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em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

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can you do bob x reader where he sees us interacting with a child and it makes him want to be a father so bad?

It’s You I’m Thinking Of

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/ The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina organizes a PR event for the Thunderbolts and during the event Bob realizes that he may want more out of life than just saving the world.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because of Bob’s involvement and because some events are mentioned in passing. Fluff, a hint of Angst and an Established Relationship is at the forefront here.

Author's Note: Surprise, it’s double update day…Because I had this in my drafts and forgot to post it…YIKES. I found this to be so fluffy and cute to write! Thank you so much for the request! I loved writing this a lot!

Word Count: 3,805

Valentina had called it a “Visibility Effort,” which–as far as Bob was concerned–was just a polished way of saying: “I need people to stop thinking you guys are monsters, so go smile for the cameras and pretend you guys didn’t almost destroy New York City a year ago.”

The Thunderbolts had only just begun to scrape their way back into the public’s good graces after the Void. If grace could even be applied to a team that, not long ago, had been seen as volatile assets in containment rather than heroes in recovery. But Valentina didn’t care about semantics–she cared about optics. And what better way to scrub down their image than to host a carefully staged, feel-good community day in a public park–complete with banners, press kits, and security briefings disguised as media rundowns.

The day before, you and the rest of the team had been sweating under the sun, assembling the layout from the ground up. Tent poles groaned in the wind, tarps snapped against knuckles, and the oversized bouncy castle–more akin to a pop-up cathedral–took three hours to stabilize. It loomed over the field like a surreal monument to liability.

By sundown, the park had been transformed.

Face-painting booths stretched along the paved path like an art market in miniature, each tent hung with paper lanterns and garlands of plastic ivy. A ring toss area had been set up beside a small prize table, its wares still barcoded and smelling faintly of plastic and lemon cleaner. Further down, a row of food trucks idled along the lot’s edge, the air thick with fried batter and roasted peanuts, preparing for the next day. A banner, bold and hopeful, rippled above the main walkway: THUNDERBOLTS COMMUNITY GIVEBACK DAY!

The park was bustling before noon the next day.

Children darted between booths with faces half-painted and shoes untied. Parents loitered on benches, plastic cups of lemonade in hand, cautiously optimistic about letting their kids near a group of enhanced individuals who, six months ago, were being referred to as national liabilities. Still, smiles came easier than expected. The air smelled like kettle corn, sun-warmed vinyl, and freshly cut grass.

Valentina had positioned her pawns with precision, each member of the team slotted into a role meant to soften their image–familiar, friendly, safe.

Yelena was stationed at the face-painting table. She didn’t argue when she was assigned to it, though she rolled her eyes hard enough that everyone could basically hear it. Now, seated with a paintbrush balanced between her fingers, she looked…Focused. Delicate even. She painted dragons, daisies, and one incredibly accurate depiction of Bucky’s old Winter Soldier face paint layout. She didn’t say much unless spoken to, but the kids flocked to her. Her bluntness came off as hilarious to them. Her gentleness? Earned in silence.

Walker manned the obstacle course–one of the only areas Valentina trusted him not to overcomplicate. With his sleeves rolled up and clipboard tucked under his arm, he barked out encouragements that sounded suspiciously like bootcamp commands. But he was patient. He let kids redo the course as many times as they wanted. And when one boy tripped near the finish line, Walker helped him up without hesitation and whispered something that made the kid’s chest puff with pride.

Ava floated between stations like an unofficial supervisor. She had no designated role, but her presence was felt and it was heavy. She hovered near the cotton candy vendor long enough to be offered a free sample, then spent ten minutes helping a little girl reattach the wheel to her toy stroller. Ava didn’t smile often, but she kept her sunglasses off today. It mattered more than anyone would admit.

Alexei had placed himself right in the center of the park’s open lawn, surrounded by children wielding foam swords. He was absolutely in his element. Towering, loud, enthusiastic. He let them “ambush” him over and over again, dramatically collapsing onto the grass as they tackled him, crying out in mock defeat with every fall. When one kid asked if he was Santa, Alexei laughed so hard he nearly swallowed a whistle. He’d fashioned a red Thunderbolts cap to resemble something almost festive. No one stopped him.

Bucky was at the photo booth. Not because Valentina assigned it to him–but because he asked. Quietly. Just once. And when she raised a brow, he explained:

“Kids like the arm. Makes them feel like they’re meeting a real superhero.”

No one argued with that.

He stood beside the printed backdrop of a Thunderbolts mural, his vibranium arm resting lightly at his side. At first, only a few families came by. Then word got around. By midday, there was a line curling around the booth. Bucky posed with toddlers who clung to his leg, tweens who wanted to see if he could lift them with his arm alone, and teens who just wanted proof they’d stood next to him. He let them. All of them.

And you–you’d been running the craft tent since the gates opened. Low folding tables filled with paper crowns, pipe cleaners, sticker sheets, and markers with their caps long lost to time. You moved between projects with practiced ease, coaxing confidence out of even the shyest children. One girl in a purple tutu had stuck to your side all morning, proudly referring to you as “Miss Thunderbolt” like it was an official title.

Bob on the other hand…Wasn’t assigned a booth.

Valentina had called it a “strategic decision”–which meant don’t scare the kids. She hadn’t said it outright, of course, but Bob understood the subtext. The others had made peace with their reputations, learned how to bend their edges into something palatable. Bob’s problem wasn’t sharpness. It was scale. People didn’t look at him and see a man. They saw The Void. A storm in a body. The thing that turned Manhattan’s sky black almost a year ago. Or they saw him as Golden Boy Sentry, which he rarely presented himself as now because all of that was dormant since the incident, so he was just Bob, and unfortunately nobody was really interested in just Bob.

Except you of course.

You had grown extremely close to him throughout the time he was recovering from the incident. You would stay back from missions just to keep him company, and within those small moments, the two of you grew a bond and became inseparable.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no big declaration, no kiss in the rain, no sweeping hand grab before battle. It was subtle–gentle, even. A shared quiet. The way you waited for him to speak on his own terms. The way you handed him warm drinks without comment and sat beside him on the floor of his room during the worst days, and just held him or smoothed his hair down. The way you always reached for his hand under the table when Valentina debriefed the team about “public image,” like you were grounding yourself in him, not the other way around.

It started with one date. A walk. A drink from the local coffee shop that you used two straws for. A movie you barely paid attention to because Bob had cried halfway through and apologized for it, and you’d told him, “I’d rather watch you feel something than watch the movie anyway.”

Now it had been nearly a year.

A quiet year. A healing one. A year where Bob–somehow–had begun to believe that maybe he wasn’t made just for disaster. Maybe he was allowed to want softness. Warmth. You.

So he stayed near you now, just like he always did. Even in the middle of this pastel-bright circus of a public relations stunt, even with the buzzing press cameras and the thunder of kids’ shoes over packed grass–he stood a few feet behind your tent. Watching quietly like he always did.

You didn’t need him to be part of the event. You didn’t ask him to engage. You just wanted him to be close and hover around you. And every so often, you’d glance over your shoulder and give him a little smile–soft, unhurried, like a tether that reminded him that he was still on your mind.

That’s what he was doing when it happened.

You were helping a child–maybe four, maybe five–cut out the outline of a star from glitter paper. She was sitting in your lap, legs swinging off the edge of the bench, her small fingers clumsy around the safety scissors. You guided her hands with your own, gentle and patient, your chin tucked down as you murmured something too soft for him to hear. The girl giggled. You smiled. And Bob felt something in his chest fracture.

It bloomed sharp and sudden, like a crack in glass that spiderwebbed behind his ribs before he could stop it. A low, aching pressure that pulsed under his skin and settled into his throat. He couldn’t look away from you. From the way the little girl leaned back against your chest, utterly content, while you helped her snip the edges of her glittery star. Your voice was low, your hand steady on hers, and when she got frustrated, you smiled and told her it was perfect just the way it was.

And the little girl–she believed you.

Bob watched her beam like she’d just won a medal, then twist to throw her arms around your neck. You hugged her back instinctively, without missing a beat, without needing to think about it.

And just like that, Bob saw it.

Not as a fantasy. Not as a warm, fuzzy, distant dream.

He saw you. Sitting in a living room. Soft lamplight across your shoulders. A child curled into your lap with a crayon clutched in one hand and a juice box in the other. Your hair a mess from the day, a blanket half-draped over both of you. And him in the doorway. Holding a book in his hand that he’d forgotten to read, too caught up in the simple, breathtaking fact that this was his life. That somehow, impossibly, he’d made it here.

His throat tightened.

The thought came quietly, like breath fogging glass:

He wanted this.

He wanted you. A child. A family. Not someday, not maybe. Just–yes. He wanted tiny shoes in the hallway. A swing set in a yard. A sleepy voice calling him Dad. He wanted your laughter in a kitchen filled with baby wipes and half-assembled toys. He wanted something that was his and yours and no one else’s.

But right on the heels of that beautiful, terrifying longing came something cold and heavy.

Fear.

He swallowed, hard.

His father’s voice echoed somewhere in the dark part of his memory–low, sharp, filled with the kind of disgust that was harder to forget than fists. He could still hear the way the floor creaked before a bad night. The sting of being told he was nothing. How love only showed up with bruises attached.

Bob’s stomach twisted.

What if I turn into him? He thought.

He didn’t think he would. He knew–rationally–that he wasn’t the same. He didn’t drink. He didn’t shout. He couldn’t even raise his voice without wincing at the echo. He loved gently. He loved softly. But fear didn’t care about facts. It sunk into his lungs anyway.

What if something in him broke? What if the Void came back and he couldn’t stop it? What if one day he opened his eyes and the sky was black again, and the only thing he’d ever loved was looking up at him, afraid?

He could never live with that.

Never.

And yet–

You turned slightly, and caught Bob’s eyes across the grass. You smiled at him–something so simple, so safe–and in that moment, the fear didn’t disappear, but it softened.

Because you weren’t afraid of him.

You’d never been.

Even on the days he didn’t like himself, you liked him. Even when he flinched at his own reflection, you reached for his hand and rested your chin on his shoulder. You didn’t see The Void. You didn’t see the Sentry. You just saw Bob–the man who carried your snacks in his hoodie pocket just in case you got hungry when you went out, who still got bashful when you looked at him for too long, who curled into you at night like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in his life.

Bob’s hand gripped the edge of the canopy pole beside him, just to ground himself.

He wanted to go to you right then and there just to say it. To whisper something clumsy like, “I want to build a life with you. A whole one. With glue-stained paper crowns and messy bedrooms and bedtime songs.”

But he stayed still.

Too scared to break the moment.

Too scared it might not be his to want.

—————————

Later, when the event was winding down, and the sky had shifted to gold and mauve and soft watercolor blues, Bob found you sitting on the grass alone near the now-abandoned craft table, peeling dried glue off your fingers and watching a few leftover kids chase bubbles across the park. He moved towards you slowly, and his looming presence immediately got your attention.

You stopped picking at the glue on your fingers and looked up at him instantly.

”Well, hey stranger.” Bob gave a quiet huff of a laugh at the greeting and smiled down at you, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets, “You gonna sit down or are you going to just stand there and stare?” You joked, patting the patch of open grass beside you. He hesitated for a second before lowering himself beside you, knees folding awkwardly in the grass. You watched him for a moment, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek–light, and lingering, your lips warm against the wind-chilled skin just below his eye.

“I haven’t been able to do that all day,” You said softly, almost teasing, but the affection behind it was unmistakable.

Before Bob could even respond, you leaned in and pressed another kiss to the corner of his jaw, then to his temple, and then one right between his brows where they had scrunched up, each kiss softer and slower than the last.

By the time you pulled back, Bob’s cheeks were as red as a rose, and they had become warm, and his smile had curled wide and helpless across his face, because to him your affections were always welcome.

”Y-You’re gonna make me explode,” He mumbled, voice thick with love as he turned to hide his burning face against the shoulder of his hoodie, “This is h-how I die.” He stumbled, looking over at you with those big blue eyes you couldn’t help but stare into every night.

“Death by affection sounds like a dream to me.” You laughed, slipping your hand up to cup his cheek, to turn his face towards yours so he was looking at you directly.

“Y-You know I’m a fragile m-man.” You snorted at his comment.

”I know Sentry is dormant but you’re technically the strongest person on Earth.” You said, giving him a knowing look. “I don’t think you’re fragile.” Bob gave a breathy little laugh, his pupils blown out from how close you were.

”Y-Yeah, well…D-Don’t flatter me too much…You’ll make me f-fall in love with you or s-something.” You raised your brows at him, seeing his cheeks go an even deeper red, “I-I mean–more. Like…More in love with you.” You smiled, so warmly it made his breath catch in his throat, you could hear it.

”Almost a year in,” You whispered, brushing your nose gently against his, “And you still get all flustered with me…I love it.”

And you kissed him–gently, fully, your mouth warm and sure on his. Bob melted. His whole body slackened like your kiss had pulled all the tension right out of him. He groaned quietly and let himself fall back into the grass with a helpless thump, hoodie riding up slightly at the hem, his eyes fluttering closed like he was physically overwhelmed. You laughed lightly and laid down beside him, turning your head so you were looking at him and all his glory, feeling his hand find yours, lacing his fingers between yours instantly.

The sky above you was dimming into deeper blues now, streaked with soft brushstrokes of pink and violet. The hum of the event had finally died out completely. You could still hear the occasional giggle of a child somewhere off in the distance, but for the most part, it felt like you two were the last ones left in the park. Like the whole day had been waiting to exhale.

Bob stared up at the clouds for a moment, before letting out a small sigh.

”C-Can I ask you something…Kind of b-big?” Your eyes studied him for a moment, tracing the way his brows furrowed gently, like he was already halfway to apologizing for whatever he was about to say. Like he was bracing himself to ruin something just by saying it.

“Of course,” You replied, your voice just above a whisper, slowly growing more and more concerned with each moment that passed in silence.

Bob just kept looking up at the sky like the words were written somewhere in the clouds and he just had to find them. His thumb rubbed slow circles against your knuckles.

”Have you ever thought about…Us?” He swallowed, “I mean–not just us, b-but more like…A family.” You raised your eyebrows slowly, turning onto your side so you could face him fully, still holding his hand, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I–I watched you today,” He whispered. “With that little girl in your lap. And it didn’t feel far away…It didn’t feel like someone else’s life. It felt like something I could…Want.”

Your heart gave a soft, aching pull at that.

“I want it,” He admitted, voice trembling. “I want it so bad it scares me. You, a kid–us. A home. Not perfect. Not polished. Just ours. Something warm. Something safe.”

You reached up and gently tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, your fingertips trailing along his temple. He leaned into the touch like it soothed something he couldn’t name.

“I want that too,” You said. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. But one day. When things are a little quieter, when the world doesn’t need us to carry it. I want that with you, Bob.” He nodded, like he was trying to let the hope settle in–but his eyes were still stormy at the edges.

“But what if…” He swallowed. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I…Mess it up l–like I always do? What if I hurt them? What if something in me snaps and I—”

“Hey,” You cut in gently, reaching up to cradle his cheek. “Look at me.”

He did, reluctantly, his blue eyes wide and full of unshed fear, tears filling up in the corners threatening to spill at any moment.

“You’re not like your father at all Bob, you’re not him.” You said, your voice steady and firm.

”Y-You don’t know that,” He whispered, his eyes glancing away at you, making you chase his gaze a bit so he could look at you.

”I do know that…Because I know you. Because I’ve watched you fall asleep holding my hand. Because you carry two different granola bar options in your hoodie pocket in case I want a choice. Because you always refill the toothpaste without me asking. Because when I’m upset, you don’t try to fix it–you just stay with me. Quietly. Constantly.” Bob blinked, his lip trembling ever so slightly.

“You don’t lash out, Bob. You lean in,” You said. “You don’t shut down. You open up, even when it scares you. You feel everything so deeply, and you never make anyone pay for it.” His brow furrowed and he looked down, overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with the weight of that truth.

You brought his hand up to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then whispered into the space between you:

“You already take care of me in a thousand tiny ways. You love gently. That’s why I trust you with my soul.”

He let out a shaky breath, and the hand that held yours tightened just a little more. He nodded faintly, like he was still catching up to the truth you’d handed him–like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it, but he was holding it anyway.

You reached up, your thumb brushing delicately at the corners of his eyes, wiping away the tears that had gathered without pressure or embarrassment. Just care.

“You cry so pretty, you know that?” You whispered, a little playful, attempting to lift the mood just a bit.

Bob let out a short, breathy laugh–surprised and soft. “Th-That’s not a real thing.”

“It is when you do it,” You smiled, leaning closer, your voice light but laced with everything you meant. “You’re beautiful when you feel things.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a future and told him it already belonged to him. Like no one had ever said that to him before–and he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from it.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, lips pressed to his like you had time. Like you weren’t afraid to show him just how loved he was.

And when you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed against his, your breath brushing his lips as you whispered:

“You’d be the safest place a little soul could ever grow.”

Bob let out another shaky breath, and this time he smiled–full, unguarded, like something inside him had just settled for the first time.

“Only if it’s with you,” He said quietly.

You nodded, your fingers lacing tighter with his.

“Then we’ll build it,” You whispered. “Slow and messy and ours.”

And beneath a darkening sky painted with stars and leftover laughter, you lay together in the grass, your future unfolding between your palms like something sacred.

Just warm.

Just real.

Just home.

2K notes · View notes

missarchive · 6 months ago

Text

PORNSTAR ★

spencer reid

summary; struggling under the weight of student debt and barely scraping by on a minimum-wage job, Y/N is desperate for a way out. When an old college friend sends her a link to an unusual job posting—camera operator for a top-tier adult entertainment studio—she hesitates but ultimately applies. The promise of competitive pay and discretion is too good to ignore.

She’s even more surprised to meet Spencer Reid, a nervous and awkward man who she initially assumes is part of the camera crew. Spencer’s stammering and shy demeanour put her at ease, but when she learns he’s not behind the camera but the star in front of it, her world is turned upside down.

cw; 18+ mdni, pornstar!spencer, camera crew!reader, spencer is not straight (neither is the reader), face-fucking, doggy, unprotected p in v, masturbation (f), spencer is still a sweetheart, bodily fluids, cum swallowing, dom!spencer but also dom!reader, reader is not very good at her job to be honest, "good boy", unprofessional relationships, FILTHY NASTY, praise, finger sucking, sub!spencer 🤭, handjobs, "slut", overstimulation, oral (f. receiving), threesome (mmf), filming for porn, whiny spencer, oral (m. receiving), pure filth, cowgirl, cumming inside, slight aftercare, pretty much fade to black

an; lots of love from beyond the grave, im still very ill. i hope you all enjoy this, please do not mind the spelling mistakes! i tried my best to proofread in my current state 😭

wc; 8k

The sharp, acrid smell of burnt coffee weaves through your tiny apartment, clinging to the fabric of your couch and the cluttered corners of the room. It lingers in the air, an unshakable reminder of your life’s current state: stagnant, suffocating, and just a little bitter.

You sit at the wobbly kitchen table, staring at your laptop screen like it holds the secrets to the universe. Instead, it shows a spreadsheet that hasn’t changed in weeks, no matter how many times you open it, no matter how hard you will the numbers at the bottom to magically disappear. $89,563.47.

That figure is more than a debt. It’s an anvil crushing your chest, a constant shadow in the corners of your mind. It’s the dream-crusher, the thing that keeps you up at night, whispering that you’ll never escape. With your minimum-wage job barely covering rent and bills stacking higher every day, every road out seems endless and uphill.

You exhale shakily, pushing your chipped coffee mug to the side as frustration wells up in your chest. The universe, it seems, has no plans to cut you a break. You let your head fall into your hands, fingers pressing against your temples.

And then, out of nowhere, a soft ding pulls you from your spiral.

Your phone lights up on the table, screen glowing with a notification. It’s from an old college friend—a name you haven’t thought about in over a year, someone who faded from your life the moment you both graduated.

“If you’re desperate enough… this is worth a shot.”

The message is short, cryptic, and followed by a link.

You hesitate, thumb hovering above the screen as your mind races. It could be a joke. Or a scam. But the weight of your desperation gnaws at your common sense. Against better judgment, curiosity wins out.

The link opens to a job posting.

“Camera Operator Needed for Top-Tier Adult Entertainment Studio. Competitive Pay. No Experience Necessary.”

You blink at the words, half expecting the screen to vanish in a puff of smoke. It doesn’t. Your first instinct is to laugh, a sharp, incredulous sound bubbling in your throat. But then, you see the salary.

Your breath catches in your chest. The number is real. The kind of real that could actually change things. A few months, maybe a year, and you could obliterate a chunk of that debt.

You sit back in your chair, the idea burrowing into your mind like a persistent whisper. It’s insane. Ridiculous. But it’s also tempting. One word, bold and unyielding, flashes on the screen: Discreetly.

You read it again and again, the weight of it heavy in your chest. That’s the catch, isn’t it? The only thing holding you back.

By the time dawn filters through your dingy curtains, your application is sent.

The sleek office building feels completely at odds with what you imagined. Its polished floors and glass panels scream corporate professionalism, not… this. Even the receptionist greeted you like you were interviewing for a finance job, her tone cool and efficient.

Now, you sit in the waiting area, hands folded tightly in your lap. The quiet hum of productivity around you is unnerving, and your pulse drums in your ears.

When the door finally opens, you glance up.

A man approaches you, clutching a clipboard. He’s taller than you expected, with a mop of brown hair that looks like it has a mind of its own. His glasses sit slightly askew on his nose, and he exudes an awkward kind of energy—nervous but strangely endearing.

“Y/N?” he asks, voice soft and hesitant, with just the slightest upward lilt.

“That’s me,” you reply, standing and smoothing the wrinkles from your shirt.

“Great! Um, I’m Spencer Reid. I’ll be showing you around today.”

You blink at him, caught slightly off guard. This is Spencer Reid? His name had been listed in the email, but somehow, you’d pictured someone… different. More polished, more self-assured. Less professor who forgot his lecture notes.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, smiling politely.

He nods quickly, adjusting the clipboard in his hands. “Yeah, uh, you too. So, um, if you’ll just follow me, I’ll… show you around.”

Spencer leads you through the maze-like studio, his steps hurried yet deliberate. The place is a whirlwind of activity—bright lights overhead, cameras perched on sturdy tripods, people buzzing with purpose.

As you follow him, he rattles off bits of information about the space, gesturing to equipment and rattling through explanations. His sentences stumble over themselves, his words tumbling out in fits and starts like he’s rushing to get them all out before they escape him.

“So, what do you do here?” you ask, trying to break the tension.

Spencer hesitates, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Oh, um, I work… mostly in front of the camera. But I, uh, know how the equipment works too, so I can help. If you have questions. About cameras. Or lights. Or… yeah.”

You suppress a grin at his stammering, chalking it up to an attempt to make you feel at ease. He must work behind the scenes, you think.

Maybe he interviews the actors or films promotional material. He doesn’t strike you as someone who could handle the spotlight. The thought settles you. At least he’s not intimidating.

The director greets you with a curt nod as Spencer leads you to the main set. Before you can take in your surroundings, Spencer slips away for a moment, leaving you to absorb the controlled chaos around you.

When he reappears, your jaw nearly drops.

Gone are the glasses and sweater vest. Instead, he’s wearing a tailored button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal toned forearms. His hair is neatly tousled, his posture more confident, though there’s still a faint awkwardness clinging to him.

You blink, struggling to reconcile this Spencer with the nervous man who had stumbled over his words minutes ago. And then it hits you like a freight train. He’s not part of the crew. He’s not here to run the cameras or adjust the lights.

He’s the talent.

Your mind scrambles to process the revelation as you watch him step onto the set, chatting easily with the director. Someone hands him a script, and he scans it with an easy familiarity before nodding in agreement.

Meanwhile, you’re standing frozen, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing.

“Y/N, you ready?”

The director’s voice snaps you back to reality. You nod stiffly, moving into position by the camera, but your gaze keeps flicking to Spencer. He glances at you once, his lips twitching into a nervous half-smile like he knows exactly what’s going through your mind. It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes everything stranger.

You grip the camera tightly, your heart pounding in your chest. You thought you were prepared for this job, but nothing could have prepared you for Spencer Reid.

You can’t believe you’re actually doing this. The scene in front of you is far more intense than you had imagined. It’s your first real day on set, and Spencer is working with one of the female talents. From this distance, all you can focus on is the way he moves—sure and confident, his hips snapping rhythmically against his co-star’s body.

You fumble with the camera settings, trying to ignore the wet, sloppy sounds of sex that fill the room. You can’t tear your gaze away from Spencer’s cock, slipping in and out of her pussy like a well-oiled machine. Her hands clawing at his back as she gasps around his cock when he pulls out to force it in her mouth.

He threads a hand through her hair, the movement almost… tender. As tender as you can be for bruising the back of someone’s throat, anyway. She looks up at him, a smile on her lips, before he presses his cock to the back of her throat and lets her work him over. His face tightening, lips curling up into a smirk as she brings a hand up to hold what she can’t fit in her mouth.

Your stomach tightens at the sight of them together. You’re not sure if you should be so… invested in this. But it’s hard to tear your eyes away when he moves like that. You can’t stop watching.

“Focus on the face,” the director’s voice rings out. “We need her face. We need reactions.”

Your head jerks up, camera lens refocusing on the woman’s expression. It takes every ounce of your control to keep it steady and ignore the fact that Spencer is still balls-deep down her throat. It’s surprisingly easy to tune out, at least, until he flips her over, pinning her face-down to the bed. His cock pummeling into the woman from behind, her head turned to the side with glossy lips and tear-stricken eyes.

Spencer leans down, then, and you watch as he murmurs something in the woman’s ear, something you can’t quite hear. Her response is immediate—she gasps, her eyes going wide before her lips stretch into a perfect O. Her fingers dig into Spencer’s back as his thrusts become more frantic, and then he’s groaning, hips slamming against hers as he fills her with his cum.

The moment he finishes, the spell is broken. The camera drops to your side, and you breathe for what feels like the first time since the scene began. The director calls cut, and Spencer pulls out slowly, being careful of the woman underneath him, a small smile on his face as he reaches down to help her stand on shaky legs. He glances over, and for just a moment, his eyes lock on yours before he turns away to clean up. It’s stupid. It shouldn’t mean anything.

But… you can’t help the fluttering in your chest at the realisation that he was looking at you, even if only for a second. You try not to think about it too much as the day goes on, focusing instead on your job and taking in the sights and sounds around you.

It’s far more fascinating than you anticipated—watching the director’s decisions play out, watching the actors navigate their roles with ease.

But then, as the afternoon wears on, Spencer appears by your side again. He’s back in the clothes from this morning, and the awkward, shy energy has returned in full force.

“So, uh, you get a lunch break. And um, I was wondering… if maybe you wanted to grab something together. If you’re not busy. I mean, it’s okay if you are. I just…” His gaze darts to the side, voice trailing off. “I figured maybe we could talk more about your job, make sure you know everything you need.”

You blink at him. “You don’t have to do that,” you tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

Spencer shifts on his feet, looking slightly disappointed. But he nods anyway, turning to leave.

“Wait.”

The word slips out of you before you can catch it. Spencer looks over, eyes brightening ever so slightly. “Yeah?”

“Lunch sounds… nice.” Your voice is soft, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him as you say it.

When you finally meet his gaze, it’s the most natural thing in the world to see his lips curve into a small, shy smile.

Spencer Reid is a walking contradiction.

On camera, he’s a vision of dominance and raw confidence—a sex god, to put it bluntly. Every movement he makes is purposeful, controlled, and exudes a confidence that seems almost unnatural. But off-screen? He’s a different person entirely. Awkward, shy, and endearing in ways you hadn’t expected. He stammers, blushes, and struggles to find the right words in nearly every conversation. But every time he does, it only makes you smile. It’s impossible not to be drawn to him.

You sit across from him in a small café just a few blocks from the studio, the warmth of your coffee mug grounding you. The café is quiet, a peaceful haven far from the chaos of the city, where the sounds of honking horns and chatter fade into the background, leaving only the soft hum of conversation and clinking cups.

“So,” Spencer begins, his voice still soft and a little unsure, “how do you like the job so far?”

“It’s… interesting,” you reply, a laugh bubbling up.

“Good interesting or bad interesting?”

You chuckle and shake your head. “It’s just… not at all what I expected. The studio, I mean. It’s so professional. Like any other office.”

Spencer nods, the nervous tension in his posture easing slightly. “Yeah, it really is. Most people think it’s all…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “They think it’s just… sex all the time, you know?”

You snort at the absurdity of it. “Definitely not.”

The thought of Spencer—the shy, uncertain man in front of you—being the confident, sexual force he is on camera is hard to reconcile. You can’t imagine him ever making the first move with anyone. It seems almost… impossible.

“We have contracts with each other,” Spencer continues. “And there are all kinds of protocols to follow for the scenes. It’s actually pretty strict.”

“That makes sense,” you reply. “I guess I never really thought about it like that.”

Spencer shrugs, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “A lot of people don’t. It’s weird, I know, but… it’s still work. And if anything goes wrong…” He trails off, his expression growing darker.

A sudden curiosity prickles in you, but you don’t push for answers. Instead, you ask, “How did you end up doing this?”

He scrunches up his nose, looking almost embarrassed. “It’s a long story, but… my friend convinced me to try out once. And then I just… liked it.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. The image of someone convincing Spencer to do something so bold is almost too perfect. It’s exactly the kind of thing you could picture him doing—reluctantly agreeing, then discovering something unexpected about himself.

“I can’t really imagine that,” you say, your laugh light and teasing. Spencer blushes, his cheeks tinting pink as he shifts uncomfortably.

“What, you think I’m too shy for something like this?”

You nod, not hesitating for a moment. “Maybe just a little bit.”

“Yeah,” he admits softly, “I guess I am. I’ve gotten pretty good at switching it off when I’m being filmed. But in my day-to-day life… it’s like I can’t move past it.”

The words linger in the air between you, a strange kind of tension rising. You can’t help but wonder what else he’s been talked into. But before you can say anything, the door of the café chimes as a new customer enters. Spencer glances at the clock, his expression shifting into a look of reluctant understanding.

“I’m sorry,” he says, standing up. “We should get back. But hey, maybe we can grab lunch again tomorrow?”

You smile up at him, your heart beating just a little faster. “Sure.”

For a moment, you think he might say something else, but instead, he simply nods and turns to leave. You watch him walk away, a quiet disappointment settling in your chest. It’s not what you wanted—not exactly—but there’s something about Spencer Reid that pulls you in, something you can’t quite place.

Maybe it’s the awkward energy he exudes, the way he fumbles over words yet still manages to be endearing. Maybe it’s the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, or the way he transforms so seamlessly into the confident, dominant figure on camera. Whatever it is, you want more.

When you get home that evening, your mind keeps wandering back to Spencer. His eyes, his smile, the way his cock had moved inside his co-star. You replay the scene in your head again and again until it feels like you can almost hear the sounds of sex, almost smell his cologne wafting in the air.

It takes you a while to realise your hand has wandered down your body, fingers slipping between your legs as you imagine Spencer touching you.

The thought sends a thrill through you. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve gotten off thinking about someone, but… this feels different. This feels real.

You press a finger to your clit, applying a little pressure. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but it’s better than nothing. The image of Spencer’s face appears in your mind, his lips twisting into a pained expression as he comes. You imagine him over you instead of his co-star, his cock sinking into your pussy, his hands gripping your hips as he fucks you.

Your muscles clench at the thought, and a wave of desire surges through you. Your hand moves faster, fingers pressing and rubbing over your clit. You picture Spencer’s lips on yours, his breath hot against your skin as he speaks. You imagine the way his tongue would feel on you, the way his mouth would taste if he kissed you.

You come quickly, the pleasure overwhelming and swift. You barely have time to process it before the orgasm hits you, your body quaking as you climax.

When you open your eyes, your gaze falls on the ceiling. You feel dazed and far away, like you’ve left your body behind for a minute. It takes a while to come back to reality, to process what just happened.

But as you do, a sudden guilt creeps in. It’s not like this is something you’d never done before. But with Spencer Reid… it feels different.

When you wake up the next morning, you’re groggy, still caught in the afterglow of last night. It takes a few moments to remember the job, and another few to get out of bed.

As you shower, you can’t stop thinking of Spencer. The image of him on camera yesterday keeps popping up in your mind—his hips pumping between the woman’s legs, his fingers digging into her hips as he thrusts. And when he flipped her over… fuck. You can’t believe how much that got you going.

The way his cock disappeared into her, the sound of her gasps as he pounded into her.

You think of him behind you, his cock filling you, the length of him stretching your walls as he thrusts in and out of your body. The feel of his hands on your hips, holding you steady for his pleasure.

The image makes you gasp, and a wave of heat surges through you.

But as you stand there, water pouring down your body, another image pops up in your mind. Spencer across from you at the café, his cheeks flushing pink as he talks to you. His eyes brightening when you ask him a question, his smile growing ever so slightly as he answers.

You can’t help but be drawn to the contrast. Part of you wants to know more about his confidence on camera, to see what it’s like up close. Part of you just wants to pull the awkward, shy version closer and tell him that everything is okay.

There’s a lot you don’t know about Spencer Reid. But one thing is for sure.

You want more.

It takes a lot longer than usual to get ready for work, your mind wandering to all the possibilities. When you arrive, you head straight to the set, a strange mix of nerves and anticipation churning in you. It takes you a while to spot Spencer, and when you do, he’s chatting with the director.

It’s different now, somehow, seeing him in this space. He’s still awkward, still shy, but there’s an air of confidence around him that you didn’t notice before. You wonder what it would be like to be his co-star on camera. What it would be like to feel his hands on you.

The thought is a little startling, but you can’t deny it.

You watch as Spencer finishes speaking with the director, then turns towards you. His steps falter as he catches your gaze, and for a moment, it looks like he might change direction entirely. But then he pulls his glasses off, setting them down on a table near the door. Slipping his button-up over his head, leaving him in nothing but dress pants and an undershirt. He moves slowly, each action deliberate, and his gaze lingers on yours for a moment before he ducks into a nearby room.

When he comes back, his shirt is gone, and all that remains is smooth skin. You try not to stare, but your gaze tracks him anyway, watching as he makes his way to the main set. When he passes you, he catches your eyes again, giving you the tiniest smile.

You try not to wonder what that means, but it’s hard to focus on anything else.

When the director calls places, Spencer steps into position next to the female lead, and you take your spot behind the camera. As you adjust the settings, you try not to think too much of yesterday’s scene, but it’s impossible. The image of Spencer fucking his co-star from behind is still etched in your mind.

The director calls action, and Spencer launches himself at the woman, his mouth descending on hers. But as he kisses her, another man steps into view, and your gaze darts towards him.

He’s not as tall as Spencer, but his body is toned and well-defined, his cock already hard. He pushes Spencer against the woman, then starts to strip his pants off.

