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kingdom-of-peace · 26 days ago

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Spotlight. pt.2| N.R

Older!News Anchor!Natasha x Younger!Female! Professor Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, one of the most recognized faces in television, finds herself under unexpected scrutiny when a young academic’s lecture on media ethics gains traction online — setting the stage for an unlikely rivalry that blurs the line between enemies and something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha late 30s, reader 27ish), cult mentions, language

Word Count: 6.5k+

A/N: Omg, thank you so much — I didn’t think this would be so well received! If you spot any grammar mistakes, feel free to let me know! FYI english isn't my first language.

You arrived at the university just before seven, coffee in hand, your scarf still dusted with the remnants of the city’s unpredictable weather, although in passing you had heard that the weekend would be sunny. The sandstone building loomed, as familiar and impersonal as always, but there was a certain comfort in its old bones—the worn edges of its stairwells and the quiet hum of thought that seemed to linger in its hallways. Maybe, had you gotten a more restful sleep the night before, you would have appreciated the stillness of the building. But instead, you'd spent hours at your dining table the pervious evening, preparing for today’s lecture, only to fall asleep in the unforgiving chair. You’d only been roused when the stabbing pain in your back sent sharp signals to your brain, warning you that if you didn’t move soon, you'd be crawling into work in the morning. You really hated that weekend lectures were a thing nowadays.

As you fumbled with your keys, trying to find the right one for your office lock, you heard footsteps rounding the corner, followed by Darcy's voice calling out to you with a grin. She jogged over, laptop tucked under one arm, her hair only slightly wind tousled.

“Professor Hot Take, fancy seeing you here in the flesh,” she said. “Good morning to you too. And what’s that supposed to mean?” you replied, sarcastically. Darcy rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with playful disbelief. “You can’t be serious. You haven’t seen?”. “Seen what? I’ve been going over my presentation for today all night.” you stated, still distracted by the lock. “Only a chronically offline person like you could miss it. You’re auditorium lecture from Thursday is all over the internet.” Darcy replied while leaning against the wall beside you, watching you finally fitting the correct key into the lock.

“The public’s calling it ‘the lecture of the century.” She continued, while you invited her in with a snort. “Ha, very funny. The auditorium was practically half-empty. And of the people who stayed, half were students sent there by Vision to write a graded essay on the topic, full-well knowing it would be recorded. He made it a requirement, just to support me for my first public lecture here. Looking at all those sleep-deprived faces made it painfully easy to assume no one cared to actually listen.”

“Well, I was there on Thursday, and like you know, I thought your talk was brilliant. Apparently, so does half the nation,” Darcy said as she began clearing a pile of books from the couch in your office, dropping them unceremoniously onto the floor before sitting down. You really needed to start organizing things, you thought, watching her struggle to carve out enough space to sit. At the moment, your office looked more like a battlefield than a workspace. But then again, after your abrupt appointment to a professorship last semester, you had barely found the time to adjust. You’d thought you knew the university inside and out but actually holding a secure teaching position was an entirely different story.

Darcy’s last remark yanked you out of your spiral. “Half the nation?” you deadpanned. She gave a nonchalant shrug, clearly far too pleased with herself. “Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating but it turns out one of the students actually paid attention. They put together a short video compilation of your lecture and uploaded it. From there, it sort of... spiralled. Nothing huge, but it was trending for a few hours yesterday.”. You blinked. “Trending?”. Darcy nodded, clearly enjoying your disbelief. “Yeah, people were talking about it—quotes, commentary, a few armchair essays. Sure, there were some superficial takes on your delivery or how ‘stern academia looks cool again,’ but overall? Some genuinely clever insights. Thoughtful discussion, even.”

She paused for effect, smirking. “Though I’m sure it didn’t hurt that you used The Hour’s host as a prime example. I swear, I don’t know a single person who doesn’t have the hots for Natasha Romanoff. And online? That gets dialled up to hundred.” You rolled your eyes, already regretting your rhetorical choices but also a slight worry settled in you that maybe it had not been a good idea to single out the news anchor like that.

You had used her because, quite frankly, everyone knew her. Billboards of her face and show were plastered across the city like a second skyline. She was the easiest, most visible example of everything you were critiquing. The redhead had practically presented herself on a silver platter to you. But of course, you were just an up-and-coming academic—a newly appointed professor, still carving out space in the university ecosystem. She probably didn’t even know about your lecture. And even if she did, she’d likely dismissed it without a second thought, laughing at your age and inexperience the way so many before her had.

“Well, I’m glad at least one student cared enough about the state of our modern media landscape,” you said with a tired smile. “It was probably just a one-time fluke. People will forget about it by next week. And, for the record—I don’t find her hot.” Darcy barked out a laugh, flopping back against the armrest, a few books threatening to fall over. “Liar. I’ve only known you for a little less than a year, but even I can tell—she’s totally your type. Athletic, mature, intelligent… I mean, come on. To this day, I’m surprised she’s still single. If you can believe what the gossip magazines are printing.”

You let her ramble, referring from making fun of her for reading those pretentious gossip articles. Once Darcy hyper-focused on a topic, she could go on for hours. You tuned her out gently—not unkindly—because the last thing she needed to know was that she was absolutely right. Natasha Romanoff was, regrettably, very much your type. But that wasn’t the point. To you, she represented everything wrong with the media landscape: curated personas, manipulated narratives, the illusion of authenticity projected through high-definition screens. You might find her attractive, sure, but that didn’t erase the fact that she stood for a system of influence you fundamentally distrusted.

“Anyway,” Darcy said, pulling you back to the present, “you know you’ve got that panel discussion tonight, right? I’ll probably come with you but no promises. I still have to finish grading those papers.”. “You’ve already had a deadline? It’s barely mid-October. Your students must hate you.”. “Oh, they do. But not me they hate Banner. It’s his class and essay, not mine. I’m just stuck with the grunt work since he’s supervising my PhD.” She groaned, standing and brushing off her jeans. “I look forward to the day you both have the same academic title, and he can’t boss you around anymore. He even tried pulling rank on me once—and he’s not even in the media department.” You smiled, watching her gather her things.

“Well, don’t tell anyone yet,” the brunette added as she reached the door, lowering her voice, “but I spoke with the dean. He’s agreed to let me begin drafting my PhD thesis this semester. So maybe putting Professor Banner in his place isn’t as far off as we thought.”. “Congrats! And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Message me if you want to go to the panel together tonight.” You replied to hopeful that Darcy could pull it off.

She gave you a playful salute before disappearing down the hallway toward her shared office in the far wing—one of the temporary spaces cobbled together after a burst water pipe had flooded the computer science building last winter. Until repairs were finished, a handful of displaced researchers had been housed in your department’s extra offices. In a way, the chaos had worked in your favour. You liked your colleagues well enough, but most of them were significantly older, talking more about retirement plans than publication deadlines. They had families, routines, lives you hadn’t quite stepped into yet.

Darcy was only a year older, working on her doctorate in computer science after returning from a few years abroad teaching children programming through a humanitarian education initiative after graduating from university with her master’s degree. You’d only met her thanks to that burst pipe—and honestly, you were glad for the accident. Though half the time, you had no idea what she was talking about, especially when it came to anything related to her field of study, but she made everything here feel a little less isolating.

While sitting at your desk, getting ready for your first seminar of the day, your mind kept drifting back to what Darcy had said. She was probably exaggerating “viral” she most likely just meant the lecture had sparked a thread or two on the university's public forum. Still, you were curious. Maybe there were some thoughtful comments, even a bit of useful criticism you could use to refine the talk if you ever revisited the topic in the future. You turned on your computer, already dreading the inevitable flood of emails that greeted you each morning. Lately, it felt like they multiplied overnight. And sure enough, the moment you logged in, your inbox pinged with new messages.

But what caught you off guard was the sheer volume. In bold red letters at the top of the screen: 1.356 new emails.

You blinked.

You didn’t think you’d ever received that many emails in a whole month, regardless a day—not even close. And as you began to scroll, it became clear these weren’t just from students or university staff. A few addresses stood out immediately—news outlets, academic professionals from other universities and just random people. Hesitating only slightly, you clicked on a few promising ones and began to read.

The first email you opened was from a student—one you vaguely remembered seeing in the middle row on Thursday:

Subject: Thank you for the lecture

Hi Professor,

I just wanted to say how much I appreciated your talk the other day. It was the first time someone actually articulated the dissonance I’ve always felt watching the news, especially when it comes to public image versus actual reporting. It helped me reframe how I approach media critique in my own research paper.

Kind regards,

Michelle Jones

You smiled. That alone might’ve been worth it.

The next email, however, took a sharp and unsettling turn. It came from a fringe news outlet you’d never heard of their logo a chaotic mix of all-caps slogans and shadowy graphics. The tone immediately set off alarm bells. Instead of engaging with the nuanced critique you had offered in your lecture, the message launched into a bizarre tirade against Natasha Romanoff. Not only did it ignore your actual arguments—it went so far as to accuse her of being part of a secret cult allegedly seeking immortality through occult rituals. You felt a tightness in your chest. This wasn’t criticism. It was delusion, cloaked in the language of dissent. And worse still, your words had apparently given them more ammunition—not to analyze media structures critically, but to reinforce their own conspiratorial fantasies.

A wave of guilt washed over you. That had never been your intention. You hadn’t meant to vilify Natasha Romanoff personally—only to question the media dynamics she, willingly or not, had come to symbolize. But judging by the next few emails, you weren’t the only one being taken out of context. Several congratulated you specifically for “finally taking her down,” painting her as emblematic of everything wrong with public media.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. Perhaps you should’ve framed the critique differently—less anchored to a single figure. Maybe you should have cited several anchors, even ones you considered far more problematic. You hadn’t chosen the topic for your lecture to provoke anyone. Not really. The criticism had been sitting in the back of your head for years—accumulated slowly, not from outrage, but from exhaustion. Watching news programs blur into branded personalities, debates reduced to soundbites, tragedy wrapped in sleek graphics.

You remembered late nights during your master’s, sitting with a mug of cheap tea, watching segments not for content, but for structure. Timing. Tone. The way a camera angle could turn opinion into something that felt like fact. It wasn’t about one person. It was about all of it. And yet, now that it had a face—her face—you weren’t sure if the argument could remain purely structural.

Thankfully, the fourth email brought a welcome change of tone. It was from someone working with an NGO focused on media literacy in underserved communities. The person was interested in incorporating your analysis into a training module for younger audiences and new educators. You immediately drafted a short, polite reply, expressing interest and requesting more information. It wasn’t all noise. At least some people were listening with the right intentions. The final email before you quickly exited the mail tab read:

Subject: The one

Hi,

I don’t even go to your school, but someone posted the clip on online. Just wanted to say: hottest professor energy I’ve ever seen. Please tell me you’re single.

— Anonymous admirer 💌

You stared at that one for a couple of seconds, then immediately hit delete.

Still, you needed a moment to collect your thoughts. Apparently, it wasn’t just a couple of forum posts. Something had resonated, and that was a strange and humbling feeling. A quick search confirmed your suspicions—your name now appeared in multiple headlines, often in tandem with the ginger woman. Some articles offered praise, others criticism, their tone ranging from thoughtful engagement to blatant sensationalism. Maybe Darcy hadn’t been exaggerating after all. You could only hope that this unexpected attention wouldn’t carry unforeseen consequences.

---

On the other side of town the first light of morning filtered through the sheer curtains, slicing across the polished wooden floors of Natasha’s apartment. She was already awake. Sleep had not been a reliable companion for some time now—something she had long come to accept.

By 6:00 a.m., she had finished her run—five miles through the quiet of the city’s pre-dawn streets, the air sharp against her skin, her breath steady and measured. She liked the silence. It kept her focused. Running, gave her a clarity no editorial meeting or studio debrief ever could. Back in her apartment, she worked through a set of circuits—push-ups, planks, shadowboxing—barefoot on the mat in her sunlit living room. The rhythm of it all was familiar. A discipline she had taught herself long before television studios, prime time shows and the expectations of millions. The kind of discipline that didn’t depend on whether the headlines liked her or not.

Liho, stretched luxuriously by the window in the morning sunlight, tail flicking in irritation when Natasha exhaled a little too sharply during her last round of burpees. “You’re welcome to join,” she muttered, towelling sweat from her neck as the cat narrowed his eyes at her before resuming his nap.

After a quick shower, she moved into the kitchen, the scent of dark roast filling the space as the machine hummed to life. Waiting for the coffee to brew, Natasha crouched down by the kitchen counter reaching for the familiar tin of cat food. Behind her, Liho let out a sharp meow—half impatient, half theatrical. “I know, I know,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “You act like I forget every morning.” Liho trotted closer, tail flicking, and let out another insistent noise. “Yes, your suffering is very real,” she added dryly, scooping the food into his dish. “I was five seconds late. Call the press.” He immediately dove into the bowl, purring with self-satisfaction. “At least one of us gets what they want without a fight,” Natasha muttered, standing back up just as the coffee machine let out a final hiss.

With one hand she sipped from her mug; with the other, she scrolled through her inbox. She had received far more emails than usual overnight. Most were flagged by her assistant, but a few had slipped through the filters—some congratulatory, others speculative, and a handful vaguely threatening in the way that people with too much time and an internet connection could be. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. But there were also mentions of the university lecture, snapping Natasha back to the very thoughts that had consumed her the night before. It was enough to sour Natasha’s mood for the rest of the morning— not even her sacred PB&J sandwich could redeem it.

After breakfast she dressed in her usual subdued layers: tailored black pants, a crisp charcoal blouse, soft makeup, hair in a loose braid. She never dressed to impress. She dressed to control the room before she even stepped inside it. By the time she left her building around midday, Liho was curled up again in his favourite spot by the radiator, and Natasha had already planned three responses to three different questions that might come her way on today’s editorial meeting.

She didn’t believe in being caught off guard.

Luckily during the car ride, she had already forgotten about the social media dilemma involving you. Entering the network building on a weekend felt like stepping into a mausoleum—quiet, cavernous, and absent of its usual pulse. The lobby was nearly empty, save for Charlie, the elderly security guard who had already been something of a relic when Natasha was just starting out. She greeted him with a familiar nod, a rare warmth softening her expression. He had been one of the reliable figures those early, unforgiving intern days—offering quiet comfort after her first professional humiliation, when a superior had reduced her to silent tears. Charlie never said much, but he’d slipped her those strange old-fashioned sweets only grandparents seemed to know existed. It was a small gesture, but one that had kept her from walking away after week one. And for that, she never forgot him.

When Natasha reached the newsroom floor, it felt just as quiet and lifeless as the entry hall. She made a beeline for the meeting room, where Maria, Pepper, and a few other familiar faces were already gathered. People who kept the gears of the operation turning behind the scenes.

The weekend was reserved for planning the following week's segments, as her show aired during the weekdays. Natasha entered the room, a few tired "good mornings" greeting her as she took her seat. “So, who wants to start?” Maria took charge, her voice cutting through the room with authority. Immediately, Thor, a muscular man and one of the senior technicians, launched into a passionate discussion about new gadgets that could be useful for Wednesday's show. Natasha didn’t pay much attention, her focus instead on her laptop as she typed away, trying to catch up on the flood of emails she hadn’t had time to respond to at home. She drifted in and out of the conversation, nodding occasionally when she found herself agreeing with a point.

Finally, the conversation shifted to the actual content of the show, and Natasha straightened up in her seat, her attention fully snapping into focus. Now, it was time to weigh in. “I think we should consider, trying to get an interview with the person replacing Senator Rumlow, maybe on Tuesday?”. On it," Pepper replied, her attention already snapping back to her phone. Despite being Tony Stark’s personal assistant, she played a pivotal role in managing all the major programs. Natasha couldn’t help but think that Tony better be compensating her properly. Pepper Potts was indispensable. In her eyes, there wasn’t a person more reliable or capable in the network.

“And the segment for Wednesday needs to hit harder. We’ve been playing it safe lately, and honestly, the audience can tell. We need something fresh, something real. So why not send somebody over actually reporting on the ground about those protests in France.”. "I could ask Loki or Bucky," Maria suggested, jotting down some notes. "I already know Loki will say no," Thor replied with a sigh. "Our sister Hela just bought a new house downtown, and we promised her we'd help with the move next week." Natasha often wondered how the three of them were still on speaking terms. If you believed the office gossip, their family history, especially the sibling dynamics, were filled with intrigue and backstabbing. But, as the saying goes, blood is thicker than water. Natasha, however, had never put much stock in that notion. "Then it's Bucky," Maria decided, tapping her pen thoughtfully. "His French is better anyway. Anything else? Or can my team go over the final script for Monday?".

The room fell into silence. “Alright, that’s it for today. See you all on Monday. Natasha, I will send you the final draft by tomorrow morning.” Maria announced, dismissing the team and getting an approving nod by the news-anchor. As Natasha stood up to leave, she was called back by Pepper. “Natasha, wait... I hope you didn’t forget about tonight’s panel discussion at the old theatre.”

Natasha let out a frustrated huff, recalling the event she had noticed in her calendar during the drive to the studio the previous day. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck there this evening. She was long overdue for a quiet weekend with Liho, curled up on the couch with a few old Hollywood classics. But the panel host was a renowned publishing house, where Natasha had published her second book last year— a book that had held the number one spot for months and, as per her contract, she still had to promote it the following year.

“Tonight’s panel is the last event on your promotion schedule, you’ll only have to got to their annual Christmas Party after that.” Pepper said with a sympathetic smile. Natasha let out a quiet sigh. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten. Any idea who else is on the panel?” Pepper pulled out her phone, looking at her notes. “Let’s see… Carol Danvers is on the list—she’s wrote something about media portrayals of the military. Then there’s Steven Strange, the famous internet doctor. He’s apparently talking about social media and its impact on medical diagnosis.” Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a circus already.” Pepper laughed. “Wait, it gets better— our Wanda is on there too. She published some kind of modern guide to witchcraft. Although it also addresses the portrayal of witchcraft in the media. No idea where she comes up with this stuff, but it’s selling.” Natasha shook her head. “Of course it is.”

As one of the hosts of the network’s morning show, Wanda and Natasha often crossed paths in the early hours—just as Natasha was leaving and Wanda arriving. Despite the chaos of the network, and the constant shuffle of faces moving in and out of meetings, studios, and green rooms, Wanda had become something of a quiet constant in Natasha’s mornings. Their shifts occasionally overlapped just enough to form a rhythm of casual exchanges and unspoken camaraderie. It wasn’t unusual for Natasha to catch the scent of peppermint tea and hear Wanda humming some old folk tune just as she was packing up her things. There was comfort in it.

Wanda, in all her colourful scarves and slightly chaotic energy, always seemed to see right through the practiced edge Natasha wore like a second skin. They never talked long—ten minutes in the hallway, maybe fifteen in the makeup chair if timing allowed—but Natasha valued those moments more than she let on. Wanda never pushed, never pried, just offered easy conversation and a smile that made the end of a long night feel a little less heavy. She didn’t have many friends in the building. But she considered Wanda one of the few—or at least someone she could confide in, to some extent.

