jadefromwattpad

[jadefromwattpad]

The Wine

Pedro Pascal x Reader 2.9k words Author: completely inspired by this TikTok, just pure Pedro admiration with a dash of smut bc my writers brain had a mind of its own, not proof read pls forgive me

Pedro looks...different under the light of your friend's kitchen. Or maybe it's the effects of the white wine that dances on your tongue, swirls in your glass. He's dressed simply, casually even. A long sleeve cream henley rolled up to his elbows and a medium wash jean. It perfectly fits the occasion, so why does it feel all too much when his forearm braces himself on the counter and flexes under his weight?

You push yourself off of the wall you've been leaning on, walking the short distance over to him. It's a simple get together, just you and friends. Only six of you all together, laughing and drinking, yet you still find your way to his side. A move that surprises no one but yourself. Everyone is still talking, crowded around the kitchen island. You put your now empty glass on the counter, and he pulls out of the conversation like you tugged a rope.

His voice is a low, heavy timbre, cheeks pink from his glasses of wine or maybe the beer he shared with some of the guys earlier. "Red or white?"

Your eyes meet his, deep, brown, endless. If the light catches it just right, you see things you shouldn't in them. Things that involve you and him and a lifetime that has yet to exist. Your eyebrow arches, a teasing smile across your lips. "Do you have to ask?"

He laughs, "Guess not." His firm hands grip the neck of the expensive white wine he had brought (you tell yourself it was for you). He holds it properly, like a server in a high end restaurant, bottle resting on his bare forearm as the liquid pours into your glass. Your eyes travel up the waterfall of wine, up his strong arms and firm shoulders, up the veins of his neck and the scruff of his chin. He looks special in this light--holy, even. Maybe it's the wine, but the light behind him casts a halo over his head. You hear things that aren't there. A harp, violins, songbirds and the morning breeze. "Madame," he bows his head and offers you the wine glass with both hands like he's making an offering to a goddess.

Your hands touch when you take it. "Thank you. Glad to see there's still faithful servants these days."

His smile is infectious. You hide yours behind the glass. "Anything for you, my liege." He tips his head, and you find yourself distracted by the curls that seem just a little lighter than before. It's times like this when you know this can't be your first life together. There had to have been hundreds where you've loved him just as much as now. Only when you're this drunk, can you admit it to yourself that you're in love with him. And you think he knows. In fact, you don't think he minds.

You look over to your friend who calls your name and begs you to tell the story of that guy in the bar last weekend because you just tell it so much better than I can! And when you talk, you can feel his eyes on you. Maybe you imagined it, but you can feel the heavy weight scan your face, the way you animatedly talk with your arms before spilling a bit of wine and putting it down with a laugh, the white slip dress that drapes over your frame, your bare legs.

Pedro laughs loudly, face balking in surprise at the joke you'd made about this poor guy in the bar who would always be a source of entertainment for your friend group. He laughs so hard that he lightly grabs your waist and tries to muffle himself in your hair as you fondly glare at him and swat his shoulder for interrupting your story. But when the laughing subsides, he's still there. He's behind you now, big, warm arms wrapped around your frame as the conversation switches to his latest press release. You can feel the vibrations of his chest against your back as he talks, head rested on top of yours. You take a rather large gulp of wine at his proximity, the sweetness coating your mouth and clouding your vision. Your dress is so thin, and he's just so warm. You feel a strange sense of satisfaction. Pedro Pascal, with his fan girls and interviews, is pressed against you. He chose to be here with you. And maybe it doesn't mean anything.

But then again, maybe it does.

Eventually the group disperses, some grab one of the wine bottles and slump on your couch with the promise of a card game, one begs for directions to the bathroom, you and Pedro make your way out to the terrace. It's a cool night, the wind blows lightly enough to raise goosebumps but you’re not sober enough to feel it.

“Guess what I grabbed?” He looks at you with a thinly concealed smirk. His hands are behind his back, the veins from his arms travel down—or up, you suppose.

You laugh lightly, leaning against the railing, the city and stars behind you, moonlight casting down. The wine glass in your hand sparkles under this light. “I don’t know.”

He reveals a bottle of wine. “The last of the white. I hid it under the counter.” He places the bottle down on the metal table with a soft clink and sits down on the chair next to it.

“I expected nothing less,” You’re already over to him, standing in front of his spread legs, and examining the label on the bottle. From the corner of your eye, you examine him. His large, muscular thighs are spread apart, hips shifting every so often. His hair ruffles in the breeze with the end of your dress. A shiver runs up your spine.

“Cold, baby?” His voice is almost gravelly, rough with words that get caught in his throat. You’re not sure if your shiver was the result of the wind or him, but still you nod. His large hands hold your waist lightly. “Well, c’mre then.”

You allow him to pull you closer, perching you on one of his legs. You can feel his warmth through your clothes. His thigh feels muscular under you, and you lean back—head and back pressing against his chest. You take another mouthful of wine and say simply, "I missed you when you were gone." It’s not a big deal. Just a fact. Just a friend to a friend. You offer the glass back to him. He takes a sip and holds it on his other thigh. Everything feels entirely too romantic. Maybe it’s the wine.

His hand that had been resting on your thigh draws lazy shapes that make you see things that have never happened. “I missed you too. Always do. I think of you a lot when I'm gone."

The glass is passed back to you. The message is simple. A wine glass in your hand. A ball in your court. Your turn. "I'm glad. I feel like," you pause as if searching for the right wording, "I can feel when you're gone. It's like a hole or something. Does that make sense?" He hums in a way that lets you know that absent feeling is mutual. You clear your throat, because this is uncharted territory with him in so many ways, and hand the glass back. "How was it really? Press tours seem…a lot.”

Pedro sighs, curls tickling his forehead, “They are. It was fine, really. Just somedays I get sick of the constant questions and professionalism. Some days I just wanted to be Pedro, not Pedro Pascal. Does that make sense?”

You nod like you understand what it’s like to have so many people asking so much of you. “It makes sense. Suppose it just comes with the movie star terf,” you jest, poking at him. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be sick of it.”

He hums again in response. He hands you the glass and, just because you can, you place your lips exactly where his seems to have been. It's still warm. You hold the glass now, gazing out at the stars. It’s hard to see them in the city, with all its busyness and light pollution, but eventually your eyes adjust. And for a moment, it’s almost like you’re back home.

“What do you see up there, baby?” He asks, fingers playing with the end of your dress and dancing over your thighs. He looks down at you over his strong nose with an expression you don't see but probably couldn't decipher anyway.

“Orion’s Belt,” you reply, pointing at the three stars that create a line. You feel his head cock to the side, eyes following the line your arm makes.

“I don’t see anything. C’mon, show me.” He gently takes the glass out of your hand and sets it near the unopened bottle of wine. His hands tenderly lift your hips up, bringing you to a tipsy stand. He rises behind you, hand on your lower back as you approach the railing.

