#I really enjoy reading all of your tags and comments! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daydreamtofiction · 2 days ago

Text

The Feature XXVIII // Benedict Cumberbatch x Reader

Series Overview | Previous Part | First Part

Chapter Summary: (Female Reader) Quinn and Ben say goodbye to LA before heading to the next stop on their trip. It all feels too good to be true for Quinn, and maybe she's right.

Chapter Word Count: 8.4K (it's a thiccccccc one)

Chapter Warnings: Strong language, adult and sexual themes, derogatory/offensive language. Trigger warning for vomiting and descriptions of panic/anxiety. Readers must be 18+

A/N: I don't like asking people for comments/feedback and try not to do it because I know people have lives beyond reading fanfic lol. But I would really love and appreciate it if you could let me know what you thought of this chapter and how you're finding the story so far. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter (and also sorry in advance lmao x)

Join the Tag List Here*

In some ways, you regretted not venturing beyond the house. That for almost a week, you’d had the city of LA on your doorstep, Hollywood on the horizon, a plethora of stores and restaurants, clubs and landmarks, yet you’d deemed none of it worthy of leaving your paradise for. But as you dragged the zip closed on your suitcase, you couldn’t help but feel perfectly content with how you’d chosen to spend your time.

It had been like living inside a dollhouse, moving from room to beautiful room with no need for urgency, everything you needed appearing just where it should be, as if placed there by a little girl’s hand just out of sight. You felt rejuvenated, loose and soft, your eyes sparkling, skin glowing, mouth resting in a smile more often than it ever had before.

Ben was downstairs, pacing the echoey entrance hall as he spoke on the phone. To whom, you didn’t know. It could have been his manager, publicist, assistant, maybe an old actor friend, or some big Hollywood director. You found it hard to care too much about his work; unable to connect the revered A-list actor to the man you shared a bed with each night, the man who talked in stupid accents and still bookmarked his pages with old train tickets.

You stood up and slung your carry-on bag over your shoulder, lifting the handle of your suitcase and dragging it behind you. You stopped in the doorway, turning around and taking one last look at the bedroom; the late afternoon light melting across the headboard, the door to the balcony where you’d spent so much of your time. You were going to miss it. But you knew you’d be back.

You were halfway down the huge, curving staircase when Ben noticed you struggling with your bag, awkwardly bumping your suitcase down each step with a heavy thud. He wedged his phone between his ear and shoulder and hurried up to meet you, taking your luggage and carrying it down the rest of the way as he continued to talk.

“And is that under my name or yours?” he asked as he placed your bags next to his by the front door. “Okay, great. And you’ll be there tomorrow? Okay. Talk soon, bye.”

You’d sat down on the bottom step while you waited for him to finish, smiling up at him as he slid his phone into the back pocket of his trousers.

“Who was that?” you asked. “Your other girlfriend?”

“Yeah, we’re going to meet up in New York for a quickie.”

You paused. “Even the thought of that just pissed me off.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “It was just Kay. She was letting me know everything’s sorted for when we get there.”

You’d learned to stifle the urge to grimace whenever he mentioned his publicist. She was one of the orchestrators behind his marriage, one of the voices in his ear telling him it was a good idea. No matter how kindly he spoke of her, you couldn’t help but doubt it, like you were holding onto a grudge that wasn’t yours to bear.

“Have you got everything?” he asked.

“Mhm.” You nodded with a sigh.

“What’s the matter?”

“I like it here. Sad to be leaving, that’s all.”

He pursed his bottom lip sympathetically and extended his hand to you. You stood up and walked over to him, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulders and place a kiss on the top of your head.

“We can come back whenever you want,” he said.

You said goodbye to California at 6pm, gazing at the golden horizon and pinkish hued clouds through your tiny plane window with a wistful sigh. And just five and a half hours later, you arrived into utter darkness, staring up at a starless night sky as you made your way down the steps onto the runway. It was 2.30am in New York. The time difference had thrown you off-kilter, leaving you with an energy that seemed incongruous to the sleepy faces of airport security and weary travellers around you.

This journey was different to the last. You had no escorts, no fast tracking, no fancy men in tailcoats. Instead you moved through the airport like everyone else, disguised by surgical masks, baseball caps and sunglasses. You could have sworn you spotted a few glances and double-takes from passersby, people wondering if it could be him, but refraining from getting too close.

Ben held your hand as you navigated the building, eventually boarding the AirTrain where no one even cared to look up; their fists wrapped around handrails, earphones in, faces buried in books and newspapers. It was so quiet you didn’t dare speak, exchanging glances with Ben instead, seeing his eyes crease whenever he smiled.

There was also no driver this time. No quiet, stony man waiting to chauffeur you around in a big SUV. Instead, Ben picked up the keys to a Mercedes from the car rental desk, throwing your bags into the boot and slipping into the driver’s seat. You got in next to him, taking off your mask and sunglasses and turning to look at him, eyeing him with a raised brow as he rubbed his hands together excitedly.

“What?” he said. “I like driving into the city.”

“Why?” you asked with a laugh.

“You’ll see.”

The early hours made for open, quiet roads, the freeway a smooth, uninterrupted stretch. Ben drove with a hand on your thigh, the other lazily hugging the wheel. Music played softly through the radio as a light breeze rolled in through a crack in your window. It was idyllic, peaceful, and then you saw it.

The city skyline was like a constellation against the inky black sky. A smattering of glittering lights across every building and structure, the water below reflecting them back with a diffused glow. You stared out of the window in awe, taking your phone out to snap a photo that didn’t do it any justice. Ben smiled as he drove, charmed by your fascination, happy to be the one that got to show it to you.

It was clear he knew exactly where he was going, the car soaring over a long, steel bridge into the city with no hesitation. He knew every turn he had to take and every interesting thing to point out, like the old warehouse that was now a gallery, the dingy-looking deli he swore made the best sandwiches, and the street they’d closed off while filming Doctor Strange. You took it all in, curling into the passenger seat, elbow propped on the window, cheek in your hand.

As you ventured deeper into the city, it somehow began to feel more vibrant. Even in the dead of night, there was life everywhere; traffic lights and flashing neon signs, yellow taxi cabs perusing for passengers. California had felt like a long exhale. But this place seemed to breathe.

He pulled up a few minutes later outside a sleek, towering building, turning into an underground parking garage beside it. There were no doormen to help with your bags, no security guards manning the entrance, just a small intercom on the wall, a touchscreen keypad beneath it. Ben pulled out his phone, looking through his texts for a moment before punching in a code that made the door unlock with a satisfying buzz. You followed him inside, emerging into a brightly lit lobby with shiny marble floors, a concierge sitting behind a front desk near the doors that led out onto the main street.

“Good evening, sir,” the man said in an accent you didn’t think existed outside of movies. “Or should I say good morning.”

Ben gave a polite laugh as he approached the desk. “Good morning. I think you have some keys for me. Should be under ‘Philip Chase’.”

The man checked beneath his desk for a moment before standing up straight with a pair of keycards, handing them to him with a smile. “Apartment 603.”

“Thank you.”

You followed Ben towards the lifts on the other end of the lobby, shifting your bag back onto your shoulder as you went.

“Philip Chase?” you asked.

“Pseudonym.”

You scoffed quietly as the doors slid open, stepping inside and pressing the button for the sixth floor.

“So, Mr Chase,” you began as the lift began to move. “How long have you owned this place?”

“Oh this is just a rental.”

The doors opened onto a spacious, quiet corridor. Even the air smelled expensive; clean and citrusy, with a deep undertone of something musky and polished. The carpet was plush, sinking slightly beneath each footstep, the walls adorned with sconces that gave off an ambient glow.

Ben pressed one of the keycards to the sensor on the door of your apartment, pushing down on the heavy handle and stepping aside to let you walk in first. Your breath caught for a moment when you stepped over the threshold, your eyes darting around the expansive, grandiose space.

You’d expected something hotel-like; neutral and classic, carpet and coffee tables, fake plants and carefully curated art. But it was almost the complete opposite. There was something industrial about it; open plan with wood floors and exposed copper piping. Rich navies and deep greens softened by warm, amber lighting and exposed brick walls. Huge metal-framed windows covered the length of one wall, revealing a view of the city, so stunning you found yourself moving across the apartment to get a closer look.

“Holy shit,” you breathed.

He dragged the suitcases inside and closed the front door. “It’s nice, isn’t it.”

“Nice?” you replied with a laugh, turning to look at him.

“More than nice?”

You shook your head, returning your gaze to the window. “I think I might actually like this more than LA.”

He laughed as he stepped up behind you, resting a hand on the back of your neck. “Knew you were a city girl.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “I’m a ‘whatever this is’ girl.”

“Good to know.” He gave the back of your neck a gentle squeeze before letting go and making his way over to the kitchen, opening the fridge and nosing through the cupboards. “So, house or apartment, then?”

“For what?”

“For when we live together.”

“Slow down, sir.”

He smirked, taking a bottle of water from the fridge and twisting off the cap.

You wandered over to him, resting your elbows on the counter and watching as he took generous gulps of water, his throat bobbing with each deep swallow.

“It amazes me how certain you are,” you said, shaking your head softly.

“About what?”

“About us. It’s like you’ve got no doubt in your mind that this is… It.”

“I love you,” he said simply, shrugging his shoulders.

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I love you too.”

“I don’t see anything changing that, do you?”

You shook your head.

“Well there you go,” he said. “That’s why I’m so certain.”

You exhaled a laugh through your nose, tilting your head slightly to gaze at him as he spoke.

“And you know I’m only teasing you when I talk about all the big future stuff,” he said. “I don’t doubt it’s going to happen. But I’m not in any rush. Really. This little bubble we’ve got… I’m happy in it.”

You paused for a moment before speaking softly. “You know bubbles can burst…”

“Not this one,” he replied with an ease and confidence that made you smile. “No matter how much of a pain in the arse you try to be,” he continued, moving around the counter towards you. “Or how many of your fake grandmothers have to die so I can have you with me wherever I go. Or how much I want to tell the whole fucking world about you.”

You laughed, looking up at him as he brought his hands to your cheeks, holding you in place as he leaned in close.

“I will protect this bubble, at all costs,” he finished quietly, pressing his lips to yours with a firm kiss.

You smiled against his lips, placing your hands over his as they cupped your face.

“I’m holding you to that,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look up at him..

“Fine by me.”

“And you know…” you said as he continued to press his lips to yours, punctuating your words with kisses. “The bubble has a very strict limit on how often you’re allowed to mention big scary future things…”

“What’s the limit? Just so I can make sure I meet my daily quota.”

You rolled your eyes and playfully pushed him away.

He laughed as he took a step back, before turning on his heels and beginning to walk away. “Come and unpack before I do something drastic. Like propose.”

The bedroom was a complete contrast to the one in LA. It was darker, cozier, more intimate; a large bed and minimal furniture, sconces on the exposed brick walls providing a warm, dim light. It was beautiful, the kind of room you’d see in a movie or TV show, another perfect snapshot of the city through a tall casement window. You tried not to gawp as you walked in, making your way coolly over to your suitcase.

“Is there even a point in unpacking?” you asked as you unzipped it. “How long are we here for?”

“A week at least,” said Ben as he rummaged through his bag.

“A week?”

“At least. Y’know, these Marvel flicks, they’re sort of a big deal,” he replied sarcastically.

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t seen any.”

“Bullshit.”

“I know, I’m joking. I’ve actually seen quite a lot of them.” You paused for a moment before laughing softly. “Isn’t it weird to think that I watched films of yours over the years with no idea I was going to end up with you one day.”

“You’re living every super fan’s dream,” he teased.

“You have fans?”

He scoffed and threw a balled up pair of socks across the room at you. You dodged them with a laugh before finally beginning to unpack.

You filled a dresser with your clothes and put your shoes and empty luggage inside the closet. Then you adorned the bedside table with things that made it feel more like yours; your perfume and jewellery case, a journal, your phone charger, the book you’d yet to start reading.

Now you were standing with Ben in the bathroom, side by side at the sink as you brushed your teeth together. He was shirtless, a pair of pyjama bottoms sitting low on his waist, while you’d opted for a loose t-shirt and a pair of knickers. You exchanged glances in the mirror, small smiles and playful glints, talking without need for words. And when you were both done, he hovered for a moment near the door, watching you tie your hair up and apply your moisturiser like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

You checked the time as you crawled into bed. 4am. And it was finally catching up with you. Your muscles ached as you sank into the mattress, eyelids heavy, your arm instinctively draping over Ben’s stomach as he lay down with you.

“Do you want to come to a screening tomorrow?” he asked quietly.

“For what?”

“Multiverse.”

You lifted your head slightly to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound very bubble-like.”

He exhaled a laugh, bringing a hand up to stroke the back of your head. “It’s not a red carpet thing. Nothing flashy. It’s private; mostly industry people, critics, press, sometimes there’s a few competition winners.”

You hummed quietly to yourself, mulling it over.

“I just thought you might like to come,” he said. “And maybe there’s a selfish part of me that wants you to see me all… muscular and powerful.”

“In your little red cape.”

“It’s a cloak.”

You laughed, resting your head on his chest. “Yeah okay, I’ll come.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

He placed a kiss on the top of your head before letting out a long, laboured yawn and relaxing into the mattress. Neither of you spoke again, the silence softened by your rhythmic breaths and the faint sounds of the city beyond the window.

Ben was already gone when you woke up; his side of the bed still rumpled, a soft indent still visible in the pillow he’d slept on. You’d gotten used to waking up alone, and you didn’t really mind it. Your brain had always taken a little while to start functioning in the mornings, and the quiet solitude of a beautiful home had become the perfect way to slowly ease you into the day.

You showered and got dressed, determined to venture beyond the apartment, though you had no idea where you were going to go. There was a credit card on the kitchen counter, a note beside it that read: If you need anything. You stubbornly refused to even pick it up, turning your back on it as you slung your bag onto your shoulder and headed for the door.

You found a small café a few blocks away, sitting in the window to people-watch while you ate breakfast and jotted ideas in your journal. A woman walked by in a mini skirt and knee high boots, her long hair fluttering behind her majestically as she moved. Meanwhile, a man in a structured coat and halfmoon sunglasses crossed the street like it was his own personal catwalk. A group of young women stood taking photos of each other against the backdrop of traffic, each one of them dressed impeccably; bold colours and mismatched textures, every piece they wore so deliberate and thought-out.

As you watched the world drift by, it only seemed to grow clearer how deeply this city cared about its image. It wasn’t a shallow battle of aesthetics, but a showcase of individuality. Everyone walked like they had a purpose, like they were being watched, even the man sipping a coffee at the table next to you looked like a model with his loose-fitting shirt and slicked back hair.

It made you feel underdressed, dull, like you were somehow disrespecting the city itself by gracing its streets looking anything less than exquisite. Then you remembered the screening. Nothing flashy, Ben had said. But what exactly did ‘nothing flashy’ mean? What if you walked into that theatre in your ‘not flashy’ outfit, only to be met by more beautiful people in more beautiful clothes? The thought put you off your food.

You told yourself you were just going to browse.

Yet somehow, you found yourself wandering in and out of clothing stores; designer brands with oddly posed mannequins, small vintage boutiques that smelled like leather and incense, and one store with music so loud you walked right back out again. Everything you touched came with a pang of fear, a price tag you didn’t dare look at. But eventually, you found something.

The skirt was long and silk, in a soft, pale shade of green that immediately caught your eye. You paired it with a delicate button-up waistcoat in a similar colour, not bothering to try anything on and simply hoping it would all work together. You tried not to look flustered when the girl behind the cash register gave you the total, thinking back to the card Ben had left on the kitchen counter for you; the one that probably had unlimited credit, the one he’d placed there with a note that might as well have said: buy whatever you want, I have so much money I won’t even notice it’s gone. But you kept a straight face, reaching into your bag and handing over your debit card, certain you could actually feel the sting as the money left your account.

By the time you made it back to the apartment, you’d somehow acquired a new pair of shoes too, and a lipstick, and a clutch bag, and a Big Gulp of Dr Pepper almost twice the size of your head. You’d almost gotten lost twice on the way back, making turns down streets you thought you recognised, only to find yourself further from home. Your feet were aching as you finally stepped into the apartment, your finances bruised, but at least your ego was still intact.

“Quinn?” Ben’s voice called out.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you replied, hopping into your heels as you made your way out of the bedroom.

He was standing in the middle of the apartment waiting for you; a soft white t-shirt tucked into a pair of brown trousers. The matching brown jacket draped over one arm. He’d kept his stubble, his hair just long enough for a slight wave to form.

You stood up straight in the doorway, shamelessly drinking him in, any sense of urgency leaving you the moment you laid eyes on him. He looked delicious. He smelled delicious; the scent of his freshly spritzed cologne drifting across the open space towards you.

“What?” he asked, glancing down at himself in paranoia, then back up to you.

“I want to climb you,” you said simply.

He gave a quick, surprised laugh before glancing down at his watch. “You can climb me when we get back. Preferably with less clothes on.”

You rolled your eyes with a slight smile before making your way across the room towards him.

“You look beautiful,” he said, gaze trailing over you slowly.

“Is it alright?” you asked as you smoothed your hands over your hips. “Not too much? Or… Too little?”

“No, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He reached out as you closed the distance, his hand finding your waist as he leaned down to kiss you.

You gave him a quick peck before running your thumb over his lips, wiping away the smudge of lipstick you’d left behind.

You were back to being chauffeured around, climbing into the back of yet another dark car with tinted windows, exchanging occasional glances with the driver in the rearview mirror. As always, Ben’s hand settled on your thigh as you travelled through the city, crawling slowly through heavy traffic as the dusky golden sky began to melt into the late summer evening.

When you arrived at the theatre, you were ushered through a back door and led into what looked like a small greenroom, the hum of crowds and conversations just beyond a set of double doors. Ben kissed the side of your head and directed you to follow a woman dressed all in black. She was talking through a headset, flicking through pages on a clipboard as she gestured for you to come with her.

You glanced up at Ben with a furrowed brow, reluctant to leave his side.

“She’s going to take you to your seat,” he said reassuringly.

“Oh… Okay…”

You followed the woman out into the main lobby, through the crowds of people pouring into the theatre until you got to a reserved seat near the front. You sat down, looking around in confusion, wondering why he hadn’t come with you, if you were going to be watching the whole thing alone.

It took another five minutes for the room to fill, the audience talking amongst themselves as you sat scrolling idly on your phone. When a man finally emerged in front of the screen with a microphone, you put it back in your bag and placed it on the ground near your feet, listening as he began to speak.

“Good evening everybody, thank you so much for joining us tonight. We are thrilled to have you all here for this very special private screening of Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness.”

There was a ripple of applause and hushed whoops through the theatre.

“As you all know, this has been a very highly anticipated movie for Marvel Studios, and we’re so excited to finally be bringing it to you. The work that’s gone into this movie, I can’t even begin to put into words, but what I will say is that this is nothing like anything you’ve seen in the MCU before. Now, just before we dim the lights, I do have a very special guest who has kindly agreed to come out and say a few words.”

You heard a flutter of quiet gasps behind you, making you laugh slightly as you realised why Ben hadn’t come with you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Doctor Strange himself, Benedict Cumberbatch!”

Ben emerged from behind a thick, velvet curtain to an eruption of cheers and applause. You smiled as you watched him; the charming grin and polite waves, how he placed his palms together and bowed his head slightly in gratitude. You’d never seen his stardom up close like this before, never heard the roar of adoring fans or watched him work a crowd. It was surreal, fascinating, and undeniably attractive.

The man handed him the microphone and took a step back as Ben cleared his throat, waiting a moment for the audience to hush before speaking.

“Hi,” he began modestly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hello, wow, thank you. I er, I know you’re all itching to see it so I’ll keep this short. These movies are truly a joy to work on. I love this character and I love the… the madness - excuse the pun - that is this film. The cast, crew, everyone who was a part of this project has really worked hard and I hope you see that when you watch it.” He stared out at the audience, the spotlight catching his eyes, making them sparkle as he spoke. “So with that being said, I really hope you enjoy it. And if you don’t, please lie on the internet and say you did. Thanks.”

Everyone in the audience laughed, including you. You watched him hurry down to take his seat beside you as the host announced the movie. And within moments, the theatre fell into darkness as the screen came to life.

“You okay?” he whispered, reaching over and giving your hand a subtle squeeze.

You nodded, glancing over at him. “Excited.”

He smiled, settling back into his seat as the opening credits began.

Vivid colour burst onto the screen, a kaleidoscope so bright and expansive it almost hurt your eyes to look directly at it. You felt the bass from the speakers in your chest as the music began to play, the pulse and the vibration from every sound effect that followed.

From the moment Ben appeared as Doctor Strange, with those silver flecks and intense eyes, your stomach fluttered with an unexpected sense of pride and disbelief. You knew he was a formidable actor, but it still shocked you to be sitting next to a man whose voice you knew so well, whose face you’d grown so familiar with, yet somehow not recognise him on the screen at all.

You caught yourself smiling more than once, your eyes dancing over the vibrant scenes before you, then sideways to steal a glance at him in the dark. He wasn’t watching himself, not really, his focus stolen by the reactions of the audience; listening for laughter, dissecting the silences. It was as though he’d disappeared inside himself, analysing every minute detail.

The film was bold, dark yet funny, a goldmine of references and epic scenes that bled into one another through portals and shattered timelines. The theatre would let out collective gasps, amused chuckles and excited murmurs, while other times it was completely still, eerily quiet.

You enjoyed the action scenes, but couldn’t help giggling at the thought of him filming them; before the CGI and the finishing touches, when it was just him swirling his hands around, attached to a harness, fighting an invisible opponent. Then the mood in the room shifted, the scene turning emotional, quiet, with intimate dialogue and a beautiful woman gazing up at him so lovingly.

It’s just a movie, Quinn, you told yourself, fighting the irrational jealousy trying to rear its head. And he seemed to sense it, reaching over and gently gripping your thigh.

Then your phone buzzed in the bag at your feet.

You ignored it.

But it quickly buzzed again. And again. And again. A nonstop string of vibrations that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. What if work was trying to get hold of you about your piece? Or what if something was wrong? Were your parents okay? Was there some kind of emergency?

You slowly reached down and grabbed your bag, bringing it onto your lap and popping open the clasp as quietly as you could. You dimmed your phone screen and unlocked it, watching the growing stack of notifications popping up one after the other in total confusion; texts, social media, emails, private messages.

You opened Instagram, blinking in confusion as you clicked on your most recent post, a mirror selfie from over a month ago, now flooded with hundreds of comments.

Homewrecker. Slut. You should be ashamed of yourself. Oh I'm earlyyy 🍿 You knew he was married. You’re disgusting. Not a girls’ girl, clearly. Hope the attention was worth destroying someone’s life. We see you, Quinn. And so does everyone else now. Imagine sleeping your way to a byline. This is why no one trusts journalists. Can’t wait till he dumps you like he did his wife. Proof men think with their dicks. Trash. You owe Faye Dennehy an apology. Enjoy your fifteen minutes. Whore.

You tried to swallow but your throat was too dry, your eyes wide as you stared down at the comments continuing to roll in.

You blew a married man and called it journalism. She probably slept with half his team to get close to him. Poor Faye. From writing about him to riding him. Inspirational. Hope you’re proud. He lost everything for a glorified side piece. Imagine cheating on a woman like Faye Dennehy with a nobody journo. Does he pay you by the article or the orgasm? Vile little girl. Another man loses his integrity to a pretty face and open legs. Journalism isn’t what it used to be. Clearly neither is marriage. You ruined a relationship, now you’re ruining his career. 🥇

You scrolled frantically, heart pounding, breath catching as you tried to figure out where this was all coming from. There was a message from Nick in your DMs, a link to an article followed by a string of question marks. You clicked on it with shaking fingers.

MYSTERY SOLVED: Is This The Woman Benedict Cumberbatch Left His Wife For? From the moment Benedict Cumberbatch announced his divorce from fashion designer Faye Dennehy last year, speculation swirled about the real reason behind the couple’s seemingly sudden split. Those rumours only seemed to strengthen when a “mystery woman” was reportedly seen leaving the actor’s home in the early morning just a few weeks after the announcement. Now, after months of internet sleuthing and fan theories, the pieces of the puzzle seem to have finally fallen into place, and it all started with a casual afternoon stroll at the Chelsea Flower Show. Cumberbatch, 45, was photographed attending the prestigious London event last month alongside his parents and an unidentified woman. While their interactions appeared low-key, fans with eagle eyes and long memories began analysing the paparazzi shots and within hours, the internet had a name. Meet Quinn Armitage, 32, a journalist based in the UK who is now believed to be the actor’s new girlfriend, and possibly the reason behind his divorce. If the name sounds familiar, it should. Armitage writes for Draft Magazine, and is the very same writer who penned the exclusive interview of Cumberbatch just weeks after he ended his marriage. The feature painted the actor in a surprisingly intimate and sympathetic light - a man who wished nothing but the best for his ex wife. At the time, the piece was praised as “nuanced” and “deeply personal.” While Cumberbatch was deemed “honest” and “down to earth”. Now, many are wondering if it was all just strategically timed PR. The Timeline That’s Raising Eyebrows Fans were quick to point out the suspicious alignment of events. Within days of the divorce announcement, speculation arose as to whether infidelity could have played a part in Cumberbatch and Dennehy’s decision to part ways. Armitage was quick to dispel these theories in her Draft Magazine feature, which was published the following month. Before the feature’s publication, sources claimed to have seen an “unidentified woman” leaving the actor’s London home in the early morning. Cumberbatch was later spotted wearing a bracelet with partially visible engraved letters. The letters? “QUI”. Was Cumberbatch really sporting a bracelet engraved with Armitage’s name just weeks after announcing his divorce? Before the Draft feature was even published? The recent Flower Show outing has thrown everything into sharp focus. Matching the woman in the photos to Armitage’s publicly available social media profiles, internet sleuths were able to rapidly piece the story together. Now, with a positive identification of Benedict Cumberbatch’s “mystery woman”, the question on everyone’s lips is no longer if something is going on, but when it started. Was This the Woman Behind the Split? The timing is undeniably murky. Though neither Cumberbatch nor Armitage have publicly commented on the nature of their relationship, critics are asking whether the journalist’s involvement with the actor began before his marriage ended. And if so, was her Draft feature part of a carefully constructed narrative to soften public perception and preempt the fallout? Fans React As the story has actively unfolded within the past few hours, social media has understandably erupted with collective disappointment and outrage, accusing Armitage of unprofessionalism and “weaponised journalism”, while questioning if the freshly divorced A-lister really enlisted the help of his writer mistress to rehabilitate his image. We have not yet been able to reach Mr Cumberbatch’s team for comment, nor Miss Armitage or anyone at Draft Magazine. But in the age of screenshots, side-by-sides and bulletproof timelines, it may not matter. The internet has made up its mind.

