#it is better to have love & lost than to have never loved at a

[chimerafeathers]

i really love how intensely Mirabelle reacts to act 5 Siffrin botched friendquest.

Isabeau is mostly operating out of concern and, eventually, hurt. he already knows something’s up before Siffrin gets to him. he knows something truly awful must be wrong for Siffrin to be lashing out like they are, and as soon as he can’t handle the situation anymore, he leaves and asks (with strained cheer) for time apart to cool off.

most of Bonnie’s anger comes from being upset and afraid that Siffrin would willingly put themself in danger for no reason, when that’s exactly why they’ve been so unsettled since the eye incident. they hate that Siffrin values their own life so little, they hate that they’re the cause of any pain or loss for him, and here he is, putting himself in that situation AGAIN. on purpose. it’s loud and explosive, but it’s familiar, too, being “hated” by Bonnie for this reason.

Odile pushes, and keeps pushing, until her concern overwhelms Siffrin and they strike where they know she’s most vulnerable. she gets physical, just for a moment, grabbing his collar before controlling herself and letting go. her fury shuts down into cold detachment, and she walks away.

but Mirabelle—dear, sweet, gentle, loving Mirabelle, “the most wonderful being on earth,” with her secret “ruthless side” that largely involves lightly badmouthing people behind their backs and then apologizing—slaps them. immediately.

and then COMPLETELY RENOUNCES THEIR FRIENDSHIP.

not just “we’re not friends anymore,” but “we were never friends in the first place.”

that’s!!! pretty extreme!!!!

of course, she ALSO starts by asking what’s wrong. something must have happened for him to act like this. but as soon as Siffrin brushes her off, she jumps past that line of questioning and dives headfirst into re-evaluating everything she thought she knew about them as a a person.

if he could say something like that to her and not see anything wrong with it, then she was wrong to treat him as a friend, wrong to read camaraderie into his teasing, wrong to think they must care about them all under their aloof demeanor.

that’s how Mirabelle phrases it—“I was wrong about you”—but i think that there’s a hidden layer of I was right about you, too.

she talks about the way they tease her like she had to convince herself that he was doing it in a friendly way. she says they talk like they “know better than her” like that’s a thought she’s had for a LONG time.

“Always soooo mysterious, Siffrin, always talking as if you're better than me! As if you know me!!! But you don't, Siffrin!!! You're just as lost and useless as I am!!! So stop!!! Talking!!! As if you know me!!!!!!”

none of this comes across as a new, sudden way to view Siffrin for her. it doesn’t shock or confuse her. it makes her angry, defensive, almost like she was waiting for something like this to happen at some point. the feeling of resentment, frustration, jealousy, being patronized and condescended to—this is something she’s been actively pushing down and rejecting this entire time, but they’ve given her ample reason for it all to boil to the surface. violently.

Mirabelle’s kindness is not inherent or easy. it’s a choice she’s making. she treats Siffrin warmly because she gives him the benefit of the doubt—refusing to act based on anxiety-fueled, cynical speculation, and reassuring herself that his actions are driven by care and friendship even if she can’t quite see it.

“I was wrong about you” doesn’t mean she always and without question believed them to be a fundamentally kind, caring person from the beginning—it’s that her first, colder instincts were right, and she was wrong to convince herself otherwise.

never mind that she asked what was wrong at first. she barely gives them time to speak in their own defense, to explain what they really meant by what they said. all of her suppressed doubts and frustrations are getting aired out now, now that all the trust she’d so deliberately placed in him has been betrayed. her pain feels bigger than this singular moment, so when she hurts him back, she makes sure it extends back through the entirety of their relationship for him, too.

“You're awful. You're not my friend, not my ally, not anything. You never were.”

like the others, she goes back to the clocktower and tells Siffrin not to come back until later. but there’s a finality to the way she ends this confrontation that isn’t quite there with the others. Isabeau and Odile reach their breaking point and remove themselves from the situation, asking for space to cool off but still somewhat leaving the door open for Siffrin to tell them what’s really going on at some point. Mirabelle is the only one who tries to fully cut ties—after everything else she says, her “I don’t want to see you until tonight” reads to me somewhat as “I don’t want to see you anymore unless I have to.”

I can’t wait to never see you again.

even back at the clocktower, Mirabelle doesn’t really defend Siffrin’s place in the party when Odile suggests leaving them behind out of concern for their trustworthiness on the most important day of the journey. Isabeau and Bonnie protest out of sentimentality and faith in Siffrin’s abilities and connection to them, and Mirabelle agrees, but…

“I agree, but... B-But would he even agree to come with us, still? Maybe they won't even come back tonight...”

she doesn’t say much outside of that. maybe the stutter and hesitation here are signs of regret about how things happened, but she lacks Isabeau and Bonnie’s confidence that Siffrin even wants to come back to them in the first place. she doesn’t trust that their bond was real anymore. maybe it never was in the first place, or maybe she broke whatever was there herself.

and she’s still mad when they finally catch up to Siffrin at the King! and she makes sure Siffrin knows that—after saving them, assuring him that he no longer needs to fight, that they’re all there for him. she still cares, of course she still cares—she’s still hurt, too, but they can figure that part out once there’s less world-ending stuff going on.

she’s the first to say that they all reserve the right to still be angry at Siffrin later—and that they’ve already forgiven him.

she’s also the first to say we want to stay with you, too. it’s not just you.

she was wrong! she thought they didn’t care but they care so much, it’s overwhelming, it’s world-ending.

i think she’s gonna be wallowing in guilt post-canon the moment she remembers what she said and did TO SIFFRIN and not just what Siffrin said to her. especially now that she knows Siffrin’s exact hangups, and especially especially if she figures out what Siffrin was trying to say.

they put themself through hell out of loneliness and fear that none of the others cared about him the way he cared about them, he was going insane from repetition and exhaustion and hunger and trying to keep them all safe and together, and all they did in the midst of all that was say something kind of mean to her one time (that turned out to not even be MEANT to be mean it was supposed to be HELPFUL they just SAID IT ALL WRONG) and she SLAPPED THEM? and told him that they WEREN’T FRIENDS AT ALL??? how could she!!! she should have known better!! what they said hurt a lot but still!!!

so when they eventually manage to try to talk about it, they end up almost in, like, a guilt competition.

Mirabelle apologizing for how she reacted, that she shouldn’t have yelled or hit him, that she doesn’t want to be the kind of person who acts that way out of anger and she’s sorry that she made Siffrin expect that reaction from her, she should have known better and believed in him more and they only messed up like that because they were losing their mind in a time loop but what’s HER excuse—

and Siffrin going nononono stop I deserved it—(HUH DON’T SAY THAT NO YOU DIDN’T)—and that he should never have said such awful things to her, ever, and she was under so much pressure already with the weight of the country and everyone’s lives and futures and her religion and their whole party counting on her to do this impossible task because she’s the only one who can, all this unbearable expectation and hope crushing her, and they KNEW that but they thought they could skip to the ending as though her feelings didn’t matter at all, like helping her wasn’t as important as saving a little time—

until they’re just. in tears together, apologizing for all the horrible things they did in between complimenting each other’s strength and kindness and resilience and how much they admire each other and saying that no, everything you did was completely understandable, actually, the only one who sucks here is me. which neither of them will accept coming from the other!!

they’re so similar, in ways they couldn’t really understand, before.

warm, affectionate, perfect Mirabelle, the resolute hero, a beacon of compassion and hope for all those around her, who wears her heart on her sleeve, her fear making her courage shine all the brighter—nothing like the insignificant, forgettable Siffrin, too terrified to be known, too fragile to touch, too selfish and disgusting to bear letting go.

cool, mysterious, unflappable Siffrin, the worldly traveler, as charming and silly as they are confident and skilled, who brushed off losing an eye like it was nothing, accepting the risks of this journey with barely more than a shrug—nothing like the anxious, stagnant, undeserving Mirabelle, a fraud and a nobody crumbling under the weight of a mission too important to be entrusted to someone like her, doubting herself, doubting her friends, doubting her mentor, doubting her faith, too weak and brittle to bend and change the way the world needs her to without breaking.

not worth bothering others with their problems. they should be able to handle this alone. stay positive, stay calm. breathe in, and out.

they’ll struggle with it, still—the hiding, the minimizing—but now, they understand each other a little better. they can hold each other accountable for what they leave unsaid.

it’ll get easier, eventually. they have plenty of time.

[stxxrlights]

𝐄𝐗-𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

ex-husband!toji who was devastated when you asked for a divorce but knew it was gonna end up that way. the way he acted like he never cared, always acting sassy towards you even on the days he knew there was something wrong with you on that day. he didn't know that all that would lead up to you eventually wanting a divorce. he denied at first but after thinking it through, he knew it was for the best.

ex-husband!toji who cried himself to sleep the first few months after you had left. the house never felt so empty and quiet. the bed was so warm and everything looked so dull. he missed your warm touch, your weird but cute laugh, the stupid jokes you would tell him when you were getting too sleepy. and now all of that was gone. all because of his ignorance, his negligence. he had finally found happiness with you and he fucked it up. his heart aching whenever he though of you.

ex-husband!toji who resorted to drinking to full all the emotions he was feeling. wasting all of his money on alcohol, but it still didn't help. because even in his drunken state, he still acknowledge you as the love of his life. the one who was able to fix him. him getting a little sober when he comes back to his place calling your name and then remembering that you're gone.

ex-husband!toji who got a little too exited when you called him telling him that you left some important things. his heart is beating rapidly in his chest, a wide smile etched on his face as he hopes you don't get a hint of it either. as much as he wants you back, he does not want to appear too desperate.

ex-husband!toji who's hand was shaking when you rang the doorbell. he opened the door to see you looking as stunning as possible, while he felt like shit. he had heavy bags under his eyes, his beard disheveled and his eyes slightly red form the alcohol in his system and from crying.

ex-husband!toji who persuaded you to stay a little longer and have a chat. and was shocked that you agreed. it was kind of awkward at first, but the years of knowing each other didn't go to waste. you talked about the new place you got, and how you felt during your marriage, getting to understand your side and realizing what an asshole he was to you. but at least now he doesn't feel so lonely. at least today he can go to bed knowing that he got to have you close to him, even if it was only for about an hour.

ex-husband!toji who you agreed to stay friends with because you still cared about him. there were many memories of the both of you happy and in love, acting like complete fools, memories that still put a smile on your face. he was quite the experience, but circumstances made you let go. it was better for the both of you. but of course staying friends is not a big deal.

ex-husband!toji who slowly started getting his life back on track. shaving his stubble regularly, keeping the house clean, arranging his wardrobe and drinking way less that he was as well as working extra hard on his job so he can earn a lot of money and buy himself or you something nice. because at least he didn't fuck up that bad, right...?

ex-husband!toji who became a better person in general, to maintain your relationship. in hopes of trying to get you back. slowly, it was a process. getting you to trust him, just like the first time and making you realize that you miss him and being with him just as much as he does and eventually confessing your feelings to him like the first time. it was genius, really.

ex-husband!toji who gets heart broken when he finds out you've moved on. moved on to a guy more handsome, younger, richer and clearly treats you better than he ever did. he's stunned when you introduce them to one another, not knowing what to say. a fake wobbly smile is plastered on his face as he shakes hands with your new man. he congratulates you. what else is there to say? but he realizes now that he's lost you. there was no chance you were ever going to be together again. nome at all...

comments and reblogs are appreciated

[lowrisemiller]

thoroughfare °˖⋆ ℧

“i met you there in texas, somewhere on the thoroughfare”

“on the side of the road in the same torn up clothes with a pistol in my pocket”

arthur morgan x fem!reader x joel miller

| masterlist | 4.4k words | picture doesn’t depict the appearance of the reader just for aesthetic |yearning, tension, kissing, oral f!receiving, gettin tossed around by two burly cowboys, praise, unprotected piv sex, cuddling fucking from mr miller, aftercare !

summary- Two rugged ranchers, lifelong friends Arthur Morgan and Joel Miller, find their quiet world upended when a younger woman arrives to work their land—and slowly works her way into their hearts. As desire grows into something deeper, the three of them cross the line between friendship and longing, discovering a love too wild and tender to tame.

They didn’t talk much, and that suited them both just fine.

Arthur had always said the land did most of the talking anyway. The wind in the grass. The lowing of cattle at dawn. The metal clang of fence wire tightening under calloused hands. After years of gun smoke and ghosts, the quiet wasn’t so much peace—it was penance. And Joel understood that better than anyone.

They’d run the ranch together for nearly a decade. Fifty head of cattle. A weather-beaten barn. Long days spent working fence lines or chasing down strays in the hills. Evenings filled with whiskey and silence by the fire. Arthur cooked. Joel carved. They didn’t need much. Just the land, the dogs, the horses, and the kind of friendship you didn’t have to label.

They were men who’d lost too much to ask for more.

The work was hard, and that was good. It gave their hands something to do. Their thoughts are something to drown in. Neither of them said it, but the house felt too big for two men their age. There were extra bedrooms no one stepped foot in. An empty porch swing that never moved. Sometimes, Joel would glance at the seat across from him at dinner and imagine someone laughing there.

Arthur would look out across the pasture at sunset and feel the ache in his chest like a ghost pressing a hand to his ribs.

Then came the girl.

She rolled up in a truck that coughed smoke and looked like it hadn’t seen an oil change in ten years. It was early spring—the thaw barely settled. Joel had just come back from hauling feed when he spotted the dust cloud and narrowed his eyes at the figure stepping out.

Boots in the mud. Soft flannel. Strong arms. A stubbornness set to her jaw.

Arthur stepped out onto the porch, wiping his hands on a rag. “You lost, darlin’?”

You shook your head. “Looking for the Lyle property.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Old George Lyle’s place?”

You nodded. “He passed a few months ago. Left it to me.”

Joel leaned against the post, arms crossed. “Didn’t know he had any kin.”

“I’m not,” you said simply. “Just someone he trusted. Taught me everything I know about cattle and fixing fences. I owed him.”

Arthur blinked, then smiled faintly. “That man was a hell of a card player.”

You smiled back. “So I heard.”

Joel muttered, “Place’s damn near falling in.”

“I can handle it.”

You didn’t ask for help. That was what caught their attention first.

────🌾────

Arthur watched you from the hilltop as he lit a cigarette. Joel noticed the way your back stayed straight, even when your shoulders shook from exhaustion.

By the end of the week, Arthur brought you a wheelbarrow and a fresh pair of gloves without a word. Joel handed you a water bottle and said, “You’re stubborn.”

You grinned. “So are you.”

You worked from sunup to sundown, bandaged your own blisters, and cursed loud enough to make Arthur chuckle into his coffee. You shared dinner with them one night, then two, then a week’s worth.

Eventually, Joel fixed the plumbing at the Lyle place. Quietly. Arthur rewired the porch light. You thanked them both with a smile that made something shift behind Joel’s ribs.

Then the rain came. And the roof leaked.

Joel stood in your doorway with his arms crossed, dripping wet. “Get your things.”

Arthur leaned in the truck window. “Spare room’s open. Ain’t much, but it’s dry.”

You moved in that night. One duffel bag. One quiet “thank you.”

────🌾────

Weeks passed like molasses, slow and sticky and sweet in their own strange way.

You never expected to stay this long.

The old Lyle property was half reclaimed from the brambles, but the rain had done a number on the roof, and more than once you’d found black mold in places you didn’t want to name. Arthur had patched what he could. Joel came over one morning with a cordless drill and never really left after that.

Eventually, they offered you the spare room in their house. Said it was temporary. Said it just made sense.

But after a while, no one brought up the word temporary again.

You all slipped into rhythm without meaning to. Mornings started with coffee and bare feet on cool wood floors. Joel took his black, Arthur loaded his with too much sugar, and you drank yours leaning against the counter in a sleep shirt and shorts, eyes half-lidded. One of them always made eggs. The dogs—Boone and Lady—sat at your feet, loyal and lazy, with their heads in your lap.

You fixed fence posts beside Arthur, sweat beading on your skin, nails between your lips as he handed you the hammer. He liked the way you didn’t flinch around mud, the way you cursed like a 70-year-old rancher and sang old songs under your breath.

Joel taught you how to ride his favorite quarter horse. Big, quiet gelding named Shimmer. Said you had good balance. Strong thighs. His voice always got rougher when he said thighs.

Sometimes he’d linger behind you in the saddle, correcting your grip with a hand on your waist. Sometimes his breath would hit the back of your neck, and you wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t even breathe.

You rode fence lines together at dusk. Swam in the creek on hot days. Played cards and drank beer on the porch at night. You started calling Arthur cowboy when he got bossy, and Joel sir just to see his jaw twitch.

They teased you back, sure—but never touched. Not really.

They were good men. Older. Quiet. They didn’t want to scare you off.

But something was shifting.

Joel caught himself looking at your hands. Your neck. The soft line of your spine when you bent over to stack feed bags. He started lighting his cigarettes farther from the porch—so he wouldn’t be tempted to sit too close.

Arthur got quieter around you. His laugh lingered a little longer, but so did the way his eyes drifted lower when you walked into a room. He fixed things that didn’t need fixing. Made excuses to be near you.

They never talked about it.

But you felt it.

Like that one night you were in the stables brushing Shimmer’s mane and Arthur joined you.

It was late. The horses were fed, the sky painted in fading streaks of gold and mauve. You were still brushing Shimmer down in the barn, sleeves rolled, boots muddy. Arthur stepped in, quiet as always, carrying a mug of tea like it was just something he’d thought to do.

“You keep brushing that horse, she’s gonna shine like polished silver,” he said in a low tone.

You smiled without looking up. “She likes it.”

Arthur leaned against the post. “So do you.”

You paused, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He stepped forward and handed you the mug. You took it, your fingers brushing his—rough against your smooth. He didn’t pull away.

“You work too hard,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “So do you.”

He gave a soft laugh, but didn’t move. He was close now. You could smell cedarwood soap and old tobacco. His eyes dropped to your lips, just briefly, and that alone made your breath catch.

“Got dirt on your cheek,” he murmured, lifting one hand.

His thumb brushed your skin. Slow. Careful. You swore he lingered. His hand didn’t drop right away. Instead, it cradled your jaw for just a second too long—his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t dare.

He held your gaze like a man about to say something dangerous—but instead, he only stepped back, knuckles brushing yours as he whispered, “Night, darlin’.”

You stood there in the hay dust, heart pounding, wondering what would’ve happened if you’d leaned in.

Or

That morning with Joel in the kitchen.

The house was quiet except for the soft clink of dishes. You were in the kitchen rinsing out a coffee mug when Joel came up behind you—close, not touching, but close enough that your body noticed.

“You always leave your mugs in the sink?” he asked, voice low and dry.

You smirked. “You always hover behind people in the kitchen?”

Joel didn’t laugh. Didn’t move.

“You been wearin’ my flannel all day,” he said instead, voice rough.

You glanced down and shrugged. “Yeah. It was on the hook.”

He reached past you, slow, grabbed a plate from the drying rack. But his body brushed yours just slightly—his strong chest at your back, his hand ghosting near your waist.

You stayed still.

“I like how it looks on you,” he said, almost to himself.

You turned to face him, breath caught halfway. He was too close now. His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up. His hand rested on the edge of the counter beside your hip.

“I’m not tryin’ to start somethin’,” Joel said roughly.

“Then don’t stand so close,” you whispered.

But neither of you moved.

His knuckles brushed yours. You swallowed hard.

“I do things slow,” he said finally. “But when I want somethin’—I want it all the way.”

Then he stepped back.

And your knees nearly buckled.

────🌾────

It became too much. The two men took over every single thought. Before you’d go to sleep at night you would replay memories and little things they both have done.

