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whisperedmeg · 1 month ago

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COUNTER SERVICE ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x gf!reader

summary: spencer kissed you like a promise and fucked you like a prayer — right there on the kitchen counter, while dinner nearly burned behind him.

genre: smut, fluff | w/c: 2.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, kitchen counter sex, teensy bit of praise kink/soft dom spencer, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader sweetheart/angel/good girl, established relationship, they drink a lil wine, lovey dovey spencer, unrealistic risotto recipe (def would’ve burned in real life but just pretend ok), no use of y/n

a/n: personally I was envisioning later seasons spencer as I wrote this but could also see early seasons spencer so imagine what you wish 🙂‍↕️

The moment you saw the glint in Spencer’s eye, you knew you were in trouble.

He appeared in the doorway holding a folded sheet of printer paper like it was a briefing file, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a kind of casual precision that made it very difficult to focus.

“I’ve made a decision,” he announced.

You looked up from the couch, where you’d been reading a book with a cup of tea balanced precariously on your thigh. “Should I be nervous?”

“Definitely,” he said. “We’re making lemon risotto for dinner.”

“We?” you echoed, setting the book aside. “Spencer, you know I’m a terrible cook. And risotto is an hour-long, elbow-grease, constant-stirring kind of situation.”

“Exactly,” he said brightly. “It’s the culinary equivalent of an FBI stakeout. I thought you’d enjoy the teamwork.”

You stared at him. “You planned a date night that involves fifteen minutes of zesting?”

He shrugged. “The recipe says the aromatics really come out if you’re patient.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

He grinned and extended a hand to pull you off the couch. “Come on. I already started getting out the ingredients.”

—

Twenty minutes later, you were in full prep mode: barefoot, stirring lazily while Spencer hummed Debussy and lined up lemons like surgical tools. He measured everything with the precision of a neurosurgeon while you chopped shallots by feel, refusing to follow any of the instructions he kept reading aloud.

“The recipe says to use only the outermost zest,” he said.

“It also says to stir clockwise, which is insane. I’m winging it.”

“Winging it? While making something as delicate as risotto?!” he asked, clearly a little horrified.

“You knew what you signed up for.”

He passed you a glass of white wine. “True.”

You argued over whether the wine should go into the pot or your mouths first. He poured a little into the rice; you poured more into your glass. And somewhere in the middle of Spencer’s incessant reading of the recipe instructions, you managed to flick a bit of zest in his direction. It landed on his lower cheek.

“You’ve been tagged,” you said.

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “That’s food-grade sabotage.”

He stepped closer as you reached up to brush it away. Your fingertips grazed the soft skin beneath his cheekbone, and for a moment, everything else faded.

His eyes caught yours.

“Think you missed it,” he said quietly.

The air shifted. Something unspoken and familiar threaded between you, slow and deliberate. The kitchen wasn’t quiet — the stove was still bubbling — but it felt like the world had narrowed to this: you, him, the warmth between your bodies and the lemon-scented air.

He moved first, turning the burner down to low heat. One step, then another, until your back hit the counter and his hands found your hips.

“This feels like a dangerous way to cook,” you murmured, breath hitching.

“Who said we’re still cooking?”

His mouth met yours before you could answer — slow at first, exploratory. Then hungrier.

You reached up, fingers threading through his hair as he deepened the kiss. The countertop pressed into your back, cool against your overheated skin, and Spencer’s body curved in close, bracketing you in with careful hands and a hunger that was anything but cautious.

He tasted like citrus and something warmer underneath, and his mouth moved like he was trying to memorize you. His hands slid beneath the hem of your top, reverent and warm, fingers spreading across your waist like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

“Can I…?” he murmured, already kissing along your jaw as he tugged at your shirt.

“Yes,” you whispered. “All of it.”

Clothes came off piece by piece. Your shirt first, then his, then the rest of your clothes. He stepped between your legs and lifted you onto the counter with ease, his hands never leaving your body. Your thighs parted for him instinctively, knees hooking around his hips, and he settled there like he belonged.

“You’re so soft here,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers just beneath your breasts. “Every time I touch you, I forget how to think.”

��Lucky for you, I like the rare occasions when you forget things.”

He smiled and bent to mouth at your collarbone. “Dinner can wait.”

“Mhm. Until much later,” you breathed, tugging him even closer by the waistband of his pants. “Much, much later.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Spencer looked up at you like you were a miracle. Like he had all the time in the world. His hands curled beneath your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the counter, his thumbs brushing soft, dizzying circles into your skin. You were already wet, aching, trembling — and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

“God, look at you,” he murmured. “You’re already dripping.”

“Spence—”

“I know.” His voice was low, coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

His mouth met you slow and steady, the first broad lick making you shudder. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue working in slow, hypnotic patterns that made your spine arch and your hands fight for purchase in his hair. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He devoured you like he was studying the effect of every single flick and swirl, listening for the change in your breathing, waiting for the exact sound you made when he—

“Oh—fuck, right there, don’t stop,” you whined.

He groaned into you, the vibration ricocheting through your whole body. One hand tightened on your hip while the other slipped lower — fingers teasing at your entrance, then easing inside, slick and perfect and deep.

“Spence,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s the idea,” he murmured, voice wrecked and smug. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it.”

That was all you needed to hear. You came hard, clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath catching on his name like a prayer. He worked you through it and didn’t stop until you tugged at his hair, until you were too sensitive to bear it, until you gasped his name again.

When he stood, his face was flushed, mouth slick, eyes blown wide with want. You pulled him in and kissed him — messy, grateful, open-mouthed, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Need you,” you said against his lips. “Now.”

He helped you unbutton his pants, pulling them down just enough, and you reached for his cock the second you could. It was already hard and leaking, flushed red at the tip, thick in your palm.

“Jesus,” you whispered, stroking him once. “All this, just from going down on me?”

He moaned, twitching into your grip. “You have no idea.”

You stroked again, a little firmer, thumb circling the head. “I think I do.”

He cursed softly, pulling your hand away and nudging your thighs apart. “Need to be inside you.” He pressed himself forward teasingly against your entrance, dragging the tip of his cock through the mess he’d made of you.

“Let me see you,” he said. “Look at me.”

You did. Eyes locked, he slid into you in one long, slow thrust, filling you so deeply it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, clinging to his shoulders.

“Shit, you’re so tight—so warm.” His head dropped forward, forehead resting against yours. “You always take me so perfectly, angel.”

He stayed there for a beat — buried to the hilt, breathing hard, like he was trying to keep himself from losing control too soon. You curled your legs around his waist and rocked your hips, coaxing him into motion.

“Move,” you whispered. “Please. I need you to move.”

He did — Spencer always did exactly as you asked, especially when it came to this.

The first few thrusts were slow, exploratory. Deep. He rolled his hips like he wanted to find every new angle that could make you fall apart, and god, did he find them. He gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you to the edge of the counter, and started to fuck you in a rhythm that was steady and filthy and simultaneously so fucking tender it made your chest ache.

You felt every inch of him — every drag, every push — and you moaned into the open space between you as he pulled back almost entirely before sliding in again, harder this time.

“You feel so good like this,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

His lips brushed yours between words — a soft kiss, then a firmer one, then a pause where you just breathed each other in. You could feel him everywhere. The stretch. The weight. The press of his body into yours, solid and overwhelming in the best way possible.

You slid a hand between you and traced your fingers across his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart. “You always fuck me like you love me.”

He stilled for a moment — just to get a good look at you — and then his mouth was on yours, kissing you like a promise, like that was the answer.

“I do,” he murmured into the kiss. “I love you so much.”

Then he thrust into you harder, deeper, making you cry out. His rhythm picked up — more urgent now, more desperate, hips snapping forward in a way that made you clutch at him, panting into his neck.

“Tell me what you need,” he rasped, voice cracking with restraint.

“You,” you gasped. “Just like this. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He groaned — a raw, helpless sound — and adjusted his angle, shifting his hips just enough to brush something deep inside you that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh god—fuck. Spencer, I—”

“Right there?”

“Right there.”

His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, the pressure just right, the rhythm relentless. Pleasure climbed fast and hot, coiling tight in your belly, stealing your breath.

Spencer kissed you deeply then pulled back to watch the way your expression was twisting. “That’s it, angel. Good girl. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

Your climax crashed through you harder than the last, raw and overwhelming, your body tightening around him in waves you couldn’t stop. You were still coming when he groaned and fucked into you deeper, faster, chasing his own high through the pulse of yours.

“Fuck, you’re still coming, aren’t you?”

You were. Still trembling, still squeezing around him when his rhythm broke. You managed a nod in response.

“Come with me then,” he gasped, fucking you through it. “Please, sweetheart—oh, fuck.”

And you did.

Your orgasms crested over each other like lightning striking twice — sharp and hot and completely blinding. You held his face in your hands and kissed him as you both fell, his hips grinding into you, cock pulsing deep inside as he came with a groan that sounded like surrender.

And when it was over, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other, shaking and breathless, his chest heaving against yours.

—

Somewhere during the haze of afterglow, the pan on the stove let out a loud, angry hiss.

Spencer’s eyes flew open. “The risotto!”

You burst into laughter, still wrapped around him. “Oh no.”

He gently lowered you off the counter, half-dressed and glowing, and the two of you stumbled over each other trying to get to the stove. He grabbed a spoon and stirred furiously while you added a splash of broth, then another.

Miraculously, the rice hadn’t burned. Browned a little — okay, maybe a lot — but not beyond saving.

“I think we stirred just enough before we got distracted,” he said, a little breathless, still flushed from everything that just happened.

You leaned against the counter beside him, giggling. “Are you saying we successfully had kitchen counter sex without totally ruining dinner?”

He grinned, nodding. “We’re a statistical anomaly.”

Spencer helped clean you up before you both redressed in scattered pieces of clothing, keeping close watch on the pot and on each other. Spencer stayed barefoot in his dress pants, and you pulled on his button-down, which hung past your hips and still smelled like him.

He stirred the rice while you read aloud from the recipe, skipping half the steps and adding your own commentary.

“‘Let simmer on medium-low until the remaining liquid is absorbed,’” you said, voice exaggerated. “Or until one of us gets impatient and turns up the heat.”

“Do not mess with the starch development, woman.”

You laughed, stealing a spoonful when his back was turned.

—

When it was finally done, you both sat on the floor with the pan between you, backs against the cabinets, legs tangled, sharing bites straight from the wooden spoon. The risotto was shockingly good despite the way it had nearly burned — creamy and bright, with just the right amount of lemon.

“I hate that you were right about this,” you mumbled around a mouthful.

“Victory tastes like Meyer citrus,” he said smugly.

You nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

He wiped a bit of risotto from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, then kissed the same spot. “Maybe,” he said. “But you’re still here.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I’d cook with you again,” you said quietly. “Even if you do read recipe blogs like crime scene notes.”

“That’s the highest praise you’ve ever given me.”

He rested his cheek against your hair. Around you, the kitchen smelled like butter and lemons and wine and something warmer you couldn’t quite name. The dishes could wait. The future could wait.

Tonight, you had warmth, and starch and citrus, and even better — each other.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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solxamber · 5 months ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: My Knight is Too Loyal || Sebek Zigvolt

You wake up as the villainess in a novel that had to be written as a joke. The heroine is trying to ruin your life, but if you refuse to acknowledge her, then it’s not happening. Right? …Right??

It doesn't help that your knight, Sebek, is annoyingly endearing.

Series Masterlist

You were finally done.

After a grueling week of unpacking, assembling furniture that came with instructions written in an eldritch language, and resisting the urge to commit arson when you realized your kitchen had exactly one electrical outlet, your new apartment was finally livable. Spacious, well-lit, and with an actual window that didn’t face another building? A true luxury.

With a sigh of contentment, you set your trusty roomba loose to clean up the dust bunnies while you kicked back with your favorite pastime—reading an absolutely garbage webnovel.

This particular one had come highly recommended in the “so bad it’s good” category, and hoo boy, did it deliver.

The plot, as far as you could tell, was this:

Prince Malleus (overpowered second male lead) was best friends with the villainess (actually cool).

Sebek, loyal knight, was also sworn to protect the villainess. He liked her. They were childhood friends. He was ride or die for her.

Enter the heroine, who spawned out of nowhere, latched onto Malleus, and immediately decided that she needed Sebek’s loyalty so she could get closer to him.

She then proceeded to sabotage the villainess at every turn, and somehow no one thought this was weird.

The villainess, kept fighting back—until she got poisoned on Sebek’s watch.

Sebek, devastated, exiled himself in disgrace.

And then the Duke of the North (where did he come from???) married the heroine.

You had to put your phone down because you were WHEEZING.

How. HOW???

How was this woman out here killing the prince's best friend and still pulling a wedding out of it?? Who was writing this? Why did Sebek go into self-imposed exile when the obvious answer was to punt the heroine into the sun???

You wiped a tear from your eye, clutching your stomach. "Exiled himself in disgrace—oh my god, bro, what are you doing—"

Feeling the desperate need for a snack to recover from this literary war crime, you got up and made your way to the kitchen.

At that moment, your roomba—your once-trusted ally in the battle against dust—made a choice.

It bumped into the precariously stacked pile of moving boxes you had yet to sort through.

You turned just in time to see your doom.

A full avalanche of books, kitchenware, and your entire collection of novelty mugs came crashing down on you.

Your last thought before the world faded to black?

"Should’ve never trusted a roomba."

There were several ways you expected to wake up. A soft ray of sunlight filtering through your curtains? Sure. The soothing sound of birds chirping? Ideal. Maybe even a hangover if past-you made bad decisions? Understandable.

What you did not expect was to be jolted out of unconsciousness by the auditory equivalent of an angry airhorn.

“LORD MALLEUS, SHE'S STILL UNCONSCIOUS—PERHAPS SHE HAS FALLEN INTO AN ETERNAL SLUMBER FROM WHICH SHE WILL NEVER—!!!”

“Sebek,” another voice interrupted, eerily calm in comparison. “It will be fine.”

Sebek?

Like. The Sebek?

Your eyes snapped open like a possessed doll in a horror movie, and standing in front of you were none other than—drumroll please—Malleus Draconia and Sebek Zigvolt, looking like they had been ripped straight out of that godawful webnovel.

Sebek was vibrating with fury, looking a split second away from detonating like a nuclear warhead. Malleus, meanwhile, seemed vaguely relieved that you were awake.

Your brain struggled to reboot.

You looked down. Fancy dress? Check. Lace gloves? Check. Suspiciously villainous vibes? Check.

Oh no.

OH NO.

You were the villainess.

Malleus, in his infinite patience, took your absolutely deranged expression as a cue to explain, “The heroine tripped you, and you lost consciousness.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You covered your face with your hands. “So now I have to deal with that dumbass?”

Sebek immediately whipped out his glove, preparing to slap someone into another dimension. “THIS INSOLENCE CANNOT STAND. I SHALL CHALLENGE HER TO A DUEL AND—”

“Sebek, no.”

“—VANQUISH HER FOR DARING TO—”

“Sebek. Put the glove down.”

“—BESMIRCH YOUR HONOR, MY LADY—”

“Sebek. No.”

Malleus, amused, simply observed as if watching an entertaining stage play. Probably because his solution would be to turn the heroine into a very apologetic pile of ashes.

Sebek begrudgingly reabsorbed his rage (for now), but he was still seething.

Malleus, after ensuring you were probably not about to die, excused himself and left the room. Sebek remained, arms crossed, radiating enough protective energy to function as a personal bodyguard and a security alarm.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Sebek, from now on, I’m just going to ignore her.”

Sebek visibly short-circuited.

“You—you're just going to let this blatant disrespect slide???”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“Yes.”

He looked like he had been personally betrayed by the laws of honor and decency, but after a long moment, he reluctantly agreed. Probably because you had the final say in this.

As soon as he left the room, you immediately face-planted into your pillow and let out the most guttural, despairing scream of your life.

Then, with great suffering, you dragged yourself up, because it was officially time to make a game plan to survive this absolute trash novel.

You did not want to go to this tea party.

In fact, if given the choice between enduring this or being launched via medieval trebuchet into the ocean, you would’ve chosen the ocean. At least drowning would’ve been fast.

But no. Your father insisted.

Something about “maintaining your standing,” and “showing the nobility that you are still strong,” and “not letting some lowborn upstart make a fool of you.”

As if the heroine had any power over you besides the supernatural ability to generate plot conveniences. As if you weren’t already suffering enough in this stupid novel, trying to survive a romance plotline with all the grace of a cat thrown into a bathtub.

And thus, you found yourself seated at an expensive table, sipping lukewarm tea, pretending to be interested in whatever the hell the noble ladies were talking about while resisting the urge to flip the entire table over and walk out.

To make matters worse, Sebek was having an existential crisis.

Not that he’d admit it, of course. But the way he was standing, practically vibrating with tension, scanning the tea party like a very aggressive meerkat—yeah. It was bad.

Sebek was on edge.

At any given moment, his gaze would dart from one thing to another, as if expecting a chandelier to drop on your head, a poisoned biscuit to be slipped onto your plate, or a rogue assassin to emerge from the hedges wielding a butter knife.

You finally had enough.

Turning toward him, you gripped his shoulders. Firmly.

“Sebek.”

His eyes snapped to you.

“Buddy.” You gave him a little shake. “Friend. You need to chill.”

“I AM PERFECTLY COMPOSED—”

Shake, shake. “Sebek. Chill.”

Sebek blinked. For the first time in history, he shut his mouth.

And then—oddly enough—you saw pink.

Like, an actual blush. A faint, barely-there dusting of color across his cheeks, the kind you’d associate with a lovestruck noble maiden, not a half-fae knight who could probably break your spine with his bare hands.

For a moment, you wondered if he was overheating. Should you dunk him in ice water?

But miraculously, Sebek actually calmed down.

At least, he stopped looking like he was about to tackle a waiter for breathing too close to you. That was progress.

And just when you thought you could finally coast through the rest of this miserable tea party in peace—

You saw her.

The Heroine.

She was across the garden, standing under a carefully curated arrangement of roses, twirling a delicate teacup in her dainty hands, looking exactly as picturesque as a main character should.

And she was batting her eyelashes at Sebek.

Like a lot.

Like some kind of malfunctioning Victorian doll trying to send Morse code with her eyelids.

Sebek, for his part, was slowly backing away. It was clear he wanted nothing to do with her.

Unfortunately, his retreat only seemed to embolden the heroine further. As if she had mistaken his disgust for shyness.

Sebek Zigzagged.

She Zigzagged.

Sebek took a sharp left.

She matched him, too fast, like an NPC with broken pathing.

And that’s when you decided enough was enough.

With the most subtle movement possible, you lifted a hand and motioned for him to come to you.

Sebek sprinted.

Like, full-speed, knocking over at least one butler in the process sprinted. By the time he reached you, he was breathing hard, eyes wide like he had just escaped something truly horrifying.

“Sebek,” you said, voice casual, “Stick by my side.”

"UNDERSTOOD," he immediately responded, standing directly next to you like a sentient stone wall.

And thus began the worst tea party of the heroine’s life.

For months, the heroine had followed the same battle strategy.

She’d make small, calculated jabs at you—little insults hidden under layers of fake concern, “Oh, you look rather pale today, are you unwell?” or “That color looks so… unique on you! Not many would be bold enough to wear it!”

The old villainess would always take the bait.

She’d snap back, argue, cause a scene. And in the process, the heroine would look like the poor, innocent victim just trying her best to be kind.

But you?

You ignored her.

And that? That was unacceptable.

The first attempt was a comment about your shoes.

She tilted her head, voice sickly sweet. “Oh, those shoes are… interesting. Are they custom-made?”

You blinked.

That was it. Just blinked.

Nothing more.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you turned to Sebek and pointed at the cake.

"Sebek, do you want some cake?"

“OF COURSE—”

The heroine twitched.

The second attempt was a jab at your hair.

She giggled, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, voice dripping with faux innocence. “Oh dear, your hair looks a little tangled today! Perhaps you should try this new serum I discovered—”

You did not react.

Instead, you casually picked up a sugar cube, inspected it like it was the most fascinating thing in existence, and dropped it into your tea.

Then you slowly turned away.

Like she was scenery.

Like she was part of the background.

The heroine’s eye twitched.

Then came the third and final straw.

She physically stood in your path.

Like, full-on NPC blocking a hallway in a video game levels of obstructive.

Waiting.

Wanting you to react.

You did not.

You simply stepped to the left and walked around her.

As if she were a particularly annoying potted plant.

That was it.

That was the moment.

The moment she realized you were not playing her game.

And she SNAPPED.

In a last-ditch effort, she actually grabbed at your dress like a cranky toddler in a tantrum. Unfortunately for her, you were faster.

With all the grace of a trained assassin, you sidestepped her so effortlessly that she nearly tripped forward. For one horrifying second, she flailed—arms windmilling—before catching herself.

Then, with a furious huff, she turned bright red, grabbed her skirts, and stormed out of the tea party.

Absolutely. Defeated.

The entire garden was dead silent.

Then, softly, Sebek cleared his throat.

“…Does this mean I can have another slice of cake?”

You took a victorious sip of your tea.

+1 point for you.

This was a mistake. A grave, sweaty mistake.

Sebek, in all his knightly wisdom, had decided that you needed to learn self-defense. That was fine in theory. In practice?

You were dying.

It had started simple—stance, grip, footwork. Except your stance was wobbly, your grip was weak, and your footwork consisted of tripping over absolutely nothing .

Sebek, ever the determined instructor, refused to give up on you.

“Again!” he barked, adjusting your posture for the hundredth time. “You must hold the blade firmly!”

You tried. You really did. But the moment he stepped back, the sword dipped dangerously in your grasp like it was actively trying to escape you.

Sebek sighed through his nose. “You need to engage your core!”

“Sebek,” you panted, struggling to lift the sword back up. “I have a core. It just doesn’t want to engage.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose like a disappointed tutor watching their pupil fail basic math.

“Again.”

You half-heartedly swung the sword. It wobbled like a particularly useless noodle.

Sebek looked physically pained.

After several more embarrassing attempts—including a particularly tragic one where you almost dropped the sword on your own foot—you finally gave up.

You collapsed onto the ground, dramatically splaying out in the dirt like a knight who had perished not in battle, but in sheer spiritual defeat.

“I can’t do this,” you groaned, flopping an arm over your face. “I’m not built for the knight life.”

Sebek’s shadow loomed over you, exasperated. “You’re giving up already?”

“Yes.”

“Unacceptable. A true warrior never surrenders!”

“Well, I’m not a warrior, Sebek. I am a delicate aristocrat. My hobbies include drinking tea and not getting stabbed.”

Sebek crossed his arms, preparing to argue—but before he could launch into a speech about honor and duty and the sacred art of not dying, you simply muttered:

“That’s why you have to be my knight forever.”

The complaints instantly stopped.

Sebek didn’t say a word.

You assumed he had accepted your logic.

You didn’t see the way his back straightened slightly, or the way his expression softened into something oddly pleased. You definitely didn’t catch the way a smug, satisfied little smile flickered across his face—like a knight who had just secured his lifelong oath without even trying.

Instead, you remained on the ground, still dramatically sprawled out, waiting for him to launch into another lecture.

But nothing came.

“…Sebek?”

“Hmph.” He turned, suddenly far too content to argue. “If that is the case, then I suppose there’s no need to force you into training.”

You squinted up at him. “Wait. That’s it? You’re giving up?”

“I am merely accepting my duty,” he said smoothly. “After all, a knight must always protect their charge.”

You stared.

Suspicious.

Sebek was never this agreeable.

But, ultimately, you were too tired to question it.

With a sigh of relief, you let yourself fully relax into the grass, already looking forward to a nap.

Meanwhile, Sebek stood guard over you, looking far too smug for someone who had just lost an argument.

This was supposed to be a normal afternoon.

A nice, quiet, peaceful moment of watching Sebek ride his horse like he was leading an army into battle while Silver sat on his, perfectly relaxed, looking like the human embodiment of a soft exhale.

Meanwhile, to your right, Malleus and Lilia were having a debate that was growing increasingly unhinged.

"I'm telling you, Malleus," Lilia said with the confidence of a man who had never once been stopped from committing a crime. "If you want someone, you simply steal them away! That’s romance!"

Malleus, who had the power to obliterate reality with a flick of his wrist, rubbed his temples like a deeply tired office worker. "Lilia, that is not romance. That is abduction."

Lilia waved him off like he was swatting at a fly. "Semantics."

You turned your head just in time to see Malleus pinching the bridge of his nose, which was deeply funny because what did he even have to be stressed about? He was practically untouchable. And yet, somehow, Lilia was succeeding in emotionally exhausting him.

You had no idea how to contribute to this conversation, so you simply accepted that your afternoon would be full of crimes against logic.

But then Lilia’s sharp, ancient gaze zeroed in on you like a sniper locking onto a target.

"So," he said smoothly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Have you decided who you'll take to the ball?"

You blinked.

The ball? Oh. Right. That was a thing.

You mulled it over for a second, tapping your fingers against your knee.

Logically, Sebek was already glued to your side at all times. He was practically your own personal security alarm, complete with flashing lights, blaring sirens, and the sheer, undying volume of a man who had never whispered in his entire life.

Taking him would be easy.

"I'll probably take Sebek," you said casually.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

Lilia’s smile widened.

Not just any smile. A knowing smile. The kind that said, I have seen civilizations rise and fall, and yet nothing amuses me more than whatever is about to happen next.

Malleus, previously neutral, now looked deeply, deeply intrigued.

You squinted at them. "Why are you both looking at me like I'm a stray dog that just solved a math problem?"

Before you could demand answers, Sebek and Silver came back.

And Lilia—menace incarnate—immediately turned to Sebek and declared, with the utmost delight:

"Sebek! You've been chosen as their escort for the ball!"

Silver looked politely interested. Sebek—

Sebek crashed.

Like he hit an invisible wall.

For a second, he just stood there, expression frozen in a mix of shock, honor, and the sheer terror of being handed a social situation he wasn’t prepared for.

Then, in a grand act of buffering, he stiffened, clenched his fists, and proclaimed with all the force of a man declaring war:

"OF COURSE! AS YOUR LOYAL KNIGHT, IT IS ONLY NATURAL THAT I ACCOMPANY YOU!"

And then—before you could so much as blink—he turned on his heel and stomped off, as if he had just been given an urgent mission from Malleus himself.

The moment he was gone, you turned back to the three remaining culprits—only to find all of them looking at you like you were the underdog in a sports movie who had just pulled off a game-winning shot.

Lilia’s grin was downright diabolical.

Malleus was observing you like a scientist who had just discovered a new species.

Silver nodded, as if he had been let in on a joke you weren’t privy to.

Your eye twitched. "Okay. WHAT."

Lilia clapped you on the back like a proud father. "Oh, don’t mind us," he said airily. "We’re simply excited to see how this unfolds!"

Malleus inclined his head. "Indeed. It will be most… fascinating."

Silver hummed in agreement, eyes twinkling with something dangerously close to amusement.

You stared.

Sebek was still stomping off in the distance, probably preparing himself for battle against an imaginary threat.

Meanwhile, these three looked like they had just bet on a winning horse.

You were so bored.

As someone who had once lived in the glorious era of internet, memes, and instant entertainment, being isekai’d into a medieval fantasy novel was actual hell.

Your choices for passing the time were:

Sitting at a tea party listening to Lady Whatever gossip about how her second cousin’s neighbor allegedly married his horse (scandalous).

Shopping, which involved pretending to care about embroidery while avoiding getting guilt-tripped into buying a hat the size of a carriage wheel.

But today? Today was different.

There was a theater performance. And you were going.

Sebek, of course, was accompanying you, because you weren’t allowed to go anywhere without your personal security system.

The two of you arrived, found your seats, and settled in as the play began.

It was a forbidden romance between a noblewoman and her loyal knight.

You squinted.

That was it? That was the forbidden part?

What, was it slightly inconvenient for them to date? Were they going to act like this was the most tragic love story of all time when the biggest obstacle was mild disapproval?

You were expecting a real problem—an ancient family feud, a cursed bloodline, maybe even a dragon kidnapping someone for fun.

But no. It was just a noble and her knight, staring deeply into each other’s eyes while the orchestra swelled dramatically.

You side-eyed Sebek, about to make a snide comment.

And that’s when you noticed. Sebek was sweating.

His jaw was clenched. His hands were gripping the arms of his seat like the very concept of upholstery had personally insulted him.

And most importantly?

He was actively avoiding looking at you.

On stage, the knight fell to one knee, passionately declaring, “My lady, I have sworn to protect you—but in truth, my heart has belonged to you from the moment we met.”

Sebek’s grip on his seat tightened.

You turned back to the stage, more confused now.

The noblewoman gasped, placing a delicate hand on her chest. “Sir Knight, I—!”

Cue dramatic embrace. Cue Sebek looking like he was experiencing an existential crisis in real time.

For the next twenty minutes, Sebek refused to so much as glance in your direction.

The show ended with a completely unnecessary death scene (the knight got stabbed protecting the noblewoman from a bandit with the world’s worst aim), and as soon as the curtains fell, Sebek practically launched himself out of his seat.

You walked out together, the evening air cool against your skin.

Sebek, still refusing to look at you, was marching forward with the kind of stiff, overly formal movements that meant his brain was short-circuiting.

You raised an eyebrow. "Are you good?"

"I am perfectly fine," he said, a little too quickly.

You shrugged, brushing it off. Sebek being Sebek. He was always like this.

You didn’t notice how his hands twitched at his sides.

Or how, for one painfully fleeting moment during the play, he had imagined what it would be like—just once—to take your hand, without the excuse of duty.

But only Sebek and the dark theater would ever know that.

Festivals were supposed to be fun.

Supposed to be.

But for Sebek, this was nothing short of a battlefield.

The night had started normally enough. Malleus, Lilia, Silver, Sebek, and you had all arrived together, the festival in full swing around you. Lanterns glowed softly in the trees, music played from all corners of the square, and the air was thick with the smell of food—grilled meats, sweet pastries, roasted nuts. It was the perfect evening for a carefree stroll.

And then, suspiciously quickly, things took a turn.

“Ah,” Lilia suddenly said, snapping his fingers. “I just remembered—I must go investigate the historical significance of festival games.”

Silver, who had been mid-bite into a fried pastry, blinked. “What?”

Lilia was already gone.

Malleus nodded sagely. “Indeed, I must also depart. There are… matters of great importance I must attend to.”

You stared at him. “You’re about to go stare at gargoyles, aren’t you?”

Malleus did not dignify this with an answer.

Then came Silver’s turn. He at least tried to make it convincing.

“I, um—” He paused, brain clearly short-circuiting. “I have to—”

Sebek, ever the loyal soldier, stepped forward. “SILVER, WHEREVER YOU GO, WE SHALL—”

Silver immediately put a hand on Sebek’s shoulder. “No. You both stay.”

Sebek froze.

Suspicion bloomed in his sharp green eyes. “Why?”

Silver looked at you. Then back at Sebek. Then at you again. And then—like a father setting his son off into the world—he simply patted Sebek’s shoulder and said, “Have fun.”

Then he left.

Just like that, you and Sebek were alone.

You turned to Sebek, shrugged, and grabbed his hand. “Alright then! Let’s go have fun.”

Sebek ascended into a new state of panic.

One: You Held His Hand.

His hand.

Which was now holding your hand.

He was a knight. A protector. His hand had wielded swords, raised shields, sworn loyalty—

His hand had never done this.

“W-Wait, I—!”

You, completely oblivious to the fact that you were literally ruining him, simply smiled. “Come on, let’s get food first!”

And just like that, he was dragged into the festival.

Two: You Fed Him.

Sebek had prepared for many things in life.

Betrayal? Yes. Combat? Absolutely. The burden of responsibility? Without question.

But he had not prepared for you pressing a warm pastry into his hands and saying, “Try this! It’s really good.”

He stared at it like it was an enemy.

“I—this is unnecessary! I should be watching for threats, not—”

Then you, with absolutely zero hesitation, took a bite from your own pastry, hummed thoughtfully, and then just—just held it up to his mouth.

Sebek froze.

“…What,” he said, voice dangerously unstable, “are you doing?”

“Letting you try mine.”

Unacceptable.

UNACCEPTABLE.

This was wrong. You were a noble, he was your knight. His duty was to protect you, not to—to—

To have feelings.

To want things.

But you were still holding the pastry up, completely unaware of the sheer war happening in his mind.

So, with the slow hesitation of a man walking into a death trap, Sebek leaned down and took a small, precise bite.

…It was delicious.

…This was still unacceptable.

“See?” you said brightly, taking another bite yourself. “Tastes better when you share.”

Sebek almost dropped dead on the spot.

Three: The Smile.

Oh, that smile.

You were leading him from stall to stall, still holding his hand, still treating this like a perfectly normal outing and not the absolute nightmare it was for his fragile, suffering heart.

And every time you turned back to him—every time you laughed at something ridiculous, or smiled when he grumbled about stall vendors trying to scam you, or simply looked at him with that casual, easy warmth—

Something in him broke.

Not in a bad way. But absolutely in a way that would jeopardize his purpose. In the way that made him want to 1v1 the entire world just to make sure you always smiled like that.

Sebek was not meant for this.

He was a knight. A warrior. A protector.

He was not meant to look at you and wish, with every inch of his being, that he could hold your hand not because of duty, but because you wanted him to.

The ball was going well.

Which, frankly, was a miracle.

You were three glasses of wine in, the music was pleasant, and—most importantly—there was no heroine in sight.

Malleus was at peace, sipping his drink like an ancient dragon who had finally hoarded enough gold. Lilia was across the room, very seriously trying to convince a noble to invest in bat jousting (“Picture it, my dear baron—tiny suits of armor, high-speed aerial combat, think of the prestige!”). Silver was half-asleep at the table, so still that he was practically furniture.

