#just because it doesn’t speak to you doesn’t mean it has no right to exist

[wendichester]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 if the world was ending,

summary. the world is ending and dean comes to you

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. kinda angst kinda fluff

wordcount. 626

notes / warnings. talk of the end of the world, emotional vulnerability, unresolved past feelings, light angst woven through softness, reader and dean struggling with timing and fate

It’s raining the way it does in movies about the end.

Hard. Constant. Apocalyptic.

The power's out. Phones are down. The world’s gone quiet in that eerie, final-breath kind of way.

And then there’s a knock.

You know it’s him before you even open the door.

You almost don’t. You almost let the pounding keep going until the storm drowns it out. But your heart pulls you forward, stupid and hopeful, the way it always has when it comes to him.

Dean Winchester stands on your porch, soaked through and windblown, looking like hell and something just shy of heaven.

He doesn���t say hi.

Doesn’t even smile.

Just, “You heard, right?”

You nod.

“Three days,” he says. “Maybe two. Something big’s coming. And we don’t have a plan this time.”

You want to tell him you know. That you felt it in your bones before the news broke. That the sky looked wrong last night and your chest hasn’t stopped aching since.

Instead, you open the door wider.

“Come in.”

You wrap him in a dry blanket. His fingers brush yours.

Neither of you pulls away.

The cabin is quiet. There’s a fire going now, weak and flickering, but enough to warm the air between you.

Dean stands there for a while, silent. He’s not shaking exactly, but something in his shoulders says he wants to. Or maybe already did.

“Shouldn’t you be with Sam?” you ask, voice soft.

“I was,” he says. “He left to check on a few people. Said I should go wherever I needed to be.”

He looks at you, then. Really looks.

“And I needed to be here.”

Your heart stutters. You look away.

“I didn’t think I’d see you,” you admit.

“I didn’t think I’d let myself see you,” he says. “But the world's ending and… yeah. That kind of rewrites things, doesn’t it?”

You huff a small laugh. “You’re only here because the sky’s falling?”

“No,” Dean says, stepping closer. “I’m here because if it wasn’t, I’d keep lying about what you mean to me.”

You blink. “Dean…”

He exhales. “Every time I left, I told myself it was better for you. That I couldn’t risk dragging you further into all this. But if the world's ending, I don’t want to go out with another lie on my lips.”

Your throat is tight now. You press your hands together.

He moves even closer. The space between you a single heartbeat.

“I thought about you every damn day,” he says. “And now I’m just hoping that if the world really is ending… you’ll let me stay the night.”

You don’t answer with words.

You just reach up and touch his face—his stubbled cheek, the soft line of his jaw. He leans into it like he’s been starving for something gentle.

You kiss him like the world might stop mid-breath.

And maybe it does.

He doesn’t rush.

You don’t speak much.

You sit on the couch and let the firelight paint golden shapes across the room. He pulls you close, your legs tangled with his, his chin resting on top of your head.

The world outside howls.

You whisper, “You’ll stay, right?”

And he says, “Always.”

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in warmth that shouldn't exist in a night like this.

The next morning, he’s still there.

He makes you coffee with shaking hands and calls you sweetheart like he always used to before things got messy.

The sky is still gray. The end is still coming.

But you feel okay.

Because for once, Dean didn’t run.

Because when the world cracked open, he came to you.

And maybe it’s not the happy ending you both deserved.

But it’s an ending that’s honest. Soft. Real.

And that makes it enough.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[apoptoses]

vc wip wednesday

It's wip wednesday so here's where I left off on the thing I was working on 🙈 i don't know if this is the final dialogue, frankly it's gotten away from me LOL but this is where we're at rn

---

“You’re insolent, Daniel. I let you get away with far too much,” Armand murmurs. “You forget yourself around me, I think. Don’t you agree?”

The leather tip of the crop is cool beneath his chin. It’s a springy thing. The body of it bends when Armand applies pressure, uses it to guide him to lift his face and keep Daniel’s eyes on him. Springy means it’ll sting when the blow comes down on him. And stinging-

Daniel can take a blow. He’d been paddled in grade school by a mean nun, whacked across the knuckles with a ruler. Deep pressure, hard hits, those he can grit his teeth and withstand. Stinging, he hates. Stinging’s the kind of pain that makes him cry.

“If I agree with you is that better for me, or worse?” he asks, because he can never fucking help himself.

Armand huffs out a sound, something close to a laugh. “Do you think I’d tolerate dishonesty?”

“I don’t know. You’ve admitted you were something of a liar yourself when you were in charge of that theater. Back when you met Louis.”

Daniel doesn’t mean to say it. The words just tumble out of his mouth because they haven’t set up any protocol. No rules about whether he should answer simple, yes sir, no sir. If he’s ever permitted to speak. Armand’s got him dangling here with no real sense of right and wrong and he feels like a child at confession all over again. One wrong step and maybe god will never forgive you again, except his teacher never told him where the line actually is.

Armand drags the crop down his throat, over the sparse blond hair on his chest. Finds Daniel’s nipple and nudges at it, catches it on the edge of the little leather loop and leaves him biting back a whine.

“You speak to me as if I’m one of your peers. As if I’m beneath you, sometimes, when you condescend to me like I’m a child,” Armand says. “You’ve gone complacent in our time together, I realize that now. Intimacy has made you reckless.”

Daniel’s wound tight enough to explode. He’s the kind of anxious that makes his face feel numb, because Armand’s not wrong. He has forgotten what this thing is at its core. A beautiful young man dressed in leather and lace that has Daniel painfully hard at his feet. An ancient, powerful thing that doesn’t belong here. Something that shouldn’t be alive.

Armand flicks the crop against his nipple. Little painless thud but it still makes him jump. Reminds Daniel that wherever he decides to strike him it’s going to hurt, and he’s going to hit for sure. It’s just a matter of time. Placement. The crop teases over his abs and Daniel’s mind whirs with options. Armand prods him with it right in the groin and Daniel thinks he might be sick.

You’ve forgotten, Daniel, that I could kill you at any time I want. Your existence is at my discretion.

Words, right in his head again, like a cold slap in the face. Daniel’s so hard beneath the leather pants he thinks he could die. He just might when the tip of the crop rubs there, teases right at the head of him just along the inside of his thigh. He can’t decide if he should arch up into it or squirm away because people are looking now. An entire cluster at the corner of the room has stopped to stare.

Daniel tucks his chin down toward his chest so that his hair falls in a curtain over his eyes. It’s just long enough now to get in the way, obscure his vision and hide him from the rest of the room. He moves away from the touch of the crop. Curls in on himself like a child.

Armand shifts on the chair. Uncrosses his legs. The toe of a freshly shined oxford appears in the space between Daniel’s knees. The tip of the crop hovers just beneath his face.

"Kiss it. And then perhaps we'll see what we can do about your insolent streak."

[saltywinteradult]

maybe some people could stand to be reminded that judging people for enjoying art you don’t enjoy is bad, actually

[luna-azzurra]

Vibes for Characters #3

Who Wear a Mask So Well, They’ve Forgotten Their Real Face

(The ones who are always what other people need and don’t know how to be anything else)

⛧ Mirrors the energy of whoever they’re talking to. You like jokes? They’re funny. You want quiet? They’re calm. You want deep? They’ve got metaphors. ⛧ Looks in the mirror and always thinks something feels… off. Like they’re wearing skin that isn’t quite theirs. ⛧ Doesn’t have favorite things, only the ones that make other people smile. ⛧ Says “no worries!” while bleeding out emotionally behind their back. ⛧ Knows exactly what to say to make someone feel seen, but has no idea how to ask for that in return. ⛧ When alone, they go silent. Like the absence of an audience erases the performance—and there’s nothing left. ⛧ Changes tone, style, even posture depending on who they’re with. ⛧ Has friends in every circle, but no one they call at 2am. ⛧ Desperately wants someone to look past the glitter and say: “You don’t have to do that. You’re allowed to just be.” ⛧ Tells stories like they’re happening to someone else. ⛧ Always “fine.” Always helpful. Always on. Until they’re not. ⛧ Has a dream version of themselves they only let exist in daydreams. Somewhere where they’re messy, soft, real and still loved.

Who Would Die for Everyone but Don’t Think Anyone Would Mourn Them

(aka the quiet martyrs, the ones who love big but feel forgettable)

⛧ Always offering to help. Always the one who stays behind to clean up. ⛧ Doesn't ask for favors—not because they don’t need them, but because they don’t believe they’re allowed to take up that kind of space. ⛧ When someone thanks them, they brush it off with “It was nothing.” ⛧ Treats their own pain like a footnote. (Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.) ⛧ You could compliment them, and they’d smile, but their eyes would still say Why are you being so nice to me? ⛧ Constantly afraid of being annoying, even when they’ve barely spoken. ⛧ Hides their breakdowns by being “the responsible one.” Always smiling, always functional, quietly unraveling. ⛧ Finds comfort in tasks. Dishes. Errands. Anything that gives them purpose. ⛧ Would take a bullet for you and apologize for bleeding on your shirt. ⛧ Thinks no one really knows them, but blames themselves for that. ⛧ Their phone background is a quote that hurts. (“You are enough” makes them cry a little in the dark.) ⛧ If someone did tell them they matter, they’d cry, and then probably never believe it again.

Who Are So Emotionally Numb, They Don’t Realize They’re Already Breaking

(For when burnout becomes a personality trait and disassociation is just Tuesday)

⛧ Says “I don’t care” a lot. Usually means “I can’t afford to.” ⛧ Lives in a weird fog, can’t remember what they had for lunch or what day it is, but somehow still functioning. ⛧ Never first to speak in a group. Often doesn’t speak at all unless directly asked something. ⛧ Laughs at the right times. Smiles when expected. You wouldn’t know anything was wrong unless you really looked. ⛧ Hasn’t cried in a long time. Not because they’re fine, because they forgot how. ⛧ Avoids mirrors. They don’t recognize the person looking back. ⛧ Can’t get excited about anything anymore, but keeps pretending like they can. ⛧ Keeps busy to outrun the numbness. Lists, routines, always moving. ⛧ Their sleep is either 12 hours or none at all. No in-between. ⛧ Gets caught staring at nothing, often. Blames it on “spacing out.” They’re not. ⛧ Doesn’t think about the future. The idea of hope is exhausting. ⛧ Still shows up. Still tries. That might be the most heartbreaking thing of all.

[s0dium]

Obsession

Warning: Love drunk men, fingering, titty sucking, nipple play, unprotected sex, love drunk reader

~

Love courses through your veins. He’s all you can think about.

You wonder if it's normal to be this enamored with someone, to be this hopelessly head over heels infatuated and obsessed. You can't even focus on what needs to be done anymore because he's absorbed your entire being; he's in your head when you wake up, a gentle whisper in the back of your mind during conversations, a constant in your dreams, day or night.

But it's a doomed one-sided crush you remind yourself. You're not even sure if he knows you exist and in quieter moments, you wonder if perhaps it’s better this way. Loving from a distance means you never have to face the potential heartbreak of rejection, never have to see that polite smile of someone who doesn’t return your feelings. It's safer, you tell yourself, to admire him from afar, keeping your heart guarded behind the shield of daydreams and what-ifs.

So surely, right now in this moment, you must be dreaming.

It feels too vivid, too intense to be just a figment of your imagination. The warmth of his breath against your cheek, the weight of his bare body pressing gently down on yours, the softness of his lips moving against your own with an insatiable hunger—it all feels astonishingly real.

Because it is.

You don't know how but now you're naked underneath him, letting him touch, grope, suck, kiss, nip, and bite anything his hands and mouth can find. He doesn't let up either, he's exploring your body like a starved man, like he'll never get a chance to touch you ever again and wont pull away until he's had his fill.

You gasp when you feel his fingers between your legs, tracing your inner thigh before gliding between your pussy lips. Instinctively, you jerk back at the feeling; his fingers collecting your arousal and sliding up and down. But before you can speak, he kisses you again, his tongue eagerly intertwining with yours. When he finally pulls away, leaving you breathless, a thin strand of saliva connects your mouths.

"Just let me take care of you okay?" He hums before dipping two fingers into your tight hole. "Just been waiting so long to do this."

You don't even have time to react before he's curling his digits and massaging a sweet spot you could only dream about hitting on your own. His other hand gropes your left breast and with his index and thumb, begins to play with your perky nipples. As if that wasn't enough, his mouth found your other breast and gave it the same attention, licking sucking, and rolling your nipple like it was candy.

Colors dance across your closed eyelids and you wonder if this is heaven, if you've died and reached nirvana because the pleasure is just that good. You dont know if you can handle this, handle the fact that he's sucking and playing with your nipples while finger fucking you. Your toes curl and uncurl from the hot searing euphoria that is absorbing your body and emitting from your core. Your back arches off the bed and your crying his name, moaning it even, something you only dreamed about doing late at night when you craved him.

Suddenly, his mouth releases your nipple with a pop and he ceases all of his ministrations, leaving you breathless and confused.

"Fuck, I-" He's breathless himself, his face flushed and pupils blown. "Need to be inside you, need to feel you." He practically groans, and you thickly gulp at his words. Your brain goes fuzzy and you dizzily watch him pull down his boxers, the length slapping against his abdomen after being released from its confines.

He watches you lay down on the bed, breasts and cunt glistening from juices. You dont know this but he actually thinks he is dreaming. You look like a painting right now and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from spilling just at the sight of you.

"Please," You whine, "Please fuck me."

Who is he to deny you?

Without a word he presses his tip against your entrance and slides into you, grunting at the snug fit of your walls. You let out a loud moan from the feeling of him filling you so so perfectly, so well you mentally curse yourself for thinking a dildo or your fingers could ever do the job.

Then with a moan of his own, he slides out of you, nearly leaving you empty, before rocking himself back into you. Oh, how he wanted to fuck you slow and nice, like you deserved, but as the seconds passed, his resolve seep away until he just couldn't possibly hold back anymore.

His thrusts become faster, quicker, slamming in and out of you with such vigor and ease due to your combined juices coating and dripping from both his length and your hole. The friction is delicious, and his tip seems to hit your g-spot perfectly with each thrust. He even grabs the underside of your thigh and pushes them against you, effectively folding you and half and allowing him to go even deeper inside you.

You could feel your rational slipping away as he groaned about how fucking good you felt, about how good you where taking him, how he had been dreaming about this. You want to say something too, say something about how you feel the same way, but the only thing that comes out of your mouth right now is wanton moans of his name.

The pleasure was becoming too much, it had been slowly building and building and you know your about to break any second, burst with such euphoria you don't know if you will ever come back from the high. Before you do though, your brain manages to work again for half a millisecond to express the exact words you are feeling.

"Love you! M'love you so much!" You gasped before letting yourself succumb to the mind-numbing orgasm that was waiting for you. Your whole body shook and quaked from the pleasure and your mind went white. You thought you might cry, from happiness or pleasure you did not know. But you didn't. You simply went limp while you let him use your body like a sex doll.

You are barely clinging onto consciousness when you feel his hips stutter against you and he scoops you up, holding you close while he cums inside you.

"Love you too, love you too." He groans against your ear.

Any character you want ;)

[chococolte]

I think a sagau! touch starved/needy childe, scara and zhongli feels very attractive, to have two powerful harbingers on their knees just for a shred of attention from their god makes me wanna pamper them

but also like zhongli?? That man is so touch-starved like poor dude has been worshipping for hundreds of years without a reward for his good work probably drives him insane. I cannot imagine how he hold it together and doesn’t ascend on the spot when he breathes the same air as his god because I genuinely think he’s THAT needy

also your writing really brought me a lot of comfort!! Thank you for running the blog and doing what you do💜💜

word count. 3.8k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. im so happy you like my writing!! im sorry i took forever to write this, but i still hope you like it !!!!

childe

In the unfathomable dark of the abyss, you were the only thing Childe had to keep himself sane.

Without you, he would've lost himself; without you, he is nothing. He only survived because of your guidance. In his eyes, his ever consuming need of you is only right— he has no need of anything else, and sees no purpose to think otherwise. You've only ever proven how worthy you are of worship.

When light seeps through tree boughs, he sees you. He sees you in the way the leaves leave a shadow. He feels you in the cast of the wind's breath. Every breath he takes is inlaid with your name. The mere thought of the opposite makes him sick.

He's pathetic, but his pitiful appearance is only for your eyes.

Just breathing in your presence is enough for him to feel weak and fluttery, but your eyes on him leave him delirious; the sort of dizzy where he can’t bring himself to move at all. All you have to do is glance at him for his knees to tremble like they're about to buckle underneath his weight.

Somehow, he keeps himself standing each time. He should be ashamed, he knows, embarrassed— but drool pools quickly in his mouth as your eyes linger, and any sort of dignity is discarded in the light of your gaze.

As a Harbinger, he should have more pride than he does, but Childe's only arrogance is his belief that he's special to you. That belief was the only thing he had to ground himself in the abyss, and he clings to it as if to let go would mean death. In his mind, it would be no different.

You were the only thing he had, even if he only knew you in the form of whispers and imperceptible kisses of wind. He didn’t need to touch you, no matter how tortuous of an existence it may be, as long as he could feel you.

That was enough. He thought it would be enough.

Seeing you is an entirely different matter however, and quickly, he finds himself wondering what your skin would feel like under his calloused fingertips.

He wants you to touch him. It's a selfish want, but one he carries with him all the same.

He wants you to play with his hair and hold him close as if he's something precious. He wants you to run your fingers along his spine and see him as he reveals every dark, nasty part of himself. He wants you to look and still find something to love.

Childe doesn't speak a word of his desires. He sits with them in the dark and tries to will them away. He tries to withstand their passage, but only ends up choking on each thought.

He tries to hold himself at night, imagining his arms are yours, but it only makes the ache worse.

He imagines loving you, and you loving him.