Your cheeks flush at the sight, and your mind struggles to make sense of what you’re watching. This isn’t how you imagined it would go, not at all.

Spencer presses his body against the woman’s, his lips moving against hers. He shifts her slightly, spreading her legs so the other man can take position between them.

You fumble with the camera for a moment before your gaze returns to the action. The sight of them all together is almost surreal. The other man slips his cock into the woman’s pussy, starting up a slow rhythm. He leans forward, and Spencer’s mouth drops to his neck, sucking a bruise onto his skin.

The woman gasps, pushing her hips back against the other man’s cock. Spencer shifts her again, and this time, he pulls away slightly, his mouth drifting lower on the other man’s chest. He sucks another mark onto his nipple, and you watch as his tongue teases over it for a moment.

Spencer pulls back then, his eyes darting towards you, before he glances down at the woman. He doesn’t need to say anything—his intention is clear. And without hesitation, the woman turns onto her hands and knees, the other man pulling out and flipping her over in one swift motion.

You shift the camera to capture the new angle, watching as Spencer moves behind the woman and slides his cock into her pussy. The other man moves with him, his hand wrapping around the woman’s neck as he slides his own cock inside her mouth.

The sight of them both fucking her is almost overwhelming. Spencer’s hand clamps down on the woman’s hip, his thrusts growing more frantic as he pounds into her from behind. The other man’s fingers dig into her hair, holding her still as he fucks her mouth. And when they both pause, you feel yourself holding your breath in anticipation.

Then Spencer’s mouth descends on the other man’s, and everything freezes. The sound of their kissing is loud and wet, and you try to remember to breathe, to remember to keep filming as they move together.

The camera shakes in your hands as you adjust it, trying to capture all three of them. You move closer, trying to take in everything at once. The sight of Spencer fucking the woman, of the other man fucking her mouth, of the three of them together. It’s almost too much to take in.

Spencer’s hand drifts down the woman’s back, then reaches up to tangle in her hair. He pulls her head back, and you can only imagine the sensation of his cock stretching her walls as he fucks into her. The other man pulls out of her mouth, then, and Spencer guides her down to take his cock instead.

The image sends a wave of lust through you. You can feel your pussy clenching at the thought of Spencer fucking her like this, at the thought of feeling him inside you. A sudden need surges in you, and before you can stop yourself, you whisper, “Fuck.”

The word is quiet, but it echoes in the room. Spencer’s eyes dart to yours, a look of surprise crossing his face. He falters for a moment, then continues, his hand reaching up to guide the woman’s head back and forth on the other man’s cock.

But his eyes remain locked on yours. And when you don’t look away, he starts to fuck the woman harder, his hips thrusting against her ass.

You’re frozen, unable to move. The camera is forgotten in your hands, your gaze fixed on Spencer as he fucks the woman in front of you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before.

The sound of his breathing fills the air, along with the sound of the woman’s gasps as he pumps into her. Then, without warning, he pulls out, his cock dripping with cum and precum.

He reaches for her, his mouth crashing down on hers as he pushes her back onto the mattress. The other man positions himself above her, and Spencer moves to kneel at her head. Then Spencer’s lips drop to the woman’s clit, and your gaze is drawn to the sight of him eating her out.

He sucks and licks at her pussy, his mouth moving over her clit. The other man groans, his hips starting up a slow rhythm as he fucks into her mouth. Spencer’s fingers move to her tits, playing with her nipples as he continues to eat her out with fervour.

The sounds of their fucking fill the air—the sound of the woman gasping, of Spencer moaning, of the other man’s breathing growing more rapid. You’re frozen in place, unable to tear your gaze away from Spencer as he eats her out. He pauses for a moment to pull back and look at you, then his lips drop back down between her legs.

It’s hard not to imagine him like this over you—his mouth moving between your legs, his tongue teasing over your clit.

Your pussy clenches at the thought, and you realize you’re soaked. The sound of your own breathing echoes in your ears, and you try not to look at Spencer, but you can’t help it. He glances up at you, his eyes locking on yours.

The connection between you is sudden and intense. You want to do something, to say something, but before you can, the other man groans. His hips start to pump harder, and Spencer moves back, his body positioning between the woman’s thighs.

His cock is still hard, still wet with precum from fucking her before. He positions himself against her pussy, then pushes in, his body shuddering as he sinks inside her.

The sight of him fucking the woman is almost too much. His thrusts are slow and deliberate at first, but soon he’s pounding into her, his cock moving in and out of her pussy in quick, slick thrusts. His hand reaches down to play with her clit, and her gasps grow more frantic as he rubs her towards climax.

The air is thick with tension, your breath coming in quick gasps as you watch them fuck. You can barely hold the camera still, your fingers shaking with anticipation.

The woman’s gasps turn into a cry, and she starts to come. Her pussy clenches around Spencer’s cock, and his body shudders with pleasure. The other man grunts, his cock erupting in cum as he shoots onto the woman’s chest. And Spencer fucks her through her orgasm, his cock moving faster and faster until he comes with a cry, his cum spilling into the condom.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped filming until it’s all over. The camera hangs in your hand, forgotten as your gaze lingers on Spencer.

It takes him a moment to catch his breath. When he does, his eyes flicker towards yours, Spencer smiles, then ducks into the bathroom. He emerges a few minutes later with a towel around his neck and his glasses back in place. You try not to laugh at the sight—he still looks like the same awkward nerdy boy from before. But now, when you look at him, you can’t forget the image of him fucking a woman from behind, his cock sliding in and out of her as he sucked bruises into another man’s neck.

And you can’t help but wonder how it would feel to have him do that to you.

It’s hard to get any work done for the rest of the day. Your mind keeps wandering back to Spencer, to his mouth moving on the woman, to his cock fucking her from behind.

When it’s finally time to leave, you grab your bag and head towards the door. But before you make it, a hand reaches out, tugging you into a dressing room.

You stumble as you enter, nearly crashing into the person who pulled you in. But when you turn around, you realize it’s Spencer.

His cheeks flush a deep red, and he shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I just… wanted to talk to you.”

A small laugh escapes you, and you smile at him. “It’s okay, I didn’t mind.” Then you add, “I guess this is your dressing room?”

He nods, looking around. “Yeah,” he says, “They gave me my own room.”

It’s not hard to see why. The room is small, but there’s enough space for a bed and a bathroom, and there’s a table near the door with a couple outfits laid out on it. You move towards the bed, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress as you look around.

Spencer takes a seat next to you, his fingers picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. The silence grows thick between you, but instead of feeling uncomfortable, it feels strangely intimate.

You lean back, shifting your body slightly so your thigh is brushing against his. He looks up at the movement, his cheeks flushing again.

A smile plays across your lips. “Did you like me watching you fuck her?” you ask.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering towards yours for just a moment. “Yes,” he says finally, his voice low. “I really liked it.”

You lean in then, your shoulder brushing against his. “You wanted to fuck me instead, didn’t you?”

Spencer swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Yes.”

You smile at him, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. He shivers at the touch, and a little thrill of power shoots through you. “You were really hot today.”

He ducks his head at the words, but you can still hear a whisper of “thank you” from him.

You move closer, your arm winding around his shoulders and pulling him against you. His head drops to your shoulder, and you shift slightly, letting your lips brush against his ear.

“I really liked watching you,” you say, your voice soft and low. “Watching you eat her out, watching you fuck her like that. I wanted to be underneath you.”

Spencer swallows again, his breathing growing shallow. His hands move to your thighs, squeezing your legs slightly.

“I wanted to feel you inside me,” you continue, “To feel your cock stretching me open. I bet you’d fuck me hard, wouldn’t you?”

He moans at the words, his fingers tightening on your thigh. You can feel his body shudder against yours, and the knowledge that you’re turning him on like this is intoxicating.

“Do you want to fuck me?” you ask.

He groans again, and this time there’s a yes, yes, please.

You reach up, running your fingers through his hair. “I want you to touch yourself while you think of me,” you say. “While you think of me underneath you, of your cock sliding into me.”

He moans, and you can feel his cock growing hard against your thigh. “And if you’re good,” you add, “Maybe I’ll let you fuck me.”

Spencer groans, and his hips push forward slightly. You can feel him growing more aroused, and for a moment you’re tempted to give in and let him fuck you now.

But then you remember the quiet, nervous boy who took forever to approach you at the café. And the idea that he’d let you control him like this—both in front of the camera and in private—is too enticing to ignore.

You lean back, taking your hand off him. “If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll even let you cum inside me.”

Spencer gasps, his breath catching in his throat.

His eyes drop to yours, filled with a desire. You smile back at him, but you know this isn’t over yet.

“Tell me again,” you say. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

He swallows, and you can see the hesitation in his eyes. “Please,” he says finally. “Let me touch you. Please let me fuck you.”

The words send a rush of power through you, and you have to work to keep from smiling. “Keep begging,” you say instead.

Spencer nods, his eyes wide. “Please let me fuck you,” he says again. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

He’s growing more desperate by the second, his fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt tightly. You can hear the whine in his voice now, and you wonder how long he can hold out.

“Please,” he says again.

You watch him for a moment, studying him. He’s looking more and more desperate by the second. You wonder how much it would take to push him over the edge.

“You have to promise to do whatever I say,” you say finally. “Whenever I tell you to.”

Spencer nods so fast it’s almost funny. “Anything,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

A thrill of excitement shoots through you, and for a moment, you forget about anything other than the power he’s giving you. You could make him do anything—make him get on his hands and knees and beg for permission to touch you. Make him eat you out until you’re screaming and dripping with cum, and not let him stop until you’re satisfied. Make him fuck you until you can’t walk straight, until you’re sore and aching from taking his cock.

You shiver at the thought, your pussy growing slick with arousal. But you don’t stop, not yet. You reach for him, taking his face in your hands and making him look at you.

“You’re mine,” you say. “Do you understand?”

He nods again, his breath coming in quick pants. “Yes,” he gasps. “Whatever you want.” Then he adds, “Please.” The word is a moan, filled with desperation and need. “Please, fuck me.”

Your fingers tighten on his jaw, and you lean in closer. “Say it again,” you say.

He nods, his eyes growing desperate. “Please fuck me,” he says again, his voice a low whine. “I need it.”

A soft laugh escapes you, and you move closer to him, your lips brushing against his forehead. “I love the way you beg,” you say. “It makes me so wet.”

He shivers at the words, and you can hear the breath hitch in his throat.

“I can’t wait to feel you inside me,” he says. “To feel you fuck me until I’m raw.” He pauses, then adds, “Until I can’t take it anymore.”

The words are almost too much. You can feel your own arousal growing, your pussy aching with the need to be fucked.

“Maybe,” you say, “If you’re good enough, I’ll let you.”

Spencer whines at the words, his body shaking slightly. You lean in, your mouth moving to his neck. “Will that be enough?” you ask.

“Yes,” he gasps, his fingers clenching against your thighs. “Whatever you want. Just please let me fuck you.” The words are a moan now, filled with need.

The word sends a rush of arousal through you, and before he can say anything else, you pull back. “Good boy,” you say softly.

His fingers tighten on your leg, but he doesn’t say anything.

You smile, reaching for his glasses and pulling them off his face. “Get on your hands and knees,” you say then.

Spencer nods, moving to do what you said. You watch as he gets into position, his hands and knees on the mattress, his ass in the air. You move behind him, running your fingers over his hips, teasing his skin.

“Spread your legs,” you say. “I want to see how desperate you are for my cunt.”

Spencer does as he’s told, spreading his legs for you. And you can’t help the groan that escapes you at the sight. His cock is already leaking with precum, and you know he’s aching to be touched. To be fucked. To have your pussy wrapped around him, to feel him sink inside you until he’s balls deep.

The thought sends a rush of lust through you, and you lean forward, running your hands over his back. You move up to his shoulders, then run your fingers down his arms. When you get to his hands, you reach for the lube on the table.

“Get yourself nice and wet for me, baby,” you say, squeezing out a generous amount on his palms.

He does as he’s told. And when he looks back at you, you nod to his cock. “Touch yourself,” you say. “Show me how much you want to be inside me.”

He nods, and without hesitation, he reaches for his cock, his hand wrapping around it. You watch for a moment as he strokes himself, his movements slow at first. But it doesn’t take long for his hips to start pumping, his hand moving faster and faster as he strokes.

“Mmm,” you say, smiling at the sight. “I like that.”

Spencer moans, but he keeps going, his hand pumping his cock until he’s fucking his fist. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, and you can’t help your own arousal from growing. Your pussy is slick with need, and all it would take is one touch from his hand and you’d be cumming.

You shift closer to him, reaching out to run your fingers over the small of his back. Spencer gasps, his hips stuttering for a moment. But then he continues, his hand stroking his cock until it’s almost too much.

“Can you cum like this for me?” you ask.

The words are enough to push him over the edge. His hips thrust into his hand, and you can hear his breathing grow ragged. “Yes,” he whines. “God, yes.”

A smile plays on your lips. “Then do it,” you say. “Cum for me.”

He cries out at the words, his cock pulsing in his hand as he cums. The sound of his orgasm fills the room, and for a moment all you can do is watch him in wonder.

When he’s finished, he collapses back against you, his body relaxing against yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding him to your chest as you smile.

“Good boy,” you say. “Just like that.”

And when Spencer nods, you can’t help but feel a rush of pride at the thought of your obedient little slut. You’ll break him in slowly—letting him touch you and taste you until he’s desperate for your pussy. And then, when you’re ready, you’ll let him fuck you.

And once he has your pussy, he’ll never let go. He’ll be obsessed with it, with the feeling of being inside you. With the way your muscles clench around him, with the way your cunt grips him tight as he fucks into you. With the feeling of your thighs wrapped around his hips, with the way your pussy milks him until he cums deep inside you. With the sound of your moans as he fucks you until you’re aching and raw. With the taste of your pussy on his tongue as he eats you out until you cum on his face.

Spencer whimpers against you, and you run a hand through his hair, petting him. “Shhh,” you say. “That was good. You’re doing so well.”

He moans against you, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods, leaning back against your chest.

You smile, your fingers moving to his hair again. “There’s my good little slut,” you say.

He groans at the words, his breathing growing faster. You move your hand to his cock, running your fingers along the length. “Look how hard you are,” you say, stroking him lightly.

Spencer moans again, and you can feel him shudder against you. “Are you ready for more?” you ask.

“Yes, please,” he gasps.

You smile at the desperation in his voice. You pull back, looking down at him as you run your finger along his lips. “Open your mouth,” you say.

He does as he’s been told, and you push your finger between his lips until he sucks it into his mouth. You pull your finger away, smiling at him. Then you reach for a condom, and stand up. “Take off your clothes,” you tell him, tearing open the package.

Spencer’s eyes flicker to yours, but he moves quickly to comply, pulling off his pants and shirt until he’s naked. You take a moment to study him, to study the way his cock is hard for you, the way his chest rises and falls as he breathes.

Then you reach for him, guiding him back onto the bed. You push him down, spreading his legs as you move between them. He whimpers as you pull his thighs up, and for a moment, all you can do is look at him like this.

He’s beautiful—spread out on the bed for you, his thighs spread wide and his cock hard. His eyes are glazed with lust, and he’s breathing hard. You can see the way he’s shaking slightly, and you know how much he wants to be inside you.

A soft smile plays across your lips, and you reach for your clothes, pulling your skirt up around your waist. You can’t help the moan that escapes you as you sink down onto him, the feeling of his cock filling you almost too much to handle.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he gasps as you sink down further.

You moan at the words, your head dropping to his shoulder as you take his cock deeper. You can feel him stretching you, filling you until you’re almost too full to move. When you’re finally seated on his hips, you pause, looking down at the sight of his cock disappearing into you.

Spencer groans again, his hands moving to your thighs. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers. “Your cunt is so perfect.” His hands tighten on your thighs, and he pushes up into you, making you moan.

You nod, and then lean down, taking his mouth in a kiss. You move slowly at first, your hips shifting back and forth as you grind down on his cock. But it’s not long before you’re fucking him in earnest, your body riding him until you’re gasping with pleasure.

He’s so good, you realize. He feels so good inside you, better than anyone you’ve ever had. His cock is thick and full, and you can feel the way it’s stretching you until you’re aching. The knowledge that he wants you—wants to fuck you and fill you with his cum—only makes it better.

You move faster, your body grinding down on his cock as you fuck him. Spencer is moaning now, his breath hot against your ear as he groans. His hand moves to your ass, his fingers gripping tightly as he pulls you down onto him.

“Yes,” he moans. “Like that. Fuck me like that.”

You nod, your hips picking up the pace until you’re bouncing on his cock. You can feel yourself building, the pleasure growing with each thrust until it’s almost overwhelming. You cry out as you cum, your body shaking with pleasure as your pussy clenches around him.

Spencer cries out with you, his hips bucking up into you as he cums. You collapse against him as he finishes, his cock throbbing deep inside you. You stay there for a few moments, until the last tremor of pleasure fades away. Then you pull off him, reaching for a cloth to clean yourself with.

When you look back at him, he’s watching you with wide eyes. “Was that…good?” he asks finally.

You smile at him. “It was amazing,” you say, and you mean it.

Spencer smiles back at you, then nods. You can see a little blush on his cheeks, and you can tell how pleased he is with himself.

You reach for his hand, taking it in yours as you smile again. “You were perfect,” you add. “Just like I knew you’d be.”

He flushes a little more at that, but you can see how happy he is. You squeeze his hand once more, then let go. “Come on,” you say. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You help him up, then reach for his clothes. He watches as you hand them to him, and you can still see how aroused he is.

He moves to put his pants on, but pauses when you stop him with a hand on his shoulder. “Not those,” you say. You point to the corner of the room, where you can see his boxers. “Those.”

Spencer pauses for a moment, his eyes flickering to yours. “Okay,” he says softly, and he moves to do as he’s told.

You can’t help the smile that comes to your face at the sight, at the way he obediently puts on the boxers you tell him to.

“Come here,” you say when he’s done.

He moves to you, and you take his face in your hand. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” you say.

His eyes widen at the words, but he nods. “Yes,” he says, his voice soft.

You pull him closer, your lips moving to his ear. “And what do I want?” you ask.

“To fuck me,” he whispers.

You smile at that. “And you’ll do anything I want,” you say.

“Yes,” he agrees.

You run your thumb along his jaw, smiling at the sight of him standing there in boxers and a tee-shirt, waiting to do your bidding. “Good,” you say. “My good boy.”

Spencer moans at the words, leaning into your touch. “What do you want?” he asks.

You study him for a moment, then smile again. “For now?” you say. “Nothing. Just you.” You lean in, taking his mouth in a soft kiss. “I’m so lucky to have you,” you whisper against his lips.

Spencer makes a soft noise, then kisses you back. “I’m the lucky one,” he whispers against your mouth.

You smile at that, then pull back and take his hand. You lead him to the bed, then guide him onto it. “Stay,” you tell him as you pull the covers back.

He nods, watching you as you climb in next to him. You reach for his hand, then settle back against the headboard.

“I don’t have to leave?” he asks.

“No, baby, of course not, ” you reply. “You can stay.”

You watch as a smile spreads across his face, and he leans into you, his head resting on your shoulder. You can feel his fingers tighten on yours, and the knowledge that he wants to stay with you like this—that he wants to curl up in your arms and let you comfort him—is so sweet it almost hurts.

You wrap an arm around him, then move to pull him close. “Sleep,” you tell him softly.

“You deserve it.”

He doesn’t reply, but you can feel him relaxing against you, the tension in his body easing as you hold him. He’s warm against your side, and you can smell the scent of soap and lube on him. You hold him for a moment more, then reach to turn off the light.

“Rest now,” you say. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

Spencer nods, his fingers tightening on yours one more time. Then he drifts off to sleep, and you stay with him until you fall asleep too. You dream of the next time you’ll fuck him, of the things you’ll do to him until he’s begging for your mercy.

★

#missarchive #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #bau x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader

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mrsjjongstby · 22 days ago

Text

P: Vampire!Sunghoon x Time-travel Scientist!Reader

Warnings: Mentions on biting, blood, feeding scenes, mentions of death, dissapearance, time travelling, yearning, kissing, physical touch, possesiveness, soft angst, happy ending!

Synopsis: In 2090, you're sent back in time to study a village that vanished without explanation. There, you met him. You weren't supposed to fall in love with him. But you did, with a vampire. And when time ran out, you left — believing that story had ended. Until one night, back in the future, he finds you. He hasn’t aged. And he never stopped waiting.

Wordcount: 11.8k

June 22, 2090.

The hum of the machines never stopped in sector 7.

Even at 3:27 in the evening, the corridors filled with guards, the bright white light pulsing against the huge glass doors. Surveillance cameras present every nook and crook of the room with security drones flying silently overhead, scanning every face, every badge, every retinal print.

There were no windows in this part of the KRONEX institute- no clocks, no noise from the outside world. Time, here, was studied, twisted, and sometimes... broken.

You adjusted the collar of your lab coat, feeling the slight static charge settling against your skin. Another night. Another sequence calibration.

You were the lead scientist for KRONEX's Temporal Division, and one of only five globally certified operators with direct clearance to manipulate raw time.

Not because you are lucky- but because you are good- really good at what you do.

"You are early." Said a familiar voice.

You turned around to see Taehyun, hands in his lab coat pockets, glasses slightly askew. He always arrived fashionably five minutes late, so this was new.

"So are you," you say smirking.

"Someone write it in the history."

He chuckled, stepping beside you as the biometric scanner opened the reinforced glass doors to Lab room Delta- 12.

Inside, your team was already gathered,

Mira, the chronophysics analyst, stood at her console with her usual lip balm which she applies ever minute, tapping at the interface like it owned her something.

Yuvi, head of atmospheric translation, stayed near the back, mumbling data projections to herself.

Jungwon, the youngest, but sharp as hell, greeted you with the usual, two fingered salute from behind the drone mapping panel.

"Took you long enough." Mira muttered without looking up.

"You're welcome for the coffee I brought you last time." You say as you head to the central table.

Everyone quickly followed you, sitting around the table.

You five are the specialized high qualification scientists who got chosen to be the people handling lab delta- 12. Coming from different backgrounds, having same interests and working in cases together for years made your guys' bond unbreakable.

You five are highly qualified specialists chosen to operate Lab Delta-12. Coming from different backgrounds but sharing the same passion, you've worked on countless cases together over the years — and that’s made your bond unbreakable.

The door opened, interrupting your casual talks.

In walked, Dr. Han Myung-sik— head of KRONAX, the man who'd once published a paper predicting time dilation six years before it was observed in real data. His face, though aged, was unreadable— eyes sharp beneath the thick silver eyebrows.

No one spoke. You all stood up immediately.

"Sit," he said. "This will be quick."

The doors sealed shut behind him. A cold hum flickered through the room as he turned on the internal projector.

Five floating files appeared above the surface. Each labeled, RED CASE.

"Your group— delta 12 is chosen for this matter." Dr.Han said quietly.

You could feel the weight of his words which he's about to say.

"We've uncovered five unresolved incidents. Each linked to potentially an unnatural shift in recorded time."

"These aren't ripples," he continued.

"These are fractures. Events that don't line up with any known temporal logic. People disappeared, memories vanished, objects never aged and yet—"

He tapped the interface. The room dimmed, and each of your profiles synced to a case file.

"You are the only ones qualified to investigate."

He started pacing slowly.

"Yuvi. You're being sent to March 2311, Seoul; right before the blackout that erased six months of global data records. You'll observe the internal tech culture and corporate rivalry."

Yuvi blinked, nodding quietly, already calculating her cover identity.

"Mira."

He turned to her.

"Your case is year 1652, Gyeongju province. A palace scribble who reportedly recorded a 'sky-born woman of light' before his records were seized. The ink used in his account was... not of this earth.”

Mira grinned. "Finally, something fun."

"Jungwon. Taehyun. You'll split into Northern territories. Parallel years, overlapping reports. Two villages with identical names, but only one should exist."

Jungwon raised an eyebrow, "Are we crossing time lines? "

"Just brushing," Dr.Han replied. "Do not stay longer than you have to."

Then, he turned to you.

"And you."

The room stilled.

"Your case is the most weird one."

A red dot expanded above the table.

Satellite data. Korean countryside. Grainy and quiet.

"A village in 2019 – known to exist, documented, populated and functioning." "Then, it disappeared. Not physically or violently. Just... gone. All the databases rewrote themselves. The people who lived there vanished as if they were never even existed— never even born." "Your job is to go there, undercover. Blend in. Find the root event. Identify the root autonomy and leave before it happens."

Your fingers clenched lightly under the table. You stared at the red dot on the map.

2019.

A quiet time. A dangerous one — because it was still close enough to modern history to be familiar. Easy to slip up. Easy to stay too long.

"Do we suspect temporal interference?"

You asked as you shifted your gaze from the red dot to his eyes. Dr.Han meets your eyes. "We suspect something far worse. Something that doesn't belong in any time."

The files flickered red again. "You'll begin calibration tonight. You jump within 750 hours. That is one month. Use your time wisely."

As he turned to leave, he paused just once— right by the door.

"And one more thing," he said without looking back. "Don't fall in love with the timeline. It doesn't love you back."

With that, he was gone. The table darkens. The lights return. Yuvi exhales. Mira cracks her knuckles and Jungwon leans forward.

"2019 huh?" Taehyun mutters beside you. "Better pack your sarcasm and Emo clothes."

You don't respond. You just stare at the red dot again.

The village. Gone from memory. Gone from maps. But waiting for you all the same.

One month.

And only one day to finish prepping, calibrating your minds, bodies, and identities before entering a timeline that wouldn’t even recognize your names. You sat in the Sim Room, surrounded by floating holoscreens of early-2010s Korea. Architecture. Clothing. Language slang. Historical emotional markers. It was all too recent. Too real.

Mira was curled on a bench nearby, watching 1600s scrollwork with a look that said I’d rather wing it. Taehyun was arguing with an AI over inconsistency in his destination’s documentation. Again. Jungwon? Already finished his prep module and was now trying to teach Mira how to drink from a metal bottle while upside down.

“You’re going to the past, not space,” she said, annoyed but smiling. “Still useful if I end up in a well,” Jungwon shrugged. You blinked away the holograms and stood, stretching out your arms.

“This doesn’t feel like prep,” Yuvi murmured, joining you. “It feels like goodbye.”

You didn’t answer.

She studied you, thoughtful. “You okay with your timeline?” “2019 is barely the past,” you said. “Feels like I could bump into my parents if I’m not careful.” “Yeah, but yours is the haunted village,” Mira called. “Mine is just a floating woman in the sky.”

“You’re the floating woman,” Jungwon muttered under his breath. She chucked a protein chip at him while he hid behind you, holding your shoulders as if his body isn't larger than yours.

“Alright,” Taehyun said, glancing around. “Final dinner tonight in the Commons? Before the serious lockdown begins?” “Only if you don’t bring another slide presentation to the table,” Mira groaned.

“I make no promises.” You smiled — small, but genuine

And as the others drifted out of the room, chattering, playfully teasing, you lingered a moment longer — looking up at the blinking red timestamp over the Sim Door.

30:00:00:00 DAYS : HOURS : MINUTES: SECONDS JUMP

You were the first one in the bay. The air smelled sterile, like metal and ionized mist. The chamber was massive — white, cold, humming. Five jump pods lined the back wall, each glowing faint blue with individual temporal calibration.

The boots of your suit clicked softly as you walked, every step echoing louder than your breath. The fabric hugged your body like skin, the material pressure-sealed and embedded with auto-adaptive climate tech. Your mind was a storm beneath the still surface — years of training colliding with something much quieter.

“Couldn’t sleep?” came Taehyun’s voice from behind. You turned. He looked exhausted, but composed — the kind of man who smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. “Didn’t try,” you replied simply.

He nodded, stepping beside you, with his arm around your shoulder. You both looked at the pods in silence.

One for each of you. One jump. One direction. No promises of coming back the same.

Soon after, Yuvi arrived — hair tied, suit zipped, clutching a small, folded piece of paper in her hand. A name, probably. A reminder of something real. Mira strolled in with a grin too bright to be sincere. “Guess it’s finally happening,” she said, snapping her gum, though her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her suit cuffs.

Jungwon came last, walking like he was on his way to a vacation. Humming. But you saw the tension in his knuckles as he flexed them once, twice. Dr. Han entered from the upper level, flanked by three silent technicians and a console assistant holding the jump sequence tablet.

“Final clearances have been locked in,” he announced, voice loud across the bay. “You have fifteen minutes.”

One by one, your mission drives were inserted into the small ports at your pod stations. The information would sync once you landed in your time period — personalized cover stories, forged credentials, emergency kill phrases.

“I’ll see you all again,” Jungwon said, softer now, eyes scanning the rest of you. “In whatever version of time we land in.

“Bring back something cool,” Mira added. “Like a comet or an alien.” “Or your soul intact,” Yuvi muttered, mostly to herself. You looked around.

These people — their lives had been laced into yours for years. Work. Sleep. Discover. Repeat. The way your names felt normal together. The easy sarcasm. The shared silence in moments like this. You didn’t know what it would be like without them. Maybe you weren’t meant to know. Your pod blinked green. Final sequence activated.

You stood in front of it, heart slamming once, sharply, against your ribs.

“You’ll be inserted at 03:12 AM, August 9th, 2019,” Dr. Han said beside you. “Just outside the village’s boundary. Our records end there. No satellite returns after that date. No digital trails. Just fog.”

You nodded.

“And remember,” he added, “observe, record, don’t interfere.” He paused. “And don’t stay longer than you have to.” You stepped into the pod. The door hissed closed behind you. Inside: darkness. Soft blue lights blinked around your headrest. A countdown began in the corner.

00:00:10 00:00:09 00:00:08... Your breathing slowed. Fingers tight on the seat grips. 00:00:03 00:00:02... You thought of nothing. 00:00:01 ENGAGING TEMPORAL LAUNCH.

Everything went white.

You woke up choking on fog.

Your knees hit grass first, body staggering out of the collapsed time pod buried beneath undergrowth. The pod disintegrated on schedule — technology melted into mist the second your boots touched this era. You stood slowly, the chill biting through your fabricated 2010s-era jacket. A navy hoodie. Worn boots. Phone model synced to local time tech. Fake ID in your pocket. History-approved. And ahead of you — trees. Low mist curling over quiet fields. One winding road in the dark.

“03:14,” you whispered, checking the time. You started walking. It didn’t take long to reach the village. Just a few winding turns along cracked pavement and flickering streetlamps — too dim for a place this small. It looked normal at first glance. Houses with tiled roofs. Wind chimes. A distant dog barking. But the silence? Too heavy. Too complete. Not a single radio. Not one human voice.

You followed the map projection in your eye lens. Your identity here: transfer student, staying with a distant relative for the summer before university. Your cover was clean. “Blend in. Observe. Don’t interfere.” Dr. Han’s words echoed.

You reached the village center. A bakery. A post office. A small clinic. It was beautiful — in a nostalgic, sleepy sort of way. You spotted an inn. Two stories. Wooden steps. A soft yellow porch light still glowing. You knocked once. A moment later, an older woman opened the door, eyes squinting at your unfamiliar face.

“Ah… you must be the niece, right? From Seoul?” You smiled, polite. "Yes, ma’am.” “Room’s upstairs. Already made it up for you.” With that, you leave to your room.

August 10, 2019.

The village was quieter in the morning. Not dead. Just... slow.

You walked past the corner bakery — the one that smelled like burnt sugar and citrus. Past a row of mailboxes that hadn’t been touched in a week. You weren’t sure if people here hated bills or just trusted too easily. Notebook in your jacket. Identity chip syncing your steps to the research log in your neural band.

Day 2. Civilian behavior: consistent. Average activity start time: 6:53 AM No sign of temporal noise. No anomalies.

You smiled and bowed slightly to an old man sweeping the steps outside a shop. He gave you a nod in return. Eyes kind, but faintly puzzled — like he couldn’t remember when you arrived, but accepted you anyway. That was the first pattern you noticed. People here forgot details fast. But nothing big enough to ring alarms. Just enough to feel like déjà vu.

You took a seat on the raised edge of a well in the town center, glancing down at the still water. Your eye-lens scanned your surroundings. Kids biking. A woman hanging sheets in perfect rows. Market stalls setting up.

Everything looked normal. Back at the inn, the old woman handed you a basket.

“Bread for the east field home. The family that lives up near the woods. They get their supplies late.”

“East field?” you asked, trying to remember the map.

“Take the long path. The house is old, but someone’s always there.”

“Someone?”

She nodded. “A quiet boy. Rarely speaks. Keeps to himself. Been around longer than most here.”

You didn’t ask more. Just took the basket and walked. And as you stepped onto the eastern trail, into the trees and shifting light… You didn’t know yet that you were walking toward the beginning. Of the end.

The path to the east house was longer than expected.

Thick trees bent overhead like old, quiet watchers. The air here was different — cooler, touched with something metallic. You adjusted the basket in your hands. You finally reached the gate — rusted iron, half open. A path lined with overgrown grass stretched up to a traditional hanok-style house. Wooden. Quiet. Heavy with stillness.

You stepped through, gently. No animals. No birds. Just that strange silence again. You knocked once. Then twice. No answer. You were about to leave when the door creaked open. And there he was.

He looked like he didn’t belong in 2019. Or any year.

Dressed simply — white cotton shirt, black slacks, sleeves slightly rolled up. But there was something... too elegant about the way he held the door. Something slow and precise. Still. His eyes — dark, unfathomable — landed on yours.

For a full second, he didn’t say a word. Neither did you. “Delivery,” you said softly, lifting the basket.

“Right,” he replied after a pause, voice smooth, almost melodic. “They said you’d be coming.”

You held the basket out, but he didn’t take it immediately. Instead, he studied you. Not rudely. Not even intently. Just... curiously. Like a puzzle he couldn’t quite read. Or a scent he wasn’t supposed to follow. The moment you stepped through the trees, he felt it. The beat beneath your skin. The warmth. Your blood had a scent — not strong, not desperate like others.

Sweet. Calming. Clean. He hadn’t fed in days. But you made the ache stir. “You live here alone?” you asked.

He nodded. “For a while now.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away.

“Most people say it’s empty.”

You tilted your head. “Are you?”

That made something shift in his gaze — not amusement exactly, but the ghost of something near it. “Not today,” he said finally.

He took the basket, fingers brushing yours for just half a second. His skin was cool. Not cold. But noticeably not warm. “Thank you,” he said, stepping back. “Be careful going back. The light fades fast out here.”

You turned to leave, but your instincts tugged once. “What’s your name?” you asked over your shoulder.

A pause.

“Sunghoon,” he said quietly.

You nodded once. “I’m Y/N.” Another pause. “I know,” he said.

And then the door closed. As you walked back down the path, heart steady but hands tingling from where his touched yours, you couldn’t shake one thing: There had been no heartbeat behind that door. Just silence. You don’t notice someone- Sunghoon, watching you from his window as you walk back.

