#i feel like i should’ve been more impacted

[kinzhae]

"Unrequited Love"

Reader has been in love with Satoru Gojo for years, but Satoru is oblivious and more focused on someone else. As reader grows closer to Suguru Geto, Satoru becomes jealous and realizes his feelings for reader. Eventually, Satoru confesses his love.

Gojo x Reader, High-school au!, more of a oc?, angst? , comfort, fluff, special ending, unrequited love, jealous gojo.

"Whats going on between you and suguru?"

The classroom was noisy, filled with the dull hum of chatter and the occasional clatter of a pencil hitting the floor. You sat hunched over your notebook, diligently jotting down notes as the teacher droned on about formulas that seemed to stretch endlessly across the blackboard. Next to you, Satoru lounged in his chair, barely paying attention.

But he wasn’t looking at the equations.

You didn’t have to glance up to know where his gaze was locked—it was the same place it had been for weeks now. You could feel it, the way his attention was entirely absorbed by her. The girl across the room with the soft laugh and the fluttering lashes, the one who had unknowingly—or maybe knowingly—captured his heart.

“She’s so perfect…” Satoru muttered, his voice barely audible but weighted with adoration.

Your pen faltered mid-sentence. You swallowed hard, gripping the pen tighter as you forced yourself to keep writing. His words echoed in your head, their impact much sharper than they should’ve been.

Your best friend. Seven years of laughter, secrets, and late-night conversations—and now, this.

You risked a glance at him. Satoru’s lips were curved into a smile, one so uncharacteristically soft that it sent a pang through your chest. He looked at her like she was the only person in the room. She must have felt his stare because she turned slightly, catching his eye and giggling before quickly looking away.

They were a perfect match, weren’t they? She was sweet, charming, and undeniably pretty. And you? You were just...there.

People joked about you and Satoru all the time, shipping the two of you as if it was some kind of game. "You two are inseparable," they’d say, laughter bubbling up like they were stating the obvious. But every time, Satoru would brush it off with a smirk and a wave of his hand.

“As if,” he’d scoff. “We’re just friends.”

Just friends.

You pressed the pen harder against the page, the ink bleeding into a dark spot as the words blurred in front of you. It wasn’t fair, how much space he occupied in your heart when yours barely registered in his.

“Hey,” Satoru whispered, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

You blinked and turned to him, hoping your expression didn’t betray the ache in your chest. “What?”

“Do you think she likes me back?” he asked, his voice tinged with excitement. His eyes sparkled with the kind of enthusiasm he used to reserve for teasing you about your messy handwriting or begging you to share your snacks.

You hesitated, the lump in your throat growing. She already liked him. It was obvious to everyone, even to you, who had tried so hard not to see it. The stolen glances, the way she laughed just a little too hard at his jokes, the way she seemed to linger around him whenever she got the chance.

“Probably,” you muttered, barely audible. You stared at the scribbled notes in front of you, your vision blurring slightly.

Satoru’s grin widened, and he leaned back in his chair with an almost triumphant look. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said, his voice buzzing with confidence. “I mean, who wouldn’t like me, right?”

You forced a small laugh, the sound hollow to your own ears. “Right,” you murmured, keeping your eyes glued to the page.

He didn’t notice, of course. He was too busy stealing glances at her again, his mind already worlds away from the person sitting next to him.

The rest of the class dragged on, every second feeling heavier than the last. You kept your head down, pouring all your focus into your notes as if they could distract you from the weight in your chest. But it didn’t help. Not when you could still hear the faint sighs of admiration slipping from Satoru’s lips, not when you could still feel his excitement radiating next to you.

When the bell finally rang, you shoved your notebook into your bag with shaky hands, eager to escape. “I’ll see you later,” you said quickly, not waiting for his response as you stood and made your way toward the door.

“Wait—hey, where are you going?” Satoru called after you, but you didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.

You weaved through the crowded hallway, your head down as you tried to push the thoughts away. It wasn’t the first time you’d felt invisible next to him, and it wouldn’t be the last. But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

By the time you reached the quiet corner of the library, your usual hideout, the tears were already threatening to spill. You slumped into a chair and buried your face in your hands, letting out a shaky breath.

It wasn’t fair. Loving Satoru wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

You thought back to all the times he’d been there for you, his playful grin and easygoing attitude lighting up even your darkest days. You’d fallen for him so gradually, so deeply, that you hadn’t even realized it until it was too late. And now, you were stuck watching him fall for someone else—someone who could give him the kind of happiness you never could.

The thought sent a fresh wave of pain through you, but you swallowed it down. You couldn’t cry here. Not now.

Taking a deep breath, you wiped your eyes and opened your notebook again. If Satoru was happy, that should’ve been enough for you. It had to be.

But as you sat there, staring blankly at the page, a small, bitter part of you wondered if it ever really would be.

The quiet of the library was broken by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. You glanced up, startled, and found none other than Suguru Geto sitting across from you. His usual calm demeanor was intact, but his sharp eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that made you squirm.

“Skipping out on Gojo?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. His voice was low, almost teasing, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity behind it.

You hesitated, unsure of how much to say. Suguru was one of the few people who knew Satoru as well as you did, maybe even better. If anyone could read between the lines, it was him.

“Not skipping,” you mumbled, looking back down at your notebook. “Just needed some air.”

Suguru raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Air? In a library?” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Your pen faltered again, and you let out a quiet sigh, the weight of the day pressing down on you. “Why are you here, Suguru?”

“To check on you,” he said simply.

You blinked, surprised. “Why?”

“Because you looked like you were about to fall apart back there,” Suguru replied, his voice softer now. “And because I’m not blind. I’ve seen the way you look at Satoru.”

Your heart sank, the words hitting harder than you expected. You opened your mouth to deny it, but Suguru cut you off with a small wave of his hand.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “It’s written all over your face. Has been for a while.”

You looked away, the embarrassment and pain swirling together in your chest. “It doesn’t matter,” you muttered. “He’s in love with her.”

Suguru didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sat back in his chair, studying you with a thoughtful expression. “You know, for someone as sharp as you, you’re pretty stupid sometimes.”

You frowned, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Listen,” Suguru said, leaning forward again. “I’m not saying Satoru doesn’t have a thing for her. He clearly does. But do you honestly think he’d brush you off if you told him how you felt?”

The question caught you off guard, and you stared at him, speechless.

Suguru sighed, shaking his head. “You’re his best friend, you idiot. He cares about you more than you realize. Maybe even more than he realizes.”

A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “That’s the problem. I’m just his best friend. Nothing more.”

Suguru’s expression softened, and he gave you a small, almost sad smile. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re too scared to find out if that’s really true.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken possibilities. You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but deep down, a part of you wondered if he was right.

Before you could respond, Suguru stood, pushing his chair back with an easy grace. “Think about it,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “And if you need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

You watched him leave, your heart still racing from the conversation. Suguru had always been perceptive, but you hadn’t expected him to see through you so easily.

As you sat there, the notebook in front of you forgotten, his words echoed in your mind.

The days following your conversation with Suguru were...different. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but you found yourself gravitating toward him more often. Maybe it was the way he seemed to genuinely understand you, or maybe it was the subtle kindness in his words, the quiet reassurance that you weren’t as invisible as you felt.

Suguru didn’t pry after that day in the library, but he didn’t pull away either. Instead, he started seeking you out during lunch, sitting next to you in class when Satoru was distracted, and walking you halfway home with casual ease.

At first, it felt strange—foreign even—to have someone’s attention focused on you so completely. But as time went on, you began to relax around him. Suguru’s presence was calming, a stark contrast to Satoru’s endless energy.

You weren’t the only one who noticed the shift.

Satoru was glaring. Not at you, not even at Suguru directly, but it was clear as day. His usual cocky grin was replaced by a tight-lipped expression every time he caught you and Suguru talking.

“Yo,” Satoru called one afternoon, sliding into the seat beside you in class with an exaggerated stretch. “What’s up with you and Suguru lately?”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden question. “What do you mean?”

Satoru tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been hanging out with him a lot. More than usual.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “We’re just talking. He’s been helping me out with some stuff.”

“Stuff?” Satoru echoed, his tone sharp. “Since when do you need him for stuff?”

Your chest tightened at the accusation in his voice, and you frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? Suguru’s been a good friend.”

Satoru opened his mouth to retort but stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he looked away. “Nothing. Forget it.”

The awkward tension settled between you, a stark contrast to the easy banter you used to share.

It wasn’t long before Satoru’s irritation bubbled over.

One afternoon, as you and Suguru walked out of the classroom together, Satoru intercepted you in the hallway.

“Hey,” he said, his tone light but forced. His eyes flicked to Suguru, and the tightness in his smile was unmistakable. “Mind if I steal my best friend for a sec?”

Suguru glanced at you, a knowing look passing between you two, before nodding. “Sure. I’ll catch you later.”

The moment Suguru walked away, Satoru turned to you, his expression unreadable.

“What’s going on with you two?” he asked, his voice low.

“What do you mean?” you replied, folding your arms defensively.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Satoru shot back. “Since when are you and Suguru so...close?”

You felt a flicker of frustration. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters because—” He stopped abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “It just does, okay?”

“Why?” you pressed, your voice trembling slightly. “Because you don’t want me to be close to someone else? Because you’re afraid someone might actually notice me?”

Satoru flinched, as if your words had struck a nerve.

“It’s not like that,” he said, his tone softer now. “I just... I don’t want to lose you.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, and you stared at him, your frustration slowly giving way to confusion.

“Lose me?” you echoed.

Satoru looked away, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “You’re my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do if things changed between us.”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and you couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to them than he was letting on.

“Things are already changing,” you said quietly. “You just didn’t notice until now.”

Satoru’s gaze snapped back to yours, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Fear? Regret? Maybe even jealousy?

Whatever it was, it made your heart ache all over again.

“Satoru…” You hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I’m not going anywhere. But you don’t get to act like this just because someone else is paying attention to me.”

His expression wavered, and for the first time in a long while, Satoru Gojo didn’t have a witty comeback. Instead, he just stood there, his silence speaking volumes.

And for the first time, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as indifferent as he seemed.

Time passed, and your relationship with Suguru settled into something steady and comforting. He became your anchor, a quiet presence who never pried too deeply but always seemed to know when you needed someone to talk to—or when you just needed silence.

But the more time you spent with Suguru, the more obvious it became that whatever existed between you two was purely platonic. Suguru didn’t treat you any differently than he treated others he cared about. His kindness wasn’t exclusive; it was simply who he was. And, honestly, that was okay.

What wasn’t okay, however, was the growing tension between you and Satoru.

Every interaction with him felt charged, as though there were unspoken words hanging in the air, threatening to break free. He was quieter around you lately, more subdued than you’d ever seen him. It wasn’t the Satoru you knew, the one who filled every room he entered with a boundless energy that couldn’t be ignored.

And yet, he never stopped looking at you.

You caught him staring more often than not, his usually bright eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite decipher. You tried to ignore it, brushing off the way your stomach twisted every time you felt his gaze linger.

Until one day, he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

---

It was late after school, the sun dipping low in the sky as you packed your things. Most of the students had already left, but you’d stayed behind to finish an assignment. Suguru had offered to walk you home, but you insisted you’d be fine.

As you slung your bag over your shoulder and stepped into the empty hallway, you nearly bumped into Satoru.

“Whoa,” he said, his hands shooting out to steady you. “Careful.”

“Satoru?” you blinked, surprised. “What are you still doing here?”

“I was waiting for you,” he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Your brow furrowed. “Waiting for me? Why?”

He hesitated, his hands slipping into his pockets as he looked away. “Can we talk?”

The weight in his voice made your heart skip a beat. You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He led you outside, where the cool evening air wrapped around you both. You walked a short distance to a bench under a tree, the silence between you stretching uncomfortably.

Finally, Satoru broke it. “I don’t know how to say this,” he began, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “But I can’t keep it in anymore.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. “Satoru, what’s going on?”

He took a deep breath, his blue eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. “I’ve been an idiot,” he said. “I’ve been so focused on other things—on other people—that I didn’t realize what was right in front of me.”

Your breath hitched, and you opened your mouth to speak, but he continued before you could.

“I didn’t realize how much you mean to me,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “And I’m scared I’ve already screwed it up. But I need you to know—” He paused, his hands clenching into fists. “I love you.”

The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. You stared at him, stunned, your mind racing.

Satoru looked down, his usual bravado completely gone. “I know I don’t deserve it, not after how I’ve acted. But I had to tell you. I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine.”

For a moment, you were silent, the weight of his confession settling over you.

“Satoru…” you finally said, your voice soft. “Why now?”

He looked up, his eyes filled with something you’d never seen before—vulnerability. “Because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you,” he said. “Not to Suguru, not to anyone. I was jealous, and it made me realize how much I care about you. Not as a friend. As...as something more.”

Your heart swelled and ached all at once, the emotions swirling within you almost too much to bear.

“Satoru,” you said again, your voice trembling. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.”

His eyes widened, hope flickering in their depths. “You mean…?”

“I love you too,” you admitted, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I have for a long time.”

Relief and joy washed over his face, and he let out a shaky laugh. “You have no idea how happy that makes me,” he said, reaching for your hands.

You let him take them, his touch warm and familiar. And in that moment, it felt like all the pain, all the waiting, had been worth it.

Satoru Gojo wasn’t perfect—far from it. But as he looked at you with more love than you’d ever thought possible, you realized that he was everything you’d ever wanted.

Special:

The warmth of Suguru’s laughter filled the quiet park, the three of you lounging on a patch of soft grass under the shade of a massive tree. It had become a tradition to meet here after long days at school, a space where you could escape the world and just exist together.

Satoru was sprawled out on his back, one arm shielding his eyes from the sun, while Suguru sat cross-legged, his usual calm and collected demeanor on full display. You were sandwiched between them, leaning back on your hands, the breeze tugging gently at your hair.

“I don’t get it,” Satoru grumbled, sitting up abruptly and running a hand through his messy white hair. “Why does he always get the compliments?” He jabbed a finger at Suguru, who raised an eyebrow in mock amusement.

“Maybe because I’m more charming,” Suguru replied, his voice smooth and teasing.

“Charming, my ass,” Satoru scoffed. “You’re just taller. People fall for that whole ‘mysterious guy’ thing you’ve got going on.”

“Ah, so you’re admitting they don’t fall for you?” Suguru quipped, smirking.

You couldn’t help but laugh at their bickering. It was always like this—playful jabs, exaggerated arguments, and you caught somewhere in the middle. But today, there was an ease in the air that made it all feel special, like the world had melted away, leaving just the three of you.

“Okay, okay,” you interrupted, raising your hands to placate them. “Let’s not start a war over who’s more likable.”

“Too late,” Satoru said, his blue eyes gleaming mischievously as he nudged you with his shoulder. “You’re the tiebreaker. Who’s better—me or Suguru?”

Suguru chuckled softly, leaning back on his elbows. “Careful, Y/N. Your answer might just end a friendship.”

You rolled your eyes, used to their antics by now. “I’m not picking between you two,” you said firmly, though the smile on your face betrayed your amusement. “You’re both equally annoying.”

Satoru gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Annoying? Me? Impossible.”

Suguru shook his head, his grin widening. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Before Satoru could retort, you added, “But you’re also my favorite people in the world. So stop fishing for compliments.”

The sincerity in your voice seemed to catch them both off guard. Satoru’s teasing expression softened, and Suguru gave you a small, genuine smile.

“Careful,” Suguru said after a moment, his tone light but his gaze warm. “You’re going to make us emotional.”

“Too late,” Satoru said, leaning over to sling an arm around your shoulders. “Y/N’s stuck with us for life, whether she likes it or not.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t shrug him off. “Like I could get rid of you two even if I tried.”

The three of you sat there for a while longer, the teasing giving way to a comfortable silence. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the park, and you found yourself wishing that moments like this could last forever.

Because no matter how chaotic or complicated life got, being with Suguru and Satoru always felt like home.

[nikkalick]

Veilguard Spoilers below the cut. About the Blight, the current state of Southern Thedas, and the Veil…I’ve never made a rant like this so bear with my ramblings, please

I’ve seen so many people say, “We should’ve been able to tear down the Veil” and I feel like I’m going insane every time I see that take like…

MAMA A BLIGHT IS BEHIND IT??!

You think what happened to Southern Thedas was bad this game? You have no idea what’s in store for you if you open up the fucking Veil and let that trickle of Blight become a flood.

Point of Order just to set the scene with how bad the literal Blight is

“They (the writers/devs/Bioware/EA) nuked Southern Thedas so they don’t have to deal with the lore the past content set up there going forward”

Maybe. But also the only other Blight we’ve seen in game was the Fifth Blight. By all accounts a statistical anomaly in how it acted when compared to Blights 1-4. I don’t wanna delve too deep into this because it is so not the point I’m trying to make with this post, but the Architect very much had a hand in waking up Blight numero 5 and very likely impacted it in a way that made it less volatile. Past Blights saw Darkspawn hitting big populations hard and fast. The 5th started slow, in the wilds, at Ostagar. Away from large amounts of people. It is mentioned in DA:O that this Blight “feels different”.

The Blight we see in Veilguard is more in line with the Blights that came before the 5th. Something something the Inquisitor writing “worse than we have seen in living memory” because the only living memory anyone has of a Blight was the one from 20 years ago. Which was bad, but not as bad as they usually are. Veilguard’s is bad the way Blights are meant to be (if not worse because, ya know, the Gods), and it was still ONLY A TRICKLE OF WHAT THE BLIGHT IS BEHIND THE VEIL. If the full force of the Blight escapes the prison/the Fade that’s it. Goodnight to everyone in this world both within and without all of Thedas.

Moving on.

“Solas can move the Blight into the new prison that was meant for the Gods and then tear down the Veil. That was his plan.”

Sorry, did we play the same game? We know what the Blight is now. It’s the last remnants of the Titans. Twisted, broken, angry, nightmarish. It’s all that’s left. All that’s left are the plagued dreams of ancient beings that are so devastated because of what Mythal, Solas, and the rest of the Evanuris did to them with the very dagger we now hold.

I want to take a moment to address that what I’m about to say is said as someone who’s been trapped in Solavellen hell for years. I love Solas and his character, and I believe that yes, he had a plan that would have both moved (or killed) the remaining Evanuris and the Blight to a new prison while simultaneously tearing down the Fade. But if you, like me, wanted to redeem this idiot despite everything, then pray tell how does Solas locking up the Blight offer him said redemption?