When you summon him to your chambers, Childe has to hold every nerve in his body to keep himself from running to you. It’s with a clearly restrained gait that he reaches you, just barely, his knees still wobbly and the floor a shifting kaleidoscope of colors.

It doesn’t bother him. Childe feels weightless, alight with fervor, and it’s a struggle to stop himself from rushing forward just to breathe a little closer to you. He drops to his knees, bowing his head until his forehead sits against your marble flooring.

Touch me, he thinks.

He somehow manages to choke a greeting out of his throat, unable to stop the small shudder that runs through him when he feels your gaze settle on him.

It feels right, being beneath you. It feels right, the slight tension in his body as he waits for you to speak.

Childe doesn’t say anything else. You’re the only one he truly respects, the only one he’s ever felt so fervently for— in your name, he would burn the world and scorch the earth. For you, he’d stain his hands so terribly the waters turn red. He holds no desire to clean his hands with anything other than your forgiveness— and so he doesn't dare to speak out of turn, unable to bear the thought of you being upset with him.

"Come here," he hears you say, your voice gentle and cooing. Childe doesn't hesitate, taking your words as a command, crawling towards you like some sort of dog.

Despite how eager he is to be near you, his hands rest dumbly at his sides. His fingers twitch, aching to touch you for just a moment, but he sits still, trying to be good. Without your permission, all he can do is sit, no better than a well-trained hound.

Childe looks up at you with a dumb, dopey smile on his face. He knows he must look like a fool, dazed just by sitting so close to you— he can already feel heat spreading across his freckled cheeks, and he knows it must be obvious— but he can't find it in himself to care.

It’s you.

You're so close he could touch you if he dared. Your warmth is only a few inches away from him, and he inhales, trying to breathe you in. For a brief moment, he allows himself the blessing to imagine what it would be like to touch you.

He imagines running his fingers against your skin. He imagines brushing against your hand. He imagines his palms gliding across the length of your robe, pretending the silk is your flesh. The thoughts strike him dumb, and he lets out a small whine before he can reel himself back in.

It's a breathless noise, but one he's sure you heard.

Your hand reaches forward to cup his cheek, and he nuzzles into your palm, leaning into your warmth as if trying to drink you in.

"So cute," you say, and every dark, needy part of him lights up all at once.

Childe makes another sound, a soft whimper drawn from the back of his throat. His russet lashes flutter shut, and any sense of propriety is promptly thrown to the side.

Touch me.

Another sharp shudder runs through him when you rub your thumb over his cheek. He almost falls limp against your hand, his breath locked in his throat, but he manages to steady himself in time.

His hands find your ornate robes within a second, and then he's clutching onto them until his knuckles are white. Childe can feel himself digging little crescents into his palms, but your touch means he's unable to focus on anything else, and the thought of lessening his grip makes him afraid you'll pull away.

Childe bites his lips, trying to stifle another noise. He never wants this to end. You could spit in his face, and he would thank you for it.

Just as he jerks forward, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, overwhelmed by how good your touch feels— you're letting go, and pure, unbridled fear rushes over him.

"N-No!" Childe begs hoarsely, unable to realize that he's acting out of what he's allowed. "No, no, d-don't stop, please! Please, please…" he pleads weakly, fingers digging into your robes again, tighter this time.

Unshed tears wet his eyes. If it means having your attention on him, he would do anything. Nothing is too far beneath him. He’s already done unspeakable things in your name, hoping to garner your favor; if it means having your touch for one second longer, then there’s no low he wouldn’t fall too— no covenant he wouldn’t break, divine or mortal. 

As long as it means being by your side at the end of it, any agony would be worth it. No shame is too much for him to bear. 

"Oh, puppy," you murmur softly. One of your hands cups his cheek, while the other gently tugs at his hair. "How could I say no to you?"

The fear coalescing around his heart dissipates, and the fingers that were clutching onto you lessen their grip slightly.

"Mhm," Childe hums at too high of a pitch, but he's much too drunk on you to think about anything else, much less whether he's ruining your perception of him. He hides his face in your hand.

Your puppy, he wants to add, but his mind is too frazzled to get the words out.

Your fingers in his hair tighten, and Childe can't help the little bit of drool that falls from his lips.

scaramouche

He shouldn't be ecstatic with just this much.

All you’d done was look at him. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, and it was enough for him to feel every nerve bursting like stars all over, pin pricks dancing under his skin. It was enough for every ugly, horrible little part of himself to reveal themselves like he'd done nothing to hide them.

The sudden surge of emotion, an incessant and desperate need to please you— to give you no reason to give him away— breaches the surface far too quickly. His every move is then dictated by how it might affect you, whether it'll give him your favor or ire; and an ever increasing chittering spawns in the back of his mind, crying for you to touch him.

All you'd done was look at him.

Scaramouche tries to ignore it at first. He, very pointedly, does his best not to think of how his skin burns when a thought of you touching him enters his mind unbidden, nor how it simultaneously destroys whatever preconceived notions he had of himself.

He knows titles are meaningless in front of you, but that doesn't quite quell the petulance he feels when he crumbles each time you look at him. You don't have to touch him for every wall to burst like they were nothing. You don't even have to be near him. Your eyes meet his for a moment, and it's like everything he is shatters.

It makes him feel disgustingly weak and as insignificant as the day he was born.

Scaramouche is one out of many; one interaction you may have out of hundreds. He knows how many clamber for your affection, and how many more would ruin themselves for it.

You hold his gaze for a meaningless amount of time, and he knows it means nothing to you. His body still reacts like it does. He knows once you've turned, you'll have already found something else to capture your attention. His pulse still churns as if you’d just held his face in your hands.

It's nothing to you. It should mean nothing to him.

He hates the fact it bothers him.

He shouldn't care. It's not the same as you abandoning him. That you look at him at all should mean something. But it doesn't change the way fear bundles inside of him when you look away, nor does it change the disgust that rises at the very fact he feels that way at all.

He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t bother him. But it does. It does.

It eats away at him like a festering wound. It hurts like nothing before it. He wonders if you’ll grace him with a look, and when you do, that’s the only thing that matters. When you turn away, he wonders how he ever got to this point. When you don’t, it’s like his breath’s been wrung from his lungs, and he wonders again, at what point did he let himself fall so far. 

It’s a point of irritability for him, and he ignores it like acknowledging it would be the death of his ego. Knowing that it would only serves to make him suffer more.

Whether you smiled or twitched your brow shouldn't feel the same as being reborn or having life torn from him. 

You haven't left him yet. He constantly feels like you're about too.

Scaramouche has to sit and watch when you interact with others. It feels like torture. You smile, and for some reason, it feels like fire washing over him. You laugh, and somehow, he hears it as vividly as he would if he was next to you; only it hurts because he's not the one you're sharing it with.

He could at least pretend he wasn't so pathetic before. He could hold himself up with some pride, even dignity— mask his emotions well enough they couldn't be used against him. Now, sitting in front of you like this, he can't even have that much.

It's piety, worship, love, or something in between or all of them at once. He's weak all over because of it, and it makes him furious at the same time it makes him euphoric.

He wishes he was stronger. Tempered by the abyss, and he still can't resist falling into you.

Your hand runs across the nape of his neck, and he shivers, skin burning where your fingers brush. A soft, shuddery breath escapes him, and his fingers curl where they're latched onto your robes.

If it was anyone else, maybe he would have mauled them for seeing him in such a state. People are perfidious; quick to betray, and even quicker to exploit whatever they've gleaned. Faster still to take away anything that makes him happy.

It's not just anyone, though. It's you. And despite how terribly he fears and how deeply he wishes to bury his emotions, his want of you runs deeper. If it means holding your attention, then you can have anything. If it means feeling your touch, then he'd let you use whatever you wanted against him.

If it meant having the assurance of your presence, then he'd kneel and discard his every title and name. He'd become nothing, if he knew he'd still have you.

“Good boy,” you whisper, and Scaramouche instinctively moves closer, rubbing his knees raw against marble, trying to breathe in your warmth.

He despises how fast he weakens at your beckoning; how he can't even will himself to resist, or fathom the thought of it— malleable to your every whim, and unable to be truly angered by it. He only shifts to be nearer to you, dreaming of your touch, hoping to share some of your eternity.

A whimper rises from his throat, trying to kill his desperation.

"Don't leave me," he says, the words wrenched from his throat. "Don't leave me."

Don’t betray me, he wants to say instead. Don’t abandon me.

It's a disgusting display of weakness. He wishes he could kill his voice so he wouldn't speak at all, but even without a heart, his emotions feel like they might choke him.

The things you do to him are terrible. Pleas for you to only look at him sit and die on his tongue. He reels himself back in before he can make a fool out of himself even further, but he knows you only have to look at him for a little bit longer for any sense of resistance to die alongside his pride. 

"I won't," you say softly, holding his cheek against your palm. "I'm here."

Scaramouche leans into your touch, hiding his face against your hand. He manages to keep himself from making an improper sound through sheer will, though he has to clench his jaw and close his eyes. 

Even just knowing he has all of your attention makes him feel dazed, and as you rub your thumb over his cheek, he can’t even muster any anger at being reduced to such a state. He hums, somehow leaning even further into your touch. 

“I’m here,” you say again, and Scaramouche whimpers into your palm.

zhongli

Zhongli dreams of you every night.

He knows he shouldn’t. It’s not proper of him, nor is it right for him to sully your image with his thoughts. Still, though, the thoughts come unbidden and leave him a wreck in their wake. 

What troubles him is what he knows to be the cause of them.

Zhongli has always been eternally grateful. He's sat with the love of you until it permeated every thought. He's lived beside the worship of you until it coated his every word and nerve. 

Being able to serve you past fantasies in his imagination brings him purpose, and that should be enough. And for a time, it was. 

He could see you and feel fulfilled. He could breathe your air and feel like the thousands of years spent waiting for you had been worth it. Even following you around like some sort of dog was more gratifying than splitting the earth apart. This, he thought, is enough.

This sense of greed, then, shouldn't exist.

Zhongli pretends it's not his own, but the truth is that every thought is painfully his. 

He imagines you running your fingers through his hair. He imagines touching your skin. He imagines you whispering praises against the pale column of his throat, and he imagines being yours in such a way that he knew he was special to you. He imagines you breathing his name and it feeling like rebirth. He imagines your touch. He imagines being able to worship you selfishly, entirely, in a way that no one but him could claim the honor of.

In a way, he thinks he deserves it. To be tortured with visions of things he knows he doesn't deserve and thoughts he knows you wouldn't approve of. 

Zhongli would think of you often before, when all he had of you were the prayers on his lips and promises of piety. It was difficult to imagine you as something physical, but still, his heart stirred. His most meaningful company was the thought of you beside him.

What he thinks of now is different.

He wouldn't have dared to imagine touching your skin. He wouldn't have let the thought escape the darkest of his subconscious. He wouldn't have dared to let himself the simple fantasy of you speaking his name like he's something precious to you. All he wanted, then, was to share the same plane of existence as you. A selfish want, but it was pure.

What pervades his mind now is some sort of sacrilege. He should know better, but he still sullies you every time he closes his eyes, unable to fight and equally unwilling too. 

His greatest arrogance. Even with thousands of mortal lifetimes lived, he still can't rid himself of it— even with his own self-hatred, his thoughts continue to defy him. 

Even when he knows he's failing you, he falls deeper. 

It's worse when you interact with others. Zhongli hugs your shadow and trails after you always, eager to please but always hiding behind a mask of propriety and decorum. He likes to pretend to have a semblance of control in your presence, though he knows that if you’d only ask, he would rid himself of it entirely and be thankful for it.

You're perfect, which is why you're kind even to those that don't deserve a modicum of your attention. You smile, and each time it's not directed at him, he tries to choke the indignance out of him. It’s selfish of him to expect that he be the only one to receive your affection, despite how his mind whispers it’s because he hasn’t done enough to prove himself to you. 

Why else, it supplies, would you waste your breath on those undeserving of it? 

He reminds himself of his place. It assuages him for only a moment.

Zhongli dreams of your breath. He dreams of you cracking him open and bearing witness to every depravity and every virtue and still whispering your love to him. He dreams of looking at you and knowing that he means something to you. He dreams and he wants so terribly, and he knows none of it is his to imagine.

He reminds himself of his place, repeating the words over and over in his mind. He whispers them to himself at night in hopes that maybe, it'll finally stick this time. 

Be pleased with this much.

He's meant to be. He tells himself that, maybe, if he perseveres well enough, he'll be rewarded. 

Maybe you'd let him touch you?

He wouldn't ask for much. Maybe you would be kind enough to let him hold your fingers in his. He wouldn't do so for long. Maybe, if he was good, you'd let him kiss your fingertips with the reverence you deserve. 

It’s an impossibility, he knows, but it's his sole comfort. If he withstands just for a while more, you'll be proud instead of disappointed that he's fallen so low. 

Then you ask for him to kneel, alone in your chambers, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Zhongli does as you say immediately. He falls to his knees so quickly that his mind doesn't have the chance to catch up. Vaguely, he understands that maybe he should be ashamed with how fast his body responds. He decides he doesn't care. All he knows is that you're looking at him, and that it feels sweet and good, and that he doesn't want you to stop. 

His breath is lodged in his throat. His heart sounds like a roar in his ears. Nothing exists but you and your words. All you have to do is whisper a word that could vaguely be understood as a command and he would be at your feet, ready to be used. 

He wants you to touch him. 

You smile, and his nerves feel alight with fervor. Zhongli’s hands stay clenched on his knees, trembling with the strength needed to resist touching you. 

You haven't given him permission, so he keeps himself still. 

You cradle his face in your hands. He can feel the warmth of your palms caressing his cheeks, and he wonders— how can there be anyone who doesn't worship you? 

“Good boy,” you say, and Zhongli inhales sharply. 

For you, he wants to say. Only for you.

He doesn't, afraid to speak; afraid that to murmur even the softest of praises would cause you to pull away. 

Does he tell you, he wonders, that he wants you to play with his hair? Does he tell you he wants you to love him completely, innocently, selfishly? Does he tell you he wants you to touch his skin, anywhere if it means having that small piece of contact? 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” you ask, and he can hear the small tint of mirth in your voice.

The question strikes him dumb. His body burns and his blood is singing. Zhongli doesn't care if you find him amusing. No, he delights in it. It doesn't matter as long as he means something at all to you.

His fingers twitch, and just barely does he manage to keep his hands to himself. 

“Everywhere,” he breathes.

[nmakii]

strayed from the main idea of this drabble… oops.

sae itoshi, who loves calling his girl ‘amorcita’. that’s fine, and all. it’s romantic, but he likes calling you his princess much more.

princess is more than just a pet name to him though. because to him, you’re truly a princess, graceful and beautiful despite your faults; someone who deserves to be given the world. he’d go to the ends of the earth to find something that doesn’t exist if you asked him to find it.

it’s not much of an exaggeration when you say that he’s down bad.

he is— he’s just very good at hiding it. he doesn’t boast about you loudly in the ways that someone like that devil— shidou— might, but he instead manages to offhandedly relate any conversation topic to you.

oddly enough, the only other time sae’s ever as talkative or passionate about something other than football, is when he’s talking about you.

that additional time where aiku asked shidou why he was making funny faces in the locker room? after that, sae mentioned, “my princess makes weird faces too. when she’s sleeping, her cheek is always pressed up to me, and it leaves a red mark in the morning. and, she can never manage to keep her mouth closed when she’s asleep. once, i was able to feed her while she was asleep.” and he sighed, silently smiling at the funny memory.

in his first interview after going public with you as his girlfriend, he immediately jumped at the opportunity to mention you. he had always thought that these interviews were an unnecessary hassle. he’s a good football player, and he’ll let his work speak for itself. “right! soo… sae, how are you adjusting to your new team?” the interviewer asks. sae thinks for a moment, his lower lip raising in a slight pout as he thinks of how to answer. “…the center forward has incredible dribbling skills, i’ll admit that. but, his shot range and goal chance percentage are awful. the rate at which he can score goals is still lukewarm.” he sighs disappointedly, “the best striker in the world seems to have not had his awakening yet. it’s annoying, but the city isn’t so bad. there’s a french bakery near my apartment that my princess and i like to frequent. she loves those flaky croissants with chocolate in them— pain au chocolat, but i tend to just get their house black coffee.” he’s recalling your typical order as if it’s the back of his hand, and the flow of his speech is much more relaxed than when he had been speaking about his new team.

and at this point, the interviewer is confused. “pardon… your ‘princess’?” he repeats, trying to confirm what he heard. sae nods, “yes, my princess; my girlfriend. she really likes those chocolate croissants. she eats about a fourth of it in just one bite. and when some hot chocolate from the inside burns her on the lip, she complains a bit and asks me to kiss it better. it’s really cheesy on her part, but i guess i don’t mind if it’s for her.” even sae doesn’t know just what he’s saying. he didn’t mean to reveal this much about how he feels. …yet, here he was, going on like a pining gentleman in love, and remembering how the softness of your lips felt against his as the piping hot chocolate pressed and stuck onto his lips as well.

in his eyes, you’re as close to perfection as there ever will be. it didn’t matter whether or not your physical appearance changed, or if you suddenly decided to change your career path— as long as you stayed as who you are, he’d be at your side.

and to be worthy of such a perfect human being; his princess. he has to become a king— a king of the field. one who domineers the field with his spatial awareness alone, and passes to the one who can keep up with his vision; the greatest egoist. that’s who he needs to become in order to earn your love; to become worthy of being the one that gets to love you every day and every night.

but even so, it’d still never be enough for him. you always make him want to push his limits further, and show you just how amazing he is.

sae’s really down bad for his princess.

[seijorhi]

Divine Rights

for my beloved wife @iwaasfairy as a somewhat late, sort of birthday present aka the royal fic y'all have been waiting weeks for oikawa tooru x female reader w.c 5.6k tw: non-con, yandere themes, blood and a little gore, murder, violence, abuse, pregnancy & childbirth, breeding kink, smut, nsfw

“Miyuki forgot to bring me my tea this afternoon.” At the blank look you get in response, you hasten to clarify, “The maid– the new one, I mean. She always brings it after lunch, but today she forgot.” 

