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kunareads · 2 months ago

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if i believe you | chapter six

i did not come to bring peace

clan head!satoru x reader

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wc: 7.5k (sorry)

a/n: my own open wound is splattered all over this chapter. i promise i will stop torturing them soon i'm very sorry. if you see a typo please tell me i did proofread but the chapter is long!

content: angst again :D panic attack, religious trauma, internalized shame, hurt/comfort but not really.

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST!

18+ please <3

satoru is in a good mood today. he woke up before the sun with the kind of lazy satisfaction that stretches into everything, making even a morning in the main estate feel manageable.

business is business, but it’s easier to handle with the warmth of last night’s kiss still thrumming under his skin. and, admittedly, with the thought of seeing you later.

he’s restless with it. this need to see you, to be near to you, to find some excuse to talk to you like he’s not supposed to be doing anything else. maybe he’ll bring you something from the market. fresh fruit, your favorite snacks. maybe flowers, if he feels like showing off. just to see that smile you’ve been trying so hard to hide from him.

he likes giving you things.

but the thought comes with a flicker of something quieter. even now, you hesitate. your fingers hover a little too long before you accept anything he offers. like you’re still deciding if you’re allowed to take what he so freely gives.

but it’s getting better. he sees it in the way your hands shake less and your voice sounds more like you.

he wonders if you’ve been thinking about last night the way he is. if you’re turning it over in your mind, wondering what it means. wondering if it’s okay to want more.

his lips twitch. he’ll show you soon enough.

but then the knock comes.

“come in.”

the servant’s face is pale, mouth pressed into a line that can’t quite hide their unease. “the lady’s parents have arrived, sir. they’re waiting in the main hall.”

his mood shatters. it’s an effort not to crumple the paper in his hand, the edges already curling under his fingertips.

no warning. no notice. they’re just here.

he’s grateful for his blindfold, because whatever’s written across his face right now would probably turn the poor boy in front of him to stone.

they didn’t send word because they wanted to catch him off guard. more importantly, they wanted to catch you off guard. see things for themselves. see you without the safety net of preparation.

the irritation that simmers in his chest is almost comforting, familiar in a way he doesn’t want to admit. but it’s laced with something else.

fear.

because you’ve only just started to feel safe here, with him.

he’s out of his seat before he realizes, striding through the halls with a purpose that feels instinctual—the sudden need to confront them where they are rather than have them brought to him like guests.

because they’re not guests. they’re intruders.

the main hall feels colder than usual when he reaches it. they stand like they own the fucking place—your mother poised, her back too straight, hands clasped in front of her in a show of her own composure. your father, stiff beside her, eyes sweeping the room with the kind of scrutiny that sets satoru’s teeth on edge.

they’re looking for faults, for signs of neglect, for anything they can hold against you.

he schools his expression into something controlled, forces his voice into something polite but not welcoming. “i wasn’t expecting you.”

“clearly,” your mother replies, not even trying to disguise her disapproval. “i would have expected our daughter to be the one greeting us.”

“she’s busy.”

his voice is flat, sharp around the edges. he knows it’s a mistake the second it’s out, but he won’t take it back.

your mother’s gaze narrows, a subtle shift, but he catches it all the same. “i see,” she says, and it’s the kind of thing that sounds like an agreement but isn’t.

his patience is wearing thin. he can feel frustration boiling under his skin, hot and restless. the same anger he’s felt since a child for people who think they know better. who measure worth in posture and tone and obedience. who think they’ll just show up here and find their daughter exactly as they left her.

“i’ll have you brought to her shortly,” he says. “in the meantime, you can wait here.”

your mother’s mouth twitches like she’s biting back something unpleasant. your father barely looks at him, his gaze shifting toward the door as if he’s done assessing the room and found it lacking.

satoru doesn’t wait for a reply. he turns on his heel and leaves, storm already building inside him as he makes his way to your home.

he’s moving too quickly, steps too sharp as he stalks down the pathway and into the house. the staff who pass him keep their heads down—some out of respect, others out of caution. a few glance up with careful eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge them like he normally would. he can’t. not when his mind is already running circles around what’s about to happen.

what he’s about to ruin.

he tries to pull himself out of it, tries to focus on anything but the exasperation winding around his chest. but it’s impossible not to notice you scattered around the house.

a neatly folded shawl draped over the arm of the couch. a half-finished cup of tea on the windowsill, abandoned this morning. a book open on the table—one he gave you—its spine gently cracked, a frayed ribbon marking where you left off.

you’ve been making this place your own.

he sees it now, all the quiet proof that you’ve been settling in, letting yourself be here in a way you hadn’t before. and they’re here to unravel it. to remind you of the version of yourself you’ve only just begun to shed.

his hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms.

he shouldn’t be this angry. shouldn’t be this desperate to keep you from shrinking into that quiet, docile silence you wore like armor. but he is, because he’s seen what you look like when you smile without thinking, when your hands move freely, when you look him in the eye.

and he wants that for you. more than he knows how to say.

he’s almost at the door when he hears it—quiet humming drifting through an open window.

he stops.

his irritation stills, displaced by something softer rising in its place.

you’re in the garden.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

the sun is climbing high, the air thick with warmth and the scent of soil. your back is sore, there’s dirt under your nails, and your clothes are wrinkled beyond saving—but you feel good, peaceful. the kind of peace you’ve been slowly learning how to hold.

no one’s watching, no one’s standing over your shoulder, pointing out your mistakes. it’s just you and the plants you’ve been coaxing into something alive.

you’ve been thinking about last night. about satoru—how much you learned about him, how gently he listened to you. the feel of his lips, the way his fingers threaded so carefully through your hair. the way he looked at you, bright and quiet and almost reverent.

the memory comes with a small thrill, your cheeks going warm and your chest tightening.

you want to kiss him again.

you want to kiss him without feeling clumsy or uncertain. and you want him to kiss you, too.

it’s a quiet realization, but it’s not shameful. it feels nice.

you didn’t know this feeling existed.

maybe that’s why you’ve been out here so long. because the idea of seeing him makes you a little dizzy.

you sink your hands back into the soil, your fingers finding the stems of new growth. you let yourself feel happy.

“hey.”

the greeting startles you. your head snaps up, eyes landing on satoru at the entrance of the garden. his hair glows white under the sun, his expression unreadable under his blindfold, but familiar all the same.

a smile rises before you can help it, instinctive and unguarded. “satoru.”

he takes steps carefully down the stone pathway toward you, and for a split second, you think he’s going to smile back. he reaches out instead, his thumb tracing a line just below your eye. the touch is light, like he’s trying not to startle you. like he’s capturing something before it slips away.

“you’ve got dirt on your face,” he murmurs, brushing it away. and he doesn’t smile.

“is something wrong?” you ask. it’s concern, not yet panic.

“we have visitors,” he says carefully.

your stomach lurches. “visitors?”

“your parents,” he says, his voice steady, cautious—the same way it was the night you tried to offer yourself to him like some kind of penance. “they came unannounced. i came to tell you before they—”

the rest dissolves into white noise.

your parents. here.

the warmth you’ve been holding onto drains out of you as last night rises in your throat again, bitter now. you wonder if they’ll know. if your mother will look at you and see failure written across your skin.

you’re itchy all of a sudden. your clothes cling too tight. you’re covered in dirt and sweat, sleeves rolled, skirt stained from kneeling in the soil. far removed from the woman you’re supposed to be. the one they raised you to be.

“they weren’t supposed to come yet. i thought—i haven’t prepared anything.”

you’ve missed your parents in a complicated way. but missing them doesn’t mean you forgot. it was only a few weeks ago that you were under their roof, measured by their expectations, falling short even when everything was perfect.

and you know—even if your home is perfect and satoru is perfect and the staff are perfect—it won’t be enough.

even knowing they’d come eventually didn’t prepare you for the way your breath shrinks in your lungs.

your eyes flit around the tangled greenery, the leaves and petals and creeping vines. wild, uneven, full of life.

“she can’t see this.” your voice almost breaks. “it would embarrass her.”

satoru’s expression doesn’t change. “i can tell them to leave.”

you blink. “what?”

“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” his voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it. “i can just make them leave.”

“they came all this way.”

“does that mean you owe them something?”

the words come out sharper than he means, frustration slipping through before he can stop it. he catches himself almost immediately. “you don’t have to see them just because they showed up,” he says, gentler now. “they can wait, or they can go. up to you.”

you shake your head. “they’re my parents.”

you don’t know what else to say. you can’t find the words to explain to him that it’s not that simple. that it’s not just about what they want—it’s what you owe. to them. to god. to the name you carry—carried? that you have to fit neatly into their expectations, even when you don’t know how. and that you don’t know how to unlearn that.

and you know—you know—that he would send them away if you asked him to. he’d do it without hesitation.

and for one aching, impossible moment, you want to let him. want to let him take you inside, shut the door, and pretend they were never here.

but they are.

and breathing feels like running underwater, the air thick and wrong and unwelcome.

“i’ll go,” you say, and it doesn’t even sound like your voice. your shoulders slump, the weight of obligation settling over you like it was never gone. it’s easier, in some terrible way, to fall back into the role they gave you than it is to fight it.

satoru’s eyes are still on you, searching, hoping. but whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it.

he leaves you to clean yourself up, though stepping away from you makes his own discomfort twist tighter. the guilt starts immediately. he sends for your parents to be brought to the house, and the moment the words leave his mouth, he regrets it.

it feels like surrender. it feels like giving them permission to step back into your life and rip up everything you’ve only just started building.

the house feels too small once he’s back inside. every corner is loud with silence. his movements are sharp, mechanical, driven by restless dread.

he goes around collecting the scattered remnants of your morning. he picks up the shawl from the couch, puts it away even though he hopes it’ll be back where it was tomorrow. takes your cup from the windowsill, the tea cold now, and places it gently in the sink. finds your book and slides it back onto the shelf.

he’s making himself sick with it, this impulse to make everything perfect before they arrive. to beat their judgement.

he knows that’s what you’re doing, too. scrubbing the dirt from your skin and smoothing your hair and changing into something stiff and clean. erasing the version of you they haven’t approved.

the version he’s come to like best.

it shouldn’t fucking matter. it shouldn’t matter what they think.

but it does, and it makes him want to throw something.

he wants to find you, to tell you again that you don’t have to do this. that he’ll take care of everything. that he’ll take care of you.

but it’s not what you want.

so instead, he drags his hand over his face and forces himself to keep moving. straightening. waiting. every motion a quiet act of helplessness.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

you can feel satoru’s presence even when you can’t see him. the sound of his footsteps as he moves through the house. the low murmur of his voice when he instructs the staff to bring your parents over from the main estate. the quiet when he settles just outside your door, waiting but not knocking.

everything feels too loud. too sudden. you smooth your hands down your front, try to fix your hair, to twist a stray strand into place. your fingers won’t stop shaking. and no matter what you do, you’re never going to be what they expect.

by the time you open the door, your pulse is in your throat. satoru catches the tremble in your hands. of course he does.

“ready?” he asks, quiet.

you nod. it’s a lie.

he watches you a moment longer, like he’s weighing the cost of pushing. like he wants to say there’s still time to say no. but when you start walking, he falls into step beside you.

the hallway feels endless.

your heartbeat thrums in your ears, louder than your footsteps. the air feels thinner with every breath. you imagine this is what it’s like to stand at the edge of a cliff.

you step into the room first. satoru stays just behind you, but your mother’s eyes are already on you—sweeping over your appearance with detached precision.

“darling,” she says, her voice cool and measured. not unkind, but not warm, either. “you should have been the one to greet us. it’s only proper.”

the words land like barbs, small and sharp. you’d expected hello, how are you. something human.

you force yourself to stand a little straighter. “i was—” your throat tightens. “i didn’t know you were coming.”

she hums, a soft sound that manages to feel like disapproval. your father, silent beside her, gives nothing away.

satoru’s presence is steady at your side, a subtle heat against your shoulder.

“it’s nice to see you both,” you offer, stiff and formal. the words feel borrowed from someone else’s idea of a daughter.

“likewise,” your father replies. his tone is even, but it bites anyway. “we were beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten about us.”

the implication cuts deeper than it should. like getting married was some kind of betrayal. like you leaving home to come here wasn’t something they arranged. like the distance you’ve kept is a failing—not a survival.

you hear satoru draw a breath, his jaw ticking.

“why don’t we sit,” he says. “you’ve traveled a long way. you must be tired.”

your mother nods, but her gaze stays locked on you, heavy and expectant, like she’s waiting for you to justify yourself.

the seating arrangement feels like a trap. your mother perches on the edge of her chair across from you, posture flawless, hands folded in her lap. your father sits beside her, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and satoru like he’s waiting for something to disappoint him. and satoru settles close beside you, his knee brushing yours—an anchor, even now.

“it’s a lovely house,” your mother says, but the tone is wrong. the kind of false pleasantry that leaves you bracing for the blow that follows. “though i must admit, i was surprised to find you so removed from the main estate. i would have thought your duties would keep you closer to the clan.”

your fingers twist in your lap, the fabric of your skirt crumpling beneath your grip. “it’s easier this way.”

“easier?” she echoes, the words clipped. her eyes narrow just enough to make your skin prickle. “i do hope you’re not neglecting your responsibilities for the sake of convenience.”

the way she says it knots your throat. and then she looks at you—really looks, scanning for fractures like she always does—and the judgement in her eyes makes your stomach drop.

“you look sick,” she says. “are you not eating properly?”

“i’m fine,” you answer, too fast and too small. “i’ve been… i’ve been adjusting.”

“adjusting,” she repeats, drawing the word out like it offends her. “i suppose that’s understandable. but you’ve been here for weeks. surely you’ve settled in by now.”

“maybe we should let her breathe,” satoru cuts in, his voice calm but threaded with something dangerous. “she’s been doing just fine. more than fine, actually.”

your mother’s gaze snaps to him. irritation crosses her features, mostly concealed, but you feel it, the same way you feel the tension crackle through satoru beside you.

“i appreciate your concern, but i’m her mother. it’s only natural to concern myself with her well-being.”

“and i’m her husband.” his smile is sharp. not friendly. not performative. it’s the kind that wouldn’t meet his eyes if you could see them. “i’d think that makes her well-being my concern, too.”

you can feel the heat rising between them, a low, simmering standoff. and you know satoru’s words aren’t meant as a reassurance. they’re a challenge, meant to draw lines rather than bridge them.

your father’s gaze drops to your hands, still clutching your skirt. “it’s good to know you take your responsibilities seriously,” he says to satoru. “but as her parents, it’s our duty to ensure she’s not neglecting hers. especially now that her role has… expanded.”

the implication is clear. and your heart sinks at the realization of what’s next.

“we haven’t heard any news of children,” your mother says smoothly. “surely you’ve been attending to the matter. it is your purpose, after all.”

your throat closes. you can’t speak, can’t even lift your head. because all you can think about is how you failed. how you offered yourself to satoru on your wedding night, like a task to be completed, and he’d turned you away.

how you’ve been letting him indulge you with stupid pleasures like that stupid kiss, and you still have no idea what you’re supposed to be doing, how you’re supposed to—

“maybe some things take time,” satoru says, his deceptively calm tone slicing through your thoughts.

your mother doesn’t miss a beat. “and maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

her words are a blade, clean and cruel. the accusation is so sharp, so pointed, that you feel your eyes sting with the effort it takes to keep your composure. your hands tremble harder, your fingers grasping the fabric of your skirt so tightly that your knuckles hurt.

satoru’s jaw clenches, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. his hand curls into a fist against his knee. he keeps glancing your way, searching for something. permission, maybe. protest. anything.

and you want to say something. god, you want to speak. to shout, to scream, to tell them they’re wrong.

but the words won’t come.

they’re lodged deep in your chest, pinned under every expectation you’ve ever failed to meet. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. your gaze drops to the floor.

it’s easier not to see their faces.

