#I love all the tension from seeing the battle from inside his head

[oldermenfucker]

This City Holds My Heart | J. Abbot

summary: He hears you are coming back to Pittsburgh for the weekend. Maybe the reunion will wash away the pain that’s left inside him after your paths divided.

warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, heavy angst, hurt no comfort, right people wrong time kind of thing, p in v, exes reunion, mentions of suicidal thoughts, ex!fem!reader, neurologist!reader, Jack’s prosthetic leg, reader is nondescript except that she has hair (long enough to frame her face), reader has a nickname, mentions of PTSD & trauma, widowed!Jack, sad people in love, alcohol consumption (a few drinks), protected sex, lots of tears, JACK’S POV!!! English isn’t my first language<3

word count: 10.3k+ (BEAR WITH ME OKAY)

an: HI this is my piece for A Doctor A Day challenge hosted by these amazing people [ @clubsoft @ananonymousaffair & @letsgobarbs ]! I’m so excited to know your thoughts on this piece🥹 I poured everything I could into this fic, smut, fluff, angst etc and I really want to know what you guys think!

Prompt: "I know you just landed, and I know you're probably busy, but... I'd love to see you?" + Orange

He doesn’t remember the last time he ate something; was it the banana Shen forced him to take a bite from, or the granola bar Dana shoved into his hands when she came to take the shift? Whatever, it doesn’t matter.

  Jack pushes his fists into the pockets of his cargo pants, his tired gaze moving from the edge of the rooftop to the building in front of him, watching as sunrise hits the streets of Pittsburgh slowly, crawling its way between the cars and the old bricks of the walls.

  He replays the shift in his head, trying to figure out what he missed that led to three code blues. Each case had its own story, each patient had a unique experience, and families begged him to save their loved ones, but he couldn’t. 

  He brings his fists out of his pockets, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks at the peachy sky, watching how another day starts. Some people don’t get to see this anymore, he thinks bitterly, some people don’t get to start a new day. They are stuck in yesterday while he moves forward as if nothing’s happened.

  He looks back at the edge, he takes a step closer, gazing down at the people who move around, getting ready to battle through another twenty-four hours. He wishes he was this free, to walk down a street without the responsibility of the Emergency department, without the little limp in his leg and reminder of how long it took for the soft tissue of his leg to heal.

  He has been tempted before to jump, but nowadays he does not even have the motivation to do that. He is numb and has been like this for a good six years, worse after the Pitfest casualties. That was a year ago, how time passes in the blink of an eye, like the sunrise he watches daily.

  He throws his head back, listening to the birds chirping. They made a nest a few weeks back, usually coming to their home around the time he walks to the rooftop. They have a life based on instinct, just as he does; he eats, sleeps, goes to work, and then repeats.

  Robby calls him a soulless soldier— he is just as bad as Jack, if not worse — because most of the time, there is no smile on his lips, and his tone drips with sarcasm. 

  Pittfest changed everyone, including the ER cowboys more than others. Robby broke apart with Jake’s withdrawal, and Jack… Jack tries to survive, day by day, and shift after shift. He still finds joy in little things; when he saves someone’s life by his sharp mind, when a procedure is successful, when he argues with Walsh.

  There is still an ache inside him from years ago when his wife died, and it only got worse six years ago, and now? All he is a great doctor and nothing more.

  He says nothing when he hears the familiar footsteps on the tiny rocks of the rooftop, his stethoscope moving against his chest as he shifts his weight on his good leg, sighing in relief when the tension is halfway gone from his knee.

  “Haven’t jumped off yet?” Robby leans on the railing behind Jack, looking as the sun rises slowly from behind the buildings, “Thought you’d done this time.”

  “Why? I don’t think I’ve managed to get more depressed since yesterday,” Jack replies, resting his elbows on the metal railing behind him, looking from his peripheral vision at Robby who smiles and shakes his head.

  “A trauma came in just a few minutes ago, an attempt or pushed, we don’t know but he was the same age as you. Nearly sent me to cardiac arrest,” Robby drops his head on the back of his hands, “You better not jump, you didn’t do it last year, don’t do it ever.”

  “It’s exhausting, brother,” Jack sighs, tilting his head back as the sunlight hits his face finally, the warmth of it spreading on his skin deliberately, “Coming back here, watching people lose someone they care about, calling us names because they don’t know medicine has its limits. And yet, we come back, for what? I don’t fucking know.”

  “You have me, I’m here, I’ll never leave you hanging all by yourself,” Robby nudges his forearm, looking at his face with a pleading look, “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

  “You’re not lonely,” Jack shrugs, “You have Collins. Who do I have? Fucking Shen? I’m living in a loop, man. Every day is the same old same old. I miss my wife, I miss her, there is not a day that I wish I got the help I needed sooner, but even my therapist can’t do shit nowadays.”

  “You are being too hard on yourself, brother,” Robby straightens his back, resting his hand on Jack’s shoulder as they both look up to the sky, “Besides, I might have… some news about—“

  “Who?” Jack’s ears perk up, his posture growing rigid as he turns his head to look at Robby, “Who?”

  “Her,” Robby says with a small smile, “Your Clementine.”

  “Don’t say that stupid nickname,” Jack groans, shaking his head as he takes a step back, resting his waist against the cold metal bars, “She hated it.”

  “I think she liked it,” Robby shrugs, looking down at his shoes before he starts talking again, “There is a neurology congress tonight, and apparently a follow-up gala on Saturday night with the Head departments PTMC invited.”

  “So?” Jack tilts his head at the older doctor, scoffing when Robby raises his eyebrows at him, “You’re telling me you’re invited to a stupid gala that has nothing to do with me?”

  “For a medical genius you sure as hell are dumb,” Robby watches as Jack rolls his eyes, “I’m saying she’s coming back to the city.

  Jack’s heart drops to the bottom of his ribcage. This has to be a cruel joke, it must be. He doesn’t know how to react; be happy? Why? The last time you saw each other was to say goodbye. Be sad? He already is for ten thousand different reasons. 

  So when he looks at Robby with his eyes widened in shock, he knows that he is still deeply into something he has tried to bury for years, ever since he watched you board that plane.

  “What?” He sounds so small, like a kid lost in a playground; everything feels natural yet so off, like a distant dream turning into a nightmare in the back of his mind.

  “She has kept in touch with Dana,” Robby sighs and tightens the grip he has on Jack’s shoulder, squeezing the muscles gently to make sure Jack doesn’t get lost in his head again, “Dana told me her plane would land around… yeah, seven-thirty, eight at most. Which is now.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Jack asks, pressing his lips into a flat line, his hands shaking as his chest begins to rise and fall faster. He rests his sweaty palms on the railings behind him, closing his fists around the cold metal.

  “I don’t know,” Robby shakes his head, staring into the distance as the sun finally rises into the blue sky, “I just thought you should know.”

  “Thanks, brother, now I won’t be able to get a lick of sleep knowing my ex is in the town,” Jack snaps, running a hand down his face as he grits his teeth, all to stop himself from tearing up.

  “I didn’t say it to—“ Robby cuts himself off with a deep breath before he pats Jack’s shoulder and takes a step back, “Take it easy, man. I’m gonna go.”

  Jack listens to Robby’s footsteps; it takes ten large steps to reach the door, and he stops Robby by the eighth one, shocking both him and his friend to his dismay.

  “Is her number still the same?”

  Jack’s voice is shaky like he doesn’t trust himself to say it loud enough for Robby to hear, but his friend does, stopping in his steps to glance back at Jack with a small smile.

  “Yeah.”

  One, two, and Robby is out of the door, leaving Jack heaving with each breath. Jack dodges the railing and steps on the safe side just to lean over the metal bars, his lips parting as he gasps for air.

  You are back to Pittsburgh, you are in the city he watched you leave, the same city you made so many memories with him in the streets and bars. The same city that he broke your heart in, the very same one you told him you couldn’t do this anymore.

  He lets out a shaky breath, reaching for his phone absentmindedly. One call wouldn’t hurt, right? It wouldn’t tear his heart and break his bones surely. People call their ex-lovers every day, why shouldn’t he?

  He opens the list of his contacts, scrolling until he sees your name with a red heart next to it; he didn’t have it in him to change the name, nor could he delete your number. 

  That is why his fingers are trembling over your phone number, trying to make up his mind before he does anything stupid. But luck is not on his side today it seems — not like it ever was — and his finger slips accidentally and presses the call button.

  “Fuck, fuck—“ he yells, putting the phone against his ear quickly, his hand going to his hip as he starts pacing the rooftop, his heartbeat racing with each beep of the line, “What am I doing?”

  He doesn’t know if he wants you to pick up the phone or not, he probably does but the thought of talking to you again after the farewell you had makes him anxious. What would he say? Hello? How are you doing? Aren’t these too cliche when you are calling your ex?

  The beeping finally stops, and he can feel his heart stopping for a second before it goes to voicemail.

  “Hi! Thank you for reaching out, please leave your message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!” 

  Your voice… fuck, your voice is still as sweet as he remembers. He calms down instantly, a tired smile covering his face as he listens to the voicemail repeating itself. You sound so beautiful, so free as if you didn’t cry hours in his arms as he pushed you away once more, as if he never happened to you.

  After the third repeat, he remembers he can leave you a message, hoping you still have his number and he isn’t just an unknown caller.

  “Hey,” he clears his throat, running his free hand through his unruly curls, “Hey, um, this is Jack! Y’know, Jack Abbot? Yeah well urm… I heard you are back in town, yeah, Robby said something about a congress you’re attending. I know you just landed, and I know you're probably busy, but... I'd love to see you?"

  Fuck, fuck fuck fuckfuck—

  He hangs up immediately, his fingers gripping his phone so tightly he thinks it might break. What did he fucking mean he’d love to see you? He is a fucking idiot, a total moron, a dumb piece of scum, but when his phone dings a few minutes as he is near going into a full panic attack, he stops.

  “Jack, hi! I’m exhausted now, but I’d love to meet with you before my congress! Our usual cafè near The Pitt?”

  He nearly drops the phone, opening the text in the blink of an eye, rereading the message over ten thousand times to make sure it is really you. And when he opens the contact, he sees that it is true, you have texted him, accepting to meet up with him, at the cafè you usually went to after the night shifts.

  “Yes, of course. See you at 6?” 

  He presses send and starts pacing again. Waiting for a reply after six years makes him nervous to the point he thinks he might drop dead on sight.

  “See you, Jack!”

  He sighs in relief when he reads your reply, chuckling dryly as he rereads the conversation, not truly believing how he is going to meet with you again.

  He walks downstairs with flushed cheeks and a heart beating in anticipation. When Robby and Dana see him walking inside The Pitt, he rolls his eyes at them and nods when Dana raises an eyebrow at him in a silent question.

  It is going to be a crazy day for sure.

  He dresses up as best as he can; a navy blue button-up with worn-out jeans and his black sneakers. Which is so… not Jack. He feels like he has put on a persona he didn’t know he had, his walls slowly building up with each step he takes toward the location.

  He thought walking would be a good idea because now his nerves are making him sweat, his palms growing more clammy with every step he takes. 

  What will he say? Will he ask about how you have been doing? How you are doing? Do you have anyone waiting for you at home—

  The thought makes him shiver, stopping him midway to open the door of the coffee shop. He hates the idea of you with someone, he despises it, he fucking loathes it. Even the image of someone holding your hand makes his eyes tick, and his fingers shake over the glass door, but he has to pull through.

  The bell over the door dings when he steps inside, memories flooding his mind as he looks around, remembering all the exhausted morning dates after the shifts, all the cries and hushed arguments you two had here.

  Bittersweet yet wholesome. He misses the days he could hold your hand, but he gave up as soon as everything got serious.

  He rounds the corner to the spot you would always sit, and when he does, his eyes fall on you. He freezes, hands dangling on his sides as he stares at your silhouette.

  The orange hue of sunset shines through the windows on your face, your hair framing your face just as beautifully as he remembers if not more. Your hand is tucked under your chin, looking down at the marble table, tracing the shapes mindlessly.

  You are ethereal.

  Jack feels his lungs are about to collapse when you turn your head and find him standing there, and he watches how your lips stretch into a soft smile, steading yourself with your palm on the edge of the table as you stand up.

  He licks his lips and glances down for a brief moment to catch the breath you are stealing from his lungs from a few meters away. He looks up quickly, crossing the remaining distance slowly before he stands in front of you, his eyes swimming with various emotions unknown to him — is it love? Longing? Sadness? He doesn’t know.

  “Hey,” he greets you quietly, hazel eyes locking into yours as he waits with bated breath for you to say something, anything. Instead of talking, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close as you mumble a ‘Hi, Jack!’ Into his shirt.

  Hugging. You are hugging him after years of no contact. He can’t think even if he wants to. He wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you close by muscle memory, breathing in your scent as he buries his face into your hair, trying his best to not cry right here and then.

  He lets go of your waist when he feels you lose your grip on him, slowly pulling back to look at his face, and he takes his time memorizing every up and down, every corner of your face.

  He thinks of the days he used to kiss every single inch of your face when you were on rotation and he was getting ready to go to the hospital. He remembers how he used to caress your cheek when you fell asleep on his chest on his old couch during movie nights.

  He also remembers the days you tried to not let your sadness show on your face when brought up his wife again, putting the bricks of the protective wall on top of each other to shut you out.

  “Shit, sorry,” you chuckle awkwardly, pulling away and he misses the weight of you in his embrace, the warmth you provide by just existing and breathing the same air as him, “Please, sit! I know you’ll be back in The Pitt in a few hours.”

  “Yeah, urm, yeah…” he huffs a slight laugh and walks around you to pull your chair out for you, “Ladies first.”

  “Ever the gentleman,” you tease him, thanking him as he pushes your chair in when he knows you are secured and smiles at you before he walks towards his own chair and sits down, “What are you having?”

  “Well… something highly caffeinated,” he shrugs, looking down at the wedding band he is wearing—

  Fuck, he totally forgot to take it off. Did he though? Did he ever want to take it off or did he think about it but didn’t ponder over it, like a passing joke in his head?

  He looks up instantly, finding you already looking at the black ring before you tuck your hand under your chin again, meeting his eyes with a small smile before you look away and gesture for the waiter to come and take your orders.

  “Espresso it is then,” you try to break the ice he notices, but he has already started to fuck everything up again from the very first second. He covers his left hand, nodding at you with a ghost of a smile on his lips while he feels as if he is about to vomit his heart out with how insanely fast it is beating.

  “Welcome, what can I get you?”

  “A cup of tea with carrot cake and,” you look back at him, smiling before you glance back at the waiter, “A shot of espresso.”

  “Coming right up!” 

  He watches you closely — he is staring but that’s a creepy way to put it — and he nearly melts when you turn to look at him with the softest smile he has ever seen.

  “Carrot cake? Really?” Jack grins when he watches you grimace, hiding your face in your hands as you look at him from between your fingers, “Never thought I’d see the day that you will eat a carrot cake.”

  “You’re insufferable!” You chuckle, resting your chin on the heel of your palm, and he watches these micro movements with such an endearment it makes his heart clench, “It’s just a newly formed habit in the hospital. My assistant brings me tea and her very sweet orange carrot cake every evening. Who am I to say no to a home baked sweet treat?”

  “Understood,” he nods and smiles, taking a deep breath to calm himself without making a mess of himself. Your laugh is still the same, even more beautiful than he remembers and it feels so good to be there to witness it again, “How’s Boston?”

  “Oh, you know, colder than here but I enjoy it,” you explain, resting your elbows on the table as you look at him, “The bars are pretty amazing! Not that I have much time to explore them because of the hospital and applying for a fellowship. But… it’s okay, I guess.”

  “Wow, you’re thriving,” he grins, biting the inside of his cheek, “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thank you, Jack,” you reach across the table to hold his hand — a habit you had when you were nervous, and he quickly realized his touch grounded you when you needed it the most, “Enough about me, how have you been?”

  “Same old same old—“

  “Don’t do that!” You squeeze his hand, glaring at him before your eyes soften when you notice his defeated ones, “You know I hate this phrase, Jack. Come on, tell me about The Pitt!”

  He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, running a hand over his face as he notices the waiter coming with your orders to the table.

  You pull your hand back, letting the waiter put down your cups and plate, asking if you need anything which Jack replies with a quick ‘no, thank you’ before he looks back at you.

  “I’m sure Dana is keeping you updated—“

  “I want you to tell me,” you cut him off with a soft frown he knows so well, you always gave him this expression when you knew he was dodging the question poorly, “How’s Robby?”

  “He is great,” he shakes his head and chuckles, briefly thinking about how his friend has gotten his life together before he focuses on you again, ���He is in a relationship with one of the new attendees, Heather Collins. I don’t know if you know her…”

  “Dana said something about Robby dating a resident after I left but that’s it,” you reply, taking a sip of your tea, “But please tell him I’m so happy for him. He went through a lot and deserves to have an amazing life.”

  “Will do,” he nods, drowning all the espresso shot in one move, kissing his teeth as he looks back at his ring again.

  “Take it easy, soldier,” you push the carrot cake plate towards him slowly, handing him a fork to eat something sweet, “How are you doing, Jack?”

  “Me?” He chuckles dryly, trying to come up with a sarcastic reply but when he sees how worried you look for him, “I’m fine.”

  “That’s it? Six years and you don’t have anything to tell me about?” You press the matter, giving him a teasing look but he has none of it.

  “We had a mass casualty last year, Robby lost his stepson because he couldn’t save Jake’s girlfriend—“

  “That’s Robby’s story to tell, I’m interested to know—“

  “Know about me?” He looks at you as if you have hung the stars, as if every moment he spends looking at your face illuminated by the dark fading orange light of sunset doesn’t make his heart stop, “Well, I go to the rooftop every day thinking I might jump this time, and when I look down I feel numb, maybe the therapy is working because I can’t do it. I see my wife in my sleep, I imagine the life I could have had with her.”

  You take a deep breath at the mention of his late wife — or wife as he always calls her — you take two large sips of your hot tea and he mentally face palms himself at rambling all these shitty thoughts to you. 

  “You still go up?” You ask, your voice small and trembling, thinking of all the kisses and fights you shared on that damned rooftop.

  “Yeah,” he looks out of the window, his eyes filling with tears before he wipes them quickly, enjoying the cold sensation of his ring over his heated eyelids, “It’s the only place that isn’t corrupted by death.”

  “Cut it some slack, our first kiss was on that rooftop,” you reach for his hands again, and he hates how easily he calms down from such a soft touch, “I don’t think I can ever forget it.”

  “Well, it wasn’t an easy trauma, the patient died before we could get our hands on him,” he squeezes your hands, “And you were so mad at me for not letting you go for the fourth round of epi.”

  “You had to shut me up somehow,” you laugh, looking down at your joined hands, “Fuck, I was so immature back then.”

  “No, you weren’t,” he caresses the soft skin of your wrist, his hazel eyes locking into yours with sincerity, “You were hopeful.”

  “Which was horrible for emergency medicine,” you shrug, “I still am, though. That’s why neurology was a great choice. It has death, I still feel the panic sometimes, but they don’t die while I’m operating on them. It’s such a dick thing to say but… I’m glad I’m not there to witness it.”

  “I get it,” he takes a deep breath, his eyes moving slowly from your hands up to your neck and face, falling over your lips, “That’s why the rooftop visits exist.”

  He looks down at his watch before he finds the courage to look into your eyes again, seeing how it is time to go back home and put his scrubs on. 

  Jack doesn’t wanna go, he doesn’t wanna leave. He wishes he could stay in this very moment, just in this picture pretending everything is fine and you are back, that he can delude himself into believing he has you back in his arms for an eternity.

  “I totally forgot, my congress starts at eight,” you pull your hands away from him, leaving his palms cold and itchy without yours in them, and he slowly drags his forearms back to his side, standing up to say the word he hates so much again.

  “Are you… are you leaving?” 

  “Yeah, I have to…” you pout, and it takes everything in him not to reach out and kiss you until the pout is turned into a grin, “But there is a gala tomorrow night. Fundraising and everything, I’d be in town.”

  “Yeah, cool,” he nods, forcing out a smile, standing up after you and waiting for you to say something, anything…

  “Will I see you there?”

  Yes. Yes. He can make it work. Say yes—

  “No, I don’t think so,” he curses himself in his head, fisting his hands, nails digging into his palms, “I’m not invited.”

  “Oh,” you say, eyes widening as if you have heard the most devastating news ever, fingers rolling the band of your purse as you gaze into his eyes, “Well then… this is goodbye I guess.”

  “Yeah, yeah—“ he gasps when you wrap your arms around his shoulders for the second time in six years again, holding him close for one last time before he wraps his large arms around your back as well, “I’m gonna miss you.”

  “Me too, Jack,” he nearly drops on his knees when he hears you say his name with tears stinging your eyes, “Me too.”

  “Goodbye.”

  He watches you with red eyes as you try to hold back a sob before you reach for your purse to pull out your wallet and pay for the drinks, but he stops you with a hand on your cheek.

  “I’ve got it,” it pains him that he cannot lean down and kiss you when you nod and scrunch up your nose in order to keep the tears from streaming down your face, “You’ll be late.”

  You move forward, pecking his cheek slowly, and he marvels at how soft your lips feel against his stubble, and he hopes whoever gets to feel your lips back in Boston worships you the way you deserve — the way he wanted to do but fucked it all up.