Guilt needles you with every word. You like Miyuki. Quiet as a mouse, most of the time she can hardly bring herself to meet your eye, much less talk with you, but on the days she finishes her tasks quickly enough – the days the guards aren’t watching the clock – she’ll sit with you while you sew or practice your reading. For a brief moment, you can imagine her a friend. Perhaps if you were her friend, or at least a better friend, you’d ignore the gnawing unease in the pit of your stomach, keep your mouth shut and spare her. 

Because there will be consequences, of that you’re certain. Whatever grace the King affords you on a whim does not extend to the servants scurrying throughout the castle. Most especially those few he allows within your presence. 

Stretched out languidly beside you, Oikawa arches an eyebrow. “Your tea?” he repeats.

Your cheeks flame. What you’d give right now to squirm away from him, crawl out of his bed, this room, and disappear entirely just to avoid him and this mortifying conversation. 

There’s a voice in the back of your head that reminds you that there’s a decent chance Oikawa’s ignorant of all of it. Why should he have to concern himself with trivialities like contraception or pulling out? He’s the King, there’ll always be those who trail along after him, cleaning up his messes. No royal bastards. No loose ends when the blacksmith’s youngest disappears behind the walls of the castle keep. 

“So that we don’t– there’s no chance of a– a baby. I meant to say something earlier, but…” you trail off, the slow trickle of his seed oozing from the raw ache between your legs speaking for itself. 

With your oldest sister and her husband, it’d taken months for her to fall pregnant. Newlyweds don’t always conceive within the first year. If every accidental slip left women pregnant, the streets by the brothels would run riot with unclaimed bastards. It’ll be fine. 

You drank the tea Miyuki brought you yesterday, so long as she brings it shortly, and you take it as normal again tomorrow–

Long, elegant fingers coax at your chin, derailing the runaway thought in its tracks. His chuckle, deep and low, registers a split second before the kiss. “Not a mistake,” he tells you, murmuring against your lips. “You’re going to give me an heir, sweet girl. Two, actually. An heir and a spare, and maybe a few after that, if you’re very, very good for me.” He says it indulgently, his own breath catching on a low shudder when his index and middle fingers curl up into your pussy, pushing his spend back inside of you, “Where it belongs,” he whispers.

You seize his forearm, “T-Tooru–” you gasp.

He has to be joking. You can’t– He wouldn’t–

The tea made sense. You’ve no title, you’re not his wife nor his Queen, not a Lady of the court or the daughter of some important, foreign dignitary. Outside the walls of these chambers, you do not exist at all. You aren’t anyone, anything beyond what he desires you to be.

You cannot have his child. 

“Please, I don’t want this. I’m not– I’m not ready.” Your nails are digging half moon circles into his skin, and the prickle of tears unshed and the lump in your throat make your voice thick and strained, but the King meets your panicked gaze with a twinkle in his eye. 

“You are,” he kisses your forehead, “and you will,” your mouth, sucking on your lower lip. “Trust in your King, love. Everything is as it’s meant to be.”

The woman who brings your meals the next day doesn’t linger, she scurries about, shoulders drawn, flinching when you ask her name.

There’s no tea – not that afternoon, or any that follow. 

—

When you were younger, you used to pretend you lived in the castle up on the hill. 

Your two older brothers would fight over which would play King while you and your sisters danced and sipped honeyed drinks and pretended to give your favour to one or the other, only to order them about once they’d been crowned. You imagined dances and feasts and thrilling hunts, tournaments with brave knights and roaring crowds. Never a dull moment. 

A life of luxury forever out of reach. 

Until it was forced upon you, but only a shadow. 

You eat delicacies you could only have dreamed of, taste rich, heady wine on the King’s tongue – once, a mouthful from his lips, Oikawa laving up the droplet that spilled down your chin.

But while you hear the distant, muted melodies that play somewhere down below, you’ve never sat in the hall by his side. Only a few of the names he rattles off you recognise. The others remain blurry figures in your head, characters in a play you’ve yet to attend. Won’t ever attend, if the King has his way. 

The court gossip you learn in dribs and drabs, never enough to paint a complete picture, and for all that he chatters away in your ear, Oikawa shares little. You aren’t privy to the schemes that run through the castle, the kingdom at large, from its highest echelon. Nothing for you to trouble your pretty little head over.

It should come as no surprise then that news of his upcoming nuptials doesn’t come from the King himself. 

“I imagine they’ll be moving you,” the maid – Miyuki’s replacement – says one afternoon, out of the blue. And it might not come as such a shock if she’d ever spoken to you before that, if the comments weren’t accompanied by a wide eyed, frantic look at odds with her stilted delivery, if you had any idea what she was on about to begin with.

You blink at her. “Moving me?”

She nods, a shaking jut of her chin. “When the King marries at week’s end. If he decides to keep you, it won’t be here.”

If.

Oikawa’s never bothered with sweet lies. Every vow he’s ever made to you, he’s followed through on, every threat delivered – no matter your tears. In that, at least, you trust him. When he withheld the tea and told you he wanted you to give him an heir, you believed it. He had no reason to lie.

Your mind spins, trying in vain to pluck the threads of an unravelling tapestry; the colours wrong and the image distorted. 

A Queen doesn’t bode well. Moving you would be the logical step; there’s no doubt a plethora of nooks and crannies he could lock you away in until he’s gotten what he wants – but now that makes even less sense than before.

A cold feeling prickles at the nape of your neck.

And then what? What happens when you give him the child he wants? What happens when you outlive your usefulness?

You’ve become stone, blank faced, frozen if not for the slight tremor in your – the hand she seizes by your wrist, fingers digging in tight. Dropping all pretence, she steps closer, voice lowering to a frightened whisper, “You need to leave. Whatever you think you’re gaining from this, you aren’t. He’ll kill us all before–”

“Enough.”

The maid snaps back like she’s been scalded, dropping into a hasty curtsy, eyes fixed to the floor as one of Oikawa’s Royal Guards – knights in their own right – Matsukawa, strides into the room, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. 

He spares you only a glance, a quick, cursory look to determine you’re unharmed. A laughable notion, really, when one considers his King’s penchant for manhandling.

“She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“She had her hands on you,” he counters. And the King will not abide that.

You bite your tongue, sinking down onto the bed as Matsukawa steps aside and the maid – she never told you her name, never answered when you asked – all but flees with a hand to her mouth, muffling a sob. Matsukawa leaves behind her, the door quietly shut in his wake.

For a long time after that you sit in silence. 

Eventually, the door opens again – a boy this time, no older than seven, carrying a tray from the kitchens. He stares with wide, awe filled eyes, and bows and stammers out an apology, cheeks flushed apple red. Only the ache in your chest draws the corners of your lips upwards into a paper-thin smile.

Your sister’s boys would’ve been his age. 

If, if, if–

“I hear you’ve had an exciting day, my love.”

The sun has set. The King has returned home to roost. 

“Is that why?” you ask, hardly glancing up as he makes his way over towards you.

“Why what?”

“I-is she barren? Hideous? Too old to bear children, or too– too–” you can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Cruel, heartless and selfish he may be, you have to believe there’s at least one boundary he wouldn’t cross. “What happens to me when all this is done? When you have your heirs, or you grow weary of this– of… me?” you ask instead.

You don’t realise tears are rolling down your face until he’s looming over you, having pushed his way between your legs, cupping your cheeks to wipe them away. The gesture could almost be construed as something comforting, something genuine, if not for the preening satisfaction behind his sigh. 

“My stubborn, sensitive girl, twisting yourself into knots over things that aren’t yours to worry about. We’d both be much happier if you just left well enough alone and trusted me, hm? You know I can’t stand to see you cry.” Liar. “But if it will ease that tender heart of yours, know that she’s a whining cunt, I have a sizeable new merchant fleet courtesy of her father, and there is no scenario, in this or any other life–” his expression doesn’t waver, but every trace of levity bleeds from his voice as his thumb slides between your lips, “–where I will ever be done with you, do you understand?”

You nod. With his thumb hooked in your mouth, pressing against your tongue, it’s all you can do. 

“Good girl. Always so good for me.”

It isn’t unexpected when his other hand moves to unlace his breeches and fish out his cock.

“Get it wet,” he breathes.

When he’s feeling generous, your King’s the one to sink between your knees, tongue and fingers working at your core until you’re panting, dizzy on the edge of pleasure, warm and welcoming, dripping with a need that’s his to sate.

But the King isn’t feeling generous tonight. Gathering your hair in his fist, he lets out an anticipatory breath, a near hiss, when your fingers curl around him and you lean in, lips obediently parting.  Your tongue swirls around the velvety head giving it a light,  experimental suck, and his hips buck, chasing the sensation.

Usually, Oikawa enjoys your mouth almost as much as your pussy, preferring to draw it out, edge himself, let you demonstrate your ardent devotion to your King, your love – but there’s none of that now. Your scalp screams for relief when he tightens his grip, and though you should have been expecting it, the sudden thrust into your mouth takes you by surprise, eyes shooting wide, choking on the intrusion.

It’s rough and graceless, the wet, gagging sounds that spill out amidst his panting, the tears that spring to your eyes and the burn in the back of your throat. You barely have the presence of mind to work your tongue, hollow your cheeks. Suck like he wants you to.

The reprieve comes without warning, Oikawa yanking you off by your hair. True enough, every inch of his thick, flushed cock shines with your spit, gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

“Lie back,” he orders.

You sprawl back onto the bed. 

None of your earlier nerves have eased, but the tremor in your heart has everything to do with the naked desire that bleeds across his expression as he finishes ridding himself of his clothes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

You shake your head, fingers fluttering in the sheets either side of you.

“No?” he purrs. “You don’t wish it were you I were putting in a crown–” Your insides twist into knots as he crawls onto the bed taking an ankle in his grip. A soft whine escapes, but he simply trails his fingers lovingly along your calf, pushing your shift up and sliding closer. “–pledging myself to in the eyes of God and our Countrymen?”

Your breath hitches. He knocks your legs wider, slotting himself into the open space. “I–I wouldn’t dare to be so bold. I’m already yours, that’s… that’s enough for me.”

He laughs darkly, pressing a kiss to your knee and lifting it to his shoulder. “You are mine, but if you want a crown, I’ll give you one.” 

You seize the sheets, gasping for air when his cock slides into you in a slow, punishing thrust. 

“I’ll give you a crown, the dress, all the pretty diamonds and rubies you like so long as I can have you like this you while wear them– fuck,” he moans, eyes closing, head tilted back as he savours the tight warmth of your pussy, squeezing at his cock. 

He leans down, seeking the taste of your swollen lips. With his tongue licking greedily into the open seam of your mouth, he rolls his hips and falls into a rhythm which leaves you writhing and squirming beneath him. The drag of his cock stings. The King’s never cared that it hurts and it doesn’t affect him now, his fingers digging into the meat of your thigh, dragging you closer, shifting your hips so the angle is better. Deeper. Every inch of you claimed, every inch of you his. 

“I’ll marry you too, if that’s what you want,” he pants. 

Each whimper, sharp, stuttered breath, plea for clemency, for a second’s reprieve – they spur him on. Drive him to the brink. You’re sweltering from inside out. Sweat forms at your forehead, beading along the nape of your neck – through hazy eyes, you watch a droplet trickle down Oikawa’s bare chest, struck with the strangest desire to push yourself up and lap at it, all the while the King’s cock rocks inside of you, deep, hard strokes that rob you of sense. 

Your bones rattle with each slam of his hips against the cradle of your thighs, your cries swallowed by his tongue, soothed with a kiss. Pain and pleasure war, bleeding over until they’re indiscernible from one another. “We’ll do it in the Old Ways,” he tells you, his eyes alight, his smile almost savage in its raw pleasure. “Oaths sealed in blood and fucking, witnessed by a Priest. I wouldn’t let any of those old fucks anywhere near you, but Iwa should suffice.”

All you can do is cry out, clutching at his forearm. You’re sure that your nails break the skin, but it only urges Oikawa on. 

“You want Iwa to come watch me split you apart on my cock, hm?” His weight drops, leaning over and nearly folding you in two, and on the next thrust you see stars that blink out your vision. “You want him to marry us?” You shatter beneath him, eyes rolling back, body shuddering as pleasure explodes inside of you, fizzing through your veins til every part of you is alight with it. 

The King swears violently, the heat of your spasming cunt driving him over the edge. With his forehead pressed against yours, he cums with a gritted out moan, fucking his release deep inside of you. Where it belongs. 

—

The disparity between the two of you is never so stark as when Oikawa dons his regalia. From the deep teal of his fur-lined cloak, clasped with chains of gold, to the glittering gemstones set into his crown, he wears finery like a second skin. Even his leather boots would fetch more money at market than your family had ever seen in their lives.

You, meanwhile, are barefoot, hair unbound, wearing a shift stained with last night’s blood. Oikawa smiles down at you with a fond sort of benevolence while you fiddle with the last of his fastenings. At one point of time, he must’ve had a servant to help him with this sort of thing. 

Now, he has you, and seems all the more pleased for it.

“Are you coming back tonight?” you ask.

He catches your hands when you pull away, bringing them back to rest on his chest. “Where else would I go?”

These are, of course, his chambers. 

“And… her?” you choke out, refusing to meet his gaze. 

“You mean the blushing bride to be?” He laughs, the sound grating on your already fraught nerves. “You wouldn’t happen to be jealous, darling, would you?” 

If he fucks her here tonight, with you in the room, you might actually vomit. 

Biting down on the tip of your tongue, you force a nod. It earns another laugh from the King, “My little liar,” he croons. “How quick you are to forget the promises we made to each other.”  Like a dance, he spins you to draw your back flush to his chest, turning you both to face the mirror. 

The reflection paints a stark, ugly picture. Baleful eyes shadowed and drawn. Skin sapped of its healthy glow. You might’ve been a great beauty once – in the eye of certain beholders – in the King’s covetous embrace, there’s something hollow that stares back, aching and endless. A stranger plucked from the wilds. 

Oikawa rests his cheek against your hair and smiles at your reflection, tugging at the top of your shift until it slips low enough to reveal the marred flesh above your breast. He hums appreciatively. “The Queen isn’t your concern. She won’t be setting foot in here.”

The finality in his tone stops you from prying deeper. 

That, and the sharp double rap at the door. 

A quiet curse tumbles from his mouth. For a split second, his grip tightens, the beginnings of a scowl flitting across his handsome face before he smooths it out with a huff. “Later,” he promises, dragging himself away like it pains him to do so.

Rather than leaving, though, you watch as he steps aside to allow someone else entry – a guard.

Kyoutani. Mad Dog. 

Presumably nicknamed for his scowling, vicious mien and the rabidity of his temperament, of all the Royal Guard, he is definitely the last you’d pick to be alone in a room with. Somewhat darkly, you wonder if that’s the sole reason Oikawa says what he does next. “I think we’ve been a little too lax with your safety, my love. Mad Dog will be here to keep a closer eye on you for the foreseeable future.”

Honey brown eyes bear down on you, sharp and shrewd, and a chill rolls down your spine.

“Be good for him, won’t you?”

—

True to his word, she never appeared in his bedchambers; he returned alone, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed and handsy, tugging at your shift with clumsy hands and a sloppy grin before you’d fully roused.

Nothing changes – with the exception of your new guard. 

Gone is any semblance of privacy. For every moment that your King does not dog your every waking breath, Kyoutani takes up watch. You cannot ignore him. You cannot relax, pinned under his stare like a rabbit in a trap. If you thought your maids were nervous before, it’s nothing to the unbridled panic the latest exudes working under the eye of the King’s loyal hound, walking on eggshells like he’s one wrong breath away from snapping her spine. 

After Matsukawa and her predecessor, you’re not entirely sure she’s wrong. With the way he watches you, tracking your every move with narrowed eyes and a perpetual scowl, you’re more afraid that when he snaps – when Oikawa loosens that leash ever so slightly – it’ll be your neck that finds its way between his salivating jaws. That maybe this is your end, and he’s making you face it day in, day out.

You believe Oikawa, and the oaths he made – but only to a point. 

It’s why the morning they bring you eggs for breakfast and the smell sends you hurtling to the bathroom, it isn’t a sense of relief or happiness that fills you. While Oikawa rubs soothingly at your back, kissing your neck, your hair – whatever parts of you he can reach, cooing praise that goes in one ear and out the other, there’s an edge of hysteria that winds its way through your chest and constricts util it feels like you’ll choke under the pressure of it all.

In your womb, a noose and a lifeline. 

“I want my sisters. I want to see them.”

Breakfast long forgotten, lying in bed covered solely by the fine sheen of sweat sticking to your skin, you take his hand in yours and guide it to your stomach. It’ll be months before you show, but that doesn’t stop his eyes from flicking down, the hunger that pools at the reminder of the life that’ll grow there. Your child; his heir.  

“Please, Tooru. I haven’t– it’s been months. Let me see them. Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”

His eyes return to yours, pityingly, his hand stays where it is, thumb stroking bare flesh. “My love, they won’t see you.”

He might as well have slapped you. “What? Why wouldn’t they see me? You– you promised you wouldn’t–”

“I haven’t laid a finger on them,” he assures you. “They… blame you for what happened. Your parents and brothers. Their husbands. The boys. Even if I allowed the guards to permit you entry, they’d only lash out and hurt you. I wouldn’t put you through that, not for anything.”

Rationality rebels against this. Whatever your faults and missteps, you never asked for the King’s attention, you wouldn’t have tried to run if you’d known the cost. He did this, not you.  But rationality gets lost entirely, drowned beneath the wave of grief that sweeps you up. It coils around you and sinks down into your bones. Grief becomes the air you breathe, the blood in your veins. It’s agony and heartbreak and the first sob that leaves you feels like it’s cleaving you in two.