“it is your duty to bear children,” your father says. the words are quiet. impersonal. “i hope you haven’t been… distracted from that duty.”

his eyes flick toward satoru—just for a second—but it’s enough. an accusation without teeth, because he knows the balance of power here. but it cuts anyway.

satoru goes very still beside you, and his next words are lower, laced with warning. “and i hope you haven’t forgotten that she’s a person,” he says. “one living under my roof, under my care, may i add.”

his voice lingers in the room like smoke. and you can’t quite breathe around it.

because all you can feel is the guilt spreading through you—thick, acidic, impossible to shake. it curls in your chest, taking on a shape that feels familiar.

you’ve carried it your whole life.

your father rises from his seat with a quiet authority, eyes flicking to satoru. “i’d like to have a word with you. privately,” he says, and there’s something final about it—not a request, but a summons.

you glance at satoru, searching for reassurance as he nods. his expression is tight, his shoulders squared. but you catch the silent, aching apology buried under the tension in his jaw.

and then he’s gone. and the room feels colder without him.

you’re left alone with your mother, and in an instant, you’re fourteen again. small and silent across from her, waiting for whatever strategic correction she’s decided you need.

“your husband has a sharp tongue,” she says, her voice cool and condescending. “but i suppose that’s to be expected, given his… upbringing.”

you recognize the tone. it’s the one she’d use when explaining why you weren’t allowed to play with certain children. why some people weren’t raised right. she’s drawing a line again—this time between you and the man you married. the one they gave you to.

the contradiction makes your head ache.

“he’s been good to me,” you say. it’s the truth, but the words come out sound too soft.

she hums. “is this what you want?” the question cuts deep. “to live like this? away from the clan, from what i raised you to be?”

you want to say yes. you want to scream it. yes, i like the quiet. yes, i like the freedom. yes, i like being here with him.

but your voice snags on thorns, raw and helpless.

“i—i’m trying, mom,” you whisper. “i’m doing my best.”

“i certainly hope so,” she says. and somehow, the disappointment hurts more than her disapproval. “because from where i’m sitting, it doesn’t look like you are.”

the words settle into you like ice.

and then, like nothing happened, her tone softens. her gaze shifts. the performance begins.

“your father and i have been praying for you,” she says. “we’ve been asking god to guide you in your duties. to help you fulfill the purpose you were given.”

and just like that, the guilt swallows you.

you want to cry.

“i want you to have this.”

she reaches for something hidden in the folds of her sleeve. a necklace. ornate, heavy-looking, the gold glinting in the light with a soft gleam that feels wrong. the kind of thing intended for a velvet display, not a body.

she holds it out to you. you don’t reach for it.

“i had it made for you,” she continues, her tone tender now. like this is kindness. “a symbol of your devotion. a reminder of who you are and where you belong.”

the weight of it is crushing before you even touch it. the pendant is a cross, carved with precise, elaborate craftsmanship, rubies set into the center like droplets of blood. it must have taken hours—days—to make. each detail is perfect, intentional.

your fingers tremble as you take it from her, the metal chilling your skin. it doesn’t feel like a gift. it feels like a chain. like a collar.

“thank you,” you whisper. not because you mean it, but because there’s the alternative is unthinkable. because refusal was never part of the script. because the nausea crawling up your throat is something she taught you to swallow down.

tears burn at the back of your eyes, but you don’t let her see them. you know better than that.

“pray on it,” she says softly. “and remember your duty. remember who you belong to.”

you nod.

because the words are meant to be kind. you know they are. and somehow, that only makes it worse.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

the rest of the visit feels like wading through cold water. conversations continue in that strained, brittle way you’ve come to expect. your father’s voice is curt, his eyes on you like you’re a ledger he’s reconciling. your mother’s comments are softened by false concern, the veneer of kindness stretched so thin you think it’ll crack.

satoru’s silence is worse.

he’s tight as a bowstring beside you, his frustration held on a leash. he speaks when spoken to, his responses short and neutral. you keep waiting for him to break—please, a part of you whispers, just say something—but he never does. for your sake, probably.

the goodbyes are stiff.

your mother presses a kiss to your cheek that feels more like a benediction than affection, her fingers cold and firm against your skin. your father gives you a nod—nothing more—like you’re a stranger he’s being forced to acknowledge.

they’re escorted back to the main estate where the car waits.

you and satoru stand in front of the house as the trees swallow the last of their silhouettes. he hasn’t moved, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest.

when they’re finally out of sight, he exhales. “they’re gone,” he says, voice flat. like it should mean something.

you nod, your eyes fixed on the empty path. the breeze stirs the trees, but everything feels still. your lungs won’t expand.

“are you… okay?”

you flinch at the question. not because it’s unfair, but because it’s valid.

and because the answer is no. you’re not okay. not even close. and him asking only makes the ache feel sharper.

“i need a moment,” you say, the words coming out too tight. “alone, please.”

the flash of hurt on his face is almost enough to make you take it back. almost.

“alright,” he says quietly. his hands flex once, then go still.

you don’t say anything else. you can’t.

instead, you turn and walk away, your steps heavy. and even though you don’t look back, you can feel him watching you all the way to the front door.

you don’t exhale until it closes behind you.

satoru watches you leave, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt.

he lets you go because he doesn’t know what else to do. he wants to follow, wants to tear their words out of your head before they can take hold—but you asked for space, and he’s trying to give it.

it doesn’t make it any easier.

the house feels oppressive when he steps back inside. his frustration presses against his chest, restless and sharp, until he’s pacing—through the sitting room, past the kitchen and back again, around the main garden. his fingers twitch with the need to do something. anything.

but all he can think about is the way you looked when you asked to be alone. like he was just another weight dragging you under. like he was part of the problem.

it’s only when his pacing takes him past your bedroom door that he finally stops. something tells him not to open it. something else—louder, more desperate—won’t let him walk away.

his hand hovers just above the frame before he pushes the door open.

you’re on the floor, curled beside the bed. knees drawn to your chest, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to disappear. the necklace gleams in your palm, catching the dim light, too heavy and cruel for something so finely made.

you don’t look up.

“hey.” his voice is too small for the amount of space between you.

silence.

“i thought you’d be in the garden,” he tries, stepping in carefully. “but i guess not.”

your fingers tighten around the pendant. “didn’t feel like it.”

it’s the way you say it—flat, detached—that freezes something in him.

you’re drifting. pulling away from him even though he’s right here. and he doesn’t know how to bring you back.

he swallows hard, the helplessness thick in his throat. he would do anything to undo what they’ve done. to take every word they left behind and burn it until you never have to think about it again.

but all he can do is stand there. reaching for you without moving. wanting to fix what he doesn’t know how to touch.

and it makes him feel like a stranger in his own home. like a boy in a man’s skin. like the one thing that should come easy—loving you—is slipping through his fingers.

“can i sit?” he asks.

you nod without looking at him.

he lowers himself beside you, movements slow as if he’s trying not to disturb the silence. “you haven’t… said anything,” he tries, his voice too careful. “since they left.”

“there’s nothing to say,” you whisper. your voice is worn out, too thin.

silence stretches again. the longer it goes, the more it scrapes at him. minutes pass like hours, and satoru can feel it—frustration clawing beneath his skin, helplessness piling on top of it. he’s losing you. right here, right in front of him.

“come on, angel,” satoru says, his voice soft now, rough edges smoothed over by something almost pleading. “talk to me, please.” his voice catches on the last word, and he hates how desperate it feels. “you’ve barely looked at me since they got here.”

you flinch. the necklace slips from your hands and lands in your lap.

“i don’t know what you want me to say.”

he hesitates. then lets the frustration bleed out.

“i want you to say they’re wrong.”

the words come out harsh, too blunt. but it’s the truth. and now that it’s out, he’s not sure how to stop himself.

“i want you to realize what they think doesn’t matter. that you’re—”

“stop.” your voice cuts clean through his. trembling, but clear. “just stop. you don’t understand.”

his chest hurts. “make me understand.”

the challenge in his voice feels reckless. too much edge, too much need. still, he can’t back down. not when you’re slipping further away with every second.

“you heard what they said.” your voice frays at the edges. “about… duty. about children. and they’re right. i’m not—” you stop to swallow, but it’s like your throat is closing around the words. “i’m not doing what i’m supposed to do. i’m failing you.”

satoru knows what it feels like to be stabbed clean through the chest, but this feels worse. like the blade is poisoned. he wants to argue, but the look on your face stops him cold. you’re not arguing. you’re breaking.

“why would you even think that?” he asks, his voice smaller now, irritation replaced with something closer to panic.

“because i was supposed to get this right.” you won’t look at him. won’t meet his eyes. “i was supposed to… to handle my responsibility. and i haven’t. i—” your breathing hiccups, your chest shaking under the weight of it. “you’re supposed to have a dependable wife. someone who can give you what you need. and you’re stuck with me.”

he doesn’t think you’re aware of what you’re doing. of how you’re gutting him.

“you’re not—” he starts, but it comes out too rough. he pulls back, breathes through it, tries again. “you’re not some thing to be used or traded.”

his voice breaks on thing. he hates it. hates how clear it is that you believe it’s all you are.

he shifts closer, his voice thick. “you’re a person. my person now.”

the words echo between you, quiet but heavy, and he watches as something crumbles in your expression.

“then why didn’t you just—” you swallow hard. “why didn’t you do what you were supposed to do the night we got married?”

the question feels like a slap to the face. for once, satoru is speechless.

“what?”

“you should’ve done what a husband does,” you say, and it’s not just hurt in your voice anymore—it’s something bitter, something that burns him. “you should’ve taken what was yours. that’s what you were supposed to do. it’s what they wanted, what they expected. what i expected. and if you cared, you wouldn’t keep… holding yourself back.”

his pulse kicks up. his chest tightens.

he thought he understood. thought he was ready for the venom your parents would bring back into your life. but this isn’t theirs.

this is you. your voice, your pain. and it’s laced with something he didn’t expect—misunderstanding.

“i didn’t—” he tries to answer, but the words catch, rough and misshapen. “i didn’t do anything because you didn’t want that. you didn’t even know what you were asking for.”

“you don’t know what i wanted.” the words spill out like poison, like they’ve been festering for weeks. “i offered. i offered myself to you, and you told me to go to sleep. you didn’t want me.”

he realizes, too late, that you never understood why he said no that night. it made perfect sense to him, something that didn’t even need explaining. you were scared. uncertain. so he told you to sleep.

but now he sees what it looked like from the other side. not care, but rejection. not safety, but shame.

and it hurts.

your voice breaks, high and strained as you continue. “you still don’t want me. you’re just… humoring me, trying to be kind when i’m clearly not worth it. and it’s humiliating, satoru.”

your eyes are welling up, your lashes wet with the weight of everything you’ve been holding, everything that’s finally spilling over.

the sight tears something open in him.

“you really think that’s why i turned you down?” he whispers, hoarse. ”because i didn’t want you?”

you don’t answer right away. your lips part, then press together again, like you’re trying to swallow back the worst of it.

“i don’t know,” you admit, your voice trembling. “i just know i’ve been trying to be good. trying not to make anything harder than it has to be. and it’s not enough. not for them, not for you—”

you pause, breath catching.

“—not even for me.”

he reaches for you before he can stop himself. his hand wraps around your wrist, warm and steady, but there’s a tremor in it. something frantic.

“you’re not failing me.” his words come rushed, clumsy, because he’s never been good at this. never been good at making sense when it matters. “you’re—you’re everything.”

a harsh, broken sound tears from your throat, and it hits him like a dagger. his grip loosens on instinct, but he doesn’t let go. he can’t.

“if i was everything,” you choke out, voice cracking like glass under pressure, “you’d actually—you’d actually want me. you wouldn’t be wasting hours in the garden with me and kissing me like it’s all you need and pitying me.”

he can’t even comprehend the words. not at first. he just stares, stunned, mouth parting uselessly—because you’re crying now, really crying, and he’s the one making it worse.

“i need you to stop it, satoru,” you whisper, your voice too small for the weight of the words. “just—just stop.”

he’s fucking this up.

the realization sinks in slow.

no matter what he says, it’s not helping. it’s just making you hurt worse.

your shoulders are curled in like you’re trying to protect yourself from something he can’t see. a curse he can’t fight.

“i’m not—” your words trip and stumble, barely holding together. “i’m not what you need. not what anyone needs. and they’re right. they’re right about me, and you just—” you gasp for air, but it doesn’t seem to help. ”you won’t admit it.”

“that’s not—” he tries, but his voice gives out. the words collapse in his mouth before they can make it to you.

you’re not even looking at him anymore. your eyes are fixed somewhere past him, blank and distant, like you’re bracing for a blow.

“it’s not enough,” you rasp. “i’m not enough. i keep trying and it’s—” you cut yourself off with another gasp, your chest rising too fast. “it’s not working. i don’t know how to be what they want. i don’t even know how to be what you want.”

“angel, you need to—”

“stop calling me that.”

the words are a blade. sharp and cold and final. satoru’s mouth snaps closed.

“stop acting like i’m some perfect precious thing when you don’t even—when you won’t even—”

your voice breaks completely.

he watches your chest rise and fall like it’s too much effort to keep the air in your lungs. and suddenly, he’s not angry anymore. not even frustrated. he’s scared.

you’re slipping.

“hey. hey—” his own voice is cracking now, his panic bubbling up alongside yours.

but you’re shaking your head, lips pressed tightly together, and he can see the tears streaking down your cheeks. your hands are clutching each other, your body curling tighter with each breath that stays just out of reach.

“just breathe for me, okay?” he pleads, moving closer. “please, just—just breathe. you’re alright.”

he’s reaching for something solid in the chaos, fumbling over comfort because it’s a language he never learned. nothing’s working. nothing is working.

and then he sees it—really sees it. the panic in your eyes. the way your nails bite into your palms. the necklace still glinting in your lap like a burden. every piece of you bursting at the seams.

“i’m sorry,” you gasp. “i’m sorry i’m not—that i can’t—”

he moves before he can think.

his arms wrap around you in one motion, pulling you tight into his chest, anchoring you to him like it’s the only thing he has left.

“i got you,” he murmurs, over and over, the panic in his own chest dulling under your weight. “it’s okay, you’re okay.”

your fingers twist in his clothes. your breath comes in uneven gasps against his chest, and satoru can feel each one like it’s scraping against his ribs. still, he doesn’t loosen his grip. doesn’t let up for a second.

he keeps talking because it’s all he can do. his voice is low and steady, a soft rhythm meant to keep you tethered. “everything’s fine,” he murmurs. “it’s just us right now, nothing else matters. just breathe, angel. in and out.”

he feels your breath catch against him, feels your tears soaking into his shirt. you’re falling apart in his arms, and all he can do is hold on. his hand moves in slow circles along your back, a motion that grounds the both of you.

but it’s killing him.

because this isn’t what he wanted. he didn’t want to see you like this. he didn’t want his arms to be the place you broke.

his own eyes sting. there’s pressure behind them, sharp and unbearable, and he has to blink it back before it spills over. but it’s there—thick in his throat, hot under his skin. he can’t let it out while you’re still holding on by threads.

you’re still shaking, but your breathing is evening out, the jagged edge of panic smoothing over into something more manageable. he can feel the fight draining out of you, leaving something fragile and exhausted in its place.

he doesn’t let go. not until the tension in your body melts under his hands, your weight shifting just slightly under him.

“i’m not mad at you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “i’m not. i just… i just want you to be okay.”

the words feel clumsy, inadequate. but he can’t think of anything better. nothing that will fix this the way he wants to.

your voice is muffled against his chest. “i don’t know how to be okay.”

his heart cracks a little more. because of course you don’t. because they raised you to be perfect, not okay.

he swallows hard against the lump in his throat. “then we’ll figure it out,” he says, and it sounds like a vow this time. “i don’t care how long it takes.”

but even as he says it—means it—something caves in his chest. because today was supposed to be simple. all he had to do was protect you from them. and instead he watched them tear you apart and made it worse trying to put you back together.

he wasn’t fast enough.

he wasn’t enough.

and still, all he can do is hold you and hope it counts for something.

he stays there with you until the tremble in your hands fades and your breathing settles into something soft and slow. until your body settles against him, no longer shaking—just quiet. just tired.

and then, finally, he lets himself pull away.

he doesn’t want to.

everything in him is screaming to hold on, to stay. to keep you close until the hurt dissolves, until you believe him when he says you’re not broken, until he can see something in your eyes besides this brittle, aching weight.

but you’re too fragile now. and he’s already made this worse.

his hands move to cradle your face, wiping stray tears away with his thumbs.

“i think—” his voice feels raw, like he’s been screaming when all he’s done today is choke on his own words. “i think we should talk about this another time. when you’re ready. because…” he exhales, barely holding it together. “i’m not helping, am i?”

you don’t answer. not with words. you bite your lip like you’re trying to hold the silence in place. and it kills him.