Your heart was pounding so heavily that you could no longer hear the movie, just a loud rushing of blood in your ears. There was a thick, sludgy pit forming in your stomach, your limbs so heavy you could barely move them. Even with the AC in the theatre, your skin felt warm and clammy, your cheeks burning so hot you were sure they’d turned crimson.

You closed the article and backed out of your DM’s without replying to Nick, plummeting headfirst into an onslaught of fresh, venomous comments. Someone had tagged Faye under your photo, and you couldn’t help but click on her account, opening her story to see a plain black screen, four simple words written in white:

The truth will out.

That fucking bitch, you thought, your eyes welling with pure rage.

You stood up shakily, feeling Ben reach over and tap you, looking up at you curiously.

“Bathroom,” you whispered, before walking as quietly and quickly as you could down the dark aisle and out of the theatre.

You rushed through the doors into the brightly lit hallway, barely making it a few more steps before you felt your legs give way beneath you. You planted a hand on the wall to hold yourself up, your chest heaving, throat tight, skin tingling as you sucked in deep, shaking breaths.

You couldn’t help but look at your phone again, this time opening Twitter.

So let me get this straight… Benedict Cumberbatch met Quinn Armitage while he was married, she writes a soft-focus puff piece about him, and now they’re holding hands at the Chelsea Flower Show? Girl… your PR arc is showing. 💀 Soooo… the mystery woman leaving his house at 6am was the journalist? LMAO this man really said “I’ll do my own PR and get laid in the process.” Gotta respect it Yet another male celebrity in his mid-40’s ditching his perfectly lovely, smart, successful, AGE APPROPRIATE wife for a younger woman with loose morals. Why am I not at all surprised? Quinn Armitage knew exactly what she was doing. You don’t just ‘accidentally’ fall into a relationship with a married man and then write a gushing magazine piece about him while getting your name on a high profile byline. That’s not love, it’s strategy.

You locked your phone and shoved it into your bag. If you couldn’t see it, then none of this was actually happening. It wasn’t happening. It wasn’t happening.

You considered asking someone to go and get Ben, to have him call the driver to take you back to the apartment. You also considered simply walking out and disappearing into the night; changing your name and starting a new life. But you did neither. Instead, you took a deep breath, swallowed down the nausea and walked back into the theatre.

The lights came up to a wave of applause, rolling through the theatre like a tide until it was deafening. You stood slowly along with everyone else, clapping along with them, your hands moving independently from the rest of your body. There were whistles and cheers, people shouting their praise over the noise.

Ben turned to look at you with a proud smile.

You smiled back weakly.

He looked at you for a moment longer, his eyes flickering over your face like he was trying to read your expression, but then the host approached, gesturing for Ben to step back up to the front of the theatre.

“Thank you so much,” he said into the microphone. “I’m so grateful to you all for coming. Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything else, too overwhelmed by the response of the room to think of something to say. Instead he gave one last wave to the crowd before making his way back over to his seat beside you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, following him as the woman with the headset led you out through a side exit and back into the small greenroom. You trailed behind him the whole time, your arms stiff at your sides, the throb of a headache taking root in your temples.

Ben was talking as you walked, something about the film, or maybe it was about the audience. You weren’t paying attention, but still you offered a small, polite smile when he turned to look at you.

“So what did you think then?” he asked as you stepped out of the building into the cool night air.

“It was great,” you replied softly.

“Quinn.” He stopped walking for a moment, making you halt too. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just… I’m tired. Is the car here?”

He gave you a sceptical look, but eventually nodded, placing a hand on your lower back as he guided you towards the car waiting nearby.

The driver opened the door and you slipped into the backseat, sinking into the soft leather with a heavy exhale. Ben climbed in beside you and reached for your hand.

“You sure everything’s alright?” he asked gently, squeezing your fingers.

You gave another weak nod before turning away to look out the window.

Your whole body felt tense, like you’d been filled to the brim with concrete. The comments echoed in your mind, one after the other in a poisonous string, wrapping around your throat like a noose. You could still see them when you blinked. Whore. Homewrecker. Liar.

They knew your name, your face, where you worked, where you lived. Your stomach began to gurgle.

“Hey,” Ben said softly, allowing a slight laugh. “If you didn’t like the film, you don’t have to pretend you-”

“I enjoyed the film, Ben,” you interrupted.

He stared at you for a moment before exhaling a gentle sigh. “Something’s wrong.”

“Ben,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose between finger and thumb. “I just want to get back to the apartment.”

He conceded, settling back into his seat as the car continued through the heavy traffic.

You kept your eyes on the window, though you weren’t actually taking in the view; your mind was reeling, head pounding, anxiety wedged in a knot at the base of your chest. The car finally emerged onto a clear stretch of road, speeding up to make it through a set of traffic lights. But the motion made your stomach turn, your lips tingling as you began to panic.

“Stop the car,” you said abruptly.

Ben turned to you in confusion. “What?”

“Tell him to stop the car. Now.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“I’m going to be sick,” you snapped, already reaching for the door handle.

“Stop the car!” Ben shouted to the driver.

The car screeched to a halt and pulled over near the sidewalk. You shoved the door open before it had even fully stopped and leaned out, gripping the handle as you vomited onto the busy street. The sound was humiliating; the heaving, the spluttering, the bile hitting the concrete with a crude splash. Ben placed a hand gently on your back, but you shook it off quickly, settling back into the car and pulling the door closed.

“I’m fine,” you said breathlessly, wiping your mouth and nose with the back of your hand.

“Quinn-”

“I’m fine, can we just… Go, please.” You let your head fall back, breathing deeply as your body fluctuated between cold shivers and rushes of heat.

He stared at you for a moment, jaw sharp, brow heavy with concern. But he finally gave in, quietly instructing the driver to keep moving.

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Your mouth tasted like vomit, your eyes teary, nose running. Your fingers trembled as you clung to your bag, every buzz of your phone like a cruel taunt.

You felt guilty for pushing Ben away, for tainting the evening with a bad attitude and cold disposition. If you were a better actor, you could have preserved the moment for him; gave a pretty smile and held his hand in the car, told him how much you liked the film. But you could barely stand to look at him, the shame and guilt and devastation eating away at you with every concerned glance and worried tilt of his head.

You walked together from the car into the building, waiting in silence until the lift doors opened. You stepped inside and immediately leaned against the mirrored wall, resting your head back and closing your eyes as he pressed the button for your floor.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

You nodded, mustering a barely audible hum as you wrapped your arms around your stomach.

“Quinn, you’re-” He let out a confused breath before continuing quietly. “Are you- You’re not… It’s not possible you’re… Pregnant, is it?”

You opened your eyes and brought your head forward, looking right at him with a dumbfounded expression. “No, Ben. Funnily enough, women can be sick for reasons other than pregnancy...”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, seemingly annoyed by his own tactlessness. “Fair enough, you’re right, sorry.”

The lift doors opened and you stepped out, making your way down the hall towards the apartment.

“Well you need to tell me what the matter is,” he said, and you could tell he was losing his patience.

“Ben-”

“No. Something’s obviously wrong-”

You huffed, opening your mouth to speak, but he cut you off.

“You wouldn’t talk to me after the screening, you still aren’t talking to me, you threw up in the fucking car, Quinn, out of nowhere-”

“Can we just get inside? Please?”

He was standing between you and the front door, staring down at you, forcing you to look at him. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Inside,” you said simply, your voice so quiet it was barely a whisper.

He remained there for a moment, his eyes darting across your face, noticing the glimmer in your waterline, the curve of your brows. Then he finally yielded, scanning the key card and opening the door to let you walk in first.

You took a few steps inside, stopping briefly to savour the dark, quiet space; the calm, the stillness, the seclusion. You drew in a long, deep breath through your nose, letting it out through pursed lips as Ben flicked on a light and closed the door.

“Talk to me, Quinn.”

You turned to look at him, taking a long pause before speaking reluctantly. “Is your phone still switched off?”

“Yeah.” He patted the pockets of his trousers, then his chest, before pulling his phone from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “Yeah, I didn’t think to turn it back on because we left so… Why?”

“You should probably turn it on.”

His brows twitched, coming together with a quick, confused scrunch. But he didn’t press you, didn’t doubt you or demand an explanation. Instead, he held down the side button, staring down at the screen as he waited impatiently for it to light up.

You didn’t hang around to see his reaction, turning immediately and making your way into the bedroom without a word. You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, dropping your head into your hands with a pained groan. Then the tears finally came, spilling into your palms as you gasped to catch your breath.

You were hunched over, elbows digging into your thighs as you cradled your face to catch each quiet sob. Your body shuddered with shallow, panicked breaths, your throat burning as you tried desperately to stay quiet. But it only seemed to make it worse, your chest heaving with every sharp, stuttered intake of breath, eyes burning as your mascara began to bleed with your tears.

A sudden, loud crash echoed through the apartment, making you jump in fright, your back straightening as your head snapped towards the door. You stayed frozen in place, wide-eyed as you heard Ben let out a deafening, full-throated yell.

You stood up and hurried out of the room, your gaze immediately falling to the remains of a large decorative vase, now scattered across the floor in broken, jagged pieces. You stared down at it in shock, then over to Ben as he stood on the other side of the room, hands on hips, chest rising and falling with hot, heavy breaths. His jaw was clenched, nostrils flaring, eyes wild with fury as they finally found yours.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Instead he just stood there staring at you, wounded, furious, helpless, all at once. Then he finally spoke, his voice hoarse and deep with anger.

“They’re tearing you apart.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“Saying we had an affair, that we planned to…” He paced back and forth quickly, like he was struggling to control his rage, before speaking quietly, like it pained him to say the words out loud. “They called you a whore…”

“Yeah,” you whispered, holding back the urge to cry.

“Fuck!” he screamed, grabbing the lamp off a nearby table and launching it across the room.

Your whole body tensed as it collided with the solid brick wall. You’d never seen him like this; not when you fought, or when you purposely did things to piss him off, not even when he caught you snooping through his house on the night you first met. It was like he wasn’t there anymore, like something hot and primal had burrowed beneath his skin.

His fists were balled at his sides, his face red, eyes dark as he turned in a tight circle, like he was searching for something else to break, another outlet for his rage. “It’s all so fucking warped! Gold-digger, homewrecker, like you fucking hunted me down and stole me from some perfect fucking marriage!”

You wrapped your arms around your stomach, as though shielding yourself from it all.

“Mysterious woman,” he laughed, almost maniacally. “How the fuck do they get away with writing this shit!? Sending an angry mob after someone with no fucking proof! And of course I’m just an idiot man thinking with his dick, but you… Of course you’re this master manipulator fucking slut with no morals.”

He raked a hand through his hair, gripping it at the root as his voice continued to bellow through the apartment. You stood frozen as you watched him grab his phone off the arm of the couch, sending it flying through the air towards the wall, just like the lamp.

“I’m sorry,” you said weakly, blinking away a tear that dripped onto your cheek.

He stopped suddenly, the air seeming to still as his gaze settled on you. “What?”

You gave a slight shrug, unsure of what else to say. And within seconds, the anger behind his eyes crumbled into something else entirely.

“Oh my god,” he breathed as he took a step back, almost like he was ashamed of himself. “I’m terrifying you.”

“No-” you began with a sigh. But your voice was soft and unconvincing, trailing off as he interrupted.

“I am. I’m throwing shit about and screaming like a lunatic and you’re standing there feeling like you need to apologise.”

He looked at you again, then down to your bare feet and the shards of broken vase scattered across the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, rushing over and using his foot to kick the mess away, clearing a path for you to step towards him. “I’m sorry, you know this isn’t- I would never- I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just so…” His breath caught in his throat.

You nodded. “I know.”

“This isn’t your fault, Quinn. The things that are being said, you know that’s not…”

You were so numb, unable to absorb anything he was saying. Even as your eyes met his, it was like you were staring straight through him. He brought a hand up to your cheek, and you didn’t realise you’d flinched until his expression changed, a look of anguish washing over him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“You didn’t write those things…”

“No, for this. For losing my temper, for frightening you.”

You paused for a moment before bringing your hand up and placing it over his, resting your cheek in his palm like a silent acceptance.

He swallowed hard. “It’s going to be okay. I promise, we’re going to fix this.”

But there was a crack in his voice, a flicker of uncertainty that you’d never heard before.

*Tag List: @blondekel77 @bakerstreethound @annesthaeticc @aephereal @sharp-cheekbones-locked @sherlux @veryladyqueen @graciebear47 @allurenia @jamerlynn @cottagecore-cat @aysamuka @thegardenerofeden @cumbercatchmebaby @inspirationalandrandom @turkisherlockian @swds @weepingdreamerpanda @elzabethann @childofgod215 @briecantopme @lovecleastrange @paola-carter @greatburger @azu21 @xourownsidee @hunterofshadows04 @asgardianprincess1050 @teddycrimson @sherlocksgirl91 @oliveoilthoughts @hai-kbai @shjl15 @bloodyxsaint @charleighsblog @stephenstrangeaddictions @omgstarks @sleutherclaw @bisciwri @theevilsupreme @gwoods123 @classickook @coffee-d0t @strangeobsessed @januarycolor @strangeions @lonadane @downtownshabby

#benedict cumberbatch #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfic writing #benedict cumberbatch x oc #benedict cumberbatch x you #benedict cumberbatch x reader #benedict cumberbatch imagine #benedict cumberbatch smut #benedict cumberbatch fanfic #Benedict Cumberbatch fanfiction #smut #smut writing #lemon #fanfic series #ao3 fanfic #the feature

40 notes · View notes

laneboyheathens · 3 days ago

Text

Melshian Fic Recs (1/?)

After some frustrations and negativity the other day, I wanted to highlight some fics by the amazing authors in our fan community. Real people who put their heart, soul and care into their creations, they deserve all the recognition, comments and kudos! I hope to make this a semi-regular occurrence as the ship tag steadily grows <3

Nowhere Left to Run - 7K M

I always enjoy @jiroxy 's mission fics, 'Nowhere Left' particularly has some excellent Cassian whump, with BAMF Melshi and some very tender comfort between the two of them. You should also check out their other fics while you're there!

I'll be looking at the moon(s), but I'll be seeing you - 6K M

A beautifully written Time Loop fic! Such a great concept that kept me guessing what the dynamic between them was right up until the end. A lovingly crafted portrait of these two characters <3

Stay the Course ‘til We're Out Of Time - 7K E 2/9 WIP

I've been really loving @crown-and-stallion 's fic so far, the first two chapters really are every head canon I love about Melshi and the relationship he has with Cassian is written with so much care. I can't wait so see where they take this next! Criminally underrated!

Resuscitation - 1.8K T

A continuation of @uwingmech's The Great Wide Sea in a Galaxy where humans can shapeshift. I adore how Cassian and Melshi's animal forms are a reflection of their characters, the nature of thought and emotion and the intensification of those when experienced through a pure animal brain. Sukie made me feel all of the emotions with this one and I adore her writing always <3

A Soft Place to Land - 3.9K M

Friends to lovers. Ten gorgeous vignettes of Cassian and Melshi and what their life looks like on Yavin. This one makes me a little weak at the knees.

863 Games - 9.9K T

Snapshots of life in the jungle yurt though the exploration of just some of their many, many, games of rianza. I felt so honoured to have @thevalleyisjolly gift this one to me, their fics are always so beautifully crafted and funny and emotionally wrecking all at once. I love how Cassian and Melshi look out for one another and get each other through the tough times while also being silly drunk menaces.

Subsection SergeantDroidCaptian

Curiosity - 2K E

Established Cassian/Melshi and K2 joins them. What an absolute delight this fic by @creature-song is! I wish to study K2 under a microscope like a bug (which is, consequently, how he is treating his data collection of Cassian and Melshi...). K2 being a menace, Cassian being a freak, Melshi just along for the ride. I LOVE this dynamic *nodding fervently*.

Living Arrangements 2K E

Established DroidCaptain working together to give Melshi a good time. Always a delight when @elwenyere cooks up something delicious for us and this fic is no exception! Kay once again being a menace, Cassian being a voyeur, Melshi's back pain being treated in an extremely dubious manner. HOT!

Subsection "And Breathe" - 139K G-M

Regularly scheduled yelling at you to read this incredible series. It's got RebelCaptian! It's got Melshian! It's got JynMelshian! The sixteenth instalment was just recently posted and if you haven't checked it out before you are in for one hell of a ride! Jyn, Cassian and Melshi's characterisations are everything to me and Taste_is_Sweet never fails to put me through the emotional wringer every single time <3

Now go forth and leave kudos and comments! I can't wait to see what you all create in the future! (and my dms are always open for if you need a personal cheerleader in your melshian fic endeavours!)

(I have tried to tag peoples tumblrs where I can, if you are on this list and not tagged let me know and I can edit the post)

#melshian #ruescott melshi #cassian andor #andor #fic rec #andor season 2 #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #k2so #jyn erso #jynmelshian #sergeantdroidcaptain #cassian x melshi #I love you all so much and the wonderful things you make!#support fan creation!#support fanfic writers #anti ai #fuck ai

25 notes · View notes

lucysarah1875 · 6 hours ago

Text

Couple Goals

As usual, the Survey Corps were invited to a formal winter ball. Erwin kindly (read: forcefully) encouraged the higher ranks to attend—especially Levi. Why? Because drunk nobles would donate absurd amounts of money just for the honor of saying they danced or chatted with “Humanity’s Strongest Soldier.”

Y/N actually enjoyed these parties: dancing, getting dressed up, eating gourmet food, sipping champagne—it was all worth enduring the nobles' not-so-noble comments.

Meanwhile, Levi was absolutely miserable.

Levi: I hate this. Y/N: That’s the eighth time you’ve said that in the last 30 minutes. Levi: Everyone wants to talk to me, make dumb bets, dance, “get to know me.” Y/N: Yeah, that’s generally how social interaction works, Levi. Just relax and try not to murder anyone. Levi: The suit’s itchy. And the food’s too spicy. Y/N: Oh my god, it’s like I brought a baby to a black-tie event.

A waiter walked past with a tray of champagne. Y/N stopped him, took four glasses, and gave the man a sweet smile.

Y/N: Here. Get drunk. Maybe that’ll stop the whining.

Levi didn’t reply, just took a long sip of champagne with a miserable groan. This wasn’t his scene. He didn’t have the patience for fake smiles and shallow conversation. If he could choose, he’d rather be home with Y/N wrapped around him, sipping tea after a good round of sex, staring out the window in silence.

Y/N heard him sigh deeply and looked over with soft, affectionate eyes. She knew he was over it.

Y/N: What if I fake some awful cramps and you tell Erwin we need to leave early?

Levi turned to her with the most hopeful look she’d seen all night. Like a kid who was just promised dessert.

Levi: You sure? Thought you loved these fancy meals.

Y/N: Not as much as I love seeing you happy.

Levi smiled—actually smiled. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and walked off to talk to Erwin.

Levi: I fucking adore you.

Tag list! (Please, if you got this notification. I'll be using this blog until further notice):

@nube55 @justkon @notgoodforlife @nmlkys @humanitys-strongest-bamf @quillinhand @thoreeo @darkstarlight82 @aomi04 @levisbrat25 @fxnnyackerman @secretmoneybearvoid @trashblackrainbow @l3visthighs @hum4n-wr3ckag3 @hannieslovebot @flxrartsstuff @feelingsandemotionsnotexplored @starrylevi @rithty @mariaace @ackrmntea @emilyyyy-08 @levisfavoriteteashop @katestrophes @katharinasdiaryy @ackermanswifee @levistealeaf @an-ever-angry-bi @youre-ackermine @searriously @blackdxggr

Wanna join my Tag list? Here!

Also, I added an option on the taglist to "Remove yourself" from it. If you no longer want to be tagged for X reason, just fill up the form again but choose the option to be taken out! Like that I will just do exactly that! Don't worry, I really don't mind it!

48 notes · View notes

krowtesque · 6 months ago

Text

art summary ’24! drew a lot of people staring very intensely at the viewer this year apparently

#thanx for all the love you’ve shown my art these past few months! i’m very grateful #i’m really glad i made this account bc reading all your tags and comments has made me enjoy posting art online again #so thanks for sticking with me & see you next year 🫶#art summary #art summary 2024 #my art

55 notes · View notes

brandwhorestarscream · 10 months ago

Note

Reincarnation AU

Poor Mom of Triplets Rodimus so Exhausted. Luckly the Lost Lighters have heard the phrase "It takes a vilage to raise a child." Suprisingly Whirl is up there in compatition for most beloved uncle with Drift. Seriously who knew the Psychocopter was really good with bitties.

It's probably a good thing since Roddy wasn't the only one to fall to the Reincarnation shenanigans. He was merely the first. When Drift, Ratchet and Megatron all fall pregnant the call back to Cybetrton reveals Optimus, Starscream, and Prowl are all greatly gravid.

[Meanwhile somewhere off stage Tarn is feeling Things™️. He kept his array pure for Lord Megatron The Cause. And somehow he is experiencing the mechpreg.]

He's having such a hard time lmao. Even tho the crew adores the bitties and are always happy to help out their captain, they're still very young and can't really be away from their carrier for too long. Offers to babysit last perhaps a megacycle, tops, before the bitties get squirmy and cranky and their tiny sparks begin reaching for their maternal bond, and Rodimus has to hurry back to them

Funny enough, he actually gets the most rest when he's not by himself: though he trusts Drift and Ratchet completely with the triplets, and go an extent Ultra Magnus as well, Roddy struggles to actually relax when he's alone in his habsuite or office and his kiddos are elsewhere. It's like a reflex he can't control: whenever his sparklings are out of sight it's like a switch just flips in his mind. His thoughts swirl around them, always insistently pulled away from whatever he's supposed to be doing. Wondering if they're alright, if they're hungry, or if Pinky is getting anxious without him like he tends to, or if Maroon was still trying to choke himself by sucking on his own fingers. What if they miss him, what if they're too much for their sitters to handle, what if they think he's abandoned them, what if they trip and fall and hurt themselves and he's not there to make sure they're ok?! What if something terrible happens, like what if they fall down the stairs and break their cranial casing? What if there's another psychotic sociopath hiding aboard somewhere that takes his sparklings hostage when he's not there to protect them?! What if they get attacked by space pirates?! What if they DIE?! Of they die it'll he all his fault and he's the worst mom ever and-

On and on it goes. Whenever the exhausted carrier tries to nap by himself, his thoughts just spiral and throw him headfirst into a fit of anxiety. Rodimus has some of the worst imposter syndrome we've ever seen, and i think that would carry over to how he sees himself as a parent: he has no idea what he's doing and he loves these sparklings more than life itself; the only thing he wants, more than anything, is to do right by them. To give them the life they deserve, to be the mother they deserve. He's scared to death about raising them, honestly, so afraid to make a mistake and ruin their lives. He'd never forgive himself if he let them be hurt or, worse, if he hurt them. Having them out of sight exacerbates his anxieties, because he can't possibly know exactly what they're getting up to.

And because of all that, exhausted mama Rodimus gets his best sleep either on his berth with the three ragamuffins puppy piled on top of him, or in common areas when someone else can keep the kiddos occupied and he can keep an eye on them. Knowing they're safe and right in front of him but also knowing that he's not the only pair of adult hands available, the combination let's his body finally relax and he is out. Either helm down on the table or crashing onto the nearest shoulder, Rodimus drops into such a deep recharge so fast the first few times it happened the crew worried he had actually fainted. And when I say out I mean out, face completely limp in exhaustion, mouth open, and snoring. Everyone in the vicinity is happy to let him recharge, Primus knows he needs it. Drift makes sure to get him a blanket, and it's not long before the triplets are lured in by the warm softness and their mother's form, getting all comfy in the little blankie nest at his side 🤭

Sorry, that Rodimus part went on waaay longer than I expected it to, I just love him sm ok 🥺

BUT HOO BOY THE NEXT ONE

Ratchet and Drift and Megatron all at roughly the same time? Damn. I feel like idw Megatron would be quietly horrified because, in his (probably correct honestly I love him but I shouldnt lie) opinion, he is not fit to be a carrier. Ratchet is crabby with Drift when he finds out, grumbling about outdated contraceptives and overly affectionate conjunx, until he's able to actually do a paternity test at Rodimus's prompting. His babies don't have a sire, so maybe...?

Ratchet is surprised and suspicious when the same turns up for him. Once is a random occurrence, twice is a coincidence, thrice makes a pattern. For the three of them to all turn up carrying at roughly the same time was already very unlikely, but for two out of the four pregnancies onboard to be asexually conceived... the chances of that happening randomly is astronomically small. He pulls Drift in for the same test, and wouldn't you know it? No sire. Same story with Megatron. When they get in contact with Cybertron, he finds they're all thankfully on the same page. Starscream had pegged it as incredibly statistically unlikely, though he hadn't had paternity tests performed to determine the lack of a sire. It's almost surreal, once said tests are done, hearing that every single one of them is expecting what is, essentially, a naturally occurring little clone of themselves.