They blame you. 

You don’t fight him, not anymore. You sit pretty and spread your legs, let him fill you with rot over and over and over again, all to keep the King’s ire from touching them further. 

They live and breathe at your behest while you’ve become a broodmare, and they hate you for it.

The cracks within grow wide and deep. 

Still cradling your belly, the King laments, “I’m sorry, my love. I’d have kept you from that knowledge if I could.”

If, if, if–

—

Your breasts swell and grow tender, your middle fills out.

A simple gold band on the King’s left hand marks their marriage, but within the walls of your gilded cage, the new Queen does not exist. Beyond them, you don’t. 

She breaks that tentative impasse only once.

The day itself is unremarkable. The King left hours ago, you’re on the chaise, trying, as per usual, to ignore Kyoutani’s overbearing presence with your drawing book when you hear the muffled conversation filtering through the door.

At first, you pay it no mind. While your maid is usually the only one permitted access, servants come and go throughout the day, the guards change rotation, every so often this Lord or that Lord will come seeking the ear of the King. None of them gain entry, and so you’ve learned to mostly tune the noise out.

But the voices get louder, distractingly so. 

You recognise Makki’s, the other’s foreign to you. Female, you can discern that much, and with each passing exchange, her soft, dulcet tone morphs into something sharp and shrill.

From the corner of your eye, you spy Mad Dog stiffening, a clenching of his jaw. Without necessarily meaning to, you abandon the quill pen, folding your half-finished sketch shut, one hand drifting to flutter nervously over your stomach. 

“– hiding his pet whore! Let me in, or so help me–”

The door thumps violently, rattling the lock and you jump with it. A snarl tears through the chamber – not from Makki or the Queen, but Kyoutani, eyes ablaze, who stalks towards you, seizes you by your arm and hauls you to your feet roughly. 

For months he’s prowled on the edge of an invisible barrier he’s erected around you. He smashes through it now without care, calloused fingers digging in through the cotton of your dress while you stumble behind him, struggling to keep up with his long, angry strides.

“In the bedroom. Now,” he growls, as though you aren’t already at the door.

You expect him to toss you inside and slam the door shut behind you, with him on the other side. He doesn’t. He drags you to the huge bed, pushing you – almost gently – back onto the mattress and stomps to stand guard by its foot without so much as a word of explanation. The door swings closed of its own accord, but not before you catch the screeching wail that cuts off with another loud thump.

The silence grows heavy after that.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d entertained the possibility that whatever it was Oikawa was plotting with you and her, the Queen was in on it. Content enough with her crown not to care where her husband buried his cock each night or that her own bed remained cold and empty.

She, after all, would remain once your part in this was done. 

But even if she was just a simple fool, tossed into this game at the whims of the men in her life, you imagined she’d be untouchable. Protected in a way you’d never been afforded.

If the Queen – pretty idiot, scheming bitch – is not safe from the King’s violence, what hope is there for you?

Your eyes drift to the sword on Mad Dog’s hip, and you do a very good job of pretending that when your hands curl around your stomach, they aren’t shaking, that the lie doesn’t taste bitter on your tongue when you whisper, “It’s okay, little one. We’re gonna be okay.”

When the King returns shortly thereafter, he doesn’t utter a word about the incident. Dismissing Kyoutani with a flick of his wrist, he cups your cheeks in warm, tender palms, marvelling at the tears that shine there as though he isn’t perfectly aware he’s their cause.

“Give me a son,” he says lowly, a secret just for the two of you, “and I promise we’ll only have to go through this once more.”

—

You know it before the first contraction, before your water breaks, soaking the sheets beneath.

The physician’s called, your maid pulled from her rest to attend you as the King refuses to allow any more eyes into the room. For hours, you wait out your contractions, breathing through the pain while the King paces and the physician flits between examining you and whispering in his ear. 

Eventually, though, he rises from your bedside and nods at the King. 

“Makki, fetch the Queen. Iwaizumi, too,” he orders. To you, he says, “She’s had such a difficult pregnancy, can hardly get out of bed these days, the poor thing. She deserves to be here for the birth of her child, don’t you think?”

Your chin bobs in agreement, too terrified to speak.

Within minutes the door to the chambers opens again, the Lord Chancellor stepping through, followed by Makki with the Queen in tow.

Mortification stirs within your chest at the sight of the King’s right hand, and you’re quick to divert your gaze to the Queen instead. She stands behind Hanamaki, pallid and thin – certainly not pregnant – and she might have been beautiful, had her expression not been pinched in a sneer. 

A whining cunt, Oikawa had said. But no amount of imperiousness can hide the nervous way her eyes dart between you, the King, and the gathered guards. 

“Your Grace,” she utters stiffly.

She isn’t wearing a crown. No jewels or pretty dresses. Her hair’s loosely braided and she wears a shift dress not dissimilar to your own. Hardly the picture of royalty. 

What strikes you, though, is that she looks passably similar to you. 

“Kneel.”

Another contraction hits, stealing your attention. You squeeze your eyes shut and suck in a breath through clenched teeth, waiting for the rippling pain to abate. 

“Don’t look at her,” Oikawa drawls. “Kneel.”

When your eyes flutter open again, the Queen’s on her knees, the edge of Makki’s blade resting upon her shoulder. Your heart lurches.

You don’t understand what’s happening, why they’re here, but the panic rising up inside of you threatens to sweep you away and you cannot help the tears that spring to your eyes or the lump that forms in your throat. Your mother should be here. Your sisters. They’d help you through this, guide you with steady hands and keep you calm – but your mother burned with your home, and your sisters, who despise you anyway, now traitors to the Crown. 

The bed’s been turned to give you the smallest semblance of privacy, but there’s no escaping the prying eyes across the room. In a room full of voyeurs, you’ve never been more alone. More terrified. You don’t want to give birth in front of them. You don’t want your children taken from you. 

You don’t want to die like this, an animal on display.  

“Tooru–” you gasp, curling in on yourself as another contraction hits.

He’s at your side in an instant, hand in yours, the other stroking your hair. He shushes you gently as the physician peers between your legs and tells you that it’s time to push.

—

There’s no more proof needed of the divine right of kings than in the two healthy baby boys the physician presents to Oikawa. 

An heir and a spare. 

The Queen still kneels on the ground at Makki’s feet. Your maid’s fussing with sheets, Iwaizumi and Kyoutani surveying from the corner, straight backed. Alert. Waiting.

Every eye but the Queen’s is fixed on Oikawa and his sons. 

“Can… Can I hold them? Please?” 

You’ll beg if you have to. Those boys are yours. He can kill you now, throw you in the dungeons below with your sisters – he can erase you from the story entirely, but those two perfect boys belong to you, and you’ll haunt him to the grave if he robs you of the chance to kiss them goodbye. 

As though the entire room isn’t holding their breath, dangling on the edge of a knife, Oikawa returns to your side, carefully laying the two swaddled bundles in your arms, and presses a kiss to your trembling lips. “My perfect, perfect girl,” he marvels, smoothing your hair back from your sweaty forehead. “You did so well. Better than I could’ve possibly hoped.”

One of the babies yawns, squirming into the warmth of your chest, the other blinks curiously at you, his tiny brown eyes a mirror image of his father’s. They’ll need to be fed soon.

Rather than snatching them back as you fear, the King eases down onto the bed beside you, careful as to not disturb either Prince, and tucks you into his side. Unable to hold it back any longer, a sob wrenches its way free, and Oikawa sighs with such exasperated fondness that it breaks you a little more.

“Iwa, she’s crying.”

The Lord Chancellor grunts in agreement. “You seem to have that effect.”

Oikawa laughs, the tip of his finger running down his son’s nose. “Women die in childbirth every day. It’s a small miracle, my love,” his lips brush your cheek, nuzzling close, “that you were spared that, especially with twins. The Queen wasn’t so fortunate.”

At first, you think he’s referring to his own mother – it’s common knowledge that there were complications when she delivered the King’s younger brother and neither survived – until you catch a glint of steel from the corner of your eye. On instinct, you turn to follow it, and witness the exact moment the Queen’s head is cleaved from her body and tumbles to the floor.

Her body – kneeling in forced supplication, blood spurting from her still pumping heart – hangs there for a moment, as if waiting for the shock to register, for everyone to drink their fill of the grisly scene, before it too topples to the ground. 

An echo, playing out for you once more. 

Your maid screams, Kyoutani darting to wrench her back before she can flee. The physician pales. Startled by the sudden noise and the commotion in the room, two near identical wails break within moments of each other, your sons making their displeasure known, wriggling about and crying in your arms. You draw them closer, eyes wide, trembling like a leaf, to press a kiss against both their foreheads as you choke back a sob of your own. 

“And the woman?” Iwa asks. 

Oikawa, head on your shoulder, utterly absorbed in his children’s outbursts, doesn’t even bother looking up. He waves his fingers in front of their little faces and coos when they scrunch up in response. 

“We’ll need someone to clean up the blood. Take her tongue instead.”

[oddlylivingbeauty]

Hot take, and I truly mean this in the kindest way possible, but some Pagans very much need to examine their own religious trauma before speaking on what is right/wrong to say in Pagan spaces.

I understand that Paganism is an incredibly freeing religion for many people (most notably for those coming from Christianity), and that’s wonderful, but Paganism isn’t lawless, and it never has been.

I understand that you don’t like religious dogma, that’s fair. But that doesn’t mean this religion is a free for all. The Gods are authority figures, they are rulers, and they do ask things of us. For some Pagans I fear that they have based their entire religion on being an opposition to Christianity and that’s just… not ideal.

You cannot build a healthy relationship to the Gods if you are constantly comparing them to Christianity. You cannot follow the Gods if you refuse to do anything they ask of you that feels too similar to another religion that has hurt you in some way.

I’ve seen people say that Pagans shouldn’t veil because modesty is only a Christian invention designed to oppress women. I’ve seen people say that blasphemy doesn’t exist and that the idea that Gods (any God(s)) can get offended is a Christian fear tactic. I’ve seen people say that humans are on the same hierarchical level as the Gods and that the idea that humans are servants to God is a Christian tool for denying human power.

Not only are these things blatantly untrue, but it also negates the power of the Gods, and pushes doubt upon the personal convictions of fellow Pagans.

Paganism exists independently from Christianity. I truly don’t know how anyone can build a healthy practice when the only way they connect with the Gods is in a reactionary “screw Christianity!!” sort of way. Despite what society may say; Paganism is not an enemy to Christianity. It exists independently, and it has for thousands and thousands of years.

I really hope everyone who struggles with religious trauma can find the healing they need, but I implore you to not allow that to be the defining factor of your religion, and I beg that to not distract you from the undoubtable authority of the Gods.

May the Gods bless everyone, hail the great Lords and Ladies above 🩷

[thetrasha]

Hello! I was wondering if i could get Ace, Marco, and Rayleigh, (maybe shanks, beckman and hongo if youre able to!) On their favorite thing they love about you!

Sure thing! I modified the request very slightly (just so I'm able to spin this into a short scenario with a catchy title🫡💕[you guys know I love my titles lol]), hope that's okay with you!! Thank you so much for such a diverse cast LOL I'm sorry I didn't include Hongo - it's just that I never heard him talk and saw him basically once in my life 😭But I included Kid and Mihawk instead just to balance it out (I was randomly inspired to choose these two), it's like a 2 for 1 deal so I hope it's not too bad (✿◡‿◡)

PS. German-speaking op fans...? My people 🤝

He Can’t Resist You…!

feat. ACE, MARCO, RAYLEIGH, SHANKS, BENN BECKMAN, KID, MIHAWK

ACE …when you listen to his troubles and comfort him!

Ace is often pretty hard on himself. He cannot count how many insults and beatings he had to take just because someone else thought the idea of the son of Roger existing was either a fabricated lie or that said child should have been killed on sight. That’s how Ace learnt to fight, took on much bigger and stronger opponents as the years went by, which eventually made him who he was. He earned his spot as one of Whitebeard’s commanders and has accepted this new family, but that doesn’t mean that rejection isn’t hard-coded into his brain. He fears not being enough and firmly believes that if he didn’t push himself so much, he’d be a disgraced pirate, terrible son and worse brother. But… he’s forgotten how to be kind to himself – he has plenty kindness for everyone around him, but Ace is a master at punishing himself for things that do not matter. It’s gotten better, though.

You’re suddenly there – and you care very much… about everyone, but mostly about him. This presence next to him that cannot be swayed is a great source of comfort for him. The first time he opened up to reveal some things about his upbringing, you were so upset that you were close to tears. How sweet… he hasn’t cried about these things in years, too intimately familiar with the pain to cope with its sorrow, but you decided to share his grief and pile it onto your own out of the pure goodness of your heart and love for him. Ace thinks it’s one of the greatest gifts he’s ever been given.

MARCO

…when you help him out!

Marco is a pretty busy man who’s always needed somewhere. Quiet days actually unsettle him; it’s like the universe is just out to get him and will decide to hand him a freshly infected open fracture if he can enjoy his morning coffee in peace… The crew is made up of excellent fighters and these men and women are just dying to test their strength time and time again, protecting their dad who’s very much capable of taking care of himself in a fight despite the chronic issues he’s dealing with. Marco has never lost his kind spirit though, meaning he’s willing to help anyone who needs it. Having you helping the man who’s vehemently trying to aid all the others is thus the best part of the day. You’re always there, even if you’re not physically present… you often leave him little snacks that remind him to eat, there’s always a pot of coffee waiting for him in the med bay, and – the best thing, honestly – at the end of the day, you come into his room just to make up for the time that you’ve lost throughout the maddening daytime. You talk, laugh and just exist together. It’s domestic bliss for Marco, who finally feels like he can wind down and relax with you curled up in his arms, chatting about your day and how you can’t look at Vista ever again because he shaved and he looks so weird and-

He listens to everything, but rarely offers his own commentary. He’s just happy you’re there with him.

RAYLEIGH

…when you look at him like he’s your hero!

Silvers Rayleigh – a name that strikes the fear of God in most people. His infamous image is that of a terrifyingly strong man who served as Gold Roger’s right-hand man; he’s amongst the few lucky men who conquered the Grandline and lived to tell the tale… at the same time, to most naive rookies on Sabaody, he’s a senile old man who keeps “escaping from” his handlers and ending up in the same auction house over and over and over again. You happen to know that strange man, though. “Dark King” Rayleigh… being in the same room as someone like him… what an honour! You couldn’t help but steal glances at him, alerting him of your presence immediately. At first, he thought you were looking for a fight. He’s seen your bounty poster near the port and wow, your picture doesn’t do you justice, sweetheart and wait a minute… oh, those eyes aren’t hostile at all. He flashes you a smile, noting how nervously you shifted around all of the sudden, looking at your crew to subtly celebrate this moment.

Well, Rayleigh cannot help but love an opportunity to show off in front of a pretty face, so… he just offers to teach you some tricks. That’s how you got to know him in the first place, having long realised that he’s just some man who know a thing or two about piracy… but every single time you come back to him, you look at him with the same look of reverence. It’s very flattering to know that he’s still got it… and he’s got the confidence and shamelessness to make a move on you. That hand on the small of your back? Oh, sorry, love, must’ve been lost in thought… You still give him the look and bashfully chew on your lip, though. Nothing’s changed. Hm… maybe the hearts in your eyes did become bigger… heh.

What a lucky man he is indeed.

SHANKS

…when you care for him like he needs it!

Shanks is just as much of a living legend who cannot go anywhere where people of a certain calibre won’t cower in fear before him. How ironic that a man like him just loves when you have to fight him just to go to bed before the daylight greets him, he absolutely adores when you repeatedly push your index finger against his bare chest to tell him that he cannot keep drinking like this if he wants to find the One Piece and he is so weak for you who berates him whenever you have the chance to do so. He could sigh like a lovesick fool at your stern eyes and firm words, knowing that your love for him runs so deep… that you’d be willing to not just take on your captain in protest, you’d take on Shanks.

He is free to be just… himself around you; he needs it more than he needs air. You respect him as a man but you don’t respect him for his status at all, you push him around more than he does his crew for God’s sake!

He loves it.

And whenever he cannot keep up the facade anymore, when flirtatiously telling you to drop it and let him keep his bad habits, you’re right there with him in his private quarters, letting his head rest on your lap as you play with his deep red locks. And you let this lovesick, drunken fool rant about his problems like he isn’t Shanks – like he doesn’t have to save the world all by himself.

BENN BECKMAN

…when you engage in deep conversations that stimulate the mind!

He’s far more dangerous than his broad frame would suggest since he’s both pure brawn and brain. His intellect is one of his greatest assets, but with such a crew… It’s honestly a trait that makes rather lonesome. Benn is extremely laid-back despite being such a serious guy – that’s many because he has never been challenged properly. Nothing is mentally stimulating enough for him to fully lock in. You’re different… Shanks, of course, didn’t recruit you because of your intelligence, that’s a skill much better suited for the city rather than the sea, but you happen to have both brawn and brain as well. Benn noticed that immediately, you’re just as resigned as he is and nothing can quite satiate that natural curiosity in you for all the sea offers are battles and fever dreams… Still, you chose this life for a reason and thus, Benn Beckman himself starts following you around. It’s weird to watch your vice captain hunt you down like you’re the enemy when you’re just trying to mind your business aboard the Red Force, but he cannot help but ask you what you’re up to. Your suspicion only ever goes away after a few times, after you noticed that he’s just… trying to talk.

His opinions are fascinating. He takes you stargazing and casually asks you what you think about the passage of time, what it means to be alive, what you hoped to become – he’s throwing all these deeply profound questions at you and instead of stammering through them like a silly child, you answer them with just as much seriousness as he hoped you would. You understand the gravitas of his words, process them quickly and you never say things without meaning them. You’ve become his happy place – a place where he can express himself.

KID …when you talk back!

