https://www.tumblr.com/fandomfluffandfuck/757443736481497088
normally i'm not in an x reader mood but this just screams evanstan going on their weekly early morning run (which you know one of them is grumbling about lol), and you just blearily waking up to them as they're getting home, going down the stairs to join them in preparing breakfast 😍 it's bacon and waffles and coffee with a side of sweet kisses on your cheeks from both of 'em before you all dig in :)
(they're always a little touchy-feely after their run, excess energy still thrumming under their veins... so the look in their eyes after you finish suggest they also want a little dessert, hmmm maybe... upstairs?)
related to this evanstan/stucky pairing of them both in black hoodies
Oooh, yes, that is very much the vibes they're giving off. Fresh off their run and making breakfast together. Good thoughts! We can explore that more, definitely 👀
And, also, because you didn't specify one way or the other, this is a gender neutral reader drabble.
This isn't smut, it ended up being all fluff because that's what my fingers typed, but there are plenty of innuendos throughout, so... this is still very adult!
You stumble blearily into the entryway of the airy kitchen after waking up on your own in your huge bed with enough mattress and blankets for three, dangerously warm and comfortable. You could have easily drifted right back off, but you didn't because something pulled you to your feet--maybe having enough sleep, maybe the sun peaking through the curtains, maybe a tiny noisy downstairs, maybe the longing for your two missing lovers, who's to say? Either way, you tragically left your bed and stepped into a pair of loose shorts and shirt. It's not chilly in the house, but it's not overly hot like it tends to get with two huge fucking superhero-sized men sharing your bed.
Awake and out of bed, descending the stairs, still half-alseep, only happened on autopilot and with as tight of a grip on the handrailing as you could manage.
But, you are pleased you pulled yourself from bed when you reach the bottom of the stairwell because it's there that you find Chris and Seb. The two of them are back from their run already.
Their morning run because, well, they're moviestars and what are moviestars in this perfection-obsessive world without their crazy fitness routines and outrageously restrictive diets.
Fittness with cardio in the morning and another workout in the afternoon or evening (sometimes both, depending on what they're preparing for). That later workout probably with even more cardio thrown in as if it's just a fun bonus. You shake your head and rub the sleep from your eyes as you think about it. Watching them stick to their routines and diets makes you exhausted, so you really can't imagine how they do it and stay sane. Chris, between the two of them, seems to enjoy it more, but... your eyes trace his shoulders, broad as ever, and drop to his waist, still so trim--not Captain America tiny, but close--his body clings to muscle so easily. Sebastian, thank God, is more human when it comes to working out (not when it comes to beauty, though, Jesus). He bulks up and shaves down and does all this crazy shit, but it takes him more effort than Chris. Chris maintains like it's nothing; Sebastian's determination and conviction can't be beaten.
Fitness aside, you're reminded of your train of thought about diets by noting how Chris is manning the oven, one of his big paws wrapped around the handle of a sizzling pan. Your nose and ears tell you that it's bacon sizzling away in the pan, cooking up a storm. Real bacon, too, not even the turkey or the strange mushroom-replacement kind Chris has taken a liking to. It must be a special occasion for real bacon.
And, how funny, you think, for someone who's pescatarian to be cooking something he won't join you and Seb in eating, but, hey, he's just sweet like that.
Sebastian, in stark contrast, is zipping around, gathering one thing from the cabinet at a time only to dump it into a bowl, stir for a minute, then putting whatever he grabbed back and grabbing another. Why he doesn't get everything out first, then dump, stir it all together, then put everything away..? you don't know. He's a little scatter brained when it comes to cooking, but that's sweet, too. More and more every day, you're more convinced that he is a cat like Chris says. And, at that, a cat that Chris and you have done your best to domesticate, convincing Mr. New York City that he can't live on either take-out or pre-prepped every-macro-perfect ready meals from a nutritionist, he should learn to slap together more than the most basic sandwiches and easy meals.