Your stomach presses against the railing as you point again, doing your best to describe the positioning of the stars.

“Ahh, I see it now. It’s those three, right? With the bright one in the middle?”

You turn to face him, entirely pleased. “Yeah,” you begin, put your breath catches on your throat at the way he’s looking down at you. The moon is behind him, casting him in shadows but you in perfect light. His eyes slowly dance down your face, across your chest, and to your shoulder where the strap of your dress has fallen down your arm—displaying more of your chest than he’s ever really seen.

His breath is warm against your fingers as he steps closer and slowly slips his finger under your strap. And for one sick, incredibly fucked up second, you hope that he’ll pull it down. But, ever the gentleman—though you desperately wish him not to be—, he brings it back over your shoulder. His finger slides out but doesn’t pull away. It lightly travels dangerously close to the top hem of your neckline, and wanders down your arm. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his finger, cutting through you like a ship through the sea. Parting for him without a real choice.

“Cold, baby?” This time it’s lithe, almost teasing.

This time you don’t nod. You look up into his coffee eyes, energizing you with just a glance. And maybe it’s the wine. But you say, “No.”

His hand has made it down to yours. He searches your eyes, imploringly, questioning. He’s giving you a chance, you realize. To pull away. To walk away. To forget this happened. To act like he isn’t staring at you with such emotion and softness.

He’s holding your hand now, staring intently until something changes. It’s minuscule, but you notice. He tugs your hand, bringing you impossibly closer. His other hand cups your jaw and cheek. And he pulls your lips to his. You react immediately because this is all you’ve really wanted for a long time.

His heat. His breath. His mouth. Him. Him. Him. That’s all the really matters. The years of waiting. The years of wondering. The years between you. None of it matters. It all makes it worth it.

His lips are soft, imperceptibly soft. They ensnare your senses. You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling at the soft root and—god, he groans into your mouth. Pedro’s other hand wanders up to your face, both hands cradling it so passionately. And maybe it’s the wine, but he kisses you like he’s in love. Like he has been for a while.

You’re not sure which one of you pulls back first, but your foreheads are pressing together. His deep, forest eyes are staring into yours like he’s scared you might disappear. But when he finds what he seems to be searching for in them, he pulls you even closer than before. His lips find your neck, immediately finding that spot that makes you squirm under him like he’d studied it. Pedro looks up at you with hooded eyes. The moonlight paints your face like a spotlight as you throw your head back at his movements. A moan rumbles through his chest and suddenly you’re pressed against the railing, pulling his mouth to yours feverishly. His hands slips down and down, tracing the outline of your breasts and the expanse of your stomach before dragging down your side and gripping firmly on your dress. He hikes it up just enough to pull back and stare at your smooth thigh. He grips it tightly, holding it at his waist as you moan out at the contact.

You and Pedro have been close in many ways, but never like this. This had always been reserved for dreams in late, lonely nights or perhaps nights like these with a bit of alcohol and someone with a similar demeanor.

The door to the terrace opens. He pauses and it’s all you can do to look over his shoulder. Your friend is staring at you, the last of the red wine in hand, mouth wide open but an even bigger satisfied expression takes hold. She takes in your hiked up dress, the red spots already forming on your neck, the leg wrapped around Pedro. “Holy shit! Finally!”

You groan, burying your face into his chest as he gently sets your leg down. “Please, don’t-”

But she’s already begun, words she doesn’t have control over tumbling out. “Holy shit! You’ve wanted to fuck him for like ever, but I didn’t think you’d actually do it!”

A laugh rumbled through Pedro and you feel your face becoming hot. “Oh no-”

“And you-and he! Holy shit! I totally interrupted didn’t I? I am so sorry! I’ll leave! Just, god please continue doing what you’re doing I can’t take this tension anymore! We can’t take the tension anymore!”

You lift your head just enough to resister everyone else staring through the windows with knowing smirks and an occasional thumbs up.

“You know what, we’ll just go! We were um, we had something that we were doing on the other end of the house right guys?” Everyone immediately shouts affirmatives and tries to scramble away. “Just uh, have fun! There’s an extra bedroom if you guys wanna-”

“Stop it!” You shout, as Pedro laughs so hard it shakes you.

“Right, sorry!” The door slams shut and you hear several sets of feet scurrying away.

Pedro smirks down at you, all handsome features, seductive eyes, and a mocking tone. “So, you’ve wanted to fuck me for like ever?”

You pinch your eyes shut and groan in embarrassment as you shove past him to the table and drink straight out of the wine bottle. "This is quite possibly the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me, so I would appreciate it if-"

"Me too." You go speechless, borderline dumb. What..? "I've been thinking about it for years." Oh. You open your mouth but only gape at him like a fish, stumbling into the chair behind you. But he knows, because he knows you in ways nobody else ever could or ever cared to. He kneels before you like a man at the altar, gently taking the wine bottle out of your hand before taking a rather large swig himself. "Might need a little more liquid courage for this."

You laugh, loudly. It's still him, still Pedro, and his stupid joke in the most stressful situation you've ever been in just proves that. The bottle clinks on the floor, and you're still laughing not really comprehending just what he could need the liquid courage for. You don't know until he gently cradles the back of your shin and brings it to his lips. He kisses the constellations up, up, and up. His facial hair brushes your inner thigh and you tense at the sensation. He looks up at you from between your legs with those big, doe eyes. "I'll stop if you want me to, baby. Just say the words."

"God, don't stop." He smirks against your skin like he knows you wouldn't say no and is entirely pleased.

"I won't, baby. I won't," Pedro assures voice thick with something heavier than lust yet somehow lighter. He continues pressing soft kisses up until he's just under the hem of your dress. You feel his hot breath between the apex of your thighs. He pushes the end of your dress up and you lift your hips obediently to make it easier for him to get closer to you in any way possible. "I've wanted to taste you for so long. I know she's sweet, please? Will you let me?"

"Yes," you reply, breathless.

His hands run up the length of your legs and softly grip your hips. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your underwear. The cool air hits you immediately, but then his mouth is on you. You gasp out as he nearly buries himself in you. His groan vibrates your pussy and you grab onto the metal table. "Fuck, baby. Even better than I imagined."

And even though there's so many words left to be said and so many things to straighten out and clarify, when he looks up at you through hooded eyes something tells you that everything will work out exactly how you dreamed it would.