And Sebek? Sebek was eating with the sheer intensity of a man who had never been allowed to sit and enjoy a meal in his life.

You were basking in the rare moment of peace when—

She arrived.

The heroine waltzed in, all curls and delicate elegance, scanning the room like she owned the place.

Immediately, you activated Ignore Mode.

But then—

Then she spoke.

“I challenge you!”

You blinked.

Challenge me to what? A duel? A political debate? A staring contest??

And then, with the smuggest expression known to man, she stepped aside to reveal her new(?) knight. You choked on your drink.

Because her knight—

Looked like Sebek.

Like, exactly like Sebek.

Same height, same build, suspiciously similar armor—but the worst part?

His hair was green.

Like she had dyed it.

You nearly dropped your wine.

You turned to Sebek.

Then to knockoff Sebek.

Then to Malleus—who was so absorbed in his perfect night that he hadn’t even registered the incoming disaster.

Then back to fake Sebek.

Sebek, who had been peacefully eating his steak, suddenly froze.

“WHAT IN THE GREAT SEVEN—” His chair scraped across the floor as he stood, eyes wide with pure fury.

The heroine beamed. “My knight will prove his superiority over yours! A true battle of skill and honor!”

You were still stuck on the hair.

"DID YOU DYE THIS MAN’S HAIR GREEN?!"

Fake Sebek smirked, folding his arms. “A knight should be willing to make sacrifices for his lady.”

Sebek looked ready to commit several war crimes.

“This is an INSULT!” He stepped forward, eyes blazing, voice booming. “YOU THINK YOU CAN MATCH ME WITH A PALE IMITATION?! I—”

Oh, hell no.

You had already suffered through so much stupidity in this world. You were not about to let Sebek engage in a battle of the bootlegs just because the heroine had gone completely off the rails.

You grabbed Sebek’s arm.

He whipped around like an enraged storm god. “MY LADY, I MUST—”

“No,” you said flatly. “Not worth it.”

“But—”

“Sebek.”

“She—”

“Sebek.”

“She dares—”

“Sebek. Please.”

His jaw locked. He looked like he wanted to argue. Like he needed to argue. But then you let out a long, exhausted sigh and said,

“Just dance with me instead.”

Sebek stopped breathing.

The entire ballroom faded. The heroine? Gone. Bootleg Sebek? Who? The audience of nosy nobles? Irrelevant.

All that mattered was that you—the person he had sworn to protect, the one he had dedicated his entire being to—had just asked him to dance.

He swallowed thickly. “O-Of course.”

And so, you took his hand and led him to the ballroom floor.

Sebek was stiff at first, like he was concentrating too hard on being perfect, but as the music swelled, he relaxed into the rhythm, his movements smoother, more natural.

And as he guided you across the floor, one hand firm at your waist, the other clasping yours, Sebek couldn’t help but stare.

You were laughing softly, still tipsy, the golden chandeliers casting a warm glow on your skin. The silk of your gown shimmered as you moved, and your smile—

Gods. Your smile.

Sebek knew, without a doubt, that he would do anything to keep it on your face.

And you?

You had no idea.

Because to you, this was just a dance.

But to Sebek—

You looked like a dream come true.

It was finally here. The moment where, according to the absolute literary war crime that was this novel, you were supposed to get poisoned, collapse dramatically, and set off a chain reaction that would end with Sebek exiling himself like a tragic Shakespearean protagonist.

Except this time?

You knew it was coming.

And you were about to flip the script so hard the author would feel it in whatever dimension they were in.

The heroine, as predictable as ever, had invited you to yet another tea party—probably hoping that by the time the poison kicked in, she'd have a perfect view of your untimely demise. You, of course, had accepted with a sweet smile and a mind full of schemes.

Now, seated at a pristine garden table with floral arrangements worth more than some small villages, you watched as she made her move. It was almost laughable how obvious she was. Her eyes flickered towards the maid as your tea was poured, the subtle anticipation in her expression so transparent you were honestly a little embarrassed for her.

You daintily lifted the cup, swirling the tea, inhaling its floral scent. Then, you pretended to take a sip.

Then, you threw yourself into the most dramatic, gut-wrenching, Oscar-worthy performance of your life.

Your body convulsed. Your hand flew to your throat. You gasped, choked, wheezed like a dying fish, and flung your arms out as if desperately grasping at the heavens themselves. You knocked over a plate. A fork clattered to the ground. A lesser noble screamed.

And then, with the grace of a Victorian woman in a corset two sizes too small, you collapsed onto the ground, limbs twitching for good measure.

Chaos erupted.

Ladies shrieked. Servants scrambled. One elderly duke fainted in the background. Even you were impressed. If this world had award shows, you would’ve already been giving an acceptance speech.

And then.

You heard it.

A chair screeching against stone. The heavy, unmistakable clang of armor.

Oh.

Oh, no.

You had made a critical miscalculation.

Sebek.

Sebek, who had been standing behind you the entire time. Sebek, who had just witnessed his charge collapse in agony.

Sebek, who was now standing over the heroine with his sword at her throat.

The entire tea party came to a screeching halt.

The heroine was frozen in terror, because Sebek wasn’t just angry—he was absolutely seething. His hands were steady, his grip unwavering, but the rage in his eyes? The barely-restrained fury crackling in the air around him? That was the look of a man seconds away from turning this entire tea party into a medieval execution.

“How dare you,” Sebek growled, his voice low and deadly, “I swear upon my honor—you will not leave this garden alive.”

You were so close to victory. So close. But no. No, Sebek had to go and initiate an actual murder.

The heroine, pale as a ghost, opened her mouth—probably to sob out some terrible excuse—but Sebek applied just the tiniest bit of pressure with his blade. A thin line of blood beaded at her neck.

The heroine whimpered.

Sebek narrowed his eyes.

Oh, he was fully committed to this.

Then, from your position on the ground, you made a small choking noise.

Sebek snapped around so fast he nearly decapitated her anyway.

His fury instantly shifted into sheer, unfiltered panic.

“My lady—!” He abandoned the heroine entirely, dropping to his knees and scooping you up into his arms as if you were seconds from death. "Stay with me!" His voice wavered, as if sheer willpower alone could force you to keep breathing. "You will not die here, I swear it!"

Okay. Maybe you should have accounted for this.

Before you could get a word in, Sebek scooped you up like a sack of potatoes and booked it inside.

The moment he deposited you onto a chaise lounge like a damsel in distress, you sat up and gave him your best sheepish grin.

“Sebek, I—”

But Sebek did not look relieved.

Sebek looked furious.

"You mean to tell me," he began, his voice escalating, "THAT WAS A LIE?!"

You winced. “Sebek, I—”

"You were NEVER in danger?! NEVER TRULY POISONED?!" His entire body was vibrating. "YOU—"

His voice kept rising.

He was pacing now, movements erratic, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. His breathing was uneven. His hands were shaking.

Gods. Gods, you felt bad.

Before he could work himself into an early grave, you grabbed his face and pulled him close.

"Sebek," you said firmly. "Breathe."

His breath hitched.

You could feel the tension in his jaw, the way his entire being was still radiating panic and betrayal.

Slowly, his breathing evened out. His hands, still clenched at his sides, relaxed.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks. "I should have told you."

Sebek swallowed hard, staring at you like he had just walked through hell itself.

"I could never bear to lose you." His voice was raw, barely above a whisper.

And then, as if exhaling the weight of the entire world, he bowed his head slightly and said, “Forgive me for my insolence.”

Before you could even process what that meant—

His lips were on yours.

Soft, hesitant, yet utterly consuming.

It lasted one perfect moment—

And then reality kicked in.

Sebek stiffened. His eyes snapped open.

"I— I HAVE OVERSTEPPED— I APOLOGIZE—"

And then.

Sebek fled.

Full-speed.

Out the door.

Down the hall.

Possibly into another plane of existence.

You sat there, dazed, stunned, blushing so hard you were about to burst into flames.

You were losing your mind.

Malleus, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.

He sat there, sipping his tea with the serene patience of a man who had definitely seen this coming, while you paced back and forth in front of him, unraveling like a badly-knitted sweater.

"It was just stress!" you declared, throwing your hands in the air. "Right? I mean, high emotions, near-death experience, classic knightly panic—textbook impulse decision!"

Malleus hummed, his expression one of deep, profound amusement. "Oh?"

You pointed at him like you had just presented irrefutable evidence in a murder trial. "YES. Right?! That has to be it!"

Malleus took a slow sip of his tea. "Or…"

You froze.

Malleus paused dramatically—like he was a host on some medieval reality show about to drop a major plot twist—then said, "Perhaps he has feelings for you."

You made a noise. A noise that had never existed before, somewhere between a gasp, a wheeze, and the sound of a tea kettle violently exploding.

Malleus raised an eyebrow, watching as your soul actively left your body.

"That’s—" You flailed. Actually flailed. "That’s absurd!"

Malleus nodded sagely. "Yes. Very absurd." He took another sip of tea, his tone so dry you nearly threw something at him.

You began pacing again, hands on your head, thoughts spiraling into the abyss.

"Maybe—maybe he thinks he has feelings for me," you reasoned, grasping at straws like your life depended on it. "But really, it’s just—devotion! Yes! Classic knightly devotion! It’s not romantic, it’s duty! He admires me, respects me, honors me—"

"—Kissed you."

You choked.

Malleus was smirking now. He was actually enjoying this.

"Okay, but," you continued, desperately trying to dig yourself out of the emotional pit you had fallen into, "what if—what if it was just a slip-up? A moment of weakness? What if he didn’t mean it—?"

Malleus tilted his head. "Then why did he run away? Why did he not apologize?"

You stopped dead in your tracks.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Because he did run away. Full speed. Maximum acceleration. Like a man who had just realized what he had done and could not face the consequences.

Your hands slowly lowered from your head.

Malleus set his teacup down with a soft clink. "I would say that is not the behavior of a man who does not have feelings for someone."

You sat down in the nearest chair, staring into the void.

Malleus observed you with quiet satisfaction.

The way you were actively short-circuiting before his eyes? The absolute catastrophic mental gymnastics you were performing to deny the obvious?

Oh, yes.

This was better than theater.

Meanwhile, Sebek was also suffering.

And Lilia was having the best day of his life.

Sebek was pacing, marching back and forth across the room like he was preparing for battle, arms gesturing wildly as he ranted to no one in particular.

"I—I do not—I cannot—" His voice cracked slightly before he squared his shoulders, forcing himself into a state of denial so powerful it could deflect magic. "IT WAS MERELY A MOMENT OF TEMPORARY EMOTIONAL INSTABILITY!"

Lilia, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, was vibrating. His hands were clasped in front of his mouth, his entire body shaking as he barely contained his laughter. His eyes gleamed with pure, unfiltered joy.

"Ah, young love," he sighed dramatically, swaying slightly as if overcome by emotion. "So passionate! So tumultuous!" He clutched his chest. "So full of suffering!"

Sebek whirled around, offended to his very core.

"It is NOT love!" he practically roared, and Silver, who had been trying to stay calm, rubbed his temples like a tired therapist dealing with a particularly stubborn client.

"Sebek," Silver said, voice steady, soothing, rational. "You kissed her."

Sebek's eye twitched.

"It was an accident!"

Silver raised an eyebrow. "How do you accidentally kiss someone?"

Sebek flailed. "IT WAS THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT!"

"Mmhm~" Lilia hummed, practically swaying with delight.

Sebek turned to him, pointing like he was about to declare war. "STOP—STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!"

"Like what?" Lilia grinned. "Like I just witnessed the most entertaining thing to happen in centuries?"

"YES!"

Lilia cackled.

Sebek turned back to Silver, desperate for support, but Silver was already shaking his head.

"Sebek," Silver said patiently. "You’re in love."

Sebek physically recoiled. His entire soul left his body for a second before it returned, but not before his brain short-circuited.

"NO!"

"Yes," Silver said simply.

"Preposterous!" Sebek thundered, arms flailing again. "I am a knight! Her protector! I have sworn my loyalty to her! I would give my LIFE for her—!"

"Yes," Silver interrupted, nodding. "Because you love her."

Sebek froze.

His mouth opened. Then closed.

Then opened again.

Nothing came out.

Lilia, who was practically incandescent with joy, clasped his hands together and leaned in, eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Oh my," Lilia purred. "He's realizing it."

Sebek visibly malfunctioned.

His arms tensed, his jaw clenched, his brain clearly trying to override the obvious conclusion with pure willpower alone.

And then, because he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself—

Sebek turned on his heel and sprinted out of the room at full speed.

Lilia howled with laughter, throwing himself back onto the couch.

Silver simply sighed, rubbing his temples again. "You know he's going to deny this for at least another week, right?"

"Oh, let him struggle~" Lilia giggled, delighted beyond words. "This is better than theater."

The heroine was losing her goddamn mind.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She was the main character. She was supposed to triumph over adversity! She was supposed to defeat her rival, claim her rightful place at Malleus’s side, and bask in the admiration of high society as they all realized how special and wonderful she was!

And yet—

You.

You, the person who was supposed to be her greatest adversary, her foil, her dramatic counterpart—

Did. Not. Care.

Every time she tried to one-up you, every time she schemed and plotted and prepared some devastating social maneuver to put you in your place—

You ignored her.

Not even with thinly veiled contempt. Not with cold, calculated disdain. No.

You ignored her like you would ignore a particularly unimpressive rock on the side of the road.

Like a piece of furniture. Like she was a background character in her own goddamn story.

She had thrown everything at you.

She had made subtle barbs about your outfits—Oh, what a… bold choice of color. Not everyone could pull that off.

You had simply nodded and thanked her before returning to making googly eyes at your knight.

She had gone out of her way to outshine you at every event—grander gowns, more dramatic entrances, carefully curated conversations that should have drawn everyone’s attention to her.

You?

You barely registered that she was there.

She had even dyed her own knight’s hair green for fuck’s sake.

And you had just—

Ignored it.

You hadn’t even looked surprised. No scandalized gasp, no pointed glances, no passive-aggressive remark about imitation being the sincerest form of flattery.

Nothing.

The absolute indifference nearly sent her into a breakdown right then and there.

But still—still—she had held out hope.

Because there was one final, tried-and-true method to defeat a villainess.

Poison.

A noblewoman’s tea party. A carefully laced cup. A gasp, a choke, a dramatic collapse.

It was foolproof.

Except—

Except you had pretended to drink it.

She hadn’t even noticed at first. She had simply sipped her tea, waiting for your inevitable demise—only to watch you pull off an Oscar worthy performance.

And now?

Now the entirety of high society hated her.

Not because they actually cared about you, no—

But because attempting to poison someone at a social gathering was just so terribly gauche.

It was uncivilized. It was desperate. It was cringe.

And worse?

She had failed.

One noblewoman had sighed, shaking her head. “Poisoning your rival? How utterly common. If she were going to do it, the least she could’ve done was be subtle.”

Another had tsked, “Imagine—spending all that effort trying to destroy someone only for them to sit back and make googly eyes at their knight instead.”

That one nearly made her explode.

Because that? That was the worst part.

Through all of this, you weren’t even fighting back.

You weren’t scheming. You weren’t plotting revenge. You weren’t even paying attention to her anymore.

No.

You were too busy pining over Sebek.

At first, she thought it was coincidence. A weird little side note in this battle.

But no.

She saw it everywhere now.

You, brushing your hand against his as he held a door open for you. You, laughing at something he said in that ridiculous, overly loud voice. You, looking at him like he was the most precious thing in existence while he continued to act like a knight-shaped golden retriever with too many feelings.

It was infuriating.

And now, after everything, after all the time and energy and sanity she had lost trying to make you engage, she woke up one morning and realized—

She had lost.

Not in some grand, cinematic battle of wits. Not in an explosive confrontation.

No.

She had lost in the most humiliating way possible.

Because you never even considered her a threat to begin with.

She had spent all this time clawing her way to the top of a rivalry that only existed in her own head.

And the person she had chosen as her nemesis had treated her with the same level of importance as a salad garnish.

It was over.

She was done.

She picked up a pen, wrote a letter, and signed it with the exhausted resignation of a woman who had fully accepted defeat.

Lady,

I give up. I’m leaving. Enjoy your ridiculous romance with your ridiculous knight.

—Heroine

Then, without any fanfare, she packed her things, walked out of her estate, and left the country.

And you?

You didn’t even notice until a servant handed you the letter over breakfast.

You blinked at it, took a bite of toast, and read the whole thing while casually sipping your tea.

Then you folded it neatly, set it aside, and promptly forgot about it.

Sebek Zigvolt was avoiding you.

Not in the dramatic, storming-off, I-shall-never-speak-to-you-again way that some lovesick noble might after a scandalous incident at a ball. No, that would have been too easy.

Instead, he had apparently decided that the most rational way to handle his predicament was to maintain a perfect six-foot gap between the two of you at all times.

Like some sort of ridiculous, self-imposed restraining order.

You noticed it immediately, of course, because how could you not?

The first morning, you stepped into the drawing room, still slightly groggy from waking up, and found Sebek already there, standing so rigidly that he looked like he had been installed into the floorboards.

“Good morning, Sebek.”

Sebek, a man who had never once in his life failed to respond to you immediately, took a full three seconds to react, his head snapping toward you like a marionette whose strings had been yanked too hard.

“MY LADY!” he barked, far too loud for this early in the morning. “GOOD MORNING TO YOU AS WELL!”

Then, before you could say another word, he pivoted sharply and took three steps back.

Three big, deliberate, backward steps.

And then?

He stared past you.

Not at you. Past you.

Like he had suddenly developed an intense fascination with the wall.

And this? This continued.

For three. Entire. Days.

At breakfast, he sat exactly six feet away from your chair and stabbed his eggs with the precision and fury of a man attempting to exorcise a demon from his plate.

At social events, he positioned himself like some tragically lovesick ghost, haunting the edge of the room with a tormented expression, still very much guarding you but now also acting like being within arm’s reach might cause him to spontaneously combust.

Even in casual conversations, if you took a step forward?

Sebek took a step back.

And the worst part?

He was so obvious about it.

Like, if he was actually trying to be subtle, you could at least pretend it wasn’t happening. But no, this man was out here moving like an NPC whose pathfinding AI was breaking.

By the third day, you had reached your limit.

You had tolerated his weird little knightly existential crisis long enough.

So, that morning, when you saw him standing—once again—exactly six feet away, rigid as a lamppost, pointedly pretending that the tree outside the window was the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life, you snapped.

“Sebek.”

No response.

“Sebek.”

Nothing.

You took a step forward.

Sebek immediately took a step back.

You took another step.

Sebek tried to escape.

Absolutely not.

With all the swiftness of a person completely done with this nonsense, you closed the gap, stepping right into his space, and before he could even think about scrambling backward like some flustered fawn, you grabbed his face and squished his stupid, handsome, stubborn cheeks between your hands.

Sebek made an absolutely incomprehensible noise.

“W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THIS IS HIGHLY—!!”

He was spluttering. Stammering. Eyes darting around wildly like he was searching for an escape route despite the fact that you were holding his actual face.

“Sebek,” you said, exasperated, thumbs pressing into his cheeks as he failed spectacularly to regain any of his usual knightly composure. “Do you like me?”

Sebek, in his infinite, ridiculous wisdom, chose the absolute worst possible response.

“I—! I AM YOUR KNIGHT! TO ENTERTAIN SUCH FRIVOLITIES WOULD BE A DERELECTION OF DUTY!”

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and then, with the patience of someone trying to explain basic math to a particularly dense brick wall, you groaned, “Sebek, we are not in a play. Do you like me or not!?”

Sebek made a noise somewhere between a strangled honk and a dying animal.

His entire face turned so red that for a moment, you were genuinely concerned that he might be about to pass out.

Then—

He nodded.

It was tiny, barely perceptible, like he was afraid saying it too loudly would cause the heavens to smite him on the spot, but it was there.

And that was all you needed.

Before he could start raving about duty or oaths or whatever dramatic monologue he was preparing, you surged forward and kissed him.

Sebek froze.

Completely, entirely, utterly still.

For half a second, you worried that you had broken him.

But then—

Sebek kissed you back.

With the fervor of a man who had been waiting his entire life for this exact moment.

It took thirty full minutes to convince Sebek that you were, in fact, not in a tragic, forbidden love story.

Ten minutes of him pacing, ranting about duty and propriety, gripping the air like an overdramatic stage actor monologuing in the rain.

Thirty minutes of you, standing there, patiently waiting for his brain to catch up to reality.

"Sebek," you said for the fifteenth time, arms crossed, exasperated but fond. "We are not in a Shakespearean tragedy."

Sebek opened his mouth to argue, paused, frowned, then slowly closed it.

You could see the war happening inside him. His knightly instincts were screaming about honor and responsibility, while the part of him that had just kissed you—twice now—was standing in the corner, sweating profusely.

He inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and nodded.

"...Very well," he said, stiffly, as if forcing himself to accept that the universe had, in fact, allowed him to be happy.

You smirked and reached for his hand. "Great. Now come on, we’re late."

Sebek made a dying noise when you intertwined your fingers with his.

When you arrived, Malleus, Lilia, and Silver were already gathered in the garden, basking in the afternoon sun.

The moment you and Sebek showed up—hand in hand—Lilia's entire face lit up.

"Ah-ha!" Lilia cried, delighted, spinning toward the others with a mischievous flourish. "Pay up!"

Malleus sighed, deeply, as if betrayed by fate itself. Silver grunted, reaching into his pocket.

And then, right in front of you, the two of them handed Lilia actual money.

You blinked. “Wait. What just happened?”

Lilia grinned, tucking his winnings away. “Oh, just a little wager~”

You narrowed your eyes. "What kind of wager?"

Lilia, positively glowing with mischief, said, "I bet that you two would get together sooner rather than later."

Malleus, looking far too composed for someone who had just lost a bet, adjusted his sleeves and said, "I, on the other hand, estimated that it would take at least another year."

Silver sighed. "I thought it’d take two."

You gawked. "YOU WERE TAKING BETS ON THIS?!"

Sebek was mortified.

"YOU GAMBLED ON OUR HONOR?!" he thundered, appalled, offended, visibly vibrating.

Lilia cackled. “Oh, relax, dear boy! I was simply invested in your happiness!"

Sebek looked like he wanted to die.

So, naturally, you turned toward him, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek.

Sebek stopped yelling immediately.

You could physically see the protest die in his throat. His entire body locked up, his ears turned red, and his eyes darted away as if you had just knocked the ability to argue right out of him.

Malleus, entirely too amused, hummed. “Curious. That seems to be an effective method of silencing him.”

Lilia beamed. “Oh, I love this development.”

Silver, utterly exhausted, rubbed his temple. "I don't even know why I bother at this point."

You just laughed, perfectly content, sitting beside your knight and the people you loved.

Masterlist

Can't believe this is the 15th part already!

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x reader #sebek zigvolt #twst sebek #twisted wonderland sebek #trash novel chronicles

1K notes · View notes

azzibueckers5 · 12 days ago

Text

take another drag (turn me to ashes) (pt. 1)

synopsis: messy fwb pazzi, extremely unserious angst, alcohol usage, sexual content, situationship final bosses paige and azzi but they're like really really chill about it, um. the only hint that i'm giving in terms of the smut is possessiveness. enjoy!

wc: 6.5k (ao3 link) (my masterlist) (now part 2 link!)

a/n: title is from lana's diet mountain dew. you gay bitches won you get the first half tonight. enjoy the repercussions (sexual frustration). this was a tad rushed so i could get it out before the weekend so there's bound to be typos i am. Sorry. also roommate pairings are entirely made up #sorry

azzi tilts her head back against the couch cushions behind her and closes her eyes for a second, trying to assess what level of drunk she’s riding in their game of truth or drink in preparation for her next turn.

her teammates are scattered precariously around the room, all twelve of them making themselves at home in evina, aubrey, and piath’s small living room, and the half full handle of titos sits in the middle of the lopsided circle like some sacrificial token, daring azzi to test it.

she’s been spared from any truly invasive questions so far, only having to answer one about her first kiss (a random boy named carlos in the seventh grade after a movie date that had been nothing short of terrible) and what the most scandalous place she’d ever hooked up with someone was (she’d hesitated before answering this one, not because a hotel pool had been that embarrassing, but because her counterpart in that particular rendezvous was sitting directly next to her, fingers fidgeting in her lap and eyes refusing to make contact), so she hasn’t had to drink to avoid anything.

this was a team bonding event though– and the last one before the season officially started– so naturally azzi had been coerced into doing two separate rounds of shots by nika, in addition to sipping on a drink with god knows how many more, and the buzz in her limbs was starting to make tipsy feel like a thing of the past.

it was at least mildly reassuring that everyone around her also seemed to have reached that tipping point as well, and she could feel the atmosphere descending into that loose, rowdy environment that only happened on the rare nights when they didn’t have an early practice the next day.

amari is getting grilled about, like, her ex boyfriend’s dick size or something– azzi’s trying hard not to pay attention– which means azzi’s turn is next. she lifts her head up from the couch and ignores the slight dizziness that accompanies it, focusing instead on the feeling of paige’s hand repeatedly poking her thigh.

she tilts her head towards the blonde lazily and sighs, exaggerating her exasperation, and catches paige's finger in her own, stilling her.

“what.”

paige grins, crooked but blinding all the same, and azzi knows immediately that she is also hurtling towards drunk by the slightly dazed look on her face. she tries to smother the excitement that bubbles up at the idea of what usually happens when they get drunk together, and only halfway succeeds.

“nothin,’” paige says, unashamedly fishing for attention.

azzi rolls her eyes, and ignores the flutter in her chest when paige laces their fingers together instead of letting go.

“you’re an attention whore,” she declares, trying to scrunch her face into something that resembles annoyance.

“don’t act like you don’t love it,” paige drawls, and, yup. definitely a little drunk, because she’s slurring the end of her words a little, in a way that shouldn’t be endearing but always is anyways, and is flirting a little more brazenly than she otherwise would, especially in front of the team.

azzi is spared from having to respond when dorka kicks her right leg that’s splayed out on the ground in front of her and informs her that it’s her turn.

“you ready to drink, princess?”

she blinks away from paige’s face and scoffs, trying to catch up to the rest of the room. the last thing they need right now is for someone to accuse them of flirting again.

she pulls her fingers out of paige’s with a squeeze and says, defiantly, “m’not drinking. hit me with your best, dorka.”

the older girl smirks from across the circle, and anxiety pools in her stomach. she prays this question isn’t about her sex life.

“last person you got with. out with it.”

what a surprise. a sex question.

azzi internally sighs and tries to keep the panic off her face, tries to ignore the flash of memory at the question:

paige, kissing her in the dingy bathroom of ted’s, hands on the back of her thighs under her skirt; paige, dragging them stumbling back to azzi’s dorm, fingers tangled; paige, pressing azzi into her bedroom door, mouth moving down her neck; paige, fingers between her– she shoves the memory away, willing her face to stay unimpressed.

her rescue comes in the form of paige herself, which is, admittedly, a little incriminating, but she’s grateful nonetheless. “ya’ll must be extra horny today. how bout you go get laid instead of interrogating all of us about our sex lives.”

azzi nudges their ankles together in thanks, just as christyn groans somewhere to her left and says “don’t be a loser paige. we tryna make it actually fun,” and piath throws a piece of popcorn at paige and says “of course paige is defending azzi.”

damn it.

there’s a chorus of agreement from the girls around them, and azzi sighs, glaring at the glass handle in front of her and mentally prepping for the shot that’s going to curdle in her stomach.

but then, evina, who’s already properly sloshed, calls out impatiently, “yeah, come on az, last guy you got with. not that hard,” and azzi smiles.

blessed reprieve in the form of heteronormativity.

before anyone can object to the question, she blurts out “last guy i got with was james,” and hopes everyone is too drunk to inquire further.

got with is kind of an exaggeration– they’d kissed at the afterparty at prom and azzi had let it happen for approximately thirty seconds before his hands had started wandering and she’d broken away to run off and find her friends– but it's not her fault if people assume it was more than that.

she knows paige is gonna be sulky about the mere mention of him anyways, but that’s her problem. they’ve agreed to stop the whole messy hook up thing, what with basketball really gearing up and the fear of making things complicated, and that includes getting jealous when other people are brought up. never mind the fact that they’ve been absolutely terrible at adhering to that new rule.

christyn narrows her eyes suspiciously and asks “what do you mean by guy,” just as aaliyah says, rather shocked, “your prom date? as in not since may?”

azzi takes a sip of her drink and smirks. she should probably be a little bit more careful at what she’s insinuating, but she’s giddy at getting away without having to take a shot for a third time and also definitely a little drunk.

“i haven’t hooked up with a guy since may. that’s what you asked. paige’s turn.”

but they aren't letting her off the hook so easy, and olivia’s voice rings out over the rest of them, loud and laced with disbelief. “you brought someone home last month after the bar. nika and i had to sleep with pillows over our heads.”

nika is one of the two other people in this room that knows that that had been paige. azzi expects her to help them out a little bit here.

“yeah, azzi, what was that about?” she says instead, smarmy and annoying and so totally enjoying this.

so much for assistance.

dorka piles on with “liars have to take two shots to make up for it,” and azzi shoots a death glare at nika and sighs.

“m’not lying. evina said who’s the last guy. i answered the question.”

the room erupts again into shrieks of surprise and someone says “the princess is into women?”

azzi just takes a large gulp of her drink, pushes down the feeling of indignation at the thought that it's this shocking she’d be into women, and tries really hard not to look at paige.

she fails.

paige, for her part, is putting up a solidly mediocre performance on how to be nonchalant: lazy smirk, legs spread casually, and eyes refusing to look at azzi for too long. azzi knows her inside and out though, and can see the clench of her jaw and the shift of her fingers on the perimeter of her solo cup, the way her gaze is flitting around the room, cataloguing the different reactions to azzi’s sentence.

she pulls her eyes off paige’s silhouette before she gives them away and fixes her stare instead on aaliyah. “dunno why you assumed i’m straight, that’s your problem. somebody ask paige a question already. i answered mine.”

christyn makes a couple more attempts at getting azzi to spill on who this mystery woman is, but she refuses, and eventually the group moves on to start plotting on how to get paige to drink.

tomorrow, azzi will worry about the consequences of inadvertently revealing that she’s into girls– both because it makes her rather intense friendship with paige that much more suspicious, and because coming out to some of her closest friends via a shitty question in truth or drink is a admittedly a little pathetic. she’s never exactly tried to hide her sexuality though, it just turned out that when you’d only ever kissed one girl and were also trying to keep the fact that you were kissing said girl a secret, things tended to stay under wraps.

azzi breathes out a sigh of relief at her turn being over and shifts her thoughts to trying her best to prepare for paige’s interrogation, knowing that it’s fairly likely the question will pertain to her in some capacity, seeing as the team is hellbent on asking about sex escapades.

honestly. you’d think they were at a sleepover with sixteen year olds.

she hopes everyone around them is drunk enough to miss the tension in her shoulders, and the glances she keeps taking at paige’s face. she pointedly ignores caroline’s knowing gaze from the other across the circle, the only other one in the room besides nika who’s aware of the tangle of something more between them, and again, takes a rather large chug of her drink.

the relief of being out of the hot seat does not last long. because somehow the question that’s almost unanimously decided upon for paige is, in azzi’s opinion, seventeen times worse.

“p, how many bodies you got by now?” calls aubrey from where she’s stretched out against the tv stand, glee evident in her voice, and azzi’s heart sinks into her stomach.

she’s confident the answer is somewhere between three and five, but despite the fact that her and paige have never kept things from each other, azzi has made a point to actively avoid hearing about paige sleeping with other people. it was sort of an unspoken rule– they didn’t talk about the girls paige got with before azzi came to uconn, and they didn’t talk about the boys azzi had gotten with her senior year of high school.

they had a lot of unspoken rules.

they’d been each other's firsts (azzi stops herself from thinking too hard about the fact that she wants to be paige’s last, too), fumbling around in the dark of a hotel room (azzi reminds her self that that had meant more than any rushed hookup paige had sought out since), and though they’d maintained the conviction that the other was allowed to do whatever they wanted with whomever they wanted, they’d never been exactly good at sharing.

as the group around her debates what, specifically, has to meet the requirements for a body when it comes to having sex with girls, azzi racks her brain and tries to remember the last time paige had hooked up with someone other than her.

it had only been three weeks since she’d made one of her more terrible decisions to let the fear that paige had starting meaning more to her than basketball dictate the parameters of their relationship, and she’d initiated the rule that during basketball season (and the few weeks leading up to it), the two of them should halt the rather non-platonic aspects of their friendship for fear of making things too complicated.

she’d been half expecting paige to push back, would have most likely caved with merely a few sentences and a makeout as a counter argument, but paige hadn’t argued whatsoever, and they’d since been mostly successful at pretending everything was fine.

they’d only slipped up once since the implementation of the new rule– a rather heated makeout session in the locker room of all places when they’d been left alone post practice, sweaty and sports bra clad (they’d never stood a chance)– and they had somehow miraculously managed to spend just as much time together as they’d had before, so azzi doesn’t think paige has had time to add to her body count.

