#(MYSTERY MAN LAUGHING IN THE BACKGROUND) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

drgnflyteabox · 4 months ago

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daddy cool, side B ⋆˙⟡

simon riley x fem!reader (background price x reader) summary: you make a movie with simon. ↪or, john produces. tags/warnings: making a porno, rough sex (p in v), oral (f + m), please forgive my dialogue i'm trying my best, degradation / slut shaming, squirting, a little dubcon, size kink, a little pain, unnegotiated kink, john is mostly in the background but he's there

“Alright honey, move a little to the right.”

“Like this?”

“Just like that, sweetheart. Spread those legs a little.”

John had been your fluffer earlier, licked you until you were rarin’ to go, wet and soft and needy. He can probably still taste you on his mustache.

You’re taking photos now, leaning back on the bed, bare wet pussy spread for John and the camera. Your two fingers create a perfect V, showing him your winking hole, your pert clit.

He really wasn’t lying about producing– you hadn’t deeply suspected him, but there was a niggling little thought there that he was maybe putting it on to get you in bed. It had worked either way, but nice to know he’s honest.

Ghost, the masked man. Cheesy, but popular with women, John says. They like the mystery.

“Touch yourself a little,” John shifts the camera as you do, lightly petting your clit with two fingers, “that’s good, that’s real good.”

You dip two fingers into your hole, wet from John’s earlier attention, biting your lip in what you hope is a seductive manner for the camera. John chuckles low in his chest, cock pushing against his tight pants. The view makes your mouth water, but you aren’t here for John today.

You’re here for the giant of a man that walks through the doorway, wearing scuffed blue jeans and big black boots. The mask isn’t what you’d imagined, but it fits over the tight white t-shirt he’s wearing. A skull.

“Ah, Simon,” John turns to greet him, “there you are.”

Simon’s cock is already chubbed up in his jeans, long and thick against his leg. For a perverse moment you imagine what it would look like for he and John to push their bulges against each other, groaning, pec squeezed against pec, and your pussy clenches.

You wish John would perform, if only just to tag team you with this meaty specimen of a man.

Add it to the spankbank.

“John,” Simon greets him back, stepping into the room. He’s not even looking at you, which is hot for some reason you don’t care to parse. He lifts a boot and steps onto John’s stool, “fresh meat?”

John laughs, which seems to be the only answer Simon needs before he turns towards you finally and pins you to the bed with his gaze.

Your fingers pause, still dipped halfway inside, clit pulsing against the heel of your palm.

“Pretty,” he says, and just as you’re about to say thank you, “nice, Cap,” a pause, “picked a ripe one.”

He walks until his shins hit the bed, looking down at you and your spread legs, where your hand is still and your pussy drips onto the sheets. His eyelashes are pale, ghostly, strangely beautiful against his brown eyes.

You wish you could see his face, his expression, but John was right– they do like the mystery.

There’s a little hint of a scar that pokes up from his cheekbone, pulling the skin of his bottom lid a little, but there’s no time to examine him in detail.

“Right then,” John interrupts, “let’s take a few pictures.”

The first pose he puts you in is on Simon’s lap, explicitly directing you to press your pussy against his jeanclad thigh and make a little wet spot for us, will you, love?

It’s honestly humiliating, but you’re so tuned up that the heat of your embarrassment only adds to the tension.

“That’s good, that’s real good,” John murmurs, instructing Simon to put a heavy hand on your lower back, pressing you further into his leg.

Your clit drags against the fabric, and the camera snaps your open mouthed gasp.

“Pull her shirt down,” and Simon does; pulling your tanktop down until your tits fall out, soft and peaked, pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt.

You’re looking over your shoulder, hazy, bottom lip between your teeth. John snaps a few more before he places you in the next position.

All you can stare at is the dark patch on Simon’s jeans.

“This one’s for the cover,” he says, getting Simon to lay down and pull his jeans a little down– showing off the line of hair leading to the biggest tease; the beginnings of his bush, trapped under just his jeans.

He’s gone commando. All you can see is the little pudge of his pubis as it’s squished by his waistband, a tasty little tenderloin you want to bite.

You’re next; standing over Simon, legs wide open, looking down at him with your tits out and your thighs wet. It’s a movie-esque kind of pose, and in another universe maybe you’re decked out in cheap sci-fi costumes for a blockbuster.

Then he’s ready, and you have to re-dress. Tanktop goes back on, shorts get slid right back up your legs, and he puts you on top of the covers.

Simon prowls like a panther, graceful in his movements despite the sheer size of him. You’re leaned back, elbows on the bed, breathing harder the closer he gets.

“Felt that wet little pussy,” he says, voice low, “she’s more than ready for me, isn’t she? Probably soaking those slutty shorts.”

“Uh huh,” you murmur, legs outstretched and straight before him.

John had told you a little bit of the ‘script’ beforehand, a loose skeleton to follow outside of improv, so you aren’t shocked when he pulls the button open on your shorts and pulls them down in one fell swoop.

“Look’it that,” his lips move under the mask. You wonder if he’s licking his lips, looking at your pussy like that.

He takes you by the ankle, dragging you across the mattress until you’re flat on your back and looking up at him.

“Haven’t even seen my cock yet,” he laughs meanly, his other hand reaching to take a big squeeze of his cock through his jeans, “and look’it that. Slag if I’ve ever seen one.”

Your face burns, breath stuttering. This wasn’t a part of the little warning John had given you, but you’re not that mad about it. Hot, humiliated– but not opposed.

Simon looks at you for barely another second before he’s crawled up to your face, knees on either side of your head.

Oh.

“Gimme a kiss.”

You lean forward, lips pressing against his rough jeans. He smells good, a little like cigarettes but there’s that musk you love so much. You mouthe against him until he pulls your head back to the mattress by your hair.

He pulls down his jeans, freeing a mostly plump cock that flops onto your cheek. Oh man, it’s weighty. The nestle of curls at the base of it is like a magnet for your eyes, too.

“I can take it all the way,” you look up into those inscrutable eyes.

“Yeah? Prove it.”

You take the tip first, licking it lewdly, turning to the camera every so often like John had told you to– just let them see those eyes, honey. Show them how much you like it.

So you do. You give big, wide eyes as Simon gets impatient and starts tunnelling down your throat, shoulders trapped beneath his heavy thighs.

When you gag, he laughs lowly, keeping you there. He runs a rough thumb over the taut stretch of your upper lip, down to your lower lip, palm cradling your jaw.

“That’s a good girl,” he slides backwards, jeans scraping your nipples through your tanktop, hardly giving you but a moment before he's pushing back in. Rinse and repeat.

It’s like with John, only Simon’s cock is a little different. Longer, and curved where John’s is thicker. The tip pokes you in the back of the throat, sometimes at the roof of your mouth from the awkward angle.

You feel crushed underneath him despite your entire lower half being free, legs coming up and thighs squeezing together as the camera pans towards them and John murmurs, “show me that pussy, honey.”

So you spread your legs, humiliated at the gluk-gluk-gluk sound coming from your throat but gushing impossibly more under the camera’s lens.

“That’s a pretty picture,” Simon grunts, sliding out of your mouth to tap the head against your lips, letting you stick your tongue out and drool drip down your chin, “yeah. Keep your mouth open.”

This is mostly for the camera, the way he rubs himself on your face, the way you lay there and keep your mouth open. You don’t have to fake the desperation, but still.

Simon’s a pro.

He leans back, fingers finding your bare cunt and sliding a finger along your slit. Slippery, swollen, the contact is like drinking water in the desert. Like the satisfying pleasure-pain of pressing down a bruise.

His finger slides up and down shallowly, never stopping where you need it while you kiss the underside of his cock.

“This cock-hungry pussy’s soakin’ my fingers,” his eyes squint, like he’s grinning under the mask, “reckon I could solve a drought with this,” he lifts his finger to your mouth, slipping them in for you to taste yourself.

Where the fuck did John find this guy?

You play along, face burning, sucking his fingers with a soft moan.

After a moment, he leans back and gets off you, pulling your tanktop down as he does so your tits bounce back out. Hello again, ladies.

There’s a small moment of stalling where John sets the camera up on a tripod near the end of the bed and Simon drags you so your head is towards the headboard, and then it’s 3 2 1 action again.

“Hands on the headboard,” Simon gruffs, then slides onto his belly and presses his mask to your cunt. Your hands fly to the headboard, hanging on for dear life as he inhales through the fabric.

Jesus. He rubs the knit on your swollen pussy, up and down, spreading you open with his covered chin and then pressing his nose to your clit.

You don’t have to exaggerate your sounds. They come naturally, rising in pitch when he pushes his mask up just enough to see his pink, scarred lips wrap around your engorged clit.

He’s greedy, eating more to taste you than to please you.

When he lifts his head, mouth wet and tongue poking out to lick the remnants of your slick, stopping at the cusp of your orgasm, you give the camera at the end of the bed your best wounded animal look.

Simon doesn’t take his jeans off when he gets back up to his knees, shuffling to kneel between your legs.

You notice all too late that he hasn’t fingered you, not even a little dip. He’s licked you, sucked on your clit until you were keening, but there’s a deadly focus in his eyes as he puts the fat head of his cock against your hole that tells you you’re in trouble.

“Got a good look at this?,” he grunts, tilted towards the camera, “this is the best part.”

Oh fuck, he pushes in and it feels like a hydraulic press; crushing pressure, a sting, stretching taught around him as you gasp–

“Pinching me,” he curls his lip, abdomen tensing, “Jesus.”

“Oh god, fuck,” you shiver, trying to keep your knees spread, wincing and gasping in deep breaths for air as he carves a space inside you for himself.

“Relax,” he squeezes in further. Stretching, painful, intensely delicious, “relax that cunt for me, sweetheart. Let her get what she needs. ”

You try, only noticing John as he palms his bulge, watching your pussy struggling to take Simon’s cock.

It takes a few see-sawing movements of his hips before you finally loosen a little around him and he really lets loose. Doesn’t let you take a breath, just starts pounding like he’s getting a bonus for it and you shout with surprise.

A vision of an adventuring viking comes to mind, beaten and lashed by storm, the only respite to hang onto the mast in the middle of a ship… that’s the headboard for you.

He fucks like animal, but it’s still as graceful as the way he moved when he first entered the room. How can a man that looks so rough, is so big, roll his spine and slap his hips into yours in such a dancerly way? His pace is inhuman.

His cock spears into you like he’s digging for gold, tilted just so that you’re loud with how good it feels and almost wincing every time he pokes a little too deep.

You think maybe it’s on purpose, what with the way he stares down at you, big hands coming to hold your midsection and dig his fingers into your skin.

Yeouch, that feels good.

“There she is,” he fucks you deep, unrelenting, groaning when he feels your hole start to squeeze, “doesn’t even need a hand, then,” he laughs.

He’s right. You don’t. Your abdomen squeezes, orgasm building, the first of its kind– without any kind of contact on your clit, that is.

You try to hold back for as long as possible, try to make eyes at the camera again, but you’re lost to the feeling of getting fucked so good and so deep. The feeling builds and builds and steamrolls you, legs shaking where they’re spread, ears going deaf with the blood rushing in them.

A scream bursts forth from your throat at the same time as you literally spray, slick soaking Simon’s jeans and the bottom of his t-shirt.

There’s no time to be embarrassed with the hard, punitive thrusts he gives you as he rides his orgasm out behind yours, filling you up with hot come.

You’re boneless, after. Laying nice and still for John to get closeups of your creampie’d pussy, for Simon to rest his spent cock between your pussylips and grin under his mask, tucking himself back into his soiled jeans as John dismisses him.

He’s damp everywhere, but he strolls over to John’s little minibar area and pours himself a whiskey like it doesn’t bother him.

John doesn’t give you a break, either. He pans the camera to the mess on the bed, the wet spot you’d caused by squirting all over Simon’s cock.

John grins at you from behind the camera.

“You’re a natural, honey.”

#drgnfly writes #i got a B on my first midterm so #this was a reward to write #cw dubcon #just in case #cause where did john get this guy lol #simon riley x reader #simon riley/reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #kinda rushed ending too but #dont mind that...

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stealingyourbones · 10 months ago

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Tucker was his way to meet up with his friends at Nasty Burger at sundown when a massive BOOM! was heard above him. Expecting a ghost he whips around with a fenton lipstick at the ready…

That isn’t a Natural Portal.

Whatever it was, it was some sort of portal, The blinding white lined wormhole was undulating 10ft above the ground. Tucker couldn’t even get a good look at it as its event horizon was like staring at the sun.

Tucker shielded his eyes but kept his weapon pointed at the wormhole looking thing.

Then a part of the event horizon dimmed as it was blocked by a human shaped figure. It took mere moments for Tuckers’ awe to transform from “holy shit someones coming through” to “OH SHIT!” as the figure promptly fell 10 feet from the entrance of the portal to the cold hard cement sidewalk like a bag of rocks.

Tucker creeped toward the figure in awe, barely even noticing the wormhole close above him. The man unconscious at his feet was an absolute tank of a man. Maybe not just metaphorically a tank either, metal cybernetic parts covering so much of his body were a gleaming silver chrome, the light reflecting off of the parts made his dark skin seem to glow.

Tucker’s fascination and awe stuttered when he noticed the injuries. One of the man’s mechanical legs looked like it was put through a woodchipper. The torn metal and ripped wires reminiscent of old train steam boiler explosions, the twisting and melded wires near hypnotic to look at. His torso and head wasn’t doing good either. A good chunk of the cyborg’s paneling was either dented or torn off and half of his cybernetic face had a bite taken out of it. Some holes deep into the intricate cybernetics below leaked a dark oil. Not only was that concerning, ever since his fall he hadn’t opened his eyes or moved.

Tucker shakily put two fingers to the neck of the man. A wet shaky laugh escaped his throat when he felt the cyborg’s pulse. With hands equally as shaky, he grabbed his iDalv 3 from his pocket and called Danny.

A tired yet happy voice was heard over the line, the background ambience of beeping fryer alarms and background chatter feeling jarring to the sounds of oil dripping from the cyborgs injuries and the quietness of the night.

“Hey Tuck, What’s up?”

“I- There’s a wounded cyborg man-”

Danny’s tone switched from jovial to serious “A what now?”

“I don’t think I can explain it over the phone. I’ll send you my location. This is all together ooky man.”

“On it.”

The tri tonal beep of the call ending was momentary before the soft dripping and crickets was all Tucker could hear. The crumpled man showed no signs of waking.

Tucker can’t help with the human part, but he sure as hell can fix the mechanical parts.

All he hopes is that the mystery cyborg man can explain what’s going on when he wakes.

#dpxdc #danny phantom #dp x dc #bones prompts #it's Cyborg if ya couldn't tell. also the portal he went through was a Boom Tube #Danny and Sam work on the first aid part #Tucker works on repairing Cyborg. He might even give the guy some upgrades! Who knows!#I'd just like Tucker and Cyborg to be buddies.

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peachversace · 3 months ago

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calvins or nothing?

[nsfw-ish] ; bakugou katsuki x reader — domestic fluff, slight horniness, bakugou katsuki being a cute little bean (but also a sexy phenomenon), slight humor <3

♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖📸.𖥔 ݁ ˖♡

notes: this is inspired by the bad bunny x calvin klein ad that came out a few weeks ago. i’m ovulating and had this in my drafts. enjoy 😃

Your grumpy Pro Hero boyfriend—the one who hates cameras, hates media circuits, hates anything remotely resembling a brand deal—somehow got talked into doing an ad. That, in itself, is already enough of a shocker. The man rolls his eyes at the mere mention of Instagram. His idea of PR is grunting his way through one-word answers at press conferences.