Final closing thoughts because I've rambled enough: I'm still incredibly amused by the idea Tarn in labor, high as a kite from the epidural, tell Nickel, "Nooo don't touch my seal, that's for Lord Megatron" 😂 poor Tarn man, saved himself for all these years, only to get slapped with virgin mary syndrome and BOOM, magic baby. He gets all the pains of childbirth without even experiencing the act of conceiving the baby in the first place. Press F

#dw about the little tarnlette theyll figure it out #probably #reincarnation au #rodimus #Ratchet #drift #tarn #probably some more characters i dont remember #this is me confessing that sometimes i dont read my responses before i send them and then blame my dumbass typos on my dyslexia #and dont get me wrong dyslexias a bitch but its not all her fault yk??#anyway im ranbling in the tags again like a sleep deprived maniac so uh if youre still reading hiii #if you read this far uhh comment and tell me your favorite cookie :)#anyway i hope you enjoyed this reincarnation au longwinded rant i had fun with it #i love this au but now its 5 a.m and i really need to try fo sleep. i wont remember typing any of this in the morning and will prolly cringe

27 notes · View notes

marypsue · 2 years ago

Text

I freely admit that this post is more propaganda to try to get people to consider using a book journal than me actually believing that People In General keep book journals, but consider: keeping a book journal.

#saw somebody make a derisive comment in the tags of a post about keeping a book journal #something to the effect of 'no? i don't do that?? because i just remember what i've already read????'#(strong implication that if you can't or don't Just Remember then you are stupid and defective)#and it got RIGHT up my nose.#oh really? really? you remember the exact correct title and author of every book you've ever read?#you remember when you read it and what the context of that time was?#you remember your impression of it at that time and every thought that it sparked in you?#you remember WHY this one hit so hard when you read it this time when last time you tried it left you cold? or vice versa?#or why this one struck you so hard but this other similar one you also read didn't?#and how being able to hold together having read both of them helped you understand and articulate WHY the other one didn't hit?#and maybe also helped you understand something fundamental about people's viewpoints? or the way the world works and why?#and you remember that revelation? and always will?#and you can conjure all of these memories to mind on command?#and not just end up with only 'the cover was green and in the end it turned out they were sisters'?#and any of us who don't have your impressive mental faculties are just stupid?#ok. sure. I super definitely believe you.#anyway i love my book journal #everybody who enjoys reading and thinking about books should at least give keeping one a shot

34 notes · View notes

cheapshrimpysheep · 5 months ago

Text

What if They were Dads?

SUMMARY: Headcanons of what I think they would be like as fathers to your child. And what if his dormmates were like honorary uncles to the child?

CHARACTERS: OB Students (Riddle Rosehearts / Leona Kingscholar / Azul Ashengrotto / Jamil Viper / Vil Schoenheit / Idia Shroud / Malleus Draconia)

TAGS: Headcanon; Fem!Reader (AFAB) (I never really know what tags to use but I hope you know what I mean)

WORD COUNT: An average of 690 words per character.

COMMENTS: I would have liked to have made a headcanon about the relationship with the boys' parents and siblings, but since we don't know them that well or at all on the Eng Server like Vil's father, I think I'll leave that for a possible post that complements this one. If you want.

Since I didn't want each character to have a big chunk of text, I put them as paragraphs instead of bullet points.

I hope you enjoy 🩵

CONTEXT: This was written with a cisgender female reader in mind. Reader is Yuu. But if you want (and can) read it in any other way, feel free to.

By the way, this is one of those moments when I wish English had a second person plural, instead of the singular and plural being the same. Whenever I write “your child” I mean it in the plural (you, the reader, and his)

Riddle’s child(ren) call him: Father

Riddle has the same demands and standards for his child that he has for himself. But he doesn't want to make the same mistakes as his mother, so in comparison he can be more permissive. Because of this he will ALWAYS listen to you if you tell him he is being too harsh.

In terms of studies, etiquette and behaviour he is quite strict as you would expect. But when it comes to play he lets his child do almost anything they want.

He doesn't know how to play with his child, but he will always make an effort to learn how to and do it with them. He almost seems to regress to the childhood he never had and wants to give to his child. Whenever the child learns a new game, they will show it and teach it to Riddle and he will be delighted with it.

Although he is strict, he is also relatively protective, especially if your child is a girl. He tries not to be overly protective, but he can't help but worry about your child. If there was a right way to raise a child, is he doing his job well enough? You will have several conversations at first to reassure him that he is doing a good job.

He will study any and all parenting books that experts in child behaviour and education recommend. This kind of knowledge is never too much. Which often leads you to try to convince him to relax and just trust his instincts and what he feels is right. The child is his, not all those authors and experts. Sometimes there are things that a parent simply knows.

Lawful and calm Uncle Trey. They love uncle Trey's sweets! Sometimes Riddle asks him if he's not giving them too much sweets and Trey always assures him that it's okay because he knows how to make healthier sweets and the limit for a child to eat. If they weren't already Riddle's child, the whole thing about always brushing their teeth could be scary.

Chaotic Uncle Che'nya. The crazy and fun Uncle! Your child and Che'nya join forces (maybe even with you) to play pranks on Riddle. Never anything that could get the child into trouble with their father, just enough for everyone, Riddle included, to have fun.

Uncle Ace and Uncle Deuce are more from your side than Riddle's honestly. Ace is a bit like Che'nya in the case of being one of the chaotic pranksters uncles. But he is also the uncle of magic tricks who is always deceiving, but also entertaining your child with them.

Deuce is the rad uncle with a cool moto and/or even cooler blastcycle, who offers to take your child for a ride in it with him. Your child also finds it funny to see the two of them arguing amicably. But it’s even funnier to see them imitating their father trying to order them to stop arguing.

Uncle Cater doesn't show up very often, but they like him. He's not chaotic like Ace and Che'nya, but he's also fun. Your child enjoys receiving compliments from him and taking pictures with him.

Your child imitates their father scolding Grim too. Just like Riddle (and probably because they're still little) they have a very bad temper. Riddle gets embarrassed whenever you say that someone takes after their father.

Leona’s child(ren) call him: Dad

Leona still doesn't like kids... your child(ren) is/are just an exception.

Yes, Leona would treat a daughter slightly differently than he would treat a son. In the same way that he treats men and women a little differently. But the only difference is that he would be tougher on a son than a daughter, but will still be affectionate regardless.

No matter what gender his child is, he wants the same for them: be strong both physically and mentally. To outsiders like some servants or citizens who don't know him, they may get to the point of thinking Leona is a harsh father who doesn't deserve all that love from his child, and he will tell both you and your child not to mind that. But the truth is that he is just like he was with you at school: a tough guy who hides a caring heart.

Leona continues to show himself to be a person who doesn't want anyone to upset him and who would growl at anyone who bothers him. The only people who can get close to him even when he's angry and remain safe and sound are you and your child. He'll still growl at you and your child quietly, but there will be a volume that is the line, like if his growl is louder than that limit it's because he's getting really angry, until then it's just him being him.

Your child will already have the best private teachers and tutors (one of them being Kifaji/Neji if he’s still alive), but even so, Leona will want to make them study and learn more. But in that discreet way that he knows. He will not force them to study more, he will find a way to convince them to want to learn more on their own.

You end up being the most affectionate parent and the one they trust for emotional comfort. Leona is the tough love, you are the soft love (at least in comparison). Leona will always tease you, insinuating that you are too soft and only spoil your child. Although he enjoys when you spoil him too.

He is 100% the ‘Go ask your mom’ kind of dad.

He lets his child take naps with him. And you too.

If he has more than one child, he will police himself not to favor any of them. He may have a tendency to favor the younger ones because of what he went through as the youngest himself, but none of his children will be treated in any special/different way based on their birth order. Neither the youngest nor the oldest.

He will try to convince his child not to be too close (emotionally) to their uncle or cousin, but won't stop them from playing with Cheka. When your child is old enough not to tell others what is said in your home, Leona and them will talk badly about Falena and Cheka behind their backs.

Leona will prefer your child to play with Ruggie and/or his children. On the one hand, he wants to keep them away from his family, but on the other hand, he also wants his child to know what the real world is like, to see both wealth and poverty, to know royalty as they knows their people and only then create their own judgement.

They don't call anyone uncle or aunt other than Falena and his wife. In the same way, Leona also doesn't give cute titles to anyone without being sarcastically. Even when he calls you “love”, “darling”, “honey” or something like that, it's to tease you.

Whenever you go to Shaftlands, whether for democratic reasons or on holiday, you always try to find a way to meet with Jack. Leona pretends that he only helps you with this because you want to see your friend and he wants to get rid of his family. Both you and Jack know that he just doesn't want to admit that he wants to see him too. Jack is the cool parent's friend who taught your child how to snowboard. While they are little they like to hug his tail because it’s fluffy.

Despite everything, he doesn't want his child to have the same lack of hope that he has, and despite trying to hide it, he always feels extremely guilty and bad whenever your child says something like that. At these times he relies on you to be the ray hope in that house, they will both need you for that.

Both Leona and your child are afraid of you when you get really serious or angry.

Do you know that scene from The Lion King where Mufasa uses Zazu to give Simba an pouncing lesson? Leona often does something similar, but instead of the target being a blue bird, it's a magical creature called Grim.

Azul’s child(ren) call him: Daddy (when little) Dad (when older)

Azul is an extremely emotional father, despite trying to hide it. There's going to be a lot of moments like: “HE/SHE IS THE CUTEST LITTLE THING IN THE WHOLE- *clears throat* I mean, he/she is such a charming little child.” He will most likely cry at your baby's first words, steps, anything.

Azul is overprotective! If any living creature even thinks about harming your child, he will tortu- that is, find a completely legal way to ensure that it never happens again. Now, if you'll excuse him, he suddenly felt like talking to Jade and Floyd. (The same protectiveness applies to you.)

Although he is very (secretly) emotional and loves to spoil his child, he is also relatively strict about their studies. He likes to spoil them (and you) when it's deserved, but he will not raise a spoiled child! This ends up balancing things out a bit.

He will hide the whole mafia-like part of his life from his child. Dad is just doing business, boring adult stuff. Maybe when your child is older he will start to reveal a little of that side of his life, if they later want to join their father it will be their choice. But until then, let them be innocent children, they are cuter and happier that way, there is time for everything.

He will always hold back his emotional side so as not to be overly affectionate. Unless his child starts crying. At that point his mask falls completely and he becomes the most affectionate and comforting father there can be, that is his weakness.

And if one day the child realizes this and starts using crying to get what they want from him, he won't know whether to be angry that he is being emotionally manipulated by his own child, or proud that they learned so quickly.

You will be the only one immune to the fake crying.

From the beginning, Azul has been wary and suspicious of letting Jade and Floyd be like uncles to your child. However, you two ended up letting this happen, but Azul will always keep an eye open.

Both Jade and Floyd will definitely use the child to play pranks on Azul. Mostly Floyd, Jade prefers to watch and assist. Azul will always be upset with the twins, never with his child. And depending on the severity of the prank, he will turn on his overprotective side and threaten Jade and Floyd that if that happens again they will never see your child again. They never go beyond that limit.

Every now and then when Floyd plays with your child, he will do that joke where he playfully tells them he's going to catch them and bite them. Actually in his playful voice, he doesn't want to scare them. And they will run to Azul and hide behind his legs asking for help while laughing. Or tentacles if they are in their merfolk form.

If you ask them Jade is the scary uncle (only sometimes) but they themselves don't even know why. It's just his vibe or something. However, they are not afraid to ask any of them for something, it being to play or for help.

You know those little plastic cashiers where kids pretend to have a little shop and try to sell things to people at home? Usually parents or sibling. Azul loves to play this with his child because it is a great and fun way to pass on his knowledge. Both about sales and about taking care of your money. Usually using the Grim as a guinea pig. Grim also likes to play because he always ends up with food in exchange for toy money.

Jamil’s child(ren) call him: Dad (in informal moments) and Father (at formal events)

Jamil needed to learn to express himself more and better emotionally so as not to end up being a cold father without meaning to. He needs your help to teach your child when to hold back and when to know when they are in a safe space to let go.

The only thing that will follow Jamil forever is an inevitable feeling of guilt for your child having the same fate as him, simply for being his child: serving the Al-Asim family with no other choice. But you can be assured that if there is a way to stop this and give his child freedom of choice, whatever that method may be, he will not give up until he finds it and do it! Normally parents want to give their children what they always wanted and could never have, in Jamil's case it’s freedom.

There was something Jamil wanted to do, but he didn't have the courage to ask the Al-Asim for some kind of vacation. But you had! Using your great friendship with Kalim, you managed to get him to allow you to take a vacation long enough for you to travel as a family, as Jamil wanted. Jamil has always wanted to travel alone, but now with you and your child he would like to travel as a family and give his child the experiences he would have liked to have had himself.

He is quite demanding with his child's education and training. However, his attitude towards this is always calm and collected, and he is attentive to his child's limitations and needs. He is a great and responsible tutor, who knows how to distinguish between being a teacher and being a father.

He is usually quite serious, so you and your child are the ones who start messing with him to have fun and make him laugh. It's always nice when he reminds you two that he can also be a tease. Normal or biggest target of your joint teasing ends up being Grim at some point.

During his work as Kalim's servant, Jamil always had to cook a lot and he's not that big a fan of cooking, so so he can rest at home you're the one who cooks most of the time. He will teach you everything you want to learn and at first you will cook together a lot until you feel comfortable cooking alone. But even then he will continue to offer to help you. Your child will continue to say that Jamil's food is tastier, but yours is prettier. And the food you make together is the best because it’s tasty and pretty. Jamil will also encourage his child to cook with you two so that they can learn from a young age.

His child knows that there is only one thing in this world that can make their father scream in fear: Bugs! If your child is also afraid of insects, you're screwed, because you will be the insect killer in that house. However, if it is just the two of them, Jamil's protective instinct will be stronger and despite his fear he will protect his child. If your child is not afraid of insects, then Jamil will have two protectors. “Can you do dad a favor?”; “Where is it?”; “Living room, south wall last time I saw.”; “Does it fly?”; “...Yes.”

Kalim will treat your child almost like one of his own children, for loving you both so much. He got emotional when he found out you were pregnant, he wanted to help pay for your doctor's appointments if necessary (never was), and he got emotional again when your child was born. He loves buying toys for your child too and give them gifts. He would love for Jamil to let them call him Uncle Kalim. And he loves it when your kids play together.

Vil’s child(ren) call him: Father

Vil wants to have a family that is at its best as he likes to be at his best himself. He wants you and your child to be as beautiful on the outside as you are on the inside, just as he strives to be as well. However, he would treat a daughter slightly differently than a son because of the different pressures of societal beauty standards.

With a son he would be as strict with him as he is with himself. But with a daughter, he knows she's more likely to suffer from these kinds of things. So although he continues to be relatively strict and wants her to be the best she can be, he ends up being softer with criticism and stronger with praise and soft love than he would be with a son.

He would hire a specialist, like as a child psychologist or something like that, to always know the best ways to rise and protect your child. Children of famous people like him, especially in the digital and social media age, may need more protection from their parents in this regard, in addition to the toxic pressure of comparison that exists. However, because Vil cares so much about your child's personal development as their happiness, he may end up putting enormous pressure on himself to be a perfect parent too.

Both Vil and your child will need you to be the person who brings them both back to the real world and the life of a loving family with flaws like any human being. Vil will always listen to you if you feel he may be being too harsh and demanding with your child, or with himself in terms of parenting.

If you are the type of person who likes to tease Vil by letting yourself be sloppy from time to time, (always at home) then your child will also like to tease their father like that. “You have your mother’s cheekiness, I see.” Vil sighs but laughs. The teasing includes eating sweets and food that Vil would not approve of. You are the parent they ask for things from and who best comforts and pampers them. You two probably team up to make Vil relax and have fun with you.

His child will have the best teachers and tutors, go to the best schools and best establishments for any extracurricular activity they want to have. Vil will probably force them to have an extracurricular activity but they will be free to choose which one.

Rook is OBSESSED with your child! In a respectful way of course, he is just already a huge fan. The result of combining your DNA with Vil's? MERVEILLEUX! He won't hold back the tears when he sees the baby for the first time. He will LOVE playing with your child. He will babysit for free and will be happy to do so if you ever need. It will be a long time before he stops getting so emotional whenever your child calls him "Uncle Rook."

Uncle Epel is the rad uncle, when Vil is not around. He is that person who will help your child do cool activities that Vil may not allow. Like taking a blastcycle ride with him, eat grilled meats, playing with things that make the child very dirty or other things that Vil didn't like Epel to do when they were at NRC. But if at least one parent allows it (you), then there is no problem. Right? All this, of course, when Vil is not around.

When he is there, both Epel and your child behave like little angels. You and Epel have to be very careful that the child doesn't get careless and say something in Epel's dialect in front of Vil. They love Uncle Epel because it is fun to do cool things without their father knowing and with your help.

Your child likes to use Grim as a doll to dress up in cute clothes. The funny thing is that Grim likes it too because your child eventually realizes that if they tell him he looks cool instead of cute, he'll let them keep dressing him up.

Idia’s child(ren) call him: Daddy (when little) Dad (when older)

Idia doesn't believe he can be a good father. A shut-it and antisocial otaku like him? Are you crazy? That's a disaster! He can't take care of himself, how is he going to help you raise a child? However, and especially with you, he also has that overly cocky side that believes that even being an antisocial nerd he would be 1000 times better than a lot of parents out there. So basically he has a tendency to oscillate between these two moods.

In comparison, you are the strict parent, he is the parent who spoils the child. They are both afraid of you when you get upset. He's a ‘Don't tell your mother’ type of dad. He can't say no to his child, but, oddly enough, he can't be emotionally manipulated either. He may even let his child do a lot of things, but even he has limits to what he knows is good or bad for them.

Because he's the permissive father, he's also the scariest when he gets serious. He can never get really mad at his child, but he can say a firm and assertive “No” if necessary. However, if they are still very young and start crying, he will panic and call you immediately. You will then have to comfort Idia and tell him that no, he did not make a decision that put him on the path to the traumatic and apocalyptic ending. What he probably did was the opposite.

If it depends on him, his child will be a nerd/otaku just like his father. However, he doesn't want them to be socially anxious like him and will always encourage them to go for walks with you outside even if it's without him. That doesn't mean there aren't times you drag him outside with you.

Besides occasionally questioning whether he is being a good father, there is something else that haunts him... He still carries and will probably always carry the feeling of guilt for what happened to Ortho, so he is absolutely TERRIFIED that something like that may happen again.

Idia has always tried to keep your child as far away as possible from all areas that are dangerous or even remotely similar to the hallway where that happened. But if your child ever happens to even enter an area that their father did not allow, they will get to know a side of Idia that sometimes you yourself don’t even remember exists: The overprotective, traumatized side that isn't afraid to scare his child if it means keeping them away from the danger. And probably the only way they'll see his red hair. But it will probably be after that, that the two of you will have an open heart conversation and Idia will apologize.

Now, about Uncle Ortho, they LOVE uncle Ortho! He's the one who goes for a walk with you and your child when you and he can't convince Idia to go too. He is a cheerful uncle who loves to play with your child. You three made up stories to explain why uncle Ortho was a humanoid. You always make up different and crazy stories to jest with them and make them change the subject. The day will come when they will be old enough to know the truth.

Idia may even talk badly about himself a lot of the times, but no matter what his child do, they are talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular and everything good. “Of course that's because they inherited it from you, not me.” He will say with a smile.

Both Idia and your child treat Grim like a pet cat and find it funny to see him getting grumpy.

Idia spoke to his child in that baby voice when they themselves were also babies. And maybe also when they are children to the point where they tell him to stop treating them like babies.

Malleus’s child(ren) call him: Daddy (when little) Dad (when older) Father (at formal events)

The day Malleus found out you were pregnant was already a happy day, but the day your child was born was the happiest day of his life! And every moment with them is the happiest moment of his day. And of course with you too. He totally and completely loves his family!

Anyone who dares to speak ill of the child of Malleus Draconia, especially about the fact that they are half-human, will suffer the consequences! Anyone who spoke openly about the child being something of a disgrace, shame or an abomination was either killed or imprisoned. (Depending on how opposed you really are to Malleus killing or ordering someone to be killed.) and of course, the same applies to talking bad about you.

The problem is that this is doing the same thing to your child that was done to him. He's scaring everyone and making them afraid to come near your child for fear of saying or doing something that might upset them or Malleus. He listens to you and agrees with you, showing concern and thoughtfulness about what should be done. He hates people being disrespectful to the ones he loves, but he also doesn't want his child to go through what he went through.

What ends up happening is that, on Malleus's part, he realizes that he has to start learning ways for people to respect his child without using fear, but to do that he also has to start letting certain insults slide. He doesn't like it, but if it's what's best for his child, he'll do the best he can. Although the same applies if they disrespect you. He hates it so much!

In the case of your child, you are helped by Lilia (if he’s still alive), Silver, Sebek and their families. Perhaps trying to spend more time among their people and with other fae, humans, and half-fae might be beneficial to a child's social development.

Lilia would treat the child as if they were his own grandchild. Even if Silver also has children, they are ALL Lilia's grandchildren! “There's no denying it any longer... I am... officially... an old man... For the best possible reasons!” Everyone will rescue your child from Lilia's food. “Never eat anything that Grandpa Lilia cooks, you hear?”

Silver is the calm uncle who, despite not being the most fun to play with, is the one they turn to when they want to rest and simply have a good chill time. Or take a nap. Probably who they turn to to run away and hide from Sebek when he's being annoying. He ends up being the adult (than is not their parents) that they trust most and feel most comfortable with. Silver is very happy when they ask him for help to get closer to an animal to see it better, and even more so if they and the animals end up interacting and playing with each other.

Now about Uncle Sebek... If there is anyone more protective and flattering of that child than Malleus, it is Sebek. He cried when the child was born, for sure. And cried even more when the child said his name, or whenever they at least tried to. The day they called him "Uncle Sebek" he was about to have a heart attack. The problem is that he ends up being one of those type of person who adores children (although in his case the only ones he likes would be Malleus's and his own children) to the point that the child finds them annoying and clingy. “But don't tell Uncle Sebek that, he'll be sad.”

Whenever the child throws a tantrum that ends up causing their powers to manifest in storms or uncontrolled magic, Malleus will take care of it while you stay away and safe. To him, any attack would be mere tickling, but he always made sure that your child knows that the same does not apply to you. They may end up thinking that you are very fragile while they are little, but it is better this way to ensure that they do not hurt you unintentionally.

This also means that whenever you need to say ‘No’ to your child, Malleus will do it if there is a possibility that they would start throwing tantrums. At least while they are young and cannot control their powers well.

Malleus also runs the risk of being a father who spoils his children.

Your child and Grim probably burn a lot of things around the castle because they play together and they both have fire powers.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

And if you would like to read this but with other characters you can write in the comments. If this post has a lot of notes (likes and reblogs) I might consider making a second part with other characters.

#Twisted Wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst headcanons #Riddle Rosehearts #Riddle Rosehearts x Reader #Leona Kingscholar #Leona Kingscholar x Reader #Azul Ashengrotto #Azul Ashengrotto x Reader #Jamil Viper #Jamil Viper x Reader #Vil Schoenheit #Vil Schoenheit x Reader #Idia Shroud #Idia Shroud x Reader #Malleus Draconia #Malleus Draconia x Reader

3K notes · View notes

blueivyy99 · 3 months ago

Text

Calm and Serenity (Part 4)

Sylus x Non!MC

summary: you didn't know what sylus saw in you. he said you were calm, quiet and serene and that's what he needs. you believed it. he showed it. not until little miss hunter came. she's everything you're not. news that she's in danger can make the ever so calm sylus to run and leave everything behind. it made you think, would he do that for you as well?

tags: angst, romance, hurt and comfort, confused sylus, non-mc reader, mentions of death/dying, cursing

taglist: @fcknblsht @aboobie @nin10doo @ixloom819 @damatically @sylusgirlie7 @stellisangelicus-world @kira-loves0905 @wanderlustingcastaway @browneyedgirl22 @lumieresdreams @babygirl-panda19 @picnicinthegarden @96jnie @xxfaithlynxx @wrimaira @reni502 @lazypostfandomer @augustdxjiminx @hey-airam @vevlvtcherie @marquitas-en-verano @ma-cherie-lovely @zeskyzed @imnikki @shiorihoshino @mentaltrouble2201 @sylustoru @imaginarytheatre

note: OMG hi here's the promised update. ALSOOO BIG THANK YOU to all your reaction/comment/reblogs huhuhu im so happy reading your comments and im glad that you liked this little piece of mine. i hope you enjoy this one as well (i actually want to hide in a corner lol)

Series Masterlist

Sylus can't shake the eerie feeling that's been bugging his chest since he left you in Elysium. He knows that you're upset. He can see it in your eyes, he can feel it in his bones.

But what can he do? Miss Hunter is in danger and his body just autopilots to go to her. Does he want to? No. Not really because if he were to choose, he'd rather be beside you all the time but the bond is not letting him. Whenever he's trying to resist, the energy linkage on his wrist would constrict and a painful sensation is shooting up on his chest making it harder for him to say no to her.

It's been a pain in his ass and he didn't know what to do especially when he first met her. Past memories, past emotions, past tragedies suddenly flooded him and for a moment he faltered.

For a moment, all those feelings came back. He missed her, honestly speaking after all, she has half of his soul and finding her again in N109 Zone felt like his soul is whole again.

It was like he was in a daze. All his goals were reduced to mere thoughts and he was obligated to make a connection with her that he got too busy helping her get the aether core and making her remember everything, too busy resonating with her and he made you wait for him every day only to be given a mere fraction of his attention.

But when he's alone and he's contemplating the decisions he has been making as of late, he will be reminded of you. Of how you slowly grew quieter and your gaze was always on him, waiting and anticipating for him to initiate something that would make up for the time he's been wasting with Miss Hunter.

It did cross his mind to let you go. He understands that what he's doing is completely unfair to you, but when the thought of you leaving and potentially finding someone else crosses his mind, he almost went crazy.

He can't. He just can't.

He won't allow it.

He won't let that happen.

You're the only thing in his life that he can call his “voluntary choice". Ever since he lived all his lives, everything seemed out of control, it seemed like everything was a cycle.

Sylus, I curse your soul to never fade away. You'll always be tied to me. This is my curse. Only I can grant you true death.

Soulbound. That's him and Miss Hunter. The first few lives he lived, he can accept dying in her arms as long as it's with her. That's how powerful his love is and he doesn't mind waiting even if it takes a couple of millenia he wouldn't mind because it's her. He even put traces of her in every corner of N109 Zone, even sent Mephisto to stalk her every move when she first became a hunter. So it's safe to say that in the earlier years in this life, he did wait for her.

