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Frank Polson — Tremolo (acrylic on satin poly cotton canvas, 2019)
“I’ve been looking at you so long, now I only see me”
little habits you and the LADS boys pick up from each other as a couple
genre: sfw, fluff
cw: rafmc emotionally abusing thomas, grandpa behavior from sylus, whatever tf caleb has going on (par for the course), zayne’s a mealprepper i think that’s canon, i wrote sylus’s first and it actually inspired the series but it ended up being shorter than the others, idk i was satisfied with it so i dont wanna add anything though, threw in a tiny bit of angst in caleb’s (tiny) what can i say i learned from infold
Gossip
You had turned your boyfriend into an absolute menace.
It wasn’t on purpose, really. It had started innocently enough when the two of you had gone out for your usual Thursday night hotpot (much different from your Saturday night hotpot and Tuesday night hotpot if anyone cared to ask).
The couple two tables down from you began arguing over the man’s Instagram likes and you had, like anyone in your situation would, instantly stopped speaking to overhear their conversation.
Xavier noticed your change in demeanor immediately, swallowing his bite of meat and leaning closer to you in concern.
“Why are you so quiet?” he frowned, glancing down at your bowl, “Are the mushrooms overcooked? I followed the instructions on the sheet…”
He had reluctantly stopped experimenting with the cooking times at your vehement, repeated request.
The silver haired man blinked in surprise when you simply pressed a finger to his lips but made no move to stop you. You tilted your head to the couple who was now scrolling through the man’s entire feed while he shook a ladle at her animatedly.
His eyes tracked your movement and landed on the couple in confusion. Why were you so concerned? Were they bothering you? Did you need him to get them to leave so you could go back to eating hotpot in peace?
As if sensing his intentions, you shook your head and pointed to your ear. He took the cue to listen in, growing more and more interested as the argument escalated. Why did he care? He wasn’t sure, but suddenly listening in on the man’s insistence that he was just supporting young women was even more interesting than his sliced pork.
The pair of you stayed quiet until the couple stormed out of the restaurant after slamming down a stack of bills on the table as if they were in a K-Drama.
“...She should dump him,” he speaks simply, picking his spoon back up without further ado.
“I’m saying,” you agreed, sipping your drink, “She is way too pretty for him anyways.”
You hadn’t thought much of the moment at the time, but apparently you had sparked a new interest for your normally docile boyfriend. Suddenly he was a man on a mission and he had become very dutiful in his reports to you during your evening debriefs (cuddling on the couch).
The woman who lived in the apartment below you was illegally subletting to her grandson, as witnessed during a trip to the P.O. boxes in the lobby.
That’s not really news. I hear him screaming at his PC at three a.m. every day.
The teenage boy who had sat next to him on the train was running an illegal essay-forgery ring and seemed to be making a decent profit, as overheard when he was pretending to be asleep.
In this economy? Good for him.
Tara and Jenna were holding hands under the table during the morning meeting.
This one actually made you gasp in excitement, and your boyfriend was smug with pride as you slapped your hands against his chest repeatedly and demanded more details.
For better or for worse, you had created a bit of a gossip monster out of your boyfriend. Thursday night hotpot (slightly less sacred than Saturday night hotpot and more populated than Tuesday night hotpot) was now dedicated to eavesdropping on the surrounding tables. You could only be grateful he was no longer focused on experimenting with the broth.
Vocal Stims
Your boyfriend lets out a deep sigh, lackadaisically kicking his feet up onto the coffee table in Thomas’s office as he mindlessly twirls a pen between his fingers. You sit beside him, steadfastly ignoring his antics as you focus on completing a report from your last mission. As usual, Rafayel had dragged you along to a meeting with his art manager to ‘protect him from potential threats’, the most prevalent of which was boredom.
You usually tried your best to be polite and well behaved to supplement your other half’s determination to make a general nuisance of himself in the unfounded hopes of getting Thomas to agree to meet less frequently.
“Is this guy seriously so inept that he needs someone to hold his hand through the process of buying an art piece?” Rafayel scoffed at his manager’s attempts to get him to meet with a potential client personally, “Either he likes the piece or he doesn’t. What’s so difficult to comprehend? Is he stupid? I don’t want stupid people buying my artwork Thomas.”
