#No one else will care if i get this wrong | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wndaswife · 15 hours ago

Text

escape into you | wanda maximoff & fem!reader

Babysitting has been a lucrative side job, and an escape from your life as an overworked college student. But when you come to babysit on a day you weren’t scheduled, Wanda improvises.

Word count: 7306

Tags: smut, fluff, fingering, cunnilingus, suckling, kinda nipple play, age gap, mommy kink, ageplay (i have limited knowledge, so not heavy), mommy wanda, completely self-indulgent fic

It wasn’t only your workload that got overwhelming during the semester, but your lack of stability. You lived alone in a small apartment, but a heavy workload made for constant change, a constant drive forward, and never any time to settle.

It was so often that you yearned for an escape from it all that you wondered if you really were the responsible and independent college student that you sometimes felt you were merely masquerading as.

So often did you imagine yourself as someone younger, so much more vulnerable and needy for another’s care, that you wondered how much more realistic that version of yourself was.

Who was it, then, who went through your day-to-day life? And who was it who sat in the back of your mind, waiting to be cared for?

It was through a chain of good fortune that you landed a job as a babysitter for Wanda Maximoff and her twins. You told your friend that you were searching for a casual side job just to make some extra money. Your friend’s aunt, who was going through a divorce, had just brought up to her that she was looking for a babysitter for some extra help now that it was just her and the twins at home, which made her work hours difficult. Since your friend wasn’t able to dedicate any of her weekends, she referred you to her aunt.

Wanda worked as an environmental specialist and was often required to do hours upon hours of fieldwork a day, but the slow and time-consuming process of her divorce forced to move around a lot of her time, which shifted around a lot of her typical work hours and schedule at home.

The Maximoffs had become a landmark of stability for you since you started babysitting for Wanda a few months ago. It was typically every other weekend that you babysat for her and scarcely anything more infrequent than that, though sometimes she’d ask for you the following weekend if something came up and her ex-husband couldn’t take her sons.

It was Saturday, an hour or two before dinnertime, and honestly, all you’d been thinking about was going over to Wanda’s to babysit for the evening.

You’d been in the library more often than you’d been at your place for the last two weeks, surviving on coffee and energy drinks and meals from around campus.

Of course, you enjoyed being with the twins; they were sweet and quite mature for their age, and highly knowledgeable about their video games and on the board games in the house. It was nice to take walks with them and just hang out, and especially to hear how their schooling was going.

But most of all, you liked Wanda. She was smart and beautiful and incredibly accomplished in her field. You admired her, and she always made sure you were taken care of. She never failed to let you know how much you took care of her needs.

Your dynamic with Wanda was quite difficult to explain. It was as if you were a completely different person when you were with her. You couldn’t explain it to anyone else, and no one else could understand aside from the two of you.

It was dusk now, and the air was getting cooler. Evening began to blanket over the town, and the warm amber lights coming from the windows of Wanda’s house felt so domestic and welcoming.

When she opened her front door, she was in a minimalistic linen dress that reached her calves and a brown long sleeve beneath it — something she’d wear to stay home. She had no makeup on and her hair was worn in its natural waves, pulled back by a hair clip.

Any minimal feeling of doubt that you’d come on the wrong day was swiftly confirmed when Wanda stepped forward, looking around behind you for just a moment before asking, “Hi, Y/N. Is everything alright?”

“Wh- Um… Yeah, I’m here for…”

You trailed off, letting it set in that you had come on a weekend she didn’t need you. By how she was dressed, it was clear that Wanda was planning on staying home all night, and that the twins were with their father.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, stepping forward onto the porch. “I think you’ve gotten the wrong day — the boys are with their dad this weekend.”

You stepped back, a bit embarrassed. It’s not like she could tell from your face how much you’d been looking forward to coming, only to feel like a humiliated and disappointed little kid.

“I think I did,” you admitted, feigning a casual bashfulness to avoid looking too scattered and immature. “Sorry. I must’ve mixed today up with some other deadline.”

As you spoke, Wanda regarded you patiently, watching you closely with a small supportive smile as an older woman normally would towards a much younger girl.

“It’s alright, honey,” she responded kindly.

There was a beat of silence as Wanda regarded you. Her eyes darted down your body for a moment, then towards the porch you were both standing on, her lips parting when she looked back up to offer, “If you have your schedule cleared for the evening, I’d love to have your company tonight.”

You swallowed. “Are you sure? I’m sure you must enjoy having time to yourself.”

“I’m quite sure, Y/N,” she insisted. She stepped to the side, allowing you entry into her house, a welcoming smile on her gorgeous face. “Come enjoy the evening with me.”

Your hands tightened around your backpack straps as you stepped forward, and you felt Wanda’s eyes running over your paled knuckles as you walked past her.

“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” she asked, heading towards the kitchen as you put your bag down and took your things off at the front door.

The place felt different without the twins around. It was quieter and more serious. The divorce papers laying on the coffee table of the living room emanated a threatening aura. You hurried after Wanda to see her peeling some carrots in the kitchen.

“A little, but maybe just for a snack,” you replied, your eyes running over her body from behind. Her long dirty blonde hair spilled down her back in waves. Her smooth forearms dotted here and there with beauty marks and freckles flexed slightly as she peeled and chopped the carrots.

“I’m nearly done cutting these up. Would you mind plating them for us?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at you.

You felt your face flush and you hurriedly looked around for a plate, to which you found a round wooden dish by Wanda’s cutting board.

Standing beside her, you organized the fruits and vegetables she’d cut into a neat setup. She had strawberries, grapes, snap peas, and now the carrots she was slicing.

“How has school been, baby?” Wanda asked. At the pet name, you looked over at her as if called by a dog whistle.

“Um…” You tried to speak, but felt that you were shrinking into yourself. Everything about school seemed far away, and not at all related to you. “It’s been busy.”

Wanda nodded understandingly. The sound of her knife slowly cutting through the carrot seemed to slice right through you, shooting down your spine. “You’re nearing your finals, right?”

“Yeah,” you said. You wanted to say more, but found that you just couldn’t bring yourself to talk much about those things. It was too stressful and… too big of a reality.

“But what have you been up to…?” you asked, feeling a little shy.

It wasn’t only that Wanda was just gorgeous and incredibly smart, but that she was older than you, more mature, more experienced, and always so motherly. She took her time with you, always, so careful and gentle when she spoke, and always regarding you with this knowing gaze, as if she knew more about you than she let on.

“I’ve been alright. Nothing to complain about,” she said, slicing the last piece of carrot.

When she put the last few slices into the wooden plate, she met your eyes with a smile, “Busy. Like you.”

Within your shared gaze was an exchanged understanding, unspoken and quiet. It made something within your chest stir and awaken, tempting you to abandon anything that existed any further than her.

Just for a little bit, at least.

The two of you sat out in Wanda’s backyard on one of the couches, the platter placed on the cushion between the two of you. You and Wanda chatted mostly about herself, since in the moment you felt more like listening. Wanda spoke here and there about her divorce process, which was going as slowly as it had since the last time she spoke about it. She spoke about her job too, but quickly grew tired of that.

When things got busy for you, it was hard to do anything more than study and stay up late and balance your time in a repetitive weary cycle — and mostly on your own. Sometimes being that overwhelmed made it easy to forget how dismal it all was.

Any time with Wanda felt so much more real than the blur of days that flew by, overflowing in papers and mundane hours studying in grim libraries.

Wanda’s backyard was quite large, and her patio was beautiful. Surrounded by the lush plants decorating Wanda’s vast backyard, and blanketed in her patio lights that complemented the purple-blue hue of the evening, you felt detached from the rest of the world.

Maybe it was Wanda’s voice that softened you so much, or her careful fingers and hands that moved like she had a deliberate intention to be delicate with anything she touched. A large part of you knew, however, that it was because of how she was able to coddle you as if you were more of a child than the independent college student you were.

For how Wanda seemed to reach into you, pulling to the surface something that had long lain dormant since the last time she had brought it to life, again you wondered how much more real this version of yourself was — the version of yourself that was quieter, smaller, younger.

“Oh, honey, you must be feeling so stressed,” Wanda sympathized when you told her a little about how you’ve been doing. With how you were sitting close, your legs folded towards each other, she placed a hand on your thigh and rubbed you gently.

You nodded. “It’s been overwhelming,” you conceded.

Wanda’s eyes lifted towards yours as she took a bite of a strawberry. She smiled sympathetically, and her eyes catching onto yours made your breath catch in your throat. “You’re much too young for that kind of workload, honey,” she said.

Sometimes you thought about the times you spent with Wanda when you were deep in your studies or during lectures or while commuting to and from campus. But it was near impossible. The thought of Wanda didn’t belong at school or where you were feeling older and more mature. The woman Wanda was for you didn’t belong anywhere but right here — the person you were with Wanda came to life only here.

“How young…?” you asked shyly, hesitantly looking up at her from your lap.

Wanda placed a supportive hand on your knee. “Much younger than me, sweetheart…” she answered, her expression feigning sympathy though the shifting beneath her dress gave her away.

“Ah… I…” you stuttered, different sides of you tugging at each other. A tension deep in your chest knotted and your cheeks felt flushed. Your arms felt too far from your body, so you closed them against your torso a little.

She squeezed your knee and retracted her hand, leaning back against the arm rest behind her, feeling either intrigued or pleased, or both. She readjusted herself, crossing her leg over the other. “Tell me more about how school’s been, baby.”

“U-Um…”

You shifted, sitting up and getting your thoughts in order. Your hands balled into fists by your hips for a moment as you adjusted yourself.

“You’re right — I’m nearing my exams…” you started, looking at her. You felt like reaching for a carrot to keep your hands occupied, but felt somewhat confined in your seat, as if set into an invisible box. “Right now, I’ve been trying to finish my final assignments before the exam period starts.”

“I see,” Wanda replied. Your eyes darted down to her fingers that were gently tapping against her thigh before you looked back up to her. “That must be very hard, Y/N… It sounds like far too much to think about all at once.”

There was a condescending lilt to her voice, speaking not only as someone who viewed you as younger, but someone who was also somewhat incapable of being on their own.

Swallowing, you nodded, feeling your voice getting smaller though you couldn’t tell if it was all in your head. “It is hard to keep up with all of it.”

Inhaling as she leaned forward in her seat and straightening her back, Wanda said, “Not at all something for a little girl like you.”

Your chest tightened and your thighs clenched together instinctually. When your expression wavered, she met your eyes without moving her focus away from yours. Wanda smiled warmly, always behind her veil of being the supportive, sympathetic older woman.

Perhaps your instinctive reaction was the only response she needed, for Wanda adjusted her position again, letting her leg down and crossing her other leg over it. Her thumb rubbed side to side against her thigh, as if she were pacing herself.

Wanda’s movements were always so natural. She was older and accomplished and far more experienced than you in everything, and everything she did always seemed so calculated and put together. So when the side of her foot brushed against your ankle, you bristled at the contact.

Occasionally you and Wanda would have some extra time with each other after you babysat. She would come home stressed and needing relief, and clear about wanting your company. Wanda wasn’t always so held together as she was today — sometimes she was desperate, wanting you.

Other times, she liked to tease you out when she knew it had been a while.

She eyed the plate between the two of you so quickly that you couldn’t follow her gaze before she spoke again, and suddenly her eyes were back on you.

“I know I always thank you for babysitting, but I haven’t thanked you enough for being here whenever I need you,” Wanda said. “It’s been so chaotic with the divorce and trying to figure things out with work, and you’ve been such a great help.”

You opened your mouth to speak, eager to tell Wanda how much you looked forward to babysitting, and how much it’s been helping you too. But she started speaking again, leaning forward and placing her hands in her lap.

“You know, sweetheart…” Wanda placed her hand down on your forearm. “I’ve always thought you were such a good, obedient girl.” Her voice sounded lower, and her eyes darkened, zoned in on you as a predator would.

How long has it been since you spoke last?

“I do hope you don’t think poorly of me, baby… What, taking you out to my backyard just to have you all for myself, as if I were in need of your babysitting.” Wanda laughed, her hand squeezing your forearm playfully.

You felt yourself laughing too, but your mind felt long gone; you felt dependent on Wanda just to feel comforted.

There was a light buzzing in your head, and the breeze of the darkening evening cooled your cheeks. You felt you couldn’t do anything without Wanda, so smart and beautiful, so much older than you and so much more experienced and knowledgeable than you in everything.

You hoped desperately she wouldn’t let go of your arm.

“I don’t think poorly of you at all,” you responded.

Wanda smiled, pleased by your response. Her hand began to slowly rub your forearm. “No, and that wouldn’t make sense, would it, for you to look after me?” She seemed to look at you expectantly, though you could’ve been imagining it, so you shook your head.

“You’re much too young for that, sweetheart — too little,” she said.

A flood of desperation rushed through your chest, and when you exhaled through your nose, you heard yourself whimper quietly.

The first time you slept with Wanda, you couldn’t fathom ever leaving her, going back to your place to study and commute or do anything on your own ever again. Wanda made you feel so small, so dependent. She let you leave everything you wanted to escape from at the door.

With gentle hands, she would touch your body like it were something born anew, your skin feeling warmer and softer, not belonging to whoever it was that lived and worked and studied alone. With Wanda, your mind was fuzzy, and little, and dependent on her care.

You couldn’t possibly fit this kind of feeling within the short timeframe of freedom the two of you only sometimes had from the lives you lived away from each other. It was rare to be free at all, and much less for this kind of time to align. So Wanda took her time, for she loved to see you get smaller, see the timidity wash over you, pamper you in her care, watch as you melted away from everything that existed apart from her.

Wanda’s hand lifted from your forearm, reaching over to take hold of your chin gently. “Are you gonna let me take care of you, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes,” you replied as quickly as you could. “I’m…”

A good girl, you wanted to say.

While still holding your chin, Wanda brought a strawberry to your mouth with her other hand. Obediently, you wrapped your lips around it and took a bite.

“Are you gonna be a good girl for mama…?” she asked, her voice quiet as she focused on your lips wrapped around the strawberry, its reddish-pink juices peeking from the edges of your mouth.

Mama…

You felt your body buzz when Wanda finally used the term; you found you couldn’t say it on your own first, and needed Wanda’s help. You felt yourself beginning to need her help for everything.

Her eyes flickered up to yours and you nodded, leaning your head forward and taking another bite of it, your lips grazing the tips of Wanda’s fingers when you then took the rest of the sliced strawberry into your mouth.

Wanda gathered its sweet juice from the corners of your mouth with her thumb and slid it into your mouth, your lips wrapping around her finger. You sucked softly at it, eliciting a pleased hum from her.

“Why don’t we go inside, honey?” Wanda said, carefully pulling her thumb out of your mouth. “Are you getting cold?”

You nodded and Wanda took your hand, carrying the platter with her other as the two of you went back inside. You huddled against her side and Wanda wrapped her arm around your shoulders before kissing your forehead.

Wanda took you into the living room after setting the plate down in the kitchen. With her hands on your hips, she brought you onto her lap. Her arms circled you and you buried your face in her neck.

“Have you been having a hard time at school, sweetheart?” Wanda asked softly, her hand rubbing your back soothingly. She felt you nod into the crook of her neck. “You need mommy to make you feel better, hm?”

When she felt you nod again, she tucked her hands under your shirt, rubbing her warm palms up your sides. You squirmed in her lap and Wanda chuckled against the side of your head.

“I missed my little girl so much,” Wanda said, kissing your cheek over and over until she made her way to the corner of your lips. You turned your head, allowing Wanda to meet your lips with hers.

“You’re so sweet, baby…” she muttered against you, one of her hands coming to the side of your face as she kissed you.

You whined and wrapped your arms around her neck. “I missed mama…”

Wanda hummed and her hands moved further up your shirt, her palms now running against your rib cage until her thumbs met with the sides of your breasts. She began pressing soft kisses down your neck when you lifted your head.

“I love having you to myself, honey…” she muttered, her hands rounding your body to unclip your bra. “You don’t know how much mama loves playing with her little girl.” Her lips suckled softly at your neck, her warm hands cupping your breasts and kneading them gently.

You were a mess of whimpers and whines, your back arching and pressing your chest into her hands to which Wanda responded by rolling your nipples between her thumbs and index fingers.

Seemingly having grown impatient, Wanda stood up carefully so you had enough time to slide off her lap. As you stood, she helped you take your bra off beneath your shirt, dropping it to your feet. “Come upstairs,” she told you, taking your hand and heading up with you.

You cuddled back against her side again.

“I really missed you,” you said, looking up at her.

“Me too, sweetheart,” Wanda said, smiling down at you.

It wasn’t only your age that made you feel so little with Wanda. She spoke to you so gently and touched you so carefully. Your mommy was so beautiful — how she dressed, how she did her hair, her eyes, her nose, her soft lips.

All you wanted to do with Wanda was be taken care of, and she loved to take care of you.

Upstairs, Wanda had her hands all over you, undoing your pants while you unclipped her hair, then running her hands up your sides and pulling your shirt over your head.

“My sweet little girl…” she muttered into your neck, kissing you softly. “Do you like when mommy touches you like this?”

“Uh-huh… I like it, mommy,” you replied, whining softly when Wanda’s hands wrapped around your waist, carefully leading you backwards onto the bed.

She climbed on top of you. Her long hair blanketed over your shoulders as she kissed down your breasts. She took your nipples into her mouth one after the other and groaned at the feeling of the stiff buds against her tongue.

When your hips bucked up slightly at the feeling of tension building between your thighs, Wanda reached her hand down and rubbed you through your underwear.

She lifted her head from your breasts and looked down at you, her hair looking a bit disheveled and a small grin on her lips as she watched you writhe beneath her. Her fingers drew slow circles against your clothed pussy.

“You wouldn’t tell anyone about this, right, baby?” she asked, slightly breathless. “That mommy touches you like this?”

You shook your head adamantly.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, lolling your head to the side so you could brush your cheek against Wanda’s hair that acted like a curtain down the side of your head as she looked down at you.

In a voice that was low, like a soft purr as she spoke, Wanda said, “Only very special mommies touch their little girls like this, sweetheart…”

You reached up, wrapping your arms around her waist. Wanda lowered herself so her hip pressed against yours, her elbow holding herself up so she could stroke the top of your head lovingly.

“I don’t wanna stop playing with mommy…” you whimpered, looking up at her pleadingly.

“This can be our secret, honey,” she replied before leaning down and kissing you softly. “We wouldn’t want anyone else to know how sweet and little my baby really is.”

When your hand came up to your breast, squeezing it softly beyond her dress, Wanda parted from your lips to moan softly.

“Does mama’s sweet little girl wanna touch?” she asked, her hand moving up from between your thighs to keep your hand in place, guiding you into kneading her breast softly.

When you nodded, she asked, “Do you want mama to take her clothes off?”

“Please, mommy.”

“Honey, you’re so well-mannered,” Wanda cooed, kissing your forehead before sliding off the bed and standing beside you, unzipping the side of her dress slowly as you watched. She put on a show for you, pushing her hair back and letting her dress’ strap slowly slip off her shoulders.

Long hair spilled down her back as Wanda turned, peering at you from over her shoulder as her dress spilled down around her ankles, leaving her in black underwear and her brown turtleneck.

Your eyes ran up the curve of Wanda’s ass, to the arch in her back, then back down to the way her hair spilled down her back and her long, smooth legs.

Sitting up onto your knees and leaning back on your heels, you reached out for Wanda, wrapping your arms around her waist. Wanda laughed as she stumbled back against you. She looked down at you as you rubbed your cheek against her upper arm.

“Are you going to help mommy take her shirt off?” she asked softly, rubbing your forearms that were covering her stomach.

You nodded, finding the hem of her shirt and carefully lifting it up.

“That’s good, baby…” Wanda cooed, helping you the rest of the way until she was only in her underwear. She turned, climbing on top of you again and meeting your lips.

With her lips on your neck, Wanda tugged your panties down, and you instinctively spread your legs when she dropped them off the edge of the bed.

“My sweet babygirl…” she murmured against your warm skin, her hands finding your inner thighs and spreading your legs further apart.

When you looked down, Wanda was looking up at you, green eyes focused on your helpless expression from beyond her mess of hair that curtained the sides of her face. Her lips were parted enough for you to hear her soft pants. The tip of pink of her tongue rested against the bottom row of her teeth.

The sight made your breath catch and your chest constrict in a way that you had to take an extra breath to give yourself air.

“Your nipples are so cute,” Wande cooed, and you watched as her lips wrapped around one of your buds, eliciting a groan from you as you arched your back.

“So sensitive,” she muttered when she switched to the other one.

Meanwhile, her hand circled the space between your hips, the heel of her palm pressing against your lower stomach. Her middle and ring finger traced the hood of your clit.

“Mommy,” you whined, bucking your hips up.

Wanda pressed her hand down and lifted her fingers from your pussy so you didn’t nudge your clit against them. “You’re just a sweet little girl, Y/N — do you think you know better than mama?” she asked after parting from your nipple then looking up at you.