“take your time,” he says. he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead—soft, lingering, like a promise. “i’ll be here when you’re ready.” his voice cracks again, and he wonders if you can hear it.

he stands.

and leaves.

because even though it feels like tearing something out of his own chest, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

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semperama · 8 days ago

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I can't stop thinking about this. Ryliver, E, 1300 words. Yes, I'm posting Ryliver on main. No, this is not the Ryliver WIP I should have been working on. No regrets.

---

Afterward, Oliver tries to bolt, but no such luck.

“So, what did it?” Ryan asks, suddenly at his elbow. Oliver’s legs are longer, and he could probably outrun him—even imagines himself doing it—but he would only incriminate himself more. He can still play dumb, maybe.

“What did what?” he asks. His trailer is like fifty yards away, tops. But he makes the mistake of looking at Ryan, meeting his eyes, and Ryan lifts his eyebrows and pointedly looks down, and Oliver—chokes on nothing, grabs Ryan by the bicep, tugs him through a door and onto an abandoned set.

It’s Buck’s old loft, still not fully dismantled. Great.

“Was it my brilliant acting?” Ryan asks, totally unfazed. He isn’t even trying to get out of Oliver’s grasp. His bicep flexes under Oliver’s palm, and Oliver lets go like he’s been given an electric shock. “Was it your brilliant acting? Because I get it, man.”

“Fuck. No. Jesus.” He should have sucked it up and waited until they made it to his trailer. In here, with Ryan next to him, the kitchen island at his back, the stairs to their left, he still feels a little like Buck. He can still hear Buck in his head. He can hear Buck hearing Eddie—"the trials and tribulations of Evan Buckley”—and he’s still—

He’s still fucking hard.

“Was it the shove?” Ryan asks. Wide grin, pointy teeth. On their second take, Ryan’s shoulder grab was a little too aggressive, knocked him back hard into the cabinets, and in the heat of the moment, Oliver had shoved him back, chest heaving. The director let it go, but at the end of the scene, he said, let’s pull it back a little this time, and Oliver had to squeeze his hands into tight fists to ground himself, calm himself down.

They did three more takes after that, and Oliver’s dick hadn’t behaved for a single fucking one of them. And he knew—he knew everyone could see it. Knew Ryan could see it. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to get rid of. If anything, it made it worse.

“Did you not—” Oliver shuts his mouth quick, clack of teeth rattling around in his skull. The thing is, Ryan’s joking. He’s acting like it’s a joke. But Oliver’s cock is aching against the zipper of his jeans, and it doesn’t feel funny. He tries again: “Did you not feel it?”

Ryan’s canines leave white points in his bottom lip as his smile fades, goes rigid at the edges. “Feel what?”

Wrong thing to say. Suddenly, Oliver smells blood in the water. Ryan knows Eddie, and Oliver knows Buck, so the tension had to be palpable to both of them. Ryan’s not doing himself any favors playing dumb. “You know what,” Oliver says, taking a step forward. Ryan’s back is to the door. Buck’s door. “Why were we even fighting like that? Like a—a—”

“Married couple?” Ryan’s voice is light. He’s still trying to be funny, but it falls flat. His face is getting red, those perfect scarlet circles painted on his cheekbones.

“Not a married couple,” Oliver says, firm. “Not even lovers.”

Ryan’s shoulders lift with a deep, silent breath, and Oliver knows he gets it. “Like two people who don’t know they’re lovers yet.”

“Like we’re avoiding it.” Oliver sounds breathless, but he doesn’t fucking care anymore. “Like we’re scared of it.”

Ryan’s face is bright red now, and he’s not meeting Oliver’s eyes. Oliver takes another step without thinking, and he doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten until Ryan’s back hits the door and Oliver can feel the air move when his breath rushes out of him.

Oliver gets about half a second to enjoy the upper hand before Ryan says, so quiet, “Buck.”

This isn’t their first kiss. That was right after season four, when Buck—when Oliver couldn’t stop looking at his hands and seeing red, but they knew nothing was going to come of it, and it was frustrating as fuck, and all he wanted to do was taste copper from Ryan’s mouth.

It isn’t even their second kiss, which was drunk and sloppy, after they were done filming the bachelor party.

But it’s the first time—after Ryan hooks his index fingers in Oliver’s belt loops and yanks—that Oliver feels Ryan hard against him, and he’s confronted, suddenly, with the fact that this isn’t a whim. This isn’t just BuckandEddie. This is licking a muffled groan from the seam of Ryan’s mouth and wanting to taste nothing else ever again. Wanting to leave this room and still remember it, still have it.

“Say it again,” he says against Ryan’s mouth, but he kisses him again, hard, before he can. He reaches down to peel Ryan’s hands away from his waist and threads their fingers together, presses them against the door by Ryan’s head. “Say it.”

“Buck,” Ryan says. “Buck, Buck.”

Oliver’s been hard for-fucking-ever, for hours, off and on, at this point. When he thrusts up into the cut of Ed—Ryan’s hip, it feels like relief, a little shower of sparks cascading down his spine with each roll of his hips. Ryan tugs one of his hands free and grabs a handful of his ass—huge palm making Oliver gasp—and pulls him in harder, and Oliver starts preparing himself to be embarrassed, because this isn’t going to take long at all. Hours of foreplay. Hours of Ryan’s low voice stroking against the pleasure points in his brain. Hours of trying to keep it together, and now he doesn’t have to.

“Eddie,” Oliver says, just above a whisper, but Ryan lets out a breathy sound that’s almost a laugh and nips at Oliver’s bottom lip, sharp sharp teeth, soft flick of his tongue.

“Ollie,” Ryan says, almost back to playful again, and that’s it. Oliver is gone. He pushes his hips against Ryan’s once, twice more, and then he’s coming in his pants, dropping his head to gasp against Ryan’s shoulder, his spine curling.

Ryan’s broad hand is still clutching at him, still pulling him in, and he’s vaguely aware of the little explosions of oversensitivity that are sending tremors through his legs, but it’s fine when Ryan is holding him up, huffing hard in his ear, then groaning as he follows Oliver over the edge, saying Oliver’s name again in that deep, rough voice that’s been torturing him all evening.

“Fuck,” Oliver breathes once it’s over. His face is still pressed against the meat of Ryan’s shoulder, and his hands flatten against the door to hold himself up, to keep himself from sinking to the floor like he wants to.

“Mmm,” Ryan hums, as if in agreement. It takes Oliver a minute to realize his shoulders are shaking—with laughter, he realizes. Not regret, at least.

“What is it?” Oliver asks, lifting his head enough to look Ryan in the eye.

“It’s just—” The color is still high in his cheeks. Scarlet red. His mouth is red too, and Oliver wants to kiss him again so badly. “It’s just, costuming is gonna fucking kill us.”

Oliver dissolves into giggles, and his knees dissolve too, but Ryan holds him up, pulling him in until they’re pressed together everywhere, impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

“Come to my trailer,” Oliver says. “We’ll change, and I’ll take everything to the dry cleaners in the morning.” They’ll bring all the clothes back in a couple days, pretend they just forgot to turn them in, and no one will ever have to know.

He and Ryan will know, though. Ryan tilts his head up to press their mouths together again, quick but firm, and Oliver breathes him in, the familiar scent of him, the familiar shape their bodies make. The two of them will know, will always know, now, and that’s good. That’s so fucking good.

#ryliver #911 show #my writing #idk i'm a little tipsy so maybe this is bad #but i'm not gonna think about it anymore!!#posting it at 10:30 pm when maybe no one will see it anyway

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snaileer · 2 years ago

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Practice Your Skills

“You ever look at someone and wonder how hard it would be to get past their defenses and stab them?”

Damian snapped his head to the side, looking at the young boy now standing beside him.

The boy put his hands up in front of him with a wince, “Not that I ever do that. Totally not, whaaaat???”

Damian huffed and turned back around to watch the gala participants.

“It’s just you kinda looked like you were contemplating the logistics of stabbing Mrs.Halterguild for squeezing your cheeks.”

Damian scowled. Then, after a moment’s beat, “It would not be very difficult. She is nearly blind in her left eye, I would be able to approach without repost.”

The kid hummed, turning back as well before motioning to another group to the far right, “What about Mr. Beckensmith, he’s a retired vet right?”

Damian rolled his eyes and scowled harder, “The man has only seen the battlefield of an office as he bribed his way from being fully enlisted and instead managed to pay for increasingly higher ranks and medals. He is a disgrace.”

The kid cocked his head to the side, looking suspicious for a second and then nodding with concession, “Fair enough, I bet I could get close enough too.”

Damian scoffed.

“What, don’t believe me?”

Damian leveled a doubtful glare at the civilian, making it clear by looking him up and down, “Hardly.”

The other smirked dangerously, “If I can get close enough to poke him and get away without being noticed, will you believe me?”

Damian narrowed his eyes but nodded succinctly and watched as the boy immediately took off, making a few loops around other people before finally backing up to Mr. Beckensmith and poking him on the opposite side as a group moved past.

Damian pursed his lips. Interesting. Certainly better than he would expect from an amateur. And an amateur civilian at that.

When the boy returns to his side Damian brushes off the asks of meaningless praise.

“Come on, I did it, now you have to go poke Mrs. Halterguild without getting caught.”

Damian sneers, “And why would I do that?”

“Because I don’t believe you either, the woman’s old but I bet she sees you and squeezes your cheeks again. Old ladies just have a sixth sense for that stuff you know.”

Damian nearly growls but sets off on his task. He makes sure to stay on her left side, but the woman turns at the last second, forcing Damian to use a passing waiter as cover to remain hidden and finally get close enough to poke her gaudy dress.

Then he sidles back up to the boy on the edges and provides his best ‘I am more capable than you’ scowl. The boy simply laughs and says, “Who’s next?”

They spend the night like that, choosing each other’s targets to attack non-lethally as though they were attempting to stab them, and Damian finds the gala going by in a significantly less tedious manner.

Right up until the boy laughs at him when he chooses a target. Only one bark of laughter escapes, but it is enough for Damian to consider stabbing him as well. If only with a butter knife.

Instead, Damian grinds his teeth and asks, “What is so different about Masters, do you really believe you would be unable to succeed?”

The other gives a breathless chuckle, “I’m pretty sure even you wouldn’t be able to successfully stab Vlad Masters,” The boy’s shoulders sag even as his jaw tightens with irritation, “He sees everything.”

Damian narrows his eyes. Something naws at the back of his brain but currently the critique of his capabilities takes precedence.

“I would be capable of stabbing Masters even without my favored sword,” Damian scowls and stands taller with annoyance.

“Sure you can, man,” At this, the boy quirks a sharp smile, “If you can actually get him, I’ll personally get you a magic sword,” he says with an air of amused indulgence. Like he thinks Damian is some insipid child saying he will find a fairy.

Damian grits his teeth and shakes the other’s hand, then immediately sets off after his target. How dare this civilian question him! He is the Son of the Bat, this is not even a challenge!

Damian growls as his approach is thwarted for the third time by the man turning in his direction and almost spotting him. How dare he! He will not fail!

Just as he reaches to jab the man in the side, already poised to make his escape, Masters whips around and clamps his fingers around Damian’s wrist with a vice grip.

“Really Daniel I thought we were over-“ Masters pauses, looking at Damian critically as he glares at the man’s offending hand, “You are not young Daniel.”

“Remove your hand from my person at once,” Damian growls.

Instead of listening to Damian’s very sensible directions, Masters tightens his grip and twists his arm, most likely in an attempt to hurt him.

“Now why is a child attempting to-“

Damian doesn’t wait to hear the rest of the man’s words, sliding a dagger into his other hand and swinging towards him, until that hand is caught mid-movement as well.

“Heh-Hey there!”

Damian snaps his head to the side just in time to see Grayson take his dagger and slide it into his pocket. He ignores the bark of laughter he hears from across the room.

Masters’ hand disappears from his arm suspiciously fast, “Mr. Wayne, what a pleasure!”

Damian looks over his other shoulder to see his father standing behind him, a thin smile on his face, “Vladimir!”

His father’s figure quickly obscures his vision, putting an arm over Masters’ shoulders in a way that clearly makes him irritated but forces him to follow as he is steered away.

“Dami, I thought we talked about the stabbing at formal events,” Grayson says through a strained smile as he looks over the crowd to make sure no else saw.

“Tt, it was merely a demonstration of my skills, he was in no real danger until he refused to release me. I simply sought to correct that mistake.”

Grayson pinchesthe bridge of his nose, “Demonstration for who, Dames? We all already know your skills.”

“Tt,” Damian scowls and turns away.

Instead of pushing it, Grayson simply sighs heavily, “Just stay out of trouble for the rest of the gala okay? We’re almost done.”

Damian scoffed and waited for Grayson to leave. Once he does, Damian finally looks over to where he had been lingering with the boy.

Gone.

Clearly he’d taken the cowards way out when he’d seen that Damian had been accosted by Masters.

Pitiful.

Damian spends the rest of the night scowling from the wall and looking surreptitiously for a head of black hair and blue eyes unrelated to him.

Of course it’s not until they are actively leaving that Damian sees him and immediately splits off of from his family.

He approaches with irritation, preparing to grab the other by the shoulder when suddenly he turns around and blue eyes meet Damian’s green.

“You,” Damian sneers.

“Me,” The other shrugs. He has an amused smile on his face, though it’s strained at the edges.

They stare in silence for a minute, before the other’s smile grows and sharpens once more, “I didn’t expect you to actually try to stab him, y’know,” A slight laugh escapes him, “Not that it was unwelcome by any means, but still, unexpected.”

Damian scowls again, glaring at this foolish civilian.

“Oh, I never introduced myself did I?!”

The boy exclaims and holds out a hand, smile dangerous, “Daniel Fenton. Or if we’re being technical,” a pause as Damian finally returns the gesture and finds his hand trapped, “Daniel Masters, a pleasure to meet you Damian.”

“Hurry up little badger,” A voice says beside them, and Damian notices that it is indeed Vladimir Masters.

The man approaches, placing a heavy hand on Fenton’s shoulder, making the boy go taut, and then they both step into a dark car, leaving Damian on the front steps.

Damian’s anger flares and he shoots a glare directly to the boy getting into the car. It dies the moment they meet eyes and Damian sees the fear hiding in the other’s eyes.

Fear that Damian is all too familiar with.

Fear that reminded Damian of himself. Reminded him of his own eyes when he’d been under his grandfather.

But why did Fenton look like that?

#batman #danny phantom #batfam #dc #batman and robin #danny fenton #young justice #danny phantom crossover #bruce wayne #tim drake #dick grayson #Damian wayne #Damian Al ghul #dp x dc #dpxdc #Jason Todd #red hood #Nightwing #Robin

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silens-oro · 1 month ago

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Well Enough Alone: Part III

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue Cut the Loss (companion piece) Part I Part II Chicken Hawk (companion piece)

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist

General Synopsis: The unspoken line once drawn between Hawk and Pope is beginning to disappear. Word Count: 3,964 Content Warning: masturbation (m), typical Animal Kingdom warnings A/N: LISTEN we're starting to get into it and I've enjoyed the comments and messages I've gotten regarding this story so far. I'm rubbing my little fly hands together every time I read that someone has come over from The Pitt to Animal Kingdom territory. we're starting under a read-more because it is explicit right out of the gate lmao. Please comment & reblog :)

Pope tried to keep his grunting to a minimum, but the way his soapy hand glided over his cock as he watched Hawk in the pool from the bathroom window was too much for him this particular morning. The one way tint allowed him to look out without anyone seeing what he was doing.

It wasn’t the first time Pope had taken advantage of this, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The steaming hot water stung as it rained down on his freckled back. Pope braced his right forearm on the tiled shower wall, his face tilting into his bicep to smother some of the moans that tried to escape. Just the thought of Hawk taking his hand’s place was enough to send him over the edge.

“Fuck, fuck-” Pope groaned out through clenched teeth, his chest heaving as he caught Hawk climbing out of the pool just as his fist canted in time with his final thrust into his fist. White ropes of cum hit the wall in front of him in an orgasm that sent a shock through his entire body. He slowed his strokes as the last spurts of cum left him and his forehead came down to rest on his forearm that was still holding him up.

It was one thing to recall Hawk’s face and body from memory while he was locked up, but it was another thing entirely to have her in the flesh as Pope jerked himself off.