“He’s the sole founder of a multibillion dollar tech company,” Thomas lets out a long-suffering sigh.
“Do they specialize in making technology for idiots?” He looks over at you expectantly. You solemnly shake your head. He’s in rare form today, crabby from his interrupted bathtub time (two hours instead of four). That wasn’t even worth a fake chuckle. He pouts, looking away from you again.
“Some clients just like to know what kind of artist they're supporting before giving them their money,” Thomas explained as if this was a new concept, “I mean, some people love the whole flighty, elusive artist thing you have going on but to be honest, Rafayel, you can be a tough nut to swallow.”
The room immediately falls into complete silence. You pause your rhythmic typing. The pen falls from Rafayel’s hand. Thomas’s face fills with dread.
Completely stone-faced, you and your boyfriend stare at each other before slowly turning your heads to face the panicking art manager. From his perspective you are no different from two sharks circling their prey.
“Thomas…,” Rafayel starts, with absolutely no emotion in his voice.
“...what?” you finish his sentence in the same tone.
“I meant- I got confused between ‘tough nut to crack’ and ‘bitter pill to swallow’,” he mumbles with no small amount of horror, “It was an honest mistake! Anyone could make it after talking in circles like this for hours!”
Your shoulders are now shaking as you fight to keep the sinister delight off your face.
“Please don’t,” Thomas turns to you in his desperation, already knowing his most problematic artist is a lost cause.
“Should I be worried, Thomas?” you offer him no reprieve.
Beside you, your boyfriend tilts his head back and cackles like some kind of ancient sea witch as his poor manager puts his head in his hands and groans.
After that day, you and Rafayel terrorize everyone you cross paths with for weeks with the phrase. Mainly Thomas, but also the poor old lady who runs your favorite fish market, the seagulls down by Rafayel’s preferred outcropping of rocks, whoever has the misfortune of sitting next to the two of you on the train into town. Nobody is safe from your tyranny.
Next month, it might be a random quote from a TikTok or a random tourist’s mispronunciation of the word ‘anemone’. Whatever the case may be, the world will always fall victim to your mutual vocal stims.
Trash TV Shows
“Two days off a week and you choose to spend one of them staring at a screen for hours on end,” your ever-logical boyfriend cannot resist making the comment as he sips from his mug superiorly.
“If you hate me and wish I was dead just say that,” you brush him off as you point the remote at his giant flat-screen and try to pick something to watch.
“Oh, is that what I said?” he hums noncommittally, reaching over to steady your bowl of popcorn as it teeters dangerously on the couch next to you.
“It basically is, in summation,” you insist, nodding your head emphatically, “God forbid women have hobbies! Why do you even have this giant TV if you never use it anyways?”
“Knitting is a hobby. Watching reality television is a surefire way to ensure early cognitive decline. And I use it to review past surgeries and study recordings of new techniques in the field.”
You groan dramatically, kicking a slipper-covered foot halfheartedly in his direction. He catches it with his usual barely-there grin that crinkles the corners of his hazel eyes softly.
“Fine then, I won’t watch reality TV,” you scroll to find Grey’s Anatomy and begin loading up your favorite episode, “This isn’t trash. This is art.”
“It’s medical malpractice and constant HIPAA violations, actually,” he counters, adjusting the cuff of your sweatpants from where they had rolled up on your right leg.
“Objectively that may be true but I don’t really want to hear about HIPAA violations from you.”
Zayne eventually relents with his teasing and leaves you to veg out after a grueling workweek. As much as he may pretend to protest, he would never genuinely diminish anything that helped you relax. Instead, he made himself busy meal-prepping his usual health-over-flavor lunches in the kitchen and contented himself to admire your blissed out form from the archway that separated him from the living room.
Against his will, however, his attention kept drifting to the dramatic antics taking place on the screen in front of you.
“That is an exorbitant dosage for the patient’s age and weight,” he couldn't help himself from interjecting with a displeased frown, “and why would so many doctors respond to the same distress call. Are they overstaffed?”
It’s his fourth comment this episode alone.