How does locking away the only thing that remains of the Titans into a prison and throwing away the key redeem him? The Evanuris fucked up when using the Titan’s, idk…life blood? To take form. Solas fucked up when he, upon Mythal’s behest, created a weapon that sundered the Titan’s (and the Dwarves as whole) from their magic, from their dreams, from their very being. And they did it because they thought they had a right to. They put themselves above the dwarves and as a result they caused the Blight. And then they hid the Blight away. Yes, they hid it away to keep people safe, and yes, locking it and the Evanuris away when they tried to use what was essentially a bio weapon to maintain their position of power was a call that kept people safe for a long time. But the Veil was a consequence of that call. And while the Blight was trapped in its prison, behind the Veil, it got angrier and angrier with every passing generation.

Removing the Veil and shoving it into yet another prison will not only piss it off even more, but it doesn’t allow for Solas to actually atone for the part he played in its creation and the part he played in destroying what the dwarves used to have. He has to uphold the current prison. He has to go to it to try to soothe it. To heal it as best he can. Locking it away elsewhere, and then trying to offer it salvation after the fact? It’s not gonna cut it.

He has to go to the Black City, he has to face what he did, and he has to put aside his favorable bias towards giving the Elves “back what they lost” (a world current day Elves don’t remember and have never known) to instead put the safety and wellbeing of every being in the current world at a higher priority. That’s part of his redemption arc by the way; learning to value the lives of the people that walk this new world he had a hand in creating. Because when he wakes up before the start of DA:I he doesn’t value anyone. Shit, when Felassan declines to help him destroy the Veil and suggests he learns to appreciate the world that has been in place for centuries, Solas kills him for it.

All that said, he can’t fully put things right. He can’t reconnect the Blight with the dormant remains of the Titans. Because, as the game tells us, we’d then be faced with a bunch of Titans the size of mountains rampaging, rightfully so, because of the wrongs that were committed against them. But Solas can put in the work to find a way to ease its agony. And maybe, if given the time and the patience, one day the Veil could come down because the Blight will have had the opportunity and been given the help it needed to actually heal from the trauma that created it. And maybe taking the time to do that will have, in some small way, allowed him to make up for the shitty hand he played in destroying the Dwarves. A race he (finally) sees as his equal. Because that’s a big part of his fucking redemption arc.

[jaal-ama-daravv]

Obligatory you’re hot

Do we know why Emmrich wears the red glove? I feel like it should’ve been mentioned but I can’t find an answer.

mwah mwah

I have not heard nor seen any mention of his red glove in terms of Dragon Age lore. Whether it is simply a design choice or has symbolic meaning, we are not sure -

However, applying reality symbolism may provide some insight or headcanons for you.

There is a poem by John Milton called Paradise Lost, where the red right hand represents divine vengeance.

This poem has had a profound impact on pop culture, including video games, so it wouldn't surprise me if this was used as a guide for Emmrich's character. This poem has inspired works within Warhammer 40:000, Fallout, and Darksiders.

Specific to Emmrich: Within the poem, Milton discusses mutality of marriage and his view on love where he states, "The relationship between Adam and Eve is one of "mutual dependence, not a relation of domination or hierarchy". Which I think is a great line in terms of MW Rook and Emmrich coming from the Mourn Watch, a suspected death cult.

The poem's main themes discuss the complexitities of human relationships and the nature of 'good' and 'bad'. Inferring to the red right hand of God. I don't belieive Emmrich see's himself as a God, but I do believe he considers himself a 'Bishop' in terms of their meaning. Sherapparing lost souls (spirits) to a higher sense (fade). A bishop also represents a senior member (senior necromancer) of a clergy (Mourn Watch) which can be in charge and empowered to confer holy orders (commune with dead). This also inspired my 'Rook to Bishop Four' fanfiction series title.

This is a cover of Nick Cave's original song which was inspired by the Paradise Lost poem - which I think speaks alot of Emmrich's underlying characteristic traits.

"He's a god, he's a man, he's a ghost, he's a guru". Lich Lord, Mortal, Connection to spirits/wisps, Professor.

"Hidden in his coat is a red right hand" - Inferring that Emmrich has the ability to behave radically, but keeps it hidden under a cool composure. I say this in terms of if Emmrich was to be emotionally unhinged.

Gloves offer a note of symbolism.

Gloves symbolize higher status, and nobility.

and as Neve Gallus and I have deduced that because Emmrich tries to cover up his commoner background to gain more respect -

"It is likely that Emmrich believes that if he appears grandiose in his appearance and is articulate in the way he speaks he can therefore elude people to his commoner origins; people won't question that he belongs if he has stature, or at least appears as if he does."

It is very very likely that Emmrich wears the glove as a way to appear noble and put together.

Otherwise it's just straight up a red glove on his right hand.

but that would be boring, wouldn't it dear?

[lucid-loves]

Feelings Reforged

Imagine: March carrying you home after you fall from a fever.

“Earth to Y/n? You shouldn’t space out while handling the forge.” March began to chastise like he always did, but you knew it came from his worry for you. You were zoning out a little too much for someone that was handling hot coals. 

“Huh? Oh, sorry. . .” You simply apologized, a rosy blush creeping along your soft cheeks. 

March quirked a thick brow, but didn’t question you further. It was nice that he tended to mind his own business in moments where it counted. It wasn’t like you were ready to confess your feelings for him just yet. 

Besides thinking about how handsome he looked next to the light of the fire though, you were also starting to feel a little burnt out. You’ve been toiling away at the farm for a good two years without a real break trying to prove him wrong, that you were here in Mistria to stay, and to get money in your pockets.

Everyone was busy seemingly all the time, but even the hardest workers in town found the time to relax at the beach or at Juniper’s bathhouse. Even Adeline, the workaholic that she is, managed to fit in quality time with the girls. 

There was a time where March noticed just how busy you were each week too during a Friday night at the Inn. Called it out too with a bright smile and invite you to the seat next to him. Yeah, he was drunk at the time, but he still noticed.

You hoped that he didn’t notice how you subtly swayed your head in lightheadedness. 

“Pay attention. We don’t want any accidents.” He reprimanded again, quickly getting annoyed with how distracted you seemed. You asked him to teach you how to make more metal works. He had to make time out of his busy schedule for you. And now you were daydreaming? He could be getting through another order of nails by now.

“Sorry, March. Can you show me again?” You heavily sighed, placing your shaky hands in your pockets. 

March gave an exasperated huff and struck his heavy hammer down on a molten shield, molding it to the perfect shape. “Strike like this. See how flat I made it? Not too thin, but not too thick either. You don’t want it to snap on impact or be too heavy to hold. Got it now?”

You nodded lazily and reached for the shield, your vision getting dark. A strong grip grasped your hands roughly before you could make contact with the project. “You idiot! The shield is like lava! Are you trying to burn your hands off?! Grab the forceps!”

An attempt at an apology was made, but it came out slurred as you caved into the fever. March stiffened as your body leaned into his, your eyes closing in sudden exhaustion. The feeling of his bare shoulder on your head felt cool to the touch, despite the both of you being near the hot forge. The blacksmith noticed that stark contrast in body temperature.

“H-Hey! Y/n?!” He held you up, once furrowed brows in annoyance now morphing into worry. He held you steady against him, feeling just how hot your forehead burned against his hand. 

March looked around the area, hoping that someone from the small town was around to help out. When he noticed no one, he clicked his tongue and stepped up. Thanks to strength built by years of blacksmithery, you were light as a feather as he began to carry you home.

As he walked with you in his arms, he thought about how he should’ve noticed your fever sooner. You were zoning out a lot more than usual. You didn’t seem as energetic either, not like how you were every day. Now that he thought about it, he’s never really seen you not working.

And he thought he knew you better than this.

“You should take better care of yourself.” He scolded at your unconscious body. You stirred a bit in response, the side of your head nuzzling closer to March’s skin. He knew that you probably didn’t know that you were doing it, but he couldn’t help but start to redden. His ears were burning so hot that he could be the one with the fever.

The door to your house was unlocked, the town being safe enough to warrant such carelessness. March considered dropping you on the couch, but then decided that you would be more comfortable on the bed. Once you were settled down and tucked in, he took a moment to breathe from the long walk.

You were still warm and asleep, clearly sick from all your hard work. March bit his lip as he noticed how nicely decorated the house was. How organized and full your fields were with produce. He remembered when this land was nothing but a rotting home and overgrown grass.

He was wrong about you. 

March brushed back some hair sticking to your sweaty face. “Sorry, Y/n. You’ve worked hard. I’m proud of you.” 

He blushed hard at his own words, his heart going a mile a minute. More of your features began to come to light as he watched you sleep. How nice your lashes looked. How perfect your face contoured. 

He’s tried so hard to push those invasive feelings down since the moment he met you. March didn’t want to have false hope about you. He didn’t want to get hurt. Yet, you have consistently proven yourself every single day.

Damn it, he was in love with you. 

To distract himself from his feelings, he went to your kitchen to begin cooking. You were going to need something gentle on your body once you wake up. 

[strayloveletter]

i just finished normal people and while i am deeply attached to some of the characters… the book wasn’t as profound as i was hoping for it to be.

[venti-death-watch]

so glad the hearth timeline is like… slightly more understandable than before. previously i had freminet down as being given to the hearth at about 5, arle killing the previous knave when he was about 8, and the twins being taken in a few months later at about 12 when he was still 8. for my au, that makes them about four years apart, which feels slightly large of an age gap but ultimately it works better than making them a year or two apart.

apparently, canonically arle was 16 when clervie died at 16, 17 when she killed the previous knave, and then spent an unknown amount of time in prison before becoming a harbinger and taking over as the director of the house of hearth.

freminet was taken in during the year between clervie’s death and crucabena’s death. the twins were taken in a few months after that.

if freminet was taken in at 5-6, the twins taken in around 9-10, that keeps the age gap between the trio as well as explains the ~10 year gap between this and canon. that would make freminet 15-16 and the twins 19-20, which fits them really well. i wish arlecchino was older, though; she definitely feels older than ~27.

[dongpound]

I feel like I could go on for hours about the Kavaxas Arc like it is truly my Roman Empire. With like 2 or 3 things changed it could’ve and should’ve been the series finale

[ittybittyfanblog]

Only You, Darling (Only You, Babe)

Summary: There were orders for your abduction. You were made to be the bait by a rival gang to get to the elusive head of Onychinus. Sylus doesn’t take it too well. Word Count: 4.8k Tags: mc x sylus, fem!reader x sylus (use of she/her pronouns), depictions of violence (it gets a little graphic), reader gets abducted and injured, strong language, protective!sylus, he’s a little unhinged here, self-indulgent! A/N: I can’t believe this game pulled me out of a three-year creative rut LMAO. I’ve been doing fanarts, now I’m writing again?? The power these pixelated men hold over me, man.  Anyway, enjoy!  This version of Sylus is probably a little OOC idk idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It was close to midnight, and you're being followed.

On your six, a stocky man in an unassuming dark suit has been tailing you since you left the dingy bodega a little over a mile away from your apartment for about, three? five minutes– no, maybe even longer.

Shit, you mouth silently. Sloppy. You should’ve noticed him sooner, and the two other lackeys now closing in from up ahead. They’re armed too, if the hands hidden inside their jackets were any indication.

As if things aren't looking bad enough, you’ve decided tonight would be the perfect night to go weaponless, deciding against bringing your handgun with you since it was supposed to just be a quick run to the store for supplies. Namely, the late-night cravings sort of supply.

You clutch the wrinkled paper bag containing your coveted jalapeño Cheetos tightly.

This is what greed does to you, a mocking voice echoes in your head. Since when did your inner voice of reason sound masculine and oh-so-familiar? 

Exhaling quietly, you try to calm the rising beat of your heart and appear to be clueless of your surroundings. Walk at a normal pace. Look unaware of the men with the intention to… What even was this? An ambush? Good, old, regular robbery? No, it doesn’t seem like they were in it for something that insignificant. They wouldn’t even bother to be this cautious if it were. 

But then, what were they here for? The dangers you were more familiar with are of the monstrous kind in the literal sense of the word; entities that you face on a daily basis as a Deepspace hunter. Not the regular threats posed by mankind – which in this particular situation, suddenly feels more foreboding.

While racking your brain for ideas on how to slip away from their sight without escalating the situation, you fail to notice a fourth person hidden behind the dumpster inside the narrow alleyway on your left until you feel the cold, hard edge of a pistol gun hit your temple.  

With a shout, your hand shoots up in an attempt to yank the gun away from the hand holding it but the sudden burst of pain from the impact has left you feeling dizzy and off-kilter. The moment you throw your fists up to block your face, heavy fists strike you directly in a flurry of hits, colliding with your forearm and your unguarded ribs.

You let out a pained grunt as you stagger backwards, trying your hardest to keep yourself from falling back on your ass and ward off the next incoming attack. 

A sinister laugh alerts you of the others, now surrounding you in a circle. Shit!

You hastily shift your legs into a crouching position, bracing yourself as you attempt to sidestep the one in front of you before making a run for it. You spring into action, but before you can even take another step, an arm shoots out and coils tightly around your neck like a noose. A cloth that reeks of something distinct is slapped over your mouth and nose, rendering you unable to do anything but struggle. 

“Now, now– the boss wants her in one piece, John,” The stocky man, who’s apparently larger and more jacked up-close, pipes up. John tightens the limb circling your throat, preventing you from breathing, before slightly loosening his grip. 

 “I’d advise you from struggling too much, sweetheart. But if you insist on making this harder for yourself,” the man talking suddenly grins, revealing rows of crooked, silver teeth. “He ain’t said nothin’ about a couple of bruises.” 

You give him your dirtiest glare, trying to pull away from the death grip the burly man called John had on you, but you feel your muscles slowly becoming heavier and your vision starting to blur. 

Ch-chloroform?

You make a muffled shout, a scurry that earns you a heavy hit on the stomach, one last futile move to free yourself, but the inevitable effect of the potent substance starts to overpower you. 

“After all, we need to make sure that the big bad boss of Onychinus actually comes for his bitch, don’t we?”

Rendered completely useless, the men start to make quick work to restrain your arms and legs in a hogtie before carrying you down the street, to a shaded corner where a large, gray van is parked.

The barn doors open, and you’re tossed in carelessly to the back, landing painfully on the cold, hard floor. An involuntary whimper escapes your lips, feeling like one big bruise; splotches of red and blue start to form like a violent watercolor on your skin. 

The engine revs. Before completely losing consciousness, you think you hear a faint caw.

The car drives off the beaten path, into the night, leaving not a trace of evidence of what transpired mere minutes ago aside from a discarded brown paper bag and a deflated bag of chips. 

-

-

-

From a distance, flying towards the hazy skyline, a mechanical bird crows a bad omen. 

_____

In the dead of the night, the head of Onychinus sits as a spectator; a towering presence at the head of a table inside a private room, obscured in plain sight, in an unremarkable establishment far east of Linkon City. 

Unassuming as it may be, the room’s occupants are men of great renown, both in influence and notoriety. The CEO of a chain business in Azure Square, a regional manager of a well-known bank in Linkon, the head of a weapons trade representing a faction in the N109 zone… All held significant power, all held ulterior motives.

A meeting of minds; the type held only in the secrecy of the night, gone in the break of dawn. 

Sylus has half the mind to listen in on the droning exchange of fake pleasantries and plastic smiles as the men deal trades in nature that of weapons and favors. A number of hungry, beady eyes cast him furtive glances, fearful yet devout. Some cautious in the hope of earning his approval. 

“–the package will be en route to the agreed-upon address by the end of the week,” a stout man in spectacles finishes off, clearing his throat. Beads of sweat start to form at the back of his neck as red eyes bore into his, assessing. Deliberating. “O-or if Richard’s able to give me the go-ahead in advance, I’ll make sure it arrives by Friday,” a gulp–then, “sir.” 

All in reverence. 

He hums, his switchblade dancing idly in his hand, deliberately stretching the tension that hangs heavy in the air. He delights in this power to unsettle, savoring the authority that his mere presence commands—a demand for absolute deference. 

“Make it half that time, will you, Raymond?” Sylus responds amicably, not as a question. The man, Raymond, sputters. 

“That won’t be pos–” Sylus tilts his head, eyes shifting into something more dangerous. “Please, I’ll try to cut the time shorter but there won’t be any assurances.” 

The pale-haired man sighs in acquiescence. “I guess that will have to do.” Raymond lets out an exhale of relief, but catches his breath as Sylus continues, “Any later than Wednesday, and I’ll come to claim it personally.” 

Raymond, more nerves than man, starts to blabber something in response–but stops when something black suddenly appears in a blaze of dark energy, near the shoulder of the intimidating man he’s trying to appeal to. 

Sylus raises a hand, and a large crow lands on his pointer finger. 

He caws, once. Twice. And shows a projection. 

The inhospitably cold room suddenly went glacial. 

All conversation halts to a stop as an overwhelmingly suffocating aura starts to emanate from the man–no, the being at the head of the table, making all that are in the vicinity freeze in fear. 

The devil posing as the leader of Onychinus abruptly stands up, and Raymond thinks, Oh I’m going to die here.

Without a word, the man disappears in a Stygian haze.

_

Five minutes later, only after they felt like death was no longer looming over their heads, did anyone dare to move a muscle.

_____

Your head hurts, and your mouth tastes of rust. 

Having been awake for longer than your captors were aware of – two (?) of which bickering near a barred slate of metal that you assume is the door after taking a quick peek from beneath the mess of hair concealing your face – you try to get your bearings together without arousing the suspicion of your present audience. 

“–bet it’s gonna take a while ‘fore that guy arrives. You think she’s enough to get him to show his face?” 

“Damned if I know. In any case, we got a pretty, li’l plaything on our hands,” a snort. “Make her worth the effort.” 

Where were you? From what it looks like, you’ve been transported into a nondescript underground bunker of sorts, dank with a hint of mildew and rot in the air; a rumbling air vent on your left masking any noise that escaped your mouth when you woke up. The area is poorly lit, save for the flickering bulb hanging precariously above your head as your main source of light – good for casting shadows to hide your bruised face, bad for the pounding headache you’re pretty sure is a concussion. And with your back seemingly close to a wall, you arrive at the conclusion that there are no other entryways, no way to leave, but the guarded door in front of you. 

In short, you have no idea where you are. 