[jadefromwattpad]

10/10, lives changed

BAD REVIEWS (a Bad Reviews by Sabrina Carpenter inspired fic)

you've heard more than your fair share of bad reviews about theo nott. that doesn't stop you from becoming the newest addition (theo nott x reader) [best viewed in dark mode]

a/n - i did NOT realise this fic was turning out this long which I think speaks to how much fun I was having writing it, planning it out carefully and setting the slow burn justtt right ahh I truly think this is one of my best pieces of writing ever? at least I rlly like it hahah so enjoy :))

tropes/warnings - tw toxic r/ship descriptions, lovebombing, unhealthy possessiveness, angst

word count - 6k! whoo!

taglist - @kandralice @justme989898 @iamheretoread1234 @allie-sturns @hzdhrtss @friedfreyfries @bushnellswife @rose-of-the-grave @thaliashifts @pariahsparadise @babene-e @fratbrochrisgf @user089167

Little Miss Formerly Delusional ★★★★☆ He’s charming. Too charming. He will reel you in just so he can ruin your life. I gave him my time, my life, my youth, and where do I end up? Crying in his shower - NEVER. AGAIN. He's so good at making you feel special. Scratch that - he's so good at getting what he wants.

It started at a picnic.

The kind that got cobbled together last minute with leftover snacks and a secondhand deck of cards, bodies strewn across the grass in lazy clusters, all chatter and sunshine and no plans beyond the hour.

You hadn’t planned to stay long. You almost left twice. But then someone pulled out a pack of cards, and everyone had gotten paired up for a game - you with Theo Nott, of all people - so you stayed.

You were seated opposite each other, cross-legged on some thin picnic blanket, knees knocking every so often every time one of you leaned over the card deck between you. Some slap-happy mess of a game that had rules no one followed properly but left everyone’s hands red and stinging from all the shouting and reflexes gone wrong.

Theodore Nott - teasing, long-limbed, annoyingly pretty - watched you with his sleeves rolled at the elbow, tie loosened. His eyes locked on yours with a lazy kind of intent. You'd seen him around plenty, and heard about him even more, but this was the first time you'd actually talked to him. Up close, he was worse. His vacant grin too self-assured with a rich, arrogant voice that promised all sorts of unscrupulous things.

Theo flirted, of course, in the way boys like him always did - bold, rehearsed, shameless. Fixing you with unabashed, unrelenting eye contact. Leaning over to you closer than what was strictly necessary. Playing the role of injured loverboy for every round he lost.

You rolled your eyes through most of it.

You'd heard the stories. Everyone knew the way he moved from girl to girl, leaving miserable shells in his wake like it was nothing. That boy didn’t even have a heart to break.

Three rounds in, he spoke up when you won. Again.

“You’ve got quick hands.”

You shrugged, sweeping up the cards.

“You’ve got a slow reaction time.”

His grin widened. “So modest.”

You finally deigned to return his gaze, your face as impassive as ever. “I don’t usually play nice.”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I like girls who make me work for it.”

You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes. Was that supposed to flatter you? Impress you?

"Do you?" you mumbled instead, dealing the cards out once again. When Theo didn't move to pick up his, still intent on watching you, you gave him a look and sighed.

“Look. You don’t even know me.”

“I’m trying.”

You looked bored.

“And why is that?”

“Because you look like you’ve already decided I'm not worth your time.” He rested his chin on his hand, unbothered. “Now I need to know if you’re right.”

You hesitated. That was...unexpected.

But you recovered almost immediately.

“Well,” you said, eyes flicking to the deck, speaking quickly, “I'll have to warn you. I’m not the kind of girl who gets affected easily.”

“‘Affected,’” he echoed, amused. “That's adorable.”

It wasn’t what you actually wanted to say. What you meant was: I’ve heard what you do to girls. I’ve seen the aftermath. And I’m not anywhere near stupid enough to be next.

But you didn’t say any of that. You just kept her expression level and glanced at the cards, seeing what Theo had missed. You slapped your hands on his.

“4 - 2,” you said, with a thinly veiled smugness.

Theo looked at your hands, then up at you, and smiled slow.

“You like this, don't you?"

“I like winning.”

He didn’t let you win the next round. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.

Later, when everybody was cooling off with some iced butterbeer, peeling grass off their sleeves, Theo glanced your way with a look that gave you a bad feeling in your gut.

He raked a hand through his hair with a careful air of nonchalance that was fooling no one, and said offhandedly, "You know, I let her win one of the early rounds, by the way.”

For a moment, you gaped at him and his slimy audacity. Then you sat up, affronted, nearly upsetting your butterbeer. “You what?”

He gave you a lazy blink. On another day, you might have considered him somewhat endearing. Today, he was getting on your last nerves.

“Thought it might soften you up.”

“You did not let me win," you said hotly, a strand of hair stuck to your uncomfortably sticky cheek. "You just couldn’t keep up.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t good. Just not as good as me.”

Oh, you could punch him. “The score was six to three - ”

“Yeah, and that third one? That was a gift.”

You turned to the others, scandalised. “He’s l - liar. Liar. He’s lying, I sw-.”

Theo just sipped his drink effortlessly. “I thought you didn’t get affected easily?”

That shut you up immediately. You turned away, face hot with something dangerously close to flustered. You'd walked into that one. Hard.

They'd only formally met a couple of hours ago and he somehow managed to already get under your skin. Just a little.

And he knew it.

When he leaned in a little closer to murmur something to someone beside him, you swore he was still smirking.

You weren't supposed to be caught off guard. Not by him. You knew boys like Theo Nott. Knew their tricks and charms and the revolving door of names on their lips.

Unfortunately, knowing didn’t make you any less curious.

Little Miss Territorial by Proxy ★★★☆☆ He’ll be possessive. And you'll like it. It feels flattering at first. I mean, why wouldn't it? Who doesn't luvvv being loved? It's always nice to feel wanted.

That's not what this is, though. Theodore Nott, erm, 'wants' in the way a hunter 'wants' a deer head stuffed and mounted on the wall.

The courtyard had that lazy kind of energy that lingered on warm afternoons - bodies stretched out, butterbeer bottles dusty and half-empty, faint music straining through the thick, heavy afternoon air from someone’s wireless. It was easy. Drowsy. Like no one wanted to be anywhere else.

Theo was already there when you arrived.

You noticed him from across the throng, lounging in one of the stone archways, a little separate from everyone else. He met your gaze. You looked away. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Eventually, someone pulled out a deck of cards again. Out of the few of you who could tolerate the smacking and getting smacked on such a hot day, you partnered up with a Ravenclaw named Liam - broad-shouldered, painfully chatty, cursed with the unfortunate affliction of not being as funny as he thought he was.

When you beat him - again - he let out an exaggerated groan and slumped back dramatically.

“Alright, alright. Clearly I’m no match,” he said., as he poorly reshuffled the cards. Over the deck, he shot you a smarmy look that left you feeling icky all over. “Maybe you could teach me sometime.”

The line was lame. And obvious. You picked up the cards he dealt, not bothering to look up.

“Sorry. I don’t usually train the hopeless.”

Liam winced. “That’s cold.”

You shrugged. “It's true.”