You shook your head.

“No…” she whispered with a soft adoring smile. “My baby is too young to know better than me.”

Looking up at her shyly, you asked, “Is mama going to take advantage of me…?”

Wanda laughed, both at your evident dedication and arousal at the fantasy you were playing out, and at how sweet you were when you asked her.

“Well, now, honey, it’s not taking advantage when you’re my little girl, is it?” she replied.

You giggled a little and shook your head.

She moved up from your breasts and kissed your jaw, and finally her fingers met with your wet folds, sticky and warm against her cool fingers.

With slow motions of two fingers, Wanda moved up and down against your wet cunt, pressing against your hole and meeting your clit before rubbing back down. The wet noises from your parted pussy made you shiver, and Wanda kept her lips close to your neck so she could hear you writhe and whimper.

“I love having you like this,” she said. A soft groan of appreciation came from her when you wrapped your arms around her waist and held her close.

You felt so fluid, so out of control.

You felt yourself stretch to the size of Wanda’s finger, and she lifted her head to watch as your eyebrows furrowed together.

“So little, baby…” she murmured, in awe as you grasped at her, moaning at the way she moved in and out of you. The pad of her middle digit curled softly and applied pressure as she fingered you. “So dependent on mama. You don’t know how to do a single thing on your own, do you?”

You shook your head adamantly. When you opened your mouth to reply, Wanda slid a second finger in, and a low cry was pulled out of you in place of your words.

“Can you feel how your tight little pussy stretches out for mommy?” Wanda asked, looking down at you with a smug expression. “How much your tiny little hole loves mommy’s fingers?”

She groaned softly as you whimpered, and you could feel Wanda squeezing her thighs together, the lower half of her body squirming and readjusting itself as her fingers gained speed now that she had two inside of you.

“You’re so young, honey. Do you even know what I’m doing to you?” she teased, evidently savouring in the fantasy of taking advantage of a sweet little girl. “You don’t know when to tell mama ‘no.’”

Fingers curled inside of you, rubbing upwards against you as she entered and slid out of you. She kept her hand pressed against your body so the top of her palm rubbed against your clit. Wanda knew how you liked getting fingered — she didn’t move her fingers on their own, but her entire hand, so she rubbed against your pussy each time she moved in and out of your cunt.

“It’s okay that mommy touches you like this, right, baby?”

“It- Ah!” Your words were interrupted when Wanda curled inside of you in a particularly pleasing arch. You swallowed and tried to speak again. “It’s okay, mama, I-”

When Wanda buried her face in the crook of your neck again, sucking at your neck softly, she said, “So little and wet for me… Letting mama touch your special parts.”

You grasped at the blanket below you to keep yourself from gripping Wanda too harshly and hurting her as you felt yourself inch closer to orgasm. Your other arm squeezed around her waist.

“Oh, honey, are you gonna come?” she cooed, looking down at you with such admiration. “My babygirl’s sweet little pussy is getting so tight…”

Nodding, you buried your face in Wanda’s neck, whining and just feeling her soft hair against your cheek. “Mhm… I’m gonna come, mama…” you murmured.

“Come for mommy, baby. That’s right, honey…” Wanda cooed, kissing your cheek and your temple. She stroked your hair with her other hand as you whimpered helplessly like the tiny little girl you were. “Come on mommy’s fingers, sweetheart.”

Wanda groaned at the feeling of your pussy squeezing her fingers as you came. You parted from her neck as your back arched and your head laid back against the pillow. She looked down, watching your little thighs tremble.

She carefully pulled out of your pulsing pussy, her moan of appreciation reaching your ears as she laid her eyes on her sticky fingers, coated in her sweet little girl’s cum.

“You wanna suckle, my baby…?” Wanda asked, looking down at your tired little body. She kissed your forehead when you nodded and you cuddled close to her chest. “Fingers first, honey. Open up.”

Your lips parted and your eyes opened in time to see how coated her fingers were before she slid them into your mouth, laying them against your tongue.

She pet the top of your head soothingly as she watched your lips move around her fingers while you sucked them. Your tongue slid between and around them, and Wanda smiled down at you adoringly.

“Your pussy always tastes so nice and sweet, baby. Good girl, licking it off of mama.” She kissed your cheek over and over then slipped your fingers out of your mouth.

Wanda lifted your head and adjusted your body so you could suckle from her. She caressed the side of your face and brought her stiff nipple to your lips. She closed her eyes and let out a soft moan when you latched onto her and sucked softly.

“That’s good…” She looked down at you, continuing to stroke the side of your head. “Mmm…”

You loved doing this with Wanda. She looked so beautiful when she looked down at you, and she regarded you so warmly, making you feel so taken care of. She would hold you in her arms like this while you soothed yourself with her nipple, and the look of pleasure on her face made you feel so special.

She let out a little gasp as the tip of your tongue came out and teased at her bud, and Wanda brought your head closer to her breast, her head thrown back slightly as you flicked and rubbed your tongue against her.

You looked up at her innocently, watching as your mama moaned above you. Her thighs rubbed together at the corner of your eye, and she reached a hand down and pulled her underwear off. She brought her hand up to tease at her other nipple, her finger flicking at it then rolling it between her fingers.

She pulled you off her breast carefully.

“Okay, baby…” she spoke, slightly breathless. “Now the other one.” She adjusted the two of you slightly and brought your lips to her nipple again.

“Ah… Mmm, good girl…” Wanda cooed when you immediately latched onto her. “Such a soft tongue my little girl has.” She looked down at you, holding eye contact as you suckled from her.

She carefully took your hand, interlacing her fingers with yours as you continued, feeling your heart rate go down, your body practically melting into Wanda’s arms and her soft bed sheets.

From the corner of your eye, you could see Wanda’s legs spread slightly, and she brought your hand down between her thighs. She let go of your hand and guided your fingers to her pussy.

“You make mommy feel so excited, honey,” she purred before the pads of your fingers met with her warm folds that you all but slipped through with how wet she was. She guided your fingers up and down her pussy, her hips rolling forward and back ever so slightly. “You and your sweet little mouth…”

Her thumb ran against your bottom lip gently, then, with her hand, carefully removed her nipple from your mouth. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your lips.

When you pushed your fingers through her labia and pressed against her opening, you felt Wanda’s warm breath exhale against your lips as she moaned. You rubbed circles against her wet opening, feeling it clench against the pads of your fingers.

“I need your mouth, honey,” Wanda said, her voice sounding low and raspy. “Are you going to be a good girl and give mommy your tongue?”

“Am I going to make mommy feel good too?” you asked, looking up at her.

Wanda smiled down at you and stroked your cheek with her thumb. “That’s right, sweetheart. You’re going to make mama feel really good… But you need to follow my instructions, because only special girls can do this for their mamas.”

You nodded obediently. “Okay, mama. I can do it. I’m a special girl,” you told her, feeling determined.

She kissed your lips softly then got onto her back, helping you up and slowly leading you downwards. “That’s a good girl…” she said, slightly breathless.

As you descended, you laid your eyes on Wanda’s pussy, her thighs laying on your shoulders, spread open for you. You could smell her arousal and you recalled how her taste differed from your own. You felt yourself begin to salivate.

“Open your mouth, sweetheart. Let me see your tongue,” she instructed. Her hand came to the back of your head, leading you closer to her.

When your little pink tongue stuck out, Wanda brought your head a bit closer, and you ran your tongue through her slit, parting soft sticky folds. The tip of your tongue poked at her opening when you licked her, making Wanda whimper softly.

You looked up at her shyly when you went in for another lick, her flavour spreading across your tongue.

“You’re doing so good, honey… Just like that,” she encouraged.

At the sight of her above you, her hips twitchrd upwards as her back began to arch slightly. You pushed your head further between her thighs and wrapped your lips around her pussy. Your tongue dipped through her soft folds and pressed against her opening, running up to brush against her clit.

Wanda’s hand tightened your hair into a ball at the back of your head and secured your face against her cunt. Her head fell back and she let out a long relieved moan. Her thighs adjusted atop of your shoulders and they squeezed against the side of your head.

“Mama needs this, baby. Good girl,” she encouraged as you lapped at her.

Your tongue smoothed out and steadied, lapping at her rhythmically. She listened to your wet lapping against her and the soft slurps from your lips.

“Eat mama’s pussy just like that… So sweet and slow,” she cooed, rubbing the pads of her fingers against the back of your head.

Above you, Wanda was beginning to turn into a mess of whimpers, her eyes squeezed shut and her hair curling against her damp forehead.

“Oh, fuck, babygirl… You’re making me feel so…” Her head lolled to the side and a sharp whimper passed her parted lips. Her hips began rolling against your mouth, and you stiffened your tongue, nudging it up only slightly when you wanted to press against her clit.

Otherwise, she rolled herself against your stiffened tongue so it pushed through her folds and against her opening, then back up to graze her clit.

“Ah, yeah, baby,” Wanda panted out between breaths, her other hand coming down to take hold of your hair. “I’m gonna come, sweetheart…”

Her thighs squeezed around your head, her ankles linked behind your back with her heel digging against your lower spine. Her back arched and her head was thrown back, her hair dropping from around her shoulders to her sheets. Her collarbone and soft neck were revealed, flushed a subtle pink from how warm her body was.

Wanda always made you feel so special when you ate her out, the way she spread her legs for you and praised you for how well you were doing. You were special and did such a good job just for being you.

It wasn’t scary to be with Wanda or in trying to make her feel good; she loved spending time with you and being touched by you. Everything you did with her was enough — you were never less than, never failing, never out of place.

With Wanda, you always belonged, and she took care of you no matter what state you felt you were in when you finally found time together.

Her body relaxed, her back meeting the sheets as she exhaled with a huff. Her thighs relaxed from around your head and you could hear how she was panting.

“Oh, honey…” she groaned tiredly. She slid her legs from your shoulders and looked down at you with a hazy smile. You felt your heart pick up its pace at the sight of her, a tenderness spreading down your chest and into your stomach like warm maple syrup.

She reached down and pushed the hair from your face with the tip of her middle and ring fingers, admiring your innocent little face, glistening from the mouth down.

“Come up so mama can give you some kisses,” she said. She cupped your cheek and kept it there as you crawled up her body and nestled yourself against her.

You turned your back to her so she could hold you from behind, and Wanda immediately wrapped her arms around you and kissed your neck before taking a deep inhale.

“Mama…” you giggled. Your knees came up to your stomach so you could wiggle around in a ball as mommy tickled your side and gave you plenty of pecks.

“Oh, honey, you are the sweetest…”

Peck.

“Smartest…”

Peck. Peck.

“Most amazing little girl in the whole entire world.”

You kicked your feet a little as Wanda’s kisses tickled your neck while her fingers tickled your side, eliciting a flurry of giggles from you.

“Silly girl. You have a sticky face,” she said, stopping her tickles to wipe your face with her hand. She then lifted herself onto her elbow to reach down and kiss your lips.

You quickly turned in her arms and buried your face in her chest. Wanda looked down the bed to gather her sheets and brought them up to your shoulders.

“You are so special, my sweetest little angel…” Wanda murmured against your ear and rubbing your back.

Tears inexplicably sprung in your eyes at the care she was giving you, and you couldn’t help but let out a whimper.

Wanda just kept rubbing your back and kissing your head and temple occasionally. She went into more detail of how work and the divorce had been going, just so you could listen and not have to talk about yourself; she knew school had you feeling a little overwhelmed, and that you were such a good listener.

When you seemed more laidback, and your responses had turned into little hums of affirmations, Wanda asked you, “Have you been doing alright lately, sweetheart?”

“I’ve just been really overwhelmed and tired,” you answered, not feeling pressured or upset in sharing how you’ve been. Before, it was hard, reminding you only of all your problems, and now, you were simply… talking to Wanda.

It was just Wanda, like it always was when you were together.

“It suddenly caught up to me. I realized that all I’ve been doing is studying and eating on campus to study during meals, then going home right after, and waking up to study all over again.”

Wanda kissed your forehead. “It must be hard, baby. You’ve been working so hard…”

You nodded. “I really want all of this to be over,” you muttered into her chest, feeling more resigned than miserable.

“I know. Soon, honey.”

Since neither of you had dinner, you spent a few minutes in bed discussing what to eat and getting occasionally distracted when Wanda kept teasing you — she knew all too well how ticklish you were, and she truly couldn’t help herself.

You and Wanda decided on ordering takeout because you wanted Chinese food and she wasn’t any good at making it. Back up in the bedroom after the food arrived, you and Wanda had dinner with a movie playing on her laptop.

Wrapped up in her clothes, you savoured the feeling of being with her — not needing to be or do anything but share dinner with her while leaning against her shoulder.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked, looking down at you with a gentle smile.

You looked up and met her eyes, nodding.

“I feel much better,” you said.

She kissed the top of your head, and everything else besides just you and Wanda melted away for a while.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut #elizabeth olsen

383 notes · View notes

papercranesandinkstains · 1 day ago

Text

Midnights

Summary: You guys never could get your timing right. Or could you?

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

AN: This is the first time I have ever published a written fic, so please please please be kind. I don't know if I will leave this up or if I will do more, but I just wanted to try it out... Thank you for reading!

Masterlist

The two of you had been playing this game for long enough. The back and forth. Committing your hearts to one another, then jumping and running the second the rain started. Waiting for the storm to subside and then your phone would light up late at night, sending you right back down the rabbit hole that always seemed to land you right back in his bed, skin pressed together and air filled with unspoken promises that the two of you had finally gotten it right.

You never had.

But the idea was warm, like most dreams are. Tangled up through years of almost confessions and jealous rages, but by the time the stars settled in the sky, the two of you would be right back where you always were. In love, but not. Together, but alone. Committed to keeping the other for yourselves, but not willing to take the final plunge.

That’s how you found yourself tonight, red cup pressed into the palm of your hand as your lips curl up into a small smile while you pretend you are listening to the very animated story John B is giving you by the fire. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to listen. You found John B quite entertaining under normal circumstances and with the little comments sprinkled in from JJ and the warmth from the beer in your hand, you would normally be a giggling fool tripping over your feet to hear more.

Maybe you would have been if you hadn’t seen him walk in, all smug smiles and blue eyes as he makes his way around the party. He’s careful to move around your group. Not that you notice. Okay, you do notice. You always do. That’s his plan all along. After yet another argument about him not knowing how to actually apologize with his words instead of the ghost of his lips in the middle of the night, you had sworn you were done.

You were done.

He’s the one who showed up in the stupid blue button up you had gotten him for his birthday lifetimes ago, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and buttons undone knowing how you felt about how it made his eyes stand out. You’d have to be blind to not catch the watch wrapped snugly around his wrist, silver and flickering by the firelight with the unmistakable carving of your initials on the side of it. He was doing it on purpose. You knew he would play dirty. He always did. Avoiding you so that you would have to be the one to make the first move no matter who was in the wrong- even if it was almost always him.

So, you were ignoring him back. The glances you snuck in his direction were because you were still a girl at the end of the day. Enjoying the sight of him and caving were two very different things. Rafe Cameron is beautiful. He knows it. To make it worse, he knows you know it. You can’t let him win. Not this time. The longest the two of you have held out is three days.

Tonight is day four.

Your eyes leave his face again, turning your sight back to John B who just rolls his eyes playfully and dodges a stick that Kiara throws at him for some obscene comment he made when you were too busy staring at your- When you were busy staring at Rafe.

The beer is warm on your tongue, a little gross but just enough to keep your attention off of the way Rafe throws his head back to laugh at something Topper is saying to him, hand finding his shoulder. After the time you have spent away from each other, watching his fingers land on anybody else drops a stone in your stomach. He’s like a drug and you never really noticed how addicted you are until his hands aren’t on you. The cup in your hand is drained in an instant, earning you a cheer from JJ, who nudges your shoulder and effectively drops your cup right out of your hand.

“JJ, what the fuck. I was-”

“If you need another drink, baby, I’d be more than willing to help you out.”

You straighten up as the deep voice pops up from behind you, pressed so closely behind you that you can almost feel the words rattling around in his chest. You don’t turn around. Instead, you stand and watch as JJ makes a not-so apologetic face before he is shaking his head and grabbing John B, promises of keg stands and staying out of “relationship drama”.

As if you could even call it that.

Still, your chest floods with a warmth only he can give you. Not that you would let him know that. Especially not when you are still trying to prove a point. You’re stronger than him. Rafe Cameron is used to batting his eyelashes and getting what he wants. It’s no surprise when you finally turn yourself around and meet his eyes that what he has decided he wants is you.

“I’m all good,” you say quickly with the flash of a polite smile.

He smirks at you, tilting his head in that stupidly arrogant way that makes you unsure if you want to strangle him or marry him. He holds out a wine cooler to you, glass bottle extended out like a peace offering. It’s his way of apologizing. Coming over to you at a party is a first, but this isn’t. Gifts instead of him actually admitting that he was wrong. You won’t fall for it. No matter how nicely the light of the fire catches his face or how good he smells.

You just raise an eyebrow at him, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s a challenge. You both know that, and usually he would be ticking his jaw and throwing you over his shoulder. He hadn’t exactly made his affections for you a secret in public, one too many punches landing on the bodies of boys who hadn’t quite gotten the memo you were spoken for. Not that you could blame them. You never got one either.

Instead, he puts the bottle down on the log your friends had abandoned to give you space and wipes his hands off on his jeans. The two of you stand like that for a moment, ignoring the curious glances and quiet whispers of the crowds around you. You two weren’t strangers to the occasional public standoff, but those usually entailed the two of you just yelling at each other. Neither of you says anything. Just a staredown to see who is going to break first.

It’s always you. You had a weakness for pretty boys with soft smiles reserved just for you. Danger wrapped up in selective kindness that only found itself extended to you. You fell for it every time, and everyone knows you’ll fall for it again this time. It’s just a matter of when.

For the first time, he beats you to the punch.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, “I’ll give it to you. You know I will.”

The scoff is slipping through your lips before he finishes his sentence, partially in disbelief at him actually making the first move and the rest because he is standing in front of you again beating around the bush and not just owning his shit.

“There’s nothing you have that I want.”

The smile that breaks across is genuine, blue eyes shining in the darkness, and it makes your heart stop for just a second. Just a second. You won’t be broken by a pretty smile. Plenty of people smile. Your face flushing is because of the heat crackling beside you, not because of your- whatever he is.

“I’d say lying isn’t cute on you, but then I would be lying. Everything looks good on you. I would look even better-”

You shove at his chest, giving him a glare as you glance around at the ears that have perked up around you. You flip the first set of eyes you catch off, middle finger lingering in the air and earning a chuckle from the boy in front of you when the stranger turns away in embarrassment.

“What do you want, Rafe?”

You're tired of it now. The back and forth. He is doing exactly what he always does, and the space hasn’t changed anything. You know this isn’t how things should be. You need to get out of this before your resolve crumbles. You aren’t asking for a miracle, but the longer you stand this close to him, a miracle would be what they need to get you off of him.

“You.”

Quick. Simple. Said without thinking, and in a breath that sounds so sure that your heart soars. You allow it a second before you are snatching it back, shaking your head as you continue to stare at him.

“You’ve had me long enough.”

Your shoulder knocks into his as you brush past him, finally tearing your eyes away and setting your sights on the parking lot. You came to have a nice night, and you are about two seconds away from jumping his bones or jumping off a bridge.

Warm fingers wrap around your wrist, touch feather-light but grounding. You don’t turn around to look at him. Your resolve is breaking fast, and if you look at him for a second longer, you will forget about the apology you are wanting. He has a way of bringing you in, and you always let him.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, giving your wrist a slight tug. He wants you to look at him, but you don’t give in. “That I’m sorry? I am. I’m sorry. I never wanted to make you feel like I’m not in this.”

Your shoulders drop, teeth biting into the inside of your lip. Tears are burning in your eyes, cheeks burning as the alcohol and his words both settle into your being. It’s an apology. Not a good one, but a first. Are firsts ever really good? You aren’t too sure as your mind focuses on the way his thumb traces a circle over your wrist.

“Or do you want me to say that I love you?”

You are stumbling away from him, snatching your wrist back against your chest, cradling it like his words sliced it somehow. Your eyes find him, searching for the punchline. He just looks back at you, eyes soft in a way that they only ever are for you in the safety of his bed. Never in public.

“Because I do,” he says.

You just stare at him, mouth open as you try to find something to say. You want to scream at him. Your palms itch to reach down and throw the sand underneath your feet at him. He can’t just meet your radio silence with his own for four days after the two of you have gone back and forth for so long and then stand here and confess at a party full of people you don’t even really know.

“You’re being mean.”

He shakes his head at your words, taking a step towards you. It’s just a little one, but when you allow it, suddenly he is standing inches from you. Blue eyes are staring down at you and suddenly the rest of the party is gone.

“I love you,” he says the words this time, “I’m tired of not saying it. Calling this what it is.”

“And what exactly do you think this is?”

