#smol!reader

[skyrigel]

Reader who doesn't speak English as their first language and Simon being so in love !!

Over the dinner course, you leaned forward confidently, like you were sharing a secret.

"I think we should buy a baby wheelchair for them."

Price's missus was going to have a baby shower next week.

"Wot?" Simon blinked.

"A baby wheelchair—" You pulled your fist into a punching stance and moved it back and forth, mimicking a tiny car. "Like a baby car�� phew phew."

"Oh, that's a stroller." Simon raised a brow, watching your head bobble in a self-absorbed nod.

"Exactly, baby car… stroller."

And it was so cute when you looked up at him whenever you forgot certain words.

"Simon, how do you say in English? The takka-takka-takka—"

"Helicopter," Simon said fondly, earning himself a sweet peck on the lips.

The task force enjoyed it immensely. When Soap said, “Break a leg !” and you raised up a fight at why Simon should break his leg.

Or when Kyle couldn't stop laughing so much with the way you pronounced, “Bitch” to the bird who was hitting up on Simon.

And Simon loved it all, felt love in your eyes through your words, especially when you used his vocabulary—God, it did something to him.

Saying "bugger" when you put too much ketchup, and "bloody freezin’, innit?!" with that corky little smile because you knew how much it wrecked him.

"Bollocks," you would curse, and he’d already be losing his heart and mind, dragging you to the bedroom.

The way you would slip into your native dialect when you were upset, voice rising as you made frustrated noises—Simon would forget the argument entirely, just watching you with that pretty face he’d go to war for.

And something, something about the way you said "I love you" in your native language first, just as softly, and how you called him "my love" in that same way too.

Bloody hell, he’s so in love.

Masterlist

[fluffylino]

sucking him off

he's tired and he can't seem to sleep. still high on adrenaline so you decide to ease his body...

-contains mature themes (this is very fluffy and hyunjin is so babie)

touring around different countries, across continents and having to perform for 3 hours nearly every two days was exhausting.

watching as hyunjin plops on the bed after reaching the hotel after the macau concert. seungmin and jeongin deciding to go live while hyunjin makes an appearance. staying for some time before he returns back.

sitting on the edge of the bed, quietly watching you cook some instant cup noodles for y'all.

he sniffles, sighing loudly and you can't help but laugh at his almost puppy like behaviour. turning around to see him flat on the bed. laying on his back with his legs spread apart. bathroom slippers hanging off his feet funnily.

"m'tiredddd" he groans, stretching his arms up. rolling his head around in the soft pillow.

bringing his hand down to pat his tummy. making all sorts of disgruntled noises while he lifts his legs up and drops them down. letting out another sigh.

continuing to press his lower abdomen with a firm hand. breathing slowly. he looks so calm, it makes you want to give him the world.

he's exhausted. but he can't fall asleep. adrenaline still rushing in his veins. still hyper from the concert yet too tired to even have energy to get up.

"..jinnie"

you mumble sweetly, deciding to give him something to relax. or maybe you just needed to calm yourself down after seeing him lay down in such a seemingly sexy way.

"mh- MH?!" he hums. going higher in pitch when you sit between his legs.

pressing a kiss to his inner thigh. taking him by surprise. neverthess he stays still, sinking deeper into the mattress. pressing kisses over his covered crotch.

"b-baby" is all he whispers, lifting his hips up for you to tug his tracksuit pants down just enough.

the cardigan he had on, exposing the tank top he was wearing underneath. exhaling as you fiddle with his waistband.

pulling it down to wrap your fingers around his hardening length. never failing to always surprise you with how pretty his dick looked. (i believe hyunjin has the prettiest most beautiful elegant dick and you cannot convince me otherwise)

smiling to yourself at how he pats his stomach in anticipation. cardigan sleeves so long that only the tips of his fingers stick out.

placing a small kiss to the tip, tasting his slick on your lips. so you sweetly circle your tongue over his weeping slit. body tingling with how loved you were feeling.

"m-mh babyyyy"

hyunjin drawls. voice cracking ever so slightly. absolutely strained after singing. you glance up at him. only seeing the underside of his chin and his heaving chest.

sticking your tongue out to lick a long stripe from his base all the way up to his tip. taking him in your mouth with a relieved sigh.

god, you loved thus man so much that you dreamt of doing this just to ease your mind.

"s-shit just like that"

moaning softly. goosebumps rising on his skin when you slide your hand underneath his tank top.

earning a surprised little squeak at your cold fingertips. thoughtlessly you suck on him. eyes closing with the pleasant weight on your tongue. warm and heavy.

breathing out shakily from your nose. his bigger hands sliding on top of yours. interlacing your fingers while you place wet sloppy kisses all over his dick.

looking up to see his chest heave. throwing his head further back and whining.

"cumming! c-cummi..."

hyunjin groans. squeezing your hand. feeling him twitch in your mouth and you take him deeper.

moaning your name sweetly while he cums harder than ever. legs closing around you. arching his back with a long drawn out whine.

you swallow. tasting the thick white slick that fills your mouth. sqeezing his hand reassuringly.

when you do lift your head up. his eyes are struggling to stay open.

making grabby hands at you sleepily.

"hold me, baby"

he whispers, grinning happily when you lay on top of him. kissing him on the cheek.

.

.

.

.

.

.

i love this liddol dumpling

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ When they are your guardian/teacher figure

(This idea has been requested by several lovelies and anons who wished something along those lines. It was a long while back, so I apologize if I couldn’t tag or respond to one specific ask.) 

(Platonic, gn reader is a child. Short domestic satire)

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia (+ small Arlecchino bonus)

✧ Due to some mysterious circumstances that were too irrelevant to reiterate, Pierro was known to attend to all matters regarding your well-being. Though the Jester himself seldom graced the Palace of Snezhnaya, the sight of a diminutive, silent child was even rarer. That small, elusive child – was you.

“As your knowledge blossoms, so will you understand the merit of growth. The more hunger for knowledge you possess, the greater your intellectual progress shall become.” – The Jester spoke formally, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed off into the snowy horizon behind the window. “To withhold knowledge is to forsake power, and thus, you must wield it as a weapon.”

But when Pierro turns to face his audience, all he can see is your peering eyes barely peeking from the enormous desk. Sitting on the armchair that is way too big for you, your short legs barely touch the ground. And it doesn’t help that Pierro’s words are perhaps too… eloquent for someone your age. 

“That is to say, little one, I am telling you forgot to do your homework. Again.”  

You blinked.

“Little one,” – Pierro began carefully, his eyes narrowing. He knew your innocent silence was a cunning sign. Sensing his suspicion, you hopped off the armchair with agile speed and darted away. “Little one-! Return here at once!”

But your small form carried you off in the palace hallways, hopping under tables and chairs, you tested Pierro’s resilience as he chased you. Panting and screaming that you’ll “never succumb to the enemy” that is your homework; you refused your academic tasks and yearned to be what you truly are - a menace to the Jester’s sanity. 

Yet despite the countless times you ran away like a little criminal and the many times that the Harbinger caught you swiftly in his gloved arms, he could never raise his voice at you. His scoldings would be met with sulking. Your woeful expression always softened his sternness, leaving him with two outcomes: either you would tire him out by running, or he would tire you out by following you.

And as the night wore on, the result always remained the same. Both of you found yourselves dozing in an armchair, wrapped in a cozy blanket, and lulled into slumber by the crackling fireplace. Pierro nodded off gracefully, his head resting gently on his knuckles, while you, enveloped in sleep and warmth, lay cradled in his arms, protected from guilt in the peace of Pierro's private sanctuary. Running around does tire one out, after all. 

✧ Impressive in his ominous stature, Il Capitano towered above the smaller child. Despite your shy demeanor, you still stuck closely to Il Capitano's side, often hiding behind his coat; your hands clutching the fur as you shielded yourself from the intimidating Fatui troops working alongside him. 

Capitano, however, harbored reservations. The training grounds were no suitable habitat for a small one like you. He was hardly a natural caregiver and yet, he knelt beside you, his pitch-black visage peering straight down at your awestruck expression. He expected his unwelcoming helmet would frighten you off, yet all you did was place your tiny palms on his helmet and exclaim: “Capi!”

“This place is not for a child like you. You shouldn't wander around these parts, darling. They are dangerous and you're much too small for the many sharp weapons stored here.”

You smiled at him, curiously trying to reach for the golden chains around his helmet. It seems you weren't afraid of him.

“You may be a fearless little warrior, but you must stay on your guard. What if an enemy came to swoop you up, small one?” - Capitano lifted you high, his armored hands careful so as not to poke your smaller figure. You just emitted a small happy “wee!” in response.

How easy it is to crack a knight's exterior solely with a childlike smile. 

That's how you found yourself under his protective wing, never once heeding his warning as you continued to follow him diligently. Whenever the Harbinger was training, you watched. Whenever he did his usual warm-up push-ups, you tried to mimic. You obviously failed and quickly plopped onto the floor by the second push-up. 

“Easy there,” - Capitano offered you to sit cross-legged on his back while he continued his pushups. You were much smaller anyway, so whether you hung on his forearms whenever he lifted weights or did pushups, it barely posed a physical challenge. You, however, were beyond gleeful to be involved in his training, your face awash in wonder as he hoisted you up with ease while you perched serenely on his back. 