Laughter buzzed through the few who were listlessly paying attention. Theo didn’t laugh. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Only stared.

His eyes had sharpened the moment Liam started talking. He hadn’t said anything yet, but you could feel the heat of it - the weight of his stare digging between her ribs.

You shifted slightly. You took a sip of your butterbeer to cool off and calm down. The saccharine drink had begun to sour in the relentless heat.

Liam nudged your foot with his own - light, playful. Theo straightened and sat up.

“Careful, mate,” he said, voice steady and too smooth. “You’re one bad joke away from a nosebleed.”

A few chuckles sputtered. Nervous ones. It didn’t sound like a joke. No one knew whether to laugh or move on.

Liam blinked, uncomfortable now.

“Relax, yeah? Just playing.”

Theo tipping his bottle at him languidly. “Just warning.”

Before it could stretch into something uglier, he abruptly shifted focus.

“I’m in,” he said suddenly, "the mood to play now.”

There was a shuffle as the group moved up a little to make room for Theo where they were all scattered across the floor.

You didn’t hesitate. You switched your partner to Theo before anyone else could move. Your knees bumped. His smirk twitched higher.

The game began. Slaps. Feints. Barely restrained grins. She won the first round. He won the next. By the third, she was half a beat faster. Or maybe he was just a beat slower.

He let her win. Or maybe she let him.

When he looked at you afterwards, head tilted, lashes low, he gave you a look of some quiet approval. Like you’d passed a test you hadn't even known you were taking.

You looked away first. Unexpectedly, you felt a flicker of pride. From there sparked an obsession with this most cursed type of validation, one that you had never known to be greedy for.

You took another sip of you drink, relishing the way your face warmed in the heat of the day under the intensity of his stare. Still, you should have known what you knew now - those days in the sun would only last so long. Not even a week later, the fights began.

Little Miss Made Excuses For His Anger Issues ★★☆☆☆ He plays dirty, so it's only fair you do too. When the fights begin - god, they'll never stop. He'll never listen to you, you'll go blue in the face trying to get him to change, he'll whine about you never getting off his back, you'll snap at him for breathing too loud, it's nuts.

Okay, fine, the last one wasn't exactly provoked. He was just in too good of a mood that day and it was pissing me off. But honestly? I was so valid for that. He needed to learn to shut the fuck up once in a while.

It wasn’t even about the cigarettes.

At least, not just about them.

You were poring over your books in the deserted Slytherin common room, trying not to think about Ivy had been telling you about a girl Theo had been getting pretty close to - some Romilda Vane. He lit one the second he walked in - like it was a reflex, like he was doing it on purpose. You could feel the now-familiar irritation bloom in your chest the moment the smoke hit the air, bitter and acrid and reeking of bad memories.

“Really?” you muttered, not bothering to look up from your notes. “In here?”

Theo exhaled slowly, deliberately.

“I'll open a window.”

“That’s not the point.”

He leaned against the window frame, posture relaxed, jaw tight.

“Then what is?”

You huffed irritatedly and slammed your book shut.

“The point is, you said you’d stop. Five days ago. In the hallway. After that disaster of a duel. Or did you forget that too?”

He had the audacity to sigh like you were being difficult for even bringing that up.

“For fuck's sake, Y/N, it’s one cigarette.”

“It’s your third.”

Now he looked at you properly, something dry and tired in his gaze.

“You're keeping count now? Are you keeping tabs on me?”

Maybe I should, the angry thought flashed in your mind. Who the hell was Romilda Vane anyway? You gritted your teeth. “I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t go through them like water.”

“It’s not a crime,” he muttered, but he stubbed it out anyway - carelessly, more like a challenge than a concession. “There. Better?”

“Sure. Until the next one.”

He laughed humorlessly.

“Sorry, Mother.”

That did it.

You stood suddenly, the legs of your chair scraping piercingly across the floor.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Turn me into some controlling shrew just because I care about your health - ”

"Oh, so now I'm supposed to thank you for breathing down my neck all the time?"

You seethed. “Is that supposed to be funny? Because it isn't. It's not. It's really not.”

“I’m not the one making a scene over a cigarette.”

“Forget the bloody cigarettes. That's not the point.”

“No,” he said, standing now, tone flat. “I think I get the point just fine. You’ve had a shit week, and I’m the easiest thing to pick on.”

The corners of your mouth tightened.

“You think I like picking fights?”

“Sure seems like it.”

You could hardly hear or think coherently over the sound of blood roaring in your ears. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re relentless,” he shot back. “It’s always something with you. First it’s me leaving my notes in the common room, then it’s how I ‘don’t take things seriously,’ and now it’s - ”

“Oh, I’m sorry - am I not supposed to care when you act like nothing is worth your attention?”

He scoffed and looked away, as if dismissing you, as if you weren't worth any more of his Wednesday night. You gathered up your books with more aggression than was strictly necessary, feeling embarrassingly close to tears with how crazy Theo drove you.

"I don't know why I bother with a degenerate like you. You always do this. I bring something up, and you turn it against me, or you twist it into me being dramatic, or overbearing - ”

He exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Well, if the shoe fits...” he muttered.

“God, fuck you.”

He never seemed more unattractive you than he did in that moment - caustically insensitive, sarcastic and selfish. You spun on your heel, grabbing your bag off the floor before storming out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

Theo didn’t follow. He just stood there for a beat, unmoving in the silence of the night. Then he leaned against the windowsill and lit another cigarette.

Little Miss "He Knows I Can Take It" ★☆☆☆☆ He'll Make You Feel Special Enough To Tune Everyone Else Out The man's arrogant enough to act like he's God's gift on Earth and he's shameless enough to act like the yelling and the screaming and the shit he gives you is a blessing. But after a while, if you're not careful, you'll go right on believing him. Twisting his abuse into some fucked up declaration of love because man does he sell the pipe dream of being his favourite punching bag well.

And the thing is - you're not his favourite. You never will be. That won't stop you from making an arse out of yourself trying anyway. The things I did? Ugh, embarrassinggg. Skipping parties, for what? Giving him all my time, for what? Cutting out the friends he didn't like, for what? A guy who needed a training broom till he was ten?? Be soooo fucking for real right now.

You didn't notice the glance Ivy and Melissa exchanged when you walked into your dorm. Your bag slid off your shoulder with a dull thump onto the floor, your shoulders aching.

“Hey.” Melissa said from her spot near the desk. “You missed lunch.”

You distractedly tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. “I was revising,” you muttered, toeing off your shoes. “Didn’t realise the time.”

Ivy wrinkled her nose from where she was sprawled on her bed. “Merlin, you’re one of those. Don’t go all Ravenclaw on us now.”

You gave a faint smile. You hadn't realised how little you had seen of your friends over the past week. You missed them. “Too late.”

There was a pause. Melissa twirled a strand of hair between her fingers. You stilled, recognising that nervous tic of hers.