But then, YOU came.

Someone unexpected. Someone so pure despite the filth in this underworld. You saw him like a normal person and made him feel human. You didn't treat him like the leader of Onychinus.

You treated him as Sylus. Just Sylus. A weak, vulnerable and could-be-hurt Sylus.

In you, he found his humanity.

In you he found love and peace. For the first time in eons, there is tranquility.

He wanted to deny it at first. He can't entertain the thought of you and him together. He knows he can't have you. He can't have that luxury because he will have to let you go eventually when Miss Hunter comes to the picture, the cycle will repeat again. He will die in her arms and he will live another life only to be met with the same ending.

He had given up on anything and everything at this point, so little by little he's letting you go.

But when you came to his rescue, fighting for him even with your limited fighting experience when he was caught off guard by one of his enemies he let himself indulge in you.

Maybe this time will be different.

He let himself be under the shade of your warmth. Happy that in this life he gets to experience this. To experience a love that felt like it could last forever. A love that makes him want to live for as long as he can.

So when he made sure that Miss Hunter is alive and breathing, he is quick on his feet to leave.

“Sylus, can you stay with me for a while?" her voice begging.

And there it was again. The tug on the energy linkage in his wrist. At the mere thought of him denying her request, he can feel it tighten in his wrist that it hurts almost like his hands were going to be cut off.

The sensation in his chest is there again.

But no. He can't stay.

He won't.

“I can't," he answered not even looking back at her. “Y/N is waiting for me.”

He steadied his breathing. He needs to calm himself despite the overbearing pain.

"I will find a way to sever our connection and put an end to this curse. I want to live a life for myself not tied down to any of this destiny bullshit.”

He left after saying that. He's sure that she will understand what he meant.

If she doesn't? Then that's on her.

But for now he wants to come home to you.

To make things right. To tell you everything to ask for more time to figure things out. To tell you that he's been trying to figure out how to sever the connection that he and Miss Hunter have.

To explain that what he did to you was beyond what he can control. That he is under a curse and his choices are influenced by the repeating cycle of his lives. Clouded by the thought that there's no way out of this mess and sooner or later he will find his lifeless body in Miss Hunter's hands.

To tell you that this time he wants to fight back.

He wants to own his life again. He wants to make a decision for himself again.

Sylus respects the idea of soulmates. He even loved the idea of it before. But now it's different. Because if being soulmates with Miss Hunter means losing you, then he doesn't want it.

He will die trying as long as he's with you.

In record time, he's back in Onychinus’s base and the air feels different. It feels heavy. Something is not right.

Sylus is quick on his feet to walk (run) to your shared bedroom and you're not there. He felt a lump on his throat.

No. No.

“Sweetie? Where are you?" He called out. The mighty Sylus’s voice quivers at the end of his sentence. He roamed around the base trying to find you.

“Darling?"

In the bathroom? None.

“Little fox?"

Kitchen? It's empty.

"Baby?”

The guest room? Deafening quiet.

“Y/N?"

He searched in every corner but you're not there. He tried to call you but it seemed like your phone was off.

He called Luke and Kieran, they quickly answered his call and their words made his world crumble. “Boss! The Madame is gone. We can't find her anywhere. Elysium's owner told us she left quickly after you were gone. We searched everywhere we could but we couldn't find her.”

“Keep patrolling the area. Find her."

He dropped the call and quickly sent Mephisto to wander all around the N109 zone.

His mind is reeling back to the events that happened before he left. It can't be.

What happened? Why did you run away? Did someone take you?

Did you leave him?

No, gods please no.

You can't be gone.

No. Not now. Not when he figured out what he wanted.

“Please, come back.”

Part 5 the next day if im not busyyyy (no promises) reaction and comments are welcome 🤗

#sylus x non mc #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lnds #sylus x reader #sylus

2K notes · View notes

wwinterwitch · 2 months ago

Text

safe haven – bucky barnes

summary: bucky goes back to you after the void incident pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 3.7k tags: thunderbolts* spoilers!, vague void experience on purpose (for the full x reader experience), sam is back and he's pissed, fluff and fluff and more fluff (love is in the air people!), comfort, kissing, things get heated at the end but no actual smut is included (i think i'll make another part exclusively for the smut lovers, so the people that don't read smut can still enjoy this part)

please reblog and/or comment in you enjoy!

all masterlists | marvel masterlist | previous part

You gasp, snapping back to reality after...whatever the fuck just happened, trying to catch your breath in hopes of easing your headache and slow your heart rate. The broom you were using to clean up your apartment lays on the floor next to you, everything looking the exact same as it was when you left.

It cannot possibly be another Thanos situation, right? That time it felt like you just blinked, but now it feels like you've been gone for long tortuous hours. That time your roommate almost had a heart attack when you knocked on the door of your shared apartment because she thought she’d never see you again. And you certainly don't remember anything about experiencing the blip. Now...now you wish you could forget what you saw back there.

You were forced to experience the most traumatizing memories playing in a loop over and over again until all you could do is sit in a corner and cry as you beg for the images to go away. A horrifying display of the darkest moments of your life. The times you felt more unhappy and hopeless. And every time you thought you’d managed to escape, you’d just end up in yet another memory.

But somehow you're back in your apartment now. Everything looks the exact same and it seems like no time has passed.

Still, even when it seemingly feels like you're safe, you can't help but feel uneasy. The thought of what you saw is still very much present in the back of your mind, replaying over and over again, taking over your senses and clouding your judgement.

What if this is just another trick and you’re about to experience another horrible memory? You look around your apartment, too afraid to move, expecting to see something that confirms that you’re still stuck in this never-ending nightmare. That you’ll have to stay in this place for the rest of your life.

The unexpected buzzing of your phone makes you jump, snapping you back to reality as you frantically search for it. Quickly spotting it on top of your dinner table, you keep wondering what the hell is happening as you read Sam's name on your screen.

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? I'VE BEEN TEXTING YOU LIKE CRAZY,” you hear him shout on the other line as soon as you picked up, sounding incredibly agitated.

“I'm sorry, I...I don't exactly know what happened,” you mutter, staring outside the window in hopes of seeing something out there that might give you any clues of what is going on. To your surprise, you can see a few ambulances speeding past your street and you can spot a large cloud of smoke in the distance.

Bucky and the others are most likely involved in that commotion. You can only hope that they’re okay, still having no updates. You can’t really tell how much time has passed since they left, so you can’t know for sure when Bucky is going to show up.

“The entirety of New York just went black,” he explains. “It just looked like darkness.”

“What?” you ask in disbelief. “I don't remember anything about it. I was just cleaning up my apartment and then somehow I was in...I don't even know what it was. It was like purgatory or something.”

“What do you mean?”

You sigh, not really wanting to go into too much detail about the stuff you had to witness. Honestly, you wish you could just forget it. “It was like being tortured, Sam. I don't know what it was, just that it was awful. I was cleaning my apartment and that's pretty much the last thing I remember before waking up in that place.”

There's a brief silence and for a second you thought perhaps the call was disconnected, but you suddenly hear Sam's voice again. “Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me!”

“What happened?” you say, evidently confused.

“Put on the news,” he sighs, muttering something else under his breath you can't quite hear correctly. “I gotta go, but I'll talk to you later, okay?” he says in a ruther rushed voice, sounding both pissed and worried. “Take care.”

“Sure. Bye, Sam.”

You hang up the phone as you sit on your couch, TV remote in your hand as you search for any news broadcast that's on. As soon as you find one, you stare at it in disbelief. There, in the middle of a street, is Valentina giving some bullshit speech you don't really care to pay attention to, and behind her stands the entire group of people that were in your apartment just seconds (or minutes? Hours?) ago, joined by a blonde guy you have never seen before.

They look exhausted and visibly confused to be in front of so many cameras. Bucky and Yelena look particularly pissed. But what matters the most to you is that they're all alive.

The next thing that really catches your attention is the text on the banner beneath the image. 'Introducing the New Avengers'.

What the hell is really going on right now?

The broadcast finally ended, and it doesn't take Bucky that long to arrive. All he wanted to do was to get away from Valentina and all the press that just kept taking pictures of him and the others. He barely even acknowledged the rest of the group, leaving as soon as possible. All he wants right now is to see you and make sure you're okay. He knows you're probably safe– of course you are, but he won't be calm until he's standing before you to make sure you really are unharmed.

He walks inside your apartment and immediately walks towards you, grabbing your face with both of his hands as soon as he's standing in front of you, frantically scanning your face for any sight of hurt or discomfort. It's almost as if you were the one out there fighting.

“Are you okay?” he asks, slightly out of breath, still not letting you go.

“Yes, I'm okay,” you reply with a reassuring smile, and he immediately pulls you in for a hug. “How are you?”

“Uh...as good as I can be.”

His arms are still tightly wrapped around you, not wanting to let you go any time soon. Yes, he’s holding onto you because it’s a huge relief to confirm that you’re safe, but it also brings him an enormous amount of comfort, which is what he was craving ever since he stepped foot into the void.

“What kind of answer is that?”

“I don't know. It's been a lot. I was so worried about you.”

“I was so worried about you!”

He pulls away just enough, and you almost want to roll your eyes at the playful smirk on his face. “Don't try to make this a competition.”

“I won't make it a competition because I would obviously win,” you reply, exasperated. “I wasn't the one who was out there fighting...what was the guy's name again?”

“Sentry.” There’s a brief pause, his expression hardening considerably. “Were you there too?”

You get even more exasperated because you still don't understand shit. “Where?”

“The void.”

Realization hits you right there. The entirety of New York being consumed by darkness as Sam explained over the phone, the horrible things you had to see...of course a place like that would have such a fitting name. It felt exactly like it. You just felt empty and alone.

“So that's what it was. And the entire city was experiencing the same thing?” you ask, still in complete disbelief at the idea of one person having that much power. It certainly is a terrifying and dangerous ability to have.

Then, after a quick pause, you realize Bucky had to experience that too, immediately hating the idea of him having to endure that. "Were you...?"

Bucky notices the shift in your expression, offering you a weak smile. “Yeah, we were all there.”

You don't know what to say at first. If you thought you had a hard time in there, you can't even begin to imagine the horrors Bucky was forced to watch over and over again. It breaks your heart to think about it. Even when he has made a lot of progress when it comes to healing from his past and learning to forgive himself, it doesn't mean the pain and guilt are not there.

“I'm so sorry,” is all you can say, feeling completely useless at that moment. Sorry doesn't make it better in any way.

“It's okay. It's not like this is the first time I've been there.”

His last statement absolutely crushes you. If you could find a way to take all of that burden off his shoulders, you'll do it in a heartbeat. Still feeling completely useless, you decide to pull him in for another hug, because at least that’s doing a little more than just saying you’re sorry.

“I wish I could do more to make you feel better,” you whisper, feeling his fingers gently running through your hair in an affectionate manner, kissing the top of your head.

“Being here with you is more than enough,” he whispers back. “You are more than enough."

“Oh, please don't make me cry now,” you warm him with a soft giggle, feeling like a few tears might actually come out any second now.

The sound of Bucky's laugh makes you feel just a hundred times better about the entire situation involving that stupid void, loving to hear it under such circumstances. It's impossible not to feel overwhelmed right now. That place really left you feeling like an emotional mess.

You move back from the hug just enough and Bucky takes that as his opportunity to pull you in for a kiss. The type of kiss that makes your knees weak and leaves your mind completely blank. A kiss you see in a movie with fireworks adorning the night sky, right before the end credits roll. One that feels like he's been dying to give you a kiss since he closed the door of your apartment before New York was consumed by darkness.

A kiss that shows you he really does mean it when he says you are more than enough.

“I'm really happy you're okay,” he mutters right after the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

I love you. That's all you can think of in this moment, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud because how fucking insane would that be? To not even be an official couple and already say such a thing? Perhaps it wouldn't be so crazy given you've been best friends for so many years (and you've had a crush on him for most of them), but still. It's just too soon. Too weird. Too intense.

The fucking void really did numbers on you. Just get it together, please!

“I'm happy you're okay too,” is what you say instead, which sounds appropriate. And not weird. And not intense at all.

You offer to make him a snack after all that happened, forcing him to take a seat when he said he could do it himself. As you prepared a few sandwiches, he tried to explain as much as possible about everything that's been going on.

“So Bob doesn't remember anything?” you ask once he's done, just as you're handing him a plate with two grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Apparently,” he replies, right before leaning over the counter to give you a quick kiss as a way of thanking you for the food.

“Well, that's probably for the best, right? I mean if the Sentry part returns, it's only a matter of time until the Void part wants to have a bit of fun again too.”

He practically devours one of the sandwiches, looking like he hasn't eaten in centuries. “Probably,” he says nonchalantly, clearly more focused on eating. It's impossible to blame him for it, especially considering everything he's been through today.

You can't help but smile at the image of him eating the sandwiches like he's been deprived of food his entire life. So much so that he can barely hold a conversation.

I love you. It's like you just couldn't hold yourself back from wanting to blurt those three little words once again. Like it's physically impossible to hold them in. It doesn’t matter if he’s saying cute things to you or if he’s eating like a caveman. You love both sides of him.

But you can't say it. You can't be weird.

Instead, you try a much more appropriate approach once again. “You're so cute,” you say with a smile, moving closer to run a hand through his hair affectionately. Then, you suddenly remember something that you two haven't discussed yet, and your 'I'm-so-down-bad' smile turns into a 'just-thought-of-the-best-joke-ever' smirk. “Might as well start calling you the cutest Avenger, huh?”

He turns to look at you with a soft grin on his face, immediately shaking his head. “Please, tell me you didn't see that.”

“Oh, but of course I did!” You take a seat next to him on your kitchen counter, getting more comfortable to continue teasing him. “The news called you ‘The New Avengers’. Who would’ve thought!”

“It was all Valentina's plan to save her ass.”

“So you guys are not going to accept the title?”

“We are, but we still need to have a few meetings to set some rules if we plan on working together…and boundaries.”

“Oh, don’t act like you’re so irritated by the idea! I can tell you’re starting to feel more comfortable around them.”

He’s completely silent for a few seconds, knowing he can’t lie without you noticing. “Okay. They might be growing on me.”

“Awwh,” you reply, but not with the intention of making fun of him. “I thought they were very nice. And I'm glad you're making new friends.”

“You're never gonna stop teasing me about any of these, aren't you?”

“Well...yeah, but I actually mean it when I say I like seeing you meeting new people,” you reply, changing your tone and demeanor to let him know you're serious. “And yes, I'll tease you about the whole Avengers thing, but that doesn't mean I'm not excited to witness this new chapter in your life.”

You begin gently caressing his arm as you offer him a sincere smile. “You deserve it. You deserve to be recognized for your kind heart and your willingness to help others,” you continue. “I'm so proud of how far you've come. And I'm sure Steve is proud of you too.”

The mention of his childhood friend brings a melancholy to his expression that is both sad and beautiful to see. It shows he still deeply misses him, but has learned to think of him without breaking down. It's the type of expression you have when you've finally found peace with the fact that someone you love is not around anymore...not entirely around, at least. He'll always carry a part of Steve Rogers with him.

"Thank you," he says, genuinely meaning it.

I love you. Those three words threaten to make their way into your conversation again, but this time it's not you the one fighting back the urge to say them.

But It's just a little too soon, right? Last thing he wants is to make things awkward between the two of you. So he decides not to say anything, just like you have decided twice already.

You smile, standing up from your seat. “Finish eating, okay? I have to clean the mess the New Avengers left in my living room earlier.”

“Yeah, you'll have to get used to that, unfortunately.”

“Like I haven't had to deal with that before,” you joke, hinting back at all the times you had people like Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton randomly showing up at your place.

Bucky stays in your kitchen while you finish brooming until you’re sure the floor of your living room is impeccable, familiarity slowly setting in after everything that happened today. You could faintly hear Bucky having a phone call with someone, but you couldn't quite make the words out over the music you had playing on your own phone to make the cleaning much more entertaining.

You go back to your kitchen to throw away the dirt and dust you collected from the living room, just in time to see Bucky standing up to wash the dish he used, sandwiches long gone.

“I just got a call from Sam,” Bucky says as soon as he notices you, his tone letting you know it wasn't exactly a pleasant conversation.

“What did he want?”

“For us to immediately backtrack and not go through with the whole Avengers thing.”

“Yeah, he called me just as it was airing and he didn't sound too happy about it. What are you going to do?”

Bucky sighs, exhaustion visible in his demeanor. “I'll talk to him later. I don't think anyone in the team feels like backtracking right now. Most of them looked pretty excited actually.” You can't help but smile, which makes him let out a soft chuckle. “What?”

“You said 'the team'. I just thought it was cute,” you shrug, crossing your arms across your chest. “I should invite them for a pizza night or something. Get to know them a little better. And meet this Bob guy too.”

“You'll invite John?” he asks, half-joking.

“Please don't call him John,” you immediately reply, squinting your nose in disgust. “I'll have to warm up to him...very slowly. I still feel like punching him in the face when I see him.”

“That's fair,” he agrees with you, perfectly understanding where your discomfort with John Walker's presence comes from. Perhaps that might explain some of the reasons as to why Sam seems so against the idea of this team being a thing.

You notice Bucky walks towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Even when the possible pizza night sounds exciting, I kind of just want to think about the two of us spending time together alone,” he says, grinning mischievously.

A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his fingers near your neck, gently pulling the fabric of your hoodie to the side, exposing more of your collarbone. He places a few kisses there. Slow and careful.

“Perhaps I can stay here with you for a few more days?” he suggests, right before leaving another kiss on your skin, using his other hand that’s firmly placed on your lower back to bring your body closer to his.

“Of course you can stay,” you reply in a soft voice, trying not to let it show just how much his actions are affecting you.

He practically hums against your skin. “Do you want me to stay?” he whispers, definitely making you shiver now that his metal fingers are tracing lazy patterns on your skin, underneath your hoodie. What a teasing piece of shit.

It’s almost impossible to speak now. “Yes.”

His fingers trail further up your spine, but not that much higher. Just enough to allow you to feel his touch in a slightly different place, making you crave for more. A silent reminder that he can just move his fingers wherever he pleases, but he deliberately chooses not to grant you that pleasure.

“Then say it properly.”

It’s not a suggestion or a plea. It’s straight up an instruction. And he sounds like he’s absolutely certain that you’ll do exactly as he says.

And you do. “I want you to stay here with me.”

The kisses on your neck continue and it feels like a reward, so you just stand there and enjoy it, allowing him to worship your skin with his lips until you're practically trapped between his body and the counter.

You can feel your cheeks burning red, the warmth spreading to the rest of your body with each kiss. “Don't you want to take a shower?” you try being a voice of reason, your brain just doing whatever it can to help you feel less nervous.

“Why? You're thinking about joining me?” he whispers against your skin, which immediately makes you regret ever opening your mouth because what the fuck is wrong with him and how does he dare to say something like that?

Okay. To justify your growing nerves, you've technically never been fully intimate with Bucky yet. You've been pretty close because a girl can only hold back for so long, but the two of you have been mainly focusing on your emotional connection and that one is just so mind-blowingly special that there hasn't been a need to immediately jump to the physical aspects of your relationship.

But oh, is he tasting your limits right now...

“How you even have the energy right now is beyond me,” you comment again. You're not against the idea of something happening, but your nervous brain gets the best of you so you find yourself blurting out random things yet again.

Finally, Bucky moves away just enough, a playful smile adorning his lips. “I'll always have the energy for you,” he replies, and the implication behind his words has you blushing even harder.

You immediately hide your face in his chest while he wraps his arms around you, laughing at your reaction. “I hate you,” you mutter.

“No, you don't.”

That's true. You really don't hate him at all. It's actually quite the opposite, but you can already picture him walking out the front door if he hears you say how you truly feel about him. The thought of daring to confess you love him is a thousand times more terrifying than the idea of having sex with him for the first time.

You look up, smiling up at him when he kisses your forehead. “No, I don't.”

“Glad to see you're agreeing with me for once in your life,” he comments playfully.

“Don't push it,” you warn him, making him laugh once again.

“How about I take a shower like you suggested and then we take a nap together,” he suggests casually, still keeping his arms around you. “I think we can both use a little sleep.”

“Yeah, a nap sounds good.”

“Wow, two in a row! What has gotten into you?” he jokes yet again, trying to get you to stay in his arms when you start to push him away after that little comment, but he doesn't put up that much resistance, so you're eventually getting away from him.

“You're insufferable,” you comment in an obviously fake tone of annoyance, right before leaving the kitchen to head towards your bedroom.

“And you're beautiful,” he replies with a genuine smile, following after you.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #mcu x reader

2K notes · View notes

shouyuus · 6 months ago

Text

─── Ⅵ FIGURE EIGHTS

violet; 28,888 words; fluff and smut (at the end), semi enemies to lovers, fake dating, hockey!vi x figure skater!reader, ice dancers!meljayce, miscommunication, smau-intermissions, toxic ex!cait, simpgirl!vi, slowburn, the gays r bad at feelings, lots of making out that almost leads to something, emotional edging (for YOU lol), fingering (both receiving), thigh riding, oral (r!receiving), slightly unhinged!reader, no "y/n"

summary: a hockey player and a figure skater kind of, sort of, not really, but then actually fall in love. what could possibly go wrong? (narrator: apparently, everything.)

a/n: YALL. yall. YOU. ALL. lmfao. i can't believe i finished this (i say, after writing any fic longer than 5k words). but i TRULY doubted for a second that i would bc as i kept writing, it kept... getting longer? i hope that this doesn't drag, and that you guys like it. it's really a fucking labor of love. like heavy emphasis on the labor. shoutout to @vifilms for being my emotional support, and to my irl bf for actually physically reading through like 90% of this fic out LOUD with me to make sure the dialogue doesn't sound awk. BUT ANYWAYS. pls enjoy and PLS tell me what u guys think!!!! the smau fake texts won't start till chapter three, but ! it's my first time making like.. fake texts so sldkfjsd.

TABLE OF CONTENTS ━

prologue: party people

chapter one: shut up and kiss me

chapter two: fists to a knife fight

chapter three: love's dream

chapter four: for cup's sake

chapter five: don't hate the player (suggestive)

chapter six: six (nsfw)

─── TAG YOU'RE IT .ᐟ.ᐟ

pls comment below if you'd like to be tagged for this series! :) if you're already on my vi-taglist via my normal taglist link, then you're all good. if you only wanna be tagged for this series, comment below! pls pls have your age visible somewhere on your blog as this will be an 18+ fic!!!! thank you!!!

prologue: party people

─── Ⅵ IT STARTS WITH A GAME of spin the bottle — a college party post-game, the home team the exhalant victors, the crowds of adoring fans the worshippers at their beer-tower altars, doing keg stands and shot-gunning cans of cheap bud lite for an approving grin or a wink.

“Remind me why we’re here again?” you ask, jerking back as a drunken guy nearly topples into you, the red solo cup in his hand sloshing over onto the already sticky linoleum floor.

Mel sighs, “Because, darling, you promised me that you’d come out at least once if me and Jayce made it through the Challenger Series this year.”

She tugs you behind her, weaving through the crush of bodies till the cramped living room area opens onto a much larger patio, the mid-autumn chill cooling your skin.

“It was a joke,” you say, whining slightly even as Mel grabs what looks like an unopened hard cider from the table and presses it into your hand.

“Yes, and one that hurt my feelings,” Mel sniffs, turning her nose up, though a grin teases at her lips, “so to make up for it, you now have to stay at this party and have some semblance of a good time.”

And that was three and a half drinks ago, because sometime between then and now, you’ve found yourself pulled into an unwitting game of spin the bottle with what seems like half the entire hockey team, sitting next to Mel, her boyfriend Jayce on your other side, chatting animatedly with one of the girls hockey girls. You overhear the words “creatin” and “Bulgarian Squat” and decided that it’s time for you to tune out of the conversation.

“Vi, it’s your turn!”

Vi, your thoughts linger over the sound.

It’s a pretty name.

You glance up at the girl sitting across from you, Number Six — you’ve always known her as that, what with the tattoo on her cheek (there were rumors that it’s actually not real and she just reapplies one of those temporary tattoos every two weeks) and the fact that it’s her jersey number, it’s really not too hard to remember.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, laughing as she reaches for the empty beer bottle in the middle of the circle. Her right hand’s bandaged up and you can’t help staring at it. When you look up next, it’s to catch her watching you, your eyes meeting in a startling clash of raw contact — the cacophonous noise of the party dulling out to a thin whine somewhere at the back of your head as you stare at her and she stares right back.

You’d never noticed that her eyes, even in the dark, beneath the dim, flickering patio lights, reads mourning-dove blue, so subtle it’s almost gray, so sharp as she takes you in that your stomach drops from inside you. She smirks and twists her fingers expertly around the bottle, setting it whizzing.

You tear your eyes away, your breath sent astray in your chest by just that look alone. You frown at the spinning bottle, your mind abuzz with fragmentary thoughts you can’t quite string along for long enough to form a full sentence — eyes… her lips are pretty… wasn’t she dating… someone? who??? what’s her name again? something pretty —

“— right, ice princess, you ready?”

“Huh?” you jerk your eyes up from the bottle to find everyone watching you. From your left, Mel nudges you with a sanctimonious grin, her eyes flickering down to the bottle and back up towards —

“Go on!” she hisses, even as you blink uncomprehendingly down at the bottle pointing right at you.

Across the circle, Vi’s questioning smirk is all the answer you need as your alcohol-addled brain finally puts together the pieces.

“R-right…” you push up onto your knees, but something holds you back, a niggling feeling in the back of your brain as Vi’s smirk grows wide and she jerks her head towards the living room.

“Want a bit of privacy? Or… would you prefer an audience?”

Half the circle wolf-whistles at the insinuation, the other half roll their eyes, leaning back on their elbows as if to settle in for a long night.

You lick your lips, feeling your mouth scald dry.

“Privacy. Please.”