So, yeah. When Katsuki says he’s doing a shoot, you're caught off guard.

The announcement isn’t even some grand confession—it’s a casual mumble, like he’s commenting on the weather. He says it while washing the dishes, fingers soapy, sleeves of his tee pushed up to his elbows, the evening news humming in the background. You're sitting on the counter, half-listening to the TV, half-watching the muscles in his back flex through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Gonna do a shoot in a couple days,” he mutters like it’s nothing. Like the sky’s blue. Like he’s not about to detonate your entire sense of reality.

You pause mid-sip of your water. “A shoot?” you echo, blinking at him.

He doesn’t even look up. “Yeah.”

You slide off the counter and walk toward him, disbelief coloring your voice. “Wait, seriously? You? Doing a shoot? Like… willingly?”

He finally cuts you a glance, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck would I joke for?”

“I don’t know! Because you hate this stuff?” You raise a brow. “Last week you growled at a guy just for taking a picture of you at the market.”

He scoffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Agent wouldn’t shut up about it. Said it’s a good deal. Said it’d make my numbers spike.” He grinds his teeth. “S’bullshit.”

You grin, stepping even closer, your hands brushing against the hem of his shirt. “So what is it, huh? Sportswear? A cologne campaign? Let me guess, something with black-and-white aesthetics, all ‘I’m brooding and mysterious and I could kill you but also model for Givenchy.’”

His glare sharpens. “I ain't tellin’ you,” he mutters, and then smears a soapy hand across your face.

You yelp, eyes widening in shock before laughing, pushing him back with a dish towel, and just like that, the kitchen descends into a sudsy, chaotic mess—water splashing, laughter echoing, and your annoyed, grumbly boyfriend cracking the faintest smile as you attack him with bubbles.

You forget about it after that.

He goes to the shoot a few days later, grumbles about how stupid it was, comes home smelling faintly of sweat and photo studio, and promptly takes a nap on the couch with his face buried in your thigh.

End of story—or so you think.

Until the ad airs.

And the entire world explodes.

You’re not even the first person to see it. You wake up to six missed calls from Kaminari, seventeen texts in a group chat with Amanai and Hanari, and three DMs from stylists you’ve only ever worked with once, all saying something along the lines of:

IS THAT BAKUGOU??? Please tell me that’s YOUR man. why didn’t you warn me???

You groggily pull up the video link with one eye open, barely processing the thumbnail—just muted greys and harsh lighting—and then hit play.

And then the world stops.

The screen fades in, and the first thing you see is concrete—cold and industrial, metal beams and stark shadows. The lighting is sharp and stylized, the kind of aesthetic that screams high-end minimalism, and then—

There he is.

Katsuki.

In nothing but tight black briefs, leaning against a concrete wall, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his thigh. His scars catch the light. His tan skin looks like it's been kissed by some god. His abs—hard and defined, with that perfect cut down his sides—flex slightly as he breathes. There’s sweat glistening faintly on his collarbone.

And his expression?

That look. The one he gives when he’s about to fight someone and knows he’s already won. That heavy-lidded, lazy gaze that screams dominance and confidence. His jaw is tight. His mouth is parted just slightly, teeth catching on the fabric of his own tank top as he lifts it with one hand, revealing the full line of his torso—slow and unbothered, like this means nothing to him.

You gasp. You physically clutch your phone like it might explode in your hands.

Is this a fucking fever dream?

The ad keeps going. Transitions shift—now he’s outside, in some open-air gym setup, hanging from a pull-up bar in white briefs, his body tense and glistening, thighs flexing as he hooks his legs around the metal, inverted and still steady. The camera pans slowly, sinfully, down the line of his waist, his back muscles moving with effortless control.

You are floored.

And then—then—he’s sprawled in a plush lounge chair, still in briefs, arms behind his head, legs spread in that arrogant, casual way that only he could pull off. He’s completely relaxed, like he doesn’t know the entire planet is watching this ad and forgetting how to breathe.

You drop your phone on the bed and bury your face in your hands.

“What the fuck,” you groan into your palms. Your heart is pounding. Your thighs press together on instinct.

Katsuki, your grumpy, camera-hating, blunt-as-hell boyfriend… just dropped the hottest underwear ad of the year. And you had no idea what he was shooting until now.

You scramble to your feet, pacing your bedroom, mouth still open, heart pounding in your chest like war drums.

Your phone still lies face down on the bed, but you’re pacing like the floor might cave in. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, your body thrumming with something between disbelief and desperate, carnal desire. There’s a burn low in your stomach. A buzzing heat behind your eyes.

Because the ad isn’t done. It gets worse—so much worse.

The music shifts, something darker now, heavier—bass rolling like thunder. And then the screen cuts to him again. Katsuki. In jeans this time.

Low-rise. Washed-out. Loose around the thighs but slung criminally low on his hips.

And those goddamn white briefs are peeking out above the waistband like it was staged in a dream. His hand glides lazily over his stomach, fingers tracing the defined V of his hips, brushing right past the thick trail of hair under his navel. He stops there—lingers there—just barely grazing the hem of the briefs before his thumb tucks in, teasing the edge. His gaze flicks to the camera.

And he smirks.

Not his usual cocky grin, no. This one’s lazy. Lopsided. Something slow and dangerous that makes your knees buckle. Like he knows what he’s doing. Like he planned this moment for you and you alone.

You gasp. You clutch your chest. "Oh my God."

And then—as if that wasn’t enough—the music picks up and the scenes start layering: cuts of him against the concrete, muscles flexing under the strain of his pose; transitions to the gym, his thighs clenching, his expression loose with exertion; cuts to that plush chair, where he’s lounging like sin incarnate, and finally, back to the jeans, with his hand still teasing that waistband.

It’s not an ad anymore. It’s a weapon. A visual threat. A public sex dream.

You stand there, completely dumbfounded, eyes wide and mouth parted, blinking like you’ve been smacked upside the head with a wet towel.

And the comments?

Oh. The comments.

@takxmi291_: raw. next question. @abersiw.3: Good lord what a great day to be alive. @BIGPAPA.EJI: FLASH US ‼️‼️‼️ @numbber1.lemilionnn: giggling at 3am @angelzkiss: GOOD GOD IM GIDJDJFNNFHDNDNDJDNCN🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 @hyurhio008: YEP IM GETTING HIM PREGNANT @Cello_Zumazz: damn now my screen's all sticky :/ @bpxrndeku: I FEEL LIKE A MAN IN THE 1800S SEEING AN ANKLE FOR THE FIRST TIME. @lennysqqie: don’t be scared. take em off. @dynazaddy98: i wanna GAGGGG on that huge COCK— @stareandfanfic: look at em TITS AWOOGAAAA

You can’t even think. You’re vibrating. Your brain is gone. You’re standing there, still in pajamas, while your very private, very grouchy, very hot boyfriend just broke the Internet in his underwear.

You can’t let this slide.

So you bide your time. You wait until he’s home from patrol—freshly showered, hair damp and messy, wearing his black hoodie and sweatpants that clings to him a little too well. He’s sitting at the kitchen table now, chopsticks in one hand, steam rising from the shabu shabu you made. His brow is furrowed as he eats, and he's grumbling about how some new sidekick forgot to file a report properly.

You sit across from him with your phone in hand, not saying anything.

And then, casually, you clear your throat and say in a bright voice:

“Explosively warm, and snug. Dynamight wears the new Iconic Cotton Stretch. Now in stores.”

Katsuki freezes mid-bite.

His chopsticks pause, a slice of beef and mushroom still dangling, and you see it happen—the moment it registers. His shoulders stiffen. His jaw tightens. And then slowly, as if the food can save him, he stuffs it into his mouth.

You try not to laugh. You fail.

“What the hell, Katsuki?” you grin, voice breathless with amusement. “Why didn’t you tell me?! That ad launched three hours ago and I’ve seen your dick print more times than I’ve seen my own reflection today.”

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you.

“Honey, you looked insanely good. Like… I’m not even sure it was legal.” You lean forward over the table, voice dropping slightly. “You were so hot. And that grin?” You tap your phone. “That was cute, baby.”

His ears go bright red. A slow, creeping crimson that crawls up his neck to his cheeks.

He finally glances at you, scowling faintly. “S’just a stupid ad. Ain’t that important.”

“Oh, it’s important to me,” you murmur with a knowing smirk.

He huffs and looks away again, stuffing another bite in his mouth. But his jaw’s twitching. He’s so clearly flustered, you can barely take it. A tiny, pleased smile tugs at his lips even though he’s fighting it with everything he has.

And you realize—this is why he didn’t tell you. Because deep down, Katsuki knew. He knew how hot he looked, how big the reaction would be, how much people would thirst over it.

But more than anything, he knew you would look at him like this—like he hung the goddamn moon. And he wouldn’t know what to do with that.

“Sh’ddup,” he mutters under his breath, cheeks now fully flushed.

You grin like a wolf, biting your lip as you lean over the table, eyes glinting.

“No. I’m not gonna shut up. In fact, I’m gonna print out a poster. Hang it in the hallway. Right across from the bathroom.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he growls—but it’s soft. There’s no heat behind it. Just embarrassment and affection and that little smirk he only wears when he’s happy in spite of himself.

And you?

You’re head over heels in love with this absolute menace of a man. Horny and obsessed and ready to make him flustered for the rest of the night.

Later, the apartment is warm, and quiet, the soft hum of the city alive behind the windows—but in here, it’s just you and him.

The scent of the shabu shabu still lingers faintly in the air, and the clinking of dishes is rhythmic, almost soothing. Katsuki stands at the sink, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms slick and glistening. His hands are buried in a sink full of suds, scrubbing out the plates he insisted on washing since you cooked.

You’re perched on the counter next to him, legs swinging slightly, phone in hand, face lit up with mischief and fondness. The grin on your face is damn near criminal. You can’t help it—you’ve been giggling all night. Ever since the ad dropped, you’ve been glued to the internet, reading every unhinged, thirsty, downright feral comment about your boyfriend. And oh, they are so good.

Katsuki grumbles under his breath every time you so much as snort at your screen, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. Not really. Because he secretly loves the sound of your laugh—especially when it’s because of him, even if it makes him wanna throw himself into the damn sink.

You scroll through your phone, eyes twinkling, then grin wider. “Should I read you the comments next?”

He groans. “No.”

But you’re already doing it. “@yoqnoak24 says: i’m wet, ready, and stretched out to g—”

Before you can finish, a wet, soapy hand slaps gently but firmly against your face.

“Katsuki!” you squeal, laughing in full as the bubbles smear across your cheek and jaw, eyes crinkling with delight.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he growls through a grin of his own, already tugging you off the counter with one hand on your waist.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders instinctively as he leans in, pressing a messy, grinning kiss against your lips. It’s hot, breathless, teeth clicking together for a second before he pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

You’re smiling so wide you can barely kiss him back properly, giggling like a teenager. “Probably fuck me stupid, since you’ve already got half the world begging for it.”

“Jesus fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the way his ears are burning where they brush your jaw. But he’s smiling. You can feel that too. It’s hidden, buried in the press of his mouth against your collarbone, but it’s there. That secret softness only you get.

“You’re the worst,” he mumbles.

“No,” you say, tugging gently at his hair as you press a kiss behind his ear. “I’m the best. I’m your number one fan.”

“Damn right you are.”

You laugh again, and he chuckles too—quiet, low, warm in your chest.

This. This is your life with him. This ridiculous, heart-melting mix of domesticity and chaos. You and him in your kitchen, covered in soap and laughter, still buzzing with the aftershocks of an ad he didn’t even want to do. You and him trading kisses like secrets, teasing and tugging, wrapped around each other like you’ve always belonged this way.

God, you love this man. More than anything.

And the best part?

He loves you back just as hard.

#esta’s drabble corner :p #[fashion killa]#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugou #bnha #mha

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randomshyperson · 9 days ago

Text

classified love - wanda maximoff x kryptonian!reader

summary: wanda is new to the avengers, and learns the concept of a secret identity. or the one where kryptonian!reader has a secret, and a crush.

warnings: reader is superwoman; mild angst; mutual pining; nervous flirting; soft wanda; protective reader; fluff with feelings; light humor; superhero bureaucracy; canon divergence; minor ultron reference; mild language; happy ending.

a/n-> i'm going for my old drafts and this is from months ago when i was reading a bunch of supercorp fics, especially ones about lena learning about kara's secret identity. So i made my own with this two lovely dorkies. (nope, this is not related to the series with kryptonian!reader i'm working on).

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

It wasn’t that Wanda didn’t know what a secret identity was.

Of course she did. She just hadn’t quite grasped the weight of it.

In her defense, the Avengers weren’t exactly the poster children for discretion.

Tony Stark made sure everyone knew he was Iron Man. Steve Rogers had been the star-spangled face of American propaganda since the forties. Natasha was arguably the most famous spy on Earth - and somehow still mysterious - and poor Bruce had his green alter ego splashed across news channels since his very first rampage. And then there was Thor. A literal god. No mask could hide that hair.

So maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t completely her fault when she leaned over during breakfast, bright-eyed and curious, and casually asked you,

“So… what’s your name, by the way?”

The room fell dead silent.

Wanda blinked, eyes flicking around the Avengers compound’s cozy living room. The sun spilled lazily through the tall windows, warming the hardwood floors and catching dust in the air. A pot of coffee burbled in the kitchenette, and the smell of waffles hung pleasantly in the background. But the atmosphere shifted like someone had cut the power.

Tony was the first to crack. He snorted into his mug, trying and failing to smother a laugh.

Wanda’s eyes widened further when Natasha silently reached over and handed him a crumpled five-dollar bill.

Your smile dropped. Just seconds ago, you’d been grinning at her, saying how nice it was to finally have someone around your age on the team. Now your expression shuttered. Calm, professional. Guarded.

“Uh… that’s confidential,” you said simply.

Wanda let out a short laugh, confused. She tilted her head, hoping she’d misheard.

“What?”

Your eyes flicked over to the group still half-watching from the couches. Clint was biting back a grin. Steve looked conveniently invested in stirring his coffee. You exhaled through your nose.

“I guess nobody warned you about the secret identity policy,” you muttered, not bothering to hide your disappointment. Your arms crossed over your chest - biceps straining slightly under the fabric of your suit - and Wanda was momentarily distracted by just how much muscle you were hiding beneath the armor. She didn’t think that was allowed.

“I’m not trying to be rude,” you added, your voice softer. “But I can’t tell you my real name.”

Her brows drew together. “But you know mine.”

From the couch, Natasha barked out a laugh. You shot her a look that was half glare, half plea, before turning your attention back to Wanda, a flicker less certain than before.

“I do,” you admitted. “But that’s because… everything about you is already public knowledge.” Your voice lowered a little, like you were offering her something real. “It’s nothing personal. It’s about safety. The only reason Ultron didn’t find my family was because I wasn’t in any of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s databases. Not the Avengers’, either. Same way they kept Barton’s family off the radar.”

That explanation landed - she could feel the weight of it - but it didn’t soothe her. Not really.