And that, that night few people go missing because Sunghoon, couldn’t handle his hunger for blood. Not when he was reminded of how desperate he was to taste something sweet- something pure like your blood- like you. He can’t bite you, not yet. So, he resorted to his usual way, biting the villagers. One by one.

It was quiete big village when Sunghoon first step foot in there. 2010. The year Sunghoon decided to enter into the huge village, leaving behind memories of his previous life- the one where everyone treated him like the monster he was. He didn’t like it one bit. So? He ended it. Bit and killed everyone who called him a monster.

Leaving behind memories and people wasn’t new to him. He’s been like that since he was turned- since 527 years. It's what he’s best at other than sucking peoples’ blood. Having spent many years on this planet made him discard unwanted memories for good.

And maybe that’s why he never truly loved anyone. It’s not because he isn’t capable of it. It's because he knows that they won't stick around. Not when they find out what he is, not when they leave this world entirely. Also, because, he never truly found someone who made him feel things. Feel things which are foreign to him- Desire.

Desire for blood? Thats more like filling his hunger. Desire is what he felt when he saw you. If you ever told Sunghoon that he’d yearn for a girl he met once, he’d scoff, shaking his head. That can never happen, not when he's been on this earth for more than 500 years. He knows how to control his feelings- it was easy for him because he didn't have any feelings in the first place.

But why is that the moment he saw you, heard you- your hearbeat, your blood pulsing in your throat, smelled the scent of you, he wanted to make you his?

Its funny, really. This whatever weird feeling he has in his stomach is new to him. Perhaps he’s hungry for your blood? No. He’s hungry for you.

You are here to find out how the village disappeared. Maybe you do find out that he’s the reason for the mass disappearance. But will your heart obey to leave behind everything that you've uncovered here? Leave behind someone, who is the sole reason why the disappearance happened in the first place?

Only the future holds the answer. Maybe the present? You truly don't know, not when the time’s twisted and you are spiralling in it.

August 14, 2019.

You weren’t planning to run into him again. You were just taking the trail by the lake. Collecting audio samples. Watching people prep for the lantern festival — all smiles and paper crafts, sunlight catching on water like glass. But then there he was. Standing near the edge of the hill that overlooked the lake. Not moving. Just… watching it. Like the water itself had said something only he could hear.

You almost didn’t say anything. But he turned to you first.

“You walk this path often?”

His voice was still soft. Still slow. Like everything he said had already passed through a hundred filters before reaching you.

“Not really,” you said, stepping closer. “But it’s quiet. Good for thinking.”

“Thinking,” he echoed, like it was a foreign word. “You do that a lot?”

You smiled. “Occupational hazard.”

“Ah,” he said. “Let me guess. You’re a writer.”

“Wrong.”

“A scientist?”

You blinked. A beat too long.

“Why that guess?”

“Your eyes,” he said.

“What about them?”

“They look like they’re always dissecting things. Even me.”

He turned back to the lake after that, leaving your thoughts spiraling slightly behind him. The sun was dipping lower, casting light through the trees. A warm breeze stirred the ends of your hair, and for once, you didn’t feel like recording anything. Just being here.

“Why do you live so far from the village?” you asked.

“They forget me better this way.”

You frowned. “That’s sad.”

“Not really.”

“When people forget you… you stop needing to prove you exist.”

You turned to him then — not just listening but really seeing him. The distance in his eyes. The calm sadness he wore like second skin.

“You don’t want to be remembered?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “I just don’t mind being forgotten.”

A few kids laughed somewhere nearby, running with paper lanterns. You looked down at your shoes. “You’re hard to forget, you know.” It slipped out before you could stop it. He didn’t respond for a moment. Then, so quietly: “So are you.”

Neither of you moved. The wind stilled. The air felt... charged. Like time paused. Just for this.

Then— “You should go,” he said gently.

“It gets colder here after sunset.” He wasn’t pushing you away. But he was. And that strange ache bloomed behind your ribs without warning. You turned to go, steps slow. And as you walked, you felt his eyes on your back the entire time.

August 18, 2019.

It was supposed to be a short walk. You’d been gathering weather data, checking tree patterns near the edge of the forest. The innkeeper said the rain wouldn’t come until morning. But the sky didn’t listen. It started with a single drop. Then another.

Within seconds, it was falling fast — fat, cold drops smacking against your shoulders, soaking through your hoodie in a matter of moments. You pulled the fabric up over your head and turned to head back — but the path was already slick, the trees pressing in closer, and fog began to roll over the field like a breath held too long.

“Seriously?” you muttered, shivering. That’s when you saw him. Standing just under the crooked edge of an old pavilion by the hill — motionless, dry, and completely unbothered by the storm. Sunghoon.

You blinked, surprised. "You're always just… appearing out of nowhere.”

“You're always walking into places you shouldn't be alone,” he replied calmly, eyes tracking the water running down your cheek.

You hesitated. Then stepped under the structure, chest heaving slightly from the sudden cold. Your shoulders were soaked. Hair clinging to your face. Hands trembling. He watched you quietly. “You're freezing.”

You gave a weak smile. “That tends to happen when it rains on humans.”

He didn’t return it. Instead, he removed his outer jacket and handed it over without a word. You stared at it. “I’m already wet. You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You took it slowly. It was still warm.

You slipped it on. It smelled like night air and something faintly old — like worn books and clean linen. Not the scent of someone who lived alone in a dusty house.

The silence stretched.

Raindrops tapping the roof like a ticking clock.

Your breath fogged the air.

His didn’t.

“Why were you even out here?” you asked.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then:

“I thought you’d come this way.”

You turned your head sharply. “You were… waiting for me?”

He didn’t flinch.

“Something about the sky felt wrong. I knew you’d ignore it.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know your pattern.”

That shut you up for a moment.

And somehow... warmed you.

More than the jacket did.

Your teeth chattered softly. You turned away, embarrassed.

Suddenly, you felt something.

His fingers — gently, lightly — tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear.

You froze.

“You should be more careful,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the rain. “This place doesn’t forgive softness.”

You looked up at him then.

And he was already too close.

Not touching.

Not reaching.

Just there.

And for a second, you wondered what it would be like if he leaned in just a little more.

“Do you always talk like that?” you whispered, lips parted. “Like you’re centuries old?”

He gave the faintest smile like he knows something you don’t.

The rain kept falling. The sky stayed grey.

And your heartbeat too loudly in your ears.

You didn’t ask him why his hands were cold even though he felt warm.

You didn’t ask why he never blinked when he looked at you.

The rain kept falling.

And he stood there, completely still, listening to the rhythm of her blood, her breath, her heart...

And all he could think was:

Don’t touch her again. Don’t want her. Don’t let her see the monster inside you.

But it was already too late.

Because for the first time in years, he wanted something enough to lose control.

And it was you.

The rain had stopped, but the night still smelled like it.

You walked slowly.

Beside him.

His jacket still hung over your shoulders, and you hadn’t given it back. He hadn’t asked.

“You didn’t have to walk me home,” you said softly, watching your boots splash through a shallow puddle.

“I know.”

He wasn’t smiling, but his tone was warm. Like he wanted to say, I just wanted more time with you, but didn’t know how.

The village lights shimmered faint in the distance — soft and yellow, like floating lanterns.

It felt like you were the only two people in the world.

“Do you always spend your nights out there?” you asked.

“Sometimes. I like the quiet.”

“Most people don’t,” you said. “Silence makes them uncomfortable.”

He glanced at you.

“What about you?”

You thought about it.

“I think silence is the only time people stop pretending.”

He actually smiled at that. Just a little. The kind that tugged one corner of his mouth — barely visible, but real.

“What do you do all day?” you asked, curious now. “No job? No classes?”

“I read,” he said. “Walk. Watch.”

“That sounds like what I do, too.”

“You watch more than most people,” he replied, side-eying you. “Always observing. Analyzing.”

You raised a brow. “Are you calling me creepy?”

“No,” he said. “Just... different.”

You looked away to hide your smile.

“Is that your way of saying I’m weird?”

“No,” he repeated, slower this time. “It’s my way of saying I see you.”

“Okay, your turn,” you said quickly, trying to recover. “What did you want to be when you were little?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t remember,” he said finally. “It’s been a long time since I was little.”

You turned to him, blinking. “How old are you, Sunghoon?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

Then smiled like he knew he shouldn’t say the next thing — but said it anyway.

“Older than I look.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

You reached the inn gate.

The lantern outside flickered faintly in the breeze. Neither of you moved.

The air was warmer now. The clouds had parted just enough for moonlight to wash over the steps.

You stood there — his jacket still on your shoulders, the scent of rain still on your skin, and his eyes fixed gently on you.

“Good night, Sunghoon,” you said finally, stepping up to the door.

“Good night, Y/N.”

You turned the handle.

Just before stepping inside, you hesitated.

“You never told me what you like,” you said over your shoulder.

He tilted his head slightly. “Like?”

“Hobbies. Music. Favorite food. Normal things.”

Another pause.

Then:

“The sound of rain,” he said. “Books with no endings. And people who don’t run away.”

You met his eyes.

And something about the way he said it made your heart ache.

You didn’t know why.

But you didn’t look away.

Not for a long moment.

Then finally, you stepped inside.

And closed the door.

August 20, 2019.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

Just returning a jacket.

Just a polite gesture.

Just good manners.

So why did your pulse stutter when the house came into view?

The same tall trees. The same crooked path. The same quiet.

You climbed the short stone steps and raised your hand to knock — but before you could, the door opened.

He was already there.

Like he’d been waiting.

Or like he’d heard you coming long before you got close.

“You came back,” he said, voice low, like sunlight through fog.

“Just to return this,” you said quickly, lifting the folded jacket.

“Of course.”

But he didn’t take it.

Instead, he stepped aside.

“Do you want to come in?”

You blinked.

“Is that okay?”

“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”

You stepped inside.

The air was cool, but not cold. The interior still had that strange untouched feeling — like a photo frozen in time. Wood floors. A low bookshelf. A kettle on the counter, untouched.

You walked slowly, setting the jacket on the nearest chair.

“You live like a ghost,” you said softly.

He raised a brow. “I’m neat.”

“You’re ancient,” you teased.

He smirked faintly. “So you’ve said.”

You turned toward the bookshelf — rows of old spines and journals, some in languages you didn’t recognize. One looked handwritten. Another... burned around the edges.

“These don’t look like they’re from a village library.”

“They’re not.”

“So what are they?”

“Pieces of me,” he said.

You paused, looking back.

His expression didn’t change, but there was something fragile in his stillness.

You let the question go.

“Tea?” he asked suddenly, already reaching for the kettle.

“You drink tea?”

“No. But you do.”

He made it quietly. Smooth movements. No wasted motion.

He handed you the mug and sat across from you, careful, like he was making sure there was enough distance.

“Do people visit you often?” you asked, wrapping your hands around the cup.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because they forget me,” he said. “Or… I let them.”

“But you didn’t want me to forget you?” you asked quietly.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Unreadable.

“I didn’t plan on you remembering at all.”

You blinked. “What changed?”

He stared at the steam curling between you.

Then said, without blinking:

“You smiled at me.”

The silence stretched.

The weight of it made your chest feel tight.

Your fingers tightened around the mug.

“Why do you always say things like that?” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like it means something. And then you never explain.”

He stood up then, slowly — walking toward the window, looking out at the trees.

“Because I’ve learned that explaining doesn’t stop people from leaving.”

“So you just... stay mysterious?”

“No,” he said, without turning around. “I stay safe.”

You stood too. Quiet steps.

He didn’t move as you stopped beside him, just far enough for the space between your hands to hum.

“What are you so afraid of, Sunghoon?” you asked, not accusing — just soft.

A pause.

Then finally:

“That if you knew the truth about me… you'd stop smiling at all.”

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing. Don’t think too much.” He says.

You didn’t leave.

You just stood beside him.

And for a moment, the silence between you wasn’t heavy.

It was tender.

“You okay?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust himself to speak.

Because right now, he could feel it rising — that burn behind his eyes, the pressure in his jaw, the ancient ache in his throat.

The want.

Not just to feed.

To claim.

“I think you should go,” he said, voice tight.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“Please.”

His back was turned now. He couldn’t let her see his face. Not when his eyes were beginning to glow. Not when his fangs had started to edge down.

He bit the inside of his cheek — hard enough to draw blood. Let the pain steady him. Anchor him.

“Sunghoon? Is something wrong? You can trust me- I trust you.”

But all he said was:

“I don’t trust myself.”

You stared at his back for a long moment.

Then quietly… you left.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

And he stood there in the quiet, eyes still burning, heart raging inside a chest that shouldn’t have had one anymore.

August 21, 2019.

You went to the library to check the village’s records.

To look for any book, any magazine, any piece of information that would help you get a better insight about the village’s roots.

You found a series of census logs tucked into a low cabinet—records of the village’s population numbers and names dating back to the 1900s. Faded, but surprisingly intact.

And that’s when you saw it.

A pattern.

In 2010, the population was 528. In 2012, it dropped to 413. By 2015: 290. 2017: 178.

No official records of why. No mass migration. No natural disaster. No illness outbreak.

Just... names disappearing.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

But slowly. Like something was taking them. One by one.

You scanned the reports harder now.

Looking for causes. Deaths. Relocations.

But most names just had one word stamped across the last column:

“Unrecorded.”

You slammed the binder shut and sat back.

Your chest felt tight.

You looked around the library. The light felt colder. The silence heavier.

This is getting nowhere. Rather than the doubts clearing, more questions are surfacing. Too many questions. Too less information. You doubt you are even eligible to solve this mystery. Maybe Dr.Han realizes he made a mistake choosing you once you return. You wonder how the others are doing. Are they going through the same difficulties?

You shake your head as if it shakes away the insecure thoughts creeping up. You need to focus. On this village. The people. Everyone here seems normal except... Sunghoon.

He always seemed to appear when no one else was around.

Your fingers curled against the cover of the book.

No. Don’t jump to conclusions. That doesn’t mean anything.

And yet…

Something in your gut whispered otherwise.

Still, when the sun began to set—

You found yourself walking toward the hill.

Toward him.

Carrying questions you couldn’t ask yet.

And a heart that didn’t want answers- the real ones.

The sky was painted in soft blue fading to lavender. The last light of the sun had just dipped behind the mountains, leaving a glow that shimmered across the tall grass.

You stood at the top of the hill, overlooking the village lights far below. Everything was quiet.

Except your thoughts.

Except him.

Sunghoon stood beside you — close, not quite touching. Hands in his pockets. Eyes on the horizon.

“You always find the quietest places,” you said softly.

“I think they find me.”

You turned to him, trying to read that impossible expression on his face.

“You always talk like that. Like there’s a whole world in your head and you’re just… giving me scraps.”

“I don’t mean to,” he said. “I just forget how to be anything else.”

You took a breath.

“Then remind yourself. Just for tonight. Just for me.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And for the first time, he didn’t look away.

“You scare me,” he said quietly.

That made your chest tighten.

“Why?”

“Because you make me want to stay.”

The wind brushed through the grass.

Your heart was too loud. Your breath too soft.

He stepped closer.

His hand, trembling just slightly, reached up and cupped your cheek — gentle, reverent, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched too hard.

His thumb brushed under your eye, then trailed down to your jaw.

“Say something,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

You leaned in instead.

And he met you there.

The kiss was nothing like you imagined.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild.

It was slow.

Like two people learning what it meant to feel alive again.

His lips were cool at first — like the wind before rain — but they softened against yours. Moved with aching care. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth and trying not to fall apart doing it.

You felt his breath catch.

Felt his hand slide into your hair.

Felt your knees go weak when he deepened the kiss — still gentle, still hesitant, but full of something you didn’t have a name for.

And then—

He pulled away.

Fast.

Like he’d caught fire.

His eyes were wide. Not with lust. Not even guilt.

With fear.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Sunghoon,” you whispered, reaching for him.

He stepped back.

“No. This was a mistake.”

“Why are you doing this again?” “Every time I get close, you push me away. Why?”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

But his face…

That expression?

It looked like someone who just tasted something too good. Something too human. Something that made him forget what he was.

“Because I can’t be the reason you get hurt,” he finally said.

And then he turned away.

Leaving you alone with a kiss that still burned on your lips, and a silence that felt heavier than ever.

August 26, 2019.

You ignored him after that. Turned your head away whenever he got into. Looked away first when you both made eye contact. Avoided him when he came to apologize the very next day of your kiss.

Not cause you hate him. You wish you did but no. You remember what Dr.Han said, “Observe. Record. don’t interfere.” You can't risk everything just cause of some stupid, weird feelings that you have. No. You can’t let your emotions get in the way of your case. This isn't right.

Youre altering time, you should do it wisely, not recklessly.

And so, you did what you thought was best. Ignore. Distance. Observe.

Or so, you thought.

You weren’t expecting to run into him.

But of course you did.

He was leaning against the side wall of the bakery, half-hidden in the shade, like always. Silent. Watching.

He didn’t call out.

Didn’t wave.

But you felt it — the shift in air when his gaze hit you. That quiet weight of his presence.

You almost kept walking.

Almost.

But then—

“Y/N.”

His voice was low. Not cold. Just… tired.

You turned after a moment of hesitation.

Met his eyes.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked.

Simple question.

But it landed sharp.

You didn’t answer right away.

“I’ve just been… busy.”

“You’ve seen me.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to talk.”

“Don’t do that,” he said, stepping forward. “Don’t turn it around like it’s me.”

You blinked. “I’m not—”

“You haven’t looked at me in five days.”

His tone wasn’t angry. It was quiet. Steady. Too steady.

“You smiled at me one night,” he said, “and then the next morning, it’s like I didn’t exist.”

“Sunghoon—”

“And I thought—” He paused. Ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I thought maybe you needed space. But then I saw you with that guy. That tall one from the orchard. And you were laughing. Just… laughing. Like everything’s normal.”

You looked away.

He let the silence settle.

Then finally:

“It hurt.”

That was it. Just that.

Not possessive. Not demanding. Just real.

You didn’t know what to say. So, you said the only truth you had:

“I’m scared, Sunghoon.”

He looked at you for a long time.

“Of me?”

“Of not knowing what’s happening. Of what this village is hiding. Of what you’re hiding.”

You stepped back slightly, instinctively. Not far.

But enough.

His eyes dropped to the space between you. Then back up.

“Do you think I’d ever hurt you?”

You hesitated.

Then, quietly:

“I don’t know.”

That broke something in him.

You saw it. In his eyes.

Not rage.

Just sadness.

“I wouldn’t,” he said softly. “Not even if I wanted to.”

You turned back and left without replying, unable to look into his face or even talk to him.

September 5, 2019.

You shouldn’t have gone looking.

You told yourself you weren’t. That you just needed air. That the trail by the forest was peaceful this time of day.

But really? You missed him.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about what he said.

“I wouldn’t hurt you. Not even if I wanted to.”

It looped in your mind for days. Through sleep. Through silence. Through guilt.

You didn’t give him an answer. So, you were going to.

You were going to find him and say you’re not sure what this is, but you’re willing to try. That you believe he’s good. That you want to believe it, even if you’re scared.

But then—

You saw it.

You heard something first.

A low sound. Guttural. Like a growl tucked beneath a breath.

And then a figure stumbling — just ahead. At the edge of the trees. A man. Drunk? Hurt?

And beside him— Holding him up—

Was Sunghoon.

Or… something that used to be him

His head was tilted. His lips pressed just beneath the man’s jaw. His hands clutched the man’s shoulders too tightly. And his eyes—

They glowed.

Not fully. Just enough for the shadows to catch it.

Red. Dim. Inhuman.

You saw his mouth open. Saw the flash of fang.

And then—

The man sagged.

Like air had left him.

You froze.

Your heart punched against your ribs.

He stared. Still half-shadowed. Blood on his mouth.

He stepped forward.

“Y/N.”

You backed up.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Your eyes wide. Your expression already saying everything your voice couldn’t.

Fear.

The kind that wasn’t subtle.

The kind you couldn’t take back.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, don’t—please don’t look at me like that.”

He wiped at his mouth. Quickly. Clumsily.

“I can explain. It’s not—”

You flinched when he stepped closer.

That did it.

He stopped.

His hands dropped to his sides.

And something in him… wilted.

“So, this is it?” he whispered.

His voice wasn’t cold. Wasn’t sharp. It was just… empty.

You didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

You turned.

And ran.

And behind you, the last thing you heard was him whispering into the night:

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

You rushed back home and stumbled in.

You quickly went to your bedroom, opening the drawers and pulled out your logbook.

You sat on the floor beside your bed after grabbing a marker.

The pages were filled with sketches. Maps. Observations. And now?

Scribbled question marks. Shaky handwriting. A timeline you couldn’t look at anymore.

2010 — population: 528 2012 — 413 2015 — 290 2017 — 178 2019 — barely 60 left.

No disease. No evacuation orders. No record of where they went.

But you knew now.

You saw it.

His eyes. His fangs. The man in the forest, half-drained and limp in his arms.

You knew.

And the truth clawed at your throat like it didn’t want to be swallowed.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he had said.

You remembered his voice. Too quiet. Too pained to be fake.

But it didn’t matter now, did it?

Because while he was giving you flowers and walking you home…

He was feeding on the people who welcomed you with tea and stories.

You closed your eyes.

Your hands were trembling.

You remembered the first time you saw him.

How unreal he looked in the moonlight. How safe you felt beside him.

How stupid that was now.

Was any of it real?

The kiss. The laughter. The jacket he left folded on your bed.

Or were you just the next name on his list?

The next girl to get too close?

Were you just another pawn in his game?

Whatever it was, you shouldn't have gotten close with him. Shouldn't have tried to interfere. You shouldn't have done it and God, you regret it.

And for the first time in years… You cried.

Not from fear. But from heartbreak.

If only you backed down that day on the hill. If only you shouldn't have let him close to you. If only...

September 7, 2019.

After that day, you didn't leave your room.

You didn't go out, the fear of him catching you always haunting your mind whenever you reach for the door handle.

And weirdly enough, you should feel better, you really should but why did you feel... empty?

He’s a monster! He kills innocent people, hes a vampire. But why didn't the fact alone scare you? Why were you craving for his presence? Why were you thinking about the moments you've spent together? This isn't even real. Its past, you weren't even born at this time period. You shouldn't be feeling things you aren't supposed to.

But you can't deny the fact that your heart aches for his presence- for him.

But you don't have time for this. Not when you have two days on your watch. Two days before everything goes back to normal, hopefully. And so, you push aside your feelings saying the time is playing tricks on you and start writing the report.

All of your log entries, now are typed and kept in digital doc by you. You enter the log entries, from day one to the day you discovered the root cause of all of this- the dissapearance. You procrastinated too much while typing them in, thinking about all the wonderful days you’ve spent with locals- with him.

But all of this isn't real, at the end of the day. You don't belong here- you shouldn't. This isn't your timeline. This is not your story. This isn't the reality you are supposed to live in and experience. This is just a case that you've got assigned to. It's your duty. And you fulfilled it by finding out the reason. And this is where you shall end it. End of this chapter, end of this case and end of him.

September 9, 2019.

Today is the day.

You pack your bag, filling it with the things you bought and the things you are taking back to your timeline. The memories, the events and the adventures.

There wasn't a single second you haven't thought about him. But this is it. You have to say your goodbyes.

You can't warn the others, who haven't yet got bitten by Sunghoon. Because as dr.Han said, “Don't interfere.”

Youve already made the mistake of not listening to him and crossed the boundary and faced the consequences. You aren't going to do it again. Because at the end of the day, its fate. It already happened. You can't change it, not even when you go back in time. Because what's written, is written. If changed, you are bound to face the consequences.

History can't be re-written.

And so, with that, you leave.

You stood by the terminal light beam.

Delta 12’s jump pulse flickering through the mist.

Your bag beside you. Your heart heavy with no one in the future world- the real world would understand or know of.

You turned back one last time towards the village.

Thanking it for everything it gave you- thanking it for giving Sunghoon.

Who'll be remembered as the passing wind and the falling of leaves by you.

And when you jumped-

The light swallowed you whole.

And in the same breath,

You were gone.

July 22, 2090.

You opened your eyes.

The jump light was fading. The room around you was cold. White. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You were home.

But it didn’t feel like it.

Not yet.

Your bag was still at your side. Your fingers still trembling. Your body still in two places — the sterile floors of the lab… and the moss-soft grass beneath his feet.

You didn’t even notice the door sliding open until you heard the softest gasp.

“Y/N?”

You turned.

And there she was.

Mira. Her braid was undone, her coat slung over one arm, her eyes red — like she’d either just woken up… or hadn’t slept since the moment she jumped back.

She stared at you.

Then smiled. Weakly.

“God, it’s you.”

You couldn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

She crossed the space between you in three quick steps and pulled you into the kind of hug you didn’t realize you needed until her arms wrapped around you.

You felt her chest shudder.

You were crying too.

Soon, the others trickled in.

Taehyun — still composed, but his eyes softer than usual. Yuvi — who dropped her bag the second she saw you, crashing into the hug with a half-laugh, half-sob. Jungwon — who just stood by the door for a long time, taking all of you in like he didn’t believe you were real until that moment.

No one said much at first.

They just… stood there.

Five people who had faced time itself.

And came back with hearts a little heavier.

Eyes a little older.

It felt nice. Seeing everyone’s familiar faces after being drowned in unfamiliar faces who don't even exist in reality.

Finally, Mira sniffed and said, voice shaking:

“I missed you guys.”

Yuvi let out a teary laugh.

“I didn’t realize how much till now.”

Jungwon gave a small nod, blinking fast.

Taehyun just whispered:

“You’re all here.”

You wiped your face and smiled.

Soft. Quiet. Real.

“Yeah.”

“We’re here.”

You all look at each other. A moment of silence. As if you guys are finally taking in and registering everyone’s presence. And then, you all hugged. A big group hug filled with emotions which arent said loud but felt. And finally, you felt like you are back home.

September 11, 2019.

The room smelled of old circuits and sterile air. The walls glowed faint blue, humming with quiet energy.

You sat where you always had — Same table. Same lights. Same white jackets.

But nothing was the same anymore.

Not the silence. Not the weight in everyone’s eyes.

Not the version of you that existed before.

The door slid open.

Dr. Han stepped in, shoulders straighter than usual, expression unreadable.

“Good morning.”

He stood at the edge of the circular table, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning each of you.

“You’ve all returned safely,” he said. “On record, your missions were successful. But the records don’t matter if we don’t understand why.”

He took a breath.

“So, let’s talk about what really happened.”

Dr. Han looked at Yuvi first.

“Yuvi. March 2311. Seoul. What caused the blackout?”

Yuvi didn’t hesitate. But her voice was softer than usual.

“It wasn’t just data loss,” she said. “It was deliberate. The two largest tech giants—SolarCore and NeuraStream—were engaged in a silent war for memory control. They each tried to overwrite the other’s data… and in doing so, they wiped everyone’s.”

A pause.

“The blackout wasn’t a glitch. It was a battle. One that made the world forget six months — and made the companies forget what humanity was.”

Dr. Han only nodded.

“Mira. 1652. The scribe’s ink.”

Mira folded her hands.

“The man wasn’t mad. The ‘sky-born woman of light’ — she was a time displacer like us. From the future. Possibly one of the early, undocumented tests.”

She met Dr. Han’s eyes.

“The ink? It was our ink. Synthetic. Used in lab reports.”

Silence fell.

Dr. Han blinked slowly. “You’re saying the anomaly… was ours.”

“Yes,” Mira whispered. “We caused the myth.”

“You two. Northern Territories. Duplicated villages.”

Taehyun glanced at Jungwon. Jungwon gave a tiny nod.

“There were two villages,” Jungwon said. “Identical. Same people. Same dogs. Same newspapers.”

“Except,” Taehyun added, “They existed in overlapping timelines. One was five minutes behind the other. A permanent sync lag caused by a failed early prototype of time field testing.”

Jungwon finished it quietly.

“It was human error. A time scar. We tried to erase one. But they both kept living… until one finally collapsed.”

“Y/N,” Dr. Han said, turning to you. “The village of Myeon-ri. The one that vanished without cause.”

Your fingers curled slightly on the edge of the table.

You could still feel the wind there. Still hear his voice.

You slid the chip forward.

“There was no disease. No mass migration. No disaster. It was slow. Intentional.”

You looked up.

“A predator lived there. Not wild. Human-shaped. Possibly centuries old. A vampire, by older terms. He fed carefully, spaced apart. But eventually, the numbers dropped too far.”

The others stared.

You didn’t flinch.

“He didn’t want the village gone. But he couldn’t stop. And no one remembered the ones who vanished. They were erased — from memory, from databases. Like they never existed.”

“Vampire?” Dr.Han questioned.

“Vampire.” You confirmed.

Dr. Han asked, quietly:

“Did he know who you were?”

A pause.

You met his gaze.

“No.”

A beat.

“But I think I knew who he used to be.”

You lied. Of course he knows you. He knows the woman he fell for the first time. He knows the woman who was his first ever kiss.

You didn't tell them. You didn't to protect him and in a way, protect yourself too.

Dr. Han stepped back. He looked at each of you — not as scientists, but as people who had seen too much.

“You all did what centuries of historians couldn’t. You brought back truth.”

He turned toward the exit, then paused.

“Take the week off. Rest. File clean versions by the end of the month. We’ll… figure out what to do with the rest.”

The door hissed closed behind him.

And you all sat in silence. Hearts still somewhere in another time.

The streets are quiet at 2 a.m.

Neon signs buzz in blues and pinks. Artificial rain shimmers above, falling against projection domes that keep your coat dry.

You pass a street musician playing a slow guitar.

The song is unfamiliar. But it feels like him.

Like a song you might’ve danced to on his porch. Or hummed under your breath while he walked you home.

Your throat tightens.

You sit on a bench, ignoring your holopad as it pings with follow-up requests from Dr. Han.

You can’t open the file. You can’t even look at his name on the case label.

Your hand slowly reaches into your coat pocket.

The jacket he gave you is long gone.

But you still have one thing.

A pressed leaf.

Red. From that tree near the hill. Where he waited for you every evening. Where he said nothing — just smiled — like you were his favorite moment of the day.

You hold the leaf to your chest.

And for a second… you close your eyes.

And pretend he’s sitting beside you.

Back in the lab, the report still sits unsaved. You’d written everything except the truth.

“He didn’t follow me back.”

But your chest burns with what you didn’t say.

I think he wanted to. I think I wanted him to. And I think I left the part of me that believed in forever… in his hands.

You missed him. You looked for him in everything. The wind, the leaves, the clouds, the time, everything. And somewhere back in 2019, sunghoon feels the weight of your absence.

Sunghoon didn't really think it'd affect him that much, but it did. He was helpless when he didn't find you. Asked everyone, searched everywhere but there wasn't a trace of you, there wasn't a thing left behind you. And God, did he miss you.

The silence after you was worse than the centuries before you.

You were only here a month — But the air still tasted like you. The breeze still moved like the hem of your coat.

He stood by the river.

The same one you almost slipped near. The one where he caught your hand.

You used to laugh here.

Now it was empty.

And so was he.

His throat burned. The ache that had quieted in your presence — like your scent tamed the storm in his blood — now returned with wildfire in his veins.

He hadn’t fed in days. He didn’t want anyone else.

He wanted you.

"Y/N..." he whispered, though the name felt like poison now.

He tried to hold back. He really, truly did.

But you were gone.

And he had nothing left to prove he was still human.

The next night, they found the baker's house empty. Then the woman who sold herbs. Then the elder by the hill.

No one saw what took them.

And Sunghoon?

He stood in the village center, blood drying at the corner of his mouth, eyes still locked on the road you used to walk down every dusk.

His hands shook.

His mouth trembled.

"You were supposed to stay..." "You promised me forever in your eyes."

But you didn’t answer.

Because you were gone.

And so were the people in the village.

The village lingered with only with him feeding off of everyone and your presence.

Time moved on.

The village eventually collapsed. Records rewritten. Footprints washed away.

But he didn’t vanish.

He moved. Fed. Lingered in shadows.

Years passed. Decades blurred.

He watched the world crawl toward neon skies and cities that blinked like stars.

You were long gone. But he never stopped believing in the possibility that time — the very thing that tore you from him — might one day return you.

“Okay but hear me out,” Taehyun says, typing aggressively while Mira tries to slap his hand off the panel. “If I didn’t reroute the carbon filters that night, we’d all be bald. Fact.”

“Fact?” Mira scoffs. “Fact is you nearly made the algae tank sentient. That thing winked at me.”

“I still miss it,” Jungwon adds quietly, head down in his own files, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Yuvi kicks her chair back dramatically, groaning. “My simulation’s stuck again. If I see one more ‘Data Error: Please Restart,’ I swear I’ll throw myself into the code.”

Your lips curve as you watch them — the way the five of you fit into this space like puzzle pieces. The room hums with soft tech glows and distant rain tapping the glass walls.

It's late. But none of you seem in a hurry to leave.

Mira throws an energy bar at Taehyun. He catches it one-handed, smug. Jungwon’s quietly stealing Yuvi’s half-charged mug again. You just watch — feeling both part of it and… a little removed.

Because they didn’t live what you lived. Not the way you did.

Not with him.

Not with Sunghoon.

“You good?” Yuvi asks you suddenly, turning in her chair.

You blink. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

“Duh,” she says, nudging your arm. “We’re all tired. End of world stuff every Tuesday.”

You laugh. The others join in. And just for a second, it feels normal.

Like the past didn't follow you here. Like he never reached across time.

But the quiet ache in your chest says otherwise.

Later, when the lab empties out one by one — when Yuvi yawns and Mira packs up her files — you linger behind.

Taehyun walks past you, ruffling your hair gently like he always does. Jungwon side hugs you as he exits. And Mira and Yuvi give you a hug before logging off.

Then the lights dim. The labs settle. And you finally move.

It was almost midnight.

Your body was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and a half-shattered mind. The labs were quiet. The halls were colder. Your coat clung to your shoulders, and all you wanted was silence.

You stepped into the elevator.

It was empty. Or— so you thought.

You didn’t even notice him at first.

Not until the doors closed. Not until the world narrowed into this steel box. And not until a voice — low, aching, quiet — cut through the air like a thread snapping in your chest.

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

You froze.

Slowly, your eyes turned toward the figure standing in the far corner.

And there he was.

Sunghoon.

Pressed against the wall of the elevator, the overhead light casting a cold glow across his skin. His white dress shirt clung perfectly across his chest — sleeves rolled just below his elbows, forearms tense. His black tie was loose, like he’d worn it all day just to see you like this.

His head was tilted slightly down, shadows covering half of his face — but even in the dimness, you saw it.

The red. Faint. Glowing. Watching.

His jaw clenched. His lashes heavy against his cheek. His entire body still, like he was trying not to shake.

Like just standing here, in front of you, took everything he had left.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He finally looked up. Right at you.

“You disappeared,” he said softly. A step closer.

“But I didn’t.”

Another step.

“I stayed. I searched.”

His voice trembles.

“And I waited.”