You hadn’t meant for this to happen.

At first, it was just about survival. About fences and feed and early mornings with dirt on the window. You were too busy trying to patch the roof and clear out the barn to think about anything else. Joel and Arthur had been kind—quiet and rough around the edges, but kind. You respected them. Trusted them.

But something changed.

It was in the small things. The way Arthur always made your tea just right. How he’d linger near you in the barn, his warmth close enough to touch. The way he looked at you like you were soft, like you were some delicate thing he didn’t dare grab with dirty hands.

And then Joel—God, Joel. That man carried tension like it was sewn into his spine. Everything about him was hard angles, clenched jaw, calloused hands. But the way he watched you in his flannel, the way his voice dropped when he was near—it made your whole body buzz.

You liked being near them.

Too much.

Sometimes you caught yourself comparing them. Arthur’s steadiness, Joel’s intensity. The way Arthur said darlin’ with that gravel-deep gentleness. The way Joel’s hand would rest on your lower back for a second too long, fingers twitching like he was holding himself back.

It was starting to keep you up at night.

You’d roll over in bed, heart pounding, wondering what would happen if you reached out. If you chose.

But the truth was, you didn’t know if you could.

Because they were both slipping under your skin.

And then—

One night, it all cracked open.

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a throw blanket pulled to your chest. The movie playing was old and slow—some western Arthur liked. Joel had fallen into the armchair, nursing a beer, and Arthur sat beside you, closer than usual.

You said something about the sky, about how it was turning purple outside. Arthur hummed.

And then you felt it.

Joel’s eyes on you. Arthur’s hand against your leg, heavy and warm. The silence between all three of you stretched, pulled thin.

You turned your head—and both men were looking at you.

Not casually.

Not kindly.

But like men who had been trying not to want you for a long, long time.

Joel’s gaze dipped to your mouth. Arthur’s thumb traced a lazy circle against your thigh. You didn’t stop him.

Your breath caught.

No one spoke.

But the silence was loud.

And you knew—without a doubt—that this thing between the three of you wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was burning.

Still no one spoke.

Arthur’s thumb was still brushing circles against your thigh, slow and patient like he was memorizing your skin through the blanket. Joel hadn’t moved, but his eyes were darker now—hooded, jaw clenched, fingers tight around the neck of his beer bottle. The air in the room was charged, thick with heat and breath and something unspoken.

You swallowed hard.

And then, just barely above a whisper:

“…what are we doing?”

Arthur’s hand paused. Joel leaned forward.

You looked between them—at Arthur’s calm, unreadable face and Joel’s gaze flickering over your lips like he was already imagining what they’d feel like against his.

Neither of them answered.

So you pulled the blanket back, just enough to show the curve of your thigh, bare under the hem of Joel’s old flannel.

Arthur’s breath caught.

Joel stood up.

He crossed the space in three slow steps and knelt in front of you on the rug, large hands bracing on either side of your legs.

“You really want this?” he rasped. His eyes were locked on yours—hungry, hesitant, already gone.

You nodded, whisper-soft. “I do.”

Arthur let out a breath behind you. You turned slightly, meeting his eyes.

He was leaning close now too, hand still on your leg. “You sure, darlin’? Once we start this…”

“…we’re not stopping,” Joel finished.

You let your knees part between them.

That was all the answer they needed.

Joel leaned in first—slow, deliberate. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip before he kissed you. It was careful at first, his lips warm and slightly chapped, tasting faintly of beer and restraint. But when you sighed into him, he deepened it—tilting your face up, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger he’d clearly been holding back for weeks.

Behind you, Arthur’s hand slid higher on your thigh.

“You two gonna make me sit here and watch?” he murmured, voice thick with heat.

Joel pulled back just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Thought you liked watchin’, Morgan.”

Arthur chuckled low, and then his hand moved beneath the hem of your—Joel’s shirt—his palm warm and rough against your bare skin.

You gasped, turning toward him, and his lips were already there—softer than Joel’s, slower, his kiss all patience and promise. He kissed you like a secret. Like he wanted to keep you.

You moaned softly, body caught between them, and Joel let out a sound from deep in his chest.

“Bedroom,” he muttered.

Arthur didn’t answer—just stood and lifted you effortlessly into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. Joel followed close behind, one hand guiding your back, the other grazing your hip.

You were dizzy with it—wrapped in warmth and want, floating somewhere between them, their hands anchoring you. They moved like they’d talked about this before. Like they’d been waiting for the moment you’d fall into them.

And now?

They had you.

And they weren’t about to let go.

Arthur laid you down with care.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, creaking softly under the solid strength of his body. Joel stood at the edge of the bed, watching—his eyes burning dark, like he was trying to memorize you just like this: flushed and breathing heavy, hair mussed, legs parted slightly on the sheets.

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur murmured.

His hands were on you already, calloused palms sliding up beneath the borrowed flannel. You gasped when his fingers brushed over your ribs—feather-light at first, then firmer as they moved up to cup your breasts, thumbs stroking lazy circles over your nipples.

“God,” you whispered.

Joel leaned over, hands braced on either side of your thighs. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Arthur was kissing your neck now, his beard rough against your skin, lips soft. He moved slow, like he wanted to savor it—each kiss dragging lower as he pulled the shirt higher, exposing your bare stomach inch by inch.

Joel’s hand slid up your thigh, spreading your legs wider. “She’s shakin’,” he rasped.

“I know,” Arthur murmured. “I got her.”

He kissed the curve of your hip as Joel leaned in and kissed your mouth again—this time harder, deeper. His tongue met yours with raw hunger, his grip on your thigh tightening. You moaned into him, your hips twitching upward, aching for more.

Arthur moved between your legs now, dragging his mouth lower, slower, lips brushing your inner thigh.

You whimpered.

“Patience, sweetheart,” Arthur said, voice low and warm. “We’re gonna take care of you.”

Joel’s hand came up to cup your jaw, turning your face back to his. “Gonna treat you so fuckin’ good. You hear me?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Arthur’s mouth pressed right where you needed it, hot and open, licking and sucking on your clit, and your back arched. Joel swallowed your gasp with another kiss, his hand sliding under your head, cradling you there, grounded and worshipped all at once.

They worked in tandem—Arthur’s tongue slow and methodical, like he was learning every response you gave him, every tremble. Joel’s lips at your ear, whispering things that made your skin burn:

“Can’t believe you’re lettin’ us have you like this.”

“Such a good girl.”

“Never gonna forget the way you sound, takin’ us like this.”

You reached down blindly, fingers threading through Arthur’s hair, and he groaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“Joel—please,” you breathed.

He growled softly, undoing his belt with one hand, kissing along your jaw with the other. “You want both of us tonight, baby?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes. Please, I want—”

Arthur’s mouth dragged up your body again, kissing your sternum, your throat. “Then you got us, darlin’. Every fuckin’ inch.”

Joel’s mouth met yours one more time, possessive and rough.

And as they undressed—hands and mouths and quiet praise—you realized something:

This wasn’t just desire.

It was need.

Arthur kissed you again—slow, steady—his mouth hot and tasting faintly of you. He’d shed his shirt somewhere between the bed and your thighs, and now his body was pressed against yours, warm and solid. You could feel every inch of him, every deliberate drag of his chest over your nipples, every reverent pass of his hands over your hips.

Joel was behind him now, kneeling on the bed, jeans tugged halfway down. His eyes never left your face.

“You want Arthur first?” Joel asked, voice low, almost a growl.

Your breath caught.

“I—yes,” you whispered.

Arthur groaned. “Good girl.”

He kissed down your body again, this time moving slower. Not teasing—just devoted. He wanted to feel every shiver. Wanted you pliant beneath him when he finally slid into you.

You reached for him, fingers threading through the back of his hair as he nudged your thighs apart again, lining himself up with practiced care. You felt the thick press of him at your entrance, and your whole body tensed in anticipation.

Arthur cupped your face with one hand, brushing his thumb over your lip.

“Breathe for me, darlin’.”

You did.

And then—he pushed in.

A long, slow slide that made your toes curl and your jaw drop, gasping as he filled you inch by inch. He held himself there once he was fully seated, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting softly.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “How good you take me?”

You nodded helplessly, overwhelmed by the fullness, the stretch, the heat.

Joel sat beside you now, one hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead, the other trailing down to your chest. He cupped your breast, watching Arthur move inside you with a hungry, reverent stare.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Joel muttered. “Look at you.”

Arthur started to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that rocked your body up the bed. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, whispered soft praise as your fingers clawed at his back.

Joel leaned in, kissed your cheek, then your lips—deep and lingering, tasting every moan Arthur pulled from your throat.

“You’re so good,” Joel murmured. “So fuckin’ good for us.”

You were unraveling, every nerve lit up, caught between Arthur’s steady rhythm and Joel’s mouth and hands. You felt possessed, held, worshipped.

And then Arthur pulled out slowly, pressing one last kiss to your sternum.

“Think she’s ready for you,” he murmured, looking at Joel.

Joel didn’t wait. He was on you in seconds, flipping you gently onto your side, spooning in close behind. His chest was slick with heat, breath ragged against your ear.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured, lining himself up.

“Please,” you whispered.

He pushed in with a groan—deeper than Arthur, thicker, dragging a broken cry from your throat as he filled you completely. Joel’s hand curled around your waist, holding you in place as he began to move—grinding slow and deep, his mouth pressed to your shoulder.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he hissed.

Arthur knelt in front of you now, brushing hair back from your face, kissing your mouth sweetly while Joel fucked you slow and unrelenting from behind.

“You’re ours now, ain’t you?” Arthur murmured. “Both of us.”

You nodded, tears at the corners of your eyes from how full you felt, how overwhelming it was to be held between them.

Joel’s thrusts grew harder, his breath turning rough against your skin. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re ours.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “I’m—yours.”

And when you came—loud, shaking, completely undone—they didn’t stop holding you. Didn’t stop whispering how good you were, how beautiful you looked, how they’d never let you go now.

You belonged to them.

And tonight, they made sure you knew it.

────🌾────

The room was quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles in after a storm—soft and sacred, broken only by the sound of three tangled breaths.

You were between them again, your body boneless and glowing, cheek pressed against Arthur’s chest. His heartbeat was a slow, steady thump beneath your ear, and one of his hands ran lazy circles along your spine, grounding you.

Joel lay behind you, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, his body flush against your back. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his skin, the quiet way he breathed your name like a prayer.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

You nodded, lips brushing Arthur’s skin. “Yeah. Just… wow.”

Arthur chuckled low in his throat. “That a good ‘wow,’ or a we-gotta-run-away-and-never-talk-about-it-again kinda wow?”

You laughed softly. “The first one.”

Joel hummed, and you felt his lips move against your shoulder. “Good. ‘Cause we’re not lettin’ you go now.”

Arthur shifted just enough to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. “Didn’t hurt, did it? We didn’t push too much?”

“No,” you said, voice thick and quiet. “It was perfect.”

They exhaled together, that tension in their bodies finally melting all the way out of them.

Joel sat up first, kissed your shoulder, then leaned over to grab a warm cloth from the bedside. He was slow and gentle cleaning you up, murmuring quiet things like I got you, just relax, you were so good for us. Every motion was careful, reverent. Like you were something fragile. Something theirs.

Arthur pulled the blankets up, letting you settle again between them.

You felt completely safe. Wrapped in warmth and worn flannel and calloused hands that held you like you were the softest thing they’d ever touched.

“You always this quiet after?” Arthur asked, his fingers trailing along your ribs.

You shrugged, half-smiling. “Not always. But I’ve never… done this before.”

“With two men?”

“With two people who actually care.”

They both stilled.

Joel leaned forward, brushing hair from your face. “We do,” he said quietly. “Care.”

Arthur nodded, resting his forehead against yours. “This wasn’t just a one-time thing for us. Not if it ain’t for you.”

You looked between them, your heart thudding louder than it had all night.

“I don’t want it to be,” you whispered.

Joel smiled—soft and warm and rare. “Good. Then stay.”

“I'm already here.”

Arthur kissed you again—slower this time, with all the gentleness in the world. Joel tucked himself closer to your back, his hand slipping under your shirt to rest flat over your heart.

You fell asleep wrapped in both of them.

And when the sun rose through the dusty window panes the next morning, they were still there—one hand in your hair, the other tracing your spine, like they’d never let go.

And maybe they wouldn’t.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr @whimsydoe

[latenightwithpizza]

oh goodness, i don't even know WHERE to start. im just so happy you kept going with this absolutely fantastic piece!! so heartbreaking raw and angsty, i want to strangle mattheo and kiss him and give him a hug and then shove him off a cliff, i feel dizzy from all the emotional whiplash you have given me! but i love it sm!!!! the way reader is struggling so much with their situation but is still being selfish by leading rowan on because she can't fully have mattheo god they're both so fucked up in their own ways, AND I DONT EVEN KNOW WHY yet for her!! so beautiful leo, you always kill it, your writing is one of my favs to devour and i truly wanted to highlight every line in this whole piece!!! 😭🤍🤍🤍

Also just love this timeline of this fic, of it being set when they go back to a rebuilt Hogwarts for the 8th year!!!

Mattheo Riddle had become a ghost before the war had even ended, had already lost his entire sense of self. That moment—when he watched his father turn to literal dust—he couldn’t differentiate between whether the stirring he felt was grief or relief.

FUCKING BEAUTIFUL the not being able to differentiate between grief and relief. Sure he hated his dad but that's all he’d ever known in a way, god that must be so hard to have that taken away, the familiarity and to be left completely alone now even tho now hes free. 😭😭😭😭 The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. OMG this breaks my heart so much to see mattheo reduced to this walking zombie of a boy FUCKKKK

It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts. 💔💔💔 UGHHHH god i want them to have love so badly!!! The months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under. No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

THE METAPHORES SCREAMINGGG they always hit so good!!! 🙌🙌🙌

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain.

God i feel so much for the reader, not her trying to convince herself that she needed this as well. That it was really a business transaction, a mutual need and nothing else!! poor baby i love the way you've explained how she can't escape the memories and moments with him no matter how much she might wish to forget and move on 😭 The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him. SOBBING OMG

There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

OMG i love this line so much the ‘knowing that your heart still works’ the fact that i yet have no idea what has happened to the reader for her to crave this kind of attention and love has me dying to know more. Like something must have happened in her life for her to connect with mattheo in that same level as him!! The storytelling leo is so beautiful, im absorbed!!

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily. Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

PLEASE LMFAO yeah fucks like a what A FUCKING WHORE

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual. Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

READER using rowan is so mean, the fact she knows he'd be so good to her yet she craves that wild and rougher side with mattheo fucking hell and to know she'll use rowan anyway because she can't get these sweet moments with mattheo, its all so twisted and complicated and mean but i kind of love it

You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back.

YOUR BREAKING ME LEO !!!!! </3 him not looking at you NO why is he not yearning for her!!

And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

AGAIN LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH !! 😭😭😭 EEEH so excited this is far as the preview sneak i got and the way i was NOT PREPARED in the slightest for what came next !!

also the fact she only has the courage to approach in drunk </3 Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance. i want to cry for her but also so true, having that intoxicated confidence is like no other

gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist. // You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight.

LOVE this whole section SO FRICKEN MUCH, like pansy is suffocating her with that whole 'told you so'. and reader knows everything pansy is saying is right but still chooses to be a dumbass and ignore the warning signs, literally shes hanging on by that tiny thread that theres something there with mattheo so badly she's willing to hurt herself in the process

The sight hits you like a fucking punch to the gut, jealousy slithering up your spine and coiling tight around your ribs until you feel like you can barely breathe. Your hands tighten into fists without you realizing, the stupid watch in your pocket starting to feel like 50 pound weights, dragging you down every moment you were still standing.

OBSESSED, i love the way the jealousy is described and that watch being a metaphor for so much eeeh!! Not him ignoring you and you just watching him kiss her neck THIS FUCKING BITCH MATTHEO. I can feel her embarassment dripping off the page, its like when reader does something cringe and i just wanna look away like GIRLIE STOP ABORT ABORT 

“Why not?” His voice is low, dangerous now, eyes narrowed as he leans in. “Because he’s the one who takes you on real dates? The one you’re actually proud to be seen with? While I get what—sloppy seconds in the dark when you’re drunk enough to forget you don’t give a shit about me?”

WHAT mattheo!?!? You’re actually jealous and wanna go on dates with usss Lowkey kicking my feet at this, like yes baby boy you've been spying on us enough to know we're kind of seeing someone twiring my hair 🤭🤭🤭

“No?” He leans in again, voice like poison. “I know you kept that watch for a week. Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir. I know you came here in a skirt that screams look at me, Mattheo, and now you’re pissed that I did.”

OKAY I TAKE IT BACK, EXCUSE ME 😤🤬didn't have to call us out like that lmfao the way id die if someone humilated me like this; "Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir.” 

STOP WHY IS HE SO INFURATING BUT SO HOT IM SCREAMING  His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper. He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

BITCHCHHHCHC WHY IS THIS SO FUCKING HOTTTT ‼️‼️‼️

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

UM UMUMUMUM IM WET

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.” PURRRRRING “Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice. // “Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock. Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on. 

im sorry the whole blowjob scene chefs fucking kiss!!! He’s so fucking maddening right now but i relate to the reader sm much right now fucccck

THE SPITTING !!!! “That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.” YES DADDY 😫😫😫

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul. HES GOING TO THINK THESE MF THOUGHTS AND THEN act like there aint something going on i swear this man

Your hand trembles as it slides down between your thighs, slow and uncertain, and he watches you in the mirror like a hawk, gaze burning into every inch of you. You suck in a breath as your fingers reach your cunt, slick and hot and already pulsing. // “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

BRUHHHHH

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore. // This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

why does this make me want to cry, like come on matty its okay come here lemme give u a hug 🫂

He suddenly looks so fucking broken, so vulnerable. You want to reach for him, wipe the tear from his face, ask him what the fuck is going on inside his head. You want to ask him why he’s so fucking cold one minute, and then this the next.

Not him shedding a tear whaaat im so conflicted!! 😫

YOU SHOULD GO WHAT the FUCK MATTHEO U CANT BE SERIOUS 😭😤😖

His fingers trace a line down your spine, his touch almost affectionate, but it doesn’t last long. The coldness creeps back in, wrapping itself around his words like a familiar shroud. “You should go.”

WHILE HES CARESSING OUR BACK GTFO 🤺🤺🤺

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

THE ENDING LINE LEO BRUH NOOOO WHAAAT, the way i cant wait to skip over to part two. God the way you threw me around there, diagloue, descriptions, emotions never fail bb you truly have a talent and once again so proud of u for continuing to pour your heart into this!!!! 🤍🩵 I’m so hooked, like this could go so many ways but I’m praying for a happyish ending 🙏

WICKED GAME. mattheo riddle.

mattheo riddle x fem!reader. part one. → part two.

summary ; after the war, nothing feels real except him—you’re not together, not really, but that’s never stopped you from crawling back to him when it burns too much to feel nothing at all. it’s cruel and addictive, and things change when your hypocrisy begins to bleed through. words ; 9.5k warnings ; sexual content, angst, toxic situationship, fingering, unprotected p in v, mattheo’s rough, creampie, oral m! & f!receiving, throatfucking, overstimulation, f!masterbation, voyeurism (?), swearing, hair pulling, orgasm denial, dirty talk, degradation, spitting, choking, pussy slapping, spanking, dp (fingers + cock), squirting

navigation. masterlist.

His back is to you when you open your eyes. 

You watch as he slides on his jeans—the same blue denim he was wearing last night when he showed up at your door. Listen as his shoes tap against the wood floor. There’s a certain rhythm to it, almost mechanical, like he’s done this a thousand times before. Muscle memory. 

