tease, bunny." Curtis murmurs, nipping along your jawline, making you shiver. "That's not fair."

"Eager?" You tease softly but Curtis pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His pressure and swirling against your clit pause and you grind your hips slowly for some relief.

"Maybe. Is... Is that a problem?"

"You know damn well it's not." You huff impatiently.

Curtis' nostrils flare and he curses, tugging his hand from your jeans and removing his jumper and white tee in one movement, discarding them to the floor before moving to shove his jeans down. You quickly follow suit, adding your shirt to the pile as you wiggle out of your jeans. You don't have time to react when Curtis' mouth finds yours again, more feverent and desperate than before. His fingers tug your panties down your legs and you shyly step out of them, allowing his fingers to slip between your folds and caress your now-aching clit.

You inhale sharply when his thumb grazes your clit, two thick fingers teasing and your cunt's entrance. Curtis' other hand grips the back of your neck, holding you steady when your legs start to tremble and you mewl his name so breathlessly.

Your hands tug his boxers freeing his cock; eager to touch him - finally - and eager to please him. One hand pumps in rhythm to his stroking fingers, the other gently cupping at his heavy balls while your own thighs clench like a vice around Curtis' fingers; struggling to stay standing at the attention he's giving your clit.

"Look at me," He says firmly, voice strained, blue eyes locking with yours. "Look at me when you cum."

"Fuck fuck fuck." Each curse becomes higher in pitch before you let out an airy sigh as your first orgasm ripples through your body. Your eyelids are heavy but you keep your eyes fixed on Curtis' face, a smirk of satisfaction on his swollen lips. His thumb swipes your clit slowly as your body comes back from the orgasm-high. You feel extra elated. Your body feels like every nerve is alert but your muscles are entirely relaxed.

There's a kiss to your forehead that leaves tingling ripples across your skin. Then another to your cheek. Then to your neck...

Your skin prickles to gooseflesh, breath hitching again, dragging your thumb over the tip of Curtis' cock to coat it in his own precum. Curtis' moan is so close to your ear and it's lewd. You'd never have guessed he'd be loud during sex. Curling your head into his neck, you nip along the prominent vein, illiciting more and more filthy noises from Curtis until he slips two fingers into your dripping pussy.

"Oh shit," you whine as your walls clench around his fingers. The stretch isn't painful by any means, but the fullness as his fingers move and curl is euphoric. But any further moans are smothered by his mouth on yours, his fingers spreading you open easily to explore your pussy.

"Curtis," You pant when you're finally granted a gasp for air, trying to focus on pumping his cock and holding off your orgasm. "Bedroom?"

"No." Curtis growls. "'M too impatient. Here will do."

Before you can ask him what he means, he squats down and wraps his muscular arms under your knees. He peeks up at you, placing a gentle kiss to your stomach that makes you shiver and your heart thud violently.

"Hold on to me, sweetheart."

That's the only warning you get before your feet leave the ground. With a yelp, you fling your arms around his neck, holding on until Curtis is back at full height and supporting you in his arms like it's no big deal. You can feel another rush of arousal as you watch the veins in his arms twitch under the strain and the brush of his leaking cock against the backs of your thighs.

Your knees are bent, legs dangling over Curtis' thick arms helplessly, with his large hands groping your ass as he repositions you over his cock. You've never been fucked like this before and you know damn well that gravity is about to work wonders with skewering you onto Curtis' cock and let out a shaky sigh of contentment.

"You ready bunny?" Curtis asks, the fat head of his cock pushing against your dripping cunt ever so slightly. "Because once I start fucking you, I'm not stopping."

"Yes," you nod, biting at your lips to contain a whorish moan. "Fuck, Curtis, please."

Curtis lowers you onto his cock slowly, watching your lips part is ecstacy as his cock slides into your cunt with welcomed ease. Your moans of need are sweet and sultry as he splits you open in the middle of your shared kitchen, toes curling as gravity helps his twitching cock nestle deep inside you.

Once buried to the hilt, Curtis sighs in delight, your walls fluttering around his cock like he'd always imagined. His large hands grope at the flesh of your ass, kneading the muscles as he flashes you a panted grin. You shift in his grip with a shy smile and squeeze his hips with your legs.

"You feel like heaven, bunny." Curtis murmurs, canting his hips upwards into you. Your ass bounces against his thighs, your arms straining as you try to hold onto his neck. Your maneuvered quickly in his grip, your body moving upwards so you can pretzel your arms behind his neck, fingernails clawing at his shoulders, his cock never leaving the warmth of your cunt. Once anchored to him properly, Curtis begins to cant his hips frantically, fucking you into oblivion while you whimper and moan as you cling to him.

"Look at me, sweetheart." Curtis pants and through your fucked-out haze you manage it. There's the satisfied smirk again, his eyes red-rimmed and blown wide but sparkling nonetheless. Your lips are wet and swollen from the kissing, from biting back moans, and Curtis loves to see it. To be the cause of it.

Wet slaps echo against the kitchen walls and your starting to lose control, moaning his name louder, your pussy constricting tighter and tighter, splashing your delicious cum over his legs, balls and cock.

"You look so good getting pounded like this." He muses, watching you hiccup another moan. His eyes trail to your tits, watching them bounce in time to thrusts, loving how you milk his cock so eagerly. He wished you'd smoked sooner or at least wished he'd made a move sooner, had he known that you'd be just as eager for him as he was for you. His eyes flit back to your face. Every part of your face is contorted in pleasure; eyes red, glazed and half-lidded, lips slightly parted and your eyebrows that in-between of surprise-frown as you try to withhold coming again.