Pope stood under the stream of water, giving himself a moment to bask in the afterglow before the shame of what he had done would inevitably set in.

One day, he told himself as he sprayed the wall down to get rid of the aftermath that plagued his brain.

“You gonna keep giving me the cold shoulder?” Hawk ignored Pope as she worked. That seemed to be her usual morning schedule that he took note of since he moved in with her -wake up around seven, go for a morning swim, do some work at home, go by the shop, then either go to Smurf’s or come home. Pope nodded to himself at Hawk’s deliberate silence, pursing his lips in mild irritation as he leaned over the island into his forearms. “I was out of line,” He admitted. “and I apologized to the kid -we’re square. It won’t happen again.”

“For your sake, it better not.” Hawk didn’t look up at him as she continued to type. Her fingers hit the keys with more force than was needed, an indicator to Pope that she still wasn’t happy with him. He leaned down on the counter next to her and got her attention.

“I’m sorry.” He dragged out.

“You’re sorry?” Hawk asked with a less than impressed expression when she finally gave him her attention.

“I didn’t realize how close you and the kid were. Now that I know, it won’t happen again.” He explained as if that excuse was valid in any way, shape, or form. Whether Pope was genuine about what he was saying was something else entirely and Hawk didn’t really give two shits in that moment. She spoke her piece the night before and the emotions she was currently feeling were the aftermath of that. “I mean it.” Pope pushed. Hawk held his eyes for a few moments before nodding and going back to drafting an email to a potential client. Genuine or not, she had to let him know she meant every word that she said the night before.

Pope opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. He untwisted the cap with a loud snap and continued to watch Hawk as she worked. She ignored him as he paced the length of the kitchen, only glancing at him when his back was turned. Hawk tried not to let her eyes linger on the tight muscles of his shoulders as he moved his arms, and she definitely didn’t let her gaze fall further south. Definitely not. She quickly brought her eyes back to her laptop as he turned around.

“What the hell is this?” Hawk tried to keep the irritation out of her voice when Pope tossed a very obviously thick envelope on the island in front of the laptop. The sound of the envelope slapping against the granite startled her, the loud crack reverberated up to the tall ceilings.

“It’s for you.” He said with a nonchalant shrug, leaning his back against the counter where he was previously.

“Yeah, I get that,” Hawk shut the laptop closed and carefully peeled the flap open. “But why is there like,” She looked inside the envelope tentatively before looking back at Pope, “-ten grand in here?”

“There’s twelve. I figured that should cover the rooms and gas over the last three years, and to cover some stuff while I’m here.” He shrugged again, like this twelve grand was nothing, but Hawk knew this wasn't nothing. This was a whole lot of something, and she wanted nothing to do with wherever it came from. “You’ve sacrificed a lot for me. It’s only fair that I return the favor.” Hawk stood and rounded the corner to Pope’s side of the kitchen.

“I’m not taking this, Pope,” Hawk handed it over to him, but he crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. The muscles in his arms bulged, nearly distracting Hawk. “I’m serious. I’m not taking this.” She smacked the heavy envelope on his forearm, but he didn’t budge. Hawk sighed, squeezing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger as she placed the envelope on the island. “I didn’t do any of that with the expectation that you needed to give me something in return, much less twelve grand, Pope. That’s insane.” Hawk hissed, though not angrily. Oh no, this was out of complete befuddlement.

“Then why did you do it?” He stepped towards her, his arms dropping to his sides. Hawk nearly tripped over her own feet as she backed up with every step Pope took forward. “Why are you still doing it?”

“Because I care about you.” Hawk said it like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “I’ve always cared about you, Pope.”

“Like you cared about Julia?” There was a brief pause. Hawk’s heart felt like it was beating in her ears as her eyes locked with Pope’s.

“No.” She breathed out.

“Is uh…everything alright?” J’s hesitant voice cut through the tension and Hawk met his alarmed eyes from where he stood in the entrance to the hallway. He must’ve just woken up, or he had been listening the whole time and felt this was the appropriate time to step in for Hawk.

Pope didn’t budge and kept his gaze on her.

“Everything’s fine, J.” Hawk’s voice cracked as she placed a hand on Pope’s chest to gently push him back, but he held her hand to his chest, right over his heart. His callused thumb rubbed gentle, soothing circles over the back of Hawk’s hand, and still his eyes never left her.

J did not like what he was seeing the second he stepped into the kitchen, dragging his feet and rubbing his eyes only to be faced with Hawk and Pope inches away from each other, locked in a very intimate conversation that he couldn’t hear from the other side of the room. And suddenly, as if a lightbulb went off over his head, J understood why Pope treated him the way he did. Sure, he was suspicious of J, but deep down Pope felt jealousy. Territorial might be the better word for it. The pieces were fitting together and J didn’t know if he preferred getting his ass beat by Pope or seeing Pope look down at Hawk like she hung the moon and the stars in the sky. J cleared his throat, feeling incredibly awkward.

“Just two adults trying to have a conversation, J.” Pope’s voice held a little bite to it.

“I’m uh, I’m gonna go to Nicky’s and then head to Smurf’s. Do you need anything from me before I leave?” He left the question open on purpose. Did she feel safe? Would she be in danger if he left? J didn’t think he could do much damage to Pope, but he could distract him long enough for Hawk to get out of the house if he had to.

“Everything is fine, J. Tell Nicky I said ‘Hi’.” J nodded, still unconvinced.

“Alright,” J nodded, still apprehensive. He hovered for a few more seconds before walking past Hawk and Pope to the entrance way so he could slip on his shoes. Hawk watched J until the door closed behind him, then brought her attention back to Pope. She brought her other hand up and cupped his jaw, her thumb rubbing at his cheekbone just under his eye. Pope leaned into it, his eyes finally closing as he took in the feeling of her palm’s caress.

“I’m serious about the money, Pope.” Hawk’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “I do appreciate the gesture, but you don’t owe me anything and you’ll never owe me anything just because I care about you. I want to make that abundantly clear. I’m not transactional.” Pope brought his forehead down to rest on hers in a brief moment of uncharted intimacy. The line that had never been crossed between them was starting to become muddy, unknown territory and it scared the absolute hell out of Hawk.

She took that moment to slowly pull back from Pope, gently removing her hand from his that was still on his chest and face. The loss of his warmth, and the strength in his hands alone was noticeable immediately. Could you crave someone’s touch when that touch was only just given to you? Hawk felt like she was losing her mind, her world going just slightly off kilter and Pope…Pope was trying desperately to hold himself together. He licked his lips anxiously and finally took a step back, allowing them both to breathe.

“Smurf wants us at the house later for lunch,” Pope mentioned once the dust had settled, making Hawk’s eye twitch. “I’ll drive.”

“I cannot tell you how good it is to have you around again, baby. I’m hoping you’re here for good this time,” Smurf eyed Hawk as she helped the matriarch put lunch together for the boys. All of the brothers, Baz, and J were outside roughhousing in the pool. Hawk felt on edge, knowing how rough the brothers could be and how J would be their target. “Being around you has been good for Pope since he got out of prison. I’ve noticed a change in him.”

“Yeah, it’s good to have him out.” Hawk responded nonchalantly as she finished slicing through the sandwiches she was assembling.

“You know what I mean, baby. Everyone can sense the tension between you. You’re telling me it’s completely one sided?” Smurf raised a brow, pouting her lips as she pushed some kale and bananas into her blender. Hawk sighed, slicing through two more sandwiches before looking up at Smurf. “Give me a break.”

“I don’t know what you think is going on there, Smurf, but nothing has happened. Nothing has changed between us.” Hawk definitely did not like the way Smurf was being pushy about this. Smurf didn’t have a genuine bone in her body, so when she pulled a pill bottle and set it on the counter, Hawk knew where all this sweet talk was going. “What is this, Smurf?”

“I trust you, Hawk. We may butt heads from time to time, but I know you’re sharper than a whip. Always have been.” Smurf pushed the bottle until it was directly in front of Hawk. “Pope is…struggling. I know you see it. He was outside, naked and howling at the moon the first night he was out. He has some difficulties with certain things and these help even him out. I can’t trust anyone but you with this. You care about Pope, I know you do, and you care about him deeply. You’re protective of him and I couldn’t be more appreciative, baby, which is why I need your help with this.”

“You’ve been giving these to him?” Hawk breathed out, a very bad feeling filling her stomach.

“I try to, but it seems he’s been spending more time at your place than he does here as of recent, so I can’t get him the doses he needs on a steady basis.”

“So you want me to give these to him?” Smurf opened a second bottle from where she grabbed the first and popped two pills out. She crushed them on the counter and tossed the powder into the blender that had one single serving of the smoothies remaining inside. Smurf put the lid on it and then set it to blend for a few seconds before shaking the last bit into an empty glass that was just out of the group of five other glasses. “Does he know you’re doing this?”

“He’s not the biggest fan of taking them, but it’s a necessary evil, Hawk. He’s his own worst enemy when he’s off the meds.”

“I don’t know how comfortable I am with this, Smurf.” That was a lie. Hawk knew exactly how uncomfortable this made her. Did Pope need some type of medication intervention? Maybe, but that should be something that he decides to do, not his mother, and definitely not hiding it in his food like she’s trying to medicate a dog with a pill wrapped in a piece of cheese. The whole thing felt bad and weird, and Hawk knew immediately that whatever Smurf was doing wasn’t to help Pope. If anything it more than likely just made him more agreeable to whatever fucked up bullshit Smurf wanted him to do.

Smurf was wrong in trusting Hawk with this. It could’ve been a test, Hawk thought to herself. It didn’t matter to her because there was no way in hell she’s actually go through with this. And if Smurf thought Hawk would, then she was more clueless than Hawk ever thought. The matriarch of the family was right about one thing, though -Hawk was protective of Pope (despite his altercation with J), and that protection was usually against his own family.

“He can become very dangerous without these.” Smurf switched to a fear tactic. “I’m not saying he’d ever hurt you, but sometimes he does things without knowing he’s doing them. This medication stops that. You’re the only person I can trust with this, baby.” Smurf repeated. She picked up the bottle and placed it in Hawk’s hand. Put these in your purse.”

There was no way Hawk would do this. No way in absolute hell. Pope trusted her, and she trusted him, and there was no way she’d do anything as nefarious as spike his food because it made him more agreeable. Still, not wanting to rock the boat with Smurf, Hawk merely nodded and stuffed the bottle into the bottom of her purse just as Smurf told her to.

“Good. Knew I could count on you.” Hawk nodded again, clearly lost in what to say after that revelation. “Now, back to the conversation at hand.”

“Nothing is happening between us, Smurf.” Smurf laughed, grabbing all of the smoothies in her arms to carry outside to the boys. To Pope. Hawk knew she should’ve done something, anything, to stop Smurf, but what could she do? Any kind of push back from her was just as good as spitting directly in Smurf’s face. It would be an offense that Smurf would not let flow under the bridge and Hawk knew that, so she did nothing except watch Smurf leave the kitchen with the glasses in her hands -ultimately powerless.

“Then maybe you should be the one to initiate, hm?” Smurf suggested as she picked up the tray of sandwiches and walked through the slider to the back yard. “It’ll be good for the both of you, baby. You know where his feelings lay. It’s hardly a secret. Bring the sandwiches out with you!”

“Jesus Christ, Pope.” The man in question was bleeding from his nose when Hawk finally made her way out to the patio. She set the platter of sandwiches down on the table and grabbed a towel off of a chair, then hurried over to Pope.

“I’m fine,” He brushed her away gently, glaring down at J. Hawk smacked his hand away when he tried to push her hand down from going up to his face. “J just got a little overzealous. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Stop,” Hawk demanded, dabbing at the blood. “Tilt your head back for a second to stop the bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Pope replied dryly.

“Let her take care of you, baby.” Smurf called over with a big ol smirk as if to say I told you so.

“Let her take care of you, baby,” Craig mocked, Daren laughing next to him as they sat at the table and started making their plates.

“Enough, idiots one and two.” Hawk snapped and grabbed Pope’s hand to bring it up to hold the towel to his face.

“That was very unkind of you, Hawk!” Craig called back, a shit eating grin ever present on his face.

“Ignore them.” Pope said softly for only Hawk to hear.

“Just give it a minute, alright?” Pope raised a brow, but nodded to get her to stop fussing. When Hawk was satisfied, she walked back into the house to wash her hands in the kitchen sink. She needed a moment to collect herself and the kitchen gave her the much needed respite from the knowing looks she was now recognizing from the rest of the family every time she made eye contact with them.

As Hawk turned around, drying her hands on a clean kitchen towel, she screamed, clutching her chest.

“Jesus fuck, Pope! You’re going to kill me if you keep doing this!” She smacked him lightly on his bare chest with the towel before tossing it onto the island. Hawk took a breath to try and calm her pounding heart, but the proximity of Pope was stifling. “What’s up?” He didn’t say anything as he caged Hawk against the sink.

Hawk’s eyes were about to pop out of her head at the invasion of her personal space. The coverup she wore over her bathing suit felt like she was wearing a parka in the California sun with the way she was flushed from head to toe. His chest was nearly touching hers and Hawk was sure that Pope could feel her heart pounding as her eyes unintentionally connected every freckle on his chest until her eyes met his.

Pope kept his eyes on her, watching every little move she made as Hawk attempted to process what he was doing. Without losing eye contact, Pope raised his arms and turned the tap on behind her.

“Just gotta wash my hands.” Hawk swallowed thickly, sweat rolling down her neck and between her shoulders, causing goosebumps to break out over her whole body as Pope’s arms flexed around her. He somehow stepped closer, the entire front of his body pressed against hers with one of his thighs nestled between hers. Hawk’s hands instinctively came up to grasp around Pope’s very naked, thick, muscular waist. The contact was electric, like a current shot from his skin to hers and she didn’t realize she was holding her breath until-

“-Oh!” Smurf’s voice cut through the tension. Hawk felt the air physically deflate from her body, but still Pope didn’t budge an inch. Hawk felt her face get hot, red hot, and embarrassment at getting caught like she was a teen all over again swept through her. “Just pretend I’m not here. Grabbing the rest of these,” Smurf grabbed a tray with condiments. “You lovebirds better join us soon.” Smurf said, just to stir the pot. With that, she was back out of the slider, leaving an irritated looking Pope and a panicked Hawk.

If Hawk could’ve dissolved into a pile of ashes, she would’ve.

If Pope could’ve killed his mother right then, he would’ve.

Hawk was the first to break contact. She gently pushed Pope away just far enough to duck under his arms and took off through the slider without a word, mentally berating herself for letting Pope drive them both over instead of just taking her own car.

Pope watched her go, the phantom feeling of her body pressed to his was seared in his memory. The lingering heat didn’t do anything to stop the tug in his stomach when he saw the panicked look in her eyes as she fled. He brought his wet hands up to his face to cool himself down before he faced her and the leering he’d get from Smurf outside.

The ride back to Hawk’s was…silent. She could feel Pope’s eyes on her as he shifted his attention between the road and her.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” The irony of Pope himself sounding uncomfortable was not lost on Hawk. They were stopped at a red light and Hawk was fidgeting with her hands just like she did on the fist visit to Folsom. She was nervous and he didn’t like that at all, especially when that nervousness stemmed from him. “I’ve clearly overstepped-”

“I care about you, Pope. Believe me, I do.” Hawk’s thoughts went back to that pill bottle that weighed her purse down like it was made of lead.

“You’ve said as much.” He referenced their conversation from earlier that morning. The same conversation that didn’t give him an answer to what was going on between them. Twice Pope has tried to initiate, and twice he was unsuccessful.

“I just…there are a lot of moving parts here.”

“What are you afraid of, Hawk?” The light turned green. “Unless I’m reading this wrong, which I don’t think I am by the way, there’s something here. We’ve been tiptoeing around it, but it’s still there.”

“I’ve been on the outside of all this, Pope.” This meaning his family. “My life has remained mostly unaffected by whatever jobs you guys are pulling and I’m afraid that this is going to open a door I want to stay shut.” Hawk explained. “I’m not ignorant to what you guys do, why you went to prison. My rule of thumb has always been to not ask questions and don’t comment on any of it, but I know. And right now I’m breaking my own rule and I’m going to ask one question, Pope.” Hawk looked up from her hands to look at Pope. The truck was climbing the steep driveway to Hawk’s home and he nodded as he put it in park once they reached the outside of her garage. “Has he been involved in any of this?” Pope knew she meant J.