The tone of your voice cuts through all of the warmth you are feeling. It’s too warm. You are going to melt standing here and you aren’t even standing next to the fire anymore. He’s too close. You two don’t do this. Feelings? Barely when you are alone. In public? Not happening.

Well, maybe not before. Tonight is different.

“You’re mine,” his voice is firm. “You just have to let yourself be.”

His hand finds yours again, pulling your wrist out of your palm and entangling your hands together. His fingers slide into yours like they have a million times. Maybe they have. He’s let it slip before that you were made for him, but it’s moments like these where you think maybe he could be made for you.

He’s right. You are his. You always have been. The two of you have run from each other for so long that you aren’t sure you actually know how to stop. He is standing in front of you, holding your hand and offering you exactly what you have always wanted. The ache in your chest is deep, heart rate thundering in your ears, but for the first time, your feet are planted underneath you.

“You can’t take it back.”

His laugh floods you with warmth, the ache in your chest settling as he tugs you forward, free hand coming to rest on the back of your neck. You are surrounded by him, his forehead touching yours as he breathes you in for what feels like the first time in a lifetime and you find that you aren’t dreading the morning already.

For the first time, the two of you are really standing together and nobody is walking away.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And when your lips touch his, you find yourself thinking that maybe this is what forever can feel like.

#rafe cameron x reader #obx #obx rafe cameron #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe x y/n #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe outer banks #outerbanks rafe #outerbanks #outer banks

249 notes · View notes

kaiserboom · 2 days ago

Text

౨ৎ boyfriend! eren: the type to slap himself if you told him you had a dream of him cheating on you. "eren I just saw you kissing someone in my dream." "BABE NO!"

౨ৎ boyfriend! eren: when he cold he likes to slip his hands underneath your shirt.

౨ৎ boyfriend! armin: he a huge nerd. once you were simply talking to someone else. and he suddenly butted in to correct something you apparently said "wrong". "is a cereal a soup?" and out of nowhere he correcting you for twelve hour straight. "actually not a soup because- blah blah"

౨ৎ boyfriend! armin: he the type to do this trend with you.

౨ৎ boyfriend! connie: he the type to play pranks on you. "hey take this Oreo" and you look at him suspiciously but you take a bite. suddenly you gag when you realized the Oreo cream is toothpaste. he burst out laughing "GAHHH!! AHAHA"

౨ৎ boyfriend! connie: he talks about you to everyone. even if the topic had nothing to do with you. "ok Connie lets start cleaning" Eren glances at Connie and then adds "go pick that box" and when he reaches to pick a box. he suddenly exclaims "oh my gosh! this box is the same one in y/n's room! talking about y/n did I tell you-" and everyone groans, knowing what's coming next.

౨ৎ boyfriend! jean: he loves trying to rage bait you. even if it doesn't work all of the time. but he figures it doesn't hurt to at least try. "I put the muffins in the freezer by the way" and you stare at him blankly "ok.. this your house.. why would I care?"

౨ৎ boyfriend! jean: you once caught him watching those ai short movies on tiktok that never have an part two. "what you doing?-" he stares at you. raising a finger to his lips. "shhh! I'm trying watch a princess find her soulmate!"

౨ৎ boyfriend! macro: every time you feel slightly upset, he knows exactly how to make you feel better. "hey it's fine. lets sit down and watch a movie!"

౨ৎ boyfriend! macro: he the type to sometimes not like what you like, but agrees to it anyways- "oh lets get these chips" and you sigh "aw? really ?..I wanted ice cream.." he turns towards where the ice-cream is. with a smile. "sure! then ice-cream it is!'

౨ৎ boyfriend! Reiner: doesn't understand simple slangs AT ALL. "hey Reiner srry idek when I'll be home sorry!" and he texts you back "huh? what is "srry and idek?" and you would response with "sorry and I don't even know" he quickly sends a "I don't know as well? that's why I'm asking you." you try to explain "Reiner no-" and he just keeps scratching his head clearly still lost.

౨ৎ boyfriend! Reiner: he tries to be romantic but ends up being corny "I like your eyes" and you smile at him "Aww thanks" and he opens he mouth to say something else. but ends up saying the most dumbest thing you ever heard. "they remind me of a car" and you look at him dumbfounded "what?" and he grins and shrugs "it's cause I like cars!"

౨ৎ boyfriend! bertolt: one time you two were sharing a bed, dozing off peacefully. suddenly he stretches his tall legs and kicks you off the bed- and has the guts to say "y/n... why are you on the floor?" while looking at you calmy.

౨ৎ boyfriend! bertolt: when you can't reach something from a high shelf, he eagerly steps in to help. he reaches up confidently, flexing his height but in his haste. he accidentally drops what he was trying grab on your head. you shoot him a look "watch it!" and he looks at you sheepishly "oops.."

౨ৎ boyfriend! levi: if your not clean. he quick to kick you out of his house- no questions asked, He doesn't care if you, Sasha and Connie were playing in the rain. your still not coming in his house. "stay out" and you just shiver "levi?!" slams the door in your face.

౨ৎ boyfriend! levi: his ears turn pink when he blushes. "are you blushing lev?" and he shoots a simple glare in your direction. "no, piss off" and you just giggle "your ears are pink!"

౨ৎ boyfriend! erwin: conversation with him are so plain or either super random. "hii erwin! missed you" and he replies back with a "ok. miss you to," "*sent 3 attachments*" and your so confused why he sent attachments of him eating bread with butter.

౨ৎ boyfriend! erwin: is an "ok" "bye" "I love you" kind of guy, straightforward and bold, not an "okay!" "goodbye!" "ily/love you" kind of guy- who gets really hyper and bubbly.

190 notes · View notes

zorosgirlfriend · 2 days ago

Note

Hii! I'm new here! I had an idea, thought you'd like it

You're on the Thousand Sunny, and Hiyori can't seem to stop talking about Zoro. She's always finding excuses to be near him, asking for his advice on sword fighting, and giggling at his gruff responses.

As you watch her fawn over Zoro, you start to feel a pang of jealousy. You try to brush it off, but Hiyori's behavior is getting on your nerves. Zoro himself seems oblivious to her affections, but you can't help but feel a little possessive.

One day, Hiyori asks Zoro to teach her a new sword technique, and as they practice together, she's practically clinging to his arm and You can't take it anymore..

And I wanted to ask if you write about other characters too like katakuri, king or others?

here it is! hehe i tried my best 😅. i might think about writing for other characters too! but for now i only write for the monster trio, sorry for any inconveniences!

Roronoa Zoro ~ !! Sharp Edges, Softer Hearts.

warnings: it's a bit suggestive at the end. mentions of sanji

masterlist and rules || have fun reading!

The sun bathed the Thousand Sunny in a warm afternoon glow.

Waves lapping gently against the ship’s hull,

As laughter drifted from the deck.

But you?

You weren’t laughing.

Not when Hiyori had spent the entire morning giggling at Zoro.

Like he was the funniest man alive,

Gruff responses and all.

She was trailing after him again,

Asking question after question about swordsmanship,

Despite barely being able to lift a blade.

And to Zoro’s credit…

He didn’t seem to notice.

But you did.

You leaned against the railing,

Arms crossed,

Biting the inside of your cheek.

As you watched Hiyori lean in closer than necessary.

She was practically touching his arm now,

Watching his every move like he held all the answers to the universe.

“Zoro,”

She said sweetly,

“Can you show me that move again? I think I need help with my grip…”

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt.

Zoro blinked,

Shifting his grip on the sword,

Oblivious as ever.

“You’re holding it wrong. You’ll lose your fingers if you keep being sloppy.”

And she giggled.

Again.

You exhaled sharply through your nose and turned away.

Trying to ignore the knot in your chest.

It’s fine.

Totally fine.

She’s a princess,

She’s polite,

And Zoro’s just… Zoro.

He wouldn’t-

"y/n."

You turned at the sound of his voice,

Startled to find him already walking toward you.

Hiyori pouted in the background,

Clearly disappointed her lesson had been cut short.

“What?”

You asked,

Trying not to sound as irritated as you felt.

Zoro stopped in front of you,

Swords slung over his back,

Brow slightly furrowed.

“You good? You’ve been staring off like you’re gonna fight the mast.”

You blinked.

“I’m fine.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That ‘fine’ sounded a lot like Sanji’s when he burns the stew and lies about it.”

You huffed,

Turning your gaze to the sea.

“It’s nothing. Go back to teaching Princess Hiyori how to hold a sword or whatever.”

Zoro was quiet for a beat.

“…You jealous or something?”

Your eyes snapped back to him.

“W-What?! No! I just—she’s clinging to you like a sea barnacle!”

He blinked,

Then looked vaguely to where Hiyori still lingered.

“Huh. Didn’t really notice.”

“Of course you didn’t,”

You muttered.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You’re cute when you’re mad.”

You blushed,

Swatting at him.

“I’m not mad. Just… mildly irritated.”

He stepped closer.

“Tch. You’ve got nothing to worry about. She’s a friend. I’m not interested in anyone else.”

Your heart jumped.

“Really?”

Zoro leaned in until his forehead touched yours,

His hand brushing against your waist in a rare and careful gesture.

“Yeah. You think I’d let just anyone see my sword forms up close? You’re the only one who knows how messy they really are.”

You laughed softly,

Cheeks still warm.

“I just didn’t like how close she was getting.”

“I didn’t either,”

He said bluntly,

Surprising you.

“Didn’t want her that close.”

You looked up at him.

“So… you’ll stop sparring with her?”

He sighed.

“If it bothers you, yeah. But she might cry.”

You smirked.

“Then you can hide behind me when she does.”

He snorted,

Pulling you gently into his chest.

“Deal. But next time you’re jealous, just say something. I’m not a mind reader.”

You nodded against him.

“Noted.”

And just like that, the weight in your chest lifted,

Replaced by the steady thump of Zoro’s heart against your ear.

He wasn’t good with words,

But this.

His warmth, his presence, his honesty.

Was just enough for you.

#one piece x reader #one piece zoro #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #one piece roronoa zoro

177 notes · View notes

gyugraphy · 1 day ago

Text

psyche (1)

— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."

— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader

— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression

— word count. 5.1k

⋆˙⟡

“Strange called,” Christine Palmer said, not looking up from her tablet.

You glanced in her direction but didn’t respond. You felt like there isn't anything worth saying. Instead, you focused on the soft, familiar sounds around you—the quiet clatter of metal instruments being cleaned at the nearby sterilization station, the steady shuffle of footsteps on polished hospital floors. A monitor beeped somewhere down the hall, keeping time in the way only machines could. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, that you never really noticed, added to the background noise.

In the corner, a few patients sat hunched in plastic chairs, wrapped in hospital blankets that offered more symbolism than warmth. Their faces were drawn, tired, a mix of exhaustion and quiet anxiety. Some waited for scans, others for pain relief, a few just for answers that might never come tonight. They all shared the same energy, that tension that lived in the bones of everyone who passed through the ER after dark. You knew it well.

You were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago—your shift technically ended at midnight—but no one really left on time in this place. The ER didn’t care about schedules. It held you in its grip until it was ready to let go, and sometimes, not even then. Not when a life could still slip through the cracks—because of a missed bleed, a bad stitch, or the wrong word spoken at the worst possible time.

Christine tapped her screen a few times, then added, “Apparently, Bucky Barnes asked him to help find a psychiatrist.”

That made you pause, your fingers hesitating on the chart you were holding. Still, you didn’t look up. The case wasn’t serious—just a minor injury with a straightforward treatment plan. You met Christine’s gaze briefly, then looked back down, eyes scanning through lines of notes more out of habit than need.

“You know I’m not practicing anymore,” you muttered. “Psychiatry, I mean.”

Christine leaned a hip against the counter beside you, folding her arms. “Since when? You’re double-boarded. And don’t give me the ‘I’m just a surgeon now’ line. I’ve heard it too many times to believe it.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a preference,” you said, your voice flat. “Organs are a lot simpler than people's minds.”

“Sure,” she said, the sarcasm thin but present. “You can cut them open, take out what’s broken, sew them back up, and call it a day. But that’s not why you switched.”

Your hands stilled mid-note. The chart blurred for a moment, your pen hovering above the page.

“Tell Barnes to find someone else.”

“Actually, he didn’t call,” Christine said quietly. “Strange didn’t either.”

You looked up, and she turned the tablet toward you.

“They just sent me this.”

Your name was there in bold, black text at the top of the screen—accompanied by layers of encrypted clearance codes, redacted fields, and a formal request for psychiatric consultation. It wasn’t just a note. It was government-level. Serious. Sealed. No fluff. No context. No diagnosis.

Just one name buried in the lines of classified language.

Robert Reynolds.

You stared at it. The name carved through you like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and deep. Your chest went tight. Not with fear exactly, though it wasn’t far off. Christine watched you too carefully now.

You said the name aloud, almost to yourself. “Reynolds. Sentry? The Void? The man who turned Manhattan into literal shadows?”

Christine’s voice softened. “He’ll could probably eat you alive,” she said. “Whoever it is. You know that.”

You didn’t answer. You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside you. You reached for the gloves on your hands, peeled them off one by one, and tossed them into the biohazard bin beside the counter. The silence between you stretched.

“You’re not going to do it,” Christine said, trying for a steadier voice. “Right?”

But you were already moving. You grabbed your coat, your badge, and turned toward the hallway that led to the staff exit.

“Right?!” Christine repeated, this time louder. You only waved her off by raising one hand as you continued to walk.

Christine sighed under her breath, watching you go.

“Oh, she’s in trouble,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

⋆˙⟡

The city didn’t feel real when you stepped outside.

Maybe it was the late hour. Or the way the streetlights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a dim, unnatural gold. The sidewalk gleamed with recent rain, and the night air clung to your skin—cool, damp, electric. Maybe it was just the words still echoing in your mind.

Bob Reynolds.

You heard that name before—not whispered behind closed doors, not even in passing. People avoided it deliberately, like saying it out loud might stir something sleeping. Might invite the dark back in.

He doesn’t need containment. He needs healing.

That was what the message had said.

But you knew what it really meant. You could read between the encrypted lines. Reynolds wasn’t just unstable—he was a ticking bomb they didn’t know how to disarm. He wasn’t a patient; he was a problem no one wanted to admit they couldn’t fix.

They were looking for someone to step into the fire and hope they didn’t burn.

You had no intention of being that someone.

Not anymore.

It was just past two in the morning when the elevator doors slid open on the surgical floor. Most of the hospital was asleep or pretending to be. You were still on your feet—finishing post-op notes in the nurses’ station, trying to tether yourself to something routine. The soft tap of keys, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the distant echo of an intercom down the corridor. These were the things that kept you grounded when your hands weren’t cutting. When your mind threatened to drift.

The hallway was quiet. Empty.

And then, something shifted.

You didn’t hear him at first. You felt him. A subtle change in pressure. A ripple through the air, like the building itself had gone tense.

You looked up.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost. Dressed in black, that metal arm catching the flickering light overhead. Expression unreadable. Posture coiled.

Your fingers hovered over the tablet.

“Subtle,” you said dryly.

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not here to make a scene.”

“You’re five seconds from getting tackled by security.”

“I turned off the cameras on this floor.”

Of course he did.

You sighed and slid the tablet aside. “You could’ve sent a message.”

“You would’ve ignored it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You stood, slowly. Kept a polite amount of distance between you. “You want a consult.”

“No,” he said. “I want you.”

That gave you pause. He saw it.

“I read your work,” he continued. “The old stuff. Before you scrubbed it. Neural pathway immersion. Psychogenic structure mapping. Entering the subconscious. Rewriting trauma loops from the inside.”

You kept your expression still. “That research was never meant for clinical application.”

“It saved people.”

“No, it delayed their collapse. That’s not the same thing.”

He took a step closer. “You walked into the mind of a patient mid-psychotic break and helped him walk back out.”

“That patient relapsed two weeks later. Nearly took out his care team with him.”

“But he lived,” Bucky said. “That’s more than Reynolds has right now.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.

“So let me get this straight,” you said, voice cool. “You want me to crawl into the mind of the most powerful bipolar the world’s ever known? A man who once turned half of Manhattan into literal shadows? You want me to walk into that and—what? Talk him down?”

“He’s not just the Void.”

“No. But the Void is part of him. You don’t separate the two.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“He’s trying, okay? He’s lucid. Or close to it. He’s afraid of what he’s done. He wants to be better—but no one can reach him. They’ve all stopped trying. Except me.”

You studied him then. Not just his words, but everything else—the tight set of his shoulders, the wear in his eyes, the quiet tremor under all that steel. This wasn’t just a mission for him.

“You care about him.”

His breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to be controlled by something inside you. Something you didn’t choose. Something you hate.” His voice cracked just a little. “So yeah. I care.”

You looked away. The floor felt suddenly distant under your feet.

“I’m not a miracle worker, Barnes. I’m not some psychic surgeon. I can’t promise I won’t make things worse.”

He hesitated. “Would you try… if he asked you himself?”

That stopped you.

Your throat went dry.

“You think he wants me?”

“I think he’s afraid of you,” Bucky said. “Which is exactly why I think he needs you the most.”

You exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that emptied your lungs and still didn’t feel like enough.

The name echoed again in your mind like a wound reopening.

Robert Reynolds.

You crossed your arms instinctively, bracing against the words. Against everything they meant. You weren’t ready to say yes—but you couldn’t walk away yet. Not when the puzzle Bucky had thrown at you was already rattling around in your mind like a loose coin.

"Tell me more about him," you said, before you could second-guess yourself.

Bucky blinked, clearly expecting you to brush him off, maybe even shut him down. But you hadn’t done that. Not yet.

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice as if the air itself might carry his words further than he wanted. "Bob... he's not what you think."

You could feel the weight in the silence between you, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant beeping from another part of the Tower, but it felt miles away. The shift in Bucky’s voice wasn’t a demand. It was a plea—one you weren’t sure you could ignore.

"He's always been complicated," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Sentry and the Void aren’t easy to separate."

Bucky nodded slowly. “I know. But right now? He’s more fractured than ever. The Void doesn’t just come out and take over anymore. It’s... it’s slipping into him, little pieces at a time. He doesn’t know where the man ends and the monster begins.”

You stared at him, thinking of everything you’d heard about Bob over the past few months—the whispers, the rumors, the stories that came with living in a world of meta-humans. The Sentry, a hero with the power of a god, the man who’d nearly torn apart the world itself in a breakdown. The Void, a primal force of destruction that had no regard for morality or life.

But hearing the weight of that confusion in Bucky’s voice was new. And it unsettled you more than it should have.

"Where is he?" you asked, voice quieter now.

"He’s here, in New York," Bucky said, his eyes flicking away. "Living on the same floor as the rest of the Thunderbolts— or the new Avengers. We’re all on the top level of Avengers Tower, trying to keep him from... from himself."

You blinked. Here? With the Thunderbolts? In Avengers Tower? That was... an entirely new layer to the situation. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the fact that Bob Reynolds was living under the same roof as some of the most dangerous people on the planet or the fact that you’d just been asked to walk into his mind.

“How is that even... manageable?” You asked the question, but you weren’t sure if you were asking Bucky or yourself.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "We try to keep him grounded. When he’s not... when he’s lucid, he’s like any other person. He talks about everything—sports, movies, some of the stuff that made him happy before everything broke down." He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. "But the minute he starts spiraling, it all goes wrong. The Void starts leaking through the cracks. And it’s not just him anymore. He reflects everyone else’s fears. He mirrors them. It’s like we’re all living in his nightmare when that happens."

The implications hit you like a truck. A man who could turn his fear into destructive power was now having his own breakdown while everyone around him became collateral damage.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Bucky’s words settle deep in your chest. “Is anyone else in danger?”

Bucky hesitated. “Not unless we provoke him. But... it’s getting harder to contain. We don’t know what he might do when he finally snaps, and we can’t keep him isolated forever. Not without breaking him completely.”

You shook your head, barely processing the words. Living with the Thunderbolts? This wasn’t just a clinical case anymore. This was a man in desperate need of help who could bring the whole team down with him if things went sideways. And you were being asked to wade into the heart of it.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Bucky. “You want me to just walk into his mind, face whatever twisted version of reality he’s experiencing, and fix it? I’m not a magician.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do something like that,” Bucky pressed, voice low but insistent. “You helped people when it seemed like no one else could. Even when it wasn’t perfect, they stayed alive. And you’re the only person who can actually get in there, see it from the inside. No one else has that ability. No one else can.”

You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling sharply. Your mind spun. This wasn’t just about fixing someone. This was about getting close to a raw, broken mind—an unstable mind that could tear apart everything around it if pushed too far. You’d been in this position before. You’d seen minds crumble and break. You’d been the one to pull them back—but not without a price.

“Why me, Bucky?” you said, the question finally spilling out. “You know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not some miracle worker. I can’t promise I won’t make it worse.”

Bucky’s expression softened. “Because you’re the one who never gave up on the people everyone else walked away from. You see them. Really see them—without the fear, without the labels. You don’t treat people like they’re lost causes. You treat them like they’re still worth saving.”