He stops inches away from you. Close enough for you to see that his hands are shaking. That his smile is breaking. That the pain he’s carried all these years hasn’t dulled — only buried deeper.

Your lips part, but no words come.

Because what do you say to a man who waited seventy-one years for a goodbye?

Your body doesn’t move. But he does.

He steps forward — slowly — like if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish all over again.

Then his hand lifts. And he touches you.

Not roughly. Not hungrily.

Just one cold, steady hand cupping your cheek — reverent. Careful. The way he always touched you. Like you were something sacred.

His other hand rests at your waist, pulling you gently toward him.

Your breath hitches.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

His thumb brushes your skin — and only then, do you exhale.

But your voice barely comes out.

“How… how did you get in here?”

His smile twitches — half amused, half ruined.

“You’re not the only one who learns things in seventy years.”

You stare at him.

“You broke into the lab?”

“No,” he murmurs. “I learned how to become a ghost in systems like these. Took years. But I found my way into every firewall with your name on it. Every door you walked through.”

He leans in just slightly — not threatening. Not desperate.

Just there. Real. Close.

“I wasn’t going to leave without seeing you again.”

No matter how many years it’s been — no matter how far you ran into the future —

he still found you.

He holds you like a memory he never let go of. Like a secret he kept alive for decades.

And when he finally speaks — his voice cracks.

“Tell me you didn’t forget me.”

You blink. Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

Because how do you explain the sleepless nights? The dreams where he touched your hand again? The jacket you almost replicated just to feel close?

He waits.

And when you don’t answer — when silence sits between you like a second goodbye — you hear it again:

“Y/N…” “Tell me you didn’t forget me.”

You look up at him then.

And the glow in his eyes — the faint red warmth — flickers.

Flickers like it’ll die if you lie.

Your throat is tight.

“How did you even find me?” you whisper.

He smiles — not the charming one. The broken one.

“I never stopped looking.”

A beat.

“The village disappeared, but I didn’t. I moved. I adapted. I learned your world. I followed every digital trail you left behind. I memorized your voice. I traced you through five corporate systems and twenty years of noise.”

His forehead leans into yours, almost touching.

“You left without saying goodbye.” “I needed to know… if it meant as much to you as it did to me.”

You’re not breathing.

Because in his voice — beneath the stillness, the eternal youth — is pain.

Not monstrous. Not violent.

Just human. And heartbreakingly yours.

Your hands move without thinking. One rises to his chest — over where his heart used to beat.

It’s quiet now. But yours is loud enough for both of you.

He’s still waiting.

Eyes glowing. Breath held.

“Tell me,” He whispers again. “Tell me you didn’t forget me.”

You swallow.

Tears sting the edges of your eyes — the kind you refused to cry back then. The kind you buried inside lab reports and daily logs.

And finally, your voice breaks.

“I didn’t forget.”

He closes his eyes, just for a second. Like the words hurt. Like they heal.

“I just…” you breathe, “I just didn’t know how to come back.”

There it is.

The truth.

The full, naked truth sitting between you — soft and devastating.

“I didn’t know if I could. If I should. If you were even—”

He kisses you.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Just… quiet. Desperate. Familiar.

The kind of kiss that says thank you for surviving.

The kind that says don’t leave again.

it feels like time folds in on itself.

Like the wind from the village, the rain on your skin, the jacket on your shoulders, the words you never said — they all return in that one breath.

And this time, you kiss him back.

Hands gripping the front of his coat, your breath catching — like your body finally remembered what safety tasted like.

He pulls you in closer, desperate, like he still doesn’t believe you’re real. Like you’ll vanish again if he lets go.

When your lips part, and you both breathe — barely — your forehead leans into his.

The glow in his eyes softens.

And then—

“You…” your voice cracks, soft and shaking. “You waited? For me?”

His eyes close slowly.

Not like he’s in pain — but like your question alone undid him.

“Of course I did,” he whispers. “How could I not?”

You inhale sharply, because no one’s ever said it like that.

Not with that kind of certainty. Like your existence was never forgettable — just… unforgettable.

“You… waited? For me?”

His eyes flutter shut — like your voice, your doubt, undoes something deep in him.

“Of course I did,” he murmurs, forehead still resting against yours. “How could I not?”

That’s when the tears come.

You didn’t mean to. You weren’t even sure they were still inside you.

But suddenly, your eyes burn.

And your voice falls out in pieces.

“I thought…” your lips tremble. “I thought you moved on.” “Thought you’d forget me.”

His arms tighten around you instantly — like he can feel you breaking and is ready to hold every shattered piece.

“I couldn’t,” he says. “I wouldn’t.”

Your eyes meet again, and he says it like a vow:

“I loved you in 2019. I loved you in every year after. Even the ones where you weren’t there.”

“You… waited? For me?”

His eyes flutter shut — like your voice, your doubt, undoes something deep in him.

“Of course I did,” he murmurs, forehead still resting against yours. “How could I not?”

That’s when the tears come.

You didn’t mean to. You weren’t even sure they were still inside you.

But suddenly, your eyes burn.

And your voice falls out in pieces.

“I thought…” your lips tremble. “I thought you moved on.” “Thought you’d forget me.”

His arms tighten around you instantly — like he can feel you breaking and is ready to hold every shattered piece.

“I couldn’t,” he says. “I wouldn’t.”

Your eyes meet again, and he says it like a vow:

“I loved you in 2019. I loved you in every year after. Even the ones where you weren’t there.”

And just like that— you stepped into him.

Your arms wrapped around his torso tight, face burying into his chest, body trembling from everything you’d held back for too long.

And he—

He didn’t hesitate.

He wrapped his arms around you so firmly, so protectively, it almost hurt. Like if the world tried to take you again, it would have to tear through him first.

One arm locked around your waist. The other curled high around your back, hand cradling the base of your neck — fingers gently gripping, anchoring you like he was afraid you’d disappear again.

“You’re here,” he breathed. “You’re really here.”

He didn’t just hold you.

He claimed you — not with force, but with everything he never got to say.

This wasn’t a soft embrace.

This was the way you hold something sacred. The way you cling to a miracle.

And for the first time after he met in seventy years, he didn’t feel cold anymore.

He held you like you were his whole world — like everything he endured, every year he starved, every time he nearly gave up… was worth it just to feel you in his arms again.

And for a long, still moment — you didn’t speak.

You just breathed. Chest rising against his. The faint, unfamiliar sound of his heartbeat echoing somewhere far beneath.

Then, into the quiet, barely louder than a breath—

“I missed this,” you whispered, cheek pressed against his chest. “I missed you.”

His hand gripped you tighter, almost instinctively. Like your words shattered something inside him he didn’t even know was still breakable.

He didn’t say anything at first.

But you felt it — in the way his thumb moved slowly against your back, in the way his body trembled just slightly against yours.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

You tilted your head just slightly, looked up into those red-flecked eyes that had waited decades for this.

And this time, you didn’t whisper.

“I missed you, Sunghoon.”

He looked at you, cupped your face with both of his hands with so much of care as if you were porcelain and would break if you added any more force.

He kissed your forehead like it was the only language he had left.

Slow. Tender. Devastating.

Your eyes fluttered shut — his lips lingering just a heartbeat longer, like he couldn’t quite let go.

And when he finally pulled back, just far enough to look at you again — his voice cracked through the silence.

“Don’t leave me this time…” A pause. A breath. “Angel.”

The name hit you harder than the kiss.

Because that’s what he used to call you. Back in the village. When your hands were cold from the rain, and he’d wrap his jacket around you like you were something worth saving.

You blinked back the sting in your eyes. But he saw it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed just beneath your eye.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Just… stay.”

©mrsjjongstby all writing belong to me. do not copy, modify or repost my works.

taglist: @gnarlyhoons @stormlit-pages @himynameisraelynn @see-c @shra-vasti @heesbbygurl @elikajinnie @jwyoceans @jaylaxies (lmk if u wanna be added!)

A/N: im backkkkkkkkkk y'allllllllllllll !!!!!!!!! also this thing has been keeping me from watching the outside mv so imma watch it now! ALSO WROTE THIS THING IN 2 DAYS LIKE WTH i cant believe i did tht. anyways enjoy and stay hydrated!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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sleep-0-deprived · 10 months ago

Note

Before I start, I just wanna say I love your work, keep it up!!

A bit of a feminine m!reader and a stalker, kind of like the song stalker’s tango by autoheart (praise kink and anything you wanna add)

Love me love me love me~! (Stalker Oc x feminine male reader) ໒꒰ྀི˶˃ᆺ˂˶ ꒱ྀིა

WC:. 1.5k

Tags: praise kink, back shots, creepy character, dub con (reader doesn’t say but he wants it), stalking, spit as lube, men in panties, college AU, p in a sex, bad prepping(basically no prep cause he wants reader to feel em), slight Yandere themes?, coming inside panties, lil come play<33

A/N thanks for the request! I didn’t know your kinks so I tried to keep it pretty vanil for the fic but I just get the vibe that the stalker is a lil bit of a yandere ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

College was the time you were supposed to be the most happiest. freedom, no parents breathing down your neck and looking at you wearing your new skirts and finally away from Him…anyway this is the beginning of something new and that made you terrified excited.

Here you were grabbing boxes from the back of a hand me down car you bought last year, your hands full walking around campus searching for your dorm room. The sound of other college students bustling past even a frat boy running through the corridor laughing while another man smacks his shoulder.

Your heels clicking on the floors getting into the elevator finally out of view of the other students, not caring if they stared at you when you walked past them in your little skirt.

Finally finding your door room, room 234 in the third wing on campus. Pulling the door open and then it happens, the boxes nearly dropping from your hand “Jasper?..” the man that single handedly ruined your teen years, the man you filed a restraining order against- the one that stalked you since middle school, putting cameras inside your shower, under your bed.

There he stood in all his glory, black hair all messy with his green eyes piercing you over like an interested cat, a crooked grin on his lips looking at you like some god before him. You quickly sit your boxes down on the twin bed to the left of the room with your hands now by your side looking at him.

“Did you miss me any [name]? I really missed you, so goddamn much” he walks over to you leaning down and shoving his face into your neck breathing in your scent without a care in the world “how’d you find me Jasper…my parents made sure you didn’t know the colleges I applied for” your lips pressed into a thin line standing stiff and finding no comfort in the man’s touch.

“I total you I’d never leave you baby? Can’t live without you [name] I wouldn’t wanna” he kisses his way down grabbing at the hem of your shirt slipping under it and massaging his palms into your sides.

“Y’know I don’t want you Jasper, I never have so just stop” you mutter out all squeaky trying to get away even if your body knew you wanted it, even if you couldn’t deny you found him hot you’d never admit it so you did the next best thing and tried to push away but only failing in return.

“Don’t lie to me baby, you’re already getting hard so hard in that little skirt, it’s like you’re asking for me to fuck you?” His lips muffle themselves against your skin starting to suck it red while holding you pined between him and the wall while his second hand makes its way down to your mini skirt starting to lift it.

“Dammit Jasper… stop that” you speak out because you’re in to deep to say otherwise feeling your cock bulging in the pink panties you were wearing. You had no stockings under your skirt letting your bulge get exposed while you go red in the face feeling jaspers hand snaking down giving it a rough squeeze before pulling his lips off your neck breathing heavy in your ear.

“Just be a good boy and bend over for me sweetheart” you don’t know why but you walked over to your twin size bed, not even getting on it just bending over on the side of it and shoving your face into the sheets standing in a pair of heels spreading your thighs.

“Mh, baby so fucking beautiful, no idea how long I’ve been imagining this” he lifts your skirt in the back showing off the cotton fabric with little bows riding up between your cheeks making him smile reading his hands down and grabbing your cheeks spreading them and watching how your rim puckers up against the panties.

His thumb rubbing down your crack spitting on your panties and using his thumb to rub the now translucent fabric against your bud making sure to get it nice and wet while you lay with your cock weeping against the mattress feeling your knees buckle from the feeling.

“O-h you’re a pervert Jasper!” You yelp out and try to yell at him but fail when he reaches his hand off your ass cheek and grabs the back of your neck shoving it into the bed making your voice get muffled, “such a cruel accusation [name] I’m not perverse, I just love you baby?”

He’d coo to you from behind while the hand messing and teasing with your rim finally pulls your panties to the side of your ass just admiring how you’d clench around the air so effortlessly, your rim half prepped from all those nights you’d whine and finger yourself in your bed. Which of course he knew about back then, he had cameras?

“Want me to fuck it?” He’d ask you softly even though you knew he was going to fuck you either way “y-eah” you nod into the pillows gasping when he lets go of the back of your neck to undo his jeans making sure your skirt was pushed upwards on your waist, “you should really get a tramp stamp sweetheart, get me something all pretty to aim at when I’m coming all over that pretty arch”

Your face went red as a beat becoming more thankful he was behind you so he couldn’t see your reaction but he already knew it when your rim winked at him again trying to swallow his finger tip like quicksand having him all giddy and infatuated with you. Jasper having been waiting years to get his cock nuzzled between those perky little cheeks.

“So warm sweetie, just gonna fuck you so nice baby” his voice comes out rigid pulling his boxers down letting his manhood spring free finally standing tall against his t shirt before he presses his dick between your cheeks and uses his hands to grip both cheeks sandwiching his cock between them as he rocks his hips spitting down on your ass again using it as lube fucking between your cheeks having your face down and your ankles bending out in your heels.

“Just push in already Jasper, don’t fuckin tease me~” you moan reaching your hand down to your panties starting to palm yourself through the panties feeling yourself soaking the Cotten closing your eyes just feeling what’s happening to your body having you melting like ice cream during summer.

“Always a greedy boy weren’t you?…well doesn’t matter, still love you” he speaks nudging his pudgy cock head against your rim spreading the muscle open wide making him hiss “fuck that’s it sweetie” he tilts his head back rubbing your ass cheeks softly trying to get you to loosen up around him having him on cloud nine scrunching his nose up bottoming out inside you ready to come on the spot.

“Jas— oh’m g-od” you croak and choke on your words going loose and fuzzy in the head just laying with your ankle wobbling to stay bent in your heels just screwing your eyes shut only opening them with he gives your ass cheek a little smack letting you adjust to his girth. Jasper bucks his hips forward making your face droop back down as his hips squish your plump skin.

Your hands going limp like jello under you unable to palm your neglected cock, just laying with your body limp letting him have his way with you praying to whatever was up in the sky that other students didn’t hear Jasper giving you back-shots on your first day at campus. “You have no idea h’many nights I imagined getting myself inside your pretty body, mmh you’re worth the wait sweetheart”

You feel your rim on fire when his base stretches you wider making your back arch trying to take him, your cock jumps in your panties at his dirty praises having you in hysterics hating the man but also just wanting him to hold you close and fuck you like you deserve, you’d never tell him though. “You can start movin-!” You cry out arching under him gripping the bedsheets tight.

“Shh stay quite sweetheart, stay nice and sweet for me [name]” Jasper speaks softly moaning under his breath bucking his hips feeling a hot flash in his abdomen trying not to come before you but goddamn you were like heaven around him, you were his addiction, his ambrosia and he couldn’t get enough.

The sound of flesh in flesh filling up the dorm, his hands gliding over your body gripping the skin like a feral dog fucking you from behind having you reaching for the wall while the bed creaks shaking back and forth while your eyes open back up going wide and dumb when his cock assaults York inner walls hitting your sweet spot having you loosening up not clenching his cock so tight, jaspers hands pulling in your panties from behind making them tighter in the front, making your cock pulse against the firm fabric

“Please Jas, please just—“ you beg, you break you fold flush like a bad poker game not even knowing what you were pleading for just knowing you needed to come so bad your balls were swelling up going red in your panties about to explode when his cock halts pushing further and further against your prostate like a rubber band being stretched and pressed further and further about to snap.

“Please what sweetheart? Tell me what you want, promise I’ll give it to you” he speaks to you like a doll in complete opposites to how he was fucking you, his hands reaching letting go of your panties making you squeal from the release of pressure, he keeps fucking you thrusting and pumping his hips pressing his pubes to York lower back reaching up under you to your stomach to hold you up.

Holding you up half off the bed fucking you harder with your face still in the sheets and your hips raised high for him mewling feeling your favorite skirt go higher up on you. “Please make me cum, please get me off Jasper” you whine and you spasm around his dick. Your rim trying to take more until his balls press against yours, running together when he fucks into you.

“Come for me baby, just let go, lemme make it all better for you doll” his pace picks up fucking you like some jack rabbit in heat. His hands tugging at your belly leaning forwards leaning back down laying on top of you bent over the bed heaving in your ear kissing the red marks he made on your neck snaking one hand down inside your panties tugging on your cock.

“S’ happening jas, gonna come” you can’t help but to shiver and let go of the bedsheets arching your back against his stomach crying out wailing all cock drunk slurring your words while your cock pulses in his hand coming all inside your panties only further soiling them when the thick ropes leave your red cock head feeling like a release through your whole body having your balls relax a little once they’re fully emptied.

“There’s my good boy, I knew you were a sweetheart, just needed a little pounding to bring it out” Jasper kisses your neck sucking on the red marks using his canines to pinch the skin letting go York your cock and slamming into you harder becoming less in rhythm and more desperate to get off.

You can feel his balls drawling up when they press against your ass, his veins rubbing more prominent against your inner walls having you biting your bottom lip with your toes curling in your heels while he thrusts one more time inside you piling out with a loud gasp “o-h fuck [name] feel what you do to me?” He asks shuddering behind you fucking between your spit slick ass cheeks letting his cock nudge your rim but never actually pushing in.

The next thing you know hot ropes of cum pump out spewing all over your hole getting between your cheeks feeling the hot liquid running down your arch getting on your back and your skirt practically coating you like he meant it. “Thought you were pretty before but admit seeing you covered in my cum makes you even prettier”

He lifts his head from your neck whispering the words out to you before slipping his hands from under you and massaging the cum all over your body rubbing your cheeks down with it slipping two slickened fingers inside you again playing with you before pulling out.

“Let me have a date baby, I promise I can treat you so good, I’ll be so sweet to you I’ll be s’much better than your ex was” he whispers to you cooing like a snake in the garden of Eden ready to tempt you into his sinful world. “You’re fucking crazy Jasper” you huff lifting your head laying now lifting yourself up on your elbows with your body aching from the rough fucking you just took, his hand marks and imprints leaving your skin swollen.

“I’m only crazy for you, you’re the only man that makes me feel it…only wanna kiss N’ love, only wanna come on you sweetie”

2K notes · View notes

yukkiji · 25 days ago

Text

between sets and secrets

a year after secretly eloping with kageyama tobio, you return to japan for an international match—only for an ill-timed jumbotron zoom to expose your hidden marriage, proving that old habits die hard when it comes to keeping secrets... especially from your brother oikawa.

the other side of the net. haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. kageyama tobio x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru, japan's national team, and seijoh vbc members

genre: fluff, romance, crack, older brother!oikawa, secret relationship, seijoh vbc always makes an appearance, siblings banter, eloping, iwaizumi being stressed

wc: 9.4k

author's note: i couldn't help myself not writing a part 2 so here it is and if you haven't read the first part yet please read it first to get the context of the story hehe

you always knew the truth would come out eventually.

not because you were careless—not exactly. not because you didn’t know how to keep a secret. and not even because kageyama tobio, your very literal husband, wore his wedding ring during official matches which, in hindsight, was probably tempting fate.

but maybe because that was just how the two of you were built.

you’d built your love on borrowed time and foreign cities—on tight schedules and layovers, hushed phone calls between time zones, and fleeting mornings where one of you was always leaving. your life together lived in the quiet places, the in-betweens. and maybe you kept it to yourselves because that’s what you had grown used to. not out of shame. never out of shame. but because sometimes it felt like things meant more when no one else knew.

your relationship was private, yes. but it was never a secret.

everyone knew you were dating kageyama tobio. it wasn’t a mystery, not to the press, not to the fans, and certainly not to the people who knew you best. he didn’t flaunt it, but he never hid it either. he’d hold your hand in the middle of the street like it was the most natural thing in the world. mention you in interviews with that same unfiltered honesty he applied to everything else (“i like when she watches my games. it makes me feel fast”). he’d stand behind you at the airport like a human shield, subtly positioning himself between you and any camera lens or overeager crowd.

he loved you in ways that were simple. consistent. certain.

but the engagement—that had been yours.

just yours. yours in the quietest, most sacred sense. a moment kept in soft candlelight, sealed between shared laughter and clumsy promises whispered in a hotel room in santorini. no cameras. no audience. just the glint of a diamond ring and the way he looked at you like he’d known, even back then, that there wouldn’t be anyone else.

you hadn’t expected a speech from him. he was never the speech kind.

but you had noticed the way he was fidgety all day—subtle things, barely noticeable to anyone else. the way he kept checking the time even when there was nowhere to be. how he seemed extra careful with your dinner reservation, how he trailed just a half-step behind you, like he didn’t want to miss a second of it. how he held your hand a little tighter when you walked along the shore after.

you’d thought maybe he was just being sentimental. it was your anniversary, after all. a whole string of years behind you, each one marked by flights, messages, short reunions, long silences, and somehow—still—constancy.

but when you got back to the room and he told you to sit down, his hand not quite steady, his voice a touch too casual, you knew.

he pulled out the ring box like he was pulling out something obvious. inevitable.

“i didn’t write anything down,” he’d admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he did when he missed a serve or forgot to text you back during training. “because i figured i’d just… say it.”

you didn’t say anything. just watched him kneel, the air still and warm, salt-softened by the mediterranean breeze slipping through the balcony doors.

“i’ve been thinking about this since middle school,” he said, voice quiet. “i didn’t know anything back then, but i knew i wanted to be with you.”

he’d opened the box, the diamond catching the low light.

then, like he couldn’t help himself, he reached out, took your hand, turned it gently in his own, and looked at your fingers like he was already picturing the rest of your lives.

“i know it’s not fancy. but it’s yours. and i want you to wear it. because you’ve always been… it. for me.”

your throat had gone tight. not because of the ring. not even because of the proposal. but because he meant every word—and he said it in the only way he knew how: plain, honest, true.

he hadn’t asked you with a flourish. he asked you like it was the only answer that made sense.

and of course, you said yes.

he hadn’t asked you with a flourish. he asked you like it was the only answer that made sense.

and of course, you said yes.

that night with him changed everything—not in a loud, dramatic way, but in the way that mattered most. quietly, completely. like a door had been closed to the rest of the world, and all that remained was you and him. your yes wasn’t just an answer. it was a beginning. it meant you were his. that he was yours. that from here on out, there was no maybe, no almost, no eventually.

you were locked in. for good.

and just like everything that came before it—your long-distance calls, your early morning airport reunions, the barely-contained smiles exchanged across tournament hallways—it stayed yours. private. sacred. untouched.

there was no announcement. no post. no caption. just the two of you, keeping it where it felt the safest: between your hearts and the silence that knew better than to demand proof.

you wore the ring every day. slipped it on like second skin. and somehow, in all that time—nearly two years of wearing a diamond on your left hand—no one asked. no one noticed.

maybe it was because you always knew how to tuck it just so, how to angle your hand in photos, how to fold your fingers when your friends got too close. maybe it was because, when it came to hiding kageyama, you’d both become professionals or maybe—and this one made you laugh most of all—maybe your friends were just really bad at paying attention.

and so the secret held.

during those two quiet, surreal years of engagement, life went on. matches were won, seasons changed, bags were packed and unpacked in cities that blurred together. but one morning, you found yourself folding your clothes into a suitcase with more intention than usual, your heart a little louder than it had been in a while.

you were flying to denmark to visit your fiancé—who, for reasons yet unexplained, had arrived a full week earlier than planned. actually, two weeks earlier than the official schedule set by japan’s national team, who were supposed to fly out to spain the following week for their training camp.

you had blinked at his text when it first came through.

[tobio:] already here. [tobio:] in denmark. [tobio:] come if you can.

no explanation. no context. no elaboration.

typical.

and yet, even without the full story, you’d booked the flight.

you didn’t question it—not really. not after so many years of slipping between time zones just to be near him. not when it had always been like this: brief reunions in unfamiliar cities, crashing into each other like two people who had never stopped running.

you just packed. called off work. and went.

because wherever he was, that’s where you wanted to be.

you landed in denmark late in the afternoon, the air outside the terminal sharp with cold. the kind that bit at your fingers the moment you stepped outside sliding doors, your breath visible as fog. you scanned the small crowd past customs, half expecting him to be running late, maybe tucked behind a scarf or hidden under a baseball cap like he usually was when he didn’t want to be recognized.

but instead, you found him already there—waiting.

kageyama stood near the arrivals gate, hood down despite the cold, a heavy jacket zipped up to his chin, hands shoved deep into his pockets. his posture was stiff, almost tense, but it was his eyes that caught you. wide, steady, and locked on you like he’d been holding his breath since you left the plane. like he’d been standing there for hours just to make sure he didn’t miss your face in the crowd.

that was the first sign something was off.

you smiled anyway, dragging your luggage behind you, weaving through the last few arriving passengers.

“you’re early,” you said, stepping into his space.

he didn’t answer right away. his gaze dropped briefly to your suitcase, then back to your face, like he couldn’t believe you were really here.

then, a beat late, he said, “i know.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’re two weeks early.”

“i know,” he repeated, quieter this time.

you tilted your head. “why?”

his fingers flexed in his coat pocket like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know how. and then, with the most kageyama expression imaginable—equal parts serious and awkward, like he was bracing for a block—he said,

“…i was going to ask you something.”

that’s when your stomach did that quiet little somersault. not nervousness. not fear. just something soft and startled.

“in my hotel room,” he added quickly, as if that clarified things. “i thought… it should be somewhere warm.”

and that was all he said.

no elaborate excuse, no rehearsed speech—just that. just him, looking at you like he didn’t know how to say everything at once, so he settled for what he could manage.

when you arrived at his hotel, it looked like every other place he’d stayed in over the years—impersonal, functional, the kind of room that held little more than a bed, a desk, and whatever familiarity came from the scent of his cologne clinging to the hoodie tossed over a chair.

you set your bag down without a word and drifted toward the balcony. it was small, the kind of space barely meant to stand in, but it opened up to a skyline painted in soft gold. denmark in winter looked quieter, somehow—like the buildings themselves were huddled together for warmth.

you stepped outside, wrapped your arms around yourself, and took in the view. the cold kissed your cheeks, but it wasn’t biting. not really. not when you felt him just behind you.

kageyama joined you a moment later. his presence always announced itself quietly—warmth at your back, the subtle brush of his hand against yours before he leaned in, calloused fingers brushing against your cheek like he needed to be sure you were real.

then, a soft kiss. not on your lips, but your temple—gentle, familiar, steadying.

you smiled, turning slightly to face him. your noses almost touched. and before the moment slipped by, you gave him a short, sweet kiss. just enough to make him blink, startled. just enough to remind him you were here.

“is there something on your mind, tobio?” you asked, voice low with amusement.

he didn’t answer at first. instead, he took your hand in his, the one wearing the engagement ring. he didn’t say anything as he turned it over gently, as though he was still getting used to seeing it there, even after all this time.

his thumb brushed over the band, slow and deliberate.

“this still feels… not real,” he murmured.

you tilted your head. “it’s been almost two years.”

“i know,” he said. “but sometimes i look at it and… i don’t know. i feel like i’m going to mess it up.”

you opened your mouth to reply, but he kept going, voice soft and steady in a way that was so uniquely him.

“but then i think about you wearing it. every day. and it’s like… maybe i’m not messing it up. maybe i’m doing something right.”

you stared at him for a moment, heart pressed up against your ribs.

his hand was still cradling yours, thumb tracing circles like it had nowhere else to be. like he was anchoring himself to you.

“i was going to ask you,” he said, eyes flickering to yours. “if you still wanted to marry me. for real. not just… secret engagement, secret ring, secret everything.”

he swallowed hard.

“i thought maybe now is the time. if you still want to.”

you didn’t say anything right away—not because you were unsure, but because your heart was trying to catch up to the softness of his words. because kageyama wasn’t the type to spill things carelessly, and when he did, it always landed somewhere deep. somewhere steady.

he was still holding your hand when he said it:

“i also… i bought the rings.”

your eyebrows rose slightly, lips parting. “you what?”

“the wedding rings,” he clarified, almost nervously. “i already bought them. a while ago.”

your breath hitched somewhere between a laugh and a question. “without me?”

he nodded, quickly. “they match. kind of. i tried not to make them weird. they’re just simple. i picked them out the same day i booked the hotel.”

he paused, eyes flicking down to your hand again.

“i was scared they wouldn’t fit you,” he admitted. “so i guessed. i based it off the engagement ring. i measured it when you left it on the nightstand one morning. with a pencil and paper. like… like a math problem.”

that made you laugh. warm and surprised and affectionate. it slipped from your chest like second nature.

he winced slightly, but there was something fond in his expression—relieved, maybe, that you hadn’t burst into flames.

“i almost asked your brother for help,” he added, quieter now.

your laugh deepened, disbelief soft around the edges. “you almost asked tooru?”

he nodded again, tragically sincere. “but then i didn’t. i thought it’d be weird.”

you grinned, leaning your head back against the balcony rail. “tobio, he doesn’t even know about the engagement.”

kageyama blinked. “oh. right.”

you shook your head, still smiling. “i love you, but you’re a terrible liar.”

he looked mildly panicked for a second, like he was processing just how thin the ice had been all along. but before he could say anything else, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.

a brochure. folded. worn at the corners.

“there’s a chapel,” he said. “i found it online. it’s small. just… small. and quiet.”

your gaze dropped to the paper. a little building, tucked between old trees and red rooftops, sun spilling through stained glass windows.

“it’s not too far,” he added, watching you closely. “like, we don’t have to. it’s just—i saw it. and i thought… if we did it. if we ever did it, it should be there.”

you looked at him.

he was fidgeting again. not from nerves, not really, but from the sheer force of caring too much and not knowing how to contain it.

you weren’t shocked, exactly. but you were… breathless.

because of course he found a chapel. of course he’d been thinking about this longer than he let on. of course he wanted to do it like this—with just the two of you, no audience, no fuss. just a quiet promise in a place neither of you had ever been before.

you reached out, brushing your fingers against his wrist. “show me.”

and his eyes lit up like you’d said yes all over again.

you left the hotel with your fingers laced through his—gloved hand in gloved hand, your steps slow against the cobbled streets of copenhagen. the sky above was pale and soft, dusted with winter clouds that made everything seem quieter. more sacred.

kageyama walked half a step ahead, the way he always did when he didn’t want you to get lost, occasionally glancing back just to make sure you were still there, like you’d vanish if he blinked. he’d packed the rings in his coat pocket. no box. no ribbon. just wrapped carefully in tissue and zipped into the inside lining like a secret he was terrified of dropping.

when you reached the chapel, it was smaller than the photo had shown—but prettier. it sat tucked away on a quiet street, ivy curling around one side of the old stone, a carved wooden door standing crooked and proud. a hand-painted sign at the steps read: ceremonies welcome. bookings not required.

kageyama looked at you then, as if to say, this is it.

you nodded.

inside, it smelled like candlewax and winter dust. the light through the stained glass cast soft colors on the floor, pinks and golds and gentle greens. there were only ten pews. no altar. no priest yet. no flowers. just stillness. and you. and him.

you sat down in the last row for a moment, just to breathe.

he looked over at you, a little out of his depth, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them now.

"are you okay?" he asked.

you turned your head and smiled. “are you okay?”

“…i think so,” he said, and then frowned slightly. “my hands are cold.”

you reached for one and rubbed it between yours. “you’re nervous.”

“i’m not,” he argued.

you raised a brow.

“…okay. maybe a little.”

the officiant came out a few minutes later—a woman with silver hair tied back in a bun and eyes that crinkled when she saw the way kageyama was staring at you like he’d been hypnotized. she spoke softly, asked for your names, asked if this was what you both wanted.

kageyama nodded so fast it was almost funny. you just smiled and said, “yes.”

you wore the white dress you’d packed on a whim, never really intending to use it. it had stayed folded in your suitcase for months—a soft thing, simple and unassuming. like hope. he was still in his button-up shirt, black slacks, and that too-serious expression he always wore when he was trying not to mess up.

and when you stood at the front, hand in hand, the officiant asked if you had any words.

you looked at each other.

kageyama cleared his throat.

“…i didn’t write anything,” he said. “i forgot. or… i didn’t think i needed to.”

you squeezed his hand. “you don’t.”

he exhaled slowly. “just… i want this. every day. all the quiet parts. all the normal stuff. you. me. everything.”

you felt the warmth crawl up your chest, soft and overwhelming.

you answered him with your eyes before you ever said “i do.”

and when the time came, with hands still slightly shaking, under soft european daylight in a borrowed chapel—

you said it.

and so did he.

then he slid the ring onto your finger, right next to the one he’d given you in santorini, and kissed you like he was promising a thousand more mornings just like this one.

afterward, you left the chapel hand-in-hand, no announcement, no confetti, just two very married people who stopped at a nearby café for sandwiches and coffee like it was just another afternoon. like you hadn’t just made the biggest decision of your life. like forever wasn’t sitting quietly on both your hands.

you leaned your head on his shoulder as you waited for your drinks to arrive, and he tapped your ring with the tip of his finger like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“it fits,” he said.

you smiled. “of course it does.”

you were still in the café, tucked into a window seat with two half-eaten sandwiches between you, his hand resting palm-up on the table like it was meant to hold yours and yours alone. the light outside had dimmed slightly, winter dusk settling over copenhagen in soft blue tones, the kind that made everything look gentler, quieter.

kageyama kept glancing down at your hand. not subtly. like every few minutes, as if the sight of your wedding ring alongside your engagement band still needed to be double-checked for accuracy. like if he looked away too long, it might disappear.

you caught him staring again and let out a quiet laugh, taking a sip from your coffee. “you’re going to wear a hole in that ring if you keep looking at it.”

he blinked, then flushed slightly, eyes darting back to his own cup. “it just looks… right,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “like it’s supposed to be there.”

your smile softened, settling into something warmer. “it is.”

a comfortable silence followed. not awkward—just the kind that came when you didn’t need to fill space anymore. when the person across from you already knew all the words you hadn’t said.

then, leaning back against the booth, you teased, “you know we’re still going to have to do a proper wedding at some point, right?”

he looked up so fast his hair bounced. “what?”

you laughed again, gently this time. “tobio, we got married in a tiny chapel in a city no one even knew we were in. there’s a very high chance my brother is going to launch himself into the sun when he finds out.”

he frowned thoughtfully, like this hadn’t quite occurred to him. “but we’re already married.”

“yes,” you said, reaching over to tug his hand into yours. “but you’re marrying into my friend group. and my family. and there will be consequences.”

he groaned softly, burying his face in his elbow for a moment like the mere idea of oikawa making a scene gave him immediate physical pain. “can we do it somewhere with no microphones?”