“There’s also someone new—they added another name last week. Some academic who just published their PhD through them. I haven’t looked them up yet, but I can if you’re curious,” Pepper offered waving her phone and pulling Natasha out of her trip down memory lane. “Don’t bother,” Natasha said, brushing it off. “Anything I need to prepare for?”. “Not really. Karen Page is moderating, and I’ll send Peter to film some clips for socials. Just try to look like you don’t want to escape five minutes in.”. “No promises,” Natasha muttered with a smirk. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “Alright, see you on Monday. And Pepper—try not to live here over the weekend.” Pepper waved her off. “My home is where my phone is.”

—

You glanced at the time again and exhaled sharply. Still a few hours left until the panel. Part of you wished you could simply email in a cancellation—make up something vague about a personal emergency or a scheduling conflict. You’d never done anything like that before, but the idea wasn’t as unthinkable as it should’ve been.

You hadn’t expected anyone to care about your PhD thesis—it was never meant to ignite anything more than a few nods from graduate students and, if you were lucky, a polite citation in someone else’s paper. And yet, here you were, suddenly part of a public conversation about media, far outside the safe confines of academia.

Your gaze drifted to the file folder still sitting at the corner of your desk—the printout of your thesis proposal marked up by your supervisor, the final version that supported your Thursday lecture, the research that had consumed most of your adult life. You had always believed in the value of distance. Of analysis without personal entanglement. But maybe that wasn’t an option anymore in today’s world.

You didn’t even know who else would be on the panel. You hadn’t looked. That had been a deliberate choice—or an act of denial, depending on how generous you were willing to be with yourself. Still, you told yourself, it would be fine. Two hours. A handful of questions. An audience of people who would forget your name by next week. With a sigh, you gathered your belongings, preparing for your second seminar of the day.

A few hours later a sharp knock rattled your office door. You looked up from your screen, blinking in surprise. The person outside didn’t bother waiting for an answer—pushing open the door with the urgency of someone used to dragging academics away from their desks.

“Seriously?” she said, hands on hips. “We were supposed to meet fifteen minutes ago. I waited. Like an idiot. In heels.” You squinted at the clock in the corner of your screen. Shit. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed. “I lost track of time,” you muttered, standing up and hurriedly grabbing your coat from the back of your chair.

“Obviously. Come on, we’re late and not fashionably.” As you followed her down the hallway, your thoughts were already spiralling. You didn’t want to be doing this. A panel discussion on a weekend evening? These kinds of public-facing events were supposed to be for pop-scientists, TED talk types, the ones who made flashy graphs and dramatic pauses. Not people like you, who spent nights buried in literature reviews and fought imposter syndrome on a rotating basis. You didn’t know how to perform. You knew how to write. And there was a difference. The thought of sitting on that stage, surrounded by people who breathed publicity like air made your chest tighten. What if you said the wrong thing? What if someone asked a question you couldn’t answer? What if they laughed not out of amusement but condescension?

“I still don’t get why your publisher made you do this,” Darcy said, holding the door open for you as the two of you stepped out into the brisk evening air. “Like, since when is academic critique mainstream?”. You shrugged. “I guess it is, when it intersects with media. Everyone has an opinion on media, even if they’ve never read a single study about it.” Darcy gave you a sidelong glance. “Still. I hope they’re paying you. Or at least giving you some expensive alcohol.”

You didn’t reply. You were too busy calculating how long the panel would run, and whether anyone from the faculty would be there to judge your every sentence. And somewhere, beneath all that, you were still hoping—irrationally—that it would all go by fast. That you could say your piece, disappear quietly, and maybe even catch up on sleep after. But you understood how these events operated, once the discussion ended, it was customary, almost expected, to mingle with the audience and engage in polite small talk. You still hadn’t looked up the other panellists in your office—doing so would’ve only added to your anxiety in the final hours. But maybe if you had, you wouldn’t have ended up late, which somehow felt even worse.

To make up for lost time, you and Darcy made a valiant attempt spiriting toward the nearest underground station. Proving to be significantly harder for your companion, her heels transformed her stride into something resembling a deer taking its first steps. Breathless and slightly dishevelled, you managed to squeeze into a train just before the doors closed. Thankfully, it wasn’t too crowded for a Saturday evening. You caught sight of your reflection in the window and immediately tried to make yourself look remotely presentable—adjusting your hair, fixing your collar—the little things you had meant to do in the staff restroom, had time been on your side. As you mournfully remembered the change of clothes left behind, tucked away beneath your office desk.

During the short ride, the two of you exchanged updates about your day. Darcy, as usual, launched into a semi-dramatic retelling of her ongoing war with Professor Benner’s unreasonable workload. Halfway through, she leaned in and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but I may have told him I finished grading everything… I skipped a few just to be here for you tonight.” Her grin was sheepish, but sincere. In that moment, your irritation about running late softened. You really were lucky to have her.

Soon enough, you arrived at your stop: The Old Theatre. True to its name, the building had once stood at the very peak of the city’s cultural life nearly a century ago. You remembered coming across references to it in some research papers—how it had later served as the city’s first television studio, one of the early strongholds of a big national broadcasting network. If your memory served correctly, Howard Stark one of the city’s most well-known historical figures had been the visionary behind it. He bought the building when it faced foreclosure and later gifted it to the city, which to this day uses it as a kind of civic venue available for rent.

You and Darcy approached the side entrance at a brisk pace, having noticed the unusually long line forming at the main doors from a distance. Ticketing had already begun, and the crowd seemed larger than anticipated for an event so rooted in academic and media theory. The popularity of the discussion appeared to have outgrown its niche origins, you thought. Missing the crowd at the main entry doors, primarily consisting of younger and middle-aged women, many of them holding merchandise and printed photographs of a striking redhead, suggesting that the panel’s appeal extended far beyond academic interest and had drawn in a dedicated fanbase cantered around a particular media personality.

Inside, you were met by a woman whose name slipped from your memory almost as soon as she introduced herself. Her tone was curt, her posture rigid with barely concealed disapproval as she gave you a sharp look—first for your lateness, then for your choice of clothing, which her eyes seemed to assess like an item in need of return. She informed you, in a clipped voice, that the organizers had attempted to reach you multiple times. You offered an apology, explaining that your phone had been on silent—a habit born more of disinterest than oversight, as you rarely used it, even in your personal life.

Without much pause, she added that there would be no opportunity to meet the panel moderator or introduce yourself to the other speakers. Time was short. You still needed to pass through hair and makeup before the event began in half an hour.

---

Natasha was seated in the guest lounge, the scent of setting spray still faint in the air. She had just finished with hair and makeup and was, for once, pleasantly surprised—the stylist had known exactly how to work with her features, accentuating rather than masking them, a rare positive occurrence.

Across from her sat Carol Danvers, a fellow network colleague she occasionally worked out with at the private gym in their building—Carol lived just a few floors below her. While their shared discipline fostered a kind of mutual respect, their conversations rarely extended beyond reps, sparring and workplace discussions. Carol’s interest didn’t exactly align with Natasha’s, adding to that both women seemed to be in different stages in life, Carol had just recently welcomed her first daughter with her wife, Maria Rambeau—a renowned photographer in the city.

Next to Carol was Dr. Stephen Strange, unmistakable even out of his clinical setting. Natasha had interviewed him once for a special segment on digital misinformation in medicine. Though they hadn’t spoken much since, she had followed his occasional op-eds and lectures from a professional distance, intrigued more by his shifting media persona than his actual subject matter. Wanda Maximoff joined them a few minutes later, her energy softer and more eclectic than the others.

“I thought I was the last one out of make-up,” Wanda said, settling into one of the lounge armchairs and glancing around. “But I only see four of us—shouldn’t there be five?” Strange, still sipping on a coffee that had long gone cold, gave a nod. “I heard the last panellist is running late.”. “Oh, I hope they made it,” Wanda said, her tone genuinely concerned. “I think I saw someone rush past a few minutes ago,” Carol chimed in, glancing up from her phone. “Could’ve been her. Don’t really know what she looks like”. “Oh good,” Wanda said with a soft smile. “I’m really curious about their take. The publisher sent me a draft of her thesis before the release. I would like to put a face to the name.”. Strange gave a quiet hum of agreement. “I only skimmed the opening chapters, but it’s definitely got something. She’s tackling some uncomfortable truths.” Carol replied, munching on a few cashews.

Natasha, leaning back on the couch, recalled a few weeks ago when a heavy box had shown up at her apartment—one of those promotion deliveries from her publisher, stacked with new releases and promotional materials. She hadn’t paid much attention at the time, just scanned the covers, noting that one book stood out for its stark, minimalist design. The presenter vaguely remembered finding it odd to have an academic paper included in a promotional package. She’d set the box down in her office and forgotten about it, buried beneath a growing pile of scripts and scheduling notes. She tried to recall the author’s name but came up blank. Just as she was about to ask Wanda for confirmation about the title of the book and author’s name, a crew member entered the lounge, brisk and all business. “They’re ready for you on stage. Walkout in five.”. The four panellists stood, smoothing jackets and crew checking microphones, conversation cut short as they filed toward the wings.

—

You barely had time to catch your breath as you were ushered down a narrow hallway and toward the right wing of the stage. A production assistant guided you with a practiced urgency, headset crackling with cues from the control booth. You were late, underprepared, and not even sure why you had agreed to this in the first place—except, of course, for the obligation to promote your work, as the publisher had insisted. You silently hoped Darcy had managed to get a good seat as she had been quickly pushed towards the audience seating upon your arrival, a swift "break a leg" slipping from her lips as she was escorted away.

The stage lights spilled into the side corridor, casting long, warm beams across the narrow passage just as Karen Page’s voice rang out clearly from centre stage, conversing with another female voice. As you reached the curtain’s edge, you found a woman already standing there. She turned at the sound of your hurried steps, her warm expression tinged with curiosity. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, recognition dawning. “Wait… I’ve seen you before,” she said, her voice low enough not to carry. “You’re the one from that lecture about media and public perception. The one that’s been all over social media.” You gave a small, breathless nod, not sure how to respond. Recognizing Wanda from brief glimpses of a morning show you’d seen in passing, though you couldn’t quite recall which network it belonged to.

Wanda smiled, a little wider now. “I hadn’t connected the dots. I read your thesis when the publisher sent it over—but didn’t have a face to match to the fire behind those words.” Natasha had to know about your lecture, Wanda thought. Nothing ever slipped past her. But the real question lingered: did she know you were going to be here tonight? She tilted her head slightly, her voice thoughtful. “This is going to be interesting.”

You furrowed your brows, unsure if that was meant as encouragement or a warning. Wanda glanced subtly across the stage toward the opposite wing, where Dr. Strange and another figure waited in the shadows—someone tall, poised, arms crossed. The studio lights obscured the face, but the silhouette felt familiar, almost instinctively recognizable. You hadn’t looked up the other panellists. You hadn’t had time. “She’s not known for pulling punches,” Wanda added, casually. “Especially when she feels attacked. Just… be prepared to hold your ground.”

Before you could ask who, she meant, the stage manager signalled. Wanda gave you a quick, reassuring glance, then disappeared behind the curtain. A few minutes later, Steven Strange was called onto the stage. You remembered attending a few of his guest lectures back during your undergraduate years at university. Your cue was only moments away when the name of the familiar-appearing person was announced. At first, you weren’t sure if you’d heard it correctly—the audience had grown noticeably louder, a subtle shift in energy rippling through the theatre. But as Karen Page began to read the brief introduction, the words confirmed what your instincts already suspected. There was only one person that description could belong to Natasha Romanoff. The face of The Hour. A few seconds later, Natasha would be experiencing the same rush of recognition and disbelief upon hearing the name of the professor who had occupied her thoughts since the night before.

A/N: Revelations. Revelations. Things are about to get heated next time around. Thanks for reading, and Happy Easter to everyone who’s celebrating! :)

Tags: @nebthetautora @womenarehotsstuff @caramelcat123 @doddledoo @jassgunner

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romonova #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel #the avengers #black widow #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha x reader #nat x reader #natalia romanova #natalia romanoff

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therealcocoshady · 1 year ago

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Hi coco , I don’t know if your still doing requests if not juts by past this .

Fem reader x Marshall

Reader is some sort of celebrity and her and Marshall’s sex tape gets leaked

SECRETS OUT - ONE SHOT

Eminem x Celebrity Reader

Author’s note : Thank you so much for your request. I Hope you like it ❤️. I thoroughly enjoyed writing one shots and HCs so if you have requests, feel free to send them to me in my Ask.

Synopsis : You’re a prominent influencer, having a secret relationship with Em for years. None of you intend on making it public… until your sextape gets leaked.

When you started dating Marshall, the two of you had a serious talk about how important it was to him that your relationship remained private. He knew that you shared a lot of your life online - hell, it was kind of your job as an influencer - and respected it, but he was adamant about not being featured on your social media accounts and YouTube channel. You respected his wish. To be honest, you were a little relieved : your last relationship had ended because of public scrutiny and you didn’t want history to repeat itself. Especially since the person you were dating was a megastar. No offense to your ex, who was still a very successful influencer, but next to Marshall Mathers, he was chopped liver. If publicly dating someone with ten million YouTube followers was hard, you couldn’t imagine how it would be if everyone knew you were dating Eminem.

You actually did a good job at keeping your followers and his fans in the dark about your relationship. To everyone, the both of you were single and, even though they were rumours about the two of you dating other public figures, you had never been linked together. No one expected you, a twenty-something fashion and beauty influencer to date Eminem. From the looks of it, you didn’t have much in common and didn’t run in the same circles.

So your relationship flew under the radar for years and you even managed to get married without the public knowing. You had the most beautiful wedding, held in a secluded location with only your closest friends, with a lot of logistics and NDAs involved. Everyone joked that you had to be the only influencer who didn’t share the most important day of their life on social media. Especially when the wedding was so insta-worthy. A few years ago, you would have been a little bummed about it, but being with Marshall kept you grounded and reminded you that not everything was meant to be shared online. If anything, the secrecy of your wedding and the « no phones or camera allowed » rule allowed everyone to enjoy the moment instead of focusing on filming it or snapping pictures of their plates or outfit. That didn’t mean there were no pictures taken though. The only person who immortalised the wedding was the photographer and, though guests were sent the pictures, they were asked not to share, and everyone respected your wishes.

Just because the two of you didn’t share pictures online didn’t mean you didn’t take plenty. In fact, your phones were full of cute selfies of the two of you. At the beginning of your relationship, he often made fun of your habit to try and immortalise moments, but he ended up getting into it. When the two of you met, he was still using an old BlackBerry and took the crappiest selfies, but you managed to turn him into the perfect Instagram husband. In fact, he was the one who helped you do your daily outfit posts and he was more than decent at telling you how you should pose. And if he was a bit judgy of influencers at first, he had come to understand your line of work and your love of fashion. He was extremely supportive of every thing you did and his eyes were gleaming with adoration when he was watching you film your videos, though he still liked to tease you.

One evening, during your honeymoon, you found him filming himself in the mirror as you walked out of the bathroom in your finest, sluttiest lingerie.

- What are you doing ? You giggled.

- Immortalising the outfit. So, it’s simple, the boxers are Givenchy, fall collection… care to share yours ? He chuckled as he pointed the phone to you.

- So tonight, I’m wearing a gorgeous Dita Von Teese set, you said as you posed and played along. We have this gorgeous corset, and the panties are amazing, too…

- Turn around and show the back, babe, he instructed. You’re gorgeous.

This became a little game that you played during the whole honeymoon. Each night, Marshall filmed you in your lingerie, under the pretense that he wanted to remember your honeymoon as vividly as possible. This made you laugh and you let him. It started as « innocent » « outfit of the night » videos but, on occasion, you both felt frisky and ended up filming a literal sex tape, or rather a series of them. Nothing especially elaborate, just one of you holding the phone while doing the deed, just for laughs. You didn’t even watch them after or think about it. It was really just the two of you clowning around, making fun of your own IG account and enjoying your honeymoon. Once you got back home, you didn’t keep it going and eventually came to forget there were videos of you and Marshall having sex on his phone. Until the videos were leaked, that is.

You had been married for about six months and enjoyed your weekly brunch with Marshall’s daughters when they suddenly went silent, after Stevie showed her sisters something on her phone.

- Oh my God, I’m going to puke, Stevie said.

- Girls, no phone at the table, Marshall groaned.

- Have you guys… seen the news ? Hailie asked.

- What news ? You asked back, a tad confused.

- The Pistons headline, Alaina said.

- What’s wrong with the team ? Marshall asked with a raised eyebrow.

The girls frowned and stayed silent for a second before handing the phone to the two of you. There was an article about you and Marshall, soberly titled : « Detroit’s ultimate Piston : Eminem sextape leaked (featuring influencer Y/N ». The headline was enough to make you want to die. The article wasn’t much better. It commented on the videos and showed a few screenshots of tweets reacting to the leak such as « Bro can’t take a decent selfie but you can trust him to point the camera at his dick correctly 👀 » or « Damn. He’s 51 but Y/N’s the one who’s gonna need hip replacement surgery with these trusts 💀». You and Marshall stared at each other while the girls were looking at you. You felt humiliated. Not only were the videos leaked online, you were confronted by your step-daughters - though they were old enough to be your sisters - about it. You looked down, absolutely mortified.

- Don’t watch these, Marshall told his daughters.

- Like we’d want to see that, Stevie pointed out.

- Really, guys, a sextape ? Alaina asked. Dad, you’re 51 !

- I’m going to be sick, you said as you left the table and headed to your room.

You heard Marshall calling your name but there was absolutely no way you could face anyone right now. Once you were alone, you anxiously checked your phone. Of course, everyone was in a frenzy. Your manager was texting you and your social media accounts were flooded. Both in the comments and your DMs, people were going crazy and talking about the videos. You already had a huge following, but it was something else entirely. You immediately called your manager, who was beyond pissed. Apparently, some brands you collaborated threatened to sever their ties with you. Of course, you getting rammed on video didn’t really fit in with your usual good girl image and it wouldn’t be a good look for them. Now, not only were you ashamed but you were also terrified. You had worked too hard for your career to crumble that easily.

- What should I do ? You anxiously asked.

- For now, nothing, she said. I’m going to consult with a few people to see what we can do for damage control. Though if I were you I’d get ready to film an apology video.

- I didn’t do anything wrong, you pointed out. These videos were not meant to be shared.

- You know how it is, Y/N. I’ll get back to you ASAP.

- Thanks, you said sheepishly. Talk to you soon.