“Who? The kid?” He played dumb and shook his head, one of his hands rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Pope.” She pleaded.

“He’s not involved, Hawk. You said not to involve him, so he’s not.” She analysed Pope’s features, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. She didn’t think he would have any reason to lie to her, but he was a naturally hard to read person and he was also a Cody. “J’s good. With all of us.” This seemed to lift a visible weight from her shoulders. “He spends more time at girlfriend’s house than he does at Smurf’s anyway.” It was a believable lie, that much Pope knew, and Hawk seemed to accept it as truth. She would find out the truth eventually, and Pope would cross that bridge when he got to it.

“Okay.” Hawk nodded, looking into his eyes once more before she hopped out of the truck and waited for Pope to follow her into the house.

The second the door was closed, Hawk was on him.

please comment & reblog :)

#pope cody #pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody #animal kingdom fanfiction #animal kingdom tnt #shawn hatosy

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gilverrwrites · 10 months ago

Note

More details about Jason reaction having for the first time having a toy put on him ? He definitely wasn’t expecting THAT much of a sensation.

The post in reference for anyone unaware.

(Kinda) subby Jason twice in as many days? Who am I? Will I be getting my sub card revoked for this?

CWs: Swearing, spit, and brief sub-drop.

You’re right, no he fucking wasn’t.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to be honest but it’s not this, and you’re so damn coy with it, keeping him on edge, teasing that poor 6’2 of raging muscles boy.

When you press the vibrating head of it against the base his whole-body tenses, fighting off the ticklish sensation; all his muscles stiffen, toes curling, balls tight, and his shaft twitches. When he relaxes again, he thinks that’s it. He laughs as you slowly, gently drag it up his length, deliberately lingering on the pronounced veins you know are extra perceptive.

“Ahh.” He can’t help giggling, voice strained and unusually but endearingly boyish as he tells you; “That tickles.”

You respond with a mischievously cocked brow, and he’s suddenly struck with feelings of dread and excitement. He knows you’re up to something when your fingers lock onto the base of his cock.

The moment he feels the vibrations on his tip, his whole boy involuntarily jerks until he’s gone from confidently splayed atop the bed to suddenly being slouched, legs wide and in the air, head thrown back. He has a death grip on what he hopes isn’t you, otherwise you’ll be bruised in the morning. Right now he’s too overwhelmed to check.

“Fuck.” His throat feels tight as he stammers out a mantra of hoarse curses. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck.”

It just feels so fucking good, the shaking and the way you’re jerking the shaft with your spit-slicked hand. Fuck. He’s throbbing. Fuck. He didn’t know he could even get this hard.

“Does that feel good baby?” You ask.

“Fuck. Yes.” He answers through gritted teeth. “God yes, please don’t stop dontstopdontstop.”

“How about this?”

Suddenly the tempo changes, increases, and his body jolts again. This time though he lets out a wicked spurt of precum that drips down, mixing with your saliva and spiting droplets across the bed in time with the strongest pulses.

You could watch him like this all day, red-faced and gleaning under a layer of sweat. Every time you make a sudden move or switch up settings his jaw clenches and his eyes shoot to the back of his head. Quite the opposite of the cool and brooding front he puts on the world; for you, he’s open, and soft and whimpering.

Then, not long after you start driving the wand up and down his cock, fast this time, he’s cumming. Rope after rope of it shooting into the air, most of it landing on his hard stomach. Fuck, there’s so much of it, he’s never cum so much in his goddamn life and he’s suddenly feeling sheepish. He knows you've watched him through every whining, toe-curling step, you've already seen his burning cheeks, but he's not used to being on this end of the stick, not used to being the one feeling timid and exposed when it's all over.

Attempting to comfort himself, he conceals his face in the nearest pillow and focuses on breathing until he feels his dick cease its convulsing and the shame begin to wash off of him.

You’re lightly dabbing at his spillage with a tissue when he peeks out at you. You smile back at him all kind and patient when you see him. It makes him feel like an ass for hiding from you. Next time he won’t do that, next time he’ll look you in the eye, he’ll say your name like a prayer and thank you for making him feel so fucking good.

#anon #gilverranswers #gilverrwrites #dc #jason todd #jason todd/reader #jason todd x reader #red hood #red hood/reader #red hood x reader #divider by @anitalenia

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revelboo · 4 months ago

Note

Hello revel!! Been reading your stories for a few months now, and I'm obsessed.

Do you have any plans on writing for Rung?

Glad you like my stories!

I have the overwhelming urge to add TFA Megs. Rewatching the series and I somehow always forget the size difference between the Autobots and Decepticons and just how big a boy Megs is in TFA. 18+ 🌶️

Anything For You

Rung x Reader

• Carefully snipping a part loose, he pauses to adjust the protective lenses over his optics before fitting the part in place. There’s something about the routine of assembling a model that helps him think. And he’s thinking about the little human that had been the first to appear. The one that had gravitated toward Megatron, the former warlord. And, he hopes, helping Megatron move past his guilt and begin to forgive himself. To heal. He been assembling a model then, too. Smiling, he turns to reach for a cube of energon and hears a cry and a clatter as parts scatter everywhere. No, not again.

• Wheezing through the pain, it feels like someone clocked you in the face, head splitting as you squint open an eye. And see the huge monster leaning over over you. Screaming, you shove yourself backwards and your hand lands on a bit of plastic bigger than your fist as you grab it and throw it to bounce harmlessly off the giant. “I’m not going to hurt you,” the monster says, voice soft and coaxing as he holds out big hands. And you bean him in the head with another chunk of plastic. “Please don’t.”

• Scrambling to your feet and staggering a bit, you grab another part and rear back. The other human didn’t lash out, they’d cowered, but not you. You’re baring your little teeth at him, afraid and angry. Wild as a cornered animal. “Don’t you touch me.” And you chuck your projectile and snatch up another. “I’ll mess you up!” Easing back so he’s not looming because you’re strung so tight he’s afraid you might bolt and throw yourself off the top of his desk just to escape. And despite the scowl and angry tone, you are scared. “I will!”

• “I’m sure you will,” he says, reaching for a cube of glowing goop and tipping it up to drink. Not trying to grab you as you back up closer to the far edge, tensed in case he makes a grab for you. Where are you? What happened? Your heart is racing like crazy, pounding so hard against your ribs you can barely breathe. Is this a nightmare? Are you asleep? As you watch, he reaches for a long metal thing nearly half your height and uses a servo to work the knob on the side and you stiffen as a blade pops out of the end. Moving slowly, he sets it down and pushes it your way with a servo. Giving you a weapon? “See? I’m unarmed.”

• Watches you lunge, hooking your arms around the little utility knife and aiming the blade at him, struggling to hold it up, eyes narrowed. “I’m not afraid of you,” you mutter, but your fingers are white knuckled gripping the knife. Can tell you feel safer having that and he doesn’t think you’d actually cut him unless you felt threatened, but you’re stressed and on edge now. The blade a little thing if it gives you comfort. And he studies you, frowning slightly as you tremble and glare up at him. “Where am I? Who are you?” You’re definitely not the other human, you’re all anger and fear. Needing help. Needing him.

#transformers x reader #mtmte rung #rung x reader

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noorpersona · 1 month ago

Text

Confessions: Kuroo

You knew the day was going to be shit when your coffee spilled on your white blouse before 9 a.m.

The rest unfolded like a cruel joke—back-to-back meetings that ran long, a snippy email from your supervisor that didn’t even pretend to be polite, and a presentation you’d poured hours into that got brushed aside for a 'more time-sensitive matter.' By 5 p.m., your jaw ached from how tightly you’d been clenching it all day.

So when your phone buzzed, and you saw Kuroo’s name flash across the screen, your thumb hovered over the green icon. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to pretend you were fine. But you answered anyway.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and familiar. There was a pause, like he was listening for something in the silence between you. "You sound like you had a day."

You scoffed. “That obvious?”

“You get all quiet when you’re brooding.”

You didn’t reply. The lump in your throat had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the way he could read you like this—without even seeing your face.

He waited a beat, then said, “Come out. First round’s on me.”

You started to decline—already in your sweats, already half curled on the couch—but his voice came again, coaxing.

“C’mon, I’ll even let you rant about corporate dysfunction without rolling my eyes this time.”

That got the faintest laugh out of you. And somehow, twenty minutes later, you were walking into the bar you both loved, the one tucked between a bookstore and a stationery shop, dim and warm and a little too familiar.

He was already at your usual table—second from the back, under the shelf with the crooked leg that made drinks tilt if you weren’t careful. Two pints sat on the table, and Kuroo raised one as you approached.

“Still drinkin’ like a college student?” you teased, sliding into the booth across from him.

He grinned. “Nostalgia’s a powerful thing.”

You took the glass, took a long sip, and finally sighed. It hit your system like a balm.

For the next half hour, you vented. About your boss. About the way the office printer hated you. About how you were so close to throwing your laptop out the window, and how nobody respected boundaries anymore.

Kuroo listened, as always. Interjected only when you needed him to. Smiled over the rim of his beer like he could do this for hours.

Eventually, when the flush of alcohol had softened the edges of your irritation, he leaned forward on his elbows.

“You ever think you’re just lonely?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t flinch. “I mean—you work hard, you don’t really date, you haven’t mentioned anyone in a while. Maybe it’s not just the job. Maybe it’s... everything else, too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me I'm a spinster?”

He laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. “Nah. Just saying, you deserve someone good. Thought about setting you up with a friend.”

You shrugged, looked down into your drink. “I’m not interested in someone else.”

And that was the truth. You hadn’t been, not for a long time. Not since your second year of college, when Kuroo Tetsurou sauntered into your world like he owned the place—with messy hair, too much sarcasm, and the kind of quiet loyalty that wrecked you. He was all sharp teeth and soft heart, and you’d fallen harder than you wanted to admit. But you’d also accepted, long ago, that he probably didn’t see you that way. So you tucked it down. Smiled when he dated other people. Never said a word.

Until tonight.

You hadn’t meant to get drunk. Not really. You’d planned to drink just enough to take the edge off, to let the tension bleed from your muscles after a long, miserable day. But when the bartender mentioned it was two-for-one night, and Kuroo had raised an eyebrow with that stupid, charming grin, it was all too easy to shrug and say yes.

The drinks hit harder than you expected—smoother, easier, and paired with Kuroo’s low voice and quiet laughter, it was easy to lose track. What was supposed to be one drink became two, then three, and suddenly you were warm in all the soft ways that made the world a little blurrier around the edges.

Your limbs felt too light, your thoughts too soft, and every time he said your name, it rang a little louder in your chest. At some point, you’d slumped further into the booth, propping your chin in your hand and blinking slower with each refill.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice still light but laced with concern as he reached for your nearly empty glass. “You’re cut off.”

You pouted, dragging your eyes up to meet his, but your grin stayed lazy. "Tetsu," you said, drawing out the syllables, “you’re so bossy.”

“Someone’s gotta keep your chaotic ass alive,” he muttered, even as he flagged down the bartender and handed over his card. He didn’t even look at the receipt when it came.

You watched the way his brows knit together slightly, the way he pressed his tongue against his cheek, like he was both irritated and fond at the same time. Familiar. Comforting.

He slid out of the booth and looped your bag over one shoulder, then turned to offer you his hand.

“Let’s go, before you start snoring in public.”

The air outside was crisp. Night had fallen while you were inside, and the chill that hit your cheeks brought a bit of clarity—but not much. You shivered, and Kuroo automatically shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

You didn’t argue. You leaned into his side, let his arm steady you as you walked together down the quiet street. His touch was careful, guiding. You kept catching faint traces of his cologne—clean and woodsy, something subtle but undeniably him.

“You smell good,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

He let out a soft snort. “Thanks.”

The cab ride was even quieter. Your head lolled gently onto his shoulder. You felt warm, and his shirt was soft, and you couldn’t stop your lips from parting with sleepy little compliments.

“I like your voice,” you whispered.

He glanced down at you, mouth twitching. “You’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”

“Am not,” you slurred. “You're very kissable. Did you know that?”

Kuroo closed his eyes for a second, breathing in through his nose like he was trying very hard not to react. Under his breath, barely audible over the hum of the city outside the cab, he whispered, "God, it's me again. Let her remember this so I can see the look on her face tomorrow."

When you arrived at his apartment, he paid the driver with one hand and guided you out with the other, keeping his hold steady on your waist. You stumbled once on the sidewalk and clutched at his hoodie.

“Easy,” he murmured, his fingers tightening just a little.

His apartment was dark and quiet when you entered. He didn’t bother with the lights—just led you toward the couch by memory, his hand never leaving yours. You swayed a little as you collapsed onto the cushions, blinking up at him.

“Always takin’ care of me,” you said, voice soft and blurred at the edges. “You’re good at that.”

Kuroo crouched to untie your shoes, brows drawn. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you upright.”

You leaned forward, still gripping the front of his hoodie, and he didn’t pull away. Your eyes met his, blurry but intent, and your lips quirked upward.

“I love you, you know.”

Kuroo froze.

The words were slurred but clear enough to punch the breath out of him.

Your voice dropped lower, more sincere. “I love you. Since the moment I saw you.”

He stopped breathing.

His hands hovered mid-motion over your shoes, his fingers curled like they forgot what they were doing. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his head to look at you.

“What?”

But your head tipped back onto the couch, your eyes fluttering shut.

“I love you,” you repeated, softer this time. “I’ve always loved you.”

“Wait—” he tried again, voice sharper now, a tremor hidden underneath.

But your breathing was already evening out, lips slightly parted, lashes resting against your cheeks. You were out cold.

Kuroo knelt there for a long moment, just staring. The words still rang in his ears, ricocheting through his ribs like they didn’t quite belong to reality.

He sat back slowly, knees folding underneath him, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Then he dragged his fingers through his hair and stood up, walking into the kitchen without really seeing.

The quiet of the apartment wrapped around him like a weight.

“…Whoa.”

The morning comes slowly, dragging a dull headache and a dry mouth with it.

You blink against the sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains, your body heavy, brain sluggish. There’s the faint hum of a coffee machine somewhere nearby. The smell is strong and bitter and achingly welcome.

It takes you a minute to remember where you are. The couch. Kuroo’s apartment. The drinks. Your stomach twists as snippets of the night flicker back—his arm around your waist, the way he guided you up the stairs, the sound of his laugh.

You sit up with a groan, head pounding as the room spins for a second. Your clothes are wrinkled, your mouth tastes awful, and your memories are slippery at best. But when you swing your legs off the couch and catch sight of him—Kuroo, in the kitchen, hair messy, hoodie sleeves shoved up as he stirs something in a mug—you feel it.

That deep, crawling dread.

He looks over as you shuffle in, blinking groggily. “Morning, sunshine.”

You grunt, dragging yourself to the counter as he slides a mug across to you without a word. You catch it with both hands, the warmth seeping into your skin. It’s blessedly hot. And quiet.

You sip slowly, staring into the cup, your head still throbbing. The silence stretches. He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter and sips from his own mug like this is normal. Like you didn’t say something earth-shattering last night.

Eventually, he breaks it. “You remember anything from last night?”

You blink, then close your eyes for a second, willing your sluggish brain to scroll back through the hazy reel of the evening. “We went to the bar,” you murmur slowly. “You were already there when I came in. There was a drink waiting. A pint—of course. I think I complained about work for forty-five minutes straight.”

You pause to take a sip of coffee, your eyes still narrowed in concentration.

“I had the first two drinks faster than I should have. You were teasing me about my tolerance—"

You stop.

The cab. His jacket. His arm around your waist. The stairs.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, a spike of panic hitting your chest. “And you helped me back to your pla—OH MY GOD.”

Kuroo raises a brow, trying—failing—to hide the smirk that curls onto his face.

You set the mug down a little too hard. "I didn't mean it," you blurt, voice too high. "I mean—I was drunk. Very drunk. You know how I get, right? I say stupid things, I—"

You wave a hand vaguely in the air, flushing deeper. "It didn’t mean anything. I mean, obviously I care about you, we’ve always been really good friends, and I didn’t—"

Your words trip over themselves like dominoes, spiraling into panic as you try to claw your way out of whatever you admitted the night before. Your face is on fire, your fingers drumming anxiously against the side of your mug.