“we can do it somewhere with a fire extinguisher in case my brother tries to set you on fire.”

he looked at you, dead serious. “good idea.”

you squeezed his hand. “but yes, i want the dress. the cake. the dancing. and the people we love watching us do this properly. even if it’s just for show.”

kageyama didn’t hesitate this time. he nodded. “okay. if that’s what you want, we’ll do it.”

then, a pause. a softer tone.

“i don’t care how many times i have to marry you,” he added. “just as long as i always get to.”

and just like that, your heart did that quiet little stutter it always did around him. still. even now. even after everything.

you reached across the table again and ran your thumb over the ring on his hand—the one you’d slipped on just hours ago.

“good,” you said. “because the next one will need to come with a seating chart and maybe a taser for crowd control.”

he stared at you.

“…i’m serious.”

“i know.” he took another sip of his coffee. “and i believe you.”

you two spent your unofficial honeymoon like you had everything in the world and no need to tell it. it was a week of quiet joy, the kind that didn’t need documenting to be remembered. half of it was spent wandering through denmark’s crooked streets and quiet museums, sneaking kisses in doorways, splitting pastries in coffee shops, and curling up in bed while the snow dusted rooftops outside. the rest of it was in spain—sunlight, terraces, the sea humming in the distance. he wore sunglasses he didn’t need. you wore his jacket more than your own. it felt like your little pocket of time. a secret with a heartbeat.

and no one knew.

no cameras. no teammates. no siblings breathing down your neck.

just you and him, sharing the kind of silence only love could make comfortable.

well—that perfect silence was shattered, violently and without remorse, when reality hit.

or more accurately… when it rang. again. and again.

at three in the morning.

you groaned softly into the pillow, tangled in sheets with your leg draped over his hip, both of you a tangle of limbs and warmth. your ring glinted faintly under the moonlight that filtered through the blinds, the only reminder that yes, you had actually gone through with it. you were married.

and now, someone was ruining it.

kageyama shifted beneath you, groggy and frowning, blindly patting the nightstand until his fingers wrapped around his buzzing phone.

“who is it?” you murmured sleepily against his shoulder.

he squinted at the screen. “iwaizumi.”

that alone jolted both of you into semi-consciousness.

you sat up slowly, hair a mess, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders like a cape. “does he know?”

“i don’t know.” he stared at the screen like it was a bomb he wasn’t trained to defuse.

and then it rang again.

“pick up,” you whispered.

“what if he’s mad?”

“tobio, of course he’s mad. you left two weeks before the team.”

“…should i lie?”

you gave him a look.

he sighed, then finally answered. “…hello?”

there was a pause—half a second, maybe less—before iwaizumi's voice detonated through the speaker like a fire alarm.

“kageyama tobio, where the hell are you?”

you winced and tugged the blanket higher over your head like it might shield you from the sheer force of secondhand stress vibrating through the mattress.

“i’m in spain already,” kageyama mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep and—let’s be honest—panic.

there was a beat of silence. and then—

“you’re what?!”

kageyama flinched and instinctively yanked the phone an inch away from his ear. you could hear every syllable anyway. so could half the block.

“iwaizumi-san, i—”

“do you understand,” iwaizumi hissed, “that i am currently in tokyo, at narita airport, with ten grown men who can’t function without labeled boarding passes and adult supervision? sakusa’s arguing with customs over sanitizer. bokuto is missing. atsumu is trying to check in his hairdryer as a carry-on.”

you muffled a snort into the pillow.

“we fly out in two hours, and you are not here, kageyama. you didn’t check in. you’re not responding in the group chat. komori thought you were kidnapped. suna said he’d give it 24 hours before calling interpol. and you’re telling me you’re in spain already?!”

kageyama cleared his throat. “i… i told you. i sent it in the group chat.”

iwaizumi sounded like he aged ten years in real time. “you sent just landed airplane emoji with no context. how the hell was i supposed to know where you were?! you could’ve landed in okinawa for all i knew!”

“i thought it was clear…”

“it wasn’t.”

you were shaking with silent laughter now, curled under the sheets, as kageyama rubbed his temple and glanced helplessly in your direction.

“i went to denmark first,” he said, tone now sheepish. “before spain.”

a dangerous pause.

“…why denmark.”

“we got married.”

the sound iwaizumi made could only be described as a full-body malfunction. a strangled mix between a gasp, a growl, and someone trying not to rupture a blood vessel in public.

“you—married—?!”

“yeah.”

another pause. and then, flat and venomous: “does oikawa know?”

kageyama stiffened like a guilty schoolboy. “…not yet.”

on the other end, iwaizumi audibly inhaled, as if trying to summon every ounce of patience he’d ever had in his life. “and when were you going to tell me you weren’t flying out with the team?”

“well,” kageyama began, “we already sent the marriage certificate to the embassy. so i thought—”

“so you had time to arrange paperwork with a foreign government but not text me you were leaving the country early?!”

“…i sent it in the group chat.”

“do you think i read every ‘just landed’ message between memes and hinata’s live-updates on his snacks?!”

there was a thump, probably iwaizumi hitting a wall—or his own forehead.

“we’re going to be teammates for a month,” he muttered. “and you dropped this on me now. at the airport. in front of god and the vending machine.”

kageyama winced. “i can send a proper message.”

“you think?!”

you finally peeked out from under the covers, gently taking the phone from his hand. “hajime?”

iwaizumi groaned. “you too.”

“we’re very happy,” you said sweetly.

“i hate both of you,” he grumbled. “but fine. congratulations. don’t expect me to babysit you through this.”

you smiled. “oh, you already are.”

there was another sigh. long. exhausted. broken.

“if oikawa finds out before i land,” he muttered, “i’m pretending i don’t speak japanese.”

then the line clicked off.

kageyama stared at the screen. “…he didn’t even say goodbye.”

you shrugged. “he’ll survive.”

“…probably.”

kageyama sank back into the pillows like a man barely spared by fate, while your hand slipped into his, both your wedding rings catching the low morning light filtering in through the window.

and that was it.

well—that was it, until it wasn’t.

because that elopement?

the quiet, sacred thing just for the two of you? it stayed hidden for nearly a year.

miraculously.

because of iwaizumi hajime. professional trainer. national team’s unofficial handler. your shared confidant. and, as it turned out, an elite-level secret keeper under immense emotional duress.

he didn’t say a word.

not even when oikawa called him three times that week alone, trying to fish for details on why kageyama was “weirdly chipper” and asking if he’d “caught a new disease in europe.”

not even when bokuto found a photo of you and kageyama in matching coats from copenhagen and shouted, “this looks like honeymoon energy.”

not even when atsumu, bored and nosy, cornered iwaizumi with a protein shake and said, “you’re acting like you’re hiding something. is it drugs or a lovechild?”

iwaizumi kept his mouth shut through all of it.

but not without consequence, because you watched the man visibly age.

he developed three new forehead lines and started carrying around a stress ball that wasn’t there before. he muttered “i need a raise” to himself a lot, and once, when komori spilled pre-game smoothies all over the training mats, iwaizumi sat down on the floor and just stared into space for five solid minutes.

the guilt gnawed at you sometimes—especially when he glared at kageyama during warmups with the same expression a war general might give a soldier who’d accidentally detonated the strategy tent.

“we should tell them soon,” you said once, watching a livestream of a match where iwaizumi could clearly be seen shouting at the bench and pointing a clipboard like it was a weapon.

kageyama had only nodded, chewing his protein bar.

you felt bad. you did.

but…

there was still something sacred about the way your marriage belonged to just the two of you. something lovely in the quiet of it. it had been a promise whispered and signed in the hush of a european winter. something selfish and soft and yours.

and iwaizumi?

he’d kept that promise. never wavered. never slipped. never cracked—not even once.

you knew it cost him sleep. and years off his life. and probably a piece of his soul.

but still.

he’d kept it.

because that’s who iwaizumi hajime was—reliable to the bone, loyal past reason, and deeply, deeply tired of being surrounded by emotionally stunted athletes. but a keeper of your secret, all the same.

he’d sworn not to say anything, and he hadn’t. even when oikawa, calling in from argentina with the energy of someone who absolutely knew something was going on but didn’t have the receipts yet, tried to dig into him like a stubborn cat clawing at a locked cabinet.

“you’d tell me if something weird was going on with tobio, right?” oikawa had asked during one of their check-ins, mid-stretching and dripping sweat.

iwaizumi had stared into the camera like he was contemplating faking his own death. “define weird,” he said.

and that had somehow been enough to throw him off the trail—for a while.

and now, a year later, here you were.

back in japan. back in a packed stadium. seated in the plush, velvet-lined vip box of one of the biggest venues in tokyo.

the crowd was already roaring, the atmosphere electric with anticipation. flags waving, chants echoing, camera lights flickering like fireflies across the arena. and there you were, seated with hanamaki, matsukawa, kindaichi, and kunimi—all blissfully unaware that they were sitting next to someone who had legally and emotionally committed herself to a man currently warming up on the court.

oikawa tooru—your brother—stood proudly on the other side of the net, representing argentina with that same swaggering confidence he carried since high school. across from him, in japan’s uniform, was kageyama tobio, stretching his shoulder like he wasn’t seconds from reigniting an international rivalry and a family feud.

“man, this is gonna be intense,” hanamaki murmured, sipping his soda. “oikawa’s looking extra dramatic today.”

“he always looks dramatic,” matsukawa replied.

“did you hear the commentator earlier?” kindaichi said, pointing to the massive jumbotron above the court. “they zoomed in on kageyama’s hand and were like, ‘is that a wedding band?’”

your body stilled. too still. the kind of stillness that made animals run.

“wedding band?” hanamaki blinked, then turned to look at you. “wait—that’s a wedding band too, isn’t it?”

your fingers instinctively curled inward on your lap, but it was too late.

kunimi blinked slowly. “…okay but who did you marry?”

there was a beat of silence before matsukawa groaned, exasperated.

“are you dumb? it’s obviously kageyama, dumbass. they’ve been together since middle school. remember when tooru found out and refused to speak for a week and a half? cold war era?”

you stared ahead, expression composed, neutral, elegant—despite the chaos brewing in the row behind you.

“wait—wait, so you’re married?” kindaichi practically screeched.

“when?!” hanamaki demanded.

“why didn’t we know?!”

“was there cake?” kunimi asked calmly.

but before you could respond, the jumbotron cut to oikawa.

your brother—sweaty, flushed, stretching his shoulders—froze mid-motion as his gaze zeroed in on kageyama’s ring, and then the camera panned to the vip box. to you.

and then he just—stopped moving.

completely.

as if time itself had paused.

his eye twitched.

iwaizumi, who you could barely see from your elevated spot, was already standing up from the team bench, shoulders squared like a man who had smelled smoke before the fire had even started.

on the court, oikawa dropped the ball he was warming up with. just let it fall. stared across the net like he was calculating the optimal trajectory for a murder.

“uh-oh,” matsukawa said.

“yep,” hanamaki muttered.

“what’s happening?” kindaichi asked.

“he figured it out,” kunimi said. “he definitely figured it out.”

and as oikawa took a step toward the net, iwaizumi appeared—not walked, not ran—appeared, grabbing him by the shoulder mid-lunge.

“not on live television,” you could imagine him saying. “please. not here.”

oikawa pointed at kageyama.

then at the jumbotron.

then—at you.

you gave him a little wave.

iwaizumi looked skyward, mouthing something that was either a prayer or a resignation letter.

and you? you just smiled.

because the truth was out. the rings were seen. the marriage was no longer a secret.

down on the court, chaos was brewing in slow motion.

oikawa, tooru, argentina’s number one, local menace and your older brother, was standing frozen in place. the warmup drill had gone completely forgotten—his arms limp, one knee bent like he’d been mid-step when the realization hit. his eyes hadn’t moved from the jumbotron in almost a full minute.

because on that screen, clear as day, were the two things he feared most:

tobio kageyama with a wedding band.your face in the vip box, smiling like you had no business being that calm while his world was collapsing.

iwaizumi saw it happen in real time.

and for a man who had taped a hundred ankles, mediated fifty shouting matches, and once convinced sakusa not to pepper spray a fan who got too close to the bench—he knew this was a code red situation.

“no,” he muttered under his breath, already walking.

by the time oikawa was marching toward the net, eyes blazing, hands clenched like he might throw the volleyball—or worse, launch it at kageyama’s face—iwaizumi was already on the court, cutting across warm-up zones like a soldier breaking formation.

“tooru,” he called out, calm and firm.

oikawa turned, wild-eyed, and pointed a furious finger across the court. “he married my sister, iwa-chan.”

“yes. and we’re live in seventy-two countries, so maybe don’t commit a felony on international television,” iwaizumi replied smoothly, one hand now gripping oikawa’s bicep like a leash.

“he didn’t even tell me!”

“neither did she,” iwaizumi muttered under his breath, tugging him away from the middle of the court.

“iwa-chan!”

“tooru,” iwaizumi hissed, low and sharp, “if you blow this up right now, you’re gonna be that guy—the guy who lost his cool on camera because of a ring. save it for after the match. yell all you want later. i’ll buy you a punching bag.”

“i don’t want a punching bag—i want to strangle tobio-chan.”

“you can’t strangle the setter from another country mid-tournament. it’s bad press.”

oikawa groaned and dragged a hand down his face like he was physically trying to wipe the betrayal off his skin. “iwa-chan, he stole my sister.”

iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “i’m pretty sure she walked, tooru. willingly.”

oikawa opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a fish gasping for one last comeback. but nothing came out.

so instead, he just slumped.

he crashed out, right there on the bench behind the court, head in his hands like he was back in high school discovering your middle school text messages to kageyama all over again.

“i’m going to be sick,” he muttered.

“you’ll be fine.”

“do you think there’s still time to annul something?!”

iwaizumi exhaled, pulling him up by the collar. “play the game first. destroy him on the court. then you can collapse in the locker room. we’ve practiced this routine before.”

“i can’t believe you knew.”

“i can’t believe you didn’t.”

“this is betrayal.”

“this is adulthood.”

“iwa-chan, my soul is cracking.”

“yeah? my spine’s been cracking since 2017. join the club.”

oikawa sulked, but he didn’t storm off the court. he didn't throw a ball at kageyama’s head. he didn’t demand security or scream into a mic. he just… went back to his team, defeated and muttering curses under his breath.

iwaizumi returned to the japan bench like nothing happened. smooth. silent. the man had the emotional composure of a seasoned trauma surgeon and the patience of a saint married to a coffee addiction.

he picked up his clipboard, scribbled something that might’ve been “kill me” in between tactical notes, and took a long sip of his water.

“sooo…” hinata leaned in from the end of the bench, eyes wide, voice hushed but clearly dying to know, “did oikawa find out?”

iwaizumi didn’t flinch. he didn’t blink. he just leaned back, set the water bottle down with a soft clunk, and said, dry as desert wind: “play the game. save the funeral for after.”

bokuto gasped dramatically. “oh my god, someone died?!”

atsumu squinted. “what kinda funeral we talkin’ about here—like actual or emotional? because i’m ready for both.”

suna, filming casually from the corner of the bench, zoomed in on iwaizumi’s exhausted face. “caption: ‘man realizes he raised twelve sons and one of them just married the other’s sister in secret.’”

“wait, hold up,” aran said, brows furrowing. “who got married?”

“kageyama,” sakusa deadpanned, not even looking up from his water bottle. “obviously.”

“wait—what?!” komori yelped.

hinata choked. “to who?!”

they all turned to look at kageyama, who was tying his shoelaces like nothing earth-shattering had just happened. like his life hadn’t just been blown open on the jumbotron in front of thousands.

kageyama looked up mid-knot. “…what?”

“bro, you’re married?!” bokuto nearly shouted. “you didn’t tell us?!”

“you guys didn’t know?” kageyama asked, blinking like they were the weird ones.

“no,” atsumu cried. “did we look like we knew?!”

“who did you even marry?” komori asked, baffled.

“his girlfriend,” sakusa said, like it was the most obvious answer on the planet.

“well, yeah, but which girlfriend?!” atsumu asked

“what do you mean ‘which’?” sakusa asked, narrowing his eyes. “he’s only had one.”

“yeah,” kageyama mumbled. “the same one since middle school.”

a pause.

“…wait.” hinata stood so fast his jersey wrinkled. “you mean—?”

atsumu’s jaw dropped so fast it was a miracle it didn’t dislocate. “oikawa’s sister?!”

iwaizumi rubbed his temples.

“i thought it was just a rumor you two were dating!” komori blurted, still visibly struggling with the mental whiplash.

“yeah,” aran agreed, frowning. “like—i thought oikawa made it up once to get under kageyama’s skin during nationals or something.”

“no,” suna said casually, still filming. “i thought it was real. i mean, you should’ve seen how kageyama looked whenever someone mentioned her name. classic pining face.”

“wait,” hinata turned to kageyama, squinting. “weren’t y’all, like… secret-secret?”

kageyama finally spoke, tone deadpan as he stood up and adjusted his knee pads.

“the world knows we’re dating,” he said, plain and matter-of-fact. “i always mention her during press conferences.”

a pause.

“…you do?” bokuto blinked.

kageyama nodded. “yeah. stuff like, ‘she helped me recover from an injury,’ or ‘she brings me food after training.’ last month i said, ‘i play better when she’s watching.’”

another pause.

“okay wow,” bokuto muttered, eyes wide. “i think i just thought you were talking about, like… a therapist.”

“didn’t you once call her ‘my most important person’ on live tv?” sakusa added, brow raised.

“he did,” komori confirmed.

“guys.” kageyama looked around at them, flat expression slowly melting into disbelief. “do you even notice anything?”

atsumu looked personally offended. “okay rude, i notice lots of things. like the time sakusa changed conditioner.”

“that was six months ago,” sakusa muttered.

“and unforgivable,” atsumu said.

“you’re literally always with him,” hinata added, pointing at kageyama. “how did we not put this together?”

iwaizumi, watching from a few feet away with crossed arms and the distinct look of someone who’d lost all faith in the team’s collective iq, let out a soundless laugh through his nose.

“you all have the memory retention of a wet sponge,” he muttered. “you’ve seen them together more times than i can count.”

suna stopped recording just long enough to deadpan, “so basically, kageyama had a girlfriend, a fiancée, and a wife… and we missed all three stages?”

“some best friends you are,” kageyama mumbled under his breath.

“we need a slideshow,” bokuto said. “like a timeline! ‘the secret love story of tobio and the one who got away but actually stayed!’”

“he married her,” sakusa muttered. “she didn’t get away.”

bokuto gasped. “even better! it’s like a plot twist!”

iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away. “i need noise-cancelling earbuds. and possibly retirement.”

and as the referee whistled for the starting lineups, the japan national team jogged out onto the court— still slightly shaken, entirely too loud, and about to play a very high-stakes match…

while one of their own had just broken the biggest news of the year without even trying.

you, on the other hand, weren’t faring any better.

in the vip box, the interrogation hadn’t let up since the moment kageyama’s wedding band hit the jumbotron in high-definition glory. your friends—hanamaki, matsukawa, kindaichi, and kunimi—had turned on you like you were the surprise twist in a murder mystery, except you weren’t even dead, just very secretly married.

“so you’re telling me,” hanamaki began, leaning in with the intensity of a seasoned detective, “you got engaged and married and never said a single word?”

“what happened to trust?” matsukawa added, clutching his chest like you’d betrayed him specifically.

“what happened to group chat loyalty?” kindaichi gasped.

kunimi just blinked slowly. “i literally stood next to you during a group photo last year. were you wearing the ring then?”

you didn’t even try to deny it. instead, you sipped your drink and said coolly, “maybe you should all pay more attention to the details.”

“we’re not the cia!” matsukawa cried. “we didn’t think we had to inspect your fingers for government-level secrecy!”

“i’m just saying,” you murmured with a small shrug, “you guys are surprisingly unobservant.”

“you literally posted a photo in santorini with a caption that said, ‘best trip ever,’” hanamaki said, squinting at you. “was that the engagement trip?”

you smiled sweetly. “no comment.”

“you smiled in the background of his press photos!” kindaichi pointed out, like the realization was physically painful. “and we just thought it was cute—not, you know, ‘secret wife’ level of cute!”

“how long?” kunimi asked, too calmly, and somehow that made it worse.

you looked up at the court, where kageyama stood in his ready position, laser-focused, completely unfazed by the worldwide bombshell he’d just dropped.

“almost a year,” you admitted.

hanamaki let out a strangled noise. “one. year.”

“how did oikawa not find out sooner?” matsukawa asked, as if that was the true miracle here.

you hummed. “because iwaizumi knows how to keep a secret. and also because we’re very good at sneaking around. old habits.”

“are you pregnant?” kunimi asked flatly.

you blinked. “…what?”

“that’s always how this goes. secret wedding, and then—bam. baby.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but the buzzer went off for the start of the match, drowning out the sound.

“oh my god,” hanamaki whispered as the teams lined up. “you’re totally pregnant.”

you didn’t confirm. you didn’t deny.

you just leaned back into your seat, eyes on the court, ring glinting under the stadium lights.

and in that exact moment, kageyama looked up—just for a second.

and he smiled.

once the game was over—japan victorious, oikawa dramatic, and the stadium still humming from the post-match adrenaline—you made your way down from the vip box, your four friends trailing behind you like a jury who had not yet reached a verdict.

“we’re not done talking about this,” hanamaki muttered as you led the group through a side corridor marked staff only.

“i feel lied to,” matsukawa added, hand dramatically pressed to his chest.

“i feel like i need to see the marriage license,” kindaichi said, half-joking. probably.

“i still feel like this is an elaborate prank,” kunimi deadpanned. “like, where are the cameras? is this a variety show?”

“you’re very loud for people who didn’t notice a literal diamond ring for two years,” you shot back over your shoulder.

“okay, rude,” hanamaki huffed.

a staff member nodded you through security with a knowing smile—apparently, “spouse of a national athlete” had its perks—and you slipped into the hallway that led to the locker rooms.

you knocked once on the door.

there was a beat of silence. then shuffling. then—

“is it her?” came bokuto’s unmistakably hopeful voice.

“don’t say it like that,” sakusa muttered from somewhere inside.

the door opened.

kageyama stood there, towel around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower, and wearing the most neutral expression he could muster.

which meant: he was trying to act normal but his ears were already turning pink.

you smiled up at him.

“hey, husband.”

“hey,” he murmured. then, after a beat, added: “they’re here too?”

you turned slightly, revealing the four trailing behind you like paparazzi with no cameras and too many questions.

matsukawa gave him a dry look. “you owe us a slideshow.”

kindaichi pointed. “and a proper explanation.”

“also, what the hell, kageyama,” hanamaki said, squinting. “you get married and don’t even blink through the whole match?”

“you’re emotionally constipated,” kunimi declared.

kageyama blinked once. “i’m fine.”

you rolled your eyes and pushed past him gently, tugging him by the wrist into the room. “we wanted to tell everyone eventually. just… you know.”

“eventually?!” matsukawa repeated. “it’s been a year.”

“yeah,” you said with a soft laugh. “and funny enough… we were gonna send out invitations. next week.”

everyone paused.

“invitations?” hanamaki asked. “to what?”

“to our proper wedding ceremony,” you said, grinning now. “for our first anniversary. nothing huge. just family, close friends…”

“you mean the second wedding?” kindaichi asked, still trying to keep up.

“more like the public one,” you corrected.

“oh my god,” hanamaki whispered. “i need to sit down.”

and as if the universe had a sense of timing, another voice echoed down the hallway:

“don’t tell me you’re also pregnant?!”

oikawa.

you winced. turned toward the source of the voice as he stormed dramatically into view, hair still damp, jersey slung over his shoulder, eyes wide with post-match betrayal.

your mouth opened. you considered lying. or deflecting. or maybe just fake-fainting.

but then you caught kageyama’s hand in yours and… sighed.

“…yes.”

oikawa screamed into his towel.

iwaizumi, appearing like clockwork from the opposite end of the hallway, placed a firm hand on his shoulder and steered him the other direction.

“not now,” iwaizumi said through gritted teeth. “not here. i swear, if you throw something again—”

“he got her pregnant!”

“you’re shouting in front of a baby.”

“the baby isn’t here yet.”

“well, it’s probably listening.” iwaizumi dragged him away like a bouncer at a wedding reception. “let them breathe. please. for once.”

you leaned your head against kageyama’s arm, both of you stifling a laugh as your friends stood behind you, stunned into silence.

finally, matsukawa exhaled. “well… at least we’re invited now.”

hanamaki groaned. “do we have to get gifts?”

“get diapers,” kageyama muttered.

“get therapy,” kunimi added, patting your shoulder.

“get me a drink,” iwaizumi called from down the hallway, voice distant but still filled with existential pain.

you looked up at your husband, your secret barely a secret anymore, your life unraveling in the loudest and most ridiculous way possible—and smiled.

“so,” you whispered, “how do you think he’s taking it?”

kageyama considered.

then, calmly, “he’s still alive. so… not that bad.”

oikawa crashed dramatically onto a bench just outside the locker room, towel thrown over his face like a fallen noble hero in a stage play, limbs splayed and sighs coming out in loud, theatrical bursts.

“i’m gonna die,” he moaned. “this is how it ends. death by betrayal. betrayed by my own sister and that guy.”

“you’re being overdramatic,” you said, crouching in front of him, patting his knee.

“overdramatic?!” he peeked out from under the towel with wild eyes. “you got married without telling me, you’re having a baby, and now i’m supposed to just go back to argentina and live like nothing happened?!”

“well… you shouldn’t book your return flight just yet,” you said lightly.

he sat up. “why.”

you smiled. “because you’re walking me down the aisle. the proper wedding’s in two months.”

there was a beat of stunned silence.

then: “i—i what?”

“you’re walking me,” you repeated. “down the aisle. at the ceremony. the one with everyone. flowers. music. seating arrangements. open bar.”

“why would you want me to do that?” he asked, still recovering.

you tilted your head, smiling softly now. “because you’re my brother. and even if you’re ridiculous ninety percent of the time, i still want you there. preferably not crying. or threatening the groom mid-ceremony.”

oikawa blinked. sniffled once. “…do i get to pick the aisle music?”

“not if it’s from your mixtape,” you said flatly.

behind you, the entire japan national team had gathered, half because they were nosy and half because they wanted front-row seats to the emotional soap opera unfolding in real time.

“can i come to the wedding too?” hinata piped up.

“same,” bokuto added, bouncing slightly. “can i give a speech? i’ve already started drafting one. it has metaphors.”

atsumu grinned. “can i mc? i promise to keep it under ten minutes.”

“that is absolutely a lie,” sakusa muttered.

“i’ll bring snacks,” komori offered cheerfully.

“you’re in the wedding party,” you reminded him.

“oh. i’ll still bring snacks.”

“i’ll livestream the whole thing,” suna deadpanned.

“no, you won’t,” you and kageyama said at the same time.

“so we’re really doing this, huh?” matsukawa said, exchanging a look with hanamaki.

“you sound surprised,” hanamaki replied. “our entire lives have been leading up to a kageyama-oikawa wedding showdown. this is fate.”

“i call dibs on sitting next to the cake,” kindaichi muttered.

“you can all come,” you said over the noise. “just… maybe no speeches from atsumu.”

“rude!” atsumu gasped.

kageyama stepped beside you then, hand gently settling on your lower back, quiet as ever. “everything okay?”

“getting there,” you said, glancing toward your brother, who was now muttering something about matching suit colors and learning how to do proper formal knots on youtube.

kageyama leaned in, voice low. “are you feeling sick?”

you blinked. “what?”

“you woke up looking pale,” he said, concern pulling gently at his brows. “and you’ve been standing a while.”

you blinked, then chuckled. “just a little queasy. probably because someone made me laugh while i was drinking juice this morning.”

he looked mildly guilty. “…you sprayed it everywhere.”

“yes, tobio, that’s what happens when someone says ‘what if our kid ends up with oikawa’s attitude’ mid-sip.”

“…i still think it’s a valid concern.”

oikawa, who had just recovered enough to scroll through airbnb listings for dramatically expensive suites near the wedding venue, froze.

his head snapped up.

“wait—what did you say?!”

you and kageyama both turned toward him slowly, caught mid-conversation, like teenagers who’d been overheard saying something they shouldn’t have.

“what?” you said innocently.

“did you just say,” oikawa stood, towel falling off his shoulders like a cape, “what if our kid ends up with oikawa’s attitude?!”

“ah,” kageyama muttered under his breath. “here we go.”

“excuse me?!” oikawa pointed dramatically, nearly tripping over his own gym bag. “my attitude is amazing. charismatic. charming. elite.”

“it’s emotionally volatile,” sakusa said from the side, not even looking up from his phone.

“thank you,” kageyama added helpfully.

“you’re just jealous,” oikawa snapped back, pacing now like a coach delivering a pep talk to an invisible team. “my personality has layers!”

“yeah,” matsukawa said, deadpan. “like an emotional onion.”

“and you willingly married someone who insults me in front of our child?” oikawa turned to you, clutching his chest. “our niece or nephew?!”

“we didn’t know you were listening,” you said calmly.

“i’m always listening!” he barked.

“which is the exact reason we got married in another continent,” kageyama muttered.

“what was that?!”

iwaizumi, still chewing his protein bar and visibly reconsidering his life choices, stepped in before anyone could escalate further.

he raised a hand with the weariness of a man who had been holding everyone’s lives together with ankle tape and sarcasm.

“technically,” iwaizumi said, voice flat, “they’re married in two countries.”

the hallway went dead quiet.

oikawa blinked once. “two?!”

“denmark,” you confirmed helpfully, trying not to laugh.

“and japan,” kageyama added, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “we filed the paperwork when we got back.”

iwaizumi nodded slowly, like a man who had already lost the will to argue. “they even mailed me copies in case someone ‘forgot where they put things.’”

“which was you, wasn’t it?” sakusa said without looking up.

iwaizumi ignored him.

oikawa groaned and sank into the bench again, dragging the towel back over his face. “so you’ve been internationally married this whole time, and i’m the last to know?”

iwaizumi sighed. “to be fair, i found out because i thought kageyama was missing and almost called the embassy.”

“you what?”

“he texted the team group chat ‘just landed,’” iwaizumi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “just landed, he said. how was i supposed to know he meant denmark? he said nothing else.”

“i thought it was obvious,” kageyama mumbled.

“nothing about that was obvious,” sakusa said.

“it’s like you want to shorten my life,” iwaizumi added. “and now you’ve dragged me into an international conspiracy.”

“oh please,” hanamaki chimed in. “you’re the one who kept the secret. you’re complicit.”

“you think i had a choice? do you know how many ice packs i went through that week? do you know what bokuto did when he found out someone replaced his pre-workout with orange juice?”

“it was delicious,” bokuto called out from down the hall.

iwaizumi just took another bite of his protein bar and stared at the ceiling like it might grant him early retirement.

“i’m surrounded by idiots,” he muttered.

and next to you, kageyama turned to you quietly, thumb brushing your hand.

“are you feeling sick again?” he asked, voice lowered.

you blinked. “a little. not bad. just queasy.”

his brows furrowed, concern flickering across his face. “do you want to sit down?”

“i am sitting down, tobio.”

“then sit more comfortably.”

you snorted, but leaned against his shoulder anyway. “you’re so weird.”

“you married me.”

you grinned. “twice.”

and technically—in two countries.

470 notes · View notes

bkghq · 15 days ago

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ᝰ GRWM ft. y/n & bakugo

— INCLUDES pro hero! bakugo katsuki x pro hero fem! reader

— CONTENT WARNING ⋮ v wholesome bkg, lwk ooc i think, y/n being a woman of taste

— BONUS ARYA ⋮ i absolutely love this sm!! i think im gonna turn this pro hero yn/ tiktoker thingie into a series hehe

"Hey guys get ready with me for work while i tell you 10 facts about me and my boyfriend!" Y/n spoke to the camera, getting ready for her patrol, already wearing her hero suit.

"So me and my boyfriend— Katsuki, we met back in highschool. We were classmates and started dating around our second year." She said using toner pads on her face and neck.

She then moved on to the next step in her skincare routine, "Next i'm using this COSRX vitamin c serum— which by the way my very amazing boyfriend got me! i swear this guy does not, and i mean does not let me run out of anything—" She applied the serum on her face with the dropper, "— it's like he has this magical power of knowing when my essentials are almost finish and he'll just get it for me, UNasked!"

"In our relationship, Katsuki does all the cooking." She continues, now using the Milk makeup cooling water under eye gel but not before showing it to the camera. "And yes he definitely is the better cook— I try to cook from time to time, and he really appreciates when i do, but it is as clear as day that his cooking is wayyyy better than mine."

"Oh and he does the dishes too!" She adds smiling at the camera.

"When me and Kats met, we absolutely hated each other." She said putting emphasis on the word hated. "I used to call him potty mouth, and he used to call me spoilt brat, so it was quite shocking when he told me he liked me!" The girl chuckled putting on her moisturiser from clinique.

"Even though I am a pro hero myself and earn hefty, 'suki pays all our bills—" she said next putting on her sunscreen. "— He insists that it's his job since he's the 'man in our relationship, and it's a man's responsibility to provide for his girl' girls, take tips, don't settle for less!" She added acting like an older sister.

"Okay I'm done with my skincare, so moving on to the minimal makeup i do everyday." She said, while showing her too faced concealer.

"Even though he comes off as extremely mean and rude on camera, 'Ki is one of the most thoughtful people you will ever come across, he will not think twice before doing something for the people he loves." She spoke to the camera, unaware of the new company of the said man, who now stood at the door watching her, his figure also coming in the frame.

"Now im using this sacheu lip stain, this is literally my holy grail! it lasts me all day. I could be fighting like 10 villains and it will stay intact." She remarked, applying the lip stain.

"Fact number seven, we never go to bed mad at each other. It's a rule Kats made. No matter how big the fight we always resolve it before hitting the bed, and honestly it's such a healthy way to deal with fights and arguments." She said as a smile made her way to her aswell as Katsuki's face. A soft look in his eyes, as he watched her, arms crossed over his chest.

Y/N moves on to her blush. "Even though we've been dating for a long time now, we never stop going on dates!" She says putting blush on the apple of her cheeks. "This is a great way to keep your relationship interesting i feel like, since due to our work there are times when we are unable to see each for weeks at times."

"On that note— when either of us get assigned any mission overseas, we make sure to facetime atleast once a day even if it's just for 10 minutes. time differences suck, but we pick a time which is suitable for us both." The girl says as she puts her hair down from her messy bun.

"Last but not the least—"

"Is that i love this dummy here s'fuckin' much." Katsuki grumbles, finally making his presence known as he makes his way towards the girl, kissing her forehead. Y/n chuckles at his sudden appearance, because he wasn't one to make constant presence in her tiktok videos.

"You'll be late for patrol now ge'ddup dumbass." He says with no bite behind his words, giving her another kiss this time on her lips.

"Yeah!—" She smiles up at him, and looks back at the camera again, "See you guys soon, b-bye stay safe!" She concludes, hitting pause on the record button on her phone.