“Just come sit next to me if you’re already watching,” you giggle at his genuine offense over the inaccuracies.
“I’m not watching,” he insists, but abandons the rice cooker and sinks down next to you without taking his eyes off the screen.
You happily snuggle into his side, pleased to bask in the comfort of your boyfriend’s arms as they wrap around you with a gentle kiss placed to your forehead. The silence lasts for approximately three minutes and sixteen seconds.
“...Why would he sleep with her when he knows she is going through a hard time and then walk around like a kicked puppy? He should be more worried about his inadequate suturing technique, if anything.”
“Right???”
Selfies
You should never have taken a selfie with Sylus. And not just because he mogged you.
He had looked at you with his version of startled confusion (a slightly higher than usual raise of his right eyebrow) when you first brought out your phone and leaned in close with a cheesy smile on your face.
Even in the first few shots, where he looked stiff and awkward as he tried to deduce your intentions, he looked like a marble statue of an ancient god brought to life. Once he settled into himself and leaned a little closer into you with that barely-there smile and gentle eyes he only reserved for your moments together, it was completely over for you.
Which was fine. You could be humble enough to acknowledge that bad angles simply did not exist for Sylus. That and the pleased "send that to me" he had rumbled into your ear as you scrolled through the pictures for him made it worth it.
It wasn't until later you realized you had unleashed an absolute menace on the world. Not even in the usual hellfire and brimstone related way.
Pre night-out? Lean a little closer to the camera, sweetie. Post night-out? Smile first, then he'll pick you up and carry you home princess-style to protect your aching feet.
In the middle of scarfing down some pizza after a particularly grueling protocore hunt that left your hair in disarray and your eyeliner smudged almost completely off? Just look up for one second, kitten.
His camera roll had to be nearly completely full of the most random, innocuous moments of the two of you together. You once sarcastically commented that he'd have to get a new phone just for pictures soon. He genuinely considered it.
He could now often be found mid-illegal arms deal nonchalantly scrolling through his camera roll, letting out a small rich person chuckle at a photo of you yelling at him for whipping out his phone in the middle of a shoot-out while he made sure the camera got his good side.
It was a hoard he considered more precious than the stacks of gold bars overflowing from his cellar or the offshore bank accounts he kept his real estate funds in. For all the qualms he had about this new century, he could at least say he was grateful for this new way of collecting treasures.
Literally everything, if he had his way.
It wasn’t an anomalous occurrence for you and Caleb to subconsciously mimic each other’s habits. An entire lifetime together and your boyfriend’s inclination to fuse himself to you any time he has the opportunity practically ensured some overlap.
His high school basketball teammates thought he must be the only person in the world who used the term “hedgehogging” instead of “jogging” during practice before learning the story of how you misused the word when you were kids.
Your university roommate had a similar reaction to you referring to your mini fridge as “steelless stain” instead of “stainless steel”, an embarrassing blunder you had picked up from Caleb after he got his (first) concussion.
Perhaps the most humiliating had been when Caleb had been flipping through a manual in the pilot academy mess hall next to Gideon as his friend scarfed down a sandwich. He had made a noise of disgust after biting down on a wilted piece of lettuce and, without flinching or looking up, Caleb had stuck his hand underneath the other man’s chin as if to catch the food if he spit it out.
“...Force of habit,” he spoke gravely as he slowly pulled his hand away.
“Uh-huh.”
Over the years, much to his delight, it was often difficult for outside observers to discern where one of you ended and the other began. The problem only intensified when you actually started dating.
Shared inside jokes that no longer even required vocal cues for you both to start snickering in the middle of the grocery store when you see a ‘buy one get one free’ sign on the chicken wings. Your tendency to simply hold your arms above your head when you get sick of your sweater, knowing he’ll be there to tug it off for you. The automatic sorting of bags of candy into two piles: your favorite flavors and the flavors-you-don’t-like-as-much for your dedicated boyfriend.
Being around Caleb had always felt like creating your own unique language that only the two of you could comprehend.
You had never really known what being alone really meant until those long, grueling months when you were the only one left in the world who spoke it.
