#and they laughed in surprise (i didn’t say it in a way where I was putting that burden on them in a serious way)

[tojisteddy]

Can’t take My Eyes Off of You

or: John Price who ends up doing after care with you after a little fling.

cw: 1k< words (probably), mainly fluff, small nsfw, age gap (price late 30s, reader mid-late twenties), your friends are shit, no use of y/n. unrealistic after care.

He fucked you silly in the bathroom of a dive bar.

And John genuinely didn’t mean to, he truly did not mean to. But you felt too good, clenching like you were made for him when he pushed himself inside your syrupy walls, even more when you came around him the first time. And of course you took every inch of his aching cock, with a nod and a lazy smile, nails clawing at his broad shoulders, it’s like you couldn’t get enough of him.

“Can you walk love?” he has to snap in front of your face once to see if you’re there. But you’re not. Still blissed out, looking at him with heart eyes. He holds you steady when you try to stand on your own.

“My legs’ll fall right off if you let go of me,” you giggle. You had such a bright smile, cute.

He mumbles a curse and sighs, sitting you right on the bathroom sink, “You stay right here, I’ll go find your friends.”

“A-okay!” You send him off with two thumbs up and he disappears into the crowded bar to find your friends, who you were with when John saw you dancing with them. You were tantalizing, a pretty little thing in your oversized jersey and shorts that hugged your curves, dazzling eyes when you found the older man staring at you. A one night— well— less than an hour. A simple quickie. He just didn’t expect it to be fantastic.

Finally his blue eyes land on your group of friends and just as he’s about to say something they get up from the table, laughing. And it’s something snide that catches his ears that makes him refuse to take you to them.

“[+]’s such a fuckin slut leaving like that, she can find her own way back.”

John doesn’t even think twice— he’ll take you home. Or just somewhere safe. Somewhere not with them.

He’s quick to get back to you, and you’re there, swinging your legs back and forth on the sink, eyes closed and leaning against the sink.

“Hey! Don’t fall asleep on me, we gotta get you out of here.” He squeezes your cute cheeks once to get your eyes open. Your mocha eyes open but you slouch, toppling over as the older man wraps your arm around his neck.

One side of your plump lips curve up, “Oooooh are you trynna take me home? You’re a slyyyy dog, John.”

He grunts, lifting you off of your feet, “Yeah I’ll take you home, come on.”

John manages just fine putting you in his car, it’s getting you tell him to where your house is that’s the problem. You keep mumbling incoherently, avoiding the topic. The windows were all the way down, the cool summer breeze kissing your skin, hair blowing in the wind, Happy Together by The Turtles playing on the radio. You’d found yourself playing with his large hand. The other on the steering wheel, your fingers brushed between the calluses and creases.

“They don’t like me…” you mumble, biting the inside of your lips.

“Who?” He glances over at you, John knows who. But he’d rather hear it from you, hear your voice first another second.

“My friends— I mean- my roommates. We always butt heads. A lot. I’m surprised they’d even invited me out tonight. They must’ve had a change ‘f heart.” A smile grows on your face, almost like you don’t want that feeling to end, you don’t want the night to end. But it pains John, because he knows the truth. They’re shit. They don’t deserve you, and John knows this even in the short amount of time he’s known you.

Two hours at best.

But he doesn’t say anything, just lets you keep tracing his hands, keep you happy. Just a little while longer. The night can’t end so early.

“Wind feels so nice,” you say, letting out a breath. And you climb out the window, just enough that your top half of your body is handing out the window, John keeps a firm hold on your of course. Just in case he needs to yank you back in, but the streets are empty, it’s late. Just you, John and the road. Riding l around until you finally call it.

You’re sight to behold, curly hair dancing with the wind, arms out, screams of laughter filling his ears, skin glowing under the streetlights glow— you’re free. Like a bird taking flight. And John can’t get enough of it, his eyes stuck on you. You make the man’s heart beat faster than it has in a long time. It’s different— he likes it.

You suddenly gasp, something catching your eyes, “Fuck! It’s an ice cream truck! Let’s go get ice cream John!”

He can’t help but appease you, you’ve got a giddy on your face. Why not? Filling your stomach a little would make you feel even better, wouldn’t it?

You both get cones, your get your favorite (with sprinkles of course), John gets chocolate & vanilla swirled. You two take off again, through the streets of town, intaking the cold treats in your hands like kids.

You nod your head at the taste, eyes closed in satisfaction, “It’s so good.” You look over, smiling— “Thanks John.”

“No problem baby.” The words just roll of his tongue, they’re perfect on you. Only for you.

And he can’t help but admire you in this dazed state. It’s probably when he realizes maybe falling in love with someone in the first day you know them is possible.

You blink a couple times, taking in your surroundings and that you stupidly left a bar with a stranger, by a single chance of luck him genuinely taking care of you.

“I’m sorry, I’ve held you up? Havent I?” Your voice is mesmerizing, and you’re looking at him with big puppy eyes. Too adorable. He had to have you. See you take flight once again, have you in his arms once again—

A dove. His.

“No!” The bearded man almost yelps, his cheeks turning tomato red, all the way to his ears. “No, not at all.”

In fact, you were right on time.

Perfect.

a/n: I know this isn’t realistic in any shape or form, I just thought it’d be a little cute. Yeah. Luv you bubs.

most recent masterlist

[formulaonecrumbs]

Hello :) Could you make one where Lando introduces the reader to two or three of his friends as his girlfriend for the first time? Everything goes well at first, but when he leaves to go to the bathroom, they start making some slightly microaggressive comments about her relationship with Lando. It’s not something obviously bad, but it’s clear they’re doing it to make her uncomfortable like comparing her to his ex or something else

they don’t know about us

Lando Norris x gf!reader

summary: lando introduces you to his friends for the first time.

warnings: uncomfortable reader, weird friends.

A/N: low-key i was gonna give the friends names of lando’s ACTUAL friends like connor or wtv but i didn’t wanna make them seem like bad guys so we got liam and tom 😃 anyways thank u anon!!! ur req is greatly appreciated. i’m sorry for getting to it so late. i have exams going on (until june btw i could be very inactive sometimes) enjoy, beautiful people ❤️

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

you could tell lando was excited.

he kept glancing over at you as he walked a few steps ahead, practically buzzing with nervous energy, his hand wrapped tightly around yours. “you’ll like them,” he said for the third time, smiling at you. “they’re good guys.”

you smiled back, even though your stomach was tight. meeting your boyfriend’s close friends was a big deal—and he hadn’t introduced you to many people yet, so you knew this mattered.

the rooftop bar he picked was quiet, upscale, and lit by soft golden lights. the two guys were already there, standing by a tall table with half-empty drinks. you immediately clocked the way their eyes flicked to you. curiosity. maybe even a little surprise.

“boys, this is my girlfriend,” lando said proudly, arm wrapping around your waist. “this is her.”

you gave them your name and a small smile, and to your relief, they were friendly. they shook your hand, made a few jokes. one of them—liam—asked where you were from, and the other—tom—complimented your dress. everything was fine. lando was glowing, leaning into you like he couldn’t stop himself.

but eventually, he excused himself to the bathroom, brushing a kiss to your cheek before he went. “be nice,” he teased them over his shoulder.

the silence that followed was just long enough to feel… heavy.

then liam laughed, sipping his drink. “he really does have a type, doesn’t he?” he said to tom, not even looking at you.

tom raised an eyebrow. “yeah, remember sofía? same kind of vibe.”

liam nodded. “just quieter, i guess.”

you blinked, unsure what to say.

“not a bad thing,” tom added quickly, smiling at you in that way people do when they’ve already said something loaded. “you seem sweet.”

“lando usually goes for girls a little more… out there,” liam added, like it was helpful. “big personalities, you know?”

“maybe he’s maturing,” tom joked.

you laughed politely, but it didn’t reach your eyes. something about the way they kept circling back to comparisons made your skin crawl. like they were trying to measure you up. like they weren’t just talking to you—they were sizing you against some invisible scale.

“he’s really into you though,” liam said, almost like it surprised him. “must be something special.”

you forced a smile. “he’s pretty special too.”

they exchanged a quick look, and you caught it—just a flash of something. doubt? amusement?

but then lando came back, slid his arm around you again, and everything changed. they laughed louder. tom made a joke about lando’s old haircut. liam brought up a karting story. it all smoothed over so quickly, you almost questioned what had just happened.

almost.

later, when lando drove you home, you were quiet. he glanced at you, brow furrowed.

“they liked you,” he said softly.

you smiled, nodding. “yeah. they were… interesting.”

he didn’t say anything right away. but his hand found yours again, fingers lacing together, and he held on like he knew.

and maybe he did.

you watched the city blur past the window, the lights streaking like watercolors. lando hadn’t let go of your hand since you got in the car. his thumb brushed the back of it slowly, over and over.

“you okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.

you hesitated. the kind of silence where you could either swallow it down or say the thing that’s been pressing against your ribs since the rooftop.

“they were a little weird,” you said finally, still staring out the window. “your friends.”

lando didn’t say anything for a second. just kept driving. “weird how?”

you turned to look at him. he glanced at you, then back at the road, and you could see the tension creeping into his jaw.

“just…” you sighed. “i don’t know. they said stuff about me being like your ex. and that i’m not as loud. or outgoing. or whatever. it wasn’t mean, exactly, but it felt like they were trying to figure out why you’re with me.”

lando’s fingers tightened around yours.

“i didn’t want to make it a big deal,” you added quickly. “but it kind of stuck.”

he pulled into your street and parked, the engine still humming. the dashboard lights painted his face in soft orange.

“i’m sorry,” he said quietly. “i had a feeling. i saw the way they looked at you when i introduced you. like they were surprised.”

you nodded, suddenly unsure if you’d said too much. but then he turned to you fully, hand still holding yours.

“look, they don’t know shit,” he said. “and honestly? they’ve always had this thing where they act like i’m not serious about people. like they know better than me.”

his voice was steady, but you could tell he was angry underneath.

“you’re not like anyone i’ve ever been with,” he said. “not because you’re quieter or whatever bullshit they said. because you make me feel… real. grounded. like i’m actually where i want to be.”

your throat felt tight.

“and if they can’t see that, that’s their problem. not yours.”

you gave him a small, grateful smile. “i didn’t want to ruin the night.”

“you didn’t,” he said instantly. “you were the best part of it.”

he leaned over and kissed you then—soft and sure, like a promise. and when he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “next time we hang out with people, it’ll be with the ones who actually deserve to know you.”

you nodded, heart a little lighter.

maybe the night hadn’t gone perfect. but this part—him, choosing you over the noise—meant more than anything else.

THE END :>

[moondustbaby]

Sundress Season

Blue collar!Rafe x Wife!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

Summary: You surprise your husband Rafe with lunch at his worksite—wearing a sundress that turns a few too many heads. His coworkers are bold, but Rafe’s jealousy is bolder. He handles it the only way he knows how: by making it very clear you’re his.

⸻

You should’ve known better than to wear the sundress.

It’s not like you were trying to be a distraction. You were just hot, the Carolina sun beating down through your windshield, and the soft yellow cotton was the only thing in your closet that didn’t make you want to cry. So you threw your hair up, grabbed the brown paper bag of lunch, and headed to the job site with a smile.

You knew Rafe was working somewhere out off the mainland, some big house renovation, and he’d sounded exhausted on the phone earlier. You figured a surprise lunch would be the least you could do.

What you didn’t count on was the way the crew looked at you when you stepped out of the truck.

A couple of guys near the framing area went silent mid-conversation. One of them let out a low whistle.

“Damn, Cameron’s wife is somethin’ else,” one muttered, not quietly. “No way she came out here lookin’ like that just to see him.”

Your cheeks burned instantly. You weren’t trying to make a scene—you just wanted to feed your husband. But you were very aware of how the dress clung to your waist, how the breeze caught the hem and played it around your thighs.

You smiled politely, tried to focus on the little path leading to the house, pretending not to hear the not-so-subtle commentary.

“Need a hand, sweetheart?” another guy offered, jogging up beside you with a grin. “That bag looks heavy. Bet I could carry it better than your man.”

You blinked. “Uh, no thank you. I’ve got it.”

“Sure? Don’t wanna strain those pretty arms—”

“You talkin’ to my wife?”

The voice cut through the air like a blade. Deep, rough, unmistakable.

You didn’t have to turn around. You felt Rafe before you saw him.

He was stomping over from the other side of the site, sawdust in his hair, sweat dripping down his neck, and he looked like he was about to throw someone through a two-by-four.

The guy beside you went stiff. “Was just being polite, man.”

Rafe didn’t blink. “Polite looks different than flirting.”

He took the bag from your hands without saying anything else and slid his arm around your waist, tugging you in close—close enough that you could smell the mix of sawdust and soap on his shirt. Close enough that no one could mistake whose you were.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, your hand brushing his chest. “They were just—”

“Did he touch you?” he asked quietly, jaw clenched, ignoring everyone else.

“No. Rafe, really—”

His eyes flicked back to the guy who’d offered to help. “You look at her again like that, you’re off my site. Got it?”

The guy mumbled something and backed off, and Rafe didn’t even wait to see where he went. He was already guiding you inside, big hand firm on the small of your back.

Inside, where it was quieter—unfinished drywall and the faint hum of a portable fan—he finally stopped. His eyes scanned you slowly.

“That dress,” he muttered.

You gave him a look. “What about it?”

He swallowed hard. “You wore that here?”

You crossed your arms. “Why, you don’t like it now?”

Rafe ran a hand down his face, looking borderline feral. “Oh, I like it. Too much. That’s the problem.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “So you’re mad ‘cause I look good?”

“I’m mad ‘cause you look good around other men.” He moved closer, eyes narrowing. “They shouldn’t even know what your legs look like. That’s for me.”

“You think I wore this for them?”

Rafe grunted. “I know you didn’t. Doesn’t matter. You still walked out there lookin’ like a damn dream.”

You shook your head with a soft laugh, resting a hand against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re mine,” he said, kissing you hard before you could argue.

He didn’t pull back for a long moment. Just stood there, hands firm on your hips, lips pressed to yours like he was still staking a claim.

“You really came all the way out here just to bring me lunch?” he finally asked.

You nodded. “You sounded tired. Figured you could use a break.”

His gaze softened. “You always know what I need.”

“I also know you’re gonna murder your coworkers if I show up again like this.”

He smirked. “Not if you wear my jacket over it.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

And when you finally sat on the tailgate of his truck to eat—Rafe beside you, protective as ever, practically growling if anyone even looked your way—you couldn’t help but love him a little more for it.

Because sure, he was over-the-top. Maybe even a little unhinged. But you knew underneath all that jealous rage was the same man who always kissed your knuckles, remembered your favorite drinks, and called just to hear your voice.

And the way he looked at you—like you were the sun and the moon and every star in between—made you feel beautiful, wanted, his.

Even in a sundress at a job site.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: i’d like to personally apologize to the guy who tried to offer you help—Rafe will let him live, eventually. maybe. moral of the story: don’t flirt with the boss’ wife especially if she’s in a sundress, unless you’ve got a death wish (or a strong dental plan). shoutout to blue collar Rafe for keeping jobsite HR in business.

♥️ lani

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𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@lolabunnyworldss @superlegend216

[maxinesgun]

it's the whiskey talking ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

abby anderson x fem!reader

drunk!reader, established relationship, abby has the patience of a saint (for you and only you), abby taking care of r, pet names, pure fluff. wc 1.5k ᡣ𐭩

“Abby. Abby. Abby.”

Your girlfriend wasn’t answering the door. So, really, it wasn’t your fault that you were here, knocking and calling out to her rather obnoxiously at what was likely an ungodly hour to be doing so. Frankly, you had no clue what time it was, and you didn’t really care. 

“Abbyyy,” you repeated, drawing out her name as if savouring it. Every word you spoke felt heavy and stretchy, like taffy in your mouth. “C’mon, I know you’re in there. You sleeping?” You yanked on the handle again, as if this time it would magically spring open, and stumbled a bit, catching yourself on the wall and cursing under your breath.

Okay, so you were drunk. Perhaps more than you’d initially thought.

You’d had a bonfire with a small group of friends tonight. It had been one of the rare occasions where none of you were held up with any assignments or patrols, and it allowed for a well-deserved and long-overdue break to loosen up and have a good time. With food, card games, and a bottle of whiskey Manny had snagged from God-knew-where, the night had passed by quickly. Abby had been absent in lieu of patrol duty that evening, and had urged you to go without her, assuring you that she’d be back before morning.

Sober you probably would have just gone back to your own dorm, assuming she’d gotten into bed and crashed after arriving back so late, but drunk you had decided that you needed to see her, to be wrapped in her arms, as desperately as you needed air.

You leaned your head against the door, sniffing dejectedly. “Okay, fine. I’m just going to sit right here, outside your door,” you called, a pout on your lips. “On the cold, hard floor. All by myself. Alone. And… lonely.”

“Hey, don’t stop now. I think there are some people on the ground floor who couldn’t hear you.”