(god help both of them if she had, because azzi’s crashout would probably cause world war three)

that left only the ones she’d accumulated over the course of her freshman year, because paige and azzi had been effectively inseparable (and effectively exclusive) since their arrival at summer session workouts in may.

still, this doesn’t halt the twist in her stomach at the idea of paige with anyone else, and she fights the icky feeling in her stomach with a sip of her drink.

but azzi can handle this, definitely, and she’s prepared for paige’s answer when she takes a lazy sip of her drink and drawls out “four.”

what she’s not prepared for is the general disbelief that echoes around the circle, and the insufferable comments from various teammates about how “that can’t be true,” and “it’s gotta be more than that.”

azzi wants to hit someone. preferably all eleven other people in the room.

and then, her irrational anger at the rest of the circle refocusses to just paige because she humors it, leaning back and smirking. “what can i say? i’m picky,” grinning at the comments about how much of a whore she was the pervious year. as if it’s funny.

if azzi believed in things like auras and spiritual colors, hers would probably look like a christmas monstrosity right now– green for jealousy clashing with the crimson of her fury.

she shifts over, removing her leg from where it had been subtly pressed up against paige’s, and tucks her glower into the rim of her cup, plotting several murders as the group around them howls with laughter and continues reminiscing on paige’s escapades like it was a hilarious, wonderful time, and not the root of many sleepless nights for azzi.

she really has enough when evina giggles out something about how “paige needs to get back out there” and christyn agrees, slurring about how they miss “big daddy bueckers.”

azzi coughs. hard.

and then she finishes the rest of her drink in one swig, ignores paige’s searing gaze on the side of her face, and stands up rather aggressively to go fix herself another. if she subtly kicks paige’s foot on the way past, that’s nobody’s business but hers. she’s not doing a particularly terrific job of subtlety right now, but no one is sober enough to notice.

nika joins her in the kitchen, and bursts out laughing as soon as she sees the expression on azzi’s face, contorted into what is probably a rather hideous scowl.

“someone’s jealous,” she taunts, as she watches azzi pour a healthy amount of vodka into her cup.

“i’m not jealous,” azzi hisses. jealousy would imply azzi had a right to care about who paige gets with. which she does not. she adds another glug of tito’s for good measure.

nika eyes the amount of liquid in her cup and raises an eyebrow. “no?”

azzi glares. “nothing to be jealous over. paige can do whatever she wants.”

nika has the audacity to laugh at her. “ooookayy,” she drags out, hands raised beside her head like azzi is a feral animal. she sort of feels like it. “as someone who witnessed paige last year, it wasn’t nearly as crazy as they make it seem.”

azzi wishes this made her feel better, but in all honesty it’s information she already knows, which reminds her of how irrational she’s being, which in turn makes her more upset, at like, the world.

she huffs. “that’s none of my business.”

“uh huh. that’s why you were eye fucking eachother in the living room and are now pouring yourself a triple.”

nika muhl and her psychology degree can kick rocks.

“we told you, we’re not doing that anymore,” azzi muttered, doing a terrifically bad job at keeping the contempt out of her voice.

nika eyes her with exasperation. “and who’s fault is that.”

azzi’s frown somehow deepens at the accusation. “it’s no one’s fault. it’s just the right thing to do.”

nika blinks, disbelieving. “if you say so. when paige walks out of your room tomorrow morning with her hood up i’m going to say i told you so.”

“not happening.”

nika just raises her eyebrows. azzi decides she’d through with this conversation.

drink made, she stalks back to the living room, nika following close behind with thinly veiled amusement. she’s officially been added to azzi’s shit list of the night, directly behind one paige bueckers.

she plops back down next to the blonde, careful to keep the space between their bodies reasonable, and takes a sip of her drink, wincing at how strong she’d made it.

paige looks inquisitively at her, and azzi tries to ignore it, but then her head tilts back against the base of the couch as she sideyes azzi, brows furrowed in an unspoken attempt at asking if she’s good, which exposes the long, pale, extremely biteable column of her throat, and azzi jerks her head away before she does something stupid like lick it in front of their entire team, and ignores her.

she’s still mad at paige. not for having four bodies– that would be ridiculous. just for other, secret reasons. definitely.

she listens intently as nika immediately gets interrogated about the football guy she’s down bad for instead– serves her right for accusing azzi of being jealous– and decides that if the next question she gets asked is about her sex life, she’s going to take the shot. paige doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of hearing an answer that’s probably about her.

but then, when her turn rolls around and olivia’s nosy fucking question of “azzi who’s the best you’ve ever had and why” causes paige to smirk next to her, azzi decides that simply taking the shot would feed paige’s ego far too much.

so, she lets a smirk of her own cross her face and slurs out a massive fucking lie: “this guy i got with last year- charlie- very talented with his tongue,” and lets the room erupt into madness.

the look on paige’s face is delightful.

paige is by far the best azzi’s ever had– by, like, a factor of ten– and charlie had only been a brief fling senior year to (unsuccessfully) distract azzi from paige. he’d been mediocre at best. by the look on the blonde’s, face she knows that too, so the offense and shock laced into the outrage of her expression is beautiful. her eyes bore into azzi’s, drunk and disbelieving and pissed, and azzi swallows at the intensity of her gaze.

serves her right.

she’s forced to tear her eyes away when christyn calls out “i’m sorry, you got with a girl last month and you expect me to believe that the best you ever got was from a guy?”

azzi flushes, but she holds her gaz, shrugging, and then decides to pour metaphorical gasoline on the fire that is currently raging next to her. “wasn’t really impressed with her skills.”

paige honest to god chokes beside her, and the room erupts into hoots and hollers.

azzi lets the drunk commotion roll off her back, and makes the mistake of turning back to paige, feeling heat pool in her belly at the intensity she finds.

“i don’t believe you,” rasps the blonde into the admittedly small space between them, low enough that no one else can hear her over the chaos that’s taken over the room.

azzi smiles sweetly. “too bad.”

paige scoffs, and opens her mouth to respond with something presumably filthy, but then it’s aubrey’s turn to throw popcorn at them, telling paige to “lock in” for her turn.

paige’s anticipatory smile at aubrey is more of a pained grimace, and azzi lets satisfaction settle in her bones for now, knowing she’s gotten under her skin.

she knows better than to think this conversation is over. she’s rather excited about that fact. stupid stupid stupid alcohol.

the older girls convene in front of them for a second whispering ideas, and then they all seemingly agree on one with a chorus of excited yeses and christyn spins back to the rest of the group and grins.

azzi braces herself with a shaky inhale.

“tell the class about your favorite sex position, paigey,” christyn singsongs, and azzi's mind goes blank for a second.

she tries to stop herself from thinking about it, about what position paige might be thinking about, but fails miserably, and then a series of images are flashing through her brain:

perhaps how much paige loves to be between azzi’s thighs, used to beg the brunette to let paige go down on her, or even more so maybe how much she loves azzi between her legs, tongue tracing lines against her clit and fingers dancing inside, or maybe even that one time paige made azzi work herself back onto paige’s fingers, bent over the bed, and paige had come untouched just from watching her, or when they’d put the small bullet vibrator azzi had secretly bought between them, grinding on it and each other until they’d both fallen apart more than once, or when– jesus.

she needs to chill the fuck out.

azzi is not built for the sexually frustrated lifestyle.

she takes a large, large chug of her drink, and tries to focus on the burn of vodka down her throat, and not her absolutely filthy thoughts, nor the flush that’s coursing through her veins and making her skin hot.

beside her, paige smirks– a daring, cocky thing that pulls at the inside of azzi’s stomach– and doesn’t even think about answering, instead pouring herself a hefty shot from the handle in front of them and ripping it back, clearly enjoying the group’s groans at her refusal to answer.

azzi tries extremely hard to ignore the peek of her tongue as she licks the residual vodka off the rim of the shot glass, but her whole body feels hot anyways. she blames it on the mixture in her cup.

“bruh, you just wanted to take a shot,” accuses evina, off to the left, as everyone watches paige wince and grab for a chaser.

when she collects herself, she rasps out “yeah, or maybe i just think some things should stay private.”

she says it to the broader room, refusing to look at azzi, but she knows the words are meant just for her anyways, and as anger rolls off of the set of paige's shoulders and curls in the now much wider space between their bodies, azzi juts her chin out in defiance.

whatever– let paige be mad. that is not azzi’s problem.

she sees amari eyeing them warily, and caroline and nika have switched seats, no doubt so they can giggle to themselves about the tension they apparently think is hilarious, and azzi decides she needs a break.

when the group conversation derails a bit, partly due to the collective level of hammered and partly due to the boredom of the game they’ve been playing for an hour now, azzi decides a pee break is in order, both because she actually has to pee, and because the heated glares paige is sending her from beside her are fucking with her head.

she stands up off the floor– very wobbly mind you, the head rush at her upright position reminding her of the abundance of liquor in her cup– and stumbles down the hallway to the bathroom, trying to ignore how positively sloshed she feels.

the silence of the bathroom is a welcome reprieve from the chaos on the other side of the door, and azzi takes a deep breath as soon as she closes it, leaning back against it and cursing herself for letting paige get under her skin.

she knows she’s being unreasonable– that getting mad about the fact that paige has hooked up with people other than her is entirely ridiculous, one because it's information she already knows, and more importantly, two, because they're allowed to see other people– but she just looked so smug bringing it up. and the team thought it was so funny. and azzi wants to hit someone.

lying as payback had been fun– the look on paige’s face absolutely worth it– but now azzi feels like she’s going to crawl out of her own skin at the tension between them and the inability to do something about it.

she paces the small space for a second (noting in that slightly hysteric, satirical way that only come from drunkenness that evina’s bath mat is a hideous shade of orange), reeling with entirely unwarranted jealousy and fury and trying to pretend that the copious amounts of alcohol have not hit her bloodstream.

she stops short when she catches her own eye in the mirror. she’s flushed, the range of feelings that aren’t hers to have painted across her face, and she looks exactly like a movie character in a melodramatic shitty pg-13 romcom who’s realizing she’s too drunk and too sad in a party bathroom.

stupid stupid stupid stupid.

she spins away from her reflection, remembering that she does actually have to pee pretty bad, and plops down on the toilet, content to wallow in sexual frustration and misery for the remainder of the night.

but then, while she’s washing her hands– rather aggressively scrubbing as if she can wipe away the itch in then that yearns to be on paige’s skin– azzi’s peace and quiet is shattered by the arrival of the one person she’s currently trying to convince herself she doesn’t care the whereabouts of.

because of course paige had followed her.

she doesn’t even knock– the audacity– just barges right in like azzi’s not having a private moment to herself (a mental break).

“paige!” she huffs out indignantly, moving out of the way of the door and doing her very best to glare menacingly. “get out- i could’ve been peeing or something.”

paige looks entirely unbothered by that prospect. she closes the door behind her gently without turning around, arms crossed and jaw tipped down.

she looks infuriatingly good. azzi wants to hit her. like. with her mouth.

“nothin’ i ain’t seen before.” she pairs this aggravatingly calm sentence with a step into azzi’s personal space, and it's outrageous how affected azzi is by simply being in close proximity to her in private.

and how pretty she is. god damn it.

even with the edges of her vision blurring from the liquor, and the fact that her feet feel rather unsteady on the hideous bathmat below her, azzi can tell that paige is mad.

that type of focussed, heated anger that very rarely laces their interactions, not just simple annoyance. it unnerves her as much as it excites her, which is surely another sign that she’s going insane.

she chooses not to respond to the insinuation that paige has seen her in every state of undress, for her own sake, and tries not to think about her and paige in states of undress at all. which is actually a supremely difficult task, particularly when, again, they’re in such close proximity.

she’s starting to deeply regret that last chug of her drink.

the silence hangs around them, tense, and she suddenly realizes that somehow paige has backed her up into the sink. which is odd. considering last time azzi checked they weren’t merely inches apart. so that’s. concerning. or exhilarating. who’s to say? not azzi.

paige’s smirk is a little mean on her face, eyes wild, and she tilts her head, using the measly one inch she has on azzi to try and make her feel small. azzi refuses to let her.

“charlie?” she says, voice unimpressed. her hands coming up to rest on either sides of azzi on the sink, caging her in. “really?”

they’re not touching– not yet– but azzi feels the ghost of her hands anyways.

“what about ‘m,” she breathes. their faces are really close. and paige’s eyes are really blue.

“you expect me to believe the best head you’ve ever received was from a guy named charlie?” the and not me is unspoken, but azzi hears it loud and clear.

she scoffs, spurred on by the fire in paige’s eyes. she delights in this game. “why wouldn’t it be?”

paige’s eyes narrow. “i don’t know, maybe because last time i ate you out you came so hard you cried.”

azzi’s blood gets impossibly hotter at the reminder, but she stays strong, lifting her chin even higher. “was faking it,” she breathes. “like i said earlier, i wasn’t impressed.”

“really,” is all paige drags out, low and dangerous, and azzi feels the tension crackle between them like a physical brand on her skin. they’re not even fucking touching yet, and she can already feel the lining of her underwear growing impossibly wet at paige’s anger.

she refuses to contemplate the implications of that.

she hums in agreement and doesn’t say anything else, and paige just looks at her, lets the weighted silence settle around them.

and. okay. azzi’s not proud of this necessarily, but paige is looking like that in front of her and her mouth is turned downwards because she’s jealous and trying to hide it, and her sweats are slung low enough on her hips for azzi to see the waistband of her boxers, and.

and then they’re kissing because azzi apparently has absolutely zero self control.

her hands come up to grip paige’s shoulders, immediately opening for it, and though azzi was the one to close to gap between them, the one to tug paige down into a kiss, it’s paige that sets the pace, immediately rough and unforgiving, pining azzi hips against the counter with her own and nipping at her lips.

and god is it good, and god has she missed this in the last few weeks.

she’s vaguely aware of their new rules, that there are reasons they’re not supposed to be doing this whole kissing thing anymore, reasons she came up with, but she can’t for the life of her remember why she’s supposed to give a singular fuck about that right now when paige’s hands splay out across the skin of her sides underneath her shirt, and her hips are pressing into azzi’s, and her mouth is doing that delicious thing where she licks into azzi’s mouth and slide’s their tongues together, and.

and azzi decides that this can be an exception.

she groans into the kiss, tangling her fingers in paige’s hair, and lets her press closer, relishing in the feel of paige all over her for the first time in too long.

the kiss is mean, claiming, and azzi knows without a doubt that paige is trying to remind her why she will always be the best azzi’s ever had.

it makes liquid heat pool endlessly in her stomach, and she lets out a strangled cry when paige shifts to press her thigh between azzi’s legs, letting the taller girl swallow her sounds and somehow press impossibly closer.

fuck.

it’s always so, so good with paige. it almost makes azzi angrier, and she lets her hands tug at paige’s hair a little rougher, bites into the kiss a little meaner.

paige must be aware that they’ve only got a few minutes before people get suspicious, because she’s sliding a hand under the waistband of azzi’s shorts and boxers after only a minute or two of making out.

which makes the fact that azzi’s completely soaked all the more embarrassing.

she breaks the kiss to gloat, rasping out “you get this wet for charlie?” against azzi’s lips, and.

azzi’s completely forgotten about why he’s relevant. and then she’s yet again reminded of why paige is insufferable, because why did she have to bring that up. azzi figured the whole kissing furiously against a bathroom sink thing sort of implied charlie didn’t hold a candle.

however. azzi would never be the one to back down from what was clearly some version of a competition, and despite the fact that, no, she’d gotten nowhere near close with him, azzi locks eyes and breathes “yeah, you’re not special.”

her voice gets choked up halfway through because paige decides to slide two fingers down and circle the entrance of her cunt, because she’s a smug bitch, and. jesus christ. azzi is criminally wet.

paige knows that they’re both aware of this.

“is that right,” she taunts, the hand that’s not currently working lazy circles on azzi’s clit coming up to grip the base of the younger girls neck.

self-assured prick.

azzi only has the brain capacity to gasp out “uh huh” in response, and paige smiles at that, wicked and. pretty, actually, even though she’s an asshole.

“want me to prove you wrong?” she pairs the question with the breach of a finger at azzi’s entrance, and.

god help azzi.

she whines out a “please,” before catching herself– this is a game, afterall– and adds “can’t hurt.”

somewhere in the back of azzi’s vodka-and-paige addled mind, it occurs to her that paige is being suspiciously forgiving, but she lets that thought go in favor of the approving kiss paige gives her, their mouths moving together in that delicious, all consuming way that quiets every part of her brain.

she has half a mind to protest when paige pulls away, slipping her hand out of azzi’s shorts and tearing their mouths apart, but before she can, paige is sliding down her body to be eye level with the tops of azzi’s thighs, knees cushioned on that horrible bathmat.

god.

azzi lets out a strangled whine when paige’s hands come up to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. the vision of paige below her is too much, and she has to close her eyes for a second.

“you wan’ it?” she asks, looking up at azzi like a fucking siren, eyes wide and pleading like she wants it just as bad.

and. azzi should say no, considering their entire team is on the other side of what is surely a very flimsy door, and getting eaten out on a bathroom sink that isn’t hers is probably a little distasteful.

unfortunately for said teammates, azzi is despicably wet and paige is between her legs looking like she’ll die if azzi doesn’t say yes, and, most of all, azzi is too drunk to give a single shit if someone hears them.

she chokes out a “yeah, need it” and is too focussed on paige’s answering grin to care about how desperate she sounds.

instead of tugging down her basketball shorts, paige rucks up the material around one of her thighs, and latches onto the inner most sensitive part, sucking hard. she’s merely inches away from where azzi desperately needs her, and the feeling lights azzi on fire, head thumping back against the mirror behind her as pleasure takes over.

paige works on the mark, intent on claiming, biting the sensitive flesh and then laving her tongue over it to soothe, and azzi feels drunk on not only the vodka but the pleasure too, whining quietly when paige presses a kiss to the darkened skin and pulling back with a smile.

and fucking then.

paige breathes “too bad,” matter of fact and smug, into the mark.

azzi’s confused as fuck at her words, has forgotten what they were saying, and then. and then paige just. stands up.

“should call charlie to deal with that, hmm?” she pouts, fake pity lacing her words, and then she fucking pats azzi’s thigh in mock consolidation and walks out of the bathroom.

azzi’s disoriented wail of “wait,” is too late, paige already out the door like she hadn’t been on her knees seconds prior, and azzi is suddenly alone with her muddled thoughts once more, breathing uneven, skin flushed, and rage bubbling up inside of her.

along with, like. intense sexual frustration.

what the actual fuck.

azzi should’ve known paige would be too petty to let that go, and she’s both furious at the blonde for setting a fucking trap, and herself for falling into it. but what an fucking self-inflated egotistical asshole.

god.

azzi wants to march right out of the bathroom, knee paige in the stomach, pour the remainder of her drink on top of her stupidly perfect head, and then maybe possibly lick off said drink from the dip in her collarbone. and the line between her breasts. and perhaps her bellybutton.

being mad at and being attracted to paige were two sides of the same coin on a good day, but on a drunk one? azzi wanted to solve their issues with bitemarks and bruises. which was entirely stupid and counterproductive and irrational, three qualities that seemed to follow azzi around almost as much as paige did.

she inhales, several times, trying to clear the fog from her brain and calm the racing of her heart, and tries to push away the lingering disappointment that she won’t be coming apart at the hands of paige tonight, or anytime in the future really, seeing as– due to most of their roommates not knowing and the fact that azzi was far too prideful– she couldn’t exactly drag paige back to her room and have her way with her.

this, coupled with the fact that it wasn't like she could just stroll in to paige’s room in two days time when they both inevitably got sick of the fight and wanted make-up sex because of the stupid fucking rules, meant that not only was azzi angry at paige for her little stunt, but she was also a little annoyed at her apparent disregard for their limited opportunities to have sex.

paige was wasting extremely precious time in which they were alone and drunk, guards lowered, and neither of them had had a singular orgasm.

what a fucking stupid bitch.

azzi checks her phone, happy to see that it was already past 11:30, meaning an acceptable time for her to feign exhaustion, and, with renewed anger, pushes herself off the edge of the sink and stalks out of the bathroom, intent on socializing for maximum ten more minutes before retreating to the solitude of her bedroom and getting herself off.

to the thought of paige.

which was something she’d unfortunately become quite familiar with ever since she’d had her awful, horrible, no good very bad idea to stop letting paige get azzi off instead, the much preferred but decidedly unavailable option.

whatever. at least paige would probably also die of sexual frustration, and then they could rot in hell together.

(part 2 link!)

a/n: sorry to edge you (paige and i will make it up to you <3) as always pleaseeee tell me if you liked it and i will die of happiness and probably kiss you <3 i hope to have the second part put early next week!

#paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi smut #pazzi #i always feel like im forgetting tags but alas

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gf2bellamy · 13 days ago

Note

something that would be so cute is r who wears glasses kissing spencer (while hes also wearing his glasses) and their glasses kind of clack against eachother by accident and both spencer and r are giggling a little when that happens so they have to stop kissing for a second

😭😭

-🪲

clink — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: fluff a/n: haiii !!! love this idea <3 hope you like this <3

You let out a dramatic sigh as you dropped your full weight onto Spencer, sprawling across his body on the couch. He let out a surprised “oof,” his breath hitching as you landed on top of him, but his arm instinctively wrapped around you anyway.

“Hi,” you mumbled into the crook of his neck, lips brushing against his skin. “Missed you.”

Spencer’s chest rumbled with a soft laugh as he hugged you tighter, fingers resting gently against your spine. “You went to get the mail,” he said into your hair, amusement clear in his voice.

“So?” you huffed, lifting your head just enough to rest your chin on his chest. He blinked down at you, already slightly distracted by how pretty you looked with your glasses slipping down your nose.

“So,” he echoed, “it was two minutes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Does that mean you didn’t miss me?”

Spencer gave a laugh, lips quirking into a fond smile. “Of course I missed you,” he said, brushing a gentle hand up and down your back, fingers dragging softly through the fabric of your shirt.

You beamed, content, your eyes glancing down at the book in his hand, which now dangled precariously over the edge of the couch. “You enjoying your book?” you asked, shifting just enough to sit up, now straddling his lap.

He moved with you easily, settling back into the cushions with one hand resting on your hip, the other lifting the book slightly to keep it from falling. “I think so,” he murmured. “I’m only on chapter three, but it’s promising. It’s about—”

You watched him speak as he adjusted his glasses with one hand and gently set the book aside with the other. You barely noticed time pass as you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck, toying with it gently while he spoke. His thumbs traced soft, absent-minded circles over your hips as he continued talking, occasionally glancing up to see if you were still listening. You were. You asked little questions now and then just to keep him talking, because you loved the sound of his voice when he was excited.

“Hm. I like your interpretation, though,” you murmured thoughtfully as Spencer explained a particular scene from his book. His eyes lit up a little at your words.

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. You nodded, your glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. He reached up and gently pushed them back into place with two fingers.

“It completely makes sense,” you said, glancing over at the book now resting on the side of the couch next to you, its pages slightly creased from how he’d set it down. “I didn’t even think about it that way until you pointed it out.” Spencer gave you a small smile, his fingers still resting lightly against the curve of your jaw.

“What?” you asked, poking his cheek playfully with one finger, suspicious of the way he was looking at you.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, but the way his voice dipped slightly and the corners of his mouth twitched upward said otherwise.

He leaned in slowly, and your heart fluttered. Without hesitation, you leaned in too, meeting him halfway with a soft smile. But before your lips could touch, your glasses bumped together with a loud clink. You both froze. Wide-eyed and nose-to-nose, you stared at each other in stunned silence for a second. And then you both broke into laughter.

“Okay,” you said, still giggling. “Take off your glasses.”

Spencer gave you an exaggerated pout. “You take off yours.”

You blinked. “Why me?”

“Because,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “if I take off mine, I won’t be able to see you properly.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Spencer, you always close your eyes when we kiss. What does it matter?”

He opened his mouth to argue, then paused, visibly considering your point. “Still,” he said stubbornly, “you take off yours. What if I feel like opening my eyes this time?”

You groaned dramatically and laughed. “Oh my god, Spencer,” you muttered, shaking your head as you reached up and plucked the glasses off his face, then yours. You set them both carefully on the arm of the couch.Spencer gave you another half-hearted pout, but you silenced it by finally leaning in and pressing your lips to his.His hands moved instinctively to your face again, fingers curling around your jaw as he leaned into the kiss. He sighed happily into your mouth.

When you pulled back just slightly, his eyes fluttered open, still dazed. “Okay,” he whispered. “You’re right. I do always close my eyes.”

You giggled, brushing your nose against his. “Told you.”

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x you #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fic #🪲 anon

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, stress + anxiety, 2021 abu dhabi gp

Notes — Don't freak out too much. Or do. I don't mind!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

Abu Dhabi, 2021

The morning light over Yas Island was pale and peachy, slipping through the slats of the hotel balcony and falling in stripes across the rumpled bed and open sliding doors. The paddock below was just beginning to stir, the beep of forklifts, the low murmur of paddock crew setting up for the final race of the season.

Lando was sitting sideways on the balcony chair, legs folded beneath him, hair wild from sleep and one of Amelia’s sleep masks still tangled around his wrist. He had a half-drunk iced coffee balanced precariously on the railing, and he was tapping through a stream of TikToks on mute, occasionally muttering things like “how do people bend like that” and “okay I’m definitely trying that later.”

Amelia was curled beside him on the lounger, wearing his LN4 hoodie (too long in the sleeves, as always), scrolling through tire degradation data on her iPad, her stim ring rotating in fast loops over her thumb. She was quiet. Focused. Chewing gently on the inside of her cheek.

Then, completely out of nowhere, she said flatly, “I think we should get married.”

Lando paused. Finger hovering over the next video. “Wait. Huh?”

“I think we should get married,” she repeated, still not looking up.

He blinked once. Then twice. “Like… married married?”

“Yes.” She hummed.

His brain short-circuited. “Wait, right now?” he asked, full of alarm and awe. “Like you wanna elope? I mean, we could. Vegas is only, like, eight hours away—no, wait, you need a license. Shit, do I need a suit? Wait, do I need to propose first?!”

Amelia finally looked up at him, blinking slowly. “No. Not right now. I’m saying, I want that. With you. At some point. Soon.”

“Oh,” he said, visibly short-circuiting again, but this time in a much softer way. “Oh. Holy shit.” He scrambled to sit up straighter, hands moving frantically as if he needed to physically shake the surprise out of his body. “Like you want to marry me marry me?”

“Yes,” she said again, frowning at him now. “I’ve thought about it. You’re the person I feel safest with. I want to live with you forever. I want to do life with you. So yes. I think we should get married.” She made a face. “Also, I’d become your next of kin, which would be very useful. I hated having to wait outside for you to be conscious enough to give me permission to come into the medical room. Ridiculous.” She muttered.

Lando was staring at her like she’d just told him he’d won the lottery and a lifetime supply of Haribo. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Are we too young? Shouldn’t we be, like, old and boring first?”

“You’re already halfway there,” Amelia said dryly.

He barked out a laugh, then grabbed a throw pillow and bonked her gently on the head. “Oi! Rude.”

She caught it and didn’t even flinch. “I’m serious, Lando.”

His voice went gentler. “Yeah. Yeah, I know you are.”

He looked at her then — really looked. At the sleepy softness of her eyes, the curls pinned messily back, the stim ring she hadn’t let go of all week. He reached over, tugging lightly on the sleeve of his hoodie she was wearing.

“Honestly?” he said. “I’d marry you tomorrow if you asked.”

Amelia tilted her head. “So you don’t think we’re too young? My dad does. Told me so.”

“Baby,” Lando said, reaching up to brush a curl behind her ear, “I’m gonna be with you forever. Whether we’ve got a wedding band or a piece of paper or just… this. Us. You’re it for me.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched into a slow, private smile. The kind she didn’t give to many people. “Do you have a ring for me?” She knew he didn’t. He was shit at keeping secrets, would’ve told her about it already, but she couldn’t resist teasing him.

His eyes went wide. “Holy shit. I need to buy you a ring. Like right now. Do you like diamonds? Wait, no. You hate diamonds. That was—nope, that was sapphires I think—”

“I made a list,” she interrupted. “Five rings I like. They’re all titanium.”

“Of course you did.” He looked delighted. “You’re so organised. I love you so much it’s actually unreal.”

She looked at him plainly, with that strange and brilliant way she always had of cutting straight to the truth without frills. “I love you too,” she said. “I want you to know that. Before the race. In case… in case Max doesn’t come out on top. In case it all goes terribly wrong.”

Lando’s expression softened, but it was still there, in the background, that vibrating excitement, that adrenaline. (“I think we should get married,” she’d said, as if he wasn’t going to fixate on those words for the rest of his life.) He reached for her hand, squeezing gently. “Nothing’s going to go badly,” he said. “And even if it does, I’ll be there, alright?”

She leaned into his shoulder, pressed her eyes into it. Let them burn with the force of it until tiny white stars appeared in her vision.

Below them, the circuit roared to life.

—

The Red Bull garage was a hive of motion. Mechanics buzzed around the car like bees, laptops open, tire blankets coiled, engineers murmuring numbers in clipped, focused voices. The final race. The final showdown. Equal on points. Everything — everything — had come down to this.

Amelia stood just outside the strategy room, headset in hand, her other thumb flicking over her stim ring in rapid, tight rotations. The noise of the paddock was a low hum behind her, like white noise under pressure.

Max was already suited up, pacing lightly just a few feet away. Despite the stakes, world championship on the line, one shot at history, he was steady. Calm, like always. But she could see the tension in the tightness of his shoulders, the barely-there furrow of his brow.

He looked over and caught her eye. “You good?” He asked, voice low, private.

She nodded, even though she wasn’t entirely sure she was.

Max took a step closer, pressing a hand gently to the small of her back. “Don’t get lost in your head. I need you today, Amelia.”

“I’m not in my head,” she lied, eyes flicking back to the screens. “I’m watching sector data.”

“Amelia.” His voice was firmer this time, and she finally turned toward him. Max softened again. “You’ve done everything right. I have everything I need.”

She blinked, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t feel like I’ve done enough…”

He cut her off. “You have. We did this together. You’ve changed the way I drive, do you understand how ridiculous that is? You’ve made me better, more precise. More… human, actually.”

“You were always human,” she muttered.

He laughed quietly, the tension breaking just a little. “I’m serious,” he added. “If I win this championship, it won’t be just for me. It’ll be for you too.”

She looked up at him, eyes dark and sharp and wide open. “You’re going to win it.” She told him.

Max didn’t reply right away, just looked at her like he wanted to remember her exactly like this: calm but blazing, logic and loyalty knotted so tightly together they were indistinguishable.

He reached up and tugged gently on her ear defenders. “Put these on. Let’s go make history.”

Amelia nodded, slipping them over her ears. The world narrowed to radio comms and telemetry readouts, and she let herself draw in one breath. Sharp, clean, grounded.

She would not let him fall.

—

Amelia threaded her way through the crowded pit-lane, ignoring the cameras and noise. Her MV33 polo was crisp, headset slung around her neck. But her attention wasn’t on the live telemetry or tire temp conversations. It was locked on the McLaren garage.

Lando stood just outside his car, leaning back against the halo, his helmet resting beside him. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, fingers fidgeting at the strap of his glove.

He saw her before she even said anything, and his face lit up. That same irrepressible smile, the one he never gave anyone else quite like that. “You came,” he said, voice soft, almost surprised.

She stopped in front of him, hands in the pockets of her team jacket. “Always. Good luck.”

His smile deepened. “You too. Big day for you.”

Her fingers curled slightly in her pockets. “It’s... a lot. The strategy’s solid, the setup’s right, but I keep checking things anyway.”

“You always do.” He agreed.

She gave a small nod, then looked up at him more directly. “You’ve been smooth through sector two all weekend. Stay clean into Turn 1 and you’ll be fine.”

Lando raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you’re giving me race notes now?”

“Just observations.” She hesitated, then added, “I want you to finish. In one piece.”

He reached out and took her hand, pulling it gently from her pocket. His grip was warm, grounding. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “No hero moves.”

She held his hand tighter than she meant to. “It’s just… everything’s riding on today. For Max. For Red Bull. For me.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But you’ve already done more than enough, baby. Everyone can see that. ”

She nodded, her expression unreadable; that usual mixture of intensity and quiet overwhelm. “I wish I could stay here,” she said finally. “Just… with you.”

Lando smiled, all softness and mischief. “Then marry me.”

She blinked. “I already told you I want to.”

He grinned. “I’m just making sure you didn’t change your mind.”

“I didn’t.” She told him flatly.

He bent forward slightly, brushing his forehead against hers, just for a second. “Okay. Good. Now go win your driver a championship, genius girl.”

She stepped back, reluctantly letting go of his hand. “Go fast. Be safe. I love you.”

He gave a little mock salute, but there was nothing teasing in the look he gave her.

She didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked back across the grid, her posture straight, her steps steady, even if her heart was pulling in two directions at once.

—

The world narrowed to three monitors, the roar of engines, and the rasp of radio comms in her ear.

Amelia sat at the Red Bull pit wall, headset on, back straight, gaze fixed ahead. The sun had dipped just below the horizon now, casting the track in a surreal twilight glow. The lights above the grid blinked on, one by one.

“Thirty seconds,” GP said into her headset. Amelia’s fingers hovered over her keyboard.

“Telemetry’s live. Temperatures look good. Max is calm. Holding revs,” she reported, voice clipped, focused.

Next to her, Christian leaned forward, arms crossed. Jos stood behind them, silent but tense, eyes locked on the feed. Everyone was still. The calm before the storm.

On her peripheral screen, she caught a flash of orange — Lando’s McLaren lining up in P6. Just behind Perez. Right there in the thick of it. Her chest tensed.

Please stay clean, both of you.

The five red lights came on.

Focus.

The lights blinked out.

The engines screamed to life.

Amelia’s screen exploded in movement. Max launched well. Into Turn 1, clean. Hamilton was ahead, but only just. She barely registered anything else until GP’s voice cut through the feed.