When you hung up, you couldn’t resist the temptation to go and check other articles. Obviously, news traveled fast and you were now a trending subject. Marshall being the more famous of the two of you, his name was on every headline but, from the looks of it, you were the one whose reputation was suffering the most. While everybody seemed to praise his performance - and impressive physique - you were deemed a slut by the Internet. Even worse, some people were already making memes with your face and some rappers beefing with Marshall were reposting them. You had always been a « glass half-full » type of person but you literally wanted to die. In a flash, it seemed like you could kiss your career and reputation goodbye.

After about an hour, Marshall joined you in the bedroom and took you in his arms while you were sobbing.

- Hey, he said sheepishly.

- I-I’m sorry, you said. But I can’t go and face your daughters. I just can’t. I can’t face anyone right now, I-I…

- It’s fine, he replied before kissing your forehead. I sent them home.

- Im sorry, you said. I know how much family brunch means to you…

- As it turns out, having your kids lecture you about your leaked sextape isn’t as fun as people make it out to be, he said sarcastically.

You couldn’t help but chortle. Even in this type of dramatic situations, you could always count on Marshall’s dry humor. He placed another kiss on your forehead and wiped your tears with his thumbs.

- We’ll be fine, he said reassuringly. Don’t worry, babe.

- Why aren’t you freaking out ? You asked. You should be freaking out.

- Oh, I’m freaking out, he said. I mean, I’m livid. But on a practical level, I know people will forget about it eventually, you know.

- Easy for you to say, you pointed out. The Internet is raving about the size of your dick and commenting about how in shape you are for an older dude… meanwhile, people are calling me a slut.

- You’re not a slut, he said as he rolled his eyes.

- Tell that to the thousand of people calling me a rapper groupie or whatever that is, you groaned.

- Doesn’t matter, he shrugged. We both know that’s not true. You’re not a groupie, you’re my wife.

- Well I’m about to be a stay at home wife, you said with tears in your eyes. I had my agent on the phone and sponsors are already breaking contracts… I-I’m losing everything, Marshall…

The tears started streaming down again. Mentioning the situation out loud was upsetting, it only meant it was real. You were really on the verge of losing everything. Your husband knew better than anyone how much your career meant to you, the work you put in and everything you had invested to be successful. To you, it wasn’t just a job : it was your dream. You had always tried your best to have a pristine reputation as an influencer and stay out of drama but now, people were looking down on you and calling you names. And you dreaded the perspective of doing an apology video. It was humiliating. In most recent years, you had focused your content on beauty and fashion instead of your private life but now, it was up for public consumption. Marshall held you tight as you told him about the comments you received and how sad you were about losing collaborations you were looking forward to.

- You don’t need these people’s money, he said.

- You know it’s not a matter of money, you replied curtly. It’s never only been about money. It’s more than that.

- I know, he said. But look, these videos were stolen from us. And if these brands who put that much effort into building a so-called relationship with you drop you easily, it’s not worth it. They should be sending you flowers and publicly supporting you.

- You know that’s not how it works, you sighed.

- All I’m saying is that it’s unfair, he said. And I’m sorry you’re going through this. But I know you. You’re strong and you’re resilient. And your followers love you. You’re not going to lose your career over this.

- I’ll do my best, you shrugged. My agency wants me to film an apology video.

- Are they serious ? He groaned. You don’t have to apologise for shit. These videos were fucking stolen, Y/N !!!

He was clearly mad. Funnily enough, he seemed more angry over the unfairness of the situation than the fact that everyone could see him having sex on video. But then again, it probably had something to do with his reputation being pretty intact. Sure, that would probably earn him a few lines in diss tracks people might be tempted to put out, but there wasn’t much to be ashamed of, as far as he was concerned. First of all, the videos clearly made a good job of shutting down rumours about his size, and he still came across as someone who had sex. On the other hand, you were more visible on the videos and earning a reputation of an easy and slutty influencer, hungry for fame. Typical double standard. You cursed whoever had managed to steal these videos. And deep down, you were mad that they had been so easily stolen.

- Why were they stolen in the first place ? You groaned.

- What ? He asked. You know how it is… people’s phones get hacked all the fucking time. Whoever did that was probably hoping to get their hands on new music. Joke’s on them, though. We only function with CDs to avoid this type of leaks.

- Joke’s on them ?! You almost yelled. The joke is on me !!! I couldn’t care less about your CDs. No offense but I’d rather have your album leaked than my career ruined, Marshall !!!

- Sorry, he said as he nervously scratched his beard. Poor choice of word. Of course it’s worse. What I mean is… hacks happen all the time. Every month there’s a new story about a celebrity’s phone or computer or cloud being hacked.

- And I’m usually over here, making fun about people who don’t know how to protect their data, you said as you rolled your eyes. The most basic thing to do is to at least put this type of photos in a folder that requires double authentication.

- Double what ?

He looked at you with big eyes. Of course, he had no idea what you were talking about. « That’s what you get for marrying a dummy when it comes to technology », you thought. You didn’t want to get mad at him, but you were pissed. You rolled your eyes at him and let your head fall on the pillow.

- I have to go and call Paul, he said. We’re both going to have to do damage control. But we’ll be fine, I promise you.

- Mmmmh, you groaned.

- I’ll do my best to find whoever did that and sue their ass, he assured you. And whoever shares these videos, too. When we got married, I swore I would protect you and you best believe I’m making good on that.

- Thanks, you said sheepishly.

The following couple of days were especially tough. News had obviously traveled fast and everyone in your life knew about the videos. You thought facing Hailie, Alaina and Stevie was hard, but FaceTiming with your parents was even harder. You could tell they were disappointed, and mostly worried for you. Both of your management teams were trying to find the best way to get through it. Unfortunately, crisis management wasn’t the same for a rapper as it was for an influencer. Marshall’s team advised him to stay silent while yours was almost begging you to address the elephant in the room, preferably with your husband, who was an ogre about it.

- I’m not appearing in your damn apology video, he groaned. It’s stupid enough that you have to do one of these.

- I have to do what’s best for my career, you pleaded.

- You always said these videos were disingenuous, he pointed out.

- Well, yes, but what am I going to do ? You groaned. Disappear and kiss my career goodbye ? And I’m not you, Marshall. I can’t just ignore it and go back to posting videos as if nothing happened.

He hummed and you kept talking about it, trying to come up with a solution. You weren’t thrilled about the idea of addressing the situation and he was right : you had nothing to apologise for. And he was fully against the idea of standing next to you like a First Lady while you filmed something so silly. Of course, it turned into an argument. There was only so much pressure you could take. And you knew Marshall was doing his best and keeping in touch with his lawyers, but you were mad that he wouldn’t support you publicly.

- I’m asking you to stand next to me for a damn video, that’s all, you sighed. I’m not asking for the moon, here. You don’t even have to say anything.

- Then what’s the point in me being here at all ? He shrugged. We agreed that I would be kept out of your content, Y/N. That was clear from the start.

- Because everyone thinks I’m a whore ! You yelled. I was fine with people not knowing about us, but I am not fine with people calling me a rapper whore. And I am not fine with my husband not supporting me. You said we were a team ! You promised to care for me and protect me for the rest of our lives. Or were these vows just words to you ?!?!

You knew he would be pissed off by your words. He had always made it clear that his vows were absolutely serious and solemn. And you knew for a fact that he had put a lot of heart and thought into writing them. He didn’t say anything, just sighed and left the room. Obviously, you both needed to take time off because this escalated into an argument. You groaned and stayed in the bedroom, which you had barely left since the videos had leaked.

A couple of hours later, you went downstairs and found Marshall watching some boxing match on TV.

- Hey, you said sheepishly.

- Hey, he simply said.

- Look, I’m sorry, I…, you began.

- Don’t sweat it, he shrugged as he gestured for you to come sit on his lap.

You sat on him and watched with him in silence, enjoying the sensation of his arms wrapped around your waist. When the match ended, he turned off TV and smiled at you.

- I took care of things, he said.

- You did ? You asked.

- I did, he confirmed. You don’t need to film that stupid video.

- What did you do ? You asked with a raised eyebrow.

He seemed pretty sure of himself, proud even, and you tried hard not to show it, but you were still a bit doubtful.

- Check Instagram, he simply said as he handed you your phone.

You nervously checked your account. You were tagged in thousands of new posts. Only these weren’t posts of the sex videos. Your account was flooded with pictures of your wedding, posted by your friends and reposted by tons of fan accounts. Your closest influencer friends had posted the beautiful pictures of them with you at the wedding. Marshall’s friends had done the same : 50, Dre, Porter, Royce… everyone was posting about your nuptials. The most beautiful shot was the one shared by Marshall on his account : a gorgeous black and white shot of the two of you after the reception, holding hands and staring at the fireworks, captioned : « For better & for worse. Happy 6 months anniversary. ». Everyone was going absolutely crazy in the comments, not failing to show their surprise and mentioning that he was now following one account : yours. You looked at him, almost crying and took him in your arms.

- Oh my God, you said. I can’t believe you did this.

- Called in a few favors and asked our friends to post the wedding pictures, he said with a smile. I figured the Internet would focus on these rather than the videos. So far it seems to be working…

- You didn’t have to, you said emotionally. I know you wanted to keep the wedding a secret.

- I also wanted to keep our sex life secret, he chuckled. But I care more about you and supporting you. Now, everyone knows I have your back. Until death do us part. And if anyone dares come for you, I will end them. I promise.

- I love you, you said emotionally.

- I love you too, he replied before kissing you. I’m sorry I was grumpy about the whole thing. You were right, these vows were never meant to be just words. I want to put them in action.

You kissed him passionately and you both took a minute to enjoy the posts everyone made about your wedding, reminiscing about that special day.

- I’m happy I don’t have to make that stupid apology video, you confessed.

- Me too, he chuckled. I did make an apology though.

- You did ? You asked in surprise.

He showed you his IG story. A black screen with simple text - in true influencer fashion : « I want to take a minute to apologize about the videos that have been leaked. I am sorry if anyone was confused. They were misleading and I want to state that the boxers were actually not Givenchy but Calvin Klein. Sorry for the confusion. 👀». You chortled and kissed him.

- What ? That was the only thing worth an apology, he pointed out with a smile.

- You’re such a troll, you said as you playfully rolled your eyes.

You spent the following days in bliss, showered with love from both your followers and his fans. Everyone was going crazy about your wedding and, even though there were still mentions of the sextape, most of the attention was focused on your relationship. Both of your management teams were also happy to put the incident behind them, though now they had to deal with plenty of interview requests. However, you agreed that even though your secret was out, nothing would really change. You slowly got back to business. Though nothing didn’t really change for Marshall - who was always in hermit mode in the studio - you had a lot of new followers and tons of collaboration requests. The sponsors who had been quick to drop you even came back and attempted to suck up to you, though you absolutely refused to work with them again. You were in your home office, reviewing partnership requests when you came across the biggest offer of your career : none other than Calvin Klein wanted you to be the new face of their underwear campaign, offering you a shit ton of money. It was the biggest opportunity you had ever received but you were a bit nervous when you mentioned it to your husband.

- What do you think ? You asked after you brought it up to him.

- I think we’ve established that you look good in underwear, he grinned.

- Yes but that would be banking on our sextape, our relationship… would it be ok with you ? You asked.

- I’ll cut you a deal : I’m ok with you doing that campaign if you’re ok with me using your moans as ad libs, he said with a smirk.

- You can’t be serious, you giggled as you rolled your eyes.

- What ? He chuckled. We’re partner in life, we might as well be business partners.

#eminem #marshall mathers #slim shady #eminem fanfiction #eminem x reader #eminem fluff #eminem imagine #marshall mathers x reader #marshall mathers imagine #Eminem one shot

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queermccoy · 3 months ago

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I wish you would write a fic where bucktommy get off on watching a sextape they made with each other pre-break up after they get back together

this got weird! and a little long, so it's under a cut.

(i'm not taking i wish you would writes anymore)

----

"Did you watch it?" Buck asked. "After you broke up with me?"

He gestured to the television across the room with his elbow. His hands were busy pushing his sweatpants down his thighs.

Playing at a volume low enough for them to hear clearly, but not so loud they were giving Buck's downstairs neighbor free jerk-off audio, was a video Tommy had made of Buck, back when they were dating the first time. Past-Buck, still a shiny new cocksucker, was pressing open-mouth kisses along Past-Tommy's thick red cock with wet, swollen lips.

Now-Tommy, palming his cock through his obscenely tented basketball shorts, looked at Buck. His eyes were intense, dark with arousal and bright. They weren't hazy, not yet. They were just getting started.

"I did," Tommy admitted. He licked his lips, eyes flicking to Buck, to where he was fisting his cock, and then over to the television. "How could I not, when you looked liked like that?"

As if waiting for his cue, the Buck on tv choked on Tommy's cock, saliva bubbling out of his mouth and down his chin. God, Buck's lips had been so, so pink; puffy and so fucking sexy. Maybe it was narcissistic, but Buck was hot, especially looking up at Tommy, at the camera, with his eyes red rimmed and teary. His face had been burning, Buck remembered. He'd been hot all over.

He was hot all over now.

The camera shook, the Tommy behind it shifting. His hand entered the focus, fingers raking through that Buck's hair. It had been longer then.

"Did you watch it?" Tommy continued, bringing Buck to the present. He heard Tommy spit. It sent a shiver through him, cock throbbing in his hand, getting harder, somehow. He'd been hard since they started casting their homemade porn but the sound of Tommy jerking off to it too was enormous in Buck's ears.

"Yeah," he admitted. Without thinking he continued, "I missed your cock."

God, had he. Buck had missed the heft of it in his hands. In his mouth. The ghost of it kissing his soft pallet haunting him through loaf after loaf of misery bread. He felt it then, sitting next to Tommy, the phantom taste of it in the back of his throat. Jesus Christ, but Buck loved dick. He could smell it, in his memories and from his right, where Tommy was touching himself. It was getting to Buck. He felt like an upturned bag of marbles.

"I missed you so much, Tommy," he said over the sound of his throat working; choking, glucking. Wet.

Tommy groaned. "What else did you miss, baby?"

Buck rubbed his thumb against the weeping head of his cock, smearing precome. "The way your hair curled in the morning," he said instead of any of the dirty things Tommy probably thought he would. "Th-that smile you have that—that feels like a hug and re-reprimand at the same time. How do you do that? It's so hot!"

A flash of warmth at the memory of Tommy in Buck's space, the way he took up so much of it and seemed to warp it around himself, spliced overtop the sight of Past-Tommy's big hands on either side of Past-Buck's face, holding him still to fuck it. Buck was so fucking close.

"Jesus, Evan," Tommy breathed.

But Buck wasn't a person anymore; he was a bundle of almost-frayed nerves where a man used to be. "Your hands too," he said. The version of Tommy on tv was stroking that Buck's cheekbones with his thumbs. Square. "Holding mugs. M-missed that."

The sounds from Tommy slowed. Buck glanced over and Tommy had stopped jerking himself off, eyes on Buck, gaze full of longing and affection and something that might be awe.

"And—and your cock in my throat! I missed that too! But—but the way your shoulders look in that one sw-sweater? The green one, with the button?" Buck groaned and closed his eyes. He tipped his head back against the back of the couch. "You're so hot."

"You're killing me, kid," Tommy whined, then Buck heard the slick movement of his hand on his cock again.

The sounds of it, the sounds of Past-Buck's raspy breathing, all of it—the sights, the smells, the velvet soft memories—everything, swirled and packed themselves tightly under Buck's belly. It released with a bright burst, Buck coming all over his fist. He laughed, delighted, and cracked open his eyes to watch it coat his fingers, shooting and landing on the hem of his shirt where it wasn't pushed up his stomach enough. Grinning, he looked over at Tommy. He was watching Buck with hazy eyes.

Ah, there he was.

Without thinking about it, Buck kicked off his sweats and then slid to his knees between Tommy's thighs, suddenly desperate to reenact their sex tape.

A new memory.

#ask games #bucktommy

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unclewaynemunson · 2 years ago

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I definitely think it takes Eddie a while to accept that Steve changed. He remembers what he was like in high school.

When Steve asks him out, for whatever reason, Eddie says yes. But he’s determined not to fall in love, because deep down Harrington’s still a dick. But he’s cute, and Eddie can smile and play pretend.

But then! Steve goes full happy relationship mode, he tells Robin (obv), introduces Eddie to the other adults as his bf, and is just generally being sweet.

MY SWEET ANON I HOPE YOU'LL STILL SEE THIS!!!

I'm so sorry it took me ages to answer this one! But I really loved the idea of this (the good ol' steddie + misunderstanding about what they mean to each other with a dash of terrible communication skills my beloved) so i wanted to give it my proper attention, which i didn't have enough time for over the past few months. Buuut the words have finally found their way to my keyboard so here is the first part of what probably will turn into a 3-part ficlet, I hope it's something like what you had in mind when you sent this ask to me <3

---

Eddie has been acting weird all day. Maybe Steve is too much of a romantic, but he can't help it: he wanted to celebrate this day. Exactly a month ago, he asked Eddie out. And it's been good. They've spent a lot of time together. They've been on lots of dates, spent plenty of nights together... But today, things are different, somehow. Eddie is different. He turned Steve down for a dinner date, he didn't stop by Family Video during lunchtime, and when Steve shows up at the trailer to surprise him with flowers, he merely frowns and pulls back from their kiss before it can even properly get started.

'Everything alright?' Steve asks, trying to catch his boyfriend's gaze – which isn't exactly easy with how Eddie is turning away from him to not-so-gently put the flowers down in a corner of the trailer's living room.

'Yeah, sure,' Eddie mumbles, not really looking at him. 'It's just – I didn't really expect to see you today. We didn't have plans.'

Steve chuckles, trying to get the tension out of his chest. 'Didn't know I was expected to schedule an appointment before coming here.' He tries to play it off as a joke, but the tone of his voice doesn't really want to cooperate.

Eddie finally turns back towards him and Steve catches the end of an eye-roll.

'I'm just not feeling too great today, alright?' It sounds a bit stiff and Steve pauses. He wonders if he did something wrong, if he somehow invaded Eddie's space – even though he has showed up at the trailer on countless evenings in the past month.

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' Eddie answers, a little bit too fast. 'I told you, I'm not feeling so well.'

And now that he can see his face properly, Steve notices that Eddie is indeed looking paler than usual.

'Hey, don't worry about it,' he says. 'I can stay to take care of you, if you want to. We don't have to do anything. You can go to bed early and I'll keep you company. I can make you some soup, read to you... You could've just told me you're not feeling good, you know. I would've picked up some fruit on my way over here and stopped by the library for you.'

'You don't have to do any of that, Steve.'

Steve tries to ignore the fact that it's been ages since Eddie has last called him by his official first name. He doesn't like the sound of it.

'But I want to,' he says instead. He takes a step towards Eddie, lifts his arms to wrap them around him – but Eddie swats his arms away before he can properly embrace him.

'Don't.' He sounds cold and detached, so different from how he usually sounds. 'Don't act like this is something it isn't.'