  He watches you leave, for the second time, and it ruins him, making a tornado inside him that wrecks the remaining parts of his sanity. You are okay, you are happy, and that is all that matters.

  He inhales sharply before he reaches for his phone, opening his text messages with Robby before he sends a quick text.

  “Will you go to tomorrow's gala?”

  It has been years since anyone had seen Jack in a fucking tuxedo. He thinks the last time he tried one was for his wedding, and after that, he dropped the thousand dollar fabric in the trash.

  But now? He is wearing one, with a white shirt under his black coat and a simple black tie he is trying so hard to fix. He looks in the mirror one last time, running a hand in his hair before he moves out of the bathroom, following the sound of music until he reaches the entrance of the hall.

  He feels out of place immediately. It’s not him who is supposed to be here, it’s Robby, but he can’t lose his last chance of seeing you again. So here he is, grabbing a glass of champagne as the waiter walks past him, drowning the sparkling liquor like water.

  He scans the hall, not finding you anywhere as he moves between people until he reaches the bar, ordering a Double Black Label neat while his eyes wander from one woman to another in hopes of finding you somewhere among them.

  He sips on his whiskey, leaning on his elbows on the barstool as he watches the doctors and CEOs get together in various groups. It is a ridiculous shit show, some people go to the podium to give their speech, some linger and chat, and it seems the only person he is interested in is nowhere in sight.

  He shifts his weight off his prosthetic leg, sitting on the barstool only to stare into the glass he has in hand, swirling the liquid with gentle moves of his wrist.

  It is still too far from him, but he can hear your laughter from a mile away. His ears perk up, and he almost breaks his neck when he turns around abruptly to catch you walking with a couple next to you, conversing casually before you spot him through the crowd.

  He stands up instantly, nearly losing his balance when he sees you are coming towards him, hearing a soft ‘I would like to introduce you to someone’ before you lead the couple to where he is standing.

  “This is Dr. Jack Abbot from PTMC,” he nods, smiling politely at the couple who introduce themselves as well, shaking his hand before the three of them look back at you, “I used to be his resident before I changed to Neurology.”

  Jack’s hand finds the small of your back as he talks with the couple, finding out about their specialty and where they work, how they know you, and how proud they are to be represented by you in this gala.

  “Well, we will take our leave for now,” The male doctor says, shaking Jack’s hand before he shakes yours, his wife doing the same before she pulls you in for a quick hug, and the two of you watch as they walk away.

  “Hey, stranger,” you turn to him, beaming at him when he smiles back, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “I had to see you again,” he mumbles, his hands caressing a path from your wrist to your shoulders, feeling the bare skin of your arms and skimping down to your sides, resting over your hips with a gentle squeeze, “It didn’t settle right when we said goodbye yesterday.”

  “It will never settle right, Jack,” you look away from his intense gaze, chuckling when you notice his crooked tie, “You still haven’t learned how to do your tie, or you left it like this on purpose?”

  “Little bit of both,” he shrugs innocently, his eyes taking in your face; you are so close he can smell the champagne mixing with your perfume, your soft lashes kissing your undereye when you blink, your lips painted in a nude shade of pink, and your hair falls around your face like a curtain leading to the hanging Gardens of Babylon — you look like a goddess compared to him.

  “Good thing you have the right person to take care of you,” you whisper, eyes glinting playfully as you pull on his tie to redo it correctly. 

  Jack relishes the feeling of your touch on his collar. He feels as if his senses have heightened somehow because he swears he can literally feel every movement of your fingers on his skin through his clothes.

  He looks down at your dress, watching as the classy design clings to your body just the right way, showing off your curves and shoulders in the most perfect way.

  “You look so beautiful,” he breathes out, letting his hands wander over your back, knowing quite well that he is crossing an invisible line, but he doesn’t care now, you are here, back in his arms, exes or not he has the chance to have you all to himself tonight if you take him back for just a few hours.

  “Thank you,” he leans down to kiss your forehead when he notices how flustered you get, but his demeanor grows closed off when he notices a man making his way towards you, stepping next to you before he extends his hand.

  “Would you do me the honor and dance with me?” 

  You pull back from Jack a little, mouth agape as you look between the man and Jack, but with a little squeeze of his hand on your waist, you give him an apologetic smile before taking up the man’s offer and resting your hand in his palm.

  “Of course.”

  Jack watches from his spot how the man leads you to the dance floor as other people pair up and join you there, the band starts playing the music and to his dismay, he has to be subjected to the sight of another man twirling you around the hall.

  Even if he is seething in his seat, he can’t deny how elegant you look with your dress flowing behind you and that smile you give your partner… this smile makes his pulse quicken, a warm blush covering the tip of his nose and cheeks. 

  He watches as the man lies his hand on your waist, pulling you a bit closer, and it makes his blood boil even though he knows he has no claim over you. You are not his lover, not his girlfriend, hell you are not even his resident anymore.

  He can’t take it anymore, so as soon as the song ends he drowns the rest of his whiskey and strides towards you, clearing his throat to catch your attention.

  “May I have your next dance?” Jack asks, his heart hammering against his ribs as he waits for you to accept his offer, and you do, with a bright smile that lights up his world.

  “Yes, you may,” you turn around to the man you danced with earlier, “Excuse me, please.”

  Jack tucks you close to him when a new song starts, his hand moving from your shoulders to your hip, the other one holding your smaller hand in his as he sways both of you gently to the rhythm of the music.

  “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?” He leans down to whisper in your ear, smirking when your hand wanders up to his shoulder, cupping the side of his neck gently.

  “Once or twice,” you chuckle, dropping your forehead on his shoulder as he leans down to breathe in your scent, holding you close until the thoughts of you ever leaving again fade away for a few hours at least, “Aren’t you supposed to be at The Pitt?”

  “They don’t need me there,” he says, putting a distance between the two of you to hold your joined hands up so you can twirl before he pulls you in a bit roughly, keeping your chest pressed into his.

  “And you thought you were needed here?” You ask, batting your eyelashes at him as his smirk widens, his band on your waist moving to your hip to squeeze you in response.

  “Am I not?” He feigns innocence, his tone matching yours playfully, “I could leave now if that’s what you want—“

  “I never said you weren’t needed,” you don’t break eye contact, and it thrills him as if it was six years ago when you danced for the first time at Dana’s wedding anniversary, “But I know a place if you wanna leave…?”

  “Tempting, very tempting,” he brings your hand to his lips, pressing feather light kisses all over your knuckles, “Are you suggesting?”

  “It might be the few champagne glasses I had but,” you break away from his grip, interweaving your fingers with his as you tug on his hand gently, “My room is on the twentieth floor if you are interested…”

  “Lead the way.”

  Your journey to your room is uneventful; you don’t have a chance to do anything because you are never alone. Not in the hallway he wanted to press you against the wall, not in the elevator bunch of people jumped into when the doors were about to close, not even as you walked on the floor because one of the doctors’ rooms was also on the same fucking lane.

  He is trying to act unbothered as you fumble with the key card, trying to open the door while Jack has his hands roaming your back absentmindedly, his touch trembling slightly in excitement.

  He is going to have you again, after all this time, he is going to hold you as if you are his again.

  You push the door open and tug Jack in by his tie, crashing your mouth into his as you press him against the closed door. He gasps into your mouth before he closes his eyes and kisses you back, one of his hands coming up to grab the back of your neck, pulling you closer until there is no space between you.

  You taste like Moet and cherry lip gloss with a hint of Vanilla in your perfume, and your hands feel warm and welcoming, anchoring him to reality because his life had no purpose before this very moment.

  You ground him, just as you have always done, with subtle kisses and tugs and a hidden hunger slowly pouring into your touch. He feels it all; the small skip of your fingers over his tux as they reach to undo the tie, the quiver of your bottom lip as they chase his chapped ones.

  Jack’s entire world has faded, and all he can see is you.

  He guides you further inside the room with slow deliberate steps, careful not to hit something and hurt you in the process. You break the kiss when you reach the edge of the bed, gasping for air before you push him down on the mattress gently.

  He sits without a fuss, his pupils blown out as he watches you take off your heels and slowly straddle his lap, pushing his coat and tie off slowly. Jack doesn’t blink, he is afraid of even missing one second of tonight. He wants to remember this forever in case…

  No. He shouldn’t go there now, he has you and that is all that matters.

  Jack’s hand comes up to your face, gently caressing your cheek, his thumb going over to your lips as he traces the edge of them while you work on his buttons, finally taking in the sight of his chest.

  He is so mesmerized by the look of pure affection you have that he doesn’t notice you have got him half naked already until you grab his hands and move them to the zipper of your dress.

  “What are we doing?” He bumps his nose into you as he asks, leaning forward to unzip your dress. Your hands roam his naked torso, fingers tracing the soft grey hair on his chest before slowly moving down to his soft belly.

  “Reliving our best memories.”

  Your answer is simple yet effective, and it awakens a deep ache inside him. He understands, he truly does. Your best memories were the ones where you were tangled under his sheets, limbs resting against each other while your mouths left soft traces of love on each other’s skins.

  It might not be the best thing to do with your ex, after six years of no contact, but Jack takes what he can because if he doesn’t, he will lose himself forever.

  You are the last string that attaches him to this life.

  His lips find your shoulders as soon as he pushes the straps of the dress down, kissing the hallow part of your shoulder above your collarbone, sucking in a red mark on the thin skin before he moves upward to your neck, licking your pulse point as he drags his tongue to your jaw.

  You whimper, you fucking whimper, and it makes his head spin with an intensity he had no idea he possessed.  He kisses a path to your lips, breathing your soft breaths while he pushes down the neckline of your dress, pulling back from your mouth only for his gaze to drop down to your chest, breasts covered with a thin strapless bra.

  His brain short circuits when you roll your hips down, grinding against the very painful bulge in his dress pants. His lips part as he huffs out in shock, totally forgetting about his not-so-little problem while he was tasting you.

  “I need you,” he whines, cupping your face in his large palms as he stares into your eyes, “I need you so bad. Please let me have you, please let me pretend I didn’t lose you just for a few hours.”

  “You have me, Jack,” you raise your hands to rest them on top of his, leaning your forehead against, “I need you too.”

  He nods immediately and takes his shirt off completely, watching as you stand up to drop your dress next to your shoes, and for the first time in years, his jaw nearly hits the floor when he finally takes in the sight of your body.

  “Fuck,” it’s a slow gasp, but you hear it perfectly, grinning before you dart toward the hotel’s bathroom, coming out with the pack of condoms in hand. He barks out a laugh when he sees what you are holding, “I’m not that young, we certainly don’t need a whole pack—“

  “Have some faith in yourself, old man,” you grin and watch as he raises his hips and takes his pants and briefs off, his prosthetic leg catching the light of the room. You move to stand in front of his greedy eyes, glancing at his leg before he guides you back onto his lap, “Does it hurt?”

  “No, not right now,” he mutters but it soon turns out into a deep throaty groan when you wrap your fingers around his cock, gently stroking him while you bring the condom to your mouth, tearing it open with your teeth, “That has to be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Ready?” You peck his lips, rolling the condom on his cock until it reaches the base, “Cause I can’t wait any longer.”

  “Me neither,” he pushes your panties to the side, swiping his fingers through your folds, dropping his head on your chest when he feels how wet you are, “You are soaked, baby.”

  “All for you,” you whisper as you line his tip with your entrance, slowly lowering yourself as the fat tip breaches your walls, both of you moaning at the contact. 

  He forgot how warm you were, how world-consuming your body felt, but now that he is feeling it all again, he remembers the nights he lost himself in the sensation of your cunt wrapped around him.

  “You’re so big,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, nails digging into his back as you finally take all of him inside you, “Fuck, I forgot how good you feel.”

  He can’t form a coherent word without looking like he is having a stroke, because fucking hell he might be having one just now. Your cunt is stretched around his cock, and he can feel your pulse around his girth even through the condom.

  “Jack,” you whimper his name, grabbing his jaw so you can look into his eyes as you slowly move your hips in circles. He is pretty sure he already looks so fucked out with his lips ajar and eyes glassy with desire while he has to focus on your face so he doesn’t come too fast and embarrass himself.

  He reaches around you to unclasp your bra without looking away, short breaths falling from his lips as you begin to move up and down, and he successfully manages to get that thing off you before latching his lips to your nipples.

  He closes his eyes and groans when he feels your walls clenching around him as soon as he swirls his tongue around the tightened bud, his hands moving to grab the back of your thighs to help you move faster.

  He is so close, embarrassingly so, because he has been imagining this for so long. Jack clings to you as you ride him faster, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in his head, leaving him panting and dizzy.

  He opens his eyes and finds your head thrown back as you fasten your pace, damp hair sticking to your forehead as you chase your release.

  He is hypnotized by how beautiful you look; his body glistening with sweat and thighs shaking around his hips. He watches closely how you moan loudly when his cock nudges your sweet spot deep inside your core.

  “Fuck, fuck— I’m gonna come,” he groans out the words, and you nod absentmindedly, leaning down to press your lips to his, kissing him as you grind down harder, urging him to let go.

  “Me too, baby,” you gasp against his lips, your body trembling as the knot in your stomach tightens and in a blink, it breaks, waves of euphoria rushing through your veins as you release around him.

  He hugs you close, snapping his hips up one, two, and three times before he buries his face into your neck, groaning from the depths of his throat as he empties his cum into the condom.

  He holds you as he comes, wanting to carve the memory of tonight into his head so he can remember it until his last breath.

  “Jack,” you whisper his name, running your fingers through his curly grey hair, kissing the side of his face as he tries to regain his breath, “Thank you for coming tonight.”

  “Thank you for giving me a chance,” he replies quietly, gently lowering you on the bed before he hovers over you, pulling his softened cock out of your swollen hole, “It’s been a long time…”

  “For me too,” you smile sheepishly, kissing his forehead before you sit up slowly so you can go and clean up, “I’ll go to the bathroom and order room service. What do you wanna have?”

  “Anything, I’m starving,” he smiles, flipping on his back as he watches you walk to the bathroom before he looks up at the ceiling, shuddering as it finally dawns on him what he has done. Sex. With you. After six years of radio silence. After all the arguments, after the farewell you shared at the airport, after him realizing how emotionally closed off he was — is.

  “Bathroom’s yours,” you walk back into the room, reaching for his white shirt on the floor, putting it on before you crawl on top of the bed, kissing him sweetly on the lips a few times before lying down and reaching for the phone on the nightstand.

  He turns on his side, kissing your bare thighs before he stands up and walks to the bathroom to get rid of the used condom. Jack splashes water on his face, shaking his head as he looks at his reflection in the mirror.

  Was it a mistake? Probably. But he doesn’t regret it, not now, not ever. He will forever cherish every moment he spent and will spend with you for a long time, perhaps forever.

  A deep unsettling sadness fills the pit of his stomach suddenly, and he runs a hand down his face when he remembers you will go back to Boston in a few hours. He wants to do something to keep you here, locked away from the world and its demands — just you and him.

  He cleans up quickly before the tears threaten to fill his eyes, washing his hands and wiping the sweat off his body with a damp towel while he walks to the bedroom, reaching for his briefs.

  “Greasy cheese Burger with extra fries, what do you say?” You ask, pulling back the covers on the other side so he can crawl in next to you, but before he has the chance the doorbell rings, “Let me go get it—“

  “Na uh,” he wraps an arm around your waist, pinning you to the bed before he plants a kiss on your nose, “I’ll get it, ain’t no way I’m gonna let anyone see you like this.”

  “Like what?” You sit up on your elbows, dragging your nose against his neck until you reach his lips, not kissing him just hovering while he breathes the warm air that you exhale.

  “All glowing and pretty,” your lips are practically pressed together, but still he doesn’t close the tiny remaining distance, “And in a white shirt only. No, this is mine to enjoy.”

  He smirks and pulls back, chuckling when you whine and drop back on the bed as he gets up to answer the door,  hiding his prosthetic leg as he pulls in the table before he shuts the door.

  “Oh my goodness it smells so good already!” You have moved to the edge of the bed, hands around your legs and head resting on your knees, waiting for him to bring the food to you.

  Jack’s stomach grumbles, making you giggle. He gives you a shy smile before he sits next to you, pushing the table closer to you. He watches as you dig in, taking a huge bite of your burger, moaning at the taste.

  “That good?” He asks, popping up a few fries into his mouth, nodding as the spices fill his tastebuds, “Fuck, yeah. It tastes delicious.”

  It doesn’t take long to finish your meal, but the time is filled with teasing and bantering, sharing bites, and saucy kisses while you eat. 

  What he doesn’t expect is to find himself on his side, with one arm under your head after you both finished your food. It feels… ordinary like he has done it every day, as if it is a routine. Domestic.

  “What happened to us?” He asks like a lost baby, his eyes exploring your face closely; from your lashes to your cheek, down to the soft small hairs on your jaw while he traces a path from your thumb up to your shoulder with his knuckles.

  “Many things,” you sigh, kissing his freckles on his shoulders gently, your hands on his chest as they wander, “You, me, your… your late wife.”

  You reach for his left hand that is touching your arm, pulling it to your face so you can look at the black ring he is still wearing. You twist the metal, and each circle twists his heart.

  He forgot to take it off again.

  “You were not over her back then,” you whisper, scooting closer to rest your head on the crook of his neck, “I don’t think you are now either. We just… became something so… good in a difficult time.”

  “I loved you,” he replies and hides his face in your hair, smelling your comforting scent before he resumes, “I still do. I fucked it all up. I… I wanted you for a lifetime but I wasn’t okay back then. I had lost my wife three years before we met and… and I tried, y’know? I tried to let you in, I tried to open up it just—“

  “I know, Jack, I know,” he lets the tears fall when you cradle his face, pulling him close until he is only a breath away, “I wanted to stay there and watch you heal, but you refused to seek any help, and I couldn’t watch you slip through my fingers any longer than I did.”

  “I’m sorry I ruined it all,” he sobs, tears streaming down his face. He reaches to mimic your position, cupping the side of your head, “I wish I listened, I w-wish I didn’t just… give up like a coward. It was not me, I never give up—“

  “You are not a coward, Jack, look at me,” he forces his eyes open, those bloodshot hazel orbs looking so devastatingly beautiful, “I gave up on you too. I pushed you too hard sometimes, I… I got jealous when you would bring up your wife. I was a fucking dick about it, so no, you didn’t ruin it alone. I had a hand in it too, a big one.”

  “You were in the right though,” he kisses the tears that fall on your cheeks, mumbling against your skin as another sob wrecks through his body, “We were happy together, fuck, how much of an idiot I was to bring up my dead wife when I had you. We could’ve had a future, we could’ve lived together and built a life, but I clawed on the past too hard that I was blinded.”

  “I loved you from a distance for the past six years,” you whisper, pecking his lips gently, “Boston… it felt lifeless without you in it. It’s not the city that holds my heart, it’s just a passing location in life. You made this city shine brighter in the mornings, made the coffee taste sweeter, but at the same time… nothing was truly okay here.”

  “It feels like a distant dream when you talk about it,” he shuffles downward a little until he can rest his head on your chest, “But we were in love, why didn’t it make a difference?”

  “Because love isn’t enough,” he wraps his arm around your waist, holding you tightly as he cries softly into the shirt you are wearing, “Sleep, baby, you probably haven’t had more than a few hours to rest. I’ll wake you when I have to leave.”

  He wakes up with dread even though you are kissing his head and cooing at him. You are leaving, again. He has to let go of you for the second time, and it fills him with so much agony that his leg begins to hurt.

  “Hey, honey,” you angle his head so you can plant a kiss on his lips, grinning down at him as he blinks sleepily, “You slept like a baby.”

  “How long?” He grumbles and hides his face into your stomach, “Don’t wanna get up…”

  “Me neither,” you reply, and he can hear the pure sadness in your voice, but he doesn’t make any move to get up, instead his hands go under your shirt — his technically — so he can grope your waist, “But my flight is in an hour and a half…”

  “I slept the whole night?” He ignores your last sentence, sitting up slightly, keeping his weight on his forearm next to your chest, “I’m sorry, I—“

  “Hey, don’t be sorry!” You pull him down so he hovers over you, playing with the tiny curly hair on the nape of his neck, “I loved it. It reminded me of the time when you’d fall asleep on top of me after a rough shift. It felt so good to sleep with you again.”

  “I haven’t had a good night's sleep until… until tonight,” he confesses quietly, leaning down to drop a kiss on your lips, but when he wants to deepen it, you push him away gently with your hands on his chest. He looks down at you, confused and a bit hurt, “What?”

  “Jack…” he watches you swallow the words down as best as possible, but at the end of the day, you have to utter them somehow before it is too late, “I have to go now, I’ll miss my flight.”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  His eyes water as soon as the words fall from his lips. He truly doesn’t want you to go, he needs you here, with him, in his bed, in his clothes. He breathes better when you are with him, he can think, and he can live.

  “I don’t want to go either,” you wipe the tears that stream down your face, “But I can’t stay, not when I have a life in Boston. Maybe one day I’ll come back, hell, maybe I’ll come back for my fellowship, but… for now, I have to go.”

  “We can get you a position in PTMC, I can talk to Gloria myself—“

  “Jack,” the way you utter his name breaks his heart into a million pieces, because he knows, deep down he knows he has to let you go. He has been denying it for hours, but in the end, he knows there is no way he can keep you here.

  “I’ll drive you there then,” he moves to the edge of the bed, taking off his prosthetic as the tears fall down softly. He begins massaging his leg slowly as you get up and pack your things, still only in his white shirt and nothing more.