And Kuroo just watches you, quietly amused. Something fond in his eyes. Like he’s letting you run your mouth on purpose.

Then he sets down his cup, crosses the space between you, and gently cups your face in his hands.

You freeze.

“And here I was thinking I’d break first,” he says, voice low and warm.

You stare at him, mouth parted, utterly lost.

“…But you wanted to set me up…?” you whisper, your voice cracking mid-sentence.

He huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Oh, screw that. You’re mine now.”

You blink up at him, blinking hard like your brain is trying to keep up. “Wait, you mean that?”

He nods slowly, his hands still cradling your face. “I do. I meant it last night, too. You passed out before I could say anything, but I meant to.”

There’s a pause, the kind that’s too soft to be awkward—just full of all the things that didn’t have time to be said. “I’ve loved you for a long time,” he adds quietly, voice going a little rough at the edges. “Guess I just needed you to drunkenly beat me to it.”

The laugh that slips out of you is half a breath and half a sob, surprised and stunned and disbelieving. “Oh my god.”

He grins, leaning his forehead against yours for a second, and the two of you just stand there, smiling quietly into each other like the world finally makes sense.

Then you squeeze his hands once, step back with a wince, and say, “I’m going to go throw up.”

He lets go of you immediately, one eyebrow lifting. “From excitement?”

You’re already wobbling toward the bathroom, one hand raised in defeat. “Alcohol poisoning.”

He leans against the counter, grinning to himself. “Yeah, that too.”

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jobean12-blog · 8 months ago

Text

The Reason for Flowers

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Word Count: 2,432

Summary: You love flowers and you love giving Joel flowers...he loves it too.

Author's Note: Just because I love flowers and Joel and the thought of him with flowers in his hair. Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: soft sweetness, awkwardness on Joel's part, fluff, tension, pretty flowers

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

“Morning!” You sing song as you walk into the bar and see Tommy and Joel.

Tommy gives you a wide grin from behind the bar and Joel turns to look over his shoulder, his lips twitching with a ghost of a smile.

“Mornin’,” Tommy says. “Finished your walk?”

“Yep,” you answer. “And look what I found!”

You sit yourself next to Joel and lean over the bar, plucking one of the orange poppy’s you picked from the bundle and calling Tommy over.

He rests his elbows on the bar and waits while you tuck one of the flowers behind his ear.

“Isn’t the color amazing?” you sigh before taking another and sniffing it. “And it smells great too.”

You turn toward Joel and grab another stem, twirling it between your fingers with a silent question in your eyes.

He leans closer and you meet him halfway, gently pressing the bloom close to his nose. He inhales softly and closes his eyes.

“Does smell good,” he says quietly.

You smile and then tentatively reach up and rest the flower on his ear, adjusting it and then tucking some stray strands of hair behind it.

“There,” you say and meet his eyes.

“Thanks darlin’,” he murmurs.

You kiss his cheek, lingering a bit longer than necessary before turning to Tommy and handing him the rest of the bouquet of poppies.

“Give these to Maria for me,” you tell him. “I wasn’t sure if she’d be up yet.”

“That’s sweet, thank you,” Tommy says, taking the flowers and placing them in a cup from the bar.

“See you guys later,” you say with a wave.

Once you’re out of earshot, Tommy’s eyes land on Joel and his lips turn up into a mischievous smirk.

“She likes you,” Tommy states.

Joel glares. “And why the hell would you say that.”

“Really?” Tommy asks, his eyes darting to the flower.

“You got a flower too,” Joel counters with pursed lips.

“But not a kiss,” Tommy says.

“She was just being sweet,” Joel mumbles. “And that wasn’t a real kiss.”

“Whatever you say big brother.”

“Is it too early for a drink?” Joel asks as he rubs his palms over his face.

“Where are you off to?” Joel asks when you pass each other on the street.

“Just going for a walk,” you tell him. “Want to come?”

He rubs the back of his neck, studying you. “I would…but Tommy is expecting me.”

“It’s ok,” you assure him. “Maybe next time.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he says quietly.

You smile and walk off, turning around again when you feel the weight of his stare.

He immediately drops his head when you catch his eye, his feet shuffling and kicking up the sandy soil. You giggle to yourself and continue on, digging your teeth into your bottom lip to stop your smile.

With an armful of flowers, you walk back toward your house, slowing when you notice Joel sitting out on the porch with his guitar.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

He lifts his head and squints into the sun.

“Hi darlin’,” he answers.

“Mind if I sit?” you ask.

Without a word he shifts over on the edge of the porch.

“Do you like licorice?”

When he gives you a curious look you hold out one of the goldenrod flowers.

“Smell this,” you tell him.

He sets his guitar down and takes it from your fingers to give it a sniff, never taking his eyes off you.

“That really does smell like licorice,” he says.

“It’s not my favorite smell,” you explain, “but I love the yellow color.”

He gives you a lopsided smirk and pulls some of the small yellow petals between his fingers.

You take another stem and shorten it. Taking special care, brush his hair away from his forehead and then secure the flower behind his ear.

“I like this one,” you smile. “The bushy and wild petals match your hair.”

“What’re you sayin’ darlin’?”

His tone is playful, and you snort back a laugh, giving the flower one last adjustment.

“If you’re not busy tomorrow you should come with me.”

He nods and you lean in to kiss his cheek, this time, closer to the corner of his mouth. When you pull away you see his eyelashes flutter against his cheek.

“Well, well, well, look at you,” Tommy hums when he finds Joel at the old tool shed.

“All these tools are rusted,” Joel says, clearly disgruntled.

“I told you they were,” Tommy shoots back.

“What’re you smilin’ about then?”

“Nice flower.”

Joel instinctively reaches up to his ear, gently touching the soft flower still stuck there. He doesn’t bother responding.

“Did you get a kiss too?”

Joel just scoffs and continues searching through the old tools.

“Wonder how long it’s gonna take you to get your head outta your ass,” Tommy muses wryly as he saunters off.

The next morning when you open your door you’re greeted with more sunshine and a very uncertain looking Joel.

“Are you sure you want company?” he asks before even saying hello.

“Mornin’!” you chime happily then step into his space and kiss his cheek. “And yes. I’m sure.”

“Mornin’ darlin’,” he mumbles sheepishly.

He pops his knee out and sets his hands on his hips.

“I’m sure,” you say again when you see him standing there and hesitating. “Come on! We have flowers to pick!”

You walk in comfortable silence for some time, your fingers brushing every so often with the swing of your arms. Neither of you move away and when you catch sight of a canvas of purple blooms up ahead you entangle your fingers with his and pull him along.

“Oh, I think these are sticky geraniums!”

When you reach the spread of flowers you drop his hand and lean down to pick one.

“Yep!” you exclaim.

“Did you say sticky?” Joel asks.

You laugh and nod your head. “Yeah. There’s this sticky stuff on the petals that smells good and attracts insects, then they get stuck and the plant sort of digests them.”

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. How do you know all this?”

“I found some old books about the native plants in the area, and I read them. All.”

He tracks your every move as you bend down and pick several of the purple flowers.

“I’m not sure it’s safe for you to come out here all alone every day,” he says.

You walk closer to him and hold up the flowers.

“Are you going to come with me from now on?” you ask as you twirl a stem between your fingers.

He takes it from you and holds it up to his nose.

“Smells like pine,” he states. “I like that.”

“It reminds me of you. It’s one of my favorites.”

You watch as several emotions flit across his features, and he drags his gaze from you to study the delicate purple flower again.

Neither of you have noticed the gray clouds that now blanket the sky but when a strong wind picks up and blows a chill through the air you shiver and look up.

“Where did the sun go?” you ask as you clutch your flowers.

“We best get back darlin’,” he says.

“Yeah, I guess we should.”

You shiver again and he starts to unbutton his flannel, tugging it free of his shoulders before draping it over yours.

With a soft smile he looks you over.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

His hand reaches out for you, and he rests his splayed palm on your lower back. You wait, your breath caught in your throat, as he dips his head and presses his lips to your cheek.

“You’re welcome.”

You wrap yourself in the warm fabric and discreetly sniff the collar, deciding that as much as you love the geranium smell, his shirt is absolutely your favorite.

“Do you want your shirt back?” You ask when you reach the door to your house.

He stares, his gaze lingering on your face before sweeping down your body.

“You keep it for now. Looks like it’s gonna be a chilly day.”

After a slight pause of hesitation he says, “I uh…I would like some of the flowers though. If you don’t mind sharin’.”

With a bright smile you section off half of the geraniums and hand them to him.

“Not at all,” you whisper as you slowly wind your arms around his neck. “Thanks for coming with me.”

As you slide back down his body and onto your flat feet you brush your lips along his jaw, stopping just beside his mouth to press a soft kiss there.

You hold it, savoring the feel of his rough beard against your soft lips and the hint of the taste of his skin.

“Anytime darlin’,” he says when you finally pull away.

He waits until you’re inside and your door is shut and locked. You watch from the window as he walks down the street, flowers in hand, until he reaches his door, and the first drops of rain start to fall.

The rain doesn’t let up for the rest of the day but thankfully the next morning you wake to the warmth of sunshine spilling through the window.

You stretch out on the bed before snuggling back into the warmth of Joel’s shirt. Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind that you had slept in it, but it was just too comfortable and smelled too good.

Once you’re washed up and ready for the day you head downstairs to get breakfast before your morning walk. A knock on the door causes you to pause, the early hour making you cautious.

You peek out the window first and find Joel standing at your door. When you open it you’re greeted with broad shoulders and his gruff voice.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” he says. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Your lips spread into a smile. “You didn’t. Just wasn’t sure who else would be out this early.”

He laughs nervously but then you watch his expression change as he realizes that you’re still wearing his shirt. His swallow is audible and his tongue darts out to trace the outline of his lips.

“I hope this is ok,” you say quickly, motioning to yourself. “I just sort of fell asleep last night. You can…”

He dips his head and runs a hand through his already mussed hair. You notice his other hand is hidden behind his back.

“I uh. I went out early this morning,” he blurts out, ignoring your comment about his shirt.

He doesn’t say anything more and instead reveals what he’s hiding. A bunch of large dark purple flowers cover his chest, and he smiles nervously.

“Are those…?” you ask with wide eyes.

“Petunias. Spellbound…at least I think they are. I checked one of the books but I’m not very good at any of this.”

“They’re gorgeous” you say excitedly, reaching for the stems.

He hands them to you, and you press the whole bunch to your face with a squeal of happiness. “And they smell so good!”

“They reminded me of you,” he says, almost too quietly for you to hear.

“I love them.”

He smiles and continues to stare.

“Do you want to come in? I want to put these in a vase.”

You turn and open your door, waiting for him to follow.

He waits quietly while you get a vase and add water, setting the flowers on the table.

“I can’t believe you found these Joel.”

“Hmm?”

“The flowers…”

“What about them?” he asks, clearly distracted.

“I just can’t believe you found them,” you say again with a raise of your brow. “You ok?”

His eyes drop and linger on your legs before slowly sliding back up to your face. When you softly call his name again he clears his throat, letting a rush of words slide past his lips.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired…up early and all and someone in the town must have planted them and they took over the front of the house. There were a lot of flowers I think you’ll like. We can go there tomorrow.”

His clear awkwardness is endearing as he leans against the counter, strong arms crossed over his chest and his jaw tight, struggling to find the right words.

You take slow steps toward him until your chest brushes his forearms.

“We?” you ask with a smile.

He uncrosses his arms and rests his hands along the edge of the counter, gripping it tightly.

“I told you darlin;’ you can’t go out on your own. It’s too dangerous.”

“What about the days when it gets really cold,” you muse. “I like to go out even then.”

“You’ll need more of my shirts,” he says with a twitch of his lips.

“Don’t you need this one back?” you ask with a demure smile.

He doesn’t answer but you hear his breath hitch when you start to undo the top button. His breathing deepens with every inch of skin you reveal.

“I certainly don’t mind keeping it,” you say with the slight shrug of your shoulder. “I love having your smell on me.”

When you stop at the last button his eyes drop to your hands and he reaches for you, gently moving your fingers away and toying with the fabric.

He fumbles with the small button between his large fingers but finally pops it open, letting the material hang loosely at the sides. Only a sliver of your skin is exposed, and he slips his fingers between the space, light, and teasing.

His calloused fingertips move deliberately higher, parting the material and grazing your skin. You tremble and goosebumps spread along your arms.

His movements stop and his eyes lift to yours, holding your gaze as he closes the small distance between your bodies.

He continues to lightly graze your skin with his finger, never fully parting the material of the shirt, but inching higher until he traces the outline of your collarbone.

His hand slides behind your neck and his thumb brushes along your cheek. Your lips are parted, and his gaze drops as he moves his thumb to sweep it across their outline.

Lowering his head, his warm breath fans your cheek and his nose gently bumps yours, his lips hovering.

Your eyelashes lower and your hands reach up and find purchase on his shoulders.

“I’d like to return those kisses darlin’,” he murmurs against your lips.

His whispered name is like a prayer, and you cling to him harder, the soft press of his mouth stealing your breath.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x female reader #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal x reader #flowers #love language #joel miller fluff

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theshiniestgemstone · 26 days ago

Note

thinking thoughts abt gideon…. i imagine if he was in a relationship with someone privacy would be hard to come by so there would be a lot of car sex. i could so see him plowing u in an empty parking lot, looking over after finishing, and being like “sooo u wanna get slurpees or something?” if u wanna work ur magic on this i wouldn’t be mad 😌 i don’t have writing brain i apologize if this is a weak prompt lolz

omg this is not a weak prompt at all bestie. here are my thoughts on that

warnings: smut, p-in-v, no protection mentioned (seriously? Jesus can only do so much guys, wrap it up)

It was far too often that you wound up like this, meeting up in a damp parking lot. Just ten minutes ago, he was telling his parents he was going out for a burger, stuttering out that he wanted to go alone when they tried to send his brothers along.

He'd barely parked when you were whipping the door open and crawling into his lap before the engine had even cooled. His hands made their way to your hips before you were moaning in his ear. His arm snaked beneath you both, the seat sliding back with a harsh thump as you relaxed against the steering wheel.

“Jesus, okay,” he gasped, “okay, baby, I got you."

"Do you?" You teased, tossing your shirt into the passenger seat.

It was hot. The kind of heat that stuck to your skin and made the leather squeak under you. The kind of heat that fogged up every glass surface until the world outside disappeared and all that was left was him. His breath in your ear. His nails in your thighs. His palm over your mouth when you got too loud.

Gideon groaned, one hand smacking the ceiling when your teeth scraped his neck. "Fuck, don’t do that with your tongue unless you want this window cracked.”

You sat back, feeling his hands push your skirt up higher. His fingers hooked into your underwear, pushing them to the side. You moaned loudly as he ran his fingers through your folds.

"Shhh, darling," he cooed.

“Think someone’s gonna walk up and recognize you?” You asked, climbing off of him and over the console into the backseat.

Gideon leaned in closer, hair falling forward, eyes glinting with something almost smug. “If they do,” he panted, “they’re gonna see me balls deep in the best thing that ever happened to me, so.”

He huffed out a small “sorry” when he leaned into your hip for support. He braced himself on one arm, the other already ghosting along your thigh as he settled between your legs. He braced himself on one arm, the other already ghosting along your thigh as he settled between your legs.

“Don't apologize,” you said, voice low, eyes dragging over his flushed face in the dim light. “I was the one who couldn’t wait.”

That made him grin, crooked and drowsy, like he wasn’t about to ruin you in a parking lot next to a closed-down Jamba Juice.

“You never can wait,” he muttered, mouthing at your jaw, then lower, kissing over the hollow of your throat like a man starved. “You act all sweet in public, then drag me out here and say shit like-”

You cut him off with a sharp gasp when his hand slid beneath your waistband. "Gideon, you just- fuck- you always know what to do."

He grinned again, slower this time. “Exactly.”

The car rocked softly as he pressed into you, one hand tugging your skirt up just enough, the other bracing above your head. The windows fogged quickly. Your back arched. You dug your fingers into his hair and moaned something desperate against his mouth, biting at his bottom lip as he pushed into you in one smooth, breath-stealing motion. You clenched around him, crying out as he stilled.

“Shit,” he choked out. “You tryna make me see stars?”

You laughed, high and breathy, gripping the edge of the seat. “You’re the one who said he wanted to go out tonight."