“Were you with him?” she asked casually. “Theo?”

You hesitated. So what if you were? “Yeah. So?”

“Right,” Ivy said, not unkindly. “He wouldn't have anything to do with you disappearing every other day now, would he?”

You were at a loss of words.

“...I’ve just been busy.”

They didn’t say anything.

You glanced up, feeling the air shift into something more worried, anxious.

“I don’t want to do this right now,” you muttered.

“We’re just talking,” Melissa said gently.

You shot her a look. You weren't dumb. Ivy sat up a little straighter. You could feel the both of them closing in on you.

“Look,” she said carefully, “I know you don’t want to talk about him. But Melissa and I think we should. You’ve changed. And it's...not good.”

“I’m fine,” you said tightly.

“You say that a lot lately,” Melissa said sadly. You scoffed. “It’s getting harder to believe.”

You exhaled sharply, massaging your temples.

“Can we not do this now?”

“You never let us do this,” Ivy said, brows drawing together.

Your stomach twisted.

“Because it’s none of your business,” you snapped. Your friends looked taken aback.

“I just - ” Ivy blinked. “We're not trying to - ”

“I know what you meant,” you cut in, voice rising. “You don’t like him. You think he’s bad for me. You think I’m stupid for being with him.”

“No one said that,” Melissa said slowly, frowning. “No one's saying that. We’ve just never seen you like this. We're not the enemy, Y/N.”

It sure felt like it. Melissa reached out, and in that moment of blind rage, you couldn't tell if it was to hug you or hurt you. You flinched out of her reach. You didn't miss the brief flicker of hurt that passed over her face. Even Ivy looked mystified.

“Y/N," Ivy said, getting up now. "Enough of this. We’re worried about you. He’s getting to your head, and you're so wrapped up in him that you can't even see it.”

You crossed your arms.

“I'm not a child, for Merlin's sake. I know he’s complicated. I’m not blind.”

“Then why are you defending him like he’s perfect?”

“Because you’re making it sound like he’s evil,” you snapped. “Like I’m too dumb to realise I’m being treated badly.”

You opened your mouth to continue, but no words came. Just heat. Frustration. Guilt twisting into something bitter.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Ivy said quietly. “Not over anyone.”

Looking at your friends, their hostile postures and mutinous faces, you felt terribly alone. “Well,” you said, “maybe I’ve changed.”

Melissa stared at you, looking angrier than you had ever seen her. “Yeah. You have.”

You sighed.

“I don’t need a lecture right now.”

“And we’re not trying to give you one,” Ivy said. “But you’re making it really hard to not say something when you’re hurting yourself like this.”

“I’m not - ” you started, but stopped short.

Because you were hurting. You knew it. You’d known it for a while now. But hearing it sfrom someone else's lips made it feel like an accusation.

“We’re just trying to help you,” Ivy said, quieter now.

“I don’t need help," you said, chest tight. "I need you to back off.”

A listless kind of quiet descended in the room. Melissa’s jaw tensed. Ivy uselessly smoothed down her sheets.

“Well,” Ivy said, voice flat now, “I guess that's we’ll do then.”

Melissa wasn't as forgiving. “Whatever. It's your life to ruin, L/N.”

She drew her hair up into a ponytail. "Dinner, Ivy?"

The silence they left behind was deafening. You refused to dwell on the fight. You refused to acknowledge how damning their condemnations felt.

And still - when the dust settled, like a woman possessed, your thoughts drifted back to Theo. To that lopsided grin. That lazy smirk. Pulling you in, and in, and in, and in.

Little Miss Fool Me Twice, Shame on Me ★★★★★ He always knows when he's about to lose you And that's when he's the sweetest. He'd have to be - it's his last ditch attempt to distract you. He'll have you wondering how you could ever think of him as selfish or mean-spirited or anything other than the world's most-loving, most-devoted boyfriend. Boyfriend? HA!

It started the way most things with Theo did - loud, dramatic, and entirely unnecessary.

You stepped out of the Transfiguration exam room, clutching your wand, still mentally arguing with yourself over you shaky answer to question seven, when someone near the doors let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“What the hell - ?”

Students were crowding toward the entrance of the castle, whispering, staring. You followed the noise, shielding her eyes from the sudden sunlight. And then you saw it.

A car. A bright red, shiny Muggle convertible, parked just off the stone steps, looking entirely out of place in front of Hogwart's gothic architecture. And leaning against it like he'd walked straight off the poster of some pretentiously obscure, too-slick indie film was Theodore Nott - sunglasses perched cockily in his curls, sleeves rougishly pushed up, charm turned on.

“Oh, my god,” you muttered under your breath, walking faster now, heat creeping up the back of her neck.

He caught sight of you and grinned. Not a smirk, not his usual self-satisfied half-smile. A grin.

Like he hadn't been a complete dick to you just two nights ago.

“What's all this?” you asked as you stepped up to him.

Theo straightened with a practiced laziness. “It’s a getaway car.”

You blinked at him.

“Weekend trip,” he clarified. “We need a break. You need a break.”

“I have two exams left.”

He shrugged. “Two is practically nothing.”

“Theo.”

Before you could continue your protests, he took your hand and kissed your knuckles in full view of half of your year, completely unbothered.

“Your stuff’s in the boot. Packed it this morning.”

Your mouth dropped open. How did he manage to get into the girls' dormitories?

“You what—?”

“There’s snacks,” he continued, unrepentant. “I even charmed the glove compartment to keep your disgusting fizzy drinks cold." Traces of the Theo you knew started resurfacing. He sounded pretty damn proud of himself. "You’re welcome.”

“You’re mental.”

“And you’re exhausted.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Come on, Y/N. You can revise in bed with me and a view of the sea. There’s a fireplace. I booked the biggest suite they had.”

He pressed a chaste kiss to your palm. Your face burned.

"Please? For me?"

You should’ve walked away. You meant to walk away.

But he had that look again - the one he used to reel you in after every fight. The one you couldn't bear to tell off. That soft-eyed, unwittingly innocent look like he wasn't even capable of doing anything wrong, let alone on purpose. Behind him, the sunlight hit the car just right, glinting off the chrome like some surreal, too-good-to-be-true movie scene.

It was stupid. And ridiculous. And maybe that was the point.

So you went.

On the drive down, Theo's hand casually resting on your thigh, wind whipping through your hair, you told yourself you weren't impressed.

But then you saw the room - two floors, a balcony, a charmed bath bigger than her dorm - and you maybe slightly let it go to your head.

He ordered room service like you were royalty, feeding you chocolate-covered strawberries by the tray, worshipfully kissing the tips of your fingers like he’d never once raised his voice or made you feel small.

He lit candles. Bought you a new jumper at one of the quaint, homey shops by the pier when you'd offhandedly mentioned feeling a little chilly. Got up to make you tea in the mornings and made it right - not the way he liked it, but the way you always complained about no one ever remembering it.