  You look strikingly gorgeous; hair unruly, bare thighs, puffy face from all the crying, and he thinks he has never seen something more surreal.

  “Wait,” you halt in your step when he reaches for his coat on the floor, pulling out his phone before he takes a quick photo of you.

  “What was that?” You chuckle, moving toward your luggage to drop everything you own in it while you see Jack staring at his screen, “Baby?”

  “I… I wanted to have something from you to look at later,” he explains, his voice barely above whispers, “For when I miss you.”

  You suck in a sharp breath, he hears it clearly. But you don’t turn around toward him after it, probably shocked to your core by how raw and emotional he sounds.

  After taking out the clothes you wanna wear for your departure, you walk to Jack, standing between his legs as you slowly unbutton his shirt, taking off the fabric before you hand it to him — the last thing you had touched from his belongings.

  He takes it without a word, wearing it before he puts his prosthetic leg back on, trying his best not to break apart at how his shirt now smells like you. He won’t wash this again, he would hang this behind his door so he can smell it daily before he goes to the hospital.

  You get ready in thick silence, an uncomfortable one that you both know will break ten times worse than before eventually, and that it will lead to something far too devastating than anything you have experienced.

  He grabs your luggage, hand reaching to hold yours as he guides you out of the hotel room after you check it multiple times in case you missed something. You walk together, shoulder to shoulder, ride the elevator down by your head on his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around you.

  Jack watches as you check out, smiling and thanking the receptionist before coming back to him with a tired look on your face. He knows how you must be feeling, he feels even worse than you, because suddenly it is six years ago as he watches you pack your bags and ride to the airport together.

  He drives you there himself, muscle memory he thinks bitterly, with his hand on your thigh and your fingers caressing the freckled skin. He doesn’t wanna break the bubble you are in, he doesn’t wanna believe he is seeing you go again. He can turn the wheel and drive to his place, he thinks about it too, but he knows you are not ready yet, and he isn’t ready either.

  He looks down at his wedding band shining under the sunlight. The memories of your tears over this black ring rush into his mind, and he takes a deep breath to calm his racing heart — he isn’t ready for sure.

  He wants to say something, anything as he helps you through the airport, but he can’t, he doesn’t dare to utter a word and he hopes that his actions and eyes are showing what he hopes to say.

  “Don’t go,” these are the only two words he manages to let out as you look at him, hearing how your flight’s boarding has started through the speakers, “Please don’t go.”

  “I have to, Jack—“

  “No, no you don’t have to!” He presses his lips together tightly, his cheeks flushed and eyes red, “You just- just have to stay here, with me, be my Clementine again—“

  “You still use that stupid nickname?” You give him a watery laugh, cupping his face before you press your lips to his, muffling his sobs as best as you can, feeling how your tears mix together and fall on your chins.

  “Yeah, of course,” he kisses you back quickly, like he is in a rush to win a game, an endless competition with no victory, “I know you fucking hate it—“

  “I love it, I love you,” you peck his mouth again, “But this is where we need to part ways, Jack. It’s in our faith it seems.”

  “Curel fucking faith,” he bumps his nose into yours, hands clutching your hips so tightly as if you would vanish if he loses his grip, “I love you, too.”

  “Reach out to me when you forget to put your ring on,” you step back, letting his hands fall to his sides, “Find me when you don’t need to go to that rooftop, I’ll be waiting for you, even if it takes ten or twenty years.”

  And Jack watches you leave again, the same way you did six years ago, from the same spot. He watches you take his heart to another city, leaving him with an empty aching chest for an eternity.

  The next day, he walks toward the same staircase that leads toward the rooftop while twisting his ring, but it is not his late wife he is thinking about; it’s you.

  Today may not be the day, but someday he will find you, he is sure of it.

[wehavealwayslived]

Am I dreaming, or did you just kiss me?

Theodore Nott x female reader

Synopsis: A party neither of you wanted to attend. A balcony, a cigarette, and years of tension finally snapping.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), Party setting / mild alcohol use, Smoking (cigarettes), Enemies to lovers / rivals to lovers, Mutual pining, Oral sex (f. receiving), Unprotected sex (Potion as birth control mentioned), Praise kink / dirty talk, Rough sex, making out, banter but it’s playful

A/N: not much of a story just smut. Another attempt at writing smut from me.

The music inside the manor was deafening, bass-heavy and reeking of too many drunk Hogwarts students trying to relive glory days they hadn’t yet earned. You didn’t even know who was throwing the party. All you knew was that your friends had dragged you out of bed, forced a tight dress on you, and poured two Firewhiskeys into your hand before vanishing into the void of sweaty bodies and spilled drinks.

You didn’t like parties.

But you did like the view from the balcony.

And, apparently, so did he.

Theodore Nott was leaning against the stone railing, one hand resting in the pocket of his dark slacks, the other holding a cigarette between two long fingers. The ember glowed softly in the dark, illuminating the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the sleepy tilt of his half-lidded eyes, and the slight curl of smoke escaping his parted lips.

He looked like sin with a pulse.

“Didn’t peg you for the social type,” you said, stepping outside.

He didn’t look at you right away, just took a slow drag and exhaled. The smoke curled between you, and you hated the way you loved the scent of it. Sharp, bitter, and undeniably him.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to wear that dress,” he said, finally glancing sideways.

You raised a brow. “That a compliment or just you being a dick?”

His lips curled around the cigarette. “Why can’t it be both?”

God, he was insufferable.

The two of you had been at odds since third year—always battling for the top spot in every class, always arguing about theories in Arithmancy, always sitting on opposite sides of the room like opposing war generals. It wasn’t hatred. Not really. But it wasn’t friendly, either.

And yet… you always noticed him. The way he mumbled brilliant thoughts under his breath during lectures. The way he smelled like ink and mint and smoke. The way he slouched like he didn’t care but answered every question with quiet confidence.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” you said, sliding closer, bracing your elbows on the stone beside him.

“Didn’t know you noticed me,” he replied, voice smooth and low.

You turned toward him fully, your hip brushing his. “Please. I outscored you last week. Of course I noticed.”

He gave you a crooked smile, the cigarette hanging lazily between his fingers. “Only because I let you.”

You scoffed. “Right. I’m sure you wanted to come second.”

Theo’s gaze dropped, lingering on your lips for just a moment too long. “Depends on the context.”

Your breath caught.

The air between you shifted.

He was close now, closer than he’d ever been, and you could see the smoke clinging to his collar, smell the soft spice of whatever cologne he wore beneath it. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, and the way his eyes lingered on you made your skin feel hot despite the cold night air.

“You’re drunk,” you said, even though your own head was buzzing with more than just alcohol.

“Maybe.” He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, watching it float down to the garden below. “Maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t think about you so much I’m losing my mind”

Your heart stuttered. “That sounded like a confession.”

Theo turned to face you fully, and you could see the flush rising up his neck beneath the moonlight. “Take it however you want.”

You didn’t answer.

You just leaned in, slowly, tentatively, until your mouth was brushing his, soft as a breath, waiting for him to pull away.

He didn’t.

He surged.

Theo’s mouth met yours like a match to dry paper, hot and sudden, the kiss messy and uncoordinated in the best way. His hands grabbed your hips, pulling you closer, and you tasted smoke and mint and something darker on his tongue as he groaned into your mouth.

You clutched his hoodie, nails digging into the fabric as his mouth moved over yours like he was starving. The railing dug into your back, but you didn’t care. All you could feel was him, his lean body pressing into yours, the hard line of his arousal against your stomach, the way he kissed like he was furious with himself for wanting you this badly.

When he pulled back, eyes glassy and lips swollen, he muttered, “Am I dreaming, or did you just kiss me?”

Your answer was a whisper against his lips, breathless “Do you want me to stop?”

Theo didn’t speak. He just took your hand.

The common room was spinning with sound and light and bodies, but none of it touched you. Not when he was leading you up the stairs, his fingers locked through yours like he didn’t dare let go. The hallways were quieter, darker, and by the time he pushed open the door to his dorm room and shut it behind you with a soft click, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to just this.

He turned to look at you. Just look.

His eyes, stormy and burning at once, drank you in. The dress. The flushed skin. The way you leaned against the door, chest rising and falling in anticipation. His hoodie was still slung over one shoulder, cigarette smell lingering in the cotton. The tension snapped between you again, louder than the music downstairs.

You didn’t speak.

You just moved.

The kiss came fast. Teeth, tongue, hands, urgent in that way that only comes from years of quiet want. Theo shoved his hoodie off and your hands were immediately on the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his head. He was lean beneath it, subtle muscle, toned from Quidditch and wiry with tension. You kissed down his neck as your fingers fumbled with his belt, and he let out a low, desperate sound that made your knees weak.

“Fuck—” he muttered when you palmed him through his trousers. “You’re not playing fair.”

“You started it.”

Theo backed you toward his bed, and when the back of your thighs hit the mattress, he pushed you down with a gentle but insistent pressure. He dropped to his knees between your legs and dragged your dress up slowly, kissing the inside of your thighs with maddening patience. His fingers slid up your calves, your thighs, until he reached the edge of your panties, and paused.

He looked up.

“Can I?”

You nodded, breathless.

Theo slid your underwear down with deliberate slowness, his knuckles brushing your skin, his mouth open as he took in the sight of you. Then he leaned in, and the first flick of his tongue against your clit made your hips jerk.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you slow, like he was savouring every second, every moan, every tremble. His tongue moved in soft, lazy circles, then faster, rougher, pressing in with more force as he learned what made you shiver. You were already soaked, and when he slipped two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you gasped so loud he groaned against you.

“Fuck, you taste—” he dragged his tongue lower, teasing, then back up. “Even better than I imagined.”

You grabbed his hair, eyes rolling back as he fucked you with his fingers and tongue, coaxing you higher and higher until you were right on the edge, body arched, thighs trembling, mouth falling open.

“Come for me,” he murmured, “Let go. Let me feel it.”

You broke.

Your orgasm slammed through you with a cry, hips bucking, body shaking, and Theo didn’t stop until he’d dragged every last wave from you. Only then did he pull back, mouth glistening, eyes dark and ravenous.

He stood, dragging off his trousers, then his briefs, and you stared, wanting him in a way that made your stomach knot. He was thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, and when he crawled over you again, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, your whole body sang.

“I don’t have a condom,” he said, voice strained.

“I’m on the potion,” you whispered. “I want to feel you.”

Theo groaned and lined himself up, the head of his cock dragging through your folds. He eased in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you until he was fully seated inside.

“Holy—fuck, you’re—so tight,” he rasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

You clutched at his back, his hips, needing more. When he started to move, it was slow at first, rolling thrusts that hit deep and low, grinding in a way that made stars bloom behind your eyes.

Then he snapped his hips forward.

You gasped, your nails dragging down his back.

“That good?” he asked, breathless.

“So good—Theo, fuck, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He fucked you hard and deep, one hand gripping your thigh and pressing it up so he could get even deeper. Every thrust knocked the breath out of you, and you were so wet, so full, the sounds were obscene.

Theo kissed you again, desperate and messy, his tongue fucking into your mouth the same way he fucked into you. You felt him everywhere, inside and out, all slick heat and tension and hunger.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb dragging over your cheek.

“Been dreaming of this,” he panted, hips slamming into yours. “Dreaming of you. Every fucking night.”

You could barely speak, barely breathe.

“I—I’m gonna—” you tried.

Theo nodded, pressing his forehead to yours. “Come with me.”

He reached between you, rubbed your clit just right, and you shattered—pussy clenching around him, body locking up as pleasure ripped through you. Theo groaned your name, fucked into you a couple more times, then came with a guttural sound, spilling deep inside you.

For a long minute, neither of you moved.

You just lay there, tangled, gasping, your legs still trembling, his cock still inside you.

[demonslayedher]

Hantengu: As Bad As You Can Get Without Being Muzan

I've touched on this in old meta entries and I'm just going to wind up linking them here, but a friend got me going on this again today, so I'll state it again: Hantengu is one of the most insidious characters in this whole series, if you're going by sweeping themes of self-mastery which Gotouge may or may not have consciously intended.

For starters, I'm going to compare Hantengu to his polar opposite, Rengoku Kyojuro, mostly by referring you this post where I already explained how Kyojuro displays samurai-style idealized virtues of self-mastery, stoicism, and inner peace about death or aging. A common theme in oni lore is how letting one's passions run amok is what brings out the demon any person has potential to become, whether these passions are greed or worry or even joy. Kyojuro is very clearly a passionate person, but he's self-aware enough to know that his passions must be kept in check in order to benefit from them, and that means putting effort into maintaining them. He's seen how that can lead to burn out as in the case of his father, so he maintains his own balance by recognizing and accepting the harsh truths of any situation with as much grace as he can muster, recognizing and taking steps to overcome his own shortcomings, and recognizing and making a choice to "set his heart ablaze" instead of getting lost in frenzy.

Hantengu, on the other hand, lets his passions run so amok that they take their own physical forms, and even then no single one of them is ever consistently powerful enough to be sustained for long before he's spawned something new based on whatever new frenzy he's in. It's his reckless abandon of self-control that made him so demonically powerful.

There are other characters who lack self-control, though--Inosuke and Zenitsu are who they are because they are the perfect agents to introduce chaos to any scene. They gradually take steps to learn self-mastery, however--Zenitsu is hyperaware of his own failings, to the point of rumination, and Inosuke is hypoaware. However, at their core, their desire to do better by other people leads them down paths of self-improvement, a path which keeps them aligned with humanity as opposed to the allure of powerful demons.

Demons in this series display similarly admirable traits, though--Kokushibo and Akaza have striven as hard as any Corp member to improve themselves, for instance. Gyutaro and Daki might have had blatant disregard for others due to a lingering jealousy and hatred for how much better everyone else always had things than they did, but they have always taken active roles in standing up for themselves and trying to improve their circumstances.

If we dive into more loathsome, demented demons, we still see that they know themselves enough to own their faults, whether they see them as faults are not. Douma is quick to recognize his own lack of passion, Enma is unashamed as about what gives him pleasure and uses his underhanded, self-protecting tactics in order to play the long game in his strategy, Gyokko is an artist, and Muzan is perfectly clear and at peace with who he is and what he wants. Muzan's desires are so plain to him that it even opened up a believable opportunity for Tanjiro to feel sympathy for him in their final encounter, though Tanjiro made the choice not to.

Tanjiro never even entertained the notion of pitying Hantengu, though.

I'll come back to Tanjiro, but to borrow from this post about themes in KnY as they relate to oni lore: In many philosophies, even an excess of positive emotions can be detrimental, and people who follow those philosophies are instead encouraged to not given into any emotion too strongly. Likewise, the lack of a virtue can be bad, but an excess of it becomes a vice.

While the Ki-Do-Ai-Raku fearsome foursome represent the danger of unchecked, excessive emotions, Zouhakuten represents an excess of virtue, which turns it into a vice. From an outside perspective, of course Tanjiro was doing the right thing attacking a tiny oni, because this oni will go on killing people if he doesn't, but Zouhakuten focuses so intensely on the injustice of attacking the small and weak that he is ignorantly convinced of his own self-righteousness.

The other demons don't do this, particularly--they justify what they do, like Daki saying how this is just the way the world works that beautiful and powerful oni can do whatever they want because that is how the world works, but she doesn't claim her actions are righteous. Muzan also makes rational points--which Zouhakuten echos--about how the demon slayers drive a lot of the violence due to their own inability to make peace with their lot in life, and going out of their way to attack demons. However, as much as Muzan believes he is superior, he doesn't belief he is a god who can cast moral judgement on others, nor is he interested.

Zouhakuten, taking the form of a deity that fiercely protects the precepts of Buddhism and threatens those who defy it, makes the daring claim that he is just.

The Demon Slayers Corp members, at least those like Tanjiro, are guilty of the same thing. The difference, however, comes back to self-awareness. For example, Tanjiro is confronted with the question of whether Zouhakuten/Hantengu has ever eaten anyone in Tanjiro's life, and as he has not, Tanjiro must at least question if justice is on his side anyway in attacking Zouhakuten. It was an easy answer, but being mortal and easily killed for sticking his neck out by picking fights with demons, it's something Tanjiro continually has to question and reaffirm.

Yes, the answer is always easy for Tanjiro, and yes, there are Corp members who are only in it for the glory or the money (and these characters are not treated as heroes). However, Tanjiro must also continually self-reflect on his own weaknesses and failings. Taisho Secrets tell us he's even reviewing his training and battles in his sleep to analyze and learn from them, and we see his continual efforts to improve no matter how beaten down he's gotten. In the heat of battle he has to keep himself confident and focused. He's got to keep from beating himself up unfairly, and he's got to keep from getting over-confident, it's a balance to maintain and it takes practice to read oneself with clarity.

He's constantly having to practice self-mastery, which means Total Concentration of whatever strength he needs to pull from, including passions like righteous anger that make it feel like his heart and/or forehead are ablaze. It takes him practice to be able to keep rebounding, but he's got humility to be able to learn from others, take criticism, and analyze himself with clarity.

These are the virtues which Kimetsu no Yaiba extols, and which most separates the paths of righteous from the paths of those who who gave into their passions.

As a few other examples: --Nezuko retains her virtues by recognizing her own weakness and focusing on self-mastery --Rui lost himself in a feeling of entitlement, conviction in his own sense of justice, and disappointment in his parents. Or so he thought! That was all the result of running away from a truth about himself he didn't want to face; the fact that he was the one responsible for breaking his family bonds. --The Pillars, with all their human faults, remain righteous because they could easily succumb to their own sorrows, angers, and self-loathing. The fact that they do not--however much these things have messed them up--and they keep striving to better themselves, for the sake of a conviction in something difficult to achieve otherwise.

Zouhakuten, instead of rising above his own shortcomings, is a deeper concentration of, a wallowing in those unbridled passions. Being so convinced of his own righteousness, he does not have any clear self-understanding, and therefore, has no inclination toward self-mastery.

He is, after all, Hantengu.

Hantengu made himself into what he is because he convinced himself of his own lies about his own helplessness, and this utter lack of self-awareness and his unchecked passions are what make him a demon. By doing nothing to improve himself, he grew out of control. And, ultimately, Hantengu is selfish. Everything must revolve around him and how he is the most wretched creature, the most powerless thing to ever have the harshness of the world thrust upon it. Among a cast of relatable demons, made victims of their own poor luck or circumstance or a desire to amend some wrong done to them, Hantengu is the worst because he got himself there for nothing but his own self-centered lie.

While all the demons have relatable traits which have flown out of control, he's the most realistically like someone we all know or have met. He's the most benign and hardest to catch, one whom many philosophical, religious, or therapeutic texts try to warn against for how his insidious fleeing from truth grows into something monstrous.

The scariest part is that the wallowing Hantengu might be closer than we think.

[dovesdreaming]

Breaking point

Summary: Mattheo gets into too many fights and reader has enough and calls off their relationship. However she is still the only person that can get through to him.

Masterlist

Warnings: none

-

The tension in the Slytherin common room had been growing for weeks. Whispers about Mattheo Riddle’s temper and the fights he kept getting into were spreading through Hogwarts like wildfire. You had always been the one to pull him back from the edge, the calming voice that stopped him mid-fight with just a touch or a few soft words. But lately, Mattheo had been slipping further and further away from you, consumed by anger he couldn’t control, and no matter what you did, it was as if your voice no longer reached him.

It was a late Friday evening when you found yourself yet again pulling Mattheo away from a confrontation with some Gryffindor seventh year. You could see the rage in his eyes, his fists clenched, ready to throw a punch that would surely land him another detention or worse. “Mattheo, please” you said, stepping between him and the other boy. You placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. “He’s not worth it. Just let it go”. Mattheo’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might listen. But then, with a harsh shove, he pushed past you, shouting insults as he launched himself at his opponent. The scene that followed was a blur of yells, fists, and teachers trying to pull them apart.

As you watched him get dragged away by Professor Snape, something inside you snapped. You had been his anchor for so long, always there to soothe his stormy temper, but he wouldn’t even listen to you anymore. You couldn’t keep doing this, being the only one holding on when he was so intent on self-destruction.

That night in the doorway of your dorm room you let it all out. He had come back after whatever had happened seeking your forgiveness like usual but you couldn’t let him back in this time. He was not only destroying himself, he was taking you with him. It had taken a toll on you and you couldn’t carry on like this.

“I can’t do this anymore, Mattheo!” you whisper yelled, your voice breaking as tears threatened to spill. Mattheo’s face fell, his bravado crumbling. “Y/N, don’t-“ “No, Mattheo! I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard to calm you down, to be there for you, but you don’t even care. You don’t care about me, about us!” Your voice cracked, and you hated how vulnerable you sounded. “I love you, but I can’t keep watching you hurt yourself. I can’t keep being the only one trying”.

The whole building seemed to go painfully quiet. Mattheo looked at you with wide, desperate eyes, his anger replaced with a deep, crushing sorrow. “Y/N, please-“ But you couldn’t bear it anymore. Shaking your head, you turned and closed your door, leaving him standing there alone.

The days that followed were miserable. Mattheo barely left his room, and when he did, he was a shadow of the boy you knew, pale, quiet, and heartbreakingly empty. Draco, Blaise, and Pansy tried to get through to him, but Mattheo’s door remained locked, and his mood only worsened. You weren’t much better, you threw yourself into your studies, trying to forget the hurt in Mattheo’s eyes when you walked away. But every corner of Hogwarts seemed to hold a memory of him, his laughter echoing in the dungeons, the way he’d pull you close in the common room, whispering secrets only you were meant to hear.