It's comical how this captain's reluctance turned him into now a caretaker of a small wee one; and an excellent one at that. He often carries you around, ensuring you are eating well after he is done with his morning training, and silently relishing your little yawns whenever you fall asleep by resting your head on his shoulder. 

✧ Il Dottore sat behind his desk, the solitary glow of the desk lamp casting long chiaroscuro shadows that slithered across the lab. It was another silent night, save for his swift scribbling over scientific reports. Suddenly, The Doctor felt a tug at his leg. Humming in response, he glanced down to find none other than you looking up at him with a small bundle of your favorite comforter clutched tightly in your tiny hands. 

“Hm? Can't sleep?”

You nodded. 

With great care, Dottore lifted you to his chair and placed you beside him. One hand resumed its task, grasping his pen to scrawl his intricate research calculations, while the other rested securely on your back, ensuring you were steady on his lap. With a sleepy haze, you observed his writing - so many big words and different numbers. You pointed at one and inquired:

“Dottie… what is this word?” 

“This is pronounced ‘metamorphosis’. To describe a transformation or change from one form to another, like a caterpillar changing into a butterfly.”

“Meta-fofis…” - you imitated to the best of your comprehension.

"Meta-morph-o-sis."

You parroted in a murmur, to which The Doctor rewarded you with a hair ruffle. While his reports were nearly complete, he paused, pointing to another word on the page: “And this, little one, how do you pronounce it, remember?” 

“Um, axono-trophy.” 

“Indeed, well done. And what is the meaning of Axonotrophy?”

“A condition where axons are destroyed due to disease.” 

A prideful gleam graced Il Dottore's features. Your answers reflected not only a keen absorption of the various biological terminology but also his own success in mentoring you. Perhaps for regular children, such tedious topics are far from entertaining, yet The Harbinger saw the way your eyes beamed with curiosity at the many tomes of books, reports, and vials. And he would never forbid your curiosity like his homeland once did.

“A brilliant scholar in the making, little one. Excellent job,” - he patted your hair, letting you comfortably settle on his lap to rest. You hugged your comforter as he continued to work, a big yawn escaping you. Unaware of when you succumbed to the lulls of sleep, you drifted off, cocooned in warmth and security while Dottore silently finished his reports. 

✧ Scaramouche released a vexed sigh, his patience being tested. He wasn't on a Fatui mission by any kind, yet his solitude began to wane as a smaller figure kept following him around in a less inconspicuous manner. 

“You know you're not being sneaky, right? Stop following me around, kid.”

You flinched. The Harbinger turned to glare at you and you felt even smaller as he scolded you. You hid the item you brought behind your back, trying to conceal your bruised knees and scratched little fingers.

“I’m… I'm not following around, mister,” - you defend meekly, but Scaramouche only crossed his arms. “I made you a gift!” 

What sort of present could a child even muster for a Fatui Harbinger, Scaramouche mused to himself. You looked so unkept, hair tangled, and dirt stuck to your sandals as if you stumbled somewhere around a grassy hill. The Balladeer raised an eyebrow but reluctantly obliged. He kneeled before you – “Spit it out, kid. What do you want?”

You stepped closer and with naïve determination - you handed him a crocheted little toy. It was far from a professional mastery, with some knots uneven, but the vision was clear. This little toy resembled Scaramouche, with short dark hair and a funny flat hat. 

“I made this for you! Mister looks very pretty, like a doll! So I tried… to make one.” 

Scaramouche stared silently, his lips parted. The black buttons of the round doll stared back at him. A brush of a certain memory swept him like the gentle breeze of early autumn; your bright determination, so radiant while you were so small, left him frozen. He saw all this before when he donned a different name, a different time. And although he wished to scowl and say ‘Why the hell would I want a doll?’ - he never dared to. 

Instead, he held it up carefully and muttered – “Hm, I suppose it looks like me. Not bad. You did this all on your own?” 

You nodded eagerly. The Harbinger decisively offered his hand, your smaller one clutching onto him as if he were an older sibling.

“Come on, kid. Let's get you cleaned up and tidied. Goodness knows when you last had a good meal, too.” 

✧ What a jubilant day it was for Pantalone. He has just returned from a shopping venture; his servants aiding him with bags of newly ordered accessories and state-of-the-art attires. Little you sat plopped on a soft cushion, yet even to someone as minute as you comprehend the Harbinger's energetic pacing. It was one of those days when the 9th would go on some tangent about Mora. Again. 

“You see dear, Mora is the true physical leyline of the human world,” - he stood behind you, busying himself with styling your hair delicately while you sat in front of a dresser. “It is what ensues power, gaining influence of the world's machinations.”

You watched as he proudly brushed and styled your hair, spending more time picking up the newly brought ties and accessories than actually styling.

“But there is more to it!” – Once satisfied with your tidy appearance, the Regrator picked you up in his arms, lifting you to his level. “I am not speaking about monetary gain, my little gem. I am speaking of what you value most in your life. 

With one arm securing you, his second arm reaches for various items. He sets out some precious jewelry on one side, their shiny gemstones gleaming with pristine silver. Then he set down some soft plushies. Even the Fontainian toys he purchases are of foreign mastership with unique designs. And on the other side of the dresser, the last item he placed was stacks of your favorite books and pencils. 

“Say, little one. Of all these things, which is most important for a young gem like you?” 

Pantalone held you securely in his arms, a thoughtful look on his expression as you blinked in wonder. It seems he tried to give you some sort of speech about the difference between monetary gain, hedonistic lifestyle, and the value of work. Shiny riches, toys, or books. He waited patiently for you to choose, hoping that the simple representation of items would convey the seriousness of his questions. 

You, however, simply blinked and peered at those jumbles of items. Instead, you turned to inspect him and decided on a straightforward answer: “Pantalone!”

So you just wrapped your arms around him. 

The Harbinger tried not to weep. He never considered himself an option when comparing his value to Mora. He embraced you tightly in response, you were already wiser than him in many regards.

 ✧ the 11th of The Fatui Harbingers, Tartaglia, was no more. Now there is only the Greatest Toy Salesman in Snezhnaya. Or so would be his title if it was a synonym for beating bad monsters because you believed it most earnestly. 

Eagerly, you followed whenever Childe was training, thinking that the shiny big weapons were something of joyous intrigue. The young harbinger would drop everything at once and swoop you in a hurry before you touch the sharp blades. 

Interesting gauntlets worn by Anemoboxer Vanguards? Touch. 

Interesting pyro-infused rifles held by Pyroslinger Bracers? Touch. 

Dual blades gleaming whenever Pyro Agents tossed them? Also must touch.

All that and more were followed by Tartaglia’s hurried ‘No!’ as he rushed to your side. You were a small bundle of energy. And suddenly Childe realized how much of a nuisance he must've been to his dad when he was younger.

“Kid, how many times have I told you,” - he sighed, pulling you up over his shoulder. “Touching is a no-no if something is sharp!”

Hence, to put your curiosity into use, Childe made a miniature wooden bow for you, your new toy. Decisive in teaching you the baby steps of handling a bow, Tartaglia considered himself to be well off in the art of shooting lately; his posture even became better when aiming the weapon. This will be a good start to mentor you.

You were ecstatic, even if your arrows would plummet to the ground or way behind the shooting range. After all, similar to your curiosity, Ajax was also once a restless child like you. 

✧ You stared up at the red crossed-out pupils boring into your soul. The tall lady stared back, her gaze locked into a cold narrowed shape. Arlecchino regarded you carefully, seeing your hesitation when you noticed her ashen black hands. Was it your child-like curiosity or fear that struck you to freeze still? Because the 4th of Fatui Harbingers knew the scent of gullible reticence.

“Go on now. Why the hesitation, child? Something struck your curiosity or is it fear?”

You stayed still, mustered up your courage, and stated: “Eyes… pretty! Red and black.” 

Father’s narrowed gaze falters. It seems she misjudged you, you weren’t skittish like the usual little youngsters. A spirit of curiosity at such a young age must be nurtured. Thus, The Knave offered her hand, and your smaller one eagerly held onto it, inspecting the unique markings on her fingers. 

“Hm, if it's a curiosity of the unknown you are displaying, then you must be a brave little one. But if it's flattery you’re trying to achieve, then know that it will get you nowhere.”

You obediently picked up the pace, walking alongside her, hand in hand, while Arlecchino’s heels clacked against the floor. Her shadow cast upon your smaller one, enveloping you like an unassailable eclipse against the world. 

(as always, thank you everyone for the kind words and messages! Dw I see and read your asks❣)

[azzo0]

Katsuki cried the first time he held his newborn daughter in his arms. His eyes watered when the nurses guided his hand under her head and adjusted her on his arm. He trembled as he brought her closer to him. He held her closed fist in his hand, amazed by how small her hand was compared to his. Little fingers curled around his index, and he wondered how something this unbelievably tiny could manage to grip his heart so tight in a matter of seconds. He sat on the chair behind him, holding his baby girl close to his chest and covered his eyes with a hand, bursting into tears.

[viperify]

AU | ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𖤝 bite marks.

Vampire!Tom, who messily drinks from your thighs until you’re on the verge of passing out—just to reward you with the most mind-blowing, toe-curling orgasm you’ve ever had.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

warnings: 18+, blood kink, biting, marking, oral f!receiving, fingering, slight dub con ig, vampire tommy who can’t get enough of ur soft thighs ;)

Tom is very serious about taking his time with his favourite meal—you.