The voice came from directly behind you, and it took you a few seconds longer than what was normal to register it before you spun around. You looked at Abby, standing before you with her gym bag slung over her shoulder, and felt your mouth drop open a little in surprise. “Oh.” You turned fully, leaning back against the door and allowing yourself a better view of her. The muscle tank she wore was certainly doing its job. “Hi,” you said innocently, a giggle bubbling out of you at your own foolishness.

“Hello to you, too.” Her eyes lingered over you with a curious expression you couldn’t quite name, sweeping down the length of your body before returning to your face. A faint smile was playing at her lips as she closed the distance between you. “I was just doing some training. Got back about an hour ago, but I was too amped up to go to sleep. I figured you’d already be in bed.”

She was right in front of you now, and you leaned forward to wrap your arms around her neck. “Mhm,” you hummed, not hearing a word of what she’d said. You were too busy staring at her adoringly, admiring the way her lips moved when she talked. They were the perfect shape, and so, so kissable. You reached to trace over her cupid’s bow lightly with a fingertip, which made her grin widen a bit beneath your touch. “You have pretty lips,” you told her, because it was important that she knew.

“Wow,” she said, her brows raising a bit in amusement. Her big hands came up to grip your waist firmly. “You are…”

“Beautiful? Hot? Gorgeous? Stunning?” you offered, grinning widely.

“I was going to say hammered,” she finished. “But all those other things, too.” At this, another giggle burst out of you, and those pretty lips of hers stretched into a wider grin. “You had fun, huh?”

“So much fun.” You leaned your head against her chest for a moment, closing your eyes. She smelled like the pine soap she religiously used. “Manny brought whiskey,” you added in a false-whisper.

You felt her huff a laugh, and imagined her rolling her eyes. “Oh, so I have him to thank for this, do I?” When you didn’t move after a solid few seconds and remained like that, head pressed to her chest contentedly, she patted the small of your back encouragingly, like one would a stubborn child. “‘Kay, let’s get you to bed, hm?”

You let out an exaggerated groan, your grip on her tightening possessively. “But I came here to see you.” You craned your head back a little to look at her, giving her a little pout. “You don’t wanna see me?”

“I always want to see you,” Abby said in a placating tone. She leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead before subtly maneuvering you over to the door and fumbling with the lock, one-handed. “You can crash here for the night. That way you can wake me up if you start puking your guts out or something.”

When she got the door open you finally relinquished your hold on her, bracing a hand against the frame a little unsteadily. “Can you walk?” she asked, her hand remaining lightly on the small of your back until you assured her you could.

The room was dark, and in your already-inhibited state, your sense of balance was more than a little off-kilter. You half-leaned against the wall, kicking lazily at the shoe rack in a poor attempt to get your boots off as Abby locked the door and began shrugging her bag and shoes off behind you. Your efforts were hopeless; with a sigh of frustration, you bent over to reach your laces. As you did, you promptly felt the ground tilt beneath you—the next moment, you were on the floor. You had hardly registered that you'd fallen until Abby was looming over you.

“Shit. You okay?”

“Fuck—yeah, m'fine. Are you laughing at me?” You had rolled onto your back, and could now make out the clear amusement on her face as she held a hand out to help you up. Her lips were fighting to control her obvious grin, and her shoulders were shaking slightly. “Shut up!”

“I’m not laughing at you, babe.”

“Yes you are!” you said indignantly, ignoring her offered hand and aiming a playful kick at her legs.

“No, no. I promise. There’s nothing remotely funny about you falling on your ass.”

Abby had momentarily given up on helping you up and had instead crouched by your feet, beginning to undo your boots for you as you lay sprawled on the ground. Your arms were stretched above your head, and you stared blearily up at the dark ceiling, thinking to yourself that the floor was actually pretty comfortable.

“I could have hit my head and died. Then you wouldn’t be laughing.”

“A trained soldier who fights infected, dying of a fall while piss drunk. What a way to go," Abby mused, tugging off your second boot and tossing it aside. Then she sat back on her heels, watching you with a look of mingled amusement and affection.

“And as my dying wish, I’d ask that my girlfriend would stop making fun of me in my last moments."

"Uh-huh," Abby agreed, humouring your drunken rambling. She patted your leg, then rose up to lean over you, reaching for your arm again. “Okay, come on. Up you go.”

Too out of it to protest, you obediently gave her your arm and let her tug you to your feet. Your limbs felt heavy and floaty with both the alcohol and sleepiness, and so you allowed her to lead you to the bed and press a cup of water to your lips; you took a few swallows before flopping back against the mattress unceremoniously.

Soon Abby was tucked in behind you beneath the covers, her arm draped over your torso and holding you against her. You could feel her warm breaths against your neck, slowed and deep. Oncoming sleep pulled at your heavy limbs as you snuggled closer into her embrace.

"Abby?" you murmured quietly, wondering if she was still awake.

"Hm?"

"Are you sleeping?"

"About to be." Her voice was a low mumble in your ear.

There was a short pause in which you listened to her breathing, felt the rise and fall of her chest against you. Then, "Abby?"

"Mm."

"You smell good."

"Do I?" she breathed a quiet chuckle. You could tell by the softness of her voice that she was just barely awake. "You been smelling me?"

"Yeah, but not on purpose." You yawned. Considered for a second. "Well... sometimes on purpose."

"Weirdo."

"'s not weird. I can't help it." Another pause. This time, a full few minutes passed. "Abs."

"Mhm."

"Do I smell good?"

"Do you smell good?" You let out a short hum. "Yeah, you do. You smell like strawberries."

"See? You smell me too," you pointed out triumphantly. Or as triumphant as you could manage to sound for being half-asleep. "Weeirdo."

You felt the breathless laugh against your neck, felt her lips curl into a soft smile. She gave you a small, tight squeeze. "Sleep."

[sungchoi]

The View .

pairing: kim hongjoong x fem!reader

synopsis: one lingering touch from your old friend and hongjoongs patience snaps. He pulls you aside, leaning in close. "You really like to push me, huh?"

genre/warnings: est. relationship, smut, fingering, dirty talk, swearing, unprotected sex (always wear protection!), mirror sex, teasing

wc : 3k

It’s the day of your friend's wedding. You and Hongjoong arrived not too long ago, greeting everyone as you made your way to your reserved table.

Once you’re settled in, a sudden craving for something sweet hits you. Since the food service hasn’t started yet, you figure there’s no harm in sneaking a little treat.

Leaning in so Hongjoong can hear you better, you say, “Hey Joong, I’m gonna run to the food bar real quick to grab something,”

Hongjoong glances over at you with a teasing smile, “Alright, don’t be gone too long. Try not to spoil your appetite before dinner.”

You giggled, pushing your chair in as you stood. “No promises.”

As you make your way over to the food bar, warm lights shine over neat rows of desserts. Mini cupcakes, chocolate-covered strawberries, and pastel macarons catch your eye. They were all too tempting to ignore. You grab a small plate and begin picking a few favorites, trying your best not to go overboard. 

Just as you’re reaching for a cupcake, you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“Well, I didn’t think I’d be seeing you here.”

You pause and turn around, your eyes widen slightly as you take in the familiar face.

“No way,” you exclaimed with surprised laughter “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Standing there is an old friend, someone you were close with in highschool, and maybe had a fling with, before life eventually pulled you in different directions. They’ve changed just enough for you to notice, but they still carry that same familiar energy.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” they say, grinning. “You look incredible.”

You feel a flush rise to your cheeks, whether from the compliment or the sudden spark in the air. “You too. I didn’t know you knew the bride and groom.”

“Groom’s my cousin,” they say with a shrug, picking up a chocolate truffle. “You?”

“Bride’s a longtime friend,” you reply, holding up your plate. “And apparently I still can’t resist the dessert table.”

“Same,” they say, plucking a strawberry from a platter. “But I think I might’ve found something sweeter.”

You laugh, a little flustered but playing it off as you look away, turning your attention back to your plate.

You can feel the buzz of that brief connection linger; that old rhythm clicking back into place. Sweet and nostalgic.

As you start to say your goodbyes, they lean in slightly, placing a hand on your arm, just a light touch, but stays a second too long.

“It was really good seeing you again,” their eyes begin searching yours. “Maybe we’ll get a chance to catch up properly later?”

You offer a polite smile, trying to ignore the familiar warmth of their fingers on your skin. “Maybe. Enjoy the wedding!”

They finally pull back with a knowing grin, and you turn, walking back to your table with the dessert plate in hand.

As you approach the table, you find Hongjoong already watching you. His posture relaxed, but his gaze sharp, focused. Tracking. He doesn’t say anything until you sit down beside him.

“Took your time,” he remarks casually, but the edge in his tone doesn’t quite match the softness of his smile.

You glance over at him. “Ran into someone I used to know.”

His brow lifts slightly. “That so?”

You nod, setting the plate down. “Old friend. Haven’t seen them in years.”

Hongjoongs eyes flicker towards the food bar, where your friend is still hovering nearby. He doesn’t say anything right away, but the silence stretches just long enough to feel noticeable. Then, he shifts closer, one hand slipping onto your thigh under the table, gentle, but firm.

“You seemed pretty cozy,” he says quietly, voice low enough for only you to hear.

You turn your head toward him, heart skipping at the closeness. “It was just a hello. Nothing more.”

“Didn’t look like nothing,” he murmurs, his hand giving your leg a slow, deliberate squeeze. “You sure about that?”

The playfulness in his voice is still there, but its tinged with something deeper—protectiveness, maybe.

You smile faintly, placing your hand over his. “Joong, I’m sitting here with you. That should tell you everything you need to know.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s weighing the truth of your words. Then, his hand slides upward just a little, fingers brushing along the edge of your dress, leaning in close, lips nearly brushing your ear.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I don’t like sharing.”

A subtle thrill runs through you at the low, teasing threat in his voice. And yet, beneath it, there’s tenderness too. The way his hand stays curled around yours under the table, the way his thumb draws soft circles against your skin.

𝜗𝜚

Speeches began as soon as everyone received their food; passing with soft music, laughter, and clinking glasses.

Every now and then, you’d feel Hongjoongs hand rest on your leg, subtle yet possessive.

By the time the speeches are done, the dance floor begins to fill. Hongjoong leans over to whisper something in your ear, his lips brushing your skin just enough to make your breath catch.

Your old friend shows up again, grinning, clearly tipsy, strolling toward you with that same overconfident charm.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” flashing a smile that lingers a little too long. “Dance with me?”

You pause, then glance at Hongjoong out of the corner of your eye. He’s watching quietly, his fingers curled loosely around his drink. Calm. Still. But not blinking.

You smile sweetly at your friend. “Sure, why not?”

As you stand, you catch the subtle shift in Hongjoongs jaw.

On the dance floor, your friend wastes no time getting closer. Hand settling just a little too high on your waist, thumb brushing over the exposed skin on your back. You feel it. Letting it happen. Maybe even lean in a little more than necessary when they whisper something in your ear, laughing lightly like you don’t notice their fingers sliding along your spine.

You’re fully aware of how close you are. Of the eyes watching you from across the room.

Especially his.

And when your friend’s hand slips lower, you don’t flinch. Instead, you turn your head just enough that Hongjoong see’s the smirk tugging at your lips.

He sets his drink down.

Stands.

Moves.

You don’t even have time to pretend to be surprised before he’s behind you, his arm sliding smoothly around your waist.

“Mind if I steal my date back?” not even glancing at your friend.

You give him a slow smile, your voice soft and teasing. “Steal away.”

Hongjoong’s hand stays firmly on your waist as he leads you away, steering you with effortless confidence across the dance floor, down the hall, and away from the crowd. The moment you’re out of view, he stops, backing you into the wall with a low, amused breath.

“You think I didn’t notice that little game?” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear before he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

You tilt your head, eyes bright. “What game?”

A slow, dark smile crawls across his face. “Don’t play dumb, baby. You wanted to see how far I’d let it go.”

“And?” trailing your fingers up his chest slowly.

He leans in, his nose brushing against yours. “I think you forgot who you belong to.”

Before you can even respond, his mouth crashes into yours. Hungry. Rough. Possessive. The kiss steals the breath from your lungs, leaving no room for questions about who’s in control now. His hands roam your sides, sliding over your hips, like he’s claiming you all over again, grounding you to him as he explores you with his hands.

He doesn’t stop.

He laces your fingers with his and pulls you into a nearby room that’s dimly lit and quiet, the reception noises muffled by the thick door he locks behind you. The second it clicks shut, he pushes you gently against the wall, with one hand curling around your thigh to hoist it around his waist.

His lips find your neck, biting, a gentle suck, and tasting.

“You really like to push me, huh?” he mutters into your skin.

Your only response is the way your hips roll forward, meeting his with a teasing grind that earns a low growl deep inside him.

That’s all he needed. His mouth finds yours again, more desperate this time, while his hands move to slide up your legs, your sides, exploring like he wants to memorize every inch of you. The room seems to grow warmer, smaller, almost like it’s holding its breath for the two of you.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your mouth, “How hard it was to sit there and pretend I wasn’t losing my mind.”

“Seeing the way they looked at you, like they had a chance. Touched you like they didn’t know any better. But I’m the one you always come back to.”

You nod, fingers gripping his jacket. “Only you.”

His jacket comes off, your fingers tugging at his shirt like it’s muscle memory. There’s zero awkwardness or pause. Just two people who are all too familiar with one another. Two people who have been holding back for too long. Every touch is bold, every kiss is fiery.

And when he finally whispers your name against your skin, low and breathless, it’s not just possessive, but almost reverent. Like he’s reminding both you and himself that you’re his. Fully.

You barely register it when he lifts you with ease, carrying you across the room. He sets you in front of a full-length mirror tucked into the corner, the soft lighting casting a golden glow on both your reflections.

You look up, the sight of the two of you nearly takes your breath away. His dark eyes locked into yours, hands trailing down your sides, lips softly kissing your shoulder.

“Keep looking,” he murmurs, the husky timbre of his voice dripping in raw desire. “I want you to see how beautiful you look when you fall apart for me.”

He moves behind you, gently urging you to part your legs, spreading just enough for the both of you to watch as his fingers slide between your thighs.

“Look how wet you are already, baby,” he groans, slowly dragging his fingers up and down your slit, spreading the slickness teasingly. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this.”

The mirror shows every little quiver, every soft gasp as he circles your clit and keeps you on that edge, but not giving it to you yet, still playing with you, still holding back. You squirm under his touch, already desperate from the teasing he’s been giving you all night. He knows what he’s doing, no doubt, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the mirror, watching his fingers dance between your legs.

Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, his fingers push into you, slow and deliberate, pulling a moan from your throat.

Your body jolts slightly as the pressure is a delicious shock, and he pauses there, letting you adjust. His gaze meets yours in the mirror again, dark and steady. He starts to move his fingers at a maddening pace, not fast, just deep. Every drag makes you tremble even more, your legs threatening to give out.

You try to grind your hips against his hand, yearning for more, but he tsks softly tightens his hold around your waist, keeping you still.

“You’ll have to beg for it, princess,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. “Say it. Tell me what you want.”

The look in his eyes leaves no room for denial. He wants to hear it, he wants to own it. Your mouth falls open, the need making your voice shaky as you finally give him what he wants.

“Please,” You whisper, your breath catching in your throat as he curls his fingers just right inside of you.

He doesn’t move yet, he just watches you in the mirror, one brow raised, waiting.

You swallow, heat pooling in your core. “Please, Joong. I want more… I want you.”

A dark smile tugs at his lips, pleased with your surrender. “There she is.”

Without another word, he moves. His fingers pick up pace, thrusting deep and slow; then fast and shallow. He never made it easy, he kept you guessing and kept you on the edge. 

Your reflection shows everything. The way your thighs tremble, slick glistening on his fingers, the helpless part to your lips every time he brushes your sweet spot just right.

Your head tipped back, but he caught your chin and tilted it forward again.

“No,” he growls softly, mouth close to your ear. “Don’t look away. Watch yourself come apart for me.”

And you do.

The wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of you are filthy, echoing faintly in the quiet room. Your moans come faster, louder, your legs buckling as the intensity builds, but his arm is there, holding you close, his presence a steady force behind your unraveling.

“Such a mess,” he whispers against your neck, his breath warm. “You love it, don’t you? Love watching yourself like this.”

You nod desperately. “Y-Yes, fuck, I—“

He cuts you off with a sharp curl of his fingers, and your body practically jolts. Your hands fly to the mirror for balance, leaving a foggy print on the glass as your thighs shake with need.

Then, just as you think he’s going to take you over the edge, he stops.

Your body cries out in frustration, hips rolling against him uselessly as he pulls his fingers out with a wet sound. You whimper, broken, aching, turning to face him.

But Hongjoong merely smirks, slowly bringing his slick fingers up to his mouth, sucking them clean, never breaking eye contact.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

And in the mirror, you see it. the shift. The way his patience snaps, and desire takes control. He’s not teasing anymore. He’s about to ruin you.