He bends down to pick up his shirt from the floor, his movements slow, careful. You can almost hear the thoughts running through his head, though you know better than to ask. He’s good at keeping things to himself, as good as you’ve learned to be. 

His muscles flex as he reaches up to slide the shirt over his head, and your eyes catch on the scars littering his back, the faint red lines and the faded, angry stains left upon his spine, holding memories of the days that brought him to this point of roboticism, and despite your best efforts not to think too hard about it, your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

He glances over at you, and for the briefest second, there’s something in his eyes. Something soft, something different, though you can’t quite place it. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that familiar mask.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, his voice low, but there’s nothing in it. No affection. No real meaning. Just words.

You nod, eyes following his every move as he heads for the door, but you don’t say anything. Because what is there to say?

He leaves, and the silence that follows feels heavier than it should. You stay there for a few moments longer, listening to the sound of the door clicking shut, before you finally let out the breath you’d been holding.

Last night still lingers—on your skin, in your throat, between your legs. You feel it in the ache of your limbs and the hollow in your chest. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It never is.

Mattheo Riddle had become a ghost before the war had even ended, had already lost his entire sense of self. That moment—when he watched his father turn to literal dust—he couldn’t differentiate between whether the stirring he felt was grief or relief. 

The first time you saw him outside of Hogwarts was in a Muggle pub just off Diagon Alley. It had been a couple months since the end of the battle, right around the time you’d returned to a rebuilt version of Hogwarts for an eighth year. You hadn’t expected to see him at all, let alone there—half-drunk in a booth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes darker than you remembered. He looked up when you walked past. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just lifted his glass in a sort of salute, like you were two survivors nodding across the wreckage. 

You weren’t close, back then. Not really. Before the world went to ashes, you ran in the same circles—shared friends, shared classes, shared the occasional smirk across the room—but that was it. He was always a little too reckless for you to trust. And you were a little too careful, too quiet, for him to notice.

But war changes things.

The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. He still walks like he owns the ground beneath his feet, but there’s something broken behind his eyes now. Something lonely. You recognized it the moment you saw him again.

How could you not? It’s the same hollow feeling you can’t escape even in your wildest dreams.

That night in the pub, it was you who approached first, who spoke first. What started with small talk about mutual friends—about who made it out, who didn’t—turned into two drinks, then three, and then suddenly you were closer.

You can’t remember who leaned in first—only the bitter taste of whiskey on his lips and the way his hands slid under your shirt, all rough and desperate, as if he was trying to claw his way back into something real. It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts.

He took you back to his dorm that night, and all you can remember was the way he had you pressed up against the wall, his mouth on your neck and his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shirt like he hadn't touched another person in years. 

And then it happened again, two weeks later. And again, and again, until it became a pattern, the months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under.

No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

He doesn’t stay the night. Except when he does.

And you don’t care. Except you do.

You pull the silk sheets tighter around your bare chest, the scent of him burning your flesh. It’s riddled with vodka and musk and that cheap ass cologne you pretend not to love. Your eyes flutter shut, drifting back to last night, or more accurately, to every fucking night you’ve ever shared with him, honing in on every time he touched you with a certain gentleness that he usually never possessed. 

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain. The moments when his fingertips glided softly along the ridges of your spine, when you’d moan a certain way and he’d ease the hold he had on your hair, when he positioned you facing him instead of away. 

It was pathetic, really. The arrangement was what it was, and there was no underlying meaning to any of the unspoken rules the two of you set. It wasn’t serious, it wasn’t exclusive, and it never would be, but it seemed the walls around your heart were far too fragile, far too decrepit, to ever stand a chance.

You told yourself you could do it. That it was fine. That you really were just helping each other cope and it was only about satisfying a mutual need. The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him.

You glance to your side, sitting up with the covers pulled just below your arms. His expensive watch is on the nightstand, forgotten again. He always forgets something, and you’ve started to wonder if it’s intentional. 

Eventually, you force yourself out of bed, wincing at the sensation of your bare feet hitting the cold floor. The clock’s only just ticked past six—feels too early to get up now for a 9AM class, but you decide you need a shower. To wash away the smell of drinks and smoke and the grease in your hair, but mostly, to wash away last night’s activities. To wash him off your skin.

This cycle, it’s never ending, like a wound that scabs but never heals. Maybe a sane person who actually fucking cared about theirself would have called it off by now, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Because no matter how much it stings, no matter how bad the fire burns you, it’s still reassuring. There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

Your body feels unfamiliar as you pad quietly to the bathroom, like it doesn’t quite belong to you anymore, your limbs heavy with leftover sleep. You let the door click shut behind you before turning the water on hotter than you should, letting the steam rise and drown out the thoughts bouncing around your skull.

You step under the spray without waiting, eyes shut, letting the heat burn away whatever’s left of last night. It doesn’t work—but you stay there anyway.

By the time you drag yourself out, the mirror is too fogged to show your face, and your fingers are wrinkled from how long you stayed under. You dry off without thinking, dress even faster, and force yourself out of the dorm before your mind can drag you back.

The Great Hall is already buzzing with chatter when you arrive for breakfast but making conversation is the last thing you want to do.

Unfortunately for you though, things never work out in your favor. That’s made clear enough by the sight of a handsome boy in blue robes waving you over. Groaning internally, you give in and trudge over to him and his friends—not that you have much of a choice.

“Hi Rowan,” you offer, flashing him a half-arsed smile as you took the seat next to him, fighting the urge to drop your tired head into your hands. 

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily. 

Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

“Fine. Well, actually, I slept well.”

“I’m glad.”

Rowan was sweet. You’d been seeing him for a few weeks now. Nothing serious, but just a bit of fun. Dates, kisses, late-night study sessions that turned into something more. It was easier with him. He smiled at you in the hallways, held your hand under the table, asked questions like he genuinely wanted to know the answer. And he wasn’t bad to look at either—or to kiss. But when you did kiss him, when his hands were on your waist, your mind wandered. You couldn't help wishing his hands were rougher, warmer, different.

He pours you a glass of pumpkin juice without asking, like it’s an ingrained habit now. You thank him with a small smile and start picking at a piece of toast.

Rowan leans a little closer, nudging your shoulder with his. “You look tired. Was it the Arithmancy essay?”

You nod vaguely, reaching for the pumpkin juice. “Yeah, something like that.”

He chuckles softly. “Knew I should’ve stayed to help. I would’ve, you know—if you’d asked.”

You manage a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I know. You’re sweet.”

There’s a brief silence as you sip your drink, and then:

“I was thinking,” he starts, hesitant. “Maybe this weekend, you and me could take a trip to Hogsmeade? Just the two of us. I feel like I never get you all to myself anymore.”

You nearly choke on your toast.

“I— yeah. Sure,” you say too quickly, blinking down at your plate. “That sounds nice.”

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual.

Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

Your eyes flick toward the doors of the Great Hall every few seconds, scanning the entrance like your body’s acting on instinct, searching for him even when your mind insists not to.

Rowan’s voice pulls you back.

“Do you have class after this?” he asks, brushing a crumb off your cheek with his thumb. “I could walk you.”

You swallow thickly, nodding. “Yeah. Defense. With Slughorn.”

He laughs. “Isn’t he Potions?”

You blink again. Shit. “Right. Sorry. I meant… I meant Potions.”

You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even notice. That might be the worst part.

The weekend arrives with a sickening speed, each day bleeding into the next like ink soaking through thin pages. You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back. You don’t get the butterflies, the stupid fluttering warmth a younger, more naive version of you might have felt if he’d met your eyes across the room. Mattheo doesn’t give you that satisfaction, and it eats at you because all you want to know was if it was on purpose—if he was fighting the same fucking battle as you or if he honestly just didn’t care.

Too much to dwell on, you think. Too much to dwell on and too little in return. 

Your hands tremble as they gently scoop up Mattheo’s watch from the cozy spot in your nightstand drawer that you’d tucked it into, between freshly washed socks and bras. It felt too intimate, storing something that belongs to him in such a personal space, but you told yourself that that wasn’t your intention, that you were just safekeeping it for him.

Of course, safekeeping would’ve meant more if you’d returned it to him days ago, during one of the countless times you’d crossed paths in classrooms and hallways, and of course you'd thought about it, but you backed down before you even began.

Speaking to him when you weren’t drunk was a risk you didn’t want to gamble.

True, it would give you an advantage; you wouldn’t spew the same utter bullshit and nonsense you usually did when intoxicated. And true, chances were he’d just take the watch and you’d both move along with your days, but fuck, there was also the chance that either he’d ask you something you didn’t want to answer or you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance.

So instead you wait.

You wait and wait until Saturday night rolls around, his watch crammed into your jacket pocket as you stumble down the steps of the dormitories to the common room, where music is blasting so loud it could hardly be considered anything but noise. The air reeks of alcohol and weed, tendrils of secondhand smoke snaking through your nostrils to leave your head throbbing in record time. You haven’t even made it halfway across the room and your skull already feels like it’s cracking open.

The second Pansy spots you—your oversized jacket swallowing your frame, concealing the bare skin shown off by your tiny skirt —she’s practically lunging. Her arm hooks around yours, too tight and too fast, and her breath smells like firewhiskey when she leans in.

“Oh, look at you,” she drawls, eyes glassy, voice syrup-thick. “Looking all dangerous tonight. Who are you trying to kill with that skirt?”

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable. “No one, Pans,” you mutter. “I’m wearing the jacket for a reason.” Your free hand fidgets with the hem hidden beneath the leather, fingers twitching like they’ve got something to hide. “The skirt was the only clean thing I had.”

Pansy’s smirk doesn’t budge. If anything, it grows smugger. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with a glint that makes your skin prickle. “Mhm. Sure. Nothing to do with a certain someone you’re hoping to accidentally bump into? Saving the view for him?”

God.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Because she’s right. And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

“Fucking hell, Pansy, give it a rest. Aren’t you the one preaching every day and night about how women don’t dress for men?” 

She blanches, her brows furrowing. “Yes. Doesn’t mean I can’t tell when my best friend’s trying to get a certain boy’s attention.” Her voice is softer than before, like she’s trying to ease you into being honest with her, but she’s still slurring her speech and frankly, the words ‘best friend’ give you the urge to pull away. It only takes a couple beats without a response from you for her to rub at her reddened eyes with a fist and speak up again.

“You know he’s fucked up, right?”

Right. That again.

Like it’s news. Like it’s something you haven’t played on repeat in your brain until the record scratched.

“I’m well aware.”

“He’s not built for relationships.” 

You smile, sharp as broken glass. “Good thing we’re not in one then.”

She sways slightly, like the ground feels just a little softer than usual, and gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist.

Eyes flicking to the floor, you bounce up and down on the heels of your feet, running your tongue over your teeth. “I came here to loosen up, not be lectured.”

You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight. Her fingers linger for half a second before falling away, and you don’t wait for her to say anything else—you’re already moving. Head low, feet light, weaving through the maze of limbs and smoke and pulsing bodies.

The makeshift bar is a disaster. Half-empty bottles, sticky counters, solo cups stacked like some drunken monument to poor decisions. You grab the first clean-ish one you can find and pour whatever’s within reach—firewhiskey, you think, but it burns sharper than usual when it hits your tongue. You wince. Swallow anyway.

Your eyes skim the room. Just surveying. Being observant. Gathering intel like you’re not standing there in a fucking skirt short enough to haunt a Catholic grandmother.

Swallow again. The burn licks up the back of your throat, makes your eyes sting, but it shuts your brain up for a second. So you pour another.

You don’t even like the taste. You never have, but it gives your hands something to do, and something about the numbness creeping in behind your ribs feels... safe.

You glance around, like you’re doing it casually. Like you’re not scanning the room for a face you know too well. 

Your fingers tighten around the cup.

You’re not drinking just to get brave enough to talk to him. That’s not what this is.

This is you having fun. Being normal. Loosening up, like you said.

Right?

You take another sip.

He’s not even your boyfriend. You’re not his. There’s no label, no promises, no rules. Just... blurred lines and late nights and moments that mean too much and not enough all at once.

Your mouth tastes like sugar and regret. You chase it with more alcohol.

But then you catch a glimpse of him. He’s got a short brunette in a little black dress pressed up against the wall with his hands on her hips, the top button of her shirt undone, and worst of all, his mouth on her neck. 

The sight hits you like a fucking punch to the gut, jealousy slithering up your spine and coiling tight around your ribs until you feel like you can barely breathe. Your hands tighten into fists without you realizing, the stupid watch in your pocket starting to feel like 50 pound weights, dragging you down every moment you were still standing.

Jealousy slowly bubbles into rage, and you don’t know what pushes you to do it. Be it the alcohol, or bravery, or just pure fucking stupidity, you stomp over, effortlessly pushing through the countless bodies in your way, the hurt giving you power enough to do so. 

“Mattheo,” you croak out when you’re closer to him, fingers twitching with a lethal mixture of fury and anxiety. He doesn’t budge, lips still firmly attached to her neck, leaving a trail of red splotches and saliva.

Heat floods your entire body, up your ears and cheeks and neck, leaving you embarrassed for having called to him in front of all these people only to be ignored. Either he didn’t hear you because he’s completely entranced by this girl, or he disregarded you on purpose. Either way, it burns.

“Mattheo,” you call, louder this time. 

His eyes snap up, searching his surroundings before landing on yours, hooded, glazed, like he’s not really there. But the second he sees you, something in his expression shifts. Brief and barely visible, but there.

“…What?” he mutters, voice low and rough. He doesn’t move away from her. Doesn’t drop his hands from her hips. The girl turns slightly, confused, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. His gaze is still locked on you, half-dazed, half-aware, like he’s trying to decide whether to fight or flee.

Stomping over, you fish the watch out of your pocket, eyes never leaving his as you get closer. “You fucking forgot this,” you snarl, shoving the dumb thing against his solid chest, hard enough to make him stumble and to make the girl yelp. Without wasting a single second, you turn the fuck back around and walk away.

“What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath, his hand clasping over the watch as to not let it fall before completely disregarding the girl to follow you through the crowd.

You pray that he’ll lose you in the swarm of people, but of course, he doesn’t. He catches up just as you hit the corridor past the main room and grabs your arm—not hard, just enough to stop you, to turn you around—and the look on his face is equal parts confusion and condescension and anger. Like you just ruined his night.

“Are you fucking serious?” he growls into your face, the watch still clutched in his fist. “You come storming in, start throwing shit like a lunatic—”

You yank your arm out of his grip. “Oh, I’m the lunatic?” You laugh, short and humorless. “Sorry, didn’t realize interrupting you sucking face with some random slag made me the irrational one.”

He scoffs. “She’s not random.”

“Yeah? What’s her name then?”

He opens his mouth then closes it. Shrugs like he can’t be bothered to come up with a proper answer. “Does it matter?”

You glare at him, lip curled. “No. Of course not. Why would it? You’ve got a whole fucking lineup, don’t you?”

“You’re one to talk,” he sneers. “You playing house with Rowan fucking Rivers now? Letting him leave his shit behind too? Or do you just shove it under your bed like a good little whore and keep rotating us in?”

The slap would’ve landed if he hadn’t caught your wrist.

“You don’t get to fucking talk about him,” you seethe, struggling against his grip. “You don’t get to say anything.”

“Why not?” His voice is low, dangerous now, eyes narrowed as he leans in. “Because he’s the one who takes you on real dates? The one you’re actually proud to be seen with? While I get what—sloppy seconds in the dark when you’re drunk enough to forget you don’t give a shit about me?”

“You don’t know anything,” you snap, shoving him. He barely moves, just smirks wider, crueler.

“No?” He leans in again, voice like poison. “I know you kept that watch for a week. Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir. I know you came here in a skirt that screams look at me, Mattheo, and now you’re pissed that I did.”

You take a step back, voice shaking. “I kept it because I thought you’d come back for it, you prick.”

The silence that follows is blistering. It’s a truth you’ve only just admitted to yourself for the first time.

“You left it in my room on purpose, Mattheo.” Your voice is trembling now, shaking with everything you won’t say. “Don’t act like I imagined that.”

His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.” He lets it drop to the floor between you, doesn’t even flinch when it hits with a metallic clink.

You feel something splinter in your chest. It’s quiet for a while; you can’t even think of what to say anymore.

“I know enough about you,” he says again, and the venom in his voice feels like a slap all on its own. “I know you like it when I fuck the good girl out of you and you still act like I’m the one who should feel dirty.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it, to make you sound like such a needy, sex-depraved little girl, but you know he’s not wrong. Being with him makes you feel alive—that’s how you ended up in this position to begin with. Because you made each other feel real.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

You shove him. Hard.

He lets you.

But then he grabs your arm, pulls you into a corner, out of view, and slams his hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in like a goddamn threat.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this,” he says low, voice almost shaking now. “Don’t act like you came to this party looking like that for anyone else.”

Your mouth opens to argue, maybe, or scream, or slap him again, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

Because suddenly his mouth is on yours—hard, bruising, possessive—like he’s trying to prove a point, or make you forget every name that isn’t his. And you let him. You bite back. You kiss like you’re angry, because you are, and he tastes like smoke and firewhiskey and everything you can’t have but take anyway.

He’s already dragging you up the stairs to his dorm before you can even blink.

He slams the door shut behind you and you barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you again, his mouth hot and desperate, hands roaming like he needs to memorize the shape of your body all over again just to spite himself. Your back hits the wall with a thud, and he swarms into you, one hand fisting your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he growls against your mouth, biting at your bottom lip until you gasp. “Walking around with that innocent look, like you don’t fuck like you want to ruin me.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging him closer, refusing to let him think he’s the only one holding the reins. “You ruined yourself,” you spit. “Don’t put that on me.”

He laughs, low and cruel and breathless. “Still acting like you’re better than this,” he whispers, pressing his body flush to yours so you can feel just how hard he is, how much he wants. “Better than me.”

You don’t answer. You kiss him instead, messy and open-mouthed, biting down on his tongue just enough to make him hiss. He grabs your throat, not to squeeze, just to hold you there, thumb stroking along your jaw with a gentleness that contrasts his actions.

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

Your breath catches, humiliation and arousal burning through you simultaneously. He sees it, the way your body betrays you, and it only makes his grin sharper, hungrier.

“Knew it,” he mutters. “Knew that mouth wasn’t just for smart little comments and pretending you’re not fucking dying to be used.”

He tugs you deeper into the room, pulling off your jacket and revealing the skirt you wore underneath. His eyes narrow; the implication is clear. So is the command in his voice when he says, “On your knees.”

Your heart stutters, but you obey, mostly because you’re too proud to hesitate. The carpet bites at your knees as you kneel in front of him, evading his gaze because he’s watching you with a look that makes your skin feel too tight.

“Take it out,” he says, voice low and sharp. “Since you came all this way.”

You glare up at him, but your fingers are already working his belt loose, pushing fabric aside, your hands far steadier than you feel. He’s hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You swallow hard, shame heating the back of your throat, and he fucking sees it.

He’s thick and hard, and when he hits the back of your throat, you gag, but don’t pull away. He holds there a second too long. Then pulls back. Then thrusts again—harder this time, hand fisted in your hair.

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.”

You whimper around him, hands curling against his thighs for balance, spit slicking your chin as he thrusts deep, over and over. It’s brutal and filthy and not even a little bit gentle.

“You pretend you’re too good for this,” he breathes, cock dragging against your tongue. “Pretend you like him so much, but you never gag on his cock like this, do you?”

Your eyes water. Your throat clenches. You want to hit him, bite him, shove him back and scream, but you don’t. You just moan, low and broken, like you're agreeing with him.

Because part of you is.