You follow Vi stiffly from the patio back into the stuffy house, her fingers closing around your wrist as she tugs you behind her through a long hallway splitting off from the main living room, branching into a series of what look like bedrooms. Half the doors are closed, illicit sounds echoing out from behind them, but Vi finds an empty one near the end of the hallway and pushes it open, leading you inside.

“Oh wow,” you say, looking around the room. It’s a typical fratboy’s room, full of suggestive posters, the floor littered with questionably laundered clothes.

“What, not your ideal setting for a makeout-sesh with a stranger?”

You frown as your eyes slingshot back to Vi, her standing feet from you, hands tucked loosely into her pockets, watching you with dark, firefly eyes.

“Thought we were just supposed to kiss once.”

Vi chuckles, closing the distance between you in a few quick strides, crowding you up against the closed door.

“Sure. We can do that. Or…” she makes no effort to hide the way her eyes flicker down to your lips, trailing back up in a line of fire that sizzles against your skin. “I could show you what a real good time looks like.”

Your breath crystalizes in your chest, and the strange, tickling feeling traces down the back of your head till it gathers, hot and unconscionable at the nape of your neck — a spin-click wheel of half-formed thoughts and images ticking by behind your eyelids as you try to remember why the hell this feels so wrong.

And then, it clicks, and you press a hand to Vi’s chest just as she’s leaning down to graze her lips against yours, the friction so delicious you almost lose your train of thought.

“A-are you sure this is a good idea? Didn’t you just break up with that track and field girl? Caitlyn?” you blurt out, a culmination of all the snippets of whispered conversations and half-caught glances of the pair of them across campus. The It-Girl Couple, people called them, the hockey team star and the track and field genius. They were hard to miss, and even harder to forget.

A moth-wing-flicker of emotions crosses Vi’s face as she takes half a step back, her expression morphing into one of shock, and then hurt, and finally, hard-lined disgust as she looks down at you with a thin-lipped grimace.

“Oh fuck you.”

She yanks you from the door, storming out without a backwards glance. You catch yourself against the half-made bed, your breath coming in heaving pants as your head spins. Guilt curdles in the bed of your stomach like spoilt milk, and it only takes you half a second to realize that of all the things to say, that probably was the worst possible choice.

You’d heard mention of the breakup, even if you didn’t have any stakes in this so-called game. It was harsh and messy and loud, and it had spilled across campus like a backed-up toilet, oozing foulness and stank across the grounds till not a single person was left unstained in the aftermath.

“Wait —” you stumble after Vi, but it’s too late. By the time you reach the patio doors, she’s already settling back into her place in the circle, an easy grin slung across her lips.

You swallow, pushing through the door to scurry over to Mel’s side. Mel beams at the flush in your cheeks, convinced (just like the rest of the circle) that it’d been one hell of a kiss, judging by how entirely breathless you are.

“Damn Vi, you gotta learn how to go easy on them figure skaters, hm?” Margot smirks, her eyes glittering as she looks you over, “look at the poor darling — she can barely breathe!”

Everyone laughs, and Vi flashes a convincingly satisfied smirk, shrugging up a shoulder. You glance at her, only to shiver at the arctic ice behind her gaze as your eyes catch once more.

“What can I say? Easy isn’t a setting I come programmed with.”

You duck your head as Vi casts you one more frigid look before turning to laugh at something a teammate has just said, and the circle devolves into good-natured banter and pocket conversations. You gulp around your too-dry throat and pluck Mel’s drink from her hand, tossing the rest of it back in a single gulp. She blinks at you, eyes wide.

“Darling, are you —”

“I — I’m fine just — it’s — I think I’m gonna head back.”

Mel frowns, “Are you sure? I mean —” she looks towards where Vi’s been pulled into an impromptu arm-wrestling match with some dude from the football team, “you could try and —”

You shake your head, “No, I — I think I’m good. I had a good time, I just —” you run a hand through your hair, “I’ve got practice tomorrow and Amara’s gonna murder me if I get there late.”

Mel stares for a second before relenting, a soft sigh on her lips.

“Alright, alright — go on then. I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow at practice, yes?”

You give her a tight-lipped smile, reaching out for a quick hug before ducking out of the party, skirting the edges of the growing mosh pit forming in the living room till you finally find yourself out on the front steps again.

You close your eyes for a second, pressing your back to the frat house door, feeling the dull thump of the music inside reverberating through the thin wooden frame as you breathe in and out.

You can still taste the heat of Vi’s breath on your lips, feel harsh sting of ice as she’d caught your eyes after. The chill air, once refreshing, pebbles your skin and an involuntary shiver shakes down your spine. You wrap your arms around yourself and give your head a good shake.

Whatever, you think, stepping off the porch, casting your eyes up at the star-strewn sky, a whisp of warm breath fogging up the air before you.

Not like it’ll matter. Bet she won’t even remember me after tonight.

taglist: @traiitorjoe @rizzscary @wetcat020 @alex-thegiraffeboyy @nanasemo @saturnhas82moons @unear7hly @drsnowrose @grantaires-waistcoat @isab3lita @ally-all-around @starrysetup22 @lipsent @lewd_alien @jack-frost-2010 @starsfortaylor @onesockcat @lesbian-useless @armins-slvt

3K notes · View notes

swiftiethatlovesf1 · 4 months ago

Text

Max's ducklings

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Max one-shot with the rookies. If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

The first time you jokingly referred to the rookies as yours and Max’s ‘kids,’ it had been just that—a joke. A harmless, offhand comment made while watching Kimi tail Max through the paddock like a lost puppy. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but then Gabriel had started tagging along too, and soon, Oliver was trailing after them both.

It became a running gag between you and Max. Every time you saw one of them lingering near your boyfriend, you’d nudge him and whisper, “Your sons are waiting for you.” Max would roll his eyes, grumble something in Dutch under his breath, and pretend not to care. But over time, the joke started feeling a little too real.

You were the one who noticed it first. Max would casually check on them in the garage, making sure they had everything they needed. He’d offer Kimi a few words of advice about tyre management, remind Gabriel to stay out of trouble on the track, and even critique Isack’s qualifying performance like a strict but well-meaning father. And it wasn’t just them—Liam, Oliver, and Jack, who had already taken their first steps in F1, had somehow joined the ever-growing group.

“They’re not my kids,” Max insisted one evening after a race, arms crossed as you teased him about it. “They’re grown men. They don’t need parents.”

You smirked, sipping from your drink. “Oh, really? Then why did you tell Kimi not to overwork his tires like that again? And why did you give Gabriel that pep talk about confidence? And why did you tell Isack to ignore the media when they criticized him?”

Max scowled, grumbling into his beer. “They’re just young. They need guidance.”

“They need parents,” you corrected playfully. “And, like it or not, you’ve become a dad.”

Max groaned dramatically, but he didn’t argue.

The paddock caught on quickly. Social media was soon flooded with memes about ‘Papa Max’ and his ‘ducklings.’ A particularly viral post had an edited picture of Max and you, your faces photoshopped onto a mother and father goose, with Kimi, Gabriel, Isack, Liam, Oliver, and Jack waddling behind you. Even Christian Horner joined in on the joke one day, patting Max on the back and saying, “How’s fatherhood treating you?”

You expected Max to brush it off, maybe even get annoyed. Instead, he just sighed and muttered, “Exhausting.”

The real shift came after a particularly rough race weekend for Isack. He had made a mistake during the race and spun out, leading to a wave of criticism online. Pundits started questioning if he was even good enough for F1, and some of the comments were downright cruel. Normally, Max stayed out of these things. He rarely engaged in media debates that didn’t involve him directly. But that day, in the middle of a press conference, a journalist brought up Isack’s struggles, asking Max if he thought the young driver was cut out for the sport.

Max’s response was immediate. “Isack is a talented driver. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. It’s easy to sit behind a screen and criticize, but racing at this level is incredibly difficult. He’s learning, like all of us did when we started.” He leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp. “Maybe people should stop expecting rookies to be perfect and let them grow.”

Your phone buzzed almost instantly with messages. ‘DAD MODE ACTIVATED’ read one from Lando. Another from Liam simply had a bunch of crying emojis.

When you saw Max later that evening, you couldn’t help but tease him. “I think that was the most dad-like thing you’ve ever done.”

Max groaned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please. You defended him like a protective father.” You wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. “I think deep down, you love your little ducklings.”

He huffed, but there was no real irritation in it. “I just don’t like seeing young drivers get ripped apart when they’re trying their best.”

You grinned. “Uh-huh. Sure. And next, you’ll be giving them bedtime stories.”

“If they stop making stupid mistakes, maybe.”

From that moment on, Max stopped fighting the joke. He still pretended to be exasperated when the rookies stuck to him like glue, but he never turned them away. When Liam had a tough weekend, Max was the first to check in on him. When Kimi finally had a strong race, Max clapped him on the back and muttered, “See? Told you it’d come.”

One day, as you watched the six young drivers standing around Max, hanging onto his every word as he gestured animatedly about car setups, you smiled to yourself. He’d never admit it, but Max had fully embraced the role.

Later that evening, as you two walked back to the motorhome, you leaned into him with a grin. “So, how does it feel to be a dad?”

Max groaned, shaking his head. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He sighed, glancing back over his shoulder toward where the rookies still lingered in the paddock. “Fine. Maybe… maybe it’s not so bad.”

You grinned, slipping your hand into his. “Our little family.”

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #gabriel bortoleto #kimi antonelli #isack hadjar #rookies #oliver bearman

1K notes · View notes

wandaslovey · 7 months ago

Text

ᴍʀꜱ. ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏꜰꜰ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴡ

➺ dom!wandanat x sub!fem!reader

word count ~ 7k

authors note: i’m so excited to share this with you guys - this was so much fun to write! i’m planning on writing the first few parts as chapters where one will pick up right after the other and then once i get to a certain point i’ll do random time skips within the same au. oh also! i’m starting a tag list, so comment below if you’d like to be included on the next chapter! enjoy loves! 💕 as usual, this is not proofread.

content warning(s): legal age gap (w=30, n=33, r=23), natasha and wanda being two hot intimidating lawyers (except natasha kinda steals this show in this part, especially in the beginning. don’t worry though, wanda will have her time to shine!), conversation about kinkery and reader knows very little

if you’d like to read the drabble that inspired this series, click here

═════════════

you stand in front of the mirror, adjusting your white button-up blouse for the 10th time. you huff, frustrated that your wardrobe just wouldn’t cooperate with you this morning. as you look yourself over in the mirror—the rest of your outfit consisting of a mid-thigh black pencil skirt, some black nylons and black combat boots—you couldn’t help but wonder if your attire was okay for the interview.

the interview…you can’t believe you landed an interview at thee M.R. law firm. you knew how unqualified you were for the position, so you felt extra pressure to compensate somehow with your appearance.

you turn to the side in the mirror, first left and then right, scrutinizing yourself at every angle. you readjust the pieces of hair framing your face that you pulled out of your bun, before deciding you’d done all you could to look your best.

you glance at the clock on your nightstand in the reflection of the mirror, seeing it was time to go. you grab your knock-off brand purse and slip out of your apartment. when you walk down the stairs and open the door to the outside, the noise from the city fills your ears. the sounds of cars, horns, sirens, music and people all blended together, creating a sort of hum all new-yorkers were familiar with. you step out onto the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding some tourists that were taking a picture in front of the trendy restaurant you lived by. you hail a cab, quickly sliding into the backseat and telling the driver your destination.

now that you were settled in your seat with only the taxi drivers quiet music to distract you, the nerves you’d been attempting to snub out suddenly hit you full force. there was no way you could do this. you were sure you were just wasting your own time and the poor person who had to interview you. you knew your 6 months working as a receptionist at a dentist office nowhere near qualified you to manage things at M.R. law. you mentally curse yourself, thinking you must’ve been half asleep and entirely too desperate when you sent in your application at this place. you needed a job though—urgently. with your roommate moving back home, and no one else taking her place, you were stuck with paying the rent on your own. on top of that, you were still paying back loans for school. you knew you should cut your losses, leave new york and transfer to a much more affordable school, but you really wanted to stay as much as you could help it.

every stoplight you hit along the 20 minute drive only makes you more nervous. the fluttery feeling in your stomach turns into full blown pterodactyls by the time the driver has pulled up to the very tall M.R. building. you pass some folded up cash to the driver, mumbling out a quiet ‘thank you,’ and then step out of the car. you stare up at the intimidating building, the lettering of “maximoff-romanoff law” taunting you—daring you to step inside. you let out a stubborn exhale, squaring your shoulders and walking in with a confidence as fake as grape flavored candy.

you stride over to the front desk, noticing that the only employees in sight are all women.

“hi, i’m here for an 11 o’clock interview,” you tell one of the women behind the desk. she offers you a polite smile, giving you instructions to head into the elevator and up to the 8th floor. you nod your head, thanking her and make your way to your doomsday interview.

as the elevator doors shut behind you, you find yourself all alone in the small space. there was no background music to distract you now. you stare at the floor, noticing a slight glint to the black tiles you were standing on. you listen to the beeps counting up each floor, your eyes dragging up the stainless steel panel when the number reads 8 and the final beep sounds. the doors open and you’re immediately greeted with the sight of more women pacing around the place. some seemed to be in a rush while others were leisurely walking across the floor while chatting with a co-worker. you walk over to the front desk again, repeating what you had told the other kind lady downstairs. she gestures for you to take a seat on the couch in the waiting area, letting you know someone will grab you in a few minutes.

you take a seat on the black leather couch, figuring this piece of furniture probably costed more than the rent for your apartment. you cross your legs, interlocking your fingers together at your knee. you glance around the office, taking in the decor. it was very tasteful, some touches of greenery that went nicely with the black and dark woodsy vibe this floor was going for. you try your best to ignore the bile rising in your throat and the pterodactyls still swarming in your stomach. it was a good thing you didn’t eat breakfast this morning.

as two minutes turns into ten, and then fifteen, you can’t help but feel the urge to just get up and leave. you felt so out of place here; you couldn’t imagine working at this place with all these women who were so obviously out of your league.

just as you were settling on the idea of ditching this interview, you hear clacking footsteps making their way over to you. you didn’t dare look up yet, pretending to be very interested in the tiny hole in your pantyhose just above your knee.

“miss (y/l/n)?” the most heavenly, sultry voice calls out to you. your eyes slowly trail along the tile, up the woman’s legs covered in black slacks, her blouse and matching black suit jacket, and then finally her face. it was her.

thee mrs. romanoff.

mrs. romanoff was the person who was going to interview you? you couldn’t believe your eyes, or the situation. you clear your throat, realizing you had yet to acknowledge her calling out to you.

“yeah, that’s me,” you reply, standing on slightly wobbly legs. you watch as mrs. romanoff’s eyes slowly take in your appearance, her eyes lingering on your frame. you feel a little scrutinized, wondering if you really did mess up with what you were wearing.

“follow me.” she turns and leads the way. you stumble a bit as you follow behind her, not expecting her to have as long of a stride as she does.

“you’ll have to forgive me for the wait—we had a couple meetings run over this morning,” she talks to you over her shoulder, slowing her walk a little when she notices you’re not directly behind her like she thought.

“oh, no worries. i didn’t mind the wait.” that was technically a lie, but it wasn’t the wait that bothered you as much as the fact that you were left alone with your thoughts a little too long.

she rounds a corner at the end of the hall, pausing and gesturing for you to enter in one of the two doors that were side by side on the wall to the right. you walk through the doorframe, stepping into what you assumed was her personal office.

“have a seat, miss (y/l/n),” she says in a low voice, walking from behind you and around her desk to sit in her chair. you sit in one of the two chairs across from her, your heart thudding violently in your chest from being in such close proximity to her.

you adjust your seating position three times before finally settling in place, forcing yourself to sit still. mrs. romanoff humors you, remaining silent and patient through your nervous fidgeting.

“so, i have to say i was a little surprised to see your application come through to my desk,” she starts and you immediately feel your cheeks grow hot, the feeling of being in a place you don’t belong filling your whole body with dread.

she pauses, and you realize she was waiting for you to respond. right. this was supposed to be where you attempt to prove yourself adequate to work in this position.

“yes, um… well, admittedly i myself did think it was a stretch to apply here, but then i figured, i’m a fast learner, i’m very thorough in all i do and i enjoy learning new things. i thought i’d try my hand at something i haven’t done before.” you rattle off an answer that while it was true, it was also something you rehearsed 20 times in the mirror while getting ready before you got here. you were almost positive the slight robotic edge in your voice was noticeable.

mrs. romanoff hums in acknowledgment, nodding slightly at your rehearsed answer. “how well can you handle multi-tasking in a fast paced environment?” her lack of acknowledging your first answer puts a damper on your already fake confidence. you shift in your seat again, finding it harder to maintain eye contact with the sea of green that was her eyes.

“i would say i fare pretty well. i’m usually very good at managing stressful situations.” that was a complete lie—but most people bullshit their way through interviews, don’t they?

“usually?” she echoes, tilting her head to the side. she purses her lips, half attempting to hide a small smirk. she easily picked up on all your nervous antics the moment she saw you. you averting her gaze, walking unsteadily, fidgeting in your seat and the cute rose-y blush currently coloring your cheeks.

you clear your throat, interlocking your hands together in your lap. you notice they’ve already started to feel damp with sweat. “yeah, yeah most of the time i’d say so.”

“well, miss…” she glances down at what appeared to be your application and resume sitting in front of her on the desk. “(y/n)..you don’t sound very sure of yourself.” she sits upright in her chair, crossing her arms and leaning over the desk. your heart beats impossibly faster, the feeling of intimidation settling deep into your bones.

“no, i mean, i am sure—totally 100%.” you try to laugh, but it comes out sounding as nervous as you feel.

“okay, if that’s how you’d like to proceed…” she trails off, looking down at the papers in front of her again. you didn’t know what she meant, but your eyes fall desperately to the same papers she was looking at, as if they could provide some sort of answer to you. “what are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?”

you internally breath a sigh of relief. this was another answer you’d rehearsed in the mirror, it just needed to sound less robotic this time. “i’d say my greatest strengths are, i’m very punctual—i’m always on time if not early—um, i do all things thoroughly, as i mentioned before…i’m very reliable—hardly sick or need time off for family things, and i enjoy a good challenge. my greatest weakness is that i like to be very organized and sometimes i can spend a little too much time completing a certain project before moving onto the next.” you exhale after you finish talking, your eyes flicking across her face to try and get a sense of how she’s taking in your answer.

as you speak, you can’t help but notice that she was watching you so meticulously. it seemed that she was taking in not only your words, but your facial expressions, hand gestures and body language.

she looks at you for a moment as if she’s thinking hard on something. without taking her eyes off of you, she presses a button on her desk, the small ding from an intercom sounding. “joan, please track down mrs. maximoff and have her come into my office right away.”

your heartbeat now thrums loudly in your ears, your breath picking up its pace. you were not only going to be in the presence of mrs. romanoff but now mrs. maximoff too? never in your life had you seen such a powerful couple—and that was only in photos and billboards you’d seen around the city!

“is everything okay?” you ask nervously, feeling the permanent blush on your cheeks travel to the tips of your ears.

“everything’s fine, (y/n),” she gives you a smile but it was anything but reassuring. in fact, there was something about the expression that felt more intimidating with how devastatingly beautiful she was.

she grabs a pen and starts writing something on the paper. whatever it was was brief, but you couldn’t see clearly from your seat.

a quiet knock comes from the door and your posture becomes rigid as you hear who you assume to be mrs. maximoff entering the room.

“you called for me?” mrs. maximoff asks as she walks the length from the door to mrs. romanoff’s side. she walks around your chair and stands next to her wife, placing her palm flat against the desktop and leaning some of her weight on it.

“yes, i wanted you to meet our new interviewee,” she smiles with her lips and gestures to you in your seat. you look between the two beautiful, impeccably dressed women, feeling extremely small and insignificant. mrs. maximoff turns to look at you for the first time, a warm smile gracing her features.

“hi,” she offers simply, extending her hand to shake yours. you sit forward, reaching your arm out to shake her hand across the desk. her hand was incredibly soft and a little cold to the touch, but you wouldn’t expect anything less since the office was kept at such a cool temperature.

“mrs. maximoff is going to sit in on the rest of our interview. is that okay with you?” mrs. romanoff asks, her eyes daring you to object.

you quickly shake your head from side to side, shifting once again in your chair. “no, no that’s perfectly fine,” you reply easily, though you were feeling anything but fine. you notice mrs. maximoff giving her wife a curious glance but she doesn’t otherwise question it.

“let’s move over to the couches so we’re a little more comfortable,” mrs. romanoff stands up and heads over to the long olive green velvet sofa. you follow suit, except you take a seat in the smaller sofa, designed for only one person. mrs. maximoff sits closest to you on the long couch, brushing some of her pretty brown hair behind her shoulder. you watch as she glances back at her wife, mrs. romanoff giving her a certain look that you weren’t sure what it meant.

“so, (y/n), tells us what your career goals are,” mrs. romanoff proceeds with the interview as if the interruption never happened. you find yourself even more nervous to respond now that there were two, hot, older women sitting before you.

“umm…for now i really just need something steady that will simultaneously be giving me good work and life experience.. long term though, i’d like to become a therapist once i finish my masters program.” you bite your tongue once you finish your sentence, realizing this is not the sort of job where you tell your interviewers you’d like to pursue something that has nothing to do with their company.

“what appeals to you about becoming a therapist?” mrs. maximoff chimes in, tilting her head to the side curiously, just like mrs. romanoff had done earlier in the interview.

you lean back in your chair, a little surprised at her interest in your reply. “well, it’s a cliche answer, but i’m very passionate about helping people. it’s impossible to go through this life without getting seriously hurt and dealing with trauma. the vast majority of us have no idea how to cope or process through our experiences, so just knowing what i know, i’d like to try and be of some help for those who need it.”

the two lawyers look at you thoughtfully, mrs. maximoff nodding her head as you speak.

“that’s a very admirable passion. are you currently enrolled in a masters program?” she asks, crossing one of her legs over the other as she gets more comfortable in her seat.

“i am,” you reply with a shy smile. you never wanted to come across as bragging about your education, so you always sought to speak about it in the most humble way.

“you like school?” mrs. romanoff chimes in, leaning forward as she speaks.

your smile turns a bit rueful as you reply. “yes..i do. i know so many young people my age loathe school and all the hard work that needs to be put in, but…i love everything about it. i love taking notes, making flashcards, studying, taking tests, everything about it, i just love. i know it sounds a little crazy.” you laugh once, suddenly feeling more relaxed as you speak about something so genuinely. you feel a little more surprise again as you hear mrs. romanoff chuckle with you, nodding her head towards her brunette wife.

“sounds like somebody i know. this one here was a school addict. i had to practically pry textbooks out her hands just so we could do anything other than study,” she chuckles again, mrs. maximoff joining in with her.

“i won’t apologize for being so pointed about my studies. we both got straight A’s, didn’t we?” she jokes light-heartedly and you find yourself smiling warmly at their light banter.

mrs. maximoff turns back to face you, a smile still touching her lips. “what else do you do aside from school?” her question makes your face fall slightly as you now had to admit you were technically unemployed. you knew that didn’t look good for potential employers.

“right now, not a whole lot. just keeping busy with my studies,” you respond vaguely to which they both hum in response.

the pair of them continue asking you questions, except they become progressively more personal until they don’t attain to work or working at this position at all.

“do you like living alone? or do you prefer living with others?” was one of the questions mrs. romanoff asks you after you had explained you were currently without a roommate.

even though it was strange, you find that the more you talk about yourself, the more relaxed you feel. mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff both noticed it too. they could see more of your personality showing through as the nerves slowly but surely dissipated.

it had been near 40 minutes by the time mrs. romanoff checked her watch and noticed the time. she looked at her wife, mrs. maximoff seeming to sense her eyes on her as she automatically looked to the side. they shared a look, one of them nodding to the other before turning back to face you.

“well, we’ve kept you here much longer than was intended—i apologize for that.” mrs. romanoff says as she stands, mrs. maximoff following suit. you stand also, smoothing your skirt back over your legs. as you stand so closely to them now, you notice how they were both taller than you by a few inches, making you feel small again like you had earlier.

“it’s no big deal. i’m in no rush,” you smile shyly as you look up at the two of them. you extend your arm out, shaking both of their hands before getting ready to leave. they both give your hand a gentle squeeze and when mrs. romanoff shakes your hand, she grasps on longer than her wife, holding your gaze with a certain intensity.

“we’ll be in touch, miss (y/n),” she says smoothly, calling you out by your first name, and for some reason the combination between her voice and her eye contact made your knees feel weak.

you swallow thickly, nodding your head and thanking them both for the interview before turning away. mrs. maximoff leads you to the door to exit and walks you all the way out to the elevators. you pace the short distance in somewhat comfortable silence. when you turn to face her to say your final goodbye, your surprised to see mrs. romanoff behind her. she was following so quietly that you didn’t notice her presence.

“bye! thank you again,” you smile, stepping into the elevator once the doors open. the two women stand side by side of each other, giving you a near identical smile which portrayed some sort of knowing behind it, almost like they were expecting something.

“it was a pleasure meeting you miss (y/l/n),” mrs. maximoff calls out to you as the elevator doors slide closed.

you exhale a breath you didn’t now you were holding, slumping back against the elevator walls.

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

that evening, you cook up a box of mac n cheese, too lazy to try and find the ingredients to make anything else. not to mention, your mind was still a little bit jumbled after your interview with thee lesbian power couple.

mrs. romanoff’s words kept echoing in your head.