He let you pick the station on the wireless. Spoilt you relentlessly. Had the nerve to call you pretty in the midst of you lounging in the utter bliss of what was turning into the most indulgent heaven.

Maybe it was the wine. Or the way the fire flickered inches from you where you laid tangled up on the rug, breathing slow and even and in sync, like the world where you were constantly at each other's throats never existed.

Or maybe it was just the way he was looking at you again. Like you mattered. Like you were special. Like he was choosing to be good. Like he was choosing to be good for you.

You caught yourself smiling at nothing. You let him pull you into his lap. Let him press kisses down your neck, murmuring all the right things.

On the last night, your head was resting on his chest, his fingers tracing slow, thoughtless circles into your back. You should've been long asleep, but you couldn’t stop thinking about how different he felt like this. Like this version of him had always existed, but you were only just now being allowed to see it.

“I don’t get you,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Theo glanced down at you.

“What’s there to get?”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, looking down on what little you could see of his face not obscured by the dark or his soft curls. You tilted your head, considering.

“You’re just…different, sometimes.”

His hand paused.

Then he shifted, rolling you both over gently, lips brushing against your jaw, collarbone, shoulder.

“Maybe you just make me better,” he murmured.

You almost laughed.

Because it was such a good line. But that's exactly what it was - a line.

You drew Theo closer to you almost anxiously. He obliged, hands wandering to your hips. Distantly, you wondered if you carved open his heart, would you find anything remotely genuine inside?

It was late. You were tired. It made your head hurt to think of such depressing things.

So your eyes fluttered shut, and you let yourself succumb to Theo's ministrations. Let yourself believe it.

For one more night.

Little Miss Egg on My Face ★★☆☆☆ It Never Lasts It's almost a slap in the face, really - he could do it all for you, and more. He just doesn't want to. He doesn't care enough to even be halfway decent, especially once the glow wears off. So a week later, he goes back to his old ways, drinking and philandering, and you - well, you stayed, didn't you? Now who's the idiot?

For a few days, it almost felt like things truly had changed.

Theo had stayed soft, sweet, attentive. He sat with you during meals without you asking. Laced your fingers together under the table in study hall. Let you sleep in his bed, no questions asked, when you showed up exhausted after a double-length Potions exam. He even gave you his last chocolate frog during a study break and shrugged, saying you needed it more than he did.

And you started to believe it. That maybe the trip really had saved their relationship from ruin. Maybe this time, he meant every kiss, every touch.

But, like all good things, it didn’t last.

By midweek, you started noticing it again, despite your best efforts.

The way he brushed you off in the corridors with a distracted nod, not even slowing his pace. The way he left your group hangouts without saying goodbye. The way he started treating you like an accessory he wanted only sometimes.

It was subtle. Like he was slipping out of a persona.

One night, you watched him lean towards another girl a few tables over, heavily wrapped up in whatever riveting conversation they were sharing, all low laughs and half-lidded glances, his mouth tugged up at one side. The same smirk he’d used on you—only now it felt recycled. Contaminated. Revolting.

He didn’t even glance your way as you left the Hall.

You waited until you were alone. You found him near the back stairwell, the one they used to use to sneak up to the Astronomy Tower. He was lighting a cigarette. Of course. Something about this was beginning to feel destructively futile.

Your voice was quiet at first.

“Hey.”

Theo glanced over, eyes unreadable in the gloom of the night. “Hey.”

You hesitated.

“Can we talk?”

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, then shrugged. “Sure. Talk.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she said, softly, almost apologetically, “You’ve been different. Since we got back.”

Theo looked away.

“Have I?”

You could feel him beginning to shut you out. You panicked. “I’m not trying to start anything," you said, hurriedly. "I just…noticed.”

“You always do,” he muttered, flicking ash onto the stone floor.

You frowned. “I’m not accusing you.”

“Not yet, you're not.”

Something about the way he said it - flat, unaffected - made you feel ridiculous. A laughingstock. Overly emotional. Wholly irrational.

Still, you pushed on. “You were great this weekend, Theo. Really. Till now, I didn’t want to say anything because I liked that. I liked you. And now - ” You swallowed. “Now I don't."

He raised a brow.

“Because I sat at a different table?”

“It’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?”

You worried your bottom lip.

“You’re pulling away again.”

Theo laughed condescendingly.

“Well, forgive me if I don’t feel like being your emotional support boyfriend every minute of every day.”

You stared at him.

“Is that what you think I want?”

“Sure seems like it.”

You stepped back, your frustration mounting.

“God, you’re unbelievable. I’m trying to talk to you, and you’re acting like I’m some clingy, nagging -”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Your mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious that this, is getting old,” he said, not even bothering to look at her now. “The whining. The melodrama.”

You hated the way your voice was beginning to shake.

“You always do this, Theo. Every time we get close, you run the other way. You pretend none of it ever happened.”

He turned to you now, finally meeting your eyes with that cold, dead gaze of his.

"We had a nice weekend. We had one nice weekend. Newsflash, princess - it's not that deep."

Your chest tightened, your breath catching in your throat.

He didn’t stop there. “You act like I’m supposed to worship you like some lovesick puppy all day every day. Don't you get exhausted by how much you want all the time? Do you really need to be wanted that badly?”

There was a long pause.

Then you exhaled, sharp and cold.

“Fuck you.”

He didn’t blink. “That’s more like it.”

All this while he'd been trying to buy your infatuation. Meanwhile, you couldn't pay him to offer you a shred of respect.

You shoved past him, your nails digging crescent moons into her palms as you walked far, far away from him. The echo of your footsteps hit the walls too loud, too fast, like you couldn’t get away from him quickly enough.

He didn’t follow. Not that you expected him to. But the worst part was that it hurt exactly the way she knew it would that afternoon you first laid eyes on him. Because he didn't care - not really. Not enough for it to actually mean anything.

Still, some sick part of your heart pulsed with the worry that you'd go back. That you weren't strong enough to truly stay away from him. That you'd go crawling back to him on some cold, miserable night.

When your hands stopped shaking. When your voice stopped cracking. When you convinced yourself again that maybe he half-meant it that one time. That maybe he could change. That maybe he already had.

But for now, all that you could do was walk, and walk, and walk, until the halls swallowed you whole. Until he was little more than smoke curling in the wind.

The only thing heavier than your silence was the weight of still wanting him.

It’s always worse at night.

When the castle halls are quiet. When your bed’s too big. When there’s no fight left in you to battle the waves of want.

It was late—so late that even the stars seemed like a distant memory, hanging somewhere far beyond reach. It was a stupid hour, one where you should have been asleep, or at least pretending to be. But you weren't. You never could sleep the same without him anymore. Not when he’d been the one to fill the void inside you, even if it was with something corrosive. You hated it. And yet, there was no escaping it.