“You like when I use you like this,” Mattheo hisses, slamming in again, making you choke. “When I fuck the lies right out of your pretty little mouth.”

He doesn’t stop until your mascara’s smudged, your mouth swollen, and you’re gasping through your nose with tears running down your cheeks.

Only then does he pull out, cock wet and twitching, your saliva glistening down his length.

He watches you pant for breath on your knees, lips red and parted, cheeks flushed.

“Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice.

You glare up at him, breathing hard, heart thudding so violently you swear it might crack your ribs open.

“Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock.

Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on. 

His hands find the hand of your head, wrapping strands of hair around his fingers and moving your head back and forth on his own to meet the thrust of his hips. He’s too strong for you to stop him, not that you even want him to, so you let him fuck your face like a damn fleshlight.

“Cumming,” he groans. “Get ready to swallow every fucking drop— I’m gonna check.”

And after a moment, you feel ropes of warm, salty liquid shoot down your throat, coughing a little as he finally lets you come up for air but still doing your best to swallow. His thumb and forefinger harshly grab your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Open.”

Oh. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d check.

Your lips part slowly, tongue out, breath still hitching from the aftershocks. Your throat is sore, your eyes glossy, but you hold his gaze steady even as your jaw trembles from the effort.

He leans in, one hand still gripping your chin, eyes dark as sin. His thumb drags your bottom lip down further, admiring the mess he’s made. His cum still glistens faintly on your tongue.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

The praise hits something dangerous inside you and you swear your body betrays you all over again. You don’t move, don’t speak, just keep holding your mouth open like he told you to, letting him see every bit of you wrecked and obedient. “Keep it open.”

You blink up at him, confused for only a second—until you see him curl his lip, tilt his head slightly, and then—he spits.

It lands right on your tongue, warm and wet and humiliating.

And your whole body clenches with how fucking turned on you are.

“That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.”

You do. You swallow every drop—his cum, his spit, all of it—and then open your mouth again without being told, just to show him.

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul.

You barely have time to brace before he’s yanking you up from the floor by the hair, your knees scraping the rug as you scramble upright, unbalanced. Your face is hot and slick and wrecked, your mouth still tingling from how thoroughly he used it, and your body stings with humiliation and heat and something even worse: want.

He spins you around and shoves you toward the full-length mirror propped up against the wall. You catch yourself just in time, palms flat against the wood paneling on either side of the mirror’s frame. Your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and flushed, mascara streaking down your cheeks, lips red and swollen and shiny with spit.

Mattheo crowds in behind you, pressing his chest against your back, trapping you with his body. His mouth hovers just above your ear.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick. “Fucking look.”

Your throat is raw. Your heart pounds. You look.

“Mouth wrecked. Face ruined. Drool all down your chin.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, unblinking. “And your thighs have been pressed together since the second you knelt down. What, sucking my cock got you wet?”

You don’t respond. He laughs, low and cruel, and his hands trail down, slow and mocking, sliding over your waist, the curve of your ass, gripping the hem of your skirt and hiking it up just enough to reveal the way your legs are trembling.

“This what Rivers gets?” he sneers. “This pretty little mess? Or do you clean yourself up for him, act sweet and shy and fuckin’ pure like you don’t choke on my cock every chance you get? Think he’d still hold your hand if he knew what you looked like with your mouth stuffed full of someone else’s cock?”

You blink, furious and humiliated, and maybe just a little aroused by the heat in his voice, the roughness of his grip, the fact that his cock’s already starting to harden again against your hip. Swallowing hard, you still refuse to speak, but your silence damns you more than any answer.

He smirks.

“Take your clothes off,” he says simply, stepping back and folding his arms. “Slow.”

Your breathing falters, but your hands move.

First your shirt, inch by inch, over your head and off your arms. Then your skirt, unbuttoning at your hip, sliding down your thighs and pooling at your feet, then your panties. You don’t rush, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s something humiliating about doing it this way. Slowly, while he watches, while you watch in the mirror. You’re down to just your bra, skin flushed, legs bare. 

Mattheo’s eyes drag over you like fire.

He walks you back toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You sit automatically, and he moves behind you, knees bracketing yours as he settles on the edge and tugs you back against his chest.

His breath is hot at your ear as his hands drift up.

One finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it with a single practiced flick. The straps slide down your shoulders, and you make a move to shrug it off, but he stops you, his hand coming around to cup your breast through the lace before it falls away completely.

You suck in a breath.

“You know, every part of you is prettier when it’s ruined,” he says, his hand squeezing once before letting the bra fall away altogether. “Even this.”

Your head tilts back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for just a second, but then his other hand slides under your thigh, hooks beneath your knee, and yanks your leg up, holding it back so wide you can see the slick mess between your thighs in the mirror. He does the same to your other leg, locking them open from behind, his arms under your knees, your cunt completely exposed.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he mutters. “Not done with you yet.”

You blink at your reflection, the slow creep of vulnerability tightening your chest. You’re fully bare now, curled against Mattheo like some kind of obscene doll, his hands splayed possessively over your body like he owns it, like he owns you.

“You know what I want,” he murmurs, voice rough against your temple. “So do it.”

You hesitate again and his palm tightens under your knee, jerking your leg higher, further apart, until your muscles strain with the angle.

“Do it,” he says again, quieter this time. More dangerous.

Your hand trembles as it slides down between your thighs, slow and uncertain, and he watches you in the mirror like a hawk, gaze burning into every inch of you. You suck in a breath as your fingers reach your cunt, slick and hot and already pulsing.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

You press your fingers against your clit, drawing slow, tentative circles, but it’s not enough—he makes it feel dirty, degrading, like something shameful when he’s not the one doing it to you. But his eyes are fixed on your hand now, on the way your legs twitch under his hold, on the stutter in your breath.

His palm slides up to your chest again, this time tweaking your nipple between two fingers with a twist that makes your hips buck—and then he’s gone again, gripping both legs now, holding them wide, making sure you stay open as you push a finger inside. You don’t even realize you’re whining, begging under your breath—please, please, please—until you hear him laugh softly, right in your ear.

“Pathetic little slut,” he breathes. “You’re going to cum just from your own fingers? From being watched?”

You nod without meaning to, the pressure mounting too fast, too sharp. You’re close, so fucking close, and your body’s about to give in.

But then, his hand lashes out and grabs your wrist, yanking it away from your cunt just seconds before you tip over the edge.

You choke on a sob, hips rocking up into nothing, your cunt clenching around emptiness as the orgasm dies, suffocates, fizzles out in your gut like ash.

“No,” he growls into your neck, dragging your hand up and away. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

You whimper, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon, still trembling in his arms. His grip on your legs doesn’t loosen. You’re still spread open, still flushed and dripping and unsatisfied, your cunt throbbing from the denied release.

He brings your hand up to your mouth, still wet from between your thighs.

“Open,” he says again, voice a whipcrack.

You do and he shoves your fingers between your own lips, slow and punishing, until your taste coats your tongue.

“Now be a good girl,” he says, breathing ragged against your ear, “and fucking hold it in.”

Your fingers are still in your mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue, when he finally lets go of your legs and shoves you forward onto the bed. You land on your elbows, breath catching, and before you can adjust, he’s dragging you back by the hips, forcing you flat on your back, knees bent and spread wide as he looms over you.

“Fucking mess,” he mutters, looking down at your slick cunt, still flushed and leaking from earlier. “And this is what you’re trying to give to someone else?”

His thumb drags along your inner thigh, deceptively slow, just skimming the edge of where you need him most, but not quite touching. You squirm under his gaze, shame prickling hot over your skin.

“You think Rivers could ever make you look like this?” he sneers. “Think he could make you drip like this, just from talking down to you?”

You don’t answer because you know he’s not waiting for one.

Instead, he grabs your thighs and spits—a sharp, wet sound—and the slick hit of it lands right on your cunt, warm and filthy. You jolt, moaning despite yourself, and his grin turns sharp and mean.

He licks a slow stripe through your folds, tongue flat and dragging, and your hips buck immediately. You can’t help it; you’ve been denied, teased, ruined already, and the wet heat of his mouth is unbearable. Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

He doesn’t start soft, doesn’t build up. He dives in with a filthy kind of hunger, tongue working in tight circles over your clit, then flattening to lick deep into you like he’s trying to clean out every trace of anyone else.

His hands push down on your thighs, holding them wide, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. You’re panting already, arching into his mouth, and he moans against you like he likes how desperate you are.

“Fucking taste of you,” he growls, voice muffled against your cunt. “Could eat this for hours. Make you forget every single thing but me.”

You whimper, fingers knotting in the sheets.

He pulls back just enough to spit on you again—louder this time, wetter—his saliva mixing with your slick and spreading as he drags his tongue through the mess. The sound alone makes your stomach twist.

You try to squirm away, overstimulated from earlier, nerves already frayed—but it’s useless. His mouth chases you with unrelenting hunger, tongue circling your clit, then sucking on it hard enough to make your legs jerk.

“Stay fucking still,” he growls, and when you don’t, he lifts one hand—crack. Slaps your pussy once, hard.

You cry out, thighs shaking, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He slaps you again. And then again. Three times in total, each one harder than the last, until your whole cunt is aching and wet and flushed.

You blink through the haze of pain and pleasure, cunt throbbing where he hit you, but you don’t dare close your legs. His mouth is back on you in seconds, licking over the sting, soft for one moment before he starts sucking your clit again like he’s trying to draw every last sound out of you. His nails dig into your thighs. He growls something you can’t even understand because your mind is fucking splitting—

And still, he doesn’t let up.

Not yet.

His mouth is relentless, tongue lashing over your clit like he’s angry at it, like if he sucks hard enough it’ll undo the fact that you ever even thought about being with someone else.

When he pushes two fingers inside you, it feels like too much. They’re thick and rough and he doesn’t give you time to adjust; just starts fucking them into you, curling them with practiced precision until your back arches off the bed and your scream rips through the room.

“Yeah?” he pants, barely coming up for air. “You gonna cum? Gonna soak my fucking face like the little slut you are?”

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, but he only groans louder, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“I said fucking cum,” he growls, fingers driving in even faster. “Now.”

And you do.

It slams into you like a wave, knocking all the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamp around his head, your entire body tensing as pleasure crests so violently it almost hurts. You cry out, raw, broken, and fucked-out, and your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, gushing as your orgasm tears through you.

You thrash, moaning his name like it’s a curse, trying to twist away from the overstimulation, but he’s got you pinned. One arm locked around your thigh, the other keeping his fingers buried in your cunt, his whole body pressed between your legs to keep you spread open for him.

“Fucking look at that,” he growls against you, his voice thick with pride and something almost reverent. “You fucking squirted, baby. All over me. Shit.”

Your body convulses again when he spits on your pussy, again, mixing it with your slick as he keeps working his fingers in and out of you.

“I’m not stopping,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he can’t stop. “Not until you’re shaking. Not until you forget every name but mine.”

Your legs tremble around his hands, your breath coming in broken gasps, your vision blurring with tears from how good it feels, how fucking much it is.

And through it all, Mattheo doesn’t ease up.

He just keeps devouring you.

Like he’s trying to crawl inside your body.

Like he wants to tear every trace of anyone else out of you—until there’s only him left.

Your second orgasm hits fast, brutal, not even a minute later. It crashes into you mid-sob, a breathless, splintered sound that makes Mattheo groan like you just fucking fed him. Your nails rake down his scalp, your legs spasm around him, and it doesn’t matter how much you squirm or whimper or cry out—he keeps going.

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore.

This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud.

He finally lifts his mouth from your cunt, lips swollen and glistening, and you gasp at the sudden cold air hitting your slick skin, but there’s no relief because his fingers are still moving inside you, slower now, deeper, like he’s exploring. Learning you all over again. Your hips twitch when he curls them just right and your voice breaks completely.

“Mattheo, I— fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he cuts you off, low and rough. His voice is almost affectionate now. Almost. “You will.”

His other hand strokes your thigh, deceptively gentle, before landing another sharp slap to your overstimulated pussy. You jolt, a pathetic little noise escaping your throat.

“So sensitive now,” he murmurs, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “Could cum just from my fingers, couldn’t you? Just from this.”

He adds a third finger.

You cry out, legs flying open wider on instinct, your walls fluttering as your body betrays you again, greedy, eager, desperate even when you’re already spent.

“You feel that?” he breathes, pressing against the spot that makes your whole body seize. “That little flutter? You’re so fucking close again, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over my hand this time, too?”

Your answer is a strangled sob and a frantic nod.

But just as your stomach starts to coil, he pulls his fingers out.

You whine, hips lifting off the bed in desperate protest, but he presses a firm hand to your stomach, holding you down.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second before.”

Your body trembles under the weight of it, your thighs twitching, breath ragged, heart pounding so hard it hurts, and for a moment, it’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl.

Mattheo sits back between your legs, hand dragging slowly down your stomach, through the mess between your thighs. His fingers are wet with you. You. He stares at them like they’re proof—proof of how much you want him, how much you’ll always come back, no matter how many names you let slip from your mouth in the dark.

He drags his hand up, smearing slick across your hip, your ribs, up to your throat, gripping it again, just tight enough to make your breath catch.

Then he leans in, nose brushing yours, voice low and gutted.

“You let him touch you?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, mind still trying to catch up. “What?”

He squeezes your throat once, firm, unforgiving.

“Rivers,” he spits. “Did you let him see this pussy?”

“No,” you gasp, voice thin. “No, I— Mattheo, I didn’t—”

“Did he taste you?”

You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes, and it’s not just fear or arousal or shame—it’s the ache underneath it all. The ache that says this still matters to you. That some part of you wants it to matter to him, too.

His grip on your throat softens for a second.

Then he shoves your legs open and flips you over onto your stomach.

You cry out in surprise, hands scrambling against the sheets, but he doesn’t give you time to think. He pulls you up onto your knees, dragging your hips back until you’re arched, exposed—humiliated in the most obscene way. Your face is half-buried in the blanket, flushed and wet, and you can just barely make out your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You look wrecked.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Lips red and bitten. Hair wild from where he’s been fisting it all night.

And your thighs are trembling, still parted, slick with arousal.

“Look at yourself,” he snaps, fisting a hand in your hair to make you lift your head. “So fucking beautiful.”

You do look. It’s unbearable.

“You see that?” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “See what I’ve done to you?”

You shudder as he presses in just a little, enough to stretch you open around the tip, but not enough to satisfy the ache. Not yet.

“You used to act like you were better than this,” he whispers, and his voice is low, hoarse, almost reverent. “All those books. All that fucking perfect posture in class. Just fooling everyone else.”

He shoves forward, burying himself in you in one brutal thrust.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your body clenches around him, raw and slick and too sensitive, but fuck, you’re full. So full it almost hurts. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just starts to move, deep and rough, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

Your eyes flick up again, dazed, catching your own reflection, and the look on your face is almost unrecognizable. Pleasure, pain, possession, and everything in between.

He wraps his hand around your throat, pulling your upper body back against his chest. Your spine arches, your tits bouncing with each harsh thrust, and he watches all of it, obsessed, with his eyes locked on the mirror.

"Say it," he snarls, hand tightening at your throat. "Say who you fucking belong to."

You gasp, pulse hammering against his grip, and he spanks you hard when you hesitate. The sting ripples through your thighs and up your spine.

“Try to run and I’ll fuck you into the floor,” he warns, lips brushing your jaw. “Now say it.”

Your chest rises and falls in stuttering gasps, throat working around the pressure of his grip. His cock pounds into you from behind, fast and unforgiving, and the obscene slap of skin against skin drowns out every last rational thought in your head.

“I— I belong to you,” you choke out.

He growls low in your ear. “Louder.”

“I belong to you, Mattheo.”

The hand on your throat tightens, but you see his eyes flash with something deeper. Something you’ve never seen before.

“Fucking right you do.”

He shoves your thighs farther apart, hand sliding from your throat to your mouth, stuffing two fingers between your lips until you're choking again, but on him this time, gagging softly as your tongue flicks against the calloused pads.

His other hand smacks your ass again, harder, the sting blooming bright across your skin. “Can’t even keep your legs closed,” he spits, hips slamming into yours. “So fucking desperate for it— this is what you need, isn't it?”

You nod, moaning around his fingers, mouth drooling, legs trembling beneath you. Every muscle is strung tight, a storm of overstimulation building beneath your skin, burning you alive from the inside out.

Then he pulls his fingers from your mouth and drags them down between your legs, slipping them in alongside his cock, stretching you, fingering you hard while still fucking you deep.

You scream.

He clamps a hand over your mouth this time, muffling the sound, and still doesn’t stop. The rhythm of his hips falters just long enough for him to pant in your ear, “Gonna make you squirt all over me. Gonna ruin this bed, this carpet— fucking everything.”

Your orgasm builds fast and brutal, a hot knot in your gut pulled tighter and tighter with every brutal thrust, every curl of his fingers inside you. You cum with a sharp, guttural cry, convulsing around him, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Your thighs tremble, your vision whites out, and then you feel it.

Liquid gushes out of you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his thighs.

He groans like he’s been punched in the gut. “Fuck yes. Just like that. Look at yourself, baby. Look at the mess you made for me. So perfect, you’re so perfect.”

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror: eyes wild and glassy, mouth open, chest heaving. You don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

But Mattheo does and he’s fucking obsessed.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

His hips keep snapping forward, unforgiving, his cock slick with your release, his hand back at your throat now—not tight, not angry, but there. Holding. Anchoring.

“Mine,” he breathes, voice cracked and wrecked against your shoulder as he finally cums, spilling deep inside of you. “You’re mine, you understand me?” 

You can’t even speak. Just nod frantically, tears running down your cheeks. And then you feel a little splash on your bare shoulder, so faint you almost think you’re imagining it, but you look up to see his face in the mirror, small tears evidently falling down.

It’s unclear whether the fluttering in your chest is from heartache or hope or pleasure, but it’s there, and it reassures you that he must be feeling something. At least a fucking sliver of the suffering you’ve been dealing with, at least a fraction of the feelings you’re harboring for him.

He suddenly looks so fucking broken, so vulnerable. You want to reach for him, wipe the tear from his face, ask him what the fuck is going on inside his head. You want to ask him why he’s so fucking cold one minute, and then this the next.

But you can’t. Not now. Not with your body still trembling beneath his, still so raw, so exposed. He’s still inside you, still holding you in place as he leans into you, his face resting against your neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice hoarse and barely there. His chest presses against your back, his grip on your throat loosening, fingers brushing softly over the delicate skin. “I hate this.”

You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, feeling the weight of his confession. You want to tell him that you hate it too, but it’s a lie. Part of you thrives in this chaos, this connection that burns and stings, even when it destroys you both.

His breath is still shallow, and for a moment, you both just stay there, silent, eyes locked on the mirror. He shifts slightly behind you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost... genuine.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “I didn’t...”

But his words fizzle out, swallowed by the distance that still stands between you two, even in the most intimate of moments. The words hang in the air, unspoken, a fragile thread that snaps the second you try to hold onto it.

His fingers trace a line down your spine, his touch almost affectionate, but it doesn’t last long. The coldness creeps back in, wrapping itself around his words like a familiar shroud. “You should go.”

It’s not a command, not really. It’s just the unspoken truth of what you are. What you always have been in this twisted dance; temporary. A passing fucking storm.

You turn your head slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror one last time. The rawness of his expression still burns in your chest, and for a fleeting second, you almost feel like he might say something else. Something more.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets go of you completely, pulls away, and it’s like the warmth he’d offered you was never there to begin with.

”I should go?” 

“… Yeah.”

Hm. Okay.

With shaky legs, you stand, slipping out from his grip and collecting your clothes. You force yourself to dress, your hands trembling, but your heart still pounding in your chest.