Fuck–this is bad, you swear to yourself internally, trying to control the rising panic swelling up your chest. You never thought your nightcap would lead to this mess. Nobody knows about your current predicament, and it’ll take more than a day before your absence raises any alarms, so right now, you’re on your own. 

Think, think! What can you do?

What can you do? You have nothing on you, nothing you can use as a makeshift weapon to defend yourself with, and your hands are tightly bound behind your back by a thick, heavily twined rope with no give. The situation is slowly turning bleaker by the second, and it isn’t even your fault that you’re here in the first place! You were made a pawn, a mere bait in this messed-up dick-measuring contest between a crazy, sadistic, self-proclaimed head honcho and Onychinus’s own crazy, sadistic–

Wait a minute. Sylus. 

You send a strong prayer to anyone above that’s listening, and an angry telepathic shout for good measure to the one who’s unaware of his involvement – but nonetheless the source of your ruined night – in this attempt at kidnapping a perfectly law-abiding citizen of Linkon.

Sylus, as much as I hate your unfortunate tendency to stalk me through means that, honestly? Eludes the hell out of me, I really, REALLY hope that you’ve been keeping tabs toni–

“Hey, boss! I think this one’s awake!”

Fuck. No use pretending anymore. 

You hear heavy footsteps from outside the room before the corroded metal door swings open to reveal a large man, easily standing above six feet, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and an unsettling smile. His arms are covered in tattoos– overlapping, almost undecipherable. A gnarly scar runs from the side of his mouth to just above his brow bone; his right eye a cloudy gray, most likely a morbid souvenir from the sustained injury.

His functional eye zeroes in on your pitiful form, and his smile widens into a hostile grin. 

“Well, well. It seems like our esteemed guest is finally ready to join in the fun,” His voice sounds like gravel, with a mocking intonation. “I hope my men weren't too rough with you on the way here.” 

You let out a breath through your teeth, blinking a few times to try and rid the blurring in your vision. You have to bide your time– “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” 

The man cocks his head to the side, smile still in place. “I assume you already know. But I’ll indulge you your little questions, why not?”

He crosses the space separating the two of you with just a few, languid steps before he’s in front of you. He leans forward, brushing the messy locks of hair – dried with blood – away from your face in a deceptively calm manner. “The devil needs to pay his dues, but it’s been rather difficult to get a hold of him, you see,” he sighs in exaggerated disappointment. ”I intend to collect, so I waited patiently for the right moment, for an opening. For an opportunity. 

And here, the opportunity presents herself.” 

You sneer, moving your head back to let your hair fall from his creepy hold. “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, mister, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong idea.”

He barks out a laugh before gripping your chin tightly between his fingers. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you. Maybe we can find a better use for it.” 

You feel it before you hear it. 

“Perhaps not.” 

Something vicious saturates the air, something intense and terrifying and wrong. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and some sort of primordial response deep within your brain is telling you to get away from it.

But then, the paralyzing fear melts away to something akin to hope when you realize the source of this new disturbance.

Relief washes over you when familiar ink-and-red tendrils materialize behind the man in front of you. The dark wisps dissipate like smoke as soon as it comes and in place, your savior – sporting an expression that could only be described as downright murderous – stands before you, all six feet of unadulterated rage.

Several things happened so fast, it was almost simultaneous.

A cacophony of shouts came loudest from the two men who had been on guard duty but screams also echoed from outside the room. You saw flashes of red, twin laughter, and blood spurting from the necks of the now headless guards, and then a symphony of bullets and a lot of things breaking rang across the room. 

Suddenly– 

Deafening silence. As if something has put an abrupt stop to the noise. 

Amidst all the chaos, the scarred man in front of you had no time to make a move before savage whips of crackling energy engulfed him, leaving only his head free from the smothering darkness. 

His expression betrays something wild and manic as he tries twisting around to look at the figure behind him. “You–”

Sylus pays no mind to the breathing, dead fool – lower than dirt on his feet, with the nerve to harm what is most precious to him – as he keeps his gaze solely on you; his eyes darting up and down as if taking inventory of all the bruises and scrapes you sustained from the abduction. 

You meet his eyes. “You came.” 

An indecipherable look passes his face, gone as quickly as it came. “A little too late. I apologize.” 

You weakly huff out a chuckle, wanting to shake your head but decide against it lest it aggravates your concussion. A prickling sensation, then the rope around your wrists falls off with a quiet thud. 

“Luke. Kieran.” 

“Everything’s all accounted for, boss,” Kieran announces, suddenly appearing beside your right, along with Luke who’s on your left. Both look no worse for wear.

 The latter gives you a sympathetic look. “Oh, man. They got you good, little crow.” 

“Caught me off-guard, s’all,” you insist half-heartedly. 

A sigh. “Transport her directly back to base. Attend to her critical injuries once you arrive, and keep her awake. I’ll handle the rest once I get back,” Sylus instructs the twins in a tone that brooks no argument.

They nod in sync and start making a move to carry you out, but you protest.

“Wait, you’re staying behind?” For some reason, the thought of being separated from him, even for a short amount of time, makes you feel ill. Well, worse than your current state at least. 

Sanguine eyes soften when he hears the tremble in your voice. The offending man in front of you, reduced into something less threatening than a cowering dog in comparison to your rescuer, is forcibly pushed aside to make room for Sylus as he steps closer. 

He crouches low so that you’re looking down on him instead of up. One large hand covers both of yours, mindfully avoiding the fresh rope burns on your wrists, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the unmarred part of your skin. 

“This will be quick, sweetie. I’ll be back by your side before you know it,” he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “I swear to you.”

You swallow, but nodded reluctantly. “Come home soon.” 

“I will.”

With that, you let yourself be carried out of the claustrophobic space you were confined to, into a larger room littered with unmoving bodies that you're frankly too tired to care about at the moment, up three (rickety) flights of stairs where you exit into what looks like the inside of an empty shipping container, before finally, finally getting out. 

A gust of salty wind hits you and you ask, “Are we near the docks?” 

“Yeah,” Kieran answers, carefully putting you down on the backseat of Sylus’ car. “Mephisto trailed after the van they stuffed you in before reporting back to the boss. We followed soon after.” 

Luke frowns as he inserts the key in the ignition. “We weren’t aware that they had eyes on you for a while now. An oversight on our part, won’t happen again,” he assures you. “Gotta give them props for that, at least.” 

Kieran, now getting in the passenger side of the vehicle, shoots him a look. 

“Anyway, we’re glad we got to you before they did anything… worse,” Kieran continues, then winces in a show of mock sympathy. “Can’t say the same to that fucker back inside. Haven’t felt Sylus’ bloodlust this strong in a long while.” 

You try to focus on their words, but you feel yourself nodding off as the remaining adrenaline slowly leaves your body. You know you should feel more worried about what the two were insinuating, but your mouth still tastes like you swallowed a bunch of coins and you just want a soft bed to sleep in for an entire day. Or three. 

“Oi, no sleeping. Doctor’s orders,” A snapping finger in front of your face forces you awake. 

You blink your tired eyes open in an attempt to stay lucid, the pulsing pain in your head becoming more prominent as soon as the threat of danger has passed. 

“This is gonna be a long night,” you sigh, wishing that Sylus will keep his word and be quick about… whatever he’s planning to do with your abductor. 

–––––

There hasn’t been much left of the man who proclaims to be the new head of an arms syndicate Sylus had dealt with in the past. He recalls the history of his relationship with the cartel being less than cordial, but nothing that would warrant his ire. Except for tonight.

He usually doesn’t leave a trace when doling out punishments; no, not anymore. Not in recent years. He prefers to be efficient about his killings, dissipating any evidence in thin air after reducing them into fine paste, rather than make a big show out of it. Quick and precise.

Except today… Someone had the arrogance, the absolute audacity to steal directly from the dragon’s nest.

The contents of which have always been kept in strict confidentiality. What is known, only chosen individuals bound to secrecy are privy to, and a lot of people would kill for. 

But unbeknownst to anyone else but its owner, only one thing in this hoard of secrets truly matters to the dragon. One solitary treasure alone he would burn planets for – and someone has tried to steal it.

Harm. the treasure. To get to him. 

It seems as if the new bloods needed a reminder of who, exactly, they’re stealing from. 

One who dwells deep within the underbelly of the cities both monster and men inhabit, that even the most heinous of sinners seeking solace in the dark, are afraid of. 

And what retribution tastes like to those who are foolish enough to bite more than what they can chew.

The poor soul unfortunate enough to be the first one to discover the carnage will witness that what was left of the man that had wronged the Onychinus kingpin is stuck on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of a basement where the treasure was held captive. They will find that the man’s innards are deliberately hung in a haphazard fashion, in all corners of the room like bloody, sinewy tinsel. 

And the centerpiece of this bloodbath is none other than the man’s decapitated head, forcibly attached to the hanging light in the middle of the room. A bulb crudely drilled past his cranium, while blood dripped down the floor in slow, ominous rivulets. 

They will understand in dawning horror that the one responsible for this... gross butchery, has left the head swinging. That the man’s mouth will forever remain agape in an eternal scream to immortalize the exact moment he realizes the gravity of his sin.   

Yes, Sylus is more than glad to remind them. 

_____

You arrive a quarter past four AM. 

Barely taking a step past the foyer, the twins immediately whisk you inside to perform an ‘emergency patch-up.’ Luke’s words, not yours.

“We’re your personal CNA while waiting for the head nurse to take over,” he explains cheerfully, wrapping another layer of gauze around your wrist. You hiss when Kieran dabs a cotton ball on the gash on your temple, peroxide fizzing as it comes in contact with the dried-up blood. Muttering out a “sorry!” Kieran does quick work in cleaning the injury and covering the affected area.

In no time at all, all visible wounds are bandaged and disinfected. The worst of your head wound had to be stitched up, but other than that, nothing seems to require immediate medical attention. There’s nothing left for you to do but to bear the aches that came along with the bruises – especially on your tender midriff – and to pop a tylenol for your throbbing headache.

You offer them a sincere, “Thanks. No, really.” before they leave you in Sylus’ room, after multiple reminders to “not sleep before the attending nurse arrives for the final diagnosis.” 

(You think they might have enjoyed playing caretaker a little too much.) 

With a lot more effort than you care to admit, you painstakingly remove your bloodstained clothes until you're down to your underwear, before draping yourself in a large, red, silk robe. A hot shower sounds heavenly to your sore muscles, but the soft mattress is calling to you more so you head straight to bed. 

With nothing else to occupy yourself with, you prop your head on a mountain of pillows – to keep yourself relatively upright – and let out a sigh. 

Tonight had been a shitshow. All you wanted was something to snack on while you binge through the last season of the show you were watching back at your apartment; you never thought a late-night run to the store just a few blocks away would result in… this. If not for Sylus’ intervention, you’re sure you'd be leaving with a lot more than a couple of scrapes. If not worse.

You're lost in your own thoughts when short, successive raps on the door catch your attention. It swings open before you have the chance to pipe out a, “come in!”

Speak of the devil.

Sylus enters the room, not a hair out of place. You notice that he’s changed into a casual, brown sweater and a pair of dark-washed jeans. His eyes meet yours, tightly-controlled expression relaxing as he crosses the room towards the side of your bed, wasting no time. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Still pretty sore, but Luke and Kieran already handled the worst of my injuries,” you answer, making a move to sit up. Sylus tuts disapprovingly, gentle as he puts a hand on your chest to prevent you from moving any further. He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you. Once fully settled, he let out a deep sigh.

“You had me worried for a moment there, kitten.” He admits, a slightly rough edge to his voice as emotion seeps into it. He regards you intently, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re here, safe. 

Your hand reaches out towards his face. Without missing a beat, he leans in to nuzzle your palm, eyes closing shut. He reminds you of a big wolf, unbridled fire simmering beneath the surface, yet tame in the presence of his handler. 

“I’m fine now, thanks to you,” you assure him with a lopsided smile. “Give my thanks to Mephisto, as well. Tell him he gets a pass on the stalking this time.” 

Sylus opens his eyes, a hint of amusement and something else you can’t identify flickering through. “Oh, sweetie. You’ll be lucky if that bird gives you the privacy to bathe alone after tonight,” he jokes. 

He’s joking. Right?

You eye him for a moment before deciding to let it go. You're too tired to argue.

Instead, you cautiously ask a question you aren’t sure you even want the answer to. “What happened after we left?” 

Sylus expression doesn’t change except for the upward tick on the corner of his mouth; the same peculiar glint in his eyes coming across a little stronger. “They won’t be bothering you anymore. You don’t need to worry about anyone coming for you.”

“That’s not what I asked.” 

He hums. “Do you really want to know?”

You stare at him, and he stares back at you placidly. 

You purse your lips and look away. “Maybe not.” 

Sylus breathes out a laugh. He gently grasps your chin between his forefinger and thumb, guiding your head to meet his gaze once more. A softer look on his face, inching closer to yours.

Your heartbeat slightly picks up. In your vulnerable state, you feel a welling desire to bare your feelings to the man in front of you. You want to tell him how relieved you felt when you saw him in that cursed basement, how he was able to quell your fears with just his presence alone the moment he appeared in a familiar haze of black and red. Like your own, personal, vindictive guardian. 

Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, your lips meeting his. 

Sylus groans quietly, a hand cupping your face as he leans closer to deepen the kiss. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling of contentment from being this close to him. You feel, more than you see, how his taut body loses the remaining tension from the events that transpired just mere hours ago, how he finally relaxes as he loses himself in you.

Very carefully, he eases you further down, cradling your head with one hand until it rests on a pillow. His lips drift to the corner of your mouth, trailing soft kisses up to the apples of your cheeks, your forehead, then to your nose. 

He pulls back slightly, chuckling when you make a sound of discontent. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you– half-lidded and tender. 

In a low voice, he instructs, “Rest. You need it.”

The feeling of exhaustion pulls you in, but before you surrender to it, you remind Sylus, “I’m not that fragile, you know. You don’t have to worry too much.” You poke his cheek and he catches the offending digit to bite it affectionately. “I’ll be up and running in no time.”

He doesn't speak for a minute, considering your words. His mouth sets into a thin line before letting out a sigh.

���And if you get hurt again? What then?" He whispers so quietly, seeming as if he's talking to himself.

"I'll get hurt again, that's for sure," You tell him, matter-of-factly. "But really, that’s just an occupational hazard. I’m sure you realize."

“Love — what a terrible, little thing,” he muses, half-forlornly, half in jest. "I’d rip this cold heart out and throw it in flames if I could.”

While speaking, his hand finds its way into the tangles of your hair, gently running his fingers through the strands in a lulling manner. His lips landing on the crown of your head softly. Reverently.

You hum sleepily.

“Of course you would, Sy.”

_____

“You’ll be glad to know that the artifact you had your eye on back at the auction will be arriving this Wednesday.” 

“Huh? But I thought it was already sold to someone else?”

Sylus shrugs. “I made a counteroffer.” 

“You didn’t have to. I told you it was fine.” 

“I know. But I also recall a certain someone telling me how much they wished they had placed a bid on it on our way back,” he pinches your cheek fondly. “Don’t worry about it, kitten. It’s yours.”

“Oh. Well– thank you,” you yawn in response, leaning your head to rest against his palm.

His thumb strokes your cheek. “Anything for you.”

[trashytracktales]

Adrenaline state of mind | FC⁴³

𐙚 summary ──── After a long, eventful Sunday in São Paulo, Franco finds himself sharing an unexpected ride back to his hotel. What starts as a casual conversation about racing and dreams, slowly turns into something deeper, as the quiet intimacy of the night pulls them closer.

𐙚 pairing ──── Franco Colapinto x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, smut, explicit language, mentions of alcohol and drinking, mentions of racing incidents (Franco's crash in Brazil), swearing, suggestive/flirty behavior, unprotected shower sex (pull out game strong lol).

𐙚 word count ──── 4.6k

𐙚 date ──── Nov. 17, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── Every single time I open my silly writing app I'm thinking, this is the day I'll go for pure smut & no build-up, and every single time I fail miserably 🤍

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

FRANCO KNOWS IT could've been much worse. So, he's done overthinking for the night. After a chaotic race that ended with a crash on Lap 43, all he wants is to go back to his hotel room and wash the day off.

The adrenaline is still there, giving him random rushes throughout his body every time he remembers his error. The rain made it all difficult, of course, but he can't blame the weather — that's what amateurs do.

The impact was jarring, even from the angles the cameras caught. But for Franco, being inside the car while it was happening — it scared him. And he's now too scared to admit that he's scared. He’s spent hours afterward in the paddock, walking the line between shaking it off and dwelling on it, and still, he can't help but coming back to the same feeling. Again and again.

It's past midnight now, and most of the lights in the paddock have dimmed. The Brazilian night is humid, shadows stretching out beneath a heavy, damp sky. The sounds of engines are quieted for once, replaced by the murmur of distant voices and the occasional clash of closing garages. There aren’t many people left — just a handful of team members gathering last equipment, and a few scattered mechanics.

And her.

He knows her only through Alex. She’s the friend he’s seen around a for a couple of races — in Italy first, then US, and now here. Formally, they met in the Williams garage, after qualifying in Monza. They didn't talk much, but enough for him to remember her name. And her smile.

She’s leaning against a barrier near the Red Bull hospitality area, shielded from the light shower while scrolling on her phone. The light that comes from the screen is softly reflecting on her face, Franco noticing the little frown between her eyebrows and how focused she is, for some reason. Her head is tipped forward, strands of hair falling loose around her face, and he finds a softness in her expression that catches his eye the second he gets closer.

“Thought you left already?” he says with a thick accent, but it sounds more like a question in the end.

She looks up, a little startled, but then her face lights up in surprise. “Oh, Franco. Hey. No, just… I'm actually trying to find a ride. Alex and Lily took off right after the race. Probably should’ve left with them,” she says with a small laugh. “Caught up with some familiar faces and I lost track of time,” she explains, moving her weight from one foot to the other.

There’s a faint tension behind his easygoing demeanor, but he holds her gaze with a calm confidence. “Want to come with? We’re at the same hotel, no? I was just heading there.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, her eyes widening in recognition. “That’d be nice, actually.”

“Of course.”

They start walking together, cutting through the raindrops, neither of them looking very bothered by it. The crisp smell of rain blends softly with her sweet, floral scent, making Franco's mind wander, and he realizes too late she just asked him something, only because the space between them went quiet for a bit.

“I’m sorry, come again?”