“You have to talk to him” Pansy said one afternoon, catching you in the library. Her voice was uncharacteristically gentle, eyes flickering with genuine concern. “He’s a mess without you. He’s not eating or taking care of himself” Pansy knew it was wrong to ask this of you but there was no one else that would be able to get through to Mattheo. You felt a pang in your chest, your anger giving way to concern. You hadn’t seen Mattheo in nearly a week, and the thought of him alone, suffering in silence, broke your heart. You hesitated, your pride battling against the concern gnawing at your heart. “Pansy, I-“. “He won’t listen to any of us. Not even Draco” she interrupted. “But he’ll listen to you. You’re the only one who can reach him”.

Taking a deep breath, you finally nodded, feeling the weight of what you were about to do. You made your way to the Slytherin boys’ dormitory, knocking softly on Mattheo’s door. There was no answer, just the faint sound of something shuffling inside. You tried again, louder this time. “Mattheo, it’s me”.

Silence stretched on, and just when you thought he wouldn’t respond and were about to turn to walk away, the door creaked open. He looked disheveled, his hair messier than usual, eyes red and swollen. He glanced at you, then away, shame and sadness evident in every line of his face. “What do you want?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. You forced yourself through the crack in the door and stepped inside, closing the door gently behind you. “I just… I wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay”. You looked at the ground not really knowing how to go about this. He scoffed, but it lacked any real bite. “Do I look okay?”. You sighed, crossing the room to sit beside him on the edge of his bed. “Mattheo, I didn’t break up with you because I stopped caring. I broke up with you because you were hurting yourself. And it was hurting me, too”.

His gaze finally met yours, and the vulnerability there made your chest tighten. “I’m sorry” he mumbled, voice breaking. “I just, everything feels wrong without you. I know I messed up”. You reached out, taking his hand in yours. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, Matty. I just need you to try. I need you to promise me that you’ll stop fighting. You don’t have to be angry all the time. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone”. For a long moment, he said nothing, just held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. Finally, he nodded, squeezing your hand tighter. “I promise. No more fighting. I don’t want to lose you, I can’t lose you” Tears welled up in your eyes, and you pulled him into a tight embrace. He buried his face in your shoulder, letting out a shuddering breath as if he’d been holding it in for far too long. You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the weight of the past few weeks slowly lifting. “Thank you” he whispered, pulling back just enough to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “For not giving up on me”. You smiled, brushing a stray curl away from his face. “I’ll always be here, Mattheo. Just… no more fights, okay?”. He chuckled, the sound light and genuine, the first hint of the old Mattheo breaking through. “No more fights. I’ve got something better to fight for now”. You knew there was a lot of learning to do but you had faith that Mattheo could work on himself. And as he pulled you closer, you knew that whatever happened next, you’d face it together.

-

Thank you for reading! Please send requests for him!! Also tempted to make a longer version of this with a lot more angst??

[kissyrafe]

sex with rafe but you're taunting him as a trick for him to get more aggressive w it

cw: smut, fem!reader, rough sex, teasing/taunting, jealousy sex, unprotected p in v sex, friends w/ benefits, mirror sex, i think i'm in love with over-the-counter sex, (not proofread!!!)

"i don't know what game you're tryna play right now-" rafe sounded pissed off as he dragged you by your arm into the bathroom. "but cut it out." he stared at you as you leaned against the marble counter, back pressing into the cold stone. he pierced through you with just a look, enough to make your knees weak.

"what game? i don't know what you're talking about." you smiled impishly, playing with the hem of your jean mini skirt. the truth was, you were oh so loving 'the game'. you saw how rafe stared at you the whole night as you flirted with another guy in the group. touching his arms and chest, leaning against him, everything. it was all to get a rise out of rafe, knowing he doesn't like it when you're around other guys; as if it mattered.

to clear it up, rafe and you are not together by any means. from the start of this "relationship", it was apparent that both of you were only looking to relieve yourselves sexually. there were to be no emotional connections. but still, you both can't help but feel slightly jealous when the other one is with someone else.

"cut the bullshit." rafe stepped closer to you, now peering down at your figure. "don't think i didn't see you basically throwing yourself at him." he scoffed, biting the inside of his cheek from frustration. rafe hated seeing you treat other guys the way he wanted only you to treat him. but obviously, he couldn't just come out and say it, that would mean you had something over him, which he hated even more; feeling weak.

"like i said," you adjusted yourself on the counter and stood on your toes, your mouth now leveled with rafe's ear, "i don't know what you're talking about," you whispered softly. rafe let out a small laugh, his voice velvety smooth. his large arms traveled to either side of you, making sure you went nowhere.

the tension and silence were so, very, hot. neither of you said anything as you stared into each other's eyes. this was a battle. swallowing the clump in your throat, you felt rafe's hand travel down under your skirt and to the plush skin of your thigh, inching closer to your core. "do you think he can satisfy you like i do?" he asked smugly, feeling the soaked fabric of your panties.

"oh rafe," you sigh, a smile creeping onto your face "i know he can make me feel so much better than you do."

"wanna make that bet?"

your weak hands gripped the edge of the counter as rafe pounded into you from behind. small moans escaped your mouth and filled the room, along with the sound of light skin slapping. "do you still think he fucks better than me?" rafe demanded, knowing the answer already. but what he forgot was that you can be more stubborn than him.

you nod your head, looking at rafe through the mirror as he frowns. "s-s'. much. b-better." you stutter out as you feel rafe going faster, your eyes shutting. he scoffed, sensing your bluff. his calloused hand came to your neck, squeezing around you tighter with every thrust into your sweet cunt.

"just admit it, y'know you want ta." he smirked, seeing how fucked out you were already. it never took long to make you release and succumb. rafe knew for a fact you'd never find anyone better than him, or at least anyone better at fucking you than him. maybe it was the way you would squirm as he entered you, or your sweet, delicate, moans and whimpers that flowed out your mouth like symphonies.

your walls wrapped around rafe's dick, lewd noises appearing with every push he made into you. at this point you could barely even hold yourself up. he made your whole body weak as you were fucked senseless by him.

it drove rafe mad how you successfully made him jealous, how you had a hold on him. i mean really, the kook king was jealous of some lowly guy who didn't know jack shit about you or the secret places on your body that would make you limp. he knew it was a mistake to just treat you like a fling because he wanted you to just be his.

"you can fuck, but you can't make a girl feel good," you choked out, knowing how to push his buttons. "is that so?" rafe merely took that as a sign to slow down his thrusts, but he only went in deeper. you could practically feel his cock bulging into your stomach from how far he went. your mouth hung open as you moaned, eyes swelling with tears from pleasure. you felt it to your core. "i'm the only one that can make this pussy feel good, yeah?"

you felt your orgasm build from rafe's low thrusts as he hurried his pace again, his orgasm approaching too. "r-rafe, i-i..." you fell incoherent and unable to form any real thoughts. "sweet thing is 'boutta cum all over m' cock," rafe was amused seeing you like this, so raw and flushed from pleasure. "c'mon, show me how this dick feels, tell me." with his hand still around your neck, he made you look at him again through the mirror. "d'ya see how you look? all 'cause of me?"

"c-cumming, rafe! pleaseplease!" you felt your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you came undone all over rafe's cock, much to his enjoyment. you felt his thrusts stutter as his seed poured into you, making your body surge with pleasure and warmth.

rafe slowly pulled out of you, making you feel so... empty. he turned you around to face him as he tried catching his breath. you looked at him with tired eyes when his hand went up to your face, holding one of your cheeks softly. "don't ever use a guy to make me fuck you again, or i won't go gentle. alright?"

[yena-enha]

𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 - 𝐏𝐒𝐇

Warning - Rough sex, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, degradation, choking, possessiveness, obsessive behavior, bruising, unsafe sex, car sex, power play, primal aggression, toxic relationship dynamics.

Note - MDNI (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT), Interact At Your Own Risk, NSFW Content

Genre - Smut, Dark Romance, Rivalry, Angst

Pairing - Top IllegalRacer!Sunghoon × Top IllegalRacer!FemReader

Inspiration - Teeth By 5SOS

Word Count - 1.8k words

The underground racing scene was a beast of its own—dark, chaotic, and thrumming with danger. The air reeked of gasoline and burning rubber, the roar of engines so deafening it rattled the pavement beneath your feet.

And in the heart of it all, you stood across from Park Sunghoon.

Your rival. Your obsession. The only one who had ever come close to matching you on the streets.

His gaze was razor-sharp, cutting through the thick tension between you. “Think you can actually beat me tonight, sweetheart?” he taunted, voice dripping with smug confidence.

You scoffed, arms crossed over your chest as you leaned against your car. “Please. Try to keep up.”

Sunghoon’s smirk widened, but his eyes burned with something darker—something dangerous.

The countdown began. The crowd roared.

Three… Two… One…

Engines screamed as you both launched forward, tearing through the streets, weaving between traffic like you were untouchable. The race was too close—too intense. Sunghoon’s car clung to yours, neither of you willing to back down, both of you pushing past every limit.

Then—

A sharp turn. A split-second miscalculation.

Your tires screeched as your car skidded violently, stopping mere inches from a barricade.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, adrenaline surging as you fumbled to rip off your seatbelt—only for your door to be wrenched open.

Sunghoon was there.

His grip was bruising as he dragged you out, shoving you against the car with a force that stole your breath. His jaw was tight, eyes blazing—furious, feral.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he bit out, his voice raw with anger.

You met his glare, breathless. “I had it under control.”

“The hell you did.” His fingers locked around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his body pressing flush against yours. “You could’ve fucking died.”

Something electric crackled between you—sharp, intoxicating. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling in sync with yours.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was raw. Punishing. Teeth clashing, lips bruising, tongues battling for dominance.

Sunghoon growled into your mouth, biting down on your bottom lip before yanking your head back by your hair. “You like playing reckless, huh?” he rasped. “Let’s see if you can handle me.”

His hands were rough, yanking your jacket off and tossing it aside. He didn’t hesitate—fingers working the buttons of your jeans, dragging them down with force.

“You want this?” he asked, his voice edged with the control he was barely holding onto.

Your pulse thundered, every nerve in your body on fire. “Yes.”

That was all he needed.

Sunghoon spun you around, pressing your front against the hood of your car. One hand pushed between your shoulder blades, keeping you in place, while the other slipped between your legs.

“Already so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, sliding his fingers through your slick folds before shoving two inside without warning.

A gasp tore from your throat, but he didn’t let up. His fingers pumped into you relentlessly, curling just right, his thumb flicking over your clit in sharp, teasing strokes.

“You love this, don’t you?” he growled against your ear. “Being bent over like this. Being fucked like you belong to me.”

A moan spilled from your lips as you tried to grind back against his hand, but his grip on your hip was unforgiving.

“Stay still,” he ordered, voice dark with authority.

Then he pulled his fingers out, shoving them past your lips. “Suck.”

You obeyed. Tasted yourself on his skin, your eyes locked onto his as he watched you with something possessive, something primal.

Then—the sharp crack of his palm against your ass.

You gasped.

“Count,” he commanded.

“One.”

Another slap. Harder.

“Two.”

By the third, your legs were trembling, heat coiling low in your stomach.

Then—without warning—he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp thrust.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping against your shoulder. “You’re so goddamn tight.”

You barely had time to adjust before he set a brutal pace, slamming into you with deep, punishing thrusts. The car rocked with the force, the sounds of skin slapping and your breathless moans filling the night air.

Sunghoon was relentless. One hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to feel every inch of him stretching you open.

“This what you needed, baby?” he growled. “To be fucked into submission?”

You couldn’t speak—could only whimper as he pounded into you, each thrust harder, deeper, staking his claim.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice thick with dominance.

“Yes,” you gasped, nails clawing at the metal beneath you. “I needed this. I needed you.”

A low groan rumbled in his chest. His grip tightened as he leaned in, teeth grazing your shoulder before biting down—hard. “Good fucking girl.”

His fingers found your clit, rubbing harsh, deliberate circles, sending shockwaves through your body. The pleasure coiled tight, burning, building—until it snapped.

You came hard, body convulsing, walls fluttering around him, dragging him deeper. Sunghoon cursed, his thrusts growing erratic before he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a low, shuddering groan.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your body was spent, trembling, but Sunghoon didn’t let go.

Slowly, he turned you around, tilting your chin up, brushing his lips over yours in a slow, lingering kiss. “Next time,” he murmured, voice dark with promise, “you don’t run from me.”

Your breath hitched as he smirked, dragging his thumb over your swollen lips.

“This isn’t over, sweetheart.”

When love was obsessive, dangerous, and all-consuming—

Sunghoon’s love had teeth.

«Masterlist || Introduction»

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Stress Relief (Sex) With ProHero Shoto | One Shot

Summary: You come home from work in a bad mood and your Pro Hero boyfriend thinks a good fuck will help you relieve some stress. Shoto is as straight forward and sexy as ever, and you love him for it.

Important Notes/TW: All characters are A21+, Shoto is a Pro Hero, Shoto x Reader are in a long term relationship, penetrative sex, MDNI, This is an adult only blog posting mature content

At 6 o'clock on the dot you storm into the apartment in a work-induced rage. You toss your bag to the ground and manhandle your jacket off of your body with the angst of a thousand fiery suns. When you finally shut the door you throw back your head and let out a guttural "ughhhhh!"

Shoto watches you from the couch, unblinking as he dips his hand into a Tupperware of roasted chickpeas you cooked for him the day before. He worked all of last night so he's currently lounging in comfy clothes watching some nature documentary. His hands are bandaged up and healing from a particularly tough battle so he's been granted a few days off to recover and catch up on paperwork.

"Shoto you won't believe what my boss said to me today. Corporate work is so fucking frustrating." You pull at your hair and stamp around the apartment - tossing your keys on the kitchen table with a clatter. You open the fridge, look inside, slam it shut. You're just so damn wound up you can't even figure out what to do with yourself. You turn around to march towards the bathroom - maybe a calming hot shower is just the thing you need to switch off this abhorrent mood. You turn on your heel and walk right into Shoto's strong chest.

Sneaky bastard - he moves so quietly sometimes, like a sly cat. For the umpteenth time you make a mental note to put a bell on him.

Shoto reaches down to rest his bandaged hands lightly on your shoulders. He stares down at you with that intense gaze of his, mouth in a hard line.

"I know what you need." He says seriously, gaze flickering briefly down to your lips and back to your eyes.

Your foul mood simmers. You can't help but be a little bitchy to your sweet boyfriend. "And what the fuck do I need, Sho?" You give him a hard look, but he remains unfazed.

"You need a good fuck." He says, completely serious. No hint of sarcasm or teasing can be found.

Your eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"Whenever you get this frustrated with work or your friends or politics, sex always seems to make you feel better. It mellows you out. Would you like me to fuck you? I have some free time right now since I'm off from work." He looks down at his hands pointedly. They flex around your shoulders and the bandages rustle. "I probably shouldn't use my hands much, though. So I can't do that thing you like."

You look up at Shoto, stunned. You've been together for years and sometimes you forget how unnervingly straight forward he can be.

You suck in a deep breath, the tension in your body already melting away as you recall how good Shoto feels inside of you. Your pussy crackles to life - all of a sudden your clit is practically begging for attention.

"Yeah, Sho. Fuck me?" You look up at him with glimmering eyes and he doesn't need telling twice. He slides his hands from your shoulders and bends down so he can carefully haul you up into his arms. You let out a laugh as you feel his thick biceps flex around you. You can almost guarantee that seeing Shoto naked will cure all of your troubles. He carries you off towards the bedroom and you can already feel him hard and ready in his sweatpants.

"I missed you today." He says as he tosses you lightly onto the bed. You bounce as you hit the mattress and it rips another giggle from your tense body.

"I missed you last night. I hate when you get into fights." You look up at him with big eyes, recalling earlier this morning when you saw him return home all bloody and bruised.

"I know. I'm sorry." Shoto say softly, leaning down to place a kiss on your temple. You close your eyes at the delicate contact of his lips against your skin, feeling the warmth of the kiss spread through your body like the glow of a bonfire. "I try to be careful. I know you worry."

When your eyes flutter open, you take in the way that Shoto stands over you posessively, all tall ProHero bulk. He peels off his shirt, revealing rippling muscles and hard-earned battle scars. He unceremoniously steps out of his shorts and underwear, his cock rock hard and glistening with precum.

You wriggle out of your own clothes as he stares you down with those beautiful mismatched eyes. He takes his dick in his hand and pumps, moaning openly as he starts to jerk himself off while staring at your breasts. God, you love his cock. It's the perfect length for you - 6 inches long with some weight to it, leaning slightly towards the left. You love that you're the only person on Earth who knows how his hard cock looks.

Shoto leans forward over you to grab a pillow, placing it under your butt so you'll be more comfortable. His movements are delicate - you ache as you realize that his hands must really be hurting beneath all of those bandages. You reach for one of them, bringing the bandaged material to your lips for a gentle kiss. He looks at you with such fondness you feel that your heart might melt.

"Thanks, love."

You open your legs for him and lay back on the bed, all thoughts of work temporarily forgotten as he slides himself against your entrance slowly. You both shudder at the contact - your pussy is slippery and wet and ready to be filled with his pulsing cock. He takes things slow, enjoying the way your body slides and stretches around him as he pushes into you. You let out a moan as Shoto fills you with his cock, all frustration has vanished. All you can do is focus on the feel of Shoto and his goddamn perfect dick inside of you.

When Shoto's almost all the way inside, he pauses to look down at you through light lashes. "I'm glad you were up for this." He says softly, thrusting forward lightly to bottom out inside of you. Your breath catches in your throat as you feel the tip of his cock hit a spot deep inside of you that no one else has ever come close to touching.

"I can definitely use some stress release, too."

[-harmonytbh]

the wayward kind still love deep 

summary: Smoke returns to the Delta after years of war and silence, he seeks the woman he never stopped loving, but the past, both sweet and bitter, won’t let them move on without a fight. (angst, longing)

pairing: smoke x black plus sized!reader, platonic!stack x reader

warnings: cursing, mentions of war, sexual tension and suggestive content. 

author's note: wow, I was not expecting all the positive feedback lol thank you to everyone who took the time to read, and I hope y’all like this next part <3

Part One

Part Two

“Hey, baby cakes,” Stack shouted as he ran across the yard at her, causing the chickens meandering around her feet to scatter in different directions. 

“Elias Moore, as I live and breathe!” She called back with laughter in her voice and a tear in her eye. When he reached her, he lifted her easily and spun them around a few times, pulling easy giggles from her lips. 

“Missed you gal,” he admitted, placing her back onto the Earth, “Lemme look atcha!” 

He took a dramatic step backward, still clutching her left hand turning her this way and that. Stack let out a low whistle, and she swatted playfully at his shoulder. 

Yup, he’s still Elias. 

She tipped her head quickly over his left shoulder to see if she could catch a glimpse of Smoke. They had left things…well. It was a bright new day in the delta, and she was determined to make the most of it. Elijah Moore be damned. Stack relayed tales from all over God’s big green world, enchanting her and also terrifying her. He told her stories of battles they’d fought, schemes they’d pulled, and to her great annoyance, all the many women he’d loved. Stack was a lot of man, and he definitely didn’t see kindness in sparing the women of the world a chance to have the Elias Moore experience. They chatted easily, swapping a pail of boiled peanuts back and forth as the afternoon stretched lazily into a sticky pink dusk. 

“How’s yo Ma an’ Pa?” He asked when they’d finally run out of new things to say. She smiled lightly and peered over at him. 

“Both good, went down to Natchez to see ‘bout my Aunt Nancy. She’s ole an’ ailin’ now, needs someone there tuh look after her evr’yday,” she said back, still turning her head looking for Smoke. She and Stack had been sitting on her porch for hours and aside from Cornbread and Therese, no one had stirred the gravel. 

“Where is—” 

“You outta know that better’n me baby doll. He left this mornin’ ‘fore sunrise an’ I ain’t seen em since,” Stack interrupted, tipping the mason jar of water she’d brought him to his lips. 

Her eyebrows furrowed as she wondered where in the hell Smoke could’ve been all damn day. They’d returned from their foray into the woods as the last of the golden sunrise peeked over the pines and said a terse and polite good day. She’d watched him march across the yard taking those slow and measured steps he was known for. Never in a hurry, never unsure. Strong, statuesque—Smoke. 

“Well, as much as I just looove yer company, I need tuh put somethin’ on my stomach sweet thang,” Elias said suddenly, rising from her porch steps and leaning down to kiss her cheek. 

“Now Elias Moore, ya know I would never let ya leave my house wit an empty belly. Set back down, I got some fresh catfish already marinating,” She smirked back, knowing he saw them when he went inside to fetch the water basin she was using to soak her feet. 

“I laid it on a little too thick, huh?” 

“As always, but I know you fulla mo’ shit than a Christmas turkey so I love ya all the same, Stack,” she giggled, patting her feet dry. 

“Gon’ home an’ wash up. See if you can find yer brother, and I expect both of ya here in bout an’ hour.” 

Through the webbing of her creaky screen door, she watched as Stack strutted toward their house, back tall and strong. Sinewy muscles moved with grace and whispered of a powerfully built and agile man. Clicking her tongue, she shook her head. One was enough trouble, but God had to go and make two of em just to show off. 