Before you leave, you glance at him one more time, his eyes averted, his jaw set, the wall around him already back up. You don’t say anything; you don’t need to.

You walk out of the room, the door clicking softly behind you.

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

reminder that reblogs, feedback, and comments are very appreciated and make me smile :)

part two

[godmadeaterribleerror]

If You Need To Hear It

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, pre-established relationship (sort), light fluff, light angst, lotta smut (fingering, p in v), humor.

Summary/Warnings: After a tense case, Dean decides to remind you of what you mean to him on the roof of the Impala.

Author's Note: Request from @grosskyjaja! Once again, I can't just be horny, I gotta have feelings too. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4.4k

You’re drenched in things that should never be outside of bodies. Your hair is stuck to your brow, and your fingers are caked in dry blood. Something thick is spattered over your jeans, and there might be hair that isn’t yours in your mouth.

And that was a good hunt.

No deaths. No major injuries, either. Just a few traumatized housewives, and fingernail marks on your palm from when they’d been flirting with Dean in front of you. So you have no real reason to feel horrible. You’ve been covered in worse. You’ve killed more things, and come a lot closer to losing Dean—and actually lost him—in a much realer way.

But you were tired. The week had been filled with women—who had teeth that were straighter than yours, and hair that was better kept—shooting you bitter glares as you stood a little closer to Dean than you needed to. Now, you just want to go home.

And Dean hasn’t fared much better, in the aftermath. At least he remembered extra clothing, though. Clothing that he ditched in favor of his stupid fake-fed suit, in favor of you—after a long, hot shower and a lot of scrubbing your skin until you skin is raw and untouched by blood—wearing his extra shirt and too big boxers.

“They look like shorts-“

“Not they don’t.” You’d grumbled, and Dean had sighed.

“We can stay the night,” he’d said your name, not fully looking you in the eyes. “Most places are closed, I’ll go out and get you a new shirt and pants in the morning.”

“From where?”

“Store.”

“Dean.” You’d given him a flat look, shoving your bra—the only thing you’d been wearing that wouldn’t have to be burned—into your bag. “We’re in Northern Idaho.”

He shrugs. “They got stores. Don’t be classist, sweetheart-“

“I’m not. They won’t have anything I’ll wear twice.”

“They might-“

“They won’t.” Maybe he doesn’t want you to keep wearing his shirt. The thought just makes you more exhausted. “I’m being pragmatic, not elitist.”

Dean frowns. “I didn’t say elitist.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your chest. “I know. Elitist is what you meant.”

He snorts. “I love it when you talk dirty-“

“Dean.” You’d snapped, and he’d stilled. Your distress must have been audible. “I just want to go home.”

That had been enough. You had fresh clothing at home, and a bed without lumps, and—if you were lucky—maybe Dean would let you crawl into his arms and not let go until morning. 

He’d packed everything up and into the trunk of the Impala without another joke, and when you crawl next to him on the bench, his arm goes over your shoulder and stays there. He doesn’t stop touching you for the entirety of the drive. Lots of fields and forests and sky, Dean’s hand either rubbing small circles on your upper arm or resting on your thigh.

You know he’s pushing Baby to her limits, just to get you home. Or get away from your sulking sooner. You can’t blame him. You’re glaring out the window as if the trees are responsible for your exhaustion.

And it’s so stupid. It was a good hunt. It was an objectively good hunt. And Dean didn’t even flirt back. 

But you’re not his. Not officially—though through your whole body you’re only ever sure of one thing, and it’s that you’re Dean’s—and not in a way that gives him any claim over you. 

Which means that Dean’s not yours. And you have no claim over him. So if he’d decided to indulge one of those housewives, you’d have no good reason to stop him.

You try not to think about it too often. How Dean could, on any day, just decide that he was done with you. You’d wake up, and suddenly last night would be the last night. The last time you’d touch him. The last time he’d touch you.

And you really, really try not to think about it. But the floodgates have been opened, and now you can’t stop.

Dean might be able to sense it. 

Maybe that’s why he’s touching you, even as the air becomes wired with silence. He’s trying to remind you that for now, he’s here with you.

For now.

“It’s gettin’ late.” He mutters, and you only hum. You’d left at dawn, but Montana was a big state. You’d only just crossed the border into Wyoming, and the sky is already dark and scattered with scars.

“You know where we are?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Think it’s nowhere. Haven’t see a sign for miles. And I can soldier through, sweetheart-“

“No.” You sigh. “It’s fine. I can-“

“You’re not driving.”

“Dean-“

“It’s not cause I don’t trust you,” he says your name, giving you a pointed look. “It’s cause you’re tired. We’ll just sleep out here.”

“Out-“ You blink at him. “In the car?”

“Yeah, Baby’s safer than a motel. I used to sleep in her all the time, when it was just me-“

“But it’s not just you-“

“We’ve been closer than squished in the car, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice is a drawl, and he squeezes your thigh like a reminder. As if you could ever forget. “It’ll be fine. I’ve got a gun, and you’ve got me.”

You don’t have him. 

You give in anyway.

And it’s only an hour before it’s too much. Dean pressed up right behind you—there wasn’t any cold to huddle against, but he hadn’t seemed interested in hearing that—with his knee almost between your thighs, his face near your neck, and his arms wrapped around your stomach. 

Everything smells like him. Even the blanket he’d pulled from the trunk. And you’d thought it would be good for him to hold you like this, but this isn’t in the sanctity of his bedroom. No one but you has ever been allowed in his bedroom. You know for a fact other girls have been in this position.

In the Impala, Dean wrapped around them like he’s never wanted to be anywhere else.

You used to be jealous of them, and how they got to be close to Dean, even for a night.

Now, you know it’s never enough. And you’ll never be able to admire those girls more, for having Dean once, then walking away.

There’s a chance they didn’t have him quite like you do. His laughter and company and stupid blanket, his shirt over their body and his total vulnerability as he sleeps.

You’re trying not to think about it.

But it’s hard with Dean pressed right behind you. 

It’s another hour before you squirm away and climb outside. You need the air, the isolation, the anything but Dean holding you like he’d like to keep you, when he doesn’t. 

You just need space.

And there’s a lot of it, above you. Glittering in the sky as you climb onto the roof, and seemingly infinite with the flat skyline. You lay flat on your back and watch it until you feel sleepy again. And Dean will be pissed if you fall asleep outside, but you’re so tired-

“Come back inside.” 

You feel a tap on your knee, and push up to see Dean frowning at you.

“You’ll get sick, sweetheart-“

“I’m fine.” You mutter, lying back down. “I’ll be in soon.”

Dean makes an odd sound. “Will you.”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you come out in the first place.”

“I- Just wanted to watch the stars.”

“Could’ve woken me up.”

You rise back up, and Dean’s almost glaring at you. As if you’ve offended him. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

His jaw twitches. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“What I-“ You frown at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He lets out a long sigh, rubbing his brow with a hand. “Alright. We’re doing this.”

“Doing- Dean!”

He’s yanked you forward until your knees are dangling off the side, and he’s standing between your legs. Pressed between your legs. Pressed into you, and barely a breath away as he scans over your face.

“Dean?” You whisper, unable to move away, and his face tightens. “What’s-“

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I- I’ve been in the car with you all day-“

“But you’re not talking!” He snaps, his tone heavy. Like this is painful. “Ever since we did the interviews, you haven’t talked to me or let me touch you, and I don’t know what I did wrong, baby, but I can’t fix it if you keep-“

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You grab Dean’s face between your hands, shaking your head. He can’t be allowed to think that. “I- It was me. And it’s stupid.”

He frowns. “Not stupid if it makes you upset.”

“It is,” you mumble. “It’s- Don’t worry about it. You didn’t even do anything, or pretend you would, but I- Never mind.”

Dean’s not pulling away. He’s just examining you. Like the answer will be written all over your face. 

It might be.

Because you can see the exact moment he gets it. His eyes widen, he lets out a sharp breath, and then he presses in closer with a small smirk.

“Were you jealous?”

“I- no-“

“Yeah, you were.” He shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh. “You were upset I might- Son of a bitch-“ He says your name, and looks far too amused for how your face might be burning. “Why didn’t you say something-“

“Because it’s dumb!” You snap, and he doesn’t even pretend to flinch when you shove at his chest. “You weren’t doing anything, and it’s- it’s not like we’re together-“

Dean catches your hand and tugs you forwards, all but pinning you to his chest and scanning over your features with a small frown. “Say that again.”

“I- It-“ You voice is going a little hoarse, but Dean won’t stop staring at you. “It’s not like we’re together-“

“Wrong.” Dean certainly looks offended now, shaking his head with a tight frown. “I got two women in my life, and it’s her.” He pats Baby’s hood with a grin, and it’s hard not to roll your eyes at him. “And- Hey. Saw that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You’re starting to smile.

You’re not sure how he always pulls that out of you.

But he’s Dean. So he does.

“Stop getting smart with me,” He mutters, leaning forward to bump his nose with yours. “I’m trying to be helpful-“

“You are being helpful.” You sigh, dropping your head into his shoulder. “I told you it was stupid.”

“Wasn’t stupid.” Dean’s hand finds its way into your hair, running it carefully through his fingers. “Nothing you do is stupid. Can be dramatic, but not stupid.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, and he shrugs, his fingers stilling suddenly in your hair. 

When he speaks again, his voice is impossible low, and rough, and right in your fucking ear. “You still doubting that I mean it, babygirl?”

“Mean what?”

He chuckles, and god, his voice is getting deeper. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I-“

“Don’t play dumb, sweetheart,” Dean’s palm starts to rub right over the cloth of your shorts, and your breath hitches against his skin. “You’re not that good at it.”

“‘m good at it.” You’re already a little dizzy, but Dean’s all around you and pressing down. “You- I-“

“I know. You need some extra attention? Need me to fuck you until you get that I damn mean it?”

There it is. The deepest voice. The sex voice, that he’ll almost growl in your ear on a case before pulling you into a closet, or hum at you in the kitchen before herding you back to his bedroom.

Asshole. 

He knows you’d jump off a roof if he asked you with that voice.

“Answer me,” he mutters your name, teasing his thumb up and down your still-clothed slit. “Gotta hear it.”

“Ye-“ You let out a breathy moan into his shoulder. “Yes, please-“

“There she is.” He’s almost crooning at you, and it’s enough to make you start grinding onto his hand. “Never anything stupid with you, my smart girl.”

You squeak as Dean tugs you back by your hair, and even in the dark of the night, he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. Pretty green eyes darkened and focused wholly on you, an expression of something dangerously close to reverence all over his face as he scans over you. 

His hand moves away from your core, bracing him on the hood of the Impala, but you don’t get a whine in protest before he’s pulling you into a long, deep kiss. Taking his time, pressing his tongue into your mouth and humming when you part without a thought, never coming up for air because you don’t need it. You have Dean, grunting when you almost fall over his body, moaning his name against his mouth because if he’s going to let you have this, you’re going to take all of it. 

“Son of a bitch.” Dean mutters your name, pulling you back with a lazy grin, and you can only pant and drop your brow against his. “Never think I want anyone but you. Ever.”

“Dean, you-“

“No.” He shakes his head, pressing a softer kiss and mumbling against your lips. “You’re my girl, baby. Don’t forget it.”

You sigh. “I can’t tell if you’re talking to me or the car.”

Dean barks a laugh, and it pulls a smaller smile onto your lips, that splits into an almost stupid grin when Dean grabs you back into another long, slightly rougher kiss. More teeth and spit, a little bruising and mind-numbing. He might be trying to sedate your brain into not overthinking.

If he is, it’s working.

“Right now I’m talking about you, pretty girl.” He hums, the outline of his cock pressing against your inner thigh, and you can’t even think of a quick comeback.

All you can really think is Dean, handsome and somehow yours. Against all odds and reason, Dean seems to think he’s yours.

And you could never hate yourself enough to deny him.

“That’s good.” You whisper, and Dean chuckles.

“Yeah, it is. C’mon,” his hand goes back to pressing between your thighs, and your hips buck. “Lemme show you, sweetheart. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You nod, already humping his hand as he rubs around your clothed clit, and Dean hums your name.

“Words-“

“Yes, please.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

“Hold on.”

 Dean hooks his fingers on your underwear, pushing it to the side before shoving one finger right into your pussy, and you let out a high squeak.

“Jesus.” He mutters, glancing down to where you’re squeezing around him. “You’re fuckin’ soaked, baby. This all for me?”

You nod, your brow pressed back to his. “Only for you, Dean, only ever for you-“

“Fucking-“ Dean groans, pulling your lower lip between his teeth. “You’re so perfect baby. Always so ready for me-“

You moan as two fingers slam into you, scissoring and pumping with a rough, precise speed, Dean grabbing your chin and angling your head to the side. His kisses fall to your neck as you start to hump against him, scratching at his neck and whining whenever he lets his thumb flick over your clit. You’re already going out of your mind, Dean’s somehow still tucked into his pants, and you want more. 

You must have said it aloud, because Dean chuckles against your neck. “This not enough for you, sweetheart?”

“I- It is- I- Feels so good-“ You moan, your hips jerking as Dean crooks his fingers against the deepest spot inside of you, and his grip tightens.

“Gotta stop squirming, baby.”

“But I want you-“

“You got me.” Dean starts to rub over your clit, and you shake your head, your voice almost a whine.

“But I want you,” You repeat, grinding over his bulge, and he lets out a long hiss, his fingers in your cunt picking up to a brutal pace. “Please.”

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, pulling back to watch you with that reverence again. “This not enough for you, babygirl? You wanna take my cock too?”

You nod frantically, squeaking when his fingers start to rub on that deep spot, his thumb teasing feather-light touches over your clit, and you’re going to fly out of your skin-

“One time.” He holds your gaze, and you might fall apart just from the sight of him. Blown-out pupils on yours, his jaw set as he watches you, so handsome and somehow yours- 

“Dean-“

“Just one, babygirl.” His thumb presses down and starts to roll firm circles around you, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. “There you go, wanna see you cum one time before you take my cock, you can do it-“

It’s like he flips a switch. Your orgasm crashes through you with a high, wanting sound of Dean mixed with pleas, and he swallows it with another rough kiss. You’re only seeing stars and feeling an impossibly good rush of pleasure through your whole body. There’s a brief moment where Dean fingers are gone and you whimper at the lost, but Dean’s knee presses right against your cunt, and you let out a soft, easy sigh.

“Feel good, sweetheart?”

If his question is teasing or mocking, you really don’t fucking care, and nod dumbly as he pulls away. 

Dean only laughs, his fingers—the ones that had just been fucking in you—coming up to his mouth. He licks them clean, his gaze never leaving yours, and your hips roll against his knee.

 “I- C’mon, Dean, please-“ 

“Christ,” Dean mutters your name, brushing some of the hair stuck to your brow away. “You’re like- My dream girl. You know that, right?”

“I- I think I do.” You lean forward, continuing to grind onto him as your hand wanders down to squeeze his cock, straining through his pants. “Can you show me?”

His eyes flash, and he swats your hand away, pinning it to the hood. “You still need my cock, sweet girl? Still need me to fuck you on the roof, make you scream so all of Montana can hear?”

“We’re in Wyoming,” you whisper, and Dean shrugs.

“They can hear too. You want it?”

You nod, not breaking Dean’s gaze. “Yes.”

He’s so fast you almost aren’t ready. Kissing you so harsh you think he’s trying to meld his lips to yours, before pulling you right into his chest and sucking a sloppy line along your jaw and neck. Your fingers dig into his shoulder in a desperate play to keep steady, but it’s not needed. 

Dean won’t let you fall.

There are a few things that break through the haze of Dean’s lip, nipping on your neck. The sound of the Impala door opening and the rustle of a belt, as well as the feeling of big, calloused hands kneading up your thigh before pulling down your shorts, and taking your panties with them.

It’s a quick second, where you’re completely bare and shivering from the cold air on your pussy. But then you hear the door close, Dean’s mouth slams back over yours in a demanding, harsh kiss, and you’re never going to be cold again.

His dick slams into you in one, movement, and your mouth falls open at the perfect stretch of him inside you. Dean takes advantage of it, pushing the kiss further until you’re melted over him, fluttering slightly around him as a second, tiny orgasm rips through you.

“God, fucking-“ Dean groans your name, pulling all the way out before slamming back in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know baby. You’re so fuckin’ tight, feel so good wrapped around my cock, wanna-“

“Do it.” You mumble, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Wanna feel it, please. Need to feel it.”

He groans, his hand moving back to brace himself against the Impala’s roof. “You sure-“

“Yes.” It’s the easier question to answer. 

And the certainty in your voice pays off. Dean’s will snaps with a half growl of your name, and you’re gone.

Usually, Dean lets you lead with sex. And you almost always make it slow. You’ve wanted to savor it as much as you could, to stretch out the stolen moments because you’d thought, one day, you’d never have them again. You’d give Dean everything you had—on your knees and riding him and splayed out below him, trying to put on a show when he’d bury his face in your cunt—because you’d thought it was what you needed to do for him to come back. 

He’s going to come back no matter what. 

And it seems to be your turn to take.

Dean’s almost feral against you. Hammering his hips into your sensitive cunt, splitting you open and pressing against that needy spot over and over until you’re a moaning, writhing mess in his arms. His lips never leave your skin for a second, kissing and biting over your shoulder, nipping at the base of your neck before rising back up to mutter filthy praise against your lips.

“Takin’ me so good, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for my cock,” his thrust are already starting to grow uneven, and when you bite on his lower lip, he slams into you so hard stars start to form behind your eyes.

“Dean.” You gasp, and he groans as you squeeze around him. “Feels so good, you’re- God-“

“You like takin’ my big dick, baby?” He drawls against you, adjusting your hips to hit you impossibly deeper. “Shit, you feel like heaven, wanna- Fuck-“

There’s a tension in his voice, even if he doesn’t stop moving, and you frown. “What’s-“

“Forgot a condom.” Dean grunts, rutting against you as he drops to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “I’m not gonna last, sweetheart- I gotta-“

“Inside.” You mumble, your breath hitching as he bottoms out again, the angle making your clit rub against his abdomen. “Dean, please- I said I wanna feel it-“

“Shit,” he moans your name against your skin, cock twitching in your cunt. “You’re so- Fuckin’ love you, baby, I’m gonna-“

He moves back up to kiss you as he chases his release, still fucking moaning down your throat as he fucks you desperately through it.

But then he doesn’t stop. Dean’s cum is dripping out of your pussy, down your thighs and onto the roof of the car, but he’s not slowing down. Still half-hard and grabbing your waist until you’re sure it’s going to leave a bruise—you hope it does—and fucking his cum back into you, until you’re so impossibly full you think you’re going to fucking die from it, and he- He’d said-

“Dean-“

“Last one,” he mutters against your lips, rolling his hips in a sharp circle that makes your squeak. “You can gimme one more, pretty girl, c’mon,” his thumb moves to your clit, and your hips jerk off the bed.

“God-“

“Not god. Just me” Dean laughs at his own joke, pinching you and rolling the nerves between his fingers, and there’s a tight coil deep in your gut that about to snap, and-

“Dean, please-“

“I know,” he hums, and this is too soft a kiss for how he’s still bruising your cervix, how you’re on fire and he’s still using his sex voice. “Squirt on my cock, baby, you can do it, so fuckin’ gorgeous all fucked out ’n full of me-“

He gives a small, harsh slap to your clit before pressing his palm and rubbing it back and forth, right as his cock presses on that hypersensitive place inside of you, and you cum with a scream that echoes through the night.

