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

[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 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

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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

[witless-winion1]

imagine Polites was in the courtyard for the last battle of Troy. Imagine he looks up from bandaging a comrade’s injury, and sees his friend. Helmet off, head lowered, face pinched in what could only be described as anguish. Polites would have called to him, but he knows better than to interrupt Ody during his Big Brain Thinking moments.

but then his friend raises something into view over the wall; a swaddle of white, and it’s squirming, enough that Polites could see it from where he stands, now frozen in confusion and inexplicable dread. Odysseus loved kids and babies, he wouldn’t harm one for any reason. Hell, he’d cried so hard when Penelope gave birth to Telemachus that he’d nearly passed out from dehydration. He’d spared every child in every battle in this ten-year war.

but his friend extends his arm, holding the swaddle precariously by the ends of the blanket, over the thirty foot drop onto the solid stone ground. The innocent baby just wiggles unconcernedly.

Polites opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say (because he certainly didn’t know himself) gets caught, and then his friend lets go.

and Polites can’t turn away as the white swaddle falls, a sudden, tiny cry starting from the hidden infant’s throat, that cuts off when it hits the ground, with a sound that Polites never wanted to hear again, and the white turns red.

Out of every horror he’s seen that night, that’s the one he dreams of when he eventually lays his head down to sleep.

He wakes thrashing, falling out of his hammock, and Odysseus’s hand jerks from his shoulder to his side, catching him before he can hit the ground and aggravate whatever minor injuries he got from the last battle.

Polites has always been a very honest person. Since boyhood, since he told his mother was sick because he ate too much sesamous when he was five, confessed to Odysseus and Eurylochus that he didn’t like hunting when he was nine, told his aunt she was too unkind to the less fortunate then them when he was thirteen.

when Odysseus asks him what troubles him, Polites can’t seem to bring himself to admit the truth.

when they sail for home, he forces himself not to avoid his captain. They’ve all done horrible things in the heat of Ares’ domain. but a baby? whispers his conscious.

Shush, he tells it. There’s a logical solution, there has to be.

and yet Odysseus offers none, and he is too cowardly to ask for it, and gods know he cannot make sense of it no matter how he tosses and turns with the rocking ship.

when they reach the island of the Lotus Eaters, Polites smiles at the funky little guys, adoring their blissful grin. He crouches and strokes it, cooing about how soft it is. Odysseus hums, unfazed, and grumpy. Polites can tell he hasn’t slept well the past few weeks. But he reaches down anyway and picks one up under the arms, studying it from every angle while the innocent creature just wiggles unconcernedly in his hands.

Polites can’t help the urge to gently pull the creature from his hands. He smiles to cover whatever tension there is, and places the lotus eater safely in the ground.

he reminds his friend that there’s no need to constantly be suspicious and prone to fighting; why not default to greeting the world with kindness and open arms? Even though trust may get taken advantage of sometimes, it would at least alleviate the risk of unnecessary blood spilled.

and as Odysseus looks away, Polites sees the pain in his eyes, staring at the Lotus eaters as they tumble around with each other. One drops suddenly from a low tree limb, and while Polites manages to stifle his wince, Odysseus is caught just off-guard enough to flinch when it hits the ground with a thump. The lotus eater gets up and ambles off without a scratch.

“This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms,” Polites says softly, reaching out to grasp his friend by the elbow. “I see in your face, there is so much guilt inside your heart…”

Polites could see as the words hit home, his friend’s shoulders drooping as he looks up at him. His eyes are nearly akin to what Argos’s looked like when their ships sailed from Ithaca’s harbor.

“…so why not replace it, and light up the world; here’s how to start…” Polites gently squeezes his arm. “Greet the world with open arms.”

“Greet the world with open arms…” Odysseus repeated softly, leaning into him. Polites let him hide his face in his chest, wrapping him in his arms and letting him hide from the weight of his not-so-secret sins.

[heliosunny]

Deception

Yandere!Gojo x Reader

Years ago, Gojo Satoru watched his closest friend—his everything—die in his arms. The grief shattered him, pushing him to become the strongest sorcerer, a lone god among men. But when he unexpectedly sees you—alive, breathing, and unchanged—his carefully controlled world spirals into chaos.

The first time Gojo saw you die, something inside him shattered.

He had always been fast—too fast, but not that day. That day, he was too slow.

One moment, you were standing beside him, teasing him like you always did. The next, blood was pooling beneath you, your body limp in his arms. His hands pressed against the wound, shaking, desperate.

“Stay with me” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Don’t do this to me.”

But no matter how much power he had, no matter how much he begged, you still slipped away.

And Gojo, the strongest, realized something terrifying that day.

Without you, strength meant nothing.