He turns you gently but firmly, bending you forward just far enough to press your palms flat against the mirror, your body arched perfectly for him.

Behind you, you hear the sound of his belt unfastening, the slow, deliberate, unzip of his pants, and it shoots another wave of heat through your already aching core.

“Keep your eyes on yourself,” his voice a sultry blend of velvet and fire. “I want you to see exactly how good I fuck you.”

You barely manage a nod before you feel the thick press of him at your entrance. Your breath hitches, your eyes lock with his one last time before he thrusts in, all the way.

Your gasp turns into a moan, loud and wanton, as he fills you completely, offering you no time to adjust. His hands grip your hips tightly, grounding himself as he begins to move; deep, rhythmic strokes that rock your body forward with every thrust.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groans, watching the way your mouth falls open, the way your breasts bounce with each movement, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the room. “So tight. So fucking perfect. Made for me.”

Your legs tremble under the intensity, but he’s right there, one hand sliding from your waist to between your legs again, fingers finding your clit and circling mercilessly.

“You’re gonna come for me just like this,” he says lowly into your ear. “Bent over, dripping, looking like the prettiest little mess.”

Your cries get louder, your body tensing, the overwhelming mix of pressure and pleasure building fast. It gets rougher, more deliberate, each stroke angled to hit that perfect spot deep inside you.

You grip the mirror, breath fogging the glass, whimpering as climax crests hard and fast.

“Joong—fuck—I’m—!”

“Let go, baby.” he growls. “Come for me. Show me.”

The orgasm rips through you, leaving you shaking, moaning his name like a prayer. Your thighs quiver, your knees nearly buckling, but he holds you through every wave, never stopping, fucking you with slow, dragging thrusts that draw it out beautifully.

He followed not long after, the tight pull of your body around him was too hard to resist. He buries himself deep with a guttural moan of your name, spilling inside you as his hand tangles in your hair and his mouth presses to your shoulder.

Hongjoong holds you there for a moment longer, his lips leaving slow, featherlight kisses along your cheek and jaw as your breathing evens out. His hand rubs gentle circles on your back, grounding you, coaxing you down from the high with every soft word and touch.

Then, gently, he pulls out, hands smoothing across you while he turns you around and brings you into his arms.

“Too much?” he whispers, voice lower now, laced with something tender.

You shake your head, dazed and blissed-out, letting your arms wrap around his neck. “No. Not even close.”

He chuckles softly, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes warm now, full of affection. “Come here,” he says, guiding you over to the nearest couch.

You sit with him, legs draped over his lap, he grabs a small cloth from a side table, dampening it with water from a chilled bottle he finds.

The soft care in his movements as he cleans you up, as he straightens your outfit and smooths your hair, is a stark but comforting contrast to the chaos of a few minutes ago.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, and for a while you just rest, bodies tangled, breathing synced, the low hum of music from the reception muffled through the walls.

Eventually, he glances at the door. “We should probably get back before someone sends a search party.”

You both share a quiet laugh, reluctant to move, but he stands first and reaches for your hand, helping you to your feet. Together, you do a quick once-over in the mirror, adjusting clothes, fixing your hair, smoothing any lingering signs of what just happened.

He gives you one last look, a mischievous little smile playing on his lips. “We look… decently innocent.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Let’s just not walk too fast.”

[itsnesss]

𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞... 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠? | oscar piastri × fem!reader

summary | you find yourself spending time with oscar during a race weekend. what starts as casual coffee and small talk quickly turns into something deeper

warnings | oward!reader, fluff, slow burn, romance, light angst, kissing

word count | 1.3 k

🖇️ more op81 🖇️ f1 masterlist

The circuit breeze blows strong as you walk through the paddock, the pass around your neck bouncing with every step. You’re wearing the McLaren jacket your brother gave you that morning—way too big, but oddly comforting. Mechanics rush past, and you wave at a few you know by name. Being Pato O’Ward’s sister, the reserve driver, has given you kind of a VIP pass into the world of F1, even if you don’t race or work on anything technical. You’re just here for him.

And for someone else.

"Hey," a soft, familiar voice makes you turn instantly.

Oscar.

He’s got that half-smile that somehow lights up his entire face. His race suit is tied around his waist, his hair messy like he just took off his helmet. You look at him, trying to seem casual, though you know your cheeks are already burning.

"Hi," you reply, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket to hide the nerves. "How was practice?"

He shrugs, downplaying it. But you already know he had a good session—you were watching from the stands. You always do.

"Pretty good. Still a bit unstable through the fast corners," he says. "But… I didn’t come to talk about that."

You raise an eyebrow, pretending to be surprised.

"No?"

Oscar steps a bit closer. You’re both standing in the shadow of a trailer, away from the noise. He’s got that calm look again, the one that throws you off because it feels like he sees right through you.

"No. I came to find someone who promised to bring me a coffee after practice."

You nudge his arm playfully, laughing.

"That was yesterday! I didn’t promise anything today."

"Hmm, sounds like an excuse." He leans in slightly. "But I’ll forgive you if you come with me now."

You bite your lip without realizing it. There’s no reason to say no. You don’t want to.

"Fine, but only if you’re paying."

Oscar lifts both hands in surrender.

"Deal."

The coffee in the paddock isn’t exactly great, but being next to him makes it taste like heaven. You walk together, joking around, talking about random things at first—the weather, how uncomfortable the race suit is, how your brother won’t stop insisting you try karting.

But then, the conversation shifts.

"You know," Oscar says as you stir your drink with a straw, "I sometimes forget you’re here because of Pato. I forget you’re his sister."

You glance up, a little surprised.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

He smiles softly.

"A good thing. A really good thing. Because when I’m with you, I don’t think of you as ‘my teammate’s sister.’ I just think of you as… you."

There’s a pause. Not awkward—just full of something more… weighty. Sweet.

"And what exactly am I?" you ask with a teasing smile, gentler than you normally allow yourself to be.

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay on yours. Sometimes, he seems so quiet, so reserved—but then he has these moments where he says everything with just a look.

"Someone I really like," he answers, simply.

Your heart flips. It’s the first time he’s said it so clearly. You always knew—in the way he gravitates to you after every session, in how he looks for you in a crowd—but hearing it… it’s different.

"I really like you too," you say, the words slipping out more shakily than you intended.

Oscar lowers his gaze for a moment, trying to hide the smile blooming on his lips. Then, he lifts a hand and places it gently over yours, resting on the table.

"I’m glad to hear that."

You spend the rest of the afternoon walking around the paddock like nothing else matters. You stop to watch the mechanics work on a car, sit in the empty stands as the sun begins to set, take silly selfies with ridiculous filters on your phone.

By the end of the day, Oscar walks you back to the trailer where you’re staying with Pato. Before you can step inside, he stops you with a gesture.

"Hey… before you go."

You turn to him. The warm orange light of sunset falls across his face, and for a moment, everything feels softer.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Can I see you tonight? After dinner. Just… you and me. No paddock. No racing. Just us."

Your smile grows slowly.

"I’d love that."

Oscar steps back, nodding, and just before leaving, he leans in. Your hearts beat in sync, faster now, and the world seems to pause when his lips brush yours. It’s a short kiss, shy… but filled with all the things left unsaid.

When you close the trailer door behind you, you’re smiling like a fool.

That night, you sneak out of the trailer with your hoodie up. Pato’s on calls, talking with engineers and sorting schedules. He doesn’t notice you leave. Maybe he suspects, but he doesn’t ask.

Oscar’s waiting by the back fence of the circuit, where no one else is around. He’s wearing a gray jacket, his hair still damp from a shower. Hands in pockets, calm expression.

"Ready to escape F1 for a bit?" he asks.

"More than ready."

Walking through the city with Oscar Piastri doesn’t feel like anything you’ve done before. It’s like discovering a whole new version of him. Outside the paddock, he laughs more. He talks about his family, his hometown, how sometimes it still feels like a dream driving those cars.

"What about you?" he asks as you walk along a canal. "Did you always know your brother would be a driver?"

You sigh, thinking about all the karting years, road trips, and weekends at forgotten circuits.

"Always. Since he was five and turned his tricycle into a race car with duct tape."

Oscar bursts out laughing, picturing it.

"Sounds like Pato."

"Yeah. But no one ever asked me if I wanted to be part of this world. I just… ended up here."

He stops and turns to you, that deep look back in his eyes again, like he’s trying to read you inside out.

"And do you like being here?"

"Now I do."

Oscar doesn’t say anything. He just takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. Your skin sparks at his touch. He keeps walking with you, in silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s peaceful. It’s enough.

After a while, you both sit on a bench facing the water. He leans back, and you rest your head on his shoulder.

"You make me feel like I can breathe," he says softly. "Like I don’t have to prove anything when I’m with you."

Your chest tightens. You turn to look at him.

"You don’t have to prove anything with me, Oscar."

He leans in and kisses you again. Deeper. More sure. Your hands clutch his jacket, his breath mingling with yours. When you pull back, your heart is in your throat.

"What is this?" you ask. "Are we… something?"

Oscar smiles and strokes your cheek.

"We’re you and me. That’s enough for me."

You laugh softly.

"That sounds like something out of a romantic movie."

"And did it work?"

"A lot."

The next day, you’re in the McLaren garage when Pato walks up to you, one eyebrow raised.

"Can I ask why Oscar hasn’t stopped smiling since this morning?"

You play dumb, staring at your phone.

"Uh, no idea? Maybe he had a good lap time. Or maybe someone brought him coffee."

Pato eyes you, suspicious. But he doesn’t say anything else.

And you, deep down, just smile.

Because what you have with Oscar is soft, like a song on a sunny day. Calm, like the ocean without wind. But also strong. Real. Unexpected.

And even if no one else knows it yet, you know this is more than the paddock. More than being someone’s sister or someone’s teammate.

This… is yours.

And his.

[crimsonvictory]

inspired by this

part 2

once again, he has you shocked, suggestive words makin’ your ears burn hot. you wring your hands in your lap, teeth tuggin’ on your bottom lip.

“c’mere,” he beckons, leaning back in your wooden chair.

you slowly push your chair back, nearly stumblin’ over your skirt as you stand up. you slowly walk over to him, nearly bumpin’ your hip on the wooden table. he spreads his legs, slouchin’ down to make himself comfortable. you nestle yourself inbetween, lookin’ down at the man sittin’ in your kitchen. your chest fills with emotion, lip wobblin’ at the thought of what you’d went through today.

“you saved me y’know? i was fit to be tied,” you murmur, a humorless laugh spillin’ out of your lips.

he looks up at you then, sharp eyes piercin’ your own. his brow is furrowed, as if in thought. his hand reaches out, thumb gently brushing the soft skin of your wrist. they’re a bit swollen from the ropes diggin’ earlier.

“y’want me to kill ‘em?” is all he asks, voice terse.

you gasp, hand reachin’ up to cover your mouth. conflicted, you don’t know which way to move your head. art and tommy - you’d been good to them their entire lives. and they way they treated you today. well…

no. you weren’t like that. daddy didn’t raise you that way.

“i’ll do it. no questions asked,” the cowboy says, “y’don’t treat a lady like tha’.”

the look in his eyes tells you he’s serious. they’re dark. but you can’t tell what emotion they hold. you wish you could see his face.

“i couldn’t ask you of that. don’t even know your name. can’t even thank you properly,” you scold softly.

“can think of a few ways,” he muses.

his eyes glitter mischievously. you’ve fallen right into his trap. open legs guiding you right where he wants. you can’t help the feelin’ of warmth floodin’ into your belly. his deep voice has your mind racin’, thinkin’ back to those thoughts when you were preparin’ supper.

“c’mere and sit pretty f’me,” he coos before tuggin’ on the skirt of your dress.

you stumble forward - spreadin’ your legs so you can straddle his lap. it stretches your hip flexors, burnin’ deliciously in your thighs. your skirt bunches up near your hips, the bottom of the fabric restin’ just above your panty line. you shift, feelin’ his cock twitch against your folds. his large hands slide up your bare thighs, a low whistle fallin’ from his lips.

"pretty thing."

the cowboy squeezes the plush of your thighs, long fingers curlin' around the fat that collects there. his touch causes a shiver to run down your spine. turnin’ slightly, he stretches behind you, right hand reachin' out to grab his hat from the arm of your kitchen chair.

"'ya heard of the hat rule?" he asks.

the question sobers you up. you blink a few times, confusion etchin' itself on your pretty features. you try and think for a moment - a little hard when you're sittin' on the lap of a very eager cowboy. he's snakin’ his hand closer to your clothed pussy, a soft hum leavin' his covered lips. you end up shakin' your head, not sure what he was referrin' to.

"no..." you murmur, glancin' at him for a moment.

he laughs then, eyes crinklin’ in pure delight.

“means ‘ya hafta ride the cowboy.”

you feel warmth churn in your belly, going straight to your soaked panties. surprise has your mouth fallin’ open in an “o”, not sure on what to say. was he pullin’ your leg? you’d never heard of anythin’ like this before. granted, you hadn’t really been with anyone. jus’ waitin’ on the right one.

and lo and behold, you have one sittin’ right below you. handsome, rugged - but in the good way. eyebrows restin’ lower on his face, furrowed in anticipation as he awaits your answer. dark eyes flittin’ around your features, dippin’ down to glance at the valley between your breasts.

“oh, well. i am a rule follower,” you joke, laugh ringin’ out like a summer bell.

it pleases him. a soft squeeze to your side confirms. the cowboy leans up and places his hat on your head, the brim tipped up so you can still see. it smells of him - a tinge of sweat from hotter days, gunpowder, and a hint of his cologne. smells like a musk - heavy, clings to your nose.

“alrigh’,” he starts, thumb and forefinger squeezin’ your chin, openin’ your pouty lips.

the cowboy leans up, pullin’ his handkerchief out of the way to steal a quick kiss. a press of his lips to your own. they’re a bit chapped, but soft. your eyelids flutter closed at the sensation. you feel him twitch against your thigh, large hand slidin’ up your jaw to cup your face as he deepens the kiss. you allow him to take the lead, his tongue expertly partin’ your lips and explorin’ your mouth. he tastes every inch of you, pantin’ hotly into your skin after he pulls away.

his large hands paw at your sides, scramblin’ to get your corset loose from your body. you help him, shimmyin’ it up and over your head, elictin’ a groan from him in the process. you blush at the desperate noise, the color burnin’ down your chest. grabbin’ at your skirt next, you stand momentarily to let it fall at your feet. a second later, you’re left in your underclothes - soft white cotton. your brassiere has the tiniest detail of lace, accentuatin’ your perky breasts.

they nearly spill out of the cups, soft flesh just beggin’ to be touched. the cowboy does just that. grabs a handful and gives a squeeeeze. you whine softly, archin’ up into his fingers. your nipples pebble, reactin’ almost immediately. he guides you back into his lap, large hand slidin’ up the side of your neck and into your hair.

“needy thing,” he coos. “almos’ like ya never even been touched before.”

“really haven’t,” you gasp out as he frees one of your breasts, rollin’ your nipple between the pads of his fingers.

“don’ believe that,” he huffs. “pretty doll like you?”

the cowboy leans forward, lips wrappin’ around the stiff peak of your nipple. you whine again, hot mouth givin’ you the attention you need. his other hand expertly rolls the other, pleasure spiraling down your legs. his thumb rests at your pulse point, feelin’ the rapid flutterin’ of your heart. like a bird in a cage.

“i-it’s the truth, sir,” you squeak, a gush of arousal makin’ your panties stick to your folds.

he hums, actin’ as if in thought. stays there for a moment before pullin’ back with a smug grin. he’s devastatingly handsome. crooked nose, plush lips, scar splittin’ the upper portion of it. you feel yourself clench around nothin’.

“ya know what i think?” he drawls, smugness written all over his face.

you stay still, pantin’ softly as his eyes slowly trail down your form. lazily glidin’ down to your soaked panties and back up again. his thumb reaches out to brush over your clothed clit, the bundle of nerves sendin’ shockwaves down your legs.

“i think…” the cowboy says, clickin’ his tongue against his teeth as he drags it out. “ya did this on purpose. wanted someone to come fill ya up real good. tied yourself up and hoped you’d get help.”

you shake your head quickly, nearly makin’ yourself dizzy.

“n-no sir! i swear-“ you sniff, tears nearly springin’ up in your eyes, makin’ your vision blur. “i’m not lyin’. pa didn’t take kindly to liars.”

he clicks his tongue again, pressin’ his thumb against your clit again, revelin’ in watchin’ you squirm against him.

“say, you are tellin’ the truth,” he starts, voice droppin’ down a notch. “you never been with someone who’ll make you come, huh?”

you shake your head timidly.

“ah, poor doll. no wonder you’re all pent up,” he mocks before grabbin’ your hip meanly.

he glides your soaked folds over the tent of his pants, harsh fabric pressin’ in an overstimulating way.