Fangs lazily dragging over your already hypersensitive skin, drawing weak whimpers and whines from your bruised lips.

Bite marks here, bite marks there—you are certain both of your thighs are fucking covered in them. Small drops of blood trickle onto your once white bed sheets, staining them a crimson color—your beautiful, expensive satin bedsheets you spent a fortune on—and yet, the dizzying effect of his bite keeps you from complaining.

“Tom— no more, please, can’t— can’t take it,” you breathe shakily, palm half-heartedly trying to push him away.

But you aren’t there yet, and he knows it. He knows you can give him more, you can take more.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.” He purrs, voice still thick with the same hunger as when you just started—and it’s then that you know you are in for a long night.

And so, he finds a spot that he hasn’t tried, hasn’t bitten.

Although they are getting rare.

A single tear falls down your cheek as his sharp teeth sink into your flesh once more, groaning as he tastes the coppery flavour of your sweet, sweet blood—his favourite.

Fingertips digging into your thigh, pinning it to the soft mattress beneath you as though you were his last meal—greedy gulps filling the air, tongue lapping over the fresh wound.

And you can do nothing but take it.

When he finally withdraws—blood staining his lips and chin crimson—his eyes meet yours.

Scarlet eyes, burning through the darkness of the room. You look back with half-lidded eyes, ears ringing, fingertips tingling, dizzy because of how much blood he’s taken from you. Your eyes blink slowly, vision blurry, almost too blurry to notice the satisfied smirk plastered on his face.

“Did so well for me,” he drawls, moving to lean over you—without ever breaking eye contact.

His lips brush against yours in a tender kiss, the metallic taste of your own blood flooding your senses as soon as his skin touches yours. And what he does to you—whether it’s a side effect of his many, many bites, or the sweet sting caused by them—you cannot deny the aching feeling building in your lower stomach.

Legilimens, vampire— you should know better than to think he isn’t aware. Almost ready to drift off to sleep, you don’t immediately notice him between your legs again. Tom offers a raspy hum against your thigh when he feels the wet patch on your panties, gently swiping over it with his thumb—and suddenly, reality crashes down onto you.

A soft mewl leaves your lips, instinctively pressing your thighs together—only for Tom to spread them further apart.

“Look at you, all needy for me.” He purrs, pushing your lace panties to the side, revealing your glistening cunt to his hungry eyes, flickering briefly. “You have done so well. Now let me give you something back, hm?”

A soft nod from your side is all it takes before his tongue delves between your folds, groaning as he tastes your arousal—a deep, low sound you usually only get to hear whenever he’s greedily gulping down your blood.

His hands are firmly wrapped around your thighs, keeping you all spread open for him while he takes his time with you.

No haste.

As if you haven’t already lain sprawled out in front of him for what must be hours.

When his lips finally wrap around your puffy clit, two of his fingers slipping inside of you, stretching you perfectly, curling just right—you feel like you might actually not fucking survive this.

Your hips involuntarily buck against his face, telling him even without words you need more, need to come.

“Greedy girl. Come on, do it. Break for me.”

Tom knows what you like, what you need. Pointy teeth gently brushing over your clit, fingers pressing against your most sensitive spot with each deep, rough thrust.

And then you do break.

Orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching down tight around his digits. All the pent-up pressure releases at once, and for a moment you swear you see stars.

Even with your thighs shaking, broken moans spilling from your lips, he doesn’t stop—drawing out your high for as long as he can. It’s as though he enjoys this as much as you do.

Fuck, he probably does. At his complete mercy.

“That’s it— good girl.”

Only when you whimper in overstimulation does he slow down and finally sit back.

Looking at the mess he’s made of you.

Covered in his bite marks, blood mixing with the leaked arousal on your thighs, chest heaving as you lay boneless on the soft mattress—entirely spent.

“You are art like this, darling. My very own canvas—all for me, forever.”

He takes care of your wounds, cleans the dried blood on your thighs and the sheets, wiping a strand of hair from your face before he places a kiss on your forehead, finally laying down beside you.

“Forever, Tom.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | AUs.

©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

AARON HOTCHNER MASTERLIST

🫧 clean (but still probably suggestive) | 🫐 smut | 🌟 angst

all sorted from newest to oldest

🌟 where it hurts the most: getting shot is bad. bleeding out in your boss-slash-ex’s arms? somehow, worse.

🫐 game night, ruined: one question you refuse to answer gives you the best sex of your life.

🌟 comfort in you: even though the two of you are no longer together, hotch can't help the fact that he still has the need to comfort you.

🫧 heels of dreams: you wear heels for a fancy dinner, but in the end, it’s not your shoes that carry you home.

🫧 light blue shirt: hotch's dad bod has been driving you crazy and it only gets worse when he pulls out your favourite light blue shirt that you hid from him.

🫐 filthier flat-pack thoughts: your boss rejects you the first time but what happens when he's the one in charge? (part 2 of filthy flat-pack thoughts).

🫧 filthy flat-pack thoughts: you had taken the day off to get yourself settled into your new apartment, not expecting hotch to show up at your door and offer a hand.

🫧 sticky, smug & mine: aaron takes up jogging, and you take up pouting—because he leaves you… only to come back and smother you with his sweaty self.

🫧 denim day: its denim day at work and you opt for the shortest miniskirt you own, but not before snapping a pic and sending it to your boyfriend who is not a happy bunny.

🫧 best worst date ever: you finally score a date with your favourite FBI agent but none of it goes to plan.

🫧 craving clarity: hotch returns the favour and shows up at your workplace for a case and you make sure to give him a hard time.

🫧 1-800-call me, fake fiancé: the fbi agent you met at the bar helped you out of a jam so you decide to pay him a visit at work.

🫧 will you be my fake fiancé?: you find yourself in a sticky situation - you need a fiancé asap and the stern looking man at the bar seems to suffice.

🫧 drunk on you: your boss picks you up after a night out and you smother him with sex jokes and your feelings.

🫧🌟 a white lie amogst chocolate cake: you and jack throw hotch a surprise birthday party but you had to tell a white lie in the process.

🫧 apple slices & silent vices: it started out as a sleepless night and a midnight snack, and ended with your bodyguard standing between your legs in your dad's kitchen.

[papayacinnabun]

sometimes babygirl is a 25 yr old man

[majorpatheticcas]

May I have this dance? 🌹

"I gotta be honest with you, kid. I'm not the smoothest dancer, but hey, at least we're dancing, right?"

Anon design by: @htsan

[usersquidgame]

KANG SUNG-WOOK about his Gyeong-su role

[elsecrytt]

okay but jjk somnophilia is like

gojo "please please pleaaaaase let me put it in while you're sleeping PLEASE i swear i'll make you cum i proooomise please let's try it once pleeaaase. YOU can put it in ME whenever you want!!! any time any place anything you want in any of my holes!! wake me up with it!! it'll be soooo hot" satoru

vs

nanami "i have kink charts for both of us and they have sliding scales and notes section for each one. we can mark hard boundaries for what state of consciousness we want for ourselves or our partners, giving or receiving, what sex acts, etc. we'll set up a safe word and a safe gesture and then we can start trying things out" kento

vs

geto "sorry i fell asleep while eating you out, it will happen again. no, i won't stop eating you out when i fall unconscious. just tear me off your pussy if you don't like it" suguru

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

risky

Summary: The undercover mission with Javier does not go as planned. Not that you're complaining.

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem. reader

Wordcount: 588

Raiting: E

Warnings: smut (semi public sex, unprotected sex) undercover Javi with a twist, making out

A/N: This interaction has been on my mind all day so please, enjoy this smol baby drabble I might be ovulating

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Full Masterlist // Javier Peña Masterlist

„You always take your undercover work this serious, Agent Peña?“ You whispered against his ear, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth to stop the moan that you desperately wanted to hear him, deciding to moan quietly right against his ear. 

One of his arms was wrapped securely behind your back, keeping you close against his chest while his other hand was on the back of your neck, keeping your head close towards his. 

For anyone who would find you here in this dark corner of the roof terrace of this club It would look like you were making out. 

Which you were. 

More or less. 

No one would know that you had been sitting on his cock for the last fifteen minutes.

But you were and you weren’t planing on getting up any time soon. 

Or at least before he had fucked you full of his cum. 

This night had started so innocently. This time the mission was nothing more than having a drink at a bar where the criminals Javier and you had been after for almost a year were supposed to have a meeting at. When they hadn’t shown up after two hours Javier had gotten the call that they had been sighted in another town and Javi and you? Well you had decided that since you were out already, you could have a little fun. 

Fun apparently meant getting handsy with you while dancing to some salsa tunes. 

It wasn’t long before he led you outside, the hot summer day turning the night almost tropical, leaving you and him to be only a few of the people on the roof. 

Nobody spared you a glance when he led you in the darkest corner, having you sit on his lap, his hands both on your ass under the dress you had chosen to wear for the night. 

Nobody cared as he pulled at the front of you dress so he could suck one of you nipples into his mouth. 

Nobody cared when he pulled your panties to the side, two fingers slipping inside of you while you unbuckled his belt and helped him open his pants to release his cock. 

And nobody fucking cared when he had you slowly sink down on his cock out here in the open while the music from the club beneath you shook the floor and at least the four people you had seen when you got here, were somewhere on this roof with you.

„Never know who could be watching. Gotta really sell our story,“ he mumbled against your ear and you grinned, hands in his hair, tilting your head back so you could look at him. 