Years passed, but the nightmares never did.

He stopped visiting your grave. What was the point? You weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere. Just a memory, a cruel trick time played on him. No soul left to sense, no cursed energy to trace. Just a void where you used to be.

Then, one night, under the dim glow of a streetlamp, he saw you.

And the world tilted on its axis.

You were laughing softly, eyes bright, standing just a few feet away. The same face. The same voice. The same presence he had lost all those years ago.

His Six Eyes burned as he focused on you—on your soul.

It was you.

Not an illusion. Not a trick.

You.

His breath hitched, fingers twitching at his sides. A thousand emotions surged through him at once—rage, confusion, relief—but one thought drowned out the rest.

You lied.

And Gojo Satoru did not take betrayal lightly.

Hours later, you walked alone through the quiet streets, your bag slung over your shoulder.

The night was crisp, and after the farewell party with your friends, exhaustion weighed on you. You had finally left your old life behind. No more sorcerers. No more Jujutsu battles. No more him.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Then, the air changed.

Before you could react, a hand covered your mouth, an arm wrapped around your waist, and the world snapped into darkness.

When you woke up, the scent of concrete and old wood filled your nose. A dim light flickered above you, casting long, eerie shadows. Your wrists were bound to the arms of a chair—tight enough to keep you still but loose enough not to hurt.

A slow, familiar chuckle sent a shiver down your spine.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

Your heart stopped.

Gojo stood in front of you, blindfold gone, Six Eyes glowing as he leaned down, his face mere inches from yours. His expression was unreadable, too calm, too controlled.

You swallowed hard. “Satoru—”

He clicked his tongue. “Toru” he corrected, voice almost playful. “You used to call me Toru, remember?”

You stayed silent.

His fingers ghosted over your cheek, his touch feather-light yet suffocating. “You died” he whispered, his tone soft but laced with something sharp. “I felt you die. And yet… here you are.”

Your pulse pounded against your skin.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured: “Start talking, love. Why did you leave me?”

Your breath hitched. His voice was low, smooth, but it carried an edge so sharp it could cut through bone.

You turned your head away, refusing to meet his gaze. “Let me go, Satoru.”

A slow, dark chuckle escaped his lips.

“There it is. That defiance,” he mused, tilting your chin back toward him with two fingers. “I wondered if you’d changed after all these years. Guess not.”

His Six Eyes flickered, scanning every inch of you—your trembling fingers, the tension in your jaw, the way your pulse pounded in your throat. You weren’t afraid. No, this wasn’t fear.

It was guilt.

Gojo’s grip on your chin tightened just slightly. “You faked your death” he said, the words more statement than question. “Why?”

You clenched your teeth. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

You swallowed hard. The weight of the past, of everything you left behind, pressed against your ribs like a vice.

“You needed me to be dead.”

Silence.

Gojo didn’t move, but something in his expression darkened. “Excuse me?”

You took a shaky breath. “You needed something to break you, Satoru. Something to push you past your limits. You needed pain, real pain, so you’d become strong enough to protect everyone else. If I had stayed… you wouldn’t be who you are now.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was your own breathing.

Then—

Laughter.

Cold, bitter laughter that sent chills down your spine.

Gojo straightened, running a hand through his hair. “That’s your reason?” His voice dripped with something almost hysterical. “You let me rot in grief? You chose to make me suffer?”

Tears stung your eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be forever! I planned to come back—”

“Then why didn’t you?”

His voice cracked.

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Because you had seen it.

The way he had changed. The man who once stood beside you, carefree and untouchable, had become something else. A god among sorcerers. The strongest. A man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

You had done this to him. And by the time you realized it, it was too late.

“I was going to” you whispered. “But you didn’t need me anymore.”

Gojo went still.

Then, in a blink, he was in front of you again, both hands gripping the arms of your chair, caging you in. “You don’t get to decide that” he murmured, voice dangerously soft.

Your heart pounded.

“You think I needed to break?” His lips curled into something that wasn’t a smile. “You think I needed to lose you to become stronger?”

You flinched.

Gojo exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Damn it…” His hands lifted, resting on either side of your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “If you had just told me—if you had just stayed—I still would’ve become the strongest.”

His fingers tightened slightly.

“But at least I wouldn’t have been alone.”

For the first time since waking up in this room, you saw it—the raw, unfiltered agony behind his glowing eyes. The pain you had left him with.

You opened your mouth, but he spoke first.

“It doesn’t matter now.” His voice was quieter, but no less intense. “You’re here. And I’m not letting you leave again.”

Your stomach dropped. “Satoru—”

His lips brushed against your forehead—gentle, fleeting. But when he pulled back, the look in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine.

“Welcome home.”