Wanda forced a tight smile, but a bitter coil twisted in her stomach.

Of course, it still came back to Ultron.

She hadn’t fought beside you back then - hadn’t fought against you either - but that didn’t mean the past was erased. That didn’t mean trust grew overnight. Clearly, it hadn’t.

And suddenly, she was the one on the defensive. Because why should you get to know her when she was still in the dark about you?

“I don’t think that’s very fair,” she said, echoing your posture with a huff and crossing her arms. “You get to know everyone’s names, but we don’t get to know yours?”

You blinked, surprised by the shift in her tone. But it only lasted a beat.

Clearing your throat, you held your ground. “They know. You’re the only one who doesn’t.”

The offense hit her like a slap. She turned sharply toward the others, sending each of them a scandalized glare. They all conveniently found something fascinating to look at - the wall, the floor, the coffee machine.

Only Natasha had the nerve to smile into her cup.

“Hey, I don’t know either!” Sam piped up from the back, his voice light, trying to cut through the tension like sunlight through fog.

You cracked a small smile at that, grateful. But Wanda didn’t move.

Her arms stayed stubbornly crossed, a pout tugging at her lips, and whatever iron-clad resolve you’d been clinging to softened immediately.

“Hey, if it’s any consolation - for both of you,” you start again, your voice lighter, trying to reset the energy to what it had been before your name became the hot topic of the morning. “It’s only because I’ve known them longer. Maybe… if we hang out a little more, I’ll tell you.”

You flash Wanda a tentative smile. There’s warmth behind it - an invitation, not a promise - but she doesn’t take the bait.

She presses her lips together, visibly fighting the tug of a grin, but loses the battle to her pride. With a sharp turn of her head, she mutters, “Don’t bother,” and spins on her heel.

You watch her walk away, ponytail swaying with each step, her back impossibly straight and her jaw clenched in defiance.

And just like that, you’re certain - painfully certain - she might be the most charming girl you’ve ever met.

Unfortunately for you, Natasha doesn’t miss a beat.

She catches the way your gaze lingers a moment too long, your head tilted just slightly as Wanda disappears down the hall. The corner of the assassin’s mouth curls with amusement as she leans back into the couch, arms crossed.

You snap out of it fast, frowning in her direction. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you paying Stark when Wanda brought that up,” you accuse, tone laced with mock betrayal. “You two were betting on this again?”

Tony lets out a bark of laughter from his seat and shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Natasha raises both eyebrows, feigning innocence. The five-dollar bill is already gone, stashed away like evidence in a classified file.

You sigh, rubbing your hand over your face. “Unbelievable.”

“Oh, come on,” Natasha says, barely hiding her amusement. “You’ve gotta admit - it’s hilarious when people realize Superwoman isn’t your actual name.”

Steve chuckles from the other couch, finally giving in. “That reminds me - remember that poor waiter in D.C.? The one who panicked and couldn’t decide whether to call you Miss Super or Madam Alien?”

Laughter ripples through the room at the memory. Even Banner cracks a smile. You roll your eyes dramatically, throwing your hands up.

“I told him just ‘Ma’am’ was fine,” you mutter as you start walking toward the door, shaking your head. “And for the record,” you call out, tossing a glance over your shoulder with a perfectly straight face, “I am from another planet.”

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “See? Knew it.”

The room erupts into fresh laughter, but you just shake your head, waving a hand dismissively as you walk off.

“Still unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, though this time, there’s amusement in your tone. The kind that sits warm and quiet in your chest, like sunlight through clouds.

A new bet had been circulating through the Avengers Compound ever since your disastrously awkward introduction to the team’s newest recruits.

How long until Wanda Maximoff discovers your true identity?

Clint said a few weeks, tops. Steve and Tony were betting for a couple of months. Thor, bless him, didn’t even understand the concept of keeping a secret identity and nearly shouted your actual name across the room - only to be stopped by a flying metal gauntlet Tony launched with frightening precision.

Bruce, ever the scientist, made a whole prediction chart - color-coded and everything - outlining the likelihood of various exposure scenarios. According to his behavioral analysis, you’d eventually slip up and reveal yourself accidentally. Tony called him a spoilsport but still convinced him to place a bet anyway.

Maria and Natasha, meanwhile, were curled together on the couch like shadows stitched at the hip, indistinguishable in the half-light of movie night. Natasha didn’t even look up from the screen as she muttered, “It’s not fair to bet on that. Wanda could just read her mind.”

Maria hummed her agreement. “And not tell anyone. Classic Maximoff move.”

Right on cue, as if summoned by sheer chaos, Wanda reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn tight in a frown.

“I would never invade someone’s mind like that,” she snapped, voice low and tight with restrained indignation. “If she wants to keep secrets and build walls, that’s her choice.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked off, her crimson flannel pajama pants fluttering slightly with the motion. The room sat in silence for a beat, then Natasha grinned.

“New bet,” she announced. “How long until Wanda admits she has a crush on Y/N?”

Laughter erupted.

It only got more ridiculous from there.

Maintaining a secret identity was hard enough with your crazy schedule, missions popping up at ungodly hours, and an internship at Oscorp that demanded more from you than legally acceptable. Peter Parker was the only one who truly understood the madness. You had a little ongoing competition: “How many times did I almost get caught today?” A point system. The winner got free shawarma.

But lately, things felt… off.

It was as if the team had collectively decided to test you. You were being sent on last-minute missions, brought back in civilian clothes, tossed into briefings before you had time to shed your disguise. It felt deliberate. Sabotage by friendly fire.

Of course, no one mentioned the bet to you.

It was one of those mornings - chaotic, cursed, and running ten steps behind the clock. You were still in your Oscorp clothes, your signature lead-laced glasses perched on your nose, hair slightly frizzy from rushing. Your dress shirt wasn’t completely buttoned, and beneath it, a glimpse of the familiar blue and red peeked through like a bad omen.

As you stumbled barefoot into the Tower’s common room, scanning for your shoes, you froze.

Wanda Maximoff was standing there in oversized pajamas, her hair a sleepy mess, blinking at you from over a mug of steaming coffee.

“Oh, uh. Hi,” you said, voice cracking just a bit under the panic.

This was it. This was the moment you’d have to change your name, disappear to the Arctic, and start a new life herding goats.

Wanda just blinked, forced a smile, and murmured a polite “Good morning” before turning back to the coffee machine, like you were no one. Like you were just some intern passing through.

Your shoes sat mockingly on the far side of the room. You crossed to them, fumbling with your shirt to make sure not a single thread of the Superwoman suit was visible.

You sat down, tugging your laces tight, when her voice broke the quiet.

“Are you… Friends with anyone here?” she asked suddenly. Wanda leaned casually against the counter, but there was something soft in her voice, almost cautious.

Your mind blanked. Friends? With anyone?

“Uh yeah,” you blurted, nerves turning your brain into static. “I’m friends with Superwoman.”

You could hear your soul leave your body.

Wanda tilted her head. “Oh?”

Before she could press further-or laugh, or question the absurdity of what you just said, the automatic door whooshed open.

Bruce stepped in with a file in his hands and a furrow on his brow.

He took one look at you, then glanced at Wanda. You weren’t often in civilian clothes around the Tower - especially not so early, or without warning. His pause was subtle, but it said enough.

“Y/N?” Bruce asked, tone neutral but probing. “Didn’t know you were here.”

You jumped to your feet, trying to act casual. “Hey, yeah. I came by late last night. Needed to grab some documents.”

Bruce blinked slowly.

“I, uh, ended up staying. Superwoman said it was okay,” you added, your lie falling apart as it left your mouth.

Bruce, mercifully, decided not to comment. The brilliance in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what you were doing. He gave a slow nod. “Right. Of course.”

You grabbed your shoes, already half out the door. “Nice meeting you, Miss Maximoff,” you said quickly, voice almost too formal as you escaped, waving once and not daring to look back.

Bruce stood there for a moment in silence, then looked at Wanda.

She simply lifted the cereal box into the air with her magic, poured it with too much force into her bowl, and carried it off, pouting the whole way.

The worst part of the whole secret identity thing isn't the exhaustion, or the constant lies, or even the juggling act between superhero landings and corporate deadlines.

It’s remembering exactly why it's necessary.

Peter runs into an old friend - Harry Osborn - who, by some cosmic joke, also happens to be your boss. Superheroes have their own demons, their own secrets clawing behind the masks, and something serious unfolds between them.

When the dust settles, Gwen ends up in the hospital.

She’ll recover - Peter says it like a prayer - but the guilt is carved into the spaces under his eyes, and it doesn’t go away when he tells you what happened. About Harry, about the favors he wanted from Spider-Man. About how betrayed he felt when he discovered Peter was Spider-Man - and had refused to help.

You don’t sleep that night.

There's a pit in your stomach, bitter and deep. That could’ve been anyone. That could’ve been you.

There are only a handful of people who know who you really are. Your family. Carol - your lifeline, your salvation, the one who pulled you from the wreckage of your dying world. Fury - who raised you through SHIELD like some grim guardian angel. A few Avengers who found out under specific, inescapable circumstances.

Peter, of course. He understands the weight of the mask.

And then… there’s everyone else.

Your classmates. Your bosses at Oscorp. The coffee shop barista who always forgets your name. The world.

And Wanda.

Wanda, who bickered with Superwoman during missions like it were a sport. Who never let you win without a challenge and rolled her eyes so dramatically you sometimes thought she'd levitate off the ground.

Wanda, who always looked at Y/N Danvers like she was made of something softer. Who shared food without asking. Who nudged your knee during movie nights. Who once touched your badge, just to straighten it, and sent a shiver up your spine with the brush of her fingers against your neck.

Wanda, who was slowly becoming a reason to smile in rooms too quiet.

And precisely because of that… Wanda, who could never know.

You couldn’t stand the idea of putting her in danger.

Not just from enemies, but from you. From what it costs to be close to you.

By the time your distress becomes impossible to hide, the bet has long been forgotten. You walk through the Tower in pieces. The team stops whispering about when you'll slip up and starts worrying about whether you’re okay.

It’s Natasha who finally had enough.

She kicks you off the next mission.

No arguments. No chance to protest. Just a firm grip on your wrist and a silent march through the hallways until you're sitting in an empty room that smells faintly of metal and ozone. The door closes with a hiss behind you.

“Okay,” she says, arms crossed. “Let’s talk.”

You glance at the wall like it might give you an escape route. It doesn’t.

You can hear faint voices down the hallway. The others are whispering about your little outburst in the briefing room. You clench your jaw.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you mutter.

Nat raises an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” you repeat. You shrug. Look at the floor. Your voice dips quieter. “It’s just…”

A breath escapes you. Heavy. Frustrated.

“…how did you know this was what you wanted?”

Natasha’s expression shifts. The sharpness in her posture softens. She sets her tablet down on the table behind her, unread.

“What do you mean?” she asks, but her voice is gentle now.

You hesitate. Your throat burns.

“I mean… back then. When you stopped being the Black Widow. When Fury gave you the option to just be Natasha Romanoff. Why didn’t you take it? Why didn’t you stop?”

She doesn’t answer at first. She just watches you, eyes trained and careful. You hate that they see too much.

You blink, and the tears well up despite yourself. You’re so tired. Of pretending. Of juggling two lives. Of wonder, which one is real?

“And now you’re living with Maria,” you continue, voice cracking. “You could’ve quit. You could be… happy. Quiet. Safe.”

Natasha sighs.

“I get it,” she says softly, like a truth you didn’t want to hear.

She sits beside you.

“But this isn’t really about me, is it?”

You shake your head, eyes shining with unshed tears. Natasha reaches out instinctively, finding your hand and resting hers over it. It's warm. Solid. A grounding force you didn’t realize you needed.

“I visited Gwen in the hospital before I came here,” you say quietly, your voice thick with guilt and fury. “Harry… he did a number on her. Four broken ribs. Internal bleeding. She’s lucky to be alive.”

Your breath shudders. “Peter hasn’t put the mask on in weeks. And I can’t stop thinking - if any of my enemies came for the people I care about…”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to.

Natasha squeezes your hand tighter. “Hey. I get the fear. I really do. But we’re not helpless. You’re not alone. We can defend ourselves.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh and nod, though there’s nothing funny in any of this.

“I didn’t want any of this to be necessary, Nat,” you murmur. “The mask, the secrets. I didn’t come here to be a superhero.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But no one makes it through this life alone, Y/N.” She laces her fingers with yours. “And, if you must know, the weight got a little easier for me when I let Maria in. Turns out, sharing the burden isn’t so bad. Who knew?”

You huff a soft laugh and bump your shoulder lightly against hers. The touch feels safe. Reassuring.

There’s a brief silence before you speak again. “I’ll get my head on straight, okay? You don’t have to bench me.”

Nat smiles at you with that knowing tilt of her head. “Look, I think you’re one of the best heroes we’ve got. But maybe - just maybe - getting benched is a good thing right now. Take a breath. A day off. Ask a girl out.”

Your face heats immediately, and you mutter something about not having time for relationships.

Nat smirks, entirely unsurprised. “Then maybe you should consider someone who gets the job. Say, another superhero?” She wiggles her brows. “Someone in the Tower who, as far as I can tell, is very interested.”

You blink. “Wanda doesn’t even know I’m Superwoman.”

Natasha bursts out laughing.

“Oh, honey. Do you really think the mind reader of the group doesn’t know?”

You stare at her, stunned. “But - she never said anything! She treats me like I’m two different people!”

Nat sighs, her smirk softening into something more understanding. “Because you asked her to. Maybe not with words, but with walls. You put this distance between yourself and everyone. Between her and you.”

You look down, guilt landing like a weight on your chest.

“She’s the new kid, Y/N,” Natasha continues gently. “She’s trying to make real connections. Trying to earn trust. And you - ” she nudges your knee with hers - “you won’t let her in all the way.”

You swallow hard, throat tight.

“I just thought… maybe she didn’t know. Or maybe she liked Y/N Danvers more than Superwoman.”

Natasha throws her head back and laughs again, full and exasperated. “Wow. You really are the queen of self-denial.”

She stands and grabs her work tablet off the table, mumbling to herself as she taps through a few screens. “Well, since neither of you is cleared for the mission, it looks like you and Wanda are stuck with tower duty. Desk work, all day.”

You grimace. “Ugh, but I hate desk work - ” You stop. Catch the flicker of amusement in her eyes. Oh. Desk work.

Alone. With Wanda. In an empty tower.

“This desk work,” you mumble.

“I love desk work, actually,” you add quickly, sitting up straighter.

Natasha rolls her eyes and chuckles, already halfway to the door. “You just cost me twenty bucks, Danvers.”

It takes a second to process what she means. Another bet. Another chance. Another push.

And before the door closes behind her, you're on your feet again - chasing after her, heart hammering with something that feels a lot like hope.

Desk work is, without a doubt, the least glamorous part of being a superhero.

Bureaucracy. Mission reports. Intelligence logs. Inventory updates. Categorizing classified items into neatly labeled folders.

Endless, soul-crushingly boring stuff.

Boring enough that your focus slips every five minutes - though maybe that’s less about the files and more about the hum of Kryptonian energy beneath your skin, begging for movement. Or maybe it’s the presence at the other desk, steadily flipping through files, her brow furrowed in concentration.