„And what is our story, Agent Peña?“ You asked before you found his lips in a deep kiss, rolling your hips slowly, the length of his cock making you hum against his lips. 

„That we’re newlyweds who can’t keep their hands off each other of course,“ he mumbled against your lips thrusting up into you slowly.

„Mmmmmhhhh…. Don’t think three years of marriage count as newlyweds anymore, Javier,“ you grinned down at him and you saw his jaw flex as you clenched your walls around his cock. 

„We’re still horny like newlyweds, so who the fuck cares?“ He winked. 

„And I wouldn’t risk getting caught fucking in public with anyone other than my wife,“ he kissed you again and you smiled. 

„I sure hope you wouldn’t risk getting caught with your dick in anyone else than your wife, baby. Public or not.“

[sweetchildcloud]

||MINI ME|| written by me ☆~♡~◇

Plot: Gojo being an affectionate father as he meets his baby for the first time.

Tags-Breast feeding mention,lots of cuddles,fluff,fatherly love,heartwarming,cute overload.

@muzansslxt @candy69gurl @kiwicopia

“You’re cuter” Gojo teases, but he is pleased. He likes watching you nurse Hotaru. It’s a special moment, for the both of you and your child. “He’s adorable” Satoru continues, his voice dripping with affection “but his mother… hm, far more gorgeous" Satoru laughs softly and pulls the baby in for a tight squeeze. Then, he lifts his head and stares at him once more, holding him at arm's length. The baby’s eyes are wide and bright, like stars in the sky "You have my eyes, little one. You have my eyes...and that adorable chuckle" He adds, before grinning to himself. It feels good looking at his baby. Good and strange. The whole situation was a bit surreal, in a good way, but... "I think I'm starting to understand what being a dad means"

Hatoru yawned as he wobbled scooting near his father chest and laying his head on his shoulder.

Satoru grins as he feels the weight of his son’s head resting on his shoulder. He gently caress Hotaru’s head as the baby falls asleep, and Satoru’s hand comes down to rub soft circles on his son’s back.

Hatoru yawned and he whimpered softly as he couldn't sleep continuously sifting in his dad embrace.

Satoru looks down at his son, noticing the baby’s tired, watery eyes. Immediately, he feels guilt again, realizing that his son is still adjusting to his new surroundings and hasn’t gotten used to falling asleep by himself yet. With a gentle sigh, he pulls Hotaru close to himself again, his grip tightening around the baby as a way to offer more comfort. “Shh” Satoru whispers quietly as he rocks his son “It’s okay… I’m here. I’m here….”

But that didn't help much as Hotaru whimper continued, his tiny fists clutching to his chest as he whimpers, more maybe he needed his pacifier.

Satoru’s heart twists when he hears the cries continue. He couldn’t stand seeing his son like this, with his tiny fists clutching his cheeks and his big, blue eyes so watery. Without a second thought, he pulls out a pacifier from his pocket and pops it into Hotaru’s mouth. The baby chews on the pacifier with an adorable expression, sucking on it as he does. “Better?” Satoru smiles, letting out a breath of relief.

Satoru stares at his son for a long moment, his breath caught in his throat over how *tiny* the baby is. His tiny fists on Satoru’s chest, his chubby cheeks as they wobble with his yawns, a small smear of drool as he sucks on the pacifier—everything about the little one makes Satoru’s heart swell. The baby looks incredibly adorable right now, and Satoru can’t help but feel a little happy to see the little one so calm.

"Boop" Gojo said soflty as he booped softly Hatoru little bitty nose with the tip of his finger and the baby made a cooing noise curling up his nose.

You sighed looking at the two of them and how cute they were before you let a yawn of your own "Let's go to bed sweetie" you said tiredly at Gojo.

“In a few minutes” Satoru pouted whispering, his gaze still on his son. “Just…” The baby’s sleepy eyes are adorable, and he can’t help but feel affectionate seeing them in this state. “Just let me cherish this moment, please?”

"Oh my god you're so adorable, you're not having a baby fever now are you?" You asked smirking looking at him.

“Maybe a little...” Satoru smiles, not denying it. The entire situation with them becoming parents was a bit overwhelming, but... it was so worth it. He loves it here, with his son in his arms, smiling at him just as he is. “You’re not jealous are you? And “If you mean ‘is seeing my baby like this making me feel all kinds of feels’? Yes” he answers, feeling a bit sheepish “And if it’s not baby fever, then… I don’t even know what to call it. Just watching him sleep makes me smile for some reason”

He paused before adding

“Is that weird?” He asks, still admiring Hotaru’s sleeping form. “I just feel…” A strange feeling of warmth erupted throughout his body. Love, maybe? “I feel content”

"No,not at all,it just means that you love your son and I feel the same" you said caressing softly the baby cheek as he sleeps

The warm sensation spreads through Gojo’s chest as he stares down at his son. Hatoru is so small and innocent that he makes Gojo want to cover him in kisses and hugs. He never imagined being a father would make him feel like this. Love and affection, sure, but this… this is a whole new world of emotions that he’s never experienced before. “It’s a nice feeling” he murmurs. “A very nice feeling”

“We should get to bed now, right?” He asks, still watching his son’s sleeping face, then looking over to you. He doesn’t want to miss this moment, but he also doesn’t want you to exhaust yourself.

"You can bring the baby in our bed so that we can sleep together"

Satoru looks down at Hotaru at your suggestion and his heart flutters. Yes. He wants that. He wants that very, *very* much. The two of you could sleep in bed with the baby together. Hold him close as he sleeps. It would be the most content moment of his life. Satoru swallows, trying to keep himself from smiling like an idiot. “That’s a great idea”

Satoru nods and gets up, taking his son in his arms once more. The baby is *so* light. So delicate. So cute. He chuckles as he follows you up the stairs, and walks into the bedroom. Your bed is large enough for a king, and it doesn’t take you long to climb into bed and pull Hotaru with each of you at either side. “We’re a family” Satoru whispers, his voice nearly breaking. “We’re a family now”

"Are you crying?" You asked giggling softly at your husband antics.

Satoru gives you a sheepish smile. It’s true, he has tears in his eyes. Not tears of sadness, but tears of pure joy. “Am I crying?” he chuckles softly, wiping his eyes. “Maybe just a little. This—” he gestures to their family in bed “—it’s just so beautiful… so precious…” “We created this…” He continues. “Me and you, together, we created this perfect thing” Satoru smiles again, his voice cracking with emotion as he stares down at his son. “There’s nothing better in the world than this”

“You’re a sentimental idiot” you giggled and rolled your eyes amusedly, but you didn't object when Satoru sweeps you up in a warm embrace and pulls you close to hug you. You’re a family now. Hotaru is yours, and together, you are more than you’ve ever been.

Bonus:

Satoru laughs softly, pressing his face against you “I’m a sentimental idiot” He agrees, smiling against your cheek. “But my God, I don’t think there’s anything in the world that can make me so happy right now. You and our baby…” He trails off as he continues to embrace you contented and completely at ease as you both slowly drift off to sleep.

♤♡◇♧☆♤♡◇♧☆♤♡◇♧☆♤♡◇♧☆♤

Me thinking about this:

☆Happy,happy,happy~☆

[cxffecoupx]

you're not a really clingy person, per se. you like to be independent; follow your own routine and plan things spontaneously. you never liked going along with another person's schedule.

which was precisely why mingyu was thoroughly surprised when you sounded pouty and needy on the call. he didn't waste any time though; tripping over in his own apartment as he rushed to get ready.

the door was unlocked, the living room was dark and quiet; there was no sign of any living being in the whole place. he calls out to you, head turning as he caught on to the faintest of hums coming from somewhere. your bedroom, he assumes.

what he sees when he enters your room almost makes him shrink in fondness. there you were, wrapped up in your blanket like a burrito, with 3 or so plushies (that he had bought you) surrounding the roll. nose red as a cherry and eyes watery. a box of tissues on what he assumes is your chest under the blanket burrito.

he coos as he walks over to you, and doesn't waste any time in wrapping his hands around what he could reach of your body as he places his face on your head.

"awww, my baby."

"aw me once again and I'll kick you."

"after i make you soup, right?"

"...after i have your soup."

not proofread, not thought about at all. this came together in like, half an hour. don't come for me — i am sick and this was purely self-indulgent😔🤧

[uzurakis]

knock knock ૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶₎ა

kiara . . . imagine kaiser as a dad ૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶₎ა ( a girldad specifically . . . he has three-four little girls :< )

i could swear to god that he had never considered being willing to have children in his life. having experienced abuse as a child, he veered away from the concept of a family and even from love itself. kaiser who’s not interested in building a family because he doesn't know any better and has never experienced a stable family. in fact, he doesn't even consider ending the trauma; he just doesn't give a damn anymore. he has no faith in love or miracles.

but suddenly, he found himself here, with three beautiful daughters who looked at him with eyes full of love and admiration. they were a constant reminder of a life he had never imagined for himself, and yet, they filled a void he hadn’t known existed.

he watched as his youngest daughter, barely three years old, toddled towards him with a giggle, her tiny hands reaching out for him. he gently scooped her up, fearing it might break, but her warmth against his chest soothed him down. her laughter was infectious, and despite himself, a smile tugged at his lips.

your voice called out from the kitchen, “michael, can you help with the twins? they’re arguing over the crayons again.”

kaiser sighed, but there was no real frustration behind it. “alright, i’m coming, mein liebling,” he replied, setting down the youngest and heading towards the living room where the chaos was in full swing.

when you joined him in the living room, you gave him a knowing smile. “you’re doing great, you know.”

but he shook his head, his eyes reflecting the turmoil of his past. “i never thought i’d be here,” he admitted quietly, showing another vulnerability of his. “i never thought i’d have a family, let alone be any good at this.”

you took his hand, squeezing it gently. “none of us know what we’re doing at first. but look at them, mein mann. they’re happy, and they love you. you’re their hero. du bist unser held.”

a lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard, unable to speak for a moment. “i just… i never had this,” he finally said. “i don’t know how to be a good father.”