“Verstappen P2 into Turn 1. Lando holding P6. All clean.”

She exhaled.

Amelia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, eyes darting between the tire degradation model and the live GPS feed. The opening laps were everything. Settle. Get comfortable. Don’t overextend. Everything had to be perfect.

Her gaze flicked again to Lando on the live feed — to the tiny bubble of data they had on him. Still green across the board. Clean throttle trace. No lockups. He was driving smart.

“Max’s rears are starting to warm up. Give him space on corner exit,” she said into the mic, steady as steel.

Behind her, someone handed Christian an updated gap sheet. Jos hadn’t moved.

“Max looks smooth,” Christian muttered. “He’s in this.”

He has to be, Amelia thought. Her jaw tensed.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could still feel Lando’s hand in hers. That soft look in his eyes. That little grin. You’ve already done more than enough.

But she couldn’t afford to think about it now.

—

Amelia stood stiffly beside GP and Christian. Her heart thudded in her chest, fast and out of sync with the soft hum of the garage.

Max in P2. Lewis in P1. Hardly any time. A complete and total lack of options.

Then… chaos.

“Latifi’s in the wall,” someone said, voice sharp in her ears.

She flinched. Her pulse spiked. Everything blurred. The Safety Car was deployed.

The paddock erupted into movement; engineers scrambling, radios buzzing, tire blankets being yanked off. Amelia didn’t move. She couldn’t. She stood frozen as her entire world narrowed to the math ticking through her head: the delta times, the tire degradation, the sector gaps. All of it churning like a storm, none of it solving anything.

“Box Max, box now!” GP called.

Max dived in. Lewis stayed out.

She closed her eyes. Please let there be time. Please clear the track.

Someone bumped her arm, but she barely registered it. Her stim toy was clenched tight in her hand, fingers white-knuckled, her breathing shallow. Her lips moved soundlessly as she recited the FIA regulations under her breath, not to anyone, not out loud, just for herself. A frantic, silent ritual. Something to cling to.

Article 48.12… Article 48.13…

Then: “Only five lapped cars may overtake.”

Her vision narrowed. That’s not right. That’s not how it works.

But the words didn’t come. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t argue. Couldn’t breathe. Her throat had locked up, emotion swelling until she thought she might drown in it. Her ears rang. The cameras clicked. The radio screamed. The Safety Car came in.

One lap.

She didn’t even hear the lights go green, only felt the rumble in her bones as the cars launched back to their limit.

Max lunged at Turn 5.

Gasps echoed up and down the pit lane. Christian was shouting something beside her. Hands were on heads. People screaming. Mechanics leaping. Her knees trembled, but she didn’t move.

Time slowed. She couldn't see the monitors anymore through the blur in her eyes. The noise, the roar of engines, the yells, the chaos, melted into a dull throb.

And then, “MAX VERSTAPPEN, YOU ARE WORLD CHAMPION!”

The world cracked open.

The pit wall exploded in celebration, a wall of noise crashing over her. Mechanics surged forward. Christian jumped into GP’s arms. Jos was shouting, eyes wild. Someone was crying — maybe her. She couldn’t tell. Her legs gave a little, but she didn’t fall.

Instead, Amelia just stood there. Silent. Shaking.

Max had done it.

He had won.

Her vision cleared, just for a second. She looked at the screen. At the car. At his name at the top of the standings.

He had done it.

And the weight snapped loose.

She sobbed, one hard, breathless sound, and finally let herself collapse into the arms reaching for her.

—

Chaos.

Cameras flashed, mechanics hollared, fireworks boomed over Yas Marina — but all Amelia could feel was the ache in her chest as she stood just outside the Red Bull garage, eyes still glassy from the flood of it all. Her arms hung limply at her sides, adrenaline coursing, brain half-short-circuited.

Then—“Baby!”

She barely had time to turn before Lando crashed into her, sweeping her off her feet in a blur of orange and sweat-streaked Nomex. She yelped, half-laughed, and clung to him as he spun her around, both of them breathless and laughing now.

“You did it!” he cried against her cheek, peppering her face with wild, fluttering kisses — temple, nose, jaw, forehead. “You did it, baby, holy shit—you did it. I’m so proud of you, I’m so—Amelia, look at me—you were brilliant.”

“I didn’t drive the car—” she started, dazed.

He cut her off with another kiss, hard and grateful and full of awe. “Doesn’t matter.”

Her arms wrapped tight around his neck, grounding herself in the strength of his hold. He was so warm, his hair damp, eyes alight like he’d never seen anything so beautiful as her in this moment. He smelt so bad, of burnt metal and sweat, but she couldn’t let him go.

“I was so scared,” she whispered into his collar. “I thought I was going to throw up.”

“You didn’t.” His voice cracked with emotion. “You held it together. You always do.”

A familiar voice behind them, hoarse with disbelief and joy and adrenaline. “Amelia!”

They both turned as Max stormed toward them, helmet off, his face still red from the heat and the scream he’d let out over the line. His grin was wild and gleaming, his eyes glassy, and before she could say a word, he stole her from Lando’s arms.

“You—!” Max shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders and practically shaking her. “You fucking genius! You did it, we did it!”

“Max—!” she laughed, high-pitched and near-hysterical.

“No, no—shut up—Amelia,” he kept going, voice thick. “You gave me that car. You gave me that strategy. You gave me everything. You are—you are my champion.”

Then, without warning, he picked her up, arms locked around her waist, spinning her. She screamed through her laughter, tears pouring down her cheeks again. Overwhelmed in the best way.

Lando was grinning so wide it hurt, chest heaving as he watched them. And for a single moment, everything around them slowed.

The crowd. The chaos. The race. The history.

Amelia, who once thought she was built to exist only in the background, was now wrapped in the arms of a driver who loved her beyond measure, who saw her as a sister. And behind her, the man she loved, watching on, always there to catch her. One, her brother. The other, the man she was going to marry.

And for the first time in her life, she was at the centre of something unforgettable.

Something permanent.

A legacy.

—

The party roared on just outside the glass — music thumping, champagne flowing, Max somewhere on someone’s shoulders, drunk on victory and gin tonics.

Amelia was sitting on the bar, barefoot, her makeup smudged and her voice hoarse from all the laughing and crying. Her MV bomber jacket was draped over her shoulders, and her little black dress had ridden high on her thighs.

Lando stood between her knees, big hands resting on her thighs. He was grinning like he’d just remembered something ridiculous. “Okay, okay, wait—don’t move,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Amelia asked, blinking at him.

“Making something official.” He pulled out a crumpled little object — sticky from heat, slightly squashed. A red Haribo ring. He held it up between his fingers like it was the crown jewels. “Found it on the snack table in hospitality earlier. Fought two engineers for it. Nearly died.”

Amelia blinked again. “…That’s candy.”

“Engagement candy,” he corrected proudly, stepping closer. “Listen. You said you had a list of five rings you like. This isn’t one of them. It’s better. It’s from me. And it’s temporary. But it counts.”

“Lando—”

“No, shush. Let me be romantic.”

She bit her lip, fighting a smile as he carefully slid it onto her finger, a little sticky, a little too big, but it stayed.

“There.” He beamed. “Now everyone at this party knows you’re mine. Until I can get you the real thing.”

She stared down at it, the ridiculous red candy glinting under the flashing lights, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” Lando said, stepping in to kiss her nose. “You’re it for me, Amelia. Ring or not. Win or not. It’s always been you.”

Amelia swallowed, throat tight, fingers curling around his shirt collar.

“…Can I eat it later?” she whispered.

He burst out laughing and pulled her into him so hard that she squeaked. “God, I love you.”

—

2 Months Later, Monaco

The sun hadn’t fully crested over the terracotta rooftops yet. Monaco was quiet in the mornings, or as quiet as it ever got, and Amelia liked it that way. Her walking trainers tapped gently on the pavement as she walked, one AirPods in, golf ball tucked into the sleeve of her jacket.

She liked the rhythm of this. Her early walks, the cool air, the scent of sea salt and espresso from the cafés opening up for the day. Her world had slowed since Abu Dhabi. Not stopped, never that, she wouldn’t let herself stagnate, but... it had softened.

She turned a corner by the marina, already heading back toward the apartment she and Lando shared.

“Amelia?”

She froze.

Roscoe trotted up first, tail wagging as he nosed at her leg like an old friend, and she crouched out of instinct, hand moving gently through his fur. And then Lewis appeared behind him, dressed in black, sunglasses perched high even in the shade.

They stared at each other for a beat too long. “Hi,” she said finally, standing, brushing her hands down her leggings.

“Hey,” Lewis said, and his voice was gentler than she remembered. A little guarded. Roscoe pressed his nose into her palm again, entirely unaware of the stiffness in the air. “I didn’t know you were in town,” Lewis added.

“I live here now.” She told him. “With Lando.”

His brow ticked slightly. “Oh.” Another pause. One that seemed to stretch wider than the marina below them. “I’m surprised,” he admitted.

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “Why?”

He hesitated. “I guess... I didn’t realize you’d—”

“Have a life?” She asked, not unkindly.

He winced. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay.” She looked out over the harbour, then back at him. “You were always kind to me, you know. Back then. Before I started working for Max.”

Lewis looked like he didn’t know what to do with that.

“I don’t hate you,” she said, putting it as bluntly as she possibly could.

He smiled, small and a bit sad. “That’s a relief.” They stood there for a beat, Roscoe now sprawled at their feet like a mediator. “You seem happy,” Lewis said finally. His gaze drifted downward for just a moment. Not intrusive — just a flicker of observation, one he couldn’t quite suppress.

Amelia followed it. Her hand was resting lightly at her side, the sunlight catching on titanium on her ring finger.

Lewis didn’t say anything. But his expression shifted, just slightly.

“I am.” She told him.

“Good.” He took a breath, then nodded, like he was trying to comprehend it. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe,” she said, already turning back toward the road. “Roscoe’s always welcome to say hi.”

Lewis chuckled softly. “He’ll be thrilled.”

Back home, Lando would be waking up soon, hair wild, voice sleepy, probably asking where she’d hidden his favourite cereal to stop him from midnight snacking and finishing it all.

She smiled.

This was her life now.

And she was kind of in love with it.

NEXT CHAPTER

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evilminji · 1 year ago

Text

You Know How There Are Those AU? Where SUPER Injured Ghosts Need To Retreat To Their Core?

No one seems to be USING that to its fullest potential! For SHENANIGANS! Because! Who?? Could POSSIBLY carry a Halfa's Core safely... but another Halfa?! A FULL ghost would KILL them. A human would be killed! What terribly precarious peril we find ourselves in! Oh nooooooo!

Well, no worry!

As much as Dani fuckin HATES this. That there is her brother. Her Template. Her Clone Daddy and Bestest of Bros. Like HECK she's gonna let him suffer for centuries and possibly DIE. She can take it, Doc! Pop him in! We'll go road tripping and-

What do you MEAN "No"?

Unstable??! Of course she's unstable! But the-.... Oh.

Turns OUT? Dani? Can hitch a ride in DANNY for Emergency Medical Aid... but NOT the other way around. Her body is too loosely held together. He would parasiticly consume her from within. Instead of feeding off her Ecto System like injured ghosts are supposed too, because she's a CLONE? AND an unstable one at that? His Core would just... see her body as free ectoplasm. All of it.

He'd eat her.

Which mean Frostbite can not and WILL NOT allow that.

But he's HURT! That big, off screen, cataclysmic Fight To Save Everybody From *cough cough mumbles* and settle us all in the DC universe, REALLY messed him up! What are we supposed to DO!? He can't STAY like this!!!

Enter-> My FAVORITE DCxDP Trash Ship! Vlad&Lex!!! *horrified screaming from the crowds, someone shouts "oh god, no! Please!"* Ha! There are no gods here, silly billys! Only two terrible, terrible HIGHLY Dramatic, self serving, incredibly damaged, gay peacocks. In Business Suits that cost more then your house is worth.

They're AWFUL~♡

And! Vlad was sent ahead to lay the ground work. Insure there would be no GIWs. Also because no one could stand him and his EXTENSIVE criminal record. But that's besides the point.

But!

You know what he found? A Business Nemesis. Who he routinely dates and/or Dramatically Hate Fu-*coughs* I mean, attempts a Corporate Take Over(tm) off. You know how it is. Business. He ALSO gets to make it no secret he's a "Meta", thanks to the INCOMPETENCE of one Jack Fenton, because that- *seething rant*

Yet? Dispite his STILL burning hatred for Jack? And his finally letting go of Maddie? You know what he STILL wants?

For Danny to be his Son.

*Gets a call from Frostbite*

...............soooooo........ what you're SAYING is..... I can be pregnant with Daniel.

You, Frostbite, need ME, Vladimir Masters, THE ONLY OTHER HALFA, to carry Daniel around inside my body, in what to all appearances resembles a pregnancy, in order to heal him. Because I am an Older And Stronger Halfa Upon Which He Relies.

*instantly begins plotting*

Just? Imagine. Vlad is a FUCKIN LIAR. No one but him would even KNOW what was going on! He just? Rocks up one day, like? *falsely demure* "oh I couldn't POSSIBLY has any scotch, Lex! >:) I'm eating for Two~☆" and just? Deals the MAXIMUM amount of psychic damage he can.

Probably says it at their weekly, public, Veiled Threats Brunch.

It makes front page news. Luthor choked on his eggs. The paparazzi lost their SHIT. Vlad is doing the FULL Celebrity Mom Thing. The classes. The photo shoots. The Gucci sunglasses as he peruses high end strollers. All while HEAVILY suggesting that not only is "The Baby" Lex's.... but that he's going to withhold the child and deny Lex any access.

Danny isn't even aware. He's in a lovely lil medical coma. Dani is trying to find a good spot to plop down Amity. She just know Vlad is being... Vlad. Meh. He can handle it. Dan? He's not even IN the human realm and is not sure he wants to be.

But over in the LEAGUE? Everything's on fuckin FIRE.

Kon is losing his SHIT and Clark is thousand yard staring into the void. Kon's half brother is in the hands of a... Less Then Ideal... Meta that Batman is PRETTY sure is highly suspect. Might be a deliberate weapons experiment. Certainly is a hostage. And the DRAMA.

Lex has never been worse.

He might actually stab his...partner? Vlad. At the hospital. The SECOND the child is born. There are already long term kidnapping plans in the making. He's hiring lawyers. Getting VICIOUS. There have been talks with DEATHSTROKE. By BOTH OF THEM.

Clark wants to cry.

@hypewinter @ailithnight @nerdpoe @hdgnj @the-witchhunter @mutable-manifestation @babbling-babull

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #Vlad With A Baby AU #Peacock War AU

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shuastar · 2 months ago

Text

KISS 'ER UP (HVC) pt. 2

pairing: baseball player!vernon x fashion designer/fan!reader wc: 12.8k warnings: SMUT (minors DNI), oral (f receiving), p in v (wrap it b4 u tap it even if vernon doesnt), boob worship?, heavy-ish make-out; unrealistic meet-cute, vernon being cute a/n: guys holy shit this took so long but its FINALLY done. i feel like i always end by long fics with smut but at least it ends well.......... anyways, send me requests now that i'm done w kiss 'er up!!! as always, ty guys sm for reading this <3

previous ; masterlist

In 3 weeks, you go to 6 home games.

Which, in retrospect, is absolutely crazy because that’s averaging two (2!) games per week in the brunt of design finalizing and fashion week scrapbooking and planning with your team.

And now, the one you’re sitting at seems to up your count from six to seven games in 3 weeks. Which means that your assistant will be calling you sometime next week asking if you ever finished finalizing the fashion week scrapbooks and tulle selections (only one of which you’ve actually finished. The other…. Well, let’s just say that it won’t be seeing the light of day for a while). Which also is part of your explanation to why you are busy multitasking between texting Yena, your assistant, on the last flap stitches for your fold-over bag for the F/W collection, gluing pieces of fabric and drawing cut-outs and print outs and colors down onto your scrapbook, and watching the actual baseball game and participating in half-assed and quarter-minded fanchants that seem to have no soul in it.

All in that exact order.

And it’s even harder to balance (especially your phone that teeters precariously off your knee because your actual table is too full of food, beer, and your scrapbooking trash pile) when your phone chimes with a familiar notification.

new message from vernon⚾️🐈

You almost choke on your beer that was travelling half-way down your esophagus, coughing violently and trying not to get drops of Cass onto your scrapbook.

For the first time in almost fifteen minutes, you raise your head, swiveling to try and see where the hell Vernon is texting you from because not only is it the middle of the seventh inning but it’s also the middle of his game.

And he never goes on his phone during games.

vernon⚾️🐈 yo u see that last play?

You roll your eyes at his text. Yo? Really? But also, typical Vernon. Almost three months – texting, calling, showing up to games, post-game chicken runs, and the occasional late-night movie theater run at Coex – made you accustomed to his rather nonchalant way of saying hi. Those including (but definitely not limited to) yo, hey, bro, dude, whats up, lol, and show cat now as in your actual feline pet, not your pussy (which you thought at first was what he was implying and almost blocked him before he clarified with a photo of his own cat that you were too scared to open for the first three minutes, thinking it was an unsolicited dick pic).

You pause before you reply, placing the glue stick down.

you yea obv

It’s a lie. A blatant one at that. But you feel bad telling Vernon hahaha no lol was too busy working on my pfw scrapbooking and model calls to be focused on ur game im at.

So yeah. You lie.

But Vernon texts back in record time.

vernon⚾️🐈 no u werent

You roll your eyes.

you i was watching

vernon⚾️🐈 liar!! too busy lookin down @ ur sketches to watch me hit that ball outta da stadiummmm

you ur literally lying

vernon⚾️🐈 no im not but u wouldnt know bc ur too busy

you i have pfw stuff to sort out sue me

vernon⚾️🐈 ah so u admit that u werent paying attention

You don’t get a chance to reply before the speakers above your head crackle to life, stadium static breaking over the announcer’s booming voice:

“Now up to bat, our very own number twelve, VERNON CHWE!”

All of the vowels in his name are stretched way too long but most of the call of his name is drowned in the thundering cheers and applause of the Diamonds fans crowding up the stadium.

You jolt at the sudden screams, blinking up from your stupid silly grin at your phone.

And just like that, the messages stop.

Your phone is still perched on your thigh and the glue stick is loosely rolling under the pressure of your palm, face-down. Vernon’s already walking to the plate, bat slung over his shoulder like it’s just another Tuesday. You should focus back now. On the deadlined layouts and layering. But you can’t. Not when it’s Vernon batting.

He’s got that practiced swagger – not cocky, just calm – like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he knows he’ll hit that ball well enough for second base. If not second, then definitely first. Under the stadium lights, the noise, the pressure, the blaring commentators, none of it touches him. His helmet shifts slightly when he adjusts his grip. From where you’re sitting tonight, just behind the catcher – the peripheral of all batters – you can see his neck tilt as he grounds his feet. And you think, for one half-second, his eyes flit towards your section.

You swear he sees you.

You swear he knows.

It’s annoying.

It’s gut-wrenchingly annoying how good he looks standing there, chewing his gum like he’s in no rush at all. How he looks straight out of a baseball webtoon with his chestnut brown hair, tapping his bat once, twice, against the plate before he takes his stance.

You pause your unconscious gluing. Your thumb sticks to a piece of lace organza. You don’t notice.

The pitcher winds up.

Vernon never flinches.

And then

CRACK!

The sound is loud. Clean. Like the air itself snapped in half.

You can see Vernon grin.

You don’t even register the crowd erupting until half a second later, after the ball flies – high, hard, fast, promising – slicing through the humid air like it’s trying to give Vernon more time to run.

And him? Vernon?

He doesn’t jog. He sprints.

But you can see it – the calm – in the way he lets his helmet tilt back just a bit as he works his legs, pumps his arms. You can see it in the way he lays down his bat before he’s off. Calm again, like he knew – oh, he knew – that he’d make it. Like he saw the ball arcing across the midfielders’ heads before he even swung the bat.

He rounds first so quick even his teammates cheer.

He glances to the dugout.

And you swear you see him glance at your section.

A calm grin. Wide, so Vernon.

Yeah. Definitely glances towards your section.

Second base.

He slides a little as the caught ball soars through the air from the outfielders towards second base. As his cleats touch down, it kicks up dirt, staining his white uniform.

The ump signals safe.

The crowd roars in approval, losing it. A couple of girls in front of you are screaming his name, hands shaking as they zoom into his victorious face, still on the ground, dusting himself off.

You blink again. It hits you how much you’ve been staring.

You shake your head, as if that will force your brain to refocus.

You glance down at the mess of notebooks, pens, glue sticks, scissors, food, and beer on your table.

The sigh is almost reactive.

So is the blush that creeps onto your cheeks when you look up at Vernon, inching towards 3rd base, ready to steal, and his face is suddenly projected on the jumbotron, lips tilted up, helmet pulled down over his eyes as he looks determined.

____________

Your home studio is a mess.

Your apartment is a mess, actually.

Not, like, a mess-mess, but the kind that only happens when you realize that you’re three days past a deadline, too stubborn to ask for help, and still choosing the color layering for a dress you told Yena you would have finished last week but technically still working out.

Fabric swatches from the one Myeongdong fabric shop are draped across your studio couches, your coffee table in the living room is covered in opened sketchbooks, torn-out magazine pages, a slightly crusting bowl of tteokbokki you swore you would clean up after you scarfed it down last night. You haven’t. And until this color layering problem and the PFW designs start coming together, the most it’ll move and clean is probably just sit idly in the kitchen sink.

There is the familiar bi-bi-bing!! of the giant JBL speaker in the corner of the living room as you cross your house to get to the studio-slash-sewing-slash-design-slash-procrastination room. Your playlist automatically hums to life in the background, WOODZ’s voice humming through the surround sound. It’s familiar – the same song you always put on when you’re trying to feel like a calm, collected, creative designer instead of a sleep-deprived maniac fighting for your life against the Fall/Winter collection because you’re indecisive and fashion, right about now, feels like the worst possible career choice you could have ever made. So many decisions! So little time! Yet so many deadlines!

You’ve lost your jean shorts for thin wide-leg sweatpants the moment you entered. The house is cold, like it always is, because you tend to forget to turn the AC off before you rush off to another meeting. And your off-shoulder crop top has already been decisively exchanged for a baggy shirt that you think is from your college ex-boyfriend but you’re not too sure, which is why you still have it. Your hair is barely holding in a claw clip, but you can’t bring yourself to waste ten precious seconds of your fingers not gluing, sewing, cutting, or slamming down against the table.

It’s methodical, the way you work now, far away from the game and thus, as an extension, from Vernon: cut, glue, sew (if needed), stare at your work for ten seconds, drink your whiskey, realize it’s empty (again), pour yourself another sip because if you pour yourself more than a sip, you’re going to end of drinking yourself to miss another deadline.

The drink burns, just enough to make your brain hum, and you pretend that the slight buzz will help you make your choices.

You lean over the sketchbook laid out on top of your work desk, tapping a pencil against the edge of the page. The problem really has never been about the silhouette – you’ve had that nailed for weeks. It’s the layering. It’s always the layering. The trench you thought would be the centerpiece looks too heavy for the fall piece of the collection and too thin for the winter piece. So you switched it out with the asymmetrical drape coat. Except then, the metallic piping doesn’t translate to print. And you still haven’t decided on whether the main F/W bag should be a fold-over or a cross-body tote like the MiuMiu one three seasons ago. And don’t even get started with the color dilemma.

Yena begged you to pick either beige or cream. You decided, in a fit of uncontrollable indecisiveness, to pick beige and cream. Now you’re stuck and beige is starting to look like cream and cream, beige.

You flip the page, irritated. Try sketching something else. A structured jacket? Maybe another wool cape? Fur? But everything feels too soft. Too already-done. Nothing that makes you feel anything. Nothing that would stop someone mid-video at a show and look.

You glance at the folded-up ticket stub from the game earlier, thrown carelessly on your desk with your phone and singular credit card when emptying your pockets.

You haven’t heard from Vernon since he texted you a 👍after the Diamonds won 13-2.

Not that it matters.

But it does.

And you do think about him as you sketch – completely unintentionally, which makes it like three times worse. As your pencil glides across the bumpy sketch book, your brain wanders to how calm he looks when the stadium is the loudest and even your heart is pounding. How, last week during the media conference after a game, the sleeves of your S/S line jacket looked, pushed up his forearms as he waved the reporters good-bye from the locker room. How he paired the platform knee-high boots and the slightly cropped leather jacket, all from your F/W line last year, almost perfectly with some ragged jean shorts and the most enticing little striped shirt that did nothing to hide his god-given collarbones that you couldn’t help but imagine on the runway.

He’s got this way of showing up in your head when you’re just starting to forget he exists. Like now. In the quiet. With the whiskey sitting in the warmth of your stomach and your body wrapped up in your own tired, tangled, teasing thoughts.

You sigh.

Your pencil pauses over the page. Your eyes flicker down and you want to almost scream at the sketch that grins up at you. It’s him. Except, not the eyes, nose, mouth, or any of his facial features, actually, but still, him. The way his hair messes up in the front, his silhouette etched so gracefully onto your sketchbook page – the wide shoulders, sloping waistline.

You curse under your breath.

Another sip of whiskey that burns down your throat.

Your phone buzzes against the hardwood desk.

You ignore it – probably Yena.

Then, it buzzes again.

You reach over slowly, ready to roll your eyes at Yena’s incessant texts.

Until you don’t.

Until you see his name, blinking up at you like the broken streetlight from your not-date-date three weeks ago.

vernon⚾️🐈 u awake?

You stare at the message. Then at the clock.

It’s 12:04 AM.

vernon⚾️🐈 wyd?

you designs

And then against all notion of rational thought, you snap a photo of your sketchbook.

[attached]

Vernon responds in seconds.

vernon⚾️🐈 wait thats lwk really cool

you nice to know my work is appreciated

vernon⚾️🐈 would u ever design smth for me?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. The whiskey sits too warm in your stomach now.

you why? u tryna be a fashion icon now/?

vernon⚾️🐈 smth like that j think ur designs look cool

There’s a lull there. You’re not too sure what you’re supposed to respond with. A smiley face? A thank you? A heart?

Another buzz.

vernon⚾️🐈 r u still up?

you its been like 5 min yes ofc

vernon⚾️🐈 im at the batting cages

you okay….. and?

vernon⚾️🐈 do u wanna maybe come

You stare at the last message longer than you mean to. The cursor blinks in the text box as your thumb hesitates above the keyboard.

It’s stupid.

It’s so stupid.

So so so stupid.

It’s past midnight, you’re barely sobering up from the whiskey, you’ve been sitting cross-legged on your studio floor for hours surrounded by scattered swatches, rejected sketches, the remainders of your brain. You should say no.

You should absolutely completely say no.

But.

But the memory of him late at night during the not-date-date still lingers in your mind, cruising around your nerves to send the scent of his cologne down your spine. You can’t mistake the way you wait for his text like a dog for food. It’s pathetic, really.

And you can’t help it.

you address??

vernon⚾️🐈 [location shared!]

You’re scrambling now. First for a better shirt – a Ganni one that’s a size too big on you but you refuse to return because it was the last one left in stock in-store. Next for shoes – vintage Nikes that you bargained for in Japan. And then for the smallest purse that fits your wallet, lipstick, and your phone. And your car keys!

The door slams behind you and you’re in the elevator even before you can fully hear your door lock beep.

It’s a little past 12:30 AM when you arrive at the batting cages. It was more of a battle trying to find a parking spot than squeezing your Range Rover through the narrow alleyway. The city streets are quiet, though, and the night air is cool against your skin as you step out of the car, the low hum of the city lights and Gangnam in the distance. The flickering lights from the batting cages cast long shadows, their glow almost surreal in the emptiness of the night.

You take a deep breath, listening to the steady thwack! of baseballs connecting with a bat.

Vernon’s the only one there.

He’s caged inside one of the batting cages, bat in hand, duffle bag thrown against the bench. He looks focused as he takes another swing. The Adidas zip-up is loose on him, riding up when he swings, waistband of his boxers showing bolded words: wasted youth.

His body moves with fluid grace under the bright lights, the way he lines up each shot is almost hypnotic. You pause for a moment, watching him, fingers curled around the openings of the metal cage. Watching him – the way his body shifts, the subtle flex of his arms as the bat connects with the ball, the way he frowns when it doesn’t hit just right. The sound of it is satisfying, the crack echoing in the quiet night air. The zip-up hands from his shoulders, the fabric moving with the flow of his motions and you can barely make out a black undershirt – a tank, probably.

For a few seconds, you forget why you’re here. Why you’re watching him hit ball after ball, too focused on the bat to realize you’ve arrived. It’s just him, bat in hand, hitting ball after effortless ball – and you admire it: how smooth he looks, how natural it seems, how he seems made for this.

But then, he falters.

Notices you standing behind him, eyes training on his body.

He pauses mid-swing, letting the ball die in the machine. His eyes flick over you quickly – your oversized shirt, your bag that swings from your shoulder, your hair. He doesn’t say anything but his mouth curved up into the smallest of smiles – of smirks?

“You actually came,” he says, voice carrying a playful tone, like he wasn’t entirely sure you would.

He sets his bat down in the bat rack, the soft clink of the metal against the wood the only sound between you two.

He wipes his hands against his black sweatpants.

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag on the bench when he opens the cage door for you. “You texted me in the middle of the night. Worried you were going through a mid-season crisis or something.” You bite the inside of your cheek as you grab a smaller bat that sits next to his now. “You’re lucky I make all my bad decisions after midnight.”

Vernon chuckles, low and easy. “Nah, not a crisis. Or a bad decision. Just wanted to see if you could make contact after all that high talk.”

You give him a look, rolling the bat in between your hands.

He’s tall. Close. Built. His shoulders hide the other cage’s light from hitting your face and he grins down at you like he’s known you for your whole life.

You shoot him a flat look. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk way too much for someone who’s supposedly nonchalant?”

He just grins, hands in his pockets, shrugging.

You sigh, moving your hands to the grip of the bat, walking up to where the fake grass turf was the barest. You’re familiar with the weight of a bat. You’ve been a baseball fan, even though Vernon acts like he’s teaching you everything from scratch.

The machine whirs when Vernon flips a switch, and from the dark hole of the pitching machine, the first pitch comes launching your way.

You wait.

Swing.

Hit.

Crack!

The ball soars into the net, the thwack! echoing in the empty batting cage.

It’s quiet for a moment. You think Vernon’s switched the machine off again. Or maybe it’s a lull the universe has granted.

Vernon lets out a low whistle. “Not bad.”

You glance over at him, brow raised. “Not bad?”

He lifts a shoulder, teasing grin. “You could do better.”

You scoff, turning your attention back to the machine, now whirring back to life, for the next pitch. The rhythm of it is steady. You can understand why Vernon does this. Ball after ball, the occasional miss, the occasional perfect hit. Every crack! thwack! makes you feel like every ounce of stress in your body leaves your pores in spindles of smoke – evaporated.

Vernon stands in the back, letting you hit and hit and hit.

Then, after a particularly good hit, he finally speaks again.

“Here.”

You barely register him stepping forward, machine turned off now, befor ehe’s suddenly behind you. His presence is like a magnet, pulling you closer as his hands move to adjust your stance.

And you try to focus – you really, really do – but it’s hard when he’s standing so close to you – chest brushing against your back, warm, solid.

“Try shifting your stance a little,” he says, voice low. And his hands are moving from his sides to your sides, inching up your waist before you can react. His touch is gentle, fleeting, adjusting your posture with the slightest pressure. His touch is steady, unhurried, but it sends a shock and tingle up your spine anyway.

You swallow, trying to focus on gripping your bat so that it doesn’t clatter to the floor. “I’m already hitting fine,” you mumble. You’re scared to look up.

“Could be better,” he retorts, and you don’t have to turn around to know that he’s ear-to-ear grinning.

His hands move up from your waist to your shoulders. Down your bare arms to rest on top of yours on the grip of the bat. His hands are warm against your skin and you hope to God that he can’t feel the goosebumps that rise with his touch. The pressure of his hand around yours is mind-reeling and his breath is warm near your ear as he murmurs

“Relax this a little. You’re too stiff.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore the flutter of your heartbeat at the proximity, at the feel of his broad chest pressed against your back as he reaches around. He’s so focused on your swing, helping you improve, but all you can think about is how he feels against you.

His hands leave yours to your shoulders, gently pressing down. “Relax.”

“Maybe I like being stiff.”

Vernon huffs out a quiet laugh. “You sure about that?”

When he sees your hands tightening against the bat, he puffs out a sigh of air, leaning in again. His cologne is subtle but warm – something clean, fresh, with a hint of pine? Musk? Vanilla? Something that lingers. It mixes in with the scent of your detergent and it’s all you can think of.

His fingers slide down, adjusting your grip over the bat. His hands are infinitely warmer, covering yours completely, and the way he’s guiding your movement is too natural for your brain to wrap around. You feel your breath get lodged in your throat. You don’t know what’s happening.

His chest is flush agaisnt your back, body pressed against yours, mumbling something into your ear but you can’t bring yourself to comprehend it properly. His hands on your waist, wrist, his height, build, it completely envelops you. The proximity of him makes your pulse race and your lungs tighten and you pray that he can’t feel your beating thumping heart through your wrist pulse point.

“Better?” he murmurs.

You try to say yeah, but your voice barely comes out. So you just nod instead.

You can feel his breath against the back of your neck, and something inside of you screams – in want, desire, guilt, something in between? His hands hesitate for just a fraction of a second – one on your hip, the other on your wrist.