Now, you watch Sebastian dump a whole heaping, heaping scoop of protein powder into his bowl. It goes flying everywhere, making a cloud that has him covertly trying not to cough as he accidentally inhales a lungful. It makes you chuckle, your heart squeezing in your chest.
What a dummy.
Your slightly-consealed laughter and the sound of you entering their atmosphere, padding bare foot into the kitchen, announces your presence. Both of their heads turn to you. They're like a pair of meercats, staring at you, their eyes equally alight with excitement to see you. As if they haven't been seeing you all day every week--as if they didn't just roll out of your bed this morning.
They're sweet.
"Hey!"
"'Eyy!"
Their voices blend together pleasantly, hitting your ears and sending a corresponding wave of affection through you at the recognition of them. Together. Both of them yours.
They're so good together.
You're all so good together.
"Good mornin'," you reply to them both, coming closer, drawn in by their gravity and the familiar warmth the kitchen exudes without even trying.
"We saved you a cup of joe," Chris teases, his tone all rumbling and low as he tips his chin in the direction of a steaming mug of the good stuff on the counter, next to the coffee maker still with a little left in the pot--it won't be there for long, Sebastian's sure to have another cup, then, maybe, make a whole 'nother round of the stuff. Chris' voice is still morning-rough despite having been up for an hour, maybe more, already with their run behind him and breakfast well on the way. Apparently, Seb and him haven't talked much during their run. That, or, all the heavy breathing has done him in, tearing his throat up.
"Mmm," you hum, stifling back a yawn, shaking off your tiredness still. "Thanks," you retort, "but I'm not sure I want any of Joe." Even as you say it, you're already snagging the mug he tipped his head toward. The coffee they made and sweetened for you, not just accidentally saved.
They're so, so sweet.
"What about some Sebastian?" Seb charmingly jumps in from the other side of the kitchen where he's pulling a water bottle and gallon of milk out from the fridge. He has a moment of confusion, written across his handsome, expressive face, before ultimately making the right decision and setting down the milk next to his bowl and drinking from his water bottle, not the other way around by accident.
You laugh at him, his cuteness, and at his joke.
"Or Chris?" Chris throws his hat in the ring, too, chuckling while he flips the bacon, letting it hizz and crackle.
And suddenly, they're your bookends. Chris, on your left, and Sebastian on your right. Sweaty, sweaty bookends that smell, yeahh, like they've been on a run. Somehow, though, you don't mind.
Rather than pushing them away with faux-complaints of their stench, you sigh, relaxing into their body heat, letting their shoulders and hands prop you up for the moment. And, of course, Seb gets a kiss on the cheek from you for yes and-ing your bit, and before Chris can make a good-natured fuss of the unfair treatment, one for him, too. Both cheek kisses and smacking and a little silly. It's a good morning, light and sweet.
Chris leans back into you when your lips meet his cheek, nearly sending all you toppling onto the kitchen tiles with his weight shift. Sebastian makes a goofy sound, thrown off and swaying on his feet, unbalanced. You're all a murmur of laughs then. Your coffee sloshes happily in your mug, sending up another lazy spiral of steam.
"Good run?" You ask, turning your head again to nose Sebastian's high cheekbone. His skin is still flushed with heat from their morning exercise. It's not cold enough out for that pretty color to be a result of a chill. Nah, it's all good, old-fashioned exertion.
"As good of a run as a run could be, I guess." Seb grumbles, mostly talking to himself. He's much less of a morning person than Chris. Often, Chris trying to wake Sebastian up to go on a run wakes you up incidentally because he sleeps like the. dead. All of those years in New York City and needing to drown out the constant noise has him trained well.
"And what do you have to say to that, Mr. Evans?" You turn back to the aformented man, putting on your best gossip-y reporter voice. If you weren't holding your coffee, you'd pretend to hold a microphone up to his mouth.
"He's full of it," Chris conspires with you, "it was the best fucking run."
"Oh? How so?" You ask in jest, "did you see a particularly pretty tree while pounding the pavement, lover boy?"