“you are a good father, michael,” you insisted, eyes filled with conviction. “you’re here, you love them, and you try every day. that’s more than enough.”

he looked at you, his wife, the one who had seen through his walls and loved him despite everything. “i don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

you smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly. “you deserve all the happiness in the world, michael. and you deserve this family.”

[monimccoythings]

I believe everytime you and Worst!Logan decide to leave your kids under Wade's supervision, you also have to call someone to supervise Wade. It's not that Wade's a very bad babysitter, as the self proclaimed godfather of the living proof that The Wolverine has had sex twice in his life, he'd rather cut his own arm than let anything happen to the kids (it'd eventually grow back, so his sacrifice would be kinda pointless, still, it's a nice gesture); but the first time you left him with the children he threw a party, so when you and Logan returned you found yourselves in the middle of the wildest coke themed party the building has ever known, strangers form Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children (plus Buck and Al) were passing your thankfully very oblivious kids around like a bong.

You felt like you were about to faint, scream and throw up at the same time. But nothing compared to what your husband was feeling.

Logan was red, he saw red, he was about to paint the walls red.

In Wade's defense, the children had been properly fed, changed, played with, and put to sleep, and there didn't seem to be suffering from any injuries either physical or psychological, as it turns out Buck used to study pediatrics at Medical School, and you honestly didn't know how to feel about that.

So, to be frank, they had actually been well cared for by all the guests. Also, although this barely counts as an argument in Wade's favor, there was coke for the adults and light coke (the drink) for the kiddos, so in Wade's mind nothing bad had happened.

Still, they all got lucky enough to be able to barely escape with their lives and limbs intact, since you thought convenient to hand both kids to Logan to prevent him from launching himself at the guests. Not that you were feeling less angry than he was, but at least your outburst wouldn't be as traumatic for your children as Logan's.

You know Wade, you love Wade, and you have zero doubts that Wade would kill to keep those children safe and sound. But next time you and Logan want to have a night to yourselves, you're dialing Vanessa.

[mapofsouthdakota]

Plated II

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 6400ish words. The Bear AU goes harem drama, non MC reader! The slowburn has officially come to an end—world-building complete, and we’re diving in. This chapter includes: fluff, stress, banter, Raf being the most theatrical man alive, Caleb wrecking hearts (with zero remorse?), Zayne and Caleb drama and Sylus casually power-playing both you and his entire staff. Xav is a star. Definitely 18+ adult stuff, heavy kissing incoming. Brace yourself for the next chapter. It only gets wilder lol.

Tags: @gavin3469 @animegamerfox

Chapters: Pilot, chapter one, chapter three, chapter four

Needs blood | Chapter two

You drag yourself upright, groggy, heart thudding in your chest. The wine. Too much. Not too much. Just enough to keep you dreaming about leadership and pressure and the words—“I brought you here to lead.”

You groan. Shuffle to the door in nothing but an oversized black T-shirt that hangs low on your thighs, sleeves falling past your elbows.

You unlock it.

There he is.

Caleb. Sweaty from his run, hoodie slung around his neck, shirt clinging in all the wrong places. One hand holding his phone, the other clutching a folded paper.

His mouth is already open to speak—then he stops.

Eyes lower.

Linger.

And narrow.

“…Is that my shirt?”

You blink. “…What?”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous.

“That’s my shirt.”

You look down at the fabric. The worn collar. The faint, nearly invisible oil stain by the hem.

Oh.

“Caleb—”

“Nope.” He leans against the doorframe. “You made me run three extra blocks because I thought something was wrong. Turns out you were just wine-wrecked and wearing the softest shirt known to mankind.”

He exhales like it’s physically paining him not to laugh. “You never gave it back.”

Then, quieter—“After the egg incident. When Xavier set off that ridiculous steam trap and you walked out looking like a soufflé.”

Your face warms. “It was clean.”

“Barely,” he mutters. Then his smile turns sharp, warm. “But I missed that shirt.”

A pause. “Turns out, you wear it better anyway.”

You fold your arms. Regret every second of opening this door.

He grins like he just won a bet he didn’t need to place.

“Anyways. Good morning, chef.”

He holds up the folded paper like a trophy.

“Now let’s read how close we came to greatness.”

His eyes sweep you once—hair damp, bare legs, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

“You’re free to read it like that, by the way.”

A beat.

“But I can’t be held responsible for where that leads.”

You give him a look. You consider it.

Yet ten minutes later—you’ve changed.

The shirt’s replaced with something less compromising. Your hands are warm around the coffee mug as you lean against the counter, watching him pace across your kitchen, the review unfolded in his hands like it’s a classified document.

Caleb’s still flushed from his run, the hoodie now tossed over a nearby chair. His hair’s a little wild, sweat-damp at the temples. The paper flutters slightly with every motion of his hands.

“Here we go,” he mutters. “Opening line: ‘Plated is not for the faint of appetite.’”

He glances up at you. “Good start or warning?”

You sip. “Depends on the appetite.”

“Next: ‘From the first pour to the final plate, there’s an intensity to the place—one that feels deliberate.’”

A pause. He looks over the rim of the page.

“That’s Sylus. That’s totally Sylus—”

You move to pour Caleb’s mug.

He pauses mid-sentence. “Apple juice in mine. If you have some, that is.”

You stop. Turn. “…What?”

He doesn’t look up. “Try it. Trust me.”

You stare. Then shrug. And do it.

Only in his.

He takes a sip without flinching.

“Right. Raf. Here we go.” He clears his throat like it’s the main event.

“‘The dessert—a burnt citrus caramel with a blood orange shell—was nothing short of devastating. There’s flair, yes, but beneath it: precision. Rage, even. Like sweetness offered as defiance.’”

You blink. “Wow.”

Caleb grins. “I know. I think he’s going to print this and frame it.”

You lean back against the counter, refilling your mug. Caleb swirls his like he’s tasting notes of chaos and poor judgment.

“You seriously drink it like that?”

He shrugs. “It keeps me awake and concerned. Two essential states of mind.”

You snort softly.

He glances back at the paper. “Okay—next up. Timing.”

He reads: “There is one dish that arrives not just on time, but at the exact second it’s needed. Plated with such clean intention it feels sterile—but never cold. There’s something almost unnerving about that kind of precision. It cuts through the meal like a scalpel.”

He lowers the paper, smirking.

“Gee. Wonder who that could be.”

You’re already unlocking your phone.

“We’re calling him.”

He grins. “Put him on speaker.”

You tap the screen and hand your phone to Caleb. Zayne’s voice answers on the third tone. Flat. Alert. Not even groggy.

“What?”

“Morning, sunshine,” Caleb says, already smug. “You made the review.”

A beat.

“…Didn’t read it.”

You glance at each other.

“We figured,” you say. “Want the highlight?”

A pause. The faint sound of a door closing on Zayne’s end.

“Go on.”

Caleb clears his throat dramatically. “Sterile but never cold. Plated with clean intention. Unnerving precision. Cuts like a scalpel.” He lowers the page with a grin audible in his voice. “You’re officially terrifying.”

Zayne doesn’t respond immediately. Then:

“…They didn’t hate it?”

You smile.

“They didn’t hate it.”

Another pause. Then, just faintly:

“…Good.”

You can hear him sip something on the other end. Not black coffee, as you’d might expect—something sweeter. Probably laced with vanilla syrup and quiet shame.

“And the rest?” Zayne asks.

Caleb flips the page with the same energy as someone unwrapping something dangerous.

“Raf stole the entire back half. The dessert paragraph’s basically poetry.”

You chime in: “He made citrus sound like a battle cry.”

Zayne huffs—almost a laugh. “He’ll be impossible now.”

“Correct,” Caleb says. “Which is why we’re letting him sleep until noon.”

Zayne sighs.

“Call me if there’s real news.”

Click.

Caleb sets your phone down and exhales through his nose, still grinning.

“He’s pleased. That was Zayne’s version of fireworks.”

You sip your coffee again. Still too hot.

Caleb lifts the paper like a curtain.

“Let’s finish it, Hotshot.”

And you nod. Because whatever it says next, you’re ready to burn through it. Caleb flips to the last page like it might bite him. You watch him skim, eyes flicking across the text.

“No mention of Xavier yet,” you murmur, leaning over slightly. “Unless he snuck in under ‘atmosphere.’”

“Probably filed under mysterious ambient presence,” Caleb says, deadpan. “Or ‘sleeping garnish spirit.’”

You snort into your mug.

Then he pauses.

“Ah. Here’s Sylus.”

“Owner Sylus made a rare appearance at the front of house, offering the opening pour himself. The selection—a champagne from Montagne de Reims—was elegant and disarming. It’s a clever tactic: to control the mood before the food. A performance before the curtain rises.”