Something is flooding out from between your thighs, but in the white-hot daze of your orgasm, you really can’t tell if it’s pee or Dean’s cum-

Not Dean’s cum. He’s still buried inside you, mumbling low words as he kisses all over your face, holding you as you shake slightly against him. 

“You fucking soaked me, sweetheart.” He chuckles, kneading gently against your skin. “C’mon let’s get you inside before you catch a cold.”

There’s no way you’re in danger of catching a cold. You’re all warm as Dean slowly pulls away, making a movement like he’s considering diving between your legs and licking you clean, but deciding against it and hauling you fully into his arms instead.

You’re grateful. Right now it feels like one touch could set you over the edge again, and you’re not sure you’d be able to take it. Dean’s mouth on your still aching cunt might actually kill you. It can be an experiment for another time, when you’re not in the middle of nowhere.

Because there will be another time. Dean wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t want more times. Wouldn’t be cleaning you up with his own shirt, and grinning at you so affectionately when he tries to replace your shirt, and you shake your head in a cock-drunk daze. 

“Sweetheart, it’s covered in-“

“I know.” You mumble. “I like it.”

He laughs, kissing you once with a grin. “Alright then, dirty girl. Keep the freakin’ cum shirt, see if I care.”

You smile like an idiot as he pulls away—likely cleaning the roof—and then it hits you again. There will be more, because Dean- He- He said-

You sit up suddenly, pushing open the door, and Dean is running back in a second. He doesn’t get to bend down to your level, though. You wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his stomach before he gets the chance.

“I, uh-“ He clears his throat, tugging on your hair until you look up to meet his gaze. “What’s- Are you good?”

In the dark, with all the shadows and lights, and the vast night sky above him, he looks like an angel. Not the real kind, but the story kind. That only protect and care and guide you home, even if—as long as Dean is here, with you—you’ll never need to be guided.

Dean is home.

“I love you too.” You whisper, and his eyes widen. “And you don’t have to say anything. I know you feel it too, and I- you’re mine, and I’m yours, and that’s it.”

He nods slowly, his thumb dropping to trace over your lips. 

“Only competition I have is Baby, right?”

Normally, Dean would laugh at that. But tonight, his throat just bobs as he shakes his head.

And his voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“Never any competition for you. I feel it.” He mutters your name with that same reverence returned. “Always feel it. And I- Thank you.”

You can’t stop your smile. “Of course. I love you, Dean. I mean it.”

His lips twitch. “I know.”

End Note: God, help me. I'm giving myself impossible standards.

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[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSTRAP ONㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : What if you ask if you can peg them?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You ask him in bed one night, very nonchalant.

“Hey, can I peg you?”

He freezes. Like full reboot. The Bat-OS is updating. Bruce.exe has stopped responding.

“...Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I think I deserve it.”

He stares. Silently. A slow blink. His jaw clenches, like he's negotiating peace with an international terrorist. You see the flicker in his eyes—he’s considering it, and that terrifies him more than anything.

Eventually?

“Once. You get one.”

But then he comes back for more. Doesn’t say it out loud. Just lies face-down on the bed like a Greek tragedy and says:

“Don’t talk. Just… do it.”

And you never let him forget it. You slap his ass and he growls like a wild animal. Gotham’s protector? Pegged by his princess.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

You bring it up during foreplay, and his eyes sparkle.

“You wanna what??? …Wait, really? Is that like—hot for you?”

He’s immediately into it. Like too into it. He starts googling positions, stretches, prep routines.

“Do we need a safe word? What’s the etiquette here? Should I make a playlist?”

When the moment comes? He’s spread out like a centerfold, full trust, full glutes.

“I feel so vulnerable. Is this how girls feel all the time??? God, it’s kinda hot—”

He moans so loud. Like theater-level drama. Neighbors can hear. Batfam knows. And Dick? He’s glowing for a week.

“So when’s round two, babe?”

— JASON TODD ⋆

You say it casually while he's cleaning guns.

“Let me peg you sometime.”

He chokes. Gun clatters. You hit a nerve.

“You wanna what???”

He’s mad. Flustered. Pacing. But also blushing. And you notice the way he starts testing the waters—

“If I said yes… hypothetically… would that make me less of a man?”

You just pat his cheek like, “No, baby. It makes you a brave man.”

He glares. And then, eventually, agrees. But he makes it a war zone. He's gripping the headboard, growling like you’re in a gladiator fight.

“You better own it, then. I want bruises, I want pain—do it like you mean it!”

Afterward, he lies there like he got hit by a truck. Whispers:

“...Don’t tell anyone.”

You immediately text the group chat: “Guess who just got wrecked by me.”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You hit him with it after a sparring match, while he’s sweaty and happy.

“Can I peg you sometime?”

He short-circuits.

“You wish.”

But he’s curious. You see the gears turning. He starts reading medical journals. Watches porn on mute. The ego battles the intrigue.

One night, he corners you like:

“If you must dominate me… you’ll have to earn it.”

Treats it like a duel. He makes you work for it. Grapples. Resistance. Eye contact like a wolf. But when it finally happens?

He groans. Face buried in the pillow. Tries to act composed, but he’s trembling.

“This… is merely… a power experiment.”

Lies. He loves it. But he’ll never admit it. Until he randomly buys you new gear and says:

“This model is superior. More efficient. Less friction. I did… research.”

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

You ask Terry during post-sex pillow talk. He’s already panting, sweaty, pupils dilated.

“Babe… what if next time I hit it?”

He blinks.

“You mean like… role reversal?”

“No, Terry. I mean I peg you.”

Visibly panics. Short circuits. But his toxic trait? He’s a curious little freak.

He’ll act all alpha, but that man grew up on internet forums and old Batman archives. He’s been exposed. He’s thought about it.

“Okay. Okay. I mean… I’m not against it. But like, do I—do I have to do the… arch thing?”

By the time you’ve got him moaning into the mattress, he's lost all higher brain function. Tries to talk tough:

“T-This doesn’t c-change... the fact I’m still B-Batman…”

“Mmhm. Say that again while I hit that spot.”

After everything, cuddly. A little emotionally destroyed. Always asks shyly afterward:

“So... wanna do it again next week?”

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

So Barry's in the chair, coding. You lean over and whisper it in his ear like it's nothing:

“Wanna let me peg you?”

He doesn’t even look up. Just slowly removes his glasses.

“I was wondering when you’d ask.”

“...Wait. That’s a yes?”

“Baby, I can’t walk, but I can take it. Now help me out of these pants.”

This man is confident and freaky. He guides you through. You’re the one sweating and stammering while he talks dirty.

“Mmm, harder. You call that topping? C’mon, use that core strength.”

Afterward he lays there smug mocking you.

“Good job. You get a gold star. Wanna go again or do I have to manspread harder?”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

You say it during your usual makeout, biting his ear:

“Wanna be my pretty little baby?”

Cassian doesn’t speak much. But his eyes go wide. And the blush? It climbs his ears.

At first, he shakes his head—too shy. But a week later, you find him laid out on the bed. On his stomach. Ass up.

Doesn’t say a word. Just… offers himself.

And he’s so sensitive. Bites his knuckle, whimpers through every motion. Has his whole face buried in a pillow, fists clenched, body twitching.

“You’re doing so well, baby…”

Nods frantically. Tries not to cry from how good it feels.

After? Curled into your arms, completely limp, like you just possessed his soul.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

You barely finish the sentence:

“Hey, what if I pegged—”

And he’s ALREADY stripping.

“YES. PLEASE. I WANNA TRY IT. DO I LOOK GOOD LIKE THIS? DO YOU WANT ME TO SHAVE?? I HAVE CANDLES???”

He’s bouncing. Wagging his tail. Sends you like 10 Etsy links for strap-ons. Makes a mood playlist. Packs snacks.

In the bedroom? Drama. Theatrics. Noise.

He’s moaning like a porn star. Gripping the sheets. Begging.

“I’m your good boy! I’m your little toy! Use me, mommy, pleaaaase!”

You have to put a pillow over his mouth because he’s SCREAMING. And afterward, he wants cuddles and tells all his friends:

“I’m in love.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[bearyfast]

The Envelope - LN4

Partnering: Lando Norris x impliedfem!reader

(There is no reader in this story but he talks about reader, no name is stated and reader never actually appears)

Type: Angst

Summary: Lando finally opens up at a therapy appointment and then goes home to deal with his grief- over whose death? The love of his life's, who happened to leave him a mysterious envelope.

Warnings: mentions of drugs, death, grieving, overdose, pregnancy, therapy, and suicide. (Let me know if I've missed any and I'll add them!)

F1 Masterlist

“It's been two months since our last appointment. How do you feel after the break?” The voice broke through Lando’s thoughts, making him realise that he hadn’t been paying attention since he sat down on the stiff couch.

“Fine,” Lando spoke as he looked up to the woman’s eyes slowly, seeing the look in her eyes that let him know that she didn’t believe him. “I’m fine.”

“Lando, this is a very difficult process to go through and understand, someone who was a constant in your life for years, someone who you loved-”

“I know what I lost, thanks. No need to remind me” Lando’s cold voice interrupted her as he looked to the ground again.

Dr. Maryes looked at him with sympathy- something he was sick and tired of seeing in people’s eyes when they looked at him recently. The woman, Dr. Maryes, was a therapist that his team had gotten for him; something about “needing to handle his grief better” or some stupid spiel like that.

He understood why he was there, he just didn’t want to be there. Lando didn’t need some therapist who understood nothing about you and his deep love surrounding everything to do with you to tell him how to deal with his feelings.

“I’ll never know what that felt like Lando, to lose what mattered most to you in the blink of an eye, while you couldn’t do anything; all the way across the globe.” Dr. Maryes told him softly.

Over the last few sessions with her, it had been a constant battle with Lando. He didn’t want to accept her help, feeling as though he was betraying your memory by moving on- like he was forgetting you by allowing himself to live.

“But you have to remember that she would want you to live. Isn’t that what you said in our last session? That she always wanted you to put yourself first, putting her own career on hold to follow you around the world for Formula One. She would want you to be happy instead of wasting away” Dr. Maryes always avoided using your name, knowing that it would just set Lando back even further than he already was.

As he just stared at the carpeted floor of the therapist’s office, Lando gave a small nod. That was you, always the one to sacrifice your own happiness so that you could see Lando flourish and thrive. 

You cared so much about him that even if you were sure when you were younger that you would never get married, Lando now constantly fiddled with your engagement ring that was on a necklace around his neck after the police gave it back to him. It was only a gold band with a few small but nice diamonds, just the way you wanted it, so he could wear it while racing.

“She was always the best part of me” Lando mumbled, reaching up with one hand to hold your ring in his fingers tightly.

“Sometimes closure can come from having something from the person to remember them by,” Dr. Maryes spoke after a moment of silence. “That ring on your necklace, can you tell me about it?”

Lando swallowed as a single tear was in his eyes, quickly wiping it away before speaking again.

“When we were kids, she used to say that she would never get married. So when we started dating I remembered that, but after three years she just started… hinting at engagement rings-” Lando’s voice cracked slightly as he talked about you more and more.

“It’s okay, talking about it is good. Is there anything else you have of hers?” She asked.

“Yeah. She had a locket that I got her on our first anniversary, it has a little- a little- a picture inside,” Lando stumbled over his words as he thought about you more. “With… us. Together. On our first date, when we had our first kiss.”

“Why don’t you wear that as well? Along with the engagement ring” Dr. Maryes asked as she leaned forward slightly; this was the most she had gotten out of Lando the entire time he had been talking with her.

“I just- everytime I look at the picture, her smiling face, her innocent features-” A sob broke out but he continued speaking. “I don’t know, it gets me thinking about things I know I shouldn’t.”

“What things, Lando?”

“Maybe if I forced her to come with me, if I had noticed earlier, if- if I would have been better then maybe she wouldn’t have done what she did. I mean- I spent the most time with her, I should have noticed the behaviours-”

“Lando, it’s not your fault-”

“But it is. There were signs. I ignored them because I thought she was getting better, I thought she was getting over it, over the addiction. But I was wrong, and she died because of it”

That was the first time that Lando had actually opened up about his feelings towards what happened to you. Yes, his friends had speculated amongst themselves that he felt guilt about your death since he knew about the addiction but he thought that you were getting better.

You had been seeing your own therapist about your own… issues. Lando himself had seen an improvement in your behaviour- hell, you had even brought up having children without any hinting from Lando.

It brought  him to tears even thinking about the fact that you were so far gone when you said that to the point of definitely having no idea what you were saying. Maybe it was all the drugs, making you happier, making you want children after years of not thinking about it, and that’s what hurt Lando the most in the days after he found out how you died. 

How the Coroner's Office said that the orderdose had been building up for weeks, months even, in small doses.

How he will never know how much of the last few months you spent together making Lando think you were getting better, making Lando think that you wanted children, making Lando think that everything would be okay. He’ll never know how much of that time you knew you would be overdosing on purpose a few months later, leaving him alone.

Clearly you had known, that much was clear not even just from what the Coroner’s Office said; a note had been left on the kitchen counter addressed to him, though Lando hadn’t brought himself to read it yet. He knew that it would just bring him right back to the start of his grieving.

Dr. Maryes must have kept talking since the end of the session came quickly, but Lando didn’t pay attention at all, too much into his thoughts to even think about listening to others.

“That’s all the time we have today, Lando. What I want you to take away from this session is that grief morphs the feelings of love and pain into one, you might spend the rest of your life trying to make sense of a decision she made in silence, but she wouldn’t want that” Dr. Maryes finished, getting up and leaving the room- knowing Lando might take a moment to leave on his own.

After an hour, Lando finally made it through his own front door.

It didn’t take an hour to get to his home- no, not a home, it was now just a house. Just an empty shell of a house without your blooming presence. Without the smell of your constant baking in the kitchen, the flowers that used to be everywhere in the apartment- which were now all dying due to Lando not taking care of them. You lingered but you weren’t there.

Instead of coming straight home, he took the long way that had barely any people on the street- the paparazzi and people in general were looking at him like they were waiting for him to fall apart on the sidewalk every since the news of your death spread (which they somehow found before Lando even told his team).

As he walked through the empty apartment, Lando kept his eyes on the ground. All around the apartment were photos of you two together, photos of you with your nieces and nephews, and just little touches that reminded him of you everywhere he looked that he couldn’t bring himself to put in a box but couldn’t bear to look at either.

“Goddamn it, Max” Lando groaned once he saw containers of food on his kitchen counter which was now clean instead of being filled with old plates and probably moldy food that he hadn't been bothered to clean up. 

Giving Max the spare key to the apartment was obviously a mistake, seeing as Lando hadn’t left in weeks he had the ability to turn Max’s food away at the door, but since he was out at the therapy appointment Max must’ve come in by himself.

Max also left the letter from you on the table, leading to Lando frantically checking the seal to make sure it hadn’t been opened. Obviously he knew that Max would never open it without his permission but he couldn’t help but check, seeing as the aging, months-old seal had become a comfort for Lando.

Though when he picked it up to turn it over, for the first time he touched the centre of the envelope instead of just the edges.

One would think this wouldn’t make a difference but Lando realised that what laid inside the envelope was in fact not a letter, or not just a letter. Instead inside the envelope was something like a… stick. He always assumed the reason the envelope was thick was because she wrote a thick letter, maybe a lot of pages, not this.

“No, don’t do this to me, love” Lando whispered like a broken man at a sudden thought about what could be in the envelope, choking out another sob as his heart somehow shattered for what felt like the thousandth time since your death.

As curiosity got the better of him, he slowly opened that seal with precision not even seen on the race track, his shaky hands looking away before he could even see what was inside.

Lando moved to grab his phone out of his back pocket- as much as he wanted to seal the envelope up again and cry whenever he saw it, he knew that he needed support from the one person who knew him best, but who he kept pushing away.

“Lando?” Max’s voice came through the speaker as Lando’s hands gripped the edge of the counter-top to the point of his knuckles turning white.

“I just- fuck, I don’t know what to do, Max” Lando’s voice got shakier as he spoke more, his eyes burning down at the opened envelope without looking at its contents.

“Talk to me, Lando. Tell me what’s wrong, let me help you” Max frantically said in a calm way, not knowing if Lando would just hang up on him if he took too long to answer.

“You know how before everything happened I told you that she brought up children?” Lando asked rhetorically before gulping and speaking again. “I- I touched the envelope today, and- I think there’s a- a- a you know… inside”

He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words, afraid of making it come true.

“Oh. Well, she clearly wanted you to know, and I think you should open it. I’ll stay on here the entire time, you can hang up if it gets too much, but we both know not knowing will kill you inside”

Max is right. It would kill him inside. Maybe not just inside but all together.

Why would she leave it for him if she didn’t want him to know?

But what if it’s positive? What if she killed herself knowing that she was pregnant with his child? Would that make him see her differently?

But what if it was negative? Would it make every little worry go away? Or would he be even further broken knowing that he never had a chance of having children with her? Giving him the negative test just to rub it in?

“Okay.” Lando spoke after minutes of silence and just thinking. “I’m going to open it, please just- I can’t do this alone.”

“You’re not doing this alone, I’m with you the whole way, Lando. I’m here” Max reassured him, bringing a comforting presence to Lando’s cold apartment.

Slowly reaching for the envelope, memories flash past his eyes; your first kiss, when you first started hinting at engagement rings, him proposing, you being there at his first Formula One Grand Prix win, your first time at a race, him at your university graduation- you bringing up children.

“What do you think about children?” She asked Lando, leaning over the barrier at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.

“Children? What- you want them?” Lando asked her, leaning closer to her as well with a smile once she nodded slightly. “Really? With me?”

“Of course with you, Lan. Who else?” She teased, kissing him softly with a giggle.

“God, you make me so happy, love. If anything happened to you I don’t know what I’d do” Lando grinned before kissing her cheek and rushing away to his team.

Lando should have noticed the happy glint in your eyes fading at the mention of him losing you, he should have told your therapist about what he was seeing at home, but he wanted to believe that you were getting better.

The stick dropped from the envelope and landed upside down, the side that Lando actually wanted to see facing the counter.

With the drop and then silence, Max spoke again. “Everything alright? What does it say?”

“It’s fucking upside down mate.” Lando whispered. Any other person would just flip it around, maybe ask ‘why can’t you just flip it over, answer all your questions?’. “I can’t do it.”

“What? Do you need me to come over?”

“No, I- I just- I can’t do it. What if the results ruin the image that I have of her forever? She’s- she’s fucking perfect and if this is a result that I don’t like I don’t want to know, Max”

Even if he doesn’t know which result he would prefer, Lando knows that whatever the outcome is- it will change his view on your memory forever, and that’s something that he can’t just ignore to look past it onto all the good ones. Lando can look past the drugs and the overdose and the lying- he’d seen what it did to you, how it changed you and how you genuinely were trying to get better at some point; that it had just gotten to be too much.

But either you knew you were pregnant when you overdosed or you were almost taunting him with the fact that you weren’t pregnant and you had brought up children? That was something Lando could not bear to think about, let alone look past.

“Shit- I’m coming over, Lando. Don’t move and don’t leave the apartment, okay? I’ll be there in a minute, it will be alright” Max’s panicked voice came through the speaker as Lando could hear him walking, almost running, to his car.

Even with Max coming to help him through it, Lando still couldn’t do it. Maybe it was for the best, it might make it easier to move on.

With one final breath, shaky hands, and more tears running down his face than ever but somehow time moved slower than ever. Picking up the pregnancy test, he placed it back into the envelope and sealed it again, leaving it back in the place where he found it.

A mystery envelope for another day, maybe when he was on his deathbed,  maybe next week, maybe in ten years- who knows. But for when he was better and it wouldn’t change how he saw the beautiful, kind, amazing woman he used to know and now only see’s in his dreams and in his mind.