She puffs a little chucke out, “I asked how are you feeling, but just got my answer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Franco shrugs, “Could've been worse,” he finally says it out loud.

“Still. It looked pretty intense on the screens.”

His heart clenches, but tries to keep a neutral tone, “It was. Maybe a bit too much,” he laughs dryly. “Felt like it happened in slow motion, honestly.” Franco glances down at her, half-smiling. “But I survived.”

She hums softly, nudging him gently. “Guess that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Crash, pick up the pieces, do it all again?”

He shrugs, “Pretty sure I’m supposed to try and not crash at all.”

He didn't even try to be funny, but she finds it hilarious the way Franco emphasizes the words, as if he pours his passion into each one of them. Her hands wrap around her own body as they walk, their footsteps the only sound echoing in the quiet paddock. He notices it immediately, taking off his Williams jacket and draping it over her shoulders.

“Cold?” asks Franco, smirking, without looking in her direction.

She blushes at the warmth that instantly wraps around her, the faint scent of his cologne somehow comforting. It's not intoxicating, or too strong. Just a slight trace of cardamom, followed by an unexpected freshness.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, wrapping the jacket close around her.

THE RAIN IS still falling lightly when they get back to the hotel, the sound a steady rhythm against the roof of the car. None of them kept quiet the entire drive — they started off boring, agreeing that the capricious weather was a real pain in the ass throughout the weekend, but their conversation took off, flying like ping-pong balls from one topic to another.

Now, the tension between them is like a subtle current that neither is rushing to acknowledge, but it's buzzing just beneath the surface.

Who would've thought they have so much in common?

“You up for a drink?” asks Franco, taking even himself by surprise.

She has to think about it for a while — it can't be a good idea. He's had a long weekend and needs rest, and she desperately needs to dry up. However, her pulse starts racing just at the thought of being around him more.

Her lips lift in a small smile. “ Alright. Just one,” she agrees, raising a finger in the air to accentuate her determination.

One drink turns into two.

Then three, each sip bringing them closer, the conversations drifting from track tales to late-night jokes, then back to stories about his unexpected rookie season. She listens intently, her laughter genuine, her gaze warm and focused, like he’s the only one she’s interested in hearing from. There’s a depth to her that Franco can’t look away from, a curiosity and calmness that makes him feel understood; he didn't know he needed that until now.

“So,” says Franco after taking a sip of his fourth drink. “Can I ask you something?” his gaze is observant, yet gentle, as he decides to take the conversation to a more personal tone.

“Shoot,” she nods once, just starting on her third Negroni.

“You seem to know a lot about the world of racing, and the people involved in it. But you’re not part of it. Why?”

She smirks in his direction, “Yet. I mean, there is no school to prepare someone for the position I want, but I hope I’ll get to be in front of the monitors one day. To tell your engineer when is the optimal time to pit or what tires to use in order to gain competitive advantage, maybe, ” her voice is lost in reverie, like she's been dreaming about this for a long time.

He cocks an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by her answer, “You want to be a race strategist? That’s quite unique, no? Most people,” adds Franco, pointing at himself, “Dream of being racers.”

“I work better with my brain than my body. Plus, it's too late for me, even if I wanted to do something about it,” she says, a tint of nostalgia embracing her by the shoulders. “I've also seen Alex training before,” she continues, shaking her head while laughing, “Nope, thank you.”

“So then, brains over brawn, huh?”

“In my case, yes. Something like that,” she agrees, catching the little hint of interest in his eyes.

He studies her for a moment as if he tries to figure her out, because he knows there’s more to her than what meets the eye; their interaction so far proves that. It's a pleasant surprise for him, because it means there is a chance he'll get to see her around the paddock more frequently. And the thought makes him happier than it should.

Franco leans back, a playful smirk on his lips, “I see you, mystery girl. You seem to be full of surprises.”

“What about you?” she challenges him, copying his body language. “Who’s Franco when he’s not in the car?”

He grins, amused by her question. He takes one more sip of his drink, swirling the amber liquid around, stalling for a moment before he decides on his answer.

“Gonna sound cringey if I say I’m just a regular guy?”

“Oh, dear God,” she laughs, and Franco's eyes light up at the sound of it.

“I mean, I like the simple things, you know? Hanging out with my friends, music, enjoying good food… and drinks,” he continues in a suggestive manner.

“And drinks,” she repeats, nodding at his insinuation.

She looks back at him through her eyelashes, realizing for the first time since they bumped into each other tonight how late it must be. But, somehow, time seems to stay still when she catches him staring, her heartbeat fastening.

Franco’s gaze darkens slightly, the tension between them becoming suddenly palpable.

“And pretty girls,” he adds, lifting the glass and emptying it in one go, without breaking eye contact.

The warmth blooming in her chest catches her off guard, spreading from her neck to her cheeks as she shifts slightly, desperate to escape the intensity of his gaze. She tells herself it’s just the alcohol, of course. But then his lips quirk into a small, knowing smile, and her heart stumbles again in a way she can’t control it.

It’s not the alcohol, she realizes; it’s him.

It’s the way Franco looks at her like she’s something worth getting lost in, and she’s not sure she knows how to handle that.

He puts the glass back on the table and leans in slightly, as his eyes flicking from her lips to her eyes, and back again.

She looks at him, intently, feeling the warmth, and the way his breath hitches. It’s not just what she finds behind his gaze — it’s the reflection of her own desire, the undeniable pull that could easily make her lose it, if she's not careful.

And the realization is overwhelming.

“I think… we should call it a night?” she does not sound confident in the slightest.

“Probably a good idea,” replies Franco, studying her expression for a moment.

By the time they get to the elevator, the tension settles over them like a heavy blanket. He stands close, his hand brushing against hers as they walk inside, their gazes meeting in the reflective walls of the elevator the moment the doors close.

“Can you press 7 for me?” she asks, stepping back and waiting patiently.

He smirks, leaning over to do so, then he presses his own floor, just a few levels up.

The faint hum of the elevator is the only sound that surrounds them, but it barely registers over the rapid beating of her heart. Franco’s scent surrounds her from every direction, remembering the same unique smell from earlier.

His eyes catch hers in the mirrors again, and the look is almost unbearable, even through the reflection. They both know that, whatever this is, it's begging to snap. And it will. It's just a matter of when.

Every nerve in her body is dancing on the edge of patience — or lack thereof — and when he finally turns to look at her, slow and deliberate, she can't help but smile.

He takes it as a sign.

After that, Franco doesn’t think anymore — he just acts, leaning in, bringing his hand to her cheek as their lips meet in a soft, lingering kiss that deepens gradually, both of them feeling the weight of the night hanging heavily on their shoulders.

The kiss is experimental at first, like he asks a gentle question to which she answers to with a soft press of her lips on his. Then suddenly, they both start to feel the adrenaline of being in each other's space like that — so close and heated up, that it makes them wonder what contributed to the state they're in.

Aside from the alcohol, of course.

The elevator feels way smaller when Franco's free hand finds home on her waist, his fingers pushing the jacket away and then her blouse, gripping her warm flesh. The air gets heavier as they kiss, the oxygen becoming a secondary need for them, after tasting each other.

The soft ding of the doors opening goes almost unnoticed. But then she pulls back, stepping away, just enough to put some distance between them. Her lips are tingling with the aftertaste, mind so dizzy that her legs are currently made of jelly. She's about to step out when Franco's hands pulls her back to him by the edges of the jacket, their bodies colliding halfway.

So are their lips.

“That was me,” she manages, whispering against his mouth, her voice shaking slightly.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs, his voice low as he attaches his lips to hers again.

They stumble together, barely registering the way the doors close again to take them up to his floor. And by the time they reach his room, her back presses against the door as he fumbles for the key card, their mouths never straying far from each other.

Inside, the dim light of the room casts a golden hue, welcoming them as if it's not the first time.

“We walked through rain,” she reminds Franco, flushed as she catches sight of both their reflections in the mirror that’s hanged on the wall in the hallway. “Shouldn't we shower first?” she asks with a nervous laugh.

Franco smirks, his accent thick with the heat of the moment, “Ahora eso no me importa nada, bebita.” (I don't care about that at all now, baby.)

“No… vamos a ducharnos, por favor,” she cuts him off, “I feel dirty.” (No… let’s take a shower, please.)

Franco freezes for a split second, his eyes snapping to hers with a mix of surprise and something deeper, more intimate. He feels as though she has cast a spell on him, leaving Franco unable to resist doing everything in his power to fulfill her every desire, right here, and right now.

“¿Hablas español?” his voice is tinged with a boyish curiosity, as if her understanding of his language has just unlocked another layer between them.

It makes his head spin.

And that makes her smile.

“Un poquito,” the Spanish words roll off her tongue effortlessly, and he can’t help the slow grin spreading across his face.

“This just got even more dangerous,” he admits with a chuckle.

She lets out a breathy laugh as he steps back, tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. Her pulse quickens at the sight of him, the lean definition of his torso illuminated under the soft light. Franco follows, finally ripping off her — his — jacket, then her blouse, revealing her smooth skin.

Each piece of clothing dropped on the floor is another barrier that’s falling away, leaving a messy trail to the bathroom.

His hands roam up and down her body, frantically, kissing slopply until they get inside. Franco lets the shower run, stepping back for a moment, his breath catching as his eyes take her in completely, as if he just realized they are completely naked — no barriers, no hesitations, no inhibitions, just them.

It overwhelms him. The way the light skims over her skin, highlighting every curve and line. It reminds him of the first time he jumped into an F1 car and how each of his senses was somehow heightened up to the max, his pulse quickened by the gravity of what he was about to experience. He was over the moon then, and he’s over the moon now, though this time around, everything feels infinitely more personal.

“You're staring,” she notices his lingering eyes, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

Instead of contradicting her, Franco reaches for her hand, guiding her toward the shower. The steamy air envelops their bodies, giving them a sense of comfort and safety. She steps in first, letting the water cascade over her. He follows closely, pausing just before the spray to watch her tilt her head back, the droplets tracing paths down her body.

Franco swallows hard, parts of him awakening at the sight of her, while the heat soaks into his skin almost as quickly as the feeling of her presence does. His hands find her waist instinctively, pulling her in while his chest presses into her back.

The steam cloaks them in a moment that feels completely detached from reality.

He brings his hand up to tuck her hair out of the way, then he leans down to press his lips on her neck. She closes her eyes for a short moment, admiring his tenderness, but something tells her that it's him who needs it more. She turns around in his arms, finally facing each other again, her heart picking up the pace once she sees his hooded eyes filled with nothing but want.

“Turn around,” she tells him, managing to get a confused expression in return.

However, he doesn't question her, complying, while she stands on her tiptoes to reach his hair. Her fingers start threading through it with care, massaging shampoo into a lather. At first, it’s easy — an act of intimacy that’s supposed to bring them closer. But then she notices the way Franco’s shoulders sag under her touch, the tension radiating from him like a silent cry for help.

Her movements slow down, “Franco…?” she says softly, stepping closer.

He exhales sharply, his head tilting forward, “It’s fucking stupid, I don’t know why it scared me so much,” he murmurs, the words raw and heavy.

She doesn’t ask him to elaborate — she doesn’t need to. Everyone saw the state his car was in after the crash; of course it scared him.

She remembers holding her breath, the way time seemed to stop until she saw him climb out unscathed.

“It’s not stupid,” she assures him, her hands sliding down to rest on his shoulder blades, placing a tiny kiss between them, “You’re okay, Franco. It’s all that matters.”

He turns around, slowly, the water falling over his face, his expression torn between vulnerability and something deeper, something he doesn’t know how to name. It's not shame, but it could be.

Her hands rise to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over his wet cheekbones. As a response to that, Franco leans down, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths blending in the warmth of the shower.

“How did I come across you…,” he whispers thoughtfully, feeling her hands sliding down his chest, slick with water and soap.

As her touch grounds him, something shifts between them in an instant.

The vulnerability melts into something else entirely — a need, urgent and impossible to ignore. When their lips touch again, her back presses against the cool tile behind her, the contrast making her gasp as his hands find her waist, drawing her closer. The water pools around them like it's simply forgotten, as the intimacy of the moment consumes them both to the point it washes away the fear and everything else in between, leaving behind only one thing — the present moment. The now.

“I know we're both un poquito tipsy and the alcohol would be such a pathetic excuse tomorrow morning, but you have to understand that I've wanted you since we were in the car, and I wasn't drunk then.”

His confession makes her heart tighten, smiling up at him.

“Okay,” she says, giggling while looping her arms around Franco's waist to bring him closer to where she wants him.

Franco chuckles, “Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeats, feeling his hands cupping her breasts, making her whimper as a result.

He pauses for a moment as he looks at her reacting to his touch. “Are you sure?”

She nods, arching more into his touch.

To cover her sounds, his lips attach back to her mouth, moving against hers with increasing fervor, the weight of the day dissolving into the way she kisses him back. Her hands slide up his chest, water-slicked skin beneath her fingertips, and she presses closer, desperate to erase the lingering fear she can still feel surrounding him.

“Franco…” she whispers his name against his lips, her voice shaky, but laced with want. “Let me help?”

He doesn't need words to reply, instead he's deciding on tilting her chin up to deepen the kiss. The other hand wanders all over her body, mapping out her curves that fit against him as though they were always meant to. Her head falls back, resting on the wall as his lips move from her mouth to her jaw, then lower, tracing a line along the column of her neck, discovering her sweet spots for the first time.

“Is this good?” he asks, reaching her thighs, brushing the pads of his fingers between them and pushing his hand further, gently opening her.

“Yes…” she agrees, moving her hips against his hand, forcing his fingers inside her.

Her moans sound like they are accompanied by a choir of drunken angels, encouraging him to find a pace, fucking his fingers in and out until he feels her squeeze him tightly.

Her arms are draping around his shoulders, pulling him towards her tightly.

“Franco,” the girl gasps his name into his wet skin before she lowers her head to watch his fingers slipping free of her.

“Joder. You're so sensitive, cariño,” he figures, widening his eyes at her.

She looks back at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, “That turns you on?”

“Sí...” he responds gruffly, taking a small step back, his eyes not leaving her body, drinking in every curve.

“Do something about it,” she urges, raising one leg up on his thigh.

Franco gets the memo, lifting her in his arms. Her legs instinctively wrap around his waist, the motion pulling him even closer. For a moment, everything else disappears — the crash, the weight of the day, the entire world. There is only her, her touch, her breath, her whispered name for him that sends his heart racing faster than any race car ever could.

She grips his shoulders tightly as he hovers above her. His dark eyes lock onto hers with an intensity that leaves her breathless, and Franco can't be sure either of them are breathing as he guides his cock to her entrance, hissing at the contact before sliding inside.

“Ay, fuck,” he breaths hard, feeling her body welcome him in, warm and wet.

She can't help but moan at how full she feels once he's all in.

Franco lets out another low grunt, his body responding to hers. He's struggling to hold back, to control the need that's consuming him. But soon, he realizes he can't resist the feeling of being inside her. So, he starts moving, slow at first.

“Feeling you so thight around me,” he mutters against her skin, “Fuck, there you go, cariño,” he ends up proppting a hand on the wall next to her head, to steady himself when he feels her fucking back against him.

“Franco, please,” she whimpers, digging her fingernails into his shoulders, breathing heavily at the sweet stretch.

Franco lets out a shaky breath, sliding all the way inside her, again and again, until his brain turns into mush. “You're so good, bebé. So good, unbelievable,” he rambles, his thrusts so slow and gentle, that make her see little white dots all around.

His mouth finds hers again, kissing her intently while fucking her so painfully slowly. It bothers her, but she knows it's about him right now; she doesn’t want him to rush. Franco's had enough of that today; enough speed, enough chaos. He doesn’t need to race toward the finish this time.

If he needs it slow, then she can take him that way.

She cups his face in her palms, forcing his eyes back on her — such a rookie mistake. The sight of him looking through wet eyelashes and glossy lips makes her pussy clench involuntarily around his cock, aggravating the need for him, causing a string of moans out of her mouth.

“Fran…” she loses her head, squeezing her eyes closed and rocking her hips harder against the wall to meet Franco halfway.

The way she molds to his rhythm, grounding him in the here and now, sends Franco to a completely different universe, where everything is pleasure. He needs it. Not to escape, but to rebuild himself.

They move together, each of his thrusts a reminder that not everything has to be fast to be meaningful, or to take your breath away — she's never been this close to coming from such a slow fuck before. His cock is hard and demanding inside her, though, throbbing against her walls the second he decides to pull all the way out, so he can fuck back in, finally setting a more alert pace.

“So good for me, aren't you? Letting me have my way like this?” asks Franco, his tone high and breathless. “Even though it's not how you like it, no?”

He's so close to the edge, too. She can sense it in the way his breaths are ragged and erratic.

“Talk to me, bébé. What do you want?”

“Mhm… more,” she manages, her body so close to collapsing in his arms.

That's all Franco needs to hear. His control snaps, the need and the pressure taking over as he lets out a low moan, “Sí, cariño... I've got you.”

He grabs her hips firmly, his fingers leaving indents on her skin as he slams into her harder, the feeling leaving her gasping for air. Franco smiles, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot against her wet skin.

“God, Franco. Don't—yes, don't stop.”

“So tight, and pretty, and hot, and—fuck, you're not real, bébé,” he's muttering in between deep thrusts, his words half-incoherent as he moves inside her, giving in to the primal lust, the pleasure almost too much to bear.

He can hear how wet she is, knowing it's just a matter of time until she finally lets go. So, he rises his head slightly, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, his voice raw and rough.

Franco's grip on her hips tightens, and it's almost painful, but then he suddenly stops, his body stilling inside her, the pleasure receding just slightly as he feels her come all over his throbbing length.

It takes everything in him to stop himself from following her, thrusting a couple more times to prolong her high. Then, he pulls out completely, guiding his cock between their bodies and pressing into her until his cum starts leaking onto her stomach. For a few seconds, it leaves a hot, dense trail before the water washes it away.

“Oh, my…” she breaths heavily, struggling to find her words.

As Franco finally releases his hold on her thighs, her legs falter beneath her, the strength utterly sapped from them. The slippery tile meets her feet, so unsteady, her body still trembling from the intensity her orgasm. Instinctively, her hands grip his arm, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping her from falling.

“Tranquila, bebita. ¿Estás bien?” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing, while turning the water off. (Easy, baby. Are you okay?)

She lets out a soft, shaky laugh. “Sì.”