Back in her kitchen, she set to work getting all her fixings together for catfish po boys, something she’d learned to make from Titus. Speaking of Titus, he’d been eerily quiet today himself. Usually by now, he’d come by with a sweet word and something for her. A flower or a stone, sometimes fresh fruit. He was tender with her like that, a gentleman. But now there was Smoke. What they’d shared during the wee hours of the morning on the bank of her Papa’s creek wouldn’t leave her mind, though she willed it to. 

earlier that morning

“If only I was that lucky, baby.” 

Kissing her teeth, she reached down for a pole and began baiting her hook with ease. He’d taught her well all those years ago, had used his large warm hands to guide her movements while enveloping her body with a warmth that set her teenage sensibilities into a tailspin. As he watched her hook the worm and cast her line into the babbling creek, he remembered that day vividly. How she had peeked at him under her lashes as he mumbled instructions against the shell of her ear. This was in the before time. Before he had told her his true feelings, before he had made her a woman. 

“So, ya back for good, Elijah?” 

He loved the way she said his name. EE—LIE—JAH, like it was an incantation, like it was raw Mississippi honey dripping from her tongue. He didn’t really know how to answer her. He could say I’m back for as long as you’ll have me. He could say come with me away from all this and start over. 

“Mmm, can’t call it,” he said instead, casting his line downstream like he always did to avoid catching more fish than her. He loved to see the twinkle in her eye when she took the lead over him, hoisting fish after fish into her pail and grinning at him proudly. Deep down she knew he was letting her win, but she didn’t mind. Just wanted to see that proud way he gazed back at his pupil. 

“That sound like a Smoke answer if I’ve ever heard one,” she said back bitterly, tossing her line back out after tossing the wriggling catfish into her pail. 

“Stack wan’ stay. Said he tired of the north, missin’ home. Figured we come back here an’ see how it fits,” he shrugged, trying to pretend that that was the full truth of why they came back home. She grunted and shook her head, sending a whiff of jasmine, clove, and sweat his way. His body hummed. 

“Umm hmm. Stack,” She said back, not making eye contact with him. 

They stayed this way for a while, basking in the comfortable discomfort that had developed around them. So many questions left unaddressed, so much history charging the air they breathed. Neither chose to broach any of the myriad of subjects they would need to eventually face head-on. They both resigned to continue this familiar ritual of theirs: fishing and longing, yearning and earning. She stole a glance at him as he focused on the dark water flowing in front of them, studying the strong line of his jaw and the stiff way he clutched the fishing pole. 

“Loosen up,” she said quietly, lowering her line and ambling on shaky knees toward him. 

She wanted him, needed him really. When she reached him, she placed a shaky hand on his shoulder. Turning to gaze at her, his eyes clouded over with all that he couldn’t say but was deeply feeling. Naïve she may have been all those years ago before he left, but now, as a grown woman, she could see all of that in his eyes was real. It was raw. It would burn her up from the inside out if she let it. 

“Don’t tell me all those years in the city made ya lose ya touch, Lijah,” she chuckled, attempting to diffuse the tension, “Lemme show ya how it’s done, city boy.” 

She pried the fishing pole from his large hands and pretended not to notice the way they trembled. Stepping in front of him, she leaned back against the hard line of his chiseled body and sighed as he wrapped his arms around her waist instinctively. His heart beat rapidly at her back, and she could feel every one of her nerve endings standing on end. But then again, she also felt a peace and comfort wash over her unlike anything she’d felt for the past seven years. Her body moved around restlessly on its own volition, causing her to come in contact with the rising tent in his pants more than a few times. 

“You gon’ kill me if ya keep fidgeting gal, I’m tryna be polite here,” he spoke into the crook of her neck before taking a deep inhale of her scent. 

“What if I don’t wan’ you to be, hmm?” 

present

“Hey, gal. I’m comin’ in, and I bought the ole man wit me,” she heard Stack call from the front porch, interrupting her reverie. 

“In the kitchen,” she called back sweetly, using the back of her hand to wipe cornmeal from her cheek and adjusting the dusty apron at her waist. Dammit to hell, she thought she’d have more time to get presentable before they came back. As promised, the men filled her tiny kitchen with their overwhelming presence before she could take two shaky breaths. 

“Ya got it smellin’ good in here, gal. I can’t wait to eat. I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s cut,” Stack exclaimed reaching at the food on the table. 

She popped his hand and pointed him toward the basin to clean his hands. He chuckled sheepishly and went around the corner to do a rushed job of it, no doubt. Smoke leaned sullenly against the door jamb watching as she moved easily around the kitchen preparing everyone’s plate and pretending she didn’t feel the heat of his gaze on her. 

“Ya look beautiful like this,” he finally said, kicking himself away from his spot and easing up behind her, “We can make this here an evr’yday thing if you’d seriously consider what I asked you this mornin’, baby.” 

“Smoke gone somewhere wit that, I haven’t changed my mind,” she grumbled, turning around to face him but not moving away from his embrace. His hands traced lazy circles at the base of her spine and damn her if she didn’t lean into em. The low smolder in her belly ignited into a wildfire of desire for this vexing man in front of her, and her eyes latched on to the perfect sight of his pouting bottom lip. 

“You ain’t give it enough thought!” 

“I don’t have to, the answer is still no,” she replied quickly, finally moving herself from his hold as Stack rounded the corner. He looking quizzically between the two of them easily noticing the shift in both their energies and deciding then and there that it was none of his goddamn business, especially if it would get between him and the steaming plate of food at his favorite seat at her table. 

“Alright mama, my mitts are clean, can I eat now?” Stack asked, pecking her on the cheek and flashing his damp hands at her. 

“Yes Elias, help ya self,” she giggled. 

They all sat down to eat, and they were transported back to the easy way they all used to be with each other before the sweet embrace of childhood fled, leaving them disoriented and disjointed with one another and themselves. Stories passed easily between them as they recounted the good old days spent cutting their teeth in the dusty roads of the delta.  It was comfortable. She’d forgotten how life with the twins around felt. How just being in their presence filled you with warmth and giddiness. For the first time in a long time, the loneliness was at bay, and she wished she could capture this moment forever. Later, she watched amused as they tidied the kitchen and peacocked for her attention, Stack more so just to get a rise out of Smoke. 

“Sweet thang, ion know why ya waste ya time with this ole coot anyway. Evr’ybody know the second model is better than the first,” Stack called out puffing out his chest and flexing his muscles proudly. 

“Yeah, keep on  talkin’ and I’ma knock ya so hard, you’ll see tomorrow today,” Smoke replied sending a dirty look in Stack’s direction. She laughed raucously, and the sound echoed from the walls and pierced Smoke’s heart. 

“Well well well, this must be the SmokeStack twins I’ve been hearing so much about,” a male voice called from the doorway. Smoke and Stack both reached to unholster their weapons, on high alert. Her eyes bucked as she turned toward the sound.

“Titus!” 

“An’ who in the hell is Titus?” Stack asked, watching her rise and walk toward the tall gentleman engulfing her kitchen entrance. She placed a chaste kiss on his cheek and hugged him sweetly. Smoke shot daggers at them both, turning to Stack with pain, envy, and shock in his eyes. 

“Well, her fiancé of course.” 

[ferrarifudds]

brother's best friend!oscar!!!!!!

Archetype. ✷ Oscar Piastri

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Norris!reader

Summary: When your brother’s best friend finds you stressing out and he comforts you.

Word Count: 2.1k

Disclaimer/s: norris sister reader , fluff ? ish .. idk

Vera’s Voice! BOOF….. I HOPE I DID THIS JUSTICE. i tried but Lmk. hope u enjoy this !!!!! thank u for the request ^_^

The hum of the Silverstone paddock filled the air, mixed with the sounds of rushing fans, tire changes, and radio calls. It was race weekend, and the energy was electric.

Lando was in his element, bouncing around the garage with the kind of confidence and ease that only came when it was home turf.

And of course, being his little sister and all, you were there in support no matter what. Perched on the edge of the chaos, offering quiet encouragement from the sidelines.

It was a proud moment for you as his little sister, but today, despite the cheers, your mind was elsewhere.

You had been in the paddock since early morning, trying to keep a brave face while your mind battled with the stress of university assignments piling up back home.

The constant juggling between being a supportive sister and keeping up with your academic commitments was starting to take its toll.

You had retreated to the sanctuary of Lando’s driver room for a moment of peace, hoping the quiet would give you a chance to center yourself.

With a laptop open in front of you, your notes scattered around, you furiously typed, unable to focus on anything other than the deadlines you were desperately trying to meet.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love the sport or being here for Lando, but the pressure was mounting. Your stomach churned, not from the excitement of the weekend, but from the looming weight of university demands.

The door creaked open, and you didn’t even look up. “Hey—” Your words faltered when you saw who had entered the room.

It wasn’t Lando.

Oscar stood there, his usual quiet demeanor tempered with concern.

You had always known there was something between the two of you.

Ever since Oscar became Lando’s teammate, the tension had been palpable. You had shared laughs, some late-night talks after races, and moments of shared understanding.

You were close, but never more than that. At least, you tried to convince yourself of that.

You both had a way of bantering and making each other laugh, but you’d never taken the leap into something deeper.

It was hard when you were his teammate’s little sister and when Oscar seemed so out of reach.

He, however, was not out of reach now. His eyes softened when they landed on you, hunched over your laptop in the driver’s room. He must have noticed the stress radiating from your posture.

He cleared his throat before taking a step inside.

“Oh, hey you alright?” His voice was warm, as if he knew exactly what was going on in your mind.

You straightened, trying to hide the frustration on your face, but you knew you didn’t fool him.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just, um, university stuff,” You muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “I just need to finish this. I’ll be fine.”

Oscar leaned against the doorframe, watching you closely. “Have you been here this entire time? It’s mid day..”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair, the weight of the laptop heavy on your lap. “Yeah…” You answered. “It’s just that I’m so behind. I’ve got all these assignments due, and I’m freaking out.”

Oscar pushed off the doorframe and walked over to you. “Let me see.”

You hesitated, but Oscar, always the curious one, peered over your shoulder. His presence was calming, the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with the scent of fresh tires and the metallic tang of the track.

He stood close enough that you could feel his warmth, but not too close to make it awkward. You noticed how his eyes darted to your screen, scanning the notes you had scattered around.

“Need a hand?” He asked, his voice still soft but insistent.

You shook your head. “No, I can do it, it’s just… everything’s due at once, and it feels like I can’t catch up.”

Oscar didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there in silence, thinking. Then, he reached out and gently closed the laptop. You blinked, surprised by the action. “Hey, no—dont,” you started, but Oscar shook his head.

“No,” He said, his tone a little firmer now. “Take a break. You’re not going to solve this by stressing yourself out here.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Oscar wasn’t having it. He reached down and tugged at your wrist, coaxing you up from the chair. “Come on,” He said, guiding you toward the small sofa in the corner of the room.

“Relax for a minute.”

You followed him reluctantly, sinking into the cushions. Oscar sat down next to you, close but not too close. You both fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the sound of distant chatter from the paddock filtering into the room.

But the stillness was only temporary. The air between you two seemed charged, something unspoken lingering.

You could feel his presence like it was pulling you in, his proximity making your heart beat just a little faster.

Oscar leaned back against the sofa, glancing over at you. “It’s important to take care of yourself,” He said, his voice low, yet full of meaning.

You glanced at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone.

Your breath caught in your throat as you noticed the way his eyes met yours—steady, almost searching, as if there was something deeper there. A flicker of warmth spread across your chest.

“I know. I’ll be fine,” You muttered, but the words didn’t hold the same conviction as before. “Everything just feels like a lot right now, is all.”

Oscar’s lips twitched into a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the quiet amusement he often wore around you.

But this time, it felt different. More intimate.

He studied you for a second. “Want a hug?” He asked, his tone still gentle, but with that soft sincerity that made your heart stutter.

The offer was unexpected, but somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

You nodded, the tension in your shoulders slowly melting as he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you into his side.

“I’m here if you need anything, you know...” He paused. “Me and Lando, yeah.” He quickly corrected himself.

You could feel his gaze lingering on you as he pulled away, heavy with something unspoken. His shoulder brushed yours, and despite the casual nature of the gesture, the touch felt electric.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your skin tingled at his closeness. “I’m not used to asking for help,” You admitted quietly.

Oscar didn’t reply right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying you with that thoughtful expression that you’d grown familiar with over the past months.

Then, after a long pause, he let out a quiet sigh.

“It’s okay to lean on others when you need it.”

The room seemed to close in around you, the words hanging in the air, and for a moment, you were lost in the intensity of it all.

There was a weight to his gaze now, something tender, as if he were offering you more than just comfort.

You couldn’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—he felt the same way you did.

Before you could respond, the door to the room swung open without warning, and in walked Lando. You froze, and Oscar quickly leaned back, putting more space between the two of you.

Lando stepped in, his usual smirk in place, but it faltered when he saw the situation.

“Oh,” He said, his voice rising in playful surprise. “Osc… was just looking for you?”

The aussie raised his brows. “You were?”

Lando’s gaze went back and forth between the both of you. “Yeah… They’re calling us for a quick briefing.. Uh—“ He cleared his throat. “Are you okay? What—what is all this…?” His forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows furrowed after glancing at you. His had gesturing between the two of you.

“I’m fine.” You brushed it off.

And Oscar, ever so calmly replied as well. “I was actually looking for you, but I found her stressing a little, so I stayed to make sure she’s alright.”

Lando looked between the both of you again , an eyebrow arched in mild confusion.

The wheels in his head started turning, but before he could say anything further, he noticed the look in your eyes—distant, tired, and a little overwhelmed.

Lando’s expression softened. “Right,” He said, walking in fully now but not pressing the issue. “Well.. You sure you’re alright?” He asked you, his voice more gentle now, a shift in tone from his usual teasing one.

You sighed, rubbing your face with both hands. “Yeah, I’m okay now. Just… a lot going on. School work and all,” You explained quietly, avoiding eye contact for a moment.

Oscar, who had already stepped back to give you some space, gave you a knowing look. “Think she just needed to step back and take a break.” He said, his voice soft with concern as his hand rested ever so near your own.. almost as if he wanted to hold

it. “Think you’ve calmed down a little though.”

Lando’s eyes lingered on you, his instincts as a big brother wanting to make sure you were really okay, but he seemed to read the situation.

He let out a breath and nodded, though his concern didn’t quite fade.

“Alright,” He said, voice still lighter but with a hint of that older brother protectiveness. “Just, you know, let me know if you need anything.”

You gave him a weak smile, nodding. “Thanks, Lan.”

Oscar, sensing it was time for him to step back, gave you a final, reassuring glance. “You’ll be alright here?” He asked quietly.

You nodded, offering a smile that was more genuine this time. “Yeah. Thanks, Oscar. Really.”

Oscar gave a soft nod, then turned toward Lando. “Ready?” He asked, his voice shifting to the casual tone they both shared.

Lando shot you one last look before following Oscar out the door, muttering something about getting back to the paddock.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving you alone again in the quiet room, feeling lighter—comforted not only by Oscar’s support but by the way they both made sure you were okay before leaving.

And as you sat there, the tension between you and Oscar lingered in the air, but now it felt a little less uncertain.

He had been there when you needed it most—and, somehow, you knew he always would be.

likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated! ^_^ and just lmk if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list!!!

tags! @planetpedri @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress @iovepoem @piastri-fvx

[arcreactordreams]

" Each kiss breaks a wall "

RUGGIE BUCCHI - Twisted wonderland

Sypnosis: He will always know when you feel insecure, and he will always made sure that each one of his kisses break every brick you have placed in every one of your walls, once his lips caress your skin as a symbol of his everlasting love for you, he will make you feel worshipped. Soft Dom! Ruggie

Request: could I request a similar prompt (love-making, maybe reader feeling insecure?) w a dom!ruggie and established relationship? i know the prompt was from a writing event so feel free to ignore this request or change it!! have a nice day mwah mwah ❤️🍒

A/N: I have decided to get full on writing again after a writer's block that lasted a lot. I was ill, I'm pretty much okay now and I'm truly on this now, very nice, request are open

Warning: Smut, MDNI, all characters portrayed are up to 18, AFAB reader, romantic, fluff and a lot of smut, actually just cunnilingus, I say that people made sculptures after people with body like yours I don't really specify it tho, reader is insecure by a part of her body and is also not specified which.

He has seen you, he knows you, more than anything in this world— He pays attention.

He watches, he has seen how you look at yourself in the mirror, the slight distaste that runs on your pupils, how you refuse to look at certain spots of your skin, how you ignore them. He has realized how you flinch when he touches that patches of skin, he knows why that is but he doesn't really get why. People made sculptures over people like you, how could you feel disgusted over something so gorgeous— So natural.

Ruggie admires you.

His gaze makes you feel vulnerable under his knowing eyes, every blink adds a layer of tension in the whole deal. He doesn't look at you with disgust, ¿How could he? He worships your body and your body is the very extent of your soul— just as beautiful as it is. You're his soulmate, he feels at ease with you, his mind tranquil, his gaze soft, his pupils dilated like a doped man, you fit. You for in his arms, you fit in his very soul.

You're his Oasis. The water in his desert, the gold in his ambition, the one who brings light in his eyes. He loves you, ¿how could you ever think otherwise? He doesn't get it, he tried to, multiple times, but ¿why do you feel like that?.

If you don't feel welcomed in your own skin, he will let you have his. You live in his insides without knowing, every emotion, every thought, every flavor, every sensation. Everything is you.

You're his muse— he is no soldier, nor poet, nor a prince, nor an artist. But he loves just as deeply. You're not portrayed in his battles, or his poems, or his rules, or his paintings but on every single action he takes every single day, in every moment of his life, to be better. For you.

He will close your eyes when you don't want to see and he will cover you when you don't want to be seen.

So every time he catches a glimpse of you looking with distaste a part of your skin his hands cradle from behind you, his touch reverent, almost feather-like as his fingertips run over your cheeks and stop to cover your eyes. The reflection— your reflection is no longer visible for you, but for him. His lips travel over your skin softly, his words like a soothing balm to your very soul: "You're beautiful", like a bandage in a wound.

The bandage won't heal the wound, but it will help to stop burning.

The kisses won't make your insecurities fade away, but they will show you that not everyone hates that part of your body. That you are beautiful. That you are oh so very loved.

Then, he will lead you to the bed, lay you on you back as he watches you with pure devotion glimmering in his eyes, the malice he shows when he laughs at Leona or anybody else is completely gone in this— your chambers. His lips curving themselves in a soft smile as he looks down at you, his head tilted and his tail swinging calmly "I love you" he would say while he looked at you right on the eyes.

He would kiss you after, a soft kiss in the lips that only lasted a second, it burnt but it didn't hurt.

You laughed. He did too.

Then, he leaned for another, and then another, each one being slightly longer than the last, his fingertips moving over the patches of skin you hate without distaste but adoration.

His lips over yours as his hand travelled down your thighs, caressing them softly. "Do you want this?" He asked, his tone calm, peaceful, respectful— once you nodded he started kissing your cheek, travelling down your jaw, neck and collarbone, his hands undressing you with a calmness you would have never expected of a Hyena beastman like him.

He kissed the middle of your ribs, travelling his lips further down as one of his hands played with one of your breasts until he reached your lower abdomen and he took a breath. "¿Can I?" Ruggie asked to you, his eyes doe and clouded with desire and affection for you and the moment you gave him the green light his head dissapeared between your thighs, his ears twitching in satisfaction in you sight as his tongue sucked and licked all of your wetness. It was heavenly, it felt heavenly.

You were his Oasis, and he made sure to drink you like it. His hands grabbed your hips to keep you in place as he continued his restless assault to your core, his legs moved slightly in the bed, trying to put him closer to your crotch as his face kept placed in it, he hummed around your clit, his breath ragged as he sucked on your sensitive bud before he released it and gave you a few licks, your juices dripping from his chin to the sheets, but he couldn't care less about it. You tasted too good to stop and think about those little details.

His hand travelled to your thigh, making you rest it agaisnt his shoulder as his hand quickly went to your chest, massaging it as he let out another him of appreciation. He was drinking you like a dehydrated man.

His other hand, on the contrary, went to your heat, his middle finger teasing your entrance as his lips sucked at your clit ruthlessly before he started pulling the tip of his finger inside and move it at a painfully slow velocity before he started to pull more and more deeply on you until he was knuckle-deep inside. His movements were like waves mixed with the sucking and licking at your clit, the pleasure became almost unbearable and before you could know, your back was arched, your head thrown back and your head dizzy for the amount of pleasure. His finger drove you off of that high and when you were recovering, he pulled his finger outside of you with a lascive "Pop" before he put it in his mouth and sucked it suggestively, moaning at the taste.

"¿are you ready for another round, my love? I don't think I can show you how badly I desire you in just one ¿you know?"

AAA I forgot to write smut, I apologize for any mistakes in the grammar, english is not my first language, my request are open and I write for almost every fandom! Just ask!

© ArcReactorDreams - 2025 all rights reserved

[supernotnatural2005]

yay you accept requests! 🥰 sometimes i think about how dean has endured a lot of touch that was not welcomed especially from monsters and of course michael 💔 it makes me think about a fic where reader is extra gentle with him and makes the effort to check in with him and ask for consent before doing different simple actions while theyre getting intimate. idk that might be kinda heavy to write and if it is please dont feel pressure to write it..... actually please don't feel any pressure at all to write it lol but i think youd really do it justice if its something youre interested in 🧡

Touch

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Michael is gone, for good, but his lingering torment still remains with Dean. Will he ever find closure, can you bring him back from this?