'Like this is something –' Steve echoes, completely caught off-guard by this turn of events. 'Like what?'

'Jesus Christ, you really don't know when to stop, do you?'

'What?' He takes a stumbling step backwards, driven away by the force in Eddie's words.

'We're not – like that,' Eddie stutters out. 'We're just fucking around, aren't we? So you don't need to pretend. You don't need to bring me flowers. You don't need to take care of me when I'm sick. You don't owe me anything, alright? You can go home.'

Steve takes another step backwards, until his back collides with the door of the trailer. He blindly grabs the door handle behind him.

'Alright,' he says, trying desperately not to let his voice tremble audibly. 'I hear you, loud and clear. I'll – I'll leave you alone, then.'

Read pt2 here (Edit: it's actually 5 parts now. You can read the whole thing on ao3 here)

#don't mind me rambling about stranger things #anon seriously thank you so much for sending this to me!! it's been a great scenario to explore #and my apologies for the angst lmao #but i promise more will follow soon #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #fruity ficlet

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squidling2005 · 5 months ago

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been seeing a lot of people talking about how weird jax was in the recent tadc episode, and i wanted to share my thoughts about it

to me, this whole episode was about masking, both in a literal sense and an emotional sense, and what happens when people can't mask anymore. it was mostly focused on gangle, and how she's trying to keep herself together and happy despite not feeling that way, but i also think this theme spread to the other characters as well.

there are a handful of characters that i think mask, or hide themselves more than the others. starting off with zooble, who hides in their room because they don't feel comfortable with themself, being forced to interact with the others and do the adventure.

then, ragatha, who tries so hard to make others like her and saying what she thinks they want to hear, ends up drugged or drunk or whatever which takes away her filter and causes her to say what she really thinks.

finally, jax, who i think values control, which is almost impossible to get in a place where your whole life is controlled by someone else. so he acts a certain way and he does what he can to get whatever amount of control that he can over a situation to prove that the digital circus doesn't have full power over him. sometimes i think he acts like a jerk as a way to control what others hate about him, instead of them hating him for things he can't control. some form of coping mechanism or smth, but i don't think we know enough about jax to say that for sure. he might just be a jerk for the fun of it.

but he loses that control in this episode. gangle, the one person he has the most power over out of the group, now has power over him and when he pushed back against that, she sent him to the training room where he was physically restrained and forced to watch the training video. that's why i think he was so off this episode. because his way of coping with being stuck in the circus wasn't working and there was nothing he could do about it

but hey, that's just a theory

#tadc jax #tadc zooble #tadc ragatha #tadc gangle #the amazing digital circus zooble #the amazing digital circus #the amazing digital circus jax #the amazing digital circus gangle #jax #gangle #ragatha #the amazing digital circus ragatha

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starkidmunson · 1 year ago

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glitter & crimson

Steve comes home from his first post-injury workout drenched in sweat and throws himself onto the sofa on his back. Robin winces as she watches him go, raising an eyebrow.

“That bad?” She asks, to which Steve groans in response.

“They want me to wear a bubble.” Steve responds, digs his hand around inside the gym bag still attached to his side and lifts out the full face mask.

“Wouldn’t be the worst idea, protect your face at least.” Robin observes, only to be met by a glare from Steve. His facial expressions are making a triumphant return as he regains more control over his face as the wound heals, and he’s taking full advantage of his bitchy looks whenever he can.

“Says the one not blowing hot air back into their own face as they work out.” He grumbles, flopping back and dropping the mask onto his stomach. “Everything hurts. You’d think I’ve been out for months, not just a few weeks.”

“How’s the headache?” Robin predicts, and Steve gives her another look before he sighs.

“It’s not bad, don’t overreact. It’s not the concussion.” He insists, ignores the way her eyebrow rises again and instead pushes himself up again. “I’m going to shower,” Steve announces, making a quick escape from Robin.

It’s not exactly that he’s lying, because he’s not. He doesn’t think anything he’s feeling is concussion-related. The soreness in his muscles is from suddenly being weighed down with his hockey gear again, after weeks without. It’s a similar feeling to the first workout of the pre-season. The headache is a little trickier to convince everyone around, so he’d avoided mentioning it and done his best to hide it at the rink. It’s no surprise Robin can just tell he has one, though.

He lets steam fill the bathroom before he steps under water so hot his skin turns pink. He lets the shower spray target the middle of his back, shifts so it settles between his shoulder blades, and rests his forehead against the cool tiles in front of him.

Eventually, he emerges back into the apartment in sweatpants, his hair air drying. Robin is setting a cup of hot tea down on the coffee table, her own tucked onto an end table beside her on the sofa. Steve smiles softly and mumbles his appreciation as he sits and takes a sip.

As he drains the cup, the headache eases a bit and he feels a bit more human than he had after returning home from his workout.

“You got mail from your parents today,” Robin eventually offers over the New Girl re-run neither of them are particularly paying attention to but have on for familiar background noise. Steve just grunts, uninterested, and instead busies himself checking any messages he may have missed from people he actually cares to give the time of day.

Dustin had demanded a “family dinner,” which Steve agrees to and warns Robin when to expect a full house. Max, traveling with the Blackhawks for a game tomorrow night, had sent him a detailed threat to not push himself too hard while working out. He responds with a video clip the trainer had taken of Steve nailing a series of wrist shots.

Steve tries hard not to be too disappointed that he hadn’t heard from Eddie. They’d texted about their plans for the day, Steve knew Eddie had said he’d be spending the day in his studio working on a few new tracks he was putting together. Still, though, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping he’d have found a text or two from the other in the time he hadn’t been looking at his phone, something that was quickly becoming a standard for the pair.

Biting back his pride, he decides to send the first text, figuring the other will answer whenever they’re wrapping up in the studio.

Steve: Hope you’re having a good studio session.

After a long few moments, Steve can’t help the little sigh he lets out as he buries himself into the throw pillows filling out the sofa beside him. Robin nudges him with a foot, eyebrow raised, and he shrugs back at her, turning his attention to the television. It isn’t long before he zones out, though, thinking and overthinking.

His injury has given him a lot of time to think about a lot of things; primarily what landed him off the ice. He’s only mentioned it to Robin, but he has been considering coming out to his coaching staff and league officials to give background on what seems like an otherwise unprovoked violent streak from Billy Hargrove. Steve learned, in the days he spent in LA after the attack on the ice, Billy had taken to calling him names and slurs with press and on social media. The trash talking had landed him another fine from the league, but it wasn’t slowing him down. It was more than enough to prove the attack was premeditated, if everyone who needed to know the background was read in on their history.

And while Billy was staying on the attack, his teammates were apparently squared up and ready to defend Steve in a way he probably should have expected but hadn’t seen coming. Each of the players who had gotten physically involved in fighting Billy after Steve had taken a stick to the face had made comments with press about how Hargrove plays dirty and mean. Several had also spoken out about Steve’s leadership and sportsmanship on and off the ice, throwing their support behind him through his recovery.

Coming out to the league and his coaches also had the potential to alleviate some of the anxiety he was feeling around his personal life. There had always been concern about coming out, getting kicked off the ice and ending up without the one thing he knew best. Long before he’d joined the league, his father had impressed upon him that he would have to settle and make sacrifices if he wanted to stay with the sport, but Steve wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep his sexuality bottled up and hidden away from the public.

In large part, it was easy to place blame on Eddie. The rockstar blew into his life and changed his perspective on what it was like to be a public figure, out and proud. Steve knew their status didn’t translate equally. Sports fans were different from fans of a band; Steve had joined a team with supporters who would cheer him on so long as he wore their colors and made them proud. Eddie’s fans had sought him out, decided to listen to his music and support him on their own. But for Steve to see Eddie carrying on with his life, not having to hide any part of himself or worry about not posting certain photos from their days in LA on social media (because what if they looked too suspicious and got people talking and asking questions?) was what Steve longed for.

Chicago was a pretty open-minded town; it’s why he and Robin had first moved to the city to begin with. But it still wasn’t a guarantee that everyone would continue to support the team if he did publicly come out. And Steve was working to reconcile that in his mind; to gauge how much he should even care about it. A part of him knew the greater majority wouldn’t give a shit as long as he still scored goals and played a clean, fair and exciting game whenever he hit the ice. But the thought of those few who might push back too hard and how it could impact his teammates - his friends - in the long term is still what ate away at him.

“I can hear how loud you’re thinking over there.” Robin eventually says while he’s deep in thought, and he shoots her a small smile in response. “Look, Steve, you have to do what you think is best for you. Who gives a shit about anyone else.” She says.

He wishes it was that easy. He knows it could be, but he cares too much about the fallout to stop overthinking. They fall back into silence again, until Robin eventually closes her laptop and leans close to press a gentle kiss to Steve’s hair.

“You’re the best at what you do and if people can’t see that around the fact that you like guys, then that’s their loss.” She says, gently, before excusing herself off to bed.

Steve lounges around in the living room for a while longer, before he turns off the tv, grabs a blanket and makes his way out onto the terrace. He wraps the sherpa around his shoulders and drops into one of the loungers out there, looking out toward the skyline. It’s cold, but not as cold as it’s been, and he’s always found comfort in the winter weather, anyway.

His phone buzzes, catching his attention, and he smiles softly at Eddie’s name. When he answers FaceTime, he’s immediately met by chaos. It sounds like three voices are talking over each other, Eddie’s closest to the phone, making a loud ‘shhh’ sound until everyone around him is silenced.

“Did you mean to call me?” Steve asks around a smile, and watches as Eddie’s face lights up as he draws his attention.

“I did!” He insists, though Steve isn’t entirely convinced. “Want to hear what the track I’m mixing right now?”

Steve raised his eyebrow, only half sure he knows what Eddie’s talking about, before he nods. “Let’s hear it.” He agrees.

“Told you,” Eddie hisses at someone just out of the camera’s frame; probably one of the Corroded Coffin boys. Eddie taps a few buttons below the phone, then a soft guitar tune starts playing. It’s not like anything Steve has ever heard from the band before, gentler and softer. Other instruments crash in, in a more typical Corroded Coffin sound, for what Steve assumes will be a chorus once there’s a vocal track, but it slows back to just a guitar for the next verse. Eddie pauses the song and lifts the phone up again. “Thoughts and opinions are encouraged.”

“It’s different.” Steve says, still a little in awe.

“But not in a bad way!” He hears Gareth’s voice from somewhere in Eddie’s studio, and Steve nods in agreement.

“I don’t think it’s in a bad way, either. Just different. It still sounds like you guys in that middle part, when all the instruments join in. But the guitar, that’s… it’s soft and sweet and gentle. It works nicely, not that I know anything about music,” Steve laughs, and Eddie gives him a little smile.

“I appreciate your opinion,” he says, seeming to inspect the screen. “Your face looks a little less colorful. How was practice?”

“Fine, I’m sore now, though.” Steve admits, shifts and cracks his back.

“Gross!” Jeff cries from somewhere around Eddie, and Steve can’t help but laugh again.

“You should get back to working, I’m gonna head to bed soon anyway. We can talk tomorrow?” Steve asks, and Eddie nods.