”we’ll be in touch” she’d said. but didn’t your interview totally blow? especially at the end. it wasn’t so much an interview but rather more like a conversation where people try to get to know each other better. maybe they were looking for a personality hire? you really doubted that though.

you eat your mac n cheese while staring blankly at the wall, thinking over the whole exchange with mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff. as you mindlessly feed yourself spoonfuls of your dinner, you realize you didn’t even know their first names. you remembered you had once seen them on a billboard somewhere but didn’t remember exactly what they were. mrs. romanoff’s first name was natalie or something similar? you were at a loss with mrs. maximoff. you decide to google them to put your curiosities to rest.

pulling out your phone, you google their names and the law firm. after doing just a little bit of digging, you see their full names: natasha romanoff and wanda maximoff. ah, so you were close with mrs. romanoff’s name. you wonder if they only go by their last names at the office. it definitely seemed like their vibe to have things be so professional.

as you go throughout the rest of your evening, showering and getting ready for bed, you continue thinking about them. the longer your mind lingers on them, the less “professionally” you think about them. you couldn’t help but notice how utterly beautiful they both were. they both carried themselves with a confidence that anyone would find intimidating. there was something so forceful about their presences, but not necessarily in a bad way. it seemed like natasha—mrs.romanoff—was a little more rough around the edges, but you could see she easily held a soft spot for her wife and life partner. mrs. maximoff gave off a much more approachable vibe, but she was still intimidating in her own way.

as your mind continues wandering, you find yourself becoming more tired before you finally drift off to sleep, your brain fatigued from all your analytical thinking.

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

the first thing you notice when you wake up is the light shining through your thin curtains. you blink a few times, slowly adjusting to the light. you blindly reach over to your nightstand, unplugging your phone from the charger. as you unlock your phone, you notice a missed call from an unknown number nearly two hours ago. you shoot up into a sitting position in your bed, suddenly feeling much more awake. it was just passed 10 am. was the unknown number a call back about your interview?

your fingers furiously swipe on your phone, quickly googling the number for M.R. law. you breath a sigh of relief when you cross reference the digits in your phone and the number online, realizing it was just a random unknown caller. you let your body fall back limply on the bed, your leg dangling off the side as you clutch your phone to your chest. that would’ve been humiliating if they called offering you the job and you didn’t pick up the phone.

as you go about your morning leisurely—not having any classes this day—you try to push the two hot lawyers out of your mind. there was no point in dwelling on them if you’d never hear from them again.

you leave your face bare of makeup, not intending on leaving the apartment and you opt for wearing comfy clothes—or “frumpy” clothes as you called them—instead of something nice.

you head into the kitchen, pouring yourself a bowl of frosted flakes cereal. you let it sit there for a few minutes to soak up the milk, as soggy cereal was your favorite. you’d argue with anyone who claimed crunchy cereal was best. as you wait, you power up your laptop, intent on working on some homework.

you’re munching on your cereal, blue-light filtered glasses adorning your nose as you work on your computer screen. you were mid-bite when you hear your phone buzzing on the counter next to you. you glance down at your phone and frown slightly when you notice it looks to be the same unknown number from earlier.

you continue chewing your bite, raising the phone to your ear as you accept the call.

“hello?” you ask, your voice mumbled a bit as you still had some food in your mouth.

“good morning, miss (y/n),” you hear a warm, velvety voice greet you. after almost an hour interview with her yesterday, you’d recognize this distinct voice anywhere.

“mrs. romanoff?” you just about choke on your food as you swallow, your body tensing slightly as you feel much more alert.

“that would be correct.” you hear her chuckle softly into the phone, your tone laced with obvious surprise she must have found endearing.

“i’m so sorry! i think i missed your call earlier? i didn’t recognize the number- i had no idea it was you, i’m sorry!” you apologize quickly, thinking that if she was actually calling to offer you the job, you might have just ruined it.

“don’t worry about it. i would be surprised if you recognized it given that this is my personal number,” her voice was low and warm. it was entirely too enticing.

“oh.. umm, right. well, good morning,” you stumble slightly over your words, unsure what else to say to her.

“are you normally a late riser?” she asks with humor in her voice.

“what? oh no, not normally no. i just don’t have classes today,” you explain, a little embarrassed at her having called you out on your sleeping habits.

“i see. well, we just wanted to call and ask if you’d meet us for a coffee,” her question came out as more of a statement and you were left wondering why on earth she would want to go out for coffee with you and…wait.. did she say we?

“we?” the words echo aloud from your mind.

“yes. my wife and i,” she reiterates calmly. you look around your small excuse for a kitchen as if the reasoning behind her posing this question was written on the walls.

“like today?” you ask stupidly. of course she meant today.

“yes - today. can you meet us in 15? we’re going on lunch break. i’ll text you the address.” your eyes zip to the digital numbers plastered on the microwave. you only had 15 minutes to try and look presentable, get a cab and meet them.

“ummm..yeah. yeah sure,” you nod your head as if she could see you through the phone. you quickly hop off the stool you were sitting on, walking briskly to the bathroom with the phone still held firmly to your ear.

“perfect. we’ll see you soon.” she hangs up and you all but toss your phone on the bathroom counter, staring down at the device as if it’s offended you. you quickly snap out of it, only having 5 or so minutes to un-hobo yourself. you quickly apply some concealer on your dark spots, powder on a little blush and brush on a coat of mascara in record time. in your haste, you stumble from the bathroom to your closet, trying to find something to quickly throw on. you grab a simple white baby tee, putting it on and then aggressively stepping into some loose light wash jeans. grabbing your belongings, you half jog out the door, nearly slipping down the last two stairs of your apartment.

you quickly get a cab, thanking whatever higher power there is in your head that there was very little delay in one driving by. as the taxi driver takes you to the address you gave him, you sit forward in your seat, gathering your hair in a pony tail near the top of your head. you secure it with an elastic you always keep around your wrist and pull some pieces out to frame your face. you glance in the cab rear view mirror, seeing you looked fairly presentable. you exhale shakily, sitting back in your seat as the same nerves you felt yesterday on the way to your interview were coming back now.

what was this about? i mean, you knew it wasn’t normal to meet with potential employees for coffee. it was especially suspicious because it was mrs. romanoff *and* her wife.

your thoughts are interrupted as the taxi slows to a crawl and he pulls up to the coffee shop. you’d never been to this one before, granted there were hundreds of shops all over the city so there were probably many you hadn’t gone to. your heart leaps in your chest as you see both mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff waiting outside for you.

you pass the driver the money, thank him and slip out of the car. as you step onto the sidewalk, mrs. maximoff greets you with the same warm smile she’d given you when you first met. mrs. romanoff smiles too, though it’s not as wide as her wife’s.

“hello again, (y/n).” your heart skips a beat as you hear mrs. maximoff use your first name for the first time. mrs. romanoff had been calling you by your first name since you’d stepped foot into her office. you liked the way your name fell from both of their tongues.

“hi, good to see you both again,” you smile despite your nerves, making eye contact with both of them in a polite manner.

“shall we?” mrs. romanoff suggests as she opens the door for you, her wife placing a gentle hand on the small of your back to usher you inside. you inhale shakily, the unexpected contact surprising you in a pleasant way.

as the three of you file in behind the small line of people waiting to order, your eyes skim the menu, even though you already knew exactly what you wanted.

“cute outfit,” mrs. romanoff murmurs from behind you. you could hear what sounded to be amusement in her tone but you weren’t sure.

you turn to the side to face her, her being on your left and mrs. maximoff on your right just a half-step behind you. “thank you. i threw it on—literally. i was wearing something a lot less presentable when you first called.” you glance down at both of their outfits. the duality between yours and their outfits was almost laughable. they looked impeccably fashionable and you were just in street clothes.

wanda chuckles lightly at your comment. “what were you wearing before?” she asks.

“just an oversized tee and some biker shorts,” you shrug, crossing your arms casually over your chest. you always felt more comfortable when you had your arms wrapped around yourself.

as the line moves and you’re next, mrs. romanoff quickly stands in front of you, her body moving between you and the counter. “what’ll you have?” she gives you an expectant look, ready to give your order.

“an iced mocha?” you ask a little shyly, her show of putting herself between you and the cash register did something to you for some reason.

she nods, and turns to the barista, repeating your order along with hers and her wife’s. you’re about to protest, wanting to tell her she doesn’t have to pay for you, but you feel mrs. maximoff’s hand return to the small of your back, swiftly maneuvering you away from the line and over to the small cluster of tables.

you sit down in a chair she pulled out for you and you scoot yourself in as mrs. maximoff settles in her own seat across from you.

“you really don’t have to pay for me, you know,” you pipe gently, glancing over at mrs. romanoff who was standing at the counter waiting for the drinks before you turn back to mrs. maximoff.

“of course not, we want to. plus, neither her nor i would ever allow you to pay for yourself even if you insisted,” she smiles winsomely, her eyes gleaming with something warm and bright.

mrs. romanoff returns with all three coffees, somehow handling all three and setting them down in a graceful manner.

“thank you,” you give mrs. romanoff a gentle smile as your fingers interlock around the cup and you drag it closer to you.

they both take a sip from their coffees—which were both hot—before mrs. romanoff clears her throat, her eyes narrowing in on you as she leans forward on the table.

“so, i imagine you’re wondering why we asked you here.” she throws a glance at her wife who was already looking at her speak.

“it may have been on my mind…” you trail off, sounding as innocent as possible.

mrs. romanoff smiles knowingly, her eyes appraising you in a way that made you squirm slightly in your seat.

“it’s not about the job, as i’m sure you might have figured, but rather about offering a different type of position,” she begins. your brow furrows in confusion. what did she mean?

“a different position? like a cleaning job or something?” you immediately go to thinking about jobs that require little to no experience, figuring that might be all they’d have to offer given your background.

they both laugh at your guess, mrs. romanoff being the one to shake her head no.

“no, not a cleaning job,” she pauses, seeming to measure your expression before continuing. “(y/n), have you ever heard the term bdsm?”

your face goes blank and you look from mrs. romanoff to her wife who appeared to be watching you just as carefully.

“um…i think so? i’ve heard the term a few times before.” your legs feel like they’ve turned to jelly, an unfamiliar pit settling into your lower tummy at the abrupt shift in the topic of conversation.

“what do you know about it?” mrs. maximoff chimes in, tilting her head to the side which causes some of her neatly curled hair to fall forward.

you look between the two of them, unconsciously shrinking further down into your seat. this was such a taboo subject to talk about it public; you found yourself already growing warm from just the thought of this discussion.

“well, it’s..sex stuff…right? like being tied down and whipped?” you speak hesitantly in a small voice, throwing quick glances at the strangers littered across the coffee shop.

“those things can be a part of it, yes—if all parties discuss that’s something they like to participate in” mrs. romanoff explains and then continues. “what else have you heard about it? or is that the gist of what you know?”

you shrug, your shoulders slumped forward and your head bowed slightly to try and obscure your flushed cheeks. you suck your bottom lip into your mouth—your nervous habit.

mrs. maximoff pipes in again after noticing your bashfulness. “a lot of people have that imagery in mind when they hear the term ‘bdsm,’ so it’s understandable that that’s your impression. there is so much more to it though. really, bdsm is about exploring people’s sexual interests in a safe space. you learn about your limits, what you like, what you didn’t expect to like, and so much more.” you listen to her explanation intently, your mind immediately wandering and wondering where this conversation was going to go.

mrs. romanoff picks up off her wife’s words. “some people simply dabble in certain aspects of bdsm while others treat it more as a lifestyle—and for my wife and i, it is a lifestyle.”

you nod hesitantly as they both pause for a second, watching you digest this information. you’re unsure how to respond, feeling progressively more restless in your seat.

they both give each other a look before mrs romanoff nods and mrs. maximoff speaks.

“normally, for people who live this lifestyle, they draw up contracts between themselves and the person they want as their submissive.. now we know this is all very forward, but there’s just no other way to put it. we’d like to have you as our new submissive.”

your face turns bright red for reasons you’re not fully aware of. you weren’t quite sure what being a “submissive” all entailed, but you couldn’t wipe the imagery of being helplessly tied down and whipped from your mind. you’re silent as your brain flits through one imaginary scenario to the next. you were so clueless though, you weren’t sure if the things you were thinking up were things people actually did or if they were just shown in porn.

“me…? i just..well it’s just that..i’m-i don’t know if i would be your ideal candidate,” you stumble out, your eyes glued to the table as you avoid looking at either of them at all costs.

“on the contrary, (y/n), i singled you out almost immediately at our interview. i knew i wanted you. that’s why i had wanda join us.” her face softens as she notices your slight uneasiness. being a bit of a sadist though, she couldn’t help but find your innocence and embarrassment so incredibly gratifying. it only made her want you more.

your teeth worry into your bottom lip again as you look between one set of green eyes and then the other. “do you guys normally.. share, uhm..submissives?”

“not always, but we do like to when it’s possible,” wanda shares, a reassuring smile on her face. you purse your lips, chewing on the inside of your cheek as more questions arise in your head.

“how does that work? sharing i mean.” you knew there were people who participated in polyamorous relationships, and you had no issue with it, you just had trouble visualizing the dynamic.

natasha grins wickedly to herself, realizing now how truly innocent and unknowing you were. she suspected a little yesterday at the interview, but had no idea the true scope of your innocence. wanda also found herself undeniably more attracted to you after this conversation. her hands twitch in her lap, thinking of all the things she could do to you that you probably haven’t ever dreamed of.

“it works (y/n), trust me…” mrs. romanoff says seductively.

“we know this is all very foreign to you, sweetheart. you don’t have to say yes today, just think about it?” mrs. maximoff reaches across the table and affectionately holds onto your wrist. your stomach does a little flip-flop at the term of endearment paired with the affection.

there were so many thoughts and feelings swirling around you, but one thing stuck out above the rest. you wanted to learn more. you didn’t want to say no and close a door on something that you might enjoy.

“i want to.. i mean, um, i will think about it,” you clear your throat for the umpteenth time that day, pulling your hand back from mrs. maximoff’s light grasp. it was suddenly feeling like her hand was searing your skin.

“you want to what?” mrs. romanoff presses, her eyes looking at you with intensity again.

“i just meant that i want to learn more..about this,” you reply quietly, peeking at mrs. romanoff through your lashes. you notice her clench her jaw and flex her fingers that were resting on the table, but you weren’t sure what it meant.

“well, there’s a lot to learn, but luckily i’d say we’re both pretty good teachers,” mrs. maximoff grins more wickedly this time, her expression giving you a new glimpse into something you hadn’t seen in her until this point.

“why don’t we meet up again sometime this weekend? we can answer any questions you have—help you learn more about what we’re asking from you,” she adds, to which you surprisingly feel eager to agree to the idea. you find yourself already wanting to learn more, especially if the people who were going to educate you were two of the hottest women alive.

“yeah…let’s do that,” you nod once, your blush slowly creeping off your cheeks though a slight honey glow was still present.

you all begin to gather your things, mrs. maximoff noticing their lunch break was just about up. the three of you hardly touched your coffees, the conversation too intense to take swigs of the drinks.

the two of them walk you out of the shop, mrs. romanoff hailing down a cab for you. you turn to say goodbye to mrs. maximoff and find that she’s standing closer to you than expected.

“i look forward to seeing you again so soon, dragotsennaya veshch’,” she murmurs, reaching to give your arm an affectionate squeeze. you smile at her, unsure what she said but not caring much to know now.

you step closer to the cab after mrs. romanoff opens the door for you. before you can slip inside the car, mrs. romanoff leans down, murmuring in your ear.

“if you have any questions before the weekend that simply can’t wait, don’t hesitate to text me. you have my number.” her voice was a little rough which makes you shiver.

you nod slowly, sucking on your bottom lip again. you give mrs. maximoff a shy hand wave which she mimics with an amused grin. you sink down into the car seat, mrs. romanoff shutting the door behind you.

as the taxi drives away, you can’t help but look behind you as the two women grow smaller and smaller on the sidewalk. as the car turns a corner, the couple remain standing there until you disappear. you sigh and turn back around in your seat, resting heavily against the cushion behind you.

what just happened?

——————————

tag list:

@poppyshuman @wandamaximoffsbadgirl @xenaizogie @ashadash0904 @kittnii @hayeeonn @gh0sstss @beggingonmykneesforher @natashalover3000 @msvenablesbitch @ihartnat @leesromanova @alwaysgoodnight @lowlifejuliett @azaleavolkova @caramelcat123 @daretodream1307-blog @ctrlaltedits @sweetmissnothing @gecko1 @karmasgxrl @marvelwomenarehot0 @elle161989 @waaayoutofline @snazzysprig @simpforlizzie @just4natasha

#venturing is inevitable: series #vii #wandanat #wandanat x reader #wandanat smut #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader

2K notes · View notes

sweeterthanficstion · 2 months ago

Text

— all the right reasons || l.s.k

pairing: older!rockstar!leon x popstar!fem!reader

tags: music au, set in 2011, leon is a rockstar (obviously), and reader is a popstar (think like, sabrina carpenter type). rivals to lovers, lots and lots of shitty banter, feelings are CAUGHT!, really bad music related puns, MDNI 18+, unprotected p in v, reader rides that dick into next weeeek, vaginal fingering, lots and lots of dirty talk too. sappy ending <3

summary: You're a sugarplum tabloid darling who's making headlines across the globe, he's a tried and true rockstar who's a household name. Leon S. Kennedy was just another thorn in your side. Until he wasn't. He’s older, meaner, and too good with his hands. You’re supposed to hate him. So why do you feel like you’re falling in love?

word count: 8.4k

a/n: omg... so like... hi again... it's been a while!! i dragged myself out of the depressive pit that is trying to date real men and reminded myself of what REALLY matters (writing fanfiction of men who don't exist) so that's how i'm back here, lmao.

also, BIGGEST thank you's to my gorgeous girls vivi and lea for offering to beta read and leaving the silliest, funniest comments and feedback

anyway enjoy asshole-older-rockstar leon, he's stolen my heart and i want to [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]... i've been shot 47 times

playlist⭑masterlist⭑AO3

You never liked Leon Kennedy.

He’s always been bark and bite, broody and callous. All whiskey breath and tired denim and the kind of stubble that looked more like laziness than effort. Too jaded. Too old. His time has come and gone, and still, somehow, he was headlining festivals, charting on billboards, signing tits.

You’d met him twice before you ever really spoke. Once at an awards afterparty, where he didn’t even look at you when you said hi—just brushed past with a half-hearted “sorry, sweetheart,” before disappearing into a crowd of laughing industry men. The second time, backstage at some benefit concert. He’d been in the wings, watched you be hurried past in a blur of glitter and gold, murmured something you can only imagine was unsavoury under his breath.

So yeah. You weren’t exactly dying to be his friend.

Which is why it’s so fucking inconvenient that your first real single is now under the same label as his—why you pass each other in the hallway at Capitol every other week, the scent of his cologne arriving before he does, heavy and heady and masculine.

But you’re not stupid either. You knew who he was long before you ever stood in the same room as him. You knew the album that broke him, the single that went triple platinum, the first stadium he sold out. You knew the way critics talked about his guitar playing like it was something they’d never seen before. You might’ve even had a crumpled tour shirt buried somewhere in your closet from high school, but that was a long time ago. That was before you learned what it meant when people said never meet your heroes.

But still there were moments, little things that made you reconsider. Once, at the label offices, he held the elevator door open for you even though you were halfway across the hallway. He didn’t look at you when you stepped in. Just said, “You gonna hit the button or stand there all night?” but his voice had been warmer than you expected.

And maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe he’s not thinking about you at all. Maybe he’s just that kind of man—coated in disinterest, carved out of concrete. Still, there’s something behind the way he looks at you that you still haven’t quite figured out.

It’s midnight when Leon finds the fork in the road that decides his fate.

It’s the voice of an angel that seals it.

He’s not even supposed to be standing in the liminal space outside your door and wondering if he should go in. He’s not even meant to be thinking about you at all.

He was thinking about the rain. About how he’d failed to remember an umbrella, about how his car smells like mildew and the CD player is still shot. About how he hasn’t written a decent song in six months. His manager had so kindly told him to go home, sleep it off, stop showing up to the label’s building like a ghost to its haunt.

And fuck if he’s already had his fill with the shitty elevator. Leon’s busy jamming the buttons to the ground floor, stuck on the second, when he hears it.

A pretty litany of sun-soaked lyrics that spills into the hallway and the elevator the same way the light from the half-opened door does.

That’s how he finds himself here: standing outside your studio door, staring at the plaque with your name engraved in gold like it’s daring him to knock.

He doesn’t. Just opens it.

“Didn’t know they let you keep the studio past your bedtime.”

It’s a joke. Kinda. He winces halfway through delivery, like he hears it too late. Nose scrunching like he didn’t mean it, and truthfully he doesn’t think he did. God, Kennedy, didn’t anyone teach you to think before you speak?

You flinch—just a little—eyes snapping open as you pull off the headphones. The track dies in your ears, and the silence feels abrupt, almost rude, like it’s been interrupted mid-confession.

You glance over your shoulder. Leon stands in the threshold looking exactly like he always does—leather jacket, dark jeans, stubble that's a little more dirty than charmingly rugged. He could be anywhere else. He should be anywhere else. And yet.

Your brow lifts, unimpressed. “Didn’t know they let you out of the retirement home either. Should I call someone?”

Leon scoffs. “I’m not geriatric.”

“Sure.” And you turn back to the soundboard like he doesn’t exist.

He stands there, lips pursed like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“So… what was that?” he asks.

You sigh like it costs you. Slip the headphones off and let them settle around your neck. “A song. You’re familiar, yes?”

Leon rolls his eyes. “Plenty. You’ve got a smart mouth, kid.”

You grin, all teeth. “Thanks.”

He lets that hang in the silence for a beat, then has the bright idea to push off the doorway. He wanders in and makes himself at home in your space. His boot grazes a stack of scribbled sheet music, and he nudges it aside with his toe like he’s being polite. Then he drops onto your couch without asking—moves a cushion, spreads his knees, settles like it’s shared property.

You shoot him a look. “Comfortable?”

Leon shrugs. “Your feng shui needs work.”

“What do you want?” You finally ask, defeated.

He nods toward the board. “Play it.”

You blink. “What?”

“The song. Play it.”

“You’re really bad at this, y’know.”

“At what?”

“Basic human interaction. Hospitality. Small talk.”

He blinks, caught off-guard like he’s never been told that a day in his life.

“Sorry,” you say sweetly. “Too honest?”

“Play the damn song.”

You raise a brow. “Magic word?”

Leon just stares.

You sigh, press spacebar. The track tumbles out of the speakers, raw and half-finished. It holds for a moment, teeters, then collapses—unfinished and unsatisfying. You pull your headphones off with a huff. Leon thinks it's cute.

The weight of his gaze burns a hole into your back, makes heat crawl up your spine. You glance at him when it gets too much. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he hums.

“Felt like you wanted to.”

He laughs a little then, like the meekness to your voice is amusing. “I was just gonna say it’s close.” He murmurs, “But it’s stuck.”

You exhale through your nose, lean back in your chair, swivel from left to right. “No shit.”

You don’t see him move as much as you hear him, the creak of the aged leather couch, before there’s the familiar dull ring of your guitar.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asks as he slips into the second chair next to yours, you try to ignore the way your skin prickles when his knee knocks yours.

“Mi casa, su casa,” you sigh defeatedly, his lips quirk and you find yourself smiling against your will.

Leon decides your song just needs some weight to it. Typical of him. All his music has weight. A smoky, heady bass, a sexy guitar, heavy drums, but what he plays for you is none of that.

Yes, it holds weight, but a different one to what you pinned him for. It carries something gentler, softer chords that fill your lungs with exactly the type of yearning you were aiming for.

You pause. “That’s…”

“Exactly what you wanted?”

You nudge his knee with your own, hit record on the soundboard, “do it again.”

And so it begins.

You find that Leon isn’t so bad when he’s writing music with you. In fact, within the four soundproof walls of your studio, he’s almost nice. He listens when you tell him to change a chord. He lets you needle him, prod at his composure like you’re tuning a guitar string too tight just to hear it snap.

Most nights you’re in the studio until the twilight hours before sunrise. You stay until your voice is worn ragged, fingers blistered from overuse. Until your limbs give out and you’ve passed out in the swivel chair, curled up like a cat in the glow of LED strips and mixing boards. You always wake to something left behind—a lukewarm cup of coffee, a half-drunk energy drink, sometimes the old throw blanket draped over your shoulders. It’s a rhythm now, syncopated and strange, yet something you’ve grown fond of.

It’s only inevitable, the way you grow closer with time.

“Don’t lie sweetheart,” he murmurs one night in the hush of your studio, “I think I’m growing on you.”

“Like black mold.” you shoot back, but the grin tugging at your lips betrays you.

And it’s just all too easy to think about him when he's not there.

You remember watching his set from the wings at that summer festival—the first time you’d shared a stage. The downpour had been terrible and insistent his entire performance, rain slicking his thread-bare shirt to his skin, turning his hair dark and wild. He’d looked like straight up sex appeal, sweat and storm and strobe lights, and you’d had to physically stop yourself from reaching for him when he walked offstage.

He’d smelt like a thunderstorm, heady as he’d squeezed your shoulders like he was grateful, damp and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. “How’d I do?”

“Not bad, rockstar,” you’d said, but your voice had come out all soft.

Now he lives in your notebooks.

That’s the real inevitability of it, you think. Unreleased verses tucked between grocery lists and studio appointments. Lyrics written in the haze of 2 a.m., voice notes left half-sung on your phone, songs you’ll never show him during your secret writing sessions.

They’re not the kind of songs you should be writing.

They’re laced with want—velvet and teeth, obsessive and desperate. They don’t sound like you, not the way your label wants you to. They’re darker, sultrier, leave you flushed when you play them back.

It’s not like you mean to write them about him. They just come out that way. Something about the way his voice sounds when he's two glasses of whiskey in and recounting a silent film he’d watched three fortnights ago. They’re all pent up tension—the way he pretty much knows his way around your apartment now, well enough to find where you keep the good wine anyway, the way his fingers move over the fretboard of his Paul Reed Smith with a guitar pick between his teeth, the phantom weight of his palm on your lower back when he passes by you.

You bottle every look, every breathy half-laugh, every fleeting moment where you wonder what his hands would feel like if they dipped lower.

Your songs are about him, yes, and they’re for him, in all the infuriating ways you wish they weren’t.

So naturally, the smartest thing to do is keep them buried—demo files hidden in unlabeled folders, notebooks tucked behind equipment cases. Off-limits. Confidential. A bomb waiting to go off.

At least, until tonight.

You’re curled up on the studio couch, Leon’s out at some fancy party tonight, said he couldn't write. There’s a half-empty bottle of wine and the glow of your laptop screen to keep you company, but it’s not enough not the same without him.