Franco chuckles softly, his grip on her tightening slightly.

For some reason, he feels the need to hold her, as though he’s afraid she might slip away — not in the shower, but from him.

“Have you ever been to Argentina?”

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2024

[pastryfication]

Can you pls do an Oscar x driver reader fic where the reader is Landos sister and she has a pretty bad crash at a track and it’s Oscar and Landos reaction to her crash 🩷

this is more than anything i’ve felt before

pairings: oscar piastri x f2 driver!reader, lando norris x sister!reader content warnings: mentions of a crash and ambulance. note: i have such a hard time writing driver reader idk why but i hope you like this!! might be the only driver reader i’ll finish sorry to everyone else who’ve requested it it’s just so difficult for me to get it right.

the day it happens is one of those days where everything feels right—your lines are sharp, your pace is blistering, and every turn brings you closer to victory. you’re in control. you can feel the car, every bump, every shift, every breath you take inside that helmet.

you know lando and oscar are watching from the mclaren garage, their eyes glued to the screens. lando, your older brother, forever protective even when he tries not to be, always torn between pride and worry whenever you race. oscar, your boyfriend, the reigning king of calm on the track but never quite able to mask his nerves when it comes to you.

they’re your constants. you can almost picture lando’s anxious frown and oscar’s quiet focus, hands clasped together as he watches you drive. the media loves to joke about you being the apple of mclaren’s eye, caught between the team’s two golden boys. but those headlines don’t bother you. for you, this is where you belong.

as you approach the next corner, the race intensifies. there’s another driver fighting you for position, pushing you to the edge. you hold your line, confident and unafraid. but in an instant, it all goes wrong. the car beside you swerves just a touch too far, clipping your rear wheel.

everything spins out of control.

the car whips violently, tires screeching as you slam into the barriers. you feel the impact reverberate through your body, the jarring shock of metal against metal. the world around you blurs as the car crumples, and for a moment, everything fades.

———

oscar watches, heart pounding in his chest, as your car smashes into the barriers. the noise of the crash echoes in his ears, drowning out everything else. he doesn’t even hear the commentary, the frantic radio calls, or lando’s shout of your name beside him. all he can see is you, trapped in that twisted wreck, and you’re not moving.

oscar has seen crashes before—hell, he’s been in more than a few—but this is different. this isn’t just another driver, another car. it’s you. the girl who turns his world upside down, the one who’s always been his calm amid the chaos. and now you’re motionless, surrounded by smoke and broken carbon, and he’s never felt so terrified in his life.

beside him, lando’s pushing through the crowd, his face ashen, eyes wide with panic. “we have to get to her,” lando says, but his voice is shaking, the fear cracking through his usually steady tone.

oscar doesn’t move. he’s rooted to the spot, watching the screen like it’s his lifeline, praying for any sign that you’re okay. he feels sick, his stomach churning, every second that you’re not moving like a knife to his chest.

“she’ll be fine,” oscar whispers, more to himself than to lando. but the words sound hollow, and his voice wavers. because he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know if you’re okay, if you’re hurt, if you’re—

“i should’ve been there,” lando mutters, his voice thick with guilt. “i should’ve been able to protect her.”

oscar shakes his head, trying to keep himself together even though he feels like he’s breaking apart. he’s used to being the calm one, the steady presence on and off the track, but now he’s unraveling. it’s not just the crash—it’s the terrifying realization of how deeply you’ve entwined yourself into his heart, how much of his world revolves around you.

he thought he knew what it was to love you, but this feeling—this bone-deep fear, this raw, overwhelming need for you to be okay—is something else entirely. all he can think about is you—the way you laugh when you beat him in a stupid game, the way you scrunch your nose when you’re deep in thought, the way you find his hand after every race, holding on like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he’s always known he loves you. but this? this is more than love. it’s a kind of need that’s woven into his very being, and it’s terrifying, how much losing you even for a moment rips through him, leaving him hollow.

when the medics reach you, they work fast, extracting you from the mangled car with careful precision. oscar’s eyes are fixed on you, his chest tightening with every second that you’re unresponsive. the ambulance arrives, and they load you onto a stretcher, still no movement, no sign of you waking up.

“please, please, please,” oscar whispers, his voice cracking. he doesn’t care about the cameras capturing every moment of his raw fear. all he cares about is you, and he’s never felt more powerless.

lando’s shoulders slump, his hands shaking as he stares at the ground. he looks at oscar, and for once, they’re not just teammates or rivals—they’re two people who love you, and right now, that’s all that matters.

minutes feel like hours. oscar’s world narrows down to the screen, to the updates that aren’t coming fast enough, to the endless questions that nobody seems to have answers for. finally, lando’s phone buzzes. oscar watches as lando answers, the tension etched into every line of his face.

“she’s awake,” lando says, his voice thick with relief, tears shining in his eyes. “she’s bruised up, but she’s awake. they’re taking her for checks, but she’s okay.”

oscar lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and without thinking, he pulls lando into a hug. they cling to each other, relief and fear and everything else pouring out as they try to steady themselves. it’s messy and raw, but they need it. they need to feel that you’re going to be okay.

oscar pulls back, wiping at his eyes and trying to find the words. he’s never been good at this—at showing how much he cares, at letting himself be vulnerable. but he knows one thing for sure: he’s never letting you go without making sure you know just how deeply he loves you.

as the ambulance speeds away, oscar watches, feeling that familiar surge of love and fear. you’re tough—tougher than anyone gives you credit for—and you’re going to be back. you’re going to be alright.

and when you are, he’s going to be right there, holding onto you just a little bit tighter, because you’re everything to him.

for now, though, all that matters is that you’re still here, still fighting. mclaren’s favourite girl, his heart’s safe place. you’re the reason he races, the reason he loves, and the person he’s willing to hold onto with everything he has.

[cedarmoonzz]

between the bars •｡���ৎ ˚⋅

followed by: once more to see you and slow like honey

fandom: gravity falls

ship: ford pines x reader

warnings: brief mention of boners, making out, angst

summary:

being engaged to the world’s smartest idiot feels like navigating a storm while he’s engrossed in his portal research. you wonder if there’s anything you can do to help him.

Three months.

Ninety-one sleepless, tormented days. 

That’s how long you’ve watched Ford, once so full of life, become a shell of himself.

Each day seems to blend into the next, weighed down by the crushing demands of his portal. His bright eyes have lost their spark, replaced by a weary, distant look that suggests he is fighting a constant battle with exhaustion. He’s always buried in his research, disappearing into a maze of endless calculations and theories, only coming up to ask for coffee, food, or help with his measurements. Each interaction is a reminder of the distance that has grown between you, making you ache for the vibrant person he is beneath all the work. It allows you to realize something.

Stanford is an incredibly stubborn man.

You count your breaths, letting the full force of Ford’s distance fill you. Once a day, only in the evening, you allow yourself to feel abandoned, lost, and alone—but only here, only in the evening, before Stanford trudges upstairs for his third pot of coffee. Afterwards, you must set these feelings aside, for there is still so much work to be done, so much still at stake.

Stanford lets you handle all the paper calculations and complex math for the portal, trusting you with the intricate details crucial to his project. Yet, despite your role, he keeps you from seeing the fruits of your labor. You are barred from the basement, the place where the results of your hard work come to life. This exclusion only deepens your sense of isolation and frustration, as you toil endlessly without ever truly understanding the impact of your efforts. The distance between what you contribute and what you’re allowed to see only reinforces the feeling of being a cog in a machine, valued for your skills but denied any real connection to the end result.

Beyond the kitchen door, you can hear your lab mates arguing. The last light of day was leaking through the fissures of the window shutters, changing shape as they paced outside, their shadows stretching to where you sit, hidden, not yet prepared to face them. Though you could not make out their words, you could detect the urgency in their voices. You pressed your palms against your eyes and sighed, then rolled up the loose sleeves of Stanford’s (now your) sweater.

With a harsh, abrupt grunt, akin to the percussive crack of a twig beneath a boot, your fiancé wrenched the splintered door open, slamming it shut with a resounding thud. You were jolted from your thoughts, having been lost in your own reverie as the unexpected noise shattered your concentration. As he stood there, his face etched with a mixture of anger and exhaustion, you could see the deep lines of fatigue and frustration carved into his features. He muttered a stream of incoherent curses under his breath, his visible irritation and weariness painting a stark picture of his emotional state.

Softly, you encouraged him. “Ford, what is it?”

He didn’t answer; he only stood, looking at you as if he might scream.

“It’s Fiddleford!” Stanford growled. “He’s speaking nonsense! Trying to propose that only bad can come from the portal we spent months on! Your calculations, my handiwork and experience? All down the drain because McGucket is scared? It’s ridiculous! I should’ve never trusted him. It seems I can trust no one with my work these days!”

His words caught you between places: you stare down at the ring that graced your finger, the tea kettle whistling, trails of steam emitting behind you, leaving you in between your selves.

“No one?” you repeat, but did not elaborate further. You did not want to be cruel to him, but now that he had insulted you (now, of all times, when you were working so hard to understand him), it was difficult to resist lashing out at him.

Ford paused, words caught between his teeth as you stood in silence. “[Y/n]… my love.” Regret crept into his voice, daring to color his words with a warmth you were sure was genuine—but rather than comfort, it only wounded you. “Of course I can trust you. This portal… It wouldn’t be possible without your work.”

It broke you—or broke what feeble grip you had on yourself, the reserves of strength you used to keep your grief and despair in check all spent.

“My work,” you spat out, almost hissing the words through clenched teeth. You threw the kettle off the stove and pivoted to confront him, closing the distance between you with two broad, angry strides. Pointing a finger at him, you seethed, “Is that all the trust you have? Just your precious portal? Ford, when was the last time you actually talked to me? I can't deal with this anymore! I followed you all the way to Gravity Falls, to the middle of nowhere, and you barely let me see the full scope of my work. Always holed up in the basement.”

Your palm remains red from the heat of the kettle’s handle, but that does not burn as bad as the heat of your fiancé’s abandonment. And still, stupidly, in spite of it all, you wanted to trust Ford. To believe that there was a reason, an explanation for all the half-truths and deceptions. You want to protect him. You want your answers. You want to see him: not a passing nod of acknowledgment, or a pat on the back as you walk past him, or a fragment of him in a dream, but his skin in the flesh, and you loathe yourself for how badly you want it… but you turn that loathing outward, funneling it through the anger, and set the air around you crackling with fury.

As you glared at him, a profound sense of abandonment and worthlessness enveloped you like a shroud. It felt as though you had been reduced to nothing more than a glorified calculator in Ford’s eyes—a mere instrument, a cog in the vast machinery of his ambitions, used and discarded with no regard for your own significance. The weight of your perceived insignificance bore down on you, each moment in his shadow a reminder of how fleeting and unimportant your role had become. The very essence of your being seemed to diminish with every unacknowledged contribution, leaving you to wrestle with the crushing realization that your efforts and sacrifices had been eclipsed by his relentless pursuit, barely noted and even less appreciated.

Stanford’s eyes met yours, narrowing ever so slightly as he took in the gravity of the moment. He measured the tension between you, a flicker of regret crossing his features as he struggled to comprehend the full extent of your pain. The silence stretched on, thick with unspoken remorse, before he finally cleared his throat, his voice betraying a hint of sorrow for the hurt he had caused and the realization of how far he had let things go.

“I'm sorry, [Y/n].” Stanford reached out to hold your waist—and did you imagine it, or did you lean into that touch, pressing your body to the warmth of his open palms? You swallowed. Softly, he asked you, “Do you want me to go?”

You shook your head, more as an excuse to look away from him than anything—now that you had reprimanded him, you realized just how close he was, and your hair fell in front of your eyes, offering you a moment of reprieve. It was difficult having him so near; when your rage subsided, you were left with a profound sense of abandonment and a wounded heart. In a voice tinged with desperation and hurt, you asked, “Why can’t you just let me help you, Ford?”

As the words left your lips, you found yourself instinctively moving closer, your breath mingling with his. The proximity heightened the tension between you, the unspoken emotions crackling in the air. Your lips nearly brushed his as you whispered, the vulnerability in your voice blending with an undeniable, charged intimacy.

“[Y/n],” he begs, but he keeps his hands around your waist. “It’s dangerous…” But even as he speaks, his head is falling towards yours, his mouth ajar and questing, breath ragged.

You lift your hand from the collar of Stanford’s lab coat to hold his face, running your thumb tenderly over the stubble that graced his sharp jawline.

“I’m just as capable as Fiddleford,” you whisper, only inches between you now, so close that you can feel his breath on your neck as you speak the words. “Let me prove myself to you.”

Ford shudders. When his eyes meet yours again, they read something within them—perhaps some hidden fate or doom—and then, he remains. He holds you in his eyes like he is weighing you, or trying to carry a piece of you away with him. With a weary sigh, he lifts his hands to frame your face instead, tracing your cheek with his thumb. He leans forward—you dare not breathe—and presses his lips to your brow, just below the line of your hair. You can feel the soft warmth of his breath against the top of your head. Your eyes sting with tears; you will your body not to shake.

“I know you’re incredibly intelligent, but what Fiddleford saw in that portal… it ruined him. I don’t want the same fate for you.” He pleads, raising a hand of his own as if to pry yours from his face, but it trembles instead, then covers yours, holding the warmth of your palm to his cheek. “It is not that simple.”

“It can be,” you insist, as you lower your other hand to rest above his frantic, pounding heart. “It is.”

The space between the two of you is shrinking before you know whether you or Ford had moved first. Then your palm was carding through the tangled brown hair at the back of his head, drawing him closer as you kiss. When your mouths first met, Ford flinched, as though he might retreat… but he parted his lips for you, and your knees weaken at the taste of his tongue. You clutched his lab coat; his hands danced across your waist to the small of your back and held you against him. His heat rose against you; you could feel him through his slacks, insistent against your thigh—

“I’m sorry,” Stanford whispers, his lips brushing against yours before he pulls away. He turns abruptly and exits the room. Without another word, he heads straight for the basement, leaving you standing there, your heart aching with the weight of unsaid confessions and unfulfilled desires. The intensity of the moment lingers in the air, a palpable reminder of the emotional distance that remains between you.

The way he looked at you was too much; so much unspoken between the two of you, so much you wish to tell him, confess to him: how he always makes you feel safe. That this whole research project, the calculations and all, had only ever been bearable because he had let you be by his side. That his presence is more valuable to you than anything; that you had treasured every moment spent with him. That you’re worried for him.

That you felt like he was in danger, and you were running out of time.

[joelsrose]

Guns & Roses

previous chapter

Chapter 2:

After your tense exchange with Joel, his venomous words hit hard, leaving you taken aback by a sudden wave of insecurity—feelings you thought you had long moved past. Sensing this, Joel begins to question his own actions, unsure of the impact his words have had on you, but the tension between you remains unresolved as you both navigate the emotional distance that continues to grow, unsure of how to bridge the widening gap.

TW: depressive/anxious themes related to emotional abusive/traumatic previous relationships, also this is a slow burn yall so plss be patient i know i want them to be in love right neoowww but first they have to hate each other xxx Also let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list x

The next morning, you lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, your limbs weighed down by exhaustion, but the heaviness in your chest was far worse. Patrol was in an hour, but the thought of moving—of facing the day, of facing him again—felt impossible.

Yesterday had been a disaster—worse than you could have imagined. It wasn’t just that you had nearly died, although that should’ve been enough.

It was Joel—his words.

The way they had sliced through the air, cold and brutal, landing like a blade straight to your chest. You could still hear his voice echoing in your mind, sharp and biting.

“Fucking burden.”

It wasn’t just the insult—it was the way the words felt like something you’d heard before. The familiarity of it. Hearing it brought back memories you’d fought hard to bury. Memories of another time, another voice—his voice, saying the same thing, over and over.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the flood of memories to stop, but it was no use. They slipped through the cracks of your defenses, no matter how hard you tried to push them away. You thought you had buried those moments, locked them up where they couldn’t touch you anymore. But Joel’s words had torn those scars wide open, and now they were bleeding again.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been called a burden. That word had haunted you for years, ever since him—the one who had made you feel small, insignificant.

You had spent years trapped in a relationship where every step you took was wrong, every emotion too much, every need a flaw. He made you feel like a weight around his neck, dragging him down, and every argument ended with him reminding you that you were too needy, too sensitive, too flawed.

A burden.

You believed him. For years, you let those words become your truth. Everything wrong in your life was your fault, and the idea of being loved felt so far out of reach that you stopped hoping for it. Even when you finally found the strength to leave, the damage had already been done. The lies he had planted in your mind were like weeds, tangled in your thoughts, impossible to fully uproot.

Brick by brick, you rebuilt yourself after walking away. You told yourself you were stronger now, that no one would tear you down like that again.

But Joel’s words—delivered with such cold finality—had brought it all crashing down. It was as though he had reached inside and ripped out the deepest, darkest insecurity you had tried so hard to keep hidden.

You tossed and turned, the memory of every moment, every word, replaying on a loop. The way he had looked at you, the anger in his voice, the disgust. It hurt more than it should have, more than you wanted it to. But the truth was, Joel had unknowingly triggered something much deeper.

You curled deeper into the blankets, pulling them tight around you as if they could shield you from the weight of your own thoughts. You weren’t just sad—you were spiraling. Slowly sinking into a pit of doubt, worthlessness creeping back in like poison, the same way it had years ago.

Because the truth was, you had never fully healed. You had put bandages on the wounds, told yourself you were fine, but you had never truly faced the scars. And now, they were unraveling. You blinked up at the ceiling, wondering if you would ever truly escape this feeling—this heavy, suffocating belief that you were always going to be too much. Too much for the people in your life. Too much for anyone to really love, to want.

And Joel? He probably didn’t even care. To him, it was just another day. Another patrol. He’d probably be glad if you called out sick. Glad not to have to deal with you at all.

You thought back to last night, Tommy had come by, knocking gently on your door, his usual wide smile in place.

“How’d patrol go?” he asked, his voice full of warmth, his eyes bright with that familiar, unshakable optimism.

You lied. The words slipped out before you could even think twice.

“It was fine. Nothing much happened.” You even forced a smile, adding something trivial about the snow getting heavier. And Tommy, being Tommy—trusting, kind, always believing the best—had smiled right back. He gave your shoulder a light pat, that easy grin spreading across his face. “Good,” he’d said, clearly relieved. And then he left, looking so genuinely happy that it twisted something deep inside you.