He glances up. “Disarming, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “He probably whispered the grape’s lineage like it was a war poem.”

“There’s no point calling him,” Caleb mutters, folding the paper. “He’s probably slumbering in velvet sheets inside a climate-controlled wine vault. Do not disturb until sundown.”

“Or unless we break a glass.”

He gives you a look. “God help us if we chip a decanter.”

The laughter fades, soft around the edges, and the quiet settles again.

Caleb taps the page.

“Here it is. Final line.”

His voice evens out. He doesn’t smile this time.

“Once a rising star in a kitchen that burned too hot, too fast—Caleb is the phoenix, if he’s willing to rise. But this time, he doesn’t fly alone. He has a brigade built sharper, steadier—and an anchor that holds the line when the flames grow high.”

He doesn’t look at you yet. Just breathes out through his nose.

Then: “There is fire in this kitchen. Not always contained. Not always kind. But fire nonetheless. I’ve seen stars born in less.”

He lowers the paper.

Your heart taps once, sharp and clear.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Then—Caleb tilts his head slightly, watching you.

His voice drops just a little.

“They saw you.”

You meet his eyes.

“Did they?”

He holds the silence for one breath. Two.

Then—

“Yeah. They did.”

You nod, quietly. Sip your coffee. You’re still standing.

“An anchor…” he says quietly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not teasing. Not assessing. Just there.

And then he’s moving.

No warning.

He closes the space between you in two easy steps, arms looping around you, strong and steady and suddenly everything.

He pulls you close and holds on tight—tighter than you expect. The only thing between you is your hand curled around the warm mug, pressed to your chest like a fragile secret. Caleb doesn’t try to move it. Doesn’t try to move you. His warmth seeps in—quiet and steady—melting through places you didn’t realize had gone cold.

You blink. Once. Then again.

You don’t remember the last time you were held like this.

His breath is right above your ear when he says it:

“I’m so proud of you.”

Quiet. Firm. No smirk. No show.

He doesn’t let go right away.

And when he does, his hands linger a second longer than they need to—sliding away like he’s reluctant to leave that warmth behind.

He clears his throat. “We should meet the others.”

You nod, blinking again.

He tosses the paper onto the counter, then grabs his hoodie. Halfway to the door, he calls over his shoulder: “Text them. I’ll see you there.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

You’re left standing in the quiet.

The review still sitting on the counter.

And the warmth of his arms still stitched into your spine.

You reach for your phone.

It’s time to bring the brigade back together.

————————————-——————————————

The beach isn’t warm.

It’s cold in the kind of way that seeps into your sleeves and catches behind your collar. Gray sky, damp air, sand still dark from the night before. But the sea keeps moving—and so do you.

The brigade shows up anyway.

Zayne is already there. Coat long and dark, collar up against the wind. He doesn’t look like he planned to arrive first—but he’s perched on a driftwood log with a cup of something warm in his hands and a quiet watchfulness in his expression. When you approach, he doesn’t look surprised.

“They forced me,” he says, before you can ask. He doesn’t move.

But he stays.

Xavier follows quietly, hoodie under jacket, bringing something that might be homemade trail mix. Or birdseed. He offers it to everyone with sleepy eyes and no explanation.

Caleb arrives last of the inner circle, paper bag under one arm, a scarf around his neck like he walked out of a black-and-white film. He doesn’t speak right away—just looks at you, lips tugging into that quiet, lopsided smile that feels like it belongs to only you.

But the real center of gravity?

Rafayel.

Already there.

Already theatrical.

He’s splayed across a massive velvet blanket like it’s a chaise lounge in Paris. His coat is long and ridiculous—somewhere between oil-slick and plum. A scarf is tied over his hair like he’s mourning a poet. His sunglasses are far too glamorous for the weather.

As you arrive, he throws out his arms like he’s receiving communion.

“Dear chefs,” he croons, “the muse demands tribute.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “You mean pastries?”

“I mean praise,” Raf says, standing with a flare of fabric. “But fine. I’ll accept baked goods.”

“You said half an hour,” Zayne mutters. “We’re going on one.”

“The sun demanded more of me,” Raf sighs. “And the wind tried to negotiate, but I do not haggle with weather.”

You sit beside him. He lets you. Leans into your shoulder, not for warmth—just because he can.

“You did it,” you say.

He hums, light and airy. But quieter than before. “We did.”

Then—

He exhales. The sunglasses come off. His eyes catch in the gray light—pinkish blue, squinting against the wind.

“They called it devastating,” he says softly. Then with more flair: “Do you know how deeply I want that carved on my grave?”

You laugh. But his voice dips again, just enough: “What if I can’t do it again?”

You turn to look at him. His jaw is set, lips pulled tight at the corners like he’s daring you to call him dramatic. But the edge in his voice is real.

You bump your shoulder against his, gentle. “Then we’ll devastate them together.”

He closes his eyes for half a second.

Then sighs. “Ugh, you’re all so sentimental when I’m vulnerable.”

From the side, Caleb calls out: “You mean when you’re honest?”

“Absolutely not,” Raf says, sitting upright. “I am never honest. I am aesthetic.”

“Is that what you call that coat?” Zayne deadpans.

“This coat,” Raf gasps, pulling it tighter, “is sharper than your principles.”

The ocean hisses behind you. The waves roll in, quiet and constant. Somewhere, gulls cry like lost kitchen timers. Xavier has wrapped himself in a blanket and is now fully horizontal on the sand.

Caleb hands you a pastry from the paper bag.

Almond. Warm. Somehow.

The wind picks up.

And then—

a car pulls up.

Far end of the lot. Quiet. Clean.

You all look up.

Sylus steps out.

Impeccable. Black coat to the knees. Gloves. Impossibly polished shoes that will never touch the sand.

He walks toward you like the wind doesn’t dare touch him. In his hand: a single bottle of deep red wine, nearly black in the shadowed light.

He stops in front of Raf.

“Chef.” No smile.

He extends the bottle with one gloved hand.

“Sangiovese. Tuscany. 2010.”

His voice like velvet dragged across crystal.

“You may celebrate now.”

Raf blinks. Then clutches the bottle like a rescued infant. “I have never felt so seen.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “Try not to pair it with anything pedestrian, chef.”

Zayne mumbles, “That’s a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.”

“No,” Sylus replies. “It’s a warning.”

He casts a glance over the group—his eyes catching yours last.

A nod. Just once. And he’s gone. Back to the car. Back to mystery. Coat snapping in the wind like punctuation.

You all sit in the pause he left behind.

Raf stares at the bottle like it might sing to him.

“I’m not opening it today,” he says solemnly. “It needs to be dramatic. Maybe lightning. Or sabotage. Or an affair.”

Caleb tosses him a corkscrew anyway.

——————————————————————————

By the end of the week…

——————————————————————————

The morning is heavy with silver light. The kind of light that feels quiet, even when the city isn’t.

You’re first through the door. The air inside is clean but cold—citrus, steel, and something just beneath: anticipation.

The pass is dark. The hoods silent.

You click the lights on one by one.

The kitchen inhales.

Then—

The door swings open. Caleb strides in, not rushed, but moving like he already knows how the day will end.

He’s on the phone, sleeves pushed up, jaw tight.

“He doesn’t touch the line unless I say so.”

A pause. He listens. Doesn’t blink.

“You want fireworks, call a show. I’m running a kitchen.”

He ends the call with one finger and a practiced exhale.

His eyes find yours instantly.

“Special menu. One-night only.”

You glance toward the prep list. “Sylus?”

“Who else.” He tosses a sheet of paper onto the counter. You catch it before it slides off.

——————————————————————————

Fire & Smoke

A post-review tribute.

— Featuring the Ravaging Dessert by Chef Rafayel.

——————————————————————————

You raise a brow. “He called it a tribute?”

“He called it marketing.”

He crosses to the whiteboard and picks up a marker. His handwriting is precise, like everything else he does when he’s trying not to think too hard.

“Sylus built the menu himself. Seven courses locked. Only thing left is the plat principal.”

You pause. “Why?”

Caleb’s voice dips—dry, exact.

“Because he wants a spectacle.”

By the time Raf arrives, the air’s already changed.

He doesn’t walk in—he sweeps, trailing fabric like storm clouds and attitude. His coat is somewhere between baroque upholstery and avant-garde rebellion, and his scarf is wrapped high, pinned with something that sparkles like a stolen heirloom.

He stops dead in the doorway, clutching a canvas bag to his chest as if shielding from a world that doesn’t deserve him.

“This,” he declares to no one in particular, “is a gross misuse of my creative superiority.”

He strides to his station, unspooling a tangled mess of herbs like he’s unrolling ancient scrolls.

“I was meant for galleries. For tragic love affairs involving painters with cheekbones sharp enough to cut fruit—not price-fixed menus orchestrated by capitalist vampires.”

From the far doorway, a voice like honey stirred through smoke:

“And yet you’re sold out.”

Sylus.

Holding an espresso cup so small it’s practically mocking the concept of caffeine. He doesn’t enter. He arrives. His coat is black, his gaze amused, his smirk painted with patience and profit.

“Full house,” he says. “People are calling it the aftermath menu.”

“You’re making money off my devastation,” Raf mutters.

“As any wise man would.” Sylus sips, unbothered. “Yet… We’re missing a centerpiece.”