"I'm going to be so late," he huffed.

"Tell 'em you were stargazing."

He snorted, nearly lost in the pace he set, rhythm snapping, controlled but messy. Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging roughly as you arched into him.

He hissed through his teeth, biting back a groan as your nails scraped lightly against his scalp. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and half-lidded, lips parted like he wanted to say something cocky but couldn’t find the breath.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “You tryna kill me or what?”

You grinned, hooking a leg around his waist to pull him in deeper. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The car creaked under the rhythm of his hips, the windows almost fully fogged now, cloaking you in a heat-hazy bubble. The low rumble of traffic a few streets over barely registered, nothing else existed except the push and pull of him and the soft, obscene slap of skin on skin.

Gideon dipped his head, mouthing along your collarbone, sucking a mark just beneath your jaw like he needed to leave proof he’d been there. You whimpered, high and sharp, thighs tightening around him.

“Say it again,” he panted.

“Say what?”

“That thing about stargazing,” he growled, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You gasped, fingers scrabbling against the seat for leverage. “Tell ‘em you were stargazing,” you repeated, barely holding the words together as your body trembled beneath his. “Tell ‘em the view was so good you lost track of time.”

Gideon groaned like that’d done him in. “Fuck, babe- gonna come-”

You held him tighter, pulled him in like you never wanted him to leave, and murmured, “Then come.”

And oh, he did. Head buried in your neck, arms shaking, his hips finally losing rhythm as he gasped and grunted your name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once. His release triggered your own, your legs wrapping around his waist tightly.

He collapsed against you with a soft thud, breath shallow, hands gentle now as they traced lazy shapes against your sides. You readjusted your clothes, sitting in the back as you both tried to steady your breathing and taking in the silence.

Gideon glanced over. "Slurpee?"

You huffed a quiet laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah."

He opened the door, reaching for your hand to help you out. "I think I'll do blue today."

You shut the door behind you, reaching for his hand. His fingers intertwined with yours, pulling you close. The red and green lighting from the gas station reflected off of his cheeks. "I'll do red, like always. Cherry's good."

He smiled. "Wanna make purple?"

"Nasty," you huffed.

Gideon glanced down at you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “Why are you walkin’ like you just got off a rollercoaster?”

You gave him a sharp look, cheeks burning. “Maybe because someone thinks every backseat is a challenge.”

He laughed, head tilted back. “You didn’t seem to mind when I had your leg up-”

You smacked his chest. “Do not finish that sentence in public.”

He grinned, holding the door open for you as the gas station clerk greeted you both. The chill of the AC hit your skin like a wall. Inside, everything buzzed fluorescent white and smelled like hot dogs and spilled ICEEs.

“Blue Raspberry or Blue Coconut?” he asked, already reaching for two cups.

You gave him a look. “You mix it every time, don’t lie.”

“I blend it,” he corrected, pulling the lever for a bit of both. “There’s a difference.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a straw. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He shot you a smirk as he handed you your full cup. “I’m also a good time in parking lots.”

“Tragic,” you said around your first sip. “Imagine putting that on a résumé.”

Gideon leaned against the counter, watching you like you hung the damn stars. “Nah,” he said, licking the Slurpee off his spoon-straw. “I’d save that for the wedding vows.”

#gideon gemstone #skyler gisondo #gideon gemstone x reader #gideon gemstone x you #gideon gemstone x fem reader #the righteous gemstone #gideon gemstone fanfic #the righteous gemstones #fanfic #the righteous gemstones x reader

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ervotica · 1 year ago

Note

liam mairi x reader where he literally loses it during the torture chamber over seeing her hurt

pairing; liam mairi x fem!reader

warnings; torture lol, graphic depictions of violence and injury, liam is a little unhinged (as much as a golden retriever can be) and also the best bf ever. also xaddy makes an appearance <3

a/n; for argument's sake, liam is alive and well (also for my sake bc he's my baby and i adore him) this is a little different to the plot in the books as liam isn't *technically* there during the torture chamber scene, so this diverts from the original plot. this is gonna get like 4 whole notes but idgaf because liam is taking up my entire mind atm i just want that boy to smother me in love and i can kiss his perfect face<3

Knuckles crack against the already swollen expanse of your jaw and your neck whips sideways awkwardly as blood fills your gasping mouth. Your ears ring, vision beginning to blur and blacken at the edges as Liam roars.

You can't see him for the soldiers crowding your line of vision, but the guttural sound that rips its way from his throat is unlike anything you've ever heard before. It's raw, full of untethered fury that no one would expect from a kind soul like Liam. But, then again, no one's seen the lengths he will go to to keep you safe.

"I'm fine, Li," you murmur, neck cracking as you wrench your head upright to reassure him. The swarm of bodies part somewhat, and they back against the wall; you watch him thrash against the restraints, teeth bared like a predator; it's a stark juxtaposition to his usual - docile - countenance.

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill all of you!” he bellows, voice permeating the otherwise relatively silent chamber. It cuts through you like glass, and you wince as another blow collides with your cheekbone. You feel it shatter, growling through grit teeth at your attacker.

“You have all the power here,” he croons. “Tell us what we need to know, and I’ll let you go.”

“Fuck you,” you seethe. “You really think I’ll break that easily?”

He cracks his knuckles slowly, one by one echoing through the empty room as he paces, his head tilting curiously as though he's enraptured by your resilience. “No. But he will.”

Your nostrils flare, eyes darting to where Liam’s still struggling to break himself free. His eyes are dark, cerulean replaced with black onyx as the rage consumes him.

“You underestimate us,” you say simply; your chin juts out indignantly. “We’re not telling you shit.”

Your ribs are next to break with a sickening crunch, and when you scream, the sharp yell of your boyfriend takes up all the space left in your brain. It's all you hear, all you can decipher through the thick cotton wadded into your ears, the only thing you can manage past the searing flames that set your body alight with agony. Your lids start to droop, lips parting to croak something indiscernible; and Liam's begging, pleading with you to stay conscious, but even as you gaze up at him through sticky, tear-soaked lashes, the darkness wraps its cruel fingers around your throat and you can't fend it off.

You don't know how many days it's been when your eyes peel open, glued shut with sleep. Every nerve ending in your body ignites, set aflame with pure, unrelenting excruciation. Your chest heaves and the movement triggers another cataclysmic inferno; a sob claws its way from your throat almost involuntarily, your body relying purely on survival instincts.

Xaden's standing over you in an instant, a warm palm cradled against the curve of your jaw to keep you still when you shout and thrash, trying to rid yourself of the unyielding pain that courses through your veins like liquid fire.

"Shh, shh." He's doing his best to placate you, but you're manic, eyes wide and frantic as you attempt to orientate yourself in the room.

"Liam," you croak. "Where's Liam?"

"He's okay. He's fine. I need you to stay calm, okay?" A tear slips past your clogged waterline and runs over Xaden's knuckle, his thumb following its downward path to brush it away.

"I want Liam," you wheeze, a pain that transcends physicality blooming into your aching chest. "Please."

There's a scuffle and a flash of blonde before Liam is crouching at your side, a thick fingered hand anchoring against the top of your head.

"I'm right here, my girl. You didn't think I'd leave you alone, did you?"

You shake your head vehemently despite the throbbing in your temples, your own fingers looping around his wrist to keep him close, to keep him touching you.

"It hurts, Li," you whimper, and it's the first sign of true weakness he's seen you expose in this long, painful week. You're safe to fall apart now, safe with the knowledge that he'll help you put yourself back together.

"I know. We just need to get you fixed up and you'll feel better."

He tips forward on his toes to press his cheek to yours, and the warmth of his breath tickles at the shell of your ear. His face turns, nose squishing into the soft flesh of your cheek, lips puckered in a kiss against the corner of your mouth. You feel the scab, long dried over, and the groove in his lip where it's split; when he tilts his head sideways to watch you, your eyes fix on it.

"You're hurt," you sniffle. "It's my fault."

"Oh, this old thing?" He waves you off, flippant as the tip of his finger prods at the dried skin. "Doesn't even hurt, angel. Don't you worry about me."

"I do worry about you."

You use the little strength you have left to turn on your side, tuning out Liam's abrupt protests until there'e enough room for two on the bed. He knows what you want from no more than a pleading glance.

"I can't-" he starts, and the complaints die in his throat when your fingers dig into the worn fabric of his uniform.

"I need you," you admit. His shoulders slouch in defeat.

"You promise to go to sleep?"

He lifts your tender body, propping you against a muscular forearm as he slides beneath you, and settling you between two thick thighs, your back to his chest. His warmth seeps into your pores and he feels you sag, only succumbing to the exhaustion now you know he's safe.

Fingernails scratch at your scalp and dimples crater into the centre of his cheeks when your head tilts to nuzzle deeper into the touch. The flaring pain resides to a dull - but manageable - ache.

"I'm tired," you say, muffled.

"I know, my girl." You don't miss the thrum of his pulse, the way it picks up when he catches sight of the deep bruises that mar your skin, the swelling from broken bones. He's angry.

And he's going to make them pay for this.

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stevesgother · 2 months ago

Text

When The Sun Hits - S.H

steve harrington x fem!reader summary - an old acquaintence saves you at the beginning of the end of the world. 1.1k next chapter series masterlist

You're surrounded by the dead. Everywhere you turn, there's a reanimated corpse ready to tear the supple flesh straight from your bones.

The plan was to make it to Atlanta, where your family waited for you. Or at least you hoped they were. Now, it felt all for naught-- gone with the wind. You were almost positive the next minutes you spent fighting off these cannibalistic monsters would be your last.

An especially nasty one had you pinned against a tree; it's rotted flesh and yellowed teeth gnarling and snapping at you inches from your face. You struggled for purchase on the small paring knife-- your only remaining weapon. Rough bark left miniscule lacerations along the skin of your back, sure to bruise. Not that it'll matter soon.

You wish you'd had a chance to say goodbye. Send a message in a bottle and pray it ended up with your loved ones in Georgia; at least you would've been able to say you had tried.

That's the last thought you have before you hear a grunt-- an especially human sounding one at that. Some unknown force causes the walker to lose its footing, and you both fall backwards with the entirety of its deadweight on top of you. It does the exact opposite of cushion your fall.

Your head hits a particularly pointy rock-- the sharp edge of it bashes into the back of your cranium, close to the nape of your neck. You feel every excruciating second of it, until you don't.

Theres a person hovering over you-- driving a much larger knife than yours into the soft, decaying skull of the walker seconds before it takes a generous bite out of your neck. It's the last thing you remember seeing before the scope of your vision fades steadily from an amalgamation of lush greens and browns of the surrounding forest to a pitch black.

There's a relentless throbbing at the base of your skull-- a low thrum of a searing ache that undercurrents any other sensation you might be feeling. Surely you must be dead; that zombie had eaten you alive and now you were in hell.

You attempt to sit up, but not without an involuntary groan of pure, white-hot pain.

"Woah, hey," a distantly familiar voice cautions you. You're unable to place it-- a soft tenor with a hint of raspiness, presumably from overuse. You can't seem to will your eyes open to see who it is, despite every instinct in your body screaming that you're in imminent danger.

'You need to assess your surroundings.' A voice in your head tells you. It sounds like your mother. It always sounds like your mother.

You unstick your lashes just enough to see that same shape from earlier, still hovering over you, slightly to your left. Your visions swirls like a kaleidoscope; you can't focus your eyes on any one spot. Instinctually, you reach for the knife usually strapped securely to your thigh.

"it's not there," the stranger informs you dismissively as they snap their fingers across your field of view, "can you see at all?"

"Who are you?" You ask desperately, "What the hell did you do with my knife?"

The blurry mess in front of you slowly takes the shape of a human, though you already knew that to be the case. Now though, you can see that it's a man; one that you know better than you'd care to admit. It takes more than a few slow blinks to place him here, in such a desolate setting.

"Harrington?" You ask, attempting to sit up again.

"You need to stop moving." Steve objects firmly, "You have a concussion."

"What are you...how did you...?" You feel completely delirious-- not even entirely convinced he isn't a figment of your imagination torturing you.

"Doesn't matter." He says bluntly, "You're safe, but you can't fall asleep for a while, alright?"

"I need to get to Atlanta," you begin to protest, utterly refusing to lie still, "my family-- my family's waiting for me, I need to go--"

"If you think you're making it more than ten feet out of this tent with a head injury like that," he pauses, "you're stupider than I thought."

"Screw you," you spit, "I didn't ask you to save me."

"My fault," Steve sighs exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his sharp nose between his fingers, "I'll leave you to die next time."

Neither of you says anything for about twenty, excruciatingly long minutes.

"Why are you still here?" You ask softly, speaking above a whisper suddenly too painful to bear. You ask more so in an attempt to end the tense silence than out of genuine curiosity.

Steve seems to understand, and he whispers back, "Got left behind. Remember when the military people came to take everyone to Ohio? Said there was some sort of 'quarantine zone' there?"

He waits for your comprehension, you nod, "Well, apparently 'everyone' doesn't actually mean everyone."

You're unable to think coherently enough to form a response with an ounce of substance-- the throb in your head still refusing to cease. What you wouldn't give for an Advil right now.

Steve continues when you don't reply, "Why are you still here?"

"My mom and my brother," you wince, clearing your throat, "they were visiting my grandparents in Atlanta when everything happened. I wouldn't get on the military trucks. I didn't want to be gone if they came back home."

"Stupid." Steve mutters.

"I'm going to see my family again or I'm going to die trying." You tell him, a little more defiant this time.

"Right now," he corrects, "you're going to wait out this concussion. Then we'll go."

"Sorry-- 'we'?"

"Cincinnati is on the way to Atlanta. It's safer to go together." Steve laments.

"I'd rather risk it on my own." You were pushing it now-- being bitter just to be bitter.

"Really? Is this really how it's gonna be?" Steve asks incredulously, "It's the end of the world, for Christ's sake." He pauses, "Believe me, I'm not too thrilled about it either."

You turn onto your side away from Steve; preferring to watch paint dry than continue this pointless conversation. Worse, you knew he was right. There was a massive safety in numbers-- even if it was just the two of you.

The heavy patter of rainfall against the tarp of the tent is lulling you dangerously close to a dreamless sleep.

"Hey," Steve nudges your leg with his, "Stay awake."

You huff a response, shooing his leg away with the worn sole of your boot. You aren't close enough to touch-- still, his body heat keeps you warm throughout the night.

'He runs hot', you remember, against your will before eventually falling into a restless slumber.

graphic credit to @/strangergraphics taglist - @madaboutjoe

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bunny-1111 · 8 months ago

Note

hii i kind of recently stumbled into your account and i absolutely fell in love!! i love your writing and your theme 🤍 i was wondering if you could make one with theo where he's academic rivals with y/n but one day he pushes y/n a bit too far and it ends in him comforting/"babying" her? u can make them end up together or not its up to you! thank you in advanced ml

Thank you babyyyyyy <3 I appreciate you sm, I hope you enjoy

Word Count: 3.8k

Unedited and not reread

Reblogs comment and like appropriated my darlings

...

The flicker of candlelight and the soft shuffling of enchanted books were the only sounds in the nearly deserted library. You blinked, the strain in your eyes a reminder of the four long hours you had spent hunched over your notes. Stretching your arms above your head, you allowed your gaze to wander, taking in the rows of shelves and the dim ambience. The stillness of the evening should have been calming, but it wasn’t. Not when your eyes finally landed on him.

Theodore Nott was already staring at you, his dark eyes gleaming with that infuriating smirk, a silent taunt written all over his face. He didn’t even have to say a word to get under your skin; just being there, watching you, was enough.

You sighed, refusing to break the stare as he approached, his steps deliberate, elbows resting on the edge of your cluttered table without so much as a word. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of speaking first. If he wanted to start this, he could be the one to open his mouth.

“Struggling again, I see,” his voice finally cut through the quiet, dripping with arrogance as he nodded towards your scattered textbooks.

“I’m succeeding, not struggling, Nott,” you snapped, your gaze flicking back to your notes. The exhaustion gnawing at you was starting to wear thin, but you wouldn’t let him see it. “Maybe if you spent less time bothering me, you’d be worried about keeping up.”

Theo chuckled, stepping around the table, his presence closing in behind you. You could feel him hovering, leaning just close enough that the heat of his gaze bore into your back. “I’ll be waiting at the top while you catch up,” he murmured.