“ohhh,” you moan, bitin’ into your plush lip.

you grab onto his broad shoulder, revelin’ in the pleasure that pools in your gut. goosebumps prickle along your skin, elictin’ a shiver down your spine.

“gonna make you feel good,” the cowboy drawls, pullin’ your panties to the side.

the cold air has you shiverin’ again. he whistles lowly, your pussy glistenin’ in the dim light. the cowboy slides two thick fingers through your folds, admirin’ the way your slick clings to them. he brings them up to his mouth, wrappin’ his lips around to give them a taste.

he groans appreciatively, eyes flutterin’ shut for a moment.

“ya gonna take me like a good girl,” he says, tone of voice almost demandin’.

he slides his fingers down to your flutterin’ hole. the pads slowly pressin’ you open. it’s a bit unfamiliar, it’s been a long time. your own fingers feelin’ different than his own. the cowboy’s slow with his movements, flexin’ his fingers a bit once they’re down to the second knuckle.

“tha’s it. open up for me,” he praises.

you feel yourself clench at his words, arousal leakin’ down his wrist. the cowboy laughs, dick twitchin’ against his trousers.

“soakin’ wet. greedy. look at her. takin’ me so well.”

your belly flips at the praise, burnin’ hot pleasure that feels good. he slides his fingers back before pushin’ them back in your wet cunt. it takes his fingers so easily, the sound of your arousal takin’ up your shared space.

you moan, eyes rollin’ as he curls his fingers, brushin’ against your sensitive spot. you feel your toes curl, blindin’ hot as pleasure punches the air out of your lungs.

“oh fuck, you comin?” he asks, incredulous. “barely touched ya doll.”

your cheeks blaze with shame, legs tremblin’ as pleasure burns through your limbs. your hips stutter, chasin’ his fingers as the cowboy pumps them in and out of your hole.

“‘m sorry,” you whine pathetically.

music to his fuckin’ ears. the aftershocks have you tremblin’ in his lap. the cowboy slowly pulls his fingers back, leavin’ you feelin’ empty. a frown pulls your lips down.

he places hot kisses on your skin, nippin’ at your shoulder.

“uh uh, pretty girl. no apologizin’.”

the cowboy picks you up as he stands, holdin’ you close as he clears a spot on your kitchen table. he lays you back against the cool wood, the material feelin’ good on your overheated skin. your hand reaches up to keep the cowboy’s hat on your head. he slides his hand down to his zipper, pullin’ his large cock out. it bounces up toward his belly, dark curls at the base. you notice it lightly curves to the right, thick veins and wide girth havin’ you second guess.

“you’re big,” you state blatantly, eyes wide.

“it’ll fit,” he assures, wrappin’ his fingers around the base.

your panties are roughly pulled to the side and he taps the fat head against your folds. the soft “thwap, thwap, thwap” makin’ him groan. the cowboy slides through, gatherin’ slick to rub alongside his cock, makin’ it easier to slip inside. you tense, worry overtakin’ your thoughts.

“relax f’me, doll.”

his deep voice rumbles around in the barrel of his chest, gravely from misuse. the head of his cock pressed against your hole, bullyin’ its way inside. the slick of your arousal helps, but it’s still a stretch. you claw at his arms, useless as he presses on. your tremblin’ - nearly passin’ out with how full you feel.

“there we go,” he coos. “told ya you could take it.”

a sharp laugh leaves his lips. he pets the side of your face roughly, tappin’ his fingers against your cheek.

“be a good girl an’ take it,” he grunts, slowly pullin’ back before slammin’ back in.

you cry out, the noise comin’ from the air punched from your lungs. it’s a delicious explosion of pleasure, his thick cock draggin’ against your sensitive walls. you feel so fuckin’ full. never have you felt like this. stretched thin, gaspin’ and achin’ with each thrust.

the burnin’ goes away after a few minutes, pure lust foggin’ your brain. makes you go all plumb. you arch up into his touch, wantin’ more and more.

“oh please mister,” you moan, “more. more. more.” you repeat like a mantra.

he pushes your knees up towards your chest, draggin’ his cock out before slammin’ back into your cunt. the squelchin’ of your arousal fallin’ on deaf ears as he pulls moans from you.

“such a needy thing. fuckin’ pitiful.”

“needed my cock, didn’ ya?”

“lookatcha, fuckin’ dumb on it, huh?”

you feel that familiar pleasure lick at your spine, whinin’ as it gradually builds. you don’t want it to be over just yet. tears formin’ in your eyes.

“please don’t leave,” you gasp out, eyes rollin’ back as he bullies your cervix.

the cowboy’s hips falter at your words, pussy clenchin’ him tight as he fucks into you.

“fuuuuck,” he groans. “can’t be talkin’ like that.”

he fucks you through another orgasm, walls tremblin’ with aftershocks. you squeeze tightly, milkin’ him for all he’s got. a few thrusts and he spills hotly into you, a low growl leavin’ his lips.

“christ,” he says through gritted teeth. “fuckin’ perfect.”

you laugh weakly, thighs achin’ from bein’ stretched around his own. he slowly pulls out, a whine leavin’ your lips at the emptiness. the cowboy grabs a towel from the table, wipin’ you off before slowly grabbin’ your hand and pullin’ you up into a sittin’ position.

“there’s another thing you get for ridin’ a cowboy,” he says.

“what’s that?” you ask.

he flicks the brim of his hat with his thumb and forefinger before pluckin’ it off your head.

“his name.”

a small smile forms on your face. you wait in anticipation, bitin’ down on your kiss bitten lips.

“it’s simon.”

“simon,” you say quietly, rollin’ the word on your tongue. “suits you.”

a moment of silence falls between the two of you. sharin’ the same space. your chests rise and fall in synch. mundane.

a thought passes your mind, genuine curiosity bubblin’ up. debatin’ on whether you should ask or not, you decide to. when you ask,

“you know anyone by the name of art or tommy?”

the smirk on his face tells you the answer.

@lillybunni

[featseungmin]

breathe || ksm

kim seungmin x reader

A little league game is the perfect opportunity to introduce your boyfriend to your family. Word Count: 3,212 Genre: fluff Notes: hints of tall!reader, American!reader, reader gets hit by a baseball Thank you to @eerieedits for the beautiful banner once again, and to @lovetaroandtaemin for beta-ing 💙💙

“Breathe.” You bump your shoulder into Seungmin’s lightly, your voice soft as you try to make him more comfortable. 

He’s been low-key freaking out since you invited him to the game. And you get it. Really, you do. A last-minute little league game isn’t the most conventional place to meet your girlfriend’s family. Most people do dinner. A casual outing. Maybe a nice cookout.

Not a last-minute invite to a 12-year-old’s home opener when you just happen to be in the area on a mini-vacation.

Seungmin laughs and squeezes your hand, making a show of taking a deep breath. “I’m not nervous,” he declares, and you’d believe him if you didn’t know him so well.

“Sure.” You lean into him, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You have no reason to be. They’re gonna love you.”

It’s April, and it’s freezing, and you didn’t really pack the clothes to sit for two hours on metal bleachers. But you moved to Korea before your cousin started playing baseball, and you haven’t yet been able to watch him play. And Seungmin, bless him, had been so eager to agree when you’d told him about the game.

You stand in the gravel parking lot, waiting for your aunt and uncle to come find you. You can tell Seungmin’s nervous just based on how he’s standing. He’s got your hand shoved into the pocket of his hoodie in an attempt to be casual, but the way he’s bouncing up and down on his toes is a dead giveaway. It’s cute. He’s cute. 

When your aunt finally does find you, she greets Seungmin like he’s already family, hugging him right alongside you. You barely even have time to get his name out; she just pulls him right in. He practically squeaks in surprise, but otherwise, he doesn’t say anything, just returns the hug warmly. 

It’s sweet, how doe-eyed he is as your aunt leads you to where they’re sitting. “This isn’t what I was expecting,” he whispers, leaning in close. 

And truthfully, you don’t blame him. The field is small compared to the youth fields in Seoul, with only three sets of bleachers and a small, rickety concession stand. You aren’t even sure there’s a locker room, just the batting cages where the players for the upcoming game are congregated.

Your cousin sees you first, and even though you haven’t seen him in years, he’s the same kid you remember. Same dirty blond hair, lanky frame, crooked, doofy smile. He’s just taller. He launches himself at you, and you have to quickly separate yourself from Seungmin to avoid getting you both knocked over. 

“You’re here!” Braydon buries his face into your stomach, his deep blue hat pushing back off his head and falling into the dirt.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After a second, he pulls away and eyes Seungmin, who stands just off to the side. “Who’s the dude?” he asks flatly.

You can’t help but laugh. He’s so serious as he’s staring Seungmin down, even though he’s more than two feet shorter. It’s not even threatening–you don’t think he’s trying to be–more like he’s trying to size up this new person, get a read on him. But he’s 12 and doesn’t know much about people, so it comes out more like he’s giving your partner the stink eye.

Seungmin snorts, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Pretty big words for someone so short.”

“This is my partner, Seungmin.” You introduce him hurriedly, hooking your arm around his bicep. You aren’t really sure what else to say. You’ve never gotten to the point where you’ve wanted to introduce a partner to your family, let alone any from after you’d moved away. “He likes baseball, too.”

Your uncle offers a hand first. “Boomer.” He says it almost gruffly, as if the name isn’t entirely an inside joke. 

Seungmin looks at you, confused, and you whisper a soft, “Don’t ask.” before he leans forward and shakes your uncle’s hand. He shakes your aunt’s hand, too, when she introduces herself, even though she’s already hugged him. 

Braydon picks up his hat, eyes still narrowed at Seungmin. “What position?” He asks it like it’s an interrogation. And really, you suppose it is. For a 12-year-old, this might be the most important question your boyfriend could ever answer.

“Pitcher. You?”

“First base.”

“Nice. That’s a tough position.”

Your cousin nods. You get the sense that a test has been passed.

A man in his mid-30s shouts, and suddenly, all the boys milling about around you spring into action, jogging into the dugout. After a few moments, they all end up out on the field with their gloves and a bucketful of baseballs. Your uncle gestures toward the metal bleachers on this side of the fence.

“Mom and dad coming?” you ask as you slide onto the cold bench. You hope it sounds casual, though based on the way Seungmin squeezes your leg when he sits, you aren’t sure you’re successful.

Your aunt shakes her head. “Your dad had to work.”

You aren’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Thankfully, you don’t have much time to consider it. The PA system crackles to life, a familiar guitar melody floating out over the field. You laugh just as Seungmin’s head whips to look at you, confusion evident on his face. You have no idea why his song is playing, but you have a feeling your cousin is behind it.

“They all add two songs to the team playlist,” your aunt supplies helpfully from behind you. She continues, voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s been obsessed with the idea of a famous person in the family since you told us.”

“Kid’s got good taste,” Seungmin says, but there’s a slight pink to his cheeks and a shy smile on his lips.

It’s not even the bottom of the first by the time Seungmin starts to fidget. He’s never been able to sit still–his members make fun of him for it all the time–but this is the quickest you’ve seen him start to get antsy. At first, he drums on his knees along with the beat of the walk-up songs. He shifts his weight. First, forward, with his forearms on his knees. Then, back, holding onto the back of the metal bleachers to help him keep his balance. The old, weathered seats creak and groan every time he moves. He taps his toes against the footrest at particularly tense parts, moves his whole body to track the ball when it’s hit.

You slide closer, a little weary of blocking the view for your aunt and uncle behind you, but you curl in on yourself slightly and press closer into Seungmin’s side. He shifts slightly to accommodate you, the warmth of him more than enough to keep the chill of the wind at bay. You rest your arm across his thigh, hand brushing the inside of his knee, and almost immediately, he stops fidgeting, choosing instead to play with your fingers.

You know that, deep down, he’s nervous, even though your aunt and uncle have been unbelievably normal about meeting him, more than you’d expected, all things considered. But at the same time, he’s sort of always like this, a constant stream of energy bubbling just below the surface, begging to be released in some way. You’ve long grown used to the pacing, the tapping, the stretching. 

It’s sweet, how quickly he’s pacified by simply having your hand in his. Like a puppy with a favorite toy, he’s content to sit there, tracing your fingers, pressing his palm against yours, comparing the size of your hand to his own. After years of being together, he’s mapped your hands probably thousands of times. You wouldn’t be surprised if he knew the planes of both of yours better than he knew his own. Even now, his focus is rapt on the pitcher, but his fingers trace your knuckles like a worry stone.

He’s still through the top of the fifth inning, even though the game is mostly uneventful. Your cousin’s team isn’t great–more Bad News Bears than the Cubs, if you’re being honest. But they manage to keep the other team to two runs. 

“He’s pretty good,” Seungmin says after your cousin snags a ball out of the air. He cheers when Braydon rears back and rockets the ball toward home in an attempt to get the runner out. The catcher fumbles it, and the other team scores, but beside you, your partner beams. “Wicked throw!”

“He did some extra practice in the off-season,” your uncle explains. “He asked Santa for pitching lessons.”

You laugh. “They seem like they paid off.”

The inning switches over without much fanfare. It’s slow going, watching your cousin’s team stumble their way to success. The first batter–halfway through the lineup–walks without swinging once. The second one up manages to single, and he’s barely able to make it to first before the ball. Before the next batter makes it to the plate, the other team’s coach calls a time out and swaps their pitcher with their second baseman. 

The incoming pitcher warms up, and beside you, Seungmin starts to get restless again. He curls an arm around your own and pats your hand in time with the beat of the song playing over the loudspeaker. It’s some 80s song that you’re only vaguely familiar with. He lets out a soft ‘oof’ as the other pitcher launches a fastball right over the plate as he warms up. The smack of the ball against the leather of the catcher’s mitt echoes over the music.

“Kid’s good.” 

You hum in agreement. “He looks like a mini-you.”

“Oh?”

“Look at him. He’s like 80 percent leg.”

The laugh that bubbles out of him is melodic, if not a little crazed. The kid on the mound isn’t very tall, but he’s lithe and leggy and more or less what you’d imagine a pre-teen Seungmin would have looked like. 

“Braydon hates hitting off Cade,” your aunt says. “His dad teaches the pitching camp he went to.”

You turn to respond, leaning against Seungmin’s shoulder so that you can look at her properly. “He’s really good. Is his dad-”

The sharp ding! of ball meeting bat barely registers. You hear someone–a man, maybe the first base coach?–yell “Heads!” and beside you, Seungmin barely gets out a panicked “oh!” before the ball is over the fence. You feel it before you see it, a sharp thump against the bend of your knee. It stings, even through your jeans, the way leather on skin at a high velocity tends to do. 

You laugh.

Your aunt and uncle do, too. 

Because it’s ridiculous. You travel all the way around the world, come to one baseball game, and of course, you get hit by the first foul that flies over the fence. Ridiculous. 

Beside you, Seungmin looks at you like you got hit in the face instead of the fatty part of your leg. “You should pay more attention to the game,” he scolds, as if this wasn’t the first time in five innings that you looked away from the field. But his eyes are soft, and he reaches across you to gently prod at your knee. “Are you okay?”

“It’s fine. Barely even hurts.”

“Do you want me to go see if they have ice?”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s not that bad.”

“That was a heavy pitch.” His voice is low, soft. You know he’s worried. Even though his first instinct is always to scold, and to pick, and to grouse, he’s a worrier.

“Would it make you feel better to go get me ice?”

“I just don’t want it to swell. I can’t drive the rental car.”

“Okay, puppy.” You squeeze his hand. “Some ice would be great.”

Your uncle points off to the left, toward home plate. “They have it at the concession stand. It’s just a Ziploc baggie, but-”

“Ice is ice.” Seungmin kisses your temple quickly before sliding off the bleachers. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s not even 10 steps away when your aunt yanks you backwards so that you’re leaning against her legs. “He seems sweet.” She whispers it like it’s gossip, like you’re in high school and talking about a boy.

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool.” You grin.

It’s an understatement. Of course it is. But before you can elaborate, the crack of a bat draws your attention. It’s a solid bunt, and you cheer for the kid whose name you don’t know as he runs hard to first. The ball bounces into the alley between the center and right fielder and rolls its way toward the fence, leaving the other team to scramble backwards to retrieve it and get it in. Kid–whose name you can’t pick out from the cheering–jams his foot into the bag and rounds toward second just as the kid that had been on second hits home. The point ignites something in the dugout; you can see your cousin’s team jumping and screaming through the chainlink. 

Things calm down. The next batter comes up. There’s a kid on second and another on third. 

“So he’s good? We like him?” Your aunt questions, her hands back on your shoulders. “You’ve never let us meet anyone.”

“Yeah.” It’s soft, but you can’t really bring yourself to say it any louder. 

It’s been nearly two years, but even still, your relationship with Seungmin is still just that. Soft. Tender. Strong at the edges and goey in the middle like some of the best desserts. You could wax poetic, say how he makes you better, how you like to think that you’ve grown separately stronger by working together. 

That he’s somehow simultaneously made you realize why all of your–admittedly few–past relationships didn’t work out and ruined the entire male population for you forever.