There’s a particular song that haunts you. It’s a confession wrapped in delicate ribbons of sultry melodies. Your voice a touch away from a moan, lyrics that dance around his name.

You shouldn’t have written it.

Definitely shouldn’t have recorded it either.

And now you find yourself hovering over the file like it’s taunting you.

Maybe you can blame it on the buzz in your veins, or the way you’d caught his eye earlier that morning in the breakroom. He’d looked at you over the rim of his mug, winked at you like he could read you. You curse yourself under your breath at the memory. He totally knows he’s getting to you. You’d dropped the I-hate-you act three moves back.

So you drag-and-drop the demo. Chew your lip. Hit send.

Check and mate.

But by the time you’ve sobered up enough to panic, it’s already much too late.

Seven minutes. He texts back, and it sounds nearly like a threat.

Bad, bad, bad idea. No, actually, bad doesn’t even begin to encapsulate how horrific of an idea that was. A category-five hurricane of a mistake.

What were you thinking?

Well, clearly you weren’t.

You clamber to your feet, pace barefoot on the studio carpet, wearing a frantic path into the fibres. Back and forth, back and forth. Damage control is like a roulette wheel spinning in your mind, you could delete the message, a phone malfunction, yes, totally. Your label leaked it by accident, or it’s just one big elaborate joke.

Or, or— and this is the best one yet, you could change your name, dye your hair, move to another country where six-time award winning rockstars with stupid voices and stupid fingers on guitars don’t exist.

You’re halfway through plotting your escape through the window when the door clicks open exactly seven minutes later.

You startle like a deer in headlights, eyes wide when they snap up to the man of the hour—to Leon— and your stomach drops clean through the floor.

“You drive fast,” is what you manage. Leon clicks the door shut behind him.

His hair’s an artful mess, like he’s either run his hand through it a million times on the drive here, or just rolled out of bed. You like the former option so you pretend it’s that. His shoulders look tense, jaw tight, and his eyes—dark, sharp, dragging over you like he’s trying to see right through you.

His eyes flick to the littered coffee table, your notebook, the bottle of wine that looks at least a quarter drained.

Something strange flickers in his gaze, and for a minute you paint him as disappointed.

Oh. You realise, with startling clarity, that he thinks you’re wasted.

It’s like a light at the end of the tunnel, a saving grace. It’d be an easy way out, wouldn’t it? Oops, Leon, sorry, wasn’t in my right mind, don’t even remember sending it, haha, how embarrassing!

But you’re not, at least not anymore, you’re standing in front of him with unfortunate sobriety.

“Are you drunk?” He asks, voice low and rough around the edges.

Your mouth falls open, as if you’ve been scandalised. “Uh, rude?” You gesture wildly to the wine, then yourself. “I had two drinks, max. I am perfectly—” you take a dramatic step forward, stop, then another, arms out like you're proving a sobriety test, “—-fine.”

Leon doesn’t budge, stands there with his brows cinched like he’s in deep thought. It gives you space to take the upper hand back, if it was ever yours in the first place. “You, on the other hand,” you point an accusatory finger across the room, “are looking at me like I crashed your car or something.”

You might as well have with the way you have his heart hammering up his throat. He hates it, how you make him lose his carefully crafted cool. Being this nonchalant doesn’t come easy.

His tongue swipes over his teeth. And fuck him, because that shouldn’t be so distracting.

“Fine,” he starts, slow, “you wanna play dumb?’

“M’not dumb, it’s called being coy,” you hum, all too self satisfied.

Leon lets out a short breath of laughter, sharp, shakes his head and turns away like he needs to physically remove himself from you before he does something stupid.

And you should leave it there, because his buttons are officially pushed, yet you don’t feel familiar satisfaction curl around your chest like it should. “If this is about the song—”

His head tips, just slightly. “If?”

You swallow. “I mean—”

He scoffs. Sharp. Disbelieving. Runs a thumb over his lips. “If this is about the song,” he repeats, like he can’t believe you even tried that.

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. "I—"

“Don’t,” he mutters. “Drop it.”

Your jaw shuts, and it takes less than a second for Leon to close the distance between you, effectively stealing all the air from your lungs. You resist the urge to back away, to give him that satisfaction, even when your body screams at you to. Not out of fear, but because he’s looking at you like he can finally see right through you.

"You sent it to me first," he says, quiet, but sure. His eyes flick down, over your lips, your throat, back up.

Your stomach turns, and you force yourself to bite back your words, despite how hard they are to swallow.

“And I wanted to believe you were drunk when you sent it,” he says, voice rougher now than before, “would’ve been easier that way.”

You shift your weight, but don’t bow your head. “Easier?”

Your gaze flickers to where his jaw flexes. "Would’ve been a mistake, then. Would’ve meant I could just forget about it."

Forget about it. That shouldn’t sting.

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance, but your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. "So forget about it."

His voice, that stupid calibre of his, drops to something even lower, something barely above a whisper.

"You really want me to?"

Your breath stutters. He takes your loss of words as an answer.

His fingers brush against your wrist, deft hands circle around the bone, his thumb brushing up against your pulse. Your skin burns where his finger’s graze. His other hand skims up your other arm, brushes against your jaw, and it’s so soft, tentative in a way that makes you shudder, an oxymoron to the storm brewing in his eyes.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, “if I kiss you right now, are you gonna pretend you don’t want it?”

The question hangs in the space between, thick like tar.

It’s only when his thumb brushes against your cheek, that you feel your restraint, thin as hair, give. Slowly—so slowly—you tilt your chin up, just a fraction, just enough to close the distance so that your lips ghost over his, an echo of a kiss, but not quite one. Your move, rockstar.

It’s a thread-thin dangerous thing that sets his jaw tight, he inhales sharply, and you swear you see him tremble.

You laugh softly at that, sweet as ever.

Leon caves.

His hand shifts, curls around the nape of your neck, pulls you flush and slots his lips against yours.

The press of his mouth is warm, wanting, firm and demanding.

But then you smile against his lips—satisfied, smug, victorious—and he groans something devastated.

It’s a low, deep, wrecked sort of sound, something that comes right from his chest, heavy with everything unsaid. His other hand finds your waist, squeezes tight, feels your skin give under his hold, like you’re finally his to keep and he can’t quite get enough.

“Minx,” he mutters, breathless frustration bleeding into his words.

You revel in it, your skin erupting in goosebumps.

His hand tightens around the back of your neck, tilting your head just so—like he’s determined to kiss that satisfaction right off your lips.

Spoiler: he won’t.

Because you kiss him back just as fiercely, just as insistently, pressing up on your toes like you need to get closer, like you could crawl inside his skin if he let you.

Your hands curl around his shoulders, move up to the junction where they meet the column of his throat, tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. You tug and he lets out something that sounds dangerously close to a moan.

And you wonder if he hates this, how easily he unravels for you, how easily you undo him. It’s like you’ve been sent right from heaven to torture him.

His hands find the curve of your waist, skate down the warmth of your skin, the swell of your hips, the back of your thighs, until he’s pressing in, guiding you backward—steady, steady—until the backs of your knees hit the couch.

Your balance wavers.

“Careful,” he murmurs, half-amused like this is funny to him.

He doesn’t give you the grace of finding your footing, pressing forward until you’ve sunk into the cushions.

Leon stands there for a second, looking down at you, eyes heavy-lidded, dark with something that makes heat coil in your stomach. He drags a hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to wipe away whatever impulse is written across his face. Like it might be something reckless, ruining.

Then, he exhales. Sharp and quiet, he sinks to his knees in the space between your legs, a sight so devastating you forget to breathe.

Broad hands wrap around the plush of your thighs, fingers pressing half-moon divots into your skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, half to himself, half to you, something dangerously close to adoration lacing his words. His thumb brushes absently along the sensitive skin just above your knee, gaze tracking the way your breath shudders. Ruining, indeed.

And then—oh, then— his palm slips to hook underneath your knee, pulls your leg over his shoulder. You suck in a sharp breath, unable to tear your gaze away from his; bright blue eyes that sparkle something wondrous in the low light.

You try to handle yourself, lest he watch you fall apart from a simple look. “If you think I’m just gonna melt the second you put your hands on me, you’re—” Your breath unfortunately hitches the second his grip tightens around your thigh, makes your pulse jump.

He raises a brow, infuriatingly smug, like he’s daring you to finish that sentence.

You clear your throat. “—you’re sorely mistaken.”

Leon huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Sorely?”

You fruitlessly dig your heel into his back, a half-attempt at a kick, a half-attempt at saving some of your dignity. “Yes, sorely.”

His hands slide up in a wordless answer—dragging his nails back down your thigh, nosing at the soft fat, pressing his mouth against the skin. The brush of his lips alone unravels you enough that you can’t muster an appropriate response, shivering, sighing instead.

“Someone’s quiet,” he muses lazily, drags his teeth just barely along your skin before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Where’d all that attitude go?”

You scowl before you can stop yourself. “It’s recalculating.”

A shit-eating smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah?” He does it again, open-mouthed this time, sucks supple flesh between his lips, bites, pulls away. “Let me know when it’s back."

Your chest feels like it’s on fire, so instead, your hands find the broad line of his shoulders, curl into the fabric of his shirt, and pull him up by the collar. He follows without much give, your thigh falls off his shoulder when he climbs up to press you into the plush cushion, cages you in. And fuck—you don’t think you should be this turned on by his weight atop you, by the heat of him, by that look in his eyes.

You can hear the way your heart pounds, blood rushing in your ears. Can feel it in your fingertips when you drag them down his chest, his stomach, until they catch the hem of his shirt. You push it up enough to reveal the hard muscle of his abdomen. He shudders atop you.

Leon’s lips are back on yours before you can even think to be smug about it, before the teasing grin can curl at the corner of your lips. It’s hotter now, deeper, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to drown you. And in the heat of it, his knee presses between your thighs. You’re not sure if he does it on purpose, if it’s a brilliant accident, but either way it makes you keen, a gasp of pleasant surprise tumbling from your lips.

He groans into your mouth, one hand tightening on your hip. “You sound better than I imagined,” he breathes heavily, and heat floods your face.

You swallow hard. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Your heart jumps at the thought of him having imagined this. Having imagined how you sounded, how he would’ve imagined you falling apart. It does horrible things to your head and even worse things to the slick heat between your thighs.

You should have a response by now, something sharp and devastatingly witty, but all you can really focus on is the way he looks at you. Like he’d let you ruin him and call it a privilege. And then he moves, pressing closer, knee pressing up between your thighs more purposefully than before, and whatever witty remark you had queued up promptly exits the premises.

The sound that leaves your mouth is embarrassing. Mortifying, even.

“Oh,” Leon murmurs, voice all smoke and velvet, “there it is.”

You absolutely despise how much you like that, refuse to let him have it. Can’t. Won’t. His ego is slowly swelling to the size of a stadium, and the last thing you need is for him to think he has you all figured out.

So, you do what any self-respecting, prideful person in your position would do: you take the liberty to push at his shoulders, and when he leans back, you seize the opportunity. Grip the front of his shirt, and push him down against the couch. He lets you, laughing under his breath, hands settling easy against your thighs as you straddle his lap.

“Don’t look so smug,” you warn, fingers sliding down, slow and deliberate. His stomach tenses beneath your touch.

“I’m not smug,” he argues, but he’s smiling something devilish—lazy, lopsided, thoroughly enjoying himself. His hands flex against your legs, and you let yourself believe he needs it to ground himself. “Just waiting to see what you’ve got planned.”

Your pulse thrums in your throat, but you play nonchalance better than he gives you credit for. “You got a request?”

“Don’t think I need one,” he says, watching as your hands dip lower, brushing over his belt buckle. “You wrote a song about it, m’sure you have ideas.”

If looks could kill he would be dead, because you’re glaring at him like he’s said something horrific. He is right, but you don’t let him have the satisfaction of hearing you admit it.

Instead, you hook your fingers under the leather, tug just enough to make him suck in a harsh breath. His eyes darken, and it’s thrilling—watching him unravel, shift beneath you.

“Aw, is that all it took?” You coo, pleased beyond words, leaning in close to brush your lips against his jaw. “Usually so put together, doesn’t take much to get you like this, does it?”

Leon huffs a laugh, but goes willingly, tilts his head to let you mouth down his throat. “You wanna talk about falling apart? What was that sound you made just a minute ago?”

You bite down, enough to make him hiss. “Stop talking.”

You can picture the smile that tugs at his thin lips, feel the way his warm, broad palms skim up, under your shirt, pressing into your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, slipping under the band of bra.

His belt slips free with a quiet clink, and you savour the way his muscles jump under your hands as you undo the button of his jeans, the steady sound of his shallow breathing when your fingers brush against the sharp line of his hip bone.

He tries not to push, but you can just about feel the restraining in him, the way his fingers twitch where they rest against your thighs, jaw clenched, muscles tight like a wire pulled taut.

You drag your nails lightly over the plane of his stomach, card your fingers through the thin trail of hair that leads down from his navel, just to see what he does when you do.

Leon sucks in a sharp breath, his head tipping back against the couch, and the sound he makes—low and barely restrained—sends a rush of heat straight through you.

“You’re trying to kill me.” He swears, voice beyond wrecked, and for a second you think he might start begging for mercy.

“No,” you hum, tilting your head, hands running up his chest, under his shirt. “Just having fun.”

Leon laughs—all breathless, shaky around the edges. But there’s something desperate in the way he exhales, in the way his hips shift up just barely like he’s fighting every instinct to meet you halfway.

There must be a devil on your shoulder, he thinks, because you make it worse.

Your hips roll down, testing, barely any pressure, but enough he feels it. His breath punches out of him like you’ve knocked the wind from his lungs. His fingers dig into your thighs, desperation in his grip.

His head falls forward, eyes flicking up to meet yours, and fuck, you really weren’t prepared for how he looks at you—half-lidded, dark with something simmering just beneath the surface.

“You enjoying yourself?” he asks, voice low and rough, like it pains him to think too hard.

A grin stretches across your lips, heart thrumming with satisfaction, you’ve won, you think, made him fall to pieces without even touching him properly.

But then he exhales sharply through his nose, takes your hand.

He presses it to his chest, right over his heart—fast, heavy, pounding.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, his other hand, still on your back, coaxes you closer. Close enough your lips brush. “You did that.”

You let out a shaky breath, Leon curses because he thinks he finally has you breaking.

You didn’t expect him to do that, to let his walls come down and show you just how much you affect him. Didn’t think he’d pull the rug from under your feet and admit defeat in one fell swoop. He looks at you like he actually wants you, not just the game of it, not just for the win.

He wants you.

…You want him.

Leon watches your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but when you don’t, when your lips part like you’re about to ask for something, maybe even beg—he decides.

He leans up, closes the short space between you, and kisses you deep and slow. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting. He doesn’t rush, nor does he fumble. Just touches you like he means it. Like he really has thought about this more than he’s willing to admit.

His fingers push at the hem of your shirt, sliding up your ribs, pulls the fabric off like it’s nothing. And when your body trembles against his, he swears to himself he’d do just about anything for you.

He lets you tug his jeans lower, helps you. His hands are steady, careful when he presses against the fabric of your underwear.

Leon watches your face, watches the way your lips fall open, breath uneven, the way your fingers tighten in his shirt, and then—

Then you make a sound so sweet, so utterly wrecked that his resolve snaps like a thread pulled too tight.

“Christ,” he mutters, like it physically pains him, and then he’s kissing you twice as hard as before, deep and wanting, swallowing every breath, every soft noise, every shaky exhale.

His fingers press firmer, so, so eager, willing to coax any sound out of you that you’ll let him. Your hands curl at his shoulders, hips bucking deftly against his palm.

“Leon, Leon, Leon,” you murmur, breathless and shaking, spilling his name into his own mouth.

He stills just barely, and fuck, it wrecks him—he doesn’t know if it’s the way you say it, like he’s something sacred, or the fact that you’re coming undone just for him.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers, pulling away even if it kills him, pressing warm lips against your jaw. “Gotta use your words.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Don’t baby me.”

His mouth twitches. “You don’t want me to baby you?”

You want to tell him everything. That you want him to touch you like this, and talk to you like that, but also see you, really see you. Want him to want all of it—not just your body, not just the thrill of it, but the gentler parts too. The parts of you that ache when he leaves the room. The parts that want to believe someone like him could care that deeply.

“I want—” you start, then stop, teeth sinking into your lip.

He softens. Just a bit. Just enough.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Tell me how you want it.”

Your throat works around the words. You reach down, let your fingers trace along the waistband of his boxers, and look him dead in the eyes.

“Wanna ride you.” You whisper, voice is thin with adrenaline and want.

Leon groans like it’s been punched out of him. “Fuck. Jesus. Shit.”

You grin, all teeth, trying to ease the gravity in your chest. “Oh, c’mon, rockstar. I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve had a girl say that before.”

He huffs out something like a laugh. “S’different,” he says quietly.

You’re too scared to ask how.

So instead, you kiss him like it’ll shut out the question. Like you can pour your want into his mouth and he’ll take it, keep it, like your secret's tucked somewhere between your teeth and if he’s patient enough, if he presses hard enough, he’ll find it there.

Leon groans into it, hands dragging along the curve of your waist, your hips. His palms are firm there, like he’s claiming something, like he’s grounding you both.

“You ride me,” he murmurs against your lips, “and I swear I’m not gonna last long.”

“Aw,” you tease, all syrup and heat, brushing your nose against his, “poor baby.”

He bites your bottom lip in retaliation, gentle but pointed, and you gasp.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” you whisper, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt before finally, finally, dragging it up, over his head, revealing sweat-warmed skin that you wish you could lick clean with your tongue.

Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be much more time to waste. Leon’s handsiness, you’ve discovered, is both a curse and a gift—he can’t seem to stop touching you, and you’re in no hurry to make him.

He helps you shimmy out of your underwear, breath catching when you’re bare before him. He drinks you in, staring like a man praying for patience. Then you sit back slightly, thighs spread over his lap, and he does it again, that mouth of his.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t believe his luck. “You’re unreal.”

It makes your head swim, the way he says it.

In hindsight, you should’ve taken more time, wish you’d used your hand to stroke his length until he was begging for more, but the heady haze of sex-soup your brain is swimming in doesn’t leave you much choice. You’ll get him next time, you decide.

So instead you hide the flush of your cheeks with the sink of your hips, and you think it just about does it. Leon groans like it knocks the wind from him, his head tips back against the couch, throat bared, lashes fluttering.

The stretch is deep, thick, just shy of overwhelming. It steals your breath and then your balance, and you fall forward, catching yourself on his chest. He’s warm there. Bare skin and heart beneath your palms, his pulse kicking against your fingertips like it might leap out and run to you.

“Fuck— God you’re warm. You’re so warm,” he mumbles, and it’s so hot and heavy it makes you blush hard enough you feel it in your ears, your chest, your thighs.

“Romantic,” you breathe against his jaw, trying for wit but inevitably melting into the moment.

He huffs out a laugh, half-amused, half-ruined. “Mouth on you.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” he grits out, squeezing your thighs. “You gonna move or just sit there lookin’ pretty?”

He feels you grin against the column of his throat first, then feels you roll your hips sickeningly slowly second.

“Christ,” he moans obscenely, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re��fuck. This is a bad idea.”

You pant, shake your head. “I think we’re way past bad ideas.”

Leon’s hand slides up your back, catches at the nape of your neck, forces your mouth back to his like he needs to taste your smugness. You feel him twitch inside you when you moan into the kiss—high and desperate, something wild climbing up your throat.

“You sound so sweet when you’re full of me,” he murmurs against your lips, and it’s awful, the way your body clenches down at the filth of it. “All that smartass attitude, but now you’re just—” he cuts himself off with a groan, “—fuckin’ whimpering.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Your hand finds the back of his neck, you tighten your grip in his hair and drop your hips again, slower this time, grinding until he groans like you’ve punched the air out of him. You want to crawl inside him, disappear beneath his skin.

“Pretty girl,” he says, low and reverent. “You sound so fuckin’ sweet.”

You whimper at that. Your rhythm stutters.

Leon finds it really doesn’t take much to melt your poor brain. You’re already gone—thighs trembling, mouth open, whimpering nonsense between the slick drag of your hips. He takes advantage where he can, thrusts up into you with a force that makes you hiccup on a wet moan. Cute, cute, cute.

“Leon,” you whisper, voice thin and cracked and ruined. You’re not sure what you’re asking for. More? Less? Everything?

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, eyes glassy as they flick between your face and where your bodies meet. “Feels good, huh?”

God, his voice. You want to drown in the low timber that rattles through your head when he speaks like that. And of course, you nod. Desperate, mindless, somewhere between obsession and devotion. Your nails dig half-moons into the meat of his shoulders, your hips rocking pitifully.

“Can’t—can’t think,” you admit, a choked sound riding the edge of a sob.

Leon lets out a sharp breath through his nose, swears under it. “Good.” His voice is hoarse, fraying at the edges. “Don’t wanna hear you think. Just wanna hear you come.”

“Yours,” you whisper without thinking, tears burning and cresting your pretty lashes. “Yours, yours, yours—”

“That’s it,” he groans, “My girl.”

Your head jerks slightly, like the words ripple straight through you.

“Your girl?” you echo, dazed, like it floated up out of your mouth before your brain could catch it.

He doesn’t answer—not with words. Just thrusts up into you slow and deep, like he can fuck the truth back into you. Kisses you like you’ve ruined him completely.

And just like that, it’s all too much.

The rhythm you’ve managed to keep starts to splinter, your movements losing precision. You’re clinging to him, breath coming in hot, wet gasps, thighs shaking, body screaming for that last push.

Leon feels it. Sees it in your face.

“You gonna come for me?” he pants, hands sliding down, down, gripping the back of your thighs as you lift and drop, roll and press. “You gonna soak my cock like a good fuckin’ girl?”

“Don’t wanna yet,” you whisper, but it’s fragile, a lie at best. You’re already falling apart.

He groans like you’ve stabbed him. “Jesus, you’re killing me. I haven’t fucked you stupid enough yet, huh?”

His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit, circling slow and punishing.

You arch into him with a cry, loud and unfiltered, every inch of you unraveling.

“There she is,” he breathes, reverent and wild-eyed, watching you fall to pieces on top of him. “God, baby. Just like that.”

“You’re bein’ mean,” You whine, words all slurred, as the tears begin to well and dribble down the pretty apples of your cheeks.

“Oh, angel,” He coos, and god you really do hate how smug he gets. “Me? Mean? You wound me, pretty.”

“Shut up,” you pant, whining high and rutting hopelessly against him.

“C’mon,” he pants, thumb still working lazy circles against the throb of your clit, “I wanna feel you beg for it.”

It’s cruel. Cruel, the way he says it—rasped out like a curse, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever ask for. His hand is steady even as his breath breaks apart. He’s wrecked. Close. You can feel it in the way he shakes under you, in the stutter of his hips against yours.

You giggle helplessly into the crook of his neck.

His thumb presses firmer, tight figure eights.

“Leon—!” your voice catches on a sob, you’re so close it’s dizzying, so wet and full and tense that your whole body tightens like a string about to snap. “Can’t—too much—”

“Too much?” he echoes, low and amused, and god, it shouldn’t sound so tender. “Thought you said you didn’t wanna come yet. Changed your mind?”

You nod before you can stop yourself, head lolling as your hips rut down in frantic little circles, chasing the friction.

He groans at the sight, palm spreading wide across your spine like he’s trying to hold you together. “Fuckin’ knew it. Talk big, but look at you now—makin’ a mess on me.”

One arm tightens around your waist, locking you down, and the other braces at your back as he thrusts up into you again—deeper now, sharper, fucking the air right out of your lungs.

You keen, and he laughs—breathy and soft and so fucking fond that it breaks you open.

“Look at you.” He noses at your cheek. “You’re outta your mind.”

You are. You really are. And it’s all him. The heat of him, the rough scrape of his voice, the way he touches you like you’re something to worship and ruin in the same breath.

“Gonna come,” you choke out, breath hitching as your thighs start to shake. “Please—Leon, please—”

“Fuck,” he groans, and his hips stutter. “Go on, baby. Let go. You’ve been so good for me.”

That’s all it takes. The words hit like a match to gasoline. Your whole body seizes—tight and trembling and gasping as your climax crashes over you like a wave, dragging a whine out of your throat that doesn’t sound human.

Leon holds you through it, rocking you through every pulse, every shudder. He murmurs something into your skin, something quiet and unintelligible, and then he follows—his body locking up beneath you, his breath catching.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hisses, head tipped back, mouth open. You feel the heat of him inside you, feel the full-body tremor that wrecks him. He’s still buried deep, still gripping you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

It’s a long moment before either of you moves.

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, wild and unsteady.

“You alright?” he asks after a minute, voice low and rough around the edges.

You nod, cheek resting heavy against his shoulder, still trembling even when he eases you back. Your body feels like it’s been rung out, soaked in sugar, nerves singing somewhere between pleasure and disbelief.

Your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, and you murmur something against his neck—something nonsensical, vowels dragging like honey.

“What was that?” he asks, voice hoarse but amused, his hand smoothing over your back, tracing your spine like a secret.

“Dunno,” you mumble, “I think I saw God.”

Leon huffs a laugh. “You talk a lot.”

You don’t respond, just hum again, lost in the float of it—too far gone to be embarrassed, too fucked out to pretend you’re not still clenching around him. You feel him begin to shift, and what starts as a delighted little hum, turns to protest, a whimper slipping from your lips before you can think to stop it when you realise he’s pulling out.

“No,” you whisper, eyes glassy, fingers curling weakly at his wrist like maybe you could keep him there. “Wait—Leon—mmph.”

His laugh is breathy, wrecked. “That good, huh?”

You glare, or try to. It’s weak at best. “Don’t—don’t be mean to me.”

“You’re the one whining.”

“You made me whine,” you grumble, but it comes out slurred, a little dreamy.

Leon grins like he’s won the lottery. He’s still so close, and maybe the way his hands are smoothing over your thighs, up your hips, dragging the touch out like he can’t stand to stop can make up for how empty you feel now.

He has no shame when he cups between your thighs again and presses two fingers there, slow and lazy, you jolt. “Leon—”

He hums, smug. “Messy,” he murmurs, fingers slipping between your folds. “Look at what you let me do to you.”