The guilt of lying to him weighed heavily in your chest. But how could you have told him the truth? How could you have explained what had really happened out there with Joel? The things you had both said still lingered in the air, unspoken but present in every breath you took. You couldn’t admit that the person Tommy looked up to—his own brother—had made you feel like nothing, like something broken and worthless.

So you kept the truth buried, hidden behind that forced smile, letting Tommy walk away, blissfully unaware of the weight that had settled on your shoulders. You told yourself it was better this way. Less messy.

Now, as you dragged yourself out of bed, pulling on your patrol gear, you couldn’t shake the sense of dread clinging to you like a second skin. You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your jacket, wondering if you were making a mistake by going. The tension between you and Joel was thick, palpable, and the thought of spending another second with him made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

But you swallowed it down— the hollow ache in your chest—and forced yourself to leave the house. You told yourself you could get through this day. One foot in front of the other. That’s all you had to do.

•••

The snow was heavier today, thick flakes falling in a relentless flurry, blurring the world into a monochrome haze. It seemed to swallow everything—your surroundings, your thoughts—leaving behind a cold, biting quiet as you trudged toward Joel. The wind was sharp, stinging your skin as you walked, your mind racing with everything that had been left unsaid the day before.

When you finally saw him, standing by his horse, the same hard expression etched across his face, it was as if yesterday had bled straight into today. Nothing had changed. The tension between you was suffocating, thick like the snow that blurred the edges of your vision.

Joel didn’t acknowledge you. Not with a nod, not with a word, just the stiff set of his shoulders and the tightness in his jaw. His whole posture was guarded, closed-off, as if he were bracing himself against more than just the cold. And you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything either, your pride weighing down every word you considered. Instead, you mounted your horse and set off, the only sounds the crunch of snow beneath the hooves and the distant howl of the wind.

The cold words from yesterday still hovered between you like a storm cloud, dark and ominous. You thought, for a fleeting moment, about breaking the silence, about reaching across the vast space that had grown between you. But every time you opened your mouth, the weight of your own pride, your hurt, held you back.

And Joel? He seemed just as unwilling. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, his body tense, his lips set in a grim line.

Hours passed as you patrolled deeper into the woods, scanning the treeline for any signs of movement. The snow fell heavier and faster, the wind picking up as it screamed through the trees, the world around you shrinking into a blur of white. By midday, it had grown too much—the path ahead was barely visible, the storm swallowing it whole, the danger in pushing forward palpable.

Joel finally broke the silence, his voice rough and barely audible over the howl of the wind. “We need to stop.” His eyes flicked toward the horizon, where the dark silhouettes of trees loomed through the snow, distant and unreachable. “There’s no way we’re making it any further in this.”

His voice, though low, felt like it shattered the heavy quiet that had hung between you all morning. For a second, you met his gaze, the intensity there catching you off guard. It wasn’t just the storm or the danger—it was everything that had been simmering beneath the surface. Everything unsaid. But just as quickly, he looked away, his eyes scanning the snow, the moment slipping away as fast as it had come.

You nodded silently, following Joel’s lead as he steered the horses toward the nearest shelter you could find—a small, weather-beaten outpost nestled at the base of the mountain.

The cabin looked forgotten by time, its roof sagging under the weight of heavy snow, but it was better than freezing to death in the open. The two of you dismounted, still wrapped in the oppressive quiet that had grown between you, tying up the horses in a practiced silence before heading inside. The sudden stillness of the enclosed space was a small mercy, a temporary reprieve from the biting wind.

Inside, it was cramped, the air thick with the stale scent of damp wood and long-forgotten memories. The cabin was barely holding itself together, but at least it was shelter.

The cabin was freezing, the cold seeping into every corner, making the walls feel like they were closing in. You glanced at the fireplace, its hearth blackened from years of neglect, a thick layer of dust coating the stone.

You muttered under your breath, more to yourself than to Joel, "I’m gonna go look for something to light a fire."

Joel didn’t respond. You heard the low groan of the ancient couch as he sat down heavily, the springs creaking under his weight. The fabric was threadbare, worn thin by time and disuse, much like the rest of the cabin. He rubbed his shoulder, his face twisted in discomfort for a brief moment before settling back into his usual unreadable expression. His jaw was clenched, muscles tense, his whole posture tight and closed-off, as if he were bracing himself against more than just the cold.

You glanced at him briefly, your eyes catching on the lines of tension in his face, the way his hands flexed against his knees. But you didn’t linger on it. Joel was always like this—guarded, closed-off, like he was constantly holding something back.

You turned away, letting your eyes scan the small, dilapidated cabin around you. The place had clearly been abandoned for years, and it showed. Broken furniture was shoved into corners, splintered chairs piled against one wall, and shelves sagged under the weight of old, forgotten items that hadn’t been touched in decades. Dust clung to everything like a blanket, thick and undisturbed, the kind of dust that only settles when time forgets.

You ran your fingers absentmindedly across the surface of a rickety table, leaving a streak in the grime. The cold air from outside seemed to have seeped into the very bones of the cabin, giving it a lifeless, hollow feel.

As you rummaged through a crate in the corner, looking for anything useful—something to light a fire, something to stave off the cold—you could hear Joel outside. He had decided to check the area around the cabin, muttering something about seeing if there were any supplies worth bringing back. Old medicine, tools, anything that might have been left behind by whoever last used this place. His heavy footsteps crunched through the snow, fading in and out as the wind howled around the cabin.

You pulled out a few pieces of old, dry wood from the crate, hoping they’d be enough to start a decent fire. A few minutes passed, and you heard Joel's footsteps return. The door creaked open as he stepped inside, bringing with him a blast of cold air.

He grunted, clearly frustrated, as he dropped something heavy onto the floor—a bag or maybe a crate, you weren’t sure. You glanced up briefly, watching as he walked toward an old cupboard in the corner.

“Anything?” you asked, keeping your tone neutral, but there was no answer. Joel was already focused on the cupboard, tugging at the stubborn door, his expression set in that familiar, determined way.

You turned back to the crate, rummaging deeper when suddenly, a loud crash echoed behind you, making you flinch.

“Fucking hell!” Joel’s voice followed, sharp and filled with pain.

Your heart jumped into your throat as you spun around, eyes wide. Joel stood hunched near the cupboard, his body tense, one hand pressed tightly to his chest. Blood seeped through his fingers, dark and thick, dripping onto the wooden floor below in a slow, menacing rhythm. The cupboard door hung askew, a jagged shard of glass sticking out from where the door had broken. He must have accidentally shattered it when trying to open it.

“Jesus Christ, what happened?” you rushed toward him, panic rising in your chest. Joel grimaced, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow from the pain.

“It’s nothing,” he bit out through gritted teeth, his voice taut with a mix of irritation and discomfort.

“It’s not nothing, Joel—you’re bleeding,” you replied, your eyes widening as you stepped closer, heart racing. He was leaving a trail of crimson, blood spilling from his hand and staining the floor, a stark contrast to the muted tones of the cabin.

“Just cut myself on the damn glass,” he muttered, his other hand pressed tightly to his chest, trying to staunch the flow. The shallow rise and fall of his breath spoke volumes; he was in more pain than he wanted to admit.

“Sit down,” you ordered, pointing toward the old couch, but Joel shot you a hard look, his eyes narrowing in defiance.

“I don’t need to sit,” he snapped, attempting to step away from you, the stubbornness radiating off him like a palpable force. His body was tense, coiled like a spring, and you could see he was resisting the pain, unwilling to admit he needed help.

You stood your ground, planting yourself in front of him. “You’re bleeding all over the place, Joel. Sit down. Now.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, it felt like a standoff. But you refused to back down. His irritation flickered in his eyes, but eventually, he relented with an exasperated grunt, sinking back onto the couch with a wince, the weariness in his posture finally giving way.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and quickly pulled your first aid kit from your pack. Taking a seat next to him, you reached for his hand, but Joel recoiled again, trying to pull it back.

“I can handle it,” he growled, the edge of his voice betraying his discomfort.

You shot him a fierce look, refusing to let his bravado intimidate you. “Can you not be so stubborn for once?”

For a heartbeat, his gaze flickered to yours, something unspoken lingering in the air between you. Finally, he relented, holding his hand out toward you. “Fine,” he muttered, though the annoyance in his tone still hung heavy. “But make it quick.”

You wasted no time, gently pulling his hand forward. His fingers were calloused and rough, the result of years of hard work and struggle, a testament to the life he led.

The cut was nasty—glass had sliced deep, leaving a gash that continued to ooze blood. You pressed a cloth against it, trying to stop the flow.

“Shit,” you muttered, your heart racing as you examined the injury. “I need to suture this,” you mumbled.

Joel shook his head, his face hardening once more. “Like hell you are,” he growled, attempting to retreat again, but you tightened your grip, refusing to let him pull away.

“What, you’d rather let it get infected and fall off?” you shot back, your voice rising slightly in frustration. “Just let me do this, Joel.”

The intensity in his gaze flared for a moment—anger, maybe, but beneath it, there was something softer, a flicker of vulnerability. He seemed to weigh his options before finally relenting. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

You grabbed a bottle of alcohol from your kit, and without warning, began to clean the wound. The moment the liquid touched the raw flesh, Joel hissed sharply, his body tensing as a stream of curses left his mouth.

“Jesus Christ!” he swore, his jaw tightening as he tried to keep still.

“Sorry,” you muttered, though you didn’t slow down. “But it needs to be disinfected.” You worked quickly, trying to focus despite the tension radiating from him.

With deft hands, you cleaned the wound, your fingers steady even as your heart pounded in your chest. The needle slipped between your fingers like second nature, but the closeness between you both felt anything but routine. Knees brushing, neither of you dared to move, the tension crackling between you. His scent, earthy and warm, mingled with the faint trace of sweat, filled your senses, stirring something. Heat rolled off him, maker it harder to concentrate.

As you worked, Joel sat still, his jaw clenched tightly against the discomfort. The tension in the room was thick. You glanced up at him briefly, catching his gaze as you focused on stitching the cut. There was an intensity there, a flicker of something deeper than just pain.

“Just breathe,” you murmured, trying to keep the mood light despite the weight of everything unsaid. You concentrated on your task, the delicate movements of the needle requiring your full attention, but every time you looked up, Joel’s eyes were fixed on you, filled with an intensity you hadn't seen before.

When you tied off the final stitch, a wave of relief washed over you. “There,” you murmured, gently wiping away the last traces of blood. “That should hold. Just try not to move too much,” you added, pressing a bandage over the wound, your fingers lingering for just a moment longer than they should have.

Joel didn’t respond right away, his eyes darting anywhere but toward you, as if the weight of the moment was too much to confront. Finally, he released a slow, ragged breath. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, the single word laden with all the things left unsaid.

You nodded, feeling the weight of the silence settle between you again, heavier this time.

•••

You stayed in the cabin for hours longer, the silence between you and Joel stretching out like an invisible barrier, thick and unspoken. Neither of you had spoken since you’d tended to his hand, but this time, the silence wasn’t charged with anger or frustration.

Instead, it filled you with something much heavier—an aching sadness that settled deep in your chest.

You weren’t sure when it began, but as you sat there, watching the snow fall outside, your mind drifted back to the words Joel had spat at you the day before. The weight of them, the way they had pierced something tender inside you, was impossible to shake. They had stirred up feelings you thought you’d buried—the same feelings that had kept you awake last night, thoughts you couldn't push away no matter how hard you tried. Now, as you stared at the endless white landscape beyond the cabin walls, you felt stuck in that spiral again.

You’d been here before, trapped in a loop of doubt and self-loathing, questioning your worth, your place in this world. Joel’s words had pulled it all back to the surface, like ripping open an old wound that had never truly healed. The silence in the cabin only amplified those thoughts, the quiet making the weight of them impossible to ignore.

You didn’t even notice when Joel spoke.

"Seems like the snow’s died down. We should get going." His voice broke through the fog of your thoughts.

It was rough, as usual, but there was something different this time—something softer, almost cautious, like he knew the air between you had shifted and wasn’t sure how to navigate it.

You wiped at your cheek, suddenly aware of the tear that had slipped down your face without you realizing.

The sadness that had been pressing down on you felt too heavy to carry now, like it had become too much all at once. You nodded, your voice barely audible as you replied, “Yeah… let’s go.”

For a brief moment, you caught Joel’s gaze. His brows furrowed, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to read something there, something more than the tear. Maybe he saw the pain you were carrying, maybe he didn’t. But for a fleeting second, there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. A hesitation. And then, just as quickly, it was gone. The wall came back up, his expression unreadable once more.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood, gathering your things with a sigh that felt like it came from the deepest part of you. The exhaustion wasn’t just from the cold or the events of the day—it was from the constant battle you were fighting inside yourself. And in that moment, you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep it up.

The journey back to Jackson was cold and quiet, the only sound between you the steady crunch of snow beneath the horses' hooves. The storm had passed, leaving the world around you still and blanketed in white, as if the entire landscape had been frozen in time.

The ride felt long, each minute dragging on, the cold biting at your skin as the wind whipped through the trees. All you could think about was getting home, sinking into the warmth of your bed, and shutting out the world.

The silence between you and Joel made the journey feel even longer, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on your shoulders.

Your mind wandered back to the cabin—Joel on the couch, the tension in his face as you tended to his wound. You wondered if he even knew what his words had done to you. At the end of the day, he shouldn’t have said what he did—that much was clear. But deep down, you knew he hadn’t meant for it to cut this deep. He couldn’t have known the depth of the pain his words would unearth, the way they’d pull you back into a spiral of doubt and self-loathing.

When you reached the stables, the familiar routine of tending to your horse became a lifeline, a small anchor in the swirling storm of emotions. The simple motions—loosening the saddle, brushing down the coat—gave your hands something to do, something to hold onto.

You could feel Joel’s eyes on you, the unspoken weight of his gaze making your skin prickle. Embarrassment washed over you, creeping up your neck and settling in your chest. He had seen you cry in the cabin, had watched that tear slip down your cheek—and it was enough. That single moment of vulnerability felt like too much, like you had exposed a part of yourself you hadn’t meant to.

You didn’t wait for Joel, even though his presence lingered close by, the soft sounds of his movements cutting through the still air. You could’ve asked how his hand was, could’ve wished him goodnight, maybe even walked home together—it would’ve made sense, living on the same street and all.

Instead, you gathered your things, the silence swallowing the unspoken words as your boots crunched against the snow. Without a backward glance, you walked away, your breath clouding in the cold air, leaving behind nothing but the imprint of your footsteps.

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t have known, was the way Joel’s eyes lingered on you as you walked away. His gaze followed your every step, his expression unreadable, though shadowed by something heavier, something that settled deep in his chest and refused to loosen its grip.

He didn’t call after you, didn’t ask you to wait, even though the words itched at the back of his throat.

Instead, he stood there in silence, watching as you disappeared into the night, your figure swallowed by the darkness and snow.

And in that quiet, as the cold wrapped around him, he felt it—the guilt gnawing at him, the weight of his own words hanging heavy in the air between you. He’d seen the way you’d changed after he said it, the way something in you had pulled back, retreated, and now the regret settled in like a second skin.

It wasn’t just the bite of the wind that cut into him—it was the sharp sting of realizing what he’d done, and that he couldn’t take it back.

•••

Tag List: @immyowndefender @babygals-world @zenrobbins0021 @malfoycassimalfoy

[suguru-getos]

୨・┈﹕✦﹕ Kinktober Day 20﹕✦﹕┈・୧

-> event masterlist

kaveh x f!reader -> brat taming

a/n: listen !! there’s nothing i love more than seeing the sunshine baby kaveh snap 🤭❤️‍🔥 it gives me so much joy to write him as you all know and i hope ya’ll have fun with this:DD also ik i’m spamming my works today but tehee! i’ve got some time and some writing juice 🧃 flowing !!

warnings: overstimulation, (vibrator!play ;) brat-taming themes, doggy!style, 🍬 SWEET 🍬 AFTERCARE 🫶🏻🥺 bc its kaveh !!

“no no no, baby, where’re you goin’?” kaveh stopped you from moving any further, hands gripping your hips and forcing them back into his plunging cock. a whiny sigh escapes you as you feel your folds absolutely destroyed by him. you both loved and hated it at the same time. the way the vibrator attached to your clit, taped by kaveh had no remorse along with his thrusts. you had squirted twice for him already, body reduced to a slump & mush. putty in his hands.

“i’m not done yet, stay and take it.” he commands, your ass slightly reddened just by the ruthless impact of kaveh’s pelvis against you, the grip on your waist bruised with how tight he’s holding you in place. you couldn’t possibly slump down or escape from the sweet torture kaveh decided for you.

“all this because you had to be mean to me, why? do i not take care of you?” kaveh spoke between his own ragged breaths, truth be told — you wanted him to behave like this. why else would you tease him in front of the kshahrewar group in one of the meetings? hands slipping up and down his thigh while he was speaking? kaveh had shot you warning glares, coughed for you to take the hint but oh no — his little brat was relentless. time for some sweet karma for you.