You took a step back, your chest tightening. You’d made it clear years ago that you wouldn’t practice psychiatry anymore. You weren’t the kind of person who specialized in people’s mental health, not when it carried so much emotional weight, not when the cost was too high.

"He's afraid of himself," Bucky said, almost as if he were reading your thoughts. "He’s terrified that he’s going to lose himself again, that the Void is going to take him completely. But there’s still some part of Bob in there. He wants to be better. He wants to make it stop. I know he does."

You swallowed. “So where does that leave me?”

Bucky stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “I need you to help him. Not fix him. Just help him understand he’s still in control—if he is. If there’s still a way to reach him before it’s too late.”

You closed your eyes again, the pressure in your chest rising. But when you opened them, Bucky was still there, his gaze steady, waiting for something.

And you knew, despite everything, you were already halfway in. Even if you didn’t want to be.

⋆˙⟡

The Avengers Tower loomed like a monument against the night sky, its gleaming windows reflecting the city lights below. As you stepped inside, the difference hit you immediately. It wasn’t the usual cold, sterile atmosphere of hospitals or military facilities. No, this place was warmer—not in temperature, but in feel. It had a kind of lived-in quality you weren’t expecting. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of old books and worn leather furniture. Shoes were scattered by the door, someone’s guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, and someone had scratched “Yelena was here, losers” into the corner of the counter.

"This is the Thunderbolts' floor," Bucky said as he swiped the access panel, letting you both pass through. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a quiet sort of pride—or maybe wariness. "It’s... a work in progress."

You raised an eyebrow. “A rehab wing for ticking time bombs?”

Bucky gave a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”

The elevator doors opened to a wide living area that was surprisingly quiet, dimly lit. The hum of music thudded faintly from another room, but the space itself was calm—almost peaceful. You noticed how the walls weren’t bare and cold like the rest of the building had been. Bookshelves lined the walls, mismatched furniture sat comfortably in corners, and discarded snack wrappers sat on the coffee table. It didn’t feel like a headquarters for elite soldiers and heroes; it felt more like... home.

Before you could take it all in, a voice rang out, piercing through the quiet.

“Bucky!” The voice was sharp, teasing. “Who’s the new blood?”

You turned to see Yelena Belova striding toward you. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants, her braid half undone, and a crooked grin on her face, she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. She took a long look at you, her grin widening.

“She’s not mine,” Bucky said quickly, as if almost to assure you—or himself.

Yelena shot him a knowing glance. "Pity," she said, her grin only growing wider. Then, her eyes shifted to you. “I’m guessing you’re here to meet Bob?”

Bob. That nickname.

You nodded, but you could feel the weight of Yelena’s gaze. Her expression shifted slightly, and you didn’t miss the subtle change. It wasn’t fear, but something much more calculated—like someone who knew the danger that came with being in close proximity to a ticking time bomb, and what could happen if that bomb ever went off. There was wariness in her eyes now, something you hadn’t expected after the teasing remark.

Bucky didn’t miss it either. “I’m bringing her to meet him.”

At the mention of Bob Reynolds, Yelena’s expression changed again. Her playful smile slipped just a fraction, and the playful tone in her voice dimmed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a kind of guarded understanding, before finally speaking.

“Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying an edge. “He’s a bit sweet. Until he’s not.”

You paused, the weight of her words sinking in. Sweet. Until he’s not. That one sentence sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the name Bob Reynolds before, the Sentry, the Void—the rumors about his mind and his power were legendary. But this? This was a whole different level of complication. Sweet until he’s not. You couldn’t ignore the warning, not when you were about to walk into that very storm.

Bucky stepped forward, breaking the moment of quiet tension. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll be with you. You’re not going in alone.”

You didn’t say anything right away, your mind already racing. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or more uneasy now that you had confirmation Bucky would be there. It didn’t make it less dangerous.

“Thanks,” you finally said, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for yet. Maybe it was just for getting you this far.

Yelena took a step back, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just saying,” she added casually, “you don’t have to rush in. No one will blame you if you need a minute to run.”

You chuckled lightly, though the humor didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Right,” you said, your voice tight, “I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”

Bucky didn’t linger, turning toward a door at the far end of the room. It was heavy, imposing. You could tell this wasn’t just any door; it was the kind that kept the more... unpredictable things behind it. Bob Reynolds, the man who had lived through the collapse of his own mind, who carried the weight of the Void in him. You had an idea of what kind of danger he represented, but standing in this place, it felt much closer than you had ever imagined.

“Ready?” Bucky asked, looking over his shoulder. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe it was concern, maybe it was just routine. Either way, it didn’t settle your nerves.

You took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the truth of them slip through your fingers. This wasn’t about being ready. This was about what you could handle when everything fell apart. You didn’t have any illusions about how this might go.

With a quiet hum, Bucky led the way to the door. You followed, feeling a kind of coldness creep into your limbs despite the warmth of the room around you. Whatever was waiting behind that door wasn’t just about Bob Reynolds. It was about everything that had led him to this moment. The Sentry. The Void. The man who had been both savior and destroyer. And now you were about to walk into that darkness.

The door to Bob’s room was slightly ajar when you arrived, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.

Inside, Bob sat at the edge of the bed, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His blonde hair was a little too long, and his shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the last few hours—or days. He was staring at the floor as though it might somehow provide answers to whatever was going on in his head.

When you stepped inside, his eyes flickered up to you. The movement was slow, almost as if it took him effort to pull himself away from whatever was haunting him in the depths of his mind. And then—he blinked.

“Oh,” he said, the word soft and distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Bucky stepped forward, giving you a glance before offering the introduction. “This is her,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “The one we talked about.”

Bob stood, his movements awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who could break cities—but he moved like someone terrified of knocking something over, of breaking something fragile.

“You’re… the mind walker,” he said quietly, his voice low, tentative.

You nodded, crossing the room slowly to close the distance. “And you’re the man with the monster inside him.”

Bob’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and uncertain. “Guess we both come with warnings,” he muttered, the humor in his voice strained but there all the same.

The air in the room felt thicker now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. You studied him for a moment longer, the tension building like an unspoken agreement that neither of you could escape. You stepped closer. Without saying anything more, you both sank into the floor, sitting cross-legged across from each other. The distance between you was minimal, just your knees nearly brushing. But it was enough to feel the tension crackling in the air between you.

“I need your permission,” you said softly. “To go in.”

Bob didn’t hesitate, though his eyes were dark with uncertainty. He nodded once, the smallest motion.

You closed your eyes.

At first, there was nothing. Calm. His mind opened before you like a gate, as if it was letting you in—but something was wrong. Behind that gate, you could feel a storm building, growing, ready to unleash.

And then—

You were in.

It was worse than you had expected. The space around you was dark, twisting. The architecture was impossible—floating staircases, walls that screamed, mirrors that bled shadows. It felt like a mind split in two: one side terrified, the other hunting. The chaos was dizzying, the sensation of being swallowed whole by something far larger than you.

And then you felt it.

Something massive, coiling around the core of his mind. It was there, lurking. Watching you.

The Void.

It turned its head, and you felt its eyes on you—it smiled.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” it whispered, its voice like shards of glass scraping against your skull.

Pain bloomed instantly. A searing throb behind your eyes. Your nose started to bleed, the pressure inside your head unbearable.

“Get out,” Bob’s voice said, faint, distant—not the Void’s. “Get out now!”

And before you could even process the command, your body snapped back. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air, choking on it as blood dripped from your nose. You blinked, disoriented, and found yourself back in the room with Bob.

He stumbled backward, pale, his breath ragged, eyes wide with fear. “You saw it,” he said, his voice trembling.

You wiped the blood from your face and sat back, trying to catch your breath. “I felt it,” you said quietly, the weight of the experience still heavy in your chest.

Bob’s eyes searched your face, his expression torn. “Did it… did it touch you?”

You shook your head slowly. “No. But it came close. Too close.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would go after you.”

You exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of the Void’s presence. “We’re not ready,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “We need to know each other first. Establish a connection before diving into something like that.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, like you had said something that didn’t quite register in his mind. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something there—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that you could give him something he’d lost. Something he didn’t think he could ever get back.

“Okay,” he said softly, as if testing the words. “We can… get coffee or something.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Let’s start with daylight.”

Later, back in the common room, you nursed a pounding headache and a steaming cup of tea. Yelena was sprawled across the couch, her feet resting on the armrest, eyes half-closed. Her gaze flickered over to Bob, who lingered just inside the doorway, watching you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away.

Yelena’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. She lowered her voice, but you could still hear the teasing note in it. “Someone’s got a crush.”

Bob’s face flushed instantly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “I do not,” he muttered, like a kid caught in the act.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her smirk turning smug.

For the first time all day, you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of lightheartedness you hadn’t felt since stepping into this mess, and it felt like a small, precious thing in the middle of all the chaos.

You finished your tea, Yelena stretched across the couch like she owned the place, eyes flicking between you and Bob with far too much interest. Bob hovered by the doorway, visibly trying to gather the nerve to speak, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy.

You stood, brushing off your hands. The day had been long, and you were more than ready to go.

Just as you stepped toward the elevator, Bob moved quickly, blurting, “Uh—wait!”

You turned to him, surprised.

He looked like he instantly regretted speaking so loud. “I just—uh, I think we should talk again. Tomorrow. If you want. About… you know. Everything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Where?”

Bob blinked. “I—uh, I don’t actually know where you work…”

You let out a breath. “Metro-General Hospital”

His eyes lit with recognition. “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be there. I’ll wait until your shift’s over.”

You studied him for a second. He was tall and intimidating by most standards, but right now he looked like someone nervously asking their crush to prom.

“Okay,” you said, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you then.”

Bob nodded too many times. “Cool. Good. Great. Okay.”

You stepped into the elevator. As the doors started to slide shut, you heard Yelena’s voice behind you—lazy and far too entertained.

“She said yes, Romeo,” she drawled. “You can breathe now.”

Bob muttered something unintelligible.

Yelena’s laughter echoed down the hall just before the elevator doors closed. You shook your head, grinning to yourself.

Tomorrow was going to be something.

⋆˙⟡

The Sanctum-like glow of protective wards hummed low along the ceiling as Stephen Strange poured tea into two mismatched cups. The room they were in wasn’t grand — no spell-casting library or mystical relic chamber — just a quiet observation lounge. It had a clear view of the city below, and right now, the skyline looked distant and unbothered by the storm they were preparing for.

Wanda Maximoff stood by the window, arms crossed. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.

“You didn’t tell them everything,” she said without looking back.

Strange let out a quiet sigh as he set the teapot down. “I told them what they needed to hear.”

“No,” she said, turning slowly. “You told them just enough to believe this was still safe.”

Strange didn’t flinch under her stare. He simply raised his cup and sipped.

“She’s walking into a fractured mind with something ancient wrapped around its spine. The Void doesn’t just destroy—he consumes. She’s not just risking injury. She’s risking... unmaking.”

He nodded, gently. “I know.”

Wanda stepped closer. “So why send her?”

“She’s not like us,” Strange said.

Wanda frowned. “That’s not a reason.”

He looked up at her, finally setting the cup down. “It is. You, me, even Charles—we bring power, force, structure. She brings something else. She listens. She understands how to walk with someone in their madness, not just force them out of it.”

Wanda studied him for a moment, then said, quieter, “What’s the best-case scenario?”

“She reaches Reynolds. Helps him stabilize. Creates a bridge between him and the monster he’s trying to cage. If she succeeds… the Void stays dormant.”

“And the worst?”

Strange was quiet for a long moment.

“If the Void latches onto her,” he said finally, “we lose both of them.”

Wanda looked down.

“She doesn’t know how dangerous she really is, does she?” she asked.

Strange gave a faint, unreadable smile.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: Let us all pretend Wanda is very alive for the sake of this fic! Part 2 will most likely be posted this weekend (or later, i have work during weekdays). Comment or dm me if u wanna be included in the taglist for part 2 <3

#bob reynolds x y/n #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #thunderbolts au #thunderbolts x reader #bob reynolds #bob thunderbolts #sentry x y/n #sentry x reader #lewis pullman #bob reynolds x reader #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts imagine #mcu fanfic #mcu au #mcu oc #mcu x reader #yelena belova #bucky barnes

265 notes · View notes

satorus-princess · 2 days ago

Text

epiphany

synopsis: the moment jjk men realise that they are in love with you.

characters: gojo, geto, nanami, ino

a/n: guys i struggle to write geto so much please tell me if he's ooc also ino is so precious <33

ˋ°•*⁀➷ satoru doesn't allow himself to fall in love easily, not with his fears of losing those that he cherishes most. in all honesty, he was even afraid to ask you out on a date - not because he was scared of rejection, but because of what the future would do to him. life has never been kind to him, after all.

sweaty hands hesitant to reach for yours, an infinity of his fears that was separate from his infinity technique, preventing him from becoming too affectionate with you. a constant longing in his eyes that formed from his fervent desire to let himself get close to you, to let you come close to him. but he couldn't, not when letting you get close to him means you inching closer to death because you'd become a target.

so, when he realises that he's no longer fearful, he also realises that his fondness for you is no longer something fragile. it's something powerful, unbreakable, yet almost foreign. and if anyone dared to look in your direction in the wrong way, he wouldn't hesitate to take their life.

patience and understanding is all that you have ever shown him, never critical of him keeping his distance or being too reluctant. he needs time, to trust, to know that he's safe, to share some of his silent burdens. it's difficult when he was brought up with the instilled idea that he's different from everyone else.

but he isn't. he's human, too. and that's how you always make him feel. a human capable of love. and he loves you. willing to place his unguarded heart into the palms of your gentle, careful hands.

even with his red, puffy, vulnerable eyes, runny nose, and trembling lips, you still look at him with so much warmth and... is that love he sees peeking in your eyes?

ˋ°•*⁀➷ geto isn't easily impressed. he doesn't bother to, well, bother with anyone without reason. except for his daughters, of course. there's nothing more he loves in the world than them

it's hard to find someone he trusts them with while he's doing his usual cult business, sometimes not wanting his girls to be around for that.

over time, though, he found that he was beginning to trust you. not only were you a good assistant, but you were also good with the girls. you'd watch them and make sure they're happy while geto is in his "meetings". and eventually, he couldn't suppress the affection he felt towards you no longer, deciding to give you a chance.

and fuck, was he glad that he did.

otherwise he would've missed out on moments like this - the three of you sit on the sofa in front of the tv which plays some disney film (one with a rapunzel or something like that, which is where they got the idea to braid geto's hair and weave colourful flowers into it). nanako is tucked into your right side and mimiko on your left. the screen flashes onto your sleeping faces.

his heart practically melts at the sight as he quietly steps over the nail polish bottles and bracelet-making set sprawled on the floor. he dismisses the mess, leaning down to press a kiss to each of your foreheads. he could get used to coming home to this.

you stir awake, squinting an eye open to find geto standing in front of you with a softened smile, natural and sincere, as he carefully tucks the blanket around all of you.

“hey, you're back,” you murmur. you dig into the pocket of your hoodie, pulling out a beaded bracelet with letters on it. “the girls made one for all of us. it's all of our initials on each bracelet.” and oh, he couldn't stop thinking about how much he ached to change your initials.

geto never took off that bracelet, making sure to never lose it. and he also made sure to never lose one of his girls, including you.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ nanami has always been enamoured by you. he's never believed in love at first sight because, despite catching his attention when you first met, his feelings towards you gradually grew. from your first day when you bumped into him and almost spilt coffee on him, which ended up on your blouse instead. and he, thankfully, had a spare shirt that he offered for you to wear.

he does, however, believe in fate because of you.

because how could one read him so well and fit with him so perfectly as if your souls are already intertwined? he knows he isn't the most expressive person, but you still manage to know what he's thinking, what he needs.

he also viewed himself as an independent person, used to not having another person in his space and cooking for one. but he grew accustomed to your presence relatively fast. you brought such light into his life - not a bright, blinding light that one might think; more like the soft glow of a lighthouse, guiding him through the monotonous, sometimes stormy, days.

he began to find himself craving your company. his heart aches in a way it never has before and he doesn't remember the last time he cared about someone to this extent. or if he ever even cared about someone this much. with his busy schedule and focus on work so that he can finally retire, he didn't really have or make much time for anything personal. until you, of course.

and he doesn't see you as an obstruction to his life plans; you complement them. he's able to spend time with you and focus on his work at the same time because you keep him company while he works, bring him homemade food which he'll always eat even if you aren't the best of cooks. and when you fall asleep on his lap in his chair, head resting on his shoulder, he can't help but smile tenderly. he feels his heart pick up pace - unusual for him - and he realises that perhaps everything is worth it because of you, for you.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ ino, such a lovesick puppy. he's been in love with you since the two of you were only best friends, but he doesn't even realise he's in love until long after. sure, he had a crush on you and he's aware of that, but your heart captured him unknowingly over time.

he had the brightest smile, putting the sun to shame, when you agreed to go on a date with him. and then, a second, and another, and another. he'd go back to his dorm feeling giddy, heart warm and fluttery like a hummingbird, mind racing with thoughts of only you and where to take you on the next date. and he would already be texting you about another date.

one of your favourite places to go to together was the park in the evening so that it was mostly empty. he sat with his legs crossed, leaning back on one of his hands as the other hand feeds you crisps. your head lies on his thigh, legs outstretched along the grass. he's gazing down at you, his heart totally not threatening to jump out of his chest.

and it's one of the many moments that he makes you laugh and you're almost tearing up with giggles, and oh my god, i made her laugh. and since when did your eyes look like they were created from the prettiest of jewels? and your smile, your smile. it's directed at him. those smile lines pierce right through his chest and become engraved into his heart.

he loves your laugh, your eyes, your smile. he loves you.

oh, i love her.

“i've been waiting for you to say that for so long,” an angel speaks.

oh. no, it's you. and he realises he might have accidentally let the confession slip out. he was so caught up in his daze he didn't notice the world around him - or even himself, for that matter. his focus was only on you, his angel.

“... did i say that out loud?”

256 notes · View notes

mintyys-blog · 20 hours ago

Note

I just re-watched the last season of Invincible, and little Oliver trying to keep his mom safe had me in my feelings lol.

Could you write something for the Mark variants where, during the attack, they come looking for the reader. Maybe to kill her or use as a tool to hurt the main!Mark?

Only find the reader and main!Mark's child is trying to stop them from hurting his pregnant momma. The reader is of course trying to stop her son, but the kid has his father's hero complex and morals.

Thank you so much in advance!!!!!! 😭😭🩵🩵🩵

MY HERO | mark grayson x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: mention of killing, pregnancy

Your son stood in front of you like a wall made of hope and heartbreak. Small fists clenched. Knees shaking. Face set in the same stubborn line his father used to wear before launching into fights he shouldn’t win.

Eight versions of that same face stared him down.

Each one twisted. Broken. Wrong.

“You don’t scare me,” your son said, voice thin but sharp.

Mohawk Mark grinned wide, a gleam of something unhinged in his eyes. “You should be scared, kid. You’re not built for this.”

“I won’t let you hurt her.”

“You will, actually,” Mohawk said, stepping forward. “You’ll let me. Because I’m gonna put you down so fast—your mom won’t even finish screaming before you hit the dirt.”

“Touch him,” you said, voice like cracked glass, “and I swear—”

“What?” Mohawk chuckled. “You gonna cry me to death?”

Sinister Mark didn’t even laugh. He was staring at you like you were already dead. “We kill them both. Clean sweep. No variables. No leverage. Just quiet.”

“He’s a child,” you said.

“He’s a risk,” Sinister snapped. “And you’re the root of it.”

“She’s pregnant,” Viltrumite Mark interrupted, his tone flat. Unbothered. “She lives. That’s all that matters.”

“He’s her child too,” Sinister growled.

“I don’t care about the boy,” Viltrumite Mark said, arms folded, gaze locked on your stomach. “The fetus has Viltrumite blood. That makes it valuable. She’s the container. That’s all.”

Your son flinched at that. You felt it like a knife.

“She’s not a thing,” he said. “She’s my mom.”

“Cute,” said Maskless Mark, rubbing the back of his neck like this was all just tiresome. “But none of this matters if someone makes a decision.”

Prisoner Mark stepped forward, watching you. He didn’t look angry. Just resigned. “We’re wasting time. Kill the boy. Take the woman.”

Omni Mark said nothing. He hovered behind the others, watching. Waiting. Detached.

Target Mark was pacing, annoyed. “If we keep arguing, someone else is going to find them first.”

“He’s slowing her down,” Sinister said. “The kid’s an anchor. Kill him, she moves quicker.”

“And risk the fetus?” Viltrumite Mark shot back.

“He’s not even Viltrumite.”

“He’s a memory,” Prisoner said. “A weakness.”

Your son glanced up at you. Scared, but steady. “I’m not leaving you.”

And maybe they thought the debate meant you were frozen. That the fear had rooted you there like a statue.

But fear wasn’t the only thing in your veins.