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/tags: Angst, PTSD, established relationship, Light smut (18+Only), fluff.

AN: So I focused more on the aftermath with Michael, I feel it worked better with this request? To the lovely anon who sent it in, I hope I've done it justice for you? 🫣❤️ I hope you all enjoy ☺️

Main Masterlist

The last few weeks had been a delicate dance of watching Dean. Not in a way that felt suffocating, but in a way that was more about paying attention to the quiet things he didn’t say. You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed when people unexpectedly clapped him on the back or reached for him. It was subtle, but it was there. And you noticed.

Dean was no longer the man he had been before, even if he didn’t fully realise it. The constant tension in his body, how he always seemed on edge, the way his eyes would narrow in wariness at sudden movements—everything about him screamed that he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Michael to return.

And that was the difference, wasn’t it? 

Dean had been through hell before—literally. He had clawed his way out of the Pit, had survived Purgatory, had fought his way back from being a demon. He had been battered, broken, and stitched together more times than he could count, but through all of it, he had always been fighting, always been in control of his own choices, even when they were terrible ones.

But Michael? Michael had taken that from him.

Being possessed by the archangel had been a different kind of torment, a horror unlike anything he had ever endured. It wasn’t just about pain or suffering; it was about helplessness. He had been a prisoner in his own body, a passenger while Michael moved him like a marionette, speaking with his voice, wielding his hands, using his face—all while Dean could do nothing but watch.

Every moment had been filled with the unbearable certainty that it wasn’t a matter of if Michael would use him to hurt the people he loved, but when. And then Michael locked him away in his own head, had him living in some fantasy loop that you Sam and Cas shattered. It haunted him, and deeply so.

Jack had made sure Michael was gone for good, burned him up until there was nothing left, but that didn’t erase the damage. Knowing Michael couldn’t come back didn’t stop the nightmares. It didn’t stop the way Dean flinched when someone reached for him too quickly, or the way he sometimes stared at himself in the mirror for too long, as if expecting to see someone else staring back. It didn’t stop the lingering fear that there was still something inside him that wasn’t him. That maybe, in some way, he wasn’t just Dean Winchester anymore.

It had left a fracture in him, a barely visible fault line running through the man who had once seemed unshakable. Maybe no one else could see it, but you could. And maybe, deep down, Dean could feel it too—even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.

You weren’t sure how to help him heal from something like that. But you knew being there was half the battle.

You didn’t want to smother him or act like he was fragile—Dean hated that more than anything—but you also didn’t want to pretend you hadn’t noticed the way he had changed. He wasn’t broken, no matter how much he tried to convince himself he was. He was healing. And healing took time.

So, you started small.

A gentle hand on his arm as you passed him a cup of coffee in the morning, fingers lingering just long enough to remind him you were there. A light brush of your knee against his under the table, subtle enough that he didn’t tense, but still something real.

When you drove into town, you’d reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his, letting your thumb trace slow, idle circles over the back of his knuckles. You never pushed, never clung—if he pulled away, you’d let him. But more often than not, he didn’t. He let you hold him, let himself get used to it. And when he did squeeze your hand back, even just a little, it felt like progress.

On the couch in the ‘Dean cave’ when you sat down to watch a movie, you’d sit close enough that your thighs touched, letting him decide if he wanted more. Some nights, he’d stay still, comfortable in your quiet presence. Other nights, he’d surprise you—letting his arm fall loosely around your shoulders, pulling you in just enough that you could hear his heartbeat beneath the layers of flannel.

You never made a big deal out of it. That was important. Dean never did well with being handled like something fragile. But little by little, you saw the shifts.

He started reaching for you. Taking your hand first when you walked through town, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over your knuckles the same way you did to him. Kissing your temple as you made breakfast together, his hand steady on your waist as he leaned in, warm and familiar. He let himself relax into you, like he used to—like before.

However, as the night stretched on and you curled up beneath the covers one night, waiting—either for him to join you or finding the familiar sight of him slumped over a library table, lost in whiskey and exhaustion—Dean appeared in the doorway. His shadow spilled into the room, not looming, just present.

You smiled at him, warm and welcoming, offering him the quiet reassurance you always did.

Something about him seemed different tonight—quieter, but not in the way that made your chest tighten with worry. Still, after everything, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was slipping again. But then, without a word, he crossed the room, climbed into bed beside you, and slipped under the covers—no hesitation, no distance, no walls.

That alone was enough to steal your breath.

He didn’t just press a quick kiss to your lips before rolling over like he had so many nights before. Instead, he moved closer, warm and solid, his arm carefully draping around your waist.

You stilled, startled by the shift—but pleasantly so.

Then, for the first time in what felt like forever, he held you.

Not just physically, but fully. Like he was here with you, really here, instead of somewhere far away, trapped in the shadows of his own mind.

A slow, lingering kiss pressed to your bare shoulder. Then another.

You sighed at the warmth of it, at the weight of him against you, at the silent promise in his touch that you hadn’t felt in so long.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion.

Your fingers curled around his arm where it rested against you, squeezing lightly. “For what?”

“For sticking with me,” he admitted, his lips brushing your skin between words. “For loving me through yet another damn crisis.”

Emotion clogged your throat as you turned in his arms, meeting his gaze. His eyes—green, raw, open—held something you hadn’t seen in too long. Something him.

“It was never even a question,” you whispered, your fingers ghosting over his cheek, aching to soothe away the lingering remnants of his fear.

Dean exhaled sharply, like the words reached something deep inside him. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, and he sighed—a real sigh, one that sounded like relief, like letting go.

Then, he turned his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm before capturing your lips with his own.

It wasn’t rushed or uncertain. It was slow, deep, sure—the kind of kiss you had missed, the kind that said more than words ever could.

It grew heavier, his hands finding your waist, gripping like he needed to anchor himself to you. You felt the heat of it, the want in it, and your heart ached with how much you had missed this.

Still, you pulled back, breathless, searching his eyes. “Dean…” you whispered. “Are you sure?”

For the first time in what felt like forever, he looked like your Dean.

His gaze was warm, adoring, steady—filled with something deeper than desire.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

And then, he kissed you again—more purposefully, more certainly, pulling you flush against him.

You let him lead, let him set the pace, let him take what he needed. But still, some small part of you hesitated, worried, unsure if he was ready.

Dean must have sensed it because his hands fisted in your camisole, his lips brushing yours as he broke away just enough to whisper, “I want you to touch me. Make me feel whole again.”

Your breath caught, your chest tightening at the vulnerability in his voice. At the pleading look in his eyes. Like this—this—was the final piece he needed to reclaim himself.

And so, you did.

You held him tighter, your hands tracing familiar paths over his skin—relearning him, grounding him, reminding him that he was here. That he was Dean—and no one else.

Your fingers ghosted over his jaw, down the strong column of his throat, feeling the thick swallow beneath your touch. His breath hitched, his grip on you tightening like he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. You never would.

Instead, you pulled him closer, your lips finding his in a slow, unhurried kiss—one that deepened as his body melted against yours. He was warm and solid, all hard muscle and quiet vulnerability beneath your fingertips, and when your nails scraped lightly down his back, he shuddered.

His mouth parted against yours, a quiet groan slipping free as your bodies aligned. He pressed closer, hands roaming—hesitant at first, like he needed to be sure this was real. But when you murmured his name, when your fingers traced his spine and your legs tangled with his, something in him snapped.

The hesitation bled away, replaced by something deeper—something desperate.

His hands gripped your hips, strong fingers pressing into your skin as he guided you beneath him. His kiss turned hungry, consuming, like he was trying to make up for every night he’d spent distant, for every time he convinced himself he didn’t deserve this—you.

Between kisses, between slow, careful touches, you checked in with him—silent, unspoken questions in the way your eyes met his. And each time, he nodded. Yes. Encouraging. Needing.

And when he finally pushed inside you, his forehead dropped to yours, his breath faltering as a deep, broken sound rumbled in his chest. His arms tightened around you, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. But you only held him closer, guiding him through it, keeping him here—with you.

Soft reassurances spilled from your lips, your hands mapping his body—his back, his arms, the sharp line of his jaw. Gentle yet firm, never letting him go. Never letting him slip away. He breathed your name like a prayer, like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to you.

And then he moved.

Slow at first, each roll of his hips careful, like he was afraid to shatter the fragile reality of this—of you. His lips ghosted over your skin, relearning, savoring, his breath hot against your throat. But the restraint, the hesitation, it was slipping. You could feel it in the way his fingers tightened in your hair, in the way his body pressed flush against yours, desperate to be closer.

When he pulled back, his gaze met yours—warm, adoring, a little wet around the edges. He swallowed hard, his voice rough when he rasped, “God, I've missed you.”

Your fingers curled into his back, nails digging in just enough to ground him, and you kissed him—his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—letting your own emotions spill into every touch. 

“I’m right here,” you whispered. “Always.”

Something in him cracked at that. A quiet, shuddering exhale. His jaw tensed like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just kissed you—slow and deep, pouring everything into it.

And then the desperation bled through.

His rhythm faltered, hips pressing harder, deeper, like he was chasing something just out of reach. His breath grew ragged, his hands roaming—gripping, pulling—like he needed to anchor himself in you.

His fingers threaded through yours, pinning them to the mattress as his pace turned urgent. A tremor rolled through him, his forehead pressing into the crook of your neck as he gasped your name. And you felt it—the way his body coiled, the way he was holding on, trying to keep control, trying to make this last.

But you didn’t want him to hold back.

So you whispered his name again, voice soft, coaxing. You let your hands wander, tracing his spine, dragging your nails down his back just enough to push him over that final edge.

And then, he let go.

A broken sound tore from his throat as his body shuddered against yours, as he buried himself deep, spilling into you with a raw, unguarded intensity. His grip on you tightened, his breath hot and uneven, your name falling from his lips like a prayer, like a plea.

And as the tension ebbed, as his body finally melted against yours, you felt it.

The shift.

The moment he finally, finally came back to you.

AN: So this was my first time in like over 10 years of fulfilling a specific request! 😅 It's a little angsty with a sweet ending 🥹. I hope it's what you were hoping for anon! 💕 And to everyone else I hope you enjoy 😊

Also i’m currently taking requests if anyone would like to drop one in 🤗

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

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[wendichester]

Hi!! I’ve been reading your stuff for a while now and I love it to be honest. But could you do something with like collage au!Dean based off of the song hurt my feelings by Tate McRae.

✮⋆˙ hurt my feelings,

summary. she's got him right now, but you're still on his mind

pairing. college!dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 671

notes. aaa absolutely love tate and this was so cool to write! hope you like it bubs 🩷

The thing about Dean Winchester is—he never belonged to anyone. Not really. Not in a way that stuck.

You should’ve known that before you let yourself get in too deep. Before you let him sneak his way into your sheets, your thoughts, your fucking heart. Because now? Now he’s got a girlfriend. And she wears his number.

You don’t even know when it happened, when she became his. But she is. You see them around campus, her hand in his, her pretty little laugh, her perfect little sundresses. Dean, looking just as cocky and effortless as ever, his arm slung around her like it belongs there.

Except—

Except he still looks at you.

And that’s the part that’s going to kill him.

Because late at night, when you’re alone in your dorm, you can still hear his voice—low, rough, telling you things he’s never told her. You still feel the ghost of his touch, the way his hands slid over your skin like he couldn’t get enough. He might be with her now, but you know the truth: you’re still under his skin. Still in his head.

And that’s power.

So, when you run into him outside that house party on Saturday night, you don’t just keep walking. You slow your step, let him see you, let him watch. He’s leaning against the wall, red Solo cup dangling from his fingers, that goddamn smirk already forming like he thinks he’s got the upper hand.

But you smirk first.

“Thought you’d be inside,” you say, tilting your head like you’re examining something amusing.

He lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Needed some air.”

“Or maybe you needed a break from pretending she’s enough.” The words roll off your tongue, saccharine and cutting.

Dean’s smirk flickers, just for a second. Then he exhales a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Jealous, sweetheart?”

You step closer, slow and deliberate, until you’re almost toe-to-toe. “Not at all. Just wondering if she knows you still look at me like that.”

Dean stays quiet, but his jaw tightens. You notice. Of course, you do.

He watches your fingers trail lightly over the edge of your cup, your lips curving into something that isn’t quite a smile. He remembers those lips. Remembers exactly how they felt against his skin, how they murmured his name in the dark.

“She doesn’t know about us, does she?” you muse, voice dripping with feigned curiosity.

Dean exhales, running a hand over his jaw. “Would it change anything if she did?”

You hum, pretending to think it over, before flashing him an easy, devastating smile. “Nope.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged. You tilt your chin up, watching the way his eyes darken, watching the way his fingers twitch at his side like he wants to touch you but can’t.

And God, you enjoy it.

Then the door swings open, music and laughter spilling out, and Dean steps back. The moment shatters.

Or at least, it should.

But then he moves—quick, decisive. One hand catches your wrist, the other presses against your lower back, and before you can react, his mouth crashes onto yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s a battle, teeth grazing, hands gripping, months of tension snapping like a live wire between you. You let him kiss you, let him pour himself into it, but when you pull back, you make sure he sees the way you smirk this time.

“You just made it worse for yourself, Winchester,” you murmur, your breath fanning against his lips.

Dean lets out a breathy chuckle, his grip on you tightening before he finally releases you. His eyes are dark, heated, burning with something he shouldn’t want but does.

“You always did play dirty,” he mutters.

You wink. “Wouldn’t be fun otherwise.”

And this time, when you turn to leave, you make sure to sway your hips just a little more—just to drive the point home.

Dean Winchester might be hers on paper, but in every other way that matters?

He’s yours.

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[robinvomit]

† love me anyway : various.

⋆˙⟡ "Love me in the quiet, in the chaos, in the ruin. Love me when I am sharp edges and storm-torn hands. Love me not for what I could be, but for what I am and if I break, love me still".

⋆˙⟡ request: not a request - just something from a notebook. ⋆˙⟡ featuring: dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne, cassandra cain, bruce wayne, clark kent, kon-el ↦ kalico note: it's the fact i am nervous to even post. i may take a break from posting anything big for a while, i apologize everyone.

⋆˙⟡ 𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞

the room feels smaller now, heavy and tight, as if the walls are inching closer every second you stand there in silence. tim hasn't looked up from the floor since it began, his fingers curled into loose fists at his sides, tension visible in his frame like he's fighting a battle you can't see. it's quiet - too quiet - broken only by the faint hum of traffic through the walls, the muffled life of the city that hates you both doing nothing for the darkening mood.

you shift on your feet, swallowing hard, chest tight with something bitter and heavy. "tim," you whisper; it's soft, cracked, because you don't even know how to start, how to make this feel right again. his gaze flickers to yours, exhaustion etched deep in every shadow of his face, his eyes haunted by the kind of doubt that eats someone alive from the inside out. you feel your throat tighten, struggling against the burning in your jaw, the way every word catches, jagged and painful.

"i don't know what you expect from me," you finally whisper, voice tight and strained with emotion. it hurts to say, like pulling glass from your chest, like exposing every wound, every hurt, every insecurity you've both tried so hard to keep hidden beneath the surface. "i don't know how to fix this, tim. i don't.. i don't know how to make you believe that you're enough, you pull away more and more every time i try. and i-" your voice cracks, sharp and sudden, shattering against the quiet. "i don't know what you want."

tim's expression doesn't shift, but something in his eyes flickers; a flash of hurt, brief but intense enough to sting. he swallows, fingers flexing at his sides, knuckles white with restraint as he fights to keep himself still and composed. but the pain is there; it bleeds through in every line of his face, in every shaky exhale, in the unsteady rise and fall of his chest beneath his thin, worn t-shirt.

"love me anyway," he says suddenly, his voice rough and low, barely above a whisper. it feels loud, echoing through the room, through your chest, through every fiber of your being. he lifts his head, meeting your eyes, and the way he looks at you nearly tears you apart. it's desperate and vulnerable in ways tim so rarely lets himself be. "even if you don't know how. even if i don't deserve it- even if you think it's pointless. even if you're tired. even if it's hard. i know, i forget to be present, i have days when i'm barely here at all and i know.. i know ive heard you say you need and i.." he swallows roughly, jaw tightening as he forces out the words. "just love me anyway."

and something inside you splinters, crumbling beneath the weight of his plea. you're frozen, rooted to the spot with an aching in your chest from how how wounded he sounds. you want to reach for him, to close the distance, to promise him every impossible thing he's asking for but your voice dies in your throat, caught in the crushing realization that he'd ever doubted it at all.

tim looks away, the silence returning heavier than before, swallowing the fragile moment whole. "i think… we need a break," he says quietly, his voice barely audible now. it's like he's conceding defeat, like he's finally admitting to himself - and to you - that maybe neither of you can keep pushing through walls that neither knows how to break down.

and you realize, standing there in the silence, heart heavy with the echo of words you can't unsay, that loving someone doesn't always mean you know how to save them. sometimes, love isn't enough to bridge every gap. sometimes, it just means watching helplessly as they disappear behind walls neither of you built but both of you suffer behind.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐃𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧

the apartment feels too small, too still, as if the silence is pressing down on you, wrapping around your throat and squeezing until you're breathless. dick stands across from you, still soaked from the rain, his jacket clinging heavily to his shoulders, a silent testament to the urgency that drove him here. his chest heaves slightly with uneven breaths, shoulders rising and falling beneath damp leather and the faint chill that clings to his skin. he doesn't say anything, but his eyes - god, his eyes say enough, shadowed and exhausted, pleading with you to understand something he can't quite put into words.

your chest aches with the weight of everything you've left unsaid, weeks of holding back finally fraying at the edges, spilling out in a voice that trembles despite your best effort to hold it steady; "i don't know what you wanted me to do, dick. i don't know what you expect from me!"

he visibly flinches at the rawness in your words, like each one lands sharper than the last, forcing him to finally look you in the eye. his jaw tenses, his shoulders drawing up defensively, and then something snaps in him, a fragile thread he's been clinging to finally giving way.

"love me anyway!" he shouts, voice cracking halfway through, rough and desperate, filled with the ache of a man who's always been strong. a man that's always held the weight of everyone else's world but never learned how to build his own. his hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white, his expression a mix of anger and pain. "that's all i ever wanted! i screw up, i know. i run, i get in trouble, i - i never stop, and i hate that i do that to you." his voice drops, quieter but no less intense, eyes burning with unshed tears. "i know it's not fair. but goddammit.. love me anyway."

your throat tightens, every second of silence after his plea stretching painfully between you. the vulnerability on his face hurts worse than any wound, cuts deeper than any fight you've ever had. you've always loved him through everything, even when it hurt, even when he pushed you away but this feels different.

something vital is hanging in the balance.

you're still, your heartbeat a dull ache against your ribs, hands trembling as you force yourself to speak, voice hoarse and barely audible. "i think…i think we need a break."

the words settle like lead between you, heavy and irreversible. dick steps back as if you've struck him, his expression shifting from desperate to blank in the blink of an eye, the shock and pain flickering briefly across his face before fading into a hollow resignation. you can feel the space opening wider, see the way he begins closing off, like the words themselves have forced distance he doesn't want but somehow expected.

he doesn't respond right away, just looks away from you, breathing deeply, and you wonder - achingly, hopelessly - if this is the moment everything finally breaks for good.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞

the fight burns in a slow, devastating silence before either of you speaks a word, and it's almost worse this way because silence means damian is thinking, analyzing, preparing. he's pulling away, stepping backward, eyes dark, focused and distant, like he's already starting to construct walls. preparing to shut you out. his posture is painfully rigid, a soldier at attention, a prince too proud to bend, to break - even in front of you.

you can't handle it. not tonight. not when the air feels charged like a storm. electric and impossibly heavy with the weight of unspoken hurt. you step forward, swallowing back the lump in your throat, forcing words past trembling lips because he needs to understand.

"i don't know what you expect from me, damian," you say, voice soft but threaded with frustration; with an exhaustion you've been carrying far too long. "i don't.. i don't know what else you want me to do."

he lifts his gaze sharply, eyes narrowing, brows furrowing in an instant. but there's something beneath the anger - a brief flash of vulnerability, a crack in the carefully constructed armor that damian has worn from the moment you first met.

"love me anyway," he finally snaps, voice sharp but laced with something deeply wounded, something young and aching and desperately trying not to break. "is that so impossible for you?"

there's the truth of it; the fragile heart beneath the fierce exterior, the boy who still expects rejection, who still braces for it every time love is offered, every time tenderness is shown. your heart shatters because, beneath everything, damian still believes he's unworthy. he still believes he has to earn your love, to prove himself, to constantly fight for something he fears will slip from his fingers at any second.

"damian.." you begin gently, stepping toward him, wanting to reach out but hesitating because he looks so guarded, so closed off. "i do love you. you know that."

he shakes his head sharply, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. "not enough to accept me. not enough to trust that i want you exactly as you are - that i do not need you to change." his voice cracks just slightly, barely perceptible, but you feel it deep down in your bones. "if you can't - if you won't - i believe.. perhaps, we need a break."

the words freeze your blood. damian never retreats, never surrenders - not to anyone, not even you. yet here he stands, voice unsteady and broken, telling you that he'd rather let you go than endure the pain of not being enough. you stare at him, throat burning, eyes stinging with unshed tears because you see it clearly now; the careful defenses, the self-inflicted punishment he believes he deserves.