And you’re not too sure how the next part happens. But somehow, between his fingers brushing against yours and the way he’s angled just slightly towards you, breath hot on your neck, cologne invading your senses with no mercy, you turn your head at the same time he glances down.

Or maybe he was already looking down.

His eyes are dark, soft in a way that makes your throat tighten. His lips part, a breath leaving him that you can’t quite make out. It’s not a sigh, not quite a word. It’s something in between, laced with an emotion heavier than the tension that stretches taut between you. You don’t know if he’s waiting for you to pull away, stumble out of his grasp like he’s burned you, or if he’s looking for a sign to make the next move – stoop lower to move forward, not hold back.

Your heart stutters.

The moment stretches thin.

His eyes flicker down to your lips and then flicker back up to your eyes. They’re hesitant, as if he’s wondering if this is the right thing.

You swallow. “Vern–”

Your eyes widen in surprise, name cut off before the breath in your lungs even leaves you completely.

Because he’s leaning down, lips crashing down on yours, slow, deliberate, soft. It’s slow at first, tentative, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away.

You would be crazy to pull away.

Instead, you melt into it. The bat clatters to the floor with a muted th-th-thack! and on hand goes to tangle in his hair, pulling him down further. The angle is awkward – you’re half-turned around, one arm stretched up to pull him down, one hand resting against his that sits on your waist, lingering. He’s pressed up behind you, chest against your back, slouching down to fully reach your lips.

And then something clicks.

You twist to face him fully, hands finding their way to the collar of his jacket, fisting the fabric as you rise on your tip-toes.

Vernon doesn’t hesitate anymore. His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, so slowly that it raises the hair on your skin and sends shivers up your spine as he pulls you in closer, flush against his chest. His other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. Once. Twice. Three times.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s been waiting to do this.

And you don’t have any more thinking capacity left in you to be embarrassed when you let out a breathy little sound from the back of your throat that sounds a little too much like a whimper, hands finding their way to the back of his neck, pulling him down more. Now both of his hands are on your lower back, your waist, grip so firm, so warm, as he pulls you in, lips moving in sync with yours.

Everything else fades. The far-away sound of the bat hitting the ball, the dying hum of the machine, the soft murmur and chirp of the night – everything becomes – feels – secondary to the feel of his lips on yours. You can taste the faint tang of the lemon electrolyte drink he was drinking on his lips, feel the strength in his arms as they basically hold you up on your tip-toes like he’s not letting you go.

You break apart.

You don’t want to.

But it’s getting harder to hold your breath.

So you pull back, back down on your feet, breaths coming out heavy, now eye-to-eyes with Vernon’s collarbones. You look up.

Vernon looks down at you with this expression that you can’t quite place. His pupils are blown wide– dark against his hazel rings – lips parted slightly as he catches his breath. You’re still pressed so close to him that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. You swallow.

And then Vernon lets out a small little laugh, lips stretching to paint the silliest smile on his face, forehead meeting yours. His big hands are warm and calloused against your flushed cheeks, thumb tracing over your skin.

His forehead stays pressed to your for just a beat longer. You feel like passing out when he whispers fuck, y/n, under his breath like a secret – barely a whisper, barely above a breath, like saying it any louder might break the moment.

You’re still catching your breath, dizzy from how fast everything shifted, how the entire world seems to narrow down to just the space between his lips and yours.But when your eyes flutter up to meet his – dark, hooded, unwavering – your breath gets harder to inhale.

When your gaze drops to his lips again, Vernon moves – pounces, almost.

He surges forward, lips on yours again. Except, this time, harder – needier. There’s no hesitation now – no caution, no prudence in the way he grips your hips, body moving you – walking you – backwards until you feel your back hit the cold metal of the batting cage. It startles you, eyes fluttering open because when had you gotten this far, and you gasp, the noise stuck in your throat.

Vernon doesn’t stop.

His tongue swipes against your bottom lip so carefully, so softly, teasing. Nd when your mouth parts slightly, it’s like something inside of him snaps.

Suddenly, his head is tilting, hands cupping your jaw as yours scrunch his collar, deepening the kiss – messy and hot – his body caging yours against the cool chain-link fence.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but let him devour you. His tongue dances with yours – slides, twists – deliberate and sure. And when your hands move to tangle your fingers through his slightly wavy hair, slowly trailing down to the nape of his neck, clutching like you need him to keep you upright, he groans. Deep and low and rumbling in his chest, eaten up and swallowed by your greedy mouth.

It’s visceral, the way you grab at each other. The way his body presses into yours and yours against the fence, like he can’t get close enough – like the two of you might combust if even an inch of air dares to exist between you. A ball of heat knots deep in your stomach as his hands roam – one firm against your waist, the other sliding up the curve of your back, underneath your loose shirt, fingers kneading against the flesh. He kisses you like he’s starved. Like every pent-up look and almost-touch finally snapped him clean and the wire-tight tension – now he’s unraveling.

When his teeth bite down gently against your bottom lip, you whimper. It’s soft, barely even heard because his kisses mute it. But Vernon hears. He curses softly – muffled against your moving lips – as he tilts his head, insistent on coaxing just another sound from your throat. It’s instinct now – how you arch into him, how his hands are strong to support you as you start to get tired of standing on your tip-toes, how your hand slides up into his hair and tugs.

Vernon groans. It’s louder this time, coupled with a breathy little whine.

And suddenly, his hands are just lower than your hips, his lips separating from yours for a second to whisper

“Jump,” against yours

before he’s kissing you again.

And you do. Jump, that is.

And when you jump, legs wrapping around his slutty waist, his hands are under your thighs, pressing you firm against the fence. You can’t stop yourself. You’ve already crossed some invisible line, and all that matters to you is him. Vernon Chwe. The way he feels, the way he presses up closer against you, the way he’s just as desperate – maybe even more desperate – for this than you are.

It helps that you haven’t had any sort of sexual relationship for a year and a half now.

Now pressed up against the fence, your arms steady around his neck, Vernon’s hands tangle in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss. His hold is firm, possessive, with a hint of softness and tenderness that sends a wave of heat through you. With a gentle tug, he has you looking up at the open night sky. His mouth moves from yours to your neck, lips trailing messy kisses along your skin. It has you letting out soft gasps as his teeth graze your skin, lightly nipping, pressing open-mouthed kisses afterwards to soothe. The sound of your heart is a rhythmic thud in your ear – everything is building, growing, more desperate. Especially as Vernon lightly bites against your ear.

You can feel the firmness of his chest as it presses against you, breath hot against your skin, and every move he makes – shifting you further up, pressing another kiss, whispering something you definitely do not have the brain capacity for – sends another thrill down your spine.

“Vernon,” you murmur, voice echoing in the empty cages.

At the call of his name, he pulls away from decorating your neck with the hues of the darker side of the rainbow, looking up at you with dark and hooded eyes. You can almost see the desire swirling through them. But his lips curve into a faint smile.

“Hm?”

He gives you a peck on your lips before kissing down your jaw. You swallow, head thrown back still against the fence, body supported by Vernon and Vernon alone. But when you don’t respond right away, he pulls back again, hands moving to hitch you up more securely, fingers brushing your bare waist where your shirt had ridden up during the mess of kisses. When you look down, he’s staring up at you with furrowed, worried brows.

“‘S this okay?” he asks quietly, voice rough and strained.

You bite the inside of your cheek, hands moving from his shoulders to brush through his hair shakily. You let out a breath that feels more punched out of you than anything. “Yeah,” you mumble, leaning forward so that your arms drape over his shoulders, bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you rest your cheek against your arm. You feel Vernon’s hands tighten around your thighs.

“You sure?” he asks. You can hear his heartbeat. Almost.

You nod. “‘M fine. This,” you let out a small laugh, “This is more than fine.”

Vernon is quiet before he speaks again. And you can’t quite see his face, you can imagine his small smile.

“Okay, okay, okay. Cool, Cool. That’s – um – that’s fire,” he mumbles. Rambles, actually.

He’s cute.

You let out a laugh – a loud one – at that, tapping his arm to signal to let you down.

“Fire? That’s all you have to say to that?” You tease, landing back on the floor with shaky legs, still clinging to Vernon, arms winding around his neck. You stare up at him and he looks down at you like you just dotted stars in the night sky. You’ve never had someone look at you like this.

His voice is lower when he finally speaks again. “More than fire.” He grins, forehead coming to rest on yours as his arms wind around your waist. “Definitely more than fire.”

You giggle. It’s weird how quickly he makes you feel like a schoolgirl and not a fully-grown adult with a life outside of swooning over him. But your teeth take your bottom lip prisoner again. “Yeah?”

Vernon exhales a short breath. “Yeah.”

When you giggle again, Vernon groans – half in embarrassment, half in he doesn’t know what. “You drive me crazy,” he mumbles under his breath, detaching himself from you with great reluctance.

When he steps away, letting your arms fall to your sides, you watch as he sets the bats back on the rack, shouldering his duffle, shoving his phone into his pocket. He glances at you, a small smile playing on his lips when you cross your arms, waiting. For what? You’re not too sure yourself. Maybe for him to kiss you again? Maybe for him to lead you out and drop you off at home? You stand there awkwardly now, not quite ready to leave, not quite sure how to stay. You stand there, pretending you don’t wish his lips are back on yours.

Vernon walks up to you, the swing of his duffle bag lazy, eyes soft but unreadable under the dim lights of the cage. He stops right in front of you, not touching (and good thing because if he did touch you, you wouldn’t be able to let go), but close enough that you can still feel the warmth of his body.

“You drove here, right?” he asks quietly, glancing back at the nearly empty parking lot behind the fence.

You nod slowly, your voice soft. “Yeah.” You glance down at your feet, embarrassed now for some weird reason.

He hesitates, lips parted like there’s something more he wants to say. Then he shifts his weight, eyes flickering from yours to the path out of the cages. “You okay to drive?”

You shrug. “I mean… probably.”

That earns a soft, knowing chuckle from him. “That’s not reassuring.”

You’re still floating a bit. Still warm from his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, his voice in your ear. Still trying to remember how to stand on your own feet. And Vernon looks unfairly composed in comparison. Like he’s turned the volume down on whatever chaos just happened between you – but it’s still written in his flushed cheeks, his tousled hair, the way he keeps looking at you like you’re a goddamn fever dream.

He steps forward and reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours like you’re dating or something. “C’mon,” he says, tugging gently, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

The night air is cooler outside of the cages. The heat of the moment is behind you as you walk towards your car, parked rather haphazardly by a streetlight, hand-in-hand, Vernon glancing down at you every once-in-a-while. He has this silly little smile plastered on his face that makes you smile too. Makes you smile more.

When you finally reach your car, Vernon lets go of your hand, stepping around to the passenger side. When he opens the door and peeks in, for a split second, you think he’s about to jump in, drive with you back home.

But then he pulls back, grinning, shouldering his duffle, hands in his pockets.

“Messy,” he comments.

You click your tongue, pulling open the driver’s side, sliding in. Your hands hover near the handle before you grip it.

You don’t want to say anything else, lest you break the moment – heavy, thick with everything that just happened.

So, naturally, Vernon does. “You’re okay to drive though?”

You smile, nodding. “Yeah, I mean, unless you wanna file a police report about a girl you were making out with in the cages.”

His lips twitch and you know he picked up on your tone. He leans against the driver’s side. “Think it’d hold up in court?”

You laugh. “Depends. I might argue that you instigated it.”

Vernon scoffs, one arm on the top of your car. He’s so close again. “Can’t. Won’t hold. I clearly said jump. That’s consent and delegation.”

You snort. “Okay, lawyer.”

“Okay, criminal.”

You both laugh, tension broken, and it feels good. Cathartic, in a way. But overall, good. His smile lingers longer this time, teeth catching on his bottom lip like he’s trying not to say something. Or like he’s trying not to leave.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you back?” he asks. His voice is gentler now. He hesitates before his hand darts out, fingers gently brushing the fallen strands of hair from your face. “I can follow you, even. Just to make sure you get home okay, y’know?”

Your heart tugs a little. It’s so stupid how sweet he is. Stupid, stupid, and so so so endearing. Even if it sounds just a little bit creepy.

But you smile, grabbing his hand before it gets shoved in the depths of his pockets again. “You tryna be my stalker now?”

Vernon shrugs, fingers folding over yours sweetly. “Eh. Takes one to know one, right?” And then he smiles – all teeth and boyish with ruffled hair – and it makes you laugh.

“Are you calling me a stalker?”

“Nah. You’re my Kiss Cam partner. ‘S a little diff’rent.” A pause. “I’ll still follow you though,” he says, a little quieter now. “Not all the way – just out the lot. Make sure no one’s creeping out here this late.”

You squint at him dramatically. “Is this your creepy way of saying you want to make sure I don’t crash my car?”

“It’s my gentlemanly way of saying I don’t trust you behind the wheel when your brain’s still halfway up that fence.”

The laugh that is forced out of you is as dramatic as incredulous. “Vernon Chwe!” You blush red under his laughter.

He watches, one hand still on the frame like he doesn’t want to walk away just yet.

Before he closes the door for you, you glance up and grin. “Hey, if I do crash, just know my ghost is gonna haunt you in a very flirty and inconvenient way.”

Vernon laughs, full and warm this time. “Can’t wait.”

He shuts the door gently, taking a step back. You turn on the engine, stealing one last glance at him through the window, now rolled down.

He watches you for a second. “Text me when you get home?” His request is quiet, small, almost like he expects you to say no.

Your foot leaves the gas pedal.

You look at him. Really look at him. And you know if you don’t kiss him again right now, you’re going to regret it.

You reach out, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, and you tug him down to you. He doesn’t resist. His lips meet yours again – this time slower, but also faster. A peck. Small, short, and sweet. Just in case you get too addicted too quick.

When you break apart, he looks dazed. Like you just punched the breath out of him.

“I’ll text you,” you whisper.

You steal one last glance at him before rolling up your window.

He waves you off with a crooked grin, walking slowly back to his own car as you back out of the lot. And even in your rearview mirror, you can see him watching, waiting until you’re safely out onto the road.

You pull away, your cheeks still aching from smiling.

Five minutes later, at the first stoplight, your phone buzzes in the holder attached to the AC.

vernon⚾️🐈 text me back when ur home j so i know ur ghost isnt gonna flirt me into crashing too

You bite your lip, smile stretching wide and helpless across your face. And you can’t control the incoherent squeal that leaves your lips.

God, you’re so screwed.

----------------

It’s almost 9PM when you get his text.

vernon⚾️🐈 u @ the studio?

you sadly yes how did u know r u stalking me or smth

vernon⚾️🐈 maybe i j finished training j checking in

His little typing… bubble doesn’t go away for another couple of seconds and you just know that he probably deleted what he was going to send to you.

you im j working how was training?

vernon⚾️🐈 the same did u eat?

you …no BUT im fine deadline mode

vernon⚾️🐈 what kind of monster forgets to eat

you a very talented one that also missed her deadline last week? making a masterpiece rn

vernon⚾️🐈 so dramatic

The conversation lulls when he doesn’t send anything for a minute or two. You curl yourself against the armrest of your work chair, sewing and fabric forgotten on your work table.

vernon⚾️🐈 do u want me to bring u food?

you only if it comes with radish!! this time!!!

You hope the exclamation points hide how red your cheeks are and how your body almost vibrates with nerves – or maybe excitement? – as you reread his text.

vernon⚾️🐈 u think id mess that up twice?

you call it intuition

vernon⚾️🐈 wow no faith in me

you i have complete faith in ur batting avg j not ur side dish memory

vernon⚾️🐈 cold i hit a homer AND remembered ur drink last time

you ok fine ur batting .500 in food service tbh thats hall of fame numbers

vernon⚾️🐈 lmao im omw w surprise food dont sew ur hand off!!!

you ur coming NOW??!

vernon⚾️🐈 lol yeah unless u dont want me to.. i can hang the food on ur door and go

you u can stay IF ur not annoying

vernon⚾️🐈 roundabout way to tell me to leave..

you no u can stay depending how good the food is

vernon⚾️🐈 depending on how good u look in wtv ur making rn

you bro vernon

vernon⚾️🐈 👀 do u call every guy u make out w “bro”

you omg shut up and hurry up

--------------

You’re bent over your work table, one knee pressed close to your chest, the other crossed flat against the seat, when you hear the quiet doorbell to your studio echo through the empty rooms.

In the quiet of the studio, above the city hustle and bustle, the doorbell rings loudly, decrescendoing into a whisper of an intrusion.

You don’t turn immediately – hands busy pinning fabric on the mannequin in front of you. But you know it’s him. He texted ten minutes ago that he was almost there and knowing Vernon, he probably stood stock-still in front of the door, maybe pacing, trying to psych himself up to press the doorbell and double checking if he was at the right address for five whole minutes.

“It’s unlocked!” you call, voice only slightly muffled by the pins in your mouth as you (attempt) to thread a thin leather string through the bodice only to have it bunch on one side. You hear the door click open, hinges creaking quietly from down the hall. Soft footsteps that stop right in front of the raised entry-way are followed by a couple of shuffles as he takes off his shoes, sliding into the slippers that you set out an hour before.

When you finally glance over your shoulder, he’s standing in the middle of the entry hallway with a plastic bag in his hand, a black hoodie half-off, slinging off his shoulder, over an ab-showing workout shirt, and cap flipped backwards.

A ridiculously loud laugh is torn from the back of your throat and you almost fall off your chair at the way Vernon’s face twists in confusion.

He lifts a hand.

“Hey,” he greets, low voice soft in the quiet of the studio, mingling with your playlist playing through the speakers.

“Hey,” you say.

His eyes sweep over you, then the chaos you’re sitting in – bolts of fabric stacked and pushed away to the dark corner next to your desk, three sewing machines pushed up against the right wall, your own sewing machine humming with a lazily blinking lights, and unfinished sketches taped to the window in front of your desk, a flood-over from the wall-taped sketches.

He lifts the bag in his hand with the cutest grin you’ve seen. If you were a weaker woman, you would have blushed. “Saved your life. Again.”

You roll your eyes, motioning him inside your main studio. “Maybe save the gloat for after I eat.”

He steps inside, brushing past the hanging yards of tulle that you thought you would use but never ended up actually using so you hung hurriedly on the fabric rack bolted high against the wall. He pads over to you and when he sets the bag down on the nearest slightly-clean table, you can smell the scent of his cologne – clean, vanilla, a little spicy and musky. It’s faint, like he put it on hours ago, but the way it still lingers makes your head hurt because he smells exactly the same from that night. He glances around your studio like he always does when he comes here, like he’s trying to memorize all the new wall-taped sketches and discarded fabric pieces.

He points to a sketch taped on the window, right above your table. “I like that one. Is it new?”

You pull your hair back, twisting it up into a bun before clipping it off with a claw clip. “Maybe. It will be if I actually finish it.”

He looks down at you with his brown eyes that look a little bit darker in the dim lights of the studio. It’s a beat too long. You feel it. Like there’s something unspoken sitting right behind his teeth and he’s not too sure whether he’s allowed to say it or if you would both benefit from him swallowing it down whole.

You can’t stand his gaze – not if it feels like he can read your mind (even the thoughts that are definitely not suitable). So you open the bag to distract yourself.

The first thing that greets your hungry eyes is two packets of cellophane-wrapped containers of white radish.

“Okay,” you hum, unwrapping the cellophane carefully, “you did remember the radish.” You lick a droplet of radish juice off your thumb, glancing at Vernon with a grin. “Color me impressed.”

He shrugs, sitting on your work bench like he’s done it a hundred times. “What can I say? I’m learning,” he mutters, leaning back on his hands. He watches as you open containers, throwing plastic lids into the large garbage can by your desk. The soft pop! of plastic lids fill the space and you can’t help but push some containers of o-deng and pajeon towards Vernon to let him open those as you crack apart two sets of chopsticks, (un)gracefully moving to the floor. Your chopstick shovels a good chunk of crab meat and egg fried rice even before your crossed legs can touch the hardwood floor.

It’s quiet, aside from the music in the background and your murmurs of holy shit this is so good in between rapid bites.

Vernon watches you for a while in silence, legs spread out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. His chopstick is untouched – like he takes more pleasure out of watching you eat than eating it himself.

“You okay?” he asks eventually, noticing a stall in your hurried shovelling of food.

You glance up at him from your half-empty fried rice bowl. You blink. “Yeah? Just tired.”

He nods, eyes dropping to your bare legs tucked under you, the way your quarter-zip dips too low on your chest. He clears his throat and looks away fast – too fast.

You bite the inside of your cheek, setting the bowl and chopsticks down, studying him in all of his post-training, showered, deliciously-smelling glory. You can’t help but stare – at his face, his arms, his chest, everything. And then at his slightly-drooping eyes and slight dark circles that seem to shadow over more in the dim studio lights.

“You don’t have to stay,” you say softly, poking his leg. “You probably have practice tomorrow.”

His response is as immediate as it is confident. “I wanna stay.” It makes you blush – the way he says it like he can’t lie to you even if he tries.

You hum, legs pulled up to your chest and try not to stare the way his forearm flexes when he runs a hand through his hair. It’s shorter, now that you focus on it. Maybe he cut it. Or maybe he’s training you for his inevitable decision of buzzing it all (he mentioned it to you in passing once and you had laughed at him). The silence stretches again, comfortable, but pulsing, like something’s about to break through the thick wall.

Vernon looks away to the side, mouth opening. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says suddenly, like it somehow fell out.

Your breath catches.

He’s looking down at the floor now, jaw tight. His legs move to sit criss-cross, like this is a serious conversation. “Since the cages,” he starts out quiet – more quiet than you’ve ever heard him – “It’s been…” he pauses, “kinda driving me crazy.”

You swallow down the breath caught in the back of your throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, finally glancing up. If this were any other conversation, you could have giggled over how blushed his cheeks are. “And I didn’t wanna – fuck – I didn’t wanna make it weird, y’ know?” He searches your eyes like it’ll have the words he needs to finish his sentence. “But then you didn’t really text me after – no, like you did but not really – and I thought, I dunno, maybe – maybe – I–”

Before you can even understand what’s going on, you’re on your knees, leaning forward so that you’re staring him in his eyes with some sort of unfamiliar ferocity.

“You didn’t mess anything up,” you say, hand lingering on his knee. Your quarter-zip falls off your shoulder from the sudden movement. “Vernon, I just didn’t know what to say. Hey, I missed an entire traffic signal because of how good you kissed me seemed a little cliche and stupid.” You crack a grin.

Vernon lets out a soft laugh, ears tinting pink. When he looks up at you, brows pulled, lips parted like he’s trying to figure out if this is real, it gets harder for you to breathe. A shaky hand goes up to touch his face – fingers brushing his cheek, thumb grazing under his eye, lingers on the sharp cut of his jaw. His fingers curl around the hem of your quarter-zip, pulling you forward, steadying you with firm hands on your thighs when you jerk forward, falling into his lap.

“Oops,” Vernon murmurs, but the shadow of a smile ghosting his lips gives him away. And it makes your heart beat out through your ribs.

“You…” you never get to finish that sentence because you find yourself leaning down to kiss him.

And when your lips meet his, he melts into it.

It starts slow. Softer than it was the first time. His mouth opens under yours, and he tastes like the strawberry drink he brought for you, like the past week of restraint cracking open. You sink into him, arms circling his shoulders, and he shifts to pull you onto his lap.

Your legs wrap around his waist, and you feel his hands hesitate at your hips. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, slightly hoarse.

You nod. “More than sure.”

And then it unravels.

He kisses you like he’s waited years, not days. Like he memorized the shape of your mouth from that night and has been replaying it on loop. Your hoodie is tugged over your head, and his lips trail over every inch of skin he can find. He leaves kisses down your chest, over your ribs, as you unbutton his shirt with fumbling fingers and way too much anticipation.

You're still perched on his lap, his hoodie long gone, your fingers tangled in his hair when he starts kissing down your neck again – open-mouthed, biting. The low hum of the studio surrounds you — the soft buzz of the desk lamp, the rustle of fabric under your knees, the faint warmth from the space heater in the corner.

"Vernon," you whisper.

He groans softly against your collarbone, your name dragging from his lips like a prayer. His hands skim up under your quarter-zip, fingers grazing your sides with a reverence that has your spine curling. His hands inch up, up, up until he meets the softness of your–

“Fuck, no bra?” Vernon groans, hands stilling on your chest. His lips part from your neck for a second.

You giggle, leaning into his touch. “Maybe I took it off when you said you’ll come,” you whisper into his ear, watching in sinful delight as he blushes at your words, pushing your quarter-zip up until it’s up over your head. When he throws the quarter-zip to some random corner of the studio, he freezes, eyes frozen on the way your nipples harden in the open air, your hair as it runs down your shoulders, hands kneading your tits like they are made for him.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers. His mouth goes down before you can even respond with anything, lips circling a nipple as two fingers go to tweak the other one. His tongue is warm against your skin, rolling, lightly biting, sucking. It’s crazy – the way he knows what you want before you even say anything. It drives you absolutely crazy.

"Wanna taste you," he murmurs, voice low, thick.

Your breath catches. Your eyes meet his. There’s something unshakably tender about the way he’s looking at you — like this has been haunting him. Like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’ll fill him.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

His hands are slow, tender, trailing down your sides as he eases you onto your back, bare skin meeting the plush fur of your carpet. A scarf — forgotten on the floor — is swept aside, discarded like all other distractions.

The round carpet you brought home from Taiwan softens the ground beneath his knees. You’d chosen it because it reminded you of moonlight, round and pale and slightly worn. Now it presses into the bones of his legs as he settles between yours like he's found the only place he's ever needed to be.

He leans in close, breath ghosting warm over the sensitive skin of your thighs. And then he begins.

One kiss.

Then another.

And another.

Soft at first — reverent, almost — each one carefully placed along the inside of your thigh. His mouth is warm, and his lips linger like he's trying to imprint the shape of you onto himself. He pauses to breathe you in, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his hands smooth up and down your legs. One hand wraps beneath your thigh, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles while the other curls possessively around your hip.

Every kiss climbs higher, closer, and your hands instinctively grip at his hoodie, still bunched around his arms — the fabric wrinkles between your fingers, grounding you while everything else begins to blur. He looks up once, eyes dark and earnest, gaze locking with yours like he’s checking if you're still with him, still his. You nod, a breathless motion, and he smiles — just barely — before ducking his head again.

When his tongue finally finds you, it’s slow — intentionally slow. One long, deliberate lick that makes your breath stutter and your back arch from the couch. His mouth settles against you like a man starved — greedy, hungry, but still worshipful. The way he moves feels like he's memorizing you with every stroke — cataloging the way your thighs tense, how your breath catches, the exact sound you make when he sucks just right.

You whimper his name, and his body reacts — shoulders twitching, hips shifting, a soft gasp breaking against you like he feels it too. His fingers dig into your hips as if anchoring himself, but you can feel the restraint — like he’s holding back from tearing the rest of your clothes off and burying himself inside you.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, desperate, the words barely coherent.

He doesn’t.

He can’t.

When your thighs start to tremble, he groans — the sound guttural, animal — but he doesn’t slow. His arms tighten around your legs, pulling you in closer, locking you into place like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s never dared to say aloud. Your hands slide into his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp, and his response is immediate: a full-body shiver, a muffled moan into your skin that makes your toes curl.

And when your warning comes — a breathy, broken gasp of please or I’m close, you’re not even sure which — he holds you tighter. He pushes his tongue deeper, faster, more insistent, drinking down every sound you make like he's parched.

You fall apart on his tongue, crying out his name as your whole body tightens, then trembles, then shudders in release. He doesn’t stop. Not right away. He keeps his mouth on you, gentler now, lapping at the aftershocks like he wants to make sure every last wave of pleasure is felt. You twitch beneath him, hypersensitive and dazed, and finally — finally — he pulls back.

His chin is wet, glistening. His lips are pink and swollen, slightly parted like he’s still catching his breath. There’s a dazed, wrecked look in his eyes — the kind of haze that only comes from witnessing something divine.

He blinks up at you like he’s trying to remember where he is, and then, with a hoarse little laugh that barely makes it past his throat, he wipes the back of his hand over his chin and whispers, “You taste like fucking heaven.”

But it’s more than just lust in his eyes.

He looks at you like he’s just been undone. Like your pleasure unstitched something in him he can’t sew back together. And for a long moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is your breathing — still uneven — and the soft rustle of fabric as he leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh again. Slower this time. Calmer.

Like a benediction.

Like thanks.

You lean up, breathless, cheeks a deep red, tugging him by the collar of his shirt. "Bed," you whisper. "Come here."

His pupils blow wide, as do the rest of his eyes.

You giggle as you grab his hand, scrambling up to your shaky feet, and pull him toward the bedroom — the small tucked-away space past your sewing machine and half-stuffed closet. The lights are soft inside, fairy lights strung in lazy arcs across the ceiling. The bed is already messy, the comforter folded halfway down, pillows too soft to hold structure, the rest of the room packed with machines you don’t need this season and bolts of fabric that didn’t really pass your test.

He pauses just inside the doorway, hand still in yours, taking it in.

“Holy– the hell?” he mutters.

You blush. “Take your hoodie off.”

He does — slowly, deliberately — and lets it fall to the floor as you sit on the bed, pulling him between your legs. He cups your cheek and kisses you again, deeper now, heavier. And when you lie back on the comforter and he climbs over you, settling into the space between your thighs like he was made for it—it feels like every part of you says finally.

The bed dips under his weight, comforter cool against your back, but the heat radiating from Vernon is all-consuming.

He’s still above you, kissing you like he’s trying to memorize your mouth — hand braced next to your head, the other dragging up your shirt so slowly it’s unbearable. Your skin prickles under his touch, goosebumps chasing every inch he reveals.

"Can I?" he murmurs, thumb brushing just against the waistband of your now-ruined panties. His voice is low, a little wrecked already.

You nod, but your voice is thin. “Fuck, please.”

His eyes hold yours for a moment longer before he pulls your panties down slowly, your legs going up to let him trail his fingers down your bare thighs to throw the panities to a random corner of the room. You reach up, tug at his waistband — a silent demand — and he complies, standing just long enough to strip down to his boxers. When he returns to the bed, all warm skin and toned muscle, you think, this is going to ruin me.

He kisses down your chest, slow, reverent. Your brain is gone in seconds, and then his mouth is on you — warm, wet, tongue swirling in lazy circles that have you arching off the bed. One of his hands grips your waist while the other moves between your legs, pressing over your soaked panties with a hum.

"You're shaking," he whispers.

"You’re taking your time," you shoot back breathlessly.

He chuckles — and then shifts lower. And then… he just looks at you. Drags his hands up your thighs and stares like he’s seen God and she’s spread out on her own damn bed.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You’re beautiful."

You reach for him again, desperate, and he finally gives in, grinding down against your bare core with a low groan. His hips rock once, twice — and you both hiss at the contact. Then he pauses.

“I don’t— I didn’t bring—”

“S’ okay,” you breathe. Your fingers reach for his, eyes never leaving his. “You’re clean, right?”

He nods almost dumbly, staring at you with toussled hair and parted mouth.

You gasp in a breath, smiling. “S’ fine, then. I have an IUD.”

And then it’s like something clicks into place in his brain because his eyes bulge a little as he leans down, biceps shaking, brushing hair out of your face. His next words are almost reverent. “Raw?”

You hum, kissing his jaw greedily. “Raw,” you whisper teasingly into his ear.

And then he’s kissing you hard. His hands are a little shaky — not with fear, but with need. Like he’s been dreaming of this for months. Like if he doesn’t get inside you now, he’ll die wanting.

And when he finally does — when he pushes in, slow and careful, your legs wrapping around his waist again — you both go still.

Vernon buries his face in your neck.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers. “You feel— fuck, you feel so good.”

Vernon pauses once he's fully sheathed in you, a low, guttural breath escaping his lips.

"Shit—" he mutters, his voice trembling as his arms brace tightly around you. His forehead presses against yours. "You okay?"

Your legs are wrapped around his waist, your fingers locked at the nape of his neck, body trembling beneath him. It’s a lot. He’s thick and long, stretching you more than you remember, and the sudden fullness has you gasping for air, your walls fluttering around him.

"It’s… it’s been a while," you whisper, biting your bottom lip. "You're just—bigger than I thought."

He groans — actually groans, a sound pulled straight from his chest, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to lose control.

“Fuck—don’t say that. I’m already barely holding it together.”

You laugh breathlessly, cupping his cheek. “You don’t have to move yet. Just stay.”

And he does.

Vernon stays perfectly still, despite the way his hips twitch against yours every few seconds, like his body is begging for friction. One of his hands gently cradles your jaw, the other slips between your bodies to softly stroke your waist, grounding you.

“Just tell me when,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours.

You focus on breathing, adjusting slowly. He kisses you — slow, deep — his lips pulling moans out of you with nothing but gentleness. And all the while, he whispers against your skin: "You’re doing so good." "I missed you." "You feel unreal."

Your body slowly opens for him, easing into the stretch. The sting dulls into something that makes your toes curl, the kind of pressure that has your thighs trembling with need again.

Finally, you nod, pulling him closer with your legs. “Okay… Move.”

He groans again, this time low and wrecked. He starts to rock his hips, just the smallest roll — and you moan, sharp and high-pitched. His hands tighten on your waist instantly.

“Still good?”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe.

He listens — slow thrusts at first, hips rolling in a deep, steady rhythm that makes your eyes flutter shut. His movements are fluid, controlled, like he’s making love to you with everything he’s held back for months. The stretch is still there, just enough to make every motion feel heady and overwhelming, but now it feels good — so good, it makes you tremble.

Every few strokes, he stops just to kiss you again — like he needs the anchor, or maybe just can’t believe this is real. His mouth trails over your neck, down to your chest, over the curve of your breast.