You moved while they were still arguing—hands snatching your son’s, legs burning as you ran. You darted through the chaos before it could collapse, your son nearly airborne behind you.

None of them expected it. Not really.

Viltrumite Mark shouted something, but he didn’t follow—he didn’t care about the boy.

They could crush mountains. Shatter planets. But they couldn’t stop you from running for your children.

Your lungs burned. Your legs screamed. But you didn’t stop. Your son’s hand clutched yours so tight it hurt, but he didn’t let go either—just like his father.

Behind you, the sound of eight fractured gods arguing over your fate echoed through the rubble. Words like “expendable,” “risk,” “valuable” were flung around like shrapnel.

None of them saw you as a person. Except maybe your son. Except maybe your Mark. And right now, you needed him more than ever.

Sinister Mark’s voice cut through the noise like a blade: “She’s running. They’re running!”

“They won’t get far,” Prisoner Mark growled.

“Enough!” Viltrumite Mark snapped. “If the fetus is harmed, I’ll kill every one of you myself.”

But then the air shifted.

A faint, electric buzz tickled the back of your neck—like static before a storm. Your son felt it too, glancing up just as a shimmer of violet-blue energy blinked into existence in front of you.

“Mom—?”

Cecil, no warning, just a grimace and a portable teleport beacon in hand. His voice was urgent and cold.

“Don’t stop. Come now.”

You didn’t question it. You threw your arm around your son and all but dove into the energy field. You heard Sinister Mark scream your name like a curse just as the light swallowed you whole— And then you were gone.

The warehouse was sterile. Cold. Safe.

You stumbled as the light faded, nearly collapsing, your son clinging to your side.

“Are you—Mom! Are you okay?!” he asked, panicked.

You nodded, breathless, holding him so tight it hurt. “I’m okay—I’m okay, baby. You’re okay.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cecil muttered, lowering the beacon. “I got there just in time. They were—”

“Where is he?” you gasped. “Mark—my Mark—”

“Right here.”

You turned.

He was already running.

His hair was a mess, eyes red-rimmed from either battle or fear, hands still shaking as he caught you in his arms.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, burying his face in your hair. “You’re okay—you and the baby—”

Your son threw himself into the hug, and Mark wrapped him up, too, holding the both of you like you were made of light and glass and everything he never thought he’d hold again.

“I tried to protect her,” your son mumbled, voice small.

“I know you did,” Mark said, holding the back of his head. “You did so good, buddy. I’m so proud of you.”

“I thought they were gonna kill her…”

“They didn’t,” Mark said, voice darkening. “Because they didn’t get the chance.”

Your hand found his jaw, guiding his eyes back to yours. “They’re still out there, Mark.”

“I know.” His voice dropped, hard and heavy. “And I’ll stop them.”

You nodded, forehead to his. “Then we’ll stop them together.”

Cecil cleared his throat. “Let’s let the pregnant woman breathe before we make battle plans.”

Mark held you tighter, kissing your temple. “I promise I won’t let them touch either of you.”

#mark grayson x reader #x reader #reader insert

193 notes · View notes

azonewithu · 3 days ago

Text

Stop it Anya. Im honna watch one of ur bad ass movies. Nonone needs to see uiu iyn a bonnet again. Whetes ur bonnet here? Theyll do Emma. Trillion times thats a sign to God, that naybe this experiment should end. Dont listen yo yhe fuck ass english about anything. Those ate somd if tge suffuest stupidest people on earth. Their word meabs just about nothing to me. Look at even their queen. No im oussed st her. Not enough to call pierre and toast her ass with cancer. We cast something for her. With all the flack she was getting then that. I fekt bsd but i defend some people some times Anya ehen i probably shouldnt have bothered. Then theyre nit yhe underdog anymore they forget me. Like i never helped at all. Not a thank you nothing. Thats thrm though if uoubantiwues roadshow and yiure a grnius like me you can tell something is gravely wrong with their souls. Their not nice people who are saps too avterrible combination. Again not all. But theyre all a littke like that. Cold saps tgecworst kind of people. Ill expkain in kne sentence as usual. They get. All weepy essy over anybsapoy stupid story but they tresy people like shit in reality generally. Its just weird to me. Emmas nor do much like that. Her condition makes her care a lol more thsn your abersfe cold ass fucon lymie. I sm a escist everykne is anya wherher thry wabt yo sfmit it or not. Even black oeople are racists. Everyones a fucking racist 100 percent of people. We sll have a race we font mix well wiyh. Thats God. Trying uo bring us around. English have always got on my nerves. Ive dvrspped a few of them and beat thrir asses fastervthsn anykne else they cant scrsp those dsinty ool fuckers. They used to be tough as hell. Skinny lil english woukd kick your assa not no more. I think they wanna be americans now. Its about tslking yough abd actually being a fyvon pussy ass wimp. I eon every fight o ever got in with an american. Not at sll in yhe leadt but tough. Pyssies like fucon bad. Any duelers ??? I admitted to killing i girget how many of their somdiers a lot. Not obe if them will stand up gor thrmsrlves or the peopleni ckearly killed. Thsts weak. I dont resoect your people because if that mainly alone.

Emma. (2020) dir. Autumn de Wilde

724 notes · View notes

sturnsblogs · 1 day ago

Text

DEBATE DAY

Loser!Matt X Popular!Reader

Word count- 1626.

Warnings- Mattitude.

You knew something was off the moment you walked into class and the desks were rearranged.

Instead of neat rows, they were grouped—boys on one side, girls on the other. Dead giveaway.

You groan internally. This can only mean one thing.

Your teacher, Ms. Carver, stands in front of the whiteboard, practically vibrating with excitement like she’s about to host a game show instead of teach critical thinking.

“Okay, people,” she says with a clap, “today is something a little different. Welcome to Debate Day!”

The classroom erupts in a mix of groans and sarcastic claps. You drop into your seat next to one of your usual friends, already regretting breathing today.

Of course, Matt slides into the seat directly across from you.

Of course, he leans back in his chair like none of this affects him.

You force yourself to look away.

Ms. Carver writes the word SEXISM in huge letters on the board like it’s a trending hashtag. You already know where this is going.

“Today’s debate topic is a real one. Something that affects every single person in this room, whether you admit it or not. So let’s talk about it.”

She underlines the word.

“Is modern society more sexist toward women—or toward men?”

The room instantly buzzes with uncomfortable noise.

“Now—before anyone starts yelling or canceling each other—this is meant to be respectful. This is not a Twitter thread, people. It’s a discussion.”

You feel your stomach twist.

You already know how this is going to go. You’ve been in classes like this before. The boys will say stuff like ‘men can’t cry’ or ‘no one cares about male mental health’, and the girls will fight tooth and nail about double standards, fear, expectations, and how exhausting it is to always be perfect but never too much.

And everyone will leave angrier than they started.

“To keep things balanced,” Ms. Carver says, “I’ve already assigned sides. Boys will argue that men are more discriminated against. Girls will argue that women still face more oppression. You don’t have to personally agree with your side—just argue it well.”

You exchange a glance with the girl next to you. She’s already rolling her eyes.

And then your gaze flickers back to Matt.

He hasn’t reacted at all. No expression. Just sitting there like a statue, eyes half-lidded, one silver ring tapping rhythmically against his notebook.

“You’ll get ten minutes to prepare,” Ms. Carver continues. “Use facts, personal experience, whatever. I want to hear real conversation, not regurgitated TikToks. Let’s go.”

The classroom divides in movement and noise. People start whispering ideas, grabbing notebooks, pulling out their phones to Google stats. You feel the buzz of chaos all around you.

But the air feels weird. Off.

Because Matt’s still just sitting there. And when you look up, he’s already looking at you.

Not in a flirty way. Not even in a smug, “I’m gonna win this debate” way.

He’s looking at you like he already knows how this is gonna go.

And for some reason, it makes your jaw clench.

Because suddenly you want to win.

You want to make your point heard. And you want to make him hear it.

Even if he doesn’t want to.

Even if he acts like he’s above all of this.

Because if he thinks he’s walking out of this debate without hearing what it’s like to be a girl in this school, with these people, in this body?

He’s dead wrong.

—

The classroom feels like a match waiting to be struck.

You’re surrounded by your side—girls mumbling ideas like double standards, workplace harassment, dress codes, catcalling. Someone pulls up an article on their phone, another scribbles out a list of “talking points” like it’s war prep. You nod along, throw in a few things. Your voice works, but your brain’s somewhere else.

Across the room, the boys are a scattered mess—half-joking, half-serious. You hear one of them mumble something about “girls get free drinks just for existing.” Another says, “Yeah, and if a guy cries he gets made fun of—how’s that fair?”

It’s a mess. Everyone’s talking, but no one’s really listening.

Except Matt.

He hasn’t said a single thing. Just stares at the desk like he’s already figured out the whole debate and doesn’t care enough to say it.

Until Ms. Carver claps once, sharply.

“Alright! Let’s start. Who’s going first?”

A few girls raise their hands. You speak up first. You always do.

“I’ll go.”

You stand, smooth your skirt, and keep your voice even.

“Girls are taught to be perfect before they’re even taught to be people. We’re expected to look a certain way, act a certain way, speak in this weird soft, polite tone so we don’t ‘intimidate’ anyone. Half of us are scared to walk home alone at night, and the other half pretend we’re not.”

A few girls snap or murmur “exactly”. You keep going.

“We get judged for wearing too much makeup. Then judged for wearing none. We’re called dramatic when we cry, fake when we don’t. Meanwhile, a guy shows basic emotion and people treat it like a miracle. Like congratulations, you felt something.”

A couple boys laugh under their breath, but it’s not mean—it’s more like “okay, fair.”

But then…

“Sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”

You blink.

It’s Matt.

His voice cuts through the air like a blade—quiet but sharp. Everyone turns. Even Ms. Carver looks stunned that he actually spoke.

You stare at him.

“Excuse me?”

He shifts in his seat, finally looking at you fully. Eyes unreadable. Voice low but steady.

“Not saying you’re wrong. Just saying, if your whole personality is based on how people treat you, maybe the problem’s not just them.”

The room goes dead quiet.

Your jaw clenches.

“Wow. Thank you for mansplaining my life. You wanna tell me how periods work next?”

A couple people snort. But Matt doesn’t react. He just shrugs.

“You’re not even listening. You came in with your whole monologue locked and loaded. You don’t want a debate—you want applause.”

You blink—stung.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you prefer if I sat here and said nothing, like you do in every class?”

Now you’ve both fully locked in. There’s no “boys vs. girls” anymore—just you and him, circling each other like two live wires.

“Maybe I don’t talk because it’s always the same speech. Same buzzwords. Same fake concern. You all want to be pitied and worshipped at the same time.”

You laugh, dry and disbelieving.

“And you want to be ignored but still ‘understood’. Sorry, Matt, but no one’s gonna read your mind just because you’re too emotionally constipated to speak like a human being.”

A few people gasp. A few are loving this.

Ms. Carver tries to step in.

“Alright, let’s—let’s bring it back to—”

But Matt’s already talking again.

“You sit there with your perfect hair and your fake friends and your ten layers of makeup pretending you’re fine, when you’re just as messed up as the rest of us. Probably worse.”

You freeze.

Because that was too close. Too specific. Too true.

He keeps going.

“You spend so much energy being what everyone wants, and then wonder why no one sees the real you.”

Your throat tightens. You want to say something—anything—but your mouth won’t move.

The class is silent now. No one’s whispering. No one’s laughing.

Because this isn’t a debate anymore. This is a breakdown.

You sit down.

Matt doesn’t look at you again. Just leans back in his chair like he didn’t just rip you open in front of everyone.

“Debate’s over,” he mutters, half to himself.

You don’t even realize you’ve stood back up until your chair screeches behind you.

You’re still burning. Your hands shake at your sides, fingers curled in your sleeves, but your voice stays steady—cold.

“You don’t know me,” you say. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

Matt finally looks back up. There’s a hint of something cruel behind his eyes now—not playful. Not teasing. Just sharp.

“I know enough,” he says, voice low and flat. “I know you act like you have it all together, but you’d fall apart if people stopped clapping for five seconds.”

You blink. Then scoff.

“Yeah? And you act like you don’t care, but God forbid someone doesn’t validate your little ‘nobody gets me’ complex. You want people to hate you. You need them to.”

He shrugs once—slowly.

“At least I’m not fake.”

That’s when it turns.

You can feel it. The room shifts—something boiling just under the surface.

And then he says it.

“You’re not confident. You’re just loud enough to distract people from the fact that you probably cry yourself to sleep every night in a house where no one even notices you exist.”

The room gasps. Literally gasps.

You don’t even realize what you’re doing until the words come flying out of your mouth:

“And you’re not deep. You’re just a sad little boy who blames the world for your own shit personality.”

Dead. Silence.

You and Matt are just staring at each other. Neither of you breathing. Neither backing down.

“That’s enough,” Ms. Carver says finally, voice sharp and high. “Both of you—hall. Now.”

You don’t move at first. You can’t.

Matt’s jaw is tight. His hand clenches around the strap of his backpack, like he’s deciding whether to punch the wall or just vanish.

“Out. Now,” Ms. Carver snaps again. “And straight to detention. I’ll write you both up.”

The two of you finally walk toward the door—him slightly ahead this time, even though he keeps glancing back like he’s waiting for you to swing again.

The door slams behind you.

And you don’t say another word.

Even though your heart was pounding in your ears.

A/N- GO TO SLEEP NOW ANON.

139 notes · View notes

bower-quinn · 2 days ago

Text

Where you are is home

Steve x Reader - Fluff, friends to lovers, modern!au Steve is your best friend, but what if... purely hypothetically... you feel more?

The sun over Hawkins hadn’t set yet, but golden light was already creeping through the leaves of the old trees behind the trailer park. You were sitting on the hood of Steve’s BMW – the one he somehow still drove, even though you regularly laughed about how it was basically a moving joke by now.

“Do you think your car will die on its own someday, or do I have to take care of that?” “Disrespectful,” Steve said, chewing on a straw and giving you a mock-offended glare. “This is a classic.” “Classically rusty.” He gave you a playful punch on the arm, and you let out an exaggerated sound, just to grin right after. “You’re such a baby,” he mumbled, leaning back against the windshield and closing his eyes. The wind blew a strand of hair into his face, but he didn’t move it.

That was the thing about the two of you: you didn’t have to say anything. You could be outside somewhere, between trees and chirping crickets, and just… be. You’d been best friends for two years – ever since you’d slipped him chips under the bench during a boring school play. He hadn’t really left your side since. The rumors that you were his latest fling had faded quickly. Like a boring song no one hums anymore. Over time, your friendship had only grown deeper.

He’d taken you on late-night drives, helped you forget your idiot ex (“I almost punched him.” “Come on, Steve, you would've broken your hand!” “But with dignity!”), and you’d helped him write his college applications (“I’m not a college guy.” “You’re just lazy!” “Exactly my point!”) And every time the world felt like too much, one of you was always there. Always.

“Remember when you fell asleep in the kitchen ‘cause you tried to make spaghetti at 3am?” “That was a tactical power nap,” Steve mumbled. “I was waiting for the water to boil.” You laughed – rough and honest. Steve looked at you briefly – just for a moment – but something in his eyes lingered.

“What would I be without you,” he murmured. You felt a lump in your throat. “Probably dead. Or still a terrible cook. A terrible cook with awful taste in music.” “I have fantastic taste in music.” “Steve, your playlist is just Foreigner. Nothing else.” “Romantically speaking, that’s a stroke of genius.” “Romantically speaking, it sucks.”

More laughter. More closeness. And when his head leaned on your shoulder, there was no thunderclap. No explosion. Just a warm, quiet feeling: You loved him. Like a best friend. But also… more.

A few days later, you were sitting with Steve on the roof of his garage. An old wooden ladder, a picnic blanket, two cans of Coke, and a rusty Bluetooth speaker. Your little, crooked paradise.

“Is it sad that this is the highlight of my weekend?” he asked. “No,” you said. “I’m here too.” He grinned – that half-serious grin that hurt if you looked at it too long. “You know you’re irreplaceable, right?” “Obviously,” you replied. “Were you about to confess your undying love?” “God forbid.” A pillow hit your arm. “Robin would’ve declared her eternal love by now. She’s more romantic. And smarter!” “Hey! I successfully built an IKEA cabinet today.” “Steve… I was there. You put the same screw in the wrong place. Twice. Twice, Steve.” “Artistic interpretation!”

Laughter. Deep breaths. Silence.

“You know…,” he suddenly began, “sometimes I feel like I’m missing something. I haven’t dated anyone in over a year. I just want to hang out with you.” You looked at him. “Would you rather go back to dating Cynthia?” “The one who called Chewbacca ‘the roaring bear’? I don’t think so.” You laughed loudly – one of your favorite memories. You’d never forget Steve’s face.

“You need a girlfriend who knows the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars.” “Yeah,” he said softly, leaning closer. “I think I like this. With you. You get me. You know me.” You placed your hand on his. Nothing big. Just… exactly right. His eyes wandered to your face and stayed there.

“You’ve got something,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Eyelash. Make a wish,” he murmured. “I did.” “What was it?” “If I tell you, it won’t come true.” His gaze flickered. “What if I wished for the same thing?”

There it was. A moment. One second. Two. Three. And it passed. Neither of you made the first move. But still, something had changed. The spark that had only lived inside you was suddenly outside, too. Every touch felt like lightning, and you could see it in his eyes – he felt it too.

Those big puppy eyes. So open. So honest. So vulnerable. And still, weeks passed. Weeks full of longing.

One night at his place. The world outside was quiet, but something inside both of you was boiling – something that had stayed silent too long. Steve looked at you – and in his eyes were the words he couldn’t hold in much longer. He’d never been good at hiding anything.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “What do you mean?” “This... almost. This constant almost. Almost kissing. Almost saying how much I want you.” He stepped closer. “I can’t sleep. I only think about you.”

Your heart was racing. “I think about you too,” you whispered.

Then he pulled you into him – not gently. Not carefully. But like someone who’s been in love forever. His mouth found yours, hot and urgent, his hands on your back, under your shirt, pulling, searching – like he had to make sure you were real.

“I want you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Not just now. Every day.” Your fingers ran down his chest, your breath hot on his neck. His grip tightened. He looked at you, half speechless, half overwhelmed.

“You’re everything I want.” When his lips met yours again, there was no more doubt. Only desire – built up over weeks. Months of glances that had never dared to speak. Now, they were screaming. In every touch. Every move. Every trace of skin on skin.

You didn’t fall on each other. You fell into something that had always been there – and finally had the space to catch fire.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington stranger things

120 notes · View notes

lazysoulwriter · 12 hours ago

Text

sand and stardust - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: slowburn, soft nostalgia, Pedro being in love™, behind the scenes of GOT, cultural pride, mentions of fame and fan love, married fluff, portuguese phrases, real soft and romantic. Pedro Pascal x Brazilian!actress

---

You met Pedro in the kind of heat that made your costume stick to your skin. The Dornish sun—well, the set lights pretending to be it—shone harshly against the gold jewelry hanging from your ears, and you remember adjusting your stance for the fifth time while someone off-screen yelled about shadows.

“You alright there?” came his voice, a little raspy, a little teasing.

You turned—and there he was, Oberyn Martell himself, giving you a crooked smile and holding out a bottle of water like he already knew you'd forget to stay hydrated.

“Só se for com você por perto,” you replied before you could stop yourself. (Only if you’re around)

Pedro blinked. “Wait. Was that Portuguese?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “What, the Chilean didn’t expect a Brazilian on set?”

And that was it.

A spark, a crackle, the kind of thing that doesn't burst into flames right away, but smolders for months. Pedro made you laugh between takes. You helped him with lines when he fumbled through Valyrian. He kept showing up early, claiming it was for “professionalism,” but he was always just waiting to catch a glimpse of you first.

By the time the Game of Thrones premiere came around, people noticed how close you were. But you weren’t loud about it. You never needed to be.

Years passed, roles came and went. You both worked on opposite ends of the world sometimes, but your roots were already tangled.

When Pedro got cast in The Mandalorian, he brought you to the set like a good luck charm. When you starred in a critically acclaimed Brazilian film, he showed up in São Paulo with flowers and a front row seat.

Your fans? Ferociously loyal. One Twitter thread called you two “the last real love story in Hollywood,” and someone else made a fancam that used a vintage filter and “Garota de Ipanema” in the background.

“I think they love us more than we do,” you teased once, scrolling through edits as you lay tangled in your shared sheets.

Pedro kissed your bare shoulder, still warm from sleep. “Impossible.”

There were still paparazzi sometimes, invasive headlines when they had nothing better to write. You’d get insecure—about the fame, the way the world looked at you, the pressure of being a “power couple.”

But every time, Pedro would find you, wrap you in his arms, and say something dumb in Portuguese like “minha estrelinha de Dorne” (my little star of Dorne) with the worst accent imaginable. And you'd laugh, because he meant every word.