That it doesn’t matter where you go, whether it’s on vacation or following him across the world from tour stop to tour stop–as long as he’s there, you can find a home anywhere.

You could tell her all of that. And maybe, someday, you will. Instead, though, you just nod. “He’s good. I think I’ll keep him. For a little while, at least.”

“He likes you,” Boomer says, eyes still on the field. His face is shadowed by the baseball cap he’s wearing, dark blue to match Braydon’s own, pulled low. 

“Yeah?” 

You don’t really need to hear him say it. You know Seungmin likes you. You know he loves you. But it’s nice to hear someone else recognize it. It’s nice to hear that it’s obvious, even to someone who doesn’t know your dynamic and doesn’t know him.

He nods, clears his throat, groans when the kid at bat swings on an above-the-shoulder pitch. “Hopefully you guys can find time to come around more.” 

“We miss you.” Your aunt squeezes your shoulders before getting distracted by the pitcher walking the hitter. “Good try, Harrison! Way to watch the ball!” she yells. 

And when her hands don’t immediately come back to rest on your shoulders, you lean forward.

It’s good timing, because Seungmin climbs back up into the bleachers. They clank and jump under his weight as he clambors over the two rows of seats. He settles on your other side now, the side you got hit on, and gently presses the bag of ice he’s retrieved against your knee. You take it from him, fingers curling around his own. 

“Your cousin was very worried about you,” he says, just as Braydon walks up to the plate.

“Yeah?” you question, your grip on his hand tightening. 

Bases are loaded. 

You don’t envy your cousin right now.

“He came running out of the dugout asking if you were the one that got hit.” Seungmin winces as Braydon whiffs on a high pitch. “I told him we’d have to amputate your leg.”

“You didn’t.”

He hums. “He said you’re lucky you didn’t get hit in the head. It would’ve knocked out what little brain you have left.”

“Did he really?” 

Honestly, you’d believe it. Your aunt and uncle raised him to be a sarcastic little shit in their image. Unfortunately, you don’t know if he really said it, or if Seungmin’s just being a menace.

Braydon swings on another high ball, and behind you, your uncle shouts. “Come on, B! Head on the ball.”

“We were chatting, too, while he was warming up,” Seungmin continues. “He’s nervous about the bases being loaded.”

You watch as the pitcher tosses one into the dirt at Braydon’s feet. Your aunt cheers behind you.

“Yeah? What’d you tell him?”

The pitcher prepares. You watch Braydon toe the dirt, adjust his grip on the bat, take a deep breath. The pitch comes hard and fast, a real heater right down the center. You squeeze Seungmin’s hand just as the bat cracks.

The ball travels in slow motion, a perfect arc through the air. The infielders don’t even try, it’s over their heads and behind them in an instant. The centerfielder starts to run in an attempt to back up his partner in right field. They run hard, tracking the ball back, back, back…

They hit the fence. The ball bounces into the grass on the other side.

You and Seungmin spring to your feet. The bag of ice plops to the pavement below. The roar that erupts, from the stands and from the dugout, is deafening. Seungmin’s arms wrap around you as you cheer together, jumping up and down in sync on the rickety bleachers. 

Braydon takes his time jogging around the bases. As he passes where you’re sitting, along the first base line, he sticks his index finger up in the air, twirling it in a circle like the cocky little shit that he is. A massive grin has taken over the entirety of his face. 

By the time Braydon makes it back to home plate, his entire team has poured out of the dugout. He stomps the plate and immediately is engulfed in a sea of helmet pats and team hugs. They’re all still screaming.

“Shit,” your uncle says once the cheering has died down. “Now I owe him $100.”

The game continues. Outs come quickly, and the inning ends without much more excitement. 

When the inter-inning music starts up, you’re met with another one of Braydon’s song choices. The staccato synth of “Chk Chk Boom” rings out across the field as the other team tosses around the ball. You and Seungmin laugh, and you shoot finger guns at him on-beat.

“What the fuck did you tell him in the dugout?” you ask, leaning close. 

You have no idea where the bag of ice has gotten to, but Seungmin’s hand still rests against your knee, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the lump that’s slowly forming there. 

He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “I just told him to breathe.”

[bbywriter]

one by one | c. sturniolo

masterlist

summary: a look into decorating your daughter’s room

pairing: christopher sturniolo x fem!reader

warnings: the use of mommy and daddy but like NOT in a kinky way<3 also idk how accurate this conversation is for a four year old but ik your baby w chris would be smart anyways

notes: one more blurb before i start school again tomorrow </3 this has been collecting dust in the drafts since this surprise came out.

word count: 1.3k

—

The ice dispenser was stubborn and got jammed a couple times, but finally, you managed and are now headed upstairs to your daughter’s room, hands full of bedroom makeover pick-me-ups. Three glasses of pepsi, two drinkable straight from the cup and the other topped with a pretty flower straw.

It’s the weekend and your day off from work, but you guys have been busy since the morning. Now that the pink paint on the walls has had the time to dry overnight, you and Chris have spent the past couple hours rearranging furniture and adding the final touches to your daughter’s room. Princess covers, a cozy mermaid lamp, and as per her request, sparkly star stickers.

When you make it back to the entrance of her room, you find the two of them exactly how you left them.

Chris is cross-legged in the middle of a fluffy heart shaped rug, leaning back on his hands as he watches your daughter who is sitting way too close to the wall. She presses a collage of pink stars to the surface in no particular order.

“Yesterday Ms. Claire gave me a gold star for my drawing,” your baby says mindlessly, tilting her head at the wall to figure out where to place the next sticker.

Chris gasps softly. “No she didn’t,” he replies. His tone is wondrous like he’s asking her to tell him more.

“Yeah. She said my drawing is perfect and she stuck it to my paper.” A boxy smile, the same as her dad’s, finds its way to her face. Her tiny voice is proud as can be.

“Perfect, huh? Bet you get a million of those stars a day then.”

A giggle almost escapes your lips when she nods smugly at Chris’s words. Like she knows, in fact, that she is perfect. You keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt their conversation.

“Yeah. More than all of these,” she claims, poking at each star on the wall one by one with her glittery finger.

Chris hums thoughtfully. "So can Daddy get a star then?"

Her finger freezes in the middle of the biggest star, her whole body pausing at the question. "Uhh," she says, voice serious in that very specific way only a four year old can manage. "But you only get stars if you’re perfect."

This time you can’t hold back your laughter. The sound draws both of their heads toward you, and you laugh even harder when you see Chris’s expression. His mouth has fallen open, still upturned at the sides, but his brows have pinched together in slight betrayal at her words.

“Baby that was a little mean,” you tease her, moving to set down the drinks on her night stand and sit next to her on the bed.

It’s clear from your daughter’s expression that she was genuinely just stating a fact, which somehow makes it even funnier. And Chris, of course, isn’t actually offended. But you still take the moment to say something you want her to remember.

"Daddy might not be perfect, but you don’t always have to be to get a star," you tell her, smiling gently as you brush a piece of hair out of her face. "That would make life way too hard, baby. Lots of times, you’re gonna get them for just trying your best."

She listens intently, her hands frozen in midair.

"I think Mommy would have zero stars if I had to be perfect all the time," you add, smiling at her.

She frowns slightly in confusion, thinking you’re still talking about the actual stickers. "I never even gave you any," she says.

You chuckle and scoot closer to her.

"No you haven’t," you grin. "And that’s the thing. Your stars aren’t always gonna be stickers. Just like mine aren’t—I have your dad instead." Her beautiful blue eyes grow wide, taking in your words. "And you," you finish, before attacking her chubby cheeks with wet kisses, your fingers tickling her sides until she’s a giggling, squirming mess.

From where he’s sitting on the floor, Chris can’t help but smile so big as he watches the both of you. Your words melt his heart and the sound of her giggles makes his chest swell; his entire world so happy together in each other’s arms.

Your daughter puts up with the tickling a little longer, then pushes weakly at your shoulders, laughter still bubbling out between breaths.

"Mommy stop," she giggles, her whole face lighting up.

You pester her for a couple more seconds before finally letting up, smiling so fondly at your baby as you squish her cheeks in your hands. “I just love you so much,” you tell her, “you’re so cute, oh my god.”

She sticks her tongue out at you, very reminiscent of her dad’s mannerisms, then giggles and pulls herself out of your hold to get back to her stickers. You place one more kiss to the top of her head and finally look back at Chris.

He’s watching you with the biggest grin on his face. You can’t hear his thoughts, but they’re sweet and so filled with love. You’re such a good mom, and she’s such a good kid, and he doesn’t know how he ever got this lucky.

You make your way to stand next to him. At his side, his hand slides around your hips as he leans his head into your thigh. Instinctively, you place your hand on the side of his face, running your thumb along his temple.

The moment is quiet as you admire the work of the room. The three of you are stuck in your own little worlds until Chris squeezes playfully at your bum to get your attention. You tsk at him.

“Chris,” you scold.

He laughs as he looks up at you, neck strained to see you from under the rim of his cap. “Sit down, baby, we’ve been moving all day,” he says.

You roll your eyes but listen anyway, fitting yourself beside him on the plush rug. Before you can get fully comfortable, you crawl forward on all fours to reach for the drinks on the nightstand. In the position you are in, you feel Chris pat your ass again.

“Yo can you stop?" you laugh, grabbing the glasses and returning to his side. You hand him his drink, but he doesn’t respond right away. He just smiles at you, soft and a little mischievous, like he’s about to say something—definitely dumb or inappropriate—but he stops himself.

Instead, after a moment, he finally replies with, "I love you."

You chuckle and shake your head at the words, but you still feel your chest warm. You glance over at your daughter making sure she’s distracted, and then flip his cap backwards, before placing a hand onto his jaw. You angle him towards you and there’s a second where you smile at each other, before you kiss him softly, then a little deeper.

“I love you, too,” you tell him against his lips.

—

Later that evening, as you get ready for bed, you giggle when you pull off your sweats.

"I must’ve sat on one of her stickers," you say, peeling a pink star off the butt of your pants.

Across the room, Chris tugs off his shirt and looks over at you, already smirking.

"No, I put that there," he confesses the earlier thought he never said out loud.

Your hands fall limp at your sides, the sticker dangling between your fingers. You tilt your head at him, silently asking ‘are you serious?’

Chris laughs at your expression and steps toward you. Before you can say anything else, he pulls you in by the hips, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Nothing more perfect than your ass," he says, grinning as he leans in close, "deserves a million stars in my eyes."

You laugh, half in disbelief, and toss the sweatpants straight at his face.

"You’re the weirdest person ever," you say, still grinning as he catches the pants one-handed and tugs you even closer.

—

a/n: i miss my future daughter</3 and i wanna be chris's wife</3

[berniceinthehouse]

Arcade date

Pairing: Gotak x GN!Reader

Genre: Fluff 🎀

Warnings: none, just teasing and soft moments

Summary: You wait for him outside the arcade, and he shows up late—with snacks and that smug little smile of his.

You were leaning against the wall outside the arcade, arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed—even though your phone said he was fifteen minutes late. Typical.

Then, finally, he showed up. Hoodie half-zipped, bag of snacks in one hand, the most unapologetic smirk on his face.

“Wow,” you said flatly. “Nice of you to show up.”

“I brought chips,” he replied, as if that made up for everything.

You took the bag anyway, muttering, “You’re lucky I was craving these.”

He leaned in a little, just close enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne. “You’re lucky I showed up at all. I almost stayed in bed.”

“Should’ve,” you shot back. “Would’ve saved me the trouble.”

He grinned. “Liar. You missed me.”

You turned away, cheeks warming, pretending to examine a crack in the sidewalk. “Whatever.”

Gotak just chuckled under his breath and bumped your shoulder lightly. “You’re so dramatic when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You are. It’s cute.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he suddenly grabbed your hand—just like that, no warning—and started pulling you toward the arcade entrance. His hand was warm, steady. You didn’t pull away.

“I got a handful of coins,” he said, proudly. “So prepare to lose in every single game.”

“Oh please, I’m gonna wipe the floor with you.”

“You say that now.” He looked back at you, eyes gleaming. “But we both know you let me win when I pout.”

You scoffed, but smiled.

The lights inside the arcade were flashing in every direction—neon blues, reds, greens—and the place smelled like buttered popcorn and cheap carpet. It was loud too, packed with clinking tokens and kids yelling, but none of that really mattered.

Gotak still hadn’t let go of your hand.

“Alright,” he said, tossing a coin up and catching it. “Let’s start with something easy so you don’t cry when I win.”

You scoffed. “You talk too much for someone who’s about to lose.”

“Ohhh,” he grinned. “Talk like that and you’re cute? Dangerous combo.”

You rolled your eyes but followed him to the racing games. He shoved two coins into the slot, plopped down in the driver’s seat next to you, and shot a side glance like he was already planning his victory speech.

“Don’t cry when I lap you,” he said, gripping the wheel.

“You wish,” you said, already buckling in.

The race started—and for the first few seconds, you were ahead. Gotak narrowed his eyes, leaning forward in focus. He bumped your car. You bumped his harder. He started fake yelling.

“You’re actually evil.”

You laughed. “Drive better then!”

He did win, but only by a fraction of a second. He pumped his fists like he’d won an Olympic gold. “Victory tastes like salt and broken dreams,” he announced proudly, holding a dramatic hand to his chest.

“Victory tastes like ego,” you said, but you were smiling.

Gotak slung an arm around your shoulders casually, like he’d done it a million times. “Alright. One more game. And if I win again… you owe me a prize.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What kind of prize?”

He leaned down just a little, smirk crooked. “Surprise me.”

You shoved him away with a laugh, but the way your heart jumped said maybe you wouldn’t mind losing again.

You both stood in front of the claw machine next, where a ridiculous number of tiny plushies sat in a jumbled heap. Gotak cracked his knuckles, looking way too confident.

“You’re not getting anything,” you replied, arms crossed. “These machines are rigged.”

You watched as he dropped a token in and gripped the controls like his life depended on it. The claw descended, wobbled, and somehow—by some miracle—actually grabbed a small pink dinosaur. It held on just long enough to drop it perfectly into the chute.

Gotak gasped. “Witness my power.”

You blinked. “No way. No freaking way.”

He picked up the plush and handed it to you with an exaggerated bow. “For you, my loser.”

You didn’t even think. You just stepped forward, grabbed his hoodie, and kissed him.

It wasn’t dramatic, not slow or planned—it was quick and flustered and warm. You pulled back just enough to see the stunned look on his face.

“That’s your prize,” you mumbled.

Gotak stood there for a second, eyes wide, blinking like someone had just reset his brain.

Then he grinned. “I was gonna ask for a soda. That was way better.”

You shoved the plush at him, already turning away to hide the way your face was heating up, but he followed close behind, bumping your shoulder, still grinning like an idiot.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice softer now. “Wanna lose again?”

[actuallybean]

Truth Hurts* | Part Two

When a witch curses you to spill the truth and nothing but the truth, your biggest secret slips—you're hopelessly, shamelessly into both Winchesters. Good news? They’re just as into sharing as you are. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, threesome with brothers Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester Part Three Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl @hail-brod @s1mplyl0vely @ladykitana90 @bitchyfestivalbouquet @jenniferpendragon Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The motel room smelled like rain-soaked leather and old takeout, and for once, it was a comforting scent. You were freshly showered, wrapped in a pair of sleep shorts and one of Dean’s old shirts—yours still damp from the storm—and curled up on the edge of the bed with a bottle of water clutched like it might save you from yourself.

Dean was stretched across the other bed, boots off, feet crossed, one arm behind his head like he didn’t have a care in the world. Sam sat at the small table near the window, typing away on his laptop, probably combing every obscure grimoire he could get his hands on.

But the real danger wasn’t the curse.

It was them.

The way they kept sneaking glances at you, like they were trying not to look too amused. Too curious. Like they were both quietly holding back a hundred questions and deciding which ones would make you squirm the most.

Dean grinned at you from his bed. “So. Just to recap… you ate my pie, sleep in my shirt, and lie about your coffee preferences. What else are you hiding, sweetheart?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Dean…”

“It’s for research,” Sam added innocently—though the way his lip twitched gave him away. “We should know the limits of the curse. Purely academic.”

“I hate both of you,” you muttered—and immediately followed with, “That’s a lie. I actually like you both too much and it’s becoming a problem.”

Dean choked on his beer. Sam looked like someone had just smacked him with a theology textbook.

You groaned. “God, I hate this. Can we not do the part where I become your personal truth jukebox?”

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying not to laugh. “C’mon. One more test. Nothing big. What’s your most embarrassing moment?”

“Nope.”

Dean grinned. “You have to answer.”

You threw a pillow at him. “I once tripped over my own feet in the middle of a salt circle, landed on my face, and knocked out a tooth. During a hunt.”

Sam blinked. “Was that the werewolf in Kansas?”

You nodded miserably. “Yeah.”