You missed him. How could you not? Despite everything, despite his flaws, his temper, his habits you loathed, you missed him. Even when he was the last person you wanted to think about, your mind wandered back to the way his lips felt against your neck, the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren't looking.

That stupid half-smile. The ominous smell of smoke clinging to his collar. The way his voice softened when he said your name like it was something precious meant only for him.

It was exhausting. This back and forth. The way he could make you feel like the most important thing in the world one minute, and a burden the next. Every time you thought you had him figured out, he flipped it. Changed the rules. Changed the game.

And still - still, you chose to love him.

You were too tired to care about what was “right” anymore. You'd been walking around in this fog of longing and resentment, trying to convince yourself that you deserved more, that you needed more. You needed to be more.

But you weren't. Not without him.

You'd told yourself you wouldn’t do this again. Had said it out loud, even. Had whispered it like a promise into your pillow the night you walked away. But the resolve didn't hold under the weight of your chest caving in from the loneliness.

You tried everything - busy days. Cold showers. Long walks. None of it worked. You couldn't help slipping.

And tonight, you're slipping fast.

Your bare feet carry you down the corridor before you can think. You don't react to the chill of the floor. Your head is vacant of any plans, any rational thought - just the sharp pulse of want, of need, of him.

You hesitate outside his dorm. But it's too little, too late. The time to turn back was months ago, when he was little more than a stranger on a picnic blanket you had enough sense to not get involved with.

The door creaks open.

He’s awake. He doesn’t say anything. You don't leave. He doesn’t ask you to.

He lifts the covers. Makes room for you without question.

You climb in.

His arms wrap around you like muscle memory. Like forgiveness he didn’t earn.

And you let him.

Because the thing about loving someone like Theodore Nott is, it’s never a fair fight. It's an affliction of the worst kind. It's a habit you can't quite quit. It’s knowing better. And choosing him anyway.

You closes your eyes and shift closer, pretending you don't know how this ends.

Little Miss Disillusioned ★★★☆☆ Would Not Recommend But Merlin...I always come back.

[jadefromwattpad]

Always, Forever, Running Back to You

Poe Dameron x Reader 1.8k Words First Part Author: yearning poe my beloved, I'm addicted to him I just couldn't keep him and the reader apart. this is unedited but I hope everyone enjoys.

You saw Poe Dameron in every single thing. In the reflections of the lake outside the inn you were staying at, his smiling face in every ripple along the surface. In the cocky smirks of the pilots across the cantinas. In the kindness of the old woman who charges you only half rate at her inn. The weight around your neck, the sun on your skin, the smell of your cockpit. The list went on and on until everything led back to him, and it was in everything you did.

The first two months were the worst. Every reminder of him ached through your chest, through your choice. It burned and ebbed and screamed and scratched at the inside of your chest, attempting to claw its way out.

Claw its way back to him.

It never got easier in the following months. It still hurt, still ached, but in a dull and unending way. A way that told you this would be your life. You would always ache and yearn and dream.

Some nights you got caught up in it. Got caught up in how your dreams used to be the stars, danger, and glory. Now they seemed almost bland. A house, a lake, children, and him. His love, his laugh, your life.

Some nights you pushed it to the side, smiling lightly at other cocky pilots with dark hair and deep eyes who bought you drinks in the cantina. That was as far as it ever went. Maybe one day you would try to totally lose yourself in the intimacy of another, but that day wouldn't come anytime soon. Not when it felt so unfinished. He was in your head, his mother's ring around your neck. How could you move on when it was an ache so deep? When it was never over?

By the time it had been six months apart, six months of exploring the galaxy and gathering intel, you did an act so selfish you wished someone would shake some sense into you. There was a wooden chest at the end of your bed, always cold and stuffed with things you didn't use with a mix of some you couldn't bear to look at.

At the bottom sat a cold, metal disk. It remained unused unless you had something to report. The brisk night air drifted through the open window of your room, the odd insects chatting under the stars. Your bare feet crossed the room until you were slumped on your knees, digging through the chest like it contained something you had always been searching for. You thought, in a way, it did. The disk glared at you, challenging your will. Questioning if your selfishness was worth more than your sacrifice.

The hologram of an older woman sprung to life, eyebrows furrowed. "Is something wrong, Agent?" Her voice was authoritative with an undertone of motherly instincts that never quite go away. You were many things these days. Rebel. Pilot. Commander. Agent. Spy. Townsfolk. But she had known you before she had given you any of these titles. She had known you when you were naive and young. Before the war had aged your mind. Before love had changed your perspective.

"General, I am formally requesting to be discharged." You were shocked how much you meant the words. But she wasn't. Leia Organa is rarely surprised.

Her harsh eyebrows soften, though her voice remains strong. "Are you quite sure about this? This is a classified mission and the war greatly depends on your intel. This is a serious thing to request. Some people may see it as desertion."

You had so many titles, adding deserter didn't bother you as it once would have. Not when you deserted something so much more important. Something that made the war worth it. "I'm aware of the weight of my request."

Then something shone through on her face, a mother's smile. "Then come home, Agent. Discharge granted, you'll be reinstated on Red Squadron. I have a feeling there are people on base who have grieved your absence greatly." She fades out of transmission, but it doesn't matter. You're already on your feet, gathering your small collection of belongings and leaving enough money on the nightstand for the woman who owns the inn to gasp and smack you upside the head.

You're running, like you've done your entire life. But it's different now. For the first time you're running towards something. Something finite yet infinite. Something bigger than the stupid war. Something warm and close, despite the distance.

Your ship leaves in the dead of night, rising above the lake and the inn and the town and all their smirking pilots and odd insects. You hit hyperspace before you even make it out of the atmosphere.

Poe Dameron saw you every single night. In every dream, you're there with your arms open, and he's running back to you. He tells you he should have never let you leave and you tell him you never will again. It's a bit of selfishness he saves for himself, because he's been rather selfless these days. So much so that it's boarding on reckless and Leia had to sit him down and question why he seems to be so hellbent on taking one for the team.

But she knows why. And he still bothers to lie.

The days are the same. Early wake up, drills that have his squadron glaring at every order, an occasional mission, and then his nights belong to you--like they once did many months ago. On the weekends, he goes a bit insane. With not much to do, he haunts the grounds of the rebel base.

He jumps in the lake under the light of the moon, the dark waters pulling him under. It's peaceful for a few blissful moments. The water muffles the sounds of the forest, and the worries of the day, and the images of you that drown him on dry land. He tries to let it go, let you go. Poe urges your stupid smile and strong mind away every time he goes under. He tries to jump a bit further each time, like it will propel him past the nights you spend together and the days you dreamed of each other.