“Night, Stevie.”

~~~~

He hangs up the FaceTime, steals a pizza roll off Jeff’s plate, and re-opens the notes app on his phone. Scanning over the rambling notes he’d made himself about how he imagined the song would work out, he starts a new paragraph.

And he stares at the blank line before him.

“You’ve composed, like, 4 tracks and you can’t come up with a single lyric for any of them?” Freak asks, takes a pull from a joint burning in an ashtray near the sofa, and blows the smoke out away from the group.

“Very helpful insight,” Eddie grumbles, and Jeff leans forward.

“Do you want us to help? Like, do you have a theme for the songs, or is this just going to be your own little pet project?” He asks.

“Well, I guess it depends. If you want to drop a surprise EP or double album after the one we’re putting out, I’m probably going to need help. But if you’re cool with letting me sit on it, I can probably figure it out on my own.” Eddie offers.

Gareth twirls a drumstick between his fingers. “I think we let Eddie handle the love songs about Steve Harrington, and if he comes up with enough to make into something to drop, we drop them whenever he’s ready, and if not, we throw them onto the next album or whatever when he’s ready to release them.”

Eddie sighs and drops his head back against the rest of his swivel chair. “Can we stop calling them love songs about Steve?”

“Guess you have extra incentive to write lyrics to them, then,” Freak teases, and Eddie groans back, making the other boys laugh.

It isn’t much longer before they all excuse themselves to the rooms they claimed around the house. Eddie spends a few extra hours in the studio, working on as many lyrics as his brain allows and even sorts out bridge for the song he’d played for Steve before he heads off to bed.

He isn’t surprised to wake up the next morning to a text from Steve, who routinely gets up hours before Eddie and is always the first to send a text wishing him a good day ahead.

Eddie: Go easy on yourself on the ice today, you were up too late listening to headbanger music.

It’s a while before he gets a response, which isn’t uncommon. They both have their own lives which responsibilities to get up to. But Eddie would be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting not-so-patiently for Steve’s next response. Freak flew out this afternoon, heading back to visit family in Ohio, leaving Gareth and Jeff at Eddie’s. They’re playing video games in the living room when Eddie’s phone rings with Steve’s name and ID photo.

“Hey, how was today?” Eddie asks immediately, launching himself off the sofa and away from the boys and the noise from the television.

“Well, that’s part of why I’m calling,” Steve says, sounding a little out of breath and hair damp with sweat, glancing off camera before he flashes a charming smile down at Eddie. “What are you doing Tuesday?”

His brain short-wires for a second, thrown off course by the response. Is this Steve, asking him out on a date? That can’t be it, right? There’s no way, not with the back-and-forth they have going on. There would be more to it than that, and Steve seems like the kind of guy to give more than 4 days notice for a date that requires at least one party to travel several states. So Eddie does his best to quickly calm and compose himself, hoping he hasn’t taken an alarmingly long time to answer, before he responds. “I don’t know, what am I doing Tuesday?”

“I think you’re coming to watch the Blackhawks play the Predators in Nashville. I’m allowed to travel and suit up, but I probably won’t play just yet.” Steve is grinning, and Eddie can’t help but smile back.

“Hell yeah, I’ll be there!” He agrees, already pulling up the link to buy tickets for the game. “If I get shamed for wearing my Harrington jersey to a Preds game, you get to take the blame for me rooting against my home away from home.” Eddie teases, and Steve lets out a breathy laugh.

“Bring it on,” he challenges, finally seems to Eddie like he’s caught up and gotten back the quick wit and sharp humor which had been on a slight delay since the injury. A sign of recovery, Eddie’s sure and it helps to see him returning to normal.

They catch one another up on their days, and Eddie lets Steve listen to a few more of the tracks they’ve been working on over the last few days, but stops before the lyrics start in the only one he and Jeff have crafted words to so far, not ready for Steve to hear it yet.

As they’re talking, Eddie gets a notification he almost swipes away without reading, but Steve’s name catches his attention, so he drags it down and reads over the words.

“You okay?” Steve asks, and Eddie realizes the face he must be making is ridiculous.

“Oh, uh. I just got a notification about you?” he mumbles back, and texts the link to Steve.

Now it’s Steve’s turn to look confused as Eddie reads over the headline again.

Hockey Legacy Harringtons to Host Joint Fundraiser

Steve reads the words and seems to immediately understand them in a way Eddie can’t, and he closes his eyes in a heavy sigh. “I promise you, my life is not usually this dramatic.”

Eddie hates how miserable Steve seems all of a sudden; regrets passing the link on but knows he would have found out eventually and gotten upset anyway. “Dude, really, I don’t even know what that means, so it’s not a big deal.”

“It is, though. This is my parents, deciding that I’m worthy of being their son again because I’m getting a bunch of positive press after the injury. So my name gets to be included in the gala invitation, which I have been excluded from since juniors, by the way.” It’s still piecemeal, the information Eddie is able to take away from Steve’s explanation, but it’s enough to get the general gist of the issue.

“Ah. So, the dad who convinced you to self-sabotage is now trying to take credit for your sportsmanship?”

“Something like that,” Steve grumbles, and Eddie can see how he’s holding the phone differently, typing out a text. “I think I have to get Robin and we need to figure this out, sorry to jump off like this. But, I’ll see you at the Preds game? We can grab dinner after?”

“It’s a date.”

Eddie physically can’t stop the words before they’re out of his mouth, and immediately waits for a hole in the ground to open up and suck him in and put him out of his misery. But Steve just raises an eyebrow, smiles and shrugs. “Not yet, but. Sure.”

Then, Eddie stares at himself in the reflection of his phone after Steve ends the FaceTime call and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do with Steve Harrington, who keeps finding new ways to catch him off guard.

#glitter & crimson #starkidmunson writes #it's a little longer as an apology for how long it's been #steddie #rockstar!eddie munson #hockey player!steve harrington #simultaneously the slowest of burns and the most obvious flirting #anti-steve's parents

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malk1ns · 3 months ago

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february 23 vs rangers, 5-3 loss

this tweet served as inspo for this one.

There was a time in Sid’s career where two bad back-to-back losses like this would have been enough to make him blow his lid.

He’s not going to deny having a temper. He does a good job reining it in most of the time, but especially when he was younger he wasn’t above losing his shit on the locker room when they had a bad stretch of games and guys weren’t playing the right way.

Now, especially when he’s still riding the high of bringing home another gold medal to add to his trophy cabinet, Sid can’t bring himself to get too mad. The team is performing exactly as he expected they would after all the conversations he had with Kyle over the summer; nobody’s saying the word, but they’re in a rebuild. Winning is off the table for now, so Sid’s finding joy in other things: watching younger players grow more confident on the ice, celebrating personal milestones with the same exuberance they once reserved for playoff series wins, and appreciating the time he gets to spend with his best friends out on the ice despite the odds.

Especially Geno. Although the time Sid and Geno spend together looks a lot different than the time Sid spends with Kris.

He hums as he strips off his gear and looks around the room, thinking about what he still needs to get done tonight. He checked in with Blomqvist already; the kid let in a few stinkers tonight, but Sid’s not going to put this all on him, not when they can’t give him the goal support he deserves. He should talk to Kris about that penalty, but Kris is brooding over in his stall and everyone is giving him a wide berth, so Sid decides it can wait until tomorrow.

When Sid’s eyes land on Geno, Geno winks. He looks happy, which after a game like that he should—three points in two games and his knee is back to normal. No matter the outcome of a game, it always eases the sting when Sid can watch Geno flying out there on the ice.

Something else Sid’s doing this year that’s different is Geno.

They’ve been on-and-off fooling around for years, between and sometimes during other more serious relationships, but over the summer Sid had enough of the back-and-forth. They were both single, they weren’t getting any younger—Sid saw no reason to not give them a real try, and flew down to Miami to talk to Geno about it in person under the pretext of giving himself a break from contract talk.

Geno agreed. Enthusiastically, many times, and all over his condo. Sid hadn’t been able to wipe the stupid, well-fucked smile from his face for a solid week after his return to Cole Harbour.

They’ve managed to keep it from the team, although there have been a few close calls. They were already so deep in each other’s pockets that spending time together outside of the rink hasn’t raised any eyebrows, but when Sid looks at Geno he sometimes feels like a teenager again, and it’s hard to resist the urge to herd him into supply closets and kiss him until they’re both red-faced and out of breath.

Tomorrow is an off day, though, and for once neither of them have any other obligations. Sid pulls out his phone and bites his lip as he considers his options.

Geno likes sexting, which had been a surprise. He usually avoids using written English at all costs, preferring to send gifs and emojis that need to be deciphered instead, but when Sid sent him something slightly saucy before they were both back in Pittsburgh for the season, Geno’s response had been…thorough.

They’ve spent more time apart this year than either of them would like between injuries and illness, and Sid figured out pretty quickly that Geno really gets off from sending pictures that neither of them have any business taking and reading about what Sid wants to do to him.

He’s got some ideas for tomorrow, once they’ve both rehydrated and had a full night’s sleep.

i watched that video u sent me last week again earlier today, the one of u fucking urself, he types out, angling his phone just in case Bunts is feeling nosy. bet u could take even more. tomorrow i’ll give u what u want

Sid drops his phone into his bag and stretches. He’s bone-tired, and Geno will complain if he waits to shower until they’re at home, but he wants to sit for a while on the shower bench and enjoy the steam feature he had installed when he built the house.

“Oh god,” Glasser says from across the room, sounding distraught, and Sid looks up, schooling his face back into concerned-captain mode.

Glasser has his phone in his hand, and before Sid’s brain can put the pieces together, his gut lurches. He lunges for his phone, but it’s too late.

—

They probably could have gotten away with pretending Sid’s text was meant for some girl, but Geno’s never been good at schooling away his emotions. Kris had spun to show Geno his screen while he was still gaping down at his phone in shock, and Kris is too smart to not put two and two together when it’s right in front of his face.

By the time Sid and Geno escape the locker room, Sid’s ears are ringing. Between the chirps, the questions, Karl telling everyone he can grab that I knew Geno wasn’t just helping Sid get down a roll of tape, I knew something was up! and Kris’s cackling, echoed by Flower who he got on FaceTime alarmingly fast, Sid’s so overwhelmed he can barely remember where they parked.

Geno looks equally stunned in the passenger seat, staring out the window with huge eyes. Every now and then he inhales like he’s about to talk, but shakes his head and settles back into his seat.

Neither of them got to shower after all.

They move silently through their postgame routines once they get to Sid’s, downing food and water on autopilot. Sid seriously considers drowning himself in that luxe shower he spent so much on, but he doesn’t want anyone to say his twentieth point-per-game season doesn’t count because he didn’t make it past sixty games played, so he turns the water off once his skin is sufficiently scalded.

He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror while he does his skincare, and as Geno takes his turn in the bathroom Sid curls up in a ball on the bed, facing the door and squeezing his eyes shut.

The sound of Geno’s feet scuffling on the carpet as he shuts the blinds and turns off the light settles Sid, and his weight on the mattress as he crawls under the blankets gets Sid breathing regularly again.

“Wow,” Geno finally says after a few moments of silence. “Crazy.”

Sid can’t help it—he starts laughing, first a giggle and then a hysterical guffaw that brings tears to his eyes. He can’t stop, and it doesn’t take Geno long to join in.

By the time their laughter fades off, Sid’s turned around and curled up against Geno’s body, getting as close as possible.

“They’re never gonna stop, huh,” he mutters, thinking about how many unread texts he had before he finally turned his phone off entirely.

“No,” Geno says, sounding dire. “And Flower tell everyone, like, half league knows tomorrow morning. It’s hell. Ovechkin gets hat trick and now this? Can’t go to Russia ever, he follows me around to read text out loud, all summer.”

Sid coughs out another laugh. “Sorry, bud.” He sighs. “At least tomorrow’s a day off. We don’t have to talk to any of them if we don’t want to.”

“Sid…” Geno starts hesitantly. Sid props himself up on one elbow and squints into the dark, trying to make Geno’s features out. “You still want to do tomorrow?”

It takes Sid a second.

“Fuck yeah,” he says fervently, lying back down and running his palm down Geno’s torso until he can grope at his soft dick. “As soon as—” He breaks off into a huge yawn. “—just as soon as I don’t feel like I’m going to die if I don’t get sleep. You’ll see. I’ll get you good.”

If Geno responds, Sid doesn’t hear it.

—

Sid isn’t quite sure when Geno’s collection of sex toys migrated to his house. Sid didn’t have any of his own, never felt the urge to buy one, but they’ve been working their way through Geno’s toy box up in the privacy of Sid’s bedroom all season, and Sid’s familiar with enough of them by now to have a few favorites.

Right now, he’s got Geno panting underneath him as he works Geno’s favorite dildo into him far, far more slowly than Geno would like, if the way he’s tugging at his wrist restraints is any indication.

Geno’s babbling, long flowing Russian that sounds desperate and pleading, but Sid ignores him in favor of watching the way Geno’s hole is stretched around one of the ridges in the toy. It’s bigger than Sid’s dick, which he’d feel insecure about if Geno hadn’t proven just how into Sid’s equipment he is.

Sid can appreciate variety, and Geno figured out years ago that the best way to push Sid’s buttons is to challenge him until Sid feels competitive enough about trying new things to overcome his insecurities. It works for them.

Sometimes, though, Sid likes to fall back on tried-and-true favorites. Like today.

The toy he’s got Geno squirming on right now always gets him just right. It’s plain black, curved with thick ridges that bulge out and make Geno shout when they pass over his prostate, and there’s a button in the base that makes the tip vibrate. Sid’s not using that today—it makes Geno crazy when he does, but right now Sid feels like working for it himself.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, pushing the toy until the ridge stretching Geno wide is fully inside. Geno takes in a huge, shaky breath, but his respite doesn’t last for long, because Sid starts working the next ridge into him. “You’re desperate for it. I told you, I’ll give you what you need.”

“Please,” Geno begs, yanking at the ropes binding his arms to the headboard. “Sid, can’t.” But the way he’s arching his back into Sid’s hands says otherwise.

“You can,” Sid says, petting over Geno’s lower stomach.

By the time Sid gets the toy completely in, Geno’s crying, and Sid’s so hard he can’t resist palming at himself.

“Look at that,” Sid says to himself, angling the toy to the side so it stretches Geno even further. “I bet you really could take more.”

He lets go of the base for a second to drizzle lube over his fingers. Pausing, he looks up at where Geno’s chin is craned down to stare at him.

Geno nods, a tiny, jerky little thing, but that’s enough for Sid.

He grabs the base and tilts the toy again, petting over Geno’s rim with his index finger. “Such a slut,” he mutters, nudging his finger in alongside the toy.

It’s a tight fit, and Geno’s not helping by clenching around him reflexively, but Sid crooks his finger and rubs his thumb over Geno’s rim, hushing him until he relaxes.

He considers adding more, fitting three or even four inside next to the dildo, and the throb of arousal that washes over him is so strong it’s nearly nauseating.

Another time. They can work up to it.

Instead, Sid slips his finger out, smiling as Geno’s whines shift to protests. He rubs his sticky hand over Geno’s thigh, then closes it around Geno’s dick while rotating the toy.

Geno comes so hard his back bows painfully, and Sid chews on his lip as he massages Geno’s dick through it and watches the way Geno thrashes his head back and forth, a hectic flush high on his cheeks.

He eases the toy out carefully, but Geno whimpers, overstimulated and sore. Sid murmurs nonsense until it’s free, tossing it to the side carelessly.

He’s ready to take himself in hand and come on Geno’s stomach, or maybe his face if Geno’s feeling generous, but before he can make a move Geno’s leg curls around his back.

Sid looks up, and Geno’s eyes are still shiny and blown, but direct.

“Fuck me,” he says, letting his leg drop and spreading his thighs as wide as he can. “Sid, please, I need.”

“Shit,” Sid swears. “Baby, no, I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” Geno says, rolling his shoulders back and clenching his fingers against the ropes. “Please, want to feel.”

Sid shouldn’t. They play tomorrow.

Geno’s hot inside, though, and somehow still tight, and the sounds he makes as Sid loses himself in thrusting into him send Sid over the edge so fast he’s dizzy.

“Jesus,” he gasps, grinding his hips in one last time before pulling out and sitting back on his heels. He parts Geno’s cheeks and looks at his hole, sore and red and dripping with Sid’s come. If Sid were still 23 he thinks he’d probably be getting hard again already at the sight. “You’re incredible.

“Yes,” Geno agrees, smug despite how breathless and fucked-out he sounds. “Sid, my hands.”

Sid scrambles to untie him, and Geno winces as he rotates his wrists before letting Sid rub briskly over the rope marks. “Ouch,” he complains, but it’s toothless, and Sid ignores it in favor of restoring proper blood circulation to Geno’s hands. He’ll need them tomorrow.

Geno grumbles and flinches, but lets Sid complete his ministrations. “Next time we tie you, maybe,” he says, pulling back once Sid lets go and flexing his fingers. “Maybe then you’re not send stupid text to whole team, Jesus.”

Sid didn’t think he was ready to laugh about it yet, but this is far from the first time Geno’s proven him wrong.

#sidgeno #hockey rpf #my writing #my fic #24-25 series

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ssivinee · 2 years ago

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✧New Game, New Player✧

part 1 | part 2

BEBE! Bada Lee x Dancer! F Reader: Jeon Y/n joins SWF to prove that her being the sibling of an idol doesn't make her any less of a dancer, but while trying to do so, she makes new friends and potentially something more.

Word Count: 4.7k

Note: Double post cause why not, have too many drafts rn lol.

Character Vision Board

In the world of dance, many professionals look down upon idols who seem to have a passion for it. Many of them saying, it's a different world and aren't really wrong.

Most idols lack in freestyle and versatility which caused a lot of the disapproval last Street Woman Fighter, with idol Lee Chaeyeon.

Jeon Y/n, on the other hand, had a different dilemma.

You were the younger sister of the famous Jeon Jungkook. He was only a year older than you so you two had a close bond, and you love him with all your heart.

Yet you can't deny that once your name was involved, so was his. Your hard work being discredited and diminished by all his career alone.

It upset you as an individual whose danced all your life, going to multiple countries worldwide to gain experience, yet there was always back talk about you.

Deciding to finally make your mark as just Y/n, you opened a studio last year and create your crew Aesthete. Consisting of you, Choi Lyn, Enyo, Heaven Lee, and Kim Aria.

On a Friday morning, you walk into the studio and see the three youngest sitting around, waiting on the rest of the team. Your teams youngest, Lyn, notices you walk in from the mirror. Her bursts of energy activates as she runs up and hugs her beloved unnie extremely tight.

"O-okay, let's calm down before you squeeze all the air out of me," you joke, and Lyn pouts as you pat her head. "Aria isn't here yet?" You ask your juniors as you settle all your items into the closet.

"She was the first one here but wanted to get us all coffee."

Ironically the door opens, revealing the face you were looking for, "Speaking of the devil." She heads to everyone, handing their coffee to them and puts her own personal belongings in the closet.

"Everyone begin stretching. The studio opens in 30 minutes."

You clap and rally the girls together, stretching along with them, then check the list of students coming into the class today. The song chosen for the class was "Con Calma" by Daddy Yankee & Snow. Once class started, you got in the groove of things, and as it went smoothly, you picked a few students and grouped them up to film them for a YouTube video.

When class ends, the girls chill around in a circle as they sit and chat. You scrolled through tiktok, liking dance trends while Enyo leaned her head on your shoulder.

Your phone alerts you, an email sent to your work email instead of personal so you knew it was of importance. Opening the sent mail, your eyes widen at seeing the Mnet logo.

The girls see your face and give a look of concern to each other, "What's going on?"

Your hand over your mouth, and you read, announcing, "Mnet invited us to Street Woman Fighter 2!"

All you can hear is gasps, and after a few seconds, jumping and screaming while you still stand thinking of how unbelievable the opportunity is. Aria grabs your arm and jumps, "Unnie, this is your time to shine!"

You smiled to yourself, now believing that people may actually appreciate you for your dancing.

It was a day of filming on a Saturday morning, and you had finished filming the introduction segment of each crew a week prior.

You get to the main building of the show in your own car and, with another coffee in hand, walk into the lobby to see your team waiting for you.

"Y/n-unnie! Isn't this place so cool?" Lyn says, coming up to you full of energy. Your eyes scan the building, and you must admit, for an assumingly fierce competition, it looked very subtle from what you expected. "It's definitely something,” you mumble.

"Come on, ladies, let's head into our rooms,” you command.

We headed up the stairs and into the halls, passing every crew's room and seeing what they had written on their board.

"It seems like someone tampered with 1Millions board already," Enyo points out, you then frown at their antics. The thoughts of these grown women acting like this irritated you. They were acting like children whose toys were stolen from them.

Yes, you understood bad blood, but pettiness like this isn't a good look on anyone.

The crew sees the Aesthete in a lightly script font in royal blue. You let the girls write on the whiteboard and enter to find the blue room, getting a bit overwhelmed with everything happening so fast.