Dean was full-on laughing now. “Oh man, that’s why you wouldn’t talk to us for a day and a half?”

“Yep. Because I looked like a hillbilly jack-o’-lantern and you still tried to flirt with me while I was icing my face.”

Dean snorted. “What can I say? I admire perseverance.”

Sam closed his laptop and leaned back, expression softening, thoughtful. “Okay. Serious question—does it hurt? Telling the truth like this?”

You paused, surprised. “No. It’s… actually kind of a relief. Like breathing out after holding your breath for too long.”

Dean’s teasing faded, just a little. “You always hold back?”

You hesitated. And then, like always, the truth came out on its own. “Yes. Especially around you two. Because it’s easier not to say anything than say too much.”

Dean sat up slowly, arms resting on his knees, eyes locked on yours. Sam had gone quiet beside you, his attention sharp and weighted now.

The room felt smaller suddenly. Warmer. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

You swallowed. “That’s enough testing for tonight.”

Dean didn’t argue. Sam didn’t push. They just nodded, wordless, but neither of them looked away.

And as you crawled under the covers and rolled to face the wall, your heartbeat loud in your ears, you could feel both of their gazes still on you—curious, careful, and maybe… something more.

You prayed they wouldn’t ask the real questions.

Because if they did, you weren’t sure either of you would be able to pretend anymore.

✦

The morning light crept into the room like it was trying not to wake anyone, soft and golden through threadbare curtains. Rain still dripped from the edge of the roof outside. The room was quiet, filled only with the low hum of the A/C unit and the sound of Sam’s fingers tapping gently at his laptop keyboard.

Dean, for once, was up early—coffee in hand, barefoot, leaning against the dresser in a threadbare Henley and flannel pajama pants. You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, wrapped in the same oversized shirt from last night, hair still damp from your rushed post-hunt shower. You felt raw. Honest. And still not totally safe.

You hadn’t said anything embarrassing yet this morning.

Yet.

Dean sipped his coffee. “You’re quiet.”

You shrugged. “Trying not to speak unless absolutely necessary.”

Sam looked up from the table. “I’m working on the reversal. Got some leads. But I don’t think you’re in danger.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Besides emotional humiliation?”

Dean chuckled. “Oh come on. It hasn’t been that bad.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I told you I cried when you ignored one of my texts for four hours.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Yeah, but that was kinda cute.”

Sam gave him a look.

Dean held up his hands. “What? It was.”

You groaned and flopped back onto the bed. “Just don’t ask me anything. Not today. I need a break.”

But that’s when it happened.

Dean’s voice, still lazy from sleep, floated across the room—casual. “Fine, fine. Just one more dumb question and I’m done.”

You glared at the ceiling.

He grinned. “If you weren’t cursed, what’s one thing you’d never tell us?”

You opened your mouth to refuse—to make a joke, dodge, say literally anything else. But the words pushed up your throat like a confession scalded into truth.

“That I think about both of you when I touch myself.”

Silence.

A long, bone-deep silence that wrapped around the room like it was holding its breath.

Dean blinked. His mouth opened slightly like maybe he was going to say something. He didn’t.

You sat up slowly, eyes wide, heart punching your ribs. “I didn’t mean to say that. I mean—I meant it—but I didn’t mean to say it.”

Sam had gone completely still in his chair, his jaw tight, one knuckle against his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, mortified. “I wasn’t—I didn’t—Dean, you said it was a dumb question!”

Dean just stared at you. His coffee cup slowly lowered from his lips. “You think about us. Plural.”

You nodded helplessly. “Yes.”

Sam finally spoke, voice quiet but hoarse. “At the same time?”

You closed your eyes. “Yes.”

A pause. A charged, heavy pause.

Dean’s voice dropped a note lower. “How long?”

You groaned, wanting to crawl into the floor. “Months. Since the djinn hunt in Montana. When you both got cut and I had to patch you up. I couldn't stop staring at your hands, Sam. And Dean was—God—you were all bloody and cocky and leaning on the doorframe like you hadn’t just nearly died, and I just—my brain short-circuited, okay?!”

The words just kept coming.

“And it’s not just about sex,” you blurted. “It’s everything. The way Sam reads and forgets to eat, the way Dean drives with one hand and sings off-key, the way you both look at me like I matter even when I’m a mess. I want you both. I love you both. And now you know. So just—please, someone kill me now.”

Your chest was heaving, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes.

Dean sat his coffee down with a quiet clink, eyes unreadable. Sam stood slowly, arms at his sides, breathing shallow.

You expected silence.

What you got instead… was movement.

Dean stepped forward first, slow, cautious, until he was standing at the foot of your bed. Sam came beside him, taller, tense. Your heart slammed against your ribs like it wanted out.

Dean tilted his head slightly. “Sweetheart, you really think we haven’t thought about this?”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

Sam’s voice was low, but steady. “You’re not the only one who keeps secrets.”

Dean’s eyes darkened as he looked you over, gaze dropping to your parted lips. “You’ve been cursed to tell the truth. Maybe it’s time we do the same.”

[breakmeoff]

The Boy Next Door│4

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, suggestive dialogue, fluff, angst, chris still being down bad

word count: 2.2k

synopsis: you babysat him when he was 7 years old, and he’s had a crush on you since you met, despite the 8 year age gap.  between moves to other places and time, it’s been 14 years since you’ve seen each other even though your dads are still best friends, still live next door to each other, and keep up to date about each other's family.  you surprise chris at one of the skz shows, and he’s shocked to see you, and even more surprised that he still has a massive crush on you.  if only he could convince you to look at him in any other way than the boy next door.

note: i can't thank you all again for the incredible praise i've received so far on the first 3 parts of this story. it's touched me more than i can say! thx again for reading :)

also wanted to give a quick shoutout to @angel-writes-skz-here who gave me the push to write. i was beyond terrified, and now i’m so grateful for her encouragement. 😘

Part 3

It had been nearly 6 weeks since you had left him in that hotel room.  You had assumed that through the mutual silence that you were both moving on, accepting that you had spent one meaningful night together and that was it.

Until early one evening alone in your apartment, with your attention locked in on finishing a report due the next day, you heard a familiar buzz. And out of the corner of your eye, you saw your screen flash with a notification.

Chris:  I can’t stop thinking about you.

Cautiously, you picked up your phone and stared at the message lighting up your screen.  It had been weeks since you last saw Chris, and hadn’t heard from him at all.  

Why now, you thought to yourself, glancing at the time.  After a short google time check, you hesitantly began typing a reply.

You:  Aren’t you in the states right now?  You:  Isn’t it like 4am where you are?

The message delivered.  Leaning back in your desk chair, you watched as the notification switched to “Read:  6:03 PM.”  A few seconds later, he replied.

Chris:  seriously?  Chris: that’s your reply? You:  Yes…?

This time, the message barely registered as delivered before it showed “Read:  6:04 PM”.

Chris:  i couldn’t sleep

You sighed, closing your eyes briefly as your mind slipped to what was likely a quiet, dark hotel room, and Chris’ restless body halfway covered by the sheets, staring eagerly at his phone. 

It broke your heart a little bit knowing that he was likely alone. 

And seemingly lonely.

You:  Sleepytime tea not do the trick anymore?

Internally wincing, you wondered if that might have been too much of a low blow, referencing the secret weapon you used when you babysat him all those many years ago. 

Much to his detriment, Chris was always a thinker even at a young age.  Long after Lucas and Hannah were in bed, you’d bring a warm mug of the tea to him when you knew he was having a hard time falling asleep.  

Looking back you weren’t sure now if it was the tea that relaxed him, or the fact that you were there sitting on the floor near his bed, quietly waiting with him until he’d eventually drift off.

The phone buzzed again, breaking you away from the distant memory.

Chris:  how do you know where i am anyway?  are you keeping tabs on me? You:  Kinda hard not to when your dumb face is all over my socials Chris:  you didn’t think my face was dumb when it was between your legs

“That little pervert…” you whispered to yourself, unable to hide the blush and smile that crept over your face. 

You’d never been so grateful he couldn’t see you at that moment to see how flustered he had made you with one simple text.

You:  Jesus…

Not even 10 seconds later…

Chris:  chris is fine You:  😑 Chris:  honestly chan works too Chris: channie Chris: sexy Chris:  honey Chris: sugar You:  Please stop before you hurt yourself Chris:  stud Chris: baby Chris:  love muffin

A genuine laugh (or was it a snort?) slipped past your lips.  You pushed back the chair from your desk, shutting your laptop and meandered over to the couch. 

Sitting down, you shifted to tuck one of your legs under yourself, unable to take your eyes away from the screen of your phone.  Still, that giddy smile remained plastered on your face.

You:  Ok I’m turning my phone off now

Another few seconds went by, and quickly the typing bubbles appeared.  

Chris:  y’know, if you were a fruit you’d be a cutecumber

You audibly groaned at the cheesiness of the pickup line, and would never admit out loud, but you secretly loved it.  Suddenly feeling warm, you lifted the back of your hand to your cheek, checking to see if you were physically hot to the touch or just flustered. 

Nope, just flustered damnit.

You:  Are you drunk? Chris:  drunk on you baby You:  Goodnight Chris Chris:  no no wait, sorry i’m done, i promise Chris:  any chance you’ll be in sydney soon?  I’m coming home for my dad’s birthday on the 16th

There it was, the thing that shifted the benign flirting into something possibly real - tangible.  You had the time, you knew you could make a trip home work, but deep down you knew that you should keep your distance. 

It would do neither of you any good to pretend that seeing each other again could be a recurring thing.

You:  No... sorry.  I’ve got a work function that weekend Chris:  i have a break coming up, maybe i’ll come to melbourne for a few days

You paused, staring at the phone screen with a sigh.  Reaching for one of the couch cushions, you held it against your chest as you debated how to reply.  A pang of guilt coursed through your veins.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want to see him.  You had spent plenty of sleepless nights doom scrolling for any/all Bang Chan or SKZ things you could find, almost torturing yourself with every clip or reel of him dancing, teasing his bandmates, smiling.  Existing.

Timers for certain apps were set, only permitting yourself 30 minutes a day on each app so you could no longer waste hours down the dark rabbit hole. 

You began reading more books, trying to immerse yourself in make-believe stories of fictional characters instead.

There was a brief attempt at baking, which honestly turned out better than you anticipated, but it resulted in you carrying multiple tupperware containers full of brownies or cupcakes in to the hospital every day so you didn't gorge yourself on them.

No matter what you did to try to distract or limit yourself, your mind always seemed to wander back to Chris. 

His dimples when he blushed.  His gregarious laugh.  The depth of his eyes when he was focused on something. 

The internet was a vicious, mocking place. 

Despite the weight of the truth sitting heavily on your chest, you had to be the responsible one here.  To stop him from getting any false hope that something could continue between you. 

Maybe not just for his sake. 

You:  I’m not sure that’s a good idea

Was it terrible that you were wishing he would come back and argue?  Try to persuade you with another asinine reason that you both knew wouldn’t matter?  Anything?

Chris:  sure. ok

Quiet defeat.  Good.  This was what you wanted, right?  

Why did you feel so disappointed?

You:  Try to get some sleep, yeah?  You’ll need your rest Chris:  yeah Chris:  gn y/n You:  Night Channie 💛

Tossing your phone somewhere on the opposite end of the couch, you slunk further into the cushions and brought the pillow over your face.  Draping your arm over the top of it to muffle your sounds, you groaned loudly into the silence of your apartment.

———————————————————————

Sometime later the next day, you received a new message.

✨ mimi-bear 🧸:   did you see any of the skz edits from the last show?  channie oppa looked sad 🥺

Standing up from your desk in the hospital, you quickly walked over to the door of your private office, peering down the hallway to make sure no one was coming before you shut it closed behind you.

Back at your desk, you swiped open one of your socials and searched “bang chan concert atlanta,” knowing that’s where they had performed the night before.

Most of the edits were typical; the boys dancing, the boys teasingly giving fans a peek at their abs, etc.  A few clips down though, you saw it. 

A close up of Chris’ face while the other members goofed around in front of him. Normally he’d have been right in the middle of the chaos, messing with his bandmates.  

But despite the stage makeup and the adrenaline flush on his cheeks, you could see the depth of the bags under his eyes.  There was no levity in his expressions, just pure exhaustion and methodical movements, going through the mechanical motions of his sets.  

To the untrained eye, most wouldn’t have seen the change in the band’s leader.  But to you, and anyone else that truly knew him, it was obvious there was something off.  That’s when you made a decision.

Swiping out of the app, your thumb shifted to the contact number for Jessica Bahng and let the call ring through.

———————————————————————

A few hours later, shortly after 1AM in Atlanta, Chan heard a knock at his hotel room door.  Having just gotten out of the shower, he toweled off his hair and slipped on a pair of sweatpants before opening the door.

“Hey Chan, sorry to disturb you, I have a delivery for you,” mumbled his manager, Ji-han.  Raising an eyebrow, he looked to the older man with a confused look.

“I don’t remember requesting anything?”  

“No, no I got a call from someone and I don’t know, they asked me to give you this,” he said, lifting his hand, extending a brown paper bag to the idol.

Chris laughed hesitantly before he reached for the bag, “that sounds rather suspicious…” he replied before opening the top to peer inside.

“They said it was to help you sleep…”

As Ji-han's explanation slipped in one ear and out the other, a warm smile crept over Chris' lips. 

“Ahh, got it.  Thank you Hyung.  I’ll see you in the morning,” Chris said with a nod and shut the door behind him.

Walking over to the bed, he sat down on the edge before reaching inside the bag, and pulled out its contents.

A box of Sleepytime Tea.

———————————————————————

Rewind roughly 20 years ago...

Chris' bedroom was dark, save for the single nightlight in the corner. He swore up and down he wasn't afraid of the dark, but he would allow his parents to leave it on in there to make them feel better.

This was one of those late nights his parents were out to dinner with friends and you were babysitting - he hated that term, he wasn't a baby and he definitely need to be sat on. Sat with...? There was an idea...

You had tucked all 3 of the kids in more than 30 minutes ago and were confident that the younger ones were out cold. Though hearing the quiet shuffle of socked feet across the floor down the hallway didn't entirely surprise you; Chris always had a more difficult time falling asleep when his parents weren't home.

Curled up on the couch, you glanced up over the top of your textbook to see the floppy dark brown bed head standing in front of you, clad in his favorite matching navy blue pajamas. And socks with baseballs on them.

"You're not supposed to be up right now," you said softly, peering over the top of your oversized glasses, giving him a cheeky grin.

"I can't sleep..." Chris murmured, trying to give you his most pathetic face.

"...did you try?" you teased.

"Noooona..." Chris whined, tipping his head back dramatically.

Laughing gently, you stood up and put your textbook down on the couch. "Alright alright. How about some Sleepytime tea and I'll read to you?"

Shifting his eyes over to your book and back up to your face with an arched eyebrow, "Advanced Chemistry? ...no thanks."

"No, dork..." you chuckled, ruffling his hair before walking into the kitchen to his mother's stash of tea. "You can pick something from your room."

"Oh. Ok." He agreed, following you into the kitchen and watched you prepare what you liked to call your secret weapon. After a few minutes letting the kettle boil and the teabag steep, you grabbed the blue mug and followed Chris back into his room.

"Pick a book and climb back in bed." You directed, placing his cup of tea on his nightstand to let it cool while he got resettled. Less than a minute later, Chris handed you James and the Giant Peach, and crawled back under his covers, reaching for his mug of tea.

"Interesting choice... a classic." You nodded approvingly, sitting down on the floor beside his bed with your back against the nightstand. Watching him get ready to take a sip, you cautioned "careful, might still be hot. Blow on it."

Chris simply nodded his head and lightly blew on his tea until it was cool enough to sip.

Flipping open to the first page, you began.

"Until he was four years old, James Henry Trotter had a happy life. He lived peacefully with his mother and father in a..."

you continued, though Chris wasn't ever really listening to the story. He just loved listening to you talk. Leaning back into his pillows, Chris took a few sips of the warm, earthy tea before replacing it back on the nightstand behind you.

Shifting so he was laying down flat again, he rolled to his side, facing you as you read. Your voice was soft, soothing, and his favorite sound to fall asleep to.

A few moments later you heard the faintest sound of breathing not far from your ear. Tilting your head to look up at the little boy beside you, a small smile formed over your lips as you watched him sleep.

"Sleep well Channie..." you whispered before brushing a few unruly curls out of his face, standing up, placing the closed book next to his mug of tea and crept out of the room.

please bear with me, i promise channie’s charming persistence will reappear! ❤️😘

tag list (still blowin' my mind!): @angel-writes-skz-here @idkimobsessed @queenofdumbfuckery @mfcherry @downingmorphine @pixie-felix @d3kstar @lveegsoi @ebnabi @nebugalaxy @babystay724

let me know if you'd like to be added :)

Part 3

[crystal-to-bloom]

Chapter 4: Something Like Family

Grayson family x child reader

The house was warm and quiet — almost too quiet. The scent of cinnamon and chamomile tea lingered in the air. Somewhere in the background, the radio played softly, its voice distant and unfocused, as if not wanting to disturb the fragile silence.