Your wedding had been quiet. Just family. Just love. Just a Chilean boy and a Brazilian girl who met under fake sun and ended up building something real.

And years later, the fandom still posted your old behind-the-scenes photos like they were proof that soulmates were real.

They weren’t wrong.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

143 notes · View notes

vampz1re · 3 days ago

Text

pairing: Vil x Yuu, Idia x Yuu, Malleus x Yuu, (All onesided)

cw: angst, hurt NO comfort, rejection, reader is called yuu, GN reader, one sided from yuus side then swapped! (tell me if there's anything else..?)

note: Heres part 2 of the last post ! Sorry for the really late posts :( . I swear i'm working on some more there's just been a lot going on ! This might be rushed, disorganized or just like not written good enough 😞💔

word count: 1.2k approximately

VIL SCHOENHEIT —

"Yuu. May I have a moment?"

His voice was polished as ever, but something about it trembled. You turned, finding Vil standing behind you in the corridor outside the ballroom, his usual poise fraying at the edges.

You nodded, although slightly hesitant. "Of course."

He stepped closer, not quite looking at you. "I owe you an apology. For that day. When you confessed."

You swallowed but said nothing, allowing him to continue

"I thought I was protecting myself. My career. My image. But the truth is, I was afraid of the way you made me feel. Vulnerable. Seen."

His eyes finally met yours, and there was no mask this time. Just honesty.

"I care about you. I think I always did. But I was too proud to admit it. And now I am standing here hoping it's not too late."

It was everything you had once wished to hear. But the ache that used to burn in your chest was long gone.

"I did love you, Vil. But I had to let that go. I couldn’t wait forever for you to look at me the way I looked at you."

Vil's breath hitched, and for a brief moment, the ever-composed actor looked heartbreakingly human.

"I understand," he said softly. "And I’m sorry. For not seeing you clearly until now."

You gave a small smile. "You always did have perfect timing. Just... not the right one."

This time, the loss was all his fault.

IDIA SHROUD —

“Yuu. Um… Could I… talk to you?”

You turned from your book slowly, surprised to see Idia standing just inside the library door. His usual hoodie was wrinkled, his hair a faint, unsure flicker of blue. He wasn’t fidgeting like normal. He looked… still. Intentional.

You marked your page. “Sure. What’s up?”

He hesitated, shifting from foot to foot, then walked over like he might bolt at any moment. But he didn’t.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began quietly. “About that day. When you told me you liked me.”

You felt the familiar ache stir in your chest, but you waited, unsure.

“I said something stupid. No — worse than stupid. I told you that you shouldn’t like me. Like I knew better than you. Like I had the right to decide that.”

His voice cracked slightly. He didn’t meet your eyes as he looked around as if the walls were more interesting.

“I was scared. I thought you were too good. I thought… if I let you get close, you’d see everything that’s wrong with me and leave anyway. So I figured I’d just do it first.”

You said nothing. You’d imagined this conversation before, too many times to count.

“I was wrong. I know that now. I liked you then. I still do. And if there’s even a tiny chance…”

You gave him a soft smile, and it stopped him cold.

“Idia. I waited. I hoped. I wanted so badly for you to say what you’re saying now. But eventually, I had to let it go.”

He looked like he’d been unplugged from the world. No glitch. Just grief.

“I get it,” he whispered. “Too late. As usual.”

You nodded, but gently. “It doesn’t mean your feelings don’t matter. They just… came after I needed them most.”

He understood. He had waited to long and the deadline for the ssr moment had long been gone.

MALLEUS DRACONIA —

“Yuu. I have been seeking you.”

You looked up in confusion to find Malleus standing beneath the cherry blossom tree, bathed in moonlight, looking every bit the prince he was. But his eyes were soft, uncertain.

“I wished to speak. If you will allow it.”

You nodded slowly. “Alright.”

He approached, each step deliberate, each word careful.

“When you confessed your heart to me, I did not respond. I let the silence between us speak in my place. I did not understand my own feelings, nor the weight of your vulnerability.”

You remembered. That long, still moment. The cold breeze. The way his gaze had drifted away as if he hadn’t heard.

“I now know what that ache in my chest was. What it still is. I love you, Yuu.”

The world was quiet for a moment, but inside, you felt only stillness. No flutter, no pain — just clarity.

“I loved you,” you said, voice gentle and holding a certain weight. “I waited for something. Anything. But when none came, I learned to stop hoping.”

He bowed his head, as if the air itself had become heavier.

“Another has found your heart.”

You gave a soft nod. “And they gave me what I needed when I felt invisible. I’m sorry.."

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said quietly. “I only regret that I did not speak sooner."

You reached for his hand and gave it a light squeeze, smiling softly - the smile not fully reaching your eyes.

“Thank you for coming. I needed to hear it. Even if it’s too late.."

He nodded once, his expression unreadable, then turned toward the trees — his figure blending into the quiet night as gracefully as he had arrived.

107 notes · View notes

midnight-shadow-cafe · 2 days ago

Note

hi, hope you're doing great !! feel free to ignore this if it makes you uncomfortable !! i would love to see a simon x neurodivergent!reader, maybe she's blunt because she doesn't really get social cues, quiet when happy (it's when she starts talking that something is wrong LOL). anyway i'm projecting ahah love your writing, have a great day love !!!

Tell Me Without Saying It

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Neurodivergent!Reader

Warnings: Sensory overload, emotional dysregulation (non-violent), swearing, misunderstandings, implied neurodivergence, protective Simon, soft comfort themes

Author's Note: Thank you so much for trusting me with this idea. As someone who relates deeply to a reader like this, this was written with so much love and understanding. You are not too much. You are not hard to love. We all have different experiences in this way of life but what matters is that you’re enough and you deserve love.

Summary: You're not always easy to read, but Simon’s learned how to speak your language. Silence means comfort—unless it doesn’t. When you spiral after a sensory overload, he knows just what to do.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The first thing Simon noticed when he got home was that the house was too quiet.

Which didn’t mean much to anyone else. Most people wanted noise to signal life: laughter, a TV humming, the click of a phone being scrolled through. But Simon? He knew the real signs. The real warnings.

Like the silence you made when something was wrong.

Because when you were happy, you didn’t talk much. You just… were. Curled up in your spot on the couch with your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, sipping your drink slowly, not saying much—maybe just humming, blinking slow and content like a cat in sunlight. That was your language. Peace was stillness. Quiet was safety.

But this kind of silence?

This was tension.

He kicked off his boots, set them neatly by the door. No keys jingling. No TV on. No scent of candles or your soft humming or even the tap of your fingers on your phone screen. Just… nothing.

“Love?” he called out softly, dropping his duffel by the stairs.

No answer.

His shoulders stiffened.

Then came the sound—subtle, but there. A quiet thud from the bedroom. Followed by the unmistakable scrape of something hitting the floor and a shaky breath. Not yours. Not really. Yours were always so measured. This one was clipped. Erratic.

He moved without thinking.

——

The door to your shared bedroom was cracked open. And there you were.

On the floor. Not collapsed—you never lost control—but very deliberately sitting in the corner, your knees tucked up to your chest, eyes glassy and jaw clenched hard like you were forcing it shut.

The room was a little messy. Drawers pulled open. A hoodie half-flung across the bed like you’d tried it on and hated how it felt. Socks mismatched on your feet. Your water bottle tipped on its side, leaking onto a notebook.

Simon took in every detail in half a second and dropped to a crouch beside you.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak.

But your fingers twitched once when he got close. He saw that. So he didn’t touch you. Just sat down against the wall beside you, giving you exactly 7 inches of space.

Enough to breathe.

Not enough to be alone.

Your voice, when it came, was hoarse and clipped. “I don’t know why it’s happening. I was fine. And then I wasn’t. Nothing happened. But everything feels like it’s moving too fast, and I hate all my clothes and I can’t fucking—”

You broke off. Bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. Looked away.

Simon nodded slowly. “Alright,” he murmured. “I believe you.”

You swallowed thickly.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Then don’t.”

You flinched, maybe expecting a follow-up. A suggestion. A fix.

But Simon didn’t offer one.

He just sat beside you, quiet. Breathing slow. Letting you match his rhythm if you needed to.

Three minutes passed like that.

Then you whispered, “My shirt felt wrong and then my pants felt worse and I hate that I care but it makes my skin crawl and I tried to change but I didn’t want to change because I liked what I picked this morning but now it feels like someone else picked it for me and I don’t know why I care but I do.”

Simon turned his head just a little, just enough to look at you without crowding.

“I know that feeling.”

You glanced at him, skeptical. “You do not.”

“I do,” he said softly. “Got that way after missions. Couldn’t wear anything tight. Couldn’t be inside sometimes. Felt like my skin was screaming. Couldn’t explain it. Just wanted it all off me. Like I’d been put in someone else’s body.”

You blinked. Your expression cracked.

“…Exactly.”

Simon reached down slowly, brushed his knuckles against the floor. Still didn’t touch you.

“Okay if I get you something soft to wear?”

You nodded, hesitant.

He stood up, moved through the room carefully, like someone walking in a church. Quiet. Respectful.

He found your favorite hoodie—the oversized one with the sleeves that hung past your hands and the tag you’d already cut off—and your soft cotton joggers. No elastic waist. No tightness. Just you.

He brought them back and set them down beside you gently.

You looked at them. Then at him.

“Can you turn around?” you asked.

He turned without hesitation.

Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric. The shuffle of movement. A tiny, whispered sigh of relief.

And then, after a few seconds: “You can look now.”

You weren’t crying. You didn’t cry often. But your eyes were puffy and your breathing was still uneven.

Simon dropped back down beside you.

“I don’t want to explain myself every time this happens,” you muttered suddenly. “I’m tired. I just want it to be. And not feel guilty about it.”

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he said, voice like rough velvet. “Not even me.”

You looked at him sharply, like you were waiting for a catch. But there wasn’t one. Just Simon, steady and quiet, his big frame curled beside you like a dog waiting patiently for the storm to pass.

“I don’t know how to be soft,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to sugarcoat. I say things and people think I’m rude or cold or robotic but I’m just—me. This is what love looks like for me. It’s quiet and blunt and weird. And I’m scared you’ll get tired of that.”

Simon turned fully to face you then, gaze sharp, intense in that way that could shake a lesser person to their bones. But you didn’t flinch. You just held your ground, even in your moment of overwhelm.

“I fell in love with you because of that,” he said firmly. “Not in spite of it.”

Your throat bobbed.

Simon leaned in just a little, eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t sugarcoat,” he said, almost fond now. “You say exactly what you mean. You’re never fake. You’re quiet when you’re happy and loud when you’re hurting. That’s how I know what matters.”

You were quiet again, but this time… soft. The air around you shifted.

Simon reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

He cupped the side of your face, thumb stroking along your jaw.

“Don’t need you to be soft, love,” he murmured. “Need you to be real. That’s who I’m staying for.”

A long pause.

Then, finally—finally—you leaned into him. Tentative at first, then full. Tucked your head under his chin. Let your hands bunch into his hoodie.

He held you. No rocking. No shushing. Just his arms, firm and solid and safe.

After a while, you spoke again. “Thank you.”

Simon rested his cheek on top of your head.

“Anytime,” he said. “Every time.”

——

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

130 notes · View notes

starsinthesky5 · 1 day ago

Note

With the schedule dropping, it got me thinking about how songbird and Joe go about having a game on either one's birthday? Do they celebrate before or after? What happens if they lose and vibes are down? Does Joe ever feel guilty? Cause maybe he has to be away the day before the game and won't come back until the day after. Inlight us queen

a/n: i got carried away with this one :)

wc: 1.5k

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

when her or joe’s birthday falls near a game—especially during the season—it changes things. not in a bad way, just…different. nothing about their lives is simple anymore. birthdays used to mean slow mornings, last-minute plans, surprise dinners just because. now, they’re careful and quiet, gently wrapped around travel schedules, practices, walkthroughs, and media. everything gets penciled in. spontaneity becomes a luxury. and sometimes, the day drifts by like any other, soft and unannounced. but neither of them ever minded. because it was never really about the day—it was about each other. and they always found time for that.

if it’s her birthday close to game day, joe goes into overdrive trying to make her feel like she’s the most important person in the world—even when everything else is demanding his time. it’s not always easy, but he refuses to let her feel like she’s second to the schedule. he plans ahead, sometimes marking a celebration on the calendar a full week early, just to make sure she gets a day that’s hers. he wakes up before the sun, even if it means losing sleep, just to tiptoe around the kitchen in his sweatpants, making her breakfast. he lights a little candle and sticks it into a warm croissant from her favorite bakery—the one across town with no parking and early hours, the one he knows she always craves but never makes time to go to. he gets it before meetings, weaving through traffic in the dark like it’s part of the job.

his gifts are wrapped with the same messy charm every year. he never buys wrapping paper, it’s always whatever was left over from holidays past, shoved in the bottom of his locker by some intern. it’s usually covered in cartoon characters or way-too-festive glitter. he folds the edges wrong, uses too much tape, forgets the card half the time. but she loves it. sometimes he lays everything out in the living room before she even comes downstairs—boxes stacked neatly, favorite candles lit, music humming from the speaker. other times he keeps them hidden, wanting to save the moment until he can give her his full attention, no film study, no playbook in his lap, no buzzing phone. just them.

if he has to be on the road the night before, he doesn’t let the distance dull the day. he calls her from the hotel bed, curled up in stiff white sheets, whispering like she’s beside him. she’s usually on the other end of the screen wrapped in a throw blanket, face bare, hair a little tangled, a candle flickering behind her. and even though the light’s bad and the connection’s spotty, he watches her like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. he always wishes he could reach through the screen, press a kiss to her forehead.

if the game falls on her birthday and she’s at the stadium? he finds her in the stands like a magnet. his eyes are always searching the crowd. her outfit always nods to him—maybe it’s subtle, like her earrings, or loud, like a jacket with his number stitched on the back. and when he makes a big play—something that swings momentum, something that makes the crowd roar—he looks for her. he needs her to have seen it. not because it’s about him, but because it’s her day. he wants to give her something to cheer for.

if they win, he finds her after. always. sometimes she’s in the tunnel, pacing to stay warm, hands stuffed in her pockets. sometimes she’s waiting behind the security line, heart in her throat. but he always gets to her, wraps her up still sweaty and breathless, muttering “happy birthday, baby” like it’s the most important sentence he’s said all day. it’s soft. reverent. a thank-you disguised as a wish. like she’s a miracle he can’t believe is his.

but if they lose? it guts him. joe spirals hard. he stays in his uniform too long, sits in the corner of the locker room with his cleats still on, towel draped around his neck, staring at the floor like he’s failed at something bigger than football. he replays every snap, every misstep, and thinks about how it bled into her day. thinks, you should’ve made it special. you should’ve done better. he texts her even when she’s a hallway away—short things, sad things, “i’m sorry” or “you deserved more,” but she’s already waiting. she’s always waiting.

she sits on the tailgate of her car in the garage, legs swinging, a cupcake she was given by one of the wags balanced in her lap. her coat’s zipped to her chin, cheeks pink from the cold, and she smiles when she sees him—not disappointed, not bitter. just happy he’s coming home. she hugs him before she says anything, tucks herself under his arm like she’s reminding him that he’s hers, win or lose. he hides in her shoulder, breath stuttering, hands cold. and she just holds him. no words, no pressure. just love. like that’s the only thing that matters.

if it’s his birthday, she treats it like a quiet holiday. not because he doesn’t deserve the world, but because she knows he’d never want all the fuss. she’s studied him long enough to know the kind of celebration he’d never ask for but always remember—the small stuff, the thoughtful stuff.

she’ll wake up first, even if it’s early, slipping out of bed just to light a candle and press a kiss to his shoulder before he stirs. she makes his morning shake exactly the way he likes it—creamy, a dash of vanilla—and brings it back to him while he’s still tucked under the covers, hair messy and bed-head like. “happy birthday, sleepyhead,” she’ll whisper, brushing her thumb over the curve of his cheek. he mumbles something back, drowsy and gravel-voiced, tugging her back down beside him like he doesn’t care about anything else yet.

he doesn’t like extravagance, but she still makes it special. if he’s got a home game, she’ll plan something sweet and celebratory for the night before—maybe his favorite dinner, candles flickering low on the table, soft jazz humming from the speaker, and her bare feet tucked under his thigh while they eat. she bakes him a tiny chai-spiced cake, the same way she always has, and he eats it right out of the pan with his fork while she leans against the counter, watching him like she’s storing every little moment away.

if he’s on the road, she gets creative. a handwritten letter in his toiletry bag, sealed with a kiss in his favorite shade of her lipsticks. a polaroid of them tucked into the sleeve of his tablet case. a playlist titled for the birthday boy, filled with songs that remind her of late nights in the car and lazy sunday mornings. she doesn’t tell anyone about it. doesn’t really blast it online. it’s all private, sacred. something that belongs just to him.

and if there’s a game on his birthday? she’s there, no matter what. she gets to the stadium early, takes the same seat, watches the tunnel until she sees him run out. she never demands his attention, but he always finds her in the stands, eyes softening just a little when he sees her. if they win, he comes out of the locker room with damp hair and a half-smile, looking around for her like he always does. and when he spots her? the way he melts, just a little—it’s like that’s when his birthday starts. not the clock striking midnight. not the touchdown he threw. but her. she lets him rest his forehead against hers, breathe her in. “happy birthday, my love,” she murmurs, and he kisses her like she’s the wish he made when he blew out the candle.

but if they lose—if it’s a bad one—he doesn’t want cake or gifts. he just wants her. he walks off the field slow, jaw tight, heart heavy. he doesn’t talk to anyone. doesn’t take his pads off right away. by the time she sees him, he looks like he’s holding the weight of the world across his shoulders. but she’s patient. she waits for the tunnel to clear, then walks straight into his arms. no cameras. no pressure. just him and her. he doesn’t say much on those nights. just clings to her like she’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. and she doesn’t push—just rubs his back, lets him breathe, lets him feel. maybe they drive home in silence, hands laced on the console. maybe she hums softly, filling the space between them with warmth.

there’s no big party. no shouting surprise. but she gives him something better. she gives him peace. a place to land. someone to come home to. and year after year, he’ll quietly admit that it’s the best gift he’s ever been given.

they’ve learned that birthdays can’t always be perfect. sometimes they’re postponed, sometimes they’re barely celebrated at all. but they’ve got this unspoken agreement: no matter what happens on the field, they come home to each other. and somehow, that’s enough. sometimes, that’s everything.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #yail asks #yail #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fic #joe burrow bengals #bengals #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fluff #joeburrow #nfl fan fic #nfl imagine #joey b #cincinnati bengals

91 notes · View notes

wildernessuntothemselves · 3 days ago

Text

Soulmate(s) | Part 4

Genre: smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 9.4k

Summary: In a world where you get the name of your soulmate tattooed on your skin the night you turn 21, there should be no reason to even think about fucking around with anyone else. Why would you when you know that the perfect person who is made just for you is somewhere out there waiting for you to find them?

So how the hell did you end up messing around with your two best friends and what are you going to do if neither of them ends up being your soulmate or worse, what if one of them is your soulmate?

Warnings: fem!reader, soulmates au, this is not a light fic, there will be backstabbing and manipulation, dom!gyu, (not so) dry humping, pussyjob, anal, sexual coercion, cumming all over oc again, the guys are kinda assholes, very sweet moments but also super questionable moments

________________________

The night air was slightly cool—not the kind that had you freezing but the kind that gave you an excuse to tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders and lean into Soobin’s side for warmth. The two of you sat on the hood of his car, parked at your favorite hilltop spot, the city lights below glittering like a sea of stars. It was quiet, save for the soft rustle of trees and the distant hum of the city far beneath you. Up here, it felt like you existed outside of time and place.

Soobin shifts slightly beside you, adjusting the blanket, before glancing around the empty hilltop with suspicion. “You know,” He says, lowering his voice a little, “This is exactly how couples get murdered in documentaries.”

You snap your head towards him, eyes wide. “What?”

He nods solemnly. “Think about it. Secluded hilltop. Car parked in the dark. A young couple cozy under a blanket. Classic serial killer setup.”

You clutch the blanket tighter around you, ignoring how your heart flutters at him calling you a couple. God, how down bad are you? “Soobin! Why would you say that right now?”

He grins, happy he got the response he wanted from you. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll save you.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Really? You would fight off a serial killer?

“First of all, ouch.” He frowns, giving you a playful shove, then declares, “Who said anything about fighting? I’ll sacrifice myself. I’ll scream dramatically and fall off the hood so the serial killer can attack me while you run.”

“Oh my God,” You burst out laughing at how even in his fantasy, the only way he can save you is by making himself the bait. “You’re such a loser.”

“Wrong,” He says, wagging a finger at you. “I’m a hero. That’s different.”

You giggle, leaning back into his side. “So you’ve just accepted you’d be the emotional damage backstory for the final girl?”

“Why not? It's kinda feminist if you think about it.” He props his chin with his fingers thoughtfully, nodding to himself.