You spin absently in your swivel chair, just to keep your body busy. One turn too far and the chair wobbles dangerously under your weight, threatening to tip. You gasp and grab the desk for balance - just in time.

Wanda lets out a small giggle, quick and unexpected. The sound makes your heart stutter.

“Sorry you got dragged into this too,” she says, trying to make conversation. Her eyes flick toward you, soft with something you can’t quite name. “I think this is just them getting back at me.”

You tilt your head, brows raised. “What do you mean?” Your voice is playful, but your mind leaps straight to the worst possible interpretation. “Wait - am I that bad to be around? Is this some kind of punishment?”

Wanda's eyes widen, and she scoffs, scandalized. “What? No! That’s not what I meant.” She sounds almost flustered, and when you give her your best wide-eyed puppy dog look, she glares, flustered but amused. “Come on, you’re not that bad.”

There’s laughter in her tone, and you offer a reluctant smile, looking away before it turns into a grin you can’t hide.

She leans back slightly in her chair, her voice softer now. “It’s because of Ultron, really. My fault he managed to compromise so many of our files. Now we have to go all analog. Hard copies for everything. Hence…” She gestures broadly to the pile of folders between you.

You pause, your smile fading a little. “You know you didn’t create Ultron, right?”

Wanda doesn’t answer immediately. Her fingers hover over the edge of a file. You can hear the shift in her breath, just slightly unsteady, before it evens again.

“Maybe it’s time to stop blaming yourself for something that wasn’t yours to carry,” you add gently.

There’s a moment of quiet between you, something unspoken passing in the space between your desks. A heartbeat. Hers, steady now. Yours, skipping like it’s forgotten how to keep rhythm.

Then Wanda clears her throat. “Still,” she says lightly, “I have to admit - it’s a little funny. Seeing Superwoman stuck behind a desk.”

You roll your eyes, shifting in your seat as the poor chair creaks under your weight. She smirks. “It’s like watching Thor try to sit on Tony’s designer couch. That poor thing never stood a chance.”

You laugh under your breath and adjust your posture before the chair gives out. “It’s not so bad,” you murmur, casting her a sideways glance. “I like my work partner.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. They land in the air between you with more weight than you intended.

Wanda blinks, and her cheeks flush instantly. You feel the heat creep up your own neck in response.

“I mean - like, in a friendly way,” you stammer quickly, eyes darting back to your file. “Like… liking my teammate. Not like liking liking - ”

She lets out a breathy laugh, somewhere between nervous and charmed, and turns her attention to the stack of papers in front of her like they’ve suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

You try to listen - listen for the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat - but yours is pounding so loudly in your ears, you can’t hear anything else.

“I get it, Y/N,” Wanda murmurs.

And just like that, your mouth clamps shut. Embarrassment floods through you, hot and fast. You duck your head and pretend to care very deeply about the stack of inventory files in front of you, wishing you could disappear into them. Or, better yet, have one of those heavy boxes topple over and end this moment with poetic finality.

It takes a full five minutes for your brain to catch up - five minutes of sitting there in silence, pretending to work, heart pounding uselessly - before it hits you.

She called you by name.

Your eyes widen as realization crashes into you like a wave. You freeze, blinking at the words on the page that don’t even register anymore. Your breathing shifts, shallow and uneven.

Wanda brought it up first.

You didn’t even notice.

You’ve been so locked inside your own anxious spiral, so distracted by every small move she makes, that you missed the one thing you were most afraid of.

You’re so wrapped up in your panic that you don’t realize she’s stopped working, that she’s crossed the room, quiet as a shadow. She pulls something out of one of the drawers. It doesn’t belong to the inventory.

Your glasses.

The old pair, lost ages ago in the mess of the tower, now held gently in her hands like they were something precious.

You only catch her movement in your peripheral vision, and when she’s standing beside you, you instinctively hold your breath.

The chair shifts slightly beneath you, the telltale shimmer of her magic moving it to face her.

She doesn’t say anything. But there’s no anger in her face. No judgment. Just that patient, quiet look that always makes you feel like maybe the world isn’t such a bad place after all.

She brushes a few strands of hair from your eyes. Then, slowly, she slips the glasses onto your face.

“There you are,” she says softly.

It’s almost enough to undo you.

The contrast of the suit - the bright blue and red - and the old glasses feels ridiculous, but the way Wanda’s eyes soften makes it something else entirely. Familiar. Real. You.

“Wanda, I - ” you start, but she moves before you can finish.

She kisses you.

It’s soft, gentle - just the press of her lips to yours. Barely long enough to register before she pulls away.

Your cheeks go up in flames. “H-hm...” Your brain short-circuits. Words evaporate. You’re just... sitting there, in a slightly too-small chair, in your super-suit, with the most incredible girl in the world looking at you like that.

Wanda’s lips quirk in a smile. “Sorry. I just thought we had to get a few things out of the way.” Her fingers trace lightly down your cheek. “You’ve been thinking about it for days. But it didn’t seem like you were going to actually do anything.”

“I was going to,” you mumble, flustered. “Eventually.”

She laughs under her breath, warm and amused. “Sure. Eventually.”

Before you can think of a clever response, she leans in again - this time slower, more certain. Her nose brushes yours, a soft, teasing touch, before her lips find yours again.

This kiss is different. Unhurried. Confident. Her mouth moves against yours with quiet intent, and when her tongue brushes against yours, it sends a shiver down your spine.

Unfortunately, the chair makes a rather unfortunate groan beneath your shifting weight. You lurch slightly, catching yourself before you topple over completely.

Wanda pulls back with a burst of laughter, and you can’t help but join her, even as you cover your face in embarrassment.

Eventually, you peel the glasses from your nose and set them on the desk beside you. Your hands find hers and bring them to your chest, pressing them gently against the symbol on your uniform. Her gaze flickers down, then back to your face.

Your voice comes quieter now, almost fragile. “I’m sorry it took me so long to tell the truth,” you say. “I’ve never been this scared to let someone in. To risk putting them in danger just by loving them.”

Wanda doesn’t flinch. She nods, her expression softening as she wraps her arms around your shoulders.

“I do understand,” she whispers. “Come here.”

You fold into the embrace, arms slipping around her waist, grounding yourself in the feel of her - warm, solid, real. There’s a long moment where neither of you says anything. You just breathe each other in.

Then, voice low and almost conspiratorial, Wanda murmurs against your ear: “I love Mexican food, if you ever get brave enough to ask me out.”

You laugh into her shoulder, breaking the hug. “Oh my God, stop reading my mind.”

“But it’s so fun,” she teases, her smirk blooming again.

You roll your eyes, but the grin stays. “I can think of something better for you to focus on.”

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

But she’s the one leaning in first, closing the distance with a wicked little smile and a kiss that promises a thousand unsaid things.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #marvel imagines #wanda maximoff fics

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dreamersparacosm · 4 months ago

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under the checkered flag - epilogue blurb 1!

prompt ; in which your boyfriend, who’s normally all confidence, cockiness and self-assured, turns into a pouty, jealous mess when he remembers how much of a catch his girlfriend really is.

warnings ; unprotected sex, lil bit of oral (m recieving) (also this is not even a blurb. this is a whole ass story. also wrote this hungover so if there’s grammar errors… welp. idk how i got so ahead of myself pls help)

request ; linked here

part of the under the checkered flag universe

You’re not entirely sure why you agreed to this.

The room is packed: it’s loud, buzzing with conversation, glittering lights and expensive diamonds you could never dream of affording, filled with the kind of people who look like they walked off the cover of Vogue. Jungkook, of course, is in his element, shaking hands, flashing his signature grin, seamlessly weaving through the crowd like he was born for this.

Meanwhile, you are hiding behind him like a child.

“Baby,” Jungkook murmurs over his shoulder, amused. His hand rests against your hip, keeping you tucked close as he greets another executive, another industry legend who already knows exactly who he is. “You gonna say hi or just use me as a human shield all night?”

You huff, clutching onto the sleeve of his tailored suit, peeking past his shoulder just enough to offer a shy, “Hi.”

The older man chuckles, shaking his head. “Cute one you got there, Jungkook.”

Jungkook beams, unbothered. “I know, right?” His fingers tighten around your waist, clearly very proud of you, and he wants everyone in this room to know exactly who you are.

And, to be fair, they already do. Your face has been plastered across every media outlet since his last race a few weeks ago, the headlines barely able to contain themselves. “Jeon Jungkook Off The Market: Meet the Woman Who Stole His Heart.” Paparazzi shots of him running to you after his win, kissing you in front of thousands, wrapping you in his arms like you’re his greatest trophy. Really, it was getting a little overwhelming.

You smile up at him as the aforementioned man turns away to entertain another person “Why are you doing this?”

He bites back a smirk. “Doing what?”

“Introducing me to every single person like I’m some mystery. They know who I am, Jungkook.”

“Do they?” He grins, leaning down, voice dropping just enough for only you to hear. “Because I don’t think they know you’re the love of my life yet. Want me to make a bigger announcement?”

Your face bursts into flames. You slap his side, making him laugh as he pulls you closer, not letting you escape even an inch.

“Relax, my love.” He presses a kiss to your temple, warm, grounding, very much second nature now. “Just wanna show you off a little.”

You groan, burying your face in his shoulder. “I hate you.”

“Liar liar pants on fire.” He says it so easily, so confidently, because he’s right. You’re completely, stupidly in love with him actually. However, the worst part of that? So is everyone else in this damn room.

The buzz of the party hums around you as you trail behind Jungkook, hands still lightly clinging to his arm like it’s your lifeline. He doesn’t seem to mind, laughing lightly as he introduces you to every person who approaches, all the while keeping one eye on you, making sure you’re still there, still close. You’re the quiet one, always in the background, but tonight? You’re sticking to him like glue.

The chaos around you only adds to the sensation of feeling out of place, and your mind pulses with the need to break free for a moment.

“I’m gonna get some champagne,” You tug on his arm to get his attention, hoping he won’t follow, aching for just a second alone.

“Alright,” Jungkook says, winking at you. “Dont wander far, I’ll miss you too much.”

You roll your eyes, the slight teasing in his voice making you smile despite yourself.

And finally, with a little space between you two, you head for the bar, where the bartender is already pouring multiple glass of champagne, a brand you hardly recognize besides the times that Jungkook has sprayed it over your head in his locker room after a win. You grab one, thank him with a smile, clutching your drink tightly, letting the warmth of the alcohol loosen some of the tension in your shoulders. You lean against the bar, taking in a deep breath, trying to shake off the intensity of the room.

You shift slightly, your heels pinching the back of your feet. Even though Jungkook is across the room now, deep in conversation with some high-profile men, you can still feel him, like a phantom touch, like gravity pulling you toward him even from a distance.

You’re halfway through your first sip when someone leans in beside you. His voice is warm, easy-going.

“Is it safe to assume you’re with Jungkook?”

The voice comes from your right, definitely belonging to someone who’s good at conversation.

You glance up, blinking at the tall, well-dressed man beside you. He’s… handsome, you suppose. Friendly. Dressed in a navy suit, collar slightly open, drink in hand. Polished, but not in an obnoxious way. He leans against the bar with a casual kind of confidence, the kind of presence that blends in rather than commands the room.

“Yeah, I am,” you admit, still feeling a little shy. “I’m his… well, girlfriend. Sort of.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Sort of? That’s an interesting answer.”

You huff a small laugh. “I mean, yes. I am. He just… likes making a big deal out of it.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” he chuckles, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I take it you’re not used to all this?”

You shake your head immediately. “Not even a little.”

He laughs, genuinely, like he understands. “I get it. These events can be overwhelming.”

You tilt your head slightly, curiosity creeping in. “You say that like you’ve been to a lot of them.”

He grins, and that’s when it clicks. You suddenly recognize him, the familiar face.

“Wait—” Your eyes widen. “You’re a driver too, right? You raced today.”

His smile turns a little playful. “I did. And I did alright, if I say so myself.”

“You placed third, didn’t you?”

He blinks, slightly impressed. “Didn’t expect you to know that.”

You blush slightly, shrugging. “Well… I may have learned a thing or two from Jungkook.”

“Ah, so he’s been turning you into a racing expert, huh?” He teases.

“Not even close,” You laugh, shaking your head. “But congratulations. Third place is still huge.”

“Thanks,” He says, tipping his glass toward you. “Though, I have to admit, Jungkook is damn near impossible to beat. The guy drives like he’s invincible.”

You smile softly, the kind of smile that only comes when someone you love is being praised. “Yeah… he does.”

“You must be proud of him.”

“I am.” The words fall out before you can second-guess them, before you can hide them behind your usual shyness.

That much, you know is true. You are proud of Jungkook, more than he’ll ever know.

The man watches you for a second, a knowing look flashing in his eyes. Then, he smiles, shaking his head slightly. “He’s got a good one.”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

He gestures toward Jungkook, who’s across the room, entertaining the guests, bright and effortless. “I mean, it’s not every day you see him this… settled. The guy used to be a bit of a wildcard.”

Your stomach flutters. You know that. You know exactly who Jungkook was before you.

You swallow, about to respond, when his next words catch you off guard. “Though, I have to admit…” He leans in slightly, voice dropping just a bit, teasing but still measured. “It must be tough, standing next to him all the time, knowing you stand out. ”

You feel your heart skip, your fingers tightening around your glass. You’ve always been completely oblivious when it comes to flirting. It’s not intentional—you just never assume anyone would be interested in you like that. Compliments fly over your head, teasing remarks get brushed off as jokes, and subtle advances? You don’t even register them.

Even with Jungkook, it took months of playful taunts, agreeing to do whatever you wanted, and blatantly flirty texts before you even considered the possibility that he might actually like you. And now, standing here at the bar, faced with a man who is clearly steering the conversation into dangerously suggestive waters, you’re a little slow to catch up. The moment finally clicks a beat too late, the realization washing over you like a delayed shockwave—oh. He’s not just making conversation. He’s flirting. And you? You walked right into that trap.

You let out a soft laugh, playing with the hem of your dress, trying to ignore the way his words sit uncomfortably in your chest.

“I mean, yeah,” You say lightly, swirling the champagne in your glass, forcing yourself to play it cool. “Jungkook has a lot of eyes on him. That’s kind of the deal when you’re one of the best, right?”

You try to steer the conversation back to Jungkook, hoping it’ll naturally fizzle out, but he gives you a look. A slow, appreciative glance. The kind that lingers just long enough to make your stomach twist in anxiety.

“That’s true,” He muses, his voice casual. “But I think most people would be looking at you tonight.”

Goddamnit.

Your fingers grip the glass so roughly it might shatter in your hands as you blink at him, processing. You laugh again, but this time it’s a little awkward, a tad nervous, like you’re trying to buy yourself a moment to think.

And then, as naturally as breathing, you look for him. Jungkook.

Your eyes search the crowd, scanning past the fitting dresses and tailored suits, past the photographers and the industry elites, until they land on him.

Of course, he’s right at the center of it all.

He’s laughing, head thrown back slightly, looking so alive, so magnetic, exuding the kind of confidence that made the world fall in love with him (and you as well, for that matter.) His suit jacket is long gone, probably thrown off on the back of a chair somewhere, replaced with a perfectly tailored white button-up, his sleeves pushed up just enough to tease the tattoos running along his forearm. He looks stupidly good.