He lays the printed menu down on the counter like a playing card. “Dessert’s already infamous. The rest? Solid. Professional.”

His crimson eyes flick toward Caleb.

“But this menu doesn’t just need polish.”

A slow smile.

“It needs blood.”

The room tightens. Even the steam from the stovetop seems to pause.

Caleb straightens from where he’s been overseeing prep. His ash-brown hair is pushed back from his forehead, damp at the temples. His arms are bare to the elbows, tension rolling beneath pale skin. Violet eyes cut toward Sylus like a warning dressed in steel.

“I’ve already approved the main dish.”

“You’ve approved it.” Sylus lifts one eyebrow, smooth and slow. “I haven’t.”

The kitchen door swings open again—clean, silent.

Zayne steps in, already rolling his sleeves up. His black hair is slightly tousled like he walked here fast, eyes sharp behind silver-framed glasses.

“Apologies,” he says calmly, setting his bag down and heading to the sink to wash his hands. “I got Sylus’ text.”

Caleb doesn’t look up from the prep table—just lifts his eyes for one beat.

Zayne meets the gaze.

No words. Just the slight nod between two men who know exactly what’s about to hit them.

Sylus.

Whatever this night is—it’s not going to be quiet.

Zayne dries his hands. Picks up his cleaver. And sets it on the board with a soft, purposeful clack. He rolls his shoulders once—discreet, economical—and brushes his black bangs from his eyes. His sharp green gaze slides toward Caleb.

Stillness.

Then, Sylus steps closer. “Two chefs. One dish. One claim to the plat principal.”

A hush falls so complete you can hear the low hum of the lights above.

Zayne’s tone is colder—cut from stone. He speaks without pause, without emotion:

“I’ll cook.”

Caleb doesn’t flinch. He stares Sylus down, jaw tight, the corner of his mouth lifting—not in a smile. Something hungrier. His voice drops:

“I’ll win, boss.”

——————————————————————————

Stations cleared.

Rules announced.

Sylus sets the stage with precision. “Monkfish. Forty-five minutes. Use anything in the pantry. No help.”

Raf practically floats to the pass, coat flaring like a cape. He drapes himself dramatically across the edge, hands clasped. “Ladies. Gentlemen. And lovers of all things seared—welcome to what will surely be remembered as the Reduction of Egos.”

And then—

A voice from nowhere.

“The line’s about to split.”

You spin.

Xavier is just there, leaning against the walk-in, a towel tossed over one shoulder, a single sprig of rosemary hanging from his fingers like a cigarette.

Raf jumps half a step. “Jesus—how long have you been there?”

Xavier blinks slowly. “Since Zayne came in.”

You and Raf share a look—equal parts impressed and unsettled. Xavier shrugs. “Thought it’d be rude to interrupt the pre-battle tension.”

Then he wanders off toward the dish sink like nothing’s about to explode.

Your eyes flick back to the line. Your pulse ticks louder. The clock starts.

Caleb moves first.

Fast. Fluid. The flame obeys him like it remembers his touch.

He fillets the monkfish in three clean motions, the knife kissing the flesh like he’s danced this step before. His hands are confident—the hands of someone who’s held a brigade together with nothing but command and heat. Oil in the pan. Fennel hits the board. Wine reduced to memory.

He doesn’t talk.

He commands the silence.

Zayne doesn’t rush.

He’s deliberate. Precise. He salts like he’s measuring atoms. The monkfish is scored like calligraphy, the skin seared under a weighted press. Hazel green eyes flick only to the clock—never to Caleb. Black hair strands falls once over his brow. He doesn’t push it back. He just keeps going.

His plate forms like a thesis. Every color chosen. Every sauce exact.

Raf, voice hushed like an announcer in a cathedral: “Caleb’s building something from instinct. From pressure. From fire. Zayne’s plating the thing Caleb feels—but he’s doing it cleaner.”

Xavier, eyes tracking both without blinking: “It’s not speed. It’s control. Caleb’s cooking like the world’s ending. Zayne’s cooking like it already did.”

The moment the bell sounds, both dishes land. Caleb and Zayne each call “hands,” almost in unison— reflexive, controlled, voices even.

A trained instinct. Like stopping themselves from yelling in a room that still echoes with ghosts, even during a cook-off held behind closed doors.

The heat still curls off the sauce. Both plates gleam under the hood light—one elegant chaos, one immaculate control.

Sylus steps forward.

He picks up a fork. Tastes Zayne’s first.

His expression doesn’t change.

Then—Caleb’s.

A longer pause. He chews, closes his eyes.

The kind of silence that feels like it might swallow the room whole.

Then—

He turns to you.

Red eyes unreadable.

“Chef.”

Your throat tightens.

You taste both.

Zayne’s is stunning. Exact. Cold beauty.

Caleb’s is heat, weight, memory.

But only one dish is leading.

You point to Zayne’s.

The kitchen freezes.

You don’t justify. You don’t explain.

Caleb’s jaw flexes. Just once.

His violet gaze drops to the steel. Then back up, like he’s locking himself down—before the burn escapes.

He doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t move.

And Sylus—voice smooth as ever, soft enough to gut:

“Well then.”

A beat.

“Starboy’s lost his shine.”

It hits.

Raf actually gasps.

Xavier’s eyes widen, blue under the glow like water catching lightning.

Even Zayne’s fingers curl once around the edge of the counter—just once.

Caleb doesn’t speak.

But he takes off his apron.

Folds it. Sets it down.

The slow turn of his heel is louder than anything else in the room.

He walks.

Through the line.

Past the pass.

Out the door.

Gone.

The kitchen doesn’t move.

Not at first.

The silence settles like dust, soft and heavy, hanging in the steam-warmed air.

Then Raf—stunned, breath caught somewhere between awe and heartbreak—whispers: “I’ve never wanted to faint and write poetry at the same time until this moment.”

And from across the line, Xavier’s voice comes quieter still—steady, strange, unshakably certain: “Stars don’t die.” A pause, almost reverent. “They collapse. Quietly.” Another breath. “And the gravity stays.”

——————————————————————————

The service is tight. Fast.

Caleb doesn’t bark. He barely speaks.

Orders come clipped, clean, just enough to keep the machine moving.

He doesn’t pace the line. Eyes everywhere. Hands silent. He doesn’t look at the pass like a battlefield anymore. He just holds it.

And the brigade?

They follow like it’s instinct. Like they were built for this exact weight.

Raf’s dessert hits the pass like a closing aria—bitter citrus, burnt sugar, the echo of rage folded into grace. The plates come back empty. One by one. Gleaming.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. His timing is surgical. His knives don’t hesitate. He doesn’t look up—but he hears everything. Every motion. Every breath.

Xavier? He doesn’t walk. He glides.

A shadow behind the line, exactly where he needs to be before anyone says a word. He replaces towels. Catches a falling ladle mid-air. Adjusts garnish like it’s wind-blown. He moves like time bends for him. Like he already lived this service, and came back just to make it smoother.

The pass pulses with momentum.

No one talks.

They don’t have to.

Because Caleb’s still burning.

Just lower.

Just closer.

Barely contained.

And when the last plate clears—

When the final note has rung and the kitchen exhales—

You slip out the back door. Let the cool alley air wrap around your skin like steel-washed silk.

Xavier’s already there.

A blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak. He’s holding a mug of tea that’s still steaming, though it’s hard to say if he’s drunk any. His blond bangs fall lazily over his eyes—bright, pale blue beneath. He looks like a dream with a spine.

As you step out into the cool air, he shifts—just slightly. Without looking at you, he lifts one side of the blanket.

An invitation. Silent. Effortless.

You don’t hesitate. You step in close, and he lets the blanket fall around your shoulders too. The warmth is soft and instant, but the quiet companionship is even warmer. He doesn’t look at you. Just says:

“You know what I noticed?”

You wait.

“They didn’t even talk about the food.” A pause. He swirls his tea without looking down. “It wasn’t about cooking. It was about who was left.”

You breathe out, watching your own steam mingle with his.

Xavier shifts slightly, the blanket bunching around his elbows. He glances toward you now—his eyes catch the light from the kitchen vent, just enough to glow that soft, impossible blue.

He studies you for a moment. Thoughtful. Almost sleepy. Then: “I read the review.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you?”

He nods. “It described you as the anchor.”

You blink. The words linger strangely.

He lifts the mug again, doesn’t sip. “I thought that was funny.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He turns his gaze back to the alley, to the quiet city beyond.

“Because I already said that. Days ago.”

You pause. “You think it’s strange that it matched?”

Xavier finally looks at you again. Really looks.

His voice is soft, but the words are sharp in their simplicity: “Not strange. Just correct.”

You smile. A little helpless.

He watches you, blinking slowly, like you’re something familiar and still a bit magical. Then, very quietly: “You hold all of us. Even when you don’t notice.”

And then he sips his tea, eyes closing for a moment like the warmth has reached all the way through.

A gust of wind pulls his bangs aside. For one breath, you see the full brightness of him. A childlike shell with the soul of a thousand quiet rooms. He’s not just observant.

He understands.

You settle beside him beneath the blanket, the quiet stretching wide around you. And then—gently—you let your head rest on his shoulder.

He doesn’t shift or speak. He just sips his tea once, eyes half-lidded, as if the moment was expected. You feel the urge to snuggle closer—to let the warmth, the stillness, the Xavier-ness of him settle the last of the tension in your chest.

So you do. And he lets you.