You roll your eyes at him, but then an idea pops into your head and you give him an evil smirk. “How do you know I’m not the serial killer? Maybe I planned this whole date out to get you here so I can kill you and throw your body off the cliff.”

“Ohhh, I love a plot twist.” He grins, clapping his hands together, but then his expression quickly turns into a hesitant frown. “You’re not really though, right?”

You shrug, “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

He leans away, mock-horrified. “I knew the blanket sharing was a trap.”

“Too late.” You pounce on him, digging your fingers into his sides and tickling him mercilessly, his loud burst of tortured laughter splitting open the quiet night but you don’t care, there was no one here to judge you and no one to stop you from lingering in this precious bubble a little longer—the bubble where you and Soobin are a normal couple on a normal date and not two parts of a forbidden threeway that is bound to leave at least one of you completely shattered.

“No—stop!” He wheezes, squirming under your grip, his hands scrambling to catch yours. “You're supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side.” You laugh at your own pun, grinning so hard your cheeks ache.

He finally manages to grab your wrists, pinning them to your sides as he catches his breath. “Oh my god,” He groans, “That was so lame. Who’s the loser now?”

“Still you.” You shrug, a lazy grin plastered on your face. “Always.”

He huffs and kisses you all over your face. “Well, you’re letting this loser kiss you, what does that make you?”

“Charitable.” You tell him, not missing a beat, and he groans again, kissing you on the lips to shut you up. You let him, feeling your smiles mold together as you kiss.

Eventually, he pulls back and stretches out beside you, his legs kicking out lazily, the soles of his shoes scuffing the roof of the car but he doesn’t care. It was a beat up old thing anyway, barely still functioning.

Quiet settles over you for a few moments, calm blissful silence, before Soobin speaks again. “Do you ever think about leaving the city?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Like… for good?”

He nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the skyline. “Yeah. Just… disappearing somewhere quieter.”

“I don’t know,” You say with a light-hearted laugh, not taking him seriously. “How am I supposed to survive without my city life perks? The endless coffee shops. The spontaneous 2AM takeout. The Wi-Fi that doesn’t die if you sneeze too hard.”

Soobin snorts. “God forbid you go a day without your overpriced oat milk lattes.”

“Exactly,” You chuckle, still running with the joke you think you're sharing. “What am I supposed to do in a village? Milk the actual oat?”

Soobin hums, not laughing at your lame joke. Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed ahead, seriousness overtaking his usually unassuming features.

You clear your throat, finally registering the shift in the mood, and tilt your head back to look at the stars, confessing, “I think about it sometimes. Going somewhere with less noise. Less pressure.”

“Like a tiny town with a coffee shop run by someone’s grandma,” He says, a smile tugging at his lips, happy you’re indulging his strange little fantasy. “She’d make the best apple pie you’ve ever tasted, but goddamn would her coffee go down like battery acid.”

You snort out a laugh, glad he's joking again but a little hesitant to let your guard down just yet. “We’d still spend our days gulping down that awful coffee—because, a) we’d have no choice since hers is the only coffee shop in the entire town, and b) because she'd be the best person to get the town's latest spicy gossip from. Like how Mr. Kim’s been pretending to go to work for six months after getting laid off just to keep his unemployment a secret from his girlfriend, or how the high school principal has been catfishing his own wife to try to catch her cheating.”

“And she definitely keeps a notebook,” Soobin adds, laughing loudly as he imagines it. “Not even a subtle one. It would be hot pink and labeled ‘Stuff God Needs to Know.’”

But his laughter stops too abruptly, plunging you both back into silence. But this time it doesn't feel easy. it doesn’t feel comfortable as his smile fades and his eyes stare into the distance. “No one would know us there. They wouldn’t know if we were soulmates or not.”

The comment hangs in the air for a beat too long, and you keep your gaze upward, scared of what you might see in his. “Would you really want that?”

“I don’t know. No marks? No system telling you who you're supposed to love? Doesn’t that sound kind of freeing?” He asks and you hesitate, “Maybe.”

Your heart is thudding in your chest. You don’t know where he’s going with this. Of course, you had thought about it before, a world with no soulmate marks, a world where you were left to choose your own life partner—everyone has, whether they would admit it or not but you haven’t settled on whether that would be better or worse.

Yes, you have your reservations about the soulmate system. You aren’t exactly thrilled about the lack of free will on who you will love and are supposed to end up with, and everyone knows a pairing or two in their lives that have been a head scratcher, but in all actuality, can you really be trusted to make the right choice about the most important decision in your life when your dumb choices have led you to where you are right now—stuck in a perilous relationship between your two best friends?

As if Soobin can hear your internal dilemma, and as if he’s made it his mission to make it even worse, he continues, “Do you think the soulmate thing makes love more real… or less?”

“You’re scaring me a little bit. Where is this coming from?” You chuckle nervously, avoiding answering the question because you're afraid of where that train of thought might lead you.

You really were not prepared to have this conversation—least of all with Soobin. You never even thought he had all these doubts about the system, but you suppose you’ve been so in your head about the whole thing that you’ve been missing the boys spiraling out too.

“I’m just thinking.” He shrugs casually as if he's not debating the pillars of your existence.

“About what?”

“About how soulmates make people lazy.”

“Lazy?” You repeat, not understanding.

“Yeah,” He nods, a frown set on his face, “Like, they stop trying. They think the name on their wrist is the end all be all. Like love will just work out because fate says so.”

You nod slowly. “I guess.”

Just like your fake gossip implied, relationships still fail despite the soulmate system because people are people, and people are greedy and selfish and evil. They would hurt the one person who was made for them just to satisfy their own selfish desires.

Soobin is quiet for a moment, then he turns to you, “What if the name you find on your skin isn’t the name of the person who you truly… love?”

You hadn’t thought about it that way. All you were worried about is how you’d feel if the boys are soulmates and you were cast out or how you might basically be forced to fall in love with a stranger you knew nothing about. You did not think about the possibility of getting the “wrong” name on you.

You don’t know what to say to that. The idea scares you more than the fictional serial killer waiting to pounce on you. Damn Soobin for fucking with your brain even more than it’s already fucked. “I don’t know…”

“Sometimes I think it'd be easier to just choose.” He tells you, being brave for the both of you.

You stare at him, brows raised. “You think so?”

He nods, but you can’t understand the thought process that led him to that conclusion. You can’t imagine being able to choose between him and Beomgyu, and you wonder if he's already made his decision.

As if Soobin can hear you, he asks, “Who would you choose?”

You hold your breath, brain short–circuiting. How could you possibly choose between the two? Being with Soobin feels like breathing easier, like life just makes sense. But with Beomgyu love feels wild and frantic, like you’re living in full color for the first time.

How could you ever pick between the one who steadies your heart and the one who sets it racing? How do you even begin to choose between the one who makes you feel safe and the one who makes you feel alive?

Safety or chaos. Burning steady or blazing bright.

“That’s a dangerous question.” You finally say and Soobin smiles faintly, not quite reaching his eyes. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

He turns away again, clearing his throat and changing the topic. “This is nice,” Soobin murmurs, his arm shifting so it wraps more securely around you. “We don’t get many nights like this anymore.”

You’re still tense from your conversation, and you keep your eyes forward, watching how the city pulses chaotically in the distance, and you wonder if there are others out there who are having these same conversations with their loved one or if you are just an anomaly–if you've messed around too much and fucked your own future. “I know. It feels like we’re the only people in the world.”

He glances down at you, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If we were, I think you’d get sick of me in, like, three days.”

You snort, relaxing a bit as you shift back into light banter. “Three’s generous.”

Soobin laughs. “Okay, fine. One and a half.”

You turn your head, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Nah. I think I could tolerate you for maybe a whole week.”

“That’s true love right there.” He says, again giving you pause.

You stare at him, waiting for an explanation, and he turns fully to you, spelling it out.

“I love you,” He confesses, quiet but deadly. Though he has said those words before, this was far from the usual casual declaration. It was heavy, raw—it felt like it had been sitting on his chest for too long. "I love you both."

Your world feels like it stopped for a moment. You look at him, really look at him, and realize just how much he was carrying, just how much was tangled between the three of you. The love he spoke of wasn’t clean or simple—it wasn’t the kind of love that felt easy. It was the kind that wrapped around your heart and made it hard to breathe. The kind that hurt, and you are all suffering from it.

He looks as if he is waiting for you to reply but all you can do is try to swallow down the lump in your throat. The city, the lights, even the night sky seem so muted now, their beauty fleeing from the intense moment. “Soobin…” You start, but the words don't come. What could you say? I love you too? I am sorry that I let this stupid relationship happen?

His eyes meet yours, and you can see the sorrow behind them. "I don't want things to be this way," He says, his voice a little broken. "But... I love you both. And I don’t know how to make this any better."

A silence settles between you, thick and suffocating. The three of you have messed with something dangerous, something that has the power to tear you apart.

“I love you too.” You finally admit, but the words don't fill you with the warm fuzzy feeling it's supposed to. Instead it fills you with apprehension, because loving the two of them can only end in heartbreak.

He looks at you but you can't face him anymore so you just turn and stare out at the city in front of you, no longer finding the view beautiful.

“I think we should head back.” He finally says, and you nod.

_________________

The night was well on its way, but Beomgyu’s energy was only just beginning to peak as he pulls you into the norebang, his cheeks flushed with the warmth of alcohol and the carefree joy only a few drinks could bring. His grin is wide, and the dim lights make his eyes sparkle in a way that is both intoxicating and endearing.

"Let’s sing!" Beomgyu slurs, his arm thrown around your shoulder as he leads you toward the karaoke booth, already pulling up a song.

You watch him grab the microphone eagerly, practically bounding with energy as if he's preparing to perform in front of a sold-out stadium.

The song's iconic playful intro starts, followed by

Apateu, apateuApateu, apateuApateu, apateuUh, uh-huh, uh-huh

Beomgyu launches into the first verse, way too excited already. “Kissy face, kissy face, sent to your phone, but I’m trynna kiss your lips for real. Uh-huh, uh-huh!”

He points at you, and even that small movement causes him to stagger a bit. You can’t help but laugh—he was such a fucking mess, but damn was he adorable, pouring his heart into every word as if it was a heartfelt ballad instead of a stupid pop song.

Red hearts, red hearts

That's what I'm on, yeah

Come give me somethin' I can feel, oh-oh, oh

"Don’t you want me like I want you, baby... Don’t you need me like I need you now!” Beomgyu screeches, clearly not hitting any of the right notes. Not that either of you care.

You can’t keep from giggling at his antics, knowing he's hamming it up for you and that makes your stupid heart flutter more than it probably would have if he had taken you out on a romantic dinner date. Because you know he is doing this just to make you smile. You can see it from the way he keeps sneaking glances at you every time he does something silly, eyes gleaming when he sees your smile, his happiness lighting up the dingy room.

Halfway through the chorus, Beomgyu pulls you towards him, thrusting the microphone in your face and shouting over the music. “All you gotta do is just meet me at the—”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already reaching for it, because you know there’s no saying no to Beomgyu when he’s like this—not that you would ever want to.

Apateu, apateuApateu, apateuApateu, apateuUh, uh-huh, uh-huh

You shout out, your voice softer, less drunk, a stark contrast to his screeching. Still, he beams, happy you’re joining in on his theatrics. He leans into you, slinging an arm loosely around your shoulders, singing wildly off-key while you try to stay somewhat on beat.

The two of you make a ridiculous duo—him screaming his parts passionately while you giggle through yours. But somehow, it works—maybe not for the other patrons who could probably still hear you through the walls, but for you. Your mismatched energy, the chaotic harmony—it’s ridiculous and fun and so very Beomgyu.

By the end of the song, you’re just as loud and off-key as him, and he’s looking at you like you’re giving him the world rather than trauma induced deafness.

Despite his drunkenness, his arm is steady around you, tugging you into him until he can rest his forehead against yours. He stares at you, his eyes soft, his expression fond. “I love you,” He says, the words spilling out so easily, like they were the most natural thing in the world to him.

You blink, heart stuttering in your chest at the sudden sobriety and earnestness in his voice. But before you could speak, Beomgyu suddenly throws his arms into the air and shouts his way through the ending, “Apateu, apateu. Apateu, apateu. Apateu, apateu. Uh, uh-huh, uh-huh!” He leaps up, nearly losing his balance in the process, and you burst into laughter, the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably.

“You’re ridiculous,” You regard him fondly as the song finally ends.

But the night doesn’t stop after that. If anything, Beomgyu’s chaotic declaration of love is just the start. He keeps singing, hopping from one song to another and forcing you to join him. Not that it took much convincing, you love seeing Beomgyu so happy and in his element, laughing so hard at his improvised dance moves that your cheeks become sore and your sides hurt.

At some point, he challenges you to a dance-off, loses spectacularly, then claims it was because his “shoes were too slippery.” You caught it all on your phone in blurry, joy-filled memories that you already knew you’d rewatch on sadder days to bring yourself comfort and joy.

But eventually, the night starts winding down. His voice grows hoarse from shouting, his eyelids heavy from sleep, and his words slow from fatigue. He yawns, flopping down with a tired sigh.

“Okay,” You say, crouching in front of him, smiling at the way he is trying to stay awake. “Time to go.”

Beomgyu pouts but doesn’t protest. You help him to his feet, slinging his arm over your shoulder as he leans more of his weight on you than is necessary—though you suspect that has less to do with exhaustion and more to do with his clinginess.

_________________

“You smell nice,” He mumbles into your shoulder as you unlock your front door.

“You smell like cheap beer and regret.” You reply, laughing.

“You still love me,” He says, half-asleep, and your heart skips a beat. You’ve heard it from him many times by now, yet it always manages to get to your stupid heart.

Still, you hesitate to say it back because every time you do, it hurts you more and more. Beomgyu, however, is nothing if not insistent, and he pushes you against the door, his forehead resting against yours as his drunken eyes stare at you pleadingly, looking more sober than he has the entire night. “Will you say it back?”

“Beomgyu…”

“Come on, please.”

You sigh, giving into him as you always do. “I love you too.”

He smiles lazily and lets you go. You guide him inside, steadying him as he kicks off his shoes.

“Come on,” You murmur, brushing his hair back from his face. “Let’s get you to bed, baby.”

He doesn’t protest, just humming in agreement, letting you lead him to your room. You help him change then get him into bed, and as soon as you slide in beside him, he wraps himself around you— one arm draped over your waist and his face buried in the crook of your neck.

His breathing slows almost immediately, his grip loosening just slightly, enough for you to shift and look at him but not enough to be able to pull away without waking him up. You watch the way his long lashes tickle his cheeks, lips parted slightly, face soft and unguarded in sleep.

You stay like that, not moving, watching him in the dim light filtering through the curtains. The chaos of earlier seeming far away now—replaced by a quiet intimacy that only gets broken by Soobin's return.

“Is he out for the night?” Soobin asks, stepping into the room.

“Yeah, completely gone,” You reply with a soft laugh, glancing down at Beomgyu, who was still curled against your side. “I think I’m stuck here until morning with this human weighted blanket.”

Soobin laughs, running a hand through his hair as he leans against the wall. “That’s what you get for indulging him. You know he doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Trust me, I figured that out about one minute into his APT performance.”

His eyebrows quirk up at that. “He made you sing it with him, didn’t he?”

“Oh, he demanded it,” You say, shaking your head. “He was completely off-key, screaming the norebang down and acting like we were headlining a sold-out show. He even tried to harmonize. With himself.”

Soobin burst out laughing, clearly picturing the whole scene in his mind. “God, I love him, but he has absolutely no shame.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” You say, smiling down at Beomgyu’s peaceful face, now far removed from the chaos he’d unleashed earlier. “It was a hot mess. But it was fun.”

Soobin is quiet after that and when you look back at him, you see that his smile is a little tight, a little strained, and you imagine you see in it the same worry and yearning you hold when you look at them together—the happiness to see them happy but the jealousness that it's not because of you.

“What about you? How’s your day been?” You clear your throat as you watch Soobin make his way further into the room.

Soobin groans at that, borrowing a page out of Beomgyu's book of theatrics as he starts changing into his pajamas . “Don’t even get me started. I have that stupid economics test in a few days, and I don’t even know where to begin studying. Professor Lee is an actual spawn of the devil. Like a walking demon in a cardigan.”

You laugh as he rubs his face in frustration, your own hand massaging through Beomgyu’s soft hair, the motion bringing you more comfort than it brings the sleeping man. “That bad, huh?”

“Yes, that bad. Her tests are impossible and when you ask her for help, she just gives you that condescending smile—you know the one—and goes, ‘It’s all in the syllabus,’ like that means anything. Yeah, I know it’s in the damn syllabus but I am surprised that you do because you haven’t bothered to maybe do your fucking job and teach the damn thing.”

“Wow, you’re pissed pissed.” You giggle, leaning your head back as Beomgyu nuzzles closer into your neck, tightening his grip around your waist, your conversation with Soobin probably disturbing his sleep. “But hey, it’s almost the weekend. You’ll survive.”

“I’m not so sure,” He mutters bitterly. “If I mysteriously vanish, you’ll probably find my dead body in the library under a pile of unfinished papers.”

You smirk. “Noted. I’ll make sure to send her your tape after your death.”

Soobin chuckles, and regards the bed, raising an eyebrow. “Room for one more?”

You pretend to consider. “Only if you promise not to bring professor Lee into bed with us. I'm not into the professor/student trope.”

“Wow, selfish much. You’re not being a very supportive girlfriend.” He says the term so casually as if he’d been calling you that for years. He does not notice the way you tense up, just holding his hands up in mock surrender, “Deal.”

Soobin pads over, climbing in carefully so as not to disturb Beomgyu and settles on your other side. Yet the sleeping man still senses it, wrapping himself tighter around you.

“God, this is nice,” He murmurs, relaxing back against the pillows. “Me. You. The space heater.” He jokes, nodding toward Beomgyu, and you laugh nervously.

You all fall into a silence after that and Soobin too eventually goes to sleep, leaving only you awake with both boys at your side—Beomgyu’s arms wrapped securely around your waist while Soobin rested his head against your chest. The three of you lay there—messy and tangled, but together. At least for now.

But deep down, you know this can’t last. The cracks are already starting to form—small, hairline fractures hiding beneath the surface, and soon enough, at least one of you is bound to break.

____________

You were supposed to be relaxing. Just a dumb night in with an even dumber drama playing in the background, the three of you curled up together like always.

Somehow, it had spiraled into an argument.

“I’m obviously the male lead,” Beomgyu argues, tossing popcorn into his already full mouth. “No one can deny it. I’ve got the charm, the looks, the wit—come on.”

“You got wit? I'm surprised you even know what the word means.” Soobin snorts, kicking lightly at Beomgyu’s foot. “You’re totally the second lead. The loud one who gets friend-zoned in episode three while the girl falls hopelessly in love with me.”

Beomgyu gasps, holding his hand to his heart like he’s been fatally wounded. “Baby,” He cries dramatically, turning to you, “Back me up! Which one of us would be the male lead?”

You freeze. It sounds harmless enough, right? A stupid, meaningless question from two boys with massive egos. But something about the way they look at you—waiting, expectant—makes your throat tighten like it knows you shouldn’t answer that question. It hides something deeper, like your answer would mean more than just who hypothetically would get the final kiss in a drama.

You shift awkwardly, heart picking up speed. “Uh… Soobin?”

There is a beat of silence, then Beomgyu leans back against the couch, arms crossed, a pout forming on his face while victory flashes across Soobin’s own face. He tilts his chin up a little, clearly proud that he’s been picked. It pisses Beomgyu off, who scoffs and tosses a pillow at him, hitting him square in the face.

But then—because you hate the way Beomgyu’s smile has fallen, because you hate seeing either of them hurt—you rush to fix it, stumbling over yourself, “He just looks more like the typical male lead. Come on, you know I always root for the second lead anyway.”

You try to say it lightly, jokingly–a way to ease the tension. But clearly that was the wrong thing to say because Beomgyu’s expression doesn’t soften, and Soobin, who had just been basking in his little victory, frowns, his smile sliding right off his face.

Great. Now they were both mad at you.

Beomgyu barks out a humorless laugh. “Right. Because second place is so great.”

You flinch. “I’m just saying that I like—”

“The second lead. We get it.” Soobin repeats, voice low.

The mood in the room completely shifts, all playfulness gone. It was so unfair. They put you between a rock and a hard place. No matter what you answered, you would have been screwed either way.

“No, that’s not—” You try, panicking now. “I just meant—”

But it was too late. They weren’t listening anymore.

“Whatever. It’s a BL drama anyway. Not like you were the lead to begin with.” Beomgyu says, his voice light, mock-casual. You blink at him, stunned, but Beomgyu just smiles at you like he hadn’t just gutted you clean.

Soobin shifts uncomfortably beside you, but doesn't say anything. His own hurt preventing him from soothing yours.

You swallow hard, looking down at your hands.