When he bites gently at your collarbone, you arch, your body clenching around him without warning.

He chokes out a moan.

“Fuck, you keep doing that and I’m not gonna last,” he warns, sweat dampening the strands of hair at his temple.

“You feel—” You gasp when he shifts just right. “—so deep, Nonie.”

Your hands claw at his back, and he picks up the pace just slightly. He’s still holding back — you can feel it, the way his body’s taut above you, trembling like he’s restraining every instinct.

But it doesn’t matter — every slow, deliberate thrust drives you wild.

“Touch yourself f’ me” he murmurs. “Wanna feel you fall ‘part f’ me.”

Your hand slips between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and the added pressure unravels you. Your moans get louder, body jolting beneath him, and he watches, completely entranced — pupils blown wide, lips parted, sweat glistening across his chest.

Then, you tighten around him again, crying out his name — and he curses, loud, hips stuttering.

“You gonna come?” he pants.

“Close— I’m so close, just—don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. He fucks you through it, deeper now, pace unrelenting but still somehow careful — so damn attentive even when he’s right at the edge.

You break first.

The orgasm hits you like a wave — your whole body curling, vision blurring, mouth open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around him, and you shake, pulling him down with you.

And that’s all it takes.

He lets go, hips slamming into you one final time, face buried in your neck as he moans your name against your skin. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you as he pulses inside you and white hot fills you, so thick and heavy that when he pulls back just slightly to brush a kiss against your sweaty neck, dribbles of white roll down your thighs and it has you whimpering into Vernon’s shoulder. He’s panting through it like he’s never come that hard in his life.

The room goes quiet — just heavy breathing, soft whimpers, and the distant hum of the fairy lights above.

Vernon doesn’t move for a long time. Just holds you. Kisses your cheek. Your shoulder. Your lips.

When he finally pulls out and lies beside you, you take pride in the way his eyes linger at the mix of cum that you can feel run down your thighs.

He nuzzles you. “Sorry. Clean you up in a bit, yeah?”

You just hum, wearily moving to wrap your arms around him, nodding.

He curls around you instantly, one arm slung over your waist, the other brushing your hair off your face.

You’re both still trembling.

“Was it okay?” he whispers again, quieter now. Almost scared.

You turn your head to look at him. “It was perfect. Worth the wait.”

He exhales, relieved, and buries his face in your neck again — smiling against your skin.

“…You sure it didn’t hurt?”

You snort. “I’m a big girl. I can take some good dick.”

Your pulse speeds up when he laughs loudly.

Your breathing starts to settle before his does.

Vernon’s arm is still around your waist, skin sticky against yours, his chest rising and falling fast as he stares up at the ceiling like he’s trying to replay every second in his head. You can feel the tension still lingering in his muscles — not from arousal anymore, but from something softer. Almost nervous.

You turn your head slightly, your cheek against the curve of his shoulder, and whisper, “You okay?”

He lets out a breath. A beat too long of silence follows.

Then—

“I just… don’t want you to think I came here for that.”

You blink.

When you look up, his face is flushed again — not from sex this time, but embarrassment. His brows are pulled slightly, lips parted like he’s not sure if he should’ve said anything at all.

“I know it was kinda fast. And maybe it doesn’t make sense but—” He pauses. “I like you. I mean, I really like you. And this—tonight—wasn’t about just… getting in your pants.”

You can’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips, even through the exhaustion threading through your bones. If Vernon was any closer, you swear he could hear the way your pulse pounds in your ears from sheer delight. You nudge him gently with your nose, closing your eyes blissfully. “If you were just trying to sleep with me, you wouldn’t have held me like that.”

Vernon goes quiet again. His arms tighten around you just a little.

“…Okay. Good.”

You laugh softly and press a kiss to his chest — right over his heart. It’s racing, still.

He exhales through his nose and shifts onto his side, finally facing you fully. You melt into it without hesitation, curling up instinctively in the circle of his arms as one hand moves to brush your hair back from your forehead.

But now that you’re still — fully come down, the adrenaline gone — the weight of everything else starts creeping in. Your eyelids feel heavy. Your limbs ache in that dull, familiar way that says too many hours, too many nights, too much caffeine, not enough sleep. That and your lower back protests every time you move even a millimetre, which you can probably blame on Vernon.

Vernon notices.

He tilts your chin gently and looks at you closely.

“Hey… when was the last time you properly slept?”

You hesitate. Then mumble, “Don’t ask me that right now.”

He frowns immediately.

“Baby.”

You decide to keep the way you internally scream and your heart races in your chest at the pet name a secret from him forever.

“I didn’t forget or anything,” you lie poorly, burying your face against his collarbone. “I just had deadlines. And fittings. And I didn’t know you were gonna show up and ruin me—”

“Ruin you?” he says with a breathless laugh, even as his hand cups the back of your head. “I wasn’t trying to ruin you.”

“You did,” you murmur, yawning mid-sentence. “But not complaining. Maybe all I needed was to get dicked down to stitch the rest of the sequins on that fucking skirt.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters affectionately, pulling the comforter over your shoulders. “But you hafta sleep.”

You hum softly, letting him shift so he’s slightly propped up, your head resting on his bicep. He runs his fingers down your spine — absent, steady, soothing — and your eyes flutter closed despite yourself.

“I was gonna leave after I dropped off the food,” he suddenly says. “Swear to God. But then you opened the door looking like that and all my good intentions evaporated.”

“Your fault then,” you mumble sleepily. “You seduced me.”

He chokes on a laugh. “I seduced you?”

“Mhm.”

There’s a beat of silence. His hand stills against your back.

“…You really tired?”

You nod, the motion barely there. “So tired.”

He kisses the top of your head and pulls you even closer, like he’s trying to wrap himself around you completely. Your bare legs are tangled, bodies pressed together under the covers. The fairy lights above your head glow softly, the only thing illuminating the room aside from the moonlight slipping through the sheer curtains.

“Whaddaya want in the morning?” he whispers. “Something warm? I’ll order before I leave for training.”

“Training?”

“Yeah. We have morning training for the game tomorrow night.” He pauses. “You coming?”

The slight uncertainty in his voice makes you smile. “‘Course. Wouldn’t miss my boyfriend’s game for the world.”

He laughs again, but this one’s softer, his chin nudging the top of your head.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, brow raising.

You nod. “Mhm. Think you deserve a title after dick that good.”

Vernon lets out a loud laugh that echoes through the room – all high-pitched and throaty. “God.”

And then he turns quiet.

“You know,” he murmurs after a few seconds, “this bed’s really small.”

You nod against him. “Told you.”

“And we barely fit.”

“Mhm.”

“…Kinda like it though.”

You peek up at him with one eye, a smirk playing at your lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He presses a gentle kiss to your nose. “Means I get to keep you close.”

You nuzzle in again, your heart suddenly too full for your chest. Safe. Sleepy. Wrapped up in the arms of someone who likes you exactly how you are, late nights and all.

“I’m glad you came,” you whisper.

He squeezes your hip. “I’m glad you let me in.”

And then, just before sleep takes you under:

“…You drooled on me a little.”

“Well, you came in me so I think that makes us even,” you retort, already falling asleep, especially with the rhythm of Vernon’s hand patting your back. Before you know it, everything – even Vernon’s soft breaths – goes mute, your body relaxing against Vernon’s firm hold.

The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed, still vaguely warm, congee in the microwave, and a messily-scribbled note on one of your cat post-it notes you keep on your work desk.

morning babe. i’m off to practice. i know you told me to wake you up but thought you’d appreciate more sleep than a kiss goodbye from me (gave u one tho). i’ll see you later, yeah? call me when you have time.

- HVC

You press the note close to your chest, eyes welling up in tears that you’re not too sure are from hormones or something else. Your emotional parade is cut short when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. The screen lights up with a name that has you laughing out a watery laugh.

vernon⚾️🐈 is calling…

: ̗̀➛ 🇰🇮🇸🇸 ❜🇪🇷 🇺🇵 @astrobebba ; @ayupfrogg ; @steamyjaehyun @chwenott ; @toplinehyunjin ; @syluslittlecrows ; @itsclda ; @luminouskalopsia ; @kiachiako ; @81evermore ; @daaaph-lol

#seventeen #vernon #vernon chwe #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen smut #seventeen fic #vernon x reader #vernon smut #vernon fluff #seventeen baseball! au #baseball player!vernon #kiss er up!!#seventeen fics #svt fic #svt x reader #gia's long fics #slow burn #meet cute

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tojisun · 1 year ago

Note

sex w simon on his bike??👀

i didn’t understand the vision until it hit me!! TWICE [heart eyes]

!! public sex (p in v and oral); THIS IS NASTY HHHHH; female reader // biker!simon mlist

જ thinking about simon fucking you against his bike, with your elbows resting on the padded seat, your back arched to present your ass to him which he greedily squeezes and pulls at, all the while groaning and rumbling in ecstatic amazement.

murmured pleas slip through your kiss-swollen lips, begging the universe or whatever’s out there that: 1) simon’s bike won’t topple to the side at the press of your weight against it, and 2) no one would see the two of you.

you stifle a squeak at feeling your skirt flipped up to the small of your back before a loud ri—ip sound echoes in the empty lot, the cold air hitting your bare skin instantly now that simon’s ripped your stockings open.

“god, baby,” simon rumbles, his voice hissed out in a barely contained snarl. “you and y’r fuckin’ perfect ass, i swear.”

“couldn’t you have waited ‘till we’re home?” you snark, feeling your cheeks flood with warmth when simon’s hand travels further down, greedy as it tugs at your flesh.

“‘course not,” simon replies, pulling away and leaving you trembling at the onslaught of cool air.

the sound of simon unbuckling his belt makes you freeze, your jaw dropping open for a quiet gasp, your own protest flying from your mind as nothing else pulses within you but your own desire. one that calls for simon.

simon slots himself against your back with ease, one of his arms circling your waist to tug you up, positioning you so that your ass presses against his chub perfectly. it makes you giddy—simon’s display of his strength; him manhandling you. but also, simon covering you with his bulk. simon towering over you.

fuck.

your eyes flutter close at feeling him kiss the back of your head, then he’s sliding in. in, in, in.

you pant at the continuous press, your jaw slack in pleasure as every inch of simon’s long cock breaches past your slick walls. you don’t realize you’re crying, the hiccuped rasps of your breath ringing loudly in the empty lot.

god, you’re so full. so fucking full.

“s’fucking wet,” simon moans, bumping his forehead between the valleys of your shoulder blades. “s’fucking good.”

you keen, pussy fluttering at the thick stretch of his cock—at how deep it is—feeling your legs quickly turning to mush.

you know you won’t last long again. you never stood a chance at holding back when simon just knows how to fuck you good, after all.

you don’t even snark at simon’s giggle at hearing your dreamy sigh.

જ thinking about giving simon head while he rests against his bike, the thing precariously propped up with nothing but the damn leg stand.

it doesn’t stop you from getting down to your knees anyway, jeans scratching against gravel as you scoot towards simon’s pelvis, nuzzling against his thigh, ignoring the rough fabric of his cargo pants.

simon croons, his big hands falling to hold the sides of your head. you hum, eyes fluttering when simon repositions you so your lips are hovering just above his chub.

“may i?” you ask, not breaking eye contact with him.

simon’s lips wobble and you don’t know how you must look but you can guess—desperate and a mess as you pant for your love’s cock. you can guess because however it is that you may look, it makes the pupils of simon’s eyes expand as it devours the dark browns of his irises.

he can’t hold back just like you.

“f’course,” simon murmurs, his voice grave and deep, almost akin to his morning rasp that always makes you burn with desire.

there is a heartbeat, a moment of building tension, before it peaks, tipping, and then you are fumbling with his pants, your trembling fingers reaching for his zipper before you’re tugging it down and pulling his cock out.

it’s already so hard, flushed at the tip with pre- beading on the head like a pretty pearl, and your mouth falls open, tongue lolling out to catch the drop before it drips down the length of his cock.

that first touch, first taste, is all you needed before you begin lapping at it with passion, drool building atop your tongue and pooling where his cock is pressed. you map the webs of his veins, taking note of the shiver that racks his body, and you hum when simon’s hold on your head tightens before loosening again.

“jesus, baby,” he gasps. “y’r so fuckin’ greedy with it, yeah? so greedy of me?”

you nod despite the difficulty of it, your teary eyes flicking up to meet his again. simon’s so flushed, and you think of how pretty he is as he stands before you like this.

you suckle on the head, mewling as more of his pre- dribbles into your tongue, flooding you with his taste.

more. you want more.

simon’s hips buck into you, thrusting his cock past the inside of your cheeks to meet the back of your throat, and you choke, pooled tears finally slipping past your furrowed eyes. even then, the sudden breach of his cock doesn’t deter you, instead, it makes you squirm, your panties gathering slick as your cunt weeps for his cock, almost like it’s jealous of your own mouth.

“you’re so…” simon’s voice trails off, and when you blink your eyes open again to meet his gaze you see the awed look shadowing his face, almost like he couldn’t fathom just why, exactly, are you so full of passion.

but it’s simon.

do you really need anything else more than that to stoke the flames of desire sitting in the pit of your stomach?

simon’s eyes crinkle, his smile wide. “wow, baby.”

a kick of a giggle makes your throat vibrate and simon moans, drawn out and loud, his head falling back to expose the column of his throat.

see? he is so beautiful bathed in his pleasure.

pleasure he is receiving from you.

hhshshehrhrh this is me fr. me rn! this is also me!! AHHHHHHH i want him bad :((

#biker!simon #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley #anon #ask #suns

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netherfeildren · 5 months ago

Text

Busy, Dying. Part 3;

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my lovely and kind friend @FloBallestra whose beautiful beautiful art inspired me so much for this story. You’re the coolest, smartest girl in the world, Flo; I love being your friend.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No Outbreak AU, A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Soulmates AU, Infidelity, Cheating, Heat Sex, Knotting, Fluff & Smut & Angst, Premature Ejaculation, Scenting, Dacryphilia; Explicit Sexual Content, Dom/sub Undertones, Breeding Kink, Excessive Amounts of Cum, Aftercare, Touch Starved Joel Miller, Angst With a Happy Ending

Word Count: 6.8K

Read on AO3

Part 3;

The apartment with the small, warm room you bring him to is a radiant and generous place; some brightly lit bubble of life Joel hasn’t looked upon in years and years.

You tell him you have a roommate who spends all her time with her girlfriend—crazy in love. They work at the opera, too—set carpenter and sound design. Soon, they plan to get married.

You tell him all of this with a patently wistful look in your eye. Like you’re happy for your friends, and also terribly aware of what it is that landed you in a place like the Emmanuel.

In your bedroom, there are twinkling lights that hang from the edges of the ceiling, and a mess of a pink and cream colored bed at the center of the closely packed room, blankets and pillows piled high into what looks like a preemptively engineered nest.

You move into the space slowly, like you’re shy, hesitant to allow him into this sacred place, as you drape his borrowed coat over the back of the desk chair. The surface of which is cluttered with books and papers, a beaten up red journal, a laptop and makeup strewn about haphazardly. An etched glass bottle of perfume perches precariously at the corner's edge, the deep golden liquid within: still and undisturbed.

“I like your room,” he tells you.

But what he’d really like to say is that he feels in danger here, in this comfortable space. That he wishes he could run but that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, also. Nowhere to run to. That he’s grateful. That the act the two of you are about to commit here will be undeniably selfish. That at the end of it all, he hopes you might forgive him.

The look on your face when you turn to thank him, one hand braced against the back of the chair as if to hold yourself upright, is full of the ardor of your unfurling heat, the weight of your biology, the reasons for finding yourself in the basement of an old church. There’s sweat dampening your hairline and a glaze in your eye that tells him soon you won’t even remember your own name, but you’ll surely remember his.

Joel feels suddenly flayed open, like some prey animal gutted by a wolf, spilling all of his own ravenous hunger out for your witness. It’s a moment of undeniable honesty. His own face, a mirror, his own skin damp with sweat. He’s painfully hard already with your scent on his tongue and fingers and surrounding him everywhere in this room. And the look on your face is so similar to the shiver in his gut, that he decides to be honest with his fears:

“We’re about to do somethin’ selfish here. With no thought for how it might hurt anyone.” Not even ourselves. “And I’ve always been a selfish man. But I worry for you.”

Your lashes flutter, as if taking in the weight of his words. But you smile, “Think I can’t handle it?” Another drooping flutter of your lashes, thick and curling. The fever turns you into an unreliable narrator. He can see the flutter of a too fast pulse beneath the thin skin of your throat. All bravado—you struggle to maintain the smirk. “I don’t think I believe half the things you say about yourself.”

“I don’t care about anything,” he tells you, palms splayed wide as if to show you all his cards.

“You’re a bad liar, Joel Miller.”

You know his last name without him ever having told you, and it feels like a sign. Like you already know everything there is to know about him, so obviously he’s supposed to be here.

“You can sit down,” you offer, slowly moving to shut the door. “They never stay here, we’ll have the apartment to ourselves for a few days most likely.”

He swallows his nerves, the reality that he’s never done a thing like this, been in this position before, slides down his throat to settle heavily in his gut as he sits slowly at the edge of the pink bed. On the nightstand there’s a dangerously leaning tower of books: Anna Karenina, The Second Sex, Emily of New Moon, The Norton Anthology of Poetry, an autobiography of W.B. Yeats, The Happy Hooker, The Act of Creation, Seven Gothic Tales.

A wishful romantic, a realist, a smart girl doing a stupid thing.

He stares at the stack unblinking. You like to read. This is who you are, this person who collects books in your small, pink room with the absent housemate and a brother who’ll only speak to you once a month. Parents who you want to be nothing like. Someone who works at the opera and likes to walk and eats too many sweets, with the golden perfume teetering dangerously at the edge of a desk.

Someone who’d dreamt of something better.

Suddenly, he can’t think of anyone else in his life whose small details he knows like this. Not a single person. Certainly not the woman he’s lived with for the past seven years. Perhaps not even himself.

And learnt in such a short time, too.

You move around him slowly, a gentle hand at his shoulder dragging to softly touch his cheek. He’s glad it’s you he knows like this. At least there is that.

“I’m not scared to be selfish. I’m scared of other things, but not that.”

He swallows, eyes wide and dry. And you’re so beautiful, and wanting him, what else is there to be but frightened and here, waiting for you to decide what’s next for him.

Your soft fingertip follows the curve of his cheekbone, back and forth, watching him with eyes that are not as afraid as his, but wide and young and honest. Full of the potential for life that has so callously slipped through his own hands. He thinks there’s nothing within him that can understand why you’d have found yourself in a place for lonely people. Why would you ever need a miracle cure the way he does? How could God or the whole world not want to miraculously cure you of any sort of loneliness you might have ever suffered? Desperate for the power to turn back the clock, change his whole life, find you at a time when he was young and unbroken and honest, too.

You push his hair back, fingers sliding through the thick strands, dancing over the shell of his ear the way they’d danced over the temptation of sugar. His blood throbs madly at his temples, his muscles spasming beneath his skin; he shuts his eyes, sucking in a slow, deep breath to steady himself. He’s not afraid to admit he’s afraid of this.

He hadn’t suffered any sort of real sex drive in years. His libido cold and inconsistent and… gone. He can’t remember the last time he’d slept with his wife, taken himself in hand. His erection this morning had been the first he could remember in months. Joel worked, he thought of the past, he did not consider himself. He went home, he existed.

He was so, so cold. Frozen.

Now, he is here.

Slowly, he brings his palms to your hips, gripping you there carefully, hearing the phantom sound of your moan in his ear as he’d made you come on his fingers. Unbelieving he’d had the gall to even touch you like that.

The hand at his ear moves to the buttons at the base of his throat, opening the first, the second. His breathing goes erratic, coming in quick, hot bursts. He pulls you in closer, spreading his thighs wider to make room for you, and his hold on you slips higher, mapping the curve of your waist beneath your sweater. Looking up at you with all the wonder of a man coming upon the answer to a question he’d been looking for his entire life.

He tries for sound once, falters. There are so many things he wants to say to you now, and all his bravado from the church has fled him. His strength gone under the feel of your soft fingers and the glow of your pink room in the warm fairy lights. Things he wants to say that might frighten you, disgust you, make you wet and pliant. He swallows courage once again.

“You’re going to let me have you.”

A muscle under your left eye flutters light and frantic, spasming with your nerves. You nod once.

“Fuck you, knot you—” he insists on clarification.

Another nod.

“Say it. Lemme hear it.”

“Yes. I’m going to let you have me.”

He pulls you in even closer, a groan as he presses his face against your belly, breathing in deep, filling his lungs until they hurt with your scent. The ache in his groin and his stomach beats behind his eyelids. Your fingers move quickly, undoing the rest of his buttons and then push his shirt back and off his shoulders, smoothing over the hot skin there up to his neck to ghost over the sensitive skin of his glands. He shudders a broken sound, pressing his face deeper into your stomach.

“The rest—tell me.”

“I’m…I’m going to let you fuck me, knot me.”

He pulls you in tighter, thank you thank you, he says against your midriff, mouth sliding against the knit fabric of your sweater that he pushes up your waist, uncovering the skin of your stomach for him to kiss.

Tugging the garment over your head, you let it fall to the floor from listless fingers, the soft shucking sound landing heavy against the carpet of the quiet room. You have on a black bra, soft, translucent lace, he can see the color of your nipples beneath, beautiful and succulent so his mouth waters. You’re like wild prey caught in his thrall, looking down at him with those bright eyes full of mirrored hunger. His fingertips make their slow, ghosting way up the skin of your back and then down again, mapping you, catching at the waist of your skirt to tug it down over your legs. You’re left only in your dark tights and tiny underwear. Hands on your hips he pivots you, taking a look at the back of a little thong. He feels perverted—he wants to bend you over and spread you wide and look at it all, press his fingers against tight, sensitive skin before getting to taste it all, too.

His legs shake and he hides his face against your stomach again, embarrassed with the intensity of his wanting, breath shaking in his lungs. Your hands smooth over his hair, comforting him, soothing and painful all at once. And cautiously, you begin to push him backwards until he’s stretched out and laying against the soft duvet.

It’s like he floats on a pink cloud, and Joel is nervous.

With his eyes closed, he concentrates on the feel of gentle fingertips moving over his chest, down his belly, sifting through the hair there to the clasp of his belt—open, his jeans, the zipper, parted. It’ll be his skin next. He breathes fast fast fast, he can’t remember the last time anyone touched him, and he has to focus intently on willing the boiling heat his blood full of mercury has become to calm down or he’ll spend in his jeans without you even having pulled him out.

At his sides, his arms are tangled in his open shirt, and he’s unable to defend himself when you climb on top, settling on his lap in nothing but your flimsy tights and your tiny panties.

He can’t look, he’s afraid of what he’ll see. He’s afraid of you.

“Open your eyes, Joel—”

The immediate realization that he’d been wrong before, that he is a weak man, that he’d never been able to escape it, that maybe all the sad, childless alphas of the world are a little bit the same—dying, it doesn’t bother him as perhaps it would have, had he not made it here with you.

“I can’t believe I found you,” he says in utter awe—eyes wide open now.

Your smile is beautiful when you lean over to kiss him. Fingers twisting into his hair as you moan against his tongue, sweet kittennish laps while you grind and press along his chest. He tries to twist out of his tangled shirt, frustration mounting at his trapped arms. He wants to pull you tight, grip you hard, feel your skin and leave his fingerprints everywhere, but you reach down, bracing your hand against his wrist to hold him down. Other hand coming up to circle his throat lightly.

At the provoking nature of your touch, his instincts finally come fully alive.

“This you pretendin’ to be in charge?”

“Yes,” you shiver, pressing your face to his throat, your hips starting a rhythmic cant against his abdomen.

The rumble, low and satisfied in his chest, is one of gratification. Happy to let you play for a moment, familiarize yourself with his body.

“Alright,” he says. “Enjoy it. It’s all you’ll get.”

He settles back, accepting he’s trapped for now whilst you slither lower, shuffling to straddle his thighs. Your touch is tentative, looking up with your own shy candor and glowing cheeks as you carefully grasp his hard flesh.

The muscles in his stomach bunch, a rough, pained sound clawing its way up his throat—he has to clench his whole body to stave off a humiliation.

“Fuck—” Joel whines.

Pulling back, you shove his jeans down his thighs and he toes his boots off, helping you to dispense with the horrible, confining clothes that hurt his skin. When he’s free, his sex lies there, heavy and jutting, and it embarrasses him. The angry, violent looking thing under your beautiful hand.

But there’s a sound in your throat, click clicking, whining too like him, and when you wrap your small fingers around his cock, the both of you stare down in awe. Your touch is too gentle, not hard enough. He needs more. Straining to wrap his own large hand around yours, he shows you how he needs it. Squeezing tightly he writhes on the bed, moving your palms up and down together, teeth clenched tight. He pulls away, letting you handle him on your own, and your touch goes light again, maddening.

“Does it hurt?”

“God yes.”

It aches, it needs inside.

He hisses when you gently part the spongy skin of the tip, foreskin rolled back, pulling the small slit open. Your eyes are glazed over, shiny with the fever heat now, like you don’t really know what’s going on anymore. Humming to yourself while you play with him.

His sac is heavy and tight, the space behind beats. He’s going to come soon, already. It doesn’t matter that you’ve barely touched him, it’d been so long for him, and you’re so beautiful on top of him, sweaty and fevered and ripe. He rips his arms violently from the trap of his shirt, seams popping and grips your hip forcefully with one hand, the other pulling your touch back to his agonized erection, moving your grip up and down brutally. Reaching to tuck his fingers beneath the half-cup of your pretty, lace bra, he tugs, letting one soft, full breast free.

“I’m so close,” he begs.

Your lashes flutter at his tone, nodding your head—I’ll be gentle, I’ll be gentle with you—slicking your palm over the wide, wet head, and then gripping there in a twisting motion, sliding down the length. It’s not hard enough, but goddamn it’s so good, too.

“I’m going to come in your hand, I’m sorry,” he says, too far gone to remember he was feeling embarrassed just a moment ago.

Suddenly, his semen is spilling hot and wet over your fingers and down your wrist, knot pulsing in agony. His animal snarl sends a shocked shiver down your back so that you’re gripping him even tighter, pulling his hips off the bed by the cock, your own high pitched sound meeting his deep one.

He ruts into your fist, moaning, crying your name, and your other hand joins your moving fist to scoop up his thick white come, bringing it to your mouth to smear against your tongue.

Joel is going to die.

He jerks you forward, over himself, fists twisting in your tights and wrenching them apart, snapping the clasp of your bra to tear it off. You’re crying his name back at him, writhing against him, wet hand sliding over his skin and getting come everywhere while you tell him how much you ache, how hot you are, how it hurts without him. How you need him.

Joel is needed, and it is a perfect, suspended moment.

Flipping you over suddenly, he crowds you with his heavy mass, pulling you up off the bed against his chest, belly to belly, fingers in your hair to tug your head back roughly and bearing the soft column of your beautiful throat, he closes his lips around your gland and sucks hard, the flavor of your pheromones flooding his mouth, sticky on his tongue like honey. Your fists tangle in his hair, pulling him in closer, bearing yourself further, a keening cry on your tongue as he ravages the supremely sensitive skin.

With a growl, he pulls back, running his rough hands all over you. Skin, bare and soft and hot. And with one rough tug, he rips the barely there panties from your hips, beneath him you’re breathing fast and hiccupped in a way that makes him feel like a predator and you some small prey. Your breasts are soft and lovely—on a quiet, hungry sound, he captures the tip of one in his mouth, sucking careful, then hard, biting gently, working the sensitive nipple with his tongue until you’re moaning and pleading with him for more. He can feel your hot cunt wet against his stomach.

“Hmm, such sweet, sensitive pretty tits. Do you like that, little omega?”

Your scent builds, blossoming and swelling and he feels the change in your temperature when you dip fully into the pit of your heat, his own rut responding in kind, coming up on him like a wave so that he feels suddenly that all sense has been lost and all he is, is a thing that takes, with you beneath him so ready to give.

He had warned you that this would be a selfish sort of thing.

Wrapping his big hands around your soft tits, he sucks on one and then the other, slapping the side to watch it jiggle and then, with a rough sound, nipping at it again like he’s angry at how it moves. He slides lower, teeth scraping along your ribs, tasting the curve of your soft belly, dipping to bite at the plump inner slopes of your thighs. Between your legs—God. Had he ever smelled something so sweet? Your arousal is thick and leaking heavily, pooling between your thighs onto the bed.

You’re beyond words or reasoning now, maybe that’s why he feels brave enough to say: “You can’t imagine the things I’ve done t’you in my dreams. Disgusting things. I wanna fill you so badly, mark you with my scent and my come. Want you to be only mine.”

He buries his face in your cunt, lapping at your hole and sucking on your pretty clit, so swollen. Spreading your sex open to admire what’s his.

Oh please, you cry above him, dragging your palms over your body to squeeze your own breasts tightly. He watches a lone tear slide down your temple in rapt fascination, and he’s certain he’s never laid eyes on such a sight in his entire life.

“Shh,” he soothes. “Let alpha kiss your little clit.”

He presses a full mouthed kiss to the swollen bud, eyes still locked on your face, flicking his tongue slowly back and forth. You’re so wet, pouring slick for him. Joel takes a deep breath through a clenched jaw, and distantly, thinks it would be wise of him to make you come first on his mouth. But as he straightens to his knees, his palms sliding up the backs of your thighs, the pads of his fingers pressed against the vulnerable backs of your knees, spreading you wide, touching skin softer than he even knew was possible, he knows he can’t wait any longer. Doesn’t want to.

You’re begging for it anyways. You don’t want him to wait either.

His wet cockhead brushes against your belly as he leans over to give you a long, lingering kiss. One last moment of softness, he thinks, before all reason is lost to rut.

He’d like to say so many other things. That you’re like an angel. That it makes sense he’d found you where he did. That he wants to do obscene things to you. Tie you up—ropes wrapped around your heavy breasts, your soft thighs, so that he might watch your skin take his marks. Keep you captured and bound.

Abstinence does strange things to a man.

Kneeling between your spread thighs, he lets his cock lay heavy against you, reaching halfway up your belly. Your palm slides over it, pressing at the hot skin, letting yourself rock against it, thighs flexing.

“This part is the worst,” you cry. “—So hot. Oh, I itch and burn everywhere, alpha.” Your words are slurred and febrile.

“You’re alright,” he soothes, taking hold of his thick flesh. “I’m here to fix it now.”

You claw gently at his shoulders like a desperate creature seeking safety. He tucks the wide head against your little hole, and eyes full of glorious fever, hair clinging to your sweaty face, you lift yourself up a little to watch him push it in.

As he presses inside you, Joel feels like he might cry.

He’s sure when he returns to that house not a home, that meager and cold place, that he will cry. Thinking he can’t remember when the last time was that he allowed himself to weep. Like touch, like lust, like all he’d deprived himself of for so long—his whole life, nothing but abstinence—Joel can’t remember the last time he let himself cry.

Now, he presses deeper, lashes fluttering, and he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. He slides his hands beneath your bottom, lifting you, filling you, and hisses, eyes on where he fucks you open. His hips nudging forward, rocking, until he’s balls deep, the wide, painfully sensitive tip of his cock pressed firmly against the mouth of your cervix. His burgeoning knot is an unspeakable ring of pleasure at the base. He bends, hunching over your splayed open form, to kiss your midriff, nuzzling gentle at your belly. Above him, you mumble nonsensically: his name, alpha, pleading for more.

Joel—it sounds more beautiful than he’s ever heard it said before. Like it means something now, not just a thing that exists, but a real person, too.

He pulls his hips back until only the wide head remains caught in the tight ring of your pussy—it’s so swollen, he can almost imagine he sees the blood beating beneath the thin, slippery skin. You’ve bloomed for him, and you’re so beautiful for it. He slides forward, hard, bumping roughly against your womb again and grinding there, making you really feel him. You wail once, long and sharp, and then the low pitiful sound of an animal trapped in a maw of teeth.

“Fuck—Oh, fuck,” he grits, letting himself fall forward on braced arms, looking down at where you connect, how you stretch so shockingly around the thickest part of him, the place just before his knot starts to swell. As if he could tear you apart.

His thrusts pick up speed, not bothering to measure the strength behind them, you were made for this after all. Perfect little omega cunt meant to be fucked hard—it starts to flutter around him, the wettest, most obscene sound he’s ever heard, squeezing and milking his length as you come on him for the first time.

“That’s it. Yes—” he growls, fucking you on his cock, your arousal dripping down onto his balls as he pulls out and slides back in with a deep, satisfied groan at the feel of his omega coming for him.

Joel loses his mind to the feel of it—better than anything else has ever been.

“Is your pretty cunt feeling good? She’s sucking on alpha so well, little one. This is what y’needed. I know. F’r me to fuck you until you wet my cock with your come.”

Wrapping his palm around your throat, reaching for your wrist to pin it to the mattress, the way you’d held him, prone and caught beneath him, he holds your pulse in two places, presses his lips to a third, the perfect, fragrant spot behind your ear. Tasting there, licking and sucking on the delicate skin. Ravenous mouth moving down to your gland, as soft and sensitive as your clit.

“Perfect, perfect thing. Can’t believe I found you—” he says again, taking your mouth now in a desperately hungry kiss. Your free arm wraps itself around his neck, holding him tightly. His chest fills with a heat so unbearable his heart feels it’ll burst, and then he’s settling as deep as he can, knot catching and swelling, and he’s pumping long spurts of hot come into your soft little womb, filling you.