"You look cute today." Katsuki hums, as Y/n gets up from her chair, interlocking her hands around Katsuki's neck, his hands instinctively grabbing her waist.

"Thanks ki." She replies with a smile, standing on her tiptoes and kissing the blond man deeply.

Later that day, after patrol when Y/N posted that video. Not expecting it to blowup as much as it did, getting around ten million views, 2.5 million likes and a few hundred thousand comments.

@/ynsluvr : LOOK AT THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER !!! @/greatexplosionmurdermypussy : if he ain't like this I DONT WANT HIM @/dekusillegitimatechild : omg queen drop links for the product! @/chargeboltofficial : mama e papa MAMA E PAPA

She sure was having a field day reading all these comments.

THNX 4 READING <3 RBS + COMMENTS APPRECIATED ིྀ

#two consistent posts in two days #who is she #omg but i love this sm #this is so me & suki im not even gonna lie #tho kinda ooc bkg LOLL #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki fluff #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x you #bakugo katuski #bakugo x y/n #katsuki fluff #bakugo fluff

476 notes · View notes

hcneymooners · 27 days ago

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౨ৎ sometimes it’s nice to love an easy thing.

older!wnba!paige x older!wnba!azzi. men & minors dni.

synopsis: when basketball stars azzi fudd and paige bueckers, former best friends who drifted apart in the blur of fame and time, accidentally double-book the same coastal retreat, three years of missed connection dissolves into a week of devastating intimacy.

cw: implied burnout, no other warnings apply.

notes: just wrote something sweet and soft to release before i go home. this isn't edited, but i will come back later tonight to refine it. i hope you enjoy it anyway, and as always, feel free to let me know your thoughts in my inbox. i love you all so much. x

the idea was to be alone.

azzi had booked the airbnb on a whim, the way those who claimed to be only “comfortable” did when they became tired of being themselves. she was drained from the exhaustive labor of being one of america's most famous athletic names, a title she'd worked for and earned, but one that sat on her shoulders now like a sweater that didn't quite fit anymore.

the last straw was the drink deal she had to film a campaign for. she'd felt lifeless, listing between the bright plastic smile as she harped off the list of nutritional benefits for someone's rich cousin's kombucha that came in beautiful bottles and threatened to expand your “spiritual silo.” the studio had been all white walls and ring lights, the kind of sterile brightness that made everything feel like the inside of a surrealist art sketch.

as soon as the cameras had dropped, azzi's smile had dimmed, her wrists chirping like birds as her slew of cartier bracelets fell over one another and further down her arm. her personal assistant, a wonderful woman by the name of may, with a face that reminded her of someone else's memory of old hollywood glamour, had taken one look at her and booked a much-needed east coast holiday.

and now, azzi was driving her vintage land rover defender with the top down, tumbling along coastal roads at a speed that wasn't recommended but felt slower than the way she'd been living. the car was a deep forest green, the same as her long-sleeved shirt, as if it were constantly thinking of running off the road and becoming one of the trees. she had chosen to arrive in deceitful simplicity—everything she wore was at least a triple-figure price—and wrapped herself in solid colors and simple prints for her last-minute escape. still chic, still denoting her rank in life.

her curls were darker now, painstakingly maintained as she approached the end of her twenties, and streaked through with six-hundred-dollar highlights she felt did nothing for her face. just before she’d left the house, she’d pulled half of them up and away, then stuck her vintage, oversized chloé sunglasses into the mass and called it a day. she was sleek enough in other ways for it to be seen as an elle beauty section archetype, rather than being on the brink of losing her mind.

the leather weekender in her passenger seat was overstuffed, a week's worth of clothing thrown together in that careless way that only worked when everything you owned was beautiful. linen pants and silk camisoles, cotton sweaters soft as skin, all of it chosen by someone else, all of it perfectly her and not her at all. but this is who she was now; she had to come to terms at some point.

oceanic air whipped through the open car, carrying the promise of something she was unable to name. whatever it was, it was making her eyes sting. this was supposed to be healing, this week by the ocean. this was supposed to fix whatever had broken inside her during all those months of smiling for larger-than-life cameras and staging a rather convincing performance of enjoying her own life.

the house appeared through a break in the salt-heavy trees like something from a dream she'd had but never remembered fully. blue-gray shingles weathered to perfection, white trim catching the late afternoon light, an arched doorway that opened onto nothing but ocean beyond. it looked expensive in the way that most old money things did: effortless, delicately unpretentious, the kind of beauty that was careful to refrain from announcing itself because it didn't need to.

azzi pulled into the crushed shell driveway and cut the engine. the silence that followed felt different from the city quiet she was used to. not empty, but full. full of bird calls that were charming now but would annoy her later, and the distant crash of waves. the last time she’d been on this side of things was her college years. the thought made her chest tighten in a way she refused to indulge in.

she was reaching for her phone to text may and her parents that she'd arrived safely when she saw them: a pair of simple, lilac sneakers by the front door. not hers. too big. too clean. definitely not a color she would choose, but still—they felt more familiar than anything she owned.

her mouth twitched at the corners, moving neither up nor down but still indicative of her surprise.

again, the idea was to be alone. so the idea of sharing a home with a woman she hadn't spoken to in three years was not the ideal vacation.

there was no grief between them. that didn’t make it less hard.

things had gotten busy, things had fallen off. time had been too quick, and now azzi was looking at the figure who had slipped through the cracks in the rearview mirror of her life.

the screen door opened before azzi could decide whether to get out of the car or reverse back down the driveway and pretend this was all some horrible cosmic design. the kind of relaxed mistake that only felt good to people who believed in fate, which azzi had stopped doing somewhere between twenty-five and now.

paige bueckers emerged like she belonged there, like she'd been expecting this moment for years. she was wearing cargo shorts that should have looked ridiculous but didn't, a faded cotton tee that had seen better days paired with an oversized dallas hoodie that hung loose on her willowy frame, her blonde hair pulled back in that messy bun that had always made azzi's fingers itch to fix it.

her face was the same collection of angles and softness that had haunted azzi's peripheral vision for three years, such a sharp jaw and strong blue eyes that called back to a particular brand of american beauty that seemed as though it should be on a cereal box but had somehow transcended it.

she looked the same. she looked completely different. she looked like coming home and like a stranger all at once.

they stared at each other across the space between the car and the house, two women who had once known each other's breathing patterns, now separated by several feet and time and emotionally blank holiday messages.

paige's mouth opened, closed. her hands hung at her sides like she didn't know what to do with them.

paige bueckers was the greatest in many things: basketball, philanthropy, even a brief stint in fashion, to azzi's surprise, and whatever else she decided to pick up casually. but most importantly, she was the greatest (and arguably only) love of azzi's life.

there hadn't been a formal friendship breakup. just a quiet erosion, which had been more devastating than if they had mutually decided to call it quits. there was no fall, no fracture. only time, distance, the blur of planes and press cycles and everything but them.

azzi turned off the ignition and sat there for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, watching paige watch her through the windshield. she hoped she looked beautiful and bothered. something to procure an appropriate level of emotion reserved for unexpected, grief-tinged collisions.

the late afternoon light caught in paige's hair, turning it golden at the edges and drawing azzi’s dark eyes to the state of her roots, and for a second azzi was twenty-two again, watching paige laugh at something stupid on her phone in a hotel room in phoenix, thinking this was it, this was what happiness looked like.

but she was tired now, bone-deep tired in a way that made everything feel both urgent and inevitable. so she opened the car door and stood, smoothing her hands down her jeans, and gave paige the softest, most tired smile she could manage.

“hey, p.”

the nickname fell from her lips like muscle memory, like breathing. paige's face cracked open, warped by surprise, then an open relief, before settling on something that looked dangerously close to joy.

“azzi,” paige said, and her voice carried across the space between them because america’s favorite cool girl had never learned to be anything but herself. “fuck, i—”

but she was already moving, crossing the driveway in quick strides, and before azzi could think about it, paige's arms were around her, pulling her into a hug that felt like coming up for air after being underwater for an indeterminate amount of time.

azzi breathed her in without meaning to. in her defense, it was instinct formed from the other times she’d been held like this. paige permeated azzi’s body in every sense of the word, skin thick with vanilla and something warm and spicy, the same scent that used to linger on their pillowcases, the same perfume that had haunted department stores for months after they'd stopped talking.

paige still smelled like home, like safety, like all the things azzi had convinced herself she could live without.

her weekender bag slipped from her shoulder, landing with a soft thud on the shells. neither of them moved to pick it up.

god, azzi thought, her face pressed into the crook of paige's neck, the norman fucking rockwell of it all.

when she pulled back, she found her face was wet.

the house was smaller inside than it looked from the driveway, but it was still a structural force of soft, off-white walls and bleached wood floors that creaked in the particular way that older homes did. her mother would like this, azzi thought, and she made a note to recommend it to her father for their next anniversary.

paige led her through rooms that smelled faintly of lemon oil and sodium, past windows that framed the ocean like paintings in a self-erected museum. azzi looked away from the hazy, blue smear of ocean and horizon and tuned back into paige’s predictable nervous rambling. she watched as the other woman twisted her thick, silver rings around her fingers as she tried to justify why she was walking alongside her former best friend—newly burst in.

well, she hadn’t burst. she hadn’t even snuck in really. there had always been an open space.

“the company says that their website glitched, and they accidentally overbooked. i can—”

azzi looked up, tilting her head to better catch paige’s eye, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising with amusement.

“i promise you it’s fine, paige. i’m not going to contract some sort of disease from sharing a house with you for a week.”

“no, i know,” paige responded. “and it’s not like i have a problem being here with you either, i just—if you did feel uncomfortable, i would want you to feel like you could tell me. i know if i were shackled up with some random who wasn’t supposed to be here, especially given what i did, i would not stop until—”

“but paige,” azzi interrupted, “you aren’t random. and you haven’t done anything to me.”

paige stopped then, her face jerking oddly as if she was unsure of whether azzi meant it or was leading her on. azzi kept their eyes locked, brown on blue, earth on sky.

everything really was fine. which meant there was nothing more to say.

paige tugged nervously at a thin leather band around her wrist, and azzi felt her throat close for a brief moment. she’d bought her that during a shared family christmas in nashville. she wasn’t sure what touched her more: the idea that paige had never gotten rid of it, or the fact that she deemed it important enough to wear in her everyday life.

“so,” paige said, stopping in front of a closed door, her hand hovering over the handle. “there's kind of a situation.”

azzi’s brow furrowed, her hands still wrapped along the top of her weekender as if to arm herself against a hidden onslaught.

“the other bedrooms are closed off for renovations or something. the listing said it was a one-bedroom setup.” paige's cheeks went pink in that way they always were when she was embarrassed. “i can sleep on the couch, obviously, it's not—”

“paige.” azzi's voice was softer than she'd intended. “it's fine.”

the bedroom was beautiful in an understated coastal way: white linens, pale blue walls, french doors that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the water. there was one king bed, rumpled on one side where paige had clearly been sleeping, and a dresser with drawers half-open, spilling paige's clothes like loose secrets.

“they have extra sheets,” paige said suddenly, moving toward a closet with a new rush of nervous energy. “they left a list of inventory for the house in a binder, along with the wi-fi and stuff. i know you like to change them when you stay. to feel clean. ‘s not a big deal f’me to change them.”

azzi smiled then, small but genuine. finally, paige had let go of that ridiculously polite tone of voice and was speaking as she always had.

“there you are,” azzi said. “i thought maybe you had been body snatched. didn’t hear a single ‘bro’ in the first five minutes of you talking.”

paige laughed, her face lighting up with what azzi knew to be relief. “sorry, you just look a little different. didn’t know if i needed to be too.”

azzi let her bag hit the floor gently. “i always liked you as you were.”

the words hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of being known. azzi's chest seemed to shrink as she turned back to the bed. three years of barely-there connection, and paige still remembered something so small, so specific to her particular anxieties about unfamiliar spaces.

“thank you,” azzi said quietly. “for thinking of me.”

they made the bed together without talking about it. paige stripped the old sheets with efficient movements while azzi unpacked the crisp white ones from their packaging, and then they were on opposite sides of the mattress, tucking corners with the kind of synchronized precision that came from muscle memory.

when paige reached across to smooth a wrinkle near azzi's side, their hands brushed. neither of them pulled away immediately.

paige opened the top drawer of the dresser, pushed her own things to one side, and gestured for azzi to fill the empty space. it was such a small thing, making room, but azzi's throat went tight watching paige's fingers carefully arrange her t-shirts to give azzi half the drawer.

“we should probably get groceries,” paige said when azzi had finished unpacking, her voice too bright. “there's literally nothing here except, like, stale crackers and some whiteclaws i bought.”

“whiteclaws?” azzi repeated, her voice swollen with disbelief. “you are almost thirty.”

“almost being the key word,” paige said, already walking down the hall. “besides, if it tastes good, imma buy it.”

azzi covered her mouth, forcefully keeping the rising laugh behind her teeth.

the land rover felt different with paige in the passenger seat. smaller, charged with the particular tension of two people trying very hard to act normal. paige had changed into a bamboo-thread button-down and swapped her lilac sneakers for white converse. she slunk down in the passenger seat, her legs widening as she got comfortable, and the image of it made azzi grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

the road wound through pine trees and past houses that got progressively smaller as they drove inland, away from the mostly empty, marine estates and toward something more lived-in. paige had rolled her window down, and the wind whipped her blonde hair around her face as she talked, a curtain made white by the mouth of the sun.

“—and then the whole team got food poisoning from this sushi place in dallas, which was honestly hilarious in retrospect, but at the time i thought coach was going to literally murder us. oh, and did you know that jana is engaged to someone now? this guy from her job. he’s pretty chill but—"

“p.” azzi's voice cut through the stream of words, gentle but firm. “one thing at a time.”

paige blinked, her mouth still half-open on whatever she'd been about to say next. “sorry. i'm being—sorry.”

“you're nervous,” azzi said, glancing at her before turning her attention back to the road. “it's okay. i'm nervous too.”

the admission seemed to deflate some of the tension in the car. paige slumped back in her seat, no longer talking at breakneck speed.

“it's weird, right?” paige said finally. “being here. together.”

“yeah,” azzi agreed. “it's weird. and i wish it wasn’t.”

but it’s not bad that it was, she didn't say. it wasn’t unwelcome. but it was more uncomfortable than she would’ve liked, the kind that came from realizing that some people lived inside of you even when they weren't in your life, even when you'd convinced yourself you'd moved on.

the grocery store was one of those small green markets that catered to a certain selection of summering customers. the shelves were stocked with organic everything, and the wine selections consisted of bottles that cost more than most people spent on groceries in a week. the patrons all were versions of the same thing: bare-faced, blowouts, subtle tweaks via non-invasive procedures azzi had booked and unbooked, tight smiles so that they didn’t seem rude, but also used to ask you to move along.

azzi smiled back in the same way because she wanted the same thing.

she grabbed a cart, and paige fell into step beside her, close enough that their arms brushed when they turned corners.

“so,” paige said, reaching for a bag of expensive-looking pasta. “tell me more about the kombucha thing. that sounded…”

“horrible?” azzi supplied, and paige laughed.

“i was going to be nice and say 'unlike you', but horrible works too.”

“it was both.” azzi picked up a bottle of olive oil, checked the price, and put it in the cart anyway. she didn’t know why she still pretended as if her bank account was an empty chamber in which she only used to scream. “i kept thinking about how my college self would have made fun of me for doing an ad for something called a ‘spiritual silo.’”

“your college self would have done the same,” paige said, and something was running along the words. fond, knowing. “remember when you used to make fun of me when you brought those green smoothies to practice? you’d make a fucking airplane noise to get me to take a sip.”

“you got me there. i guess i’ve always been one of those girls,” azzi said, but she was smiling.

“yeah,” paige said. then lower, as if azzi wasn’t supposed to hear, “but you were my girl.”

azzi tensed, then bent down and pretended to care deeply about the amount of bacteria in one brand of yogurt, and then another.

they moved through the store like that, trading memories disguised as small talk, someone slipping up and revealing their desperation for the other, before slowly finding their rhythm again. paige grabbed ingredients for a philly steak bowl, and azzi selected a slab of salmon that cost more than it should have and was much too orange to be truly authentic.

somewhere between the produce section and the checkout line, the space between them started to feel less like a chasm and more like a ditch they were at risk of dipping into but could eventually learn to cross.

the second morning arrived soft and golden, filtering through the french doors like honey through cheesecloth. azzi woke to the sound of waves and paige's breathing, deep and even beside her.

they'd maintained their invisible line down the middle of the bed, but sometime in the night paige had turned toward her, one arm flung across the space between them like a question mark. azzi was unable to help herself, her desire loose and unmanageable when she first woke, and she reached out to carefully remove a few thin pieces of hair from paige’s face. she could feel the flush of paige’s blood, the warmth of her life pooling around her high cheekbones and dripping to her slack mouth.

azzi let it run through her, and then she rescinded before she became too re-attached.

she slipped out quietly, bare feet silent on the cool hardwood. she'd packed a collection of loose dresses for this trip, linen and cotton things that skimmed her body without clinging, the kind of effortless pieces that photographed well for the lifestyle content her team was always pushing.

you could be a different type of wnba star, her first pr manager had spouted. azzi hadn’t even asked what that meant. the vitriol the woman had slathered across the words told her everything she needed to know.

so, she just fired her.

after a sleep-soaked huddle underneath the warm spray of the shower, azzi emerged from the ensuite bathroom in a cream-colored slip dress that fell just above her knees, soft as butter against her skin, with a black lace hem. she fortified herself with her regular stack of gold and diamonds, unsurprised to see paige unmoved by the chimes of the jewelry pieces as they ran into one another.

some things never change.

the kitchen was composed of marble countertops and cabinets painted in a shade of electric blue that was just shy of being overstimulating. the windows over the sink and behind the oak-slab table were wide and performed the same framing of the ocean as the others in the house.

azzi admired the view briefly before beginning her search for the coffee machine she had been promised. she made coffee in the kind of ritualistic way that had become her morning meditation: grinding beans, measuring water, waiting for the slow drip. the domesticity of it felt foreign and familiar all at once.

it was a blessing to suck at the teat of regular caffeine instead of the matcha powder she’d been choking down, lest she get caught supporting a brand that she wasn’t an ambassador of. partnership was everything.

she found herself on the small deck overlooking the water, coffee warm between her palms, watching the sun paint the horizon in shades of apricot and rose. the book she'd brought, a different selection than the literary thing her publicist had recommended, lay unopened in her lap. instead, she let herself exist in the space between sleep and waking, between memory and possibility.

she closed her eyes, let everything become the same shade as paige’s preferred blonde.

when paige emerged an hour later, hair sleep-mussed and wearing a well-worn t-shirt, she found azzi exactly where she'd left her mental image: barefoot and golden in the morning light, dress riding up her thighs as she tucked her legs beneath her.

“morning, princess,” paige said, settling into the chair beside her with her own mug. “you're up early.”

“i like the quiet,” azzi replied, opening her eyes but not looking away from the water. the nickname settled at her neck like a stone. “before the world gets a hold of where i am.”

paige hummed in response, before reaching to the side and pulling out her ipad with the casual focus of someone who'd never learned to exist without a screen. game tape, probably. or those stupid tiktoks she's always been addicted to.

some things never change.

azzi couldn’t help the way her mouth rose in a soft smile, eyes tracking the familiar hunch of paige’s back over the screen. it was only then that she realized the shirt paige had slept in was an old relic of azzi’s uconn days. a white tee with the faded print of her face, the number thirty-five faded in blue on the back.

her chest hurt. it couldn’t seem to stop.

they sat like that for a while, azzi reading passages that didn't stick, paige absorbed in whatever digital rabbit hole she'd fallen into. their silence wasn't uncomfortable anymore. it was full, a bit tense the way good silences were, filled with the sound of pages turning and coffee being sipped and swallowed and the distant crash of waves against rock.

it was easy for azzi to believe that she had made it to that fantasy of domesticity she’d always kept close to her chest. but the truth was that she only had a week of it, because she’d never told the love of her life that she loved her more than allowed, for her entire life.

by midweek, they'd found their perfect cadence.

azzi would wake first, make coffee, and leave some behind for paige to wake to. then she’d claim her spot on the deck with whatever book she was pretending to focus on. paige would emerge twenty minutes later, ipad in hand, settling into the space with her mug beside her like she belonged there. they'd share the morning without talking much, two people remembering how to exist in the same orbit.

the afternoons belonged to the kitchen.

it started accidentally. azzi had been standing at the marble island, halving peaches with a knife that was too sharp for the job, juice running down her wrists in sticky rivulets. the fruit was perfect, blushed and heavy, the kind of summer abundance that made you understand why people wrote poems about the season.

“hey, careful,” paige had said, appearing at her elbow, voice low and sleep-rough. "you’re gonna lose a finger messin' around like that.”

and then somehow paige was there, her body a warm presence at azzi's side, taking the knife with gentle fingers and finishing the job. her movements were efficient, practiced. she'd always been good with her hands.

“there,” paige said, sliding half a peach across the cutting board, that familiar rasp creeping into her voice. “perfect.”

azzi bit into it without thinking, let the sweetness flood her mouth, and when she looked up, paige was watching her with something that looked like hunger.

after that, they cooked together.

not planned, not discussed. it just happened. azzi would start something—slicing tomatoes for a salad, seasoning the expensive salmon she'd bought—and paige would drift over, find something to do with her hands. busy herself with slipping into azzi’s space. setting the table, opening wine, chopping herbs with the kind of focus she usually reserved for basketball.

the kitchen was small enough that they had to move around each other, a careful choreography that was becoming less careful by the day. paige would reach for salt just as azzi turned from the stove, and their hips would brush. when azzi needed something from the upper cabinet, paige would appear behind her, one hand settling on her lower back while the other reached over her head.

“‘scuse me, princess,” paige would murmur, the words low and familiar, and azzi would lean into the touch before she could stop herself.

“sorry,” one of them would murmur, but neither moved away quickly.

on thursday, azzi decided to make something proper. not just pasta but a whole meal, the way she used to back in the dorms when she'd drag paige kicking and screaming away from takeout.

she pulled out ingredients like she was conducting an orchestra: wild-caught halibut that cost more than most people's grocery budget, meyer lemons bright as a child’s drawing of the sun, asparagus with stalks thin as pencils, a bottle of sancerre white that had been waiting for either the right moment or the moment where her nerves became too shot to raw the world.

she was at the island, zesting a lemon with focused precision, when paige appeared behind her.

“move, baby,” paige said, voice low and warm, her hands settling on azzi's waist to guide her aside so she could reach the upper cabinet. the pet name slipped out like muscle memory, and neither of them acknowledged it, but azzi felt the heat of paige's palms through the thin fabric of her dress.

“what you need me to do?” paige asked, already washing her hands, settling into the familiar rhythm of being azzi's sous chef.

“asparagus, please,” azzi said, nodding toward the bundle of green spears. “trim the ends, then cut them on the bias. and don't make them too thick—”

“i know how you like them,” paige interrupted, that raspy laugh threading through her voice. “damn, some things really don't change.”

she worked with the same focus she brought to everything, tongue pink and peeking as she concentrated. the kitchen filled with the sound of her knife against the cutting board, steady and sure.

when the fish was ready—skin crispy and golden, flesh flaking perfectly—azzi plated it like she was styling a magazine shoot. the plates themselves were white ceramic things that felt substantial in their hands, but the food was a dream.

halibut nestled against bright green asparagus, lemon butter pooled golden around the edges, microgreens scattered like confetti. azzi poured the wine into proper glasses, turning the bottle expertly so that nothing dripped and stained.

“jesus, az,” paige said, settling across from her at the small dining table. “this is some fancy shit. anthony bourdois and stuff.”

azzi knew paige knew that man’s name, but she laughed as she was supposed to. and because she found it funny.

“anthony bourdain,” azzi said automatically, but she was smiling.

“my bad,” paige grinned, taking a bite. her eyes went wide, then soft. “oh, this is… fuck. sorry. this is really good.”

azzi preened a little, brown eyes deepening with pleasure.

“this is perfect,” paige said, her voice gone soft and wondering. “like, for real, az. i forgot how good you are at this.”

“it's not that hard,” azzi replied, but she was practically plump with the compliment. cooking for paige had always been her way of taking care of her, making sure she ate something green, something real. “besides, i remember someone who used to live off protein bars and those horrible energy drinks.”

“aye, don't come for my red bulls,” paige laughed, that low rasp making azzi's stomach flip. “those got me through college.”

“those were gonna give you a heart attack and get you through the icu,” azzi countered, cutting another piece of fish. “i had to do something.”

later, after the dishes were done and the wine was finished, they found themselves back on the deck. the sun was setting, painting everything in shades of coral and gold. the ocean seemed on fire, and though azzi had her book again, she'd given up pretending to read it. paige had put the ipad aside, was just sitting there, looking out at the water.

“i forgot how much i liked this,” paige said suddenly.

“what?”

“this. just… being. not having to be anywhere or do anything or perform for anyone.”

azzi looked at her then, really looked. paige's face was soft in the golden light, younger somehow. free of the particular tension she carried in public, the weight of being watched and measured and judged.

“that’s why you came, right?” azzi asked gently, and paige tilted her head so she could look at her.

“yeah, some of it. just got…tired.”

“yeah,” azzi said quietly. “me too.”

by the time they both came to bed, they knew things were irreparably different. things had been skewed back to the lives they’d led before their separation. the sound of azzi brushing her teeth had become paige's lullaby, the signal that the day was officially over, that she could finally begin to let herself sleep.

they shared the bed without the careful distance of the first two nights. not touching, exactly, but not actively avoiding it either. when azzi turned over in her sleep, her hand found paige's arm, and paige didn't pull away. there was a sudden silence, and then azzi felt the bed dip as paige curled around her like a flesh half-moon.

she smelled different. lighter. azzi caught a whiff of l’eau d’issey rising from the nape of paige’s neck: cool, sheer, mineralic. plastic lotus blossoms on a reflective silver pond. it was what paige wore when she wanted to go to bed feeling more like a girl and less like a woman, more like a girl and less like a god.

azzi didn’t even know she remembered what paige wore to bed.

(she did.)

some rhythms, it seemed, were too deep to break.

friday broke bright and new, and with it the bittersweet realization that they had two days left to spend wrapped around one another. that was all they had; two more mornings, two more nights. azzi felt it in her chest like the ghost of a bruise.

she was determined to make the most of it.

she woke early as usual, but forwent her typical routine. her shower came and went, steam curling around her like phantom ribbons. when she stepped out, she was already dressed, wrapped in a sleek, white long-sleeved one-piece that looked more architectural than athletic. the tailored seams tracked elegant, merciless lines down her body. waist cinched, sleeves sharp, legs carved out in clean sweeps of muscle.

the zipper at the front was undone just enough to draw the eye, resting at the softest dip of her chest, letting the curves of her breasts peek out, intentional and knowing. the fabric caught the light, made her body look even more divine, like she’d stepped from a film still.

paige, sprawled across the bed in a tank top and boxer shorts, nearly choked. her mouth went a little slack; she forgot what she’d been about to say. the brown slope of azzi’s thighs was enough to make paige’s mouth go dry, hunger pooling at the base of her tongue. her blue eyes caught hard on the swell of azzi’s ass when she turned to grab a small blue and white striped canvas tote. paige didn’t even pretend not to look.

azzi turned back around with a slow grin, catching the quick flush that had already started to rise up paige’s neck.

“come on, cool girl. get ready.” her voice was warm, edged with amusement. “we’re going to the beach.”

the walk wasn’t long. just a soft, simple turn around the house and a stroll down the manicured path to the shoreline. still, everything felt momentous.

the day was already heavy with heat, as if it had been boiling last evening and was now bursting. the beach itself was empty enough that azzi took her sunglasses off, unafraid of being seen.

she was barefoot, curls frizzed at the edges, eyes salt-slick and bright with that calm kind of joy that came with being near the sea. there was no one to see her but paige, and that was enough.

behind her, paige followed, bikini black and spare, skin bronzed in uneven patches from too many hours lying out alone before azzi arrived. her tan lines dipped low across her stomach, disappeared under the band of her suit bottoms. she looked ridiculously beautiful. the type of woman you’d see on a postcard and write about ten years later.

azzi glanced back. smiled to herself.

she liked the idea of what they must’ve looked like: her in white, paige in black. a mirrored negative. duality made literal. it was reflective of them. the world often felt singular and simple when they were together.

things fell into the realm of paige-and-azzi, and what was not simply fell out of it.

“az,” paige called, voice caught between a whine and a wheeze, “can you just tell me what we’re doing?”

azzi turned, lips already tugged upward, curls bouncing as she walked. “i’m going to teach you how to surf.”

paige blinked. “huh?”

azzi didn’t answer, only laughed, light and delighted as she pointed toward the surf shack in the distance.

it took her a few minutes to find the surf shack, but a few minutes later (after minimal bribery and a borrowed id), azzi returned triumphant with two long turquoise boards, balanced easily beneath her arms like they weighed nothing.

she guided paige to the water’s edge, where the tide frothed at their ankles, and then further still, until the boards bobbed between them.

paige, of course, was exactly how azzi imagined she’d be: stubborn, impatient, flailing.

“you've got to paddle sooner,” azzi called from the break, wiping salt from her brow. “you keep waiting too long.”

paige coughed, breathless, clinging to the surfboard as if it was going to save her from more than drowning. “you’re literally a professional athlete.”

azzi shrugged, grinning slyly. “so are you.”

the water was warmer than expected, flecked with sunlight and the faint tang of algae. everything felt lush. sticky with summer. a breeze teased through the salt-thick air, carrying the scent of sunscreen, driftwood, crushed shells, and something sweet paige couldn’t place.

eventually, miraculously, paige caught a wave. only for a second. two seconds, maybe. but she was upright, alive in the motion, and azzi screamed so loudly from the shoreline that a gull flapped off in terror.

they laughed all the way back up the dunes, limbs wet and trembling. sand stuck to their shins, towels slung carelessly across their shoulders. azzi’s skin glowed gold in the setting sun, the long light catching every curve and ridge like it was sculpting her from scratch. paige didn’t say a word. she didn’t need to. her silence was reverent. eyes soft, fixed. she couldn’t stop looking.

she felt too full of azzi to speak.

the house loomed ahead, blue and wide and a little too quiet. another cruel body of water to swallow them. paige felt the day slipping away as they approached it. azzi slipped her hand into paige’s for one beat, warm and solid, before veering off toward the side of the house without a word.

paige didn’t ask where she was going. she already knew.

the outside shower was tucked away in the corner of the deck, half-hidden by slatted wood. the water had already started—a low hiss, steady and rhythmic, a sound that felt older than memory. pine trees rustled overhead, wind threading through the steam like fingers through hair.

azzi’s hum floated up from behind the slats. low, off-key, gentle. paige didn’t recognize the song, but it sat on the tip of her tongue, half-remembered. like something she’d once been told in the dark. something whose sweetness she could only recall if she sucked its juice from azzi’s mouth.

the decision came easily. unthinking. paige stepped off the deck, padded barefoot through the warm grass, and slipped behind the slats.

when paige stepped into the small, steamy alcove, the air shifted. azzi didn’t flinch. she didn’t turn. she just tilted her chin slightly, made room like she’d known paige would come.

the water slid down her back in gleaming sheets, catching the curve of her spine, tracing the indent of her waist, and pooling at the small of it. the soft weight of her curls clung damp to her shoulders, steam turning the ones at her temple’s edge soft and sweet. she was almost too beautiful to look at directly.

paige’s swimsuit slipped off easily. wet fabric gliding down her body, aimless and forgotten on the floorboards. she stepped in closer and pressed against azzi, bare chest to bare back. her arms looped around azzi’s waist, her fingers splaying just beneath the curve of her ribs. skin met skin, warm and wet and so achingly familiar. azzi let her. she didn’t say a word.

paige tested her limit, pressed her lips to azzi’s shoulder, slow and reverent. lapped up the remaining salt.

another kiss.

then another.

salt caked her mouth. steam smothered her lungs.

“i missed you,” she whispered, deep into azzi’s skin. then again. and again. the words turned desperate, came faster, wet and unyielding like the ocean had turned her loose, and now she couldn’t stop spilling out. “i missed you. i missed you. i missed you.”

the words were raw, like they had been locked behind her teeth for years and now refused to stay in.

azzi turned slowly, water coursing between them. her eyes swept over paige’s face: pink brow, trembling mouth, eyes glassy and brimming with emotion, cheeks ruddy. her hand came up and cradled the back of paige’s neck, firm and careful.

she didn’t say anything. and then she kissed her.

it wasn’t tender. it wasn’t gentle. it was hungry. familiar. a crash, more than a meeting. like she was trying to drink paige down, swallow every last second they’d been apart.

water ran between them, hot and insistent. their bodies pressed together, slick and unyielding. paige was in her bloodstream, azzi in hers. paige's hands slipped down azzi’s back, found her hips. azzi kissed her like she wanted her ruined, like paige was a prayer and the answer both.

they moved together like muscle memory. like instinct. like nothing had ever come between them except time, and time had finally given up.

there had never truly been two people. they had always been this. one thing in two bodies. a pulse shared across years since they were sixteen, and teeming with their first tastes of romantic affection.

the water kept running. the sun began to fall, streaking the sky a torturous red. for that moment, in the warm hush of steam and pine and skin, nothing was lost.

they knew.

they’d always known.

on the last morning, the house was quiet.

the silence felt intentional. the house was stagnant with the dread that always came with goodbyes. the walls had heard enough. the floors seemed to soften their creaks in respect.

azzi stirred first. slipped from the sheets, then stopped. turned back.

she lay herself down gently, stretching across paige’s body like she couldn’t help it. gravity had chosen a different path for her instead. her cheek found paige’s collarbone. the rest of her settled into place, limbs all long and warm and drowsy.

for a moment, they didn’t move. but she knew the other woman was awake.

paige ran her fingers along azzi’s spine, slow and steady, tracing the line of a coastline she already knew by heart. the dips, the curves, the familiar tenderness. azzi exhaled. pressed closer. paige kissed the crown of her head.

once. then again. made no effort to stop her hand from smoothing over the dip of azzi’s back, her waist.

there were no words, no need. just this aching tenderness, the hush of early light slipping across their bodies, and the sound of something unspoken being understood.

when azzi finally moved to leave, she did it slowly. her lips brushed paige’s temple first, then the corner of her mouth, then paused like she might say something, but didn’t. she only looked at her, doe eyes soft and teeth peeking from under her top lip, like i love you lived there and always had.

paige didn’t follow her downstairs. it was easier to listen to the gentle thud of her sandals and the screen door whispering shut. she stayed curled up in the bed, body rocking, still in the ocean from the days before, wearing her sleep tee like a loose shield.

through the blinds, she watched azzi load her things into the back of her cherry land rover. her curls were half-wet again, face bare, sunglasses pushed up in her hair. she looked like a dream you had where you felt the best you ever had, but could never get quite right when relaying it in conversation.

they didn’t need a speech. not this time. nothing had broken. they’d just fallen out of orbit for a while. but gravity was patient. and paige had always been a slow-burn kind of girl.

the car rolled down the drive and disappeared behind a bend of trees.

paige didn’t cry, not really. but her eyes stung in that way that felt inherited. a return of the sadness she'd borrowed from the younger version of herself, that she’d never outrun. she stared at the ceiling. let the ache crest and soften.

then her phone buzzed.

a text, first.