Steam.

Silence.

And the anchor.

Then, after a while—

His voice again, quiet and sure: “Caleb survived.” He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. “But he didn’t come back the same.”

Xavier turns. “Maybe he’s not supposed to.”

The door slams open.

Caleb.

Hair pushed back, coat half-buttoned, fire in every line of his body.

“I’ve had it.” His voice is low, clipped, but crackling with heat. “I don’t care how many bottles Sylus opens, or what kind of blood he squeezes from the press release. I’m not doing this anymore.”

You straighten. “Caleb—”

“No. I’m done.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing, eyes flashing. “It’s not the work. It’s him. It’s the way he plays with people. With fire. I rebuilt myself after that last kitchen. I won’t burn out again just because he wants another headline.”

His fists clench, then release. But he doesn’t calm. He looks at you—just once.

Eyes full. Angry. Tired.

Then—

He turns and walks.

Out into the night.

Gone.

Silence again.

You’re still by the wall, breath caught.

Xavier sips his tea once more. Doesn’t speak. Then, softly—

He nods toward the alley.

Not a word.

Just a gesture.

Go.

You don’t hesitate.

You push off the wall the moment Xavier nods, feet already in motion, the door still swinging behind Caleb.

He’s fast when he’s angry. Always has been—like motion’s the only thing that keeps him from combusting. You spot him a block ahead, already cutting across the intersection, sleeves rolled up, pace clipped, jaw tight.

You call his name.

He doesn’t stop.

So you run.

Your boots echo off the sidewalk as you catch up, breath fogging in the cold. You reach out—fingers just barely grazing his wrist.

He halts.

Not all at once—more like he lets himself be stopped. Shoulders still braced. Pulse still hammering.

“Caleb.”

He turns halfway. His jaw’s tight. His violet eyes—storm-lit.

But they’re tired.

“I can’t do this,” he says, low. “Not like this. Not when he’s using us like pieces. I rebuilt everything after that last place. Everything. I can’t burn it down again for someone else’s performance.”

He runs a hand through his hair—messing it up worse, bangs in his eyes now, breathing hard like he’s still mid-sprint. “It’s not the work. You know that. It’s him. The way he pushes. The way he smiles while we break.”

You step in. Closer.

“Take a breath.”

“I have.” His fists clench again. Then open. Then clench. “I told Sylus I’m not coming in tomorrow. Before I almost—” He breaks off. Shakes his head.

“I was inches from hitting him. And the worst part?” He looks at you now, finally—really looks. “I don’t even know if it would’ve made me feel better.”

You find the bench without words. A few feet away. Half-lit by a buzzing streetlamp.

You sit first. He doesn’t move at first, then sighs—grudgingly, like he knows he’ll follow you even before he starts walking.

He drops onto the bench beside you. Stiff. Tense.

“Do you remember that night?” he asks suddenly. “Culinary school. After the exam. When we sat on the sidewalk with burnt toast and frozen peas because the oven broke and I said we’d improvise?”

You smile. Slowly. “You stole the wine from the instructor’s cooler.”

Caleb lets out a half-laugh. Just a puff of air. “You kissed me on the cheek that night.”

You turn to look at him.

“I remember.”

The silence stretches.

And then—he reaches for your hand.

Just once.

His fingers slip between yours, tentative and hot and so sure.

And then you’re leaning in.

He meets you halfway.

Slow at first. Then deeper. Then—more.

His hand cups your jaw, steady. The other slides behind your knee, pulling you up and into his lap like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

Your fingers knot into the front of his shirt.

He groans. Low. From somewhere buried in his chest. His mouth open over yours, breath sharp, tongue brushing yours like he’s claiming every last second he’s denied. Strong hands settle at your hips, then grip, dragging you down against him.

Grinding.

You feel him. All of him. Your lips part, and he bites—soft, but with teeth. Your lip catches between his, and he doesn’t let go until you gasp his name.

His eyes flash—violet in the dark, wild with restraint.

“Come home with me,” you whisper, your breath skating the edge of his mouth. Your voice is low, but steady. “You always had a reason, Caleb.”

He freezes—just slightly.

“Another shift. Another call. Another shot at proving something.” You swallow. “And every time, I let you walk away.”

Your hand moves up, thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw—slow, aching. “You’d leave me half-undressed with excuses still clinging to your mouth.”

A pause.

His eyes close for a beat—like your words landed where he couldn’t brace for them.

You breathe him in. “Don’t care about the career. Not tonight. Don’t choose it over me. Not again.”

And when you kiss him, it’s full of every time he almost stayed.

Caleb freezes.

Just for a second.

Then clutches his jaw tight, like it physically hurts to pull away. He does anyway. Breaks the kiss—but only just.

His forehead leans against yours again, voice shaking as it leaves him: “You’re killing me.”

And you know he means it. His hands still cradle your thighs. His pulse bangs in your ears. His mouth hovers so close you could slip back into him with half a breath.

But he stays still.

“Not like this,” he mutters again.

His forehead rests harder against yours, like it’s holding something in. “I really can’t.” It sounds like it hurts. “I’m your boss. I can’t… not like this.”

A breath catches between you. His hand tightens against your side, then loosens—like even touching you makes this harder.

“I never meant for you to walk into my kitchen,” he murmurs. “Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t want it.”

You blink. But he keeps going—soft, low, barely audible above your breath.

“When Sylus introduced the new hire and I saw you…” His eyes close for just a second. “I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what to do.”

A pause. His voice frays.

“I didn’t want to be your boss, Hotshot…”

His confession hovers—raw, electric. Like something neither of you were meant to say out loud. Then—

“I just wanted to cook beside you again.”

You feel the heat from his skin. His hand still in yours.

“I want to.” His voice is hoarse, thick with every time he didn’t say it. “You have no idea how much I want to.”

Then—his voice drops even lower. Barely more than breath: “Everything I’ve done—every step forward, every goddamn shift I took… it was always to build something good enough.”

A pause. You don’t dare move.

“So you’d never have to stay overtime. So you’d never burn out like I did. So you’d walk into a kitchen and know someone already bled for you.”

His voice cracks at the edges.

“I thought if I became the best, I could finally be enough. For you.”

And in the hush that follows—your voice cuts through, soft but steady.

“I never asked you to.”

You squeeze his hand.

He lets you.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not the kiss.

Not the fire.

But the truth he never let himself hear.

“I’m going to take tomorrow off. Clear my head. I have to. I can feel it happening again.” A pause. “I’m trying not to burn.”

You don’t say anything else.

Neither does he.

You just sit there, hand in hand, the cold biting at your ankles, but his palm stays warm. The quiet of the street hums around you. Distant traffic. A flicker of neon from a bodega across the intersection.

He exhales slowly, eyes forward. You watch the tension in his shoulders loosen by degrees—like maybe, just maybe, he’s letting go.

Your phone buzzes in your coat pocket.

You fish it out, thumb brushing the screen.

XAVIER: Let him rest. Let yourself, too. A good flame never dies. It just finds better fuel.

You smile. A soft, tired kind.

You look at Caleb. He’s watching the sky now, like it might answer something.

You squeeze his hand once more—then gently let go.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” you say.

He nods, slow. The corners of his mouth twitch up—not quite a smile, but close.

You stand.

And walk back into the city glow, the weight of the night trailing behind you like steam off a still-warm plate.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Where the hell did everyone go

I turned around and you all VANISHED like ghosts in a tragic romance

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown to: Helloo?? Is this kitchen cursed??

Do we need a group exorcism or just better communication skills???

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Why do I feel like I’m the only emotionally available one here?? Send help.

You huff out a quiet laugh.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Breathe, chef. We’re still here.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Lies. You’re literally GONE. But fine.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I have a plan. Don’t ask. It involves fairy lights, Zayne’s tolerance threshold, and possibly emotional whiplash. I’ll get back to you.

A pause.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No one gets to spiral into oblivion on my time. Not when I still have glitter and questionable playlists to weaponize.

Then one more line, quieter.

Careful.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I just… want everyone to feel okay again. That’s all.

The typing dots linger…

Then vanish.

Seconds later, your phone lights up again.

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: If this involves singing, I’m out. If it involves cake, I’m listening. Don’t make me regret this.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Will there be cats? If not, I will accept glowing drinks and uninterrupted wall space. Also… thank you.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I’m in. Don’t scare Xavier. Or Zayne. Too much.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No promises. Only glitter. And maybe a slow dance. Depending on who apologizes first.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: And if Xavier brings up cats again, I’m walking into the ocean. I don’t care if it’s metaphorical. I hate them.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: i just think they’re cute… you’re the one spiraling

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I don’t own one. But I’d trust a cat over most people.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: This is why I can’t have one day of peace. You’re both sympathizers.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: correct

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Accurate.

Still nothing from Caleb.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

You tuck your phone away.

And keep walking.

——————————————————————————

Chapter three

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Oookay peepz! That was the second-to-last chapter before my brain officially switches to radio silence. Well… sort of. You know me—I always have something simmering. I can’t wait to yeet the next chapter into the void so you can help steer the chaos with a lil poll vote (no pressure, just a fun choose-your-path moment—like a proper otome game, heeeh). Also! I’ll be posting something I’ve called Plated Interludes during the week—just little snippets full of banter, fun, and questionable choices. I’m down so bad in this AU, and I’m seriously so grateful you’re sticking around for the ride. Hearts all around! Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