Everyone sat down and you did breathing exercises, and as the nerves calm, your anticipation and excitement overthrow the previous emotions. The screen then flashes and tells us the dancer on the team with the most no-respect, which was Aria, causing you to look at the screen in confusion.

"Um, okay?" They all laugh at your reaction, mainly because Aria wasn't a weak dancer, but you assumed those stickers were there because of you.

You felt terrible and rubbed her shoulders, "They probably picked you since you’ve been my longest student."

She smiles at you, "It's alright, unnie. I'll just show them why I haven’t left your side."

Aria had been the first student you trained about 7 years ago and has stayed by your side ever since. You always thought it was because she wanted to meet your brother at some point, but over the years, your friendship blossomed, and she reassured you. Aria took your classes because she loved your style, movement, aura, and passion for dancing.

She indeed became the little sister you never had.

Then, the TV signals us to head to the main stage. You all walked down, your team following your lead, and looked around at each group. Every crew was there, but Jam Republic, being the grand finale, you assumed.

Your appearance began to cause everyone to mumble. You kept your hand in the pockets of your cargos, inducing a chill persona.

“Y/n-nim looks so cool.”

“Her eyes look ready to kill. Like she’s ready to punch anyone who disrespects them.”

“And I thought Bada would be the only person here who would be many girl’s type.”

Before you can all take your seats, you stand in the middle and see your team video playing, hearing "Backseat Freestyle" by Kendrick Lamar.

Then, the comments begin to flow in. Starting with Lady Bounce.

"I wanna say I'm intrigued about this team, but only because of Jeon Y/n."

"She's been known as the mother of HYBE. I mean, she's choreographed so many songs for so many groups. I guess that's where all the comments stem from." Lia Kim also speaks, addressing it to her team, and they nod.

"I don't understand why a team like this is on the show. They're like team Bebe, but instead of Bada, they have Y/n," Mina Myoung of Deep N Dap comments, and you stand there with a still, stoic face.

“The team has only been around for one year. They shouldn’t even be in this competition with us,” Wolf Lo’s Halo speaks out with her opinion.

You weren't amused by their comments in the slightest, but you wouldn't give them the satisfaction of getting any major reaction out of you.

Yoonji of Mannequeen then says the comment that ticks you off the most, "Not only are these the shadow of Jeon Y/n, but she is in the shadow of Jeon Jungkook. Even coming on this show, there is no escape from that."

Everyone keeps their eyes on you, trying to see any movement or expression of anger, but you give them a smirk. You knew a comment like this would be said, which didn’t surprise you.

You got those comments quite often any time a choreography of yours went viral so it was nothing you haven’t heard of.

Then, the crew with the trendy Bada Lee appears on the screen, "I'm gonna be honest, I don't know much about them." Lusher begins. " I'd say they're probably our biggest rivals due to our dance styles," Tatter adds.

"Maybe dancing is in Y/n's genes. She just has to prove it here. As a leader, I'm sure she knows many people look down on her due to her connection to her brother." You stare at the screen, a little surprised at the more neutral comment by their leader.

“Their style is very appealing and trendy. I feel we’re gonna see a lot from this crew,” Tsubakill’s Rena says with a soft smile.

The women of Jam Rebuplic were on screen, and you couldn't help but smile a little. Kristen and Ling met you during their time with the Royal Family, and knowing them for many years put you at ease. You also became a fan of Audrey's dance style with her appearance on the World of Dance.

"I know we're in a competition with these girls, but knowing Y/n personally, I know and believe her talent goes beyond imagination and can lead this team to success." The video then ends and shows the status of no-respect stickers given. You had gotten 2, while Lyn had 4.

As you sit, you think of having 3 level-headed crews on the show that didn't disrespect you. If anything, they looked respectful and sincere about all their comments.

The large room began to buzz in whispers as crews chatted about other teams. "I can't believe they think of you like that," Enyo shakes her head, but you shrug. "Their comments were honestly what I expected. I didn't expect the nicer things that Tsubakill and Bebe said."

"Agreed," Lyn mumbles, feeling down due to the comments. "I knew Jam was gonna be nice, but everyone else was truly a fifty-fifty."

Jam Republic then comes down with an energy that no one could match in the studio. They were the ones who felt as if they were at the top, and there was no denying it. They were at the top. The girls were the most unique with their versatile dance arsenal.

You knew your abilities as a dancer, and one thing you couldn't do well was Afro-dance, as the rhythm was genuinely different.

They stand in the middle as they react to their video, but every other team can't help but stare at the girls. The video played, and as every minute passed, their reactions were solely entertained rather than angry. In some way, you were engaged by the comments, too.

Some groups said they'd rather have Paris Globel there, but you know that in the popularity game, every team would have lost right then and there.

Nearing the end, you couldn't help but smile at Audrey's reaction to her 6 stickers. Your crew didn't have anything bad to say about them, and they took note of this as they took their seats right next to yours.

Ling and Kristen give you a fist bump and smile, which is noticed by Bada, who sits one team away from Aesthete.

“They seem close, huh,” Tatter whispers to her leader, who nods, intrigued at your relationship with the international team. After hearing the praise from Jam Republic, she knew you shouldn’t be underestimated.

If people from other countries were saying good things on your behalf, you couldn't be as weak as the other crews said. The large screen then shows the show's logo as the lights begin moving around on the runway area of the stage.

"Is it starting?" Enyo asks, but her questions are answered by Kang Daniel coming out. All the women were cheering as he had the mic and queue cards in hand.

"Hello. Welcome to Mnet's original dance series, Street Woman Fighter 2, and I'm your host, Kang Daniel. Not only will we see the competitions between some of the best dance crews in Korea, but we have gone international this season - with global named crews, making the competition more intense."

Heaven and Lyn act out a fight, punching each other lightly. "Yah, chill out, please," Aria warns the two younger girls causing them to abruptly halt the play fight.

"You'll fight to crush all the other crews and reach the top. Only one crew can do that. Here's the first dance battle to be the winner of this competition."

Kang Daniel did very good at amping everyone up. As you leaned forward, arms laid on your knees, hiding the lower half of your face, you hid your smile of amusement.

"The signature of the dance series is your first mission, the no-respect battle with the weakest dancer." You were all told to change, and you take your water with you as you return to the stage.

As you leave your room, you see the tall figure with the Oreo hair leave the room right beside yours. You bow when you see her, and she reciprocates. Given that you were tall, standing at 5'8, looking slightly up to meet her gaze, it was surprising.

"Hello, Bada-nim," You reach your hand out, and her eyes go wide, looking stunned. "I just want to thank you for not saying anything negative on behalf of my team."

She gladly accepts your handshake with a friendly grin, "Hey man, I know what it feels like when people compare you to the idol instead of acknowledging your talents."

"You're telling me. I've been getting compared to my brother ever since everyone found out about us being related."

"I had those moments when dancing with Kai, but people warmed up to it, especially the more I choreographed for him."

You smile at her with envy, "I bet it's nice to hear the love from people." You lower your head and lean against the wall, feeling somewhat ashamed for feeling this way. "I'm a little jealous Bada-nim."

Bada tilts her head, confused at what you, out of everyone, had to be jealous about.

"My one wish after this entire show ends is for people to see me as Y/n, the leader of Asthete. The one who puts a lot of effort into their craft and passion. Not just a shadow of my brother."

Bada's eyes soften at your determined gaze. She could feel how much you meant every word you said to her. She could only assume how bad it was for you, but Bada never realized how much it affected your mental until you spoke to her.

Somehow, that being your first proper interaction and conversation with each other made Bada's heart race. She wasn't expecting you to open up, but she really appreciated it, as it motivated her.

You notice all the noise in the room behind her, "You wanna head down with me, or are you still waiting for your team?"

"I'll probably wait to make sure they don't take their sweet time," Bada jokes, and you give her a genuine laugh, knowing how it feels to have a team all younger than you. "Don't worry, I totally understand."

You then bow, excusing yourself to get to the main stage, where you see all of Jam Republic ready. "Kristen! Ling!" You say, coming up to the leader with a massive hug. You met the girls on your travel to New Zealand for a dance collaboration and loved their energy, causing you to keep in contact. "Hey, girl! Long time no see."

You pout, "I know, I've been busy, so I never got to visit you guys over there," you tell her as you point to Ling, trying to involve her in the conversation. She also hugs you and plays with your long, silky hair that was currently ashy brown in color. As the three talk, Bebe comes down and sees the interaction. "She's close to all of them?" Bada mumbled to herself. Lusher looks in their direction as well. "I guess so."

You begin telling jokes and stories about the recent classes you've taught. The newly arriving team saw you showing them a sample of a choreography, you probably made. You looked so happy and smiled brightly as you moved for them, not going all out to save energy. A smile frames Bada’s face as she takes a seat, comparing your energy to a child showing off a piece of candy they got.

Rather than the serious personality you showed when you first came in, you did a 180, displaying your doe eyes and bunny smile. "Oh, Audrey, I've meaning to say how big of a fan I am of your dancing."

Bada's thoughts stray away as she can't help but keep her eyes locked on your figure.

She wasn't gonna lie to herself. You are super attractive as you carry yourself with confidence and assertiveness.

The genes were strong, too. You looked like the female version of your brother, which was a given, but your nose just seemed a bit smaller and your lips were evidently plumper. From the eyes down to the smile and even tattoos that she could see, you were almost a carbon copy of him.

"Oo~ our teacher has some interest in the leader of Aesthete," Tatter teases, and Bada scoffs. "I'm just realizing how much she looks like Jungkook-nim."

"You got that right," Tatter says, and Minah butts in, "As hot as him too." The girls giggle at her comment, but they can't help but agree. "She's so cool," Cheche says.

You begin to raise the sleeves of your flannel, out of habit, as you continue your chat with Jam Republic and team Bebe's eyes widen. You had a few minimal tattoos on your left arm, but your right arm was what caught their attention.

Inked on your arm was a full sleeve covering your forearms and down to your hands. The tattoos were all in a delicate art style, but as they covered your entire arm, the combination was badass. It did suit you, but now your adorable image was flipped upside down in Bada’s mind.

If only you saw her gaze. It looked like she wanted to do unimaginable things to you, but in a quick flash, she realizes the setting she’s in and shakes her head a bit.

"She looks like she would beat someone up," Tatter mumbles, but Bada can't help but think your face doesn't match your body. You had innocent doe eyes and a cute smile while your body looked ready for a boxing match, from the tattoos down to your noticeable muscles. "The Jeon bloodline must be strong," Minah mumbles, but everyone agrees.

The rest of the crews begin entering, and you wave off the girls, returning to your team.

"Whoever is battling first better hype up the entire crowd. My hands are literally sweating right now," Ling says, but you side-eye her with a questioning stare. Emma noticed this, nudging Ling in your direction, causing the two of them to laugh.

Once they commence the battles, everyone gets nervous. "The first no-respect battle is... 1Million Redy."

Your gaze follows Redy as she comes down from her spot. "The person I pick as the weakest dancer is..." She teases the crowd, approaching Deep N Dap or Lady Bounce. Redy then does a complete reverse and stands before the light blue team, "Bada of Bebe."

An obnoxious squeal could be heard, and you covered your ears at the sudden pitch. Looking over your shoulder to see it was Heaven, your eyes grow wide. You never knew that sound could come from her body, as she was always the quiet one on the team.

"THE Bada Lee dancing? Take my money now." Enyo rolls her eyes and slaps her, "Dude, don't be embarrassing us...Have some dignity, please."

Your chuckle pulls the two girls out of their tiny argument, and they continue to pay attention. If Bada got Heaven to react that way, you knew you had to pay attention to her in this battle. The younger girl barely gives anyone a reaction but her members, yet here she was, fangirling over Bebe's leader.

You look over and see the taller woman nod her head. "Redy of 1Million picks Bada of Bebe as the worst dancer."

"I just don't respect you," Redy ends straight and clear. "That's it."

Bada slightly paces and smirks, "Not Redy. Soobin. You're still an eighth grader to me." You smile at the comment, feeling the hype after the comments. "Whaaaa~ unnie. This. Is. Amazing." Lyn jumps up and down as she holds onto your shoulders, keeping her balanced. You stayed seated as the battle began and couldn't help but stare at Bada. Her cold face would get countered by her confident personality.

Redy dances, and you nod your head ever so often. While the battle continues, you feel a pair of eyes staring at you.

You look across the stage and around until you see the pair of eyes that cause your alertness. It was Manequeen's own Barbie doll, Redlic. Your attention was back to the dance where you see Bada about to begin.

Your eyes travel all over her body as she teases the younger girl with her dance, the grinding, body rolls, the taunting? You loved seeing it all. She dominated the stage as a one-man act, and you applaud her for that, which she notices and bows. That was the first time you gave someone a reaction as you all filmed, so she felt good about her performance.

"Cards are open in 3! 2! 1!"

The judges flipped their cards quickly, showing Bebe winning 3:0. Monika picked up the mic and told Redy, "Compared to Bada, you did dance like an eighth grader." Saying it in a casual tone made even you feel hurt.

Everyone sits, and the following battle is about to occur, "Mannaqueen's Redlic, please take the stage."

She wastes no time, walking up to your crew and giving you a seductive look. "The dancer I pick with no respect is Jeon Y/n." You smirk at this and grab your mic.

"Redlic, why did you choose Y/n as the no-respect dancer?"

"I wanted to see if she could set the stage on fire with me on it," causing a very evident chuckle to come out of you. "I can. I can even make it burn," you say confidently.

"Alright, the fight shall begin!"

When it begins, Redlic starts feeling up her body to "Needed Me" by Rihanna and swaying her body. She gets closer to you, going around and shaking her ass in front of you, causing you to bite your lips at her antics. You’d never deny a beautiful woman making moves on you, even if it was just for her dance.

She adds some floor work and ensures she shows out using all her space. Redlic had you entranced for some time, and before you knew it, it was your turn, "3! 2! 1! Switch!"

Your song was "Or Nah" by Ty Dolla $ign, and as you begin, you take off your jacket, revealing your sleeveless white top, and everyone's eyes go wide seeing your arms and full tattoos. You were starting to look like a hot commodity on stage, and Redlic couldn't help but lick her lips at the sight.

Behind you, Bada was still trying to gather herself after her battle, but her face flushed again once you removed your flannel. She felt her body heating up and hoped to cover up her reactions by hiding behind her hands.

You grind on the floor, body rolling on Redlic's body while kneeling, then pull yourself up. You did some ticking moves and mixed in some slow motion in there. As you slow-mo a hip-grabbing movement, you go into a motion of locking and popping. Then, slide on the floor, adding a flip to finish your sensual dance.

Bada stares, the hardest she probably ever has, and you lock eyes for a second. Seeing her face and body language formed a sly grin on your face, making her look away, now blushing furiously. She can’t even keep her head in the game when she hears your win of 3:0 against Redlic.

"Unnie?" Lusher stares at her leader, who follows the direction of her eyes, and laughs at the realization. "Unnie, this isn't like you at all!" The sub-leader claps as she laughs, and Bada can't do anything but tell her to shut up, which only causes her to laugh harder.

After a few more battles, you could all take a 30-minute break before resuming.

Everyone sat down chatting, and you were again talking to Jam Republic. You and Audrey had tied 3 times in battle until they decided you won your last match. "Dude, I need to know how you did that neck-breaking move," you ask Audrey, and she giggles shyly. "Let me show you."

She shows you the move, and as you copy it perfectly, she claps for you, "Yes! Well, you got it, fast girl." You laugh at her and talk about her first dance battle. "Man, the first bone-breaking move was insane."

"Which one?"

"Oh, uh, this one," You show the move she hits during "Low" by Flo Rida. Audrey begins jumping excitedly, almost fangirling for you, even if it was her own move. Everyone in the studio notices your interaction with JR and gossip about it.

"I saw them talking before, so they must know each other."

"Well, I'm pretty sure Y/n has taught a class with Latirce and Kristen before, so it's unsurprising."

You make more friends and move to Bebe, who doesn't notice your presence. That was until Kyma looked like she'd seen a ghost in front of her, causing them to look behind and gasp, seeing you standing there in front of them.

"Hey," was the only thing that came out of your mouth, yet all of the Bebe members stared at you like you had just told them the most remarkable speech on the planet. Well, everyone other than Bada.

She stared at you with enticing eyes, and you quickly took notice of her motive. Regarding the No-respect battles, you had already danced in 5, most girls explaining it was just for fun. In every action you participated in, your eyes met with Bada's, and you never knew what ran through that head of hers as you couldn't even think while dancing.

But you figured it out now.

"Ah, Y/n-nim, I'm a big fan," Minah bows, and you wave your arms, trying to deny any praise. "You're an excellent dancer, no need to deny it. Pretty face and stage present too," Tatter says, mumbling the last part, but you heard it. Your hand guides Tatter's head to face you, and you smile, "If I'm pretty, you're gorgeous."

Her face turns bright red, and you pat her head, finding it cute. You then see a familiar face amongst the crew, "Lusher, it's been a while since you've been to one of my classes." The sub-leader's face is full of embarrassment for being called out. "Don't worry, I'm not mad about it," you tell her, and Lusher's tense body relaxes.

"I've just been more focused on Bebe the past year, but maybe after the show, you'd let me back in?"

"You're always welcome at my place. Any of you are, honestly. Nothing wrong with expanding your horizons in dance." You announce, but Bada scoffs a little. "This feels a bit insulting to me. I am their teacher, you know."

You had no ill intent behind your comment, but you wanted to tease her, "You can always join me too. I'm sure you'll be my number one student."

The two's faces are just inches away, both having a condescending smirk on their faces. Members of Bebe look at each other, feeling the intensity of their stares, but their eyes go large at your pitched idea.

"How do you think about this? After the show, we collaborate in a choreography and class, and then we can dance together. No competition needed." Your fingers then point to your crew and Bada's crew, "We can all dance together."

You were now leaning your arms on the bench, Bada sitting between your sleeveless arms. Lusher and Tatter can't help but giggle at the sight. It was like a fox versus a fox.

"Sure, but I don't know if I can wait that long to be a top student again." You read the subtly in her voice, implying something you couldn't put your finger on. You lick your lips at her gaze and grin.

"Win two more battles, and I'll take my top student out to dinner?'

Bebe's eyes widen again in shock. Never seen Bada's eyes look so mischievous as they did now.

"Deal~"

A/n: The ending feels super lacking on this one, but I might make a part 2 to satisfy myself😭.

-sivine

#bada lee x fem reader #bada lee #bada lee x reader #gxg #wlw #bebe #jam republic #swf2 x reader #street woman fighter 2 #street woman fighter x reader #ssivinee

857 notes · View notes

cloveroctobers · 10 days ago

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~Kevin Atwater domestic headcanons!~

A/N: Remember that time I said seeing this man triggered me back to that time I had a stalker in college that favored him? Not nearly as handsome (I think it’s just the eyes) or LH’s fault. Guess my brain learned how to finally separate the two lmao! Anyways!! This is just something light to start off with since the Chicago pd tag is basically a ghost town but I’m thinking about writing a fic (oc) about Kevin at some point if anyone’s interested? Hinted at it in my Dante fic but let’s see how this goes first 😆

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Kevin Atwater strongly believed in leaving work talk outside of the house, whether it be at his spot or yours. Especially if it was a tough case, he learned to let it go at the front door before he entered the home because his home life already carried enough weight in it from the moment he had to run it at a young age.

He wants home life to feel safe and separate from all the tough things his career could be so him and his significant other will create rituals together: music in the mornings to set the tone for the start of their days, music in the evening time to wind down together getting ready for bed or after dinner with him rubbing your feet or you massaging his shoulders on the couch with his head buried against your chest.

Kevin was big on slow Sundays. It was basically a reset without him having to watch those reels you always sent him through DM. It was something he naturally did, clean up the house, and make his “famous” pancakes. He’s never a fan of mini pancakes, loved to make huge stacks with crispy edges, extra vanilla and a pinch of cinnamon.

He loved breakfast since it was always the easiest thing to make or get when the funds ran low and he had to make sure his siblings were fed. Breakfast for dinner was big too and even if you weren’t a breakfast person, you appreciated it anyways.

Kevin’s a deep listener, even when you think he’s not listening and his eyes maybe on something else, he is. You’ll never have to repeat yourself twice or ask him what he thought or if he heard you because he always has a response for you.

If it’s something emotional, he’ll definitely bring it back up gently to make sure you’re doing alright and make sure that you feel seen.