The thought settled uncomfortably in your chest, prompting you to stretch your hand out across the divider that separated you from your boyfriend who was currently driving you both to the pier for a casual Friday night date.
Without even looking, Caleb moved his free hand from your thigh to intertwine with your own. His thumb tapped a steady rhythm against you, spelling out the beat of your shared favorite song. It wasn’t even playing on the radio. Just another quiet little affirmation of the two of you.
treat
The apartment was quiet.
hunger gnawed at their ribs.
They hadn't eaten much lately. Grocery shopping was a skill they hadn't fully mastered yet, and takeout was too expensive to justify.
They’d made do with snacks, skipped meals when the hunger didn’t feel unbearable. But tonight, it was unbearable. A dull, aching hollowness in their gut, a raw craving that felt urgent. They needed food, now.
And then they saw it.
At first, they thought it was a doll—some forgotten thing left behind by the last tenant. It sat on the counter, in the corner, tucked away behind the kettle, quiet and inanimate.
But then it moved.
Its head lifted, small arms pushing against the surface as it stood, watching them with wide, uncertain eyes.
The breath caught in their throat. It wasn’t a doll. It was a person. A small, living person.
“…What are you?” They hadn’t meant to speak, but the words stumbled out, hushed and uneasy.
The little person hesitated. Then, in a voice so small it barely carried, they answered: “I live here.”
That didn’t make sense. Nothing about this made sense. But what struck them more than the impossibility of it was the aching hunger curling in their stomach.
Strange.
The raw, irrational thought that pushed its way into their mind, urgent and undeniable.
I could eat that.
They swallowed hard, hands tightening into fists.
“You can’t—” Their voice came out strained, but they couldn’t finish the thought. Hungry, that was all that mattered.
They were staring, now.
The little person must have noticed.
“You’re staring at me weird,” they said slowly. “Like you’re thinking about—”
They took a step back.
The new tenant took a step forward. The hunger twisted, pulling at something deep inside. Their stomach growled—loud, loud, loud
and they flinched at the sound of it.
The tiny person flinched too.
“You’re hungry,” they murmured.
Their throat felt dry. Their stomach clenched, aching, the hunger overriding every rational thought.
“I—”
They didn’t know how to explain it. Didn’t know how to explain why their mouth had started watering, why their hands itched to grab.
They didn’t have to. Because the little person understood.
And they bolted.
Their limbs were too short to carry them far. They barely made it past the edge of the counter before a couple of hands closed around them, lifting them effortlessly off the ground.
“Wait—” The little person squirmed, small fingers pushing uselessly against the grip.
"I can get you food--" they promised
“You don’t have to—” they pleaded
But they did. They had to.
They opened their mouth, hesitated for a single, breathy second—then shoved the tiny, wriggling body inside.
The taste was—nothing interesting.
But the way they fit against the tongue, the warmth of them sliding toward the back of the throat—that was real. And it was good.
Delicious.
Swallowing was too easy. Weirdly easy, for something so large... One push of the tongue, one reflexive gulp, and they were gone.
And then—fullness.
Their stomach swelled. The tight, aching emptiness was replaced with a heavy, solid weight, pressing outward in a way that stole their breath.
They staggered, hands finding their middle, pressing against the round, stuffed curve of their belly.
They groaned. It was too much. Too big. Like they had swallowed an entire thanksgiving turkey whole.
A weak movement pressed from inside. The little person was still there. They were inside.
Their stomach lurched, gurgling loudly around its unwilling meal, and they clapped a hand over their mouth as a deep, uncomfortable belch forced its way up.
Their face burned.
This wasn’t normal.
This wasn’t normal.
People didn’t just do this.
People dont... eat borrowers.
They sat there, too full to move, still stunned by what they had done, another thought crept in.
That was good.
they licked their lips. Maybe, this was what they needed.
They groaned as they pushed themselves up, feeling the sheer weight of their belly pull them down.
It was so heavy, distended in front of them, stretching the fabric of their shirt too tight over the full curve. With a sigh, they tugged it off and went to the bedroom
swapped it for something looser— sweatpants and a baggy hoodie that still didn’t quite hide the roundness of their gut.
God, they felt good.
Warm.