He’s glowing, genuinely happy, his eyes crinkling as he talks, hands gesturing animatedly, completely and utterly in his element.

You bite your lip, a new kind of frustration blooming in your chest. How is he over there, completely fine, while you’re over here trying to figure out how to escape this conversation without being rude? Why must the universe put you, of all people, in the ring of fire?

“So,” The driver’s voice pulls you back, making you blink and turn your attention back to him. “How did you and Jungkook even meet? I don’t think I ever heard the full story.”

You shift again, clearing your throat, desperate to reroute the conversation away from yourself. “Oh—uh, through work, sort of. It’s actually kind of funny—”

Focus. Focus on Jungkook. Keep it safe. Keep it neutral.

You take another sip in between your sentence, the champagne fizzling against your lips, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease. You keep your focus on the man, trying to steer every single word back to Jungkook. It’s a delicate balancing act, keeping the conversation polite while dodging every veiled compliment, every lingering glance, every slight shift in tone that threatens to turn friendly into flirtatious.

“Yeah, it’s kind of funny, actually,” you pick up where you left off, still trying to keep it collected. “I had no idea who Jungkook even was when we first met. Everyone was freaking out about him, and I was just..”

You pause, shaking your head with a soft laugh. “Well, completely clueless.”

He chuckles, leaning in slightly, interest still flickering behind his eyes. “And now you’re wearing his jacket, front and center at every race.”

“Guess I learned who he was real quick,” You joke, though your fingers tighten slightly around your glass.

He tilts his head, like he’s about to say something else, perhaps even heavier, when two warm hands slip around your waist. They’re firm, familiar. A voice, deep, steady, and close enough to feel the breath of it against your temple. “Didn’t realize you two were getting so close.”

You blink, your entire body reacting before your mind even processes it. His presence is instant, all-consuming. You barely have time to react before you feel him pull you back against him, his grip on your waist just tight enough to send a message. The warmth of his chest presses against your back, solid and unwavering.

And when you tilt your head slightly, looking up at who you know damn well is your boyfriend — Oh. Oh, he’s not happy.

His jaw is tight, his lips pressed into a firm line. His usual easy-going expression is replaced by something darker, sharper, a quiet intensity simmering behind his eyes.

The man clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. He knows. Everyone in this room knows. Hell, even the higher powers know better than to mess with Jungkook’s girl.

“Jungkook,” he greets, nodding slightly. “Good race today, man.”

Jungkook doesn’t move. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink.

He just keeps his eyes on the man in front of you, expression unreadable, until he finally speaks.

“Yeah?” he muses, voice deceptively smooth. “Guess I’m lucky I had my girl with me.”

His hold on your waist tightens, just slightly, as if reinforcing the point.

Your pulse spikes, warmth creeping up your neck as you become painfully aware of how close he is.

You’re not usually the center of attention. But right now, you may as well be standing in the eye of a storm.

The tension lingers for a moment more. Jungkook’s hands are possessive, fingers pressing slightly into the fabric of your dress. His presence is impossible to ignore, a wall of warmth at your back, his cologne—deep, musky, with some woodsy notes—wrapping around you like a second layer of skin.

The man shifts, clearly picking up on the shift in atmosphere. Still, he offers an easy smile, nodding toward you.

“She’s beautiful,” he comments, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. “Guess I can’t blame you for keeping her close.”

Jungkook hums smugly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, like he’s weighing his next words carefully. “Prettiest girl in the whole damn room.”

Your stomach flips violently, a cage of butterflies releasing themselves in your body. You’ll never get used to the way he speaks about you.

The driver gives one last chuckle, his eyes flicking between the two of you before wisely deciding to move along with his night. He excuses himself, raising his glass towards both of you before scurrying away as quick as his legs can take him.

And then it’s just you and Jungkook.

You exhale, not even realizing you had been holding your breath, still feeling the ghost of his touch on your waist.

You’re about to say something, but before you can, he turns to you, leans down, presses a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it spreads across your skin like wildfire.

He pulls back, just slightly, his lips hovering over your skin, his voice dropping into something quiet, “You really let that guy talk to you for that long?”

Your eyes widen. “What? I wasn’t—”

Jungkook pulls back, finally looking at you, and he’s pouting. Actually pouting. The 27 year old man. Lips jutted slightly, brows furrowed, his usual confidence slipping juuuust enough to reveal the jealousy simmering beneath. It might be the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.

You can’t help it. You giggle, heart swelling in your chest.

“Jungkook,” You breathe out, leaning up, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He grumbles something under his breath. You kiss him again, again… one more time for safe measures. Tiny, peppered kisses, soft and teasing, trailing across his cheek until you feel the tension in his shoulders start to ease. He exhales slowly, tilting his head, still acting like he’s suffered through the potato famine, furthering your agenda on the sassy man apocalypse.

“I just don’t get it,” he mutters, dramatic. “Why does everyone love you?”

You giggle again, nose brushing against his as you murmur, “Maybe because I’m soooo beautiful?”

Jungkook scoffs. “You think I don’t know that?”

And for the rest of the night, Jungkook doesn’t let you go. Not for a millisecond.

His arm is wrapped around your waist like an iron band, keeping you flush against his side as he guides you through the afterparty. He greets people, nods along to conversations, but his attention never fully strays from you.

Every so often, he leans down, his lips brushing against your temple, the shell of your ear, whispering things only for you.

“Having fun, pretty girl?”

“Gonna keep breaking hearts tonight, or am I enough attention for you?”

“Can’t believe you almost let some other guy steal you away. The blasphemy.”

You laugh every time, eyes sparkling, cheeks warm from the champagne and from the way his voice wraps around you like velvet.

By the time you’re finally in his car, it’s even more obvious.

The moment he pulls onto the empty streets, one hand gripping the wheel, the other immediately finds your thigh. You’re all giggles and smiles, alcohol-induced laughs spilling from your lips as you shift beneath his touch.

“You’re being so touchy,” You tease, voice teasing, light, dripping with warmth.

Jungkook barely glances at you, but you see the smirk pulling at his lips. “Don’t see you pulling my hand away.”

You roll your eyes, but your skin betrays you, heat pooling everywhere his fingertips graze. His thumb circles slowly, rubbing absentminded patterns into your thigh, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“You’re ridiculous,” You mutter, biting back another laugh as you lean against the headrest, the world outside the car nothing but passing trees and shadows.

“And you’re also tipsy,” Jungkook counters, stealing a glance at you, his eyes dark, amused, playful.

He licks his lips, the silver of his piercing catching the streetlights, and you hate how mesmerizing it is.

“So?” you huff, crossing your arms in mock defense.

“So,” he drawls, fingers squeezing slightly around your thigh, watching with interest as you visibly react. “You’re all giggly and sweet right now, and I think I like it too much. My bad for wanting to get my hands on my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

God, the word rolls off him so easily it makes you dizzy.

“You like me all the time,” You poke his hand that’s on your thigh.

“Yeah, but I like you even more when you’re like this,” He plays with his lip ring as his eyes focus on the road.

You peek up at him through fluttering lashes, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way he glances at you just a little too long at a red light. And then, without thinking, you lean toward him, voice dropping into something soft, just shy of teasing. “You’re really that possessive, huh?”

Jungkook’s fingers flex, grip tightening, and for a split second, he looks like he might mount you in that car. “Oh, you have no idea.”

And, he proves it to you. The second his front door swings shut behind you, there’s barely a beat of silence before his lips crash onto yours. It’s immediate, it’s urgent, all-consuming from the tip of your scalp to your toes.

His hands are already on you, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you in like he’s been starving for this. You gasp against his mouth, the taste of champagne still lingering between you, and it makes you giggle yet again like a little high schooler. “Jungkook—”

“Mm,” He hums against your lips, not even bothering to let you finish.

“You’re so cute when you’re needy ,” You chortle in between, barely able to keep up with his pace. Jungkook groans, grinning against your lips before kissing you again, longer, slower.

“What did I tell you about calling me cute?” He mutters, voice low (definitely playing up the octave to seem even more menacing.)

“That it’s true?” You tease, bubbly from the way he won’t stop kissing you.

In a single swift motion, Jungkook grips your thighs and lifts you off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and a squeal exits your mouth.

“Jungkook!” You yelp, arms looping around his neck in surprise. Except it’s really no surprise, because the man has made it clear he’ll throw you around like a rag-doll. He’s already moving, already carrying you toward the bedroom with so much ease your head is spinning.

“Tired of you running from me,” He murmurs, smiling cheek-to-cheek, his bunny teeth poking out as he shuffles quickly down the hall.

You can’t stop laughing, light and heady, fingers threading through his dark hair as he all but sprints the rest of the way. He nearly flings you onto the bed like you’re deadweight.

The laughter is still spilling from your lips when Jungkook slots your mouth with his again, swallowing every giggle, every teasing remark before it can fully form. He kisses you like he needs you to stay quiet, like he’s trying to erase every last trace of your playful remarks before they slip past your lips.

But, you are not letting him off that easy.

“You were so jealous tonight,” You whisper between kisses, smiling against his lips.

Jungkook groans, tilting his head back just slightly before diving back in, his mouth brushing yours in a way that feels punishing.“Maybe. Or maybe I was just passionate.”

You roll your eyes, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he leans into you.

“It was kinda hot,” You mock. “You couldn’t stand it, could you?”

Jungkook grumbles something under his breath, his fingers pressing into your waist, pulling you closer, as if kissing you harder will shut you up. But the moment his lips trail down to your jaw, your pulse leaping beneath his touch, you decide to take control.

In a swift motion, you push against his chest, sliding out from underneath him and standing up.

Jungkook stumbles back onto the bed, eyes wide for half a second before something darker, more intrigued, flickers through them.

You smirk down at him, your confidence surprising even yourself.

“Oh?” Jungkook muses, grinning as he props himself up on his elbows. “Taking charge today?”

You hum, sliding onto his lap, your knees pressing into the mattress as you settle yourself atop him.

“I think you need to be reminded,” You murmur, your fingers ghosting over the silver chain around his neck before trailing downward, nails grazing the buttons of his shirt.

“Of what?” He questions, eyes dark, eager, watching your every move.

You lower yourself, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth, not quite kissing him, just kind of floating.

Slowly, with a purpose, you start kissing down his jaw and the column of his throat. “That I’m all yours,” You whisper against his skin, letting your lips brush over him with every word.

“All mine?” His voice is rough, strained, his fingers practically imprinting upon your skin. He needs to hear it again.

You pull back slightly, rolling your eyes just a little. The man knows very well you’re all his, but the desperation in his voice has you a little more soaked than you’d like to admit.

“Yes, baby,” You breathe out, cupping his face, your thumbs brushing over the faint pink tinge dusting his cheeks. “All yours.”

Now, Jungkook has seen many sides of you. The quiet, reserved girl who hides behind him at events, the sweet and hesitant thing who blushed at every flirty remark he threw your way, the one who overthought every touch, every glance, every lingering silence between you. However, that’s not to say he’s not thoroughly enjoying how unbelievably attractive you looked sitting on top of him.

The girl—the one who is straddling his lap, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, murmuring sinful things in that soft, teasing tone, the heat of breath sending shockwaves straight through him—he does not recognize.

His heartbeat pounds in his ears, blood rushing to his cock. He can hardly breathe or think, all logic stripped away. Jungkook watches, wind knocked out of him, as you shift in his lap, your hips rolling against the growing bulge in his pants. He is ever the patient man; almost as if he wants to see how far you’ll take it.

He continues to stare as your fingers reach behind you, tugging at the zipper of your dress, the soft fabric peeling away from your shoulders, slipping lower, revealing more, more…more. Good lord.

The room is silent except for the soft rustle of fabric, the faint collective gasp in his breath as your dress pools around your waist, leaving your bare skin kissed by the golden lamp light in the room. Jungkook is entranced, his pupils dark. He’s still propped up on his elbows, yet he’s barely keeping himself upright.

Your body is soft curves and slow movements, every roll of your hips against him smoother, more confident than the last, every movement calculated and precise .

His head tips back against the mattress, his long lashes fluttering, his cock throbbing beneath the confines of his pants. Just when he thinks he might combust, you lean down, your lips hovering near his ear, whispering something he doesn’t even hear properly through the haze in his mind. He doesn’t even know what language you’re speaking.

Every teasing shift of your body against his, every brush of bare skin against fabric is driving him to the brink of insanity.

“Tell me what you want, baby.” Your hands trail up his chest, slowly undoing every button, nails barely scratching the heated skin beneath his shirt. Your jaw slightly drops as you let out a soft, needy whimper, a sound so devastating it makes his cock twitch beneath his slacks. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

Jungkook’s resolve crumbles, and his hand flies up, fingers wrapping around your jaw. He tilts your face toward his, making sure you see him. His eyes are feral, his pupils so black and wide they nearly swallow you whole. “Want my cock in your mouth.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your body clenching instinctively. There is a small part of you that’s not all that experienced, despite your past boyfriend and you having sexual experiences. It’s just.. different with Jungkook. You think he expects more, although he tells you he doesn’t. But you’ll do your best for him, like you always do.

He moves up, sitting against the headboard, and you wiggle down, your lips parting just slightly, like you’re already imagining how he’ll feel pushing past them, how he’ll taste on your tongue, which you 100% are.

Your fingers work slowly, methodically, undoing the zipper of his slacks with a deliberate precision that has Jungkook shaking beneath you.

The sound of the zipper unfurling is deafening in the quiet room, drowned only by the unsteady rhythm of his breath, the way it stutters every time your fingers brush against him, every time you shift or press a kiss just a little lower. The man is putty in your hands.

You slip his pants down his thighs, fabric pooling around his ankles, and you throw them somewhere in the room; it doesn’t even matter. What matters is beneath them, he is hard, aching, straining against the waistband of his boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide just how much he needs you, letting you take control while he teeters on the edge of losing it completely.

Your lips press softly to the fabric, your breath warm, your hands gliding up his thighs, fingertips tracing the defined muscles there, feeling the way they tense under your touch, how they twitch with anticipation.

Jungkook watches you, his dark lashes heavy, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He gathers your hair for you gently, fingers running through the strands, pushing them away from your face, tucking them behind your ears, cradling the back of your head, making sure he can see you completely.

For the first time in a long time, you want to be seen.

You want him to watch as you shift, as you lean back, as you slowly kick off your dress, letting it slip down the length of your body, letting it pool onto the floor in a forgotten heap, leaving you bare and exposed.

The black lingerie set you had worn underneath is still intact, a stunning contrast against your skin, the delicate lace barely covering anything at all, making you feel utterly unbreakable under his gaze.

You finally pull his boxers down. His cock springs free, the thickness of it always making you gulp. It’s flushed an angry shade of red, the tip glistening with precum, leaking and throbbing.

You swallow, your mouth already watering, your thighs pressing together as you wrap your fingers around him, feeling the weight of him in your palm. “F-fuck, baby,” Jungkook gasps, his head tipping back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hair tightly.

You stroke him slowly, taking your time, watching every little reaction, fascinated by how his body responds to you, by how his hips barely lift off the bed, chasing your warmth, chasing more. There’s normally a slight hesitation from you, but between the mix of the champagne and how fucking good he looks, you lean in. The first kitten lick to his tip is tentative, barely a flick of your tongue, just a taste.

Jungkook groans, his body jerking, “Jesus fucking Christ,” he curses, his voice shaking, his grip trembling against your scalp.