Acts of service. Acts of service. Acts of service baby! Your garbage disposal from your sink is acting funny? Bet your ass he’s telling you to hold off on calling some rip off service because hes watched videos on how to repair stuff and figured it out himself around his own place—if he didn’t then he definitely knew somebody that could fix it for a reasonable price. He’ll show up with his tool kit all grins and you’re shaking your head, leading him to the problem while also having refreshments for him while he worked.

Ofc you would try to talk him out of it mentioning that new final destination movie is coming out and that you didn’t want him to be part of the cast.

“Don’t ever count me out, girl.” He says to you with a smirk after he managed to fix the problem, leaning forward as if he was going to kiss you just to snatch some fruit off the charcuterie board, “Now I take my payment in praise or in fours.”

He winks but widens his eyes when you get down on your knees instead.

If you have to stop and get gas and it’s been awhile since he’s driven your car—especially at night—he tells you to wait and that he’s just getting off work so he’ll meet you there to fill it up for you. You may or may not be the kind of person that waits until the last minute to get gas. In this economy?! I don’t blame you! Which leads to him always checking your tank before he leaves your place, so he knows when to keep it full FOR you.

You definitely pick up things that make you think of him and leave them at your place to surprise him with the next time he’s over.

“For real?” Kevin questions holding up the item with a smirk, “You got me slippers and to leave here? I think you luh me.”

It was mainly to keep him from stealing yours to run (knowing they weren’t his size!) outside in.

He finds it too cute that you’re thinking about him even when he’s not around.

If he’s had a long day based on a case, since he’s not one to really talk about them once at home, you’ll just burry your face in his chest—or his shoulder if you’re a stallion!—giving him a tight embrace he needs.

Might even teach him about self-care, take time out for himself and see what works best for him.

When you officially give him a key to your place wrapped in a fancy box, Kevin is all wide grins. “Oh so things done got serious, huh?” Which makes you roll your eyes as he squeezed your hand from across the table, thanking you as this is a new step in your relationship and only makes it feel closer to your future together.

Out doing weekend outings? He’s along for the ride, not complaining too much until it cuts into the time that it’s time to eat. And you almost passed out in one of the stores trying to blame it on not having enough water or your vitamins earlier. “Don’t ever do that again. Spending can wait, taking care of yourself can’t.”

Which you mocked him for taking a page out of your own book as you tore up some food from the drive thru in the passenger side you both stopped at not that long ago, although your heart warmed at his love for you.

Until he tried to steal some fries! Which meant elbows were thrown.

First time meeting his siblings? On accident. Through FaceTime, you were looking up directions on his phone when Kevin’s brother jordan called and you answered.

“Who are you?” He asked while Vinessa butted her head in beside the boy also asking, “And why do you have our brother’s phone?”

Jordan pushed her to the side which earned him a slap, Kevin didn’t even have to be looking at the phone to know that the two were ready to Duke it out, his authority coming into the mix as he told them to knock that mess off.

He eventually pulled over to the side after you introduced yourself properly and you handed him the phone just for you to hear, “How did you manage to bag that?”

Which made you snicker while Kevin looked at his baby brother like he lost his mind, “Alright now this is where I leave you since you really on my line acting like you don’t got no sense.”

“Your brother is a dime piece himself.” You called out, making Kevin smile over at you, teeth pressing into his bottom lip, before he grinned back at Jordan.

“Hear that, man? Sounds like mutual feelings.”

“Man, whatever big bird.”

Vinessa cuts in, “Don’t talk to him like that!”

“That’s right, Vin. Have my back!”

The adoration was pure in your eyes as you watched your boyfriend interact with his younger siblings.

He’s the definition of a partner, not just a boyfriend.

Grocery trips done hand in hand unless it was a big trip, then he’s pushing the carriage and wants to do as less trips as possible bringing them into the house.

Show up to your events even if he’s bone tired. You’ll drive him back to his place, letting him get a nap in so he doesn’t fall asleep at the wheel. He sleeps like a starfish and don’t let yourself get trapped underneath him because otherwise you’re not going anywhere for awhile!

Let’s you fall asleep on him anywhere and will slip a bonnet on your head if it’s longer than a nap and if you’re at home.

You make his own beard oil that’s better than what they have at the barber shop but regardless you still hype him up whenever he gets a fresh shape up.

He’s not possessive but does get quiet when someone tries to lightly flirt with you right in front of his face. Is the type to cage you in with his legs if you’re seated next to each other on bar stools and regular seated tables, body fully turned towards you. He’ll observe it all and you’ll brush it off putting your attention back on him.

“You’re mine, right?” He’ll whisper to you, locking his arms over your shoulders from behind as you’re finishing up your night routine.

You peck his hand, “Always.”

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#Spotify #kevin atwater #kevin Atwater headcanons #kevin atwater x reader #Chicago pd #Chicago pd x reader #laroyce hawkins #queued #Kevin Atwater x black reader #Kevin Atwater x black! reader #just thought I drop this before bed since I forgot to queue it earlier

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sturniololoco · 1 year ago

Note

Could you do a younger sister fic where the brothers leave for LA for like a couple months and lose contact and she’s really sad and they come home to find her crying holding the stuff they gave her???

Distant

Sturniolo Little Sister (SLS) x The Sturniolo Triplets

Warnings: Break down, depression, etc.

Note: A TON of people wanted this one! A few of the requests are above but some of them were too long I'm so sorry! if I couldn't fit you in

Really short!

SLS/N's POV

It's been about a week since my brothers moved to LA, and I was missing them like crazy. To stay caught up, I watched all their videos, listened to every single podcast, and always had my phone nearby waiting for their call, facetime, or text.

But it never came.

It's been about a month now, and I've still heard nothing.

Sometimes I just go into their rooms and lay on their beds, missing them. I'll readjust all of Nick's Stuffed animals that he left behind. I'll make sure Chris's stash of Pepsi is always stocked, even though no one is there to drink it. I always make sure Matt's room is put together, just the way he likes it so that when he comes home, we can have our sleepovers again.

And my phone is always with me. Waiting

Two Months.

Nothing.

Sent straight to voice mail.

Until one day I got home from school, and there they were, sitting on the couch like they never left. Visiting.

They smiled when they saw me like they missed me, but I knew it was a lie.

I walked right passed them and into my room, locking the door behind me, feeling the tears threatening to fall the whole way.

I didn't come down for dinner when Mom called me. I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Instead, I broke down on the floor, my mind not being able to block out my thoughts any longer.

They don't even love you! They never did! Your are such a waste of space! They moved all the way across the country because of you.

I couldn't breathe. The air was too thin for me to take in. My mind was still racing with the thoughts I couldn't help but think were true.

Inhaler. Downstairs. left of the oven.

I unlocked my door and sprinted down the stairs into the kitchen. I snatched my inhaler out of the drawer and sunk down onto the floor, taking in a deep puff, not caring that my brothers were staring.

They don't even care anyway.

Contradicting my thoughts, Matt ran over to me and sat on the floor, pulling me into his lap, and cradling my head to his chest.

"Hey, hey, hey. Shh, it's okay, I'm here," he said softly into my ear. I cried into his chest, gripping his shirt and staining it with tears. He kept rubbing my back until I calmed down and was able to breathe again.

Chris and Nick walked in, then awkwardly sat crisscrossed on the floor next to us.

"Why didn't you call. Why did you just-just...disappear?" I asked feeling the pain rising in my chest again.

They all looked at each other with wide eyes full of sadness.

"I would like to say we're busy, but there's no excuse for blocking out our sister. I realize that now and I'm really sorry SLS/N." Nick told me, looking deep into my eyes. Matt and Chris nodded in agreement, saying sorry.

I smile through my tears, happy that my brothers still love me and haven't forgotten about me.

When it was time for my brothers to go home, I made them triple the promise to call me as much as they could. They all swore on it and got in the car to go to the airport.

They called me as soon as they landed.

Not one of my beast works, but I'm trying to get at least one oneshot a day out to y'all. Shy pt 3 will hopefully be out by 10:00

Tag List

@idkwhosnyla @babypat08 @eyelessdemon00 @christopherowensturniolo @sturnsxx @freshloveforthefit @matty443355 @sleepysturnss @emeraldgreenbeautiesstu @sunsetsturniolos @hoesturniol

#nick sturniolo #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo #matthew sturniolo

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phiphieee · 4 months ago

Text

A complete unknown

A/N: disclaimer english is not my first language! :) The reader is asab other than that i don't think there are any tw needed but pls tell me if i missed anything! Thanksss

The video starts with a clip of Timmy and Y/N laughing before abruptly stopping. Timmy clears his throat and Y/N bites the inside of their cheek side-eyeing him and raising an eyebrow.

"Hi guys I'm Timothy Chalamet" he said pointing at the girl sitting next to him.

"And I'm Y/N L/N" she says giggling making jazz hands.

"And we're here to answer your questions on..."

"A complete unknown!"

"A complete unknonw!!!" They say together laughing.

The screen flashes with the first question, Timmy is reading a cue card "how did Y/N join the project? Interesting, interesting, you wanna take that one?" he throws the cue card and she snorts at that. "Well" she says tucking her hair behind her ears "Timmy was already cast, and I think it was during the actor's strike?" she looks at him and he nods "And I was staying at Timmy's place at the time, I think most people know I'm not really an actress or anything I just happen to be friends with" she gestures vaguely with her hand "these types of people" Timmy laughs shaking his head and saying "she sings as well". Y/N shrugs "but yeah obviously, being the voice for joan was crazy, and uh, it pretty much all happened because the director heard me doing her harmony parts on a video Timmy sent. I don't think I match it perfectly to be honest i think it's just because I'm a soprano too. Not too say that the way Joan Baez sings is just like a soprano, she's got a much nicer rounder voice than me I think, and yeah" she turns back to Timmy to see him smirking. "Yeah her Joan is better than my Bob".

The screen flashes with another question: "What was the funniest moment on set?"

Timmy’s face lights up. "Oh, I’ve got one," he says, leaning forward conspiratorially. "So, there’s this scene where I’m supposed to be really intense, right? Like, full-on Dylan brooding mode. And Y/N’s just off-camera, watching. But instead of staying serious, they’re doing this..."

Timmy turns to Y/N, gesturing for them to demonstrate.

"No way," Y/N says, laughing nervously.

"You have to," Timmy insists, grinning.

Y/N sighs dramatically but gives in, puffing out their cheeks and crossing their eyes in an exaggerated parody of deep concentration. Timmy doubles over laughing, clapping his hands.

"Exactly that!" he says, pointing at them. "So, I’m trying to stay in character, right? And she’s just—" He imitates the face again, sending Y/N into a fit of giggles. "I cracked every single time. The director was ready to murder us both."

Y/N wipes a tear from their eye. "In my defense, you were way too serious. It needed some levity!"

"Levity, sure," Timmy says, shaking his head fondly.

The next question appears on the screen: "What’s the most surprising thing you learned about each other during filming?"

Y/N raises an eyebrow at Timmy. "Oh, I’ve got a good one for this."

Timmy groans, throwing his head back. "Here we go."

"So," Y/N starts, leaning in like they’re about to share a deep secret. "Timmy has this really weird habit of—"

"Don’t you dare," Timmy cuts in, laughing but also clearly nervous.

"—eating cereal with orange juice instead of milk."

The room erupts in laughter, Timmy covering his face with his hands. "Okay, first of all, that was one time!"

"Once was enough," Y/N says, grinning. "And it wasn’t even like, a weird experimental thing. You ran out of milk and just... decided orange juice was the next best option. It was unhinged."

"It was resourceful!" Timmy protests, though his ears are bright red.

The two dissolve into laughter again, the kind that comes easily between close friends, and the video fades out with a montage of bloopers from the shoot.

A voiceover from Y/N plays over the clips: "If there’s one thing I learned working on this project, it’s that Timmy Chalamet is just as chaotic as he seems... and I wouldn’t have it any other way."

Timmy’s voice cuts in, mock-offended. "Chaotic? That’s slander!"

The screen fades to black, leaving only the sound of their laughter as the video ends.

#timothée chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee chalamet #timothee fanfic #a complete unknown #x reader #female!reader

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am0ralexis · 2 days ago

Text

Lovesick Kids (angst/fluff) 💔🩷

You didn’t plan to run into a celebrity tonight.

Hell, you didn’t even plan to see another person.

You just wanted Gushers and chocolate milk and to shuffle back into your apartment before anyone could judge your fuzzy socks or the toothpaste stain on your hoodie.

But fate is cruel.

Because you turned the corner of the snack aisle, and there he was.

Alex.

Quackity.

In real life. In your corner store. Holding a basket full of Hot Cheetos and coconut water and staring right at you.

Your brain completely shut off.

You froze like a raccoon caught in headlights. Just… wide-eyed pajama goblin. He tilted his head slightly, his smile forming slowly, and you could already feel the blood rushing to your ears.

“Hey,” he said, casually. Like your whole world hadn’t just split open.

You blinked. “Hi.”

Did I say that? Did I just squeak? Am I sweating?

Then he looked down at his buzzing phone, groaned under his breath, and looked back up at you with this desperate, manic little spark in his eyes.

“Okay, I know this is weird,” he said quickly, “but will you do something kind of insane for me?”

You blinked. “…Define insane?”

“My ex won’t stop calling,” he said, holding up his phone. “I told her I was at the store with my girlfriend. She doesn’t believe me. So I just need—like, one quick little video. I swear it’s not creepy. Just a fake girlfriend thing.”

You stared. “You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend right now?”

“You’d be saving my life,” he said. Then added, like an afterthought, “Also you’re literally model-status, so yes, obviously you.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “I’m wearing Spongebob pajama pants.”

“And pulling them off,” he said without missing a beat.

You blinked again. “Okay. What do you need?”

He pulled out his phone. “Just… kiss me on the cheek. I’ll record it and send it to her. Quick and painless.”

You hesitated. “You sure?”

He nodded. “Totally sure. I won’t move. Promise.”

He turned his head slightly, angling his phone camera toward both of your faces. “Ready?”

“Ready,” you said, heart pounding.

You leaned in and the moment your lips touched his cheek, he turned his head.

You didn’t have time to react.

Your mouth landed on his.

Soft. Surprising. Still.

Neither of you moved.

The kiss lasted maybe a second. Maybe three.

But the look that followed—

That was what hit the hardest.

You pulled back, eyes wide. He looked just as stunned—like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Like that hadn’t just been a joke anymore.

The video was still rolling.

His phone lowered slowly. Neither of you spoke.

Finally, he blinked. “So… should I send that to her?”

You swallowed. “You’re actually gonna?”

He tapped the screen once. “Sent.”

You stared at him. “You just sent her a video of you kissing a total stranger.”

He smiled—soft, real, a little dazed. “She’s gonna hate it.”

You laughed, nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Was that… uh…”

“Amazing?” he offered. “Perfect? Kind of cosmic?”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “That.”

He looked at you again. Really looked.

“I’m Alex, by the way,” he said, still a little breathless.

You smiled. “I know.”

He held out his hand. You shook it.

And neither of you let go.

—

After the kiss—after the accidental miracle of it—you both stood there like stunned idiots, grinning at each other in the middle of the snack aisle, bathed in fluorescent light and disbelief.

“Okay,” you said, voice light but shaky. “So that happened.”

Alex just nodded, dazed. “That definitely happened.”

And somehow, instead of rushing out or fumbling through a goodbye, you just… kept walking together. Basket in his hand, your Gushers in yours, side by side like something already built between you.

You made it past the frozen section before he broke the silence.

“So… wanna know the real reason I told her I was with my girlfriend?”

You looked up at him. “Only if you’re okay talking about it.”

He let out a breathy laugh and picked at the corner of the label on his coconut water. “She cheated on me. A couple months ago. With someone who used to be my friend.”

Your face fell. “Alex, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. It sucked. Still kind of does. She’s been blowing up my phone lately like she’s the one heartbroken.” He shook his head. “And I don’t know, I guess when I saw you I just—panicked. Needed to make her feel like she wasn’t the only one who moved on.”

You nudged his arm gently. “Hey. I get it.”

He looked at you, like he didn’t quite believe that.

“No, seriously,” you said, voice softer now. “My last relationship was… really bad.”

His smile faded. “Like…?”

You hesitated. “He wasn’t just a dick. He was controlling. Manipulative. He isolated me from my friends, made me feel crazy all the time. It took me a while to even like myself again after that.”

Alex slowed his steps, like your words had hit him in the chest. “I’m really sorry.”

You shrugged, though the ache never fully left. “I’m not looking for pity. It’s just… nice to not have to explain why I flinch when people raise their voices. Or why I keep my phone on Do Not Disturb unless I’m expecting someone.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Can I say something kind of intense?”

You nodded.

“I feel like I was supposed to meet you tonight.”

You let out a soft breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

He glanced down at you again, his expression different now—warmer, deeper. Not just curiosity anymore. Something careful. Protective.

“Do you always shop for Gushers at midnight?” he asked, trying to lighten the moment.

You smiled. “Only when my day’s been really bad.”

He grinned. “Then I’m glad you had a shit day.”

You laughed, and he watched you with that same look again. Like you weren’t just some stranger he kissed by accident. Like you might be the one who makes all the mess worth it.

You reached the checkout. Two bags between you: snacks, drinks, a box of band-aids neither of you remembered grabbing.

“I’ll pay,” he said. “It’s the least I can do after hijacking your night.”

You opened your mouth to argue but paused. “Okay. But next time, it’s my turn.”

He handed the cashier his card. Then turned to you.

“There’s gonna be a next time?”

You smiled. “You think I’d let a guy kiss me on camera and then not see him again?”

He smiled back, ears tinged pink. “Good.”

You walked out into the chilly night, hands brushing as you stepped into the empty sidewalk.

Two strangers.

Two cracked hearts.

And the beginning of something that already felt like more than a coincidence.

You didn’t go home right away.

Neither of you said it out loud, but you knew.

You weren’t done.

Alex offered to drive you back, and you said sure, but somehow it turned into “Wait—can we just drive around a little?”

He nodded immediately.

No questions.

Just turned the key and started the engine.

The windows were cracked, the city buzzing quietly outside, and some lo-fi track was playing through the speakers—something with soft piano and a beat that didn’t demand attention. You had your Gushers in your lap. He had one hand on the wheel.

The other was on your thigh.

It had started casual—he rested it there without thinking, fingers warm against the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. You didn’t move it. You didn’t want to.

In fact, you leaned into it.

The further he drove, the quieter it got between you. Not awkward. Just heavy. Soft. Charged.

The streetlights rolled past in flickers of gold. You watched his profile when he wasn’t looking—jaw flexing slightly, lips parted just enough to make you lose your breath. His thumb brushed the inside of your leg slowly. Absentminded. But it lit something inside you like a fuse.

You reached down, wrapped your fingers around his wrist, and guided his hand higher.

His breath hitched.

��Is this okay?” he asked, immediately, voice low and cautious.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You looked out the window. Then back at him.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You should pull over.”

He didn’t ask why.

Didn’t joke.

Just swallowed hard and turned down the next quiet side street.

It was residential, silent, with trees casting shadows across the windshield. He parked beneath one, put the car in park, and let the engine idle.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

“You sure?” he asked. His hand was still on your leg, but still. Still waiting. Still giving you the space to say no.

You reached up, touched his jaw. “I’m sure.”

The first kiss was slow. Softer than the one in the store, but deeper. Like this one was deliberate. Like you both knew.

You climbed into his lap awkwardly, the center console digging into your hip, but neither of you cared. His arms wrapped around you instantly, one hand splayed across your back, the other cradling the base of your neck like he was afraid to let you slip away.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy.

It was… sweet.

Your bodies pressed together slowly, deliberately. You kissed like you were learning each other—like the silence between your breaths meant more than the words either of you had said all night.

He helped you pull your shorts down, careful, gentle. His eyes searched yours every step of the way.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice shaking slightly. “At any second. Seriously.”

“I will,” you whispered. “I promise.”

You guided him into you, soft gasps filling the small space between your mouths. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut, his hand gripping the back of the seat as he sank into you like he didn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel… you feel so good.”

You rocked your hips slowly, both of you finding a rhythm in the cramped space. The windows fogged up. Your fingers tangled in his hair.

He kissed your collarbone. Your jaw. Your shoulder. His hands didn’t grope—they held.

“I didn’t expect this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t expect you.”

You kissed him hard, dragging your nails down his back.

“I’m glad you saw me in those pajama pants,” you said, breathless.

He let out a broken laugh. “I’ve never wanted someone more in my life.”

You clenched around him and he whimpered, muffled against your throat.

It wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it felt real.

When you both came—together, barely breathing—it felt like something broke open between you.

Not lust.

Not relief.

Something deeper.