His weight falls heavy over you, smothering your body with his much larger one, while he throbs deep inside of you, breathing in your scent, letting himself be suffused with your warmth.

Your smell, full of heat-fever, so sweet it sticks to his gums—it fills his head with thoughts of what next…what if? Plots to keep this for himself for the rest of his life because beneath all of that sweetness, all of that sticky slick that slides between your two hot, perspiring bodies, there’s him. Beneath all of that, him, him, his. Your bones are made of his own scent now. How could he ever let you go when you’re made of him?

“Look at me, look at me.” He pushes the sweat soaked hair out of your face, tilting your head back to get a good look at you. “You’re alright? Lemme see that angel face.” Your cheeks are burning hot, eyes unfocused, but you give him the most beautiful smile, sated and entirely trusting.

Your fingertips touch his own face, passing lightly over his eyelids and nose to his mouth.

“I’m okay. I’m okay, alpha. I’m here.” You tug his head closer with weak, heat-sick fingers. “More. More. I’m so hot—” But you shiver like you’re cold. “It hurts, please.”

“Tell me how it feels,” he rumbles. “Describe it to me.”

He goes limb-heavy over your body, pressing you into the bed, comforting you with his breadth. The skin between your eyebrows wobbles and creases, a tiny frowning pinch, and you make the most curious hiccupping noise. Like the answer to his question needs to work its way slowly through your silly, little heat-addled mind.

“Oh—it’s… it’s— Joel, it’s so good. I never thought—alpha, I never imagined it would be like this,” you mumble and slur. “So full.”

He watches the bright eyes fill with tears then, and spill over in a hot rush, clinging in large perfect droplets to long lashes of which he counts every single strand. The sight of your tears, of your overwhelm—it makes him come more. His cock jerks and swells impossibly fuller, and he begins to spurt again, filling your belly swollen with his seed against his own stomach.

“Silly thing,” he soothes gently. “S’no need to cry, little omega.”

“Oh, but Joel—” you sob, nuzzling into his throat, mouthing at the swollen gland behind his ear.

“I know it’s a lot,” he assures you, rolling the two of you over onto your sides, cuddling you close and gentle-like, petting your hair and letting the deep, rumbling sounds in his chest wash over you soothingly. “Just need some rest now. That’s all.”

He presses a kiss to your hairline, your brow, your mouth again—he licks into it deeply, pulling the edges wider to make more room for himself, his tongue tasting all along your own. He can understand your tears, how overwhelming this must be for an omega inexperienced in taking an alpha with a knot as big as his. It’s true that he might not have had much experience before this, but this is natural, after all. This is who Joel is and what he was meant for. This is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

I belong here, he whispers into your hair as you settle into him, melting into a heavy and sated sleep—so beautifully obedient, willingly submitting to his caring command for rest.

He feels so far away from where he’d started, from that mad creature who’d lost everything—that man with a daughter a whole world away. With nothing to hold on to and even less to lose.

He feels closer to his real self, here and now, than he has in years.

You had both been so alone and in so much pain, but he had found you.

The heat dips and swells in waves and bursts. You wake gradually from that first reprieve, calling his name, begging for something only he can give you. He takes you again and again, the bed so wet it sticks to your fevered skin, sweat and semen and spit. On your side, back to chest, his body cupped around yours in a shape akin to love, kissing your neck, your chin, the cup of one palm and the inside of a wrist. On all fours, mounted like a defenseless thing, fluttering, little hole creamy from use—spread it open, let me see what belongs to me. Splayed above him, little drip of a girl, cooing his name mindlessly, caressing yourself, sliding your hands over the round of your belly, cupping your breasts, tips of your fingers tangling in your hair while you writhe above him, and Joel…Joel is sure he will die beneath you, watching you like this. He moves inside of your slick heat, cunt like a little furnace. Your tears leak in a constant stream that he licks from your cheeks to slake his thirst.

Time is a loop and a loop and a loop and maybe the two of you exist here only, together now.

He thinks that he goes away from himself too, sometimes. Forgets his name and his past and who he was or who he could be and lives only inside your cunt, to fill and mark as his. He is certain that this is the warmest bed he’s ever known.

When he blinks awake and coherent, he feeds you soup he’s pilfered from the fridge and water that he drips into your mouth from his own, and feels sure that it must turn sweet on your tongue. If anyone could, it’d be you—turn water to wine.

Joel thinks he might finally believe in God now.

The gut twisting realization of all he could lose here, how he feels so happy beside you—it turns him from a faithless man into one full of zealous belief. And on a sigh, he feathers his lips over yours, the round of your cheek, the arch of your brow. He’s not alone anymore, and he’s happy. If he could, he’d hold onto this feeling forever.

Your eyes blink open, focused for the first time in hours or maybe days, but heat burns so brightly from the center of your navel, osmosing into his own belly, that he knows he only has a moment.

“Hey,” softly.

You murmur back at him, confused little hiccups of sound followed by a fluttery kiss to the tip of his chin, the bite of hungry teeth demanding flesh.

“Did you know you snore?” He laughs into the sensitive shell of your ear, rolling on top of you. His knot is sated for now, but it throbs with the feeling of his heavy length moving within you.

You blink once, wide eyed—then a funny little frown. “I do not!”

“Yeah, you do. It’s very soft like the purr of a kitten,” he tells you, nuzzling at the swollen gland at the slide of your neck. You make a soft sound at the back of your throat at the touch. “Yes—just like that.”

“Don’t snore—” you mutter, lashes fluttering and drooping. Too much conversation for the sleepy omega.

“Don’t go away yet. Talk to me for a little bit. Stay with me.” He squeezes the back of your neck and your eyes blink open, hazy and then alert.

“Do you have dreams?” He thinks to ask you.

“Oh, yes.” Your eyes droop again, there’s a smile on your face.

“What about?”

You hum, the look on your face is sly in that half-sleep space he’s trying to tug you out of.

“Of being great. Of being loved. Of being happy. Of family. Like a story book. I never thought I’d find anyone to love me,” you say with your eyes closed. Joel’s heart writhes in his chest, pains him as if it were cleaving in two. But you’re smiling, tangled in your dream, and say: “I want us to know each other so long and so well, we don’t need words to speak.”

He’s like an imposter in this bed, for all his feelings of belonging—unsure he could ever give you anything you really want.

“Does your brother look like you?” he asks all of a sudden.

“Yes. Very much. Does yours?”

“I don’t think so, but people say he does. Where it counts, we’re nothing alike. What’s his name?” he asks you.

You whisper it in his ear. Another one of the small things about your life that he knows about no one else.

The two of you tell each other things you’ve never told anyone else, funny things, sad things. Words full of hope that leave a bitter and longing taste in Joel’s mouth.

“Did you never want to have a baby?” you ask, and his heart jumps to his throat.

“I did once. She died.”

He can’t believe he has the courage to say these words which he hasn’t talked of in years and years out loud. Your eyes snap open, the pupil contracting so quickly it frightens him.

“Oh. I understand now.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I see it now.”

“What do you see?”

“What you were looking for.”

“What was it? Tell me—” For part of him feels he still doesn’t know.

“A way back to yourself, of course”

He nods, a feeling of relief so intense washing through his body, his limbs ache with it. Something chemical within him aligning for one perfect, singular second. He feels entirely known, and he thinks: this is the happiest moment of my life— before it fades away.

“Maybe. Yes.”

“Do you think it can be okay now?”

You press your entire palm against the skin of his face, as if you’d lift it off his skull and look at what’s held beneath.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it can ever be okay after something like that.”

“Please, don’t be sad anymore,” you tell him as if it were something so simple. As if it would just be within him because you’ve asked it so.

“I’ll try.” But he knows it isn’t something he won’t ever be hurt by. Joel realizes, with your simple words, this isn’t something he’ll ever be able to fix. That there will always be something missing, incomplete about him, and that no matter how hard he works, how hard he prays, how deeply he could ever lose himself inside of you, he feels sure it won’t ever be enough. He’s still in want of his miracle. “I’ll try,” he says again. “There are times I feel relieved. She suffered.”

“I’m sorry.” He can tell that you really are.

“We eventually all do. Perhaps that’s where the relief came from. She got hers over with quick.”

“What was her name?”

“Sarah.”

You put your hand over his heart, your face is wet with tears.

“Do you think this is a betrayal?” you ask him then.

The reminder of the woman who is his wife, who he had tried to love but who could never reach the bottom of that dark and fathomless well of cold within him to find anything worthwhile, it does nothing to him. Is it a betrayal? Surely to someone who cared it would be. But Joel cannot remember the last time they really talked, the last time either of them cared about one another. Maybe he’s a bad man. He’d chosen her for comfort, because it’d been what he felt he should do. Perhaps merely for something to do, or because he knew it’d be easy. Comforted by the fact that she was a beta and could thus never know him in a more intimate or painful way, in a way that would demand more of him. He couldn’t even accuse himself of not doing right by her because he’d always done what he was supposed to, what she’d asked of him which was so little, truly, that there could be no real claim of betrayal. At least, not before this, you, his knot locked within you and his heart on his tongue ready to be spit into your palm.

Yeah, maybe he’s a bad man. Certainly one who could never, ever deserve to keep this.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I know what the word means anymore.”

He bids you to sleep again after that, and in a brief respite of clarity, he has the wherewithal to call his house, to let the woman who lives there with him know he’ll be gone for a few days longer. But there’s no answer, and he’s relieved. In the following days, his phone does not ring.

As he stands before your bed, he takes a moment to study the picture you pose as. Curled in the center of your pink nest—you look lonely.

Do you even really exist if no one loves you?

Outside, there is snow in the night—winter come alive in the midst of heat. He climbs back into the bed, taking you into his embrace, arranging you perfectly, a sharp elbow, the soft knee—certain that he won’t ever be able to fix himself, to keep you, choking on gratitude that at least he gets this. He’ll preserve it in his memory for the rest of his life and maybe it’ll be okay.

As he lays watching you sleep beside him, entirely innocent in your vulnerability, and with such trust, lying here in this bed you’ve shared together, he has for a moment a great and treasurable illusion of the past. This feeling of being trusted by someone so entirely, that gift of someone’s safety and heart and rest handed to him with little compunction, for there is that much certainty in the care that will come from him. Watching the dreamscape unfold behind your fluttering eyelids, the membrane so thin there’s that almost indiscernible pulse of your heart beating through your body. The street lamp glow comes in through a split in the curtains to lay warmly over your lovely face, and there’s only faint sound, the blown snow. Little light, a heart of warmth.

It’s late now, he thinks, I could love you. Saying it out loud would be like creating a world with its sound.

He shifts his weight to make you more comfortable, your warm, soft weight rolling more heavily into his side, moaning unintelligibly in your febrile sleep, and then suddenly, lucid—Joel. The sound of his name in your mouth makes him real again for a single moment—how will he ever let this go? His throat is tight, perhaps with the strangle of tears—don’t leave me, don’t leave me, you murmur like you already know. And then settle quiet again, falling away back into deep sleep.

There is only your rest now, the soft sound of your sleeping, darkness. They are here, the both of them, together. At the center of all things, there is this bond; biology or heart or soul. Fate—perhaps.

He could bite you, make you his mate, fuck it all to hell. Run away again. He’s done it once before.

But how could he ever keep you without a miracle fix?

Outside there exists, as always, that great tragedy, that undying grief, that barren loneliness. But for now, there is this, and you, this enduring heart of warmth. His own dreams.

This cannot be happiness; that ever elusive thing. He must decide that in the here and now, in the presence of this enduring moment. This is the thing he can never earn and will not keep, and even perhaps, cannot realize for what it truly is.

All of this, he decides with his thumb against the mating gland at the back of your neck.

This is not joy, Joel lies and lies and lies.

Part 4;

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#busy dying fic #vic fic #Joel Miller fanfiction #Joel Miller smut #Joel Miller AU #a/b/o dynamics

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susansontag · 3 months ago

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I remember when a friend asked during a tense conversation about feminism whether I “supported stay-at-home mothers” (and I assume housewives). I wish I’d known better how to respond then; I did the usual thing of speaking to systemic forces rendering some options for women less viable; I made it all about the language of choice and how it hides processes that limit one’s choices.

it’s a fine answer, it’s not wrong. but ultimately it ignores something very important, and that is that SAH mothers and housewives are adults who are entirely economically dependent on another adult, or other adults, in order to get the things they require to survive (food, shelter, in some cases medical care, etc)—and no, I can’t support this. any society that is set up for a significant amount of that society’s adults to be entirely dependent on the whims of other adults to survive is a sick society.

that the society isn’t set up to be able to handle child-rearing in any other way is also evidence that it is oppressive, that it’s sick. I’m not in denial that raising children itself is a full-time job, but I am aware that there are reasons certain adults are called upon to do it and not others, I am aware that the society doesn’t encourage an organisation in which multiple people can raise a child, or that one person can for a while, another later, etc. it’s also unpaid; or rather, in marxian terms, it’s paid for by the working adult, who gives money to the other or else directly buys them what they require to survive. this is making a child of an adult, who in many cases is perfectly capable of handling money and earning money, and thus controlling how they access things crucial to survive.

so no, I don’t ‘support’ a society that is organised to allow the infantilisation of half its adults, even one that has developed itself to the point where those adults are now legally free to become wage-labourers, so long as the patriarchal mechanisms that ensure at least some of them, or them (women) far more often than any others (men), are the ones giving up their financial independence and access to resources needed to live. this is a dangerous, precarious way to live, and no one should have to lie about that. it’s absolutely not the SAH mothers’, or housewives’ fault; I don’t personally blame them. but it isn’t true that this is a neutral, let alone good, ‘decision’. it’s actually deeply disturbing, and the idea it’s feminists infantilising these women, saying they shouldn’t be allowed the ‘choice’ to give up their entire financial independence, rather than a societal structure that makes women more likely to be forced into making this ‘decision’ to become effective children dependent on another adult to survive, is an inaccurate and antifeminist construction. beyond its obviously being a symptom of liberal-capitalist brainwashing, with all its empty talk of ‘freedom of choice for the individual’ etc.

#feminism #tradwife #moth.txt

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acapelladitty · 9 months ago

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`♡° kinktober 2024! ---

☆ kink: predicament bondage

☆ pairing: Karl Heisenberg/Reader

☆ summary: Putting you into a tricky situation, Lord Heisenberg takes advantage of your choices.

kinktober '24 ☆ main masterlist ☆ ao3

"The choice is yours, sweetheart," drawing the last word out with a wolfish grin, Heisenberg remained on his haunches as he crouches before you. "For every candle spilled, not only do you get to feel the scald of the wax, but I'll also add another fresh one to the mix."

On all fours like a dog, your knees and palms press into the cold stone of the factory floor with staunch determination. The game had been his idea and while the terms weren't the most comfortable, the possible reward was delicious as you rolled the image of the new non-metal restraints which he had crafted for himself in your mind.

"Let's set a target of, oh let's say seven minutes," Heisenberg continues, standing to circle your body like a vulture. "If you can survive my play for seven minutes without spilling the three candles then we'll say you've won."

"Okay."

A harsh slap to your ass threatens to spill the first candle and you scowl as your body quickly stiffens to stop the wobble. All three candles are perched precariously on your back, the thick bases giving them enough of a balance to ensure that they wouldn’t fall without sufficient movement, and the slow burn of the wick would only allow the odd droplet to fall down to drip against your unprotected skin.

"Properly, slut."

"Okay, my lord," a title given with a roll of your eyes.

“That’s better,” Heisenberg nodded, standing to his full height as you crane your neck up to meet him. An off-white shirt clings to his chest, the fabric stained from both the oils of the metalwork of his earlier work and also the faintly yellowing marks of his sweat, a constant given the incessant heat of the factory. The sleeves rolled up past his hair-covered forearms, dark pants finish his outfit as his trusty overcoat lays abandoned in another part of the building.

A thick hand pressing on your ass makes your legs spread slightly wider, the stance giving you the best possible chance of keeping the candles still as you focus on maintaining balance. A trickle of wax burns your back at the movement and you sigh at the sensation, heated skin overly sensitive and full of anticipation for what’s to come.

Heisenberg cups your cunt with his palm, the heat of his skin making you shudder and you can feel how easily his skin slides against your own – your arousal coating the skin of his palm despite the fact that he’s barely touched you yet.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he grunts, “can’t even get a good grip of you because you’re so wet.”

Flushing with embarrassment, you don’t answer him and instead gently roll your hips and press your cunt harder into his hand.

A wide thumb pressing against your clit, the skin there calloused and rough, is almost your undoing as the sudden pressure on your throbbing nub sends a wicked bolt of pleasure across your groin.

“Hnng,” you cry out, catching the moan between your lips as you refuse to give him the satisfaction of a proper reaction. Your cunt aches with need and you can imagine how tempting it all looks for him – the spread of your legs allowing him to see just how wet and willing you are and how easily he could take what he wanted.

His fingers thrust with your embarrassingly wet cunt and you tense at how rough his movements are, knowing that he’s attempting to get a rise out of your still body.

“Goddamn! Leaking like a faucet, sweetheart,” Heisenberg comments and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “Might need to craft up a new plug to keep you from dripping around the place like a bitch in heat.”

Shuddering at his words, you feel the heat of a fallen droplet of wax as it drops from the side of the middle candle and rolls across your back before hardening. The discomfort only lasts a moment but with the added sensation of the thick fingers stretching out your cunt it feels more intense and you bite your lip with every curl of his digits against your walls.

But it still isn’t enough to get you to fail as you maintain a desperate stiffness in your spine to keep the candles in place.

“I can feel how tense you are, you struggling already?” Asking the question with faux concern, Heisenberg adds a third finger to your cunt and the stretch takes your breath away for a moment.

“N-no,” you reply, “I’m doing fin-oh my god.”

Interrupting your own answer as his thumb returns to your clit, the sudden burst of intense pleasure makes your body flinch in place and you hiss as a stream of fresh wax falls to burn along your skin. It’s heaven and hell, your body desperate to push back and beg for more while your brain forces it to keep still, thinking of the reward to come.

The cold metal of something round presses at your clit and you sigh at the sensation, the cool material very welcome against your heated, swollen flesh. Rubbing slow circles, Heisenberg ensures that every nerve in your clit knows what’s about to happen and the anticipation of it has your spine locking like steel in preparation. It starts off slow, the hum of the metal vibrating every so slightly as Heisenberg manipulates the material with his abilities, and the gentleness of the sensation against your clit is maddening as you fight the urge to push more roughly against it.

Sensing your need for more, Heisenberg ups the vibrations and you instantly regret your own greed as the vibe teases wicked circles around your clit – the movements very quickly dragging you to the edge of release as you carefully try to keep the rounded edge of it from making direct contact with your nub – knowing that it will force your back to jerk and spill the candles.

“Karl, please,” begging with words which are broken up by messy panting, you pound your fist against the floor as you desperately try to avoid his vibe – a pointless venture as the shifting pressure of the vibrations acts as more of a wicked tease. “You can’t do that, it’s not- ah- it’s not fair.”

“Who said anything about fair, sweetheart?” Openly enjoying himself, Heisenberg is every inch the cat who caught the canary as he holds you at the edge with his relentless teasing, “I’m playing to win, just like you are. So stop bitching.”

“Please! If I come then it's going to ruin everyt-fuck!” Again cut off as he angles the vibe in such a way that it brushes across your swollen clit, you jerk messily and feel one of the candle wobble dangerously as it spills most of its accumulated wax across your back – covering more of the skin with red wax that you know is standing out beautifully against your skin. “Please!”

“No. You wanted to play this game, slut. It was your idea after all,” Heisenberg laughs, a full-bellied chuckle that is as infuriating as it is sexy, “And I am always happy to indulge your nasty little gam-”

A shrill alarm, the volume of it making your flinch in surprise, rings out across the room to announce that the seven minutes is up and a vicious squeal of metal puts an end to the noise as Heisenberg growls and crushes the alarm with his powers.

Your cunt still twitching and dripping with need, you can’t help the grin that splits your lips as you realise that you have won the bet.

It was almost worth all the teasing.

“I won, handsome,” you announce, dropping your head to place your warm cheek against the cool floor as you wriggle your body with a teasing gentleness. “So, I guess the big bad metal man is getting tied up and fucked the way that I want.”

Humming as he returns his thumb to your clit and strokes slow circles around it while you grunt at the resuming attention, Heisenberg plunges two fingers back into your soaked cunt.

“Sure sounds like I lost,” he says and you can hear the sarcasm in his tone, “but I don’t think the game needs to be over just because the timer went off.”

And with that, his arm locks roughly around your hips, pinning you in place with his inhumane strength and knocking over two of the candles – the sudden burn of the wax as it spread across your back making you gasp in surprise before dissolving into a discomforting groan. A high-pitched humming noise is the only warning you get of the vibe before the head of it is pressing harshly against your sensitive clit and the intense, almost painful, burst of overstimulation makes you cry out and pound your fists against the floor.

Your brain short-circuits in an instant and you understand that Heisenberg plans on taking out his loss on your poor, twitching cunt until your legs are jellied enough that you won’t be able to support yourself. As though hearing your thoughts, Heisenberg laughs once more as he tightens his grip even more and holds your bucking frame in place as he continues to torment your poor overstimulated clit.

#karl heisenberg #lord heisenberg #resident evil #resident evil village #re8 heisenberg #heisenberg x reader #heisenberg x you #karl heisenberg x reader

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solxamber · 9 months ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: I Want to Retire - Idia Shroud x reader

You write a novel that reads like a dumpster fire and while trying to delete the draft, you accidentally get isekai’d into it. Now, as the villainess you have to get Idia Shroud on your side as well as survive high society. You have your work cut out for you.

Series Masterlist

You’ve lived a life. A noble life, full of honor, glory, and caffeine-fueled late-night writing sessions.

You're an aspiring author.

An aspiring author who, unfortunately, just created the most stupid novel plot of all time.

At least, that’s how it feels. You sit back, staring at your screen, utterly defeated as your latest creation flickers mockingly before you.

You’ve named it: "The Battle for Genius Prince Idia’s Hand" (working title, don’t judge). And wow, it’s a mess.

Here’s the breakdown of your disaster:

You’ve got your heroine—a girl so sweet she’s practically made of sugar, like one of those cookies that look good but crumble the second you bite into them. Naturally, she’s fighting for the affection of your male lead, Prince Idia, who is a socially awkward, genius mechanic prince (because you thought it’d be fun to make him hot and bad with people).

Then there’s the villainess. Ah, the villainess. She’s smart, sharp-tongued, and has enough sass to level a small city. Her entire personality? Sabotage. And she’s also after Idia—because apparently, that’s the only thing women in this story care about. (You regret this immensely.)

But oh no! Plot twist! Idia gets kidnapped by some unnamed evil force (you’ll figure it out later). The heroine? Well, instead of rescuing him, she falls for some Bland Prince. You don’t even know why. You think his name might be Greg. Or Gerald. Honestly, he’s that unremarkable.

Meanwhile, the villainess doesn’t even care anymore about Idia. Instead, she’s full-on dedicated to ruining the heroine’s new, bland romance because… well, that’s her whole schtick.

It’s… awful.

You sit back, hands in your hair, groaning aloud. “What is this? Who would even read this?”

You glance at your notes. They’re a chaotic mess of random scribbles: “Idia = genius, but hates people,” “Villainess needs more fire,” and “Heroine? Too boring. Spice her up. Maybe dragons?”

Yeah. This isn’t working.

You slump in your chair, utterly defeated. The characters are good, great even! But the plot? Oh, the plot is a dumpster fire. No, worse. It’s a flaming dumpster floating down a river of bad decisions. You can’t believe you spent hours writing this.

That’s it. You’re scrapping the entire thing. You’ll keep the characters, sure. But the story? Gone. Deleted. No one needs to suffer through this mess.

Determined, you crack your knuckles and reach for the keyboard, ready to hit the big red “DELETE” button on your disasterpiece.

“Say goodbye to this trash heap,” you mutter, “and hello to some actual good writing.”

But, alas, the universe has other plans.

Just as your finger hovers over the delete key, the worst possible thing happens. Your elbow, as if possessed by the forces of chaos itself, nudges the precariously balanced coffee cup on your desk. The liquid inside, which you had so carefully placed right next to your laptop like a ticking time bomb, tips. In slow motion, you watch the dark, caffeinated doom spill over the edge and land directly onto your keyboard.

“No, no, no, no, NO!” you shout, lunging forward, but it’s too late.

The coffee floods your keys like a tidal wave of misfortune. Your laptop makes a sickening little noise, a soft bzzt, and the screen flickers ominously. You sit there, frozen in horror, watching your computer sizzle as if it’s been cursed by the gods of terrible life choices.

And then—just when you think it couldn’t get worse—it gets worse.

There’s a small, but very real, spark. You flinch back, because nothing good ever comes from sparks. The screen flickers violently, the keys start to buzz, and then—before you can even process what’s happening—you feel it.

ZAP!

Electricity courses through your body. Your vision flashes white, your muscles seize, and in one horrifyingly comedic moment, you realize you’re being electrocuted by your own laptop.

You’d scream if you could, but all you manage is a high-pitched whimper before everything goes black.

Dead. You’re dead. Killed by your own coffee and a poorly thought-out novel. Fantastic.

You blink your eyes open, your head pounding like you’ve been hit with a ton of bricks—or, more likely, an electrical charge. Slowly, your vision clears, and you find yourself… staring at an unfamiliar, ornately decorated ceiling.

Where the hell are you?

You sit up with a groan, and that’s when it hits you: the bed. It’s massive, plush, and absurdly luxurious—definitely not your usual ratty mattress. Panic sets in, and you scramble out of bed, only to catch your reflection in a nearby mirror.

It’s not your reflection.

Oh.

Oh, Shit.

Staring back at you is her. The villainess. The sharp-tongued, drama-fueled antagonist of your novel. The one with a penchant for ruining lives and stealing the spotlight. The one you made up.

You gasp, gripping the sides of the mirror. “No. NO.” You stare at the dark hair cascading over your shoulders, the perfectly arched brows, and the terrifyingly intense smirk that seems to have a life of its own. “Why am I her? Why this of all characters?”

You step back from the mirror and slap your cheeks, half hoping that’ll wake you up from this fever dream. It doesn’t. You’re still stuck in the body of the villainess, and with each passing second, reality—or whatever twisted version of it this is—sinks in deeper.

“Of course,�� you mutter, throwing your hands up in frustration. “Of course this is my life now. I write the dumbest novel in existence, and this is what I get.” You pace in front of the mirror, ranting to no one in particular. “Who even thinks it’s a good idea to make me the villainess? Me?! I didn’t sign up for this!”

After a few minutes of thoroughly berating yourself—and by extension, the cosmic forces that brought you here—you finally stop, resting your hands on your hips.

“Okay. Fine. FINE. I’ll play your stupid game, universe.” You throw one last glare at your reflection. “But I’m not tormenting the heroine. Nope. She can have her stupid one-sided rivalry for all I care. I want nothing to do with this mess.”

The decision made, you shake your head and take a deep breath. “Alright, what’s next?” You glance around the villainess’s extravagant room, trying to figure out your next move. And then, a lightbulb goes off in your head.

Prince Idia.

In your novel, he’s socially awkward, reclusive, and definitely doesn’t deserve to get caught up in this disaster. He’s just collateral damage in your sorry excuse for a plot, and honestly? You feel kinda bad about it.

You snap your fingers. “That’s it. I’ll find Prince Idia. Save him or something. Maybe I can even get a reward for rescuing a royal!” You’re feeling pretty good about this plan—much better than sticking around and causing drama with the heroine, at least.

With a dramatic flourish (you are still the villainess, after all), you head for the door, ready to track down Idia and redeem yourself in whatever twisted way you can manage. Who knows, maybe this whole situation won’t be as bad as you thought.

Or… maybe it’ll be even worse. But you’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.

After what feels like hours of arguing with your stubborn, uptight butler—who is absolutely convinced that your decision to head straight for the abandoned palace at the edge of town is the worst idea you’ve ever had—you finally break free.

“If anyone was kidnapped, that’s where they’d be!” you shout over your shoulder as you march toward your carriage, ignoring his protests about "safety" and "reckless behavior."

Butler or not, you’re on a mission. And after a bumpy ride to the palace, here you are, standing at the entrance, waiting for the traps or menacing guards to pounce.

...Nothing.

It’s strangely anticlimactic, actually. You push open the door, expecting maybe a cackle or some ominous fog. But no, just dust and an eerie silence. You frown, stepping cautiously inside.

“What kind of royal abduction is this? Budget cuts?”

Just as you’re about to chalk this whole thing up to a monumental waste of time, you hear it—a low curse, followed by the distinct sound of tinkering. You freeze, listening closer.

Definitely someone messing with something.

Your hand instinctively reaches for your trusty gun (bless past-you for deciding guns belonged in this novel), and with practiced ease, you pull it out and slam open the nearest door.

"Hands up!" you yell, pointing the barrel directly at—

A very, very scared Prince Idia, crouching beside what looks like a half-assembled mechanical gadget. His wide, shocked eyes meet yours, and he lets out a startled yelp, nearly knocking over the tools scattered around him.

"Wh-What the hell?!" you blurt, lowering the gun slightly. This was not the daring rescue scene you imagined.

Idia flinches, awkwardly raising his hands. “I—uh, I don’t know who you are, but how did you even find me?!” he stammers, looking at you like you just kicked his favorite gaming console.

"How did I—? Are you kidding me?" You gesture dramatically with the gun, still in shock. "I’m one of the people you were supposed to choose from! Remember? The whole ‘Battle for the Hand of Prince Idia’ thing?”

He blinks at you, deadpan. “Oh… Oh, no,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Absolutely not. I’m not going back. I staged this whole thing for a reason.” He crosses his arms, stubborn. “I’ll just stay here with my gadgets. You can go back to… whatever you do.”

You stare at him, flabbergasted. “What do you mean you staged this?” You glance around the dusty, decrepit palace. “This is your brilliant escape plan? Hiding out in the palace equivalent of a haunted IKEA?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s quiet, it’s out of the way, and no one bothers me here. I didn’t get kidnapped, okay? I just—didn’t want to deal with all the royal court nonsense.” He shrugs, as if staging a fake kidnapping is the most logical thing in the world.

“You do realize that Ortho is still at the palace, right? Your little brother? Alone? Without you?” You raise an eyebrow, watching the slow dawning horror creep across Idia’s face.

“Yeah, so?” He huffs. “He’s the Crown Prince now. I’m sure he’s fine—"

“Bro,” you interrupt, “have you seen high society? Ortho’s gonna get eaten alive. Not to mention the other princes aren’t just gonna let him waltz around with a crown on his head without making his life miserable.”

Idia’s eyes go wide, his brain clearly working overtime as the realization hits him like a ton of bricks. “Oh… Oh no. I didn’t think of that.”

You nod sagely. “Yeah. Big oops.”

He stares at the ground, looking like he’s physically shrinking under the weight of his own bad decisions. And then—something unthinkable happens.

“Help me,” he says, his voice desperate. He looks up at you with pleading eyes. “Please. I’ll—I’ll make you anything you want, build you gadgets, whatever you need! Just help me navigate high society while I… hide in the shadows or whatever.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you… Are you asking me to pose as your fake fiancée?”

Idia flushes crimson, his hands flailing. “N-No! Well, maybe? Yes. I mean, yeah, but it’s not like I want to—" He groans, burying his face in his hands. “Just… ugh. Yes. Please.”

You cross your arms, tapping your chin. “Hmm. Fake engagement, huh? Alright, but only if you give me a beach house when this farce is over and Ortho officially takes the crown.”

Idia looks up at you, blinking in surprise. “A beach house? That’s your condition?”

You smirk. “Hey, I know what I want. So, do we have a deal?”

He hesitates for a moment, but then sighs, defeated. “Fine. You get the beach house. Just… make sure no one talks to me. Or atleast, you have to handle almost all the talking.”

With a satisfied nod, you extend your hand. “Deal.”

Idia, still red-faced and awkward, shakes your hand. You can’t help but wonder what sort of chaos you’ve just agreed to—but at least you’re getting a beach house out of it.

Sneaking Idia back to your manor wasn’t the most glamorous affair. He insisted on wearing a cloak, “for dramatic effect,” even though the streets were practically empty.

"You know, for a guy who's supposed to be a genius, you're real bad at blending in," you deadpan as he stumbles over his own cloak.

"It’s supposed to make me inconspicuous," Idia mutters, pulling the hood down further. "People see a cloak, they assume you’re some weirdo and leave you alone. It’s basic stealth mechanics."

“Uh-huh. And tripping on it helps too?”

“Shut up.”

Once inside the manor, you sit him down to discuss the details of how you’re going to spin this whole ‘rescue’ thing. Idia, now a little more at ease, starts fiddling with some gadget he pulled from one of his cloak’s hidden pockets. You can't tell if he's actually paying attention, but you figure you’d better get started.

"Okay," you say, leaning in like you’re about to hatch the greatest scheme of your life. "We need a story. Something grand. Heroic. Full of intrigue, mystery—"

“Or we could just say I, uh, got lost?” Idia offers halfheartedly. “And you happened to find me by accident. That sounds more plausible.”

You shoot him a look. "Idia, this is high society. No one ‘just gets lost for 3 months.’ We need something more exciting. Like, I fought off a band of rogue kidnappers—"

“Did you now?”

“And there was this epic battle—"

“With what? Your sense of direction?”

You glare. “Focus. We need an alibi."

Idia sighs. “Fine, whatever. Make it sound cool, but not too cool. If it’s too impressive, people will start thinking I owe you something.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I already have an idea of what you owe me,” you say, smirking.

His eyes narrow in suspicion, but you move on.