You hum softly, the sound vibrating against him, your lips parting slightly, your tongue flattening against the tip this time, lapping up the bead of precum that had gathered there, savoring the salty, musky taste of him on your tongue.

“That’s it, baby, fuck, so good,” Jungkook moans, his thighs tensing, his abs clenching, eyes screwing shut, then flickering open again, desperate to watch you, desperate to see you taking him, loving him, making him fall apart in the most beautiful way possible.

His praise makes you braver, makes you bolder, makes you want to see him even more undone, even more at your mercy. You press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his tip, feeling him pulse beneath your lips, hearing the way he gasps sharply.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” He whispers, his voice awe-struck that you’re letting him have this piece of you.

His cock is heavy, filling your mouth so perfectly, stretching your lips as you slowly bob your head, taking in as much as you can. You feel the weight of him glide over your tongue, your throat relaxing, your jaw straining in the best way possible.

“Shit, baby,” Jungkook groans. You’ve always loved how vocal he gets for you.

You steal a glance up at him, and that’s when your eyes meet. His gaze is so dark, pupils blown out, his lips parted, damp. The moment he catches your heavy-lidded, pleading stare, something in him breaks like a live-wire.

“F-fuck,” He chokes out, his abs flexing as his breath breaks. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You get the urge to keep going, faster now, the wet, lewd sounds of your mouth working him filling the room. Your tongue flattens along the underside of his cock, the heat of your mouth searing, your hand wrapping around the length that won’t fit, pumping in time with your movements.

“So, so good, so fucking good,” He pants, voice cracking like a prepubescent boy, his self-control hanging by a thread.

You feel it when he starts to twitch on your tongue, when his hips stutter, when his grip tightens, when he pulls your hair just slightly, as if he’s trying to stop himself from spiraling completely.

“Shit, fuck, wait—” He pulls you off him suddenly, his cock leaving your mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva still connecting you. Your lips are swollen and glossy, your breath ragged as you look up at him, dazed and a tad cock-drunk.

“But…” You sigh, your voice small, your fingers still gripping his length, feeling the way he pulses in your palm. “I wanted to keep going.”

Jungkook groans, pulling you up onto his lap where he needs you most. His lips find your cheeks first, then your nose, your forehead, your jawline, kissing you everywhere, like he’s seconds away from breaking.

“I know, baby, I know,” He pants, barely coherent. Before you know it, he’s positioning you, guiding you to straddle him, to let him sink inside you where he belongs. “But I need you to sit on my cock, baby, please.”

His forehead presses against yours, his lips brushing against your mouth, his breath mingling with yours. “Need to feel you, need to be inside you.”

You whimper against him, the words sending a shudder through your body. Your core throbs and aches for him, whole body on fire like you’ll die if you don’t have him.

You align yourself, rolling your hips just slightly and letting his tip press against your folds. You glide it through your slick, coating him in you. It’s disgusting how aroused you are by him, but there’s comfort in knowing he feels the same way about you.

The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and your head tilts back, your mouth falling open, a soft, breathless moan slipping past your lips as the friction sparks along every nerve in your body.

Jungkook is completely gone, eyes glued to where your bodies meet, his jaw clenched so tight. He’s doing everything in his power to not completely lose control before he even gets inside you.

You sink down, slow, so slow, inch by inch, your walls stretching and molding to accommodate him.

The moment his thick length pushes inside, Jungkook groans, low and broken, while he holds you steady. The slide feels endless, like it always does, stretching you out like you’ve never taken him before, and he’s still struggling to ground himself, trying not to explode right then and there.

“Oh, f-fuck,” He hisses, his thighs tensing beneath you, his muscles coiling so tightly. He’s barely keeping himself from thrusting up into you, from taking what he wants, from losing himself in you completely.

You are getting split in half. Or, it feels like it. Your walls squeeze around him, your body shuddering.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants, his voice low, as his fingers trail up your spine. “Taking me so f-fucking well, feel so good, so tight.”

You only really sit comfortably when your clit presses against his pubic bone, when he is fully, completely inside you, when his cock is buried to the hilt, stretching you so perfectly, so devastatingly deep that it feels like he’s become a part of you.

“Oh my fucking god,” He chokes out, his grip on you bruising, completely lost in the feeling of you milking him already, pulling him in deeper, deeper, deeper. “I almost, fuck, I almost came just from that—”

The thought of it, the idea that you could make him cum just from sinking onto him, has your brain on autopilot.

You start to move, hips rolling in smooth undulations, dragging yourself up his length, feeling every ridge, every inch, before sinking down again. It’s a steady rhythm, one that has you both gasping for air.

But you don’t let him look away from you.

Nails pressing into his shoulder blades, you keep him anchored to you, your body flush against his. You tilt his face back up, your lips ghosting over his. The eye contact sends a shudder through him, his pupils blown wide, begging without words.

“You’re mine,” You murmur, your voice soft but firm, dripping with possession. Your hands trail up to cup his face, holding him there, making sure he hears you.

“Yeah?” he pants, his voice slightly slurred and drenched in adoration “Show me, baby. Let me feel it.”

Your walls squeeze him with every movement, every drag of your hips. And it’s all too much: his cock reaching even deeper, grazing that spot that paints stars in your vision.

“You’re so fucking good to me,” He groans, his voice choked, eyes desperate.

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging slightly, and he whimpers, his lips grazing over you, kissing wherever he can reach, mouthing at your skin. “All yours, baby, fuck. No one else, just you.”

Your heart swells, his jealousy from earlier feeling so distant, so insignificant, when he’s begging for you like this.

“Mine,” you whisper again, your lips ghosting over his ear, your hips picking up the pace, making him writhe beneath you.“Always fucking mine.”

Jungkook shudders, “Yours, baby.” And the words are just being repeated over and over like babbles, barely coherent to either of you as the feeling of being full by him overtakes all.

His hands lift you slightly, just enough for you to feel the drag of his cock leaving you, before he pulls you back down, filling you again in one smooth, deep motion. You cry out, your walls fluttering around him, the pace shifting from teasing to something more consuming, more needy.

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles, his hips meeting yours now, pushing deeper, guiding you exactly how he wants you. “Just like that, ride me just like that.”

“Kook,” You whimper, nearly shaking, nearly crying from how good it feels, your hands sliding down to press against his chest.

You’re practically soaking him, your slick glistening at the base of his cock, collecting there, and he might need to be put in a mental institution after catching sight of it.

“Look at what you’re doing to me,” His eyes lock onto yours, hand slightly moving your face to avert your gaze elsewhere. You glance down, and fuck, he’s right. He’s glistening, his cock shiny with your arousal. Every time he pushes back inside, there’s more slick coating his length, dripping onto his thighs, pooling at the base of him like a sinful masterpiece.

“You feel that, baby?” he whines,“This is all yours.”

Everything becomes messier, sloppier, you’re not even sure where you are anymore. Jungkook is barely holding on, his thrusts erratic, his hands tight on your waist, slamming your hips down over and over again.

Your walls are fluttering, pulsing around him, the pleasure so intensethat you can barely even think or form any thought that isn’t jumbled.

“Jungkook, fuck,” You sob, your body jolting forward every time he drives into you, every time he hits that perfect spot inside you, over and over and over again.

“I got you, baby, fuck, I got you.” And then you really can’t take it anymore when he says things like that. Your hand flies between your legs, fingers pressing to your clit, rubbing furiously. You’re trying to tip yourself over the edge, trying to chase the orgasm that is so close, building like a wave, curling at the base of your spine, ready to crash over you at any second.

Jungkook watches, lips slightly parted. He can’t tear him away from the way you touch yourself, how you look so absolutely fucked out on top of him.

“You gonna cum for me, hmph? Hm, baby?” His words send a shockwave through you, his pace stuttering for just a second before he pounds up into you without a single ounce of restraint left.

“Fuck!” You cry out, your release inevitably waiting for you. Jungkook grins, knowing how close you are, already used to how you look when you finish.

The pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in pure, white-hot ecstasy. Your entire body locks up, breaking apart as your orgasm rips through you with violent force.

“Oh, Jungkook,” Your walls are squeezing around him so tight it nearly forces him out, your head tipping back, mouth falling open, but no sound coming out. Your fingers slip from your clit as your body gives out, but Jungkook doesn’t stop. His hands are locked onto your waist, his hips still driving up into you, prolonging your orgasm, forcing you to ride it out until you’re whimpering.

“Holy fuck, squeezing me so tight,” He’s shaking with restraint, his muscles taut.

Watching you fall apart like this, feeling your walls clench around him like a vice, holding him, owning him, milking him—it’s a lot.

Jungkook grits his teeth, his grip on your waist turning bruising, his chest rising and falling in frantic, erratic pants as his orgasm hits him like a fucking wrecking ball.

“Fuck, mineminemine,” He gasps, and for the first time since you two started dating, he doesn’t ask for permission to finish inside of you. Doesn’t wait for your sweet little nod, your usual whispered “yes” into his ear.

No, not tonight. Tonight, he needs to claim you, needs to remind you, remind himself that no one else is going to have you.

Tonight, he slams you down onto his cock one final time, burying himself as deep as he can go, he spills inside you, filling you up.

“Take all of it, baby,” He gasps, his hips jerking up, riding out his high. Your bodies tremble together, both of you completely wrecked. Yet still, he stays inside you. Still buried to the hilt, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against his sweaty body. His lips press lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your temple, your collarbone.

The room bathes in the warm afterglow of post-sex air. Your limbs are tangled with his as you lay with your head sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat still hammering beneath your ear. For a long moment, neither of you speak. Just deep, ragged breaths. The faint hum of the city outside. The lingering warmth of his hands tracing slow, absentminded patterns across your bare back.

“So… still wanna deny how jealous you were tonight?” You laugh, the words muffled slightly against his skin.

Jungkook groans, his arms tightening around you instinctively. “Don’t start.”

You grin, tilting your head slightly to catch the faint pink creeping up his ears.

“No, but really,” you hum, your fingers lazily tracing the chain around his neck, feeling invincible. “You almost lost your mind over a five-minute conversation. Kind of insane, actually.”

Jungkook lets out a low, gravelly laugh, the sound vibrating through your ears. “You don’t understand how fucking attractive you are. Seriously.”

“Jungkook—”

“No, really,” he kisses your forehead, watching you so intently you feel like he’s seeing right through you. “You walk into a room and I lose my goddamn mind. Every single time. You could have anyone, and yet… you chose me.”

He exhales slowly, lips brushing against your forehead in a way that feels so domestic. You don’t know what to say to that, so you sit with the words for a minute, let them reverberate through your chest. And it almost feels like your chest can’t contain it, like the pressure is building too fast, too much, like your ribs might crack beneath the weight of it. Behind them, your heart swells, expanding at least three sizes larger than its usual.

You pull him back down, lips curving into a soft smile as you kiss him again. “Always gonna choose you, Kook.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

#jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts #bts army #bts jungkook #bts x reader #bts x you #jungkook fanfic

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yuh13lo · 1 month ago

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𖤐 What kinda women C.S.

The thing about Chris Sturniolo’s girlfriend was… she was never actually a secret.

She wasn’t hidden. She wasn’t stashed away. She didn’t make Chris sign NDAs before hanging out or hide behind the kitchen counter when they were filming. She just didn’t push. No “soft launch” pressure, no “when are we going public?” texts, no thirst traps hoping for a repost.

She was content sitting off-camera, ankles tucked under her on the couch, watching the chaos unfold in real time. Her laugh—light, a little squeaky—was the only thing that ever made it into the videos. Sometimes, if fans listened closely, they’d hear it just after one of Chris’s offhand jokes.

At first, it was just the usual noise. Another laugh in the background. Could’ve been Nick, could’ve been Matt. Could’ve even been a crew member or a friend. But then it kept happening.

Same pitch. Same beat. Every time Chris said something stupid.

“I swear there’s a girl laughing in the background of every video,” one fan posted on TikTok. “Every time Chris says something dumb, there it is. The laugh. WHO IS SHE.”

The comments lit up:

“LMAOOO I noticed that too!!”

“It’s giving girlfriend energy 🫢”

“Chris got a girl and didn’t tell us??”

Chris noticed the chatter. He didn’t say anything. He just smiled a little wider the next time she laughed.

The story that blew it all wide open wasn’t even anything dramatic. It was a random Instagram post on Chris’s story. Nothing fancy.

Just a short video of him in sweats, socks mismatched, trying to do that dance Nick had bet him he couldn’t get right. The kitchen lights were too bright, and the music was slightly off-beat, and Chris was clearly making it up as he went.

But the best part—the part that everyone latched onto—wasn’t even him.

It was her. Behind the camera. Giggling.

Not a quiet, polite laugh. Not a performative “look at my man being goofy” type of sound.

It was real. A burst of joy, unfiltered and messy, as if she’d tried to hold it in and failed.

Chris glanced at her in the video—just barely—and grinned mid-dance. “That bad?” he said.

She laughed harder, the camera shaking a little.

And that was it. Fifteen seconds. No tags, no captions. Just her laugh, his grin, and a little piece of their world leaking out for everyone to see.

TikTok lost it.

“She’s real???”

“Chris’s mystery laugh girl IS REAL AND HE LOVES HER I’M CRYING.”

“The way he looks at her when she laughs. No one talk to me.”

He didn’t make a statement. There was no big reveal video or relationship Q&A. He still didn’t tag her. Didn’t need to.

But fans started spotting her more often. The back of her head in a mirror. A pink hoodie sleeve that definitely wasn’t his. A “babe” whispered off-camera when he forgot his phone again.

And still, she didn’t push.

She’d sit in the background, giggling at his jokes, watching the boys film, her laughter the only thing she ever really gave away.

And that was enough.

Because Chris? He never hid her.

He just didn’t need to announce her to the world

When she was already his favorite part of it.

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #madison beer #sturniolo smut #madi filipowicz

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gyeomsweetgyeom · 9 months ago

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⋆⭒˚.⋆ Self-On Kode with Jaehyun ⋆⭒˚.⋆

idol!Jaehyun x f!famous!reader

summary: you and Jaehyun are paired up for an interview. You should know what texting your boyfriend is like, right?

(cw: f!reader, famous!reader)

"Hi," Jaehyun greets the camera, "this is the perfect opportunity to catch up on some music." He settles into the plush pink chair while he fits the headphones over his ears.

His music begins to play while you enter the set and greet the camera which prevents him from hearing who his mystery partner might be. You pop your earbuds in and explain your screen name, "I chose Cupid because I like to set my friends up and help them in their relationships."

The camera cuts to Jaehyun who stares blankly at the camera, "I choose Valentine, because I was born on Valentine's day."

You settle into the chair and make yourself comfortable while your partner for the video begins messaging you. Whoever it is is very proper, uses all the right punctuation and is straightforward. Your eyes widen at the camera, speaking through the music playing through your earbuds, "is this an old man? Am I texting someone's grandpa?"

The staff bursts out laughing and you decide to text your exact question. Jaehyun's eyes widen and he can feel his ears heat in embarrassment beneath the head phones. He texts back with a slight pout on his face, "No, I'm not a grandpa."

You text back and forth for a while, talking about your hobbies, your MBTI, and just trying to make small talk. When you make a joke he doesn't respond with any laughs or emojis, when you try to make more conversation, he responds with short answers. You lean back in your chair, with a huff, "this person is not very fun. It has to be an old man. He doesn’t get any of my jokes!”