Kid expects everyone to just fall in line with what he says… no matter how stupid his “suggestions” actually are. If he has a plan, he wants to see it executed. Someone else might offer up a better plan down the line, but Kid would be so bitter about not having the same thought first that he’d double down on his initial idea and make the crew work even harder just to prove a point. Everybody knows that he’s a complete and utter hypocrite, but they put up with him – they believe in his ability to lead and they all want to see him become King of the Pirates since he’s offered something very few captains could: Unconditional freedom. Regardless of how unconventional and socially unacceptable someone was, they’d have a place on the Victoria Punk as long as they managed to prove themselves worthy of being there and didn’t belittle anybody else’s aspirations.

…But you knew that Kid just couldn’t help dunking on people left and right due to his explosive anger. Once he feels slighted in any way, he’s making it everyone’s problem. So – after the captain called everyone on deck to rant about his loyal crew just minutes after reading that Straw Hat Luffy has acquired a new bounty in the Newscoo newspaper, you couldn’t help yourself either. As soon as the captain got to you, your unimpressed glance turned vitriolic – you went off on your captain, telling him that everyone here chose to follow him because he’s the best option, because they want to be around him and that he has absolutely no business being this upset over someone else’s bounty when he believes that he can conquer the Grandline first. He should suck it up and prove his frenemy wrong! You screamed at him, your passionate speech getting drowned out by the deafening silence of… Captain Kid…

Honestly, Killer and Heat thought you were toast.

But nobody anticipated that, with ruby red cheeks, Kid suddenly dismissed everyone on deck and gave all of you tasks that… didn’t make any damn sense!

MIHAWK

…when you trust him first!

Mihawk is the apex predator – lethal, efficient and an unprecedented danger. People instinctively know to keep their guard up around him… as does he. He would claim that he prefers it that way, but you happen to, after literal years of knowing each other, let him in, slowly but surely. Even if he can go no-contact for months on end, even if you have your own life to worry about, you both find yourselves returning to each other and maintaining a weird… friendship (?), if you could call it that. Mihawk isn’t one for talking to random strangers, but you’re no nobody. You’re capable of handling yourself and he’s seen your strength, secretly thinks you’re quite impressive even, but you’re certainly no match for him… Still, you seem to trust him to keep your secrets safe, to keep you, by extension, safe. You firmly believe that he wouldn’t abandon you.

And he wouldn’t. Trust doesn’t come naturally to someone like him. He distrusts the world and doesn’t tell anybody anything, but he does appreciate it when he isn’t viewed like a cold-blooded killer whose only goal is to maintain a reputation that came with a title.

You want to see him for who he is, you roll over and show him your belly; you basically gave him an opening to kill you – all voluntarily. You’re so vulnerable when you talk about your burdens, but you also look like confiding in… a friend (?) heals all those wounds.

Somehow, he’s determined to prove himself to you now. It’s a slow puncture wound, but your trust will eventually pierce his heart.

[youngsadlesbian]

FALLING WAS NEVER THE PLAN | wanda maximoff x reader

summary: you swore you'd never fall in love—until wanda maximoff walked into your life. what started as playful banter turned into a slow-burning romance neither of you saw coming. With friends meddling and years of tension, love was inevitable… eventually.

a/n: i just woke up with this idea in my mind and couldn't rest until i put it on paper. i really hope you like it cuz this is kind of one of my favorite things i've written in a while.

word count: 5,1k

warnings: just fluff.

You always said you’d never fall in love.

Love was complicated. Messy. Time-consuming. And, honestly? You never really believed you could stay interested in someone long enough for it to happen. People got on your nerves too easily, relationships demanded too much, and you were perfectly fine on your own.

Carol Danvers, your best friend, had been the first to roll her eyes every time you made this declaration.

"Yeah, yeah," she’d mock, shaking her head. "You're so above it all. Just wait. One day, you're gonna trip and fall flat on your face for someone, and I'll be there to laugh."

You had scoffed at the idea. You? Falling for someone? Unlikely.

Then you met Wanda Maximoff.

And, well. Carol had a field day.

It started in the most frustrating way possible.

The new semester had just begun, and you'd arrived early to your first lecture of the day—Philosophy 201, because why not suffer first thing in the morning?—choosing your usual spot in the back of the auditorium. You weren’t expecting much. Just another semester of coasting through classes, doing what was necessary, and ignoring the unnecessary drama of campus life.

And then she walked in.

Wanda Maximoff.

She was late. Her red sweater was slightly oversized, the sleeves pushed up to reveal delicate wrists and ink-stained fingers. Her dark hair was tied up messily, stray strands falling into her sharp, green eyes, which scanned the room with a hint of disinterest. She had this quiet intensity about her—like she wasn’t just walking into the room but commanding it.

You barely registered Carol nudging you with her elbow.

"Ohhh no," she murmured, smirking. "I know that look."

"What look?" you asked, a little too quickly.

"The look of someone about to be an absolute dumbass."

You rolled your eyes, but, okay. Maybe you had stared too long. And maybe your heart had skipped a beat when Wanda sighed in mild annoyance before taking the empty seat two rows in front of you.

Not that it mattered. You weren’t interested. Right?

You tried to be subtle about it.

You really did.

But something about Wanda Maximoff made it impossible not to pay attention.

At first, it was just curiosity. She didn’t talk much in class, but when she did, she had this calm, self-assured way of speaking that made everyone—including you—shut up and listen. She had opinions, sharp ones, and she wasn’t afraid to challenge the professor when she disagreed.

It was… irritatingly attractive.

Carol noticed way before you did.

By the second week of classes, she had taken to watching you with open amusement every time Wanda entered the room.

"So, when are you gonna make a move?" she asked one afternoon, casually stealing fries from your tray at the dining hall.

You scoffed, shoving her hand away. "Please. Just because I notice someone exists doesn’t mean I’m interested."

Carol snorted. "Uh-huh. Sure. So, you just happen to sit where you can see her every day?"

"Coincidence," you said, deadpan.

"And you happen to look up whenever she speaks?"

"Academic interest."

"And when she tucks her hair behind her ear and you completely lose your train of thought?"

"…Mind your business, Danvers."

Carol grinned like she had just won the lottery. "Oh, this is amazing. The great ‘I’ll never fall for anyone’ has finally met her match. I love this for you."

You groaned, throwing a fry at her.

But, secretly? You were starting to think she might be right.

It started as a challenge.

You weren’t into her. (You were. You just weren’t ready to admit it yet.)

But you were intrigued. And maybe a little too competitive for your own good.

So, you tested the waters.

You started small. A few casual comments after class. An offhand joke when you passed by her in the library. A smirk when she rolled her eyes at something stupid the professor said.

She ignored you.

At first, you thought it was accidental. Maybe she was just shy. Maybe she didn’t realize you were trying to talk to her.

Then, after class one day, you held the door open for her with your most charming smile.

"After you, Maximoff."

She barely glanced at you. "Thanks," she muttered, walking past without so much as a second look.

Carol nearly fell over laughing when you recounted the story later.

"Dude. She’s shutting you down."

You scowled. "She’s just… focused. Probably doesn’t even realize I was flirting."

"Oh, she realizes," Carol said, grinning. "She just doesn’t care."

That was unacceptable.

So, of course, you doubled your efforts.

If Wanda Maximoff wasn’t going to acknowledge your flirting, you had two options:

Accept defeat and move on.

Try harder.

Obviously, you chose the second one.

The problem? She was really good at pretending you didn’t exist.

It was honestly impressive. No matter what you did—clever remarks, casual touches, even offering to share your notes (and you never shared your notes)—she gave you nothing. A polite nod at best, a blank stare at worst.

It was driving you insane.

And, of course, your friends were having the time of their lives watching you struggle.

The night it all escalated, you were at Natasha and Yelena’s apartment, where most of your group hangouts happened. The sisters had somehow ended up with the best place off-campus—probably thanks to Natasha’s terrifying ability to negotiate—and it had become your go-to spot for movie nights, drinks, and whatever chaos Yelena decided to stir up.

Tonight was no different.

Carol was sprawled across one of the couches, lazily tossing popcorn into her mouth. Kate and Yelena were arguing about something ridiculous (probably which one of them could do more push-ups), and Natasha was in the kitchen, pretending not to hear any of it.

And then there was Pietro. Wanda’s twin. The one person who might have some insight into how to break through her ridiculous walls.

"You look like you have a question," Pietro said, smirking as he lounged next to you. "Or maybe you just enjoy staring at me."

You rolled your eyes. "I have standards, Maximoff."

"Ouch," he said, clutching his chest. "You wound me."

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "But, since you are here… what’s Wanda’s deal?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Her deal?"

"You know. Why does she ignore me? Is she, like, a robot? Is she secretly plotting my downfall? Did I unknowingly offend her ancestors?"

Pietro laughed. "You really don’t handle rejection well, do you?"

"I wouldn’t know," you said with a smirk. "This is my first time experiencing it."

Carol wheezed from across the room. "Oh my God, you’re down bad."

"Shut up, Danvers."

Pietro looked far too entertained by this. "Wanda’s just… difficult. She doesn’t trust easily. And she’s really good at shutting people out before they can get close."

You frowned. That… made sense. But it also made you want to try even harder.

"Any advice?"

Pietro grinned. "Don’t be boring."

So, you decided to switch tactics.

If subtlety wasn’t working, you’d try something else. Something bigger.

And what better way to get Wanda’s attention than to challenge her?

So, if subtlety wasn’t working, you had to try something else.

Something bold.

Something that would make it impossible for Wanda to ignore you.

And, if there was one thing you knew about her by now, it was that she hated losing.

Pietro had given you the key without realizing it—Wanda was competitive. She didn’t like letting people in, but she also didn’t like backing down from a challenge.

So, naturally, you decided to challenge her.

It started during a casual game night at Natasha and Yelena’s place. You were all sitting around the coffee table, drinks scattered across the surface, debating what to play.

"Not Monopoly," Kate said immediately, raising a hand. "I’m not going through that hell again."

"Aw, Bishop, still bitter about losing to me last time?" Yelena smirked, tossing popcorn into her mouth.

"You didn’t win, you bullied us into surrendering!"

"It’s called strategy."

"You flipped the board when I refused to trade with you!"

Yelena shrugged. "Same thing."

Carol, laughing, grabbed a deck of cards. "Alright, let’s do something simple. Poker?"

"I suck at poker," Pietro groaned.

"That’s why I wanna play," Carol said, grinning.

Wanda, who had been mostly quiet until now, finally spoke. "How about something that actually requires skill?"

You saw your opportunity and took it.

"Like what, Maximoff?" You smirked. "Something you think you can win?"

Wanda’s eyes flickered to you, sharp and assessing. "Something fair."

"Oh?" You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. "And what exactly would that be?"

She hesitated for a moment. Then, as if making a decision, she said, "Chess."

"Really?" Carol snorted. "You two are gonna flirt over a chessboard now?"

"We are not flirting," Wanda said flatly.

You grinned. "No, no, I’m intrigued. Chess, huh?" You tilted your head. "You good at it?"

Her expression didn’t change. "Good enough."

Yelena whistled. "Damn, she’s confident."

"I like it," you said, still smirking. "Alright, Maximoff. Let’s play."

Natasha set up the board while everyone else settled in to watch.

You knew Wanda was taking this seriously because the moment the game started, her entire demeanor shifted.

She was focused.

Her sharp green eyes studied the board, every move calculated, every piece placed with intent.

You, on the other hand? You played like you always did—reckless, instinctive, willing to take risks just to see how she’d react.

It drove her insane.

"That’s a terrible move," she muttered after you sacrificed a knight.

You grinned. "Maybe."

She gave you a long, unimpressed look before moving her bishop. "You’re reckless."

"And you’re predictable."

Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, and you swore, for just a second, you saw the slightest hint of a smile.

The game lasted forever.

Piece after piece, move after move, until the only thing left was tension crackling in the air.

In the end, Wanda won.

But just barely.

She sat back, exhaling slowly, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the board.

"Not bad," she said finally.

You leaned forward, your smirk returning. "Admit it. You had fun."

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it.

And that? That was progress.

After that night, things shifted.

It was subtle—so subtle that if you weren’t paying attention, you might’ve missed it.

But you were always paying attention when it came to Wanda.

She didn’t completely drop the walls she had built around herself, but she started letting you see through the cracks.

She still rejected every flirty comment, still rolled her eyes whenever you got too smug, but she stopped ignoring you.

Instead, she engaged.

She challenged you.

She expected you to keep up with her.

And, most importantly, she kept showing up.

Whether it was at game nights, study sessions, or even just random moments around campus, Wanda was there.

Not avoiding you. Not brushing you off.

Just there.

And that? That was everything.

One of those moments came a few days later, when you were sitting outside, watching Carol and Natasha spar on the field.

"You know," Pietro said beside you, "I gotta admit, I’m impressed."

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "By what?"

"By you. You don’t give up easily."

You smirked. "Was that ever in question?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Wanda’s stubborn. She doesn’t let people in."

"I’ve noticed."

"And yet, here you are."

"Here I am," you agreed.

Pietro studied you for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, if you somehow manage to win her over, I expect free drinks for at least a year as payment for my suffering."

You laughed. "Deal."

Unbeknownst to you, Wanda had been standing a few feet away, listening.

She didn’t say anything.

She just watched.

And, maybe for the first time, she wondered if you were serious.

A few nights later, you found yourself sitting in the library, trying (and failing) to focus on an assignment.

It wasn’t that the material was hard—it was just that your brain refused to cooperate.

And then, as if the universe had a sense of humor, Wanda walked in.

She didn’t notice you at first.

She just found a quiet table, set down her books, and started working.

You told yourself to be normal.

You told yourself to stay put.

But, of course, you didn’t listen.

With a smirk, you grabbed your things and made your way over to her table.

"Fancy seeing you here, Maximoff."

She didn’t even look up. "It’s a library. People come here to study."

"You? Studying? I don’t believe it."

She sighed, flipping a page in her book. "Do you ever take anything seriously?"

You grinned, dropping into the seat across from her. "Not really."

"Shocking."

"Well, someone has to keep things interesting."

She rolled her eyes, but—there it was.

That tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth.

The almost smile.

You lived for those moments.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed as you watched Wanda pretend to be completely uninterested in your presence.

But you weren’t fooled.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the pages of her book, a sure sign of distraction. She was aware of you.

Which meant you were winning.

"So," you drawled, tilting your head. "What are you studying so intensely that you didn’t even say hi to me when you walked in?"

Wanda sighed but finally glanced up at you, her green eyes sharp with amusement and exasperation.

"Psychology," she answered.

Your lips twitched. "Let me guess, you’re trying to understand why I’m so obsessed with annoying you?"

She huffed, shaking her head. "No, but now that you mention it, I should make that my thesis."

You gasped in mock offense. "I’d be honored. Really. 'The Study of How an Infuriating Idiot Wears Down a Very Patient Woman.' Sounds groundbreaking."

This time, Wanda actually smiled—just for a second, but long enough to make your heart do something incredibly embarrassing in your chest.

"You’re ridiculous," she muttered.

"And you love it," you shot back without thinking.

Silence.

Your confidence wavered.

Had you pushed too far?

But then—Wanda simply rolled her eyes and went back to her book, a faint pink dusting her cheeks.

And that? That felt like a victory.

A few tables away, Natasha, Yelena, and Carol were definitely watching the whole exchange.

"How long are we betting before Wanda snaps and finally admits she likes her?" Carol whispered, smirking.

Natasha, arms crossed, leaned back in her chair. "Two weeks."

"Please," Yelena scoffed. "Wanda’s stubborn. A month, at least."

Kate, who had been absentmindedly doodling in her notebook, glanced up. "Shouldn’t we bet on her cracking first?" She nodded toward you. "I mean, she acts all confident, but she’s totally spiraling."

Natasha smirked. "You’re not wrong."

Carol snorted. "She’s already gone. She just hasn’t realized it yet."

A week later, you did.

Or rather, Carol made sure you did.

It was a Friday night, and the whole group had gone out for drinks at a bar just off-campus.

Wanda, as usual, was keeping her distance—not too far, but just enough to drive you insane.

And Carol? Well, she took one look at you, staring at Wanda like she was the last drink of water in a desert, and cackled.

"Oh my God," she wheezed. "I can’t believe it."

You frowned. "What?"

She grabbed your shoulders dramatically. "You’re in love."

You immediately scoffed. "No—"

"Oh, shut up." Carol grinned like she had just won the lottery. "You swore you’d never fall for anyone. But look at you! You’re pathetic."

"I’m not—"

"Do not even try to deny it," Yelena chimed in from beside Carol, smirking. "It is very obvious."

"Please," Kate added, sipping her drink. "You have 'heart-eyes idiot' written all over you."

Even Natasha nodded, looking far too smug. "It’s honestly painful to watch."

You groaned, shoving Carol’s hands off you. "Okay, fine! Maybe I like her. So what?"

Carol gasped dramatically. "So what? That’s huge!"

"It’s not huge." You crossed your arms. "She doesn’t even like me like that."

Pietro, who had just returned with another drink, let out a sharp laugh. "Are you blind?"

You frowned. "What?"

Your friends all shared a look.

Then, Carol leaned in.

"Let me spell it out for you, dumbass," she said. "Wanda likes you too."

Your heart stopped.

"…What?"

"She does," Natasha confirmed, nodding.

"But she’s fighting it," Yelena added. "Because she is Wanda and she refuses to make anything easy."

"Sounds familiar," Kate muttered, raising an eyebrow at you.

You swallowed. "No way. If she liked me, she’d—she’d—"

"She’d what?" Carol asked, smirking. "Be totally normal and not constantly get flustered when you flirt with her? Not subtly stare at you when she thinks you’re not looking? Not keep showing up even though she pretends you annoy her?"

You blinked.

Shit.

Shit.

Were they right?

Did Wanda—could Wanda actually—

Your heart pounded.

Carol grinned like she could see your internal panic.