He sits blankly in the mess hall, surrounded by his squadron and closest friends. He blindly walks to your sleeping quarters, falling asleep amongst the sheets that your smell still clung to.

He nearly always has his back turned to the sky when he's in the hanger. Almost like it pains him to look at the last spot where he saw you. It's summer now, the sunlight warming his back the way your hands used to, as he tinkers with BB-8. Even his droid has sensed the way Poe has changed in the past few months.

"Buddy, you gotta stop taking corners so fast. You're damaging your metal," Poe sighs. BB-8 beeps at him indignantly while he continues to polish his droid's small, metal body.

Poe eventually gets around to repair his X-wing. It's something he's never neglected before, but things are different now. Oil is caked under his finger tips as he sorts through some faulty wiring that's made his hyperspace gear bring him nearly 200 coordinates south of his original ones.

"Commander Dameron, we have a report." Black 5 is standing stiffly beside Poe's ship with a few other members of the squadron, his helmet under his arm. Poe slides out from under his ship, slightly grateful for the distraction. But he's grateful for any distractions these days.

Poe rises to his feet, authoritative build easily showing his leadership. His strong arms fold over his chest as he listens to the report from his squadron, legs slightly widened. The summer sun slowly fades from his back, leaving him with the same coldness he's felt ever since you left.

Black 5's eyes catch on something over his shoulder, "The rebel ships made it out bu-" His eye catch on something over Poe's shoulder again, like he didn't quite believe it the first time. "Holy Kriff.."

Poe turns around faster than his brain can register. Here he stands, just as handsome as when you lost him, perhaps a bit more melancholy. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because you're home, and he's always been like stepping through the door.

And you're just like his dreams, expect you're running to him. Running and crying and apologizing, but one sight of you, of that ring around your neck, and he can't bring himself to care about any of it because it doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter that you left, all that matters is that you're here and--

Maker, it hits him like a X-wing when he finally has you in his arms. One minute you're only in his head, so distant he thinks he may have imagined you all together. The next you're running back to him, the sun setting behind you and painting you in a near halo. And he's running back to you, the sunlight that you didn't manage to fully soak up reflecting off the tears on his face like it used to reflect on the stupid lake outside of the inn on a planet that doesn't matter now.

You're warm, like he remembers. His arms wrap around you so tightly, and a weight you've been carrying for months drops as you sob in relief. You're home. He's home. The word had never been so heavy before you realized all it means.

"I am so so sorry, and I love you so much," you cry, gripping his shirt like he might fade with the last of the sunlight painting him in a golden hue that only he can be seen in.

But he doesn't care about any of that. Not when you're here. Not now. He pulls away, and you almost sob, thinking that you've truly lost him. Blindly grasping for him, because that's all you really know how to do. His hands cradle your face in the gentlest touch you think you've ever received. His calloused finger pads rub your cheeks as he takes in every bit of your face, every part he may have forgotten. You faintly register his smell. Oil, fuel, pine, a fire at the hearth, a warming in your heart. And because he knows you, just as much as he did all those months ago, because he knows you in ways you haven't figured out yourself, he says, "Baby, I don't care that you left. I only care that you came home. And I, Maker, I love you."

His lips are on yours, and for the first time in months both of you feel whole. The sun finally disappears beyond the horizon and the lake you both used to swim in, but you feel impossibly warmer than ever before.

[jadefromwattpad]

Scott Street

Poe Dameron x Reader 751 Words Second Part Author: a little poe angst that i thought of in the shower

Poe stands in front of you, looking everywhere but your eyes. Your jaw clenches. A part of you wants him to be a man and look you in the eyes. Another part of you gets it entirely.

He had known from the first day you arrived--a wild glint in your eyes and a thirst to prove yourself--that you wouldn't settle. But god, he had hoped you'd settle for him. He had prayed he'd be enough. So here he stands now, a foot away from you yet unreachable.

"Poe." It was stern, like he expected. "Poe?" This one was soft, which is unexpected. Unexpected enough that he finally meets your eye.

And here you are, breaking his fucking heart--tearing it out of his chest, holding it carelessly as it bleeds in your hands. And he wasn't even asking you to stay.

"Poe. Please. Say something," you sound desperate. You've never felt like this before--not with him, at least. The two of you had always seen eye to eye. Had always understood each other without words. That's how he knows you're not coming back, even if you promise. But you think that if he asked, you'd stay.

"I'm happy for you. If this is what you want, then I am so incredibly happy for you." His voice is so genuine, it makes your heart clench and twist uncomfortably. "I think you deserve the universe, you know that. So go get it." He just smiled that Poe Dameron smile. If you knew him any less, you would think he doesn't even care.

But you knew him better than he knew himself most days.

You put your hand on his arm. It's tense. "I'll stay if you ask me to."

He knows you would. He also knows you would silently resent him for it. He shakes his head slightly. His firm chin waivers, and he becomes very interested in his shoes. "You know I'd never ask you to do that."

You nod. You do know. You know him better than you know yourself. He thinks he knows you better than he knows himself, but then again he doesn't understand why. Why you're leaving him. Why he's never the first choice. Why he's not enough. Why you won't come back. He just knows you won't. He's not sure if it's thrill, or the need to prove yourself, or the fear of being in one place for too long. He has no clue why staying with him is never enough. There's always some other thrill. Some other reason you can't just be with him.

But the pilot in him understands as no one else does. Because how is he any different? He flies around into dangerous, uncharted territory. The need to prove himself is in his blood as it is yours. But I'd come back to you, he thinks.

He clears his throat, the chain around his neck branding his skin. He was going to give you that ring, now he fears he'll never get to. But he's a realistic man. He knows the ring has belonged to you since you challenged him in the X-wings on your first day. He knows it'll belong to you long after you're gone, just as it did long before you came. So, with shaking hands, he lifts the necklace over his head and places it in your hand, cupping his around yours.

His heart pangs. This may be the last time he feels your hands.

You stare up at him, shock painting your features. "Poe..." You're at a loss of words. You feel like you've only said his name throughout the entire exchange because you just don't quite know what else to say. "This is your mother's. I can't-"

His warm hand is still on yours and your chest still leaps like its the first time he's ever touched you. Like you haven't explored each other's bodies and mapped every surface. "And now it's yours. Don't be a stranger." It's said jokingly but you can hear the desperation. He'd recognize you blind, and now he fears it's his last chance to stare into your eyes.

He places a kiss on your forehead, and you close your eyes on instinct. When you open them, you only see his retreating figure.

Bile builds in your throat. What had you expected? I expected him to ask me to stay, you think. I would've stayed if he asked.

Ring clenched in your fist, you turn to your X-wing and climb into the cock pit.

[jadefromwattpad]

Masterlist

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DISCLAIMER!!!! please do not copy my dialogue or writing and pass it off as your own. i do spend a lot of time writing, so it’s very discouraging when i don’t even get recognition for my own work.

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