The staff prompts you both to send a picture of your home screens. You had recently updated it knowing that you were doing the interview and you and Jaehyun liked to keep your relationship private. Yes, it was known and public, but that didn't mean you were both open to sharing every little aspect, or really any details. Maybe one day you would both be open to sharing everything, but that day was not today.

You quickly take a screenshot of your screen which happens to be a couple folders of your apps and a widget of some picture you had found on Pinterest against the background of some flowers outside your favorite cafe.

Jaehyun perks up a little bit, "I think this looks familiar. I recognize the chairs and words on the wall, even though I can't really see it. Maybe it's one of the members?"

You study the picture sent to you with your brows furrowed as you zoom in and study the apps and the picture, "this looks so familiar to me. It looks like a restaurant in Jeju I was at a few weeks ago, I could be wrong. Let me ask."

The staff struggles to muffle their laughs at yours and Jaehyun's joint confusion. Of course, the pictures looked familiar to each of you, you were together, and had been to these places together.

You continue to text back and forth for a while, finally getting somewhere when he starts to show a little more personality and send some memes in response to your texts. He seemed to be a pretty funny guy, ultimately making you decide it was not an old man you were texting, just someone more proper and maybe old-er.

When it comes time to have you both send your recent food orders, Jaehyun pouts and furrows his brows as he studies the recent orders you'd sent him. There were 3 recent orders, 2 were for 2 people, and the last one was for a larger group. The orders looked familiar, one order for pizza and the other for ramen. It was food he had recently eaten and as hard as he tried to remember he couldn't remember who he had eaten the food with. His schedule had been so packed lately, everything was jumbled up in his head. "It has to be one of my members," he decides out loud.

You study the screenshot sent by "Valentine" while biting your lip, one of the orders was what you had eaten yesterday. A small voice in the back of your head was telling you it was your boyfriend, but he told you he was doing talk shows and variety shows today. This wasn't considered either right? Does he really text like this and you’ve never noticed? Surely, you know what your own boyfriend texts like, right?

You both continue chatting and whoever it is makes you laugh pretty hard at some points when your partner says something stupid or sends a dumb meme. You laugh especially loud, choking on your spit when he sends you a drawing of what he thinks you look like.

You have tears in your eyes and warm cheeks as you stare at a poor drawing of what looks like a boy, freckles, huge eyes, big smile. Your eyes dart from the screen of your phone to the lens of the camera, “wh- he thinks I’m a boy? This doesn’t even look like a person who actually exists!”

Jaehyun on his own side bursts out laughing after zooming in and looking at every detail of the picture, “there are wrinkles on this drawings face. And it’s bald. He thinks I’m an old man, so weird.”

As the time winds to an end you look at the staff behind the camera, somewhat shocked and saddened by the end. "Time flew by!" you scrunch up your face as you think, "I don't think I have a really good read on who it is. I think it's a man that's older than me and probably someone in the music industry since he related to so much. Maybe he's a dancer or producer of some kind."

On the other side Jaehyun is set on who he thinks it is, "it's one of my members, I know it. I think it's Jungwoo or Haechan."

You both stand and turn to face your partners. Upon catching sight of Jaehyun, you immediately scream and run behind the set laughing while screaming, "you told me you had variety shows today! Go home!"

Jaehyun bursts out laughing, hunched over as his cheeks flush, "you didn't tell me either! Get back here!"

Your voice comes out loudly paired with your surprised and embarrassed laughter, "No! I'm so humilated!"

The staff manages to get you both together for the ending conversation. The cameras start filming and you smack Jaehyun's forearm lightly, "you are a horrible texter."

"What did I even say?" He laughs in shock.

"I never realized how boring you are through words, you text like an old man."

Jaehyun answers the staff as they ask how you both possible couldn't pick up on each other through the texts. Jaehyun looks at the camera while he answers, his hand holding yours beneath the tall table, "I think texting is so boring and annoying. We call each other or video call. If we open our messages we use voice notes, we very rarely actually text each other.

You squeeze his hand under the table, eyeing him with a mischievous look, “who did you think I was? You thought I was a boy, who did you have in mind?”

Jaehyun rubs his free hand over his face, already regretting his guess, “before I tell you, you have to understand my thinking. Jeno and Chenle did one of these interviews together so I just figured it could be another member. I thought you were Jungwoo or Haechan.”

You guffaw, a shocked laugh leaving you as you pull your phone out and pull up the drawing he had sent you, “this is what Jungwoo or Haechan look like to you?”

“I’m not an artist! Well, not that kind of artist, but I think it’s pretty good. I even added teeth in the smile.”

“Babe, that’s creepy.”

“Who knew you were such an art critic all of a sudden?” He playfully asks with a bobble of his head.

The staff subtly tell you both to wrap it up, reminding you to take a selfie before ending the video. You catch the cues and smile at Jaehyun, “we’ve been together for a while now but I feel like I learned a lot about you today. You text like an old man, you can’t draw, and you have a horrible memory.”

“Hey! You didn’t know who I was either! The food orders didn’t give anything away?”

“We’re talking about this later,” you decide to reply as you lift your phone to take a selfie.

“Wait, lift it to this angle,” Jaehyun instructs as he gently moves your arm.

“Wow, so bossy,” you mumble jokingly as you snap the picture.

The screen goes black with the selfie of you and Jaehyun with matching bright smiles on your faces as yours and Jaehyun’s laugh transition into the ending of the video.

#kpop imagines #kpop au #kpop scenarios #kpop reactions #nct #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct x reader #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun scenarios

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dreamauri · 2 months ago

Text

♪ — 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗜𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗚 𝗚𝗙 lewis hamilton x fem! genz! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . You never meant to fall for a man twice your age, but somehow, Lewis Hamilton makes thirty-something age gaps feel like background noise. In a world of fast cars and faster headlines, you become the softest scandal on the grid—his controversially young girlfriend (2.3k words)

( my master list | more of lewis hamilton ) ( requests )

You spot him across the room like a plot twist in a book you didn’t mean to start reading—one of those late-night, one-more-chapter choices that end with your sleep schedule in ruins and your heart a little dented.

He’s standing by the bar like he owns the concept of cool, leaning one elbow against the counter, glass in hand, dressed like he just got off a jet and into a Vogue spread. Chunky rings flash with every movement. A silver chain rests on his collarbone like it was born there. Sunglasses inside—normally a red flag—but on him? It’s working. Unreasonably well.

He doesn’t look real. He looks curated. Like someone who’s used to being watched. Someone who doesn’t have to try to be interesting, because the world already decided he is.

And the weird part? You don’t know who he is.

Which makes him fair game.

You down the last of your drink like a dare, swipe your thumb across your bottom lip in case there’s gloss out of place, and march toward him like the protagonist of your own little fever dream.

“Hey,” you say, voice dipped in confidence, grin hooked to one corner of your mouth. “Quick question. Are you this hot all the time, or is it just the lighting in here doing community service?”

He turns his head slowly, like he knows he’s about to be entertained. Looks at you over the rim of his sunglasses with those lazy, almost amused eyes. Then lowers them altogether, letting you see the full scope of his expression.

Blink. Slow blink. Smile.

Then—laughter.

A warm, surprised kind of laugh. Like you just opened a window in a room that hadn’t been aired out in a while.

“You don’t know who I am?” he asks, head tilting, eyebrows raised.

“Nope,” you chirp, popping the ‘p.’ “But judging by that look, you clearly think I should. Celebrity? Secret agent? CEO of Hot Men, Inc.?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he lifts his drink to his lips. It’s whiskey, neat. Of course it is. “I like you.”

“Obviously,” you reply, deadpan. “So, what’s your name, mysterious man with excellent bone structure and suspicious levels of swagger?”

“Lewis,” he says. It rolls off his tongue casual and smooth, like he’s said it a thousand times to people already impressed.

You repeat it slowly, like a sip of something expensive. “Lewis. You got a last name, or are you trying to stay mysterious on purpose?”

“I’m trying,” he says, smirk tucked behind his glass. “But now I’m curious. How old are you?”

You narrow your eyes in playful suspicion. “Why? You tryna check if I need parental permission to flirt with you?”

He laughs again, and it’s even better this time—less surprised, more like he’s starting to settle into the rhythm of you. “Just making sure I’m not getting arrested.”

“Relax, officer,” you reply, pressing a palm to your chest with mock innocence. “I’m twenty-four. Legal, unproblematic, and only occasionally unhinged.”

But his smile shifts—just slightly. A flicker of something cautious flashes behind those honey-brown eyes.

“Damn,” he mutters, not unkindly. “I’m too old for you.”

You arch a brow. “You can’t be that old.”

He gives you a small shrug. “I’m forty.”

There’s a beat.

A pause long enough to pour another drink in.

Your jaw drops. You step back, press a hand to your mouth in mock horror.

“Wowe,” you gasp. “You’re a fossil. How were the dinosaurs? Did you ride a pterodactyl to school?”

He throws his head back and cackles, catching the attention of the bartender and a couple people nearby. It’s not just amusement—it’s delight. You got him.

“Ruthless,” he grins at you.

You shrug, unapologetic. “What can I say? I like my men aged like wine and slightly traumatized.”

He raises his glass. “Well. You might be in luck.”

You clink your empty glass against his full one, eyes never leaving his.

Somewhere in the background, a bass-heavy track starts to play. But the real beat is in the space between you—charged and golden and humming with the promise of something very, very interesting.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not in the paddock. Not wearing borrowed sunglasses and an oversized McLaren jacket that smells like someone else's boyfriend. Not sipping on a bottled water like you belong, casually trying not to gawk at multi-million-dollar cars or the people walking around like they own oxygen.

But you’re here.

A friend’s plus one, a last-minute invite when her PR-boyfriend flaked on escort duty. So you tagged along—because hello, free food, hot people, shiny cars, and maybe the chance to flirt with a driver or two. You figured worst-case scenario, you'd leave with a selfie and a new screensaver.

What you didn’t expect was to see him again.

Lewis.

Mysterious Lewis from the bar. GQ-cover Lewis. Ring-wearing, chain-glinting, forty-year-old fossil Lewis who made you laugh so hard you almost forgot your own name.

He’s walking through the paddock like he’s parting the sea. Everyone moves around him like he's made of something sacred—crew nodding, fans whispering, someone with a camera backing up just to get the shot. He looks… different today. Like he’s not just dressed cool, but armored in it. Like confidence stitched into a race suit.

Your jaw almost hits the gravel.

You don’t even think—your feet just move.

“Lewis!”

He turns.

Sunglasses again, of course. But when he spots you? That smile. Slow, warm, like he knew you'd show up eventually.

You grin, planting yourself right in front of him, toe to boot.

“Okay,” you say, breathless but smug, “you cannot turn me down this time. This is clearly fate.”

He laughs. It rumbles in his chest, head tilting like he’s trying to drink you in without making it obvious.

“You really didn’t Google me, huh?” he says.

You raise a brow. “Should I have? Wait, are you, like, a famous pit crew guy or something? The energy drinks guy?”

He just smiles. The kind of smile that hides a hundred secrets and a thousand wins.

“I gotta go,” he says, stepping closer for just a second. “But I’ll see you on the podium.”

You blink. “What podium?”

But he’s already walking away.

Helmet under one arm, swagger turned up to eleven, disappearing into one of the Mercedes garages like some kind of very sexy magician.

You look to your friend. “What podium?!”

Your friend is pale. “You don’t know who that is?”

“Should I???”

“That’s Lewis Hamilton.”

You snort. “No it’s not. His name is just Lewis. He didn’t even give me a last name.”

“BECAUSE HE’S LEWIS HAMILTON. SEVEN-TIME WORLD CHAMPION. THE GOAT. LITERAL SIR.”

You freeze. Fully buffer. Brain spinning like a car on slick tyres.

Cut to three hours later, and you’re in the Mercedes unit, watching on the big screen as the man you once called a fossil overtakes two cars and wins the freaking British Grand Prix like it’s casual.

The crowd explodes.

Your heart does too.

You're on your feet, half in disbelief, half in awe. You just watched a man drive like a myth, and all you can think is: he told me he was forty and I made a dinosaur joke.

And just as you start contemplating crawling into a hole forever, he finds you again.

Post-race glow. Hair half-flattened from the helmet. Fireproof suit half-unzipped to reveal that chain you remember from the bar. Sweat and champagne still clinging to his skin like stardust.

He looks at you with that same grin.

“Still think I’m someone’s manager?” he teases, voice low, eyes shining.

You gape at him. “You won. Like, you—won. Your name’s on the trophy. That podium. That—your home race??”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Must be fate. You show up, I win. Gotta say… you might just be my lucky charm.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I—I called you a fossil.”

He laughs. Full, delighted, Lewis-laugh. “And you humbled me before I got cocky. We make a great team.”

You bite back a grin, cheeks burning. “So… you celebrating tonight, or what?”

“Obviously,” he says. “You’re coming.”

it’s supposed to be a quick trip. A flash visit, blink-and-you-miss-it, in-and-out kind of thing. You’ve been swamped—deadlines, drama, flights rerouted like bad karma—but something in you ached to be there. For him. For Lewis.

So you made time. You chose time.

And now? Now you’re stuck in Austrian traffic, inching toward the Red Bull Ring in a car that’s doing more idling than moving, hair frizzing in the heat and hands white-knuckling your phone.

You press it to your ear. “I swear to god, if I miss your race because a literal cow is blocking the road—”

Lewis laughs on the other end, warm and fond. “A cow?”

“A cow, Lewis. Just standing there. Living her truth. Meanwhile, I’m two bad songs away from losing it.”

“You sound stressed, babe.”

“Gee, what gave it away?” you snap, then sigh. “Sorry. I just wanted to be there before lights out. Front row, proud girlfriend, full ensemble.”

His voice softens. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

“Barely.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re still my lucky charm. Even if you’re watching from the parking lot.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Go win something, fossil.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He gets P2.

You watch the final laps on your phone screen, pressed against the parkinglot gates, heart in your throat and hands half-numb. The crowd erupts. Flags wave. You swear you can hear the champagne pop all the way from the parking lot.

And then—

There he is.

Striding out from the gates like he owns Austria, still in his suit, curls damp under his cap, smile already loaded like a secret.

“Hey,” he calls out, just loud enough for you to turn.

You do. And then you forget how to breathe.

Because Lewis Hamilton kisses you like the cameras aren’t watching. Like the whole world doesn’t know his name. Like you didn’t just call him a fossil two weeks ago and now you’re wearing his hoodie like a badge of honor.

You pull back, dazed and pink. “That was… public.”

“Could’ve made it more dramatic,” he teases. “Want a dip next time?”

“You’re so cocky for a man who came in second.”

He grins. “I’ll take second if it means I get to see that blush.”

You're about to fire back—something witty, something flirty—when someone from Mercedes runs up, breathless. “Lewis, mate. You need to come back to the unit. Now.”

He frowns. “Everything alright?”

The guy looks between the two of you, eyes wide. “George got disqualified.”

You both blink.

“What?” you say, at the same time Lewis mutters: “No way.”

“Track limits. Deleted laps. It just came through.”

Which means—

“You’re P1,” you whisper, eyes wide.

Lewis turns to you, slow and stunned. Brows raised. Smile blooming like he knew.