Debbie stood by the stove, pouring hot water into a teapot of chamomile. It was her way of trying to feel in control — of the moment, of herself, of whatever was happening in the next room. But her thoughts kept slipping upstairs… to that room where, just a few hours ago, something unknown had hatched.

And now that something was lying in her son’s lap.

Debbie stepped out of the kitchen, cradling her mug in both hands, and peeked carefully into the living room.

Mark was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, face deeply focused. Curled up in his lap, wrapped in an old blanket printed with faded robots, was a tiny figure. White and turquoise hair spilled like a fan over the fabric. Two little horns peeked from under soft strands. A tail, the same pale color, was wrapped loosely around one of Mark’s legs, twitching gently with each breath.

“…and triceratops had these really big horns, you know?” Mark whispered. “But he wasn’t mean. He ate plants. Like a cow. And cows don’t bite. They just lick.”

The little one didn’t respond. But she listened. Her eyes were half-lidded — not fully asleep, not fully awake. Sometimes she blinked, and every time she did, Mark smiled like it was a gift. Her tail gave a little flick. Her ears twitched ever so slightly. It all seemed to say: I hear you. I’m here.

Debbie stood quietly in the doorway. Her heart tightened with a strange, warm anxiety. She didn’t understand why the sight moved her so deeply. It was… wrong. Strange. Impossible.

But also beautiful.

— “He’s calling her she,” — Debbie whispered to herself. “Like she’s already one of us.”

She walked in slowly and sat down on the couch. The mug warmed her hands, but the warmth inside her came from somewhere else entirely.

— “Mark” she said gently.

— “Yeah?”

— “Aren’t you scared of her?”

He looked at her, almost surprised by the question.

— “No. She’s cute. Like a kitten. Just… weird”

— “Very weird,” Debbie chuckled, leaning back against the sofa.

Mark went quiet for a moment, his eyes still on the little girl. His expression shifted — thoughtful, serious, like he was seeing something deeper in her than just a strange creature.

— “Are you gonna be her mom?”

A simple question. Childlike. No pressure. But something clicked in Debbie’s chest, like a gear that hadn’t turned in years.

— “I… I don’t know, Mark”

— “If you don’t want to… I can”

Debbie laughed. Not nervously — truly laughed, with warmth. It was her first real laugh in days. And it helped.

— “You think you’re up for that?”

— “Sure! I’ll be a great big brother. I’ll teach her how to draw… and tell her everything about dinosaurs. Even ankylosaurs”

Tiya shifted slightly. Her nose scrunched up, a quiet breath escaped her lips, and suddenly a thin line of frost crept across the edge of the blanket. The air cooled for just a moment, but neither of them flinched.

— “She did it again” Mark whispered.

— “Yeah,” Debbie replied softly. “But she doesn’t seem afraid of us.”

Mark sat up straighter, looking down at her.

— “She needs a name”

— “A name?” Debbie raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little soon?”

— “No. She’s already here”

He started listing names: Luna, Snowflake, Glazy, Izzy, even Sky. Debbie winced at every second one. Then she paused.

— “Y/n?”

The little one let out a tiny hiccup, her ears twitched, and her tail gave a sleepy sway. Another faint shimmer of cold passed through the air.

Mark froze.

— “Did you hear that? She likes it.”

Debbie whispered it again:

— “Y/n”

And then… the baby opened her eyes. A soft, turquoise glow lit them from within — gentle, not blinding, but unmistakably alive. She looked at them — first at Mark, then at Debbie. And then… she smiled.

It was small, uncertain. And at the corners of her lips, tiny, sharp teeth glinted like ice.

— “Hello, y/n” Debbie murmured. “Welcome home.”

Y/n sneezed — a puff of frost escaped her mouth — and then she giggled. She rubbed her cheek against the blanket, then pressed her forehead gently to Mark’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her, not knowing that in that moment, he was making a choice. He just knew — she didn’t feel like a stranger.

Zubble, the plush dinosaur, lay beside them. Y/n curled up against it and Mark both, nestling into a tight, peaceful ball.

And Debbie, still holding her mug, watched them — her son, and the icy little girl with trembling ears full of joy — and thought that maybe… maybe family doesn’t begin with blood.

Maybe it begins with acceptance.

Nolan touched down softly outside the house, silent as falling snow. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow across the steps. He paused before opening the door, his hand hovering just above the handle.

The meeting with Cecil had left his thoughts tangled. The Global Defense Agency had detected something strange—energy fluctuations, subtle but growing, centered around his home. Cecil hadn’t said it outright, but his expression had been clear: You’re hiding something, Nolan. And I don’t like it.

And maybe, Nolan thought grimly, he was

He opened the door

The house was quiet. Not empty, but filled with a strange, unfamiliar stillness. The air smelled faintly of chamomile and cinnamon. Somewhere in the background, a radio murmured, its voice distant, like it didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace.

Nolan stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

He hung up his coat, his thoughts still spinning from the meeting with Cecil — words, silences, half-hints. Something unsettling in the man’s tone. But now… unease came from somewhere else. From within the house.

He heard Mark’s voice.

“…and if you want, I can show you the pictures. I have a dinosaur book — you’ll like the ankylosaurus!”

Nolan moved down the hallway, slow and careful. Mark’s voice was warmer now, filled with joy — but he was talking to someone. And no neighbors had been over. No guests.

He stepped into the living room — and froze.

Mark sat on the floor, legs stretched out, a look of complete focus on his face. Curled up on his lap was a small figure wrapped in a faded blanket with old robot prints. Wisps of white and turquoise hair spilled over the fabric. Two tiny horns peeked out from the strands. A tail curled around Mark’s leg, gently twitching with each breath.

Nolan stiffened. His breath caught.

He took a step forward — and at that moment, the creature looked up at him.

Her eyes were turquoise. Bright, otherworldly, and yet… aware.

A dragon. A girl. A being.

She stared straight at him.

“You’re back,” Debbie said softly. She was sitting on the couch, strangely calm. As if this sight didn’t surprise her anymore. “We thought you’d be later”

“Who is she?” Nolan’s voice came rough, caught between disbelief and something heavier.

“She’s… her. From the egg.”

He turned to look at Debbie. Then back at the girl. He had expected something — a monster, a threat, something unexplainable. But not this. Not this quiet, almost tender image of his son holding a childlike creature with sleepy eyes and trembling ears.

“She looks like… a child”

“Because she is a child” Debbie said.

The girl blinked once. Then — yawned. A soft puff of frost left her lips.

Something in Nolan's chest tightened.

He knew she wasn’t Viltrumite. But she was different. And he didn’t know whether to fear her — or himself, for the part of him that didn’t want her here.

“You knew?” Debbie asked, not accusing. “That she was alive?”

He looked at her. Long and hard. Then finally nodded.

“I… had a feeling. But I didn’t know it would be this”

Mark looked up at his father and smiled.

“Dad, this is y/n”

The name settled in the room like snow.

Tiya turned her gaze to Nolan again. Not as an enemy. Not as a threat. Just… someone who was supposed to be there.

“Is she yours?” Debbie asked. “You found her. You brought her home. But now… she’s here”

Nolan stood still, like crossing into the room would mean crossing into something bigger. His eyes held something tangled — guilt, fear, confusion. And something else, too. Something quiet. Something warm.

He didn’t answer. Just stepped forward and knelt beside Mark.

Y/n reached out. Her hand landed on his.

It was cold. And small. And real.

Nolan exhaled — and for the first time that day, he stopped thinking

Chapter 5

( I didn't expect to get 100 likes on chapter 2. To be real, I didn't even expect 10 likes at all (^○^)

i'm very glad you like it ( ≧∀≦)ノ

i hope you like this part too :3)

[joelmillerssugarbaby24]

Joel’s Girl- Part 7

Hello, my babies enjoy chapter 7 and your daily cup of Joel ;) get ready for some angst, jealous Joel, miscommunication and plain old “will they won’t they?” stay tuned, ILY ♥️♥️

Chapter 7- Blurred Lines

You wake up in your bed the next morning. You don’t remember falling asleep, only the soft rise and fall of Joel’s broad chest and his warm calloused hands wrapped around your shoulders. The smell of him still clung to the nightgown he dressed you in after you were asleep. You inhale deeply and breathe a contented sigh, gazing out the window.

Something changed last night. He finally gave himself over to you- all of him, and it was intoxicating. It was addicting. It only left you wanting more of everything he had to offer.

You stretch your arms high above your head like a cat and let out a yawn before easing to your feet. Theres a twinge of pain in your calf from last nights ordeal but it isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. You creep out the door and poke your head into Joel’s room.

It’s empty.

You assume that he’s up early to prepare for his shift on patrol, although you can’t deny the sharp disappointment that pierces your chest. You sigh, meandering to the staircase and taking the steps one at a time, testing your weight on each one. You were surprised to find the kitchen empty.

That was strange.

Usually Joel was there to make you breakfast or check on how you were feeling.

Confused, you make your way across the kitchen to the door that leads to the garage and knock. You hear a muffled groan and take that as permission to poke your head inside.

Ellie is stretched out across the bed, stirring slightly.

“Ellie?” You whisper.

“Hmmm.” She mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“Where’s Joel?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

You cock an eyebrow, frowning.

“Tell me what?”

She heaves a heavy sigh and rolls over to face you, rubbing her eyes.

“He’s gonna be gone a few weeks. Said you’d be here to look after me and to make sure you didn’t push it too far.”

You clutch at your chest. Gone? A few weeks? And he didn’t tell you?

“Where is he going?” You ask, voice wavering.

She huffs dramatically.

“Fuck if I know. But I don’t need you looking after me so don’t worry about that.”

You nod and excuse yourself quickly, legs shaking.

He left? Without saying goodbye? Even after the intimacy you had shared together?

Your cheeks flush with anger and you breathe deeply, nostrils flaring. Of course he did. You didn’t mean to him what he meant to you. You were just a dumb kid in his eyes. You practically threw yourself at him and when he gave in- as most men would- you were stupid enough to expect more. You slap a palm to your forehead once. Twice. Stupid. So stupid. Maybe you were just a stupid kid.

You slide into the empty wooden chair at the kitchen table and put your head in your hands. The ache in your chest is undeniable. What were you going to do with yourself when he was gone? You didn’t have any friends aside from Ellie, no family, no job. How could he just leave?

You scrub a fist down your face, mentally shaking yourself. You are a grown woman, you’ve faced monsters, death, starvation and evil men-you had kept yourself alive this long. Surely you could find a way to get your mind off Joel.

Joel

You sigh and push yourself up. You could do this. You didn’t need him. You didn’t need anybody. It’s just been you as long as you could remember, and it’s just you now. Nothing has changed, not really.

You laugh softly at yourself, sinking back down. Who were you kidding.

Everything had changed.

—————————

2 weeks later

“I think it’s absolutely perfect!” You squeal, spinning to Maria, hands clasped to your chest.

She grins and looks around, nodding appreciatively.

“Yes I think it should do quite nicely. And how’s the new job been?”

You smile and tell her how much you enjoy it. And really you do.

After Joel left you determined to start making a life for yourself here- mostly because you needed a distraction from his absence but you would never admit that. You took your time roaming around the settlement, looking for odd jobs and settlers that needed help you could provide. You met a lot of people, even made some acquaintances here and there that you were hopeful would blossom into friendships in time.

You had discovered a job opening at the local bakery and absolutely fell in love. The smells, the sounds, the busyness- it was perfect to keep your mind distracted and hands busy. It also provided you the opportunity to get to know the residents of Jackson better.

Jimmy had been hanging around recently, still clumsily vying for your attention. You admit that you almost caved once or twice to the pull of company as the loneliness you were trying to escape still waged a constant battle. But you couldn’t bring yourself to. Not after…. Well. Not after him. Not yet.

Now you were settling in your new home. A quaint one-bedroom house just a five minute walk from the bakery. The living room was spacious, complete with a leather couch, a record player and a small side table that housed what looked like an antique lamp. The kitchen was beautiful as well, the walls a faded yellow with a large wooden table sporting three matching chairs. Not that you would need it. You never really had company. Other than Ellie of course.

She had been your first official visitor the day you moved out. You had stayed at Joel’s house per his wishes while he was gone but he was due back today, so you decided to avoid the awkward reunion that was sure to come and move in immediately. You watched her, lounging on your sofa and smiled. At least you had her.

Maria claps her hands, jolting you out of your reverie.

“Well I’m off! I’ve got some errands to run. Are you all set here? Anything else you might need?”

You shake your head with a polite smile.

“Nothing I can think of. Thank you so much, Maria. For everything.”

She smiles at you and pulls you into a bear hug.

“Of course. We’re so glad to have you. Really.”

She waves goodbye to Ellie who answers with a muttered “see ya” before she walks out the door, shutting it softly behind her. You plop on the couch beside Ellie with a heavy sigh.

“You workin tonight?”

She asks, scribbling in that worn journal of hers.

“Nah” you mutter, rubbing your hands along your thighs. “Got some kind of work dinner thing.”

“Work dinner huh? With the bakery peeps?” She chuckles and shakes her head. “Sounds like a blast.”

You laugh with her, your head falling to the back of the couch with a soft “plop”. “Yeah it’ll be painful I’m sure. Gotta do what I gotta do.”

She grunts and you stand, retreating to your bedroom to begin getting ready for dinner. You can’t deny the thought of seeing Joel again makes your heart flip in your chest. You wonder if he’s been hurt, if he’s safe. If things will be weird between you. He probably won’t seek you out and that’s ok. You’ve made your peace with it. You were being silly to think there was anything real there anyway. But still… his name continued to spill from your lips in the dark of night, mostly in the throughs of orgasm that follow fantasizing about him. His hands. His hair, his skin. His strong back. His voice.

You shiver just thinking about it. Mentally shaking yourself, you glare at your reflection in the mirror wagging a finger.

“Stop it.” You hiss before standing and choosing something to wear. You settle for a loose fitting yellow sundress that stops mid thigh. It’s a little low but you don’t have much of a wardrobe to choose from as of yet so you’ll have to deal with it. You check your reflection one last time before squaring your shoulders.

Joel does not exist tonight. You will forget about him and move on with your life. Starting now.

After your pathetic little pep talk which was sure to crash and burn, you bid Ellie goodbye and head to your dinner party, resolve wavering with every step. You only hoped he wasn’t around. You didn’t need to think with your cunt any more than you already have. She had caused you enough problems.

—————

She was at dinner. With him.

Joel’s brows furrowed as he watched you from his table in the corner, hand clasped tightly around the whiskey he’d barely touched.

You looked fucking beautiful.

Seeing you again was like seeing the sun after being hours underground. It was everything warm and sweet. Everything Joel was not. This was part of the reason Joel had left in the shitty way he did. He knew you would be pissed and rightly so. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to sully such a perfect, sweet girl like you with his old and bloody hands. It wouldn’t be right. He couldn’t live with himself.

And yet…

He had ached without you, even though it had only been two weeks. There was no denying that. He felt like a teenager again, fucking his hand every night to thoughts of your perfect lips, your laugh, those incredible tits. His mood had been impressively bad, much to the chagrin of those around him. He missed you.

Fuck did he miss you.

He missed seeing that sweet smile first thing in the morning. He missed watching you scribble endless drawings in that sketchbook he had given you. He missed seeing you crinkle your adorable nose when you read one of your books. It was pathetic really how lost he had been in the time that had lapsed since he saw you.

Even now, his cock was painfully hard at just the sight of you in that pretty yellow dress that you had obviously worn for him.

That fucker.

Joel’s chest tightened so much he worried he was having a heart attack as he gazed at you. Smiling at that moron. Laughing at his jokes. He scoffed at himself, tipping back the amber liquid in his glass and wincing at the burn. He was acting like a jealous kid and pushing 50 no less- the age you should be worrying about things like heart attacks and heartburn. But you. You…

He watched you smiling and laughing in that carefree air that only you could pull off. You were so young. So perfect. What were you doing with an old man like him anyway? You deserved better, that was for sure. Better than an old, tired man who had lost too much could give you.

He grunted and stood, his creaking joints reminding him again that he was too old for this shit. He wanted to go over there, wrap his big hands around that twerps neck and throw him through the window for so much as breathing your air. But he couldn’t do that to you. So he gazed at you one last time, drinking you in like a glass of cold water in the desert before turning slowly and striding out the door.

———————

You stumble outside, marveling at the feel of the cool air on your heated skin. You had indulged in one too many whiskeys and the fuzziness in your head promised a hell of a hangover in the morning. But it was nice. You had gotten to know some of your coworkers better, and discovered you liked most of them. Jimmy had shown up again, as he usually did, monopolizing your conversation once or twice but other than that you had enjoyed the night. You smiled to yourself as you meandered down the path to your new home. Only to stop in your tracks when you saw who stood there, waiting.