The TV keeps playing in the background, the characters’ voices filling the room, but none of you are paying attention anymore. Because this wasn’t just about the stupid drama. It was about you. About who you’d picked—and who you hadn’t.

The drama didn't matter anymore. You've all already seen how this story was going to end.

___________

You were still waiting—still holding onto the possibility that maybe, maybe one of them could be yours. But even though the boys kept pushing, you’ve not gone all the way yet because that would cross the final invisible line you were never meant to cross. Sex meant something even if it seemed like it didn’t to them. You believed that if you were going to have sex with anyone, it should be with the person whose name would be etched on your skin.

So when you walked in on them and saw them tangled up together like that–Soobin’s body covering Beomgyu who was on his hands and knees, both of them completely nude, allowing you to clearly see the older boy’s cock thrusting in and out of Beomgyu’s hole… it killed you. Because how could they do that with each other, if they thought you might be the one?

And maybe it wasn’t meant to hurt you. Maybe it wasn’t even meant to mean anything. But in this world, it means everything. It means soulmate. And they have seemingly given themselves to each other already.

“What…” You say, your throat closing up around the rest of your words.

The boys quickly separate. They cover up as if it would conceal their betrayal from your eyes.

“Is this what you do without me?” You ask, voice cold.

Beomgyu's eyes widen, and he shakes his head vehemently. “No. This is the first time. I swear.”

“Well, don't let me interrupt then.” You turn on your heel to leave, feeling like you might cry if you stayed any longer but the boys quickly speak up to try to keep you there.

“No wait!” Soobin shouts out, followed by Beomgyu's “Baby, come on, it's not that that big of a deal.”

You turn on him, furious glare pinning him down. “Not that big of a deal? You’re fucking!”

In a rare display of self preservation, Beomgyu shrinks back, shutting up, but to your surprise, it is Soobin who chooses to speak out, blurting, “Because we actually want each other.”

“What?” You hiss, turning your narrowed eyes towards him, daring him to say out loud what you think he's implying.

But Soobin doesn't back down. It's as if he and Beomgyu switched bodies because he stands unshaken under your fury and unkindly tells you, “He has shown me that he wants me. He is not holding back on me.”

You scoff, trying to hide how his words absolutely kill you. You could maybe expect this from Beomgyu, he was always pushing and pushing, always wanting more than he had any right to, but Soobin? If Soobin too would do this, then why are you even here? They clearly don’t care about how any of this would make you feel. Maybe this is their way to get you to step back so they don't have to outright tell you that they've chosen each other and break it off with you.

“Well, have at it.” You fight back the tears, trying to appear unaffected, and once again move to leave, your mind already wondering how it's going to put your heart back together.

But then Beomgyu speaks up again. “Come on, baby, you don't have to be like that. You can fuck us too.” He tells you like that solves everything, reaching out to try to pull you towards them.

“I don't want to fuck you!” You shout, shoving his hand away and making him flinch. He looks at you, hurt, as if he doesn’t understand why you would reject them. It drives you crazy. “This is the one thing that we were supposed to leave for our soulmate. If you're both fucking each other then I guess you've made up your mind on who that person is.”

“Don't be ridiculous. It doesn’t mean anything.” Beomgyu tries to brush it off, but it just makes you even angrier. “It means plenty!”

“And your rejection means plenty too. The only reason we have fucked each other and not you is because you won't let us. We've given ourselves to each other fully but you're still holding back on us.” Soobin repeats, making sure his point gets through to you.

You gape at him, dumbfounded. “So the only way for me to prove my love to you is to let you fuck me?”

“That's not what I meant.” He frowns as if you were putting words into his mouth when this is exactly what his words imply. “All I’m saying is…you're stingy with your love.”

“Stingy?” You shout, feeling yourself losing your mind. This is what this kind of relationship does to a person. This is why you should have saved your heart and body for your soulmate. “I have pushed myself over and over again beyond what I am comfortable with in order to make you both happy. Every day I risk completely shattering my heart for you, and you call that stingy?”

“We’ve both done the same and more. Why are you acting like we have nothing to lose?” He retorts sharply, not having any sympathy for you. “We've let go. Why can't you?”

“It’s not easy for me,” Your words stumble over each other. You feel so lost. You started this relationship because you felt lost about your future in this soulmate system and now that you’re in this relationship, you feel more lost than ever. You were too rebellious to wait for the soulmate system and too cowardly to give yourself to the lovers you have chosen.

Soobin doesn't give you any grace for how much you're suffering. If anything, his gaze hardens, and he leans in closer, daring you to contradict him. “Well, maybe you don’t really love us at all. Not the way we love you.”

“That's ridiculous.” You protest, shaking your head at him in denial. You love them. You love them both so much that you don't know what to do with yourself. You're scared dead of losing either of them that you have to hold back or you'd lose yourself too.

“Is it?” It's not Soobin who asks but Beomgyu, his doubt landing across your face like a slap.

They both look at you, challenging you to prove yourself to them but you can't. You're not as strong as them. You’re not as reckless.

“I can’t deal with this.” You mutter, and turn to leave, this time not letting Soobin's harsh remark keep you back.

“Yeah, run. That's all you know how to do.”

You flinch, fighting to keep your tears in until you're out of their sight.

_______________

You know you shouldn’t blame Beomgyu, but you do. Maybe it’s not fair, because it’s not his fault, but that doesn’t stop the bitterness from rising up in the back of your throat whenever you see Soobin touching him, looking for his attention, favoring him, giving him what he holds back from you in… fear? retaliation?

Though Soobin has not pulled away from you completely since your confrontation, it’s clear that things have changed between you. You’ve reached an impasse–you still being unable to give yourself to them fully and him not feeling safe giving himself to you in return.

Only Beomgyu gets to have the best of both worlds, and he is not shy about flaunting it. It’s almost like he enjoys throwing it in your face. He’s never said it outright, but the message is always there, laced into his every teasing word and lingering touch—he has something you don’t. He gets to kiss and touch and love Soobin, and he gets to be kissed and touched and loved by Soobin unconditionally. He doesn’t have to deal with the weird distance and awkwardness that now discolour your own relationship with the older boy and it's almost like he’s holding it over your head, making sure you remember that he's the favorite.

“You want to win him back,” He says, lips brushing against your ear as he hands you something soft and delicate in pale pink lace, “you gotta make his dick happy, baby.”

You jeer at him, calling him ridiculous, but he only smiles wider, pressing the babydoll he has bought you into your hands.

“Just try it on,” He says, eyes glinting. “Let’s make him see what he's missing.”

The promise of that makes your heart ache. You want it. You want Soobin to want you again. And so you do it. You try it on for him. Let him pose you—ass pushed out, lips parted, lace clinging to parts of you that felt too exposed under his gaze.

He tells you it’s just for Soobin, but you can see the way his eyes eat you up, taking pictures of you in dirty poses that he tells you will make Soobin go crazy.

But he lets his hands wander, brushing against your lips, your breasts, your thighs. And you wonder who this is really for.

“You’re gonna drive him crazy,” Beomgyu whispers, that same craziness flickering in his eyes. “I know I am.”

And in that moment, it doesn’t feel like it’s about Soobin at all. Because Beomgyu’s always playing some game you can’t quite name. One where he wins every time.

“God, I wish I could feel your pussy around me. Need you so bad.” He puts the camera down to let his hands freely wander, and something ugly stirs without you––a dangerous mix of jealousy and insecurity that prompts you to say.

“Do you want it more than you want his ass?” You ask, lowering your voice to try to hide the vulnerability underneath.

“Baby…” Beomgyu looks at you, unsure, but his tone is still soft. Still careful.

“Come on, Beommie.” You tilt your head, forcing a bitter smile. “Say it. Say you want my pussy.”

“I want it,” He admits easily, eyes locked on you. “I want you.”

“More than him.” You need at least one of them to want you more than the other. You need to feel like you’re still in this. That you haven't given parts of you out to them for nothing.

There’s a pause. Just a second. But it’s long enough to feel like a crack through the center of your chest.

You scoff, pushing him away, the rejection biting at you just as coldly as the chill in the air. Neither of them will chose you.

But Beomgyu panics the second you pull back. “No—wait,” He says, voice suddenly higher, desperate. “I do want you more. I do. I need you.”

You search his face, not sure if it's the truth or just desperation—if he wants you or if he’s just looking to get off. But for now, you choose to believe it.

“More than him?” You ask again, voice a little shakier now, knowing you can't handle one more rejection.

Thankfully Beomgyu gives in, nodding quickly. “More than him.”

You let out a sigh of relief and pull him back towards you, kissing him roughly as you pour out all your frustration, fear and love into it. He reciprocates enthusiastically, opening his mouth and letting you push your tongue in, moaning loudly even around your tongue.

“Then hump me like a good little puppy.” You tell him when you pull away, and Beomgyu's stares you down, pupils already blown wide in his hungry eyes.

“You like seeing me go crazy for you, don't you?” He hisses but obeys, rutting desperately against you, searching for any pleasure you’re willing to give him.

“Yes. You look so pretty when you’re desperate.” You admit shamelessly, feeling safe saying it when he's so willing to be pathetic for you. “Don't pretend you don't like it when I boss you around.”

“I won't. Just as long as you don't pretend you don't want my cock stuffed inside you.” He takes it up a notch, always ready to push beyond your limits.

“Beomgyu…”

“Come on, say it. Say you want my cock.” He insists, but you can’t really blame him. You've just demanded the same thing of him.

“I want your cock.” You relent and he bites his lips, his hips picking up the pace as he stares at you as if waiting to hear more from you.

You give it to him, moaning out as you press your lips to his ear, giving him what he wants—what he needs. “Want to feel you lose it. Want your hot cum on me.”

“Yeah?” He pants, looking wild. “You want it? Want my cum in you?”

“Yes,” You shudder, clutching onto his shirt as his cock drags along your barely covered pussy. “Give it to me. Fill me up with your cum.”

“God, you sound like a slut.” He is breath hitches as he slides his cock under your now ruined lace panties so he can enjoy the friction from both your panties and your pussy against his swollen cock. “Does my pretty slut want my cum now?”

“Yes.” You moan eagerly, not ashamed of how wet you've become. Not when his own cock is dripping with need. “Let go for me, baby. Let me take care of you.”

He comes undone at your command, repeating your name like a prayer. His release spills over your skin, hot and messy, and for a moment, you think that’s it—that for a moment you’ve won. That you've satisfied one of them.

He pushes his sweaty hair back and exhales, almost laughing as he looks at the mess he made. But then he pulls your panties to the side while his other hand holds his cock and brushes it over your pussy, the head catching against your entrance for a moment. “God I really wanna put it in.”

“You can't!” You panic, trying and failing to close your legs around his hips, and he hums in disappointment. “There you go, rejecting us again.”

Your heart pumps painfully in your chest at his underhanded comment. “That's unfair. You know why I can’t let you do that. My soulmate–”

“Will be one of us.” He finishes your sentence and you huff indignantly. “Maybe, but not who. I want to save myself for my soulmate.”

“Why?” He asks as if you're being unreasonable. "Me and Soobin have agreed that we won’t get upset about it if one of us ends up being your soulmate.”

You scoff, incensed. “So you’ve both decided what to do with my body? Do I not get a say?”

“You’re twisting my words, baby.” He whines, rutting his cock against your pussy again. “We just wanna feel you. All of you… just wanna be buried in your cunt.”

“I am not gonna let you have my pussy, Beomgyu.” You stand firm despite the embarrassing way your pussy was dripping around his cock, the wet sounds of his member sliding easily along your slit ringing loudly in your ears.

“Hmm, how about just your ass then.” He bargains, using some of your juices on his finger to rub over your asshole teasingly.

“Beomgyu…” You hesitate, feeling yourself flutter at the ghost of his touch. Maybe you can do that… it wouldn't actually be giving your virginity away, right? You would still have something saved for your soulmate…

“Come on, this is not so bad, right?” He coaxes, his lips hot against your neck and his middle finger dipping into your hole ever so slightly. “Just let me in.”

You shudder, feeling yourself clench around his finger and your pussy drip even more.

“No.” You shake your head, trying to clear it from the doubt he's brewing and the corrupting touch of his pleasure.

“Fine.” He frowns, pulling back, and suddenly you feel cold.

“Where are you going?” You sit up, chewing on your lip nervously.

“Soobin’ll probably let me use his ass.” He tells you casually, like it’s nothing. Like you’re not still there, covered in the proof of how much he claimed to need you.

“You just came all over me.” You say weakly, feeling your heart sink.

“I know, but…” He pauses, letting the thought linger. It's not enough, is what he wants to say. “I need to feel a tight hole around my cock.”

Your hands shoot out and pull him back between your legs, hissing at him to conceal your pain, “Fuck you, Beomgyu.”

“I'm sorry, but—” He starts as if whatever he's gonna say will make his treatment of you hurt any less.

“Just do it. You can have my ass.” You say in a small voice but he hears it. You feel him go rigid above for a fraction of a second before he pulls back and eagerly kisses you, not waiting for any doubt to set in. “Thank you, baby. I’ll make it feel so good, I swear.” He promises, carefully pushing his finger in, coaxing you to relax as he peppers sweet kisses all over your face.

“That’s it, baby. Just relax for me. I got you.”

It’s easier than you expected, the slide of his finger into you, and before you know it he has it up to the knuckle inside your ass.

He pulls back to gather more of your juices before sticking his finger in again, doing this over and over until it easily slips in every time, before he introduces another finger and repeats the same process again.

You did not expect this to feel pleasurable, but the way he curls his fingers inside you pushes them against the wall of your pussy, making you shiver and almost feel like his fingers are fucking it instead.

“You’re doing so good for me. You’re such a good girl.” He purrs, hypnotised by the image of your hole taking his fingers so easily. He reaches his other hand around his cock to give it a few tugs, sucking in a harsh breath at the pleasure. “Fuck, I can’t wait any longer.”

He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock. “Can I?” He asks and you nod slightly, but that’s enough for him. He pushes forward, easing his cock inside of you, the length of it filling you up quickly.

“Fuck!” He groans, his head dropping to rest against your forehead as he takes a moment to let you adjust to him and let himself adjust to the feeling of you surrounding him. “You’re so hot and tight. I feel like I am already close, god damn.”

You blush, your heart fluttering at how easily you’ve affected him even though you’ve barely done anything. He just wanted you that bad. He’s watching you like he can’t look away, like you're so precious he’s afraid if his gaze wanders for a second, you’d slip away.

You hate that you had to do this in order to satisfy him but you also hadn’t expected it to feel like this—not so intense, not so consuming. The stretch, the pressure, the way his body presses against yours—it’s all dizzying, overwhelming in the best and worst ways.

“You feel like you were made for me,” He whispers the words like it’s a secret meant only for you to hear and you hold your breath because—is it? Is that a confession? You can’t make sense of any of it. It feels like the boys share a secret you’re not in on. You don’t know who they truly want. You don’t know who you truly want. “I can’t—God, I can’t believe this is real.”

Your hands grip his arms, unsure whether you're grounding him or yourself. His praise echoes around in your head, knocking out all sense and rationality.

You don’t speak—you don’t trust yourself to. Your lips part in a quiet gasp instead, and that’s enough for him.

His breath stutters against your skin as he begins to move, slow at first, like he’s still trying to memorize the shape of you around him. Each motion is careful, restrained, but you can feel the tension rippling beneath it—he’s holding back, and it’s taking everything in him to do so.

You can feel it under your fingers, the desperation, the longing. You can hear it so clearly in his words. “You’re perfect. I want to stay like this forever.”

But something about his words feel wrong. A flicker of doubt threatens to snuff out the warmth building between your bodies. Because forever—that word isn’t his to give. Not when he’s already given himself away to Soobin.

Still, you cling to him. Because for now, he’s here. For now, you can pretend he’s yours.

Your hands slide up his arms to wrap around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss, needing something to anchor you to the moment to stop your mind from spiraling. He groans softly against your mouth, hips stuttering for a second as he bites your lower lip.

“God, you’re driving me insane,” He croaks, voice hoarse. “You feel too good... too good to stop.”

And you don’t want him to stop. Not yet. Not while he’s whispering things like that into your mouth, not while his hands are all over you like he can’t bear to not touch you.

But despite the mind-numbing heat of it all, there’s still that damn doubt pressing at the edges of your mind—soft but insistent. Because despite all his needy proclamations, he still gave himself to Soobin just as easily as he has given himself to you.

Is this all a game to him? A way to ensure that he wins either way?

“You’re mine,” He looks at you like he means it, and you wonder how it could ever be a lie. Is it really possible that he's playing you both so well? “Say you’re mine.”

You hesitate, and that upsets Beomgyu. Suddenly, he switches up, staring at you with his big brown eyes he drives his cock inside you in slow, languid strokes, stoking the fire in your belly. “Please, I just want to pretend to be normal for a moment. I want to pretend I finally have a soulmate and that we love each other.”

Still, you remain silent.

He swallows hard, and with one hand, he cups your face, watching, waiting. “Please, let me have you,” he says, breath trembling. “Even if just for now.”

“Okay.” You say in a small voice, your fingers digging into his back, grounding yourself in him as you arch into his movements, letting the rhythm build, slow and steady, drawing out everything you’ve been holding in. He kisses you again, more urgently this time, like he's trying to drown out every other name, every other memory with just you.

“Say it, please.” He pleads when he pulls back, looking like he might cry if you don't.

“I'm yours.” You tell him, voice shuddering under the pressure. You don't know if giving into him is right, but the happiness on his face when you do almost makes it feel like it's worth it.

“God, I love you. You’re so good for me,” He groans, hips stuttering. “You always are.”

And for just a moment, you let yourself believe it. That this is love. That you're his. That maybe, maybe, he is yours too.

“I need you.” Your breath hitches, chest rising rapidly beneath him as you give in—cracking under the weight of your longing and the lie you want so badly to believe. “More, please.”

Beomgyu lets out a shaky exhale, relief and hunger bleeding into one as he presses forward, kissing you like he’s starved for it—reveling in your surrender. His hips begin to move with more urgency, the restraint he’d been clinging to unraveling in an instant.

“Thank you,” He breathes against your mouth, hips quickly picking up speed until the loud, filthy sounds of flesh smacking against flesh fills the room. “God, you’re perfect—so perfect.”

You can’t hold your moans back, not when his cock is filling you to the brim again and again, leaving no room for thought or doubt. His hands are everywhere—caressing your breasts, your hips, your thighs—lighting every inch of your skin on fire, marking it all with his touch, his name.

And when you think you can’t take anymore, he slides one hand between your legs, stroking your clit with seemingly practiced ease, syncing with each deep thrust until every muscle in your body is coiled tight, ready for release.

“You’re clenching so hard around me.” He moans at the way you react, his head falling to rest against your forehead again, not taking his eyes off you for a second. He has no right to look this handsome right now with his face flushed, sweat dripping down his face and his jaw hanging open in need. And yet he does. He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful and it’s not fair. “You make me so fucking close, baby.”

His pace picks up even more, harder, messier, his control slipping with every thrust. “You wanted this, right? You want me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” You gasp, hands tangling in his hair as you feel your orgasm approaching, his thrusts angled just right so you can feel his cock hitting the wall of your pussy again and again. “I do—Beomgyu, I—”

But the rest of your sentence falls away as the pressure inside you snaps, and your orgasm floods through your body, making you shudder and shake under him, around him.

“Fuck, baby, did you just cum for me? Good girl. You’re my good girl.” He chokes out, voice breaking, eyes wild and locked on you. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you up with my cum just like you wanted.”

With a loud cry, he finally cums, painting your insides with his hot seed as his mouth continues to spew filth at you, his brain going dumb with pleasure.

“Fuck…” He groans as his hips give a few last, weak thrusts before his body relaxes, all but collapsing on top of you, his body so suffocatingly close as his hand brushes your own wet hair out of your face so he can see it clearly. “I love you. I love you so much.”

He says it so tenderly, so unreservedly, as if you’re the only person in the world he has ever said this to… but you know that’s not true. You know he has said those same words to Soobin too.

And the ugly thoughts creep back in—overtaking your brain that is no longer under the influence of lust. Is this how he is with Soobin when you’re not there? Does he touch him like this? Does he beg for him like this? Does he make him feel like he’s the only one for him too?

Because you can feel it now—how easy it is to lose yourself in him—in his words, his hands, his desperation. He makes you want to give yourself to him completely, and that scares you.

Because if he can do that to you so effortlessly… then maybe he has done it to Soobin too. Maybe Soobin finds it easy to believe him just like you do. Maybe Beomgyu is playing you both so he increases his chances of getting his happy ending.

And that thought hurts more than anything. Because you’ve given him so much. Because he’s there, cock still buried inside you, his body trembling from the high you just shared—and you don’t even know if he’s really yours.

______________

A/N: only one more chapter to go. please let me know your thoughts and where do you see this ending and what exactly are the boys up to

as always

#txt smut #beomgyu smut #tomorrow by together smut #tomorrow x together smut #soulmates au

94 notes · View notes