“please- s’ too much.” you whimpered out, and knowing how spoiling and kind kaveh is, you knew if you begged too much. he’d stop. he loves you a tad too much & you know how spoiled you are under his wing. “is it now, little one? is it?” kaveh raised a brow, thrusting with the same intensity while maintaining a conversation. “should’ve realised that when we were at the meeting huh?” he taunted, slapping your ass firmly to hear a sorry squeal out of you. “please- kaveh- please- won’t happen again.”

oh you sound so sweet apologizing to him, babbling mess because your brain is fried from cumming too much. clit practically throbbing at the pain & overstimulation, body covered in overworked sweat. yet you are in utter bliss, shaking and spasming like you’re supposed to. “please- kaveh- won’t do it again i- i promise.” your voice almost slurrs this time, as you feel another unforgiving orgasm seep through you suddenly. ripping out from you and letting you cry out for him. your mouth was open in a silent gasp, gritted teeth and a painful groan as you spluttered your walls all over kaveh. “aw, was that the fourth one?” kaveh sounded gentle, riding it out for you & also tipping off the edge. he’s filled you thrice already, and is shooting blanks, too. “god- you- you’re so tight baby.” he croons, riding it out for you.

you’re reduced to sniffles, slumping down as the vibrator is turned off & kaveh gently pulls out of you. his eyes are tender and sweet again, his affections back in place as he rubs your back soothingly. “there there, it’s okay.” he cooes, hoping to ground your floating senses. he eventually turned you on your back, taking the vibrator off of you, kissing your pelvis and your forehead deeply. “i’ve got you sweetheart.” he reminds, watching as you gasp at every little touch. your whole body felt like it was on fire, hissing even with tender little touches on your swollen & puffy clit.

kaveh craddled you in his arms, kissing all over your face and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. you’d never been so brainless & yet blissful. “i love you baby, gonna clean you up when you can tolerate some friction down there, i promise.” kaveh crooned, kissing your collarbone and talking to you about how he wouldn’t have done this unless you wanted it, giving you the surety of the whole scene, giving you the power he took away while making you submit. <3

[storusangel]

satoru spanks your pussy and suguru spanks your ass!!!!

a/n: OMFG YESSSGSGHHH nonny your mind amazes me!!! also reqs are open :3

cw: fem!reader, impact play (duh), pet names (princess, angel, baby), brat taming, ‘toru spits in your mouth, orgasm denial, slight degradation, sir kink. also not proofread so please let me know if i missed anything or made any mistakes LOL

MDNI

satoru

getting satoru to play rough is easy, it’s just too easy. all you have to do is beg a little and he’ll get the hint, but riling him up is so much more fun and exciting.

the looks he gives you when you start rubbing up on an unsuspecting coworker of his. you just love how his bright blue eyes somehow turn a darker shade. the playful glint turns into menacing glare. and when his grip around his drink tightens, you know you’re in for it.

still, he lets you prance around doing whatever you want because he knows it’s all for him. that doesn’t mean he appreciates you rubbing up on his colleague, he’ll let you know how much he disapproves when you two get home.

when you finally got in the car to go home, you were starting to think it didn’t work. the car was silent and satoru, for some godforsaken reason, looked content. as soon as he parks you open your door, knowing how much he hates it when you open it yourself, and go to the door. you can hear him sigh as he gets out of the car and heads over to where you’re standing.

“you had fun tonight?” satoru asks. you don’t answer, as soon as he open the door you head inside to your shared bedroom. suddenly he’s behind you and you only notice when his deep voice enters your ears with the words “i asked you a question, baby”

you can tell by his voice he’s losing his patience yet you can’t help but feel the neediness churn in your pussy. “you still aren’t answering? i guess i’ve been to nice to you. always spoiling my sweet angel. i should’ve known better. you just wanna be treated like a filthy slut” it shouldn’t make you feel the way it does, but it does.

it makes you feel so needy. and he can tell because you’ve gotten so riled up you let a small moan slip out. “haven’t even done anything and you’re already so needy, baby.”

satoru is a giving lover through and through. he wants to give and give and give but sometimes he knows he has to take. he also knows you want him to take. that’s why he played your game. now it’s your turn to play his.

you remember just how much strength he has when he swoops you off your knees and tosses you on the bed. you don’t even get to look at him before you’re being stripped and put into a mating press. you squeak out a small “‘t-toru” as he puts your arms under your knees. “you better keep yourself spread open for me, baby.” he says it with a smile on his face but you know that it holds no kindness in it.

he grips your face when you don’t respond. “i’ve taught you better than that. say you understand.” you do your best to say you understand but it comes out as “ah undehstan, ‘toru.” and with that he spits in your mouth muttering a quiet “good girl” when you swallow.

he trails the hand squishing your face down to your neck and he rests it there before squeezing slightly. his other hand slowly drags down your tummy until it meets your clit, throbbing and in need of his touch. “aw baby, you’re so worked up” satoru coos. he takes his middle and ring finger and rubs circles on it just the way he knows you like.

he keeps going, occasionally taking his two fingers to rub up and down your slit before going back up to give some more attention to your clit. before you know it, you feel that familiar knot forming in your tummy and satoru knows too, with the way your back arches and your moans get louder and shorter. he knows you’re so close and that you need it bad, so he keeps going. his fingers rub faster and tighter and just as you’re about to cum—he stops.

tears well up in your eyes and you barely gasp out a cry when you feel it. a wet slap against your cunt. your back arches even further up into him. the whine that leaves your mouth tells him he should do it again. so he does. this time he makes sure that the tip of his fingers hit your clit. and now the tears that were once aching to fall stream down your cheeks. he gets two more hits in before your taking your hands out from under your knees and grabbing weakly at his wrist to get him to stop. what a horrible idea. he was already upset but now he’s downright angry. it’s time he taught his sweet angel a lesson. “oh you’re in for it now, baby.”

suguru 

unlike satoru, you need to deliberately go out of your way to misbehave to get suguru to be rough with you. don’t get me wrong, he’ll oblige when he thinks you’ve begged enough but there’s something about putting you back in your place after you’ve acted up that just makes his dick swell.

lately he’s been so good to you. he gives you everything you want and more. and you hate it. you’re tired of him being so gentle. you want more. unfortunately for you, you’re unaware he’s doing it on purpose. he’s been so sweet and nice because he knows you love when it hurts.

and now as you’re on your way to dinner you make sure keep your distance. you don’t touch him or even look his way. you barely respond with words, only with small hums and shrugs. your plan truly starts when you get to the restaurant. your victim of the night, the blond waiter.

he blushes the second he hands you the menus, stuttering out a “p-please let me know when you’re ready to order!” before leaving you and suguru to get your orders ready. you keep up with your plan of ignoring suguru and wait till the waiter comes back to take your orders. when he does return, the blush on his face is even more vibrant and the way you look at him doesn’t go unnoticed by suguru. the way you subtly bite your lip and tilt your head when you ask what he recommends you get. the way your eyes never leave the nameless waiter even after he’s left your table.

“you having fun, princess?” suguru’s deep voice draws your attention back to him. you only shrug and look away as quickly as possible. you can feel the anger seething off of him. maybe you’ve done enough for the night. but when the waiter comes back you just can’t help yourself from indulging just a bit more.

as you’re eating you steal a few glances at him when you think he isn’t looking. you want to try and prepare yourself for whatever punishment you’ve dug for yourself tonight but he shows no signs of letting you in on what he has planned. suguru enjoys silence but this much silence from him seems threatening. he barely said anything to you at the dinner and the car ride back was even quieter. “sugu, are you upset?” the silence is unbearable. you miss his voice, the soft yet commanding tone he uses on you. he says nothing.

“sugu please, say something.” he’s in front of you now, on his way to the living room. you follow him like a lost puppy waiting for orders. he sits down on the sofa and when you try to sit next to him he stops you. you she’s confused for a second but then you realize he wants you to sit in his lap. that’s wrong too. “lay across my lap” he orders.

oh how you missed his voice. you don’t waste a second as you do what he told you to. you’ve already angered him enough. one large rough hand rubs at your back before the other pulls your dress above your ass. that same hand finds its way between your legs. “you’re soaked. did flirting with that blond get you this wet? or are you this wet because you wanted me to put you back in your place.”

you squirm in his lap waiting for him to do something, anything. what you aren’t expecting is a slap on your ass. you rent expecting it to sting the way it does. you also aren’t expecting to make you even wetter, the wet patch on your panties only growing. “you better count, slut. you’ve been misbehaving the entire night” gone is the suguru who’s voice is calm and soothing. now a more gruff and throaty suguru is giving you orders you will follow or you won’t be getting out of this in one piece. “o-one, sir.”

the name makes his heart, and dick, throb. his sweet girl always so obedient. he almost forgets he has to punish you for being so bad. almost. that’s why as soon as you count he hits your other cheek somehow even harder than the last and now you’re crying out a “two!” and bracing yourself for the next hit. maybe next time you’ll learn to be good. but hopefully not. he really loves showing you who’s in charge. 

both of them together would be hell, omg. the tears that pour out of your eyes only make them wanna keep on going. your poor cunt and ass are so sore by the end of the night :( sitting is definitely going to be a pain for the next few days. 

[lila-lou]

✨Taking her in - Pt. 2✨

Summary: After Dean Winchester saves your life, he brings you into the safety of the bunker. As you grow older and stronger, Dean refuses to let you join the hunts, his overprotective behavior intensifying. But beneath his fierce protectiveness lies something darker—conflicted feelings he can’t face. As your 18th birthday approaches, Dean struggles to keep control, torn between his duty to protect you and emotions he’s buried for too long.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! HUGE Age Gap, Immoral, Underage Reader, Language

Word Count: 6472

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

But as soon as Dean stepped into the hallway, he collided with you.

You were walking toward the bathroom, eyes glued to your phone, completely unaware of your surroundings. The sudden impact made you stumble back, and you looked up in surprise, your gaze locking with Dean’s.

The world seemed to freeze in that moment.

Dean felt his breath catch in his throat as he stood there, half-naked and dripping wet, with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. The shock in your eyes quickly gave way to something else—a flicker of something unreadable that made his heart stutter in his chest. He could see the way your gaze flicked over him, taking in the sight of him standing there, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t intended.

And fuck, the way you looked at him—it sent a jolt of heat through him that he didn’t know how to handle.

“Dean—”, you started, but whatever you were going to say was lost as you took in the situation fully, your cheeks flushing a deep shade of red.

Dean’s mind scrambled for something to say, something to do that wouldn’t make this moment even more awkward than it already was. But he was caught off guard, still reeling from everything he’d been trying to push down in the shower, and now here you were, standing right in front of him, too close and too far all at once.

“Sorry”, you mumbled, stepping back, your eyes darting away from his as you tried to give him space. “I wasn’t paying attention. I—um—I didn’t mean to…”.

Dean shook his head, finding his voice, though it came out rougher than he intended. “It’s fine. My fault. Should’ve looked where I was going”.

You opened your mouth to say something, maybe just a quick remark to break the tension, but the words never came. Dean’s eyes flicked down briefly, just for a split second, but it was enough for him to realize with a jolt of panic that the unwelcome reaction he’d been fighting off in the shower was back with a vengeance. His body betrayed him again, and this time there was no cold water to douse the flames.

Without another word, he abruptly turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you standing there, your unspoken words hanging in the air. The speed of his retreat, the way he couldn’t even look at you as he left, made your stomach twist with a confusing mix of emotions. You watched him go, feeling a wave of something that wasn’t quite anger, but close—a hurt that sat heavy in your chest.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still mad at you, that the argument from earlier was somehow still hanging over both of you, unresolved and festering. But this felt different too, more personal, like there was something else going on that you couldn’t quite grasp. It wasn’t just the remnants of your disagreement; it was something deeper, something unspoken that lingered in the space between you.

As Dean disappeared down the hallway, you were left standing there, your heart pounding in your chest. The awkwardness of the encounter had left you flustered, but it was the way he had walked away that left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You replayed the moment in your mind, trying to make sense of it. Dean had seemed off balance, as if he was barely holding himself together. And the way he had avoided your gaze, the quickness with which he’d retreated, it all added up to something that made you uneasy.

With a sigh, you shook your head and continued into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You needed to clear your head, to figure out how to handle whatever was happening between you and Dean before it spiraled even further out of control.

But as you stood there, staring at yourself in the mirror, the image of Dean—half-naked, dripping wet, and looking more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him—kept playing in your mind.

The weight of your feelings pressed down on you like a heavy blanket. You’d been in love with Dean for years now—ever since the moment he’d first saved you, stepping into your life like a guardian angel with rough edges and a heart that you’d seen was softer than he let on. You could still remember how your heart had fluttered in that first moment, how the fear you’d felt had been replaced by something warmer, something you hadn’t understood then but had come to know all too well.

But to Dean, you were just the helpless kid he’d saved. The one he had taken under his wing, brought into the fold of his makeshift family, and protected with a fierceness that both comforted and frustrated you. He saw you as a little sister, someone to look after, to shield from the horrors of the world. And that was the problem. No matter how much you’d grown, no matter how strong you’d become, he still looked at you and saw that frightened kid who needed saving.

That was why it hurt so much every time he treated you like a child, why it triggered something deep inside you. Because you weren’t that kid anymore. You were a woman now, with feelings and desires and a heart that ached every time you looked at him, knowing he’d never see you the way you wanted him to. Knowing that, in his eyes, you’d always be someone to protect, not someone to love.

And that was the real pain of it—the knowledge that no matter how much you cared for him, no matter how deeply you felt, he would never see you as anything more than his responsibility. Someone to keep safe, not someone to hold close.

The image of him standing there in that hallway, half-naked, had shaken you more than you cared to admit. Because for a split second, you thought you saw something different in his eyes—a flicker of something that mirrored the way you felt. But then he had turned away, retreating so quickly that it left you reeling, unsure if you’d imagined the whole thing.

You let out a frustrated sigh, running your hands through your hair as you tried to shake off the lingering tension from the encounter. You knew you couldn’t keep doing this to yourself, couldn’t keep hoping for something that would never happen. Dean had made it clear, time and time again, that he was there to protect you, to keep you safe. And that was all it would ever be.

But even as you told yourself that, you couldn’t help the way your heart clenched at the thought. The love you felt for him was something that had grown over the years, something that had taken root so deeply inside you that you didn’t know how to untangle it from who you were. And no matter how much you tried to push it down, to bury it under layers of practicality and logic, it always found a way to rise to the surface.

Taking a deep breath, you splashed some water on your face, trying to clear your head. You needed to stop dwelling on this, stop letting it consume you. Dean wasn’t yours, and he never would be. You had to accept that, had to find a way to move on, even if it meant dealing with the pain of unrequited love.

Back in Dean’s room, he shut the door behind him with a little too much force, the sound reverberating in the otherwise quiet space. His heart was still pounding, his mind a chaotic mess of conflicting thoughts. But as much as he wanted to push everything down and ignore it, his body had other plans.

He glanced down at the towel wrapped around his waist, cursing under his breath as he saw the telltale sign of his arousal, the strain of his erection against the fabric. His fists clenched at his sides, frustration and shame warring within him. This was wrong—so wrong—and he knew it. He kept repeating it to himself like a mantra, hoping that if he said it enough times, it would sink in, that it would somehow make the feelings go away.

But no matter how hard he tried to will it down, his body wouldn’t listen. The memory of you standing so close, the way your eyes had looked up at him with something that felt dangerously like longing, was burned into his mind. And it wasn’t just that—your scent, the warmth of your presence, the way your voice had softened when you’d said his name—it was all too much, too overwhelming. It was a storm inside him that he couldn’t control.

Dean’s jaw tightened as he turned away from the door, pacing the length of his room in an attempt to clear his head. He tried to focus on anything else—the hunt, the research that needed to be done, anything that would distract him from the unbearable ache in his chest and the unwelcome desire pooling in his gut. But every time he tried to shift his thoughts, they circled back to you, pulling him into the same torturous loop.

“This is wrong”, he muttered to himself, the words a growl of frustration. “She’s too young. She’s like a sister. You can’t… you can’t do this”.

But even as he said it, the logic of it felt hollow, powerless against the tide of emotions he was barely holding back. He was supposed to be stronger than this, supposed to be able to keep these feelings in check, but here he was, barely able to keep himself together after one accidental encounter.

Dean sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands as he fought to regain control. This wasn’t just about desire—if it were, he might have been able to push it aside. No, this was something deeper, something that had been growing for years, something that terrified him because of how strong it had become.

He cared about you—more than he’d ever let on, even to himself. And that was the crux of it, the thing he couldn’t ignore. This wasn’t just a passing attraction; it was rooted in something real, something that had been building from the moment he’d saved you all those years ago. But he couldn’t let himself feel it, couldn’t let himself want you like that. Because if he did, it would ruin everything.

Dean took a deep, shaky breath, forcing himself to stand and move toward the dresser. He needed to get dressed, needed to do something normal, something to ground himself before he lost whatever grip he had left. But as he reached for his clothes, his hands were trembling, and his thoughts were still a jumbled mess.

Eventually, Dean managed to pull himself together enough to get dressed. His hands were still shaking slightly as he yanked on a pair of boxers, grimacing as he adjusted himself to hide his persistent erection by tucking it under the waistband. The discomfort was a reminder of the situation he was trying so desperately to avoid, but he pushed through it, forcing himself to focus on the mundane task of pulling on his jeans and a flannel shirt.

Once he was dressed, he stood in the middle of his room for a moment, trying to steady his breathing, trying to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in his head. He needed something to distract himself, something to take the edge off before he had to face you or Sam again. His gaze flicked toward the door, and he knew where he needed to go—the kitchen. A cold beer wouldn’t solve his problems, but it might help him get a handle on them, at least for a little while.

Dean took one last deep breath, running a hand through his still-damp hair before he made his way out of his room and down the hall. The bunker was quiet, and he was grateful for the silence; it gave him a chance to pull himself together, to try to push down the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him.

As he reached the kitchen, he pulled open the fridge with more force than necessary, grabbing a cold bottle of beer from the shelf. He popped the cap off with practiced ease and took a long swig, the cool liquid sliding down his throat and easing some of the tension in his chest.

For a moment, he just stood there, leaning against the counter with the bottle in hand, staring blankly at the far wall.

It took Dean four beers before he finally felt even remotely ready to face Sam in the library. Each bottle had gone down quicker than the last, the cold liquid doing its best to numb the edges of his thoughts, to push the swirling storm of emotions back to a manageable level.

He set the empty bottle down on the counter with a soft clink, letting out a long, slow breath as he ran a hand through his hair again, trying to shake off the lingering haze of frustration and confusion. It wasn’t much, but the alcohol had taken the edge off, had given him a little more control over the chaos inside him.

Dean knew he couldn’t put off talking to Sam any longer. His brother had a way of sensing when something was off, and the last thing Dean needed was for Sam to start asking questions he wasn’t ready to answer. He needed to act normal, needed to push everything else aside and focus on what mattered—keeping things from spiraling any further out of control.

With a final, resolute nod to himself, Dean pushed away from the counter and made his way out of the kitchen, heading toward the library. The familiar hum of the bunker filled the silence as he walked, the steady sound a small comfort in the midst of the turmoil he was trying to keep at bay.

As he approached the library, he could see Sam already sitting at one of the long wooden tables, a stack of books in front of him, the glow of his laptop casting a soft light on his face. Sam looked up as Dean entered, his expression shifting from concentration to something more guarded—like he was trying to gauge Dean’s mood before saying anything.

“Hey”, Sam greeted, his tone cautious as he closed the book he’d been reading. “Everything okay?”.

Dean forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, just needed to cool off a bit. You know how it is”.

Sam nodded slowly, clearly not entirely convinced but willing to let it slide for now. “Yeah, I get it. You want to go over what we found earlier? Might help take your mind off things”.