Satisfied.
Full
Not hungry anymore. Not hungry at all, not even a little.
The heavy fullness in their stomach left them sluggish, but in a good way—like they were floating.
Their body knew what to do.
They patted their middle absently, then started on some chores. It was easier than expected, even with their overstuffed gut swaying with each step.
They washed dishes, folded some laundry, wiped down the counters—all with the steady, comforting weight in their stomach keeping them company.
Every so often, they’d pause to rub slow circles over the firm curve, soothing the occasional gurgle or hiccup that bubbled up.
They belched once or twice
Honestly? This was the best they’d felt in a long time.
Then came the knock at the door.
shut they forgot their friend was coming over
They barely had time to adjust their hoodie before their friend stepped in, dropping their bag by the door and stretching with a groan.
“Man, I’m so tired—”
Then they paused, eyes flicking down.
“Whoa. What’s with that?”
Heat flooded their face. “What?”
“The belly.” Their friend smirked, gesturing. “You look stuffed.”
Their stomach churned, loud enough to be heard, and they winced.
“Uh. Yeah.” they gulped
“…Yeah?” Their friend raised a brow.
“Dude. What did you eat?”
They hesitated, saying it out loud? That was risky. Still, their stomach gurgled insistently, and their friend was waiting. Why bother lying. Their friend would probably figure it out somehow - what if they spat up a bone or something? Whatever.
“…A borrower,” they muttered.
Their friend blinked. Then their eyes widened.
“No way.”
They shrugged, rubbing at their belly sheepishly. “I was hungry.”
Their friend grinned. “Damn. Lucky.”
They stared. “Lucky?”
“Yeah, dude.” Their friend laughed, plopping onto the couch. “Those little guys are so satisfying. You’ve never had one before?”
“…No?”
“Man.” Their friend shook their head, amused. “You’re in for a treat”
Another belch bubbled up before they could stop it, making them flush. Their friend just laughed harder.
They weren’t sure if they should feel weird about this. But as their friend went on about how good borrowers were, how filling, how their stomach was gonna love digesting that one down, they couldn’t help but feel… relieved.
Their friend seemed... weirdly supportive. And they knew about this, was this normal...? After all...?
Their friend leaned forward, eyes glinting with interest.
“C’mon, lemme see.”
Heat crept up their neck. “What?”
“Your stomach, dude.” Their friend grinned. “I wanna see it.”
They hesitated, fingers tightening around the hem of their hoodie. It was already obvious—there was no hiding the way their gut pushed out, round and heavy, the fabric stretched awkwardly over it. But showing it off? And why?
Their stomach let out a deep, sluggish glorp, and their friend’s grin widened.
With a sigh, they lifted their hoodie.
Their friend let out a low whistle. “Damn.”
They shuffled awkwardly, one hand resting over the tight swell of their bare belly.
It was huge. Round, firm, stretched full with the weight of their meal. And active, quiet gurgles and occasional shifts making it clear there was still something inside. Their friend reached out, pressing a palm against the curve. Rubbing just underneath their belly button.
“That’s a big one,” they mused. “How’d you even get it down?”
They flushed. “I don’t know. I just—did. Swallowed... uh.”
Their friend let out a short laugh, giving their belly a light pat. “Well, that’s gonna take forever to digest.”
They leaned back, shaking their head. “You’re not gonna need to eat for days... your digestive system will be too busy with this. Itll last you a good long while.”
you flushed.
Their friend shook their head, smirking.
“Man, you are gonna sleep so good tonight.” They huffed, rubbing slow circles over their packed belly.
“You think?”
“Duh.” Their friend pushed at the heavy curve of their gut, taut and round with its struggling occupant.
“That? That’s gonna knock you right out in a minute. Best sleep of your life.”
A low groan rumbled from their stomach, and they grimaced as something shifted inside. Their friend grinned.
“Damn. You look so stuffed.”
“I am,” they muttered.
“Bet you can barely move.”
“i can move…A little.”
Their friend clapped their hands together. “Alright. We gotta get you comfortable.”
Before they could argue, their friend was already helping them, guiding them to the big recliner by the couch.