➳ come visit me, please. ➳ missed you so much.

and then the photos: a quiet icloud link drop, an album titled a&p east coast week, filled with images paige hadn’t known were being taken. azzi had been watching. always.

a blurred photo of them on the dunes, paige snorting with laughter. a shot of their coffee mugs on the deck. a grainy zoom of the low dip of paige’s bikini bottom on their walk back from the surf. a screenshot of a playlist code, a half-assed grocery list. a pale photo of the ocean in the morning. a photo of paige asleep, limbs splayed and face young.

fifteen minutes passed. then paige responded.

no words, just a screenshot of a one-way ticket. lax.

azzi loved it. pink heart, blue bubble, and all.

paige rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, breathing through the salt-heat in her stomach, the stillness of the morning. nothing was solved. nothing had to be.

no promises. no titles. just the quiet, sure thing they’d always been.

they’d always come back to each other.

they already had.

somewhere in the distance, the waves kept folding in.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #dallas wings

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orphicsun · 7 months ago

Text

CAMGIRL ELLIE

Camgirl Ellie AU: Ellie Williams x Fem! reader

Description: Ellie is a broke college student whose options are either selling weed on campus or doing filthy things on live for her mainly female audience. When another famous camgirl joins one of her lives, she is about to have the collab of a lifetime.

Content / Warnings: Femme camgirl reader, headcannon-style fic, explicit content, Jesse and Dina make cameos woah, Ellie is all cute and nervous for the first half, masturbation on camera, fingering & oral sex, use of strap-ons, reader is on receiving end, feminine reader, use of petnames (baby and mamas), breeding kinks, mult. orgasms. Enjoy the ride.

Word Count: 3.3k

★ Camgirl Ellie who is a sophomore in college, so broke and extremely desperate come with the territory. Like, Taco Bell is a luxury broke, and desperate as in she has applied to every job around campus. She even thought about dealing for a while, but as much as she loves a good smoke sesh, she'd rather not risk getting kicked out of school for something as dumb as selling blunts.

★ Camgirl Ellie who laughed when her friend Jesse suggested her being a camgirl.

"Why the fuck would I give old creepy dudes jerk-off material?"

Jesse laughed, grabbing a handful of cheetos from the bag in her hand. "Dude, you wouldn't be doing it for men. I mean, look at you." Jesse took a good, hard look at his friend; the several silver rings across her five fingers, a short-sleeve blue button up layered over a white wife-pleaser, and for god's sake, a pair of jorts that only Ellie could pull off. "You're clearly not for the male gaze."

After much (15 minutes) contemplation, she decided that maybe it'd be fun to get attention from girls and money at the same time.

★ Camgirl Ellie who is actually rather awkward and quiet around girls in the real world, cursing "fuck" under her breath when she sees a pretty girl but just doesn't know how to impress women in a way that doesn't come off as too forward or weird. That being said, she actually likes having a persona online where she can say anything she wants, and she definitely abuses the fact that she is allowed to say anything she truly feels like saying, and women will go crazy for it.

Sitting on her couch, propping up her iphone 11 on the coffee table with a pop socket she got like, 6 years ago so that the fans have a wonderful view of her stroking a strap-on with cheap lube she picked up from her local Walmart. Her bush is slightly peeking out from the harness, and the fans are getting filthy. Not as filthy as camgirl Ellie, though.

"Fuck, feels so good on my clit.." she groans, throwing her head back dramatically.

dykeluvr69 commented: oh my god y'all her happy trail i'm throbbing

wet4williams commented: i wish i could ride that strap

andersonsabs33 commented: mid💀

Ellie squints, anticipating all the thirsty comments, and scoffs at one, her hand jerking away from the silicone shaft for a moment to tell off some random.

"Suck my dick, andersonabs33."

fairydustonmyclit_2 commented: me next please!!

★ Camgirl Ellie who doesn't always have to be explicit to even get views. She finds that focusing the camera on her fingers while strumming her guitar can work wonders online. If she has had an exhausting day or is feeling anxious about getting naked in front of an overwhelmingly growing audience, she can always just show off her hands or say sweet things to her fans.

★ Camgirl Ellie who is not a virgin. She's had a few past girlfriends, no casual sex, but is pretty experienced from her long-term relationships. That being said, she never once has considered doing actual sex on camera for money. That changes when another famous (and nearby) camgirl joins her livestream.

Ellie's once again on her couch, two fingers doing figure eights on her clit as the view count rises. She's basically man-spreading to give her girls the best view possible, and not holding back from letting out breathy little groans and loud curses. Her fans go crazy when she has her tits out, so her sports bra is hitched up, her perky tits free and her nipples stiff.

"F-Feels so good, holy shit, wanna cum for my girls so bad," she groans, closing her eyes. Ellie doesn't view real masturbation as anything like her online work; if she were actually to be playing with her pussy all alone with no audience, she'd cum by now. But that doesn't make a profit, no. Longer time is important, and the more she ups the antics, teases her fans, the more comments can come in. The more donations arise and all that good shit.

Ellie teases her entrance with her middle finger, and her eyes flutter open as she eases the digit past her puffy folds.

She reads through the chat to hold out from cumming too quickly.

elliessluttygirl commented: i wish that was my hand playing w ur pussy ellie:(

Ellie smiles, curling her finger and moaning. She smiles lazily. "Yeah, slutty girl..wish it was yours, too."

As she adds a second finger upon the majority request in her comment section, she pauses at the feed.

urfavfemme has joined the livestream. Say hi!

Holy fuck. Ellie hasn't seen your videos, but the pink checkmark on your name means you're verified. Suddenly, Ellie is nervous as hell now. How is she supposed to act now, with some famous, probably fine woman watching her? She swallows and continues bucking up into her palm, but her fingers are slightly shaky now.

urfavfemme commented: ur pussy is so pretty.

Ellie laughs nervously at that. What the fuck is happening? But maybe she can use the situation to her advantage.

" 'urfavfemme', huh? Cute username," she coos, a little breathlessly because now she's getting closer to cumming, her nerves dying down as her fingers massage her sensitive walls. Ellie is so fucked up, she thinks to herself. She doesn't even know what you look like yet, why is she getting so crazed by you complimenting her?

urfavfemme commented: i wanna see that pretty pussy squirt please..

Ellie moans and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, trying to wrap her head around it all. She gets dozens of comments just like these, thirsty ass girls drooling to her playing with herself or showing off a strap-on. Why is it that the idea of you, a self-proclaimed 'femme' making these comments is the thing that makes her belly all hot with the familiar ache of true need?

pixiestickpussy commented: holy shit this is so hot

wet4williams commented: is it just me or is smth going on with ellie and this camgirl chick

imonherefortheporn69 commented: i checked out the girl's content she's super hot dude

Ellie's head is spinning at the whole situation. It's overwhelming and she wants to just turn off the camera, but she's so close and getting desperate to cum. It is just so fucking hard when all of her girls are in an uproar over you.

urfavfemme commented: stretch me out on those fingers.

"Oh- Oh, my fucking god!! 'm cumming-" Ellie can barely keep herself from crying out as the waves shoot through her body throughout, a finger covering her clit to extend the orgasm that hits her so deeply. Her fingers are soaked more than usual, juices trickling down her knuckles. Her other palm is massaging over her tits, and for a moment, she forgets she is on camera. Forgets the thousands of people watching her, probably fingering themselves just like her. The though that is usually so overwhelming is forgotten.

Her body is warm, and if she could describe how this nut feels right about now, she'd say it's hot pink. It's light lightning, and for some reason, all she can repeat in her head is "thank you thank you thank you urfavfemme" because seriously, this has been one of the most insane experiences of her life. When she finally comes down, she has to take a few moments to catch her breath.

The aftermath of it all hits her. She did not just cum like she does in private. The usually dramatic orgasms the viewers got are nothing like that, and for what? Some girl she hasn't even seen yet?

The comments are going off, praising her and thirsting like she's never seen before, but she is still panting and flushed on her couch.

urfavfemme has donated $1000.

urfavfemme has left the livestream. Bye!

Ellie is quickly turning off the stream with a half-assed goodbye, and collapsing back onto her couch. She cannot believe that she just lost control like that. Her mind is processing the huge donation, too. A whole thousand is more than she's ever gotten in donations on a single live. How famous are you?

Ellie can't dwell much, because as her body cools down, she realizes how soaked the towel she is sitting on is. Oh, my god. She actually squirted on live.

★ Camgirl Ellie who searches up your username on google a few days following the squirting contest incident, and is soon brought to a url that hits her like a flashbang as soon as it loads on her ancient ass laptop. Her screen is covered in pink, and a pretty white font with your username is front and center. She then sees your face and nearly nuts. You're fucking gorgeous, definitely out of her league.. How are you the same girl that talked her through an intense orgasm over a livestream the other night?

★ Camgirl Ellie who spends the next few hours watching your videos. She has found a new obsession, that's for sure.

She has hearts in her eyes watching you bounce on a fairly-sized dildo suctioned to your floor, helplessly groaning with a hand down her basketball shorts as your pussy swallows the length of the toy. Your moans are what really gets her. You sound like anything but the pornstars she's heard, instead moaning like you're really getting it. And suddenly, Ellie wants to be the one to give it to you.

★ Camgirl Ellie who types out various messages to send to your gmail so conveniently linked on your website until she finally settles on something not too awkward

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Collab? Dear urfavfemme,

You were in my livestream the other day. I'm Ellie from the camgirl website, and I wanna know if you'd like to collab? (If you're around my area, of course).

Reading it back after she sent it, she sighs. That looks way too fucking professional for a request to do porn together.

★ Camgirl Ellie who anxiously waits for about an hour, not even Borderlands 3 able to distract her before she finally gets an email back.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Collab?

Hi!! I'm in Fairview, WY if you're near? I'd love to collab:)

★ Ellie, who is freaking the fuck out now. She hadn't had sex in two years since Dina traumatized her with the worst break-up possible, and you're one of the hottest girls she's ever seen. Plus, she is only an hour away from you.

Jesse laughs when she rants to him about the whole thing.

"So you've got a fine ass girl offering to have sex with you? What's the problem?"

Ellie scoffs and gives him a glare, but there isn't any true malice. "That's the problem, idiot! She is way hotter than me. Plus, I haven't even had any practice in so long. What if I can't make her cum? What if I embarrass myself on live in front of both of our fan-"

"C'mon man, you gotta get out of your head about this. Does she seem nice?"

Ellie nods.

Jesse sighs, and slightly softens his tough-love look. "Look, she is probably just as nervous as you are. Give yourself a break, and go have fun with the pretty femme girl."

★ Camgirl Ellie who shows up at your apartment a little earlier than she meant to. She didn't mean to speed, but she was nervous on the road, anxiously tapping the steering wheel.

★ Camgirl Ellie who is greeted by you in a robe and what she assumes is going to be either nothing or lingerie underneath. That makes her heart beat even faster. She feels like she's gonna puke from how nervous she is, you're even more gorgeous up close.

★ Camgirl Ellie who takes in your bedroom compared to her own small apartment's bedroom. You've got posters covering your walls of various artists like PinkPantheress and Joan Jett and the Blackhearts; your bedsheets match your whole feminine vibe, and you have a whole camera set up with a stand. There's a box with a harness and different sizes of dildos inside of it. All of this is making Ellie even more nervous, like, shit her pants nervous.

You seem to take notice of her nerves, because you have clear concern on your face as you guide her to sit on your bed.

"You okay, Ellie?" voice so sweet and soothing, it could make her heart stop.

"Yeah..I'm okay.." she sighs, and anxiously chews on her lip, "I'm just like, me.. and you're super hot and all-"

Ellie's self-doubt is choked off when you cup her face, leaning in. "Do you know why I donated?"

"Why?" Ellie sounds shaky, a little confused on where this is going.

You give her a sweet smile, your glossy lips catching the ceiling light. You lean in even closer so that you can speak quietly, intimately. "I thought that you were easily one of the hottest camgirls I've ever seen on the website."

Ellie's eyebrows shoot up at that. "No fuckin' way you think that.."

Your smile doesn't falter, and you lean in even closer. "I do. I want you to fuck me, Ellie."

★ Camgirl Ellie who didn't know how passionately one could eat a pussy until she got a taste of yours. With the camera all set up and the live on, viewers roll in quickly at the promise of a collab between their two favorite lesbian camgirls. Ellie never forgot about the camera when it came to her solo steams, but you just have an effect on her that makes her head dizzy and her pussy throb, and all of a sudden she has her tongue deep in your wet pussy, alternating between tonguing your hole and tasting your clit. You're sprawled out on your bed, completely naked with Ellie between your thighs, and your moans are even louder than usual. They're angelic sounds that make the comments roll in like crazy.

dykeluvr69 commented: ellie eats pussy like a madman and i am so jealous rn

andersonabs33 commented: she's too sloppy with it, slow tf down girl.

This time, Ellie is far too blissed out devouring you to even pull away and tell the troll to fuck off.

"Mmmph, pussy tastes so fuckin' good.." You can't make out her muffled declaration, but the vibrations on your clit have you creaming for her.

Your pussy just sings for her. Three orgasms in, and she hasn't even used the strap she's wearing yet. She wants to savor every soft whimper you make when she nibbles on your neck before making out with you, tongue shoving into your mouth so that you can take your own perfect pussy on her tongue.

★ Camgirl Ellie whose fingers curl inside of you relentlessly, pumping into you, coaxing out orgasms like it's nothing. To her though, it is truly everything. You cry like you're pleading for her to never stop. It feels like hours that she's been tending to the perfect cunt you've got between your legs, and she doesn't know where she even learned half of the shit she's done. It isn't too hard to please you when she craves your sounds, though. She craves the feeling of your thighs squeezing the apples of her cheeks, making her lightheaded.

★ Camgirl Ellie who saves best for last, finally rubbing girthy silicone against your clit, making you whine in the process. That sound goes straight to her clit.

She grins with a newfound confidence, one she think that she has been given from a witchy ritual or something, not lesbian camgirl sex.

"You want me to fuck you good, baby? Fuck you 'till you squirt on my dick like you made me squirt?"

"Please, fuck, Ellie..." You're babbling nonsense at this point, legs spread wide and knees almost to your ears at you nearly sob for her dick.

"C'mon mamas, I wanna hear you beg for me." She taps the tip against your clit repeatedly, holding you down by the back your thighs to keep you from trying to squirm for more.

"Please, Ellie!! Fuck me, make me cum. I want your dick."

Ellie groans as she finally parts your soaked folds with the tip, sinking into your heat slowly as to not hurt you, but she soon finds that your walls are just swallowing her completely. All that foreplay must've really paid off.

★ Camgirl Ellie who practically goes from a nervous wreck to a pornstar in a matter of minutes, because she insists that she can feel how tight you are around her huge dick.

"Fuck, baby. Gonna fuck this pussy so good, gonna make you scream my name." She manhandles your legs around her waist so that she can hold your hips while she pounds into you, creating a whole bonfire of heat in your pussy.

"Feel you so deep in me, Ellie!" You almost break when she starts leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on your neck.

"Yeah? Gonna make you feel me in your tummy, mamas. Gonna put a baby in you." Where in the hell did that come from? You both roll with it, if not getting even more riled up by the idea of Ellie cumming in you and knocking you up.

"Please, Ellie. 'm g-gonna cum for you-" before you can finally have your orgasm, it's ripped away as she pulls out of you. You can't even protest or make a loud whine before Ellie is flipping you onto your stomach, frantic to tuck one of your pink pillows underneath your tummy. She lines back up with your sloppy hole, slamming back into it to earn herself an actual sob from you.

You cry into the pillow, not from pain at all. No, this is probably one of the best fucks you've ever had in your life. Ellie doesn't start slow again but rather pistons her hips into yours, bony hips slamming into the fat of your ass upon each thrust until you finally get the intense orgasm you need.

"Pleaseknockmeup-" you cum with a broken cry, a couple euphoric tears streaming down your face. Your poor bedsheets, all soaked from you and Ellie's pussies and your tears. At this angle with the pillow raising you, you believe you can truly feel Ellie all up in your stomach. The waves are more like knots of a rope being snapped in half deep inside of you, and Ellie only keeps you riding the pleasure with her little sloppy grunts audible behind you.

Ellie groans as the friction to her own clit is vastly more intense with each grind to meet your body, and now she is humping your ass to get herself off. After she cums with a "gonna fucking cum in this pussy", she goes limp on top of you, her sweaty body covering yours, her tits pressed against your back in a way that is more comforting than arousing now.

★ Camgirl Ellie and you who entirely forget about the live and fall asleep in your bed together, snuggled up with you the big spoon, and the cum-coated strap on thrown somewhere across the room. Your bodies are flush against each other and your hands are wrapped around Ellie’s stomach, holding her closely.

fairydustonmyclit_2 commented: aw this is actually kind of cute

pixiestickpussy commented: i wanna be sandwiched between them wtf

limpbizkitsbitch commented: ts gonna be awkward when they wake up

andersonabs33: quit being a miserable bitch

limpbizkitsbitch: ironic coming from you🌝

andersonabs33 has left the live. Bye!

#ellie williams #tlou2 #ellie tlou #ellie the last of us #ellie x reader #the last of us part 2 #ellie smut #ellie williams au #ellie x you #ellie x fem reader #lesbian sex #wlw #dividers by enchanthings #dividers by anitalenia

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mrsfancyferrari · 5 months ago

Note

Hey I hope you've having an amazing day/evening/night. This is my first time requesting something😅, and I was wondering if you could possibility write something like what you did with my type but the reader having natural auburn curly hair, with freckles thinking that she's not his type or something along those lines.

Gold in Snow

Summary: you and lando are in a relationship but you're reserving hate comments about you being a ginger, with freckles because the fans don't think you're his type

Song: Golden Hour · JVKE

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 5.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the crowd was deafening. Another podium finish for Lando, another shower of champagne soaking his expensive suit. You watched from the relative calm of the garage, a small smile playing on your lips.

He looked genuinely happy, and that, more than anything, made the constant noise and pressure of Formula 1 palatable.

You’d been dating Lando Norris for almost a year now. A year of stolen moments, whispered secrets in hotel rooms, and navigating the chaotic whirlwind that was his life. A year of pure bliss…mostly.

The “mostly” came in the form of comment sections. Forums. Twitter threads dedicated to dissecting every pixel of your existence and comparing it to the accepted prototype of a WAG – Wives and Girlfriends – in the F1 world.

You were… different.

They’d say it with a thinly veiled, almost clinical detachment, but the message was always the same: you didn’t fit. You were too… ginger. Too freckled. Too… you.

The ginger part bothered them the most. Lando was a global superstar, practically sculpted from marble, with a smile that could melt glaciers. He was everything they wanted him to be: conventionally attractive, charming, and effortlessly cool.

And you? You were… well, very, very pale. Your hair was a fiery halo, and your skin was dotted with a constellation of freckles that bloomed fiercer in the summer sun.

“He likes the exotic look,” one comment had sniped. “She’s probably got a killer tan when she’s not hiding in the shade.”

You’d chuckled then, a hollow sound that didn’t quite reach your heart. Exotic? You’d spent your life battling sunburns and jokes about having no soul.

And killer tan? Honey, you burned so fast, lifeguards would start applying sunscreen just by looking at you.

You tried to ignore it. Lando certainly seemed to. He showered you with affection, praised your quick wit and sharp mind, and constantly reminded you how beautiful he found you, flaws and all.

But the insidious comments burrowed under your skin, planting seeds of doubt that you desperately tried to weed out.

You saw him heading towards the garage now, adrenaline still buzzing through him. His eyes found yours, and that signature Lando grin spread across his face. Your heart did that familiar little flip.

“Hey!” he said, pulling you into a hug. He smelled of champagne and victory. “Did you see that last overtake? Unbelievable!”

You laughed, burying your face in his still-damp fire suit. “Yes, I saw it. You were amazing, as always. Just try not to spray me next time, okay?”

He pulled back, his brow furrowed. “You okay? You seem… quiet.”

You forced a smile. “Just tired. It’s been a long weekend.”

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. “Well, we’re flying back tomorrow morning. We can just chill in the hotel tonight. Order some room service, maybe watch a movie?”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, meaning it. Just the two of you, away from the cameras and the judgment.

That night, as you lay in his arms in the dimly lit hotel room, the familiar ache in your chest returned. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were somehow… undeserving.

“Lando?” you whispered, the sound barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning.

“Hmm?” He nuzzled into your hair.

“Do you… do you ever read the comments? About us?”

He stiffened slightly. “I try not to. You know how toxic that can be.”

“But you do read them, right? Sometimes?”

He sighed, a heavy sound that vibrated against your chest. “Okay, yeah, sometimes. But I don’t pay any attention to them. They’re just… noise.”

“Noise that says I’m not good enough for you.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours in the dimness. “What? That’s ridiculous. Who says that?”

“Everyone. Online, anyway. They don’t think I’m your type. They think I’m… too ginger. Too freckled. Too… plain.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. “Hey. Look at me. You are absolutely stunning. Inside and out. You are intelligent, funny, kind, and you have the most beautiful smile in the world. And yes,” he added with a mischievous grin, “I also happen to think your hair is gorgeous, and your freckles are like little constellations scattered across your skin. They’re unique, just like you.”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes. “But they say…”

“They say a lot of things. People are always going to have opinions. But their opinions don’t matter. Only mine does. And I think you are perfect.”

He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, tender kiss that chased away the doubts, at least for a moment.

But even as you melted into him, a small, insidious voice whispered in the back of your mind: He’s just saying that. He has to say that.

The knot in your stomach tightened with each passing day, each new photo plastered across social media. You and Lando, laughing at a restaurant, holding hands at the airport, just being normal.

What shouldn't have been a cause for concern, was. It should have been a happy bubble of romance, but it was quickly becoming a breeding ground for anxiety, a place where your insecurities festered and grew.

Because under each picture, nestled amongst the supportive comments and heart emojis, they lurked. The whispers, the not-so-subtle digs.

"He could do so much better." "She's not even his type." "Another generic influencer." And the worst of it? "Ginger + Freckles = No."

You knew it was irrational. Lando loved you. He told you every day, showed you in a million little ways, from the way he held your hand to the way he looked at you with genuine adoration.

But the internet had a way of burrowing into your brain, planting seeds of doubt that blossomed into thorny vines. You found yourself scrutinizing your reflection, picking apart every freckle, every strand of your fiery hair.

Was it too much? Was it enough? Were you enough?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Lando's voice startled you, pulling you back from the precipice of your spiral. He was standing in the doorway of your shared flat, his racing helmet tucked under his arm, a familiar mischievous grin playing on his lips.

"Just thinking about this weekend," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. "Excited for the snow."

"Me too! Max and Steve are already counting down the hours. You're coming to the slopes tomorrow, right?"

You hesitated. "I… I have something I need to do in the morning. I'll meet you guys up there later, okay?"

Lando frowned, his blue eyes searching yours. "Everything alright, love? You seem a bit off."

"I'm fine," you insisted, forcing a smile. "Just… a doctor's appointment. Nothing serious. I'll explain later. Promise."

He didn't look convinced, but he knew better than to push. "Alright. Just text me when you're on your way. Drive safe.”

He kissed your forehead, the warmth of his touch a brief comfort against the chill that had settled within you and left.

The next morning, the drive to the snow mountains felt endless. Each mile was another step closer to the potential storm brewing in your head.

You told yourself you were being ridiculous, that you were letting faceless strangers dictate your feelings. But the seed of doubt had been planted, watered, and was now taking root.

When you finally arrived at the ski resort, the crisp mountain air did little to soothe your nerves. You walked into the reception area, the scent of pine and hot chocolate thick in the air.

"Name?" the receptionist asked, her eyes glued to the computer screen.

"It's… uh… Y/L/N, party of Lando Norris."

The receptionist's fingers clicked across the keyboard, and she looked up, a polite professional smile gracing her lips. "Ah, yes. Mr. Norris's party. You're all set. Here's your lift pass. Your equipment rental is just through those doors. Have a wonderful day."

You collected your ski boots and poles from the rental shop, the familiar weight grounding you slightly. You'd been skiing since you were a kid, practically born on the slopes.

It was one of the few places you felt truly free, truly yourself.

You strapped on your skis and headed towards the main lift, scanning the crowd for a flash of Lando's familiar McLaren Racing beanie or the boisterous laughter of Max and Steve.

The lift carried you higher and higher, the view expanding to reveal a breathtaking panorama of snow-covered peaks and pristine valleys.

For a moment, the internet, the comments, the doubts, all faded away. You breathed in the crisp air, feeling the thrill of anticipation course through you.

As you reached the top, you spotted them. Lando, grinning and waving, Max, already carving down the slope with reckless abandon, and Steve, carefully navigating the beginner trail.

You took a deep breath, pushed off, and let gravity do its work. The wind whipped through your hair, the sun glinted off the snow, and for the first time that day, you felt a genuine smile spread across your face.

You were good. Really good. You weaved and turned, carving graceful arcs in the powder, your ginger hair a vibrant streak against the white landscape. You glided past other skiers, feeling the rush of adrenaline as you navigated the slopes with practiced ease.

You found yourself on a black diamond run, moguls stretching out before you like frozen waves. This was where you belonged, where you felt alive. You took a deep breath and launched yourself into the challenge, navigating the bumps and dips with precision and skill.

Suddenly, you heard a whoop of excitement and a familiar voice. "Wow, check out the ginger ninja!"

You glanced over your shoulder and saw a couple of guys, clearly impressed by your skiing skills.

You grinned, threw them a wink, and continued your descent, the compliment a small spark of warmth against the doubt that still lingered.

The crisp mountain air bit at Lando’s cheeks, painting them a matching shade to the gaudy orange ski suit Max insisted he wear. He shifted his weight from one ski boot to the other, impatience radiating off him in visible waves.

He’d been waiting at the base of the slope for what felt like an eternity. Max was already halfway up the mountain for his third run. Steve was content to nurse a lukewarm hot chocolate and offer unsolicited advice on Lando’s form, despite the fact Lando hadn't even put his skis on yet.

"She's taking her time," Steve commented, taking another careful sip. "Probably intimidated by the black runs."

Lando rolled his eyes, though fondness softened the gesture. He knew you weren't intimidated by anything. This was more than likely your first time on the slopes, so you were probably taking it easy.

You were a natural athlete, thriving on competition, but you’d also confessed, with a sheepish grin, that skiing looked deceptively easy on TV.

He was about to tell Steve as much when Steve suddenly straightened, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, there's your girl!"

Lando spun around, instantly forgetting the cold, the wait, and Steve’s irritating commentary. He searched the throng of skiers snaking down the slope, his heart doing a little skip. And then he saw you.

You moved with a surprising grace, your skis carving effortless arcs in the snow. Sunlight caught in your fiery red hair, turning it into a cascade of glittering copper. Each freckle seemed to dance on your skin, illuminated by the mountain sun.

He knew, objectively, that you were beautiful. He saw it every day. But seeing you now, flushed with exertion and radiant with joy, took his breath away.

He froze, utterly captivated, as you approached. You navigated the final stretch with smooth confidence. “Show off,” he muttered under his breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You slowed to a stop, kicking up a spray of snow just inches from his boots.

"Hey!" you exclaimed, laughing. You pushed your goggles up onto your forehead, revealing eyes the color of warm honey. "Sorry! How long have you been waiting?"

Your cheeks were rosy, your breath misting in the cold air. Lando stared, speechless.

"Baby? What's wrong?" you asked, your brow furrowing with concern. You reached out, your ungloved hand gently touching his cheek. The cold stung, but he barely noticed.

He swallowed, his voice a low rasp. "You're beautiful."

The words were a whisper, almost lost in the wind. He hadn’t meant to say it so abruptly, so…exposed. But the sight of you, framed by the snow-covered peaks, had rendered him incapable of coherent thought.

Your eyes widened slightly, and a blush bloomed on your cheeks, a delicate counterpoint to the healthy glow of the mountain air. "Lando," you said softly, "you okay? Are you coming down with something?"

He blinked, shaking himself slightly. "No, I'm fine. More than fine, actually. You just…you look incredible."

Steve coughed pointedly beside him. Max, having apparently teleported from the top of the mountain, snickered. Lando shot them both a warning glare. They knew how self-conscious you were, especially around his racing colleagues.

The comments section of his social media had been a cesspool ever since you two became public. Hateful words about your appearance, thinly veiled as concerned opinions that you weren’t “his type,” were a constant, ugly background noise.

He knew it bothered you, even though you tried to brush it off with a laugh and a casual, "Haters gonna hate." But he saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes when you thought no one was looking.

He hated those comments, hated the people who wrote them, and hated that they had the power to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.

He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Ignore them," he said, his voice firm, his gaze locked on yours.

You looked confused. "Ignore who? Max and Steve?"

"Everyone," he said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "Anyone who makes you feel like you're anything less than perfect. Because you are. Perfect. Just the way you are."

The blush on your cheeks deepened, and you ducked your head slightly, a shy smile playing on your lips. "You're sweet," you mumbled. "But I know I'm not everyone's cup of tea."

"Good," Lando said fiercely. "You're mine. And that's all that matters." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, ignoring Max's exaggerated gagging noises.

He pulled back and met your gaze, his expression serious. "Listen to me. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're not beautiful, or that you're not good enough, or that you don't belong. Because they're wrong. They’re absolutely, unequivocally wrong. You’re amazing, inside and out. You’re kind, you’re funny, you’re fiercely intelligent, and yes, you’re unbelievably beautiful. And I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have you."

A tear, born of emotion and the biting wind, escaped your eye. "You're going to make me cry," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

"Good," Lando said, wiping the tear away with his thumb. "Let them see you cry. Let them see how real and how beautiful you are. Don't hide anything. Don't let anyone dim your light."

He knew his words were bold, maybe even a little cheesy, but he meant every single one of them. He wanted you to know, deep down, that he saw you, truly saw you, and that nothing anyone said would ever change that.

Max, surprisingly, had stopped snickering. He clapped Lando on the shoulder. "Alright, mate, enough with the declarations of love. Let's hit the slopes. Before I get frostbite."

Steve nodded in agreement. “He’s right, Lando. You can gush later. Right now, let’s see if your girl’s got what it takes.” He winked at you. “No pressure.”

You smiled, the tension easing from your shoulders. "Pressure is my middle name," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Let's go."

Lando grinned, relieved to see the familiar spark back in your eyes. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting go.

He watched as you adjusted your goggles and clicked your poles into the snow. He felt a surge of pride watching you. He knew the comments would still be there, lurking in the shadows of the internet, waiting to pounce.

But he also knew that you were strong. You were resilient. And you had him.

He grabbed his own skis, a newfound confidence coursing through him. He would protect you, always. But more than that, he would celebrate you, every freckle, every fiery strand of hair, every brilliant facet of your being.

As you pushed off, gracefully navigating the gentle slope, Lando felt a lightness in his heart that had nothing to do with the altitude. He knew, without a doubt, that their love story was just beginning, and he couldn't wait to see where it would take them.

He followed you down the slope, his orange ski suit a beacon against the white snow. He caught up to you easily, skiing alongside you, matching your pace.

"So," he said, grinning mischievously. "Think you can keep up with me, ginger?"

You laughed, a bright, joyful sound that echoed through the mountains. "Try me, Papaya boy."

And with that, you kicked it up a notch, leaving Lando in your snowy wake.

He laughed, his heart soaring.

He pushed off, determined to catch up, knowing that even if he never did, he would be perfectly content just to chase you, forever. . . .

The papaya coloured dress hung on you, a vibrant splash of sunshine in the sterile white bathroom. It was Lando’s favourite colour, or so he claimed. He said it reminded him of McLaren, of speed, of… you.

But all you could see in the mirror was a canvas of imperfections.

Your reflection stared back, a stranger dissected and judged. The fiery red hair, usually a source of pride, now felt like a neon sign screaming "OUT OF PLACE."

The constellation of freckles scattered across your nose and cheeks, tiny sun-kissed stars Lando often traced with his fingertip, seemed like blemishes, flaws magnified under the harsh bathroom light.

The original plan, a simple elegance of no-makeup and loose waves, lay discarded. You'd envisioned a carefree evening, a confident entrance with Lando by your side.

Now, the thought of facing the public, the prying eyes, the inevitable whispers, felt like climbing a mountain of anxiety.

Social media had been a minefield lately. Ever since your relationship with Lando Norris became public, the comment sections had become a breeding ground for toxicity. Most were overwhelmingly supportive, celebrating your love.

But a persistent undercurrent of negativity gnawed at your confidence. The "fans," or rather, the internet trolls masquerading as them, were relentless.

“She’s not his type.”

“He could do so much better.”

“Ginger? Really? He's lowering his standards.”

The worst were the comments picking apart your appearance. The freckles, the hair, the perceived lack of "glamour." They painted you as an anomaly, someone who didn't belong in Lando's world. It was absurd, of course.

Lando loved you for you. He told you every day. But the insidious nature of online hate was that it seeped in, whispering doubts in your ear when you were most vulnerable.

Tonight, facing a McLaren party filled with glamorous personalities and industry insiders, the doubts had reached a crescendo. You grabbed a tissue from the dispenser, dabbing at the corners of your eyes, fighting back the overwhelming urge to cry.

The reflection in the mirror blurred, the colours swam, and the vibrant papaya felt like a mocking reminder of everything you weren't.

That’s when you heard the familiar click of the front door.

“Y/n?” Lando’s voice echoed through the house, a warm, comforting sound that momentarily cut through the anxiety clouding your mind.

Panic seized you. You couldn't let him see you like this, a mess of insecurities and mascara-smeared cheeks. You needed to compose yourself, to build up a façade of confidence before facing him.

Quickly, you turned the small lock on the bathroom door. The click was loud in the sudden silence.

“Y/n?” he called again, his voice closer now. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just… just getting ready,” you managed, trying to inject a lightness into your tone that felt utterly fake. Your voice wavered, betraying your true state. “I’ll be out in a second.”

You heard him pause outside the door. “You sure? You sound… different.”

He knew you too well. He always did. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears away. “Just a bit of a headache. Nothing serious.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, thick with unspoken concern. You could almost feel his presence on the other side of the door.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice softening. “But don’t rush. I’m happy to wait. Do you want me to get you some water?”

His thoughtfulness, his unwavering care, only made the guilt swell inside you. He was so genuine, so supportive, and here you were, hiding from him, consumed by the petty insecurities fueled by strangers on the internet.

“No, I’m fine,” you insisted, a little too quickly. “Just… give me a few more minutes, okay?”