"Alright, so I 'bravely' tracked you down to the abandoned palace—"

"Because obviously that's where I'd be hiding," Idia interrupts sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"—and I singlehandedly defeated a gang of ruthless kidnappers, saving you from a life of captivity. You, overwhelmed by my gallantry, are forever in my debt—"

Idia snorts. "Forever in your debt? Yeah, right. You're more likely to find me dead than in your debt."

“Just go with it. It’s a good story.”

Eventually, you both settle on a suitably ridiculous tale where you, after days of tireless investigation, heroically rescued him from an evil plot to overthrow the royal family. It's unnecessarily elaborate, full of conveniently absent witnesses and a dramatic escape from a non-existent dungeon. The whole thing’s so ridiculous, you almost feel bad for making anyone listen to it.

“Right,” you say, standing up. “Now we just need to sell this at court.”

When you arrive at the palace, Idia hangs back while you step forward, playing your part as the "heroic rescuer." Ortho’s the first one to spot you, and when his eyes land on Idia, they widen with shock and excitement.

“Brother!” Ortho shouts, practically flying over to tackle Idia in a hug. “I knew you’d come back!”

Idia, not really one for public displays of affection, awkwardly pats Ortho’s head. “Yeah, yeah, don’t make a big deal out of it,” he grumbles, though you can see the tiny smile tugging at his lips. “I was, uh, working on some top-secret stuff. Y’know, important genius-level projects.”

Ortho beams. “That sounds just like you!”

You have to hold back a snicker. Yeah, real “top-secret.” Like avoiding social interaction at all costs.

Soon, you’re ushered into the royal court. The king—who clearly knows something is up—doesn't look remotely surprised by the "revelation" that Idia was never actually kidnapped. But, because royal politics are weird, he plays along.

“So, Prince Idia,” the king says, raising an eyebrow, “I suppose you’ll want the Crown Prince title back now that you’ve returned?”

Idia freezes, panic flashing in his eyes. "Uh, absolutely not. Hard pass. Nope. Ortho’s got it handled, right? He can keep the whole… crown… thing.”

Ortho nods eagerly from behind him. “I’ve got it covered!”

The king sighs but nods. “Very well. And what about you?” He turns to you. “Surely, a brave soul such as yourself deserves a reward.”

Here it comes. You’ve rehearsed this with Idia, but now that you’re on the spot, you can’t help the dramatic flair in your voice as you clasp your hands together and say, “All I ask… is for Prince Idia’s hand.”

The king looks thoroughly amused, while Idia, beside you, is turning a very interesting shade of red.

“What?” Idia hisses under his breath. “That was not the line.”

You grin, leaning closer. “Yeah, but you have to admit, it’s funnier this way.”

To his credit, Idia doesn’t collapse on the spot, though he does look like he’s reconsidering his life choices.

Meanwhile, from across the room, you catch the third prince—your so-called "male lead"—glaring daggers at you. He looks like he's about to burst a blood vessel, while the heroine next to him is scandalized beyond belief.

“B-but Idia’s hand was supposed to be won!” she protests, clearly flustered.

You tilt your head innocently. “Oh? Not satisfied with the third Prince?” you ask, batting your lashes at her.

Her face goes red, and the Bland Prince—whoever he is—looks equally scandalized.

Next to you, Idia quietly high-fives you behind his back.

“Nice one,” he whispers.

As you both walk away from the court, Idia glances over at you, his usual sarcasm softened by relief. “You know, I really thought I’d end up hating this whole scheme, but you’re not bad at playing the part.”

You chuckle, nudging him. “Told you it’d be fun. And now I get a beach house, so it’s a win-win.”

Idia sighs but can’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t make me go to any more parties, okay?”

“Deal.”

You’re sitting across from Idia in the study, supposedly "spending time together" to prove to the world how deeply smitten you both are. In reality, though, you’re plotting out your beach house retirement plan, while Idia is hunched over his latest gadget, muttering like a mad scientist.

"Okay, so if I tweak this—boom, self-repairing AI drone. Easy. The idiots at court would never get it," he whispers to himself, eyes glued to the wires and gears he's fiddling with.

You’re busy doodling floor plans of your dream beach house, adding an extra pool for fun. “Yeah, totally, sweetheart,” you mumble, pretending to listen. This fake relationship thing is going swimmingly.

That’s when the door flies open, and in waltzes the male lead—of course he doesn't knock. The guy practically drips entitlement as he saunters in, admiring himself in the reflection of a spoon he’s for some reason carrying.

Without missing a beat, you and Idia scramble to look like actual lovers. You slide closer to him, casually tossing an arm over his shoulders, and he—already flustered—just stiffens like he’s been caught in a trap.

“I see you two are enjoying each other’s company,” the male lead says, not even looking up from his spoon reflection. “I came to invite you to the tea party. You know, with all the nobles. The whole ‘Idia’s too traumatized to socialize’ excuse isn’t gonna fly anymore. It’s been three months.”

Idia’s eyes widen, and you can practically hear his soul leave his body. You give him a reassuring nudge.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper. “I’ll do all the talking. You just have to sit there, sip tea, maybe nibble on a pastry, and nod at Ortho. I’ve got the rest covered.”

Idia doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “Sure, sure, as long as I don’t have to, like, interact.”

The two of you arrive at the tea party, and the moment you step into the garden, you realize you're absolutely screwed. It’s not a tea party at all—it’s some weird medieval Olympics with archery targets set up, and a bunch of nobles are taking turns shooting arrows while their wives cheer them on.

“What… is this?” you whisper, horrified. “Why are there archery targets at a tea party? Is this... a misogyny power trip?”

Idia looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. He’s already backing away slowly, trying to make his great escape, but you grab him by the back of his cloak before he can bolt.

He shoots you a look like you’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal. “This... is not a tea party. You said tea and pastries. Where are the pastries?!”

“I didn’t know!” you hiss back. “I thought we’d just sip tea and gossip about whose cousin married whose horse!”

Before either of you can make another move, the heroine spots you and immediately latches onto your arm, dragging you to the tea table. At the same time, the male lead grabs Idia and hauls him over to the archery side.

"Wait—no—uh—" Idia stammers, but he’s already been thrown into the testosterone-fueled chaos of nobles trying to outdo each other.

Thinking fast, you impulsively declare, “I’ll be the one doing the archery! For my fiancé, of course. You know, because those thugs that kidnapped him? They had bows too!”

Idia, catching on, immediately puts on his best terrified expression. “Y-Yeah! Bows! I’m… I’m still traumatized! Please don’t make me relive it.”

The crowd collectively gasps, and you inwardly pat yourself on the back. Nailed it.

Somehow, despite knowing absolutely nothing about archery, you end up winning the whole thing. Turns out, none of the nobles have actually seen a bow before. You didn’t even hit the bullseye—you just got the arrow near the target, which was apparently enough to impress them.

The prize? A complex-looking mechanical device, something straight out of Idia’s dream workshop. You look at it, completely clueless, before handing it over to him.

“Uh, here. I have no idea what to do with this.”

Idia stares at the device, his eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re… giving it to me?” He looks touched but also suspicious. “You’re not gonna ask for some crazy favor in return?”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s all yours. Consider it a thank-you for not leaving me to deal with this disaster alone.”

He blinks, clearly not used to receiving gifts without strings attached. “Well… uh, thanks. And… good job on the archery. You, uh, really sold the ‘traumatized fiancé’ bit.”

Before you can respond, the rest of the nobles start talking about "true love," and you can practically feel the heroine’s eyes boring holes into you. She’s fuming, glaring at the male lead—who, by the way, didn’t win—and looks like she’s about five seconds away from tearing out her hair.

You shoot her a smug grin, thoroughly enjoying her frustration. Idia, who’s been watching the whole thing with mild amusement, lightly bumps you with his elbow.

“Thanks for… you know, saving me from whatever that was. And for giving me this… thing,” he says, holding up the device.

“No problem,” you reply, smirking. “I think we’re pulling off this whole ‘smitten lovers’ thing pretty well.”

Idia snorts, trying to suppress a smile. “Yeah, well, if you keep dragging me to ‘tea parties’ like this, we’re gonna need to come up with a better plan. Preferably one where I don’t have to socialize with archery-obsessed nobles.”

“Deal,” you laugh. "Next time, I'll find a real tea party."

"Please don't."

You’re lounging on a comfy chair, lazily chatting with Ortho, who’s happily explaining some new contraption he and Idia worked on. You’re half-listening, more focused on sipping tea and enjoying the rare moment of peace in this chaotic castle.

That is, until Idia suddenly appears in front of you, looking unusually determined. He stands there, awkwardly shifting his weight, before thrusting his hand out in front of you.

Without thinking, you blink up at him and, in your confusion, place your chin on his outstretched palm. You give him a questioning look, waiting for further instruction.

Idia’s face immediately flushes a deep red. “W-What are you doing?! That’s not—I didn’t—gah!”

Ortho’s trying not to laugh, but it’s clear he’s barely holding it together.

“What?” you ask innocently. “You held out your hand, so I thought…”

Idia runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered, before spluttering, “I—no, I was asking for your gun!”

“Oh. Right.” Without hesitation, you hand him the trusty weapon you always keep on hand, because at this point, you’ve learned to never question what Idia needs. It’s always better that way.

“Thanks,” he mutters, grabbing it like he’s on a mission and rushing off to whatever secret lair he retreats to.

You glance at Ortho, who’s giggling to himself. “Do you think I should be worried about that?”

“Nah,” Ortho says with a cheerful shrug. “He’s probably just making modifications. He’ll be fine!”

The next day, your luck runs out. Just when you were hoping for another peaceful afternoon, the heroine arrives for a surprise visit, dragging along her little posse of noble followers. You’re seated in a stiff parlor chair, forced to endure the barrage of small talk and fake smiles, feeling as if the universe is punishing you for all the nonsense you wrote in that novel.

One of the heroine’s cronies leans in with a sickeningly sweet voice, “Oh my, Lady Heroine, I just love your new gown. You look positively radiant. Unlike some people who seem to… dress for comfort, I suppose.”

You shoot her a withering glare, but it’s hard to focus when the heroine herself joins in, adding with a falsely sympathetic tone, “It must be so difficult for you, pretending to fit into high society. I can’t imagine how exhausting it must be, keeping up appearances.”

You’re just about to snap back when, suddenly, the door bursts open. In comes Idia, holding your gun, looking both determined and completely out of his element. For a brief, terrifying moment, you wonder what kind of chaos he’s about to unleash.

Before you can ask, he walks straight over to you and hands it to you, his expression serious. “Here. I finished the modifications.”

Your jaw drops as Idia starts rattling off a list of improvements. “So, I increased the firepower by 30%, added a cooling mechanism so it doesn’t overheat, and now it’s got an auto-targeting system that can scan multiple threats at once. Oh, and I swapped the trigger to be more responsive, so you won’t have any lag—”

You can’t help but notice how animated he looks. His usual deadpan expression is replaced by a lively spark in his eyes as he talks about all the intricate details. He’s completely in his element, and you find yourself enchanted by the way he speaks. It’s rare to see him so passionate, so alive.

The moment is shattered when he finally notices the others in the room. His face drains of color, and he gives a forced smile that screams I don't want to be here. Without another word, he turns on his heel and flees the room. But you notice something strange—he had been holding your hand the entire time. His grip, tight and warm, leaves a lingering sensation even after he’s gone.

You’re left holding your newly modified gun, your face heating up as you process what just happened. The heroine's entourage are all staring at you with wide eyes, as if they’ve just witnessed the most romantic moment of the century. Even the butler, who’s usually the epitome of professionalism, is grinning like he’s just uncovered the secret to eternal happiness. The maids nearby are giggling behind their hands, clearly entertained.

You glance down at the gun, then back to where Idia disappeared. Great, you think to yourself. How am I supposed to survive this?

As if reading your mind, the heroine gives you a smug smile. “It seems your fiancé is quite… attached. How charming.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the sudden rush of blood to your cheeks. “Yeah, he’s a real romantic,” you mutter sarcastically.

But even as you try to brush it off, your thoughts keep returning to that sparkle in Idia’s eyes, the way he had held your hand, and the way his enthusiasm had made your heart skip a beat. Maybe this royal con is going to be more complicated than you expected… but also, maybe not as bad as you feared.

Dragging Idia to get fitted for the imperial ball is like trying to drag a cat into a bathtub. He’s actively resisting, feet planted as you haul him toward the tailor with all the enthusiasm of a man being led to the gallows.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” he groans, leaning back so far you think he might just throw himself on the floor in protest. “An angel loses its wings every time you make me do this. Do you want heaven to be wingless? Is that what you want? To singlehandedly destroy heaven?”

“I’m aiming to open a black market for wings, yes,” you say, deadpan, yanking him forward. “The profits will be incredible.”

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, shuffling along behind you, still resisting like a particularly stubborn mule. “Just put me in a broom closet with a bag of chips and leave me there. I don’t need to go to this ball. No one wants to see me.”

“I do,” you quip. “I’m dragging you into society, one unwilling step at a time.”

By the time you actually manage to get him dressed, you feel like you’ve aged five years. But when you take a step back to admire the result, it’s worth it. Idia looks stunning, even if he’s fidgeting like his clothes are secretly made of fire ants. He’s basically the human version of a rare collectible: usually hidden away, but absolutely jaw-dropping when you finally get to see him.

“Alright, Prince Drama,” you say, exhaling, “I’m going to get dressed. Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone.”

When you return, you immediately notice something’s up. Ortho’s whispering something to Idia, and whatever it is, it’s causing a nuclear-level blush to spread across his face. He’s stiff as a board, and when he turns around and sees you in your ball attire, he goes straight from “mildly panicked” to “catastrophic system error.”

Without warning, he chucks a flower at you. Just full-on throws it like it’s a projectile weapon.

“Here,” he croaks out, his voice cracking halfway through.

You blink, catching the flower mid-air with one hand. “Uh, thanks? Were you... trying to plant this on me?”

Idia’s face somehow manages to get even redder. “No—I mean yes—I mean—” He looks around for help, but Ortho just gives him an unhelpful thumbs up from the corner.

You grin, deciding to help the poor guy out. “Why don’t you pin it in my hair instead?”

His hands shake as he fumbles with the pin, and you’re pretty sure he’s using every ounce of self-control not to stab you in the scalp. You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, but the whole situation is just too funny. Especially when Ortho gives you a conspiratorial wink from behind Idia’s back like he’s this close to winning a bet.

The ball itself is, as expected, a social hellscape. You and Idia survive by sticking together like conjoined twins, fending off the waves of nosy nobles and fake smiles. You can practically see the stress radiating off of Idia, his expression one of pure misery.

And then, the king makes his grand address, signaling the start of the first dance. You feel Idia stiffen beside you.

“Oh no,” he mutters, “Oh no. This is where it all goes downhill. I’ll trip, I’ll break my leg, and then they’ll throw me in the royal dungeon for embarrassing the family.”

“Relax,” you say, squeezing his hand. “It’s just one dance. I’ll lead, you follow. Easy.”

“I hate this,” he mumbles as you drag him onto the floor. “I hate everything about this. I should have just set myself on fire and gotten out of it that way.”

But despite his protests, you manage to lead him through the first few steps of the waltz. To your surprise, he’s not completely hopeless. He stumbles a little at first, but with you guiding him, he starts to get the hang of it.

“You’re doing great,” you say encouragingly.

“Stop lying,” he grumbles. “I’m one misstep away from taking us both out like a bowling ball hitting pins.”

The music continues, and with every turn and spin, you notice the room around you fading into the background. For a moment, it’s just you and Idia, navigating the intricate steps of the dance together. He’s still anxious, but he’s keeping up, and more importantly, you can tell he’s starting to trust you. He’s letting you take the lead, and for someone like Idia, that’s huge.

From Idia’s perspective, this entire ball is a waking nightmare. He’s completely out of his element, surrounded by people he’d normally go to great lengths to avoid. But then there’s you. You’re handling everything with this... ease, this grace that he can’t even begin to comprehend. You’re not just dancing with him, you’re actively navigating the minefield of court politics like it’s no big deal.

And you don’t need to do this. This isn’t your problem—it’s Ortho’s succession, not yours. But you’re here, by his side, going all out to make sure Ortho’s future is secure. Idia’s heart twists in his chest. He doesn’t get it. You’re way too cool for this. Too cool for him. You wink at him mid-spin, and he feels like his brain’s short-circuiting.

"Oh no. I like them. Like, really like them. And soon, they’ll be gone. This whole engagement is just for show. After Ortho’s investiture, we’ll go back to our separate lives, right?"

He swallows hard, trying not to freak out, but it’s too late. He’s in way too deep.

After the dance, you lead him off the floor and start mingling with the other nobles, making alliances and doing your whole “political mastermind” thing. Idia stands awkwardly to the side, trying to blend into the wallpaper, but his eyes keep following you. You don’t have to do all this for Ortho, but you are. And that’s... that’s really cool. He admires you, he can’t help it.

And then—oh no. The lower nobles. They spot him and beeline toward him like sharks smelling blood. Before he can make a break for it, they swarm around him, throwing party invitations at him like confetti.

“Prince Idia, you simply must attend our garden soirée next week,” one of them gushes, eyes sparkling.

“And our evening gala!” another pipes up. “You’ll be the guest of honor, of course!”

Idia’s face goes pale, and he shoots you a look that screams, HELP ME.

You swoop in like a knight in shining armor. “Ah, yes, well, unfortunately, Idia can’t attend. He’s... uh... allergic to sunlight.”

The nobles stare at you, blinking in confusion. Idia stares at you too, his expression a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“Allergic to... sunlight?” one noble repeats, frowning.

You facepalm. Smooth. “I mean... it’s a joke! Ha! Obviously! What I meant to say is... uh...” You scramble for an excuse. “I need a nap.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I—uh—can’t sleep without him,” you blurt out. “It’s, uh, a couple thing.”

The nobles blink at you again, thoroughly bewildered.

You grab Idia’s arm, muttering, “We’re leaving,” and make a quick exit, practically dragging him behind you.

As soon as you’re out of earshot, you let out a groan. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that. ‘Allergic to sunlight’? Really?”

Idia is doubled over laughing, completely losing it. “You what?!” he howls. “You need a nap? And you can’t sleep without me?!”

“Shut up!” you say, cheeks burning. “I was trying to save you!”

“You saved me? More like doomed me!” He wheezes between laughs, clutching his stomach. “Oh man, you are terrible at this. You make me look good, and that’s saying something.”

You glare at him, but his laughter is so infectious that you can’t stay mad. And honestly? He looks free. Unbridled, even. It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh so openly, so without reservation, that it almost makes you forget how embarrassing the situation was.

Almost.

It's finally time for Ortho's investiture, and to say you feel unprepared would be an understatement. Not for any political reason—you've long since mastered the art of navigating court intrigue. No, the issue is far more personal, far more heart-wrenching. After today, once Ortho is declared Crown Prince, Idia will no longer have any excuse to stay in the spotlight. He'll retreat, back into the shadows, probably even fake his own kidnapping to get out of any future public events. And you?

You'll finally get that peaceful beach house you’ve been dreaming about.

But the thought doesn’t feel like a reward. It feels bitter. You don’t want that beach house—not if it means losing Idia. The man who’s wormed his way into your heart with his sarcasm, awkwardness, and hidden kindness.

But you know he’s not someone you can tie down. Idia doesn’t do well with permanence. And as much as your heart begged to hold on to him, you also know he’d likely slip through your fingers if you tried.

So you do what any self-respecting person would in this situation: put on a brave face, slip into your formal attire, and prepare to smile your way through heartbreak.

When you walk out to greet Idia, he’s already dressed in his formal robes, looking every bit the reluctant royal. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, but he says nothing, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

You muster up the strength to smile and reach for his hand. “Ready?”

He nods, but neither of you can meet the other’s eyes.

From Idia’s perspective, today should feel like a victory. He’s been planning for Ortho’s investiture for months, and now that the day is finally here, he should be feeling nothing but relief. But no—he’s filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. It’s not about Ortho. His little brother is brilliant, and Idia knows the kingdom is in good hands.

No, what he’s not ready for is letting you go.

If someone had told him a year ago that he would care about someone—want someone—so desperately, he would’ve locked them up in a mental facility. But here he is, standing on the precipice of his worst nightmare.

You, who shine in every public setting, who effortlessly charm everyone around you, are going to move on. He knows he can’t tie you down with his reclusive lifestyle, his constant desire to escape from the world. How could he? You’re everything he’s not—bright, resplendent, beloved. He can’t ask you to give up your life for him.

But when you come out and take his hand, his heart skips a beat. Neither of you are able to look each other in the eye, but the gesture says more than any words could.

The investiture itself goes off without a hitch. Ortho’s speech is flawless, full of the hope and wisdom of a ruler who will no doubt lead the kingdom into a golden age. You’re so proud of him—of the boy who’s become like a little brother to you.

But even as you smile and clap with the rest of the court, you feel a heaviness in your chest that has nothing to do with the political spectacle unfolding before you.

A few tears slip down your cheeks, and you don’t even know if they’re from the overwhelming pride you feel for Ortho or the quiet heartbreak you’ve been trying to suppress all day.

Before you can wipe them away, Idia silently hands you his handkerchief. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you, and that just makes the ache in your heart a little worse.

You take it with a quiet, “Thanks,” dabbing at your eyes, and you both stand there in tense silence, watching as the formalities continue around you.

Once the investiture concludes and the guests filter out, you and Idia retreat to a balcony to catch your breath. The sky is darkening, and the cool evening breeze does little to soothe the heaviness you feel in the pit of your stomach.

Idia breaks the silence first. "I've, uh... already arranged the beach house. It’s in your name now."

You blink, looking over at him. His voice cracks slightly, and when you finally turn to face him fully, you realize that he looks like the very picture of heartbreak. He’s not meeting your eyes, staring out into the distance as if it’ll keep him from falling apart.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Idia... do you want me to leave?”

He freezes, still not looking at you. "I... I want you to be happy. I mean, that's the whole point, right? The beach house, everything—you’ve been wanting that for ages."

“I didn’t ask if you wanted me to be happy,” you say quietly. “I asked if you want me to stay or go.”

The silence between you stretches, heavy and suffocating. You hold your breath, waiting for him to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“I... I don’t know what I’m gonna do if you’re not here anymore.”

That’s all the confirmation you need. Before he can say anything else, you step forward, cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss. For a split second, he stiffens, shocked, but then he melts into it, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

It’s everything you needed and more—sweet, desperate, and filled with all the words neither of you have been able to say. When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavily.

“Come with me,” you whisper. “To the beach house. We can... we can figure everything out from there.”

Idia lets out a watery laugh, one that’s half-disbelief, half-relief. “You really want a shut-in like me hanging around your dream house? You’re gonna get sick of me in a week.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I don’t think I could ever get sick of you. So... what do you say?”

He hesitates for a moment, then gives a small nod, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Yeah... okay. I’ll come with you.”

And just like that, the weight that’s been pressing down on your chest all day lifts. It’s not the end—it’s a new beginning. One where you and Idia don’t have to part ways, where you can move forward together.

As you both stand there on the balcony, holding each other close, the world feels a little less daunting, and the future a little brighter.

The grand hall is slowly emptying out, nobles drifting away after offering their congratulations to Ortho. You and Idia maneuver through the lingering crowd, dodging overly-friendly dukes and avoiding eye contact with barons hoping to extend the festivities.

Idia clings to your arm like a cat being dragged to the vet, mumbling, “Please tell me we’re not about to be emotionally ambushed again.”

You smirk. “Relax. It’s just Ortho.”

“Yeah, that’s what you always say before things get sentimental and I have to deal with ‘feelings.’”

You spot Ortho standing near the dais, still wearing the ceremonial robes from his investiture. Despite the long night, he looks bright-eyed, waving cheerfully at some departing courtiers. When he catches sight of you two, his face breaks into the biggest grin, and he hurries over like an eager puppy.

“There you are!” Ortho beams, practically glowing with excitement. “I was worried you left without saying goodbye.”

“Us? Leave without saying goodbye?” you tease. “What kind of villains do you think we are?”

“Exactly the kind who would sneak away in the middle of a banquet,” Idia mutters under his breath. “And you know what? That plan still sounds great.”

Ortho rolls his eyes fondly. “You’re impossible, brother.”

“Only when I’m awake.”

“Anyway,” you cut in, shooting Idia a playful glare before turning back to Ortho, “we wanted to talk to you before we go.”

Ortho’s smile falters, just a bit. “You’re leaving already?”

You nod, squeezing Idia’s arm. “Yeah. We’re heading to the beach house.”

Ortho tilts his head, curious but not upset. “You’re moving there?”

“For a while, yeah,” you explain gently. “Idia and I need a break from all the court politics. But don’t worry. We’ll visit you. Often.”

Idia shifts beside you, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh... It’s not like I’m leaving forever or anything. Just... you know, temporarily escaping society.”

Ortho laughs, but there’s a softness in his gaze now. “I get it. I don’t blame you for wanting to leave all this behind for a bit.”

You take a step closer, voice lowering. “And hey... I know you’ve got a lot on your plate now. But we’re still family. If you need anything—anything—we’ll be here for you.”

Ortho’s grin returns, full force. “I know. I’m really glad you two have each other. Honestly, I was worried for a long time that Idia might never find someone willing to put up with him.”

“Gee, thanks,” Idia deadpans. “Glad my personal development arc has been so inspiring for you.”

“But seriously,” Ortho says, his expression softening again. “Thank you. You’ve done more for us than you had to. I know you could have just... gone back to your world or left things as they were. But you stayed. And you helped him.”

Oh no. Not this again. That suspicious prickle starts in your eyes, and you blink rapidly to fend off the tears. Not now. Not in public.

“You’re not... making me cry,” you insist, even as your voice wobbles. “This is just... allergy season.”

“Oh no, it’s happening,” Idia groans dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t cry. If you cry, Ortho’s gonna cry, and if Ortho cries, the nobles will definitely blame me.”

“Shut up, you big baby,” you sniffle, swatting his arm before pulling Ortho into a hug. “Come here, you. Group hug, now.”

Ortho barely has time to react before you’ve wrapped him up in your arms. He laughs, squeezing you back. You reach out blindly and grab Idia’s sleeve, yanking him into the fray.

“Wait—wait, what—!” Idia stumbles forward, sandwiched awkwardly between you and Ortho. “This is... I don’t...”

“Shhh,” you whisper, patting his back. “Feel the love.”

“This is emotional ambush!” Idia protests, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I want it on record that I was forced into this.”

“Noted,” Ortho says with a laugh, hugging both of you tighter. “But you’re not getting out of it.”

For a moment, the three of you just stand there, huddled together in a ridiculous knot of limbs, nobles glancing your way but tactfully avoiding comment.

Idia mutters into your ear, “This... this is basically treason against introverts.”

You grin. “Consider it penance for being emotionally stunted.”

“You’re both the worst,” he grumbles, but his arms stay wrapped around you.

Eventually, you pull back, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. “We’ll be back soon, Ortho. I promise.”

“I know.” Ortho smiles warmly, giving you one last squeeze. “And when you do, I’ll make sure you never have to attend another dull court event again.”

Idia perks up at that. “Oh. Now that’s what I call incentive.”

With one last shared laugh, the three of you break apart. Ortho steps back, standing tall and proud in his new role, though his smile still holds all the warmth of a little brother seeing his family off.

“Take care of him,” Ortho says quietly, glancing meaningfully at you.

“I plan to,” you reply, meeting his gaze with a small, reassuring smile.

“And you,” Ortho adds, looking at Idia. “Don’t screw this up.”

Idia gapes, indignant. “I—why does everyone assume I’m the one who’s going to screw it up?!”

You and Ortho exchange amused glances before both of you answer in perfect unison:

“Because you will.”

Idia groans. “Yeah, okay. Fair.”

With that, you bid Ortho one final goodbye, tugging Idia along before anyone else can rope you into small talk. As you leave the grand hall and step out into the cool night air, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

Idia sighs in relief. “Well, that’s over. Time to hibernate for the next decade.”

You chuckle, lacing your fingers through his. “Hibernation in the beach house?”

“Hell yeah.”

And with that, the two of you set off into the night, leaving the court behind—for now.

Oh, what happened to the heroine and the male lead, you ask? Let’s rewind a few months before Ortho’s investiture—back when they were still blissfully unaware of the elaborate downfall that awaited them.

You knew that the heroine and the male lead would try to make a spectacle of themselves during Ortho’s rise to power. The way they pranced around, flaunting their superficial charm and good looks like they owned the place—it was insufferable. And, of course, they were always scheming in the background, hoping to secure power and glory for themselves. You couldn’t stand it.

So, you set up the perfect trap.

It began at a lavish gala, one of those unnecessarily extravagant events where nobles gathered to network, gossip, and throw subtle insults at each other. You arrived fashionably late, as any proper duchess would, with Idia reluctantly in tow, mumbling under his breath about how every social event felt like “one of those long quests with zero rewards.”

“The rewards are emotional, Idia,” you whisper, linking arms with him.

“Yeah, emotional damage,” he mutters.

You suppress a smile, but your mind is elsewhere. Tonight is the night. You had planted the seeds weeks ago, a few well-placed rumors, some whispered insinuations, and a letter you’d accidentally left behind in a well-trafficked corridor. It was all coming together like a beautifully chaotic symphony, and now, the climax.

You spot the heroine first, her radiant smile masking the venom beneath. She’s making a grand entrance, arm-in-arm with the male lead, who, as always, looks like he’s stepped straight out of a romance novel. His hair is perfect, his jawline sharp enough to cut through glass. But you know better. They’re both so predictable.

“They’ve arrived,” you murmur to Idia.

He gives you a blank stare. “Yeah, cool, I’m just here to not die of social exhaustion. Whatever you’re planning... don’t tell me. I don’t wanna be involved.”

“Suit yourself,” you reply with a grin.

You watch them mingle, waiting for the right moment. And there it is—the heroine, attempting to cozy up to the king, laughing a little too loudly at one of his mediocre jokes. You slip through the crowd, making your way to where a certain nosy noblewoman is holding court. A noblewoman known for her love of gossip and her even greater love of ruining people’s lives with it.

Perfect.

You lean in, feigning concern. “Oh, My Lady... I probably shouldn’t say this, but I heard the strangest thing about the heroine. You won’t believe it.”

Her eyes gleam with curiosity. “Do tell, my dear.”

“Well,” you drop your voice to a whisper, “there’s talk that the heroine and the male lead are involved in some... unsavory business dealings. Something about embezzling funds from the royal coffers for their own gain? I don’t know how true it is, of course... but it would explain some things, wouldn’t it?”

You leave the rest unsaid, letting her imagination do the rest. The best part? It’s all technically true. You had orchestrated it so well, the heroine and the male lead had no idea that their “private” meetings and “innocent” financial maneuvers were anything but secret.

She gasps, her fan snapping shut. “I knew there was something off about them! Oh, the gall! I must inform the king immediately!”

And just like that, the gossip spreads like wildfire. Within minutes, the entire room is buzzing with scandalous whispers. The heroine and the male lead notice the shift, the way people start looking at them, and for the first time, they’re on the back foot. They try to smile, but their unease is palpable.

You sit back, watching the chaos unfold, sipping your wine as nobles begin to distance themselves from the pair, shooting them suspicious glances.

Idia sidles up next to you, looking around at the suddenly tense atmosphere. “What... what did you do?”

“Who, me?” You bat your eyelashes innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He gives you a side-eye. “You’re terrifying.”

“You knew that when you asked me to be your fake fiancée.”

The next day, official inquiries are launched into the heroine and the male lead’s finances, and though they try to clear their names, it’s no use. The damage is done. Their reputations are ruined beyond repair, and they’re forced to withdraw from court life entirely. A fitting end for their ambitions.

Which brings you to the present...

It’s a peaceful morning in your beach house, and you’re sitting on the veranda, enjoying your coffee while the sun rises over the horizon. The sound of waves crashing against the shore is your only company, and for once, there’s no looming political intrigue or royal drama to worry about.

That is, until Idia stumbles out of the bedroom, his hair a messy blue cloud, his eyes half-closed with sleep. He groans as he sees you, one hand on the wall to steady himself. “Why are you up so early? It’s like... the middle of the night.”

“It’s 10 AM,” you reply with a laugh.

“Exactly,” he grumbles, shuffling over to you. Without another word, he flops down beside you, his head immediately finding its way to your neck. He nuzzles into you, muttering something unintelligible, and you chuckle softly, patting him on the cheek.

“You’re such a big baby in the morning,” you tease, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

Despite being married for the past two years, Idia’s face turns tomato-red every time you do something affectionate. He blushes furiously now, burying his face in the crook of your neck to hide it.

“Y-You’re unfair,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “Saying stuff like that... it’s embarrassing.”

You grin. “But you’re so cute.”

“I’m not cute. I’m a grown man. And you’re a villain for making me get up before noon.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his messy hair. “Maybe, but I’m your villain. So deal with it.”

Idia groans dramatically but makes no effort to move away, too comfortable where he is. You continue sipping your coffee, enjoying the moment of peace, when he finally speaks again, a little softer this time.

“Y’know... you really did a number on the heroine and the male lead. They’re still laying low, huh?”

“Maybe the rumor I spread was truly a masterpiece,” you say with a smirk, remembering how perfectly everything had gone according to plan.

Idia snorts. “A masterpiece of destruction, maybe.”

You chuckle, pressing another kiss to his forehead. He sighs contentedly, the two of you basking in the quiet comfort of your shared life. It’s moments like this that remind you just how far you’ve come together, from court intrigue and scandal to peaceful mornings at your beach house.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

For the next part,

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #idia x reader #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud x you #idia shroud #idia #idia x you #trash novel chronicles

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