Your jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as you buried yourself further into your notes. You knew his game well by now—pushing, teasing, always trying to be one step ahead. He lived for it, as did you but lately, you were starting to feel like it was wearing you down.

“Wrong year,” his finger dropped onto your page, tapping on one of your scribbled notes. “It was 1783, not 1781. Get that wrong, and you can kiss ten marks goodbye. There’s so much for you to learn, I'll tutor you. You clearly need the extra help. How about we start with the Declaration of mer-kind Independence” he teases slowly

“I’m fine,” you say hiss, pulse-quickening in irritation. He picks up a stray book you had abandoned over an hour ago

He chuckles, a low sound that sets your nerves on edge. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’m just offering to help.” he studies the back of the book cover in his hands, whipping your head around, snatching the book back off him.

“Don’t touch what’s not yours, Theodore, and you're wrong, it's not mer-kind, it’s merpeople. Misuse the term, and you can say goodbye to 10 marks” You smile, using his own words against him.

He only grinned wider; he loved it when you played this game. “You’ll be back here tomorrow?” he asked like it was already decided.

“Mhm,” you hummed, gathering your things. “Nowhere better.” You didn’t bother with a goodbye, letting your words linger in the air as you made your exit.

The next day, as promised, you returned. Same seat. Same workload. But this time, the weight of it all pressed harder against your temples, exhaustion gnawing at you, threatening to topple the carefully built walls of concentration you had managed to put up. Don’t let him get to you, you reminded yourself; three weeks of non-stop studying couldn't be for nothing. But even as you focused on the page in front of you, you didn’t have to look up to know Theo had arrived.

“You’re going to burn a hole through that parchment if you keep glaring at it like that,” his voice cuts through your thoughts.

Your grip tightens around your quill, ignoring him completely, even as your cheeks flush with irritation.

“Come on, don’t ignore me,” he adds, that familiar teasing lilt in his voice. “You’re gonna give me a complex.”

You finally glance up, the smirk on his face testing your patience. Theo, as usual, drops into the seat across from you, uninvited. His dark eyes glint with amusement—he’s fully aware of what he’s doing. He always knows how to push your buttons.

"Don’t you have your own table?" you mutter, eyes flicking back to your notes.

"This one’s got a better view." His gaze is fixed pointedly on you.

You roll your eyes, irritation bubbling up. "If you’re here to distract me, save it. I’m focusing."

"Oh, I’m sure you are." His tone is light and teasing, but there’s always that edge to it. "But no matter how hard you try, you’re not going to beat me on this test tomorrow."

His words hit harder than they should. You grit your teeth, trying to keep your expression neutral. The weight of the upcoming test, the sleepless nights, the constant competition with Theo—it’s all piling on, suffocating you.

"I don’t have time for your games, Theo," you snap, your voice sharper than you intended.

He raises an eyebrow, not even flinching. "Games? I thought you enjoyed our little rivalry. Keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?" He leans over, slamming your book shut without warning.

You slam your hand over the book, eyes wide with frustration. "Don’t touch my stuff! Just… go find your own table!"

Theo doesn’t respond immediately, but the smirk falters. He gathers his things with more force than necessary, walking to the next table. But he doesn’t stop there, not entirely. "Yeah, well, don’t stop studying now," he throws over his shoulder. "Wouldn’t want a repeat of last year’s essay, would we?"

That comment—it hits differently this time. You’ve barely slept, barely eaten, and the pressure is crushing you. The final thread of patience snaps inside of you.

"Why do you always do this?!" Your voice echoes in the library as you stand abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. Several students glance your way, but you don’t care. "Every time, Theo. You can’t leave me alone for five minutes!"

Theo looks taken aback, clearly not expecting the outburst. He recovers quickly though, that smug mask returning. "Because I know you can handle it. It’s called motivation."

"Motivation?" you scoff, barely believing your ears.

You let out a bitter laugh, shoving your books into your bag with a force that surprises even you. “You know what? I’m done. Done with you and your constant need to prove you’re better than me. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. Fucking pathetic ”

The scrape of your chair against the floor is loud, cutting through the silence of the library as nearby students glance up. Theo’s smile dropped, his expression shifting as he watched you storm off, you didn’t wait for him to respond. When you finally reach the astronomy tower, the cold night air hits your face the moment you step outside, but it does nothing to cool the simmering anger burning inside you. Leaning against the stone wall of the courtyard, you try to steady your breath, but your chest heaves with frustration. Why does he always have to push so hard? Why can’t he just—

“Hey.”

The sound of his voice makes you tense. You don’t look up.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

“looking for you,” he says, stopping a few feet away, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “You left in a bit of a hurry.”

“Yeah. Intentionally,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the ground.

Theo moves closer, a sigh escaping his lips. “I don’t like seeing you react like that.”

You scoff, pushing off the wall to face him. “Maybe if you didn’t constantly push me to my breaking point, I wouldn’t. I can’t keep up with your games anymore. I’m not eating, I’m not sleeping—it’s messing with my head. Why do you insist on this bullshit?”

He finally speaks. “I push you because you’re the only one who can keep up and what the fuck do you mean not eating, not sleeping”

The words catch you off guard, and you blink, trying to process what he just said. For years, you thought the rivalry was all about him proving he was better, about him enjoying getting under your skin. But this—this feels different. More personal.

“I don’t understand,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.

Theo takes a step closer, his dark eyes searching yours. “I push you because I like spending time with you. You get so focused, so intense, and it drives me crazy in the best way. When you make that face when you're really focused; you have a certain smile when you get a higher grade than me, too” His voice is low, careful, and it makes your heart pound you turn to leave, to catch up with your beating heart in private, when he grabs your wrist, pulling your right back

Before either of you can say another word, footsteps echo from the stone steps behind you. The unmistakable voices of Pansy and Enzo interrupt the fragile moment.

“Honestly, if Theo’s up here sulking again, I’m hexing him,” Pansy’s voice echoes up the stairs, cutting through the silence, laced with her typical blend of annoyance and affection. “I don’t have the energy for his brooding tonight.”

Before you can even think to pull away, Theos arm relaxes on yours, still tight enough to keep you in place, gentle enough for you to not want to let go, The moment between you and Theo hangs in the air, fragile and unfinished.

“Wow,” is what automatically splits out of your best friend's witty tongue, looking between the two of you. “Well, well, well, what have we here?” Pansy smirks, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the two of you standing so close. “Did I interrupt some kind of lovers' spat turned romantic reconciliation?”

Enzo leans against the doorway, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Looks like Theo’s finally stopped acting like a total git,” he says with a chuckle. “About time.”

Heat rushes to your face, and you try to pull away, but Theo doesn’t let you go, his arm still firmly wrapped around your waist. “It’s not—” you start, but Pansy’s smirk only deepens.

“Please, spare me,” she says, waving a hand dramatically. “I’ve been watching this slow burn for years. You can drop the act now.”

Enzo smirks, clearly enjoying Theo’s discomfort. “Who knew Theo had a soft side?”

Theo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Can you two not?”

Pansy crosses her arms, the grin never leaving her face. “Oh, please. Don’t stop on our account. I’m dying to see how this academic rivalry plays out when you two finally, you know, release your tension.” She winks.

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes, “It’s not what it looks like,” you mumble, saving your almost-exposed smile

“You two have been going at it for so long, it was bound to end in a hug or a duel. Looks like you chose the softer option.” Smiles Enzo

You bite back a laugh, “Well, it hasn’t ended in bloodshed… yet” you joke, glancing up at him.

Pansy leans against the wall, still smirking. “So, what’s the plan now? Are you two going to keep pretending you hate each other or finally admit there’s something more going on?”

Theo shakes his head, looking amused despite himself. “You’re unbelievable, Pansy.”

Pansy just grins wider. “Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

You glare at her, but there’s no real bite behind it. It’s Pansy, after all, and if anyone was going to notice the tension between you and Theo, it was going to be her. Still, your cheeks burn as she watches you both with that insufferable smirk of hers.

Theo sighs beside you, “Merlin, Pansy, can you not?”

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive,” Pansy teases, crossing her arms. “I’m just saying, if you’ve finally decided to stop terrorising each other, the least you can do is admit it.

Enzo, clearly enjoying Theo’s misery, pats him on the back. “Don’t worry, mate. We’re rooting for you me and Draco have a bet of 5 galleons again Blaise that you two get together before end of school year.”

“Get the fuck out of here, both of you,” Theo growls, but his eyes flick to you as he says it. His tone, the one that’s usually directed at you, is now used for your defense. And you don’t miss the way his gaze softens as Pansy and Enzo finally turn to leave, You roll your eyes, though the tension in your chest loosens slightly. “This isn’t some grand confession,” you mutter, glancing up at Theo. “Right?”

Theo smirks down at you, the usual arrogance gone, replaced with something softer. “Right,” he agrees, though the hand still resting on your waist suggests otherwise.

Pansy snorts. “not in love with each other, my ass. You two have been circling each other like animals for years, and now look at you, all cosy.”

With that, you finally step back from Theo, he didn’t fight you dropping your hand, crossing your arms over your chest. “We’re fine, Pansy. It’s not a big deal.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not believing a word. “Whatever you say, you’re my best friend if you think I’m going to let this slide without some serious teasing later, you’re delusional.”

you roll your eyes. “Why don’t you go find something else to meddle in, Pans?” Theo lets out before you have the chance to reply. Unbeknownst to you he is desperately wanting for you two to be alone again

Pansy grins wickedly. “Oh, I fully intend to. But don’t think for a second I’m letting this go. I’ll need a full report on how we got here.”

Enzo nudges her, clearly ready to leave you two alone. “Come on, Pans. Let them breathe.”

Pansy gives you both one last pointed look before finally turning to follow Enzo out. “I’ll be waiting for details,” she calls over her shoulder, her voice sing-song and full of mischief.

The door swings shut behind them, and the quiet returns. You glance up at Theo, unsure whether to laugh or cringe at Pansy’s dramatics.

Once they’re gone, the space feels quieter. Lighter. Theo shifts beside you, and for the first time, the tension between you two doesn’t feel like it’s pulling you apart.

“So” Theo starts hesitantly. “Do you still think I’m just trying to one-up you?”

You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” you admit softly.

He steps closer, his usual bravado slipping away, replaced by something more vulnerable. “Then let me tell you.” His hand moves, and before you can react, his fingers gently cup your cheek. The warmth of his palm against your skin makes your breath catch. “You’re a bright witch. Brighter than anyone I know. I can see you’re tired of this game… but you’re not tired of me.”

The weight of his words settles over you, and for the first time, it feels like the competition has faded into the background, leaving something real in its place. Something different.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice steadier than you expected.

Theo’s about to smile when you pull away, breaking the moment. “I have to go. There’s that test tomorrow, and I want a good night’s sleep.”

“Mhm,” he nods, though his eyes linger on you, like he’s not ready to let the moment end.

You manage a small smile. “Still have to try and beat you, Nott.”

But he doesn’t laugh this time. There’s something more behind his eyes, something deeper, and for the first time, you wonder if maybe you’ve been playing the wrong game all along, he’s wondering the same thing.

You have an overwhelming feeling that if you stay alone with him any longer you’re going to do something without thought, or that he might bet you to it, your mind was a mess, you turn saying nothing more, not even a goodnight, racing with your own legs to catch up to Pansy.

The test comes and goes, and you walk out of the classroom with your head hanging low. You feel miserable, you aren't confident in your work, and you are terrified it will reflect on your grade.

On top of that you’ve made it your mission to avoid Theodore like the plague. How could you two even communicate without the teasing, without the constant back-and-forth, without unnerving everyone else around you? You have no idea, and you’re not about to figure it out anytime soon, it brought on a new set of frustration, a new set of nerves, it was almost worse than before.

As you sit, wanting to sink into your seat, waiting for your result, you feel a tremble threaten to spill out of your lips. You’re haze broken by a soft nudge that sways your body, looking over to see Theodore; with a sigh, you set your eyes straight ahead; you can't afford to become distracted now. You can’t take much more uncertainty.

You take a shaky breath as the parchment lands before you, but you can’t bring yourself to look at it. You already know. The sinking feeling in your gut says it all.

You failed.

Your hands shake as you stare down at it, that big, ugly number glaring back at you. Not just a bad grade—an actual, undeniable failure. The first one you’ve ever had. And it crushes you. The pressure to keep up, to stay on top of everything, to keep pace with him.

You brace yourself, waiting for the inevitable jab, you felt things changing between you both, but you still expected a small dose of sarcasm.

But it doesn’t come.

Theo is quiet. Too quiet. You chance a glance over, expecting his usual cocky grin, but what you find is... different. His expression is unreadable, brows furrowed as he watches you. There’s no teasing. No smugness. Just... concern.

“You okay?” His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, careful, like he’s testing unfamiliar waters.

You blink, startled by the gentleness. “Fine,” you mutter, though it sounds weak even to your own ears.

He doesn’t believe you. He leans in a little closer, eyes narrowing as if he’s studying you, really looking at you, “dismissed” you hear your professor say above the noise of the classroom chatter.

You waste no time leaving class. You rub your eyes as you make your way down the hall, straight down to your common room.

You felt sad, disheartened, unaccomplished; you hadn't even noticed Theodore light jog to join you by your side, so unfocused that you kept walking when he called you to stop, he had to place his hands on your shoulders, his knuckles lifting your chin to force you to face him.

So there you stood, eyes meeting his and here is comes, the waterworks, unintentionally falling down your face.

You had no idea how Theo would react, Merlin, you didn’t want this to be happening but, it was, you couldn’t stop if you tried.

He wastes no time in pulling you into his chest. “Come on,” he mutters, rubbing your shoulder with his thumb, leading you both to the nearby couch in the empty common room.

When you finally have enough courage to look back up, you almost cry again when you lock eyes with the softness of Theo’s, never experiencing the affectionateness of each other.

“I failed” you choke out, muffled into his chest, he pulls you out to face him immediately “No. You didn’t,” he says as surprised as you are

“I did” you cry harder, forcing yourself back into his chest, his hands now find their way into your hair

“This is my fault, I pushed you too hard, for too long, I’m sorry, alright, I’m sorry” he rambles

"You don’t have to apologise," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I should’ve taken better care of myself."

Theo’s gaze snapped back to you, intense and unwavering. Both of his hands on each side of your face. "No," he said firmly, his jaw tightening. “I am sorry” he repeated

You looked down, your heart pounding in your chest. It felt surreal—this conversation, this moment. The Theo you knew, the Theo who pushed you to your limits and didn't feel sorry, you who would push him unapologetically, that Theo wouldn’t be saying these things, that you wouldn’t be feeling these things. But here he was, raw and real in front of you, admitting that he’d been wrong, and here you were, scared if you looked into his eyes for a second longer, you’d reveal how you felt before you could even come to terms with it.

"I don’t know what to say," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Theo leaned in a little closer, his lips brushing a soft kiss onto your forehead ever so lightly, the touch sent a shiver down your spine, you didn’t pull away. "You don’t have to say anything right now," he said softly, his voice warm. "Just… think about it. We can do this together. No more pushing, no more competition—just you and me, figuring it out."

Your heart stuttered at the way he said you and me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it had always been there, hidden beneath the layers of rivalry and tension that had built up over the years.

You took a deep breath, letting his words sink in. You weren’t sure what this meant—what it would mean for the two of you going forward—but for the first time in a long while, you felt like you weren’t drowning under the pressure. Theo was offering something you never thought you’d get from him.

You let out a confused huff, laced with exhaustion, comfort, happiness, sadness, all of it in one sigh. Theo pulls you into a deep hug again, kissing your head over and over, when you finally pull away, you almost whispered "can I-" your lips hovering so close in front of his, "yes" he practically spoke into your mouth as your lips collide, sinking into each other until a sudden gasp makes you both break away and look over

“I fucking TOLD you, Enzo!” Pansy yells out, mouth agape, pointing at the two of you. At the same time, Blaises hands Draco his galleons. Apparently, everyone knew this was coming but the two of you.

i dont know how to feel about this fic tbh. Not my favourite piece of writing, I'm honestly kinda disappointed in this one, I've been working so much I think I'm burnt out... ughhhh anyway love y'all. ANON I hope this is sort of what you had in mind... its almost 3:30 am so IM INSECURE about posting this alright IDKKKK HELP hxweomhfsou,nzw

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