"Oh, this is fun," she said.

Natasha smirked. "This is very fun."

You groaned, shoving your face into your hands.

You were so screwed.

You left the bar that night with your head spinning.

Not from the drinks—you hadn’t had enough for that—but from the sheer chaos of what your friends had just dumped on you.

Wanda liked you? Wanda liked you?

It didn’t make sense.

Sure, you flirted with her constantly, but she always shut you down. She rolled her eyes at you, pushed you away, made a point of seeming utterly unimpressed by your existence.

…But she never actually left.

She never told you to stop.

She never avoided you.

And now that you were thinking about it—really thinking about it—you were starting to realize that all the little things, all the almost moments, meant more than you ever allowed yourself to believe.

You lay awake that night, staring at your ceiling, heart pounding.

What the hell were you supposed to do now?

The answer came sooner than you expected.

And in the form of a very unexpected visitor.

The next day, you were in your dorm room, trying very hard to focus on studying and not spiraling into another existential crisis, when there was a sharp knock on your door.

You frowned.

Carol would’ve just barged in. Yelena too.

Natasha would’ve sent a text first.

Which meant—

You hesitated before opening the door, only for your stomach to drop.

Wanda.

Wearing a hoodie, arms crossed, looking at you like she was debating whether knocking had been a mistake.

Your heartbeat immediately picked up.

"Uh—hey," you said, blinking at her. "What’s up?"

Wanda exhaled sharply, clearly irritated about something, and before you could say anything else, she pushed past you into your room.

You blinked again.

"…Okay, sure, come on in, make yourself at home."

Wanda ignored you, pacing slightly.

You shut the door behind her, raising an eyebrow.

"Alright," you said. "What’s going on?"

She stopped, turned to you, and crossed her arms even tighter.

"Did you make a bet about me?"

Your stomach sank.

Oh, shit.

"Uh—what?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Pietro told me he heard you and your friends betting about me last night."

Of course that little traitor did.

You winced. "Okay, technically—"

"Technically," she cut in, "you were literally betting on whether I liked you or not?"

Shit.

"That makes it sound bad," you tried.

"It is bad," she snapped.

You hesitated. "Okay, yeah. But it’s not—look, it wasn’t meant to be, like, a joke or anything, it was just—"

"Just what?"

You opened your mouth.

And then closed it.

Because, in all honesty, what could you even say?

That your friends had ambushed you into an existential crisis about your feelings? That you had been spiraling about whether or not you actually had a chance with her?

That, up until last night, you hadn’t even let yourself believe that Wanda could like you back?

That even now, standing in front of her, your heart was beating so fast you were afraid she could hear it?

You swallowed hard.

Wanda was watching you carefully, waiting.

You inhaled deeply, exhaled.

And then—

"Yeah," you admitted. "We did."

Her expression didn’t change.

"But not because I think of you as a joke or anything like that," you hurried on. "It was because I—I wasn’t sure if you even liked me at all, and I—I guess I was scared to admit how much I—"

You cut yourself off.

Shit.

Too much.

Wanda blinked. "…How much you what?"

Your throat went dry.

She was looking at you differently now.

Like she was actually listening.

Like she was waiting for an answer.

You swallowed again.

"…How much I like you," you finally admitted, voice quiet.

Wanda went still.

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

She wasn’t saying anything.

Why wasn’t she saying anything?

And then, just as the panic started creeping in—

"…You’re an idiot," she muttered.

You barely had time to process it before she stepped closer—and, oh—

Then she was kissing you.

It was fast, impulsive, not careful—like she had spent way too long pretending she didn’t want to, and now that the dam had broken, she had no intention of stopping.

Her hands gripped your hoodie, pulling you in, and you barely had time to react before you were kissing her back, matching her urgency, her desperation.

Your mind spun.

Holy shit.

This was happening.

Wanda Maximoff was kissing you.

And—judging by the way she was still kissing you—she had wanted to for a long time.

When she finally pulled back, breathless, her hands still fisted in your hoodie, you could barely think straight.

"…Wow," you managed.

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up."

You grinned. "Never."

And then she was kissing you again.

You’d love to say that after that moment—after Wanda had kissed you, after you’d both finally admitted your feelings—it had been smooth sailing.

But, of course, nothing in your life was ever that simple.

For one, your friends were insufferable.

Carol had nearly choked on her protein shake when she saw you and Wanda holding hands on campus the next day. Yelena and Kate had high-fived so aggressively that Kate actually sprained her wrist. Natasha had just given you a knowing smirk and muttered, “Finally.”

And Pietro—

Oh, Pietro.

He had spent an entire week strutting around like he had personally orchestrated your love story. Every time he saw you and Wanda together, he’d nudge her and say, “See, I told you so.”

Wanda had nearly hexed him into next week.

But aside from your friends being absolutely unbearable, things between you and Wanda were… surprisingly easy.

There were no weird growing pains, no awkwardness—just an overwhelming sense of relief. Like finally exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

Now that neither of you had to pretend anymore, it was effortless.

You found yourselves constantly together—stealing quiet moments between classes, studying together in your dorm, holding hands under the table at group hangouts.

And kissing.

A lot of kissing.

Which was exactly what you were doing when someone loudly cleared their throat behind you.

You and Wanda both jumped, pulling apart.

Pietro was standing there, arms crossed, looking way too pleased with himself.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked, grinning.

Wanda groaned. "Yes, obviously."

"Well, too bad." Pietro leaned against the doorway, smirking. "I just came to remind you that we have movie night at my place tonight."

You blinked. "We do?"

"Yes, and you’re both coming," he said, pointing at Wanda before turning to you. "That includes you, lovebird."

Wanda scoffed. "No one invited you to our plans, Pietro."

He shrugged. "I am your twin. That makes me automatically invited to everything you do."

Wanda rolled her eyes, and you just laughed, shaking your head.

There was no point in arguing.

Pietro would always get his way.

And honestly?

You didn’t mind.

Because, for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

And it was only just the beginning.

If someone had told you years ago that you’d end up marrying Wanda Maximoff, you would’ve laughed in their face.

Not because you didn’t think she was the most incredible person you’d ever met—because of course she was. Even when she pretended not to like you, she still made your heart race in a way no one else ever had.

But because you never thought she’d actually feel the same way.

And yet, here you were.

Standing in front of your friends and family, wearing the most ridiculous grin of your life, while Wanda Maximoff—your wife—stood next to you, looking more beautiful than ever.

The journey to this moment had been insane.

From your days in college, where you spent way too long denying your feelings, to Wanda finally kissing you in your dorm room—to moving in together after graduation, supporting each other through every success and failure, every moment of doubt, every hardship.

There had been struggles, of course. Wanda was stubborn. You were stubborn. But there had never been a single moment where you doubted that she was the one you wanted to spend forever with.

And now, with her fingers laced through yours, her wedding ring glinting in the dim reception lights, you couldn’t believe how lucky you were.

It was time for the speeches.

Which, unfortunately, meant it was time for your friends to absolutely roast the two of you.

Carol was the first to stand up, champagne glass in hand and a smirk already forming.

"Alright," she started, "I’m not gonna lie. This might be the most painful slow burn relationship I’ve ever witnessed in real life. And that’s saying something, considering I’ve read fanfiction."

The crowd laughed, and you groaned, burying your face in Wanda’s shoulder while she shook with silent laughter.

"You swore you’d never fall in love," Carol continued, pointing at you. "You lectured us about how love wasn’t for you, how you’d never be one of those people who lost their minds over a girl." She paused, looking at Wanda. "And yet, the moment you met this one, it was game over."

You didn’t even bother arguing.

Carol turned to Wanda. "And you. The way you rejected this idiot over and over again, I swear I thought you hated her."

More laughter. Wanda rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.

Carol smirked. "Turns out, you were just as much of a lovesick idiot as she is. So, congratulations, finally." She raised her glass. "To Wanda and Y/N—may you continue being absolute disasters, just together this time."

Everyone clinked their glasses, and you barely had time to recover before Natasha stood up next.

"I knew this was going to happen," she said simply.

That got some chuckles.

She shrugged. "Seriously. The moment I saw them arguing over who was more competitive at Mario Kart, I knew we were all doomed."

Wanda snorted. "I was more competitive."

You gasped. "Liar!"

Natasha raised a hand. "See? This is what we all had to deal with for years."

You groaned. "We had to deal with you and Yelena placing bets on us!"

Natasha smirked. "Yeah, and I won, so thanks for that."

Wanda nudged you playfully. "Told you we should’ve made our own bet."

Natasha smiled, then softened slightly. "In all seriousness… you two are perfect for each other. And I’m glad you finally saw what the rest of us did. Love you both."

You swallowed hard at that, squeezing Wanda’s hand.

Then Yelena stood up, and you immediately braced yourself.

"Okay," she started, "so technically, I didn’t believe this would happen."

More laughter.

"I mean, really—Wanda spent so much time rejecting Y/N, I was convinced she just enjoyed watching her suffer."

Wanda rolled her eyes. "I did enjoy it."

You gaped at her. "Are you serious?"

"Of course," she said smugly.

Yelena laughed. "See? Evil. But then, I caught her staring at you like you hung the stars, so I knew she was doomed."

You felt Wanda squeeze your hand at that, and when you looked at her, she was already looking at you with that soft, quiet adoration that still left you breathless.

Yelena grinned. "Anyway, I love you both, and I expect at least one niece or nephew out of this marriage."

You choked. "Yelena!"

Kate, who was sitting beside her, elbowed her. "Subtle."

Yelena just shrugged. "What? I’m just saying."

You buried your face in Wanda’s shoulder again while she laughed.

Then, finally, Pietro stood up.

He adjusted his tie, smirking slightly. "I’ll keep this short."

Everyone immediately doubted that.

"From the moment I saw these two interact, I knew one thing: this was either going to end in murder, or marriage."

The entire room burst into laughter.

He grinned. "Luckily, it was the second one. Barely."

You pointed at him. "There’s still time for the first one, Maximoff."

He grinned wider. "And this is why it took you both so long to get here."

Wanda laughed, shaking her head.

"But in all seriousness," Pietro continued, his voice softening, "I’ve watched my sister go through a lot. I’ve seen her struggle, I’ve seen her shut people out. And then you came along."

He turned to you, something genuine in his expression.

"And suddenly, she wasn’t alone anymore."

Your throat tightened.

"You make her happy," Pietro said simply. "And that’s all I’ve ever wanted for her."

Wanda sniffled slightly beside you, and you instinctively reached for her hand.

Pietro raised his glass. "To Wanda and Y/N. You took forever, but you got here in the end. And that’s all that matters."

The room erupted into cheers.

You turned to Wanda, who was already smiling at you, her eyes glistening.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

Because as she leaned in and kissed you, with all your friends cheering around you, you knew—

You’d never been surer of anything in your life.

And you never would be.

Being married to Wanda was everything you imagined and more.

The first few years were filled with adventure—traveling together, lazy Sunday mornings tangled in the sheets, cooking disastrous meals that always ended in takeout, and endless laughter.

You had expected it to be different after the wedding, but truthfully, it wasn’t. If anything, it just felt right. Like the two of you had already been a unit for so long that the official title of "wife" was just the cherry on top.

And Wanda—

Wanda was your home.

She was your morning coffee and late-night whispers. She was the one who made fun of you when you cried at movies, but also the one who pulled you close whenever you needed comfort.

She was your best friend, your greatest love, and—soon enough—the mother of your children.

It had been her idea.

One night, as you lay in bed together, her head on your chest, fingers lazily tracing patterns on your skin, she had whispered, “I want to have a baby.”

You had frozen.

Not because you were against the idea, but because it was so big—so real.

A baby.

A tiny, beautiful human that was half hers, half yours.

It didn’t take long for you to agree.

Because of course you did.

The thought of Wanda as a mother—of raising a family with her—was the easiest "yes" of your life.

The day Billy and Tommy were born was the happiest, most chaotic day of your life.

Wanda was exhausted but radiant, holding both boys in her arms, tears slipping down her cheeks as she looked at them like they were her entire universe.

And you—

You were utterly speechless.

You had thought you knew love before. You thought you had felt it in all its forms.

But nothing compared to the way your heart stopped when you held your sons for the first time.

They were perfect.

Tiny, fragile, and absolutely perfect.

And just like that, your world was never the same.

Billy and Tommy grew up surrounded by love, laughter, and a lot of chaos.

They had an army of aunts and uncles—Carol, Yelena, Kate, Natasha, Pietro, Wong, and even Strange (who somehow got roped into the madness).

Pietro’s daughter, Luna, became like a third sibling, always running around with them, getting into trouble.

Your home was never quiet.

There were always little feet pattering across the floor, endless giggles, and toys scattered everywhere.

And then came Sparky.

You had tried to say no.

You really had.

But Billy and Tommy had inherited Wanda’s puppy-dog eyes, and when they teamed up with her, you never stood a chance.

Sparky became the most spoiled, beloved dog in existence, following the boys wherever they went.

One night, after the boys were asleep and Sparky was curled up at the foot of your bed, you turned to Wanda, taking her hand.

She looked at you, raising an eyebrow. "What’s on your mind?"

You swallowed, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by everything—the love, the life you had built, the sheer happiness that filled every inch of your world.

"I just…" You took a deep breath. "Falling in love with you was the best thing I ever did."

Her eyes softened.

She squeezed your hand, smiling.

"Yeah," she murmured. "Me too."

And then she kissed you.

Soft.

Lingering.

Full of love.

And in that moment, with Wanda by your side, your sons sleeping peacefully down the hall, and Sparky snoring at your feet—

You knew.

This was it.

This was forever.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[dearlenore]

LACY • S.REID

SUMMARY: when Spencer starts talking to your new co worker ‘Lacy’ like she’s the only woman in the world, you can’t help but feel jealous…

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a jealous, mutual pining but they’re dumb, internal angst, fluff, desperate kissing, miscommunication, no Lacy slander, use of y/n

a/n: this was inspired by another author , I’ll tag them if I can find them 🥹❤️ not proofread + no editor…

w/c: 2.5K

THE FIRST TIME you see her, she is glowing.

It’s an illusion, of course. A trick of the light, or maybe just the sheer force of her presence in the room—either way, the effect is the same. You watch her from across the bullpen, caught in a haze of something between admiration and nausea, like you’ve been drugged.

Lacy.

She isn’t even named Lacy. It’s just what your mind calls her, the only name that fits the soft edges of her smile, the way she floats instead of walks, the way every eye in the room seems to follow her. Smart, sexy Lacy. Spencer’s Lacy.

You don’t know when it started—when the gnawing, bitter ache in your chest bloomed into something you couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was when Spencer started saying her name with that reverence, like a prayer whispered against the lips of a saint. Maybe it was when she touched his arm in that absentminded, thoughtless way that only beautiful people can get away with. Maybe it was the way he looked at her—like she was made of something otherworldly, something delicate, something sacred.

You hate her. You loathe her. You worship her.

Your jealousy is a sickness, and Lacy is the fever that keeps it alive.

“Y/N?”

You startle at the sound of Spencer’s voice, too caught up in your own thoughts to notice him approaching. He’s looking at you with that furrow in his brow, the one that means he’s noticed something is off.

“Are you okay?”

Liar, liar. You smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but before he can press, she enters the room.

Lacy.

Her skin is like puff pastry, soft and perfect, glowing under the fluorescents. Her hair is pulled back in a ribbon, the kind that makes her look effortlessly elegant. She says something—something inconsequential, something meant only for Spencer—and he laughs.

Your stomach twists itself into knots.

“You sure you’re okay?” Spencer asks again, his voice gentle.

You tear your eyes away from her. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t push. He never does.

The thing about jealousy is that it sneaks up on you. It festers, curls itself around your ribs, digs its claws in deep. It makes you obsessive, makes you notice things you never would have before.

Lacy tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. She bites her lip when she’s nervous. She has a habit of resting her chin in her hand when she’s listening to someone talk, her gaze soft and heavy with interest.

She makes it look easy, like she was born knowing how to be adored.

And Spencer—God, Spencer—he hangs on her every word.

You see it all the time. The way his eyes follow her when she moves, the way he leans in just a little too close when she speaks, the way he smiles when she laughs.

It takes over your life.

You see her everywhere, even when she isn’t there.

“You’re staring again.”

You blink, turning to see Emily watching you with an amused expression.

You bristle. “I’m not.”

Emily just lifts an eyebrow. She doesn’t say anything else, just gives you that knowing look before walking away.

Shame burns the back of your throat.

You don’t know what’s worse—that she noticed, or that she was right.

You try, you try, you try to rationalize.

People are people.

Lacy is just a person.

She isn’t out to get you. She isn’t some villain in a story.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because when she leans into Spencer’s space, when she touches his arm, when she tilts her head just so and makes him laugh—

It feels like she is.

Like she exists just to make you feel this way.

Like she was made to be the kind of person you’ll never be.

The night it all comes to a head, it’s unremarkable. No grand betrayal, no dramatic confrontation. Just a moment. A simple, stupid moment.

You’re at a bar, the team unwinding after a case. Lacy is there, of course. She always is.

And Spencer—Spencer is smiling at her.

Not just any smile.

The smile.

The one that reaches his eyes, the one that makes his face go a light shade of pink , the one that is so rare, so genuine, so him.

And she—she is glowing.

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Bites her lip. Laughs.

And Spencer—Spencer is gone.

Your stomach drops.

It’s not the way he looks at her that makes you sick.

It’s the way he doesn’t look at you.

Not like that. Not ever.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, downing the rest of your drink in one go.

The burn in your throat is nothing compared to the burn in your chest.

You hate her. You loathe her.

And you worship her.

Because she has the one thing you’ll never have.

Spencer.

“Y/N?”

You freeze, glass halfway to your lips. The warmth of the bar hums around you—soft laughter, clinking glasses, the low murmur of conversation—but all of it fades to the background as Spencer slides into the seat next to you.

You don’t turn to look at him. You can’t.