It might kill him to not open the envelope, but it would kill him even more to know.

[zorosgirlfriend]

hello!! i LOVE your works so much! can I request a zoro x reader where reader is mihawks daughter, maybe this takes place during time skip? and Zoro expects reader to be the same as Mihawk but she’s the polar opposite, wearing frilly and pink things, her room full of stuffed animals and frilly blankets and curtains.

hiii! tysmmm, yes ofcc, here it is!

Roronoa Zoro ~ !! Blades and Bows

warnings: none.

masterlist and rules || have fun reading!

The last thing Zoro expected when training under the world's greatest swordsman was… definitely not this.

He’d come to Kuraigana Island for power. Precision. The sharp edge of discipline.

And, of course, Dracule Mihawk had delivered—ruthlessly.

But nothing in all his training could have prepared him for you.

The first time you walked past him, it was like a hallucination.

A pink, ruffled, strawberry-scented hallucination.

You wore a flowing sundress with lace trimming and soft bows in your hair, humming as you carried a tray of tea through the ruined halls of the castle.

Zoro stared.

You blinked up at him with the sweetest smile.

“Hi! You must be the swordsman Dad’s training.”

Dad?

Mihawk had a daughter? A daughter?

A very cute one, at that.

Zoro stumbled over his words.

“Uh… yeah. Roronoa Zoro.”

“I’m y/n,” you beamed.

“Welcome to the castle! Sorry it’s all gloomy, but I try to brighten things up!”

You skipped past, completely unaware of the existential crisis you’d just dropped on him like a cannonball.

Zoro wasn’t sure if he’d inhaled too much sword oil or if the ghost girl in the tower had just been replaced with a much gentler kind of spirit.

Later, after an especially grueling training session.

Zoro accidentally wandered into the wrong wing of the castle.

He pushed open a door, expecting some dark, dusty chamber—and froze.

It was… pink.

No, it was an explosion of pink.

Plush animals lined every surface.

Ribbons and frilled curtains floated around the tall windows.

Your bed was covered in pastel quilts and heart-shaped pillows.

And you were there, brushing your hair in front of a mirror.

You turned slowly. “Zoro?”

He immediately slammed the door shut.

“Wrong room! I was—I got lost!”

You opened it again a second later, biting back a smile.

“You’re free to come in, you know. I don’t bite.”

Zoro rubbed the back of his neck, completely flushed.

“I just didn’t expect... this. You’re Mihawk’s daughter.”

You tilted your head.

“So?”

He stared at the unicorn plush in your arms.

“You don’t exactly scream ‘warlord bloodline.’”

You laughed.

“Dad says I take after my mom. Besides, just because I like cute things doesn’t mean I can’t use a sword.”

That caught his attention.

You reached beneath your pink bed canopy and pulled out a sleek rapier with intricate floral engravings on the hilt. Zoro blinked.

“It’s a gift from Dad. Custom forged. I train too, just… less murderously than him.”

Zoro raised a brow.

“You’re full of surprises.”

“So are you,”

You replied with a teasing smile.

“I thought you’d be all serious, but you’re kind of awkward and cute when flustered.”

He scoffed, eyes narrowing.

“I am not flustered.”

“You’re red, Zoro.”

He looked away, muttering something under his breath.

From that day on, he found himself visiting your room more often.

Sometimes just to borrow tea.

Sometimes to ask about the rapier.

Sometimes just to hear your soft laugh and feel the contrast between his world of blades and your world of fluff.

And though he’d never admit it out loud, he slept better on nights when your scent—something sweet like cherries and tea—drifted from down the hall.

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Do you have any good Superman au Sterek fics?

For sure.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's a ...Tie? by 42hrb

(1/1 I 1,254 I General)

Stiles has thought that Derek might be Superman for months, now he has something close to proof.

Twice The Nice by notyourtipicalauthor

(1/1 I 2,269 I Explicit)

boyfriend and his twin brother that he had secretly lusted after. The night was filled with carnal pleasures, their bodies intertwined as they explored the depths of their desires.

Echoes of Fate by people_change_pt2

(3/? I 6,071 I Explicit)

When Jon and Jordan arrive in Beacon Hills to live with their grandfather, they seem like ordinary teens adjusting to a new town. Polite and helpful, they seem harmless to the Hale pack—except to Eli, who feels an inexplicable pull toward Jordan. It’s a connection Eli can’t fully understand, but his father, Derek, can.

Recognizing the bond between Eli and Jordan as the rare mate connection, Derek is determined not to let his son repeat his mistakes. Haunted by the regret of never telling Stiles they were mates, Derek sets aside his wariness, welcoming the brothers into the pack to give Eli and Jordan the chance he and Stiles never had.

But as hunters arrive in town, tensions rise, and Eli struggles to protect the pack while navigating his bond with Jordan. As secrets about the brothers’ arrival unravel, the truth threatens to change everything.

This is a story of second chances, where Derek fights to give his son what he lost: the freedom to choose love and the chance to claim it before it’s too late.

What's A Secret Identity? by Chrystie, imabignerd, kate882

(1/1 I 6,967 I Teen)

Stiles sipped at a mug of coffee, absently watching the news play in the break room. Because of course a news station couldn't play anything other than its own content, even in the one part of the office that was supposed to be a safe space from work. His interview with Superman was making a rerun and Stiles glanced at Derek before commenting absently, “I’d totally let Superman fuck me.”

Derek, who had been in the middle of a swig of coffee, choked violently, “That’s not something I needed to know at nine in the morning, Stiles.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “What time would you prefer I tell you about all of the things I would let Superman do to my body?”

Angle of View by petals42_tumblr (rosepetals42)

(1/1 I 8,017 I Teen)

Derek Hale is Superman. Stiles is Lois Lane's cameraman. They get closer than they are supposed to.

it's gonna take a superman by kellifer_fic

(1/1 I 14,184 I Teen)

Derek figured the Children of Villains support group would at least be full of outcasts like him. How wrong could he be?

Bending Steel by GrimReaperlover11

(16/16 I 25,369 I Teen)

Derek loved being Superman, and though he knew that being the man of steel came with a large amount of responsibility...there is this one person who he can not avoid..this one thief that always causes him to go weak in the knees and makes his mind go fuzzy. so what happens when he finds himself in a compromising position with this thief?

What happens when the man of steel...bends?

Batman Makes It Look Easy by Ilovesocks_24

(13/13 I 50,044 I Teen)

All of the big time superheroes like Superman and Captain America make everything look so easy. They manage to have regular jobs, save their cities and have time to maintain stable relationships. Derek wishes his life was that simple. He saves his city and works a regular job but he's pretty sure that Iron Man never hit on Batman, so why does Red Spark keep hitting on him?

Or the one where Derek and Stiles are both secret superheroes, but are too oblivious to realize that they're in love. Meanwhile there's a power draining supervillain on the loose.

Werewolves can't Fly by lhr111

(21/? I 56,874 I Explicit)

Derek has always been different, even for a werewolf. He was born with blue beta eyes, his sensory perception is better than an alpha, he is faster and stronger than any wolf they have ever met, and his instincts have never been the same as the rest of his pack. His mother, his alpha, has always loved him without judgement, but some of his pack are suspicious.

Making a choice for himself for once, Derek moves to Metropolis to take a job at The Daily Planet. He is quickly overwhelmed and captivated by fellow reporter Stiles Stilinski. Stiles has a secret, not-so-small obsession with Superman who went missing decades ago, and a burgeoning interest in the new grumpy superhero who recently started saving people around the city. Together the two will uncover the mystery of the Man of Steel, uncover crimes committed by an evil Argent-led corporation, and discover important truths about themselves in the process.

[elizabeth-holland24]

Racing Hearts - Chapter 1

July 8, 2024 — London

The air outside the Odeon Luxe Leicester Square thrummed with excitement, the kind that felt electric. Flashbulbs exploded like popcorn, and the fans behind the barriers buzzed with the type of love only a blockbuster premiere could ignite. London was lit up with "Twisters" banners, storm clouds projected against the buildings, as if Mother Nature herself had RSVP'd to the event. The red carpet shimmered beneath her heels, a river of flashing lights and polished nerves. She should’ve been used to it by now — being the first woman in Formula 1 to win back-to-back sprints, having sponsors and cameras memorizing her every move. But tonight felt different.

Maybe it was the dress — custom, sharp at the collar and backless, white like lightning. Maybe it was seeing Daisy again, all grown up from the teen she’d met years ago when their parents ran into each other at a fundraiser. Or maybe it was the fact that she and her dad used to watch Twister on stormy nights, popcorn in hand, quoting Bill Paxton like gospel.When Daisy had invited her to the London premiere of Twisters, it had been an easy yes. She wished she could've brought her dad. They’d rewatched it so many times the DVD case had cracked.

Her dad would’ve lost it if he’d seen this carpet. The original Dorothy machine on display. The cast of the reboot smiling and posing like gods. And then—

chaos.

A low bark.

“Brisket!” someone called out.

Followed by the unmistakable pitter-patter of paws on velvet.

A flash of fur zoomed between photographers. Gasps. A few chuckles. A dog—a very enthusiastic one—charged straight toward her, tongue out, tail a blur of happiness. She bent down without thinking and scooped him up before he could tangle himself in someone's camera equipment.

"Well, hello there," she said, laughing, adjusting the wiggly dog in her arms. She laughed as she hugged the dog tightly. “Well, aren’t you just the most handsome trespasser?”

Brisket licked her chin in response, tail wagging so hard it knocked over a mic.

That’s when she heard the voice.

"Brisket!"

Her heart stuttered.

That voice. Behind her, footsteps. Heavy. Familiar, somehow.

She turned her head just slightly and—there he was.

Glen Powell.

Hangman himself. Or, in this case, Tyler Owens.

The man who wrangled storms on screen and had done some storming in her heart off-screen—even if only silently, from a distance, in the privacy of her Spotify playlists and late-night TikTok scrolls.

He jogged up, face a mix of relief and charm, breathless but smiling like he’d been living for this exact moment.

“Hey—wow—thank you,” came a voice she knew instantly. Smooth, Southern, utterly charming.

Glen Powell.

He reached for Brisket’s leash, slightly out of breath but grinning. “Tornado wrangler by trade, dog wrangler by hope and prayer.”

She raised an eyebrow, half-teasing. “Seems like one of those jobs isn’t going so well.”

“Brisket has a mind of his own. Can’t blame him for good taste.” He looked down at his dog, who was still pressed lovingly against her. “He’s never jumped into a stranger’s arms before.”

“Maybe I’m not a stranger.”

Her voice came out cooler than she felt — smooth surface, chaotic tide beneath.

He grinned, taking in her calm confidence, the way she held Brisket like she'd known him forever. "Well, Brisket has the speed of a Red Bull car."

She smirked. "You should try keeping up with a Mercedes."

His eyebrows shot up. "Ahh, you're the driver. The mystery racer turned icon."

"Guilty," she said coolly, offering Brisket a final kiss on the head before gently holding him out. "But how do I know he's really yours?"

"Besides the fact, he just abandoned me for you?" Glen took Brisket back, and the dog let out a dramatic sigh, resting his head on Glen's shoulder but staring at her longingly.

"I think he wants joint custody," she said.

He laughed—a warm, rich sound that made her chest flutter against her better judgment.

The handlers called for him then. Publicists murmured timelines and queues. Glen hesitated, like he didn’t want to leave.

“So, what do I owe you? Brisket’s safe return for… a coffee?”

“Coffee?” she mused. “Seems like low stakes for a celebrity dog rescue. I should be demanding premiere tickets or… at the very least, his Instagram handle.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Brisket doesn’t follow anyone. Not even me.”

“Mmm. Selective taste.” She scratched behind the dog’s ear. “Like I said. Smart.”

They stood there for a beat too long, close enough to be noticed. The flashes popped like fireworks.

“Well,” Glen said, finally reaching for Brisket’s collar again. “Can I catch you again? Maybe when I’m not chasing him through a hurricane of publicists?”

She leaned in, conspiratorial. "We'll see if your dog gives me visitation rights."

And with that, she turned, heels clicking against the red velvet, her white dress catching the light like a storm cloud. Brisket whined.

So did Glen, quietly.

The after-party was exactly the kind of chaos she thrived in: low lights, high ceilings, soft jazz turning into house music, champagne glasses that refilled themselves, and faces she recognized from billboards, screens, and dreams. She was deep in conversation with Daisy Edgar-Jones and Anthony Ramos, their laughter blending into the bass, when she felt a presence to her right. She didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. “Missed my chance to properly thank you,” Glen said, voice soft, smile softer. She turned. “I thought I might see you again.” “Not a total surprise. Brisket’s already filed emotional support paperwork.” She laughed, genuinely this time. “He’s an excellent wingman.” Glen looked at her then — really looked. There was something disarming about his gaze — like he saw through the press smiles and the driving helmet, right into the girl who grew up watching movies about cowboys and twisters with her dad on stormy nights. “I saw your race in Miami,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like the words had been sitting in his mouth since May. “That last overtake? Insane. You drove like… like the road was scared of you.” She raised an eyebrow, impressed. ““You’re an F1 guy now? Quoting Crofty as well?” He chuckled. “I’m a ‘you’ guy, apparently.” Her cheeks flushed despite her best efforts. “Nah, but really, I’ve been falling down the F1 rabbit hole.” “Oh yeah?” she asked, folding her arms, mock-serious. “Name three teams that aren’t Red Bull or Ferrari.” “Easy. Mercedes. McLaren. Haas.” He paused. “And I only picked Haas because it sounds like chaos with a Southern accent.” She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Alright, I’ll allow it. For effort.” Before Glen could say more, Daisy leaned in behind her, resting her chin on her shoulder. “Are we flirting or negotiating a race contract here?” she whispered, loud enough for Glen to hear. “Daisy,” she groaned, laughing. “Personal space?” Anthony sauntered up beside them, sipping a mezcal old fashioned and grinning wide. “Por favor,” he said, slipping into smooth Spanish, “tú le estás tirando la onda a este hombre y no quieres que lo notemos?” (Please, you're clearly flirting with this man and don't want us to notice?)

“Anthony!” she scolded, cheeks warm. “I’m just sayin’, this feels like one of those rom-coms where they meet at the carpet and end up at brunch three days later.” Glen raised a brow. “That an invitation?” “Only if you bring Brisket.” She gave Anthony a playful shove as he wandered off with Daisy, leaving her and Glen alone again, their laughter trailing behind like confetti. “So…” Glen said, stepping closer as a remix of "Electric Feel" pulsed through the air. “How does a girl from Mexico City end up commanding a Mercedes around Eau Rouge like she’s dancing?” She blinked, impressed by both the geography and the reference. “Observation points: 10/10.” “I did my research. Might’ve also Googled you.” She sipped her champagne, amused. “And what did Google say?” “That you’ve moved more times than I’ve done press tours. That your dad used to be an engineer. That you’ve got a GPA that makes me feel personally attacked.” She laughed. “I don’t like staying still. That’s all.” He nodded, eyes still locked on her. “That’s what I figured. Storm chaser energy.” She tilted her head. “And you? Hollywood golden boy, Texan charm, falling into tornados and dog-wrangling accidents. What’s your angle?” He shrugged, honest. “I like people who scare me a little. You do things I’ll never understand, and you don’t care who’s watching. That’s… rare in my world.” The tension between them hung like static. Somewhere nearby, someone called out for a group photo. Daisy waved her over, gesturing wildly with her glass. Anthony mouthed, “Go kiss him!” dramatically behind her. Glen made no move to keep her. “Go,” he said. “You have fans. A tornado to be, a heartbreaker to remain.” She paused before walking away. “Hey, Glen?” He turned. “You can try again,” she said, voice low, laced with teasing mystery. “Just try not to lose your dog this time.” And then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd, the storm of her presence leaving him grinning like a man struck by lightning. He looked down at Brisket, who had been returned to his leash. "You and me, buddy," he muttered, still smiling. "We’re gonna need a faster game plan."

a/n: I couldn't wait, and I had to post the first chapter before I return to classes tomorrow. Thank you so much for the support and love you guys have given me. I love you all.

[aventurineswife]

Can we have Reader crocheting/knitting a scarf for Aventurine?

A Gamble in Every Thread

Summary: You crochet a scarf for Aventurine as a gesture of care and trust. While working, you engage in a quiet conversation with him, exploring his vulnerability beneath the sharp, calculating exterior he maintains. The simple act of crafting becomes a symbol of connection, offering a glimpse of something real in a world built on manipulation and high-stakes gambles. Aventurine is intrigued by the gesture, and for a fleeting moment, he allows himself to take a chance on something that isn’t calculated.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Vulnerability, Emotional Growth, Slow Burn, Gift Giving, Quiet Moments, Angst (mild), Trust.

Warnings: Themes of survivor's guilt, trauma, Emotional guardedness.

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of golden lamps, casting long shadows over the marble floors of Aventurine’s private quarters. The air was thick with the faint scent of incense, mingling with the metallic tang of strategy papers and the ever-present tension that clung to the high-ranking executive.

Aventurine lounged in a leather armchair, he stretched lazily against the cushions. His fingers toyed with the edge of a playing card, the delicate spade symbol engraved on it catching the light. His eyes flicked over to you as you sat cross-legged on the floor, intent on your work.

You were crocheting, the soft click of the hook as rhythmic as the beat of your heart. The yarn in your hands—a smooth, deep green with subtle hints of yellow—was almost hypnotic as it slipped through your fingers. Each loop and stitch was a quiet act of care, each movement a deliberate, soothing rhythm that contrasted sharply with the chaotic, high-stakes world that Aventurine thrived in.

He watched you in silence, his sharp gaze never quite letting go of you. His lips curled upward slightly, a knowing, enigmatic smile spreading across his face.

“You know,” he spoke softly, his voice carrying that characteristic lilt of someone who was always playing with the words they spoke, “I’ve seen a lot of people attempt to ‘tie’ themselves to others. Bonds of family, loyalty, love… And yet, none of them have been as… meticulous as you.” He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening with curiosity. “A scarf, is it?”

You looked up, meeting his gaze as you tugged the thread taught, then paused to admire the growing pattern. His tone was playful, but you knew better than to mistake it for lightheartedness.

“It’s for you,” you replied, your voice steady. “A gift, if you will. A small, meaningful gesture. Something to balance out your penchant for risk.” You smiled gently, but there was an underlying hint of something softer, more vulnerable, that he would likely not acknowledge out loud.

Aventurine arched a brow, intrigued. “For me? I’m hardly the scarf-wearing type.” He was teasing, but his voice carried an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. It was a rare thing, this vulnerability he barely allowed anyone to witness.

“Well, it’s not just a scarf.” You continued your work, feeling the rhythm of your hands guide you. “It’s something that requires patience. Focus. Care. A piece of me, woven into the fabric, if you will.”

He remained silent, the smile never fully fading from his lips, though his eyes lingered on you longer than usual. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the armrest, lost in thought. “Patience,” he repeated, as if testing the word. “It’s something I’m not known for. Then again, I suppose I’ve never had the luxury of waiting.”

His words echoed in the room, laden with something darker, something raw. You could hear it in the weight he placed on ‘waiting.’ He wasn’t speaking just about his career, about the endless gambles he took, but about something much deeper—the pain of his past, the survivor’s guilt, the scars of betrayal.

You chose not to press him on it. Instead, your focus remained on the crochet, the yarn twisting and turning in your fingers, the gradual creation of something tangible and real in contrast to his ever-shifting world.

As you worked, you felt his eyes on you, as if he were trying to unravel the puzzle that was you. His gaze was intense, yet there was a softness there that surprised you. Something almost… human, beneath the facade of the strategist, the gambler, the one who never let anything—least of all emotions—escape his control.