"Nope," Sebastian answers for him, his smile audible. As he talks, his hand rubs over your shoulders. Chris' hand, however, stays heavy on the small of your back. "It's still too early for the trees to start changing."
"They can still be pretty without changing colors!" Chris insists, cosplaying as the Lorax this morning and every morning, apparently.
"Uh-huh," you humor them both, playing into Seb's joke and teasing Chris, "you talk our ears off enough, we know. We know. Trees a very pretty."
"Hey, watch it," Chris slips from your hold, but not before lifting his hand to drag his fingers across the back of Sebastian's hand on your shoulders, always wanting to touch. "Do you want bacon or not? 'Cause I don't have to cook it."
Sebastian moans at the mention of food before you can retort about being perfectly capable of fending for yourself, unlike some people in this relationship.
"I'll take that as a yes," Chris wiggles his eyebrows, laughing some more--bright and beautiful.
"Help me with the pancakes?" Sebastian asks when it's clear that Chris is actually back to cooking despite both of you pouting at his big, broad back for not getting in some more vertical kitchen cuddle time.
"Sure," you seal the deal with another kiss, this time leaning in to press your lips together, not just on the cheek again. He tastes like coffee and creamer. "What else do they need?"
"Just some milk, I think?" Seb tells you, he scratches his head, "yeah, I'm pretty sure everything else is in there already."
You peer into his bowl, piled with ingredients, and it seems that he's right. Shocking.
From the stove, Chris corrects, "he just doesn't want to mix it by hand himself."
"My arms are tiiiiired," Sebastian does his best innocent-kitten face, aiming it your way.
That needs to be illegal, you swear. He could get away with murder, looking like that. But... it can't save him from a little bit more teasing. Not this morning. "From running?" You laugh.
Chris snorts, "what else?"
"I dunno," you pick up the bowl, cradling it in one arm and whipping the spatula around the bowl. You're indulging his antics because... he's cute. Also, it is kind of satisfying to whip it all up together, seeing everything come together. "I don't know what you two do when I'm not awake."
"Did you--" Chris turns all the way around from where he's tending another round of bacon, pointing his fork at you "--just insinuate that we get handsy on our runs."
You shrug, knowing a smirk is pulling itself onto your lips despite trying to be innocent yourself. You're not as good of an actor as either of them (unsurprising, because, hello, they're fantastic). "I just said I don't know," you reply smartly, "and who's to say there aren't pre- or post-run handjobs between the two of you because, from my point of view, workouts really don't seem to drain your energy all that much. If, anything, they seem to get you going."
Chris is grinning wickedly at you, one of his eyebrows raising and his lips falling open, thinking of what to say--probably coming up with the most inappropriate joke he can, just because he can and he really is a dorky, filthy Boston boy at heart.
"Don't burn anything, bacon boy," you cut him off before he has the chance.
Sebastian, recovering from his own background sputtering--embarrassed by the notion of running being some weird kind of aphrodisiac or by the idea of hurting himself by jerking Chis off so enthusiastically--cuts in before thinking better of it, just opening his mouth and letting the words fall out, "it would take way more than just a few handies to make my arms sore."
You choke on a laugh, nearly doing a full-on spit-take of your coffee, narrowly not getting it everywhere.
When you recover, you eye him up and down, asking, "oh? Really?"
Chris is also full of giggles, "yeah," he seconds you, throwing the words over his shoulder, attending to the bacon, "care to share what would make you sore?"
"Yeah," stepping closer back toward Sebastian as you whip and beat the pancake batter, you tilt your head to the side, "'cause, as far as I know, we don't have any plans today, so..."
Chris finishes your thought, "well, I think we have plans now."
Pinned beneath your interested stare, Sebastian doesn't say anything to that. He doesn't need to. His body is saying enough for him--his mouth hanging open, his face is even pinker, his hands rising up to cover his mouth with just the slightest thrilled tremble to them. The closest to words he gets is a whimpery little noise. Yeah. You've got plans.