“Hey,” you say, voice carefully even.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, angling his body toward you. You can feel his eyes on you, studying, searching.

You sip your drink, swallowing against the lump in your throat.

“Are you okay?”

It’s the second time he’s asked you that today. You almost laugh.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem… off.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“You’ve been quiet,” he continues, still watching you. “Distracted.”

You wonder if he notices how often he’s distracted. How often his eyes drift toward her. How often he leans in when she speaks, how he smiles at her like she hung the moon.

Your stomach twists.

“I’m fine,” you say again, sharper this time.

Spencer doesn’t look convinced. He rarely does when you lie.

Before he can push, before he can do what he always does—which is care when you wish he wouldn’t—Lacy’s voice rings out across the bar.

“Spence!”

You stiffen.

He turns instinctively at the sound of her voice, and it’s like a dagger to the ribs. His face softens, his lips curve into an easy smile, his whole body shifts toward her without thinking.

Like she’s a force of gravity.

Like she’s his gravity.

You swallow the nausea rising in your throat.

“I should go,” you mutter, pushing up from your seat.

Spencer blinks, turning back to you. “What? Why?”

You shake your head. “I’m just tired.”

It’s not a lie, not really.

You’re exhausted.

Exhausted from feeling like this. Exhausted from watching them, from trying not to watch them. Exhausted from the way jealousy eats you alive.

“Y/N—”

“I’ll see you Monday,” you cut him off, offering another hollow smile before turning on your heel and slipping out of the bar.

Monday comes too soon.

You step into the bullpen, still groggy from a restless night, and make a beeline for your desk. Maybe if you keep your head down, if you bury yourself in work, if you avoid looking—

“Morning, Y/N!”

You freeze.

Lacy is standing by the coffee machine, beaming at you like you’re friends. Like you haven’t spent the past few weeks resenting the very air she breathes.

You force yourself to smile.

“Morning,” you manage.

She tilts her head, studying you for a beat too long.

“You left early the other night,” she says, sounding almost… concerned. “Everything okay?”

Your skin prickles.

Why does she care? Why does she have to be nice? Why can’t she be awful, so that hating her would be easy?

You shrug, keeping your voice casual. “Just tired.”

(You’re always just tired, aren’t you?)

She nods, her expression still unreadable.

“You know,” she says, “Spencer was worried about you.”

The words hit harder than you expect them to.

You inhale sharply, forcing a small laugh. “He worries about everyone.”

Lacy hums. “I guess.”

She sips her coffee, watching you over the rim of her cup.

There’s something in her gaze, something sharp, something that makes you wonder if she knows.

Knows how you feel.

Knows how much you hate her.

Knows how much you envy her.

And worst of all—

Knows how much you wish you were her.

“See you later, Y/N,” she says, her voice sweet as sugar.

She turns, saunters off toward Spencer, and just like that—

You’re invisible again.

Later that day, you don’t know why you let him in.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion weighing you down, the bone-deep fatigue from carrying this jealousy for so long. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you when you opened the door—worried, confused, like he wasn’t going to leave until you gave him an answer.

Or maybe it’s just Spencer.

Because it’s always been Spencer.

You step aside without a word, and he takes it as permission to enter, closing the door behind him. Your apartment is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the lamp by your couch. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling small under his gaze as you sit down.

“You left early again,” he says softly, breaking the silence.

Your jaw tightens.

“I was tired.”

His lips press into a thin line. “You-“ he laughs dryly. “You always say that.”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Maybe because it’s true.”

Spencer doesn’t look convinced.

He takes a careful step toward you, his presence warm, consuming as he kneels in front of you. “Y/N,” he says, softer now. “Talk to me.”

You swallow.

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

That makes you laugh—humorless, sharp. “You really want the truth, Spencer?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs.

You should lie. Deflect. Brush it off like you always do.

But you’re tired. So you decide the truth is best.

“You like her,” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Lacy.”

His brows furrow, confusion flashing across his face.

“What?”

“You like her,” you repeat, voice bitter. “You look at her like she’s the greatest thing that’s ever existed.”

Spencer blinks, caught off guard. “Y/N, that’s not—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “I get it. She’s beautiful. She’s brilliant. She’s perfect for you.”

Spencer takes another step forward, and this time, you step back.

“She’s not perfect,” he says, his voice firm. “And I don’t—Y/N, where is this coming from?”

You let out another humorless laugh, running a hand through your hair. “You’re always with her. You laugh at everything she says. You—God, Spencer, you look at her like she’s the only person in the room. And of course I mean… you should! You like her… but still I’m trying to uhm.. be okay with that.”

You hold yourself a little tighter and smile softly.

He stares at you, eyes searching yours, like he’s piecing something together.

“You think I—” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N, I don’t like Lacy.”

That makes you scoff. “Right.” You laugh.

“I’m serious.”

“Then why—” Your voice wavers. “Why do you—why do you act like that around her?”

Spencer is quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, he takes your hand in his.

“I don’t act any way around her,” he says gently. “You’re the one I—” He swallows, hesitating.

“What?”

Spencer inhales sharply, like he’s gathering courage.

“You’re the one I want,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart stutters.

The room feels too quiet, too still, like the whole world has paused for this moment.

“You—” Your voice is hoarse. “You what?”

He squeezes your hand and like a button, you realize the closeness. So close that you can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the nervous flicker of his lashes.

“I want you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “Not Lacy. Not anyone else.”

You shake your head, barely processing the words. “But you—”

“I don’t know how to prove it to you,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “But if you’ll let me, I’ll try.”

Your pulse thrums in your ears.

“You mean it,” you whisper.

“I do,” he breathes.

The way he’s looking at you—soft and desperate and real—it steals the air from your lungs.

And then, before you can second-guess it, you’re closing the distance.

Your lips crash against his, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate—his hands come up to cradle your face, pulling you closer, pressing himself against you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The kiss is messy, frantic, needed. It’s weeks—months—of pent-up frustration, of longing, of every stolen glance and unspoken word.

His fingers tangle in your hair, and he sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting for this, like this is where he’s meant to be.

You don’t know how long you stand there, tangled in each other, but when you finally pull back, your chest is heaving, your lips tingling.

Spencer rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Believe me now?” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I do.”

He smiles—the real one, the one that reaches his eyes.

And this time, it’s yours.

Still, he doesn’t let go of you.

Not when the next kiss deepens, not when his hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, not when you let out a shaky gasp against his lips. He clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and maybe you are.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as he presses you into the couch. His weight is solid, warm, and you swear you can feel his heart hammering against yours. The kiss is frantic, desperate—like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s trying to make you understand.

You do.

God, you do.

His lips leave yours just long enough for him to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. His hands settle on your waist, fingers flexing like he’s memorizing the feeling of you beneath them.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You swallow, your own breath shaky. “Then why didn’t you—”

Spencer exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I was scared,” he admits. “Scared you didn’t feel the same. Scared I’d ruin everything.”

Your chest tightens. “You wouldn’t have.”

His fingers tighten on your waist, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me I’m not too late,” he breathes.

You cup his face, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “You’re not.”

His whole body seems to relax at that, his grip on you loosening just slightly. He exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before switching positions with you, allowing you to lay on top of him.

You stay like that for a while—wrapped up in each other, the weight of everything unspoken settling between you.

And then, slowly, the exhaustion sets in.

You feel it first in the way your body sinks into Spencer’s, the way your limbs grow heavy, your breathing evening out. Spencer’s fingers trace lazy circles against your back, his warmth lulling you further into sleep.

“You should go to bed,” he murmurs, voice thick with drowsiness.

You shake your head against his chest. “Stay.”

Spencer’s arms tighten around you, his lips brushing the top of your head. “Okay,” he whispers.

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

TW: yandere awakening

part two

gn reader

Thinking of having a nullifying cursed technique without knowing it…

Curses, attacks, and techniques have no effect on you—once cursed energy comes into contact within your range, it ceases to exist. You're a human erasure for all things paranormal.

And it’s beyond strange for a certain six-eyed limitless sorcerer...

Gojo sees on a molecular level—it's like converging x-ray and thermal and night-vision into one lens that's both microscopic and telescopic at the same time—he sees energy and atoms—he sees everything, he sees through everything. Nothing escapes. The tiniest shift in someone’s expression indicates exactly what they’re thinking, and he can tell—as if he can read minds even though he can’t. Everything is just so obvious. Everything. Even though he is blindfolded, he can see. All things energy, light, heat, movement, what someone had for lunch, the tiniest vibration in the ground and buildings around him, the slight shift in the wind when a butterfly flaps its wings a mile away. It’s all there for him, laid bare before his many eyes. Everything, and then he bumps straight into you.

It's by no means any powerful encounter—his body is much taller and bigger. It’s rather you who’s dealt an impact, bouncing off and staggering back until falling hard on your ass.

But he’s no less shocked because of it. Something just passed through both limitless and six eyes. An attack from a curse? A technique from a sorcerer? Here? Now? On the open street on his way to buy mochi? No… what’s going on? What on earth was that?

“Ouch—what the? Watch where you’re going! And what’s up with the blindfold, you lunatic!?”

Watch where you’re going, huh… He’s never heard that before. Even stranger, who is speaking? He peels his blindfold up and… wow.

He can see you. No, not like he can see the others around you—passing bodies full of flesh and blood and bones and food. You’re none of that, you’re just a face and body. You have a rumpled expression—sour. He can tell you’re upset, but it’s harder than it’s supposed to be. He has to think about it all on his own. Yes, you’re mad. At him? Yes. You’re mad at him.

You’re mad at him, and yet he doesn’t care. There are more important matters. Like, who the hell or what the hell are you?

“Well?” you state snappily, and yes, it was you who had spoken earlier. “Are you gonna help me up or what?”

He doesn’t know if he should. You’d only touched him indirectly before, through two layers of both of your clothing. What if your skin burns his? What if everything ceases to exist?

He does it anyway.

Reaching down his hand, he holds his breath and recites seconds within his head as if he’s counting down towards the end of the world—one, two, three, and…

It burns. But not in a bad way. But it burns—everywhere all at once—igniting him like a matchstick ripped across the red. It burns, but it feels good. And he realizes he’s felt cold his entire life.

“Uhm, you can let go now,” you drag him out of his discoveries.

He looks away from his grip on your hand and at you, now standing, and wow, really wow… It’s like he’s seeing for the first time. There’s so much he's blind to, and yet, nothing's ever been clearer—the smoothness of skin, the soft differences in its pigment, the vividness of eyes—your eyes. He knows they aren’t, but they’re the biggest he’s ever seen.

“Hey, buddy, are you alright?” you ask now, leaning towards him—a hand on his shoulder, its burning warmth seeping in through his jacket, as the other remains in his. “Is there someone I should call?”

Oh right. He must be acting like an asylum escapee.

“I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. I’m great. I’m Gojo. Satoru Gojo,” one after the other, words leave him as if he’s forgotten how to act normal.

“Okay then—that’s good, uhm, Mr. Gojo.” 

How strange. He can’t tell what you’re thinking at all—in fact, he hasn’t the slightest clue—it’s all a guessing game. It’s as if before, all he needed to do was look at a book to know what was written within, but with you, he actually needs to read. And he's never learned how to.

“Uhm, alright, so I’ll be on my way then—”

“No!” his grip tightens, and you gasp with a jolt, looking at him even wider than before. Shit. “I mean… I’m sorry. I should… I should apologize for walking straight into you. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No, I’m good. It’s really alright. No need to worry. I should really go, though—”

You look positively freaked-out now—if he were to make a purely uneducated guess. You tried pulling your hand to yourself again, and it became more clear—he was making you uncomfortable. But still, he didn’t want to let go. Even with limitless off, nothing had ever felt as good as the contact he was feeling right now. He doesn’t think he can let go. But shit—people are beginning to stare…

“Okay, I’m sorry—” he lets go, and you instantly hurry along with quick steps, shuffling through the crowded street as if you’d just encountered a madman.

Maybe he is. He sure follows after you like one.

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[inosukijiro]

✮⋆˙ giyuu has a crush

𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ giyuu is wholeheartedly in love with you.

⟡ 𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 .ᐟ no bc i am making this man a pathetic simp for you idc. im writing these with myself in mind so yk, i have to pour out my feelings. and also i need to get all this giyuu writing off my chest, its actually a problem the fixation i have on this man but no fics tickle my brain just right so i have to write them myself

⟡ 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 .ᐟ none. giyuu might be a little ooc. modern reader in kny. i rewrote this a few times so pls be nice 🤧. 1.4k words.

─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───  ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───  ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───

Giyuu actually doesn’t know how this occurred. No, actually that was a lie. He knew how this happened, but didn’t at the same time. And honestly speaking, the man does not care at all. You were so nice and sweet to Giyuu it made his head spin. Like it makes him ill in the best way imaginable. He doesn’t understand why you want to be around him so much, why you want to be his friend – not that he minds – but he just can’t get past his own indiscretions about himself. That was until you told him to his face.

You tell him that you thought he was cute – I'm sorry? – and you liked how calm he was – really? His brain can’t compute anything that you say. He doesn’t know if you need any medical assistance or he’s just dreaming. But it makes you laugh. The cute, dumb look on his face as he stands there, gaping at you like a fish.

It wasn’t like it was new information. You did enjoy his company the most. He was very quiet and by no means were you either, but you have this habit of matching the energy of people you were with. So, it was almost relaxing and refreshing spending time with Giyuu. Though Giyuu is silent most of the time, he does in fact talk. At first it's about a mission he was on recently, if and most likely when he gets more comfortable with you, he’s talking a little more in depth about random things that are on his brain. It's endearing really. Or sometimes he’s just talking about things that he thinks you might like to know, random facts, and so on.

But sometimes you do the talking and he likes that too. You could talk for hours and he could listen to every word you have to say. He would soak it up like a sponge as you focus your eyes on the crochet hooks weaving in front of you. Your voice is quiet and nice, soft and warm sounding.

This typically happens when you visit his estate. And you visit his estate a lot. Maybe Giyuu was a little disappointed that you weren’t staying with him, but he knows that he shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds. He’s lucky enough to see you this much, as much as he's lucky to see you at all. He can’t be too mad though. Mitsuri has jumped you the first moment she got when the Master had brought up your living arrangements. You had nowhere to go. And honestly, Giyuu may have been a little relieved that Mitsuri of all people had gotten to you first.

He really wouldn’t have minded if it had been Rengoku or Gyomei. For obvious reasons, Rengoku would be happy to have him stopped by and probably Gyomei too, because it seems like they don’t have a bone to pick with him. Honestly speaking, he wouldn’t have minded Muichiro either, though the boy would have probably forgotten your existence within the day. But any of the others, the thought made his skin crawl for plenty of reasons. Maybe it was because it would have become a hassle, or he would be harassed every time he went to visit you. Yes, it does seem on par with him that might just avoid you so you don’t get verbally assaulted like he does if you were to associate with him. But he was a lonely, pathetic man who was enamored with you at first glance the minute you showed up out of nowhere and he couldn’t help but thank the heavens that the stars had aligned so nicely for him – even if he felt he didn’t deserve it.

His only issue with the arrangement was Obanai. The man had almost butchered him on numerous occasions just for showing up to the Love estate. Even if he wasn’t there for Mitsuri, the Serpent Hashira didn’t seem to care. Maybe it was funny the first few times – it actually wasn’t – but you really couldn’t keep your mouth shut anymore. Obanai was wearing you thin with his commentary. Everytime Giyuu was around, it was like the others just couldn’t help themselves by making a comment insulting the man. Maybe it was because you didn’t want to disrespect a Hashira, especially if four of them were in the room with you, but Giyuu was here to see you, and it was almost like insulting Giyuu was an insult to you for wanting to spend time with him.

Mitsuri was okay with Giyuu coming to visit you, she actually encouraged it. So watching Mitsuri stand behind you while you gave Iguro a piece of your mind was something Giyuu didn’t know he needed to see until then. And maybe he did allow himself to feel a little selfish and smile mentally. He still remembers how Iguro had this look of disdain on his face, simultaneously looking like a scolded child and embarrassed because this was happening in front of Mitsuri.

Giyuu wondered if you caught the look that Obanai and Kaburamaru were giving you – if looks could kill and all that – but that was stupid. You most certainly did and just didn’t care enough. And Giyuu also wonders just what kind of sorcery you have, because he did hear you mention Sanemi by name at some point and now he's not bothering him as much, especially when you are around.

It wasn’t like he could do anything about it, not like he had ever done anything about it in the past. He never really had the heart to correct anyone in their assumptions of him, he never really thought he had to. Though, that mainly was because he thought he deserved such mistreatment. Regardless, it didn’t matter how he felt about it and himself. If you enjoyed his company that much to defend him, he was going to provide as much of it as you wanted. But there was something about it that made his heart swell a little bit bigger and flooded him with enough warmth that you could have mistaken it as him having a fever.

Now here the two of you were, sitting outside the Water Estate. You both had taken your places by the koi pond Giyuu has. It's so calm and cool. The soft moving of water could be heard every time the wind blew just enough, as well as the sharp sound of water splashing because some fish got too close to the surface.

Giyuu isn’t losing himself as he stares at the pond, watching the fish move around. He finds himself mesmerized though, as you talk. It’s nice, as usual. He likes how you talk and the way you talk. He could listen to you for hours and never get tired of hearing you. And he knows that if he glances at you now, even briefly, he wouldn’t be able to look away. You just look so… wonderful. It makes him dizzy. But he has such a weak will to do so, and now he's staring at you. Eyes soft and relaxed. He has never felt so content.

Giyuu doesn’t know if he realizes what kind of situation he is in. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s finally realizing just how much of an effect you have on him. He likes you. He likes you beyond anything in the world. He loves you and everything about you.