They sank into it with a sigh, their swollen stomach settling heavily in their lap.
Immediately, their friend propped their feet up on the ottoman, taking the pressure off their middle. Then they grabbed a throw pillow and tucked it behind their back, followed by another one under their belly for extra support.
“Hold up,” their friend muttered, disappearing into the bedroom.
When they returned, they had a warm, fresh heat pad.
“Here. This’ll help.”
They blinked as their friend pressed it gently against the curve of their gut. The warmth seeped into them immediately, soothing the ache of the stretch and digestion.
“Oh…” They let out a slow breath. “That’s—nice.”
“uhuh.” Their friend flopped onto the couch and grabbed the remote.
“Alright. Let’s get a movie going.”
It was something they'd both seen before many times.
As the opening credits rolled, their friend shot them a glance.
“You still feel ‘em moving?”
They hesitated, pressing a hand against their belly. The weight inside wriggled, weak but definitely still moving.
A faint push pressed back against their palm.
“…Yeah.”
Their friend tsked. “Damn. Might keep struggling for a while. Its a big one, maybe that means it'll last longer. Less surface area or whatever I dont know.”
Their stomach let out another thick, wet glorp, working hard on its oversized meal. They sighed, shifting a little in the chair, one hand absently rubbing over the firm swell of their belly. The warmth, the fullness, the steady background noise of the movie—all of it was so nice. Their body was busy, still processing, and they already felt the creeping haze of sleepiness settling in.
Yeah. Their friend may be right. They yawned.
Their friend suddenly paused the movie, tilting their head.
A long, wet gllllrrk rumbled from their stomach, followed by a deeper, heavier
ggllurk.
“Ah,” their friend mused, glancing down at their belly. “That’s where all the noise is coming from.”
Heat rushed to their face.
“I—yeah, sorry.”
Another belch bubbled up before they could stop it, they hurried to clap a hand over their mouth.
Their friend chuckled.
“Dude, you don’t have to apologize. That’s normal.”
They swallowed thickly, cheeks still burning. “It’s just—uuorp--ugh—keeps happening.”
“Of course it does.” Their friend waved a hand. “You’ve got a lot in there..”
They pressed a hand to their belly, feeling the way it gurgled and churned beneath their palm.
Another low belch worked its way up, and they groaned, letting it out.
“urp…I feel bad for them,” they admitted quietly.
Their friend looked over, raising a brow.
“The borrower,” they muttered. “I mean, I just ate them.”
Their friend hummed, watching their stomach shift slightly with the last weak movements inside.
“Yeah. But, hey—you were hungry.”
Their gut let out another thick glorp, as if to confirm that.
They sighed, rubbing slow circles over the firm swell. The weight inside was settling more and more, the struggle fading into twitches.
The guilt was still there, pressing at the back of their mind, but then there was the warmth, the deep, heavy satisfaction of a real meal.
Their friend gave their belly an approving pat.
“Listen, borrowers make great meals.”
They swallowed, rubbing slow, absent circles over the taut swell of their gut. “I don’t know… it just feels weird.”
Their friend rolled their eyes. “You’re overthinking it. It’s way more ethical than buying meat.” They gestured vaguely. “No farming, no factories, no shipping—just straight from the source.”
They sighed, feeling another gurgling groan roll through their stomach.
“I mean, I guess…”
“And it’s free,” their friend added with a smirk. “You just saved yourself, what, a week’s worth of groceries?”
Their gut let out a slow, bubbling churn... all that food...
It really had been a long time since they’d felt this full.
Their friend stretched out on the couch
“you should enjoy this. It’s a treat. Quite rare. To catch one, let alone one so big.”
A quiet squirm made their belly wobble slightly, and they sighed, pressing a hand against it. It was so packed, so full, every inch stretched and rounded with the weight inside.
Their friend smirked. “And I mean look at that thing—that’s a big meal. A big treat.”
They licked their lips. Yes. Just a treat.
when you turn on your brothers and try to kill all of them because the kamiknowitalls put a tortilla chip in your brain <\33
I listen to Fake Type and this happened. I have no explanation…. But it exists now….
I can’t decide if I like the colors or not but at least Jason’s face looks good?