"C-Curtis - I - I'm-" you breathing is heavy, you can't even form a thought as he bounces you on his cock and it makes Curtis' balls tighten.

"So am I bunny." He grunts out quickly, fucking your tight pussy harder. More slapping sounds coupled with your half-scream of pleasure echo through the apartment. "You just hold tight okay? Don't think of anything else but this cock."

You hum and nod - barely - you're already too lost to pleasure to even care. Curtis curses when your nails dig into his shoulders. He can feel your cunt convulse desperately as your orgasm begins to rip through you and you shout his name almost in a panic.

"I got you," He coos, his thrusts slowing only slightly as he tries in vain to postpone his release for a few moments longer. Soaking his cock again sends him over the edge and he cums hard when you softly whisper his name repeatedly as you go limp in his grip. His cum is warm and sticky as it slowly drips from your pussy but you're too busy drowning in post-orgasmic bliss to care.

Your head rests against Curtis' shoulder as you catch your breath, the kitchen now quiet apart from your breathing. Your legs wobble when Curtis sets you down gently, wrapping those strong arms around your waist once more, fending off the chill of the kitchen for a few moments longer and placing tender kisses to your neck and shoulders. The silence is comfortable and you push away thoughts that could potentially ruin your night; what did this mean for you both? Was it a one time thing? Did you want it to be a one time thing?

"You were..." Curtis begins but trails as his head buries itself into your neck. "Fuck, that was amazing."

"Speak for yourself." You breathe out, arms still wrapped around his neck as you lean into him, desperate to stay as close as possible before reality kicked in.

You liked Curtis. You knew Curtis. And clearly, your little crush wasn't one-sided otherwise you wouldn't be standing in the kitchen naked right now. However, from the depths of your mind, slow worries began to rear their ugly heads; telling you a relationship with Curtis could still blow up in your face, especially since you already lived together. That seemed like speed-running the dating process just a tad.

Curtis' snort startles you from your thoughts and you glare up at him.

"You're thinking too loud, bunny." He smirks and then, as if it were second nature, lifts his head to capture your lips in a quick peck.

You'd only just regained your breath and it had been stolen all over again. You lean into him more, letting the kiss linger like the one that had kick-start this whole thing. His lips are warm now, not searing like they had been, and you're drawn into him, chasing his lips as he retreats his head.

"Sleep in my bed tonight." He murmurs, giving you a squeeze. His eyes twinkle in the light and the faint smirk he still wears makes your pussy throb all over again. "I'd like to wake up next to you at least once before we decide on what to do next."

"If my legs work." You joke half heartedly, your heart fluttering wildly against your ribs. You're not happy at the squeak that escapes you as Curtis lifts you easily again, half over his shoulder as he pads to his room before throwing you onto the bed. You bounce along the mattress with a laugh, wrapping yourself around Curtis when he crawls over you to pepper kisses over your face again. His eyes are still glassy, but there's a sweet look that sends shivers of desire throughout your body.

"I was doing all the heavy lifting," Curtis teases into the crease of your neck. "My legs are all achy."

"Aw, want me to kiss 'em better?" You tease back, squealing when he rolls you on top of him, gasping when you feel his cock twitch between your thighs.

"Nope. I want to watch you do all the work this time, bunny." Curtis grins up at you with a squeeze of your hips.

Despite your brain swirling lazily with questions, your high brain was far more interested in round two.

At least you'd have some very juicy updates for your best friend tomorrow after all.

End

Taglist

Tag yourself here

@stargazingfangirl18 | @bridgetina | @irishhappiness | @looking1016 | @awkwardgiraffe726

[whateverisbeautiful]

Richonne in Retrospect - The 💋 List

(every Richonne kiss ranked)

#27: The Roadtrip Kiss (1.05)

That TOWL montage in 1.05 was so heavenly. I love so many parts of the montage like Rick kissing Michonne's hand in the car and them finding the noodles. And I also really love this kiss in front of the mural. It really contributes to the happy and romantic vibes of Richonne's road trip home. The bliss Rick and Michonne always feel when they're on the same page and get to have their alone time together is so great to see every time.

And this sequence is especially refreshing after Rick and Michonne finally hashed everything out and resolved things in episode 4. This montage really showed Rick and Michonne are completely back to loving on each other as hard as they can. And man are they very good at that. 👏🏽 It really moves me that both of them know how painful it was to be without each other for years and how if they were to lose each other again it could painfully break them all over again, and yet they've arrived at the conclusion that the fear of losing this love should never overpower enjoying every bit of this love every second they can. I just have a lot of respect for that.

They really are making the most of being back together as shown in this passionate kiss and lovely montage. I love seeing them enjoy dinner together and Rick putting his arm around her as he takes in her taking in the view. And then the way they look at each other and smile before the kiss. Unabashedly in love and I love to see it.

Also, it sorta looks like Rick subtly says "come here" before the kiss and if that's the case, well this kiss just gets even hotter lol. But, yeah I just really will forever marvel over the fact that after loving Say Yes for years, we then got such a Say Yes-esque montage in TOWL and got to see Richonne just so fully immersed in their lovely Richonne bubble, especially with this passionate kiss that really communicated "I adore you" loud and clear. ♥️