“Guess you really are my lucky charm,” he says, low and gleaming.

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “I didn’t even see the race.”

“Didn’t have to,” he murmurs, already pulling you into his arms. “Just had to show up.”

Thursdays are usually soft-launches. Media day. Press conference drip. Everyone pretending they’re not sizing each other up, that they’re not itching for Sunday, that they’re not clocking every outfit and wink and subtle little flex.

But this Thursday?

You walk in and the whole paddock blinks.

Because Lewis Hamilton—Sir Lewis Hamilton—is already waiting by the entrance like a man on a mission. Like the sun rises wherever you land. And he’s dressed like a dream dipped in platinum, silver shirt half-buttoned, rings glinting, pants tailored within an inch of heaven.

But it’s the way he looks at you that melts reality a little.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmurs as you reach him.

You grin, a little breathless, fixing the collar of his shirt even though it’s perfect. “You’re overdressed.”

He eyes your outfit—slick and sharp, Prada shades and knee-high boots like you own the grid—and hums, “Nah. We’re matching.”

And you are. Silver and black, sleek and dangerous. A walking power couple with zero subtlety. Someone snaps a pic. Then another. Cameras start clicking like popcorn.

He slips his hand into yours. Casual, confident. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

And then the tweets start.

You scroll a few of them while waiting outside hospitality, phone buzzing like a feral bee. You snort-laugh at the “get it grandpa” one. Lewis peeks over your shoulder and raises a brow.

“They’re obsessed with you,” you say, smirking.

“They’re obsessed with you,” he corrects, tugging you closer by the waist. “You okay?”

You shrug, leaning into him. “I mean, people think I’m either your niece or your mid-life crisis.”

He snorts. “You’re my win.”

Your smirk falters—just for a second—because god, he’s so earnest. So warm. Like a damn sunbeam with abs.

You recover quick, flicking your sunglasses down. “Damn right I am.”

He laughs loud, head tipping back. “There she is.”

All day, people stare.

Team members smile politely. Fans whisper behind phones. Media pretends not to mention it while asking if you're enjoying your "first F1 paddock experience" (you’ve been to three, thank you very much).

You pose for a few pics. Kiss Lewis on the cheek when he heads into the garage. Sip your overpriced iced coffee like nothing rattles you.

But every so often—when it’s quiet—you hear the whispers again. About the age gap. The headlines. The way you don’t look like you belong next to someone as legendary as him.

So when you catch your reflection in the hospitality glass—twenty-four and glowing but clearly young—you take a breath.

And then you smirk at yourself. Flip your hair. Take a selfie.

Caption it:

“idk i just think i’m a slay.”

And Lewis? He reposts it.

voice notes 🔊. . . ( im so writting a p2 for this when he moves to ferrari and the disqualifying in china )

#‧˚⊹🪴 ଓ :: 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 ‧₊˚⤾#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lh44 #lh44 fic #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 x female reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x y/n

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solxamber · 8 months ago

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Shot Through the Heart || Jade Leech

As a senior Cupid with a 100% matchmaking rate, your flawless record crumbles before your eyes when Jade Leech resists every arrow you shoot.

Cupid work was supposed to be simple. Straightforward. Shoot the arrow, spark the love, then vanish into the ether like a matchmaking ninja. And the best part? No one could see you while you were on the job. Humans couldn’t detect cupids unless you wanted them to—basic enchantment stuff.

It was foolproof. Bulletproof. Idiot-proof.

Until Jade Leech came along.

Now you were crouched on an invisible cloud in the Mostro Lounge, clutching your bow like a deranged sniper, trying for the fifth time today to make this slippery eel fall in love. Normally, one arrow would be enough. Two, tops. But no. Jade had managed to evade your efforts so many times you were starting to think he had some kind of love-repellent aura.

Your first attempt had been textbook—clean shot, perfect match, zero complications. You’d aimed at a sweet marine biology student sitting at the table he was standing at. She laughed at his jokes and even complimented his creepy mushroom collection. Prime material.

The arrow sailed through the air, shimmering with cupid magic, and… thunked directly into a potted kelp plant.

You blinked. That had never happened before.

Jade, meanwhile, tilted his head slightly, like he’d heard something. Which was impossible. He couldn’t see or hear you. That’s not how this worked.

“Strange,” he murmured, sipping his tea.

“Strange?” you hissed under your breath, ducking behind a kelp column for cover. “You don’t even know the half of it, buddy.”

Your second attempt was a waiter. He’d nervously approached Jade’s table to compliment the décor. You’d immediately pulled another arrow and lined up the shot. He was sweet, polite, and had a thing for tall, mysterious men with creepy hobbies. A perfect match.

The arrow zipped toward him—only to ricochet off Jade’s glass of water and hit a chandelier. It exploded in a shower of pink sparkles, which Jade observed with a calm “My, how festive.”

Meanwhile, Azul was screaming in the background about cleaning bills, and you were screaming internally about your reputation.

By the third attempt, you were desperate. A nice guy had wandered over to ask about the specials. Surely, surely, this would be the one.

Nope.

The arrow missed entirely, grazed a wine bottle, and smacked Azul square in the back of the head right when he was looking at a mirror. He froze, then his face took on a soft, dreamy expression that would haunt your nightmares forever.

“Wow,” Azul said breathlessly. “Your eyes are like a summer tidepool…” to himself.

You gagged. Jade, of course, looked directly at your hiding spot with that smile.

By attempt number seven, you were sweating. How could one man be so impervious to love? It wasn’t natural. The Association would have to send in a research team to study him after this.

You waited until a shy customer approached Jade to ask about the menu. He blushed when Jade smiled at him. Perfect. This was it.

You drew your bow, steadied your breath, and—

“You’re working very hard up there, aren’t you?”

You froze.

No. He couldn’t have. He didn’t.

You turned, heart pounding, to see Jade looking directly at you. You were still invisible—he shouldn’t have been able to—but that smug, knowing expression said otherwise.

“Oh, for the love of—”

Your hand slipped.

The arrow flew.

And it hit you.

In the foot.

There was a pause. A long, horrible pause, as the enchantment spread through your body.

“Oh no,” you whispered. “Oh no, no, no—”

It hit your chest. The realization came immediately, like a freight train of romantic doom. You were going to fall in love with Jade Leech.

From below, Jade tilted his head, a picture of polite curiosity. “Everything all right?”

“No,” you groaned, clutching your face. “Nothing is all right. Everything is the opposite of all right.”

Your heart was already beating faster, your palms sweating. You peeked out from behind the kelp column to see Jade still watching you, his mismatched eyes glittering with amusement.

“Interesting,” he murmured, taking another sip of tea.

And that’s when it hit you. He’d been doing this on purpose. He wasn’t just immune to cupid magic—he knew.

“Oh, you smug little eel,” you hissed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer, of course. He just smiled.

And for the first time in your long, illustrious career as a senior cupid, you realized you were in big, big trouble.

Masterlist

might do a part 2 lol

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #jade leech x reader #jade x reader #jade leech #jade leech x you #jade

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unsuperingyournatural · 3 months ago

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pure blasphemy

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

dividers @saradika-graphics

realized I've never really seen the Indiana Jones movies and this materialized

You’ve survived premieres before, but this one feels different. Not because the crowd is bigger or the stakes are higher—but because Pedro is next to you.

Pedro, in his perfectly tailored dark suit, warm smile, and those damn glasses. The ones that always make your knees a little weaker than you care to admit. He adjusts them now with a ringed hand as the two of you step up to yet another reporter.

This one is a woman—bright-eyed, fast-talking, genuinely thrilled. “You both look incredible—congratulations on the premiere!” she says. “Pedro, let’s start with you. With all this space action in the film tonight, I have to ask… still feeling the Mandalorian love?”

Pedro grins, eyes twinkling behind his lenses. “Oh, definitely. Once you’ve worn Beskar, you don’t go back.”

You smother a smile, watching the familiar charisma switch on like a well-worn light. He’s always good with press—effortless, charming, that perfect blend of humble and cheeky.

“You grew up watching Star Wars, right?” the reporter asks.

“Oh yeah,” Pedro says. “My older sister was obsessed. Like, full-on encyclopedia-level obsessed. She knew every background character in Jabba’s palace. Every one.”

The reporter laughs. “And you?”

“I loved it too, obviously. But I was always more of an Indiana Jones kid. That was my thing.”

Then he turns toward you with that signature slow smile. “What about you?”

You raise your brows. “Me?”

He nods. “Yeah. What’s your pick?”

You hesitate half a second. “Star Wars.”

Pedro staggers back like he’s been mortally wounded. “No.”

The reporter grins, thrilled. “Uh oh. Looks like there might be trouble in paradise!”

You laugh, cheeks warming under the lights, as Pedro narrows his eyes like he’s solving a murder mystery.

“Star Wars over Indiana Jones?” he echoes, as if tasting something bitter. “ How could you? Okay. Let’s remove Star Wars from the conversation. If you had to pick a favorite Indiana Jones movie, which one would it be?”

You shift slightly, still smiling. “I’m not sure.”

He freezes. “What do you mean you’re not sure?”

You pause… then confess: “I’ve never seen one?”

He stares at you. Open-mouthed. Like the world just tilted sideways. He starts to say something. Stops. Recalculates. Then turns—without a word—and walks off.

“Oh no,” the reporter gasps, laughing. “I think you broke him.”

You glance toward Pedro. He’s already chatting with the next reporter, gesturing toward you. You can hear him clear as day: “She’s never seen Indiana Jones!”

You wince, laughing. “Guess I’m in trouble.”

“Oh, big trouble,” the reporter confirms. “That man is on a mission now.”

You’re still laughing when Pedro reappears and takes your hand like it’s just a thing he does.

“Excuse me,” he says to the woman in front of you, voice warm but firm. “Sorry, but we have a movie to go watch.”

The reporter smiles. “I know,” she says, gesturing around. “This one.”

Pedro shakes his head and adjusts his glasses. “No. We’re actually leaving right now. Gonna go back to the hotel to start an Indiana Jones marathon because this one—” he lifts your hand—“has somehow never seen any of them. Not even Raiders. And that’s just unacceptable.”

He looks at you with mock disappointment.

“Some movie fan you are.”

You smirk. “You just want to watch Harrison Ford throw a whip around.”

Pedro scoffs. “Don’t you dare reduce it to whip-throwing. There’s history. There’s adventure. There’s deep-rooted cinematic heritage.”

You hum. “There’s snakes I’ve heard.”

“Exactly!”

“You’re such a nerd.”

He snorts. “You say that like it’s not part of my charm.”

The reporter is cracking up. “You two are unbelievable.”

Pedro points dramatically at you with his free hand. “This isn’t over.”

“Was it ever?”

The reporter sighs happily. “Thank you both so much for the laughs—and best of luck tonight.”

“Thank you,” you both say as Pedro gently guides you forward, still hand-in-hand.

But before you make it to the next press stop, he tugs you aside—just for a second, just far enough that the next cameras can’t catch your expressions. His head dips closer to yours, his voice lower now, warmer.

“I cannot believe you’ve never seen Indiana Jones,” he murmurs. “That’s like… a must for anyone in my life. How’d you even get through?”

You shrug, a little coy. “Lack of proper vetting? That question wasn’t on the Pedro Pascal hangout application.”

Pedro tilts his head, studying your face like he’s memorizing it for later. Then his lips curve.

“…It should be.”

Your breath catches—just slightly, just enough. The way he’s looking at you makes the noise and lights and bustle of the carpet feel very far away.

“Add it to the list,” you murmur.

“I’m going to.” His thumb brushes the back of your hand—once, slow. “Right at the top.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. You both stand there a moment longer, caught in something soft and private, and then—

A voice calls your names for the next interview, and Pedro finally straightens, all charm again. But as he turns, his hand tightens around yours, and his smile—the one he flashes before stepping back into the spotlight—is just for you.

An hour later, after ducking out of the premiere early with barely an excuse, the hotel suite is quiet, save for the low hum of the TV and the faint pop of corn in the microwave., save for the low hum of the TV and the faint pop of corn in the microwave. Pedro has already ditched the suit jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt—the glasses still on, because, as he says, "You need full clarity for something this sacred."

You’re curled up on the couch, bare feet tucked beneath you, a hotel robe wrapped around your premiere dress like a compromise between glamour and comfort. Pedro paces in front of the TV like he’s preparing to give a lecture.

“Okay,” he says, remote in hand. “We’re starting with Raiders of the Lost Ark, obviously. Because if we start with Temple of Doom, you might not forgive me.”

You grin. “I feel like that was a dig, but okay.”

“It wasn’t. It was a protective choice.” He glances at you, expression suddenly soft. “You sure you’re not too tired?”

“I’m good. As long as you promise not to quiz me after.”

“No promises,” he says, hitting play.

The iconic Paramount mountain fades into a jungle, and Pedro sits beside you, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his lap, eyes locked on the screen like he’s watching it for the first time. Every so often, he glances at you to catch your reactions—that little smile of his tugging higher when you jump at the boulder scene, or mutter “Gross” when the snakes appear. At one point, when Indy dodges a poison dart by mere inches, Pedro throws a triumphant fist in the air, whisper-shouting, "Classic!" like a kid seeing his hero in action. Later, he throws a few pieces of popcorn dramatically during a tense standoff scene, narrating in a faux-deep voice: "This is where it gets real serious." You snort, stealing one of the kernels that landed in your lap and tossing it back at him.

“So,” you whisper halfway through, careful not to interrupt too much. “This is like, peak Harrison Ford?”

Pedro turns slowly, eyes wide. “Like? Like?”

You hold up your hands. “Okay! Is. Peak Harrison Ford. Damn.”

He nods solemnly. “That’s better.”

Eventually, somewhere between melting Nazi faces and Indy rescuing Marion—right after Pedro quietly mouths the line "It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage" with such pride it makes you laugh—your head drifts toward Pedro’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything—just shifts slightly to make more room, the popcorn bowl moved to the side table in one smooth motion.

You feel his hand find yours under the blanket, fingers tangling without any effort at all.

When the credits roll, you’re still leaning on him, and he glances down to find your eyes half-closed.

“Hey,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Don’t fall asleep before Temple of Doom.”

You hum. “I thought you said we weren’t starting with that one.”

“We’re not. I’m just buying time to watch you fall asleep on me.”

You crack one eye open, lazy and fond. “You’re still a nerd.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “And you still picked Star Wars over Indy.”

“Guess we’re both disasters in our own way,” you murmur, your voice already fading.

“Speak for yourself,” he teases softly. “I’m an educational resource.”

You manage a tired smile as he squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

The second movie never makes it off the menu screen.

You both fall asleep like that—his arm around you, your cheek on his chest, popcorn forgotten, glasses still on.

And for the first time all evening, the quiet settles between you not as silence—but as comfort, the kind that says nothing needs to be said to be understood.

The room glows in the soft flicker of the paused TV, and as you drift off, you hear him murmur quietly into your hair:

“We’ll finish your film education tomorrow. For now… let’s call this an intermission—with you snoring and me pretending not to like it.

“Shut up,” you murmur, barely awake. “Don’t snore.”

A few minutes later, you do. Softly. Gently. Just enough to make Pedro smile in the dark.

He shifts just enough to pull you closer, his breath warm against your temple as he finally lets himself drift off too.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #female descriptors used #female reader

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