"i don't want a break," you whisper, heart beginning to ache. "i just want you. i just-"

he inhales sharply, gaze suddenly intense, eyes bright with a pain he's been holding back for far too long. "then prove it," he says softly, desperately. "because right now.. right now, i do not know how to believe you."

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝

the air in the apartment feels suffocating, thick with unspoken words and tension that coils around your lungs until every breath feels like swallowing razor blades. jason stands near the window, silhouetted against the dim glow of the streetlights below, his back turned to you as though he can't bear to face what's happening head-on.

he's painfully still, shoulders rigid beneath his worn leather jacket, fists clenched tightly at his sides. you can practically feel the barely contained storm radiating off him; the anger, the frustration, the quiet, desperate hurt that's been building for far too long.

your voice finally breaks the silence, quiet and strained, exhaustion pulling at every syllable. "i don't know what you expect me to do anymore, jason.." your voice cracks under the weight of honesty, frustration, and helplessness. "i keep trying, but.. nothing changes. you won't let me help and you won't let me in. what am i supposed to do? tell me what to do."

jason turns sharply, the motion quick and sudden, like your words have sliced through whatever fragile restraint he had left. his eyes are burning, fierce with anger but deeper still with hurt that he's tried so hard to bury beneath layers of bitterness, control, and sarcasm. his jaw tightens, muscles twitching as he tries to keep steady, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough, low, breaking under the strain of what he's feeling.

"love me anyway," he snaps, almost desperately, the words shattering like glass between you. his eyes burn into yours, fierce yet wounded, daring you to deny him, challenging you to turn your back; to prove every fear he's ever had right.

"even if i'm fucked up. even if you hate the way i push you away. even if i don't deserve it.. even if it's impossible to keep dealing with me, just-" he falters, breathing sharply through clenched teeth, eyes glistening, more vulnerable than you've ever seen. "just love me anyway. you're supposed to-"

your chest feels like it's caving in, his words echoing sharply inside your ribcage, leaving bruises no one else could see. you want to reach out, to hold him, but you feel paralyzed, stuck between your own hurt and his pain. jason swallows hard, looking away now, eyes darkening as something closes off inside him again, shielding that fleeting vulnerability behind thick walls once more.

after a heavy pause, his voice returns, quieter now, hollowed out by acceptance. "we should take a break," he says, sharp, not meeting your gaze. his eyes fix on the floor, shoulders tense, as if bracing himself against your response, against the hurt he's sure will follow. you stare at him, the ache spreading slowly through your bones, settling into your marrow. neither of you moves, the words hanging heavy and bitter between you, and for a moment, all that's left is silence, stretched unbearably thin.

because loving jason todd has always been complicated; beautiful, painful, chaotic, deep - but you realize, for the first time, that maybe love isn't always enough to save someone who won't let you in. even if you want to love him anyway.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐧

cass stands quietly, the air around her tense, as if the world itself has paused to listen. her eyes remain fixed on the floor between you, shadows dancing across her features beneath the dim lighting of the training room. you've always been able to read her, even without words, but now the silence feels suffocating rather than comforting. it hangs in the space, heavier with every breath she doesn't take, every move she doesn't make, every heartbeat that feels painfully slow. she's never been good with words, and yet you both know something needs to be said.

"i don't know what you expect from me, cass," you finally say, your voice strained under the weight of exhaustion and frustration, a quiet desperation settling into your bones. "i can't guess what you're thinking or feeling all the time, and it's starting to feel like… like it's not enough. like i'm not enough."

cassandra flinches subtly, her eyes wide and dark, flickering with emotions she struggles to name but you see clearly: confusion, hurt, fear. her fingers twitch restlessly at her sides while she desperately tries to find the words to fix it all. then, uncharacteristically, she takes a careful step forward, eyes locked on yours, silently pleading for you to understand her, to hear what she can't say.

"love me anyway," she whispers, her voice shaking softly, like each word costs her something she can't afford to lose. her gaze searches yours, the quiet tremble in her voice revealing more than she's ever willingly shown. "please…just love me anyway."

you can feel your heart fracturing at the quiet, pleading desperation in her voice. because you do, you love her so fiercely it aches, but it's not enough, not right now, not with this distance growing between you, leaving you both feeling lost and uncertain; distant despite standing mere inches apart. your eyes blur with tears you fight to hold back as you take a slow, shaky breath and whisper words that you know will break you both.

"i think…i think we need a break, cass."

she freezes, shoulders stiffening, the vulnerability in her eyes turning to open, stark panic. cassandra doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound, but her expression says everything she can't. for the first time, you've genuinely shaken her, genuinely hurt her, and the knowledge makes you sick.

she doesn't cry, doesn't shout, but she looks at you as though you've taken something vital away from her, leaving her unsteady, lost.

and yet, even in this silence, even in this hurt, you both know it isn't an end. it feels more like a desperate attempt at preserving what's left, at giving yourselves time to breathe, to heal, to find your way back through the fractures that have grown between you. and as cassie slowly draws herself up, taking a breath that's a little too shaky, a little too unsteady, you wonder if the space will heal or widen the cracks you've already made.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞

the air is heavy, tense with the kind of silence only bruce can summon. he stands there, halfway turned away from you, his profile sharp against the pale glow of the batcomputer. his posture is rigid, shoulders tense beneath the thick fabric of his suit, and you can see the way his jaw is clenched. everything between you is raw, an open wound you've both pretended wasn't there, but now the illusion has shattered completely.

"i don't know what else you expect me to do," you finally say, your voice softer than you intended, heavy with exhaustion. you've carried this burden for so long; loving him, accepting the shadows, the secrets, the distance. you've given all you could, pouring your heart into a man who always seems just out of reach, a shadow slipping between your fingers. "i've done everything, bruce. i've tried to be everything. i've tried to be what you need, what gotham lets you have."

bruce turns then, slow and deliberate, fixing you with a look that makes your heart ache. his eyes are dark, guarded, but beneath that practiced stoicism is a flicker of hurt, a quiet desperation that few ever get to see. "you love me when it's easy," he mumbles, voice rough as sandpaper, each word heavy with accusation. "you love me when it doesn't hurt. but this-" he gestures toward the cavern around you, to the shadows lingering in every corner, the endless responsibilities of a city that never sleeps- "this was never going to be easy. not for me. not for us."

"you've never made it easy, bruce. not once. but i've always stayed," you manage, feeling your voice break despite your best attempts to hold yourself together. your throat aching from the strain of holding back tears. you don't want to crumble now, not in front of him, not when every part of you feels exposed. "i just.. i just don't think i can do it anymore. i think.. we need a break."

his reaction is subtle, almost imperceptible. a flicker of his eyelids, a brief tightening of his lips, but to you, it feels like an earthquake. he's silent for a long, heavy moment, staring at you as if he's trying to decipher a code, trying to understand how he let it get this far. when he speaks, it's softer, lower, more vulnerable than you've ever heard him.

"is that what you really want?"

and god, it hurts. because you don't know how to answer. you're not even sure what you want anymore, what you can bear. you only know this ache, this constant, relentless hurt is tearing you apart. your silence seems to be answer enough and he takes a step toward you, his voice quiet yet impossibly heavy as he finally whispers:

"or just… love me anyway."

the words hit you with enough force that you're not sure if your knees will hold. your vision blurs with unshed tears, your chest painfully tight. you want to say you already do - you have, you always have - but the words won't come. instead, you stare at him, heartbroken, desperately wishing things were different, knowing nothing is ever simple with bruce wayne.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭

the farmhouse is quiet, the soft hum of the wind outside making the silence between you and clark seem louder, heavier, as if every unspoken word had been bottled and finally shattered against the kitchen floor. he stands near the window, bathed in moonlight that makes him look both ethereal and distant, the set of his shoulders carrying the unbearable weight of too many lives; too many expectations. his head is bowed slightly, hands resting against the window ledge, grounding himself against the storm he feels coming. he hasn't looked at you yet, hasn't let you see the hurt he knows is reflected clear as day in his eyes, but you can feel it, radiating off of him in painful waves.

you draw a breath but it feels sharp, uneven, scraping against your ribs. your words come out quieter than intended, a whisper edged with frustration, exhaustion, and confusion. "i don't know what you want from me anymore, clark. i don't know what you expect me to do."

he turns at that, expression tight with something that almost looks like desperation. it's rare - unsettlingly rare - to see him shaken, the unwavering calm he wears for the world fraying at the edges. his jaw is tense, muscles flexing as he pushes back an anger that's not truly meant for you, but for the crushing reality of what loving him means. "i need you to love me anyway," he says firmly, voice edged with raw honesty and aching vulnerability. "even if i can't always be here, even if i have to choose the world over us.. i need you to love me anyway."

your chest tightens painfully, heart squeezing in your chest at the stark truth laid bare between you. it feels like your throat is closing up, because you've always known. you've known that loving clark kent meant sharing him, not just with metropolis, but with the world. you'd accepted it willingly, openly, long ago. but now, standing here in the silence, the truth feels crushing. because sometimes you want selfishness. sometimes you want him to choose you first, even if it's just this once.

your voice breaks quietly into the heavy silence, rough with the ache in your throat and the tears you're barely holding back. "maybe…maybe we need a break then, clark."

the words hang there, still and final, and clark's expression shifts immediately. pain flashes openly across his face, unguarded and profound. he looks like you've struck him harder than kryptonite ever could, and you watch his fingers tighten against the windowsill, gripping it so hard you're almost certain the wood will splinter beneath his touch. he takes a breath, slow and shaky, then looks away, nodding faintly in acceptance as if he'd somehow known this was coming but hoped desperately it wouldn't.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐊𝐨𝐧

the headquarters feels too quiet, unbearably empty despite the distant murmur of voices in another room. kon stands with his back pressed against the kitchen counter, eyes cast down toward the cracked tile floor, brows furrowed in frustration. the tension between you is thick, stretched thin, like a rubber band about to snap. he's always so casual, so good at brushing things off, shrugging away the weight of the world with an easy smile and a cocky tilt of his sunglasses. but now? that armor has slipped away, leaving something broken and hurt exposed beneath.

you can see it in the hard line of his jaw, the way his shoulders are pulled tight, the bitter edge to his usually carefree expression. kon doesn't show vulnerability easily; he hides behind bravado, sarcasm, and a careful mask of arrogance. but tonight, there's none of that. tonight, he's just standing there, wounded and open, looking at you like he's waiting for something, anything to make sense of the fracture between you.

"i don't know what you expect from me, kon," you finally say, voice trembling but steady, the hurt and exhaustion plain in every quiet syllable. "you're always pushing me away, but then you look at me like i'm the one leaving. what do you want me to do?"

his eyes flash sharply behind his sunglasses and in one swift movement, he pulls them away, dropping them carelessly onto the counter. his gaze is intense, open, painfully honest in a way that steals your breath away. there's a rawness there you've never seen from him, as if something inside him is breaking apart and he's desperately trying to hold it together.

"love me anyway," he says fiercely, voice hoarse and tight by the force of his own emotions. "that's it. that's all i've ever wanted. from anyone. i know- i know i'm a mess, alright? i know i don't always make it easy, but i just- i need you to love me anyway."

your heart twists painfully in your chest, because you've always known. you've known that kon's cocky grin and fearless bravado mask something deeper. you've always loved him through it all, every sharp edge and every hidden hurt. but tonight, standing across from him, you finally understand that love alone isn't enough to fix what's broken between you.

not when he won't let you.

"maybe…" you whisper softly, the ache pressing sharply against your throat, heavy and painful, "maybe we just need a break."

he freezes, breath catching painfully, and you watch the quiet devastation spread slowly across his features, shattering whatever confidence had managed to remain. he opens his mouth as if to say something, then stops, swallowing thickly before looking away.

you stand silently in the hollow aftermath, wishing desperately it didn't feel so final, watching as kon struggles to piece together a response, realizing too late that words aren't always enough; especially when they're the wrong ones.

[auxmodi]

Can you write a one-shot about Jon Snow set in season 8 or afterward, where the reader is a Targaryen and a relative of Daenerys? Make it fluffy and slow burn, please, with some smut!! I love the ones you've written, especially the Jon headcanon! I'm crying because there are barely any fanfics about him 😩

yESS ANON!!! i hear you loud and clear, its set before ep3 s8, sorry if its too long oops (not really sorry)

summary: a targaryen in winterfell, you’re no stranger to war. but when jon snow’s quiet intensity pulls you in, the tension between you both becomes impossible to ignore. tomorrow, the world might fall apart, but for tonight? you’re his. SMUT AT THE END

word count: 2.7k

tags: smut, p in v, needy sex, unspoken tension, battle/war feels, wholesome interactions

the northern winds howled through winterfell, relentless and biting, a constant reminder that the north was a land apart. inside the great hall, the fire crackled and the warmth of the hearth couldn’t quite chase away the chill that seeped into your bones. you’d been here long enough now, a targaryen among wolves, but it still felt like winterfell was trying to remind you that you didn’t belong.

still, you made yourself useful. you weren’t like daenerys, all fire and commands. you’d grown up on the edges of war, your hands more comfortable around a blade than a scepter. you fought, trained, strategized. it’s what earned you some begrudging respect from the northerners. even sansa, sharp as the frost on the castle walls, had softened toward you. she’d become an unexpected ally, her wit and your determination meshing in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

tonight, she sat across from you at the long table, quill in hand as she reviewed plans and lists. you worked on your sword, sharpening the blade with steady movements. the quiet between you was companionable, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire.

“do you ever rest?” she asked, her voice soft but teasing.

you smirked, not looking up. “rest won’t help me when the night king gets here. a sharp sword might.”

she rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “you and jon are more alike than i realized.”

at the mention of his name, your stomach did this annoying little flip. you shrugged, trying to play it cool. “jon is… focused. he’s a good leader.”

before she could respond, her gaze shifted past you. “speaking of jon...”

you turned your head slightly and saw jon standing near the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on you. he didn’t look away when you caught him, just gave a small nod before returning to his conversation with davos. your stomach twisted, though you weren’t sure if it was nerves or… something else.

“he’s always watching you,” sansa murmured, her tone light but her expression curious.

“shut up,” you muttered, focusing back on your blade. but your fingers faltered, the steady rhythm of your sharpening disrupted.

jon was always there. not in an obvious way, he wasn’t the type for grand gestures or attention. but you’d notice him lingering on the edges of your vision, a glance in the training yard, a quiet nod in the strategy room. it was infuriatingly subtle, and yet you felt it every time.

one evening, you found yourself in the godswood, seeking a moment of peace. the red leaves of the weirwood swayed gently in the wind, their whispers lost in the frost-bitten air. you leaned against the trunk, your breath visible in the cold, when the sound of boots crunching on snow caught your attention.

“out here alone?” jon said, stepping into view. his voice was low, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet of the godswood.

“yeah” you replied. “just… thinking.”

jon’s eyes softened slightly as he stepped closer, his breath visible in the cold air. he looked at you for a moment, then at the weirwood, as if trying to understand your thoughts. "the dead?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"everything," you said honestly, your tone heavier now. "the dead. The living. what it’ll mean when it’s over... if we’re still here to see it."

his jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his face. “we’ll see it.”

“you sound certain,” you said, glancing at him.

“i have to be,” he replied. his eyes met yours then, and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you. the weight of his gaze was heavy but not unwelcome. it was grounding, in a way.

days blurred together, preparations for battle consuming your every moment. jon’s presence became something constant, even when he didn’t speak. you found yourself looking for him in the chaos, your eyes scanning for him like instinct.

one night, after a particularly grueling day, you found yourself in the library. it was empty save for a few flickering candles, the air thick with the scent of old parchment. you sat at a table, a book on northern battle tactics open in front of you, though you weren’t really reading it.

the door creaked open, and you glanced up to see jon stepping inside. his hair was messier than usual, and the shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

“can’t sleep?” you asked, your voice breaking the quiet.

he shook his head, moving to sit across from you. “mind won’t rest.”

“join the club,” you said, gesturing to the book. “i thought this might bore me to sleep, but no luck.”

his lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him in days. “you’re too stubborn to let it.”

“same to you” you shot back, earning a soft huff of laughter from him. the sound was rare, and you found yourself wanting to hear it again.

for a while, the two of you sat in companionable silence. it wasn’t awkward, just… quiet. jon’s presence was steady, like the calm before a storm. eventually, he broke the silence.

“do you miss it?” he asked, his voice low. “the south?”

you thought about it. dragonstone, the endless sea, the warmth of the sun on your skin. but the memories felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. “sometimes,” you admitted. “but not as much as i thought i would.”

he nodded, his dark eyes studying you. “the north suits you.”

“does it?” you teased, though your voice came out softer than you intended.

“it does,” he said simply, his gaze steady. there was no teasing in his tone, just quiet certainty.

you stood on the battlements, the cold biting through your cloak, but it wasn’t the cold you were feeling. it was everything else, the soldiers, the coming battle, the weight of it all. and then, as always, jon’s presence behind you. quiet, steady.

"it won't be easy" he said, his voice cutting through the silence.

you didn’t answer right away, there was nothing to say, you both knew what was coming. it wasn’t about words anymore.

finally, you turned slightly, enough to catch the moonlight on his face. his jaw was set, his eyes dark, already on the battlefield in his mind. you didn’t know when you’d started to understand him so well, but you did, better than anyone else here and it made everything feel heavier.

“is anything easy?” you finally mutter, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. it’s bitter, but you can’t stop it. you don’t know how to soften the truth right now.

his eyes meet yours, and it’s like the air shifts, just for a second. something unsaid hangs between you, heavy and unspoken. raw. vulnerable. you want to look away, but you don’t.

then, without warning, his hand brushed against yours. just a touch, a test. but it sent something through you, something sharp, undeniable. you froze, your heart racing, as if the world had paused for just a second.

his hand lingers, just for a second, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. but you don’t. you stay there, your fingers brushing together, and for the briefest moment, you wonder if he feels it too, the weight of it. the way something inside you shifts at the simple act of contact.

“stay close tomorrow,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid of the words. but they’re out there now, hanging in the air between you, and you both know the unspoken truth. he needs you. and maybe you need him, too.

you don’t say anything at first. but then, almost without thinking, the word slips out. “always.”

it’s too soft. too quiet. but it’s the only thing you can give him right now. a promise, but still, yours.

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he steps back, his gaze lingering for a second longer, like he’s searching for something in your eyes. and then, he’s gone, disappearing into the shadows of the castle, leaving you standing there, your heart still pounding in your chest.

the promise you made hangs heavy in the air, and even though your feet are rooted to the ground, your mind races. tomorrow, you know, everything changes. but for now, it’s the quiet before the storm.

you make your way back to your chambers, the chill of the stone grounding you. your thoughts keep drifting to jon. his eyes, the heat of his touch, the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment.

just as you’re about to close the door behind you, you hear it: a soft knock. you freeze, hand still on the knob

you turn the handle, open the door a crack. it’s jon, his silhouette stands there, dark against the dim hallway light. his eyes meet yours, full of something raw, desperate, something you can’t escape.

“couldn’t sleep,” he says, voice low and strained, like he’s holding back.

you nod, too overwhelmed for words, the quiet between you both heavy, full of anticipation.

he steps closer, just enough for you to feel the heat of his body. you don’t pull away. you don’t want to. you aren’t sure if this is really happening, or if you’ve imagined the way he’s looking at you, like you’re all that matters.

his hand brushes yours, the spark between you instant, impossible to ignore. the air thickens with tension, electric and suffocating, but it feels right. your breath catches.

“jon,” you whisper, like saying his name is the only thing that matters now.

he steps closer, no words needed. his hand cups your face, thumb brushing across your cheek. you wonder how you ever survived this long without him touching you like this.

before you can think, his lips are on yours, urgent, needy, like he’s been holding back forever. you gasp, but he deepens the kiss, pulling you close, his hands finding their way to your waist, drawing you toward him.

you let yourself melt into him, your hands sliding over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his tunic, you could feel the way his body reacted, the way his breath hitched every time you touched him.

you wanted him, now, but you didn’t say it out loud. instead, you let your fingers trace the edge of his tunic, pulling it from his body with the slow urgency of someone who couldn’t wait anymore, but wanted to savor every second of it.

you pull away just enough to rest your forehead against his, breathless, caught in this moment. “tomorrow,” you say, your voice soft, “it could change everything, we could…”

he stops you with another kiss, silencing your words. when he pulls back, his eyes are fierce but soft, vulnerable. “tomorrow doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “not right now, just this, just us.”

his hands grip your waist, pulling you back to him, and in that moment, everything else fades. the war, the fear, the promises of the future, none of it mattered as your lips crashed together.

jon’s hands followed the movement of yours, pushing your nightgown off your shoulders, leaving your skin bare beneath his touch. his lips trailed down your neck, and you shivered at the feel of him, the heat of his breath against your skin.

when he finally got the gown off, exposing you completely to him, his breath hitched, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes dark, filled with something primal.

his fingers grazed the curve of your waist, your hips, his touch light but leaving a trail of heat behind. when his hands brushed your breasts, his thumb running over your nipple, you couldn’t help but gasp, the feeling radiating through you like lightning. jon froze for a second, eyes wide, like he couldn’t believe he had made you react that way.