You shiver hard, half from oversensitivity, half from the way his voice drips with possessiveness. You’re too blissed out to argue, too soft to push him away. Especially when he slides one of those fingers back in, just enough.

You gasp. “Ohhhhh,” you sigh, all delight and dazed affection.

You squirm against him a little helplessly, make a face when you feel him push a little deeper, like he’s guiding what’s left of himself back into you. Your head tips back with a helpless sound.

“Leon—what the fuck?”

He has the audacity to look smug. “What? Can’t let any of it go to waste.”

“Gross,” you whine, trying and failing to wiggle away. He keeps you right there, hands firm but fond, and you know, deep in your bones, that you don’t really want to go anywhere but where he is.

He offers you a real clean-up after your thighs have stopped shaking, drives you back to your place and walks you to the door like a gentleman. It feels all too sweet for the type of night you’ve had, and every part of you wishes this won’t be the last of them.

You half expect him to say something—to ask to come in, or kiss you goodnight, or at least promise to see you again.

But he just smiles. Nods. Taps two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute.

“Night, sweetheart.”

Then he’s gone.

And in the warm lull of dawn, with your sheets still cold and your heart beating somewhere between your ribs and your throat, you wonder what to do with the ache of him still lingering under your skin.

So when morning properly comes—sun high, coffee half-sipped, hair still tangled from the night before—you call.

Just to see if he’ll pick up. Just to hear the line connect.

It rings once.

Twice.

And then you hang up in a panic.

You curse under your breath. Call yourself a hundred kinds of idiot. Your thumb is still hovering over the screen when your phone buzzes in your hand.

Leon Kennedy is calling you.

Shit, shit, shit! You muster whatever dignity you have left, swallow, and answer.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is all sleepy, a little hoarse with morning, makes your heart bloom with warmth. You sink deeper into your mattress at the sound of it, curl into your pillow like it’s his chest.

“Yeah?” you say, like you’re afraid you’ve imagined the whole thing.

“You alright?”

“Mhm.”

“You called?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna say something?”

You pause to worry your lip between your teeth.

“…No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. You can hear the rustle of sheets over the line, the sleepy shift of his weight. You picture him in bed—bare chest, tousled hair, phone pressed to his ear, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

“Alright,” he murmurs.

And then he hangs up.

You stare at your phone, wide-eyed like you can’t believe he really did it. Then you hit call again before you can talk yourself out of it. He answers right away.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice quiet and curious like a secret. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

You roll onto your back, smiling helplessly at the ceiling. “No.”

He chuckles, quiet and fond. “Me neither. Was already thinkin’ about you.”

You close your eyes. “I liked your voice just now.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“I like yours too,” he says, voice thick. “Sound all soft. Like I should be wakin’ up next to you.”

The room feels warm again, like the night before never ended, whatever figurative line that you’ve drawn in the sand between you seems thinner than ever.

“Maybe next time,” you say softly.

There’s a careful pause. You both hang in the quiet, waiting to see if the moment passes.

“Have you…” he starts, then clears his throat. “Have you eaten yet?”

You shake your head although he can’t see. “No.”

“You want me to bring you something?”

The question bowls you over. It’s too sweet, too easy. Like he’s asked it a hundred times before, like this is just what you do.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper, but the fond curl of your lips slips into your voice and gives you away.

“Didn’t say I had to. Just figured you might want it.” A pause. “Something hot and filling.”

Your throat closes up a little, an uncharacteristic flush to your cheeks. “You mean pancakes?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Among other things.”

“Leon,” you say his name urgently, too much bubbling to the surface all at once.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“You’re being…” You trail off, plucking at the fraying cuff of your sweater, too afraid to name it how it is, to ruin a good thing.

Another pause, you can hear the soft rise and fall of his breath. “I can be soft on you.” He murmurs, “If you let me.”

You press the phone harder to your ear, eyes stinging. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good.” He says finally. Then, “Any coffee left at your place?”

“Only if you make it.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

#spilled ink ₊˚⊹♡#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy fanfiction #resident evil fanfiction #sweeterthanficstion #all the right reasons

687 notes · View notes

wttcsms · 8 months ago

Text

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ keep it on the low !!

ᝰ.ᐟ if there's one thing every celebrity needs to master, it's the art of the soft launch. building up the anticipation by teasing your fans, leaving little easter eggs that only the two of you could possibly pick up on, playing coy whenever questioned about your relationship status... looks like you and him could write the how-to guide on this art form. alternatively: a headcanon post on how the two of you soft launch your relationship. ( sfw + fem!reader )

features osamu miya, kiyoomi sakusa, wakatoshi ushijima, tobio kageyama, tooru oikawa author's notes blue lock version!

౨ৎ OSAMU MIYA. you are: a famous influencer notorious for being bad at cooking. you could burn water at this point. it's okay, though, because at least your makeup tutorials and your day-in-the-life vlogs are always entertaining and fun. you always joke that you feel bad for your future husband, convinced that a life of takeout and restaurants is the only sustenance your future family is going to know. you posted: a tiktok of a man cooking in a kitchen that isn't the familiar one your fans have seen from your vlogs. he's wearing a black apron, a black t-shirt that hugs his biceps, and the veins in his forearms pop out as he quickly dices the vegetables on the cutting board. you don't show his face, but you do caption the video when he tells me it's okay i can't cook <3. suspiciously enough, the owner of onigiri miya has his own tiktok page where he posts cooking videos, and his kitchen looks exactly like the one you're recording in. matter of fact... osamu miya always wears that plain apron, too...

"thank you for the meal!" your feet don't hit the ground when you're sitting on this stool, and you're literally kicking your feet as you stare down gleefully at the plate of food he's prepared for you. the meal is great, and for dessert, you decide to read the flood of comments tagging miyaosamuofficial on your latest video. you won't confirm or deny, but when osamu convinces you to stay the night, you know that you'll be more than happy to share a when he cooks you breakfast <3 video next.

౨ৎ KIYOOMI SAKUSA. you are: a cheeky pop princess. with your promiscuous persona, your flirty songs laced with sexual jokes, and your minidresses that you flounce around in while on stage, you're the girlie that has parents gasping when they take their daughters to one of your shows. while there's been speculation that you're already in a relationship, since clearly there has to be someone inspiring all these ovulation songs, you've never confirmed anything. you performed: a special dance routine at your latest concert. while you normally wear extremely bright colored bodysuits or pastel babydolls, tonight you're dressed in a sparkly black and gold getup. all your male dancers are wearing fitted black shirts with three golden scratches down the back, and you make a show of grinding against one of the dancers, running your nails against his back. you're staring into the crowd, smiling cheekily. that same night, grainy footage is captured of kiyoomi sakusa standing in the crowd, watching the whole show. the mask he's wearing covers his facial expression, but he barely blinks throughout the entire show, as if he doesn't want to miss anything.

"and there's a special guest here tonight." your chest is rising and falling from how out of breath you are after an hour and a half of nonstop singing and dancing. this is your ending speech for the concert, and the crowd is going insane. "i really hope he enjoyed tonight's show as much as i know all of you did. the love songs... they all are about him." the screams from your fans are deafening, and kiyoomi's glad that his mask covers the blush that creeps on his face as he hears your confession.

౨ৎ WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA. you are: literally ushijima's wife. you're a fairly private person to begin with, and it's not like you two have been married for long. you've been engaged for nearly a year, and you do attend most of his games, but ushijima specifically requests that the suite you watch him from doesn't get filmed. he wants to protect your privacy as much as possible, until you're okay with being shown to the public. he posted: a picture of you smiling on christmas day as you open up a gift from your husband. the boulder on your finger can be seen from a mile away, and as dorky as ever, ushi captions the photo with a happy wife happy life 👍🏻

"what does this mean?" ushijima shows you his phone screen, and you squint at it before laughing. one of the tweets tagging ushi reads leave it to ushijimawakatoshi to fucking hard launch his wife one random xmas morning. "it means you posted about our relationship out of the blue. usually people soft launch before they confirm anything." "soft launch?" his eyebrows furrow adorably as he tries to piece together what you just told him. "like, if you were to soft launch us, you would post a picture that maybe doesn't show my face but people might infer that you're in a relationship based off the photo you took." "that's dumb." he says, in his familiar ushijima cadence that had you falling for him. "i'd never take a photo of you without showing your face. why would i want to hide you?"

౨ৎ TOBIO KAGEYAMA. you are: japan's favorite nepo-baby model. with a face card like yours (and connections from your parents), it's no wonder why you're gracing every billboard in the city, and you're the spokesperson of a premier skincare brand. your fame gets you international publicity, and you're selected for the latest skims campaign. with an entire country in love with you, it might be a hard pill to swallow for your intense fanboys when they find out you're in love with japan's best setter. he posted: so many reposts of your campaigns. tobio still wants to support you, even if he knows that you two can't go public with your relationship just yet. he's actually branded (and sometimes mocked) as one of your biggest fanboys, and it doesn't help that during your skims campaign, he reposted every single ad featuring you.

"tobio, baby, you're so sweet, but you don't have to repost every ad." you tell your boyfriend, watching as clicks repost to yet another one of your photoshoots. "but i want to." he says. you kiss his cheek happily. "and that's exactly why i stayed back and did some extra photos on the skims set, just for you. these are pictures you might not want to repost, though." tobio isn't sure whether his eyes should stay glued to the personal photoshoot you did just for him, or to the real life you who's ready to show him what the set looks like in person.

౨ৎ TOORU OIKAWA. you are: currently visiting your beloved boyfriend in argentina. people know that you two are together, even though neither of you have confirmed it explicitly. it's pretty obvious, though, considering you're constantly seen with him, and he talks about how lucky he is that his girl is his number one supporter. someone posted: a viral video of a toned man wearing aqua blue swim shorts taking pictures of a beautiful girl laying down on a beach towel. not only are the two of you so hot that you look fresh out of a perfume ad, but to have a boyfriend so devoted to getting your best angles? iconic, truly. fans don't even realize that it's you and oikawa until someone points it out.

"tooru, are you taking multiple photos or just one?" you try not to move your lips too much when you speak, uncertain of when he's going to snap a pic. "you trained me well." tooru whines. "obviously, i'm taking several at once." "and make sure the lighting is good!" you remind him. "it doesn't matter how i take the photos, baby. you're still going to look good in them, regardless." "aw... are you sweet talking me because some of the pictures are blurry?" when your boyfriend starts showering you with more compliments, you know the pics are definitely not going to be instagram-worthy. he's lucky he's so cute.

#osamu miya x reader #kiyoomi sakusa x reader #wakatoshi ushijima x reader #tobio kageyama x reader #tooru oikawa x reader #osamu x reader #sakusa x reader #ushijima x reader #kageyama x reader #oikawa x reader #hq x reader #hq headcanons #haikyuu x reader #fluff #drabble #hq imagines #hq scenarios

1K notes · View notes

lynnsmix · 29 days ago

Text

SLEIGHT OF HANDS ⊹₊⟡⋆ h. haddock x reader

summary : knowing close-up magic, you always watched your boyfriend be amazed at all the enthralling tricks you showed him—with him showing you how dumbfounded he was, and asking you how you did it, acting all unknowing. But little did you know, Hiccup did have a trick up his sleeve.

word count : 3.06k words

tags : rtte!hiccup, fem!reader, magician!reader, idiots in love, love confession, fluff, chaste kisses, unrealistic wording and description of sleight of hand/magic, no use of y/n or (name)

author's note : yes i'm gonna be using hiccups confession when he gave astrid the bethrothal gift because i cannot let it out of my head (´ 3｀) bro ive been watching videos on how sleight of hand and close up magic is done and i was like—that sounds like a good fic. . . why don't i write it? i have free will anyways lols :p anyway enjoy this read im very sleep deprived ahdjajdasl

"Hey, do you uh— know where one of my Dragon Trivia Cards are?" Fishlegs timid voice was heard as walked into your hut, peeking in first before fully going in. He was fanning through the cards he currently had in his possesion, looking at each one thoroughly to see if maybe he accidentally just missed it.

You stood up from your hut's dining chair and turned around, finishing putting your shoes on and walking closer to the Ingerman.

"It's the one for the Gronckle, it's me and Meatlug's favorite, so if you see it anywhere—" Fishlegs started to talk faster, panic filling his veins.

"Oh, you mean this?" You flipped you hand quickly, the exact Dragon Trivia Card he was talking about appearing in your hand, which made him sigh in relief.

"You left it on the table last night at the Great Hall," You finished, while he looked astonished.

"Oh! Thank you. . .!" You put your hand out, and he took the card, examining it, putting it into light and turning it around to observe it.

"I still don't know how you do that," He commented, looking at the card and then at the hand you used to make it appear.

And you walked past him, before stopping at the door and over your shoulder to say three words that explains it.

"It's just magic." You shrug, a grin on your face as you speak. He started to follow you outside, seemingly to go back to his hut.

"Yeah— whatever," Fishlegs dismisses the topic, knowing he won't get anywhere if he pries any more.

"Where are you going anyway?" The Ingerman asked, while you replied in a curt manner.

"Hiccup said he needed to give me. . . Something, I dunno. . ." You replied nonchalantly.

"Oh," The blond Viking said unelated, with a few seconds of silence covering your conversation, until he suddenly spoke again, startling you.

"Ohhh!" He loudly exclaimed, a cheeky smile hinting at his face. You jolted a little from how loud he sounded.

"So, based on your reaction, I'm gonna assume it's something good. . .?" You were nearing Fishleg's hut, which meant this was probably going to be your last dialogue with him until you see him later.

"Let's just say it's. . . A surprise of some sort," He vaguely answered, and you had made it to the front of his home.

You both waved each other goodbye, with you walking past his hut to surge onto Hiccup's hut.

You were almost there, until The Twins had practically jumped you, asking if you could show them another magic trick.

"C'monnn, what you did last time was really awesome," Ruffnut pleaded. They were walking with you now, not that you disliked it—you were happy you were seeing alot of them today.

"Do the one where you switch the chains you were wearing and put them on Tuffnut! Or the one where a Terrible Terror appears from Snotlout's helmet," She cheered, grabbing your arm excitedly.

"Y'know, I don't think Tuffnut would really enjoy that, and Snotlout isn't here for me to do it. . ." You awkwardly shrug, not wanting to put one of the twins into a fit of being distressed again.

"As much as I had 3 days of trouble getting out of those chains, it was worth it seeing you do that." He defended himself, as if sacrificing his freedom again.

"Yeah, last time you did it, he had to scratch his butt with his—"

"O—kay, I don't need to know that," You put a hand up to stop her talking any more.

Ever since you were a kid, you were taught by your father how to do magic tricks, or more specifically—sleight of hand.

What he did teach you wasn't that much of the spectacular, showstopping actions; He taught you the basics, such as making cards appear into your hands suddenly and making coins appear from your ear out of thin air, but that was about it.

All this weird stuff they were asking you to do—like making chains attached from your wrist go to another person, and making small dragons appear from helmets were all your doing, coming from your own practice. You could say you were starting to become a magician, one might surmise.

But right now, you really needed to make it to Hiccup's hut. He sounded like he really needed you to be there right now, it sounded urgent when he said to go to his room today.

So now, the best you could do to send the Twins off your tail, with nothing in your disposal at all, was either to: A.) run away and disguise it like a magic trick, or B.) wait for Snotlout to unceremoniously arrive.

I think we're going to settle with A if we want to get to Hiccup's as fast as possible.

"How about I show you— a new trick?" you tore Ruffnut's grip on your arm and placed her next to her twin brother.

"When you guys turn around and say 'Yaknog' at the same time with your eyes closed, you'll make me dissapear. Cool, right?" You finished. They both looked at each other for a second and smiled deviously.

Once they had both turned around, you made the most silent run for it, the other Vikings seeing you scamper off until you were nowhere in their vicinity.

"Ready?" Tuffnut asked.

"Ready. 3, 2, 1. . ." They closed their eyes and balled their fists.

"Yaknog!" They yelled out at the same time, they opened their eyes, then cautiously looked behind them, where you were nowhere to be seen.

"Woah. . ." Ruffnut smiled in a goofy manner, looking around to see any trace of you, but nope. No sign of you anywhere.

"It's like she was never there," Tuffnut put his hand on the place where you previously where and waved around, as if he'd find out you were invisible of some sort.

They both paused what they were doing and looked at each other, proceeding to hit their helmets with one another.

"Awesome!"

You almost hit your face on the door if you didn't stop yourself with how fast you were going, knocking a good three times.

You put your hands on your knees in momentary exhaustion before dusting yourself off and standing straight, waiting for your boyfriend to open the door.

But much to your surprise, the person that opened the door to welcome you was not Hiccup, no, but his broad-shouldered Chief of a father, Stoick.

He greeted your name with a smile which you mirrored back, slightly shocked you were here.

"What are you doing here?" Stoick asked politely.

"Hiccup was actually going to give me uh— something," You gently replied, a tight smile on your face.

Stoick looked to be in thought for a moment, until something he was thinking of clicked, and he expressed his joy.

"Oh. . . Oh— I get it," His voice crooned, and it made you slightly feel odd. Even under all that hair on his face, you could still see a satisfied smile grace his face.

"You— you do. . .?" You inquired with a tilt to your tone, with Stoick coming up to you, walking past you, but not before grabbing your shoulder to reassure you.

You felt a sense of déjà vu, Fishlegs already gave you that response earlier.

"It's gonna be fine, don't worry too much about it," He walked off, seemingly to do his rounds and some Chiefing around the village.

You walk into the hut, and the smell of firewood hits your ears. The crackling sparks from the hearth warm the interior, with you looking around the first floor for a moment.

You've been in here dozens of times, but the comfort and warmth of their home always made you relax.

You walk up the wood staircase, and you see Hiccup on his table, twisting his charcoal pencil in boredom, looking at a sketch on his notebook of a random dragon.

He heard the nearing thump! of your steps, and looked at you at the entrance of his room.

"Hey," The brunet Viking said in surprise, a gentle smile growing on his face.

"Hello to you too," You walked around him, kissing his head caringly as you sit next to him, dragging a stray chair next to him.

You put your elbows on the table, leaning to take a peek at his face.

"What are you looking at?" You inquired.

He closed his notebook, then turned his body to you, so he can look at you better.

"Uh— nothing much, I was just waiting for you," His full attention was on you, and you smiled at him in amusement.

"Really?" You asked, but you already knew the answer.

"Yeah, and now you're here, so I can start," He started to adjust himself in his seat, and you were kind of perplexed.

"Uh. . . Start what, exactly?"

"Give me your hand," He ordered you softly, and you obeyed—putting your palm out for him to grab, and he closed it up to ball your fist.

"Wait. . ." You understand now what he was doing, given that you've done this magic trick dozens of times for the children in the village.

Your smile grew in excitement as you watch him ready the magic trick.

"I'm gonna make my something appear in your hand, okay?" He explained, looking into your eyes cheekily with affection.

Although you've heard yourself say what he instructs you to do a multitude of times, you still follow his orders, while you look elatedly as he almost finishes.

"Okay, once I snap my fingers, it'll appear. You ready?"

"Just do it, already," You smile, excited at what's to come.

He snapped his fingers together, and he lets go of your hand still balled into a fist. He looks at you in glee, waiting for you to open your palm.

You hesitantly sprawl your palm out, and to your surprise, his gift isn't there.

"Huh, I could've sworn it would be there," Hiccup's voice sounded defeated, and scratched his head, in confusion.

Not wanting him to look so upset, you grab his shoulders and scooch your chair so your knees were in between one another's.

"Hey, it was a good try babe," You comforted him, rubbing your hands up and down his arms.

"I was pretty intrigued." You added.

"Thanks, but I think if it would cooler if it did appear, I just don't know where it went— wait," His head was slightly tilted down, until he lifted in up in some kind of realization.

"What is it?" You ask, your actions pausing to look at his perplexed expression, as if his head was starting to turn its cogs.

"I think I know where I put it," He smiles, rejoiced.

"It was right behind here. . .!" His arm lifted close next to your head, and your eyes followed his movements.

What you didn't expect next was for a coin to be pulled out behind your ear by Hiccup. Consequently, your mouth went slack jawed in awe, before composing yourself and smiling, your hands slightly patting your lap in elation. It was a simple sleight of hand trick, yes—but still, it made you merry.

"You learned!" You cheer at him, looking at him in disbelief, punching his shoulder playfully.

"I wanted to surprise you." He replied smoothly, carding the coin between his fingers before holding it between his thumb and pointer finger so you could see it clearly.

It was a slightly large coin, with a leather cord tethered to it, creating a loop for a necklace.

"So, what is it?" You ask in curiosity.

"Well, this was my Dad's betrothal gift to my mother," He held it up by its leather rope, the coin slightly swaying from motion.

"Hiccup," You gasp softly, before Hiccup put the necklace over your head, lowering your head slightly to help him. He placed it around your neck, lowering his arms after.

You clutch it in both your hands, looking at it dearly, before he put his own hands over yours, covering them.

"And— uhm, he gave it to me, to give to you." He finished. You smiled at his confession, but something in the pit of your stomach had faltered your joy.

He gave you his father's betrothal gift, an heirloom passed on to him, to be held onto until given to the person he cherished—which was you, show you how much he loves you, but. . .

You didn't get him anything.

It ate at you, the swirling pool of guilt building in your chest until your smile was fully etched off your face, lowering your gaze slightly so Hiccup couldn't see it.

He called your name, instinctually making you look into his eyes, his eyes showing vulnerability.

"You're a part of our family," Hiccup said with unwavering assurance, and no matter how upset you were, it made you smile.

"You always have been, and," He looked shy to say the next words, but her says it anyways.

"I hope you always will be." He ended, his hands letting go of yours—and you smiled in adoration, but the fluttering beating of your heart didn't overcome the swirling feeling of shame and guilt in your stomach, making your smile falter.

"Hiccup, it's— I don't. . ." You struggled to convey your feelings, looking away from him, making Hiccup nervous.

Did he say something wrong? Was it too fast? Did you not like it?

"Uhhh. . . Okay— well, if you don't like it," He leaned back, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

"No. . .! No, Hiccup— I love it," You sputtered looking at him in panic, you didn't want him to think that, especially when it was the most beautiful thing you've ever been gifted.

"Eh, you do?"

"I do, it's perfect, I just—" You sigh in defeat, letting your arms fall to your sides.

"I didn't get you anything," You shrug. Your voice was meek, looking away in disgrace. With your confession, Hiccup's tense demeanor softened into something of understanding.

"If I had known— Hiccup, I would've gifted you something great too. . ." You trailed off, not wanting to say anymore, you felt more embarrassed trying to explain yourself, it'd be better off just keeping your mouth shut.

"But you did," Hiccup said, making you pause and look up at him, wary.

"I. . . I did?" You reply, still confused.

"Yes, you got me the best gift in the world—" His voice was true, as if he was sure of all of what he said as he grabbed your hands together with his, making you stare up at his viridescent gaze.

"You," He answered, and all of the reluctance, the guilt of it all washed away, as if his voice was the cure for your looming doubts.

"You—just being here, with me," His soft, yet calloused hands brought your hands to his chest in adoration, making your arms jump out and hug him.

"Is that only gift I need." He muttered into your neck, making you smile at the feeling.

"Hiccup," You pull away to see his lovestruck eyes looking into yours.

"Thank you," You cup the side of his face with one hand, his smile growing.

You quickly kiss his lips, looking back at him. He was slightly startled, but he recovered quickly, pulling you back for another kiss. You could both feel it, the slight clanking of teeth due to you smiling—you both didn't care, you were in love.

"So," Hiccup enunciated when you both pulled away.

"Did you like the trick?"

"Hmm. . ." You looked up to think, but you already knew you were going to mess with him a bit.

"I've done better," You taunted, and shrugged.

"Really? Like what?" He smiled, he knew you could've done better, he'd seen your talent dozens of times do it for him, but he wanted to ask anyway.

"Oh, I dunno— like," You roll your eyes playfully, before holding his belt up to view.

"Taking your belt, perhaps?" He looked baffled, you'd never done that trick before. He looked down padded his hips, and there it wasn't, just his pants.

"How did you. . ." He paused his sentence when he saw you look at him cheekily. He shook his head in joking defeat, before he pulled you in for another kiss.

He didn't care how you did it; you could steal his belts, his pencils, his heart even—but he wouldn't pay it no mind.

Because you were here with him, and you loved him back, and that was all he needed to know.

BONUS ⋆˚ʚɞ

"So let me get this straight; you guys turned around, closed your eyes, then when you opened them again, she just disappeared into 'thin air'?" Astrid retorted, her arms crossed, unenthused.

You and the Dragon Riders were at the Great Hall, with The Twins explaining your 'spectacular' magic trick you did with them earlier that day while you all ate.

"Yeah!" The Thorston siblings said with confidence.

The Twins nodded eagerly, before going back and bickering, throwing their food at one another.

Astrid looked at you, tiredness coating her face, her expression unimpressed.

"What?" You said, but you already knew what she was looking at you like that for.

"I needed to get to Hiccup's hut, and they wouldn't stop bugging me," You complained, leaning into your soup. Hiccup was next to you, a gentle smile watching the scene unfold.

You were suddenly called by Snotlout, and you looked across the table at the dark-haired Viking.

"Any chance you could make someone fall in love?" He crooned, all the while looking at Astrid seductively and blew a kiss, which the blonde Viking rolled her eyes in distaste at, gagging.

"Eugh," Astrid heaved, with you softly giggling as you spooned food from your bowl into your mouth.

"Any chance you could make someone fall off a cliff?" She deadpanned at you.

"Y'know, Astrid, I think you could do that yourself," Hiccup piped up, Astrid going into thought as he said that, before grinning mischievously at you and Hiccup, before directing it at Snotlout.

His flirtatious demeanor faltered, changing into a nervous one.

"Uhh— somehow, I feel like I'm in danger."

bro nothing beats his confession to astrid and their love for one another, I NEED A RELATIONSHIP LIKE THEIRS ASAP!!!

anyway, don't forget to leave a note and comment what you think :3

thanks for reading ~ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

513 notes · View notes