“Tell me,” he spoke again, voice low, drawing you out of your thoughts. “What makes you trust me?”

The question was so direct, so raw, that it caught you off guard. You paused, the crochet hook halfway through a stitch, and met his gaze. His eyes held no trace of the usual flippant humor—just a quiet, searching intensity that made your heart flutter in ways you didn’t quite understand.

“Trust?” you asked, tilting your head, uncertain whether to laugh or simply answer. “I wouldn’t say I trust you fully. But there’s something about you. Something that, for all your risk-taking and manipulations, feels… real.”

Aventurine didn’t answer at first. Instead, he shifted slightly in his seat, running a finger along the edge of his choker as if testing the tension in his own thoughts. The small gesture caught your attention.

“Real, you say?” he mused, the hint of a smile playing at his lips again, though it seemed more fleeting this time. “Perhaps I am just a man of circumstance. A collection of calculated risks and near-death escapes. But I’ve never been one for ‘real’ connections, you know. People have a tendency to disappoint.”

His voice was guarded, but you caught the faintest tremor in his words. The vulnerability was there, a glimpse of it, like the barest thread in a tapestry.

You nodded, continuing your work, careful not to look at him for too long. “Then let this be a gesture of trust, in whatever form that may take. A thread that binds, even if just for a moment.”

Aventurine remained silent, studying you, his smile now replaced with something more contemplative. The air between you thickened with unspoken understanding, a dance of words left unsaid. His eyes softened, if only for a fleeting moment, before he leaned back, the mask of the strategist settling back into place.

As you finished the last few rows of the scarf, you looked up at him. “Do you want to see it?”

He studied the finished piece for a moment before standing up, walking over to where you sat. “I can’t say I’ve ever been one to indulge in scarves.” His voice was teasing, but there was something deeper there, a flicker of emotion he wasn’t quite ready to face.

And yet, as he stood before you, the scarf between your hands, you realized that, in a world of high-stakes gambles, perhaps this simple act of knitting threads together wasn’t such a reckless move after all.

“Perhaps,” Aventurine said, his voice soft, “this one time, I’ll take a chance.”

And as he accepted the scarf, his fingers brushing against yours ever so lightly, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, this small act of trust could be the beginning of something neither of you fully understood.

The game, after all, was always far more complicated than just winning or losing. It was the moments in between that mattered most.

[sgiandubh]

Love Again? Meh

The pressure surrounding those damned elections is so unbearable, I thought finally watching Love Again on Netflix was a decent deflective idea. And since I can never sleep on a full moon's night, it really sounded like a good plan, too. Though with zero expectations, as I already wrote.

Two hours later, I probably lost a handful of neurones I will never get back again. Rom-coms are supposed to leave you in a bubbly mood, and with a strong belief in things like love trumps all, there are plenty more fish in the sea, goodness always prevails, and so on. This one left me flatter than a bottle of Coca-Cola foolishly left open and with the clear idea those people entirely missed the point.

If Nora Ephron is your gold standard, this might feel definitely subpar. But still, that's not the biggest problem I see with this movie. Love Again is exactly like those hotels rated 'pleasant' on Booking - you're not sure if they are terrible or, like Dorothy Parker used to say, 'terrible with raisins in it', which supposes at least some effort being put into it, one way or the other. The plot is remarkably bland and simply serves as a pretext for the real purpose of this movie, which is to promote Céline Dion's five new (perfectly forgettable) songs. The chemistry between S. and Priyanka Chopra is so laboured, that you'd be forgiven for thinking these two people just met in a train compartment and had a perfunctory chit-chat, never to hear from each other again.

Rom-coms are also supposed to be #silly magic in a bottle, yet there is little to no magic in a script so unbalanced, Mira's overpowering (if understandable) grief constantly threatens to flounder everything else. Where everything else includes the budding romance with Rob Burns (🙄), the music critic with no particular qualities, except a dazzlingly shy smile and Season 1 JAMMF's gimmicks, only in today's clothes and without Balfe. Overall, there is too much righteous kerfuffle and too little hope, in this movie that desperately begs for your sympathy, without ever being able to get it. And I shall mercifully pass on the mildly sexy (?) scene, even if without it we would still be wondering where exactly to place the sunshine, lollipops and roses inflexion point on that particular timeline.

Overall, the only question left without an answer is just how much genuine fun did S and Chopra have, while making this movie, at all. My perhaps biased guess is next to zero, based on the overwhelming impression that what was shown of their BTS rapport felt awkwardly transactional and opportunistic AF. This lack of authenticity buries a movie that feels just like something that had to somehow be shot, then had to somehow be released, then had to somehow make its way to Netflix' digital bosom repository. This movie is so meh, it is impossible to recommend it to anyone, and I have to say I am very sorry about that.

I said it before and I will probably say it again: S deserved better choices and opportunities coming along his way. He still does, but he also needs some urgent soul searching, if he wants to avoid looking like a one trick pony and see his acting prospects dwindle accordingly. Which won't exactly be the end of the world for him, but still an awfully unfair waste. So let's hope he will be able to choose wisely and especially out of his comfort zone which well, tends to dangerously expand, lately. The current Onlies' objectifying folly does not help, because the more it goes, the more it cuts S from a reality that is always ready to bite.

While I shall congenially follow whatever he's up to, I would really like this gifted guy to surprise me with something bold, something different and most of all, something that requires more intellect than muscles.

I know he can do it. But, does he?

[sayahastoomanyblogs]

Yes-and'ing all of these because it hits:

Louis could've done it better, but given a choice, Louis would never have done it at all. The plot is interesting because William puts both thought and emotion into his schemes, makes them dramatic instead of efficient. His less than optimal work creates the conflict we see in each arc and subplot

Sherlock's immaturity is actually vital to the lens through which readers access this entire work. Almost all other retellings of Sherlock Holmes focus on him, yet if we are to see William's perspective as intended, then we will have to see a new side of the detective too. He is whimsical and unpredictable in ways that Liam isn't, and it feels more pronounced to us because it would have been that way to Moriarty. It's an effort to highlight the differences between them

BBC was trying (trying being the key word) to cement the notion that Sherlock wasn't just a prodigy who could think faster than others, he was a genius who could think of things that would never occur to people. Having been stripped of the Watsonian narration, yet still using mostly the same viewpoint, the series sort of lost the anchor point to which viewers would naturally compare Sherlock's intellect. Unfortunately, they covered up by trying to reinforce his mental abilities in the most random and insignificant settings. "Smarter than the criminals; smarter the police; smarter than his plumber; smarter than the cashier at olive garden; etc." was NOT the most riveting thing to watch

Honestly there's nothing more to elaborate on this one. But I would love to see something where William messes up or "fails" -> Albert's behaviour starts changing noticeably -> William thinks he's not longer supportive of them and just kinda quietly accepts it in an "everyone's gonna leave me in the end; might as well let you hurt me now" emoboy way -> Albert clears it up and drops some passing remark about William being an angel/godsend/messiah (bonus points if it's a hint for his true name!)

This here is why I want Louis to have or have had major guilt. Liam is suicidal because he's a murderer, and he became a murderer because of Louis. Make him envy Sherlock for having saved the person who he feels he'd doomed

Yes ofc, which is such an important message in the work. It's "your efforts can bring about visible change" + "morals don't mean shit unless you act upon them"

Honestly I think his transphobia and possible fraysexuality can be seen as coping mechanisms. He's not only a veteran, but now actively killing civilians that he'd sworn to protect once. If that doesn't fuck up the moral compass, I don't know what does

I feel William has a distorted self image, and this is part of the reason why I say that. He's killing the bourgeoisie one at a time - and at times sparing their families - because he believes some of them can change. However, he treats his own crimes as inexcusable and worthy of capital punishment

Share your opinion and run — Moriarty the Patriot edition. However, I’m not running anywhere because I don’t care.

• Louis suited, suits, and will always suit the role of the group’s leader better than William ever could.

• When comparing Sherlock’s character to the original work, he is little more than a child in an adult’s body. An intriguing character, no doubt, but his immaturity undermines the ability to take his intellect seriously.

• That said, if we compare him to the BBC’s Sherlock, he’s better. I don’t like anything about the BBC’s Sherlock or the series as a whole, simply because I dislike it when the surrounding characters are portrayed as foolish just to emphasise the genius of the main character.

• Albert clearly exhibits signs of religious trauma, which was evident throughout the story. However, the audience chose to overlook his narrative and the inner conflict stemming from his scars. It was Albert, above all, who needed the presence of God to validate his thoughts — his faith constantly shadowed him, lingering at his heels.

• Louis has always been, and remains, the sole force driving William forward and sustaining his life. He is the one from whom William’s entire plan originated.

• In some ways, Sherlock disrupted William’s plan.

• Attempts to portray Moran as some sort of playboy undermine his character, as he is a former soldier with a deeply scarred past. However, given that this is a manga, they likely aimed to make every character distinct to facilitate narrative progression and character memorability.

• William is a man of science who does not believe in God but places his faith in human intellect and its capacity for growth. This highlights that William, unlike Albert, does not require symbolic faith to act.

[twinklecupcake]

I'm still having thoughts about Beauty and the Beast and about how... just, my god, poor Beauty just cannot win with her sisters.

When they're rich and live in the city, she gets more suitors than her sisters, which pisses them off. So she refuses them all, as kindly as she can, saying she's not ready to marry, but would they perhaps be interested in her sisters instead? But even that pisses them off, because they think 'oh, not only are you too good for any of these men, but you think we want your leftovers? We know you're only pointing them to us out of pity.'

The family loses their money and Beauty does cry, she's heartbroken by this news. But she wipes her tears and declares she can't cry, she can't upset her family, someone must be strong. So she tries to keep her chin up and a stiff upper lip. And her sisters call her stupid and simple-minded for it, "Look at her, she's so dull that she carries on like normal even though we've lost everything. I bet she never truly knew or appreciated what we had."

When her father goes to see after his ships, and asks what gifts the girls would like, Beauty didn't even actually WANT a rose. She wanted nothing but her father's safe return, but she knew that if she said "Nothing for me, thanks," then her sisters would accuse her of only trying to look better than them. So she asks for the simplest thing she can think of. But then her father comes back with the rose and tells the whole story about the Beast and her sisters go "Beauty, you dumbass, this is all your fault! If you'd asked for anything else, this never would have happened."

She goes to the Beast, and she's happy for a time.

And her sisters are happy without her. They've gotten their own suitors now, and by the time she visits home again, looking more beautiful and healthier than ever, they've even gotten fiances... ...who immediately start ignoring the sisters and start trying to court Beauty instead, making it clear they'd like to break off their engagements and marry her, if she'd just say yes to one of them. Beauty didn't even do anything and her sisters get angry at her mere existence.

Hell, they were actually already angry when she returned home, because they were mad the Beast hadn't killed her like they all thought he would.

And Beauty must have known that. What must that be like, knowing your sisters are angry you're not torn apart by a monster?

And they ask her to stay a day longer, acting like they changed their ways and they love her after all, just so he will kill her. They actively try to get their sister killed.

Honestly, it's no wonder the enchantress who turns them to stone at the end doesn't think they'll ever break the spell. She knows they're never happy, they're not remorseful of how they treated Beauty, they'll be bitter and angry forever and fuck, for one day poor Beauty actually thought they'd changed and were going to be loving big sisters.

[kale-of-the-forbidden-cities]

Do you have any gravity falls headcanons I could borrow? It can be any character(s) at all, I just need some ideas for a fanfic i'm working on

Thx!

ooh okay!! i'm honored and i'm sorry this took so long to get to

i'm just gonna list a bunch of random ones in the order i think of them and you can pick and choose which ones. i have no idea what your fanfic is about so. you get everyone

big fan of transmasc Dipper, but he's not like the kind of guy to be super open about it until he's more comfortable- he just wants to be a normal guy

Mabel loves owls

Ford somehow never gets hot. he wears his big coat and sweater most of the time, and when he sleeps has a ton of blankets and pillows

(he also feels more comfortable sleeping when he's not "out in the open" probably as a side effect of his multiverse travels)

that being said, he still has somniphobia, depending on the night. he doesn't like sleeping, he knows everything's okay now but it still scares him

Even as a kid, Ford liked wearing long sleeves better and stuff with pockets he could put his hands in. to draw less attention to them and hide them when he wanted to

The little llama Pacifica had in lost legends got thrown out when her parents decided she was too old for it. Llamas have always been her favorite animal and she chose the sweater in weirdmageddon on purpose

continuing the Pacifica tangent, she always has the worst bedhead

Bill once told Ford "you talk too much" and then proceeded to stitch up his mouth the next time he fell asleep

Autism Dipper, but when he gets diagnosed he's like. he has mixed feelings about it. he doesn't want people to know about it because he thinks they won't take him seriously because of it

Fiddleford erased Ford's memories quite a few times while they were working together

Teeth is Bill's favorite henchmaniac and all the others know this

Ford likes Mabel juice

Stan still draws, he has quite a few sketchbooks from over the years. it's quite stylized and if he showed Ford, Ford wouldn't really get it or think it's very good because it's not realistic

Autism Ford too but he doesn't seek a diagnosis or really know about it or anything

Dipper's clones don't have the birthmark

Stan has never said a swear word in front of the kids. Ford tries not to but he has a few times

You'll know if Mabel is mad at someone because they will be covered in glitter. she will shoot them with her glitter gun

(She never does it to Dipper though)

Ford sometimes overshares some of the stuff he went through to Dipper. Dipper just. doesn't say much to that, because what is he supposed to say. Ford asked Dipper not to tell any of it to anyone

Stan sometimes feels really bad about the stuff the kids had to go through

Mabel sticks magnets to Ford's head randomly

she made magnetic cat ears

and a unicorn horn

When Dipper is having bad nights with nightmares or just anxiety, he wakes Mabel up and they have a sleepover on the floor of their room

Next summer, Dipper gets his hat back from Wendy and they swap hats at the end of the summer again, but the summer after that, they end up not swapping back because Dipper doesn't like the Pine Tree reminder of the nickname and the zodiac

Wendy is chill with this

Mabel is only a little taller than Dipper, but the difference is emphasized with Dipper's shrimp posture

Pacifica likes hugs and needs them a lot. but would never ask for them. Instead she just hugs people impulsively sometimes (such as in nwmm and in lost legends)

Dipper uses the oversize pterodactyl bros t shirt as a sleep shirt

Dipper could win any staring contest. He's got that blank autism stare

Ford would try anything once for science

okay i'm out of time maybe i'll add more later

you can tell me what kind of headcanons to narrow it down too

[mylovesstuffs]

𝐀 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 ! @mylovesstuffs Hits 1k Followers ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ

Celeste's Magic shop :: In celebration of this journey, the blog has opened its doors to requests and confessions! Step inside, pick your token, and leave your wish behind. See details below! ς(>‿<.)

i kid you not, i've been so excited for this day but now i'm overwhelmed by the emotional crash. i hit this milestone a few days ago, but it took me a little time to put everything together [turns out magic shops don’t build themselves]. i started this blog on December 26th, 2024, on a total whim — in fact, i made it within minutes of deciding to. i never imagined how quickly or how warmly things would grow. in just four months, we made it here. i was actually supposed to hit this milestone in early April, but a shadowban snuck in and slowed things down. even so, we arrived a few days ahead of my adjusted prediction, and honestly i’m still wrapping my head around it.

thank you to every single one of you who has read, reblogged, commented, sent asks, screamed in the tags, or just quietly followed along. this corner of the internet became something special because you chose to stop by. i don't think i'll ever stop being surprised that people care about what I write, but you made this silly little blog feel like a place worth staying in. so, i’ll keep writing, as long as you’ll let me.

i don’t know where we’ll go from here, but i do know one thing: we run anyway.

guidelines: • anon and non-anon asks both welcome • open for SEVENTEEN only • track with: #mylovesstuffs 1k milestone magic 🌙 • until: may 25th

⠀⠀ ⠀، ⠀ ── .WISH UPON A STAR. ،♥︎٫

choose from a list of a total of 30 prompts across fluff, angst, and suggestive tones, below [mix of originals + from pinterest]

send me an ✨ emoji + your chosen prompt + a seventeen member. it's not possible to full fill all requests but, i’ll select whichever ideas resonate most.

fluff

falling asleep with heads leaning against each other.

“i could stay like this forever.”

tying his/your [please specify or I'll decide] shoelaces for him/you.

“you have a freckle here—no, wait, let me kiss it.”

you tucked a flower behind his ear

“lets go home. you're freezing, and i don't want you catching a cold.”

“hold my hand or I’ll get lost, and it’ll be your fault.”

“god, i miss you so much.”

he learned to braid your hair

“let me kiss you better.”

angst

“why didn’t you fight for us?”

pretending to be fine in front of the other members.

“it wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

“i loved you more than you’ll ever know.”

“give me a chance.”

a ring that was never given.

“don’t make me choose between you and my dream.”

“i lost the baby.”

“i wish we’d met at a different time.”

regretfully watching you/them [please specify or I'll decide] fall in love with someone else.

suggestive

you/them teasingly undoing the top buttons of your/their [please specify or I'll decide] shirt.

“make me forget everything else.”

“you think i won’t do it?” — “try me.”

“you're not going out in that outfit.”

trapped between him and a wall.

“you’re so lucky we’re not alone right now.”

“do as i say.”

a game of truth or dare that goes too far.

back hugs that turn into something more.

“if you bite your lip one more time—”

example ask: ✨ fluff prompt 7 + Seungkwan, please.

⠀⠀ ⠀، ⠀ ── .CHARM OF CHOICE. ،♥︎٫

send me an 🪄 emoji + a lyric of your choice + a seventeen member.

example ask: 🪄 “i knew you were trouble when you walked in” i knew you were trouble by Taylor Swift + Mingyu. thank you!

⠀⠀ ⠀، ⠀ ── .SPELL RECIPES. ،♥︎٫

curious about my already released fics and wips [ongoing and/or to be started]? send an 🗝️ emoji + fic/wip title or concept. i’ll answer with fun facts, untold scenes, or future plans, etc. — some peeks into my writing process.

example ask: 🗝️ can we know more about the ‘somewhere before’ ? like what happened after part 2 with y/n and jun?

⠀⠀ ⠀، ⠀ ── .MIRROR MIRROR. ،♥︎٫

want to know which SEVENTEEN member would be your reflection? send an 🪞 emoji + a short description of yourself, and I’ll match you with someone and explain why.

example ask: 🪞 I’m quiet, really love rainy days, and have a huge soft spot for pets, especially a rabbit!

⠀⠀ ⠀، ⠀ ── .SECRET SPELLS. ،♥︎٫

send me an ☄️ emoji + ask me anything! [about my blog, writing process, favorites, life outside tumblr, etc.]

example ask: ☄️ what's your favourite cake flavour? [lol]

note :: for all programs, one request per ask, but you’re welcome to send multiple asks. all fills will be drabbles/ficlets unless the muse takes me further.

〰︎ .FORTUNE TELLER’S GIFT. 〣 ᰵ —

i’m opening the door, just a little, to a universe close to my heart: 🔮 the 14th member au 13+1 verse. a separate masterlist will be created for this world tomorrow [11th May], and her story will unfold from the very beginning.

we’ll be starting at the roots — early life, pre-debut, and present day. i’ll first be sharing basic things like, backstory, and character information, and as we move forward, you’ll see her timeline gradually evolve and be updated, just like it does in real life.

the world is already 90% built in my head, but: you’ll help shape her future. i’ll offer you moments to choose between different paths, decisions, or fates; because this is as much yours to explore as it is mine to tell.

no asks needed for this one; it's a gift from me to you.

thank you for everything; for all the love shown ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