Dean knew what Sam was doing—offering him a distraction, a way to focus on something other than whatever had been eating at him since the argument with you. It was the kind of thing Sam was good at, knowing when to push and when to give space. And right now, Dean appreciated the latter.

“Sure”, Dean said, crossing the room to sit down across from Sam. “Let’s get to it”.

Sam gave him a small, understanding nod before opening one of the books, flipping to a marked page. “So, I was looking into that case in Ohio, and I found something that might tie into it. There’s a pattern here with the disappearances, something that lines up with an old legend about…”.

As Sam started to explain his findings, Dean tried to focus on the words, on the research and the hunt ahead of them. It was familiar territory, something he could sink his teeth into, something that didn’t involve the confusing mess of emotions he was desperately trying to bury.

But even as he listened, even as he nodded along and offered his own thoughts on the case, a part of his mind was still back in that hallway with you. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t completely push it away, couldn’t stop the nagging feeling that something between you had changed—and that there was no going back.

For now, though, he would focus on the hunt. On the work that needed to be done. And maybe, just maybe, he could keep everything else locked away where it couldn’t hurt anyone. At least until he figured out how to deal with it without destroying the fragile balance that had been holding everything together for so long.

It wasn’t until late that evening, when Sam came back with a bag full of Chinese takeout, that Dean had to face you again. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon and evening at the map table, nursing his tenth beer, trying to lose himself in the work and the alcohol. But neither had done much to ease the tension coiled in his chest or the thoughts that wouldn’t leave him alone.

The bunker had been quiet, with only the soft rustling of pages and the occasional click of Sam’s keyboard to break the silence. It had been a welcome reprieve, a chance for Dean to keep his distance from you, to avoid any more awkward encounters or the dangerous feelings that came with them.

But now, as the smell of fried rice and sesame chicken wafted through the air, Dean knew he couldn’t avoid you any longer.

“(Y/N), I brought some Chinese!”, Sam’s voice echoed through the bunker, the sound casual and warm.

Dean didn’t move right away, staying seated at the map table, his fingers drumming lightly on the wood as he stared at the bottle in front of him. The thought of seeing you again, of facing whatever tension still hung between you, made his chest tighten. But he had to pull it together, had to act like everything was fine, like nothing had changed.

A few moments later, you appeared in the doorway, and Dean’s heart skipped a beat as he looked up to see you. To his displeasure—and to the immediate dismay of his already frayed self-control—you were wearing a pair of shorts that were far too short for his peace of mind, paired with a tight top that left a good portion of your stomach exposed. The sight of you like that sent a jolt of heat through him, and he had to force himself to look away, to focus on anything other than the way your body moved as you shyly approached.

You hesitated in the doorway, clearly unsure of how he’d react, your eyes flicking to the beer in front of him and the tension in his posture. “Hey”, you said softly, your voice tentative.

Dean grunted in response, not trusting himself to say more. He took a long swig of his beer instead, trying to ignore the way his pulse had quickened, the way his mind was betraying him with images he had no business thinking about. He knew he needed to keep it together, but the sight of you like this, so close and so… exposed, was making it nearly impossible.

Sam, ever the oblivious or maybe just tactfully ignoring the tension in the room, smiled at you. “Come on, grab some food before it gets cold”.

Sam spread the food over the map table, setting out containers of fried rice, sesame chicken, egg rolls, and a few other dishes. He was all smiles, clearly trying to keep things light, urging you to take a seat. “Come on, dig in”, he said, gesturing to the open containers as he grabbed a pair of chopsticks for himself. “I got all your favorites”.

You offered him a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. There was still a lingering uncertainty in your movements as you took a seat across from Dean, your eyes flickering to him for a brief moment before quickly darting away. The tension between you was palpable, thick enough that it seemed to weigh down the air around you.

Dean watched you out of the corner of his eye, doing his best to keep his expression neutral as he reached for another beer. His fingers brushed against the cold glass of the bottle, but he hesitated before taking another drink. The alcohol had dulled the edges of his thoughts earlier, but now, with you sitting so close, he wasn’t sure it was doing him any favors.

Sam tore open a packet of soy sauce and drizzled it over his rice, taking a big bite before looking at you with a grin. “You okay, (Y/N)?”, he asked casually, though there was an undercurrent of concern in his voice. “You’ve been kind of quiet”.

You nodded, reaching for a container of fried rice and a pair of chopsticks, though your movements were slower than usual. “Yeah, I’m fine”, you replied, though the words felt forced. You stole another quick glance at Dean, who was still staring at the beer in his hand, as if it held all the answers he needed.

Dean could feel your eyes on him, and it took everything in him not to look up, not to let his gaze travel down to the way your shorts hugged your thighs or the sliver of skin exposed by your top. He knew he should say something, should try to bridge the gap that had grown between you, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he focused on the beer in front of him, taking another long swig in the hopes that it might help settle the restless energy coiled in his chest.

But it didn’t. If anything, the alcohol only heightened his awareness of you, made him more acutely aware of the scent of your shampoo, the soft sound of your breathing, the way your legs crossed under the table.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dean reached for some food, trying to focus on anything other than the knot of tension tightening in his chest. He grabbed a container of fried rice and scooped some onto his plate, doing his best to keep his movements casual, as if he wasn’t hyper-aware of your every glance.

But he could feel it—the way you kept looking at him, your eyes flicking up to meet his before quickly darting away. It was like a constant pressure, a silent question that hung in the air between you. Every time he caught you looking at him, it only made his heart beat faster, his thoughts more jumbled.

For nearly twenty minutes, the silence stretched on, punctuated only by the occasional clatter of chopsticks against plastic and Sam’s attempts at casual conversation. But even Sam seemed to sense the strain, his usual chatter subdued as he alternated between talking about the hunt and filling the awkward gaps in conversation.

Dean kept his head down, focusing on his food, but the weight of your gaze was impossible to ignore. The more you watched him, the more he felt the walls he’d built up start to crumble.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Sam stood up and stretched. “I’m gonna grab a beer”, he said, his voice breaking the silence that had settled over the table. He glanced at you, then at Dean, before heading toward the kitchen. “You guys want anything?”.

Dean shook his head, his voice tight. “I’m good”.

You shook your head as well, offering Sam a small smile as he left the room. The moment he was gone, the silence between you and Dean seemed to grow even heavier, the air thick with all the things neither of you were saying.

Dean could feel your eyes on him again, and this time, it was too much. He set down his chopsticks, his fingers twitching with the need to do something—anything—to break the tension. He clenched his jaw, trying to push down the frustration and confusion that had been building inside him all day.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He looked up, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that surprised even him. “What?”, he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”.

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in his tone. But you didn’t look away, your expression shifting from uncertainty to something more determined. “Because… because something’s wrong, Dean”, you said, your voice quiet but steady. “And you won’t talk to me about it".

Dean felt a surge of emotions he couldn’t quite name—anger, frustration, something else that he didn’t want to acknowledge. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he tried to keep his voice steady. “Nothing’s wrong, (Y/N). I’m just tired”.

But you weren’t buying it. He could see it in your eyes, the way you were studying him like you were trying to see past the mask he was wearing. “Don’t lie to me, Dean. I know you better than that”.

That hit harder than it should have, and Dean felt a pang of guilt twist in his chest. You did know him, maybe better than most people. And that was the problem. You knew when he was hiding something, when he was trying to push you away, and now it was clear you weren’t going to let it go.

He looked away, unable to hold your gaze any longer. “I’m not lying”, he muttered, though he knew it wasn’t convincing. Not to you, not to himself.

“Yes, you are”, you mumbled, your voice trembling slightly. “Look, I’m sorry if I pushed you earlier, but I just… I feel useless, Dean. I’m not working, I’m not hunting. I’m just… I’m just getting groceries with your damn money, cleaning, doing the laundry”. You paused, taking a shaky breath before continuing, your voice even quieter. “But I want to be more than just a burden on you and Sam’s wallet. I want to help hunting”.

Dean swallowed hard, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at him. He’d always seen you as part of the family, not a burden, but he realized now that his actions might have made you feel otherwise. He hated that you felt like this, hated that you saw yourself as anything less than the strong, capable person he knew you were.

“You’re not a burden”, Dean said, his voice gruff but earnest. He finally looked up at you, his green eyes meeting yours, and he saw the sincerity in your expression—the desperate need for him to understand. “You’ve never been a burden, (Y/N). You’re part of this family. And yeah, maybe I’ve been a little overprotective, but that’s only because…”.

He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence without revealing too much, without crossing that line he’d been so carefully toeing for years. The truth was, he cared about you—more than he should, more than he was willing to admit even to himself. And that was why he’d kept you on the sidelines, why he’d tried to shield you from the dangers of hunting. Because the thought of losing you, of something happening to you out there, was more than he could bear.

You waited for him to finish, your eyes never leaving his, and he could see the determination in them—the same determination that had drawn him to you in the first place. You weren’t going to back down, and he knew it.

“Because what, Dean?”, you prompted gently, your voice soft but firm.

Dean clenched his jaw, the weight of everything he wanted to say pressing down on him like a vice. He knew that you deserved the truth, deserved to know why he was holding back, but he couldn’t bring himself to cross that line. Not when he was so afraid of what it might mean—both for you and for him.

“Just drop it, (Y/N), please”, he finally said, his voice rough with barely restrained emotion. He looked away, unable to meet your gaze any longer, his fists clenching at his sides in frustration. “I can’t… I just can’t talk about this right now”.

The hurt in your eyes was like a punch to the gut, and he hated himself for putting that look on your face. But he couldn’t let himself give in to the emotions that were threatening to spill over. He couldn’t let himself feel the things he was so desperately trying to bury.

You didn’t respond right away, and the silence that stretched between you was almost unbearable. Dean could feel the tension, the weight of all the things left unsaid hanging in the air. He wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—that might make this easier, but the words wouldn’t come.

Finally, you let out a shaky breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay, Dean. I’ll drop it. But this isn’t over. You know that, right?”.

He nodded stiffly, still not looking at you. “Yeah, I know”.

Just as the weight of your conversation hung heavy between you, the tension was interrupted by the sound of Sam’s footsteps echoing through the hallway as he returned from the kitchen. He entered the room, holding a fresh beer, his easy-going demeanor a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside Dean.

Sam moved back to his seat and began eating again, filling the silence with casual conversation about the hunt, the case details, and the plan for the next few days. You responded when necessary, but your mind was clearly elsewhere.

As the meal was finished, the clatter of chopsticks and rustling of takeout containers filled the room as you and Sam cleared away your dishes. When you stood up to take the empty containers to the trash, Dean’s gaze was drawn to you despite himself.

As you moved around the table, reaching for Dean’s empty container, his eyes couldn’t help but trace the lines of your figure. Those little shorts you wore hugged your hips, thighs, and ass in a way that made it impossible for him to look away. The way they glided over your curves, emphasizing every inch of your form, made his breath hitch in his throat. He cursed himself silently, trying to fight the heat rising in his chest, but it was no use.

For a moment, time seemed to slow as he watched you, every detail of your appearance seared into his mind. He knew he shouldn’t be looking, knew that it was wrong to let his thoughts go where they were inevitably headed, but the pull was too strong, too overwhelming.

When you bent down slightly to pick up the containers, giving him an even better view, Dean had to physically force himself to look away, his fists clenching tightly under the table. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of guilt, frustration, and something darker twisting inside him. He had never wanted anything more than he wanted to protect you, but this was different. This was something he couldn’t control, something that threatened to consume him if he wasn’t careful.

You straightened up and caught Dean’s gaze as you turned back toward the kitchen. The brief eye contact was electric, like a jolt of energy passing between you. He could see the uncertainty in your eyes, the lingering hurt from your earlier conversation, but there was something else too—a flicker of something that mirrored the turmoil in his own heart.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, as if searching for something in his eyes, before turning and heading to the kitchen to dispose of the trash. As soon as you were out of sight, Dean let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his body slumping slightly as the tension and guilt gnawed at him.

A week had passed since that tense evening, but for Dean, the feelings that had been stirred up during that conversation hadn’t faded. If anything, they had only intensified. Every time you were near him, it was like a live wire of tension ran between you, sparking whenever you accidentally brushed against him or stood just a little too close. It was as if his body was reacting on its own, a rush of heat flooding through him that he couldn’t control, no matter how hard he tried.

The situation had become unbearable. Every glance, every casual touch, made it harder for Dean to keep his composure. He found himself avoiding you whenever possible, staying out late to work on the Impala, or finding excuses to leave the bunker for supplies or to do some research at a local library. He couldn’t let you see how much you were affecting him, how close he was to losing control.

But today, it all came to a head.

Sam, ever the one to suggest a way to unwind, had floated the idea of hitting a local bar to blow off some steam. Dean jumped at the chance, desperate for anything that might distract him from the storm of emotions swirling inside him. He needed to drink, needed to drown out the thoughts that kept circling back to you.

As Sam and Dean discussed the idea in the library, you overheard their conversation and joined them, your eyes lighting up at the prospect of getting out of the bunker for a bit. “Can I come too?”, you asked, a hopeful smile on your face. “I have a fake ID, so no worries there”.

Sam shrugged, clearly seeing no problem with it. “Sure, why not? It could be fun, and we could all use a break”.

But Dean wasn’t as quick to agree. The idea of you coming along, of being in a bar where the atmosphere was already charged with alcohol and proximity, made his stomach twist with anxiety. He knew how he reacted around you in the safe confines of the bunker—how much worse would it be with a few drinks in him and you looking the way you did? It was a risk he wasn’t sure he could take.

He hesitated, his eyes flicking between you and Sam, searching for an excuse to say no. “I don’t know…”, he started, trying to keep his voice steady. “Maybe it’s not the best idea”.

You frowned, clearly disappointed by his reluctance. “Why not? I’m not a kid, Dean. I can handle a night out”.

Sam glanced at Dean, noticing the tension in his brother’s posture, but he didn’t seem to grasp the full extent of what was going on. “Come on, Dean. It’s just one night. Let her come with us. It’ll be fun”.

Dean wanted to argue, to come up with some reason why you should stay behind, but the look on your face stopped him. Dean knew that if he pushed too hard, it would only make things worse, make you more determined to prove you could handle it.

With a resigned sigh, Dean finally nodded, though his expression remained tight. “Fine. But you´ll behave”.

You nodded eagerly, a smile spreading across your face as you grabbed your jacket. “Deal”.

Dean forced a tight smile, but inside, his mind was already racing, trying to figure out how he was going to keep himself in check. He couldn’t afford to let things get out of hand tonight, couldn’t afford to slip up in front of you or Sam.

As the three of you headed out of the bunker and made your way to the bar, Dean couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that tonight might push him closer to the edge than he was ready to go. The thoughts he’d been wrestling with, the emotions he’d been trying to suppress, were all bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over if he wasn’t careful.

When you arrived at the bar, the place was already buzzing with energy. The low hum of conversation mixed with the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter, creating a lively atmosphere. Dean found himself instinctively scanning the room.

Sam led the way to a table near the back, where the three of you settled in. Almost immediately, Sam flagged down a waitress and ordered a round of drinks. Dean tried to focus on the conversation, tried to relax and enjoy the night, but every time you shifted in your seat, every time your arm brushed against his, it sent a jolt of awareness through him that he couldn’t ignore.

When the drinks arrived, you raised your glass with a grin, clearly excited to be part of the evening. “Here’s to a night off”, you said, your eyes sparkling as you clinked your glass against theirs.

Dean managed a smile, but the alcohol in his glass felt like both a blessing and a curse. He knew it would help take the edge off, but he also knew it might lower the barriers he’d worked so hard to keep up.

As the night wore on, the drinks kept coming, and the atmosphere grew more relaxed. Sam was in his element, laughing and talking with ease, but Dean found it harder and harder to keep his focus. Every time you laughed, every time you leaned in closer to say something to him, it felt like a test of his self-control. The warmth of your body, the scent of your hair—it was all too much.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of trying to hold himself together, Dean knew he needed a break. He couldn’t sit there any longer, couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 3

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Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @ladykitana90 @fullbelieverheart @chainsawsangel @zaratahir @rebecca-hvnstn @maackiimoo @mayafatimakhan

[improbable-outset]

📄 𝐅𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Imagine Miguel, who’s usually so guarded with his emotions, finally feeling comfortable with you. Being with you feels like a fraction of his weight being lifted off of his shoulder.

Even if it isn’t a lot, it still has a huge impact on him especially since he’s grown accustomed to being alone all the time. But with you, he feels safe.

You’re the one person that makes him feel secure enough to let his steel walls down, and he finds himself naturally sharing the weight of being Spider-man— along with his constant fight to maintain the multiverse.

You’re always gentle, understanding, and there’s always no pressure— just offering acceptance. Something he never realised he’d been craving, not since he lost Gabriella’s dimension.

But as he becomes more emotionally attached to you, something starts to feel off. He couldn’t pinpoint it at first, but the nagging feeling refuses to leave him, gnawing at the back of his mind.

Eventually, the heartbreaking truth emerges: you’re not from his dimension. You’re an anomaly, someone who shouldn’t exist in this world.

He felt his whole world spinning and for a moment, he dissociated from his thoughts. He should’ve known it was too good to be true…

How did he not see the signs from the start? Why didn’t he notice the subtle glitches? Was he so blinded by his own emotions that it overshadowed his logic?

He feels utterly betrayed, not by you, but by fate. How could the universe be so cruel as to give him someone who sees him for who he is, only to take it away?

Miguel knows had to send you away, back to your own dimension. It was too dangerous for you to stay here.

The whole process was unbearable to watch, even worse that he had to put on a facade in front of the rest of the Society as you get whisked away by the Go-Home machine.

Later, he stumbles upon you again— or rather, the version of you that does belong in his dimension. But it’s not what he expected.

This version of you is colder, distant. You don’t carry the same warmth that made him feel safe. Every interaction with his version of you was a painful reminder of what he lost.

Whenever he tries to reach out, you only pull away, seemingly uninterested in him. It’s like staring at the face of someone you love, knowing they’ll never see you the same way.

The version he fell for is unreachable, like catching smoke with his bare hands. And he’ll never experience that connection with you again.

Ok this is gonna sound weird but I was inspired by My Little Pony: The Legend Of Everfree after Flash Sentry realises that the Twilight Sparkle he fell for was from another world, not from Equestria High. And the version from his world isn’t the same 🥲🥲