Joel

God, he looked handsome. Curls unruly like he’d been running his hands through them, unbuttoned flannel shirt with a black tee underneath, worn jeans with his trademark belt buckle to hold them up. Your heart stuttered fiercely in your chest. All you really wanted to do was jump into his arms. But you stared stupidly at him instead.

“Ya moved out?”

His gravelly voiced washed over you in a tidal wave of desire and you squirmed, a blush staining your cheeks.

“Yes. Today.”

He cocked his head and continued to peruse you, his gaze raking over you with such intensity you had to look away.

“Why?”

You toe the ground, shrugging your shoulders.

“Seemed like a logical next step. I can walk now, as you can see.” You twirled once, your dress flaring to reveal the lace black panties you wore beneath it. You were oblivious of course. But Joel saw them immediately. His mouth dried.

“Oh.”

He cleared his throat, suddenly incredibly nervous. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck and his gaze bounced from his feet to you.

“Guess that makes sense. Ya like it?”

You smile and shrug again.

“It’s nice enough. I’ll miss you bringing me breakfast though.”

He chuckles, a rough gravelly sound that sends tingles shooting through your veins.

“I’ll miss that too.” He says softly, so softly you barely heard it.

“Why are you here, Joel?” You ask.

He looks at the ground again, not meeting your steady gaze.

“I dunno. Just wanted to check on you is all.”

You nod and begin to walk again, straight past him and to your front door.

“Well you did, and I’m fine. It was good to see you again, but I really have to-“

His fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. You look down at where your hands connect then back to those chocolate eyes. He’s breathing heavily now, his pupils dilating ever so slightly, the only action that gave away whatever it was he was thinking.

“I..” he pauses for a second, unsure. Hesitating. You step forward to hear him better. His fingers are still wrapped around your wrist, the pads of them resting lightly on your pulse.

“Im sorry. For leaving like I did.”

You shrug a shoulder not answering for a moment. The silence is broken only by the cicadas buzzing in the nearby fields. You look at the sky.

“No. I’m sorry, Joel. I shouldn’t have pushed you. You obviously don’t want me like I want you, and that’s fine. We can be friends. I got over it. It’s fine.”

He huffs, a flash of irritation in the inky depths of his gaze.

“That ain’t true.” He grits out tightening his grip on your arm. You gently pull your hand free.

“Really, Joel. It’s ok.”

He gazes at you, his eyes full of an unreadable expression, his full lips pursed, opening and closing as if he can’t quite find the right words.

“I-“

You kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you for everything, Joel.” you whisper against his cheek before turning to go. You close the door gently and leave him standing alone on the porch.

He stares at the door, clenching his fists, gritting his teeth- wondering how the fuck he managed to screw up the absolute treasure God had dropped into his lap.

Maybe it was better this way. Or maybe…

Maybe nothing.

He walked away, kicking the stones on the gravel sidewalk as he did. Even though he knew it was the right thing, there was a small voice that echoed in his ears and heart, telling him he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

—————

Guys this one was a doozy. Thank you for reading at let me know what you think!!! Love you!!!

[sturniololuvz]

Can u write a fic where its like the triplets r on tour and sls went with them and she was missing nate and at the Boston show the boys suprised her with nate and his family but nate told her he couldn't go because of a work party or something so she was shocked

“Boston, With Love”

Tour had been amazing — lights, crowds, adrenaline.

But it was also exhausting. And for their little sister, tagging along as the only girl in a tour bus full of loud boys, it was starting to wear thin.

Especially without Nate.

He’d told her he had to skip the Boston stop — something about a work party he couldn’t get out of. And even though she tried to be understanding, the disappointment had clung to her like a shadow all week.

She missed him. Stupidly, deeply, in a way she couldn’t even fully explain to her brothers.

They tried. They made jokes. Bought her iced coffee when she looked extra tired. Let her sleep in the top bunk, even though Chris hated giving it up.

But she was still quieter than usual backstage before the Boston show.

“You good?” Nick asked, nudging her lightly as they waited behind the curtain.

“Yeah,” she lied.

Matt gave her a sideways glance, but didn’t push.

The crowd screamed. Lights went down. The boys ran out, hyped as always.

She watched from the wings, arms crossed, trying to shake the ache in her chest.

And then—

“Before we get to the next part,” Chris said into the mic, a little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “we got a surprise for someone really special tonight.”

The crowd quieted, sensing something.

“She’s been on the road with us, putting up with all our annoying crap,” Matt added.

“And she’s been missing someone bad,” Nick said, smirking toward the side of the stage.

She blinked, confused. Then turned—

And froze.

Nate.

Standing there with his goofy grin, holding a bouquet of flowers. Her jaw dropped.

“You said you couldn’t come,” she whispered.

He laughed, stepping forward to wrap her up in a hug. “I lied.”

“You lied?”

“Matt made me. Blame him.”

She couldn’t even be mad. She threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking the flowers out of his hand.

On stage, the boys pointed and cheered. The crowd was eating it up.

“You didn’t actually think we’d come to Boston and not bring your favorite person, right?” Chris called out.

She buried her face in Nate’s shoulder, laughing and crying all at once.

It was loud. Overwhelming. But for the first time all week, her heart felt full again.

And later, when the show ended and she was tucked under Nate’s arm in the dressing room, she looked at her brothers with watery eyes.

“Thanks for knowing what I needed before I did.”

Chris shrugged. “It’s kind of our job.”

Nick grinned. “We’re like emotional support brothers.”

Matt just tossed her a water bottle. “Don’t ever say we don’t love you.”

She smiled, wiping her eyes.

“I know.”

⸻

[karikarasuno]

part one | wc: 2.4k | suggestive content

“Please,” Nami pleads, stuffing a shirt into her duffel bag. “It’s just one night and it’s really good money.”

“I don’t know,” you say, shoulders practically up to your ears from how nervous the mere thought makes you. 

“Come on, it’s just a few line dances. The real simple ones, I swear,” she says, hands together in prayer as she turns to face you. It’s hard saying no to her. She knows it. She abuses it. “You know how to line dance, right?”

You do, but you haven’t in years. Since you were a child. “Well yeah.”

“Perfect!” She claps in delight. “Be at Whitebeard’s by eight and ask for Marco.”

“Wait!” But she’s already hopping into the driver’s seat of her car, slamming the door and music blaring so loudly the vehicle begins vibrating. 

“I didn’t actually agree to cover you.” You say to the cloud of dirt that now stands where Nami once stood. “Fucking great.”

You pull into Whitebeard’s before the clock strikes eight. And it’s so busy you fear the sandwich you had for lunch is going to make a less than ideal reappearance. Nami owes you big time for this. You shut the door of your grandpa’s cherry red pickup truck with enough force you’re surprised it doesn’t fall off its rusty hinges– the thing is older than you after all– before making your way into the establishment. 

It’s your standard honky tonk. The music is loud, the dance floor is large, and the bar covers the length of an entire wall. Whitebeard’s tugs at a distant memory in your mind. One that you had long forgotten since it’s been decades since you last stepped foot in this small town. But you don’t have much time to ruminate in nostalgia when you hear your name called out over the music in the direction of the bar. 

“Hi?” You question as you lean against the bartop to better hear the bartender.

“You’re covering for Nami tonight, right?” 

“Unfortunately,” you nod, your gut twisting with anxiety. But he laughs, goodnaturedly. He seems kind, you deduce.

“I’m Marco,” he introduces, holding out a hand for you to shake. “I bartend on Friday nights when I’m free just to help the old man out.”

You shake his hand. And you wonder why the hell everyone in this town speaks to you as if you didn’t just show up a few weeks ago. The town is so small of course everyone knows everyone. And of course everyone knows you. You’re new. Shiny. Interesting. 

“That’s nice of you,” you say, trying your hardest to plaster a friendly smile on your face.

“We do what we can.” Marco smiles in return, much brighter and friendlier than you know yours to be. “Speaking of, first lesson starts at 8:30. If you go to the DJ, he’ll let you know what’s on the setlist for tonight.”

He points to a booth that’s elevated to the right of the dancefloor. You don’t see anyone there, but when you turn around to point that out to Marco his figure has already disappeared behind a swinging door. What is up with these people and their tendency to just vanish?

Either way, you walk up to the booth, climbing the few steps to peer in when you see a familiar head of curly hair kneeling on the ground wrangling some knotted cords. 

“Usopp?” 

His head bangs on the table when he hears his name. The sound table jostles from the impact and he lets out a pathetic yelp before rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. 

“Oh, hey! What’re you doin’ here?” He’s standing on unsteady feet still clutching the back of his head. 

You were just with Usopp a few hours ago at the dance studio. He teaches hip hop and is also the informal IT guy whenever Robin can’t figure something out. She claims it’s because of her age, but really you know she can’t be bothered to find a solution if it’s not in a book. 

“Nami couldn’t make it,” you shrug, trying not to convey how nervous you really are. But that doesn’t last long when you look at Usopp and his eyes are like saucers and his jaw is dropped. 

“So she stuck the Friday crowd on you?!”

“That bad?” Your heart kicks rapidly in your chest.  

“Nami’s a real piece of work,” he sighs before grabbing a sheet of paper from his bag. It’s the setlist for the evening. “Good luck. Let me know if you need any help.”

And before you can begin to form the question that’s in your head with your lips, he jumps out of the other end of the booth to talk with someone on the far side of the dance floor. You might actually murder someone tonight if they keep this up. 

“And if I did need any help what good would you be,” you mutter under your breath as you scan over the list of songs for the evening. You’re familiar with some of them, especially the early slots but the others don’t ring a bell. You’re officially fucked. 

“You’re not gonna get any help with that attitude.” There’s a playful note to the man’s voice. A man you’re not familiar with. So regardless of the intent, the comment agitates you. But when you look up to convey your irritation with him, the words sort of just die in your throat. You aren’t expecting the man attached to the voice to be so… hot. He’s wearing a cowboy hat with chunky dark curls sticking out around his neck. He’s got freckles sprayed across his cheeks perfectly, like someone drew them on. They make him look almost cute. But the cuteness ends there. He’s broad, built in a way that indicates he works a laborious job. And he’s holding two cases of beer in one arm like it’s nothing. Where the hell did he come from?

“Sorry,” you say, the apology rushing out with an exasperated sigh. “I’ve just never taught line dancing before so…”

“Nami flaked again,” he says with a full laugh, you feel it run down your body. But when his words register your eyes widen.

“What do you mean again?” You ask, making your way down the steps quickly and with urgency. “How often does she do this?!”

“Not often, but enough for it to be a bit of a problem,” he laughs again, somehow fuller than the last one. 

“Right, ok.” You nod to try and cover up the bile that’s threatening to claw its way up your throat. Come Monday you and her are gonna have to have a very serious discussion.

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” he says, very clearly noticing the wreck you are and trying to salvage whatever confidence you might still have. 

“Ace!” His head turns to the bar where Marco is standing and waving a towel at him to get his attention. “Stop flirting with the new girl and bring me those beers. We already got customers.”

Your cheeks start to burn. Heads have turned your way and you feel yourself start to wilt under the attention. Especially since you weren’t flirting. At least, you really don’t think so. 

“Don’t pay him any mind,” Ace says, clapping you on the shoulder. “Just let me know if ya need anything.”

And he, like everyone else, just walks away. Unprompted and without a word from you. And if you’re being completely honest, the southern hospitality is really starting to gnaw at your patience. Not because you think it’s insincere. But because you just don’t believe it. Maybe you’re cynical. 

“Take this,” Usopp says, finally back from wherever he went and he’s tossing you a headset. You catch it sloppily, off guard. 

“What’s this for?”

“Five minutes til show time.” He waves at the growing crowd. “Giddy up.”

You slip the headset on. Feeling very Britney Spears circa 2001 as you step onto the floor. You shove your nerves to the side. You’ve been in front of audiences before. It used to be home to you. Not so much anymore, though. 

“How’s everyone feelin’ tonight?” That’s Usopp yelling into a mic above. And you’re not doing so hot. But everyone else seems to be just fine as screams resonate through the building. “We got a newbie in the house tonight, so y’all take it easy on her.”

You send him a playful glare from your place in front of the crowd. There’s some familiar faces. Robin is here with her husband and she tips her beer bottle at you in greeting as she sends you a reassuring wink. There’s some parents that you recognize as well since you teach their kids twice a week in your jazz class. This is definitely a popular way to spend a Friday night and you quickly realize you're in way over your head. 

“Alright, everybody, we ready?” There is a chorus of yeahs and whistles. The energy is infectious, it’s hard not to feel the rush of adrenaline thrum beneath your skin. “We’re keeping it classic for this first one. How do we feel about the cowboy hustle?” 

The first lesson goes well. It’s a line dance you know well enough to teach, so your confidence surges, even though you’ve never taught such a rowdy bunch before. The lesson only lasts about ten minutes before Usopp moves on and an hour flies by and you find yourself instructing the second lesson of the night. 

You’re not as comfortable. A little shakier and it’s because the crowd practically doubled in size. You don’t know how Nami does this. You can barely hear your own instruction over the noise and you have a mic strapped to your head. 

“Here.” A chilled vodka shot with a lemon wedge slides in front of you. “I had Marco whip this up for you.”

You glance between the shot and Ace. He’s leaning against the bartop with his forearm and his biceps look like they’re about to rip the seams of his white t-shirt. “You look like you need it.”

“Are you saying I’m stiff?” You’re insulted to say the least. If he can tell you’re off your usual game, then everyone else can probably sense it too.

“A little,” he says, a cheeky smile pulling at his lips. “But don’t feel too bad. Nami usually downs about four shots before she even sets foot on that dance floor.”

You groan, contemplating even taking the shot before you grip the small glass and mutter, “ fuck it, fine.” 

It burns on the way down, but the lemon you bite down on helps. You already feel your muscles start to loosen, but it’s not quite enough. 

“One more?” Ace asks, holding up a finger and smirking down at you. Getting drunk around him is probably a bad judgment call on your part. He has a face you can’t really say no to. But you nod, accepting the fact that cowboy is apparently your new type. 

The night escapes you. It’s 12:30am. You’re three more shots deep. And dancing has never been easier. You’re on the final line dance of the night. 

“Ok, I’m thinkin’ we should slow it down for this last one,” you say, pointing at Usopp who sends you an eager thumbs up. The song starts, the melody is languid and sensual. 

“Everyone who knows it to the front.” You gesture to where you were previously standing as you make your way through the crowd. “Everyone else? Behind me.”

This is a popular one. So mostly everyone is familiar with the steps. And if you’re not it’s easy enough to jump in and catch on. Your hips swivel during a forward step as you kick into a turn to face a new direction. You’re lost in the music. And so you’re not expecting to look up and see a pair of eyes dead set on you. They’re burning as they drag over your body, pausing as you roll your hips in the opposite direction. The feeling is clearly mutual with Ace. And for the first time in a while the sticky sensation of desire slithers low in your gut. 

****

“Ya know, you never gave me your name,” Ace calls out to you in the nearly empty parking lot. You flinch in place a bit because you were distracted counting how much you made. Three hundred fucking dollars. For four hours of work. Maybe you forgive Nami just a tiny bit. 

“I’m sure you got it when Usopp yelled it over the speakers several times in a row,” you laugh, leaning your back against your truck as you face him.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, hands in his pockets as he steps closer to you, “but I wanna hear how you say it.”

“Right,” you say sarcastically, barely suppressing your eye roll when you smile at him. He’s good. And it’s working. So you say your name for him. Only because he asked so nicely. 

“Pretty,” he grins. 

“Thanks,” you lick across your teeth, “I got it for my birthday.”

“And funny.” He takes another step closer to you. The toes of your boots nearly touch. “But I was talking about you. Your name is very pretty, though.” 

“Does this usually work for you?” You drop your head back to rest against your truck, it makes it easier to look at him. 

“I don’t know.” He shrugs again, the distance between your shoes closing when he shuffles forward. “You tell me.”

You reach up, brushing your fingers over the silver chain that sits on Ace’s collarbone. Then, still fueled by the last traces of alcohol in your system, you hook your forefinger around the cool metal and tug him down. Until his nose is just a breath away from yours. This isn’t like you. You’ve never done anything like this. You live a regimented life. You don’t decide to hook up with random cowboys you just met. 

But this cowboy is handsome. And charming. And it’s not like you’ll see him all the time considering this is the first time you’ve seen him in the last month and a half that you’ve lived here. So, fuck it. Tonight he’s yours. 

“Maybe a little bit,” you say coyly, rising on your toes so that your nose nuzzles his. 

“Mmm,” he hums, and you notice the way his eyes drift closed. It makes your heart thump heavily against your sternum. “Before I kiss you, though, I have to admit something.”

Your heart drops into your stomach in anticipation. Your mind jumps to conclusions it has no business jumping to. “What?” 

“This never works.” He smiles into the kiss. Sparks light behind your eyes. And tomorrow, you’ll decide if you regret this. For now? You’ll save a horse and ride a cowboy.