"gods," he muttered, voice rough as he traced the curve of your body with his eyes. "you're beautiful."

before you could respond, he was pushing you backward, guiding you toward the table. you caught the edge with your hands, the cool wood contrasting with the heat building between you.

jon’s hands slid down to your hips as he bent you over the table. the position made your pulse quicken, a thrill running through you at the sheer dominance in his actions.

his hands pressed against your back, bending you slightly as he took a moment to adjust his position.

you felt him shift behind you, heard the rustling of fabric as he finally freed himself from his trousers. his cock suddenly pressed against you, teasing, making your breath catch.

“shit,” you whisper, your hands gripping the edge of the table in front of you as you feel the tip of his cock press rub against your entrance.

one hand gripped your hip, holding you in place, while the other found your shoulder, he entered you slowly, inch by inch, as if testing the waters, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip at the stretch, the fullness. jon groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his face tight with concentration.

“i've wanted you like this,” he muttered, his voice low, almost strained. “for so fucking long.”

you pushed back against him, urging him to move. his pace remained agonizingly slow, his thrusts deep, controlled, his hands holding you firmly in place.

with each slow stroke, your body grew tighter, more desperate, the tension in your stomach building until it felt like you might break. jon was relentless, his movements never wavering, only deepening as the seconds stretched out into eternity.

“fuck, jon,” you gasped, your body arching into him as your own hands gripped the edge of the table, nails digging into the wood. "f-faster." you could feel him pulse inside you, the friction driving you higher.

you’re both too fucking needy for this to be slow. his thrusts become harder, faster, each one more desperate than the last. the sound of skin on skin fills your chamber, and you can’t stop yourself from meeting every push, every pull, your body craving the release that’s building.

you can barely form a coherent sentence, the only thing you can do is hold onto the table, each thrust making you just forwards. everything is too much, but in the best way. "f-fuck" you gasp, "don’t stop."

he doesn’t stop. ofcourse he doesn’t.

“you’re killing me,” jon growls, his hand slides down your back, fingers digging into your skin, and you know he’s holding you there, keeping you in place for himself.

you don’t answer, can’t answer, just a breathless moan slips past your lips as you feel the first wave of your orgasm starting to crash over you, the way your body tightens around him, the way he’s fucking you through it.

"gods" he whimpers, the words barely making it past his lips as he forces you to take all of him.

his hands are tight on your hips, pulling you into him, every inch of him is buried deep, and you can feel him in places you didn’t even know existed, making you gasp with every move, every shift.

his breath was ragged now, his groans a constant hum in your ear as his rhythm faltered, his control slipping. “i can’t—gods, i can’t stop now.” his voice was strained, desperate, and you knew he was at the edge.

then, with a final, brutal thrust, he snapped. his whole body jerked above you, shaking as his release hit. you could feel the heat of his seed inside you, leaving you breathless and trembling beneath him.

you could feel the slickness between your legs, the evidence of what had just happened, and though it should have felt overwhelming, it only deepened the sense of connection between you two.

jon’s breath was steady against your neck, and after a moment, you heard him chuckle softly.

jon’s fingers traced light circles on your back as he pressed a kiss to your neck. “guess I was wrong then,” he teased, his lips curving into a smile. “the dragon’s not so bad after all.”

“just remember,” you added, your voice low as you turned your head to meet his gaze, “targaryens don’t take kindly to being underestimated.”

jon’s chuckled at your words, the corners of his mouth twitching with a hint of something close to respect. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hi! Can I have a request for Soshiro Hoshina x fem! Reader? (angst with good ending?)

Where the reader has been pushing him away or strictly focusing her duties rather than confessing her feelings for him? They both are friends but the reader falls in love with him and starts to avoid these feelings for him. Because the reader was insecure and thinks Hoshina deserves someone better than reader.

Unspoken Truths

English is not my first language, so if you find mistakes, feel free to contact me!

Synopsis: Haunted by insecurities, you begin to distance yourself from Hoshina, convinced he deserves someone better—someone stronger, someone more worthy. But when Hoshina refuses to let you push him away, you're forced to confront the truth: that to him, there was never anyone better than you.

Warnings/content: Hoshina Soshiro x fem!reader, 2.642 words

You slam your blade against the training dummy, sweat dripping down your forehead as you force yourself to keep going. One more strike. One more perfect movement. If you can just keep pushing yourself harder, maybe you'll drown out the thoughts that have been tormenting you for weeks.

"Oi, you trying to kill that thing or what?"

The voice is unmistakable. Hoshina Soshiro.

Your grip tightens on your weapon, but you don't turn around. You don't have to. You already know the easy grin he's wearing, the casual way he holds his sword like it weighs nothing, the sharp eyes that never miss a thing.

"You're training too hard," he continues, stepping closer. "Even for you."

"I'm fine," you reply, too quickly, too stiffly.

His brows furrow. Just a little. Most people wouldn't catch it, but you've known Hoshina long enough to recognize when something unsettles him.

"Lately, you've been all work, no fun," he muses, resting his weapon against his shoulder. "What happened to my favorite sparring partner who actually talks back?"

The words should make you laugh. Should make you roll your eyes and throw some teasing remark his way, like you always used to.

But instead, your stomach twists. Because you can't do this anymore. Not when every second spent near him makes your chest ache. Not when you've started seeing him as more than just your friend, more than just the vice-captain who always has your back. And definitely not when your heart decided, against all reason, that it belongs to him.

So you do the only thing you can. You take a step back. "I have work to do," you say flatly, turning away. "I'll see you later, Hoshina."

You don't give him a chance to respond. You can't. Because if you stay a second longer, you're afraid he'll see the truth in your eyes.

And Hoshina Soshiro deserves better than that. Better than you.

You tell yourself that distance is the right choice. That if you just keep your head down, keep working, keep your focus on the mission, this unbearable ache in your chest will fade.

But it doesn't. If anything, it gets worse. No matter how much you try to ignore it, Hoshina is everywhere.

His voice carries across the training grounds, his laughter effortlessly cutting through the tension of your days. He calls your name too often, teases you too easily, looks at you too closely. Every time you lock eyes with him, something inside you cracks a little more.

You feel too much—too much admiration for the way he moves, too much warmth at how he trusts you in battle, too much longing for something you have no right to want.

It's suffocating.

And then come the insecurities. The whispering thoughts that creep in when you're alone, when exhaustion strips away your defenses.

He deserves someone better.

Someone who isn't constantly struggling to prove themselves. Someone stronger, brighter—someone who can match him step for step without hesitation. Maybe someone like Captain Ashiro.

The logical part of your brain reminds you that they're just friends—a captain and her vice-captain. But you're not just logical. You have insecurities, like anyone else. And those insecurities whisper, show you, convince you that Captain Ashiro would fit with him so much better than you ever could.

You've always been confident in your abilities, but this… this is different. This is a battlefield you don't know how to fight on. So you make a decision.

You push him away.

You train harder, volunteer for more missions, avoid lingering in the same space as him for too long. When he tries to get you to spar, you decline. When he jokes with you, you give him short, clipped answers. When he looks at you like he's trying to figure something out, you look away. It's the only way to protect yourself.

To protect him.

Because if he ever found out the truth—if he ever realized what you felt—he would never let it go. And you're not strong enough to handle that. Not when you already know how this ends. 

With you, watching him from a distance.

And Hoshina Soshiro, falling for someone else. Someone better.

— — — — — — — — — 

Hoshina isn't an idiot.

You know this better than anyone. He's sharp, always has been—on the battlefield, in training, even in casual conversation. It's why you should have known that avoiding him wouldn't work forever. At first, he lets it slide. He doesn't push when you brush off his teasing, doesn't press when you cut conversations short. But Hoshina Soshiro is nothing if not persistent.

And now, he's watching you.

You feel it every time you step onto the training grounds. Every time you sit across from him in meetings. Every time you pretend not to notice the way he lingers just a second too long after missions, as if waiting for you to say something—anything—that would tell him what's wrong.

But you don't.

And it frustrates him.

It shows in the way he tests you, upping the difficulty in sparring sessions, calling your name just to see if you'll flinch. It's in the little frowns he gives when you answer him with one-word replies, in the way his usual laid-back tone shifts—still teasing, still light, but with something underneath it. Something careful. Something searching.

But finally comes the breaking point. 

It happens on a mission—an ambush, an unexpected wave of kaiju that leaves the entire unit scrambling. You hold your own, as always, but the enemy is relentless. A misstep, a delayed dodge—pain blooms sharp and hot along your side.

You barely register the injury before Hoshina is there, cutting through the chaos like he was made for it. His blades sing through the air, his movements precise, deadly. He's by your side in an instant, pressing a hand to your wound with a grip far gentler than you expect.

"Stay down," he orders, voice tight. "You're done for this fight."

You shake your head. "I can still—"

"I said, stay down."

You freeze. This isn't his usual easygoing drawl. This is anger. Not the reckless, fiery kind. No, this is something colder—controlled, deliberate. It simmers beneath his words, in the way his jaw clenches, in the sharp edge to his next breath.

When the battle is over, when the rest of the unit regroups, Hoshina doesn't leave your side. Even as medics check you over, even as you insist that you're fine, his arms stay crossed, his gaze dark and unreadable. And when you finally stand, when you try to slip away with the others, he stops you, gripping your wrist.

"We need to talk."

And for the first time in weeks, you don't think you can run from him. You knew this was coming.

Hoshina isn't the type to let things fester—especially not when it comes to someone he cares about. And yet, as you stand before him, away from the others, away from any excuse to escape, you feel like a trapped animal. The air between you is thick, heavy with something you don't want to name.

His grip on your wrist is loose now, but he doesn't let go. Not yet. Instead, he studies you, his sharp eyes scanning your face like he's trying to piece together a puzzle that shouldn't exist in the first place. "You gonna tell me what's going on," he starts, voice even, "or do I have to start guessing?"

You force a breath through your nose, willing yourself to stay composed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Hoshina huffs out a laugh—but there's no humor in it. "That's funny, 'cause last time I checked, we were friends. Y'know, the kind that actually talks to each other." His voice dips lower. "So why the hell have you been actin' like I'm some stranger you can't even look at?"

You swallow hard. "I've been busy."

"Bullshit."

The word lands heavier than it should. Maybe because Hoshina doesn't curse often—not like this, not at you. It shakes something in your chest, cracks through the carefully built walls you've spent weeks reinforcing.

But you can't let them fall. "I don't know what you want me to say," you mutter, staring at the ground. "Nothing's wrong."

"Then why do you keep pushing me away?" His voice is sharper now, the frustration finally surfacing. "Did I do something? Say something?"

"No," you say quickly, too quickly. "It's not you."

"Then what is it?"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because how do you say it? How do you tell him that it hurts to be near him? That every second spent at his side only makes it worse? How do you tell Hoshina Soshiro—the man who has always stood tall, always exuded confidence, always carried himself like he knows exactly who he is—that you don't feel worthy of standing beside him?

His fingers tighten around your wrist for a brief second before he exhales, letting his hand drop away. His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter. "Y'know," he says, "I ain't stupid. I can tell when someone's running from something."

You clench your jaw. "I'm not running."

"Then look at me."

You don't. Not until he steps closer, until he's right in front of you, close enough that you can't ignore the warmth radiating from him, the intensity in his gaze.

"Look at me, dammit," he repeats, softer this time.

And you do. Because you're weak when it comes to him. No matter how much you've tried to avoid it, this was always going to happen.

Your breath is shaky as you finally force the words out. "Because you deserve better than me, Hoshina."

Silence. A second stretches into eternity.

His brows knit together, confusion flickering across his face before something else takes over—something unreadable, something deep and unwavering. "…The hell did you just say?"

Your throat feels tight and your eyes are starting to burn. "You heard me."

Hoshina blinks, then lets out a disbelieving laugh—except it isn't really a laugh at all. More like a breath of frustration, edged with something that almost sounds like hurt. "Unbelievable," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face before fixing you with a look so serious it makes your stomach twist. "You really think that, huh?"

You force yourself to nod. "I know that."

"Then you really don't know me at all." His voice is steady, but there's something else there—something that makes your heart clench.

And before you can say another word, Hoshina steps even closer, close enough that you can't ignore the weight of his next words. 

"I don't want 'better.' I want you."

Your breath catches. And just like that, the walls you built start to crumble. You feel like the world has just stopped.

His words ring in your ears, over and over, unraveling every excuse, every reason you've clung to for why this could never happen.

"I don't want 'better.' I want you."

There's no hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his stance. Just Hoshina Soshiro, standing in front of you, looking at you like you're the only thing that matters.

You shake your head, stepping back out of instinct, out of fear. "You don't mean that."

Hoshina's brows knit together, frustration flickering across his face. "The hell I don't."

"You don't—" Your voice cracks, and you hate it, hate how vulnerable you feel under his gaze. "You don't get it, Hoshina. You're—" You pause, searching for the words, but they feel heavy on your tongue. "You're everything. And I'm just—"

"Just what?" His tone is softer now, but no less firm. "Go on. Say it."

You swallow hard. "I'm just me."

Silence.

Then, Hoshina exhales, slow and measured, as if he's choosing his next words carefully. "Y'know," he starts, voice lower now, "for someone so damn stubborn, you really don't see yourself clearly."

You don't say anything. You can't.

Hoshina tilts his head, his eyes never leaving yours. "Do you know why I trust you so much?"

Your hands clench into fists. "Because we're comrades."

"That's not it." He takes a step forward, closing the distance you tried to put between you. "I trust you because you've got my back. Always. I trust you because you fight like hell, because you don't hesitate when it matters, because you're one of the strongest people I know."

His words hit harder than any blade.

"You think I deserve someone 'better'?" His voice is barely above a whisper now, but it holds weight. "Then tell me—who's better than the person who's been by my side through everything?"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because he's looking at you like you hung the damn stars. Like every excuse you've made is nothing but noise. Like he's been waiting for you to just see what's been in front of you this whole time.

Your chest feels tight, your heart hammering against your ribs, and you hate that you're trembling, hate that you're so scared to believe him.

An then, Hoshina smiles. Soft. Sure. Unshakable. Finally, reaches for you. Slowly, like he's giving you the chance to pull away. But you don't. You can't. Not when his fingers brush against yours, not when the warmth of his touch grounds you in a way nothing else ever has.

"You don't gotta say anything right now," he murmurs. "But just… stop runnin', yeah?"

Your breath catches as you realise, this is real. This is Hoshina Soshiro choosing you. And for the first time, you wonder, if maybe, you're allowed to choose him too.

His fingers linger against yours, warm and steady, a silent reassurance that he's not going anywhere.

You take a shaky breath. "I don't… I don't know how to do this."

Hoshina chuckles, soft and easy. "Yeah? Well, lucky for you, I'm patient."

You shake your head, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at your lips. "You don't act like it."

"Hey, I waited for you to get your head out of your ass, didn't I?" His grin is teasing, but his eyes—they're serious."I've been waiting, y'know. For you to let me in."

You look down, where your fingers are still lightly touching, and finally—finally—you curl yours around his. Just a little. Just enough. "I was scared," you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "I thought you deserved someone… more."

Hoshina hums thoughtfully. "More what?"

"More everything. Stronger. Smarter. Someone who…" You hesitate, then sigh. "Someone who wouldn't be afraid to tell you how they feel."

His grip tightens, just a little. „That's funny," he murmurs. "'Cause the person I fell for? They're plenty strong. And smart. And stubborn as hell." He tilts his head, voice dropping into something softer. "And right now, they're telling me exactly how they feel."

Your heart stumbles. There's no more running. No more hiding behind excuses, no more pretending that your feelings aren't there, that they don't matter. Because Hoshina sees all of you. And he still wants you anyway.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. Then, finally—you look him in the eyes. "I like you," you confess, voice small but certain. "I've liked you for a long time."

"Yeah," Hoshina grins, voice warm, teasing, filled with something deeper. "I know."

You huff, rolling your eyes. "Of course you do."

His laughter is easy, genuine. And when he tugs you just a little closer, thumb brushing over the back of your hand, you don't pull away.

Because for the first time in a long time—you're not scared. You don't know what happens next.

But as Hoshina squeezes your hand, as he smiles at you like you're something worth holding onto, you realize, that taking a step forward doesn’t need to be scary. 

Masterlist

[slu7formen]

luke castellan x fem!reader

You knew that your friend, Luke, was a tease. What you didn’t expect, was that he was going to be a tease to you.

while I finish writing part two of this story (btw, thank u so much for all the love it’s getting) , I drop this one out here for the wait <3

warnings: teasing, praising, drinking, kinda s3xual tension

reminder: english’s not my first language so I apologize for any spelling mistakes

₊˚⊹♡

The bonfire crackled merrily, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the demigods huddled around it. The air thrummed with the low beat of stolen music from a borrowed radio, a symphony of laughter and easy conversation punctuated by the clinking of ice inside your plastic cups. Exhaustion from a particularly harrowing week of monster attacks had finally settled in, driving the older campers to this clandestine revelry deep within the safe haven of the camp's woods.

Across from you, Clarisse was emerged in a play-fight with his brothers, not truly a good idea based on the drunken state they were in, but who would tell them otherwise? Travis and Connor were huddled together, their whispers punctuated by bursts of laughter that hinted at some upcoming evil plan or prank. You could practically see the gears turning in their heads. Silena leaned towards Katie’s ear, whispering some secret that boys couldn’t know about, her voice barely a murmur.

And Luke Castellan sat next to you, his presence warm and familiar. His profile bathed in the golden glow. You'd known him for years, a bond forged in shared battles and late-night training sessions. But lately, you'd begun to see him in a different light. The way his muscles tensed beneath his t-shirt as he tossed another log onto the fire, the glint in his dark eyes - it all sent a delicious flutter to your stomach.

Reaching for your empty plastic cup, you realized with a groan that you'd polished off your cranberry juice and vodka concoction. Glancing sideways at Luke, you noticed his cup held a suspicious-looking red liquid that gave off a pungent, almost medicinal smell. "Let me have a sip of yours" you declared, leaning towards him without even questioning.

A ghost of a smile played on his lips. Your cheeks, flushed from the alcohol and the warmth of the fire, were undeniably red. Your lips, slightly puffy and wet, was not something his eyes would miss either. But he'd never admit the effect you had on him, not here, not amongst their friends.

"Not sure that's your thing, doll" he pointed out, looking down at his drink for a second. "You won´t like it"

You knew you were pushing your luck, but the defiance simmering in your blood, thanks to the vodka, wouldn't be ignored. "Come on, Luke" you pout, placing your chin on his shoulder. “If you can drink it, why can´t I?”

He chuckled, a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "I don't think you can handle it" he said with a little smirk on his face, the playful challenge in his eyes impossible to miss. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way he was looking at you, but a spark of competitive spirit ignited within you.

“Oh, yeah?” you challenged. “Just watch me, then” you declared, snatching the cup from his hand before he could protest. You were so sure of yourself. The liquid was a fiery red, the strong scent even more potent up close. You took a tentative sip.

It was horrible.

It was like drinking liquid fire infused with cough syrup. A strangled cough escaped your lips, your eyes watering. Luke chuckled slightly. You sputtered, almost spitting the liquid out in disgust.

Before you could fully react, Luke's hand cupped your chin, surprisingly gentle despite the rough calluses that adorned his palm. His eyes held a mischievous sparkle. "Take it all down now, you told me you could handle it"

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way his words sent a thrill down your spine, but you were determined not to back down, especially not in front of him. Fueled by a mix of pride, the burn of the liquid fire, and a strange flutter in your stomach thanks to Luke's closeness, you took another swig, then another, determined to finish it. You ignored the way your throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper and the fire that seemed to erupt in your gut.

Suddenly, a loud "Chug! Chug! Chug!" broke the silence. Travis and Connor, who had been watching the exchange with amusement, started a rhythmic chant. Silena and Katie soon joined in, their cheers echoing through the clearing. You choked down the rest of the concoction, gasping for air as it burned its fiery path down your throat.

The cheers reached a crescendo as you slumped back, eyes squeezed shut, your head swimming. As the commotion subsided, you dropped the plastic cup with a clatter. You felt dizzy, and your throat felt like someone had lined it with sandpaper, but a sense of accomplishment washed over you. You'd done it.

Suddenly, a gentle touch on your chin startled you. You blinked your eyes open to see Luke leaning in, his gaze holding a playful spark. With his thumb, he brushed away a stray droplet of the red liquid that had escaped your lips during your valiant chugging endeavor.

The simple gesture sent a jolt through you. It was so unexpected that your breath hitched in your throat. Then, in a move that stole the air from your lungs completely, he lifted his thumb to his lips and sucked off the red droplet. Eyes on yours, the whole time.

"Good girl" he murmured.

He turned away then, casually rejoining the conversation with Chris about their upcoming training session. But you couldn't tear your gaze from him. The playful glint in his eyes, the lingering warmth on your chin from his touch – it all played on repeat in your mind.

Gods, you thought, your head swimming from a potent mix of alcohol and newfound desire. You really wanted to be anywhere else right now. Anywhere with him, away from the prying eyes and teasing laughter of your friends. You felt crazy in the matter of just a few seconds. You couldn´t let this slide, you just couldn´t.

You couldn´t deny the wet patch on your panties either.

You stood up, maybe a little too fast for the state you were in, but you managed to look down to Luke, who was already looking into your eyes the moment you stood up.

“I´m going for a walk. Care to join me?”

inspired by this right here, with a little change <3