You don't notice him staring. You’re too busy weaving the crochet hook in and out of your craft. You make it look so effortless. So enjoyable. And you seem so happy crocheting away as you speak. The way you talk and do it at the same time, you're so smart. You have to be. And Giyuu can’t help but hope you don’t look up. You’re as mesmerized with your work as he is with you. He would die though, if you caught him. The thought makes him sweat almost, being so close to you like this. His hands are clammy, and he's never been this nervous.

Yeah, he definitely has it bad for you. And for the first time in a while, even despite his nerves, he found the corners of his lips curling upwards, in a soft and timid smile. He averts his eyes, almost to gather his bearings, but that isn't enough. The subtle flush creeping onto his cheeks betrayed him. But he couldn’t be more delighted.

⟡ .ᐟ thank you for reading !

[omega-e123]

Warning: Suggestive (nsfw)

Based by: “I wanna be your slave” by Måneskin

I love you since this morning, not just for aesthetic. I wanna touch your body, so fucking electric. I know you're scared of me, you say that I'm too eccentric I'm crying all my tears and that's fucking pathetic

Every time you and Shadow get heated up, he backs off. It never gets past a make out session. Once it feels like he’s gone too far, he pulls apart and apologizes. Opting to distract himself from you.

You thought that maybe there was something wrong with you. That’s not right. The theory was easily written off seeing as Shadow has chosen to stay with you all this time. He’s blunt. Most of the time, you don’t need to ask what’s wrong because he’ll straight up tell you. It’s what you love about him. No need to walk on eggshells or play the guessing game.

So why… is it when it comes to this, he’s dodging the situation like he’s in the matrix?

It came up again. You two were on the couch, supposed to be watching a show. One thing led to another and now here you are, straddling his lap. Bare hands graze along your spine. Lips connected in an intimate tango.

He wants to pull you closer. Tighter. Shadow needs to feel more of you. An animalistic growl escapes him. Your touch is a drug he’s horrendously addicted to. You are his lifeline. Separated, he’s nothing. Yet..

Shadows fingers twitch, feeling the need to claw up your back. To mark you so everyone knows you’re his. Fuck, he wants to sink his nails and fangs into you so bad.

Abruptly he stops. Eyes snap open and his hands rest on either of your shoulders, pushing you away. Breathing synchronized, panting, slowing down into a steady rhythm.

Your dumbfounded expression twists into a worried face. It’s your chance to ask what’s wrong. This time you will get an answer. Shadow is not allowed to leave until he spills.

His gaze goes everywhere but you. He can’t bear to look at you. It’s almost as if he’s.. ashamed? No. Under careful observation, the look on his face appears more afraid.

Once confident hands now tremble. Shadow’s head hanging low as his forehead rests on your chest.

Quiet as a mouse, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Clarify. Please. Those words sound awful all on their own. There are a million different things that sentence could mean.

'Cause I'm the devil who's searching for redemption. And I'm a lawyer who's searching for redemption. And I'm a killer who's searching for redemption. A motherfucking monster who's searching for redemption

“I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I hurt you. Physically,” Shadow adds, finally making eye contact. A stray tear or two has found its way down his cheek.

“Trust me, I do want you..” Fangs sink into his bottom lip, drawing blood. He sighs, admitting, “I’ve never— done.. with anyone.”

You couldn’t find it in yourself to chuckle. Not when he’s in this state. Cupping his face, you wipe the tears with your thumbs, giving Shadow a reassuring smile. There's no need to rush things. Take it slow, take it easy. You're perfectly content with waiting however long. Silence follows after pecking his forehead.

Chaos, he doesn’t deserve you. Every fiber of his body screams at him, ‘he doesn’t.’ After all he’s done in the past, what he’s been through. Shadow is so lucky to have you. It’s a wonder how you could love a ‘monster’..

That’s not who or what he is. Not to you.

Shadow the hedgehog.

The ultimate life form.

For you he’s… your partner. Your lover.

A friend. A rock.

The one who has been by your side no matter what.

To him, you are a beacon of light. One he should protect. Another reason for him to keep existing. He’d follow you to the ends of the earth.. Like a.. Well a shadow, of course.

I wanna be your sex toy, I wanna be your teacher

I wanna be your slave, I wanna be your master. I wanna make your heartbeat run like rollercoasters

“Teach me,” Shadow speaks up.

Tilting his head, he leans in towards so that it rests on your shoulder, breath hitting your neck. The urge to bite and suck on your neck is overwhelming.

Shadow tentatively licks your throat before placing a kiss.

“Teach me how to make you feel good.”

[donvampiro]

Hiii!! I wanted to ask if you could please do some more “Jealous?” headcannons (the one with Zoro, Sanji and Nami) with Sabo, Marco and Law?

Thank you so much!!!

hello, Anon!!

hope you're doing well. here are the hc you asked for! i'm so sorry for the super long wait, ngl mental health issues and work have made the last few years a very difficult time. in any case, i hope these hc will meet your expectations 🥺 have a nice day/night! 💕💕

@pure-kirarin get ur sabotonin

part 1! (Nami, Sanji, Zoro) -> here

MASTERLIST - Welcome

***

'Jealous?' pt.2

(jealous/protective) Sabo, Marco & Law x gn!reader

Sabo

‘Don’t worry (y/n), i’m not a jealous man; i mean, what comes first is your individual freedom. me and my feelings don’t have to interfere in your life.’

HAHAHAHAHA bro. like. for real. – our sweet Sabo is the jealous type. BUT somehow he’s like Zoro, he just can’t help, despite his ‘motto’ which would rest upon giving you space, trusting you because you’re an adult capable of assuming your actions, your behavior and its consequences. Sabo wants you to feel, to be free. etc etc... but that doesn’t prevent him from being jealous. and he knows it lol

he’ll rather be the type to strongly repress his jealousy though. Because our revolutionary with a top hat knows that he too has many social interactions that could make you jealous, and he doesn’t want to make your relationship unfair by preventing you from doing the same. He knows he has no right to monitor your life or anything similar.

Sabo bottling up his jealousy would result in very specific (and rather either cute...or scary. no in-between) facial expressions as well as gestures, betraying his state.

With an upset expression, Sabo watches you talk to this person you just met, and he’s surprised that you’re able to ignore him like that, like, so easily – unless it’s his own imagination? no, it’s not, right? but... you can’t forget him so quickly, right? … right? He watches you chat, trying to keep the courteous smile he likes to display; while giving your interlocutor a severe (to say the least) sidelong look. but now… now, it’s getting too long for him. He moves away a little to slump on the nearest seat, never taking his eyes off you. he frowns slightly and, pouty as he drums his fingers in frustration, he broods over this jealousy that he cannot let be exposed, at the risk of betraying this promise of fairness he made. to compensate, his mind blurts out his bad faith.

‘how the hell can (y/n) find this person interesting? Everything they say is so very commonplace…’

Sabo hates when he’s like this. But he also hates your interlocutor, who makes (him) a definitely (very) bad impression. There’s something wrong with this person. But the blond tries to be reasonable, yes, no doubt that his jealousy distorts his judgment. If you talk to this individual, it's probably because they’re not as horrible as he thinks, right?... yeah, yeah. Pfuh. bitter, Sabo wouldn't go so far as to call this person ‘interesting’ either.

he has so little free time, and when he can spend time with you, you choose someone else. Now looking more sad than angry, Sabo narrows his eyes, then looks up again at that damn disruptive element you’re talking to.

even if he’s the type to know how to keep his cool, Sabo can be quite impulsive when it comes to his s/o. Thus, if at some point he’s really fed up, i don’t think he’d leave, i rather think he could come back to you and your interlocutor quite abruptly, to bring you closer to him, so that you stop ignoring him.

he takes big, determined steps, walking straight towards you and already knowing that he won’t tolerate any concessions. he's here to be with you, and wouldn't let anyone hinder his goals, obstruct his way, or whatever. Sabo’s gait speaks louder than all the explanations existing, and he quickly takes back his place by your side, not failing to give the same acerbic look at whoever seems to present themselves as a rival.

“Who do you think you are for y/n?”, Sabo’s gaze shouts. His own morality asks the same question, but to himself. “Who do i think i am to act this way?”. Sabo will probably hate himself, later, for having stepped in, but for now, he doesn’t care.

if the person touches you; lmao it's over. But there’s an even worse thing, it’s this expression of discomfort which gradually takes place on your face, signaling to the blond that you’re not necessarily completely okay facing this interlocutor starting to get physically comfortable with you. everything connects in Sabo's mind; and he understands that he has probably been blinded by his jealousy. weren't you just, so far, being polite to the person, and not ignoring your favorite revolutionary?

a miffed sigh crosses the barrier of Sabo's lips, who not only regrets his jealousy which, as always, carries him away, in countries where all the judgements are rather wrong;... but he also regrets this impoliteness of your interlocutor – which he is determined to put an end to.

Sabo cocks an accusing eyebrow as he stares with irritation at this decidedly annoying person. He readjusts his gloves, before gently placing his hand on their chest, exerting a slight pressure so as to push this individual away from you.

‘Can’t you see that you make (y/n) uncomfortable? We’d have hoped for a little more insight from you. Anyway… I strongly advise you to leave, before I get angry.’

the blond has moved forward a little, placing himself in front of you without hiding you completely, his first desire remaining to make sure that you enjoy your individual freedom; as he often tells you. to not hinder your movements. to let you express yourself. admittedly. but it should always be so. these are basic freedoms, and Sabo will never let anyone get too comfortable with you at first sight, as if they were getting the upper hand over you by imposing that inappropriate touch… right?

it’s hard to stand up to the piercing gaze of the revolutionary, it contains both the expression of this jealousy repressed until then, but also all the love he has for you, the strength of his convictions, including that of protecting you. to be the gentleman you need, or at least to be there for you. that’s all. that’s good.

Guilt slowly rises though, and Sabo’s a bit annoyed with himself about feeling this kind of latent satisfaction in getting this person out of your way. But it seemed like the best solution, judging by the overall situation and the discomfort it was causing you. Visibly, well-advised is the person, because they don’t really insist, facing the revolutionary with a top hat. They’re not interested in an argument, shrugging as they walk away. Sabo turns to you, and you both look confused. The little moment of guilty satisfaction that had been Sabo's (namely, when he chased away that annoying interlocutor) has soon faded, and now the words seem to be struggling to overcome the barrier of your respective lips.

Shouldn’t he be proud that he spared you the company of someone who made you visibly uncomfortable? … Nope? Why is his heart still so heavy? Sabo frowns and doesn’t know what to say, yet he’s guided to a single gesture – to take you in his arms, to hug you gently. Putting his gloved hand lightly on your hair, Sabo feels so sorry as he tightens his embrace. Feeling that you’re cuddling him back reassures him, and, as you whisper thanks; he offers you his most sincere apologies, before murmuring:

'I love you, (y/n).'

Marco

tbh i sincerely wondered whether Marco was a jealous man or not.

i think that, deep down, everyone has a small part of jealousy in themselves, but that the difference lies in the fact that we manage to control it with more or less ease. From then on, i believe that Marco has “mastered” his jealousy well, like he’s quite at peace with it.

i mean, especially if it's people he knows. Marco observes (from afar) and rationalizes things. Just because you talk to this or that member of the crew (or any other crew, btw), doesn't mean you're necessarily going to abandon him, or that something bad is going to happen to you.

yeah, Marco definitely prefers to be reasonable and to keep reading. You’re free to do whatever you want, he's the one you love anyway. And you’re the one he loves! So his face keeps that peaceful smile that makes you melt.

'Hope you had a nice time chatting with the crew, (y/n).'

actually it might sound confusing for you – does Marco really care about you? He never really seeks your attention (at least not in as flashy a way as his crewmates). He never seems bothered by you talking to other people who might be… well… his… “rivals”? It’s troubling.

but oh, your presence is the only thing that can drag Marco's eyes away from his book. and above all, when this very presence is accompanied by another – unknown – soul.

it takes him a little longer to stifle his slight jealousy, because it’s difficult to fight this discomfort in front of this person who could create turmoil in your relationship, so dear to the phoenix. But Marco tries to stay true to his rule, you know, rationalization, in order to respect your own freedom.

this person here seems so confident and proud of themselves, standing in front of you and showing off as if Marco doesn't exist - while he's sitting right next to you and the relationship between you and him is anything but ambiguous. As a result, Marco doesn’t know if he should “simply” call this rudeness... or a clear provocation towards him from this person. Either way, that's not acceptable. But he still tries to rationalize — there's no point in getting carried away.

however, Marco understands that this interaction needs to end as soon as he notices your reaction: you're not exactly rejecting this person, but you're not accepting them either. The signals are unclear, mixed, a little confused — you look uncomfortable, embarrassed, maybe more, and Marco doesn't like that. Not at all.

your moods, emotions, likes and dislikes — all of this holds no secrets for Marco. As your lover, it's only natural for him to pay attention to you, to get to know you, and Marco strives to do this every day with the precision of a doctor. And today, the symptoms don't bode well, so Marco decides to step in.

'Are you okay?'

the question is simple, the tone is calm, and he means what he says. He checks up on you, makes a diagnosis of the situation. He would then turn to the person and ask them the same thing, but with a very different perspective in terms of meaning.

Marco doesn't need to get angry, threaten, or make a big speech. Just his look can let the person know that it would be in their best interest to avoid making you feel too uncomfortable.

this very person understood it very quickly, and didn't push their luck. Marco watches them leave without any real expression showing on his face, before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you back towards him.

his expression is soft and his touch feather light as he rests his gaze on you, offering you a reassuring smile — and you can't help but smile back.

Trafalgar Law

jealousy is a form of affect. Trafalgar Law doesn't want to hear about affect... well, especially if it's jealousy, his jealousy.

might sound weird, but… unlike Marco, tbh i don't know if Law would try to rationalize things, to reassure himself that there's no real insecurity to feel, etc, etc. i rather think that he’d “simply” try not to think about it. What’s the point? It would only stretch thin your link… so… better try to pretend like everything’s fine, right? 🤡

yet you can read jealousy on Law’s face just like in an open book; it's obvious, but our friend with a mushroom hat is always ready to deny it, even if it means being a little curt.

'why would i be jealous? am i supposed to be jealous? i've no reason to be jealous of anything about you. do as you like, (y/n).'

when he defends himself, the word “jealous” is repeated a lot in his sentences, and somehow that’s the way his external speech betrays his deep state, his inner speech. Sometimes Law catches himself thinking that his jealousy isn't something bad, that it actually makes sense, doesn't it? After all, you like each other, and it's okay to feel... “in danger”? when that relationship is put in jeopardy. Moreover, this often motivates Law's desire to protect you, to support you. But… he also finds it unfortunate that it stems from negative affects. Law just wants to be there for you, to protect you, without himself feeling in danger about his place in your heart.

when he feels jealous, Law tends to distance himself, or, quite the contrary, to be slightly clingier than usual with you. Basically, he can either shut himself away and be very quiet, watching your interaction with the person who stirs up his jealousy from a distance (kinda like Sabo); or, on the contrary, he can make his presence felt in the most intense way possible, as if to put pressure on the person in question… and on you.

being more talkative and more attention-seeking than usual, being more irritable,... That would be Trafalgar Law’s (unconscious) way to show you he’s jealous. In fact, Law often realizes his own jealousy afterwards. At the heat of the moment, he just feels pissed off and frustrated, even though he finds it hard to admit it. Overall, what makes Law jealous is people who behave towards you in a way he considers to be inappropriate if they’re not your partner. e.g.: being too flirtatious with you.

Law isn’t the type to confront you to formally forbid you to discuss with someone, however he won’t fail to strongly advise you against hanging out, talking too much etc. with the person who embarrasses him — all of this through lil sentences that actually betray his condition (that you have already noticed for quite a while.)

‘They don’t inspire me with anything safe. I think you should avoid spending too much time with them.’

As said above, Law’s jealousy is no secret to you, it’s as plain as the nose on your face, but it’s often difficult to tackle the subject with him. Don’t tease him too much when it comes to this, he may close like a seashell. But all this embarrassment, which after all results from a form of personal pride; would be quickly put aside if the person (about whom Law already had doubts) comes to clearly bother you.

Coming out of his shell, Law will have no trouble stepping in, kinda abruptly. Maybe he'll grab that person by the collar, maybe not. He positions himself in such a way as to make it clear that nothing bad can happen to you as long as he’s by your side, that you’ll always find support in him. You can always count on him, even if he sometimes seems distant to you.

It’s all in the eyes. A piercing look that is much more full of meaning than words. Law doesn’t want to waste time talking to people who already bother him because they not only take his place, but don’t even take care of it. They’re just annoying you.

Law might sometimes be tempted to use his nodachi. But no doubt it would disappoint you… and that’s out of the question. Somehow it would mean to put himself on the same level as this person who bothers you, this very person who is (at least, in his eyes lol) a walking disappointment.

So Law just chooses to get even closer to them, so he can talk to them calmly… Well, to all appearances :) all of this with some sort of smirk that would actually contain a boiling anger as frustration, and which you’re the only reason why these two components don’t explode.

‘I've already been very lenient to let you talk to (y/n) while you seem so mannerless, so don’t overdo it. Back off and behave better. There will be no other chance.’

After that, depending on what you choose (do you want to leave? do you want to stay with this person who has now been warned by Law?), he’d stay close to you, not imposing himself on your actions, but making himself now much more attentive to the actions of the person — and this for your well-being rather than to his, rather than to this jealousy of which, as we’ve said, he finds it difficult to fully understand. It may not seem like much, but trust me that the person concerned would have understood that they shouldn't mess with you. brrr

In fact, it may seem strange, but I don’t think that Law is generally someone who would be very “fiery” in his jealousy, that is to say the type to violently attack those who make him jealous. i see him more as someone who withdraws, if not sulks; waiting for you to come get him to prove your ‘good faith’ — yes, because those are his terms. In reality, he just wants you to reassure him.

But, no matter what, if someone tries to hurt you, he’ll always be there to protect you! Law is protective of you — whether he’s sulking or not :)