“Alright,” he said, a hint of reluctance in his voice. You heard him move away from the door. “I’ll be in the living room.”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning against the cool porcelain of the sink. This couldn’t go on. You couldn't let these hateful comments dictate your life, dictate your relationship.

Lando deserved better. You deserved better.

Taking a deep breath, you turned on the cold tap, splashing water on your face. You grabbed a towel and gently patted your skin dry, removing the remnants of your almost-attempted makeup.

You looked at yourself again, really looked.

The fiery hair, the freckles, the flaws… they were all part of you. They were what made you unique, what made you you. And Lando loved you for it. He saw beauty where others saw imperfections.

He saw strength where others saw vulnerability. Why were you letting the opinions of anonymous strangers outweigh the love and adoration of the man you adored?

You let out a shaky sigh, a weight lifting from your shoulders. It wasn't a complete cure, the insecurities wouldn't vanish overnight, but it was a start.

With newfound resolve, you took another look at the papaya dress. It shimmered under the light, a vibrant symbol of sunshine and joy. You smoothed the fabric down, a small smile gracing your lips.

You unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out.

Lando was standing in the living room, fiddling with his phone. He looked up as you entered, his face immediately lighting up. He was wearing a simple dark suit, impeccably tailored, but it was the genuine warmth in his eyes that truly caught your attention.

He took a step towards you, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe. The smile widened.

“Wow,” he breathed, his voice laced with admiration. “You look absolutely stunning.”

You blushed, the compliment genuine and heartfelt. “Thank you.”

He closed the distance between you, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks, tracing the familiar pattern of your freckles.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft with concern. “You seemed a bit… off earlier.”

You hesitated, the urge to brush it off still lingering. But you knew you couldn't hide from him. He deserved the truth.

“I… I saw some comments online,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “About… about me. About not being ‘your type.’”

His expression darkened, his eyes hardening with anger. “Don’t you dare listen to those people, Y/n,” he said fiercely, his grip on your face tightening slightly.

“They don’t know anything. My ‘type’ is someone who is kind, intelligent, funny, and beautiful, inside and out. Someone who makes me laugh every single day. Someone who challenges me and supports me, even when I’m being an idiot. That’s you, Y/n. That's always been you."

He paused, his gaze searching yours, making sure you understood the sincerity of his words.

"And as for the… the physical stuff," he continued, his voice softening again. "Your hair is the most beautiful shade of red I've ever seen. Your freckles are like little constellations, guiding me through the darkness. And that little dimple you get when you smile? Drives me absolutely crazy."

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you’re not good enough, Y/n. Because to me, you are perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of relief, of gratitude, of love.

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. “I love you, Lando,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his jacket.

He held you tight, his arms a comforting embrace. “I love you too, Y/n. More than you know.”

After a long moment, you pulled back, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. You took a deep breath, feeling a surge of confidence wash over you.

Lando was right. You couldn't let the negativity of others define you. You had his love, his support, and that was all that mattered.

You looked at him, a genuine smile gracing your lips. "Ready to go to this party?"

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Absolutely. And just so you know, I'm planning on spending the entire night showing you off to everyone. They need to see how lucky I am."

He took your hand in his, his fingers interlacing with yours. As you walked out the door together, you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. And that, you realised, was all that truly mattered.

The haters could say what they wanted. You had Lando, you had your love, and that was more than enough. The papaya dress suddenly felt like armour, not a target.

You were ready to face the world, hand in hand, imperfections and all. . . .

The party was exactly what you expected: loud music, flashing lights, and a sea of familiar faces from the F1 world – drivers, team principals, engineers, and their partners.

The sheer volume of people made your anxiety prickle, but Lando kept a firm grip on your hand, navigating you through the crowd.

He introduced you to what felt like a hundred people, his arm possessively around your waist, his smile beaming. You tried to focus on the conversations, to be witty and engaging, but the whispers seemed to follow you, phantom echoes of the comments haunting your mind.

“Lando’s with her?”

“She’s… different.”

“Not exactly what I expected.”

You squeezed Lando’s hand tighter, trying to ground yourself. He seemed oblivious to the undercurrents, his attention solely focused on you.

“Having fun?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the music.

You forced a smile. “Yeah, it’s… great.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching. He knew you better than anyone, and he could see the forced cheerfulness masking your discomfort.

“Hey,” he murmured, pulling you closer. “If you want to leave, we can. We don’t have to stay here.”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I’m fine. I want to be here. With you.”

He smiled, relieved. "Okay, but seriously, if you change your mind, just say the word."

Just then, a tall, lanky figure approached, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Lando! Mate, good to see you.”

“Oscar!” Lando clapped him on the back. “Good to see you too. Oscar, this is my girlfriend, Y/N. Y/N, this is Oscar Piastri.”

Oscar offered you his hand, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

You shook his hand, trying to gauge his expression. Was there judgment there? Pity? You couldn’t tell. “Likewise, Oscar. Congratulations on your season so far.”

“Thanks,” he said, his smile genuine. "It's been... interesting, to say the least." He paused, then gestured to a woman standing beside him. "And this is my girlfriend, Lily."

Lily stepped forward, her smile warm and inviting. She had kind eyes and a simple elegance that immediately put you at ease. "It's lovely to meet you, Y/N. Lando talks about you all the time."

You blushed, glancing at Lando, who just winked. "All good things, I hope?"

Lily laughed. "Of course! He's completely smitten."

The four of you fell into easy conversation, discussing the season, the pressures of being in the spotlight, and the challenges of maintaining relationships in such a demanding environment.

You found yourself relaxing, the tension slowly draining away. Lily was refreshingly down-to-earth, and Oscar, despite his reserved demeanour, had a dry wit that you found endearing.

As the conversation flowed, you noticed Lily subtly steer the topic towards your interests, asking about your work, your hobbies, and your passions.

She seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you, not just as Lando’s girlfriend, but as an individual.

“So, Y/N” Lily said, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, “Lando tells me you’re a writer? That’s fascinating! What kind of writing do you do?”

“I dabble in a bit of everything,” you replied, feeling your confidence grow. “Short stories, poetry, some freelance journalism. It depends on what sparks my interest, really.”

“That’s amazing,” she gushed. “I’ve always admired people who can write. It’s such a powerful way to express yourself.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “It is. I’m useless at it. Give me a steering wheel any day.”

Laughter bubbled up from your chest, your earlier anxieties fading into the background. You were having a genuine, enjoyable conversation, with people who seemed to genuinely care about you.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the noise. “Lando, darling! There you are!”

A woman, dripping in diamonds and designer clothes, glided towards you, her eyes scanning you from head to toe with blatant disapproval. You recognized her as the wife of a prominent team principal, a woman known for her sharp tongue and even sharper judgment.

Lando’s smile faltered slightly as he turned to face her. “Genevieve, good to see you.”

She completely ignored Oscar and Lily, her gaze fixed on you. “And who is this, Lando? A new… acquaintance?”

You felt your cheeks flush, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You knew what was coming.

Lando’s arm tightened around your waist. “This is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “This is your girlfriend? How… interesting.” Her tone dripped with condescension. “Well, congratulations, darling. I’m sure you’re very happy.”

She turned back to Lando, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Lando, darling, you really could do so much better. Don't you want to think about your image?”

You felt your heart sink. This was it. The moment of truth. You braced yourself for the inevitable onslaught of negativity.

But then, something unexpected happened. Lando’s eyes flashed with anger, and his grip on your waist tightened protectively.

“I’m perfectly happy, thank you,” he said, his voice cold and firm. “And Y/N is more than enough. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were in the middle of a conversation.”

He turned his back on the woman, effectively dismissing her. He looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, still reeling from the encounter. “Yeah,” you mumbled. "I'm okay

Lily stepped forward, her expression fierce. “Honestly, some people are just ridiculous,” she said, her voice laced with scorn. “Don’t let her get to you, Y/N. She’s just jealous.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “She’s got nothing better to do than spread negativity. Ignore her.”

Lando squeezed your hand. “They’re right. Don’t let her ruin your night.”

You looked at them, at Lando, at Lily, at Oscar. You saw genuine support, genuine kindness, genuine acceptance. And suddenly, the weight on your chest lifted. The comments, the whispers, the judgment – they didn’t matter.

You had people who loved you, who supported you, who valued you for who you were, not for who the internet thought you should be.

You took a deep breath, straightened your shoulders, and smiled. “You know what? You’re right. I’m not going to let her ruin my night.”

Lando grinned, relieved. “That’s the spirit. Now, how about we get out of here and go somewhere more… private?” He winked suggestively.

Lily laughed. “Sounds like a plan. Oscar, you’re driving, right? I’ve had one too many cocktails.”

As you walked away, hand in hand with Lando, you glanced back at Lily and Oscar, a warm feeling of gratitude washing over you. You had found unexpected allies, people who saw past the surface and appreciated you for who you were.

You were still an outsider, still a ginger with freckles, still not “his type” according to the internet. But tonight, surrounded by love and support, you didn’t care. You had Lando, you had friends, and you had the courage to be yourself.

And that, you realised, was more than enough. The papaya dress no longer felt like armour, but a symbol of your strength, your resilience, and your unwavering commitment to being true to yourself.

You were you and you were happy. . . .

landonorris

liked by carlossainz55, alexandrasaintmleux, yourusername and 867,879 others

landonorris

Happy anniversary to my beautiful girl. Two years. Two years of laughter, adventures, and learning to love you more fiercely every single day. I know the internet can be a dark place, especially for someone as radiant as you. Don't listen to anyone who talks about you bad, especially those whispering nonsense about "types." They see a snapshot; I see the whole damn masterpiece.

Your fiery hair is sunshine on a cloudy day, each freckle a tiny star mapping out the constellation of my heart. They don't see the intelligence that sparkles in your eyes, the quick wit that keeps me on my toes, or the unwavering kindness you show to everyone you meet. They don’t see you. You are everything I could ever want, and more than I ever deserve. So, happy anniversary, my love. Let's keep painting our world with joy, ignoring the noise, and celebrating the beautiful, unique you. I love you more than words can say. ❤️

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charlvr · 1 month ago

Text

- the universe's cosmic joke | Megan is not in love

Pairing. Main: Megan Skiendiel x Reader | sub: Daniela Avanzini x Reader

w.c. 5.4 k

Read the main story: here | masterlist

Megan Skiendiel didn’t really believe in love at first sight. But falling for Y/N L/N? That came pretty damn close.

She isn’t even sure Y/N remembers their first meeting. And honestly, Megan wouldn’t blame her.

Those days at Dream Academy had been nothing short of a nightmare, a memory she would rather leave buried if she could. But even in what she now calls “hell on earth,” she had met Y/N. And for that reason alone, she figures it might have all been worth it.

Looking back, she wonders if she should have known better. When she applied, Megan thought she was ready for the worst of Dream Academy. She had the experience: years of vocal lessons, countless hours of dance practice, and enough rehearsals to know how to stand in front of a camera and smile like she meant it. She thought that would be enough to keep her safe.

What she hadn’t expected was how quickly the place turned toxic. Everyone seemed to know how to be pleasant on camera and ruthless the second the lights were off. The producers bullied contestants and constantly stirred up drama for sound bites. The performances were grueling, and the criticisms sharp. And though Megan was mostly spared from the worst of it, always earning at least a polite nod or a clipped compliment from the instructors, that small grace came at a cost. It meant the other contestants saw her as a target, a threat, something to be resented. Not everyone, but enough. Enough that she started noticing how the atmosphere shifted whenever she walked into the room. How the whispers would rise just as she passed, and the stares felt less like curiosity and more like a test.

She tried not to let it get to her. Told herself she had been through competitions before, that she knew how to handle pressure. But Dream Academy was different. It wasn’t just about skill, it was about survival. It was the kind of place that made even her steady confidence feel like it was always teetering on the edge, just one misstep away from falling apart.

And fall she did.

She wasn’t sure what happened. Maybe she hadn’t slept enough the night before, or maybe her muscles had just been too tight. Or maybe she had simply been human. Either way, halfway through a routine, she missed a beat. She tried to catch up too quickly and overshot her turn, ending up flat on her back.

One moment she had been in control, the next she was staring up at the ceiling, the world gone still around her. Her breathing was loud in her own ears, every inhale too sharp, too close.

Silence.

Then, the low, collective exhale of satisfaction. Like the room had been holding its breath, waiting for her to prove she wasn’t invincible after all. Like they’d all been hoping for it.

Megan hadn’t been angry that day. Or even that embarrassed, really. She had just felt a hollow sort of disappointment in herself. For giving them what they had wanted. The instructor wasted no time filling the silence with a speech on the importance of what they were doing, a speech Megan could have recited herself by then. Precision, he said. Strength. Focus. All the usual hits.

Megan nodded, eyes fixed on a loose thread in her shirt, waiting for him to stop. She didn’t interject, didn’t rush him. She just listened. Took the blows. Because that's what you did in Dream Academy. Because the only other choice was to let them see you were rattled.

When the instructor finally turned away, Megan thought that would be the end of it. She’d get up, brush herself off, and be the hot topic on everyone’s tongue for the next few days. Nothing new. Nothing she wouldn’t be able to handle.

What she didn’t expect was the tap on her shoulder. Light. Gentle. And she definitely didn’t expect Y/N’s face when she looked up.

“Hey,” Y/N said, leaning in with a grin that looked like it might split her face if she tried to hold it back. She was close. Maybe a little too close, and Megan wasn’t sure if Y/N even noticed, “Was it just me, or did he start sounding like a bedtime story halfway through?”

Megan blinked, her breath catching. “What?”

Y/N tilted her head, her grin growing even wider. “The instructor. He was talking and I swear my eyelids were starting to betray me.”

A small, startled laugh slipped out of Megan’s mouth, more from surprise than anything else. “You think?”

Y/N didn’t even pause. “Absolutely,” she said, her tone so sure, so easy, like it was Megan who hadn’t been paying attention. She leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping as if they were sharing something secret and just for them. “He even does this thing with his voice—like he’s reading from a textbook nobody asked for. Just blah blah blah. On and on. Like we get it! We’re lucky to be here. We should worship the ground you walk on and offer to lick your boot straps.” She paused, her eyes dancing, “But, you know, it’s usually just at me. So thanks for taking the heat today. I'm not sure I would've survived another lecture from Mr. Monotone, over there."

So-called Mr. Monotone turned around just then, as if he could sense something afoot. Even from across the room, his gaze zeroed in on Y/N like a spotlight. Testament to her character, perhaps.

Y/N just pretended not to notice the daggers in his stare.

Megan stared at Y/N for a long moment, not quite sure what to make of it all. Of this girl in front of her who spoke like there was nothing odd about how easily she closed the distance between them. Who laughed like she and Megan had been sharing inside jokes for years. Who leaned in as if there was no question whether she’d be welcome, as if Megan was someone she could speak to without thinking twice. Who didn’t seem to care about the eyes around them, or the quiet pressure that had been pressing down on Megan’s shoulders since the second she stepped into the studio.

There was something so acutely disarming about it. Something that made Megan forget, for a single breath, that she was supposed to be holding herself together, not… whatever this was.

All she could do was giggle. An unguarded, bubbling sound she hadn’t heard from herself in far too long. She let it slip out before she could catch it, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t care.

Y/N’s smile grew almost imperceptibly wider.

“Well, next time it’s your turn again,” Megan said, her voice coming out a little lighter, a little braver than she’d expected. She wasn’t sure if it was meant as a joke or a promise, but either way, it felt like something she wanted to keep saying.

Y/N’s smile dropped, all exaggerated and dramatic. “Aw man, do I have to?” she groaned, her voice pitched high with mock complaint. But even as her lips turned down, her eyes stayed bright and playful, and Megan swore she had never seen anything more captivating. “Fine, I guess if I owe you one.” She sighed and reached out her hand, the movement casual but full of quiet certainty. Megan took it, noting how warm and steady Y/N’s grip felt as she pulled her up.

“But next time, you help me up, alright?” Y/N said, like it was a promise. She waited for Megan’s nod, then gave her arm one last, gentle pat and flashed a final, bright grin before turning away and disappearing back into the music and the world around them.

Megan watched her go, feeling something warm settle in her chest. It wasn’t love. No, that would be absurd. But it was something close. Something that reminded her, if only for a moment, how it felt to laugh without thinking twice, to be herself without having to prove it.

And she thought to herself that she quite liked that feeling.

—

After that day, Megan found herself looking for Y/N whenever they were in the same room. She’d catch herself watching the way Y/N’s smile always reached her eyes, or how she’d wave at anyone and everyone with the same unguarded energy.During meals, Megan would find excuses to sit closer, telling herself it was just because the lighting was better there, or because she liked the breeze from the air conditioning.

And maybe she did start dancing a little better when she knew Y/N was watching. Maybe she held her head a little higher when she heard Y/N’s laughter.

It didn’t really matter. All she knew was that she wanted to see that smile meant for her. Again. And again. And again.

—

But she never really got another chance to. Not when it seemed like all Y/N saw was Daniela Avanzini.

Megan noticed it long before anyone said it out loud. The way Y/N’s eyes would soften whenever Daniela walked into the room, like there was some unspoken understanding just between them. The way her gaze always found Daniela’s, the quiet way her shoulders would ease, like the simple fact of Daniela being there was enough to make the whole world a little brighter. It was as if Daniela lit Y/N from within, and there wasn’t room for anything or anyone else.

Megan recognized that feeling. She’d spent enough time on stage to know what it looked like when someone was watching their own personal star. And Megan, who had always known how to make herself seen, found she didn’t know how to compete with that.

Still, she tried. In her own small, quiet ways. She would think about asking Y/N to practice together sometime, or about just saying thank you for that day. She’d think of questions to ask, easy ones that didn’t really matter, like if Y/N had a favorite song or if she believed in pineapples on pizza. Something small. Something silly. Something that might be enough to see that bright smile again, even if just for a moment.

But she never did. She’d get as far as picturing how Y/N would laugh, how her eyes would light up, and then the words would catch in her throat. Because more often than not, Daniela would walk in. And in that instant, it was like Y/N forgot the rest of the world even existed.

Megan told herself she was okay with that. She thought she could be content with the small, half-stolen glances. The little pieces of Y/N she got when no one else was around. But the night of the finale made one thing clear.

She had watched from the side, heart thumping along to the music, sweat still cooling on her skin. The lights swept across the stage, and then Y/N’s name was called. Megan didn’t even hear her own name in the next breath, because all she could see was Y/N, beaming so wide it looked like it must have hurt, running straight into Daniela’s arms. Y/N looked so happy. So sure. And Megan, who had spent so long thinking about what she might say if she ever got the chance, felt the words she’d been carrying shrivel up before they even reached her lips.

It might not have been love at first sight. But it sure did sting like one.

—

Megan stopped looking for Y/N after that.

She would show up to every rehearsal, every lesson, every group practice, of course. Did her part. But she learned to be careful with her presence. She started scheduling her private coaching sessions at different times, making sure to be out of the room before Y/N walked in. During group events, she’d find a way to keep herself walled off by the others, her smile polite but distant. If Y/N was at the center of it all, bright and laughing and easy as ever, Megan made sure she was at the edge.

It wasn’t that she wanted to give up. If anything, she would have been more than willing to try again, to see if she could win Y/N over with small jokes or half-smiles or the promise of something more. But every time she thought she might, she’d catch Daniela and Y/N together, and the idea would fade before it even really formed.

Because there was something in the way Daniela looked at Y/N when she thought no one was paying attention. Megan had seen it more than once: lingering glances across the practice room, careful, quiet, so deliberate. Daniela’s eyes would soften in a way that was almost secretive, like she was trying to memorize every small detail of Y/N’s smile. Like each glance might be the last.

It wasn’t just admiration. It was personal. Intimate. Like she was seeing something the rest of the world wasn’t supposed to.

And it was that intimacy, the unspoken thread that seemed to tie Y/N and Daniela together, that made Megan hesitate. Because it was one thing to want Y/N’s laughter, that bright spark she carried so carelessly. It was another to try and take it from someone who already held it so carefully.

—

But then Daniela came out as straight, and Megan didn’t know what to do with herself.

She’d been watching the Weverse live because, of course, she had. Lara was on, and what kind of roommate would she be if she didn’t at least tune in? So there she was, curled up on her hotel bed, half-listening to the stream of fan questions and group banter, grateful for the easy chatter after weeks of constant performances. And then, out of nowhere, Daniela just… said it. I’m straight.

Megan had paused the video, her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something else she couldn’t name. She replayed it once. Twice.

Daniela was grinning, Manon and Lara were cackling, the comments section was in meltdown mode, and Megan was… stunned.

She had been so sure. Absolutely sure that Daniela and Y/N were secretly in love with each other. She’d seen it in the way Y/N’s eyes would flicker over to Daniela, soft and searching. The way Daniela always seemed to be standing just a little too close, her eyes lingering a little too long. Megan had convinced herself it was only a matter of time before they admitted it—if not to everyone else, then at least to each other.

But apparently not.

She tried to puzzle it out, going over every memory like there might have been some clue she’d missed. Maybe Daniela didn’t realize it yet. Maybe she was in denial. Or maybe, Megan’s stomach gave a small, traitorous flip, maybe she’d been wrong all along. Maybe it was just… nothing.

She decided she’d ask Lara once they were back in LA. Lara always knew the full story, whether you wanted her to or not. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Megan let herself feel the smallest flicker of hope.

—

That hope didn’t last long.

The second they landed in LA, Megan was swept into a blur of promo shoots, fittings, and endless meetings. She barely had time to drop her suitcase at home before she was whisked off again. By the end of the day, she was still clutching the lint roller from her last fitting, her mind fuzzy with exhaustion.

All she wanted was a shower and a moment of peace. Maybe she’d finally corner Lara and get the truth about Daniela and Y/N. But when she walked into her room that night, that plan went straight out the window.

Because there was Y/N. On Lara’s bed. Face down, hair a mess, shoulders hunched like she wanted to disappear. She looked up the moment Megan stepped in, eyes wide and a little guilty.

Megan froze. For a second, she couldn’t even process what she was seeing. Then, a thousand questions tumbled through her mind, with increasing urgency: Why was Y/N here? Had she seen the half-unpacked suitcases? The messy pile of laundry in the corner? Mostly Lara’s, might she add. Did she think Megan was a sloppy, unprepared, complete disaster?

Megan realized, belatedly, that she was still just standing there in the doorway, lint roller clutched to her chest like a shield. She thinks Y/N said something, but she hadn’t been paying attention. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything, to say. To fill in the silence. Finally, she managed, her voice small, “I’m just… grabbing the lint roller,” immediately wishing she could sink straight into the floor because, of course, she was already holding one.

Y/N definitely gave her a weird look. But as if on cue, Lara, calm as ever, just tossed her another lint roller from the nightstand. “Here, catch,” she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Megan caught it on instinct, too stunned to even fumble. She stared at it for a moment, willing it to give her a better excuse or some quick explanation for why she’d walked in so suddenly. But nothing came to her. Nothing. So she just gave one more small, awkward nod and squeaked out a quiet, “Thanks,” before turning on her heel and practically fleeing the room.

In the hallway, Megan stopped, the lint roller pressed to her chest. Her heart was still thudding in her ears, her face warm in a way she couldn’t quite shake. “Okay,” she muttered to herself, trying to steady her breathing. “You played it cool, Megan. Totally cool.” She took one step down the hall before it hit her. That was her room. She had nowhere else to go. Damn it.

Realizing she had boxed herself in, she decided to linger in the kitchen for a while, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the countertop. When she finally worked up the nerve to go back to the room later that night, it felt smaller somehow. Lara was sprawled across her bed, propped up on her elbows with one brow raised, that familiar spark of mischief in her eyes.

“Finally remembered where home was?” Lara asked, her voice light and amused in a way that made Megan want to crawl out of her skin.

“Shut up,” Megan muttered, tossing the lint rollers onto her dresser with a little more force than necessary. “You didn’t tell me Y/N would be here.”

Lara just shrugged, her hair falling over her shoulder as she gave Megan a slow, knowing look. “She kind of just… appeared. What’s the big deal? You’d think you’d be happier to see her.”

“Not when she’s in your bed,” Megan blurted out before she could stop herself. The words hung in the air longer than she meant them to. Her face flushed the second they slipped out.

Lara’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. “Oh? Oh!” she said, drawing out the words like she was savoring them. A low laugh bubbled up. “So you want her in your bed?”

Megan’s face went crimson, heat blooming in her cheeks. “No! Not like that,” she squeaked, her hands flying up in a helpless little gesture.

Lara just laughed, the sound easy and amused, like she’d been waiting for that exact reaction. She pushed herself up on her elbows, shifting her weight to look at Megan more closely. “Relax, I’m just teasing,” she said, though her grin told Megan she wouldn’t be living this down anytime soon. “But what’s going on? You looked like you had something on your mind.”

Megan let out a small, shaky breath and sank down onto the edge of the bed, unsure how to start. She glanced at Lara, then away, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “Why was Y/N even here?” she finally asked, going for the question that felt the safest. The one that didn’t lay her heart out for everyone to see.

Lara’s expression shifted, the playful spark dimming for a moment. “Daniela,” she said simply, as if that alone held the answer to everything. And maybe it did. Maybe when it came to Y/N, Daniela was the key. Megan wasn’t sure she liked that thought.

She swallowed. “So… what’s the deal with them?” she asked carefully, the question feeling bigger than she meant it to be. “I always thought Daniela and Y/N were… you know.”

“It’s… complicated,” Lara said, her voice softer than usual, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the blanket. Megan wondered if she’d ever heard Lara sound so thoughtful. But then Lara’s grin returned, her eyes glinting like the conversation hadn’t even touched her. “But hey, clearly they’re not together. So this could be your chance, Megatron.”

The god-awful nickname dragged Megan out of her thoughts. Grabbing the nearest pillow and shoving it over her face, Megan’s words were muffled but still plenty mortified. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, why not? You’d probably let Y/N call you that,” Lara teased, her tone too smug for Megan to even bother arguing.

“I’m going to bed.” She declared.

“Dream of Y/N for me.”

“I’m going to request a new roommate.”

“Who Y/N?”

Lara was still laughing when Megan pulled the blanket over her head.

—

It was still on Megan’s mind the next day. The lint roller incident. Y/N in her room. Lara’s words. The way she had made a fool of herself. She’d spent the better part of the night trying to convince herself it wasn’t a big deal, that Y/N’s bright laughter and nervous fidgeting didn’t matter to her anymore. That she was over that silly little crush from long ago. But it did. And she wasn’t.

But it wasn’t like the universe to give time to collect her thoughts before she was swept up in another round of interviews. No time to catch her breath, to quiet the little voice in her head that wouldn’t stop repeating Y/N in my room. And because fate was apparently in a particularly mocking mood, Megan found herself seated right next to Y/N. The one thing she’d been so carefully avoiding since the group formed.

She’d tried, really tried, to see if management would rearrange the seats, but all she got was a polite smile and a dismissive wave of the hand. So she sat there, back straight, hands folded in her lap like she was at a job interview. She tried to keep her face calm, her expression neutral, even though every nerve felt like it was crackling.

She wasn’t sure it was working.

Daniela and Y/N were separated too. Megan noticed it right away. She wondered if it was on purpose, if they’d both needed the distance. Or if it was just another accident of fate, one of those quiet shifts that changed everything without anyone meaning to.

Then Y/N turned to her, offering a small, slightly hesitant smile. Said something meant to be easy, small talk that should have felt simple, if Megan’s brain hadn’t completely short-circuited. Because of course it did. She tried to answer, anyway, but her words got stuck somewhere between her throat and her heart.

I’m over this stupid crush. I’m over it.

She repeated it to herself again and again, but then she’d accidentally catch Y/N’s gaze and see that polite smile. And suddenly, she’d forget what she’d been saying at all.

But if Megan thought that the small talk was awkward, she had no idea what the rest of the interview would bring.

That night, she told herself she wouldn’t look. That she didn’t need to see what the fans were saying, didn’t need to know how much of herself had slipped through the cracks. But curiosity was a sharp, undeniable thing, and before she could talk herself out of it, her phone was in her hand.

#MegY/N was trending.

Not just a passing mention. Everywhere. Her name next to Y/N’s in every clip, every grainy photo, every soft-focus edit.

It wasn’t the fact that people were shipping her with Y/N that made her want to hide under her blanket, however. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel a small, guilty flicker of excitement at first. She even saved a few of the posts to her bookmarks. Just to look at later, she told herself (what, a girl can’t have hobbies?). It was the sheer thoroughness of it all.

The eyekons had dug up everything. Everything. Every glance, every quiet laugh, every time Megan tried and failed to act like she wasn’t completely, utterly captivated by Y/N. Clipped. Edited. And compiled for the world to see.

Wonderful.

It was really wonderful.

Megan told herself at least it couldn’t get any worse. She was pretty wrong.

—

Management wasted no time. The day after the interview, they were already nudging her and Y/N together again. “Casual hangouts,” they said, like it was nothing. Like it wouldn’t send that small rush of nerves through her every time she thought about it.

But then… nothing. A few weeks of calm. Enough time that Megan almost convinced herself it had all passed. That she could slip back into the routine: quiet rehearsals, polite distance. That she didn’t need to think about it anymore. About how her chest always felt a little too full when Y/N laughed, or how her breath would catch when their eyes met. Just a crush, she told herself. Harmless. Temporary. So far in the past it didn’t matter.

She almost believed it.

Until the email from management landed in her inbox. A “friendly reminder” to get some content. A not-so-subtle suggestion that she and Y/N should be seen together again. Megan read it, closed it, and sat in silence for a moment. Then she took a quiet breath and told herself: Okay. Fine. Whatever.

She met Y/N at the coffee shop a few days later, a place that looked like it had been ripped from some influencer’s Instagram feed. Megan was early, of course. She always was. She sat at the window, fingers tracing the cardboard sleeve of her drink, telling herself it didn’t matter. That it was just another thing to tick off the list.

But every time she pictured Y/N walking in, there was a flutter in her chest she couldn’t ignore. She hated how easily she could picture Y/N not coming at all, and how that thought made her stomach dip in a way she wished it wouldn’t.

And when Y/N finally did arrive, flushed and breathless, apologies spilling out in a rush, Megan had to fight to keep her smile steady. She didn’t want Y/N to see how her heart had skipped. She didn’t want to admit to herself how much it meant, just to see that bright grin aimed right at her again.

The coffee shop was… fine. Polished and curated, but a little too quiet. Megan found herself fidgeting with her cup, nodding along even as her mind wandered. She was nervous, she realized. Not in a bad way. Just… that small, jittery feeling she had almost forgotten how to welcome. The kind of feeling that made her wonder if maybe it wasn’t as harmless as she’d been telling herself.

So when Y/N suggested they leave, Megan didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” she said, relief soft in her voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

The arcade was everything the coffee shop wasn’t: loud, messy, alive. With blinking lights and the echo of clattering tokens, it felt like they’d finally dropped the careful politeness and could just… exist. Megan found herself relaxing without even trying, the nervous energy in her chest settling into something that felt almost like excitement.

She watched Y/N wander the arcade, eyes shining as she flitted from game to game. Megan felt a small, tentative smile tug at her lips. She’s so easy to be around, she thought. Before quickly shutting that down. No. None of that. PR relationship, she reminded herself. Just content.

But then Y/N stopped at a claw machine, and Megan wasn’t sure what was more ridiculous: the sad little lion plush pressed against the glass or the absolute determination in Y/N’s eyes. The faint smell of popcorn and the buzz of old-school games filled the air as Megan watched Y/N dig through her pockets for change, her hands moving fast and clumsy.

“Seriously?” Megan had asked, trying to keep her voice light over the thumping music. “You’re really going to waste your money on that thing?”

“Absolutely,” Y/N said, shooting her a grin so bright it knocked the breath right out of Megan’s chest.

And Megan… well, she didn’t stand a chance.

She watched as Y/N failed miserably, again and again. And maybe if it had been someone else, Megan would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. But Y/N was so hopeful, so earnest. She wanted to win that stupid lion so badly that Megan began wanting it for her, too.

So when Y/N handed her the last few coins, their fingers brushing for a brief second, Megan didn’t even hesitate. She could feel her cheeks warming, a quiet vow already forming in her head: I’ll win it for her. Just for her.

Megan was going to get that damn lion.

And she tried her best. She really did. She angled the claw, did a little spin trick she remembered seeing online. But the machine was rigged. She was sure of it! The claw jerked and swerved, taunting her with every failed attempt. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, the frustration building, “This piece of trash,” she growled, barely managing to bite back a flood of much stronger words. “Come on, you useless tin can.” She thinks she might have stomped her foot. She hoped Y/N didn’t see that.

She didn’t even notice when she started talking to the machine, muttering little threats and pleas like it was something she could will into submission. But then she heard Y/N’s startled laugh behind her and felt her ears go pink. She didn’t stop, though. She just wanted to keep that laughter going, to hold onto that spark in Y/N’s eyes a little longer.

When Megan finally gave up, the lion was still trapped behind the glass and their wallets were noticeably lighter. A robbery, indeed.

She never did like lions anyways.

She turned back to Y/N with a sigh. “You’re really… passionate about this,” Y/N teased, a spark of laughter still in her eyes. “It’s kind of cute.”

It was obvious the word slipped out casually from Y/N, but it landed on Megan like a small, gentle shock. Her breath caught, her cheeks warmed, and her hands stilled for a beat. A single heartbeat. She’d spent so long convincing herself she didn’t want this anymore. But there it was. The way Y/N looked at her. The flutter in her chest.

“You’re weird,” Megan said softly, the words coming out almost like a confession more than anything else.

Y/N just smiled, no flinching or apology, just meeting her eyes. “Takes one to know one.”

For a moment, it felt like everything else fell away. Just like the day they had met.

Megan smiled, really smiled. Not the polite one she saved for the cameras, not the one she’d practiced giving Y/N since they debuted, but something real. Something that felt like a quiet admission: I’m not over this. Maybe I don’t want to be.

She reached out and gently tugged at Y/N’s sleeve.

“Come on,” she said, her voice light, her fingers lingering a little longer than she meant. “Let’s go find a game we can actually win.”

Y/N nodded, her smile bright.

As they moved together, Megan let herself think, just for a moment. She still didn’t really believe in love at first sight. She’d seen too much of the world to trust in something like that. And she still didn’t know what was really going on between Y/N and Daniela. Maybe she never would. But as she held onto Y/N’s sleeve, pulling her away from the claw machine and the lion still taunting them, and into the next bright game, she began to think that was alright.

It wasn’t love. Not yet. But she began to believe that maybe, it could be.

Whatever that might bring.

—

tumblr try to not ruin the quality of my images challenger: impossible

Read the Supplements (recommended):

⁺ Daniela is not in love

⁺ Megan is not in love (this one)

Next Part (if you hate this story and me ig):

+ Part 2: the universe goes quiet

listen to. nothing today, might sneak in a rec another day

#katseye x reader #megan skiendiel x reader #daniela avanzini x reader #charwritez

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