You stayed wrapped around him in the quiet hum of the car, still pressed together, still shaking slightly, his arms around your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.

And neither of you spoke for a long, long time.

—

The air inside the car was warm and sticky, fog still clinging to the windows. You were still curled against him in the front seat, your head resting on his shoulder, legs draped over his lap like you’d always belonged there.

Neither of you had said much in the last ten minutes. Just exchanged soft kisses, whispered half-laughs, hands lazily tracing skin like you were trying to memorize each other before the world snapped you back to reality.

Eventually, he glanced down at your phone resting on your thigh and nudged you gently. “Hey,” he murmured. “Can I give you my number?”

You smiled. “Was hoping you’d ask.”

You exchanged phones, typing it in carefully, letting the silence stretch into something sweet. When he handed yours back, he’d saved his contact with a little duck emoji.

“Very on-brand,” you teased.

“Branding is everything,” he replied, tapping his forehead like a genius.

Then he hesitated. Scratched the back of his neck. “Um… I should probably tell you—I’m heading to Mexico in like two days. Visiting my family. I’ll be gone for a couple weeks.”

Your stomach dropped a little. Not because you expected anything from him—this wasn’t supposed to be anything—but still.

“Oh,” you said. “That’s cool.”

“I’ll still text,” he said quickly, eyes flicking to yours. “If you want.”

You looked at him. At how warm and sincere he was. The kind of boy who could accidentally derail your life with a single smile.

“I want.”

He smiled—soft and a little nervous—and leaned in for one more kiss. You met him halfway, slow and lingering, fingers resting on his jaw like he was already yours, even if only for a little while.

“I’m really glad I ran into you,” he said when you finally pulled apart.

You laughed. “Me too. Even if I did look like a disaster.”

“You looked like the girl I wanted to kiss before I even knew your name.”

You didn’t say anything after that. Just kissed him again, slow and dizzy, before finally slipping out of the car and waving over your shoulder.

—

Two and a half weeks later

You stared at the calendar.

Then at your phone.

Then at the box on the bathroom counter.

Late.

By almost a week.

You were never late.

Your hands were shaking.

It was only once. Just once. But there hadn’t been a condom. There hadn’t even been a conversation. It had all happened so fast, so sweet, so overwhelming, and somehow in the middle of all that softness, you’d forgotten to think about what came after.

You hadn’t told him yet.

He’d been texting you from Mexico—pictures of his grandma’s garden, voice notes about his cousins dragging him to weird shops, random flirty texts that made you smile at your phone like an idiot. He was still just as warm, just as present. But this?

This wasn’t something you could text.

Hey, btw, might be pregnant? No rush.

You stared at the box. At the test inside. Your heart was beating so fast you thought you might pass out.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Okay, okay. Just take it. Maybe it’s nothing.”

But deep down?

You already knew it wasn’t nothing.

—

You sat on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves shoved over your hands to stop the shaking. The box was open. The wrapper torn. The test was sitting facedown on the edge of the sink.

You hadn’t flipped it over yet.

It had only been a minute.

Maybe two.

But it felt like an hour.

Your stomach hurt. Your head hurt. Your heart was in your throat.

You’d counted. Recounted. Checked tracking apps.

Your period was never late. Never. And here you were.

Seven days late. Dizzy. Nauseous in the morning. Boobs sore.

You’d known.

You knew.

But seeing it would make it real.

Seeing it would change everything.

You stood up slowly, fingers trembling as you reached for the test.

Held your breath.

And flipped it over.

Two pink lines.

Your vision swam.

You sat down again—hard this time—on the cold tile, the plastic stick still in your hand.

Pregnant.

You whispered it out loud, just to hear it in your own voice.

“Pregnant.”

It didn’t sound real.

Not even a month ago, you were wandering a store in Spongebob pajama pants, laughing at the idea that Alex Quackity would ever look at you twice. Now he had your number, your smile, your kiss on his lips—

and his baby in your body.

You didn’t cry.

Not at first.

But when your phone lit up with a FaceTime call from his contact—Alex with the duck emoji—you almost dropped it.

Incoming call: Alex

You stared. Frozen.

Then you answered.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm, sleepy, the glow of his hotel room in the background. “You look cozy. Did I wake you up?”

You tried to smile. It came out shaky. “No, I was just… lying down.”

He grinned. “Your voice is soft. I like it like that.”

Your stomach flipped. You bit your lip. “How’s Mexico?”

He turned his camera around for a second—showed you a blurry view of fairy lights on a patio, laughter somewhere in the background. “Loud. Full. It’s been nice though. My mom won’t stop feeding me.”

You laughed, hollow. “Sounds like heaven.”

He flipped the camera back. “I missed your voice.”

You nearly broke. Right there. Right then.

“Alex…” you started, but your throat closed up. Your eyes burned.

He immediately noticed. His expression shifted. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said too fast, too high-pitched. You cleared your throat. “Just tired. Hormonal. I mean—tired.”

“Hormonal?” he asked, tilting his head.

You stared into the screen, eyes wide. “I meant like… period. PMS. You know.”

He softened, nodding slowly. “Ah. Yeah. I get that.” He paused, looking at you closer. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, the lie stiff in your spine. “I’m okay.”

But your hand went to your stomach without thinking. Just resting there. Protective. Terrified.

He didn’t see it. Or if he did, he didn’t connect the dots.

“You feel far away tonight,” he said quietly.

“I’m just tired,” you whispered.

He looked like he wanted to say more. But instead, he offered a small smile. “Okay. Get some rest, hermosa. I’ll text you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

He waited. “Kiss?”

You hesitated—then blew him one with your fingers. “There.”

He caught it on screen with exaggerated flair, making you almost smile again.

“I’m really glad I met you,” he said softly. “Goodnight, baby.”

Baby.

You ended the call.

And this time, when you cried—

you couldn’t stop.

—

You didn’t sleep much that night.

After the FaceTime call, you just lay in bed, eyes open in the dark, your phone clutched in your hand like maybe if you held on tight enough, he’d somehow feel it. Like he’d call back and say, Hey, I just had this weird feeling—are you okay?

But he didn’t.

And you couldn’t blame him.

You’d told him everything was fine.

You’d smiled. You’d laughed.

You’d even blown him a kiss.

The worst part was that it felt good to talk to him. Even as your chest ached. Even as your stomach churned and your heart screamed.

It still felt good.

Which made it hurt worse.

You woke up sick the next morning. Real, physical sick. You barely made it to the bathroom before you were on your knees, clutching the toilet bowl, waves of nausea ripping through you in relentless pulses.

This wasn’t nerves. This wasn’t just dread.

This was real.

This was a body building something new inside you.

This was proof.

You sank down against the wall after, wiping your mouth on your sleeve, dizzy and hollow. You sat there in your hoodie and fuzzy socks, the same ones you’d worn that night at the store. The ones he’d called cute. The ones you were still wearing when he’d kissed you like you meant something.

You curled your arms around your knees.

And cried for exactly two minutes.

Then you got up, brushed your teeth, and tried to pretend like everything was normal.

—

Later that afternoon, you got a voice memo from him.

“Okay, wait—you have to hear this,” his voice came through your phone, a little staticky but still warm and stupidly comforting. “So my uncle got this tiny chihuahua, right? And it’s like… possessed. I swear. It tried to murder my flip flop. Like full-on growl, foam, everything. I think I’m being haunted. Anyway. Hope you’re good. I miss your face.”

You replayed it twice.

Laughed.

Smiled even.

And then it started to ache again.

You were still lying on your bed when you opened your phone and stared at your messages.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Then you typed:

“Hey, random but do you ever want kids someday?”

And stared at it.

You reread it ten times. Debated deleting it. Debated rewriting it to something dumber, lighter—would you ever have kids if they were like, ducks or lizards or something—but your thumb hit send before you could overthink it to death.

Your heart immediately tried to climb out of your chest.

And then… nothing.

No immediate typing bubble.

No reply.

You stared at the screen for what felt like years.

Then the bubble appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then came back.

Your pulse pounded so hard you could feel it in your throat.

Finally, his reply popped up:

“I don’t know. Maybe? But definitely not anytime soon haha. I can barely keep my plants alive.”

You just stared at the words.

Your brain tried to keep it light. Obviously. That’s fair.

You’re both still young. He’s busy. He’s not ready.

No one would expect him to be.

Except now it wasn’t about someday.

It was about now.

Now, when your period was almost a week late.

Now, when your stomach wouldn’t stop flipping and you couldn’t even smell coffee without gagging.

Now, when the test you’d taken hours ago still sat on the sink with two very clear pink lines.

You blinked.

Your mouth parted like you might say something—even though you were alone.

Your thumb hovered over your keyboard.

You started to type:

“Lol same”

Backspaced.

“That’s fair”

Backspaced.

“I was just curious haha”

Backspaced.

“I’m pregnant.”

And backspaced that too.

You stared at the blinking cursor.

Then closed the app.

Put your phone face down on the bed.

Swallowed hard.

And whispered into the quiet, to no one at all—

“…Oh.”

—

You hadn’t really talked to anyone in days.

Not really.

You answered texts. Sent emojis. Laughed—kind of—at Alex’s voice notes when he sent videos of his cousins playing soccer in sandals or the chaotic moment his grandma smacked him for burping too close to the stove. You loved hearing from him.

That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was everything you weren’t saying.

You were tired all the time. Your body ached. You’d cried three times in one morning because your eggs were overcooked, and you’d thrown up twice that afternoon—once from the smell of your neighbor’s cologne in the hallway.

You were slipping. Cracking. Trying to hold it all in like water behind glass.

And Alex was starting to notice.

You’d been staring at the test again that night—still tucked in the drawer, still two stubborn pink lines—when your phone rang.

Incoming FaceTime: Alex

Duck emoji.

Heart in your throat.

You debated ignoring it. Just for a few minutes. Just until your face stopped looking like you were barely keeping it together.

But you picked up.

He was lying on a couch somewhere, hoodie on, hair still wet like he’d just showered. The lighting was dim, soft yellow from a lamp, and he looked so… him.

It made your chest hurt.

“Hey,” he said, smiling instantly. “There you are. I missed your face.”

You smiled, tried to make it feel real. “Hi. You look cozy.”

“I’m horizontal. And full of tamales. I’ve achieved my final form.”

You laughed, barely, and he tilted his head.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that this week.”

“I’m allowed to be tired.”

“I know,” he said gently. “I just… I don’t know. You feel far away lately.”

You opened your mouth to respond—

—and suddenly your stomach lurched.

You slapped a hand over your mouth and immediately hit the button to mute yourself. “Hold on,” you managed, voice strained.

You left the phone on the bed and sprinted to the bathroom.

He was still on the screen when you came back, ten minutes later, looking pale and wrecked. You tried to play it off, wiping your mouth with your sleeve and smiling like your eyes weren’t glassy.

“Sorry. That was… sudden.”

He sat up a little. “Are you okay? You look—shit, did you throw up?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“Did you eat something bad?”

You blinked. “What?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I just mean—did something upset your stomach? You’ve looked kinda off for a while now, and if you’re sick or something, you should go to urgent care or—”

“I’m fine,” you said, a little too fast.

He didn’t believe you. You could see it in his eyes.

“You’re not fine.”

You looked away.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “Come back to me for a second, okay?”

You turned your gaze back to the screen.

He softened. “Talk to me.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Swallowed.

“It’s just… a lot lately,” you whispered. “In my head. I’m dealing with some things.”

“Things like what?”

You hesitated. You were so close. You could’ve said it.

But you didn’t.

“I don’t know how to explain it yet,” you said. “But I promise I’m okay.”

Another pause. Then:

“You still like me, right?”

The question took the air out of the room.

You looked at him, heart aching. “Of course I do.”

He nodded. Bit his lip like he didn’t want to push anymore. “Okay. I just… I don’t know. I miss the way you used to talk to me.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I miss it too.”

He looked down at something off-screen. “I’ll be home in four days.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“Will you come see me when I get back?”

You nodded again, voice soft. “Yeah. I will.”

He smiled. “Good. First stop: you, then Gushers.”

You smiled back. “Priorities.”

He lingered for a moment, like he wanted to say something else. “Okay. Sleep, okay? Text me if you need anything. Even if it’s just for me to talk about dumb shit until you fall asleep.”

“Okay.”

“I’m really glad I met you,” he added softly. “You still feel like the best part of this month.”

You nearly lost it right there.

“Goodnight, baby.”

You ended the call before you could fall apart on camera.

Then you curled up in bed, hand over your stomach, heart in your throat.

Because he was coming home in four days.

And whether you were ready or not—

you couldn’t hide this forever.

—

You were curled up on the couch in your favorite hoodie, blanket tangled around your legs, a half-empty water bottle resting on your stomach. The TV was playing some forgettable cooking competition you weren’t even watching. You were just… existing.

Trying to keep your heart rate down.

Trying not to cry for absolutely no reason.

Trying to pretend the world hadn’t completely shifted beneath your feet.

Your phone was buzzing softly every few minutes.

Alex.

He was back.

He was already on his way.

Alex: ETA 6 mins. You better look exactly like you did the night I met you.

You: I do. Slightly worse, actually.

Alex: Perfect. Be ready to fall in love all over again.

And then he was at the door. No knocking. Just the soft sound of it creaking open and his voice calling out, “Hello? Pajama girl?”

You swallowed hard. “In here.”

He rounded the corner, suitcase in one hand, face lighting up like it hadn’t been nearly a month since he last saw you.

You smiled, small but real.

“Hey,” he breathed, dropping everything to cross the room and scoop you into a hug like his body had been missing yours. He smelled like airplane sweat and cinnamon gum. You let yourself melt into him even though your throat was already tight.

“I missed you,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes. “I missed you too.”

When he pulled back, his hands lingered at your waist, his eyes scanning your face.

“You look…” he started, then hesitated. “Are you okay?”

You laughed quietly. “You already said I look tired.”

He gave a guilty wince. “Okay, yeah, I meant it lovingly. You look like a really hot sleep-deprived cartoon character.”

“Charming.”

He flopped down beside you on the couch with a long, dramatic groan, letting his head fall back against the cushions. “You have no idea how badly I needed to sit somewhere soft. I swear my family thinks beds are optional. I slept on, like, three shirts and a regret.”

You smiled, knees still tucked to your chest. He was warm next to you. Familiar. And it made the secret gnawing inside you burn a little hotter.

He picked up the remote and started flipping through channels, pausing only when a commercial cut in—bright, cheerful music and all.

“Did you know,” the ad began, “colic affects nearly one in five infants—”

WAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!

The high-pitched baby cry burst through the speakers like a siren.

“Jesus Christ,” Alex groaned, fumbling with the remote. “No, no, no—turn it off, turn it off, what the hell.”

You watched the screen. Blank. Frozen.

He finally found the mute button and dropped the remote in defeat, turning to look at you with a grimace.

“I swear to God, if I ever have to deal with that—like, in real life—I’m just gonna kill myself.”

You blinked slowly.

He laughed, not meanly, just exaggerated. “I’m serious. Like. Actual crying babies? Diapers? Getting puked on at 3 a.m.? No thank you.”

You stared at the muted commercial. The tiny red-faced baby wailing in someone’s arms.

Alex kept going. “Dude, I can barely remember to eat before streaming. How do people raise a human? Like. Raise them. Make sure they don’t fall down the stairs or choke or become an asshole.”

You let out a quiet, shaky breath.

He wasn’t done.

“I was around my baby cousin for two hours last week, and I swear to God, I wanted to peel my skin off. She threw up on my hoodie. My favorite hoodie. And everyone was like, ‘Aw, she’s teething!’ Like that explains the WAR CRIMES.”

You let out a tiny laugh. You didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.

He grinned at you, eyes bright. “Right? Like how is that anyone’s dream life? Waking up at ungodly hours to clean poop? No. I’m sorry. If I ever have kids, it’s because someone tricked me. Or I got hit in the head.”

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Because the only thing you could think about was the two pink lines in your bathroom drawer. The way your stomach was already changing. The way your whole body felt like it was buzzing, full of something he’d just spent five minutes tearing into like it was the worst possible fate.

He leaned back again, arm behind your head on the couch like he was trying to stretch. His fingertips brushed your shoulder.

“Sorry. Rant over. I’ve just been surrounded by so many babies the past few weeks, I needed to vent. I’m safe now. Baby-free zone.”

You nodded slowly. “Totally.”

He looked at you. “You okay?”

You smiled.

It was the hardest one yet.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m fine.”

—

The baby commercial ended. The static of the muted television hummed in the silence between you.

Alex’s head tilted toward you on the couch, resting back like he was relaxed—like he hadn’t just unknowingly yanked the breath out of your lungs with every casual word.

You’d stopped hearing the words, mostly. Just the tone. The joking. The way he laughed when he said he’d rather die than raise a baby.

The weight in your chest was unbearable.

Your hands were shaking.

You stared at the blanket in your lap, your fingers twisting the corner. You swallowed hard.

“Alex…” you started, voice almost too quiet to hear. “There’s something I need to—”

He turned to look at you, brows up, grin lazy. “You’re not about to tell me you’re having my kid or some shit, right?”

You froze.

And he kept going. Laughing. Like it was nothing.

“Because I swear, I will disappear so fast I’ll leave a dust trail. Like—poof. Gone.”

Your vision went white.

Your throat closed.

You stared at him, chest caving in, and something inside you cracked.

He noticed too late. His smile faltered. “Wait. I was—hey, I was kidding.”

But you were already shaking.

And then you broke.

You let out a sound you didn’t mean to—a choked, splintered sob that slipped through your fingers as you pressed them to your mouth.

Alex sat up immediately, eyes wide. “Wait—wait, no, fuck, hey—what—?”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t speak.

“Hey,” he said again, softer now, panicked. “What did I say? Was it the—fuck. I was just joking. I didn’t mean it. Please talk to me.”

But you couldn’t.

Because you were pregnant.

And now you knew exactly how he felt about it.

You buried your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking under the weight of all the things you couldn’t take back.

And Alex sat beside you, still and silent, like he’d just watched the floor fall out from underneath you and realized—too late—that he’d been the one to pull the rug.

—

The room was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that swells up and chokes you from the inside. The kind that makes your heart feel loud in your chest and your breath feel too heavy in your lungs.

You were still sitting on the couch, knees pulled into your chest, blanket half-slid off your lap. Your face burned. Your fingers trembled against your mouth. You couldn’t stop the tears now even if you wanted to.

Alex stared at you, frozen in place, his expression shifting from playful to confused to horrified in a matter of seconds.

“I was joking,” he said again, slowly now. “Okay? I was—fuck—I didn’t mean that.”

You shook your head, fingers digging into the edge of the blanket, eyes wide and glassy. You could barely get the words out. “I—I wasn’t.”

He blinked. “What?”

You sucked in a breath. It barely filled your lungs. “I’m not joking.”

His face fell completely. “Wait—”

You nodded. Tears were already rolling down your cheeks now, your voice barely above a whisper. “I took a test. Two, actually. I didn’t mean for it to happen, I swear, I didn’t—”

“Wait, what?” His voice shot up, cracking in the middle. “You’re… you’re saying—like for real—you’re pregnant?”

You nodded again, shrinking further into yourself. “Yeah.”

He stared at you, silent. Processing. Or failing to.

You could see it happen.

The shift.

The sheer panic washing up behind his eyes.

“We’ve known each other for maybe a month,” he said, stunned. “Like… a month. And you’re telling me you’re—” He cut himself off, running both hands through his hair. “Oh my God.”

“I didn’t plan this, Alex,” you said, voice cracking. “It just… happened.”

He stood up, too fast, like he couldn’t sit still anymore. He started pacing in front of the couch. One hand pressed to the side of his face like he was trying to physically hold in the explosion going off behind his eyes.

“I mean, we—we hooked up one time,” he said, laughing but not like it was funny. “One time, and now you’re—Jesus, what are we supposed to do?”

You looked down at your lap. “I don’t know.”

He let out a breath like it burned. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m—I don’t even know you.”

That one hurt.

Your eyes snapped to him. “Really?”

“I mean—not like that,” he said quickly, voice still wild. “I just—I’m saying it’s been weeks. And now there’s a baby? You can’t drop this on me like it’s—like it’s normal. I’m not built for this. I—I stream for twelve hours and forget to eat! I can’t even take care of myself, let alone—”

“I didn’t want to drop it on you!” you shouted suddenly, the words splitting open. “I’ve been sitting with it. Every day. Waking up sick and terrified and alone. And I kept thinking—maybe if I waited, maybe if I just gave you time—maybe it would be okay. But then you came in here and said you’d rather die than have a kid and I—” You choked back a sob. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

He stopped pacing.

Just stood there, breathing hard.

You were both trembling now, caught in the middle of something too big to name.

He ran a hand over his face. “This is so fucked.”

You wiped at your cheeks. “I know.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And the silence filled every crack in the room like it had been waiting to swallow you both whole.

Finally, quietly—so quietly—you whispered, “I don’t expect anything from you.”

He looked at you like he didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I don’t even know what I want yet,” you added. “But I knew I couldn’t lie to you.”

Alex stood still for a moment longer.

Then turned toward the door.